Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mild Game Mechanics (Implied/Referenced):

Mechanics are based on stats in the Bloodlines game, or the tabletop RPG.
Mechanics are only displayed for the main character; though that doesn't mean that the other characters aren't also using them.

Blue Text Denotes Persuasion Used

Pink Text Denotes Seduction Used

Red Text Denotes Intimidation Used

Gold Text Indicates Effect of Entrancement

Black Text Used for Standard Email & Text Message

Special Fonts connotate handwriting

✨Glimmering Text✨ Indicate Artistic Interest

◈Pin-Pointed Text◈ Implies a 'highlighted' object or puzzle solution

^Fanged Text^ Denotes a Stain on Humanity

All About Auras:

Everything with an asterisk (*) was something I made up for fic purposes, & everything else came from game wikis.

Basic Introduction to Aura reading:

*An aura may flare with a singular emotion, or have a mix of multiple.

*Emotions may combine into general Moods.

*Habitual or chronic Moods can lead to Disorders or other semi-permanent changes that affect an Aura's appearance.

*The ability to read auras depends on a kindred's skill as well as the subject's skills/instincts to resist being observed. A reading may be affected by the observer's associations and biases with colors, behaviors, or on the subject they are attempting to read. If the subject in question is trying to mislead or conceal their real emotional state, or or if the subject suffers from a longstanding or immediate affliction, compulsion, or condition the results of the reading may also end up inaccurate. 

*Every character in the game/story has factors to their auras, which reflect their ongoing personalities, issues, and coping mechanisms. This includes the protagonist; which other characters can, or may have already, diagnosed and reacted to. 

*This fic treats Therese and Jeanette as separate people in the same body, therefore each sister has different auras and individual conditions & coping mechanisms for the traumas they've experienced as reflected in their personalities.

*I'm choosing to only give Caine that weird colored aura from the Bloodlines game, for dramatic effect.  

Aura Types:

"True Black" Aura / "Black Hole" Aura- Caine, *

Bright Aura- Human

Pale Aura- Vampire

No Aura- no existent/lingering emotion

Diablerist- Black veins in aura

Hypnotic Aura- unique to Malkavians, *

Crimson Chain constricting Aura- Bloodbonded, *

Red Strings emanating away from Aura- Lover's Knot, aka 'Red string of Fate', *

Effects of (Common) Disorders:

Not an all encompassing list, but likely to be the most relevant to the story.

*Depression-

Those suffering from chronic depression will tend to have dark, saturated 'cool' color dominated auras without patterning; usually trending towards deep blues or purples. However, those of older generations, or those suffering from great age, tend to either have greyed-out or black-based auras, as many sufferers loose their emotional cores over the passing of centuries and are left with embittered voids in their stead.

*Mania-

Those suffering a manic episode will have a bright white, 'iron hot' aura with saturated 'warm' colored irregular patterns, such as polka-dots, plaid, or stripes; the patterns may reflect base emotions or aspects of the individuals personality. Those of the Malkavian clan will tend to have multiple patterns clashing at once, while those of clan Toreador will usually have a single, ornate pattern continually carving itself more intricately for the duration of the affliction. Those of clan Gangrel, Hecata, and Tremere may sometimes have sigils or runic markings that form and un-form in lieu of other patterns. Those suffering manic periods often experience a significant increase to productivity pertaining to their fixations or interests. Such episodes tend to last at least a night, and upwards to a month (on average) based on factors such as blood supply, age, clan, and sect. Those suffering from Mania are prone to make High Risk decisions due to lack of inhibitions and fear.  

*Compulsion-

Those suffering from a compulsion (clan based or otherwise), will often display auras with 'stuttering' patterns or colors that are struggling to self-regulate. These auras are usually congruent with erratic or mildly irritated behavior, and will quickly be overshadowed by escalated moods of aggravation and then heightened aggression, if the compulsion is neither fulfilled nor dismissed; this can often lead to a dangerous, frenzied state, or a prolonged period of inconsolable despair.  

*Entranced-

Unique to Toreadors as per their clan weakness, the sufferer's otherwise ordinary aura will appear pierced by radiating Gold beams of 'light', emanated from within. The number and intensity of shafts increase the longer the episode lasts; those whose auras are completely overtaken by the radiation often cannot be woken from their trance, and therefore run an immediate risk of becoming catatonic. Those left in such a vulnerable state are prone to surrounding threats, such as fire, other kindred, or the rising sun. Attempts to break entrancement, as with any derangement, run risks of confusion, heightened aggression, despair, or frenzy.

*Ensnared-

Unique to victims of Toreadors, those afflicted suffer Red and Rose hues entwining around their Aura; the tighter the vines, the stronger the snare. This is also usually reflected in the sufferer's speech and mannerisms, as the affliction makes them more malleable and prone for erosion of will and original thought, though such outcomes are not always the perpetrator's intent. -Likely the origin for the phrase, 'Rose-tinted goggles/lenses'.

*Moon-Bitten / 'Infected'-

Unique to victims of Malkavians, those afflicted will have their auras 'broken' by hypnotic, melding rifts of patterns that look alien, fractical-ly bizarre, or be otherwise barely distinguishable as out of place except to those who know what to look for depending on factors of the perpetrator; such factors include the perpetrator's emotional state and skill level, as well as if the infliction was accidental, intentional, or weather the action was meant to be a joke, or a means of punishment or self-preservation. The greater the level of madness inflicted, the greater the breadths of the fragmentations. The greater the skill of the perpetrator, the less noticeable the traces of affliction may appear. While the damage done /can/ heal, it often takes time, and the high frequency of permanent changes to the victims psyches often result in permanent changes to their auras as well. Those afflicted may behave in any manner, as madness varies wildly from individual to individual, and those with these afflictions, if intentionally caused, may not act differently at all until specific circumstances are met, at any undetermined amounts of time.

*Paranoia-

Those suffering with chronic paranoia will have static-y auras that ripple outwards in waves of spikes, tending to make accurate reads on their emotional states increasingly difficult. Their overworked senses also extend to their auras, and so also tend to lend towards greater abilities to sense the unseen, as well as aid in predilections for visions & future sights, though the affliction also lends to quicker shifts into states of frustration and heightened, defensive aggression and bouts of intense delusions.

*Chronic Stress & PTSD-

Those suffering from chronic stress, or are experiencing a state of stress in result of exposure to a triggering stress factor, tend to have an extremely faint, but highly saturated, pastel colored aura. While most kindred cannot conceal their aura completely, those that suffer from such afflictions tend to have a higher likelihood of obfuscation and/or conflict avoidance, and their auras will 'dim' with them in those moments of great stress, and 'rebound' in a greater, overly-bright or overpowering degree if the suffer emerges safely from the threat; this can sometimes stun observers or invoke migraines in those with heightened senses. In moments outside of such highly stressful positions, the auras will retain their saturated, sickly hues and flicker erratically if the suffer recalls the troublesome events. Outside of traumatic or stressful occasions, the sufferers aura may 'even out' into a more normal, if fincky state. 

*Panic Attacks-

Those suffering a singular, immediate state of all-encompassing Bestial fear, have an Eigengrau colored aura that ripple with the color or pattern of the emotional state that inspired it. Eigengrau auras with cracks of yellow, crimson, and wildly shifting spots, are the most common. Those that are not used to having panic attacks typically run risk of their Beasts frenzying on their behalf, as per survival instinct, as the common-most stressors of this state tend to be threat-of-pain based, either immediate, or remembered. Those with this affliction may 'relive' highly troubling memory and have great difficulty breaking out of them; other symptoms of this affliction may include spiraling thought patterns reflected in the aura and flickering in the aura, preemptive to the Eigengrau colored state.

*Aggressive-Type Personality-

Those suffering with habitual aggression, or have chronic trouble subduing their Beast, will typically have 'crimson based' auras, -as if their wheels of saturation were shifted too far into the 'red' spectrum, thus coloring all other emotions slightly more red than commonly seen; sufferers will also display hate and bittered based states more often. Their auras tend to shift constantly, and it will often appear that their moods change at the slightest of provocations; sufferers will often have great difficulty resisting urges to frenzy. Clans Brujah and Gangrel have the most stereotypical association for this affliction, but in truth, it can affect any kindred from /any/ clan given genetics or circumstance, and statistically has a particular trend in fledglings and neonates until they master their Beast, (though elders with long-held extreme grudges are not unheard of are highly suspected to also suffer with this affliction).

~

Chapter Text

‘The fall of the concrete skyscraper would have been a satisfying simile if things like character arcs or thematic notions applied to people yet unpressed between blank pages’, was a sentiment-riddled thought that she felt distantly as she at last exited the crumbling ruin that had dutifully served as the Prince’s fortress.

What a fun, ethical tale it could be, she thought, as her already soiled shoes splashed into the layers of slick coating the grunge covered street. 

Under the shadow of the Venture Tower, she conceded that it was certainly a dramatic enough end, to serve as a visual metaphor for the rebellion against the the more nebulously metaphorical ‘Ivory Tower’; she held no doubts that the Rabble of the city were already spinning it into their own yarns of rally-inspiring propaganda.

‘And so the Ivory Tower fell’ , she envisioned its telling, absently gliding her way between the falling chunks of cindered rubble; How grand for Nines it must be, to have such a fable for all the new little Brujah to hear.

‘The Prince and the Pauper’, she prattled, wincing at the sting of the surrounding flames searing too brightly against her eyes; ‘The Little Cami that Could’.

She felt sick. 

Part of her, a rationally-fixated part, led her attention back to the erupting building and whether the fact that LaCroix had set off a literal bomb inside it could be traced back to her as a breach in the Masquerade.

She found herself unable to care. 

Rain will probably keep the fires from spreading, she reasoned flatly.

The sounds of the pattering rain dappling against the surfaces around her would have been soothing, were she not standing far past her point of exhaustion.

She sensed life in the city starting to stir up; she assumed it wouldn’t be long before the area was swimming with humans intent on diagnosing the damages and making recordings of the event.

As a particularly large boulderish mass collided onto the asphalt beside her, she had a thought that more than just mortal eyes would be on her. -She could almost feel them boring into her back; though it was probably a side effect of the surrounding heat. 

What if toppling the Prince and his Tower means I get to keep it? She mused, picturing herself sitting on top a mound of rebar and ash; If nothing else it could be a good argument for the block around the theatre, she thought, picturing the Nocturen’s stage, the red-lit windows of The Confession, and the bit of amusement she got from the racks of magazines inside the Skyline apartment building’s lobby. 

Give me liberty, or give me the king’s fallen ashes, she smithed, pairing words for size.  

As her feet pointed her to them a figure beyond the flames caught the edges of her attention; she knew without sparing a glance that it was Nines.

She didn’t bother motioning to him. 

-If the burning building behind her wasn’t self evident enough, it wouldn’t be worth wasting her habitual ‘breath’ to explain. 

The sounds around her started to fizzle out; the roaring of fires blended into the piercing screams and blaring sirens as she walked.

She couldn’t tell if her eyes were closed; the auras, colors, sounds and lights all seemed to penetrate her haze in auras of glimmering phosphenes even as she felt herself fall deeper into  static to withstand it.

One of these nights, she vowed thinly, she was really going to have to learn how to turn her eyes off. 

She nearly ran with her eyes shut, through the thickest of the oncoming crowd; pressing forward through intuition and blind desire to be anywhere past the kine. 

As she pushed further away from the amassing hordes, the pressures on her senses lessened, freeing up her ability to take in sight and sound as separate entities once more. As she strode into parts of the city more quiet, she drank in the unassuming sights around her until she was almost completely lost in the plays of light glittering across the dingy surfaces of the buildings she passed by. 

The rain, it seemed, showed no signs of letting up.

It also seemed that all the nights of her undeath had been one dreary damp blur blending into another; she shuddered to think what it would feel like after the city’s rainy season came to an end. The city would feel far too oppressive without its steadying backdrop to make herself sit still, she’d wager.

I’ll need to find more guns or something tomorrow, she noted, taking stock of the ways moving in her body felt awkward and stiff; she couldn’t fight if her body wasn’t fixed, she reminded herself sternly. Her survival hinged on her ability to dodge everything long enough to wear them down. 

She wondered if ghouling the van-man would get her better trades. 

-Was Fat Larry already bonded to anyone?

Hadn’t she made a note to ask about that, at some point? 

He didn’t seem to be ‘in the know’ about her kind, for whatever that said about anything. 

She rubbed her arms, her body shivering out of associated muscle memory; though the oxygen did nothing for her physical form, she felt oddly comforted by the small puffs of air exiting her nose in little clouds.

‘Hey sis! Lookit’ me! Look! -Look! Dragon’s breath!’ 

The flash of childish memory incurred a shudder through her core; she made a concentrated effort to shut her eyes to keep them from leaking blood.

Dead in her tracks as she was, her fingertips dug into the fabric of her coat sleeves while she wondered where exactly, that it was she wanted to go. 

It made her miss the He-That-Was-Not-A-Taxi-Man ; while his drives had also given her plenty of time for her to sink under the weight of her own thoughts, walking left so much more room for her hyper-awarenesses to drive in just how disconnected from the city around her she felt.  

Disconnected, and cold.   

The Asylum was closer than VV’s club, she considered carefully, as if she once was again in the backseat of the Not-A-Man’s taxi.  

Jeanette would welcome her busy or not, came a mildly comforting thought; but she couldn’t decide if the request would be a step back from her hopes for altruistic friendship.
Therese would... likely hold her tongue, she felt; the Baron would likely seize the opportunity to ‘square away the debts’ of saving her sister -if, of course, the Baron hadn’t felt their businesses leveled already. 

But surely either way, she would see it as an odd, if downright impolite request?

She didn’t want there to be new ‘favors’ between their… forming relationship. 

It’d be easy enough to pay off Gary, she rationed, continuing the vein; but she also didn’t want to overstay her welcome at Warrens. She didn’t know how many kindred received a ‘free pass’ to visit them, and she certainly didn’t want to make them rethink their mild approval of her. 

The magic house was technically an option, she supposed; the red-spectacled magician could conceivably agree to put her up for a night at least, out of duty of being a good host, but then she’d have to brave his mind-breaking hallway. 

God, I hope that thing’s just cursed , she prayed; she’d never be able to live with herself if her troubles navigating the corridor were just because she-

-Sucked at walking through houses that weren’t made of meat or riddled with death traps or Escher-arien architecture-  

And if she was going to walk that far, she’d just as well hole up inside the bathroom at the Last Round and deal with facing Nines and his gang first thing, every night , after night; until she figured something out.

She wondered if Issac technically owed her for gifting him a Tremere-hating gargoyle. 

If Gramps doesn’t shoot me for chasing Velvet, he certainly will if he finds out I’m the one who let Ash disappear into the wind.  

The thought of the sweet, darling, beautifully elegant honey-voiced dancer wrapped a rose-petaled vice around her unbeating heart.  

She simply couldn’t risk anything tracking her back to Vesuvius, they might well become sitting ducks for how lost she would be amidst Velvet’s romantic throes.  

If anything ever happened to Velvet I’d kill every single fucker in this city and then myself, she paraphrased, a spurt of righteous passion fueling her on.  

With her heart braced, she concluded that there was nothing for it but to just…

Go home.

She let herself picture a fate wherein she just… boarded a car or train to travel anywhere that wasn’t Los Angeles. 

I could do it, she thought. 

She let herself imagine how it would feel to magically somehow step out of the bounds of the city and find herself standing exactly on the street of where she used to live. 

Empty.

Dark.

Meaningless. 

Can’t go back, there’s nothing there for me, she affirmed, the mental image fading. 

It would be bold of her to even assume the Camarilla or Sabbat would even let her leave, she added. 

Mental images glew dimly in the back of her mind.

The theatre, the Confession, the apartment buildings. 

The thought of returning to her apartment past the theatre curdled the blood in her veins as she pictured what would be there to await her. 

-The cracked tiles, the overturned furniture, the broken glass of her once beautiful fish tank... their tiny, frail little skeletons rotting forsakenly alone on the living room floor.  

The remnants of Heather’s things. 

...The thought of returning to that once, reasonably comfortable apartment, only to open the door to the darkness- 

Of walking up those stairs... 

Of facing the room she’d given entirely to her ghoul- 

She stuffed the ensuing flashbacks away before the flood could break her composure.

The old place, she thought rapidly. 

Her mind worked it over with near-instant precision; she continued to fret. 

Her old place wasn’t much better. 

It was grungry, leaked in the sun, and she’d still lived in it with Heather briefly. 

At least the Sabbat don’t know about it, she conceded. 

-Hopefully.  

She’d have to hunker down in the bathroom, both to avoid the fading scent of Heather in the mattress, and the streaks of sunlight that’d try to filter in through the boarded windows.  

It was closer to the Asylum though, she offered herself; plenty of time to visit with the Voermans before checking in on the others after.   

At least it’s still raining, she mused.

She changed her direction and kept walking. 

✨Looking up✨, she was taken aback by just how beautiful the sky was. 

Even in the thick of the city, in the whirls of downpour and haze, the vastness of the sky above all was a marvel she loved to behold. Lost in the heavens as she was, her feet easily carried her from Downtown to Santa Monica’s nearly deserted streets; past experience had taught her she’d have become hopelessly lost, had she actively been paying attention.  

As she trekked, she avoided the calls and coos from the guttersirens who all seemed to recognize her; though they’d no doubt be content for her to ‘trade them’ ‘the good stuff’, she didn’t feel right without actually paying them for use of their body blood.  

-And she was starting to worry whether her bite’s effect would tempt them to seek actual addictions elsewhere. 

I could just… find a dark place , a darker part of herself whispered; wait for a man to stroll past. Let them feel for once, what it’s like to be a woman on the streets .

She wondered if it should bother her that she couldn’t tell if it was the voice of her own, or her beast’s. 

Was there a difference?    

It was a shame she couldn't afford to just buy from the bloodbank consistently; she envisioned the financial stability such a set-up would cost before shaking her head clear of the unobtainable notion. 

Maybe if she’d been unborn as a Ventrue, she scoffed. 

She chuckled, lost in her own thoughts. 

She’d get plenty of blood on her jobs, she reminded herself silently; and the girls in the clubs would happily give her a little extra if she smiled nicely.

The thought relaxed her somewhat as the rain began to disappear into a heavy fog. 

The streets of Santa Monica were familiar, secretive, and comforting. 

The assault of stagnating air that struck her as she opened the door to her old apartment however, was not comforting in the slightest; despite the room’s overwhelming strings of attachment. 

It was as they’d left it, all those nights ago. 

Just nights? 

Time was such a fickle constraint, she reaffirmed; she was still, in spite of everything, only a matter of weeks dead. 

Looking around, evidences of their efforts to fix up the place sat untouched in states of varying completion; the dark coat of stain on the cabinets, the contact paper layered over the countertops, the better boarding on the first window, the coats of paint attempting to hide the stains leaking up through the walls. 

The crinkled band posters she’d straightened.  

The curtains Heather had put up. 

The blankets Heather had found for the bed.

For a moment, she could see the ghoul, smiling at her in earnest as she awaited confirmation for a job well done.   

Pained, she tried to keep her body steady.

Her stomach began to turn as she made her way to the bathroom, the sight of mangled remains leaking red all over her field of vision. 

I should have been more careful with her, she thought gravely.  

I failed her. 

I warned her nothing good would come of loving me- 

As her gut began to constrict, she felt her staved-off worries return and compound. 

Everything was fine, until she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. 

Chapter Text

“The absolute state of things,” Therese huffed, with tension rolling through her shoulders; “You’d think the Camarilla would be more organized than this. It’s going to take weeks to mop up this mess.”  

Jeanette hummed, delighted at the thought. 

“More room for us to lap up their strangled gasps, dear Sister,” she offered, already eager to play in the havoc of the aftermath’s new opportunities. 

“Crude,” Therese cast, before softening; “But you have a good point,” she agreed, feeling that it was a little strange still, testing out their newly reforged truce; “Without the Prince or his flock of Primogen the Camarilla will be locked in a judiciary stalemate until they can agree on who's to blame for all of this nonsense. -If they have any sense they’ll lay the blame on LaCroix and be done with it all and leave us our city, but we can only hope to be so lucky.”  

“Where is our little morsel, do you think?” Jeanette asked earnestly, keying in on Therese’s mix of emotions; “She hasn’t come to play in so long… You didn’t scare her off, did you?”

“How little you think of me, Sister darling,” she tutted; “Don’t you have other toys to play with?” Therese tried, attempting to lighten the mood; Jeanette scowled, biting back barbs behind her tongue. 

“She’s probably busy, doing… whatever it is she does,” Therese submitted, as she tried to push down her own bubble of curiosity.

She ran back her memories, only to realize that it’d been a few nights since LaCroix’s supposed demise. She’d watched the news coverage of course; the way the masses of the city’s kine obsessed over the ways the Prince’s tower crumbled had been nearly impossible to miss, and the whole of the city’s kindred population was still in a turmulos mix of celebration and dread.

It’d been five nights, the realization came, since she’d seen the young Toreador last. 

She’d never gone more than a night without stopping by, since she’d… assisted them. 

If the Camarilla thought she was to blame… the Baron gravely contemplated; if any of the boarish Rabble didn’t think she was one of them…

Therese’s brow furrowed; “You-”

“-don’t think…” Jeanette followed. 

Therese didn’t finish their sentence. 

Next to her, Jeanette was for once, equally silent. 

She let her tone soften and offered her sister a tired, but genuine tone of empathy. “Why don’t you ask around, if you’re so worried?” 

Jeanette’s immediate pout lacked its usual razor; Therese found it bothered her to see. 

“None of my mice have tails!” Jeanette lamented; the wail grated some, on Thereses’s senses. “But you! You’re important, they have to listen to you," Jeanette countered, perking up; "can’t you call up those dusty old bores of yours and make them tell you where our little Duckling went? -You can tell them it’s for me,” she added, her tantrum melting away to a smile souring with sickly intent; “If you need some leverage tell them I’ll give them something handy to keep them palmed. C’mon, don’t make me beg, Therese, I don’t want to get annoying.” 

“If... it will appease you, I’ll ask among the Barons,” Therese relented, telling herself that it was an indulgence of tactical pursuit; “One of them’s likely sent her somewhere for safekeeping until the city calms some.”

A slow fear crept into her veins as she took up the phone; What sorts of places would her peers send a childe capable of killing kings? 

Which faction would such a lost childe cling to?

It would make the most sense to start by blood clan, she assumed; as if nothing else, the foppish bore would’ve been prudent to keep tabs on the ‘celebrities’ his daughter entertained. 

The Hollywood Baron’s number was well worn under her hand; taxing as he was to deal with, Therese found him something of a lesser evil for his feigned adherence to common civility.  

“Mr. Abrams, good evening; I trust this isn’t a bad time?” she inquired, motioning for her sister to keep still, and quiet . 

“Ah, Therese. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“A minor curiosity,” she answered timely, ignoring the peeve of his patronizing greeting; “ -The Prince’s rogue childer. Do you know what became of her?” 

Therese could almost feel Issac’s demeanor shift; the paranoia of their species setting into him.

She found it somewhat cathartic.

“Talk of the town is that she took down LaCroix and his men and lived to tell the tale, with how Nines swears it; he can probably tell you more, if that’s all?” 

“Pleasant night, Issac,” Therese segued, maintaining her unflappable composure.

“Likewise,” the old rose replied before cutting the line. 

Therese mimed for Jeanette to wait a moment more; her sister started to shift unhappily in her seat, signaling an onset of an unwavering tantrum, should she not get her way. 

Somewhat reluctantly, she dialed the Baron of Downtown. 

“Yo, what’s up?” came Nine’s ever firm gruff surprise. 

“Baron,” she addressed, wishing not for the first time the man would ascribe to some semblance of formality; “Is this line clear?” 

“Solid,” the Brujah affirmed; “-Don’t call me Baron.” 

“Excellent. What do you know of the fledgling that killed LaCroix,” she pressed, ignoring his meaningless protests.  

The sharp intake of breath suggested that he considered the young rose something to protect; a factoid she absently filed away for later.

“What do you want with her?”

His question all but confirmed it; his loyalty would almost be charming, were it not interfering with her business.  

And my ‘good behavior’, Jeanette mouthed, threat-in-promise. 

Therese warned her with a look; carrying on. 

“She and I were of companionable business arrangements, I assure you,” she soothed tiredly before hardening her tone; “Apparently, she’s also been wrapped under my sister’s disgusting fingers and quite frankly, I’ve grown tired listening to Jeanette complain about her ‘lack of attention’. Look. -I don’t care whatever little stint you’ve set the childe on, but if I have to suffer my sister’s tantrums over another new plaything lost or burnt, I’ll make sure we’ll both live to regret it.” 

The sound of his startlement was almost amusing; she shot Jeanette a light grin, which her sister returned in full force. 

“I... didn’t know you’d two’d met,” he answered honestly; “I’ve seen her around here, sometimes. ...Not for a few nights though. Last I saw she was heading home after toppling the Prince’s tower; tell ya’ the truth, I thought it was weird she hadn’t come back yet. -Seems to have a thing for making stops ‘cross the city; Issac’s daughter called me up ‘couple hours ago, asking the same thing. Would say she’s popular but it looks like nobody’s seen her. -I’ve heard her mention ‘going underground’ once or twice ‘couple times, figured she might be lost in the Warrens? Gary said he’d have his licks keep watch but, they haven’t sent word since.” 

Well, that drastically narrowed down her options for searching. 

Jeanette mirrored her frown. 

“You uh, want me to give you a call if I hear anything? I can send her your way, if I find her.”  

“Thank you Baron, that will be all,” she dismissed, cutting the call. 

At Jeanette’s wavering lips, Therese drew her composure in around herself, and straightened her posture. 

Wordlessly, she tapped her nails along her desk; if she isn’t outside, then the only pace left is ‘in’, she reasoned. But where would a little dandelion root? her sister’s voice sang.   

At the thought, there was something tugging at the back of her mind that for once, had nothing to do with Jeanette.

While Therese didn’t put much stock into blind faith, she was rather used to following her intuition on business pursuits; the Baron turned to her computer on a hunch and ignored the network flutterings she kept well subdued in the back of her mind. 

The backlog of her emails was extensive and largely dedicated to the various proceedings of land and property ownership. 

The Prince’s emails were thankfully some of the more recent ones. It was only a matter of moments before she’d dug up the one she’d wanted to find. 

Regards [Baron] of SM.
-You’ll be receiving a new subject under orders. Lodging for them will be admitted.
[S.L.]

While brief, the old memo provided a wealth of information; especially as directly after it, another memo had been sent to her inbox shortly thereafter, informing her that one of her properties had gained a new tenant.

Reply: Therese Voerman: [Housing].
A new tenant was registered to our building under your name? We have no knowledge of when this paperwork was supposedly processed but the money is good. Registered name is [N/A]

Right under her nose, she mused; she recalled the ire she’d felt at the Prince micromanaging her affairs, but hadn’t given it much thought for the apparent consideration the Camarilla had extended to her in doing so. 

Sensing her train of thought, Jeanette stood with her as she rose from her office chair and gave her sister a curt nod. 

At least it wouldn’t be a long walk. 

~

The small tenant building wasn’t one of her favored ones, admittedly. It had simply been one of the many purchases she’d acquired in the vicinity of her club over the years of her reign in Santa Monica. 

She tried not to flinch at the overall state of deterioration in the small landing, and felt rather assured of herself when she failed to retch at the sight of the repulsive stairwell. 

Remind me to have this place sprayed for mold, she muttered absently.

Don't forget about the asbestos, came Jeanette’s purring reply; Do you-

-Smell blood? She asked suddenly, as they came to the fledgling’s door.    

That’s kindred vitae, Jeanette assured; lots of it. 

Disgusted, Therese gave the door a cursory knock; if I open this door to find her in some state of debauchery… she warned, laying her hand on the handle.

-If *I* open the door to find her in a state of debauchery~ , Jeanette quipped back, smiling, as the door pushed open with an ear-grating squeak.

“Oh,” Therese murmured, taking stock of the scene; the renovation projects looked rather becoming from the parts that were finished. -It spoke of the aprtment’s potential and gave the room a spark of life she hadn’t anticipated seeing. 

The rest of its sorry state was abysmal and every inch as decrepit as she had dreaded. 

“She could have told us she was playing house,” Jeanette pouted; “I would’ve put on an apron.”

Just the apron, no doubt; Therese added needlessly.  

“You in here Kitten?” Jeanette called as Therese continued to look about the room. 

Something didn’t feel right, to the Baron.

A quick glance to Jeanette told Therese that her sister was thinking much the same. 

Almost in unison, the pair turned to the shoddy door at the side of the room.

The scent grew stronger as they approached, leaving a building sensation of stomach-turning nauseated hunger in Therese’s undead stomach. 

“I hope you aren’t having a playdate without me, Sweetheart,” Jeanette warned, “You know how lonely little ol’ me gets when I don’t get an invitation.” 

She better not have drained anyone, was all Therese could think, building on her sister’s conclusions.

Opening the bathroom door turned out to be rather like opening the case file of a murder scene.  

The lightbulb did little to dispel the present air; it cast heavy shadows and burned slightly for its harshly yellow-mottled glow. 

The mirror was shattered; shards of glass littered the floor like slices of silver light glittering on a solid sea of misery. -Jeanette didn’t miss the cruel irony of the fragmentation; Therese steadied her composure as she pushed down her hunger.  

The kindred’s vitae was splattered against most of the floor, and had pooled down some of the sink, staining both a deepening red where it touched. 

Smeared stains led next to the tub, where the Toreador lay concerningly collapsed in a pool of her own coagulating blood. The leaking welts and scratches of self infliction along the kindred’s arms sparked some surprise within Therese, making her feel something like concern. 

What confused Therese however, was that the childe made no move to defend herself, or warn off their approach. 

“Kitten?” Jeanette asked quietly, while Therese stifled a hiss.  

Jeanette could hear the rose’s echoing screams bouncing around the tiles; a flower strangled in its own crooked vines, she observed, before contemplating on how best to pick off her thorns . 

Therese bit back her voice, choosing instead to approach the figure doubled over by the tub as her reflexes tried to kick in, warning her not to approach a kindred cornered.  

A slight feeling of curious discontent arose within her as she compared the current state of the young woman to the one in her memory; there was something revolting about seeing the girl as a husk of her vibrancy. 

Appraisal made, Therese adjusted her glasses and made to leave, disgusted at the apparent state of someone she had considered in possession of great potential. 

“Wait… Please ,” the Toreador pleaded suddenly; the jolt of frantic energy stemming from the childe surprising the Baron into letting go of the bathroom door’s handle, “Don’t leave. ”    

Had it not been the kindred responsible for bringing her sister -and herself, she admitted, back to their senses...

Against her better judgement, Therese turned back and knelt by the tub, studying the childe’s gaunt, exhausted face. 

“Can you speak clearly?” Therese asked, somewhat unused to asking such questions outside of her fellow clanmates; “Can you tell me what happened?”  

She didn’t speak, but there was a slight change in the Toreador’s posture that indicated she’d heard but was yet too out of it, or weak from blood loss, to properly reply.

It was perhaps a small miracle the girl had managed to say anything at all. 

It was not lost on Therese, that a kindred of lesser composure would be frenzied, in such an abysmal looking state. 

Jeanette reached out, sliding a finger into the rose’s mouth to tug the kindred’s face a bit, checking for any threat display. 

Therese sputtered, startled at her sister’s lack of self preservation, and reached to pull her hand away before it got bitten. 

Jeanette waved her off and cooed at the battered woman in front of them before hooking her fingers into the childe’s mouth again. 

A little lost for words, Therese’s awe slipped through; “...She’s-”

“-A good little beastie,” Jeanette explained, illustrating her hold by shaking the Toreador’s head. 

The invasion, or the rattle Jeanette whipped through her skull, seemed enough to break the childe out of her reverie; for a moment it looked like the Toreador was going to slip into feral instincts and become a growling mess, but then the rose’s eyes seemed to focus and the kindred Therese remembered was in the wretch’s place. 

“...Therese?” the rose asked quietly, her voice raw and strained; her pale eyes sharpened and looked as if she was struggling to focus on either one of them. “Jeanette?”

“It’s okay Duckling,” her younger sister chided, cupping the rose’s cheek; “We’ll take you home and then you can tell us all about where it hurts.”

The presumption , Therese scoffed; but it was a valid point. 

It was far safer for the childe at their club than clinging to the dingy bathtub in a hovel that wouldn’t keep out a drunk kine, let alone groomed Camarilla agents. 

Therese exhaled heavily, not relishing the thought of her soon to be ruined clothing, and leaned over to help the fledgling stand. 

“Upsy-daisy!” Jeanette giggled, lending a hand as Therese took the brunt of the kindred’s weight. 

She tried to ignore all of her resulting urges to throw the girl groundward; This is fine, Therese repeated, staving off her rising anxiety over the wealth of physical contact, This is fine. 

“Very fine,” Jeanette quipped. 

Therese indeed mourned the state of her clothing, as she helped the young woman to her feet; she comforted herself in imagining the feel of a fresh, clean , blazer.

“When we get to the club-”

“-I’ll take her up,” Jeanette supplied seriously; “That way everyone will assume-”

“-She’s just another one of your exploits ,” Therese finished agreeingly, as a sense of satisfied certainty bubbled up within the Baron’s chest. 

Feeling an odd sense of contentment, Therese pressed her tongue behind her teeth and led them out of the stifling chamber, glass shards snapping under her heels.  

Chapter Text

“If you’re ready to explain, now would be the time.”

Swimming as her head was, she was grateful she’d cobbled together enough of an ability to focus during their walk back to the club; being carted by the Voerman sisters had been far too surreal for her mind not to latch onto. 

Her body reflexively tried to swallow the saliva that didn’t exist anymore; she realized that the Barons in front of her were a little intimidating while their focus remained solely levied on her. 

The mild balm to her anxieties was their apparent curiosities; had either of their sustained glances looked… displeased, she’d have been too frantic to do anything but cower.  

“I think all the nights of my undeath caught up to me,” she admitted plainly, her ‘public-servant voice’ gone; though she couldn’t be certain, she felt it safer to assume most kindred, if not especially the Voermans, would be able to see through her well enough to make lying a fool’s errand. She also felt too tired for anything beyond open honesty, anyhow. 

The sisters cocked their head, the blurring divide of their features illustrating as if once again, just how surreal her new life had turned out to be. 

“It’s only been what-” Therese began, as Jeanette further supplied, “-a few weeks since you crawled up from the grave?” 

She nodded once; “I had to hit the ground running; with how much kept happening I’m pretty sure I… -That I’m in a state of shock?” she offered, thinking aloud the haunting, well-worn thoughts. 

When the sisters didn’t immediately change the subject, urges to confess the wealth of her transgressions overtook her; quickly, afraid that the Voermans might change their minds, she elaborated. 

“In the span of my first... What, three weeks? I was shot at, electrocuted, stabbed through, set on fire;” she rattled off, “I almost got gored by a blood-demon, ran through a gauntlet of vengeful ghosts, accosted by a mannequin obsessed serial killer, killed a hydra-headed cthulhu woman -and, by the way, I had to get willingly captured by vampire hunters;” she snipped, her mid flashing back to the Mandarin’s testing grounds, “I’ve killed so many vampire hunters…” she noted faintly, “And Shovelheads. - And monsters; so many monsters in the sewers and a house made out of meat, and there was a werewolf and some weird gremlins that jumped out of the recording studio and I have no idea what those were -and I killed a dinosaur man but he wasn’t even an alien he just looked like that-”

As the brows of the Barons raised steadily, she caught herself and damned the tide to start over more coherently; she was reminded again, that most of the kindred she’d met hadn't heard her speak more than cultured statement at a time. 

She only prayed that the Voermans wouldn’t cast her off as some... Some ‘gossiping Toreador’ for her loss of composure.

“I didn’t ask to be undead; I’m not from L.A. -I’m not even used to being in a city ? I came from the woods, East Coast,” she explained, grounding the conversation; “I was tagging along with a friend, who was visiting an aunt for the week. I got taken one night; everything I remember about it is pretty blurry. Glasses missing, my head was clouded; it wasn't just me that got taken. I thought they were drugging us, at the time. Looking back, I’m fairly certain we were all being ghouled for some kind of blood farm; I rebelled through every loophole I could. Had they been humans, I might’ve killed a few of them,” she consoled herself, the memories thick around her; “Eventually I was taken to an apartment. When I ran out of loopholes to attack him under, I waited for daybreak and turned the knife on myself; had he not woken up while I was bleeding out, I would’ve made it,” she gloated pyrrhicly, reflexively clenching the once-wounded arm. 

The sisters’ brows furrowed as they listened; Therese put a hand to their chin. 

“I remember the sound of laughing, while my vision was black,” she seethed, both fists clenched; “Woke up on the stage and all I could think watching his head roll back as his executioner walked towards me was, ‘thank god it’s finally over’. -Then Nines intervened. I blame him a little for saving me, but. He couldn’t have known how I felt and I know my petty resentment of him isn’t fair.” 

Jeanette shifted on their feet, swaying them some as Therese placed her hand on her hip.  

“I wasn’t afraid to die,” she admitted evenly, “but I was terrified LaCroix would send me back to the cages. -We both knew that he didn’t want me to live and we were both fine with that, at first. Problem was, I didn't die and in fact became rather adept in doing the dirty work, which only uncovered his tracks and made him more eager to be rid of me; so, the missions kept escalating until it seemed like I was being used as the scapegoat for the entire outcome of the city,” she lamented, her pitch wavering through the beginnings of excessive emotional energy twitching underneath her unliving skin; “I’ve seen so many things I shouldnt’ve seen and I know too many things I have no right to know, and I can’t talk about any of it because of the terrifyingly real possibility that anyone might believe me.” 

The sisters’ face softened somewhat, their halves blending a bit in their apparently shared moment of sympathy. 

“So it all became too much?” Therese asked quietly; sympathy under her murmur. 

She took a steadying imitation of breath, wishing that the memories didn’t feel so fresh. 

“I came home to find my apartment a wreck a few nights ago and my ghoul was nowhere to be found. I knew they'd just… broken in and taken her,” she murmured, lost in the recollection; the sights, the sounds. 

The smells.  

“...I watched the pack of Sabbot tear her apart in front of me.”

As the pain swept over her, she took a hissing inhalation and forced herself to push through to finish her explanation.

“I haven’t been back to that apartment since. The haven you found me in… still has her memory, but. There was a better chance the Sabbot and Camarilla wouldn’t look for me there, and I know as much as it probably doesn’t look like it, I have been trying my best not to let myself die again.”  

A few expressions of surprise and distaste slid across the sisters’ faces.  

“The Sabbot know where you live?” Therese asked, her tone raised and harsh; Jeanette’s look of unhappiness wasn’t far behind. 

“Only the Archbishop, unless he told others before I killed him. So, probably?” she offered hesitantly, at the rise in Therese’s tone. 

“Did no one think to cover for you?” Therese continued, her exhausted fury leaking through to Jeanette’s half of body; “Didn’t Nines take you into his coterie? What was he thinking?” 

She felt her body lock up slowly at the venom in Therese’s pitch; she tried desperately to think of any other way to reply than, ‘What’s a coterie?’ 

Therese must’ve noticed her lack of comprehension as she sighed and rubbed her temples.

“...I’ve pretty much been a one girl suicide squad,” she offered meakly, a ‘breath’ of chuckle to help herself through her unease; “Everyone more or less tolerated me since I was new and naive but, I don’t think anyone wanted to associate with me while I was busy ripping out all the skeletons in the city. 

“Present company excluded, of course,” she added quickly.

Jeanette’s personality leaked further over their body, nearly overtaking her sister, for a moment. 

“Why didn’t you come to me, Duckling?" the blonde asked, her tone a little sore; "You remember Bertram, don’t you? You know how good I am at folding hairpins into hay stacks.”  

“Because I didn’t want you to think my friendship is hinged on the things you can do for me,” she answered, her murmur both honest and abashed. 

Jeanette’s frown softened briefly; Therese’s brows knit in thought.

 “-Just how many important people have you... ‘Disposed’ of,” Therese asked dryly, visibly starting to churn through the possibilities; “Or pissed off,” Jeanette added. 

Thinking it over, she quelled the urge to shrug her shoulders. 

“I killed Ming-Xiao; she’s the one who turned into the hydra-esque cthulhu creature,” she started, thinking back to the interesting woman; “The Kuei-jin probably aren't happy about it, what ever’s left of them; I convinced the Anarchs to team up with the Tower to take them out; on that note, I guess the Camarilla won't be happy that I technically killed Price LaCroix. -Especially considering how there was already a bloodhunt on me and I wasn’t supposed to be unborn anway,” she added, trying to not to think about it; “And then the Sabbot are probably mad at me because I’ve wiped out almost all of their shock troops and hideyholes in the city and then I killed their Archbishop, Anderi,” she finished, realizing not for the first time just how many sects would likely be looking for her head; “He was the one in the house made out of pulsating, rotting meat, by the way,” she prattled, feeling herself drift back into static and shapes to keep from being overwhelmed.

She remembered vividly, the look on his face when she’d walked into his chamber, fresh from the impact of having watched his underlings tear her ghoul apart.  

Therese took a steadying ‘inhale’, prompting her to quiet her wavering thoughts. 

“-The incompetency of this city never ceases to disappoint me,” the Baron muttered, clearly making an effort to keep calm; “You should know that you’ve done remarkably well for one so young,” Therese lulled, surprising her; “Many in our kind haven’t done half so much in two decades their time, let alone their first weeks.” 

Jeanette bounced excitedly, perking up at the conversation’s change in tone. 

“You should stay with us,” Jeanette declared, “I promise I’ll feed you, and pet you, and take you for long walks,” she lilted coyingly. 

“Actually… a bath would be nice…?” she asked hesitantly, bloomingly aware of the state of herself. 

Therese’s relief almost seemed equal to Jeanette’s excitement.  

“Oh, this’ll be so much fun,” the younger Baron squealed; “Therese and I never get to have sleepovers,” she chirruped, before letting her words drip invitingly, “Not that we’ll be doing much sleeping.” 

“...Sister, please,” Therese begged; “Let her rest.” 

Reluctantly, Jeanette drawled, “Fine.” 

Looking to her, Therese’s eyes darted to the bathroom and back; “You can use the shower here; I’ll find you something to drink while you clean up. You can borrow something to wear, as you’ll… probably want to burn that later,” she observed, looking her over. 

Casting a quick glance at herself, she heartedly agreed.

Slowly, she started to walk to the bathroom before looking to the sister’s once more, realizing she hadn’t technically been dismissed. 

Jeanette’s smile expanded. 

“I’ll help you get all the hard to reach places,” Jeanette insisted, trodding over a few paces

“-Jeanette,” Therese warned, earning a grumbled sigh from the younger sister, who stopped in their tracks. 

With a heartfelt but likely awkward smile, she offered the sisters a nod and opened the door into their bathroom; when the door shut behind her, she reflexively let out an expanse of useless air. 

While she felt the situation a little odd on the whole, the pace of the world spinning around her had seemed to slow enough that the urges to wail and curl up onto a tile floor seemed blessedly absent in the Voerman’s bathroom.  

She stripped uneventfully; a quick test of the faucets proved the sisters appreciated hot water. Graciously, she filled herself with her reserve blood to best enjoy the warmth, and cast a prayer to the mysterious cannibal that had gifted her the chalice responsible for saving her unlife several times over.

If I ever see Pisha again, she vowed, I just might owe her a life debt. 

She scrubbed furiously, not minding the sting of the soap in the wounds; as the water rinsed the grime away her skin, her body knit itself back into a presentable state. 

It felt, remarkably good to get the city’s filth out of her hair.   

Jack, wherever you are, I owe you an apology about only bathing once in a blue moon, she mused. In the course of her first two weeks, she’d disheartenedly resigned herself to her status of trudging through sewers and gore-pits for her foreseeable future. 

Oh how quickly does hot water imprint itself as a luxury...  

She wondered if anyone in the city would even recognize her, without the layers of sludge. 

Finally feeling clean, anxiety edged into her relief.

Wary of taking too long, she killed the spray and wiped what excess water she could off her skin as best as she could before stepping out.

It occurred to her, then, that she lacked a towel. 

“Umm, Jeanette?” she called hesitantly, figuring Therese would be more embarrassed at answering. 

The lack of any answer prompted her to step back into the main room; finding it empty, she wandered over to the dresser. 

She supposed it didn’t much matter, wearing damp clothes over dry ones with what she’d already dealt with; a mild inconvenience, she told herself. 

She found what looked to be Jeanette’s underwear drawer; the colorful strings and satin triangles brought a small smile to her face; while they wouldn't exactly cover much, they seemed clean and something told her borrowing them would be safer than attempting to borrow one of Therese’s.

She didn’t bother searching through any of the bras, what with how… better blessed, the Voermans were than herself. 

Assuming the larger clothes would be housed in larger drawers, she tugged open one of the big ones on the other side to find what could only be Therese’s shirts folded pristinely therein; she felt it confirmed her belief that Jeanette had likely taken one of her sister’s shirts to ruin back during one of their squabbling gambits, in order to compose that schoolgirl look she liked to sport. 

She paused, her hand still cupping the handle. 

-Oh my god, she’s the schoolgirl because Therese dresses like a teacher- 

The obvious revelation was humorous, she had to hand it to the girl; Jeanette’s passive-aggressive jibes really were well played.  

Checking Jeanette’s side of the dresser, she found that Jeanette’s shirts, what were left of them, didn’t look like they’d win her any favors from the elder Baron. 

She grabbed one of the elder sister’s, hoping Therese would understand. 

The white material seemed fancy; a far cry from the back-of-the-van outfits she’d cobbled together over her dark nights.

Maybe it was the Toreador in her, but it made her feel more human; more capable. 

Riding the buzz, she intended to follow it through with one of the elder sister’s skirts, but found them to slide comically off her hips. 

Sighing, she folded the skirt as best she could and laid it on the top of the dresser for Therese to fix before grabbing one of Jeanette’s; she supposed she was grateful the younger Baron apparently wore her most of her clothes several sizes too small, as they seemed to sit well enough on her frame, though they still felt a little too short from what she was more used to. 

It was as good as she was likely to get, on such short notice. 

Dressed, and more well-fitted inside her body than she had felt for some time, she decided that Jeanette’s chair looked as good a place as any to wait for the sisters to come back. 

Her face looked so…

Personable, in the mirror.

Carefully, she ran her fingers through the clean, shorn cut hair. 

While feeling remarkably more rational than she’d felt in several nights, she still couldn’t tell if she longed for her reflection to better match who she used to be, or if she was grateful that if, like Velvet, she could leave her old self quietly resting in eternal peace.

The stranger in the glass looked like someone capable, at least.  

The ✨colors✨ in Jeanette’s makeup kits looked inviting.

Just as she entertained the idea of toying with them, the sisters returned with little fanfare. 

Therese seemed a little emotionally vexed, though her posture seemed relaxed enough and she was wearing a fresh outfit; she eyed the blood packs in the blonde’s hand to prevent her eyes from lingering anywhere else on the Baron’s aesthetically pleasing form; her neckline was a plunging valley of damnable temptations. 

“You will be able to feed from the patrons, of course,” Therese stated, walking over; “But for now, I’d rather we negate the risk of you… having any accidents.” 

She nodded once, hoping she looked well enough to please. 

The elder sister did pause, as she passed off the blood, to better look her over. 

“While I commend you for taking pride in your presentation,” Therese stated slowly, “You shouldn’t force it when you’re not properly fed.” 

She nodded slower, withholding an urge to explain about her… ‘second stomach’. 

-This was the most socialization she’d gotten, since she’d been turned, it was technically a very sound piece of advice. 

Keeping her movements respectfully steady, she bit into the bag and forced herself to sip it; stifling her learned reflex to gulp down whatever slurry she could in the midst of high-staked situations.    

It seemed to please the older Baron.

“Aww, you got dressed without me,” Jeanette playfully mourned, hand on her hip. 

She stifled the urge to spread her legs and show off the younger Baron’s panties; something of the thought must have flashed across her face however, as Jeanette’s biteless candor slid into a knowing smirk. 

She watched the sisters continue to look her over. 

She sucked up her blood as unobtrusively as she hoped she could appear; something about Therese’s murky expression made her painfully conscious about her... lack of padding. 

She gripped the bloodpack a little too tightly, consuming the bulk of its contents a little too quickly.

Wordlessly, Therese handed her the second with a surprising demeanor of understanding; she relaxed reflexively at the Baron’s aura, alight in dusty pink and light lavender.  

She sipped the second blood bag intermittently, certain it would be the last of the elder Baron’s generosity for some nights, at least. 

“I’ll be sorting out some details the next few nights,” the older sister informed her plainly; “In the meantime, I suggest you find ways to entertain yourself at our club without turning it into a bloodbath.” 

“Yes Ma’am,” she answered reflexively, nodding. 

“Jeanette will probably check in on you, time to time,” the Baron continued; she nodded accordingly; “Tomorrow you’ll be free to make a few calls if you need to but, be smart about it, please.”

“Of course,” came her reflexive reply; most of her attention enjoying the cadence of the Baron’s tones.

“I can have a few things delivered,” Therese stated, more an instruction than an offer; “Within reason.” 

Her thoughts, perhaps stereotypically, drifted to her predicament of apparel. 

She wondered if Velvet would agree to measure her; she’d no doubt Jeanette would be more than willing, but she also knew the younger Baron well enough to know that she’d not be above having some fun at her expense by intentionally getting her measurements a few sizes wrong. 

Jeanette chuckled, likely following her assumptions. 

She smiled warmly, grateful for the threatless atmosphere.

“Tonight, what little remains of it,” Therese ordered, her tone expectant, “You’re going to rest quietly while I take care of some things, is that clear?”     

“As you wish,” she agreed again, nodding a little. 

The older Baron seemed to relax somewhat, likely for her amiable nature; she hoped it made the older kindred’s unlife a little easier, not that it was much of a way to return the woman’s magnanimity. 

Jeanette really wasn’t wrong, to compare me to a baby duck, she mused, taking another quiet sip; if LaCroix had been a woman, all of LA would have been screwed. 

Hell, if it hadn’t been for the Voermans and Velvet Velour, she reflected, she’d’ve had no qualms in taking Ming Xiao up on her obvious doom-entailing offers. 

She huffed, angry at her own self-destructive tendencies.  

Sounds of fingernails steadily tapping against plastic keys soon filled the room; occasionally the Baron let out a huff or curt, gruff growl of vexation. 

She wondered if the woman was monitoring her composer as she worked, to better seem a face of unflappable authority. 

Irregularly, the monotony of the air was broken by Jeanette starting to hum, or by the younger sister offering a colorful opinion about what the sisters were dealing with, which seemed to orientate around Therese writing strongly worded messages to kindred about the city and its affiliates. 

Unused to being around kindred without being tasked to do something perilous, she let herself press back into the chair, falling deeply into herself in a way that wasn’t destructive or filled by fuzzy static. 

Her senses now, seemed a source of novelty.  

Periodically the clicking stopped as the sisters traded the keyboard for a pen; the scratching of nibs and flipped pages proved to be equally inconsequential to her. 

She refrained from spinning herself idly; not knowing if, or how badly, the chair might squeak. 

Her thoughts drifted to the memory of LaCroix standing watch at his window; of staring at him in silence until he felt a whim to acknowledge her, forcing her to wonder about her right to speak in his vicinity. 

With little else to do, and a grand desire not to fulfill any stereotypes by staring at herself in the mirror for the rest of the night, her eyes glossed over their bookshelf a few feet away to scan the titles. 

When was the last time she opened a book that wasn’t ‘How to Operate a Firearm While Sneaking into a Government Building 101’? 

She could scarcely even recall the act of reading them; though the informational guides within them all seemed blood deep just the same. 

Could she even finish a regular book? 

Her human depression had seen to the end of that some years ago, back while she still breathed.

Torn between the elation of trying and a paralyzing fear of what the sisters would think of her for failing, she spent a disproportionate amount of time fretting it over. 

“Yes, you may browse them, if you wish,” Therese eventually informed her, breaking her trance; “I promise we’re not going to light you on fire for moving without permission; whatever did that man teach you in that Tower?” the Malkavian grumbled, her words falling into rolling mumbles beneath audibility. 

Faced with the predicament of fulfilling her self made prophecy, she slowly rose to her feet and halted before the bookshelf. 

Her body mimicked a sigh. 

She selected one of the ✨art books✨; figuring the area of study at least, would be something she could keep herself focused on. 

The pages felt glossy smooth, under her fingertips.

It proved to be a biography for some classical artist she’d never heard of, whose works looked the part for any gallery or museum; the examples of his works were calming, though it was Therese’s notations that made her smile. 

The Baron had highlighted art-tips she’d found prudent. 

Cute.

Half faded memories of being back in the school’s artrooms flooded through her senses; warm, filtering sunlight at their backs as her group of classmates stayed for lunch to laugh together under the guise of being productive.

A page had been almost completely scribbled out, surprising her. 

Guess he said something she didn’t like. 

She thought of the intense hatred she’d held for the mandated self portraits her teachers had pressed upon her and softly turned the page. 

She thought about all the art books she'd kept more for the ability to reference their pictures than for their written words. She’d moved past the need for them, early in her youth. 

She wondered if she could sweet talk Therese into painting with her; it’d be nice to just-

Do something relaxing, she thought.  

When the computer whined a telling, final breath before cutting off, she picked her eyes up from the book she’d been rescanning for some time and pressed it closed. 

Her gaze followed Therese as the Baron stood up and tidied a few things about her desk before straightening her posture to needlessly smooth over her clothes. 

Must be a habit, she observed. 

With an air of capability, the elder Voerman approached her. 

She fought the urge to jump to her feet, sensing that ‘minutes before dawn’ would not be when the Baron would task her with things to fetch. 

-At least not within these particular minutes, she amended, studying the kindred’s approach. 

Therese adjusted her glasses, before tucking them into her breast pocket. 

Jeanette took over effortlessly, her features seamlessly blurred onto their face. 

“You can sleep in my bed, Duckling. Don’t worry, I won’t bite,” she baited, posturing her hips, “Unless you ask nicely,” she teased, her grin an unabashed smirk. 

She grinned, placing the book on Jeanette’s desk before crawling onto the heart shaped bed with a little hop.

Jeanette waited behind her lazily, having likely stopped for the ‘view’; she turned, resting on her side to watch the younger Baron shed her sister’s jacket and heels, watching her back with a feeling of light excitement. 

The mildly lecherous gaze on the kindred’s face inspired some encouragement; she slipped under the covers, holding them aloft for Jeanette to slide in beside her. 

She allowed the younger sister to pull her close; enjoying the feel of the hands sliding under her borrowed shirt to press more intently against her back. 

Jeanette’s affections were strangling; she buried her face into the Malkavian’s chest and tried not to cry in relief for the steadying effect of the contact. 

Skin hunger was a bitch.  

“So eager for another taste of me, Kitten?” Jeanette cooed, digging fingernails into her scalp; “Don’t worry, I’ll give you plenty of pieces of me to play with after you rest up. -Maybe if you cough really hard, Therese will let us play doctor,” she added, plying for submission. 

She hugged Jeanette tighter. 

“Thank you,” was all she could manage, from the sanctity of the elder kindred’s chest. 

Jeanette hummed a bit, the shift in her posture one of surprise, then approval. 

“Sleep up Duckling,” Jeanette murmured, “And don’t worry about any of those pesky flies buzzing inside that pretty head of yours; just think of me while you sleep,” she ordered huskily in her ear, “-and I’ll be the only monster inside your dreams.” 

As if the impish Malkavian had planned it, dawn came, and the world ceased to exist.         

Chapter Text

After waking up to being heavily groped with Jeanette’s tongue running along her ear, Therese, looking flushed and close to losing her temper, had sternly interjected that she ‘play downstairs for awhile’, insisting that there was ‘evening work to be done’ before Jeanette was free to ‘rut around’ for the night. 

She’d stayed long enough to tug her borrowed clothes back into their proper positions before darting out, having not wanted to risk Therese’s ire; though she hadn’t missed the flurry of Jeanette’s laughter on her way out, prompting a smile.  

Once down below she milled about; picking out quiet spots to ✨watch✨ the human patrons stagger in...

She found the influx of people almost soothing; like falling calm in watching ant farms or aquariums. 

A couple of the people seemed to recognize her; she’d stopped by often enough since her death to become a fellow regular, she supposed. 

She sat at the bar awhile, ogling the profound blend of artistic intrigue and inherent disgust she experienced over the bartender’s appearance. 

Cal’s tattoos were interesting; they were just thematic swirls that lent well to the Malkavian atmosphere, she felt; his sagging, brootish face was, she supposed, one of the club’s ‘necessary evils’, to borrow the elder Baron’s phrase. 

Cal thankfully wasn’t much for talking; he seemed indifferent to her presence, which she supposed was better than any alternative. He passed her a glass to fiddle with; whatever it’s contents, it sadly wasn’t anything human.

When she grew bored of looking at him, half-shrouded shapes around the darkened corners of the club caught her attention.

Looks like Therese called in some security, she noted.

Attempting not to feel guilty about the extra security, she turned her attention to the other guests at the bar; she refused to entertain any of the men that tried to catch her eye. 

The women, ironically, left her little room to engage in conversation.

After a few failed attempts, she left her post to find greener grounds. 

Most of the ladies she singled out rebuked her; sans the few girls she’d fed from over the nights of her undeath. 

-Perhaps she had something of a bad reputation as a womanizing drug peddler, she realized, the thought occurring to her as she made strained attempts at conversation with Danielle, the actual drug addict.

Guess they’re not wrong. 

She tried not to let her discomfort at the woman’s choice of provocative flirtation show; it was more than surreal to be on the receiving end of the ‘responsible’ role in the banter she otherwise would have delighted in playing in. 

-Every time Danielle called her ‘Mommy’, her flight or fight response pooled in her throat. 

As her discomfort grew during their warbling conversation, her rising hyperawareness prompted her to rethink her attempts at socializing.

Suddenly she was unsure if making herself known was the safest move; she didn’t know who else the woman might talk to and she really didn’t want to accidentally provoke any attacks on the Asylum. 

Cutting her losses, she gave the woman what she wanted (a quick bite, a small drink) and waited by the railing long enough for Danielle’s ‘high’ to wear off, unwilling to leave a girl in any state of vulnerability in such an unforgiving city; thick with fresh-fed imagination, her mind easily drew up memories of prosthetic-limbed madmen and the Voerman’s own blood bank curator. 

Validated, she felt immediate comfort under her correct understanding that the world was not a safe space. 

After Danielle ‘woke up’, she left her for the ✨dance floor✨; figuring it’d be the easiest place to waste her time without looking out of place or giving her time to fall into any further disappointment about her choices. 

She managed to fall into the music; she didn’t doubt her ‘dancing’ was an affront to the inherent beauty in the nature of human movement, but she swallowed her anxieties and channeled the past moments of abandon she’d given herself to when on the Asylum dancefloor.

Songs drifted, flared, and faded. 

Like stars raging into the night to bloom and decay before dawn, the songs filled her with acknowledgments of her microscopic place in the grand schemes of the vast, unknowable, uncaring cosmos. 

Everytime the lyrics of ‘Isolated’ started up, she felt herself grow feverish. 

For as long as the music circulated her heartbeat for her, she was made alive.  

Almost happily, she mulled over that while the Confession was more fun to look at, it simply could not compare to the way the Asylum sounded.

It also lacked the feel of an inhibitionless Malkavian sliding up against her, to direct her movements on the dancefloor. 

She didn’t bother turning around; happy for the feel of Jeanette feeling her up in time to the pulsating beats; electrified, to feel the kindred’s mouth against her neck kissing hints of pointed teeth. 

They melted around each other; Jeanette far beyond used to the ways she could inspire bodies to move. 

Soon, other bodies moved in around them. 

Jeanette’s laughs were intoxicating.

It was so, so easy, to follow exactly as the Malkavian wanted to lead. 

The few times she opened her eyes she found only comfort, in Jeanette’s knowing, appetizing, smiles.  

Over the course of the shifting tracks, light twirls and teasing hands rolled into pressing hips and muffled moans; the onslaught of stimuli was a banquet for her senses, and it left her feeling both capable and sick with opposing needs. 

In the wakes of their almost purposeful grinding, she found herself airily mortified and intensely appeased that she’d left blurs of red along the blonde’s cultivating thighs. 

Her rush of embarrassed desire fueled a delightful amount of tension between them; as the songs melted into each other, it was all she could do to keep from outright panting like a beast in heat. 

Their passions were not lost on the crowds; while it hadn’t seemed busy before, the club seemed almost packed now. It was almost estrangedly thick, on the dancefloor. 

She hadn't much thought to the onlookers prior, but she felt something nasty in her shift at the thought of some of the wandering bodies touching her. 

