Embrace Ch. 02

"Thank you. You're too kind."

"So they tell me." She smiles again. "I am called Leopoldine."

"I am much obliged to you, Madame Leopoldine."

"No little one. You're obliged to no-one yet. I indulge you for my own sake. You can indulge me with another devine obeisance if you will. Very few kindred here offer me such courtesy." She winks.

Somehow Amelia keeps hold of the crate and sinks her curtsey a little lower than before without disgracing herself.

"Thanks to you madame, I can read now whilst I'm waiting."

"Ah, enjoy it girl. You'll be far too busy soon enough." The woman disappears silently into the dark.

Amelia uses the torch to light one of the candles, and heads back to her cell. The strangeness of it doesn't bother her. Monsters rule the world. Reason is a bare faced lie. Everything is turned on its head. But what is her sire's purpose? He tells her how inadequate she is, how poorly she's doing, but this woman says she's doing pretty well. Not much different to married life then. She laughs to herself a little hysterically as she closes her door.

*

He comes to see her himself the following night. She can hear the rage simmering beneath his words.

"You are ready to meet your prince, childe."

"Am I?" She sets down the book. "Really?"

"Come."

"What... like this?" She gestures to her mismatched clothes and bare feet.

"No, you're right. Take it all off. Hurry."

Amelia is afraid. She dare not contradict him again. She sets her clothes aside and stands shivering under his stern gaze.

"I've displeased you, sire."

"Things are well enough." He walks a circle around her. "Recite your lineage."

"I... I am the childe of Wolf-Dietrich von Habsburg, childe of Rosemary the sage, childe of Johannes Paracida, childe of Hardestadt the Elder, childe of Ventrue."

"And who is Miss Leopoldine?" His anger simmers, barely contained.

"I... I believe she is a kind woman with plenty of candles..."

He smacks his fist into his hand and Amelia flinches.

"She is of Gustav's line." He hisses. "She is of the Berlin kindred."

"I... I have no idea what any of that means!"

"Speak unbidden again, and I will strike you. Do you understand?"

"Y... yes sire."

"Good. Tonight, this very hour, you will be presented at court, presented to my grandsire, Prince Paracida. It is dreadful timing. Much is amiss. But it cannot be avoided, due to your propensity for unsolicited conversation. If you make a single mistake, your good-for-nothing husband will be burying a full casket rather than an empty one. Do you understand?"

"I think so, sire. I hope so."

"Good." He steps back. "Just the chemise, nothing else."

"Thank you, sire." She gratefully puts the undergarment back on.

He draws out a long fine gold chain from his waistcoat pocket, and fixes it around her neck.

"This chain is the thread of blood, from Cain to us. It's a symbol of power and authority. I will lead you to court, hand you to the prince, and if you are acceptable to him, he will hand you back."

Her tongue burns with a reply but she lets it go. For better or worse she has chosen to exist among these creatures. No-one said it would be easy.

She follows her sire a few paces behind as he leads her to a vast windowless throne room. There are perhaps two dozen kindred here. Amelia recognises Leopoldine scribbling furiously onto an enormous scroll off to the side. She looks up as Wolf-Dietrich enters and flashes Amelia a shy smile.

An athletic looking boy of fourteen years or so sits in a rather ornate chair, and the whole gathering is focused on him. He has a noble bearing though he wears no coronet, just a fairly bored expression.

Two very different people stand before the throne: a swarthy man wearing an archaic chainmail shirt and a broad chested blond fellow in commoners clothes. In their heated debate and outright argument they use a lot of old words and speak quickly. It seems to be a dispute about cattle in the neighborhood by the river but that can't be right. When the boy tires of hearing their bickering he has only to clear his throat to force a silence so complete you can suddenly hear the torches burning. He passes his judgement in Latin and the antagonists disperse.

A stern looking woman in dark old fashioned clothes is staring in Amelia's direction. She doesn't look as though she remembers how to smile, but for a moment Amelia can't look away. Her beauty is startling, not pretty, not charming, the milk perfect skin of her high brow, the stark contrast of her black hair and crimson scowl. The woman nods to Wolf-Dietrich, and he returns the courtesy as he approaches the throne.

"Ah, Seneschal. About time." the boy says.

Someone sniggers in the distance. Amelia gulps and gives her full attention to the Prince.

