[The End of Osamu Ashikaga]: Serpent

News of Johan’s untimely death ripped through every household and business in Yakutsk. The streets of the West End were flooded with desponded men, women, and children all getting as close as they could to the senate building. Blocked off by police barricades, the burgeoning crowds didn’t dare to break past them and start a bloodbath with the authorities.

Many held homemade signs with such slogans as ‘Long Live Johan’ written in black marker, while others held grayscale portrait and pictures of him in remembrance. At first, the crowd was silent, despite being so massive, but after the coroner’s office announced the preliminary results of Johan’s autopsy, the West End’s calm morphed into suspicion.

Officially, Johan’s death was being ruled a suicide. There were no signs of struggle on his body, only the single gunshot to the roof of his mouth. For the leader of the United Pacifist Party to die so suddenly during what was the most important time of his career seemed suspicious and nonsensical to the West End. Disbelief turned into flat-out denial, and denial into rage at Osamu Ashikaga and the Yakutsk Lords. The quiet crowds began to march down the streets with their signs and slogans, their voices ringing out into the air like sirens.

They swallowed bitter, mournful tears and turned their grief into a fire in their hearts to rival that of the East End’s militant ultranationalism. As such, the police and SSK presence in the West End only increased, the violence threatening to spread to all corners of Yakutsk. Every action gave way to reaction, and the East End’s population were destined to clash with their philosophical opposites.

To deter any chaos in the senate building, Osamu ordered he SSK to round up all members of the Scarlet Senate in the senate chambers, the very same place where Johan gave his speech condemning Dark Dawn. The forty-eight senators were ordered to take their seats and remain in the chambers while under the strict watch of the SSK, whose agents lined the upper levels of the chambers and were armed with assault rifles and sub-machine guns.

Osamu barged through the doors of the chamber, drawing the fearful gaze of every senator in the room. His presence hushed their whispers and turned the air in the room into an authoritative miasma. His bellowing voice echoed through the chambers like the thundering voice of a god, his frustration palpable and clear for all to hear.

“Greetings, everyone.” Osamu said, slowly marching down the steps towards the center of the aisle dividing the senate seats. “I’m sure many of you are scared and confused about what’s happening and why you’re here. I’ve come to explain. Ever since the aftermath of the Second Chechen War, Johan Sommers and his associates have been suspected of collaborating with Moscow and senior officers of the FSB.

“It was believed that Johan or someone close to him leaked the existence of this vampire safe haven to the FSB, who then used that information as leverage to force Carmilla into cooperating with them during the war. Carmilla did as Moscow asked, but threatened to expose the FSB for using the war to get a certain officer of theirs into the presidential seat. But that wasn’t the end of it. No, not even close.

“Johan, the United Pacifist Party, the parties that make up the coalition…it was all an act of subversion orchestrated in part by Russia. Recently, the SSK intercepted calls to and from Johan’s office to FSB contacts in Moscow and across Russia. These calls confirmed our suspicions. As such, I ordered the lockdown of the senate building, as well as the holding of each member of the Scarlet Senate.

“The SSK will go through every letter, every call, every email, every bit of correspondence you have made in the past year so we can find out who among you, if any, were also in collaboration with Moscow. Those found innocent will be let go and we will assume that any help you gave to Johan was done without the knowledge he was working with the FSB. Those found guilty…well, things won’t look very good for you.

“Until we root out the traitors among us, you will all remain here, in this room. You will be quiet. You will be calm. You will be patient. Is that clear?”

Met with submissive silence and averted gazes, Osamu turned around and headed for the door. Taeko waited for him on the other side, rushing to his side as he stormed down the halls.

“Osamu, tell me you had nothing to do with Johan’s death.” Taeko said.

“I have lied to you many times, Taeko.” Osamu replied. “Believe it or not, I’m actually telling you the truth now. I’m glad he bastard’s dead, but I didn’t kill him. My plan really was to come here and settle things with him, face-to-face. Now, half the city think I offed him. How’s the investigation going?”

“The police are questioning Johan’s secretary at the moment, and they’ll probably ask for Balakin and Yana soon.” Taeko explained. “Osamu, do you really think Johan committed suicide?”

