Chapter Text
To the uninitiated, the blind, the pathetically mortal, it was just another luxury restaurant. The name, atmosphere, menu prices, decorations, even the attractiveness of the serving staff: all carefully chosen to be interesting but not appealing . The kind of place tourists would avoid, a local delicacy travel blogs and food critics barely mentioned in the footnotes, if ever. It existed, it was known, but it did not Matter.
Not unless you knew the Owner.
They were led to the basement, her and her chosen gift, by an energetic young woman whose blood smelled of fire. Their guide was dressed in a fitted black suit and blood-red waistcoat, face covered in piercings, with hints of a large tattoo visible beneath the collar. Shalom knew of Coquelic’s newest initiate, for how could she not: Thistle was dating her informant in the local inspectors. Christina accepted her girlfriend’s intentions, and had told Shalom that her usefulness was going to end when Thistle partook of the blood. She would then join the Coven: first as Thistle’s Servitor, and in time rise as her equal.
It eased her burden by a feather, to know the young women she’d cultivated would no longer be bound to her shadow.
At the end of the finished basement, past numerous corridors filled with traps both mundane and magical, they faced a wall that wasn’t. A particularly lethal illusion, beautifully woven from still air and lightless night. To step through it without proper protection or explicit permission would turn even a Noble such as her to ash. Thankfully, she was invited.
Thistle approached the wall, retrieved something from her pocket.
“May the Garden bloom Eternal, till the Sun withers in a blood-red sky.”
The illusion faded, revealing a massive shaft stretching downward, carved into stone by claws that had been old when humanity was still learning to make fire. In normal circumstances visitors would take the elevator Shalom knew was located to her right, but old rites must be respected. She descended the rough obsidian staircase, Thistle to her front and Chief the requisite two steps behind her.
Her savior turned present, one of the most dangerous mortals she’d ever encountered. Weak as a feral kitten during their first meeting, but raw strength was never her most dangerous aspect. What she possessed, the reason the Hunters had invested countless resources in creating her, was the capacity to Undo. To Nullify power both desecrated and divine. She had unintentionally freed Shalom from the Hunter’s brainwashing, her power no longer bound to other’s commands. Thus Shalom’s life, her very existence, was owed to the same young woman who’d begged her for an introduction to the leader of the Garden, head family of the largest known Coven.
Lord of the Night, Sword of Crimson Blooms, Mentor to monsters too numerous to count.
Shalom had laughed upon hearing the request, for fate’s sense of humor was sharp as ever given she’d been scheduled to pledge her allegiance that very month and had been looking for a proper gift to offer. One that would please Coquelic enough she would grant Shalom the highest honors, and more importantly ensure the Mentor listened to the madness she intended to peddle.
For nearly half an hour they journeyed deeper, into the lightless bowels of the earth. It was about halfway down when she first heard the hints of chanting: choral moans and groans coupled with high-pitched shrieks and feral screams. Hurrian, Amorite, Sutean, and older tongues long forgotten by the short-lived mortals interwoven into beautiful heights and depths. Tales of joy and woe, memories of Hunter and Hunted, stories of long-dead lovers and rivalries that brought about the downfall of Dynasties.
The oral history of the children of the Evernight.
They approached the bottom to find the Cauldron: a large concave disk several hundred meters in diameter, filled with blood spilled by every being that had ever kneeled before the Throne of Night and sworn allegiance to purpose fair or foul. The bindings on this place, ancient enchantments kept strong by steady hands and ceaseless faith, ensured the blood was fresh and the restrictions sharper than death itself.
To commit unwanted violence here, this most sacred of places, was to condemn your entire bloodline. Be it human or supernatural, all would succumb to endless screaming agony.
Standing within the cauldron were over a hundred individuals of all shapes and sizes, still too far away for her to make out the details. But even at this height she could see the invisible lines that separated each group: the trusted, those alone worthy of speaking with Coquelic as she sat upon the Throne. Then the allies, far more numerous but only invited forward in ritual or with explicit permission, and last the hangerons. The hungry, the desperate, the weak: any and all who sought Coquelic’s blessing.
