Chapter 42: Her Inner Thighs
Dorian left the Great Council Administrative Office with his report filed and ten thousand credits in his gearwallet. It had taken barely an hour. Normally, he would have waited weeks and been asked for more paperwork. Either he had underestimated the importance of his mission, or the Council had become efficient by mistake.
Outside, a passing carriage added black smoke to the steam rising from the pavement pipes. Dorian coughed. Smog hung over the Government District, turning the afternoon light a sickly yellow. Home. He waited for the smoke to clear, then turned into the alley behind the Office.
The same ORC warnings covered the walls, each showing a purple collar beneath the official seal. Another problem Steamhollow had acquired while he was away. Dorian glanced at the nearest poster and continued towards the Haven mirror.
Dorian stepped out of the Haven mirror and headed towards the Central Hall. Voices and the clatter of plates carried down the corridor, along with the familiar smell of food.
R’Yussa snored on his back across two cushions near the fireplace, apparently exhausted by his responsibilities. Dorian passed quietly. He had no energy left for being pinned to the floor by this fluffy giant.
The Keeper was near the bar, talking to a couple of Walkers. Dorian took his usual seat at the corner table, ready to wait in peace. Then curls brushed his ear and a young, high-pitched voice whispered, “Oh, hello, my favourite Walker. Still unfairly sexy and stubborn as fuck.” A girl in travelling clothes ran her fingers down his arm and took his hand.
Dorian freed his hand. “And you are still not my type.”
She laughed. “Why? Your reputation says otherwise.”
Dorian looked up at her porcelain face. “My reputation has never included sixteen-year-olds.”
“Eighteen, Dorian. You missed my birthday yesterday. How about a kiss as a gift?”
“Congratulations. I’m sure you can find plenty of people who will give you that gift.”
The Keeper’s calm voice interrupted her reply. “I thought you were leaving, Dollie.”
Saviour. Dorian silently thanked them.
Dollie bowed to the Keeper and disappeared at a speed impossible for a human being.
The Keeper turned to Dorian. “I see the Loteri Lands returned you in one piece.”
“More or less. And with honorary titles.”
“How unfortunate.” The Keeper smiled faintly. “Come.”
The Keeper closed the Library door. “Well, Dorian. Anything useful?”
“The Mother returned and renewed the Pact. I found her through a Wander Mirror. The daughter has been born. But the Loteri believe the previous Drommala was murdered.”
The Keeper stared at him. “Murdered?”
“I think they’re still investigating who did it.” Dorian paused, then continued in a slightly rougher voice. “We also encountered the Veyrans. They had established a hidden camp in Loteri territory.”
The Keeper’s expression hardened. “Filthy monsters. Glad you survived.” After a moment, they added, “Anything else?”
“Yes. I used your licence to unseal a mirror missing from the Council maps. It led into Acalith. I sealed it again when we left, of course. I’ve reported to the Great Council that a warning would be nice.”
The Keeper frowned. “Bloody idiots.”
“And it seems someone illegally unsealed the crossing to Hyelot Pustka. The Loteri found out about it recently.”
The Keeper rubbed their forehead. “Quite an eventful mission, Dorian.”
“More than I’d have liked.” Dorian leaned back. “And Ophelia? Any news?”
“Nothing reliable yet.”
Dorian nodded. He took the College scroll from his coat and placed it on the desk. “Your request. The College was remarkably reluctant to part with it. Mostly because they had difficulty finding it.”
The Keeper carefully unrolled the parchment. Their scarlet eyes moved across the ancient writing, then stopped. “Someone has altered this.”
Dorian leaned forward. “How badly?”
“Part of the original text has been removed. The replacement follows the same script, but the construction is different.” The Keeper traced a line without touching the parchment. “This is not how I remember it.”
“Interesting. The last recorded reader was a Walker named Nav Keram. The Archivist also found several other requests under that name.”
“Do you know him?”
“I do, unfortunately. Or fortunately.” He touched a control on his arm panel and projected the copied library entries. “Read the name backwards.”
“Marek Van.” The Keeper’s eyes moved from the hologram to Dorian’s face. “Your father?”
“Yes. Apparently, he was alive a few years ago. Now the scroll has been moved and altered.”
The Keeper rolled up the parchment and tied it with the original cord. “That does not prove he altered it.”
“What exactly is it?” Dorian asked. “The catalogue identified it as a spell from Scarlet Valley.”
“An ancient vampire spell for luring prey. Laziness has inspired some of our finest work.”
“Charming. Then why bother hiding it and altering the text?” Dorian stared at the Keeper.
“There were rumours it could turn ordinary people into Mirrorwalkers.”
Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Could it?”
“People believe all sorts of things, Dorian.”
Dorian returned to the holographic copies of the records. “My father consulted books on reflective inheritance and the binding of Mirrorwalker abilities, along with this scroll.”
The Keeper examined the entries. “He had a letter from the Institute of Reflective Studies in Netvoryn.”
Then they searched their own records. “The Institute closed twenty years ago.”
“Why?”
“A classified experiment caused a serious accident. Most of its facilities were destroyed, including the archives. Yet your father used its credentials only a few years ago.”
“A forged letter?” Dorian asked.
“Possibly. Or an old one with a few alterations. Someone in Netvoryn may still know what happened there.”
“If the spell was only meant to lure prey, why send me after it?” Dorian's eyes didn't leave the Keeper's face.
“I would rather keep it away from people who believe those stories.”
Dorian let that pass. “Why was my father researching all this under a false name?”
The Keeper closed the records. “I cannot explain your father's choices, Dorian.”