"Esteemed and mighty Prince Johannes, might I present this childe, a mere fledgeling in her third night of undeath." There is a pause as Wolf-Dietrich offers the chain to the prince. Someone mutters under their breath incredulously.

The boy prince stands. Amelia kneels and folds her hands firmly together to stop them from shaking.

"Truly?" he smirks. "Who do we have here?"

Amelia looks up into his handsome face and meets his curious brown eyes.

"I am childe of Wolf-Dietrich, childe of Rosemary the Sage, childe of..."

"Yes, yes, yes, I'm familiar with the rest. Three days eh? What shall we call you girl?"

"I am called Amelia-Marie, most sovereign Prince. All else is vanity now."

"Precious childe." He rests his left hand on the crown of her head, and offers her the seal on his ring which she kisses. "You have the word of acceptance in Vienna."

He hands the chain back to Wolf-Dietrich and kisses him on the cheek. Only the three of them hear his next words.

"For your sake Prince Bishop, don't screw this one up."

Wolf-Dietrich kneels beside her and kisses the seal. She's not sure if it's an act of spontaneous devotion, or an attempt to hide his anger. Either way it passes for respect. There is a polite round of applause as they back solemnly away from the prince and he returns to the throne.

Formal proceedings drift naturally into casual conversation. Amelia barely notices Wolf-Dietrich drop his end of the chain and wander off after the prince. She suddenly feels adrift. She gathers the loose length of it into the folds of her slip.

Leopoldine makes her way over. "Three days? You're wandering the halls trying to find a light so you can read after three days?" She shakes her head. "I'm so sorry... Amelia was it? I thought he must have been hiding you for ages."

Amelia makes another deep curtsey. "It's fine. You don't have to apologize."

"Of course childe. You are more than ready." The rich alto is feminine, but carries an unspoken demand for attention.

Amelia makes an awkward half turn and barely keeps her balance as she repeats the gesture to the stern woman in the black dress. She looks up into those merciless green eyes and for a moment she's entranced. The woman can smile, albeit like a harpy. Amelia takes the woman's proffered hand with which to steady herself. "By and by you may come to understand your great fortune in young Leopoldine's mistake." The woman glances impatiently at Leopoldine who hands over the enormous scroll with a hurried dip of her own.

"My God." Leopoldine breathes as the woman in black takes her leave of the gathering. "She terrifies me. Come on then. Let me nudge you this way.

"But who was that?" Amelia immediately feels foolish asking.

Leopoldine lowers her voice. "The lady Eleanor of Aragon. She is the eldest among us Vienna Ventrue, the proper word is praetor? Older than the prince."

"Does that... is that important then?"

Leopoldine smiles encouragingly. "Don't fret, childe. Your sire will explain it all in time. Come and meet Rudolphus. He's the prince's childe sooo... like your uncle I suppose? Your awkwardly drunk uncle."

*

It's difficult to return to her lonely cell. She coils up the chain in a little mother of pearl box, and covers her slip with a purple day gown. Why does Wolf-Dietrich hate her so? It's worse than Franz's contempt. At least Franz was in love with someone else.

There are many more monsters in the city than she first imagined. Her sire is just one individual member of one clan, of which there are over a dozen. It felt as though it all went as well as could be expected.

She tries to ignore the sheer horror she feels on learning that hundreds of cities operate like this all across the world; immortals playing their games across continents, across centuries.

Her feet carry her suddenly out of her chamber. She is drawn to wait on her sire. At least now she must only trek down the hallway, rather than across Vienna. He's pacing the room. There is absolutely nothing to like about him.

"You will tell me all that was said. Every word, every detail. If you try to hide anything, I will know. Understand? Go on."

"B..but you were there!" She shakes her head. "I have nothing to hide from..." that was clearly the wrong answer.

He backhands her so hard she bounces off the wall. It's not like when she was alive. Dimly she remembers how a blow like that could take her breath away, leave her head ringing. She gathers her wits and brings her arms up to protect her head just in time to meet his boot. There is a snap like a branch breaking.

She screams in pain and frustration. There's nothing to be done but endure. She closes her eyes and wills more blood to her muscles and bones, reinforcing her puny stamina. He gives her half a dozen solid blows before picking her up by a handful of hair.

"You will learn prudence." He smacks her face onto the table. "You will learn not to try my patience!"

