I
I
"How many years has it been, Abel?" the man sitting on the other side of the bulletproof glass asked. The jailer already had been chased away.
Abel Nightroad spoke the number his boss had told him: "Seven thousand three hundred days. . . . It's been twenty years." He paused. "Will you speak with me?"
The man reminded Abel of a carnivorous beast with his swarthy face (a characteristic of a southern lineage) and his gracefully muscular frame. His hair, extending over his broad shoulders, was vividly reminiscent of a lion's mane. The prisoner's grimy garb didn't contradict his majestic appearance.
Abel sighed. "First, please look at this photograph. Last month, in the ocean north of Albion, a freighter was attacked by a band of vampires. Eight people died. This is the corpse of one of the attackers."
The man's eyes abruptly narrowed as his gaze dropped to the table. The photograph was of a boy not yet ten years old. Dark bullet holes had been drilled into his blood-smeared body. Although the man didn't like children, the sight was pitiful enough to make him temporarily avert his eyes.
He immediately noticed the transparent protuberances, which resembled the papery wings of an insect and extended from the child's back: This proved the boy couldn't be human. In addition, savage fangs protruded from his wide-open mouth.
"Fairy. It's a rare subspecies of vampire. How did you manage to kill it?"
"I didn't. By chance, a human hunter was on board. More interesting, however, is the fact that ships have continued to disappear, one after the other, in this specific area of the ocean. ... It's just as before—"
"Skip the bonus commentary. If AX is moving, it's not due to the typical panic over a vampire attack, is it?"
Abel nodded, taking out another photograph. This picture was of a nondescript park; shabbily dressed children faced the camera with frightened eyes. The boy in the center of the group was a fairy, quite similar to the one in the previous photograph.
"Michael Darling — born in Londinium City in the Albion Kingdom. A half year ago, he was abducted from a children's welfare institution. By the way, the investigation of his family came up completely clean. There was nothing genetically linking him with vampires."
"So, he was turned while he was missing?"
"Yes, he's a convert—absolutely a post-birth vampire."
Vampires were a different species of sentient life that suddenly had appeared in the wake of the Armageddon. The origin of the term "vampire" was rooted in legends from antiquity. Bloodsucking behavior, unnatural physical strength, fatal weaknesses including exposure to sunlight and silver — almost all those traits were central characteristics of the vampires described in legends. It had to do with their ecology. However, there was one big difference between the vampires of today and the vampires of folklore: Namely, vampirism was seldom contagious.
According to legend, vampires' victims also turned into vampires, and their numbers multiplied at the rate of rabbits accordingly. In reality, the probability that victims of blood-sucking behavior would turn into vampires wasn't quite one tenth of a percent. The post-birth vampire phenomenon, which was called "conversion," was very rare.
"Conversion is said to depend on the victims’ genetic predisposition and the assailant vampire's nature, but that idea hasn't been explicated. We know that cases of conversion are rare."
"Rare, but they exist. Remember Alexander Scott, former Bishop of Londinium, who killed the Seven Sisters? Weren't you in charge of that incident?" Pursing his plump, well-shaped lips, the prisoner crossed his manacle-bound arms over his chest.
"I didn't realize it was so important. So, who is it? This old man?" Abel asked, placing a third photograph on the table. A middle-aged gentleman with fleshy cheeks and an expression full of affection smiled at the camera. "Former Londinium Integrated University Medical faculty's department head, Professor James Barrie. He's an Albion nobleman who's also a famous author of fairytales. He's retired at present, spending his remaining days in his territory."
"Well, I'm jealous. So, what about this happy old man?"
"A child kidnapping syndicate abducted Darling. The AX and Albion authorities have been trying to expose it, but ..."
"You failed?"
"Three minutes before we were going to break into their hideout, it blew up," Abel explained, setting down a fourth photograph. It contained ruins that looked as if a giant had trampled over a papier-mâché building. Scattered roof tiles had been demolished into powder.
"Hmph. This wasn't a result of gunpowder, was it?"
"According to Gypsy Queen, the agent in charge of the investigation, evidence suggests that a high-frequency weapon might have been used. Luckily, thanks to the client list left behind, we learned that someone had adopted ten children, including Darling, from this facility."
"James Barrie."
"Yes. Incidentally, his territory is a small island not twenty miles away from the . . . problematic . . . ocean area."
The prisoner wore a cynical expression, as if he'd expected that answer. "Heh heh, indeed. By the way, how's that gloomy pistolero? Isn't this a job for that guy?"
"Father Tres was injured on his last assignment; he's recuperating in Milan right now. So, will you take the work?"
"I hate assignments involving children. They're all kinds of trouble."
"Then, you refuse?"
"I didn't say that. If you shorten my sentence twenty years, I'll capture San Pietro Cathedral itself." The man bared his teeth in something like a smile. A metallic sound rang out as he shifted. Mysteriously, the manacles that had been secured about his wrists until now instantly disappeared. "Can I leave at once? if procedure makes that troublesome, then can I at least leave by the method of my choice?"
"I'll speak to the warden." Abel rang a hand bell. From beyond the thick iron doors, a jailer appeared. He came into the room carrying a neatly pressed priest's robe in his arms.
"Please, change your clothes here, Dandelion—or should I say, AX Agent Father Leon Garcia de Asturias."
"Si, señor"