“Jealous, Kitten?” Jeanette hummed, lips brushing against her ear as her hands continued to roam under her borrowed skirt, palming curves and sliding against wet folds to make her shiver, arch, and moan; “I thought you’d like being the prime cut in my bleeding house of laughter...”

Her eyes closed automatically at the feel of Jeanette’s fingers digging into her inner flesh; she didn’t bother attempting to hide her answering shudder.

“I don’t play with boys,” was all she managed to work out, as she fell into the rush of sensations again, finding the heavy thudding of bass positively electrifying.

There was a grunt that might’ve stemmed from Jeanette; but she knew the kindred had heard her over the crowded din.

She also knew without looking, that following her plea the only bodies moving alongside them would consist of anything entirely separate than ‘men’. 

It was the enacted acknowledgement, she supposed, that kept her trust in the kindred minding her movements with purpose. 

The blonde's mouth at her neck made it difficult to hold onto a solid train of thought.

Not for the first time, she let herself acknowledge that she’d be more than willing to let the provocative Voerman break her heart, if the tempting woman ever invited her closer. 

She wondered if it was defeatist, that she could only picture a relationship with Jeanette ending in a ‘crash-and-burn’ attitude; assuming the blonde ever agreed to such a monogamous arrangement at all. 

No; better to be playmates , she affirmed; if nothing else, I can ensure I’m the best of her friends; someone she can come back to again and again, forever. 

When her breathing had been rendered to little more than breath-mickicked whines, Jeanette finally released her. 

The older kindred looked positively pleased for the effect she’d inflicted on her. 

“Oh Duckling, you know how to wind the key of me,” she moaned, running a rosed thumb over her lips; she drew it into her mouth thoughtlessly, imbibing the taste of herself which garnered a nearly beasitial look from the kindred she more longed to sample.

Jeanette pulled her in close; she let the young Baron’s thumb fall from her lips, a thin coat of vitae substituting saliva. 

“If my sister wasn’t upstairs working, little girl,” Jeanette warned, “I’d drag you back to my bed and show you just what happens to suede kittens in my club.” 

Being the ‘suede’ to VV’s ‘Velvet’ caused her to smile; she wondered if the Malkavian’s wordsmithing was intentional, or insightfully coincidental.  

She licked her lips appreciatively, remembering the taste of their past one-night-stand on her tongue. 

Jeanette pulled back. 

“My sister’ll be upset if I keep you to myself all night Duckling; why don't you go play with her for a bit, Sweetheart? I’ve got a few rounds to make, seems how we’ve neglected the boys for so long.”

She nodded, knowing better than to whine at being dismissed. 

Still, she was unable to stop herself from stealing a parting kiss, before trotting over to the Voerman’s elevator; Jeanette’s responding chuckle confirmed that her gamble had been appreciated.  

The ride up gave her time to compose herself, somewhat. 

The music faded the higher the light ascended, giving the moment an almost post-coital clarity that left her limbs trembling. 

She tried not to think about how brazen she'd been in Jeanette's company; her living self would never had been so bold as to walk into a club, let alone dance with a girl.  

She pushed the thought aside as she pushed open the apartment door.

The Voerman’s room was, as she’d expected, empty of anyone; it did leave the phone open as Therese had promised. 

She wished she knew anyone’s number. 

What was a phone number anyway? She mused; a miserable little pile of digits. 

When staring at it for a length of time proved useless, she gently scanned the desk to see if there were any notes the older Baron might’ve left of use. 

While nothing overt jumped out, picking up the phone itself proved handy, as a few notes had been taped onto the middle of the receiver. 

One for Issac, two for ‘McNeil ’, three for Nines. 

The dial tone ripped a twitch into her lips. 

“Any luck?” came a gruff response. 

“Hey Nines,” she answered, hearing a startled noise from the other end of the line; apparently having caught his attention, the Anarchist cleared his throat. 

“You good kid? ...How did you get Therese’s phone? Is everything all right? Everyone’s been looking for you;” it was perhaps, the longest string of conversation she’d had with the man. 

Something like guilt ate away at her harbored resentments. 

“I’ll explain later; I’m just lying low for a few nights, what with having committed Camarilla treason or whatever. Figured I should call, let you know I’m not un-alive.” 

While the man on the other end of the line didn’t breathe, he made a sort of noise that reminded her of a breath of relief. 

Or perhaps, she allowed, she was projecting.     

“You want me to pass on anything to anyone?” he asked, surprising her; she supposed she should have expected it though, it was likely her services were still in demand from numerous sources. 

“Do you have Velvet’s number? I don’t want her to think I’m ignoring her.”

“Yeah, I can do that. I’ll call back in a minute okay?”

“Thanks,” she replied evenly.

She grabbed a pen from Therese’s cupholder and wiggled it with her index finger and thumb. 

Wonder who ‘McNeil’ is, she pondered, thinking over the scratched out name.

It didn’t take long, before Nines rang back. 

“You got a pen or something’?” he asked; bold of him to presume I’m still the one standing by. 

-Probably just as bold as me for assuming I could just say ‘Camarilla’ over the phone, come to think of it. 

Happily, she affirmed and scribbled the number above her scar, before thanking him.

She hung up before he could make her explain anything.

She dialed VV’s number with a mix of morbid delirium; it rang for several moments, likely busy.

She mouthed the end of the pen, careful not to actually scratch any of it with her teeth. 

“...Hello? May I ask who's calling?”

The familiar voice of the working girl brought a soft smile to her face; “Misti, right? This is one of VV’s friends. Could you tell her I called, or pass me along, if she’s not busy? -Tell her I borrowed Ms. Voerman’s number.” 

The girl agreed obediently, likely used to ferrying messages or else too surprised to make much fuss. 

There were some sounds of heedy music, shuffling about; grunts and higher pitched squeals as the girl on the other end of the phone made her way through Vesuvius’s teeming soundscape. 

In a few moments more, she heard a muffled voice, and then an almost human-like intake of air. 

“Hello?” 

The silk-like word was edged, as if Velvet had been hanging on the edge of her seat for something. 

The thought that she might’ve caused the svelte Toreador any sense of distress at all, left her stomach feeling sour. 

“VV, it’s me,” she offered, hoping her voice rang familiar over the phone; “I’m sorry I haven’t stopped by lately-” she began, feeling another pang of guilt wash over her as she thought of how many emails from the well meaning woman she might have missed..

“Oh thank goodness,” Velvet ‘breathed’, cutting her off with a hitch of relief; “When Nines asked for my number I hoped it had something to do with you. -I couldn’t picture him needing it otherwise.” 

Feeling weak at the knees for the woman’s mellowing, sleek flowing cadence, she bloomed in response;

“I can confirm from experience, that being in your presence could make even the proudest of kindred weak to their very knees.”

“ -Flatterer ,” Velvet scathed happily, “Oh how I’ve missed you; you’ll be coming back soon, won’t you? I hope you haven’t forgotten about that dance. I certainly have thought of little else,” the woman baited, her tone lightly dripping.

“I’d never forget you,” she offered genuinely, her heart in her throat; “I have to lay low for a few more nights but, I’ll stop by when I can.”  

“Please, be careful,” Velvet warned somberly, “I… don’t want to imagine what it would feel like to spend an eternal night without you.” 

The sentiment in VV’s voice nearly made her cry. 

“You won’t lose me, I promise,” she swore plainly, “Not for as long as I can help it.” 

“I’ll be waiting fondly for you then, Sweet Kindred,” Velvet pined, “Don’t forget me-”

“-I’d sooner forget the feel of moonlight,” she ensured, before the line fell dead.

Carefully, she forced herself to place the phone back in it’s cradle; she hoped Velvet approved of her choice in imagery, she couldn’t help but to feel a little foolish in the wake of romantic notions. 

“I suppose I did say you were allowed to make calls,” Therese’s low noted murmur tumbled in.

She looked up to find the Baron, in her own clothes, looking down at her. 

“...I only had two to make,” she offered, hoping it wasn't a breaching number. 

The Baron nodded, setting her a bit more at ease. 

She stepped away from Therese’s desk, hoping her proximity to it wasn’t sparking any Beastial instincts within the woman; she was banking on her sense of social cues to better keep the peace between them. 

“No time to cultivate a throng of admirers, then?” Therese chided, sitting in her chair; “You Toreadors are certainly nothing if not predictable.” 

“In my defense, I only called Nines because I needed Velvet’s number. -And I may be naive, but even I know it isn't smart to trifle with the affections of a Baron’s daughter.” 

Therese made something of a snort, perhaps one of amusement; the expression as she adjusted her glasses seemed cordial enough; taking it as a cue she sat in the chair across from Therese’s desk. 

“I’m sure her company is… entertaining, if you enjoy such lurid displays,” the Malkavian dismissed.  

Biting back her commentary about the validness of the sex industry, she chose instead for a softer approach to the conversation. 

“Actually the club atmosphere is still rather uncanny for me; I’m fine enough with the girls, but remembering men are there always makes me uneasy. I end up on edge more times than I’m actually having fun.” 

The Baron seemed surprised by the information; still unused to how freely she gave it, maybe. 

“As I’m sure Jeanette can show you, the appetites of women can be just as uncouth,” Therese shot, before she winced; her breach of composure didn’t last more than an instant, her recovery-time was a marvel to behold. 

“It’s just a shame we have to judge ourselves by the double standards of men, is all,” she insisted, hoping the elder Baron could be eased into playing nice, if nothing else. 

Therese seemed to consider it, sparking some hope for future examinations. 

“I suppose it’s not an area I’ve put much thought in,” the elder Voerman offered carefully; clearly not liking to lower her guard. 

“Perhaps unfortunately, it’s a subject I’ve likely put too much thought in,” she appeased, keeping the air between them light; “I’m not much of an Anarch to look at but, I can and will rant my lungs out about the innumerable horrors of the patriarchy if given the chance,” she toyed playfully. 

She carefully watched Therese take in the breadth of information. 

The Baron smiled somewhat, placing her hand beneath her chin.  

“You would call the murder of a Prince to be anything less, than Anarchist?” the elder Baron baited. 

Fishing as the older woman clearly was, she was happily willing to impart her conclusion; “I don’t care much who owns what, or how what is run by whom,” she began, quickly hardening her tone, “But the form of government must benefit its people and if at any point the ones in charge cease to benefit their populace, they must be replaced. -I didn't hate LaCroix because he was Camarilla, I despised him for his incompetence.”

“From how Issac tells it, you had the fate of the city on your shoulders,” Therese pressed, her tone nearly amused.

“I don’t fancy myself smarter than what I am,” she dodged, erring for caution, “I was two weeks old and I knew nothing about how the Camarilla was run or what the Anarchs wanted to actually accomplish, but I saw enough about the Sabbat to know not to let them gain control of anything, and I knew LaCroix wanted to diaberlize the Antediluvian and that he had to be disposed of before his lust for power killed us all; I also knew that despite the Anarchy's well-meanings, that none of the rebels I’d trust with power would be able to do anything with it, and I knew that if I did ‘pass off the crown’ to anyone in the city, it’d not only mark them and myself further for death, but that everything I’d done to keep the city from ripping itself apart would've come undone in an instant. -Or at least,” she amended, acknowledging that there were still perhaps, forces that had been at play she’d yet to understand, “That’s the way it all felt like.”  

Therese tilted her head, slightly, as if mulling her words over. 

“He… wanted to diablerize it?” Therese asked carefully. 

She nodded. 

Therese’s ‘exhale’ was curt; she adjusted her glasses. 

“Were you anyone else…” the elder Baron began, before stopping herself. 

“You should, in future, be highly suspect of who you divulge things to,” Therese directed. 

She nodded agreeingly.

“I trust my Sister and I are the only ones you’ve spoken about such things with?” 

She vision focused; “While I was working for LaCroix, I did play liaison with Nine’s right-hand, Damsel; and I’m sure Becket and Smiling Jack knew more than I let on. But no, I never got much of a chance to relay anything to either side beyond a few key statements. ‘LaCroix is after the sarcophagus’, ‘Nines says he won’t play ball’, I ‘took care of it’ ,” she quoted dryly, miming the quotes before settling down again; “Things of that nature. Nobody but Jack ever wanted to really chat.” 

Therese’s fingers twitched slightly; an absent tell to her flickering thoughts, no doubt. 

“If you were asked to tell the whole truth, would you?” Therese asked monotonously. 

She gave the Baroness the satisfaction of seeing her think it over for a moment. 

“I wouldn’t be so naive as to think there couldn’t be a scenario wherein that would have to happen, to save myself or the people I care about. In such an event, I learnt that tone of voice and choice of exact words is highly important; it’s how I outlived LaCroix.” 

Her answer pleased the Malkavian, if the way Therese’s shift in posture was anything to judge from. 

“Tell me, what do you think of my peers?” the woman asked plainly; she wondered if this was the elder kindred’s version of a job interview. 

“Well, I’m close to Velvet, Issac’s newest pride and joy; I helped his son skip town so I’m most likely dead the second he thinks I’ve outlived my usefulness. -Or when Velvet loses interest in me,” she added, thinking realistically; “I don’t know much about the way Issac rules or what he stands for, but I do know that as Baron of Hollywood, he must control the movie industry and… I have a lot of thoughts about why the media industry is the way it currently is, and the ways it should change. I supposed he could be holding off the Camarila's influence as best as he can, so I don’t want to judge that aspect of him without knowing for certain. I feel like, if things were different, he might be a fun person to watch old movies with, moods permitting.”

Therese rested her chin upon her slender fingers. 

She licked her lips to continue, “I suppose Strauss counts? He’s one of the most manner-orientated men I’ve ever met I think, excluding the Archbishop. I feel like he’s fair but exceedingly dangerous; I… don’t want to imply that I might’ve ever dug up a few of the skeletons in his closets, but if I had, I wouldn’t want anyone to know that I had done so for fear of how he’d silence me for any lack of my discretions.” 

The admission was a surprise on her own tongue; Therese’s lack of shock felt somewhat comforting. 

“Nines is alright I guess. Seems a pillar of the community. I’ll… probably end up working with his group, since I don’t have anywhere else to go. -I killed a prince so they kind of have to be nice to me or lose face I think.”

She thought briefly over the other players in the elaborate chess game she’d wiped clean. 

“If hanging out with Nines doesn’t work out, I guess I can always try the Warrens. Gary doesn’t like Toreadors but, neither does anyone else and I’m good at doing stuff; killing things. I don’t think he’d waste an asset if it also meant he could laugh at the idea of running me through the sewers on a near-nightly basis.” 

She didn’t know if anyone else on her list of names she’d encountered could be considered someone of Therese’s importance; she let her lips fall silent. 

“You would work -willingly- for those, those filthy Nosferatu?” Therese asked, visibly shocked and a little appalled; “They’re so… completely against everything the Rose clan stands for, are they not?” 

“I can't speak for any of the others in my clan, though I hear most of them are pretentious dicks; but I’ve often found that anyone, regardless of clan, is polite enough if you're respectful of them first. -Then again, I was introduced to most of the city as LaCroix’s lackey so it’s possible people were humoring me with more tolerance than I otherwise would have gotten,” she offered, shrugging; “I know my clan is supposed to idealize beauty above all but, that’s such a subjective principle and there’s something inside me that hates the distorted ethics of judging someone just because they aren’t the cultural ‘norm’; and to be honest, I’ve flat out seen way grosser shit than the Nos. They would hardly make the top ten anymore, if I had to rank them.” 

She kept her rant in a civil, non-blaming tone; she could tell Therese was struggling with an agreement of the principle and her battle with her inner traumas. 

Wishing to sooth the transition, she segued into easier waters, giving the older kindred an easier way out; “I suppose that’s why I’m rather fond of your ideals?” she levied, her tone sweet, “I won’t claim to know anything of the clan specific maladies but, I recall human illnesses enough to know that I’m not a fan of everyone casting them off for them, either.”

Therese visibly eased, nodding. 

“Yes, that is something I picked up about you,” the elder Baron agreed; “Your bleeding heart may be a product of your youth, but there’s a wealth of sensibility in you that I think you’ll grow into.” 

Finding the assessment more than fair, she smiled; content, in the course of conversation. 

“Did you want to know my thoughts about you?” she asked, knowing she was dipping dangerously close to lines the Baron wouldn’t yet, if ever, want crossed. 

The Baron’s demeanor shifted subtly into a better guarded stance; not that she blamed her. 

Taking the opening as an invitation, she worked the moment to flatter the woman a bit. 

“I found you to be highly practical, foremost. It was more than refreshing, to work for you when 

I did,” she didn’t miss the way the corners of Therese’s mouth perked, ever so slightly; “I admit I was not used to being treated like a capable person at first introduction; you gave your ultimatums, explained your wishes, and followed through on your word. I wanted to succeed for you, to prove that your expectations in me were not misplaced.”

Therese’s posture practically beamed; while she doubted Therese would be so easily buttered, she was sure the sentiment behind the flattery was appreciated anyway. 

Feeling that the pragmatic assessment was going well, she chanced dipping into emotional waters. 

“And, I won’t lie to you Therese. I couldn't, after everything,” she attested, her tone more than soft; “I wouldn’t offend you by assuming your intentions or reasoning, but, either way I would like you to know that I appreciate what’s between us. I… don’t know what would have become of me, had you not gone out of your way to find me. I… -Thank you, Therese. Genuinely, I am grateful for the ways you’ve looked out for me.”

The Baron seemed at first, a loss for words. 

After a quick adjustment of her glasses, the Malkavian’s companionable air returned. 

“Of course,” Therese replied, “You’ve… been a great asset to me these past nights; I may have great use of you, moving forward. -But we can save such things for later yet,” the Baron spoke; “For now, you should take the chance to relax some; I trust Jeanette has been keeping you entertained?” 

She nodded; “Your club is nice,” she chirped, “Best music I’ve heard, anywhere I’ve been.” 

The smile lurking on Therese’s face broadened; “I’m happy to hear it. I’ll have your regards passed along to the DJ.” 

She chuckled lightly, a hand near her lips. 

“Oh, before I forget,” Therese addressed, feigning an ability to forget anything, “Is there anything you needed?”

She thought back to her scant possessions that weren’t firearms and emergency medications she’d stacked away for her ghoul. 

“I… kind of want everyone to think I’m still at my old apartment? -The one next to the theater. Matter of pride perhaps but, I think it would ultimately be safer in the longrun if everyone continued to assume I lived there.”

Thinking about it a bit more intently, her thoughts conjured pictures of dark screens and blinking texts.

“My laptop probably shouldn’t be left there.”

She thought to the weathered journal she’d started the third night of her undeath. 

“I also have a journal I’d like back in my possession. ...It’s personal,” she explained carefully, hoping Therese wouldn’t take it for granted; “It’s probably more than incriminating, were any human hands to find it.”  

“Anything else?” the Baron asked, nodding once as she folded her hands against her desk; it was the last extension of the offer she could make use of, judging from the tone.

She bit the tip of her tongue as her mind raced over anything of possible use or further detriment before falling short; the bulk of the things left behind were Heather’s. 

And they’d be waiting for her patiently enough, whenever she got back to them. 

She shook her head; “Not from my apartments, no.”

“Very well,” Therese closed, “You may stay here if you wish or return downstairs. I’d prefer you wait a few more nights before venturing back into the city.” 

She nodded, having already accepted any terms of agreement. 

Despite already having the Baron’s technical permission, she pressed a little, curious to the Baron’s answer; “Would it disrupt you if I stayed up here? I saw a few books last night that I wouldn't mind reading.”

“Please, be my guest,” Therese replied happily; she seemed genuinely approving of the idea. 

Exchanging a smile with the older blonde, she wondered how often the woman had any chance to talk about simple common interests; or have someone take her up on her offers of companionship over her sister’s. 

She chose a ✨larger volume✨, spanning the width of several artistic careers, and sat on the elongated ottoman beside Therese’s desk, curling her legs on top of its plush surface; she’d looked to the Baron, as she’d past, and caught what she thought could have been a tiny smile. 

They busied themselves in their conjunctional silence until Therese’s companionably confident typing lulled her attention deeply into the post-impressionism movement in the 1900’s.

She vaguely recalled the movement from her art history courses; the encyclopedia felt more in depth about the topic however, wandering over well known names and principles to those who would have otherwise been left to drift aimlessly across time half-forgotten or unrecognized.

While studying the text she couldn’t help but to compare the blonde kindred’s artstyle to those in the book.  

“-symbolic and highly personal meanings were particularly important to Post-Impressionists, as they rejected interest in depicting the observed world and instead looked to their memories and emotions in order to connect with the viewer on a deeper level, allowing structure, order, and optical effects composed of color to dominate the aesthetic of the movement. In this way, Post-Impressionists relied on the interrelations of color and shape to describe the world around them, rather than merely representing their surroundings-” 

She thought to the paintings in the gallery; their red tones, surreal and largely vast, empty landscapes. There had been a dream-like quality to them that had felt both illicit and bare; the tragic love story had splayed out across the canvases like swelters of raw nerves and grim warnings about the eventuality and cycles of fate. 

-Therese had painted too close to the truth-

She firmly shut such trails of thought away, but felt confident in her assessment that the blonde had tuned into more than she’d likely realized if her assessment of the taxi-driver's nature was correct. 

Studying the examples in the book, she also felt safe in saying Therese’s gallery works had been almost as if Paul Gauguin had been the one to paint “The Scream”.

It was somewhat of a following train of thought then, that she noted Therese’s rather morose family portrait far more resembled the works of Edouard Vuillard.

Her eyes drifted to the painting without difficulty; it practically dwarfed the room. 

Usually, she tried hard not to look at it, visible as it was almost from any angle; staring at it for too long only brought up the questions she strived to push way down, deep inside the back of her mind.  

Had they *always* shared a body? Or had there been, at one point, a different Jeanette? Had Therese even been the older child? Which personality had experienced the ‘realer’ truth? What had *really* happened between them all? 

She forced the thoughts away with a well-worn reminder; Did it matter?

While she sincerely hoped something about the painting was able to bring some amount of peace to the Voermans in their ever troubled nights, she couldn’t help but fixate on the looming father above them, dominating the canvas with a harsh, stern presence of apathetic authority. 

Well, she assumed it was their father anyway. 

Could be their sire?

But then, they were both painted so young… so human. 

The sisters' effigies, so somber and dejected, hurt something within her undead heart. 

“Are you an artist?” the Baron asked curiously, breaking her from her scrutiny over the large canvas. 

Her tongue ran swiftly between her teeth as a mixture of emotions and rationality clouded her opinions.

“I was an art student when I was alive,” she elected contently, not wanting to sell herself as something she wasn't; “I noticed the paintings around your walls, and in the gallery. Are they yours?”

Her well-appraising tone plied some amiability from the Baron, “Yes; startling it may be, more than just the Degenerate clan has their shares of Renaissance men and classical-minded artistes.”

A fierce smile threatened to completely overtake her features as she bubbled with excitement. 

“They’re beautifully done,” she adored. 

“Yes, I’ve seen you staring at them,” Therese noted, continuing her ledger. 

The memory of a metaphorically unacknowledged elephant dimmed her enthusiasm somewhat; hesitantly, she constricted her lip between her teeth.

“...For what it’s worth, -sentimentally; I mean,” she murmured, her tone pausing Therese’s pen, “Ruining your paintings was one of the most painful things I’ve ever done.” 

After a moment’s pause, Therese lifted her head from her work to meet her gaze. 

“I’d intended the bloodcurse to kill anyone who tried,” the Malkavian explained carefully, as if she were a young child. 

“-It almost did,” she answered cleanly, recalling the red, shapeless devil that very nearly gored her into a frenzy; “But I was more referring to the act itself. For some reason, something inside me recoiled at the thought of ruining them and afterwards, through no reasons I can explain, I felt utterly ⌄stained⌄ with what I’d done.” 

Therese puffed a slight burst of air through her nose, a hint of a smile on her face as she flipped open a different page on her itinerary; the kindred’s sudden amusement was confounding. 

“You’ll probably want a better talk with one of your clanmates,” the Malkavian suggested, “Either way, you should know what it means to be a Toreador.”

Her body nearly stopped its pretense of breathing. 

Therese looked up again, idly. 

“Your blood of your clan values idealistic beauty above all things,” Therese reiterated, “From what I’m told, if you break a statue you will feel shattered. Conversely, If you witness a form of true beauty, you will be irrevocably captivated by its nature,” the elder kindred explained patiently; as she listened, a sense of growing dread and understanding welled up within her; “And if you cut a painting… you will in turn, feel lacerated; regardless of any blood enchantments used or not.” 

She dry swallowed and gave the smirking woman a nod. 

Eyeing her again, the blonde kindred’s intense aura lessened; sharp flickering reds breaking into rolling hues of blue.

“Were you really affected that greatly, by my pieces?” Therese asked discreetly. 

Stifling her urge to flail her hands, she ran her thumbs across the book in her lap and steadied herself before answering. 

“I meant it when I said you’d composed them beautifully,” she regaled, “I spent several moments more than I should have, utterly fascinated, just... staring at them. Drinking them in.” 

For a moment they existed together in an air of silent connection.

“Thank you,” the Baron quietly replied, her strands of her wispy-curled hair settling over her glasses as she kept her gaze affixed to her ledgers.

Smiling, she offered no reply. 

Opening the encyclopedia once more, they each returned back to their stalled progresses over their respective pages. 

Feeling more alive than she had in weeks, she relished the successful exchange and stifled an urge to hum. 

Chapter Text

It was devastatingly decadent, living so closely with the Voermans; the following next few nights passed in blurs of elating rushes and quiet contentments. 

Her items had been delivered to her within the third night; both the laptop and journal were returned in the condition she’d left them in and it felt more than reassuring to have them back in her possession; she had no idea if anyone had looked through their private contents, but she refused to worry about it enough to ask if anyone had rifled through them or who the sisters might’ve sent to fetch them.

When she’d first logged on, she’d nearly slammed the machine closed for the slew of messages that apparently had been left in wait. 

Why would I ever look at my Email ? She asked herself in absurdity, gathering her composure enough to do the responsible thing; That’s where all the emails are. 

[Subject] DeadZone [From] [email protected]
You still kickin’ boss? Nice work on that Tower. No way blondey is coming out of *that one* screaming. Don’t worry about the kine coverage by the way, news says it was a kamikaze employee; guess it pays to have dental, huh? But that chunky friend of yours is in a hot seat. I might be able to do something about it, for a price.

[Subject] More than Cinders [From] [email protected]
‘Please tell me that horrid mangle of tower and plaster hasn’t become your tomb. Whatever your feelings about that sceptered man, I hope you know your heart-missing admirer hasn’t forgotten about you.

Sweet Kindred

A virtue
your lips, a soul through the sea
into the future through the night
connected, bound, to never drown

-Yours Eternally, VV’

[Subject] Hard Reset [From] afriend@vtm
The Board wiped clean is prime for a first move.

[Subject]Quick Stash [From][email protected]
Good News: Nice boom! Wish I’d gotten to see the look on LaCroix’s face when it went off. Bad News: Whole city noticed. Lay low, real low. Maybe six feet down, low.

[Subject] Empty [From] [email protected]
This your way of telling me to scrub off, Boss? Really? Ouch. I thought our love was worth more than cold shoulders, Smoothskin.

[Subject] Sheeps and Dogs [From] [email protected]
I can find you, you know. Quite easily in fact. It is a courtesy that I’m employing, in not doing so. One that I can retract at any time; unluckily for you boss, Nines seems to think you’re hopping through my Warrens. I won’t hesitate flushing you out to keep his rabble from traipsing through my home uninvited.

[Subject] Small Favors [From]Mercurio@vtm
Hey kid, I know this may be an awkward time but, aw fuck. When wouldnt it be awkward? Im burning both ends here, LaCroix being gone. I cant go back to the others… I hope you understand? If you meet me when you get a chance… I can make myself useful. If not. Well. I suppose Ill be grateful if your new friends dont find out who I worked for. -M.

[Subject]Blink Once If You're Still Not Breathing [From] [email protected]
There’s no way anyone could have survived that explosion. But everyone’s convinced you’re still out there, somewhere. Jeanette’s frantic about you. If you could let her know if you’re dust or not, I’d be grateful. And. I guess, good luck not being dust.

[Subject] Apologetic Repose [From] [email protected]
My Sweet Kindred, I hope this message finds you well; at risk of falling into the terrible clichés of obsessive fixation, I write to you again. Though I’m sending this poem, please; if my attempts to smith the words from my unliving heart fall short, you need only say so.

Ode to my Lover

I crave for your kiss,
connected, bound, to never be deceived
your pulse hued hair, a passion through foggy nothingness
but say good night,
A tormented heart;
One last hope
A prayer in darkness.

Saying anything, or simply seeing your face grace my club once more would be a blessing, my Love.

-Your caring candle in the wind, VV

[From] You Good? [Subject] [email protected]
If you get buried in my cemetery and try to haunt my ass I WILL shoot you, Doll. Don’t be DEAD dead, okay? -Stay Pretty, Romero

[Subject] Raw Gains!! [From] [email protected]
Babygirl! Larry’s got the best deals around! No need to shop anywhere else when my deal’s are the hottest tracks of the house! Come on back, see the new stock! It’s Badder, Better than ever!!

[Subject] CLICK ME!! [From][email protected]
Ok. Maybe not *six feet* low. Just because you don’t breathe doesn't mean you can’t come up for air.

[Subject] FUCK YOU! [From][email protected]
I thought the insult might get you to respond. Give me something to work with before Gary crawls up my ass!

[Subject] ***NOT SPAM*** [From][email protected]
Did you get stuck somewhere? Your IP tells me your laptop is still sitting where it should be. Amalia says she’s happy to root through your closet if you don’t reply. Hope you don’t mind us divvying up your stuff.

[Subject] Condolences. [From][email protected]
Your apartment’s been trashed just so you know; not by us! Found it that way. Sorry!

[Subject] Gossamer Threading [From] [email protected]
It troubles me, that no one has seen you my Love. Is it selfish of me to say that it lightens my heart, that you aren’t avoiding *just* pretty little me?

I could wait an eternity for your pulse,
your smile, a pulse through the pretty world
your red hair, a love through your soul
forever, my Sweet Kindred

-Awaiting You, VV

The first of many, many emotionally baring and threat laden notes. 

The messages at least, gave her something to focus on while Jeanette was buttering up her clientele.

Sifting through them grew a slow, melting feeling through her cynicism; she wondered, if she had stayed in her Skyline apartment, if the sounds of the incoming emails would have kept her from spiraling into her feelings of misery or driven her into them deeper. 

One death affects six people, she reflected, the old adage springing to mind; she took great care in compiling her apologies, following recurring messages with quips about their concerns and approaches to refrain from repeating too many sentiments.

She gathered she’d have a bit of social networking to catch up on, over her stay.  

And later, over the following nights, her journal gave her something to scribble in quietly with while Therese worked. 

It was almost concerning, how pleasant it was to scrawl notated doodles over the blank pages as she absently listened to Therese typing or filing away; the life of a Baron was a busy one however, and the starts to the Malkavians’ nights were often riddled with phone calls, wherein Therese spent a great deal of energy ironing out travel plans for kindred seeking safe passage through her ports, or else verbally jousting her adversaries into their corners. 

It was thusly gratifying, the way Therese seemed satisfied by her correspondingly playful one-liners, to help the blonde cool down after such battles.

“I don’t know why they think they can outwit you,” she’d say. 

‘Not everyone has your intelligence,’ was her favorite of Therese’s replies. 

The social gerrymandering didn’t stop at the phone, either. 

Several times Therese held audience for her guests at her stately desk, forcing her to ‘disappear’ for the proceedings. 

The first of such appointments had been unexpected, with only a knock on the door as a warning, she’d slid her borrowed book onto Therese’s desk and shot into the bathroom in the hopes Therese would pass off her presence as Jeanette.

‘What’s up with her?’

‘My sister’s being petulant again, ignore her; or it’ll only encourage the behavior.’ 

In hearing the trickle of amusement in Therese’s carefully crafted tone, it’d taken a great deal of constraint not to break the ruse. 

The predicament had given her an opportunity to experience kindred life outside of her own perspective, which proved immensely interesting.

The matter had seemed trivial, in the sense the petitioner apparently hadn’t even been sent to deal with ghosts, or Shovelheads, or rival gangs, or even so much as a rogue sewer-monster.

She stopped herself from wondering about that, too intently. 

-She was fairly certain she must’ve killed off most of the monsters in the during her provings, after all. 

‘-What do you mean I gotta’ take care of it myself?’ a voice bemoaned.

‘I believe I informed you upfront, that when I gave you that property, I was *also* giving you the headaches that came with it. If you want me to deal with the housing situation then you're going to have to settle the feeding dispute yourself. -I know you’re more than capable of doing so, or you wouldn’t have taken the gutter rats under your ‘domain’ to begin with. You have plenty of feeding grounds already, I’m not authorizing any further expansion until you learn to properly utilize what I already gave you.’  

The scrappy-sounding kindred had not sounded pleased, but seemed to take a hint quick enough to save Therese the need for any shouting. 

There’d been a few moments after the meeting concluded where she’d listened to the slamming door and sounds of retreating footsteps; both herself and Therese waiting in silence after the elevator departed, for any hints of further intrusions or recurrences of fists pummeling or gruff callouts. 

She’d felt terribly sheepish, before slipping back out from the bathroom. 

Unsure at first of what, if anything, to say; she’d simply looked from the door and back to Therese again. 

“While not the plan I would have suggested, that was quick thinking by the way,” the Baron allowed, her expression nearly amused. 

“I hope Jeanette won’t mind…” she drawled, “I feel a little weird for acting her part.”

“She’ll probably commend you for it,” Therese dismissed, leaning on the front of her desk.

She straightened her posture before sliding into the vacant chair; “Does that happen often?”

The older kindred actually snorted a curt, huffed sound. 

“Did you think you were the only one who knocked on my doors?” 

The revelation was somewhat startling; the phrase rattled around and echoed, over the course of their nights, leaving her with much to think about. 

The incident prompted Therese to make a few calls to her security to tighten ship; forcing further appointments to be announced in advance and a heavy chat between the sisters and herself about safety measures.  

Depending on where Therese wanted her, she took her chances either hiding in the sister’s personal bathroom, or in the bathrooms for the guests on the main floor. -If the meeting was to be of the utmost importance and secretiveness, she was to disappear into Vandal’s bloodletting room, to wait for an all clear.  

The ensuing meetings she listened in on gave her a distinct impression that Therese’s job as Baron seemed to hinge on keeping her people as chess pieces in a constant state of movement around the ‘board’, wherein like a game of ‘Snake’ or Tron-cycle racing, no two kindred trails could intercross without causing some basis of conflict.   

Unthinkingly, she’d reflexively offered her services to help put down any revolt or attack on the establishment, on the thought of anyone ganging on the sisters for harboring her inside their Haven. 

‘I assure you that won’t be necessary,’ Therese had replied keenly, ‘But your conviction is... appreciated.’  

After the week or so of the sisters trading her back and forth like a dog in a divorce-case, things between them all seemed to calm as ‘routines’ and ‘patterns of behavior’ felt more ‘established’. 

Dancing with Jeanette, Reading with Therese; undressing with Jeanette, re-dressing with Therese-

Each night she borrowed from the Voermans’ staches of cloths, she found it less and less cause for embarrassment. 

The act of sliding on the elder Baron’s shirts was rapidly becoming provocative for her; Therese always turned away as she dressed, the few times she’d happened to be in the same room for it, while Jeanette was more in the habit of cajoling and spectating intently. -As much as the flirtatious Malkavian tried to tease her into sporting an ensemble entirely orchestrated by her whims, she liked the way Therese didn’t seem to mind her wearing her clothes too much to give them up. 

And though she couldn’t be sure she wasn’t projecting, it very much seemed that over the passing nights the reserved blonde appeared to be growing fond of her by little ways, such as not chastising her for the borrowed clothes and almost looking pleased to see her walking into a room or when beginning any conversation.

She felt herself drawn to the kindred in a consistent state of orbital fascination, tailoring herself, her movements, her speech patterns, to better facilitate their interactions. 

‘Another girl who’ll happily break my heart while I thank them’, she penned into her jotted pages; her journal was filling up with several sketches of her favored kindred and such whimsical laments. 

She was getting quite decent at stylizing both Therese and Jeanette’s likenesses. 

Jeanette’s restraint of affection lasted only for as long as Therese was around, and even then the younger Baron was fond of pressing limits; when with Jeanette or when it was the three of them passing time, she found herself in their arms, leaned against them, or rested on their lap. -A joint pet of stress relief, she supposed. 

More than once as Therese ‘attended business’, she’d be drifting through her thoughts or busying herself in menial tasks only for the hands of the coquettish sister to find her, slipping only in moments under her clothes to palm yielding flesh and press inside, as if to answer a question the blode had no other means of asking or else, little pretense to pretend to. 

Her reflexes were rapidly associating those invasions with reflexive comfort; her body and anxieties had already noted the ways Jeanette liked her to react and like a dog to Pavlov's bell, she often noticed herself responding accordingly. 

In that way, Jeanette’s companionship was a razor’s edge of elation and ultimate despair; at the blonde’s implied terms, being close to Jeanette meant playing her games of physical affirmation while being kept beyond arm’s reach emotionally -a game she considered herself a little prepared for, from her similarly precarious position with her dear sweet Velvet Velour. 

She supposed it explained the possessive desperation in the blonde’s hands, as a frantic tug back from the Malkavian’s forced distance. The fact the young Baron tried to make up for her fluctuating affections every night was more than enough reason to restrain herself from forming any complaints about matters.

Fucking Jeanette was utterly, decidantly, dangerous; eyes closed, memories racing, Jeanette was only ever a top of her tongue away in thought. 

It was so damned difficult, not to blow everything and give her soul away. 

‘Three nights to blond bond’ , was an understood boundary they didn’t speak of.

...But only just.   

The way the blonde was so notedly chalant about her sexual bloodsharing gave her a few thoughts on just how the Malkavian so easily danced her victims under her leashes; summoning the willpower to resist her own urges to similarly give in was a new sort of torture she found herself eager to enjoy.

-One of several, the vivacious blonde instructed her through. 

“I need you say it Duckling,” Jeanette prompted, utterly serious; “I need you to look me in the eyes and tell me that you know how much of a masochist you are.”

“Am I, though?” she asked honestly; "Is that even a thing that applies to kindred?"

“Kitten, look me in the eyes and consider what human-straight people think sex is and then about the things you think about.”

The silence hung between them for a moment as the assessment started to make sense. 

“...I might be a masochist.” 

“Might?”

“-Am.”

“Much better.”   

It did leave her feeling somewhat twisted however, as she wanted desperately for Jeanette to understand that she needn’t to trade her use of her body for any of her compliance or respect; but also admitted that playing Jeanette’s game felt good, and often lifted her spirits up in ways she often hadn’t known she’d needed. 

It left her in a precarious spot of accepting enough of Jeanette’s habitual mechanisms to gently build up a foundation of trust in order to cement her place firmly in the kindred’s mind in a way that didn’t require Jeanette to uphold her evasive fronts. 

As a result, bedding Jeanette was perhaps something she was a little too fond of doing; and as if in agreement, the Malkavian seemed to ricochet between smothering her with hyperfixated affection and thrusting her into ‘impersonal proclivities’ to keep her from lowering her guise.  

Admittedly, she had no qualms joining in Jeanette’s female and nonbinary conquests beyond her intial embarrassment at facing her own sexuality; and the pangs of jealousy she felt were easily drowned in ‘joining in’, if she put enough effort into emptying her head. 

-Sometimes, it was genuinely nice to have a pretty looking snack in bed, with the younger Baron leisurely palming her to climax throughout the lazy hours of the night. 

As the nights passed, she kept herself aware of Jeanette’s desire for emotional distancing and how she went about cultivating their relationship, growing better at accepting or turning down offers to garner Jeanette’s greater affections. 

Regardless of Jeanette’s states of emotion, she politely excused herself whenever the blonde’s games included members of the male persuasion; while the club was open, it was easier to attend herself to other things. But in the hours after closing before dawn, sitting amongst the cold expanse of empty space offered little in the way of a sound buffer from the apartment above. Ignoring the screams and moans emanating from inside Jeanette’s room from behind her laptop or the pages of a book proved to be a bittersweet comfort. 

It was during such times, that her mind drifted to her soft-hearted dancer; she supposed it’d made her appreciate the inherent romanticism in the distance between herself and the sweet-natured Toreador all the more. 

Almost comically, there were also times Therese ‘kept her company’ whilst Jeanette ‘was off doing who knew what’, by the elder Baron’s words. 

Therese attempted to tailor their time together outside of her work constraints, though her duties had little hesitation for interrupting them; and if Jeanette’s emotional trust was hesitant, Therese’s was twice as heavily guarded and just as contradictory. 

While the Baron kept her similarly at arm’s reach emotionally -and physically, the blonde also displayed behaviors of possessive want and calculated tests of trust that almost made it easy to see how closely the two sisters really resembled each other. 

Therese didn’t surprise her with fingered assertions like Jeanette, but the woman’s excuses for calling her over were flimsy passes at plausible deniability which left her smiling softly at each iteration. 

“Have you eaten tonight?”

“Did that oaf seem off to you?”

“Have you read any Hemingway?”

“Sit, tell me what you thought of the band tonight, Jeanette tells me that they’re ‘hip’, but I’d hear other thoughts on the matter.”

“What did you think of our late Mr. Grout?”

“What was that band you mentioned again?”

“Tell me-”

“Sit with me-” 

"Wait here-"

They spoke of many things; each conversation an interview for her to impress the kindred more than the last. 

“Tell me, since your recent turning have you struggled much, with the nature of your hunger?” 

“Truthfully I never cared much for food in life; even when I was alive I wouldn’t have been able to describe any sort of flavor or food-scent if you’d forced a gun to my head, so it’s of no surprise to me that I haven't really thought about human hunger since death. In the same vein -if you’ll excuse the expression, I never really thought about the need for blood beyond accepting it as a base for survival. -There was some benefit, I suppose, in the extreme position of living hour to hour I’d been Made in, of not really having had time to think about anything emotionally.” 

Therese’s brows perked, not in admonishment, but in simple surprise; “You never thought about it?” 

“I thought sometimes, whether it would be better or worse to feed only from men or women,” she offered, thinking back to her troubled walks through the dark; “I decided each time that choosing only indulgence or spite would be vices that would ultimately lead me into trouble so. I chose to be opportunistic after the throes of battle, and that it’d be alright to be more selective in times of normal activity.”   

Therese adjusted her poster, leaning her elbows on the desk; “A reasonable set of choices,” she affirmed, more hints of curiosity under her tone, “Would you say your temperament had any previous connotations of influence?” 

The thought of Therese’s father and her penchant for puritanical leanings gave her a guess as to what the woman was looking for; she noted the beauty in how the baron’s lips moved over her teeth and cobbled her answer. 

“I wasn’t nominally religious in life; spiritual, perhaps. Most of my mother’s family were true heathens, druids and pagans alike. Witchcraft er, well, the human understanding of it that is- was immersed in our family culture though most of us were never avid practitioners. I actually had several fixations on non-Christian religions as child; I found the most interest in multi-deital pantheons, which never quite left me. -I told my mother once, when I was fascinated with the ‘Eightfold Path’ and ‘the Middle Way’, that ‘I was sure I could’ve been a nun had they not been so religious’.”   

The look across the Baron’s face was a thing of beauty to behold, aback and almost disbelieving in unexpectancy. 

“I used to have a problem with speaking, you see,” she explained, taking pity; “My internal monologue would speed far past what my lips were capable of saying, and I often blurred concepts and slurred words around. For a large part of any conversation, I would be utterly incomprehensible. -The concept I was attempting to get across to my mother was that I felt myself capable of being devoted to an elightenlighted cause, if it were to be one not burdened by a capitalist condoned pyramid scheme riddled by the patriarchy. The humor of my statement then, was that I boiled down all of those sentiments into an unintentional paradox.” 

A smile, slow-growing and bemused, began to retake the Baron’s face. 

“I see. How fortuitous then, that you find yourself in a land among the unliving. -Remind me to speak with you of Golconda somenight.”    

Not all of their talks were enlightening or as… postured, she reflected; some chats their conversations stayed light and irrelevant to the matters of the night. 

Which she supposed, could have made them the most important. 

The Baron never made any attempt to touch her, while not sharing limbs with Jeanette, but the way the blonde leaned towards her in conversation, the way her eyes lingered… 

The force the kindred put behind her invitations of companionship-

She could almost believe without question that Therese wanted her near, at all times, for no particular reason other than to enjoy her subservience. 

She had a distinct impression, more than once, that Therese staved off urges to similarly pull her onto their lap even without Jeanette’s presence. 

The feeling was only reinforced, when between the pair of sisters, she was pressed and pet with absent fondnesses.  

The way the sisters swapped into focus from each other was marvelously fluid; their transitions were seamless, and it was almost disparagingly easy to fall back into her previous assumptions about them actually having two bodies between them. 

Her favorite moments, selfishly enough, were when she had both the attentions of the sisters together. 

She didn’t know if it was a rare occurrence for the siblings to share their body simultaneously in presence of other people, but she found herself ecstatic to see the sheer amount of personality they drew out of each other as it happened. It felt like she was privy to something special, wherever they indulged her with both of themselves.

-She hoped it wasn’t a vein sentiment to think.      

It was, in a few ways, almost easier to work in the beginnings of what she hoped would be lasting friendships with the sisters with both of them fronting their body, as when the sisters were forced to find entertainment plurally, it allowed her to suggest opportunities for more relaxed, plausibly intimate bonding and gave them the shared tastes of power and positive reinforcements they quietly yearned for.  

She’d gotten them quite used to having their nails painted, which amused them all greatly; Jeanette liked being doted on and Therese appeared to lump it in the category of their other preening behaviours -growing almost expectant, for her to fix the flaked paint just as she’d grown expected for her to correct uneven shirt collars or tuck away stray hairs when the courtly Baron readied herself before meetings. 

Jeanette initially protested that she found such activities ‘boring’ while Therese proclaimed them ‘frivolous’ and yet, almost without fail they’d sat with her, trading conversational wit and moments of indulgence without much convincing needed. 

“I never got to have sleepovers either,” she’d mentioned absently, sometime during their quiet nights, fingerthreading their flaxen hair into minute braids with singular strands; “I admit this is fun for me.”  -She kept her work easy to hide, for Therese’s sake. 

The sisters seemed a bit more willing to indulge her, following her admission.

Of course, cementing herself as the sisters’ resident referee and go-between was not without its drawbacks; while neither sister seemed as quick to violence as they had been the night of their near murder-suicides, she couldn’t help but well up blood-strings of anticipatory panic whenever their arguments grew too heated. 

Testing her -and each other as they were, it was a slow, arduous process of carving out spaces for them to reaffirm their opinions and importances to each other.   

‘I’ve done exactly as we agreed!’ Therese insisted, her fangs nearly elongated, ‘She’s being the difficult one! She doesn’t stop needling me enough to see all the things that I do for her!’ 

‘See! I told you she wouldn’t change!’ Jeanette cried; ‘She likes patronizing me! She’s just playing house until you stop looking!’ 

‘Look,” she settled, her tone even while her anxiety flared, “It’s important to remember you two have a lot of decades worth of resentments built up; that’s going to take time to resolve. As nice as it would be, stuff like this doesn’t usually melt away the instant we wish it could.”

‘You're taking her side, Kitten?’ Jeanette accused.

‘No, there’s no sides here to take,’ she explained coolly.

Therese scowled; ‘So I’m just supposed to put up with her thinking she can mock me without consequence?’

‘You’re just going to let her talk to me like that?’ Jeanette cried right after.

‘No,’ she dragged, monitoring their frustrations; ‘I heard something once, that I think might help: It‘s that the first thing you think is how you’ve been taught to behave, while the second is what you’ve chosen to believe. I’m not saying either of you should let people routinely insult you and forgive them instantly if they say they were kidding -especially if they obviously weren’t- but it may be helpful to keep in mind that both of you are trying to unlearn bad habits. Ones that really hurt you both over the years; it’s going to take some time to get into a new habit of interacting more constructively with each other.’

‘You like playing doctor, don’t you Duckling?’ Jeanette remarked, her tone faintly suspicious. 

‘With you? Always,’ she soothed; ‘Just remember that having a go at someone stops being funny if that’s the only way you ever play with them.’

‘Simple for you to say, Kitten,’ Jeanette groused, the fight gone from her voice. 

‘Good, then we can agree to put this mess behind us again,’ Therese grumbled, pressing her glasses on.

‘And Therese,’ she added, watching the Malkavian’s muscles twitch a little in stifled instinct; ‘It’s good that you’re trying. It’s also going to be as hard for Jeanette to stop reflexively yanking your chain as it’s going to be for you to stop patronizing her. Try to remember to say something before it gets to the point of screams and slamming doors.’

‘I… will endeavour to keep that in mind,’ Therese agreed, before addressing her sister; ‘I apologize Jeanette. I never meant to make you think I considered you lesser than me for your actions, Sister. I… just get frustrated that you don't see the world in the same way as I do.’

‘I know,’ Jeanette replied, ‘It’s just hard for me sometimes, feeling like I can’t turn to the one person who’s supposed to be there for me no matter what, just because I enjoy not being a stick in the mud.’ 

‘I have fun,’ Therese insisted, ‘Just not as… you do,’ she eventually landed on, narrowly avoiding any further needling barbs. 

‘See, that right there is what you’re both looking for,’ she praised, brightening the mood; the sisters perked up, apparently satisfied with a validated sign of progress. 

‘If it helps, I’ll be here awhile,’ she joked, a slight panic rising as she realized she was the center of their attentions again; ‘I’m not an expert about most things but, I’m happy to listen or help you both talk things out whenever either of you might like,’ she offered, the last of the tension feeling as though it had been finally bled out of the room.

As levity began to waft back in its place, she observed them silently ‘settle’ on something between themselves that she wasn't privy to; she could only assume her repeated commitment to de-escalating their afflictions had reassured the siblings into some new course of action. 

Over the course of the second week, the sisters began testing her opinions of them; individually gauging her senses of humor and thoughts about various pieces of mortal and kindred life.

‘Did you think that dress made my sister look more stuffy than usual?’ 

‘I hear you’ve become quite the stir on my dancefloor, gyrating limbs with my sister.’

‘-You like it, Kitten? I put it on just for you~’

‘What did you take from your dealings with the Sabbat?’

‘Do you think the Pigeons will rise against us for the wrongs we’ve done them?’ 

‘Have you met the Ministry?’ 

‘You’re like, the chillest non-chill person I’ve ever met. -You’re turn, do me! What color of me is your favorite?’

‘...Do you pronounce this ‘jif’ or ‘gif’?’

She conceded she did much the same, in kind. 

It was titillating, learning such trivial pieces about the Voerman’s lives that she doubted anyone else was given the right to know, or would otherwise be able to notice. 

She learnt Jeanette loved the feel of silk sheets, but hated certain types of ‘bad feeling’ fabrics with an intensity that would easily rival any Brujah’s temper. 

She learnt that Therese sipped her blood from a glass, and when focusing on it, could sip it without staining the rim and that if she was drinking while she was working, she’d often forget herself and drink freely, only to find her lipstick smeared along the edge and sneer at it in resentment. 

She found out Jeanette tolerated ‘happy’ music, but needed a rare mood to indulge in it and that Therese could only relax with a beat that pounded louder than she could outthink -which explained a lot of the club’s sets.

She had a growing that most kindred, herself and the Voermans included, were as starved for touch and affection as the humans they’d all once been made from.   

Where it felt correct to do so, she tried her best to reciprocate the Voerman sisters gifts of personal confidentialities; underhanded as she feared it might appear, she imparted trivial facts of herself whenever they found themselves in quiet moments, to better associate herself with feelings of trust and safety. 

While drawing beside Therese, she turned their conversations to languages of color and listened to older kindred dip into memory-fuelled observations with grand fondness before giving Therese knowledge about her favorite colors and a few memory-soaked reasons for the emotional moods she associated with them; knowing that while a trivial trade on its surface, the potential for anyone to use such memories or favoritisims against her in future made it a particularly revealing trade the grand scheme of things and was thus shared intimacy of secrets.

While cuddled with Jeanette, trading meaningless jokes at their peers’ expenses, she posed a few cursory questions about the older blonde’s confidence and sexuality to turn the conversation, and accepted the sparse, comedic nature of the sly kindred’s responses before slowly drawing an intake of fake breath; silently letting her know how and when she would turn a conversation serious, and intimately murmured to the blonde’s ear of how she’d come to learn and experience her sexual identity as she’d grown up and died.  

She considered it a sign of success, when after such pieces of crucial, potential damning confessions, neither of the sisters made any mention of how it would better for her to protect more of herself by sharing nothing at all.    

Off the back of their growing intimacies, she supposed the law of ‘equal and opposite reactions’ was still holding true.

It was near the end of their second week together, that she was given permission to venture back into the city, for brief stints without ‘hazardous intent’. 

-She took it as a sign that her efforts with the sisters were going well. 

The first night she’d taken up Therese’s permission to step outside the Asylum’s walls, she’d expected a pounding to her fake heartbeat and rush of mixed, intersected emotions.

She was partially correct, in that she did feel mildly unsettled; but it felt more a product of an anxious anticipation rather than of any irrevocable dread.  

She hadn’t walked more than a few blocks before a payphone ring-ing-ing ominously caught her peripheral attention.

Confident in her assumption that the call was for her, she trudged over and picked up the receiver. 

“Hey Boss, glad you’re not Dust.”

“Oh hey, thanks,” she replied, “Appreciate that.” 

“Yeah yeah, save the paltries Boss. Got your emails. All one hundred and eight of ‘em. Hoped you enjoyed your little vacation ‘cause things aren’t going to stay quiet for long.”

“Just tell me when and where you need me,” she cemented, trusting their accord. 

The voice on the line gruffed contently before hanging up.

Good I’m still employable I guess; she figured, walking away; A visit to the Warrens, face to face, should soothe his ego. But not tonight.   

Sticking to her above ground contacts, she elected to swing by the Last Round, figuring she owed the group some answers. 

She passed by Strauss’ Haven, and made a note to stop in on her way out. 

Probably best to stay cordial with him, she assumed dryly. 

Her unannounced entry into the bar was met with mixes of surprise and elation, -if she felt charitable in labeling the raised brows and whistle-started swearing as anything resembling positive.

It took her a moment to remember that she wasn’t dwarfed by any oversized coats and found herself attempting to tug a little more length out of Jeanette’s skirt; it was moment enough for the kindred to surround her.    

Everyone seemed to want to know where she’d been, why she was dressed like a hooker, what defeating Lacroix had been like, and if she’d really been on the run from the Sabbot or the Kui-jin or the Camarilla. 

Without the comfort of her normal gear and Jeanette’s hemline riding her thighs, she felt more than a little self conscious under the sudden barrage of questions. 

She laughed off as many of the inquiries as she could, not recognising the faces in the bar until Damsel parted the crowd to haul her over to a table guarded by Skelter, which also seated Nines. 

“Oh. My. God,” the denmother drawled, “Where have you fucking been you capekissing mother? Do you know how long this asshole made us look for you? What, did you wake up and go to fix your hair or some biz n’get confused over which way was out of your fucking mirror?”

“More or less, yeah,” she quipped, enjoying the look of Damsel’s rolling eyes. 

“Typical,” the kindred muttered, scowling; “Stupid fucking Torres.”

“Nines said you been shackin’ up with the crazy sisters over’n Santa Monica,” Skelter probed as he took stock of her; his voice, so naturally full of presence, was a little dwarfing. 

Mindful of the prospect of listening ears, she leant closer to the table, the others bending to follow suit; “Just between us, yeah. The Voermans agreed to watch my back after killing LaCroix.”

“Both of ‘em?” Skelter asked, eyes-wide. 

“I thought Jeanette’s bitch-sister was dirty good for nothing Towerpusher,” Damsel projected, her fists clenching in rage-contorted confusion. 

She shook her head, the weeks in the sisters’ care having solidified a few of her hunches. 

“Nah, she’s one of us,” she vouched, “It may look like she wants to play ball with the Tower, but that’s only ‘cause she wants to rip them apart with her own hands. She wants to watch their stunned faces when she outsmarts them at their own game.”

She’s probably tired of everyone making her out to be a villain, she added silently. 

“Coulda’ fucking fooled me,” Damsel spat; “You be careful around that bitch, Cammi; her and her hussie sister will fucking- Crawl inside your head and laugh as your brains leak out all over.”

She let her smirk twinkle inside her eyes; “Would that I could be so lucky,” she mused. 

Damsel recoiled, eyeing her with abject horror before Nines shifted in his seat, drawing the Brujha’s attention.

“She’s serious, Kid,” Nines warned; his tone matched his aura, fortified and passionate.

The word ‘gruff’ sprung to mind, observing him.  

“Jeanette’s a good fighter. Anarch through and through, but she’s dangerous ,” he emphasized, “And Therese is smarter than LaCroix,” he stated flatly; she pressed her nails into her palms to keep from chuckling at the understatements; “She’ll have no problems offering charity before turning around and using you for her own gain.” 

“Like everyone else did in this city?” she asked innocuously; “That’s how this society is run isn’t it, on favors?”  

And misdirection, she minded. 

Her words, spoken in her light, unassuming tone, darkened his aura; the rebel’s chest expelled air some, and his cohorts eyed both him and herself, with trepidation. 

“You could have come to me,” he offered, his syllables oddly gentle in his stern-faced mouth.

“You used me too,” she replied so quietly, she’d nearly whispered. 

The pain on her lips reflected in his eyes.

Damsel’s temper flared; quickly, she lifted herself slightly and kept the conversation moving.  

“I understood, so I never said anything,” she explained plainly, for the benefit of the group; “I learnt that the fight is important, but I also learnt that I’m dispensable, and that’s not an easy idea to deal with as a Toreador.”

Nine’s eyes popped briefly with a jostle of perspective; it was the first time she’d ever spoken openly about anything other than the mission reports she relayed. 

“And yeah, I know you’d have my back if I need anyone’s kneecaps busted but,” she stalled, allowing the rebel to watch her falter for a moment; “The Voermans have practice at hiding people.”

They’re also far more attractive and twice as likely to actually hug me, she added to herself. 

The temperaments around the table wavered with her implementations of guilt and vulnerability; Nines sat back in his chair, balled a fist and dug it into his hip before looking back at her. 

Fretting in motion, his other hand hovered near his face. 

“You didn’t have to fight,” he proclaimed, though he seemed to know his words weren’t as effective as he’d wanted them to be.

“Yes, I did,” she countered gently; “We all do, until something changes.”

Skelter didn’t nod, but he seemed to agree with her assessment. 

Damsel’s anger appeared choked with the addition of being perplexed.

“So you’re just gonna what? Hang out with the lunatics for the rest of eternity? You planning on leaving us high and dry Cammi? Is that it? You cutting out on us you Torre flippant bitch?”

“I’m still fighting the good fight,” she assured, “I just figured that it’d be smart to deal with all the ‘newbie emotional stuff’ while I had to lay low anyway. -Get it out of the way before getting into the game again.”

“Practical,” Skelter agreed; she wondered if they’d forgotten just how recently she’d been turnt with everything that had been going on. 

She nodded curtly. 

“You know what’s been going on since you went dark?” the Gangrel asked. 

At her shaking head, he sturdied his posture before filling her in. 

“The Cam’s pulled out of the city; say L.A.’s a lost cause and they got bigger fish to fry, now that all these old licks are waking up left and right.”

She mimicked an exaltation as a slow understanding calmed her; “Yes, the Antediluvian I chased out of the city would have woken others up by now,” she reflected accordingly, remembering the call in her blood the Taxi driver’s presence had crafted, by the aching feeling in its current absence. 

“Wait, what? That thing wasn’t empty?” Damsel cried. 

“-Eh, It changed hands so much I’m sure everyone boobytrapped it,” she dismissed, shrugging a shoulder as she thought aloud; “And just to be clear, I didn’t ‘chase’ him out so much as… I think I convinced him indirectly to skip town? -Not out of anything personal, from what I could glean; just from… The way I went about my choices, I suppose. I doubt it’ll save LA forever but, it’s seemed to have bought us some time.”   

“No. Fucking. Way,” Damsel hissed, masking her uncertainty with rage; the beret-wearing rebel glanced at her companions to gauge whether to believe her or not, and how to feel about it. 

Skelter leaned in, his eyes boring into her with focus. 

“You say you met him, the stiff in the coffin?” he asked, almost directly before Damsel grit through clenched teeth; “You have any idea what the hell is going on?” 

She hummed affirmatively, recalling; “I… don’t have proof, but I have strong hunches as to who orchestrated all of this, and why,” she led, thinking over her ‘hobo-uncle’ Smiling Jack, and the mystery-sent emails that had riddled her with chess maneuvers. 

