Chapter Text
TWO WEEKS LATER
VAMPIRE MOUNTAIN
KURDA
While he has no complaints about the surplus of reading material and Gracie's enthusiasm for literature, sometimes Kurda wonders if the classic princess fairytale lineup was somewhat lacking in the empowerment department. Then Gracie says something like, "Why doesn't she just break the door and leave the dumb tower?" and Kurda remembers two key points: Literature doesn't have to be perfect to be enjoyable. And Gracie is plenty empowered already.
Tonight's feature was Sleeping Beauty. Kurda wished Gracie would take a cue from the slumbering damsel. It was getting late and Kurda felt liable to drift off before Gracie did. She was reading on her own with minimal assistance now. Kurda hardly ever had to help her with words these days. So every now and then, he took an opportunity to rest his eyes as they sat curled up in the reading nook.
"…and she was finally awoken by true love's sweet kiss." Gracie's voice brimmed with electric pride like she'd climbed a mountain. Finally, it was over. Kurda blinked himself awake just in time to see Gracie glance up from the book, look him dead in the eye, and add with every bit of her usual confidence — "Like Papa Paris and Grampa Seba."
It was only due to years of hard-earned experience in diplomacy that Kurda managed to keep his cool.
"What did you say, Honey Bee?" He asked, gears spinning in his mind. "I didn't quite catch that last bit."
"Like Papa Paris and Grampa Seba." Gracie repeated with perfect clarity.
"…In what sense?"
Gracie exhaled a soft huff of impatience like Kurda was being a little slow for her liking. "They did a true love's sweet kiss! I saw them."
"Did they indeed? When did that happen?" Kurda asked. He made a point of speaking offhandedly lest Gracie get the sense she was being interrogated. She sort of was.
"Last yesterday." Gracie recounted eagerly. (Kurda translated that to mean the day before yesterday.) "I was sitting in Daddy's chair in the Bright Room. Daddy wasn't there. He had to go visit Uncle Vanez. But Papa Paris and Grampa Seba were there and I was colouring but then I dropped my pink crayon and it rolled off the thing and got lost and I went down the stairs to go find it and when I came back…" she had to pause for breath in order to finish with sufficient emphasis: "Grampa Seba was doing a kiss to Papa Paris. On the lips."
Kurda had to bite his tongue to keep himself from grinning. The notion of Paris and Seba exchanging covert kisses had never occurred to him. But suddenly his heart was swelling with secondhand delight. How long had that been going on? Was it a recent development, or did Gracie just happen to be the first accidental witness of a centuries-long romance? Didn't matter. Was none of his business. His inner glow was promptly doused as he remembered another piece of key information: it was none of Gracie's business either. But unlike Kurda, she was five.
Kurda closed the book and set it on the floor beside him, then gently picked Gracie up and repositioned her so they could see each other face-to-face. And finally he asked as casually as he could possibly manage:
"Gracie, did Grampa Seba and Papa Paris see that you saw their kiss?"
"Don'think so."
"You sure?"
"Pretty sure. They were just looking at each other."
"Ah. Okay." Kurda took a moment to give due consideration to what he'd say next. Both the words themselves and his delivery of them. "Honey Bee, can you promise not to tell anyone else that you saw them share a kiss?" He added carefully. "It's okay that you told me. I think it's nice. But —"
Gracie's little face scrunched up with vivid skepticism. "Why a secret?"
"Well… there are different kinds of kisses." Kurda explained. "When your Other Daddy and I give you kisses like this —" he smooched the top of her head as he always did, making her giggle. "That's just another way families say I love you without using our words. But when two grown-ups give each other a kiss on the lips, that means…"
Kurda faltered. The fond warmth in his chest turned cold as he pushed back against the memory resurrected by the word kiss. Oddly enough, it hurt less to remember the disgust on Mika's face than it did to dwell on how comfortably his lips fit against Kurda's, or how good he tasted, or the blazing adrenaline rush of being so close. Kurda forcibly bit back the what would've been far less appropriate but far more accurate explanation:
Well, darling, all I know now is that, sometimes, when two adults kiss each other on the lips, it's got nothing to do with love at all! It's just an unfortunate, embarrassing mistake that means absolutely nothing whatsoever and must be denied at all costs!
He sighed, conducted an internal check to make sure he was still smiling, considered her limited capacity for nuance, and answered at last: "Well, kisses mean different things to different people."
Gracie's face fell as she tried to put together the pieces of a puzzle beyond her scope of comprehension. "…So Papa Paris and Grampa Seba don't love each other?"
Kurda sighed again. "Truth be told, Honey Bee, I don't know either of them well enough to say yes or no. Sometimes the way people feel about each other is complicated. All I know is that they've been dear friends for quite a long time. And if Papa Paris and Grampa Seba want to tell people they kissed each other, that's their choice. We don't get to decide for them. That's why we have to keep it a secret."
Gracie gave a stoic little nod, but her darting eyes weren't lost on Kurda. He added with due resignation, "…Who else have you told?"
"Nobody!"
"Grace Arra Smahlt-Ver Leth, you are the worst liar I've ever met. Not that it's a skill you should practice, but —"
"I told Daddy."
Kurda smiled in relief. At least she folded easily. And he could hardly fault her for open communication. He chuckled and tucked her silky hair behind her ears. "Fine. Your Other Daddy doesn't count. You can tell us anything. But this has to stay between the three of us, okay?"
Gracie seemed to deflate a little bit, but she nodded in acceptance nonetheless. "Okay."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Kurda smiled in relief and held out his pinky finger. She crooked hers around his to seal the pact. Kurda added an afterthought, "We can still be happy for them, even if it's a secret."
Gracie leafed forlornly through the pages of the abandoned princess book, mumbling, "I jus' thought… because Papa Paris is a Prince… maybe he'd sweep Grampa Seba off his feet and they'd live happily ever after."
That was the line that sent Kurda over the edge. He laughed despite himself as he pictured Paris carrying Seba bridal-style around Vampire Mountain while bats and spiders fawned over them like the forest creatures in all the princess stories. To his relief, Gracie joined in his bout of giggling.
Kurda knew he should leave it at that. But he couldn't resist venturing, "What did your Other Daddy say when you told him?"
"He said we can be happy for Papa Paris and Grampa Seba but we shouldn't tell anyone." Gracie sighed, rolling her eyes. Kurda got the distinct impression she'd been hoping for a different response from Kurda than she got from Mika. Something more along the lines of, holy shit, what are we waiting for, let's throw them a surprise wedding, let's invite everyone, and let's do it tomorrow.
"I guess we're all in agreement, then." Said Kurda. He kissed the top of her head one more time. She yawned, stretched, and settled herself comfortably against Kurda's chest; a silent cue that she was ready to be carried to bed. Kurda stood up, keeping her cozy form cradled snugly against his. He tucked her into her coffin and retired to his own.
As tired as he'd been mere minutes ago, sleep eluded him now. Had Mika not been up in the Hall of Princes, Kurda might have almost been tempted to knock softly on his door. To let him know he knew. To sit on his mahogany desk, eat cashews out of the jar, and ponder aloud if this would require any sort of strategy to mitigate the chances of Gracie letting something slip and blowing the lid off what he had to assume was a secret. Paris and Seba were the two most secure vampires in the entire clan. They were further above reproach than even Mika, Arrow, or Vancha. If they wanted to kiss each other openly, nobody would hassle them about it. Still, whatever reasons they had for maintaining their secrecy were valid. And while Gracie was certainly a woman of her word, she was also just a little kid. And apparently a hopeless romantic. Damn those stupid princess stories!