As their trio managed the last few steps, her feet touched the crimson liquid, and found it… wrong. Blood, especially in such large quantities, was meant to be sticky, thick, and cloying. Even diluted by water, lesser effects would have remained, but this… it was like walking through a field of long grass. Even now she could smell the rain-drenched soil and rot of-
“A most powerful enchantment, to recreate the sensation of newfound joy and freedom to such a degree.” Thistle stared at her for a moment then shook her head, laughing to herself and the world at large.
“Christina said you were dangerous. The emotional resonance is determined by whoever sits on the Throne. Coquelic is in a fine mood today. Come on.” Thistle gestured for her to follow, the Court parting around them like waves. The edges, toadies and hangerons were beneath her notice: a singular roiling mass of jealousy, desperate for the honor she alone was due this night.
The first who caught her interest were the many allies, companions, and lovers who owed allegiance to Coquelic. Too numerous and too secretive for even someone with her resources to catalog in full, but she spied the notables amongst the crowd. Rahu, a berserker oni currently employed as a bodyguard for the a rabbitkin spirit known as Eleven, a sound specialist skilled in large scale suggestion. Next came an immortal gravedigger named for her trademark casket and her familiar-turned-wife, a poem so beloved she had come to life. There were more she recognized, but she could no longer afford the luxury of a wandering gaze or idle interest.
The throne was in reach, and the many lethal flowers of the Garden demanded her attention.
To Coquelic’s right lurked her arsenal, cloaked in shadow and blood: The Countess of Cherry Blossoms and the LotusBlade stood to her side, famed killers of Gods and Devils both. Beyond the immediate she spied The Phantom of the Mist, a monster that could sever its victim’s memories, trading false pleasantries with the red-haired Devourer of Souls while the Sword of Silent Flickerings measured the paces to Shalom’s neck. Further weapons stood in the deeper shadows beyond, all but veiled from her sight.
To Coquelic’s left stood her limbs, dressed in the styles of long-forgotten empires: the Tailor of Starlight and her wife, proprietress of the Convoy of Creation, traded flirtatious whispers mixed with gentle smiles and smeared lipstick. Five of the Six Immortals were a bit farther off, poses captured by the ever-changing Virtuoso of Jade. On the outskirts, The Siren of Sin traded pleasures and favors with a bright, eager smile that never reached her eyes. Names and faces stretched out into the gloom, dozens of monsters close to her equal.
Yet all owed obedience to the petite young woman lounging on a throne of obsidian: clad in a pure, pristine white ballgown absolutely covered in floral patterns made of writhing blood. Countless magical flowers kept at the edge of sprouting, held in place by will alone. Most would struggle and fail to control even a single creation of such complexity, much less dozens of varying purpose and use, yet she managed such an impossible feat with a coy little smile.
As if to ask the world: ‘What, like it's Hard?’
Shalom approached, just out of arm’s reach, and knelt as described in the old ways: drop to one knee, hide her hands in the folds of her dress, spread the gown wide and bow deeply. The pose must then be maintained, despite the discomfort, until she was given leave to raise her head. It may have been a trick, but Shalom would swear Coquelic inhaled sharply at her efforts.
Or perhaps it was the things this pose did to her appearance: she’d dressed in a form-fitting gown black as night, carefully threaded with countless star-stolen gemstones filled with her magical power. When standing the neckline straddled the ragged edge of salacious, but in her current position Coquelic had a splendid look straight down her cleavage. And to ensure her assets attracted the well known debauched Lord’s attention, she’d worn a beautifully crafted leather collar with a gleaming blood-red centerpiece.
A year of effort to craft the flawless gemstone from her very blood, crimson essence interwoven with the subtlest of fascinations. Little more than a momentary distraction, but often that was all she needed and this time was no different.