“And yeah. I saw him,” she assured, recalling the unfathomable aura around the driver; she shivered, “It was an accident; the second I observed him, I had the distinct impression that I hadn’t been meant to, not that he had any feeling in particular about me doing so. I... tried very hard not to look at him, after that.” 

Now I can’t not-look at anything at all, she added; my own little curse for me, as a treat. 

Nines shifted in his seat, his boots audibly scuffing the floor beneath the table; she resisted an urge to wince.

“So what are you saying, exactly?” Nines asked. 

“You said the old ones are waking up?” she repeated; “If the craze that fell over L.A. happened because one old guy woke up, then it only stands to reason a lot of chain-reactions are going to happen if others wake up. I’m betting a lot of shit is going to go down everywhere.”
“You mean across the states,” Skelter clarified, his tone hopefully-grim. 

“And globally,” she guessed, picturing the fallouts of the Jyhad.

“This is bullshit,” Damsel rejected, pulling back; “This is crazy. -You’re crazy,” she spat, “You’ve been spending too much time with the Malks!” 

“You’re saying Gehenna isn’t over,” Nines conceded, rubbing his chin.     

“I’m saying I delayed it getting started ,” she offered; “-But only here. If I had to guess, it’s going to spiral outward as the first one makes his way around. Eventually, the collateral will hit L.A.” 

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Nines admitted, his head low.

“Wait, you saying she’s on the level?” Damsel shot, looking the de-facto leader over. 

“She hasn’t failed to be yet,” he replied, dropping his hand; “I’ve been thinknig the same thing, honestly. I was hoping I’d be wrong for once.” 

Nines tapped his fingers on the table for a moment, thinking. 

He looked at her, his aura divided.

“How much longer are you going to be down?” he asked, more than serious. 

She sensed a wealth of chaos and new messes to clean up. 

“If I lay low, I’m pretty much back this week,” she tallied, mentally gauging the Voermans’ behaviors and thinking over the city’s penchant for spawning innumerable disasters; “I’ll have to catch up on my recon, pay some visits. -We’ll probably chat more, about what’s been going down while I’ve been out,” she addressed the group, Nines nodding in agreement; “I’ll probably hold off any assassinations until next week though,” she quipped, lightening the mood.

Nines nearly smiled.   

“So… we cool?” she asked carefully, aware of the price of clashing opinions. 

Skelter offered her a parting scoff. 

“Just watch it, Cammi,” Damsel groused, crossing her arms.

Nines bobbed his scruffy chin, already deep in thought. 

She left them feeling an odd amount of lightness in her chest; she pushed thoughts of the apparently ‘ensuing’ chaos from her mind as she ducked out of the Last Round.

Spoiled for choice, she assumed word of her sightings would spread around well enough without her helping it along.

Well, better this get this one over with while I’m here.

As she looked at the ‘magic house’, she smiled at the strange, purple-glowy light near its peak. 

The hallway was every bit as despairingly insurmountable as every other time she’d visited. 

How many times does this fucking think go left? 

-Which door was it?

-fuckfuckfuckfuck-

She prided herself on eventually making it to the correct doors without either breaking down in tears nor succumbing to her Beast. 

Strauss was standing vigilantly, at his fireplace. 

The dark room, blanketed by firelight was a much needed relief after her excursion through the harrowing hallway. 

The Kindred didn’t turn to greet her, but she knew he knew she’d stepped in. 

Her eyes roamed the vicinity, enjoying the numerous ‘odd’ things about the old-feeling place; knowing if she didn’t try to touch any of them, he’d allow her to eye most any of it over a little closer. Which is precisely why she refrained. 

“Pleasant evening,” she greeted, stopping short some feet before him; “Despite common misconception, I’m neither double-dead nor out of commission. Any issues I should be aware of?”  

It was, perhaps, a little bold; but she felt directness was a negotiable approach in her resurgent circumstance. 

“Neonate;” he acknowledged, “I trust by now, you’ve heard of the Camarilla’s retreat. Fortuitous for you as that might seem, I would not advise one to grow complacent in the absence of a faction such as they, neither even, of the Sabbot.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she promised, having already come to terms with such notions; “Is there anything you require of me?” 

“Nothing currently,” the magician dismissed. 

She hummed, acknowledging the ending segue; “Good Night then.”

“Good Night,” he reflected, his gaze never leaving the thick of the flames. 

Exiting the terrible hallway was thankfully more streamlined.   

I wonder if it lets one leave faster on purpose ? she thought as she largely avoided stumbling to the exit. 

Returning to the dingy view of the street was almost invigorating.  

Feeling her allotment of freedom dwindling by the minute, as well as a distinct need to speed away from the Haven lest any magicians get wrong impressions, she elected to visit Velvet Velour, hoping the ethereal, sweet natured kindred would be happy to see her.  

She kept to the streets, hoping to stay somewhat more presentable for the reunion; it was a little tricky making use of her speed between buildings and parked cars, but she managed well enough to avoid being seen until she reached Hollywood proper.

Walking down the familiar road was like a different exhibition of grime; the seedy peepshows, the dingy hotels, the lanky bars- 

And yet, for all of its ‘dirt’, the street radiated life like a pulse. 

-And if nothing else, the neon lights reflecting onto the wet asphalt was kinda’ pretty. 

By comparison, stepping into Vesuvius was like walking into a dream; if she ignored the patrons for the club’s aesthetics, she was nearly soothed by the pulsing beats and saturated colors. 

Politely, she flagged one of the stripper’s attentions and quietly asked if Velvet was free; the girl’s face seemed to light up with recognition. The girl gestured to a coworker, and, in getting a nod, eagerly directed to her head up stairs. 

As she ascended the green-lit steps, it occurred to her that the woman behind the entryway had likely phoned her in. 

She supposed there were perks to being ‘a regular’ in certain cases.

Smiling, she stepped in Velvet’s private lair.  

“I was beginning to wonder when I’d get to see that beautiful face again,” the kindred cooed; “Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

Elated for a chance to speak to the gorgeous, honey-toned Toreador, she took a seat on the long black couch, watching amorously as Velvet’s suave, resplendent figure glided over to do the same. 

Her throat cottoned over as she drank in Velvet’s face anew -and closer, than she’d ever had chance to study, it regaled her with a myriad details of cultured beauty. 

“...I was hoping to spend a moment with you,” she blurted, drawing on past conversations; it seemed to perk up the wearier kindred. 

Her sad little smile, so ephemeral, paralyzed her soul to see. 

“As have I,” the dancer murmured, relaxing into the sofa more comfortably; she thought of how Velvet’s refined movements had likely been honed, to be so utterly reflexive in their goal of drawing observers in.  

So fluid, so full of grace, she yearned.   

Feeling herself falling further into her body’s desire to lean ever closer, she reluctantly caught herself and shifted to fix her composure somewhat. 

As if amused, Velvet’s smile grew genuine, nearly warm.

“So,” Velvet prompted, exciting her; “Back again I see; have you been thinking of beautiful little ‘ol me?” she murmured lovingly, lullingly; “Have you missed me as terribly as I’ve missed you?” 

Struggling to keep her words from tumbling out in an inverted geyser of blended thoughts, she licked her lips and tried not to crumple under the amount of yearning constricting within her chest whenever her eyes lingered on the dancer’s light, addicting eyes.   

Not wanting to lie to the sweet, darling kindred, she offered the truth as soothingly as she could. 

“I don’t know what I would do if anything ever happened to you,” she murmured, trying her best not to picture that particular recurring daymare; “Thinking of you is one of the few things that can soothe away the tragedies and horrors to my unlife.”

“You say the sweetest things to me,” Velvet approved, effortlessly mimicking a sigh; the rose’s eyes darted from nowhere in particular and back to her again, “I’ll admit you frightened me, when you stopped coming by. I thought maybe I had offended you; that maybe as you held my heart in your hands, you decided you didn’t feel the same as I.” 

“Never,” she insisted forcefully, leaning in again.

She didn’t allow her eyes to stray from the kindred’s lovely face. 

Velvet’s eyes sparkled, in the glim light. 

“Yes, I see that now,” she agreed, blinking with heavy lids and full lashes; “It was foolish of me to doubt your sincerity, my sweet Guardian. Yours is a beautiful soul,” she aired wistfully. 

Her undead stomach overturning, she licked her lips again and attempted to swallow the saliva that wasn’t there. 

“But you said you were lying low,” Velvet addressed, her inflection one of concern; “Is everything all right? Is someone after you? One of my girls said something about you using the Asylum’s number?”

 “-I’m being looked after by them, it’s alright,” she soothed, stopping her hands before they could fall over Velvet’s; “They have a vested interest in keeping me in one piece and so far, it seems like the Tower isn’t looking to retaliate for what happened with the Prince.”

“I’m relieved for your safety of course, but…” VV trailed off, processing the situation; “The Voermans? As in, the Baron of Santa Monica and her sister? Their club seems a little far from here… from me , don’t you think?” 

She felt her face soften; the urge to touch and console the sweet kindred growing ever irresistible to ignore; “I would never be so bold as to impose myself upon you, VV; and I certainly don’t want to get you caught up in any crossfires. Still, I… admit my heart did beat again, when I indulged the thought.”   

“Oh you’re just teasing me now,” Velvet lilted, sitting up. 

She tried not to let her eyes linger on the ways the light glistened on the fabric of Velvet’s corset.

“Tell me, you must have met Jeanette,” Velvet prompted lightly, her movements reflecting uncertainty; “What did you think?” 

“It is incredibly difficult not to want to have fun with Jeanette,” she gave truthfully, hating the way she couldn’t tell what Velvet thought of it; “I know it’s easy to look down on her for her low inhibitions but, I think there’s something to be said about letting oneself pursue whatever brings them happiness in this life, no matter what anyone else might think of it.”

She noted fondly, how her words sparked some curiosity behind the rose’s eyes, “-I want to be brave like her, I think,” she explained, her voice falling lower; hesitant in her followingly hopeful admission, “...To let myself have the things I really want and to not feel ashamed about wanting them.” 

“ ...Oh? And what sorts of things would those be, Sweet Kindred?’ Velvet soothed, just as delicately, leaning achingly close, yet not close enough. Her beautiful fangs hidden save for the briefest flashes in crisp syllables; eyelashes catching ephemerally under the neon lights. 

She mouthed silent syllables, struggling to cobble together a more meaningful way to say the word ‘you’ . 

As if keying in on her line of thinking, Velvet smiled so adoringly at her that her body instinctively tried to blush. 

“ And her sister?” Velvet asked, her tone more curious then pained. 

Still reeling with mild embarrassment, she steadied herself under Velvet’s stare; drawing on the rose’s connection to Issac, she mirrored Velvet’s sentiments. 

“I hope my arrangement with her doesn’t displease you,” she uttered quickly, her fingertips digging into the sofa, “I went to her because I don’t have to worry about any of the factions catching her unawares; I didn’t get a chance to properly learn some of the more necessary skills while I was still alive and, without a sire, she seemed one of the more competent Anarchists who was willing to teach me a few things. She’s something like a mentor right now, I suppose.”

The soft, understanding look of sympathy Velvet responded with tugged at her heartstrings; the poems VV gifted her that night were filled with images of stumbling fawns and allusions to the pain of neglected youths struggling to forge their own paths under the guidance of whoever would have them.  

The older Toreador’s assessment was quite accurate, she felt. 

The conversation inspired her to make some more productive use of her time in the Asylum then simply testing how well she could hold her Auspex under the barrage of stimuli around the dancefloor. 

While killing time at the Asylum, she put forward some of her ‘adulting’ questions to the elder Baron, expecting a few spoken tips if anything and finding more than she anticipated in turn. 

Therese, apparently pleased for her interest in maintaining Masquerade safety, took the initiative to help her through some of the topics and paperwork herself; their lessons ranged from making bank accounts, to procuring means of identification, and forging alternative identities, lists of contacts, and several other things besides. 

“It’s good you came to me about this now; else you’d have had a far iller time of it down the line,” Therese had proclaimed, settling the stack of notes into alignment; “The Kindred brain grows more resistant to change as it stagnates over the years.” 

Her nights soon became littered with gifts of textbooks across school subjects and workbooks about skills like driving and doing taxes. The busywork left some room for their conversations to drift through cultural contexts; furthering her growing assertion that the Baron enjoyed spending time together through a teacher’s lense.

While not close yet , she felt that if things carried on as they were, that the elder Baron would soon come to consider her something of a steadfast friend.  

Jeanette admittedly, did wonders for her self confidence; if accepting Jeanette’s forms of fun could be counted as exercises in building confidence. 

She at least, grew comfortable enough to speak of boundaries and her own newly-forming preferences with the younger Baron; who seemed inclined to mind them as best as her mischievous nature allowed. 

Similarly, Jeanette and her somber sister acted more inclined to trust her numerous outings by her recurring returns, beyond simply acknowledging the curt destinations she relayed before stepping out each time. 

Therese usually nodded, deep in her work; occasionally she’d offer a dry, ‘Be Smart’ without looking up, while Jeanette had taken up dismissing her with a wink, or blood-flushing kiss. 

From what she could tell, they seemed to have reached a stage of ‘held breaths’, as she slowly reintegrated back into the undead world. 

Assuming such, she hoped that her actions would continue to prove her worth as an ally, rather than spook them into emotional retreat, by asking about it directly. 

It was uncertain waters for all of them, she felt.   

Her trips were both more and less productive than she’d’ve liked; word had pandemic’d through the Anarchist grapevine that she’d been the one to overthrow LaCroix. 

Resultantly, she found herself dogged by new faces scrambling to lap up her ‘faithful rendition’ of the turns of events at every opportunity or else dogged by irate disbelievers and rogues looking to make their names, which actually spurred Nines into a few long lectures of how best to deal with her newfound notoriety. 

‘The Life of a Legend is Not an Easy One; ’ she recalled, thinking to the long gone driver during the first Rant Nines had immersed her in. 

The faces she had been familiar with meanwhile, could give her little more than promises to call her once their opportunities lined up; resulting in a lengthy wait to do anything as all the pieces on the board had to be replaced. In waiting, she was forced to face the knowledge that the inability to throw herself against monsters more powerful than she was had started to make her itchy. 

Her Beast had apparently learned to subsist on hyper-violence and morbidly optimistic pessimism. 

Perhaps the only ‘productive’ meetings she’d had were with her old human ‘retainers’ as Skelter had called such kine; Venus and Larry had been visibly relieved and pleased to see her well. Her meeting with Mercutio had likewise been… interesting. 

She knew going in that it would have more practical to ‘keep’ him. Kinder, even. 

The thought of giving him her blood however…

It had churned her gut almost into dry heaving. 

Without Pisha around to feed him to, and a sense of hesitation at the thought of gifting him to Vandal to blood-let, she’d personally offered him to Therese instead, to shoulder off the guilt of burden.

She’d turned out to be right in assuming the Baron would not waste an opportunity to claim a once-servant of a Camarilla Prince, at least. 

While she had never feared for the man’s wellbeing in Therese’s care (as much as she could care about it all), she told herself she’d given him a bit of a buffering chance by imparting to the woman that the man had never been unkind to her, for whatever that was worth to the kindred.

Therese had filed him away after that; irrelevant to anything outside the immediate sphere of herself and her trio of favored kindred, she’d payed the man no further thought.  

In the third week, Jeanette surprised her by meeting her at the Last round; when the scantily clad Malkavian cooed a greeting and opened her arms expectantly, she’d merrily jumped into them without hesitation. 

It was only when she’d been wrapped snugly inside the blonde’s arms, that she’d realized what she’d done in a place that wasn’t the Asylum or its apartment by the rush of reactions her senses picked up around them. 

Oddly enough, the ensuing confusion and surprises of her peers did nothing to settle her flare of nerves, but also did little to further to inflame them; having already reinforced Jeanette into taking the reins in their relationship, she allowed herself to follow the older kindred’s lead.   

The world seemed far less gloomy and intimidating under the Malkavian’s grip anyway, she’d discovered. 

At Jeanette’s prominent insistence, she was invited to Nine’s card table for the first time; having been eagerly hoisted her up on her hip, she supposed the other Anarchs were powerless to refuse Jeanette’s machinations without seeming poor sports. 

The group squabled about what games to play before ultimately deciding to play poker.

Jeanette, perhaps what should have been ‘predictably’, had pushed for strip poker. 

The gruffs of good-natured dissent spread along Nine’s coalition like a warm broth, though they fell against her senses like an afterthought; as her shifting awarenesses grew ever more malleable under the ways Jeanette felt against her back; having been seated squarely in her lap. 

Nines offered a curt explanation of the game at her request; he shared a look of quiet concern behind his eyes that she tried to politely dissuade. -She’d known the moment she’d been set against the blonde’s thighs that she’d lose whatever game the girl conjured up, and that if she allowed herself to give into the blonde’s whims, she’d enjoy every moment of it.  

She didn’t know if the rebel had found her strained smile reassuring, but he said nothing of it; she honestly assumed they’d’ve been used to Jeanette showing off her affairs. 

The first round of cards prompted little fanfare or reaction; understanding it was likely the only ‘practice round’ the group of motley kindred would allow her to take without protest, she traded a pair of her cards after asking about the rules again. 

At Damsel’s prompting, she asked Skelter to raise the stakes.

A hand under her skirt brushed along her inner thighs, nearly making her choke on her own syllables.  

-Damsel slapped her cards on the table, a challenge on her tongue and a hint of slight aggravation to her spirits; not for the first time, she found herself weighing the humor in kissing her for the result of seeing Damsel’s look of utter surprise over the realistic likelihood of having to then deal with things being too awkward and groused between them.

She blamed Jeanette’s quiet humming and roaming fingers for the distracting trail of thought; she felt her body begin to Blush.   

Skelter was the first to respond to Damsel’s provocation, his cards stirred up further flurries of emotion in the others; she could nearly taste them, for the way their desaturated auras fell heavy on her awareness. 

-She could definitely taste traces of Jeanette’s vitae on her tongue, in a vivid phantom reflex.  

As Nines added his cards to the mix, she felt the effects of having Jeanette’s mouth so close to the nape of her neck and realized she had no idea how the first round had ended; there was a lot of swearing passed along the table but no one had removed any clothing before the next hand was dealt.  

Having missed the scoring portion of the practice round, she didn’t know if the cards she received were any good; the rules of the game had been beaten out by the struggle of halfheartedly pulling Jeanette’s hand from underneath her clothes every few moments.  

Resultantly, she found the little roundtable of Anarchy to be more than a little difficult to focus on. 

Not that it mattered; the moment she looked at her hand the ‘right’ cards ◈sparkled◈ with a glimmer of potential. 

Encouraged by Jeanette’s giggles and appraised stroking, she traded a single card and called Skelter’s bluff. 

Skelter groaned as Damsel cursed up a storm. 

She wasn’t going to win the entire game, her intuition told her; but she felt pleased enough to entertain the others as a mild contender. 

She quickly didn’t much care for the way the group actually carried out the agreement to partially disrobe at their unlucky hands, but Jeanette’s presence was soothing enough to ride the evening out and Nines for once, wasn’t ignoring her to pose thematically against a wall for several hours, so she supposed she was labeling the night’s progressions as a success.

More cards were traded; some shuffled, others dealt. 

Another round played, and for her, lost. 

She stood up just enough to find Jeanette merrily quick in helping her out of Therese’s shirt. 

Feeling incredibly exposed, her anxiety spiked before her focus was shifted to Jeanette’s hands again, shivering under them as one trailed along to wrap around her chest. The comfort in the other’s weight, and its rhythmic movement against her skin stirred up memories of just how it felt to feel safely encompassed by the blonde, in more private settings. 

She settled easily back into the Malkavian’s lap, with no loss of social status for her flustered behavior. 

If anything, Nines and his group seemed impressed she had any rationality at all, in Jeanette’s clutches as she was; or perhaps they were simply surprised she hadn’t lost the game entirely. 

It had been nearly two weeks since she’d been in any sort of scrape for her life; the realization was a little overwhelming. 

It occurred to her that she could talk more, engage them more fully to make the most of the rare, non-perilous experience.

Logically, she knew it wouldn’t do her any good to resent any of them, though she also felt it was probably a natural sort of emotion to have, given what she’d gone through; she hoped it would hurry up and run its course, since she’d be working with the rebel group for her foreseeable future.

As sociable as she could muster herself to be while her group of peers were in numerous states of angered undress, she laughed and hummed through the passing moments; slipping back into the feel of living in the present, under Jeanette’s teasing guidance in an easy but concentrated effort. She told herself that she was lucky that the ennui she felt didn’t entirely deplete the ephemeral enjoyment she was getting from participating.

The turn of cards went round again and again.

Grunts and calls and folds; it was a good thing the rebels were playing for scraps of cloth instead of quarters, she thought, as she gambled her remaining garments to the bid. It’d be another few days before Venus would have anything to give her.

Would it be smart to ghoul her?

The idea hurt to think about; it’d be tactical sure, but it went against everything the woman seemed to stand for and it overall felt too raw. 

-Heather- felt too raw. 

“You okay kid? You can fold if you got a bad hand,” Nines offered, folding his own cards against the table. 

Sensing her unease, though not likely it’s cause, Jeanette purred a string of lascivious well-meaning intent into her ears and gave her breast a rolling squeeze.

She yipped, a little surprised, and refocused on the splay of cards in her hands. 

While her intuition was good, it wasn’t infallible. 

Her next garment to go was her underwear, which she handed to Jeanette, as they belonged to the blonde anyway. She left the skirt in place, hoping to keep some token of her modesty with the mess of her mostly less-than-half-dressed-peers about; almost immediately following, she felt herself wishing for the Malkavian’s other hand to dip between her thighs. 

The game continued on, each of them hedging their bets; engrossed in the game again as she’d returned, she nearly missed the way Jeanette had shifted her over one knee until the barely registered movement of their bodies softly grinding together threatened to blossom the blood between their skin. 

She prayed the rebels had control enough not frenzy over such scents.  

As the rounds steadily stripped down the circle of Anarchs, she wondered if she’d have felt more or less nervous if Velvet had also been at the table; she mentally imposed the compassionate dancer’s image into the setting to better envision the scenario’s likeliest results. 

While the grunge of the place hardly seemed fitting for the demure dancer, she suspected VV’s inner Toreador would certainly appreciate an invitation for inclusion’s sake and thought that the well-versed socialite could find some enjoyment from the blend of company. 

Thinking of Velvet with Jeanette steadily working her into a shaking mess led her mind down a rabbit hole of red; would it be awkward to share spaces with them? She wondered if Therese would mind her just… staying at Vesuvius for the night.

Or if Velvet would even let her.

Perhaps it was too soon, she thought; shifting on Jeanette’s lap. She weighed the weight of romantic politesse as she chuckled along with the others at Nine’s exasperation for over-bluffing his hand. 

Skelter hollered at Nine’s ill-fated play; the man abashedly stood up to remove his pants to the scattered protests of the others; Jeanette cheerfully covered her eyes as the squalls and insults thrown from the throng of Anarchists informed her that their resident leader lacked any further garments under his denim. 

While blinded, her senses honed in on  the sounds of the area, picking up everything from the patrons of the bar to the sounds of the homeless scuffling around further up the street.  

The game ended; choruses of jeers, cheers and disgruntled guffs passed back and forth as everyone pulled their clothes back on, piece by piece. 

There was something comforting about it; a shared humility that reinforced their ideals of intrinsic equality, perhaps. 

She pulled Therese’s shirt back on without difficulty, but her pleas for her undergarment was met only with a look of teasing elation from Jeanette.  

She resigned herself to carrying on through the night without them. 

Surprisingly, after everyone was dressed, she was pat on the back and cajoled with the fellows’ camaraderie; their parting sentiment while unspoken, was easy enough to follow. 

The night had gone well; she was a fellow Anarch, though the auras she’d read indicated that she was not quite ‘one of them’ yet, lingered between unspoken lines. 

She scathingly wondered how many more Princes and Archbishops she’d need to kill to finally prove herself before pushing the self-defeatist mindset away.

With a final companionable nod received from Nines, she and Jeanette left the Last Round to make their slow walk home to the heart shaped bed in the Voerman sisters’ apartment.  

She realised later, that she’d become accustomed to sharing Jeanette’s specialty bed; even looked forward to it openly and equally dreaded the thought of spending a night without another person beside her.

Nice as it was to spend the last moments of awareness before the day being coddled, she only realized the mangitute of her gratitude for it when she woke up mid-Daysleep, half-panicked from harrowing nightmares.

-Daymares.  

Thoughts of all the ways Time could have gone differently for her, pasts unrealized unfolding before her in visceral clarity; interspersed by equally distressing thoughts of all the ways she could yet fail, falling prey to her own ego and insecurities. 

That night; the Voerman’s demanding she choose-

Therese shooting Jeanette.

-Jeanette shooting Therese-

Velvet growing upset; leaving her, distraught-

The Sabbot holding Heather in front of her, too far to reach-

-The Sabbot holding Velvet, unable to move-

Jeanette breaking up with her, breaking her-

Velvet getting bored, leaving-

Therese listening to her confession, unfeeling-

It was only the distant feel of the body beside her that kept her from frenzying over her near nightly bouts of Kindridic sleep paralysis.

Thankfully, the dreams while intense were mercifully short in comparison to the hours long ordeals her human nightterrors had often been. 

Turning over -when she forced the Blood enough to allow new movement- tended to wake Jeanette just enough to assess for threats, only to find none and pull her back over and smother her against her chest, incoherent and soothing nothings lulled sweetly over her hair.  

She spoke nothing, of her fears.

Jeanette, mercifully, never inquired. 

Just as she’d felt she’d become happily used to their customs, Therese began to surprise her; implementing a new, tentative change. 

If the sisters were both occupying their face near sun up, the elder Voerman would also stay for the dawn.

She didn’t dare ask or acknowledge it directly, as the Baron was clearly testing the waters; but she found the action deeply alluring and rife with comfort. 

Jeanette still pulled her to her hip; arms wrapped around the sisters’ middle, she still snuggled her face freely into the touch-addicted blonde’s neck. 

In the day following, it was Therese who stifled her waking-dream; she’d sat up, visions of choices past congealed beyond recognition as her half-woken senses scrambled to function during the Sunlight time. The movement stirred Therese, who seemed far less used to a moving body.

Similarly finding no external threats, the woman had regarded her silently. 

Unable to speak, and too exhausted to explain, she stared into the kindred’s distant eyes and trembled. 

Therese remained still, watching her as she slowly composed herself enough to slip back down onto the bed and close her eyes, feelings of shame and embarrassment burying her face into the pillows only to then feel the weight of Therese cautiously gliding her next to her body.

Shoulder to shoulder, barely touching. 

But close. 

Close enough.    

The Baron had made only the lightest of inquiries about it, the night after.

‘Bad dreams’ , was all she’d offered quietly in reply. 

The answering expression of acceptance across the woman’s face was perhaps the second most profound look of unspoken understanding the Malkavian had ever given her.   

Therese’s hand, during the second occurrence of her addition, moved to rest tentatively against her own, not quite holding or seeking her out, but certainly not ignoring her altogether. 

Her fit that day happened a few hours later than usual; Therese’s hand was quick to close around her arm, a sensation that was both unsettling in her altered dream-state and deeply grounding for its tether back into reality.

As the daycycles passed, days occurred wherein the sisters remained still through her terrors, having grown used to her spurts of mild fits without fearing for their own safety. 

The amount of trust she imagined such actions displayed humbled her greatly.

It was then, with the gentlest movements that after waking, she reworked herself into their slumbering arms finding only comforting acceptance when they nightly awoke.    

If the Voerman sisters are playing me , she thought, later penning it into her journal; I acknowledge their mastery of skill.   

Safe in the arms of the Barons, she wondered if it was the way Jeanette cooed over her until they succumbed to the day that kept her unbeaten heart rosetinted or perhaps if it was the way the Voermans traded her in their daysleep; leaving her to wake with Therese’s arm possessively pulling her closer until it was on the elder sister’s hip she rested. 

It could’ve been the way her daymares had been soothed by responding fingernails trailed along her scalp; in the haze of the day, she wasn’t sure if even the Voermans knew which twin was perpetuating their movements. 

She did know their shared looks of surprise melting into recognition every moonrise did terribly wonderful things to the remains of her undead nervous system. 

I will learn if I can die again / when they send me away, she penned. 

As the occurrences repeated, she thought that maybe, it was the way the glasses softened Therese’s face, and the running mascara that sharpened Jeanette’s, that sent a flutter through her un-beating heart and believe their intentions romantic. 

She thought maybe it was the way she could reach out to touch those strands of curling golden-sallow hair without reproach, if she kept her moments slow and unobtrusive enough; the way that each sister separate and in tandem were forming steps to their dances of courtship,  that compelled her to cling to the converged Malkavians, yearning for more.  

Chapter Text

She felt the tension in the air creep steadily closer over a few nights; not one of frustration or animosity, but one of anticipation and words bitten back with held tongues and frequently uttered  ‘neverminds ’. 

As versed in the Voermans’ behaviors as she’d become, she’d easily noted the shifts in the sisters’ movements, sputters in conversation, and general moods.

‘I wonder if this is how an animal feels’, she’d penned, dribbling ink; ‘when it senses the onslaught of winter.’ 

When she’d started venturing into the city again, the siblings had somewhat braced themselves, distancing from her; understanding their hesitations, she’d taken effort to soothe them with her continued support and levity. At first, it’d seemed to do the trick.

Over the week following, the siblings alternated between periods of secretive stress and feigned normality. 

When Therese started acting more reserved, she had watched Therese’s face and hands belay small, numerous hints towards an ‘eventual outcome’ of something.

There had also been a growing frequency of catching hints of sadness under Jeanette’s smiling facades.

As neither sister seemed particularly angry or displeased with her, she could only assume their bouts of withdrawn behaviors could lead to one thing.  

The Voermans were gearing up to ‘let her go’.  

-While she hadn’t bothered to guess it down to the seconds, she wasn’t at all surprised when Therese finally gestured for her to enter a ‘serious’ conversation. 

If anything, she felt it almost a relief, though a large part of herself still felt anxious over the likelihood of any ‘surprises’, and the rest of her simply felt the oncoming idea of parting ways to be inevitable and bittersweet. -Just because she’d known it was coming, hadn’t meant she’d wanted her bubble of bliss to end. 

Following the intent in Therese’s movements, she accordingly stopped in front of the Baron, and allowed the kindred to place something within her hand. 

“Your new roomkey,” Therese clarified; she looked up, her reflection glinting across the kindred’s lenses.

She felt the pang of bittersweet remorse grow stronger, as it took a few seconds for the blonde to politely step away; reaffirming to her just how comfortable they both had gotten in their dance. 

The keycard, smooth and crisply red, felt large in her hands. 

She looked back to Therese, who adjusted her glasses minutely; part of her assumed the gesture to be one of slight sheepishness. 

“I took the liberty of having your old apartments repaired,” Therese continued, her tone the same even one reserved for business; “Their security is… existent, though I hope you remain aware of their risks. The keycard,” she gestured, tilting her chin a smidge; “Is for your room at the Ocean House Hotel. -It’s been renovated these past few weeks and will serve as a better base of operations for you; it should be sufficient in terms of fireproofing and anonymity. The staff have been notified and should be no issue; your room is on the top floor, in the left wing and will remain open to you.”

“Thank you,” she replied genuinely, ignoring the urge to clutch the card to her chest. 

“I had to move the plans forward a little faster than I had first anticipated, so there might be some minor construction or cosmetic changes to the establishment later down the line but none of it should bother you,” the blonde added.

Understanding the weight between the words, she took the favor to heart. 

“I appreciate it, truely,” she promised, earning a pleased look from the Baron. 

Therese ran a hand down her jacket, smoothing imaginary creases before falling still at her hip; her smile softened, seeing the reflexive behavior. 

“Yes well,” the kindred deflected, clinging to formality; “I was planning on stopping there myself tonight, to oversee some business there. I can take you in my car, if you’d like to get settled.” 

Finding the offer practical, and the chance to spend more time with the Baron agreeable, she smiled warmly. 

“That would be lovely, thank you,” she conceded; “Let me grab my laptop.”

It took only a moment to retrieve the computer from the Baron’s end table; her only other ‘special’ possession, her Journal, easily tucked against it.

Carting them both under her arm, she rejoined the older kindred with quick ease and passed the descent of the elevator in silence. 

Walking at Therese’s side, she observed the way she naturally fell just a half-step behind the blonde, effortlessly keeping the kindred’s gait.

She tried not to think about the ease in which the blonde would have lowering an arm to her back, or atop her shoulder, should the older kindred wish to; it nearly made her sigh for the wistfulness of it. 

She did enjoy the way the patrons seemed to part instinctively for Therese as they crossed the floor of the Asylum; following Therese made an effective argument for why and how it would be easy for kindred to become swept up in the promises and illusions of borrowed power. 

A few lyrics trickled through her mind’s eye; she smiled as they stepped into the street to the sight of a sleek black vehicle. 

Her imitation-beating heart calmed nigh instantly, upon finding no inherent resemblance to the taxi she’d almost grown to miss. 

Van maybe, she guessed, watching her step from the curb; Were SUVs vans? Could a van be an SUV? What were Hummers?

They were all cars, as far as she could care. 

Therese opened the door, ushering her inside. 

The interior was comfortable; soft and pliant under her touch. 

Therese stepped in after her and closed the door as she settled herself a few inches away from the window then gave a nod towards the driver, divided from them through a pane of thick acrylic wedged between the roof of the vehicle and a form of built-in cabinetry underneath. 

She stifled an urge to cuddle up to the Baron, as they lacked her sister as a plausible buffer of deniability, but allowed herself to shift a few inches closer, posturing her willingness for the blonde’s conversation.

“Was it difficult for them to rebuild it?” she asked, finding herself curious and Therese comfortable over the ‘safe topic’; “I know the state I saw it in likely wasn’t… conductive for that.”

“The fire damage could have been done without,” Therese agreed sternly; the flatness of her voice didn’t phase her, assured in the knowledge that if Therese was actually angry at her , the Baron would do more than let her know it.  

“The amount of modernization and upgrades however necessitated much of the renovation either way, which I’d expected going in,” Therese spoke on; happily, she watched reflections of the city lights glint along the kindred’s glasses. 

“Most of the damage was localized in the attic; and that roof would've needed replacing anyway,” the Baron added. 

“I’m glad,” she replied lightly, earning a focused glance from the Baron; “It’s a nice change, hearing that one of my mission sites got a second chance. -You’d be surprised how many of my missions involved my opponents blowing everything up to try to Dust me.” 

“Somehow, I’d doubt that,” the Baron quipped, her expression almost novel, implying it wouldn’t surprise the women at all. 

Cheerful, she chuckled a curt puff of meaningless air and smiled. 

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” she segued, “I meant to ask, how did the ghost problem turn out?”

Therese’s face slipped back into her aimable business posture; “There's some residual oddities, but that can be used as a lure if advertised correctly. The main issue of the poltergeist is thankfully no longer present.”  

She nodded, following along. 

“If the remaining spirits turn out to be an issue for you, you have my permission to attend to that, providing you stay mindful of the property damage,” the Baron allotted.

“I doubt it will come to it, but thank you,” she agreed, hoping that it would be the ghost children, if anything, that she’d be residing with. 

Therese hummed a reply, ending the conversation on a good note. 

She let a few streets roll by before broaching the other topics on her mind. 

Sensing her strengthening resolve, she watched Therese’s shoulders square and a hint of sameness cross her lips. 

“Not that I’m ordinarily one for gossip, but have you heard anything about the city lately?”  she asked, knowing her question was intentionally broad.

“Have you heard anything?” Therese shot back. 

“Only that the Cam is pulling out of the city; word on the street is that the brief introduction to Gehenna we faced is now popping up in other cities. Nothing concrete about why yet, but we’re thinking it’s a panic response to the presence that was in LA for awhile.”

“We?” Therese probed, almost sarcastically.

She smirked. 

“Myself, Gary, and the Anarchy specifically,” she specified; “Strauss may believe it, but with how much he allows our chats to humor me, it's difficult to say.”

“I see,” Therese replied, crossing her legs; “Did Beckett have anything to say about it?”

“He apparently, left the city shortly after LaCroix blew himself up,” she recounted; “I checked everywhere with no trace of him, and nobody else had seen him when I asked around. If he’s really the best ‘lore’ hunter our kind has, then he’s probably going to follow whatever epicenter of calamity that’s brewing on the horizon.” 

Therese’s thought-filled silence was response enough. 

“Part of me… feels like I should follow him?” she broached, if only to rid herself of the nagging feelings in her chest; “That I need to go find whatever great tragedy is going to happen and fix it, in case it turns out to be at all related to what happened here,” she confessed quietly; her eyes fixated on the back of her hands, while they wrung the fabric of her borrowed skirt. 

“You don’t need to always solve everything,” Therese commented. 

The hint of warmth in the tone, tempered by the audible weight of the wisdom earned through the Malkavian’s many years, lightened the tension within her shoulders. 

Not trusting herself to look at the Baron directly, she lowered her head. 

“I suppose that’s true,” she agreed, building her confidence by slipping back into humor; “I guess even Batman chose one city to prioritize.” 

She felt Therese’s questioning aura like a frigid wind over saltwater; she nearly choked.   

“He’s a… fictional character,” she offered, suddenly filled both with embarrassment and a mighty need to impart just how influential the ‘modern pantheon’ of superheroes could be. 

“Of course,” Therese dismissed, her tone the same humoring one she often used with Jeanette. 

They passed another portion of their ride in silence; not wanting to make the Baron uncomfortable by staring, she turned her attention out of the vaguely tinted windows, her eyesight easily sharpening to catch the pictures passing them by outside. 

The shifting scenery confused her; none of the buildings feeling familiar. 

I know I traveled there by sewer but…

The longer she looked the more unnerved she became.

-It’s not even the buildings, she realized slowly, it was the way the buildings were moving .

Or perhaps, more specifically, it was the way the building’s weren't... elongating .   

A cold, uncanny feeling slowly crawled up her back and fingered over her shoulders, spinning her sudden lightheadedness into a threat of nausea; her eyes only saw the memory of the road elongating timelessly outside the frame of the Taxi, and the small framed reflection of the driver’s glasses caught neatly in the rearview mirror in front of them.

She told herself it was a weird thing to be upset about; forcing down her flare of anxiety, she focused on slowly unclenching her fingers from where they had dug against the car seat.  

He didn’t even hurt you; stop squirming , she chastised herself, you’ll upset Therese.

Remembering the other kindred brought her back to the present. 

A quick glance to the blonde with her peripherals relayed that if the Baron had noticed her bout of... paranoia, she guessed? -she’d not responded to it.   

She supposed she was grateful she wasn’t freaking out, at least.    

The rest of the ride passed in an odd mix of contentment, curiosity, and pent-up anxiety for her; Therese at least, didn’t seem to feel one way or another, which likely meant the kindred was enjoying herself within reasonable parameters. 

When the can pulled up to the Ocean House Hotel, she did a few double takes. 

It was clearly the same building, finding herself remembering it vividly, but as newly minted as it was, it stood almost glistening with pride and promises of potential. 

The Ocean House, personifiably, seemed happy .

The aura about it clamoured with eager excitement; she found herself rooting for the old place, equally as pumped for it to fulfill its newfound purpose.  

It was also a rather fetching shade of earthtone that likely brought a warm, inviting atmosphere to the day-crowds it was likely to receive. 

I wonder what it would’ve looked like purple, she joked rhetorically.  

They stopped at the precipice of the loop, allowing their exit at the entrance of the grand establishment. 

The warm feeling from the building brought a smile to her face; she took Therese’s offered hand, stepping out of the car.

The Baron closed it behind her, before moving to lead her up the newly replaced steps; their driver had already beaten them to, and stood dutifully at the ready to open the door.

It was something of a grand reveal, for the weight of the small ceremony.  

The main lobby was just as impressive, if not now more beautiful than when she had first beheld it in its previous state of decay and neglect. 

The joy in her mood was almost uncontainable. 

The Baron’s lips formed a thin smile, seemingly pleased by her apparent response.  

“The opening event will be later this week,” Therese imparted as they walked, clearly proud of the prospect; “It will be a mixed event, but there will be plenty of our kind among the proceedings.” 

She hummed a response and drank in the presentation; the lighting, the colors, the furnishments. 

“You are, of course, welcome to attend,” the Baron continued; at Therese’s tone, she couldn’t quite place whether the information was an offer, or an instruction.   

“Will you be there?” she asked, flicking her attention back to the older kindred as they ascended the second set of massive, curving stairs. 

Therese tutted; a light ‘scolding’ at her frivolous assumption that a Baron would miss her own event. 

“I’ll be there,” the blonde regardlessly assured her; “I’ll be greeting the guests for most of the night.” 

She hummed again correspondingly, picturing the kindred in a modest dress of elegant black, and a throng of opportunists vying for the Malkavian’s attention. 

“Shall it be on the fancier side of the spectrum? I’d hate to ruin the mood by appearing in rebel leather and combat boots,” she teased, tempering her real curiosity. 

Therese huffed; “Yes, it’ll be for formal guests,” the Baron agreed.

I’ll have to ask Velvet for a dress, she figured; thinking her options out while she tested the grain of the banister. The wood of the handrail had been polished smooth, feeling almost delightful to run underneath her palm. 

“We replaced the banisters,” the Baron regaled, noting her caught attention; “The old spokes were rotting out so I had these replacements custom made to match the old staircases, and I carried the patterns in the posts through to the mouldings running into the upper floors.”

Her smile threatened to overtake her face as they crossed the threshold. 

“You have no idea , how happy I am about your choices in building design,” she confessed, her mind whirling with human satisfactions.

Therese regarded her with a pleased aura; “So you’re a painter with an eye for architecture?” the kindred probed. 

“My father was a carpenter,” she answered cleanly, enjoying the crisp sightlines through the hall; “I can’t tell you how many buildings I got dragged into, to help fix whatever terrible patch job some dysfunctional handyman shortcutted and left to fester.”

“Well that explains the mess you left in your old apartment,” Therese chided.

Delighted at the blonde’s jibe of humor, as well as a little miffed at being called out, she pouted briefly at the Baron before smiling again. 

“Yes well, somebody had to stop all the leaks,” she dismissed.

“Indeed,” Therese agreed. 

They traversed through the halls, Therese in pride, herself in relative excitement; it was nearly difficult, spotting the places she’d seen haunted once before until, almost singularly, the resemblances to the hotel’s past self grew all too uncanny. 

Of *course* I’d get the ghost’s room, she rationalized, coming to the final door. 

Still, the fact that it had been preceded by all the facelifts throughout the rest of the Hotel inspired her to feel hopeful. 

Therese goodnaturedly gestured for her to use her keycard in the metal cardlock; it opened to reveal a fully furnished suite, complete with a dash of ‘new furniture’ scent. 

Her first glance drank in the open-concept floorplan, keying in on the space’s division into functioning subsects; the entry opened into a communal feeling lounge space, behind which the bedroom parted into a small kitchenette, and to the other side, led to the ensuite and closets.

Her eyes fell on the fishtank hugging the wall and fought against the strange way her body wanted to vibrate.

She sidestepped to allow Therese in after her before closing the door. 

“The minifridge has been stocked with a few supplies,” Therese imparted, stopping short beside her; “There’s a small safe under your bed, and a larger one under your desk. You can set the combinations as you like. If you’ve need of anything, you can ring the staff for service; they can provide cleaning and laundry, though I doubt the catering will prove much use to you. There’s a conference room on the first floor and a private conference room in the first basement level, both of which you can make use of, alongside the Hotel’s actual entertainment facilities.” 

“Thank you Therese,” she replied, meaning it. 

“I’ve done no great charity,” the Baron dismissed; “One learns to provide for one’s assets if they wish to succeed any, these nights.” 

She set the pair of her belongings on the coffee table, eager to follow Therese for ‘the tour’ around the suite. 

Her mind flashed to the moment she’d last stood in the room, where a fragment in time had shifted, and she’d seen the room in its original wholesome state; comparatively, the room’s allure had far surpassed its humble origins. 

And compared to the apartment she’d started out in, it was as lavish as a fever dream; compared to the second apartment the Prince had moved her into, it was realistically practical, tasteful, and modest. 

It was almost too much. 

“You can of course, redecorate as you like,” Therese stated, leading her past the lounge-space and into the bedroom area; “Within reason.”  

That explains the lack of pictures on the walls, she reflected, noting how Therese had seen fit to tailor the suite’s accent colors to her favorite shades of purple; they worked perfectly with the softer neutrals of black and greys that comprised the rest of the pallet. 

Feeling awash with unbridled amounts of relief, joy, and gratitude, she turned to the Baron with an utter need to impart how much the gesture meant to her. 

Her human instinct was to hug; her kindred reflexes held the urge in check as she fought over how best to convey her appreciation to the woman. 

“It’s wonderful Therese, thank you ,” she quietly reiterated, wishing desperately she could touch the blonde without it seeming too forward.

Therese adjusted her glasses, a little unsteady with her excess emotion; “I’m glad you like it.”

Before she could stop herself, her fingertips were pressed delicately to the Malkavian’s sleeve, begging for both attention, and permission. 

When the reserved, touch-avoidant kindred didn’t pull away, she blood-wet her lips and finished compiling her thoughts. 

“Am I still allowed to visit you, at the Asylum?” she asked, hoping she wasn’t asking too much, so soon, “I… rather enjoyed spending time together.”

The Baron seemed to think it over; her undead heart rattled violently against her ribcage.

Therese’s face smoothed over in a cool smile, encouraging her. 

“The Asylum’s doors are always open,” Therese replied evenly; “Now, I must attend to other matters; I trust you can settle in on your own? I don’t want to make finding you in poor states a habit.”

She stepped back, letting her hand fall away from the Baron’s arm; “I’ll be alright,” she agreed warmly. 

“Good; the Camarilla I can handle,” Therese quipped, “But try not to bring home any Sabbot,” Therese bade, dipping her head slightly before turning for the door. 

She walked her out, gently closing the door behind the woman, allowing herself to linger against the door for some moments before turning back around.

Needlessly, she drew in a great deal of air to expand her lungs, as if to better prepare herself for the return of finally being home.

Alone . 

It was a disturbing thought. 

At disbanding the ‘breath’, she set about surveying the room’s finer details; the psychology books on the shelves, the placements of the outlets around the walls, the recessed ceiling, the scant decorations and curios dotting the scene as examples of decoration. 

It was impersonal, in the same way the apartment LaCroix had gifted her had been impersonal; a formal space meant to act both as a sunshield and spot for decompression wherein the ‘taste’ of decor and furnishings served as a quiet boast of the gifter’s refinery and power. 

She supposed the difference was, that while she highly doubted the Prince had put any thought into the gesture beyond ordering her to use the apartments, that Therese had likely been in charge of both the room’s construction and presentation, or at the very least, had ordered her underlings to accommodate her tastes as much as the Baron had known her tastes to be. 

The art books on the shelves and the avoidance of modern minimalism were both little touches that could have been coincidence or assumed for her clan, but were turned more meaningful when juxtaposed alongside the accenting purples and the choices in odd knick-knacks that were clearly marks of Therese having utilized their many conversations. 

She hadn’t even told her about the fishtank in her old apartment, and yet, Therese had apparently listened to her prattle about abyssal sea life and other aquatic fascinations enough to have considered the tank as a reasonable guess. Such was evidenced by the setup provided. 

That, or she saw the smashed up old one and saw fit to replace it, she reasoned; the thought of the wrecked ecosystem stung a little. As far as she was concerned, the tank while in its prime, had been the only accidental personification LaCroix had gifted her. 

Electing to walk over to the aquarium, rather than stare intently from afar, she noted the tank’s dimensions and accessories to better wonder what forms of life she might harbor within it. 

She wondered if Therese having needed to rebuild the entire section of the Hotel to make the room anew had made it easy enough to reinforce the floor for the weight. While not as massive as her old one, the large setup looked a generous amount of gallons; certainly a lenient amount to work with, in terms of stockable options and scapes. 

Goldfish ; she immediately decided with reckless inspiration. 

Feeling giddy with thoughts of eloquent fishtails serpentining serenely through her head, she took up a seat on the couch and flicked on the news; the familiar newsanchor proved refreshingly dull, now that he wasn’t covering any of her local escapades.

She couldn’t tell if any of the flavor stories were kindred-pushed propaganda or human coincidences, but nothing stood out as anything to generally fret about; the cleanup for Venture Tower seemed to have gone well, though the mortals apparently hadn’t yet decided what to do with what was still standing. 

Maybe some of the Nos will get it, she thought; make LaCroix turn in his pile of ashes.

She supposed she could have kept it herself, had she felt feisty enough to fight off other contenders, or if she’d been rich enough to seize it. 

Then again, it's probably best I don’t grow an ego for my Beast, she reasoned, flicking through the channels.

After the newsreels started repeating their stories with minor ‘updates’ over the course of an ensuing hour, she rubbed at her face to shake off a feeling of creeping tension. 

The room wasn’t scary. 

Though the thought of turning around to find someone or something standing there previously unnoticed was always an unnerving thought in the back of her mind, it was an irrationality disconnected from the welcoming, soothing suite. 

Even as she reflected on that principle, she was brutally aware that finding someone -anyone else- there would be a workable blessing. 

She clicked the remote, the medium screen blinking to stark black; her reflection faintly illuminated in its plainier depths offered smudges of warm skin and red hair.

“And when you come back, I’ll take care of whatever you want -I’d do anything for you.”

Her heart, and her body, immediately lurched forward; her fingers digging into the sofa the only point of force keeping her from leaping to her feet. 

The rudimentary mirror lacked the decency to better define her blurry face.  

“I can be useful to you… I’d do anything -just tell me you’ll let me help you… let me stay with you… make me feel this way.”   

As she shivered, she better recognized her reflection as her own. 

Probably better to never wear glasses again, she resigned, the line of thought leading her back to the bespectacled Baron who’d brought her to her new room.  

She had half a mind to run out into the halls and wedge herself back around the Baron’s heels; the more logical part of her mind argued that ignoring the problem would only make it worse after Therese eventually left. 

Just one night, she vowed ; just this one night and then every night after.  

She forced herself to stare at the bed across the room. 

“I have some bad news,” the nurse imparted, her tone too tired and uncomfortable for real concern, “The orderlies found her yesterday morning -she’d pulled the plug to her oxygen. I’m afraid she’s no longer with us. We tried reaching out to her granddaughter but there’s been no answer from Miss Poe. Ma’am? Is there a number we can reach her at? Is someone you’d like us to call?”

As her throat constricted, she wondered if she was capable of throwing up.

She cinched her eyes shut and waited for the feeling to pass.

In the darkness of her own eyelids, thoughts of Velvet started threading into her vision, shoving away the terrible emotions in a blooming cloud of red. 

Her body struggled to pant breaths that didn’t calm her, her chest heaved -rocking her, as she rested on her heels in the watery sludge and shoe-sticking muck; the plaguebearer’s corpse busting and popping in a final show of putricidy as its rot consumed it to dust. Her quivering hand reached into her jacket again, fishing through the pockets to retrieve her journal; her eyes never leaving the disappearing man until the journal was outstretched before her. Her eyes flicked instantly to the perforation within the pages, an eerie sort of acceptance washing over her that sent the anxiety away; Velvet’s picture was still pristine. 

Her memory flashed to the marble floors of the Giovanni mansion , and to the dreadfilled elevator rides up to the prince, and they way she’d thumb the picture inside her jacket. 

As long as she’s fine , she soothed herself, the mantra familiar. 

A little less shaken, she decided to work her thoughts out across her journal, documenting the experience for some future version of herself.    

𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝔀 𝓪𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽. -𝓰𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓱𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓵. -𝓰𝓲𝓯𝓽 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓮. 𝓷𝓸 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓰𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓱𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓵 𝓼𝓸 𝓯𝓪𝓻. 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓪 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻 𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓾𝓬𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻. -𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭? 𝓷/𝓪 𝓣𝓪𝓼𝓴𝓼: -𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓼

The night passed by in dedicated stillness; she’d been disturbed only once, when the front desk had called to inform her of Therese’s departure.

She’d declined their subsequent offer of forging a ‘wakeup-call’ routine and shortly set aside her journal. 

She forced herself to march over to the bed, expecting to have to stare it or herself into some sort of submission, but found any such action surprisingly unnecessary; perhaps a little underwhelmingly, it was just a bed. 

She shed her clothes before slipping into it to await the day.  

As her head sunk into the pillow, she realized part of her was waiting to feel a pair arms engulf her and pull tight. 

There was no trace of personable scent in the pillows; not the Voermans’, not her own. 

Not Heather’s. 

Just the feeling of comfortingly soft sheets on uncirculating skin.

She concentrated; she could almost make her body feel the way it felt to lay beside a body.

“Just think of me while you sleep,” echoed Jeanette’s murmur, light and voiceless at her ear.

She stilled. 

Sleeping was blinking; no dreams, no terrors, no meandering. 

Her eyes snapped open, unliving anew as the night reset at sundown; there was some human-influenced sluggishness to her movements as she propped herself up out of habit, but it quickly dissipated when she remembered the lack of any bodies to ‘warm up’ for. 

Her first priority was to check her email. 

[Subject] Hot Signals in Your Local Area [From] [email protected]
Hope you enjoyed your vacation Boss, got another job for you. If you set up a few cameras in everyone’s favorite sociopath’s Hotel before the opening gala, I’ll trade you something special. Should be right up your alley. Pretty girl with sharp edges. Mailbox like always.

An intriguing proposition; out of all the kindred she’d met, she was glad one of them played to her interests as well as her sense of humor. 

-A sheepish, mortifying thought occurred to her that either Therese or her servants would have stumbled across the pinups of their peers. 

Jeanette’s and Velvet’s she’d probably understood, even if she probably wasn’t happy about them, she reasoned, teething her lip; but how the hell am I going to explain the ones of Damsel and Ming Xaio? 

And spying on Therese tho , she weighed heavily her teeth rubbing around for chapped skin that wasn’t ever going to be there again; after everything she’s just done for me?   

Of course, she also had no way of knowing that if she refused, there wouldn’t be some other hiree whom would see the job done. At least this way she’d know about the cameras’ precise locations. 

She supposed she could install them and then ‘happen’ to find them, to let Therese know about their locations to work with them to her own advantage. 

He probably already knows I live here; she reflected, tapping her fingers on the space key without enough force to actually activate it.

Maybe he just wants to help keep an eye on me?   

She supposed it was a nicer way to frame surveillance; I wonder if ‘live like the Nos are always watching’ would count as a mantra? she mused.

Well, she had a couple days to decide; either way she’d be able to pick up the cameras from her designated mailbox.

Probably good to make an appearance there, just to see what Therese had done to the place, she figured, clicking back to scroll to the next message.      

[Subject] Open Immediately, Kitten! [From] [email protected]
HI! Guess who! No, guess! Because it's more fun that way, that's why! Oh, kitten, have you already forgotten? It's me, Jeanette! I was just sitting here in my big, boring bedroom, all by my lonely self, when I noticed I was missing something – you. You didn’t scurry off without giving me something to remember you by, did you Kitten? That’d be so coldhearted of you!

Wading for you, Duckling!

-(Still Me) J

Shit , she thought suddenly; she hadn’t meant to leave without saying goodbye. 

In my defense, she hasn’t been around to say goodbye to these past few nights ; she argued. She’d felt a little hurt at the way Jeanette had withdrawn but; it was to be expected she felt, considering. 

I’ll call her, invite her over, she promised, the blonde’s smile in mind; hopefully I can keep her busy enough that she won’t want to wreck the place before opening night. I doubt Therese will have invited her over yet.   

She checked her latest new message. 

[Subject] Your Wistful Bloom [From] [email protected]
Oh Darling, it’s been so inspiring seeing your resilience these nights. I hope my humble confessions only strengthen the beauty in your heart, as you do in mine, my Love.

Blooming Rose

I am but a troubled heart
a second, an instant
tortured, sordid
a moment, a moment
a wilted flower on the table, a russet complexion

-Eternally Yours, VV

So pretty, she thought; really, the poems only seemed to grow more elaborate and emotional with each addition. 

While she had intended to pay the lovely Toreador a call, the ability to lay a more complete assessment of the note was far easier accomplished by email, and she hoped the tenderhearted poet would appreciate the returned gesture; she also hoped that her attempts at wordsmithing wouldn’t come across as any sort of passive one-upmanship, but there was little she could do to prevent it, if it ended up being received that way. 

She took a moment to gather her thoughts and typed her reply. 

[Reply]Your Wistful Bloom [From] Suckhead@vtm
I am, in your eyes, the best version of myself, VV. There is little that could be sweeter than starting and ending my nights with thoughts of you. Your ability to sheer the layers from me with only your vivid imagery makes me certain I have a soul still trapped within me, as it responds entirely to yours. I spent longer on this than I’d want to admit, but I hope it can convey at least a little of what I feel for you:

may space and time come upon us / we are departed
but we shall depart / dearly, in the end / resting in peace

‘PS: I wouldn’t want to interfere with any of your plans, and nor would I want ‘favors’ to rest tastelessly between us; but if you’ve any time to spare before the end of the week, would it be possible for me to ask for your fashionable assistance? I admit I am woefully ill equipped to suss out a suitable wardrobe, and I find myself in need of a dress; as well as more mundane attires.

-Love Eternal, <3

If that doesn’t excite her, nothing will; she mused. 

To her surprise, the reply was almost immediate. 

[Reply] Your Wistful Bloom [From] [email protected]
Oh Sweet Kindred how you spoil me. I would love to see you dressed -and undressed- under such a task. Come to my club tomorrow night, Darling. I’ll take care of you. -VV

She blinked away an immediate vision of heat and fluster; both cursing and blessing her innate response of vivid imagination. 

Business done, she laced her fingers to crack her knuckles and clicked the laptop closed; she stretched out of habit, testing her joints and flexibility for any peculiarities. 

Finding none, she elected to check the closet and dressers; she wasn’t sure she wanted to shower if she’d nothing fresh to slip into. Admittedly, she considered the notion of Therese trying to ‘guess her sizes’ or ‘a Toreador’s sense of style’ as something of a fool’s notion. 

It was something of an expected disappointment then, when she opened the doors and drawers and found the storage spaces empty. 

I wonder if it’s too early to call Jeanette?

She grabbed her journal from the coffee table and wandered over to the glossy-black phone sitting on the console table. 

She plucked the number scrawled messily inside the pages and mused over the lack of idle music that could, in theory, replace dialing tones. 

The click of the call going through peaked her attention.

“Hope this isn’t a bad time,” she stated, unsure as to which of the sisters she’d managed to reach. 

“Is that my little Kitten, who ran away? Tsk tsk, Duckling,” Jeanette chided; “Better not go chasing any cars when doors swing open. You know what they say about chickens and curiosity.” 

“Hello Jeanette, I was hoping I’d reach you,” she greeted fondly, setting her journal down; “I got a new bed last night; I was hoping you could help me look for monsters in it?”

“I’m not usually a girl who comes when called, Duckling,” Jeanette warned, “-But I can make an exception,” she teased, her tone perking back up; “I know how scary big ol’ lonely rooms can be.” 

“Thanks Jeanette,” she replied happily; “It’s going to be really hard learning to sleep in my own room again, if last night was any indication.” 

“You’re cute Kitten, thinking I’d let you get any sleep,” Jeanette quipped; “Tell me exactly where you missed me. -And where my Sister put you.” 

“The Ocean House Hotel, top floor. I should be able to buzz you in, if you need me to,” she explained, “Fun fact, your sister didn’t leave me anything to dress in, and I was about to head into the shower. If you get here fast enough I’ll let you get the hard to reach places.”

“Splish splash, Duckling,” Jeanette replied, the line going dead. 

True to her word, Jeanette arrived soon enough, finding her waiting idly pre-shower on the bed. 

Something at the sight of the Malkavian’s blithe smirk melted away her melancholy; her own smile broadened for the loss of it.   

“So this is my Sister’s idea of showing you a good time?” Jeanette asked, clearly unsurprised as she eyed the place after stepping through the door. 

Hands on her hips, the Malkavian’s mouth segued into a rather familiar grin.

She found herself more than a little relieved at the sight of the clothes draped over the blonde’s arm.  

“Ah-ah Little Girl,” the blonde tutted, holding her at bay as she reached for them; “Naughty Kittens don’t get new mittens until after we wash their paws.”

Feigning petulance, she pouted for a fractioned moment before humming consentingly; she let Jeanette pull her close to trade deepened kisses and insistent fingertips. 

It was an obvious diversion to keep her ‘distracted’ while the blonde deftly untoweld her. 

She yelped, more at the rush of motion than any surprise; the resulting mix of embarrassment and thrill sent a flutter through her limbs which the blonde eagerly appraised with roving hands and flashed fangs. 

