Chapter Text
“Your highness! Thank you for inviting me to this wonderful party.”
A woman of dark complexion and black, braided hair extended a hand to the party's host. Around her body was a creamy white dress, with a neckline that extended just far enough to hint at ample cleavage.
The Prince – a pale man, face locked perpetually in his late forties – took the hand in his and, with just the slightest wary look, kissed it. “Madam Desta,” he said, looking up. “Every law-abiding Kindred is welcome in Elysium. I bid you welcome.”
Across the room, Rebecca Morse – long brown hair, skin as yet losing much of its color to time – chewed her thumb nail. She watched as the smokey woman uttered a high, hollow laugh, before leading the Prince into conversation.
“Martin?” Rebecca said, whispering to the man at her side. “Who is that woman?”
The gangly man at her side watched the two figures, stroking his chin. In reality, Rebecca knew Martin was, in fact, quite hideous beneath that glamour of his. Still, the illusion was pleasing enough, considering the alternative. If nothing else, the Nosferatu remained inconspicuous.
He smiled, displaying a set of yellowed, crooked teeth. “That, Ms. Morse,” Martin said, in his gravely voice, “is Desta Barsamian. An elder of the Followers of Set.”
“Oh?” Rebecca said, casting a passing glance sideways at him. “Is that all?”
“Don't give me that crap, sweetheart,” Martin said, grasping one of his fingers and popping the knuckle audibly. “You only play coy when you know nothing. Which is often. If you want to know more about the Setites, just ask.”
Rebecca scowled, looking away. Deep inside, the Beast within rankled at the disrespect. She forced it down. “...fine,” she grunted, staring at the Kindred across the room. “Would you be so kind,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “as to cure my ignorance? I happen to know you love it.”
“When it suits me,” Martin said, cracking another knuckle. He smiled. “You could just ask your vitae daddy.”
The Toreador clenched her fist, forcing the Beast down again. “Barry has...lost interest in me as of late,” she said. “He's consumed with some art project or another.”
“And you're telling me this?” Martin said, eyebrows rising. “You know it'll get out. If not because I sell the factoid, than because...well, look around you.”
Rebecca didn't need to. The Victorian-style drawing room that served as that night's Elysium was crowded with every Kindred of note. Undoubtedly, the harpies – the local gossips – had their ears tuned for any juicy morsels.
She shrugged. “They'll find out sooner or later,” Rebecca said, shutting her eyes. “This way, it comes out on my terms. Better yet, it's my token of trade.” She cracked one eye open, looking sideways at the sewer rat. “The Followers of Set?”
Martin grinned. “Pretty weak offering there, princess,” he said. He shrugged. “What the hell, though? It's not like it's a secret or anything.” He began popping the knuckles on his other hand. Pop. Pop. “The Followers of Set are exactly what they sound like: they are Kindred who worship the Egyptian god Set, also called Sutekh. They claim that he was their Clan founder, as well as a dark god.”
“They're a Clan? Or a cult?” Rebecca said, cocking her head to the side.
“Both. They're weird.” Martin cast a glance around the room. “Barsamian is one of their elders. Not too old, as far as elders go. Really more an Ancillae, but don't say that to her face. She's still got a century on you, princess. And she's got resources in the city.”
“Another crusty old stiff with years of seniority over me,” Rebecca said, examining her nails. “Got it. Why haven't I seen her around Elysium?”
“One, cause you're still green,” Martin said, flashing her a filthy yellow grin. “Don't expect to know every player in the game, sweetie. Two, the Setites aren't exactly buddy buddy with the Camarilla. When they're in a Cam city, they play by the rules for the most part, but that's a courtesy. They're Independent.”
Rebecca frowned. “Like the Giovanni?”
“Precisely,” Martin said. “Complete with connections to crime, spooky foreign magic that makes the Tremere seem pedestrian, and some weird obsessions. But instead of incest and necromancy, the Setites love their snakes.”
“Snakes.” The Toreador dropped the word flat.
“Snakes. Got this whole Thulsa Doom thing going on.” Martin shook his head and chuckled quietly. “No idea what snakes have to do with Set, but that's their thing. They can even get freaky, and...”
Crash.
The dull drone of conversation died as glass fell to the ground from a dark, broken window. A small metal tube bounced loudly over the polished tile.
Every eye turned to look at the flashbang. Unfortunate, when it exploded.
“AAAGH!” Rebecca screamed, throwing her hands over her eyes. Not that she could hear her own voice, with the ringing in her ears.
She staggered back, fangs bared. Her body shook; the Beast inside her spat out three conflicting impulses at once. Flee? Attack? Stay still?
The Toreador's confusion mounted as she felt heavy impacts hit her chest. “Ah!”
She tumbled to the ground, clutching her chest. Fingers played over her torso, feeling new holes punched through them, barely wide enough to insert her fingers. The wounds wept precious vitae, and felt still warm. A contrast against her cold, dead flesh.