But Kurda couldn't talk to Mika about this. After their war of words in the meeting room almost two weeks ago, Kurda longer had the option to talk to Mika about anything that wasn't absolutely vital to the wellbeing of Gracie or the clan at large. Paris and Seba's apparent fling didn't fall into either of those categories. And the jar of cashews would go stale, because Mika liked the idea of cashews more than he actually liked cashews. Kurda was left with no solution aside from lying awake in his coffin, staring at the ceiling and praying into the void.
Please, gods, please don't let my five-year-old out the two most prolific vampires in the clan.
The gods gave no indication they heard Kurda's silent pleas, but the words branded themselves in his mind as he drifted off. One second he was in his coffin, the next he was standing in the Hall of Princes — not that you could recognize it under the flowers that coated every available surface. Kurda was standing upon the throne platform. The thrones had been replaced by a tall wooden arch draped in white lace, under which stood Paris and Seba. They were resplendent in cloaks of white and crimson, respectively. Mika was there too, standing on the other side of the platform with Arrow and Vancha. All three were wearing tuxedos and dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs.
Then, from beneath the arch, a small but very familiar voice: "Papa Paris, Grampa Seba, by the power invested in me by Vampire Mountain, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may now do a true love's sweet kiss!"
Of course Gracie was officiating. The guests — there had to be thousands of them — erupted into jubilant applause as Paris seized Seba by the waist and dropped him into an elegant dip, their lips interlocked. Kurda was cheering along with the rest when he heard Mika's voice drifting from the other side of the platform.
"Kurda? Hey, Kurda!"
Kurda ignored him and continued to celebrate the newlyweds.
"Kurda, I need to talk to you, I'm sorry but it's important…" Suddenly Mika sounded as if he was speaking right into Kurda's ear rather than hailing him from across the platform.
"Gods, what do you want?!" Kurda snapped back with everything he was worth. It was one thing for Mika to ruin his own kiss with Kurda. But to interrupt Paris and Seba's? Who did he think he was?
The Hall of Princes disappeared. The glow of the dome went black. The sound of the crowd faded to a dull roar, then to nothing at all. Kurda was back in his coffin, filled with strange disappoint as he realized it had all been a dream. Except for the one aspect he would've gladly left in the realm of fiction: Mika was there in his room, kneeling by Kurda's coffin and trying to get his attention.
"I'm sorry to wake you." Mika repeated, grimacing as Kurda sat up. "I really am."
Kurda's stomach clenched at the implication of Mika's presence. "What's wrong? Is it Gracie?"
Mika shook his head. "No. Nothing to do with her."
The worry in Kurda's core was abruptly replaced by scathing irritation. "Then what, pray tell, could you possibly need me for? At this hour?"
"You served as a medic in the second Great War, right?" Mika asked. His voice was undercut with well-controlled but undeniable urgency.
"…I did, yes."
"So you know your way around a gunshot wound?"
"Mika, what the hell is going on?"
"I need you to come for a flit with me. I already spoke with Seba. He's on his way up here; he'll take care of Gracie when she wakes up. If we leave right now we'll have enough night left to get where we need to go."
Burned as he still was from the fight, there was something in Mika's eyes that had Kurda laying down his weapons of psychological warfare. At least for now.
Kurda got up, dressed as quickly as he could, and fetched his faithful first aid kit from his desk drawer. They made their way down the mountain, walking side-by-side in hasty strides through corridor after corridor. It was only in moments of great urgency that Kurda remembered how big this damn place was. Even with several feet of space between them he could feel the sense of purpose radiating from Mika's body, and see it crackling in his eyes. Almost as if he was relieved to have a finite direction in which to channel the ever-present anxiety harboured within his powerful frame.
"I had a General investigating something for me in a volatile area." Mika explained as they walked. "To make a long story very short, he was discovered and cornered by over a dozen human soldiers. Heavily armed. I don't know how the fuck he escaped, but he took multiple rounds. More than any of our medics would know how to —"
"Which General?" Kurda cut him off.
Mika hesitated, then answered, "Crane. Cavan Crane."
Kurda didn't break his stride at the sound of the name, but he shot Mika a scathing side-eye.
"I remember Crane. He's the one who made several comments likening me to a woman." Kurda recalled coolly as he braced himself for the blast of icy night air that greeted them outside the mountain. "Which isn't inherently offensive, of course. But his intention was to offend me, and it's the thought that counts. So my grudge stands."
"I don't need you to care if my friend dies, General Smahlt." Mika replied cooly. "I am ordering you to help me keep some very crucial information from dying with him."
"I don't have to like someone to acknowledge they have a right to live." Said Kurda. Then he pulled a wry face and added, "Now if it was Dean Warwent, on the other hand, I'd tell you to shove that order back up where it came from and I'd stand trial for my insubordination. That seems like a worthy trade-off."
Mika managed a dry laugh at that. Kurda's heart clenched at the sound. He missed that sound. He missed being the reason for that sound.
"Kurda, I'd stand trial myself before I'd go out of my way to coordinate a life-saving medical intervention for Warwent." Mika snorted. Just for a moment, his eyes flickered with a strangely intimate sort of amusement. Then he turned serious again, casting his steely gaze to Kurda. "But I know damn well you wouldn't let anyone die if you could prevent it. Not even Warwent."
Kurda shrugged, but didn't bother confirming or denying if Mika was correct. Seemed a waste of energy considering they both knew he was. Instead, Kurda fastened the top button of his warmest cloak as they stepped out into the snowy wilds of the mountain range.
150 MILES OFF THE COAST OF [REDACTED]
MIKA
The last leg of the six hour flit was gruelling. Mika didn't think he'd ever covered so much ground in such a short amount of time. But stopping to rest was out of the question. Crane's life force ebbed with every passing minute. It might even be too late; Mika couldn't check and flit at the same time. And there was the matter of the sun. He was certain he'd calculated the timeframe correctly. If so, they'd have a fifteen minute window of darkness between their arrival at Crane's location and the rising of the sun. If.
Here.
Mika signalled to Kurda; he could vaguely see a shimmer of golden hair in his peripheral vision as the world crashed by around them. Mika geared down from the breakneck pace he'd been keeping, and finally fell out of the flit entirely. The world returned to stark stability; they'd arrived at the place where an old-growth forest met a field containing some sort of crop Mika didn't care to identify.
The transition from go to stop was even more jarring than usual. Mika doubled over and drank in lungfuls of the still night air as he waited for his body to regulate itself. Eyes closed, he heard Kurda hyperventilating beside him and felt an immediate rush of guilt. It was one thing to push his own limits, but to leverage his authority unto someone else to do the same? Mika tried to disconnect from the feeling. He wouldn't have thought twice if this was any other General. Kurda was healthy and fit, and even younger than Mika. He'd be fine.
"I can feel Crane's mental signal. He's still unconscious, but he's close. Take a minute to catch your breath. Then we'll find him." Mika panted as he limped over to where Kurda sat with his back against a tree, sweat-drenched and red-faced. Kurda nodded in acknowledgement. Mika added, "Sorry. You alright?"
"You should know… damn well… I'm not… nearly… at the same level… of physical conditioning… as you are." Kurda gasped, fighting for every word. "We don't all… train religiously… in the sporting halls."
"I'm realizing that. That's why I apologized." Mika sank to the ground, leaning into the other side of the same tree and immediately regretting it. Standing back up would be excruciating. "We couldn't afford to stop mid-flit. We're low on darkness as it is. I knew we'd make it. I also knew it'd be a difficult trip. So for that, I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." Kurda sighed. Mika couldn't see him from where he sat now, but his breathing seemed to be slowing down. "You're doing your job… as am I."
