Since it was rebuilt after the last great fire, London has been divided into two territories, with the Thames acting as an inviolate border between the two vampires that call the city home. But before the fire, its districts and boroughs were divided between six different masters in a triumph of power-sharing which hasn’t been replicated in Europe since.
Nobody’s quite sure what conditions give rise to these temporary detentes. It may simply be an unstable equilibrium destined to fail from its very beginning, though some have lasted decades. Paris in the 10th Century had fourteen vampires co-existing. Rome under Marcus Aurelias had seven. New Orleans, before the Civil War, had nine.
But the grand-daddy of them all was Babylon under Hammurabi. It is said that the king who wrote the first laws of man also wrote another set of laws; that he codified the rules that first brought stability to the vampire community, though another school of thought said that the vampires who lived under his rule dicated the laws to him. Whatever the truth is, at its peak, Babylon was home to one hundred and sixty-nine vampires, sharing streets and even houses without falling to in-fighting.
This was the birth of the Fraternity. Not rulers of the vampire world, but certainly an authority in it. More than eighty of them are still alive today, and two of them live in Ireland.
It has gone past 9 p.m. on the first Thursday in April, and the breeze that blew off Lough Ree was so chilled it even got under my skin. I zipped my jacket up and walked further along the jetty, hunting for my father’s boat.
The boat was a new development. He had apparently been using it to spend his nights out on the lake; the latest symptom of his deepening paranoia.
The sun was just disappearing beneath the horizon when I spotted my dad moving about the deck of an old fishing boat, apparently in preparation for pushing off. My height and bulk came from my mother’s side of the family but I got everything else from him, so without his glamour, my Dad was just a slightly-scaled-down version of myself. I quickened my pace and waved. “Hey, Dad!” I called, as I glanced about carefully and then removed my glamour.
His eyes widened in surprised recognition. “Vic,” he said, after a moment. Then he scrambled to grab a mooring line before the slow movement of his boat caused it to slip off the deck. He pulled the line taut, drawing his craft back to the dock and said, “Hurry up if you’re coming aboard. Word has it one of them is in town tonight.”
I stepped over the narrowing gap to the deck and said, “It’s actually why I’m here. There’s a conference of sorts in Kildare, and I’m escorting Don Juan Perez. He’ll be in Athlone at midnight.”
My dad had his back to me, but I could see him pause momentarily as tension wracked his shoulders. “You’re still working for him, then? The one in Dublin?”
“He’s not what you think,” I said, “He doesn’t kill. He only drinks donated blood and he even pays the Blood Transfusion Board for it.”
He grunted skeptically. “So if you’re in Athlone for work, is this an official visit?” He straightened and turned to me, but I could see his eyes sweeping the treeline behind me. “Should I have a lawyer?”
“I’m just here to visit,” I said. “And to ask about Daniel Finlay.”
“That the big blond guy who came to see me about three weeks back?”
“That’s him.”
“He asked a lot of questions,” was all my Dad said as he loosed the last line and shoved the boat away from the dock with a strong kick.
“He died on the way back to Dublin that night,” I said. “Car accident.”
My dad turned the key and the engine rattled into life. He said, “We’ll talk once we’re further out.”
“What questions did Finlay ask?”
Dad looked back over his shoulder then made eye contact with me. He held my gaze, steady and unblinking. “He asked about you.”
The rocking of the boat set my stomach rocking in a counter-rhythm, but I persevered as Dad found a place to anchor a few hundred metres from the shore. Then he led me below decks and busied himself at the kitchenette thing. The galley?
“Tea?” he asked, as he filled the kettle and set it to boil.
“Coffee, if you have it,” I said. “Gonna be a long night.”
He grunted and opened an overhead locker to grab a jar of instant coffee. I couldn’t help myself and craned my neck to see inside as he closed the locker. He glanced back at me suspiciously as I did.
“You won’t find anything, I quit the drink,” he said.
We sat in silence, listening to the noise of the kettle gathering steam and the slow slap of low lake waves hitting the side of the boat. Then he stood and poured the drinks before returning to the table and setting a large mug of black coffee in front of me.
