Bloodlines

A soft knock came from the white double doors. “Dearest,” Aimée called. “We have lunch.” Ridley laid motionless on the bed. Her hair unbrushed and a cluelessness plastered over her face. Genevieve pushed in a trolley behind Aimée with food covers over whatever meal the kitchen staff prepared. “My dear niece, will you please be here,” she asked. The Mesopotamian settled next to her niece. She combed through the unkept hair. “You’ve hardly eaten! We’ve plenty of blood.” On cue, Genevieve revealed blood bags under the first cover. “And some homemade beef stew with toasted baguette. Take your pick, please.”

The smell of the beef stew wafted into Ridley’s nose. “I’m not hungry.”

Aimée sighed then laid next to her niece and gathered her in her arms. “You’ve been reclusive since our talk, yesterday.” Ridley exhaled her fluster but didn’t budge. “You’ve been cooped up in this bedroom since. You weren’t at breakfast nor lunch. Genevieve says you haven’t moved a centimetre.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t trust me.”

“Oh... tush! Not with this again.” Ridley allowed her aunt to comb through her hair. “Dearest, I know in your line of work trust does not come easy. Regardless of how long we’ve known you, how dreadful things may seem; Mini and Tomás and Sebastian and myself. You can count on us. Tell us what’s bothering you.”

Ridley closed her eyes. “I can’t.” Steadily she turned away from Aimée. “I can’t.” Aimée sat up then patted her shoulder. “Go.”

The wallflower kissed her niece’s temple. “Come to us, when you’re ready.” She gracefully slid off the bed then made for the door, where she paused. “Please do try to eat,” she concluded. Genevieve laid the plates of the tea table with their covers before wordlessly making her exit.

Ridley sighed then wiped away her tears. “Ankh, please talk to me,” she pleaded. “I thought I was alone before but... now... with-” she sniffled then clutched her legs closer to herself. “Without you, I’m truly alone now. Please.” Still the grey wolf was silent. “What am I missing, Ankh?” The grey wolf was saying nothing.

At sun set the following day, Coco Chanel came back with her outrageous masquerade apparel in the tender hands of her assistant. Ridley was peeled off her bed by Sebastian. He easily flung her over his shoulder patting her back reassuringly. Ridley sighed then shook her head. “I’m in a mood, not paralysed,” she jeered.

Sebastian paused outside the parlour door and set on her feet. “Why are you in a mood?”

Ridley laced her fingers together. “That’s... it’s complicated but I think Ankh wants me to talk to all of you about it. She’s so angry at me.” Sebastian sized her up mutely. “H-have you seen her?”

“I can’t say I have. I doubt she’s far away. Hunter wolves are taught homing skills. She will find her way back.” That wasn’t comforting at all. “Ridley, I-I speak from experience. My link with Tomás was established a long time ago. Despite that, whenever I leave and no matter how livid I am at him, I always come back to him. It is... intense... to say the least.”

Ridley teared up and turned away from Sebastian to wipe away her tears. “I used to think my sister was all I had,” she began. “I felt so alone after she died. I feel worse now that Ankh’s gone.”

Sebastian gathered her in his arms. His blond hair trailed forward while Tomás exited the parlour where the ladies were indulging in their last fittings. The Master of the House beamed at his sister in the arms of his best friend.

He cupped Sebastian’s shoulder, whispering, “mind if I cut in?” The ajar human stepped back and allowed the brother and sister to be. “I’ve been so worried...” Ridley leaned her head into his shoulder. “Sister, I...”

“We need to talk,” she stated then straightened up. “It’s important but... it would be better if we did it after the masquerade.”

Tomás merely nodded mutely. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Ridley nodded mutely. “I think it’s your turn,” he stated, looking back at the parlour. “I’ve never seen Coco this excited for a fitting. Be warned, she may be a little draining.”

The huntress nodded then slid into the parlour, leaving the two friends in the hallway. Inside, Coco was refilling her cup of tea while Dominique was pacing frantically before the mirror. “She’s here,” Coco squealed and Dominique stopped pacing.

“Finally,” the Mesopotamian diva jeered. “I see you took the scenic route here!”

