The Bet, Chapter 3 (PG-13)

[librarian_7]

Okay, a new chapter (at last!!!). I don’t own Josef. Or the Mona Lisa. Or even William Randolph Hearst. But you probably knew that.


The Bet

Chapter 3

VII.

San Francisco, September, 1911

William Randolph was the first to snap out of remembrance. That single word hadn’t been the end of the conversation, of course. His natural curiosity—what he’d come to value in others as ‘journalistic instinct’—wouldn’t let it rest. They’d talked for hours, Josef neatly avoiding giving him much information about his ‘condition,’ as he so circumspectly put it, but doing a great deal to draw out William Randolph.

In the end, they’d each walked away with a better knowledge of a kindred mind. And a friendship that had continued, if sporadically, for the next 25 years.

Now, “There was never any danger I’d betray you, you know.”

Josef laughed and settled back in his chair. “No, I don’t suppose there was.”

“Hmmph.” It was increasingly difficult, Hearst thought, to look at that eternally youthful face and remember the centuries of experience lying behind the façade. He suspected Josef played his looks for whatever advantage they brought.

As though following his train of thought, Josef cocked an eyebrow. “So, have we established our mutual innocence, and outrage?”

“You mean, I just take your word, and you take mine?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Hearst considered for a moment. “We’ve been friends for a long time, Josef.” His smile rearranged his heavy features, without giving any indication of pleasure or happiness. “You may be a lot of things, but I’ve never known you to go back on your word.”

“I certainly try to avoid it.”

“Well, we’re both men of the world. Sometimes circumstances trump chivalry.” He paused for a sip of his drink. “Question now is what are we going to do about this.”

“Do? Personally, I’d planned on following the story in the San Francisco Examiner. I’m sure the Sûreté has the case in hand.”

Hearst snorted. “I’ve been in the newspaper business for almost 25 years. If the police—and I don’t care if it’s the Sûreté, or Scotland Yard, or the local boys—say the case is well in hand, it means they haven’t got the first idea.”

“You follow crime reports more closely than I do.”

Hearst leaned forward, intensity of emotion suffusing his features. “What if—what if I asked you to do what you can to recover the Mona Lisa and see her back to her proper place, Josef?”

“I’d tell you it wasn’t our business to meddle in these affairs,” Josef replied at once.

Hearst’s look became shrewder. “I think you’re saying it’s beyond your capability. That you won’t, because you can’t.”

Josef laughed. “Hardly. Won’t means won’t. Can’t means can’t.”

“You’re dodging the issue.”

“And you think you can taunt me into this?”

It was William Randolph’s turn to smirk. “Sometimes, it works.”

“This is a little more involved than seducing a cancan dancer,” Josef replied with great dignity.

Hearst laughed. “All right, then, let’s make it interesting. I’ll bet you, you can’t recover our girl and get her back home.”

Josef steepled his fingers. “Say that I take this little wager. What are the stakes?”

William Randolph considered briefly. “I expect we need to make it worth your while.”

“I’d appreciate that. All rumors to the contrary, I’m not made of money.”

William Randolph jerked his chin upward. “What would you say to a million dollars—if you’re sucessful?”

“And if I fail?”

“I’ve been thinking about legacies. Unlike you, I’m getting older. And I like what Leland Stanford managed to do with that little school, down in Palo Alto.”

“You want me to found a university,” Josef said flatly.

“Hearst College has a nice ring to it, I think.”

“I haven’t accepted this bet, yet.”

That got him another snort from Hearst. “If you weren’t going to take the bet, you wouldn’t have set stakes.”

Josef took another long sip of his drink, considering. “Oh, what the hell. It’s time for me to move on, anyway.” He put his hand out to William Randolph. “Shake on it?”

Hearst leaned forward, put his hand into Josef’s cool grip. “Done,” he said.


VIII.

Paris, late December, 1911

Josef looked down at the bleeding form tied to a chair in front of him. The man was shivering; late December and winter had sunk claws of bitter cold into Paris, along with the first snows that had covered the stones of the city. Very picturesque, in these days after Christmas, at least until the soot of coal fires sullied it into a dull gray.

