“A mask is going to break soon. You can’t keep it up forever.”
Harlequin

---

Sunday night, 20 March 2016, AM

Celia: Jade waits for the downtime between court and the party to approach her mark. It’s not a long journey: from Pietro’s lap a few spaces over, heels clicking delightfully in the ear of the boy she’d nabbed earlier. He follows her on hands and knees like the good little mind-wiped vessel that he is.

She slips onto the cowboy’s lap with a little giggle, fangs tracing a shallow trail down his neck.

“Hello, darling.”

GM: Tonight, at least, Reynaldo is no cowboy. He has on a gangster’s classic black and white pinstriped suit, with a black undershirt and white necktie, and two-toned oxford shoes of the same colors. A fedora substitutes for his usual hat.

It’s not an original look, but the Ventrue wears it well, and the change of headwear makes him stand out from his usual self.

“Hello, lush.”

He smirks faintly, gives her a moment to taste his skin, then pulls back enough to look her costume over.

“You wear the mob look better than I do.”

Celia: “I wear everything better than most,” she says with a smirk. She trails her fingertips up his arms then down his chest, finally returning to the white neck tie. She starts to loosen it.

“I’m confiscating your tie,” she says. “It’ll look better on me. And you made me wait an awfully long time after I shared something cool with you to reach out. That was very, very rude.”

Jade drapes the tie over her shoulders.

“What’s a lick gotta do to get a date if showing off isn’t enough?”

GM: “Good things come to those who wait, lush. We can afford to wait. What’s time to an immortal?” Gui rejoinds.

He watches with amusement as she takes his tie.

“I don’t know if that goes with your shirt and pearls.”

They are the same color.

Celia: “Who said I’m putting it around my neck?” Jade lifts one expertly sculpted brow at him. She slides her fingers up her legs, beneath the hem of the skirt. The tie disappears when her hands come back out.

“Some part of you should get into my panties since someone doesn’t want to put out.” Jade pouts at him. “I brought you a snack to share and everything.”

She shifts, straddling his lap so she can lean in to whisper in his ear.

“I have something exciting to share with you… privately.”

GM: “Black,” remarks Gui, following the motions of her fingers.

“That goes better with white, even if no one but me is going to see it.”

He runs a hand through her hair.

“But tell you what, lush. We can bring the Gamberro, if you like. He’s always hungry for a good time.”

“Consider it a make-up present from me to you.”

Celia: “He’s not nearly as cute as you, Reynaldo,” Jade pouts, “so I hope you’re not trying to pawn me off on him. But you can bring him. I enjoy an audience. And he might even like what I tell you, too.”

Fangs trace the lobe of his ear, her breath warm against his skin when she murmurs the rest of it low enough so that only he can hear.

“He’s got plenty big shoes to fill now that I’ve cleared some space.”

GM: “How intriguing. Let’s get to it, then.”

Gui picks up Jade under her legs, rises, and then sets her down. “You’re very light,” he remarks as he leads her to the Evergreen’s old-fashioned grilled elevator and takes it upstairs. The Ventrue has his own office space. It’s decorated more expensively than Pete’s, but still tastefully enough.

Some of the light fixtures actually wouldn’t look out of place at the ’20s party downstairs.

Celia: What’s a girl got to do to get a date in this place? Last night he was all but eating out of the palm of her hand. At least the Ventrue don’t mix business with pleasure. No reason to think they’re going to do anything but chat in his office.

A snap of her fingers has her chosen vessel following behind the pair of them, sending a shrug Gui’s way if he asks about it. It’s not like the poor dear is going to make it out of this with any of his memories intact. All the same, she tells him to wait outside the door when they step inside Gui’s office, eyes sweeping the space.

“Nice digs.”

She wants an office. Maybe she’ll ask her grandsire for one this evening at their meeting. For the new role in his inner circle she’ll have created.

GM: Gui shoots off a text on their way.

“Nice body,” says the Ventrue.

He pulls her onto the couch.

“I don’t really use them.”

He starts removing her jacket.

Celia: The jacket slides off easily enough. Maybe she was wrong about not mixing business with pleasure. Or maybe he just wants a closer look at her era-appropriate clothing.

“Shame. I use mine all the time.”

“Nice things deserve to be seen.”

GM: “They certainly do.”

Gui leans in close, tracing fangs along skin as his hands methodically unbutton her shirt.

Celia: Jade giggles, pulling back just far enough to smile coyly at him.

“Thought you blue bloods didn’t mix business with pleasure.”

GM: “I don’t use this place for business, lush.”

The Ventrue’s hands resume their work as the door opens. A man strides in. At most angles, the ghoul known as the Gamberro looks like a handsome man: machismo made flesh. At another, though, he could be described as a pretentious boytoy thug. Compared to most men, he’s short, but his lean, prison-yard muscles make him look taller. Compared to most men, he’s young, probably not old enough to legally buy alcohol. But his gang-touting tats, cocaine-dusted nose, and body-bag stare make it clear that carding him would be a fatal mistake. His dark hair is short, freshly cut, and coiffed in that casually messy way that actually takes precise preening. He wears a pinstriped black and red suit with torn-away sleeves to show off his sun-ripe Sicilian-Latino skin and probably peacocking-flexed physique. All in all, he looks like he’s auditioning for a boy band or Tween Bop pin-up.

Gamberro looks over Jade’s body hungrily. Without a word, he joins them on the couch and rips at her clothes.

Gui makes a tsking noise. “Leave them intact, will you?”

“Looks better with them off,” says the ghoul.

“Unquestionably, but she does need to put them back on. Intact.”

Gamberro reluctantly slows and starts to unzip her skirt instead. Lust burns in the shorter man’s eyes.

Celia: Well that’s… certainly something. Expected, isn’t it, but also unexpected right this very moment. She thought she’d been clear with Reynaldo that she does have business to discuss with him. The stolen tie lands on the floor when the ghoul’s hands make quick work of her skirt, revealing the lacy black panties and garter belt.

The ghoul isn’t the only one who has lust shining in his eyes after that. It all but blazes out of her, and if she weren’t in the room with another lick the man pulling at her clothes would be able to smell her arousal. But she plays dead for now.

Two at once. This is what dreams are made of. She leans back against him with a soft sigh, enjoying the adoration, the way they’ve agreed how good she’ll look without her clothing—

And Roderick’s face slams into her. Mafia scum. Monogamy. What would he do if he saw her here now? Is going even this far cheating?

What are the rules with him anymore?

Fuck. It’s not like she can avoid him forever. (Can she avoid him forever? She kind of wants to avoid him forever.)

“Boys, boys, boys.” She holds up a hand, forestalling Gamberro and Gui from getting her further out of her clothes, “I do have business, first.”

It’s an effort to get the words out.

GM: Gamberro doesn’t slow down. He seizes Jade’s head between his hands and doesn’t press his lips to hers so much as smash them together. The kisses are rough, forceful, and hungry.

Celia: …well. She’d tried, right? Easier to give in, to let it happen, to cry rape, right?

For a moment she goes along with it. For a moment she loses herself in the feeling of lips on hers, teeth on hers, hands crushing her to him. She makes a noise, low and in the back of her throat, and her fingers curl in his shirt—

Roderick’s face appears in her mind again. His scowl. What’s he going to do to her if he sees her here like this? Put her back in the microwave?

Hatred surges through her at the thought. How dare he. The spoiled little boy found out that his world isn’t as rosy as he’d pretended for so long and he’d taken it out on her. After she told him everything. He needs her. He’s lucky that she wants him. Lucky that she’s willing to change for him. Lucky that she was willing to take his abuse, his vitriol, his—

Fuck him.

She will not be the Diana to his Maxen. She will not let another boy decide what he wants with her and put her in another fucking box and tell her how to live. She’ll tell him dinner was canceled. Then she has five nights to figure out what she wants to do with him.

Celia’s control shatters. Jade growls, straddling Gamberro with her recently-bared legs, grinding down against him when her tongue plunders his mouth.

GM: “Guess this is our business,” Gui remarks with amusement as he unbuttons the rest of Jade’s shirt and pulls off the suspenders. Gamberro rips off her panties (“She doesn’t need those”), undoes his pants, and enters her with his cock. He pumps furiously back and forth, balls smacking against her thighs as he grunts and thrusts, savagely hard. Jade can see a mortal woman yelling for him to slow down, he hurts. Gui tosses away the last of Jade’s clothes, throws away his own, and sinks his fangs into her neck.

Celia: Sometimes pleasure is business. If Gui wants to continue working with her it’s best he find that out now.

Besides, she can always tell him what she wanted to later. And celebrate with another round of fangs in flesh.

The ghoul finds her wet. Wet enough to take his thrusts—which she doesn’t complain about, even urges him on with tiny little noises and requests for “faster” and “there”—and loses the last of her control when Gui bites. She tightens around the cock inside of her, fangs flashing in her mouth when she leans in to drink from the ghoul. Just a sip, then she twists, sinking into Gui instead to drink right from the source without any of that “letting it cool” nonsense. She doesn’t lick closed the wound on the ghoul, letting his blood continue to drip down his neck so she can lap it up when she goes back to him.

Pleasure certainly is business for Jade. She doesn’t give half effort here; everyone gets to be included.

GM: They don’t give half effort either.

Gamberro’s blood is hot and furious, but has a decidedly epicurean flavor; perhaps his Ventrue domitor’s lingering vitae, but Jade can taste the inherent pride and sense of superiority in his blood, admixed as it is the thuggish low-mindedness. The contrast is delicious. Gui’s blood, of course, is bluer than any mere ghoul’s, and cooler too, focused rather than furious, and provides a delectable third contrast to Gamberro’s previous two. Jade could suck between them forever.

Gui lets it cool, much as that might disappoint him. But Jade gets to feel his kiss all over her body, his fangs puncturing her skin from her neck to her arms to her wrists and everywhere between, interspersed by his lapping tongue.

Eventually, though, the Ventrue cannot resist her taste, her scent, her cries and growls, her beauty, everything that is so utterly irresistible about her. He sinks his fangs into her neck and drinks directly.

Gamberro pumps savagely back and forth into Jade’s wet cunt. He gasps and pants under her sweet kiss, sweat beading from his head, then seizes her neck and chokes her, squeezes her, tries the throttle the already departed life out of her. He bites too, as best he can with his flat teeth, sinking them around her breasts and gnawing until hot blood wells forth.

He raises a balled fist as if to beat, her, too, but Gui catches it in his palm with a reproached, “Save that for the kine.”

Celia: Good boy.

She’ll rip the hand off the next person that raises one against her.

She purrs instead, the sound audible despite the hands around her dead throat, and finds purchase on his back with her nails. Not enough to break the skin, no, just enough to leave her mark on him like he’d tried to do with her.

Pain gets him off? She can be that mistress too. She bites again, letting his warm blood fill her mouth.

And when she’s had enough of this being fucked, she switches it up. She flips them, lays the ghoul out on his back, and shows him what it really means to be fucked by a lick. She rides him just as hard and fast as he pumped into her.

A nail across her chest lets the blood spill forth when she leans forward, pinning his arms above his head to take what she wants from this mortal beneath her.

GM: Gamberro hisses with pleasure at the pain across his back. He even lets her flip him over. It’s several seconds after she pins his arms that he snarls, “Soy un vaccaro!” and tackles her off the couch.

(“I am a Vaccaro!”)

The two hit the floor with a crash. Gui dives after them. The floor creeks under their rolling bodies as they pull themselves up and force the others down, each participant trying to establish dominance. Snarling, biting, fucking, fighting. Red spatters across the floor until the ghoul pants and blows his load. Sticky white seed drips from Jade’s dead cunt, but the two licks stop on their own time, not the ghoul’s. It’s several more minutes before the vampires’ Beasts exhaust themselves, glutted on one another’s heady vitae, and the three lie spent and still over the blood-streaked rug.

Gui tsks.

“I’ll have to get that replaced.”

Celia: Jade lies still where she has fallen upon Gui after their Beasts have taken their fill, head resting on his chest as if it has every right to be there. She tugs at Gamberro until the ghoul is at her back, turning herself into the center of the Jade-sandwich between these two thoroughly sated partners of hers.

Amusement tugs her lips into a smile at the Ventrue’s words.

“Dunno, ‘Naldo, gives it a nice little gothic touch. Fresh blood in the mob lick’s office. It’s a classic. What’s not to love?”

GM: “Mm, unprofessional, though. Smart mob licks clean up their messes.”

“I like it,” says Gamberro. “Blood on the ground. Shows you mean business.”

Celia: “Speaking of business,” Jade drawls, “I did have something to tell you.”

GM: The Ventre rises, back to business just like that.

“Let’s hit the showers, then.”

---

Sunday night, 20 March 2016, AM

Celia: Jade finishes her business and waits long enough for the foreign vitae to meld into her own system before she finds a cannister. Two “hits” of blood seep into the open mouth of the container when she bites her own wrist with her fangs, part of the payment due to Roderick.

Her Beast howls its complaints. How dare she give any of their precious vitae to that sap, it snarls. How dare she give away her blood to someone who abused her, who made her beg and plead and get on her knees in order to mend what he had done to her, who demanded reciprocity when she took what she needed from him to mend the body that he had damaged. It makes its fury known when it rakes the insides of her chest with its claws.

She bleeds for every drop.

And once it’s done she takes the elevator down to rejoin the rest of the post-court, pre-party festivities. Her gaze sweeps the assembled licks, head cocking to one side as she surveys the options. Josua and Alana haven’t arrived yet. The Boggs patriarch looks deep in conversation with the rest of his clan—she lifts her chin at Luicia in an I’ll see you soon kind of nod but chooses not to interrupt.

She has another lick to talk to this evening, and she leads Reggie his way—she’s not done with him yet, he’ll be dismissed in a moment so he can question the licks, but she needs him for this next little bit while she speaks to the Caitiff.

Jade slides onto the chair beside the black musician, offering a winning smile.

“Now a good time?”

Julius: “Cud lissenin to you’s evah not be uh gud time?” drawls Papa Juju in his slow, grits-thick accent. His dawning smile causes his diamond-studded fang to shine once more. Both smile and diamond seem genuine, tonight, though appearances can be deceiving as the Toreador well knows.

Celia: “True enough, Papa Jules,” she says with a smile as warm as the long-forgotten summer sun. All the same, Jade can’t help but wonder just what the little snake had whispered in his ear.

“But it was you who claimed a story for me this evenin’,” she reminds him. “Shall we find your friend for the telling?”

Julius: “Fo’sho,” replies the Caitiff with a honeyed ease as he rises from his not-human chair. “Evah bin learned yoself Italiano, dawl?”

The jazzman extends a genteel if gorrila-sized arm to the ‘lady’.

Celia: “Mm, can’t say that I have.” Jade slips her arm through his, palm resting on his forearm. “You going to stick around to translate for me?”

GM: Of course he will.

Because she’s Jade Kalani.

Who’ll turn down time with the prettiest lick in the city?

---

Sunday night, 20 March 2016, AM

GM: The showers may or may not turn into round two. Eventually, the trio are clothed and clean as they return to Gui’s office. The Ventrue takes a seat at his desk.

“So what’s business, lush?”

Celia: Clean but panty-less (how many nights in a row has this happened?), Jade leans her hip against Gui’s desk rather than take the chair across from him. She glances at Gamberro, as if wondering if he should be here for this, but he’s not her ghoul. If Gui wants him here then he stays.

“You said the whole mob thing in NOLA is a large pie, but I got you another slice of it.”

GM: “Oh?” the Ventrue asks, intrigued.

Celia: “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?” she teases.

GM: “Cross my heart and hope to live.”

Celia: “One of your competitors has been eliminated.” Jade tilts her head to one side, flashing him a smile. “Mr. Carolla’s hold on the local families is yours to claim.”

GM: “Isn’t that some unexpected good news plopped into my lap,” smiles Gui. “How do you know this?”

Gamberro raises his eyebrows.

Celia: “Oh, well, I killed him. Obviously. I figured if you’re taking me home to meet your sire I might as well show I’m worth the trip.”

Jade’s smile turns sharp. She’s just full of little surprises, isn’t she.

GM: Gui’s eyebrows raise too.

“That is more than worth the trip, Miss Kalani. How did it go down?”

Celia: “It started when he hit me while we fucked.” Her eyes cut to Gamberro. “I’d advise against that with me, darling. You’re fun, let’s keep it there.”

Jade crosses her arms, returning her gaze to Gui.

“Then he went after someone that I call friend and thought I’d be happy to assist. And I was. Happy to assist my friend and turn on him when he squeezed the trigger.”

GM: The ghoul crosses his own arms.

“How unfortunate for him,” smiles Gui.

“But then, I suppose he was never much of a judge of character.”

“Or someone who knew how to treat a lady.”

“When was this?”

Celia: Jade winks at the ghoul when his movement draws her attention. She’s happy to go for round three, but she’s not a breather: she won’t suffer abuse from the kine.

“Hold that thought, Reynaldo. I’m happy to tell you everything. I even have proof. But the girl at your club. What did you find out for me?”

GM: Gui seems to consider for a moment.

“Wait outside,” he tells Gamberro.

The ghoul stares at his domitor for a moment. He does not look happy.

But he walks outside.

Celia: Jade watches him go, then returns her eyes to Gui.

GM: “The door, too,” says Gui.

Gamberro closes it.

“Useful, but doesn’t like taking orders,” remarks Gui.

Celia: “Mm. So it seems. There’s some merit in not being a zombie.”

GM: “Yes, there is. But as far as the girl in the club.”

He regards her for a moment.

“You say you have proof. How soon can you have it delivered?”

Celia: “Tomorrow. After Elysium.”

GM: “I see. What do you want to know about the club girl?”

Celia: Jade lifts a brow at his first comment.

“Is that not soon enough for you?”

GM: “It’s workable.”

Celia: “Who turned her.”

GM: “Hmm. I’ll tell you what.”

“Deliver me the proof tomorrow, and I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Deliver me the proof tonight, and I’ll deliver you the sire.”

Celia: Jade flashes another smile.

“What’re you doing after the party?”

---

Sunday night, 20 March 2016, AM

Celia: Jade finds the boytoy waiting for her outside Gui’s office when they leave, a time and place set for their meeting tonight after she sees her grandsire, and tugs him after her. She’d meant to crack him open with Gui, but maybe he’s not the Ventrue’s type.

They’d shared plenty of blood as is, hadn’t they.

She scrolls through her phone to find Reggie’s number and sends him another text to the tune of “get the box beneath my bed and meet me at the party.”

She finds a secluded little space of her own to sink into the vessel while she waits, enjoying the way his hands grip her waist and hips. The grip grows more slack the more she takes, though, and before long he’s all but fumbling with stiff fingers at her while the wall supports most of his weight. She finally pulls back, licking the holes closed.

By the time Reggie has joined her she’s already rejoined the party with the spent vessel, though he’s meandered off somewhere now that she’s done with him.

GM: The drained and pale-faced man shakily ambles off.

It’s a little while before the party is due to resume when Reggie shows up with the box.

“You hear from Randy?” he asks.

Celia: Jade asks after an empty room from Fabian so she can speak with Reggie. She starts by shaking her head at his question.

“No. Texted him earlier and he never got back to me. He hasn’t been in touch with you?”

GM: The Louis XIV-style sitting room upstairs is vacant.

“Nope,” says Reggie.

Celia: “That’s not like him.”

GM: “Yeah.”

Celia: A frown crosses her pretty face.

GM: “Especially not getting back to you.”

Celia: “Yeah… I don’t like this, Reg.”

GM: “Everyone except Randy knows you can’t always text a girl back instantly.”

“And he always texts you instantly.”

Celia: “Mm, is that why you always wait?”

GM: “No, I got shit to do. It’s losers who don’t have shit and still make girls wait so they seem like they have shit are, well, fucking losers.”

Celia: Jade hides a smile when she ducks her head to adjust the corner of the box. She smooths it over when she looks back up.

“Is it too soon to be worried about him?”

GM: “Dunno. It’s weird.”

Celia: “I’m trying not to let my mind jump to the worst possible conclusions… but I had a run-in with a few licks last night, and another one told me there’s a race, and I think most of them know he’s the only real ‘racer’ ghoul around…”

She reaches for Reggie’s hand, looking decidedly nervous.

“You don’t think..?”

GM: Reggie frowns.

“It’s been a day. A race, though?”

“You think someone kidnapped him to drive a car?”

Celia: “No. I think someone kidnapped him to keep him from driving for me.”

GM: Reggie doesn’t say anything.

“Who’s got it out for you?”

“Who really wants to win?”

Celia: “If that’s… I mean, the prize isn’t worth killing over, there’s no reason to think they won’t let him go…”

She trails off, looking down at her hands for a second. She takes a useless breath.

“The hounds. Agnello and Doriocourt. Ryllie. None of them are here, though. Maybe one of the Axels want it, but we’re kind of tight most of the time… someone told me Shep has some ugly business with the guy running the race though.”

GM: “You kill him, can’t start shit over him being kidnapped,” Reggie says flatly.

Celia: Her jaw tightens.

“Then we find him, and we make them pay. Whoever it is. We gut them.”

GM: Reggie just looks ahead darkly.

“Who really wants to win this?”

“Are people betting money and shit, too, on the racers?”

Celia: “Prize is a vintage car. I imagine people are betting on the winners. I would.” She’s made bets over less. It’s one of the few times she’d have put money on Randy coming through for her, too. “But it’s not worth killing over. Not worth starting shit if someone didn’t already have beef with me.”

Claws slowly slide free from the tips of Jade’s fingers. Her blood drips down the razor-sharp nails.

“Unrelated, maybe? One of those thin-blooded fucks mad that we killed a few? Mobsters? That… fuck, that bitch that was spying on the spa?”

“A rat,” she snarls, “just to show they can.”

“Agnello looked ready for blood last night. Might have sent that sack of shit he calls a childe after me. Runs in Mid-City with the rest of the morons. Run-in with his krewe a few weeks ago with Randy, too. Couldn’t get to you or I so he took Randy.”

The more she talks the angrier she gets. Not only at this pretend threat she’s creating, but at the sire that took him from her and the lies she has to tell to cover his sins. Fangs erupt from her mouth.

But her mind balks at the thought of being mad at her sire. He was right. Randy was useless.

And it’s still a fucking mess.

She’ll spin his death how she can. She redirects the budding rage toward the unknown assailants.

GM: “Right,” says Reggie. There’s an increasingly black look on his face. “Hold your shit. This point, we don’t know shit. Guessing don’t do shit either.”

“I’m gonna call Rusty. Tell him to find Randy’s phone. Get him to work that angle.”

“I’m gonna work the crowds here. Find out who wants us to lose, or just really wants their guy to win. Who’s got a lot of money riding on this, who really wants that fuckin’ car, what-fuckin’-ever. Who’d want Randy taken out.”

Celia: Hold your shit? She almost snarls at him. In fact, she does snarl at him, but it’s short lived, dying as soon as the first sound passes her lips, face set into an intense look of hatred. But not at Reggie, no. At the death of his brother.

At what she’d done.

Murdered him.

Taken off his head.

He’d trusted her.

Loved her.

She’s gone in a flash of gray, the tip of her tail disappearing beneath the sofa in the sitting room, and a furious yowl comes up from beneath it a second later. Something shreds. The carpet, the underside of the sofa, something soft.

Then she’s back, staring Reggie dead in the eyes.

“Find them. Find them and bring them to me. I’m going to watch them die.”

---

Sunday night, 20 March 2016, AM

Celia: Jade has one last piece of business with Reggie before he gets to go. She finds a less break-able, more private room for them to use and has him stage a “break in” and staking. Attacking Jade in her office. Pained cries. The sound of struggle. Enough to make it look like Jade was taken out and staked by hunters. Not an obvious ploy—he hits her to make it sound real, and she’s always been good at playing victim.

She passes him the bug and tells him to get it to the place they went before around 3:00. Pay a thin-blood to deliver it, she says, she doesn’t have backup for him. He knows how to be discrete, she’s counting on that here. She hands him a wad of cash for the delivery and tells him, in no uncertain terms, that he’s not to engage anything coming out of that house on his own, that he’s not even to go there.

Before they leave the room to rejoin the rest of the Evergreen’s guests she reaches for his hand, yanking him to a halt. Her eyes smolder when she meets his gaze.

“Don’t do anything yet. Just find out. Find out, then we’ll move. I’m not burying two of you.”

GM: Reggie’s pretty good at playing the victimizer, too.

“Hold your shit,” he repeats when he’s finished slugging the shit out of her. Maybe he finds it cathartic. “We don’t know what happened yet. Only been a day. But we’re gonna look now, ’cause the first 48 hours when someone goes missing are the most important.”

He takes the bug and cash.

“I’m gonna be so pissed if this idiot just lost his phone.”

He stares ahead darkly as he takes his leave.

“And even more if he didn’t.”

Celia: Her heart goes with him.

---

Sunday night, 20 March 2016, AM

Celia: Roderick’s words ring in her mind as Jade moves through the swath of licks and blood dolls toward the masked harpy, hips swaying with every step. Don’t talk to Malkavians, he’d said—or something similar, there had been so many new orders—and Harlequin is the worst. But Roderick is her boyfriend, not her keeper, and he doesn’t get to dictate which friends she keeps.

Besides, her mom told her it was okay.

And this will be the least of her sins this evening.

So off she goes, mask firmly in place as she approaches the lick who sees through it with ease, the sound of jazz and the staccato of her heels on the floor heralding her approach. She eases herself into whichever crowd of licks he’s ensconced himself with, waiting quietly with smile in place while she catches up to their conversation.

He’d been right, in the end. She’d rung the bell and the mask had recalibrated.

GM: Julius’ band is playing and the dance is still in full swing when Jade breaks off from her partner and approaches the Malkavian.

In 2016, jazz is almost always a sit-down concert experience—either in nightclubs where listeners sit at tables sipping overpriced drinks or in theaters where they sit in rows, checking the personnel in their glossy programs. But in the ‘20s, people actually danced to it, and that’s exactly what they do here at the retro-themed party. The music isn’t like today’s pop dance music, where the beat is pumped up to industrial proportions so it becomes unmistakable. With jazz tunes, the beat is buried beneath Julius’ trombone or King Bolden’s cornet solo pulling in another direction while the guitar plays a counter-rhythm. Savoy helpfully advised “those among us newer to the Blood” to “listen with both your ears right down to your feet!”

Harlequin is dressed much as he is in the modern era. His shoes are different, his shirt sleeves are baggier, a slender cape trails from his shoulders, and he wears a jester’s cap atop his head in place of a tricorn hat, but the Malkavian’s domino mask and garish, peacock-like attire would be just as home in the ‘20s as 2016. The biggest difference is the color—or lack thereof. Everything he wears is a light, dark, or in between shade of sepia brownish-gold. It’s as though Jade is viewing him through a vintage photograph. Even the whites of his eyes are awash under sepia tones.

He breaks off from his current partner, Veronica, with a, “Later, darling!” and sweeps up Jade with a giggle.

“A mask is going to break soon. You can’t keep it up forever. Eventually, the dam must break around the boy’s finger, and the water will come rushing in!”

Celia: Jade doesn’t miss a step when she’s swept up by the harpy, winking at her alleged sire as they twirl away on the floor. While these younger licks might not know how to find the beat when it’s not the bump and grind of club music, one of the girls inside of this body had taken extensive lessons as a child that serve her well now. The music flutters through her veins and she moves accordingly with the entirety of her being. She dances with the exuberance of a child who has not yet learned to be ashamed of her vibrant personality, the grace of a ballerina in training, the sensuality of a siren who knows just what notes to hit to lure sailors into her arms. Dancing is a full body hug, a woman had told her, dancing is the body’s way of expressing joy.

She expresses now. Dipping, twirling, jiving. She does more than keep up with her partner: she leads, just like he’d asked her to last night. She only wishes her skirt were longer, that it could flare out when she spins.

Harlequin’s young friend from last night is back when they slow enough to speak, dimples in her smile and stars in her eyes. They dim at the mention of the heartbroken boy.

“He put her in a box,” she confides in a whisper, “and the walls kept getting closer.”

GM: Harlequin titters again when Jade sweeps him up, and remarks approvingly as to the masculine elements of her costume. The harpy doesn’t seem to mind the shorter skirt one bit. He’s also quite light on his feet, but effects a sigh at Leilani’s question.

“We’re all boxed in, darling, and our boxes are boxed inside still other boxes. And this mask is poorly suited to leading.”

Celia: She hadn’t asked a question. But the girl who is, admittedly, poorly suited to leading disappears with a giggle. She’d liked him the most, but she knows when her presence is unwelcome.

“Kitties don’t hunt in pairs,” is all she says before she goes.

The ballerina spins on the tips of her toes when King Bolden squeals a note on the cornet.

Tap. Her heel against the floor. The dead girl stares from behind the mask of mob doll in pearls. Her sire’s words ring heavy in her mind.

Tap. Her heel against the floor. The innocent tilts her head with a dimpled smile, giggling about “scaredy cats.” Another spin, arms uplifted, and she says she’ll see him later when things slow down.

Tap. Her heel against the floor. The lick best suited to leading takes her place. She glides effortlessly across the floor with Harlequin, waiting for the right moment to bend him backwards into a dip. Her hands cradle his hip and low back, exposing the long line of his throat.

“When the box becomes too heavy to bear, what do you put inside to make it lighter?”

GM: Sometimes Harlequin lets Jade lock on the drummer to find the beat; sometimes she locks in on another instrument. The key is finding the pulse beneath everything that’s going on. It’s even easier when she has a dance partner who hears music the same way, which Harlequin seems to.

He giggles as she dips him low and lets go with one hand, dramatically splaying the other all the way to the floor.

“Who ever heard of putting more things inside a box to make it lighter?”

Celia: It’s another riddle. A word game. Jade smiles indulgently at the Malkavian in her grasp, though she does not extract a promise from him this time before she asks, as she rights the pair of them and lets her lips nestle against his throat when the music brings them together, if he’d like a hint.

GM: Harlequin gives another titter.

“Why, one puts in holes, of course.”

Celia: Jade giggles with him, lifting her arm to spin him on the floor. The pair is well suited to dancing with each other: they make it look easy to find the musical heartbeat that stirs their limbs to movement.

“Is it still a box after you’ve drilled the holes?”

GM: Harlequin capers his feet to the rhythm and twists behind her.

“What is a box? A container with a flat base and sides, or a container that may store and transport interior contents?”

“‘What is truth, too?’ asked Pilate.”

“I always say a prayer for pretty Pilate!”

Celia: Pretty Pilate.

Pretty but stupid.

The dead girl giggles. If even the ancients don’t know, who is he to demand it?

“There is no truth, only interpretations.”

GM: “And Masks.”

Celia: Gentle fingertips touch the edges of his when the music lets her pause for just one moment.

“To see the world through yours,” she sighs, but doesn’t pry.

GM: His velvet gloves are the same sepia monochrome as the rest of him, but feel soft against Jade’s skin.

“Masks are all truths, but my truth is not yours.”

Celia: “Sometimes new perspectives can be illuminating.”

The dead girl withdraws her hands from the edges of his mask, linking her fingers through his to spin around the floor once more.

“Once you put them on, though, it’s a challenge to the rest of the world to rip it off.”

GM: “Some masks are worn. Some masks are lost. It is the way of things.”

Celia: “Some are traded,” she responds with a smile, and the hat on her head takes the place of his crown when she swaps them out. The peacock feather she’d stolen from Pietro creates a garish contrast to the rest of his sepia-toned outfit.

“Vibrance is beauty. Beauty, truth.”

_____________________

Sunday night, 20 March 2016, AM

Celia: A peck on Harlequin’s cheek and she’s gone with a wink, cutting into the pair of dancers next to her so that she ends up arm in arm with her own grandsire. Her heels this evening put her at his eye level. She lets him lead, following his well-practiced movements across the floor while the band continues their song.

“Lord Savoy. Dashing, as ever.”

GM: “Miss Kalani. As ravishing and complimentary as ever. I fear I am outmatched!” smiles the French Quarter lord as he takes her arm in arm. He’s a very good dancer, and soon Jade is spinning beneath his upraised right arm as he flings her out and yanks her back. His hips move to the primary beat coming from the drums, while his elbows and shoulders move to the secondary beats suggested by the horns.

Celia: All of the girls inside of the body beam at the Lord of the Quarter’s glib tongue, and the little one, still so close to the surface, sends tiny spots of blood to her cheeks for the flattery.

“Only a reflection of the light you shine.”

She’s happy to let him lead, to spin away and back and away again, to press against him when the music demands their close proximity. Happy, too, to wrap her hands through his and give a tiny, testing tug on the ring around his finger the next time he spins her out.

GM: “Reflections shine brighter light than the source,” Savoy merely smiles back.

Jade finds her hand removed from his with a timely spin when she tugs the ring.

Celia: No, she hadn’t really expected that to work. An apologetic flutter of her lashes puts her back in his arms.

“He makes it look so easy,” she sighs to her grandsire, cheek on his shoulder for the long, slow note the band belts out. She whispers an apology into the shell of his ear.

GM: “He’s had longer to practice. Repetition is the mother of skill,” the French Quarter lord smiles as he leads her about.

Celia: “If I promise to give it back will you take my pearls as collateral?”

She’ll wear nothing but his ring into the jacuzzi this evening.

GM: “I am afraid their value is not nearly equivalent, my dear. And pearls would seem in common supply this evening.”

Another smile.

“Like all clothes and jewels, they are made beautiful only by their wearer. And were it possible to abscond with Miss Kalani’s beauty as easily as her pearls, I should think she’d spend her whole Requiem fending off thieves!”

Celia: Her smile shows dimples. The little girl giggles, but concedes the round.

She’ll find another mark.

With a brush of fangs against his skin she lets the next would-be partner of Lord Savoy cut into their dance.

---

Sunday night, 20 March 2016, AM

GM: It’s 3 AM when Jade’s grandsire receives her atop the Evergreen’s rooftop garden. He’s changed out of his ‘20s costume into a modern burgundy sports coat and wingtip loafers. Preston, too, is back in her usual slate-gray skirtsuit. Fabian pulls out Jade’s seat.

“My thanks for your patience, my dear,” Savoy states, kissing the younger Toreador’s hand. “But good things come to those who wait! We’ve much to speak of, I’m sure, and much time now to speak. Where shall we begin?”

Celia: Jade dresses down rather than up. While Savoy and Preston both cover their bodies, she lets hers be seen, visible beneath the strips of red cloth she wears that serves as “dress.” A gold circlet around her neck draws the fabric across her chests but leaves the middle and lower parts of her breasts bare, and a strip around the stomach completes the third line of triangle that encompasses her naked flesh. Another loop around her hip leaves one side exposed in an asymmetrical cut that ends in a bow. She’s ditched the pearls and stolen accessories and let her hair down, wearing only a pair of golden heels to complete the look.

There’s little enough material for her to use to curtsy but she manages nonetheless, nodding as she rises to Preston and bidding the woman a quiet “good evening.”

Her smile cuts to Lord Savoy as Fabian pushes the chair back in for her, eyes alight in promised mischief.

“Business first, grandsire, so that we might unburden ourselves to play?”

GM: “Oh, I think just seeing you in such delectable attire is play enough, my dear—play enough to drive men mad with desire,” Savoy grins.

He strokes his half-beard in thought. “The cut feels especially appropriate for maritime play, with waves lapping at your exposed skin. I could see you lounging about on an ocean rock, luring passing sailors to pleasures unimagined.”

“The sirens could stand to take tips.”

Celia: Jade blooms beneath her grandsire’s praise.

“I suppose we’ll need to settle for the jacuzzi this evening in lieu of the ocean, and see what nymphs we can call forth from your rooftop garden.”

GM: “Oh, I believe a nymph is already present—and certainly the most comely nymph that shall ever grace my garden, even were we to call up more,” Savoy answers. “Shall we make play in our own small ocean now, or discuss business first?”

Celia: “Business first, grandsire. Unless Madam Preston wishes to join our revelry.” She glances in the Malkavian’s direction, brows lifted, but will begin if Preston has nothing to add to their banter.

GM: The Malkavian does not even glance up from her tablet.

Celia: Some siren song she sings that she can’t even get Preston to glance her way.

Perhaps a different tune.

“Before I begin with my grandsire, Madam Preston, were you able to speak to Regent McGinn about that little tidbit we’d discussed my last visit?”

GM: “It has been less than a week, Miss Kalani,” Preston states flatly, still typing into her Sunpad. “You will be notified when there is news.”

Celia: Ah, but they’d expected Roderick in less than that, hadn’t they. Funny how their sense of time only seems to flow in the direction most beneficial to them.

Amusement dances across her face as Jade returns her gaze to her grandsire.

“Warden Lebeaux and I met earlier this evening. He asked that I bring it to your attention so you could sign off on the next course of action. Those hunters who waylaid our other meeting had friends.”

Briefly, Jade tells them about what they’d found. The recruitment. The special training center in Glynco.

GM: Savoy strokes his half-beard again as he listens to Jade.

“Most intriguing, my dear. And concerning. You’ve done well to discover this information and bring it to me.”

“I’ll discuss options with the warden and a few others. Infiltrating Glynco would be a delicate operation. I’ll let you know how to proceed when I’ve made up my mind.”

“Keep your ghouls away from these hunters for now, but stay ready and alert.”

Celia: Jade nods and promises to do just that.

She’ll need to find a replacement for Randy sooner rather than later. At least the hunt for his killer will keep his brothers busy.

Celia: “Mr. Durant is yours, but he’s not focusing on your goals right now. He’s busy tearing down the rest of your team. Myself. Mr. Gui. It’s wasted time, wasted energy, wasted attention.” A delicate pause. She doesn’t need to tell him all the details, but she does need to make her point known. The burns from the microwave and the knot he cut went more than skin deep.

“The betrayal of his sire broke him. He’s following you from anger at his sire rather than a belief in your goals. I won’t bore you with the details, grandsire, but I do not wish to see him become a detriment to your cause either.”

GM: Savoy chuckles.

“I don’t require Kindred to believe in my goals, my dear. Only that they that they assist those goals. Genuine belief has its uses, but ultimately, it’s lagniappe.”

“You say that he’s tearing down yourself and Mr. Gui, though. How is this?”

Celia: “Would you like the ugly details, grandsire?”

“I don’t wish to bore you with my personal Requiem.”

GM: “Do these domestic squabbles have actual bearing and impact upon Lord Savoy’s political endeavors?” asks Preston.

The sarcasm fairly drips from her voice at ‘domestic squabbles’.

Celia: “Only insofar as much as dead licks matter, Madam Preston.”

“But thank you for pretending you know anything about what I get up to between Elysiums.”

GM: “Your choice in apparel makes that fact more than plain, Miss Kalani,” answers the Malkavian.

Celia: Jade effects a snort.

GM: “Play nice, Nat,” reproaches Savoy, before raising his eyebrows at Jade’s words.

“Dead licks, you say?”

Celia: Doubtless Nat would prefer that everyone wedge a stick up their own ass and call it the height of fashion. Jade tunes her out, turning her attention to her grandsire.

“He told you he’d never work with you while you dealt with members of the Mafia. Did you think his threat an idle one?”

GM: “We spoke concerning Mr. Gui,” smiles Savoy. “But perhaps we didn’t speak enough. What would you tell me, my dear?”

Celia: “He’d like me to lure him to a meeting to kill him,” Jade says flatly.

“Failing that, he plans to beat me into torpor. Is that what you’d know, Nat? That I’ll be too busy being torped to be of use to my own grandsire because Mr. Durant couldn’t handle the fact that his rose-tinted worldview is a lie? Is that relevant enough for you? I might not be an important cog in your book, but I’m a cog all the same.”

She could have gotten a meeting with McGinn by now.

She brought proof of the Ventrue primogen.

She brought Roderick over.

She brought intel from the Cabildo before their spy was ever in place.

She warns him now of an attack on their own man.

She’s the one working to bring the exiled prince to their side as well. Brought his boytoy here. Planted seeds.

GM: Savoy’s smile widens.

“I’m pleased you’ve told me this, my dear.”

“I was hoping you were going to.”

Celia: Jade’s internal tirade ends at the words. She arches a brow at Savoy.

“You knew?”

GM: “Oh, yes. I’ve already sanctioned Mr. Gui’s final death.”

Celia: Claws threaten to erupt from the tips of her fingers. She reins it in.

“I see.”

Another pause. Another game.

Oh, how she hates them.

GM: “Mr. Gui’s final death was one of the terms Mr. Durant and I reached in exchange for his support. I knew that Mr. Gui and Mr. Gurant could never coexist among my followers. Some people just aren’t ever going to play nice together, and you have to pick one or the other. Try to have it both ways and you wind up having it no ways.”

“Mr. Durant knew that he would be the prime suspect if Mr. Gui happened to go missing or turn up dead.” Savoy smiles. “Especially given his paramour’s ability to sculpt faces.”

“He wisely chose to go to me, rather than take ‘justice’ into his own hands.”

“I think he’ll go far among my followers.”

Savoy’s smile widens.

“Just as I think you will too, my dear.”

“You both remember who your first loyalty is towards.”

Celia: Will she?

Or is she another piece to be bartered and sacrificed?

GM: “Unlike Mr. Gui, whose first loyalty was regrettably towards his sire, even though he professed to be my man all along.”

Celia: Jade effects a sigh.

“That’s certainly disappointing. I was just starting to like him. I imagine if you were open to the idea of creating a win/win you’d have brought it up. Is there a timeline you’d like to use him in, or is the matter now up to my discretion with Mr. Durant?”

GM: “Sometimes there are no win-wins, my dear, and addition must be done with subtraction,” Savoy smiles. “Mr. Durant has my blessing to move against Mr. Gui whenever he pleases.”

Celia: Jade merely inclines her head at the words.

“With Gui, Carolla, and Agnello out of the picture, there’s a gap to fill.” Phrased as a statement, but the question is there in her voice.

GM: “Agnello is not out of the picture,” states Preston.

Celia: “No, not yet.”

Perhaps she had forgotten their plan.

Jade doesn’t even look at her.

GM: “Too true, Nat,” states Savoy. “That’s certainly the state of affairs we’d like to see, but we’ll not count our chickens before they’ve hatched either.”

Celia: She lets it go with a shrug.

GM: “Regardless of how things proceed with Hound Agnello, the Mafia will be Mr. Durant’s domain in those territories I control after Mr. Gui is gone.”

Celia: That’s an interesting twist.

GM: “Do you have other business, Miss Kalani?” inquires Preston.

Celia: “No, Madam Preston. You’re free to go. What comes next is more pleasure than business.”

GM: The Malkavian effects a snort and turns back to her tablet.

Celia: Savoy had asked to see her, not the other way around. She waits, smiling pleasantly at her grandsire.

GM: “I believe there is one remaining order of business before pleasure, my dear,” Savoy smiles back. “I did say rewards were your due for your help with Mr. Durant!”

Celia: He could start by asking her what he wants to know rather than rifling through her head with his secretary. Maybe show a little bit of trust to the grandchilde who has done everything he asks and then some.

Take her memories of the tryst with Gui and the ghoul if he’s going digging, keep her from lying to Roderick when he slaps her around in demand of the truth. If they’d met last night she’d have spent her reward on the boy, asked her grandsire for assistance with his new Bourbon identity, maybe lent a bit of credit to the new face and name.

Jade says none of this. She doesn’t even think it, not with the girl who is in control now. Someone deeper, someone wounded lets the raw ache scrape against her flesh and bones.

Bones, though.

Jade effects a sigh, turning her attention to the steward.

“My apologies, Madam Preston. I’ve been rude to you this evening. You’ve been nothing but helpful and practical since my Embrace and I let other, unrelated things color my emotions and influence our interactions. I hope you can forgive the folly of youth.”

A slim leatherbound book makes its way onto the table. Lord knows where she has pulled it from.

“Truth is, Madam Preston, you intimidate me. You don’t need to play the strumpet to get things done. You’re comfortable in your own skin in a way that most others would tear you down for, and I let myself get caught up in that same mentality. I’d rather emulate you than continue down this destructive path.”

“If you have a moment, I’d like your input on a few designs. I’ve been experimenting with Kindred and kine anatomy and physiology and the properties that can be borrowed from or shared between both. I’d like to go bigger with this project, but I’d like to tailor them to what you and Lord Savoy will find useful.”

She flips open the book, turning a handful of pages to show the Malkavian various creatures. Some are winged, some bipedal, some fanged and clawed, some finned, some with tails. Some might pass as ordinary dogs or wolves until she points out the additions: bone spurs, spikes, venom quills.

Aside from the drawings there are pages and pages of notes with human anatomy, questions circled or crossed out, theories, plans, and various work arounds. One page shows the detailed vivisection of a human. Another has clear marks across the skin and arrows referring to where it should go for a different shape. Some pages have letters at the top: RO, RE, AN, NA, AC, CL. Some have designs beneath them. Others just have scribbles.

Her eyes dart between the two licks at the table.

“I’d like… room to work. I don’t know that there’s enough space for this at the spa. I don’t want it connected more than it needs to be to Jade or Celia. I have bigger ideas and plans than what my facilities can currently handle. I’d like to be able to devote time to different areas of study and disciplines, to connect with others who have gone down similar paths so that I don’t need to start from scratch. Your friend introduced me to the fae, but I want more than that. Loops. Mages. Demons. Ghosts. Test subjects. Teachers. I know it’s not always going to be in the city. I have a contact in Atlanta. And your broodmate is in LA, isn’t he? Uncle Q?”

For the first time since she has joined her grandsire she’s become animated, speaking with her whole body rather than just her lips. Her eyes shine in unrepressed, unstifled, unapologetic passion.

“This is what I want. To make these. To create. For you, for me. I want to stand at the edge of our collective imagination and ask what’s next. I want to stretch the limits of what we think is possible and go beyond to a place that everyone ignores because they can’t fathom the idea of things working like that. I want to meld science and magic and the Blood, to find the answers that no one has yet thought to look for, to master this craft beyond the scope of current limitations.”

“I’ve already done some of it. Grafted more muscle onto Tantal. Created a way to break into someone’s mind and learn their thoughts that doesn’t involve scrying. Create mindscapes for them to make them think they’re somewhere that they’re not. But there’s more. So much more.”

“And if Kindred can’t even fathom it, if they don’t think it’s possible? Then they’ll never see it coming. They’ll never stand a chance against you.”

GM: “Very impressive, my dear!” exclaims Savoy, raptly following Jade’s hand through the book’s flipping pages. “I admit the hows and details of this are over my head. You’re a more educated Kindred than I am. In another life, I could perhaps see you as a doctor.” He chuckles. “Or perhaps simply another face. But I can all-too readily see the usefulness and potential in improving upon nature’s designs! I’m to understand it’s what many Tzimisce do with their ghouls and even their own bodies.”

He smiles widely as he looks up from the notes, back towards Jade’s face.

“It’s a beautiful thing to see you like this. To see your knowledge, to feel your passion, to hear your vision. To witness you bloom. You are so much more than just a pretty face, whatever cruel tongues might say.”

“Quentin is in Los Angeles,” he nods in answer to her question. “I don’t think he could be much help with these sorts of things. His interests are less esoteric.”

“But there is another group of Kindred who perhaps could.” Savoy strokes his half-beard in thought. “The Ordo Dracul could explain their philosophy better than me, but I think they share the same goals as you. To take life and unlife apart, figure out what makes it tick, and build it back into superior forms. To investigate our world’s mysteries and unknowns. They’re rather wed to the Baron’s apron strings, lamentably… but it doesn’t need to be Jade Kalani who approaches them, does it now?” he smiles. “Perhaps Dr. Dicentra. Perhaps a new name and face.”

He shrugs and smiles again.

“An idle thought, my dear. I would see you surrounded by those who share your knowledge, your passion, and your vision. I would see the glorious flower that is your mind bloom amidst a field of like flowers.”

“But as to my own role in that, if you’d like separate facilities from Flawless, I think such can be arranged. Would you like them here in the French Quarter, or beyond?”

Preston’s response is less effusive.

“I am not one to fixate upon unproductive past emotions, Miss Kalani. I will be civil for as long as you are.”

She does not criticize—which may be praise enough.

Celia: The praise itself is almost reward enough. Not being dismissed for her ideas, not being laughed at, ridiculed, called crazy or cruel or sadistic.

Because it is. It can be. Experiments on humans, what gives her the right? How dare she play Creator? What makes her think she knows better than whatever divine entity had given them life and unlife in the first place?

She’d almost expected harsh words to that effect. Told that there’s no use for her creatures. That she doesn’t even have the skill to talk to animals and how dare she think that she can handle something like a horde of hellhounds or hellbats or hellcats or hell-whatever-the-fuck (and why hell? It could be any other prefix or adjective and if she’s making these things from scratch and paving the way then why not name them something better, something after herself? Starhounds, with eyes that blaze like diamonds).

But there’s none of that. They’d listened. Approved. Even Preston hadn’t criticized. No snide comments about any of it.

Her flower blooms.

He wants to help. To support. And there’s so much she can do if she has his support. They think she plays with makeup. Her own lover had said as much.

They have no idea. None at all. She will show them what she can do. She will continue to grow and expand and change and scatter roots and seeds across the city, state, and country, will turn the very world into the garden that she cultivates.

Ordo Dracul. It’s not the first time she has heard the word, though those who whisper its name in New Orleans do so as surreptitiously as they can. None want to appear sympathetic to their cause when the prince and his Sanctified hold such emnity toward their beliefs. What easier way to gather goodwill than to turn in a dragon?

Jade slows her thoughts before they can spiral too far down the rabbit hole. He had asked her a question.

“The Quarter is the most convenient. It would be well protected within your borders, easy to get to. I only worry at the lack of space. The crowds. I spoke to a Nosferatu who can build down, basement level and beyond if such is the desire, and the warden said he could perform the spell needed to keep it from flooding.”

Is there an advantage to doing it outside of the Quarter? Space. But she trades safety for that space, the possibility of being discovered. Better to keep it contained underground, isn’t it? Multiple levels. Various terrain. Already she itches to draw the prints.

“I only mentioned Uncle Q as a means to an end. A contact on the west coast should my journey take me there for further research. Just a wider net of connections, to find those who would join in, assist, or teach. Those who are not tied so closely to the Baron.” A brief pause. “For all that the rumors claim Dicentra is part of the Ordo, I do not think that I know any other than the Baron’s Gangrel who claim membership. I could create the new identity for such a venture, though I wonder if there’s anyone closer to home that would be more approachable.”

A tiny lift of her brows is the only indication of her question. Does he have someone he can direct her to?

“There is, ah, one more thing, that’s quite delicate…”

GM: Savoy motions with a hand.

“Proceed, my dear.”

Celia: “Ah, well, test subjects, grandsire. It’s easy for me to pick up kine and even thin-bloods, and I’ve done work on both. Access to the red room has given me plenty of parts to use as well. No trouble there.” She smiles.

“It’s less easy to obtain stronger subjects. Licks. Other supers. I am not asking anyone to hunt for me,” she adds quickly, “but I thought maybe if someone has been marked for death, or if you no longer find them useful I could work with them..? There’s more I can do on a torpid or animated lick than a dead one. I imagine that Mr. Durant would like to slay Gui himself, so perhaps not this instance, but in the future. If you’re amenable. I don’t plan to go slay your subjects on a whim, just thought if they’re already going to die I may as well turn their last nights into something useful.”

GM: “I see no harm in such a thing,” smiles Savoy. “Not with every Kindred marked for death, as you observe. But otherwise, ‘waste not, want not’!”

Celia: Her smile stretches across her face.

“Thank you, grandsire.”

GM: “You are most welcome, my dear. I shall eagerly await your flower’s fruits! I suppose that brings us back to the question of where in the Quarter you’d like the, shall we call it, lab space?”

Celia: “I’d thought to use the space next to the spa, but the business is filled and that seems, ah, too close. I suppose if it’s underground it doesn’t quite matter, as all I’d need is an access door… or a business above to cover it…” Jade hesitates for a moment.

“There’s a spa on Iberville near Decatur. It’s open 24 hours. It has a lot next to it.” Rare in the Quarter, and great for transporting subjects. No doubt she can add a door to the lot if needed. “It’s, ah, well it’s less a spa than a massage parlor, the sort where the kine can pay extra for sexual favors. It could be shut down for that. Or taken over.” It’s not like she has a problem with someone paying for sex. Imagine all the clients she could pick up if they think they’re paying for a happy ending and she gets her fangs in them instead. All the blood she’d have access to for her work.

“Ochsner has an urgent care facility right next door to it, so there are plenty of people coming and going at all hours in various states of disarray.”

