Vespertine

Astor Pinet sat across from Sasha and Chiaro Vespertine.

They were curious creatures, in his opinion. For starters, Sasha and Chi looked nothing alike, but he knew for a fact that their children somehow managed to combine the two of them in their roguish appearances. And secondly, they were powerful sorcerers that acted like mortals. Astor could not fathom why they, or anyone, really, would ever do such a thing.

He sipped from his teacup, smiling at Chiaro. “Long time no see.”

“It’s been years,” Vespertine replied. “Hell, I haven’t seen you since high school ended. What’s with this all of a sudden?”

Astor didn’t answer right away, enjoying the way Sasha seemed uncomfortable with his presence in their home. Then again, she was an anxious one. Her discomfort probably had more to do with the way he was holding the cup than Astor himself.

“I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh?”

“I’m well aware of how prestigious the Vespertine family used to be, back before the war. The most powerful sorcerers in the game, as it were.”

Chi shifted. “That was then. A long, long time ago. You know as well as I do that my ancestors renounced that position during the war. There was too much volatility in a title like that.”

Astor laughed. “Your family can renounce their status, but you can’t throw away your powers. You’re just as powerful as your grandfather was, Chiaro. You’re still a powerhouse, aren’t you? The difference is that he was proud of it, and you don’t seem to be.”

“An important difference,” Chi replied evenly. “Besides, we aren’t the only Vespertines around. Is there a point in what you’re trying to say?”

“Not the only Vespertines around, possible, but then again, there really aren’t many of you.”

His eyes narrowed. “And?”

“And so I need your help,” Astor said, innocently. “What do you know about healers?”

Sasha’s mouth was beginning to form an uneasy line. “Just the usual,” she said. “We’re aware of how their powers generally work.”

Astor leaned forward. “What if I told you that I’ve found a healer who has no limits? Who can heal and hurt at will, without ever having to hold on to the pain?”

“I’d say poor them,” Sasha replied. “A power like that puts a target on one’s back.”

Astor leaned back in his seat, waving his hand dismissively. “The boy is in my custody. And I’m one of the only people who know. He’s safe.”

“So what is it you’re asking for?” Chiaro said. “If not protection?”

“Protection is awfully small-picture.” Astor took another sip of his tea. “How about…domination?”

Sasha’s mouth completed the line, and Chi frowned for the first time. “I don’t quite understand.”

Astor smiled. “The reversal is happening in a couple years. There hasn’t been one for a hundred thousand years, and there won’t be one for a hundred thousand more. I’ve hatched a neat little plan, and parts of it are already in motion. You’re the missing part, Chi. I need a Vespertine.”

“For what?”

He shrugged. “To split the power. You consolidate it for me, and I’ll take half, and you keep the other. And we will be powerful beyond compare. Stronger than even your ancestors were.”

“How, exactly, would you do this?”

“During the reversal, the field is reduced, yes? But if I store enough magic until then, I’d have a reservoir to draw upon, even when the rest of the world doesn’t. At that time, you’d store the magic in the reservoir, and then I’d siphon off half, the healer will ensure neither of us dies, and we would be two massively powerful sorcerers at a time when everybody is mortal. Need I say more?”

Chiaro Vespertine was silent for a long while. Finally, he said, in a voice gently strained with anger, “I don’t think you understand at all, Astor.”

“Understand what?”

“There was a reason my family gave up that mantle,” he responded. “A reason we didn’t fight during the war. A reason we don’t do more now, flaunt our sorcerer status everywhere. Because it’s not right. From the beginning, generation to generation, we are taught to be rigidly moral and cautious, to be kind and righteous. With a power like ours, this is the only way we make sure it doesn’t corrupt. And that’s exactly what happened to all the sorcerers who never learned that. Look where we are now, Astor!”

He swept an arm out, as if to demonstrate what had happened, though Astor found it didn’t add to his insight.