Osamu stopped in his tracks and turned to face Taeko. “Do you?”

“I don’t think it makes any sense that a man as ideologically driven as Johan would end his life during such a crucial time for his people. But it doesn’t make any sense either way. The coroner’s office said there were no signs of a struggle. Say it wasn’t suicide. How could someone have murdered him, even getting close enough to put a bullet in his mouth, without him putting up any resistance?”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Osamu said. “Either way, it’ll take over a month to get the full results of Johan’s autopsy and toxicology report. Until that’s done…no, even after it…people are going to think we killed him and made it look like a suicide. It was easy to wish the man would drop dead while he was still here, but now that he’s actually done it, it’s hurting me a lot more than it hurt him.”

Their conversation was suddenly cut short by the sounds of sprinting footsteps coming towards them. Osamu and Taeko looked forward to see Hima and Annabel running to meet them, and by the looks on their faces, everyone knew things had just gotten worse.

“Osamu!” Annabel panted, bending forward to catch her breath. “It’s bad! It’s really, really bad!”

“Breathe, Annabel!” Osamu urged. “What’s the matter?”

“There’s been a shooting in the West End!” Annabel answered, her face dotted with beads of sweat.

“Not just any shooting, either.” Hima added. “Members of the Kozlov family were murdered in their home this morning. A child died too. I’ve called for a meeting at the hotel. I’ll explain more once we’re there.”

With so much going on all at once, Osamu agreed to the meeting. He had come to the senate building to put an end to Johan’s interference in his plans, but his death only served to kick Osamu’s goal further out of reach. Instead of uniting the people of Minavere by exposing the traitors working within its government, Osamu found himself at the brunt of accusations that he organized the assassination of a politician. On top of that, the worst thing imaginable had just happened; a child was killed.

Osamu, Taeko, Hima, and Annabel were driven back to their hotel by SSK agents, their plan only halfway carried out while the other half was completely bungled. Gathering in the conference space of Room 1313, Osamu and the Yakutsk Lords sat around the table with the emerald light of the aurora borealis outside reflecting off of its blackened wood.

The chandeliers above them casted a soft, orange light upon the lords, illuminating the table and everyone sitting around it while leaving the rest of the room in a dark shade of emerald green.

“First, Johan turns up dead,” Annabel began, “and then the Kozlovs are murdered in their home the very next day. Needless to say, this is only going to ramp up suspicions that we’re assassinating our enemies.”

“It’s all over the news.” Borislav said, leaning back in his chair. “Instead of deflating the West End, I think this might actually invigorate them to fight back against the East End.”

“I’m sorry…” Osamu interjected. “I don’t understand why the Kozlovs are so important. Who were they?”

“One of the wealthiest families in Yakutsk.” Hima said, her hands tented on the table. “They were Johan Sommers’s biggest donors and they had a good relationship with the local police around here. For them to die like this just a day after Johan was found dead…”

“Even stranger than the timing and manner of their deaths is the perpetrator behind it.” Carmilla interjected, crossing her legs. “The woman who killed them was Yura Sasuni. Apparently, Yura was a seemingly down-to-earth, kind, and compassionate neighbor who loved going on walks and helping people. No one expected her to do something so horrific. She has no criminal history, not even a parking ticket in her name. The only thing we could dig up on her was that she attended therapy for twenty years after her husband’s death a century ago.”

“But to target the Kozlovs wasn’t just a random act of violence, right?” Anya asked, her blonde hair tied into a ponytail. “There had to have been a motive.”

“We don’t know her motive yet.” Carmilla said, her eyes beaming with frustration. “An innocent family has been killed and a child is dead. That alone is enough to enrage a populace, but considering their relationship with Johan and the parties that formed the coalition, it’s no wonder people are beginning to think we’re wiping out our opponents.”

Nastasia sat with her arms crossed and eyes closed, her consternation palpable even through her raven veil. “It can’t all just be a coincidence. We’re playing without a full deck here. We need more information.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Hima said. “I’ll spare some of the SSK to scour through the Kozlov family home, as well as Yura Sasuni’s. If we could just find some clue as to why Yura targeted them, maybe we can start making sense of all this. Nastasia, I want you to help investigate the Kozlov home, and I want Borya to look through Yura’s place.