“Oh, ignore that battle axe,” Coco sang excitedly. “I have exciting things to show you!” The designer saw the grim expression on the huntress’ face. “Something wrong here, ma ange?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good,” Coco cheered then dragged Ridley to the sofa. “Sit, sit, sit!” She snapped her fingers at her assistant. “I haven’t felt this exhilarated since I first started designing! You’ve brought back a spark in me I forgot I had.”

Ridley only forced a smile, a weak one, then laced her fingers together. Dominique paused behind the sofa and tilted her head. “Good grief, woman, you act as if this is your last collection.”

“Quite the contrary! I’m inspired to redo my ‘Armoured Romance’ collection,” Coco confirmed. “Enough about me! I absolutely had a wonderful time on your piece, ma ange. A dress that is lightly armoured - and accessorised accordingly - and thus would fit in both a social gala and an epic melee!”

“Perhaps you’d care for more tea to calm down,” Dominique offered.

“Nay! This blackblood designer has seen the light and I shan’t be halted,” Coco roared. “Aside from a protective breastplate, I incorporated carefully-tailored layers of body armour, hidden weapons in the accessories and special reinforcements over the chest.”

“What sort of weapons,” Ridley asked, straightening up.

Coco merely snapped her fingers and her assistant slid the mannequin between her and Ridley. It was greyish-white with angel wings and silver armour features. “The exterior feathers on the wings are made from polyethylene. The ballistic material is remarkably reliable and this’s better than Kevlar. The inside feathers...”

The designer pulled one out and tossed it to the hunter. Ridley studied the razor white feather in her hands. “Knives?”

“Perfect for throwing or close-contact combat,” Coco squealed. “There is only one under layer and the skirt is 100% designed to be torn for mobility. I also took the liberty of hiring a silversmith who could further arm you. Naémie?”

The assistant cleared her throat then laid wooden boxes on the table before Ridley. The huntress still had a feather in her hand that she was twiddling in her hands. Naémie had short blonde hair that was swept aside and dark blue eyes that meshed with her blue coat.

She opened all the boxes before the huntress to reveal hand-less gauntlets; a tasset; and a full neck chocker. All in the matching silver of the shoulder pads that were a fixed part of the dress. “The silversmith customised every piece for you. Completely damage resistant.”

Naémie's employer was trying hard to contain herself. “What do you think,” Coco cheered and the anticipation only built up on her petite face.

Ridley looked at the razor feather in her hand. “You couldn’t make it black?” Coco’s shoulders deflated while Naémie pouted her disappointed. “It’s practical, no doubt, but there’s going to blood.”

“I admit, I did not think about that,” Coco sighed then leaned into Naémie for support. “What an oversight! But you like, no?”

“Can’t really fault it on practicality but...”

Coco started squealing. “Come Naémie. We have a collection to reinvent!”

Naémie was dragged out of the parlour by Coco while Dominique shook her head with a hum. “I’ll have all this taken to your room,” she said. “I’ll be up to do your hair and makeup in a moment.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? Tonight, the du Luq reputation is on the line. This masquerade had been hosted four hundred and ninety-nine times. Seven times it had been wholly disastrous. On this five hundredth time, we will not be the eighth. If that means I have to put you in a straitjacket and pin you to the floor just to do your hair and makeup, then I am going to put you in a straitjacket and pin you to the floor just to do your hair and makeup. King Louis XIV will be here and we will impress him.”

“Fine. I’ll be in my room.” Dominique gave her a genuine smug grin. “Geez,” the huntress commented under her breath then left. She sighed then felt the silent of the castle for the first time. “You’re still not talking me?” Ankh was quiet. “I can feel you’re still in my head. I don’t blame you. I am a bitch.”

After showering, and combing out her hair, Ridley took in the boxes of silver armour-like accessories. Behind her, Genevieve was laying out the angelic costume. Upon closer inspection, the corset was made from kevlar. The inside of the silver armour was also lined with the bulletproofing.

The off-white silk dress was strapless and its only detailing were the silver armour accessories. Other than that, it was just a plain white ball gown. The shoulder pads glistened from the light. A resonating knocking came from the door and Genevieve let Dominique in.

Dominique dragged her niece to the seat at the tea table. She pulled Ridley’s head back and started doing her makeup. “Practical,” Ridley commented sarcastically. Before the kit of makeup of the masquerade’s invitation:

′Together,

we cordially invite you to celebrate with us the fifth centennial vampire masquerade hosted by House du Luq.

