The Proposition
Part (2/2)
Collab w/ @Red Thunder
Sal spun on his heels, pivoting his open back away from the as-of-yet unnamed interloper. From within himself, he could still feel the unnatural powers of Unseen Presence permeating every fiber of his form. In his stillness, it should have made him unnoticeable--invisible even--to anyone even in broad daylight. In the dead of night, the discipline should've been infallible.
Sal spat onto the concrete. There was only one reasonable--if infuriating--explanation. She had followed him from the inside.
"Strangers aren't welcome 'round here. Not without my say so, anyway. You got an appointment Siouxie Sioux, or aware you just hopin' to piss me off?"
The Nosferatu let go of his obfuscation, the supernatural veil no longer worth what it cost him in blood. Besides, he needed clarity to take stock of the threat. If one Kindred had slipped through the cracks, there could be others still, and although he didn't turn his back on the stranger, his eyes discreetly scanned the rest of the rooftop, hungrily searching for any other trace of movement in the shadows.
"Mm, neither," she sighed. There was genuine pleasure in her tone. Still, she remained as she stood. "And there's no one else here; I've already checked. You can relax. If I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be having this talk, now, would we?"
With a restrained chuckle, she turned at last. As dark as her hair was, her skin was just as pale, nearly alabaster in its lack of life. There was something China-doll about her, save that her skin gave an impression of granite strength rather than fragility. Indeed, save for the shadowy locks about her shoulders, the only bit of color on her face was that of her very purposefully painted blood red lips. They parted in a friendly, if sad, smile, her teeth only just glinting in the muted ambience.
"No, Sally, dear. I'm here to talk. About an offer. If you want to hear it, anyway."
The last of the tresspasser's words seemed to almost evaporate into the night, quickly displaced by the oppressive silence Salvatore had been revelling in not moments before. The curtain of tranquility had been breached, however, and in its place slithered the slow--but mounting--expectation of conflict. Salvatore's eyes continued to search the rooftop for further movement, while his mind tried its best to piece together the exact nature of the bullshit he'd been fed. It didn't matter how non-threatening the interloper tried to act: the Primogen wasn't new enough or stupid enough to believe her. After all, you didn't make it almost three centuries in the unlife without learning how to spot a snake in the grass.
After a moment, a raspy chuckle tumbled out of Salvatore's windpipe--the sounds like that of a cat drowning in sawdust. To the old cowboy, it was fitting his laughter should sound as lifeless as he looked.
"Visiting hours are just 'bout finished, sweetheart." Salvatore let the rigidity in his posture melt away, and in its place returned the lackadaisical shifting and swaying of a blood-drunk grandpa bored with his own immortality. Like most things undead, it was just another forgery. A phony imitation of an imitation. The only difference was that, in this particular case, it was one he hoped the viper standing across from him could see through. If she wanted to play pretend so be it.
"Besides," Salvatore reached up, to the crow on his shoulder, gently fingering the waxen feathers around its neck. "I don't got a lick of vitae up here and I ain't never done a deal
dry."
"I wouldn't want you to, dear."
From within her coat, she pulled a small bag of thick, translucent plastic. Casually, she tossed it to him. It was a blood bag as one might find in a hospital, filled with the vibrant life of a kine, and it was still warm.
"Drink up," she said, and she turned again to sit on the decking. She left her knees up, and she leaned against them, quiet and pensive. The breeze, hitherto notably absent, began to make itself known again. Like curious fingers, it tossed her hair and brushed against his hat's feather. It came from the east, and the faint scent of salt spun in its spirals. And with the wind came a shift in the lighting. Slowly, deliberately, the clouds began to shift and break, allowing through small cracks moonshine and starshine. It cast their surroundings in a bit more healthy light, though the city itself still lay obscured in darkness.
She didn't move, evidently preferring to merely watch the city. There was neither tension nor anticipation in her frame, as if this was the planning meeting of two friends. Finally, after a pregnant pause, she broke the silence.
"You probably see it better than I do, now I think about it. That network of yours. Ol' Wishy-Washburn lacks control of the city. No one respects him." She shrugged. "But he's still the Prince. Somehow. Funny, huh?"
Salvatore sauntered slowly to the ledge, and to the side of the newcomer. It was clear that--whoever this was--they were doing their best to seem friendly. Sal frowned a little at the thought; friendly was the wrong word. Civil, perhaps.
"No," he began, "Not really."
Sal glanced away from the girl for only a moment to give the plastic blood-bag in his grasp a quick heft. The morsel spun once in the air, before slapping back down into his open grasp with a single, satisfying
squelch. Salvatore's gaze swivelled back to where the woman sat, his expression a mixture of pity and incredulousness.