GM: “Any of those locations might serve,” Savoy grants. “Which do you desire most?”

Celia: The Iberville location is only a block away from Canal Street and the CBD. Hardly as protected as she’d like it to be, but if no one knows about it then there’s no reason to look for it. Just another seedy parlor. If Flawless ever were infiltrated or attacked—and it has been bugged before; she can’t help but wonder if Reggie passed off the bug okay, or if she’s now in some sort of deeper trouble over it, or if he’d even found someone to drop it off or if right now he’s beating at the door to get out while the oven preheats—then at least the second location will be safe. Less tie to Celia, less tie to Jade, less tie to Dicentra.

“The spa on Iberville, I think.”

GM: “Very good,” says Savoy. “Nat will arrange the details.”

The Malkavian asks whether she wants the spa shut down or taken over, where in the building she wants the lab space (or if it is to simply be the whole building), what equipment she requires, and similar such details.

Celia: Jade gives the Malkavian the information she requires. She doesn’t skimp on the equipment, and makes sure to include things for building and room security, as well as restraints, locks, and adequate sound proofing. She adds a few modifications to the existing business but would like to leave that part of it mostly intact, taking over rather than shutting down. It’s a good cover for what she wants to do, and she won’t turn away a built in client base that can further her goals even if it’s just through the blood in their bodies.

She clarifies if the lab itself will be built down to allow room for growth and additional protection from prying eyes, or if they’ll keep it above ground.

When it’s all sussed out to their satisfaction, Jade looks once more to her grandsire.

“Is there an Ordo member you can direct me towards to get started?”

GM: Preston says that building underground is not viable. Buildings in the French Quarter do not have basements. She asks where on the premises Jade desires the lab space.

Celia: “Oh,” Jade says, “the Nosferatu construction lick said he could do it and I’d just need to find a ‘magic man’ to do a spell for support. Is, ah… were they just playing tricks on me?”

GM: Preston gives her a flat look.

“Not everything is about your insecurities, Miss Kalani. I fail to see why Mr. Korda would waste his time telling you such.”

Celia: “I was going to have some work done on the spa. Then the whole hunter thing happened and I shifted my priorities around.”

Regardless, if it isn’t possible she can make other accommodations within the building itself, and she goes over them with Preston.

GM: Preston says Jade would have to speak with the Nosferatu to see whether constructing a basement under the spa is feasible. The Malkavian can move ahead with a non-basement lab space now or wait until Jade has made arrangements with Mr. Korda for a basement space.

Celia: Jade is happy to begin the process now and expand later, if needed. She thanks Preston for going over everything with her.

GM: Preston gives her a cross look.

“We are not finished, Miss Kalani. The spa, after all, is already owned by kine and frequented by kine. You say you wish the business taken over rather than shut down. Where on the premises do you desire the lab space? How do you wish to ensure your presence and activities are overlooked?”

Celia: Blood races to her cheeks, turning them pink.

“Overly excited,” she murmurs in apology. “Used to you knowing what I’m going to say before I do.” A soft smile, an attempt at levity rather than an accusation.

She pulls a page from her notebook and sketches a rough outline of the business in question, then draws in an estimation of the rooms. She has been inside enough spas and salons in her brief Requiem that, even if the dimensions aren’t an exact match, it will be a close enough approximation. She spends a few minutes explaining her vision for it: turning the business into a front, clearing out the back area / office space for her own work, using a separate entrance directly from the lot next door. She mentions the failsafes she has in place in her own spa, the steel, soundproof room, the “exam tables” attached directly to the ground, the drains, the cold storage. Here she could see mortuary-like boxes built into the walls to hold immobile subjects (bodies or torpid licks), so that all the pieces of them stay together until she uses them.

It’s as she’s considering Preston’s final question—soundproofing, plenty of locks, possibly an anti-tech device to prevent snooping, salt “wards” for the intangible sort of spy—that she thinks it might just be better to close the business down, or divide the lab space from the business entirely. Split it into two separate halves that only share a wall. But then what’s the use of keeping the business itself? She can put a parlor anywhere else in the Quarter to serve the same purpose if such is her desire.

GM: Savoy concurs. Preston thinks it would be more efficacious simply to take over an adjacent building, or close down the massage parlor itself, than to keep the parlor open and make so many modifications to it. Such is likely to arouse the curiosity of the employees.

“It would be a simple enough front to associate the lab with one of Mr. Savoy’s businesses and say it is being used for storage space.”

Celia: Jade nods in agreement. She’d thought to find some of her own people to put in there, but even that will lead to questions, and while she knows there’s some advanced shadow dancing trick to hide a building she doesn’t think she’s yet skilled enough to pull it off.

“Thank you, yes, that is a better idea.”

GM: “Splendid,” smiles Savoy. “The Pavaghis certainly use enough real estate for storage space or keep it vacant altogether. That shouldn’t attract much notice.”

“We can arrange the building’s initial usage for some other purpose, sir, and have that purpose fall through. It is less common to rent or purchase otherwise occupied buildings for storage space. I would suggest arranging for a kine pawn to purchase a building adjacent to the massage parlor, then allowing whatever business is located therein to fail, either on its own or through sabotage.”

“Well-considered, Nat,” smiles Savoy. “Let’s get someone else to foot the bill for this, in fact. Real estate isn’t cheap! Find some other business or entrepreneur we’re not presently associated with. That should further muddy the connection. We’ll allow them to eat the financial loss.”

Celia: Relief spreads through her. Their ideas are better than her own. She’s glad to have them on her side, glad that they’re willing to share their expertise and resources and experience with her. She says as much, thanking them again. It will go much more smoothly this way, will be a further divide between Celia/Jade and the lab.

She thinks that’s it, then. She’d discussed her vision, had been granted the reward, had been supported in her endeavor. She’d brought up the hunters and the death of Gui. All that’s left is the Ordo.

Jade brings it back around to that after a moment. Savoy and Preston have already done so much for her this evening, so she won’t press her luck, but if he does have a name that isn’t the Baron’s pet Gangrel…

GM: “It may also be simpler, sir, just to sabotage the business or its building and drive the owners to sell for a low price,” continues Preston. “Some deficiency in the building could explain it being purchased for simple storage space.”

Savoy nods. “Look into the parlor’s neighboring buildings, Nat. Do whatever’s most cost-effective.”

“Always, sir.”

“And it’s my pleasure, my dear,” her grandsire smiles at her. “As far as the Ordo’s other members in New Orleans, there are no still-unliving ones I recall off-hand. They do keep that a secret!” he chuckles. “I might start by looking into whatever Kindred you think could be secret members of the Ordo on the basis of shared interests and worldviews. Kendall could be dangerous to tangle with, as she may be wise to any apparent animals surveying her movements.”

“Then again, with a new face, you could simply approach her directly.”

“But she is likely to be slower to trust than more junior members.”

Celia: And likely not someone Jade could handle in a confrontation if it comes to that for any reason. Still, there’s some merit to befriending the Baron’s number two girl, isn’t there.

It’s not as if she only has one chance a first impression with any of these people.

Something to look into, anyway. She has a few rocks she can turn over in the meantime.

“Yes, grandsire. Thank you for the advice. I’ll find them.”

Celia: Her eyes move toward the jacuzzi. She recalls the image he’d sent her the other night, the pair of them alone and naked, bloody and sated. Jade relocates, moving around the table to his lap without a word. She’d worn something that can be quickly removed in anticipation of their play.

Unbidden, his voice comes to her.

No.

No, she’d echoed.

Do I need to use a shorter word?

Needlessly, she swallows. She’d thought there could be a future with Gui instead of Durant, but his Requiem will be over within the week, and there’s nothing she can do about it. Even her suggestion to turn it into a win/win had been shot down despite how easy it would be. She could give Roderick a fake body, change Gui’s identity, take him to LA with her while things blow over here, ensure that he’s working toward Savoy’s goals rather than his sire’s…

She blinks back something that might be emotion. After giving so much of herself to Roderick, after the pain he’d put her through the last two nights, she’d wanted someone gentle. For all that he’s in the Mafia, Reynaldo had never treated her poorly. Always like an equal. Always with respect.

Now he’s to be snuffed out by the Brujah’s blind rage. Her fault, isn’t it, if she hadn’t shown up with him—

No, that isn’t right. Grandsire had said this was already agreed to. Durant’s ask for joining the Bourbons. It had nothing to do with her. He’d just taken some of the rest of his fury out on her for being seen with him.

“If you’re in my head,” Jade says quietly to Savoy, “and you think that won’t work, will you take the memory away so he doesn’t try to extract it from me?”

GM: “You presume I am both willing and able to violate the sanctity of your mind, my dear,” answers Savoy.

He winks. “That isn’t the sort of power I’m about to confirm or deny having.”

His expression grows more somber again, though, at Jade’s tone.

“What memory is this you would see removed—and who is it you fear would seek to take it from you?”

Celia: “You’ve answered my questions without me asking before,” Jade points out, but she doesn’t sound as if she minds. She rests her cheek on his shoulder, fingers idly tracing the edge of his lapels. Preston’s earlier comment about domestic squabbles plays in the back of her mind.

“I slept with Mr. Gui and his associate earlier. I thought we could… well, it doesn’t matter, he won’t be around. I don’t want to upset Durant before he’s firmly entrenched on your side.”

It sounds moderately less pathetic than “he’s going to correct me again.”

GM: Savoy chuckles in response to Jade’s first question.

“My dear, I would not divulge the extent of my powers merely to preemptively answer your questions. One need not be able to read minds to read people!”

It’s Preston, though, who responds to Jade’s second statement before her grandsire can. The disdain all but drips from the Malkavian’s voice.

“You are a truly pathetic creature, Miss Kalani.”

Celia: Jade says nothing further. She rises and sees herself out.

GM: Savoy frowns and holds up a hand in forestallement.

“That’s quite enough of that, Nat. The two of you were playing nice not so long ago. Temper your tongue.”

“As you say, sir,” Preston answers stiffly.

Savoy turns to Jade.

“If it’s your wish, my dear, I could remove that memory. But I think it’d be treating symptoms rather than causes.”

“Truly, what is it you fear? I doubt very much that Mr. Durant can plumb the depths of a Kindred’s thoughts and memories.”

“Nor that he could compel you to divulge it with sublimitas, if you are already so adverse.”

Celia: The cause, sir, is that I let my neighbor turn me into a whore. The cause is that my father invited that thing into our home and turned it into a place of terror rather than safety. The cause is that I watched him beat my mother for years before he finally tried to kill her. The cause is that I traded my life for hers to Veronica, then was stolen from the sire who wanted me by the bastard who took and then abandoned me. The cause, she wants to snarl, is that I did what you asked of me like the good little pawn that I am. I turned him against his sire. I broke him. And now that I’ve done it, what’s to stop me from being the next piece that’s bartered and sacrificed because Durant has decided he doesn’t want me around anymore? What’s to stop that Ventrue cunt from waltzing in here and demanding my head because I convinced her Celia and I are two separate people and the prince’s childe is more valuable than the whore?

She wants to laugh at his question. But nothing comes out.

No, he thinks himself a genius but lacks the ability to get into my mind. But who needs scrying or domination when he can just beat me until I tell him what he wants. Who cares what he does or if it hurts when a sip of blood can put me back together again. Who cares about having a spine, and this she yearns to spit at Preston, when the only way to not rock the boat and fuck it all up for you is to lie there and take it like a fucking doormat because if I say or do the wrong thing it’s my fault that you lost him before he was ever even useful, so I just shut up and let it happen and act like pathetic creature you think I am. I try to go far enough into my own mind that someone else comes out because that was the only way to survive then and it’s the only way to survive now. Come on, Nat, you’re a Malk. Did you think all these eyes you see staring back at you are because I was happy and healthy and safe during my formative years? Did you think that because I grew up in Audubon and woke up on Antoine’s lap I was spoiled, that I haven’t been raped and abused and traumatized by people who are supposed to be on my side?

The bitch isn’t in control anymore, though. The thoughts halt themselves. They leave nothing behind but the cool kiss of ice. Someone Else smiles as if there’s not a care in the world.

“Nothing that a little blood won’t fix, Lord Savoy.”

GM: Perhaps Jade’s grandsire can and does read her thoughts.

Perhaps he can and chooses not to.

Perhaps he simply cannot.

But at Someone Else’s smile, he simply grins back.

And everything is fine in the world.

“There’s not much a few splashes of the good wine can’t fix,” Savoy agrees.

“The Blood is what it always comes back to, in the end.”

---

Sunday night, 20 March 2016, AM

Celia: Whoever she is doesn’t stop to dwell on yet another ruined meeting with Lord Savoy. She doesn’t laugh to herself about his attempt to occlude the ability to break into her mind, as if she doesn’t suspect he does it every time. As if she doesn’t know the reason for Preston’s presence at every meeting is to snoop and share and erase whatever memories they don’t want her to keep about what they did to her.

She no longer cares what they think of her. She got her lab. That’s all that matters.

The girl in charge pulls her phone from her pocket to send a text to the asshole she’d contacted earlier with the “date.”

Spa in 45 if you can make it. Before or after. Lmk.

Then she drives, heading back to the spa before her window of time closes with Carolla. She only has so much of it this evening to make it all work.

GM: Before she arrives, Jade spots a bird in the sky following her back to Flawless.

Celia: She doesn’t pull into the spa with a tail. Jade calls Reggie.

GM: “Yeah?”

Celia: “You in the Quarter? I’ve got company.”

Her tone says it isn’t the good kind.

GM: “No. Mid-City.”

Celia: “You drop the thing off okay?”

GM: “I’m looking for Randy.”

“Fucking nothing.”

Celia: It jogs a memory.

Shit.

“Get somewhere safe. Think his trouble just found me.”

She turns. Turns again. Starts heading back to the Evergreen.

GM: The drive is only two blocks.

The bird soon disappears.

“Fuck that. What trouble? Where are you?”

Celia: “Back at the Evergreen. Being followed. Told you I thought it was that prick deputy.” Deputy. Hound. He gets it. “Pissed him off last night. Think I saw him.”

Savoy had said their threats weren’t idle ones. She’d laugh if the situation didn’t leave her in a bad spot.

Is this what she gets for mentally losing her shit? Sold out to the hounds?

Jade keeps Reggie on the line with her. She doesn’t think there’s anyone else to call. None of her friends are fighters. No one but Roderick, and who knows if he’ll come running should she need him.

She can just change. Do her face. One of the other employees, maybe. Louise. She has a reason to be there late at night, at least. Alana’s face is too well known. Or go cat. Call Dani. As if the thin-blood offers any help against this sort of thing.

Gui, maybe.

Get some last use out of him before Roderick tears him apart.

It’s an ugly look no matter what way she slices it.

“Reg, hold on a sec, I’m gonna make a quick call.”

She switches lines and calls the guy that said he’d always protect her.

GM: Reg starts to say something. There’s a “fuck”.

Roderick picks up after several rings.

“Yes?”

Celia: It’s not possible that they got to Reg already, right? That exclamation was for some other reason, right?

Worry ties a knot in her gut.

“Hey. Hate to bother you, think I’m in trouble, can you come get me?”

Maybe it’s nothing.

Maybe it was just a bird.

Maybe she’s fine now.

Maybe she’s going to die tonight.

GM: “Have you done as I told you?”

Celia: “That’s where we’re headed if you can make it.”

GM: “That was very fast, Celia.”

Roderick’s tone sounds more suspicious than pleased.

“What is the meeting time and location, and who’s meeting who?”

Celia: “Well I told him that I had something cool to show him and he cleared his schedule. He said it could be tomorrow, but then mentioned if we made it tonight he’s got a date for Dani too.”

He’s smart enough to know what that means, isn’t he?

“It’s soon, though, and I’m kind of stuck somewhere, which is why I need you sooner rather than later. But it’s short notice, so if you can’t make it then I can set up another time.”

GM: “Who is the meeting between, Celia?” Roderick repeats.

“You and our friend, or our friend and someone else?”

Celia: She knows it’s the wrong answer before she says it.

“Me and him.”

GM: His voice is cold.

“Then you failed to do as I asked.”

Celia: Celia holds back a sigh.

“I thought the additional guest was worth the deviance from our plans. I’ll reschedule and handle this incident on my own. If you don’t hear from me again, it was Agnello.”

She thinks about saying she loves him, but he’d told her he wants the truth. So she says a quiet “goodnight” before she switches lines.

“Reg?”

GM: “We’re not finished yet, Celia,” Roderick interrupts as she starts to say “goodnight.”

“You don’t end our calls. I do. Is that understood?”

Celia: She’s going to gouge her claws through his eyeballs.

Celia finds her inner pathetic creature, the one Preston hates so much. The one who cowers at the sound of a raised voice. She thinks its name might be Grace.

Or maybe Diana.

I’ll be a good wife.

Just until he’s in too deep to get out. Just until he can’t turn away from Savoy. Don’t rock the boat. Not yet.

“Yes, I understand. I’m being followed. I’m in trouble. I needed help. I’ll figure it out so I don’t inconvenience you. I need to get off the phone so I can handle this, is that okay?”

Even locked inside her car within shouting distance of the Evergreen, she doesn’t feel safe. This whole call was a waste of time. She doesn’t know why she’d bothered.

She should have lied.

She’s going to die because Roderick is too much of a prick to listen to her. She’d laugh, but mostly she feels like crying. She keeps it inside, though. He hates that act.

GM: “No, not yet,” Roderick answers.

“You haven’t done as I asked. But finding a date for Dani is worthwhile, so I’ll tell you what. If you want my assistance with something now, that can be your reward.”

Celia: Hatred seethes within her.

“I’m at the Evergreen.”

GM: “I can’t be seen at the Evergreen. If you’re already there, you’ll be safe from Agnello. Spend the day.”

Celia: Staying at the Evergreen means losing the sire.

“Okay,” she agrees.

As if she can’t meet Roderick somewhere else where he can be seen so she can finish her plans this evening. She doesn’t bother suggesting it. Waste of time.

“Thank you.”

Fuck you.

“I need to call Dani to cancel our plans, is that okay?”

At least over the phone she only needs to fake the emotion in her voice. A glance in the mirror shows the flat, dead eyes of someone playing a boring role.

GM: “You know how much Dani wants a date, Celia. I’m sure she’d be happy to have one at the Evergreen. It isn’t my first choice, but it’s good enough.”

Celia: “Oh, great, I’ll call her and let her know. Thanks.”

She smiles in the general direction of her phone, the sort of face-wide, maniacal smile that would make anyone near her pause and take a step back.

GM: “We’re talking about Dani’s date, Celia. A date involves two or more parties. I’d like to meet this guy before he goes out with my sister. You said their date was going to happen tonight. Why are you now saying those plans need to be canceled?”

“Or were you talking about your own plans with Dani, rather than the guy she’s meeting?”

Celia: “Dani and I were going to get together tonight. I meant my plans with her.”

GM: “Canceling those is fine. Tell me about the plans with the guy she’s meeting.”

Celia: “Well. I will when I get them rescheduled. Since we had a different meeting place in mind I need to reach out to let him know.”

“And her, too. Oh boy, lot of calls to make, I better get started.”

GM: “Don’t be sarcastic with me, Celia. You’re not making sense. Maybe it’s because you’re so stupid.”

“You said there were plans with the guy Dani is going to meet. You said those plans were happening tonight. Why are you now saying they need to be rescheduled?”

Celia: Celia starts to respond. She gets a handful of words in before she cuts off in a scream.

The line goes dead.

Fuckwad.

“Reg?” she asks into the other line.

GM: That line is silent.

Celia: “Reggie?”

She waits a beat, phone pressed to her ear.

GM: Her phone app says she has no calls active.

Celia: She dials Reggie.

GM: It doesn’t pick up.

“Yo. Leave a message,” sounds Reggie’s voice.

Beeeeeep.

Celia: She doesn’t leave a message.

Celia sends a quick text to Dani to postpone their plans tonight. Stay home, she says. Don’t leave home.

A second to Gui, letting him know that she’s running late and needs an extra 15 minutes before she sees him. Doesn’t want to keep him waiting.

Then she’s out of the car, moving quickly toward the Evergreen so she can duck inside.

GM: Celia steps out of her car.

Pavement slams against her chin as something seizes her ankles, cat-quick, and suddenly she’s pulled underneath her car. The snarling face of Rocco Agnello looms over hers as a stake drives towards her heart.

Celia: Celia shrieks. She’d been expecting the attack from above, not below.

At least she’d been right.

But he’d fucked up in yanking her toward him. She isn’t some helpless doe in close quarters, not when her very hands are weapons in their own right. She reaches for his face with the fingers that have so frequently sculpted the flesh of others in a messy swipe. Rather than create she simply destroys.

GM: Perhaps Rocco realizes just how deadly those fingers are, and how sharp the rose’s thorns may prick.

If he doesn’t, it’s his lucky night that the stake finds purchase in Jade’s heart so quickly. She goes instantly rigid as the wood pierces flesh.

Agnello pulls her keys out of her hands. He lies still atop her, eyes peeled on the curb beyond the car.

A second scream goes up, loudly piercing the night. Jade can’t make out more than shoes and pant legs exiting the Evergreen. Moving towards it.

Away from her.

Rocco waits until they’re gone, then wastes no time. He crawls out from under the car, opens the trunk with Jade’s keys, then pulls her out cat-quick and dumps her in. The trunk closes. After another moment, she distantly hears a door open and close.

Then, there’s motion underneath her as the car takes off.

Celia: The stake stops her movements, but not her thoughts. Those race while the events carry on around them. Another victim? What are the odds?

Slim.

She’s seen Pietro do the trick often enough to know what it is, to know that Rocco here either has some shadow dancing skill or an accomplice.

At least she’d told Reggie. And Roderick. Maybe the scream tipped him off. A lie at the time, but she’s always been good at playing victim. Maybe he bought it. Maybe he’s worried. Maybe he’s coming.

Maybe he doesn’t care.

But locked in a trunk for the second time in two nights, eyes fixated on the glow in the dark escape lever, she can’t help but think that being right this time hasn’t gotten her anywhere but in trouble.

---

Previous, by Narrative: Story Thirteen, Louis IV
Next, by Narrative: Story Thirteen, Louis V

Previous, by Celia: Story Thirteen, Celia XXII, Cletus I, Julius III
Next, by Celia: Story Thirteen, Celia XXIV

Previous, by Julius: Story Thirteen, Celia XXII, Cletus I, Julius III
Next, by Julius:

“What does this do, except fuck up more lives.”
Brenda Harris

---

Saturday morning, 12 December 2015

GM: Lou’s friend drives him back to New Orleans and pays his bus fare. Apparently, the Greyhound route to Saint Francisville is two and a half hours and $15 rather than six hours and $47 when you take the bus at New Orleans Bus Station instead of the bus closer to Kenner at Louis Armstrong Airport. The former’s route is shorter. Fewer stops.

Lou waits around at the terminal until his bus arrives. A drunk-looking man loudly complains when the driver says he can’t get on. A few menacing-looking bikers with 1%er patches also climb aboard. Lou isn’t sure what they’re doing here and why they’re not using their bikes. There’s also a sketchy-feeling girl with about twenty pieces of mismatched luggage who keeps trying to wheedle the driver into letting her bring them aboard and who keeps getting told no, her ticket does not entitle her to that many pieces of luggage. Lou doesn’t even hear her story and it smells like pure bullshit. She eventually yells, “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” at the driver and storms off with her luggage.

Lou absently notes, while he waits, that Greyhound’s hours of operation are 5:30 AM to 9:30 PM. Little chance of any leeches being aboard these buses, even if the sun wasn’t already up. They might be a cheap and convenient way to travel, but at most you’d have three hours during the winter. Any layovers, delays, and cancellations could be a death sentence without a backup plan.

Once he finally gets on, he finds the intercity bus to be very comfortable next to the metro buses. The seats are cloth. There are armrests and extra leg room. There’s also wifi and power outlets. He’ll only have to get onto another bus at Baton Rouge in two hours. People continue to file in after he seats himself. He spots two moms with kids. One of the moms’ children is sniffling and looks absolutely miserable. Maybe they’re going to the same place Lou is. Another man getting on holds up an O’Tolley’s cheeseburger and loudly asks, “Hey, anybody want this?” He’s mostly ignored, apart from the passenger behind Lou who sarcastically mutters, “Um, no.”

The woman who plops down next to Lou’s seat is black, middle-aged, and obese, and dressed in jeans and battered tennis shoes. She uncorks a water bottle, takes a long glug, then turns to Lou.

“I once killed someone, you know,” she brags.

Louis: “Did they deserve it?”

The old man poses the question like the half-congealed dregs of coffee at the bottom of his silver-bullet thermos. Slow and solid.

For another man, the question might sound sarcastic.

For another, it might be sanctimonious.

For this old man, though, it’s a rarer bird. One not often gracing the Greyhound’s urban melange and motley dramatis personae.

Sincerity.

Did they deserve it?

He’s not sure if the woman will have a satisfactory answer.

If not, he won’t blame her.

After all, he doesn’t know if he has one himself.

GM: The woman nods agreeably at Lou’s question.

“My husband. He was a real piece of shit.”

She nods again and repeats, “Real piece of shit. So one night, I picked up his hunting rifle, and I blew his head off. BOOM!”

She smacks their shared armrest.

Louis: The old man’s face tracks the woman’s movement and words like a dancer two steps behind—or ahead. Perhaps the delay is due to a slurry of resurrected images, words, and smells that slither through his mind. Such thoughts have the schizophrenic aroma of spiced rum, fish tacos, bubble-gum, cheap cigarillos, pralines, spray paint, and crack cocaine, and the glint of Louisiana gold in all its black, wet, and volatile beauty.

“I was once married,” the old man says, not quite as a reply as much as an inadvertent confession. Not to woman beside him now, but to the memory of the woman who once was.

“Real piece of shit,” he adds, his lips echoing slowly the words. It’s unclear whether he’s referring to himself as husband, his spouse, their erstwhile married, or all three.

His hand absentmindedly reaches for a cigarette. But the cigarette isn’t there. Nor is the hand. At least, not among the living, it isn’t.

How much of me is? the old man bitterly muses.

Forcing himself back to the present, to the living now, he looks her in the eyes, “A lot of folks find it hard. Not the killing. But the living with it.”

If you don’t, time to turn in your badge, That was what he had told so many of his partners about taking a life while carrying the crescent shield for their ugly, beautiful, terrible, beloved city. Justified or not, dead men are heavy, sticky burdens, at least for those with a conscience.

Today, as with so many past, the old man’s conscience is bent under the weight of so many deaths. Mama Wedo’s is just the tip of that spiritually ponderous iceberg. That weight threatens to pull him down, deep into the past, to relive the dead. Their names. Faces. Lives lived, and what was. Lives unlived, and what might have been.

His hand—the corporeal one—gently touches the humble cross beneath his shirt. It grounds him. Re-focuses his attention to the present. But also the future.

He turns back to his fellow passenger.

“You two have kids?”

GM: The ancient wood is at once rough and worn, like it was all those months ago. Perhaps like it’s been for years and years.

Whether his ex-wife is similarly unchanged since their parting is an open question.

“Yep,” says the woman. “Gettin’ on this bus to visit one of ’em. Our son. Lives in Baton Rouge.”

She grins.

“I was fuckin’ with you, man. I ain’t killed nobody. Mind you, I wish I had, sometimes. The ‘real piece of shit’ part was true.”

She takes a glug of water.

“Normally that freaks people out more. Sometimes I like to add, ‘I really liked how it made me feel. Sometimes I think about doin’ it again.’ But goddamn! You didn’t even blink. You one cold customer.”

She laughs and sets down the water.

“Guess that what I get, tryin’ to scare strangers on a Greyhound, ain’t it? Never know who you gonna run into.”

Louis: Lou smiles.

“That’s me. One cold customer. Guilty as charged.”

He then extends his hand—the one of flesh and blood—and adds, “But you can call me Luis.”

“I also respond to ‘Free Shrimp Boil’.”

GM: “Latrelle,” says the woman. Her hand’s answering grip is flabby but firm.

She laughs.

“Luis’ not so much a mouthful. Why they call you that?”

Meanwhile, the Greyhound’s doors close after the last of the passengers amble on. The bus takes off underneath the pair.

Louis: He sighs with a smile, “Sadly, nobody calls me ‘Free Shrimp Boil’, but if I hear anyone say those words, I come running all the same. Or shuffling. Joints aren’t what they used to be, what with my old friend arthritis.”

GM: The woman laughs again. “Yeah, that a shit nickname. You either gonna be on the hook for a lotta shrimp or a lotta pissed off folks who ain’t got no shrimp. You don’t wanna be Free Shrimp Boil.”

“I hear you, though. I’m fat as fuck and it’s tough on my knees.”

Louis: “Well, here’s to cloth seats, armrests, and extra leg room.”

Yet, even as he smiles and reclines his head with a genuine if light laugh, the old man cannot truly rest. The old PI’s senses swim out surreptitiously as he tries to suss out potential threats. Some, like the OMC bikers, are clear. But it’s the unseen blade that drives deepest. True, his chief nemeses are unlikely to be riding in the sun-exposed bus, but their blood-bond servitors have no such reservations. Any and all could be spies. Even the mother with the crying child. It’s a bitter truth, and one that the worm of paranoia gnaws at. It doesn’t help that his line of sight is broken by row upon rows.

The old man misses the now-departed dawn. He misses his friends. He misses the park with the tranquil ibises and serene water.

The old man misses many things.

GM: He’s exposed himself.

They were already looking for him. He called Otis. Maybe the man reported him. Last known siting (or at least hearing) of Louis Fontaine. Ghouls could have visited the man’s house. Maybe the sheriff did personally, despite the approaching dawn. He can fly, the trip doesn’t take long. Maybe the Guard de Ville did some detective work. They have so many tools. Maybe they found some sign of Lou’s ride. Maybe they followed its route. Maybe their spies and slaves are here, now, looking for him.

The worm of paranoia wriggles.

He’s a literally sitting duck in his cloth seat with its armrest and extra leg room.

The Greyhound, however, slows not for worms or paranoid old men. It’s a two hour ride from the Big Easy to Baton Rouge. About an hour in, a man starts shouting about his knife. Apparently it’s been stolen. Lou is not sure why the man has a knife on the bus.

Latrelle chats with Lou along the way, seemingly no matter how much or little Lou chooses to chat back. She mentions she served a stint in LCIW, “a ways back.” She didn’t kill her husband, but she did shoot him. “Only, it was with a Saturday night special. Them guns are pieces of shit.” She got sent to prison for it. “I was actually on TV once. Reality show called Mega Cage. They made the season at LCWIW, called it St. Gabriel’s Bitchslap! with an exclamation point at the end. I didn’t make it to the finals, though. Bitch who won it fucked me up in the yard and I went down like a punk ‘gainst this little psychopath mama who’d stabbed her kids to death. I’da kicked her ass, ‘cept for how I didn’t. Guess that’s life, innit?”

The bus comes to a stop at the Greyhound Bus Station in Baton Rouge. Latrelle gets off and offers, “You have a nice life, man,” in parting. Lou waits half an hour to catch the 0006 to Saint Francisville, or at least what’s supposed to be half an hour. Lou ends up waiting for over an hour. He hears there is some sort of delay on the other bus. When the impatient passengers finally board, Lou hears there was a drug bust and everyone had been checked out before being allowed to exit the bus.

A tall and lanky man sits plops down on the seat next to Lou. He starts talking, but does not once look at Lou. He is seemingly having a dialogue with himself, using two different voices. His pitch alternates between furtive whispers and normal volume level. Sometimes he twists his hands together with a particularly loud, “Fuck!”

One of the last passengers aboard literally runs to the back of the bus. He is loud in the bathroom. Not all of the noises sound like flatulence. He comes out looking pale, waxy, and a little greenish. The Greyhound takes off. Scenery rolls past. The man runs back two more times over the course of the trip. The back of the bus starts to smell pretty bad. The driver eventually announces they will be intercepted by an ambulance. Paramedics load the man aboard. It turns out he’s sick because his appendix burst. A passenger asks if they are going to transfer to a new bus so this one can be cleaned. It smells really bad. The driver asks, seemingly rhetorically, if they want their route delayed even later. The passengers are apparently going to tough it out until they get to Saint Francisvile.

Lou surveys the passengers. There are more women, he notes, on this bus than his last bus. More seniors, too. Perhaps girlfriends, wives, and parents visiting male relatives at Angola. Both of the mothers and their children from the New Orleans bus are still on this bus. So are a few other passengers. Perhaps they are headed to Angola too.

Good cover, if they’re spies.

The tall man next to Lou finishes a particularly furious-sounding whispered diatribe, then turns and stares at him.

“Hey man, can I use your phone?”

Louis: Lou lets the travel’s detritus roll past him. He’s not immune to the noisome effluvia, but his centuries of low living make him at least inured, if not innoculated. More than once, the bus-contained bedlam reminds him of Dante’s writing. At its best, particularly when talking with Latrelle, it’s Purgatorio. At its worst, it’s Limbo fast sliding into the lower circle’s slurry.

He has no delusions about which side of Archeon sits Angola.

The worm turns, as does his conscience, which rests uneasy as the bowels of the appendix-burst man. The closer Lou gets to the Farm, the worse his distress becomes. Inside his mind, if not soul, he feels the echo of Dante’s words upon trying to scale the very first ring of Purgatorio.

I fear much more the punishment below;
my soul is anxious, in suspense; already
I feel the heavy weights of the first terrace.

Those ponderous thoughts are interrupted, or perhaps punctuated, by the tall, lanky man’s request.

At said question, Lou turns. He regards the younger man slowly, as if he hasn’t already visually investigated the fellow passenger a dozen times. The man and his request remind Lou not so much of Dante’s cantos, but rather the more modern, New World collection of Uncle Remus’ tales, particularly that of Br’er Rabbit and the Tar Baby.

The old man doesn’t immediately reach for his newest burner phone—which is turned off out of old but wary habits—or any of its dime-store burner SIMs. Instead, he casually glances to see if anyone across the aisle or in front of them have a readily visible phone.

“¿Teléfono?” is his only immediate reply, arching a tired brow.

GM: The lingering smell of the man’s ruptured appendix seemingly marks his approach towards Hell’s gates.

Perhaps if it gets bad enough, he’ll faint like Dante.

“Phone, man, PHONE,” the man repeats in an agitated voice, wringing his hands. He stares at Lou like he can compel the PI to produce and surrender one through sheer force of will.

Across the aisle, Lou sees one of the moms with a miserable-looking kid talking into a phone with an unhappy expressions. In front of them, he hears a passenger with long nails tapping against a phone screen.

The man’s eyes fall out of focus.

“Just wait ’til we get to Saint Francis, bitch,” he mutters in his ‘second’ quieter voice.

Perhaps to Lou. Perhaps to himself. Perhaps to another party.

Louis: Perhaps.

And perhaps the man is referring to the arriving before St. Francis, the Catholic patron of animals, versus St. Francisville of West Feliciana Parish. It’s unlikely, but the old man has experienced stranger things.

The small thought halts Lou from further eying the tall man’s juggular and contemplating how best he could lean over and use his supernaturally strong, fast fingertips to cut off the man’s nearest carotid artery, and thereby induce cerebral ischemia and unsconsciousness within scant seconds.

Instead, the initially sardonic thought of St. Francis of Assasi dislodges an older, deeper memory in the elderly ghoul. To a time long past and all but drowned away by blood.

A Spanish Capuchin friar had caught him and his brother throwing rocks at a feral dog. Chastizing the boys, the friar had taught them of St. Francis of Assisi, regalling them with the tales of how the saint had preached to birds and tamed the man-eating wolf of Gubbio. The mendicant had then admonished the brothers to repent and follow St. Francis, teaching them the saint’s prayer.

The words to that prayer now rise again, if not from his lips, than at least from his heart:

Señor, haz de mí un instrumento de tu paz.
Que allá donde hay odio, yo ponga el amor.
Que allá donde hay ofensa, yo ponga el perdón.
Que allá donde hay discordia, yo ponga la unión.
Que allá donde hay error, yo ponga la verdad.
Que allá donde hay duda, yo ponga la Fe.
Que allá donde desesperación, yo ponga la esperanza.
Que allá donde hay tinieblas, yo ponga la luz.
Que allá donde hay tristeza, yo ponga la alegría.

Maestro, que yo no busque tanto ser consolado, cuanto consolar,
ser comprendido, cuanto comprender,
ser amado, cuanto amar.
Porque es dándose como se recibe,
es olvidándose de sí mismo como uno se encuentra a sí mismo,
es perdonando, como se es perdonado,
es muriendo como se resucita a la vida eterna.
Amén.

(Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.)

(_O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Amen.)

So chastened, the old man slowly draws out his SIM-less burner from his trench and passes it to the younger man beside him.

“Teléfono. Aquí está mi teléfono. Mis disculpas, jovencito.”

Turning the phone on, he quickly unlocks it before connecting it to the Greyhound’s WiFi, gesturing once more for the fellow passenger to use.

GM: Saints befriending beasts is a recurring element in hagiographies.

The man is hardly a beast, and Lou may suppose he’s hardly a saint either, but the crude comparison is there.

The prayer is more broadly applicable than Gubbio’s wolf or a feral dog, in any case.

The man gives Lou a noncomprehending look at the Spanish, but takes the phone and fumbles with it with trembling fingers as he whispers, “Come on… come on…”

The man mashes his fingers against the screen, then holds it to his ear.

“Hey. Hey. I wanna say.”

“No.”

The man’s face twists.

“I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry. Okay. I ain’t got shit, from Eric. Shit from Eric. Shit from you. Just, just… fuck! Sorry.”

“Right. You tell him. Tell him, man. Tell him!”

He presses his finger against the screen again, then looks at Lou and returns the phone.

“Thanks, man.”

As Lou inspects the device, he sees no call was ever made on it.

Perhaps the friar would be pleased, all the same.

Louis: Perhaps.

Either way, the old man graciously accepts the returned phone, sliding it away.

“De nada,” he replies with with tired, empathetic eyes that have drunk in their fair share of sorrows.

“Eres bienvenido. Lo siento por Eric.”

Regarding the mentally ill man, Lou finds that the present once again conjures ghosts from his past. This time, it’s haunting images of Chica, all but OD’d on crack and Malkavian blood.

It’s little wonder why the old man drunk so much.

GM: The man just gives a blank look at the Spanish, then turns away.

“I’m gonna kick your ass, man,” he whispers to the seat in front of him. “I’m gonna fuck you up. Gonna kick your ass!”

The rest of the bus ride proceeds uneventfully. It gets off at Saint Francisville, a middle of nowhere small town with a population under 2,000. The town isn’t known for much besides some nearby plantation homes open to the public for guided tours. It’s also the final layover on the bus route up to Angola.

The small town lacks a proper bus terminal. Lou waits outside an Endron gas station for his next ride. The tall man who sat next to Lou on the Greyhound ambles off, still muttering to himself, but a number of the Greyhound’s other passengers wait alongside the old man. Both of the mothers with accompanying kids wait with him. Most of Lou’s fellow passengers are black.

The 60-something overcast weather isn’t unpleasant to wait in, but the amount of waiting is unpleasant. The bus is late. People look increasingly impatient as they check phones and watches. One little girl complains to her mom and asks why they can’t go eat somewhere. Her mom tells her they’ll miss the bus if it arrives while they’re eating. They don’t know when it’s going to arrive. The girl heaves an exaggerated sigh and complains she’s bored. Another boy tells his mom he’s bored too. “So are we all, kid,” says an older woman.

The bus is over half an hour late when it finally arrives. Lou pays and gets on. The old man supposes it’s no worse than any other bus he’s ridden, but next to the Greyhound it’s quite uncomfortable. Seats are hard rather than cloth, there’s no armrests or extra leg room, nor is there on-bus wifi. The ride is lower to the ground and has more bumps and jostles. Somehow it seems fitting for the prison-operated bus.

The little boy who said he was bored starts crying about five minutes into the ride. Lou’s not sure what about. “Wuh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” sounds over and over. His mom tries to comfort him at first. It doesn’t work. “Wuh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” keeps sounding. The mom starts repeatedly hissing, “Braden, be QUIET!” but he still keeps crying. “Wuh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” People shoot the family increasingly dirty looks at the unrelenting noise. “Wuh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” The mom finally pulls the boy over her knee and delivers several swats to his bottom. Lou catches “ashamed” and “big baby” among the angry-sounding words she hisses at him. The kid sniffs, rubs his eyes, and sullenly buries his face against the seat. But he quiets down.

“These fuckin’ people, man,” the young woman sitting next to Lou mutters to him. “Shouldn’t have kids.”

Louis: Does the old man nod in agreement—or is his lantern jaw just jostled by another suspension-rocked pothole?

“I wonder if that’s what the angels say about God when they look at the world and all its people. ’Shouldn’t have kids’.”

He reaches in for his crumpled pack of cigarettes and rattles the last coffin nail with a lingering, unspoken thought before slowly sliding it back into his pocket. He doesn’t exhale a plume of smoke, but his sigh is just as long.

After another moment, he turns back to the young woman. Normally, he’d remain silent, allowing the noissome cacophany roll on like the bus’ wheels without another word. But instead, he speaks. Maybe it’s the grace of the Gaudette candle still warming his old, canketerous heart. Or maybe he does it to better anchor himself in the present, versus slipping back into another bout of guilt- and sorrow-pained memories of past lives with their host of disquiet dead.

“Dad, husband, or brother?”

His old eyes regard her, slow and calm, offering her the chance to answer if she wishes.

GM: The woman is black. Most of the people on the bus are black. Plump and short-haired with a tired-looking face that looks too tired for a face that’s in maybe its late 20s. She’s dressed in jeans and a jacket and long-sleeved tee.

“Yeah, probably,” she snorts in answer to his first question, then looks at window.

“Boyfriend,” she tersely answers his second.

Then she looks back at Lou and says, in that moment of rare-seeming but perhaps actually not at all rare honesty, because she’s talking to a stranger she never expects to ever see again,

“I cheated on him and I haven’t told him and feeling guilty is half the reason I keep visiting, because there’s no future with him. Not anymore. No. Fucking. Future. And I guess I’m just a selfish bitch for wanting to leave, when we were gonna get married.”

Her lip quavers.

Louis: No future

Yet, to the old man, he increasingly feels like he has no present. That his past is too large and heavy, casting its own gravity well or too-long shadow that swallows the here and now.

But isn’t that the way with all the old?

“I was once married, miss,” the old man says with a voice that is tired but trudges on. “My old lady and me… well, we had some good times. Bad ones too. Mean. Ugly. She cheated on me, left me, cheated on me some more, left me some more. I don’t blame her. Not anymore at least. She wanted to live for the future, said I was stuck living in the past. Said it was like being married to a ghost. We made some good songs, yes, but I kept wanting to replay the old tunes versus making new ones.”

“Love is hard music.”

GM: “So she just ended it,” says the woman.

She looks as if that thought isn’t new.

“When did you stop thinking she was a scumbag for cheating on you?”

Louis: Lou laughs sardonically, but not without a gleam of sincere, if self-effacing, mirth. “Which time?”

His smile, though, fades as he replies, “One time, maybe the hardest time was when I thought she was happy. Happy with me, happy with us. I didn’t see that one coming. Hit me like a sock full of ball bearings, or like a .45 to the heart, that one. As you can imagine, drinking didn’t help clear my heart or head any sooner. Me burning down our house was more sobering. Especially since it had the rest of my booze.”

GM: “Huh,” says the woman.

She looks Lou up and down.

“You don’t look like a guy crazy enough to pull that kinda shit.”

“Can see why she cheated and left, if that came during a good spell. No offense.”

Louis: “No offense taken, miss. We all live in glass houses, just as we all got stones we shouldn’t throw.” He doesn’t quite sigh as he adds, “And to be fair, I was a younger man back then. Not necessarily better or worse. But younger.”

GM: “Guess nobody’s got a monopoly on crazy shit, but young guys do it more,” says the woman.

“There’s a reason you see so many girls with older guys, and not young guys with older women.”

“I dated so many guys my age who were just… immature. Maniacs. Got shit to prove. Unstable. You know?”

Louis: Lou nods knowingly. “Six ways to Sunday, miss, I know.”

He grunts as he shifts his weight to vainly ameliorate a stab of sciatica.

“What about your man in the pen? Lotta guys get sent to the Farm for stuff I swear they’d never even think of doing if they had arthritis.”

It’s a weak smile, but it’s a kind one all the same.

GM: The woman laughs.

It’s more a bitter sound than a weak one.

“He got in a fight. He had a gun. Dropped it, it went off, stay bullet killed the other guy. Lawyer said he shoulda gotten manslaughter, but ’cuz this is Louisiana, he got second degree murder.”

“Even though he wasn’t trying to kill nobody.”

Louis: Lou cannot help but file through his mental rolodex to see if he knows about the case. It’s a familiar one, hauntingly so, but not a personal one.

“Law is too often a piss-poor substitute for justice. I wish to God it wasn’t.”

GM: “Whole thing is just complete bullshit,” the woman says hollowly.

“What does this do, except fuck up more lives.”

Louis: The woman’s words, combined with her pain and the fast-approaching environs, conjure up another ghost and dark memories: Big Mon and his unjust incarceration. Not that such thoughts have ever been more than a breath’s distance from his heavy heart.

“Sadly, nothing that justifies the horrific costs to the men unjustly locked inside, nor to the loved ones they’re forced to leave behind.”

“I assume your friend’s tried to appeal?”

GM: “He’s serving life without parole,” says the woman. “Which is more bullshit. And yeah. We been appealing. So far no luck. Public defender barely got time for his case. I think they give the appeals even less time. Thought about gettin’ a private lawyer, but who the fuck knows if that’d work and we’re broke and him obviously losin’ his job has fucked up everything. He wants me to get the lawyer, says if I really love him I’ll spend the money, and that I’m selfish ‘cuz I haven’t. And he’s right, ‘cuz I’m cheating on him, and I barely visit anymore anyways, and we fight all the time and he always asks first about canteen money and sometimes I think he just sees me as a fuckin’ bank account, and then he says I don’t got no idea what it’s like in there and he could die without the money-”

The woman breaks off with a sniff to furiously wipe her eyes.

Louis: In a former age, or at least half-life, he would have a handkerchief to readily offer the young woman, whom no doubt would readily accept. Technically, the old man still has one, but the modern age is a more sanitary, albeit less trusting, time, such that few would accept such an anachronistic offer, particularly from a stranger.

But the old man offers all the same.

And he offers a little more too, though he’s no more sure of its acceptance either.

A name.

“Reffett.”

He coughs it up like a widow’s mite clunking into the alms-plate. It’s not much, but it’s what he has.

“Reffett,” he repeats. “Dustin Reffett. He’s a lawyer in New Orleans. I knew his father. Big shot criminal defense attorney, got someone released from Angola a ways back. His dad is long gone, but his son is cut from the same cloth, I’ve heard. Good lawyer. Even better when the stakes are high. Normally, his services would cost you an arm—”

He looks down sheepishly at his amputed arm, then continues, “but he does pro bono work. They all do, or have to, per law, but I think he’s likely to take the case. Like his old man, he’s got an itch for cases where futures are on the line. ‘Life without parole’ for what should be manslaughter versus second degree murder? That sounds right up his alley. Maybe mention how his old man got the cop Broussard out of Angola, and that’s what made you look him up. And bad as it sounds, if your ex-flame is being squeezed for canteen money or worse, that ups the stakes—and likely makes the case all the more tempting for Reffett.”

“Doesn’t mean he’ll take the case, or if he does that he’ll win. But whether he does or doesn’t, you still get to decide if you want to make music with your ex-fiance.”

GM: The woman listens silently to Lou. Is there hope in her eyes? It looks almost foreign on her forlorn and embittered face.

“Pro bono,” she repeats, as if to make sure she heard him right.

“Okay, well.”

“Why not, right?”

“Miss any shot you don’t take.”

“Can I say you sent me? What’s your name?”

“I’m Brenda.”

She looks at the handkerchief and waves it off with, “I’m good.”

Some gestures may stay in another era.

Louis: But not all names.

“Enrique,” the old man offers.

It’s not his real name, but neither is Louis Fontaine. And for all his compassion to this woman, the worm still squirms. Too many ears. Too many eyes. Too many lies.

“My name’s not worth much, but hopefully Dustin Reffett’s is.”

To punctuate the point, he undoes his bag—as his briefcase has been left back at Mariángel’s place—and rips off a corner from a stenopad, writing down the attorney’s name and a few notes with some hopefully relevant context.

GM: “Yeah,” says Brenda.

She takes the note and looks it over, then looks back up to Lou.

“I dunno if things are gonna work out with us. Even if he gets out. Just… so much shit between us now. Things just… things’ve happened. But I don’t want him to spend the rest of his life behind bars.”

“Tell me that makes me a not shitty person.”

Louis: This time, there’s no hesitation in his answer, nor any shadow of equivocation.

“It doesn’t.”

GM: “Even though I’m a cheater?”

Louis: The old man points at himself and then vaguely at the rest of the bus’ occupants.

“Glass houses, miss. Who am I or are any of us to throw stones?”

“But if you’re asking me if you are a bad person because you’re not sure you want to live the rest of your life hooked up with your old fiance, prison or no prison? No, that’s just being a person with a living, beating heart.”

“As for the cheating, I’m no priest. But the scriptures teach us what the Great High Priest did when confronted with a woman caught in adultery. He didn’t throw a stone, either, though he was the only one without sin. He also didn’t say cheating wasn’t a sin. Instead, he said to her, once all her accusers had left, ‘Neither do I condemn thee. Go your way, and sin no more.’”

GM: The bus’ other occupants look little happier than Brenda does.

No one who cares enough to visit someone in prison is happy the person they’re visiting is behind bars.

Well, probably. Lou helped put the people he’s visiting behind bars.

But Lebeaux said he wasn’t happy for either brother to be in prison. “Just happy they’re not pushing more drugs on the streets and ruining more lives.”

“So he just said to her… yeah, you should probably stop, but I ain’t gonna shame you or pelt you with rocks for it?” asks Brenda.

Louis: “Pretty much,” the old man says with a smile that surprises his own face.

“Not sure about the ‘probably’ part.”

GM: “Yeah, guess he’s pretty sure about that,” says Brenda. The smile she returns is a little weak, but it’s there, for the first time Lou has yet seen on her face.

It’s a smile that looks out of place on the prison-bound bus.

“A’ight. Well. Thanks, Enrique. For the lawyer and… everything else.”

Louis: The old man tips the brim of his knockoff Pelicans cap.

“Same to you, Brenda.”

Inside the old man’s mind, he hears the distant echoes of a much, much younger voice, one that belonged to a boy saying St. Francis’ prayer under the watchful tutelage of a certain Capuchin friar.

I’m trying, Fray Antonio. I’m still failing. But I’m still trying.

---

Previous, by Narrative: Story Thirteen, Celia XXII, Cletus I, Julius III
Next, by Narrative: Story Thirteen, Celia XXIII, Julius VI

Previous, by Character: Story Thirteen, Louis III
Next, by Character: Story Thirteen, Louis V

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, alive or dead, it’s that sex causes more problems than it solves.”
Peter Lebeaux

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Saturday night, 19 March 2016, PM

Celia: Celia checks the time after their conversation wraps up and says she needs to get going. She hugs her mom a final time and wishes her a good evening, uses her bathroom to change her face and dress, and heads out for the night. She’s tempted to stop for a drink on the way… but there will be plenty to do at the party, and the bars don’t close for some time yet even if not. She can always pop out for a bit if she gets peckish.

It’s a quick trip to the Evergreen after that.

---

Saturday night, 19 March 2016, PM

Celia: The Cat’s Meow. World famous, if you believe the sign on the door. Jade hasn’t been around the world (though she’s done some traveling) so she can’t say for sure whether or not it’s actually world famous, but she supposes, so far as domains go, that maybe it’s a good thing. The Quarter already sees its share of interlopers and poachers during Mardi Gras—she doesn’t need them eyeing her club in particular.

Tonight it’s crowded. More than crowded, really. Saturday evening is prime party time, and this evening is no exception. Even the multiple bars that line the walls are no match for the press of bodies streaming in off the streets, and people wait three or four deep for their 32oz Hurricanes in plastic cups or Jello tooter shots (which Jade thinks are inherently messy considering the small opening and long body, and she’s seen plenty of drunk people attempt to stick their tongues into the little plastic tubes to get at the jello still clinging to the bottom—why don’t they just do normal shots?), while music blares from the speakers near the stage. The two drink minimum means there’s plenty of unaware vessels that don’t notice the predator in their midst.

