My Little Ventrue Pt. 06 Ch. 01

"So I should join Avery's pack."

"I... think you should do whatever gets you the most information. That means Avery. I'm sure she'll tell you a few things, show you a few things, and at worst, you'll owe her. Don't need to join her."

"And if my gut says—"

"Your gut is a child's reflex. Everyone's 'gut',"—he raised his fingers to air quote the stupid word—"is a childish impulse. Your gut is your emotions overriding your thinking. Your gut... your gut is to be ignored, Eric, like the whiny baby that it is. Everyone's gut feelings are useless, whiny baby noises. Sometimes it can help in a pinch, when you need to make a split second decision, and there's some subconscious reasoning happening. Most of the time, it's idiotic, shortsighted, emotional garbage. Ignore your gut, flip the switch, and make a decision using as much information and evidence as you can get your hands on." At some point, Jack had started to raise his voice, almost yelling at the bigger, stronger guy. Jack was reasonably sure he could dominate this man's mind if it came to blows, so he wasn't scared of him. That wasn't an excuse for getting angry with him, when Eric was making the same mistake everyone made.

"You sound like... a smart guy."

Jack smiled at the man, and continued walking once Eric started walking too. "I try." It was one of the ways he and Antoinette connected. Talking about things, real things, and peeling back emotional bullshit and dogma, so they could talk about any topic conceivable without prejudice or bias, was something they both enjoyed doing.

"Do you trust Azamel?"

"That... is a better question." Shrugging, Jack held up some more oats for Scully and Mulder, as Eric and him rounded a corner in the tunnels, tracks beneath him growing darker in the flickering light. "I trust her more than others do."

"Sounds like she just wants to be left alone."

That was the connection, then. Azamel wanted to be left to her business, and Eric was identifying with that. It was a reasonable way for the two forces to see eye to eye, but Eric was young by paranormal standards, and easily controlled; as much as you could control a werewolf. Azamel had the chops to not only fend for herself, but the smarts to manipulate a man like Eric into helping her, serving as a bodyguard or something.

But then, if he tried to exist as his own person, and not affiliate with anyone, the Kindred would eventually force him into something. It was a weird position to be in, especially since his dad was in the hospital, care being paid for by the First Estate.

"She does want to be left alone. And she could have done that somewhere else," Jack said. "Not that... I don't know, I don't understand the Begotten, no one does. Maybe running somewhere else would have meant starving to death. But she came here and brought a lot of trouble with her. I think she's trying to help undo some of that damage, but that doesn't change how much shit is happening because of these hunters. Barry's dead." And Isabella was still royally pissed about it. "And you nearly died, twice now, because of the hunters, if I'm counting right."

"Yeap, you are." The man pat a spot on his chest. "I looked that fucker Jeremiah in the eye as he stabbed me. Dude's a Hollywood psychopath."

"Hollywood psychopath. I suppose that's a way to put it." And a good one. Jeremiah had the sort of charisma and determination you found in movie villains, and Angela was his psychopath twice-over student.

"You regret not killing her?"

Jack winced, and both crows managed a rather annoyed caw at Eric. He pulled back his head, until Jack reached up to stroke Mulder, the closer crow, on his breast feathers. No need to make enemies of Eric, guys.

"Yeah, I do regret it," Jack said.

"Sore spot?"

"Very."

Nodding, Eric scratched the back of his neck, and continued walking. Jack had expected an apology, but the man didn't seem to have that inclination, as if the apology had been implied by his question of sore spot. Just like Jessy would have done.

Jack smiled at that.

Eventually they reached Azamel's hole in the ground. Why the woman never bothered trying to spruce up the place, try and make it home, he didn't know. It was a concrete stage, with a shitty bed, a shitty old rocking chair, some room dividers, a couple couches, and no place to poop. Did Begotten need to poop?

Azamel was there, as was Mark, and Fiona. No Athalia though.

"Eric! Jack!" Fiona hopped off the stage, ran over to them, and hugged them. If she noticed the crows or not, it didn't stop her, and both birds had to make for the air to escape getting squashed. "How are ye feeling? Are—hey!" Scully didn't appreciate it, and landed on her head, to begin a terrible assault of pecking her skull, wings flapping. "Sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Hey! Come on." Jack reached out, and Scully returned, hopping down his wrist and arm, before returning to his shoulder. "Treat the lady nice."