She lets her arms fall slack. He dumps her in the chair.

She doesn't resist as he pulls down her loose gown and chemise to expose her back, and drags her up across the table. It's only when he picks up the fire poker and thrusts it into the flames that her tears begin in earnest.

"Please don't..."

"Oh you will learn. You will learn not to speak out of turn. You will learn obedience."

"Please sire... I beg you... please don't hurt me..."

She doesn't move off the table. She doesn't resist. She is no match for him physically.

"I make it about twenty strokes so far. Keep begging. We have plenty of time for more." He tests the smoking metal gingerly against a finger, and puts it back in for a little longer.

She buries her face in her hands and sobs. There's no dignity left to offend. She pictures the blood pooling under her half severed neck, if that didn't move him to mercy, there's nothing to be said, and it clearly did not. She focuses instead on keeping her beast under control. Right now it wants to fight. Soon it will want to run. All she needs to do is endure. Endure and he will be satisfied with her agony, and it will end. Of course it will. She breathes, in and out, steady as the bellows in a forge, hissing through her teeth.

He pauses. "Let us test your mettle, eh girl? Shall we?"

"You want me to... you want me to count?" She snivels.

He is silent for a moment, contemplating.

"I think you can do better than that."

"Sire?" She turns warily to look at him.

"Prudence. You will ask me nicely for what you need, and you will thank me afterwards, or the punishment will be doubled."

He means it. She wonders what will be left of her if he batters her forty times with the hot metal.

"Please... sire... if this is what it takes to make peace with you then I pray, strike me. Please may I be shriven of my insolent disobedience?"

He smiles thoughtfully. "You can count, yes?"

"Yes please." She presses her eyes shut tight.

Twelve times he brings that iron poker down on her back before her body fails her and the pain fades into merciful oblivion.

*

She wakes, hanging in irons from the ring in the wall. The thirst is terrifying. A man opening the door triggers animal snarling that she cannot contain. It's all she can do to speak.

"I'm sorry... Please... I won't hurt you... help me!"

He bravely enters and closes the door behind. As he lifts the spout of the vessel, she can see his hands are shaking.

"Oh God bless you... oh thank you..."

It's just enough blood to take the edge off. Her beast howls in desperation as the flow ends.

"It's not enough... oh please... wait what are you..? No! You mad man!"

His hands tremble so much he is struggling to fit the tiny key in the shackles holding Amelia.

"Sweet mother of mercy, what are you doing! Stop!"

That's when she realises he can't stop. He looks into her eyes, begging, pleading. That's it. That's what she needs to do. Her blood is her will, and her will dominates his.

"Stop!" she commands, "They told you to feed me first, remember? The kettle, you're spilling it, you're wasting it all. Pick it up higher so I can reach it!"

She bites and clamps onto his wrist as soon as it's close enough to her mouth and it's heavenly, her beast whines in contentment. Her bite seems to paralyze him, ending his efforts to free her for now. His weight begins to dangle from her mouth as she drains his blood, first in torrents, then in slow ecstatic whimpering sips as he moans gently in time. She is forced to drop him as soon as his legs weaken. He falls hard, but it seems to jar him out of his stupor and he scrabbles for the keys. That was so close. Far too close.

As he unchains her they cling to each other unsteadily.

"Damn Wolf-Dietrich," Amelia sobs, "How can he treat people like this?"

The man wipes away her tears with his shirt sleeve. He shakes his head and sits on a wooden crate.

"Why did you do it? Why did you spare me?" he asks.

She doesn't have an answer for him.

Her dress and chemise are torn, scorched in places, both beyond repair. Glumly she searches through her belongings and pulls out another slip.

"The door key. Have you still got it?"

He hands it over.

Though it's madness to test her sire's patience so soon, and the agony of her punishment is still fresh in her mind she comes to a resolution.

"Thank you. Listen, I really am sorry. For frightening you, for hurting you, for everything."

"Don't let them catch you talking like that." He says grimly. "You never killed anyone. That's a big deal. They..." he holds his head and winces. "Some might feel that you hadn't been properly blooded. S... s... someone could be jealous it was necessary for them, but not for... for... Christ."

"They? Someone other than my sire?"

He raises the corner of his lip. His eye twitches and he shakes his head.

"Don't say anymore. Not if it's hurting you."

