"Never forget, Tíwaz."
Those were Gérraus' last words:
"No cunt in this world is worth keeping company. God invented lies to satisfy them."
Tíwaz was still a child when he last saw him.
Since then, for years living destitute on the streets, moving from town to town, he learned to survive by mastering three arts. On a new morning, he resorted to two of them, running and stealing.
The once bucolic county of Vain Garnitus, in the north of the Kingdom of New Frontier, had industrialized in recent years.
At its center stood rural and modern buildings side by side, with arched windows on floors of dark brick that seemed to repeat themselves.
There were two main cable cars, one leading to the port, and another to the aerodrome, where steam-powered dirigibles created dense, perpetual mists.
This was the direction of Tíwaz's hurried steps, over the slabs, across scaffolding, amidst the reconstructions of the steppe fortresses.
Among the chimneys, the smell of lime, dew, and coal smoke.
Statues of gargoyles, deformed by time, watched like sentinels as the young man dashed, climbing and grabbing onto balconies and radio and television antennas, nearly falling.
The chosen target for the theft had been the law office, one of many in the center.
A broken window, loose screws, and after rummaging, the grand prize. Four gold watches, then in the boy's leather bag.
The friction against the rocks of the new building guided him to another staircase, from there the boy reached street level, facing the broken clock tower, ruins from before the floods of the Eternal Rain.
In a misty alley, figures passed him, guards with capes and dark olive military uniforms, bearing the crest of the Vallensarnov, hills framed by vine roots.
He feigned confidence and quickened his pace, but it wasn't enough to throw the men off. The blow hit the boy on the nape of his neck and he lost consciousness.
Hair light brown, oily, and filthy.
Eyes attentive to the movements in the abbey, which served as the town's makeshift prison.
A scrawny body, accustomed to scarcity, and ignorant of plenty. Threadbare clothes, none bought with honest silver, from the worn-out boots to the shorts and torn socks, from the suspenders to the faded black hooded cloak.
"Tíwaz?"
"Yes."
"No surname?"
The Colonel had been questioning him since the early morning hours, always the same questions receiving ever shorter answers:
"Yeah."
"You're not helping yourself. You're still a boy, and we know you've committed other crimes. If you confess them, you could be sent to our rehabilitation house. You'll have a future of bliss."
It was said without effort to disguise the lie, like one who has the prey certain it cannot escape.
"I didn't steal anything."
"Not even the watches in your bag?"
"Nothing,except the watches."
And he had robbed the shoe shop, where he only found enough silver for three meals, and the keys to the Awaesdrovna estate.
Which corroborated another crime, an unprecedented one.
Tíwaz's problem was that he had no part in the atrocity; he didn't even know those involved.
And he hadn't considered such dire possibilities when, for six miserable silver coins, he sold the keyring.
There were many beggars in the center, and one of them was the fence. He knew that confessing this would be futile, no one would believe him, so he chose not to tell the truth.
He also understood that the guards at the abbey were under pressure and needed answers.
Not many crimes happened in the county, and one so unusual led the authorities to threaten public officials with demotions and transfers.
The guards would blame the first suspect who said the wrong thing.
"And where are you from? I can see you're not from this region."
"I'm from the world."
"A wanderer?"
"Certainly, a good definition."
"And where were you during the last Carbuncle Conjunction?"
Which was called the darkest night. A recurring question. And also the date of the heinous crime.
"Alone,on the streets."
"It's not easy to believe. Your alibi is the accidie of the innocent."
"Things are what they are, my good guard."
"I'm neither yours, nor am I good."
The vampire had deep wrinkles and dark circles under his eyes. He was a turned servant.
He had known no peace since the night of the crime, and the phone had been ringing hourly since then, whether at the abbey or at the Colonel's house.
Overweight, with a beard the color of graying hair, he conveyed no credibility, neither in the lack of cordiality in his speech nor in the false patience of his tone.
"We can take you to the old abandoned warehouse."
Bórgias lit his pipe and drew in, mint and lemon balm herbs. He gave it a long time to attract the young eyes.
"You can talk about what I know you know. Or, after the correction, you can confess to every crime since the founding of Vain Garnitus. Some men like skinny boys. I'm not one of them, but I can get one, or more, who are... famished."
The Fhaurens burned to death when in contact with the light of the Phoenix star; transformed vampires did not, yet they still preferred the darkness.
Tíwaz was someone who knew bad omens; murky nights awaited him.
People his age, under good auspices, delighted in the day's second meal. He wouldn't eat if he didn't steal. And it had been that way for a long time.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're going to have a bad time here,boy. I will be responsible for it."
And so it was.
After the setting of the Phoenix, Tíwaz was taken to the Schelfan'yr goat farm, by the seaside.
In the abandoned barn, he received punches, kicks, and cuts for blood extraction.
After a few nights, the once insistent guards stopped asking questions, merely getting drunk on his virginal blood.
Tíwaz knew that if he confessed to anything, however small, it would be even worse. They had raped two of the young women and devoured four others from the Awaesdrovna family.
So he remained silent, upside-down, hanging by chains.
He closed his eyes and endured; he knew how to suffer, quietly, until he needed to be dragged away unconscious.
One early morning, collapsed in his cell, the boy recognized the heavy footsteps of Bórgias.
"You're earlier than usual."
"Today is different."
And Tíwaz's face,wrapped in hopelessness, lost its color:
"Are you going to kill me?"
"It was my wish,but you are a lucky someone."
He apathetically retorted:
"I am many things, except that someone."
"The Count demands your presence."
The words didn't make sense at first, and then, understanding the possibilities of this unexpected meeting, Tíwaz feared something worse than death.