Tours is, in no way, like my Genoa. Do I long for my Genoa? Like a wife, only when I am not with her. When I am with her, inside of her, I cannot wait to get out, but when I am away from her, I think: what a jewel my Genoa is. My gang of jackals, these men and women that are my 'brothers' and 'sisters', I argue with them, fight them when necessary, defend them... of course... except when they are stupid. Leading them is worse than leading a guild of thieves on the docks of Genoa. It is not that I expect women to be trustworthy and men to be truthful. Ha. It is just that the French have no stomach and the young make my head hurt. They are harder to herd than cats. Venetian cats. A guild of thieves may be bound upon at least one commonality -- the desire to have what we want without getting caught for as long as we can. This rabble? They do not even agree on that. Some want to be kings (did you see what you did to your last French king?), some want to fuck all kings (see, look at this one, he wants to kill you for even uttering the word!), others just want to get drunk and take drugs and pollute the gutters (ah well, so have all your ancestors, help yourself). Their enmities are petty -- none of it matters a damn. I can tell you that. No matter the clan, no matter the argument, none of it really matters.
     What does matter, you might ask? Silence matters. God help me, the only noise I can stand is my own. I love the sound of my own voice, yes? And the sound of me doing just about anything else you might imagine. But all their whining and arguing, I tell them go to the devil, hang or fry, I don't care which, but in my city if we are to be killers we will be efficient killers.
     Dogs, every last one of them...
     I crawl into shadows, just to get away from them...
     There, in the too clean alleys of Tours (far cleaner than London's, far cleaner than Genoa's), I slip into darkness, parting the curtains and stepping into the Void...
     There is movement in the shadows. It is quick, faster than quick. There is a figure in black leather, a shirt, a leather coat -- maybe it is leather, maybe it is the stuff of shadows. The image blinks, and at each point he is further, so much further than the last split-second of his appearance.
     And then he is gone again...
     I kick a can down a Parisian alley. Now, these alleys are dark, dangerous, they smell like alleys should smell, and I can move in them as I move, faster than human eyes can see me. I can prig a wallet, a casual bump on a street, and be gone beyond reckoning in the following instant, cloaking myself in the shadows of the alley and in the comfort and the silence of Nothing.
     Again, the figure appears in the realm of shadows, slowly walking this time, though slowness is relative. He does not blink here and there this time; his progression may be seen. His hands move in front of him, he is pocketing something. Dark hair, dark eyes. He looks upon the road, upon the darkness and he diverts in a smoldering flash, disappearing, dissipating in black smoke.

     The only way to drown out the noise of the world is to roll myself in my brother's arms - that, or I come here, where worlds seem far away. It is the convergence of worlds, here; the shadows of one world cast upon another, back and forth. From where the light does originate, noone seems to know.
     I follow a winding path, here, darting in and out of shadows like a kingfisher in shallow pools. As it spears its fish, so do I pluck my baubles or track my prey. My brother may be a king, but I seem - and increasingly at that - to be a loner; more, to be alone.
     Is this the way it will always be?
     Always and forever's a long time, Gwilym; stop talking to yourself, pay attention to your shadow. Hello, what's this? A shadow, a bulge upon the air; it moves of its own volition, almost invisible. It is the movement of transition.
     He is clad in darkness himself, though expecting noone; dark jeans, a Black Jack Davy's t-shirt, black boots. Now he summons a cloak, wrapped around himself with a swirl of fabric, the hood pulled up to cover his hair; thief's clothing metamorphosed out of what had been simple, casual London gear. Where does one hide upon a road? There are shadows, and with shadows he must console himself, he must make do.
     Who is it that comes here? An agent of Decay or Despair? Not my father, no, nor General, nor anyone I have seen; they would have called out if they had thought me here. How much danger am I in?
     As if the lure of danger were not enticement enough...

