The long game

Crystal and steel. The whole house was monochrome. Black stone floors and walls amplified every sound, yet the room was hushed. The dead make no sound. The polite chatter never grew impassioned, every pale face perfectly composed, and the night beyond the walls was muted by drizzling rain. Marcus Livius Libo observed with detached amusement as each careful dilettante danced along the echoing corridors, making the least possible noise. He had chosen this venue for a reason – Gabrielle would have outmatched every blundering Brujah, every calculating Ventrue, even her own clan mates, the sorry excuse for Toreador finesse that currently occupied his city. Her grace and poise would have put them to shame, further cementing her position as a leader for the Toreador clan. And so, it was with some annoyance that the passing hours registered no sign of his favorite new Primogen.

Marcus could see Autumn Kline inching closer. She looked stunning, as always, showing no outward sign of the struggles she had suffered. Her influence had been undermined, but she still held the official Toreador leadership. It was slipping from her grasp. Weakened as she was by the loss of both her progeny, each a power in their own right, an outright attack would destroy her.

But an outright attack was not Gabrielle’s way. It would lessen her influence, and his respect for her. It was too crass, and might leave Autumn with a plan of her own, if she made it out alive and rebuilt her power. Instead, Gabrielle had maneuvered her opponent into a position where the only way to save face was to graciously accept her leadership, and even join her as an advisor – a step down from leader to errand girl. It was diplomatic mastery, worthy of the envy of any Ventrue. And yet, here was Autumn, and no Gabrielle. Marcus remained where he stood, allowing the deposed Toreador within earshot.

Autumn knew that nothing the Prince did was unintentional. He did not move, and she felt emboldened as she approached. Her long black dress contrasted with the diamonds spilling around her neck and from her ears, making her look like a part of the décor. That was how she had regarded herself for the past century. Perhaps, she considered, that had been her undoing. She looked so much a part of the scene, she had not considered that she might be removed from it. The formal greetings as she addressed the Prince sounded both familiar and odd to her own ears. Familiar, because she had repeated them thousands of times in thousands of these gatherings. Odd, because now, for the first time, she was addressing him not as the Toreador Primogen. She was addressing him merely as Autumn, a lone Kindred bereft of power and progeny. She quickly banished any thought of her lost Childer. It was still too raw, and she needed her wits tonight.

The Prince acknowledged her greetings with a stoic gaze. Impress me, he seemed to suggest. It was a chance, but she knew there were no promises here. She brought up his latest investment choices and she could tell he was too enraptured by that outsider bitch's charm to be easily swayed. She tried flattery but quickly backpedaled when she saw a hint of boredom creep into his eyes. Trying her best not to appear flustered, she chose a different line of attack.

“As much as I lament Ms de Vries's absence tonight, I must admit I do not miss her companions,” Autumn said, affecting an air of secret disclosure.

“Of course, her Childe must remind you of your tragic loss,” the Prince responded. She managed not to flinch.

“I cannot comment on her blonde warrior,” she continued, passing over the slight, “but her choice of bedfellows in the ranks of the sewer rats is rather unique.”

The Prince made no gesture to indicate a response, but neither did he undermine her argument.

“In my custody, the Toreador clan has never aligned itself with the Nosferatu. In fact, I can think of no such alliance in the history of our clan. But it seems we are headed in a different direction.” She cast her eyes subtly towards the ground, indicating both her subordination to him and a watchfulness of the underground Kindred. Marcus had to admire the layering of implications wrapped in such a simple gesture. The Nosferatu spymasters were indeed a prime alliance for the social manipulations of the Toreador, but such an allegiance had always been precluded by intense mutual dislike. And the Nosferatu primogen had been integral in Gabrielle’s machinations.

“I suppose I should congratulate Ms de Vries for her diplomatic success. After all, the Nosferatu, though hideous, are a great source of illicit information. It is only surprising that they ally themselves with anyone, considering how reluctant they are to involve themselves in our politics. Heavens know, I have but a passing rapport with their Primogen,” she added, as if to distance herself further.

Marcus considered her words. The potential of a Toreador-Nosferatu alliance could, indeed, shift the power structure of the city. It already had. And given his position at the top, he knew Autumn would assume he wished to maintain the status quo. That last remark all but flashed it in neon. But Marcus had not gained his power through resistance to change. As the millennia passed him by, the only constant in the world, he found, was change. The trick was to see it coming, and adapt his strategies accordingly. Poor, lovely Autumn would never understand this.

“I am certain Gabrielle will not resent your aversion to her allies,” he said. “In fact, I shall mention it to her personally.”

Autumn Kline felt her world cave in as the Prince moved away. The threat of the Nosferatu had been her last card, and the Prince dismissed it, casually. He left her behind as he mingled with the other Primogen. They were all leaving her behind.

A burning, deep in her gut, sparked. Exploded. Like the Hunger itself, rage and a savage hatred consumed her. All thoughts of reinforcing her position vanished. All she heard were the echoes of Amicus and Vera’s dying screams.

To hell with the long game.

Feeding time

Red light. The grey Buick stopped. Street was empty. Rain slowed to a drizzle, but her hair was already dripping wet. No lights in the windows. No witnesses. Perfect.