"Aye, treat her nice." Beaming, Fiona smiled up at the birds on his shoulders. "This is very classic vampire. Sexy, with the suit."

"Makes you wonder how many other Kindred are doing similar." Nodding, Jack also offered a nod to Mark, and a proper deep nod to Azamel. "Hello."

Azamel blew a cloud smoke his way, but otherwise, didn't do much but continue rocking in her chair. "Hello."

"Athalia still healing?"

Fiona jumped in front of him a couple times, before she walked back to the stage, and sat on its edge. "Aye, she was really beat up. Loads of bullet holes that are taking a long time to heal properly. She's getting hungry, too."

A hungry Begotten had a certain hint of danger to it that a hungry Kindred didn't. A monster needing to feed was a whole different animal to a blood sucker, Athalia would probably say.

Jack glanced at Eric, who had taken a moment to find a wall to lean against. The suit, oh man, the poor suit. "Azamel, I wanted to know if you had any... updates, I guess? Just had a meeting with Avery."

The old woman shrugged, blew some more smoke, and looked at Eric. "Why bring him?"

"Eric's caught up in this, and—"

"You nearly got me killed, you old bat."

Jack and Fiona winced, and looked at the man. Hell, he thought he saw Mark wince too.

"Excuse me?"

Eric pushed from the wall, and walked up to Azamel, glaring at her with every step. His glare didn't have the murderous intent Jack thought he might find there, but he was annoyed nonetheless, hands in his pockets and a frown carved into his face.

"A hunter, a Begotten nonetheless, showed up at my apartment. Kidnapped me. Asked me questions about you. Some freaky shaman sack of wrinkles cut into me, looking to... use my body to learn about you." He gestured to Jack, and Jack froze. "I was going to be tortured, and probably have my guts spilled for that bitch to read, like... like..."

Jack raised a hand. "Haruspex."

Everyone glared at him. Yeah, smart to know, not so smart to say right now.

"Haruspex. I would have died, so these freaks could find you and kill you."

"Then it's a good thing I sent Athalia and Fiona to rescue you." She let the smoke come out of her as she spoke. If smoking was a sport, she'd be an olympian. "And I did not do those things to you, they did."

"You brought them—"

"If they were not chasing me, then they would be chasing someone else, fool. The vampires have not removed me because they understand that. And they understand that we have a better chance of defeating the hunters together."

And the vampires would have a hell of a tough time removing her, from what Julias told Jack.

Azamel's explanation seemed to calm Eric down, and he managed a small smile for Fiona again, before he leaned against the wall of dirty concrete behind him. If the man was ever going to make a decision about who he was going to lean toward, Jack couldn't tell. What did Jessy tell him? Probably something like 'dude you're a werewolf now, partner with whoever you want', which made sense if you were a wanted player. And Eric was a wanted player, if only because he was a powerful entity. His ability to enter the Shadow World was icing on that cake.

"She's right," Jack said, "to an extent. Dolareido's been low on the radar for a long time, and the Prince works hard to keep it that way. But... but things have been happening, and we're drawing attention to the city, on multiple fronts." The deaths of three elders and invasion of two fucking spider monsters, one of which was still alive according to Avery, was a precursor to the arrival of the hunters. The mysterious warning Azamel had given him was a continuation of the shit rolling their way. "Azamel showing up, and all the shit happening she's getting blamed for, is more post hoc ergo propter hoc."

Everyone raised a brow at him.

"Post hoc fallacy," Mark said, everyone jerking their head his way. The man barely ever said a thing. "Azamel shows up, and shit starts going horribly. People think she started the bad shit, when she didn't. Not all of it, at least."

Azamel snorted, coughed several times, and blew some smoke at her companion. "Thanks, asshole." Sighing, she tapped the cigarette against her tray, and Jack winced as he saw a bit of the ashes fall onto her typical, old, dingy grandma clothes. There was a monster in that old woman, a colossal creature of nightmares, and he half expected her to pass out in her rocking chair with a lit cigarette, and set herself on fire.

She was desperate to get something done before old age took her. Nothing was as scary as someone pushed to the edge of their life, in whatever circumstance, with nothing left to lose.