Streaks of pink and orange were painting the horizon. Another minute of resting on either side of the thick oak trunk was all they could afford. Mika's muscles screamed in protest when he stood up. He tried to relish the feeling of knowing he'd pushed his body to the limit and survived. Mostly he just dreaded the return trip. But for now, they had no time to lose. He circled to the other side of the tree and held out a hand to help Kurda to his feet. For a moment, Kurda stared up at him through wary, distrustful eyes. A dull ache set into Mika's bones that had nothing to do with physical strain.
Yeah. I know. I fucking hate me too.
Mika was about to withdraw his hand and step back when Kurda reached up to grasp it. Clammy as both their hands were, Mika couldn't help but notice Kurda's was warm. Warm like the night he laid his palm on Mika's hammering heart. Warm like when he showed Mika the proper way to hold the chopsticks. In a world that was so dark and so cold, Kurda was so fucking warm.
Mika pulled him up in one easy motion. Kurda winced, no doubt feeling the same burning in his limbs and lungs that Mika did. And when Kurda's knees began to buckle, Mika closed the arm's length of space between them to hold him upright til the dizzy spell passed.
"I'm fine." Kurda mumbled as he detached himself from Mika and began to walk.
"You never believe me when I say that." Mika fell into step beside him, keeping enough distance to be respectful, but not enough that he couldn't still catch Kurda if he had to.
"Because you're always lying when you say it." Kurda shot back without a shred of hesitation. Mika cringed at how right he was. Kurda added pointedly, "By the way, the louder you say it, the more obvious the lie."
"Thanks for the tip. I'll remember that for next time."
They found Crane several miles from the field, in what seemed to be a pit containing nothing but gravel. The sign reading Municipal Gravel Pit confirmed what they saw was exactly what they were getting. Mika appreciated the blunt honesty of it, but readily disregarded the Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted warning beneath it.
In the gravel pit, there was a steel rectangle with Office stamped on the door. It looked more like a box car from a freight train than anything else. All Mika cared about was the smell of blood that led them to its door. Based on the collection of mismatched furniture and appliances, the office doubled as an administrative hub and a break room for the humans that worked here during the day. Today was the first of the two arbitrary days humans considered their weekend. The vampires would be safe from disruption til the day after tomorrow. For a moment Mika almost laughed in relief. Then he remembered why he'd chosen Crane for this mission. The man was almost as shrewd as Mika was. It was why they'd become friends all those decades ago, and it was why he'd almost certainly holed up here on purpose.
Crane was lying on the dusty, threadbare sofa within. He'd been too weak to sustain Mika's attempts to mind-link with him, but he used what little remained of his strength to jolt upright at the sound of the door. His weathered face was grey beneath his freckles, rusty hair stained crimson with blood, eyes narrowed to slits. As always he was primed and ready for a fight, even at death's door.
"Easy, Crane." Mika called out as he approached. "It's me. I've got General Smahlt here too. Lie back down before you fall off that thing."
"It'll make my job easier if you get him off the couch and onto that table instead. The lighting is better and I'll have more room to maneuver. Looks like I'll need it." Kurda muttered in an undertone. Mika nodded in appreciation.
"By the black fuckin' blood of Harnon Oan, Mika! I told you not to — arrghh!" Crane's attempt to stand up from the couch left him doubled over in pain, arms wrapped around his stomach. If that area had taken the worst of the damage, it didn't say much about the rest of him. His clothes were caked in dried blood and so tattered that Mika could almost count the bullet holes.
Mika rolled his eyes dismissively, in hopes that the other two wouldn't catch on to how thoroughly Crane's condition had rattled him. The blood and gore itself was neither here nor there (although in this room specifically, it was everywhere). Mika had witnessed and personally experienced countless gruesome injuries throughout his life. Burns, lacerations, broken bones spearing through skin, it was all in a night's work. This was different. This was one of many disturbing potential outcomes of Mika's world brushing up against that of the humans.
"If you had it your way, you'd bleed out and die alone in here." Mika retorted, crouching slightly to be at eye-level with Crane. "And I'd be left with no choice but to find another General to take over your investigation from square one. It'd be a colossal waste on all accounts."
Crane's eyes darted over Mika's shoulder to where Kurda was already clearing off the long wooden table in preparation to move Crane there.
"Are you aware you've been followed?" Crane growled.
Mika didn't have a second eye-roll in him, nor a scathing remark. Maybe later, but not now. "General Smahlt is the only living vampire in the entire clan with the skill set required to keep you alive." He informed Crane. "You're damn lucky he was willing and able to make the trip with me."
Crane narrowed his eyes and scoffed, "You know I'd have no qualms about dying for the clan."
Moron.
"I understand, and I commend your dedication. But I need to know what happened in the harbour. So you need to live long enough to tell me about it."
Crane exhaled a low grunt of acceptance, and winced in pain as Mika picked him up and carried him from the couch and the wooden table. There was a moment where Mika thought the thing was going to collapse under the man's weight when he deposited him there, but the ominous creak didn't amount to more than that.
"Nice to see you, General Crane. I'm sorry it wasn't under better circumstances." Kurda greeted him as he began to unpack his first aid kit.
"Likewise, Smahlt." Crane muttered. How he managed to sound so reluctant in his current state was beyond Mika. "Surprised to see you here, considering the way you looked down your nose at me last time we crossed paths."
"General Smahlt." Mika corrected Crane automatically. The defensive bite in his own voice caught him by surprise. It certainly caught Kurda's attention. He shot Mika a placating look across the makeshift operating table.
"If I was unwilling to help every vampire who's been casually rude to me… well, I wouldn't be very useful at all, would I?" Kurda countered with a breezy smile. And with that, he got to work.
Mika stood at the table for some time, observing Kurda's ministrations with interest. Mika hadn't seen many bullet wounds up close before. How chilling it was that something so small could be just as deadly as a sword or spear. More, even, depending on the location and angle.
"You've done this a time or two, eh?" Crane forced through gritted teeth as Kurda slowly extracted the first of the bullets with a pair of long silver tweezers.
"More times than I'd have wanted to." Kurda answered. His voice was as steady as his hand. "I served as a medic in the Second Great War. My saliva was my greatest asset, but there's not much point in sealing a wound with the intrusive object still inside..." He paused to squint into one of the wounds, then adjusted the angle of his tweezers and worked the second bullet free. "…so I learned my way around these awful things. And because anaesthesia was in short supply, I learned to do it gently. How are you feeling so far?"
"You don't have to coddle me, Smahlt." Crane insisted in his ever-present haughty drawl. "I've taken far worse than this."
Ungrateful fuck.
Mika stood up from the table and made a point of bumping it with his hip on the way. Crane let out a sharp hiss of pain as the movement jostled his body — and Kurda's metal instrument within the fresh wounds.
Kurda knew Mika well enough to see through it. He looked up from his delicate work just long enough to shoot Mika a warning glare across the table.
"Whoops. Clumsy me." Mika remarked drily. He busied himself rummaging around the dusty kitchenette. He was far from an expert on modern appliances but he got the impression all of these were out of date. The door of the fridge felt liable to fall off its hinges when it opened it, but he was pleased to find a package of cured meat sticks. He nibbled on one, tucked a second in his pocket for later, and brought the package over to the table for the others. Even better was the discovery of a canister containing a sort of magic dust known as instant coffee. Probably would've tasted better with boiled water from the kettle, but he couldn't be bothered searching for one. Surely the hottest setting of the tap would serve the same purpose. He made his own cup with a double scoop, Kurda's with the exact amount on the label, and Crane's with a little less magic dust than the instructions specified.
After the seventh bullet, Kurda stepped away from Crane and stretched his arms up and over his head, then rotated his shoulder blades to loosen up from an hour of awkward hunching. Mika found his eyes drawn to the graceful curve of Kurda's spine, and the soft skin beneath his white cotton t-shirt as the hem of it lifted briefly —
Stop looking!