He cursed, once again, William Randolph and the bet that had brought him here. Especially since his investigations had necessitated moving among the squalid conditions of the underworld of Paris. While he had to admire the toughness and cruelty of les Apaches, he’d not exactly enjoyed crawling through the slime of Paris looking for that golden thread that would lead him to the center of the labyrinth.

He had a house in Paris, even if by now it was a less fashionable address than it had been when he’d purchased it some decades before. He supposed he should be glad of the circumstance; the neighborhood was neither so poor he looked like a slumming aristo, or a poseur, if he dressed up, nor well off enough he was noticeable, heading out the servants’ entrance dressed as a workman. Useful, that.

Back to the task at hand. His lips thinned to a cruel line as he surveyed the man before him. It had taken quite some digging, and more than a few bribes to drag a name out of the Parisian hoodlums. Thierry was a low-life, and expendable, but he had displayed more mental strength than Josef would have thought. He’d been forced to take very unpleasant measures, and there was blood on the floor as evidence of that. He leaned his hips against a plank table and crossed his arms, surveying the figure tied to a chair in front of him. This garret was pathetic, but on the other hand, no one was going to check on any odd sounds coming from the room. Not in this neighborhood. “Are you really prepared to die over this, Thierry?” he asked conversationally.

The shudder in response was not a product of the chill in the unheated room. “Everyone dies sooner or later,” he replied.

“Very philosophical.” Josef ran his eyes over the ruin he had wrought on the man. “I can make the pain go away,” he offered. “But I do need information.”

Thierry closed his eyes, swaying a little on the rough chair. “You kill me, if I don’t tell, he kills me, if I do.”

“A conundrum, to be sure.” Josef paused. “All right, let’s look at it this way. I can hurt you, until you can’t see anything but how to make it stop. We’re well down that road, already.” He prodded Thierry’s chest, drawing a grunt of pain. “And if you don’t give me the information, you’ll still be too ruined to be of any further use to your gang. You still think it makes sense to keep silent?”

Thierry was quiet, and Josef gave him time to think, backing away. Staying too close to all that blood smell was just too tempting. “There’s no way out,” Thierry finally said.

Josef could smell the despair rolling off the man in waves. “You’re thinking you weren’t ready to die. It’s an odd thing, but you know, no one ever is, not really. You should have taken the bribe. I did offer.”

Thierry’s attempt at a smile failed. “Ah, well, thieves’ honor,” he murmured. “The Spaniard promised so many things.”

Josef tensed. “Spaniard?”

“You said you wanted—information. That’s all I have.”

“There are a lot of Spaniards in Paris. Perhaps you could be more specific?” He started to approach again, and Thierry’s eyes widened in terror.

“He planned it all. Told us exactly—how it was to be done.”

“And he has the painting?”

“I—I don’t know. He must.”

Josef stepped back. He supposed he could wring all the details of the theft from this wretched man, but in truth, he didn’t really care how the deed had been accomplished. He only wanted the painting. Damn, but he hated getting his hands dirty. And it didn’t get much dirtier than this. He could see that Thierry—and he hated that he knew the man’s name, it was so much easier not knowing—was almost at the babbling point. Humans. So often, when they crossed that barrier of not talking to talking, they wanted to tell you everything.

He didn’t want to know what Thierry’s great-great-grandfather had done to survive Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. He just wanted a name. One name. And maybe a location. Hell, he hadn’t even revealed his true nature to this lowlife, thinking there might be a way to let the petty criminal to walk—or crawl—away. “Tell me about the Spaniard,” he said, coaxingly. “What’s his name?”

Thierry moved a little, testing his bonds, and finding no give. “It was all his plan,” he said. “I was supposed to get my cut when the buyers paid up. But so far,” and he spat a mouthful of blood on the wooden floor, “nothing.”

“Buyers?” All right, maybe he was interested in more than a name.

“The millionaires. The American millionaires.”

Josef sighed. He was going to have to reassess William Randolph’s possible involvement. He started to wonder if his friend was mostly outraged because he’d gotten burned on a deal.

So much for the altruism of the art-lover.

“The Spaniard,” he reiterated. “Tell me his name.”