"I also came to let you know," Jack said, "that we're going to start active sweeps of the city and the tunnels. Kindred are tripling up, and hopefully with Avery's help, we can track these fuckers down proper." Ok, time for the difficult part of the conversation. "We want your help with some of these groups."

Azamel coughed once again, and hard. The room stopped and waited as the woman tore up her lungs, though from the way she tensed her body with each cough, it was obvious she was practiced. "My help?"

"Well, not your help, specifically," he said. "Fiona, Mark... Athalia."

The woman lit up another cigarette, fighting her shaking hands every moment of the process. "You're asking a lot, boy."

His turn to frown. Considering how much of their predicament was her fault, directly or indirectly, it was not an unrealistic request. "The situation requires a lot. That shaman woman's rituals are an ever present threat. She'll kill again, find some other person to do her craziness to, and then Eric or me will have hunters tracking us down again. Because of you."

"Because of me?"

"You're the connection in these rituals."

She blew a cloud of smoke at him. There was a good fifteen feet between them, and yet she managed to spear the smoke enough so it hit him anyway. Impressive, and fucking annoying.

"Others have visited me. Many have, in fact. The difference between them, and you, is that you and Eric are young and weak. Easily beaten. Or so they believed." Shrugging, she gestured to Mark and Fiona. "I will speak with Athalia later. You two, think you can help the leeches and dogs with their hunts?"

"... fine," Mark said.

Fiona, as Jack figured, jumped up and skipped over to him. Skipped. With her large bust, it was pretty distracting, and he forced himself to not stare. After what Antoinette did to him a few hours ago, the last thing he needed was to see a pair of big breasts bouncing around. Weak, man, so weak.

"I'd love to! Who's going with who?"

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~~Damien~~

The Grand Cathedral of Dolareido. It was hard to look at it the same way anymore, for a variety of reasons. The most obvious, he supposed, was that it was once the primary HQ of his sire and master, Lucas. But now that the veil of that psychopath's teachings were fading, and the intrusive, reflexive thoughts of judgment and guilt were disappearing into the ether, the cathedral looked different because of how much it did not fit the rest of Dolareido. If all roads went to Rome, then the same could be said for the gambling and club district of South Side. Money, sex, drugs, all things he'd been taught to despise in some form or another, to discourage kine from enjoying, and now, they were a frequent part of his life.

Or at least, money was. Sex and drugs? The kine he used to punish for such acts, he no longer punished. He wondered about the capacity of his new role as arbiter for the Lancea et Sanctum, and how it rarely involved punishing kine for their transgressions. It made him feel guilty, for daring to stand in the face of the Grand Cathedral, when he hadn't done what he was taught was a requirement of his role.

But, it was the dawn of a new age, and for a new approach. No longer a slave to dogma and mindless traditionalism, he had to reconsider a myriad of things in the light of, what Jack described as intellectualism, or healthy skepticism. Lucas would have called it a lack of faith in the Lord. The duality fought in his mind, and Damien had to make an effort to think through the fog and noise.

It was a mental battle he fought every time he walked up the stairs to the giant door, passed the gargoyles that sat upon ledges and railings, the angels and demons that sat upon engravings over the door, and finally, the crucifix above as he entered the cathedral. Empty. The many pews held no one, which made sense; for now. It was taking time to create an understanding between him and Maria, and the Prince, about what capacity the Lancea et Sanctum could operate in. If they weren't careful, Antoinette would shut down their efforts.

There was no music, either. Maria often spent the some late hours in the night playing, and introducing him to classical musicians: Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and others like Chopin and Vivaldi. Perhaps she was down in her bunker, with her piano, and the books and various artifacts of the Lancea et Sanctum. Cataloging what she'd managed to save from Garry's vandalism, taking digital pictures, creating digital lists, had become a pastime for him. He enjoyed the peace and quiet of it, to be alone with the mountain of information, and glimpses into the past.

He walked through the nave, up past the raised platform with the podium, and past that to find the pipe organ. Such a grand, majestic instrument. An imposing instrument. He sat down upon the bench, and set his hands on the keys. Maria had said his lessons had progressed well, well enough to attempt playing the infinitely more difficult instrument. The issue was the complexity of four levels of keys, and the foot pedals. Maria insisted he need not worry about the dozens of dials that surrounded him, and only concern himself with the different octaves available to him.

