Embrace Ch. 02

Everything is black, eyes open, it makes no difference.

In darkness, all sounds become greater than they are. Amelia was a sickly child. Many hours were spent in febrile nightmares, blankets tight, the fire banked high, and nurse or father breathing gently beside her. The things she saw, the things she heard were all products of a sick mind, that's all. She almost could have believed it before tonight.

There is a smooth, cold surface under her naked back. Her hands dart to her throat and mercifully find it whole. She tries to stand and cracks her head on the curved ceiling. The pain cuts through the fog of her senses and she makes a sound like a scolded puppy. It echoes around the hollow space, and as it fades, the silence yawns as wide as the darkness.

Her mouth is full of jagged edges, but as she notices them, her teeth recede back to normal size.

"Oh!" She covers her breast with one hand, her sex with the other. "Anyone! Somebody!"

It's painfully loud in the confined space and shouting for help is seemingly futile but she cannot control her panic. Things have died down here, things have lingered down here, she can feel it in her bones. She imagines the horrors that such spirits will whisper to her as soon as there is silence enough. Somehow, the darker it is, the easier it is to see them.

She senses Felix's presence before she feels his arm around her. Better the devil you know. She melts into his embrace, though there's no comfort to be had in it.

"He... he's buried us alive, oh please, Felix, tell me he hasn't buried us..."

"Oh kid. I'm not going to lie to you, it's bad."

"Why are we in this tomb?" she sobs.

Felix brushes her tears away gently.

"It's traditional. He'll open the door and let you free. Your hunger will be powerful, you'll destroy the first person you see. He'll make sure it's someone you care about."

"I'll... I'll... have to..."

"You will. We need blood." He kisses her hair. "Don't be afraid. I'll take care of you. I'll watch over you. But after this, you won't see me for some time, so listen."

"I..." she swallows her fear and clings to him. And hates herself for it. Surely this is the architect of her destruction, yet in this moment she has no one else.

"I am your Sire. You are my Childe, blood of my blood. He's an ignorant tool. If he finds out you're not his, he'll end you. You must stay with him until it's safe for us to be together. That could be a long time. There's a lot you need to learn, pay attention and he will teach you."

"what madness is this? I don't understand, I don't understand any of it, please don't leave me alone."

"I know, kid. I know. Now take what you need from him and stay strong."

"Dear Felix." she clings to him. "Don't make me a murderer. I'd rather die, I swear it. Please at least spare me that."

The ancient creature that has damned her soul hesitates. She feels the tension in the broad expanse of his chest. He opens the skin with the sharp edges of his fingernails and she suckles at his chest as he strokes her unbound hair. She moans in wanton lust at the raw power of him. A wildness in her soul is bathed in the richness of it and sings its pleasure.

"Dearest," he breathes. And then he is gone.

*

With grim determination, Amelia explores the space. It is round, larger than she first thought. In the centre the domed ceiling is too high for her to reach. There are no doors or hatches she can feel, only the odd patch of bare brick behind the worn plaster. Her imagination runs away with her. Pale shades of others trapped down here, weeping, trying to dig a way out with their bare hands. Echoes of lost souls.

Footfalls above begin as mere whispers and grow to echo around her tomb as they approach. Between each step, something shuffles along the ground. Above her head, metal grates on stone, and flickering light streams through a hatch in the centre of the ceiling.

Something heavy drops onto the ground and Amelia shrinks back, even as her teeth spring forth and a hunger swells in her heart, in her belly. She presses her eyes shut, and forces air in and out of her tight chest. It hurts. It's like breathing in water. In and out, in and out, it forces her to focus on something other than the gnawing hunger.

She doesn't need air, she needs blood. But she is no monster, she will not kill.

Kill, her black heart demands. Kill.

I will not. I will never...

Kill? It pleads. Kill...

No.

In a pool of wan torch light under the hole lies her husband, Franz. She approaches cautiously, still breathing daggers in and out of her aching lungs, fangs extended. She lifts his hand. Beneath the clammy skin she perceives the gentle tap of his pulse. She can smell spilled brandy and cigar smoke on him. His trousers are soaked in urine. Above all that is a heavy scent that brings a low growl to the back of her throat.

As she bites the skin of his arm less gently than she would have liked, he stirs. He moans softly as she begins to drink.