Our theme for the evening will be ‘come as you are’.

Tuesday, the eleventh of January

two thousand and twenty-two

seven o’ clock in the evening

Chateau du Luq

BY INVITATION ONLY!′

Dominique in spite of her favour of melodrama, showed restrained on her niece’s hair and face. Her lips were a deep roseberry while her eyes were a smokey greyish-blue. The eldritch hummed then patted Ridley’s forehead before leaving. The huntress went to the nearest mirror and was stunned to see the face looking back at her.

The du Luq black hair was in a bun with the hair stick straight through. Not a strand was out of place. The gloom registered on her face while Genevieve stood narrowly out of the mirror’s sights. “You look incredible, mademoiselle.”

“No. I don’t,” Ridley replied without looking away. Genevieve furrowed her eyebrows in confusion yet set a course for her ward’s shoulder. “Looking in the mirror has been hard recently. I always saw Ryan’s face somewhere in my reflection. Now... it’s just her looking back. Makeup, hair, fashion; this was her department.”

“That’s good. It means she’s a part of you.”

“I killed her.”

“O-oh.”

Ridley took in her face then turned away. “I wish Esmeralda were here. She always wanted to this with me.” Ridley looked over at the grey gown. “I wish I never left.” Genevieve stood looking at her wordlessly. “That was sombre,” she concluded then headed for the dress. “Sorry, Genevieve.”

Genevieve aided her into the costume. First was the petticoat and the corset. “Brace yourself, mademoiselle,” Genevieve ordered while taking the corset lacings in her hands. “This will hurt.” Ridley furrowed her eyebrows. When the maid jerked the laces, Ridley gasped her agony. The huntress clutched the foot frame of her bed. “Again,” Genevieve warned.

Again she jerked the laces. ”Vénère,” the huntress cussed. Genevieve jerked the laces a final time before tying the laces. “Holy hell. My stomach is pressed into my heart.”

“I could make it tighter,” Genevieve offered.

“No!” The maid chuckled then aided Ridley into the dress before adorning her in the aesthetic and practical armour. “Thanks, Genevieve.”

“Your mask,” Genevieve stated holding up a sticker. “Lady Aimée said an actual one would be impractical.”

“Yeah. Limits your line of sight along your peripherals.” The sticker was an asymmetrical white mask with faux pearls stuck on it. Carefully Genevieve plastered it onto Ridley’s face. “It’s sort of heavy,” she commented. She made for her bow and quiver. “You remember where to go?”

“Yes,” Genevieve replied putting her hoodie back on. “Everyone not needed will be hiding for the night. A cellar on the far end of the estate. Away from the ball.” Ridley nodded then dusted off her skirt. “Mademoiselle?” Ridley looked back at the maid who was twiddling with the hem of her hood. “Be careful. This family has protected my brothers and I for well over seven centuries. They’re our family which makes you our family.”

Ridley cupped Genevieve’s shoulder. “I won’t let anything happen to them or anyone else here,” she replied. Genevieve squeezed her hand with an assured wordless nod. “There’s something I need from you. There’s a gardener that will be in the cellar. He’s name is Earnest Sinclair. Stay at his side.”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

Ridley nodded conclusively then the two left the grand bedroom for the parlour. Genevieve let out a shaky breath while the double doors opened “I’ll see you after the ball.” The maid nodded then skeptically followed the parade of estate workers to the cellar of safety. Ridley’s eyes watch Genevieve vanish in the exodus before she trailed into the parlour. Faintly, the stringed quartet downstairs could be heard.

Inside, a headpiece faced her. The headpiece had a huge fan-shape of peacock feathers. It was clearly Dominique; she was the curvier of all three du Luq sisters, with Renee surprisingly the skinniest. Her gown was black with blue and green embroidery to make the ‘eyes’ of the peacock feathers around her skirt. Her black hair was left loose.

“Whoa,” Sebastian commented as he stood up when Ridley walked in. Tomás beside too stood. “You are breathtaking.” The English human was dressed in a brown and green steampunk suit. The studded gold goggles he used as his mask were on his head. “I hope when I die, there is a beauty like this on the other side.”

“That is my sister!”