Short. Young. Comely. No, perhaps not comely. Perhaps comely is too ordinary or too soft a word to describe the predator that stalks the night. Striking, maybe. Luscious. Bewitching. Desirable.

Desirable. That’s the one. Every inch of her is painted, sculpted perfection, from the shade of her shadow to the wing of her liner to the fresh coat of polish on her nails. Her dark hair is loosely curled and pulled back from her face, highlighting the dark lashes that frame her large eyes, the delicate hollow of neck and collarbone, the high cheekbones and sharp chin. Her tan skin is offset by the scarlet dress—if the strips of fabric that cling to her hips and bust but bare her sides with open cutouts could be called a dress—and a pair of nude stilettos add another few inches to her height.

Standing room only by now. Or it would be for a mortal, but a dip of her head and a promise in her smile means that the boys who had occupied the table she’d wanted, the one upstairs that overlooks the stage, had freely offered it to her and gone off to find another place to enjoy their evening.

Two drink minimum, but there’s six in front of the predator now, and the empty plastic cups on the table are nearest the girl. A large black man with a smattering of tattoos peeking out from beneath a tight black tee occupies a seat at the table, and the other is taken by another black man. Not quite as muscular as the first, with a little more facial hair and padding around the middle. Not fat. But large. Probably more of a football player than a baseball player, that kind of look. His attention alternates between the two at the table, though the girl—the pretty one, remember?—has her eyes on the stage where a gaggle of women in sky-high heels and cat ears, one of whom wears a white tank top with the saying “Buy me a shot I’m tying the knot”, butcher that popular Journey song about a small town girl and a city boy.

Jade doesn’t mask her presence this evening. Her contact will no doubt be able to sniff her out as soon as he steps inside. A glance at her phone’s clock tells her that they have a solid three-quarters of an hour before Savoy’s court starts. Long enough for this little meeting if they don’t dawdle.

Julius: And her guest doesn’t dawdle. After all, the jazz musician knows how to stay on tempo.

Jules wades into the Cat’s Meow, an odd old whale amongst young, sleek sardines. Tonight, the knock-off king is dressed in what appears to be a a dark magenta velour tracksuit made by Gucci, a pre-release pair of Yeezy 700 V3 Dark Glow sneakers, Dior black-mask sunglasses, a Versace Palazzo empire bracelet watch, and a David Yurman dog-tag necklace with Pavé black diamonds, cognac diamonds, and color-change garnets.

Beyond such accoutrements, the Caitiff is unaccompanied, as he has left Tyzee and Dashonte to wait outside, idling in the latter’s supped-up T-bird.

Approaching the table, the undead jazzman considers that call doubly wise as he notes not only his host seated at the front-stage table, but that all three of that table’s seats are occupied. The black Caitiff, however, is used to metaphorically carving out his own seat at table of the All-Night Society. And tonight, he does so quite literally, as he makes his way to Jade’s table, only pausing long enough to snatch his own chair from a nearby table. That said chair was occupied doesn’t seem to bother Julius in the least bit, as if the chair and its former occupant weighed no more than a red solo cup. Moreover, when the seat’s prior occupant, a bridesmaids-hunting frat boy, spills onto the floor alongside his shattering Hurricane, Julius cuts off his flustered shout of shock and anger with a smooth dip of his sunglasses, flash of a hard smile, and his bullfrog-bass voice:

“You wuz jus’ ‘bout to offer me yo chair, bid deese dawls uh gud nite, an git yoself home now, ain’t dat rite?”

Julius doesn’t wait for the young man’s reply to his question. After all, it wasn’t really a question. Just like it’s no question whether the kine can resist his supernatural command. So undisturbed, the vampire finishes sauntering towards Jade’s table, plopping down his chair and himself to join his hostess, if not her hospitality.

“Lookin gud as always, Ms. Kalani. Scarlet suits you’s like uh pearl in uh ersta.”

Celia: Julius is a hard sight to miss in a club like this. Particularly with that… getup. Her eyes follow him once she notices his appearance in the door, tracking him up the stairs to the second floor where her table juts up against the railing. Room enough for three, but leave it to Julius to bring his own chair over, even timing it perfectly while the singers belt out the chorus—joined by everyone watching who knows the lyrics—so that not a single stray glance cuts his way.

“Evenin’, Papa Juj.” L…“oo” sound in the center there, like jew, then a soft J at the end. A nickname on top of a nickname. And why not? The lick has enough of them, what’s another. She flashes a smile his way at the compliment, then moves her seat to the side to give him room at the table. It’s crowded with the four of them. The poor boys across from them look positively cramped.

“Mm. I was going to offer you mine and find another place to perch.” On a lap, perhaps. She’s seen on them often enough. Court starts soon. She’d missed it last week and doesn’t intend to repeat the behavior this week; she cuts to the heart of things.

“I’ve been thinking about your offer, Jules.”

Julius: ‘Papa Juj’ smiles at the nickname, as if hearing a hot, innovative trumpet note. Her mention of his offer sustains that smile like a piano’s foot pedal.

Notwithstanding, he lets the silence linger till she fills it.

Celia: There’s nothing obvious in the way she does what she does. No snapping fingers. No flashing eyes. Not even a head tilt and smile. But as soon as Jade rises, moving her chair aside to free up some of that cramped space for the boys, and settles on Julius’ lap both black boys that accompanied her turn their eyes toward the stage, as if they can’t quite get enough of the bride-to-be and her entourage. The stools nearby hold plenty of bodies, but they, too, seem fixated on the music rather than the cute girl on the old man’s lap.

Even when the performers change, swapping to a young couple singing about summer love from that late 70’s musical, their attention stays on the stage. They ignore whatever it is that goes on between the two licks.

“I’d like to know who’s going to be coming and going from my space. So I don’t pick them up as a trespasser, you understand.” She flashes a casual smile over her shoulder at him.

Julius: Julius bristles at the unexpected contact. Not like a frat pledge having his first lap-dance, but more like a tiger suddenly put in a tight cage with another. For all the Camarilla’s social pretenses, the Beast is ultimately a solitary predator. But as the Sindaco of Slidell might suggest, that predator is also cannibalistic.

Up close, Julius cannot help but smell the Toreador’s vitae as it courses through her arteries, veins, and sanguine-plump organs. Those are the ‘curves’ that sing to him, that arouse his lust—or more precisely bloodlust—and make it hard to concentrate. Which is probably why the social-savvy vampiress is saddling him. Unlike the full table, it’s a power-move that catches him off-guard. It also impresses the hell out of him. None of which makes the subsequent negotiations any easier—for the Caitiff.

“Yeah, you… rite,” the clanless vampire lamely responds as he tries to force his thoughts away from how delicious the tantalizingly wrapped bloodbag atop his lap would taste.

“Cain’t fault you’s fo’ axin.”

It takes some effort to keep his hands from squeezing her like a cherry snow cone, to crush her so he could suck out every. Last. Drop.

There’s some small measure of self-pride that he doesn’t next cough to clear an unbreathing throat.

“If you dink da trade is gud, I’ll introduce y’all rite an propuh as podnas. Tonite if we git da time, or after us skeetas are done makin dodo. F’sure ya gotta be knowin whoose a’comin into an outta yo part of da Quartuh. Dey’ll jus’ be wantin you’s to udderwise keep it mums. I dink I said ‘fo dat dis cat is uh public fren of Lawd Savoy, but der blood-daddy is uh tad… controllin. Tight lease an all dat jass. Cain’t fault a cap fo’ wantin der own stoop an zink to wrench off der hands widdout daddy-dearest watchin yo every step.”

Celia: She’s a pretty enough package on his lap. Warm, too, with a heart that beats regularly and continues to pump that deliciously scented vitae through every inch of her body. Tiny. No doubt his hands would go right around her waist or neck or wherever it is he wants to squeeze.

“The yacht, the paperwork, the membership… I’ll send my boy here to check it out when we’re done, but I’m interested. I’ll meet your friend and play mum.”

She knows all about controlling blood-daddies.

“And how,” she asks id…“did you come across his boat?” Towers. Twice in a week the name has been brought up to her. Fortuitous timing, perhaps, or things are simply more connected than she’d assumed.

Julius: It takes Julius half-a-heartbeat (though clearly not his own) to process the lapcat’s words. Looking away from Jade to ‘her boy’ reminds Julius of being a little boy trying to swim against the Tchefuncte’s current. He’s not entirely sure he looked at the right ‘boy’ before her riptide voice pulls him back to her.

Another half-heartbeat passes before Julius replies. Not with words, not at first, but rather with a hand shuffling into his pants. Perhaps the undead nymphomaniac is disappointed when Julius’ jostling only produces a business card.

The card is jet-black with equally dark but glossy lettering. To a kine, those letters would be nigh-impossible to read in the dim-lit Cat’s Meow, but Julius holds the card for Jade to clearly see an embossed image of stylized smoke in the shape of a serpent, next to which letters read:

Black Vyper Vaping, LLC.
302 Decatur Street | Office 420B

“Git yo bra to ax fo’ De’Lanice Gaines. She’s uh lawyer of mine who can git yo cap all da deets.”

“As fo’ how I done come by dat boat, da shoit answer is dollahs. Uh lotta dollahs. But da long answer, dawl, wud cost ya somedin.”

He doesn’t lick his lips at that last statement, but his tone might as well have drooled.

Celia: Not even an absent fondle. Veronica’s childe certainly seems suited to the bloodline when she all but huffs at the produced card.

Snakes, though. Now there’s a thought.

“Reg,” she says to one of the boys, ending whatever charm she’d placed on them to turn their attention to the stage. She plucks the card from Julius’ hand to slide into the large black palm waiting for it. “De’Lanice. Take your friend. Find me after.”

He knows where.

The men leave without a word, and it’s just Jade and her new friend at the table without them. She makes no motion to remove herself from his lap.

“Something like a favor,” she purrs, “or can I offer you a drink while we’re here?”

Julius: Papa Juj’s reply is as swift as it’s greedy:

“Some wud say uh drink is uh favor—at least if it’s da gawddamn rite kinda drink, f’true?”

Celia: “Then it’s settled.” She lifts her hand in a lazy wave to encompass the club. “Who catches your eye, Jules?”

Julius: It’s no question of who’s caught his eye. She’s been reeling him this entire time: hook, line, and sinker. And she’s done it so skillfully, he can’t even complain. Instead, the hoary jazzman laughs lecherously:

“As if dat contest wusn’t rigged from da git-go.”

Celia: Roderick is going to be so mad. Her smile sharpens.

“Here and now, Papa Juj, or do you prefer the… anticipation?” She shifts to look at him, trailing her fingertips down the Gucci velour.

Julius: Those fingertips elicit another dark, husky laugh.

“As a dimeback in college,” he says, slipping a cement-thick hand beneath one of her dress straps, “I told ma bras dat you’s don’t git no mo’ points fo’ savin uh touchdown till da fourth quartuh.”

He tenses then as if about to violently rip off her dress. She can tell that it would be easy for him, too. Like pulling apart cobweb.

“But being uh musician has learned me a ding or two ‘bout tempo. Timin an tension. Da slow-berlin heat. Make ’em beg fo’ da climax, an it makes da cool-down all da sweeter, no?”

As if punctuating that point, his one hands stops, then retreats from beneath the scarlet thread, only to snatch her own wandering hand. Rising suddenly, he allows her voluptuous body to slide down his much larger, velour-clad frame. Maintaining his vice-like grip, he raises her capillary-rich fingers to his lips.

“But dat jus ma opinion,” he adds, his lips parting into a fanged smile, “an ma mawmaw done learned me to always ax uh dawl fo’ hers.”

Celia: She doesn’t need to let her dead body respond to his touch. She doesn’t have to let her heart stutter inside its cage, or let her unnecessary breath hitch in her throat, or pull the color from the rest of her to stain her cheeks.

But she enjoys the game, and he seems the sort to appreciate a show. That’s where she draws the line, though; she keeps her other perversions tightly under wraps.

Wide eyes gaze up at him from beneath long lashes—a head taller than her, even in heels—and there’s an answering flash of fang behind her slightly parted lips.

“Your momma was right, Jules. I’d hate to make you rush through things so we aren’t late. Let’s call it a celebratory sip after our deal goes through.”

Julius: Julius nods, but doesn’t let go. Not before kissing the tip of Jade’s index finger, the digit with the greatest bloodflow, courtesy of the radialis indicis artery and its thick spiderweb of sensitive capillaries. Julius’ kiss upon that digit’s tip doesn’t last long, but it’s forceful: a hurricane-strong sucking motion that threatens—or perhaps teases—to burst the finger’s capillaries and drain its artery straight through her pores.

But he doesn’t. Not here. Not now. And not for a lack of want.

Making that ample desire perfectly clear, he slowly releases her hand.

“Cain’t say I won’t be countin da clock til den. But I guess dat’s da point.”

He then glances down at matte black steel and gold-accented Versace timepiece, “An speakin of clocks an not wantin to be late to da party, I got one last thing I binlookin to run by you, boo.”

His bloodlust is far from cooled, but it’s no longer threatening to boil over with the lapdance over (for now). As such, the mogul returns to his more typical businessman mien.

“Last-sec scoop I done heard from a lil’ birdie bout da party. Wuz one of dose boys yo street-racin cap?”

Celia: He’s not the only one. Not after that.

The mention of racing doesn’t make her do more than lift one expertly shaped brow at the Caitiff. It doesn’t give away anything going on inside of her—the screaming, the broken smile, the crack of parting ribs, a cold hand bursting through a chest cavity to seize a still heart and squeeze it for every last drop.

Randy.

“D’you need a little racer boy for somethin’, Papi?”

Julius: “Something like dat, shug.” He pauses to scan the crowd as if checking for familiar faces or too-eager eavesdroppers. Spotting none—which doesn’t mean there aren’t any—he drapes a long arm over her in what might be a grandfatherly or conspiratorial gesture. The latter seems more likely when he begins to whisper:

“Don’t know if you’s evah dealt wid da Envoy Boggs. White as Uncle Rastus’ instant rice, but rich as da US Mint, dey say. He don’t always come to Lawd Savoy’s parties, but he’s comin to dis one. Wot’s mo’ portant is dat it’s bin 10 years past since he came an hosted uh game, giftin da winner wid uh vintage Maserati, uh ’60 Maserati 3500GT Vignale Spyder clean as uh whistle an worth half uh mil, easy.”

“Ma inside scoop just learned me dat he’s gonna do it gain tonite. Not a Maserati, but a racing car from da 20s. Winna gits da antique car. Dat’s a lotta dolluhs, dawl. Catch is, you only win it if yo driver can beat Ms. Larieux in uh street race at tonite’s party. Dat’s uh tall order, especially as not many caps got skillz drivin a century-old racin relic.”

“I ain’t got one of dem on ma tab rite now, an e’en if I did, I wudn’t be wantin to win. Don’t look gud for uh clanless to beat da lawd’s herald, no?”

Celia: “Instead you’re tippin’ off your new boo. Well ain’t that somethin’.”

Her sire couldn’t have timed his murder any better. It’s like he knew. He couldn’t have. Coincidence, right?

As if there’s such a thing.

For half a heartbeat her lips flatten into a thin line. How fitting that her useless ghoul would have finally served a purpose. If only he hadn’t been cut to pieces. If only she hadn’t severed his head from his body with one clean stroke of a blade.

If only.

“I s’pose I’ll have to bring someone who’s been around long enough to know how to handle something that old. Appreciate the heads up, Jules.”

She smiles at him in a way that suggests she’ll show him just how much she appreciates him later.

Julius: Julius’ smile returns like a golden sunrise. “Awrite, you did strike me like an appreciative soul, dawlin. Also, I’d rather you’s git da car an’ da glory dan uh lotta udder so-called frenz of our lawd. Bettah fo’ it to be uh Bourbon is all I’m sayin.”

He checks his likely knockoff watch again before adding, “Da party’s gonna start soon, so you give ol’ Papa Juj uh call if you be needin anything bout dis. Dolluhs, car, parts, specs, brain-juju, wotevah you need.”

Celia: How about a driver?

Ruby’s no doubt sitting at the spa. Or down the block from her haven. Or the home he shares with his brothers. It’s not the car she’s worried about, just the body inside of it.

Convenient, isn’t it, that this comes along the next night.

Jade scatters the first of the crumbs.

She hesitates a moment, then reaches out to touch Julius’ sleeve before he can turn to go. Her eyes search his face and she lets her mask slip for just an instant, showing the portrait of a young domitor concerned for her charges.

“He didn’t come home last night. Thought he was off with his lady friend, but it ain’t like him, Papa Juj. You think ’lotta people knew prior?” Hers is the only one that could give Mel a run for her money and everyone knows it. Who else wastes their blood on a racer?

Julius: The jazzman frowns at that confession. In fact, if he had two mouths, he’d be frowning with both. He thought his inside edge was exclusive, but does he really know? How would he know? He doesn’t, and that doubt causes his thoughts to play like an out-of-tune piano.

“Lady fren? Gawddamn, Jade, wot’s he doin wid uh lady fren sides you’s?”

He shakes his head and clenches a sousaphone-heavy fist.

“An no, I didn’t think udders knew, but I don’t rite know, not no mo’.”

He releases his arm, scanning the crowd again. “But if I knew you’s had a racing cap, den udders wud’ve too. So who’s da biggest comp, you dink? I don’t figure nobody’d off ya blood-boo jus’ to make damn sure Mél smokes da race. Dat squeeze don’t seem worth da juice.”

He scratches his sugar-white beard. “But maybe it ain’t bout Mél winnin, as much as makin f’sure you’s don’t. Anybody might ring dat kind of bell fo’ ya?”

Celia: Who would be out to get Jade that might plausibly know about this race ahead of time?

“Coulda been…” One of the harpies. Beaumont. She doesn’t quite fit the bill, though. Literally. Too fat to fit into a car. Benson. But that’s a secret friendship, and Jade doesn’t spill her role in the events of last week here. The debt has been settled.

“The Axles, maybe?” But she runs with them on occasion, and their leader and Jade’s sire are thick as thieves right now.

“The Baron’s girl, that witchy one.” Witchy, bitchy, same difference. Melton, but Jade doesn’t put the name forth to her krewemate.

“One of the Quarter rats… oh! The rats. We had a run in, I thought they’d gotten over it.” Maybe that stupid monkey had died.

A longer pause. Then, grudgingly, as if she doesn’t think her “little sister” has the balls—but it would be fitting, wouldn’t it, for her sister to retaliate after the events of last night? Hatred had burned so brightly in her eyes.

“Ryllie.”

Julius: Julius nods. “Mmhmm, dat wud make mo’ sense den uh bucket o’ dollahs. Axles too. Da Anarchs got uh wonky ‘ship wid da Boggs. Yo sire an Mr. Boggs seem to git along fine, maybe gud. But Shep? Yo sis? Snaggin da car cud be dem givin da finger to dem. Or maybe da prince’s Anarchs or dat Baron mambo tryin’ to cause trouble tween Lawd Savoy’s allies, meanin’ turnin da Anarchs an da niggamancers.”

He scratches his jaw again, his eyes narrowing. “But you said a rat? Which rat?”

Celia: She’s not quite sure she wants to send Reggie up against Shep. Seems like a bad idea waiting to happen.

“The one with the ape. Greasy.”

Julius: “Da nossie? He ain’t no rat him, no.”

Celia: “Oh. That rat. The one with the kids.”

Julius: “Gerald an’ Geraldine,” Jules huffs, as if finding the names’ similarity an idle joke not worth telling. “But dat kid an’ her marrain, I jus’ don’t see it. Doubt dey got da stones.”

“But you said yo boy had a lady fren?”

But he waves away the question.

“Ain’t none of us got time fo’ 20 questions now. So whatcha gonna do?”

Celia: “Find a replacement. Win. Then find my boy.”

Julius: Julius’ highbeam smile returns. “Dat’s da jass I like to lissen to. How can I help?”

Celia: “I’ve got the car. I just need a body to put in it.” She spares a glance at his watch, though its face is upside down to her. “But you said you ain’t got a driver on speed dial, Jules.”

Finally, she smiles.

“Luckily, I know a guy. I’m gonna take off. I’ll let you know if I need somethin’, Papi.”

Jade rises to the very tips of her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. She winks. Then she’s gone, slipping through the crowd with a swagger in her step that suggests she’s not worried about the race. Not at all.

Julius: Getting to watch the voluptuous morsel swagger away dims some of the sting of her leaving.

“Gawd,” Julius exclaims to nobody in particular,

“Uh cap could git mighty used to binlookin at dat one.”

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Saturday night, 19 March 2016, PM

GM: Peter Lebeaux catches Celia when she arrives at the Evergreen. Other Kindred are already filing in.

“Change of plans. Now’s a better time than after court,” says the Tremere detective, leading the way up to his office.

Celia: Change of plans. Those are never words she wants to hear. She wonders if she’s in trouble. Celia trails after him until they reach his office and closes the door behind the pair of them, settling into one of his chairs. She crosses one leg over the other. The hem of her rather short dress stays firmly in place.

“What’s up, Pete?”

GM: “Just more convenient,” says Lebeaux as he sits down.

“So what’s on your mind?”

Celia: “Meeting with your sire went well. Thanks for setting it up. Pretty sure he owns me forever now, though.” A slight grimace. “Actually, I have a question about that. Those statues in the garden—guardians, yeah?”

GM: Pete gives her a flat look.

Celia: “I’m not prying, I’m wondering if I’d be able to do something similar. I was working on a project.”

GM: “You might have noticed from the multiple scans and pat-downs that my clan takes security somewhat seriously, Celia. I’m not confirming or denying anything about the chantry’s defenses.”

Celia: “Mm, that burly one got pretty friendly with me,” Celia confirms with a grin.

“I won’t push, anyway. I’ll figure out the project on my own.”

GM: Pete gives a droll look at the description of his clanmate.

“That’s Doyle. Can’t keep his hands to himself.”

Celia: Celia heaves a sigh at him.

“Here I thought he found me cute, Pete. Breakin’ my heart.”

GM: “Somehow it mends itself, even though it seems to break every other time it’s in here.”

“Must be the rejuvenative effects of my scintillating personality.”

The Tremere’s voice is as dry as before.

Celia: “Well, sure, I knew I’d get to see you again.”

GM: “Should we have me say no after you try to set me up with your mother again, just to make this visit complete?”

Celia: “Is it because of what happened? ‘Cause listen, if you’re not into her anymore, I heard she’s got a cute daughter lookin’ for something a little more serious.”

GM: “I thought Emily had a boyfriend. Did they break things off?” Pete asks innocuously.

Celia: “Oh, sweetheart, I meant the little one. Lucy. Figured if I start asking now you’ll be ready by the time she’s eighteen.”

Celia beams at him.

GM: “Oh, of course. I’ll wait for her. I suppose we’ll just have to put a pause to all this talk for the next twelve years?”

Celia: “No, the plan is to wear you down. Or break you in.” Celia tilts her head, considering. Her eyes roam up and down his body—or at least what she can see above the desk. “Make sure you know how to treat her right when she’s of age and all.”

GM: “Absolutely. I’d say to find her a real man too.”

“Rightest way I can treat any lady.”

There’s less dryness in the Tremere’s response there.

Celia: “Even me, Pete?”

GM: “You’re serious,” Pete half-asks, half-remarks, eyebrows slightly raised.

“Especially you. That wouldn’t be at all wise.”

Celia: “No? Why not?”

GM: “You’re not my type. I like what we have. It’s categorically unwise to think with your pants around other licks. Particularly Toreador.”

Celia: Not his type.

Too stupid?

There might be a flicker of something across her face, but it could just be a trick of the light. Whatever it is it’s gone in a flash. Celia smiles prettily. That’s what she’s good at.

GM: Perhaps Pete sees it. Perhaps he doesn’t. Either way, he frowns faintly as he asks,

“Why are you bringing this up now, anyway? For seven years you were set on setting me up with your mother.”

“And I’ve yet to meet a Toreador who considered anything off-limits.”

Celia: Probably because she doesn’t think Pete is the kind of lick to get mad at her and put her in the microwave.

She starts to open her mouth. Hesitates. Closes it again and shrugs. She doesn’t quite meet his eye, though. The pattern on the wall behind him is just so interesting.

GM: Roderick didn’t used to be that kind of lick either.

How did things get to that point?

Celia: She didn’t lie to him about his brother.

GM: “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, alive or dead, it’s that sex causes more problems than it solves,” says Pete.

Celia: “He saw me with Reynaldo. He got mad. I lied to him. He got more mad.” Another shrug, like it doesn’t matter. “Brujah, right?”

GM: “Brujah makes it worse, but there has to be some bad to begin with.”

Celia: “Sure. Like with Maxen.”

GM: “Lot more bad to your old man than ‘some.’”

Celia: “Mm. Lucky me.” She flashes him a humorless smile. “Anyway, hunters.”

“Followed up on that, uh, vision? Rite? The thing you did with the blood. ‘Glinko.’ Glynco. Glynn County. It’s up in Georgia. Law enforcement training center. Federal law enforcement.”

She’s surprised he hadn’t known considering his work in the field. But he’s not a fed, so she doesn’t ask about it. Maybe he had known and this whole situation was another one of those need-to-know things.

Which means she’s wasted time on it, if so. The thought irritates her.

“Apparently they’re recruiting. People bring ’em three licks and they get to go off to the fancy training center to join the team.”

“Reg said they seem like assholes. Which, y’know, is a lot coming from him.”

GM: Pete slaps his head.

“Glynco.”

“I’ve fucking been there.”

“Stupid not to have thought of that.”

“I’ll blame it on funny pronunciation.”

Celia: “And misspelling. I thought there was a K. No wonder I didn’t find anything.”

“Got it now, though. But you’ve been there?”

GM: “Yeah. It’s primarily for feds, but state and local agencies still send people there for training sometimes.”

“I went with some other NOPD folks. While ago.”

Celia: “They all secretly hunters now?”

GM: “Not to my knowledge.”

Celia: “And I assume nothing tipped you off while you were there or you’d have mentioned it to the right people by now. Could be new? Probably just super secret. Not like they’re telling every cop who walks a beat about it.”

“Kind of begs the question how much they know, though.”

GM: “Too much.”

Celia: “There’s a whole agency, Reg said. They were vague about it.”

“But they’re feds, Pete.”

“But, uh, there’s something else.”

GM: “Wouldn’t expect them to share more than they absolutely have to. But what?”

Celia: “Getting rid of licks isn’t their main objective. Or it is, but only in a roundabout way. I mentioned they’re recruiting. That’s why they were dismissive of the pair when we sent Tantal, since there’s always more of ‘em. Testing competence and dedication but going after ’small fries,’ like they’re basically just looking for the best ones to join them.”

“Reg didn’t ask about the other supes, but I figure maybe they’d know about them too.”

“So… all he has to do is bring ‘em another body and he can join. I’ve been thinking about maybe, ah, maybe getting a man inside.”

GM: Pete chews that over.

“That’s consistent with what the stake has picked up.”

“I don’t like this. They’re not testing and recruiting hunters just to collect them.”

Celia: “We could find out.”

“Send someone in if we don’t want to tip them off. Or grab them, maybe.”

“If they’re bold enough to attack strongholds in other cities… gotta assume it’s something big, Pete, right?”

“Even if they’re not the same group.”

“Did the stake say anything else?”

“Maybe the girl with it knows more? We could pick her up. Doesn’t give us a heads up when she makes a move on someone, though.”

GM: Pete shakes his head. “No. Stake could feed us intelligence for quite a while. That’s more useful than one hunter off the streets.”

“Getting someone to deliver three staked licks wouldn’t be overly hard. Real challenge with an inside man is what comes after. They’ll be far away from any support in Glynco. Flying blind and on their own. Lot of ways that could go wrong.”

“Still, it could yield a lot of intelligence.”

“More than we might be able to get any other way.”

“I’ll run the idea past Lord Savoy.”

“Something that big is his call.”

Celia: “Keep thinking of Reg, but… not sure how well it’d go, considering the renfield thing. Withdrawal would be messy. Could be nearby, I guess, but that’s got its own risks.”

“Didn’t say how long the program is.”

“Could always use the same identities, anyway, if we only want to give them one more body.”

“Reg said the next meeting is about a week out.”

“Not a ton of time, but enough.”

Celia: “Your sire mentioned a chantry in Atlanta, though.” Celia asks if he minds if she pulls it up on her phone; she remembers last time she’d whipped out the device in front of him. She doesn’t type the word “glynco” into the maps function, opting for “Atlanta” instead, and uses her fingers to scroll across the map of Georgia until she finds what she’s looking for.

“Close to the water, port city. Ah, damn, Atlanta is like almost five hours away. Savannah is closer. So is Jacksonville, looks like.”

Two fingertips zoom her in closer, looking at the surrounding area.

“Doesn’t look like there are any big cities nearby… some wildlife areas, parks, islands… Brunswick?” She taps the name. “Census says population of 16,000.”

“Little over sixty miles from the other cities. ‘Bout an hour drive time. Through, uh… probably loop territory? Don’t they like parks? Lotta green around it, anyway.”

She can fly, though. So there’s that.

GM: “Lot of factors to consider,” Pete says at her initial words. “Reggie wouldn’t be my first choice of inside man, though. Need someone with a better police temperament.”

He looks at the phone.

He gives a grunt. “You can turn that back off now.”

Celia: Celia does so.

GM: “We’ll work out the logistics if Savoy gives the operation the thumbs-up. Moot until he does.”

Celia: “Just thought it would be good to tell him everything all at once.”

GM: “It’s far from home, however we slice it. This would be much easier if they were based somewhere local.”

“On the other hand, Savannah’s or Atlanta’s Kindred might already know something.”

Celia: “And if not, they might be grateful.”

“You know anyone up that way? I know one of the Torries up in Atlanta. I think that’s where she’s from. Or, uh, maybe San Fran. Bit of a blur when we met.”

GM: “You don’t say,” Pete says dryly. “But no, I don’t. Lord Savoy probably does.”

Celia: “We danced, Pete.” Celia grins. “She’s very fast.”

“Can get an introduction, anyway. If he doesn’t know someone.”

Celia: “But, uh, yeah. Like you said. Moot to plan until he gives the go ahead.”

GM: “It’s an option to keep in mind.”

Pete glances down at his watch, then gets up from his seat.

“Court’s starting soon.”

Celia: Celia rises with him.

“Hey, Pete? Real quick. Before we go. You think he’s gonna let me help once things get moving?” She shuffles her feet, glancing down at her toes before back up at him. “I just… kinda want to be able to do something other than sleeping with people for him, you know?”

Celia: “And I’m supposed to see him tonight after the party. Should I tell him about this, or do you want to?”

GM: “If he thinks your help will be useful, yes. I’d convince him of that if you’re worried.”

Celia: “Yeah. Guess so.”

It’s not like she’d fought off the hunters, escaped, gotten their identities, helped kill three more, gathered their blood for a ritual, followed the lead, found the base, sent her people undercover with a skill very few licks have, given them the idea for the stake to gather more intel, brought back the phones that gave Pete new information and a hit list, stolen papers from Roderick to give to Savoy about another hunter attack and the Inquisition then replaced it with none the wiser…

GM: “I need to take off soon. You can tell him.”

Celia: “Sounds good. Be safe tonight with whatever you’re up to. I’ll let you go ahead of me so no one thinks we were being overly friendly in your office.”

Celia winks at him and follows him out.

She waits until he’s out of sight to send a text to Reggie to stop at her haven on the way back. There’s a box beneath the bed she’d like him to retrieve.

Then she’s off to join the court, a spring in her step and a smile on her lips.

---

Saturday night, 19 March 2016, PM

Celia: Jade finds a place to change for court. She could do it between court and the party, she knows, but she’s always liked to be prepared. She’d thought about doing it in Pete’s office, but no doubt he’d have told her that it isn’t the right place for that. Even if he was thinking about how he’d like to sink his teeth in. He definitely thinks she’s cute.

She tries not to take the rejection personally. She likes what they have, too. Most nights.

While she changes she fishes out her phone, sending a handful of texts.

A second to Reggie: Find it okay?

It being the boat.

To Alana: Makeup going well with our friend? Let me know when you arrive, I’ll do the finishing touches before the party. Have his outfit here. Yours too. :) ;) ♡

To a certain black Caitiff rapper who, like all rappers, has a penchant for loud and fast cars: You and Malik still tight? Might find him helpful tonight.

And to Randy, just to keep up the charade that she hadn’t been the one to cut his head off:

Hey. Haven’t heard from you. Still coming tonight? Need you babe.

GM: It’s going wonderful! Will do! Can’t wait to see them, love you! ♡ comes Alana’s near-instantaneous response.

Yep, comes Reggie’s text after a bit.

The rapper doesn’t reply immediately.

The drag racer, she’s pretty sure, is replying never.

Celia: Love you too, Celia texts back to Alana. With a handful of heart-eyes emojis. Too bad she already asked Dani to sleep over; she could use some fawning adoration from Alana after everything else that has been going on lately.

She hadn’t expected much of a reply from the rapper; Malik is his ghoul, no doubt they’re still “tight.”

She stares at the open conversation with Randy for a long moment and finally puts her phone away. He’s gone. He’s gone and he’s not coming back and it’s her fault.

It’s always her fault.

Everyone close to her will end up suffering the same thing. Maybe she should cut her losses with Roderick before either one of them dig the knife any deeper.

Or she could double down instead. Reach out to him about that ‘problem’ she has tonight, see if he wants to help. They’d never gotten around to talking about it even though she’d asked if they could and brought all her research and notes from the meeting with the Tremere.

She breathes a sigh that doesn’t do much to settle her nerves. Does she want to see him tonight? Does she want to invite him here when she’s going to ignore every direction he gave her?

She doesn’t know if she’ll have time to do his face. If she’ll have time to mark him. What’s he going to think when he sees her in the Mafia getup?

Don’t be someone else’s no. She’d told him that once.

So she breathes again, thinking that maybe one of these nights she’ll stop that useless habit, and sends him a text.

Never got to tell you that other thing. Kind of time sensitive. Could maybe use your help tonight but I get it if you’re busy.

GM: The response, which comes after a few moments, is short.

Have you done what I told you?

Celia: Uh which part?

GM: The friend you’re introducing me to.

Celia: Oh lol party hasn’t started yet but he’s def interested in meeting my friends. This is just unrelated but like I said no big if you’re busy.

Figured it was a long shot.

GM: You’ve arranged a time and place for the date?

Celia: No I think I mistyped? It’s happening I just don’t know what day.

GM: Did you somehow think I wouldn’t need to know what day?

Celia: Celia stares at the phone in her hands.

Nvm I’ll just see you tomorrow I guess.

GM: Go back and find out the day, Celia. You can see me early if you do that.

Do you remember what I said would happen if you didn’t arrange this?

Celia: Yeah. I know. Sorry. I’ll do this thing on my own tonight it’s ok.

Love you.

GM: You’re playing more games, Celia. More manipulation. But as usual, simple reason and bullshit intolerance see right through them.

You will see him at tonight’s party. That party should be about to start. But you implied you saw him between now and our last conversation. You implied this without directly stating so.

So did you not see him, and then attempt to mislead me as to the extent of your progress, in hopes of getting to see me early?

Or did you see him and fail to do as I instructed?

Celia: Idk what you mean, I said the party didn’t start yet which means I haven’t seen him. I’m not trying to mislead you? I said he’ll be happy to meet my friend so it’s no big deal and that I’ll get a date for you. Sorry if I worded it weirdly. I’ll be more clear going forward. I wasn’t trying to intrude on your evening to break the rules or anything I’m sorry if it came off that way.

GM: So you said it was happening. Even though you hadn’t seen him. After I told you to set up a date. We don’t think that’s misleading, do we?

I hope you realize and appreciate just how little I trust you these days, Celia.

Celia: I’m sorry. I’ll do better.

GM: Arrange the date by our meeting tomorrow. If you are successful, I will be very happy and you will be rewarded. If you are unsuccessful, the thing I told you about will happen. Understood?

Celia: Got it.

I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Love, she types, and desperately tries to feel it again.

---

Saturday night, 19 March 2016, PM

GM: CLOSED
For private event

So reads the sign over the Evergreen Plantation’s front doors in stylish gold writing. The club’s regulars have long grown to accept that the Evergreen simply does not open its doors to the public on Saturday nights.

Some patrons take offense that the Quarter’s premier club is closed to them, for all their wealth and connections and means. Some patrons do not take no for an answer. They are not accustomed to being told ‘no.’ Some of these disgruntled patrons take their concerns directly to Leon Gressau. He always seems to have an answer for why the club is closed on Saturdays, and for why the ‘private event’ really isn’t their scene. He’d let them in if it was, of course.

Most such patrons walk away with their feathers smoothed and their pride assuaged. Mr. Gressau always knows just what to say.

But there have been a few would-be attendees of the Saturday ‘private events’ who were just so curious, so persistent, so entitled, that they could not accept ‘no’ for an answer. There have been even more would-be attendees who simply were not important enough to warrant Mr. Gressau’s time and personal assurances. These individuals often make themselves obnoxious to the Evergreen’s staff.

Mr. Gresseau only smiles and instructs his employees to allow these individuals entrance to the private event. Let them have what they wish.

Too late, they learn to be careful what one wishes for.

The Evergreen’s interior tonight is a place out of time. The Art Deco style of the early 20th century reigns supreme. Luxurious fabrics, sharp lines, mixed metallics, and rich color palettes give the décor an air simultaneously glamorous and eclectic. The floor is a black and white checker pattern. Several enormous white and gold vintage chandeliers composed of cut glass hang from the ceiling (each one still lit electrically). Drapes use shiny gold metallic fabric. Modernist art hangs along the walls. Brass combines everywhere with glass. Huge wall-to-wall television screens, currently set to mirror mode, make the space seem bigger than it is. Louis Armstrong jazz, always popular at the Evergreen, feels all the more period-appropriate as it plays from antique bronze phonographs (and perhaps more discretely located modern speakers).

It may be 2016 outside, but within the Evergreen’s walls, the 1920s are back.

Antoine Savoy’s court is more comfortable than Vidal’s. Spacious and comfortable seating is located throughout the room. Anachronistically garbed attendees lounge about on the sharp-angled Art Deco furniture. Pinstripes, coattails, bobbed hair, cloche hats, short dresses, and huge kohl-outlined eyes predominate.

Heroin chic pallid faces, though, remain timeless.

For all that Antoine Savoy might profess to do things differently than his archrival, attendees highest in favor (or greatest in presumption) sit closest to the center of power, like they do anywhere. The Lord of the French Quarter occupies a throne-like seat on an elevated dais at the center of the room, grinning as the attendees file in in their anachronistic garb.

The Toreador himself wears a midnight-blue worsted swallow-tailed coat trimmed with satin, and a pair of matching trousers, trimmed down the sides with satin ribbon. A white bow tie, unworn black silk top hat, white gloves, patent leather Oxford shoes, a white silk handkerchief, and white flower boutonnière complete the outfit. A signet ring bearing the Bourbon coat of arms remains in place on his right hand.

Preston quietly converses with her master. She’s one of the comparatively few female attendees not dressed like a flapper. She still wears a conservative dark skirtsuit, only by the era’s standards instead of the present. Its hem reaches all the way down to the knee.

Blood dolls make their rounds throughout the room, showing attendees to changing rooms or simply lounging alongside them and engaging in conversational foreplay before the inevitable occurs. Those who have previously made nuisances of themselves to the Evergreen’s staff speak the least and wear the most vacant smiles. Their fates are preordained. For now, though, no drinking is allowed.

Pleasure comes after business, even in the French Quarter.

Even when it is so intermingled.

Celia: She could have worn a flapper dress. Pearls, feathers, fringe, or peacocks, all of it dazzling and sparkling. No doubt even Veronica still has things from the era that she could have borrowed if she wanted to go authentic.

But every lick with tits is going to be in a flapper dress. The younger ones will put them on with wide eyes and giggles about the decadence of the “Gatsby” era and throw a feather boa around their necks and coif their hair to the side with one of those little cloche caps or knit caps with a flower on the brim.

Jade could have done that, too. Sequins and feathers and fur: she’d have made it look good.

She makes everything look good.

Like the ensemble she’d selected for the evening: a black high-waisted, hip hugging pencil skirt that goes no further than halfway down her thighs, a white form fitting collared shirt with half the buttons undone from the top, and a tiny half-jacket. Pinstripes. Suspenders over the shirt, under the jacket. A strand of off-white pearls adorn her throat, and a black fedora with a black satin band sits at an angle atop her tamed curls. Stockings rise up her long legs until they hit a garter, the thin line of it disappearing beneath the hem of her skirt. Black and white mary janes with blood red bottoms complete the look.

It’s a mix of feminine and masculine, a play on the typical “mobster” look from the 1920’s, but without the plastic Tommy Gun or tie. A moll, maybe. The kind who doesn’t need a man to hide behind and doesn’t get cheated on or smacked around in public. The kind who knows exactly what she wants and isn’t afraid to go for it.

Like a femme fatale. It’s there in the way she smiles with lips that have been stained crimson, and she doesn’t need to flash her fangs for people to get the message: mesmeric, deadly vixen.

She’d wondered, as she dressed, how much it would piss off her lover to see her draped in Mafia colors in an homage to Capone and every other family that he hates, everything that stands in his way of the picturesque, ideal world.

She hadn’t let it stop her.

Savvy Kindred might note that Jade had left with the warden wearing one thing and returned in another, a satisfied smirk in place. She nods to a few licks as she passes the rabble at court, striding through the sea of nobodies and “almost somebodies” to take a seat near Savoy’s opulent throne beside her favorite thief. She smiles prettily at one of the mortal troublemakers and waves him over to serve as cushion beneath her svelte form, cooing in absent delight at whatever mind numbing words he utters.

GM: Jade finds him sitting next to Veronica, wearing a pinstriped black and white suit with a fedora hat. A red silk tie and large, shiny gold watch encrusted with diamonds and several more jeweled rings add some further splashes of color and extravagance. So does a peacock feather tucked into the fedora’s band, gold buttons along the suit, and the red handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket. Jade’s not sure how period-authentic the entire ensemble is,

“Someone guessed the flapper look would be taken,” he remarks appreciatively, looking her up and down.

Celia: “Few enough licks who could pull it off as well as my sire,” Jade says with a nod toward the harpy in question, who indeed has outdone every other “flapper” in attendance with what is no doubt an original-era gown. She leans forward, plucking the peacock feather from his hat as she places a chaste kiss on his cheek with lip and fang.

“Takers keepers, cuz.” It finds a place on her head instead, tucked neatly into the satin band of the hat perched atop her curls.

GM: A 20something shirtless black man wearing similarly pinstriped pants presents himself for Jade to get comfortable on. He regards her with a vacantly pleased smile.

Celia: It’s not that Savoy’s choice of furniture isn’t comfortable. It’s that this man is warm and adoring and she’s going to have a drink with him later. From him. Whichever. She settles on his lap, idly plucking at one of the suspenders over his bare chest.

GM: Veronica, meanwhile, has pulled it off with an original-looking slim-figured mid-thigh dress, pearls, wavy bob cut, and the other accouterments of the age.

But she’s not been content to leave off with just those.

The first thing that’s different is the snake carcass. It’s around the length of a human arm and twisted in loops from her ankle up to her thigh. A blood-smeared (though not blood-smelling) apple is wedged into its open mouth. Twisting Bahari symbols are painfully carved along her exposed legs in reddened scar tissue. The pearl necklace is interspersed with Kindred-sized fangs. Finally, she’s foregone period-appropriate footwear for her usual stilt-high heels, these ones relatively ‘tame’ black mary janes that contrast with the violent bodily decorations above. They’d otherwise be period-appropriate if they were four or so inches shorter. They seem to say she could pull off this look better than any younger lick, but doesn’t care enough to. She’ll dress in the past and dress up the past with her favorite bits of the present.

Jade may wonder if it says anything that both ancillae aren’t even trying to get the period completely right. For that matter, neither is Savoy, with his Bourbon ring.

Micheal is also present. He’s dressed in an old-fashioned prisoner’s uniform: black and white horizontal stripes, replete with a matching cap and ball and chain around his leg. A leather mask with a bulging gag completely obscures his sight and prevents speech. His hands are cuffed together in some sharp and very nasty-looking period-appropriate cuffs. A thick iron collar and chain leashes him to Veronica’s side.

Celia: Of course it says something. Everything they do, every stray look, every piece of clothing and ornamentation—it all says something. It says something that she’s seated here, with them, rather than with the rest of the neonates who compete with her for recognition. It says something that her sire so loudly parades her bitch in front of all the licks inside the Quarter. It says something that Jade has perched herself on this breathing troublemaker.

Everything says something. Everything means something.

Amused eyes take in the bitch in question, overly long nails reaching out to tap against the leather gag that obscures his mouth.

“You look ravishing as ever, my sire. Have you thought further of my offer to borrow him an evening? I do so enjoy the way he screams at my gentle caress.”

GM: Pietro smirks as Jade steals the peacock feather.

“Few licks who can pull off anything as well as her. And I suppose I’ll have to steal something to replace that. Whoever loses an accessory can blame Jade. I was just a victim.”

Celia: “Poor, poor victim,” Jade agrees. She turns her attention from the bitch to the thief, fingertips sliding down the front of his pinstripe jacket. “Make a game of it with me? Whoever steals the most impressive thing wins.”

GM: Veronica doesn’t smile so much as sneer less at the two’s flattery.

Then she kicks Micheal, hard, in his flank.

The Brujah keels over and makes a muffled sound of pain past the leather.

The sneer returns.

“Feel free. The bitch doesn’t appreciate how good he has it sometimes.”

Celia: “I’ll come by to pick him up in a night or two,” Jade tells her sire. “He’ll be begging to get back home to you.”

GM: Micheal makes another muffled protest-like sound past the gag.

Veronica kicks him again.

Micheal groans again.

“Pain teaches, bitch. If you aren’t too stupid to be taught. Praise Lilith.”

Pietro, meanwhile, lays back and smirks as Jade’s lithe fingers start their mischief.

“You’re on. What does the winner win, besides the most impressive thing?”

Celia: Tempting to slide right onto his lap instead of this kine’s. She’s done it plenty of times, perched herself on the lap of older, stronger, more powerful licks. And she’s known Pietro since her first nights. Since before her first night. So it’s an easy decision to make, an easy glide from one man to the next, turning herself so she’s astride his thigh with her legs between his after she tells the breather to stay put. She nuzzles at Pietro’s neck with her teeth, then moves her lips to his ear.

“A secret,” she whispers, nipping at his flesh. “Or a favor.” She pulls back, mischief in her eyes as her fingers slide down his cheek. “Something fun, not the boring sort everyone else wants. I’ll keep you on your toes, darling.” She’s good for it, he knows. She’s done it before: they’ll both enjoy whatever she has in mind.

GM: The kine lets her go with a vacant stare.

Pietro’s lap seems much more welcoming. His hands disappear behind her head as she slides onto him. His fingers are so light. It feels like a breeze where he’s touching her.

It’s really too bad he won’t help her get off with those fingers.

“Let’s keep this interesting, then. The winner gets to pick either. Secret or favor.”

An equally familiar mischief dances in his eyes as he glances towards his cousin.

“Ronny, you can judge whose thing is more impressive if there’s a dispute.”

Veronica makes a noise like agreement as she kicks Micheal in the throat.

Celia: There’s a reason why she likes him so much, and this is it. On nights like these she wonders what it would be like to have been his childe rather than the other’s. Whether the affection he holds for her as surrogate “uncle” would spill over into a more familiar, more intimate relation.

Not that they need it to play.

Jade all but purrs as the thief’s fingers disappear around her head, wondering if he’s decided to begin by lifting the pearls from her very throat.

All the better to get a nip in, isn’t it? Not that he’d be so gauche as to drink from the same place as everyone else.

Jade keeps her arousal to herself, killing the human part of her that he’s so disgusted by. She seals their deal with another brush of fangs against his cheek, then glances down at the Brujah on a leash.

“Stupid can be taught. It just takes longer.”

GM: Veronica just sneers as Roderick’s broodmate gags and awkwardly raises his shackled hands to rub his throat. That earns a kick too.

“There’s nothing left to teach.”

Pietro just smiles, his own fangs showing, and hands Jade back her earrings. She never felt them come off.

“What is there to teach? You don’t do much with him these nights besides filling his holes with new things.”

“Maybe to be less stupid,” Veronica declares contemptuously. “Can you teach that?”

Celia: Jade mock scowls at the thief, sliding the studs back into the lobes of her ears.

“I suppose it’s all in what you want to do with him, isn’t it. Otherwise he’s just a waste of blood.”

GM: “I don’t think so,” answers Pietro.

“You could teach him to enjoy this.”

“What he now is.”

“I don’t want him to enjoy this,” answers Veronica.

She stomps the heel of her shoe over Micheal’s fingers.

The Brujah makes a low sound of pain.

“Clearly,” smirks Pietro.

Celia: “Strip him for parts,” Jade says, touching a finger to her chin. “I bet he’d turn into a nice pair of boots. Thigh high. Stiletto. Could put his eyes in the platform…” She trails off thoughtfully.

“I know just the lick.”

As if it isn’t her.

GM: “He used to at least be a source of muscle,” says Pietro. “He’s not really good for that when he’s always chained up.”

“What do you think about that, bitch? Would you like to be a pair of boots?” sneers Veronica, this time kicking him in his masked face. “We could cut off your legs. You’ll just regrow them anyway.”

“Maybe cut off your arms for gloves.”

“Maybe burn the stumps, too, so they don’t grow back.”

“Leave you staked in a basement somewhere, fed just enough juice to stay awake, and slowly go insane.”

Micheal just lies at her feet.

Celia: “I’ve been working on a new project you might find interesting,” Jade says to the harpy. “He’d be great for the research.”

GM: “Micheal Kelly contribute to research. Will wonders never fucking cease.”

Celia: Jade just smiles, nuzzling Pietro’s neck once more. Her fingers glide down his arm to unfasten the watch on his wrist while she distracts him with her teeth.

GM: Pietro seems happy for the distraction, but Jade finds his wrist bare.

“That’s attached lower down,” he remarks amusedly. “We didn’t keep them on wrists back then.”

Celia: “Further down,” she muses, moving her fingertips to his chest so she can slide them lower. “That an invitation, darling?”

GM: “Just the truth,” he smiles at the sight of Jade stroking down his chest. She finds the gem-crusted pocketwatch attached to a chain on his jacket. “And a lie, too. The ’20s were when wristwatches started to get really popular.”

“Returning soldiers from World War I, wasn’t it?” remarks Peter Lebeaux as he makes his way up to Savoy’s throne. He has on a vintage police uniform with shiny buttons and an ovular hat with a strap around his chin. A bobby club and revolver hang from his belt.

“Yes,” says Pietro. “It was obviously more convenient on a battlefield to have the watch secured to your wrist. So people back home copied it to look more soldier-like, more martial, more masculine.”

Celia: “Warden.” Jade purrs the word, wiggling her fingers at the Tremere as he passes. “Come play with us. I’ll be the robber to your cop.”

GM: “I’m afraid robbery isn’t even worth citing for here, Miss Kalani,” Lebeaux answers dryly as he approaches Savoy, murmuring something into the French Quarter lord’s ear.

Celia: “He doesn’t care that I stole your pocket watch, dear,” Jade whispers to the thief, wrapping the golden chain of the watch in question around her finger with a coy smile. “I s’pose we’ll need to move on to bigger things to get him to frisk us.”

She passes her ill-gotten gains back to him.

Celia: She can’t help but notice how dreadfully empty her grandsire’s lap looks this evening. Her eyes stay on the pair even as she tells Pietro that she “ran into his friend” and “showed him a good time” and “is looking forward to seeing him again soon.”

Julius: Before Jade’s ‘cousin’ can reply, all four of the Levee Hepcats cruise into the scene.

Tonight, the krewe’s leader is dressed in a double-breasted suit, with a houndstooth burgundy and white windowpane weave. The suit’s sack-jacket is straight and boxy, though its shorter cut and felt-backed, flanging peak lapels make clear its sartorial era. Its brass buttons feature an etched profile of a cat against a sunburst pattern, while its striped lining is fashioned of yellow, white, and brown silk. The suit’s matching trousers are straight-legged with turned-up cuffs, high-waisted, and hoisted by suspenders beaded with pale pink tourmalines. His sleeve-gartered dress shirt is coral in color, though its detachable round-club collar is moonflower white, pinned, and fastening a slim cherry, scarlet, turquoise, and white paisley necktie. These garments are further accented with a vintage 14-karat gold Hamilton Gilbert wristwatch; white wingtips, a similarly white homburg with ostrich feather accents; and a boutonnière with fragrant pink datura, night gladiolus, and evening primrose. Such attire, though, is currently swallowed by a giant raccoon fur-coat with a shawl collar, turned-up cuffs, and plentitude of pockets. That coat, though, does nothing to conceal Julius’ eyes. Rather, his gaze is shaded tonight by period-appropriate Crookes lenses with green calobar glass, brass, and black bakelite frames. A new gleam, however, graces his smile, as his top-left canine has a borderline gaudy glued-on diamond.

