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There was a Space Marine on her doorstep.
Lady Czeresh Markusi Derdonno stared at the skull-draped giant and blinked hard, but there he was, still stubbornly real, with his dark blue armor that made her gums itch, and the gore-encrusted chainsword strapped to his waist. The rest of his armor was absolutely spotless and he was waiting patiently with his hands folded behind his back. Something in his body language suggested the Astartes was politely bored as he repeated his message through voxcasters that had been used to broadcast the tortured screams of the defiant.
“The Lord of Night, Konrad Curze, extends an invitation to dinner.”
“Dinner?” echoed her valet who’d attempted to shut the door on a blue-tipped ceramite boot and failed. The glaring Mark IV helmet nodded and one massive gauntlet folded out from his back to present a bright red envelope clutched incongruously in killer’s hands.
“This is the domicile of Lady Czeresh Markusi Derdonno, scion of House Derdonno, one of twelve hive leaders remaining on the planet who stand in defiance of the Warmaster’s glory?”
“How did you get past the void shields, the garrison, the cyber-hounds-“ began her valet, but Lady Derdonno hip-checked the foolish man into the coat-rack and stood proudly in front of the brutal killer, her head held high.
“I am Lady Derdonno,” she said, knowing her future words would likely be confined to screams and pleas. “If you’re here to kill me, then kill me, and make what sport you can. But do not jest.”
“Oh good,” said the Astartes, his posture relaxing. “Thought I had the wrong house. These mansions all begin to blur together after a while.” He offered her the envelope and Lady Derdonno took it gingerly, expecting it to be razor-edged, scent-fused, or laced with neurotoxin that would have her shitting her own intestines out. She opened the letter as confusion began to mix with her fear. The whispers about the Night Lords Legion even before they had betrayed their brothers at Isstvan, had described a legion of psychopathic killers who tortured and flayed victims alive. A Primarch and a Legion gone mad whose execution was not a matter of if but when. The viscera on the marine’s sword meant some of that was true, and they’d all heard the pleading whimpers broadcast across the vox last night for ten minutes before all of Hive Mentus went dark. She expected an invitation to surrender and the Astartes would only butcher her and her family, not the entire hive city. But that wasn’t what the letter said at all.
“Dear Lady Czeresh Markusi Derdonno,” said a slightly messy hand in Imperial Gothic. “Konrad Curze, Primarch of the VIII Legion, Lord of Night and Hobo King, invites you to dinner at 7:00 PM Terran Standard Time, Hive Mentus. Courses include an apterif, a salad, and a main dish of Nostroman Rat Tail, braised in marrow sauce and served with a side of borscht. Dessert will be a crème brûlée.”
Lady Derdonno looked up at the Astartes, who was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Nostroman Rat Tail? Is this a joke?”
“It’s a delicacy, actually,” said the Night Lord. She detected a note of jealousy in his voice. “Rats the size of dogs, wonderful if you leave them to marinate. By all accounts the Primarch caught this specimen himself in a ventricle corridor section, it’s the size of a horse.”
Lady Derdonno tried to imagine a rat that big and failed. The Astartes’ slaves must live horrible lives. She looked back down at the letter.
“Open Bar” added the letter. “Black Tie Gathering”.
Well…perhaps not that horrible, if there was an open bar. The middle-aged woman gathered her courage and looked up at the giant in blue and silver. “I’ll go,” she said firmly. “If Lord Curze wants us to surrender our lives in exchange for our people’s saftey, I will submit to his…dinner party.”
“Baller,” said the Astartes, then he coughed and put a hand to his helmet grille. “Rather, excellent.” He looked away, sounding almost embarrassed by his slip into an obvious ruffian slang. “A Thunderhawk will be by to pick you up at 7:00 sharp.”
To say the Thunderhawk ride was awkward was like saying the Primarch Sanguinius was pretty. Technically true, but also a gross understatement. Twelve other lords and ladies were clustered onto the side benches of the armored flyer, all dressed in their finest clothes and all anxiously awaiting the moment when the other shoe dropped onto their heads like a guillotine. The red lighting of the compartment made it look as if everyone had been prematurely drenched in their own blood and the humans spoke in whispers, wondering what Curze’s real game was here, and what manner of horrible trick awaited them. Perhaps he intended to serve them the flesh of the defeated, hidden in sauces or on silver trays. Perhaps he intended to eat them himself as his feast with loyal captains, dining on freshly removed hearts. Perhaps they would be flayed alive and made to pretend at dinner afterwards. Undoubtedly whatever fate awaited them, however gruesome, would be broadcast to all those who remained, but the lords were either determined to die with dignity, or at least with the opportunity to spit in the Night Lords’ Primarch’s face.
