Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

London was run by a trinity.

It was not the trinity- Anatole was not mad enough or heretical enough to suggest that the LORD Himself had come to earth in all His glory just to govern a city of the undead- but it was comparable in its structure. There was a Father- who sat to his left, a Son- who sat to his right, and a Ghost (though calling it Holy was probably pushing it)- slouched in his seat in front of him, its skin sallow and its eyes- long since dead- burying into him.

Anatole was not scared of any of them. None of them had realised this- each of them thought themselves thousands of times more powerful than him, even the Son, who was centuries younger. It was a bit funny.

“And this prophet, Lenoir,” said the Father, after a few minutes of silence, “Does he… You know… Prophecy?”

Lenoir- the man who had brought Anatole before the false trinity- laughed nervously, “Well, I… I mean, he has been known to-”

“I speak the words of the LORD,” said Anatole, quietly

The Father blinked, “And is the, um, is the lord in the room with us?”

The Son chuckled quietly from behind her lace fan

Anatole bowed his head, “I thank you for your time,” he said, and he turned on his heel and began to walk towards the door.

“A-Anatole!” hissed Lenoir, scuttling after him, “What are you doing? Do you know how this could reflect on-”

“I apologise for my seneschals, Prophet,” said the Ghost, drawing itself up to its full height with a cracking of bones and a brush of leathery skin against silken fabric, “It appears that your reputation does not precede you.”

Anatole smiled, slightly. The LORD had work for him here after all.

He turned to face the Ghost. The Father and the Son stared up at it, eyes wide and mouths slack. He understood their awe- the Ghost was old, old enough that it showed even through its unlife.

It had been a man of perhaps thirty when it was embraced, and though it would still appear to be so to mortal eyes, the way it held itself would make its age obvious to any kindred. It did not blink, did not breathe, its muscles did not twitch, and it was not making an effort to hide its unnatural stillness. Anatole had met very few kindred who managed to throw off the shackles of mortality so completely, and all of them had been at least a few millennia old.

“I have heard you speak,” said the Ghost, “Once, before the Convention of Thorns. You were but a fledgeling then, yet you spoke with such tenacity.”

“I thank you, Voltre Alesse,” said Anatole, bowing his head slightly.

“I wonder,” said the Ghost, “Are you still faithful? Or do you just like the imagery?”

Anatole pursed his lips, insulted at the notion, “The LORD is my light and my way, Voltre Alesse,” he said, “And I would thank you not to question him.”

“Hmph,” said the Ghost, beginning to walk towards Anatole, “I saw men like you die back in my youth. Men who could not distinguish their ideology from their gods.”

Now that they were out of the Ghost’s sight, the Father and the Son looked at each other pointedly, and the Father waved a hand, tugging the puppet string of some unseen attendant, who scurried off, most likely to tug another string, then another…

“It is always a pity,” said the Ghost, “I suppose I would understand if you were a fledgeling, but there is no point to it, at your age. Your god is either unspeakably cruel, or altogether imaginary- it is best to let him go.”

“He is- ah- he is Malkavian, highness,” said Lenoir, moving to stand in Anatole’s shadow, “He isn’t- that is he- he has irrational attachments that he can’t-”

Anatole raised a hand, and Lenoir fell silent. He studied the Ghost for a moment, and watched as it studied him in turn. It was expecting… Something from him, something that he knew he would not be able to give. He frowned for a moment, and then sighed, and took a moment to brace himself.

“You are not,” he said, “superior to my LORD.”

Everything happened rather quickly after that.

Lenoir jumped about ten feet back, spitting and swearing. The Father and the Son each ducked behind their chairs, as if they had practised the motions so often that they had become routine. The attendants, and the ghouls, and the onlookers all ran, some screaming, some sobbing, some halfway to frenzy.

The Ghost roared, something somewhere between fury and pain, and bared its teeth, charging towards Anatole. It still didn’t move like a mortal thing- its movements were too swift to be defensive, yet too calculated to be that of something on the attack. This was a creature of pure wrath, the sort of thing that was described to children to keep them from going too far out into the woods too late at night.

And yet Anatole was not afraid.

It was not that he did not think that the thing would kill him. If he was to get within an inch of those fangs or claws then he would most definitely be ripped to pieces within seconds, and all that would be left of him would be ash between the creature’s teeth. He did not particularly want to fight the thing either- he was a pacifist as a rule, and though he would defend himself when attacked, he highly doubted that he would stand his chance against a thing such as this.

And yet he knew that the LORD would not let him die. He was vital in the spread of the LORD’s word throughout the Kindred, and though he himself may be damned, it was still his duty to save as many souls as he could. Even if the creature was to kill him, he would die in defence of the LORD, and that was good and just.

So he slipped his hand around the rosary hanging from the belt of his monastic robes, and he began to pray.

“Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.”

The Ghost roared again, though this time it was out of fear rather than rage. He fell backwards, and looked up at Anatole from his position on the floor.

“Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra.”

It was Lenoir who cried out this time, though it was more of a whimper than a scream. He tore himself away from Anatole, and scuttled away to hide behind a pillar. It was almost as if a great light or heat was emitting itself from Anatole, and he was compelled in some way to escape from it.

“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra,”

The bystanders began to move now, each of them taking a step back, but none of them able to take their eyes away from him.

“Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem-”

“Enough!”

It was the Father who had spoken, seemingly having gathered enough courage to venture out from behind his chair. His knuckles were white where he gripped the back of it, and his body was stiff and his jaw was clenched, but he was lucid enough to look Anatole in the eye, even if he was trembling.

There was the sound of a drawn sword from somewhere within the crowd. Somewhere, somehow, a Sheriff was watching.

Anatole bowed his head- though he clutched the rosary tighter to ensure that the LORD knew it was in respect rather than reverence, “I am sorry. I do not wish to die again.”

There was a long silence. The bystanders whispered among themselves. Anatole was rather reminded of Holy Week- of the way that the Christ entered Jerusalem to cheers on Palm Sunday, only to be met with violence and rage by Good Friday. Though it was, he supposed, a little presumptive to compare himself to the Christ.

“I…” the Father cleared his throat, “I understand.” he smiled, nervously, “Though it seems that you have more than proven that you’re not a sham. Welcome to London, prophet!”

There was a commotion going on inside Merritt House, but Emma wasn’t in the mood for it. She’d given Victoria the slip, letting her think that she’d gotten lost in the crowd, and gone outside to sit in the garden with Lady Merritt.

The old woman was embroidering tonight. She’d chosen a beautiful pattern- a crucifix flocked by doves and surrounded by roses. She was finishing some of the details on the doves- their beady black eyes and their tiny little feet.

There was something captivating about the eyes of the doves. It wasn’t a nice thing, not like the thrill of staring at Victoria when she wanted something, or the inviting darkness of the woods near Lion’s Green. No, the doves looked almost afraid, as if they were fleeing the crucifix rather than bursting out in celebration of it. Emma didn’t know whether to pity them or to envy their ability to flee when it suited them.

“I’ll teach you, if you’d like,” said Lady Merritt, when she noticed that Emma was watching her, “You’re to be married soon, aren’t you? You’ll need something to do with yourself- you’ll grow terribly bored sitting around the house all day.”

Emma swallowed, and stared out at what little of the garden she could see in the moonlight, “I… I’m not sure. I don’t know if I’ll take to it.”

She’d seen the way that Lord Blake had struck his maid for a minor error in the placement of cutlery- when he’d thought that she wasn’t looking. She didn’t think she’d be able to bear it if he reacted like that to something she did or made. It reminded her too much of Wellig- the way that he’d made the rituals that he’d asked her to go through longer or more painful when she’d been childish towards him. It was an understandable reaction, she supposed, but she would rather avoid it if she could.

Though it wasn’t exactly as if she could tell Lady Merritt about Wellig.

She’d been lucky, in that Victoria hadn’t asked much about her past or attempted to drink her blood, and had introduced her to the kindred by her Christian name. She’d stumbled into their world more by luck than judgement- having noticed Victoria’s peculiarities when overhearing her conversation with an attendant at a dress shop, and taking her aside to ask, politely, if she was undead.

The world of the kindred was not her world, she knew that. She had a duty, a purpose, above and beyond anything that any of these petty little leeches could think of- but it helped her pretend. Here, nobody asked her to kneel on chalk sigils drawn on cold floors, or sit perfectly still while they dripped hot blood into her hair. They knew she was supernatural, was other, but they didn’t know to what extent. It was comforting, in a way, to have the intricacies of the undead explained to her as if she’d never seen anything of the sort before. It made her feel normal.

“It’s not something that one takes to,” said Lady Merritt, snapping Emma out of her thoughts with a snip of her embroidery scissors, “It’s something that you practise. You’ll most likely be awful at first- I know I certainly was- but with time and effort you’ll learn how to make something beautiful.”

“What if I don’t?” snapped Emma, filled with a sudden surge of jealousy towards the old woman, “What if I never learn? What if I continue to be terrible forever? What if I waste all of my husband’s money on thread and cloth and don’t even have anything to show for it?”

Lady Merritt laughed, “Then you’ll have something that’s yours.”

Emma huffed, and turned back to the garden. It wasn’t as if Lady Merritt would ever understand.

There was a sudden series of gasps, and a rush of chatter from inside the house- loud enough that Emma could hear from where she was sitting. She frowned, and stood, but Lady Merritt caught her sleeve before she could take a step towards the house.

“Emma,” she said, “I would like you to make me a promise.”

Emma’s frown deepened, “I- Is now the time?”

“Oh, it’ll never be the time,” said Lady Merritt, smiling, “I’d just rather make it while I remember.”

Emma pursed her lips, “You’ll forget it by morning- I need to-”

“I never forget a promise,” said Lady Merritt, and there was a sudden determined glint in her eyes.

“I- Alright, just… Quickly.”

“You must promise me,” said Lady Merritt, “That you must return to this house if you have nowhere else to go.”

Emma blinked, “I… I’m sorry..?”

Lady Merritt frowned, “Do you not understand the premise?”

“No- No I do- I just-” she shook her head and tried to pull her hand away from the elder woman’s grip, “I need to go find Victoria-”

“Then promise,” said Lady Merritt, clasping her wrist, “And I’ll let you go.”

“Alright,” said Emma, her heart suddenly in her throat, “Alright, alright, I promise.”

“Good girl,” said Lady Merritt, releasing her and settling back into her chair.

Emma sighed, shook her head, and looked out across the garden. The kindred were beginning to file out of the house, and she spotted Victoria among them, who met her gaze and began running towards her.

Anatole sat down heavily on one of the couches in the sitting room they’d been led to. Lenoir did not sit, instead pouring himself a glass of blood from the metallic-smelling decanter in the corner of the room, and beginning to pace in front of the bay window.

“That was dangerous,” said Lenoir, “You could have been killed.”

“If the LORD wishes for me to die,” said Anatole, quietly, “Then I will meekly accept my fate.”

“I could have died,” said Lenoir, spreading his arms wide, “And I don’t… I’m not saying your god’s not real, Anatole, but I… I’m not willing to die-”

Anatole clenched his jaw, and balled his fists in the skirts of his robe. “That is your choice,” he said, through gritted teeth.

Coward, hissed the cobweb, speaking as one, Does he not understand that he is nothing? He is but one brushstroke on a painting, one thread on a tapestry? When the LORD comes for him, he will be angry, and he will smite-

Lenoir, having seemingly noticed how tense Anatole had gotten, sighed loudly enough to pull him out of his thoughts, “How would Mr Beckett feel, if I were to let you die?”

Anatole blinked. He hadn't thought of it like that.

"Imagine how upset he'd be," said Lenoir, catching on to the fact that he'd touched a nerve, "Imagine how he'd cry about it. Do you think he'd even be able to let himself rest during the day, knowing that he'd let you go on to a place where you'd-"

"I'm sorry for putting you in danger, Lenoir," said Anatole. He felt a churning in the pit of his stomach. He knew he wouldn't vomit- he'd long since lost the ability- but the tiny little sliver of his mind that was still human reminded him of the possibility anyway.

"Good," said Lenoir, "Good."

A silence fell between them. Anatole took a moment to pray- under his breath, in Latin, so Lenoir wouldn't hear or understand. He prayed for the remainder of his visit to London to be peaceful. He prayed for Beckett's safety. He prayed for Lenoir to realise that his faith was not a joke.

He doubted that his prayers would be answered, but he felt it was at least worth the attempt.

The silence was broken by a tentative but firm knock at the door. Anatole frowned and opened his mouth to dismiss the intruder, but he was too slow. Lenoir had called out an amicable “Come in!” before he was able to make a sound.

A Ventrue- looking to be about thirty years of age- entered the room. He kept his eyes on Anatole and made sure his back was close to the wall, as if Anatole was some great beast that he might be eaten by. Anatole wasn’t upset by this- the poor man had just seen him exhibit the LORD’s power onto his Prince, and his reaction was more amusing than anything else, if he really thought about it.

“Can we help you?” asked Lenoir, when the Ventrue didn’t say anything

“I- Um- Ah-” the Ventrue licked his lips- “You- Malkavian.”

“You may address me as Brother Anatole.” said Anatole, being sure to keep his voice quiet and level.

“Oh- I- Sorry- I- No…” The Ventrue shook his head, as if he were a dog trying to dry its fur, “You are a prophet, yes?”

Anatole raised an eyebrow, “Yes..?”

“I- I- I was wondering,” said the Ventrue, “Could you- I- There’s a business I’m thinking of getting involved in, and I- I mean you-”

He’s not the only one, hissed the Cobweb, There are tens, maybe hundreds of them, trying to gain knowledge that is between you and the LORD. They crowd outside, waiting patiently for your answer. You must not give them satisfaction.

Anatole closed his eyes, “I-”

“He’ll be happy to,” said Lenoir, smiling, “Go on, Anatole, surely your lord has something for the man?”

Anatole took a deep breath, and let out a sigh. He opened his eyes, meeting the Ventrue’s gaze, and held out his hand to the younger vampire. The man walked towards him, clearly trembling, and placed his hand in Anatole’s.

DISASTER hissed the Cobweb, WOE AND PAIN AND POVERTY- THE KINE EATING THE KINDRED AND ASH ON THEIR TONGUES

“It will go well,” said Anatole, “The more effort you put into the project, the more you will get out of it.”

“Oh.” said the Ventrue, “Oh, I… Thank you. Thank you.” He yanked back his hand, pulling it away as if burned, and wiped it on his trousers, “I’ll- I’ll tell the woman behind me to head in, shall I?”

“If you wish,” said Anatole

The Ventrue nodded, then scampered away. Lenoir shot a grim look at Anatole.

“You’re staying in these people’s city,” he said, “The least you can do is use your gift to help them.”

“It is not my gift,” said Anatole

Lenoir opened his mouth to retaliate, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Excuse me?” called a Toreador woman of much older appearance, peering through a crack in the door, “I was wondering if I could ask you a question- My son is still kine, and I was thinking of embracing him- If I could just ask-”

Anatole sighed, and held out his hand. It was going to be a long night.

“And I thought,” said Victoria, running her thumb across Emma’s index finger, “I thought you could- It’ll be good luck for your wedding, won’t it? If you ask the prophet for his blessing.”

Emma was relatively sure that the prophet didn’t work like that, but Victoria was beautiful and she needed an excuse to get away from Lady Merritt, so she stood in the queue to get into the sitting room and let Victoria hold her hand and giggle.

She hoped that this prophet didn’t know about the Ducheskis, or that he would interpret anything he saw as metaphor. She wasn’t foolish enough to assume that he was entirely a scam artist- he was most likely some fledgeling who thought his mild clairvoyance made him divine. How he’d managed to fool the kindred of London was another matter, though she supposed she’d managed to do it, so it couldn’t be too hard.

The kindred leaving the sitting room seemed positive- there was talk of productive business ventures, of blood flowing freely from the kine, of safe havens and quiet nights. It was that which made Emma reconsider her theory about him being a complete sham. The kindred were monstrous, and monstrous people made monstrous circumstances. It would be impossible for all of them to have good fortunes.

Still, her stomach churned as she got closer. She wasn’t quite afraid enough to ask to leave- or at least the idea of asking in full view of all the bloodsuckers of the city scared her more than whatever creature was in the sitting room- but she clutched Victoria’s hand tighter and tighter as they moved further and further up the queue.

“It’ll be alright,” whispered Victoria, “If he says that your fiance is awful then I’ll pull the bastard down an alleyway and tear him to shreds.”

He was awful, but Emma wasn’t about to tell Victoria that. Her dedication to the Ducheski- her determination to produce more of her bloodline on the off chance that the poison in her blood didn’t work. It would be hell- she knew it would be hell- but it would at least mean that she would have proven her worth.

The man in front of them entered the sitting room. Emma closed her eyes, and wondered how much damage would be done to her reputation if she simply shoved Victoria away and ran.

“Cheer up,” said Victoria, squeezing her hand, “It’s just a Malkavian with a parlour trick- It’ll be over in all of five minutes.”

“I- I’m sorry,” said Emma, “It’s- It’s just the trepidation…”

“It is exciting, isn’t it,” said Victoria, smiling, “Though I do wish he’d give someone a bad fortune. The thought of knowing your own demise but having to march into it anyway is…” she trailed off, transfixed in her very Toreador way by the idea.

“Perhaps he’s worried about causing offence?” said Emma

Victoria laughed, “Oh, I wouldn’t think he’s all that worried about that- not after the performance that he gave earlier.”

Before Emma could ask what on earth that meant, the door in front of them opened, and the man who’d gone in- a ghoul of about thirty dressed in military gear- smiled warmly at them.

“He says my expedition is to go well!” he said, “I’ll be back before Christmas, he says!”

“Congratulations,” said Victoria dryly, and she began to heard Emma through the door.

The prophet looked much less impressive than Victoria had made him out to be. He was a slip of a thing- not quite malnourished, but thin enough that her Aunt Eleanor would have made a scene about getting him seconds if he had somehow arrived at their dinner table. He was young too- or looked young, even. He was clearly an adult, but Emma still firmly categorised him in her head as a boy rather than a man. He wore a thin robe- the kind that Emma had seen drawings of monks wear in history books, and he was toying with a set of rosary beads that hung at his belt.

“...Your query?” he said, sounding almost impatient

“My ghoul,” said Victoria, grandly, gesturing to Emma, “Is due to be wed. We’ve come to ask for your blessing on her marriage.”

The prophet laughed, though there was no humour in it, “It is not my blessing you should ask for, but the blessing of the LORD.”

“Yes, yes, if that’s what you’d like us to say,” said Victoria, curtly

The prophet opened his mouth to say something, but he shot a glance to the man standing in the shadows behind his chair- who Emma recognised as Stephen Lenoir- and clicked his tongue in frustration, before turning to face Emma and holding his hand out to her. Emma frowned, trying to resist the urge to be sick, but she let Victoria nudge her forwards, and reached to take the man’s hand.

“DEATH! DEATH! FIRE AND BLOOD, THE BULL BROUGHT TO SLAUGHTER, THE WORST POSSIBLE THING!”

It took Anatole a moment to realise that he was, in fact, speaking, rather than just hearing the Cobweb whisper in his ear.

The ghoul of the rude woman recoiled, but Anatole wasn’t able to withdraw his hand fast enough, and the forwards jerking motion sent him sprawling onto the floor.

“I SEE DEATH,” he screamed into the carpet, “I SEE DOOM. I SEE THE PUPPET HOLDING THE KNIFE. I SEE THE CHAINS GUIDING HIM.”

“I didn’t-” said the ghoul, into her mistress’ shoulder, “You mustn’t-”

“Shh, shh, I know,” said her mistress, “He’s Malkavian, remember- it’s him, not you.”

“I SEE THE NAIL THAT STANDS OUT BEING HAMMERED DOWN.” There was hair in his mouth, and carpet burn on his forehead, but he did not have enough control over his body to correct it, “I SEE FIRE IN THE VEINS, I SEE… I SEE…”

The kindred of London were filtering into the room now, forming a gaggle around the door. Anatole would have laughed if he could. He’d been so careful to let them know as little as he could, to provide a barrier between the LORD and the onlookers. Had that been wrong? Was he being punished? He’d tried his best…

“What are you all gawking at?”

The gaggle parted, and a Malkavian, taking the appearance of a much older woman, made her way towards him. Internally, Anatole grimaced. He was not exactly prepared to explain why or how he had caused such a disturbance in the local strands of the cobweb, or apologise for it for that matter.

The woman made her way towards him, gave him a brief once-over, then turned away from him to face the crowd, “What are you waiting for?” she said, “Shoo!”

The ghoul’s rude mistress gaped, “Lady Merritt, are you sure it’s safe to-”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be fine. Now shoo, the lot of you, before I have the ballroom repainted some ghastly colour.”

The crowd trailed out, some catching final glances of him over their shoulders. The ghoul lingered, her mouth open as if she wanted to say something, but eventually her mistress tugged her out with the last of the crowd, and the door swung closed behind them.