That gemstone-flashing smile presently falls upon the krewemate currently hanging on his long trombonist arm.

Despite lacking a legitimate sire, Justine Chaudrier clearly displays her Toreador clanship if not artistic panache tonight as she wears a gold lamé coat printed with abstract roses in varied shades of ivory, crimson, and caramel, with black velvet shirred and padded collar, cuffs, and lining. Beneath that wrap-style coat half-hides a knee-length mauve silk Georgette dress with a matching silk slip. That dress is trimmed with bands of self-fabric-pleated ruffles at the waist, skirt, and along the outside of each sleeve from elbow to wrist. A self-fabric bow on the left shoulder and dropped waist sash are finished with pale diamond, celestine, and morganite jewel ornaments. Said jewels match her Art Nouveau long-drop earrings, brown bakelite bangles, and sparkling filigree rings. For foot apparel, she wears burgundy Mary Janes whose heels are sultry enough for the silver screen but sturdy enough for street dancing. Meanwhile, her head is decorated with a shimmering skullcap of gold metallic lace and rhinestones that beautifully contrast with her inky hair and obsidian skin.

Beside her, Justine’s fellow Toreador and krewemate also arrives in chic era-appropriate garb. In Arthur Duchamps’ case, it’s a throwback tweed suit in a lime-cream plaid pattern with a matching scoop vest, side-vented jacket, sharp peak lapel, and patch pockets. No pocket-watch graces the latter; instead, Arthur’s timepiece is an authentic (or authentic-looking counterfeit) of a 1923 Hamilton watch, complete with stainless steel band, gold filigreed case, and radium-painted hands and numbers. His other hand bears a bas-relief hematite Intaglio ring on his pinky, whose dark stone mirrors the iridescent hue of his Parisian Charvet silk-print necktie. That tie is framed by his ivory-white shirt, which features a stiff round-edge club collar, with mother-of-pearl collar buttons that match his shirt-studs and cufflinks. Arthur’s look is finished with brown-and-blonde wingtip Spectactors; a gray Merino wool fedora with a black grosgrain ribbon and tan leather brim-band; and a double-breasted herringbone topcoat with a shearling collar, belted back, welt pockets, horn buttons, and olive bemberg sleeve-lining.

The Hepcats’ last member is dressed—or perhaps half-undressed—in a dark pink silk robe over a pale gold crepe de-chine slip. The former has a full straight cut, side panel under-arm, and high hip snap-closure, with black silk trim on the robe’s slim batwing sleeves, neck, and front edges. The latter garment has net-lace silk appliqué and re-embroidered flowers, asps, and scrolls, with lingerie straps, a straight top, dropped waistband, and an attached skirt wrapped to create a double layer with an open back. A Sautoir of Chanel pearls casually coils around her neck, looping over her shoulder such that its azure-blue tassel teases the curve of her silk-clad ass. In contrast to her typically rustled hairstyle, Laura’s dark locks are presently pressed into sinuous, serpentine finger curls, with a single obelisk drop-earring whose Art Deco Egyptian Revival motif matches her 14-karat gold ring with its turquoise-carved scarab and hieroglyphics-enameled lotuses. That hand also bears a long, white and black vaping stick crafted to resemble a cigarette with an opera-length holder. Oddly—or perhaps not so oddly for a Gangrel—her feet, however, are bare.

The krewe gives a collective nod to the three seated Toreador, particularly the two ancillae—though in Laura’s case, it’s more a bob of her smoke-issuing ‘cigarette’ than her head.

After greeting each of those Kindred by name (with the Brujah ‘bitch’ being passed-over), Julius gives another individual, sweeping bow to Veronica, his white homburg doffed with a Vaudeville flourish, as he says:

“Da hunerd years lookin rite fine on yo’…. everywhere, ma’am.”

Celia: It’s hard for the licks to overlook Jade, perched as she is on Pietro’s lap. She pretends the nods are for her and catches Melton’s eye, tossing the Gangrel a lascivious wink.

GM: Everyone at the Evergreen tonight has put a lot of effort into their outfits.

They have the money.

They have the memory.

They have the motivation.

There’s nowhere better than a gathering of vain, peacocking, wealthy, and nostalgic immortals to transport oneself a century back into the past. The costumes are all but perfect, at least on the older Kindred.

Then Julius and the Hepcats come in.

And show everyone else how it’s done.

Faint oohs and ahs from the outermost seats greet the results of Julius’ handiwork. The attention to detail. The careful selection of every article and accessory. The brass buttons. The Hamilton wristwatch. The diamond tooth. The rose coat. The Art Nouveau jewels. The tweed suit. The morher-of-pearl cufflinks. The period-authentic (still extant, but declining) Egyptomania. The opera-length cigarette holder.

What is there to say?

It’s perfect. It’s all perfect. Even those who know the knockoff king for what he is cannot tell what is vintage and what is a modern recreation. It’s the mark of a true master, Savoy once told Julius—to fool someone even when they think you’re trying to fool them.

The Hepcats’ outfits look more authentic than the Kindred actually from that era.

And why should they not? Memory is fallible. Memory is subjective. The past is a fluid and fallible thing even to those who were there for it. It’s given shape and form only by the hands of craftsmen. Storytellers. Illusionists.

And Julius is a maestro among those illusionists. Where the younger licks ooh and ah over the authenticity of the Hepcats’ outfits, the older Kindred are silent and contemplative. They see someone who has claimed the past they so proudly wore like a royal mantle. They see something new who has draped it even more resplendently about his own shoulders. They see someone who has seized power thought barred to clanless whelps bereft of any past or history—and who now wields it even more adroitly than they do. They see someone who has laid claim to their past and made it his.

Because his clothes are better.

It seems silly, to the young and the ignorant. Mere peacockry.

But to those with the eyes to see and the enduring Requiems to know, the conclusion is as apparent as the diamond glint in Julius’ mouth:

This Caitiff is not to be taken lightly.

Veronica’s smoldering eyes take in Julius. The harpies have never have been kind to any Caitiff, nor has this harpy been kind to this Caitiff. Julius has heard more than one cruel barb from her perfect lips on how the best this clanless trash can do is ape the creative labors of others. Pathetic. Fitting, but still pathetic.

Those have mostly stopped since the Anarch split. Bad practice, to dunk too hard on the court musician of one’s new patron.

But a Caitiff’s choices are rarely good and bad options—merely bad and worse.

And for all this fellow jazz musician’s snide remarks, they paled against the venom spat and the subtle cruelties devised by her jazz-hating cousin Katherine.

Bad and worse indeed.

Then Veronica’s lip pulls back in something like a smile, like she and Julius are friends.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, gleamfang.”

Celia: She’s not ignorant of the entrance he made with his krewe, so much louder than the way she’d slipped through the crowd on her own. She’s not immune to the way the younger licks get quiet as they pass, or how even Veronica and Pietro fall silent for a moment as he approaches. And that almost-smile on her sire’s lips.

Twice in two nights that he’s stolen the spotlight from her, isn’t it?

And yet who did he come to when he had fun things to share, and who did he ask for a sliver of her domain? Who had he endured to be on his lap while she played her games and riled him up while she whispered and murmured in his ear scant half an hour ago, just as she does now to the Toreador beneath her.

Jade’s eyes dance across the four-large krewe, idly cataloguing items for her game, and after she winks at Melton she focuses her eyes on their leader.

“Saved you a seat, Jules,” she says at last, nodding her chin to where the breather she’d corralled earlier sits. A motion of her hand has the man on the floor, settled between her legs “like a good boy,” she coos at him, petting his head. Astride Pietro as she is, there’s enough room for one more to join their little party.

Quid pro quo and all that.

GM: Laura’s kohl-lined turn up in a sly smile as she blows a kiss at Jade.

Celia: “Have a seat for you too, sweetling,” Jade says to the Gangrel, lifting a hand to rub across her face.

GM: “I’m sure you have a lot more than that,” purrs the Gangrel as she deftly saddles atop the lap of the already lap-seated Jade.

Yet, as the second Hepcat assumes an invited seat, an invisible line is crossed, casting the others’ status suddenly into question. Veronica’s smoldering eyes burn hotter as they settle first upon Justine, drawing stares from Harlequin, Pietro, Reynaldo Gui, and Shep Jennings.

The younger Toreador approaches no closer. It is well that she does not as Veronica sneers,

“Rats sit in the back.”

Laughter sounds from the nearby Kindred.

Celia: There’d been no invitation for the others. Surely no one is ignorant enough to have missed that.

Jade doesn’t speak up as they go, watching in idle amusement. As if they’d get to sit among this gathering. It’s only Melton’s prior interactions with Jade that gets the lick an invitation to the party near the throne.

Her hand wanders up the Gangrel’s thigh, lips busy at her neckline.

GM: Arthur does not try to reach beyond his station. For now. At least so visibly. Already hanging behind the others, he moves to find a seat around the middle. Perhaps closer than he might normally. Still, there’s a familiar (to Julius) bitterness in his eyes.

Celia: “I have a surprise for you later,” Jade whispers to the lick on her lap.

Julius: If Julius’ shaded eyes could speak, they’re whispering ‘in time’ to the young Toreador from the Little Easy. To Justine, those same Crookes-shaded eyes offer a different, but not too different, refrain:

In Savoy’s time. Prince Savoy’s time.

But in the meantime, the Caitiff turns back to the seated Toreador, and joins them. Perhaps for him, it’s finally ‘his time’. Longinus knows he’s put in his own time at the back of the bus.

Homberg still in hand, he bows again at the harpy, smiling:

“Not lookin too bad is dollahs to dinnah too generous comin from uh jass legend, like you’s.”

He then bounces the hat off his bicep, setting it atop his head to give another dip of its brim. Next, Julius smoothly slides off his raccoon coat and drapes it over his ‘seat’ in a swirl of fur. Turning to Jade, his literal diamond smile shines:

“An ma thanks too, shug, fo’ yo most kind invitation.”

And it is kind—especially given how their last social exchange started. The large man then squats down on his now-‘upholstered’ seat, silently hoping it holds. Settling in, his smile continues as he adds:

“Though I reckon me, dat Lollie rightchere don got da bettuh sittin.”

He chuckles, then, “But I den suppose dat maybe it’s Mr. Silvestri who’s bin gots da best seat.”

He offers a complimentary smile at the Italian.

Celia: “His wandering hands would assuredly agree with you, Papa Juj,” Jade says to the Caitiff, her own busy with Miss Melton. Now he’s got a pair of them for double the good time.

GM: “I love surprises,” Melton answers with a giggle.

The kneeling man almost buckles under Julius’ considerable weight, but doesn’t protest. The Caitiff’s ‘seat’ feels shaky.

The metaphor is obvious.

Veronica’s ego looks stroked at ‘jazz legend’, though she looks even more amused by the kine struggling under Julius. She kicks her feet over Micheal’s back.

Pietro smirks from underneath the two ladies. He turns over Melton’s Sautoir of Chanel necklace in his hands, though no one saw him remove it.

“This one looks genuine. Interspersing forgeries among the reals is what I’d do.”

“You mean what you do do?” Melton smiles winsomely.

“That too,” agrees Pietro.

Celia: Pleased with the turn of events—lack of attention from Gui withstanding—Jade doubles down with the attention she demands from the pair she’s sandwiched between, passing time with idle strokes and fondling that promises a better time once the party is started in earnest.

Julius: Julius’ smiles takes on a different tone at Pietro’s implied praise and related question.

“You’s got dat rite bout interspersin,” he says, “Da pearlz are da real thang, wus part of strings wid settin’s done by Duke Fulco di Vedura in ‘28, but da settin’s done got broke an da loose pearlz wus sold on iBid fo’ biscuits. Dat dere settin is a replica, but da tassel’s all ma doin. Trick’s in usin old silk dat I got from uh antique throw pillow from da Mint dat got ruined by Kat.”

He pauses a moment, as if considering the other precious things ruined by the hurricane.

But such dark musings pass as his smile returns. “But dey say uh magician shouldn’t evah give away his secrets, so maybe I’m jus lyin through my lips.”

Celia: “Mm, Pietro knows all about that. Magicians not giving away their secrets.” Jade shoots the Toreador in question a look. He’d said the same the first time they met.

GM: Jade receives attention, caresses, and fang-drags in spades from the other two licks. Where Laura lets her Beast rise to the surface, losing herself in kisses and touches, Pietro answers,

“Old antiques to make new antiques. It’s a good idea whether you did it or not.”

He smiles.

“It doesn’t matter whether you did it or not. Jade’s always been curious how magicians do their tricks, but one of my countrymen had a quote. ‘Illusion is perhaps the only reality in life.’”

Celia: Lucky Jade that Pietro had finally shown her some of those secrets.

Julius: Julius nods at Pietro’s remark, rubbing a hand along the raccoon upholstery. “Or as uh certain jass-man done said, ’Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there’.”

“But den, music is magick, if it’s da gud kind.”

Turning to Veronica, he then adds, "An speakin of magical music… I’s wus wonderin, should Lawd Savoy, da Hawt Licks, an da rest of us po’ caps an dawls, git da noive to look fo’ward to lissenin to yo’s buttah-lip-liscious pipes tonite?”

GM: “I haven’t decided if I feel like it,” the harpy answers airily, turning away from a conversation with Harlequin and Gui. As far as Julius knows, Veronica hasn’t been specifically scheduled to sing. That isn’t uncommon at the Evergreen or other Kindred parties, though, for musically inclined licks to drop in and out as they feel like it.

Kindred musicians are even more temperamental than living ones.

“I’d need someone to look after my bitch, too.”

Julius: Julius’ smile becomes demure, “Well, uh lady’s got to do what she rite feels like doin. As fo me, I jus wud feel real rite by later lissenin to uh stuffy op’ra has-bin hear how you’s blew off da roofs an all da pants ritchere at dis party.”

“As fo someone mindin yo bitch, I reckon me dat I jus dun overheard how uh certain young delicious dawl wus achin to hold his lease fo’ uh while.”

His face—if not shade-covered gaze—glances meaningfully in Jade’s directions.

Celia: Jade seems to have a sixth sense for when licks are talking about her. She pulls her attention away from Melton and Pietro, nodding in accord with Julius’ words.

“I’ll keep him nice and pretty for you, Ronnie.”

GM: The dig against Katherine earns a curl of Veronica’s lip.

She drops Micheal’s leash on Jade’s lap, tugs down his black and white pants with one hand, then drives the heel of her shoe up his asshole. The Brujah gives a muffled cry and buries his face against the ground as Veronica twists it around and then pushes it deeper with a bored expression.

Celia: Jade picks up the offered leash, amusement dancing across her face at Veronica’s treatment of Micheal.

“I can take him tonight,” she offers, “if you really want me to find a use for him.”

GM: “A useful purpose for Micheal Kelly. That should be hard,” the harpy sneers, twisting around the heel in another rotation.

Celia: She can think of several, most of them involving removing the skin from his limbs. She favors her “sire” with a smirk and caresses the leash between her fingers.

Julius: Julius chuckles, “Well, by ma count, dat’s one impediment dun wid… now’s we jus gotta see if uh gawddess of jass will take to da stage as she bin did during da first Roarin Twenties.”

“If she did, though, I wonder, what lick wud it be? May-haps something from da old vinyls of Sweet Barrett or Lizzie Miles, or something cut wholecloth?”

He gives a clearly feigned shrug of nonchalance, before rising. Giving another doffed homberg-bow to the harpy, he adds, “But no mattah, Papa Bleu an da Hawt Licks will be ready to aid da goddess if she be havin da rite _feelin.”

Turning back to Jade, the jazzman says, “Meanwhile, Jade, I’ll be swappin dis ‘seat’ rite here for dat one.”

He motions to the nearby unoccupied inanimate chair. Lifting the raccoon coat off the spine-strained man, Julius drapes his fur outerwear over the chair’s back before re-seating himself with a diamond-studded smile.

“No offense, boo, but dis one sweats less ovah da furs.”

So resettled, Julius and the other Kindred notice the arrival of another predator.

Cletus: True to the themed decade’s sobriquet, Don Cletus Lee Boggs literally roars into the party, chauffeured in a ’28 Duesenberg J. As the antique luxury car slows down before Savoy’s establishment, the automobile’s sleek lines and chrome accents gleam and purr like a supine Art Deco goddess draped in naught but diamonds and moonlight. A liveried footman opens a rear door to that opulent vessel, allowing the Inviato of Clan Giovannini to slide out and wade into the soiree with all the predatory grace of Bayou Bonfouca’s infamous albino alligator.

Tonight, the Sindaco of Slidell is, much like his transportation, an anachronistic if well-heeled sight. Rather than thrift-store overalls stained with blood, barbecue sauce, and cannibalistic lard, the Dunsirn-descended ancilla presently wears a seersucker suit worthy of its Persian name of ‘milk and sugar’. The bespoke suit’s two-toned stripes keenly mirror the vampire’s ivory skin and blowtorch-blue eyes. Accenting the emblematically southern suit is a pair of scallop-buttoned gloves and boot-shod sprats the shade of fresh-frenzied blood, monogrammed cufflinks and a collar-pin made of opal and gold, and a green-and red pocket-square whose tartan cloth matches his bowtie and the ribbon around the straw boater jauntily crowning Cletus’ head.

Notwithstanding such high class, if century-old, accoutrements, only fools miss the monster lurking under tonight’s sartorial masquerade. Inhuman and inhumane, here is a monster of hard, rangy lines of taut muscles, coiled puissance, and barely simmering savagery. Unblinking eyes burning bright and hungry as acetylene. Sepulchral flesh slick with the night’s humidity and the palpable scent of libido and heat lightning. A mesmerically feral, fanged smile that teases supple lips and promises pleasure, pain, perdition. The strange melange of peckerwood perversion, Southern aristocracy, and undying sociopathy.

Surveying the scene, the monster flashes a moonshine smile.

“Well kiss my go-to-hell if this party rightchere hain’t busier than a one-legged cat in a sandbox!”

The Capo of St. Tammany Parish stalks through the crowd, flashing fanged smiles and giving hearty backslaps that would better pass for a full-throttle jackhammer rather than a greeting, at least if he were amidst mere mortals.

Regardless, the monster carves his way to the inner circle, where he takes off his boater mid-gentlemanly bow to the party’s host.

“Lord Savoy, forgive a feller fer ahootin’ and ahollerin’, but I must say: yer party and yerself are lookin’ finer than froghair done split four ways!”

Celia: It’s quite possible that Jade had some witty repartee to sling back at the musician after he abandons her offered chair, but whatever it is will need to be uttered another night as the opening door and arrival of another guest steals the breath from her dead lungs. Even warned that he’d been coming there’s still no “getting ready” for the arrival of the cannibal from Slidell, and she’s not the only lick whose eyes dart towards the newcomer. Nor, she’s sure, is she the only lick whose eyes then proceed to rake him from head to toe, taking in every piece of finery he wears, every accoutrement, every era-appropriate garnishment upon his frame.

Been a while, hasn’t it, since the Giovannini stalked into the halls of Vidal’s court with a carcass slung over his shoulder and accusation in his eyes.

Dibs, she thinks, as if any of the rest of them have a chance against Jade Kalani, Veronica’s childe. Shame that she’s already sandwiched between the two licks as she is; she’d show him a warmer welcome if not. She settles for the unflinching gaze of a lick who knows what she wants when she sees it, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips that answers his promise of pleasure and pain with one of her own.

All the same, she displaces the Gangrel on her lap with a murmured word of apology, rising in her Mafia-esque getup as the blue-eyed monster passes them by. The lift of her hand is aborted before it begins, waiting for him to finish with her grandsire before she thinks to summon him to their circle of “haves” amidst the wider range of “have nots.”

Julius: It’s hard to say whether Jules follows Jade’s gaze, or just follows the object of that gaze. It’s even harder to know what the Caitiff might be thinking about the non-Camarilla ancilla who could be a poster-child of the Knights of the White Camelia.

Regardless, such thoughts are swiftly derailed, as Julius’ krewemate is de-seated. To her, the jazzman motions with a long-fingered hand at the still-prostrate ‘man-seat’ as well as his own lap:

“Cain’t say why da music stopped, shug, or if either of dese udder chairs might be as musical…”

Celia: “I just wanted a better look,” Jade huffs at Julius. Indeed, even in heels she’s on the shorter end of the spectrum, but she resumes her seat on Pietro’s lap all the same. Her eyes cut to the other Mafiosa in the crowd.

Julius: “Well den, dats an awrite reason to pause da music,” Julius replies nonplussed.

GM: The shirtless man collapses with (physical) relief as the bulky quarterback turned undead jazz musician finally gets off.

The seat was wobbly anyway.

GM: Cletus’ entrance elicits stares and looks of a different variety than the Hepcats’. He’s dressed well, but not so well for his garb to be the talk of the hour. Instead, the lick himself is. Cletus Lee Boggs, prince of Slidell. A lick with you do not fuck.

The Giovannini receives his warmest welcome, as the necromancers always do, from clan and kin. Don Vico, his childe Lucy, and Catfish Freddy are sequestered in their own corner of the room, simultaneously among yet distinctly apart from the mass of Camarilla licks.

Vico and Freddy return the backslaps with sapling-felling clouts of their own, and Lucy offers a more ladylike extended hand, but none of the three’s greetings take overly long or distract Cletus from his approach of the evening’s host.

“Inviato Boggs!” exclaims the white-garbed French Quarter lord, breaking off from his silent conversation with Preston and Lebeaux to greet the evening’s guest with a broad smile.

“To forgive requires that a sin be committed, and what sin is there in so warm a greeting and such kindly offered words? Far from requiring forgiveness, your presence betters this humble gathering, and may now permit it to begin in earnest!”

“I dare say our chosen color becomes us both, too,” he chuckles, his gaze passing between the two Kindred’s distinctly cut but identically colored suits. “In fact, I think I recall you also wearing that suit for… ah, yes… the great party of ’44?”

The half-milllennial anniversary of Clan Giovannini’s overthrow of the Cappadocians.

Boston’s worth might have eclipsed New Orleans’ in Genoa’s eyes. Then as now.

But no one doubted which branch of the clan threw the better party.

“That was a party to remember,” grins the French Quarter lord. “Here is to many more such memories formed tonight!”

Melton huffs with displeasure as Jade dislodges her for a look at Cletus and settles herself onto Julius’ lap with a whisper in his ear.

But she’s still sitting closer to the throne than normal.

---

Saturday night, 19 March 2016, PM

GM: “I can’t believe she dumped me, to stare at another lick. I don’t like her anymore, Jules,” the ‘Gangrel’ pouts.

Julius: Julius chuckles quietly at Melton.

“Somehow, shug, I think you’s gonna survive—well except fo’ da fact dat you’s, me’s, an all da udders is already dead.”

Smiling, he adds, “Sides, I bet her lap will come round gain.”

He shifts slightly, as if aligning them both to better glance at their krewemates in the corner of their eyes. “But how bout dose two? How dey ain’t gonna pout? How dey gonna feels like we didn’t dump dem?”

GM: Melton gives another initial hmph.

“No room for rats,” the ‘Gangrel’ shrugs. “She’s never gonna sit up here. We already lucked out that we got to, didn’t we?”

Julius: “Justine’s ain’t no thin-blood, but uh true an through Rose. She just ain’t got no blood-mama or -daddy.” He gestures lightly at the Italian Giovannini. “Dem? Dey step outta da Quartah, an da prince’ll curb-stomp ‘em cus he don’t like ‘em. Ain’t no different den how it is wid Justine. Or say, da Setites. I cain’t imagine you’d be walkin up to Don Vico or da Ministry’s grand poo-bah an callin dem Rats.”

GM: “Yeah, but they got puissance,” says Melton.

“I called that bad boy a rat,” she says with an appreciate glance at Cletus, “I bet he’d make me really regret it.”

“What it all comes down to, doesn’t it?”

“Power.”

Julius: “F’sure,” he says, giving her a slow, yet almost violently coiling, embrace. Tickling her neck with his diamond-studded fang, he ever-so slightly adjusts her glancing gaze to fall upon Savoy. “Which is why we done back his play fo’ power, cus he’s gots it, an when he gits mo’, so do we. As prince, he’d have the power to turn a rat into a rose, which wud be a purdy trick if you’d bin askin me’s.”

GM: Melton giggles as the Caitiff’s so-strong arms encircle her. She leans in close, brushing her own fangs across his cheek as her fingers encircle his cherry- scarlet-turquoise-white paisley necktie and give it a playful tug.

“No purdier than the ones he’s pulled off so far,” smiles Melton. “It’s just been win after win after win lately, hasn’t it? The hardasses and their poor bishop…”

“Justine just has to wait a lil’ longer. I don’t think it’s gonna be very long.”

“And then the rat will be a rose.”

Julius: “An what den will you’s be, hmm?” he asks in a liquid, bullfrog-bass whisper even as his long, vice-like fingers caress the appliqué of her silk slip, tracing its flowers, scrolls, and snakes.

GM: Does she know he knows?

“Happy for Justine, not least of all,” smiles Melton, twisting her fingers along the tie’s folds.

“And happy for me, too. I expect Prince Savoy’s going to make this city a lot more fun for licks like me.”

Julius: “Well, happy is uh gud bit bettah den da alternative,” the Caitiff answers no longer in a whisper, even as one of his hands slithers beneath her mauve robe to the exposed back of her slip. There, that hand kneads her flesh like a content if increasingly hungry cat.

Does she know?

Does he care?

After all, the knockoff mogul has little scruples about counterfeits—so long as they are profitable.

---

Saturday night, 19 March 2016, PM

GM: Gui, meanwhile, remains engrossed in conversation with Harlequin and Shep Jennings. He’s regarding the latter with a bemused look while Harlequin giggles and holds a gloved hand to his painted lips.

Celia: Why, she wonders, does everyone need to get their panties in a wad because she’d stood up for thirty whole seconds to get a better look at the new guy. It’s not like she’d shoved the bitch off her, just literally gotten to her feet after she’d excused herself. Hadn’t moved. Hadn’t taken steps. Hadn’t told the Gangrel to get lost. They’d both been standing in the same space, right up against each other.

Julius gets an annoyed look from where she’s resettled on Pietro’s lap for his interference. This is the last time she’ll invite him to sit with them.

Julius: At the moment, Julius’ attention seems diverted away, perhaps back to his twice distanced krewemates—or perhaps he’s staring at the Giovannini. It’s hard to say. There’s a lot to stare at.

Cletus: Cletus, meanwhile, beams back at Savoy. If lips could ruefully wag, the Boggs’ patriarch might, as if playfully conceding Savoy’s better turn of phrase—and praise.

“To such memories, and mo’, ma ever-gracious friend! May we be happier tonite and tomorrow den ol’ Yeller layin’ on the porch chewin’ on a big ol’ bucket of catfish heads. And with yerself as our host, hain’t been any other way!”

With that de facto toast, he bows again to Savoy, before playfully leaning in as if to kiss Preston in greeting. Only the vigilant notice the Giovannini uses the act to whisper something to the Bourbon’s innermost circle, and only the most vigilant can make out that whisper:

“Day I say the only right proper way to repay yerself fer dis party is to be done hostin’ one meself. Been lookin into a venue in Concordia. Perhaps later y’all might wanna shuck some corn and whittle out an invite list?”

Pulling back, Cletus smoothes his straw boater back on his head. He doesn’t wait for a reply—not now or here—but rather carves his way back to his clan’s corner.

Julius: Ironically, such occurs just as Julius’ attention returns to the room’s inward circles. Jade and the others nearby likely notice as Julius’ arms coil around Melton’s much smaller frame, his diamond-studded fang tickling her neck. As he does so, he whispers again in her ear—perhaps another sweet nothing—or maybe an unsweet something.

Either way, Julius’ eyes peer over his downturned shades at Jade, with a look that could be apologetic or inviting—or both—depending on one’s perspective.

GM: Cletus’ seeming-almost-kiss, for all those caveats, still draws its shared of amused looks. The inviato even hears, “…thing for him,” from someone, though the Malkavian’s face remains all-business.

Savoy grins widely at Cletus’ idea and makes a flourishing motion in the direction of the latter’s clan in seeming agreement—they’ll discuss this later.

“Hear that, Nat? We’d better let Mr. Gui know to get started on some names!” exclaims the Toreador as Cletus withdraws.

“Very well, sir.”

Melton, meanwhile, giggles as the Caitiff’s so-strong arms encircle her. She leans in close, brushing her own fangs across his cheek as her fingers encircle his cherry- scarlet-turquoise-white paisley necktie and give it a playful tug.

Pietro pulls Jade fully back onto his lap, smirking as his arms descend around her and he preemptively ‘steals’ her from a possibly returning Melton. His murmur sounds in the younger Toreador’s ears.

“I’d say I knew he couldn’t keep his dick out of you, but that’s like saying I know it’s going to rain again.”

The thief smirks.

“What was he like in bed?”

Celia: Jade only has long enough to wonder if the Caitiff and his new lap ornament are talking about her—good things? bad things? what does that look mean—before Pietro’s deft fingers make the decision on relocating or not for her. Even the cannibal’s loud entrance and actions become nothing but background noise when she finds herself curled on the thief’s lap, held securely within the circle of his arms. His lips against her ear threaten to send shivers down her spine. She giggles at the soft touch, turning her face toward him to respond in kind.

“Eager,” she says with a smirk of her own, recalling how the cop had fumbled to keep up with them both. “Inexperienced. I could tell when he kissed me that it had been a while for him, but he was more than happy to let me lead and show him what goes where. Very generous, too. He made sure ’Lana and I both had our share of attention.”

“Made noise about not looking for something long term, but I suspect after that show he’s hungry for more.”

“He mentioned you,” she adds coyly.

GM: Pietro is more than happy that keep Jade entertained with his fearher-light fingers, especially at that news. They’re like whispers along her skin.

“I told you he has a giant hard-on for me. He’s like a dog with a bone.”

“He actually mentioned me around you and Alana?”

The thief smirks.

“Not the sort of topic you pick up girls with.”

Celia: “Mm,” Jade says absently, flicking her tongue across her lips. “Out of practice. Told me about how he almost drowned in prison during Katrina, too. Not exactly a panty-dropper of a story.”

GM: “So he was out of practice. But he wasn’t looking for sex?”

“That’s funny. Wonder why.”

Celia: “Said he’s not really looking.” Now that Pietro mentions it, though, she did have to work rather more than usual to get him to agree to fuck. “Avoided mentioning he’s a cop. Wouldn’t let me see his car.”

Hadn’t even wanted road head.

GM: “Mm That’s not surprising he wouldn’t say he’s a cop. Lot of them don’t.”

“Try to keep their work lives and ‘civilian lives’ separate.”

“Sometimes criminals send girls to sleep with cops. Snoop on them or get them in trouble.” He smiles.

Celia: “You mean like you did,” Jade says wryly.

GM: “Yes,” the thief agrees without missing a beat. “Lots of ways people can try to fuck with known cops off the job.”

“They have their own bars in some cities. Cop bars.”

Celia: “I suppose I’ll just have to show him that I only want to fuck him rather than fuck with him.”

GM: “Wonder what’s up with his car.”

“Detectives on the take make all right money.”

Celia: Jade shrugs. “First contact. My goal was to get him into bed and make sure he didn’t forget me. I can dig into other things now if you’re curious.”

“Maybe he’s not, though. On the take. Reynaldo said he’s not really part of the family or something.”

Hard to remember what he’d said when the three of them had been busy fucking.

GM: Pietro laughs.

“Every fucking cop is on the take.”

Celia: “Apparently. One of my girls had a run-in last week with some.”

GM: “They fuck her, shake her down, or both?”

Celia: “Shakedown.”

GM: “Yeah. Tons of ways for cops to make money. So he probably isn’t embarrassed because the car is cheap or damaged or whatever.”

Celia: “I’d hoped it was something exciting like a body in the back.”

GM: Pietro laughs. “You never know with cops.”

Celia: “I’ve been handling the other side of things,” Jade tacks on, referring to their reason for messing with Vinny in the first place, “so when the timing is right it’ll be an easy in and out.”

Like it is for Vinny.

GM: The thief smirks. “Because it hasn’t been already for one of you?”

Celia: Jade giggles as the thief echoes her thoughts.

GM: “Good, though. I want to start really fucking with him soon.”

Celia: “Your friend or the other one?”

GM: “My friend.”

Celia: “Mm. Seeing him soon.”

GM: “Good. Plant some seeds. Wonder if there’s anything to the car, too.”

Celia: “I’ll find out.”

Celia: “Do you think Ronnie would really mind if her bitch is turned into boots? He’s just so…” She waves a hand at the Brujah, indicating the lack of usefulness as anything more than an assortment of holes.

GM: “Of course she’ll mind. He’s hers. If anyone’s going to kill him, she’ll want it to be her.”

“She’ll eventually get bored with him.”

Celia: “Mm,” Jade muses, “I was just thinking about how embarrassing it would be for his sire if Ronnie shows up to next week’s or tomorrow’s Elysium in Kelly-skin.”

GM: “I think Coco’s washed her hands of him. Washed them a while ago.”

“Always liked Roderick more.”

Celia: “Golden childe.”

GM: “Kellyskin is funny.”

Celia: Jade smiles. “Thanks.”

GM: “I wonder what those boots would be like. If they’d be much different from leather.”

Celia: “Leather is animal skin,” she points out. “Tanned and treated to prevent decay. There’s just no waiting period this way. No need to dry and stretch and mix chemicals together. Could be firm, or soft and supple, any color, pattern, ornamentation…” She keeps her voice low, so as not to be overheard by anyone near them. She doesn’t need people thinking she’s the lick who can turn others into leather. Quiet as she is, her lips almost brush his ear. She nips at the lobe with her teeth. “Some people use ash to treat hides, did you know? And there’s enough brain matter in every animal to tan its own hide. Imagine skinning an elder and using the traditional method to turn them into a hat with their own brain and ash.”

GM: Pietro snickers.

“I think you’ll be out of luck when it comes to getting brain matter from Micheal Kelly.”

Celia: “No, darling, he still has one, it’s just failed to retain anything. Though I wonder if someone adding a few folds will mean he can actually learn…” Jade trails off thoughtfully.

GM: “Odds are against that. Veronica glamours him at least every night.”

Celia: “For what, adoration?”

GM: “Adoration. Keeping him compliant. Keeping him oblivious. Maybe just to permanently fuck his head.”

“Take your pick of reason.”

Celia: She bets she could get in there still. Strap him down to a table and let her fingers work their magic on him, dig into the soft folds of his mind and suss out whatever secrets he’s holding onto. Veronica has only had him a few months, hasn’t she?

Jade itches to get her hands on him. She fingers his leash in quiet contemplation.

“Don’t think she’d come off him, then? So many little projects and curiosities he can assist with if I can dig in… think she’d trade? I’d love to show her what I’ve been working on.”

GM: Pietro shrugs. “Maybe. Depends on the trade. Like anything.”

“I doubt he’s going to keep her entertained like this forever.”

Celia: “Mm.” Something to consider, then. As they say, timing is everything.

---

Saturday night, 19 March 2016, PM

Julius: The Caitiff breaks his own whispered exchange with a mirthful comment clearly directed to Melton but which makes no pretense at privacy:

“Well, happy is uh gud bit bettah den da alternative.”

No less modest, one of his hands slithers beneath his krewemate’s mauve robe to the exposed back of her slip. There, that hand kneads her undead flesh like a content if increasingly hungry cat.

Celia: Jade only has long enough to wonder if the Caitiff and his new lap ornament are talking about her—good things? bad things? what does that look mean?—before Pietro’s deft fingers make the decision on relocating or not for her. Even the cannibal’s loud entrance and actions become nothing but background noise when she finds herself curled on the thief’s lap, held securely within the circle of his arms. His lips against her ear threaten to send shivers down her spine. She giggles at the soft touch, turning her face toward him to respond in kind.

GM: Antoine Savoy motions and the jazz music dies. Eyes turn to the French Quarter lord’s throne.

GM: “I see we’ve got some new faces here tonight,” smiles the Toreador. “To them I say: be welcome in the Vieux Carré! We consider it our solemn duty—and it will surely be our great pleasure!—to make this party a night for y’all to remember,” he grins.

“Just so everyone knows who doesn’t already, this part is the boring part. The business before the pleasure. That’ll start once court is over! If anyone wishes to excuse themselves until then, we’ll be no pleased to receive you through the Evergreen’s doors.” Savoy motions in their direction.

Some glances follow the Toreador’s hand, but no one moves to leave.

“Full house, then!” Savoy beams. “Let’s cut to the chase. Nat, if you’ll be so kind as to start us with…”

GM: The Toreador doesn’t spend long on ritual. Preston reads items from a document, reading decrees or calling Kindred to come forward. Kindred not on the list who desire public audience with the French Quarter lord simply raise their hands.

---

Saturday night, 19 March 2016, PM

GM: Karena Cingolai is first to approach the throne.

Celia: Jade shamelessly listens in while she outwardly occupies her attention with the thief upon whom she perches.

GM: She offers the seated French Quarter lord a short bow.

GM: “Greetings, Lord Savoy. It my desire to attend the French Quarter Festival while I am in New Orleans, and to have temporary hunting rights along the parade route. In return for this privilege, I offer a vessel’s worth of vitae, and one additional vessel for every week I am in the area.”

Murmurs sound among the gathered Kindred. About Cingolai. About her offer. About her earlier tiff with Donovan.

Other Kindred, though, seem to tune the Ventrue out or only half pay attention as they converse among their neighbors.

Celia: Jade had tried that once. Offering an extra vessel for access to an area to avoid doing any favors that would sell out her own people. The elder in question had smiled, amused, and said something about people like her not needing additional vessels when they have so many others to do their hunting for them.

Elders rarely go hungry.

Jade lifts her gaze from Pietro for just a moment, long enough to take in the dolls and kine already waiting to be fed from. He does this every week. It’s a cheap offer when he’s rolling in blood.

Or maybe, years later, she’s still just salty about the way the negotiations had gone down. Even if the lick had been nice about it in the end.

“What’s the parade route?” she murmurs to the thief. Whose toes will she be stepping on?

Julius: “As fo’ me—,” the Caitiff says, not quite cutting in but speaking in a low voice that carries to their small circle but no further, “—I’s wonderin wot kinda music at da Festival wud be catchin her fancy. She binlookin like uh jass, blues, gospel, funk, folk, or zydeco fan to any of you’s?”

Celia: The “debate” with Donovan last night hadn’t done much to make her think that it was anything less than a setup. Like he does with her. Like Savoy does with Preston. Everything is deliberate.

She’s looking for something.

“Oh, definitely gospel,” Jade murmurs back. “Only, well, the best place to hear them perform is St. Patrick’s.”

Julius: “Longinus’ gospel, no doubt,” Julius responds with a ghost of a smile, “But she don’t strike me as singin along wid da likes of Mahalia Jackson covers. Color me wrong, but she don’t rite look black or Baptist nough…”

He shrugs, letting the bolstered implication hang.

Meanwhile, he watches for Savoy’s response—or more specifically for Preston to ‘honestly’ respond for the Toreador elder.

Celia: Jade gives a tiny nod of her head at the Caitiff’s words, attention likewise returning to the throne and the Malkavian that will give the answer for the lord perched upon it.

“Dare you to steal something from her,” she breathes into the thief’s ear.

GM: “Bourbon Street. Jackson Square. Some other parts I don’t remember,” the thief answers with a shrug.

Laura giggles again.

“I can’t see her singing either.”

“Bourbon Street, though. I wish I got to hunt along there.”

Veronica’s lip curls at the Gangrel’s expressed wish.

She probably gets to feed along there.

Pietro gives Jade an amused look.

“If she has the most impressive things to steal, would you be giving me the idea?”

Savoy, meanwhile, seems to consider Cingolai’s request for a moment and strokes his half-beard.

Preston leans in to whisper something in his ear.

“Granted, Madam Cingolai!” he finally beams. “On two conditions. Please have the vessels delivered alive to the Evergreen by Saturday night. We do need to wrangle them up somewhere, after all!”

Cingolai inclines her head. “An equitable arrangement, Lord Savoy.”

There are a few murmurs from the crowd.

“Oh fuck that bitch!” Laura whiser-hisses to Julius. “What does she even do, huh, to get to feed along Bourbon?”

“If your steward can find time in your lordship’s interary, there is another matter I would speak of in private.”

“Of course, Madam Cingolai,” answers the French Quarter lord. “Nat, I’m sure we can pencil our guest in somewhere?”

“We can, sir.” She turns to the Ventrue. “I will available during tonight’s festivities, Madam Cingolai, should you then wish to review your and Lord Savoy’s respective schedules.”

“Of course she never goes to them,” Laura mutters.

“Very good, Madam Preston. I will see you then,” answers Cingolai.

“Enjoy your stay in New Orleans, Madam Gingolai,” smiles Savoy, which soon grows into a grin. “And may you enjoy your stay in the Vieux Carré most of all!”

“Thank you, Lord Savoy,” offers Cingolai.

She offers another inclination of her head and then assumes a seat next to Harlequin, close to Savoy’s own.

Celia: She hadn’t expected the petition to feed along Bourbon to be granted, especially for so miserly an offer.

Is that what she can expect when she’s old and important, too? Small favors to get her what she wants? The thought of sharing her turf with the Ventrue makes her lip curl; surely she’s not going to be going into the clubs and stealing from the licks who hold those domains.

Jade shrugs at the thief, returning her attention to him once the matter is settled with Cingolai.

“I only thought it would be amusing to make a stiff wonder where all her things had gone.”

GM: “Mmm,” says Pietro. “Maybe after I steal the more impressive thing, first. Always keep your eye on the prize.”

Celia: “I suppose I’ll have to distract you some other way,” Jade murmurs, nibbling at his neck.

---

Saturday night, 19 March 2016, PM

Julius: Julius does the same, ruefully if quietly wagering with Laura as to whether Cingolai’s conversation tonight will include any critiques of Edgar Degas’ paintings.

“Den gain, I’s always bin takin uh shine to da man’s sculpture. Da lil’ dawlin dancer. You’s bin reminded me of her in uh ways or two’s.”

GM: Laura giggles.

“Is she a sexy dancer?”

The real Laura never was big on art.

Is the counterfeit ignorant, or just playing?

Julius: And does Julius care?

Does he miss the real Laura? And if so, what does he miss? And if he doesn’t, what does that say about him?

Perhaps at the end of the night, it’s not just ‘Laura’ who’s the counterfeit, but the krewe.

And tonight, as with so many nights, Julius must consider the knockoff to be shoddy.

Nowhere good as the real thing.

The old thing.

His old thing.

His krewe.

His old one.

The real one.

The lost one.

After all, isn’t Arthur just a thinner-blooded, less artistically talented version of his sire and ex-Numidian?

And what does that make Julius, then? A knockoff Remy?

GM: Caitiff versus Toreador.

Artistic Caitiff.

Many might say yes.

Julius: He’s been dead too long to sigh.

But he’s also survived too long to let his sadness show.

He maintains the charade.

There are many masquerades to uphold.

GM: Having a Gangrel at least is new, even if it’s a fake one.

But the old krewe had plenty of fakes and knock-offs too, didn’t it?

What else was Julia?

Julius: She was beautiful. To him, at least. And that his opinion was so rarely shared made her all the more beautiful to him.

After all, anyone can buy a Chanel necklace and see its quality. But to notice the diamond in the rough, to spot the brand-less, nameless, unappreciated masterpieces?

GM: Perhaps it’s a projection.

Hoping others will see the same in him.

The diamond amidst his clanless blood.

Julius: Perhaps.

He glances at Jade. Flawless. She’s gorgeous, plain as the sun is hot.

But scars can have their own beauty. And Julia had scars.

Had.

It’s a hard word.

But it’s a hard world.

Even for the damned.

Maybe especially for the damned.

GM: What else is the Requiem, if not its own knockoff?

A poor one, some might say.

But fewer in the Evergreen’s walls might say.

Laura tilts her head at Julius, still smiling.

“Penny for your thoughts, Papa J?”

Julius: Julius could answer her question. Honestly. He could tell her how La Petite Danseuse de Quatorze Ans was noted for extraordinary realism yet denounced for being ugly. Truth was too ugly, and the critics could not stomach it. Rather, the nearly life-size, brown-skinned wax figure with real hair and cloth tutu, was described by Huysmans as a “terrible reality” that “produces uneasiness in the spectators.”

He could tell her how in 2004, his ring counterfeited 73 plaster casts made to more or less closely resembling Degas’s original wax sculptures. He sold them to the Airaindor-Valsuani for song. Did they know they were fakes? Maybe. But if so, it didn’t stop them from using the casts to pump out a plethora of bronzes statues for the next 12 years. Production only increased when critiques were raised concerns over the authenticity of these plasters—and their bronzes—as well as the circumstances and date of their proposed creation. Julius himself—indirectly— even bought a few, selling off most at significant markup. Especially after Julius applied some strategic manipulation, both mundane and otherwise, for a few museum and academic professionals to accept them as presented—and a few more of those “truth-bearers” followed like lemmings. Sure, most of the recognized Degas scholars have maligned or declined to comment on the pieces, but that hasn’t hurt auction prices. If anything, they’ve risen. After all, controversy sells.

Truth rarely does.

So the counterfeit mogul lies.

Again.

Lighting up a butter-warm smile, Julius laughs lightly, “Only two pennies, dawl? Didn’t know I wus dat cheap, but fo’ you’s, I’ll give you’s da frenz an family discount.”

“Yeah, dat dancer is rite sexy, jus’ like you is.”

“But you’s bettuh, of course,” he adds with a wider smile.

“I got some b-boys dat would f’sure like to see you’s grindin an twerkin in ways ol’ stiff Degas ain’t nevah dun dreamed.”

He then bounces her on his lap a bit, not enough to make a scene, but enough to accentuate his point. Vapid, carnal, and half-hearted though it is.

GM: No one cared about the truth.

Not now.

Not then.

Father Albright said there was no sin (religious or artistic) in selling counterfeits to kine rubs.

Louis had just shrugged and said, “Do what you gotta do to make a buck. Lick’s gotta eat.”

Half of Julia thought that maybe he should just maybe consider saying they were, um, recreations. Just a thought. To the buyers. If he thought he should. This maybe wasn’t her business, after all—

The other half told that half it wasn’t their problem.

And Lisette? She’d just shrugged and said there were worse sins in the world, that art fakes were sold all the time. Anyone willing to buy a Degas sculpture in the first place obviously had money to spare. It’s hardly as if Julius was robbing orphanages.

She’d also enjoyed setting masks on a few of them.

So maybe truth isn’t worthless.

Some of them cared.

But only so much.

Truth wasn’t worth enough to sell.

“How ‘bout two hits of juice, then. Who’s cheap around friends and family, right?” smiles Melton.

“But a dancer, huh.”

“So is she a pole dancer, or something fun, or just a ballerina?”

The Gangrel makes a hmph.

“The sculptures are always ballerinas.”

Julius: Julius strokes a long, strong finger across Laura’s arm, tracing the edge of the black silk batwing-sleeve. His eyes are clearly admiring—though whether the clothes or the ‘woman’ in them is uncertain.

“See’s, dat you’s mindin me’s of her gain. She’s uh ballerina, tutu an all, but one gud look at her face, an f’sure you’s can tell she’s bin made to do somethin she don’t rite wanna do.”

He squints, as if trying to force a memory or old factoid into focus.

“An come to think of it… da dawl dat posed fo’ da sculpture, uh Marie… somethin or udder, she wus uh ballerina at da Paris Royal Ballet, but she done quit an became uh prostitute, or so dey say. Den gain, Marie an da udder young ballerina boos wus expected to be givin sexual favors to da male patrons dat went backstage to watch da boos be practicin. So not too diff’rent den uh pole dancer when you’s think bout it.”

GM: “Oooh. I like this ballet,” says Laura, batting her koh-lined eyes.

“Ballerina blowjobs.”

She giggles.

“You think they still do that, at many ballet shows?”

Julius: Julius shrugs. “I ain’t never bin to no ballet.”

GM: “I bet they still do. The girls are super flexible, right? All the guys in the audience must want to fuck them.”

“Savoy should do a ballet night.”

“And just skip the dancing to feed on the dancers.”

---

Saturday night, 19 March 2016, PM

Cletus: Prior to the official commencement of Savoy’s court, the Giovannini Inviato hunts down his seat amongst his French Quarter-dwelling clan. He so arrives in their midst, arms outstretched and flashing a lightning-white smile.

“La Mia Famiglia!” he shouts fondly, his fierce familial pride and passion making up for the way his Southern-drawl bruises his Italian pronunciation, “Buonanotte!”

The social predator then makes his rounds with his non-Camarilla cousins, greeting each individually with a bacio sulla guancia and personal salutation.

“Don Vico!” he says first to the eldest among them (excluding himself), “Yer rite hittin a lick at the snake tonite! What kind o’ canvas is lil ol’ Sistine paintin’ on these nights?”

“Freddy!” he says to the next, “Lookin’ mighty fine yerself too—tis clear yer old lady is keepin’ her old man well-fed.”

“And speak o’ the ol’ devil—oh, Tuccy, I didn’t see you there!” he quips good-naturedly, “How’s that there spin-bike doohickey workin’ out fer her? Hell if I’d been knowin’ why anyone’d be wantin’ a bike dat don’t go nowhere, but hell if I’mma gonna be the sonnuvabitch that done didn’t get what ya asked fer on the anniversary of yer bacio per procura.”

“Lucia, why I’mma two-legged, flea-scratchin’ possum or is dat skullcap really made o’ skull-bone? Anybody I been knowin’?” His wicked smile suggests he hopes the answer is a ‘yes’.

“Teddy, ya ol’ bear, how’s it hangin’ dese days, ya need another stick—or ten or hundred—to be keepin’ away all of lil’ Lucy’s suitors? One call, and I can get a feller up in Bogalusa to fire up the ol’ saw-mill fer y’all.”

GM: Don Vico is a tall and pale-skinned man with a receding black hairline. His features have the haughtiness and arrogance of the Giovannini, but there is also a certain lowness them, a gangster-like crudity that belies his low-born (or at least low-raised) origins. He’s dressed in a double-breasted white suit much like the ones he normally wears and a matching trilby hat.


“_Buonanotte, cugino,_” he greets with a smile.

“Eddie’s working on ghosts, these nights." As if to address that physical impossibility, he adds, "Isabelica was real helpful there. They didn’t speak too much before, but I think they appreciate each other more now.”

If Don Vico has a vague sense of thuggishness, though, it’s nothing against Catfish Freddy. The Putanesca scion is shorter but stockier, with a large face, squash-like nose, and whitening hair. Hooded dark eyes peer out from a lined and pockmarked face. His wide and thick-fingered hands look made for beatings. Next to him, Vico looks downright patrician—and is no doubt one of the reasons the don enjoys keeping him nearby. It’s also Freddy who truly wears the period tonight. He’s dressed in classic dark pinstripes and a fedora, looking every bit the Prohibition mobster he only narrowly missed being.


“_Buonanotte, cugino,_” he echoes, then grins. “Tuccy’s doin’ great on that thing. Keeps her busy. Good for her heart. She can listen to shit while she’s on it. Can’t do that with a real bike, right?”

Freddy’s sister-wife, Tuceia Giovannini-Putanesca, shares her brother-husband-domitor’s prominent nose but has narrower and more refined features befitting the Giovannini half of her blood, with slanted eyebrows and a thick mane of curly dark hair. Next to the two vampires, her skin retains a healthy olive color. She wears a dark evening dress with a Grecian inspired draping, elaborate hemline, and a brooch pin and pearl necklace.


Tuccy maintains enough of a polite smile not to look rude but doesn’t respond. Here are these two Kindred talking about her exercise habits. Exercise they no longer require. For all that she might feel deserving of the Embrace, she has not received it. But she does not complain, for all the envy that might lurk in her dark eyes.

The ghoul remembers her place.

