Bloodlines

“Welcome to Le Royale du Lionne Inn. I am Ennui Arseneau. How long will you be staying with us,” he asked though his southern French accent blurred most of his words. He scanned over his newspaper without looking up at hunter-Source. “Please may I see your identification documents as well as your certified gold card of huntership.” Ridley only leaned over the countertop and raised a stiff eyebrow at the innkeeper. Ennui huffed then lowered his glasses to see the resemblance in face to his high school ally. ”Le petite Clarke Axel? Back again oh so soon, huh? Why?”

Before Ridley could answer, her phone buzzed. She sighed then took it out while replying, “long story, sir.” Ennui only hummed while he began typing on her monitor. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” the Source sighed.

“Dare I ask?”

“I have an email from someone who’s part of a group I’m working with,” Ridley began. “He just emailed the surveillance footage of their masquerade, last night. He’s asking me to go for the required gradus.”

“Show me?” She obeyed. As he watched Ennui hummed. “What’s your last gradus?”

“Just the Hunter.”

The innkeeper shook his head while Fifi came out with a bowl of cereal for him. “Well one kill is your Mana, easily. Good Lord, girl! Your archery skills are worthy of a Marksmanship; your precision is worth a Melee; hell! If whatever pyrotechnics you pulled off had a gradus, you should get it. I’ll sign.”

Ridley huffed then shook her head. “A Melee is a long-term gradus; you’ve never seen me other than here.”

“Nobody needs to know.” The Source pursed her lips then shook her head, cupping her forearm where her Hunter gradus was. “Ha,” Ennui went on then nudged Fifi. “Juvenile, this one.”

“It’s wrong,” Ridley pointed out.

“It’s only wrong if you get caught,” Ennui countered slyly. He chuckled to himself while Fifi patted Ridley’s shoulder. “Here, mon rayon de soleil. You look exhausted,” he added then handed her a key. “I will call my tattooist and get you the truthful gradus. Snob.”

The Source ignored him and with her key in her left hand, headed upstairs to the room and caved in a deep sleep-deprived slumber (her left arm was in a proper sling, now, that the bullet had been removed). At first the sleep was a normal void sleep. Gradually, more and more people found their way into her mind. A milliard of voices and personalities and experiences just piling up.

The young Da Xia, learning to walk again in Guangdong General Hospital after being crushed by her own car. She was depressed and reclusive since losing her sister. Then there was the professor of ancient history at Oxford University, Alexander McIntyre. A bubbly man in his forties who had a collection of wines in the home he shared with his two Maltese poodles. Jesus Sousa, the part time capoeira terranossa mestre, who lived in a shabby little one-room building not far from Praia Grande beach.

The experience was drawing. Underneath the mountain of ampyras sifting through her mind, two stuck with Ridley. Dominique was locked up in her room, standing on her balcony. Watching Promenade des Anglais and listening to the sure waves. Her dark blue eyes shimmered from the flood of tears, her heart heavily mourning Aimée.

The other ampyra was Tomás. Ruefully sitting on the edge of Ridley’s bed. He ran his boney fingers through his jett black hair. Next to him was what felt like Sebastian. Since he wasn’t ampyra, the Source could only feel him through the psionic link he shared with Tomás.

Before them was Ankh, bipedal and human. The supposedly ‘not werewolf’ wolf-humanoid stood before them with her arms crossed. Though they were comforting Tomás, Sebastian and Ankh were having their own conversation. “So how many... wild... dog... creatures are there?”

Ankh pursed her lips then combed her chocolate hair nervously. “Many,” she replied. “Wolves, jackals, hyenas. Other types of wild canines that we’ve probably never heard of.”

“Can you still see Ridley,” Tomás asked with concern.

Ankh closed her eyes then searched the innards of her mind. “It’s so strange,” the wolfen voiced. “It’s like everything is in high definition. Not only that but I can see everyone she can.”

“I don’t care about them! I care about my sister!”

The wolfen shook her head. “You kicked her out,” Ankh argued.

“Tell me that she is all right.”

“I can’t,” she sighed defeatedly. “Not entirely. I can only sense her psionic footprint but...”

Sebastian nodded when Ankh didn’t finish. “What does that entail?”

“When my brother’s on daylight patrol, I feel her like this because she’s asleep,” Ankh replied. “It’s like our link is...” she made frustrating and rabid hand gestures “... urg!”

“It’s less connected when one of you is asleep.”

“Can you tell where she is?”

“Not when she’s asleep.”

The void returned.

The night came and went and the new day was passing quickly. The Source was awoken by a blaring ringing; the landline next to the bed. She moaned into the receiver then rolled to her stomach. “Eight Rue Droite. Skin Deep Shop. Ask for Augustin. Twenty minutes,” was all Ennui said before hanging up. Even if that was only a four-minute walk, Ennui was pushing it.

Rue Droite, meaning ‘straight street’, is one of the most picturesque streets in the Old Town of Nice. The narrow road hosts a seventeenth century Lascaris Palace, which has the second-largest collection of musical instruments in France. The buildings were a bright summery yellow that contrasted to the winter weather.

As she strolled down Rue Droite, Ridley saw several old grills over the doorways, which served as a natural cooling system in the city. While looking at the walls, she saw another historical feature - a cannonball from the sixteenth century Turkish siege stuck in the corner of a building. The was a sign advertising traditional socca - chickpea pancake - at Chez Theresa, which has been serving Nice specialties since 1925.

An open door had the number ‘8’ next to it and above the door was a black awing reading ‘Skin Deep Shop’ in white. Inside the walls were dark grey while the ceiling was white and the visible rafters were brown and had hanging lights. There was a hum of rock music, soft and ambient, underneath the howls of agony from a grown man.