They tangled together, their romping movements spritely and comfortingly companionable; Jeanette rolled her onto her back, pinning her wrists with ease, prompting her to ‘catch her breath’ underneath the blonde.

The impulse to claim the kindred’s lips with her own was delightfully intense.

She tested the blonde’s grip, if only to ascertain how much slack the kindred was willing to give.

Jeanette, gleefully, was having little of it.   

“So, what game do you want to play tonight, Duckling?” the Malkavian asked sweetly, her heterochromatic gaze unabashedly meeting her own; her Beast nearly purred at the buffet of choice the question afforded her. 

“I do have to make one stop tonight,” she imparted, admiring the black-run streaks marring the kindred’s cheeks; “But I’m yours for the night else.”

At Jeanette’s expectant stare, she furthered; “I asked Velvet if I could borrow a dress and she said I should swing by to pick one out.”

At the mention of the dear, sweet, precious Toreador, Jeanette’s expression perked up. 

“Dressup, huh?” the blonde baited, pulling the slack from her arms; “Why don’t we go together, Duckling? I can introduce you to some of my friends on the way.”  

Hope VV isn’t the jealous type, she thought, already knowing she was doomed to acquiesce. 

Beaming with purpose, Jeanette ushered her into the shower, their attentions honing in on the aesthetic aspects of their bodies under the spray; heavy petting and deep hums of approving giggles blended nicely with the sound of the falling water. 

The sound of each drop tickled at her ears, giving Jeanette more than enough of a fluttering canvas to dote upon; with her body On, her ticklishness was near unbearable. 

And the mascara-streaked Malkavian proved highly intent on keeping her lofted and uncresting. 

Their bleeding arousals put little focus on their actual cleanliness until the water started growing cold, by which point the natural inclination to change gears had peaked within them anyway. 

After drying off -and getting towel-whipped by the cheeky blonde- clothes were adorned; she quickly realized she should have expected for the ensemble Jeanette had deemed to loan her to be as…unmistakably provocative, as it turned out to be.  

Terrible as it was to compare by such standards, she supposed matching Jeanette’s scantily clad schoolgirl aesthetic was better than sporting it on her lonesome. 

“You mind if I make a call?” Jeanette asked, having trod over to the phone cradle.

She nodded, smoothing her outfit over as the blonde made her rallying call. 

She hadn’t known what exactly, she’d been expecting to answer the kindred’s summons, but the small troop of leather-clad biker women that had shown up outside the hotel almost seemed logical in hindsight. 

Jeanette offered a few introductions, tossing around names like ‘Toxina’, ‘Jaxx’, ‘Kasey’, and ‘Sycorax’;  getting introduced in turn to everyone as Jeanette’s ‘Duckling’ was as admittedly humorous to her as it was to the apparent warrior gang. One of the women, painted in runes, eyed her particularly, but made no comment.

The group traded banter, hinting at obvious history; Jeanette effortlessly illustrated her social ease, flirting, joking, prompting. The leader denied Jeanette’s request to drive, but was more than content in offering them lifts.

The blonde hopped on the back of the leader’s bike, clearly familiar with the practice as she quipped and pressured the others on. 

Feeling a little lost in the separation from Jeanette’s side, one of the ladies seemed to take pity and gestured for her to climb on, offering a few notes of caution and safety before kicking the bike into gear. 

The wind that soon rippled her shirt and untamed her hair proved Bestially satisfying to experience; her driver offered no displeasure when, eyes closed, she pressed her nose into the jacket leather to better drink its intriguing scent. 

Jennette's cries of reckless abandon were soon taken up by the rest of the group, hollars and whistling battle cries echoed fearlessly into the night, as if they were truly beacons of freedom. 

Immersed in the moment as she was, she traded flashes of fang with the others and added a few cries of her own, accepting that while she was about as effective as wet toast by comparison, the group spirits were better tempered by their temporarily forged unity. 

When at last he roars of the engines died down to hissing sputters, she felt herself endeared enough over the experience to see their partings as bittersweet.

With a friendly wave, she watched the Valkyries nod and bark their farewells before speeding off, their taillights quickly blending into the reflected neon shimmering on the puddled pavement.

As she watched them go, she found herself hoping she’d get a change to hang out with the bunch again.

Motorcycles are fun, she’d happily assessed. 

Bouncing beside her, Jeanette’s spirits seemed equally high; she assumed she’d succeeded in making a good impression. She resultantly birthed a hunch that the blonde would introduce her to more new friends, as the nights trudged on. 

It felt both excruciatingly nerve wracking and unadulteratedly thrilling, walking up to Vesuvius’s doors with Jeanette all but leading her by the hand; the Malkavian’s nails biting absently, but intently, into her skin. Focusing on the tiny pricks of pain made it easier to ignore the way the night air curled intimately around her underdressed body.  

She felt her chest freeze up at the door, as if she were holding her breath. 

Jeanette tugged her inside, a blast of warm air coating their bodies; every little bit helps, she thought, considering it a minor boost to her humanly impressions. 

Three of the girls were center-stage; similarly, she noted the club’s seats were more packed than she’d come to expect.

“Well, this is a surprise,” lilted a familiar murmur; she couldn’t help but smile at the supple, winsome Toreador as she glided over to greet them. 

“Jeanette, it’s been awhile,” Velvet continued, upon reaching them; the Malkvaian chuckled and shifted beside her, her blonde pigtails ruffling around her cheeks as she settled her free hand on her hip.  

“Hey Cashmere,” the blonde lilted, “Duckling said something about you dressing her up and I just happened to remember your viscose smile; you don’t mind me tagging along, do you? I promise I won’t bite the waiters -again.”  

There was a brief flash of emotion across Velvet’s brow at the mention of the bitten waitstaff, but it quickly passed.

Velvet’s eyes darted about the club before landing on them again; “Discretion please, is all I ask.”

She could almost feel the excitement bubbling up from the blonde. 

When VV’s eyes focused more specifically on her, she felt a phantom sensation within her gut of fluttering nerves and chapped lips. 

“So glad you could make it; I have some things for you to try on, if you’re ready -are you hungry? You can eat something first, if you like. On me,” Velvet offered, her hand hovering softly near her chest. 

“You always did know how to party,” Jeanette teased, Velvet’s expression content. 

“I’m alright thank you,” she gently declined; “I ate before I left.”

A pinch to her hand jolted her attention from the redhead and back to Jeanette; after yipping in surprise, she nearly pulled her hand away from the kindred and shot her a quizzical look. 

Jeanette’s mischievous, all-knowing smirk gave her little explanation. 

“Shall we make our way somewhere more... private?” Velvet asked, her body beginning the movements that would be so very easily followed; “Just this way, to the dressing rooms.” 

They passed the main room and the rising stairwell to a set of doors off the back entrance; the one Velvet led them through opened up to a long, reasonably wide room conscientiously dedicated for her girls to get ready in. 

“This is neat,” she praised, gandering at the racks of outfits and litterings of products across the dressing tables; the sight bright forth visions of theatrical backstages and another reminder that some people in the city had more ordinary lines of work. 

“Actually it’s a bit messy,” Velvet admitted; “Business has been picking up, what with the recent lift on restrictions in the district.” 

“That’s good,” she stated, letting her fingers run over different notes of textures and surfaces before looking at the beautiful dancer again, her smile content. 

The redheaded kindred stood near what seemed to be a specialized rack; its contents seemed too conservative for the kindred’s girls to work in. 

Jeanette eagerly bounded over first, quick to begin rifling through the dozen or so selections before stepping aside for Velvet to access them. 

“You didn’t specify what type of dress you needed,” Velvet began, a hint of light apprehension in the woman’s voice, “So I grabbed a few different styles.”

The redhead shifted through a few hangers, fingertips roving over colorful fabrics of varying hues. 

“I’m vaguely certain it will be in the ‘semi-formal’ variety, if that helps,” she estimated, feeling a little uncertain of what to do next. 

“That it does,” the volcanic paragon replied. 

Jeanette gayly settled herself in a chair; “Dance, Duckling.”

While her desire to comply was strong, her gaze flickered over to Velvet to scan the redhead’s reactions; observing no indicators of contradiction, she kept her movements slow and shed her garments goodnaturedly.

“Looks like you’ll need to give her a few lessons V,” Jeanette quipped, propping her chin atop her crossed forearms. 

The comment incited her attempts to quell the flights of flustered nervousness across her face; she elected to focus past Jeanette’s coyish grin to Velvet’s welcoming smile.

“Perhaps that can be arranged,” Velvet agreed, sending her mind in a spin of envisioned mirages; “In the meantime -here,” the redhead prompted, a scarlet dress over her arm, “Try this on.”

Obediently lifting her arms to assist, the silkish fabric pooled over her frame like red water; the light material left her feeling vulnerable with Velvet standing so terribly, wonderfully , close.

Her arms fell to her sides and glided over her hips as she took stock of herself. The dress spilled onto the floor; the deep cut neckline plunging across her chest to allow for assets she didn’t quite possess. 

Velvet circled her, appraising. 

Nervously awaiting verdict, she found Jeanette’s idle stare somewhat reassuring. 

“Semi-formal, you said?” Velvet asked lightly, trailing her fingers along the back of her shoulder; “Perhaps something a little shorter...”

Stepping out the dress earned her a teasing look from the blonde Malkavian; she returned Jeanette’s enjoyment with a grin. 

She kept still as Velvet pressed a yellow cocktail dress against her chest; the redhead frowned and swapped it for a similarly styled dress of light green. 

It was also quickly discarded.  

The next dress was easier to step into and hung around her knees; the lace around her shoulders made her feel dainty and cute. Rose gold as the sparkly, scratchy material was, it almost blended into her skintone. 

-She felt the dress would have stood out a little better if she wasn’t in habit of ‘Blushing’ her skin to its once living hue.  

Velvet hummed, running her thumbs over the fabric; “this won’t do,” the kindred soon murmured. 

Jeanette sat back in her chair, looking her over; “Don't waste your time scrying over milled silk.”

Velvet sighed in reluctant agreement, moving to tug the dress back off her upstretched arms while Jeanette grew bored enough of sitting to trade it for rifling through more of the scattered accessories around the room. 

Velvet stepped back to the rack and pulled out another hanger; the dress hanging from it immediately eye catching for the black sheer overlaying its solid burgundy. The sheer’s patterned accents appealed to her senses of aesthetics.   

Velvet helped her step into it before moving to zip up her back; she mourned the loss of direct contact before the back of her neck tingled with how it felt for the woman to zip her in. 

“It still needs a little... something,” Velvet dealt, prodding her under closer inspection; she moved under Velvet’s direction, bending and tilting as the older Toreador saw fit. 

“We should strap her,” Jeanette drawled, holding up one of the dancers’ harnesses;  “That way she doesn’t get ticketed off leash.”

The leather dangled from the kindred’s hand like a contract.  

With the amount of holsters and sachets and other such strips she’d affixed to her person under LaCroix’s employ, she supposed she’d already designated it as her brand; the notion did little to quell her further embarrassment however. 

Jeanette bounced towards her and took some delight in affixing the bondage.

-Suddenly, she realized the blonde’s nickname for her had some grounded context.

Her cheeks flushed with Blood; Velvet stifled a giggle.  

The gear was a little much for a hotel party, she assumed resuming focus; but she could elect to set some of the straps aside, she supposed.   

“You can borrow those as long as you like,” Velvet offered nonchalantly, plucking out a little number in robin’s egg blue; “They wouldn’t fit me.”     

The redhead’s brow furrowed at the garment, noting some offensive quality before wedging it back on the rack.      

As her attention focused on Velvet’s attention to the rack, Jeanette’s face at her neck gave her a sudden start that quickly melted into an approximation of warmth.

The Malkavian’s hands wrapped around her middle; from the slight swaying the blonde was lulling her into, she suspected those hands wouldn’t stay idle for long. 

Velvet stepped away from the rack, her hands free of any new selection; her clanmate observed them a moment.  

She shivered as Jeanette kissed her ear before slowly detangling from her, leaving her feeling both exposed and terribly vacant before Velvet’s languid approach. 

Apparently satisfied with her choice, Velvet pushed the rack back out of the way before regarding her with a tired, awaiting charm. 

She looked at her reflection in the room’s many mirrors; the off the shoulder burgundy dress slimmed round her figure before flaring out sweetly at her knees.

She couldn’t help but beam at the older rose, the dress swishing satisfactorily as she turned to take Velvet’s soft, elegant hands in her own.  

As she ushered her thanks and gratitude to the woman, Velvet’s eyes sparkled with swirls of content-tempered relief. 

The secondhand joy then seemed to pour into the dancer quickly enough, flushing more than a bit of life and animation back into the generous kindred.  

The moment seemed epochal; there were so many colors, inside Velvet’s eyes...

-A couple of Velvet’s dancers stumbled into the room, clearly intent to follow their routine business; their vibrant, human presences spurred the club’s owner to action.  

“Shall we adjourn upstairs?” the redhead prompted, gently coying them to her preferred place of affairs; Jeanette’s smile beamed, taking her by the arm to drag her up after Velvet’s lead. 

Velvet took a seat on the edge of the hot tub, observing them quietly as she and Jeanette took their seats on the couch. 

Part of her envied the way the blonde cavalierly sprawled herself out; most of her wondered how best to situate next to her. 

She tucked her feet under herself and leaned against Jeanette’s hip, making a curt attempt at frail modesty. 

Velvet settled herself a bit more, her shoulders dropping as her posture eased; as Velvet’s legs crossed, her eyes lingered over the trails of thighs and hips gently reflecting the neon lights. 

“Well, that’s your dress situation sorted at least,” Velvet broached, easing into relative conversation; “Is there anything else I can interest you girls in?”

“A good time,” Jeanette answered plainly, toying a curl around her finger; for a moment, she imagined the blonde blowing an errant pink bubble only to let it burst in a show of goodnatured hedonism.   

The dancer seemed to take the answer in stride; somewhat negating her anxiety over Jeanette’s orchestrations. 

“I do owe a certain someone a dance…” the redhead lilted, her small smile flickering with warmth as her eyes roved her over, making her feel more exposed in the dress she was wearing than in the clothes Jeanette and brought her in. 

She couldn’t help but sit up at the direction of conversation; her gaze rampantly switched to each woman and back again, gauging their levels of irony and mirth. 

Despite their obvious intention, she found herself in a continued state of shock as Velvet stepped onto the lava resin pool and took up a starting position at her pole. 

As Velvet started to melt into her movements, she felt herself sink back into the seat, wafts of the music from the floor beneath them rising up in curls of the hot tub’s steam. 

Something in the way the lights played off Velvet’s skin bathed the rose in a darker, sleeker atmosphere. Something in the notes carried into the Toreador’s timing and tone; captivated as she was, she watched -transfixed- as Velvet Velour danced, utterly incapable of looking anywhere but Velvet as her mind, for the first time, filtered every thing else out in a divine sense of ✨tunnel vision✨ that overcame her by surprise. 

Rather than fight it, she welcomed the strange sensation. 

Her mind crafted the spotlights; the red of the room’s illumination fading as the blues of the mood overtook the vision.
Velvet spun.
Foged thoughtmatter coiled against the rose’s body.
As VV contorted along her mesmerizing movements, their eyes locked for a moment.
Whatever Velvet saw reflected emboldened the kindred; the dance descended into something dreamlike, entrenched in a profound humanity that only illustrated how beautiful of a Beast the woman had ill-fatedly become.
The kindred’s innate strength spilled out in majesty.
Velvet’s eyes kept finding hers, through her routine; every break only strengthened their resolves to have them meet more frequently.
She could see it.
Like a light suddenly illuminating her vision, somewhere in the pull of her Blood, she saw the allures that Velvet’s sire must have succumbed to in the indeterminate past.
The only difference was that here, now, Velvet was a conduit to the lifebeat of the city; it was a miraculous discovery, in finding out that the apparent connection was something beyond just herself. That this moment of perpetuated life was the true gift of her kind; a soulfully healing understanding, that where she fell into that place under the grip of her sword, Velvet fell into it by her mastery of her dance.
Enraptured as she was, the feel of Jeanette’s arms encircling her was a distant sensation; as if existing slightly outside of her own body, she flowed with the kindred’s touch, thoughtlessly allowing the blonde the expanse of her neck. As Jeanette nuzzled in, her hands slid her dress up her thighs, groping at her flesh like a squeeze-toy.
She made no effort to hide the effects she was under; her faltering ‘breathing’ rate and shifting demeanor only spurred the other women on.
It was not in submission she knew, that the red rose, on knees and belly slid up to meet her; the delicate, untamable beauty of the kindred before her was an intimately recognisable thing. -Velvet’s power was a hidden thing, draped like incentive; tantalizing through restriction.
Her fingers dug into the seat, her other hand threading into Jeanette’s fingers as the dancing Toreador continued her craft barely a handswidth before her in an ultimate display of resplendence.
‘I can make your heart beat again’, the dancer had said; VV had apparently neglected having the ability to make her Blood Sing.

Jeanette captured Velvet’s lips with her own.  

In the next moment, reality was clear and she was shaking from the upheaval of it all, as if some mighty spell had been broken. 

Jeanette had followed Velvet to the floor; she watched in a hungry stupor as they weaved their limbs through and through, coallessing back up to the rock ledge where the pair stopped for ‘air’. 

Velvet’s gaze sparkled with self-assured power that only controlling one’s environment could provide; a more than attractive look for the rose. 

Jeanette’s eyes, meanwhile, looked at her more puzzled than pleased. 

“What’s wrong Duckling,” Jeanette chided, nuzzling along Velvet’s neck, the Toreador making no effort to dissuade her; “Catch your own tongue?”  

Unable to move, nor deny the statement, her dissipating state of transfixion seemed selfevident as answer enough.

Jeanette hummed in amusement; “You weren’t this shy with me, Kitten,” the blonde goaded, tongue pressing under the band around Velvet’s thigh, sparking dizzy-staticed imaginingings of what the aetherial beauty would taste like. 

-̸̧̮̼̻͖͍̭̀̿͛̽̈̈͐̐̈͟ŗ͈͉̱̬̖̐͗͒̃̋͆͋͡͡e̶̡̛͍̰̝̯͖̭̤̍̃̂̔͛̇̇́͢͠d̶͙͍̟̙̣͚̖̟̀̆͌̈̓̔̃̄̄̐͢ ó̭̥͖̜͋͆̐̾͗̊͜f̰̺̖̦̣͎̲͙̆͊̒̓̾͢ͅ t̵̮͖̭̺͎̱͛͑̔̌̿̋̽͘͜͡h̸̨̝̜̱͖̓̾͆͘͠e̠̳͓͈̩̣̙̺͍̠͆͑̌̚͞ r̯̟͔̦̟̙̬̩̎̔̆̀͜͡o͓͎̩̣̭̣͇̝̱͂̌̾͛̃́̅̎͑͝s̢̢͍͙̭̺͍̟͎̐̈́̎̆͊͂ͅe̵̲̯̼̱̞͖͕̫̗̼͑̃̌͛̎̊,̛̬͖͔̣̰̮͎̜̀̃̋͐͛̎̈͢͜͠͡ r̴̩̩̳̪̘̱̩͊͋̋̂̈͝ͅe̢̞̯̤͉̘͇̝̞̼̋̅̆̋͒͐d̷̢̰̩̹̋͊͐̋̅́́ͅ o̵̤͍̮̺̗̰̻͙̯̐̐̋͂̋̋̌f̜̰̜̩̱̥̉̓̓̅̆͢͟͠ ţ̫̲͙͕̤͙̯͛̒́̑̄́h̝̱͎̙̮̺͎̪̯̉̊̆̅̓̀̆̊͛e̛̜̯̖̦̖̓̉͆̋̐ b̸̢̩̝̰̻̜̒̓̍̈̽̑͜l̺̲̜̙̺̺͙̝̍̈͂̈̂͊̂ȏ̶̧̨̩̱̜̩̫̽̒̍̉̕͠ȯ̸̧̺̥͍͓̰̎͐̍͊͘̚͟͜d̶̥̳̭̼͙̺̫͒͋͂̽͌͋͐͜͝,̰̘̮̞͙̩́̅̓͢͡͝͡ r͉͉̘͉͉̀̅̍̌͐͘͘ę̜̺̓̔͗̋̍͘̕͜ͅd̶̢̨̡̢͕̳͎̼͚̃̉͋̓̑̃͛̊̈͞ ȍ̷͈̬͚̣̄̈́̿̈́͘͜f̶̨̼̠̠̠͖̮͑͂̉͗̊ t̴̩̗̖̲͎͒̿͋̾̍̇̅̚͠o̵̝̘͇̪̟͓̼͕͊̒̅̒n̸͔͚͖̺̠̫̆͌͊̈̚͠͡ͅg̮̪̻̱̪̩͂̇̃͘̕̚͡u̧̬̯̝̺͋̾͂̈́̚͠͡ͅĕ̟̟̤̮͔̹͐͌̊̀̈̌͊͌͜ͅ-̧̛͖̝̫̮̝̬̈̊͗͐̍̈͢͡

“Your invitations are always clear,” she offered meekly, resisting the urge to lick her lips; “VV… hasn’t said if I’m allowed to touch her, yet.”

At once, in a moment wherein she nearly felt the electric tenacity of their auras, she observed the kindred in front of her instantaneously drop their human guises, their twin hungers apparent and intent. 

Her undead heart lurched in her chest as she leaned forward to answer their siren calls open mouthed and eager handed.   

-Kissing Velvet Velour was a candy coated luxury.

Getting kissed by Velvet Velour, and furtherly, getting kissed by Velvet Velour and Jeanette Voerman in a mix of fervent passions was a blessing straight from Sappho herself and she thanked the gods for every second of it.  

Aphrodite, I cannot weave; she nearly crooned. 

Jeanette pressed into her back, forcing her closer against Velvet’s ample chest, Jeanette’s hands toying under her borrowed dress, working it up over her eager thighs; Velvet’s hands passionately framed her face as they sparked the blood beneath their lips, kissing softly tendered passions against near-living lips slicked and plush. 

Urges to prick Velvet’s supple, tender, flesh open and suck the wounds clean shimmered through her musculature while threats of her lovers’ teeth ghosted only amorous longings of temptations inside her heated veins.

She trembled, when Jeanette pulled away; licking lips in her direction like a satisfied canary killer.

Dipped against Velvet as she was, she was grateful the heavenly rose was supporting her weight; she wasn’t quite sure her knees remembered ‘how human’. 

Her partners seemed satisfied, at least. 

She turned her head and let it fall to rest against VV’s chest, enjoying a prolonged moment in returning to her senses. 

Soothingly, one of Velvet’s hands worked into her hair, fingercombing it smooth. 

Jeanette and Velvet quietly began to chatter flirtatious musings about jokes she wasn’t privy to; not that she minded in the slightest. She was placant under the mood of the moment, blended between two of her most treasured paramours, her mind blissfully empty beyond mellow observations. 

-It had been a really, really good thing for the city that she hadn’t been born a proper Camarilla Toreador, she mused. 

Eventually, Velvet began hinting at the need to return to her duties; Jeanette had likewise begun displaying signs of need for new stimuli and amiably took to their dismissal with farewell kisses and teasing quips, to say nothing of the affectionate goosings and flirtatious winks. 

Tearing herself away from either of them had always been an endeavor; ripping herself away from both of her minor deities was enough to send her internal monologues back into a dizzied tailspin. 

Still, as much as she very much wanted to follow Jeanette into the unknown for a furthered rabbit trail into adventure, and as much as she equally longed to lounge on one of Velvet’s private couches to while away the remainder of night watching the performers dance, she felt the stern yank of her chain towards her duty and regretfully bid them both a good night, hoping that it would not be the last time the three of them would take pleasure with each other.  

Wanting the gossip of the city to see her maintaining the link to her old place, she elected to neglect the busses and taxis and kept her pace slow and unfretted. 

She stopped by a few of her frequented hunting grounds on her long walk back; both to satisfy the appetite she’d worked up, and to maintain the bonds with the various women she usually fed from.

In doing so it occurred to her that if she’d been born a Ventrue with a pallet for anything other than the city's available homeless or prostitutes, she likely wouldn’t have lived past her second night. 

It was with a formal trepidation, that she finally came to stand before the building of Skyline Apartments. 

The lobby looked the same as it always had; perhaps a bit tidier, and some of the magazines were new. 

-The building’s security attendant was a fresh face. 

They looked more serious, at her cursory glance. - Someone used to actually guarding things ? she wondered. 

Almost absently, she found herself aware of a few new cameras about the place, filing away their lines of sight habitually; while they were likely easily visible to those with more skills than herself, she somewhat suspected that Therese had included ‘real’ security in a subtler, broader sense. 

The elder Baron was a person of due diligence after all, she’d spectated. 

As she approached her mailbox the guard moved to intercept her. 

“Sorry honey, rez’dnts only.”

“It’s fine, I live here,” she explained, tiredly reading herself for a lengthier conversation.

“Oh! You must be the one on the fourth floor then, right?”

“That’s right,” she agreed, nodding along; she felt pretty grateful that she wouldn't have to forge any explanations for myriads of things she had a lack of explanation for. 

The guard stepped back and let her approach the mailboxes; “Yeah, Voerman said you’d be comin’ ‘round once the Cleaners were done. Worked with her once; her sister’s a fuckin’ nutter.”    

Her fingers brushed against what she could only assume were the tiny cameras from Gary.

She stuffed them swiftly into her pocket before fishing out the rest of her amassed collection of mail as the guard carried on.

“Weird how many unrelated dead bodies were about; heard ‘bout your roommate. Sorry, er, for your loss by the way. Still, better than the alternative, eh?”

She emptied her box and let the metal hinge swing shut; part of her felt tempted to grill the guard. She was curious to see if any of the other rooms had been re-rented.

Maybe I’ll just look for myself ; she figured, thinking happily to the buildings ductwork.   

Thinking nothing more of the guard, she swept into the elevator and made a note to check whether the building’s air ducts were even still accessible, as she wasn’t sure whether the Baron would have seen them as a security flaw or not; I wonder if the ‘fun factor’ makes up for the security risks… she mused.

Her door had been replaced; she thought over the ease with which wood could be splintered until she nearly tripped from knocking into the absurd weight of the thing. 

Oh, it’s solid; she noted, shaking it off before stepping in.  

The apartment’s layout was still split level; the glow from her now re-functioning fishtank bathing the room in a quiet blue-tinged blanket of tranquility.

The apartment had been scrubbed down.

Her nose could smell the amounts of cleaning products that had been used throughout the rooms, sunk underneath the new coats of paint and varnish. 

At the main floor at least, there was nothing left of Heather. 

Nothing left of her old furniture, either, which wasn’t surprising. Most of it had been trashed in the break-in, she recalled. 

She cast her mail on the coffee table to give the place a good look around. 

Her ‘new’ living room felt strange. 

The whole of the apartment felt strange, in fact. 

There were no signs of her posters; she supposed they’d have been trashed or else made off with by someone at somepoint during the renovation, leading her to wonder briefly if Gary would be willing to steal them back for her, wherever they’d ended up, before her drifting thoughts fizzled out again. 

It wasn’t until she ventured upstairs and opened the old bedroom that she realized what had felt different about the place. 

A new armory overrode the space of the old room, also recontextualizing the previous spaces she’d seen. 

This is a den of operations, she realized, gently closing the door; I might as well call this apartment my new ‘War Room’”.

She turned slowly and rested on the rail overlooking her living room and pictured her future self inviting Nines and his gang, post-mission and bleeding, to regroup and recover; as well as pre-mission, to gear up and flare tempers.

-And with the lack of a true sleeping quarters, she’d feel no obligation to stay longer in the space than she had to, she realized; she could come for work and go back to the hotel as she pleased.

Therese had, efficiently, circumvented her guilt about Heather.   

This will do , she thought evenly, foreseeing her use of the space for her future missions; This will do. 

Feeling more assured of herself and her future than she had in some time, she stretched her back and caught sight of something small and manilla colored on her new desk. 

‘ 𝓘𝓶𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓽 ’

Interesting.

Recognising the handwriting, she unfolded the card. 

𝒯𝑜 𝒶𝓋𝑜𝒾𝒹 𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝓅𝓊𝓉𝑒𝓈, 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝒹𝒹𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓈𝑒𝓉 𝓊𝓅 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒶𝓈𝓈𝑒𝓉𝓈; 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝒶𝓎 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒶𝒸𝓉 𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑒𝑔𝒶𝓁𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀.

𝒲𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝓃𝑜 𝒸𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓎 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓁𝓎 ‘𝑜𝒻𝒻𝒾𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓁’, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒟𝑜𝓌𝓃𝓉𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝒶𝓇𝑒𝒶 𝒸𝓊𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓁𝓎 𝒻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝐵𝒶𝓇𝑜𝓃 𝒩𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈’ 𝒹𝑜𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃. 𝐵𝑜𝓉𝒽 𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝒶𝑔𝓇𝑒𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝓋𝑒 ‘𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓃𝑒𝒹’ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑒𝒻𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝒾𝓉𝓎’𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒽𝒶𝓁𝒻. 𝒜𝓈 𝒻𝒶𝓇 𝒶𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒷𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓇𝓃𝑒𝒹, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓊𝓉𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓏𝑒 𝒶𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓉 (𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝒸𝓁𝓊𝒹𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓀𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝒸𝓀).

𝐼𝓂𝓅𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒: 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝓊𝓁𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒽𝑜𝓁𝒹𝓈 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓂 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈. 𝒪𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝓎 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝓅𝓊𝓉𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

𝐿𝒶𝓈𝓉𝓁𝓎, 𝐼 𝓉𝑜𝑜𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓉𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝒶𝓁𝒹𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒𝒹. 𝒴𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒.

-𝐵. 𝒯.𝒱𝑜𝑒𝓇𝓂𝒶𝓃

Oh my god , she realized; I’d completely forgotten about the fucking voyeur with the cameras.  

Her stuttering chuckle snorted into a deep, guileless laughter. 

Feeling better about her prospects, her thoughts turned back to the obscured cameras she’d fetched from the mail and Therese’s newly minted hotel.

It would be fun to thoroughly explore the place, she decided, now that it had been reforged. 

The mild excitement she felt at the idea of sneaking around a place, dodging security, to reach a goal brought a smile to her face and twitch to her fingertips. 

Oh yes, she thought; it was good to still be employable.  

The Opening party reminded her both of the Giovanni party she’d infiltrated and a little of the Fall Festival her Elementary school had once hosted: an immeasurable amount of grown-up strangers who probably held no interest in which cartoons she felt invested in or which dinosaurs were her third favorite, all packed into an environment where they could commit connotations of posturised powerplay; only this time, there lacked both a promise of prizes or a vendor utterly coated in cotton candy, as well the safety net of being a full kindred crowd.

Unlike the Giovanni soir é e, bound in suffocating white marble, Therese’s party sprawled along the Hotel’s first floor under a lighthearted, if eventless, atmosphere.    

She ran her teeth over her bottom lip, careful not to let any peak through as she committed the human habit; around her the strangers milled.

She strayed from the stairwell, electing to wander and mingle a bit; idly she noted the cameras she’d placed in the room were undisturbed and turned her attention away from them.  

“Oh hello Miss, might you care to invest in my new business venture?” a businessman proposed; she politely declined.  

“Hel-lo Sweetheart, have I seen you ‘round before?” asked a man to -or from- his way to the bar. 

“-Oh aren’t you a young pretty thing, young lady,” an old woman commented, turning to her equally old husband; “Isn’t she adorable Charles? Just like our granddaughter-” 

“-Would you care for a drink, Miss?” asked a waitstaff, pushing a small cart. 

“Do you have anything… red?” she asked delicately, eyeing the ice bucket and ordinary appearing bottles of wine.

Smoothly, he addressed his stock; “Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, or Pinot Noir?” 

Gauging his face carefully, she smiled hesitantly; “Actually, I was hoping for something with a little more iron.”

Catching on, the man nodded once, and knelt to the lower section of his cart; she kept an eye on the crowd to make sure none reacted with suspicion. Hidden as the man’s hands were behind the little cart’s green curtain, his actions seemed more than benign. 

He stood up, a glass in his hand filled with the substance that could so easily mark her for one of the undead, were any in the vicinity to learn of its true nature. 

She took the glass, and thanked the man kindly; he promptly wandered off, ready to offer his services elsewhere. 

Perhaps this counts as my cotton candy, she mused, delicately mouthing the rim. 

“How long are you here for? My nephew and I’ve just come from a stint in the Cape! We were looking for a little spot to rest our feet and when we heard this ol’ shack had been done up,” boasted the trophy socialite, “Why, we simply had to check in, you simply can’t miss these little ways to give back to the community, darling!”  

“Excuse me Miss, have you seen the bar?” asked a well suited-man with a rumpled tie.

“Sorry, do you know where I could find a bathroom?” 

“Well hello beautiful...”

“Are you lost, dear?” 

“Did you see which way that waiter went?”

“Excuse me.”

“Pardon me.”

“Hey kid.”

-She whipped around at a speed that nearly broke the masquerade; Nines stood, whiskey glass in hand, dressed in a clean polo shirt. Even his jeans were unmarred. 

At her surprise, he smirked. 

“Gotta’ support our fellows, yeah?” 

She forced a smile and processed the fact that the rebel leader was rubbing-elbows in semi semi-formal casual wear. 

“Or just keeping an eye out for trouble,” she exacted, noting the way his gaze left her own to study the shifting crowds. 

His eyes flicked back to hers momentarily; he didn’t nod but, she rather felt he’d imparted the sentiment. 

“If you see trouble, yell,” he ordered, still surveying the crowd; “All types tonight.” 

“Can do,” she promised, excusing herself. 

A little levity lost, she opened her eyes to the true nature of the party’s inhabitants. 

The human auras all shimmered in seas of color; kindred auras were similarly revealed by their dark clouds of purple. 

None of them, thankfully, were a match to the Cabbie. 

She amused herself with the shifting, bathing colors for a moment, then immediately shut them out for favor of sound when Therese’s proud figure glided into the room and settled in the precipice between the marvelous stairwells. 

From her vantage point, she watched the Baron mingle with her guests; though the woman paid attention to her kindred guests, much of her time was stolen by the humans vying for their opportunities to prostrate themselves before her as ‘fellow upperclassmen’. 

If they ever meet a Ventrue, they’d faint , she surmised, sipping at her blood. 

She studied the interactions; the way Therese expertly avoided shaking hands, the ways the human males shifted as they talked to her, the ways their human spouses flicked fingers and gripped arms as they flaunted. 

Therese was as patient as a cat with a baby; though she let no kine touch her, she weathered the barrages of attention dutifully. 

The kindred got nods, and a few adjustments of her glasses.

You needn’t try so hard, she spectated, watching the way Therese fished for support; you’re already the most important person in the room.  

She supposed it was a good practice for the Baron to have anyway, as the woman held a seat of precarious power. 

She supposed that made Therese’s behaviors a persona of calculated tact.

One of the guests caught her staring; their brows raised and Therese turned to see what had caught their attention. 

Therese smiled; a funny sort of warmth lit inside her; validated, she smiled back and wasted no effort to hide the fact that she’d been looking in Therese’s general direction.

Not wanting to be rude however, she lowered the glass from her lips and began working her way forward, carefully avoiding fast movements or neglecting courtesies. 

When she eventually reached the blonde, a fitting sort of contentment overtook her; she stopped just between the kindred pair, forming a small triangle. 

“Ah, good to see you,” Therese greeted, motioning to the kindred across her; “This is Murray Goldfarb, he manages one of the more tasteful clubs in our city.” 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she responded accordingly, offering the man a cordial smile; “Which club would that be?”
“‘ The Taste ’,” he replied, “The full name is ‘ A Taste of LA’, but that’s a bit of a mouthful.”

Her smile perked a little for all the little wordplays; “I’ll have to pay a visit sometime,” she promised. 

“We’d be happy to have you, local legend as you are,” the man teased; “Come from a legend myself, if you’re familiar with the name Salvador.” 

She wondered what the kindred’s clan was, and whether or not she wanted to be offended. 

At Therese’s pleased body language, she kept her smile inviting. 

Picking her diction carefully, she replied with ease; “I’m happy to learn a little of the past, if it’s of a sharable nature.” 

“Mr. Goldfarb and his partner are under the employ of Salvador Garcia and Crispus Attucks; they’ve not been around for a while but, they were highly influential members in the birth of LA and its revolutions,” Therese supplied formatically. 

“I see,” she offered; she took a step, spinning in direction to face the man as the movement carried her to the Baron’s side, “If the old history was anything like our recent nights, I’m sure it was certainly eventful.” 

The man snorted slightly; a well enough human approximation. 

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” Murray segued, dismissing himself; he nodded once to Therese,  “Good night Baron,” and then once to her, “Enjoy the party.” 

“Thanks, I will,” she replied, just before he trotted off. 

Pleased, she brought her glass back to her lips and turned to see Therese eyeing her.

It occurred to her that while she was in the proximity she normally shared with the woman, she was far closer inside the Baron’s space then she’d seen the other guests had been allowed; to save from making the air awkward between them by bringing attention to it, she kept her composure and left it for the Malkavian to decide weather to step back or not. 

“Congratulations once again,” she praised, “Your opening seems to be going quite smoothly.”

Therese leaned forward slightly, her tone low; “The product of disallowing an Anarch-only event,” the Baron quipped. 

Smiling at the blonde’s good humor, and the fact that Therese had not retreated, let a little fang slip. 

“How dastardly,” she teased, punctuating her statement with a small roll of her shoulders; the mirth faded and she drank in the Baron’s ensemble.

The black dress was a declaration of stature; one that warned of ‘proprietary’ and self-respect. 

God, she’s pretty.     

“You look nice tonight Therese, by the way,” she complimented softly.

The Baron’s brows nearly moved, but otherwise the Baron’s face reflected little in change of composure. 

“I’m glad you took my note about the formality,” Therese replied, eyeing her dress; “It’s a relief you aren’t one of those degenerates who parade themselves around in only what my sister could call ‘clothing’.”  

“There’s a time and a place for clubwear,” she stated, internally reaching a conclusion about it; “Those usually and foremost being, in clubs.” 

Therese adjusted her posture, seemingly pleased. 

“There’s a few introductions I was hoping to make you tonight,” the Baron stated; the blonde glanced around a moment before regarding her, “If you would accompany me?” 

“Of course,” she agreed, nodding a little more deeply then she’d watched the others do. 

“Excellent, we shan’t have to wait long,” Therese added, already catching the eye of someone else to signal over. 

“Nines is here by the way,” she offered, as she watched a kindred woman’s purpose laden strides. 

Therese neglected comment as the guest soon reached them. 

“Ah, Tara Kearney, a pleasure,” Therese greeted; “What brings you all the way to Santa Monica?” 

“A change of scenery,” the woman assured confidently, before nodding at her; “Who’s she?” 

“The Little Cammi that Could,” she supplied happily, “Pleased to meet you.”   

“The Princekiller?” the woman sputtered, taken aback; at once, the women’s gaze on her switched from glazed-indifference to intense interest. 

“Technically, he killed himself,” she corrected, “I just stabbed him first.” 

Feeling Therese tense, she pushed aside her blasé attitude. 

“Well I’ll be damned; pleased to meet you too,” Tara replied; she looked back to Therese; “Hey look, if you got some time later, give me a call. I’ll be in town.”
Therese didn’t nod, but didn’t look perturbed by the request; “Of course.”

“And uh, I’ll be seeing you around?” the kindred offered, eyeing her. 

She smiled; “Sure.”

Tara nodded a bit to herself and separated; she had a feeling the kindred wouldn’t be hanging around the party. 

“She’s going to fight for the throne, I take it?” she quipped, watching the woman disappear between bodies. 

“She’s an Anarch,” Therese replied, not entirely dismissive of the suggestion. 

Interesting, she thought, briefly wondering back to Gary's cameras and who exactly, they might be looking for.  

“You’ll want to be careful of her,” Therese warned, not surprising her. 

She looked over to see Therese’s gaze holding steady across her domain. 

“Duly noted,” she replied evenly. 

She stayed next to Therese as the Baron worked through several more introductions; mostly, she wanted to see how long it would take the woman to excuse herself, or else dismiss her. 

Fortyeight quick-paced human introductions and six lengthy kindred ones later, the last kindred, a sharply dressed ominous-feeling man who refrained from making any introductions with her, politely but firmly whisked Therese away to the conference room, leaving her to realize the ‘party’ was well dying down for the time of night.

She supposed ‘midnight’ was a human time for old people on a circadian rhythm to turn in; she’d always been a night owl and had thusly spent a moment greatly confused as to why the party suddenly ‘vanished’ without any signs of disturbance or gunfire. 

It left her to then wonder, just how out of touch with human neurotypical heterosexual ‘normality’ she truly was. 

-Very.  

Resisting the urge to lap around the dredges of her cup for something to do, she walked back across the rooms to the grand staircases, and propped herself against one of the ornate wooden pillars. 

As she waited, a server passed, trading her empty cup for one filled with ice.

‘For the crunch’, she’d explained.      

She rattled the ice blocks under her teeth, gently teasing their give before spitting them back into the glass. 

Almost wish Nines was still here, she thought, eyeing the increasingly vacant room. 

One by one, even the kindred left; threat of the rising sun no doubt spurring their journeys home.

A few offered her farwells, or parting nods. 

She was important enough to acknowledge, she gathered. 

-An hour into her wait, and she was the last one in the lobby.  

It was nearly three AM, before the pair made their return. 

She lifted herself up a bit, observing their demeanours; the Tremere agent seemed disgruntled.

Therese, by contrast, seemed a mix of contained emotion; had to have been quite a debate, she figured. 

A longing sympathy swept over her; she’d have little way of cheering the Baron up or helping her relax, out in the open.

Still, when the Tremere took his leave, she stole the opportunity to rejoin the blonde. 

“Hard time?” she broached, taking stock of Therese’s composure again now that she was up close. 

The Baron sighed; an almost hissing sound. 

It was all the confirmation she expected. 

For a moment, they took in the sight of emptied hall, a few lingering staff members ferrying out their duties as the proverbial clocks carried on. 

“...It’s getting close to sunup,” she offered quietly, innately feeling the looming threat of dawn; “Would you like to chat a bit, before then?”

The blonde thought it over; she felt a little nervous, waiting for the powerful kindred’s response. 

“I’ll join you for a drink,” the Baron replied, surprising her; a hint of a smile in the corners of her black painted lips. 

Oddly relived, she hummed a note of agreement and accompanied the Baron up the stairs.        

Chapter Text

“Have you settled in well?” Therese asked, reclining regally in the dedicated ‘living room’ area as she tasked about the kitchen.

Gently, she dipped a finger into the bowl of microwaved water to test its heat; finding it suitable, she placed the bloodbag inside before resting her palms on the smooth, cold countertops that were still glossy from disuse.

“I think so,” she reflected lightly, looking over to Therese.

“No further hauntings, then?” the blonde fished, her tone hinting a mix of warmth and curiosity. 

She mulled the question over a moment, letting it percolate with the blood; she supposed the sets of footsteps running along the corridors had piqued her interest once or twice in the fwe nights she’d spent getting used to her new room, but the overall atmosphere of the hotel was still too golden for anything to be unnerving. 

“Nothing nightmarish,” she confirmed, a smile stretching her lips; she had a space to work, a place to rest, and it finally felt as though she had opportunity to decompress. 

The Baron regarded her with familiar countinance; she hoped it was an expression of fondness. 

“Although” she added, ignoring thoughts of the astrolite as she watched the numbers on the tiny screen tick another minute along; “I do still need to sort my wardrobe situation out,” she admitted, feeling a bit awkward; “Silly as that may sound.”

“And here I thought all Toreador came with their accessories pre-packaged,” quipped the blonde, causing thoughts of her small collection of esoteric baubles to tug at the back of her mind; “Are you unaware of how one obtains proper attire, or is the selection in our city underwhelming for you?” 

“Cheeky,” she muttered under her breath, knowing the older kindred would full-well hear it; she pulled the wine glasses from their shelf, “But not undeserved, I guess.”

As they tapped into place on the counter with tiny ‘chinks’, she added a bit louder, “I’ve got enough cash to grab a few things; I guess I'm just… apprehensive about actually going?”

A Toreador afraid of shopping. How gauche, she thought restlessly as she pulled out the pouch. 

She spent a moment, carefully tearing a seam to better fill the glasses; at half a glass each, she hoped they carried airs of being suitably fancy enough to make up for the lack of bulk. 

She carried them back with ease. 

Therese took her offered glass with quiet grace.

She tucked herself contently enough on the couch before the Baron sipped her drink. 

“Not bad,” the blonde assessed, after she’d settled; “A little underdone perhaps but, a fair better state than most. -I do detest when people thoughtlessly shove blood into the microwave and expect it not to coagulate beyond recognition.” 

The compliment fell soothingly against her nerves; she sipped her own glass briefly, to better enjoy the moment before curiosity got the better of her. 

“Would it be weird if I asked you to go with me?” she asked, allowing the usual-formality of their conversations to fall short.   

Slowly, Therese lowered the wine glass to rest it on the armrest, her fingers idly flexing around the stem; her postured gleaned with a twinge of her authority. 

“Are you going to ask me for fashion advice?” Therese asked flatly, “Or my wallet.” 

“Neither, if it bothers you,” she dismissed, a little surprised; “I suppose I could ask Velvet if you’d rather, sometime she isn’t busy; it’s just that if I were to walk into a place with someone else to focus on, I feel I’ll be less likely to succumb to an existentialy fueled crises. I apologize if the request seems frivolous, or if you’d other things you’d rather do than gander around with me like a pair of untethered teens Saturday-ing through an outlet mall, but if you’ve the time or inclination, I’d be grateful for the moral support.”

“Moral support,” the baron repeated incredulously, visibly mulling the words over.

Feeling abashed, she curled a little tighter in on herself and focused on holding her glass; figuring that maybe it’d be best to drop the subject entirely.  

“Speaking of morale,” she segued, adjusting slightly, “What about you?”

“Me?” Therese asked, brows quirked. 

“Yes,” she insisted, some of her embarrassment fading; “That seemed like a rather long meeting and you looked rather vexed by it, after. Everything alright?” 

Therese’s thumb rubbed against the glass as she drew in a deepened ‘breath’.

Having apparently decided her choice in answer, the blonde replied, “You needn’t concern yourself with the natures of my responsibilities, but. Yes, that particular negotiation was tiresome and no, nothing of it will require your services.”

She took another sip, the woman across from her doing the same. 

“I hope my company provides some respite for you then, if nothing else,” she offered, her glass poised delicately while she gazed past her reflection within the Malkavian’s glasses to the glinting icey blue-grey eyes behind.

“...Quite,” Therese replied, somewhat hesitant.

Pleased, she took another sip; the blood felt soothing as it worked its way down her throat, honey thick and chamomile-warm.  

“I suppose I could accompany you, if you really require my presence,” Therese reflected, re-crossing her legs, “Last thing I need is for you to fall into a paranoid frenzy or else fall dazed before some mannequined floor display until sunup. I can make time next week; earliest I can do.”

-Or the most she’s willing to bend, currently, she gathered.  

“You’ll have to make-do with your old attire until then,” the Baron continued; “I’m sure you’re capable of collecting it from your apartment above the pawnshop, if you haven’t already.” 

-Ah, so that’s where all of Heather’s things went. 

“I assumed you’d wish to go through your old things, as you moved in here,” Therese explained, sipping at her glass again; “Or is that another area you’ll need assistance with?” 

She felt her face fall into seriousness at the thought; it brought a hint of concern from the blonde’s lips, but, the Malkavian gave her the moment to freely think it over. 

“I should face it, I think,” she answered plainly, the memory of the derelict room vivid in her mind’s eye; “Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow. Gives me something to do while you’re busy.” 

Therese’s posture seemed to soften, a bit; and though she couldn’t be certain, it almost looked as if the Baron’s expression was one of pity. 

“There’s no shame in the period of adjustment,” Therese offered gently, the subjectual advice somewhat unexpected. 

She nodded, then tapped the glass to her lips twice, before humming an agreeable thought-carried note.

Thoughts of the dingy apartment continued to flood her mind; the feeling of the mirror glass shattering underneath her hands acutely fresh, -she recalled Therese and her sister, faces fuzzy yet painfully aware, regarding her with curiosity, displeasure, and fright.

Perhaps it would be better to address the wound, then let it fester. 

“Something troubles you,” Therese noted. 

She tried to gauge the Malkavian’s emotional state, -observing the corners of her mouth, the movements of her fingers, the faint shimmering colors outlining the Baron’s body, to better sense whether or not the older kindred wanted her to talk about things, or if Therese was simply echoing her courtly duties in a courteous but ultimately detached manner. 

While her posture and demeanor were more guarded than they’d been since she’d lived under the Baron’s roof, the ploy of her shoulders and the lack of tension in Therese’s fingers suggested to her that they were still closer in companionship, than any of the partygoers and fellow ‘subjects’ they’d met hours ago.  

She decided Therese seemed willing enough, from what she could see, to listen to her troubles.   

And if she’d learnt anything from her brief time living under the woman’s roof, it was that Therese was a kindred of direct approach.

She risked anleading, inquisitorial approach instead.  

“...Is it bad,” she began, measuring her words carefully; “That it’s not her exactly, I’m upset over?” she asked, mimicking the Baron’s murmur.  

Therese’s eyes studied her, her expression ruminating; the pink tinges of her arua morphed into deeper blues. 

“There hadn’t been a lot of time, between when I found her and… when she was murdered,” she explained, her heart churning in her chest for the truth of it; “I saved Heather shortly after I was turned. -Gave her just a few drops, to help her survive long enough for the medic to save her. I left right after. She’d barely been conscious. I’d thought that’d be the end of it.” 

“Ah yes, your ghoul,” Therese remarked, following along. The Baron shifted slightly, resuming some of her stately posture, a pose of continuing attention; in her hand, Therese rested her glass on her thigh, her other hand briefly curling around her chin, “I’d wondered about her.” 

“Do go on,” the Baron furtherly instructed. 

“At the time I’d met a few ghouls,” she obeyed, memories crisp and shifting; “Most of them were blood addicts abandoned by their donors and I had to… remove them,” she admitted, unsettled by her own choice of words, “I didn’t think the little bit I gave her would affect her like it did; either my blood is really potent or else she was just as lonely as I was at the time, ‘cause she found me and then she wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and-”

Her voice trailed off as she recalled Heather, begging, pleading , in front of her.

She blinked the vision away, Therese’s face staring back at her in the place of the emotion-laced memory.

She watched Therese’s face carefully, but there was no trace of change; her lungs tried to suck in a breath and weezed, slightly as her muscle memory warped the pattern.  

“I knew it was a bad idea,” she admitted, her statement factual and plain; “I knew a lot of powerfully mad people were gunning for my death, and that they wouldn't hesitate to use her against me. I knew she would be dead the moment I agreed; but also that if I’d said no, that there wouldn’t have been any way for me to guarantee she wouldn’t simply look for someone else, or that someone wouldn’t consider it a masquerade breech and kill her off as I’d done for the others. -She hadn’t known what I was and I hadn’t wanted to kill her like I’d been forced to kill the other addicts; and I was burning through so much blood that having a free, renewable safetynet for it seemed smart. So…”

“So,” Therese repeated. 

“I let her be my ghoul.”

“A path of good intention, ended poorly,” Therese offered smartly; “Ghouls are a very egregious kind of responsibility, when you’re not used to them. It was a difficult choice to make, and you made it with a rare foresight of the probable outcomes,” she continued, adjusting her glasses slightly; “Regardless of how it turned out, it sounds like you gave her a few extra hours to cling to life with, which is more than most kine ever have a chance to experience.” 

The slight dissociation of Therese’s perspective from her own was somewhat comforting; a permission to consider the courses of events from a non ‘human’ viewpoint.

With the look on Therese’s face...

It seemed almost as if the woman had been waiting for her repressed trains of thought.

Perhaps it was something everyone struggled with, then. 

“She loved me so much,” she confessed, “Obsessed over me,” she furthered; “Weather it was misplaced devotion born out of a lonely girl desperate not to be alone anymore, or some... facade born out of a new addiction or… or something in my blood reflecting out of her back at me, or j-just… genuine affection, or some combination thereof-”

Her voice hitched. 

She struggled to make her body either breath reliably, or cease the vestigial function altogether, the useless, bubbled air knotting under her chest. 

“She said loved me.”

Therese’s brows knit slightly, perhaps churring over her words or else, mildly displeased by her portion of confession; the green tinges seeping into Therese’s arua weren’t familiar, so she found she wasn’t sure what, if anything, to make of them. 

“You said before, that you yourself were once a victim of such an arrangement; I can see how witnessing effects of a bloodbond firsthand would resultantly trouble you,” Therese replied carefully; at the baron’s words she set her glass on the sidetable, to better brace her hands along her thighs.

“From what you mentioned,” Therese continued plainly, “You implied that you fought against your bond, something I take it, that this Heather either was not capable of, or else was not interested in doing. It’s not so uncommon. There are many kine, -if not most, who prefer blooded agganementes over their dreary and otherwise benign and muddled existences.”

She’d had a similar thought that such could be the case, the night she’d given in to Heather’s advances.

Therese continued, “You gave her the decision of leaving before the final stage of the blond set in; the risks of her staying were therefore of her own consequence. I expect you even treated her with more… dignity than most of our kind would have given a ghoul, if that helps you any.” 

The words did help soothe her nerves, if only a little. 

Any amount of absolution for the choices and actions both forced upon her and enforced by her hand were…

Nice to have, she felt.

For a moment, the slight perk to her mood bolstered her confidence to shed her true troubles. 

Therese seemed to sense her consent-asking hesitation.

The kindred continued to observe her, emanating more familiar hues of blue once again; while not an audible consent, the encouragement to continue felt coaxingly implied. 

“...I thought there’d be time to like her back,” she lamented honestly, the truth burning up through her throat at the force of it; she looked to her lap as she struggled to continue.

Admitting everything…

Felt too vulnerable. 

She let her eyes fall to her lap as the admission tingled around her tongue. 

It felt too much a ‘Bad’ secret, twisting a terrible mockery from her desperate efforts to be ‘Good ’. 

She felt like a painting with a crack-spreading canvas.   

“I thought at the time that maybe, I was just being overparanoid. That if I could fix everything fast enough - right enough, we’d both get to live and I could grow to care about her the same way she felt about me and I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about dragging her into all of it,” she offered, the explanation sounding cheap and faulted on her ears; “...I was tasked to save this city,” she mourned, her resolve fading; “And I told myself that all of the bullshit I was going through didn’t matter as long as I ended up helping someone. Anyone.”
“A noble rationale,” Therese spoke softly, additional adjectives like ‘naive’ and ‘ultimately futile’ blessedly absent. 

“She was the one person I should have saved, the one that couldn’t protect herself and I was responsible for,” I fumbled, “I failed her and-”

Her tongue pariodied an attempt to wet her lips as Therese watched on. 

“I-I felt… nothing, when she died. When I watched her get torn open, in front of me.”

“I felt nothing,” she repeated, tasting the words on her tongue.  

The admission, gross and unsettling as it was, gave her a russet, bitterly-giddy burst of relief, for its acknowledgement at last. 

The clawing, twisting sensation of self-flagellation wormed through her gut. 

“Of course you didn’t feel anything,” Therese replied flatly. 

Surprised, she looked up to see Therese, glimmering in hues so bright and tangled, that she looked nearly doused in white. 

Therese leaned forward, as if she was going to reach over, touch her, maybe. 

She wished she would. 

“You’d just been turned,” Therese reminded her, “You still haven’t had time to process your own death, let alone anyone else’s,” Therese explained; “You feel guilty for ‘not feeling guilty enough’ yet you’ve done nothing but mourn her death since before you bonded her to you. You may not have cared for her with a ‘mindless devotion’, but you obviously cared about her well being, or you wouldn’t be fighting your psyche about it.” 

The woman’s words were both gratifying and a sweet, permission of relief. 

“...Thank you,” she replied, a little more at ease. 

The flutterings of strained nerves in her gut had yet to unknot, however. 

But it was manageable now. 

“I truly hadn’t meant to lead you into another laborious conversation but, I appreciate being able to talk about this with you,” she gladdened, fondness metaphorically warming her chest.             

Therese, hesitantly, put a hand to the wrist on her lap; Therese’s fingertips just lightly brushed against her skin and yet, a spark of reaction flared through her sense of self at her touch, not quite human, not quite Beast. 

She trembled, both relieved and curious over it. 

“The first years are the hardest,” Therese soothed, taking her hand away; “And now that you have time to face your situation and adjust accordingly, you’ll no doubt need many talks such as this; I’ve a feeling your clan and general disposition shall be both blessing and curse to you, as you decide what sort of kindred you’ll ultimately become.”

“It would probably be comically typical, wouldn’t it,” she quipped lightly, her exhale slightly shaken; “to say that I wanted to be a ‘good person’, or some sort of ‘good’ type of vampire?” 

“Predictable, yes; but I assure you that’s a necessary part of the psychological transformation,” Therese replied, politely ignoring her quip of vernacular; “Most every kindred faces a battle of ethics, and if they try to tell you otherwise, they were undoubtedly a monster before they were turned, or else a fool,” she snided; “What makes for a ‘good’ action or a ‘deplorable’ behavior differs from one kindred to the next and furthers even more by faction and then with clan and generation. You may find yourself in congruence or at odds with any number of things, and they may change by year, or decade, or by each passing night. You may draw a line at ghouling or find killing kine under any circumstance unforgivable; you may become so good at rationalisation that you won’t hesitate doing what it might take for you to survive the onslaught on unending time with thought to remorse or introspection.”

As her mind began shuffling through the dozens of people she’d already murdered, her face soured; Therese quickly picked up the trail conversation again. 

“There’ll be time to discuss that and any other ethical concerns, or their lacks thereof, that you might have in other evenings. There’s no need to overwhelm yourself with everything all at once, and frankly, most of it is best processed in pieces, if you care to trust me about it.” 

“I trust you,” she promised.

“Good,” Therese stated, seemingly content in her yellow and vermillion wisped hues; “My duties with my Barony may keep me too busy to respond to you with immediacy at every call, but I am more than willing to offer you guidance on such matters, and I encourage you to call upon me, or any of the other Barons,” she added, “When such emotions concern you. -I assure you every kindred in existence has gone through these same struggles, and I’d rather you ask your questions and feel embarrassed, then to say nothing until your bottled emotions turn Beastial. As a young Toreador you’re going to have a lot of sentimental upheavals and I don’t want the weight of them crushing you. You’ve too much potential to waste over growing pains.” 

“Yes Ma’am,” she agreed, finally feeling both empty and faintly relieved. 

Therese took the final sip from her glass and rested against her chair, her little outline a steady, shining yellow.

She took a few steadying sips from her own glass, draining it. 

Time, she noted, whist looking over Therese, seemed stilled. 

Though she knew it was marching onwards to the rise of the sun, it seemed as though the continuum between them had become suspended, if only temporarily.

It wasn’t quite the same feeling, as when the Cabbie had elongated it; it felt more… emotional, -ephemeral, perhaps.

It was still pleasant, either way.

Therese’s face was quite beautiful, kissed by the shadows of the dim lit room.  

She smiled, her mind turning back to the nights spent curled at the Baron’s side, held gently to the breasts of the blonde and her sister, their bed safe, supporting, and blood scented. 

“It’s getting late,” Therese stated, as if she too, had returned to such thoughts; she gently placed her glass upon the coffee table.

“You’re more than welcome to spend the night here,” she offered, slips of eagerness slipping into her pitch, “I can’t imagine there’s enough time for you to get home before the sun rises, close as it is at this hour.”

Therese smiled; pleased, from what she could tell, but more amused than anything else. 

“I’ve a room in the other wing,” Therese explained, slowly coming to stand; “It’s more than sufficient to pass the night in, though I thank you for the offer.” 

The Baron ran a hand along her clothes, smoothing them over in an efficient, Ventrue-esque manner.

Following suit, she stood as well.

Therese’s posture suggested she was readying her parting words; more out of petulance than irascibility, she pushed the offer a little more in the hopes the woman was only refraining out of reputational modesty. 

“I wouldn’t make you walk so far, when the bed you gave me is certainly big enough for the both of us. -Though if you’d prefer I take the couch, I’d leave it to you.” 

For a moment, it looked as though Therese was actually considering her offer. 

Her hopes rose until she watched the Baron’s features align with amused dismissal. 

“Thank you for the drink,” Therese bayed, excusing herself; "Sleep well."  

Knowing she’d lost, she tried not to let her posture deflate. 

“Sleep well Therese,” her wistfulness keened in reply.

Therese hummed a singular note, and strode to the door. 

And just like that, she walked out of my life forever , she mused. 

God; she thought, Therese’s hall-lit silhouette was ✨beautiful✨.  

~

She started her evening with a bit of a stretch, once again languishing over the lack of company to rise alongside her, before readying herself for the night. 