Lucia, meanwhile, actually embraces Cletus. Vico’s childe would represent a comely face to mortals, with her straight features, full lips, slender neck, and equally slender figure. Most mortals react less than favorably to her cancer patient baldness, but that’s why she usually wears the wig. Tonight she’s dressed in a sheer black mesh flapper gown with silky fringe, a sweetheart bodice, sultry V back, and dazzling array of black sequins that cascade down to a tiered fringe scalloped hemline. It’s a classic enough choice, until one looks closer to observe that the sequins are interspersed with fingernail-sized pieces of glitter-coated white bone that rustle and clink as she walks. Her necklace is made of bone bits instead of pearls. Her white skullcap has a black headband with several matching feathers.


“Hi, Uncle Clete,” she smiles, then giggles at his question.

“Maybe in your stomach. Pervis gave it to me as a present. He said it was from that baby you ate. The bone is so smooth. You can feel it, if you like.” She tilts her head for him to do so.

Cletus remembers “that baby he ate”. Bobbi Jo brought home all of the corpses from Jacob Grunewald’s haven after she slaughtered the now-deceased Tremere’s herd—an action that wound up being to Clan Giovannini’s net benefit, in the end, so no one was too mad. Marjorie made sure the childrens’ bodies didn’t go to waste.

One was a baby’s.

The Boggs were puzzled why Grunewald kept a baby among his herd—lots of effort to care for so little blood—but it was some of the most tender, succulent meat Cletus ever tasted. Marjorie was disgruntled that it could have tasted even better. Slaughtering long pig is like slaughtering any other livestock—if they die struggling and frightened, with adrenaline spiking their systems, they taste worse.

Jacob’s children died very, very frightened.

Marjorie wished the infant had died of SIDS. The presentation would have looked better, too. There’d have been fewer missing fewer pieces. But the Boggs chef did what she could, and didn’t disappoint.

Teddy, meanwhile, is a figure cut in the same mold as Freddy. He’s a big, broad man in his early middle years, with looming shoulders, thick arms, and a stubble-lined face. Bluntly, he looks like a gorilla. The ghoul’s face looks like it’s rarely accustomed to doing anything but squinting, grunting, and glowering. He’s gone with a basic costumed for the party. Pinstriped suit and fedora. It works, though it doesn’t particularly stand out.


“It’s goin’ good,” the mobster answers Cletus, his tone somewhat slow. As though uncertain whether the Giovannini is making fun at his expense—and knowing he’s powerless to do anything about it either way. “Haven’t had to bash in any heads for a while.”

Lucia giggles. “Oh, Teddy, you’re such a goombah.”

“Worse things to be,” says Catfish Freddy with a faint smirk.

Teddy just gives a grunt with that same vaguely uncertain look.

Last of all among the necromancers’ entourage is Lucia’s newest cancer-ridden favorite. Cletus literally overlooked him. He’s a bald kid around nine or ten years old who only stands four feet tall. He doesn’t wear a shirt and looks as pale as any century-dead vampire. A nasogastric tube hangs from his nose, though for what purpose outside of a hospital, Cletus cannot say. Most Giovannini are equally unable to say for what purpose Lucia keeps these children, and don’t even bother learning their names—they just call each of the kids “Cancro,” literally, “Cancer”. The boy gives Cletus a vague smile that seems to stare halfway through him.


“Dylan’s gotten very good, you know,” says Lucia, as if the kid just said hello. She lowers her voice. “You know he can actually-”

“Not in public, Luchy. Lotta snoops here,” cuts in Vico.

Lucia hmphs.

Cletus: The Dunsirn-descended ex-grayback receives each of their replies in stride, weaving and responding as if returning a salvo back at a platoon of bluebellies.

“Well souiee!” he exclaims to the fellow don. “Haint be denyin’ dat jus’ dills ma pickle to be hearin’ bout ma Sugarbelle helpin’ Eddie’s paintin’.”

“And speakin’ o’ lil’ ol Miss Sugarbelle,” he adds, turning to Freddy and Tuccy, “I reckon it weren’t but a nite ago dat she and me’s was shootin’ the breeze bout yer bicycle doohicky, bout how fer yer anniversary, we’re fixin’ to give it a rite tune-up, so the resistance won’t be a’comin from yer flywheel, but a rite proper ghostie.”

“As da Rebs’ head coach like to be sayin’ whene’er he makes our boys take der laps, ‘No pain, no gain’. But who says it’s gotta be yer pain, rite?”

His fierce smile all but reflects the hunger, if not heat of his butane gaze.

After attending to the dead and half-dead couple’s response, Cletus’ gaze then settles to the youngest Giovannini. With her embrace, the taller man—or monster that loosely wears such trappings—accepts Lucia’s offer by tracing a single finger along the smooth fragments of baby skull. He then holds those fingers to his lips, his nostrils flaring slowly as he inhales, sucking in the scent of the devoured infant’s bones.

A perverse light glows in the monster’s eyes, perhaps indicating the savoring of a dark cannibalistic remembrance.

“Glad Pervis’ present rightchere came o’ somethin plumb peachy. Sometime dat boy makes me wanna slap ma mamma, and sometime he’s slicker than pig-snot on a radiator. But dat’s there them joys o’ parentin’.”

His blowtorch eyes flicker meaningfully between both Vico and Lucita before settling on ‘Cancro’ like a man inspecting a neighbor’s new car.

As part of that ‘inspection’, he halts just short of ‘kicking the tires’ before eventually looking the boy in the eyes. “Yerself ever done shot an assault rifle, kid, or drove a monster truck?”

GM: “Pain gotta come from somewhere, but who say it gotta come from you?” grins Catfish Freddy in agreement.

“Pervis gives the best presents,” declares Lucia.

“I don’t think it’s time yet,” says Cancro. His out-of-focus eyes don’t meet Cletus’, but remain level with Cletus’ torso. “It isn’t time yet. They wanted it to be time, but it wasn’t. I think they’re going to be left out but maybe they’re not. It’s bright. It’s so bright. Don’t go towards the light. Don’t go towards the light. It’ll come to you and that’s what they want.”

“He says stuff like that all the time,” says Lucia in seeming apology.

“No, I haven’t,” the kid tranquilly answers.

Cletus: At the semi-sensical portent and Lucia’s half-apology, Cletus just smiles.

“Kids these days done say the darndest things. Why, I recall lil’ Otis-Lyle was jibberin’ something fierce jus’ the other nite down at da Big Chief, all bout this itty bitty game on a NikNak phone he snatched from a trucker. Talkin’ bout Deep Dive this, EmEmOs dat, shrinkin’ respawn rates, and a bunch of stuff I reckon I’d be lyin’ if I done said I half understood.”

“His mawmaw, Thelma-Lou, done said the game was rite more addictive than Rhonda-Lynn’s heroine, so she wus wantin’ her ol’ man Clyde to take da boy to a monster truck rally and ‘git some fresh air’. But on account o’ me havin’ Clyde git the Blitzer Boys back in da saddle, I said I could take ’im to one real soon.”

Looking up at both Lucita and Vico, he then adds, “Maybe Dylan here might wanna come. Chaperones and all. After the rally, we’ll be havin’ a lil’ party at da Big House, with Franz, Callum, and Elizabeth too. I’ve got some napalm that Dylan, Otis-Lyle, lil’ Abner, and the other boys could play with. Also reckon we could be callin’ up some zombies, dress ‘em in Axis and Allies’ uniforms, and make ‘em play ’tag’ with vintage submachine guns. StG 44s, Schmeissers, Thompsons, STENs, and Models 38s. If y’all name ‘em, we’ve got ‘em. I reckon lil’ Lizzie would be happier than a tatter-chewin’ possum to share the Berettas and see some Genoan and Sicilian faces.”

GM: Cancro looks no comprehensive of the video game talk than any of the gathered Giovannini.

“Kids,” says Vico, shaking his head. “You don’t let the Cancros play those games, do you, Luchy?”

“No,” she says, “they’re addictive.”

Lucia gives a delighted giggle at Cletus’ description.

“Oh Clete, you come up with the best parties. We’ll be there! I bet Franz is gonna love that, stiffs in Nazi uniforms. Are there gonna be Italian soldiers too? I hope they win. Do you hope they win, Daddy?”

“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, darling,” smiles Vico. “No, I’m gonna root for the Americans. Il Duce was no friend to ours. And even less of a friend to Freddy.”

“Fuck Mussolini,” concurs Catfish Freddy. “That bald bastard was the worst thing to ever happen to us back home.”

“Lucky Luciano helped out big with Operation Husky. We don’t bite the hand that feeds us either.”

Cletus: Clete’s smile grows even wider. “Yessiree, could’ve given Benito two nickels fer a dime, and he’d had thought he wus rich.”

“But speakin’ o’ coins,” Clete says, fishing in his pocket and producing a rusty nickel. “Freddy, I reckon dis is yers.”

Half-flashing, half-extending the coin, he relates:

“On the way down here, I git this call from Dewey-Bob. See, Dewey-Bob, he haint got nough sense to saddle a junebug, but he’s might sweet on his sister-cousin, Girlie-Ray. But Girlie-Ray won’t smoke his bone fer free, so he’s o’ da mind to find hisself some rite treasure in the swamp, lookin’ fer De Soto’s conquistador gold er somethin’ big nough to make Girlie-Ray his ferever. So he’s out in da bayou, combin’ it with his homemade metal detector, and he done gits all excited when it starts buzzin’, sparklin’, and fussin’ like one o’ Girlie-Ray’s vibrators. Diggin’ in the muck, though, all he turns up is a gnawed-on chunk of concrete. But his doohicky is still havin’ a hissy fit over it, so he sledges it open. Crack! Out pops some foot bones, shoe scraps, and dis nickel rightchere.”

Holding the coin a bit closer to catch the light, he continues, “So Dewey-Bob figured da Big House mighta had somethin’ to do with it, so after some fixin’s, I check dis coin here, and sure nough, it reckon I rite know dis nickel. Date was the first tip-off. ‘44, but the real giveaway came next. ’Member that Rothstein ghoul that caused a ruckus in ’62? Hersh Rothstein. Thought he was a real wiseguy, but he didn’t have the sense God done gave a rock. So as we were’s fittin’ him fer a new pair o’ concrete shoes, and he’s cryin’ and beggin’, Freddy righthere goes and takes out a nickel from his pocket. Dated ‘44. Minted four’ hunerd years from da Bite. Not too shabby. So Freddy makes a show of that, and says, ‘Okay, Rothstein, yer family’s into gamblin’, so let’s make a wager: I flip dis coin, and if you gets heads, you keep yours—but if not…‘. So this Hersh feller is all hoppin’. Fifty-fifty odds haint too bad, he reckons.”

“And y’all should have seen Hersh’s face when it done came up tails!”

Clete continues with a vicious smile, “But Freddy here, he says, ‘oh no, let’s go best out o’ three’, see, cus he’s a generous soul. And jus’ when the Rothstein stopped cryin’ to start hopin’ gain, Freddy flips the coin—and tails again!”

The Boggs patriarch holds up a gloved hand, “Wait, wait, and then, jus’ as the concrete starts to pour, Freddy shows him the coin real up close and all, front and back.”

A motion which Clete now replicates, slowly displaying both sides of the coin.

“No heads!”

“Trick coin, it wus, with Freddy jus’ reelin’ and watchin’ ‘im squirm and wriggle like a wee catfish thinkin’ he’s gonna escape.”

“And as Hersh slowly realizes what done happened—which took a mighty bit as he didn’t have too many lights on upstairs—Freddy puts the nickel right in Hersh’s loafer, saying, ‘Call me from the other side, you’s and yer mortacci tua!”

“Ma boys reckon ol’ Hersch’s remains were done gobbled up by dem fishes and gators and like, wit his ‘boots’ washin’ up durin’ Katrina or Rita.”

Clete then flicks the coin to Freddy with a congenial if wicked smile.

“So, unless Hersh is gonna call collect, Freddy, I guess yer gittin’ to keep the change.”

GM: GM: Peals of laughter from all of the Giovannini answer Cletus’ story.

Catfish Freddy, grinning ear-to-ear, catches the coin in mid-air. “Heh heh heh. Best two of three. Heh. I was generous, wasn’t I, Tuccy?”

His sister-wife gives a cruel smile. “As generous as he deserved.”

Vico has a good laugh. “Idiota. Any Vegas man should’ve known they fix the odds.”

Teddy laughs harder. The ghoul doesn’t say anything witty. Just laughs. No doubt he’s glad to see someone else be the butt of a joke.

Lucia giggles from behind a raised hand.

“Oh Clete! You’re so funny.” She looks at her brother-in-blood. “Why’d you kill him, anyway?”

“’Cause he was a dumb fucking kike,” says Freddy.

“Got on too many people’s nerves,” Vico expounds. “Thought he was a mobster. He wasn’t.”

“His name isn’t Italian,” says Lucia.

“Yeah,” says Catfish Freddy. “Lotta kikes who are in with Cosa Nostra as associates.”

“Figured he’d be the next Meyer Lansky,” chuckles Vico. “Family mighta been trying to offload him onto us.”

“Time-honored way to dispose of idiots,” agrees Catfish Freddy.

“Did he leave a spirito?” Tuccy asks thoughtfully.

“Ooh,” smiles Lucia. “I bet the coin’s his fetter.”

Catfish Freddy gives the coin an equally thoughtful-seeming flip.

“Never gave me a call if he did.”

“Maybe he will now,” says Lucia. “I wonder if he’s wearing cement shoes? I’d love to see a spirito in cement shoes.”

Catfish Freddy grins and gives the double-sided coin another flip.

“We’ll owe it to Cletus if we get to. I’ll give Sugarbelle a call if Hersh shows, yeah?”

“Uncle Clete, too!” beams Lucia.

“Cletus too,” Vico smiles appreciatively, clearly pleased to see his childe happy.

Indeed, all of the present Giovannini look pleased.

Cletus has always been a family man.

---

Previous, by Narrative: Story Thirteen, Celia XXI
Next, by Narrative: Story Thirteen, Louis IV

Previous, by Celia: Story Thirteen, Celia XXI
Next, by Celia: Story Thirteen, Celia XXIII, Julius IV

Previous, by Cletus: Story Six, Cletus III, George IV
Next, by Cletus:

Previous, by Julius: Story Thirteen, Celia XVII, Julius II
Next, by Julius: Story Thirteen, Celia XXIII, Julius IV

“She needs to die.”
Diana Flores

---

Saturday evening, 19 March 2016

GM: Night falls. Celia wakes up on the floor. There are no aches or pains.

The thirst burns within her.

She is ravenous. She is so empty. She must be filled.

She doesn’t recall rising to her feet, but the next moment, she’s staring down at Roderick. Asleep in the bed. His body full of blood. Brujah blood. Hot. Delicious. Thick. So much stronger than mortal piss. She remembers its taste.

The Beast’s roars drown out all rational thought as the red haze descends.

Celia: The Beast wakes on the floor. Above her, the body of her sleeping lover. Blood runs through his veins. Thick. Warm. Potent. It tasted like love once. Like safety.

She wonders how bitter the taste now.

Payback for the way he has treated her. Payback for hurting her last night and thinking that a stray “good girl” is enough of a balm to soothe her hurts.

He has so much to learn about breaking people.

The Beast is up on the bed, teeth at the boy’s throat before seconds have passed. He doesn’t deserve his blood. He is not worthy of it.

It will sustain her.

GM: An eyeblink passes.

Celia comes to with bedding against her face. Vice-like pressure around her throat. Her arms twisted and pinned down behind her. His legs against her belly.

She’s being held down over his knee.

“Pathetic, Celia,” sounds a scornful voice.

“Do I need to chain you up during the day to keep this sort of thing from happening?”

Celia: Nothing.

Not a drop.

Not a single taste of the red. She snarls, thrashing against him, bucking her body to throw him off of her, reaching out with her claws—

She’s still so hungry.

She stills as the words reach through the fog in her brain to wake the girl. The Beast retreats, leaving its mess behind for her to clean up. Ice already cracked, this sort of thing just splinters it further.

But she can’t speak with his hand crushing her windpipe. She doesn’t know why he bothers to ask her questions.

GM: His grip relaxes after he feels the tension depart her body.

Most of it, at least.

Celia: Oh? He doesn’t want to throw her around some more?

Hasn’t he heard she likes it like that?

The expected apology wheezes past her lips, rasping out of her dry throat.

GM: “You need to be corrected for this, Celia. But physical correction will make you an even greater danger to others than you currently are.”

Celia: Corrected.

For being hungry.

For being hungry because he injured her and her body needed the blood to mend because he’s too stupid to know to fix what he breaks.

The girl behind the mask pulls the string on her head, nodding it up and down like the puppet she has become.

She asks if he’ll cuff her, so she doesn’t start something again.

GM: “Tonight, we will sleep apart,” sounds the voice above her head. “You won’t come back to my haven with me. That seems a fitting correction, wouldn’t you say?”

Celia: Good.

Fuck him.

“Yes,” she hears herself say. “That is fitting.”

GM: “You’re a danger to others in your current state. This won’t do. We do not harm innocents.”

He lifts her up from his knee, sitting her by his side on the bed.

Then he holds out his wrist.

“You will be corrected again if you lose control again.”

Celia: He could be good at it, she thinks. If he learned. If he was more ruthless. He is strong enough for it. Smart enough for it.

But weak where it matters.

The girl in the body only nods again, head bobbing up and down, up and down, and falls upon the offered wrist with a flash of her fangs.

GM: All it takes is one taste.

It hits her tongue like an explosion.

Control burns away as the Beast bursts its chains yet again—and when the red haze clears, she’s bent over his knee with a hand around her throat and arms twisted behind her back yet again.

His taste lingers on her tongue.

He’s so generous to her.

So kind to her.

So mindful of her.

He’s making the best decision, in her own interests, in the public’s interests.

He knows what’s best.

He kept her. Even after last night.

Even after all she confessed to.

Celia: He knows what’s best.

He loves her. He wouldn’t correct her if he didn’t want her to be better. He wouldn’t waste his time on her if he didn’t think she had potential.

And she’s grateful for the blood. Grateful that he is able to control her rage so that she doesn’t hurt anyone else.

She stops struggling when the Beast has finished taking what it wants.

GM: “You lost control again, Celia,” he says patiently after he releases her.

“This will be corrected. Additionally, I don’t believe in rewarding bad behavior. So those hits won’t be free.”

“We will spend the next five nights apart—one for every hit I gave you, two for both losses of control. But for every hit you bring me, we will reduce your sentence by one night. Bring me five hits, and we can even spend tonight together. Does that seem fair?”

Celia: Her heart wrenches at the words.

Five nights.

Blood seeps from her eyes at the thought. She curls her body in on itself once she’s free, knees drawn up to her chest. Her hair falls into her face to hide it from his view when she nods.

“Y-yes, Roderick.”

GM: “Good,” he says.

He rises from the bed.

“I’m going to shower now. That’s a sexual activity, so we can’t do that together until we resolve our outstanding relationship issues.”

He smiles.

“But you’ve been good in accepting your corrections tonight. So how would you like to pick out my clothes for me?”

Celia: “I don’t know what you have planned tonight,” Celia says from behind the curtain of her hair, “and I don’t want to pick the wrong thing.”

GM: “Hmm. I’ll tell you what, then. You can pick out my clothes for the dinner with your father on Sunday. I don’t enjoy the thought of listening to his lies and excuses for several hours, but I think attending may be worthwhile after all.”

Celia: “I’ll let my mother know you’re coming.”

GM: “Good,” he smiles. “I’ll look forward to seeing her and the rest of your family.”

Celia: Maybe she’ll take it away from him if he steps out of line.

GM: He heads off into the shower.

Celia: Celia moves toward his closet. Maybe there’s something interesting inside.

GM: Just clothes, as far as she can see, trending towards the preppy style he prefers.

It’s a much smaller closet than her own.

Celia: Her father used to throw out her clothes when she misbehaved. Maybe she can tell Roderick so he can do the same.

GM: Average number of clothes for a guy in his.

Celia: She looks for a dresser.

GM: She finds one.

Celia: She checks that, too.

GM: More clothes, all neatly pressed and folded, each sock rolled up with its matching sibling.

Celia: She quickly loses interest in the snooping. No doubt he’ll catch her. No doubt he put everything away when he knew she was coming over.

Maybe there’s nothing interesting to find, anyway.

It doesn’t take her long to find an outfit for him suitable for Sunday’s dinner. That’s one thing she has always been good at: fashion. Looking presentable. She has it set aside for him when he comes back from the shower, hanging separately from his other clothing on the bar in the closet so he doesn’t need to search for it tomorrow. No doubt he’d make her put it away if she were to have pulled it out for him and cite that only slobs keep clothes laying out.

Dark slacks, a button down shirt, a v-neck sweater to go over it with the cuffs of his sleeves and collar exposed. A thick leather belt (no part of her thinks about him bringing it to bear on her exposed bottom, or how her flesh would jiggle with every blow, or how her pale skin would turn red) that matches the plain toe bluchers she has picked out from a distant spot in his closet. Form fitting, it will hug his shoulders and tapered waist, showing off his physique.

It’s missing something. She knows exactly what. She’ll rectify that before she meets him.

She waits on the bed for him when he’s done in the shower, still in the sheer teddy from the night before. She’d thought about changing, but then he’d ask why she doesn’t want a shower, though now she wonders if it’s presumptuous of her to assume he will let her use his.

The rules are ever changing in this game of theirs. She needs to learn them quickly.

She’s not lounging, not splayed out like some sort of pinup girl, just sitting on the edge of the bed with her hands tucked beneath her thighs. Waiting.

GM: Roderick comes back after a brief shower. He’s got a towel wrapped around himself. Perhaps ‘no looking’ also falls under ‘no sex.’ He looks over the clothes approvingly.

“Good choices, Celia. These are very appropriate for a dinner with my girlfriend’s family.”

Celia: “You’ll need a new wardrobe,” Celia says without inflection once she sees the towel. “For your new identity. It’s something people don’t think about until it gets them into trouble. I never wear the same clothing as Jade that I do as Celia. The two have distinct styles. Yours will need to as well.”

“You should also give some consideration to which clan you’d like to pose as. Generally it’s easier if you have some talents of the clan you wish to emulate. Caitiff is easiest of all, but they have zero respect and I would advise against it. You could do Brujah again if you’d like. You’re fast and can use star mode, so Toreador is on the table, but I’d advise against it if you don’t plan on pursuing any artistic endeavors, as they lack remorse and compassion to anyone they think is a poseur.”

GM: “Yes, I’d put some thought into my clan and lineage. That’s also a very good suggestion, Celia. I wouldn’t have used my favorite clothes, but a completely different personal style will help keep the identities distinct. Buying a new wardrobe hadn’t occurred to me.”

He sits down next to her.

“I think you should get a reward for that suggestion. What would you like?”

Celia: “I can teach you to shift,” she continues, “but Jade wouldn’t date a Gangrel long term. I told you about Veronica’s reaction to my krewe.”

GM: “Yes, but that’s because they had multiple Caitiff. Gangrel are about as respected as Brujah, given how far so many of us have fallen these nights. How you comport yourself and what lineage you claim matters more than your clan.”

“If you’re a Camarilla clan, anyway.”

Celia: “Jade doesn’t date long term. Not for years. She has flings, gets bored, and moves on. It’s an image I’ve projected for years. A shift overnight will look askance and draw unwanted questions and attention, insofar as much as anyone cares about what goes on in my bed. I haven’t been caught because I haven’t been sloppy.”

Except that one time.

GM: “Then my new identity won’t have a public relationship with Jade. You can give me other faces for when we want to do things in public together.”

Celia: “It’s a lot of juice to continue to change your face,” she says frankly.

“But my curiosity extended towards what you’d like me to do with others.”

GM: “We’ll split the costs and not do it every night.”

Celia: “Nights ago you said you’d cover your end.”

GM: “For Kindred-related activities. If we want to be seen in public together for dates, you can cover that. I may also cover the costs when you’ve been good.”

Celia: She bristles.

“My cover,” she says through teeth that may soon become clenched, “is just as important as yours.”

GM: “You’re starting to sound like you’re arguing with me, Celia,” Roderick says calmly. “We don’t have arguments anymore.”

Celia: “I am not arguing. I am seeking accommodation and agreement on something that will protect us both.”

GM: “I will pay the costs when you change my face to my new Kindred identity. I may pay the costs on other occasions when you are well-behaved. This discussion is over.”

Celia: Her claws itch to make themselves known.

She breathes, searching for the edges of her mask. She pulls it more tightly around herself, securing the girl inside.

“Yes, Roderick. I understand. Thank you. I was overwhelmed by the amount that I feel I owe you, but you have made me realize that this is fair.”

GM: “Good,” he says.

“Now, I said you were due a reward for the good suggestion you just made. What would you like?”

Celia: Sex.

With him. Or with someone else. She’s not particular.

She doesn’t say it, though.

He’d only turn her down.

And she can only handle so many rejections.

GM: So he waits.

“Take your time, Celia.”

Celia: “I want to go on a date,” she finally says. “I want… I want to be how it was for a night. Or I want you to put your arms around me and tell me that it’s okay because I don’t think it is right now and I’m afraid I’m going to fall apart and I need… I need you.”

GM: Roderick hugs her. She feels his strong arms around her, holding her close. One of his hands strokes her hair and she hears the smile in his voice.

“Oh, Celia.”

“You don’t need to spend rewards on that.”

“It’s going to be okay, Celia. We have a plan. We are going to make things right. Our relationship will be stronger than ever once it’s done, and we’ll move ahead politically, too. We’re going to be partners. We’re going to rise high in Savoy’s court and we will never stop loving each other. Nothing will stop us. Nothing.”

“I love you very much. I want the best for us.”

Celia: It’s enough to make her crumble. She clings to him once his arms are around her, burying her face against his chest, eyes leaking once more. She’s silent as she cries. There’s no uneven breathing, no shoulders shaking, no noisy hiccups or snot running down her face. Just the red. He can smell it, she can smell it, the coppery tang of her broken emotions streaking down her cheeks to stain his skin. She’s tiny in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking on the words. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Why, she wants to ask him. Why do you love me?

But she doesn’t want to know it’s because she’s a night doctor. She doesn’t want to know it’s because he likes her family. She wants to think that it’s for her. That this one time something in her Requiem is for her, not for her connections, not for what she can do, but for her.

GM: “I know you are, Celia,” he answers, hugging her close. “It’s okay. I know you want to make things right. We will make them right. I have so many plans for us. Things won’t just be okay. Things will be better than ever. I’m looking forward to our future together. I know you are too.”

Celia: She nods her head at his words, up and down, down and up, like a bobble-head on someone’s dash. She wants it to be back to normal. She wants a future with him. She’d begged her sire to leave him alone when he’d wanted to kill him.

But that was before she realized the extent of his damage.

Before he told her she’s stupid.

Before he put her in the microwave.

But she asks, in a faltering, stuttering way, if he’ll tell her about the future he imagines. About them.

And if he doesn’t want to, if he thinks she won’t understand, she asks if he’ll sleep with her. Now. Before the rest of their night begins. Just once. To take the edge off. To help her focus.

GM: “I think you will understand the essential pieces of it,” he answers her. “But it will take time to explain, and we have more things to discuss, as well as other things to do tonight.”

“Sex is off-limits until we resolve the biggest outstanding issues in our relationship. We will have sex again once those are resolved.”

“But if you would like to spend your reward on sex right now, we can have sex right now.”

Celia: “It’s not a chore?” she asks quietly, desperately. “You want it, but not right now, not because of what happened, what I did? It’s not me, it’s what I did?”

GM: “That’s right, Celia,” he answers, rubbing her back. “I do want to share blood with you. I enjoy it very much. It hurts me as well when we can’t.”

“But I’m willing to go without so that you can learn to do better.”

“So that things get better for us later by making sacrifices now.”

Celia: She wants it. She wants him. Now. She wants him, wants his blood, wants his body. Wants to pretend that everything is okay for just a moment.

“Please,” she says to him, “please, I want you.”

GM: “Of course, Celia,” he answers, stroking her back again. “You’ve earned your reward by offering a very good suggestion. I’m happy to have sex with you now.”

Celia: He makes it sound so romantic.

Her desire fizzles.

She’s left empty. Numb.

She had a chance and she ruined it. He had a chance and he ruined it.

GM: “Hmm?” he asks, stroking her back again. “How would you like to do it? You get to pick.”

“You’ve been a good girl.”

Celia: A good girl.

Like a dog.

Her heart withers. She’ll never be his equal again. He’ll never see her as anything but a weight stone around his neck. An anchor that drags him down. Holds him back. He’ll resent her. Forever.

Like Maxen.

Like Paul.

She wants her sire. She wants his arms. His lips. His fangs.

Celia doesn’t respond, not verbally. She leans in to press a kiss against his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. His lips.

GM: His lips meet hers, hungrily, forcefully. Dog or not, the desire is there. His hands swiftly move to peel her out of the teddy and discard his towel. He pushes her back-first onto the bed, then trails his mouth down her neck, down her chest, nipping and kissing and drawing coppery pintpoints of blood. His mouth moves over her left breast as he sucks her nipple. Strong hands hungrily caress her body, feel her naked flesh against his palms.

Celia: She’d almost told him no. Almost told him that she wants something else. Another reward. Something that doesn’t make her feel like sleeping with her is a chore.

It’s never a chore. She’s Celia Flores. Jade Kalani. Men and licks alike fall to their knees to worship her like the goddess of pleasure that she is.

But the desire is there. And the way he strips her from her clothing tells her how he wants it. Her nipples stiffen beneath his touch; some part of her mind thinks the word pervert, but he hadn’t said anything last night, and he hadn’t said anything yet tonight, and she isn’t going to pretend to be someone she isn’t. Not around him. Not when she has spilled the rest of herself to him. Liquid pools between her thighs. Her back arches, lifting her body into his touch, and the soft sighs and needy gasps leave her mouth as his hands and fangs move down her body.

GM: He pleasures her nipples, alternating between long sucks from each one as his fangs leave bright pinpricks of blood over her breasts. But his hands and fangs descend ever lower. He squeezes her firm and shapely ass checks as he plants nips and kisses down her stomach, down her belly, down her groin. He alternates between her inner thighs, drawing steadily closer to her wet and eager sex. His tongue flecks out again as he lowers his head between her legs.

Celia Flores, Jade Kalani, twin masks of the goddess of pleasure, each demand her due.

Her worship.

Perhaps he thought once to deny her. To refuse her.

Foolish man. Foolish lick.

None can deny the goddess her due.

Even when they think they are in charge.

The bedroom is her temple, her body her altar, and anyone with a working dick between their legs an eager postulant, whether they know it or not.

The goddess demands her due.

She receives it.

Roderick worships her.

---

Saturday evening, 19 March 2016

GM: Eventually, the lovers are finished, and lie spent and bleeding and satiated upon the coppery- and sex-smelling sheets. Roderick turns to regard her with a hand resting against his head.

“Now where were we?”

Pillow talk.

Another chamber in the goddess’ temple.

Celia: She takes the advantage when she can, and the bedroom has long been her domain.

“Identities,” Celia says. “Protecting ours by keeping up appearances.”

GM: “Yes,” he says. “That should be easy enough. We’ll continue taking precautions and not be seen together.”

Celia: “Mm,” she says idly, stretching her arms above her head. Her back arches with the movement. Just like it had when he’d buried his face between her thighs, lapping at blood and sex alike.

There’s no delicate way to ask, not for most people. But sex is Celia’s forte and she has just shown him how marvelous it can be. She brings up Josua and Marcel in a roundabout way, taking care to mention her ruse as Veronica’s childe and how bringing the exiled prince over will serve them in the long term and turn a potential foe into a friend. It’s a small amount of seduction for a large long term benefit. Surely that big brain of his sees how it benefits them and Savoy both.

GM: A dark look passes over his face at her initial request.

He doesn’t like it.

Another lick touching Celia.

Being intimate with her.

He doesn’t like that at all.

But Celia asks so very nicely.

The bedroom is her temple.

“As long as I’m also there for it,” he answers.

His voice is very slow.

Celia: Celia considers the request.

It’s not a no. And he’d said the same thing about her taking kine lovers. Taking ghoul lovers. He wants to be there. To monitor. To watch, to enjoy, to experience.

How could he not? She’s shown him what it’s like to be in bed with her. How good she can make him feel. He said it hurts to not be with her, which might have been a line, but her little reminder here only served to hammer home how much he’s going to be missing out on while they fix their relationship.

It’s a step in the right direction, isn’t it?

And she does so enjoy being shared.

She gives him a shy smile, as if she hasn’t had three threesomes in a single night, and nods her head.

“I’d like you to be there, too. It doesn’t mean anything when I’m not in love with them. It might be harder with the prince, but I’ll find a way to make it work. For you. For us.” She takes advantage of his offered reward to nuzzle his neck, trailing a line of kisses from jaw to collarbone. “I love you, Roderick. I love that you’re gracious enough to work with me on everything.”

“I was scared you wouldn’t accept me if you knew. About my sire. My dad. The multiples. The sex. I was so afraid I’d lose you forever. I shouldn’t have been. I should have just told you everything from the beginning. I don’t want to hide things from you anymore, even if they’re awful things. Can you forgive me?”

GM: “I love you too, Celia. I can always forgive the truth,” Roderick answers, stroking her cheek.

“Your father deserved what you did to him.”

“So did your sister.”

Celia: Oh. She’d never really considered it like that.

GM: “She set up your mother to get raped and mutilated by your father. It’s poetic justice that she should experience the same treatment. At the same man’s hands, no less.”

“Your father is an even bigger scumbag than she is. He deserves even worse.”

Celia: “Roderick? My mom is worried that he’s going to take Lucy.” She tells him about the vision her mother had had. The falling, which came true, and then Maxen stealing Lucy. She doesn’t remember if she’d already told him, and she apologizes if it’s a repeat. She’d shared so much with him lately that it’s blurring together.

GM: “You’d mentioned,” he said.

“He has ample motive to.”

Celia: “Sorry,” she repeats. “I’m worried about it is all.”

GM: “A wife and granddaughter would be good props on the campaign trail. And he will need a first lady.”

Celia: “I’d wondered if that’s why he reached out. It seems like he took the time to set up things, with the adoption and medical options for Mom and all, but reconciling with his estranged wife and daughter will look better than not. And if not, he could find out about Lucy and say she’d been stolen from him… Make himself look like a victim, maybe? Sympathy.” She doesn’t know if that’s what he is or was planning.

But it’s something he could have thought about.

GM: “Their remarriage would offer more opportunities to see him. On the other hand, a governor’s daughter can already see him, and we haven’t established how we can use him or towards what ends.”

“There are obviously many things a governor can do, but ‘mere’ neonates like us are not able to leverage those opportunities as effectively. It’s like giving a million dollars to a man off the street versus a Wall Street banker. The latter will be able to do more with it.”

Celia: “Marcel still has dealings in Baton Rouge and the political world, I think. So does Defallier. Or… it’s possibly an opportunity for Lord Savoy..?”

Or her sire.

“But, um, you said to think about it, and we can revisit.”

GM: “I wonder if it would be more productive to simply charge other licks favors for access to him,” Roderick muses. “That already happens in real life. Special interests try to woo the sons and daughters of politicians. Invite them to sit on corporate boards, invest in their projects, buy things from their companies, and the like. So Junior will put in a good word with dear old Dad. It’s essentially how modern bribery works.”

“There aren’t really any laws to speak of regulating that sort of thing. Unlike giving politicians briefcases of cash or other direct gifts.”

“I’d expect Flawless to see an uptick in business when people know it’s owned by the governor’s daughter.”

Celia: She’d been wondering the same but had thought it was a stupid idea. So she hadn’t brought it up. But she nods along with his, because he explains it better than she can.

“There’s still the Baton Rouge licks to deal with. And the Nosferatu. They might want to muscle in on him.”

And her sire, though she’d never charge him favors for this sort of thing. Maybe he’ll have a better suggestion for her. She’s been meaning to talk to him about it.

“Yes,” she says about Flawless. “He and I had spoken about doing some social media content together, as well.”

GM: “The Nosferatu are the difficult part,” Roderick frowns. “If Jade goes around using Celia to make connections between the governor and other licks’ prize pawns, the sewer rats will eventually find out.”

“What would you do then if you were Lawrence Meeks?”

Celia: “You said they probably snooped on my spa. I’m concerned they already know everything. The archon said the same.”

GM: “Yes, they snoop everywhere. When was the last time you swept it for eavesdropping devices?”

Celia: “Um. The time with Randy when we found the bug and the thin-blood.”

GM: “There you go. People will plant bugs in places they know you regularly spend time at.”

Celia: “I thought about having Pete put some wards in or something for me, I don’t know if it would cover that large an area or if there’s anything like that to keep out licks.”

GM: “You’d have to ask him. Only real solution I know is periodic mundane sweeps.”

“Which you should do regardless of whether wards are possible or not.”

Celia: “I’ll need another security guy,” Celia says with a long sigh. “Randy usually handled it. I don’t suppose there’s a little signal jammer that will affect bugs but not phones or other devices like they have in movies. I can check with Rusty.”

GM: “There are jammers that make electronics usage impossible. Cletus Lee Boggs had that set up in his haven when I visited Slidell. Telecommunications there simply don’t work.”

Celia: “Oh. Maybe I can talk to him about it then.”

GM: “Do that. Don’t get all of your input just from Rusty.”

Celia: “But you asked what I’d do if I were Lawrence Meeks, and I’d take out the ghoul or pawn or lick interfering in my business, or tell the lick whose pawn it is about it so they can deal with it too. Send a message. Find who they are, what they care about. Destroy it. Rip it out root and stem.”

There’s a pause, then,

“I could go as Isabel.”

Easy enough to pass as Isabel, isn’t it? Just be a cunt.

GM: “But you run into the same issue if you want to arrange access for other licks’ pawns with the governor.”

“The Nosferatu eventually finds out that a lick uses Isabel to help other licks.”

“Two options I see. One, don’t involve other licks. Leverage favors and enrich ourselves through just breathers. Two, cut a deal with Meeks.”

Celia: “As Jade, or as an older lick?”

GM: “The Nosferatu are very well-informed. You might be able to fool them. You also might not.”

Celia: Celia nods.

“I’ll think about it, then, and we can revisit my father and Baton Rouge. I like the suggestion, though. Thank you.”

GM: “The third option would be to bring in Savoy and negotiate as his representatives,” Roderick muses. “He gets a cut of whatever deal we reach, but we have a stronger bargaining position.”

Celia: “He might not want to talk to me about my father.”

GM: “And why would he not want to talk about your father in this context, Celia?”

Celia: “Because I failed to take him out before and Preston told me that he isn’t inclined to waste his time on the same subject.”

GM: “You’re being stupid again, Celia.”

Celia: Any remnants of afterglow from their time together slip away. She’s left cold. Hollow. Wooden.

“I’m sorry.”

GM: “The circumstances were different. There’s profit in this for him.”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick. I understand. Thank you for explaining.”

GM: He smiles and strokes her cheek.

“That’s what I’m here for, Celia. To help you understand. To help you.”

“This is another way you could demonstrate usefulness to him.”

Celia: Celia leans into the touch, eyes closing briefly at the contact. Just a girl in love with a boy who wants to better herself and build a future together.

“I’d like to be useful to him.”

GM: “I’ve had so many good ideas, haven’t I? Becoming his new party organizer, and now this.”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick. You’ve given me a lot to think about. You’re very intelligent and I have so much to learn from you.”

GM: “Regardless of how we proceed with your father, I don’t think enacting large-scale policy changes through him is immediately feasible or in our interests,” Roderick considers. “We can just use his position to enrich ourselves and advance our personal projects. The way children of politicians and the significant others of those children already do.”

“If you wanted to turn Flawless into a larger business with three or more locations, he can facilitate that.”

Celia: “He mentioned assisting with the second location and cutting through whatever red tape I needed help with,” Celia confirms.

GM: “It’s not simply what he can directly do for you, Celia. It’s other people wanting to do you assorted favors and help you get richer in order to get closer to him.”

“This is how political bribery works in the 21st century.”

Celia: Celia doesn’t bother explaining that she’d meant it was an immediate thing he could do for her and that his real estate connections could help her build her domain into better feeding grounds. She just nods her head.

Smile and nod. Just smile and nod.

GM: “We need to establish an identity for me as Celia’s mortal boyfriend,” Roderick says. “A long-term one. Better, her husband.”

Celia: “I’ve begun mentioning a new boyfriend as Celia. I haven’t given him much identifying information yet, I didn’t know what you’d want to do there. It’s usually good to stick to something you’re familiar with in case it ever comes up in conversations, but something useful in the breather world as well. Influential. There will be some attention on her new boyfriend and husband because of her online presence, and the possible connection to the governor. It can be better to assume someone else’s identity if they’re no longer using it since that comes with connections and friends and a background built in.”

GM: “Yes, I’d still want to be a lawyer, for a variety of reasons,” Roderick answers. “Falsifying a law degree and bar association membership is a lot of trouble, though. It would be simpler just to assume another lawyer’s identity.”

Celia: “Do you have someone in mind? I can look for possible candidates. Would you prefer to be from here or elsewhere?”

“There are advantages to both.”

GM: “I need to be someone who’s passed the bar exam in Louisiana,” Roderick answers. “Lawyers generally aren’t allowed to practice law in multiple states without passing the bar in each state. Louisiana will provisionally admit some out-of-state lawyers if they have the right connections or jump through enough hoops.”

Celia: “Oh. You need to retake the bar exam if you ever move? It can’t just be transferred? You can transfer medical degrees.”

GM: “It varies. Some states have reciprocity agreements with other states, which means lawyers can essentially transfer their bar association status. California offers a shorter bar exam for lawyers who are admitted in other states and who have been in good standing as an attorney in those states for at least four years prior to their application.”

“Louisiana has no reciprocity agreements, or shorter exam like California. Out-of-state lawyers get admitted to the bar association on a largely arbitrary case-by-case basis.”

“But it’s more than some states do. Arizona simply won’t let anyone practice law who hasn’t passed the Arizona bar exam.”

Celia: “So someone in Louisiana,” Celia muses. “I have a connection at a law office. I’ll see if I can find someone for you. I suppose we’ll need to do this quickly since you’re coming tomorrow.”

“Dani might be able to help. Are we going to tell her everything?”

“About us, I mean.”

GM: “These restrictions also aren’t without valid basis. Human bodies are human bodies regardless of what state you’re in. But most law in the U.S. is state law rather than federal law. Approximately 90% of all criminal law is state law. Laws can vary significantly between states.”

“But yes. We will need to do this quickly. By Sunday.”

“Look into your connection there. I’ll look into things too. If there isn’t a suitable option, we can create a new identity and I can just take the bar again.”

Celia: Celia wonders when she’s going to possibly fit it into her schedule this evening. She nods all the same. She’ll figure it out.

GM: “Or we could reschedule the dinner. Or cancel it. We don’t actually need the rest of your family.”

Celia: “It was mostly to figure out Maxen. But I’ll see what we can find tonight and talk to my mom if I need to about it.”

“Speaking of degrees, though… I found a few at Tulane that might be interesting. But you mentioned you wanted to talk about the multiples. And my sire. And the demons.”

GM: “Tell your mom to cancel the dinner if we can’t decide on a suitable identity tonight. This dinner is basically for her anyway, since you said Emily doesn’t want to be there and Lucy won’t be there.”

“And yes. We can discuss degrees after tonight.”

“Dani doesn’t need to know anything beyond that we’re together.”

Celia: “She knows about Celia and Jade. Will she know about Roderick and your new face and your new Bourbon face?”

“I don’t want to accidentally tell her something I shouldn’t.”

GM: “Is there a reason she needs to know? Is there a benefit to her knowing?”

Celia: “No benefit besides not lying when I speak with her about things, and inviting her to the wedding, et cetera. Social ease. I can keep it to myself.”

GM: He considers. “Roderick can’t get married to Celia or Jade. The mortal identity will the one we marry under.”

“Dani can know about the mortal identity. She won’t know about the Bourbon identity.”

Celia: “Roderick? Are we going to have a Kindred and kine wedding? Or just the kine?”

GM: “Kine. There’s no Kindred I trust enough to invite. Not anymore.”

The words have some bitterness.

Celia: “I’m sorry,” Celia says quietly. Gently. “I’m sorry about… about everything with her.”

GM: “It’s opened my eyes.”

“To so much.”

Celia: Celia nods. She holds him, if he lets her, but otherwise lapses into silence.

GM: He lets her. But continues to talk.

“You suffer from dissociative identity disorder, Celia. You’re clinically insane. We need to treat this.”

Celia: Clinically insane. The words hammer home, echoing inside of her mind. Clinically. Insane.

Insane.

CraaaaAaAAAAZZzzyyy, someone giggles.

She could have stayed with the dolls. She would have had a place there. Would have been accepted there.

They keep me safe, she’d said.

They let her pass as who she needs to be. They fill in the cracks and missing pieces so that she’s whole again.

“There’s no fugue state,” Celia offers.

“How can you love me if I’m insane,” she asks him, leaning back far enough to see his face, to search for an answer in his eyes. “How can you love me like this?”

GM: “Can you love someone in a wheelchair? Someone with cancer? Someone with a missing arm?” Roderick asks, taking her hand in his. “It’s a disease of the mind rather than a disease of the body. Nothing more or less. We will overcome this, Celia. We will fix you.”

Celia: “Wha… what if they don’t want to be fixed? What if they help? What if they… they let me do things I can’t without them?”

“Harlequin… Harlequin said it’s just masking. And I’ve read that people who grew up like I did… people with abusive situations… they disassociate, and it helps them… helps them cope. And it helps them learn how to blend in. And that helps me with who I need to be in our society, so I can be Celia, or be Jade, or be Donovan’s childe, or Veronica’s childe, or Roderick’s lover.”

GM: “‘They’ are constructs of your mind, Celia,” Roderick answers patiently. “‘They’ do not exist without you. ‘They’ are you. ‘They’ have no wants or powers that you do not have yourself. Everything you ascribe to ‘them’ is already part of you. Do you want to be fixed?”

Celia: “I… I don’t know. I don’t know what it looks like without all the pieces of me. My mom… she had something cut out of her, and she’s… she’s different than she was. What if I’m different? What if I’m weak? What if I’m still stupid and no longer have anything that makes me able to adapt and fit and thrive and I become a burden? What if you don’t love me anymore?”

GM: “Your mother was tortured by a Malkavian who did God knows what to her, Celia. You were not. Nothing in you is missing. You are whole. Everything in your secondary personalities is part of who you already are. We must re-incorporate them back into your primary personality.”

Celia: “I don’t… I don’t want you to kill people. Or hurt people. You’re not that person. But I already am. You said so. That I’m corrupt. I want to be able to… to do that for you, if you need me to, to keep you pure, and what if I can’t..?”

GM: Roderick smiles, but there’s little warmth in it.

“I’m quite willing to hurt or kill a corrupt person, Celia.”

“I’m over those hunters.”

Celia: “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

GM: “They tried to kill us. They reaped what they sowed.”

Celia: “You’re a good person, Roderick.”

GM: “Of course I am.”

“But I’m not a pacifist any longer, Celia.”

“If I wake up again with a stake over my heart, I’ll happily kill whoever is pointing it there and dump their body in the Gulf.”

Celia: “It eats at you. Every time you kill. Every time you hurt. Every time you torture. It eats at your soul until things like that no longer faze you.”

GM: “There is nothing I would ask of you that I am unwilling to do myself, Celia.”

“We can hurt and kill the corrupt. We spare the innocent.”

“It’s such a simple distinction many Kindred don’t care enough to even make.”

Celia: “Maybe they did. And maybe at some point they stopped caring. I don’t want you to stop caring.”

GM: “I am guided by principles and convictions. I will not abandon those.”

Celia: Until he does.

GM: “Now. We are going to cure your insanity. We are going to fix this.”

Celia: “How?”

GM: “With an expert’s help, of course. We need to consult a mental health professional. I’m no more qualified to treat this myself than I am to perform surgery.”

Celia: “A lick?”

GM: “Potentially. Or a ghoul. I don’t think a breather is qualified to treat you. It’d be like a surgeon operating on a lick they’re assuming is human.”

“I will look into things and search for a suitable mental health professional.”

Celia: All of the different parts of her rebel at the thought. But the puppet master pulls the strings and the girl’s head bobs up and down, and she says it again, the same phrase she’s been using since she was a child:

“Yes, Roderick.”

GM: “Tell Dani and your mother about your multiple personalities. The first step to fixing a problem is acknowledging its existence. They can also lend emotional support.”

Celia: “Mom knows.”

GM: “Good. Tell her anything you’ve left out.”

Celia: Another pull. Another head nod.

GM: “You will also need to stop spending time with Malkavians. They will make your problem worse.”

Celia: “I don’t generally spend time with Malkavians anymore.”

GM: “You mentioned seeing Harlequin tonight. Don’t do that. He’s probably the most harmful of them all to talk to.”

Celia: “I was hoping he could help me fix my mom.”

GM: “How?”

Celia: “The librarian told me that he knows what happens to masks and multiples when they die.”

“And Lucy has things to say.”

“I wanted to know what she has to say.”

GM: Roderick frowns.

“How do you know ‘Lucy’ is real and not a projection?”

Celia: “She speaks to me.”

“She saved me.”

“She told me to run.”

GM: “I mean a literal projection. She could be a Malkavian-created figment.”

Celia: “My mother was sent to the dollhouse by her mother. For acting out. Stealing a car. And guns? I think guns. Mom said Lucy has been with her since birth. But Lucy said her birthday is nine months before mine. She told the librarian. We got her a library card. She likes the same books Mom likes. But the dolls aren’t supposed to drink, and Mom was drinking, and that’s why I’m here.”

GM: Roderick slowly shakes his head.

“I don’t doubt that a Malkavian did awful things to your mother. But I am very skeptical you can fix them with more help from Malkavians.”

“It’s like putting out a fire with gasoline.”

Celia: “The crystal ball said the Giovannini could help.”

GM: “You mean the fortune-teller?” Roderick frowns. “The Giovannini are… distasteful. But I suppose they’re sane, at least.”

Celia: “The fortune teller told me you’d put me in chains and rip out my tongue,” Celia says with a nod.

GM: “I wouldn’t do that, Celia, unless you did something truly awful. Like cheating on me again.”

Celia: “But also you still had sex with me. So that’s something.”

GM: “Actually, I’d probably just end our relationship.”

Celia: “She said you’re—”

Celia cuts off at the words.

“Oh.”

GM: “So that prediction seems baseless.”

Celia: “Grandsire implied he wanted to have sex with me this evening.”

GM: “No.”

Celia: “No.”

GM: “Do I need to use a shorter word?”

Celia: “No? I confirmed your no. I confirmed I heard. I confirmed I understood.”

GM: “Good.”

Celia: “Good,” Celia echos. “I’ll be good.”

“Good girls get rewards. Bad girls get corrected. Badder girls get left.”

GM: “That’s exactly right, Celia. Good girls get rewarded too. I don’t want our relationship to only consist of corrections and ultimatums.”

“I want you to be good. I want to reward you. I want to reward you all the time.”

He pulls her into his arms.

“It’s a reward for me too, to make you happy.”

He kisses her head.

“One of the best in my unlife.”

“The best in my unlife.”

Celia: “Leila thinks you’re very romantic,” Celia murmurs against his skin. “She loves you like I do. I want to be the best in your unlife. I want to be rewarded. I want to make you happy.”

GM: Roderick pulls away.

“Leila isn’t real, Celia. You make me happy when you acknowledge this. You make me unhappy when you don’t.”

Celia: “Leila isn’t real,” Celia repeats.

GM: He hugs her again.

“I know you’re trying, Celia.”

“I’ll help you every step of the way.”

Celia: “We’ll do it together. You love me. I love you. We’re together. Always.”

GM: He plants a tender kiss on her lips.

“Always.”

---

Saturday night, 19 March 2016, PM

GM: Time doesn’t wait for the lovers. They check the clock to find they’ve spent over an hour in bed together. Roderick says they need to get going. Celia takes a quick shower (by herself). Roderick helps dress her when she’s out, tells her to become a cat again, and tells her to fit inside his briefcase this time. “I shouldn’t be seen carrying my cat everywhere.” He hails a Ryde from her phone and drops her off outside of Mid-City in cat form.

“The driver will take you where you need to go. You have several texts and voicemails. I love you. Good luck with tonight.”

Celia: Celia tells him that she loves him as well and waits until he’s out of sight to check her phone.

GM: There’s a text from Dani, asking how she is and when they can hang out again.

There’s another text from her mom, asking if she wants to stop by for dessert.

There’s a voicemail from Ron, asking her to swing by sometime to talk about her audition.

There’s a voicemail from a professional-sounding woman who says she works for a company called Delta Medical Systems and that Celia Flores has been listed as a job reference for a one Emily Rosure. Celia can give Delta a ring back anytime at her convenience.