“Not a very satisfying answer.”
“I know.”
Dorian turned off his holographic projector. “If anything occurs to you, please let me know.”
As they left the Library, the Keeper stopped Dorian. “One more thing. Have you seen the warnings about the purple collars?”
“Yes. The Council appears unusually concerned.”
“With good reason. Avoid anyone wearing one. And do not attempt to investigate them alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
The Keeper regarded him with understandable scepticism.
“Really.” Dorian inclined his head. “I have quite enough unfinished business.”
The Keeper watched Dorian leave. Then they collected the scroll and took it to their private quarters. They sank into the massive armchair and stretched their legs.
Bren arrived shortly afterwards, carrying a glass of artificial blood on a silver tray. “Your usual.”
He placed the glass beside the scroll and knelt before the Keeper. “May I?”
They nodded. Bren unlaced the Keeper’s leather shoes and eased them off, then settled their feet in his lap and began massaging their heels.
The Keeper took a sip. The blood was thick, properly warmed and entirely satisfactory. After a while, Bren rested their feet on a cushion, dimmed the lights and quietly left the room. The Keeper ran their fingers over the scroll and closed their eyes. Rose.
Centuries ago, in Scarlet Valley, the Keeper had been remarkably stupid. As heir to one of the oldest noble vampire houses, they had enjoyed every privilege their position offered. Money, influence, servants and an excellent selection of willing feeding partners.
Then Rose appeared, a mortal woman with dark eyes, very little money and legs that deserved their own religious cult. She had arrived in Scarlet Valley with considerable curiosity and absolutely no respect for noble titles.
The Keeper had fallen for her almost immediately. Rose was utterly shameless about getting what she wanted. She asked questions about everything. Vampires, blood, old magic, the Mirror Wars. Especially the things her lover preferred not to discuss.
And her blood.
The Keeper had tasted blood from countless partners. Some had been pleasant, others barely tolerable. Rose’s was extraordinary. Rich, fragrant, with a faint taste of ripe berries. So delicious that the Keeper had occasionally forgotten their manners. They still dreamt of the silky skin of her inner thighs. The best bites they had ever taken.
That night had begun well enough. Rose had laughed softly as the Keeper loosened her corset, then stretched across the bed while they kissed their way down her stomach. Her skin carried a faint scent of berries. Nothing unusual. They bit her inner thigh, as they had done many times before. The blood tasted sweeter than usual. The Keeper asked about it, more out of curiosity than suspicion.
“A special treat. For you,” she had said, entirely too pleased with herself.
By then, it was too late.
Rose had rubbed Ruby Berry juice onto her skin exactly where her lover would bite. In sufficient quantities, it impaired a vampire’s judgement and made keeping secrets remarkably difficult.
And the Keeper had swallowed quite enough. They began talking. First, amusing stories about their family. Then less amusing ones. Eventually, Rose asked about Mirrorwalking. How had her lover inherited the gift?
The Keeper had laughed. They had never inherited the gift. They had become a Mirrorwalker. They could still remember explaining the first part of the process while Rose listened attentively, encouraging them to continue. The rest of the night was a blank.
When they woke the following morning, Rose was gone. So were her belongings and several gifts the Keeper had given her.
They searched Scarlet Valley first. Then Steamhollow. Later, other worlds. They paid informants, questioned Walkers and followed every clue to her whereabouts. Years passed. They never found her. During those searches, rumours began reaching the Keeper about a spell that could make Mirrorwalkers. Rose must have told someone. How much she had shared remained another question.
The Keeper opened their eyes and looked at the glass in their hand. They had not touched anything suspicious since. Nor had they fed directly from a human. Rose had taught them an expensive lesson. They had proved an excellent student.
They set the glass beside the scroll.
Vampires born with the Walker gift were exceptionally rare. According to the official Great Council archives, the Keeper was one of them. Their ancestry was documented, their reflective abilities registered and their history entirely respectable.
A beautifully maintained collection of lies.
Even before the alterations, the scroll had supplied only part of the process. Without the rest, it was useless. The Keeper had spent centuries collecting copies anyway, buying some and confiscating others. They had only recently learnt that the Desert Mirrored Library still held one. It should have been the last outside their possession, unless Marek had copied it.
Had Marek altered the text himself? If so, why not destroy the scroll? Had Rose written something down that Marek had later found? That would explain his research. The College records also made the Keeper reconsider the oil-stained handkerchief Coyote had found in Epinalium. They had recognised it as Marek’s, but assumed he had left it in that abandoned camp long ago. Perhaps he had been there rather more recently.
The Keeper’s thoughts returned to the purple collars. What if the Walker in ORC custody had never inherited his gift at all? Stripping Walkers of their free will was bad enough. Creating them to order would be considerably worse. The Keeper knew of no one who had been made a Mirrorwalker through technology or magic. Apart from their own case. But if someone had found a way to do it reliably, any ambitious bastard with sufficient resources could try to manufacture an obedient army capable of conquering Mireth.
The Keeper had seen what happened when greedy twats tried to control reflection. The Mirror Wars had lasted a hundred years. Cities had burned, and entire populations had been stranded when their mirrors were deliberately shattered. Some worlds had never recovered.
The Great Council had been founded to prevent another such disaster, and Haven played its part. For centuries, the Keeper had maintained the balance, usually through persuasion. Occasionally, they had removed troublesome individuals from political life. Often permanently.
They locked the scroll in their desk drawer and drained the glass. The College’s access records needed checking before they took any of this to the Council.
The Keeper had survived the Mirror Wars once. They had no intention of attending the next.