As per habit, and expecting a ‘job well done’ confirmation from Gary, she checked her inbox for any new developments and found herself on the edge of bemusement when the esoteric Baren failed to dissuade her expectations. 

[Subject] Party Poppers [From] [email protected]

Hey Boss nice camerawork! Jokes aside, your payments’ already hanging up back at your place; which is lookin good by the way now that it’s not a certified scrap heap. A shame really. I liked the grunge. -Hope you had fun at that party Boss, cause you’re about to be Miss Popularity.

Dinner. My place. Tonight. 

‘Nice work’ huh? she re-read, thinking back through the party; Therese’s warning about the blonde curly-haired ‘Anarch’ came to mind with the same, gnawing assertion she’d felt back when she’d been digging up the Prince’s secrets.  

She allotted that following her hunches had carried her through the hellscape of her afterlife thus far, so she shot the Nosferatu a conformational reply with the safe assumption that there’d be plenty to discuss about it, at their meeting. 

Similarly, though likely for very different reasons, Velvet had also left her a rather congenial note of well wishes about the event; a small worry wormed its way through her chest that perhaps by not inviting the soft, charming and courteous Toreador, she might’ve made the sweet woman feel a little left out. 

I’ll stop by later, return the dress and make sure she’s okay, she vowed.  

The rest of her inbox seemed blissfully devoid of any cryptic warnings or other calls for work, so she logged off the machine and took a moment to scrawl a few notes into her journal about the party, her talk with Therese, Tara's name, her plan for the night, and the memo for Gary's invitation.

Hope future me appreciates all these, she mused, adding a few emotional contexts to the dash-listed bulletpoints; assuming the documentation wouldn't do her any good when she was old and soul-dead if she didn't also illustrate her processes of reasoning.

When finished, she tucked the journal under her pillow, slipped into old borrowed clothes, and turned her attentions onto her first priority: dealing with the pawnshop apartment and the affects Heather had left behind. 

~

It was strange, being back. 

She let the door click behind her and stepped in carefully.

When neither static nor nerves threatened to overwhelm her, she relaxed; she dropped her bag to the floor and spotted her trenchcoat hanging by coathook on the back of the door. 

-The thing looked every bit as derelict and off putting as it had when she’d last worn it; the disgusting garment that she’d hated with intense, begrudging respect for saving her hide now brought a nonsensical smile to her lips. 

With any luck, it’ll have been too garish for anyone to have looked through, she hoped.  

Immediately, she shoved her hands forward, rifling through the blood, filth, and explosion battered leather with focused urgency. 

Her fingers scrounged around and a great sense of relief overtook her when they foraged up her tiny, terribly-strange treasures; the makeshift necklaces, belt-clip ‘keychains’, pocket-keepsakes, and worrystones. 

All of them bizarre, esoteric, and vaguely profane. 

Truthfully, she had no idea why the little baubles mattered to her so much; the signed picture of Velvet she’d been gifted by the lovely Toreador’s own hand was of course above such doubts, but the other ‘rewards’ she’d been repaid for her efforts, -the feathers, rocks, bits of talismans... 

Some of them felt strange, in her palm. 

Perhaps they’ve special properties , she decided; though she doubted any of the kindred in the city would’ve parted with anything of actual value. 

Not for her, at least, she thought assuredly. 

Still, I won them; she figured, feeling fond of the items just the same;  I bled for them and I like weird dead things and shiny stones, little bones, and teeth; they’re strange and I earned them and they’re mine. 

Feeling confident, she tucked her trinkets back into her coat and draped it on the bed; with a simulation of air inhaled, she allowed herself to think the room over. 

The ceiling was finished; the rafters and piping were covered over by what she assumed were the thin sheets of drywall coated in that weird ‘popcorning’ paint that builders always seemed to default to despite it looking horrid whilst being utterly insufferable to get rid of- 

-Someone had gone through and finished retiling the kitchen; the threadbare carpet was completely gone, leaving the scuffed up wood beneath.  

It wasn’t great; but it seemed livable enough for any would-be human tenant.

The furniture had all been replaced, at least. 

The bed, while plain, sported sheets and a mattress cover, and even looked as though it wouldn’t give her tetanus by standing in its general vicinity.  

Therese obviously hadn’t intended her to make much further use of the place, she felt.

That notion seemed a bit of a shame, being across from the club as it was she’d been somewhat fond of the location; she wondered if Therese needed it for other kindred to lodge temporarily, or if the Baron had felt the place a lost cause in comparison to the clean slate the Hotel had offered her to work with. 

As the memory of her new room contrasted to the harsh reality of this older, dingier hell-hole, she decided that she wasn’t going to complain about the upgrade. 

The smoothness to the walls alerted her eye to the few coats of new paint they’d been donned in; she spotted a few touch ups along the trim but overall the job was passable. 

On one of the walls, a cardboard tube caught her eye. 

Undoing it, she pulled out the paper and unraveled the band poster that had been hanging behind her bed. 

The sunflower, battered, bruised, still welcomed her warmly. 

Something about the flower’s black hole center however, reminded her too much of a hungry abyss. 

She’d leave it. 

-Let some new sorry soul stumble across it, and use it for some hope. 

Since she’d found it in the apartment to begin with, she wasn’t sure it even technically counted as hers to take. 

It wasn’t like her other places needed any more decoration anyway, she rationalized; thinking to the scatterings of pin-up posters that had been mysteriously re-supplied to her war-room after her last excursion to the Warrens, -and her new place would look better with something framed, she decided.  

She turned her attention to the dresser. 

It was practically a thin layer of laminate over pressboard, but it was new enough not to be scratched, though she held no doubts that sustained use would wear its corners away in a year or so. 

Therese definitely pulled out the stops at the other place, she mused. 

As she’d suspected, Heather’s clothes were folded neatly inside. 

Heather hadn’t had much time to move things over from... wherever she lived; she reflected.

-She tried not to think about the fact that Heather hadn’t had much time at all. 

She’d gotten her to bring over a couple bags over the week they’d had, at least.

She suppressed a snort as she thought about the stereotypical u-haul nature of their relationship and started dumping the drawers onto the bed. 

Something inside her felt oddly content at the prospect of casually sorting laundry. 

The half filled drawers didn’t take up much of her time; she returned them to their stations one by one before reaching over and hauling her bag onto the bed.

She sunk her hands into the pile. 

The bright, innocent fabrics made her fingers tremble.   

Heather’s shirt, yellow as the sunflower, sprung to mind. 

If she hadn’t died in it, it might’ve been the perfect one to remember her by. 

The faces of the shovelheads grinned at her, in memory; their grubby hands embedded to their knuckles.

Heather’s final emotions.

Relief. 

Hope. 

Surprise. 

A tiny droplette of something appeared on the blue-sky tank top she was holding, just beside her thumb. 

The red dot was quickly sucked in by the tiny threads composing the fabric; the cloth soaked in the wetness, absorbent. Unthinking. 

The shirt shifted; two more tiny drops appeared. 

Her hands trembled. 

“You still haven’t had time to process your own death,” Therese had said; she struggled to focus on the blonde in her mind. 

 “And now that you have time to face your situation and adjust accordingly -you’re going to have a lot of emotions-”

She let her fangs press into her lip.

I’m sorry, Heather.  

As if in afterthought, she repeated the words. 

Out loud. 

The room surrounding her, was silent. 

“...I hope you’re okay, wherever you are,” she then murmured, “-I hope you found your grandmother.” 

Part of her almost expected Heather to haunt her in death; a ghost or poltergeist plaguing her for a short eternity in some form of retributive devotion. 

But Heather was too sweet for that, she thought. 

She’d want her to be happy, probably. 

Yeah. 

The clash of memories fell away from her vision, leaving only the small mix of clothes to focus on; one by one, she started putting things into the bag until the sheets were bare. 

Slinging the bag over her shoulder and her coat over arm instilled her with a familiar sense of steadfasted resolve; though she had no plans or intentions of warding through new misfortunes under the current night, the feeling of capability and purpose was a welcome change to the room’s otherwise melancholic atmosphere.

With a final look around the main room, her eyes drifted over to the bathroom door.

“There’s no need to overwhelm yourself with everything all at once,” Therese had said, “It’s best processed in pieces.”

Feeling both certain and at ease, she spared no further thought on the memories behind the door, knowing that there were other, more pressing things for her to attend to. 

Chapter Text

The soft, wet-slacked echos of her footsteps reverberating along the sewer walls felt almost soothing to her senses; the gentle, innocuous drips and creaks falling in ambience to her journey only served to fuel her wistfulness; if she were to squint and somehow lose her sense of smell and the knowledge of just what she was walking through, she could easily picture some altering version of herself, placidly stalking the halls with a cemented peace of being where one could grow to belong. 

Having taken the ‘long route’ to ensure she’d purposefully get any would-be tag-alongs lost, her thoughts drifted to her earlier nights in the sewers chasing down abominations and the mixes of disparaged desolation and contented isolation she’d felt.

- If only it weren't for the sewage, she felt, feeling a faint vestigial instinct to sigh; but there was sewage, and with that knowledge, and the added understanding of the tensions between the Nosferatu clan and her own, she once again chastised herself with the truth that she could not stay in the sewers, no matter how cozy there were, or how insulated from the cacophony of the city’s overworldly din she found them to be.

Besides, there’s probably not enough blood to go around down here, she added, sidestepping a barricade of naturally pooling debris; but her cold logic of reality did little to dispel the wisps of fanciful notions and so she pulled her coat a little tighter, the bag of Heather's things still hung slunked over her arm. 

When the human-erected construction gave way to the ram-shackle innovations of kindred, she felt both a little more somber, and a little more relieved to slip back into a ‘work mode’ of purposefulness.

She found the path had remained much the same since her last visit, as she kept one eye scanning the footings and dug earth. 

She took a few moments to greet everyone in turn, offering a quick hello to Barabus and a few other faces she didn’t recognize before finding Mitnick difficult to slip any word to and Imalia to be as snippish as usual; not that she blamed the woman for her nature. 

-They were both victims, after all; with a sunken heart, she considered Imalia’s terminal assault a far graver invasion than her own and though she didn’t say as much in so many words, it seemed a sentiment the former supermodel innately agreed with. 

Imalia’s words were often as cutting as the serrated edges of the woman’s teeth, and the kindred made no pretense in obscuring her feelings on any matter. 

But she could see that the girl didn’t mean any of her lacerating words directly, -not to her, at least. 

She was simply venting, at great volume, at the world in general; spitefully seething at the injustice of everything the poor woman had come to face and the fact that she still had a pretty, smooth face, only served as a stark reminder of the dignity the slighted kindred had lost. 

She wished, not for the first time, she could say… anything , to bring the woman any amount of comfort, knowing innately from her handfuls of conversations with her that any attempt to do so would only result in worsening everything between them.

It was difficult, she admitted; making straining attempts of friendship with a person, when her very appearance sent them into a tailspin of self-loathing. 

“Let me know if you need anything,” she offered, gently excusing herself when she noticed the shaking starting up in the woman’s fists. 

She left Imalia’s room to make her way dutifully to Gary’s; she pushed the grand, heavy double doors open and stepped in, confident in their alliance and the primogen’s general disposition. 

The room seemed to be much as she left it; corpse party and all.

“Evening Sir,” she offered to the dark; “Hope I’m not late.” 

“Well, well, well… if it isn’t what the cat dragged in,” came the droll, gravely voice rattling around the cavernous dining hall; “So like you fancy-faced types to roll in ‘fashionably late’ isn’t it, Boss? Next you’ll be telling me you didn’t meet anyone at the bar, or that the sickly sweet scent of perfume lingering around your throat isn’t from some quarter-bit side-squeeze dame and the hair on your coat is from some old lady you walked across a street. -Well your infidelous nature doesn’t bother me one bit Boss. I don’t care if you prefer your meals cold .”

“How about we save the petty breakup for after we eat, then?” she suggested, stifling an instinctual urge to hum at his offputting yet cadent rumbling. 

“Ever a practical one you are, eh?” Gary answered, gesturing to the chairs dotted around the table; “Sure thing Boss. Please, sit; there’s lot to discuss and time marches ever onward.” 

She took the suggestion and claimed a seat near the head of the table, a chair between her and the Nosferatu hosting her.

She was dimly aware that had she’d held any romantic intent she’d’ve easily sat closer; as it was, she didn’t to accidentally lead him on, on the off chance such a miscommunication could even occur. With how many pin-up posters he'd payed her in, she sincerely doubted he took her for anything resembling straight, but with the man’s penchant for matrimonial humor between them, she chose not to risk it; she didn't want to homewreck the imaginary illicet relationship she envisioned between him and the Hollywood Baron or make a future mess of complications for her and Therese or her pretty Velvet to clean up. 

She spared a glance along the waiting libations; she had somewhat expected the plate of rats lying in wait, but the punch-like bowl of blood and the stasised body of living alligator resting in centerpeice along the length of the table was an honest surprise. 

“Dig in Boss, you’ll need it to keep up your stamina,” he chided. 

With delicate finesse, she took hold of the ladle resting in the blood-bowl and cleanly drew herself half-a-glass worth.

As she replaced the servingware, she elected to steer the conversation further into expected business. 

“I think this is the first formal dinner party I’ve actually been invited to,” she mused, sparing him a smirk; “but I doubt you’ve invited me for idle chatter. So, as the cool kids say: what’s up?” 

The gnarled, grimset man pulled a rat to his plate, a satisfied smile slit across his face; “Stormy night ahead Boss, the kinda weather so dark that’ll make you shiver from the anticipation,” he announced, twisting the rodents neck, “-And you’re the lucky schmuck who gets to be swept up by the torrent. I know you’re keen to swim, Boss. Can’t hide your ugly side from me.”

“You’re talking about gehenna and the antediluvians again,” she assumed, allowing space for erroneous error. 

“-That’s another matter,” he offered, not dismissively, “But we’ve a more immediate concern tonight.”

“Tara, then,” she asked, pulling a rat from the pile for herself; unlike Gary she bit directly into the still breathing beast, drawing out its minute lifeforce with a sip as it squeaked and spasmed in her hand.  

-Had she been alone, she might’ve kissed the poor thing, tiny and free from humanity as it was; she gently laid the corpse upon her plate and trailed her fingers along the fur of its back instead. 

There was a single moment where Gary’s brow raised slightly, perhaps, she imagined, in some manner of being impressed. 

Or, she thought, acknowledging the man’s age and read of her, she’d simply played into his likely held expectations. 

“Don’t work that brain of your too hard Boss,” he goaded, “it might combust.”

“Bold of you to assume I think any thoughts at all,” she retorted, still petting the dead rat; “Tell me about her.”

The monstrous-visaged man sat up a bit straighter; “This information would normally cost you a pretty fortune but tell you what. Since you placed all those cameras for me and I’ve got a few more little chores lined up for you, we’ll just call it square; sound good?” 

“Good,” she agreed, not particularly caring about prices either way. 

Gary grunted and leaned towards her, his elongated, tapering claws twitching in front of his grisly chin; “Tara Kearney used to be one of the dissentious crowd long before she ever set foot in San Diego. She dug in her roots and spread her line like a code of replicants; turned a small army. Unfortunately for her, the loyalty of the rabble is a petty, fickle thing. -Something I’m sure you’re quite familiar with Boss,” he added cheekily before continuing, “When things got heated she and her ilk jumped the fence for greener pastures, and now that little Prince Priss is gone, she thinks she’s inherited his territory.”

“That explains her reaction meeting me,” she thought aloud, thinking back to the party. 

“Yes, I’m sure you felt like quite the celebrity,” he scoffed, “Don’t let your ego grow through your head. The implosion might make me laugh, and neither of us would want that.  -So tell me something Boss, why were you at that lady Torrance’s pompenstanding shindig? Got a thing for Kubrick or could you just not stay away from the spotlight longer than’d take for a torrid escapade?”  

“You say that like you didn’t want me there,” she quipped, eyeing the plate of rats and table-length reptile still waiting before them; “Is this a friend or a food?” she asked, reaching out to touch it.

“If it bites you back I’m not scolding it,” he answered cleanly; she hummed a curt note of acknowledgment and took in the texture of the creature’s skin; the beast seemed to pay her no mind. 

“So you want more cameras placed or is it another rescue mission or what?” she pressed, as she rescinded her hand to take hold of the glass. 

“You’re the curveball here Boss, you tell me,” he dismissed, leaning back in faux-simile indignation; “What would you do with a brand new upstart to the throne? Better think carefully Boss, if she elects any court before the night’s out, it’ll be official.”

“I guess I’ll go figure that out then,” she replied, sipping her glass empty.  

“Do yourself a favor and have a chat with ol’ Baron Hollywood, would you? I hear he’s got a bee in his bonnet about our newest mad-about-town. And do be quick about it, I’ll be watching.” 

She gave a curt nod before leaning over, draping just deep enough to steal a sip from the unresponsive crocodilian; curiosity too strong an impulse to ignore. 

She pulled back, surprised. 

“If you’re going to throw up, I’ll film it free of charge,” he cajoled. 

She shot him a look before licking her lips clean; the strange blood was... cool. 

Thick. 

Deep, perhaps.

-Better than a rat, but still not quite as nourishing as a human’s, in the very least. 

Something to think about, she supposed.

“I’ll let you know how it goes,” she replied, ending their meeting with a note of formality; “But I’m sure you’ll find out before I do. Thanks for the dinner. My compliments to the poor sob tasked to wrangle it all.”

He chuckled, and she politely took her leave, electing to take the shortcut up through the mausoleum. 

“I left my key / in a mausoleum~” she sang, as she crawled out in the overworld once more. 

After making sure the secret entrance remained thoroughly obscured, she began the short walk to Isaac’s office. 

She assumed it was only an office anyway; though she supposed it could’ve also doubled as his haven. 

Could be a nursery, she thought; the echoing words of John Mulaney echoing through her skull.  

When she hit the street, she fought against the instant desire to turn heel and trod over to Vesuvius in the hopes of catching glimpse of her paramount paramour. 

Maybe I’ll’ve time to sneak in before I head out, she hoped, as her mind was already fretting over timetable and projections of needed hours spent to accomplish whatever task she was about to be lent.

Issac’s building was unassumingly right where she’d seen it last. 

-Probably should have included him in the rounds, she thought retroactivly, as she walked down the alleyside to get to the ‘front’ door. 

She pushed the heavy wood open with just enough force to budge it, easing herself in after it with slight trepidation. 

“Ah yes, I’m glad to see you this night,” greeted the Hollywood Baron as he rose from his desk; he smoothed over his jacket with a single pass before gesturing for her to come closer. 

“Evening Sir,” she greeted in turn, purposefully closing the door behind her before allowing herself to stand any closer before him. 

“I hope you’ve been well these past nights,” the man led, as she tried not to wince at his face; “Congratulations on your recent termination with LaCroix neonate,” he quipped, a smirk on his lips, “Velvet informed me of your survival and I must say I had hoped you would’ve come to me a few nights sooner but what’s done is done,” he monologue, dismissing the ‘grievance’ with a wave; “There is little time. I trust you already know about the Tower’s latest invasive maneuver?” 

“Yes, I made Ms Kearney’s acquaintance last night,” she relayed as she grew dimly aware of the way her body was beginning to tug on the Blood; she recalled the plump blonde with abstract apathy. 

“And with it nearly lost the element of surprise,” he scoffed angrily; she watched him carefully, gauging his movements and curt exhales of sound.

The old Toreador shook his head.

“Still, you’re the best bet I have,” he offered plainly, righting himself;  “Tara is a traitor,” he nearly spat; “A traitor and threat I will not tolerate in my city! We’ve only just regained our freedom, I’m not about to let some bull blooded gingersnap with an emasculated mass of inanity waltz in here thinking she can stir up her cult following and come out winning and neither should you,” he vented, his gaze leveling on hers with some intensity; she forced herself not to flinch. 

“Are you sure she isn't here to turn back?” she asked, advocating what she was certain was a moot point.

“That backstabbing turncoat is a threat to everyone in L.A.,” he seethed, his snarl threatening to overtake his cultured visage; “ -You especially, neonate. Think about it, if the Tower reinstates itself how long will it be before they come knocking on your door, asking what happened to LaCroix? Do us both a favor, young blood: Tara Kearney must be taken care of. Tonight .” 

“Consider it done Sir,” she answered plainly, her customer-service tone scarily well-greased along her throat. 

“Excellent. I heard she’s been making rounds, gathering stock of whomst here she can sweet-talk into championing her claim. Find her,” he ordered, his tone insistent, “And take this. I want her back alive ,” he stressed, as he pulled a stake from inside his coat pocket. 

‘But she’s already dead’ , came an unspoken quip; she kept the thought to herself and dutifully took the oversized wooden splinter. 

“And be discrete, if you can,” he added hastily; “The less anyone knows about this the better. We don’t need in-fighting in the streets about any of this. Do it quickly, do it quietly. I’m counting on you to pull this off, with your track record you might be the only one she won't expect who can get this done,” he argued; “And one more thing: rest assured that if the notion of public service doesn’t phase you, I will make this worth your while.”

“And if I fail?” she asked reflexively, standing straighter. 

Blanker.

“Then we’ll have another minutia of jyhad on our hands,” he answered, his voice low and coiled around his teeth. 

She offered him a nod, and took the initiative to make her exit; the circulation of blood already starting to hum along the underside of her veins.

Chapter Text

“Well, well, well…” the woman drawled, her expression lacking either bemusement or annoyance.

Her tongue darted between her lips as if to wet them saliva that no longer existed; slowly, she rose from her crouch, -keeping her sight trained on the kindred before her, and dropped her penchant for remaining hidden.

“This is a surprise,” Tara continued; the blonde’s posture seemed relaxed, but Kate felt it could tense and spring at any point.

She kept the tension in her own body coiled, reflexively readying herself as all of her unlife had reinforced in her to do; she allowed the woman to speak on, hoping to glean any bits of advantage that she could. 

Slowly, she stepped forward, allowing the woman to watch her approach with tentative care; it was the same slow movement, that had led all of her kindridic foes to spare her a word or two, before surging into battlefrenzies. 

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re after, now that you’ve made a mockery of my men,” Tara commanded.  

“Ms Kearney,” she began, her rosen blood already spilling silked dipped tones on her behalf; “May I ask what your intentions are for this city?” 

Tara’s face remained passive; not a twitch or flicker of muscle movement to indicate any manner of expression. It seemed to her, that either the woman was well trained in maintaining a poker face, or else the blonde was simply past the point of caring about most matters. 

It was a little uncanny; she forced herself not to shiver as Tara’s gaze bore into her.

Almost reflexively, she returned the scrutiny, her eyes picking up a slight hitch of movement along the woman’s hips; not enough to fully shift weight, but enough that she could guess how the blonde would move.

“Why? You want to join the winning side?” the blonde quipped, her tone a little too biting to be taken for as friendly as the kindred likely intended it to be; “I’m not surprised. You must be feeling lost what with Sebastion gone. I’d’ve thought your lot would’ve reclaimed you, by now. No matter,” Tara dismissed, with lack of flourish or emphasis; “I could use an Assamite to help things along. Word on the vine tells me you’ve got moxy. I like moxy.”  

She pondered over the unfamiliar term; figuring it was some sort of assassin approximation, she made a mental note to follow that up later to remain focused on the task at hand.

“And the Thinbloods?”

Tara clicked her teeth; the most humanistic action she’d seen in the woman.   

“Moxy and smarts,” Tara quipped, almost warmly; “Don’t worry, we won’t need that trash in our city,” the blonde decreed; “As my scourge you’ll get first dibs on their blood. I’m not keen on your lots’ menu restrictions but keep it to your targets and we’ll keep just peachy.”

Who’d want to eat a thinblood? she thought, growing more confused by the moment; she kept from shaking her head and pressed the conversation on. 

“And the Barons?”

“If Therese wants in, she’s in,” Tara answered; “Same for the others; I doubt you can turn Isaac or Nines, but you're welcome to try. Let’s call them your first targets.”

Something of her revulsion must’ve shown on her face, because Tara’s slow-warming demeanor began to harden once more. 

“Look kid, if you want in, you’ve got to make it worth my while,” the blonde decreed; the curves of the woman’s cheeks seemed the only softness remaining about her face.

Through her stance was firm, Tara did seem genuine in her offer.

The trend in how her targets all offered her to join them after realizing just how quickly she was able to get past their lackeys seemed to continue onwards. 

-It was a shame the offers all included extended internships with intended disrespect and indignity for her to crawl back out of. 

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to leave L.A.,” she asked sincerely, the tension in her body almost unbearable as the question shifted the atmosphere swirling around them.  

“I’m afraid not Missy,” Tara sneered; “Now what’s it gonna be?”

“First, tell me why you switched sides,” she pleaded, “Why did you leave your old way of life?”

“Why should I tell you a damn thing, bricky?” Tara growled, “I’m not a patient woman, now.” 

“I understand,” she answered cleanly, keeping her tone light; “But I need to know.”

“You’re new, kid,” Tara judged, her chin dipping towards her slightly; “And I get it. LaCroix was a ponce and these smalltown bigshots got you hooked on the Dream. But if there’s a brain in your head you’ll come back before the Tower tolls for you.”

“Why should I believe in the Camarilla?” she asked somberly, “Why should I give up what taste of freedom I’ve managed to scrape by?”   

“Why?” Tara repeated, her volume dimmed; “I believed,” she sighed, her lack of breath grave and worn; “I really believed, once. I believed in MacNeil. I believed in Garcia. -I believed in all of it. I took San Diego and I took it proudly for the Unbound, and I've run it for decades. But it’s over. The hunters,” she pressed, her tone finally pierced by something resembling emotion, “It's not going to happen with the Anarchs. The Ivory Tower's right. All these new technologies that you all probably still use, they're bringing the hunters right to us. Entire cities wiped out overnight , can you imagine that, Puppy? -They're going to win. Those damned humans are going to win. I hate to say it, I really do,” she finished, “But these nights, the Cam's way’s the only way."

Unable to refute, she nodded; it was a practical response, at least.

“I’m sorry,” she replied gently, “really, I am; the tide of Gehenna is already flooding our metaphorical shores,” she agreed, “But I still can’t give the city to you.” 

The vestige of sensibility and indulgence disappointed from the woman’s frame; she watched the kindred jolt into a readied, expectant position.

Her own stance was equally poised and measured.

“Your loss, whippet,” Tara warned; the blonde raised her arms as if readying to strike. 

Quickly, she darted to the side, drawing her blade; past experiences having taught her that readying her gun in a brawl wouldn’t work as well as having distance enough to aim between them. 

She was used to fighting monsters.

Fleshy, undulating, writhing monsters of mass and heap.

Tara was nothing like shumbling, unholy amalgamations she’d fought in the Tzimisces’ dens. 

Tara’s hits were hard, but not as decimating. 

Tara’s feet were fast, but not as fast as hers. 

She easily kept out of range, dodging the flurries of pain the Traitor-Prince aimed to induce; there wasn’t much space on the roof, but it was enough. 

Just enough, if she kept her turns tight.  

The length of her blade kept the woman back, allowing her to keep within a series of tight rotations.

It was a little like a dance. 

“ Stop moving ,” the blonde snarled, her venomed words as sharp as her claws. 

Ignoring an almost familiar needle-like sting inside her head, she steeled her mind; she hadn’t cowed to LaCroix, and she refused to now. 

But she did slip up at the mental invasion, losing precious seconds of footwork that allowed Tara to land an impact squarely into her chest that sent her carrening back, sprawling across the roof; in the tick of time she stumbled, something red failed to fall with her and was sucked into Tara’s body, -hurriedly she contorted as she slid, digging her nails into the concrete to slow herself enough to pitch her momentum forward again.

The fuck was that?  

Her confusion cost her another precious moment in her meter as she reflexively took stock of her risen hunger; did that fucker just… steal part of me?  

A shot narrowly missed her shoulder as she rolled her weight; back on her feet, she darted back into a rhythm with her swordplay, forcing Tara to forgo the gun in favor of her fists.

The woman’s movements almost carried notes of desperation; there was a renewed hunger in Tara’s eyes that she didn’t like the look of. 

If she’d been a minor nuisance before, now it seemed, that Tara intently wanted her dead.  

She worked in her slashes carefully, utterly focused on the timing between them; her eyes tracked every twitch and jolt of Tara’s movements, nearly predicting the blonde’s continuing actions seconds before they occurred. 

Rose Wilson eat your heart out, she mused, between narrow dodges.

Tara was attempting to coral her; force her off the roof.

-We’re not that high up, she reasoned, figuring she’d survive the fall; but the notion did give her an idea.

Purposefully foregoing a chance to hack at Tara’s torso, she took the impact from Tara’s next fist full force, dropping her sword, to use the point of proximity to grab her by the shoulders and pull .  

With the force of Tara’s momentum far greater than her own, Tara’s from continued past her; an action that would send both of their bodies over the edge of the roof.

As her body began to contort with Tara’s, her hand darted to her thigh, fingers grasping the oversized splinter holstered there; allowing the force of their arc to carry the weight for her, she slammed the stake down as Tara’s chest rolled into view beneath her and straddled her, -fully intending for the impact of their bodies against the pavement to finish the job for her.

It was over in a matter of seconds. 

The thud of their landing sent a wave of force through her, almost stunning her, -but Tara stayed down. 

Quickly, she leaned over, ignoring the signals of pain and panic from her beast and body; the threat of Tara regaining her composure was too important. 

-She needn’t have worried. 

The stake was stuck in tight; Tara wasn’t moving. 

As the simplistic instincts of battle started to dissipate, she allowed herself a moment to calm down. 

To study the woman, beneath her. 

Tara’s face was contorted in surprise. 

Maybe pain. 

It was…

Unsettling. 

Uncomfortable, to look at.  

She swallowed saliva that wasn’t there. 

Phantom sensations of goosebumps and shivers ghosted along her body’s reflexes. 

Slowly, she rose to her feet, testing her steadiness.

Been way worse, she found, feeling rather pleased; Not even in multiple pieces or anything . It’s even two hours till daylight, she mused. 

Hell, she thought happily, reaching forward to hoist the woman up over her shoulder with blood-bolstered strength; she didn’t even try to set me on fire!    

-She hoped Isaac would appreciate her efforts, just the same. 

Not to mention, she was feeling eager to put the whole Camarilla mess behind her. 

With a sense of great relief, she kicked her sword into her free hand, and carried the Traiter-Prince over to a manhole to set about the dark, wet walk back to Hollywood.  

~

“That was… faster than I thought,” the Hollywood Baron exclaimed, reclaiming control of his previously-agape mouth.

She shrugged, allowing the woman to slide gently to the floor. 

“I’ve learned a few things, in all this,” she offered dismissively whilst checking the woman over to ensure the blonde was, and would remain, incompacitated. 

Satisfied, she looked back up at the slicked-up man who looked a great deal more relieved than he’d seemed a few hours before. 

He looked nearly jovial, in comparison. 

She almost smiled to see it.

“She asked me to kill you,” she offered, more to the open air, then with any intention. 

The old Toreador looked up from the traitor to meet her eyes; a hint of seriousness locked within his amber irises. 

“Oh? Well, I’m glad you’ve elected to refrain,” he mused, his tone clearly one of jest; he seemed convinced of her inability to hurt him. 

Perhaps it was true; she didn’t really have any intention of testing it. 

“And Nines, and others,” she added, rambling on; “She called me an ‘assamite’. What’s that mean?”   

Isaac norted, a faux-breath of genuine laughter; his gaze continued to dart between her and Tara, standing and hunching as if he couldn’t quite take in his good fortune. 

“Asassins from the Middle-East,” he answered offhandedly, “Religious lot, that bunch. Praise to ‘Allah’ and all that. We typically don’t get much of them round here, but this is L.A.”

“I’ve never been to the Middle-East I don't think,” she thought aloud, her mind raking over the period of hazy memories she couldn’t quite recall. 

“Don’t worry, if you were one of them, you’d know,” he affirmed, kneeling over the body to study the woman’s face, “-It’d be the only thing you’d know,” he finished gravely.

She thought it over and chose to take him at his word; she watched him silently as he took in Tara’s solditity. 

His fingers reached out, as if to touch the woman’s shoulder before drawing back.

He sighed, almost mournfully, and rose to his feet once more. 

He straightened his jacket and looked back at her, this time more fully. 

His gaze felt... intent, but not invasive.

He smiled, and the heebie-jeebies stopped. 

“Besides, anyone with a working pair of eyes could tell you’ve never drained a lick dry.”

The statement caught her offguard; she reeled for only a second before compiling herself back quickly, her curiosity flaring.

“-Wait, do you mean you can see weird things too?” she asked hurriedly, an edge of excitement in her pitch.

The Baron’s brow raised, as if a little offguard himself. 

“...You ask about Auspex,” he stated, his tone reminding her of disbelieving math teachers and parents moments before staggered sighs. 

He seemed to catch himself before straightening his posture; “Forgive me neonate, it’s easy to forget your… unusual circumstances. Though I do find it odd that LaCroix neglected such basic tutleges.” 

“-You’re surprised that babyfaced brat didn’t want me to know enough to survive?”

His face molded into one of mixed surprise and acceptance; “I suppose not,” he agreed; “Very well, then. Yes, I too have the powers of optical refinery that our clan bestows. Our clan has three such blessings: Auspex, which we just mentioned, Celerity, which is enhanced speed in movement, and Presence, which is, to put simply, the power of aura and general disposition that you can command.” 

“So seeing auras and having weird heat vision and stuff like that is completely normal?” she pressed, feeling equal parts pleased and curious. 

His raised brow seemed to furrow and balk; “...You really weren’t joking that left you to your lonesome, were you,” he mused; “Therese mentioned you’d have questions, but I hadn’t realized we’d be starting square.”

“She mentioned me?” she asked, perhaps a little too quickly.

The man nodded; “It’s rare for her to take an interest in foundlings but, she’s a stickler for everyone keeping low profiles. I wouldn’t worry about her too much, young one. She won't hurt you if you keep your head down. -Just steer clear of her sister, messy business there.” 

She swallowed down a smile. 

“Anyway, to answer your question: yes, the power can allow one to perform many feats, if properly trained,” he explained, “...Reading peoples’ emotions and thoughts, seeing their auras, their futures, or their pasts. You might see colors you never could before, or find your field of vision at a far greater clarity than you’d ever thought possible. -You might be able to look at a painting and feel exactly what the artist behind it was feeling, as they made it. Powerful stuff,” he warned, “I’d advise you to use it carefully, neonate. While I’ve never seen it myself, I’ve heard many a story of Toreador who grow burnt out and highstrung off constantly hearing the thoughts of those around them, or going blind from too bright a light, or going deaf from too loud a sound.”

“Thanks, good to know,” she answered gratefully. 

He hummed a note of reply, apparently thinking things over. 

“Is there any other clan stuff I should know?” she asked, figuring she’d make the most of his time while she had it. 

His face soured slightly, as if he might very well have a lot of things he’d like her to know, but she assumed he was probably thinking about imparting the ‘importance’ of her clan or something like that, if she had to hazard a guess. 

“Too much to cover before dawn,” he answered cleanly, “We’ll save the history lesson for another night. For now, do you have any specific questions?”

She bit her lip, allowing herself a few seconds time to think.

-What did she want to know?

“Who’s ‘Mac Neil’?” 

The old man’s face grew grim; he looked like a perfectly chiseled portrait from a bygone era, leading her to wonder once again, if he and the Nosferatu Baron ever spoke as equals, or in such doing, become too painful.  

“Where did you hear of him?” he inquired, avoiding the question. 

She jerked her chin at the corpse on the floor, recalling the scratched out number on Therese’s phone, and waited. 

He spat, surprising her; she stepped back as she watched the small splatter of vitea land near the woman’s face and readied herself in case the Baron’s ire grew further.

“She’s lucky she still has a mouth with which to speak it,” he growled, low and jaded.

There was a moment, where the Toreador’s face fell into genuine sadness; an aura of regret and bittered resolution washing around his frame. 

“...He’s no longer with us,” was all the man eventually replied; “Anything else?” 

Now or never, she thought.  

“What’s in the nature of a Toreador’s beast?”

A somber look befell the man, replacing the cold, directionless hate; but there was a bit of surprise to his eyes that seemed to help reground him. 

“We are a clan of art prevailers; patrons, artistes, -but we are also a clan, I’m sorry to say, of great debauchery. It’s a pitfall of every kindred, in every clan. We all must remain vigilant, lest our beasts overtake our humanity. Our passions. -I’m sure you’ve heard of serial killers, in your mortal or immortal life, yes? Now, imagine that passion, that dedication, that rejection of empathy, and give it to a supermonster centuries old. -That, neonate, is the kind of thing you have to fear.” 

She drank the words in, mulling their connotations over like smooth stones inside her head. 

“-Have you felt much, of your beast?” he asked, breaking her concentration. 

As she looked at him, the Baron continued, as if concerned; “Is it something you’re struggling with?” 

“I don’t believe so?” she answered carefully, thinking back; “I don't remember having to… restrain myself or talk myself down from hurting anyone much.”

-Other than myself , she thought. 

“Interesting,” he replied dismissively, perking up; “You should test it. Grow familiar with the warning signs. -Harder to take you by surprise that way,” he explained; “Get into an argument or two and see how you feel, then try denying yourself your urges. Make a conscious effort to keep track.”

“Hunger?” she guessed, constructing potential plans. 

“Naturally;” he agreed, “A week or two without blood and you’ll see what you’re really capable of doing.”

“Weeks?” she asked, her pitch higher than it ought to have been; as she began to tense. 

“...Do you not feed nightly?” he asked, suddenly serious once more. 

As he leaned towards her she offered her palms before her, tentatively, to stop him from reaching her as she fought an urge to step back.

“More like... hourly,” she confessed, scanning him continually for every hint of reaction.

He shook his head slightly, apparently not pleased by the news; “It doesn’t do to be greedy, -too much indulgence will only fuel your beast. It’d be best to start tempering it, and quickly,” he ‘suggested’, his tone clearly an order. 

She refrained from shivering. 

“Yes sir,” she replied flatly, sensing it was time to break off their conversation before things grew worse. 

Thankfully the tone segued the man without him noticing; clearly used to such holdings of power.

“If that’s all, you should probably get back before sunup,” he allotted; “We’ll talk more, in future I’m sure.” 

“Of course,” she replied, nodding towards him respectfully, already eager to be gone. 

“And don’t worry about our lily-livered turncoat,” he sussed, gesturing towards the staked body of Tara Kearney still lying on the floor; “I’ll be taking care of that.” 

“As you like,” she agreed, bulking herself up to leave; “Pleasant sleep then, sir.”

“Pleasant sleep,” he mimicked, seemingly taken with her choice of words. 

With that, she gave him one last nod and hastily made her exit, taking up a sewer walk once more.  

Chapter Text

With her fingers running through her bangs to smooth away imaginary tangles, she crossed the room to get the door as the last of the knocking sound rang through the apartment. 

She exuded a warm smile and opened the door, revealing the 'official’ Santa Monica Baron before her. 

“Good evening, Therese,” she greeted earnestly, drinking in the kindred’s beauty as she gracefully stepped aside, to allow the woman in. 

“Good evening,” the Baron returned in stride; “I hope you’ve been well these past few nights.”

She nodded once; things had been relatively quiet since she’d staked Tara, and she wasn’t sure if the relative peace had been better or worse to handle. 

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked, gently closing the door behind Therese.

“Sure,” the Baron agreed, with the sort of warmth she’d readily missed since moving out of the Asylum. 

“Make yourself at home,” she offered, gesturing to the furniture; “It’ll just be a moment.”

She made her way to the minifridge as Therese meandered to the fish tank; the kindred seemed vaguely surprised to see the large glass structure was filled with water, but devoid of scenery or life.  

“Is this a statement or a cry for help,” Therese baited, caught in the shimmering reflections.

“I was doing a water test,” she answered as she began running through the motions of warming bagged blood; “It’s held together ‘past couple nights so, it should be good.” 

Therese didn’t respond, but she hadn’t expected her to. 

“I’ll probably drain most of the water back out to do the ‘scapeing,” she rambled, filling the silence as the microwave heated the water bowl; “After I get that done, and the filtration going, I’ll set up the nitrogen cycle; run that awhile before getting any fish.” 

They passed a few moments in companionable quiet before the ding of the microwave led into gentle clinks and dribbling sloshes as she poured Therese’s glass.

She tried not to focus on the red liquid; finding herself unable to stop herself from gauging its color, its thickness, and scent. 

-She felt herself grateful that her undead stomach could no longer growl, and took the glass in hand.

She kept her gaze levied on the beautiful blonde waiting for her, restraining a keen as she briefly fixated along the curves of Therese’s pretty neck.

She offered the woman the glass with another welcoming smile. 

“I see,” the Baron replied, accepting the glass whilst returning her smile with a hint of her own, before tilting her head back at the aquatic enclosure; “Any specific kind in mind?”  

“Goldfish, actually,” she answered, grateful for the train of thought; at observing Therese’s hint of disbelief she felt herself perk up.

“Goldfish?” the woman repeated; “You’ve a grand basin with which to do what you wilt, and you decide on a breed of carnival trinkets that’ll need replacing every month?” 

“Common misconceptions, actually,” she retorted, her mirth spreading her smile wider; “Everyone in the hobby goes gaga over their ‘exotic’ koi coisins but, I’ve personally always liked the look of comet goldfish more; better faces, in my opinion. -And they’re hardy fish, which works against their favor. It’s not their fault dumb people stick them in overcrowded jars and expect them to live in their own filth without ever doing water changes or providing for them properly. Have you ever seen a proper goldfish? Years old and tailfins streaming behind them? They’re gorgeous . And trainable, for simple things. Get a gaggle of them and you can teach them to play soccer. And even without any training they’re terribly sweet; about as puppy-like as any oscar, or even puffers, for that matter. They’re a breed that deserves an apology.”

“Spent a lot of thought on this, have you?” the older woman mused.

She shrugged, enjoying the playful callout for what it was; “Plus they’re lucky,” she offered.

As Therese’s brow arched, she pursed her lips to keep her smile from widening any further and added; “Supposedly, anyway.”

Therese exhaled a note of placation; likely not caring either way. 

“Your adherence to your consistencies continues to surprise me,” Therese dismissed, taking a sip from her glass and focusing on her.

Welcome for the attention, Therese’s scrutiny hardly phased her; she watched as Therese sipped at the blood, prompting thoughts of having in past, kissed Jeanette’s bloodied lips, to pass quietly through the back of her mind. 

She wondered what Therese’s blood would taste like; she envisioned Therese in her sister’s place, transforming the memory into a fantasy, her fangs sinking into the baron’s flesh as Therese would moan- 

She refocused and tried not to fidget. 

“Are you sure you’re well? You seem… not quite your usual,” Therese noted, visibly taking stock of details about herself she could only guess to; “I suppose some of your prior apprehension for our outing makes sense, but it doesn’t explain the gauntness to your cheeks, nor that look in your eyes-”

“-Ah,” Therese guessed, interrupting herself with near sage-like tones; she lifted her chin slightly, peering at her through the bottoms of her glasses; “It’s kind of you to offer your guests the last of your stock,” she surmised, “I’ll give you a moment to pick someone from downstairs to tide you over, before we leave.” 

“No, but thank you; I’ll be fine,” she waved off, quickly attempting to stifle those trains of thought; she shifted on her feet, her throat vestigialy attempting to elicit up saliva that wouldn’t come; “I’m uh, testing something.”

At Therese’s immediate bracing of walled, defensive assertiveness, she lilted her tones to better soothe the Baron before the woman’s mind could flood with erroneous assumptions of deceit and foul play.

“-I’m just holding off for a bit, is all,” she explained, her fingers precariously close to the Malkavian’s wrist; “Isaac said I should learn what to look for, to become better prepared against my Beast, for when I end up encountering it.” 

“Issac?” Therese repeated, her voice hardly louder than a murmur; her tongue darted along her lips in attempt to wet them as she studied Therese’s posture; “He told you to goad the Beast?”

Before she could reply, the woman shifted her posture to a change for the investigative; “What did he tell you, exactly?” the Baron asked, adjusting her glasses as she tilted her head down, her expression cultivatedly plain. 

“It was after I… did a job for him,” she settled, feeling her expression yearn into a wavering mix of apprehension and hopefulness for approval; “I staked someone for him, -you can probably guess who- and afterwards we got to talking. I asked about some clan things; strange eyesight related stuff that I’ve noticed since my Embrace, and that led us to the Beast. -I’d never really felt it? At least, not in the way everyone was warning me about, so he suggested I take a temporary diet, and get a better control on my eating habits since apparently I feed too much and need to cut down.”

Her explanation only seemed to stress the kindred further; Therese’s arua shimmered in shifting, mottled colors that were difficult to discern before streaks of brilliant, deep reds tore through.

From the look on the woman’s face, she could only assume Therese’s anger ran deep. 

“-It makes sense in hindsight of course,” she added hastily; “I'd never stopped to think about how we wouldn't want vampires to drain everyone dry and not have anything left, and I’d assume that feeding less means less chances of getting discovered, which sounds like a good thing,” she reasoned, offering the logical thought she’d been using to ground herself during her abstinence.  

Therese let loose a shuddering, quaking breath of visible, deep-steeped rage; the last sips of blood splashed against the insides of the glass before she caught herself. 

She rooted herself to the floor, refusing to run and risk a worser wrath. 

Despite Therese’s clenched teeth, fangs visibly snarled, the kindred refrained from shouting.  

Slowly, the blonde seemed to calm; but the swirls of heated-red still swarmed through her arua. 

“How long have you gone without?” the Baron asked, tone flat and unyielding. 

She thought back, counting the nights since her talk with the Hollywood Baron; as she’d been documenting the experience in her journal, she was reluctantly, acutely aware of the hours she’d spent abstinent. 

“Three nights now,” she reflected; “I didn't fill up after my fight with Tara and it’s been… getting difficult to keep uninterrupted trains of thought.”

I also might have slipped a little, without thinking, she silently added, still not sure if she should reveal her extra ‘blood pouch’ or not. 

The Baron’s face constrained a snarl. 

“Here,” Therese replied swiftly, pressing the glass of cooling blood into her hands; she struggled a moment, to grip it properly as her focus was torn from the woman to the cup. 

“Drink it,” the kindred commanded.

There wasn’t any room in the Baron’s tone for non-compliance. 

Her teeth scratched at her bottom lip; she was hungry. 

Cautiously, she brought the cup to her lips; the thought of Therese’s lips having been where hers were only moments ago eliciting a strange sort of flattery at the base of her neck. 

A Toreador flushed / by a secondhand kiss, she reflected. 

Therese remained silent as she slugged down the last three sips in the glass; the taste of vitea only made her want for more that much harder to ignore, it took effort not to lick away the traces rung along the inside of the cup, and harder still not to whine like a fussed infant. 

She looked back to Therese, who wasn’t breathing heavily, but perhaps would have been, if she were capable of breathing. 

“How often did you feed?” the older kindred asked, open and plain. 

“Every night, twice usually,” she answered quietly, memories of struggling to keep her body fed as she burned the blood through her missions during those horrible weeks uncannily clear in her head; “It was worse the first few nights; needed blood every few hours, -sometimes on the hour, it felt like, what with how ragged I was ran with all the politicking; but I thought I was doing okay managing it, until I asked Isaac.”

“-That, that ignoramus-clotpole ,” Therese spat, the heat of the exclamation startling her, she took a step back as she recognized the kindred’s ire was only just beginning to spill over.

“Of all the backsprung inane mistidings to give to a childe, -what was he thinking? I swear that sarding coxcomb is about as useful as a screendoor on a submersible and he hasn’t the decency to be fair-faced enough for it,” Therese spat, her growling undertones strung with a half-strangled shake in her shoulders; the Baron swayed as if she’d break into a furious pace around the room. 

“-That ultracrepidarian can’t even parent his own childer successfully, let alone someone like you,” Therese continued, her gaze returning to her, though not quite seeing her yet, “No, this is my fault; clearly, I was a fool to have expected anything better; that man can hardly parse anything that’s not telegraphed on his silver screens- ”

She stayed frozen, as the older woman worked through her rant and half-marveled at the kindred's turns-of-phrases.

Another terse exhale graveled its way through the Malkavian’s throat; she kept her posture steady, to keep from dropping the glass.

As the Baron took focus on her again, she seemed to soften; Therese was still very much upset, but not at her . 

If anything, the older woman seemed relieved to see her still standing before her; she could almost see the anger begin to slip off the woman’s frame and de-escalate.  

Therese’s next words were measuredly slow, her tone particularly calm and logical; convincing her of their importance, “...While it’s true that older kindred don’t tend to feed frequently, we also don’t tend to be as… active , as our youngers. Fledglings are ravenous by nature, they need blood to properly facilitate their transitions into undeath; that’s why a sire’s guidance is so crucial beyond their societal upbringing. A guardian must provide for their childe’s appetite; and even neonates drink more than ancillie. -And you,” Therese furthered, breaking the distance between them to place ungloved hands against either of her sleeved-shoulders; “You need to feed more often because you are calling on the blood to do things, more often. Isaac, like most in the city I’m sure, may not be aware of the amount of nocturnal undertakings you’re tasked to take, so it falls on you to mind yourself properly .”

The sincerity in Therese’s tones, coupled with misty-concerned ice-blue eyes parsed behind the pair of clean cut spectacles, tugged at her unbeating heart; the swirls around Therese’s face haloed into a hardly-visible glow of pink.

Therese’s face dipped closer; close enough to press their brows together, if either of them were to jostle but fractions of an inch.

Their proximity sent a flutter under her skin; her body struggled to maintain its established facsimile of breath; if her heart had ability to beat, it would have been frantic.

She was powerless; not compelled nor coerced and yet she felt completely unable to look anywhere but into Therese’s beautiful, imploringly pale blue eyes and she yearned . Yearned to bridge the gap, to beg for closeness between them, to fall backwards into the past and into the Baron’s bed where they were able to bond under the guise of the darkness suspending them. 

Therese’s hands pressed slivers of deeper pressures, gripping her just a little tighter. 

The glim light fell perfectly , glosskissed against the older kindred’s face; she wondered if there’d’ve been any trace of blood upon the blonde’s blackpainted lips. 

She struggled to keep her mouth to herself, as her body began to Blush from Jeanette’s well-worn bell-ringing. 

“I want you to promise me,” Therese murmured, bringing a perfect, porcelain-pleased hand to her cheek; she drove her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from making a sound.     

“Promise me,” Therese whispered, her tone too soft to be anything but sweet, “That if you’re hungry, you will eat.” 

A tumultuous mix of flustered emotions and withheld urges, her first sound was a syllable half-squeaked before her Toreador blood clamped down on her fractured tone to even out the splintering; “I promise,” she managed, the grip of her hands threatening to shatter the cup. 

The kindred smiled, softly. -Sadly, a little; but the relief on Therese’s face was easily visible, and she felt happy to please her.

“Good; the last thing I want for you is to end up a Toreador with an eating disorder,” the Baron toned, emotions steadying out.

A little whirlwinded, she allowed Therese to step back and steer the moment into more familiar waters.

“I’ll phone roomservice,” the kindred decreed; “And we’ll have this nonsense sorted.”

She watched the slight bobble of Therese’s hair as the Baron was at the landline in nearly an instant; a few seconds of ringing and a curt order later, and the missive was neatly dispatched. 

Realizing she still possessed capability of movement, she turned to set the glass aside, figuring it’d be best to leave off any further chances of breaking it.     

She wanted to talk further, but every point she’d wanted to discuss with the woman seemed clouded by the affirmation of an impending relief to her hunger.

It wasn’t long before a knock sounded on her door, for the Baron to open and usher in a plump, pleasant-faced but work-weary woman clad in a uniform, who greeted them both with an understanding smile. 

She looked from the woman to Therese, who gestured to the person with an expectant ‘hurry up’ look, that she figured was non-negotiable. 

Therese’s past words about food came to her, as she cautiously approached the human woman; her mouth felt like it was beginning to water. 

She didn’t recall the final step closer, or how she closed the distance to the woman’s neck; all she was capable of experiencing was the gratifying, exuberance of Blood joyously cascading down her throat with a kind of unhinged, human relief that she’d only ever associated with imaginable lost men in desserts dying of thirst finally stumbling onto rushing waters with fillable canteens.

-Perhaps she had been experiencing her Beast, and just hadn’t been calling it as such.

It was the last and only rational thought she bothered having as the soul-soothing sustenance seeped into her core.

“Careful,” Therese warned, as she continued to drink. 

With the practice she’d had at the clubs had come an understanding of bodily limits; she allowed herself to indulge only a second, to quell the built up tension, and released.

It was like she was a complete person again, came an immediate thought. 

The realization she’d knocked the girl out, came her second as she reflexively caught the kine as it fell. 

“Excellent,” Therese praised, turning her attention; the Santa Monica Baron smiled lightly; “Feel better?”

Quite indeed; she felt her body gleam vibrant, from satisfaction inherent of a full belly. -She knew her chalice was yet half empty, but it was a secondary anxiety that now felt quell-able.

She nodded for Therese, still marveling a little at the returned clarity of thought she had missed. 

“Take that as your… ‘dietary lesson’ then,” the blonde dismissed before gesturing to the lady; “Leave her here; I’ll have someone take her to the staff rooms, she’ll be fine.” 

“Thank you,” she answered, relieved for the human’s sake. 

“Now then,” Therese segued, “If that was the last of Abrams’ bright ideas, let us get that little errand of yours over with, shall we?”

“Yes please,” she answered keenly, shifting the woman in her arms so they would land more comfortably into the armchair. 

“I have a car waiting out front,” Therese continued, “You should be familiar with the driver.” 

Curious, she trailed behind the Baron as they began their short trek through the premises; passing by the elevator doors to take the comparably longer route down the stairs.

-As there was something inherently pleasing, in walking down the grandiose, spiraling stairwell down to the main floor, she didn’t mind. 

Therese’s strides seemed more inspired, longer and crisper, then was her habit; she noted the way the hotel seemed to make a little more way for the Malkavian than usual.

They passed by several vaguely startled patrons; guests she didn’t recognize that had most likely come in to replace the patrons from the party, it was a bit novel, realizing the ever-shifting variety of faces was going to be a regular thing. 

She felt rather chipper, in musing about it all.

Therese led her outside, where a sleek back car was pulled up just past the front; it seemed a little too elongated to be a regular car, but also not stretched enough to be a limo. 

She shrugged it off and crawled in after Therese popped the door and ushered her in.

As she settled herself she kept track of the Baron, who wrapped around to the other side and entered there, soon settling across from her with little fanfare. 

“Everything ready, Ms?” asked the driver, the familiar tone and accent breaking her attention away from her fellow kindred. 

“Mercurio?” she asked a little incredulously; oh my god, she thought unabashedly, I’d nearly forgotten about you.   

The man huffed a curt laugh, a tentative sound that muffled his apparent relief and hopeful enthusiasm. 

“Sweet gig you got me,” he appeased, his words likely a little guarded, what with Therese sitting within striking reach as she was; “Good ta’ see you again, Kid.”

She looked to Therese out of habit, finding a self-satisfied look on the woman’s face that sent a funny sort of flutter through her undead heart.  

“He’ll be of best use to you as a driver,” the Baron explained; “Something you’ve mentioned being in need of, did you not? No more need for... throngs of motorcycle jockies this way.”

"Ah, you heard about that," she quipped, letting a little nervousness into her tone as a show of supplication.

The brow-quirked look Therese shot her was more than clear answer enough.

She laughed a dismissive breath, a made a note to ask if the official Baron had ever ridden a bike, sometime.

Her next words however, she felt were more important to the matters at hand.

“Will I um, be handling the… ‘bond’, part of the equation?” she fumbled, searching for the most comfortable words of phrasing. 

“I’m full up this month,” the man replied as he started the car rolling; “Bit of an adjustment but you know, nothin’ bad or nothin’,” he added quickly. 

-Clearly, the ghoul was terrified of upsetting Therese. 

She looked back to the older woman that had become so endeared to her over her short term of undeath, finding the reflections of city lights dazzling in the glass lenses doing little to conceal her pale, glinting eyes.   

“It would be good for you to get over your… unfortunate history with ghouling,” Therese opted, her words clearly meant to be non accusatory; “Consider him as… an employee ,” she suggested; “If I have further need of him, I’ll let you know.”

She nodded once, her teeth worrying her lip as she thought it over.

“Don’t worry Miss,” the old ghoul replied, his tone a bit more cheery; “I’ll be a right gentleman.” 

“See that you are,” Therese warned, eyeing the man.

He gulped, but kept his focus squarely on the road.

Therese looked back to her, seeming quite regal in her posture of contentment. 

Beautiful. 

“So where are you ladies headed first,” Mercurio tentatively asked, stealing a glance to either of them from the rearview mirror above his head; his image utterly different from anything like the Taxi driver's. 

Therese looked to her, also expecting an answer. 

“...I just figured we’d find a mall or something?” she guessed; “Unless you’re cool with hitting up thrift stores.” 

An appalled look washing over the Malkavian’s face quickly reaffirmed her suspicion that the blonde would indeed, not, be alright with wandering such establishments. 

Probably the idea of germs , she guessed. 

“To the mall, then,” Therese sighed. 

Mercurio nodded slightly to himself and shifted lanes, shifting course.      

Chapter Text

The mall was still rather crowded; early as the sun was still setting in the season, humans were milled about the place, though at least the foot-traffic looked to be passing fluidly. People shuffled along in small units, their clothing messes of colors of haphazard styles; teenagers roved in trios and pairs and parents shepherded small children and carts, -none of them particularly in any hurries to get anywhere at all. 

She took a moment to take in the architecture: the glass dome in the roof, the flare with which the outlets donned on their storefaces, and the broad flat tiles in the floor.

She thought about how it would be to sneak around the place, after hours, -dodging cameras and security guards while crawling along shadows and timing her movements.

The bright lights currently about the place made such thoughts seem… almost too surreal to be feasible. 

Like it was some, completely other person, who had stalked around museums and trainyards and drunk blood and killed things. -Like those dreamlike memories, her memories, were laughably irrelevant. 

Like…

It was like the nightmare was over, and she was finding herself awake again, completely normal.

She was just a girl, in a mall, going shopping. 

She stood perfectly still, the blurry shapes in her peripheral vision of the kindred beside her holding her hostage to the truth.

Idly, she peripherally noted Therese moving; the blonde adjusted her glasses with a gloved hand. 

“Guess we grab a cart,” she broached, swallowing the bittersweet moment for what it was. 

She spotted a few such straggled ferriers aloof and empty, and unattended, along a branching hall. 

She trotted over and picked one that still rolled relatively well and gave it a proper ‘Flintstones’ styled push, riding the footbar in a controlled, but enjoyable short burst back to Therese, where she slowed the cart into a heel-skidded stop.

Therese eyed the cart, likely judging it on its measure of cleanliness and lacks thereof, and fell into sync beside her as she started the cart rolling again.

“Are you interested in any place in particular?” the Baron asked, scanning ahead; she noted that she too, had been keeping tabs of the people around them, observing for any threats or irregularities, but hadn’t thought anything of it until she’d focused on it.

-She’d been in the habit of hypervigilance as long as she was able to remember, while living. 

The train of thought felt a little jarring, so she dismissed it. 

“I’ll probably check in a few places but I’ll keep them brief,” she answered cleanly as she attempted to compose a short list of necessities. 

‘Necessities’ , she scorned, feeling a little short with herself; Gary would have a cow with that kind of thinking. 

As they delved into the belly of the mall, she noted the conversational tendencies of the passing groups around them and wondered up a few strings of curiosities to better blend in. 

“Have you been here before?” she asked as she skimmed a few ineffectual storefronts before glancing at Therese’s face and back again; “Or are these types of places too busy for you?”

“This wouldn’t be my first choice of recreation, if that’s what you’re asking,” the older kindred answered; “Though I suppose it’s not the worst, either.” 

She smiled, thinking back to the woman’s abject refusal for thrifting, before her mind wandered down ideas inspired by the various outlets crowded around them. 

“Is there anywhere you’d like to swing by, while we’re here?” she offered, her curiosity genuine; “There should be a bookstore or two, I’m sure.”

The gentle, ebbing blues blinking and coalescing around the blonde like tiny stars brought a soft smile to her lips.

“I suppose that could be alright,” the Malkavian replied as the faint shimmering around her body warmed, nearly reaching a peach color, like candlelight over bathwater; “I’ve no desire for any personal browsing as of yet, but I appreciate the thought. -I’m a little more concerned with making sure you… fulfill whatever this is, that you’re undertaking right now.” 

“Right,” she keyed in, anxious; reflexively stiffening her grip on the cart’s handlebar.

“While I'm sure not every… - theatre major ,” the woman carefully phrased, “-focuses exclusively on costuming, I understand it’s still a prominent part of the culture. So tell me, do you know what kind of character you’ll be playing?”