Thierry surrendered. He’d delayed the inevitable as long as he could. He sent up a silent prayer, commending his miserable soul to God like the good Catholic he had once been. “He called himself the Marques de Valfierno,” he said. “And one other thing you must know, even if you don’t believe me.”

“Yes?”

Thierry raised his eyes to his questioner. “He’s a vampire.”

Josef smiled, even as his eyes faded to silver, and he showed his fangs. “Really?” he said just before he snapped Thierry’s neck, and watched the tortured light fade from his eyes, “So am I.”


IX.

Madrid, January, 1912

Josef bowed from the waist. The vampire in front of him frowned; obviously he’d expected Josef to kneel. It was the custom, and at one time, he would have complied, but, Josef thought, he was American now, and if an American human wouldn’t kneel, neither would an American vampire. No matter how old-fashioned the self-styled El Rey de las Sombras might be.

He sighed inwardly, looking around him at the court of the King of Shadows. It rather reminded him of his youth, and why he’d chosen to leave the Old World for the New. Vampires, he thought with some disgust. Everything’s a dominance game. Yet another reason not to kneel. He almost relished the disapproving look he was getting from the various black-clad vampires around the spacious hall. At least they’d modernized enough to have gaslight, although it was turned very low. In truth, the light of the full moon through the tall, unshuttered clerestory windows would have provided more than enough illumination for vampire eyes.

Josef rather imagined that not too many years past, the scene would have been lit by the enormous branching candelabra that still graced the hall, their candles sadly intact. Ah, progress. He had a hard time telling if the ladies present were simply dressing with typical Spanish conservatism, as opposed to the vampire resistance to change. Or it could be that El Rey de las Sombras mandated a certain rather antiquated style. Either way, there was a quaint tendency towards traditional mantillas, floating falls of black lace. While most used the mantillas to their advantage, the pretty framing of pale faces, one or two had draped the folds like heavy veils, obscuring their features entirely.

And despite the fact that he’d walked through an entirely seasonal layer of snow on his way to the king vampire’s palatial villa, cleverly wafted fans were also much in evidence. All that was needed were the strains of a Spanish guitar, to complete the night.

The king raised his eyebrows at Josef’s bow, having already begun the gesture to bring him out of proper obeisance. A man appearing to be of middle years, his straight back and stark Vandyke gave him an air of regal rigor, at odds with the soft crimson velvet draping his throne-like chair. His wardrobe was a severe as his appearance, the cut of his suit something Josef had not seen for fifty years.

He’d chosen conservative evening wear himself, and although the black swallowtail coat was far from le dernier cri of fashion in Paris, and he’d deliberately donned a cravat in a style that almost made him cringe, evidently the vampires of Madrid clung to older traditions. Of course, he’d noted that the humans of the Spanish capital were not much ahead of their vampire co-inhabitants. On the other hand, he supposed he should be glad they’d gotten past knee breeches and powdered wigs.

After all, the King of Shadows was an old vampire. Josef gauged him from scent and rumor, to have perhaps fifty years of night beyond Josef’s age behind him. Not the oldest vampire Josef had ever met, but not far off the mark. And there were others almost as old around the room. One thing he’d say, for a country as religious and bound by custom as Spain, there were a number of vampires with considerable age to them in attendance this night.

“What is your name?” the king asked, abruptly.

“Fitzgerald. Charles Fitzgerald,” Josef replied.

“Not the name you put on papers for humans,” came the haughty reply. “Your real name.”

Josef inclined his head slightly. This was not unreasonable. “Your pardon. I try to use my current name exclusively, to save mistakes. Obviously that practice is inappropriate here. My real name is Josef Konstantin.” Or at least that’s as close to it as you’re getting, he added to himself.

“And what brings you to Madrid, Josef Konstantin? What brings you to my court?”

Well, at least he was refreshingly direct. Or so it seemed, filtered through Josef’s somewhat rusty Spanish. “I’m looking for someone,” he answered.

“Indeed. Do you see him—or her—here?”

“I cannot say. I have a name, but to my knowledge I have not met the vampire I seek. Not by that name.”