"Did you break into my place, sneak about for god-knows-how-long in the dark, and corner me on my rooftop to tell me you have problems with upper-management?" Salvatore brought the bag up to his nose. A faint copper tang emanated from within, stirring interest of his beast just ever so slightly.
"There've been plenty of folk who thought the same. Now they're dead, gone, or irrelevant anyway." Salvatore spared the Houstonian skyline a quick glance from over his shoulder. Somewhere out there, his folk were closing in on another piece of the puzzle. He wanted to be there too--if not in person then at least in spirit. That hope was beginning to seem distant at best. Even if Sal could wrap up this conversation quickly, he'd have to make a report of it afterwards to the Sheriff or one of his lackeys.
Great.
"Washburn doesn't always act the part in public, but at the end of the night he's still a Prince. You don't hold onto that kind of title without some kind of insurance."
"Maybe. Or maybe he's even got you fooled. Odd, that he didn't let you in on that dockside meeting of his."
Salvatore's unintended guest glanced up at him, smiling wryly at the sight of him smelling the vitae within the bag. She shook her head but said nothing. Suspicion kept the Kindred alive, as a rule, though it could be misleading, or even mislead. Nevertheless, no chastisement about trust or validation fell from her mouth.
"Not that he could keep it secret from you. Impressive, that you found out. You, and that Brujah hippie. Hm. Never would have pegged a Thug for the observant type." She cast an inquisitive glance Salvatore's way. "What's her deal, anyway?"
"Honestly?" Sal smiled a little, tossing the yet-unopened bag of blood onto a nearby cinder block. "I'm still piecing that one together myself." It occurred to Sal that the stranger was probably at his meeting with Hanna. Her mention of the rendezvous at the docks—and Hanna's awareness of it—suggested as much. At this point, he had no reason to believe that she'd seen anything less than his entire night's affairs. It was an unpleasant revelation, and one that would necessitate an even more unpleasant demonstration of discipline when his security detail came back from the hunt.
Still, Salvatore knew there was little to be done about it now. His only recourse was to do some digging of his own.
"As for the meeting… well, if a Brujah hippie found out about it, it really can't be all that impressive that I did too. What about you?" Sal's features sharpened a little, his glassy eyes staring intently at her expression as he began to turn the tables on the interloper.
"Were you there?"
With a tilt of the head and a toothy grin, she shrugged.
"A lot to know for someone who wasn't, wouldn't you say? Unless, of course, you have a pet Thug to tell you everything about it. I, sadly, don't.
"Interesting point you make, though, about the Brujah." She straightened up from where she slouched against her knees, stretching her back and leaning against outstretched arms. Her unblinking gaze turned upwards, examining the slowly clearing sky. "Almost like the Prince wanted to be seen. And by a known Anarch. Wonder why. Careless? Or intentional? Hm."
For a brief moment, she fell silent, and the muted melody of the moon in the wind filled the quiet. Finally, she clicked her teeth.
"It's getting cold, you know," she muttered, glancing at the blood bag.
By all accounts, Sal had kept a pretty level head. This stranger--a kindred who hadn't even offered him so much as a name--had spent all night trespassing in his domain, listening to his conversations, scampering about his rooftop, and for what? He'd known other vampires who would have killed for less. Hell, there was a time when
he would have killed for less. Instead, he'd chosen to let her speak. He'd given the mystery woman a chance to explain, and all he'd received in return was roundabout questions and baseless speculation.
Salvatore didn't have time for nonsense. Not tonight. The Primogen stood a little straighter, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he did. In response, the little crow on his shoulder began to shuffle in place, nervously picking at its onyx feathers. As if sensing the shift in Salvatore's temperament, the beast began to make itself small against the crook of Sal's neck, shuddering for just a moment as it's beady eyes ogled both its master, and the stranger a couple feet away.
"I don't know you. I don't even know your name." The customary indifference in Salvatore's tone was beginning to leak away. In its place, a slow, simmering irritation began to fill the void.
"And yet I've tolerated whatever
this is supposed to be. You've broken into my place, and spied on my business. That'd be reason enough to make you my enemy." Sal took a step towards where the stranger sat, regarding her laid-back attitude with more than a little contempt.
"You said you had an offer, and I ain't young enough or dumb enough to let my feelings get in the way of good business. But if all you're offering is baseless conjecture and roundabout riddles about what Ricky may-or-may-not be doin' to hold power in Houston, then you should know it'll take a hell of a lot more than that to turn a Primogen against a Prince."
Sal crouched down, so that his eyes became level with hers. When he spoke again, all traces of mirth and dispassion had fled from his voice.
"Speak plainly, or get off my damn roof. Who are you really, and
why are you here?"
"Well well. The Prince's pet rat grows a spine. Took long enough."
The soft smile shifted to a self-satisfied smirk. Her eyes remained focused on the city, but there was a discernible change in her posture. Her muscles were tensed, joints bent imperceptibly, and her nostrils flared.