A shadow dropped down from the top of the office building on the corner of the intersection. The Buick driver looked bored, a businessman on his unenthusiastic way home. He would say he was working late, a lie too tiresome to deny. He didn't notice the subtle movement out of the corner of his eye. He didn't see a flash of blonde hair darkened by the rain. He saw nothing, in fact, until suddenly a metallic screech startled him as the door of his car was torn open. A monstrous face lunged at him almost too fast to register. Pain. Blood spray. He never even got off a scream.

Minutes later, a beautiful blonde drove a grey Buick down toward the harbor. The careful observer might have noticed that the man in the passenger seat was not merely sleeping. They might have noticed the blood. On his shirt. On the window. But there were no observers in this part of town, at this hour.

The woman smiled, satisfied. Sated. It had been too long. Age begets a certain mastery over the hunger, but she had pushed it to exhaustion. As much as she disliked it, the unpleasant task was done, only cleanup remained. The Buick would be a gift to the Nosses. She grabbed the man’s phone and the car’s GPS and threw them out of the window, then headed toward the meat processing plant.

---

She slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind her. The room was dark, lit only by the echo of a streetlight. She headed for the bathroom for a much-needed shower.

“Hunting alone again?”
The voice was soothing and intimate in the darkness, yet it stopped her dead in her tracks.
“Yes, Gabrielle. I did not wish to disturb you.” She tried to locate where her sire was sitting.
“You know what disturbs me.” A warning.
“It was raining. I was hunting in the streets. I know you dislike getting messy.”
“Hm.”

Aska hesitated, standing perfectly still, unsure if the acknowledgment was a dismissal. Minutes passed. She knew better than to provoke her Mistress with impatience.
“Go. Clean yourself up. I know you dislike being reminded of these… carnal needs.”
“Thank you, Gabrielle,” she said and hastened to the bathroom.

Closing the door behind her, carefully, she stared at it for a moment. Who knew what Gabrielle was really thinking… shaking it off, she looked herself in the full-length mirror. Her shirt was ruined. The blood had soaked into the silk, plastering it to her skin. Her hair was a mess, stiff with dried blood. Her face, however, was flushed. Youthful. Ignoring the ancient eyes, one might think her to be a carefree young girl. A model, perhaps, with all that height and striking bone structure. She climbed into the shower and turned it on at the hottest setting. She peeled off her clothes, leaving them in the tub, scrubbed the blood out of her hair, and rinsed off, paying special attention to cleaning her fingernails.

Clean and dried, she tiptoed back into the dark suite. Gabrielle was gone, and she headed to her room to find new clothes. Her room was stark and bare. She hadn’t bothered to decorate it. Minimalist design was becoming something of an obsession. She slid open a panel in the dark wood closet and started to assemble a wardrobe for the night’s tiring social obligations. Tasteful enough to entice the Toreador, expensive enough to impress the Ventrue, functional enough not to offend the Brujah. She decided on another white silk shirt and a designer suit, tailored to emphasize her chiseled, androgynous body type. She hesitated on the choice of accessory, a whimsical black silk tie, or a pearl necklace.

“I prefer the pearl.”

Aska jumped. She put the tie back on its hangar and took down the pearl necklace. When she moved to put it on, a hand caught her own.

“Let me,” said Gabrielle, suddenly at her back. Gabrielle fastened the clasp behind her, hovering in her blind spot, a move designed to prey on the animal instincts remaining in her once-human body. No. No anxiety. Be calm.

“You have such a beautiful neck,” she continued, her finger caressing the length of her bare shoulder, up towards the nape of her neck. “Such gorgeous skin.”

The bite was sudden, fierce. Aska cried out as Gabrielle sank fangs into her neck and ripped, savagely, at her skin. A predatory growl and immense psychic pressure forced her to her knees. She felt the brute power of her sire unleashed, like a crashing weight on her mind. Blood ran from her nose and she fought not to lose consciousness. Gabrielle pulled back. She circled to face her, lowering down to her level, then sat down in her lap as blood still oozed from the ragged gash in Aska's neck. Aska did not move, she did not resist. Resistance, she knew, would only make it worse. Gabrielle’s eyes were alight with hunger.

“If you will not show me your heart, I will tear it from your chest,” she whispered. “I am sick of your childish hiding. We are what we are, and I will have you share it with me, as of old.” Another lunge at Aska's throat, a deep pulling sensation as Gabrielle drank deep. Her face was covered in blood when she pulled back again and looked her square in the face. A gentle finger traced her cheekbones.

“When did we grow so far apart, my Childe…” Gabrielle mused. Dizzy, pushing against the blackness at the edge of her vision, Aska tried to form words. She silenced as Gabrielle covered her mouth with her own and bit her lip, licking at the blood that welled up.
“Muh…” she started, failed, then turned all her effort into speaking, “the meeting. We… we will be late.”
“Shush, my Childe,” Gabrielle said with a wicked grin, “politics can wait. It is time we spend some… quality time together.”

Gabrielle stood, hooked her fingers into the wound at her neck, and dragged her into bed. A fleeting thought of fear as she considered if she would survive the night. But then, she remembered, of course she would.

Her mind froze in panic.