The King of Shadows tapped his strong, blunt fingers against the arms of his throne. “As you yourself prove, names are fleeting things. Easily assumed, and readily cast aside. A Spanish name does not necessarily mean Spanish blood. And even if it does, my human compatriots have made sure that there are Spanish names around the globe.”

“Perhaps so. But a Spanish title—who would dare to take a title from your kingdom, without some tie?”

“It is true,” the king frowned, “that I have punished vampires for such transgressions—in the past. But the world grows ever wider, and my reach is not what it once was.”

Josef acknowledged this with a nod. “The vampires of Paris still regard you with respect. It was they who sent me to you.”

The king narrowed his eyes. “I suppose I should inquire the names of mutual acquaintances. But—I think the French no longer hold a formal court—”

“Not, as I understand it, since the unpleasantness of the revolution.”

Ignoring the interruption, the king continued, “And your scent alone is your bona fides. More than that, I know your name, Josef Konstantin, by reputation, if not from actual meeting.”

“I have spent—not enough time—in your kingdom.”

“But you have come, seeking favors of me, now. I cannot help but wonder, what sort of chaos you trail in your wake.”

Josef twisted his mouth in what might have been a smile. “I intend no harm to anyone. Merely a matter of personal business.”

The king considered for a few moments. “This vampire you seek—what is his name?”

“Then you will assist?”

“I have not said so.”

Josef shrugged. “I have nothing to lose in telling you. The name I was given was, the Marques de Valfierno.”

The King of Shadows gave away nothing on his face. He was still for a time, then spoke slowly. “That is—a very old title. But he is not in my kingdom.”

“Can you help me to find him? The matter is of some importance.”

“I ask again, what is your business with him?”

“He is said to be in possession of—of a certain item I wish to purchase from him.” Josef had no intention of giving away too much information. He had no desire to set any other hounds on the trail he followed.

The king shook his head. “You dare much, to find a man on simple business.”

“None the less, that is my object.”

“I think, Josef Konstantin, that you will find no answers here. I have not seen the one who calls himself Valfierno, these many years past.” He waved his hand lazily in dismissal.

Josef bowed, shortly. Another damned dead end. This exercise was starting to resemble running a maze, and he had little patience for such exercises. He faded back, into the crowd. Even if the king was not able—or willing—to answer his query, the chance remained that someone else in the crowd might be more forthcoming.

No use to try and thrust acquaintance on anyone, however. Josef found a pillar in the arched colonnade that bordered the great room, and waited.

He’d been a little surprised that there were no humans present. He’d expected servitors, at least, but none had yet shown themselves.

Another matter or two dispensed with, though, and the king signaled to his waiting aide, who rapped an ornate staff twice against the marble floor. A door at the side of the hall opened, and several young vampires in livery appeared, bearing trays of stemmed glasses filled with ruby liquid. The crowd brightened perceptibly as the warm, pleasing scent of fresh blood wafted through the room. The footmen were followed by a fair human, bearing a goblet on a golden tray, taking the gift of her own blood to the king. Her modish ballgown displayed white shoulders, and the livid marks of fangs upon her throat, but her back was straight and her bearing proud.

The King’s Own, Josef thought, recognizing the signs from his long past youth. He snagged a crystal wineglass from a passing server, but, observing others, made no move to lift it to his lips. At court, the king drinks first.

The king accepted the goblet with a quick caress to the human, and a small smile. She bowed and withdrew, as the king took the first draught from his goblet. At that, the gathered vampires took the opportunity to drink from their own cups, and a low murmur of conversation arose around Josef.

He was sipping slowly, watching the crowd, when he felt the lightest of touches at his elbow, and caught at last a familiar scent.

The woman beside him threw back the veil of her black lace mantilla, revealing a pale oval face dominated by large, liquid brown eyes.

“I barely recognized you without powder in your hair,” Josef smiled.

“I could say the same of you, Josef,” she replied. “Venice was a long time ago.”

Josef had a sudden vision of starlit nights floating along the Grand Canal, the gondolier singing softly, the dark-eyed woman beside him nestled in the crook of his arm. “Indeed it was, La Dama de los Sueños,” he said. “And how fares my sweet Lady Dream?”

