[Etienne] - Caught Up in the Tempest
February 14th, 1969.
Sao Paulo, Brazil.
Warmth. Salty heat against my lips, in my throat. So cold… that heat feels wonderful.
I swallow, weakly, and it hurts. My throat is ravaged, raw. Sea water? Whatever it was sears my throat. I cough, spit up cold salt water and bile, but I barely notice. Gone for an instant, that heat is back against my lips, and I swallow again. It hurts less… and tastes… good. Oh, God… so good…
It ignites a fire in the core of me, and that quickly I can feel my arms. One hand doesn’t work - why not? - but I grasp with the other, weak as a kitten, curling my fingers around whatever is feeding me this trickle... this amazing trickle… I want it… no… I want more.
My tongue probes roughly, and I’m rewarded with more, more heat, more life flowing into me. It’s exhilarating, and suddenly I have legs again - strong legs. I stand straight, heedless of small things that seek to push me off balance, pulling the vessel closer so I don’t miss a drop. Vessel? Wrist.
There’s a voice in my ear, and a voice in my head, but I can’t make out words; all I can hear is a pulse - my pulse? - thundering all through my body. I grasp harder, with both hands. Both hands…? But I only had one… how… My tongue searches deeper, draws more, and it’s better than any water or any wine. It’s liquid gold searing me, moonlight and ice distilled and poured down my throat. I would laugh, but it would interrupt this incredible draught.
Sudden thoughts, sensations, settle insistent and strong at the edge of my awareness. Affection, love… guilt, so much guilt. Why do I feel so guilty? Enough, love… I brush away the stray thought, but then whatever I’m drinking from is being drawn away from me, gently at first, then harder. Love, that’s enough. I clasp down to keep it, a crushing grip, strength I had no idea I had. I can feel the draught tingling and burning in my fingers. There is a hand at my shoulder, an inexorable pressure even greater than I can counter, but I fight it, every muscle bent to the task, taking as much as I can, as deep as I may… Etienne, enough!
And then I’m flung backwards to stagger in the surf, staring in shock and incomprehension at Madeline-Antoinette. She looks pale and drawn, and no longer holds the knife - what about that knife…? - in her left hand. She’s speaking, but I hear only about half of it, something about the orixa, and going home. I blink in the stinging salt and driving rain, trying to make sense of it, and I can hear her chant the closing, the dismissal.
"Exu of the crossroads, send them home. Send them away that we may call on them again. Send them home that we may give our offerings once more. Exu of the crossroads, return and have our thanks."
The wind dies down for a moment as she finishes, the waves around us slow their crashing dance. She holds out a hand to me, and says, quietly, "Come love. Let's go home."
I shake my head in the calm, flinging hair from my eyes, and wipe at my lips. I stare at her hand, remembering what this gesture means and wondering why it seems so dangerous, but I can’t think why, so I take it, slowly. Her smile as I do is sad… the sort of smile you give someone when you’ve done something incredibly painful that will be better for them.
We walk back to the shore, and as we turn, the storm surges back against us in fury, but it doesn’t seem to touch me. The crush of the waves and the force of the wind are trivial things, easily ignored. The surf sinks to our knees, lower… and then I’m suddenly torn by pain. My stomach cramps hard, and it doubles me over, teeth gritted. The second cramp throws me to my knees in the surf, the third doubles me again, and my hand grips M-A’s, viselike. I look up at her in sudden confusion, fear. What is this? My whole body jerks, twists, and pain screams up from my abdomen again. What’s going on? I cough, hard, gag, and cough again, a racking spasm that forces some awful liquid up my throat. I spit into the sea, and every muscle from my chest down suddenly contracts brutally.
“It is well, love,” Madeline-Antoinette is saying miserably, somewhere close. “It is well. Let it go, let it happen.”
My hand crushes down on hers, and my back bows, throwing my head back. I arch my face to the sky and there’s shards of wicked ice slicing through my mouth. “What’s happening to me!?”
Her arms slip around me, hold me, and even that hurts, but my muscles are too rigid to fight her away. "You're changing. I told you," she calls over the rain. "Let it happen, love. We've been at this for centuries."
My muscles relax for an instant, then squeeze even harder, and I can feel my body voiding itself, painfully. At the next lapse, I surge forward with all my strength, trying to get away, from what I don’t know. She holds close to me, and I drag us both as if she weighed nothing, flinging us a half-dozen yards to the very edge of the foaming surf. I hit the sand and can’t move, all I can do is wait, and sob with no tears, while the pain comes again… again… AGAIN… and then dies away. A twitch of my muscles, a shudder as I breathe out a rattling breath. And then I wait, a still eternity, holding my breath until I realize I don’t need to breathe.
I don’t need to breathe.
I turn to look at M-A, who’s kneeling next to me looking as though she might weep. Slowly, I sit up in the sand and the water, and run my tongue through my mouth. My incisors are longer, wickedly pointed. Fangs. Her hands finds the side of my face, and at the edge of my mind I feel relieved, so incredibly relieved. I do? No. She does. She feels relieved. I trace my tongue over my teeth again, more delicately.
“Careful, love,” she says quietly. “Those are sharp.” Her hair is limp and wet around her face, and she watches me carefully. I want to reach toward my mouth, but instead I reach for hers, because I have to see, have to know. I run my thumb over her lips, and am momentarily distracted by the feel of them… and by a surge of affection that’s subtly different than mine. She kisses my thumb, and then I slip it between her lips, parting them, opening her mouth gently. They’re there, dainty and lovely, a set of white fangs to match the ones in my mouth.
I stare at them for a moment, strangely transfixed, and then suddenly jab my thumb sharply against one. I’m rewarded with a sliver of pain, a trickle of blood when I’ve pulled my hand back.
"Come on, Etienne. Don't you think you've bled enough for one night?" Her voice is dry, and she takes my other arm in her hands, urging me to my feet. "Let's go home and dry off. You have questions and I have answers."
With her help, I rise, staggering, then shrug off her hands and stand on my own. My limbs feel strange, like they bend slightly different than they ever have before, and it takes a moment to get used to. You’ve bled enough for one night… "Looks like enough for all nights," I murmur, still wrapping my head around the idea, not quite daring to speak it aloud. Instead, I hold her gaze, look for truth in her eyes, and before long, I find it.