“Loud and clear, Your Highness.” Borya said with an obedient nod.

“Anya, I want you to pull Yura’s psychiatric records and look through them.” Hima ordered. If she didn’t have a motive, it’s likely her mental illness got the worst of her in the years she went without therapy.”

“As you wish.” Anya said.

“Did the Kozlovs have any relatives here?” Taeko questioned.

“Peter Kozlov’s aunt and uncle live here.” Carmilla answered. “I don’t know how willing they are to speak to authorities, but I may as well try.”

Hima leaned back in her chair and released a tired sigh. “This is all we can do right now. Let’s try our best, everyone.”

As the Yakutsk Lords stood from their seats and rushed off to fulfill their duties, Osamu remained seated, his gaze sinking to his lap. His original plan was squashed and thrown out the window, and everything had unfolded in a way that left him unable to do anything about the public’s rage. With half the city suspicious he had a hand in the deaths of Johan Sommers and the Kozlovs, there was no way for him to bring the people of the West End on his side of the genocide issue.

(Damn it. If things keep going the way they are, I might actually have to manipulate Minavere en masse. But…that’ll be tricky. Unless I can take control of everyone here at the same time, it’ll be obvious that I’m using my powers to manipulate people. Hima confirmed my powers to this entire city in her founding speech. I wish she didn’t do that, but telling everyone about Bloodcraft was probably the best way to convince them we’d be able to win this war in the first place. This whole thing is a stain on my regime. If we don’t clear this up soon, I’ll likely have a revolt on my hands.)

Nastasia was driven by the SSK to the Kozlov family home. The entire property was swarming with investigators in thick, black coats and ushankas atop their heads. The bodies had already been removed from the scene, but the pools of blood where each victim died remained suffused to the tile downstairs and the carpet upstairs.

Investigators collected Yura’s gun and the bullet casings ejected from its chamber. Nastasia inspected the front door, as well as all of the windows on the first floor. To her surprise, there was no sign of forced entry. Considering where Peter Kozlov was killed in the house, it was apparent that he let Yura in and only realized later that she was armed.

She entered the dining room, seeing three plates full of pancakes topped with cream cheese and blackberry jam.

“They had only just started eating breakfast when it happened…” Nastasia deduced.

Nastasia went through every item in every downstairs room, going through cabinets, pantries, and coat closets. Her search took her upstairs into Anton’s room. Several of his school notebooks lied on top of his unmade bed, partially shrouded by his blue blanket. Nastasia flipped through the papers of each notebook, finding only basic math problems, notes from history class, and drawings of stick figures racing each other in toy cars across a landscape of multiplication tables.

Anton’s room was everything you’d expect a boy’s room to be like, complete with an arsenal of baseball bats, a pair of ice skates, and a miniature electric guitar. The search around the Kozlov home seemed fruitless, but there was just one room left to check; the master bedroom. Photos of Peter and his family sat atop the nightstand on his side of the bed, right next to a silver, golden luxury watch and several golden bracelets. His wife had a planner on her nightstand, as well as a pair of reading glasses and a cloth used to clean them. Nastasia opened the nightstand drawer and found exactly what she expected; more completely ordinary items.

Frustrated beyond belief, Nastasia let out a vexed groan and plopped down on the side of the bed, hoping to take a second to rest and give the house a second comb-through. When she sat down, however, she felt something hard and flat beneath the mattress. She quickly got up and lifted the mattress, spotting a large, leather-bound book.

It didn’t have a title or anything on the front or back covers. Nastasia opened the book and found pictures of the Kozlov family. There were photos of Peter and his wife holding a newborn Anton, pictures of the Siberian landscape, pictures of Peter and his wife embracing, kissing, and holding hands years before they had Anton. As she flipped further through the photo book, Nastasia noticed the same, curious detail that Anton once did. The names of the family members depicted changed from Kozlov to Dragavei.

