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29 March 1918
Grand-mère is gone, as is Jakab, and two mortal members of their staff. If I could locate the one who ordered the bombing ... but that is folly. I wish to fight, to rage against the circumstance, to beat to death everything that led to Grand-mère being where she was at that moment in time. If the mortals hadn’t warred, she wouldn’t have died. It is their fault she spent the last four years trying to aid them. It is her blood that stains the hands of the mortal race.
Drake fought the urge to roar his fury to the world, knowing that it was grief that drove the anger at the senseless loss of so many innocents.
He had never much worried over mortals as his grandam had, but even he was appalled by the news of a bombing in Paris that had led to not just the death of his grandmother and her mate, but that of a hundred innocent mortals.
His shoulders bowed as the grief once again washed over him, threatening to consume him. He struggled for a few minutes to get his emotions under control, then lifted his pen again.
I must think of the sept. The green dragons will survive this loss just as we survive all others ... together.
I will not forget, however. I will never forget.
18 June 1966
Roughly fifty years have passed since I’ve seen this journal. I found it in a crate of books I brought to France. I really must stick to a schedule to write, since a record of the green sept will be of interest to all.
“What would it take to hire you?”
Drake set down his pen and closed the stained, somewhat battered leather journal, and accepted a glass offered to him by Albert Camus, the Venediger who more or less ruled over the European Otherworld. His gaze shifted down the bar of G&T, absently noting the number of people, beings, and spirits who were currently enjoying their time in what was indisputably Paris’s premiere club for immortal beings.
“That would depend on what you wanted me to do,” he answered at last, taking a sip of dragon’s blood. Behind him, he felt the presence of his two elite guards, Pal and István, and, judging by the stifled squawk and the scrape of barstool on the stone floor, suspected they moved in to squeeze out the couple of people who had been sitting near him. Although he didn’t really need the protection the two men offered, it was a tradition that all wyverns honored, and he wouldn’t dream of going against it.
Besides, it had been decades since he could bear the memories that followed his return to Paris, and he was happy to let all there know that the two redheaded green dragons from his native Hungary had his favor.
“Everyone knows the green dragons are master thieves,” Albert said, nodding when one of the servers came up to gain approval for a transaction. “And it is said that the most talented of all is their wyvern.”
“You wish for me to acquire something?” Drake asked, his interest piqued. “What is it? Something to do with G&T, or something for your personal collection?”
“The latter ... of a sort.” Albert matched the intensity of Drake’s gaze. “It is a historical artifact.”
“Ah.” Drake’s pulse quickened. Historical items were often made of precious metals, like gold.
“I thought that would interest you,” Albert said with a small smile. “I’m afraid I have no idea how to obtain the artifact. That will be part of the challenge.”
“I have been thinking of late that I would benefit from joining the international police force—Interpol—since they always seem to be involved whenever objects of great wealth go missing,” Drake said slowly, his mind racing from thought to thought. Why would the Venediger seek a historical artifact? So far as Drake knew, Albert had a collection of dueling weapons, and those were a far cry from the items Drake desired. “This could be the push I need to investigate the requirements for a high-level position within.”
“Why Interpol?” Albert asked with eyes that were suddenly shuttered.
“They have an entire roomful of files detailing information about the world’s most valuable objects,” Drake answered succinctly. “Naturally, that is something I very much wish to see.”
“Naturally,” the Venediger said, obviously relaxing. He went so far as to allow a second slight smile to flit across his lips. “How you acquire the object is not the issue. I desire it, and I’m willing to pay you for it.”
Drake leaned against the long, smooth brass and mahogany bar. “What is the object?”
“A chalice,” Albert answered after a quick glance around him. Pal and István were doing much to keep bystanders from getting within range of earshot, Drake was pleased to note. “One crafted roughly six hundred years ago. There is a rumor it was given to a mage who passed it over into control of the L’au-dela, and is currently housed in the Committee’s vault at Suffrage House here in Paris. I would like to know if that’s true, the status of ownership, and whether you would be able to acquire it on my behalf.”
Drake’s eyes had widened at the last couple of sentences. Although he had no false modesty about his particular set of skills, he had never been able to get into the famed L’au-dela vault, rumored to be a bastion of security. It was a description he reluctantly agreed with after trying to break in four different times over two hundred years.
Still, the thought was tantalizing. “It is said the vault is impregnable,” he said, running his fingers around the rim of his wineglass. “One that many have tried to breach, but all failed.”
“Those who tried were not you,” Albert said with a smoothness that irritated Drake.
He ignored the compliment, not wanting to admit his previous failures. “And in return, you offer ... ?”
Albert’s lips thinned. “I don’t suppose money would be acceptable?”
Drake sipped his wine, saying nothing.
“As I thought,” Albert said on a sigh. “Very well. I believe you have a fondness for Vermeer, yes? I happen to have recently added to my nascent art collection a charming, heretofore uncatalogued Vermeer. Three experts have verified its veracity. I’d be happy to offer that in exchange for the chalice.”
Drake’s interest skyrocketed with each word. That Albert was offering something like an unknown Vermeer hinted the chalice was more valuable than he’d thought. He wondered if it was made of gold; if so, then he would most definitely work to locate it ... but it would remain with him, not the Venediger.
“That would be agreeable, dependent upon my own expert evaluating the painting,” he answered, not overly bothered by lack of morals when it came to gold objects.
“This is an illustration of the chalice. It was made by an alchemist mage some six hundred years ago. It is called the Voce di Lucifer.” Albert slid over a photocopy of an old line drawing, clearly from an antique grimoire. Drake didn’t fail to notice that although Albert’s voice was that of a man talking about something unimportant, his eyes—half-lidded as they were—could not conceal a gleam of excitement.
“Voice of Lucifer?” Drake asked, his brows pulling together as he racked his memory for such an object. He drew a blank. “That is an odd name for an item created by a mage.”
“Alchemist mage,” Albert corrected, speaking softly to the bartender when the latter murmured a question relating to a missing shipment of beverages. He turned back to Drake with a face carefully devoid of anything but the mildest expression of interest. “What do you think? Are you up to the challenge?”
Drake knew full well the Venediger chose his words specifically to prick his sense of pride, but he dismissed that, just as he did the morality of taking for himself something he was being paid to retrieve for another.
It had been well over eighty years since he last had a go at the vault. It was time to finally crack that particular nut. He took a sip of the wine, enjoying the heat of it on his tongue, and finally dipped his head in accord. “It is a challenge, indeed, but not one that should be beyond the scope of the green dragons.”
They discussed for a few more minutes the exact terms of the agreement, and by the time Drake left, he was already plotting how to get into the Committee’s headquarters, where the vault was located.
