Believing Lies

Chapter Three

The Little Girl

Circa 1822 AD:
Near Rochefort-sur-Mer, France

“Una bambina era nel giardino,” Vincenzo said. He wasn’t often called on to be with his grandfather and father, but he tried to make the visits worth it. Though sometimes – and this was one of those times – Vincenzo felt that they didn’t care whether he spoke or not. They would nod politely enough, but they were more likely not to contribute with what he was saying. Sometimes, an hour into the visit, Vincenzo would be talking to himself.

This time was no different. He almost stopped talking all together – just sit there, and stare at them. Maybe that’s what he truly should have been doing all along. There should have been nothing to fear.

However, he didn’t stop talking, “Ho detto una cosa sconosciuta ...” he took a moment to think of her words, and then translated ‘I can be me,’ “Mi posso essere ...”

“Certamente,” Vincenzo II said, not looking up from his book – then Vincenzo knew that they weren’t listening.

Grandfather was at his desk again, writing as always.

The Vincenzo who was so much younger, stared at them both, “No ... la bambina detto ... ‘Io sono l’unico’ ...”

Vincenzo Marzio II didn’t look up, “Perchè?”

He didn’t get to answer for then, Nox, Actaeon, and the bundle in Actaeon’s arms surprised all three of them.

“Vincentius!” Actaeon said, “How I’ve missed you so!” Grandfather grumbled something in Latin under his breath, and Actaeon gasped overly dramatic, “… Am not.”

The bundle – being the girl from before in the garden – giggled, and asked, “You’re not what?”

Nox covered Actaeon’s mouth so that he would not answer.

“It wasn’t nice,” Nox said.

Annette’s lips scowled, but it looked more like a sweet, chastening pout, “You shouldn’t say mean things.”

“Darling,” Nox gently said, “little girls should respect their betters.”

“He’s better because he’s old?” Her little head tilted sideways in confusion.

The other man laughed aloud as Nox flustered indignantly.

Vincenzo almost never saw the two, and he couldn’t quite remember a time that he had been so close to them before, but he knew this to be their normal behavior. The two were very good friends though, and whenever they were seen, they were seen together. As odd of a thought as it was, Actaeon was the leader of their family. Nox was Grandfather’s younger brother, however that wasn’t his true name. Whatever it was, Vincenzo couldn’t remember anyone speaking it near him.

Annette said when it seemed that they wouldn’t answer – what with Actaeon laughing at Nox’s annoyed expression, “If he said something mean, why do I have to respect him?”

“You don’t,” their leader suddenly said forcefully, serious so quickly that it stunned Vincenzo – both when it was gone and that it had been so intense. “Respect me!”

Nox scoffed at him before looking at Annette with an eyebrow raised, “You’re a smart girl.”

“Papa’s teaching me! He says I have to be sharp and … alert.” Her smile was radiant while she said, “He says I’m special, and I have to be the best I can.”

“He’s right,” he said, and then he bent down to poke her nose. “You Americans sure are an odd lot though.”

“American?” Vincenzo asked, and all in the room looked at him, but he continued, “She’s an American? Why is she here?”

Actaeon grasped her under her armpits, showing her off to him, “She’s special! Aren’t you paying any attention?”

!#$&()+

Circa 2045 AD:
Tukwila, Washington, U.S.A.

It was when Vincent returned home that the realization hit him. Things like the letter in his pocket with the odd number – such things which often forced him to think too deeply when it truly was right in front of him – always hit him like that.

Later.

He chuckled to himself, and shook his head ruefully, I suppose I’ll have some book searching to do in the next few days.

“Ah, Vincent,” a baritone voice boomed gently from down the hallway - the Russian accent soft, “welcome home. You are just in time for dinner.”

“Smells good,” he said after taking a deep breath. Vincent took off his coat, and hung it up in the hallway. “Peter has outdone himself this time, Sasha; you’re teaching him too well.”

“‘Too well?’ Nonsense! No such thing as ‘too well.’”

“Perhaps, but I won’t ever be able to leave the house if he keeps this up.”