“He’s- ah- he’s not normally like this, your ladyship,” said Lenoir, “I- I’m sorry if I’ve caused-”

“Can you stand?” asked the Lady, seemingly ignoring Lenoir completely

“I see… I see…”

“Right,” said the Lady. She knelt in front of him, and scooped an arm under his shoulder, “Lenoir, if you would?”

Lenoir startled, “Sorry, I- What-”

“The chair, man, I need help getting him into the chair.”

“Right- I- Sorry, your ladyship,” Lenoir grabbed his other shoulder, and together he and the Lady manoeuvred him off of the carpet and into the chair he’d been sat in.

“The Cobweb is not a party trick,” said the Lady, once he was settled, “You mustn’t try to use it as one.”

“Yes- I- I see that now,” said Lenoir, “I’m sorry, your ladyship.”

The Lady scoffed, “It’s not me you’ll want to apologise to.”

The two both turned their attention to Anatole, which seemed to set him off once again.

“I see the worst possible thing,” he whispered, “I- I see the worst possible thing….”

Chapter Text

The night he learned that Joanna had been committed to an asylum, Lieutenant Malcolm Seward all but ran to Colonel James Blake’s house. He let the older man take him into his chambers, and spent the night in his arms, sobbing.

“She’s… She’s just completely…” he choked out the words between sobs

“She was completely apathetic,” said Colonel Blake, stroking Malcolm’s hair, “Her husband died in front of her and she…”

“I never knew,” whispered Malcolm, his voice hoarse, “If I could have just…”

“You couldn’t have done anything,” said the Colonel, “It’s a defect of the mind, Malcolm, it’s just bad luck.”

“Father never paid attention to her,” he said, “I should have- should have said something.”

“Hush,” said the Colonel, “Hush.” He pressed a kiss to Malcolm’s forehead, “Rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Emma’s husband had tied Gareth’s hands and feet, and locked him in a room to starve. It hadn’t killed him, of course, he was too close to the kindred for that, but it had weakened him enough that he’d been relatively manoeuvrable after a week or so. When the wretched man had opened the door again, he’d taken Gareth- who was starving and cold and covered in his own waste- and stripped him, and hung him by his shoulder from the meat hook in the middle of the room.

Gareth had been expecting this.

Emma, God bless her soul, had wept to him about the cruelty of her husband. How he’d picked her up and dragged her, screaming, to his bed. How he’d grab at her and force her to be still when she had nightmares. How he’d refuse to let her keep anything with the Ducheski crest on it, how she’d had to threaten to leave him in order to get a single carving to hang on her wall in her private chambers. Gareth supposed it was only fair that he got his turn to suffer.

He’d gotten used to the meat hook after a while. It was no use trying to escape, of course. Taking the thing out of the wound would likely only have made it bleed more, and as much as he didn’t want to give the bastard any information, he didn’t want to die, either. He would have used the Blood, but it was exhausted, his supplies running empty after he’d spent so much of it trying not to starve.

He wasn’t quite sure how, exactly, he expected this to end, but he supposed he could hold out hope that Emma would come and find him, somehow, and cauterise the wound before she removed the hook. He knew that was never going to happen, but it was a nice dream at least.

The torture actually made the whole ordeal easier. The burning against his flesh and the digging of nails into the wounds on his thighs hurt, but they hurt in a way that wasn’t quite real. They let him leave his body, let him walk off somewhere else, let him imagine a world in which he and Emma and Thomas were still children, playing at finding pixies in the woods beyond Lion’s Green. God, he missed those days.

He would never crack, though. Every time that door opened and the beast that had wedded Emma strode in, he used what little blood he had left to fuse his teeth together, so that even if he became tempted to talk, he wouldn’t. He had decided, when he’d first entered this room, that he wasn’t going to give in to this man. He wasn’t going to let him hurt Emma any more than he already had.

When the door opened yet again, he hung his head, and clenched his jaw, beginning to fuse his teeth again. He stopped when he heard a second set of footsteps, tiptoeing in tentatively behind Emma’s husband’s bold stride. He opened one of his eyes just a crack, so he could see who his new tormenter was, and when he met the man’s gaze he smiled.

“Afternoon, Lieutenant,” he said, his voice hoarse from lack of use.

“It’s… It’s morning…” said Lieutenant Malcolm Seward, his face pale and his body shaking.

Gareth’s smile widened. It was almost all worth it- having failed to kill the man back at Blake’s manor, being strung up and left to suffer, being shown off like he was some hunting trophy, just to see the look on the pathetic little man’s face. It was strange how many military men became squeamish when they were confronted with true violence.

“Is it really?” said Gareth, “My most sincere apologies, Lieutenant. I’ve found it’s quite hard to tell the time of day when a madman hangs you from the ceiling in his wine cell- ack!”

While he’d been busy taunting the little Lieutenant, Emma’s husband had walked over to him and dug his nails into one of the nastier gashes in his thigh. He didn’t feel the pain, not really, but his body jolted instinctively in such a way that he found himself unable to speak.

“He’s perfectly safe,” said the bastard, “He’s just not very co-operative is all.”

“I’m not safe,” said Gareth, breath straining despite himself, “I’m very dangerous. You take another step forwards and I’ll eat your spine.”

“He’s not human, Malcolm,” said the brute, wiping his fingers on a handkerchief and walking over to comfort the brat, “He’s partaken of the blood of the undead- he’s all but one of them.”

“Of course,” said the Lieutenant, “Of course.”

“He’s not told me anything of Emma’s death yet, though I’m almost certain he’s involved,” said the bastard, “Of course, I’ve not quite used all my interrogation techniques. I’m certain he’ll crack eventually.” He grinned, and drew his pen-knife out from his pocket with a flourish.

The Lieutenant laughed, nervously, “I… I’m sure you have everything under control.”

“I have everything under control here. What I need is someone to look into our other avenues of investigation. Joanna mentioned Merritt House as a lair kept by some of the beasts, for instance. Perhaps you could start there?”

“Could you, Lieutenant?” rasped Gareth, almost desperate now, “Could you really be so cruel as to leave me here? To abandon me to suffer and die? To follow the orders of the brute who put me- Argh!”

The bastard had dug his fingers into the wound again, this time managing to curl them in a way that actually hurt. Gareth screamed, then screamed, then screamed again, hoping desperately that it would be enough to get the Lieutenant to abandon the wretched man.

“I…” the Lieutenant frowned, “I have heard some rumours within the military higher ups. There is… There are… The bloodsuckers walk among us.”

Something twisted in Gareth’s stomach. The Lieutenant wasn’t lying- there were kindred in most every large organisation these days- but there was something he was leaving out, something that wasn’t quite…

The Lieutenant’s hand moved to brush over the silver bull pendant at his neck- bright and shining and new. Gareth narrowed his eyes, and tilted his head so he could get a better look at it. He swore he’d seen something like it before- he just couldn’t place it. Perhaps one time when he was accompanying Wellig to…

He burst out laughing, his body wracked with deep, soul-rending cackles. He wondered, briefly, if he had finally lost his mind, but he figured that he would have found the situation just as funny even before his confinement.

The Lieutenant flinched back, and the brute dug his fingers into Gareth’s flesh again, but he was beyond distraction now. He shook his head, managing to calm his laugher enough to speak.

“They walk among you, do they Lieutenant? Which part of you?” he shook his head, slightly delirious, “The liver perhaps? The heart? The neck?”

“There- I saw a paper-” said the Lieutenant, raising his voice in a vain attempt to be heard above Gareth, “Someone mentioned sending two female agents to- to Paris. They were- were trying to follow a third woman, I believe?”

“Female agents?” said the brute, not bothering to speak even a little louder, “In Her Majesty’s forces?”

“Crawling up your spine,” cackled Gareth, “Nesting in your hair and laying our eggs there, are we?”

“Yes,” shouted the Lieutenant, “That was what tipped me off- I looked into it and it seems that a number of the-”

“God, you’re a fool, Lieutenant,” spat Gareth, “To think that we’re the disease- the parasites- when you-”

Gareth did not scream when the brute jabbed a sharp object- probably his pen-knife, but it might have been one of the torture instruments that he’d laid out on a side table- into the flesh of his back, barely missing his lung. He clenched his jaw, and fused his mouth together again, refusing to give the bastard the satisfaction of a proper reaction.

“A number of the men who have the most rumours about them were involved in the project,” finished the Lieutenant, seeming more perturbed by Gareth’s reaction than the way that he was being tortured.

“Mmn,” said the brute, “Did the papers say where in Paris?”

“No,” said the Lieutenant, “Though I’d imagine it’d be close to the city centre, given the… The habits of the… They’d need blood, a lot of it, and further out it’d be harder to…”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said the brute. He tapped his fingers idly on Gareth’s leg, narrowing his eyes, and then looked back up at the Lieutenant, “You should follow them.”

The Lieutenant startled, “What? I… Me?!”

“Yes,” said the brute, smiling, “You.”

The Lieutenant clenched his jaw, and nodded, “I… I wouldn’t be sure where to start…”

“There are more of us there,” said the brute, “More people who do good, more of those who are willing to take on the beasts, more of those who know that it’s not a lost cause, that we can win. That we can fix them, even.”

That gave Gareth pause. He had been taught, from a young age, that once someone became kindred- fully kindred, not half like he was- there was no turning back. The brute even seemed to recognise that, given how he was treating him. Did he make an exception for his wife, perhaps? That was a grim thought.

The Lieutenant’s face became unreadable, “Then Lady Blake will..?”

“Not quite as she was, but we’ll be able to restore her in some form, yes.” The brute smiled, softly, “It’ll be alright, Malcolm,” he said, taking a step forwards and clapping his hand onto the Lieutenant’s shoulder, “It’ll all be as it was.”

“Yes… Yes, of course,” said the Lieutenant, “I’d like that.”

The brute’s grin broadened, and he drew his hand around the Lieutenant’s shoulder, beginning to walk him out of the room, “Come, I won’t speak of details in front of one of them. I’ll draw you a map.”

The door slammed shut behind them, and Gareth let his jaw relax, opening his teeth again. It wasn’t a full separation this time- his molars were still a little stuck together, and there was a thin line of enamel running from canine to canine. Gareth closed his eyes, and sighed heavily.

He was running out of blood.

Chapter Text

There was a cat waiting for Beckett when he got off the train.

He thought it was a stray at first- begging the only passenger on the midnight train from Dover for a scrap of something to eat- but it was well-kept, well-nourished and well-cleaned. He fed it a little bit of the jerky that he kept in his pocket to feed animals who did favours for him, and crouched down to scratch it behind its ears.

“What do you want with me, hmn?” he said, letting his voice drop deep enough that the passing kine wouldn’t even be able to hear it.

“You’re wanted,” purred the cat, leaning into his hand. It hissed at him when he withdrew to stand, only stopping when he began petting it again, “Not urgently- not that urgently anyway- if you could just move back a little more- that’s the spot!”

Beckett indulged the cat for another minute or so before standing up for good, tossing a larger bit of jerky at it when it complained. It made incomprehensible irritated cat noises at him for a few seconds, before picking up the jerky and trotting off. It made no motion for Beckett to follow, and didn’t make an effort to wait for him, but it took the main road rather than hopping up onto the roof, and didn’t run away from Beckett when he did begin to walk after it. He supposed that was a good enough sign.

The cat lead him down street after street of houses. They were well-kept, with clean windows and well-stoked hearths, yet he could feel eyes on the back of his head as he made his way past them.

It was a feeling Beckett had become used to, these days. It was the hair, mostly. He’d thought about cutting it- Halim had been pestering him to for a good half a century- but he found himself liking it more the more that he was chastised for it. He liked the way it looked, he liked it being braided and unbraided by lovers, and he even liked the strangers asking him if he was trying to look like a woman. It was strangely ironic.

The cat stopped in front of one of the slimmer houses- of the kind that were often split up into rooms for lodgers- and began to lick its paw, looking up expectantly at Beckett. He scoffed, shaking his head.

“What, do you expect me to knock for your master?”

The cat gave an indeterminate mrowling noise, “It’s not like I can do it myself,” it said, “And besides, I don’t have anywhere else to be. You do.”

It was, Beckett supposed, a fair enough point. He raised his fist, and knocked sharply at the door. A woman’s voice called out something from the inside- Beckett couldn’t quite make it out, but he heard footsteps approaching the door, and decided it didn’t quite matter.

The woman who answered the door was almost painfully normal. She was perhaps fifty, with greying brown hair, an apron tied around her waist, and flour on her hands. She frowned at Beckett for a few seconds, before looking down at the floor and noticing the cat.

“You’re here for Mr Parr then?” she asked

Beckett laughed, “I suppose I am.”

“Come in,” she said, “I’ve no doubt he’ll be expecting you.”

“So Mr Beckett,” muttered Jules, pacing back and forth in the tiny part of his study floor that was still clear, “It’s in your best interest to help- No, that doesn’t sound quite right…”

He walked over to his notepad, picked up the pen and scribbled out the lines he’d spoken. He tapped the pen to the page twice, lost in thought, then circled the words above what he’d just crossed out. He set the pen down, and began to pace again.

“Now, Mr Beckett,” he said, gesturing to an empty armchair, “I’m sure you’re wondering what you’re doing here. Rest assured, I don’t plan to kill you- at least not yet. You’re much more useful to me alive than dead- like actually, properly, really dead, I mean, not- blimey, I can’t say that it’s ridiculous…” He shook his head, “You’re much more useful to me alive than dust- no, that doesn’t scan… You’re much more useful to me when you’re able to do shit than when you’re not.” He clicked his tongue, “It’ll do.” He trotted over to the notebook, and scribbled something else down, then went back to pacing, “As for what I need from you-”

He was interrupted by a sharp knock at the study door, at which he jumped and stumbled backwards into the notebook, knocking the pen onto the floor and leaving a small but noticeable ink stain on his landlady’s carpet. He swore under his breath, and hastily knocked the notebook off the table too, to hide it.

“Mr Parr?” called his landlady, “Are you quite alright?”

“I- Yep! Yep, fine, totally fine, thanks Hudson.”

“Right,” sad Hudson, though she didn’t sound convinced, “Your guest has arrived- shall I take him up for tea, or-”

Jules didn’t really want to risk letting Beckett have tea with his landlady. He might hurt her- or worse, the two of them might decide to gossip about him, “He can come in, it’s fine- you just startled me, is all.”

There were some quiet words exchanged outside his door- Beckett seemed to be acting cordial at least, which was probably a good sign- before Jules heard Hudson’s footsteps ascend the stairs and the door began to creak open.

Beckett seemed to be getting on well with Galahad, at least. The cat was curled up in his arms, his tail flicking slightly and a faint purring sound coming from his throat. Beckett was fussing him slightly, his gloved fingers running through the fur on the top of the cat’s head.

“Your agent, Mr Parr, is spoilt,” he said, “Far too spoilt for proper Camarilla work, I’d imagine.”

Galahad made a lazy sound of protest, and Beckett rumbled a sound back at him.

Jules frowned, “What’s he saying?”

“He’s defending your methodology,” said Beckett, setting the cat down and letting him clamber over the various bits of clutter that were scattered across Jules’ floor so he could get to the warm spot by the fireplace, “He claims that it’s the moral duty of mankind to spoil cats.”

“He’s right,” said Jules, wandering over to crouch by Galahad and scratch behind his ears, “Knock the door closed, would you?”

Beckett did, and he too clambered over the clutter. He took one of the hat boxes off of Jules’ sofa and set it on the floor, sitting down in the space it created. Jules cursed internally- that wasn’t where he’d intended for Beckett to sit, but it would do. If he just re-angled his choreography a bit…

“Now, Mr Beckett,” he said, rising to his feet, “I’m sure you’re wondering what I-”

“I have the book, if you still want it.” said Beckett. He drew the slim, leather-bound book from his satchel, and placed it on top of a stack of loose papers on a side table.

Jules scoffed, “If I want the- Of course I want the- I’m a sheriff, Beckett, I’m supposed to intimidate you! I had a whole bit- I could have- Urgh!”

Beckett smiled, “I presume this means you aren’t planning on killing me?”

“What? No- I- Shit.” Jules shook his head, “You stole a book about the Ducheskis.”

“That I did, yes.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Beckett, leaning forwards a little and resting his chin on his hand, “I wished to learn about the Duckeskis. Nothing more, nothing-”

Jules frowned, “Why?”

Beckett laughed, “I am a scholar, Mr Parr. I enjoy learning things.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Jules, crossing his arms, “But why the Ducheskis?”

“Why not the Ducheskis?”

Jules narrowed his eyes, “People are dead, Beckett. Kindred are dead. And it’s the Ducheskis what’ve caused it.”

Beckett frowned, and sat up straight again, “I- I’m sorry, I’ve just arrived in the country. Am I missing something?”

Jules tossed last week’s newspaper at Beckett, thankful that he’d thought to keep it to hand. He watched as the Gangrel read the article he’d circled- a rather discreet piece on the fire at the crystal palace. Between him and Halesworth they’d been able to keep it off the front page- managed to get some poor cleaner who’d dropped a candle in the early evening to take the fall- but they’d decided between them that the kine would get suspicious if there wasn’t at least something.

Beckett removed his dark glasses to scan the article, and Jules watched intently as his bestial eyes flicked back and forth over the words. He clicked his tongue, and tapped his thumb against the lens of his glasses before looking up at Jules again, “The Ducheskis did this?”

“A Ducheski did this,” said Jules, finally giving in and collapsing into the armchair across from Beckett, scooping Galahad up into his lap, “One I think you’ll be well aware of.”

Beckett set the paper down, and tilted his head to the side in a gesture that reminded Jules of the way his cats looked at him when they were trying to figure out if he had food on him, “Oh?”

“There was an obituary,” said Jules, “‘Bout nine months ago, now. Just before you stole the book.”

“Are you trying,” said Beckett, gesturing with his glasses, “To get me to say that I know of Emma Blake?”

Jules scoffed, “You could at least be dramatic about it. Put some pauses in, add some emphasis, all that nonsense.”
Beckett laughed, and shook his head, before attempting once again, “Are you trying to get me to say… That I know of… Emma Blake?”

“Good enough,” said Jules, “And yeah that’s her. Got something going on about her- something big, I think- and I know you’ve already got a head start in figuring out what.”

Beckett raised an eyebrow, “Because I stole the book?”

“Because you stole the book.”

Beckett sighed, “I’m afraid I’m at as much of a loss as you are. Emma Blake isn’t the goal for me- she’s simply a lead on an… issue of greater import.”

“Then how ‘bout this,” said Jules, leaning forwards, “You give me a hand with a couple of bits and I’ll hold off on executing Blake until she’s told you what you want to know.”

Beckett frowned, “Why does the Sheriff of London want my help?”

“There’s places I can’t get into that I think I’ll need to, kine who won’t take me seriously who I need to talk to, things that Anne’ll accuse me of masquerade breaches for being seen doing that she’ll be fine with if it’s you.” His hands balled into loose fists in Galahad’s fur, “You understand what I mean?”

“I see…” said Beckett, thankfully choosing not to ask for clarification, “And because I’m generally read as a man, you want me to act as a proxy?”

“Yeah,” said Jules, leaning back and relaxing a little, “Yeah, pretty much.”

Beckett smiled, wryly, “How do you know I’m not involved in this plot you’re seeking to unravel?”

Jules grinned, happy to finally be back on his script, “There was an exhibition at the Crystal Palace that opened to the kine the day before Emma Blake set the fire.”

“Oh?” said Beckett. He was clearly trying to appear nonchalant, but his jaw was set and his eyes were wide.

Jules’ grin widened, “It was a load of these vases- huge bastards, Greek I think- they’re suspected to be some of the earliest depictions of vampires-”

Beckett shot to his feet, his eyes wild enough that Jules worried that he was about to frenzy, “Did- Did the vases survive? My god- If history that old-”

“Mostly fine- a bit singed I think but the bloke in charge told me he could just wipe off the ash and they’d be right as rain.”
Beckett sighed heavily, and collapsed back onto the sofa, “Still- the idea that anyone could risk…”

“You’re the only fucker I know who wouldn’t.” said Jules, “Just bits of old pottery, innit.”

Beckett shook his head, “The history in those things, Mr Parr. The stories they tell…” He clicked his tongue, “I trust you will take this as an excuse to force me into being your assistant?”

“Hey, look on the bright side,” said Jules, setting Galahad down on the floor and indicating for him to wander over to Beckett, “You get to pet a cat.”

Beckett laughed, though there was no humour in it, “I used to be horribly allergic,” he said, “Back when I was alive.”

Chapter Text

Regina and Victoria spent their first day in France holed up in a quaint little Calais hotel paid for with Father’s money. The hotel staff all seemed to know Victoria, and the two of them were placed without much question in rooms with no windows.

“It’s my usual spot,” explained Victoria, “The rooms are clean and the staff don’t ask questions. I don’t see much reason to change.”

Victoria allowed Regina to sleep in her room during the daylight hours. It was odd, being wrapped up in ice-cold arms and held against a body that had no breath, but she appreciated the sentiment regardless. When she awoke, likely just as the sun was setting, she let herself rest next to Victoria as the vampire slowly came back to life again.