Only in passing did she register that her blue dress was ruined.
Rebecca whipped her head around, blinking rapidly. Vision swam before her eyes, a persistent ring in her ears. Slowly, both senses came into focus.
All around her were scrambling figures. Some in party dresses and suits. Some in combat fatigues and carrying rifles.
“...foul monsters!” came a voice. Where, Rebecca couldn't place. “Demons from hell! The Society of Leopold has come to deliver God's righteous judgment!”
Rebecca ducked, throwing hands over her head, as gunfire rang out. She saw more armed figures leap in through windows, their muzzles flashing.
“...fuck this!” Rebecca muttered, scrambling on all fours towards a table. In her peripheral vision, she saw one of the party guests – the Malkavian Primogen, if she wasn't mistaken – leap at an attacker. Rebecca heard rather than saw the frenzied blows the lunatic rained on the man.
Bang!
“Ah!” Rebecca cried, stumbling to the floor as another bullet tore through her. “Nnngh!” she groaned, crawling another foot. She cast a frantic glance behind her.
A man in black fatigues advanced on her, pointing an automatic rifle. He face was obscured by a black ski mask.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over Rebecca's face. She looked up in alarm.
Desta Barsamian stood over the fallen Toreador, facing the hunter. She turned to him, and their eyes met.
The man stopped cold, frozen.
The Setite smiled, then opened her mouth. From the parted lips, a forked tongue shot out, crossing a meter in length. It slid across the man's throat.
A gout of precious blood erupted from the wound, and the man dropped the weapon. Grasping at his leaking neck, he fell over.
Bang Bang Bang!
“Ah!” Rebecca screamed, ducking down. Her fanged teeth were clenched. Looking up, she saw another man with a gun to the Setite's side. The air was thick with the pungent scent of blood, and the acrid smell of gunsmoke.
Desta merely smiled, licking her lips with her enormous tongue.
To Rebecca's horror – and the hunter's, for that matter – the Setite's torso grew over with a layer of bright, yellow scales. They glinted like polished copper in the chandelier light.
The man shook all over, sweat forming around the bandana tied over the lower half of his face. His eyes were wide. “G-god in heaven!”
“Your god is not here, little mouse,” Desta said, staring into his eyes with bright, slitted golden eyes. With her extensive tongue, she licked away droplets of blood that dripped to her chin. “There is only Set!”
She lunged at the man, tongue whipping through the air. Her body a blur of white, and sparkles of gold.
Rebecca Morse – shaking in shock – crawled backwards until she hid beneath a small table, set against a wall.
The Toreador shut her eyes and tucked her knees against her chest. Shutting out the world, she wainted.
“You can come out now, princess.”
Rebecca jumped, raising her fists in front of her. Then she looked up. “M-Martin? AH!”
She looked away, averting her eyes from the Nosferatu's true, hideous face. It was a form she'd only had the displeasure of seeing a couple times in any detail, and she had no desire to memorize its grotesquerie.
“Ha ha!” Martin said, tapping the top of the table with one gnarled finger. “Sweetheart, you're going to hurt my feelings! Ha ha! But seriously, everything's under control. Nobody here now but us monsters. Heh heh...”
Frowning deeply, the Toreador crawled out from under the table and stood up. With shaking hands she tried to smooth out her (now ruined) blue dress. “Ha...hah...are they gone?” she gasped. Not that she actually had to breathe. Old habits, and all.
“See for yourself,” Martin said, waving at the room.
Sure enough, Rebecca saw the previously well-appointed room in shambles. Bullet holes riddled the walls, light fixtures were shattered. Blood – precious, precious blood – everywhere. Pooling on the floor, splattered on the walls, soaking in every article of clothing. Somehow, a spray had landed on the ceiling.
Several men – most likely the Prince's ghouls – dragged bodies away. All but one, who stood in the corner and quietly swept a pile of dust into a pan.
“Poor Abby,” Martin said, shaking his head. “Who will pass snide comments to the peanut gallery now? Ah ha ha!” He chuckled to himself, slapping his knee. He raised his arm, adjusting a cuff link on his shabby, now blood-stained brown suit. “Vampire hunters, right? They sure had balls tonight, I'll say that much. It was suicidal, but it was ballsy. Ain't I right?”
Rebecca said nothing, rubbing her hands together and staring into space.
The Nosferatu seemed to note the silence. “...you okay, daisy duke?” he said, his puffy, sunken eyes looking sidelong at the woman.
“I...I almost died.”
The Toreador clasped at the front of her dress, fingers feeling the holes made in the blue fabric. “I almost died...again...for real, this time.”
Martin frowned. “Sweetheart,” he said. “I'm gonna do you a favor – a capital F Favor – and keep quiet about that sort of talk. And the hiding under the table bit.” He adjusted his wrinkled novelty tie. “Because – pro tip from a lick whose been around the block a time or two – that kind of weakness will be exploited by the sharks around here. If you think those hunters were dangerous, you ain't seen nothin' yet.”