Sasha laughed, the lines in his face creasing and deepening - the lines around his eyes which were the variation made from many smiles, “Ah, so that is the way to keep you in one place. Very well, I shall have Peter cook you a grand feast every night to keep you hungering for more.” He began to walk with Vincent over toward the dining room where Vincent could smell other things as he approached – cologne, after-shave, and sweat.

And lavender from Jaxtastre. Jaxtastre always smelled like lavender.

Peter nodded to him from the far end of the oval table, grinning and his light eyes twinkling. His blonde hair framed his face in loose curls before it was gathered back into a thin green ribbon tied at the nape of his neck. He was decked out in the styles of the time which was a green jeans shirt and black jeans.

Ezekial – with a long mane of his own darker blonde hair – just looked up at him before returning to his food. His blue eyes and blonde hair seemed to be complimented by the bright red jumpsuit he was wearing. As always, he very likely had arrived home, and not bothered with changing out of his work clothes. Sasha might rebuke him later, but again it would do no good.

The man sitting beside Ezekial was a broad man that was clothed in regular blue jeans, and a plain black shirt that said ‘I don’t think you’re stupid, I know so.’ Scratching his baldhead before suddenly grimacing up at Vincent’s neutral appearance, John said, “Sasha, are you making fun of Vincent again?”

“No, no,” he said after sitting beside Jaxtastre with a soft grunt, “he made jokes with me. He is in a good mood, I think.”

“More than a good mood,” Jaxtastre’s chiming voice said.

This man, who was sitting across from the seat which Vincent took, was adorned in a light mauve-colored shirt which had lace on the high neck, and where his shirt sleeves ended as his elbow was even more lace which ended at his wrists to allow his hands freedom of movement. A strip of silver lace from the neck and down along the buttons holding the shirt primly in place finished it. For another oddity – for Vincent and the others at any rate – was that he was also wearing plainer black breeches – these only had blue dragons embroidered down the outer side of the legs.

The hot pink veil covering his short and curled rich brown hair did nothing to muffle his voice, but it hindered him in the slightest when he went to lift his goblet to his lips. However, he did not see this as much of a hindrance – always cool, calm, and patient was Jaxtastre – and he merely lifted the veil up to his nose before smoothly tipping back his head with the golden goblet.

John looked at them, “What’s that mean?”

Lowering his head, and folding his hands at the table, Vincent shut them out to pray silently to himself. Respectful as always, Jaxtastre waited serenely for the other man to finish his prayers, and to say, “Amen.

“Jaxtastre,” Vincent said afterward, “tell them what’s in my pocket.”

“Why don’t you give me the letter so I may read it aloud,” and he then grasped the thin slip of envelope when Vincent extended it toward him, “Thank you.” He seemed to read it silently before he spoke out what it read to them.

Eyebrows turned downward, John said, “What’s it mean, Vincent?”

“A Hunter was looking for that letter in Vesanus.” Ezekial had looked up at that point before then seemingly ignoring them once more, “I think that they’re up to something again. Either those words have another meaning or she’s just being led on a very wild goose chase. One that I don’t quite understand.”

“Yes, I see,” – Vincent frowned slightly, Of course, Jaxtastre sees it instantly. He’s a good deal older than I am, and then there are those visions of his. - “the letter tells her to read the letter written prior to this one, yet it points her way to the next letter too. Black hair and blue eyes, right?” When Vincent snorted softly as if to ask why he had even bothered asking, Jaxtastre smiled, “An odd mix. Demoness perhaps?”

“I smelled no demonic blood in her. Human - probably on drugs,” he said, and then he suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be eating, taking a bite of the duck. Looking up at him questioningly, he asked after swallowing, “Is she?”

Sighing, Jaxtastre shook his head a bit mournfully, “I get a headache when I attempt thinking about her. My visions won’t tell me much – just that she’s there, and what she looks like.”

“That’s never happened before,” Peter said softly, frowning ahead at nothing – which just happened to be John, and John didn’t like it.

