A Journey of Black and Red 201: The Invisible Hand (Patreon)

Esme’s bones creaked when she bent over the counter to wipe the far side. The rag left a stream of droplets in its wake, so many globules catching motes of ember light in their tiny prisons. Soon they’d be gone, but now they formed a hypnotic pattern to the old woman’s eyes. They whispered something in her ears she could not understand. Sometimes, the murmurs were almost clear as hymns, sometimes she missed them entirely. They were growing stronger as she aged, though whether it was some witchcraft or just her brain turning to mush, she couldn’t say.

Tonight, they were especially vivid. The motes. Smoldering there before the heat of the hearth could disperse them. Something was happening, or would happen, here or near. Nothing good, no doubt. Not with her luck.

Esme stretched, her back cracking pleasantly. Her tired eyes swept the Shoreside Inn.

The clock ticked away the seconds but it was only a little after ten, not yet the witching hours. The weirdlings hour. The time of those that were lost or on their way to be. A smattering of night owls sprawled over the comfortable chairs and old, sagging couches of Shoreside. Esme felt she should leave this schedule to someone younger, perhaps her daughter or that young immigrant from Ireland, but she liked it. Those were her lost sheep, in her quiet time. Let the young ones live in the day and find love. She preferred to tend to the lost souls now.

The first was old Mr Stibbs, by the door, nursing his third whiskey. A good day then. Stibbs and his wife hated each other with a passion. He would wait until he was sure she was too tired to argue. Esme gave it less than two years before Stibbs offed his other half, himself, or both. She had a good instinct for such things.

There were a group of two, a boy and a girl in their early twenties, studying a book of natural science. They wanted to attend the College of Pharmacy nearby as a pharmacist and nurse, respectively. They would study hard until a little past midnight then go rob a warehouse. Esme had no proof, of course, but there would always be an article in the Globe the day after. The girl could also do a bit of magic. Esme felt it in her marrow.

Arnold Clarke was here as well, which meant that the widow Smith would spend a pleasant evening. The entire street knew they were lovers and that he would sneak through her open window, carrying ugly flowers and a bottle of wine. He also forgot to lock behind him and the sound of their lovemaking traveled far, making their married neighbors smile knowingly at each other. Only they thought they were being subtle.

The last bird was a little different. A lost one for sure. She was gaunt and far too young to be out. She had paid for a night with a clean bill and when she had passed by, Esme had caught a whiff of sweat and male cologne. There was a slight bump in her abdomen, already visible under her dress. Esme judged she was four or five months along. She’d have to find a place to hole up within two, before her belly would make work too complicated. That was not the main thing with the waif, however, no. What made Esme blink was the power that emanated from her thin form, much more than from the would-be nurse. Strong and alluring, yet brittle. It tasted hungry for chemical dreams and made up paradises. The sweet release that would, at dawn, leave her craving for more.

The girl’s eyes met her own. Defiance and hatred filled them. She expected to be judged. Esme did judge, of course. It was one of the fine pleasures of life that old age had not robbed her off yet. She did keep it to herself, however.

Yes, the old woman thought, if anything happens, it will be with her. The waif attracted the strands of…

No, no, what was she thinking? That was for those spiritualists and whatnot to say such things. Esme was just a loony old bat, and that was it, thank you very much. All she was saying was trouble would come from or for that girl. One or the other.

Esme considered throwing her out but immediately tossed the idea aside. It was too late and, besides, the Shoreside never retracted an invitation without good reason. And she also had a coach gun under the cash register.

It would be fine.

She wished her Greg were still around. He would have stayed by the fire, puffing on a pipe for so long as she was nervous. He would have been in charge of the gun as well.

Slowly, night settled in, one flipped page at time. People asked for refills and she gave Stibbs a cup of tea which left him blinking terribly.

It was past eleven when the woman came.

That was the start of the troubles, for sure.

Most of her patrons did not walk so much as amble in. The inn was a refuge in the dark at this time, not a destination. No one entered it on purpose. No one had business here. The warm glow of her windows lured them in like fish, hooking them when their hands touched the handle. Before they were aware, Esme had sat them with a soft word and a hot drink to waste away the minutes they needed to get a grip. Not this one. She had not picked the place at random.

Esme let her feelings guide her. Was she a little on the strange side as well?

The feelings said no. She didn’t taste different. In fact, she didn’t taste like anything.

Her experience said yes.

