Vanilla, with ubiquitous influence, had neatly taken control of the lavish Southern bungalow Amélie Dupuis called home. For the namesake spice had colored the walls floor to ceiling in its trademark pallor, each chair, ottoman, and light a dab of the same pale features. The signature scent followed, lingering in the spaces left behind by the vampire as she moved through her home. It was refined, tidy, and prim; words, naturally, to describe Ms. Dupuis and that famous voice of hers.
Surface virtue was important to her. How couldn't it have been? To uphold the Masquerade was to shield all that resembled sin and unlife away from Kine eyes. Even at home, Amélie presented the same multi-faceted persona. Upstairs was where civility, grace, and humanity reigned; Amélie Dupuis, the electrifying songstress who volunteered at the local hospital out of the goodness of her heart.
She did not normally let people see the part of her that lived below.
It was no less vulgar than from her hedonistic lifestyle in New York. The space was bleak and wicked and medieval; vanilla white warped into blackened wood at the basement walls, the floors equally primeval in design. Various furs, differing in both size and color, were thrown loosely about the floors in no particular fashion. Antique gold embellished sconces adorned the walls; their flames painted the room in an amber hue, the sweet scent of the home somehow persisting even in this dank space. And yet the false promise of saccharine enticements ended abruptly at the back of the room, where a large stone structure sat, a sculptured face peering from its top. Its two center doors had been left somewhat ajar, and in the dim lighting, spikes could be seen within. Beside it still were even more structures, nefarious in shape, but for these Ms. Dupuis had at least had the courtesy to cover with sheets.
In the center of it all was her good friend Gerard. She'd made him comfortable enough; he sat upon a metal folding chair, with thick, heavy chains criss-crossing his torso and binding his misshapen arms flat against his body. The flames danced across his face, bringing life to his deathly still features. His lips held the only bit of color: a faint red, like rusting blood.
Amélie sat across from him on a stool, legs crossed. A long, blackened cigarette holder was held between her lips and fingers. Smoke escaped periodically from the tip as she waited, unnaturally patient, for her guest to rouse.
The waiting was a lifetime, an agony to be balanced on the edge of Unlife and Final Death. From the bus station to the Tremere's refuge, the Tzimize had remained frozen in torpor, and had remained so as the sun awakened, took its journey across the sky, and sank back to its underworld haven below the horizon. Only the judicious application of Vitae had brought any amount of awareness to his mind.
His eyes opened even as the haze of torpor began to clear. Chains, and more than chains, weighed down his limbs. He gave a brief struggle, to no avail; even the tenacity of the Beast, furiously hungry for blood and freedom, was no match against his own weariness. Through slitted pupils, Gerard eyed his captor, hatred clear; the new night had not cooled his rage. He spat at her but did nothing else.
"Careful."
Beyond the haze, Amélie stared. Her eyes roved; she was watching, no, scrutinizing him in excruciating detail, as she so had for the past hour. After a long moment, she took another huff off her long cigarette holder, exhaling towards his hateful face.
"Music," She finally sighed, looking askance. "I forgot the music."
The record player upstairs was still spinning its tune; she could hear the muted notes through the wooden floors, Eartha Kitt's crooning words of French teasing at their ears. Under her breath, Amélie echoed the words in her own raspy timbre.
C'est si bon.
"Anyways."
She gestured with the holder towards Gerard, the captor's eyes returning to her prey.
"How are you? Sated, no? I gave you only the finest." She smiled. Somehow that was less comforting than her singing. "Can we talk, my Tzimisce friend?"
Veiled threat couched in polite terms was, after all, the safest bet when dealing with other apex predators on equal footing. It also provided no little amount of satisfaction to a Kindred who had another in her power, for there was no reminder of concealed and restrained strength for fear of mutual destruction. There was only the sword of terror, wielded as destructive weapon or careful scalpel, to cut away at the pride and ego and will of the captive. Used well, it brought out the deepest feelings of a person.
Gerard snarled in reply and spat again. But to Amélie's careful glance, a sliver of cold fear shone briefly in his expression before he shoved it down again.
This time the smoke was blown directly into his face.
"What's your name?"
The question was asked with little feeling; frankly, Amélie didn't care about his name. And it showed, for soon she spoke again, leaving no room for answer.
"What were you doing at that bus stop there? You could have hurt someone with that bus, you know."
"None- of your fucking- business, Witch."
The words came with obvious struggle, as if he were excessively winded. He blinked, squeezing his eyes as he did so, clearing whatever haze lingered. Briefly, his eyes fell onto the iron maiden against the wall before he wrenched them away again. It wouldn't do to dwell on what was sure to be his immediate and inevitable future.
Amélie seized on his quick distraction at once.
"You like madame over there? I pulled her out for you," She said, leaning forward. "But I'll put her back if you behave. You see–"
A double tap of her holder on Gerald's knee, the ashes scattering onto his lap in lieu of an ashtray.
"You and that woman made things my business no sooner than I arrived. But I don't blame you, no; someone much smarter and much more important than you is spinning my wheel. I want to know who and why."
Silence answered her, at first, a heavy quiet weighed down with anticipation and anxiety. An eternal moment after, he replied.
"Zapathasura."
"Am I supposed to sit here and guess what that means?"
He smirked, jagged teeth gleaming.
"You must be the redheaded stepchild of the Pyramid," he said, voice strained. "For all your violence, you're pretty stupid."
Amélie's head cocked to the side, as if she hadn't quite heard him right. But of course she had; the silence pressed at them in the lapses between every word, the tension drawn taut by her growing quiet. Not once did she blink in the slow seconds that ticked by. Layers of Gerard were peeled back in her stare, his perceived essence revealing itself to her with some familiarity.