“Not often actually,” the man said breezily, and then pulled his veil up to his nose to sip from the goblet. “That usually just means that what we can learn about her must be learned by her first. In that way, I cannot cheat, and tell her what she must learn. Oh, and yes, Vincent, something is about to happen … which has happened before, but as always, there must be an attempt to stop it.”

“Wait,” John said, and, scowling hard at Peter to make him flush and look away, he then imparted his attention toward Vincent. “What were those numbers at the end of the letter? For you to be in a good mood, you would’ve had to have figured it out.”

“It’s the Dewey Decimal System. It must be leading her to another book in the library. Too bad she didn’t get this letter, so now I can get it,” said Vincent who had just really gotten into enjoying the duck dish, but his mood was then ruined by what Jaxtastre was hinting at. “Jaxtastre, please tell me that – whatever this grand adventure entails – it involves searching through bookshelves.”

“A great many bookshelves,” he abruptly said, his eyes lowering to the table, but Vincent knew then that he was not seeing anything. Not with how the vampire’s eyes were flitting around as if watching something – or someone – move around, “Bookshelves are as likely to topple as kingdoms and a book as likely to burn as a soul. Discover rewritten history in the slums, and the child whom they stole.”

“Vincent!” Sasha jumped to his feet; however, Vincent had not budged for he was staring ahead at nothing. “Don’t do anything stupid! Not in while living in this household. You will practice self-control while here.”

Self-control? Subterfuge? Espionage? No, that had gone straight out the window for the man, and his mind was already flying out the front door, preparing his next move. I have to find the other letters - I must!

!#$&()+

Circa 2045 AD:
Hunters Headquarters, Washington, U.S.A.

Ursula caught herself staring again. Alexander was – in laymen’s terms – pretty, however, laymen’s terms did not quite describe the beauty of the man in their company. The priest from Rome looked as if a blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel without wings, but that was not to say that he had fallen. To be sure, Ursula knew that he would grow wings upon his death, and ascend straight into the holy kingdom.

That was on good looks alone.

If he had been ugly, he would have ascended even more rapidly because all he would have left would be his purity, and the good, moral views of a true Christian. He would have been just as alluring to Ursula even then.

Yet he had both wrapped into one, and that was even better. She was sure to keep to his side often - even when it seemed a little unnecessary. He would just smile at her if she stood a bit close, and touch her hand in the slightest way, saying such things as, “You are very kind to me, Signorina Ursula.”

It’s a damn shame priests can’t marry.

She stayed close though – there was no guarantee that a priest would continue to remain as a priest after all. Besides, even being so close, Ursula was still capable of working. She worked hard too, gaining as much intelligence of Horace as she could for the daunting task ahead, and it became essential to forget about Alexander, Izak’s message and the book.

Whenever she began to think about Izak though, Ursula sometimes thought that she might have forgotten something. It was not like it was one thing that she had forgotten, but that little bits and pieces about him that she used to know was just slipping away. A few days before, she had embarrassed herself by thinking that Izak had used a rapier instead of a bastard sword … Or had it been the other way around?

Such a silly, almost inconsequential thing, but she had fought against him countless times before, and he had always bared that great … Bastard sword, she reassured herself. He wore a bastard sword all the time, and when I stood beside him, and he smiled at me, I was always so happy … She frowned, Wait, what …?

However, there it was – the sudden memory of standing beside Izak, looking up at him, and feeling rather fond of him before his handsome face became more so with the abrupt little smirk. He had been just as nice to look at as he had been before she had executed him. A bit younger, and with smoother skin, But age does that to people, even goblins. Due to the unbidden thought, she froze, staring ahead at nothing, and she attempted to formulate why she was thinking that she had seen Izak as a younger goblin before.

I must have remembered it from looking at old pictures of him when he was in the Hunter service – before he turned against the Hunters so long ago. She smiled faintly, I guess I haven’t forgotten anything – I’m just tired, and my mind is in desperate need of some real sleep.

“Signorina, are you all right?” Alexander leaned toward her in the slightest, and she straightened.

“I’m fine, thank you. Just tired,” she said. Her stomach gurgled, and she laughed, “And … well, the stomach speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm,” he said, and smiled, nodding, “I suppose it does.”