Without a word I turn toward the jungle path, still holding her hand, and start to walk.
She walks beside me, and we don’t speak; she somehow understand my wish for quiet… a relative term, as we walk in the midst of the howling storm, weaving through the flora and avoiding the treacherous places in the path. I look at her occasionally, needing the visual to help organize my thoughts while I put everything together, just the way she so ably taught me. My fingers are still twined in hers, and I spend a few minutes of our walk thinking about how they feel now, the way I’ve no need to move them at all if I don’t wish. But I don’t speak, not as we pass under the arch, or through the gardens, not as Roberto meets us at the door with thick, warm towels.
I catch his eyes, though, as he presses warm terrycloth into my hands. I don’t know what was in my face, but his flickers with something like fear and something like pity, and it drives a cold knife through my stomach.
M-A thanks him and leads me to her bedroom, moving directly into the bathroom and beckoning me to follow. I pause in the doorway, towel held to my chest, and let my eyes rest on her as she moves about. Finally, I give it voice, the now-organized stream of thoughts. My voice sounds cold.
"I understand now. Your blood, that was what I drank. You barely eat, and I've only ever seen you at night. Your strength, the chill in your skin when you're not ready for me to touch you. Your fangs. The way you fed at me that first night we..." I raise my thumb to the light, the tiny trickle of blood from where I cut myself on her teeth. My eyes meet hers briefly. "Vampire. Is the word." I flick my gaze to the blood for a moment, then deliberately lick it away, shivering at how wonderful it tastes. "Isn't it?"
"You're dripping on the carpet." She gestures me further into the bathroom and strips the sodden robe from her shoulders, leaving her pale and nude. "Vampire is relatively correct, but you'll find certain dissimilarities between what we are and what you read in Camilla or Dracula or any of the myriad folktales. We prefer the term 'Kindred.'"
It’s true. It can’t be true… but I feel it. How can it be other than true? I sag slightly, and only then look down at myself, at the soiled and sodden robe I’m still wearing. I can barely stand it as soon as I see it, and I pull it over my head with a shudder, dropping it on the counter when no better place presents itself.
"Dry off. You aren't going to catch your death from cold, but I guarantee you'll feel better." She takes her own advice, toweling herself dry with short, sharp strokes that remind me of how she wields a knife. A thought strikes me at that and I turn my arm over, looking for where she sliced me. I can remember it now, the two slashes, the agony of steel grating on bone, but my arm shows only a single red weal, like a shallow cut that has been days at the healing.
"You get used to it after awhile." Her voice comes from under her towel as she ruffles it through her hair, and I lift my own towel at last, soaking in the warmth of it, brushing away the water with smooth, meditative motions. I catch a glimpse of my back in the mirror as I turn, of the tattooed branches spreading over my shoulders, and I feel more centered, solid. Then I look lower, see the remnants of my rudely-released bowels, and I’m embarrassed afresh. I wet a washcloth, studiously not looking at M-A, and clean myself as thoroughly as I can, discreetly dropping that soiled cloth in the sink. She, displaying that perfect understanding she sometimes does, occupies herself tidying and rearranging cosmetics on the counter until I’ve finished and toweled myself clean and dry.
She hands me a bundle of midnight-blue silk without a word; it proves to be a dressing gown when I shake it out, sized for me. It feels and smells brand-new, never worn. I sigh over it, over what it says about her planning and her hopes… and then suddenly it crashes over me that breathing, sighing, isn’t a thing I do anymore, and I stop in mid-exhalation. My hands drift to my chest, pressing the blue silk over my heart, and I let the rest of the breath out on a laugh that sounds every bit as bitter and painful as I feel. I pull the robe over my shoulders, slipping into it like a lovely dream, close it and belt it. And then I murmur, harsh and quiet, "Yes... this is certainly going to change things."
She slips into her own dressing gown, the familiar green paisley, worn and faded and lovely against her coloring. She winds her hair into a bun, biting her lip as she does, and thrusts a pen through it. Then she finally looks at me squarely. "I wish there were another way. This way, you'll be protected for a time."
Protected. "From these others." I can’t stop examining myself, and I’ve just noticed how pale my fingernails are, without blood flowing as it should. I suddenly don’t want excuses, I just want truth. Facts. Facts are easy. "Another sect within a society... I believe you about that part. Right now... tell me the very basics. What of the stories is true?"
She moves out of the bathroom, urging me on ahead of her, moving over to the bed and pulling herself up onto it. She sits crosslegged there, and pats a spot near her, towards the foot of the bed. I almost refuse, just to be contrary, but I need to hear her explanations right now, so I sit, arranging the new robe carefully. She flashes a quick smile, quips, "I was afraid you were going to start quizzing me on politics first.” I barely restrain myself from snarling at her; I think I manage a cool regard instead. “So. As a Kindred, which is analogous in many respects to a vampire, vulgar word that it is, you are, for all intents and purposes dead. There are a variety of theories on the metaphysics of this, but we'll go into that later. As it is, we drink blood to continue surviving. As a note, try not to drink any other Kindred's blood after tonight."
"Blood. All right." I glance again at my thumb, source of the last miraculous taste I had, and let my eyes stray to the livid marks still on her wrist. "It tastes... god, how blood can taste that good..." …more… I wrench my gaze away from her wrist, hurriedly past her throat, and hold her eyes. Her eyes are safe. I look for a question. "Why not drink from others... like us?"
"Our attraction to blood is both physical and supernatural. Part of the supernatural component is that our blood is addictive, especially to kine - mortals. What you were up until tonight. Additionally, it is..." she pauses, clearly searching for words. "A bond between two Kindred can form when one drinks the blood of the other. A taste will not do it, but to drink enough to feed - as I allowed you to do tonight - will create an unnatural affection, something that is akin to love, but so much more powerful. It is something that you have no control over. To feed once will do almost nothing. To feed twice will form a lasting bond. To feed thrice will enthrall you to another and enforce subservience. It is a slavery worse than physical chains. It is the sublimation of your soul to another."