It was her appearance. Her dress was a colorful blue and her coat hung open despite the unseasonal cold tonight. A normal person would have closed it. A normal person would have shivered from the change of temperature. She also moved too little with no wasted motions. And she was beautiful with azure eyes and golden hair like a field in summer yet too glacial and foreign like a princess in a hovel. The last thing that warned Esme was the woman’s supreme confidence. No lady in their right mind would feel safe in the streets at this hour, especially when it was so obviously clear she was worth robbing. The newcomer gave the inn a cursory glance, her attention lingering on the pregnant girl for half a second, then she resolutely walked to Esme. She stopped by the counter like a ghost. The rush of frigid air from outside pushed forward a cold spice, like anise and something else. It felt cool and a little relaxing which set all sorts of panic bells ringing inside Esme’s head. Flowers and ladies of the night smelled nice as well, to attract prey.

“Good evening. May I have a cup of coffee?” the woman asked

“Oh? Hmm.”

Emse blinked and focused, blaming herself for her lack of attention. Old age, surely. This was just a customer and the Shoreside had standards of hospitality she was breaking right now.

“I have warm stuff if you are in a hurry. Otherwise, I can brew you a new pot. Will cost extra though.”

“That will be quite fine. A fresh pot, please.”

Esme busied herself at the back. She had hot water in the kettle, not boiling, never boiling. They had filters and freshly ground beans. Not the best stuff, but decent, and she knew how to make a pot. Selecting beans had been more Greg’s thing. Yes.

The woman was here, standing still.

Yes, the coffee.

It was ready.

She poured it in her largest cup. Ceramic, large. People at this hour wanted large drinks that kept warm for a long time.

“Cream? Sugar?” she bleated.

“Cream, please. A dollop.”

She did as asked and returned to the counter. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t trust herself with the cup so she placed it over the clean, varnished wood and pushed. The woman stopped it with a finger. Esme looked up into a pair of permafrost rings.

“Are… we in danger?” she whispered.

The woman would not hear, of course. Esme was too far. It was just silly.

But she did hear.

The woman tilted her head slowly, in a strange, serpentine motion. She looked at Esme for the first time, not as a passing person, but as a genuine individual.

“Hmm.”

She seemed to hesitate before giving her a reassuring smile.

“You will be in a dangerous situation but I shall protect you as my host since you granted me your hospitality in good faith. And made surprisingly decent coffee.”

“You have not tried it yet,” Esme reproached before her brain could catch up to her mouth.

The woman tapped her nose. Her nails were quite sharp.

“The scent does not lie.”

“What sort of danger?”

The woman’s smile widened.

“I do not know.”

Esme sputtered, though she caught herself quickly. Stibbs was casting curious glances towards them, recognizing a strange situation through the haze of alcohol. If Emse herself didn’t know what was coming, she could hardly blame the newcomer for being in the same situation.

Somehow, her promise of protection felt genuine. The words had been ritualistic. Maybe Esme was mad as a hatter but she believed them. The woman drank her coffee in small sips and the inn, temporarily disturbed, returned to its cozy apathy. Esme sighed deeply and allowed herself to relax. That is, until the woman perked up.

“May I have another cup, please?” she politely asked.

Esme picked her half-empty cup with more confidence than before then headed to the back, which is why she was a bit further away when the door banged open and a couple came in.

Now those, those were trouble.

Their clothes were dirty with obvious stains she could see even from here, despite the failing light. Their eyes were wide and searching, hungry, vicious. They shared the smooth motions of the sitting woman but while hers were quiescent, theirs felt coiled and threatening. They turned and grinned at each other like two puppets animated by a demented artist, showing teeth that were a little too sharp. There was a young man with noble features twisted with cruelty. His companion had dark hair matted to her skull by neglect. She licked her lips as Esme watched. They were both attractive with the smooth skin of those who didn’t work outside, but slightly wrong. The same wrongness she saw in opiate addicts, sometimes, on the piers when the poor souls lurched by.

That was not what gave her the absolute confidence that those were the ones her feelings had warned her about.

It was their stench.

Although Esme’s nose remained mercifully focused on fresh coffee, her marrow inhaled the acid, rotting chill that those two emanated like sewer grates. The cloying aroma stayed even as they walked out of sight. Esme mechanically walked back with the warm pot clutched in her hands despite her best instincts because it was her inn, her place, and she was damned if she gave them free reign of her domain.

Under the counter, the handle of the coach gun called to her with the tantalizing promise of an equalizer.