Devon said, “Go get me a cheeseburger while you’re out.”

“I’ll do no such thing!”

“Huh? Why not?”

She smirked, feeling perfectly silly, and said, “You’re getting tubby.”

“Am not!” He stiffened, standing taller, and then patted his belly, ruining whatever effect he had been trying to make, “It’s all muscle.”

Frowning, she prodded at his stomach, vaguely surprised to feel that the brawny man was a lot harder than he looked, but she laughed playfully, “You have an interesting view of muscle – I’d hate to see what you think fat is.”

“Hey, Tanja doesn’t think I’m fat at all,” he grinned widely, and nudged the suddenly pink Tanja. “Didn’t tell me ‘no’ for Saint Patrick’s, did you?”

That had been another reason that she tried staying close to Alexander – she had been hopeful that he would take her to the dance they held every year on Saint Patrick’s Day. The day was celebrated by the Hunters because it was when Diana had started her fateful hunt that had ultimately exterminated the werewolves – sometimes the Hunters fondly named it Saint Diana’s Day.

Yet Alexander had declined her offer, saying that it was also a time for him to pray since – apparently – it was the day that Christianity reached Ireland. Alexander had invited Ursula to pray with him though …

“Well, I hope you two have fun.”

Devon cocked his head, and said, “You’re not going?”

Shaking her head, she said, “Nah, I need to study up on Horace some more.”

!#$&()+

March 17th, Circa 2045 AD:
Hunters Headquarters, Washington, U.S.A.

Ursula frowned at the picture of Horace held in her hand, and compared it to the picture of another demon of his species in the book before her. According to the text, their type originated from deep underground in usually hot, moist caves – places the Hunters usually referred to as Hell. They had skin colors ranging from brown to purple to lilac to red and everything in between. Horace just so happened to be unlucky enough to be born pink.

She tried to keep her amused grin off her face, That had to have sucked as a kid.

Though pink, Horace was also male, and thus had the more prominent black bullhorns. At two hundred and thirty-one centimeters long, it was obvious that he had quite the prize. Especially since those horns were used in many mating rituals, and often a factor in attracting a female.

Grimacing at the thought of him reproducing, she shut the book, and grabbed the book on vampires that she had found. Alexander had said that particular title was most reliable for finding information on vampires, and, considering that Alexander was one of the leading experts on vampires, Ursula had listened to his advice. The methods were strange to her to be certain, however, there was no doubting that the use of holy objects would deter a creature such as Horace.

After all, he was a vampiric demon, an apparition that had been turned into a vampire, but had retained the original traits of his demon kind.

This creature – mostly new to the Hunters – was an unknown evil. However, he could not have changed so much that his new powers were much different from regular vampires – or even vampiric humans.

Whatever methods that the previous companies had used against Horace were largely unknown due to the quick precision with which Horace had them all killed or turned into the undead. In other words, Ursula didn’t know if any of the normal tactics worked against him.

The only sure thing was that one method – used against vampires for centuries – was moot point with Horace. He seasoned his meals of blood with garlic almost every day to prove it.

Ursula and the others would likely have to rely on holy artifacts, holy symbols, stakes – silver would be best – and the prayers that Alexander was currently memorizing.

“You again.”

Taking a sharp intake of breath, Ursula jumped to her feet, turned around, and bumped into a familiar person, “Oh! … Oh, it’s you, Mr. Lubet.”

He nodded to her, “Found everything you need?” Glancing down at the desk with many of the books open with a few pictures of Horace out, the man seemed to become quieter than if he were not to talk – it was a feat that Ursula had never thought of seeing.

What’s with him? Her lips twisted briefly, I know most die going after Horace, but I’m not going to run straight into a fight with him. He’s even older than Izak, so he’s probably twice as bad! Besides, none of them ever had Alexander helping them.

“I think so. I think that I might be missing something though. Since no one knows how to deal with a vampiric Hell Demon, I can’t just pack up all of the necessary things that we’ll need when we plan out the assaults.”