As Therese’s question seeped inside, equal parts dread and resolution ebbed along her veins; she felt as though she was still as lost as the first night she’d been undead while another, more concrete feeling, nagged at the back of her chest as if to say she knew exactly who she was meant to be, and that she was simply too unsure of herself to give into that self completely. 

She eased the cart into a halt, in front of a general clothing store. 

“I think I’m going to try a few on and see what feels best,” she answered before taking a moment to extend Therese’s metaphor; “I do know that I want to have something nicer to wear for formal occasions and that I’ll need something to blend in with the punks if I don’t want to get beaten up by jocks everyday. The things that I’d like to wear for myself will probably end up in the middle? -I’m not really sure, actually. I grew up with handmedowns, so this is a little overwhelming for me.” 

The faint glimmer around Therese peaked with flecks of pink; the blues seemed to dissipate under the halogen lighting, bleaching the shimmering glow a translucent silver. 

“If you break the concept down into discernable parts, it should be an easier task than… memorizing your lines for your plays,” Therese soothed, her pale blue eyes catching a gentle refraction off her lenses. 

Her teeth grazed along her bottom lip as she fought through her conflicting impulses.

Unable to bite back her insecurities, she gave into curiosity. 

“...I know times were different of course, back then, but was it difficult for you too? When you were... my age?”

Therese adjusted her glasses to keep them properly in place, as she bowed her head moment.

A strange, orange glint flared in the ring around Therese, before the silver light greyed away again; she wasn’t sure exactly, what the shifting colors meant but she’d studied Therese’s body language enough to see that she was reflecting on something somber, -she couldn’t tell how painful the memories were, fleeting as the moment was, but it left her feeling a little more reassured. 

“I admit it was a little easier for me, in a select few regards,” Therese parted, the moment gone; “I had my… father, to help with my transition.”

Her eyes widened at the notion; “Father?”

“What, did you think I sprang up from the cracks in the ground?” the blonde mused, the ghost of her smirk returning; “I’m not that old, you know. Now come, let’s stop blocking the doorway.”

Therese nudged the cart with a gloved hand, ushering them inside the general outlet store as her mind swam with ideas about whatever Therese could have been like, as some new-to-the-night childe. 

“I didn’t stay with him long, mind you,” Therese added absetly, placing the gloved hand against the small of her back, shepherding her to the side of the aisle; “I’d spent so long looking after my sister that it felt easier for me to take care of myself then to let him try.” 

The hand at her back fell away; though there had been no warmth from the woman’s undead body, she reflected that the tactile pressure from the touch had been pleasant. 

She wondered a moment, about what sort of person could have sired Therese; it was marvelling enough to reaffirm the concept of sires at all . 

The assortments of generic, factory made garments displayed around them quietly reminded her of her needs, dissipating the thought clouds somewhat; she pushed the cart on, past hangers of hoodies and racks of pre-cut jeans to the rows of undergarments nestled more discreetly in the middle of the store.           

Hoping to keep potential awkwardness at bay, she egged out another question for her chaperone. 

“Where you raised here?” she asked, as she stopped in front of the wall piece devoted to socks.

“I moved here from Wisconsin, actually,” Therese replied, a slip of fondness in her voice; weather for LA, or for her old home-state, she couldn’t reasonably discern.  

“Oh?” she pressed, curiosity peaked; “What made you choose this city?” 

She fingered a few of the socks to assuage the quality of material, before electing to sift out packs of quantity over quality; she figured she’d have time to invest in a more durable wardrobe as time wore on.

“California was as far as I could get without walking into the sea,” the blonde quipped; the note of sweetened bitterness painted a quieter, fuller picture than the joke otherwise regaled.

‘Seems like all the dreamers, the misfits, the pioneers all drift west; after LA though it’s all Pacific. Maybe we all just collect here when there’s nowhere else to go-’ 

Nines’ words rang crisply through her mind; her body felt like it tried to shiver, but couldn’t quite align the movement right. 

“Not that this isn’t riveting, but have you decided on anything?” Therese asked, breaking from her reverie; she looked at the pack in her hands and shrugged. 

“I’ll get these ones, I guess,” she replied, stuffing the plains ones back in lieu of a similar pack that had a few patterned pairs included. 

“Marvellous,” Therese remarked dryly; she plopped the socks into the cart and pushed it a bit further. 

She tried to keep any trace of embarrassment out of her face when at the rows of underwear.  

“How’d you end up… the head of your business, anyway? Is it an elected position or did you just… invent the company,” she rambled as she eyed the various styles and patterns. 

“I took over the position from the previous proprietor,” the blonde answered; she didn’t turn to look back at the women, electing instead to make the moment as painless as possible. 

“You needn’t be embarrassed,” riddled Therese’s voice behind her; “I’m certainly not going to steer you away from being one of the few women nowadays who actually take propriety into consideration.” 

At the tones of amusement in the woman’s voice, she felt some of the tension ease out of her shoulders; she supposed she shouldn’t have been so worried; the woman had lived with Jeanette long enough that she likely wouldn’t be phased by such trivialities.  

She eyed two possibilities, noting the few differing patterns in each pack before stopping herself.

“Might as well go big or go home,” she quipped, stuffing each of them back to grab the arguably more ostentatious package with some of the better marketed franchise characters into the cart.

“Is that all you’re investing in?” Therese asked; she turned to see the blonde watching her rather contently. 

“From here yes,” she answered, shrugging a shoulder; “-I can’t very well walk into the Last Round dressed only in my socks and underwear; no matter how many times Jeanette makes us play strip poker.”

Therese snorted, her brows and lips furrowed in relented amusement. 

“My condolences to the soon-to-be broken hearted rabble,” Therese crisped goodnaturedly, as they turned around and joined the line for the register; “I congratulate you on rising above appled-intstigations.”  

“Are you insinuating that I’m beautiful enough to start a Trojan war?” she teased in turn, handling the transaction. 

“...Perhaps I merely referenced your Eris-ian vanity,” Therese huffed, stuffing the bagged goods back into the cart.

“Well then, I guess you’ve my permission to sheer my locks should any shenanigans get too inspired; though I’d rather not be tossed to the Philistines just the same,” she joked as they passed back into the open floor. 

“-Don’t tempt me,” the blonde mirthed; she chuckled, steering them further along the mall until they reached a rather boutiqued storefront that left little to the public’s imagination.  

At Therese’s questioning look, she explained that she might as well get sized properly if she was going to get anything for her chest. 

The older kindred seemed more ill-at ease in the lingerie shop then she had in the general store, but said nothing as she left Therese the cart and flagged one of the workers to slip her in for a measurement. 

As a young brunette ushered her into a fitting room and whisked the tape from around her shoulders, her mind wandered, -composing a scene wherein Therese was the one inside the small dim room, measuring her with compulsive accuracy and overly-lingered tracing fingertips- instead of the respectful young lady working alongside her with professional distancing.

The matter was over before she could think much else, and with her numbers in hand she left the tiny fitting room and skimmed the baskets and racks. 

After finding the section that would fit, she grabbed a few black and beige solids in her size whilst actively trying not to eye any of the generic lingerie overflowing about the store, and then offered Therese a smile as the Baron pulled up with the cart. 

Therese’s leathered gloved hands looked almost whimsical, paired with the ‘stature’ of the shopping cart.  

“Are you certain you don’t want to… accessorize?” Therese asked measuredly, as her gloved fingers ran down the perimeter of a black box stuffed with colorful patterned clashes of fabric and padding. 

She glanced around the outlet reflexively before returning to Therese’s gaze and tried not to show her surprise; “I suppose I could look,” she conceded.

She swallowed her nerves and allowed herself to browse a bit more thoroughly, though nothing in particular jumped out from the dozens of boxes and displays that only boasted overpriced lackluster creations. 

After a bit she grabbed something with a bit of a lace overlay to be a good sport, stuffed it in the cart and headed for the register; she assumed she felt every bit as relieved as Therese looked to be, when they finally left the outlet and back into the walkways.         

“Finding your standards a bit higher than you expected?” the older kindred quipped, adjusting her glasses. 

She huffed a feigned breath, reluctantly agreeing. 

Therese smirked knowingly; she fought off a reflexive scowl that only made Therese’s amusement grow. 

With the tension leaked from their respective shoulders, they slowed their pace to a comfortable walk and she took a moment to assess her remaining Confession funds before steering them in the direction of the closest ‘punk rock’ kind of outlet she could spot.

She all but raced the cart inside; her enthusiasm bolstered as she started trifling through mallgoth apparel, earning a few greetings from the well mannered cashiers trying their best to be hospitable. 

The arrays of band t’s, pop-culture brands, and alt-styled accessories offered many tantalizing choices; it felt good. 

She finally had the money to give her inner teen her due. 

“I suppose everyone these days has their dark period,” Therese mulled, observing her from a few steps away. 

She kept back an immediate response, wary of all the humans within earshot before replying; “I have to have things I can look nice in, things that I can wear at home, and things that I won’t get beat up for ‘after school ’.” 

Therese’s gaze glossed over a bit behind her glasses; feeling playful, she tugged out an oversized, somber colored tie dye hoodie and held it out in front of her. 

“Is this me?”

“...Isn’t that what we’re here for you to decide?” the blonde shot back, barblessly. 

Therese’s casual smile sent a small wave of reaffirmed validation through her nerves; she shoved the garment back onto the bar before pulling out a ✨large black jacket✨ and flipped it to find the back patterned with purple roses donning an outlined coffin. 

Feeling drawn to it, she tugged the hanger free and shrugged it on for size, finding it plenty more than roomy.     

She turned, letting Therese see the back, before spinning back around to gauge the older kindred’s reaction. 

Therese nodded; happily, she tossed it in the cart. 

She worked their way through the store, slipping by neon-haired and facially pierced teens with little fuss; perhaps sensing her ‘kid unleashed in a candy-shop energy’, a few of the other patrons shot her smiles of encouragement and approval as she toyed with what articles fit her best, though they kept their distance the closer she kept to Therese. 

-Therese seemed at ease, though it was easy to tell the bespectacled-blonde was mainly concerned with not brushing up against anything, or anyone else, in the store. 

After selecting a few things for the cart for herself, Therese started scanning through the stock, apparently using her selections as a baseline. The blonde cast snide remarks on ‘unsuitable’ garments and offered a few attempts for look-see, pointing out or nodding towards things in turn, for her to try out. 

Getting into the moment, the rest of the world seemed to slip away as she browsed with Therese.

-Some of the things she found she pulled out purely to see the looks of grimaced acquiescence or utter horror across Therese’s face, giggling her true intentions clean. 

“Do I even want to know what these trends are for?” the baron asked, sighing over a display of classic, American-adult male targeting cartoons.

“I sure wish I didn’t,” she joked, passing the spread by to dump a dozen pairs of assorted stockings and tights into the cart; “I can introduce you to way better shows than those ones.”

Therese hummed and they wandered farther down the aisles.     

Slowly, she amassed her selections.

A few gothic victorian inspired shirts, one pair of buckle-and-strap based pants, two dresses (one black and patterned; one black and collared), a plaid skirt that would be a proper length on her frame, and one pair of adorable glossy black mary-jane heels later, and her list for casual ‘things wearable around Brujah’ was nearly checked clean. 

“I’ll probably come back for some of these,” she vowed, looking over several ✨pairs of boots✨ she very much wanted to walk home in. 

“Put them in,” Therese replied evenly, appraising the assortment for herself.

A little confused she turned, her apprehensive embarrassment twiddling along the tip of her tongue; “I would, but then I’d have to put bac-”

Therese’s gaze tilted from the wall rack to her, cutting her short; the grunge-lights sheening across her glasses gave the blonde a somewhat fanciful air to her stern countenance. 

Wordlessly, she grabbed the ✨Wonderland themed boots✨ and dropped them in the cart before returning eye contact; her teeth in her lip, she gauged the blonde’s continued expectant gaze, and grabbed the other pair of ✨combat boots✨ she’d also poured over, adding them to the cart as well, before stopping tentatively. 

Therese’s postured sagged a bit and her own body tensed reflexively. 

“While you shouldn’t expect this as routine,” the older kindred murmured sternly, walking closer; she watched as the tall blonde fished a professional looking wallet from her jacket pocket and handed her glossed, pristine looking card from within.

She looked up to Therese’s face as the woman’s black painted lips fell into a warm smirk, “-Consider this an expected business expense.” 

Instantly relieved, she nodded as her senses easily picking up a few rambling murmurs from the others in the store who’d picked up on the exchange and found themselves envious of her good fortune.

“Thank you,” she mewed gratefully, the card small but statured in her hands; “-You’re really cool, for a new mom.” 

The Baron did a remarkable job of not letting her face crack, but the surprise was easy enough for her to tell before Therese’s sense of humor took over and washed it away.  

“I’d better be,” Therese quipped, adjusting her glasses; "Mind you I reserve the right to exchange you, at any time. -Now, go look over the jewelry racks back there before I change my mind. I'll not allow your classmates to rile you over lack of a complete ensemble."

The flowering cloud around Therese's elegant, beautiful, smiling face looked as bright as the feeling of joy bubbling inside her chest; she caught herself before she leaned in to kiss her.

She gave the wonderful kindred a sheepish smile and hastily made her way to the designated section of accessories, Therese with the cart trailing behind. 

Chapter Text

“My turn,” Therese stated, with somewhat of a hint of relief in her tone as they left the last checkout; she felt her gloves cinch around her knuckles as she pushed the childe’s cart along. 

“Lead the way,” the young rose agreed, stepping up to keep in place beside her; Therese once again found herself thankful for the youth’s spritely conformance. 

It made things… so much simpler . 

-And there were plenty of nights that she would kill for ‘simpler’. 

Their ‘little outing’ had been hard-pressed between bookings; between gunning the opening of her hotel, mopping up the mess of the mass exodus’ing Camarilla, and scrubbing the city clean of future potential of Sabbot infestations, she’d still had to find time for her usual duties of trading favors with the local licks, as well as make time to cultivate her newly reforged alliance with her sister, who surprisingly enough had been nothing but eager to scheme alongside her for a change; watering her orchid-eyed rose on top of everything else had eaten up what little time she’d had left over. 

Therese counted herself lucky she’d had decades of practise in juggling raked-irons across the ever shifting coals of the chessboard of the city she now so delightedly shared with her dear, sweetly changed-hearted sister. 

With but a few leisured strides, she and the childe reached the main entrance just as the other stragglers in the closing facility began making their own departures; as relieved as Therese was to be out of such a condensed house of congregating kine, she noted her charge was not displaying a similar countenance. 

She didn’t need her Auspex to see that their exit from the warm, brightly lit mall to their emergence into the dark, cold parking lot had jolted a sense of world-crashing reality back upon her previously elated companion. 

ₗₒₒₖ ₐₜ ᵢₜ, bₑₙₜ ₗᵢₖₑ ₐ cₐₗf fₒᵣ ₜₕₑ bᵤₜcₕₑᵣ. Wₕy ᵢₛ ᵢₜ ₜᵣₒᵤbₗₑd?

She frowned, the line of her mouth feeling a little tight; though it had never been a common occurrence for her , she knew from past experience what it was like to… forget, for a moment, the way things were.

The what , that they were.

ᵣₒₜₜₑd! ᵣₒₜₜᵢₙg! ₜₐₜₜₑᵣₛ! ₘₒₜₕₑᵣ ₚₗₐyₛ ᵤₛ ₐ cₒᵣₚₛₑ₋ₛₜᵣᵤₙg cₒₙcₑᵣₜₒ!

She pushed back at the frothing subsidiaries clattering at the back of her head and felt a fluttering of Jeanette’s unwoken curiosity in its wake.

Therese gently quieted her, not wanting to prematurely rouse her sister from her slumber with her arbitrary headaches. 

Jeanette restfully took to the comfort as she had in their youngest years, reminding Therese of a simpler time wherein it was not uncommon for her to welcome her dear sister into her bed on nights when Jeanette was too lonely to sleep. 

...It had always been her duty to look out for her sister. 

To keep watch. 

To be ‘good’.  

Therese recalled how Jeanette’s warmth had felt comforting in the darkness that Therese had simply never been able to relax into, of how different it had been; to feel a weight pressed against her that hadn’t-

ₐwₐy! ₐwₐy ₛₑₐ ₘₐᵢdₑₙ! Dₑfₜ ₛₜₐᵢₙₛ ₐcᵣₒₛₛ ₜₕₑ bₒₐᵣdₛ! Cₐᵣᵣᵢₒₙ ᵢₛ ₜₕₑ Fₐₜₕₑᵣ’ₛ ₛᵢₙ! ₛᵢᵣ ᵣₐbbᵢₜ, ₙₒₜ ₜₕₑ ₚₒₜ fₒᵣ yₒᵤ!

She blinked, suddenly relieved for the nagging distractions. 

-The fact that she’d had to be pulled out of her thoughts did not sit well with her however. 

Therese noted that it had been a recurring issue for some nights now; it was another matter for the backburner she’d need to find time for.

Thankfully, from the glance she stole of the fledgling beside her, the young kindred had not seemed to notice her lapse in focus; likely too detached or too distracted by their own thoughts to study hers.

It was a cold comfort. 

With no memory of crossing the later portion of the parkinglot, they reached the unassuming black car that was to spirit them away. 

The ‘pedigreed’ kine was quick to relieve the cart from her burdens, which Therese noted with indifference; he dutifully put away the bags in the trunk with a finesse and practice of ghoul once befitting a Prince.

-She was almost half-sorry she’d not elected to keep him.

But she had plenty of attendants already, and the little pig had none.

The thought felt a little too unbound for her liking; but it was her own, at least. 

While she was starting to feel… strained, with the amount of emotionally charged conversation she’d shared with the fledgling already, she also felt that as the ‘official’ Baron of Santa Monica, it would be prudent of her to keep the threat of collateral damage as mitigated as possible.

So she settled herself in the backseat across from the somber fledgling and braced herself for further conversation. 

She watched as the young woman settled herself in silence; the girl’s skittish nature was likely something both she and her sister had keyed in on, as easily apparent as all of the girl’s markers were. The childe really didn’t seem keen on car rides, which Therese found mildly surprising; she supposed the ex bastard-king could’ve put the fledgling through any number of unseeable horrors behind closed spaces. 

The young kindred then stared back at her; her red hair puffed bird-breastedly, her lilac eyes wide and pensive, forcefully puffing coffin-air past unpainted, near-parted lips.   

Time hazed, and for but a blink of Therese’s eyes, her mind’s recollect superimposed the memory of the childe as she had been her first night at the Asylum: the belated-Prince’s rouge fledgling scrubbed clean, quaking at her feet, shamelessly begging her for direction, poised delicate and attendant on her sister’s chair, clad in their clothes still damp from a wash, wafting scents of her soaps, and all the while trembling puppy-eyed in equal parts anxiety, gratitude, and fear. 

Had the kindred been older, more experienced, Therese would have attributed the young woman’s vulnerability as she did with Jeanette’s distressed schoolgirl ruse: as a cultivation of ploy; a trap. 

A lure .  

She would have been disgusted to see - her clothes- donned across some whorish, lying Delilah of a girl ‘ingenue-ing’ some stupid attempt at weakening her inhibitions, and yet. 

Yet . 

Tainted as she’d no doubt been by her sister’s… carnal improprieties , the childe hadn’t struck her anything but genuine.

And even more vexing, the girl had landed her not only a ludicrous influx of wealth with the Hotel, but she’d actually taken her hazing with all the grace and dignity her clan voluminously boasted about having, without any of the egotism or double-crossing.

That the girl had held so long without telling a soul of sins between herself and her sister... 

Therese felt her mouth draw tighter. 

She kept herself from scowling outright as LaCroix’s ‘widowed’ ghoul finally maneuvered them out of the mall’s expansively trafficked parking lot; the blinking lights of the intersection glared blurs along the lenses of her vestigial eyeware and made her lip furl. 

As they joined onto the main road, Therese recalled wondering that night as she’d appraised the girl, whether or not the air of coquettish vulnerability in the young woman’s general semblance was at least in part, incidental, and thusly elected to ignore her better judgments to give the orphaned youth the benefit of her doubt, the favor of her charity, and the boon of her guidance; all on the simple logic that it was not by the girl’s inherent fault she’d been so ill-fatedly Embraced under the branching boughs of the one clan that exuded promiscuous, iniquitous sexuality as its curse. 

She’d even gone so far that night as to have dismissively wondered what fresh-faced kindred wouldn’t have looked so angelically-libidinous whilst suckling down pouches of human vitae as if for the very first time, especially after enduring such a harrowing ordeal as the girl had seemingly withstood.

She thought back to those reoccurred pre-dawning minutes, wherein Jeanette had so lackadaisically invited the youth to their bed and draped her across their chests like some unassuming housecat; the memory of the girl’s measly weight, the softness of her unliving skin, and the scent of herself and sister encurled about the fledgling as a marker more prominent than any encrusted collar...  

Therese fought the tug straining the corners of her mouth.

Even in her younger years, she’d never been fond of double-guessing herself; she got more than enough of it from every other kindred and pompenstance business-minded human she ran across. 

She leaned back, bracing herself slightly as the car took a sharp corner; reflecting on the fact the girl was at least a nicer prospect to focus on than some of the more dreary, vulgar, and otherwise loathsome tasks she was usually in charge of managing. 

Whether because of such faint fondness of the girl or in spite of it, Therese felt more than justified in her feelings of resentment over the fact that the fresh-faced kindred had been on her mind far too much for her liking since taking her in, but she supposed it couldn’t be helped. 

-It wasn’t her fault that the girl was singlehandedly changing the entire scape of the city.

LaCroix, Ming Xiao, the Archbishop; and now Tara, if her hunches were correct.  

Therese’s eyes drifted from back from the traffic lights to the fledgling that she’d claimed as her ward and restrained a self-satisfied laugh over her success in ripping the budding flower out from under LaCroix’s hubris-laden Achilles heels. 

-That the girl seemed no wiser for it all, made matters twice as sweet. 

Unable to hide her amusement completely, she felt herself smirk as she returned to studying the young rose who was still sat in silence. 

Therese observed that the Toreador’s attention was faltered, as it often seemed want to do.

Oh, to be that empty minded, Therese wistfully lamented; truly, there would have been little she wouldn’t do for the Toreadorian ability to just abandon rational and congruent thought anytime the world wasn’t to her liking -free to the concern of consequence, as even her dear her sister so merrily often pretended to be. 

Reflexively, she consoled herself with the reminder that while imagination was an enviable thing, that it was also far more sinister than it appeared. 

As if to reaffirm such for her, Therese’s mind rolled the puzzle back the other way, forcing her to mull over the thoughts she’d been ruminating over since meeting the young rose.   

While it had been a rash snap-decision to take the girl underwing, it was one she still stood firmly by; the potential for future tactical applications of the arrangement were enough to make all of it worth it. 

...Such power, such promise . 

The Toreador was too powerful to be left to some other powerhungry kindred’s devices; it was a simple fact that the turbulent mix of raw power, untapped potential, ravishable innocence, and willant lust all spiraling within the girlish fledgling was an attractant that would sooner-than-later encircle far worse predators than herself or her dear sister, and Therese would’ve been a fool not to seize control over the promising fledgling while she was still so easily moldable. 

The girl’s willingness to turn favors for anyone showing her a modicum of general decency coupled with the legends of her abjectly impressive exploits had no doubt already spread through the rumor mill like the wildfire the girl had supposedly also survived. 

Reluctantly, Therese admitted to a smaller, more emotional component of her decision to raise the rose that was a little tough to otherwise beat down; she chalked it up to the orphaned fledgling’s willingness to serve, since it was a bit of a relief to find someone who actually appreciated her guidance.

Her authority. 

Oh if only it would stay this simple forever, she faux-sighed; everything always went so smoothly when the fresh-to-the-night were still young enough to be dazzled by a few pretty trinkets and a roof and a bed to call their own.

She recalled those first nights, when Jeanette had been equally enamored of the undead world around them, before she had grown tired and bored herself into thrill-seeking sinful  attention grabbing habits. 

-And the doe-eyed kitten nightdreaming across from her was all too eager to lap up such easily bestowed triviloites.

Her trail of thought led on; she leaned her chin to the backs of her fingers, her elbow braced against her knee. 

She knew from decades of observation that it wasn’t at all uncommon for blooming roses to seek out firm thumbs to thorn around; she’d seen them, their glass-eyed stares and cruel-slit painted  smiles harlotting lies and half-truths as they dangled off the arms of their wallet-doting patrons as Ventrue wives or else when the arguably less fortunate flowers ended up cowering in the shadows of their gruffed-up Brujah-blooded bottomfeeders which promised to protect them from everything but their tempers.

 -Vengeful and twisted, the capricious lot of them.  

She supposed it was her bleeding heart that longed to spare the girl her Lolita fate.

Were she a more kindhearted kindred, she might have even gone so far as to lock the girl away from such slow-seeping horrors of the night, that she might never have to face such harsh realities of her future unlife. 

But Therese prided herself practical, not kind. 

Preparing the fledgling for the bulk of unlife would be far more useful for the both of them in the long run; and if being Jeanette’s Sire had taught her anything, it was that strangling weeds only resulted in resurgent untamable growths. 

She just had to ensure the girl’s continued devotion; isolate her from anyone that might come between them in future.  

“Penny for your thoughts?” the girl asked, apparently refocused from whatever semi-panicked state of dreaming she’d been in; the Toreador’s new attire sparked an idea.

-An underhanded, shameful, practical, wicked idea. 

“I assure you, everything under my stock is worth far more than that,” she teased; she doubted the girl was able to completely discern the joke from the threat implied, but Therese had found the fledgling’s attempts to understand her sense of humor sort-of cute. 

Sort of. 

As the girl’s normally-pretty face contorted with conflicting impulses, Therese cast her attention back to the kine at the wheel, though she kept her eyes firmly locked on the Toreador.  

It’s too far of a jump to take her somewhere blueblood-worthy so early in her unlife, she mulled, making up her mind. 

“We’re going to a little place I think you’ll find suitable,” she drawled, quickly rattling off a few directions for their driver, to lead them to a modest, decent little shop that would pas-off the girl as being tastefully respectable, without crossing into ‘remarkable’ territory. 

“You’ll be sure to find something suitable for the little gala your clan is throwing tomorrow night,” she stated, fully expecting the spreading look of horror dawning the fledgling’s face; “Issac phoned me earlier with your invitation. Apparently you’ve caused quite a stir amongst the degenerate community.” 

-It wasn’t completely a bold-faced lie, it was a likely enough assumption on her part and in any case the Hollywood Baron had called her to beckon the childe his way.  

And there would be no better way to steer the girl clear of her top competitors then by throwing her clean into the deep end. 

If the girl was strong enough to swim her way back to shore, all the better. 

-If not, well.

Then Therese figured she would be at a bit of a monetary loss, but otherwise no worse for wear and all of her loose ends would be squared away. 

“A gala?” the picturesque lass repeated. 

Therese slipped herself into an assured, comfortable smile. 

“Yes childe,” Therese answered cleanly, crossing her legs in the manner that she knew the prurient little girl couldn’t help but to watch; “The roseclan does so enjoy their little… ‘garden parties’.”

Chapter Text

She woke up with the same knot of anxiety-laden dread in the pit of her stomach that she’d left Therese with.

Luckily, a quick glance over her laptop informed her that her darling paramour had gotten her message in time.

[Reply] May I Have This Dance [From] [email protected]

Darling! What a query of passion you flustered me with, so close to the rise of the sun. -As a ward of Isaac, I am of course expected to attend such gatherings. From one rose to another, salons can be a confusing place for one so new to our world; if it would please you to indulge little me, I would be happy to guide you through it, my Love. I promise to make your first experience with me a memorable occasion.  -See you there.

My nocturnal rose, brave and sweet,

    You inspire and entangle me, 

within the quiet nights we keep. 

    Invading my thoughts throughout the night.

    By love’s truest devotion, we amend our plight.

-Immortally Yours, VV

She clicked off her laptop, feeling more at odds than when she’d logged onto it. 

The sense of relief she felt that her beautiful Velvet would be there with her helped to calm her scattered nerves as it paradoxically rallied her anxieties about wanting to impress the attendees she was to meet. 

She tore open the packages of clothes, makeup, and accessories that the ‘official’ Santa Monica Baron had so graciously patroned for her and began reconstructing ‘the look’ that Therese had so helpfully suggested she go for. 

The dress was easy to slip on; its fabric was a simple, solid Ventian red, cut into an a-line silhouette.  

“You’ve heard that it’s a faux-pa to outdress the bride, correct?” Therese had similied, when she’d walked her to her room; “Trust me, you’ll thank me when you walk in.”   

Putting her faith in the ‘official’ Baron’s words, she let the words echo inside her skull as she forced her attention into painting up her face. 

-A beauty guru, she was not. 

But it quickly became apparent that the dead-skilled training she’d shotgunned into nimble dexterity, keen eyes, and effective grave lent her a steady hand and a discerning gaze. 

While she doubted she would wow the crowds, she almost felt confident that she wouldn’t look out of place.

She wiped off her first attempt and tried twice more, just to quell her negging doubts.

The phone buzzed in its cradle, alerting her to the time.

She thank the staff on the other end and doubled her efforts into finishing up; scrambling, she pierced in the scatterings of studs and tiny hoops to don her ears, feeling that while it wouldn’t be much of an indicator to her Sect leanings, that they would at least glimmer a hint of her personality. 

The necklace, rings, and bracelets followed quickly after; all carrying the ‘simple but elegant’ theme that her bespectacled mentor had prescripted.

In her rush, she nearly stumbled into her one-inch heels on her way out.

She felt a brief wave of something as she passed into the hall, stopping her. 

She took a moment to feel it out, sensing a ghostly resonance. 

The faint, nearly nonexistent atmosphere felt… nice. 

Warm perhaps. 

Encouraging. 

Some of the anxiety slid from her frame; she took a more suitable pace through the corridors and descended the grand staircase with mild Cinderella-airs.

She got a few glances from the guests as she headed to the doors, but none of them piqued her interest enough for her to change course.

She found Mercurio, as he’d promised, waiting out front with the car at the ready. 

Without prompting, he held the door open for her before taking his position in the driver seat. 

As the car doors clicked closed, the situation felt a little too real. 

“Where to?” he asked, the questing prompting her to stifle a shiver. 

“Chateau Marmont,” she replied with more faith than she was feeling; she hoped she somehow didn’t manage to butcher the local’s pronunciation.

With my luck, I’d end up out of state for it, she mused. 

The ghoul didn’t reply, he just turned the wheel.

She watched the hotel slip away in inches and feet, and then yards and miles as they left it sitting like a fading memory in their wake. 

She fingered the rose-molded pendant at her throat and took a deep breath that pushed useless air through her vestigial lungs. 

Part of her had a thought, to ask the ex-prince’s ghoul about something. 

-Anything.

To help keep her thoughts from wandering. 

“...What’s a group of Toreadors called?” she eventually asked, her voice too quiet and nervous for her liking.

Mercuiro took a moment, his gaze never leaving the road ahead. 

“A Garden,” he then offered.

She let his answer fizzle into the sounds of the city surrounding them; the cacophony of cars and sirens, people and shouts, and litanies of other acute auditory sensation besides, all drizzled into a whitenoize that felt fuzzy between her teeth. 

“Thank you.”

Her reply startled him, after the stretch of ‘silence’. 

His lips pursed a bit as his head made a funny sort-of nod, but he kept his head affixed; occasionally he glanced to the mirrors, but they didn’t linger longer than road necessitated. 

She closed her eyes, and leaned back against the seat. 

She took a breath.

And then they were there.   

It felt all too soon, as if time had somehow skipped a step; but it was a passing concern as her anxieties about stepping into the Garden-party renewed their grips into her psyche. 

After catching sight of Velvet stepping out of a slim looking vehicle some two cars ahead of them, she perked up and sputtered for the ghoul to pull over. 

After coming out herself, her emergence was met with wind in her hair and an excited greeting called her way. 

Happily, she waved Mercurio away and darted over to the wonderful woman that left her undead heart feeling alive with passion and effigy.  

“I hope I’m not too late,” she fretted, drinking in the sight of Velvet’s scrumptious carnation-red dress; it cocktailed around the dancer’s chest and thighs, and paired wonderfully with the light, white-furred coat she’d layered over her shoulders.

It was the first ‘non-work’ outfit she’d seen the woman wear; it was also the first time she’d seen the woman anywhere but her club.

Or the theater I almost got be-headed in, her thoughts helpfully reminded .

“You’re beautiful,” she breathed, stress leaking from the wonder feeling of just being next to her darling dancer.

Velvet chuckled; the sound a sweeter music then any of the city’s white-noise could ever hope to match. 

“And you look utterly charming Darling,” VV cooed, filling her with both embarrassed-pride and glee; “But it seems you’ve a tie come loose.”

Before she could move to fix it, or even make form of her lips to speak, the eloquent dancer glided closer, circling her with an enchanting eaze that left her feeling light-headed and fluttery. 

“Here, let me fix it for you...” Velvet lilted, leaning in even closer to better reform the loose knots; she waited obediently and stifled her impulse to squirm under the tantalizing sensation of Velvet’s delft fingering fluttering about the thin material of her dress.

“-There we are,” the beautiful kindred chirped, fingers slowly sliding down the small of her back before moving on to smooth over her the rest of her dress with one final pass.

She stifled a Jeanette-conditioned urge to moan as Velvet’s hands threaded into her hair,

Velvet fixed it to her liking, though she wasn’t sure if her darling paramour had smoothed it down or fluffed it up; “Now my Sweet, you look more than ready.”

The glistening twinkle in the older woman’s eyes might have slowed her dead-heart by a beat, but it was difficult for her to tell; yet the pattern of her breathing faltering for the phantom-sensation tingling that the sight inspired in her chest was something she was unable to miss. 

“Thank you,” she answered, forcing herself back into some semblance of composure. 

“Of course,” Velvet replied, smooth as the fabric kissed along her curves; “Are you ready dear?”

“...What do I do? What do I even say? ”

Seeing what must have been some overtly obvious look of dread across her face, the sweet-natured honey-toned Toreador took further pity and shot her a comforting look.   

“My darling,” Velvet cooed, wrapping an arm around her back, “You needn’t say anything. Everyone already knows what you’ve done, -just let them do the talking and you’ll do just fine,” the woman further declared; “the worst thing you could do is dispel the mystery about you.” 

The directions did little to quell the anxieties bubbled at the back of her throat as she looked up at the impossible bulk of the building that hadn’t seemed quite so imposing when she’d first glimpsed several streets away.  

“Smile darling, it suits your face better,” Velvet quipped, nimble fingers delicately brushing along her jaw. 

VV smiled as if to lead by example, sending another wave of intangible windswept petals through her senses; and then the gallant dancer pressed against the small of her back, and she was led up the a curling set of stone steps to a rather prominent looking door manned by attendant in a well tailored suit. 

The guard gave a nod at their approach and had fully stepped aside before their feet had even carried them to the precipice of the landing. 

She braced herself as they passed through the front door.

Inside, her eyes took but a fraction to adjust to the dimmed lighting as she took stock of the grand room before herself and her beautiful, venerable date. 

She’d been bracing for something extravagant; marble walls perhaps, -and fashions far exceeding any realm of practicality or restraint. 

She’d expected movie stars, cat-walked models, businessmen, and blatant ostentatious displays of flair and catty rivalry. 

There were some dresses interspersed through the sea of suits, but even for a ‘sea’ the party seemed less of a globe-spanning mass and more akin to a little stress-relief ball kept tucked away in an office drawer somewhere. 

There were at least a dozen kindred she could see scattered about -some far more prominently positioned than their peers; it made her wonder if in some parallel universe, the same scene was playing out in a place comprised of impossible architectural angles, wherein every vampire could somehow manage to squirrel away a ‘darkened corner away from the others’ for themselves.

And many of the figures glimmering in kindred hues seemed to have duos or trios of entourage-ing dates, wherein most of the splashes of clothing color seemed relegated and even amongst the mortal companions nothing looked shocking or bold . 

When Therese had informed her of the gathering, she’d pictured Toreadors clashing around as runway models, drag queens, and flaunted kaleidoscopes of colors, patterns, and silhouettes, and yet the gathering she was attending was anything but. 

No Gagas’ in meat dresses or weird feathered hats, nor hardly so much as a novelty hairstyle.  

Of course, she thought consolingly, as she tried to keep the disappointment off her face; It’d probably be weird for everyone to dress up for something that’s not a real occasion. 

She was glad she hadn’t overdressed. 

Her imaginitory dip was short dived however, as her sweeping gaze roved over the familiar face of Mr. Hollywood himself, Isaac Abrams; who appeared to be locked in an important conversation with a light-haired guy in a Hipster-vest that was at least somewhat differentiating from the other suits in the party.

Velvet, apparently also having caught sight of her faux-father, continued to guide her by their interlocked arms and towed her over to the illustrious Hollywood Baron. 

“Ah, good evening Velvet,” Isaac greeted warmly, before nodding her way; “And,” he directed, in equal well-measure, “I must say I was delighted to hear you were interested in joining us this evening!”

Unsure of what to say, or, in remembering Velvet’s words if she was to say anything at all, she simply nodded respectfully in turn. 

“I do hope you’ll forgive the mess, organizing this salon last second what with all goings-on has been a bit of hairpuller, -you understand, I’m sure.” 

“-It looks lovely, Isaac,” Velvet answered, saving her a response; “I’m sure everyone will be too interested in our new cousin to care for much else tonight.”
The man brightened, his posture a bit more puffed about the shoulders; his amber stare appearing fine-polished and self-assured. 

His younger-presenting companion made a soft noise, drawing some of the Baron’s attention back his way. 

“Right, let’s get this hiphop-happening then, shall we?” the Baron prepped, gaining a slight spring to posture as beside her, Velvet straitened and patted a hand around the arm she continued to lock-hostage. 

“I’ll leave off most of the introductions as our guests simply speak for themselves, but it will be my honor to catch you up to speed,” Isaac declared, his proclamation grandstated for anyone in earshot to hear as he gestured out amongst the gathering before looking to her again; “Rest assured my dear, by the end of this night that you shall leave here with a far greater understanding of what you are and the legacies you’re Blooded from.”  

She offered the man a look which she hoped would properly convey her willingness to be led along.

“Our clan has always strived to guide our brothers and cousins on the arts of humanities,” Isaac began, taking a grandiose tone of pride; “It is this duty that guides us to follow the latest trends and inspire the ever changing generations and compels us to define our kinds’ proper decorum and civility.”

Sensing pieces of useful information, she keyed into the Baron’s words and let herself process them properly. 

“-It was our clan that crafted the laws of the Camarilla -though the Ventrue have since claimed it and ruined it’s chances for success, twisting it into the mess that still refuses to die,” he tutted, clearly dismissive of the fact the rest of the gathering could quite easily hear his hard-stanced opinions.

She didn’t hear much clamour of murmurs around the guests at the statement, so she supposed the Baron had stated such things before in their presence. 

The Hollywood antique carried on, irregardlessly.  

“-It was our clan who saw the need for diplomacy and negotiation,” he furthered, popping onto his heels with some mild influx of energy and emphasis; “Thusly it was the Toreador who proposed the Convention of Thorns,” he added, neglecting explanation as his dictation picked up speed, “It is clan Toreador that keeps Elysium halls from spilling into bloodbaths and it is here , that our clan who pushed the ideals of a better future for kindred even further, and crafted the first Free State.”   

He finished his speech as if he’d been giving a grand address for the masses and looked as though he suchly expected some manner of wide-spread applause. 

She offered a tenuous smile. 

“L.A. was once part of the Camarilla, with one of our own as it’s Prince,” Velvet added gently.

She turned the beautiful kindred on her arm, surprised.

“What made them turn to Anarchy?” 

“He didn’t,” interjected the vested man at Isaac’s side, smiling as if to imply humor in the statement. 

After noting his comment, she turned to Velvet again, finding comfort in the soft curves of her smile. 

“So what happened?” she asked, taking the bait. 

“ Don Sebastion ,” the Baron answered, with the kind of venom seeping from his tone that she’d only ever heard men use about their ex-wives, “ruled for some time, had his fun;” the man grumbled, folding his arms across his chest. 

The guy beside him held a knowing smirk. 

“Everything changed when MacNeil arrived,” Velvet added; immediately, her mind raced back to the scratched-out number on Therese’s phone. 

“In the forties MacNeil came to the city and the two locked horns,” Isaac explained, somewhat reluctantly; “Bastard had MacNeil beat within an inch of his unlife, and the sparks of Revolution ignited to all out war . He died in that revolt to a Brujah; Salvador killed him in a frenzy and set fire to his Haven to signal Los Angeles’ secession from the Tower.”

“So it was the Brujah who built the Free State,” she replied, knowingly testing the waters. 

Affronted, Isaac snorted and shot her a ‘scolding’ look, as though she were an uneducated child. 

“MacNeil was a great man,” the Baron declared matter-of-factly, “And his accomplishments should rightfully be remembered, but I invite you to consider how a state of Anarchists keeps together under its own weight.”

“-Nines can tell ‘em who to hit and why it matters, but you’re looking at the reason any two kindred can meet on the street in LA and not end up dusted in an immediate bat-fight,” quipped the vested man.

“ Please , it’s the least I can do for my city,” the Baron preened, feigning humility. 

She absently layed her free hand against Velvet’s arm.

The ephemeral dancer hummed, catching her attention; at a glance, the world felt cozier. 

Rosier.   

“There’s a lot of history in this city,” Velvet supplemented warmly; her addition seamless and smooth-toned; “Are you from L.A.? There’s so much to Hollywood we could talk about,” the lovely dancer promised. 

“I’d like that,” she agreed, moving her hand to take Velvet’s hovering hand in her own before Issac cut in. 

The Hollywood Baron gestured to the fidgeting man at his side to start his round of introduction. 

She readied herself. 

“Kent Ryan’s the name,” he greeted, stepping in with hand outstretched in a manner not indicative of a normal handshake; it seemed in want to grab her wrist. 

She pulled her hand back, disallowing the motion as the name tickled the edges of half-formed memory. 

He recovered quickly, though her rejection clearly confused him. 

Kent, Kent… Where have I heard that before?  

The man launched into a spiel she wasn’t completely bothering to listen to, as Isaac was jovially carrying the weight of conversation by trading in-jokes and hearty-sounding quips. 

Kent.

Kent Ryan… 

Kent… Alan? Alan Ryan?

Omg.

The realization hit her with the force of the whipping tail-limbs Ming-Xiao had repeatedly bludgeoned her with. 

I totally fed his ghoul to Pisha. 

She made a near-instant oath to never speak of it to him, or to invite much conversation with the taughty-vibed man in general; she found a note of humor in that the otherwise passingly-visaged dude wasn’t holding any Coffee-to-go, as it would’ve completed the effect. 

Her lack of interest seemed to go unnoticed by Isaac, and Kent had the type of dismissive ‘ego-centric’ personality that she detested in men in general, but her darling Velvet noticed her wayward eyes and offered a soft, understanding smile that helped her to keep patient. 

“Kent cultivates ‘Insta’ followers,” Velvet quietly supplied behind a flourished hand; “He keeps up to date on Media trends.”

She offered a humm of acknowledgement, as she was still too preoccupied in thinking about the poor nazaly-voiced woman the man had abandoned , and her part in the poor ghoul’s food-chained fate to make any meaningful conversation. 

“-Of course I’m sure you know all about that, eh ?” Kent asked, shooting her a jovial conspiratory smile; “Being a ‘Millenial Kine’ and all, before your Embrace. -Are you on Instagram? Twitter?”

Just as she started giving a shake of her head, Velvet conversationally supplemented, “Until now, she hasn’t had the time.”

“Ah, of course,” Kent replied, elongating the syllables; “Well I’m more than happy to help you set up some accounts now that you’re off the Camarilla’s leash; you can ask anyone! When it comes to garnering a digital presence, I’m simply the best you’ll find.” 

She offered a pursed-lipped nod as she tried not to picture the guy snapping selfies for a ludicrous amount of pre-teens that would defend his ‘image’ to the death; she didn’t want to think about how many women he’d similarly disposed or left stranded in his wake.

She tried to goad Velvet into moving on, nudging her in the barest of hints.

For her part, Velvet began segueing into dispatching tones and parting phrases with eloquence and great respect, but it took further near-blatant repetitions of such conversation for the men in the group to pick up on the tone shift. 

Eventually Issac slapped his back and thanked him for his time.  

Apparently pleased with himself Kent bid them adieu, and almost in the immediate moment the man was out of earshot Velvet sighed deeply, which she found refreshingly validating. 

“He’s such a Poseur, but his skill for online marketing is undeniably resourceful,” Velvet lamented. 

“Poseur?”

Velvet’s brow shot up in a moment’s confusion before a humored smile settled back along her beautiful features and softened her posture; “Artisites and Posures, my Love. That is the only real distinction amongst those of our clan, though you’ll hear Camarilla roses refer to us as their ‘Abstractionist’ cousins.” 

“Be wary of calling kettles black my dear,” Isaac warned, bringing a soured note to Velvet’s face that the beautiful woman then quickly suppressed.

“ Dancing is a credible skill, Isaac,” Velvet shot back. 

The Hollywood Baron hummed, clearly not convinced with his daughter’s claim. 

It left her feeling almost winded as she tried to parse together how anyone could watch Velvet’s performance and not be moved. 

Something within her growled.

Before the anger could settle inside in her belly, the Baron led their little group to another set of guests. 

They breezed through introductions with several men all well dressed in the same type of outfit: a suit in shades of black, dark grey, light grey or middle gray, and the only differential between them were the slivers of colors in their undershirts or ties.  

She assumed they were to be considered conventionally attractive by masculine-favoring persuasions, but other than ‘older’ or ‘younger’, they all looked much the same to her.

With how many of the strangers moved in to take her hand or kiss her face, the introductions were straining in about as many ways as she’d expected. 

She continued to decline their touches in what she hoped was a polite but firm manner, and did her best to smile and nod along, allowing her chaperones to facilitate the conversational acquaintance-ing.

If any of her probably-important fellow clanmates felt slighted by such rejections, she couldn’t spare willpower enough to discern such for certain. 

Instead, she listened to the whispers and under-breath murmurs darting around the party like  some rumor fueled stock-exchange. 

Passersby and onlookers alike all seemed to dart their gazes over to her party, to the Baron, to her dear sweet precious Velvet Velour, and then to her. 

In fact, the longer she watched from her peripheral, the more she realized the other guests kept looking at her a lot .  

A man with a stunted-chortle asked her if she’d ‘taken a knee’ for LaCroix, breaking her from her people-watching.

The undertone of sexual innuendo was unmistakable to miss. 

Isaac of all people jumped to her defense, staunchly perfusing her hatred of the Camarilla and everything it stood for; despite the fact he was clearly projecting his own sentiments, it allowed her time to put the offending man on her ‘list of people she wouldn’t save from a burning building’, and so she kept her focus on remaining patient instead of ripping out the vulgar insinuator's throat.

Unfortunately, the man’s offcolor question opened the floodgates for everyone else’s invasive lines of questioning, which made introductions increasingly straining to withstand. 

The questions to her accomplishments she expected.

“Did the Prince really claim you as his childe?”

“You couldn’t possibly have taken down an entire compound of Hunters on your lonesome in your first week of undeath; back in 93’ it took six of my best men to squash half a dozen of their numbers and all of us were Embraced in the Trenches!”

“Oh I believe you were caught up in a little political tiff, -but killing an elder with more than three centuries your experience? Come now, you don’t believe me daft now do you?” 

“It’s okay Sweetie, we all have our little accidents . I can talk to some of my people; get things cleared up for you.”

The quips about her choices in companions made the vitea in her stomach churn. 

“You really haven’t been slumming around Downtown have you? It’s such a tragedy the day our kind has to stoop to such lows to survive.” 

“It’s a shame kids like you only find such establishments as those entertaining these nights-”

“I heard a nasty little rumor that you spoke with the Nosferatu; why, that must have been a harrowing ordeal if it’s true. But that surely couldn’t be, you’re much too pretty to waste your face with that scaly lot.”

It felt as though everyone had taken her adherence to silence as her permission to make whatever garbage commentary they wanted. 

And that was the bulk of her discomfort really; the aggressive sexual overtones of asserted power from men who all seemed to have convergently evolved to think themselves god’s great gift to man.

-And women.  

Every clanmate she met seemed unsettlingly fixated on her matter of gender in some way, and what they felt they could ‘do’ with it.

“Wherever did you fish up this spry little dish, Issac?”

“What a pretty face; you should really smile dear. You wouldn’t want to spoil the party, now would you?”

“No kiss? Are you sure? It’s just a formality, little Miss; come now, what about a hug? A handshake, surely?” 

“-Did you dye your hair that color? Why would you want to do something like that to yourself? Naturalism carries such an inherent beauty-”

“Not one for warm greetings? That’s alright, I’m a forgiving man; you’ll find me far more of a pleasant sort then our peers, which I’m sure you can agree, already-” 

“If you were my Childe I’d never let you out of the Haven like that-”

“You’d look so much better in silks; did I tell you I’m a photographer? Trust me, green would really accentuate your figure.” 

“I’m sure I could… show you the ropes, sometime; it might be a little above your head but, I’m a patient teacher so long as you’re not one of those scatterbrained types-” 

She wanted to scream. 

She truly, utterly , wanted to scream. 

It was only by the grace of Velvet’s soft hand remaining unconditionally interlocked with her own that she managed to keep herself from doing something outrageous, such as going through with her initial urge of forcing herself to throw up so as to give her any excuse to disengage from the barrage of lecherous, cancerous opinions that she never asked for.

What made matters worse, was that aside from learning names to faces she’d never willingly speak to again, not one of the men who forcibly made her choke on the Beast in her throat said anything of any interest. 

A few talked with Issac long enough that Velvet would comment on their manner of professions, but nothing any of them said made focusing through the increasing amount of static and deconstructive shapes worth doing. Instead, they were only too happy to tell her what they thought of her appearance, her shortcomings, and the ways they could ‘make her more appealing’ to them.

And when she made the mistake of absently nuzzling into Velvet’s neck for comfort; her actions were immediately met with baits and barbs of ‘group activities’ between herself, Velvet, and the asserting male party which her sweet Velvet promptly shutdown. 

The red-suited (- shocking! ) Toreador apologized for ‘their discomfort’ with his ‘joke’ before Isaac dismissed the topic of conversation by insinuating they were at fault for ‘instigating’ the attention as if they’d been having a go at him in some way. 

In that moment, she would have gladly taken any of LaCroix’s ludicrous suicide missions to be anywhere but standing in what was undoubtedly her own personal Hell.

Velvet rubbed soothing patterns around her arm; part of her wanted to cry.  

In following conversation that she found equally aborrent, she caught sound of ✨a familiar voice✨ and whipped around in immediate uplifted hope without a single thought to social impropriety; completely ignoring the same red-suited man that had since moved on from sexual-innuendos to regaling their party with a sales pitch of his apparent, ‘inherently woke’ stature that ‘they all could feel encouraged to aspire to’.

It took a moment of scanning the scattered faces, but she picked out the origin of ✨the voice✨ and giddily tugged on Velvet’s arm with a thankfulness that almost prompted her eyes to water. 

“Is that her? From the radio?” she asked in near a whisper as she tried not to let the abundant squeal of delight out of her syllables as she so desperately tried to lead Velvet away from their previous encounter.

Surprised, though apparently happy that she’d finally taken an interest in one of her clanmates, Velvet brightened with a small wave of allotting pride and without missing a beat, led her over to the woman she’d pointed out.

The woman was a bit shorter than she expected, though her own short-stature meant the other kindred still had an inch or two over her, which she didn’t mind.

The woman’s outfit was on the simpler side, making her still grateful that she’d taken up Therese’s advice on opting for something more ‘practical’ herself. 

While the woman’s initial expression was one of confusion, and then one of hesitant tentativeness, a more communal air was quickly struck between them as they met more completely. 

She could hardly keep from bouncing in place as the smooth-water tones of the radiohost rippled her hellos, -she didn’t even care what the woman had to say or in what manner she might say it; she was simply grateful for the break from her overwhelmingly straight-masculine cousins and she didn’t care how much that feeling was reflected in her demeanor. 

“I must say, when they told me I’d get to meet you tonight, I didn’t know I’d be greeting a fan,” Deb mirthed; “The pleasure’s all mine.”   

Riding the wave of relief like a lifeline, she took the elegant woman’s extended hand in introductory greeting and grinned sheepishly. 

“You probably hear it a lot but, your voice is really soothing; I tuned in each night after my Embrace,” she admitted gently, breaking her vow of silence; “Your voice was a small oasis of reprieve amongst all the terrors I was dealing with; I’d wondered a few times if you were kindred but, I never thought I’d actually be making your acquaintance.”  

An ego-flattered look of surprise took up residence on the voice actress’s face as the woman left their hands interlocked. 

Deb sighed a humored note before taking a very conscious sort of expression that she assumed was Deb’s ‘standard behind-the-mic face’. 

“Velvet’s told me ~all~ about that silver tongue of yours,” the woman quipped, her brow cocked teasing; Deb’s tones deliberately slipping into the talkshow speech-patterns that had so often left her feeling lulled and connected-with. 

“Keep up this kind of flattery and you just might make an impression,” the woman dancingly lilted, drawing a blush from her cheeks; “You should call me sometime,” Deb invited, “I don’t often get feminine callers .” 

Fully pleased and half-embarrassed at the personalized flirtations, she smiled while stifling the reflex to swallow saliva that she didn’t have.

“I’d be honored, but I wouldn’t know what I could offer the program,” she replied admittedly.  

“-Oh I’m sure you could think of something, Cousin,” Deb lilted, “I’m but a simple girl with a simple radioshow, and a lot of lonely nights to fill up.”

“Oh stop ‘D,” Velvet hushed in a tone that sounded playful, whilst her free hand flicked some emphasis; “You’re such a lush.” 

Deb smirked; the moment (which felt far too brief) disbanded.

“Pleasure to meet you,” she offered, hoping she’d made a good impression; “Hope you have a nice evening.”

“You too, cousin,” Deb replied, in a glimmer of yellow; the radio showhost turned to Velvet and gave the dancer a nod. 

“Goodnight ‘D,” Velvet returned. 

Deb took her leave with a gracious smile before disappearing back into the recesses of the party, leaving her feeling at a loss for the brief moment of joy.

She was left once more clinging to Velvet’s arm for the lifeline of safety the smooth-moving dancer provided her. 

“I’m glad you’re beginning to enjoy yourself,” Velvet offered her. 

She turned her cheek to better drink in the sight of Velvet’s features; she allowed herself to remain unrestrained, in hope of better conveying her emotions to the kindhearted kindred who by all accounts, was going above and beyond to humor her. 

“I’m glad you let me accompany you,” she offered sweetly, earning a tender-eyed hum from her dear, sweet, precious VV.  

To her disappointment however, their tender break was short lived. 

Now that she’d made the mistake of showing affection for anyone amidst the convention, the men she’d sidelined seemed all the more determined to catch her attention. 

The Hollywood Baron brought over more of them for her to meet.

The party hadn’t seemed so full when she’d first arrived; she had no idea what corner he found them all in.

She also couldn’t tell if a few of them were better mannered or if she was simply riding the effects of the boost to her mood, but she did her best not to grimace through the extended introductions. 

Her continued refusal to engage in hugging, kissing, or handshaking with the men Isaac introduced her to seemed to grate on the Baron’s nerves as the evening wore on, but Velvet’s demure, dismissing attitude thankfully seemed to keep tensions at bay. 

-She got the impression that she was confusing and frustrating the bulk of the party to no end. 

Another hour or so later, when most of the introductions had seemingly been made, there was lull enough in the event’s proceedings that she had an opportunity to take stock of the party as a whole.

Music had started up, and guests were starting to carry around drinks. 

All of which greatly resembled wine in appearance, so she supposed the human-catering would better hide the kindred blood-stock.

A few more women had joined, though their equally unassuming airs and fetters implied to her that they would be similar to their masculine cohorts. 

-The fact that she’d had more fun in the Giovannis’ clan meeting was seeming more and more tragically ironic.   

Some of the women eyed her though made no efforts to approach, caught in their own conversations as they were; one face glared daggers though most just seemed generally unimpressed.

And then she noticed a ✨beautiful✨ lady heading her way.

From the woman’s measured strides alone, she could tell the kindred was one more than used to being afforded great power and respect.

“Ah, another new face,” Isaac welcomed, apparently not familiar with the woman or else was purposefully belittling her for feigning ignorance; “Miss?”

“-Katherine, of Montpelier,” the woman stated flatly, as if the Hollywood Baron damn well was supposed to know who she was.  

“Ms. Montpelier,” Issac addressed in utterly unobscured surprise.

-Immediately, her interest was piqued.

Just as the woman’s cold gaze slid over to her, Velvet leant a touch closer and took a murmured tone; “This is quite a surprise; Ms. Montpelier is a clan historian, one of great stature and renown, and she’d only recently reawoken, -I wonder what she’s doing this far from home?” 

“Historian? Like Beckett?” she murmured back, willfully glossing over the implications behind the word ‘reawoken’ whilst nodding sagely, as if she were somehow blissfully unaware of the sheer power radiating off of the approaching women. 

-She still wasn’t quite sure what constituted as ‘old’ or ‘powerful’ but, she immediately placed assumption that the ‘reawoken’ kindred was both . 

“You know Beckett?” the woman drawled, having settled herself before them; the regal Toreador’s tone seemed hard to pinpoint, but she allotted that her experience with accents wasn’t too well-versed. 

She lowered her face by a fraction, reflexively awarding the woman some measure of docility that she had not given to any other Toreador she’d met aside from her darling, beautiful Velvet. 

Though her attention was mostly on the elder before her, she noted how clatterings of hushed murmurs and helf-snorted mutterings sprang up around the party.

Some spiteful part of her took delight in wounding the fragile male egos that had so eagerly made her night one of misery and distress.

And so, though she was unaware of what side of the ‘field’ the inquiring woman was playing, or what her intentions were, she quite simply didn’t care and elected to play along .

She felt more than happy in fact, to tell the woman anything she might want to know.

“Our paths crossed a lot when I was working for the Prince; we didn’t get a chance to talk as much as I would’ve liked before he headed off but, he was fun to talk to, the few times we had chance to speak,” she answered steadily, her tones content and good-natured. 

The dignified elder-rose hummed a note before responding; she got the sense from the woman’s body language and overall lack of humanistic habits like breathing or blinking , that the powerful kindred was one to take her time on things.

-And luckily for the both of them, that time only further improved her mood, as she remained free to indulge her nature.  

“Well maybe I can answer a few of your questions in his stead,” the woman replied after a moment’s deliberation; her tone still betrayed nothing but the peculiar sounding accent, which she found quite novel; “And in turn, we’ll see if you can answer a few of mine.” 

She looked the woman over, finding her demeanor pleasant and her fashion sense quite flattering; she found herself hoping she could keep the woman’s interest long enough to have an interesting conversation. 

Taking her interlude of silence for invitation, the older Toreador’s gaze iced over in scrutiny. 

“I’ve heard a few rumors ‘across the pond’, as you younglings call it,” Ms. Montpelier prefaced; while willing to answer, she tensed up a little at the shift in the woman’s posture, as she wasn’t sure of what sort of interrogation to expect from the immigrated elder. 

“Tell me, in your own words: what has happened in this city? What was so important to have brought Beckett to your doorstep, and what was your part in it?”  

Reflexively, she bit her lip; her undead-heart started to hammer inside her chest with an amount of fear that she hadn’t felt in several nights as what she could only ascribe as her self-preservation kicked in.

If she’s Camarilla you’re fucked, she thought abstractly, before recalling the bloodhunt LaCroix had levied on her head; Hell I’m probably fucked either way.   

She took a steadied breath that did nothing for her Vitae, and allowed her tones to fall as smoothly and watered as they were want. 

“Cliche as it might sound, I awoke on a stage; I was on my knees in front of a room full of people I didn’t know. I watched the man to my side get decapitated by a monster and listened as the man center-stage declared himself a Prince. A man in the audience demanded my life be spared and then I was pulled backstage where I was instructed by the Prince to do as I was told or to die trying,” she explained, slipping into static and shapes at the gut-churringly crystalline memory; “After that I stumbled into the alley he tossed me into, and a greasy hobo-looking Brujah told me that ‘I was a vampire’ and that I ‘needed to drink blood’ and to ‘not let anyone find out what I was’,” she coined, finger quoting her emphasises, “He showed me how to sneak around, how to snap a neck, and how to outlive the Sabbot. His name was Smiling Jack.”