This takes me a moment to process, but I nod, slowly, wanting her to go on. "And it's worse for humans?"
"It can be. I don't generally approve of ghouling humans - that's the act of feeding a mortal your blood and binding them to you. Roberto has been an exception to my rule in this; we've been together for a very long time."
"Ah... okay." I find my eyes drifting back to her throat, but shake my head a little. I’ll need better control than this. More questions. “Obviously the sunlight thing is correct. I'm going to guess from having seen you just after sunset that the box of dirt thing is bullshit. Garlic? No, we've eaten garlic." Eaten… wait a second… I throw her a curious glance. "You've eaten."
"I have. And god, I love food. We're capable of eating, and with a little bit of effort, we can keep food down long enough to appear human. However, my post dinner trips to the bathroom are to vomit."
Why… oh, of course… food isn’t blood. If I eat I have to vomit afterwards. God. Although … "I see. No bile, though, is there? I can't imagine it's that terrible.” Another question occurs to me, thinking about things we’ve done. “We can eat. I've seen you do... other things that vampires aren't supposed to be able to. Can I still...?"
She grins, wicked and sensuous. "Have sex? Yes. You've thankfully been embraced in the prime of your life and, I might add, your sexual prowess, which is as much a benefit to me as it is to you, I promise."
It pulls a grin from me, both her smile and her compliment. "We can debate the height of prowess later." If there’s going to be a later. I suppose everything’s later now, including… oh god. My work. That thought wipes the humor away, as quickly as it came. My eyes rest in my lap, and I spend a moment in silence. "So then. We drink blood. We sleep during the day. That... that will more or less do away with my career, I suppose." I want to cry at having it said, to rail and hit her and vent my pain at this… the loss of all I wanted for the future, and so much of what I was. Remember the others. It’s not her fault, some part of me says, and is quickly answered by another, aching voice. I don’t care.
Her voice is quiet. "That is an unfortunate consequence, yes, although if you would like to continue with your political aspirations, the need is here within society - and the world is not barred to you - it is simply not as readily accessible."
Not as readily accessible, no kidding. Politics in this society? Maybe, but… god help me, everything I worked so long for... I take a deep breath against the turmoil, and realize the futility of breathing again as I’m about to exhale. I let it out, shuddering with pain and anger, and pound my fist sharply again the bed; I have to let it out somehow. "I keep forgetting I don't need to breathe now." My eye burns, and I turn away from her; I don’t want her seeing me cry.
She plucks a handkerchief from her robe’s pocket, hands it to me without comment, and I work on collecting myself while she answers me quietly. "I wouldn't completely lose the habit. You get used to it. I'm saying that a lot, aren't I? But in truth, it is important to keep our condition a secret from mortal society. We feed on them and many of us become monsters in the process. It wouldn't do to have them hunt us down while we sleep and burn our havens to the ground."
“That sounds... a bit rote. Are there rules?"
"Every society lives by them, and so do we. The ones that we generally all agree on is that we shouldn't let mortals know about us. That's called the Masquerade - I know, I know, it's a terrible name, but it translates across cultures universally. We shouldn't create others of our kind. This is the most frequently disobeyed Tradition - see exhibit A." She motions at me, quirks a faint smile. "The last one gets into a strange bit of vampiric metaphysics, which is that we shouldn't commit an act called diablerie. You're in no danger of committing it at this stage, so we'll skip that one for now."
Three rules, one still mysterious. Why am I not surprised? But there’s structure, and rules, and she broke one of them… generally the fewer rules, the worse it is to break one. The thought of losing her to some arcane vampire judgment makes my skin crawl and a chill rush up my spine. Apparently what she’s done hasn’t stopped what I feel for her. I wasn’t sure. "Okay. You're not going to be in... in trouble for... this?" I gesture at myself, pull the robe a bit closer around me.
She’s supremely unruffled. "Not from the powers that are. Many domains - a geopolitical boundary, usually centered around a city or a metropolitan area - will allow its residents the privilege of creating another Kindred if proper permissions are obtained. I am in no trouble from the one who rules this area. I'm in for some political backlash from those who were sniffing around you and attempting to manipulate you. I've taken their game piece off the board and added it to my collection. And the game I play is so different from theirs, that they don't even know what the board looks like, let alone understand the rules." There’s a certain grim satisfaction in her voice, but on the edge of my mind, I can feel worry. I wonder if she can feel me the same way. And what the hell has she gotten me into… domains, societies, sects and games; god, there’s so much...
"These others again. I... I suppose I should ask about them, I just..." I fold my arms over my chest, and squeeze my eyes shut, processing, ordering it all on top of what I’ve already learned, but... "This is so much to take in."
I feel M-A’s hand gentle on my knee, and my eyes snap open. I want to cover her hand in mine, but I can’t bring myself to touch her. It’s too monumental a choice she’s made for me, too vast a thing she’s suddenly thrust onto me. I can’t think about it, or her, fairly. "I know, love. Let's get through how to be Kindred tonight. Tomorrow we'll start talking politics. You're a bright boy, love. I'd not have chosen you if you weren't. And know that you are my choice. I'd not have allowed anyone else into my life as I have you. We play games because we are interminably long-lived. It doesn't mean that I'll allow them to be played with you until you are ready to face them yourself."
"Your choice, yours. Just like you asked me, just like I said." Slowly, I meet her eyes; I’ve thought of a thing I don’t want to know, but have to. "How old are you, Madeline-Antoinette?"
She raises her eyes to the ceiling. "Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine in June. I am young by our standards."
I laugh, and it sounds forced and rueful even to me. "Eighty-eight? My god, no wonder you call me boy. I must seem like a child..."
"And childe you are as I am your sire-" she breaks off and shakes her head. "Those are the words for our relationship. I created you, so you are my childe. That's spelled with an extraneous 'e' at the end. The creator is called a sire, regardless of gender."
I choke out another little laugh, this one genuine. "Vampires fond of being overblown, are they?"
She rolls her eyes. "You have no idea. Part of surviving with your wits and sanity intact is to keep a sense of humor - and then don't let anyone know you have one. It's part of my problem, really. I laugh too much and tell them what I think. It doesn't make me particularly popular."