“Yes, I see,” he nodded after a moment. “And if those assaults should fail, you will become the hunted instead of the Hunter.”

She chewed on her lip, suddenly aware of that boding fact, and touched her neck, “You’re right … Horace doesn’t like being bothered, does he?”

“Perhaps the pitiful attacks offend him. You need to prepare a strong initial bombardment. The older creatures are often bored, so giving them a bit of a challenge is a way to make sure that you live that much longer.”

“That’s …” she blinked, breaking her gaze from the books before her, and stared up at him, saying in awe, “That’s a really good idea.”

“Mm,” he said, and fingered a picture of Horace before he had become vampiric.

“That’s him,” she said helpfully. His face had looked rather distracted – like he wasn’t even thinking about her or her problems ahead with Horace. “Kind of funny that he’s pink.”

Vincent glanced over at her for only a second, and then he was gazing back over the books, pulling his hand from the picture. I guess he didn’t know at all. He’s not even looking at the pictures now. Must not like the dirty work, and that’s why he’s working in the library instead of being a full Hunter. He would have been great to have as a tactician though if that was his usual advice.

“Thanks for the help.”

“‘Help?’“ Vincent’s eyes latched onto her.

She gestured to the books, “Yeah, with Horace. It might be nothing, but maybe I can write it down for others to find. I’ll put it up in the case files in case anything should happen to us out on the field.”

He nodded after a moment, “That would be for the best. Horace is the worst kind of being to have loose.”

“Vampiric demons aren’t that nasty,” she smiled, Ah, I see; the gore bothers him. “The only dangerous ones are the types we don’t know how to handle yet.”

“… Yes, vampiric demons,” his face twitched in the slightest.

She wondered whether vampiric demons had ever assaulted him or even his family. That was how many of the Hunters had been enrolled into the Academy. Frightened orphans, traumatized by what they’ve seen were treated lovingly and with care by the Hunters, and raised right. She then noticed the cross around his neck, and she knew that must have been the case.

Her expression grew sad, and she thought, He must have been really traumatized then. He didn’t seem bothered by talking about it, but he must be hurting so much inside.

“I’ll do anything I can to put him down,” she said, keeping carefully vague – there were also a great majority of them that didn’t want to discuss their past to complete strangers. “He won’t always be around. Vampiric demons can die.”

“Don’t try to console me,” Vincent said, not snapping, but he didn’t have to – even with his voice so soft – so severe had his voice been.

Vincent was about to turn away before she stood up to catch his shoulder, “I’m sorry, but it’s the honest truth. This … is all that I do is for people like you.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew anything about me.”

But you’re like an open book! You must think that you could have done something for your dead family, but the sore truth is that you couldn’t have. Not if you were just a young child. “I know it must hurt to know that monsters like Horace are out there, but we’re doing what we can to get rid of them once and for all.”

He snorted, breaking away from her hand, “And what of your Hounds? Aren’t they monsters too?”

He’s racist toward the non-humans that the Hunter Organization hires too? What a handful! “Of course, they’re not,” she tried to soothe him before a debate opened up over that again. “They saw the error of their ways, and came to us to do some real good.”

“Just … shut up.” Her eyes widened briefly in offense, and she was about to reprimand him before he looked back at Ursula over his shoulder, “I wanted to ask you something, but not that.”

Ursula bristled at how easily he had gone on without apologizing, but she didn’t say anything about it, “And what would that be?”

“Why aren’t you primped for the Saint Patrick’s Day dance?”

Blinking in surprise, Ursula gaped a bit at him before she said slowly, “I’m too busy to go to it. I have plan more for the Horace case still. I don’t have time for a dance – no matter how significant the day is.”

“So no one asked you to it.”

“I …” she flushed faintly, and turned away from him to sit back down at the table, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“I suppose it’s not,” he said. “Oh, and don’t forget that you have to continue challenging Horace. Each attack must be better than the last.” Vincent turned to walk away.

“Wait,” Ursula said, and stood up to face his back.

Discontinuing his walk, and inclining his head toward her, Vincent asked, “Is there something you need?”

“Yes, a date.”

!#$&()+