II

II

While the Saint Mark Plaza, with its palazzo and basilica, was considered the face the Venice, the canals were the heart of the city. Beneath the surface, Venice was a city of consumption and greed, and Rialto Bridge was the center of that dark underworld.

Underneath the large arching bridge that spanned the Grand Canal, several shops, clubs, restaurants, casinos and whorehouses lined up—one after another. Gaudy lights lit up the strip at night.

A tall man in a "tactician" mask gracefully disembarked from his gondola. His neatly-tailored charcoal suit and hip-length black cape contrasted sharply with his white mask.

The Tactician descended a marble staircase that led to a darkened study beneath the seedy street. There, he saw a young boy who casually had his head propped up on a rosewood desk.

He was a very handsome boy. Even in the dim light, his face seemed to glow like an angel's. He looked ten or eleven years old, but his brassy-colored eyes betrayed a thousand year's worth of evil.

"Would you like a drink?" the boy offered.

"I restrict my consumption of wine on business trips," the Tactician replied.

"That's too bad. Then again, I suppose you Terran cannot appreciate the taste of this delicious drink," the boy ventured, his words honeyed and his meaning full of venom.

The boy—Endre Kourza, Count of Zagrev—curled his upper lip, revealing his fangs. He lifted the decanter off the desk, poured a chick red drink, and downed it in one gulp. "Venetian. Good quality." The count laughed.

The Tactician guessed, "The appraiser's daughter?"

"She said she wanted to go back to her family. So I arranged a family reunion of sorts," the count joked.

Giggling, the count covered his mouth with his delicate hands.

The long-haired Tactician reacted indifferently. He shrugged, staying all business. "Count, will you please refrain from drawing any undue attention? Last night, a visitor from your country arrived. Do you know a young lady by the name of Astharoshe?" the Tactician asked.

"Astharoshe?" Endre raised an eyebrow. "Astharoshe Asran? Hah, they're taking me lightly, aren't they? I can't believe that they sent a young girl, just weaned on the taste of blood, to find me. Has my country exhausted all its good agents?"

"The problem is not Astharoshe herself. The Vatican moved to bring her here, and that's the major concern. Your Excellency, you have been making yourself known these past few weeks— quite obviously, it was your intention to lure the girl here," the Tactician continued.

Endre stuck out his tongue. So what if he knows my exploits? He  scratched his  head and said, "Well, I've  got strange ties with her, you know. I was thinking about showing her the completion of the plan."

"That's it? Your Excellency, do you know the special sub-sect of the Vatican that brought her over—AX Agency?" the Tactician

asked.

The count rolled his eyes. "Never heard of it." "The Vatican designed a special agency with the express purpose to fight us.They are the only organization that has enough power to go against our Orden. Now that they are involved, your plan may be jeopardized," the Tactician warned with great patience.

"Mister Kampfer." The count finally addressed the Tactician by name.

"Yes, Your Excellency?" Isaak Fernand von Kampfer instinctively knew he'd overstepped his bounds.

Endre didn't raise his voice even the slightest, but he had Kampfer's full attention. "Mister Kampfer, are you admonishing me?" the boy asked.

"Not at all,Your Excellency," Kampfer said.

"Then be quiet. I don't think you lowly monkeys understand the pride and honor of being a noble in our country," Endre said condescendingly. The boy sighed and sat back in his chair. "The people of my country .. .just because I killed three hundred Terran, those fools called me a monster! I must show them what justice really is! Otherwise, this plan . .. everything I've worked for ... all of it will be in vain."

"As you wish. My sincere apologies. I forgot my place," Kampfer groveled.

"As long as you remember it now." Endre took a slug of blood right from the decanter. "I'm quite satisfied by you Orden people. I wouldn't be here had you not helped me when I was exiled. I will heed your words concerning discretion, Kampfer. Don't be upset, my friend," Endre said.

"Yes, sir." Kampfer bowed.

"Igne Natura Renovatur Integra. The Empire and the Vatican are both in my hands. They will shed blood and make war with spikes and swords. From the blood and fire, I will establish a new order. A power that the Empire and the Vatican couldn't even amass!" the boy yelled.

He was starting to get drunk off the smell of blood and his own scheming. Dark thoughts clouded his eyes.

The Tactician recognized this. He wisely bowed and left.

"We wear masks on top of masks," he murmured, then chuckled. The Tactician passed a couple holding hands as they stepped off their gondola. One wore a glamorously adorned "sweetheart" mask and the other sported a beak-like "doctor" mask.

He giggled. "We have to hide our identities in order to touch the world.We're so adorable, aren't we?"

