The transition from Cassian Fleur to the entity known as The Mad Jester was not merely a change of clothes it was a violent deconstruction of the soul.
As the last violet bruise of twilight faded from the sky over Bloom of Misery Cassian locked the heavy iron bolts of his shop. The silence inside the perfumery was thick broken only by the rhythmic dripping of a condenser in the back room. He stood before a tall silver-backed mirror that had begun to lose its luster its surface pitted with black spots like a spreading plague.
Time to stop breathing Cassian whispered to his reflection.
He reached behind a row of amber bottles containing the scents of cedar and rain pressing a hidden latch. A section of the wall slid back to reveal a stone niche. Inside sat a porcelain mask bone-white with eyes carved into jagged downward slants and a mouth frozen in a wide toothy grin that seemed to mock the very concept of sanity.
As his fingers brushed the cold porcelain a jolt of electricity or perhaps madness shot up his arm. The scent in the room changed instantly. The pleasant aroma of dried flowers was strangled by the smell of burning sugar and old circus sawdust.
He pulled the mask over his face.
The world shifted. The colors became more vivid the shadows deeper and the sounds of the city outside the distant howl of a Werewolf the screech of a midnight tram became a symphony of chaos. He was no longer Cassian Fleur the cautious merchant. He was The Mad Jester the uninvited guest at the world's funeral.
The Rotten Moon tavern was a festering wound in the side of the city's Lower District. It was a place where the floorboards were soaked in decades of spilled gin and cheap blood a sanctuary for the Night Syndicates to discuss their grim business. Tonight the air inside was thick with the musk of half-transformed Lycans and the cloying sweet scent of Vampire aristocrats who liked to slum it among the common criminals.
In a dark booth at the back a high-ranking Werewolf enforcer named Vane was slamming a meaty fist onto a table. Vane was a mountain of scarred flesh and graying fur smelling of wet dog and raw aggression.
The blood-tax isn't enough Vane growled his voice a low vibration that made the glasses on the table rattle. The Syndicate wants the Perfumer. They say he's smelling things he shouldn't. Things that don't belong to him.
And who is going to fetch him a thin pale Vampire replied sipping a translucent red liquid from a crystal flute. The boy is a phantom. He disappears the moment the sun sets.
Suddenly the heavy oak doors of the tavern didn't just open they swung wide with a theatrical bang.
A figure stood in the doorway framed by the swirling fog of the street. He wore a tattered velvet coat of deep crimson and charcoal with bells hanging from his belt that didn't ring they gave off a dull metallic thud like coins hitting a coffin lid. The porcelain mask reflected the dim candlelight making the frozen grin look like it was twitching.
The tavern went silent. Even the most hardened killers felt a primitive instinct to look away.
Ladies gentlemen and those of you still struggling to decide which species you belong to the figure spoke. The voice was Cassian's but it was layered with a manic melodic edge like a violin being played with a razor blade.
Who the hell are you Vane stood up his claws extending with a series of sickening clicks.
Me Oh I'm just a bad joke told at the wrong time the figure said skipping literally skipping toward the center of the room. But you can call me The Mad Jester. I'm here because I smelled something delicious. A scent of treason mixed with a very peculiar kind of stupidity.
Vane roared a sound that would have paralyzed a normal man and lunged across the room. He was a blur of fur and muscle his claws aimed directly at the Jester's throat.
The Jester didn't flinch. Instead he reached into his sleeve and flicked his wrist. A small glass sphere no larger than a marble shattered against the floor at Vane's feet.
A cloud of iridescent violet vapor erupted.
Vane stopped mid-air. His momentum carried him forward but his body went limp. He crashed into a table splintering it to toothpicks. The Werewolf began to scream but it wasn't a scream of pain. It was a scream of sheer unadulterated terror. He began to claw at his own face his eyes wide and unfocused.
What did you do to him the Vampire demanded rising from his seat his fangs bared.
A little something I call The Hound's Nightmare The Mad Jester giggled his head tilting at an impossible angle. It doesn't hurt the body no. It just amplifies the smell of your own death until your brain thinks your heart has already stopped. He's currently smelling himself being eaten by worms. Quite poetic don't you think?
The Jester turned his gaze toward the thin Vampire. Now about the Perfumer you were looking for I'm afraid he's busy. But he sent me to deliver a message.
He leaned in close the scent of the Jester that cloying circus-sawdust smell overpowering the Vampire's expensive cologne.
The invisible blood at the fountain the one you're all trying to hide I've already traced it. The leak in the Shadow Kingdom is wider than you think and I'm going to be the one to bottle it.
The Vampire tried to move but his limbs felt like lead. He realized too late that The Mad Jester hadn't just used one gas the entire room was now breathing in a subtle paralyzing pheromone that had been leaking from the bells on his belt since he entered.
You're insane the Vampire hissed his voice failing.
Insanity is just a different perspective on reality The Mad Jester whispered tapping the nose of his porcelain mask. And from where I'm standing this city is a masterpiece of madness. I'm just the one holding the brush.
He turned on his heel the tattered crimson coat swirling behind him. As he reached the door he tossed a single white lily onto Vane's twitching body.
Clean up the mess won't you It's starting to smell like failure.
The Mad Jester vanished into the fog as quickly as he had appeared leaving behind a room full of monsters who had just realized that there was a new kind of predator in Bloom of Misery. One that didn't want their blood but their sanity.
Back in the shadows of an alleyway the Jester leaned against a cold brick wall his chest heaving. Behind the mask Cassian's eyes were bloodshot. The transition was taking its toll. The scent of the Primeval Blood from the fountain was still calling to him a psychic compass pointing toward the North District the territory of the High Coven.
He pulled a small black notebook from his coat. In it he wrote one name Lilith.
The Witch of the Night Canopy he muttered his voice dropping back to its human tone. She's the only one who knows why the air is bleeding. It's time to pay her a visit.
The bells on his belt gave a final dull thud as he disappeared into the darkness the Mad Jester's grin the last thing visible before the fog swallowed the world whole.