Lady Derdonno was on her third glass of wine and hated how good it was. 872M31, a very good year for red wines in the Ultramar Sector. It paired well with the Nostroman Rat Tail, which had been delicious, if slightly stringy, but according to the Primarch, couldn’t be helped.
This was wrong. This was very, very wrong and every time the elaborate grandfather clock behind Konrad Curze chimed the hour, the tension in the room oscillated up and down like a scalped head on a slinky. They’d been walked to the banquet hall by Night Lords in ceremonial bat-winged helms and on red carpets. The Astartes were even wearing little bow ties around the collar of their armor, but no one dared laugh. Laughing at a Night Lord was signing up for your own personalized torture regime.
Konrad Curze was not a disheveled, sunken-faced madman, though his teeth were sharp and his eyes as black as night. They gleamed in the low flickering candlelight as he welcomed them in a slightly raspy voice accented with Nostroman class-signifiers of respect. Lady Derdonno had a keen sense for when she was being mocked and either Konrad Curze was an even more subtle man than many gave him credit for, or he was being sincere. He was wearing a tuxedo of his own and Lord Barcutio was drunk enough to ask about it after the man’s fourth round of shots. (They were getting alot of use out of that open bar before dying.)
“I tailored it myself,” said Curze, holding open the jacket so they could see the seams in the dim candlelight. “We can’t buy anything Primarch-sized off the rack, can we?”
“I don’t know my lord,” sweated the duke who’d recieved this aside with sweat pouring down his face despite the valiant efforts of a handkerchief. Was the Lord of Night implying he was fat? Surely not, but a jest seemed…well, everyone knew Konrad was insane. Best not to risk it.
Curze patted the man on the back with one pallid hand. “It is a useful skill I developed in my youth on Nostromo, along with interior decorating, trick knots, urban planning, and amateur graffiti. Though sewing is by far my favorite.”
“You mean sewing skin cloaks, butchering families in their beds, hanging corpses from streetlamps, and painting walls with blood?” Lady Courvier had polished off an entire bottle of orange-flavored whiskey and stood up on swaying feet as the entire table seemed to gasp as one. Curze’s left eyelid twitched. “Well, saying it like so is rather impolite dinner conversation Lady Berason Chegundi Couvier.”
Someone whimpered and Lady Derdonno smelled the unmistakable scent of urine from her right as someone else wet themselves. “Perhaps we should move to the next course?” suggested a desperate-looking Lord Gerian and Conrad Curze clapped his hands. “Of course. Crème brûlée!” They made it halfway through the dessert before Lord Varkosh went insane. “I can’t take it anymore!” he shrieked, stabbing himself in the neck with a dessert fork. “The torture’s coming, we all know it, well you won’t get me!” He tittered a high shrill laugh at odds with his bulk as the fork dug deeper into his carotid artery.
It was the spark that set off a promethium plant’s worth of explosive fuel. The lords and ladies at the table had suffered through an entire night of good manners and fine dining from the most gruesome of butchers and the strain finally gave in. One woman doused herself in vodka and stuck her head into the candles. Another man cut his own arm off with the blunt end of a serving tray. Someone else swallowed a spoon sideways. Three bit down on suicide capsules in their teeth. The rest finally threw chairs and chivalry aside and rushed towards the doors, screaming and pleading to escape or be allowed to die. They kept looking back, twitching and wincing as they expected the Primarch to pounce on them, rend their flesh with his teeth like the animal he was.
But he was just sitting there and that was the most terrifying thing of all.
First Captain Sevatar opened the door and the humans poured past him in a small wave of silks, ruffled coats, and animal terror. Konrad Curze shrugged and went back to his crème brûlée, though he abandoned his fork in favor of one finger this time.
“Father,” said Sevatar bluntly as he crossed to the head of the table, ignoring the shrieking flame-wreathed human as they collapsed and were doused in fire-suppressant foam by a servitor in coattails. “What exactly was the point of this? The entire affair was-“
“Ridiculous?” Curze sucked the dessert off one finger and giggled. If any of the nobles had remained to hear that sound, they would have become gibbering madmen. “That was the entire point, First Captain. Those fools spent the entire evening thinking up their own tortures, waiting for the blade to descend, but it never would.” The Night Haunter’s grin was wide and self-satisfied. “A fantastic facet of psychological suffering.”
“You are a sick and twisted soul,” said Sevatar and he was almost impressed. “You tied your hair back, you even took a bath for this.”
“We all must make sacrifices for the war effort,” said Curze, as if the three high-pressure hoses and industrial container of soap had not been necessary to clean him completely. “Now, do you want dessert?”
Sevatar considered the future. The Dark Angels were searching for them, but there were three other Imperial planets in this system to take care of.
The crème brûlée was perfect.
FIN