C H A P T E R 1
C A L L I N G L I K E A C R O W
C A L L I N G L I K E A C R O W
Fireworks streaked into the air from far below, with a screech not unlike that of an animal fleeing for its life from something dangerous. Then there was the explosion, as flowers of light blossomed into existence, leaving behind the smell of smoke and acrid chemical burn. It was night, and because they were a safe distance from the city, it was easy to make out every vibrant color, and see even the stars beyond. The sky was thick with darkness so black it was like looking into the empty void of space itself. Every few seconds, another spark would ignite and fill that blank space with too much visual noise. In the past, the yearly gatherings of the Marck family had been enormous. They had spread all over the world in their time, and had been meeting since before the turn of the previous century. The 1900's had been a good time for the von der Marck's, because war had bound them tightly together. Theirs had been a secret society operating as an amalgamation of family and religion.
After the 1940's, attendance had begun to slowly drop. One after another, family from across the world had lost interest. The two great wars had decimated some of their number, and had ruined previously strong bonds. After that, the number of men, women and children who attended The Summoning dwindled with each passing decade. By the 70's, there were scarcely more than a couple of hundred. But those were beautiful days, according to Gregor's parents. They had been children then, and fondly told stories of older kids playing guitars while young girls braided flowers into each other's hair and the boys mock tussled in the mud. Stories, bonfires, sleeping under the stars, entertainment. Ritual. The 80's had seen a slight return of numbers, at least according to family records. Then the 90's brought with it cynicism and the family values which the von der Marck inspired had lost their appeal to an entire generation. By the time Gregor had been born in 1994, there were just 100 souls gathered to celebrate the Great Lineage, to worship under the family tree which brought them all together. The ceremonies had grown cold. Lip service. Life in the palatial mansion declined.
It was 2016, and there were just a handful of them. No more than twenty or thirty bodies, and amongst them, too many were young faces who had been forced to grow up before their time. Gregor had inherited the rank of Aegis after his father's death. Protector. But from what? Von der Marck had destroyed itself, no outside force necessary. Louvel was the Keeper, the one who maintained the sacred grounds of the bloodline's homestead, the one who made sure the sprawling branches of the family tree were tended to. Judah was the Chronicler, the one who kept all records, the archivist. There had once been two other spots at the large stone table in the sub-basement of the mansion. The High Priest. Gone. An entire bloodline killed off during WWII. It had been his job to ensure that all rites were adhered to. Only he had known the ancient ceremonies. Only he had known the words. But he had died before he could pass on his knowledge, and it was lost forever. The Summoning. The reason everyone got together. Nobody really knew why except for him. A secret tossed down a dark well. And then there was the Chalice, who had abdicated some years before.
While the children played outside, and camped, and baked, and delighted in games, it was the responsibility of the inner circle to ensure the running of the family. But it had all fallen apart over the years. When was the last time a youth had been brought into the fold and taught about the truth? About the existence of magic? Of monsters? The High Priest was gone, so the rite of passage no longer existed. At one point, they had been a tradition of sorcerers, a family of them who had selectively passed on their knowledge and awoken power in the next generation. Life was a wrecking ball, and it had mangled them all. These days the only ones who had that spark roused inside of them were the ones who held title. Gregor had learned when he had taken on the shield.
It was a sad state of affairs, but Gregor watched with all the interest of a rubbernecker driving past a car crash. He stood at the top of the steps which led out into a large courtyard. The courtyard itself was laid out with food and drink. People were dancing. There was music. Fireworks continued to go off. He watched with disdain. He barely knew any of them. Had almost no connection to any of them save for the blood which ran through their veins. And even then, he assumed theirs had been so diluted over the centuries that they had nothing in common. They were common. Why had he even come? Because it was his duty? No. Because his mother and father had left him a letter which he kept folded in the pocket of his specially designed trench coat. Versace, it had been a gift to his father prior to Gianni's death. Before Donatella had ruined the name. Black on black, it had a turn down collar with an asymmetrical button. Each button was a Versace Medusa head medallion in gold. It was left unbuttoned and hugged against his shoulders, flowing behind him like a cape, the length stopping abruptly at the knee. It was luxurious and gorgeous, more up scale than one would have expected for Gianni's crass tastes.
