IN the near total darkness of the house, he sat up. If his heart still beat, it would have been racing in his chest. The room was silent; he heard the distant susurration of the ocean through an open window. He waited patiently for sunset; the daylight hours had long since become a trial, a time when all he could do was hunker down and wait or plan. He felt weak and enervated, the sunlight a tangible force pushing him toward the earth. When he was still young and his heart still beat -- many, many years ago -- he dimly remembered traveling to the Subcontinent; though his memories of the trip had grown hazy, he still clearly recalled how the heat and humidity had utterly shocked him. He recalled heat prostration and the feeling of dizziness and weakness it brought along with the overwhelming need to find somewhere shady and cool to lie down. He was reminded of that feeling whenever the sun was out, blasting away at the roof of the house he waited in.
In six hours it would be dark enough that he could emerge into the open air and resume his work. He had long ago stopped railing against the sun and his resentment at being a prince during the night time, but little better than an elderly human during the day. He used the time to rest and plan.
And heal.
His meeting with the Advocate had been a close thing; even old and infirm, the Advocate had almost been too much for him. In the end, after nearly losing his head, he had run the old man through. He rarely gave much thought to those that tried stand between him and his dreams of empire; one didn’t think about cockroaches or vermin after one disposed of them. But this Advocate -- the Butcher of the West they had taken to calling him -- had been skilled and had put up a spirited resistance.
But he was gone now, his body likely never to be found. As far as anyone would ever know, the Advocate had quietly packed up and left.
He was healing; he had hoped to feed tonight, to augment the healing process.
But something had changed. He felt it. Some fundamental force had shifted, realigning itself into a new shape. He had always possessed a talent for anticipating danger or changes which might impact his plans. That talent had saved him more than once, allowing him change his plans or retreat before he came under threat. He knew the change was something significant. Something dangerous. Normally, a shift like this would put him on the defensive, would have him beginning a plan to withdraw and reconsider the threats he was facing. Listening to that instinct had allowed him to last nearly four centuries...when most of his kind were typically culled within half a year.
But this time...this time the rewards were worth the risk. He stared into the darkness, wide eyed, forcing his mind to come more fully to wakefulness despite the soporific pull of the sun. If he left now, there was a good chance some other power would move in and resettle the coast. With the Butcher of the West gone, there was only himself to prevent that. He didn’t much care about the Butcher’s territory; he didn’t much care about the complexities and challenges of defending and managing it.
But the girl...
If he backed off now, he’d lose the girl. With the girl, he would have the leverage to make himself a Power.
Something had changed, and his greed for that potential, his greed for access to that kind of power was too great to pass up. He would have to start maneuvering on an accelerated time table. He would have preferred to study the situation further, to formulate more complete plans, but he had a sudden conviction that he wasn’t going to have the time he might normally enjoy. The window to get control of the girl and break her to his needs was small, and it suddenly felt as though that window was closing.
“Ravel,” he called, sensing his get.
“Yes, father,” Ravel answered, his voice a musical tenor emanating from the darkness. Ravel wasn’t his biological son, but the bond they shared was in many ways similar, in other ways more intimate. They were inescapably bound by blood.
“Is the redcap scum positioned well?”
There was a hesitation, a pause indicative of doubt that annoyed him before Ravel answered, “Yes, father.”
“And Tobias?”
Another hesitation which raised his irritation further. His other children felt his irritation. They shifted uncomfortably, but immediately stilled; none wished to attract his attention when his mood was shifting.
“Tobias is...unstable. I don’t know how long he’s going to remain...viable.”
“Where is he now? I feel he is somewhere close.”
“Oakland, father. Across the water. Perhaps if you feed with him...”
Tobias must be very far gone if Ravel was suggesting blood rituals to sustain him.
“If he’s truly gone rabid, we must be prepared to clean up his mess.”
“Yes, father.”
He mused silently for several minutes. His voice was contemplative when he finally spoke again.
“We’ve run out of time for planning and positioning.”
“So soon?” Ravel’s surprise caused another ripple of unease amongst the others.
Rather than rise up in rage and punish his children for their timidity and lack of obedience, he decided to humor the implied question. It felt good to be doing something during his convalescence.
“Yes. I think The Butcher primed his succession before we began our work here.”
He felt his son’s surprise and dismay.
“But it feels as if there is more than that going on as well. You found the Defiler?”
“I did, father.”
“Very well. Send the scum to bring the girl to us. Let us see if there has been a trap set.”
“Yes, father,” Ravel answered, a touch of excitement entering his voice.
Archangel shook his head, annoyed by his son’s overeagerness.
It sounded as though his elder son, Tobias, had gone rabid; he suspected that Ravel wouldn’t be long for this world either. The timing was...inconvenient.
Still...you worked with the tools you had at your disposal, and Ravel was his favorite for a reason.