“Your man, Finlay, had the same,” Dad said, gesturing to the coffee. “They have you all working nights there?”
“Not usually,” I said, taking a sip. “Finlay wasn’t actually here in an official capacity.”
“I suspected as much. You want to tell me why he was here?”
“We’ve had rumours of a plot against the Magistrate. They’re only rumours, and the source is… unreliable… so we were checking into things in our off-hours.”
“Your source is a troll?”
I hesitated again. “We suspect a troll is behind things, but as I said, the info is unreliable. Finlay came to speak to you because you’ve made threats against Sir Arthur.”
“I’m sure a lot of people made threats against him.”
“And we were trying to check into all of them.”
Dad cocked his head. “‘Were’?”
“When Daniel died, I couldn’t keep the investigation secret any more. Sir Arthur has taken over.”
Dad stared deep into his tea for a few silent minutes. Then he looked up and said, “You need to get away from him. Fast. Move here, or at least out of his territory.”
“Not this again-”
“Finlay asked me about you. Your childhood. Your run-ins with the law as a teenager. How you met Arthur and all that.”
“What has that got to do with me getting away from Sir Arthur?”
“If Finlay suspected you were the troll plotting against Arthur, what if his lordship gets the same idea? He could come for you.”
“He doesn’t ‘come after people’, Dad,” I said with a sigh. “He’s not like that.” We’d had this argument a hundred times before and I was in no mood for his paranoia. “He’s just an old man, overseeing a government department.”
“And was he running it when my Grandfather was killed? Was he there the whole time, ‘overseeing things’ when the Silver Clan was torn down, and my own grandmother was shot in the back?”
“Ah, for fucks sake,” I said and stood so suddenly that the boat shook.
“It’s about power!” Dad said, standing too. “He took out our clan, he keeps the wolves running scared and the-”
“The Reds and the Greens took out the Silvers.”
“And now they bow and scrape and tiptoe around his lordship like he’s holding their leashes.”
“He’s law enforcement, and they obey the law,” I said. I realised it was a lie about half a second after it left my lips. Dad had this effect on me: Arguing for the argument’s sake. I poured the dregs of my coffee down the small sink and rinsed the mug aggressively.
“Look-” began Dad as I opened a cupboard to put away the mug.
I took a half-empty bottle of Jameson out, turned, holding it up. “I thought you’d quit.”
“That’s old,” he said.
I put the whiskey back and said, “I’m not sure why Finlay was asking about me, but did you see anyone else that night? Anyone following him? Anyone come asking about him afterwards?”
"No, I didn’t see anyone else,” he said eventually. “And you’re the first visitor I’ve had since then. But-”
I looked at my watch. “Can you put me ashore? I need to be at the Old Bridge soon.”
The trip back was conducted in silence.
Murtagh and some of his men were waiting by the wall of the bridge when I arrived just before eleven. He nodded to me as I took a position next to him. A trio of dark SUVs waited nearby.
“Cormac arrived yet?” I asked.
“He’s delayed. He and the Scene Team have been asked to consult again. A missing student in Finglas.”
“Jesus,” I said in an exhalation. “That makes four?”
“Five,” said Murtagh. “Third this year, if you count New Years’ Eve.”
“The Gards suspect supernatural involvement?”
Murtagh spat over the side of the bridge. “No, thank jaysis. But they’re desperate enough to ask for supernatural assistance. Scene Team want Cormac to go over the whole house with scrying spells.”
“Well, here’s hoping Don Juan doesn’t get offended that we sent less people than last time.”
“Nah, he’s never bothered with things like that. Augustine is the one we have to worry about. You were there ten years ago?”
I had indeed attended the previous conference a decade earlier. I was still in Containment back then, and acted as armed escort for Murtagh when we met His Grace, the Arch-Bishop Augustine in Kilkenny. One of the Arch-Bishop’s men had stepped forward suddenly and Murtagh had reflexively put his hand on his gun, which caused some sort of diplomatic incident. That was one of the reasons why Doctor Yang was leading that group this evening and Murtagh had been put on Athlone duty.