Mika stalked over to the couch and flopped down there, coffee mug in hand. He closed his eyes and took a long drink. It tasted exactly as you'd expect. He sipped his drink and leafed through the tattered Playboy that undoubtedly served as a morale booster for the humans that worked here. Then he was summoned.
"Mika, can you be so kind as to hold General Crane down while I excavate this particular bullet?" Kurda ventured, brows knit together with grim determination. "It's going to be atrociously painful and I wouldn't blame him if he followed the natural impulse to punch me in the head, but I'd rather avoid that."
Mika sighed with resignation and obliged Kurda's request by leaning over the table and grasping both of Crane's forearms when he folded them above his head.
"Deepest apologies for this, old friend." Mika told him.
"I'll be fine. Just do it already." Crane muttered.
Kurda's judgement was true. The moment he shifted the bullet up and out, Crane's body seized violently as a roar of agony ripped through his throat. No doubt he would've thrashed himself right off the table had Mika not been there to stabilize him.
Kurda held the bullet aloft, face flushed and eyes alight with triumph. So much potential for pain and destruction contained in something so small. The bullet, obviously.
"Well done, Crane. The worst is over." Said Kurda. "And thank you for your assistance, Sire Ver Leth. We're going to pause this for now."
Mika opened his mouth to say, I cannot overstate how much I don't need you to Sire me right now, but Crane's grating voice filled the silence first.
"I don't need a break." Crane grunted. A blatant lie; the man was grey-faced, sweating buckets, and grinding his teeth so harshly Mika could feel it in his own head.
"I'm sure you don't." Kurda assured him. "But my eyes could benefit from a brief change of scenery." Also a lie. Kurda could've easily worked til the job was done. He was allowing Crane this small act of compassion for no reason other than that he was Kurda Smahlt. What a mind. What a man.
Kurda picked up his mug of coffee and took a seat at one of the wooden chairs by the table. Shaking but determined, Crane sat up and helped himself to the meat sticks and coffee. Mika forced himself to refrain from starting the unofficial debrief til Crane had devoured two of those and half his cup of (watery) coffee. Then Mika relocated from the couch to one of the chairs.
"Alright, Crane." Said Mika at last. "If you claim you don't need a break, I assume you won't object to using this as an opportunity to fill me in on… the circumstances?"
Crane straightened immediately and nodded, eyes gleaming with battle-hardened determination. Hey, no one in the history of the clan has ever once claimed good manners are a key component to an excellent General. And Crane was ultimately that.
"Should I be here for this?" Kurda asked, raising a questioning eyebrow at Mika.
Mika sighed. While the fact remained he hadn't wanted to involve more than one General, at least not yet, the other fact remained the three of them were trapped in this small steel box til the sun went down.
"I can hardly dismiss you to go stand outside." Said Mika after a pause. "I have complete trust that you'll keep this information confidential unless instructed otherwise."
"Of course." Kurda nodded in affirmation, as any General would. But something in his face softened. For the first time in weeks, he met Mika's eyes without that strange, chilly reproach that had lingered in his elegant features ever since the fight.
Mika nodded to Kurda, then to Crane.
"The rogue was patrolling the docks alone. In the distance I could see a ship headed for the harbour. I think he was waiting for it. He looked right at it. What was on that ship is anyone's guess, though. Could've been weapons. Could've been more soldiers. Anything goes in that place."
"So you took the opportunity to make contact?" Said Mika.
"Aye. I gave up the chance for a kill shot so I could have a few words with him, just like you ordered. I could've struck him down as he had his binoculars trained on the ship… and now I wish I had."
"Maybe an immediate kill should have been the order I gave you." Mika admitted. "But then —"
"We'd never know how, why, or if there's more." Crane finished the sentence. "I trust your judgement, Mika. I always have."
"I know. I'm just sorry it almost killed you. To die in honourable combat is one thing." Mika sighed heavily and raked a hand through his hair. "But this… I hate the idea of any vampire dying at the hands of human destruction. Paint it however you want. I don't see honour in it."
"I'm grateful for the opportunity to seek a nobler demise at a later time." Crane shot Kurda an overdue glance of appreciation. It seemed to be the best he could do. Then he looked back at Mika and continued:
"He wouldn't tell me his name. I don't know if it'd make a difference if he had. He knew I was of the same blood as him. Said he could smell it on me. I asked him if he could recruit me — just like you told me to. He just got this sad look in his eyes. It was the strangest thing. He told me he was sorry about this, and that I shouldn't have come. Then he gave a signal, like this —" Crane raised his right hand to demonstrate a deft point-and-slice motion. "— and within seconds the dock was surrounded by human soldiers. They'd been hiding right behind me all along, in an abandoned supply shack. The ambush had to have been for the ship; I was just in the way. I covered my tracks perfectly, I swear I —"
"I believe you." Mika interjected. "You've always been an exceptional tracker. That's why I chose you for this."
"The sons of bitches had disguised their scent with fish scraps from the processing plant inland. Fish scraps."
"That would've fooled me too."
"On one side was the sea. On the other, an army. And I never learned to swim, so I chose the army. And this —" Crane gestured to his own tattered torso. "— is what happened before I got up to flitting speed. It couldn't have been more than a second and a half."
Mika exhaled low and slow, nodding as he took all that in. "What did the rogue look like? Can you transmit his face to me, now that you've seen it up close?"
"With pleasure."
1938
GERMANY
STILL MIKA
"This is my home. I won't leave. What's the point of all this strength if I flee like a kicked dog at the first sign of trouble?!" The young vampire's thin face was set in a stubborn, stony mask Mika recognized all too well. He'd seen it staring back at him through more mirrors than he could count.
That was how Mika knew this was a lost cause. He stared long and hard into the boy's eyes. Sure, Wilhelm Steiner walked and talked like a man — a stronger man than most, in fact — but in the grand scheme of the universe he was truly just a boy at a mere thirty years of age. He hadn't even made his first trek to Vampire Mountain to link himself to the Stone of Blood. That meant Mika would never find out what happened to him after tonight. It was only out of sheer luck he'd found him at all. While refilling his blood vials in this village, Mika sensed a nearby vampire who hadn't been accounted for when Mika's colleagues extracted a list of identities from the Stone of Blood back in Vampire Mountain. He tracked the stranger back to an abandoned house and stated his case: There's a storm coming. Bigger than anything you could imagine. Get out. Run. Please.
Mika wanted to snarl back at him. Wanted to physically shake some survival skills into him. He compromised by way of balling up his fist and bringing it down on the rickety wooden table around which they sat. Any harder and he would've cracked the thing. But he was in complete control of his strength.
It was all he could control now.
"Steiner, you have no idea what these humans- no, these monsters are capable of." Mika pushed back. His curated diplomacy was rapidly losing ground to desperation. To fail at anything was unfamiliar. To fail at this, of all things? Unthinkable. "What they disclosed to me was sick, yet I feel certain that was only the beginning. They think they can —"
"I know exactly what they're capable of." Steiner interrupted with chilling conviction. "These were my countrymen! And had I not spent the past decade travelling as a vampire, had I stayed human, I may very well have been brainwashed into this crazed mess with them! My vampire blood allowed me the perspective to know the world is bigger and better than this. I can't leave now. I can't."
By the time he finished speaking, his voice was cracked and shaking. But the look in his eyes never wavered. Mika had no idea how to counteract it. No amount of training could have prepared him for the darkness that lay in the manifests he'd read. Nor the suffocating atmosphere of dread that lay across beautiful, vibrant Europe now.
"Your courage is exceptional. As a Prince, I applaud you for that." Mika told him quietly. "But you forget they know what we are. They know how to identify us. And if they catch you, extermination will be the last thing they want. Do you understand me?"