"I've noticed that about you." I smile, but it’s hard. I’m starting to feel stretched, racked.
"What's on your mind, love?" I don’t look at her, and at last she pulls her hand slowly away from my knee.
"I... shit, it's finally starting to hit me. Everything... everything is different. Even you. I can't... it's hard to process it all."
M-A shakes her head sadly. "I know. There... is always a choice in these things. I've taken the one that I think is the best. You..." She trails off, bites her lower lip, nervous again. "You have so much potential. I couldn't see it ruined at the hands of the Invictus, who would keep you under their heels for so long that you would stop being who you are. The Movement wouldn't have been much better- oh, forgive me. There's too much here and I talk too much." She hesitates, reaches out for me. Her hand hovers between us, palm turned up, mute appeal. "You will love and hate me by turns. It is the way of these relationships. You will rail against me for bringing you to this and you will later bless me for having the foresight to give you what I have, possibly in the same breath. I don't ask for forgiveness for what I've done to you, but I will ask that when the time comes, you give it good thought." She is serious, all her humor gone now, and her sadness throbs gently in my mind as her hand waits for mine.
I want to touch her. For a moment I want nothing more. I could take her hand, curl into her arms. I could lose myself in her lips and her body and the beauty of her embrace, and not have to think about this anymore. No. Instead, I brush my fingers over her palm, then lowers my hand back to my lap.
"That much I can promise. I... can't really tell what I'm thinking just yet. There's too much." I look away from her, afraid that if I don’t I’ll rail at her, or possibly start to cry. My eyes find the tall windows, watch the rain lash at them for a short time. I need… I need to think. "Can I have some time alone, please?" I don’t really pause for her answer, pushing myself to my feet, away from her. The heavy silk robe slithers over me, and again I wrap it close against my chest, taking small comfort thereby.
Her hand lowers, and she nods. Her face is peaceful, but again, there’s a spike of worry, of hurt, on the edge of my awareness. "Roberto's prepared a room for you. You're welcome to the house, as much of it as you need."
I don’t respond, only walk to the doorway, feeling her worry keenly with each step. But as I reach it, a thought comes to me, and makes my gut wrench with its intensity and pain. "M-A," I say, leaning in the doorway and not looking back, "I have one favor to ask."
Her voice is subdued. "What is it, love?"
Please. "Don't leave me. You're all I have right now." With that plea, I walk on, leaving her door empty and her still sitting on her bed.
I do my best to shut away the sense of her as I move down the hall. At each door, I pause for a moment, thinking of a suitable place to go. At first, I’d thought the library, but I realize I don’t want to be in that room that’s seen so much of our intimacy. As I wander through the house, I notice Roberto discreetly nearby, and I have to admire M-A’s tenacity even as I vaguely resent his presence. He offers no comment or opinion, and it doesn’t help my search. In the end, I finally settle in the long-unused parlor, where I pull a heavy armchair over near to the windows, surprising myself with how easily I move it. I make sure it looks out on the garden, still largely obscured behind the sheeting rain, and then climb into it, curling carefully into myself.
And then I think, for a long time.
I let my mind wander where it will. It doesn’t linger anywhere for long; that will come in future nights, if a future I decide there will be. No, I run over all the simplest ideas instead, try to forge myself a coherent foundation to stand on. I think about vampires, putting together the few basics I’ve been told and extrapolating from there. I think of drinking blood to stay alive, of never again seeing sunrise.
I force myself to think for a while about my life - my previous life, I have to correct myself, my mortal life; about what this change will mean for it, what it will take away, what I can salvage. I piece together the ruins of my dreams, and it hurts. It hurts horribly.
I think of Madeline-Antoinette, of all she’s given me and all she’s taken away, all she’s been to me and all she seemingly still is.
I’m there for some time, undisturbed. I’m sure Roberto looks in on me at least once - some sense of air movement, or the phantom smell of his blood, alerts me - but he does so in silence. I can only imagine how I must have looked to him, sitting statue-still myself, my new pallor making me ghostly in the dark room, a lone dark streak tracing its way down my cheek. Perhaps not so strange. He’s been with M-A for a very long time.
Gradually, the rain lessens, eases back to a light but steady fall.
Hours have passed, slipping by one after another in a solemn march, when I finally glance at the room’s clock. Dawn is near very near, and as I lift myself from the chair slowly, I can feel it. My subconscious expects the fiery pains that would usually have erupted in me, had I sat in that curled position for hours, but they’re absent; I rise as fluidly as I sat. Instead, there is a pressure on me, a great weight settling gradually onto my shoulders. I know without knowing how that could I see the eastern horizon, it would be graying now, with a line of subtle light tracing across it.
For a moment, I think about going to watch it. But I’ve made my decision.
Madeline-Antoinette is in bed when I step into her doorway, under the covers with a book. The drapes are all drawn, and she reads by lamplight, her copper and honey hair in a loose braid. She looks up at me, over her reading glasses, and I can’t tell what she’s feeling.
It takes me a moment to speak; I don’t know where things lie between us now. Between the exhaustion of the night and the threat of dawn, I’m spent, drained to the dregs. "I don't want to..." I look away, then back to her, straightening my back. I still have my dignity. And I still have her. "Do you mind if I stay the night with you?" Dammit. The night is almost over. I bite my lip. "The... the day, I mean."
She smiles and flips back the covers next to her to reveal her goldenrod sheets. "C'mon, love. You're always welcome to bed down with me."
I’m relieved, thankful, so much so that another lump rises in my throat and I have to swallow. I walk up to the bed, reach for the tie on my new robe, and stop, watching her carefully, wondering if she actually remembers the significance. "This... would be the first time."
She nods, and the bond between us - for so it must be - sings of her affection. "It is."
That’s enough for me. I drop the silk robe over a chair, and climb in beside her. After a hesitant moment, I wrap an arm over her waist, and then find myself curling up to her, holding her to me like she’s all that’s warm or precious, all that’s worth anything in all the world. For me, this lone night, it’s true.
I listen to the rain, and M-A strokes my hair, leans to kiss me. She breathes in as if to speak, but I don’t hear her; in that instant I’m lost, sunk into a dreamless darkness, gentle as death.