I settled into position and crossed my arms against the night’s cold air. “I spy with my little eye, something-”
“Fuck off,” said Murtagh with a laugh and walked to the SUVs. “Got some coffee in a flask if you want a mug?”
“Ah, go on then. It’s going to be a very long night.”
An hour later, Murtagh assembled his men into some form of order - two columns along either side of the bridge, like an honor guard. A car approached from the Leinster side and slowed when they saw the armed men. Murtagh waved them through, but they still slowed further and rolled down a window.
“Garda training exercise,” said Murtagh. “Nothing to worry about, but we’ll need you to keep moving.”
The astonished driver rolled up the window again and sped off. As they reached the west end of the bridge and turned away, a lone figure approached. The person walked down the centre white line with hands thrust deep into the pockets of his heavy overcoat. He stopped between two of the antique lamps that lined the bridge parapet, just before reaching the half-way point.
“After you,” I said to Murtagh, making one of those ‘after you’ gestures. “Try not to threaten to shoot this one.”
Murtagh scowled at me, but I could see it was just him trying to cover a smile, and walked toward the figure on the bridge. I followed. The man was young-looking, perhaps thirty, but his tanned skin was lined and weather-beaten. His thick dark hair hung passed the collar of his filthy coat and almost to his eyes. He had a rough and uneven beard and wore a dark aran jumper and oiled canvas trousers with ragged ends brushing hobnail boots. All-in-all, a very far cry from Sir Arthur’s fastidious refinement.
“I am Juan Perez de Silva, Guardian of the Islands and the West,” he said to Murtagh, with a trace of his native accent, and a slight bow of his head. He held out his right arm at the same time, as if sweeping aside an invisible cloak. “I request, with humility and respect, an invitation to enter the territory of His Honor, Sir Arthur, Guardian of the East.”
Murtagh cleared his throat before saying, “You are welcome, Don Juan Perez, provided you abide by the formal accords of the First Laws.” I was standing close behind him, so I could just make out what sounded like a small sigh of relief.
“Of course!” said de Silva, as his face broke into a wide toothy smile that reminded me more of a wolf’s snarl than anything human. “I will be on my very bestest behaviour, as always.”
“If you would like to follow me, we have some cars waiting,” said Murtagh, gesturing towards the short row of SUVs. De Silva bowed again and followed, while I turned to stare back over the bridge. There were no cars visible, and no sign that de Silva reached Athlone by any other method than his own two feet. As I followed them to the cars, my brain raced through the calculations. Inis Mór to the mainland to Athlone town between sunset and midnight, on foot? As I thought about this, a suspicion dragged my eyes down to his hands.
They were filthy. His palms, from the wrist to the base of the strong stout fingers tipped with claw-like fingernails, were streaked with mud presumably laid down on his cross-country gallop. As I stared, I felt de Silva’s eyes boring into me. I wrenched my eyes up to meet his, and he grinned again with that wolfish snarl: Every tooth a canine.
“I’ll take lead,” I told Murtagh, as I moved to the front vehicle. Symonenko was in the driver’s seat, but twisted almost fully around so she could watch the meeting.
“What are you smiling about?” I asked as I took the passenger seat and reached for the seatbelt.
“He’s very handsome,” she whispered to me. “I was not told he was so… what is the English word? Dykyy? Like the wild angry animal.”
I had to think for a second. “Feral? This is a good thing?”
“In small doses, oh yes,” she said as two more officers climbed into the back seat. She carefully pulled the car out into the road.
“Something tells me he isn't a small dose of anything, so keep your distance this weekend. And keep your eyes on the road.”
She pulled her gaze away from the rearview mirror and shot me an admonishing look. “I am a very good driver. I do not tell you how to solve the murders and you do not tell me how to drive the cars.”
The two behind us chuckled and I had to concede a grin.
The cars made good time back to Kildare. Symonenko was indeed a good driver and she drove with a silent focused concentration. It only broke once, near Kinnegad. When we passed the turnoff where Finlay had died, and she dipped the headlights for a moment, out of respect.
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