The blood flushes her dead flesh with stolen life, their hearts pound, fluttering in time, he convulses, and the steady pulse becomes erratic. The beast inside her sighs with contentment. This is a beautiful thing. It's what they were made for, the rage flares again as she pulls away but she's expecting it now.

She turns her back on her helpless husband, presses the heels of her hands into her eyes and breathes, in and out over her shrinking fangs as they disappear. The hunger is not satisfied, not even close. Yet Franz is still breathing, and the desire to kill fades into cold fear and anger. Her whole body aches. It's not enough blood. Without Felix's help Franz would already be a corpse; what's to stop the duke locking them down here together until the deed is done?

"You lied to me!" She shouts up at the circle of light. "You promised me you'd keep him safe if I gave you Montessi. You promised!"

"Impudent whelp." A knotted rope ladder uncoils from above.

With trembling hands she loops the end of it around Franz's chest and whispers a prayer for courage. Painfully slowly she climbs up into the pool of flickering torchlight above. The fire unsettles the animal within, but Amelia has it on a tight leash.

The duke observes coldly as she tests the weight, praying that her makeshift knots hold Franz. She is neither tired nor breathless after the climb, and hand over hand she begins to haul him up.

She lays him out awkwardly. His broken arm bends out at a bizarre angle.

"You promised me you'd keep him safe, and look at him." Franz feared this would be her fate. He tried to warn her. How can anyone resist these creatures? Tears fill her eyes and drop onto his ruined waistcoat. Tears of blood.

"Leave that filth, a servant will dispose of it. Let it be a lesson to you in self control."

"My lord." She kneels naked on the cold stone and makes the best plea she can for her husband's wretched life. "I beg only that you keep your word."

"What are you dithering for, he lives?"

The duke scowls in confusion and kicks poor Franz in the side. An agonized moan is his answer. Blood oozes from the poor man's nose, and he breathes with a strange whistle.

Amelia flinches, pain flares in her chest and she almost swoons. "He has means, my lord. Though I may be dead to him, there are others who would nurse him back to health." The duke turns away, unable to hide his unease. She remains, hand on Franz's chest as it rises and falls. "Please?"

"Bring his sorry carcass then childe. I have no time for this nonsense."

"My lord. You have my deepest gratitude..."

"I am your sire." He snaps irritably.

"Yes... sire."

There is a labyrinth of chambers and passages. Some are fairly well lit. In these, she baulks at the sight of herself. She carries Franz over one shoulder, and though it is awkward due to the disparity of their sizes it is not unduly difficult.

"Put him down there." He gestures to a narrow wooden bench.

She places him gently on the ground. The poor man has surely suffered enough, and shouldn't be allowed to fall yet again.

"Farewell." She kisses him gently on the forehead but he makes no response. She will not weep those monstrous tears if she can help it.

She follows in the duke's wake, jogging every now and then to keep up. He leers at her.

"Ah youth. I believe you are blushing."

"Of course," she snaps indignantly. Her hands cover very little. She will not lower herself to beg for clothes, though her nakedness is mortifying.

"I've taken the liberty of sending for some of your things." He opens a narrow door and heads inside. She follows him miserably after a moment's pause. Why should such a little thing as that bring a tear to her eye? Even a dire enemy would step aside to allow her to enter first.

The dank room has a low ceiling, and a single candle lights the space.

"Hurry then. Make yourself decent."

"Thank you." She tries to lift the candlestick and almost flinches away from the tiny flame. The beast within is a friend of darkness and despair. She carries the light over to the pile of boxes. Evening gown, full bodied stays, everything he has put here requires assistance to put on. She pulls on a plain white cotton shift and belts it with a length of ribbon, pins a simple veil over her unbound hair.

He stares at her the whole time. "You've never dressed yourself in your life have you?" He sniggers. "I shall have to see you have a ladies maid."

"If you wouldn't mind I should be grateful, Wolf-Dietrich."

"So then. You recall my name. You need not address me by it, but you should know how to refer to me."

"Duke Wolf-Dietrich von Habsburg?"

"I am no duke. We leave the titles of our breathing days behind us, or it could be seen as conceit. I am the seneschal of Vienna. The house of Habsburg is as much a dynasty of the undead as the living."

"My sire, the seneschal, Wolf-Dietrich von Habsburg?"