Nastasia’s eyebrows shot up in surprise upon seeing the portraits of Cezar and Anna Dragavei. “Oh my god…”

Nastasia ran downstairs with the photo book in her right hand and her cell phone held to her left ear. She raced outside and hopped in the backseat of the black SUV she was driven in. Her two drivers looked back at her with their eyes wide with surprise. Nastasia’s urgency could be felt from a mile away.

“Drive us to Yura’s place! I need to meet Borya!” Nastasia ordered as she waited for Carmilla to pick up the phone.

After a few rings, Carmilla picked up and answered. “What did you find, Nastasia?”

“Carmilla, you won’t believe this. The Kozlovs were members of the Dragavei family.” Nastasia answered.

“Dragavei?” Carmilla recoiled. “What makes you so sure?”

“I found a family photo book in the house. Peter is one of Cezar Dragavei’s sons. Turns out we’ve had members of the Dragavei family living here this whole time.”

“I knew we had remnants of Lăncile de Onix present in the East End, but I never expected for any of the Dragavei to actually be living here. I thought they lived in Romania.”

“There’s something else, Carmilla. Johan Sommers is in some of these portraits with Cezar. According to this, those two founded Lăncile de Onix together.”

Carmilla paused as she tried to process what she just heard. “Johan…one of our strongest opponents…co-founded an ultranationalist secret society?”

“Yeah, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I’m looking right at their portraits. Carmilla, I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s no denying these deaths aren’t a coincidence. Something happened that triggered all of this. I’m on my way to Yura’s place to see what Borya’s found out.”

“Okay, keep me updated.” Carmilla said.

Carmilla sat in the backseat of an SSK SUV, staring out the window in deep contemplation. The more she found out about the deaths of Johan and the Kozlovs, the less she really knew. Johan, a staunch opponent to restorationist and nationalist movements, the man who extolled pacifism and isolationism above all, turned out to be the co-founder of an ultranationalist secret society, while members of the Dragavei had separated from their patriotic household and took up refuge in Yakutsk, siding with Johan and his allies.

Everything was completely backwards, upside-down, and inside-out. A sudden call from Anya startled her out of her train of thought. Carmilla put the phone to her ear, hoping for some good news.

“What is it, Anya?”

“So, my team and I got access to Yura’s medical records.” Anya sputtered, racing through her words. “We’ve been looking through everything for the past few hours. Is now a good time?”

“Calm down, Anya. Start from the beginning.” Carmilla said.

“Okay, okay…” Anya sighed, collecting her thoughts. “Yura started taking therapy after her husband’s death in 1915. Around that same time, she was also diagnosed with schizophrenia and bi-polar disorder. Looking through the notes, it seems like her husband’s death had a profound effect on her.”

“What happened to him, might I ask?”

“Well, according to the notes, Yura’s husband, mother-in-law, and all of their children were killed in Romania after fleeing from the Ottoman Empire. The husband’s side of the family were ethnic Armenians.”

Carmilla’s eyes lit up with stunned awe. She sat up in the back of the car, the fine hairs on her arms electrified and standing straight. “Wait, stop! Say that again, Anya!”

“Huh?” Anya recoiled. “Uhm, the husband’s side of the family were ethnic Armenians. They were killed in Romania in 1915. Yura said they were all shot in a refugee camp.”

The year, country, and manner of death all lined up. Carmilla’s eyes narrowed as she began to piece together the puzzle in her head.

“Anya,” Carmilla said, “I think we may have found the motive behind the killing. The Dragavei family was involved in the incident that killed dozens of Armenian refugees. It’s possible Yura might’ve discovered who the Kozlovs really were and snapped.”

“Nastasia’s intuition was right…” Anya gasped. “So this really isn’t a coincidence. But…how would Yura have found this out? Even we didn’t know who the Kozlovs really were.”

“Nastasia found a family record in the house proving the connection.” Carmilla said. “Other than that, I don’t know how Yura would’ve known. I’m on my way to meet with the other Kozlovs now. Let’s hope we can find out more about this. In the meantime, keep looking through Yura’s records and let me know if anything sticks out.”