At seeing no reaction from the woman, she continued briskly, “After half a night of teaching me how to fight and feed, he left me to my own devices. After that, I did a bunch of errands for the Baron of Santa Monica in order to fulfill the orders for the Prince, and that became the pattern of my unlife for about two weeks. ‘For want of a nail’, and all of that. -I blew up a warehouse, met Beckett; I assume that you’re more interested in the latter end of my first weeks of undeath, wherein I delt with the Sarcophagus?” 

The woman’s gaze intensified. 

The room around them was deathly silent. 

Her heart hammered uselessly in her chest. 

She licked her lips without the saliva needed to wet them and lifted her chin. 

“I saw the sarcophagus lid-askew and blood-trailed on the Elizabeth Dane; after informing the Prince about it… LaCroix got fixated. I didn’t know him before my Embrace but, while he hadn’t been nice before that night, afterwards he began a descent of cruelty and paranoia, and most of my missions were oriented around getting it open for him. -I retrieved the journal needed to read the runes on it, I retrieved the key to open it, and I bloody carried the ten-ton weighted thing into his office in the first place, to say nothing of the mountain of tasks I had to accomplish to actually facilitate any of that.” 

“Your city’s little jyhad,” the woman followed, without hint of opinion nor emotion.

“Yes,” she answered just as plainly. 

“J'adoube. Did you orchestrate the deaths of its so-called ‘leaders’ here?” 

“I was the tool used to strike the killing blows,” she elected; “I have suspicions over whom might have orchestrated what, but, I have no evidence to support any claims.”  

The woman’s face shifted a minor amount; she wondered if it was in respect or met-expectation. 

“-She’s one of understatement, Ms. Montpelier,” Velvet interjected, touching a hand to her shoulder; she stifled an urge to smile at Velvet’s expression of earnesty; “She felled a Sabbot Archbishop and the Empress of the city’s Kuei-jin without training, and that’s only the tip of the iceberg.” 

“Éclat; such are the rumors I’ve been hearing,” the impressive woman drawled through her shifting accent; “I am willing to accept some truth to such tales. But the Sarcophagus, was it empty?”

“It appeared on the ghost ship that whatever had been inside had crawled out; however, the Sarcophagus had changed hands several times and I believe multiple factions laid traps on it independently of each other. There was a…”

Her voice faltered as she recalled the Driver of the taxi that had followed her around the city. 

In recollecting the man’s spotted coat and oil-slick shades glinting in the highway’s streetlights, she forced herself to something .   

“Well. I’m sure others could describe the ‘strange atmosphere’ better than I, though I believe I had the misfortune of meeting it’s probable cause. I have no idea if he’d ever inhabited the Sarcophagus, but the oppressive weight over the city vanished when he left, for however much that might help to know.” 

“Interesting...” the woman trailed, before lilting into a tone leading and peculiar; “Tell me, little éminence grise , do you know how far from Caine you are?”  

She bit back a knee-jerk bolt of panic at the memory of the face in the Taxi’s rearview mirror and  held her vestigial breath, forcing the image away.

She knew He wasn’t -here- any longer. 

“...No,” she answered softly, when it became apparent the woman required an answer. 

The imposing woman stepped towards her; Velvet’s hands remained firm at her back and shoulder. 

She was grateful for them. 

When the woman was at what would have been face-to-face distance had they both been of even height, the powerful Toreador gave her a look that bore clean through her. 

She wasn’t sure why, but she felt nakedly exposed and shivered, as though some unseen hand had passed over her psychic composition. 

Oddly, the woman’s demeanor seemed to lighten by gradual increments, as if she had been pleasantly surprised by something. 

Pleased that she had -by whatever means, performed well, she perked up and allowed her mouth-corners to upturn the tiniest bit in hopeful anticipation.             

“Did Beckett tell you anything before he left?” the woman asked, her tone gentler and more companionably inquisitive than it had been mere moments prior.  

She thought back, moreseo to allow herself time enough to compose her appearance, than to dredge up any memory. 

“His last words to me were a warning about the Sarcophagus; we didn’t have time to speak after that point, unfortunately.” 

“Did he give you any indication of where he was headed?” the woman pressed. 

She shook her head; “Regretfully, he did not.”

The woman made a growled-humming sound; she took it as a sign of reluctant albeit frustrated acceptance. 

The woman looked her over then, scrutinizing her with a sturdier gaze than she’d seen from the others in the clan.

Though she wasn’t privy to the woman’s thoughts, nor close enough in acquaintance to guess with any trace of certainty, she sensed the Toreador seemed to make some sort of conclusion about her.

She hoped it was a good one.     

“Fertig; what kind of questions do you have?”

Thinking over her options and choice of words as carefully as she’d done the first two weeks of her unlife, she asked, “...Velvet said you were a ‘clan’ historian, does that imply a clan-specific history of which I should be aware?” 

Katherine smirked. 

“Ordinarily, I would charge a great deal for sharing my expertise, however,” the old rose quipped; “I happen to owe a great deal to that young pup, so I’ll share you a lesson in good faith; it was implied to me that you’re remarkably new to the night, have you any idea yet what a Toreador is or from whence we stem?”

She shook her head one more, bouncing her magenta curls about her cheeks. 

“Yes, I thought not,” the woman lulled; “It seems there are precious few these nights that remember the old times, and even fewer who recall the old days with any degree of accuracy .”

“I would be honored to hear about them, if it suited you,” she baited as respectfully as she could manage.   

“ -Then allow me to shed some light on our origins for you,” the old rose answered, without bothering to fake-inhale or waste time on unnecessary pause; “Long ago, before this continent had ever been rumored to exist, in times of true kings and gods among mortal men, there was a kine so fair of face and beautiful of heart that she stole the very eyes of Enoch, Son of Caine. -You know of Caine, yes?”

She nodded. 

“Good, good,” the woman replied absently, carrying on; “Thusly, she was Embraced before City Ubar was renamed after Enoch, and in so done, was founder of the Clan of the Blossom, -that’s what we used to be known as, back before the Deluge.”

“That was the ‘great flood’,” Velvet quietly added, earning solemn nod from the elder. 

“Quite right, childe. But it wasn’t a normal flood; it was not a rain of water or some aqueduct burst, no. The ‘Deluge’ was a ‘rain’ of terror . Aptly named, forso-in the third generation the Antediluvians rose up against their Sires, killing the second generation in genocide spanning across the clans; only our founder, who by then had become known by the name of ‘Ishtar’ had been innocent of such crimes, and so she alone was spared of the myriads of curses Caine laid across the other Antediluvians for their sins.”

“Poppycock,” Isaac huffed.

Immediately, the air around ‘Katherin of Montpelier’ grew so unbearably thick and dense, that it spanned their surroundings and fell almost as a tangible mist inside her mouth. 

“Hold your tongue, manqué .”

The Baron’s face paled; he cowed and covered his broken composure with a faked cough; the woman’s dread gaze remained firm.

Scared as she suddenly was, the woman wasn’t aiming her ire at her , and between all the practise she’d had getting scrutinized by angry powerful people, and her desire to stand between potential harm and Velvet, she found her resolve felt firm enough to keep her composure steady. 

-Her poor, sweet darling Velvet however, gripped her arm tightly as she shied behind her by a few fractions of leaned contortion. 

The elder Toreador then seemed to dismiss the Baron’s offense, and levied her gaze upon her once more. 

The woman carried on as if she’d been bothered by nothing more than a fly. 

She decided she quite liked the lady. 

“Of course, such favoritism was spurned by the others, rampant as the sins of envy are in our kind,” the woman sighed, as if the portion of the tale left great weight upon her shoulders, “What you would understand as the ‘Gangrel’ Antediluvian gave chase. Enkindu hunted Ishtar relentlessly , across countries, centuries ; it was during her flight from his insatiable maw that she Sired many of whom from all of us stem these nights. Every Blossom you meet will claim some lineage back to Ereshkigal, Minos, or his son, though there were many lesser known Childer such as Iontius, and there were of course others still, that went completely undocumented during her travels.”

“-Minos? Of Crete?” she asked, certain she’d mispronounced the country completely; the name had piqued bolder interest and wandered her memory through snippets of the ancient history she’d looked into as a child.

Katherine smiled warmly; “When Ishtar fled to Crete, King Minos demanded she Embrace him as restitution. She of course, in her infinite wisdom, refused him as she sensed the twistedness of his soul; a trait that was unfortunately carried in the King’s son, whom Ishtar Embraced as a warning to the King. The boy fell almost immediately into his own Beast, and his father stuck him in that nether-maze, becoming the fabled ‘monster’ that I’m sure is still remembered to these very nights.”

“The minotaur,” she cooed with every ounce of reverence of a girlscout sat rapt round a campfire mid murder-story. 

“ Precisely ,” Katherine nodded; “He was put down by some hunter of the time… Theseus? Thueseuss? -Some such kine that grew tired of the overwhelming amount of maidens being sacrificed to the ‘Minotaur of the Labyrinth’ and sought to put an end to it. I can’t quite say that I blame the lad.” 

“Is that why we’re called Toreadors now? The bull motif in the Minotaur?”

The elder shook tilted her head a fraction, not quite dismissing the claim; “While current children of the night have associated our clan with that some-and-such opera, -the one with the roses and the streetwalker- and taken name from it’s stock, ‘The Bull’ was always a prominent theme in Ishtar’s legacy. Aside from the fiasco with the son of Minos and his father, the occurrences of the symbol stretched back before them,” the woman explained, her words trailing into accents even thicker than before, “In Sumer she was attacked by Enkindu. One of her Childer gave his life for her freedom whilst her other lived on, but the King of Sumer had already been Begot by Enkindu, so, it was with great regret she unleashed the.... Oh what would you call it? The ‘Bull of Paradise’?”

“Heaven,” Velvet offered delicately. 

“‘Bull of Heaven’,” Katherine accepted, carrying on, “Unleashing it upon King Gilgamesh and her rival before fleeing to Crete. -Of course, the imagery stretches back even further, to her nights in Ubar. She was a bull-dancer , of all things. A matador.”     

Isaac exhaled a little forcefully, signaling apparent disagreement, but otherwise remained silent. 

Seemingly finished with her tale, the powerful woman’s eyes seemed to refocus on the present, and took stock of her once again. 

“You may ask me one more question,” the courtly woman entoned; there was perhaps, a bit more relaxation about her shoulders than the rose had started their conversation with.

She felt more alight in electric sensation then in the time she’d been convulsed by the Mandarin’s Tesla Coils.   

God, there’s so much I don’t know, she lamented.

She had no idea where to even start .

Banking on the woman’s apparent kick for mythology, she opted to ask one of the questions that had been ceaselessly rattling around her brain since her awakening into the unight.

“...Was Sappho real? Was she a Toreador?”   

“A poet and a budding scholar, hmm? Yes,” Katherine replied, a hint of what could’ve been approval to her tone; “Quite indeed. Ishtar has taken many names and many forms in undeath and so too, have her Childer. It would not surprise me in the slightest if one of her Blossoms bloomed thus. I’m afraid I fell into Torpor by the time the Greeks got interesting, or I would do you the honor of telling you for certain.” 

“I appreciate it,” she offered genuinely, her glee still childlike and en-wondered. 

The woman smiled; soft, but discernible. 

“...I came a great way to meet you, young one,” the woman mulled; her eyes widened as the sense of scale started to sink into confession. 

“I’m glad to say that you’ve surprised me; your caliber is a rarity seldom seen since centuries of my own youth, now long ago worn away by the crumbling of passing time. It… gives me hope for the present,” the apparent elder declared; “See to it that you keep to such ways, young Blossom. May our next meeting be so sweet, should you ever roam beyond oceanic borders. Good Night.”   

With that, the woman drifted back into the mingling of the party; the guests seemed to part and converge around her every step, as if in some great dance. 

“...Damn,” she reflected, approvingly. 

Around them, the other guests in the room seemed to relax. 

Murmurs picked up once more.

-A few tones sounded rushed and jittered, though she didn’t care enough to eavesdrop on anyone specifically.  

She felt Velvet’s tension bleed out like an open faucet and turned to trade smiles with her vastly relieved date.

Velvet’s hand rubbed her shoulder fondly, filling her with a sense of pride amidst the ensuing butterflies. 

Without thinking, she kissed into the demure Toreador’s cheek as she rode the feelings between them. 

Startled by the feel of flesh against her lips, she snapped out of her cloud-nine and drew back with a stuttered apology on her tongue in the same moment Isaac huffed a curt throat-clearing grumble.

“Apologies, I should have asked,” she whispered Velvet’s way, despite her assumption that the whole of the party could probably hear her anyway. 

Velvet’s flush, red painted lips hummed into a brightened smile; in less time than a heartbeat, the lovely rose had pecked a chaste token of affection against her brow. 

The residual feeling of lipstick left in Velvet’s wake left her sense of internal self feeling upended and her undead heart beat uselessly faster.     

“For what it’s worth neonate,” the Baron brokered, garnering her attention; “You should take everything Ms. Montpelier says with a grain of salt. There are many who dispute her so-called ‘historical accounts’.”

“Isaac, she’ll hear you,” Velvet hissed, her head whipping around in earnest.

The man scoffed. 

She tried not to breathe forcefully, wishing he’d put more stock into Velvet’s opinions; the dancer seemed terribly acute about things. 

“Let her hear,” the Baron further dismissed, making it very hard for her to ignore the blinding resemblances the man held with the belated Prince.  

“I want you to know the truth neonate,” he addressed towards her, “Not some pretty fairytale some Camarilla scum wants to spoonfeed you.”

Without giving her chance to reply, Issac readied his posture as if he meant to grab her by the shoulders, and took a somber tone; “In the beginning there was Caine, and Caine grew enamoured with a mortal man named Enoch, whom he brought into the Embrace.”

Immediately, she got the sense that his tale was going to be far more… male-centric than Katherine’s had been. 

Of course, she thought bitterly . 

She pressed her teeths’ tips into her tongue and braced herself for the tale. 

“After a time, when Enoch grew to desire companionship of similar kind, Enoch sired thirteen childer that would become the founders of the thirteen clans. Our founder, the most beautiful and skilled of these childer was Arikel, who was supposedly twin to the Malkavian’s progenitor, Malkov,” he continued; he added the last part like dangled confectionery sweet, as if she were supposed to be flattered by his acknowledgment of the ‘type of company’ she kept. 

She remained silently defiant. 

Not having noticed, as neither LaCroix or any other man had, Issac carried on. 

“Legend goes that Arikel was an artist of such renown and skill that any who saw his works fell instantly in awe. When times in the First City started to trouble him, he worked thanklessly for one hundred and one years so that he might make a work so clandestine and impactful, that Caine himself was moved by the sight of it. When at least the work was revealed to the All-Father, he supposedly wept for the sight of it and so forgave Arikel of his past tresspasses.”

She noticed the said lack of trespasses the man was supposedly guilty of, but refrained from commenting, as she was begrudgingly interested in hearing the altering tale.  

The Baron talked on.

“It is from Caine’s blessing on our founder that a kindred’s path of redemption through humanity came to be,” Isaac explained, “and humanity is the most vital duty a kindred has, neonate.”

“As our Humanity is Caine’s blessing, it is the closest thing a kindred can call sacred,” Velvet offered sweetly; she gave her darling date a warm look that the dancer mirrored back. 

Issac didn’t leave them much time to indulge the motion, however, as his bolstered syllables picked up again. 

“Unfortunately, some of the third generation didn’t abide by that rational; while beloved by Caine, Arikel was despised by the others for his favoritism, and so was set upon by the Nosferatu and Setite progenitors, who devoured him.”

Well that escalated quickly, she mused, making a mental note to ask what a ‘setite’ was .

“So now you know,” the Hollywood Baron deflated, a grumble at the edges of his consonants; “Either way, the time of the ancients was so long ago it hardly matters. Live in the now, neonate. Because all too soon you’ll find that your ‘present’ has passed you by; Now,” he stated, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his suit-jacket, “Come, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”  

The realization that she had yet more introductions to wade through made her heart plummet into the pits of her ‘second stomach’. 

Knowing it was a lost-cause, she looked to her darling, comforting companion Velvet Velour.

Velvet’s face winced in sympathy; the rest of her body, braced and readied as it was silently affirmed that the night was still unfortunately ‘young’.  

She put on her tired 'social-service face' as Baron Isaac Abrams led them to another squabble of clanmates that she felt in no way way delighted to meet.

Chapter Text

The Hollywood Baron stopped mid-syllable as a tell-tale jingling of a phone in his jacket pocket metered out a beckoning refrain; “-Er, one moment please,” Isaac ordered, halting the conversation to retrieve it. 

He glanced at the number before putting it to his ear, his face perfectly neutral. 

Then he frowned.

And then he scowled.

-He hung up the phone without so much as a grunt of exasperation before slipping the device back into his coat. 

Before the old rose had time enough to tuck it away completely, the device jingled again, almost instantly. 

“Something wrong Sir?” she asked in minor curiosity.

The Baron stared at her a moment, the intense look in his eyes catching her off guard. 

He answered the phone again, begrudgingly, and kept the phone at his ear for only a moment before holding it out to her.

“You have a caller,” he quipped; “But I’d be hard-pressed to call him a gentlemen .”  

Intrigued, she put the phone to her ear only to be met with a familiar voice. 

It’s quality was no less staticy by cellphone than by payphone, but it was easily recognizable. 

“Hi Gary,” she chirped; she noted a few looks beginning to sour across the faces of the partygoers, as the rumormill began to pick-up and spread once again; “What can I do for you?” 

“You’re free now youngling,” up-piped a man to Issac’s left; “You don’t have to take orders from gutter wastrel.” 

“-It’s not their fault they live in such squalid conditions,” his equally placid lady companion retorted, the woman’s tone taking on an elevated lament; “They can’t help what they look like. I pity the poor bastards.” 

A few murmurs of ‘well saids’ and general assent flickered around the group as from the phone, Gary huffed.

“Always knew your affections were fickle, Boss,” his gravelly voice meandered; “Better be careful; surround yourself with morons for long enough, and you’ll start seeing their reflection in the mirror.” 

“That’s probably true,” she agreed, reflecting on how it had felt as if her brain cells had been self-destructing over the course of the evening; “How embarrassing, for the both of us.”

“-And here I went through all the trouble just to warn you. I’m crushed,” the Nosferatu replied; she could easily picture his warped smile spreading across his face; “You’re in danger Boss. You’ve wracked up quite a bodycount, and there’s no referee here to tally your score.” 

Reflexively, her body began to brace. 

Her hand tightened around Velvet’s arm. 

As she listened to his words, she focusedly looked around the room and the people in it. 

Disgruntled, confused, even a few distrustful glances were displayed across the faces of her clanmates, but none of them bore any expressions of murderous intent. 

-Which meant little, as she recalled many faces opposing her sword who had looked at her with frustration, genuine surprise, or respect. 

“They’re coming to find you Boss,” Gary warned, his tone dripping with delight; “-Better get out of there, unless you want them to redecorate your little arm-flower’s dress, blood-red .” 

The line went dead. 

Wordlessly, she handed the phone back to Isaac as vitae began flowing hot through her veins. 

“Darling?” Velvet asked, placing a delicate hand to her shoulder. 

She realized she was holding the sweet, gorgeous dancer too tightly, and loosened her grip.

She didn’t know how long she had, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave Velvet’s side with neither consolation, nor explanation. 

“They know,” she offered to Issac, hoping that he’d understand the flatline’d look she shared with him before pulling Velvet close. 

She turned towards her companion completely, drinking in the rose’s exquisite, serene beauty.

Without hesitation, she traced Velvet’s face with her fingertips in a delicate goodbye. 

“I truly am sorry to cut our night short,” she murmured for VV alone; “I promise I’ll make this up to you.”   

“You’re leaving?” Isaac asked, taken aback.

One of the other guests huffed, a smirk on his cheek while others ranged from shocked to appalled; giving her the impression that they’d likely expected her to cut and run before her hazing was through. 

She cared nothing of them or their games; but she couldn’t allow Velvet to be hurt -or worse- in the crossfire dogging closer to her by the minute.  

“Would you rather they come here?” she shot to the Baron, rhetorical and flippant.

She stepped back, to disengage from Velvet and the group, but Velvet stepped with her. 

Unable to resist the urge, she allowed the stolen moment. 

“Be safe,” Velvet pled; the mix of sadness and confusion brimming in the dancer’s soulful eyes absolutely more than she was able to stand. 

Unable to speak, she brought Velvet’s hand to lips; she kissed the backs of Velvet’s fingers with the same intensity that she squeezed VV’s other hand, and by great force of will, ripped herself away from the charming kindred and her glistening eyes. 

As she forced herself away, her vision began clouding; the shapes and static she’d been slipping into over the course of the night rippled and fizzed with now-familiar ferocity. 

She cursed herself for not carrying in any weapons, finding her empty palms terribly naked and weak-feeling without the faithful weight of something heavy and metallic inside them, leaving her to sink into the shadows as her only reasonable option.

A side-door leading to a small outdoor seating arrangement corralled by a  low-rising wall.

Scanning the road and the hint of parking lot she could make out, revealed nothing overt even to her 'sight beyond sight'.

Humans milled about, though the streets seemed darker, more dangerous.

Maybe Mercurio brought a gun, she thought, making her way over to where the ◈ex-Prince's ghoul was parked◈.

-Her ghoul, she supposed, correcting herself; where her ghoul was parked.

She didn't half to creep far as the man stood, impatiently tapping his foot and looking over his shoulder, a worried expression on his face.

She dropped her stealth tactic, spooking him, though he shook it off after the initial surprise.

"Bad vibes, Kid!" he warned, his eyes darting around the parking lot; "Got a tip'up that some shindigs' gonin bad, downtown."

She nodded, figuring the mess had to be what the Nosferatu Baron had called her about; "You pack any supplies in the trunk?" she asked, eyeing the car.

"-Yeah, uh, in the trunk."

After making sure the coast was clear, he hurriedly popped the hatch; she crept beside him to peer around his shoulder at the small portable arsenal.

"The Big 'V said you were fond of uh, covering all types," he explained.

"Give me your coat," she requested, surprised at herself when it sounded like a confident order; Mercurio obeyed quickly.

"I'll start the car," he offered, as she slipped the garment on.

It wasn't her hefty trenchcoat, she assessed, as she started strapping holsters; but it would provide some of the pocketspace and discretion, that she needed.

She closed the trunk and slid into the front passenger seat, Mercurio pitching the car forward even before she closed her side-door.

"When we get there, I want you to bail if it looks too dangerous," she asked, not wanting to have to account for his mortal saftey on top of whatever other variables she'd have to juggle.

The man looked visibly relieved, at that.

"Whatever you say Doll -er, Miss," he replied courtly.

His demeanor had her wondering for a moment, of what kind of hazing Therese had put him through. 

-Or how LaCroix had treated him, for that matter. 

~

The scene Downtown wasn't as bad as she'd feared, but it certainly didn't relax her nerves any to see what she could only describe as a band of kindred slowly stalking the street.

It made her feel even less secure, in seeing that there were multiple roaming packs, across multiple streets.  

So this is a power vacuum, was all she could think, the sight of it all leading her to wonder as to just what kind of fresh hell the Voermans had sheltered her from after the fall of LaCroix. 

She crept through the shadows with every ounce of care and tact that had kept her alive during the night of her Bloodhunt, and tried to piece together who was who, and which of the prowling gangs she was to focus on stopping.

The tension hanging in the air was so thick, she could almost taste it like an aura.

She made it just round the corner where the remnant's of the Prince's tower remained in effigy when her luck ran out. 

"There she is!" cried someone in the distance; she cursed, not wasting time to spot the source in lieu of hightailing it to more defendable ground. 

Unfortunately for her, the streets were lined with more Kindred than she'd ever seen, and the rally cries rippled throughout the area like wildfire, leaving her little in the way for any route to escape.

The cries of 'Traitor!' 'Prince Killer!' and 'Get her!' paired with clashes of swinging crowbars and volleys of gunfire she expected.

The variations in proclamations of 'Her blood is mine', were also of no surprise.

The few darting cries of 'Baron!' 'Leave her alone!' and 'Fuck off!' from cliques of licks who began fighting alongside her, however, was something she hadn't anticipated. 

She tried to keep track of the colliding masses of conflicts as everywhere she looked, squads paired off into terrible battles of masquerade breaching attrition until the pressures from the 'Bloodhunters' and 'Tara's Loyalists' overtook the bulk of her concentration.

What they lacked for in individual skills, the bands made up for in numbers and venom.  

And, in lacking her usual arsenal, she quickly found herself falling victim to damage intakes that would soon prove fatal, if she couldn't cut through the bulk of them in time. 

She gave up on attempting higher stratagem for sustained dodging, and did her best to take them down one by one. 

Something about her fighting seemed to rally the ones also against the insurrectionists, at least; forcing her to dance around the brawls dotting the landscape as she fought deeper and deeper into the Domain she shared with the Magic House and the Last Round. 

She made it as far as the alleys short-cutting the main road to her Haven before getting gridlocked between two opposing factions both seemingly hellbent on destroying her.

"Nothing personal toots," one of the punks behind her sneered; "Just time for a change in guard 'round here," supplied an equally grunged up youth beside him.

'Others may dispute you', echoed Therese's words, prompting her to growl in tired frustration; she supposed she commended them for picking a tactically advantageous night, at least.

The trio of kindred in front of her however, were clearly salty about Tara.

She growled out her frustration, again.

The leader of the surprisingly well-dressed trio readied a set of nasty looking claws as he stepped forward, a growl in his throat.

Keeping her hind-focus on the men closing the gap behind her, she took the liberty of shooting the clear target the man in front of her had made himself out to be.

The bullets hit true, and staggered him for only a moment, alloying her time to scramble up onto the dumpster at her side, giving her a vantage point to spray a similar warning volley at the Territorial Gang dogging her rear.

"I'll fucking kill you!"  the wounded man screeched; she watched in horror as the man contorted, hands to his head, his screaming spiraling into a garbled, growling rage.

She'd never seen an aura so intense on a regular vampire; for a moment she was completely stunned, as she took in the rapidly shifting glows of black rippling reds emanating from the man turned Beast.

As he lunged towards her, her focus snapped back to her own self-preservation and she cursed her lack of her flame-thrower.

Her pistol shots, even at point blank range did nothing to slow the man down, and it was a hell-in-a-handbasket trying to dodge him and the rest of the groups supporting firepower.

There were too many, she wasn't properly armed, and she was cornered.

She was loosing, and fast.

As she struggled with a plan to somehow scale up to the nearest roof or else jump over one of the opposing sides to make a better brake for it, a different growl emanated through the night, surprising some of the punks into making fatal errors.

Keeping out of reach of his claws and teeth meant she had little time to question the arrival of the new combatant; taking advantage of the seconds of commotion, she focused on pressuring the Frenzied lick into blocking the bullets from his companions in her stead.

Unfortunately, the metal bat she picked up off one of her earlier Dustings proved woefully ineffectual against the brute.

In a manner of seconds, she was pinned.

Unable to dodge, she scrambled to think of something to buy her battered body a few moments more, her countless tortures in her earliest nights keeping her mind sharp enough to ascertain just how much damage and pain the lick's assault was putting her body through.

A seconds aware from Torpor, and likely her final death, another roar rang out and the Beast was knocked off of her, something ◈metallic and glinting◈ on the wet-slicked pavement beside her along the fuzzy edges of her peripheral vision.

She grabbed it, half blind with slashes cleaving through her body; her hands meeting the familair weight of a bush-hook.

She smiled in a manic glee of second-wind, pumping the reserves of her 'second stomach' through her veins in effort to finish off the rest of the assailants.

Barley able to see, hear, or make out the world around her, she relied entirely on the 'Flow' she'd learned to attune to during her first nights of undeath, compensating for her 'mortal' senses by double-downing on the ones heightened by the reflection she'd once stared into.

In her sorry state, she couldn't be certain who her collaborator was in all the pandemonium, but the figure of her rescuer felt familiar enough that she felt safe enough to focus her efforts into fighting at his back.

They made short work of the gangs in the alley, nodding at each other once, as if to certify their unspoken coalition, before stepping out into the next street. 

Armed with a weapon that allowed her to use her grace against her opponents as her 'partner' herded their foes into her whirling dance of death, they managed to turn from Prey into formidable Predators, despite the numbers against them. 

She was still burning through a lot of blood however, and her possibly-altruistic companion didn't seem to have her capacity of durability.

Still, they managed to clear out the street in front of her Haven, and managed to press into the through what seemed to be the line of aggressors between the Nocturne Theater and the Confession.

It was there, encircled by the gangs, that reinforcements arrived.

Nines, flanked by a small gang of his own, tore into the riot with a bellowing rally cry, inspiring the other supporters in the area to to flock to his side.

Exhausted, in pain, and hungry, all she could do was choke out a bitter laugh.

And they call Toreadors spotlight-hogs, she cackled, her thoughts more than a little unhinged.

As she paused a moment to reorient herself, the mysterious stranger returned to her side; he was a little strange under her 'senses beyond senses', but she was relieved that her assumption had been correct. 

The Southland Slasher shimmered at her in a pulsating blue rimmed in the palest of yellows; she wasn't quite sure shy, but the impression inspired visions of mangy dogs with steadfast paws and grimy coats.

"...You?" she asked, her voice as unsteady and air-less as her body.

"I've been thinking 'lot about you, the things you said," he replied, his voice distorted either by his animalistic form or from the way she was forcing herself to perceive the world around them.

She tried not to sway, as the colors danced.

"I figure, you're the one making sure the real justice is done," he rambled; she watched his face melt into something between human... and not.

"You showed me mercy when no one else would have, and everyone's been talking about how you save everyone who needs it, and how you put down the dogs that don't," he continued, his voice becoming almost unnoticeable in the orchestra of chaos around them. 

"So I've come to your Domain, humbly offering to join your coterie, if you'll have me."

The lights of the fire glows around her made her dizzy; the shouts of Nine's men and the lingering troupes of gangs and cliques all wooping and hollering their battlecries and job-well-dones speckled into shapeless disarray in her ears. 

She sank to her knees.

"Hey Kid, you alright?" asked a voice, from a form pushing her new friend away.

She curled over, nearly touching her head to the pavement, wishing she could vomit the sensory overload away. 

"-Sisters," came a choked out word from her increasingly constricted throat. 

Her world started going dark as her senses attempted to shut everything out.

A pair of arms scooped her up; far too furry to be the Brujah Baron's.

"Take her to the Last Round," Nine's voice wavered, the tones oh so distant.

Chapter Text

The childe was sat on the bar's squalid floor, braced against the window streaked with the sorts of grime that would never be scrubbed off were anyone to actually bother with cleaning it; the deplorable sight filled her equal parts disgust and concern.

-A bubble of annoyance popped in her chest; it wasn't as though she hadn't expected the fledgling to lack any reaction to the 'party' she'd coerced Isaac into throwing, but Therese had thought she had made it quite clear to the girl that she'd preferred not to find the fledgling in such sorry states.

Curse the city's interference, she thought, adjusting her glasses; she supposed it was a minor inconvenience, at least.

"What happened?" she asked the cluster of brutes blocking her path, her tone leaving no room for the rabble to deny her.

"We were fighting outside, killing the Riot," answered a stranger, some Gangrel-looking kindred sporting a great deal of animatlistic features; the streaks of dirt and vitae scraped over his fur-patched skin reminded her of muddy tiretracks and lacerations.

She kept her observations to herself and nodded, allowing the grungy street-urchin to speak further; the notes of loyalty in his voice to the girl didn't quite soften his features or excuse the mess, but she supposed it was something of a silver lining to his otherwise distasteful-looking personage.

"She was fine until Nines showed up; fell to the ground," the mutt continued, "Last word she said before falling out of it was 'sisters'. I told Nines that had to mean one of you," he finished, as he gestured towards her with his mangled digits.

If she were 'fine', she wouldn't be like this, her mind sneered. She bit back the urge to snarl at him, not finding him worth the effort.

ₐₛₖ ₐbₒᵤₜ ₜₕₑ fᵣₑₑ ₐᵣₛₑₙᵢc.

"Fetch me a bottle. Whiskey," she bayed, ignoring the fluttering at the edges of her mind.

The dog looked at her a moment before cowing his head and turning tail; as he obediently headed down the stairs, she looked to the other three rebels with some lingering disdain.

They fidgeted as she looked the rag-tag group over; Therese only recognized the tallest of the bunch, as he'd also been the oldest 'new members' of Nine's personal coterie for some years now.

Skelter didn't bother with formal pleasantries, something she knew from experience; Therese figured that his willingness to be forthright was at least, for the moment, an agreeable trait.

"How long has she been like this?" she asked him factually, cataloguing the damages littered across the three wounded brutes; "Has she stayed stable? Has she lashed out at all?"

The large Gangrel shook his head; "She's stayed like that the whole time. Maybe fifteen minutes now? Seems like she's tryin' to shut out her Beast or somethin'. Nines is still out there, got Damsel watching his back. I stayed to watch her. That scruffy man says he knows her, said to call you," he furthered, eyes narrowing.

Therese resisted the urge to pull a face; Skelter never had fully trusted Malkavians after what her sister had done to him. She supposed he was right to be wary, but such bluntness, to a Baron of all people, was still rude.

The 'scruffy man' came back, bottle prostrated in his gnarled claw-hands like a sacramental offering.

Curtly, Therese took the vile bottle of liquid vice.

Armed with all the tools and information she'd required, she ignored the pair of Gangrels and the other pair of heathens, to make her way over to the orchid-eyed rose humbled on the time-weathered floor.

She grabbed a cup from one of the tables as she passed by, electing not to think about the manner of its cleanliness, or of the actions she was about to take.

Wordlessly, she stopped before the fledgling.

Lowering herself, resting on her heels with glass and bottle held aloft in one hand, she used her other to lift the girl's face.

The blank-eyed expression she was met with, thankfully, wasn't one of dissociation, but one of hyperaware anguish.

While the girl certainly looked worse for wear and Therese had no way to account for the manner of wounds the fledgling had likely healed on her way in, or if the vitae soaking the fledgling had belonged to her or her enemies, Therese was relieved to find that none of the fledgling's wounds looked to be self-inflicted.

Paired with the girl's lack of frenzy once again, she rather felt the whole situation more trying than 'dire'. 

Comfortable that her assessment fell in line with her assumed prognosis, Therese gracefully maneuvered herself to sit down beside the girl, shoulder to shoulder.

Knowing her actions were a stark break from her 'traditions', Therese could feel all eyes in the room studying her every move.

She'd already made her peace that the Anarchy would make of her actions, what they would.

With every ounce of her cultivated reputation, she shot a look to the others in the room, daring them to comment or interfere.

Skelter crossed his arms, leveling his stare, but saying nothing.  

Looking away from him, Therese silently uncapped the whiskey and poured the girl a glass.

She pressed it into the girl's hands without fanfare.

"Drink, but do not swallow," she instructed, allowing her tone to resonate firmly, but... kind.

-Without admonishment, at least.

It took a moment, and the fledgling's hand shook as she struggled the glass to her lips, but the young Toreador obeyed as Therese had suspected she would.

Instantly the girl choked, as Therese had been hoping her to do.

"Hold it," she ordered firmly, though no less 'gentle' than before; she suppressed a smile, part of her grateful that the young Toreador didn't have a taste for the insidious substance.

Diligently, the girl struggled to keep the foul drink in her mouth, lasting only a few seconds before coughing it back into the glass.

Part of her -an embarrassingly large part of her, felt sympathy for the young rose; watching her ward struggle to imbibe the utterly loathsome swill tugged on her heart, though she felt somewhat vindicated that at least the girl likely would not fall pray to her sister's penchant for binge-drinking on drunk kine until her body rebelled.

She reminded herself, that she was practical, not kind.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" she offered her, to give the girl some solace, if only through solidarity; "Focus on it." 

The girl managed a few more seconds before spitting it back out.

"Again," she ordered. 

Again, the fledgling repeated the process.

And again.

Each time holding it between her jaws a little longer before the Beast inside her rejected it.

As Therese had intended, the burning, ash-y taste seemed to do the trick for the girl, as with each attempt, her young blossom looked able to focus more clearly.

Slowly, Therese brought the bottle to her own lips. 

ₛₑₐₗₑd wᵢₜₕ ₜₕₑ ₖᵢₛₛ ₒf ₛwᵢₙₑ.

It'd been a long time, since she'd last imbued.

The taste was truly as deplorable as ever.

Sickening.

Like swallowing memories of domestic violence and tearstains.

But the burn of it, sliding down her throat was as cleansing as it had been in life.

Liquid fire.

There was some cold comfort, that it tasted as miserable as the poor girl looked to be. 

When the pattern of noise on the floor below started to shift, Therese tore her gaze from her ward to the top of the stairs; Nines emerged 'victorious' from his probable round of glory-claiming, mildly bruised and hardly bloodied. 

The grin on his face slipped away when he caught sight of her however, and some small part of her wanted to smirk; but, as she was tired and the girl to her side was relying on her for guidance, Therese decided that her flower required her focus far more than the other Baron.

Her sustained glare seemed to temper the man; he paused only a moment for the others in the room to fill him in, before he came trudging over.

Copying her tactics, he sat at the girl's other side, sandwiching her between.

Had they not been in his Haven, she would've forbade the man's foolish attempts at camaraderie in the rose's delicate state.

Therese was content to let the fledgling work through the process for as long as she needed.

The girl spat her drink out once more, close enough to lucidity to allow Therese to relax some.

At Nines' probing look, Therese took another sip from the bottle, allowing a long stretch of silence to fall between them before answering it. 

"Sensory overload," came her answer, not bothering to go in-depth; "I've nursed my sister though an uncountable amount of her benders to know the signs when I see them."

She catches Nines' blink of surprise in her peripheral; he nods, accepting the answer before getting up.

He drags over a cup of his own, and holds it out for her to fill.

She pours, but offers him no respite to start up conversation.

She takes another drink.

With shuddered reflex-driven breathing, the girl sputters to speak.

"The party... The shapes started when-"

"-Hush," she bids, not trusting any of the ears around them; "Relax, childe. Drink."

ⱼᵤₛₜ ₖₑₑₚ ₐ ₗᵢₜₜₗₑ ₛₐₗₜ wᵢₜₕ yₒᵤ ₐₙd ₚᵤₜ ᵢₜ ₒₙ ₕᵢₛ ₜₐᵢₗ.

As if grateful for the permission, the fledgling sunk further in her seat, tension slipping out of her small frame.

"Everything's good outside," Nines offers, "You did good, Kid."

Therese takes another drink to keep from screaming at the man that the 'kid' wouldn't be in this mess if, for once, the man managed his barony properly.

-Or at the very least, she vented internally, if he kept his affairs from interfering with hers.

"I'm sorry," the girl mumbles feebly; shrinking, like a violet.

Therese tries to quell her temper, knowing the girl's penchant for navigating her surroundings through Auxpexed-empathy.  

"You've nothing to apologize for," she replies, because really, the girl's instinct to minimize her exposure to external stimuli in such states had been an intelligent one.

-And she'd called for her, and her sister.

It wasn't quite how she'd expected to consolidate the fledgling's loyalty, but the result was apparently still as she'd wanted, and that was well enough for Therese.

When at last, the fledgling looked more worn-out than nauseous, Therese took the cup from the rose's hands and beckoned Damsel over, figuring that even with her foul-temper, her charge would feel safer with a feminine touch, than in being accompanied by any of the male cohorts in Nines' entourage.

"Escort her home, see that she gets fed," she instructed, fully expecting the woman's reflexive scowl.

It was a shame, really; the Brujah had never particularly gotten along with anyone beyond Nines' inner circle and she'd shown great promised before falling into the pitfalls of idol-worship.

Therese blamed the woman's inherent need to rage against all perceived threats of 'authority', and her own need to present herself rationally.

"I don't take orders from you," the bottled-redhead seethed; "This ain't Sanny'Monny, bitch. You're in Nines' wheelhouse now."

Therese wondered if every conversation Damsel held was knife-fight, or if she was just 'lucky'.

The fledgling shivered at the woman's volume, brushing against her shoulder some; the small amount of hesitance it inspired in Damsel's snarl led Therese to make what she felt was a reasonable assumption that the rebel, under all her feigned ire, held some amount of fondness for the fledgling.

She felt no problems in leveraging that against her.

"For her sake," she insisted, enjoying the twitch it caused in Damsel's overly-painted face.

At least Jeanette doesn't make any pretense about being a harlot, she mused dryly.

Beside her, Nines' nodded, leading the woman to scoff and grumble, but the boorish woman took the young Toreador's arm just the same.

She refrained from shooting the girl any apologetic looks as the rebel all but dragged her to the stairs.

The girl would come to her again in her own time, she was sure.

Satisfied that she'd kept the girl's allegiances from straying, Therese took a moment to close her eyes, recalling the nights when she had struggled with such onslaughts of her powers.

She decided that it's a good thing, she'd claimed the girl as her own.

Since apparently no one else in the city could understand the fledgling as she could.

After a few moments, the illusion of tranquility was shattered by the gruff man sitting up beside her. 

The Baron offered her his hand, which she refused, surprising no one in the room.

The man looked rather relieved at the small semblance of normalcy, which she scoffed at.

She supposed she should of expected it, when the man dismissed the rest of the rabble from his ill-kept roost and invited her to talk.

With a sigh, Therese took to her feet.

She could stand to allow the 'Downtown Baron' some dignity in his own Haven.  

~

The heavy weight in the smoke-thickened air between them continued to magnify under their silence; it was a long moment as each of them continued to nurse their drinks before Nines mustered up his thoughts enough to share. 

“You know ‘Rese, I haven’t seen you like this since… Well, I haven’t seen you like this in years,” he broached. 

She knew what he meant, too. It was exactly why she didn’t do this, anymore.

There was no point in chasing their lost youth. 

It had been fun while it lasted; the days of their coterie were long enough gone not to hurt, and the sting of his betrayal had broken clean decades ago. 

The bottle stilled against her lips; she hoped the burn of the alcohol was strong enough to kill off whatever taint was no doubt molding around its glass. 

ᵢₜ'ₛ ₙₒₜ fₐᵢᵣ! ᵢ wₐₙₜₑd ₜₒₒ!

“It’s funny,” she mused bitterly, reflexively needling the barb; “You never did call my sister back.”

The immediate abashedness in his expression quickly faded; he nodded some, but stayed silent. 

“Beasts we are, lest our beasts we become,” she offered tiredly. 

Her eyes closed as her head tilted back against the chair, her mind’s eye easily welling up the antiqued memories. 

‘He wasn’t even that good,’ Jeanette goaded, the whisper at her ear only for Therese. 

Their affair had never been the issue; not really. 

“We were kids Therese,” Nines emptied, his tone nearly balanced to his bottle; “I’m just surprised seeing you this happy for once. I still… I’m glad you can still be happy, is all,” he managed gruffly. 

“I don’t often like recalling that, these nights.”

“Well, you’re welcome to join us,” he insisted, “Whenever you feel up for old times.” 

Sounds of younger laughter, hazy and yellowing, echoed through the room as the lingering ghosts of nights passed haunted around their table. 

How many of those old faces had they’d lost? 

How many of them could she even reasonably recall?  

Her eyes slivered open to stare at the garish clouds of smoke billowing under the shoddy ceiling light above them that would never know the release of burden from being dusted off or wiped down. 

She wondered how her young charge would see it; ephemeral, silly little creature that she was. 

Something tugged inside of her as the echoes around them shifted, forming ghosts of nights long past, clattering with the boisterous thunder of rabble cajoling around her and the rosen childe she was picturing through displaced time. 

Part of her could easily picture herself slipping into old habits, in tailing the young kindred.

She folds away such emotions and impracticality with an unforgiving malice.

Jeanette shot her a concerned look; that she was taking the conversation so seriously, worried her.

“I only came for the girl.”

“Something about that kid seems to strike a chord in everyone,” he noted; “She reminds me of you, back when we were fresh. -I almost wish she’d been around with us, back then. MacNeil would’ve loved her-”

ᵣₐₜ ₜₐᵢₗₛ, cₐₜ ₜₐᵢₗₛ, cₒₐₜ ₜₐᵢₗₛ, ₐₗₗ ₜₐₗₑₛ!

She forced a long, harsh stream of air through her nose and took another drag on the bottle; the burn cleansing down her throat and eviscerating her dwelling sin. 

The glass clinked as she tapped it forcefully back on the table. 

That was it, really. 

His need to make martyrs out of battered women. 

-Her, and when her vision had parted from his, then it had been her sister; and when Jeanette had left him shaken and bruised, he’d drifted from one awe-eyed initiate to another until falling to Damsel.

It was concerning, hearing his pattern now fixating on the childe.

Our childe, Jeanette mouthed.

Therese closed her eyes and allowed her head to roll back, as she reflected.  

The young Toreador had likely picked up on it too, Therese rationalized, what with how gun-shy of men the fledgling seemed to be. 

Slipping Nines a glance, she noted his posture perking up alongside his growing enthusiasm. 

“I think ‘Kid’s got something special. Something the Anarchy’s really needed for a long time,” he accounted, completely unaware that he'd spoken such things several times of several others before, “Change is on the horizon Therese, I’m guaranteeing.”

Wₕᵢₛₕₑₛ ₐₙd wₒᵣdₛ ₛₚᵣₒᵤₜ fᵣₒₘ ₜₕₑ ₛₐₘₑ ₛₑₑd.

She churned over what benefits she might glean from offering her 'old friend' any of her honesty as she listened to him speak; her relative good mood found her more pliant than usual, but it was for her sister's sake that she chose to speak. 

“I don’t think she’s interested in war games,” she mused, idly running algebraic thoughts of the fledgling's nature and decisions.

“Sure,” he vehemently agreed, “Who of us wouldn’t throw in the towel if there was any other way? But that’s not us. That’s never been how this goes. Cammy gets that.” 

“-Cammy?” 

“Yeah,” he gruffed awkwardly, waving a hand vaguely, “As far as I’m concerned she’s earned it.”

“She disposed Kearney and LaCroix; gave up control over all of L.A. -Twice ,” Therese emphasized, “And you... named her... after the Camarilla?” 

She leveled her head back and looked him over pointedly; fully allowing her credulousness to writ over her face. 

Nines blanked; she fought back an urge to scoff. 

“It’s no wonder she ended up on my doorstep,” she bit; she knew she had a mouth full of needles. She felt no need to dull her points. 

“Okay, what’s her name then?” he asked defensively, “Since you two are so close.” 

“It’s not my business,” Therese snarked, “Ask her yourself.”

He grumbled, but calmed. 

Their drinks were equally, and precariously close, to being empty. 

“You like her?” Nines asked, straight down the barrel. 

Jeanette recoiled, though he seemed not to notice her, drunk on nostalgia and compulsion as he was. 

Therese forced another breath, and leaned her head back once more, the bottle loose in her fingertips.

ₘₐₛₜ ₗₐy ₛₕᵣₒᵤdₑd ₐₙd ₜₕₑ ₘₒₒₙ ᵢₛ ₘₑₗₜᵢₙg. ₘₐₛₜ ₐₙd ₘₒₒₙ. ₘₑₗₜᵢₙg... ₘₑₗₜᵢₙg...

“Water will take the shape of any form it’s given,” she answered tiredly, “So too, will roots form amongst the cracks.” 

“-You plan to keep her then,” he guessed; visibly unused to her network speech after her decades long abstinence from it, “For some kind of ace up your sleeve? In case the Cam comes back?” 

A duck will always fly home for the winter, Jeanette sang; Nines pretended not hear her, and she was too tired to chastise him for it. They could work out their own squabble amongst themselves, if they were going to be petty about it.

“She was born under the winds of Gehenna and turned its tide,” she offered, “She’s too powerful to be left unmanaged. And if coddling her grants us the means to stave off the Final Nights through her sacrifice, then I shall shoulder such burden.” 

“I thought you said you didn’t believe in fairytales,” he shot mildly. 

“But she does,” Therese quipped, suddenly struck by the magnitude of it all, “And to her, they’re very, assuredly real. We birthed a minotaur and asked her to avenge the labyrinth, ‘Rigez," she retorted, using her old nickname for him like a stake to his chest; "And without a tether through the maze for her to cling to, isolation will bloom thorns of hate, and the city will fall to her availing wrath.” 

He shifted uncomfortably; the truth never settled well, under his skin. 

“You think she’s dangerous?” 

“You don’t?” she retorted sharply.

“I mean-”

“Do you honestly think you could stop her if it came to it?” she asked, “They may have underestimated her, but Ming, LaCroix, Andre, -they all should’ve been able to handle her. She’s too much powerful to be some low generation, Rodriguez. We may well be looking at a baby Methuselah.”

"You sure she's not just... one of the clanless? Thinblood maybe? An Unbound?"

Jeanette stifled a laugh; Therese's fingers drummed a few repetitions against the suspiciously sticky table.

"My sister assures me the fledglings' fullblooded; everything I've seen of her suggests she's a proper Toreador, a fact with witch even Isaac agrees."

At the Baron's unconvinced and furrowed brows, Therese shakes her head and adds; "Her aura is clean. She hasn't consumed anyone for her strength." 

"So why worry? Let her do her thing, 'Rese," he retorts, folding his arms; "Seems to make good decisions so far."

"-You do realize she has half the west coast's Cainite population gunning for her, do you not?" Therese reminds, "Do you know how easy it's been for my sister to ensnare her? Do you think she could resist anyone dedicated to monopolizing her nativity for profit? One pretty face with a sad smile is all it would take," she growls, "And then we have Armageddon on our hands. Again."

“Why not kill her then? Not that I’m a fan of that,” he assured, “but it’d be cleaner wouldn’t it?”

A little embarrassed of herself, she struggled to answer; she’d long ago sworn off the idea of Toreadors entirely, vowing not to fall victim to their whims and webs as so many of her business associates always seemed to do and yet.

And yet.

Here she was, thoroughly ensnared in the vines of a budding rose too fresh from the dirt to know her own potential.  

Locked in the struggle, here she was still sitting in Nine’s hovel, drinking down swill like it was the night after the revolution.

Jeanette eyed her, saying nothing. 

She looked at Nines a moment, her eyes glazing over memories new and old, finding there was room for one moment of honesty between them, for their shared histories.   

“When she looks at…"

Her voice falters; Jeanette shooting her an understanding look.

She doesn’t see how we're different, she thinks, sensing the same feeling from Jeanette as her sister nodded. 

“She doesn’t see the world as she ought to see it, it’s…”

  -Nice , Jeanette hummed.

Refreshing, she thinks; recalling the fledgling's soothing pale aura, before hastily shoving the thought away.

“-Good to have that kind of power on our side,” Therese finishes instead. 

“I’ll drink to that,” Nines agreed, hoisting up his bottle; she pitched her forward, cracking them together with a ‘clank’, before giving the drink one final round.       

Chapter Text

"Oh fuck, what now?" Damsel groused, eyeing the line of what appeared to be undercover security barring the lobby.

'Slasher' held an arm in front of her, his barley-humanized arm still covered in the welts from earlier. 

"Miss? Is that you?" called one near the rear; she recognized his face as the 'regular' guard who always spotted her whenever she picked up her mail; the man barked something, and the guards holstered their weapons.

"Jeez," Damsel hissed; mirroring her own surprise.

"We kept the perimeter clear Ma'am," stated whom she could only assume was the 'head' of the team; "The noise seems to have died out outside, but we'll keep watch tonight in case there's any straggling," he assured. "You and you're guest'r good to go up.

"Looks like they know you," the Gangrel rumbled, calming some. 

"Since when do you have boot lickers, Cammy?" Damsel asked, eyeing the guards suspiciously.

"I guess Therese put them in, when she fixed up the place?" she offered; she couldn't tell if the surrealness she was feeling was from the actual events of the evening, or if she was still reeling from... the -overload? that she'd experienced.

Just as Damsel moved to lead them over to the elevator, Slasher halted her with a mangled hand to her arm.

"I'll find you someone. Whores, right?" he asked, lacking tact but seemingly with sincere intention.

"I think they like to be called 'working girls', but sure," she answers, not quite sure how to handle having a new... whatever the man-beast was. 

The Gangrel nodded back; "I'll have one of 'em send her up. Keep watch outside," he promised curtly, already turned to leave the lobby.

Damsel gave her other arm a tug, and led her past the guards to the elevator.

The grinding hum of the elevator grated on her nerves, but Damsel kept a steadying hand on her shoulder and kept mercifully quiet beyond a few huffing sighs.

The ding from the opening doors stung a bit, though; she staggering her for a few steps.

She'd expected the Brujah to leave once she made it to the door, but to her surprise, Damsel pushed her inside, marched in, and locked the door behind them.

The place was as she left it, and the glow of the fishtank bathed the room in a soft blue-white light.

She felt a deeper sense of calm than she'd felt it several hours.

"So, Therese fixed up the place for you, huh?" Damsel baited, looking around.

Instead of immediately answering, she made her way over to the couch and collapsed onto it.

"The Sabbot trashed it when I was working everything out for the city," she eventually answered, her voice more tiered than she would've liked; "You can look around if you want. 'Got a nice stock, upstairs."

A few egressing footsteps later, and she could make out the sounds of Damsel milling around in the arsenal of weaponry and supplies in the old bedroom. She heard a whistle, and what was probably an impressed expletive, before the redhead trudged through the hallway and back down the stairs.

Damsel then peaked around the kitchen and laundry, discovered the main bathroom, and wandered back into the 'living' room.

"It's not much, but it's where I keep the crap I use to kill people," she quipped, wishing her life wasn't so absurd in such a grim manner.

The rebel looked conflicted, as per her usual. Red-hot rage seemed to constantly boil in the woman's veins.

"She's really got her claws in you, huh?" Damsel broached, folding her arms; the cloud of red outlining her tinging the faintest green.

"I get it, you're concerned for me," she replied gently; "I promise I'll be careful; I didn't fall for any of LaCroix's schemes, I'm not going to willingly jump into anyone else's either. Therese pretends to be super practical to cover up her emotions but, she wouldn't keep sticking her neck out for me if she wasn't at least a little bit fond of me." 

The anger around Damsel's body seemed to lessen, as some of the strain to her posture gained some slack, leaving the rebel with a slight look of apprehension. 

Figuring the redhead didn't know what else to make of the situation, she struggled to sit up and regarded her more fully.

She sighed, resisting the urge to bury her head back down in the couch pillows.

"Since you're here, might as well ask you a few things. 'Bout Anarchy and all," she broached, gesturing for Damsel to join her. 

The woman looked more than a little relieved; in a moment, Damsel was sat in a chair across from her, having dragged it along the floor to get there.

As Damsel braced her arms on her thighs, a slight look of eagerness washed over her face; "been awhile since I've had a good rant... Ok Cammy, hit me."

"That guy who was with us, the serial killer-"

"-Serial killer!?"

"-Yeah," she soothes, "It's cool. I talked him into senses after he was done getting revenge on his family's murderers; anyway, while I was getting my ass handed to me in the Riot, he asked me to be in my 'coterie'? -Therese said something like that once. Asked me if I was 'part of Nines' coterie'," she mimed with her fingers, "I figured it was like, a gang? Right? Is it more than that? Do I gotta be worried about this dude or something?"

"Shit Cammy, I'd forgot how much you babies don't fucking know. Yeah," she wavered rubbing the back of her neck; "Yeah it's like a gang, I guess. Me and Skelter and Nines are all crew. Thought you were gonna be too, which is why we were all fucking jiggered when you smoked us after popping off that no good hoity-toity fat farting fascist, LaCroix.

"Ok, so I got 'crew' now I guess," she thinks aloud, still not sure what to make of it; "That's... weird. After everything." 

"Just don't get your britches stuck over your head newbie," Damsel warned; "There's armies of licks out there who'll happily rip your cock off to peg you with it."

"-And you think I spend too much time with Jeanette," she teases, before she's able to stop herself; "I'll have to remember that one."

"Oh. My. God," the Brujah groused.

She snickered, gently digging her fangs into her lip.

"That does sorta bring me to my next question," she leads as the rebel balks.

"No, absolutely not happening Cammy-"

"I meant the riot, not the pegging," she sighs exasperatedly, though a part of her did find the refusal something of a loss. 

Damsel adjusted herself, hesitantly nodding for her to go on.

"The riot," she repeats, thinking back to the gangs roving the street. "Some of them called me a 'Baron'. What the fuck is that about?"

Damsel barked a deep-throated laugh; "You? A baron? As if," the Brujah mocked. "This is Nines' turf, and don't you fuckin' forget it, lick."  

"I don't care, honestly," she replied, shaking her head; "But like. Why? The way some of them rallied over me like I was some kinda warlord or something? I've never said I was anything! What does a Baron even do anyway? They just. Say they're in charge and then what? Everyone just, forms a gang around them, waiting to riot in the street for who owns what?"

Damsel's scowl deepens; "They keep watch, Cammy. Keep the Capes from sticking their grubby little hands into everyone's business. They take the first shots when shit hits the fan."

"You mean how I've been doing for the whole city?" she baits, enjoying the answering snarl flashed across Damsel's face; "-Relax. Already said I ain't interested. I just, see how some of the cliques are making assumptions now."

"Yeah well, give me another night and I'll make sure those assholes know whose running this town, or I'll fucking introduce those sorry sons of bitches to their rectums from their retinas," the redhead promised.

"I'd appreciate that, actually," she replies, surprising the both of them; "And another thing: the Cam is gone, the Sabbot is gone, the Kuei-jin are gone. Ancients are waking up all over the place. ...Do we have like, an actual plan for any of this yet? Everyone keeps telling me to wait until they know more but apparently I'm still everyone's do-girl and I hate feeling like everyone's just giving me 'busy work' to keep me in the dark."

Damsel growled a rumbling sigh; "I feel that," the rebel agrees; "When I think of all the shit that I could be doing I just. Arhg. It makes me so goddamn itchy."

For a moment, the Brujah runs her tongue over her teeth and hisses another vestigial breath before shaking her head.

"Which is actually why I got other work comin' up. Wont be in town much longer to look after things Cammy; 'less you want to tag along? -Nines said I should courier his shit solo but. I bet he'd make an exception if it was for you," the rebel offered. 

While not soft, the aura around the woman was almost as jovial as the night she'd met up with her back at the hideout.

The thought was... interesting.

To just.

Go.

And yet.

Even as she pictured it, driving under the light of the moon, chuckling at Damsel's never ending rants...

She couldn't picture it clearly, in her head.

Like she wasn't meant to leave, somehow.

Like something was calling to her, whispering, at the edges of her subconscious.

That and, I still have three different factions all vying for my ashes like some kinda sick trophy, she thought tiredly.

"Wouldn't I be a liability? With everyone after me?"

Damsel smirks; "Think you're the hottest shit since sliced bread, huh? News flash Cammy, we're all 'traitors' to that fascist fucking regime. But I get it. It's a big 'scary pond' out there and you're too chickenshit to dive in," she mocked.

"For now, yeah. I guess so," she agrees. "It still feels like I have a lot of things to learn before I go trying to topple any more governments."

Damsel laughed with a gravely chuckle; it reminded a bit of a cartoon charter she'd watched once. -Spinell? -Spinelly? Something about 'recess', she thinks.

Probably a resemblance of their berets and fisticuffs, she mused.

"Typical," the woman huffed; "You Toreadors always wanna crawl up people's skirts instead of doing anything useful for the Cause."

"I mean, if I stay I can watch Nines' back for you, at least?" she offered, not denying the accusation; she figured she'd be stuck with the man anyway, living in his territory as she was; "Not that he probably needs my help any. But at least everyone knows my words are good, whenever I'm vouching."

The woman smiled, her rage quieting for just a moment.

"Yeah, that'd be cool; man's too stubborn for his own good," Damsel grumbled, her stubbornness picking back up through her tone; "I keep telling him that he needs a break from this place, see some real action. But he won't listen to me. Says he's got too much responsibility here, that's why he's sending me out to Seattle."

"Seattle?"

"Yeah, taking up the Good Fight out there," the redhead replied eagerly. The Brujah practically vibrated with restless energy; "It's gonna be big! Now that news has spread cross country that LA pushed back the Cam again, 'ideas gettin' around that the Anarchy Free States are ripe for the making! And Seattle just needs a little push to get them there, next! Couldn't be a better time to really pound 'em, hit 'em where it hurts!"    

"Now or never, eh?" she asked goodnaturedly.

"Fuck yeah!" Damsel agreed, nodding enthusiastically; "That's why this mission's on the down low. 'Gotta get there ahead of the Capes, so, mum's the fucking word, okay Cammy?"

"Got it, Commie," she promised, nodding once as well.

"Commie?" Damsel repeated, scoffing in both disgust and confusion.

"Communist," she merrily clarified; "Now we match!"

"Don't make me sick," Damsel groused, her disgust only partially covering the faint fluster to her movements.

"I can make no promises of the sort," she teased, feeling some weight ease off of her shoulders.

Her smile faltered when a knock rapt timidly against the door.