"Close enough." He turns on his heel once more, and she patters after him barefoot. "My sire, God rest her soul, was Rosemary the sage. Her sire was the prince himself, Johannes Paracida. His sire is the mighty Hardestadt, he being a child of Ventrue."

A list of names without faces. She concentrates as best she can given the circumstances, and hangs on his every word.

"That is our lineage childe. A proud lineage of which you are yet to prove worthy. I will warn you now, everything and everyone in this palace is above you. I expect you are ill suited to the necessary humility."

She feels nauseated and dizzy, but he doesn't seem to notice. Her head is pounding. He leads her to a larger chamber with a curious collection of weapons and equipment. Once more he scrutinizes her and frowns.

"Perhaps you'll surprise me."

He tests her reflexes, her knowledge of weapons and her strength and is unimpressed by all three.

"You guard yourself like a drunken doxy. Set it down."

She clumsily sets the blade in its rack.

"No human warrior can stand against our kind. You owe it to your blood and your lineage to hone your skills, because tonight they are a disgrace."

"Sire," she protests, "I've never wielded anything bigger than a letter opener, what..."

"Enough." His eyes flash fire and his sneering mouth is suddenly full of fangs. Terror sends Amelia screaming away into a corner.

He is most unimpressed with her fear. He catches her easily and holds her still until she regains her self control.

"Even the weakest of us is a danger when overcome by the beast. It knows not friend from foe. It desires only violence and blood. Do you feel it?"

"I felt it." she whimpers. "It's like I'm being taken over by something dark and terrible, it's dreadful..."

"Yes." He smiles and sets her down. "And it's a shameful thing to lose control."

"I couldn't stop myself..."

"You'll learn. Fire and sunlight, hunger, humiliation, and emotional upheaval of any kind are all best avoided by the weak of will. Come. Let's see if your body is any more resilient than your mind.

He fastens her arm in a vice with teeth and closes it by slow degrees until he is satisfied with the result. Her agony is incidental to the task. He makes sketchy notes on a pad of paper after each finding, and from his face it could be a laundry list.

"You destroyed my arm!" The nerves are on fire. She cannot bear to look at her mangled bloodless flesh.

As she weeps he sighs, exasperated.

"Have you no instinct at all girl? Your blood will restore you if you direct it to the injury."

The darkness in her heart, the hunger, is enraged by her suffering. "I feel it, sire." she sobs. "If I let it, it will take me again. Please don't make me."

"You hunger." he sniffs. "If you had taken full advantage of that degenerate, your beast would have a more difficult job to unsettle you now."

"I'm sorry." she whines. The pain is less now, but the sight of her twisted broken meat is a horror.

"Return to your cell. I shall send a servant to feed you. How is it you are so precocious in some areas, and so feeble in others? Tiresome childe."

"Thank you." She cradles her poor arm and sinks a deep curtsey.

He waves her away and returns to making notes. "Await my summons. Don't make a nuisance of yourself."

The fear and loneliness are almost more than she can bear, waiting in that miserable cell among her disordered possessions. It's her instinct that prevents her from using the last of her strength to heal herself for fear of losing control. She has tried so hard to do her duty. It's unfair of Wolf-Dietrich to find her wanting.

A man and woman let themselves into her room carrying a large copper kettle full of blood. They wait and watch Amelia drain it dry. She could drain another in a heartbeat. Still, it's enough to do as she needs. She allows her blood to do its work, pictures herself whole. There is a tingling, as though an army of ants were putting her back together, and it's done. The pair watch in fascination as her vitae does its work. There is nothing improper in their manner at all, but their eyes... something about them is unnerving. Still, there is no-one else to help her.

"Madam, I require assistance to dress. Would you trouble yourself to..."

"But of course my lady." The woman waves the man away and he scowls with resentment.

Amelia casts aside everything, including the veil. The woman stops dead and stares at her with naked desire.

"M... my chemise if you please."

"Mistress." the woman bows her head.

"And some stays, any will do. Goodness knows where they are in this mess."

"A privilege, mistress, I'm glad to serve you."

The woman's hands linger for long moments as she works, and Amelia honestly doesn't mind. She feels broken. If only this strange woman could put her heart back together as easily as her chamber and toilette.