“Now we treat the mortals so filthily,” he said, dropping his arm. “That war was the beginning our of downfall, and people like you are the end. Domination? How is that right? They are people, too, Astor. Just because they don’t have powers doesn’t make them less.”

Astor laughed. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you sympathize with the mortals, for god’s sake.”

The laugh died when he realized Chiaro really did sympathize with the mortals.

“Well,” he said starkly, feeling as though the temperature had suddenly dropped. “I see.”

“I hope you do.”

“So, I’m guessing that’s a no?”

Chi merely glared.

“Fine,” Astor said, his own anger bubbling up now that he had been spurned. “Fine, if that’s how it’s going to be, I’m going to tell you right now, I’m going through with this whether you help me or not. We could have been kings together, Chiaro. Now we’ll have to do this the distasteful way.”

He stood abruptly, knocking his chair back, and Sasha mirrored his movement.

“Astor,” she said, and crossed over to him.

A small, painful jolt ran through him, and he realized she had stunned him with a small weapon she held at waist-level.

He passed out before he could curse at her.

When he came to, he was sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, in front of his house. He stretched. What a nice nap that had been—he hadn’t had one in far too many days. He was supposed to do something today, wasn’t he? But he couldn’t remember what it was. Maybe groceries?

He checked the time. It was 4:00. Jesus, he had slept for two hours. Even though it was his day off, he felt as though that was rather unproductive.

Astor shook off the remaining vestiges of sleep and got out of the car. He walked leisurely to the front door and then backpedaled to his mailbox, frowning as he pulled out the wad of useless advertisements. He shook his head and tucked the bundle under his arm, heading back towards his door.

When he got inside, he discovered that his cat was not home. Typical.

He set about cooking dinner, discovering that he had not, in fact, forgotten the groceries, since the fridge was fully stocked. The cat slunk in at the smell of food.

After dinner, he watched television for a while, simultaneously combing through police reports that he had yet to sign off on. There wasn’t really such a thing as a day off, he mused. When he got tired, he headed for the shower.

It was around 10:00 when he finished showering, and he finally made his way into his room.

He sank onto the bed contentedly, and then frowned as he felt something crinkle under him. “What the…?”

He rolled over to reveal an envelope. It was addressed to him, but the odd thing was that the words were clearly his own handwriting, even though he didn’t recall writing a letter.

Curious, he flipped the envelope open and pulled out the single sheet of paper. In its entirety, it read,

If, after the date of March 25th, you have no recollection of speaking with the Vespertines, you are to kill them.

It came back to him like a spark. The thing he had forgotten to do, the thing he had written this letter in anticipation of doing.

“Oh, Sasha,” he murmured. “You are one sneaky bitch.”

Of course, if they had accepted his offer, they wouldn’t have wiped his memory. The fact that he couldn’t remember speaking to them at all told him that they had declined. And if they had declined, well, he couldn’t have them running around foiling his plans, could he?

He slid the paper back into the envelope carefully, placing it on his nightstand. Tomorrow, then.

He wondered if the Vespertines knew tonight was their last night alive.

***

“Tell me you understand.”

Salvatore looked to his father, and then to his mother. They wore expressions of grim urgency that he had rarely seen. “I understand.”

His mother reached forward, clasped his hand. She looked weary and resigned. “We love you, Sal,” she said sweetly, looking as though she was swallowing whatever else she wanted to say.

Salvatore returned her smile as best he could, even though dread was filling him up on the inside. “I love you guys, too. And you’re sure this is the only way?”

“The only way to keep you and Quinn safe,” Chiaro replied. “Astor will be after us. We’ve bought a little time, but undoubtedly he had a countermeasure in case we declined. If you try to protect us…he’ll know that we told you everything. We can’t risk that.”

“So you’ll run.”

“Yes,” Sasha agreed, sadly. “Hopefully, we can escape him and make our way back.”

The ‘but’ remained silent. But maybe we won’t.