“La Dama de los Sueños. I haven’t heard that name in decades. These days I’m simply Catrina.”

“Catrina, then.”

“And Josef,” she continued, her voice pitched low for his ears alone, “no matter what El Rey de las Sombras says, I can help you find Valfierno.”

[Vampgirl40]

Great story as always! I love how you have expanded upon the "Bet". I as always bow down to the master, but never kneel. You know how us americans are. Can't wait for more.

Love VampGirl40/Sandie

[francis]

I'm intrigued. So that's how Hearst College came to pass, so he must have lost ultimately. But how and under what circumstances, that is still to be seen.
And this King of Spain is a rather colorful figure. I like how you give us just enough description to make the reader feel like he's there. I could almost smell the sewers of Paris.
Love it.

[jen]

Lucky

Yay!! Another chapter of this intriguing story. I need to read the first two chapters again to catch up. What a wonderful history Josef has had! What a fascinating journey--where has his walked thru history silently, barely leaving a footprint and in how many circumstances were the events we came to know the direct result of his intervention.

Just another bit of he rich untappd potential of Moonlight.

Thanks!

Jenna

[cassysj]

I really love how Josef won't kneel. I find this relationship with William Randolph Hearst fascinating and I can't wait to see how everything unfolds.

[librarian_7]

Thanks, all...I know it's been awhile since it was updated, but I do love this story and I'm glad you're still enjoying it!

Lucky

[darkstarrising]

The story behind the bet gets more intriguing with each chapter. You show us an aging William Randolph Hearst, yet one who seeks to leave some reminder of his short time on earth behind...love the tie in to Stanford....so Hearst wants to one up him, hmm?

Josef's hunt takes him from the underbelly of Paris to the court of the King of the Shadows in Spain. Really love the rich description of each location. Paris is pretty after a bit of snow, but not for long....

Josef looked down at the bleeding form tied to a chair in front of him. The man was shivering; late December and winter had sunk claws of bitter cold into Paris, along with the first snows that had covered the stones of the city. Very picturesque, in these days after Christmas, at least until the soot of coal fires sullied it into a dull gray.

What Josef learns from poor Thierry causes him to wonder if Hearst has played him. Foolish of Hearst, if indeed he has.

The Spanish vampire court seems frozen in time

Josef rather imagined that not too many years past, the scene would have been lit by the enormous branching candelabra that still graced the hall, their candles sadly intact. Ah, progress. He had a hard time telling if the ladies present were simply dressing with typical Spanish conservatism, as opposed to the vampire resistance to change. Or it could be that El Rey de las Sombras mandated a certain rather antiquated style. Either way, there was a quaint tendency towards traditional mantillas, floating falls of black lace. While most used the mantillas to their advantage, the pretty framing of pale faces, one or two had draped the folds like heavy veils, obscuring their features entirely.

Josef here knows how to play the game; he will bow to the king, but not kneel. Had the king no respect for him, it might have been the last act of defiance he'd ever display. Yet his patience pays off; while the king offers no assistance, one of his court does and I can't wait to read about Catrina's past with Josef.

Great update to a story of intrigue, betrayal and, of course, a bet.

[moonlight_vixen]

Magical as always Lucky! I love the history and the introduction of the new characters

[RangerCM]

Yep, still love it, even though I've been terrible about finally getting to it!

As always, it's so easy to get wrapped up into the vision you paint, in your writing. Always a pleasure

[jen]

Lucky

This is fabulous!

What a brilliant, original story you have started here! It touches on territory that has not been explored nearly enough--this particular immortal's need to identify and nurture remarkable souls when encountered [tells you a lot about the immortal]; the friendship that forms between them and the pain that you realize lies in the future when one of them 'shufles off this mortal coil' and the other continues his eternal search for the remarkable and positive.

Brava!

Jenna

[tucutecats]

happy to get an update,love your stories as always, you are the best. I[ve missed you

[librarian_7]

Oh, thanks...I know it's been forever since I updated, and I haven't forgotten or abandoned the story, it's just that RL has had me rather overwhelmed of late.

I will get this completed, sooner or later!

Lucky

[MoonShadow]

We are waiting patiently.