"I don't want to put on graces. If you braid my hair, that's enough."

"May I?" The woman runs a brush through Amelia's heavily powdered tresses until they are smooth as silk. She seems to delight in it, following each sweeping stroke of the brush with a gentle hand.

"Yes. I just want it off my face and covered please."

"Mistress." The woman bends the knee. She is skilled, no doubt. Amelia's hair is plaited and twisted into a sensible crown and tucked under a simple muslin veil.

"That's perfect, thank you. I feel better already."

"I could help you unpack? That is, if you'd like help, I..." Half fear, half desire, the question is loaded with emotion.

"I don't think I want to. Unpack that is." Amelia sighs. "I don't see the point. I honestly don't think I will last long enough to make it worthwhile. Does he treat you well?"

The woman looks blankly at her for a moment.

"I have no complaints. None." Fear wins out for now. That's an obvious lie.

"Thank you for your kindness then. And good night."

Alone again with the candle very low, Amelia rifles through everything until she finds a little tin of tapers. It is much easier now that she is well fed. She lights all three and sets them carefully around the room, but it doesn't cheer the place up much. Damp climbs the walls in eerie patches. There is an iron ring set high on the wall, and beneath it a faint scent of stale urine and vomit lingers.

She finds her writing things and makes ready to pen a letter. After several minutes staring blankly at the page she sets the quill down. Franz has been a poor husband to her, and Wolf-Dietrich is well aware of their problems. If she writes to her mother, her sister or any of her friends then her sire's destructive attention will be drawn to those she truly loves. If she does not, they will surely miss her.

She wonders how he plans to cover her disappearance. Numbly she tidies the writing box away and pulls out a book. She doesn't read it, just sits with it in her hands until a strange heaviness overtakes her, and her mind drifts into oblivion.

When her senses return, the room is black. Her body feels restored, the sickness and pain have passed, but a rising panic carries her to stumble to the door and open it. The corridor beyond is almost as dark, but distant torchlight draws her out. There's no one here. The pool of light around the torch flickers steadily in the silence. She steels herself and ignores the animal fear of fire in order to carry the burning brand to a sconce nearer her cell. She leaves the door open, and waits.

It is some time until another servant appears. If he's surprised to find her cowering in semi darkness he doesn't show it. He offers her a large vessel of blood, and she receives it with gratitude. She asks him what the hour is, and whether she will be required to attend her sire, and he stares blankly back at her. He takes the empty vessel and leaves.

She feels warm and safe. It jars a little with her surroundings.

"I don't." She says aloud. "I feel nothing of the sort." It could be some kind of psychic manifestation, something like presence or the dread gaze, but less unpleasant perhaps? "This is terribly cruel." she whispers. How can anyone make sense of this alone?

Courage. Nothing is stopping her from exploring a little more. Hesitantly she creeps back along the corridor with the torch and sets it back where she found it. It won't do to get lost. She carefully studies her surroundings before moving on. If she concentrates, sounds can be heard in the distance. Footsteps. A bell ringing. Voices.

"Good evening."

She swings around startled. A woman is leaning against the wall. Amelia bends her knee and bows her head.

"Rise up little fledgling. I'm surprised to see you out of your nest."

Amelia meets the woman's eyes as calmly as she can. Her heart is in her mouth. "I hope I've not disturbed you madame?"

"Certainly not." She waves a hand dismissively. "Though I did wonder who'd borrowed my torch eh? No matter." She approaches, and Amelia has a job to hold her ground. "Be still childe. Most fledglings take a while to acclimatize to the beast. But this is all you, isn't it?" Amelia remains perfectly still as the woman appraises her. "You're doing pretty well."

"That's kind of you to say, madame." Amelia replies softly. "Actually, I was thinking I could learn more by taking a wander, just having a watch or a listen. I'm not to make a nuisance of myself but still."

"That's quite dangerous really." The woman sniffs. "Your very existence is more than a nuisance to some. You're not like his other childer. Thank goodness."

"But there's no light in my cell." Amelia curses at how infantile that sounds out loud, though the woman doesn't mock her.

"You're in luck. Come."

Amelia follows her a short distance off the corridor.

"Wait out here a moment please."

The woman disappears, presumably into her own quarters and returns with a large box of candles.

"Take them. Go on. And I'll see to it you get more if they run out."