At last, Dominique was done admiring herself in the mirror and turned to her niece. “Oh. You look a vision of true du Luq beauty.”

“Don’t you mean ′like a vision’,” Ridley countered.

“No. ‘Like’ would imply I’m comparing you to something. You are a du Luq beaut,” Dominique explained and Ridley’s roseberry lips parted. “You won’t be needing these,” the vain woman went on, taking the quiver and bow. “They don’t have the aesthetic to your dressing.”

“How else am I supposed to get long-range?”

“Honestly,” Dominique jeered then carefully set aside the weaponry, “sometimes I wonder how you people think I spend my time.” She glided across the parlour while Sebastian couldn’t take his eyes off of Ridley. “Here,” the noblewoman said, handing Ridley a white bow and matching bow-mounted quiver that had silver detailing latched onto it. There were four silvery arrows gripped into the quiver.

“No,” the huntress replied coolly. “It takes practice to get used to a new bow. And that,” she pointed defiantly to her trusted archery equipment, “is a customised Hoyt recurve. Designed specifically for my draw length, height and preference. My grandfather had that made for me.”

Dominique huffed then glided passed Ridley. “Little girl,” she began sourly, “when you weren’t looking, I had Genevieve take the anthropometrics of that Cupid’s string stretcher and one of your flying toothpicks. Why else would I bother to get you a customised Hoyt recurve in white, if not to be practical and look the part?”

“They’re the same?”

"Exactly the same,” Dominique confirmed to Sebastian. “If you don’t believe me...” the peacock queen stepped aside, revealing a bag of flour with targeting rings on it. Ridley lined up to take the shot. The white arrow struck the flour outside the largest ring. “You did that on purpose!”

“No, I didn’t. It’s a breaking-in shot. The more weight you add to the bow, the more it will affect the natural balance,” she replied coolly while notching a second. Aimée stepped into the doorway soundlessly with her full face black and gold mask in her hands. Ridley let the arrow fly, flying straight into the smallest ring. “The silver’s too much,” was all Ridley said while collecting the two arrows.

“Hm,” was all Dominique said.

“That’s what I told her,” Aimée added, stepping into the room in gold and black. “Nonetheless, it seems to be going swimmingly.” Ridley rolled her eyes while clipping the bow to her tasset. It wasn’t jam packed full of arrows; nine to twelve at most. “Viggo has arrived.”

At her words, a haute couture viking costume crossed into the room. The face like Dane’s was covered in a dark grey mask. With him were more of his rugged viking bodyguards. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Otsman,” Tomás spat.

Viggo only smirked nonchalantly. “I have the list of names of people the Consortium will be collecting. A revised list; they’ve taken down the unlikely suspects.”

“Get on with it, then.”

“King Louis XIV and a Jordanian gentleman by the name Rahal.”

“That’s it,” Sebastian commented. “We heard there was a very long list.”

“Those are the only ones attending your... soirée.” Ironically a look of disappointment covered Tomás and Sebastian’s faces. Aimée and a sense of relief while Dominique was back to admiring her face in her pocket mirror. “Don’t think the Consortium won’t be firm because there are only two suspects. They’ll send a siege to take this place, should they see the need for it.”

“You’re only telling us now!”

“I would have sent an email but that seemed too barbaric, even for a Otsman,” Viggo chuckled. “Don’t fret, little lord, I have my men stationed throughout your little house. Including your gardens and exterior walls. My sons will be inside and outside the ballroom.”

“You have children,” Ridley voiced, faintly suprised. “How many?”

“In total, thirty-five,” Viggo replied as if it were nothing. “Ten daughters, twenty-four sons and one who got away.” Dane. “What? I’ve been around some thousand years; what was I suppose to do? Travel, don’t make me laugh.”

Aimée shook off Viggo and etched closer to her family. “Does everyone remember where they’re supposed to be?” There was no reply. “Good.” She turned to Viggo. “Would you mind? We’re about to pray and I know you still favour the old gods.”

“Of course. Of course,” the viking replied then unceremoniously left the room.

“I took the liberty of looking up known mercenaries that work for the Consortium. Ridley, Sebastian, that’s where you come in,” Aimée went on.

“Wait, what?”

“Ridley, dearest, I know you're a woman but we need you to stay focused,” Tomás cut in. “There’s half a million ways tonight could go astray.”