Sao Paulo, Brazil.
Warmth. Salty heat against my lips, in my throat. So cold… that heat feels wonderful.
I swallow, weakly, and it hurts. My throat is ravaged, raw. Sea water? Whatever it was sears my throat. I cough, spit up cold salt water and bile, but I barely notice. Gone for an instant, that heat is back against my lips, and I swallow again. It hurts less… and tastes… good. Oh, God… so good…
It ignites a fire in the core of me, and that quickly I can feel my arms. One hand doesn’t work - why not? - but I grasp with the other, weak as a kitten, curling my fingers around whatever is feeding me this trickle... this amazing trickle… I want it… no… I want more.
My tongue probes roughly, and I’m rewarded with more, more heat, more life flowing into me. It’s exhilarating, and suddenly I have legs again - strong legs. I stand straight, heedless of small things that seek to push me off balance, pulling the vessel closer so I don’t miss a drop. Vessel? Wrist.
There’s a voice in my ear, and a voice in my head, but I can’t make out words; all I can hear is a pulse - my pulse? - thundering all through my body. I grasp harder, with both hands. Both hands…? But I only had one… how… My tongue searches deeper, draws more, and it’s better than any water or any wine. It’s liquid gold searing me, moonlight and ice distilled and poured down my throat. I would laugh, but it would interrupt this incredible draught.
Sudden thoughts, sensations, settle insistent and strong at the edge of my awareness. Affection, love… guilt, so much guilt. Why do I feel so guilty? Enough, love… I brush away the stray thought, but then whatever I’m drinking from is being drawn away from me, gently at first, then harder. Love, that’s enough. I clasp down to keep it, a crushing grip, strength I had no idea I had. I can feel the draught tingling and burning in my fingers. There is a hand at my shoulder, an inexorable pressure even greater than I can counter, but I fight it, every muscle bent to the task, taking as much as I can, as deep as I may… Etienne, enough!
And then I’m flung backwards to stagger in the surf, staring in shock and incomprehension at Madeline-Antoinette. She looks pale and drawn, and no longer holds the knife - what about that knife…? - in her left hand. She’s speaking, but I hear only about half of it, something about the orixa, and going home. I blink in the stinging salt and driving rain, trying to make sense of it, and I can hear her chant the closing, the dismissal.
"Exu of the crossroads, send them home. Send them away that we may call on them again. Send them home that we may give our offerings once more. Exu of the crossroads, return and have our thanks."
The wind dies down for a moment as she finishes, the waves around us slow their crashing dance. She holds out a hand to me, and says, quietly, "Come love. Let's go home."
I shake my head in the calm, flinging hair from my eyes, and wipe at my lips. I stare at her hand, remembering what this gesture means and wondering why it seems so dangerous, but I can’t think why, so I take it, slowly. Her smile as I do is sad… the sort of smile you give someone when you’ve done something incredibly painful that will be better for them.
We walk back to the shore, and as we turn, the storm surges back against us in fury, but it doesn’t seem to touch me. The crush of the waves and the force of the wind are trivial things, easily ignored. The surf sinks to our knees, lower… and then I’m suddenly torn by pain. My stomach cramps hard, and it doubles me over, teeth gritted. The second cramp throws me to my knees in the surf, the third doubles me again, and my hand grips M-A’s, viselike. I look up at her in sudden confusion, fear. What is this? My whole body jerks, twists, and pain screams up from my abdomen again. What’s going on? I cough, hard, gag, and cough again, a racking spasm that forces some awful liquid up my throat. I spit into the sea, and every muscle from my chest down suddenly contracts brutally.
“It is well, love,” Madeline-Antoinette is saying miserably, somewhere close. “It is well. Let it go, let it happen.”
My hand crushes down on hers, and my back bows, throwing my head back. I arch my face to the sky and there’s shards of wicked ice slicing through my mouth. “What’s happening to me!?”
Her arms slip around me, hold me, and even that hurts, but my muscles are too rigid to fight her away. "You're changing. I told you," she calls over the rain. "Let it happen, love. We've been at this for centuries."
My muscles relax for an instant, then squeeze even harder, and I can feel my body voiding itself, painfully. At the next lapse, I surge forward with all my strength, trying to get away, from what I don’t know. She holds close to me, and I drag us both as if she weighed nothing, flinging us a half-dozen yards to the very edge of the foaming surf. I hit the sand and can’t move, all I can do is wait, and sob with no tears, while the pain comes again… again… AGAIN… and then dies away. A twitch of my muscles, a shudder as I breathe out a rattling breath. And then I wait, a still eternity, holding my breath until I realize I don’t need to breathe.
I don’t need to breathe.
I turn to look at M-A, who’s kneeling next to me looking as though she might weep. Slowly, I sit up in the sand and the water, and run my tongue through my mouth. My incisors are longer, wickedly pointed. Fangs. Her hands finds the side of my face, and at the edge of my mind I feel relieved, so incredibly relieved. I do? No. She does. She feels relieved. I trace my tongue over my teeth again, more delicately.
“Careful, love,” she says quietly. “Those are sharp.” Her hair is limp and wet around her face, and she watches me carefully. I want to reach toward my mouth, but instead I reach for hers, because I have to see, have to know. I run my thumb over her lips, and am momentarily distracted by the feel of them… and by a surge of affection that’s subtly different than mine. She kisses my thumb, and then I slip it between her lips, parting them, opening her mouth gently. They’re there, dainty and lovely, a set of white fangs to match the ones in my mouth.
I stare at them for a moment, strangely transfixed, and then suddenly jab my thumb sharply against one. I’m rewarded with a sliver of pain, a trickle of blood when I’ve pulled my hand back.
"Come on, Etienne. Don't you think you've bled enough for one night?" Her voice is dry, and she takes my other arm in her hands, urging me to my feet. "Let's go home and dry off. You have questions and I have answers."
With her help, I rise, staggering, then shrug off her hands and stand on my own. My limbs feel strange, like they bend slightly different than they ever have before, and it takes a moment to get used to. You’ve bled enough for one night… "Looks like enough for all nights," I murmur, still wrapping my head around the idea, not quite daring to speak it aloud. Instead, I hold her gaze, look for truth in her eyes, and before long, I find it.