Pride was an ugly thing. Pride and Amélie were bittersweetly entangled, and she sensed that Gerard was made thrall to the same entity. Even worse: he was cornered and chained, much like she had been in Sigurd's grasp. She could, to a certain extent, sympathize.
But would that semblance of understanding sway her innate callousness?
Life returned to her in a slow inhale of smoke. Wordlessly, Amélie rose, moving behind Gerard past his line of vision. There were the muffled noises of boxes shuffling, the clicks of a lock being opened, and more rustling. A few soft footsteps later, and the old woman returned to the stool in front of him. However, she wasn't just holding her cigarette holder anymore; a metallic, handheld device with a long angled tip was held in her other hand. Amélie met her prisoner's eyes again, her expression flat.
"And here I always wondered why the Tzimisce were killed so easily."
With a click, a bright blue flame exploded from her device, honed into a searing point.
"An answer, monsieur. I'm not very patient."
Like turning on a water tap, Amélie's vitae burned within her, metabolizing in just that particular way to power a particular Discipline. Gerard immediately felt the effect; coupled with the threat of fire so near his body, the Tremere's use of Presence bore down upon his own weakened will like a weight. His eyes widened, and his jaw slackened minutely.
"R-Ravnos," he said. "T-their A-Antediluvian."
Something sparked in her eyes like the burst of flames. It clicked succinctly in her mind, the old cogs turning.
Ravnos. Antediluvian.
Of course.
Gerard, in some regard, had been right; she had been stupid, but not in the way he thought. Burying certain knowledge of the other clans had more or less been borne from hubris; why be bothered with the history of their weaker fellows when they were either obsolete or so easily crushed? She was recognizing with growing annoyance and awareness that her purposeful bullheadedness was not always the strong suit Madame played it up to be.
Gerard never got the luxury of admission of her faults. She was thinking still, her thoughts waxing away even as smoke bled from mouth and fire from the blowtorch in her hands.
"Alright. You and that other woman were waiting there for us, clearly. Waiting for Isabel. While I'd like to know how you knew we were coming, I can get to that later. What I must know is: what do you and the Ravnos have to do with that filthy black drug?"
For both the Prince and Sigured had tasked her with finding out its true purpose, and while Amélie was a violent beast, she was an obedient beast, chafe though she may at her chain.
If Gerard could have sweated naturally, he'd have been covered in the stuff. His eyes were as wide as they would go, and his jaw slackened a half inch further. Panic was now very evident in his gaze; mixed with the ever-present hatred, it indicated a brokenness uncommon to most Kindred's personal experience.
"Blood c-c-calls blood! Blood calls blood!" His jaw hung loose now, distended and snake-like. The words issuing from his mouth took on an animalistic howl laced with the whine of terror. "Blood calls blood! Blood calls blood! BLOOD CALLS BLOOOOOOOOOOD!"
Eyes unfocused, he continued screaming. Between the terror impressed by the Tremere's Presence, the torture, and the threat of firey death so close to his skin, Rötschreck was consuming him.
The Tremere had gotten rusty when dealing with prisoners. Clearly.
Abruptly, like turning off the tap, the suffocating weight of her Presence dissipated. The blowtorch was turned off as well, thrown to the side like nothing.
And still he hollered like a stuck pig. Which was fine, naturally; she understood he couldn't control it but…
Amélie était Amélie.
"Alright, that's–" His screams were drowning her out, and her temper flared. "I said that's enough– I SAID THAT'S ENOUGH."
Suddenly she was upon him. Racing behind him, she forced his head into the crook of her right elbow, slamming his jaw closed with the upward lift of her arm.
His eyes were wild, now, and though physically held shut, his mouth still uttered a muttered cry.
And yet. The fire, the ultimate source of his fear, had vanished. Cognizant to that fact, now, his more intelligent nature began to reassert itself. With ragged breaths, composure returned to him, though he still stared at his captor as the rat to the rabid dog. There was no other sound from him now.
"There's a good boy."
Something soft brushed against his skin. Her hand patted his head lightly, a false sense of comfort coming from her fingertips.
What a stupid, ugly beast she had. He didn't know anything. Of course he didn't. To what end did the mouse know the cat's machinations?
Nevertheless, he had told her something deeply important, especially concerning Hanna and that child of hers. The question was: who did she call first? Hanna? The girl? Sigurd? Her fingers went to the bone chain at her neck.
"I think that's enough for tonight."
She detached from her prisoner quickly, busying herself with lacing up her boots. "I'll have to get going. You'll be fine down here, won't you? I'll even get you a nightcap, hm?"
Gerard, the bonds of immediate threat loosened if but a little, glared daggers of death at her, giving the look every ounce of hatred for her Clan that he carried within him.
"Bitch," he said, and that was all.
Amélie's tongue clicked twice.
"That mouth of yours really is a problem, mon petit worm."
It was truthfully one of the few things in life she could no longer tolerate: hateful speech.
Ironic, given everything about her.
Nevertheless. It was best to break bad habits in beasts before they became too cumbersome to bear. Coming behind Gerard's chair, she grabbed hold of it and with enhanced strength dragged it behind her, going round the basement and towards the rear, where her lovely Iron Maiden waited. That record music could still be heard from the first floor; Amélie hummed the notes to herself, even as she removed her chained prisoner from his chair.
She forced him into a standing position. There was a wild, frenetic energy in her eyes; the Beast broiled behind the silver orbs, a barely contained rage seeping through to the surface.
"Enjoy. We'll talk more when you've had your fill."
And with that, she shoved him into the Maiden's waiting embrace, slamming the door shut on his screams.
