Engel und Soldat

Prologue
The city of Amsterdam settled deeply into a blanket of fog. Night had fallen several hours before, bringing a thick darkness with it that smelled like damp saltwater. The air was cold, wet, and heavy, poisoning the usually lively night atmosphere and clearing the streets. They lay bare, deserted, and still. Even De Wallen, the city’s red light district, lolled in an anemic stupor. The bright lights reflected off the cloud of fog, creating a murky red glow that matched the district’s unofficial namesake. From narrow glass windows, scantily clad women peered out; some with bored expressions, others waiting nervously in hope of a paycheck. But business was slow, and only a few uninterested wanderers roamed the streets.

No one noticed the shimmering, mirage-like shadow as he drifted past. No one sensed the suppressed, menacing aura that he harbored like a disease. No one saw the shadows crawling like electrified black spiders around his feet. He could sense his target nearby and he drew closer, his fingers twitching with restrained excitement. He watched the bar from across the street, and he waited.

Almost an hour passed before a man staggered out from under the blinking neon sign of the entrance. He stumbled into an alleyway and retched into the gutter before he regained some of his balance, leaning heavily against the wall. Dulled as his senses were, he too failed to notice the shadow’s presence.

The man’s name was Jean Blanc. Forty-two years old with a slender build and average height. He had thick hair in one even shade of gray, pale blue eyes, and wore an entirely unremarkable business suit. His most remarkable feature was the bandage tape under his left eye, and he knew his alibis of “cut while shaving” left people unconvinced, but it was easier than explaining what a Hollow was. Jean was supposed to keep his stay in Amsterdam completely “business-related,” but he had grown tired of the city’s foul mood and had tried to shake it off with a few glasses of strong liquor. Of course he had stayed too long, he always did.

As he came to a split in the street he paused and tried to recall which direction led back to his hotel. His vision was fuzzy, and already his head felt bloated and throbbed slightly.

The shadow followed him, but it moved too abruptly. He was suddenly aware of the faint spiritual pressure, as well as the darker aura behind it—a subtle, murderous intent. “C'est quoi?”

Jean’s senses sharpened as he began to absorb Reishi from the air around him. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and clutched his Quincy’s cross. It comforted him to hold the cool metal in the palm of his hand, and he continued to stumble forward as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He hoped desperately that his follower had not noticed his sudden wariness or his gradually rising spiritual pressure. It was natural that this should occur. He knew he had been watched ever since he had arrived in Amsterdam, but he had been careful. Now, with one lapse of judgment, his life was at stake. He knew why he was being followed, but he did not know who it was.

Jean was so concentrated on detecting the movements of the unseen foe behind him that he did not pay attention to where he was going. He found himself on a street that ended at a wall. He craned his neck and could just barely make out the edge of the roof against the black sky. He would have to use Hirenkyaku to reach it...

The attack came, viscously unexpected. A sudden disturbance that rippled through his own Reiatsu was all that alerted him to the oncoming projectile. He ducked just as the brick exploded behind his head, sending chalky shards in every direction.

“Merde.” he swore as he activated his cross. Blue light from the glowing Reishi sent strange shadows dancing across the walls. One of these shadows moved, darting across his peripheral vision. Jean swung his bow around and released an arrow. It arced gracefully before disappearing into the distant sky… he had missed.

A moment passed. He stood utterly still, straining to hear the movements of his attacker. There was an echo of steel from further down the street, a distant horn blaring from the subway, and somewhere far to the north a faint chime of the clock tower. But nothing moved here. Only the rain, which continued to drizzle steadily.

“Who’s there?” he called out in difficult, slurred Dutch. There was no reply. “What do you want?” this time in English. A menacing laugh answered him, bouncing off the walls with an eerie echo. Jean watched as the shadows on the walls began to morph into shapes, blinking at him with hollow eyes as the alcohol continued to play tricks on his mind. A deep fear gripped him, beginning with his spine and moving up to the brainstem. He found himself imagining a yawning gap in the ground, a vast pit stretched open to consume him. He stepped away… and in that instant felt the hard, impartial steel of a knife pressing against his throat.

“I know what you are,” his attacker whispered in his native tongue.

A cold sweat ran down from Jean’s temples.

“I’ll give you anything. Do you want money? Information?” Jean asked hoarsely,

“What I want is your blood,” was the simple reply, although the voice was filled with malice. “Quincy.”

A scream followed, but it was cut short by the blade that plunged into his flesh.