Apparently, Delta actually follows up on its references.

Celia: Weird.

Celia handles the texts while she’s in the back of the Ryde.

Dani gets a quick response and an invitation for a sleepover this evening, if she’s free.

Her mother gets an approximate time Celia can stop by.

She sends a text to Emily about the Delta place to make sure she actually applied and that this isn’t some weird “fishing for information” sort of thing. Or a stalker.

She checks the time to see how long she has before she’s expected at the Evergreen.

GM: Dani responds back equally quickly that she’d be thrilled to.

Her mom’s answering text sounds just as happy to see her.

Emily does not immediately respond.

Celia: She’s probably busy having sex with her boyfriend.

GM: She has a moderate window of time.

Celia: Moderate enough to meet with her real dad and the Baron’s girl? She does the math on the expected conversations.

GM: If she’s quick about both.

Celia: She still doesn’t know what she’s going to do about Deja’s contact this evening. And she needs to finish setting up things for Randy’s death.

Savoy won’t care if she’s late. But she’d missed last week. And she told Pete she’d see him before the party.

She has too many friends, she decides. Way too many friends.

Celia waits until the car drops her off to call Ron and find out if she can swing by Monday or Tuesday, or if it’s more pressing than that.

She leaves a voicemail if she can’t get ahold of him directly.

GM: Ron doesn’t immediately respond either.

Maybe he’s having sex too.

Celia: Probably.

She would be, if she were him.

All those ladies all over his dick.

She leaves a voicemail, anyway, asking about Monday or Tuesday, and mentions maybe tomorrow if it’s pressing, and he can call or text to let her know but she might not be available the rest of the evening.

She’s not quite sure what to do about Randy. She doesn’t necessarily need an excuse to go after Edith; she can just tell Reggie to pick her up and he probably will. The girls will make good experiments for her to try the reverse aging process, and Reggie will have fun with Cinderella until she cuts her throat to slake her thirst. Roderick will understand why she is going to take out Edith, won’t he? What she’s done to those girls is monstrous. Who ghouls a child? And to keep the thin-blood there, letting her savage the ghouls, kill all those innocents…

She could let him help her. Grab Edith together. But who knows what he’d think of her if she told him the real reason. Say she’s giving Edith to the hunters, maybe. There’s an idea. It worked with his brother, hadn’t it?

What about Randy, though. What is she going to tell his brothers? “The sheriff killed him” is true, but it puts the blame at Jade’s feet for not preventing it. For not retaliating. For pissing him off in the first place.

They’ll want her to do something. They’ll want someone to blame. They’ll want a body.

Celia huffs a sigh. It’s a problem for another night, isn’t it. No one even knows he’s missing yet.

She can stop by her mom’s, at least. For dessert. Then go meet the Baron’s girl. Then the party.

GM: For all the dilemmas and moral (or at least practical) quandaries surrounding so many other people Celia is close to, her mother’s house is always welcoming. The cats, Lucy, and Emily are all gone. Diana greets her at the door with a tight hug. She looks genuinely happy to see Celia. The Toreador may wonder if her mother now has another reason to be thankful that Celia feeds off her: it lets the woman see her daughter every night.

“How are you tonight, sweetie?” she smiles.

Celia: It’s not like Celia was ignoring her mother prior to this arrangement. She just… didn’t make her a priority. But she returns the hug, holding her close to feel the beat of her heart against her chest, to absorb some of the warmth that Roderick no longer has.

How is she? Awful. Truly, truly awful.

“I’m okay,” she says instead. “How are you, though?”

GM: “I’m okay, too,” her mom answers with another smile as she leads Celia inside. “I didn’t feel very good after last night. So I slept in and ordered room service with Lucy and Emily. We snuggled in bed together and let someone else do the cookin’. It was a very nice morning!”

“I guess Friday night was the best night for us to do that, no work or church to be up for on a Saturday.”

Celia: She can’t help but wonder if her mother is lying, too. If she’s hiding the truth about what Lucy did to her.

“That does sound nice,” Celia says with a smile. It dims after a moment. “I got into a fight with Stephen.”

GM: That would make two Flores masking their hurts.

“Oh, no,” her mother exclaims as she sits down on the living room couch. She pulls up her feet onto the cushion and wraps an arm around Celia’s shoulder. “What happened, sweetie?”

Celia: He told me I’m stupid and put me into a microwave and turned into Daddy and now wants to control every aspect of my life.

“We had a disagreement about some of my friends. We said some harsh things.” He said some harsh things, anyway. “He’s being kind of controlling.” Kind of. Yeah. That’s the word.

GM: Her mom nods.

She knows all about controlling men, at least.

“You think you could reach a compromise, now that you’ve both had some time to cool off?”

Celia: No. He’s made it very clear he wants to control her forever.

“Maybe,” Celia says. “We’re going to spend the next few nights apart. But he wants to come to dinner tomorrow. But we’re still working on his identity and… actually I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you that.”

Whatever, he’ll correct her for it later.

GM: “Oh, I’d be thrilled to have him over, sweetie!” her mom beams. “Maybe that’s what the two of you need. I’m just sorry he won’t be able to enjoy dinner, so…” She trails off. “Would he appreciate it if I let him, ah, drink from me, you think? And would you be okay with that?”

Celia: “We always appreciate blood,” Celia says with a smile. “I… I guess I don’t mind sharing… I’ll have a hit before I come over…”

Sharing her mother. Letting Roderick drink from her. She wouldn’t have minded once, but this new Roderick… she’s not sure if she loves that idea.

Maybe it’ll put him in a better mood. Maybe it’ll count as one of those five hits he wants. Maybe she can get a different reward, like him not being mad if she does end up on Savoy’s lap with his lips at her throat.

“You have school the next day, don’t you? I don’t know that we could both have you, but I’ll ask. He’d probably appreciate it.”

GM: “I do,” her mom nods. “But, I bounce back pretty fast, like we’ve found. I might be a little slower at work, but nothin’ I can’t handle. It’s worth it to me if I can make your beau feel welcome. Especially if he can’t enjoy dinner!”

Celia: “I’ll talk to him. Thanks, Mom.”

GM: Her mom smiles and nods. “Is it okay with you if we do that after dinner, too? My feeding you, that is. And Stephen. I just… want to be at 100%, for when your father is over.”

Celia: “Of course, Mom.”

“Do you remember what happened last night? Are you okay?”

GM: “Ah… I do, sweetie. I didn’t feel too good, after you dropped me off, but snuggles and breakfast in bed was a good cure for that.”

Her mom lets her arm fall away and looks down at her knees.

“I’m sorry I was such a… scaredy cat. I know you don’t like it when I’m cryin’. And scared.”

Celia: “Mom, stop. Feel your feelings. It’s okay. I don’t expect you to face everything head on like some sort of gladiator. That’s not who you are. I love who you are. I love you like this. I don’t need you to change for me.”

“I’m not going to… to demand you suddenly act like someone else or tell you that you aren’t good enough the way you are.”

GM: “I just… I just wish I was stronger, for you. That I’d been stronger for you. When you were growin’ up. Emily’s called me a doormat a few times, and she’s… she’s right.”

Celia: “I’m happy with how things turned out. I love who I am now. I love what I am. You’re more than strong enough. You don’t have to beat your fists on your chest and wear war paint to be strong. Loving me the way I am, accepting who you are, being there for our family now… that’s what matters, Mom. You can’t change the past. You have to stop beating yourself up about what already happened and move forward instead of backwards.”

“You’re not weak. Anyone who says so is a jackass and I’ll rip their throat out.”

GM: Her mom looks up and offers a wan smile. “I am weak, sweetie. I think we both know that. That’s what… she made me to be.”

She hugs Celia. “But it means so much, that you’re happy, that you’re okay with who I am. And you’re right, we can’t change the past. All I can do now is be the best mom I can to you and your brothers and sisters.”

She winks. “Lucy’s been hintin’ she’s going to make me another ‘mom of the year’ award, so I’ll take that as a good sign.”

Celia: Celia laughs.

“She’s got good taste, that kid. Do you want to… talk about the other one?”

GM: The mirth on her mom’s face dims somewhat. “Ah… okay, sweetie, what about?”

Celia: “You were tipsy last night. It looked like she was hurting you. I didn’t want to push her on you, and I wanted to be sure that’s what you want.”

GM: “Oh. Yes. I was tipsy. I felt… my lord, Celia, that was the strangest feeling. I’ll be happy not to do that again.”

Celia: “So you don’t want to rejoin her.”

GM: “Oh. N… no. I just don’t want to get tipsy again.”

“I don’t think it sets a good example, for Lucy or Emily.”

“Emily especially.”

Celia: “Oh.”

GM: “She’s been drinking a lot less since we adopted her, I know we’ve discussed. I don’t think she enjoys being the only person in the house who drinks, so she just doesn’t, as much. Only really does it with Robby now.”

Celia: “Mm. Yeah. You’re right. You don’t need to do it again if you don’t want to.”

GM: “Sorry, sweetie? Drink again?”

“I’m definitely not drinking again. I really didn’t like how it made me feel.”

Celia: “Right. That’s what I mean.”

GM: “I’m just not a drinker, but you know that.”

Celia: “Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t drink from you, since it would have transferred to me. That’s the only way we can get high or drunk anymore.”

GM: “Oh. All the more reason, then!” her mom exclaims with an alarmed look.

“And you don’t need to worry about getting high, sweetie, ever. You know I don’t do drugs.”

Celia: “Of course, Momma. I’m not worried about it with you. Just the club scene. That one, uh, dinner with Randy…”

GM: “Ah, yes. Emily said you were high.”

Celia: “We didn’t realize the girl was, uh, on ecstasy.”

GM: “Oh.”

“Well, that explains a good deal.”

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” she asks, holding Celia’s hands. “You lived, thank goodness, but… just be careful, okay?”

Celia: “Of course. I will be.”

GM: “Good,” her mom smiles. She lets go of Celia’s hands but gives them a pat. “And while we’re on the subject, is there anything I could do more of, or maybe less of, so that drinking from me is… ah, what’s the word… better for you?”

Celia: Celia shakes her head.

“You taste wonderful, Mom. Like love. Like a warm hug.”

GM: “Oh, that’s just so sweet of you, Celia,” her mom says with a heartfelt look. “Good, wonderful, that’s just how I’d… this feels funny to say… I’d, ah, like to taste?”

Celia: “Dani told me I taste like makeup,” Celia says with a wry smile.

GM: Her mom laughs.

“Well! That would be appropriate, I suppose. I guess, in fact, now that you mention…”

Her eye wanders towards Celia’s wrist.

Then back up.

But she doesn’t say anything.

“Say, sweetie, you brought up… Lucy,” she remarks instead.

Celia: She doesn’t need to. Celia watches the movement of her eyes. She almost opens her mouth, but her mother beats her to it.

“Yes. Now that you’re sober I wanted to ask what you’d like to do.”

GM: Her mom looks unsure for a moment.

“Yes, ah… I want to do it, sweetie,” she finally nods.

“It felt… it felt hard, but… right.”

Celia: “Then we’ll do it.” Celia reaches for her mother’s hand. “You’ll… still love me, right? She won’t change you that much that you won’t?”

GM: “Always!” her mom exclaims immediately, throwing her arms around Celia instead.

“You are the brightest joy in my life, sweetie. You are the most important person in my life. You are my baby. Nothing is ever going to change how much I love you.”

Celia: Celia clings to the woman like the child she once was, seeking and finding comfort in her embrace. After everything that’s happened… she’s glad for this ray of brightness in her Requiem.

“I love you, Mom.”

GM: Sensing her child’s need for comfort, Celia’s mother holds her tight against her breast and slowly rocks her back and forth, stroking her hair.

“I love you too, Celia. I will always love you. I know your life is hard. I want to help you, and make you happy, and keep you safe, however I can. Anything you need, anything you want to tell me, I will be there for you.”

Celia: Celia blinks back the blood that threatens to seep from her eyes. But only for a moment. Only for a moment before someone other than Celia, someone who doesn’t mind giving up control, clambers onto her mother’s lap and lets them fall.

“He wants to get rid of us.” The voice isn’t quite Celia’s. It’s younger. Softer.

GM: “Who?” her mom asks, still hugging Celia close. “Who wants to get rid of us, sweetie?”

Celia: “Roderick,” she sniffs. “He said we’re crazy. He said insane. He said he’s going to find a doctor and that we’re not real and he got mad when she said I love him. I don’t love him anymore. He’s mean. He put Luna in a cage.”

GM: “Oh, we’re not crazy, Celia!” her mom exclaims, giving her a tighter squeeze. “We have our issues, yes, but guess what, so does everybody else. Him too. And what does he mean, we’re not…”

She pauses for a moment, then pulls away. She’s still hugging Celia, and gives a reassuring squeeze as if to say she’s not letting go, but meets her daughter’s gaze.

“Am I talking to Celia, still?”

Celia: “No,” the girl says, “I’m Leilani. Leila. Joshy calls me Lani but that’s too close to Lana and she’s not me and I only met him once besides so he doesn’t get to give me nicknames.”

“Luna is the kitty,” she adds helpfully.

GM: “Oh,” says Diana.

She’s quiet for a moment. Leilani can see the fear in her eyes before she asks, her voice small,

“Am I… still your mom?”

She remembers Jade.

Celia: “You’re my mommy.”

GM: Diana gives a sniff and throws her arms back around Leilani, hugging her extremely tight.

“Okay. Okay. Thank god. Okay.”

Celia: “You’re warm,” Leila says, snuggling closer.

GM: Her mom gives a relieved, half-sniffed laugh.

“Yes, sweetie, I am warm. Would you like me to get a blankie, so we can be warmer?”

Celia: Leila shakes her head.

“No. I hafta meet someone later and Celia’s gonna be mad if we’re late. But she won’t talk about Roderick being a meanie but you said we could tell you anything and I don’t wanna go away. And he said I can’t see the masked man anymore but I like the masked man, he sees us. All of us. And he said we could dance at the party tonight. And Roderick isn’t gonna be there anyway so how will he know?”

“And the cop said he’s a… a bad word.”

GM: “That’s a lot to think about, Leila,” says her mommy, rubbing her back.

“Well, as far as dancing, is that all it’s gonna be, just dancing? No… kissing, no more? If so, I’d say it’s okay for you to dance! That’s what people do at parties. Dancing and parties go together like PB&J.”

Her mommy pulls back enough so that Leila can see her smile.

“Dancing is a wonderful thing, sweetie. I dance with lord knows how many people every day at work. Dance is happiness. Dance is joy. Dance is how you smile with your whole body. Now your beau should get your first dance, if he were there, and your last one too, if you really want to remind him that he’s your #1. But he’s not! It’s okay to dance with other people, it’s beyond silly only to dance with your beau. It’s not kissing, it’s smiling! Smiling with your whole body, like I said. Smiling to lots of people makes them happy. Dancing with lots of people makes y’all happy.”

“So go dance at that party. I’m a dance expert, remember, and I’m sayin’ you’re officially cleared to go dance,” her mom declares with a wink.

Celia: Leila nods along while her mother talks.

“He can’t go because he doesn’t have the right face. An’ Celia didn’t offer to give him the right face,” Leila confides in a whisper, “because she doesn’t want him there tonight. An’ she’s gonna spend the night with Dani instead of him because he’s a meanie and he said it’s punishment but she was relieved but _you can’t tell him.”_

She wipes at her eyes.

“He said the masked man is gonna make me crazier and their whole clan is crazy and we’re crazy but I talked to masked man about it and he said that people just don’t understand but that their clan will be my family but I have a family and how come he doesn’t love all of us?” Leila looks at Diana with wide eyes. “Why doesn’t he get it? He keeps saying he’s smart but he’s a dummy about this.”

GM: “I won’t tell him, sweetie. I won’t tell him a thing,” Diana nods.

“Ah, who is the masked man? What makes their family… crazy?”

Celia: “They’re fishies.” Leila puckers her lips like a fish. “It’s their clan curse. They’re crazy. Except the one lady with the bun but I think her crazy is she’s mean. But then grandpa said something about being a stiff so maybe she’s not really crazy but I dunno I didn’t ask, she thinks we’re dumb and spoiled.”

“The masked man is in charge of the Masquerade. They see everything. And clean up messes. He says he knows masks. One of his librarians gave us some books, but Celia hasn’t read them to me yet. I think she was gonna ask Rod but he’s a jerkface.”

“But he said we should tell you about us but then also said he’s gonna get rid of us so I dunno it didn’t make sense. I think he doesn’t know what he’s talking about and just likes the sound of his own voice.”

“Don’t tell him I said that, though. It’s secret.”

GM: “I see,” Leila’s mommy says thoughtfully. “Well, Leila, that’s very useful for me to know. The bun lady sounds like she’s the craziest of them all, to me! You aren’t dumb and spoiled. You’re smart and nice. Very nice.”

She nods again. “Roderick sounds more than a little full of himself, if you ask me. But we’ll keep that just between us. Nobody who’s not Leila, Celia, or their mommy gets to know.” She draws an invisible zipper over her mouth in emphasis.

“Hey,” she then exclaims with a wide smile as she takes Leila’s hands, “you wanna do something fun, Leila?”

Celia: Leila nods eagerly.

GM: “How about…” her mommy starts in a low voice, like it’s a secret surprise just between them, “…we let Luna out to play? I bet being in a cage wasn’t much fun for her. There’ll be no cages here! Just lots of loves and pets and belly rubs!”

Celia: Leila considers the request.

“Are you gonna put her in the microwave?”

GM: “Oh my lord, no!” Diana laughs. “That is a very bad idea! Only thing that goes in the microwave is food.”

Celia: “I knew he was a dumdum,” Leila mutters. Then she’s gone, disappearing as if she had never existed, and a gray cat meows at Diana.

GM: “Hewwo, Luna!” Diana exclaims in her kitty voice. She doesn’t waste a second. Practiced hands start to scratch the cat along the sides of her chin and pet down her back.

“Hewwo, Luna! Hewwo hewwo!”

Celia: The cat is more than happy to let this woman scratch, rub, and pet her. She purrs, body vibrating against the gentle hands, and arches her back into the touch. It’s a nice change from the heat and the water.

GM: “Oh, yes, that is a purr! Confirmed, we have a purr goin’!” Diana exclaims, smiling widely. She showers the cat with loves. Scratches behind the ears. Scratches under the chin. Scratches alongside the neck. Pets down the back. She hits all the pleasure points. She closes her eyes and rubs her cheek along the cat’s head, but doesn’t let up for a second with the scratches.

“Who’s a good widdle kitty, huh? Who’s the best widdle kitty in the whole wide world?”

“Youuu are! Youuu are!”

Celia: Luna is more than happy to accept the loves from Diana. She meows at the question of who’s a good kitty as if to say, “I am,” and purrs again when Diana answers in the affirmative. She is a good kitty. She’s the best kitty. She rolls onto her back to present her belly, pawing at Diana’s hands.

GM: Diana is more than happy to give the best kitty lots of loves along her belly too. Her hands move up and down, alternating between pets and scratches, clearly basking in the feeling of the cat’s furry underside against her palms.

“And you’re not even scwatching me! No, you’re not! You are SUCH a good kitty, Luna! The best kitty in the whole wide world!” Diana exclaims.

She gives the cat more loves for a while, clearly enjoying herself just as much as Luna. Eventually, though, Diana’s scratching the kitty’s ears when she leans in and whispers,

“Okay, Luna. I had a very nice time, with the best kitty in the whole wide world. You think Celia wants to come back out, now?”

Celia: The cat meows a final time, rubbing her face along Diana’s cheek. Then she’s gone, and Celia has once more appeared before her mother, her expression somewhere between apprehension and appreciation.

She clears her throat unnecessarily, then lifts her shoulders in a helpless sort of shrug.

“So that’s, um… so you met Leila.”

GM: Her mom nods.

“I was wondering if ‘switching between’ Luna, so to speak, would let you come back out.”

“You know, serve as a bit of a reboot.”

She smiles. “Plus I really did love getting to pet a kitty.”

Celia: “You didn’t, ah, didn’t like Leila? She’s pretty harmless. A bit mouthy. But sweet.”

“He thinks I have DID. But I’ve looked it up before. That’s not how it works.”

GM: Her mom nods. “I thought so too. Sweet and harmless, like you say. I was just worried that it might be hard to get you back.”

“So, glad we were able to do that.”

Celia: Celia nods.

GM: “Is turning into Luna the only thing that does it?”

Celia: “No. I can… there’s some modicum of control there. It’s not like the textbook definition. They’re just… pieces of me, I think, that have grown into their own thing, but I’m not unaware while they’re out. They fill in the gaps.”

Celia looks down at her hands, then back up at her mother.

“I’m not crazy, Mom.”

GM: Her mom hugs her.

“I don’t care how many personalities you have inside you. I love you just as much.”

Celia: Celia hugs her tightly.

“Thanks, Mom. That really means a lot to me. People don’t always… we fear what we don’t know sometimes, and they’re just… they’re just me, but different.”

GM: She nods.

“So if this isn’t DID, what do you think this is?”

“I took some psych classes in college, though I’ll admit that was a while ago.”

Celia: “Oh Lord, I have no idea. Masking. Regression, with Leila. Roleplay. I don’t know. It just doesn’t fit the definition of DID. There’s no fugue state.”

“Acting, maybe.”

Ron always said she’d be good at it.

GM: “Is this what Jade was?” her mom asks.

Celia: That’s a delicate question.

“I don’t know,” Celia says with a sigh. “Jade just started as a name when I died. Now she’s… that. I started referring to her as a different person to keep my lives separate and she just… grew.”

GM: Her mom nods. “How do you think Leila came to be, then?”

Celia: “I think she’s… I think she’s been there since Dad… you know. Changed. And she’s what could have been. What should have been. She’s been around more since I met a fairy.”

GM: “…a fairy?” her mom asks, eyebrows raised.

Celia: “What, you thought vampires were the only supernaturals in the world?”

GM: “Well, ah, I suppose I did, now that you mention it.”

“Are fairies… good?”

Celia: “They’re… interesting.”

That’s one way to put it.

“I don’t think that they’re inherently good or bad. They’re people, like us, so it’s all a spectrum. There are good people and bad people. Good vampires and bad vampires. We lean bad, but I think that’s because we literally feed on humans and live forever and get jaded. Demons are bad. Ghosts are pretty much whatever they were like in life, I think, but I haven’t met all that many. Loops are…” Celia considers. “Furry.”

GM: “Loops?” her mom asks.

“But okay, that’s… that’s actually somewhat comforting to hear, sweetie. That they’re basically people. Good and bad.”

Celia: “Werewolves.”

“Loup garou. Someone thought you pronounced the P and it kind of stuck.”

GM: “Oh, that’s French. Literally, ‘werewolves.’”

“Do they feed on humans, too?”

Celia: “No. Not like we do. They don’t drink blood. I mean they’re… they don’t really like vampires.”

GM: “Ah, okay,” her mom nods. “Anyway, sweetie, we got distracted. We were talking about you.”

“You and your other, ah, selves.”

Celia: “What, you don’t want to meet my werewolf boyfriend?”

GM: “Oh? You have a werewolf boyfriend?” her mom asks, eyebrows raised again.

“I thought you had a boyfriend already, with Stephen…?”

Celia: “Each of the multiples gets their own boyfriend, Ma. It’s the twenty first century.” She grins. It fades after a moment.

“You want to talk about them, though? The others?”

GM: Diana seems to consider whether Celia is kidding, then nods.

“Are there any besides Leilani and Jade?”

“And Luna, if she counts…?”

Celia: “I… I’m not sure. I think so, but she’s not fully out yet. I just feel someone… else. I have other identities, other masks, but they’re not quite the same. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

GM: “Well, not the same, how?”

“Who are they?”

Celia: “Just different people. I use them to blend into society, go places I can’t as Celia or Jade. Some are more clear than others. I don’t really know how to explain it. Like I’m there, but I’m committed to the role. But it’s a commitment so deep that it’s not a role anymore. But I’m still… present. Just like watching over their shoulder, maybe?”

“Like I can autopilot, but still correct course if needed. Like uh… like I put in the coordinates on the map already and they just follow the path I set.”

GM: “Okay, that makes some sense,” her mom nods. “With Leilani, what does it usually take, for her to… I guess, go dormant?”

“Luna seemed to do it, I’m just wondering if that’s all.”

Celia: “She’s easily distracted. Josua just told her it was bedtime and that did the trick. Or just say you want to talk to Celia, maybe.”

“I haven’t done a lot of experimenting with her because no one really knows.”

“So I’m sorry to say I don’t have a concrete answer.”

GM: “It’s okay. I just want to be sure you stay safe, sweetie,” her mom answers. “Safe and happy. I guess, do Leilani and the other… personalities you can ‘course correct’, interfere with that? Are you okay with them?”

Celia: “They don’t cause problems for me. I like them. They keep me safe.”

GM: “Okay,” her mom nods. “They are a little funny to wrap my head around, but next to being a vampire… well, I guess it’s small potatoes. If there isn’t a problem, with the ones besides Jade, I guess there isn’t a problem.”

Celia: “You don’t think I should see a doctor?”

GM: “I might do some research into DID anyway, just to understand them better.”

Her mom pauses. “What about… Jade?”

Celia: “What about her?”

GM: “She’s evil, Celia,” her mother says quietly.

“Just… pure evil.”

Celia: “She’s not welcome here. She knows that.”

GM: “I know. But I’ve still… I’ve thought about that scene a lot, Celia.”

“I’ve had… dreams about it.”

Celia: “I’m sorry, Mom. I… I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry.”

GM: Her mom holds her hand. “I know you are. You did… you did walk back from it, sweetie. Before it could poison, twist, our relationship, into something…. horrible.”

Celia: “It sounds like that wasn’t enough.”

GM: “You mean it, when you say you love me,” her mom answers. “Believe me, Celia. Believe me… every night, since then, when I’ve said my prayers, I’ve thanked God on my knees that he gave you the strength to… to overcome her.”

“I’ve thought a lot, about what our relationship, about what my life, would look like if you hadn’t.”

“I don’t think I’m going to drop ‘thank you for giving my daughter strength when she needed it most’ from my prayers anytime soon.”

“I know we dodged a… a hell of a bullet.”

Celia: “We did,” Celia says quietly. “I don’t know what would have happened to us, but it wouldn’t have been ‘us’ anymore.”

GM: “No, it wouldn’t. Or Lucy.”

“I thought about how… about your father, when he was cruel to me, hurt the children too. What that did to you and the others, for your mother to be living in fear.”

“And I just thought… how would that have affected Lucy. If her mom was living in fear.”

“I thought about that a lot.”

“And Emily. I think she’d have noticed something was wrong. She’s got a good… bullpoo detector.”

Celia: “She is. It would have destroyed the family.”

GM: “It would’ve poisoned us, Celia. Even if no one noticed, for a while. It would’ve poisoned Lucy. Jade would have hurt Lucy.”

Her mom’s hands clench at those words.

Celia: “Do you… do you not want me to come around anymore?”

GM: Her mom looks up in alarm.

“Oh, no, sweetie! I want you to stay in this family, more than anything!”

Celia: “I can’t do anything about Jade. She’s part of me. She’s not going to come out around you again. I won’t let that happen.”

GM: “But she’s still there,” says her mom.

“Doing the makeup for those… those victims… was that her, too?”

Celia: Celia nods.

GM: “I thought so.”

“She needs to die.”

Celia: Celia rises to her feet.

“Right. Well. Something to think about.”

GM: Her mom looks at her in confusion.

“Celia, don’t tell me you want her.”

Celia: “She’s part of me. Killing her kills me. There’s no cutting her out. And even if I did find a way to surgically extract her, I’m still Jade to the entire city of licks.”

GM: “Is Jade a person you want to be?”

Celia: “Jade is a person I need to be to fit in with the rest of the assholes that I associate with.”

“We’re not good people, Mom. We’re a society of raging dicks. The strong bully the weak. We take what we want. And if we can’t hold onto what’s ours, we lose it.”

GM: “Those were the most hurtful words someone ever said to me,” says her mom. “That I wasn’t your mom anymore. That I was your slave.”

“More hurtful than anything your father ever said. Because I had, because I have, nothing but love for you.” Her mom’s voice sounds like it’s starting to tear up.

Celia: “I said I was sorry.”

GM: “You don’t, you don’t need to apologize, sweetie. I forgave you. The slate’s clean.”

Celia: “You’re still talking about it. It’s clearly not clean.”

“You want to kill part of me.”

“The part that made a deal for power to save you from Dad.”

“The part that haggled with a monster to put you back together again.”

“The part that tore herself open to save you when you were thrown off the roof.”

“The part that looked a demon in the eyes and told him that his prize pawn had better leave you alone or I would slaughter him.”

GM: Her mom opens her mouth, emotions swimming in her eyes, then finally closes it.

She looks at her feet.

Celia: “She killed herself for you. And she’d do it again. She fucked up. She’s sorry. I’m sorry. We both make mistakes. What she did to you was a mistake that will never happen again. But she is not going anywhere. She’s me. I’m her.”

GM: Diana looks back up at her daughter’s words. There’s some color in her cheeks, but her eyes look moist too. She sniffs and runs a hand across them, then stands up to take Celia’s hand.

“Can… can we please not fight, sweetie. I don’t want to fight you. I want this home, our home, to be a welcoming space for you.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I brought it up again. I’m sorry I didn’t understand.”

Celia: She doesn’t have a home anymore. Jade broke this one, and Roderick destroyed the other.

But she hugs her mother because that’s what she’s supposed to do. And she runs a hand down her back because that’s what she’s supposed to do.

And the words break her heart. The apology. Like hers to Roderick.

It’s like looking into a fucking mirror, and Celia hates what she sees.

“Can we table this discussion, Mom? I need to… talk to someone else about this who knows more than I do.”

She wants her sire. He’s the only one she wants anymore with the way Roderick has been treating her. But she can’t talk to him about this. About any of it. They don’t have that sort of relationship.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be scared of me. Of her. She’s not evil. She’s just…”

“She’s just her.”

“She was following some really bad advice. And when she’s afraid she gets angry and mean because we’re not allowed to be scared. She shows teeth.”

Celia lifts her hand to tuck a stray hair behind her mother’s ear.

“She loves you too. She’s just… terrible at communicating. If you knew what the rest of them are like you’d see the difference.”

GM: Celia’s mom hugs her close and sniffs against her shoulder, oblivious to the dark and despairing thoughts coursing through her daughter’s head. She guides Celia back onto the couch and listens intently.

“Well, I was… I was going to ask, sweetie.”

“How she could love me and then do… what she did.”

“I guess that makes… more sense.”

“She’s really not that bad?”

Celia: “She’s really not that bad. I promise. She’s done some questionable things, but she loves you. And Emily. And Lucy. She’s just… she’s like a… a kicked puppy, right, that grows into a mean dog because all it knows is the feel of a boot on its ribs, and it doesn’t know better. She thought what she was doing was right because that’s how she’s always done it. But she learned. You helped her learn.”

“Maybe she can… write you a letter. And explain.”

GM: “I just… I don’t understand, Celia,” her mom admits. “I said sorry to her. After I asked for something I shouldn’t have. I took it all back. I said I didn’t want it anymore. I thought that was enough, I thought that would fix things. But she kept saying I needed to call her master, that I wasn’t her mom, and that… that’s what she hit me for…”

Celia: “She’s confused, Mom. She didn’t have a mom. She just appeared when I was lost in the dark and took my hand and guided me out. Her first experience was an impossible test, a cruel test, and watching your rape and torture. That’s what she woke up to. That’s what she saw.”

“People don’t love Jade. They fuck her. They flirt with her. They use her.”

“She doesn’t have a family. She doesn’t have friends. Not like Celia does.”

GM: “So is that what she needs? Do I just need to show her love…?” her mom asks slowly.

Celia: “I… maybe?”

The more she thinks about it the more sense it makes. Show the stray cat enough love and it’ll eventually let you pet it.

GM: “Jesus says to turn the other cheek,” Diana nods.

“If I can forgive your father, after all, why not Jade too?”

Celia: “I don’t deserve a mother as good as you. You’re just… you’re just incredible, Mom.”

GM: Her mom smiles and squeezes Celia’s hand in hers.

“I’m sorry I hurt her, too. Maybe there was a better way.”

Celia: “Maybe. Maybe when you’re both ready you can start fresh.”

GM: “You mentioned writing a letter. I think that sounds like a good start.”

Celia: Celia nods.

“I’ll let her know.”

GM: “Okay. I think she should write it someplace… someplace not here. Lucy is here. I don’t think we are ready for that.” Her mother’s voice sounds hopeful but wary.

Celia: “I’ll have her write it elsewhere and I’ll deliver it for her.”

GM: “Okay,” her mom nods. “That sounds… safe.”

Celia: “No direct contact. Not until you ask for it. Promise.”

Celia squeezes her mother’s hand.

GM: Her mom nods. “I guess the biggest thing I’m wondering is… why. Why did she hurt me because I called her sweetie. Why did she want me to call her master so badly. Why did she say I wasn’t her mom.”

“Because I’d stopped asking about… you-know-what. I’d stopped. I’d said sorry. I thought that would be enough. So why did she… did she not let up?”

Celia: “I… I don’t know, Mom. I can have her explain it, maybe, but I think it’s… about control. Knowing she’s in control. Knowing you accept that she’s in control.”

“Bad advice from someone else, mostly, I think.”

“But hey… do you want to trade, Mom? Like you said? I can take two and give you one, and you should be fine for tomorrow..?”

GM: Her mother’s eyes shine.

“Yes… yes, sweetie! I’d love that so much!

Celia: “Come on, then, let’s grab a cup.”

GM: Celia’s mother all but leaps from her seat. She grasps her leg for a moment with a pained inhalation, but doesn’t slow. She just makes for the kitchen.

Celia: They need to get that fixed. Soon. If she can’t get ahold of her teacher then she’ll reach out to E. Or Xola. One of them should be able to help, dangerous though the latter is. Pete might go with her again now that Diana knows about everything. Maybe this summer, during her break, so it’s not an abrupt change at school…

GM: Diana throws open the cupboard and grabs the first cup she can get her hands on, a Disney princess-themed plastic one. She doesn’t even limp and favor her good leg for the walk back. She just gets back to Celia, as fast as she can without running. The only sign of pain is the way her face repeatedly twists.

“Here we go, sweetie, here’s a cup…”

Celia: Celia lets her mother hold onto the cup for her for a moment. She says she’s going to drink first, just to take the edge off, and leans in to bring her mother into her arms. Like a hug. Only this time her mouth opens, fangs extending so she can sink them into her vessel’s neck, piercing her flesh to bring forth the flow of blood into her waiting maw.

She drinks.

She drinks the freely offered blood, the source of love and life (or unlife) that her mother parts with so readily, the flavor of it dancing across her tongue. Like a warm hug, she’d said earlier, and it’s true. It tastes like comfort. Like affection. Like a mother’s knowing smile. Like a meal made with her in mind, and she enjoys every second of it. She basks in the divine nectar.

Celia licks the wound closed when she’s had her fill. Two hits for her. Then the points of her fangs dig into her wrist and she bleeds into the plastic princess cup, waits for it to cool long enough to avoid a bond, and finally offers it to her mother.

GM: Her mother tastes like all of those things and more.

She tastes like love.

Celia has yet to drink from another breather vessel that compares.

True to Celia’s expectation, drinking so deeply from her mother takes some of the woman’s nerves off. This is deeper than they’ve done before. Diana moans softly beneath her daughter’s kiss. Her eyelids droop and Celia can feel the slowing of her heartbeat. She looks thoroughly tuckered out by the time the Toreador pulls away, and sleepily accepts the cup without her prior animation. She drinks slowly at first, but her eyes widen with the taste. Color returns to her cheeks. She closes her eyes again, taking a long, slow draught, and Celia can see the smile spreading across her face. There’s a blush to her cheeks when she sets the cup down and looks at her daughter with shining eyes.

“Oh, sweetie, that felt… heavenly…”

She runs her finger along the cup’s inside, then licks it off.

Celia: “Slowly, Momma,” Celia says as she lifts the cup to her lips, pleased that she’s taking her time with this feeding. “Savor it. Good…” Celia rubs a hand up and down her back while she feeds, nuzzling against her once it’s gone. Like she does with Alana, she realizes, only this isn’t sexual, just intimate. The sharing of blood.

“How do you feel?” Celia asks when she’s done.

GM: Her mom wraps an arm around her and cuddles up against her.

“Oh… I feel you inside me, Celia… spreadin’ all through me… you are sweet, very sweet, and kind of like makeup…”

Celia: Celia giggles at the description.

“You’re sweet too, Mama. Like love. Just… like you’ll always love me. Comfort and security and warmth. Nothing else has ever tasted as good.”

GM: “Good,” Diana murmurs, nuzzling against her. “I’m glad I taste so good. That’s how I want to taste, for you. I want you to feel warm and safe and loved when you’re home.”

Celia: “I do, Mom. You’ve always taken good care of me. I’m glad I can share this side of myself with you.” Celia touches a hand to her cheek. “I love you, Momma.”

GM: Her mom leans against her.

“I love you too, sweetie. With all my heart. I’m so glad you can share yourself, all of yourself, with me.”

Celia: “It definitely makes everything easier,” Celia says with a wry smile.

GM: “Or, yourselves, I suppose,” her mother says with a chuckle.

Celia: “Oh. Speaking of. I want to move forward with fixing your leg. I don’t know if or when the colleague I mentioned will be back in the city, but there are others I can speak to, and I can reach out to my old teacher as well. I’d like to do it this summer, so you don’t look suddenly better overnight at school. Is that okay?”

“We can say that the physical activity with fencing has helped, maybe. Or have you ‘see a physical therapist’ or something. Emily might be hard to fool, but we’ll make it believable.”

GM: “Yes… I was goin’ to bring her up,” her mom says thoughtfully.

“She is a doctor, and she knows my ‘case’ really well, at this point.”

“She doesn’t believe all that much in alternative medicine, either. I think Dr. Crawford’s really rubbin’ off on her.”

Celia: “It’s not for everyone. Hard to believe in something you don’t witness for yourself, even if it’s been around for thousands of years.”

“I bet she doesn’t believe in vampires, either.”

GM: “I don’t think she does,” her mom says wryly. “It just seems to get under her skin a lot more, this last year of med school. What she calls ‘quackery.’ I think one of your girls at Flawless was talking about energy crystals a few months ago and, my lord, I love Emily dearly, but she would not close her mouth!”

Celia: “Mm, she’s rather opinionated.”

“She applied for a new job, though. So I don’t know how much longer she’ll even be at Flawless.”

GM: “Oh, she did?” her mom asks. “She didn’t mention that to me.”

Celia: “Delta Medical… something. Systems?”

“I dunno, they called for a reference. Left a voicemail.”

“I texted her about it but I assume she’s busy with Robby.”

GM: “She is,” Diana nods, then taps her chin. “Delta. Hmm. Have I heard of them somewhere…?”

“I think she might have mentioned them once, but I didn’t know she was applying for a job.”

“Does she need to finish med school, before she can…?”

Celia: “I’m not sure. We, uh, got into a little bit of an argument last night and I think she was kind of upset, but I doubt that’s what this is about. Usually takes longer to apply and hear from a company. But if she’s just doing clerical work or something she might not need the degree. A lot of people work in medicine without a degree, all sorts of other positions they can fill. Even some research based things.”

“Could also be an internship or assistant position.”

GM: “Oh. Are you two still mad at each other? Could I help?” her mom asks.

Celia: “I don’t think so. It was just about Stephen. Whether or not she slept with him. I… don’t know why it bothers me so much.”

GM: “Oh,” says her mom. “Well, I can understand wantin’ to feel like your beau loves only you. That is a little weird to think of him bein’ intimate with your sister.”

Celia: “Yeah. Also like… who introduces their ex to their new friend as a potential boyfriend?”

GM: “I mean, okay, I can accept you might not’ve been Stephen’s first, even if things would’ve been better that way, but that’s…. messy, I guess, to also be with Emily? I don’t quite like it.”

“Well, then again, maybe nothin’ happened. Dani said they only went on, what, one date?”

Celia: “It’s not even about being his first, he was twenty-two when we met. So I didn’t assume he was a virgin or anything. And he showed me a good time, and it was great. You know? No awkward vibes. But… just the thought of them together… everything I’ve ever said to her about him…” Celia trails off. “Two dates. But I guess I’m just being… silly. It shouldn’t matter, right? We’re both dead now.”

“I’ve been with other people, too.”

GM: “Hmph, well, I suppose that is what it is,” her mother says at all the mentions of outside-marriage sex.

“I guess there’s nothin’ much to be done for it either way, though. I mean, Stephen clearly loves you, hasn’t been in Emily’s life for years… you two can either stay mad at each other or not, you know? There’s nothin’ to do about it at this point.”

“If anythin’ even happened past two dates.”

“Maybe it’d be better just to let sleeping dogs lie.”

Celia: “That’s the plan. Pretty sure he’d tell me if I asked, but I don’t really want to know.”

GM: “That sounds like a good plan,” her mom nods. “As far as Emily, that is tricky, though. About my leg.”

“Maybe I could take a vacation or something, away from her? Or she could go on one with Robby? Just some time apart, so she doesn’t notice an immediate shift?”

Celia: “I was thinking something similar. Vacation for one of you.”

“I, uh, might be going to LA soon, maybe you could visit..?”

GM: “Oh, you’re going to LA?” her mom smiles. “Vacation there, too?”

She wiggles her eyebrows.

“Are you bringin’ your beau?”

Celia: “Ha. I mentioned it to him but he hasn’t said anything yet. I’d like to, since he runs with the kind of people that run LA, but he’s got a lot going on here.”

GM: “Hm. Well, if he doesn’t, I could go with you? I don’t want to be a third wheel between two lovebirds,” she declares with another smile, “but if things don’t work out there, we could say I saw a specialist or something in L.A.?”

Celia: “That’ll work. I’ll probably be there a while if things work out. Movie deal. Maybe. I have to follow up.”

“Plus, you’ll need to be nearby so we can trade, or you’ll end up going through withdrawal.”

GM: “Oh,” her mom says with some alarm. “I guess if it’s like a drug…”

“You could always… give me an advance, if you’re goin’ to be gone for a while? If that’s how it works?”

She shakes her head.

“Maybe you’re right, though. Maybe it’s better that I come. How long would this be for? You said you’re doin’ a movie deal, sweetie?” she smiles.

Celia: “I could leave some,” Celia says thoughtfully. “Or have someone else take care of it while I’m gone. I just know it’s… we talked about it being addictive, and I don’t want you to be tempted to take it early or because you had a bad day or something. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mom, I just have heard that some of them can OD, and it’s not easy for me to travel. If Stephen doesn’t come, maybe he wouldn’t mind. Or Pe—er, my other friend.”

Who else does she trust with her mom? No one.

“I’m not sure how long it takes to shoot, or even if I have a part. I have to talk to the guy. And his friend. But I’ve got a leg up since I know people. There’s auditions, all sorts of things. Maybe a month, maybe two or three. I’ll probably fly out to do some auditions, come back and wait to hear from them, then go back out once I hear if I got anything.”

GM: “Oh. I don’t know I could manage two or three months, sweetie,” says her mom. “Summer break at McGehee is about two months. And I want to spend a good chunk of that with Lucy!”

She thinks.

“Or maybe we could take her, too? Med school’s break is about eight weeks, so that’s the longest Emily can take care of her, anyway. And I figure this summer is goin’ to be even busier with her residency starting.”

Celia: Celia shakes her head.

“I didn’t intend for you to be there the whole time. And of course we could take Lucy. Hell, Emily could even come if she wants.”

“For a bit. After your, uh, ‘surgery.’”

GM: “Hm, I love the thought of havin’ Emily along, but I’m just worried how much she’d suspect. Me goin’ to L.A. and back for the summer seems like it’d be easier to swallow.”

“If she isn’t there to see any of it.”

Celia: “Probably. Plus I’ll be… not me.”

GM: “Oh. You mean… Jade?” her mother asks warily.

Celia: “Not necessarily. I’ll look like her, but I’m still me. It’s just that movies generally shoot during the day, so ’Lana will be Celia.”

“I could use a different identity out there, though. No reason to be Jade if no one knows me anyway.”

GM: Her mom nods. “Yes, I’d prefer that, sweetie. I know we talked about the letter. Just… makin’ plans to be alone with her, in another city, for months, doesn’t feel safe to me.”

“Especially with… Lucy.”

Celia: “She wouldn’t hurt Lucy,” Celia says quietly, “but I’ll make sure she doesn’t stay around. No reason for Jade to go to LA, anyway. I’m going to try to divorce her from Celia to see how things go with Dad and running and everything.”

GM: “She almost did hurt Lucy, sweetie, through me,” her mom reminds her seriously. “But, okay, that sounds good. Baby steps with her. Goin’ to L.A. with you and Lucy sounds like a wonderful summer.”

Celia: Celia beams at her mom. “Perfect. I’ll start getting plans together.”

GM: “Great!” her mom smiles back. She lets Celia know the dates when school ends and resumes at McGehee. The latter is somewhat earlier for teachers.

Celia: Worst case scenario her mom comes back before her. But it should be a fun summer if things work out.

She’s looking forward to a vacation from New Orleans.

---

Previous, by Narrative: Story Thirteen, Louis III
Next, by Narrative: Story Thirteen, Celia XXII, Cletus I, Julius III

Previous, by Character: Story Thirteen, Celia XX
Next, by Character: Story Thirteen, Celia XXII, Cletus I, Julius III

“The NOPD’s dirty. Yeah, and the Mississppi’s muddy.”
Vinny Cardona

---

Saturday morning, 12 December 2015

GM: Vinny and Lex say brief prayers of their own as the vampire burns. Vinny gives Lou a lift to the Greyhound terminal in Laplace, where the PI has another errand to undertake. The trio make a brief stop in Kenner, though, so Lex can use a bathroom. It’s while she’s gone that the younger detective turns to Lou and says,

“So, there was something I wanted your advice on.”

“About the paintings.”

“You remember those?”

Louis: The old man does. Then again, the old man remembers lots of things. Like 66,702: Kenner’s population as of the last census. 66,702 pairs of eyes and ears. Inadvertent eavesdroppers. Potential spies. And the census count just scratches the surface. Beyond the uncounted, there are also the uncountable. Birds. Bugs. Both kinds of bugs, actually. Thinking about it can drive a man to drink, or make him drive right off the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway. Hard to say which would be worse, especially as the old man’s done both.

But not thinking about it… well, that just gets you dead. And the old man’s not ready to get there yet. Almost, but not yet.

So he thinks about it, and the worm of paranoia writhes. It gnaws into his recent joy, eating away its corners and bruising what otherwise might be a simple conversation between friends. But the Big Easy doesn’t do simple, and it rarely does easy, either.

Just like when Lou went looking into Micky Zyers for Vinny, back before a blonde-haired devil walked into his office and lit his life on fire. To be fair, his life was already on fire; the dame just brought gasoline.

Regardless, the old man had looked into Zyers’ whereabouts after his explosive showdown with René and subsequent retreat into hiding. And as with so many of his investigations, the old man did not like what he found. Mickey was nowhere to be found because he had already been found—and by no less than the NOSTF.

One didn’t have to pass the NOPD’s detective exam to see why Bobby’s off-the-books gang of vampire-hunting, but vampire-controlled, vigilantes would be interested in Mickey and the nicked Masquerade-threatening paintings.

Nor did it surprise Lou when he discovered the NOSTF were ‘storing’ Mickey in the heart of their turf: the Vieux Carré.

Breaking into their cop-guarded stronghold to ‘rescue’ the grade-A sleezeball wasn’t Lou’s idea of laying low, especially not in the wake of Rampart’s blowback. He was too hot, both with the fuzz and the leeches who held the NOPD’s if not also the NOSTF’s leashes.

Explaining all of that to the Vigil-rejecting detective had proved equally problematic, and it’s unlikely to be any easier now. Still, Lou forces himself to tear his worm-gnawed attention away from every potential eavesdropper to face his friend. Once more, he wishes he had a cigarette. Once more, he pushes past his personal wishes.

“Yeah, I remember them. I dig some digging there too, but the dirt I found wasn’t good, Vinny.”

GM: “Oh, you did?” the one-time bantamweight asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, I’ve done some too. The dirt I’ve found has been… mushy.”

“So wanted to get a second opinion.”

“Some other cops got to Zyers before I could.”

“But he’s not at OPP.”

“Hasn’t actually been booked for anything, as far as I can tell.”

“Which seems funny, because the slimeball’s done a hundred things someone could bust him for if they wanted.”

Louis: Lou nods.

GM: “I don’t know if you already know, Lou, but there are cops who see everything that’s wrong, everything that’s dirty, about the department, and they say… no.”

“I mean, hell.”

“I’m on the take.”

“Everyone’s on the fucking take.”

Louis: Lou knows. Even now, retired and in hiding from his former colleagues, he knows. Better than most of those same cops.

GM: “There’s talk, you know, about Drouillard stepping down. After that shit show with the shooting. Running for mayor.”

“Delron replacing him.”

“And fucking Cash Money, the new district commander!”

Vinny shakes his head.

Louis: Lou can’t help but raise a brow at that, jaded and calloused as he is. That’s news to him, and it’s bad news. It doesn’t get much dirtier than Delron and Cash Money, and the latter is dirty as they can come without a lick of blood. Sure, it doesn’t take poison to make a dirty rat stink, but a promotion for either is likely to put them on Savoy or his childe’s tab. Lou doesn’t like thinking about how bad those dirty rats would smell with poison…

The old man doesn’t so shake his head so much as he shivers.

GM: “He already leap-frogged up to LT, I guess what’s skipping captain too if your uncle runs the department?”

“I hear one story, though, that he doesn’t want the job as commander.”

“Because he’d have to wear a uniform.”

Vinny shakes his head again.

“Just fucking hell, Lou.”

“And Gettis going off the deep end.”

“What the fuck is this department coming to, sometimes.”

Louis: Lou’s pretty sure the slimeball would find a way to slip that requirement, but the old man doesn’t say that out. No point in pouring salt into already sore wounds.

But he does need to say something. At least once Vinny is done explaining. Which the cop isn’t.

GM: “So, anyway.”

“The guys who are saying enough is enough. Things have gone too far.”

“They’ve asked me if I want to help out. To help cut out the cancer, too. They say I can get my hands on Zyers, if I do.”

“They were cagey when I asked about how.”

“But I know he’s not been arrested. And he’s nowhere on the streets. I’ve talked to every CI, every huckster, every grifter, crack fiend, hooker, slimeball, that I can think of, who he might have associated with. Zyers is off the streets. Has been for a while now.”

“The guys I talked to make me thing he’s been held by them somewhere.”

“But he hasn’t been arrested. This seems dirty, too.”

“But isn’t everything?”

“What the fuck is an arrest even worth these days. My dad got arrested, and you can debate whether that was right or wrong, but he had a pretty posh stay in OPP. Got deli sandwiches delivered for his meals and everything.”

“And you can debate whether that’s right or wrong, but if you think about it, it doesn’t square with someone getting arrested. Defeats the point, doesn’t it, for jail to be a hotel stay?”

“On the other hand, Dad tells me he saw several guys stab each other to death outside his cell, so you have that too. And even that is pretty light next to what a shit show that place was during Katrina.”

Vinny shakes his head again.

“I know this isn’t news to either of us.”

“The NOPD’s dirty. Yeah, and the Mississppi’s muddy.”

“But I’d be pissed if I looked out one day and it was solid mud.”

“And I want Zyers. I want to get to the bottom of these paintings. They won’t get out of my head.”

“So… what do you think, Lou?”

Louis: The old man listens to Vinny’s racing freight train of thought, no less saddened despite foreseeing its ugly terminus. But maybe he can jump on and try to steer it away from the yawning canyon. Or maybe he’ll be dragged down into the abyss.

The old man pauses as if hoping for some inspired words to fill his lips. But the only immediate sound is his growling stomach.

Mierda.

He gazes eastward, towards the slow-rising sun as it bathes the Gulf in rosy gold.

“There is no trap so deadly as the one you set for yourself.”

He sighs, wishing he could taste nicotine and gin on his exhaling lips.

Turning back to Vinny, he says, “If I’d had a son, I’d have hoped he became half the man you are.”

GM: Lou doesn’t think he’s ever seen Vinny look… humbled? It’s an odd expression on the bantamweight, and he gives a low laugh as if to mask it.

“For, what, being on the take and having a hard-on for some weird paintings?”