Ridley sized up the space around her before turning to the lady at the front desk. She had bright blue hair, piercings down the length of the bridge of her nose and tattoos along her left jawline. “Bonne journée,” she greeted.

“Salut,” Ridley replied with a nod then laid her gold card before the lady. The embossed Judicious series were more pronounced under that light. “Je cherche Augustin.”

“Oui,” she nodded then gestured for Ridley to follow, handing her back her gold card. “Augustin,” the lady called before turning back for her desk.

Augustin had dark hair and wore an unzipped red jacket over his tattooed chest with black ripped jeans. “Augustin Garnier,” he stated in an undeniable American accent. He was scanning through the gradus paperwork with a scrutinising eye. “You must be Ennui’s special case. Name, age, last gradus earned.”

“Ridley Axel. Eighteen. Hunter.”

Augustin nodded then replaced the needle on his tattoo pen. “You’re here for a Mana, a Lone and an archery Marksmanship, savvy?”

“A Lone?”

“You took on an armed horde singlehandedly,” Augustin pointed out, gesturing to the tablet where he no doubt saw the surveillance footage. “Savvy?” Before she could reply, he put on his latex gloves and ordered, “sit.”

“I don’t even know where the Soloist series goes,” Ridley stated as she sat down.

“Upper left arm,” Augustin stated coldly, sliding down his left sleeve to show her that he had the entire series: Assassin, the sai dagger; Reconnaissance, the binoculars; Bounty, the cross bow; and Lone, the howling wolf head. “How long you France for?”

“No idea.”

“Good. Monteiro’s hunters are next level shit.”

“I saw a whole restaurant of Archangels, my first night here. Before that, the closest I got were Margeaux Gauthier’s weapon reviews on YouTube.”

Augustin turned his dark eyes on her then positioned her wrist. “Don’t be naive. You killed Margaux Gauthier,” he ordered then started tattooing. “Ever heard of a dude named Lawrence Whitaker?” The Source nodded mutely. “’Course you have; one of Monteiro’s best hunters. Had sixty-eight individual gradus. Slaughtered his wife, children and parents-in-law all in the same night when they were turned into Class E. It’s not like there’s a universal teaching method for hunter training. We go by what governments authorise.”

“Big deal.”

“You grew up in the harsher system. Why should you question it? Know how Whitaker died?”

“Yeah. Whitaker was Class E, attacked my school. A friend of mine did it; that’s how he made hunt,” she replied, thinking about how traumatised Dane was after that night. The night of Renee’s first attack.

“See. Your friend’s badass.”

Ridley smirked to herself then tilted her head up to the ceiling. Beyond the rafters - on the white ceiling - were quotes in Latin. “What’s that say,” she asked, gesturing to the quote above them.

Augustin chuckled squarely, without looking at the words he no doubt saw a million times. “What it boils down to is ‘the pain is temporary, the drip is permanent’.” Ridley shook her head with a light laugh. “That’s what gradus is, isn’t it? Bragging about your accomplishments without saying a word.”

“Four months ago I couldn’t kill and now it’s like it’s nothing.”

“Join the club,” Augustin replied casually. “It’s a lot more common than we’d ever dare admit, rookie. Here, we call it purity shedding; getting rid of the last bit of innocence. Hardening that last pearl of purity. Your first kill is saying goodbye to whatever life you thought you had. This lifestyle can consume you in a heartbeat.”

Ridley stared up at Latin. “That’s not true,” he stated. “The pain isn’t all that temporary. Taking the life of someone you know... someone you love...”

Augustin nodded wordlessly at her. “Who was it for you?” She only looked at him. “A youngling like you talking about pain not being temporary? You’ve hunted close to home. Spill.”

“Twin sister. She came at me with, er, USP 9mm, I think. I don’t know how many times I had to slice through her rounds before she took my karambit to her neck. I couldn’t stop screaming.”

“What tipped her?”

“I did.”

“Damn. I know it’s no consolation, but it was similar for me and my father. Le sauvage took a chunk at him and he said nothing. Six hours later, he came at him with a steak knife.”

That was the extent of conversation between the two. Ridley closed her eyes, hearing a wave of voices echo through her mind. The pain of her Mana vanished while other sensations from other people filled throughout her body. A cat nibbling on the Venetian courtesan in Los Angeles’ index finger; the archeologist in the jungles of Peru being squeezed by an anaconda; the overworked single mother being massaged by a professional masseuse.

Time was an irrelevant concept; as proven by Augustin when he tapped Ridley’s shoulder because he was finished. All three gradus were even wiped down already! Two bandages on her left arm - one below the elbow and one around her upper arm; the Mana and Lone gradus respectively - and the one on her right wrist; the archery Marksmanship.

Unceremoniously Ridley left the tattoo shop. There was an emptiness when getting a gradus; it wasn’t a choice tattoo. Usually there’s an excitement or some sort of glee in a tattoo. Because of its symbolism, its history, its purpose. Not with a gradus. Ridley inhaled deeply and the smell of a fresh scrape filled her nostrils. Non-ampyra blood. Young non-ampyra blood! It made her stomach churn and her mouth water. She moaned then turned away from the direction of the perfume. The streets had less life than when she came in, from the late hour.

The sun was low but still the sky was an orange tint. The aroma of food carried through the chilly winds. It was suddenly disgusting! Goosebumps made her new ink hurt a tinge more. Murmurs of conversation were beyond her footsteps on the cobblestone road... on the other end of the city. Everything was amplified and her senses were strangely adapted to it. Beneath, Ridley could hear the sewage water gushing, smelling the hot piss. Gagging on it. She took the corner and began the uphill walk back to the inn.