They set off for Paris soon after, Regina and Victoria in the first class section of the train and Cedric shut away with the rest of the servants. Victoria took well to first class, even though she mentioned to Regina that she’d never travelled that way before. She even let Regina accompany her on a hunt, let her sit in the corner of their compartment and watch as she lured the gentleman of the hour back to where they were sat and latched onto his neck like some sort of great predator. It was, above all, enthralling.

“Regina, dear,” she called, her lips red with blood and the man in her lap all but collapsing into her, “Come sit with me. I want to show you something.”

Regina crossed the compartment tentatively, cautiously placing herself about a foot away from Victoria and the Frenchman.

“Closer,” said Victoria.

Regina swallowed, and shuffled slightly nearer to Victoria on the compartment bench.

Victoria raised an eyebrow, “Closer, Regina.”

Regina shuffled again, her knee brushing against Victoria’s. The man barely even noticed her, too enthralled by Victoria’s presence to even consider another woman.

Victoria grabbed the man’s chin, and wrenched his head so he was facing Regina, “Look into his eyes,” she said.

Regina did. The man had an empty, almost drunken gaze, likely addled by the blood loss and whatever Victoria had done to his head.

“Call to my Blood,” said Victoria, skimming her hand across the back of Regina’s neck, “Call him to you.”

It was surprisingly easy to do so. Before she had even realised what she was doing, the fire had returned to the man’s eyes, and he stared at her with the reverence that she was sure she stared at Victoria with.

“You’re beautiful,” he slurred, in French.

“Merci,” said Regina, quietly.

“What’s beautiful about her?” asked Victoria, also switching to French, “Her eyes? Her smile?”

“She just… Is….” The man reached out to her. Regina thought to herself how uncomfortable it would be to have a stranger touch her, and the man withdrew his hand, hissing as if he had been burned, “I am sorry,” he said, “I did not mean to offend you.”

“I’m sure she can find a way to forgive you,” Victoria said, smiling at Regina knowingly.

“I, um, yes,” said Regina, “Yes, of course.”

Victoria deposited the man in the dining carriage about half an hour before they reached Paris. He reached for Regina again as they left him, but- whether from the blood loss or the manipulation of his mind- he had no fight left in him, and Regina heard him burst into tears as they walked out of his line of sight.

Paris itself was beautiful at night.

It had a somehow different quality to London- perhaps it was the fashion of the ladies silhouetted in the lamplight, or the slightly gentler gas flames of the lamp posts themselves. It was more elegant, deeper, more… If London was a glass of pure water- a fine thing to be, Regina was sure- then Paris was a glass of the darkest, reddest wine- the kind she had assumed the Kindred drank before she had realised it was blood.

“Do you see the tower?” said Victoria, indicating vaguely to the horizon, where a half-finished structure comprised primarily of scaffolding jutted upwards.

“The… You mean there?” said Regina, pointing to it, “It… It doesn’t really look like a tower.”

“It will be,” said Victoria, helping Regina up into their rented carriage, “They plan to hold a fair for the anniversary of their revolution. The tower is to be the centrepiece.” She sighed, and stopped on the step up to the carriage, staring at the tower-to-be, “It is fascinating, don’t you think? How we celebrate death so openly.”

Cedric cleared his throat from the driver’s seat. Victoria didn’t respond, and Regina felt her fellow ghoul’s pleading eyes on her back through the wall of the carriage.

“Were you there for the revolution?” she asked, tentatively, “Did you know anyone who fought?”

Victoria laughed- which did appear to tear her from her trance, “Oh, no, my darling,” she said, climbing into the carriage and closing the door behind her, “I was more than a hundred years dead before the first bullet was fired.” she knocked lightly on the carriage wall, and Cedric set the horses off, “Now, if it’s revolution you want, you’ll need to talk to Don Cerro when we return…”

She continued on about Don Cerro’s revolutionary acts- in the Americas and against other vampiric factions and so on- but Regina found herself unable to pay attention. She remembered being unnerved when she had thought that Victoria was closer to her mother’s age than her own. She could not imagine telling that version of herself the truth- that Victoria was four times Mother’s age at the very least. She supposed two centuries wasn’t all that long when one considered the concept of eternity, but still, the idea of someone she had… lain with being old enough to be her distant ancestor made her feel… some way she couldn’t describe.

They found another hotel for the evening- this one far more overpriced than the last. Victoria had, thankfully, noticed her state of stupor, for she wheeled her through the lobby with a gentle but firm hand, making a vague gesture at Cedric indicating that he should sort out their luggage, and then whispering something to one of the employees about how her poor dear ward was exhausted and would be needing a room immediately.

They managed to secure another suite without windows thanks to some excuse Victoria made to the staff about light disturbing poor delicate Regina’s sleep. It was a grand room- perhaps even a shade grander than Regina was used to, though she was realising that she was truly too exhausted to appreciate it properly. Some combination of the emotional strain of the past few days and the physical strain of travel had sapped her of all her energy, and she nodded off while Victoria was still unlacing her corset.

She awoke at what must have been just before sunset, still wrapped in Victoria’s cold, dead arms. She lay there, once again staring at Victoria, wondering if she would eventually share her fate. There were parts of the idea she hated- the rejection of her plans for life, the dependance on blood, the inability to ever see the sun in Egypt again… Regardless, she was sure there were benefits. The idea of spending an eternity with Victoria was enthralling- just the idea of being her peer was enough to make her heart race. And then she supposed Mother had taken the same path, and she couldn’t stand to see Mother alone in this cold, cruel world that she’d stumbled into.

“Regina,” whispered Victoria, finally beginning to rouse from her death-sleep, “You’re thinking.” she curled her fingers into Regina’s hair, “I don’t like it when you think.”

“Sorry,” said Regina, “I just… Mother…”

Victoria shushed her, and drew Regina in, pressing the younger woman’s face against her stone-cold neck, “Your mother will be alright,” she said, “I will see to it myself.” She pressed a kiss against Regina’s forehead, and she found that she could not help but to believe every word Victoria said. She wondered if she was perhaps using the technique for manipulation that she had taught Regina the previous night, using her very Presence to bend her to her will.

“I know,” said Regina, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Another kiss to the forehead, and Victoria began to extricate herself from Regina’s embrace, “Come,” she said, “The Kindred of Paris await.”

Chapter Text

“May I ask, Mr Parr,” said Beckett, as Parr clipped the medal to his chest, “Where you got all of this?”

“Nicked it, didn’t I?” said Parr, before turning Beckett around to look at himself in the mirror, “That look alright to you?”

Parr had forced Beckett to dress in one of the dinner jackets that was in fashion these days, before adorning the front of it with the largest assortment of military medals that he’d ever seen. Beckett wasn’t exactly the sort of person to keep track of the martial affairs of the kine- even when he’d been alive he’d found those facets of history dull- but he was relatively sure that Parr had placed him on opposite sides of the same battle at least once.

“I would prefer if we were a bit more… subtle with the medals.”

“Subtle with the-” Parr scoffed, putting his hands on his hips, “You’re a military twat! You’re supposed to have about a million of the fuckers!”

Beckett shook his head, biting back a laugh, “I’m pretending to be a military twat. Unfortunately, I have opinions and values outside the role you wish me to play. I refuse to bear the symbol of the colonisation of India or Egypt, for instance.”

“You’re not pretending,” protested Parr- though he reached to unpin a number of the offending medals anyway, “You’re acting. It’s different.”

“How so?” said Beckett, deciding that he might as well humour Parr’s whims

“Pretending don’t have the heart of it,” said Parr. He brushed down Beckett’s jacket, straightening one of the- much less numerous- medals, “That alright?”

Beckett chewed at his lip, “Passable.”

Parr nodded, “I’m alright with passable.” He took a few steps away from Beckett, pressing his hand firmly on the back of the cat that had taken up residence in his flat today- a ginger tomcat with a chunk out of his left ear.

“You ready to go?” he said

Beckett smiled, “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He wandered over to give the tomcat one last scratch on the head, before making his way to Parr’s open window, “Anything about a bull or the Ducheskis, yes?”

“More or less. Though if there’s any other weird shit you find then feel free to grab that too.” Parr pulled the cat up into his arms, “You’re smart enough to figure it out.”

Beckett’s grin broadened, and he stepped up onto the windowsill, “I’m glad that you agree.”

The transformation into a bat was always much less elegant than that into a wolf- it involved squashing oneself down and flattening oneself out in a way that Beckett always found very uncomfortable- but it was quicker and more convenient to travel that way when in a city, especially at night.

Parr’s tomcat attempted to lunge at him as he fluttered off, but Parr held him fast. Beckett was thankful for that, but he flew up and over the rooftops anyway, wary of cats with less thoughtful owners.

Beckett had always enjoyed flight. It was a somewhat cathartic experience, throwing oneself to the wind and existing outside of the pull of gravity for a few moments. It took him a while to get his bearings- to calculate how to hold his wings, and which one of the thousands of glimmering lights in the city below him he was aiming for- but once he knew what he was doing it was as simple as sitting in the back of a carriage.

He landed in the kitchen courtyard of the Taurus Club. An old cat- probably one put there to chase off mice- eyed him hungrily, but quickly averted its eyes when he returned to his human shape.

“At ease, soldier,” muttered Beckett, in tones only the cat would understand

“I’m a Colonel,” growled the cat, “You’re wearing a lieutenant’s medals- you take my orders, not the other way around.”

“Oh- my apologies, Colonel,” said Beckett, raising two fingers to his forehead in mock salute, “And your orders are?”

The Colonel trotted over to Beckett, and took a hearty sniff of the air near his trouser pocket, “A soldier shouldn’t hoard rations,” said the Colonel, looking up at Beckett with pleading eyes.

Beckett chuckled, and knelt down to hold a piece of jerky out to the Colonel. The cat tore it from his hands, and began tearing into it with a ravenous fervour. Beckett watched, bemused, as the cat demolished the piece of meat, before clearing his throat, “If I may be so bold..?”

The Colonel let out a strange half-cough-half-mewl, before wiping the remnants of the jerky off of his face with a paw, “The back door key’s under the rose bush. The safe where they store their cash is on the second floor, behind the door without any scratch marks at the bottom.”

“Thank you,” said Beckett, giving the Colonel a courteous nod and reaching down to fish the key out from under the bush. If he was lucky, the administrators at the Taurus Club would be stupid enough to keep some evidence in the same safe as their money. If he wasn’t- well, Parr would probably appreciate some extra funding for his impromptu animal sanctuary.

“So you are telling me,” said Valerius, “That not only did your own negligence cause your experiment to be discovered, but our murder weapon is attempting to run away to Austria as we speak.”

“The experiment was a success, your highness,” said Wellig, “It works. She works. Her blood will cause the downfall of-”

Valerius raised a hand to silence Wellig and looked up at Adelia’s portrait. There had been a close call earlier that day, where Adelia had wandered a little too close to the Taurus club in order to meet with him. Nothing would have happened- she was known publicly as his partner and he doubted that Anne would have chosen her for…

But it was still terrifying. Even the possibility made him feel sick. Besides, even if Adelia herself was safe, anyone who was selected would be someone’s wife, or childe, or sire and so on. If he could just push a little bit more, just get the damned girl a little closer-

“Besides,” said Wellig, apparently fed up with waiting, “She hasn’t run away- She’s told me exactly where she is and she’s gone there on my orders. She’s just laying low for a little while.”

“She wouldn’t have needed to lay low,” said Valerius, “If you hadn’t let her daughter wander unattended around the crystal palace.”

“I didn’t know her daughter was there!” said Wellig

“It’s the annual showing of the Prince,” hissed Valerius, “Everyone who is anyone is there!”

“The last I saw her,” said Wellig, “The girl was being supervised by Miss Parr and didn’t even know what kindred were.”

“It’s Mr Parr, I believe,” said Valerius, “And besides, you shouldn’t have taken that chance.”

“Well I did!” said Wellig, “And I failed. And I can fix it.”

“But you shouldn’t have to fix it,” hissed Valerius, rising to his feet, “You should- We both understand how high-stakes this is. Our lives are at stake, you could have at least put in a fail-safe, or given her some more detailed instructions, or-”

“Majesty,” hissed Wellig, with none of his usual respect, “Answer me this. Do you want Mithras dead or not?”

Valerius blinked, “I beg your pardon?”

“Surely you understand,” he said, “That Mithras is all but untouchable. The Sabbat dare not encroach on his territory, even when he is indisposed. The Camarilla dare not punish him, even when he commits diablerie on a scale that is sure to have been noticed by now. I have never promised you a flawless victory- hell, I’d be a fool to promise you a victory at all.” He looked over his shoulder, glancing at Adelia’s portrait, “All I can promise you,” he said, “Is that I will not stop trying until I am ash.”

Valerius drummed his fingers on the table. He closed his eyes, and sighed heavily, “Alright,” he said, “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ve expected too much of you.”

“Perhaps,” said Wellig, turning back to face Valerius “But we share a goal, and neither of us can carry out this plan without the other.”

Valerius scoffed, “Isn’t that convenient.” he said, dryly

“Isn’t it just,” responded Wellig, somehow dryer still.

Arthur Halesworth had been very stupid.

There were, in fact, two safes in the room that the Colonel had directed him to. The first was small- hidden behind a painting of a landscape- and Beckett had managed to open it quite easily with the insertion of a claw into the locking mechanism and had very generously relieved it of several hundred pounds of its load. The second was vast- hidden behind a bookshelf that folded back and away when Beckett pulled on the book on hidden safes- its mechanisms huge and visible and esoteric. Beckett didn’t have the time to study them, so he slipped into the shape of a cloud of mist and oozed through the tiny amount of space between the door and its frame.

Once he was through, he turned around to look at the back of the locking mechanism- out of curiosity more than anything else- and had to stop himself from bursting out laughing. It was clear from this angle that the door was welded shut- with some small space at the top of the door to allow for, say, a shapeless kindred to sneak through. The mechanisms on the front were all for show.

Satisfied that he had found something actually worth seeing, Beckett took to looking through the many many chests of paper that Halesworth kept in his secret chamber, searching for anything that may be of use.

Chapter Text

“Introducing Mademoiselle Victoria Ash and guest!”

The kindred of Paris did not look up as they were escorted into the room, absorbed as they were in their own conversations. Regina wondered if new kindred arriving was a frequent occurrence, if they had become as bored of the sight of people being frogmarched through the ruins of the old palace that they gathered in to go greet the Prince as she had become of the sight of couples scurrying off to the corners of Merritt House’s hedge maze so one could partake of the other’s blood.

The Prince himself certainly didn’t seem too interested. He seemed much too fixated on the woman draped over his arm to give Regina a passing look. Even Victoria he only gave a short nod to, though this seemed to pacify their guards, and they were ushered off into the wider pool of kindred.

Once released, Victoria made her way through the crowd smoothly, choosing her steps carefully so as not to nudge the little pockets of kindred that had formed within the mass of people. They both received odd looks anyway, followed by whispers in French too rapid or too archaic for Regina to understand.

“Why are they looking at us?” whispered Regina, tugging on Victoria’s sleeve like a child worried about getting lost.

“Curiosity, I would assume,” said Victoria, not bothering to keep her voice low under the cover of the chatter, “The Kindred don’t travel often.”

“They seem… Scared.” said Regina, catching one of the kindred women looking away from her just a moment too quickly, “Not of us, just… In general.”

Victoria sighed, “Regina…”

“I’m thinking again, sorry.”

“Yes,” said Victoria, seemingly zeroing in on the group she wanted to infiltrate, “Try not to make a habit of it.”

They approached a small table, in one of the less populated areas of Elysium. Three men were sat around it- each dressed in clothing that would have gone out of style decades ago. They were having some sort of debate- though it was clearly on a topic that Regina’s French tutor would not have thought practical to teach. She could understand a few odd words here and there- ‘path’, ‘lure’, ‘flame’ and so on, but the context in which they were used baffled her.

The youngest of the three- judging by his clothes, anyway- looked up as the two approached, “Victorine!” he exclaimed, taking Victoria’s hand in one of his and kissing her knuckles, “It has been so long! Come, sit!” he gestured to the single empty chair. He did not spare a glance for Regina.

“Hello, Martin,” said Victoria, settling herself down, “It has been some time, hasn’t it.” She, too, spared no thought for Regina, leaving her to hover awkwardly behind her chair.

“Ah,” said Martin, “I would have waited a thousand years to see you once again.”

Regina now understood why Victoria had seemed reluctant to visit the Paris Elysium again.

“Of course,” said Victoria, coolly, “Though you will understand, I am here to talk business.”

The other two men, who had seemingly continued their debate without Martin when he began to fawn over Regina, finally turned to face her.

“Business?” said the man in what must have been tudor garb, “Business from London? With the Tremere?”

“We have had an incident,” said Victoria, “We believe our culprits to be Eastern European Tremere, yet given that we have no Tremere of our own- aside from Herr Wellig, who allegedly knows little of the matter- we do not know where to look.”

“And so,” said the man in the dress of a feudal lord, “You wish for us to direct you to the chantries of Europe, so you may find your culprit?”

“That is the ideal, yes.” Victoria tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear, “If you would be willing to cooperate?”

The three men whispered amongst themselves for a few seconds, again speaking so quickly and quietly that Regina couldn’t understand them. Eventually the feudal lord withdrew, finally flicking his eyes briefly over Regina before looking at Victoria once again, “We suppose we can disclose some information, though the ghoul will have to go.”

“Naturally,” said Victoria. She waved a hand dismissively, though still didn’t turn to look at Regina, “If you will go entertain yourself for a few hours, Regina?”

Regina’s stomach dropped, “But I- She’s my-”

“Regina,” said Victoria, turning to look her in the eyes, “Go.”

Regina could not stop herself from turning, from walking away from the table. She wondered if perhaps Victoria was influencing her again. She made her way back into the heart of the gathering, finding a garden bench that was unoccupied and settling down on it. She wished she’d brought a novella, or a magazine or some such like. She sighed, looking over at the kindred, wondering if she’d ever win the privilege of joining them.

A cold hand brought itself up to her cheek, caressing it for a moment before turning her head to meet its owner- the woman who had been draped over the back of Francois Villon’s chair. She was beautiful up close, though it was a sort of cruel beauty- like the beauty of thunderstorms and wildfires and wolves. She smiled, slightly, and Regina’s heart leapt.

“Are you fair game?” said the woman. Her voice was strange- she had the same flavour of accent as her mother’s Aunt Eleanor, yet her voice was lighter, somehow, almost musical. She spoke almost as if she was made to speak- made to be listened to, even.

“What?” said Regina, in English, forgetting herself for a moment, “Oh, ah…” She cleared her throat, trying her best to recall her French lessons to string together a response, “I’m… I’m not quite sure what you…”

“Then I shall ask in English,” said the woman, switching between languages seamlessly. She still had an accent, but it was much smoother, much less noticeable, than Regina’s clumsiness with the French tongue. “Are you fair game?” she asked

Regina shrank back, “Oh- I- I’m sorry- It’s not the language, you see- I just don’t know what you’re asking of me- what is ‘fair game’? How do I know if I am fair game? Ought I to be fair game?”

“Oh, you are fair game.” she brought her hand up to the collar of Regina’s dress, “May I?”

“Yes,” said Regina, hesitating for perhaps a second too long before answering

“Perfect,” said the woman, and she began to unbutton Regina’s collar.

Regina wondered, as the woman worked, if this was to be her lot in life. Victoria had clearly grown bored of her for now, and while she was happy to receive this stranger’s sympathies in the meantime, she found herself wondering if Victoria had ever cared about her at all. At least the latest member of the kindred to show affection to her was open about her true intentions.

“Where did you get this..?” said the woman, trailing her finger across the scar that had been left on Regina’s neck by Malcolm’s blade.

Regina startled, despite herself “I- Nowhere. It’s nothing.”

The woman scoffed, and withdrew, “You will tell me.”

Regina shook her head, “I- I’m sorry, but it’s… It’s a matter of my virtue, you see.”

The woman frowned, “A wound so grisly is a matter of… Did your mistress do this to you?”

Regina shrank back, “It’s not… it doesn’t look grisly, does it..?”

The woman’s frown deepened, “Answer the question.”

Regina swallowed. She didn’t quite know the answer, if she was being completely honest. Victoria had not been the one to cut her, but she had been the one to lead her there, to undress her, to whisper compulsions in her ear that she was to lie on the slab and not to move.

“Your silence speaks volumes,” said the woman

“I- No- I mean…” Regina spluttered, scrambling for words, “I wasn’t- It’s my folly that it’s so grisly, not hers. If I- If I’d just been able to stay still, then-”

The woman’s eyes widened, and Regina began to shake with fear, terrified that she’d damaged Victoria’s reputation in front of this stranger.

"She didn't hold the knife." Whispered Regina. She thought that would be a point in Victoria's favour, at least.