Louis: Lou’s smile is more gentle than rueful as he briefly places a paternalistic hand atop Vinny’s.

“I’m not calling for the canonization of St. Vincenzo.”

“But hearing you talk about the city, our city… she’s like our mother. She’s old now. More than a little bitter, broken, and tired too. But you sometimes get glimpses that remind you of when she was young and beautiful. Full of life and vitality. A freshness that isn’t innocence, but can feel like it to a kid. She’s never been innocent, no mother is, really, save the Virgin Mary perhaps.”

“But it doesn’t matter that mom’s no Madonna. That she’s taken on some weight here and there. Scars. Wrinkles. Varicose veins running down arthritis-swollen legs. Bags under her eyes from burning the candle at both ends. Sure, sometimes she comes home sloshed, and there was that time or two or twenty when she cuffed you for sassing her or for forgetting to take out the trash.”

“She’s still your mom, and you love her. Because if you don’t, who will? You don’t have an old man looking out for her. He’s never been in the picture. She’s raised you all herself, all her own, trying to do her best.”

“And sometimes, her best just blows your breath away. Like the time she baked that sky-high birthday cake after you thought she had forgotten all about you. Or when she took you to the beach, let you collect a bucket full of shells, and didn’t complain a bit when you dragged all that sand into her carpet. Or that summer night, when the music wafted through the window, and she danced. Danced like she was the star at the Dewdrop, her laughter like warm rain. Or the time she held you after your first bad breakup. She let you cry. And then later, when you’d become a man, and came home hurting and broken after one too many ugly cases, she still held you like her little boy. And because you couldn’t or wouldn’t cry, she cried for you.”

“You love her, Vinny. You’re not blind to the mud, the ugly. You see it, you see her. All of her. And you still love her, still want to save her.”

“How could I not love that?”

“How could any man not want that in their son?”

“Or brother.”

“She’s my mother too, after all.”

GM: Vinny takes in Lou’s words slowly. Silently. Lets them wash over him like the rising dawn. Cold around the edges, but filled with an undeniable light and warmth.

“…you make me want to give my mom a call, Lou.”

“That was… something.”

“I think you coulda been a writer, if you’d wanted.”

“That was really something.”

He clears his throat. “I’m not good with words, not like that. So I’ll just say that was, that was really something.”

He rubs the back of his head. “I guess you’re right, though.”

“I do love her.”

Louis: Lou’s smile is more pained, but no less gentle as he responds, “I’ve just had longer to think about how to describe the tune that’s playing in both our hearts and heads.”

GM: “She’s been shitty, a few times, but like you say.”

“Only get one mom.”

“And she’s been good more times than not.”

Louis: The old man nods.

“And while mom’s always had a soft spot for writers and artists, she doesn’t really need more of them. She’s got enough sons and daughters doing that. Some making it big, some starving.”

“No, what she needs, always has, are kids willing to take out the trash. Because there’s a lot of it. Too much of it. She needs those who do what the badge claims. What every cop swears. To protect and serve.”

“And she needs protection, Vinny. Not just from the likes of Ricky and Delron or the pukes they’re supposed to be busting. Sure, they kick her, hit her, and shake her down for a whole lot more than milk money. But her blackest bruises don’t come from them. Her worst abusers have always been the same culprits.”

Lou dimes those culprits not with words, but with actions as he reaches into his trench and produces the stake. He offers that holy water-annointed spike like a reverse donation plate, a gesture asking Vinny to take rather than give. But it’s ultimately the same. Consecration. Offering. Sacrifice.

GM: Vinny nods at Lou’s first words. The call to protect and serve. The one they both answered.

The one not so different from the Vigil.

The younger detective gives a soft intake of breath at the offered stake and all it represents.

It’s not his first time receiving such an offering.

It’s not his first time seeing Lou torch a vampire.

He seems to briefly fumble for words. He looks between Lou’s face, the stake, and back at Lou.

“But. Zyers. The paintings…?”

Louis: Lou’s face is calm, like the eye of a hurricane.

“It’s all the same Vinny. I can explain more, but it’s all the same. Same mud. Just a difference of how far downstream you stand.”

GM: Vinny blinks.

Then he seems to process.

“Zyers. Is he… is he one of those…?”

Louis: “It’s worse, Vinny.”

GM: The other detective’s face sets.

“How?”

“Those paintings, Lou.”

“I fucking want them.”

“The artist, whoever’s behind them.”

Louis: His one hand keeps offering the stake.

“I know you do, and I’ll help in whatever way I can, no matter what you choose. But Vinny, you have to decide this first. Because it’s not about what we want.”

“It’s about what she needs.”

GM: Vinny looks back at the stake.

He looks at it for a while.

He doesn’t actually sweat, but Lou can see the signs. The way his breath gets shallower. How much more he blinks. The stiff, wooden look to his face.

Perhaps he’s re-thinking Lou’s last words.

She needs protection, Vinny.

Her worst abusers have always been the same culprits.

It’s all the same. Same mud.

Vinny looks at the stake some more.

Finally, slowly.

He reaches out a hand.

Grasps it around the handle.

And takes it.

Louis: Lou smiles. It even reaches his bourbon eyes. But it’s sad all the same. Proud. Grateful.

But sad all the same.

He looks like he might embrace Vinny, but the angles of the car are all wrong. So are the angles of the world.

The old man settles for a paternalistic squeeze of Vinny’s shoulder.

“I can’t say whether you made the best choice, kid.”

“But I know you made the right one.”

His smile remains. As does his sadness.

Particularly as his now-free hand reaches into his trench’s inner breast pocket and produces an old crinkled cigarette case. He flicks it open with his thumb, revealing one last cigarette. Untouched. Well, not untouched. It’s clear it’s been touched a lot. But unspent.

But the old man bypasses that coffin nail and uses his prosthetic hook to peel back the case’s lining, revealing a small, thin metal sheet. He stares at it for a moment as if regarding a ghost. Or perhaps he’s the ghost regarding it.

That’s when his smile finally breaks into a sigh. His next words are quiet like suppressor-shot bullets:

“Gettis.”

“He’s not.”

“Not dead.

“Not Gettis.”

“Not really.”

“Not anymore than I’m Louis Fontaine.”

He passes the object to Vinny, allowing the cop to look at it in the light. Light which reveals it as a century-plus old tintype. An antique photo of two men. Two cops. Arm in arm. Sharing twin smiles so fierce they dare no cloud cross their sunny day.

The details are a bit blurred by the tintype’s alchemy and age. The uniforms are well beyond outdated. So are the mustaches. So are the men.

Still, it doesn’t take a detective to identify the two men.

GM: “They gunned him down, Lou. Jeremy May gunned him down. A good cop gunned him down and got drummed off the force for…” Vinny starts, then tails off.

It doesn’t take a detective.

Anyone could tell they are the same men.

But they look different, too.

Maybe it’s some missed doses. Missed fixes. But they do look younger. Softer lines. Fewer lines. Kinder eyes. Fewer bags under those eyes. Fuller hair.

But some of it might not be aging. Some of it might just be hard living. Hard living from another century-plus carrying the Vigil’s torch. Some hunters burn out. Most hunters do burn out, eventually. But most get singed, too, before they do. Singed from carrying the fire so close for so long. It burns and blackens them. Ages them before their time.

Ages them even when they don’t age.

But not so much that one needs to be a detective to see past that aging.

One would think the photo shows two veteran cops early or mid-way through their respective careers. It’d be a perfectly believable photo.

If it looked taken twenty rather than 120+ years ago.

Vinny looks between Lou, the photo, and then Lou again. He frowns in consternation.

Then he holds up the photo to the light. Squints at it. Turns it over. Feels it between his fingers.

“This thing… doesn’t feel fake,” he says slowly.

He looks at Lou, brow furrowed.

“How? How is this is not fake?”

Louis: The old man closes his eyes, and rests his weary head against the seat.

“Because, kid, some truths are uglier than lies.”

He sighs.

“But that still doesn’t mean we shouldn’t tell them. So I’ll explain. I said I would.”

He opens his eyes, as if reflexively spotting Alejandra’s approach from the gas stop’s restroom.

“Next stop, after we drop off Lex. She shouldn’t have to bare the burden of those truths. Not here, not now, at least.”

He takes back the tintype and gently places it back in the cigarette pack and trench pocket.

GM: Lex looks like she’s already finished relieving herself, as she’s in the gas station’s adjacent convenience store. Lou sees her just as she exits with a water bottle, a bag of chips, another pack of cigarettes, and an annoyed look.

“Empleado de gilipollas,” she mutters as she gets in, closing the door with more force than strictly necessary, then looks at Vinny. “Asshole clerk.”

“You want, I could sock him out for you,” the detective half-jokes.

“No. Wasn’t all his fault. They didn’t have the brand I like.”

“No Circinus.”

Louis: That confession both comforts and alarms the barely sober Ret. Det.

He can’t help but crank his eyes back to Lex’s pack.

Half of him prays it’s not another menthol. Half of him prays it is.

GM: She holds up a plainer-looking pack with a bigger warning label showing a hideous set of yellowed teeth with blackened gums.

WARNING: CIGARETTES CAUSE MOUTH DISEASE, reads the label.

It’s menthol.

“Wouldn’t have even bought this shit, but literally smoking vampiros always makes me smoke more,” she remarks sourly.

‘More’ is saying quite a lot for the always-smoking resident doctor.

Louis: Menthol, Lou silently notes. Thank the bloody archangels.

“Hey, Alejandra,” Lou says out loud. “Not to be a gilipollas myself, but could we leave that pack sealed till out next stop? Lottie told me she doesn’t like so much smoke in her ‘hair’.”

He points his prosthetic hook at the soft-top.

“Puto dolor to get out, right Lottie?”

GM: The car rumbles beneath him.

Lex doesn’t look thrilled, but accedes with an, “All right, sure.”

“Cutting back doesn’t hurt anyway,” says Vinny.

“Mm,” says Lex.

Louis: Lou doesn’t reply. He knows the score. To Lex, you hurt either way. It’s just a matter of picking your pain.

Still, the old man doesn’t begrudge the rare break from the menthol fumes, nor the even rarer moment of accord between the doctor and green-eyed car.

Miracles never cease.

---

Saturday morning, 12 December 2015

GM: Waffle House is a Louisiana staple. The food might not be good for you, but it sure is good, and it’s just the thing after smoking a vampire during the still-early dawn. Vinny, Lou, and Lex get a booth to themselves and order like it’s the Last Supper, if one ate supper for breakfast fast food. The trademarked All-Star Special consists of bacon slices, eggs over easy, waffle with butter and syrup, toast, and another item Lex isn’t initially sure of from the menu. Vinny tells her it’s hash browns. Lex thought it was sausage. Vinny says they can order sausage too. Lex says they should order the hash brown bowls too. True to their name, they’re hash browns, bacon bits, scrambled eggs, and cheese all stirred in a bowl. Vinny says they shouldn’t leave out waffles. The “starter” ones they got “don’t count.” They order chocolate chip waffles. Pecan waffles, for Lou. Extra syrup. Syrup for the waffles. Syrup for eggs and sausages, which they order more of separately, for the syrup. Should they order anything else, too?



No one orders for themselves. Everyone shares. Everyone eats some of whatever they feel like eating. Lex laughs about how bad this is for them. Vinny laughs too and says between a bite of biscuit,

“We all die anyway, don’t we? Let’s enjoy this for what it is.”

“For what it is,” repeats Lex, raising her coffee in toast.

Vinny raises his too. “For what it is.”

Louis: “For what is,” the old man says in similar salute, smile, and damn it if he can’t help it, a tear.

---

Saturday morning, 12 December 2015

GM: One substantial breakfast later, Lou and his younger two friends are stuffed and content. Vinny insists on footing the bill. Lex insists on splitting it. They eventually do. Neither of the two asks Lou to pay. Lex suggests they go on a walk to work off some of that breakfast. Vinny seems moderately amenable to the idea. He clearly wants to finish his earlier conversation with Lou.

He’s saved, though, when Lex checks the time, swears in Spanish, and says she needs to get in to work. Vinny says he’s not on shift today and has “some business” in Kenner, which Lou supposes is technically true.

Vinny offers to give her a lift back to Tulane Medical all the same, if Lou is amenable to another car ride before he catches his Greyhound.

Louis: “You kids go ahead,” the old man responds, massaging his truthfully sore hip but milking it a bit more than strictly necessary. “Long rides, even in a ride as fine as Miss Beauregard aggravate my sciatica.”

He gives Vinny a look. “Don’t worry about me. Might take a walk, catch a Little League game over in Larayo Park, or take a nap on the golf course.”

He winks at Alejandra as if to say he’s joking. Probably.

“But I’ll be here when you get back. I owe you some old cop stories and a whole lot more after that feast.”

The old man doesn’t take no for an answer, just like he doesn’t let them leave before giving Alejandra a fierce goodbye hug that attempts to convey the words he cannot.

Choking back tears, he gives Lottie B. a hushed admonishment to be nice…“the lady docto…”For Vinny’s sake."

The old man then departs, leaving the might-be lovers with the echoes of an old 18th century song by Palomino, Canción Picaresca.

“Mas como ya es hoy tarde,
lo haré mañana.”

(“But since it is already late today, I will do it tomorrow.”)

The old man sings it badly. But he sings it true all the same.

GM: Lex laughs. “At this hour you might get away with it. Besides. Who even plays golf anymore, anyway?”

“The superintendent does,” says Vinny. “Never had any patience for myself.”

“Me neither,” Lex concurs.

Vinny rubs his very full belly. “One of us might as well exercise this off, anyway. Catch you back around, Lou.”

Alejandra returns the hug just as fiercely.

“Take this the right way, Lou. You smell better. Look better. Everything you’ve been doing these past few months… keep it up, okay?”

Lottie B’s rumbled answer feels equivalent to Lex’s earlier “mm.”

Lou has around 40 minutes to exercise his joints. He can walk a short distance to reach a a more scenic route at Lafreniere Park, where he can walk or jog along the two-mile track to watch white ibises foraging for food in the bayou. The children’s playground sits vacant at this hour in the morning, but the Christmas lights are up and shining dimly against the mid-dawn sun. The place might be something to see at night.


Louis: Sadly, the old man has another destination tonight. Far less wholesome or idyllic, but still a place he needs to see. In the meantime, thought, he soaks up the waking rays of the December sun. He works outs his cramped joints en route to Lafreniere Park, and then winds down to watch the ibises in the bayou. The bucolic sight carries his mind back to older times. Not necessarily better, or even simpler. Just older.

GM: The sun rises steadily overhead. It’s a moderate 50-something out; the coldest Louisiana often gets, before the daytime 70 high, but fortunately there’s no rain amidst the thick morning fog. Vinny meets Lou after he’s done several laps around the park. The younger detective looks at the long-beaked avians patiently stalking the water for fish.

“Weirdly graceful, aren’t they, with those slow walks?”


Louis: The old man doesn’t initially turn, just nods.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that about the doctor’s legs, but I don’t think she’d take kindly to the ‘weirdly’ part.”

A slow smile cracks his lips, as he ruefully glances at the Black Hand-descended cop. “Oh, you were talking about the bec croche?”

GM: “There’s nothing weird about her legs, Lou,” Vinny smiles faintly back.

Louis: “Make sure you tell her that.”

A beat.

“Just not in Lottie’s earshot.”

GM: “’There’s nothing weird about your legs,’” Vinny repeats.

“Words to make any girl blush.”

Louis: The old man’s smile cracks into a guffaw. “Well, hell if I know what pickup lines get the juices flowing with your generation. About a year ago, I had this client try to repay me by setting up a… Tumblr, no Tinder account. Said she felt bad for me. That I was too lonely. Too sad. And that was coming from a ghost. She said something about life or love giving me ‘too many swipes left’. Not sure what the hell that means. Not sure I want to know.”

He chuckles again.

“But even an out of touch geezer like me can see you two have got it. The spark, chemistry, or whatever you kids call it now.”

GM: It’s Vinny’s turn to guffaw, and hard, as Lou brings up Tinder.

“Swipe left. It means, not interested. Show another possible match.”

“Thoughtful client, though.”

“Dead or not.”

Louis: Lou shrugs. But he waits, eyeing the younger cop to make it clear he noticed how Vinny is continuing to dodge the real subject at hand.

Then again, he might be dodging or delaying his own share of awkward topics.

GM: The mirth on Vinny’s face fades.

“Maybe. I know her family wouldn’t approve. I know Lottie wouldn’t approve.”

“And both of them can be fairly violent in expressing that.”

Louis: “Hmm, not sure whose’s wrath would be worse. Mexican Cartel or jealous teenager.”

GM: Vinny snorts a laugh.

“Yeah.”

“This was a good day for her, you know.”

“Only bled over the seat after Lex left.”

Louis: Lou nods. This time a bit more slowly like it might be an important crack in a long-cold case, put he has to mentally poke at it a bit to be sure.

“That’s… that’s really good to hear.”

At those words, he finally shifts to fully face his friend.

“Speaking of which…”

And that’s when he relates the conversation he just had with the Chevelle under Otis’ lodge carport. His offers. Her fears… but also hope. His hopes for her too, and fears. Ideas. When he finishes, he adds firmly but kindly:

“I think she’s ready. To at least try. Maybe more. And that’s more than she’s ever been. You did that, Vinny.”

“With kindness. Patience. Shared laughs, shared tears.”

“She was shit deep, just like you were in OPP. And you hauled her out, just like Ida did to you. I hope you see that, kid. I hope you believe it.”

“It’s up to her what she does with this second chance, but no matter what happens, what she chooses, it doesn’t change how you saved her and gave her that choice.”

GM: Vinny takes that in slowly.

“What she’s got, Lou.”

“It’s a… a half-life.”

“Isn’t something I’d want.”

“Who wants to be stuck to a car forever.”

“Not able to pig out at Waffle House, take a walk in the park, fuck a woman, hell, even take a dump.”

“Who’d want that.”

“Didn’t think there was much to do about it.”

“But if you think your friend can help… okay.”

“Guys rib me all the time for the pink coat anyway.”

Louis: Lou laughs. “I heard pink is the new red. Or maybe that’s just on Tinder.”

But behind the laughter are compassionate eyes.

Understanding.

GM: Vinny snorts another laugh.

“Isn’t in the NOPD.”

“But they do it less than they used to.”

“Joke’s gotten old.”

Louis: “I know a thing or two about that,” quips the old man. And just like that, he knows it’s time. No more dodging or delaying.

The laughter fades, and his face becomes serious, severe even. “You ready?”

GM: Vinny gives a grim nod.

An unsurprised nod.

They were going to circle back to this, sooner or later.

And he’s never let a ‘fake’ drop.

GM’s Note: This log is currently unfinished. Throwing it up because it may be a while before Sam’s player and I wrap it up in real life.

---

Previous, by Narrative: Story Thirteen, Celia XX
Next, by Narrative: Story Thirteen, Celia XXI

Previous, by Character: Story Thirteen, Louis II
Next, by Character: Story Thirteen, Louis IV

“Yes, Roderick.”
Celia Flores

---

Saturday night, 19 March 2016, AM

Celia: There’s a cat on the side of the road near the border of the Mid-City. It’s a pretty cat. Gray fur, bright eyes, a cute little black nose. There’s no collar on the cat’s neck, but it looks well cared for; it clearly belongs to someone, and the bag sitting half-hidden in shrubbery beside it suggests that this person is nearby.

Only there’s no one around but the cat.

The cat waits for her boy, tail flicking beneath the pale moonlight, eyes on the road. She searches for his car.

GM: The cat doesn’t wait long.

The boy’s car arrives soon. The boy gets out.

“Hello, puss,” he smiles, getting onto his haunches to scratch her ears.

Celia: The cat purrs at her boy, rubbing her face against his palm and winding herself around his ankles. She shows him the bag, then rolls onto her back to expose her belly.

While the cat might not want the petting to end, the girl inside of her knows that she has things to discuss with the boy and they can’t spend all their time here on the side of the road. She can’t hide in this form tonight and avoid conversation. So it isn’t too long before she paws at the car, leaping inside once he opens the door and moves to his lap as soon as he starts the car so they can leave. She kneads his thighs with her paws, turns in a circle, and settles down with her limbs tucked beneath her for the drive to his place.

GM: Roderick smiles and rubs the cat’s belly for a while. He lets her inside and brings the bag with him.

Then he picks up an old-fashioned cat carrier with a caged door, opens it, and gently but forcefully pushes the feline inside. He closes the cage door after her.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says as he starts the ignition. “This is better for the Masquerade.”

Celia: The cat doesn’t take kindly to being shoved inside the cage. It twists, trying to get around his hand, but he’s stronger and bigger than her feline form and he closes the door on her before she can escape. She yowls in distress, scratching at the box with her claws.

GM: “Bad,” the boy says firmly as they drive. “You will be corrected if you cannot stay good as a cat, Celia.”

Celia: Her answering meow is distraught. But she’s quiet after that.

GM: “Good cat,” says Roderick, his eyes remaining on the road.

Celia: She settles eventually, curling up on the floor of the crate with her head on her paws. There’s little else she can do given the situation.

GM: The cat waits for a while. Roderick eventually parks the car in the garage, takes the bag and the cat carrier, and gets out. He takes the stairs up to his apartment.

Luna doesn’t see the man from last night.

Celia: She wonders if he’s dead. Or if he just broke a bunch of things falling down the stairs.

She sniffs for blood.

GM: Roderick doesn’t say either way.

The cat smells none.

He takes her into his new apartment. It feels similar to the old one, but less personal. It’s clean and well-maintained, and decorated with the same modern and relatively minimalist aesthetic. Grays, whites, and beiges predominate. Much of the wall space used for art seems to have gone to bookshelves instead. The baseball pennant for the New Orleans Pelicans is gone, though. So is the John F. Kennedy election poster. The three family photos of the Garrisons are gone as well. His grandmother’s mirror has already been shattered. The framed degrees from Tulane University and Tulane Law are still present, though. There’s also two new additions: one is a statue of a tall and proud-looking woman in an imperious pose, fist raised high above her head. There’s an inscription at the base in what looks like Greek, which Celia cannot read. There’s also a mosaic of Alexander the Great on his horse.

Roderick sets down the bag, then puts down the cat carrier next to it. He opens the barred metal door for the cat inside to leave.

Celia: Luna darts out of the cage, streaking past Roderick to dive beneath the couch, crawling across the carpet on her belly to fit into the snug space.

GM: She hears a frown in Roderick’s voice.

“Enough of that, Celia. You are not a cat.”

Celia: She is a cat. Her answering meow is plaintive.

GM: The couch is suddenly gone. Roderick lifts it over his head in one hand. There’s a stern look on his face as he grabs for the cat.

Celia: Oh. The cat starts to flatten herself against the ground, then catches sight of his face and thinks better of it. She doesn’t move when he reaches for her.

GM: He picks her up by the scruff of her neck, lowers the couch enough that it doesn’t make too much impact when he drops it, then stuffs the cat back inside the carrier.

The barred metal door locks closed again with another click.

Celia: She could twist. Hiss. Scratch his arm.

But she doesn’t. She hangs limply from his hand, goes quietly into the carrier, and doesn’t make a peep once she’s inside.

GM: He looks at her for several moments.

“You will remain in the carrier until you show me you are in control of yourself.”

“Shake your head if you are not a cat. Cats do not shake their heads.”

Celia: The cat meows at him. But she shakes her head.

GM: “No meows,” he says.

“Shake your head twice if you are not a cat.”

Celia: What sort of cat doesn’t meow?

The cat shakes her head. She pauses. Then shakes it again.

GM: “Good,” says Roderick.

“I am going to let you out. You will immediately turn back into a human. Nod your head if you understand.”

Celia: The cat nods her head.

GM: Roderick opens the cage door.

Celia: There was a cat once. Now there’s just a girl, sitting on the floor where the cat had been while she looks up at her boyfriend with large eyes. She’s dressed down from Elysium and her meetings, in yoga pants and an off-the-shoulder sweater that exposes her neck and collarbone on one side, hair pulled back off her face in a low tie that twists in and around itself to lend some elegance to the typical “pony” look.

She looks younger and more vulnerable than her years suggest. There’s no trace of Jade in her face despite the mask she wears. No trace of the slutty Toreador. No trace of Savoy’s lapcat or Veronica’s childe, the killer or the chameleon.

There’s no trace of her sire when she looks up at Roderick, wringing her hands in front of her.

She looks like his college girlfriend again. Casual. Uncertain. Timid.

“Y-you pu… you put me in a—a cage.”

GM: “It’s better for the Masquerade,” Roderick says simply.

Calmly.

Rationally.

She’s making such a big deal about this.

He hangs up his coat, then sits down on the couch. He’s also dressed down from Elysium, albeit slightly. Button-up navy shirt. Black slacks. Oxfords.

“You seemed fairly intent on selling me that you belonged in a cage.”

Celia: “I just—I just wanted you to p-pet me.”

She doesn’t point out how many people put their animals inside their cars without cages or boxes or leashes.

GM: “I did pet you. Multiple times. Do you not recall that, Celia?” he asks, seated above her on the couch.

Celia: “What if there was an accident? What if there was a fire? What if you got jumped?”

How could he do that to her? She doesn’t ask. Her eyes find the floor. Her shoulders lift, as if to protect herself from his anger and disappointment.

Where’s the boy who wants a cat? Where’s the boy who will cuddle and pet her all night because it’s cute and adorable?

Dead.

Dead and gone.

“R-Roderick?” She can’t shake the stammer. She breathes. The hesitance is there in her eyes when she lifts them from the ground to find his face, wide and imploring.

“I… I think I…” She trails off, eyes dropping to the ground again. She’s not going to cry. She’s not going to cry. She’s not going to cry. She’s not afraid, she tells herself. He could have hurt her earlier and he didn’t. He’s not going to hurt her. He’s not going to kill her. He loves her. He’ll help her. It’s better this way. He’s smarter. Stronger. Faster. She’s lost without him, floundering. He’ll put her back on the proper path. It’s for her. For them.

She takes another breath. They should do this first. Before anything else.

“I n-need… I need to be corrected,” she finishes in a whisper.

GM: Roderick leans down from his seat to touch Celia, who’s still sitting below him on the ground, and places a hand on her shoulder.

“For questioning my judgment over the cage, Celia, or for something else?” he asks, understandingly.

Celia: She can’t help but lean into his touch. She closes her eyes. She breathes again, but it does nothing for her.

“B…both?” The uncertainty makes it a question. Is he going to correct her about the cage? She’d stopped. She had.

GM: “Why both?” he asks, still patiently.

Celia: “I… I shouldn’t question you? It’s better. Better for the Masquerade. I should—I shouldn’t play. I’m not a cat. I’m a per… I’m a person. You told me to stop but I didn’t. I wanted to play. It was…. it was wrong. You said stop.”

GM: “Correct,” Roderick answers. “We did play, when I first arrived to pick you up. We enjoyed that. But you got too ‘into character.’ I’ve heard it’s something that Gangrel can do while shapeshifted. They can lose their rationality and higher faculties. They can truly become animals.”

“I don’t need to say that neither of us wants you to ‘actually become’ an animal.”

Celia: Celia nods her head.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t… I wasn’t lost. I know who I am. I’m Celia. I just… I wanted… cuddling. More of it.”

She tries not to think about the prop she’d bought for them sitting at the top of her bag.

GM: “Then you need to ask for that as a person, or you need to find a way to intelligently communicate your desires while shapeshifted,” Roderick explains. “You are not actually a cat, Celia. You can enjoy ‘play’ as a cat. But that is as far as it should go.”

Celia: “You seemed happier last time when we played,” Celia says quietly. “I just… wanted you to be happier.”

GM: “Do you think it makes me happy to discipline a misbehaving cat?”

Celia: “No.”

GM: “Do you think it makes me happy to explain to my carmilla that she is not actually a cat?”

Celia: “N-no.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I misjudged. I won’t do it again.”

“I’ll go in the cage when I need to. I won’t… meow.”

GM: “Good,” says Roderick.

He rubs her shoulder.

“We can play when you’re a cat. But when I make clear that playtime is over, it’s over. Understood?”

Celia: “Yes.” There’s a pause, like she’s debating saying “sir.”

“Understood.”

GM: “Good,” he repeats.

He rubs her shoulder again.

It’s good she understands.

“I don’t like yoga pants, Celia,” he then says. “Please change into something else. You can keep the top if you’d still like to.”

Celia: “Oh. I didn’t know. I’m… I’m sorry, Roderick, I didn’t know. I’ll change.”

She’s on her feet quickly, moving towards her bag to find something else. She had brought everything she’d need for the evening, for the day, for tomorrow as well. The prop she’d ordered for the pair of them is moved aside as she shifts through her bag, searching for something more suitable.

“Are… are pajamas okay?”

GM: Roderick gets out his phone and scrolls through it while she looks through her things.

“Pajamas are okay,” he answers.

“You also don’t need to be sorry for this,” he smiles. “I hadn’t told you I don’t like them. But no more yoga pants around me in the future. Okay?”

Celia: Has he always disliked them?

“Do… do you have a preference on what I wear around you? More formal?”

GM: “No, I generally like your clothing styles,” he answers. “If something else comes up that I don’t like, I’ll let you know. You won’t be corrected for it.”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick. Thank you.”

She doesn’t know if he wants her to change in front of him. She excuses herself from the room to do so, moving back in only once she has donned her nightie: a sheer teddy with a bow off to one side and matching panties.


She hesitates on the threshold of the room, as if to ask him if this is okay.

GM: Roderick smiles at her and nods.

“You look lovely, Celia.”

Celia: She’s not immune to compliments. Her cheeks turn pink. She smiles shyly, dipping her head, and puts the offending clothing back into her bag. A small pink box is displaced when she does; she reaches for it to tuck it back away.

GM: Roderick watches her do so.

“Do your employees at Flawless still wear yoga pants?”

“And tennis shoes?”

Celia: “Y… yes?”

“They’re easy to move in.”

“And they’re on their feet all day.”

GM: “You can draw up a uniform proposal and run it past me. I’m fine if they wear comfortable footwear, but I don’t like tennis shoes, either.”

Celia: She wants to argue with him. It’s her business.

But she nods instead.

“Are… are you going to be coming by the spa, Roderick? It’s usually only me at night.”

GM: “Good,” he says. “Uniforms will help your employees look more professional. That will help draw important clients to your business.”

“And I’d had the thought to do so more frequently, now that I’m going to be spending more time in the Quarter. Do you like that thought?”

Celia: “For services?”

GM: “For services, to simply spend time together, and to assess how your business can be used to advance our interests.”

Celia: “Oh.” Someone breathing down her neck. Telling her how to run things.

Making the tough decisions so she doesn’t need to.

“Yes.”

GM: “I’ll come by when your employees are no longer wearing tennis shoes and yoga pants.”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick.”

Yes, sire.

Yes, Daddy.

GM: “Good,” Roderick says. “Sit down, Celia. You’d said there was something I needed to correct you for?”

Celia: Celia takes a seat beside him. Half of her had hoped he’d forgotten. The rest of her knows he’s too smart for that.

She nods.

GM: He turns to fully face her.

“Tell me about it.”

Celia: At least he hadn’t put her on the floor, right? She tries to take that as a good sign. He loves her. He respects her. He wants to listen to her.

But he’s in charge.

“I… I did a… I p-put our rel-relationship at—at risk. I be… I be…” She cuts off. She can’t breathe. She doesn’t need to breathe but she still can’t; the air traps itself like a bubble in her throat. It burns. She blinks back the red, unable to stand his disappointment.

Not scared. She’s not scared. He’s not going to hurt her. He’s only going to correct her.

“I be-betrayed y-you. Us. I betrayed us.”

She can’t look at him. She can’t. One night in and she’d already messed up.

Stupid, he says inside her head.

She nods. She is. She’s stupid. He’s smart. He’ll make it better. He’ll fix it.

Pathetic, someone sneers.

Crafty, a lick with green eyes says.

He loves her, the blonde sighs.

“Stop it,” she whispers.

GM: She hears the frown in Roderick’s voice.

“How did you betray us, Celia?” he asks.

Calmly.

Patiently.

Rationally.

He’ll know what to do.

All she needs to do is tell him.

Celia: “I… I… I…”

She looks up. She meets his eyes. She looks away again. Swallows.

“I me—I met with… with a contact. I have… I have a lot of contacts,” she explains in a whisper.

He’s going to hurt her.

He’s going to kill her.

He’s going to leave her.

“He’s not,” she whispers. She puts her hands over her ears, as if that will make it stop. “He’s not. He’s not. Stop it! Stop. Please stop.”

GM: Celia can’t see his face. But she hears a deeper frown in her lover’s voice.

“Who are you talking to, Celia?” he asks.

Celia: Them.

Leilani. Jade. Someone Else.

Crazy, one of them giggles.

They might not understand, the masked man says.

Slowly, Celia uncovers her ears. He won’t understand. Not yet. It’s too much for right now. She needs to be corrected first.

“No… no one. Sorry. No one.” Everyone. She changes the subject as delicately as she can. “I have… I have a lot of—of contacts. Friends, some. They tell… they tell me things.”

“But that’s… that’s Jade. Pretty. Whore.”

“He touched me.”

“I let him. I let him touch me.”

GM: Roderick frowns.

Perhaps at both statements.

But he lets the first one drop for now.

“Who touched you, Celia?” he asks.

“I see,” he says after she tells him.

“I need to speak with him about this. You’re going to bring him someplace where I can do so.”

Celia: Celia bobs her head up and down.

“We talked about things,” she says. An offering, if he wants it.

GM: “Good,” says Roderick when she nods. He puts a hand down over hers.

“You can do that soon, and you can do that on your own?”

Celia: “I usually go to him,” she admits.

GM: “I see. Do you think you can’t?”

Celia: “I’ll make it work. I’ll do that. For you. For us. I’ll bring him.”

GM: “Good,” Roderick smiles, patting her hand again.

“Would you like to sit on my lap?”

Celia: She nods again.

GM: He pats it.

Celia: Celia clambers onto his lap. She shivers, as if expecting the worst, then settles against him.

GM: He wraps his arms around her and hugs her against him.

“You did good, Celia, telling me like this. You don’t need to be corrected when you tell the truth.”

“Telling the truth is good.”

“Telling the truth is virtuous.”

Celia: She can’t help the sob. The way she clings to him. The red that runs down her cheeks after she’d spent the past few hours fearing the worst. She presses herself against him, nodding her head as he talks to show she understands but crying in relief all the same.

GM: “Shhh. It’s okay, Celia. I’ve got you,” says Roderick, hugging her close.

“I’m proud of you for telling the truth.”

Celia: She apologizes anyway, stammering out a handful of _sorry_s and I didn’t mean tos.

“I w—I went for, for you,” she finally gets out. “Be-because you said you wanted to-to kill him.”

GM: “Yes, I still do,” answers Roderick. “So why did you go there?”

Celia: Celia tries to breathe. The tears slow as Roderick holds her close. She curls against him in her sheer teddy, legs drawn up almost to her chest.

“Information,” she finally says. “We talked about… about a few things. I thought if… I thought I could leverage our friendship if he were made a hound, and keep you updated.”

“And I found out… something else.”

GM: “What did you find out?” Roderick asks.

Celia: Celia leans in close to whisper in his ear.

GM: “Celia, you know less about these things than I do,” Roderick says frankly.

Celia: She looks as if he slapped her. Her face falls.

“Yes, Roderick,” she murmurs.

“I’m sorry.”

GM: He runs a hand along her cheek.

“You need to remember that,” he says softly. “When you get worked up over these things.”

“Who is the smart one?”

Celia: “I’m… I’m sorry,” she stammers again. She presses her cheek into his hand. “I’m sorry. You’re the smart one. You’ll tell me what to worry about. When to worry. I’m sorry.”

GM: He hugs her.

“It’s okay.”

“This is still new for you.”

Celia: Celia slowly nods her head.

GM: “You remembered where things stood when I reminded you. So that’s good.”

Celia: “I… I didn’t mean to overstep. I want… I wanted to tell you. To tell you ev—everything.”

GM: He rubs her back.

“I know you did. I’m glad you did. You should tell me everything. This was worth telling me.”

“You just got caught up and forgot who the smart one was.”

Celia: “Thank you. For… for reminding me.”

“For running the ship.”

“For handling it.”

“Thank you.”

GM: “You’re welcome. I will handle it. I’ll always take care of you.”

“As far as this…”

The pair discuss a few related things before Celia leads him back toward the first point she’d tried to make.

GM: “I told you to stop talking about this,” Roderick frowns.

Celia: Celia abruptly shuts her mouth.

GM: “I’ll let that slide for now, but showing me you can’t follow instructions tells me you need correction.”

Celia: “I’m… I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m trying. Please… please cor… correct me. If. If I need it. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

GM: “I know you don’t,” says Roderick. “Now, please clarify for me. You said Caroline threw your mother off a roof?”

Celia: “Punishment. Trespassing.”

GM: “Where was this?”

Celia: “My haven. When you came. And she was there.”

GM: “So Caroline came to the French Quarter, and threw your mother off your haven’s roof?”

Celia: She’s caught.

Trapped.

In her own lie.

Slowly, Celia shakes her head.

GM: “No?” Roderick asks. “What detail am I getting wrong, Celia?”

Celia: “I… I don’t…” Celia shakes her head.

GM: Roderick grabs Celia’s hair, makes a fist in it and yanks it back hard, splaying her throat.

“I don’t like where this conversation is going, Celia.”

Celia: Celia becomes absolutely, perfectly still.

GM: “Why don’t you tell me the full story of what happened to your mother at the roof.”

Celia: She blinks back red tears.

“Sh… she… the shuh… the… sheriff. The sheriff. Catch. Stupid. Catch her. Catch. Threw her. Threw her. He threw her. Catch. Said catch.”

GM: “Ah, the sheriff,” says Roderick, nodding thoughtfully.

“I suppose that makes more sense.”

“There was a lot about the ‘Caroline threw my mother off a roof’ story that didn’t make sense to me.”

He looks down at Celia and sneers.

“You’re so disgustingly dishonest, Celia.”

“You wouldn’t know the truth if it bent you over this couch and fucked you.”

Celia: That’s not how it’s supposed to go.

This isn’t how it goes.

She stays quiet. She’s already dug herself deep enough.

GM: Roderick abruptly dumps Celia off his lap and rises to his feet. He stares down at the prone woman on the floor with a cool expression.

“What do you have to say about what a liar you are?”

Celia: “I’m… I…” Celia blinks up at him. Then she lowers her gaze, dropping her eyes to the floor. She kneels, bending, and presses her palms against the ground with her head bowed, supplicating herself before him in a pose that is pure submission and exposes the back of her neck.

“I don’t want to lie anymore. I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to. Please. Please help me. Please make me better. Please correct me. I want to tell you. Tell you everything. I don’t want to lie.”

GM: “I am going to give you three choices now, Celia.”

“One, we can end our relationship here, and you can tell as many lies as you like.”

Celia: No.

He can’t.

Her face spasms in pain at the thought. She shakes her head frantically from side to side.

GM: “No? And yet you keep telling me lies, even though you know how much truth means to me. Is it unreasonable of me to think you value lying more than you value our relationship?”

Celia: “I don’t. I don’t. I swear. I don’t. There’s… just… there’s so much that… I’m afraid, Roderick. I’m afraid you won’t accept me. Won’t want me. Won’t love me.” She can’t hold back the tears. She tries. She knows he doesn’t like her like this so she tries. She wipes at her eyes as if that will hide it.

“I d-don’t wa-want to, to lie anymore.”

GM: “The second option,” Roderick continues impassively, without so much as a trace of sympathy in his voice, “is that you leave my haven and sleep by yourself tonight. You will write a testament for me. Of your lies. All of your lies. One of your ghouls will deliver it to me. I will call you when I have finished reading it. We will not see each other until then.”

Celia: Leave.

Leave and go where?

There’s more to say. More to tell him. More to discuss.

Celia doesn’t say anything. She waits for the final option.

GM: “The third option is that you turn into a cat, and I put you in the microwave for several minutes.”

“You may then spend the night with me.”

“You will still give me a full accounting of all of your lies.”

Celia: “Won’t… won’t that kill me?”

GM: “You are a vampire, Celia,” Roderick explains patiently.

“A microwave cannot kill you.”

“It will cause you considerable pain and injury, however.”

“If you don’t want to go through that discomfort, you can spend the night somewhere else.”

Celia: Humans explode in a microwave. She’d seen it once. In a movie.

“I… I want the… the microwave, please.”

She doesn’t want to leave him. He hates her. Thinks she’s stupid. And she still clings to him.

GM: “Okay, Celia,” says Roderick.

“Turn into a cat.”

Celia: Celia needs no further encouragement. She disappears, the cat in her place. The cat doesn’t try to cuddle the boy. She doesn’t flick her tail or wash her whiskers or purr. She’s just still. Waiting. Dreading.

GM: Roderick picks up the cat and carries her to the kitchen. It’s a clean- and modern-looking kitchen, though there’s no food out.

He sets the cat down on the countertop.

He opens the door to a black microwave.

Celia: The cat doesn’t need him to place her inside. She walks in on her own once he opens the door.

*GM:* The cat has a clear ceramic dish to sit down on. Roderick closes the door. The cat hears him pressing buttons.

Almost instantly, the cat’s vision blurs and she begins to feel dizzy. Like someone is shaking her eyeballs. The dish underneath the cat starts to spin like a perverse merry-go-round.

Almost instantly, it gets hot.

Very hot.

The cat can feel every cell in its body vibrating at grotesquely high frequency. All of the water in the cat’s body—all of the blood—starts to boil. Eyes, mouth, skin, the cat’s entire body feels like exploding as the animal is cooked alive from the inside. Around and around goes the microwave dish. The Beast screams in the cat’s ears.

Roderick’s arm moves over the microwave door, holding it firmly shut.

That’s the cat’s last sight before she sees pure red.

Celia: She’s dying.

He’s killing her.

She’s going to boil.

To burn.

The cat yowls in pain. She hisses. She claws at the sides of the microwave. She launches herself at the door, but her lover is outside holding it shut. There’s nowhere to run.

Around and around and around she goes.

The red haze descends. She escapes the pain. Escapes the heat. Escapes the stupid.

The Beast is furious. It comes out of the girl-turned-cat to find itself trapped in a box. It doesn’t like boxes. It doesn’t like heat. It doesn’t like pain.

And it doesn’t like the boy holding it in here. Keeping it here. Trapping it.

Like it’s not a deadly thing in its own right.

The Beast launches its body at the door. It scratches with its claws, howling and spitting while it cooks from the inside out. Its organs, if it had any, would fail. Its fat melts from its very bones, turning its muscles sluggish. It trips. Falters. Falls.

It’s burning.

Screaming.

Dying.

It tears at its own burning flesh, raking its claws down its body to rid itself of the fur that seeks to trap it. Muscle and skin peels away with every scrape. Anything to escape. Anything to get free.

Anything to

Stop

The

Burning.

GM: Then.

Just like that.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

The red haze clears. The pain ends. Absolute heat plunges into room temperature, or something that might feel like room temperature. The microwave door opens with a light chk. Smoke wafts out.

The door seems taller now. The cat is lying flat on her belly. She feels like she’s been cooked from the inside. She has been cooked from the inside. Everything burns. Everything hurts. Part of the cat just wants to curl up and die.

“I’m going to pour cold water over you,” sounds Roderick’s almost warbling voice. It’s hard to hear. He’s holding a tall glass in his hand.

“Make a sign if you don’t want me to.”

Celia: There’s no sign of anything from the cat. No sign it’s even alive anymore.

Maybe he killed it.

GM: But the cat is a vampire.

A microwave wouldn’t be enough to kill it.

Or maybe he’s testing now, to see if he has.

The boy is smart.

Ice-cold water pours all over the cat’s body.

It… hurts.

Celia: Hurts.

That’s a mild way to put it.

The cat remembers how to scream when the water touches its body.

Lukewarm.

Lukewarm for burns.

The girl was always better at medical stuff than the boy.

GM: The boy’s hands approach. The dish lifts up from the microwave.

“There we go, Celia,” sounds his voice.

The cat feels a sensation like movement. Gray approaches in its blurred vision. Then more gray, from all sides.

It must be in the sink.

“I’m going to turn on the cold water. Make a sign if you don’t want me to.”

Celia: The cat slumps in the sink. It doesn’t bother making a sound. All of the “warm water for burns” probably only applies to humans anyway.

She’s never been burned this badly before.

Maybe if it’s cold enough it’ll finish her off. He can dump the cat’s carcass in the garbage.

She won’t be able to disappoint anyone anymore.

GM: Just like that, cold water floods over the cat from all sides. Steadily rises. The drain must be plugged. Maybe the boy did that ahead of time.

The cold water hurts.

But it’s colder.

And gets colder still as the water level rises.

So she can’t get flushed down the drain.

Just float around and dirty someone else’s water.

Celia: She doesn’t need to breathe. Which means she doesn’t need to swim. So she doesn’t bother keeping her head above the water, just lets it cover her until she’s a gray blur beneath the surface.

Death might feel better than this.

GM: She feels hot. She feels cold. She feels like she’s melting. She feels like she’s freezing.

Mostly she just feels like shit.

Celia: Burning in Hell can’t be this agonizing.

GM: Time passes.

The boy doesn’t say anything.

The cat just lies there in the cold water.

Lies there, burns inside, and suffers.

But steadily, the burning subsides.

Celia: Her sire has beaten her. But he’s never tortured her. She wonders where she went wrong that the boy who loves her could fathom doing this to her.

GM: She never hurt her sire like she hurt the boy.

Can anyone even hurt her sire?

Celia: Maybe she doesn’t want to know.

Maybe one night she’ll go too far and he’ll just… snap her.

Like a twig.

Or a piece of glass.

She’ll shatter.

Isn’t she already shattered?

He broke her.

She was his and he broke her.

She was her sire’s and he broke her too.

GM: She broke him, too.

They’re perfect for each other.

Celia: No. Love doesn’t hurt this much.

She was made for someone else.

But he’ll never love her.

GM: Eventually, the water starts to drain.

Glug-glug-glug.

Celia: She watches it swirl. It pulls at her fur, pulls at her tail. She wishes she were small enough to go with it.

GM: She sees a towel descend. Feels it start to dry her off.

That hurts, too.

The cat feels motion underneath it. The boy is lifting out the microwave dish.

He carries it to the couch.

Sets it down.

“You can turn back into a person now, Celia.”

She’ll be lying flat on her belly in this position.

Celia: The towel sloughs off more of her fur and skin. The cat whines as it detaches from her body.

Change back. Become a girl again. She doesn’t want to. She wants him to shove her back in the cage. She should have stayed there. It’s where she belongs.

But she doesn’t fight the voice that tells her what to do. He’s in charge. He’s smarter. He’s helping.

The cat becomes a girl.

And the girl curls in on herself to make her body smaller. She tries not to cry. She knows he hates it.

But the fur hid the burns that stand out on her hairless skin. Red. Shiny. Wet.

Or at least it is on the spots that have skin left. Some of it came out with the fur that he rubbed off with the towel. Stupid. Don’t rub burns. She was always better at bodily care. If she were human it would blister over, burning through the epidermis and dermis into the third layer. Hypodermis. The little bit of fat that separates the dermis from the muscle. It’s white on most humans, that fat, but here… here it’s black. Burnt. Like bacon left in the pan too long.

The cells are dead.

So is the rest of her. But it usually doesn’t hurt this much.

GM: Roderick looks down at her.

There’s an odd expression on his face.

“You chose this,” he says after a moment.

“Two alternatives. One in which we’d still be together. You chose this.”

Celia: She didn’t want to leave him. Even for a night.

“I chose this,” she echoes in a rasp. Talking hurts, too. The movement of her muscles pulls at the charred, tight skin on face and throat.

GM: “Why?”

There’s that same odd look on his face.

Celia: Where does she even begin?

“Lost you. Twice. Not again.” Talking hurts. “Never again. Not even… for a night.”

GM: “You keep lying to me.”

His voice is flat.

“You keep saying you don’t want to lose me. And you keep lying to me.”

Celia: She’s not lying now.

She’s not.

“W’d’you wan’ know?”

She’d told him. She’d told him she wants to tell him everything.

It was supposed to be Thursday.

They wouldn’t be here if Thursday hadn’t gone down like it did.

They were supposed to talk.

She was going to tell him everything.

But she never got the chance.

The thought hurts as much as what happened to her body.

GM: Timing is everything.

Roderick looks at her for a while.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just looks at her.

Celia: She’d told him she’s not a mind reader.

He’ll have to use his words if he wants something.

Big brain like his, she’s sure he can think of plenty of them.

GM: “Why did you lie to me?”

Celia: “Said you… kill him. Scared. Need help.”

The burns along the side of her face pull taut when she moves her mouth. It’s just as unpleasant to look at as it probably feels. Her eyes don’t seem very focused, as if she can still only make out blurry shapes.

“Don’t belive me… ’bout her. Need help,” she says again.

GM: “So you lied because you needed help? Or I needed help?” he asks.

Celia: “Me.” She pushes her hands against the cushion beneath her, struggling to rise. Every movement is another wave of searing agony. She gives up with a pained exhale.

GM: Roderick asks a question.

Celia: Sort of.

“Scared for you. Going after him.”

Otherwise yes. She nods.

GM: “You needed my help, but because I didn’t believe you and said the discussion was over, you lied to me so that I would help you,” says Roderick.

He pauses.

“Why did you need my help?”

Celia: He’s got it wrong again. He’s ignoring the very real fear about him going after the sheriff. Why would she tell him that he threatened her family when it will only make him want to protect her and take out the problem? She doesn’t correct him. He doesn’t want to hear it.

“Faster. Stronger. Smarter.”

GM: Roderick questions her some more.

“That’s what you always do,” he says at length.

His eyes are cooling.

“You lie to me. You lied to me and would have thrown me into danger because it suited your purposes to do so.”

Celia: “No,” she protests. “Not danger. I wouldn’t. Not you. He’ll kill you.”

GM: “Yes, that’s what makes things so murky. You really did think you were protecting me. It was just a nice little bonus that your lie would result in me taking care of another problem for you, mmm?”

“You know, Celia, I was actually starting to feel bad,” he says.

“To feel guilty.”

“Like I’d crossed a line.”

Celia: It’s not like that. He’s got it wrong again.

Celia doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t know how to fix it.

GM: “Like I’d done something terrible.”

“I was starting to feel very contrite.”

“I was starting to wonder if I’d made even more mistakes, since you told me the truth about Coco.”

He regards her coolly.

“But this? Oh, it’d be catastrophic for a breather, but a little blood and you’ll be good as new.”

“I wonder if I’d have been in the same position.”

“If you’d manipulated me into fighting your battles.”

“I wonder if I would have walked back from the battle at all.”

Celia: “It’s not like that.”

“I didn’t want you to fight.”

GM: “No? Explain how it is then, Celia. I’m pleased you’re starting to find your voice again. A little time in the microwave only hurts for a little while, doesn’t it, when we’re Kindred?”

Celia: “I don’t want… I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Ever. I didn’t want you to fight.” The tears threaten to fall. She blinks them back. She doesn’t want him to see. “I wanted help. Planning. Not fighting.”

She still hurts. All of her nerves are still on fire. Her voice is a rasp. But she pushes through. Pushes past it. She has to make him understand.

GM: “But you lied to me, Celia,” he says in a very patient, explaining voice.

“Now why would you do a thing like that? Why would you tell me a lie? We’ve already established that protecting me from the sheriff wasn’t your sole motivation, so don’t give me that.”

Celia: “Can… can I talk about… what you told me not to talk about?”

GM: “I suppose so, Celia, if the context is necessary.”

Celia: She tells him.

Talking hurts, too.

So does the look on his face. The coolness in his eyes. That’s worse than the burns. Worse than the scratches from her own claws. Worse than being boiled from the inside.

She blinks again. She won’t cry. He doesn’t like crying. Stop crying. No tears. Don’t be a baby.

Don’t be a scared woman.

But she is.

Terrified.

Movement stretches her burned skin across her bones. She bites back a gasp. He doesn’t want to see weakness. She tries to hide it.

But that’s lying too, isn’t it?

“I should… I should have… should have asked. Asked, not lied. I don’t want to lie. I’m tired of lying. I want to tell you. Everything. All of it. Everything.”

He said she could tell him. Said she could tell him everything. But she tried and he didn’t believe her.

“I lied. It was wrong. I lied. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You… you can… hot water with… with burns. Hurts more. Y-you can cor-correct m-me ag-again.”

GM: “You’ve already been corrected, Celia,” Roderick explains patiently.