"I do." Steiner replied simply.
Mika stood from the table and pushed his chair in. Like he was a proper guest instead of a grim Santa Claus travelling around handing out evacuation notices.
"Leave. Immediately. Get as far away from this place and these people as you can. That's an order." Mika snapped over his shoulder as he headed for the door.
Steiner made a great production of resting his feet on the table, leaning back in his chair, and crossing his arms defiantly over his chest.
"Yes, Sire."
He spoke with sincerity. But Mika knew he had no intention of leaving this place. And short of physically kidnapping him, Mika had no way to enforce the order. No time. He still had to have this conversation with twenty-six more vampires before it was too late.
The war clock ticked ominously over the world. Mika flitted into the darkness.
PRESENT
STILL MIKA
"Mika? Hey! You alright?"
It wasn't til Crane reached over to shake his shoulder that Mika released the death grip he had on the armrest of his chair. The thing wasn't nearly as sturdy as his throne; it was cracking down the middle as he squeezed. He released it and recomposed himself, trying to brush it off.
"Yes. I'm fine. Sorry, I just…"
Crane squinted at him through narrowed eyes."You recognized him, didn't you?"
"Yes." Said Mika bluntly. He was in no position to lie.
"So you've met him?"
"Once. In passing. Almost a hundred years ago. Name's Wilhelm Steiner. He was one of the many vampires I urged to evacuate Europe in anticipation of… of the war." Mika's throat contracted. For a moment nothing could pass through. No air. No words. So unprofessional. He shook the feeling loose and forced himself to finish his train of thought. "What Steiner has become is exactly what the Princes tried desperately to avoid. Voluntarily or not, this is reason enough to believe the Nazis successfully created a vampire supersoldier."
THE NEXT NIGHT
WAY STATION 47
KURDA
Once the bullets had been extracted and all three had gotten a good day's sleep on the floor of the office, Mika and Kurda parted ways with a much healthier-looking Cavan Crane. He was visibly crestfallen when Mika told him his mission to investigate the supersoldier-turned-mercenary was at an end, but understood it wouldn't make sense to redouble his efforts now that Steiner knew his face. Mika would have to regroup and develop a new strategy.
Mika and Kurda split the return trip over two nights, pausing for rest at a way station built into a cavern at the base of a sheer cliff. The silence that settled in their air between them carried a whole new weight than it had in the days leading up to this. The silent game of who can care less they'd left back in Vampire Mountain suddenly seemed like just that; a game. It was all so childish and petty now. They both knew it.
Kurda offered to build a fire and hunt for something to eat, but only out of obligation. When travelling with their subservients, the Princes are never expected to take on any of the bitch work. But protocol and reality are very different entities. The Generals know better than anyone how few Princes are willing to put their feet up and abstain from pitching in when there's work to be done.
For Mika, as Kurda observed in silence, the compulsion to work stems less from a place of honour and more from a place of 'if I can arrange this kindling and stoke it just right, the success of this fire will restore a fragment of my personal sense of control, no I will not elaborate because I actually lack this level of self-awareness and if I could hear Kurda's inner monologue right now I would kill both of us'.
It wasn't going well. Surely Mika had to know the lack of viability was a result of the moisture in the wood, not because he was a failure of a man. Still, with every fizzling flame and muttered cuss he sounded increasingly likely to self-destruct. Even the windbreak Kurda built out of branches and brush didn't seem to help. The wood just wasn't dry enough.
"I can pluck and skin the pheasant to save some time." Kurda offered, eyeing the bird's corpse as it lay waiting nearby. "I don't mind. Honestly. Then it'll be ready to cook as soon as the fire is going."
Kurda finished that thought and waited on tenterhooks for the retort. The snide growl, the audible eye roll, the defensive snapback: what, am I taking too long for your liking, Smahlt? Or do you think I'll fuck that up like I'm fucking this up?
It's worth noting that Kurda doesn't believe Mika is fucking anything up at this particular juncture. Kurda simply knows Mika well enough to know Mika believes Mika is fucking this up. Was life easier before Kurda knew there was more to Mika than a bad attitude? Kurda couldn't remember now.
To his surprise, Mika simply answered, "Alright." Didn't even bother to lace the word with disdain. He just… said it. As if the kiss and ensuing confusion had slipped from whatever inner stratosphere kept Mika's collection of stressors organized and visible. As if some personal tension no longer registered against the revelation that somewhere out there was a vampire living a life of gruesome servitude.
Fair enough.
Kurda glanced at the would-be firewood (firewould?) as he wandered over to retrieve the pheasant. His heart sank as he pinpointed the exact source of the issue. Mika was attempting to light the thinner sticks first, because that's what you're supposed to do. Start with the kindling and feed in the bigger logs once the flame is stable. But this collection of kindling was of a species Kurda remembered well, although the name escaped him. He decided to test his luck a second time.
"Hey… I recognize those stupid saplings." Kurda offered, crouching a few feet away from where Mika was waging his war against the things. "I damn near froze to death trying to start a fire with them on a trek to Council a few decades back. They look like they should burn easy, but they're dense. I truly believed I was going to die. I got desperate, gave up on them and used my last match on one of the bigger logs instead. Which is completely backwards from how we were all taught, but I'm —"
Mika shoved the saplings to the side and attempted to light the thickest of the logs. The flame caught on the first try.
"— still here." Kurda finished. Subconscious pattern recognition had him automatically bracing for the second time in as many minutes: There you have it, Smahlt. Go ahead. Say you told me so! Maybe I'll just fuck off and let you take care of everything. Hell, take my job while you're at it!
And for the second time in as many minutes, Mika broke his own pattern. He simply sat back and stared with a detached sort of relief as the line of orange flame began to spread further up the log. Once it became clear that the fire wasn't going to flicker out like before, Mika glanced over at Kurda and asked incredulously,
"You couldn't have spoken up an hour ago?"
Kurda grimaced, then offered a wry smile. "I'm sorry. I just didn't pay any mind to the wood. You know better than anyone I wouldn't have kept my mouth shut if I had a reason to speak up."
Mika didn't smile back, but he managed a nod of stoic appreciation. His eyes drifted back to the burning log. When he spoke again he seemed to address the flames more than Kurda — "We could've managed just fine without a fire, if we had to. But…"
His voice trailed off. Kurda picked up the train of thought from where he dropped it:
"Personally, I feel it's enough to know I can survive the cold, if I have to. But when I have the choice, I always choose to be warm." Said Kurda evenly. "I don't feel ashamed for that. And I hope you don't either."
Mika shot him a glance, eyebrow raised. He's back.
"I'm legally obligated to tell you I disagree with that sentiment." Said Mika.
"Tell me that, then." Kurda shrugged, tossing a handful of pheasant feathers into the wind as he plucked. They swirled away on the breeze and disappeared into what little remained of the night. "It's okay. Wouldn't be the first time."
"Feels like a waste of oxygen when you already know." Mika lipped back. And for the first time throughout this entire ordeal, he seemed to relax. He stood up and stretched, then sank back to the sheet of chilly rock to sit with his knees pulled up against his chest. He sat in quiet contemplation for some time, arms curled around his legs and chin resting atop his knees as he watched the flames dance. He looked… smaller this way. Without permission, Kurda's mind slipped back in time to the night before that night. That night was the night they kissed. The night before was the night Mika awoke in a cold-sweat panic that held him captive for over an hour. When at last he succumbed to exhaustion, it was in Kurda's bed.
Now, like then, Kurda felt a strong twinge of frustration intermingled with equal parts defiant affection. Let someone in. Anyone! It doesn't have to be me! Gods know you'll never let it be me. Kurda thought, then shook himself. It's for the best! I don't want it to be me anyway.