The woman nodded, slowly, "I believe I may have some idea of things," she said

"Oh," said Regina, relaxing, "Oh good. I would hate to-"

"Regina!" Called Victoria, from nearer the entryway

Regina jumped to her feet, frantically reaching to button her collar, "I'm sorry," she said, "I suppose you must understand…"

As she turned to leave, the woman grabbed her hand. It was a warm evening, so they were both ungloved, and Regina felt the oddest sensation where her skin touched the stranger's. It was almost as if the woman's skin melded into hers- as if she was touching the muscle and sinew of Regina's hand.

"My name is Sascha Vykos," said the woman, "And I am your friend. If you are ever given grief by the kindred of this- or any- court, you may merely speak my name and I will aid you. You understand this, yes?"

Regina stared at Miss Vykos. Did her influence as the Prince's mistress really reach so far..?

"Regina?!" Called Victoria, from somewhere closer

"I understand," said Regina, carefully

"Good," said Miss Vykos, and she withdrew her hand, "I shall see you tomorrow?"

"I would assume so, yes," said Regina

"Good," Said Miss Vykos, "I will come to you if you do not find me.

Later, when Regina was looking down at her hands while Victoria drained the blood of an older woman who had taken a shine to her, she noticed an odd change to the texture of her skin. There was a patch on her hand- where Miss Vykos had grabbed her, she surmised- that was smoother, and the light touched it differently. It reminded her a little of scar tissue.

Her stomach began to tie itself into a knot, as she turned her hand around to see the extent of the damage. What on earth had she gotten herself into..?

Chapter Text

"To my credit," said Beckett, "I did think it was a bit odd that they would refer to Lady Blake as a queen."

Jules looked up from the stolen paperwork to squint at him, "Y'what?"

"Regis. It's a Latin word- the name Regina is derived-"

"Reg-ee-na not Reg-eye-na. She's not a…" Bile began to collect in Jules' throat. Regina'd been reduced to that, hadn't she, in the eyes of Halesworth and his men. He doubted that she'd ever been seen as more than her cunt and her womb by any of them. God- what if she'd fallen pregnant? What if she was stuck in France with-

Beckett frowned, "I never took you as someone who would hesitate to be crude about-"

"I'm full of surprises," muttered Jules, and he turned back to the grim list in front of him.

It hadn't just been Regina who'd been violated. There were hundreds- maybe thousands- of women that the Taurus club had to ground up and spat out over the centuries. Jules recognised a few names, even- young night workers who'd accepted a few quid in exchange for their necks being chewed on when he was desperate, girls of marriageable age who'd slipped into Merritt House as part of a plan to escape a pig of a husband, the sort of women who’d not be missed if they were to suddenly disappear.

“It’s not for blood, I don’t think,” said Beckett, putting a hand on the page that Jules was reading to grab his attention, “There’s too few, and the dates aren’t-”

“It’s a ritual,” said Jules, “Blood for power. No magic, just cruelty.”

Beckett raised an eyebrow, “And you know this because…?”

Jules made a face, “Tried to keep Blake the Younger safe while she was in London. Wasn’t very good at it.”

Beckett nodded, “Then it’s just a coincidence.”

“It can’t have nothing to do with it,” Jules nudged Beckett’s hand off of the page, and shooed Galahad away so he could spread them out on the arm of the couch, “There can’t be two murder rituals in spitting distance of each other that aren’t… I mean even if it’s just a person what’s involved in both…”

“Stranger things have happened,” said Beckett

“Well they’re not happening here,” said Jules. His eyes flicked over to the leather-bound volume containing the instructions for the ritual, resting on the opposite arm of the sofa. He’d only skim-read it, he couldn’t bear to…

Beckett tutted, and picked up the instructional document to read it before Jules could reach for it. He lifted the dark glasses covering his eyes, resting them on the top of his head, and began to pace back and forth through the small strip of Jules’ living room that wasn’t covered in clutter, the book open in his hand. Jules, for lack of much else to do, settled back on the sofa and watched Beckett mutter to himself.

Eventually, the Gangrel snapped the book shut, and wandered over to put it on a high shelf before turning back to Jules.

“Mithras,” said Beckett, “It’s a ritual for Mithras.”

Jules blinked, “Y’what?”

Beckett righted his glasses, and began to pace again, “We seem to have stumbled upon some sort of vampiric iteration of a Roman mystery cult- You’re aware of what a mystery cult is, yes?”

“No, but-”

Beckett raised a hand to silence him, “They sound more complicated than they are- it’s simply a religious order wherein the beliefs and practices of the order are only known to members-”

“That’s stupid- anyway-”

Beckett ploughed on regardless, “Mithras specifically was a deity whose worshippers performed rites such as feasting and the slaughter of the bull. I’m not very well-versed on the specifics, I’d have to find a former member, but the similarities are astounding…”

“Yeah alright, but you know-”

“Of course,” said Beckett, too far gone to be saved now, “The way that the cult has morphed over time is fascinating. It’s ugly- of course it’s ugly- but the introduction of the feast as a trial for the kine rather than a celebration, and the- Well, I suppose there’s a practical- Bulls are much more difficult to get into London-”

Jules threw a cushion at Beckett. It hit him, and he shook his head, as if awaking from a trance.

“Sorry,” said Beckett, “You were trying to say something?”

“Mithras is the name of the Prince of London.”

“I must say, Miss Bowesley,” said Dr Scott, “It is awfully considerate of you to come and visit your uncle when he’s in such an unresponsive state.” He started unlocking the door to the stairs to the asylum’s cellar, fumbling with the wide array of locks and padlocks attached to it.

“It’s Lady Bowesley,” said Anne, adjusting the cuffs of her sleeves, “And if you wouldn’t mind getting on with it? I do have a number of appointments today.”

“Of course, of course,” said Dr Scott, finally swinging the door open, “It’s just nice to see a patient’s family caring about them.”

Anne looked over to Sir Halesworth- who had his latest least favourite childe swung over his shoulder, a stake through his heart. Halesworth smiled at her slightly, as if they were sharing a private joke, then gestured with his free hand for her to descend.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, “We will be able to take it from here.” She ducked her head so that the feathers in her hat wouldn’t catch on the door, and began to descend, with Halesworth following closely behind her. She heard the doctor close the heavy metal door with a loud clang, leaving the two of them alone in near darkness.

“You know,” said Halesworth, “If you hate the facade so much then you can always drop it. The poor doctor has been dominated to hell and back- it’s not as if he’ll remember if you tell him.”

“And what if a passer-by hears?” said Anne

“It’s an asylum,” said Halesworth, “I’m sure people make up all sorts-”

“But if a nurse or a visitor hears a strange woman talking about, say, the Kindred or the Camarilla, and then they hear the same terms elsewhere, then they would at least become suspicious.” She shook her head, “It is a matter of principle.”

“Of course,” Halesworth’s footsteps stopped briefly, and Anne heard him re-adjust the man slung over his shoulder before continuing to follow her, “Though surely you can come up with a different cover story if you hate it so.”

“If I allowed such frivolous things for my own comfort then Juliet might start getting ideas,” said Anne, “And she is already enough of a bother.”

Halesworth made a vague sound of agreement.

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t have suggested her,” said Anne, trying not to be too harsh to her favourite sheriff, “It’s just that her skill comes with a cost.”

“It isn’t skill,” said Halesworth, as the two of them finally reached the bottom of the staircase, “I simply doubt that we’d find anyone else able to properly police the poorer areas of the city.”

“Perhaps,” said Anne, “Though I do wish she would stop being so vulgar.”

“I would imagine she makes you seem more refined by comparison,” said Halesworth, smiling slightly.

Anne rolled her eyes at him, and took a moment to brace herself before turning to look at the door at the other end of the landing.

It was a simple thing, really. Cold and metal and solid, like the rest of the doors in the asylum. It was perhaps twice as thick as any of the other doors in the building, and it had been plated with pure silver. It did not have the little window that any of the other doors had- Anne wondered if Parr would complain about poor ventilation for the member of the kindred contained behind it if she saw it.

Anne swallowed, closing her eyes and counting backwards from ten to work up the nerve to approach. She withdrew the necklace with the key on it from under her blouse, having to bend awkwardly to fit it in the keyhole properly. When the door was unlocked, she put her hand on the knob to keep it closed, glancing over at Halesworth, “We’ll need to do this quickly,” she said, “Are you ready?”

Halesworth nodded, “Open it.”

Anne swung the door open, and stepped inside.

The room had- at one point- been opulent. The best furniture money could buy, plenty of bookcases and gramophones and such like, art pieces from all sorts of great masters. Now, it all lay in tatters on the floor, the paint all scraped away and the wood all splintered. There were no light sources- each candle and bulb that she had had installed having been torn down and destroyed in a fit of rage.

She supposed that was, perhaps, a good thing. It meant that the monster inside retreated into the shadows as she entered, terrified of even the beam of dim light from the stairway.

“Annie?” it hissed, edging forwards a little, “Annie, is that you?”

“Yes,” said Anne, “It’s me.”

It took another step forwards, its face just barely visible, “Annie,” it said, “I need it. Please- please tell me you-”

Anne took the vial of her own blood from her bag, “It’s here,” she said, holding it up so it was visible and tossing it in the creature’s vague direction.

It lunged for the vial, and the sound of breaking glass made Anne realise that it had bitten directly into it rather than taking out the cork.

“More,” it muttered, through the shards of glass in its mouth, “I need more.”

Anne turned to glance at Halesworth. The sheriff had worked quickly, binding their victim’s arms and legs. His hand was hovering over the stake in his chest, and he was looking up at Anne almost questioningly. She took two steps back towards the door, before nodding to Halesworth, who yanked the stake out and shoved the man as far forward as possible.

Things happened very quickly after that.

The thing that had once been Mithras lunged forwards, revealing his full, twisted self to the light. He was too focussed on dragging his struggling victim back to the shadows to pay attention to Anne or Halesworth- both of whom made very quick exits lest they be caught up in the feeding frenzy. Halesworth held the door closed while Anne locked it, both too cautious to leave even a few seconds of opportunity for an escape attempt.

When the screaming stopped, and the Prince seemed to settle, Anne wandered over to the staircase to sit down heavily and close her eyes, “What do I do with that,” she said, “How do I… They’re sure to wonder eventually.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Halesworth, smoothing out the creases on his suit and walking past Anne, back up the stairs.

“I mean I don’t like it,” said Jules, fussing at the fur on Galahad’s chin, “But it explains why he’s not shown up anywhere in yonks.”

“A diablerist that advanced wouldn’t be able to stay sane for five minutes at a Camarilla gathering.” Beckett shook his head, “But that is assuming that your Prince is indeed the Roman Mithras, and he has indeed been struck by the curse of ages-”

“What’d be the point in pretending? So some wanker archeologist can come up to him and tell him he gets the reference?” Jules shook his head, “‘Sides, I’ve met the fucker- well, seen him, at least. Mithras or not, he’s old. Old enough to make the cobweb yell at me.”

Beckett chewed on his lip, “Let's say that we’re right, for the sake of argument. Let’s say that Mithras is a serial diablerist and Halesworth is grooming his ghouls to be his victims. How does Emma Blake play into this?”

Jules hummed, and shifted as Galahad clambered up onto his shoulder, “Mithras is a diablerist, Halesworth is making…” his eyes widened, “Shit…”

“Shit?”

“Shit.” Jules drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa, “I never told you how we found Blake, did I?”

Beckett frowned, “Where are you going with this?”

“There was a bloke feeding off of her- we think she got him to on purpose. Poor fucker was dust after a few mouthfuls.”

Beckett’s jaw dropped, “I remember- When I met her in Egypt, I- The same thing happened, it’s complicated, but it did.”

Jules nodded, “She was human in Egypt, so it’s something innate…”

“Something bred into her, perhaps,” said Beckett, “She is a Ducheski, after all.”

“Mmmn…” Jules remained still as Galahad started to lick into his ear, “But if Mithras is a diablerist, then that means…”

“The Tremere purposefully bred a line of ghouls to kill Mithras.”

Jules nodded, nudging Galahad off of his shoulder, “I don’t like this,” he said, “I really don’t like this.”

Chapter Text

Victoria abandoned Regina once again at the Paris Elysium, though she had at least suggested that she bring a novel or some such like with her this time. Regina found it rather humiliating, to be sat in the corner of some great ruin like an ill-behaved child while her mistress- for she supposed Victoria must be her mistress by this point- went cavorting about with men who would refuse to acknowledge her. Still, she had to acknowledge that sitting alone near a candelabra with a copy of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was much more thrilling than sitting alone with nothing to do at all.

“He dies in the end, you know?”

Regina startled, nearly dropping her book completely and losing her page. She turned to see the grinning figure of Miss Vykos looming over her, her eyes given an odd glint in the candlelight.

Regina spluttered for a second, “Sorry, I- Which one?”

“Both,” said Miss Vykos, taking a seat next to her, “Though it’s Jekyll that actually makes the decision. Fascinating, don’t you think, that it was the half of him that was advertised as good that committed the greatest sin of all.”

“I suppose,” said Regina, “Though perhaps Hyde drives him to it?”

“Hyde was his creation,” said Miss Vykos, “He only has himself to blame.”

“Oh,” Regina said, “Right- I- Sorry.”

Vykos clicked her tongue, “Your mistress is Toreador, yes?”

“Yes,” said Regina, cautiously, “Why?”

“Does she not speak of art with you? Does she not tell you of your beauty? Does she not- oh, I do not know- has she ever asked you what you think is beautiful?”

Regina closed her book, Victoria’s blood churning in her stomach, “My mistress treats me perfectly well.”

“Of course you would think that,” said Miss Vykos, “You told me that she did not hold the knife.”

Regina shrank into herself. She wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She knew she ought to defend Victoria, but Miss Vykos seemed to have already made her mind up.

“Where is your mistress, anyway?” asked Vykos
“She’s talking to the Tremere-”

Miss Vykos spat, startling Regina, “Wretched things,” she said, “Flesh-eaters and traitors, the lot of them.”

Regina blinked, rapidly, “I- I’m sorry?”

Miss Vykos scoffed, “Your mistress is crueller than you know,” she said, “She neglects your education, then conspires with warlocks while you are left to your own devices. If I had been having a less pleasant evening…” she shook her head, “Though I suppose you ought not to be blamed. Do you know of the origins of the Tremere?”

“No,” said Regina, “Ought I to?”

A glimmer appeared in Miss Vykos’ eyes, and Regina was rather reminded of how Victoria looked when she saw something tragic. “Once,” she said, “The Tremere were not Cainites at all, but mages. Pitiful little mortal things, desperate to reach eternity. They drank of the blood of our clan, and so they rose to become like us. They outlawed the use of the sorcery they stole from us for any not among their number, and besmirched the name of Tzimisce.” Her face became colder, and crueller, somehow. If Regina did not know better, she would have sworn that the shape of her eyes had changed. “It is their legacy. Their culture.”

“Then they are all… Inherently…”

“Nothing is inherent.”

Regina nodded, trying to look as if she understood, “Do you think my mistress will be safe?”

Miss Vykos laughed, coldly, “Your mistress will remain unharmed so long as she does exactly what the Tremere want her to.”

Regina frowned, “What do you mean by that?”

“What is it that your mistress wants from the warlocks? Information?”

“Yes,” said Regina, “We’re looking for-”

“Then she will not get it.” said Miss Vykos, “Secrets that belong to the Tremere stay with the Tremere, no matter how hard you push.”

Regina’s eyes widened, “No! No that- that can’t-”

Miss Vykos shrugged, “Even I struggle to pry information from their claws. Your mistress has no hope.”

“But-” Regina shook her head, “The Tremere haven’t sent her away- They must be waiting for-”

“They are stalling,” said Miss Vykos, “Or they want something from her.”

Regina went very still for a moment, then slumped back into her seat, “Or both,” she said.

Her mother’s location was time sensitive. If the Tremere in Paris were working with her mother’s captors, then letting Victoria talk to them would both waste her time and allow them to find out what the kindred in London knew about the situation. It made perfect sense.

Miss Vykos nodded, “Though, I find that I am not as irked by their activities as I usually am. You would not have come to Paris if your mistress did not seek an audience with the chantry here, and you are perfectly pleasant.”

“But it’s… That means it’s all for nothing…” tears began to prick at Regina’s eyes, “We’ve come this far, but still…” she turned away from Miss Vykos. She didn’t want the other woman to see her cry.

Miss Vykos tutted, “The blood is powerful, isn’t it.” She shuffled closer to Regina, draping herself over her back and pressing her lips to the shell of her ear, “You’re weeping in front of me, and all over a silly little whim of your mistr-”

“It’s- It’s more than a whim- it’s-”

Miss Vykos frowned, then turned Regina to face her, “Listen to me,” she said, “I cannot help you unless I know what you need help with.”

And so, Regina buried her face in Miss Vykos’ neck, and began to tell her everything.

She told her about finding her mother’s remains, about her father’s dismissiveness, about the Ducheskis and the oddity of their behaviour around the funeral. She told her of Miss Ash, of her beauty and her understanding. She told her of how she’d shot Thomas in the Ducheskis catacombs, and how she’d opened her mother’s tomb to find it empty. She told her of London, of being inducted, slowly, into the society of the night, before having to let Malcolm rape her in order to fully understand it. She told her of seeing her mother alive again, of knowing, truly, how much her mother must hate her, and deciding to go after her anyway.

She told her of the ache she felt, of how she knew, deep down, that she had been sullied by the whole experience. She told her of Egypt, and how far away it felt, and how she knew that if she kept going down the path that she was going, she would never feel the sun on her face again.

Miss Vykos was silent through all of it. She sat, still and quiet, and ran her fingers across the back of Regina’s neck. Once Regina had finished, she pulled her closer and pressed a kiss to the shell of her ear.

“When I was young,” she said, “They did the same to me. They turned me and violated me so I could carry the seed of an elder."

"I'm sorry," said Regina

Miss Vykos shook her head, "I killed them, and ate them. And I would suggest that you do the same."

Regina recoiled, and tried to bury herself deeper within Miss Vykos' body, "I… I am not like you."

There was a long, sad silence. Regina wondered if she had said something wrong, and opened her mouth to apologise, but Miss Vykos interrupted her

“I cannot stay here for long,” she said, “I have business in the New World, business that can’t be delayed and-”

“I’ll be alright,” said Regina, “It’s horrible, but this… This is what I want-”

“There is a cainite,” said Miss Vykos, “Who has holed himself away in the Sante Prison. Give him my name, and you can have your mother and your freedom both.”

Regina stiffened. The thought of meeting her mother on her own made her sick- though she wasn’t sure if it was just Victoria’s blood souring in her stomach. Logically, too, there were issues. She wanted to see her mother again, but she doubted that she would even be willing to be in the same room as Regina without some other, external excuse. If she wanted to have a chance of even glimpsing her mother again, then…

“All I am doing is giving you the tools.” said Miss Vykos, “It is up to you how to use them.”

“I don’t even- I don’t know where my mother is- how can this man-”

“Oh, he knows most things,” said Miss Vykos, smiling into Regina’s hair, “And if he tells you he does not then he is lying.”

Regina frowned, “I’m not- I still don’t understand-”

Miss Vykos tutted, “You ought not to understand. Nobody understands the Prophet Anatole.”

Chapter Text

“We’ve had no improvement, I’m afraid,” said Dr Scott of Highgate Asylum to Malcolm, “She hasn’t wept, hasn’t fainted, hasn’t shown much emotion at all, really.” He slid the file on his sister across his desk, but didn’t open it, “Look for yourself if you like.”

Malcolm didn’t look. The idea of his baby sister being subjected to all the horrors of an asylum made his stomach turn, and the more he could distance himself from the reality of the situation, the better.

“You say it’s apathy,” he said, “I’m a military man. I’ve seen wars, I’ve seen death- sometimes men in these sort of situations will… Withdraw, shall we say, until the danger has passed. Is it possible that Joanna is experiencing something similar?”

Dr Scott shook his head, “While that sort of thing is possible for men, the female mind is much more fragile. It’s why we don’t send women onto battlefields. They are prone to hysteria, to being overwhelmed by things that you or I could process quite naturally. They are like children in a way, I suppose.”

“So Joanna’s behaviour is abnormal?”

“For her sex, yes.” Dr Scott reached out and took the file back, hopefully sensing that Malcolm wanted nothing to do with it, “Imagine, if you will, your mother not fussing over you when you came to her with a wounded knee, or your wife not waiting longingly by the window while you are off on your military ventures. It sounds unnatural, does it not?”

Malcolm’s mother had passed away when he was five, and he did not particularly want to dwell on the question of any wives he may or may not have, lest Dr Scott decide it was for the best to lock him up as well.

He nodded, “Most unnatural,” he said. He wondered if he ought to bring up Joanna’s unusual lover, but decided against it. Mr Parr had enough reasons to want him dead, she didn’t need another. “Is it safe to speak to her?”

“Oh, of course! Of course! She’s not one of the violent lunatics,” Dr Scott got to his feet, “In fact I’d encourage visitation- it’ll be good for her to see normal behaviour modelled. You could bring, say, your wife, next time you visit, or some of her female relatives. She needs to be reminded of how women ought to act, and I doubt her fellow patients are very good role models!” He laughed, and the joyfulness of it made something in Malcolm’s stomach turn.