"I don't care what you spout, sir, but please don't include me in your abject 'we,' Doctor," she hissed.

The Sweetheart stepped onto the street, and swatted the Doctor's hand away. "Stop touching me! Filthy monkey!" she growled.

"It's a couple's party, dear," the Doctor reminded her. The Doctor rubbed his stinging hand, his blue eyes wincing underneath his mask.

"Welcome to club INRI," the doorman greeted. "You must be new customers . . . Do you have an invitation?" The Doctor presented an envelope.

The doorman took it and raked the Doctor with his gaze. He could tell the man was a fop at best—the sort who tried too hard to impress people, stumbled over his long clothes, and inhaled hors d'oeuvres at parties. Clearly, he was unused to wealth.

But, the Sweetheart he escorted was a creature unlike any other. Even for the doorman, who was used to noble ladies and gorgeous escorts, she was a sight to behold.

Her long, ivory hair was swept up and adorned with a glamorous string of jewels. Several finely crafted bracelets dangled on her thin wrists. She wore a diamond tiara and a dangerously low-cut, red Venetian evening dress. She was aggressive yet elegant: a walking gem.

The doorman allowed them in. Abel stumbled past him, while Asthe glided by. But once they passed earshot, the vampire beauty began spouting profanities. "My damn feet hurt! How do human women wear shoes like this? This place stinks like an ass! Are they smoking cigarettes? Are all Terran just plain stupid? Don't they know what it does to your lungs?!"

Asthe's voluptuous lips spouted one vulgar comment after another. She didn't pay any attention to the neo-classic furnishings or the ladies and gentlemen laughing at the roulette and baccarat tables.

"Asthe, you don't seem to be in a good mood," Abel dead-panned.

Her glare could have wilted a flower. "Whose fault do you think that is?"

She had wanted to break in undetected, but her partner insisted on making a grand entrance from the front door. She reluctantly agreed, but that was before she'd learned that rich Venetians dressed up in such ridiculous clown suits.

"Dammit, this is embarrassing," she grumbled. "If you mess this up, I'll have your head!"

"You're just a ray of sunshine, aren't you?" Abel grinned.

"That's a serious insult where I come from, Nightroad. Anyway, where is this guy? Let's get this over with," she said.

"His name is Georgioni Russo. He's a roulette dealer," Abel murmured.

The man in the golden "Casanova" mask was standing in the center of the hall, just to the side of the roulette wheel. Asthe nodded and stomped forward, but Abel frantically grabbed her arm and held her back.

"Wait, where do you think you're going?!" he whispered.

"I'll grab him by the throat and shake the info out of him. Don't worry, I'll drag him someplace quiet to interrogate him," she said dryly.

"It doesn't work like that in this country! Please let me handle this," he said, but she wasn't paying any attention. She •was fixed on the Casanova.

Abel snapped his fingers at Asthe. "Hey, I have a favor to ask," he said.

She sighed, distracted. "What is it this time?"

"If we find the target, please don't arrest him today," he said.

"What?!" she screamed loudly enough for other people to shoot them a curious glance. Several security guards looked them over.

Asthe, not believing the priest's outrageous request, barely restrained her urge to rip off his head. She opened up her fan and brought her pearly red lips close to the ears of the Doctor. Resisting the temptation to bite his ear off, she whispered, "You saw the same murders I saw! There will be more victims if we don't catch him now!" She looked around to make sure no one was staring at them anymore. "This is the last Carnival day. It's too dangerous to let him get away tonight. If the Methuselah got mixed up into this mess, what do you think will happen?"

One Methuselah equaled the strength of an entire Terran military unit. If a band of Methuselah went all-out in this fiasco, it would result in nothing short of urban warfare.

"Once we find out where he hides, we can call for reinforcements. So it's better for us to just run surveillance tonight . . . please?" Abel begged.

She did not reply.

"Asthe?"

She pouted as she scanned the room full of grinning masks. Eventually, she turned back to face the priest. "I suppose tonight we'll just find him," she said through gritted teeth.

"Excellent. Shall we?" he offered his arm.

She ignored it and walked toward the roulette wheel.

"Excuse me, Mister Russo? Can we talk for a second?" Abel asked politely.

Russo spun around and lost his breath when he saw Asthe. He gulped audibly and bowed deeply. "What can I do for you?"

Asthe elbowed Abel in the ribs—hard—and stepped forward.

"You're too gullible, Doctor." She focused intently on Russo. "Where is the girl called Foscarina? I heard that you two were lovers. I want the truth."

"Are you the police?" he asked.