The breeze dragged against the tail of the coat as he descended towards the courtyard. His suit was bespsoke, custom tailored by Henry Poole & Co, which necessitated a special trip to London. He reeked of money. He couldn't see Judah or Louvel anywhere, which meant he was going to have to mingle. His shades gave him the ability to appear almost sincere in his kind words at least. They hid the deadness of his gaze. The lack of interest. The 'I don't ******* care about you'. Let people use their imaginations.
After the 1940's, attendance had begun to slowly drop. One after another, family from across the world had lost interest. The two great wars had decimated some of their number, and had ruined previously strong bonds. After that, the number of men, women and children who attended The Summoning dwindled with each passing decade. By the 70's, there were scarcely more than a couple of hundred. But those were beautiful days, according to Gregor's parents. They had been children then, and fondly told stories of older kids playing guitars while young girls braided flowers into each other's hair and the boys mock tussled in the mud. Stories, bonfires, sleeping under the stars, entertainment. Ritual. The 80's had seen a slight return of numbers, at least according to family records. Then the 90's brought with it cynicism and the family values which the von der Marck inspired had lost their appeal to an entire generation. By the time Gregor had been born in 1994, there were just 100 souls gathered to celebrate the Great Lineage, to worship under the family tree which brought them all together. The ceremonies had grown cold. Lip service. Life in the palatial mansion declined.
It was 2016, and there were just a handful of them. No more than twenty or thirty bodies, and amongst them, too many were young faces who had been forced to grow up before their time. Gregor had inherited the rank of Aegis after his father's death. Protector. But from what? Von der Marck had destroyed itself, no outside force necessary. Louvel was the Keeper, the one who maintained the sacred grounds of the bloodline's homestead, the one who made sure the sprawling branches of the family tree were tended to. Judah was the Chronicler, the one who kept all records, the archivist. There had once been two other spots at the large stone table in the sub-basement of the mansion. The High Priest. Gone. An entire bloodline killed off during WWII. It had been his job to ensure that all rites were adhered to. Only he had known the ancient ceremonies. Only he had known the words. But he had died before he could pass on his knowledge, and it was lost forever. The Summoning. The reason everyone got together. Nobody really knew why except for him. A secret tossed down a dark well. And then there was the Chalice, who had abdicated some years before.
While the children played outside, and camped, and baked, and delighted in games, it was the responsibility of the inner circle to ensure the running of the family. But it had all fallen apart over the years. When was the last time a youth had been brought into the fold and taught about the truth? About the existence of magic? Of monsters? The High Priest was gone, so the rite of passage no longer existed. At one point, they had been a tradition of sorcerers, a family of them who had selectively passed on their knowledge and awoken power in the next generation. Life was a wrecking ball, and it had mangled them all. These days the only ones who had that spark roused inside of them were the ones who held title. Gregor had learned when he had taken on the shield.
It was a sad state of affairs, but Gregor watched with all the interest of a rubbernecker driving past a car crash. He stood at the top of the steps which led out into a large courtyard. The courtyard itself was laid out with food and drink. People were dancing. There was music. Fireworks continued to go off. He watched with disdain. He barely knew any of them. Had almost no connection to any of them save for the blood which ran through their veins. And even then, he assumed theirs had been so diluted over the centuries that they had nothing in common. They were common. Why had he even come? Because it was his duty? No. Because his mother and father had left him a letter which he kept folded in the pocket of his specially designed trench coat. Versace, it had been a gift to his father prior to Gianni's death. Before Donatella had ruined the name. Black on black, it had a turn down collar with an asymmetrical button. Each button was a Versace Medusa head medallion in gold. It was left unbuttoned and hugged against his shoulders, flowing behind him like a cape, the length stopping abruptly at the knee. It was luxurious and gorgeous, more up scale than one would have expected for Gianni's crass tastes.
The breeze dragged against the tail of the coat as he descended towards the courtyard. His suit was bespsoke, custom tailored by Henry Poole & Co, which necessitated a special trip to London. He reeked of money. He couldn't see Judah or Louvel anywhere, which meant he was going to have to mingle. His shades gave him the ability to appear almost sincere in his kind words at least. They hid the deadness of his gaze. The lack of interest. The 'I don't ******* care about you'. Let people use their imaginations.