“Look at me, supplicant.” The rest of the room fell to one knee as Coquelic spoke. Her voice was light, dainty, hedonistic. Perfect.
“As you command, my Lord.” She obeyed, finding the desired surprise and lust in Coquelic’s eyes, for all that her expression was stern and controlled.
“As per the terms of your petition, We are gathered to bear witness and judge the worth of your existence. Present the gift, your offering to ensure the growth of the Garden.”
“May the Garden bloom Eternal.” Rang out from hundreds of throats as soon as Coquelic finished speaking. Shalom remained silent, for she was not yet permitted to utter those words, and gestured towards her gift. Chief, wearing her usual bemused expression, approached and knelt beside her before rising at Coquelic’s urging. Several flowers bloomed from her dress, floating through the air to inspect the former human weapon.
“Interesting, I sense… an empty void within your very being. Display your power, false human.” Chief obeyed, Coquelic’s flowers instantly dissolving into drops of blood as the Court whispered and murmured, the bidding war to cultivate this one already beginning.
“A princely present. Dearest Garofano, Dearest Sumire, could you two take charge of this newborn. Determine her limits and ascertain her desires so that I may find her place amongst us.” The women in question rose to their feet, approaching Chief as one would a skittish deer and gently leading her off to one side.
“Now, tell me Shalom, what is thy wish?” The standard answer, the expected answer, was to become one of Coquelic’s many Flowers. A formal place of honor and importance, for all that she would be closely evaluated and tested, likely for at least a decade or two. Yet still an immense jump in rank for one such as her, so recently freed from the yolk of her captors.
“I seek the rite of your Red Right Hand.” Now the whispers turned to cries of disbelief and dismay, confusion and contrition, some beginning to-
“Silence.” The voice came not from the throne, but everywhere at once. Echoing from every shadow and drop of blood, booming from floor and sky. The voice of the Goddess commanded, and all within her reach obeyed.
“Stand up, you fool.” Coquelic watched as Shalom obeyed, no longer slouching on her throne. Back straight, eyes at attention, gaze wild and angry.
Do you have any idea what you’re asking for? A Noble with your promise and talent could rise high in less than a century, there is no need for such an audacious request. I have been without a Lillith for decades, and have no need of one now.”
“I am well aware, but I disagree on the subject of need. One such as I, responsible for the death of so many of my fellows even at another’s direction, must prove my sincerity. And what better way than to offer my own life, my very being, for the perpetuation of one as instrumental to the survival of vampires in particular and the supernatural as a whole? To die in place of the killer of countless Hunters, to suffer for the happiness of the Vampire Lord Coquelic? There is no better use of this endless existence of mine.”
The look in Coquelic’s eyes was something akin to marvel, to wonder. That was when Shalom knew she had w-
“You greedy, arrogant bitch.” …ok, perhaps not. “All of this: the present, the spectacle, is for Your benefit, not Mine. You need me, but I was almost convinced otherwise… What is it that I want?”
“What? But… why would you-” Shalom didn’t, couldn’t understand. She’d been caught flat out, her schemes within schemes unveiled in an instant. All that was left was her execution. So why bother to drag it out?
“Finding and introducing that monster-to-be earned you an invitation to the ranks of this Coven, power and permission to match the oldest families. But to aim for higher honor, to seek the Role above all others, requires More. So tell me, Shalom: what is it that I want most in this world?”
It took her a moment to recognize the chance for what it was. Her eyes closed, all possible distractions erased, mentally cataloging everything she’d ever learned about the woman who held her life between perfectly manicured nails.
Silence descended for several minutes as she pondered the reams and reams of information the Hunters had gathered on Coquelic. Every scrip and scrap from her thousands of years of operation, committed to memory before the documents and servers were consigned to the fire. The logical answer, the rational guess of the Hunters, was Power. To turn and spread and create a world where the Supernatural ruled eternal, with herself as Empress of the Evernight. Considered and immediately discarded: the woman, the monster before her Acted like that was her goal, her desire. But the true answer was far more… simple. It came from the heart, and thus Shalom trusted her own and spoke it aloud.