"No, we're—"

"—friends of the family!" Abel interrupted. "And, from a small town, too . . . yes. Um, and she is Foscarina s older sister. She was kind of concerned about her sister's disappearance."

"Foscarina's sister? Wait . . . she had a sister?" Russo asked incredulously.

"Yes. We came down from the mountains the other day, wanting to visit for a while. So, would you know where we might find Foscarina?" Abel asked.

"I told the police everything," Russo said plainly. "Foscarina wasn't my girlfriend. She was the kind of girl I'd call when I was drunk, y'know? She was really into me, but that wasn't my fault. You have sex with a girl a few times, and she thinks she's your girlfriend. What a pain. Excuse me; I need to go back to work," Russo said smugly.

"Hey, hold it right there." Asthe reached out to stop Russo. She didn't care about the love affairs of Terran, but the way he talked irked her. She wanted to grab the Casanova by the collar and beat some manners into him.

But Asthe's fingers never touched him. Instead, a fist popped Russo in the nose and sent him sprawling to the floor.

Asthe was shocked. "Father?"

Abel looked down at his clenched fist, bewildered. "Did I just do that?" he asked innocently.

"You bastard!" Russo yelled.

Security guards grabbed Abel. One of them locked Abel's arm behind his back. Another kicked him in the stomach.

"Gwarg!"

The groan didn't come from the priest. The guard that had kicked Abel got poked in the throat with a long, elegant finger. He covered his neck in agony.

Asthe smiled. "I like this."

Security guards swarmed the casino.

Asthe's dress was perfect for fighting. The high seams in her skirt kept her legs unrestricted enough to kick a man in the face. So she did. Repeatedly.

''Why, you — uck!" A guard stopped short as her heel met

his nose.

"You insolent wretch!" she screamed.

One guard grabbed her, only to go airborne in the next second. The gossiping wives in the casino's bar shrieked in horror.

WHOOOMPH!

Asthe hurled another across the room. She ducked a heavy left hook and responded with an uppercut to the guard's jaw and a knee to his gut.

A dozen more guards appeared. Asthe, undeterred, waded into the fray. "Peons! So many peons!" She grunted, punching the first one in striking distance.

She saw Russo running to the far end of the hall. Her fangs gleamed. She had a problem with killing a dozen or so Terran just to wrap up her investigation. That said, she didn't want to go easy on the guards or let the target get away. She had to find a happy, non-lethal medium. What a bother.

"Go get him, Nightroad!" she yelled.

"What?" Abel shook his head as he took out another guard.

Asthe grabbed the priest's robe, shaking him like a doll before tossing him across the room. Abel felt like a hurtled discus as he landed heavily on a poker table. Chips and cards bounced up in the air. The grizzled gamblers stood and rolled up their sleeves. They didn't speak. They didn't shriek in protest. They just wanted to beat the living crap out of this priest for disturbing their game.

The remaining security guards tackled Abel. They tried to restrain him and the angry poker players at the same time. It was chaos.

"Please calm down! Everyone, please calm down!" Abel yelled in vain.

Amid the confusion of the casino, Russo escaped.

Russo huffed and puffed as he ran. "Dammit. Who the hell was that woman?!"

There was nobody else in the fourth floor's darkened corridor. It was the owner's personal floor. Russo was one of the few staff members even allowed up there.

After double-checking that no one was around, Russo knocked on the oak door. "Excuse me, boss. It's Russo. I need to tell you something."

"Enter," the boss said.

The door creaked open.

"What's going on downstairs, Russo?" the boss asked.

The room was pitch-black, just like always. The boss didn't seem to need any lights on.

"There was a lady asking after that girl," Russo said.

"A lady? Was it a young woman with white hair?" the boss asked.

"Yeah. Do you know her?" Russo asked.

"I think so. Was she wearing a red dress and a sweetheart mask?" the boss asked.

Russo gasped. "Y-yes! How did you know?"

"Because she's right behind you, you idiot!" the boss screamed.

"Wha — ?" Russo couldn't turn around. His boss' small hand had reached up and crushed his throat.

"I'm so sick ofTerran stupidity. Anyway, long time no see, Astharoshe," Endre said.

"Count Endre, I finally found you," she said humbly. Asthe pulled out a silver rod that she had concealed on her upper thigh until this very moment. "You know what this is, Endre.You should come quietly," she snarled.

He grinned. "The Sword of Gae Bolg, eh? Our misguided countrymen let you bring over such a weapon? Did they really think that a cheap little whore like you could handle me?" Despite his bravado, Endre was impressed.

Asthe 's rod began to glow bright red. Slowly and seamlessly, it transformed into a sword. "Die!" she screamed.

Then the office exploded.