Kurda wrenched his gaze from his unassuming travelling companion and focused on plucking the remainder of the dead bird. He was both surprised and pleased that Mika seemed content to just rest and be still, now that the fire was blazing with life. But Kurda couldn't entirely silence the nagging question in the back of his mind.
"How did you know I served as a medic?"
Mika glanced at him, brow creased with surprise. "I didn't think it was a secret. You brought it up yourself. Few weeks ago, remember? When you likened my facial expression to that of a war medic sawing off a rotting limb —"
"I suppose you've got me there." Kurda interjected, grimacing. "I never tried to keep it a secret by any means. But I also never went out my way to make it a known fact."
"It was actually Arra who first told me of your involvement with the relief efforts." Said Mika. "Not recently, mind you. Maybe a decade or so after the war. I just never had cause to speak with you about it until… this."
Kurda sighed. He should've known. It should've been obvious. "Let me guess." He snorted. "Arra described the situation with the same tone and expression she would've used if she'd caught me committing some act of unspeakable depravity, such as… I don't even want to come up with an example."
Mika grimaced, then chuckled ruefully. "That was exactly how she said it. She went on to heavily imply that one of the Princes should summon you to stand trial for risking clan secrecy —"
"Hypocrite! She helped me for a time!"
"Yes, but only because Larten was her mate at the time, and it was what he wanted."
"Well, that went without saying." Kurda scoffed. He plucked the last of the feathers with great aggression and tossed them over his shoulder, rolling his eyes as he started preparing the carcass, ranting as the decades-old memory became fresh once more. "That woman almost couldn't even be bothered to spit on someone if it would save their life, and I mean that literally!"
Mika didn't object or defend Arra's humanity (or blatant lack thereof). He just nodded along and shrugged, eyes on the branch and dagger in his hands. He was whittling it into a point for which they'd spear through the bird and roast it over the fire.
Another seed of curiosity sprouted in the back of Kurda's mind. He paused his work on the carcass and asked, "So… why didn't you?"
"Why didn't I what?" Mika didn't look up. Just kept whittling.
"Summon me to the mountain to grill me for risking clan exposure by working in plain sight among the humans." Kurda pressed.
"There was no point. The war was long over by the time I was made aware of what you were doing." Mika still didn't stop whittling, but he did spare Kurda a glance. The dagger in his hands continued to move in the same perfectly calculated rhythm even without his eyes on it. "But, had I known while it was happening, I would've ordered you to stand down and step away. For the sake of clan secrecy."
Even that hypothetical was enough for Kurda's temper to alight and sear the inner walls of his chest. "And I would have told you to go to hell for that." He snapped back, meaning every word. "I'd have proceeded to carry on exactly as I was. If you wanted to stop me, you would have had to kill me."
He expected Mika to match his energy. To snarl back. To Kurda's surprise, Mika just smiled. It was hollow, strained, exhausted. But there was long-wearing amusement buried in it too.
"My duty is to the security of the vampire clan. I can't take responsibility for humans. Their elected leaders answer for that." Mika replied with frustrating steadiness. "So, yes. Knowing the most destructive political superpower of the time already had it out for us, of course I would have put a stop to your work by any means necessary, lest you end up captured and gods know what else. Protecting the clan is my job. Like it or not, that includes you."
Kurda's frame remained tense and coiled as he glared over at Mika. The pheasant lay forgotten. When Kurda failed to fill the silence, Mika continued with a weary half-laugh — "But I had no idea. And the world is a better place for it." He paused, as if deliberating over his words, then added with some caution, "Politics aside, your tenacity impressed me as much back then as it does now."
"…I appreciate that." Said Kurda. It was all he could muster. But it was enough.
Mika handed him the finished spike. Kurda mounted the carcass above the fire, and they both watched their meal cook in silence. It was a familiar silence, albeit one that hadn't visited in a while. It was the same silence that would drift over them in the earlier nights. The nights when neutral space between them was a new phenomenon. Back when the footing of their new common ground was still uncertain but they decided to trust it anyway because we both love our clan and this random baby we found, so how bad could you possibly be?
Mika felt it too. Kurda could tell by the way he shifted from sitting to laying down by the fire, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the sky. Hues of orange were weaving themselves into the dark purples and blues of the night. Dawn wasn't far off. They'd have just enough time to eat before the rising sun drove them into the cavern, and the comfortable silence lasted til that moment was upon them.
The cavern was damp and drafty; Kurda knew he'd feel the chilly stiffness in his bones for many nights to come. He'd have liked to use his coat as a mat between himself and the rocky mattress beneath, but the temperature was too low not to use it as a blanket instead. A human might have been worried about freezing to death. A vampire could simply opt for the path of least discomfort.
"Sleep well." Kurda told Mika as they settled in. The proportions of the way station left them with no choice but to lay like sardines, each with their coat draped over them. Mika didn't respond. Kurda didn't particularly care. Their backs were touching; the cavern allowed no space to separate. Kurda chose to be grateful for a bit of auxiliary body heat.
For several minutes there was no sound aside from two sets of steady breathing and a chorus of birds chittering in the distance.
Then, without a shred of preamble, Mika's voice pierced the stillness:
"It wasn't disgusting. It wasn't repulsive, or traumatic, or humiliating, or any of those things you said."
Kurda felt every word echo within his own chest even though Mika's voice was barely more than a whisper. It didn't even occur to Kurda to play the game, to ask for clarification he didn't need. There was only one moment in their shared history that Mika could possibly be referring to.
"Then what was it?" Kurda rasped.
"…What was it to you?"
"I asked you first."
"I don't know, Kurda. One second we were dancing. Then we were kissing."
Neither of them moved. Just lay there, back to back, with no choice but to feel each other's every breath. Every heartbeat. Mika's was picking up speed and Kurda realized he was no better.
"I liked it!" Kurda blurted out, hating the childlike whine that crept into his tone but praying the admission of truth would set him free somehow. Beside him, he felt Mika's frame stiffen.
"You did?"
"Of course I did! I was having fun! With you! I didn't even have time to consider the implications. All I knew in that moment was that it was nice. Then you ran from me."
"I've never once claimed I handled it well, Kurda."
"You didn't handle it at all! If you really regretted crossing that line with me, you could have just said so and moved on. I even would've let you blame it on the human alcohol that barely got us tipsy! You could have talked to me about it."
"I did, or I tried to —"
"No, you didn't! You were sitting there with your head in your hands, talking yourself off a damn ledge as if your life depended on it, and I just happened to be standing there."
"I didn't want to give you mixed signals."
"I could have decoded mixed signals, Mika! Instead you gave me nothing."
Kurda wished he had space to move further away from Mika. It seemed intrusive that he could feel Mika's long, shaky breath in his own body.
"I know. You deserved more. You deseve better than me. Always have." Mika murmured after a long pause. The gravelly strain in his voice made Kurda's heart clench.
I don't want better, I want — Kurda bit down the words that sizzled on his tongue. Those words wouldn't help him now. They'd just make it worse.
"You're right." Kurda forced out instead. "I do."
"We're in agreement, then."
"We certainly are. Goodnight, Sire Ver Leth"
"Goodnight, General Smahlt."
Kurda drifted between the realms of awake and asleep, not comfortable enough to keep a foot in either. He felt a rustle of movement above him. He flinched on instinct, then reoriented himself and realized Mika was leaning over and arranging part of his own — much thicker — travelling jacket across Kurda's body so it covered both of them.
"Sorry. Go back to sleep." Mika whispered.
"What're you —"
"You were shivering. Practically shaking the whole damn cave."
"Oh. Thank you."
"No need to thank me. It was keeping me awake. I'm solving both our problems. See you in a few hours."
When Kurda closed his eyes again, sweet, dark, obvious sleep was waiting for him.