“... The safety, security, and joy of your flowers. To see them happy, wild, and free beyond the confines imposed by others. To know the world is theirs beneath the pale glow of the Goddess above.” There was no sound, no movement, and yet she knew Coquelic stood before her. The terrible magnificence of a wrathful god.
“You presume much, stranded as you are on the tightrope of my whims. Is that truly your answer?”
“It is, my Lord.”
“Then kneel.”
She obeyed once more, eyes opening as claw-like nails dug into either side of her scalp, carving bloody furrows from brow to jaw. Her blood was carefully collected, pooled in dainty palms, and then raised before Coquelic’s waiting lips. She drank greedily, drops of red running down either side of her mouth, and then bit through her own wrists with a sickening crunch. Her fingers traced the blood that ran in rivulets down pale skin, then found Shalom’s mouth. Her jaw was pried open with bone-breaking force, fingers spreading Coquelic’s taste on her tongue as nails tore her inner cheeks to ribbons.
Their blood mixed and melded, the taste searing itself into the nerve endings of Shalom’s tongue. An addict in an instant, and the worst was yet to come. The ritual ended with a single drop, purer than the rest, that fell from one of Coquelic’s fangs directly into Shalom’s waiting mouth.
Heaven. Pure, perfect, bliss.
The concentrated ecstasy of a lifetime of indulgence, every pleasure imagined and tasted, all in one eternal moment. She nearly passed out from the sensation, only barely remaining conscious, held aloft by the hands gently framing either side of her face. She found Coquelic’s arms, sides, breasts with shaky hands, desperate for something to grasp in this storm of emotion, as her head craned skyward.
“My-my L-” The word, the title, had lost what little meaning it truly possessed. How could language hope to encompass even the barest fraction of what she had experienced?
“I see the struggle in you, Shalom. The desperate attempt to rationalize, to understand, that which is beyond comprehension. Discard such pretensions: your soul already knows my proper title.” Gentle, her touch was oh so gentle. Heavenly. Like her face was framed by the warmth of the sun itself.
“Your excellency, your Majesty. My Queen.” The grin widened. Coquelic looked down at her, feral and regal. Shining like the moon, resplendent and radiant beyond word or imagining. Tears of blood welled in Shalom’s eyes, her very soul demanding actions beyond her comprehension, filling her with emotions as yet unknown. There was a tether now, a tie that tugged at flesh and blood. Demanding she crawl closer, beg and plead and debase herself to earn Coquelic’s blessing.
She denied the urging, smothered it in bed and cradle. She was connected, but not controlled. Not again, never again. This was her Choice.
Coquelic chuckled, blood-red eyes shining with pride. Shalom felt the emotion resonate through her soul: acceptance approval applause confirmation pride agreement devotion love and a thousand things more. On and on it echoed, the first strand, tie and wrapping both. Coquelic smiled at her confusion, one finger carefully catching a single drop of blood from her brow and bringing it to the tip of her tongue.
She moaned softly, shuddering with ecstasy.
“You bleed so beautifully, my Lillith.”
Glossary
Lord - Coven Head
Lillith - soul-sworn servitor of a Coven Head. Bonded by an exchange of blood, the lesser’s life tied to the greater’s. Second only to the Coven head, treated as an extension of their will. If the Coven Head is in mortal peril, their blood/life will be used to preserve the Coven Head’s existence at the cost of their own.
Coven - alignment of multiple families. Traditionally only vampire families, but recently can inclue supernatural families as well.
Matriarch - head of a Vampire Family, progenitor of a new Bloodline. Usually supported by Several Nobles, unless the family is Very new/small.
Noble - High Vampire, measured solely on ability to manipulate their own Blood via magical power. Can be achieved in a few years or a few centuries of effort, depends on talent and skill.
Fang - newly turned vampire
Servitor - human paired to newly born Fang, serving as blood bag and assistant, intending to become a Vampire in their own right in time.
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