“I’m not sure I believe you about the rest of that, though. That’s why I’ll talk with Savoy.”

“Always verify whatever a liar tells you.”

Celia: Of course he doesn’t believe her.

Celia just nods her head.

GM: “You will be corrected further if any of what you told me turns out to be a lie.”

Celia: “Y-yes, s… Roderick.”

GM: “You were right. You shouldn’t have lied. I’m running out of patience for your lies. Who knows how many more of those you can tell before I decide to dump you?”

Celia: “You… you won’t d-dump me for… for the truth?”

GM: “Never, Celia.”

“Ugly enough truths may require correction, but it will always be gentler correction than more lies.”

Celia: Her lip trembles.

“What… what if I… what if I already lied ab-about it?”

“What if it’s bad?”

GM: “Come clean, Celia,” Roderick says patiently.

“Come clean over everything.”

“If I find out you’ve lied about something significant after tonight, we are finished.”

“I’m tired of your lies.”

Celia: So she does.

She tells him.

Everything.

She starts at the beginning. Back when she was still human. She tells him about the monster under the bed. She tells him about the monster shaking her dad’s hand. She tells him about the hallway. The hacksaw. The screaming. Carried to bed. Tucked in.

It’s all in your head.

I love you very, very much.

She tells him about the secret her mother told her. She tells him about college. Paul. Going to him for help for her mom. Their relationship. The things he’d done to her. She tells him how she tried to end it and he’d held her down while another man used her. How she’d thought that was the end until the night he showed up at her dad’s party. The bathroom. The bedroom. The knife.

She’d told him about Paul before. The times she had gone to see him. What she had done with the money—everything came back to her mother. But she knows more now than she did then. Remembers the details of what had been done to her. She doesn’t want to tell him. But when he pushes she does. Everything. Her mother’s continued financial distress even after the wage garnishment stopped. Celia’s continued visits to his home to collect the money for her mother. Her father’s words on New Years Eve: “Celia would be happy to receive instruction.”

Her voice is flat. She doesn’t let him see her tears. She doesn’t let him know how much it hurts to share these ugly parts of her past. She doesn’t want his sympathy. She just wants him to know. She tells him about her suspicion that he mind fucked her, but it’s only a theory. She has no proof. And it doesn’t excuse what she did.

She tells him about getting her dad arrested. Chase at the bar. Taking her home. The arguing. The guns. The fire escape. Veronica. The rape.

Star mode, she’d told him years ago, but she’d never confirmed it. It’s just a theory. Pietro had never much wanted to talk about that night, only confirmed that they’d never had sex. He’d fed from her. Gotten her off, maybe, but the details are fuzzy. She was inebriated. It’s not an excuse, just an explanation.

She tells him about calling them the next night. Knowing they weren’t human but he’d said he was a thief so she thought he could get her mom back. Veronica’s test. The bargain. Power. Her plans. Pete showing up. Explaining the rules. The video of her mother tied to the bed. Getting her out. Getting her safe. Going back to hurt him. To hurt him and to hurt Isabel. The rage.

She’s never told anyone that before. Pete knows, but only because of the tape. She’d never said what she’d done. Her awful revenge.

She tells him about the second Maxen. The monster in the window. The sky. His icy grip.

That same cold grip seizes her throat when she tries to tell him about her Embrace. She touches a hand to it, hoping he understands.

GM: Roderick listens.

Patiently.

The basic story is familiar to him.

But the details likely aren’t.

They are such ugly details.

His face gets ugly, too, to match. During the parts with Paul. With Pietro. With Veronica.

He asks for details. All of the grisly, gory, ugly details. Everything from the piss-soaked blondies to the blowjobs while she was leashed to a wall to how much better ‘Chase’ was in bed than him.

Celia can see the rage welling in his eyes. The fangs jutting from his mouth. The way his fists clench and un-clench.

But he keeps it down.

He keeps it under control.

So far.

He understands, too.

But only so far.

“No, no, no, no, Celia,” he says patiently, interrupting her story when she clamps up about her Embrace and gestures towards her throat.

“Spit it out. You don’t get to keep secrets anymore. Not from me. Not after everything you’ve done.”

There’s that same cool look to his eyes.

“You are going to spit out every last ugly little detail, every last dirty little secret in your head, and come completely clean. Or I am going to dump you, right here, and you will go through the rest of your Requiem alone.”

Celia: Celia watches his face. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t shrink back. She doesn’t let anything show on her own face; it’s marble, porcelain, another mask. The unafraid girlfriend. The trusting girlfriend. The “he won’t kill me” girlfriend.

She takes a breath. She sends the blood inside of her body where she needs it to go. She can’t focus on defying her sire while she’s busy worrying about the pain in her body. So she heals it. She lets the pain fade away.

And wishes she hadn’t when the hunger gnaws at her instead, snarling inside of her like the unthinking Beast it is. It rises to the surface. It wants to fight. To feed. To fuck, but only to show dominion. This boy has put it through so much tonight. The stake. The name calling. The demands. The cage. The microwave. Now this. Making the girl tell him everything. Making her spill the final secret. The one she has guarded more preciously than any other.

The one she’s never told another soul.

She snarls. Her fangs jut out from her mouth, eyes blazing with a mindless fury and hunger.

Rip.

Tear.

Kill.

She’s halfway out of her seat before the girl reaches for the leash. The blonde girl with the blue eyes. The one who still believes in love. She gets in the way. Not him.

The Beast snarls at her, too. It draws back its hand to strike.

Not him, she says again.

Not him, the dead girl agrees.

Not yet. Someone Else. Her presence is calming. Cooling. It soothes the ragged edges of the Beast’s frayed nerves. It turns from a slavering tiger to tiny housecat. Someone Else picks it up and puts it back in its cage, locking the door tight.

The blonde girl shows dimples when she smiles. She reaches through the bars to bleed herself for the monster in the cage, letting it slake its hunger on her instead of him.

Not him.

She loves.

And she bleeds for her love.

Celia takes the reins again. She slumps back against the couch, exhausted from her fight with the Beast. Exhausted from her hunger. Exhausted from her emotional turmoil. Wondering if he’s going to hurt her. To correct her. To leave her. Exhausted from pulling so hard at her bond all evening and now, here, her opening. She slips the collar.

There’s one lie left. The thing it all comes back to.

And it might be too much.

“He killed me,” she whispers to her knees, drawing them up to her chest. “He killed me that night. He’s my sire.”

Maybe it all clicks into place for him then. Why she’s so close to Savoy. Why she said she could “handle” him. Why she wasn’t afraid when he showed up. Why he even showed up in the first place.

That time she asked him if he thought sires were important. If the childe will become like their monstrous sire given enough time.

Her affiliation with Savoy from the beginning, long before Veronica jumped ship.

All of the lies.

Every single one of them.

They all go back to Donovan being her sire.

It’s an ugly truth. She’s the childe of the most feared lick in the city. She’s the childe of the monster that let her father torment her family, that gave him the tools to do so. She’s the childe of the lick Roderick wants to kill.

She feels better for the telling. Even though her heart breaks. Even though she’s worried that he won’t love her as she is. Won’t love her for the secret.

But she keeps going.

She tells him about falling. Waking up on Savoy’s lap. Veronica’s rage.

She tells him she wanted to keep him. She could taste his love. She almost ripped his throat out for it. But she wanted better for him.

She never thought it would lead to his death.

She’s blamed herself for so long. It’s her fault Coco could come along and take him. She hurt him. It’s her fault. She’d thought she was doing the right thing but it’s her fault.

It’s always her fault.

She tells him about seeing him at the release. About asking Coco if love is real among licks when she’d woken up on her couch.

She fills in the gaps of the years they were apart. Online school. Medical training. Her business. Her other business. Collecting intel. Her krewe. Another New Years Eve disaster.

She tells him about her projects. The prince. The other prince. The demons. The ghosts. Maxen. Her mother. The dolls. Hunters. Research. Experiments. The vision.

Her relief earlier this evening when he said that he’s in charge. Every time she tries to get it right she gets it wrong. She doesn’t want to get it wrong anymore.

Everything.

All of the ugliness. All of the lies. All of her partners. All of the secrets she has been holding onto. She tells him.

GM: He said it would feel better.

Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t.

But at least for him, the rest of it seems to go down easier.

Her true sire. Her projects. The prince. The other prince. The demons. The ghosts. Maxen. Her mother. The dolls. Hunters. Research. Experiments. The vision.

None of that is about them. Except for the last bit.

His face stays calm. He doesn’t seem to be wrestling with his Beast anymore. His fangs don’t jut. His hands don’t clench and un-clench.

“So that’s everything, Celia?” he patiently asks when she’s finished.

“Those are all your secrets? That’s everything about yourself you want me to know?”

Celia: Maybe it’s worse this way. Maybe she could forgive him if he reached for her in anger. Maybe she wouldn’t take it so personally. Maybe she wouldn’t tremble, then try to control her trembling, then shake her head at his final question.

“N… no.”

Everything.

He said everything.

She starts with Jade. How she came out the night of her Embrace. How she’d called her cousin, and how he’d asked for her name. Jade, she’d said. She’d said it again when Savoy told her Celia should disappear.

Jade.

Part of her. But separate.

She tells him that there’s more than one.

She tells him that sometimes she’s afraid she doesn’t know who she is anymore. That she’s changed her face so often she doesn’t think any of her body is actually hers. That she doesn’t know if she’s Donovan’s childe or Roderick’s girlfriend or Savoy’s lapcat or Veronica’s clone.

She sounds crazy. She knows that. She admits it. She tells him so before he can even reach the conclusion himself. She’s never spoken to anyone in depth about it. Except this evening. Harlequin. He’d approached her first and told her that she’s cracking.

And this is why.

GM: “I see,” Roderick says simply.

He drums a finger along the couch’s armrest.

“I will render my judgment once you’ve told me everything, Celia. The fact you have multiple personalities is a very germane piece of information. That was wise of you to bring up.”

He regards her calmly.

“Is that the last of your secrets? Anything I find out later which you don’t bring up now will go much, much worse for you.”

Celia: She’d told him everything. She can’t think of anything else. But she feels like there’s a trap he’s waiting to spring on her. Like he knows something she doesn’t. So she tells him, again, about the cowboy. Just in case he’d forgotten anything she said about him earlier. She doesn’t want to be accused of lying or hiding things.

When it’s done she’s empty. There are no more secrets left to reveal.

She asks, finally, if she needs to expand on anything.

GM: “What about the licks you’ve shared blood with, Celia?” he asks, still calmly. “Which ones, since we got back together?”

“I just want to be pretty clear over that.”

Celia: She tells him. All of them.

GM: “Well, well, well,” Roderick says patiently.

He drums his fingers against the armrest some more.

“I think I’ve heard just about all I need to render judgment.”

“But Carolla, first.”

“My dear brother. Who’s touched you. Who’s fucked you.”

“How did his hand-off to the hunters go?”

“On a scale of 1 to 10, how much do you expect he’s going to suffer?”

Celia: He’s done with her.

She can hear it.

“Ten.”

GM: “What makes you think ten?” he asks.

“What’s a one, for comparison? What’s another ten?”

Celia: “Reggie said it went well. That they told him about their training program. They sound well organized. Methodical. A… a one is…” She doesn’t know. “Broken bones. A one is broken bones. A ten is…” The microwave. Her broken heart. Losing everything she’s ever loved.

“Burning. Forever. Hell. Ceasing to exist. His soul cleaved from his body. Oblivion.”

GM: “Really?” Roderick asks. “What makes you think they’re going to inflict such agony upon him?”

Celia: “I don’t know what else they would do with him. When I studied things… I took them apart. Bit by bit. Saw what they could handle. Their pain threshold. How far they would bend before they broke. Research.”

“But… but we didn’t know if they could wake him up,” she says, “so maybe… maybe not..?”

“If he’s unconscious…”

GM: “Yes, he is unconscious,” says Roderick. “Or torpid, to be precise, which is a distinct state from simple unconsciousness, Celia.”

“‘Maybe not,’” he repeats, parroting her words.

Celia: “There’s still a lot to do to a torpid lick,” she offers, as if that helps.

“I know what I would do. If I were studying him.”

“Or another supernatural.”

GM: “You do have the technical knowledge. Just not the big picture,” says Roderick.

Celia: “No,” she agrees. “I don’t have the big picture.”

GM: “Because you’re less intelligent than me.”

Celia: “Yes.”

GM: “You are my intellectual inferior. Even if you earn a degree from Tulane, it’s unlikely that we will ever be equals in that area.”

Celia: Celia drops her eyes to the floor. She nods.

“Yes. You know more. You’re smarter. I have… I have makeup.”

GM: “You have makeup,” Roderick repeats. “It’s a literally surface-level vocation.”

Celia: “I found… I found majors,” she offers, “but it won’t… you’re still smarter.”

GM: “Yes, Celia, we just discussed that. ‘Even if you earn a degree from Tulane.’”

Celia: That’s not what she meant. But she nods anyway.

“I only meant that you told me to find something. So I did. I have a list. So you can see.”

GM: “Are we all finished now, Celia? Have you told me everything I need to know to decide the future of our relationship?”

He looks her in the eye.

“You should be very thorough. Anything you tell me now will be considered with an eye towards leniency. Telling the truth will either be rewarded or corrected less harshly. Anything I find out later will go much, much, much worse for you.”

Celia: Celia is quiet for a long moment.

Finally, she shakes her head.

“There’s more. There’s more I want to tell you. It doesn’t directly involve us, but it… informs some things, maybe. I’m still working out part of it, I’m researching… but it’s… I want to tell you. Everything. That’s part of everything.”

GM: “Very well then, Celia,” says Roderick. “We will discuss these other things later.”

“Kneel on the floor.”

Celia: Celia moves off the couch immediately. She kneels.

GM: “In front of me.”

Celia: She edges forward on her knees until she’s just in front of him.

GM: “How does it make you feel to assume this position?”

Celia: It reminds her of Paul.

“Afraid. Lesser. Anxious. Unworthy.”

GM: He nods.

“You should feel all of those things.”

“I wonder, should I make you wait to hear my decision?”

Celia: “If… if that… if that’s what you want. To leave me anxious. Unsure.”

GM: “How would it make you feel, Celia?”

“To wait.”

“To not know where things stand.”

“To not know what future you are going to have with me.”

Celia: “Nervous. Like I don’t matter. Hopeful. But resigned. Like I’m… on eggshells.”

Like she’s back at home with her dad.

“Adrift,” she tacks on.

GM: “That idea has considerable appeal,” says Roderick.

“To make you unsure about me like I’ve been so unsure about you.”

“Given what a liar you are.”

Celia: It’s fair. Fair punishment. She blinks back whatever emotion tries to creep into her face and nods her head again.

GM: “That’s the problem, with pathological liars like you.”

“There are just so many little ways you can bend and distort the truth, and you told me so many ‘truths.’”

“It’s like looking through a needle in a haystack to find all the little lies.”

“I’ll definitely be independently corroborating a great deal of this, since I can’t trust you.”

“Really, whether I dump you or stay with you, that fact won’t change.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You haven’t proven worthy of my trust.”

Celia: “Can I?” she asks. “Is it possible? After everything?”

GM: “But,” he smiles, “I’m going to be merciful here.”

“Even if you’ve fed me still more lies, I suspect you still disclosed a large number of truths.”

“Many of which won’t take overly much effort on my part to verify.”

He reaches out and places a hand on Celia’s head.

“I’m not going to break up with you. Not here, at least. How does that make you feel?”

Celia: Worse.

It makes her feel worse.

Because she doesn’t deserve good things after everything she’s done. After all the lies she’s told him. She doesn’t deserve another chance. She doesn’t deserve to have him touch her.

Worse, too, because of the phrasing. Not here. If not here, then where? When? Is he going to do it anyway? Her stomach ties itself in knots. Red leaks from her eyes.

But she tells him what he wants to know. That she’s afraid she’s going to lose him still. That she doesn’t know what he means, not here. That she’s afraid Donovan will find out she told and kill them both for it.

GM: “Mmm-hmm, yes,” says Roderick.

He pats her head.

“There are some outstanding issues to resolve, first, before our relationship can fully resume.”

“There will no sex, kissing, blood sharing, or sleeping together until these issues are resolved.”

Celia: “Which issues?”

GM: “First, the various licks and breathers who’ve used you.”

A sneer crosses his face.

“I’m not accepting anyone’s sloppy seconds.”

“Or sloppy thirds.”

“Sloppy fourths?”

“You’ve whored yourself around so much, I’m not sure a number in the single digits is even appropriate.”

Celia: Celia sinks lower with every number he says.

GM: “We can fix that, though.”

He takes her chin and tilts it up so she meets his eyes.

“You want to fix that, don’t you?”

Celia: Celia nods her head.

“Yes, Roderick. I want to fix it.”

GM: “To make up for what a whore you’ve been?”

“You’re going to arrange a meeting for me with Reynaldo Gui.”

“Not as Roderick, though.”

“You’re going to give me a new face.”

“You can come up with whatever name, identity, and story you like.”

Celia: “To hurt him?”

GM: “You’re going to arrange a meeting between this new lick and Reynaldo Gui,” Roderick continues.

“You will wear a different face and give him a different name when you do so.”

“Neither of us can appear directly involved.”

“If you fail to secure this meeting, I will break up with you.”

“Are we understood?”

Celia: “Lord Savoy knows I can change my face.”

GM: “Then you’d better have a good cover story for why Gui is meeting you, and you’d better make sure Savoy doesn’t know.”

“You shouldn’t rely on just the fleshcrafting. That’s lazy.”

“But you are a very good liar, if nothing else, so I’m confident you can arrange it.”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick. I understand.”

“I will arrange a meeting. I will lie. I will change our faces.”

GM: He rubs Celia’s shoulder and gives her an understanding smile.

“Good.”

“If this meeting goes the way I want, you’ll stand to benefit quite a bit too.”

“I know what’s best, Celia.”

Celia: “How..?”

GM: “Do I know what’s best, Celia?”

Celia: “No. You said. We’d both benefit.”

GM: He raises his eyebrows and removes his hand.

“No? You think I don’t know what’s best?”

Celia: “No. I do. I don’t understand the benefit. I know you know what’s best. I know you do. You do.”

GM: “Good,” says Roderick, rubbing her shoulder again.

“You don’t need to worry about the details.”

Celia: “Okay,” she says quietly.

GM: “You wouldn’t understand them as well anyway.”

Celia: “What else? What other issues?”

GM: “There are several others, but you don’t need to know about those just yet.”

“I’ll take care of them.”

“It will make our relationship stronger.”

Celia: “Do I… do I need to do anything else?”

GM: “No.”

“Some other significant issues in your Requiem to address are your sire, your father, and your mental health. But we don’t need to resolve those issues before our relationship can fully resume.”

He pats the seat next to him.

“You can sit next to me now, if you’d like to.”

“Which of those issues would you like to discuss first?”

Celia: Celia doesn’t say anything. She just slowly rises to take her former seat, sitting beside him on the couch.

“My… dad.”

GM: “Your dad is scum,” Roderick says shortly.

Celia: “Yes.”

“I was… I wanted to ask…”

GM: “What did you want to ask?”

Celia: “He’s supposed to see my family on Sunday. For dinner. My mom wants to… to see him. Emily thinks it’s a trap. He said he had a demon exorcised. It’s possible. The priest died. Mr. Bornemann told me that the priest or the host can die in an exorcism. But that holy ground hurts them. But he kept going to church. But not all holy ground is created equal. I wanted to… to see if you’d come, so you can see. If he’s real. Or lying.”

GM: “It’s immaterial whether he’s lying or not,” says Roderick.

“He hasn’t earned forgiveness either way.”

“I also know from firsthand experience with you that lying runs in the Flores family, even if he isn’t your biological father. It’s entirely possible that dinner could be nothing but a pack of lies.”

Celia: “That’s why I wanted to ask if you’d come.”

GM: “I just told you it’s irrelevant whether he’s lying or not, Celia,” Roderick reproaches. “At least as far as it impacts what we should do with him.”

“I mostly just don’t like listening to liars spin their lies.”

“It makes me want to bash in some fucking skulls.”

Celia: Celia doesn’t do so much as flinch. She’s still. But not the stillness that he’s used to when he gets angry. Just the normal kind. The dead kind.

“I had… ideas. On what to do with him. If you want to hear.”

GM: “Proceed,” says Roderick.

Celia: “He’s running for governor, he said. I don’t know how many people outside of my family and the politicians he works with know yet. I’ve been planting seeds to ruin him politically if needed. Or to assist, if needed. I just pull the things I’ve been working on if we want a political pawn. He’d be in Baton Rouge. It’s not that far. Invictus controlled. I have a… cousin there. In Baton Rouge. I thought about a new identity to go with him. An older lick. One the licks there maybe couldn’t push around as easily.”

A pause. Then,

“You know more, though.”

“I was waiting to see if he was still infected or not before I made a decision on what to do with him. To see if I could make him useful.”

“And no one would suspect Celia visiting her father.”

She’s waiting, she realizes, for him to tell her that she’s stupid again. That she doesn’t know enough about politics to play that game. That they’re just going to ruin and kill him because he’s a scumbag.

GM: “Yes, you mentioned he was running,” says Roderick. “I’d been considering that question, too. What to do with him.”

“Part of me is tempted to punish him for what a vile scumbag he is. He did despicable things to the family whose welfare he was responsible for. That he should suffer for his actions is right and just.”

“Incidentally, Celia, the philosophy behind the Lancea et Sanctum seems much more attractive to me these nights. I don’t agree with them on many of the finer points of dogma. But the essential purpose of the Kindred being to punish the wicked? That’s an actual constructive purpose for our species.”

Celia: “Did you kill Elijah?” she asks abruptly.

GM: Roderick gives her an almost affronted look.

“Elijah’s actions didn’t warrant death, Celia.”

“He was a terrible human being, though. He was punished for that.”

Celia: “Oh.”

GM: “He still is being punished for that.”

Celia: “…still being..?”

GM: “We’ll see if it’s enough to set him on a better course.”

“As I said, the philosophy behind the Lancea et Sanctum seems very attractive to me these nights.”

“It’s a shame there aren’t any priests among the Bourbons. Not since Katrina.”

“Ah, well. I suppose it’s easy enough for me to talk with the Hardliners.”

Celia: She almost tells him that Benson is being ordained.

But he’s the one who told her that last week, so she doesn’t.

GM: “Is this going over your head, Celia?” Roderick asks in an indulgent tone.

Celia: “No. I was… I didn’t want to question you.”

GM: “I suppose that’s why I should talk with someone more educated than you, as the whole point of philosophical discourse is to ask questions.”

Celia: Celia sinks further into herself. She draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. Suddenly the sheer teddy feels absurd. She’s exposed. Vulnerable.

“I didn’t know if you meant you wanted to bring one over or convert to the Sanctified faith yourself. You said the Hardliners are easy to talk to, so I thought it could be either, but I’ve heard some people don’t view Lord Savoy as legitimate because of his lack of priests.”

“Like it’s all a show.”

GM: “I’m not thinking about converting at this point,” says Roderick. “I’m simply interested in discussing their ideas with someone who’s well-educated in their theology. The best-educated such Kindred are priests, Celia.”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick.”

GM: “Savoy doesn’t have any priests. Not since Katrina. Hence why it’s a shame, as discoursing with someone over Sanctified theology is also useful as a ‘networking tool.’”

“And it’s less useful for me to build relationships among the Hardliners than the Bourbons.”

Celia: “It could be useful.”

“If you wanted to…”

“To play both sides. To protect your cover.”

GM: “Most Sanctified are happy to talk about their faith with someone who displays interest in it. That’s evangelism, in so many words.”

“But that’s also true enough. There is social benefit in approaching any Sanctified, Bourbon or Hardliner, about their faith.”

Celia: “It would also give you some legitimacy with a new identity, if you wanted to go that route for your time in the Quarter.”

GM: “My new identity won’t have any cause to talk with the Hardliners, Celia,” Roderick explains patiently. “I can already do that as Roderick.”

Celia: “I know. I meant. If you wanted him to be Sanctified rather than Anarch.”

GM: “You can be very stupid sometimes, Celia.”

Celia: She blinks, but nods her head, drawing her knees further against herself.

“Yes, Roderick. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

GM: “I hope so.”

Celia: “You were telling me what you wanted to do with my dad,” she says quietly.

GM: “The new identity is going to be a Bourbon,” Roderick explains. “Because the Bourbons live in the French Quarter. The Bourbons and the Hardliners do not make a habit of engaging in friendly conversation with one another. Picture it like the Bloods and Crypts, Celia.”

Celia: “That isn’t what I meant.”

GM: “No? Then explain for me.”

Celia: “I meant that speaking to a Hardliner priest as Roderick will offer you a foundation to build a new Bourbon identity that can be Sanctified rather than Anarch, as being an intelligent Brujah Anarch in Savoy’s court may make people look at you twice, but being a Sanctified is a further step away from where you are now. You could also claim another clan to further distinguish the identities.”

“I didn’t mean that you would fraternize with the Hardliners as a Bourbon.”

“I must have misspoken.”

GM: “You do that a lot.”

Celia: “I’m sorry.”

“I only wanted to help create a good cover for you. Your talk about the priests made me think that it would be a good cover. But then I also thought maybe you’d want to take control of the Anarchs, but I don’t… I don’t know what you want, you said you’d tell me later, but I’m trying to account for multiple angles. I didn’t mean to overstep if I did.”

GM: “You didn’t overstep,” says Roderick. “It’s good that you’re concerned for my future. We will talk about that in due time.”

Celia: “Okay. I’d like to… to help. How I can. If I can.”

GM: “I think you will be able to. And you did misspeak, earlier, but the conclusion you reached is one I also share. The new identity should be a Bourbon rather than an Anarch.”

“Actual knowledge of theology isn’t necessary for it, though. Savoy’s followers are much less devout.”

“Yourself, case in point. I doubt you’ve read the Testament.”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick. Unless… you wanted to be older, to take that spot, to give him more legitimacy..?”

GM: Roderick gives Celia a scornful look.

Celia: “It’s, um, people confess to priests. It would give you leverage.”

GM: “I am not a priest, Celia. I am unlikely to acquire a priest’s spiritual knowledge through conversation with a priest.”

“I am more intelligent than you, but that doesn’t mean I know everything. I have only a layman’s knowledge of Sanctified theology.”

“That was a very stupid suggestion.”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick. I’m sorry. It was a stupid suggestion.”

“I won’t make more suggestions, if you don’t want. I don’t want to waste your time.”

GM: “You can make further suggestions. More opinions rarely hurt and can potentially help.”

“Just make fewer stupid suggestions, okay?”

“You can also ask me if you aren’t sure whether a suggestion is stupid or not. That shows greater humility and self-awareness.”

Celia: “Before? Or after?”

GM: “You mean before or after you make the suggestion?”

Celia: “Yes.”

GM: “Concurrently. You can bring up the suggestion and ask me if it’s stupid.”

Celia: “Roderick?”

GM: “Yes?”

Celia: “If it’s stupid, will you tell me how, so I don’t repeat the mistake?”

GM: “Of course. I’ve been doing that already, haven’t I?”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick. You correct me. I only wanted to be certain I’d receive further correction when I say stupid things.”

GM: “You will, Celia. I’ll help you to be smarter, even if it takes a long time.”

Celia: “My… my dad said… stupid can be taught, it just takes longer.”

GM: “Your dad was wrong about many things, but he was right about that.”

“In any case, we’ve grown sidetracked. We were speaking about your father.”

“Part of me wants to punish him for what a vile piece of shit he is.”

“But he’s protected by your sire, so that would have repercussions.”

“And, of course, there’s the separate issue of whether and how to make use of him.”

Celia: “Roderick? I have a thought? But I don’t know if it’s stupid? But the Tremere told me they can test to see if he was possessed, but I’d owe them for it, but that could maybe tell us more if he is or isn’t, but I don’t know if you care about that versus what he’s done, but if it wasn’t him, if he was possessed… does that mean he’s still good, that we could use him? I’m not attached to him, but it’s an avenue for further information and I didn’t want to not tell you about it.”

GM: “He isn’t a good man, Celia.”

Celia: “Okay.”

GM: “His potential demonic possession is material only insofar as it makes him harder to punish or manipulate.”

Celia: “Is it something you want to know about? Demonic possession?”

GM: “I want to know about everything, Celia. But whether that knowledge is germane is a separate matter.”

Celia: Celia bobs her head up and down.

“I didn’t know how to look into the exorcism because the priest is dead.”

“But that doesn’t matter next to what you want to do with him.”

“And the sheriff being in the way.”

GM: “There are still ways to investigate the alleged exorcism, you’re just not smart enough to consider them,” says Roderick.

“Unless the political landscape significantly changes, I would give reasonable odds that your father is going to become governor,” he muses. “Roberts is a strong candidate, so I wouldn’t write him out completely, but Louisiana is a red state now and he’s fighting an uphill battle. He won’t have Fred Pavaghi’s corruption to campaign against this time.”

Celia: “I have a contact,” Celia volunteers, “that could be used to look into Roberts. If we want to find out more about him.”

“Dirt. Um, to sway things.”

GM: “We’ll consider that issue later.”

“The governor is obviously a very attractive prize pawn to any Kindred. But just consider, Celia. What would we actually do with him?”

“What uses would we employ him towards?”

Celia: “Um. There’s no… term limit. He’d be a long-term puppet. The state is more day-to-day for, um, policies. Connections. Resources. It could help with… with you wanting to take down the Mafia, maybe, and putting, um, heat on other licks through various connections and agencies. He told me it opens additional doors for him, and he might seek a national seat, but that gets messy with DC…”

GM: “These are very vague and half-formed ideas, Celia.”

“Some of them very poorly articulated.”

Celia: Celia is quiet for several moments before she finally admits she doesn’t know how best to utilize his position.

GM: “How would you even influence him? Do you suppose he’s going to take political advice from the daughter he thinks is stupid?”

“Is he going to invite you to cabinet meetings?”

Celia: “N… no.”

“I have some sway over my brothers, but they’re young. I don’t know if he’d listen to them either.”

“I have a contact.” A doll. “Her husband is a political consultant.”

GM: “I’m going to think about what I want that your father could help me accomplish,” says Roderick. “I want you to do the same. What you want that your father could help you to accomplish. The consultant could help, once you’ve figured out what you want from your father.”

Celia: “Okay. I will.”

“What about the local scene?”

GM: “What ‘local scene’, Celia?”

Celia: “The mayor.”

GM: “You have no connections to any of the candidates, so that subject seems rather moot.”

Celia: “Not a personal connection. But I know some things about them, maybe enough to sway the outcome. And the woman could easily become a client.”

GM: “Do that,” says Roderick. “It could have value even if she doesn’t win the election.”

“Get your employees in uniforms before you bring her in. It’s important to project a professional image with your business. Especially around higher-profile clients.”

Celia: “I want to open a second location.”

GM: “That could have value. Where?”

Celia: “Marigny, because of its neutral locale. I was also considering Riverbend, but my sire… I know he will say no. We don’t publicly associate.”

GM: “Of course he would say no.”

“Would this second location exist to primarily service Kindred or breather clients?”

Celia: “I thought both, like it does now, since I already have the setup and the managers ready to go. The cost of the business mainly comes from the building and renovations itself. The employees are commission based; if they are not busy they don’t get paid. That helps keep them motivated to bring people in. The actual product cost for services is marginal. It would be almost passive income.”

“The problem I foresee with that is the location itself. Marigny is not known for its spas, and another location with more upscale clientele would be ideal if I choose to pursue more meaningful breather clients. The buildings would also be very close together in a grand scheme, which means rather than drawing from a new pool of clients I would only be expanding the circle slightly. I also had plans to move Alana to a different role within my service, which would necessitate someone else to oversee the business, though I don’t necessarily need to ghoul them.”

“I also… I’ve been working on experiments. With the kine. Hybrids. I can show you some of my work, some mockups. I would like more space to focus on that. I am also concerned that there are too many people who know that Celia is Jade and can thus connect me to Dicentra, so I had also considered making it exclusively for Kindred and only operating under the Dicentra name.”

“Less overhead that way. But I’d need better security.”

GM: Roderick considers.

“Uptown is another potential location in lieu of Riverbend. The kine there are generally affluent and it’s far removed from the Quarter.”

“I’m not certain how McGinn would feel about letting a Bourbon set up shop in his domain, but he’s obviously more likely to say yes than the sheriff.”

Celia: “I believe I will be able to help make the idea more palatable for him.”

“I was also looking to add a service to Harrah’s. Not an entire spa. Just a few girls.”

GM: “Yes, you’d mentioned your plans there. Expanding into Harrah’s seems promising as well. It’s removed from your locations in Uptown and the Quarter in multiple senses of the word.”

“It could also be possible to set up the location in Uptown without McGinn’s knowledge. What benefit does that offer?”

Celia: “I wouldn’t owe him anything. It wouldn’t be connected to me at all.”

GM: “No, Celia. I asked you what benefit his knowledge of your ties to the second location offers.”

Celia: “Oh. I wouldn’t need to worry about getting caught. It would allow me possible access to his domain on other unrelated business, as I could say that I’m just there to do spa things. The Flawless name is already known so I wouldn’t be starting from scratch. I could find a way to build a more solid relationship there, either for myself or Lord Savoy, and utilize that to further our plans and goals.”

“His patrols are fairly violent,” Celia mentions as an aside.

GM: “Yes, and he gets fewer poachers as a result. His methods work.”

Celia: “Yes.” She thinks about mentioning the trip to the library. But she’d handled it. No harm done.

GM: “I think cultivating a relationship with him could have value,” considers Roderick. “He is one of the more influential Kindred in the city. Likewise with his wife.”

Celia: “I haven’t spent as much time with her as I’d have liked recently. I had to put other things ahead of the harpies. I’d like to fix that so I’m not cut off.”

“But that’s a different subject, I didn’t mean to derail us.”

GM: “Yes, we were derailed from your father.”

“Suppose, Celia, that you’re Lawrence Meeks, the prince of Baton Rouge. A new governor is elected, and a new Kindred shows up in your city who seems fairly close to the new governor. What do you do?”

Celia: “Take out the lick.”

“Protect the domain. Stay on top.”

GM: “That’s correct, Celia. You take out the threat to your domain.”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick, I understand. That’s why I thought it was beneficial that I can pass as a mortal and just be seen as his visiting daughter.”

GM: “Correct. You’re going to limit how many people know Celia is a ghoul. You’d mentioned that. Meeks is a city away, so that fact will help us, but the Nosferatu have damnably good intelligence.”

Celia: “There are a number of people who know that Celia is a lick. I haven’t played up being a ghoul as much as I could, but there are others who believe that as well.”

GM: “Who knows Celia is Kindred?”

Celia: “The full list is you, Lebeaux, Preston, Savoy, Donovan, Caroline, Coco, Veronica, Pietro, Dani, Mélissaire, Alana, Diana, Reggie, Rusty.”

“Possibly the seneschal, as we discussed prior.”

GM: “That’s too many names.”

Celia: “Five of them are ghouls. One is your sister. One has been covering for me this entire time.”

“There are only two names on the list that cause me great concern.”

GM: “How long have Reggie and Rusty known?”

Celia: “Less than a week.”

GM: “Get Savoy to wipe their memories. Ask him to do it.”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick.”

GM: “Need to know, Celia. If those two don’t need to know something, don’t tell them.”

Celia: “I believed they needed to know at the time. The threat has passed. I will have their memories removed.”

GM: “At least Randy has been tied up as a loose end, I suppose.”

Celia: There’s a flicker of something across her face. She smooths it over before it can be more than that.

The screaming starts again in her mind. The ragged, throaty gasps of a girl in the clouds. The blood curdling shrieks in a hallway full of blood. The death rattle of a lost boy with a broken smile, instants before a heavy boot crushes his skull.

“Yes,” someone says. It might be her.

“I always struggled to find a use for him. He didn’t offer much, next to his brothers.” Cold, flat words.

Warmth. Love. He gave her that, at least. Gave her that when she needed it most.

Now he’s just an excuse to take what she wants from someone else who disappointed her.

Valuable, in the end.

GM: “Alana, Rusty, and Reggie all have clear uses,” Roderick concurs. “What use is your mother?”

Celia: “Cover for daytime absences. Feeding. Cultivating relationships at McGehee, where I can groom them from an early age. Performances. Toreador acclaim through performances. Safe house if needed. Possible sway over a future husband. Possible breeding. She is learning swordplay and defense to serve as a protector and bodyguard. Contacts through her in the theater, dance, and academics world. Insignificant; no one suspects that a former ballerina would be a ghoul, therefore she is overlooked. Invisible. She has access to a large number of instructors at her current job and was able to find information for me the evening after I asked, which has been confirmed by another source.”

“Blind obedience.”

“She has also assisted with the mental health issues you and I mentioned briefly.”

Clinical, detached observations. As if it isn’t her mother she’s discussing, but a random breather on the street.

GM: “Breeding?” Roderick asks, eyebrows raised.

Celia: “Ghoul families. She is very fertile. Getting on in age, but still possibly fertile. I believe she would be accommodating were I to wish to experiment upon her body for such a purpose.”

“It is an admittedly narrow window before the opportunity passes by.”

“As I don’t believe that even with fleshcrafting I can completely reverse the clock long enough to keep her capable of pumping out children. Perhaps a more advanced form. But weaning her from the blood for nine months will cause her to jump forward in age.”

“The archon and I discussed some of this when he visited. When he returns he has asked me to assist him with a project, and if I impress him he has agreed to take me on to learn under him.”

“I had already been considering the implications of combining Tremere blood magics with what I can do, and how far I might be able to go. I am admittedly not an expert in that subject, but I have a teacher willing to pass on knowledge.”

“I think it might be the key that I’ve been missing in my current research.”

GM: “I see,” says Roderick. “There’s a number of further things here to discuss.”

“But first, tell me. What are your thoughts and intentions regarding Lucy and Emily?”

Celia: “I had no intention to interfere in the life of Lucy or Emily. Emily’s stubbornness would be a handicap to her usefulness as a ghoul, and I believe breaking her will be more trouble than it is worth. Thus far I have mostly used her for medical knowledge, though I can never push too deep. I think she also has an idealistic streak that wouldn’t allow her to fathom the idea of going as far as I’d like when it is human lives on the table.”

Emily isn’t a monster.

“In lieu of that, I had planned to use her connections in the medical world as needed. She is close with a number of other professionals. She will be more valuable once she graduates and comes into contact with people I can also use to further my goals and research. Even something like a medical examiner will open doors. Her boyfriend is also useful for his swordplay.”

GM: Roderick nods.

“And what about Lucy, Celia?”

“I really thought she might have been my daughter for a while.”

Celia: “I have not made long term plans for Lucy. She is young enough that she can go a number of different directions—”

She cuts off at his words, blinking. Her hand touches her stomach.

She’d never taken the second pill.

GM: Roderick looks at her calmly.

“I wonder if he killed it.”

“Your sire.”

“If there was something there.”

Celia: “It… it would have only been… a day, maybe…”

She blinks again. Red stains her vision. She wipes at it.

“Can I… can I hug you?”

GM: “You may not, Celia,” he answers.

“This will serve as your correction.”

“Because you just did something that required correcting.”

Celia: Another blink. She moves further from herself, floating away on the wind.

It’s lucky there are so many other girls to pick up the pieces.

“Please tell me what I did so that I do not repeat it.”

Hollow, wooden words. A girl playing a role.

GM: “I want you to figure this one out for yourself, Celia. But I’ll give you a hint.”

“I don’t want to ghoul my father. I’m still nice to Dani, despite the fact she is of limited practical value. Why is that?”

Celia: “She’s family.”

GM: “But I don’t plan to belittle her like I have you. Why is that?”

Celia: “She’s not stupid.”

“She will rebel if you do.”

GM: “Try again, Celia.”

“Dani also is more intelligent than you, though she is still less so than me.”

Celia: “I don’t know.”

GM: “Let’s try my father, then. Why don’t I want to ghoul him?”

Celia: “You would be intruding on someone else’s domain. You don’t want to expose him to this world. He can be used against you if anyone knows about the connection between you. He is too strong willed and already has his path laid out for him, which means you would need to rely on the addiction alone to keep him in line, which creates rebellious and often disloyal ghouls. You don’t need to ghoul him in order to make contact with him through various other pawns or ghouls to assist each other.”

“He believes that you are dead and your death broke him.”

GM: “Most of these facts are true, Celia. But none of them are the reason I don’t want to ghoul him.”

Celia: “I don’t know, Roderick. I don’t know your personal feelings on the matter. I was only looking at the objective information.”

GM: “Then consider my personal feelings, Celia. Towards him and towards my sister. What might those be?”

Celia: “You care about them. You left them to keep them safe.”

GM: “That’s correct, Celia. I do care about them.”

“But that isn’t all of it, either.”

“Why did I do what I did to Elijah?”

Celia: “He is a sinner. Corrupt.”

GM: “How sinful and corrupt are Dani and my father?”

Celia: “Not very.”

GM: “How sinful and corrupt are you?”

Celia: “Very.”

GM: “Why?”

Celia: “Do you mean what makes me a sinner, or do you mean how did I become this way?”

GM: “What actions have you committed that make you describe yourself as very sinful and corrupt?”

Celia: “I lied to you repeatedly over the course of our relationship. I cheated on you. I betrayed you. I lied to everyone. I hurt people. I have killed people. I am selfish and lustful.”

GM: “That’s correct, Celia.”

“That is why you deserve worse treatment at my hands than my father and sister.”

Celia: “When I am no longer corrupt and sinful, will our relationship change or adapt?”

GM: “I find it unlikely that you will stop being corrupt and sinful. But our relationship will change and adapt when I feel you have faced sufficient punishment and made sufficient restitution for the wrongs you’ve committed against me.”

“I’ve even offered you a path forward with Reynaldo Gui. Is that fair and just of me?”

Celia: “Can you clarify? You find it unlikely that I am able to be less corrupt and sinful?”

GM: “Yes.”

Celia: “If I am corrupt in areas other than our relationship, will that be sufficient for you, or do you desire a full overhaul?”

GM: “Punishment and restitution for the wrongs you’ve committed against me will be sufficient, Celia. Whether you desire to re-orient your moral compass outside of our relationship is your own decision.”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick. I have further questions on this. I will be corrected and punished for the wrongs that I have committed against you and our relationship. I would like to be worthy of you outside of those corrections, and am looking for guidance on how I can become so. You have mentioned getting a degree, though this will not make me as smart as you. Outside of my intelligence, will re-orienting my moral compass assist with my desire to become a more ideal partner for you?”

GM: “We’ll return to this point later, Celia. Some other questions first. How sinful and corrupt are Lucy, Emily, and your mother?”

Celia: “They are not, Roderick.”

GM: “Do you believe I would undertake the actions you’ve considered for Emily upon my own sister?”

“Do you believe I would undertake the actions you’ve considered for your mother upon my father?”

Celia: “No, Roderick. I had no intention to ghoul Emily or Lucy. You only asked, so I shared my thoughts with you. I would like to assist them with their goals, whatever they are, because they are my family and I care deeply for them.”

“My mother’s ghouling was an unfortunate accident, and after it was done I had an opportunity to erase her memories. It would not have ended well if we went down that road, as I could not erase the emotions. Those I spoke to suggested that it would do more harm than good to leave the gap in her memory. While I do not believe that a ghouled parent is unique to our world, I do believe is is not very common and there are few people I trust with my mother’s safety to speak to openly about it.”

“I have struggled with her since it happened and looked for ways to make the relationship work for both of us. I only wanted to thoroughly answer your question about her and inform you of all the possibilities that I considered for her.”

“You had asked after her usefulness, and in the aftermath of her ghouling I had thought she might only be an addict and vitae sink, which I did not want for either one of us.”

“There are many options I considered and dismissed. I had only wanted to give you a complete answer.”

GM: “What would you do if your mother did not wish to be used as a breeding vessel, Celia, and it appeared to be a promising research avenue?”

“What if it looked as if it would allow you to start a ghoul family?”

Celia: “I would find another.”

“There are many breathers. There is only one Diana.”

GM: “What if the other candidates you found were inferior?”

“What if I told you I wanted a ghoul family?”

Celia: “I find the idea of all other candidates being inferior to be unlikely. There are more than seven billion people on the planet. While I do not have access to all of them, or even most of them, I would take the time to find one who is her equal. However, her traits are not unique to her. She has been broken mentally by another Kindred, which suggests it is possible to do again if the obedience is what I desire, and many females are fertile.”

GM: “So you would refuse to use her, and would look for other suitable candidates, even if it required considerable effort and expense? When I wanted a ghoul family?”

Celia: “I would only want to provide you with the best possible option, Roderick, and do not know what toll another child would have on my mother, or if her advanced age would play a significant factor in the development of the fetus.”

“Much research suggests that advanced age of both female and male partners leads to undesireable developmental issues in their offspring.”

GM: “That research is correct. So that is your final answer, Celia? You would refuse to use her as a broodmare if it were more advantageous, but she did not wish to be used as one?”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick. My relationship with my mother as my mother predates my relationship with her as my ghoul. It is an admittedly gray and murky area, but I would like to cause as little interrupt to her life as possible while also ensuring she is more than a vitae sink. Her other qualities make up for her lack of breeding.”

GM: “You have answered correctly, Celia. Good job,” Roderick smiles.

Celia: “Thank you.”

GM: “Justice is paramount, Celia. I punished Elijah because he was corrupt. I punish you because you are corrupt. But our mortal families are not corrupt, and consequently do not deserve punishment.”

Celia: “I acknowledge the breakdown in turning my mother into a ghoul. I am looking for the best way forward for us both.”

GM: “Giving her combat training is useful. For her, you, and your other family members.”

“Fix her leg. She won’t be able to achieve her full potential until that’s taken care of.”

Celia: “Yes. I will.”

GM: “Toreador acclaim is also useful. Give her another face when you do. Other Kindred shouldn’t know she’s a ghoul.”

Celia: “Yes. I have a mask prepared for her.”

“She has also already been marked to hide what she is. I have been working to correct the lapse in judgement and security.”

GM: “Masks aren’t perfect. They can be damaged. They can come off. We saw that earlier. Dancing and fighting offer many opportunities for them to come off. Alter her face the same way you altered mine.”

Celia: “My apologies, I meant a mask as in a new identity.”

“I will be more clear when I speak.”

GM: “Good,” says Roderick. “Feeding on her is useful and permissible, so long as you have her free and uncoerced consent.”

Celia: “She has consented.”

There’s a soft smile that pulls at her lips.

“She enjoys being able to feed me what I need rather than the breather fare.”

GM: Roderick smiles faintly back. “That’s very sweet.”

Celia: Before, she might have reached for his hand. Now, though, she keeps it on her lap.

GM: “Don’t feed on her when you think she’s going to be dancing or fighting soon. Those are physically intensive activities where you want her at peak physical condition. Give her time to recover.”

Celia: Isn’t that common knowledge?

Celia just nods her head.

GM: Roderick tells her all the time that she’s stupid, though.

Celia: He must be right.

She’s lucky she has someone who cares enough about her to make sure she understands the basics.

GM: “Having a willing subject for your research could also be useful. Just make sure you explain all of the risks and potential side effects, if any. Gain her full consent, and be very careful too. You only get one mother.”

Celia: “Yes, Roderick. I will do so before I proceed with any research. Thank you.”

GM: “I care about your mortal family, Celia. Her and Emily and Lucy. This isn’t an ideal situation for them, but you can make the best of it. You can still have loving relationships with all of them.”

Celia: “Thank you.” Her voice has lost its wooden quality. There’s something resembling emotion in the tremulous whisper. “Thank you for understanding.”

GM: “This is justice, Celia,” he answers seriously. “People who aren’t corrupt deserve to be treated well.”

Celia: “I don’t want to be corrupt anymore,” she tells her knees.

GM: “The first step will be Reynaldo Gui.”

Celia: “The meeting.”

“Are we going to kill him?”

GM: “Yes.”

Celia: “Do you still want to infiltrate as Carolla?”

GM: “You’ve been a good girl, over the matter of your family, so answering that question directly is your reward.”

Celia: Good girl. She’s been a good girl.

GM: “And you know what will happen when Gui is dead, Celia?”

Celia: “The Mafia will be weakened.”

GM: “Yes, but in addition to that.”

Celia: “Our relationship will begin to heal.”

GM: “That too. But someone else will also need to manage parties at the Evergreen.”

Celia: “…me?”

GM: “Do you think you’d do a good job, Celia? What benefits are there for you in doing so?”

Celia: “I am adept at planning parties. I think I would do a good job. It would allow me to further network, to become closer to Savoy, to welcome new faces, to control the doors. Gui is considered inner circle by some, and is generally well regarded by the Bourbons. Further social power for me, and thus you, which can transition into something new when Savoy takes the throne, and will make me useful to him in a way that doesn’t only rely on my blood.”

GM: “Very good, Celia,” smiles Roderick. “And even more than that, Savoy’s parties are the bread and circuses he gives his followers. They’re an essential component of his image as the more ‘fun’ alternative to Vidal.”

Celia: “I’m fun.”

“Getting rid of Gui also opens his domain to someone else.” A sidelong glance at Roderick.

GM: “It does,” Roderick concurs. “So you can see how this opens many opportunities for us.”

Celia: “Roderick? Can I tell you what he told me? About Chicago?”

GM: “Go on.”

Celia: “He said that the atmosphere is different there. More Anarchs, but the city is looking forward, and he said ours is sometimes looking backwards. He said there’s more progression. I don’t know what your long term goals are, and you mentioned you’ve traveled so perhaps this is redundant, but it might be worthwhile to look into even if it isn’t with him.”

GM: “It’s always useful to listen to other perspectives. I’ve spoken with Anarchs from Chicago.”

Celia: “Have you spoken with any from the Free States?”

GM: “Yes. Coco wanted to expose me to a wide range of ideas. I suppose she was good for an education, even if she was also a two-faced liar who Embraces scum like Carolla.”

Celia: “I have an opportunity out there. But we can talk about it at another time if you’d prefer.”

GM: Roderick glances at the clock.

“The sun’s going to be up soon. We’ll continue this in the evening.”

He leads Celia to his bedroom, then lays out some blankets and pillows on the floor for her next to the bed.

“We can sleep together once the outstanding issues in our relationship are resolved. Your body is dead, so a day on the floor won’t be physically uncomfortable.”

Celia: They were her sire’s words to her. The affront against him makes a tiny kernel of red spark in her chest.

This boy. This pathetic boy thinks that he is smarter than the sheriff? Thinks that he has broken her, suborned her to his will, that he has won?

No. He only walks the forest path that others have cleared, only treads the ground already so fertile for his seeds to take root. He has not broken her. He has only bent her, and only because she has allowed it. He sees only the mask she wants him to see. Only what she allows him to see. The truth, certainly, the truth of her deeds.

But not her heart.

He cannot touch her there.

He cannot reach inside her chest as her sire has done and pluck her heartstrings one by one, forcing her body to dance to a tune that only he can hear. He does not dangle her on the end of a string, does not open the door to a cage that she joyously steps into.

He is a brute. A tyrant. Another Maxen. He uses stick when carrot would suffice, forgets the aftercare for the burning bottom. Her sire beat her and then mended her with the blood from his own veins, and even had he not slipped that collar around her throat the leash would still pull tight. He slaughters her ghoul and kisses her, cuts open the boy’s heart to share a meal. That is a master. That is love.

This one sees only what people let him see and thinks himself enlightened. He has been a sheltered pet his whole Requiem, has not dallied in the dirt with thugs and ruffians and unsavories. He thinks that his college degrees and learned tutors has woken him to the ways of the world.

A lie broke him. A single lie. A single betrayal. She has been broken and twisted and raked over the coals so many times that she has lost count. She has been abandoned, abused, deceived, and still she carries on.

Still she moves forward.

He thinks her lies corrupt? He has seen nothing.

She has shown him nothing.

Who will she become, the masked man asked, and the girl in her fairy dress said that she does not know who she wants to be.

Two faces in the mirror. Beauty. Beast. Corruption incarnate. Poisoned smiles and hidden knives.

The dreams of her sire slip away and out comes the little girl, the dutiful wife, the flower that once bloomed so brightly.

Come into my trap, little fly.

Beauty lies her head upon the pillow and snuggles beneath the provided blanket. She smiles with lips as red as the roses of her clan and eyes the color of turbulent skies.

“Goodnight, Roderick. I love you.”

Ice masks have no place in the sun. And she is not her sire. She is not ice. She is the liquid that ebbs and flows. She is the dancer in the dark. She is the chameleon and patience is her virtue.

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