"-Don't move," Damsel warned, fishing out a pistol; the woman crept towards the door, taking up a position against the wall as she allowed it to open.

The faces they were met with belonged to a trio of working girls she recognized from a few of the street corners darting the area; each of them looking equal parts dazed, but personable.

"Fun for the birthday-girl," the one in front questioned, clearly looking for confirmation that the girl had gotten the right apartment.

"Oh uh, shit yeah," Damsel allowed, masking her embarrassment; she opened the door more fully to allow them entry; "She's over there."

Two of the girls giggled; one of them popped their coat on the rack, and the three of them crowded about her on the coach.

She didn't even really mean to... but some predatory nature came over her, like a lust.

like a hunger.

Something flicked on inside of her like a light, and the human girls fell against her like moths to a flame; it was easy.

Mouthfuls of kisses equating to groping hands, dipping caresses, and thick streams of blood sliding down her throat.

She took them one by one, until belly full, the three of them lay in blissed unawareness of the world around them. 

As she licked her lips, her attention recalled her chaperone and turned her gaze back to Damsel.

Whom she found to be eyeing her with some restrained emotion, as if caught between a desire to watch her and not watch her, at the same time.

Realizing her 'light' was on, she felt a metaphorical heat rise to her cold dead cheeks.

"Sorry," she offered, flipping it off; "You want some?"

Damsel's face contorted in further mixed emotion before she shook her head in refusal.

"Nothing personal Cammy, but we ain't that personal, ya dig?"

"...Sharing means something, then?" she broached, thinking back to all the shared meals she'd taken with the younger Santa Monica Baron.

"Oh god, I'm not having this talk with you," the Brujah groaned, rubbing her temples. 

She chuckles, which only serves to irate the embarrassed woman more.

"This is the last fucking time I take a babysitting job," Damsel bemoans, making her snicker all the more.

Chapter Text

In the wake of the Riot, she figures it was only fair to return Gary's good turn, and see what the Nosferatu might need.

At least, that had been her intention.

Her nature gets the best of her however, she she finds herself at Imalia's door.

"Oh, it's you," Imalia greeted flatly; the grumble in her scaled throat as residually annoyed as ever.

"Evening," she she replied gently; "Need anything?"

It was her standard question; she asked it to everyone, it was all anyone ever payed her any mind for. And even allowing for the few cases were it wasn't the be-all end all of her socialization, it was usually as far as she got with the woman. A rough dismissal, clenched fist. A dry "whatever".

She hadn't expected the woman to actually... look at her. For once.

"Why is it you're always coming down here and bothering us anyway?" Imalia asked, her tone and dark blue glimmering clearly marking her hunched-shouldered question as a cover for something deeper.

She'd asked herself the same thing, several times.

The only answer she had was 'pity', but she doubted it was an answer the women would ever want to hear.

"Maybe I like the way it makes Gary want to pull out his metaphorical hair," she teases, attempting to play things off.

"You're fruitier than Twani's gross little rabbit food salads," the Nosferatu nasally retorts; "Even if you two had hate-stiffys for each other or whatever, it doesn't explain why you're always down here. Bothering me."  

"I don't hate him," she dodges, her tone passive; "I wouldn't work for him if I didn't respect him."

She waves a hand vaguely to continue punctuating, "He makes some good points." 

"If you start even suggesting what Gary did to me was 'for my own good' or some such bullshit, so help you God I'm going to rip out your ass and peel your face off with a nail file."

"-Him turning you out of spite is honestly the one thing I hate most about him, but what do I know? Maybe he saved you from becoming a Toreador," she joked; "I've been to their parties you know. Between you and me, Isaac's friends all fucking suck. All of his men are pompous dicks-for-brains, and the good women were few and far between."

Imalia laughed, bitter and malicious.

She watched as the shimmering red around the woman dissolve into spots of flickering yellow and mottled orange, the spots soon deepening into red and entangled purple. The glimmering sheen pulsated in what looks like gnarls and tangling knots.

The woman was fishing for something; and while the shifting colors were unfamiliar on Imalia, she felt like she could make out some of the quieter patterns she'd seen in Velvet and Jeanette. She just hoped they translated from kindred to kindred, or their conversation was going to take a very different turn then either of them would likely hope for.

"You're weird, you know that? Ass-backwards. Torres throw chunks just looking at us, but you gag at regular guys," Imalia needles.

"True," she agrees, wondering if everyone stereotypes of her clan hadn't been some sort of exaggeration.

She bluffs confidence.

"Maybe I just use Gary's errands as an excuse-"

Imalia eyes immediately narrowed, studying her as if she were variable. An 'unknown'. A threat.

"-To meet interesting people," she finished, without breaking meter. 

"Interesting? If you want entertainment, you should be shacking up with your horse-nosed Rose bride up in Hollywood. We aren't 'things' for you to gawk at Smoothface." 

    

"...I thought you liked being admired?" she asks, to cover her misstep.

She began to feel as much of an animal as Imalia resembled, with her scale speckled leathery skin and stalking stare.

She could feel the shift in the air long before the Nosferatu's muscles twitched; electing not to aggravate the situation, she allowed the Nosferatu to pin her to the wall with a force that would have startled her instincts, had she not seen it coming.

A trickle of a voice in her head the sounded suspiciously like Jeanette giggled that she was playing a dangerous game.

But she refrained from moving. From flinching.

"What game are you playing at, Torre?" the woman asked.

She tried not feel hurt, or let the tired ache in her soul slip through her teeth, but she could feel some of it pouring into her quiet tone;

"...I thought we were friends."

A simple truth; she was a simple person, at heart.

The woman grimaced, visibly conflicted about her answer.

She leaned forward, brushing her lips against Imalia's for what would have been a heartbeat, before drawing her head back again.

The confliction written across the woman's face was somehow, even more intense.

"And why the hell would someone like you want to be friends with someone like me?" the Nosferatu murmured, cold dead breath seeping out from her gashed-mouth's stitches.

"Someone like you?" she repeats just as softly, tilting her head; "Someone... like me?" she adds, softer.

Imalia keeps her body pressed against the wall; she knows she could twist, shift her weight, make a run for it. She assumes Imalia knows it, too. 

She doesn't run.
 
"You're really fucked in the head, aren't you?" the Nosferatu grumbles, pulling back. Stepping away. Retreating to a pacing-distance at the other end of the room.

She laughs, honest and more than a little unhinged.

It feels freeing.

"I'm a disgraced Toreador being raised by a pair of Malkavians; can either of us really expect my emotions to make any sense?" she counters, her tone playful. Her tongue burns a little, though she's at a loss for why. 

It's then, that she sees the woman smile, for the second time in all the nights she'd known her.

She keeps still as the woman saunters back to her; she keeps her body loose, as Imalia throws her onto the bed.

She doesn't think about how dirty it is.

Of what any surface in the Warrens might be covered in.

Of what Imalia might be coated in.

-Skills she was grateful, to have learned from making 'Home' out of the Asylum, Vesuvius, and The Confession.

She's equally grateful for having studied under Jeanette's roving hands, as Imalia straddles her. 

Pins her by the wrists the woman pulls taught over her head.

The weight of the woman is unfamiliar; the Nosferatu's structure too bony and sharp with hard angels, but she doesn't wince. Nothing really... counted as painful to her anymore, after getting juiced with whatever zillion volts those Tesla coils had zapped her with.

She studied Imalia's face, as the woman's alligator eyes skinned her, trailing down, down, down...

Like she was meat.

Like she was meant to be carved up.

There'd been many, who would've agreed.

-Had she not killed them first. 

She trembled, unable to completely hold back a shudder. Her body, trained as it was, spurred the Vitea in her veins.

Imalia's clawed finger slid down, cutting a line down her cheek that quickly cleaved through her shirt-fabric. Baring her chest.

She wondered if Imalia would vandalize her body as the woman had done to Twani's poster, with words like 'fat' or 'ugly' or 'flat'. 

Her heart beat erratically, as the bitter woman's claws drug across her breasts; she tried not to mewl.

Imalia pulled back, tempting her to buck closer, before the woman's claws pawed her legs apart. 

Cut through their fabric.

Slid against her juncture.

She cooed; a breathy, airy sigh that always got Jeanette giggling into hungry eyes and hungrier lips and hungrier hands and- 

"Yeah... that crazy Jeanette really fucked you up good," Imalia whispered, tightening the hands around her wrist; the nails returned to her chest trailing oh so very softly.

"God I hope so," she breathed, arching into the touch.

Imalia bent down after her, sliding a leather skinned knee between her thighs, which clamped around it like a long lost lover.

Whispers at the edge of her hearing called out, "Touch starved, touch starved, touch starved-"

She shut her eyes, focusing her efforts on blocking out the hidden observers.

The feel of Imalia's lips molding around her own steeped into her like a weighted blanket. 

The texture of the gash serving as Imalia's mouth was an intriguing mix of metal and flaking skin.

Her tongue lapped at the cursed flesh and learnt Imalia's taste was of rot and rats.

Memories welled up of the damp little bags of bones and fur she'd grabbed in times of utter desperation and near-feral hopelessness; their tiny bodies forever moistened by the filth of the tunnels they dwelled in; but under that, under the taste of rot and decay, was the small bursting rush of hanging onto to life and sanity for merely a moment more. 

She'd need the tunnels, those terrible first weeks.

She needed them now.

Would need them, again.

She didn't deny that part of herself; the part of her that needed...

To allow herself to be the Monster that she was, inside.

Imalia seemed to taste that, in their kiss.

-That, or the woman was justifiably horny.

"Look at me," Imalia breathed. Demanded. Pleaded. 

Her heavy lids lifted, allowing her to drink in the sight of the Nosferatu's skullish face. She'd always thought it looked cool; made her mind conjure up images of alligators and voodoo. 

   

"Imalia, may I touch you?" she asks in turn, her body striving to drown out her never-ending thoughts.

Slowly, Imalia stilled until neither of them moved beyond the efforts of their Flushed hearts.

Imalia didn't lift her hand from her wrists, but drew back enough to look at her properly.

"...What's your name?" the woman asked, devoid of bitterness; empty of admonishment, suspicion, or spite.

It was an immediate chainsaw through her buzz.

How was she to answer?

With her birth name? With the name Damsel had given her?

Neither of those felt right. She wasn't 'Cammi' and the girl she used to be was dead but she couldn't say nothing...

Could she choose something entirely new?

''Imalia' is a state of being', the woman had once told her.

What possible word could she claim to be?

Nervous? Scared? Angry? Lost? 

"...You're the first person to ever ask me," she replies, unable to think. Barely able to speak.

She fights the familiar sensation of panic, now flooding into her life-flushed veins.

Her eyes fall away from the woman, unable to meet Imalia's scrupulous gaze; she turns her head, wishing she could block out her inner world so easily.

"Shit."

Imalia's weight leaves her almost instantly, though the woman's movements are inelegant and scrambling.

Slowly, she folds over; collecting herself. Sitting up.

She doesn't look at the woman; she doesn't want to see whatever emotion she might find there.

Or any that she wouldn't.

...I need to see them, she thought; Jeanette, Velvet, Therese.

She needed them to puzzle her pieces back together, to keep her brain -her Beast- from splintering.

To keep her eyes from leaking.

"I... I'm sorry. I have to go," she begs, taking to her feet.

"Sure, whatever," Imalia replies; the words her usual goodbye, but the tone altogether too strangled.

"It's not," she stumbles, trying to salvage anything; "I. We-"

"-Look, I'll be here, okay?" Imalia offered, with what sounded nearly like... tenderness? 

"Go sort whatever your shit is," the Nosferatu continued, "We can talk about... this later, or never."

~

In taking the shortcut back to the surface, and reemerging from the crypt, her feet carry her to Vesuvius and the darling dancer inside. 

Her head spins, her thoughts whirlpools of existential crisis and surfacing trauma.

As she steps inside the club's doors, she notices she's shaking.

One of the girls, Bambi, recognizes her; she moves towards her pretty Velvet's vip lounge almost on auto-pilot.

By some minor miracle, the soft-toned muse is there; she's vaguely aware that as Velvet catches sight of her, others in the room are driven away, and pass her to head back down the stairs.

"My love, what's happened?" 

Her mouth struggles to find voice; Velvet steps closer to her, taking her hand and cupping her face.

"What's my name?" she blurts, the question as trembling as her quivering body. 

Immediately, the look of concern in the elegant rose's eyes turn to pity.

She falls into the woman, Velvet's arms wrapping her in an embrace that she returns, her own arms far more constricting. 

She trembles, but no tears fall.

Velvet's lips nuzzle against the shell of her ear.

"My sweet love," the dancer lilts, in waves of dulcet tones; "You are dead. The person you were before... is resting eternally. You're still a person, of course. I, and everyone else in the city have enjoyed watching you create your new self. You can call her whatever you like."

"No one cared to ask," she stutters, not quite whole. "No one cared if I was going to die... I wasn't... I wasn't supposed to live."

Clouds of colors swirl around them, auras intertwining with immutable neon lights. The reds and greens of Vesuvius soften the dancer's already delicate pink glow; in such conditions, she wasn't sure if that truly was the color she was seeing at all. Neither did she know yet, what such colors meant.

Truth?

Joy?

Pity?

Was Velvet in the habit of her work, and prone to telling her whatever she wanted to hear?

...Was that why she liked it here?

Because it✨wasn't real✨?

"Did you want to die?" the dancer asks softly; the pain in Velvet's colors, her voice, pulls something needle-like out from between her ribs.

"No."

The lie burns her tongue; tiny blisters well up, and drops of blood well in her mouth. She swallows them, swallows the burn.

But it's not a convincing word.

Not a convincing sound.

The blood between her teeth isn't something she can hide.

Was that normal?

"I... wanted to live after meeting you," she offers, standing in the streets of weeks ago, drenched in battle-wounds and emotional turmoil; "I wanted to help people."

"You helped *a lot* of people," Velvet soothes, stroking a finger along the younger Toreador's brow. "You certainly helped me, and my Girls." 

"I only became a person when I was *enough*," she pushes, the words dropping like wilted petals far, *far* too quickly for the plant to be considered stable. "-Am I enough? Is that all that I am?" All that I could be? 

"Is it?" Velvet counters, almost leadingly.

The moment stretches.

She knows its a long time.

But it's so hard to think.

"How did you pick?" she asks, hoping an example would guide her.

"Some find it funny that velour is another word for velvet," the older rose answers. "Some assume its for my work. A Stage Name, of sorts. It's not... entirely inaccurate. A name has power, darling. It is the mask by which others will face you. 'Velvet' is soft, purring, fashionable. Expensive, perhaps. Evocative. People treat Velvet like the luxury that she is. That I am," she continues. She sits up a little, gently pulling her up with her.

"But it's more than that. It's everything my human-self wanted to be. It's... a memorial for her, or sorts. To the dreams of the little girl that used to be," she explains. "If you don't know who you are, who you want to become, be whoever you needed to be, when no one was looking. Start there."

She leans back into Velvet's embrace, and thinks.

She thinks for quite awhile.

Hours.

Nights.

A week.

Perhaps a two.

When Therese waves a hand in front of her face, she realizes she has no real memory of time slipping past, of how she got to the Asylum, of the conversation she'd been having, or the acts she'd done.

But as time catches back up to her, she's struck with the realization that it had been apparently long enough for others to take note; if not in worry than in curiosity. 

The elder Baron's hand are tight on her shoulders.

"Oh good, are you back then?" Therese asks, in the way she knows the woman is joking, somewhat.

"Sorry, I was thinking about something," she offers.

Therese simply nods. Adjusts her glasses.

"It's an amusing habit of yous."

"Habit?" -That catches her offguard. Had this happened before?

"It's not so frequent as to be nuisance, but often you're lost looking a light or a painting," the woman muses.

"...Oh," is all she can answer; now racked wit ha new worry.

How much time had she lost?

"It's of no matter," Therese assures. "Well, what had you so enraptured?" 

"Names," she replies. "I'm trying to choose one."

Therese hums; the Baron's apparent lack of surprise feels jarring, though she supposes it shouldn't. 

"Kate," the woman offers, swirls of light blue fracticaling into pinks, vermilions, echos of yellow. 

"Kate?" she repeats.

"Well," Therese states, the corners of her mouth curling; "We certainly can't call you 'Bruce'."

"...Is that?" she starts, reeling from from several shifts at once. "-Did you just make a Batman joke?"

Therese adjusts her glasses again, the smile slipping off her lips, into a cool, professional mask that she knew didn't mean anything. 

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," the Baron drawls; "But if there were a... batwoman, of sorts,,, running around our streets; one would be hard-pressed to pick anyone other than you."

"Oh. My. God."

Therese quirks a brow.

"I mean, it's a good name. I guess I couldn't get sued or anything?" 

"They could try," Therese dismisses, folding her arms with a shrug.

"Your lawyers scare me," she admits, recalling Vandal's case.

Therese grins. "Good."

" 'Kane' will make for... some interesting conversations as a last name," she guesses, already anticipating nights of jokes and explanations. "Spelled different than... you know."

Therese tilts her head somewhat; soft colors jigsawing around her face.

"It would look agreeable on stationary," she elects. "I'm a little surprised it's taken this long for you to choose your new moniker, though I suppose in retrospect, it's entirely natural for a Toreador to spend a great deal of time on something so integral to their Beast." 

"I'd um... like to try to try it out for awhile, just us, if that's alright?"

The glow around Therese falls into a deep, pulsating blue.

"Of course, Kate."

Her heart, though dead, twitches.

She drops her gaze to the floor, and lets the sounds seep in.

"Kate," Therese whispers, repeating it as if it were more to herself, than to her. Was she filing it away, like her important documents? 

Did them ◈saying it make it more real◈?

Make her more real? 

She felt... real.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms Kane," Therese states, holding out a hand.

She slips her hand into the Baron's.

-Kate slips her hand into Therese's.

"...I'm happy to meet you too," she answers, stepping closer. "Baron Voerman."

Chapter Text

The sounds of Therese and their little playmate catch her ear, sparking an inkling of curiosity, -whatever where they getting up to?
Nothing she'd hope they'd be, she assumes; she sighs deeply and both women jump as if they were two girls caught kissing in a Catholic school.

She's can't help but chuckle.

"You know, little birdies are meant to share their secrets," she reminds, shooting their duckling a look; she doesn't bother looking at her sister, she can practically feel Therese shifting, adjusting her glasses, and turning away.  

"I picked a name today," the fledgling offers; not wringing her hands, though her doe-eyes stay caught in the headlights of a car that was nowhere to be found. 
 
She claps her hands, smiling more at the way her sister groans than the childe's words.

"-I should have expected this," Therese sighs.

"Expected what?" asks the bird, looking between them both.

"-Your Funeral, silly," she answers, raising a finger to press it against the rose's nose, making her blink. Shake her fluffy hair. Re-look at her, like an updating algorithm. 

"Is that like... a vampire birthday party, then?"

"Traditionally, a kindred might celebrate a 'deathday' party if they so choose," Therese answers, folding her arms. -Why couldn't she just shrug? Relax?  Jeanette bites back a barb; some nights she wants to just shake her sister. Scream at her. Beg.  But her Sister Dearest continues, and her voice... dips into a tone Jeanette seldom hears.
"I suppose a 'Funeral' could mean anything you want it to.... Though it sounds a bit formal."

It's... something, Jeanette supposes. That her sister speaks softly to their pet doesn't surprise her
( -she recalls so many nights in their youth, of rambling stories and dried tears and murmured secrets under all the pain the pain the pain- )

"I don't know if I'm ready for a party," the fledgling quacks from her place on the sand, looking at her in the water, too afraid to swim. It scatters her thoughts. ( She wants to smack the childe, shake her too. But she doesn't. There were sharks in the water and they had teeth and the duckling didn't know that her body would know how to swim- )

"Flowers need their butterflies," she lilts, knowing how the this butterfly would flock to her honyed-tongue and hang there between her teeth.
"But we don't have to tell anyone, it can be our little secret..."  Hearing Therese's intake of breath, she holds back a laugh and lets her smile wring a ribbon around the lamb's pretty neck.

Everywhere that Mary went, her lamb was sure to go~

"...It's Kate," says the duckling.

She smiles, slipping the feather-coat of a syllable into a closet she had no intention of opening.

"Oh, I know exactly where to take you," she leads.

"Unfortunately, I have a bit of work to do," Therese declares, "but you two have... fun."

She pushes away the pull in her blood (and her stomach and her brain) at her sister's words.
-She was being nice, something real and apparently possible;
Ever so slowly, the stick in her sister's ass was being pulled out as if everything was fine and there hadn't been years and years of madness between them.

The duckling's eyes grow sad and wet but her lips tick into a smile, and her eyes light up again, (making her envision a tiny cord to tug, to change them back and forth).
"Thank you for helping me pick it out."

Therese nods at her, and then Jeanette can feel her sister's eyes boring holes into her.
"Try not to... do anything you can't handle," her sister settles. Not quite a command at least, though prompting.

The girl -Kate, says something; she hums, not giving Therese an answer. Waits for her to leave. Then takes a moment to slip into more comfortable clothes.

Netting, nails, gloss, jacket, -she'd be the first to advertise a lack in brooding instincts ( she couldn't stand sitting on the eggs; Therese had a painful habit of pecking chicks ) but their duckling was waddling and garbed in ugly pin feathers too short to keep her warm. She tucks her underwing to keep warm.

-It was like playing dressup on a doll that that could bat battered lashes. And kiss.

It was delightful to kiss.

Kept their mouths busy.

Not that she minded the quacking; the kitten was still small enough that all her questions were chirps.

Even the silent ones.

As they left the club to walk along grided city streets and backalleys unmeant for mortal feet, Jeanette wondered how a sky's worth of questions fit in such a tiny head.

But the good thing about being herself, and the unofficial baron of Santa Monica, was that she didn't have to explain anything to anybody. So doing so was really a testament to her good favor. -And if no one understood her answers, well, that was on them for not keeping up, wasn't it?

She rather liked dangling feathers on strings for her though; her kitten bounced and batted and meowed at them ever so entertainingly.

"Kate, huh?"

The girl twitches in a way that might have been a shiver; -it was a little weird how 'lifelike' she was for a dead person. But she supposed camouflage came in many colors. 

"She's Batman's lesbian cousin."

"Isn't she a redhead?" she asks, recalling a few conversations they'd shared. 

The childe smiles. "They didn't have a pink one." 
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                
Her own smile never falters, though it softens somewhat as they walk on;

𝒸ₐₙ ᵦₐᵦᵧ 𝒸ₒₘₑ ₒᵤₜ ₜₒ ₚₗₐᵧ?                                     -her head buzzes with spiders and flies that she doesn't care to listen to.                         

                        The Duckling's eyes dart to the sound, head turning.           Scanning.         Turning back when nothing's there.

She quirks a brow.

"...just ghosts," says the duckling, looking shy.

...Does she hear them? she wonders. That couldn't be right. Therese would've killed her for something like that. (For Knowing)

Still, the thought is humorous.

"Ghosts?" she giggles.

"Or maybe like, people far away? I can hear things like, across the city," the duckling deflects. But her tongue doesn't bleed, so the truth isn't a lie.

She hides her frown as she thinks; the possibilities numerous and divine.

Was it ghosts? No, (well yes technically) but the kind of ghosts?

Was she a childe of the moon? She'd tried reaching for her, feeling for her, but she'd only felt close...

Had her blood infected her? Therese had said that was only a myth; and she'd tried, tried, tried to save people before... 

The clutch of gangrels and their brujah babes toss whistles and hollers as they meet the garage lot, shattering her shards of thought.
      
"Oh! Hey! Good to see you Jeanie!"                                                                                                                                      
                                                                                                        "Fuck yeah! Long time no see!"                                                                            

"Hey Jeanette, where ya' been?"                              
                                                              "Whose your 'friend' ?"
  "That's her girl," one 'whispers'... ( they were so bad at whispering )                                                              
      
A Valkyrie cleaning a bike with a rag nods at one of the others, who quickly darts inside, -likely to get others.

      "-Sup, Squeeze," one of them offers nodding at Kate.  

'Squeeze' was a terrible name. Rubber ducks were squeezed and drowned in under bathwater, -accurate for the humans she played with perhaps, but not for the baby bird.

"You've met my duckling," she purrs, running a hand over her hair, her back, her hip. Digs fingers into her pocket and tugs her closer.

The other kindred [Nod],

and smile,

and chatter,

and beckon.

The parking lot is dull with litter and lamplight, and the garage is just the smell of oil and gas leaks (save for the painted bikes and shiny cars),
but the room inside is filled with old couches and half-broken [every Thing], and Jeanette likes that just fine.

She tosses herself onto a couch, legs over armrest, and watches the world move around her.

Her kitten doesn't share her new name, but the tag on her collar catches the eye of all the other strays,
it reminds Jeanette of walks in the dogpark.
The way their eyes hump them both, she wonders if she should get the fledgling fixed, and chuckles.

Their hands don't touch her, however.

Curiosity and willingness drip from the duckling's lips, fingertips, skirt; but everyone looks to her, mouths silently asking if they can touch.

If the kitten is her toy, or if she was something for them to play with. 

 -Someone asks if she was Therese's, and she wants to scream, snarl, maybe laugh?

Because she wasn't.

...Was she?

She thinks back over the weeks before stopping; pushing them away with a hum and a grin.

She misses the words everyone says out loud, occurring all around and in-between, but the atmosphere remains comfortable. 
         
                           The tv is turned on, old reruns and crackling campaign adds fill the background                                                                       

Comfortable.
  
                     She watches the pair in the back; one leaning against the other's leg. -When had they finally gotten together?                                       
                                    
                                     Her duckling flits from person to person; a lightning bug flashing every moth...                  As her duckling waded across the waters deeper and deeper,  
                                         
she would looked back to her, time to time.                                                                        
As if to keep track of her position in the water.              

As if using her to tell the way home.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                            
                                                                                       
                                                                                             -Did that make her a lighthouse? she wonders. 

Comfortable.
     
     A Valkyrie offers her a cigarette, and begins to share what she's missed in the city these past few nights: Tara's return and disappearance,

the riots,                                                                                                                                                                                                              the rumors.
                         Broken bikes and new recruits...                                                                                                                            
                                                                                                                                                             Some had met final death...
                                                                                               Others had gone missing?                                                   ( Kate shivers some, as if she were cold; embarrassment? fear? )
          
                    (Names she wouldn't yet seek out, until they'd sunk into the city some)                                        
                                                                                                                                              But soon, very soon.                                        
Comfortable.

                 The stereo is clicked on, and music is pumped into the stale air, stirring up the smoke and ash.

                                 Her plucky little fledgling starts to sing-along, as if she were unaware how the heads bobble and mouths weave-along after her.                       

There were other roses of course,

                                                                                                                                                                                                       with babbling brook voices far more sparkling and crystal clear;
 
                       the duckling's voice was caught inbetween, far more human than perfect, far more perfect than human...                                               

                                                                                                                                                                                                                     ( -but that made it pleasant to listen to. )
Content.

                                    Jokes,                                       Flirting,                                   -a threat? No, just a barb-
              Banter,                                                                        Smoking,              in-jokes,                                       Flirting,                            -A promise to threaten others,
                                                                                               more smoking,
                                                          Flirting,          Jokes,                  Vibing...
                      Flirting,          Jokes,                                                                                                          thinking...

Boring.

                    One of the blood dolls is pushed her way, decorated in chains and leather. Pleasant to touch. But the flavor doesn't excite her.      

Restless.  

She whistles, a curt, shrill note; the ugly duckling spins on her chonky boots as though they were ballerina flats.

Jeanette imagines giving her a collar with a bell to bounce, as she bounds over with obedient concern.

Blue eyes looking pink from the monsterish-red hidden inside. 

She doesn't explain herself, she just pulls the younger kindred's arm, collapsing her into her lap.

Wide eyes melt heavy lidded as 'Kate' settles down against her. 

Jeanette runs fingers through the pink hair shining red under the work lights.

Content.

She closes her eyes.

Still petting.

She feels undead breath tickle her neck, the kitten nuzzling soft nothings. Glowing a warm cloud of light.

Across the room, a trio share a look ( -of how strange it was, wasn't it; that'd she'd kept 'this one' for so long? winks, smiles, betting glances- ); her eyes snap open, blood boiling.

The fledgling stirs on her chest, -did she like how receptive she was to her shifts in mood? 

Hate it? 

Her doe-eyes question her back. -Did she hate that?

She growls. Not for long, but she means it. Whoever it's for. 

The fledgling preens her face, her hair; light touches and soft, hopeful-looking smiles.

Restless. ( Restless??? )

She sits up, uprooting the flower; keeping petals in her hands. 

"We should play a game," she decides. Loud enough for everyone to hear. "A party game."

The clamour of kindred and ghouls stutter around,

falling into charades

and card games;                            

pin-the-tales                                                         ( with knives, with posters )

and dartboards.                                                               

It works, for a few hours.

But the feeling doesn't stop.

It chews inside her belly and it's a hunger, a familiar hunger, but not one she's ever learned how to truly satisfy.

"Something wrong?" asks her baby bird, ( -of course she asks, she thinks. )

She snaps, teeth unsheathing like the knives they were sharpened to be.

The room darkens as she stalks closer; the others don't stop her. ( They'd watched so many times before... )

"What do you think?" she riddles.

"...Do you want to talk about it?" the girl tries, "Or want distractions?" 

She doesn't blink.

The fledgling doesn't flinch, but frowns.

"I'm sorry if I've-"

She leans, so close that their noses almost touch.

"Wₕₐₜ. 𝒹ₒ. Yₒᵤ. ₜₕᵢₙₖ?" she sing-songingly rakes, -nails-on-chalkboard marking.

The fledgling's eyes shift, seeing more than what was in front of them; Jeanette can't prove it, but she feels it in her veins.

"-Do you ever think about black holes? Just big vastness', sitting out there, consuming everything on a scale so large, that it's physically impossible to comprehend?"

She doesn't move. It doesn't mean anything; the admission is as [any thing] as [anything else].

                "...Even the stars and the spaces between them, are all so grand that nothing means anything," the girl continues.          

                                        ( The Mistress she'd taught to wear Red. The flower that had taught her of slow, sweet yellow- )  
                      𝗪̶𝗛̶𝗔̶𝗧̶ 𝗖̶𝗔̶𝗡̶ 𝗦̶𝗛̶𝗘̶ 𝗦̶𝗘̶𝗘̶?                                                                                                                                                                                              
       "It... terrifies me," the fledgling murmurs  (after her eyes almost dart to track the 'ghost' ) and still, she doesn't move.
ₚᴸₐᵀₒˢ ᶜₐⱽₑ                                                                                                                                                                                        
Fear.
                                                                                                                                      
The duckling feared many things.

Her fear was almost as [meaningless] as her body.

But;

The mention of stars, space.

That felt like something.

Like she was trying to say [Something] she couldn't [speak] about.
𝗪⃫𝗛⃫𝗢⃫ 𝗗⃫𝗜⃫𝗗⃫ 𝗦⃫𝗛⃫𝗘⃫ 𝗦⃫𝗘⃫𝗘⃫                                                                                                                                                           
Forcing frustration out in a low, slow growl, she trails her tongue over the childe's cheek. 

And pulls away.

The duckling, -her pretty, awful, ugly, ( sweet? ) playmate, didn't deserve the gnarling bites she'd receive if she'd stayed.

So she leaves.

Stalks the streets for substance, substances, substantial [any things].

Living forever meant a never-ending devouring;

-shattering the shackles of monotony; a quest that she was all too versed in navigating. Curating.

It isn't long before she finds herself back at the Asylum.

Her club was her castle.

Her playground.

Her morgue.

Her apartment was was an estuary again;
currents pulling the Asylum's Lifeblood into her lair to suckle, to sip, to seethe.

It was easy.                                                                               

   °·.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·°¯°·.¸.->  Effortless in fact >-.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·°                                         

Jeanette had had decades to build up fields of cattle waiting to be sheared, skewered, fucked,

A smile and a short skirt was all it took.
-And those were optional.

The man she toys with under the stairs

was as meaningless as the girl she kisses in the bathroom sink;
was as uninteresting as the boy she dances with on the stage,
was as beautiful as the man she fondles in the hall,
was as lovely as the couple she splits up at the bar,
was as listless as the humans that came every night

and every night there ever was, ever would be, and had ever came before.

Her club is intoxicating on a good night;

when the light's were -green green green

when the music is pounding and the drinks are flowing and the pretty puppets are imbibing things they have no abilities to pronounce...

They adore her.

She adores that they adore her, really.

(It was cute, almost.)

But foreplay with food could only last so long however, and after a few hours, Jeanette trades the dancefloor for the elevator,

𝙃⃥𝙚⃥'⃥𝙨⃥ 𝙒⃥𝙖⃥𝙩⃥𝙘⃥𝙝⃥𝙞⃥𝙣⃥𝙜⃥.⃥.⃥.⃥                                                                                     for the room with her bed and the overbearing looming portrait of her father.

( Honestly, she wouldn't fucking care half as fucking much if Therese hadn't fucking put his fucking picture there, in her room )

⦑n⦒⦑o⦒⦑t⦒ ⦑h⦒⦑i⦒⦑m⦒                                          -fucking humans in front of him in every way she could think of was all that was keeping her sane.

     ⦑h⦒⦑e⦒⦑r⦒                                                                From burning the painting and room and the club to the ground.

 ₘᴼₜᴴₑᴿ?                                                                                                                                                                                               

                          𝕄⃟ 𝕆⃟ 𝕋⃟ ℍ⃟ 𝔼⃟ ℝ⃟                                                                                             Red. Red. Red. Red...

𝗠̶⃒⃝ 𝗢̶⃒⃝ 𝗧̶⃒⃝ 𝗛̶⃒⃝ 𝗘̶⃒⃝ 𝗥̶⃒⃝                                                                                                                                                                 
                                                                                                                                                                                     
 Everything in the room was red; the walls the blood, the sheets, the flesh, the music pulsing up under the floorboards

like a heart trapped under planks and nails in the written coffin of a scrawling madman.
                                                                                                                                     
                     (The moans screams of a madman getting his brains blown out) 
ₛᴴₑˢ ᴰᵣᴱₐᴹᵢᴺᴳ                                                                                                                          
(The moans of the human kneeling on the bed)
 𝗔⃪𝗿⃪𝗲⃪ 𝗪⃪𝗲⃪?⃪                                                                                                                 
                                                                                                                       
    (The screams of a pretty little ugly Duckling; quacking, mewling, begging under her fingertips,,,)
Wₕₒₛₑ'ₛ ₜₕₑ 𝓰ᵢᵣₗ?                                                                                                                                                                                    
                                                                                                     The girl was a Duckling:

an imprintable nature with an ugly coat of feathers that liked to paddle in deep water,

one that would -one night- grow into into something beautifully elegant, nesting, and vicious.

"-Do swans mate for life?"
                                                                                                                                                                                        
   The doll kissing her chest mumbles something she can't quite make out,

so she [ makes-out ] instead of talking again.

The underworld-ian music provides them an easy rhythm to swim in.

She growls a little at the clothes impeding her conquest, but they're easy enough to rip off.
                                                                          
  Names weren't anything.
Wₕₒ ᵢₛ ₛₕₑ?                                                                                              
 𝒥̰͠𝓊̰͠𝓈̰͠𝓉̰͠ 𝒶̰͠ 𝒷̰͠ℯ̰͠𝒶̰͠𝓊̰͠𝓉̰͠𝒾̰͠𝒻̰͠𝓊̰͠𝓁̰͠ 𝒷̰͠𝒶̰͠𝒷̰͠𝓎̰͠              Nothing tangible.
  𝓃̰͠ℴ̰͠𝓉̰͠𝒽̰͠𝒾̰͠𝓃̰͠ℊ̰͠ 𝓂̰͠ℴ̰͠𝓇̰͠ℯ̰͠                                        
                                                                                                                                               Nothing real;

 'Kate' was a bra meant to be ripped off the body.
                        
An afterthought.
                                                                           
An accessory.
                                                                                                                                                                                                               
-The syllable was still new, only hours old. Only spoken by her sister, herself, and if she were to guess, soon her suede kitten's pretty velvet teddybear. 

                              ( The Mistress she'd taught to wear Red. The flower that had taught her of slow, sweet yellow- )  
                                                                                                                                                                                              
She didn't play with kindred much. Though how they wanted her.

Wanted to use her.

To Play her, instead of play with her.

To color her stupid.

No.

Unlike the living, they were much too dead. Too boring. Too predictable.

But the velvet rose was good at shifting colors. Jeanette had fucked her enough to feel safe letting the Mother Hen brood her Ugly Duckling.

- k a t e -                                                                                                                                                         
                                                  
𝘠̸𝘰̸𝘶̸ 𝘸̸𝘪̸𝘭̸𝘭̸ 𝘩̸𝘦̸𝘢̸𝘳̸                                        The paltry syllable she'd chosen as a name didn't do anything to disguise                                                                                            
 
               ᵂₕₒ? 'ₜᵢₛ ₗᵢₗᵢₜₕ. ₐᴰₐₘ'ₛ ᶠᵢᵣₛₜ ᵂᵢᶠₑ ᵢₛ ₛₕₑ.   her energy,     ᵦₑᵂₐᵣₑ ₜₕₑ ₗᵤᵣₑ ᵂᵢₜₕᵢₙ ₕₑᵣ ₗₒᵥₑₗʸ ₜᵣₑₛₛₑₛ,                                                            

   ₜₕₑ ₛₚₗₑₙᴰᵢᴰ ₛₒₗₑ ₐᴰₒᵣₙₘₑₙₜ ₒᶠ ₕₑᵣ ₕₐᵢᵣ;    the colors,    ᵂₕₑₙ ₛₕₑ ₛᵤᶜᶜₑₑᴰₛ ₜₕₑᵣₑᵂᵢₜₕ ₐ ʸₒᵤₜₕ ₜₒ ₛₙₐᵣₑ,                                          

the shadow   ₙₒₜ ₛₒₒₙ ₐᴳₐᵢₙ ₛₕₑ ᶠᵣₑₑₛ ₕᵢₘ ᶠᵣₒₘ ₕₑᵣ ⱼₑₛₛₑₛ.                                
 
( -the Beast of a Girl of a Monster of a Woman of a Whore )
ᵤₙₐᵂₐᵣₑ ₒᶠ ᵂₕₐₜ'ₛ ₒᵤₜₛᵢᴰₑ                                                                                                                                                                                         
though she supposed it dressed her up a little for everyone else. Everyone who didn't get her.

                                                                                                   -Not that she cared who 'got' her,

Things like monogamy weren't really... relevant.
 
ᴬⁿᵈ ᴵ ˢᵗᵃʳᵉ ᵃᵗ ˡᶦᵍʰᵗˢ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵐᵃᵏᵉˢ ᵐᵉ ᵇˡᶦⁿᵈ                                                                                                                and besides,
ᴵⁿᵗᵉʳⁿᵃˡˡʸ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ'ˢ ⁿᵒᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ ˡᵉᶠᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ᵐᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵇᵉ                                                                                                                                  
                                                                                     
little kingkiller keeping herself busy would help keep her interesting;

                                                          BORING was the WORST thing a Toreador could be.

Even a pretend one,

Especially a pretend one.

                                                      The thoughts tickle her fancies as she tickles the pasture beneath her;

one of so many pretty faces all panting for her pleasure, week in, week out. She didn't recall their name, but that was hardly important.

the skin was warm, the heartbeat fast, the blood flow was pumping...

And most importantly, they were fresh.
                                                                                                                                                                                                       
New.

She drags her nails along the human's chest; she wasn't entirely bothered by her wandering mind, -it wandered a lot. So often, so many many voices-

Š༙ȟ༙ǒ༙ǔ༙ľ༙ď༙ Ǐ༙ č༙ǎ༙ř༙ě༙ F༙̌ǒ༙ř༙ w༙̌ȟ༙ǎ༙ť༙'༙̌š༙ ľ༙ě༙f༙̌ť༙ m༙̌ě༙ b༙̌ě༙ȟ༙ǐ༙ň༙ď༙                                                                         

𝕴 𝖑𝖔𝖔k𝖊𝖉, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖊𝖍𝖔𝖑𝖉, 𝖆𝖓 𝖆𝖘𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖘𝖊; 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖘𝖆𝖙 𝖔𝖓 𝖎𝖙 𝖍𝖆𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍;                                                                                         𝕀'𝕞 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕖                                                                          𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕚𝕤𝕠𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕                                                         
𝕿⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖓⃨⃩ 𝖆⃨⃩𝖋⃨⃩𝖙⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖗⃨⃩ 𝖙⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖘⃨⃩𝖎⃨⃩𝖝⃨⃩𝖙⃨⃩𝖞⃨⃩-⃨⃩𝖙⃨⃩𝖜⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩ 𝖜⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖐⃨⃩𝖘⃨⃩ 𝖙⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝕸⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖘⃨⃩𝖘⃨⃩𝖎⃨⃩𝖆⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩ 𝖜⃨⃩𝖎⃨⃩𝖑⃨⃩𝖑⃨⃩ 𝖇⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖈⃨⃩𝖚⃨⃩𝖙⃨⃩ 𝖔⃨⃩𝖋⃨⃩𝖋⃨⃩ 𝖆⃨⃩𝖓⃨⃩𝖉⃨⃩ 𝖍⃨⃩𝖆⃨⃩𝖛⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖓⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩𝖙⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩𝖎⃨⃩𝖓⃨⃩𝖌⃨⃩,⃨⃩                                                                                                                                                                             
𝖆⃨⃩𝖓⃨⃩𝖉⃨⃩ 𝖙⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖕⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩𝖕⃨⃩𝖑⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖔⃨⃩𝖋⃨⃩ 𝖙⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖕⃨⃩𝖗⃨⃩𝖎⃨⃩𝖓⃨⃩𝖈⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖜⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩ 𝖎⃨⃩𝖘⃨⃩ 𝖙⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩ 𝖈⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩𝖒⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖜⃨⃩𝖎⃨⃩𝖑⃨⃩𝖑⃨⃩ 𝖉⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖘⃨⃩𝖙⃨⃩𝖗⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩𝖞⃨⃩ 𝖙⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖈⃨⃩𝖎⃨⃩𝖙⃨⃩𝖞⃨⃩ 𝖆⃨⃩𝖓⃨⃩𝖉⃨⃩ 𝖙⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖘⃨⃩𝖆⃨⃩𝖓⃨⃩𝖈⃨⃩𝖙⃨⃩𝖚⃨⃩𝖆⃨⃩𝖗⃨⃩𝖞⃨⃩.⃨⃩                                                                                                                                                                          
𝖓⃨⃩𝖉⃨⃩ 𝖎⃨⃩𝖙⃨⃩𝖘⃨⃩ 𝖊⃨⃩𝖓⃨⃩𝖉⃨⃩ 𝖜⃨⃩𝖎⃨⃩𝖑⃨⃩𝖑⃨⃩ 𝖈⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩𝖒⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖜⃨⃩𝖎⃨⃩𝖙⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩ 𝖆⃨⃩ 𝖋⃨⃩𝖑⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩𝖉⃨⃩;⃨⃩ 𝖊⃨⃩𝖛⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖓⃨⃩ 𝖙⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩ 𝖙⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖊⃨⃩𝖓⃨⃩𝖉⃨⃩ 𝖙⃨⃩𝖍⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖗⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖜⃨⃩𝖎⃨⃩𝖑⃨⃩𝖑⃨⃩ 𝖇⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖜⃨⃩𝖆⃨⃩𝖗⃨⃩;⃨⃩ 𝖉⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖘⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩𝖑⃨⃩𝖆⃨⃩𝖙⃨⃩𝖎⃨⃩𝖔⃨⃩𝖓⃨⃩𝖘⃨⃩ 𝖆⃨⃩𝖗⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩ 𝖉⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖙⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖗⃨⃩𝖒⃨⃩𝖎⃨⃩𝖓⃨⃩𝖊⃨⃩𝖉⃨⃩.⃨⃩                                                                                                                                                      
ʸₒᵤ ᵂᵢₗₗ ᵦₑ ₕₑₐᵣᵢₙᴳ ₒᶠ ᵂₐᵣₛ ₐₙᴰ ᵣᵤₘₒᵣₛ ₒᶠ ᵂₐᵣₛ. ₛₑₑ ₜₕₐₜ ʸₒᵤ ₐᵣₑ ₙₒₜ ᶠᵣᵢᴳₕₜₑₙₑᴰ, ᶠₒᵣ ₜₕₒₛₑ ₜₕᵢₙᴳₛ ₘᵤₛₜ ₜₐₖₑ ₚₗₐᶜₑ, ᵦᵤₜ ₜₕₐₜ ᵢₛ ₙₒₜ ʸₑₜ ₜₕₑ ₑₙᴰ
ᶠₒᵣ ₙₐₜᵢₒₙ ᵂᵢₗₗ ᵣᵢₛₑ ₐᴳₐᵢₙₛₜ ₙₐₜᵢₒₙ, ₐₙᴰ ₖᵢₙᴳᴰₒₘ ₐᴳₐᵢₙₛₜ ₖᵢₙᴳᴰₒₘ, ₐₙᴰ ᵢₙ ᵥₐᵣᵢₒᵤₛ ₚₗₐᶜₑₛ ₜₕₑᵣₑ ᵂᵢₗₗ ᵦₑ ᶠₐₘᵢₙₑₛ ₐₙᴰ ₑₐᵣₜₕᵩᵤₐₖₑₛ.

Cₐₙ ᵦₐᵦᵧ 𝒸ₒₘₑ ₒᵤₜ ₜₒ ₚₗₐᵧ                                                                                                      But it was... annoying, having the fledgling on her mind.

Not because it was unpleasant to have her writhing there,,,
                                                                                                                                                   
naked, trusting
                                                                                                                                                                    
eager, afraid...
                        
Jeanette digs her nails in harder, to the soft warm body beneath her
                                                                                                                                  
                                                                                                The body that tasted alright.
                                                                                                                                
The body that moved well enough.
                                                                                                                                   
The body that fucked well enough.
                                                                                                                                 
          But it wasn't quite what she wanted, leaving her restless even as she rutted her frustrations away
                                                                                                                                                         
                                   (Restless she was used to; losing herself to ecstasy? moreso...)
                                                                                                                                         
Her Duckling moans beneath her, lost in similar pleasure.
                                                                                                               
-Gone was the brown-haired human begging for her attention;
                                                                                                  
her magenta-haired playmate laid before her, invitingly

and Jeanette purrs at the sight, happy to let the girl swallow the spit of their attraction,
                                           
                     The duckling daring her with bated breaths, imploringly;
                                                                             
    violet eyes electric with the curiosity of a Fool

ℐ̰͠ 𝓈̰͠𝓌̰͠ℯ̰͠𝒶̰͠𝓇̰͠                                                     who didn't see the cliff they were walking towards
ℐ̰͠ 𝓌̰͠ℴ̰͠𝓃̰͠'̰͠𝓉̰͠ 𝒷̰͠𝓇̰͠ℯ̰͠𝒶̰͠𝓀̰͠ 𝓎̰͠ℴ̰͠𝓊̰͠                                                                                                                                   
ℐ̰͠𝒻̰͠ 𝓎̰͠ℴ̰͠𝓊̰͠ 𝓁̰͠ℯ̰͠𝓉̰͠ 𝓂̰͠ℯ̰͠ 𝓉̰͠𝒶̰͠𝓀̰͠ℯ̰͠ 𝓎̰͠ℴ̰͠𝓊̰͠                                                                                                     but wanted it anyway
                                                                         
                                                                                                         A relief of oblivion,
𝒲̰͠𝒽̰͠ℯ̰͠𝓇̰͠ℯ̰͠ 𝓉̰͠𝒽̰͠ℯ̰͠ 𝓌̰͠𝒾̰͠𝓁̰͠𝓁̰͠ℴ̰͠𝓌̰͠𝓈̰͠ 𝓃̰͠ℯ̰͠𝓋̰͠ℯ̰͠𝓇̰͠ 𝓌̰͠ℯ̰͠ℯ̰͠𝓅̰͠                                                                                                                                                
 
( she could give that in spades in shovels in graves in graves in graves-  )
                                                                                                   
Pleased, Jeanette rolls her hips against her;
                                                                                            
                the childe sings breathy sounds; squeals and shivers
                                                                                                
           but she never shys away from the blood Jeannette draws,

                                                                           she just squirms and bucks and is so cute-
                                                                             
                                 -the cutest sacrificial lamb in the flock-
                                                                                 
                                                                                                                                         Jeanette digs in her fingers, curls her claws.

                                                                                                                                   Lifting her up up up;
  Wₕₐₜ'ₛ 𝓰ₒₙₙₐ ₕₐₚₚₑₙ 𝓌ₕₑₙ ᵧₒᵤ 𝒸ₒₘₑ 𝒹ₒ𝓌ₙ?                                                                                                                                                                                 
                                           -'You don't even protest', she wants to praise, because she knows Therese can never say it, but that she wants to, needs to.

And the girl wants to hear it, needs to hear it-

Bʀₒᴋₑɴ ᴘₑᴏᵦʟₑ ₕᴏΓʟₒᴡ ᴀИᴅ ꜰₑᴇBʟₑ                                                                          

ᴡᵢₛₕɪИɢ ᴡₑʟΓₛ ᴀИᴅ ᴄₒᴄₖʟₑ ƧʜₑʟΓₛ  ᴛₕᴇ⅄ Ƨᴡᵢᴍ ᴛₕʀₒᴜᘓʜₒᴜꓕ Wʏ ʜₑᴀD                                               
₍🄸🄽🅂🄸🄳🄴 🄼🅈 🄷🄴🄰🄳₎                                                                                                                                                                                      

                  She doesn't make the girl look at the painting

    the girl hated her father as much as she did

                                                                                     but she'd look if she asked

         Jeannette had made her look, once

she'd cum in spite in spite in spite in devotional spite-
𝔇𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔍𝔞𝔫𝔲𝔰 𝔗𝔥𝔶 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔅𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔶                                                                                                                                                                                                          
                                                                       
Would Therese fuck her like that?

                                                       𝑃̢𝑎̢𝑙̢𝑒̢ 𝑆̢𝑖̢𝑠̢𝑡̢𝑒̢𝑟̢ 𝑆̢𝑡̢𝑜̢𝑝̢                                                                                     Had they ever fucked?
                                                  
She hoped they had.
    
...She'd kill her for touching her sister.

She prayed her sister could still be touched-
Ⲙⲟⲧⲏⲉⲅ ⳽ⲏⲁⲛ'ⲧ ⲃⲉ ⳏⳑⲉⲁ⳽ⲉ𝖽.                                                                              
It didn't matter who their childe pawed at,

but no one else could be allowed to touch her like this,

could share this...

       this weird, strange ritual of...     
         ʜₒᴡ ᴄⱯɴ ᴛₕᴇ⅄ Bᴇ ₛₒ Ƨᴡₑᴇꓕ?                                                                                                                           
She didn't know what it was.
   
They couldn't be blamed if if they didn't know, right?

She feels panic- 

                                                                     -She feels pride.

Everyone in the city would know she was HERS.
ₚₐₗₑ ₛᵢₛₜₑᵣ                                                                                                                      
ₛᵂₑₑₜ ᴰₐᵤᴳₕₜₑᵣ                                                                                                       
Bruises lipstick-

Marks were important.

Marks had to be Seen,,,
ʸₒᵤ'ᵣₑ ᵢₙ ᶠₒᵣ ᵢₜ ₙₒᵂ.                                                                    

Fistfulls of hair and nightgowns...

Her tongue trails along her neck;

she knows the childe will let her rip.
                                                                      
 Bite.

          Rend.
 
She would yield to her if she asked,

( She hadn't yet, but thinking now, the realization of how she could, sent her pulse racing into liveliness- )
🄰🄼 🄸 🄸🄽🅂🄰🄽🄴?                                                                                                                                                                                            
🄵🄴🄴🄻 🅂🄾 🅆🅁🄾🄽🄶                                                                                                                                                                                   
  She could have been hers.

🄳🄾🄽'🅃 🄱🄴🄻🄾🄽🄶                                                                                                                                       She SHOULD have been Hers.
 🄸🄽 🅃🄷🄸🅂                                                                                                                                                                                     
🅁🄴🄰🄻🄸🅃🅈                                                                                                                                                                                 
                        -She knows its an illogical thought; one that her Sister Dearest would chastise her for.

After all, there was no guarantee as to what madness their curse would transmit; turning the girl might not have made her turn out like... her.

But the thought of it...
                                                                                                                                                  
                 Grabbing her sweet breathing body and Kissing it goodnight?

Crooning her a bedtime story of Ecstasy?

Jeanette moans and drags the fledgling with her.

The alley is warm, the night she finds her.

( She'd deserved to be taken in an alley- )

She trails her hand under a tiny dress and feels the slender curve of throat fall under her-
                                          ᵧₒᵤ ₐᵣₑ ⱼᵤₛₜ ₐ ᵦₑₐᵤₜᵢ𝒻ᵤₗ ᵦₐᵦᵧ 𝒸ᵣₐ𝓌ₗᵢₙ𝓰 ₒₙ ₜₕₑ 𝒻ₗₒₒᵣ ₐₙ𝒹 ₗₒᵥᵢₙ𝓰 ᵧₒᵤᵣ 𝓌ᵢₙ𝓰ₛ                                                                                                                                                                    
Her knees would be licked raw by the pavement.

Her hair ripped short, but it would have started long long long-

The screams sound like singing.

She takes every last breath the girl has.

She knows the girl's blood won't make her holy.

     It cant it cant it cant-

              But it could burn so clean so deep so deep, deep, deep inside that she'd be close

'you can put high heels on to be closer to god,' she'd begged her sister, once,

( With me with me with me, she'd almost pleaded. )

Ⲋⲧⲟⳏ 𝖽ⲟⳕⲛⳋ ⲧⲏⲁⲧ. Ⲙⲟⲧⲏⲉⲅ ⳽ⲏⲁⲛ'ⲧ ⲃⲉ ⲧⲟⲟ ⳏⳑⲉⲁ⳽ⲉ𝖽. Ⲛⲟⲛⲉ ⲧⲟⲟ ⳏⳑⲉⲁ⳽ⲉ𝖽-                                                                                                                       
She bit, hating thoughts of religion, of her father, THE Father, of God.

Of twin, smiling faces that had burned burned burned as they'd scratched and made her sister into what she'd become

when they'd left Therese broken and bloodied on the floors

(of home of hell of Jerusalem)

-when they had come for her,,,

No one would stop them from-

Teeth and hands and hips and tongue and growling, moaning beast,,

she rips 'Kate' apart like the animal that she is.

Like the victim she should have been.
ᵢ ₛ𝓌ₑₐᵣ ᵢ 𝓌ₒₙ'ₜ ᵦᵣₑₐₖ ᵧₒᵤ                                                                               
like the milk carton angel she could still be
ᵢ𝒻 ᵧₒᵤ ₗₑₜ ₘₑ ₜₐₖₑ ᵧₒᵤ                                                                                
And kate takes it beautifully,

because she got it, she got it she got it she
                                                                                                                 
                  she had no right to know the things that she knew,

but her glassy little violet eyes KNEW the things Jeanette always wanted someone to see and that was close enough

She moved with her, melted into her touch

melted

bent

allowed
ₐₙ𝒹 ₗₒᵥᵢₙ𝓰 ᵧₒᵤᵣ 𝓌ᵢₙ𝓰ₛ                                                                            
Yₒᵤ'ᵣₑ ₛₜᵢₗₗ ᵤₚ ᵢₙ ₜₕₑ ₐᵢᵣ                                                                          always,

always it was yes yes yes
ᵤₚ ᵤₚ ᵤₚ ᵤₚ ᵤₚ                                                               
it should have been boring
Wₕₐₜ'ₛ 𝓰ₒₙₙₐ ₕₐₚₚₑₙ 𝓌ₕₑₙ ᵧₒᵤ 𝒸ₒₘₑ 𝒹ₒ𝓌ₙ?                                                
but it was a rush

this was a rush

THE RUSH
                                                                                      

-could she feel it too? she HAD to-
                                                                  

           



     𝕀'𝕞 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕖            







For a moment, her duckling lies there, unmoving, as Jeanette pants.

₍Dₑₐ𝒹, 𝒹ₑₐ𝒹₎                                                                                                                                                         

Perfect.

                                                                                                                                                                          
Like a painting.

Like a portrait of something Ruined.

Like something her sister would call 'Pure'.
                                                                                                                                
An urge to shout for her Sister swallows down her throat;

-not in want to antagonize Therese (though she could she could she could she)

but in desire to share their childe this way.

The way she knew they both wanted her to be.

(The way Therese secretly wanted her to be, but would be unwilling to ever admit )

(unwilling unwilling unwilling)

(Tainted dirty whorish)

The slow, dwindling warmth between her thighs catches her attention.

Her breaths, short, ragged, dogging.

Her Duckling is gone.

The human doll lays beneath her, very much dead.
𝓌ₕₐₜ ₕₐₚₚₑₙₑ𝒹 ₜₒ ₘₑ?                                        
Very much mutilated.

Very much bleeding out over the sheets that had nearly gotten herself and her sister shot.
                                                                                                                                             

-That they had nearly shot each other was irrelevant irrelevant irrelevant,,,

        
She curls her lip in disgust. There was a fine line between fucking a dying man, and a dead one.

-was it a man? a woman?

She finds she can't actually quite recall.

The flesh is ripped enough that she can't tell,
                                                                      Cᵣᵧᵢₙ𝓰 ₗₒᵤ𝒹, ᵧₒᵤ ₐᵣₑ 𝒸ᵣₐ𝓌ₗᵢₙ𝓰 ₒₙ ₜₕₑ 𝒻ₗₒₒᵣ                                                                                     
ⱼᵤₛₜ ₐ ᵦₑₐᵤₜᵢ𝒻ᵤₗ ᵦₐᵦᵧ  Yₒᵤ'ᵣₑ ₙₒₜₕᵢₙ𝓰 ₘₒᵣₑ                                                                                       
                                                                                      (not that flesh meant anything anything anything,,,)
                                                                                                                                
 Still, she sits on the coldening corpse a few moments more, not quite still yet not quite grinding.

She hears an imaginary apparition of Therese, scolding her for eating a messy meal, yet again

( -Dirty dirty dirty dirty )
        
She looks at the dead human, unbothered.

The nagging feeling (that wasn't her sister, that wasn't the voices)

was a tiny, prickling sensation that she wasn't used to; she'd never cared much about her bedpost notches.

-She was kind to her exploits, of course.

(sometimes) (well enough,,,)

She wasn't a monster, or anything.

She wasn't like, crazy or anything.

She giggles at her joke, green painted nails tapping at her lower lip.

It had been....  

A long time since she'd had an episode. 
                                                    
No fear floods her body, no surprise floods her beast,

She was older now

She couldn't go back in time to embrace her tiny shadow of a pet.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 
But she could put her blood inside her, again.

(-and again and again and again and )                                                               
                                                                                           
Beast, Blood, Body... 

( -Mind? )

That was it.                                                                                                   
                                                                                                                                       
The restlessness.

The missing.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

With an almost explicit sigh of relief, she releases her freshly deceased straddling partner.

Knowing her sister would scold her anyway and rolls over, falling under the dawn. 

                                                                                                     𝕀'𝕞 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕖 
                                     ₘₐₗₖₒᵥ ᵂₐₙₜₛ ₘₐₗₐₖₐᵢ ᵦₐᶜₖ  

Hours pass, though for her, no time happens at all.
                                                                                   ₛₜᵢₗₗ ᵤₚ ᵢₙ ₜₕₑ ₐᵢᵣ      

    ʅ͟ǝ͟ʞ͟ᴉ͟ɹ͟ɐ͟ s͟ᴉ͟ ǝ͟ɹ͟ǝ͟ɥ͟ʍ͟    


                      🩸𝙱🩸𝚕🩸𝚘🩸𝚘🩸𝚍🩸 𝚋🩸𝚛🩸𝚒🩸𝚗🩸𝚐🩸𝚜🩸 𝚝🩸𝚑🩸𝚎🩸 𝚟🩸𝚒🩸𝚌🩸𝚒🩸𝚘🩸𝚞🩸𝚜🩸 𝚋🩸𝚎🩸𝚊🩸𝚜🩸𝚝🩸  

When at last the moon rises, and the [ Others ] melt away,

She rises, and dresses for the night.

As she's about to leave her apartment, she pauses.

Turns back to the bed.

Humming happily, she scoops up her previously discarded nightgown still sat crumpled on the red satin sheets,

and tucks it into her jacket pocket as a surprise;

-even fake flowers liked spring showers, she was sure.

Without looking back, she flicks the switch, leaving the room; the red door snaps shut behind her,

and the hallway is fresh and green in the yellow of the hall's old, cranky, fluorescent light.

Leaving ( -the human, the duckling) (her father), (herself), (her sister)) alone with each other, in the dark.