October 14, 1999
7:30pm
the Tremere Chantry
It was potent, the blood Regent Erickson had provided Amélie. It carried an underlying note of cleanliness, of pride, of- vanity, that spoke of the best upbringing. It was the kind of flavor a socialite could only absorb from eating the most prime cuts of filet mignon, drinking the oldest wines and strongest liquors, and living in the greatest luxury. It was intoxicating, approaching even that of Kindred vitae, and Amélie showed great restraint in preventing herself from consuming the rest of it. There was now power in her arms, and energy in her step; the lethargy brought about from being drained of her blood by the two ghouls was utterly gone.
The hallway was, perhaps predictably, an easily manageable pathway to traverse. The burgundy carpet was thick, of a style not made for decades, yet showed no sign of age or wear. Every sound was muffled, quieted as if by an invisible blanket that covered the whole of the interior, and every step Amélie took was soft and comfortable, even through her shoes. Along the walls, some 6.5ft up and spaced evenly throughout, sconces apparently of the same make as the chandelier in the foyer illuminated her path with a gentle light.
Yet no doors passed her as she strode on, and on, and on. It seemed to be unending, with nothing more to mark the distance than the repetitive lights on the walls. The time stretched, the distance stretched, everything stretched. It began to feel like thirty seconds turned to five minutes, which developed into thirty, which only became an hour. Step. Step. Step. Step. Unending walking, eternal travel without destination, a Sisyphusian torment. Then, just when it felt like it might carry on until Gehenna, the hallway ended. The door that presented itself was of dark walnut, with a nickel plated doorknob. Should Amélie look back, she would see that she was perhaps thirty feet from the dressing room. Yet still, there were no other doorways within the hall.
The room within was a study, if a pagan sacrificial chamber could be described as a study. Below her feet, the floor was chiseled granite blocks of irregular shape, fitted together nearly so as to show nary a crack. Rough hewn planks of oak lined the perimeter, forming the walls, and every bit of exposed wood was blackened, as if it had been burned. Leaves and branches of tree and bush hung from the wall, as if in decoration, as did the skulls of several wild animals. The ceiling was similarly fashioned. Set against the wall, interspersed irregularly, were rough hewn bookshelves bearing numerous scrolls and tomes, many appearing to be ancient, if their construction were any indication. In the farthest corner was an exposed fire, rising some five feet into the air but perhaps no greater than that in circumference, yet for all its size, it gave off no heat. It consumed, or at least appeared to consume, a pillar of neatly stacked logs three feet high, and bathed the room in a dull, throbbing red. In the center of the chamber stood a stone table perhaps three feet high, and it was covered in runes and chiseled knotwork. On it sat a large bowl, filled with water.
Sigurd stood before the fire, staring into it. His back was to the door, yet when Amélie entered the room, he spoke.
"Please, come in, Madáme." As before, his tone was absent of mockery or derision. He turned to face her, hands in his pockets, and gave a small bow of his head. "Forgive me; there is no place to sit. I think best in my study, thus have I invited you.
"Tell me, for it has been some time since we have spoken: how do you find Houston? Is it to your liking?"
∆∆∆
The Maximum Buzz
The worm of suspicion rooted about in Chuck's mind. Salvatore? Supply? Embrace?
Nosferatu? Wasn't that some shitty Dracula knockoff movie back in, like, some long time ago? Some weird ass cult that took the name, maybe? If so, was Hanna involved in it? It would figure that the creep Wesley was, creepy-ass motherfucker, but Hanna? She was weird, yeah, but he'd never took her for-
Her eyes turned to his, and his pulse skyrocketed. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw hunger in those eyes. A hunger he didn't feel equipped to sate, even had he wanted to. As she began plying him with questions, the earthy ground through which that suspicious thread twisted froze solid, restricting both suspicion and every other fuckin thought in his head. His mouth gapped slightly, and reflexively he began to stammer.
Then her words changed. A pressure grew behind them, a weight his mind and his legs could hardly bear. They entered his brain, flitting about confidently. Through her suggestions, she laid a blanket of silk around his brain, giving it a form to relax into, and to warm up with. That worm of suspicion wriggled free and squirmed to the surface, seeking, demanding attention. And it did gain it. Even as Chuck began to wonder why his boss suddenly cared so damn much about what anyone said about him, the worm was yanked free, carried off to trouble him no longer. Why
should he care what others said? People were assholes anyway, full of shit more than half the time, and bitches the other time. Best to just ignore it.
Whatever "it" was.
"Uh. Yeah. I'll, uh, geddit done. Been meanin to, anyway."
Immediately, Chuck turned around and got to work, never giving Hanna a second glance.
In the main room, patrons had begun to file in. This early in the evening, most of the clientele were kin looking for some variation of a good time. There was at first glance little in the way of variety within the crowd. Blacks and grays contrasted neon greens and pinks, chains and buckles accessorized in a superfluous manner, rarely needed but proudly displayed, and the symbols and likenesses of popular punk music groups and underground bands were plastered across the shirts of nearly half the clubbers. But for all their uniformity, there was a kind of uniqueness obvious if one examined two or three against another. Each applied these similar aspects in their own way, giving themselves identify in the throng.
Already, the music began, the low, heavy throb of the bass cut with piercing bytes of electric pulse. From hidden pockets came out tiny candies, pressed powder in all forms and shapes, and soon after, the dancefloor was packed with a shifting, massless form, writhing in ecstacy and artificial, drug fueled pleasure, ignorant, willfully or no, of the withdrawals such fun would later provide.
Some few, richer patrons by their dress, bypassed the dancefloor entirely, choosing instead tables and booths. No few glanced about, eyes seeking the wait staff. One man, dark skinned and sporting a mass of dreads on his head, sidled up to the bar, coming within a foot of Wesley and apparently ignorant of his presence.
"Yeah, I need me a vodka strai- woah!" His eyes lit up, and standing straighter, he smiled. It was Marcus, and he was looking right at Isabel's most prominent feature. "Didn't know I'd found your place! S'up, Izz?"