“You have two years,” Chiaro warned. “You have to stop him before then, Salvatore. We’ll try to help as best we can, but as of now, everything we know and all our ideas are on that paper we gave you. Memorize it.”

He stood then, and gave Salvatore a tight hug that felt like finality more than anything.

Salvatore could feel tears welling up in his eyes, but he forced them down. He did not want his parents to see him like this. To have this as their last image before they left.

Sasha gave him a hug after Chiaro let go, her fingers clutching him so, so tightly. “And Salvatore,” she said, softly. “You know what you have to do for Quinn when I’m not here.”

Salvatore swallowed. “I know.”

She let go, then, and in their eyes there was so much unspoken love, so much that Salvatore thought he might choke on it and cry, after all.

His father said, “Tomorrow, go to work as you usually would. Go train with the V’s after. Pick Quinn up from school and take her with you, okay?”

Salvatore nodded.

“And,” his mother added, “please, please…stay safe.”

“Always do.”

***

The call came in after dinner.

Quinn had retired to her room after a mild complaint that their parents had forgotten to call and tell them they’d be out, but had gleefully rewarded herself with the chocolate their mother had hidden on the top shelf of the pantry.

Salvatore was still downstairs, watching television, though his mind was on other things. The folded sheet felt hot in his pocket, as if it could burn him with its secrets.

When the phone rang, he rushed to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Is this Salvatore Vespertine?”

His heart sank. It was not their parents.

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

There was a mild pause on the other end. “This is the Aski Police Department.”

His heart rose again, rapidly, dangerously, pounding in his ears.

“What do you need?”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to come in, Salvatore.”

He clutched the phone tighter. “Why?”

“To identify two bodies.”

In that moment, his fragile, fragile heart trembled, and then it broke.

What happened after that was somewhat of a mystery to Salvatore. He remembered the whole experience being a bit otherworldly, as if he had watched it from afar. He had agreed on the phone, and then he had hung up. He had put on his jacket, and told Quinn that he was going out for a bit. She had shouted a reply.

Then he had gotten into the truck—their parents had taken the smaller car—and driven to the police station.

He had identified himself at the front desk, showed them his license as proof. Then they had led him into a room, where two bodies lay on separate tables.

“I’m very sorry,” the mortician had said. The police officer had simply looked at Salvatore, waiting.

Then the sheets were pulled off, and Salvatore had gazed upon the bodies of his parents.

“Yes,” he had said. It was all he could manage.

Afterwards, he was fairly sure they had asked him to sign something or other. He had done everything they asked, without question. Then he had gotten into the truck and driven to an office supplies store, where he picked out a brown, leather-bound notebook that came with a wooden box and a little gold key. The sheets were detachable.

He had bought the notebook. Then he drove back home.

He remembered that he had opened the front door and called Quinn’s name, but he couldn’t remembering actually doing it. All he remembered was the cheerful way she had come down the steps, and then the way that easy look on her face had slowly vanished as she glimpsed his expression.

“Salvatore? What’s wrong?”

There was no other way to say it.

“Mom and Dad,” he said, the words sounding like a lie.

“What about them?”

“They’re dead.”

He remembered the brief, stunned moment of silence, before Quinn had really believed him. The last second of real peace she would ever know.

And then she covered her mouth and sank to her knees, and he reached forward and fell with her, and he held her, and they cried, they cried, they cried. He remembered saying, “it’s alright, it’s alright, it’ll be alright, it’ll be alright,” and crying even harder, because it wasn’t, it wasn’t. And it wouldn’t be.

Hours later, after Quinn had fallen asleep downstairs, her tears and grief draining her of all energy, he had laid a blanket over her and then walked up to his room.

He sat down at his desk. He turned on the desk lamp. He laid the sheet his parents had given him on the table, and unwrapped his new notebook. He opened it, to the first blank, perfect page.

And then he began to plan.