He set his fingers on the keys, and played a simple chord. The difference between a percussion and wind instrument was blatant, and he stopped as he struggled with the way holding a key on an organ created a consistent note. There was no impact, no strike of the inner workings of a piano against strings, only the overwhelming power of the wind within the pipes, filling the church.

He tried again. Maria had insisted he learn Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, not as his first piece but as the piece that would hook him, pull him into the mournful beauty of classical music. It was a sentiment he was starting to agree with.

He set his left hand on the first layer of keys, low toward his lap, and his right hand a layer higher; manuals, Maria called them. This second one had a far more gentle sound, perhaps to offset the thicker chords played on the first manual? With the organ, the sound didn't die, but resonated as long as he held the keys down; it felt unnatural, and he was afraid it'd overwhelm the melody he played with the right hand. But he continued, and trusted the arrangement Maria had created.

It did sound divine. He was not skilled enough to close his eyes, but he almost did, as he let the somber, heavy sound fill him. No wonder the song was played everywhere, to the point of ridiculous cliché. The chills it sent up his spine, as the sound overwhelmed the church, was intoxicating, and he smiled as he began to melt into it.

"You need to wear a cape and some mascara, to get away with playing that."

He jerked his head to the side, and sighed relief as he watched Beatrice saunter up to him. "Do I?"

"Yeah. You'd know that if you watched more TV. Aaaaand did I sneak up on you?"

"I was... distracted. It takes a lot of focus to play this instrument, and I am a beginner."

"And you're here alone. What happened to the buddy system?" She slid up to the instrument, and leaned against one of the wooden panels that surrounded it. A crass woman, but not nearly as bad as Jessy, to his delight.

"Maria's nest below is very defensible."

"Ah yeah, I guess. She here?"

"I do not believe so."

Nodding, Triss sat on a nearby railing, jeans on the wood. "Good. I wanted to talk to you solo."

"About?" He looked back to the keys in front of him, and set his hands on them in preparative positions. He didn't play, though. It'd be rude to interrupt the Nosferatu. But he couldn't deny he was excited to play more on the strange, monolithic instrument.

"I... wanted to apologize. About giving you some of my blood."

"Ah yes, that." Sighing, he turned to face her, one knee on the bench and foot out to the side to rest upon his other. "It was undeniable, that... that it'd happened. I woke up with a strange desire to see you, for no reason whatsoever."

"Creepy."

"Worse were the cravings for more. I wanted another taste of vitae, from anyone." Nodding, he gestured to her with a shrug. "It faded. A single taste was not enough to ruin me. And you saved my life with that move, dangerous as it was."

"That's true, yeah. I could have let you die."

"Something tells me the other Kindred would have been upset you didn't do the only option available to you."

"Also true." Laughing, she nodded again, and kicked her feet a few times down against the floor, as if to admire the sound it made, how it echoed out of the chamber before disappearing into the acoustic panels hidden behind pillars. "So we square?"

Square. Sometimes it was easy to forget the eras Kindred came from. Beatrice grew up in the seventies and eighties.

"I was never angry with you."

"Good, cause... yeah. I thought you might have been upset I might have gotten you addicted to vitae, or, you know, me."

"I am not addicted to vitae, and it would take a lot of blood to get me addicted to you."

Beatrice blinked at him, several times, before she laughed. Loudly. Her crocodile mouth opened wide, and her laughter echoed through the church.

"Did you just make a joke?"

"... I suppose."

"And here I was thinking you were incapable of anything other than cold, hard thoughts." She smiled at him, which looked a little strange considering she had no cheeks, crocodile teeth along her jaw, but a normal looking mouth. All her facial expressions were a bit strange, as well, especially with her serpent eyes looking at him.

"I've tried to... change, as of late."

"Haven't we all." She winked at him, and leaned in. "A little birdie told me you and Fiona are getting along."

Who was this woman? He remembered glimpses of the young Nosferatu when she was a Carthian, and hung out in catacombs. Like many of the cursed Kindred, she spent her younger years underground, hiding her disfigurements, and becoming as antisocial as he'd been. She was a completely different person now, who made no effort to hide her crocodile teeth where her cheeks should have been. Her small claws on her fingers, her snake eyes, all of that was forgotten to her, with zero body language meant to hide them.