“Okay, will do.”

Carmilla let out a loud, exhausted groan the minute she hung up the phone with Anya. The SSK agents driving her looked back in fright, thinking she was in some sort of pain or in the middle of a medical emergency. Their panic quickly subsided when they turned and saw Carmilla’s reddened face hot with vexation and overthinking. Her brain was running wild like an overclocked CPU. Anya’s call answered some of her burning questions, but it also served to open up even more.

With physical evidence of the Kozlov’s identity, there were multiple ways Yura could’ve possibly figured out the connection between them and the Dragavei. Carmilla knew it was unlikely that anyone within the family would’ve disclosed that connection if they went though the trouble of changing their names to hide it in the first place. As much as she and the other Yakutsk Lords were finding out, they were still playing with a limited hand of cards. They had no reason to assume that Anton was the key to unleashing all the chaos before them, nor that a particularly cunning man was able to manipulate the boy into dooming Johan, his family, and himself to death.

Her mind spinning like an endless carousel, Carmilla zoned out for the rest of the car ride. Before she knew it, SUV came to a stop in front of a white, three-story apartment complex tucked away on a quiet, residential street. It was an old, Soviet-era building with chipped, flaking paint fluttering in the frigid, Siberian breeze.

“Stay here.” Carmilla ordered. “I’ll go in alone.”

“Are you sure, Ma’am?” one of the agents questioned, taken aback.

“These people have to bury three family members.” Carmilla said, stepping out through the car door. “The last thing they need to see are two armed agents in their home.”

Carmilla entered the apartment complex, sauntering through the narrow, tiled halls on the first floor and stopping at the front door of Unit 31. She rang the doorbell and stepped back, watching the shifting, green light of the aurora borealis reflect off the white tiles. Hearing the door unlock, she snapped her gaze forward and took a single, shallow breath. She was greeted by a middle-aged woman with bright, blonde hair and oceanic, blue eyes. She wore a long-sleeve shirt with horizontal black and white stripes and an orange puff jacket over it. Her eyes were swollen and red with heartache at the tragic deaths of Peter and his family.

Carmilla bowed her head and spoke with a soft, empathetic tone. “Good morning, Irina.”

“Lord Carmilla…” Irina recoiled.

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss. The incident comes as a shock to us all. I apologize for the intrusion, but I was hoping to speak to you and your husband, Joseph. There’s a big investigation underway and we’re trying to gather as much information as we can.”

Irina nodded with a blank expression on her face. “Oh, of course. Please, come in. I’ll fetch you some tea.”

Carmilla stepped inside, taking off her boots at the door. The living room had a simple layout, with a small couch on one side of a rectangular, glass table and two loveseats facing the opposite corners. Irina’s husband sat on the couch with a hunched back and tears staining his white, knit sweater. He swept his short brown hair back with his hand as he stood and straightened his posture for Carmilla.

“Lord Carmilla, it’s an honor.” Joseph said with a dour expression. “I didn’t know you’d be coming. I hope this isn’t a problem, Hannes.”

The air was nearly sucked out Carmilla’s lungs upon seeing Hannes. She recognized him as Johan’s son, but she never thought he’d be visiting the surviving Kozlovs. Little did she know she was sitting with the man that unleashed all of this chaos in the first place. When Hannes moved his mouth to speak, cities burned and people fell into despair without ever realizing it. When he moved his fingers, he command the tides of weal and woe and sunk everyone beneath its crashing waves.

Sitting before Carmilla and the Kozlovs was that man that engineered the deaths of Anton Kozlov and his parents, and none of them even suspected it. If they had, they might’ve been inclined to vomit at the sheer audacity he had to console the family he had inflicted such terrible tragedy upon. There before them was a serpent in the garden, wearing the skin of handsome, blonde-haired, blue-eyed devil.

Hannes smile as he put down his tea, the light of the aurora borealis splashing into the living room and outlining his figure in an emerald glow. “Oh, it’s no issue at all.”

Crossing his legs and sitting back in his seat, Hannes tented his fingers. “It’s good to see you, Lord Carmilla. Will you be joining us today?”