Without a word I turn toward the jungle path, still holding her hand, and start to walk.
She walks beside me, and we don’t speak; she somehow understand my wish for quiet… a relative term, as we walk in the midst of the howling storm, weaving through the flora and avoiding the treacherous places in the path. I look at her occasionally, needing the visual to help organize my thoughts while I put everything together, just the way she so ably taught me. My fingers are still twined in hers, and I spend a few minutes of our walk thinking about how they feel now, the way I’ve no need to move them at all if I don’t wish. But I don’t speak, not as we pass under the arch, or through the gardens, not as Roberto meets us at the door with thick, warm towels.
I catch his eyes, though, as he presses warm terrycloth into my hands. I don’t know what was in my face, but his flickers with something like fear and something like pity, and it drives a cold knife through my stomach.
M-A thanks him and leads me to her bedroom, moving directly into the bathroom and beckoning me to follow. I pause in the doorway, towel held to my chest, and let my eyes rest on her as she moves about. Finally, I give it voice, the now-organized stream of thoughts. My voice sounds cold.
"I understand now. Your blood, that was what I drank. You barely eat, and I've only ever seen you at night. Your strength, the chill in your skin when you're not ready for me to touch you. Your fangs. The way you fed at me that first night we..." I raise my thumb to the light, the tiny trickle of blood from where I cut myself on her teeth. My eyes meet hers briefly. "Vampire. Is the word." I flick my gaze to the blood for a moment, then deliberately lick it away, shivering at how wonderful it tastes. "Isn't it?"
"You're dripping on the carpet." She gestures me further into the bathroom and strips the sodden robe from her shoulders, leaving her pale and nude. "Vampire is relatively correct, but you'll find certain dissimilarities between what we are and what you read in Camilla or Dracula or any of the myriad folktales. We prefer the term 'Kindred.'"
It’s true. It can’t be true… but I feel it. How can it be other than true? I sag slightly, and only then look down at myself, at the soiled and sodden robe I’m still wearing. I can barely stand it as soon as I see it, and I pull it over my head with a shudder, dropping it on the counter when no better place presents itself.
"Dry off. You aren't going to catch your death from cold, but I guarantee you'll feel better." She takes her own advice, toweling herself dry with short, sharp strokes that remind me of how she wields a knife. A thought strikes me at that and I turn my arm over, looking for where she sliced me. I can remember it now, the two slashes, the agony of steel grating on bone, but my arm shows only a single red weal, like a shallow cut that has been days at the healing.
"You get used to it after awhile." Her voice comes from under her towel as she ruffles it through her hair, and I lift my own towel at last, soaking in the warmth of it, brushing away the water with smooth, meditative motions. I catch a glimpse of my back in the mirror as I turn, of the tattooed branches spreading over my shoulders, and I feel more centered, solid. Then I look lower, see the remnants of my rudely-released bowels, and I’m embarrassed afresh. I wet a washcloth, studiously not looking at M-A, and clean myself as thoroughly as I can, discreetly dropping that soiled cloth in the sink. She, displaying that perfect understanding she sometimes does, occupies herself tidying and rearranging cosmetics on the counter until I’ve finished and toweled myself clean and dry.
She hands me a bundle of midnight-blue silk without a word; it proves to be a dressing gown when I shake it out, sized for me. It feels and smells brand-new, never worn. I sigh over it, over what it says about her planning and her hopes… and then suddenly it crashes over me that breathing, sighing, isn’t a thing I do anymore, and I stop in mid-exhalation. My hands drift to my chest, pressing the blue silk over my heart, and I let the rest of the breath out on a laugh that sounds every bit as bitter and painful as I feel. I pull the robe over my shoulders, slipping into it like a lovely dream, close it and belt it. And then I murmur, harsh and quiet, "Yes... this is certainly going to change things."
She slips into her own dressing gown, the familiar green paisley, worn and faded and lovely against her coloring. She winds her hair into a bun, biting her lip as she does, and thrusts a pen through it. Then she finally looks at me squarely. "I wish there were another way. This way, you'll be protected for a time."
Protected. "From these others." I can’t stop examining myself, and I’ve just noticed how pale my fingernails are, without blood flowing as it should. I suddenly don’t want excuses, I just want truth. Facts. Facts are easy. "Another sect within a society... I believe you about that part. Right now... tell me the very basics. What of the stories is true?"
She moves out of the bathroom, urging me on ahead of her, moving over to the bed and pulling herself up onto it. She sits crosslegged there, and pats a spot near her, towards the foot of the bed. I almost refuse, just to be contrary, but I need to hear her explanations right now, so I sit, arranging the new robe carefully. She flashes a quick smile, quips, "I was afraid you were going to start quizzing me on politics first.” I barely restrain myself from snarling at her; I think I manage a cool regard instead. “So. As a Kindred, which is analogous in many respects to a vampire, vulgar word that it is, you are, for all intents and purposes dead. There are a variety of theories on the metaphysics of this, but we'll go into that later. As it is, we drink blood to continue surviving. As a note, try not to drink any other Kindred's blood after tonight."
"Blood. All right." I glance again at my thumb, source of the last miraculous taste I had, and let my eyes stray to the livid marks still on her wrist. "It tastes... god, how blood can taste that good..." …more… I wrench my gaze away from her wrist, hurriedly past her throat, and hold her eyes. Her eyes are safe. I look for a question. "Why not drink from others... like us?"
"Our attraction to blood is both physical and supernatural. Part of the supernatural component is that our blood is addictive, especially to kine - mortals. What you were up until tonight. Additionally, it is..." she pauses, clearly searching for words. "A bond between two Kindred can form when one drinks the blood of the other. A taste will not do it, but to drink enough to feed - as I allowed you to do tonight - will create an unnatural affection, something that is akin to love, but so much more powerful. It is something that you have no control over. To feed once will do almost nothing. To feed twice will form a lasting bond. To feed thrice will enthrall you to another and enforce subservience. It is a slavery worse than physical chains. It is the sublimation of your soul to another."