12 HOURS LATER
VAMPIRE MOUNTAIN
STILL KURDA
The second and final leg of the flit was more gruelling than when they covered twice the distance in the other direction three nights ago. This time they were running into the driving snow and wind rather than away from it. Kurda felt the skin of his face was liable to crack open by the time they ended their journey at the base of Vampire Mountain.
"I mind-linked with Paris." Mika remarked as they made their way up through the mountain. "He put Gracie to work in the Hall of Princes for the night. We'll meet him up there. I'll trade places so he can take a break from Hall duty, and you can take Gracie back. Go eat and warm up. Your face is as blue as your jacket."
"What about you?" Kurda asked through chattering teeth, raising an eyebrow. "You look no better."
Mika shrugged off the earnest concern. "Paris will have been stuck in there since I left three nights ago. The man's eight hundred years old, he needs to rest more than I do. I'll have the guards bring me something hot from the Hall of Khledon Lurt. Don't worry about me."
"Get over yourself. I wasn't worrying. I was trying to understand your thought process."
"Good luck with that."
Mika waved the guards away when they made their final approach to the Hall of Princes. Kurda was spared the usually mandatory security pat down. He watched Mika's entire body visibly relax as he pressed his palm to the door panel. The doors slid open. In they went.
A moment later, Kurda felt the weight of the world slip from his own shoulders too.
On the top stair of the throne platform sat Gracie, heaping tray of breakfast food balanced in her lap. Paris and Seba sat on either side of her. Paris was leaning over to cut Gracie's pancake into bits, close enough that his shoulder was nestled against Seba's. The events of the past three nights had been more than enough to erase all thoughts of Paris and Seba's secret romance from his mind, but now he found himself desperately stifling a grin as he recalled Gracie's innocent revelation. Then Gracie saw them, and in that moment nothing else mattered. Not the kiss. Not Mika's and Kurda's, nor Paris and Seba's. Not the endless game of psychological chess that was his life. Not the untold violence that lurked in the darkest crevices of the world. Not a single thing other than the way Gracie politely passed the breakfast tray to Paris, then proceeded to bolt up the aisle to hail their return. She hugged Kurda first, then Mika. She remained glued to his side as he carried on to the throne platform to speak with his colleague.
"Well?" Paris asked. He spoke gruffly, but he seemed relieved to see Mika back in one piece.
"Thanks to General Smahlt's good work, General Crane will have ample time to seek a more honourable demise than a hail of human bullets." Said Mika.
Kurda accepted the compliment as any General would; straight-backed, hands folded together, and a curt nod of appreciation. Paris shot him an approving smile, then glanced back to Mika and prompted, "And the rogue?"
Mika stiffened, but carried on with his usual smooth eloquence. "I was able to identify him via Crane's transmission of memory. Name's Wilhelm Steiner."
Paris frowned and exchanged a look with Seba, who just shrugged. "Doesn't sound familiar to me, I'm afraid."
"No, it wouldn't. His mentor died shortly after blooding him. Never had a chance to meet many other vampires or learn our ways, much less trek to the mountain and link himself to the Stone." Mika replied with a bitter chuckle. "It was only by chance I met him before he vanished — back when I was on my mad dash through Europe trying to force as many vampires to evacuate as I could manage. You and Chok pulled names and locations from the Stone of Blood. His wasn't one of them. But naturally, I tried anyway." Mika gently placed his palms over Gracie's ears to muffle whatever he was about to say before he said it: "He didn't want to leave. He wanted to use his vampiric strength to kill Nazis. And honestly…" his voice cracked slightly. "…who could blame him?"
Paris sighed, tutted, and traded a glance of concern with Seba. Both their faces had turned stony and grim at Mika's news.
"The Collective's dossier states he's been known to have ties with the Nazi party prior to their fall from power." Mika added. "Whether they gave away or outright sold their unconventional weapon remains unclear. All I know is that, considering Steiner's stance on Nazis when I met him…" Mika's voice trailed off as he let the implication hang heavy in the air between them.
"The obvious conclusion is that they captured him and did what we all feared." Paris supplied wearily. Mika nodded in affirmation. Kurda found himself fidgeting with his pocket compass. He felt he shouldn't be privy to this discussion. Had Mika forgotten Kurda was there? Kurda took a step to the right, shifting the angle of his body to get a better look at Mika's face.
Then Kurda knew why that expression looked so familiar, despite having never seen it cross Mika's face. Mika was staring up at Paris the same way Gracie stared up at Mika or Kurda when she felt confused or afraid. And Paris looked at Mika now the same way Mika looked back at Gracie in those moments.
"I explained the dangers and I ordered him to leave the continent. Same as I did for all the others." Said Mika. His tone of voice was entirely different than even a minute ago. Concise as ever, but there was a strain of childlike frustration in it. "What else was I supposed to do? Chase him across the border? I had dozens more to —
"Enough of that." Paris insisted, brow creased with sympathy. "You were racing a war clock of which we had no control. It's not your fault, Mika."
Mika's jaw clenched in defiance, and he snapped back so quickly it was a dead giveaway that Paris had struck a nerve. "That's not the point! If I'd just —"
"It's not your fault." Paris cut him off firmly.
"I know." Mika repeated through gritted teeth.
"It is not your fault."
The third time was the charm. Mika lowered his defences in silent acceptance that Paris saw through him. All of the guilt. All of the regret. His shoulders sagged as he exhaled.
"Go." Paris instructed Mika. "Get some hot blood and food into you, and take a long rest."
"That's not fair." Mika pushed back, shaking his head. "I've been gone three nights. It's your turn."
Paris huffed in exasperation and waggled a gnarled finger in Mika's face, ancient blue eyes alight with amusement. "A clever little raven you may be, but you are quick to forget I have had claim to my throne since before this mountain even knew your name. I do not yield to you. Besides…" he glanced at Seba, who offered a knowing smile. "I am in excellent company. Quartermaster Nile has prepared his annual wish list of supplies to discuss, and provided a bottle of fine red wine to ply me with."
Mika raised an eyebrow in Seba's direction. "Then Seba shouldn't have a problem negotiating with you, the lightweight you are. I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, then."
"And not a moment sooner." Paris replied, with a hint of warning to his tone.
Kurda took Gracie's hand and let her lead him out of the Hall of Princes. Her other hand was secure in Mika's. She kept up easily with their longer strides by skipping along with the effortless energy of a grasshopper in peak summertime. There wasn't a single thought in Kurda's head aside from how desperately he needed warmth and food, and how close he finally was to relief. His mental reflexes were, admittedly, not at full mast. Apparently Mika was in a similar way.
Mika had just closed the Hall door behind him when he absent-mindedly asked Gracie, "Did Grampa Seba and Papa Paris keep you busy while we were gone?"
"Pretty busy." Gracie recounted. "Grampa Seba said he has a lot to do this year. I think they're getting married soon —"
They were still well within earshot of no less than a dozen guards. Kurda's weary brain cells rallied and he immediately scooped Gracie up in his arms, muffling her innocent train of thought by holding his palm over her mouth. Meanwhile Mika let out a series of loud, exaggerated coughs to drown out Gracie's voice. The guards of vampire mountain were not only invaluable to the security of the place, but the lifeblood of the gossip cycle.
Kurda picked up speed and kept Gracie shushed till they rounded the corner and left the guards far behind. Only then did he put her down. She was already giggling. Mika shot Kurda a look.
"You seemed awfully ready for that." Said Mika, one eyebrow arched. It was almost animated, the way he emoted with those things. "I take it Gossip General has briefed you on the situation?"
"Mere hours before we departed on our business trip, actually. I actually forgot about it, with everything that's happened between then and now." Kurda informed Mika with a rueful grin. "Don't worry, I've sworn her to secrecy from here on out."