"Interesting that, for all the infiltration you and your Clan do, you are uniquely offended when anyone
dare do the same to you. So kindly step down from that podium you've placed yourself on. Find something
actually worth getting worked up over.
"Such as my failure to introduce myself. Which is significantly more fair, I think. I am Beatrice Medici, Bishop of the Docks, and I'm here to give you an offer." Beatrice looked up, still smirking. "Should you deign to parlay with me."
Bishop.
The word struck Salvatore like a hammer against hot iron, and all at once he understood how this little spy had managed to worm her way into his home. Bishop was a Sabbat title, and, to make matters worse, it was the closest thing in the Sabbat to a Camarilla Primogen. Sal rose slowly, his every impulse demanding he grab the viper by her jacket's collar, and toss the snake off his roof. Every fibre of his being would've enjoyed that fight, of that he was sure.
And yet, the Nosferatu knew he could not.
Salvatore hated the Sabbat. Probably more than most kindred, which was saying something. Unfortunately, much as he would have loved to take out the trash, Sal knew to do so would be sheer idiocy. He couldn't jeopardize his position, or the lives of his subordinates now. Not when there was a mystery drug dropping kindred in the streets. Not when, after weeks of inactivity, a lead had fallen right into his lap. Even if he hated it, he knew now was no time to make an enemy of a Sabbat Bishop.
Of course, there was a silver lining. She'd suggested--whether or not it was the truth--that she'd been at Washburn's clandestine meeting. It raised more questions than it did answers, but if the Sabbat were somehow involved in the drug crisis…
"Parlay?" Salvatore scoffed, his tone a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "We've
been parlayin,' Miss Medici. If you've got something to offer…" Salvatore gestured with both arms to the empty rooftop around them.
"Then the floor is yours."
Beatrice smiled. Still, she smiled, though it had softened from a smirk. Nevertheless, the predator's edge never left it.
"Ah: Camarilla politeness. Ever on the edge of a knife. Ever it ebbs like the tide, a vague, thin veil of civility barely concealing the raging animal beneath it. If only you could embrace it, instead of hiding it."
Slowly, as if with great effort, or perhaps in an attempt to not alarm her host, she stood. The cloud cover was in full retreat now, and to the Kindred eyes, starlight and moonlight laid everything bare. The breeze tugged at hair and clothing alike, and Beatrice's hair was like a banner, lifted to show a black void darker than any lightless night. She'd barely given Salvatore a glance as she stood, and even now, even now, she still simply regarded the cityscape, hands in pockets.
"Your Prince is … charming, to be sure. But he has no real control. No real power. How many Thin-Bloods walk the streets, Sally? How many Caitiff crawl through the filth, aimless and undisciplined, Embraced without regard for their future, for their past, for their present? Are the Kindred the undisputed kings of the night, as should be? Or do the kine gangs intrude, carving territories from out of Camarilla and even Anarch hands, leaving them to rot in an endless cycle of violence?" Her nostrils flared. "Does the blood they spill on the sidewalks tear at your head, calling the Beast to be free? Do you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you could
end that gang violence, if only Prince Wishy-Washy would let you?
"Could you run Houston better than Washburn? Or if not, would you rather just be free to
do, free to instill true terror into the hearts of the kine as they huddle in their homes, desperate to avoid the gaze of the Thing that stalks the shadows? Do you rail against the leash forcibly wrapped about your muzzle?"
The shimmering ambience of the cosmic dance above them seemed to fade, as the lights of Houston all but disappeared, until there was only the two Kindred, locked in conversation.
"If you rage against Camarillan bonds, then lend me the ears of your Clan. In turn, I will lend you the protection of the Sabbat to operate as you see fit. To be King of your own plot, and perhaps, even Bishop."
Lies, or truth. Exaggerations, or fact. Salvatore had indeed heard everything Beatrice now told him before, if not expressly connected together in that way, if not expressly couched in that manner. His spies, his network, was dutiful and fairly active in the important regions of the city. But this connection, this
causative factor, was a new perspective. Her smile deepened, widened, and she looked him in the eye.
"Sudden, maybe. But Rick has had it coming for a long, long time."
There were only a few things that Beatrice Medici could have said that would have caught Salvatore off guard. After all, he'd lived a long time which meant he had played with, and against, every major kindred faction at one point or the other. He'd been party to countless negotiations in the dark. Countless verbal chess-matches between kindred of equal weight, and equal greed. As a Nosferatu Neonate, you had to play that game just to survive, but with time there were other benefits to be gained. Missions eventually became favors, superiors eventually became allies, and one's worst experiences often were distilled into invaluable wisdom. This proposition—an open invitation from the Sabbat to a Camarilla Primogen—was a hard departure from everything he had seen thus far. It was a little surprising to hear Beatrice speak it, even for someone like Sal.