This takes me a moment to process, but I nod, slowly, wanting her to go on. "And it's worse for humans?"
"It can be. I don't generally approve of ghouling humans - that's the act of feeding a mortal your blood and binding them to you. Roberto has been an exception to my rule in this; we've been together for a very long time."
"Ah... okay." I find my eyes drifting back to her throat, but shake my head a little. I’ll need better control than this. More questions. “Obviously the sunlight thing is correct. I'm going to guess from having seen you just after sunset that the box of dirt thing is bullshit. Garlic? No, we've eaten garlic." Eaten… wait a second… I throw her a curious glance. "You've eaten."
"I have. And god, I love food. We're capable of eating, and with a little bit of effort, we can keep food down long enough to appear human. However, my post dinner trips to the bathroom are to vomit."
Why… oh, of course… food isn’t blood. If I eat I have to vomit afterwards. God. Although … "I see. No bile, though, is there? I can't imagine it's that terrible.” Another question occurs to me, thinking about things we’ve done. “We can eat. I've seen you do... other things that vampires aren't supposed to be able to. Can I still...?"
She grins, wicked and sensuous. "Have sex? Yes. You've thankfully been embraced in the prime of your life and, I might add, your sexual prowess, which is as much a benefit to me as it is to you, I promise."
It pulls a grin from me, both her smile and her compliment. "We can debate the height of prowess later." If there’s going to be a later. I suppose everything’s later now, including… oh god. My work. That thought wipes the humor away, as quickly as it came. My eyes rest in my lap, and I spend a moment in silence. "So then. We drink blood. We sleep during the day. That... that will more or less do away with my career, I suppose." I want to cry at having it said, to rail and hit her and vent my pain at this… the loss of all I wanted for the future, and so much of what I was. Remember the others. It’s not her fault, some part of me says, and is quickly answered by another, aching voice. I don’t care.
Her voice is quiet. "That is an unfortunate consequence, yes, although if you would like to continue with your political aspirations, the need is here within society - and the world is not barred to you - it is simply not as readily accessible."
Not as readily accessible, no kidding. Politics in this society? Maybe, but… god help me, everything I worked so long for... I take a deep breath against the turmoil, and realize the futility of breathing again as I’m about to exhale. I let it out, shuddering with pain and anger, and pound my fist sharply again the bed; I have to let it out somehow. "I keep forgetting I don't need to breathe now." My eye burns, and I turn away from her; I don’t want her seeing me cry.
She plucks a handkerchief from her robe’s pocket, hands it to me without comment, and I work on collecting myself while she answers me quietly. "I wouldn't completely lose the habit. You get used to it. I'm saying that a lot, aren't I? But in truth, it is important to keep our condition a secret from mortal society. We feed on them and many of us become monsters in the process. It wouldn't do to have them hunt us down while we sleep and burn our havens to the ground."
“That sounds... a bit rote. Are there rules?"
"Every society lives by them, and so do we. The ones that we generally all agree on is that we shouldn't let mortals know about us. That's called the Masquerade - I know, I know, it's a terrible name, but it translates across cultures universally. We shouldn't create others of our kind. This is the most frequently disobeyed Tradition - see exhibit A." She motions at me, quirks a faint smile. "The last one gets into a strange bit of vampiric metaphysics, which is that we shouldn't commit an act called diablerie. You're in no danger of committing it at this stage, so we'll skip that one for now."
Three rules, one still mysterious. Why am I not surprised? But there’s structure, and rules, and she broke one of them… generally the fewer rules, the worse it is to break one. The thought of losing her to some arcane vampire judgment makes my skin crawl and a chill rush up my spine. Apparently what she’s done hasn’t stopped what I feel for her. I wasn’t sure. "Okay. You're not going to be in... in trouble for... this?" I gesture at myself, pull the robe a bit closer around me.
She’s supremely unruffled. "Not from the powers that are. Many domains - a geopolitical boundary, usually centered around a city or a metropolitan area - will allow its residents the privilege of creating another Kindred if proper permissions are obtained. I am in no trouble from the one who rules this area. I'm in for some political backlash from those who were sniffing around you and attempting to manipulate you. I've taken their game piece off the board and added it to my collection. And the game I play is so different from theirs, that they don't even know what the board looks like, let alone understand the rules." There’s a certain grim satisfaction in her voice, but on the edge of my mind, I can feel worry. I wonder if she can feel me the same way. And what the hell has she gotten me into… domains, societies, sects and games; god, there’s so much...
"These others again. I... I suppose I should ask about them, I just..." I fold my arms over my chest, and squeeze my eyes shut, processing, ordering it all on top of what I’ve already learned, but... "This is so much to take in."
I feel M-A’s hand gentle on my knee, and my eyes snap open. I want to cover her hand in mine, but I can’t bring myself to touch her. It’s too monumental a choice she’s made for me, too vast a thing she’s suddenly thrust onto me. I can’t think about it, or her, fairly. "I know, love. Let's get through how to be Kindred tonight. Tomorrow we'll start talking politics. You're a bright boy, love. I'd not have chosen you if you weren't. And know that you are my choice. I'd not have allowed anyone else into my life as I have you. We play games because we are interminably long-lived. It doesn't mean that I'll allow them to be played with you until you are ready to face them yourself."
"Your choice, yours. Just like you asked me, just like I said." Slowly, I meet her eyes; I’ve thought of a thing I don’t want to know, but have to. "How old are you, Madeline-Antoinette?"
She raises her eyes to the ceiling. "Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine in June. I am young by our standards."
I laugh, and it sounds forced and rueful even to me. "Eighty-eight? My god, no wonder you call me boy. I must seem like a child..."
"And childe you are as I am your sire-" she breaks off and shakes her head. "Those are the words for our relationship. I created you, so you are my childe. That's spelled with an extraneous 'e' at the end. The creator is called a sire, regardless of gender."
I choke out another little laugh, this one genuine. "Vampires fond of being overblown, are they?"
She rolls her eyes. "You have no idea. Part of surviving with your wits and sanity intact is to keep a sense of humor - and then don't let anyone know you have one. It's part of my problem, really. I laugh too much and tell them what I think. It doesn't make me particularly popular."