Rebecca forced her hands down to her sides, clenched tight in fists. She turned up her nose. Still, her body wouldn't stop shaking. “W-what do I do?”
The Nosferatu shrugged. “Get less weak. Learn how to fight, or get yourself an advantage. Find some friends, and wrap them around your finger.” He stepped forward, looking her in the eyes. “You're a big vampire girl now, princess. Daddy won't always have your back. You gotta get some initiative. Learn to defend yourself.”
The Toreador looked away, casting brief glances forward at the sewer rat.
Ugly as the bastard was, he was right. She basically crumpled like newspaper when things turned hazardous. It's not like bullets were that threatening to her. Yet she not only ran, but she did the most ineffectual thing she could: she crawled under a table and hoped that the bad men would go away.
She clenched her teeth, looking down at the floor.
Like it or not, she was (un)living in a violent, messed up world. She could ill afford weakness. Nor could she stand the thought of feeling so helpless again. It chilled her to the core.
Rebecca glanced around the room. “...where did Miss Barsamian go?”
“Eh?” Martin said, scratching his bald, misshapen head. “Well, she went home, kiddo. Why?”
The Toreador forced herself to stand up straight. She looked straight at the Nosferatu.
“Can you tell me where I can find her?”
“Oh? And who are you?”
Desta Barsamian smiled, waving the young Kindred over to her spot by the brick wall. The dirty alley around her stank of mildew and stale urine.
Still, this particular slum building was the best spot to find illicit substances. Or, in this case, the type of vampire who had a hand in same.
Rebecca walked over, wearing a pair of tight khaki pants, a peach-colored blouse, and a bright blue light jacket. A brown messenger bag was slung from her shoulder.
She smiled. “Rebecca Morse,” Rebecca said, raising a hand. “Barry Cotton's childe. We met at the Cam party the other night.”
“We did?” Desta said, cocking her head to the side. “I'm sorry, but I don't recall.” She smiled apologetically.
“...I was the girl hiding under the table,” Rebecca said, smiling nervously. “You saved me from that guy, with your...you know. It was impressive.”
The Setite's eyes opened wider fractionally. “Oh yes!” she said. “I remember now. I see those brutes didn't harm you terribly.”
“Heh heh...” Rebecca said, gripping the strap of her bag. “...nothing that the red stuff couldn't fix.”
Desta nodded. “True. So, Ms. Morse,” she said, placing one hand on her hip. “What brings you down to this wretched hive of scum and villainy?” She frowned. “Did I get that quote right? I heard it somewhere, and am told it was from one of those 'moving pictures'.”
“No, you nailed the reference,” Rebecca said, smiling. She moved in a little closer, stepping carefully over the bags of garbage littering the concrete. “I heard from a reliable source that you can provide a Kindred in need with some...assistance.”
The woman's lips curled up dramatically at the edges. “The Temple of Set is always ready to provide help, to those who really need it.” She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. “Although...are you sure you want to be getting help from little old me? Our reputation precedes us.”
Rebecca laced her fingers in front of her. “Consider me briefed fully on your reputation,” she said. “But you see, I have a bit of a problem. And, for better or worse, I've heard that you can fix it.”
“I live to please, my dear,” Desta said, nodding. “Just tell me what you wish. If it's within the not inconsiderable power of Set's followers, I will seek to grant it.”
The woman almost shuddered. The neonate was practically begging to get pulled into Set's clutches.
The Toreador nodded. “Umm...can we go somewhere...private?” she said, clapping her hands together. “My problem is a little...sensitive.”
“Of course,” Desta said, closing her eyes and nodding. She turned around. “Come right this way,” she said, looking towards a nearby door, “and we'll get you sorted right-”
She felt the point piercing her backside before she finished registering the sound of riffling through fabric, or the footsteps bridging the gap between them.
Smack!
Desta froze, her body seizing up. She felt a shaft of cold wood break through her skin, weave between her ribs, and pressing against her heart. “Gah!”
Smack!
Wood pierced the cold, dead organ. The Setite's face fell forward, chin resting on her sternum. She felt the shaft thread through her ribs on the other side, and saw it press just slightly under the skin.
Smack!
The stake reached its final position, sticking dramatically from her chest, and tenting her low-cut top. The wood was stained with sweet, sweet vitae. The sheen of blood dampened her shirt, staining the white fabric crimson.
The Setite fell backwards, losing all feeling in her legs.
A pair of arms caught her mid-fall. One of them clutched a mallet, pressing its cold weight against her bare arm.
Supporting the woman's head, Rebecca Morse leaned in. She looked down at the Setitie, smiling.
She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. Looked away. Then, Rebecca's eyes lit up. “How about...we go back to my place?” The Toreador smirked, looking down at her catch. “You and I are going to be very good friends.”