     A lousy twenty euro. It's not even worth the effort. Still, it is twenty euro I don't have to worry about. 'Hey, Armando!' I see him even as I'm stepping out of a Touraine alley, heading for the water of the river Loire. 'Don't pretend you don't see me... you shouldn't bet the money your mother gives you if you don't want to pay me...'
     I listen to his protestations, perched on a tower of crates. Of course he is protesting, he is now surrounded by stiletti buried in the brick. He didn't see them or hear them coming until he almost lost a nose. I should not play with my food. I am too kind-hearted. One day, it is going to catch me.
     'A week,' I tell him, and I take my knives back faster than he can see. It is like the wind slapped his face and asked to have its clouds back, yes? For the look he gives me. I wave at him and head down another alleyway. I think of stopping by Imelda's. But she would take all of my twenty and make me open my own pockets. I am a cheapskate. I hate to pay more than twenty euro for a whore. No matter how much I enjoy the sound of my own fucking. I was never so lucky when I was just a man on this earth.
     He appears again, this figure. A puff of dark swirling smoke gives way to unfolding shadows. He is quick, his motions light like a thief's, feline in his stride. He looks around, but he does not stop. Does he see you? He does not seem to. You see him for a moment. Black curly hair, black eyes, a swarthy complexion. His clothing is likewise black -- black leather coat ending at his hips, black leather pants, a shirt with a silk-screen red print on it. Modern. He's not from the Astral Realms but trespassing. Blatantly.
     He moves faster than any human. So fast, that human eyes would catch only one motion in five -- and this is all without breaking into a run. He is simply walking but at the speed of shadow...
     He looks, does he see you? He must for he darts into darkness, disappearing again in a swirl of black shadows like smoke.
     Sometimes what I see in the black wilderness makes me wonder if I should be there. Squat sentinels hovering over the dark road. Ha. If they knew I was a gargoyle the same as they. I do not fear them. I am one of them, I'd say. Me, Iovis Macarelli, a minion of shadow!
     He quickly moves down another Parisian alley, the rear doors of buildings standing out like beacons.

     "Fuck me," Gwilym murmurs to himself - sound held in the back of his throat. Well. This evening's just gotten a lot more interesting. He doesn't bother changing his garb back to the mode moderne; why give clues which point back to the pub? Da'd have his hide. And if he didn't, papa would. Instead, he straightens slowly as the figure disappears, then appears, disappears again.
     Those eyes - that face. Is that it? How can I be sure? If it was - well, this isn't exactly a fucking island kingdom or a sunny summer day, is it, Gwi? Fuck this shite. I have to know. Get a closer second look, even if it kills me.
     A cantrip for the hood; it will not pull back until human hands pull it back. No wind nor movement will disturb its shadows across his face (and more importantly, the brightly burnished Clue of his hair). Gloves are pulled on, and he straightens from his crouch, a thread cast into Shadow.
     "Where are you going, and where have you gone, little mouse?" Gwilym chants softly to himself. "Whither thou goest, so goest I. Because if you're real and not some fucking hallucination caused by prophetic visions eating away at my brain, I want some answers, I do. And if I have gone mad... well, small wonder, in this family."

     Parisian whores are even more pricey. I will go find a girl to give it away for free. I don't have time for that. I look at my wrist (the watch was stolen). I walk out of the alley in the heart of Montmartre. I can see the lights of the Moulin Rouge, but I am in no mood for a carnival. I just want the package and I will be on my way.
     There it is. A nervous junkie with a twitch is holding it for me. I said: be by the alley of dead saints and the junkie remembered. Tonight will be my lucky night...
     The 'mouse' is seen entering shadows again, further down the road than when you last saw him. This time, he does not leap away. He does not run. He is standing in place, looking at something. He looks up, looks back over his shoulder, his dark eyes cast upon any who might be watching, be approaching. His feet are in motion even as his hands are, separate acts, independently mastered.
     Guiseppe thinks he can fool me. He is an idiot. Even from the alleys of Paris and Tours and as far as the Shadows themselves I am master of the thieves of Genoa. My spies know where to find me, even before I do that's how well I trained them. Guiseppe will be put down and I will cackle all the way from Tours. Bastard. Now, I can enjoy the rest of my night, yes? Yes...
     Hands reach into his coat, stuffing whatever he was holding into an interior pocket, impossible to pick without mugging him. The stiletti are secreted, but one is visible as he reaches into his jacket, hidden again when the leather falls back into place.
     Bringing together his hands with a grin, Iovis Macarelli turns to disappear into the shadows again and return to Tours. Not even the incessant whining of dissatisfied vampires shall bother him tonight. He will have glasses overfilling, spilling over in celebration of his revenge.

     Careful, Gwi - this mouse has claws. Knives. Now, where have I seen that kind of knife?
     Gwilym frowns from his shadows, then shakes his head a little. What have you gotten yourself into, Gwi? Assassin's tools. Not the first time - but I don't seem to be the target of his attention. Am I relieved or disappointed?
     Still, I don't know enough. Ah - there he goes. Where? The shadows have moved. Damn it!
     Gwilym narrows his eyes, stepping out of concealment slowly. "Well, I suppose I know what I'm doing for the rest of the week," he murmurs. "Io had best not wait up." As if he would. He has his boy. And I?
     I have my prey...

Posted by rowan at October 24, 2006 04:23 PM