"I thought I did too." Said Mika, turning his pointed glare to Gracie. Any vampire would shrivel up and blow away if faced with that look. Even the toughest Generals have been known to cower when Sire Ver Leth adjusts his facial muscles in accordance with some formula he alone knows how to manipulate. Gracie just laughed and grabbed his hand, swinging his arm as they began to walk again.
"I think you need a new face." Kurda pointed out as they made their way down the corridor. "She's immune to that one."
Mika snorted derisively and rolled his eyes. "I'm aware. She gets that from you."
Mika stoked his fireplace with considerably better success than the night before. Then he brewed two powerful coffees for himself and Kurda, and made Gracie a latte (a cup of warm milk with a dash of sugar and a singular droplet of coffee). Meanwhile Kurda sat on the thick bearskin rug by the fireplace and entertained Gracie's endless stream of questions with a diluted strain of truth. At least for now she seemed more intrigued by their mysterious business trip than she did about Paris and Seba's alleged romance. And truth be told, Kurda didn't know which of those was easier to explain.
"It's not that we forgot to take you with us, Honey Bee." Kurda reasoned as she tried to make sense of it all. "Daddy found out that his friend was in trouble and we had to go help him right away. We couldn't very well wake you up from your cozy bed and take you with us through the cold, dark night, could we?"
"Yeah. You could'a." Gracie insisted. She was trying to be stern but the milk froth mustache was working against her. "I could'a help."
"I know you could have helped. You're very clever, and just as kind." Kurda reassured her, earning a smile by booping her nose. Worked as well now as it did on the very first night.
Mika stoked the fire one more time before taking a seat on Gracie's other side. "Let the record reflect that last time I woke too up too early, you almost bit my arm off." He remarked.
"Did not!" Gracie protested.
"I said almost."
They sat side-by-side-by-side for a long while, drinking their drinks, enjoying the warmth of the fire, nibbling on the stash of snacks Mika kept in sealed jars at his desk. Eventually, Gracie fell asleep on the rug between them. It was late enough that one of them would just carry her over to her coffin and let her sleep away what remained of today.
The fire burned low. It had maybe five minutes left and there was no point rekindling it at this hour. Five more minutes to sit here while it still made sense to sit here. As long as the fire was going, they were warming up. But once the fire was out, they were two grown men sitting on the floor together. And there was simply no reason for that.
"I won't tell anyone that Paris and Seba have something going on." Kurda spoke up, keeping his eyes on the flames. "And I'll do everything in my power to make sure Gracie doesn't let anything slip in mixed company."
Out of the corner of his eye Kurda could see Mika run a hand through his hair. Heard him sigh softly.
"I'm not bothered that Gracie told you , specifically." Said Mika. "Can't exactly begrudge her for open communication. Better that than the alternative."
"I thought the same." Kurda replied steadily.
"Usually when I look at Paris and Seba, I picture myself and Arrow in a few centuries' time." Mika carried on, with a hint of a wayward little smile that made Kurda's heart strings shift like chimes in a soft breeze. "That level of trust is rare to maintain, especially when you involve politics and titles."
"There are very few living vampires from their generation." Kurda pointed out. "They've seen things none of us will ever understand."
Mika nodded in agreement. Kurda continued to look directly into the fire rather than at Mika, and got the distinct impression Mika was doing the same. It's not weird as long as the fire's going.
"I know they've always been close. That's never been a secret." Said Mika. "But there's been a few times over the years… I don't know how to describe it. It's like something passes between them and suddenly I feel like I'm intruding on something. I used to think I was imagining it, but now…"
Mika's voice trailed off for several long minutes. Kurda didn't know what to say, so he held his tongue.
"Paris wouldn't be the first Prince to have a man as his mate. Not by a long shot." Mika muttered after a while, now seeming to be thinking out loud more so than talking Kurda. "Chok used to have a new one every decade like fucking clockwork. I'm good with names and I still got them mixed up."
"I do recall hearing from another senior General of how you obliviously addressed Faustin as Cornelius for an entire Festival, way back when." Kurda chuckled at the memory. "It was mostly funny because Faustin had never heard of Cornelius."
"In my defence, Faustin had the exact same beard as Cornelius!" Mika defended himself. "Chok had a type and I only have so much time to keep track of my colleague's partners."
"Fair enough." Said Kurda.
And as if those two mundane words had travelled on a gust of winter wind, the last of the fire faded to a dull, glowing ember.
Time's up.
Kurda eased Gracie's slumbering form into his arms and stood up from the rug. She mumbled something and shifted a little, but didn't wake. Mika stood too, in apparent accordance with the same unspoken agreement that Kurda was now following: It's only weird if the fire goes out.
Mika trudged over to his desk and took a seat. He began leafing through the documents Kurda knew to be property of the Sentinel Collective, but seemed to be lacking his usual vice-grip focus and shoved the folders to the side as quickly as he'd picked them up.
"I don't blame them if they never want anyone to know!" Mika blurted out as Kurda turned to leave. "If they're choosing to keep it private, I respect that. But if Paris felt like he couldn't tell me… I'd hate myself."
Kurda half-turned, biting back his retort: more than you already do? Instead he offered what he hoped was a helpful reframing of perspective: "Maybe it's new. Maybe they're only now acting on feelings that have always been there. For all you know he could be planning on sharing the news any night now."
Mika's jaw worked back as if he was physically chewing on those words to process them. "Maybe you're right." He admitted. "But I don't think it's new. I see both of them every single night and nothing has changed between them from what I can tell. Except now we have a witness."
"Don't trouble yourself with it." Kurda advised. "Paris and Seba seem very content. Time will tell what it all means." He turned to leave once more, and once more turned back to Mika. "Speaking of secrets… if it helps you sleep more soundly, I also won't breathe a word of the Steiner investigation to the other Generals. I understand that's classified information for now."
Mika glanced over his shoulder to look Kurda directly in the eye. Sustained eye contact was so rare and fleeting these nights; it sucked the air from Kurda's lungs every time. Oddly enough, Mika seemed more surprised than reassured.
"I know you won't." Said Mika quietly. "That went without saying, hence I didn't bother to say it." Then his eyes drifted to Gracie, still fast asleep with her head on Kurda's shoulder. Mika's face softened at the sight. "She has no idea." He murmured. "How the world really is."
"Mika, I know Steiner's fate weighs heavily on you. And I know you won't talk to me about it. But remember this: no matter how the world is, Gracie's earliest memories will be of warmth and safety." Kurda replied, meaning the words with all his heart and praying Mika took them to his. "Because we kept our promise."
Mika nodded, seeming to find a margin of solace in those words. But dark shadows had taken root beneath his eyes and Kurda assumed they'd only be more visible by tomorrow. Mika had no intention of sleeping tonight.
Kurda slipped out of the room to tuck Gracie into her little coffin. Once she was settled, Kurda started towards his own private cavern of the suite — only to follow the brazen impulse to circle back to Mika's instead. Mika hadn't moved. He didn't even look up as Kurda reappeared; just remained hunched over his desk, a pencil in one hand and a Collective document in the other. He was already strategizing his next move to seize Steiner. This was only the beginning.
The lid of Mika's massive mahogany coffin lay open. Kurda pulled out the thickest of the blankets within, carried it across the room and draped it across Mika's shoulders as he sat in his chair. Mika shot him a quizzical half-glare out of the corner of his eye, but there was no real venom to it. The look was purely performative. Kurda knew the difference now.
"Don't overthink it. Just focus on your work." Kurda called over his shoulder as he retreated back to his own room. "I'd hate for your brain to combust. Gods know you're predisposed to that."
As Kurda closed his door, he could've sworn he heard Mika chuckle from three rooms away.