“I… I’ll see what I can do. My fiancee is… Away.” He thought of Regina, running off to Paris to follow her mother. He didn’t know how to feel about the idea of her coming back.

“Ah, of course. Still, even seeing you should do her some good. Help to ground her in what she isn’t and all that.”

Malcolm nodded, and stood up, taking a moment to brush himself down before turning to the doctor again, “If you will take me to her?”

Joanna had never thought about how she would kill someone before.

She realised, when she saw Malcolm trailing behind Doctor Scott, that she wouldn’t be able to. She’d managed to escape the worst of asylum life- her little word trick had meant that she was allowed to feed, bathe and dress herself, her door was hardly ever locked, and she was able to entertain herself by breaking into the nurses’ lockers and stealing books from them- but she was still forced to have her nails trimmed down to stumps and wear clothes that lacked belts or pins.

She supposed she could strangle him, or snap his neck, but then again he was as much of a ghoul as she was, and he was much more likely to belong to a clan that favoured strength. Perhaps her years of experience would give her an advantage, but the idea of being killed by him was much more repulsive to her than the idea of letting him remain alive.

“Hello, Joanna!” said Dr Scott, speaking- as he usually did- with the cadence that one would use for a small child, “How are we feeling this morning?”

“Tired,” said Joanna. She moved to smooth down her skirts, mostly so she would have something to focus on that wasn’t Malcolm, “Though no more than usual.”

“Ah, well…” said Dr Scott, “Well, your brother’s come to pay you a visit- surely you have the energy for that?”

“I have no brother,” said Joanna.

Dr Scott laughed, nervously, and flicked a look back to Malcolm, “That’s not what your papers say, Joanna. Come now- he’s gone out of his way to come and visit you-”

“I care not what the papers say,” said Joanna, “I have no brother. I will not talk to this man.”

“For the love of God, Joanna,” muttered Malcolm, “What have I done, hmn? Why are you treating your own flesh and blood like this?!”

Joanna chose not to deign that with a response. If he didn’t know what he’d done wrong by now then there was no use in correcting him.

Dr Scott tutted, “I’m very sorry, Lieutenant- I didn’t expect that she would be so… Perhaps this is a further manifestation of her madness- she- she may be rejecting the influence you have over her so entirely that she has forgotten you- or- or some such like.”

Malcolm’s frown deepened, “Is that possible?”

Joanna tuned out of the conversation. She had heard the good doctor’s theories on her behaviour a good thousand times by now, and she doubted Malcolm of all people would have anything enlightening to say on the matter.

“...But I’m about to be deployed again,” said Malcolm, in a voice quiet enough that Joanna supposed she wasn’t supposed to hear it, “And while- while I trust the rest of my squadron to keep me safe…”

That made Joanna pay attention. Malcolm was due to remain in London for the better part of the next decade, and while it was entirely possible that he could have asked for his post to be changed, she highly doubted that he’d be able to successfully apply to be deployed in less than a year. It was possible that he was running away- that he realised he was in too deep- but she did wonder why he sounded as if he was genuinely worried that he was going to die.

“Oh, Lieutenant,” said Dr Scott, clapping Malcolm on the shoulder, “I must say I don’t envy you… Tell you what- I’ll leave you two alone for a minute. I can’t fix your sister, but I can give you some privacy.”

Joanna’s eyes widened, and she turned to look at Dr Scott. The idea of being alone with Malcolm now made her sick, and she opened her mouth to protest, to use her little memory trick, to do something-

“Thank you, Dr Scott,” said Malcolm, abruptly, seemingly having noticed Joanna’s horror, “I would like that.”

“I’m glad I can do something for you,” said Dr Scott, smiling, “I’ll be in my office, call for a nurse if you need anything!”

And he left, without giving Joanna so much as a second glance.

Malcolm let out a sigh of relief, and Joanna weighed up her options. She could, of course, kill him, but that would be difficult to cover up, even with her ability to manipulate the staffs’ memories. She let herself linger on the thought for a moment- of the idea of hurting him in the same way that he’d hurt Regina.

She could use him. She could try to persuade him to speak to Jules, or at least pass a message to one of his cats, and Jules could kill him for her and get her out of the asylum in one fell swoop. She couldn’t help, however, to think about the things that Jules had said about his job. About how precarious his position was, about how his superior regretted assigning him, and how she was looking for any excuse to replace him. An impromptu attack on another vampire’s ghoul and an attack on an asylum where something mysterious and supernatural was happening was likely the excuse that she would need to kill him.

She could, of course, continue to stay silent, but then she’d have no idea what Malcolm was so afraid of.

“What do you know of the Kindred of France?” said Malcolm

Joanna blinked, “I- I’m sorry?”

“The kindred. The… The vampires, Joanna.” Malcolm mimed biting his own arm, in case she didn’t get the point.

“...I would guess that they’re French?”

Malcolm scoffed, and shook his head, “For God’s sake… This is serious, Joanna. I’m not quite sure if you’ve picked up on this, but my life is at stake here.”

“And I’m not quite sure if you’ve picked up on this, but I don’t really care if you live or die.”

“Joanna!” hissed Malcolm, as if he was reprimanding her for swearing, “What do you think Mother would say if she could hear you now…”

Joanna turned away from Malcolm fully, and stared intensely at the paint on the wall.

Malcolm tutted, then tutted again, then tutted a third time, then began to pace, “This isn’t just about my safety, it’s about Regina’s too. I’m the only thing standing between her and… And…”

Joanna raised an eyebrow, “And what?”

“...Look, she’s flown off to France with a disreputable woman without her father’s permission. For all I know, she could be… Could be taken advantage of by some layabout, or…”

He didn’t know. He didn’t… Regina hadn’t quite described how the act had happened, was it possible that he hadn’t seen her face?

“Look- I just- I can’t ask Halesworth about it- he’d- You’re the only one I can trust here.”

Joanna shrugged, “Ask Jules.”

Malcolm spluttered, “Ju- What, so she can tell me about your illicit-”

“He’ll kill you quicker than I will.”

Malcolm froze for a second, then sighed, “You know, I didn’t quite believe it when they told me you’d gone insane. You’ve always been so…”

“I’m not going to give you any information,” said Joanna, “Now please leave.”

Malcolm started to say something, gaped, opened and closed his mouth a few times, then closed his eyes and bowed his head, “I wish you a speedy recovery,” he said, and then he left Joanna alone in the stark white room.

Chapter Text

Regina approached the topic of the Santé Prison with Victoria over breakfast.

It was, technically, the hotel’s dinner service, but Regina stubbornly chose to refer to it as such, given that it was her first meal after waking. She and Victoria had taken to sitting at a table in some shaded corner of the hotel’s restaurant, with Victoria sliding the majority of her food onto Regina’s plate to avoid suspicion. They could talk somewhat freely there- the staff didn’t really bother them unless they called for them and the restaurant was almost always nearly empty.

“I believe,” said Regina, once her soup had been sat down in front of her and the waiter was long gone, “That I have found a lead.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow at her, stirring her own soup idly, “Regina, my dear, you are not the one investigating.”

“Yes- but-”

Victoria shook her head, “The Tremere have been very helpful- they’ve been talking me through the history of the Chantries and how each one relates to the wider Tremere network. It’s quite sensitive information you know- I consider myself very privileged to be able to hear it.”

Regina remembered what Miss Vykos had said about the Tremere. Taking that into consideration- it rather sounded like the Tremere were wasting Victoria’s time rather than helping her, though she dared not say that directly to her beloved mistress.

“Surely it can’t hurt to investigate both?” said Regina, looking up at Victoria with her best pleading eyes, “There are three of us, after all.”

Victoria frowned, “Three?”

“The two of us and Cedric.”

“Oh, right… Cedric…” Victoria shook her head, “Is the food good today, my darling?”

“It’s fine- I’ve been told about a cainite at the Sante prison-”

Victoria narrowed her eyes, “You mean a member of the kindred?”

“What? Oh- yes- sorry- But I’ve been told that he monitors the comings and goings of the city-”

“Why?”

Regina looked down at her soup, “I- perhaps he’s curious-”
“Hmn…” Victoria shook her head, “What flavour is the soup today?”

“Chestnut. Still- You must listen to me, Victoria. If the Tremere delay us much longer, then Mother might be long gone-”

Victoria’s facial expression changed very subtly. Her gaze cooled slightly, and the muscles in her jaw tensed, “Why would your prisoner know any more about dear Emma’s location than her clanmates? Besides, I don’t think that probing some madman about the state of things will do either of us any good.”

“A madman?” asked Regina, lowering her voice, “Then he’s Malkavian?”

Victoria nodded, “And a very dangerous one at that.”

“...So you know him?”

Victoria raised a hand to motion to the waiters, who rushed over to remove their soup bowls, “I’m sorry,” she said, in French, “Chestnut does not agree with me.”

The waiter nearest to Victoria let out a flurry of apologies, and took away her still full bowl, whispering admonishments to one of his colleagues about good service and the necessity of catering to a patron’s needs.

Regina frowned, “...Victoria?”

“Would you mind… Donating this evening?” asked Victoria, running her hand over Regina’s, “Cedric has asked for a night off- says he feels faint. I suppose such is the benefit of having two ghouls.”

“I- Yes-” Regina shook her head, “Though we are getting off-topic. The prison-”

Victoria made a sharp gesture to the waiters again, and they began to set out the main course in front of them- some sort of steak with vegetables. “I do wonder,” she said, “Why you were listening in on Miss Vykos’ conversations. She’s not one to be trifled with, you know.”

“I know,” mumbled Regina, “I just… I wasn’t listening in. She approached me.”

“Then why not ask your Miss Vykos about the Santé Prison and leave me to my work.” She had apparently slid a number of carrots onto Regina’s plate while she wasn’t looking, and piled her fork with more.

“She said she’s leaving Paris soon, she said to ask you about-”

“I can’t imagine why.” said Victoria, putting the last of her vegetables on Regina’s plate, “Go on, eat, lest the staff become suspicious.

Regina ate the vegetables, and began to make a start on the steak.

“You know,” said Victoria, “I do wonder if Miss Vykos was toying with you. Perhaps trying to send you on some sort of wild goose chase. Bullying the fresh blood is a relatively common pastime among our kind.”

“But she seemed so genuine,” said Regina, between bites of steak.

Victoria sighed, staring off at some point in the distance beyond her. She blinked, slowly, and suddenly she was once again the most beautiful creature that Regina had ever seen. Something turned in her stomach, and she realised that she felt incredible, unbearable guilt for pressing Victoria on the issue. Perhaps she had been wronged by the kindred of the Sante Prison in some way, or perhaps she was simply worried about Regina’s safety.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Regina, looking into her lap, not able to bear even looking at the woman who she loved.

“It’s quite alright, my darling,” said Victoria, and her voice was soft and rich and warm, “We all make mistakes.” She slipped a bite of steak onto Regina’s plate, “Eat up,” she said, “We’re due in Elysium this evening.”

Archbishop Sascha Vykos of the Sabbat had become bored of Prince Francois Villon.

He was fine, they supposed. Perfectly passable in bed and perfectly passable at public displays of affection. He knew all the right words to use to refer to their body without being rude, and he corrected his constituents when they referred to them as a man.

But the man had been alive for six hundred years! Surely he was aware that Vykos had a whole arsenal of tools for lovemaking at their disposal, and that simply tying their lover’s wrists to the bedframe was all but mundane for them at this point. Surely he would not take a Tzimisce- the Angel of Caine, no less- for a lover and not expect them to do something interesting with Vicissitude? It wasn’t like they were going to fleshcraft his arm off.

But apparently all Villon was interested in was a lover that was bold enough to dominate a Prince in all of the ways that had become dull to Vykos about a decade after their embrace. This was disappointing, but perfectly acceptable. After all, they had other business in Paris.

When they had told the girl that they knew that the truth lay in the Sante Prison, they were not lying. They had spent a significant amount of time wandering around its perimeter- using different faces each time- for that very purpose. They managed to pinpoint the time at which the guards at the front gate changed shifts with relative ease, and after that it was just a matter of melting into a pool of blood and slithering past them when they wouldn’t be noticed.

Once they were inside, however, all bets were off.

They had promised Villon that they wouldn’t break the masquerade- they had baulked at the idea initially, but he had looked at them very sweetly when asking and they had no choice but to accept- but the Santé prison was a haven- the haven of a Cainite that could and would twist minds, at that- and even the Camarilla permitted the use of supernatural force when it was deployed behind closed doors. Add to that the fact that the prison was, by nature, out of sight of the general public, and it was the perfect place to let off some steam.

They rose from the pool of blood in the middle of the prison courtyard. When that didn’t cause a stir, they wandered over to one of the doors leading into the prison proper, and tore it off of its hinges, sauntering into the building proper and startling the guard on the night shift, who startled, nearly dropping his lantern.

He reached for his baton. It was sort of cute, really, that he thought such a thing would be of any use.

“Madame,” he said, shakily, “You know you aren’t supposed to be here?”

Vykos smiled with all seven of their mouths, able to fully utilise the little openings on their cheeks for the first time in months, “Oh,” they said, “We know.”

The guard blinked, clearly taken aback, “Well, um…” he cleared his throat, “Well can you, ah, can you leave?”

“We can,” said Vykos.

The guard sighed with relief, “Right, good. If you’ll just follow me-”

“We can,” said Vykos, stepping forwards, “But that does not mean we will.” They tossed their head, beginning to shift into their preferred form. Spines cropped up on their forehead and cheekbones, and they grew taller, their head almost touching the ceiling.

The guard, seemingly realising how dire his situation had become, swore under his breath. He ran back down the hallway, not even thinking to scream in his mania.

Vykos was faster. They grabbed him by the neck and held him aloft with the ease that a child would hold a doll. He dropped his lantern on the floor, and they stamped out the flame before it could spread too far. Their fingers burrowed into his flesh like worms, careful to avoid his windpipe so he could still speak.

He coughed and spluttered, his mind seemingly not quite registering that his airway was clear despite the pressure on his throat, “What- fuck-” he gasped in air, “What do you want?”

“We are looking for your master,” they said, “If you would be so kind as to tell us where we may find him?”

“What? I- sure. Yeah. Anything.”

Vykos dropped him, and he crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. They prodded him with their toe.

“Come along,” they said, “We don’t have all night.”

The guard scrambled to his feet, “Yes Miss,” he said, “Sorry Miss.”

“It is Your Grace,” said Vykos, “Not Miss.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said the guard, too terrified to even question them, and he scampered down the corridor. Vykos followed him, and they realised that they hadn’t had this much fun in a long, long time.

Miss Vykos was not present at Elysium that evening, and while Victoria had spent a good half hour parading her around the French kindred, she eventually had to leave to go converse with the Tremere- they were taking her to their Chantry this evening, and try as she might she couldn’t get them to even let Regina sit outside the building- and Regina decided to make her excuses and go to wander around the city, letting herself get lost in the light of the gas lamps.

It was when she sat down heavily on a park bench under a lamp post, hand moving to her satchel to fish out her novel, that she realised that Miss Ash had used her powers of supernatural manipulation on her to get her to stop asking about the Master.

She felt almost sick- indeed, it took her some effort to stop herself from vomiting. She had, somehow, convinced herself that she was special, that she was too precious for Miss Ash to even consider that sort of manipulation. And yet… Had she not been acting like a maid the entire time she had been there? She had dressed Miss Ash, and serviced Miss Ash, and stood behind her silently while she negotiated with others of her social class. It was her mother that they were searching for, her drive that had pushed them to Elysium in the first place, and yet here she was, sat on a bench, alone, far away from anyone who could lead her to her mother. Perhaps Miss Ash was still stalling even now, sweet-talking the Tremere purely to avoid getting any sort of useful information.

Her stomach turned again, and she realised that it was Miss Ash’s blood inside her, punishing her for her rebellious thoughts. She sighed and closed her eyes, trying to will it down, lest she embarrass herself in public.

She held her head in her hands, wishing desperately to be back in Egypt, with Mother and Father and Danny and Malcolm and-

Except she couldn’t go back there, could she? Not with what she knew about Malcolm now. Not with what he’d done to her. Even her memory of Father was tainted, what with his frankly shameful behaviour after Mother’s death. There was nobody left- nobody truly alive, anyway. She could trust nobody, depend on nobody. She was completely alone.

Except… Except that wasn’t really true, was it?

Joanna had held her when she’d cried, and sworn to keep her safe. Mr. Parr had kept her from breaking the rules of the kindred, and shown her humanity even from the undead. Miss Vykos was… Well, she wasn’t really sure Miss Vykos had really done anything, but she was useful to think about. The attraction that Regina felt for her was, she thought, genuine, and it served as a useful comparison to Victoria’s deceptions. There were people she could rely on, even here, stranded in a strange land in the world of the undead.

Newly motivated, she withdrew her handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at her eyes, and began to form a plan.

Cecil could likely be bribed to keep Miss Ash out of her hair, should she choose to investigate. She probably had more money in her coin purse than he made in a year, and while she hated having to turn to financial incentives, there was very little else she could hold over his head.

Then there was the matter of the prison itself. She could likely very easily purchase an atlas and locate it, but there was the matter of getting inside. She highly doubted that the French penal system would allow an English noblewoman into what was, no doubt, a den of scum and villainy on the basis that she wanted to speak to the vampire who allegedly resided inside.

…But there had to be a way. Miss Vykos wouldn’t send her on a fool’s errand, not after all that. She didn’t quite know if she trusted her completely, but there had to be some kind of destination at the end of this journey, even if it did turn out to be a trap.

Chapter Text

Galahad did not look like a street cat. He was fat, and well groomed, and never stole food or crowded at the feet of humans with meat. He had never had any need to- though he knew that he was dependent on humans to live the lifestyle he had become accustomed to, he preferred to use them for his own ends rather than sit comfortably and let himself be spoiled.

He had- prior to his employment with Mr Parr- found himself a nice little scheme. He would search for well-to-do families with a beloved cat, and then lure his fellow feline to a grim yet visible demise. Placing pieces of fish in the middle of carriageways was his go-to, but he'd used ledges and ponds to great effect before. Eventually, the cat's owner would find the body, and after a few days to allow them to mourn, Galahad would appear at the end of their garden, looking just the right amount of dishevelled. The owner- distraught but smitten- would see it as a sign, and take him in as their own, and would shower him with treats and plush beds and warm saucers of milk. Galahad would stay until their affection began to temper, until he started being scolded for knocking ornaments over or taking food from someone's plate. When that happened, he would leave the house for good, and begin his search for a new target.

This had worked quite well for him, until he'd ended up killing a cat that belonged to the manager of a small branch of the London postal service. It was quite a clever murder, if he did say so himself. The cat- Horatio was his name- had a territory dispute with a local stray tomcat, and Galahad had prodded and goaded the tomcat until he bit into Horatio's neck and clamped down until he stopped breathing. He’d been installed in the postmaster’s house by the end of the week.

The postmaster- a widower with many empty bedrooms- had a second cat, a tabby with one eye. Galahad was worried about retaliation, but the tabby had simply scoffed at him and given him a wide berth. Galahad had thought nothing of it, until he’d been picked up by the scruff of a neck by a stranger on one of his moonlit walks.

“D’you know what they used to do to murderers?” the stranger had said

Galahad had yowled and scratched and bit, but the stranger did not let go, instead forcing his bleeding finger into Galahad’s mouth and detailing to him slowly and calmly the way that men used to be executed for such a crime. When Galahad, exhausted and disturbed, had stopped struggling, he’d let him go.

“You work for me now,” the stranger- Mr Parr- had said, and Galahad decided very quickly that he should probably take up the job offer.

Parr had had him do various mundane tasks- mostly the destruction of information. It was strange what people would let a cat do to paperwork. Galahad couldn’t quite get the knack of reading, but Parr taught him to recognise certain sets of symbols- ones meaning ‘vampire’ and ‘night society’ and ‘Mithras’ and ‘blood’- and chew at or piss on or burn anything he saw passing through the postmaster’s office marked with them. He was quite good at this- his eyesight was sharp and he got used to distinguishing the shape of letters even when they were written by different people- and so Parr did not kill him. Instead, he was fussed and given bits of cat meat and warm saucers of milk every time that Parr decided that a particular lead had been completely snuffed out. It was quite a peaceful living, when all was said and done.

Parr had not sent him on this particular job.

There had been an air about his master lately- one that most of the city cats had noticed. They didn’t talk to Galahad, usually- he still had his reputation as a killer- but they’d come to him now. They wanted him to do their dirty work for him, and so he had hopped into the carriage that Jim piloted the driver of, and let himself be driven to the house of their master’s lover.

Galahad had lived in the neighbourhood of the Claremont household before- in fact he had accepted a saucer of milk from the lady of the house long before either of them had met Parr. He knew roughly where to stand so that he could see into the downstairs windows without being seen himself, and which times of day the scullery maid left the back door open so that she could bring the laundry out to dry.

