Something happened to the Footmen when they put on their finery. They altered, grew into their sartorial molds – almost as if they were made out of clay. Which, in fact, they were. The transformation was not physical, exactly; they had been blank, mindless automatons, and they had become, well, still mindless, but possessed of dignity, elegance, and grace.
"Exquisite," he breathed. "Just exquisite!"
The Footmen all smiled their very first smiles and bowed their heads graciously one by one.
"My goodness," Philonecron enthused. "You're all so… well bred!"
Well, really, it was only natural. They were made with his blood, after all.
"Now," he said. "Come close, my beautiful darlings, and I will tell you what we are going to do."
It had all begun with the boy. You know. The Death. The old English woman. The family tableau. The man, the woman, and the boy. Something about the boy. His shadow. His shadow was loose!
Right then Philonecron knew that all of his problems had been solved. But he did not know quite how yet.
He stared at the boy and he thought. He thought hard.
And then he came up with a plan.
A delicious, delightful, delovely plan.
A lesser evil genius would have taken the boy's shadow right away. But not Philonecron. One shadow does not an army make. He would leave the boy's shadow, but he would take his blood.
Just a little. Not enough to kill him or anything;
Philonecron had a feeling he would need the boy later on, and anyway, he seemed like such a nice boy. The boy would be fine-woozy for a while, but fine. Children are awfully resilient.
He couldn't take the blood right then, of course, with the boy conscious and his parents right there. Yes, denizens from the Underworld can walk around the Upperworld unseen, but it's fairly hard to take blood from someone without his noticing. Philonecron didn't want anyone to start getting suspicious and behaving rashly He would have to wait until the boy was sleeping.
It was all right. He had plenty to do before then.
Philonecron spent four hours wandering the city; studying people and their shadows and the connections thereof. In the past he had regarded trips to the Upperworld as a necessary evil (that's evil in a bad way, nothing at all like evil genius, which is a wonderful thing) -you couldn't be a blood smuggler without visiting the realm of the Living. But he had always found these sojourns unpleasant-and it had little to do with all one had to endure just to come and go thanks to Hades' precious Security Decree. The Upperworld had become so uncivilized. The way people dress…
But on this day Philonecron felt nothing but joy as he orbited as far from the scene of the Death as he could. He loved the people, with their exposed legs and artificial fibers and white socks and vulgar shoes, for they were going to save him.
Since his first trip to the Upperworld Philonecron had always been fascinated by shadows. There was no such thing in the Underworld; shadows were a peculiar product of Life – something about the reaction between light and the Life Essence that allowed people and animals and things to exist in the Upperworld. (One of these days Philonecron would figure out what that Essence was so he could wander around the Upperworld unchecked, but that would be another evil plan for another day)
But for some reason he'd never paid any attention to children before. Perhaps it was because they were loud and too full of Life, or perhaps it was simply because one did not tend to find children around scenes of Death. Or perhaps he simply had never before been looking for an army.
On this day, though, Philonecron sought out as many children as he could find, Life Essence and all. Much to his delight, he learned that the boy, whom he had begun to think of affectionately as Patient Zero, was no aberration. If shadows were caused by the interplay between light and Life, a child's was still forming. An adult's was inextricably bound to his body, but a child had a tenuous relationship to his own permanence, and thus, his own shadow.
And so the shadow could be taken.
It would take a little work, a good spell or two, and he might have to materialize to carry it off. He might need to do a quick time spell or freezing spell, since children tended to congregate in groups and there was no sense in scaring the little dears off before they did their service to his cause, was there? But none of that would be difficult. In fact, right over there, look! Two children of just the right age. Let's give it the old college try. Be careful now. Approach them softly. Mutter a few words. They're frozen now, they won't notice a thing. Reach into their bodies… And there you go. Handle the shadows carefully, you don't want them to rip. That's right. Now, fold them up and put them safely in your breast pocket. Tonight you will experiment.
Philonecron patted the samples in his pocket with glee. It was a good start. There would be much left for him to do, of course. He would have to figure out how to enchant the shadows, how to turn them into soldiers. He would probably need to find a way to replicate them, for shadow collecting would be time consuming. And being around children tired him easily-now he was already beginning to feel the familiar stretching of his skin that meant he had stayed in the Upperworld too long, that this world of light and breath and time was beginning to wear on him. He would need some help.
Some servants to help him gather the shadows. He would so like to have servants.
His skin was beginning to look raspy, his inner organs felt like someone was tugging on them, and his mind was filling with clouds. But he had one more errand to run.
He went back to the scene of the Death-already that made him feel a little better-and found the boy's room. There was a nice chair in the corner, so he sat and waited. Darkness spread over the room, and soon the door opened and Zero came in and got into the bed. Philonecron wanted to hug him, to cradle him, to sing him to sleep-you wonderful boy, you have changed the world. But instead he just sat and watched as the boy's breathing became long and steady. His chest heaved up and down so peacefully, and Philonecron took a moment to think of the great beauty of childhood and of the fragility of Life. Really, he thought, nothing is more precious than watching a child sleep. Then he got up, picked up the boy's arm, and drained some blood.
Mission accomplished, he headed to the nearest door to wait for the Messenger.
Philonecron had given the Footmen careful instructions on how to navigate the Upperworld. In a way, he hated to send them up there; they were such precious, pure creatures, and he was loath to corrupt them with the world of Life. But that's what they were for, there was no getting around it. And they proved quick and willing studies, eager to sip from his font of knowledge, to strive to improve themselves, to work to be the best they could be. They reminded Philonecron so much of himself.
He taught them a few spells, enough for shadow stealing, stealth, protection, and minor time manipulation. But he had no idea what it would be like for them up there. Would they be seen? How long could they stay? Would they be frightened? All he could do was give them as many tools as he could and then send them out into the world, heart in his throat.
His last gift to them, before their first journey, was a small vial of Zero's blood.
"Keep this close to you at all times," he said. "When you go into the Upperworld, you will find yourself drawn toward the site of a Death. Resist. Take out this vial of blood. Smell it. Then pick out the scent in the air and follow it. It will lead you to a boy. His name is Zero. When you find Zero, follow him. He will lead you to your shadows."