“Viggo is an ally, yes,” Aimée explained, “but he is not our bloodline. Remember what I said? Family is all you can count on.” The huntress nodded sullenly. “I compared the list of mercenaries to our guest list. Unfortunately a few of them found their way in before we could uninvited them.”

She laid a file on the table and Tomás was the one to skim through the list. “Carlos Felipe? Margeaux Gauthier? Tom Zieglar? What a regular band of misfits.”

Ridley’s eyes went wide as she added, “I recognise those names.” Tomás turned the file towards her. “Isabella Gonzalez and Marie Dumont. The Straight Six. What’s left of it, anyway. They’re Rogues wanted in thirtysomething countries. The International Hunt Association has bounties on them. There’s a €30 000 reward for anyone of them.”

“I will not have hunters taint the purity of this sanction,” Dominique hissed and Ridley raised an eyebrow at her. “I mean it!”

“Sister, if we involve The Hunt in this, would they simply take the Straight Six and be over it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Caught in a huge gathering of ampyras is going to sound very suspicious.”

“Couldn’t you lie,” Sebastian offered. “Say you’re doing an uncover investigation, or so?”

“They’d need proof since I don’t have a Mana gradus and if we tell The Hunt what the Consortium is and what it’s doing... it’s better left out of the question.”

“So just kill the bastards!”

“It’s not that simple, Dominique.” Ridley took a breath to calm herself then went on more demurely, “they’re called the Straight Six because they were the first Archangels. They’re Rogues now, yes, but back in the day the Straight Six were what every kid hunter wanted to be.”

Sebastian raised his hand questioningly. “Excuse me, but what the fuck is an Archangel?”

“It’s one of the highest gradus any hunter can ever get. It’s so up there that it’s not part of a gradus series.” Ridley pried off her left gauntlet to show her gradus. “These four are the Nonentity series. A single series of gradus can be collected systematically, like the Nonentity, or at random, like the Soloist series. A gradus like Archangel is called an episode; there’s just one. Like the Mana. Episodes, except the Mana, are impossible to earn. These guys are lethal personified.”

“That means whoever hired them must have great wealth,” Tomás voiced. “And influence. The leaders of the Consortium must be recognised at an international level. That easily narrows it down to a few hundred goldbloods.” Ridley felt a pang of hurt from knowing which six were the leaders her brother referred to. “We can’t let them get any closer to finding the Source.”

Aimée turned to Ridley thoughtfully. “Our youngest knows him. Dearest, can you confirm that the Source is neither King Louis no this Rahal.”

“Yes.”

“Then we only need keep his majesty and Rahal out of the Consortium’s clutches. God above knows what would follow them into the Consortium’s fortress.”

Dominique clapped her hands conclusively. “Brilliant! Now, we have a momentous ball to host. Let us not fail the people!”

She dramatically barged out of the parlour. “We can’t just go in there and play defense with Archangels,” Ridley directed to the rest of the Order. “Not to mention a potential siege. Why she acting like this?”

“Excuse me,” Dominique roared. “Our guests will be arriving!”

Ridley looked back at Tomás and Aimée expectantly. “Dominique has a way of being right without thought,” Aimée replied softly. “I know with your hunter sensibilities that seems ridiculous. But in family we must trust, dearest,” Aimée concluded then put on her mask.

She brushed passed Ridley, leaving the grade twelve with her brother and his friend. “This is a death trap,” she told Tomás. “Blindly going in there is-”

“Suicide? Perhaps, sister.” Ridley shook her head in disbelief. “I know this looks absolutely crazy,” he whispered. “Sometimes blindly trusting someone pays off the most.”

“We’re going to die without a proper plan.”

“In family we must trust,” Tomás echoed then followed his aunts.

The halfritch turned to the skeptic. “You can’t tell me you’re for this too.”

“I am not,” Sebastian replied then started to follow the du Luqs. “Truthfully, I agree with you. However, the unbending stubbornness of a du Luq is remarkable. You must admit that their ability to band together, even so ludicrously, is quite extraordinary.”

“They’re idiots.”

“They’ve lived much longer than we have,” Sebastian countered. “Perhaps all that wisdom is amounting to something incredible tonight.”

“It better.”