He had planned to simply wait outside the window until he spotted Mrs Claremont, then send a message that she was safe back to his feline colleagues and move on with his life. He suspected that she was perfectly well, but had been offended by Parr for whatever reason, and was refusing to talk to him. Once that had been determined, he could begin a subtler campaign to rekindle her affections for his master- perhaps he could bring her flowers that she would assume were from Parr or something.

And yet, when he arrived, he had no choice but to come to the conclusion that Mrs Claremont was not safe.

Tim and his driver had dropped him off in a dark alleyway nearby- to avoid anyone gawping at the sight of a cat getting out of a hansom cab alone- and so he was alone when he perched on top of the Claremonts’ garden wall and saw a man in soldiers’ garb holding a lit match above a pile of papers.

The man froze, and turned to stare at Galahad. Galahad tilted his head to one side, and widened his eyes so he could stare better at the man.

“I’m not… Not doing anything wrong…” said the man, slowly

Galahad jumped down from the wall, and the man scuttled back, dropping the match on the wet grass.

“I’m her brother!” said the man, “Look- I- I’ve seen you with- I know who you are.”

Galahad mewled, innocently, then padded over to paw through the papers.

“Look- It’s- I don’t care if your master’s a sheriff- so’s mine!” The man huffed, “Just let me give my sister some dignity!”

Galahad ignored him, and continue to paw through the papers. Much of it was unintelligible to him- though he noticed the odd heart or pressed lipstick kiss next to a signature. They were love letters, he supposed, but what reason would Mrs Claremont’s brother have to burn those? He paused for a second, then decided that the answer was beneath him, and kept digging.

“Look- If I die then they’ll- All of your master’s dealings will be-” The man shook his head- “God- You don’t understand me, do you?”

Galahad did understand him, but he decided it was in his best interest to hide that fact. He responded to the inquiry by sitting down and pissing on some of the more unimportant-looking letters.

The man laughed, nervously, “What am I even doing…” he shook his head, then waved his hand towards Galahad, “Shoo!”

Galahad ignored him. There was something important in this pile- he could feel it in his bones. Question was, would he know what he was looking for when he found it. He dug deeper, burying his front legs in the pile.

The man tutted, “Come on now, don’t be a menace. Go on- shoo!”

Galahad dug deeper. He was closer now, he thought, close enough that he wasn’t going to give up.

“Right,” said the man, taking a step towards the pile, “That’s it-”

Galahad’s jaws closed around an open envelope, right at the bottom of the pile. It probably would have just about survived a fire if the brother had set one, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He burst out of the pile, scattering paper everywhere, and the man let out a shrill cry.

“Oi!” he said, “You can’t- You can’t just-”

But Galahad could, and he would, and even if he shouldn’t, he wasn’t going to let this man stop him. He leapt out of the garden and ran as fast as his fuzzy little legs would carry him, the letter informing the house staff that Joanna had been interred safely in a local asylum clutched safely in his jaws.

Chapter Text

The guard’s skull made quite a satisfying cracking noise as Vykos tossed his decapitated head onto the floor of the prison’s chapel.

It was a tall, narrow room, designed to carry sound efficiently, and so the sound echoed rather ominously, breaking the sanctity of the chapel’s silence. The closest of the chapel’s two inhabitants to where they were stood- some sort of prison guard, Vykos presumed that he was a ghoul- leapt to his feet, drawing a gun from a holster at his belt and levelling it at Vykos.

“Don’t come any closer,” he yelled, “I’m warning you! I’ll shoot!”

Vykos ignored him, in favour of glancing over to the room’s other occupant- the man with long blonde hair and monastic robes. He was knelt in front of the chapel’s altar, his head bowed in prayer. He did not seem to react at all to Vykos’ entrance, or to the head on the floor, or his ghoul’s prattling. His self-inflicted imprisonment had not, it seems, changed him all that much.

“Do you think,” they said, addressing the ghoul but keeping their eyes on their target, “That your little toy will hurt us?”

The ghoul shot at them, once, but while the bullet did manage to pierce their neck, it was but a simple trick of vicissitude to force it back out of the entry wound again. They began to walk forwards.

“Shit.” said the ghoul, dropping his gun and scrambling back, “Shit, fuck, shit-”

Vykos grabbed onto him, tore his shirt open, and plunged their hand into his stomach. The ghoul screamed in pain, his eyes wide with terror.

They looked over at the kneeling figure. He did, still, seem to be ignoring them.

“Ah well,” they said, loudly enough that it was obnoxious, “It is such a shame that there is nobody to stop us murdering you and using your flesh for furniture.”

The ghoul’s eyes widened further still, “You’re going to use me for- ack!”

“And in a place of worship, too!” they lamented, “The Lord will be so disappointed that we have sullied his house so.”

Vykos had stopped believing in God long before they were embraced, but they thought it was probably worth invoking his name if it got a rise out of their target.

It didn’t. If anything, he seemed to be ignoring them more than he had before.
Vykos swore in a long-dead language, and slid their hand out of the Ghoul’s stomach, wiping his blood off onto his shirt, “We do wonder,” they said, “Exactly what Beckett would make of your apathy.”

When the kneeling figure turned to look at them, he was fully Anatole.

There was no sense of the distance that he’d had while praying, no sense of the veil the prison had thrown over him. There was a fury in his eyes- an unholy, human fury.

“What have you done with him?” His voice was quiet, calm even, but Vykos knew that he was all but a few seconds away from a complete frenzy.

Vykos grinned, “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Answer the question.”

Vykos sighed, sitting down heavily in one of the pews. They could not be bothered to resist the domination, but they figured that they could at least make the experience as irritating as possible, “We have not seen him in years,” they said, “He has been too busy looking for you.”

Anatole shook his head, “That may be what he has told you,” he said, “But I know he would never abandon his work for something so trivial.”

Vykos barked out a laugh. When Anatole did not react, they averted their gaze, staring up at the large cross mounted behind the altar, “It is not just him,” they said, “De Laurant, De Aragon, Okulos, Rhudaze, the lot. They are all searching for you, and of course you yourself are withdrawn, leaving us as the only Noddist worth questioning left.”

Anatole said nothing, but Vykos saw him bow his head out of the corner of their eye. When he raised it again, his face was set, “Paul,” he said, “Would you mind leaving us for a moment?”

The ghoul- who was rattled and covered in blood, but was probably mostly intact- scrambled to his feet, “But, but, Brother Anatole,” he said, “Surely you don’t want to be alone with this- this thing!”

Vykos turned to leer at the man, opening their extra mouths for dramatic effect.

“The Lord will protect me,” said Anatole, and there was a smile in his voice, “If you wouldn’t mind?”

The ghoul scurried off, and Anatole sighed, moving to stand against the wall opposite from where Vykos was sat, “I do not believe you.” he said.

Vykos shrugged, “We do not need you to,” they said, “We only need you to obey.”

Anatole laughed, bitterly, “No,” he said, “I don’t think I will.”

Vykos made a face, “Is that what Beckett would have you do? Or De Aragon?”

“It is for their sake that I stay here,” said Anatole, “It is…” he palmed the bronze crucifix that hung around his neck, “The Lord has told me of a danger. I wish to keep it from them.”

“And so you lock yourself away like a newborn-”

“I am not the danger.” He paused, frowning slightly, “At least, not directly, anyway. I know I am there, and I know it is the worst possible thing. That is all.”

Vykos’ eyes widened, a current of fear running down their spine, “The worst… You speak of Gehenna?”

Anatole smiled, “Gehenna would simply be the enactment of the Lord’s will. No, this is an action of man or kindred-”

“Cainite.”

“-If you like, and a heinous one at that.” He shook his head, “I know not what it is, nor when it will strike, but it scares me. Not for myself, but the idea that one close to me may be caught up in it…”

“Coward,” spat Vykos

“Perhaps,” said Anatole, “Though I would argue that that is not a bad thing.”

Vykos scoffed. They stood, and took a single step towards Anatole, “We will not force you to come with us,” they said, “Though we will tell you that the Sabbat has the capability to protect you from any of the kine’s scheming.”

“Why do you offer,” asked Anatole, “I would have thought you would have liked being the primary expert on something.”

“Without the mongrel around to spout nonsense about Caine,” said Vykos, “Much more focus has been put onto our… presentation. It is all but impossible to speak without someone asking something invasive.”

“Ah.” said Anatole, and he bowed his head, “I wish I could help, but I will not leave this place.” He looked up, and met Vykos’ gaze, “I will pray for you.”

“No,” said Vykos, “No, you will return the favour.”

Anatole frowned, “I… I’m sorry?”

“We have suffered for you. If you will not leave then you, too, will suffer for us.”

Anatole closed his eyes, almost seeming to relax slightly, “I understand. If my torture will bring you peace, then-”

Vykos spat, “Do not make us into the monster that they believe us to be.”

Anatole tilted his head to one side, “Then, what..?”

Vykos paused, and scoffed a little at themself. They turned, so as to avoid making eye contact with the alleged holy man while they spoke, “One of my associates is passing through this city. She needs shelter and information, and you are in the perfect position to provide both.”

Anatole laughed, sadly, “I- I’m flattered, truly, but I don’t know what information your friend could want from me..?”

Vykos shrugged, “We are sure you will find a way to provide her with what she needs.”

“I… You do not know what you ask of me,” said Anatole, suddenly turning serious, “I cannot- I dare not leave this building-”

“Then it will be a challenge,” said Vykos, turning to face him, grinning, “To find the information without leaving.”

Anatole grimaced, “If you say so.”

“Good,” said Vykos, “Good.” They tensed for a second, trying to avoid any motion that might give away to the Malkavian that they were relieved, “I will be leaving a set of clothes for her, as well as some reading material. Ensure she gets it.”

“Of course,” said Anatole

“And if I find out that she has been hurt in any way while she has been staying here-”

Anatole bowed his head, “I will lay down my pitiful imitation of a life for her if need be.”

“Don’t.” said Vykos, “It will only make it worse.” They turned, and left the chapel, stepping forcefully on the severed head on their way out. Its skull shattered, and bits of it flew all throughout the chapel, causing Anatole to mutter something mildly blasphemous under his breath.

Chapter Text

When Beckett returned to Parr’s apartment, he found the Sheriff lying face down on the floor, an envelope in his hand and an especially fluffy cat sat on his back, grooming its paws. The curtains were wide open, and the light from the gas lamps outside shone onto Parr like a spotlight.

He frowned, and took a step forwards, “Did I come at a bad time?”

“He said that he’s dying,” rumbled the cat, “And that you ought not to disturb him.”

Beckett raised an eyebrow, “Dying?”

“That’s what he said.”

Beckett scoffed, and shooed the cat off of Parr’s back. The animal mrowled indignantly, then sauntered off to go sit on an armchair instead, watching Beckett with a predatory gaze. This was the same creature who’d launched itself at him when he’d taken the form of a bat- perhaps it was waiting for him to turn back so he could pounce again.

Shaking off the animal instinct, Beckett crouched, focussing all his attention on Parr. The other man was much smaller than him, and it was quite easy for Beckett to roll Parr onto his back, so that he was facing the ceiling. Parr didn’t respond to this- in fact his eyes remained closed, and he had given up on the pretence of breathing. Beckett scoffed, and snapped his fingers in front of Parr’s face- he doubted that the Sheriff would be so old that he had lost the instinct to flinch.

But Parr did not react, instead continuing to lay there, unmoving. Beckett paused, scanning Parr’s body for any sign of a wound or a stake- something that would explain the sudden torpor- but found nothing. Eventually, curiosity got the better of him, and he removed the envelope from Parr’s hand.

“Rude,” hissed the cat

“Probably,” said Beckett, and carried on.

The envelope was open- had been open for a while from the looks of the place that the seal had been broken. Beckett took out the piece of paper inside, and skim-read it- it looked to be a confirmation that a Mrs Joanna Claremont had been committed to an asylum.

Beckett scoffed- Malkavians were never simple. He turned the piece of paper over, then held it up to the light, then read it more carefully to see if there was some obvious cypher hidden in the phrasing of the letter. He found nothing- the letter was typewritten and phrased simply. It appeared to be completely routine. Perhaps there was some message hidden in the name- Joanna meaning God is gracious and Claremont meaning clear mountain- a meeting place perhaps? But then there was no address other than that of the asylum, and Beckett remembered clearly having to rescue one of Anatole’s brethren from that very place. But still, for Parr to have this sort of reaction, there had to be something…
“Tell me,” said Beckett, to the cat, “What does it all mean?”

“Means there won’t be any dinner until he stops dying,” said the cat.

Beckett hummed. It seemed he had no other choice. He pulled one of his gloves off, ran the pad of his finger across a fang, then held his hand in front of Parr’s face.

In an instant Parr had sprung up, half of Beckett’s hand ending up in his mouth. He stared up at him, eyes wide, and ran his tongue along the cut.

“Good morning,” said Beckett

Parr drew Beckett’s fingers out of his mouth so just the tips of his claws were resting between his lips, “Put me back.”

“What?”

“I was dying,” said Parr, very seriously, “And I want to keep dying, so put me back!”

Beckett blinked, and began to withdraw, trying to sit back on his heels, but Parr lunged at him, knocking him to the floor, straddling his chest, and shoving his own hand into Beckett’s mouth, pushing up against his fangs.

“Go on,” said Parr, “Go on, two seconds and it’ll be over.”

Beckett stayed very still, holding himself carefully so that his teeth only just brushed Parr’s skin. Parr stared at him for a few minutes, then scoffed- though there didn’t seem to be any real anger in it.

“You’ve got to do it,” he said, “It has to be- it doesn’t work if I…” he took his hand out of Beckett’s mouth and moved to grab for his claws, but Beckett was quicker. He shifted his hips, using his weight to destabilise Parr and knock him to the side. Before the smaller man could react, Beckett had gathered both of his wrists in his gloved hand and pinned them over his head, positioning himself on all fours above Parr. The Malkavian roared with anger, and tried to shove him off, but Beckett moved his weight down, keeping pressure on all of Parr’s limbs, and watched the fire drain out of the smaller man’s eyes as he began to struggle less and less, eventually falling still beneath him.

“I’m not going to kill you,” said Beckett, firmly

“Go on,” said Parr, softly, “It’d be a laugh.”

“I’d be executed.”

Parr’s eyes lit up, “I’ll write you a note. Rite of destruction- It’s my area- only makes-”

“And besides,” interrupted Beckett, “Without you I wouldn’t know where to continue my investigation.”

“Bollocks,” said Parr, “You don’t know what you’re doing with me alive- with me dead you could do what you want without the cammies breathing down your neck- you’d have a good long while before they found me, too-”

Beckett sighed, and- for lack of something more intelligent to do- pushed the fingers of his free hand back into Parr’s mouth. The cut had long since healed- what with his own regenerative abilities and Parr’s saliva- but Parr didn’t seem to mind. He sucked on Beckett’s fingers, seemingly deep in thought.

“I don’t want to kill you,” said Beckett, “Because I quite like you, and I’d be sad if you died.”

Parr frowned, and nipped gently on Beckett’s fingers, causing him to withdraw, “We’re not supposed to like each other,” he said, “We’re monsters- we shouldn’t-” he sighed, “Nobody else… God, that sounds pathetic, doesn’t it. Asking the pretty man to kill me because nobody likes me and I don’t want to die alone.”

Beckett frowned, “Do you mean the rest of the Elysium..?”

Parr scoffed, “No, we’re not doing that. None of the other kindred like me- that’s true- but I have people who… Had people who…”

Beckett sighed- he had, perhaps, been a bit of an idiot, “People like Joanna Claremont?”

Parr scoffed again, then a third time- for emphasis, Beckett assumed- “You read my post.”

“You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

“I mean I don’t mind now, really. I should, I think? I might? I just…” Parr sighed, and pulled Beckett’s fingers into his mouth again.

“She’s not… Not gone, you know. You can visit her- I’m sure she wouldn’t mind-”

Parr muttered something, and Beckett withdrew his fingers a little so that he could understand.

“Halesworth’s territory,” said Parr, “If I mess with it, then…”

“I’ll go with you,” said Beckett, “And you can say you chased me in there if you were caught.”
Parr scoffed, “It’s a bad idea.”

“So’s dying.”

“Mmmn.” Parr pulled Beckett’s fingers back into his mouth, and said something that sounded at least a little like “I’ll think about it”

Beckett decided he could live with that.

Chapter Text

The prison was an imposing building, tall and made of irregular grey brick. Regina felt rather like it could swallow her whole. She received an odd look from a guard and scampered away, worried that they would think she was trying to break someone else out rather than break herself in.

She tried not to let her fears drag her too far from her target- instead ducking into a nearby alley to brace herself. She thought about what Mr Parr or Miss Vykos would do, but she highly doubted that crossdressing or veiled threats would really help her now. Still- Miss Vykos had directed her here, so there must be some way that she could…

A thought occurred to her. She frowned- it seemed ridiculous at a first brush, but now she was turning it over in her head, there was not really any way that the plan could fail…

She took a deep breath in, cleared her throat, called Victoria’s blood to her, and strolled, casually, back towards the guard.

“Hello,” she said, “I would like to enter your prison, please.”

“Do you know how much I miss you?” said Anatole, to the Beckett in his head, “Do you know how much I ache for you? Do you know what I would give to see you again?”

The Beckett in his head said nothing. Instead, he closed his eyes and let out a long exhale, before falling still again.

Anatole smiled, sadly, “As you should,” he said, “I am not good for you, we both should know that by now.” He smoothed his hand across the dream-Beckett’s hair, and sighed, “Some day,” he said, “You will change in such a way that will mean I will not be able to recognise you, and then I will finally be safe inside my own head. Still, I-”

The Beckett in his head shot up into a sitting position, taking in a great rattling gasp of air. He frowned, and turned to face Anatole, “You’re not Beckett,” he said

“Neither are you,” said Anatole.”

“We've not had a lady visit before,” said the guard, as he took the keys from his belt to unlock the main prison building, “We had a count I think- just before I came here- but never a lord or a lady.”

Regina was not quite sure not to make of that.

“Do you know what your brother is in for then?” Said the guard

“I'm afraid I have no idea,” said Regina, “I was only able to locate him because a friend of my father's happened to see him while he was being transported- though I hope it's nothing too salacious.”

She'd decided to go with a half-truth when the guard had asked why she'd wanted to come in- telling the story of her brother's argument with her father and the disowning that had followed, but leaving out the part about his death. She had looked up at the guard with wide, wet eyes, and pleased him to let her tell her enstranged brother about their mother's death. It had only taken a little of Victoria's blood to convince him.

She had not thought much about her brother since her grim adventure had begun. She wondered if he was the luckiest of the four of them, what with her and her mother being pulled into the world of the night, and her father drowning in the depths of his alcoholism. She imagined trying to explain that to her past self, on the eve of her brother's funeral. She couldn't imagine herself taking it well…

“Here you are,” said the guard, unlocking a second door and swinging it open, “We don't exactly have a place for visitors, and the prison itself isn't really a place for a lady, so if you wouldn't mind waiting in The records room..?”

Regina poked her head in. It was a very Spartan sort of room- about two metres wide and three metres deep, with the only furniture being a writing desk, a stool, and a filing cabinet of titanic proportions. Regina wondered if It had, at one point, been a cell itself. It wasn't exactly luxury, but…

“I'm sure I'll manage,” said Regina, taking a cautious step inside.

“Perfect,” said the guard. He put his hand on the outer door handle, “What was the name of your boy again?”

“Anatole,” said Regina, “Though he may be using a pseudonym-”

The guard laughed, humourlessly, “Oh, we have an Anatole, alright.” he said, before swinging the door shut with a loud, echoing sound.

“I didn’t bring you here,” said the Beckett that stood across the room from Jules, “And I don’t think you brought me to you, either.”

Jules, who was half lying, half sitting on his bed, with the real Beckett slouched across his body (the idea was that he would be prevented from killing himself if there was some kind of obstacle, even a minor one), blinked up at the secondary Beckett, “I might’ve. You don’t know that.”

Not-Beckett shook his head, and Jules was struck by how even his hair moved in a way that was different to the real deal, “There must be some machination of the cobweb- but that means…”

“This is pretty tame for the cobweb,” said Jules, “Normally you connect to it and you’re screaming for a week straight.”

Not-Beckett clicked his tongue, “Please be serious.”

“I don’t think I can be.”

“...Perhaps there is more to the fact that you’re appearing as Beckett to me than I initially thought.” Not-Beckett smiled, slightly, but the expression was gone as soon as it had appeared, “Regardless, we are running out of time. You know Beckett, yes?”

“We’re… working together on a project,” said Jules

“Then you must do everything you can to keep him away from me.”

Anatole began to stir a few seconds after the sun dipped below the horizon. The guard knocked on the wall next to his cell door, causing him to sit up, and stare at the intruder through the mess of matted blonde hair that hung in front of his face.

“You’ve got a visitor,” said the guard

Chapter Text

“Gareth,” said Aunt Eleanor, pressing a handkerchief to the place on her wrist that she had cut in order to produce a glass of blood for Emma, “Is fool of a man. I would not be surprised if he sends letter to us a year from now announcing that he finally decided to marry assistant’s daughter.”