Esme put the pot down but the sitting woman raised a hand.

She had promised.

Esme let the confidence of her guest calm her down. The blonde woman was waiting, for what she wasn’t sure, but she had things under control. Esme knew it with certainty, even as Stibbs’ fingers gripped his spoon and the girl burglar swore under her breath. Clarke reached for his chest pocket and found nothing. Everyone knew, yet no one moved as the insane couple stopped by the waif’s table, tittering like magpies.

“Well well. How delicious. And what might you be?”

“Won’t you join us, dearie? We are feeling peckish, morsel. A game, a game. Nothing lost, no.”

“Little morsel you are, carrying life alone. We are sinners too, you know?”

“I don’t know you,” the girl retorted as if it mattered. “I don’t want anything right now. I’m fine. Begone.”

The two chuckled with disturbing synchronism. The man grabbed his lady friend’s hand. Esme saw her nails were sharp and grimy. Like the talons of a carrion bird. Then the man leaned forward and spoke in a honeyed voice that made Esme step forward despite herself.

“Stand up, morsel. Come closer.”

Tink tink tink.

The room stopped and blinked. The moment was broken by the blonde woman tapping her spoon against her cup. Esme noticed she had given herself a refill. She felt detached from her own body, as if the experience happened to someone else.

The couple flinched and sneered, but the distraction only stopped them for a moment.

“Come now, morsel, on your feet, up up.”

“I, uh…”

The waif was clearly struggling. She looked so lost. Esme wanted to tell her to stop but she could not. Her muscles were not her own.

“Now.”

“Fresh off the boat, are we?” the blonde woman asked.

Silence fell over the room. You could have heard a pin drop on the upper floor.

The couple moved near the blonde woman with some wariness. They stood, heads forward, like skulking wolves. She turned to face them.

Esme was struck by vertigo. She could almost see herself standing unmoving by the pot, reflected in the eyes of the others. Distorted words came to her as if through water but she could hear them and understand them though she did not, should not know the tongue.

“You may not hunt without the consent of the city master, and I am quite confident you have not met him yet. The Accords forbid poaching.”

“Not poaching, kin, just a bit of fun,” the girl said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“We would not dare but we are Thirsty, yes. Terribly so. Ship travel can be so dull. We want to unwind a little,” the man slurred.

“You were refused twice and still insisted. This is a violation.”

“It was you!” the woman spat with sudden fury. “You distracted her. You broke the Charm, you WHORE.”

“We saw her first. We did!”

“Oh no, you most definitely did not,” the blonde woman replied. “I have had my eyes on that one for a long time.”

She sniffed disdainfully.

“Let us return to the matter at hand. You will come with me to meet the Speaker, one way or another. I think you are too far gone, but who knows? He has worked miracles before.”

“You think we need help?” the man spat. “We are better. Purer. We are as we are meant to be!”

“You will accompany me on your feet or in a box, but you will accompany me,” the woman replied with terrible finality.

Esme felt the world hold its breath. Her other, normal guests were frozen, completely frozen, perhaps like her. No one moved. They stared fixedly ahead. Never had she felt so small and so powerless.

The couple blurred. The blonde woman’s right arm blurred as well. There was a crack. The man stood there with his head looking back and up, neck twisted at an impossible angle. The dirty woman hissed inhumanely.

The blonde woman put down her cup.

Esme was hit in the head by winter. It slapped her with a shovel and left her shivering in the freezing cold of a polar night. A small gasp escaped her chest. There was another crack and the dirty woman joined her companion on the floor.

The blonde woman was standing.

Winter left. It had never been here. The air was warm with the hearty, comfortable heat of the fire, yet the ghastly chill would not leave Esme’s chest.

A massive man knocked and entered. Esme thought she had never met someone so large, and yet he moved in a way that felt restrained and controlled.

“Miss Ari?” he asked.

“Take them to the Speaker.”

“As you will.”

A moment passed.

Esme blinked. The others blinked. It was warm. Logs crackled merrily in the hearth. Outside, the wind made her chimes ring a merry tune. The blonde woman sipped on her coffee.

There was nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Just a normal evening with a strange chill in the wind, nothing more. No need to panic.

“May I have another cup, please?” her guest asked.

Esme mechanically grabbed the handle. The others did not seem to have noticed, but she had. She leaned over and faced the strange one.

“Hmm, errr. Thank you,” she whispered

She frowned. The tongue had felt… strange. Very foreign.