The Nosferatu had been Camarilla for almost his entire undead existence, and he had sown the seeds of his own success for many years, and across many state lines, doing the bidding of the Ivory Tower. Now, in Houston, he had begun to at last reap the fruits of those labors. Salvatore had a home in the Astrodome. Perhaps it was dark, humid, and chock-full of rats (both the literal and kindred kind), but it was truly his. Sal had people too. The Nosferatu of the Dome were young mostly; there were few that had aged out of their Neonate status. Beyond that, they were also dusty rabble, mainly comprised of flatfooted skulkers and whiners. One would hardly know how damn good a job they did on the street from looking, or listening to them. They were frequently the source of his otherworldly headaches, but still, they were
his rabble.
Salvatore had no doubt that Ms. Medici understood that kind of responsibility. She was a Bishop, after all. And, to her credit, she was right about Houston. She was right that dark times were coming, and the Camarilla were hardly prepared to respond. She was right that Ricky was too unsure of himself—too troubled by his own personal inadequacies to stop the city's downward spiral. All the Primogen understood that to some degree, he believed. Perhaps Beatrice was right. Perhaps the Prince was not suited for the task any longer.
If Salvatore's lungs still worked, he'd have taken a deep breath. Instead, he reached up to crow on his shoulder, gently herding it into the palm of his other hand. The bird gave its master an inquisitive look, and Salvatore replied with a sad smile of his own.
After a moment's pause, the Nosferatu spoke again. This time, there was no trace of vitriol or exasperation in his tone. Instead, Sal sounded distant, his words belabored and forlorn as they left his mouth.
"It was a good pitch, Ms. Medici. Good
indeed." Sal began to pet his bird, his eyes breaking from the Sabbat's gaze to train his own sights once again on the darkened city skyline. Silently, he prayed they were ready.
"But instilling terror in Kine hearts and raging against Cammy bonds and all of that… I don't have much an interest in it if I'm being perfectly honest." Salvatore smiled to himself, the memories of his very first year as a kindred just barely coming back to him. "It's kind of a… 'been there, done that' sort of situation."
"You are right about the city--things are getting rough, but it's happening with or without Ricky. A storm is coming, Ms. Medici, but it's a storm that's coming for all of us. Much as I appreciate the offer, I plan on weathering it on
this side of the fence."
A small grunt, hushed and likely not meant for him, was the only acknowledge Salvatore received. Beatrice slowly turned her head to look at him askance.
"No one can say that I didn't try. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
A thick blackness rose from the ground, twisting about her form briefly before dissipating, tendrils becoming ash becoming nothing. The Bishop was gone with it, and the Nosferatu Primogen was alone once more, left to his own thoughts on the top of his palace.
He only had perhaps a minute of rumination. In his pocket, Salvatore's phone buzzed with a text message.
come 2 ur front g8. we need 2 talk. - Sheriff Bringham
"Sonofa--"
Sal regarded the text with equal parts admiration and annoyance. How the hell had Kat found the sheriff so quickly, and would it have killed her to have been a couple minutes slower? Salvatore was hoping he'd have enough time for at least one drink before it was back to business. Especially given the nerve-wracking rendevoux he'd fallen into. The cowboy eyed the cold bag of blood where he'd tossed it, weighing for just a moment how badly he wanted that nightcap before sauntering back towards the stairwell.
A visit from a Sabbat Bishop usually didn't end in as cordial terms as his meeting with Ms. Medici had. Salvatore had kept his cool though, and it was nothing less than a miracle that he had all things considered. Still, as Sal began to trek down the stairs, he did wonder at the wisdom of throwing his lot in with Ricky. It wasn't the first time Salvatore had heard the complaints, but to hear it from the age-old enemy of the Camarilla in such plain terms was a bit of a pain in his hide. With the new, narcotic-fueled chaos on the city streets, there were few outcomes to this whole debacle that would suck less for him and his people than a ground war with the Sabbat. Still, Beatrice had given him nothing concrete to suggest that even if he had jumped ship, it could become a permanent arrangement. At least with Ricky, Sal knew where he stood.
The Primogen's musings on Washburn and his reign faded away. As he reached the exit, Salvatore engaged the discipline of Unseen Presence once more. Instantaneously, Sal's form became once again invisible, his supernatural cloak preventing any possibility of a Masquerade breach as he stepped from his castle and into the open parking lot beyond. Salvatore took a couple steps, noting a faint and lingering scent of blood in the air from somewhere in the parking lot, before coming to a perturbed halt in the middle of the space. Silently, and perhaps just a little too cautiously, he scanned the empty tarmac. He had been surprised one time too many tonight, and he wasn't about to let his business with Lance—whatever that business turned out to
be—suffer the prying eyes and ears of unseen foes in the night.