“He’s not that kind of fool,” said Emma, staring out over the city of Munich from her hotel room window, “If it were that then he would have been waxing poetic about heartstrings and monstrosity and the like for at least a few months.”

“Perhaps he waxed quietly.” said Aunt Eleanor, “We cannot assume the worst.”

“You mean we can’t afford to assume the worst,” said Emma. She stared at the wine glass full of blood in her hand. She hated it when Aunt Eleanor bled for her, but she wasn’t allowed to seek relief from any other source, “Wellig won’t let us do anything about it, so we must play-act as if Gareth is perfectly fine and not being slowly killed by vampire hunters or some such like.”

“Gareth is strong boy,” said Aunt Eleanor, “He will pull through.”

“No-one lives forever.” said Emma, “Not even us.” She sighed, and downed the glass of blood in one swift gulp.

“Do not guzzle,” snapped Aunt Eleanor, “You will hurt stomach.”

“You say that as if I can be hurt anymore,” said Emma

Aunt Eleanor scoffed, “Is principle of the thing. Your body is used to pain when you treat it poorly. It will give you pain if you treat it poorly now.”

“And what if I want pain,” hissed Emma

Aunt Eleanor recoiled, “What..?”

“You heard me.” She closed her eyes, and tilted her head back, “What if I want that? What if I want to fall and skin my knee? What if I want my hair to catch on a thorn bush…”

“You are kindred,” said Aunt Eleanor, “You are above such things.”

“And yet I never asked to be.” She wondered exactly what she would be if she were not doomed to become kindred from birth. She would never have been married to James, for one- that had been an attempt from Wellig to get the Ducheskis integrated into British nobility for some godforsaken reason. She would never have met Miss Ash, or been taken in by the Sabbat, or met that wonderfully dashing man with the claws and the beast eyes. Or perhaps she would have met him anyway and they would have rode off into the (purely metaphorical) sunset to have the type of sex that she’d always been told would get her sent to hell. It was her fantasy, she was allowed to have some creative licence.

“I am sorry,” said Aunt Eleanor, quietly, and Emma very quickly shut down all thoughts of horrible monster sex.

“Sorry for what?” said Emma

“Everything.” She shook her head, “Your mother will hate me. She will chase me all throughout afterlife.”

“She died far too early to know me.” Emma looked down into her lap, “I doubt she would particularly care.”

Aunt Eleanor shook her head, “She died birthing you. She died for you. I should… Her legacy…”

“It doesn’t matter now,” said Emma, “You’ve done it. It’s over.”

“Is never over,” said Aunt Eleanor, “Is not over until you are ash in teeth of elder.”

And wasn’t that a horrible image. Her body crumbling as her soul was consumed, kept from heaven or hell for eternity. Some strange elder catching alight with her blood, the warmth from the blaze her only comfort as she slipped into nothingness.

She stood, rather abruptly, startling Aunt Eleanor, “I am going to sit on the balcony,” she said, following it up with “Alone.” when Aunt Eleanor stood to follow her.

“I will not let you sit unsupervised.” said Aunt Eleanor, her sternness suddenly returning

What would she even do if left completely alone? If she managed to escape Aunt Eleanor for even a minute? If she had been in London, she would have run, tried to find Victoria for one last glorious night or Regina to tell her that her search was worthless. Here she was alone, miles and miles from anyone who might help her. She could, at the very least, loosen her corset strings. Aunt Eleanor made her sleep in it, as she could not help Emma take it on or off, and while sweat and grime were no longer an issue, the blasted thing was beginning to chafe.

“I will leave the door open,” said Emma, “And you can watch me from inside the room.”

Aunt Eleanor seemed to mull it over for a few minutes before nodding, “Is acceptable.” she said.

“Good.” said Emma, and she wandered over to her simulation of privacy.

“Gareth,” she heard Aunt Eleanor mutter, “Where in God’s name have you gotten to?”

Chapter Text

Father Raoul had been taught English when he was three and twenty years of age, by perhaps the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

He had entered the clergy after a series of tragedies- his bride-to-be had perished a few short nights before their wedding, and without her dowry, he could not afford the house that he had intended to purchase for them. He had been able to return to his parents’ house for a short period, though soon enough both of them had been involved in a rather unfortunate incident with an out of control horse and cart, leaving his mother dead and his father a wreck. He’d taken off work to bury his mother and care for his father, but it all only got worse from there. His father took to the bottle, and it soon became unreasonable to even think of staying with him for a day longer.

The clergy had been a simple answer to a complicated problem. He’d always had some sort of connection to the church, always managed to slip what few coins he could afford into the donation box, always stayed slightly too long after services to discuss matters of theology with the priest- even if the only real reason he lingered was to avoid his father. He’d slipped into the role of holy man with ease, and had even managed to earn enough to send a little money to his father every month to keep the man quiet.

The man with the golden hair had arrived on the night after he’d learned of his father’s death. The doctor that wrote to him said it was the drink that did him in, and told him that he’d at least have one less thing to worry about.

He’d waited until the sun had gone down to cry about it. He’d made some excuse to the priest he was training under about wanting to polish the silverware again, and had sat in the front pew, his head in his hands, weeping.

He hadn’t noticed the man approach him until he was laying a hand on Raoul’s shoulder, looking down at him sympathetically. He was, perhaps, the most beautiful man that Raoul had ever laid eyes upon, though he thought that if you asked him to tell you what was beautiful about him, he wouldn’t have been able to give an answer.

“Does the house of god upset you so, brother?” he had said, and Raoul had laughed, despite himself.

He’d found himself telling the man everything. His father, his mother, his fiancee, each of them taken long before their time by forces out of their control, leaving him utterly alone in the world. The man had drawn him into his arms and they had wept together, him wailing in anguish at the cruelty of it all, and the man sniffling quietly and stroking Raoul’s hair. He was cold- clammy almost- and Raoul could not feel the beat of his heart nor the breath in his lungs. Still- he was glad for the comfort, and he found himself forgetting about the peculiarities of the stranger’s body within merely a few minutes.

The man turned out to be a travelling monk, here to request shelter for a few months whilst he waited for an associate to contact him. He had some sort of sensitivity to the light- meaning that he couldn’t leave his chambers during the day, and he was fasting- which meant that he did not sit down to meals, but Raoul went out of his way to spend as much time with him as possible. They often read the bible together, or prayed in Latin together, and Raoul found himself constantly begging the man to tell him of his travels. He wasn’t jealous- he was quite happy with his life at the parish- but he wanted to know more of this man, anything he could get, any tiny little scrap…

The man refused to give him any quarter. He would swat away any questions with laughter and clever comments. He did, however, agree to teach Raoul a little English- the language he had learnt through missionary work- and Raoul had latched onto it. He had no interest in the language, but he was perfectly happy to sit there and listen to the man speak it to him- even more so when he praised Raoul for how quickly he was picking it up.

It took him longer than was likely necessary for him to realise that he was in love with the man.

He had never felt this way towards another man before, but he didn’t feel ashamed of it. Perhaps he had subconsciously decided that everyone ought to be in love with the man, regardless of gender. Perhaps the man’s familiarity had soothed him into it. Either way, the last time they were alone together, Raoul had brought the man’s cold hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles, and begged him to take Raoul with him on his next adventure.

The man had laughed, bitterly. He had pressed a kiss to Raoul’s forehead, though it felt more fraternal than anything, and whispered, quietly, “You are far too fine a man to come with me, monsieur.”

He had left before sunrise. Raoul stayed up late and wept in one of the pews again, in the hope that he would somehow summon the man back to comfort him, and yet he never came.

Raoul had never thought himself a sentimental man, and yet even as he aged he never forgot the beauty of the visitor. He never took a lover again- though he supposed that was all but expected of Catholic priests- and he never even looked at another person, man or woman, with lust in his heart. Perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps the visitor had been an angel sent to free him from sin, or some other such nonsense.

Yet his life felt hollow and empty without the man in it. It was as if part of his heart- no, part of his soul had left with him. He continued to study English, to the point where he could read and listen to it almost fluently- though his pronunciation was a little off. It gave him something… Something to cling to, something to keep him going, something to remind him that there was joy in the world.

Months passed, then years, then decades. He found himself growing apathetic to almost everything else. He was never lacking in his duties- he could perform his sermons and talk to his parishioners well, better than most, even- but it was all a chore, all something that was forced on him by circumstance rather than the calling from on high that it was supposed to be. He realised after a while that he hated the entire thing- not for what it was in itself, but for how it made him feel. He considered quitting, but he decided that finding new work would be too much effort. He considered ending it all, but that would have barred him entirely from heaven, and so he would be withheld from his beloved even in the afterlife.

He could cope with it, he decided. He would cope with it. He just needed something, anything, to distract him. To permit him to have some sense of.. Some sense of… he didn’t quite know.

And so, when the English vampire hunters asked to use his back room as a meeting place, he gleefully agreed.

He didn’t quite know what they were at first- the strange trio of men that had arrived on his doorstep and spoken to him in stilted, accented French. He had thought they were perhaps historians, or men on a military expedition- men who the Lord would not have him turn away. He was, however, curious, and he lingered in the parts of the church nearest their little meeting-place, making a show of rearranging a set of candles and polishing the leg of the Virgin’s statue.

“Look,” said the voice of the tallest man, in perfect, natural English, “They won’t find us here. They can’t find us here.”

“What do you mean they can’t find us here,” hissed the man with the eyepatch

“You said they couldn’t find us at Champs-Elysees,” said the man with the policeman’s outfit, his voice quiet yet full of fury, “And yet here we are.”

Raoul noted, with some curiosity, that there was a touch of French in the policeman’s accent.

“I said that they wouldn’t find us at Champs-Elysees.” said the tallest, “Here it’s impossible.”

The other two stayed silent for a moment. Raoul shuffled a little closer to the door, abandoning the pretence of the candles.

“What- what do you mean?” said the eyepatch wearer.

“I mean,” said the tallest, “That we need to remember who we’re dealing with.” He paused, seemingly for dramatic effect, “These are creatures of the night, gentlemen. Unholy things. Unnatural things. Vampires.”

Raoul had heard the English word for ‘Vampire’ once in his life- when the man with the golden hair was telling him some strange folk story. He hadn’t understood his motives at the time- it seemed an odd method of teaching- but he wondered if perhaps the man had foreseen this very moment, foreseen Raoul’s despair, foreseen his strange guests, and planted the idea in his head so he could get some sort of respite from the monotony.

“They are loathed by God,” said the tallest, “Their very being disgusts Him. And so, they cannot enter holy ground. They cannot find us here.”

And wasn’t that something.

Raoul invited them to use the room on a more permanent basis almost immediately. He had been worried that they would be suspicious, but they had been so relieved to have a private, sanctified meeting point that they simply thanked him profusely and set to work making the room their own.

“It’s a good thing the old coot doesn’t speak English,” said the tallest, as they were unpacking a large box that Raoul had seen them take in.

“It is nice to not have to worry about discovery,” said the policeman, “Though he’s never said that he doesn’t speak-”

“Why would he even learn,” hissed the man with the eyepatch, “You know how the French are better than anyone- do you not remember how long it took for you to consider learning to speak the language yourself?”

“Alright,” said the tallest, “Drop it.”

But Raoul was thankful for the bickering- it made less anxious about his eavesdropping. Over time, he began to stand closer and closer to the men, and become laxer and laxer in his excuses for why he was standing so close. After a good year or so, the men would even let him into the room itself while they met, and he would clean the windows while they spoke of monsters. It helped that the policeman began to show less and less frequently- having been assigned to an inconvenient post or some such like- he had always been the most sceptical of Raoul’s meddling, and his absence allowed him to relax even more. Other men- normally nobility- came and went, each looking for an explanation for something horrific they had seen, but none of them questioned Raoul’s presence. If anything, he found that they expected him. Perhaps he added to the atmosphere.

He was in the meeting room itself on the evening that the latest visitor arrived.

He was sat next to a bookshelf in the corner, checking the notes for his latest sermon against an open bible while the tallest and the eyepatch man muttered about the weather. It had been raining heavily for the past few days now, and they were concerned that some awful creature would take advantage of the lack of sunlight. Raoul didn’t think he had anything to worry about- by this point he’d half convinced himself that the men were delusional, but hearing about their escapades amused him, even if there was a solid chance that they were fictional.

When the knocking at the door started, he didn’t even look up, assuming that the hunters had it covered. The tallest man muttered something too quiet for Raoul to hear to the eyepatch man, who muttered something else inaudible back, and raised his head to look at Raoul.

“Old man,” he called, in barely passable French, “Go get the door.”

Raoul laughed, and shook his head, “The church is closed, child. If you want the door open, you must open it yourself.”

“We’re busy!” protested the eyepatch man.

“And so am I.” said Raoul, turning back to his sermon.

The knocking came again, this time quieter and quicker. The poor bastard was probably succumbing to the chill of the rain.

“Father,” said the tallest, finally deeming Raoul worthy of his attention, “Please.”

Raoul tutted, but he put his books away and shuffled over to the door, deciding that complying would be less effort than arguing. The knocking came again, so he called “Just a minute!” hoping that his voice was loud enough that it could be heard throughout the church.

He opened the door to a drowned rat of a man- perhaps a head taller than him, wearing what looked to be military uniform with a thin coat over the top and a large, soaked, travelling case in his hand. He was shivering, but he towered over Raoul nonetheless, puffing his chest out and looking down his nose at him.

“I am… A friend of your friends.” he said, his French so amateurish that it was barely understandable. He raised his hand to show Raoul a signet ring- it looked similar enough to one that he’d seen one of the hunters guests wear before.

“And what is your business with the house of the Lord?” said Raoul, narrowing his eyes.

The man’s brow furrowed, and he sputtered for a few minutes, before finally settling on “My name is Malcolm Seward?”

Raoul, figuring that he’d have more luck with the man if he were to just listen into his conversation with the hunters, “You had better come in, my child. I am sure my friends will be of more use to you.” He turned to walk back into the church, and when he didn’t hear Monsieur Seward’s footsteps behind him, he turned to aggressively beckon the perplexed Englishman into the building, wondering if he had only been ordained to deal with fools who did not think to learn the language of the country that they were visiting.

Chapter Text

When Regina saw a guard opening the door of the records room, she allowed herself to relax slightly.

She had been left waiting for hours, and in that time she’d managed to think herself into something of a frenzy. While she doubted that Miss Vykos would send her to someone who could hurt her, she didn’t really know what sort of person she was to expect. Alone in a small room with little else to do but worry, she’d constructed all sorts of horrifying images- perhaps she had been sent to one of the Nosferatu, like those she had seen in London, or perhaps someone who fetishised corpses and rot like Mother’s family back in County Durham. She couldn’t even shake the fear that Vykos had made a grave error, and sent her directly to the mastermind behind the plot to kidnap her mother. It was a massive relief to see someone who looked relatively normal, even if she had long since learned that looks could be deceiving.

“I’m sorry, miss,” said the guard, in stuttering English, “He won’t be too long now- we thought it would be best to feed him before…” he trailed off, looking rather ill, then nodded, then turned and scurried out of the room. Regina was rather reminded of when she had lifted up rocks as a child, and the bugs who lived underneath had frantically tried to escape her curious fingers.

Her stomach turned. This was not, it seemed, her contact.

She was left for another half hour or so before the door opened again, and the guard, trembling, led in a prisoner clapped in chains, followed by another, less nervous guard. The first guard pulled a storage crate from the side of the room, and the second pushed the prisoner’s shoulder down until he was sat on it. The prisoner let out a heavy exhale, and the first guard darted from the room again.

“You’ll forgive him,” said the second guard, “His brother was killed by Vykos when it came in to announce your arrival.”

Regina blinked. She had not expected Vykos to announce her, let alone kill for her. She began to wonder if she had misread the woman- though she supposed it was too late now.

The guard drew his baton, and gave the prisoner a nudge. Regina frowned, slightly confused. The guard was clearly the one in control here, so he was presumably the vampire, and yet he had brought a prisoner in with him. Was he a madman, like Parr? Perhaps he had some kind of authority complex, or maybe he was worried enough about spontaneously attacking Regina that he had brought a food source in with him?

And then the prisoner raised his head and met her gaze, and she realised that she had misread the situation completely.

His eyes were ice blue- partially covered by his dirty, matted hair- and Regina knew from barely a second of looking into them that they had seen centuries. They were sad eyes, mournful eyes, and yet there was an almost addictive quality to them. Regina was rather reminded of the feelings she had when her mother first left her- the sick, cloying feeling in the pit of her stomach, the wish to burrow deeper into the depths of her own madness…

The guard hit the prisoner on the back of the head, and the motion of the blow forced him to look away from Regina.

“Sorry,” said the guard, “We don’t think he can control it- he’s got some kind of… He’s Malkavian, if you understand me.”

Regina didn’t respond to the guard, instead still staring at the prisoner with shock and awe, “Are you alright?” she asked

“A blow to the head does not hurt me as it would hurt you,” he said, in English, righting himself on the crate, but keeping his gaze fixed firmly to the floor, “I feel pain, but it won’t damage me.”

Regina chose not to pry further- the prisoner was kindred, and could presumably escape if he wished, and she didn’t want to anger the guard, who was narrowing his eyes at her, baton still in hand.

“Are you Anatole?” she asked, instead

The prisoner nodded

“Then… Then you must help me!” she said, “My mother, she-”

“I cannot.” said Anatole.

A pit formed in Regina’s stomach, “But- but Miss Vykos said you could…”

Anatole shook his head, “I believe we have a misunderstanding. Vykos is correct- with the use of the blessings I have been granted I would likely be able to find your mother very quickly. However, in this specific case, I cannot use them.”

Regina frowned, “So, what, you- You won’t help me?”

“That is not what I said, is it?”

Regina bit at her lip. She had no idea what Anatole meant by that, nor any idea of how to convince him that he was wrong…

“Do you have a lover, your ladyship?” asked Anatole

Regina sighed. The only one she had loved romantically, if she was being honest with herself, was Victoria, yet she wasn’t arrogant enough to claim that her interest was reciprocated.

“I have a fiance,” she said, diplomatically, deciding that Malcolm was probably close enough to whatever the vampire was looking for.

“What would you do if I asked you to do something to help me that would put him in perilous danger?”

Regina thought of Malcolm in perilous danger. A pit formed in her stomach- as much as she disliked the man, he was her only real way back to normalcy. Once her mother was discovered, she would have to go back to him, she supposed, and forget all about her adventures- including the role he himself had played in them…

“I would help you.” said Regina, firmly.

Anatole laughed, sadly, “Then perhaps you should reconsider your engagement. Regardless- I believe you understand the point I am making.”

“Then you are very selfish,” said Regina, “To use the life of the one you love to drive me away, when I have no other recourse.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Anatole.

Regina opened her mouth to respond, but she was interrupted by the distant ringing of a church bell.

“If you will excuse me,” said Anatole, beginning to stand, “I would like to begin my morning prayer-”

The guard grabbed onto Anatole’s hair and yanked him back down to the seat, “I’ve had enough,” he said, “You’re not leaving here until you answer the girl’s questions. End of story.”

Anatole looked up at the guard, and Regina was shocked to see a spark of genuine fear fly through his eyes. She supposed, however, that it made sense. The guard had said he was Malkavian- perhaps the prayer was some sort of self-soothing ritual..? She couldn’t imagine a vampire having a genuine connection to faith, but then again…

“It’s alright,” said Regina, firmly, “You’ve reminded me that I haven’t prayed since I awoke either. Perhaps we could pray together?”

Anatole smiled, but it seemed to be more a look of pity than of relief. The guard, for his part, shook his head, and let Anatole’s hair go, “If that’s what your ladyship wants,” he said.

“Come,” said Anatole, rising uninterrupted, “Walk with me to the chapel.” He stood and- with an unusual amount of composure and grace, gestured for the guard to open the door so he could leave. He did not wait for Regina to catch up, meaning that she was forced to scurry after him, trailing behind him like a puppy at its master’s heels.

Chapter Text

Beckett’s previous rescue of someone from an asylum had been a simple affair. A dear friend of his- one Lucita de Aragon- had mentioned her history as a Spanish Princess slightly too loudly around the wrong people, and had as a consequence been admitted. It had, thankfully, been relatively easy to get her out. He had posed as a male relative of hers- they didn’t look that similar, but they had the same dark hair and odd mannerisms, so it managed to fool the staff- and had told her attendants that her family actually found her delusions to be quite charming, and that it would be a shame if they were to be ‘fixed’. She was released the same evening.

Parr’s plan was slightly more extravagant. Beckett was to disguise himself as a Swiss doctor- complete with accent- that wished to study English methods of containing the mad. Once inside, he was to give a signal to a pre-planted cat through a window, and distract the attending physician by offering a lecture on Swiss medical practices while Parr broke in and rescued Mrs Claremont.

“Why am I Swiss?” asked Beckett

“Good point,” said Parr, “I think you should be Russian, to really drive the point home.”