"I've noticed that about you." I smile, but it’s hard. I’m starting to feel stretched, racked.
"What's on your mind, love?" I don’t look at her, and at last she pulls her hand slowly away from my knee.
"I... shit, it's finally starting to hit me. Everything... everything is different. Even you. I can't... it's hard to process it all."
M-A shakes her head sadly. "I know. There... is always a choice in these things. I've taken the one that I think is the best. You..." She trails off, bites her lower lip, nervous again. "You have so much potential. I couldn't see it ruined at the hands of the Invictus, who would keep you under their heels for so long that you would stop being who you are. The Movement wouldn't have been much better- oh, forgive me. There's too much here and I talk too much." She hesitates, reaches out for me. Her hand hovers between us, palm turned up, mute appeal. "You will love and hate me by turns. It is the way of these relationships. You will rail against me for bringing you to this and you will later bless me for having the foresight to give you what I have, possibly in the same breath. I don't ask for forgiveness for what I've done to you, but I will ask that when the time comes, you give it good thought." She is serious, all her humor gone now, and her sadness throbs gently in my mind as her hand waits for mine.
I want to touch her. For a moment I want nothing more. I could take her hand, curl into her arms. I could lose myself in her lips and her body and the beauty of her embrace, and not have to think about this anymore. No. Instead, I brush my fingers over her palm, then lowers my hand back to my lap.
"That much I can promise. I... can't really tell what I'm thinking just yet. There's too much." I look away from her, afraid that if I don’t I’ll rail at her, or possibly start to cry. My eyes find the tall windows, watch the rain lash at them for a short time. I need… I need to think. "Can I have some time alone, please?" I don’t really pause for her answer, pushing myself to my feet, away from her. The heavy silk robe slithers over me, and again I wrap it close against my chest, taking small comfort thereby.
Her hand lowers, and she nods. Her face is peaceful, but again, there’s a spike of worry, of hurt, on the edge of my awareness. "Roberto's prepared a room for you. You're welcome to the house, as much of it as you need."
I don’t respond, only walk to the doorway, feeling her worry keenly with each step. But as I reach it, a thought comes to me, and makes my gut wrench with its intensity and pain. "M-A," I say, leaning in the doorway and not looking back, "I have one favor to ask."
Her voice is subdued. "What is it, love?"
Please. "Don't leave me. You're all I have right now." With that plea, I walk on, leaving her door empty and her still sitting on her bed.
I do my best to shut away the sense of her as I move down the hall. At each door, I pause for a moment, thinking of a suitable place to go. At first, I’d thought the library, but I realize I don’t want to be in that room that’s seen so much of our intimacy. As I wander through the house, I notice Roberto discreetly nearby, and I have to admire M-A’s tenacity even as I vaguely resent his presence. He offers no comment or opinion, and it doesn’t help my search. In the end, I finally settle in the long-unused parlor, where I pull a heavy armchair over near to the windows, surprising myself with how easily I move it. I make sure it looks out on the garden, still largely obscured behind the sheeting rain, and then climb into it, curling carefully into myself.
And then I think, for a long time.
I let my mind wander where it will. It doesn’t linger anywhere for long; that will come in future nights, if a future I decide there will be. No, I run over all the simplest ideas instead, try to forge myself a coherent foundation to stand on. I think about vampires, putting together the few basics I’ve been told and extrapolating from there. I think of drinking blood to stay alive, of never again seeing sunrise.
I force myself to think for a while about my life - my previous life, I have to correct myself, my mortal life; about what this change will mean for it, what it will take away, what I can salvage. I piece together the ruins of my dreams, and it hurts. It hurts horribly.
I think of Madeline-Antoinette, of all she’s given me and all she’s taken away, all she’s been to me and all she seemingly still is.
I’m there for some time, undisturbed. I’m sure Roberto looks in on me at least once - some sense of air movement, or the phantom smell of his blood, alerts me - but he does so in silence. I can only imagine how I must have looked to him, sitting statue-still myself, my new pallor making me ghostly in the dark room, a lone dark streak tracing its way down my cheek. Perhaps not so strange. He’s been with M-A for a very long time.
Gradually, the rain lessens, eases back to a light but steady fall.
Hours have passed, slipping by one after another in a solemn march, when I finally glance at the room’s clock. Dawn is near very near, and as I lift myself from the chair slowly, I can feel it. My subconscious expects the fiery pains that would usually have erupted in me, had I sat in that curled position for hours, but they’re absent; I rise as fluidly as I sat. Instead, there is a pressure on me, a great weight settling gradually onto my shoulders. I know without knowing how that could I see the eastern horizon, it would be graying now, with a line of subtle light tracing across it.
For a moment, I think about going to watch it. But I’ve made my decision.
Madeline-Antoinette is in bed when I step into her doorway, under the covers with a book. The drapes are all drawn, and she reads by lamplight, her copper and honey hair in a loose braid. She looks up at me, over her reading glasses, and I can’t tell what she’s feeling.
It takes me a moment to speak; I don’t know where things lie between us now. Between the exhaustion of the night and the threat of dawn, I’m spent, drained to the dregs. "I don't want to..." I look away, then back to her, straightening my back. I still have my dignity. And I still have her. "Do you mind if I stay the night with you?" Dammit. The night is almost over. I bite my lip. "The... the day, I mean."
She smiles and flips back the covers next to her to reveal her goldenrod sheets. "C'mon, love. You're always welcome to bed down with me."
I’m relieved, thankful, so much so that another lump rises in my throat and I have to swallow. I walk up to the bed, reach for the tie on my new robe, and stop, watching her carefully, wondering if she actually remembers the significance. "This... would be the first time."
She nods, and the bond between us - for so it must be - sings of her affection. "It is."
That’s enough for me. I drop the silk robe over a chair, and climb in beside her. After a hesitant moment, I wrap an arm over her waist, and then find myself curling up to her, holding her to me like she’s all that’s warm or precious, all that’s worth anything in all the world. For me, this lone night, it’s true.
I listen to the rain, and M-A strokes my hair, leans to kiss me. She breathes in as if to speak, but I don’t hear her; in that instant I’m lost, sunk into a dreamless darkness, gentle as death.