It just occurred to her that letting the woman know she understood might have been a colossal mistake. Instead of getting angry, however, the strange being merely seemed curious.

“Situational hyper awareness. Interesting. Do keep the words to yourself, dear. Some knowledge should not be shared so freely,” she replied, and Esme found she could breathe again.

Just in time to huff. Dearie? This summer duckling sure had… bah, it didn’t matter. She could do as she pleased.

The blonde woman stepped away from the counter and walked to the waif. Esme realized the small girl remembered too. Her expression was too terrified not to. Her gaze lifted to meet that of the blonde woman and stopped there.

“What?” the waif spat.

“I thought you might be the one, but it appears I was mistaken.”

“Don’t look so disappointed,” the girl retorted in a way that felt almost too defensive to be detached.

The woman sipped her coffee. Esme didn’t need to see her face to feel the weight of disapproval.

“Oh, another holier-than-thou stranger here to spit at me. Go ahead then, do your worst. Can’t even get five minutes alone without someone judging me.”

“I judge you because you are a homewrecker and an addict.”

The remark had been delivered without anger. It bit all the more for it.

“He said he loved me! He promised he’d dump the bitch and marry me!”

“I felt the touch of your magic on his mind, Nathalie. You almost broke him.”

“Accusations of witchcraft!” the girl scoffed. “Of course.”

“Sympathetic magic, to be precise. Inherited from your mother.”

The girl’s face lost all composure in an instant.

Esme thought her daft. Only an ape would still believe the blonde woman was here at random. They obviously knew each other, or at least one of them knew the other. And intimately enough to know such secrets, it seemed. The waif recognized the danger she was in and remained quiet.

“So yes, I am disappointed, though I know when to recoup a loss. I will provide you with food and shelter until delivery, then you will give me your child and I will… compensate you.”

The girl licked her lips, eyes alight with greed.

“How much?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

The girl huffed.

“What sort of mother do you take me for?”

“The kind that sells her child. Right now, we are merely negotiating the amount.”

The girl winced, though it didn’t last very long.

“Three thousand. Take it or leave it.”

“Deal. Now come with me.”

The blonde woman walked with the unresisting waif in tow. She stopped by the counter and dropped a pile of silver coins. Esme usually made that much in a month.

“For the coffee, and the trouble.”

“Thank you for… everything. Have a good evening. Come back soon! Alone this time please.”

The blonde woman smiled but did not reply.

She never returned.

***

1885

The darkest of cabals.

It is a somber age, it is an age of lights, citizens of America. As the turn of the century approaches and I look upon our works, the closing chapter of a hundred years of growing pains, I cannot help but consider our future with hope and terror in equal measure. We may have achieved much and may achieve much more, but in doing so, we may lose ourselves forever.

So many contrasts define our society, the envy of the old world, a shining exemplar of progress, that I would be at a loss to find which one I would find the most striking, the most worthy of starting this demonstration. At a loss, I decided to pour them on this page for your consideration.

Our cities shine with the lights of gas lamps and, soon, electrical ones too thanks to the work of Mr Edison, yet they fail to penetrate deep in the mines where children and men labor with back-breaking fury to carry the weight of progress. They fail, too, to illuminate the dark corners of lost alleys where crime and corruption fester out of the eye of the public.

Our people are one of the most politically involved on the surface of the globe, eclipsing even red France and its socialist mages, yet we tear each other apart on the issue of women’s suffrage, negro rights, and the ever-rampant consumption of alcohol.

It takes six days to cross the country from New York to San Francisco, yet our people have never been so divided by culture, purpose, wealth, and faith. And let us talk about wealth.

Indeed, the average income of our factory heroes has risen by over eighty dollars per year on average, and yet the millions of refugees swarming our shores have not tasted of this boon, oh no, far from it! Give me your tired, your poor, so that I may show them the gilded door — and then let them starve on their way west! It is a gilded age indeed. The lights of reason and civilization we thought so competent at casting away the dark have only served to give it a form and shape. Hexes, spells and sorceries. Curses. All may now be purchased at a corner store for a crinkled paper bill. In this day and age, a woman is just as likely to weave magicked ribbons in her hair as she is to take proper, doctor-approved cocaine drops. Indeed, mages and warlocks have made a thunderous return on the wings of generous investments.

Did you know that the airships would fall from the sky without magic? That is correct, for only unnatural designs may afford wood and steel the buoyancy it needs to defy gravity, that impartial old crone.