"No. I can't." His bloodshot eyes are full of pain.

"I should go."

She has the impression that he's at his limit. This is more than he can take.

"Go where?" She asks gently.

"Ah, you're a nice girl. You don't want to go where I have to go."

"Perhaps." she concedes. "But if I just bow my head and do as I'm told I'm finished. I can't take much more of this."

"If you like, I'll show you the way out. You can find your own way back."

*

It's the darkest hour of the night. There is but a sliver of moonlight above the Vienna streets. Barefoot, Amelia makes her way to her husband's palace, hair all wild, looking like a mad woman. The valet answers the door in his nightshirt. He's stunned to see her.

"Please Johan. I know how late it is, just don't fuss and argue with me. Where is your master?"

"Good grief my lady, where have you been?"

"Don't start now. There's time for questions later. Will you wake Greta? I'll be in the study."

She carefully combs through Franz's things until she finds what she's looking for. The key to his strong box. She rifles through the contents and removes the value of her dower from it in bank notes and receipts. She takes the deeds to two of his country houses as well. Then she pens him a letter. It's one of the hardest things she's ever had to do. It explains that she is leaving to keep him safe. That he might never know the whole truth, but that powerful men hold their lives in contempt, and that this is the only way they can both live. She tells him that she understands that he was never hers, and that it's alright. Maybe in another lifetime things would have been different, but now she's doing as she must to survive. She signs it with love, and surprises herself how genuinely filled with regret she is.

Then she leaves written orders that will set her own affairs in order. Pay her bills in full, settle all accounts.

In the bedroom that was once her prison she gathers one case of belongings. Shoes. Boots. Blankets. Sturdy traveling dresses she can put on and take off herself. Books that she actually wants to read, and a carefully selected folio of sheet music. She doesn't take any jewelry. She doesn't take fancy things, but she cannot bear to leave the little tapestry. It's one very full trunk, but she can pull it along herself with the picture tucked under her arm.

A she finishes packing everything, the strangest sensation, like something rubbing between her legs, makes her moan aloud. She grits her teeth and pushes the alien sensation aside, but it won't stop until... It's the vessel of course. Why hasn't she noticed before? When she drank Franz's blood, she felt as battered as he did. When she drank the pitcher of blood that first night she felt warm and safe, entirely at odds with her own situation. And now this man is getting pleasured, somehow she feels that too. His climax rocks her hips regardless of her self control. It's the blood of course.

Greta watches wide eyed. It's like the end of the world for the servants. Franz never gave them a second thought before she came, and now she's leaving she must do her duty by them. She presses a yellowed envelope into Greta's hand.

"It's not much. Just a reference with space for you to put the date. If it gets bad like before then at least you can..."

"But where are you going my lady? What is to become of you and the master?"

"I'll be fine Greta. But I hope you will try and remember me in your prayers. Fetch Johan."

"Yes my lady." The girl curtseys perfectly before scurrying away dew eyed.

For Johan she has penned a letter of release from service. Franz promised to allow him to train at the officers' school years ago. Now he may leave as he chooses. He doesn't know what to make of it at all.

"They said you'd gone to be some prince's mistress."

In a way he wasn't wrong.

"Let him say what he needs to say. For me this is goodbye. I can't see him again. It's forbidden. I shouldn't be here now." She feels sick to the stomach for a moment. As though she's falling. Thank goodness for Johan's strong shoulder. When she's a little steadier she offers him her hand and he takes a knee to kiss it. Then, duty done, she sees herself back out onto the street.

*

At first she imagines no-one knows what she has done. Wolf-Dietrich doesn't summon her, but the thought of remaining cooped up in her cell makes her restless. Instead, she finds her way to the clan library and endeavours to improve her writing. Composing those letters took the best part of two hours and that's not nearly good enough.

With a brisk swish of dark green velvet, the seat opposite is suddenly occupied. It is the woman from the court, the elder in black.

"Continue, childe. I will wait."

Amelia completes the exercise with leaden fingers, and somehow manages not to mess up the page. She blots it carefully and tucks it into her little leather folio. She stares numbly at the elder opposite for a second before remembering to close her mouth.

"As I suspected."

"I.. I.. beg your pardon?"

"Ah. Have I spoken out of turn? Tell me, are you often willful, disobedient and vain? Are those your chief vices?"