Light and darkness, wealth and misery, ignorance and knowledge. Have I talked about knowledge? Great institutions of learning are opening left and right in the north, promoted by churches, while a fellow could walk a hundred miles south of Virginia and find barely more than two dilapidated elementary schools. What little people learn, they do so under the lead of Integrists who inform them that they were robbed of their freedom by devil-worshiping Pennsylvanians.

In this age of opposites, there are so many issues that a much longer article may not cover them, or even mention them all, and yet I write here with hope in my heart, for I know that a nation that survived a war of independence, a conflict with its erstwhile masters, and the deadliest modern civil strife has proven time and time again the resilience and spirit that inhabit its valorous people. And yet, this hope is tempered with fear because survival hinges on a single yet fragile condition: that it be its own hands, its own brains that bring solutions to the main challenges I mentioned. This will not happen so long as there are vampires.

Oh, I know what you will think, oh incredulous reader. Children's tales. Jokes. A large-scale conspiracy with no evidence, even circumstantial. A running joke combat mages and soldiers hint at to defend the necessity of their existence. It is not so. Do not believe the pamphlets and farcical manuals speaking of creatures with the face of a man who can turn into mist and fear open water, because those are smoke and mirrors to discredit truth seekers. Vampires do hide in the shadows, and they manipulate us by focusing on what matters. The government, the army, companies, and newspapers. Civilian power, military power, economical power, and information. Have you ever wondered who were the main shareholders of the flagships of our industries, whose products end in every home? Or our most famous journals or gazettes, whose words are read in every office? If you inquire about names, you will not find any. Instead, the truth will be buried under layers upon layers of shells and facades, until you find very exclusive and private institutions whose doors will shut in your face faster than you can say ‘obstruction’. Where do the profits go, you may ask? They follow torturous routes that end in the pockets of politicians, interest groups, or funding more projects through complex financial mechanisms. Power is a currency that moves in the night.

Perhaps many of you remember the double reversal of Judge Montgomery earlier this month. Reversal of ruling, yes, but also of fortune! His wealth, which had been ailing after the failure of Western Electrics, rose from the ashes like a dark phoenix when an unknown benefactor bought his stocks at full price. Now, the good judge takes a suddenly dim view of Integrists and their crusade for a magicless society. How curious! And he is not the only one to change his mind after a close brush with misery, nor the only diverted patrol or repurposed public office. The prudent observer will notice an invisible hand guiding the people towards a more apathetic society, and it does not belong to the market, for the market itself is not free.

The Lancaster mining consortium, Tracks of America, IGL, even the bloody opera houses — pardon my French. There you will see signs of the darkest cabal at work, vampires. They exist and they are here, hidden and manipulative. I invite you to demand answers, dear reader, to search for those not-so-mystical creatures and to bring them to the light where their actions will be judged and they shall be held accountable, at the very least, for if we do not do so, we will be robbed of the decision to steer our future without even realizing it.

The man read the piece of paper one last time and signed it with his name. It was daring. Provoking. At least two thirds of the readers would laugh at him, but like the tiniest mustard seed, a grain of truth would be planted. The post would not do for such a delicate material. He had to give it himself to the print and hope his boss would not be around to stop him. He had been warned times and times again. The risk was high.

And he knew he was right. The vampire had admitted so herself. He would not listen. The people had a right to know.

The man stepped out of his home and slunk in the shadow, taking a familiar path to the printing shop. He had walked this path so many times before that every step was as confident in the night as it would have been at noon, which is why he did not notice when a form detached itself from a nearby wall.

The form stabbed him, once, twice, thrice, then it made away with the file.

The man lay dying in a pool of his own blood, too pained to let out more than a gasp of agony. Regardless, he still smiled a sad smile. He had always said he was ready to die for the truth. He had not expected that fate would take him at his word.

It did not take long for him to bleed out.

A few streets away, two shapes waited on a rooftop. One of them stood straight. The other’s feet dangled freely from the edge.

“It’s done, boss woman.”

“I know.”

“Those robbers are getting more daring by the night.”

“Dreadful that.”

“I do feel a bit sorry for the man, yes? If only he had blamed the Jews like normal folks do. Men of moral standing always impress me, especially if they never bend.”

“A respectable adversary. Well, it is done and Le Nozze di Figaro starts in half an hour. Good evening to you, Urchin.”

“And to you too, boss.”

They left.