Beckett blinked, “I don’t know why you’ve decided that I have to…” he shook his head, “This does all seem to be a bit much.”

Parr shrugged, “You got a better idea?”

“We could just… ask to see her?”

And so they did.

There had been some querying from the staff as to why they wished to visit at such a late hour, but Beckett had conquered this meagre resistance with a roll of his eyes, and an off-hand comment about how French asylums weren’t this invasive about the habits of the sane.

They were quickly directed to the office of the doctor in charge of the place, who- thankfully- was apparently only just beginning to pack up for the night. Parr shot Beckett a nervous glance, and whispered to him as they walked.

“What if they get me?” he asked

Beckett raised an eyebrow, “I don’t follow.”

“If they figure out that I’m doo-lally.”

Beckett shrugged, “Then we inform them that you are, in fact, spectacularly rich- that you’re an eccentric, not a madman.”

Parr frowned, “Will that work?”

“It generally works for me.”

The doctor’s office itself was horribly grim- at least if you understood the context in which it existed in. It looked like most other studies- there was a desk and a series of filing cabinets, and the doctor’s medical degree had been framed and hung up in pride of place on the wall behind where he sat. It was the skulls that caught Beckett’s eye- one on the desk, a fair few on the bookshelf, one on the little table where the whisky decanter sat, one in the doctor’s hand. All of them were labelled, with different parts of the head named, along with their measurements.

“They’re from patients,” said the doctor, placing the skull in his hand down next to its twin on the desk, “The families of the mad so rarely want to give them a proper burial, so I give them- or, well, part of them- a home here. I find them fascinating.”

Parr, who had somehow managed to become paler than usual, cleared his throat, “I’m looking to see Joanna Claremont.”

The doctor frowned, continuing to speak to Beckett, “Do you really think it’s wise? To let a young lady in your charge who is clearly so unstable-”

“This is my employer.” said Beckett, firmly, “He was introduced to me as a man.”

“I… I see…” said the doctor, making a face. He turned to Parr, “She’s in the Rosemary Ward- it’s just down the corridor to the left, find one of the nurses if you get lost. In the meantime, I’d like to have a word with your manservant, if that’s alright?”

Parr didn’t answer verbally, but he did turn and stalk out of the doctor’s office, slamming the door behind him. The doctor sighed, once he was out of earshot, and turned to Beckett again.

“I appreciate that you may be going along with it simply to maintain your employment,” he said, “But it really isn’t healthy for a girl to dress like that.”

Beckett groaned, internally. It was going to be a long night.

The nurses had helped Jules, in a way. They were thinking loudly enough and cruelly enough about different patients in different areas that it was relatively easy to map out the physical layout of the buildings.

Joanna was held in the ward where they put the worst cases- the ones where the goal was more to keep them out of the way of the rest of society rather than helping them heal. Jules supposed it made sense. The letter that Galahad had found had mentioned a stabbing.

That had been the one little glimpse of joy that he’d managed to find out of all of this- the idea of Joanna being violent to someone was equally heartwarming and sexually appealing. He wondered if, when this was all over, he could get her to stab him a little bit. In a sex way, not a murder way- though if he was being honest he wouldn’t blame her for attacking him after he’d gotten her so deep into this. There was a horrible part of him that hoped that it would be both.

“She appears to have a classic case of what I tend to call anti-sex dementia.” said the doctor, grimly.

Beckett laughed, “Excuse me? I believe that what he does in the bedroom is none of-”

“-It is a syndrome,” continued the doctor, “Wherein the sufferer completely rejects the assigned sex role of either themself or one who they are intimate with. It is typical among sodomites, for instance, who tend to project womanhood onto the men they are defiling.”

Beckett decided not to think about how the doctor would process his whole gender situation, and decided to press on, “As I have said, doctor, Mr Parr is a man.”

The doctor shook his head, “And yet, my friend, she displays characteristics that are typical of womanhood. Even disregarding her physical body, she does not have the intellectual rigour expected of gentlemen. She stormed out and slammed my door after I mentioned- quite reasonably- that I was concerned that she was unstable. That level of hysteria-”

“-That level of irritation is perfectly understandable as a reaction of a sane person who has been falsely accused of insanity.”

Joanna seemed, all things considered, to be doing relatively well for herself. She didn’t have the marks of lobotomy or electro-shock therapy on her head or face, and her room was given a wide berth by the nurses. Her hair was down, and she wore the same white as the rest of the asylum patients, however her clothes were neat and well-kept, and her hands were unbound. She was reading when he opened the door- Jules couldn’t make out the title of the book from where he was stood, but it was good that she’d managed to maintain that privilege at least…

She looked up when she heard him enter, and raised an eyebrow, “What are you doing here?” she said, lowering her book.

“Breaking you out,” said Jules. He walked forwards, and moved to grab Joanna’s hand where it was resting on the arm of the chair she sat in, but she pulled it into her lap before he made contact.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Joanna, firmly.

Jules frowned, and stepped back a bit, “What- why?! It’s hell in here!”

“Exactly.” said Joanna, “There’s something horrible happening-”

“Yeah,” said Jules, “Fucked-up brain experiments- which I’m not letting happen to you. Now let’s-”

“Something worse than that.” said Joanna.

Jules couldn’t imagine much worse than people having bits of their brains lopped off, but Joanna sounded serious enough that he didn’t want to dismiss her.

“Listen,” said Joanna

And Jules listened.

The thing that had once been Mithras- sensing that he was being watched- bellowed in despair. He roared and wailed and banged at the walls- though he had long since learned that he was no longer strong enough to break through them. If only he had just a little more blood…

Desperate, he flung himself down to the floor, and groped around in the darkness for the remains of the kindred that his dear Annie had brought him. He shovelled the ash into his mouth, swallowing as much as he could before returning to wailing and banging. He knew he would not be heard by human ears, but if he was able to scream loudly enough, maybe the Malkavian would become distressed by what he heard, and leave Mithras in peace.

“But women ought not to behave like that-” said the doctor

“I don’t see how the way that women ought to behave is relevant to the discussion of the behaviour of a man-”

Jules’ jaw dropped open, “How did..?”

“I don’t know.” said Joanna, “I don’t know what it is, but I know that messing with here will mess with him.” She shook her head, “It’ll mess with the masquerade, Jules-”

“I’m the one who enforces the-”

“And that is exactly what my problem is.” She bowed her head and closed her eyes, “If any other kindred were to be discovered putting the masquerade in jeopardy over something frivolous, then-”

“They’d be killed.” said Jules, firmly, “There’s not much worse than-”

“Halesworth is the other Sherriff.” said Joanna, “And Halesworth is the one who organised what happened to Regina.”

Jules had to stop himself from retching. Halesworth wouldn’t do that to him, couldn’t do that to him, could he..?

“I’m not taking the risk, Jules.” said Joanna, “If it’s you or me that has to suffer then-”

“You don’t get to decide-”

Joanna scoffed, “You’re not brave enough to contradict me.”

“But if you look at the typical female skull shape-”

Parr burst back into the room, fists clenched and eyes stormy. Before Beckett could greet him, he marched up to the doctor, grabbed his hair, twisted his hair so that he met his gaze and said “Kill yourself.”

The doctor spluttered, “What- I- Why- What would you think I-”

“Fine,” said Parr, “You are six years old. It is past your bedtime. Your mother has forgotten to bring you a glass of milk, but you’re so tired, and you can’t keep your eyes open.”

The doctor blinked, heavily, “I’m so tired,” he said, “I can’t keep my eyes open.” He slumped out of Parr’s grip, and fell to the floor. A few seconds passed, and Beckett became concerned that he had hit his head, but after a while he began to snore loudly, and Beckett let out a quiet sigh of relief.

Parr crouched down by the doctor’s feet, removed his shoes, opened the window and tossed them out. He peered over the desk at Beckett, “Are there any valuables, do you think?”

“He’ll have a pocket watch.” said Beckett. He gave the room another quick glance over, “Some of the books might be of value, too. I take it your meeting with Joanna went-”

“She won’t leave,” said Parr, “Can’t leave.” He crouched back down by the doctor’s unconscious form, “Chuck the skulls out the window too?”

Beckett smiled, sadly, and began to collect the skulls, “And you’re going to leave her here?”

“I’ve put a watch on her,” said Parr, “But I’m hoping I can figure out some more about who got her put in here. If I can get them to say they were talking shit…” He stood, and Beckett saw the glint of a pocket watch disappearing up his sleeve, “Easiest way to do it, I figure.” He stepped over the doctor, and scurried over to the filing cabinet.

Beckett nodded, then turned back to his task. He threw the first skull out of the window, and it flew down into the darkness before shattering against the cobbles of the courtyard below- a spray of white against the black of the stones. He threw the second, then the third, and before he knew it he was standing by the window with empty hands, staring down at the fragments of bone several stories below him. He thought about saying a prayer, or doing something more secular to mark the laying to rest of the people whose bones had been graffitied on, but he decided against it.

“That’s weird…” said Parr

Parr had, while Beckett was busying himself with the skulls, taken a file with Joanna’s name on it from the cabinet and sat down on the doctor’s desk chair- his feet up on the desk- to read it. Beckett frowned, and peered over Parr’s shoulder to read the documents.

The page that Parr had opened the file to had the name ‘Lord James Blake’ printed on it in neat handwriting, along with an address. It seemed a little too good to be true.

“Do you think Joanna’s imprisonment is related to Lady Blake’s case?” asked Beckett

Parr shrugged, “Don’t know. Don’t particularly care- now we’ve got this-” he held the file aloft, “We can kill two birds with one stone.”

Beckett nodded. There was no point in not using the information, he supposed, though it gave him a terrible feeling. He knew that, if Anatole were here, he would tell Beckett to burn the file and not look back.

Chapter Text

The chapel reminded Regina of that unfortunate day at the Taurus club.

There was nothing inherent about the building that reminded her- in fact they were rather dissimilar, if anything. While the basement of the Taurus club had been large and grand, this chapel was small and simple- save for the few flairs that it kept to designate itself as Catholic, but they were old and poorly cared for. The stained glass window depicting the holy virgin and her baby was foggy, and there was a splatter of mud on the bottom few panes, and the altar cloth was faded- presumably from being washed repeatedly over the years.

No, the thing that reminded her of the Taurus club was the way that every eye on the room seemed to be on her.

She understood- in theory, anyway. She doubted any of these men had so much as seen a woman since their conviction, and they may never have seen a lady of her calibre in their lives. Still- it unnerved her, to have so many men stare at her, to be whispered about in French too crude and too rapid for her to understand.

She sat on the end of the front pew, with the guard next to her and Anatole next to him. She found herself wondering, again, why Anatole bothered with any of this. Even if he was determined to pass as one of the kine, one of the prisoners, surely he wouldn’t be missed at an evening church service?

But then Anatole raised his head, and the light of the candles by the altar reflected in his eyes, and Regina understood.

Anatole did not take the lead during the service. He did not preach, he did not give readings, and he only hummed quietly when hymns were sung. Yet still- he had a clear pull over the rest of the worshippers. All of them- prisoner and guard alike- stood when he stood, knelt when he knelt, and even followed his gaze to look at the various regalia around the church when he focussed on something in particular. Regina even caught herself listening more intently to certain words and phrases- even though the entire service was in latin and she didn’t understand a word of it. She wondered if those were the parts that Anatole liked the most.

As the service came to an end, she watched as Anatole knelt again, and all of the other prisoners, all of the guards, even the clergyman leading the service, all trailed out. After only a few minutes, the chapel had gone from a place of love and light to a dark, empty room, with only herself and Anatole left. Regina sat down next to where Anatole was kneeling, and opened her mouth to speak-

“You won’t get anything from him like that.”

Regina startled, and turned to look at the prison guard, who was lurking in the shadows by the chapel wall.

“It is very rude,” she said, quietly, “To speak about someone who is present as if they are not here.”

“But he’s not here,” said the guard. He walked up to Anatole and clicked his fingers in front of his face, looking to Regina when the vampire did not react, “See?”

Regina’s eyes widened, and she shuffled slightly away from the kneeling figure.

“This is what I wanted to avoid,” said the guard, “He gets like this, and stays there for hours, sometimes days. It makes my job very boring.”

“...Wouldn’t you prefer your job be boring? Given the nature of it…”

The guard scoffed, “I was in the army, once,” he said, “I liked that. Every day was different. But then- there’s things out there. Things like him.” he gestured to Anatole, “Things high up enough that once you find them out, you’re lucky if you can get out alive.” He shook his head, “I signed up here in the hope that I could stop them, save people, you know? That one of them would get caught. And look at what I’ve ended up with.” He shoved Anatole, and the unresponsive vampire crumpled down onto his side.

Regina nodded, “My father was similar,” she said, “He found a… He found something out there. A man- or something that looked like one- with eyes and claws like a beast-”

Anatole moved too quickly for Regina to process him sitting up, let alone him grabbing her by both shoulders and pulling her so she was looking into his strange, mad eyes. The only thing she could think to compare it to was the turning of pages in a picture book- on one page he was on the floor, on the next he was so close that she could hear it as he inhaled to speak.

“This man,” he said, “Do you know his name?”

Regina tried to wriggle out of Anatole’s grip, but the vampire was too strong, and she decided it was best to save her energy.

“My father’s name is Lord James-”

“The other one- the one with the eyes.”

“...I don’t know.” said Regina, puzzled, “I- I don’t know if he had one?”

“Then did you see him?” Anatole’s grip tightened on her shoulders, “What did he look like?”

“I don’t- I didn’t-” Regina swallowed. She wondered if- had it not been for the gift of Victoria’s blood- Anatole would have broken her bones by now.

“Because you might have brought him here,” said Anatole, “And if you have, then I cannot accept that.”

Regina frowned- confusion beginning to overtake fear in her mind, “I- I came alone?”

“That’s not what I-”

And then the guard struck Anatole again, and he crumpled down to the floor like wet paper. He lay there for a while, still and silent, and Regina stared at him, trying to piece together what had just happened.

“You alright?” asked the guard

Regina stared at him blankly, not knowing for sure how to answer.

“Come on,” said the guard, wrapping an arm around Regina’s shoulders, and leading her out of the pew, “I’ll get you a glass of brandy and something to eat, how’s that sound?”

Regina turned to look back at Anatole. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought that the guard had killed him.

“Don’t worry about him,” said the guard, “We’ll lock the chapel behind us. He won’t get to you.”

Regina opened her mouth to respond, but found that she couldn’t quite find the words that she wanted to say. She let the guard lead her out of the chapel, and away from the only chance she had at finding her mother.

Chapter Text

Mr Malcolm Seward had- as it turned out- seen something incredible.

Most of the visitors to Raoul’s pet idiots were idiots themselves- soldiers who had imagined the enemy as monstrous in the heat of battle, drink or drug-addled men who insisted that their wives or parents had grown fangs or claws as they had tried to remove the vice in question from the addict, and similar such stories. He had heard nothing convincing enough for him to re-frame his worldview.

And yet Seward’s story was… Sad. Raoul got the feeling that he wasn’t telling the self-professed vampire hunters the whole truth, yet there was some sort of honesty to how he told his story, to the gormless horror with which he described the corpses he’d seen, to the lack of heroism on his part, to the way that he- at the end of his tale- cried to the point where he was almost sick. It was at that point where Raoul- sick of listening and being unable to do anything, bustled off to the kitchen in the rectory to make the man a cup of hot cocoa.

Mr Seward was sitting in the front pew when he returned, still shivering, with tears still wet on his cheeks. He shook his head when Raoul offered him the cup, but Raoul- determined not to leave this man alone- simply shrugged, sat down next to him, and drank the cocoa himself.

Seward seemed disused to comfort. He stiffened when he realised that Raoul was not going to leave, and, after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, bowed his head down and began reciting the Lord’s prayer, in English, loudly. When he had finished that, he coughed, twice, and recited it again, before stumbling through what Raoul guessed was a schoolboy’s lunchtime prayer.

Raoul, trying not to laugh, put his empty cocoa mug on the pew next to him, and placed a hand on Seward’s shoulder.

“I will pray for you?” he said, in French.

Seward frowned, “Pray..?” he repeated, seeming not to understand what he was saying.

“Pray.” said Raoul, firmly, clasping his hands together and bowing his head in demonstration.

“I see,” said Seward, in English, “If you must.”

Raoul tutted, good naturedly, and placed his hand on Seward’s shoulder.

“Oh Lord,” he said, to the large cross above the altar, “Grant your light to your child Malcolm Seward, so that he may find direction, love, and light. May he be kept safe from that which he fears, and may he find comfort under your protection.”

He paused, and bowed his head, trying to let the words sink in.

“Is that all?” asked Seward, somewhat stupidly

Raoul scoffed, and stood, “Where do you sleep tonight?” he asked

Seward blinked at him

Raoul sighed, and made a complicated series of gestures that he hoped conveyed the point.

“I- Ah- no.” said Seward, still in English “I… I didn’t think I’d get this far, really”

Raoul stared at Seward for a moment. He considered- for a moment- sending him back out onto the streets. He wasn’t- technically- Raoul’s problem. But then again, Raoul would probably feel guilty if he heard that Seward had died, and there was space in the rectory.

Raoul pulled Seward to his feet, and led him out of the church building. He wasn’t going to let this boy kill himself out of melancholy stupidity.

“What do we think then, Jacob?” said Thomas, the taller of the two vampire hunters, “He sounded like he was full of it to me.”

“I don’t know, Thomas,” said Jacob, the vampire hunter with an eyepatch, “It’s at least an entertaining story. Besides- what’s the worst that could happen? We help some poor sod find his flighty fiancee? That sounds like honest work to me. Besides- he’s a friend of Blake-”

“Ah, Blake can go fuck himself.” said Thomas, “He still owes me a tenner.”

“Still,” said Jacob, “Blake sent him here. That’s got to mean something, right? Maybe the crown’s finally starting to take us seriously…”

“Ah, the crown can go fuck itself,” said Thomas, “They still owe me a good two weeks wages.”

Jacob opened his mouth to say something rude, but decided against it. Now Paul had abandoned them, Thomas was all he had left. If he slagged him off now, he’d have nobody who actually took him seriously, and he’d probably be returned to the asylum within the week. Prolonged confinement made him surprisingly able to put up with the worst in people.

“I’m just saying,” said Thomas, “That we have to think about what he’s saying on its own merit.”

The rectory was small, but there was a spare room for the clergy’s relatives to visit. Raoul kept it clean- in case a member of the congregation had a short term housing problem- but it hadn’t been used since he had formally taken over the parish. It was a small, cold room, with stone walls and a bare wooden floor, but it was better than the streets.

Seward looked over it with an expression of barely disguised disgust, but he put his bag down and nodded vigorously when Raoul looked over to him.

“Thank you,” he said, then, “I’m sorry, ah, merci.”

Raoul nodded. He indicated himself, and then gestured upstairs.

Seward frowned, “I… You’re upstairs? You… You want me to go upstairs, I..?”

Raoul threw up his hands, and gave in, “If you need anything,” he said, “I will be in my room. Which is upstairs.”

Seward’s eyes bulged, “Wait,” he said, “You- You speak English? You’ve always spoken English?”

Raoul nodded

“Then- What- Why-”

Raoul studied Seward. He debated coming clean, telling him that he was living a life of wonder vicariously through the vampire hunters, but he didn’t want them to find him out. He debated pretending to be some kind of vampiric thrall, just to mess with Seward.

“It is presumptuous,” said Raoul, deciding on cowardice, “To travel to a country where a language other than your own is spoken, and insist on speaking your mother tongue there.”

Seward blinked at him, “But I don’t speak French.”

“Then I do not speak English. Good day Mr Seward.” said Raoul, leaving Seward to bluster alone in his room.

Chapter Text

The guard had led Regina to the kitchen of the prison. He’d barked orders in aggressive, rapid French to the guard that seemed to be on duty, and sat her down on a wooden chair in the corner of the room.

“My name,” said the guard, sitting down opposite her, “Is Paul Dupont. I intend to be your friend while you are here.”

Regina had no idea how to communicate to Dupont that he had, in fact, frightened her. She nodded, slowly, and reached for Victoria’s blood, hoping that the same power that had seduced the man on the train would be able to calm Dupont somewhat.

Dupont did not calm, but he did soften slightly, “My colleague’s made you a cup of tea,” he said, holding his hand up for a mug that the other guard held out to him, “I’m sure it’s nothing like you’re used to, but I imagined that you’d want some kind of home comfort after… After that.” He held out the mug to her.

Regina took the tea from him, and drank greedily. It was hot and sweet- closer to sugar water than anything that she’d had before, but it did calm her nerves somewhat. She finished the cup too quickly, and held the empty vessel awkwardly in her lap as she turned to look at Dupont, “I’ve met a Malkavian before,” she said, quietly, “He was very nice. He was nothing like that…”

Dupont nodded, “They hide it well. If Anatole got cleaned up, you wouldn’t know he was mad from passing him on the street.”

Regina nodded, “Still- you understand that I have no other choice.”

“Well that’s not quite true, is it?” said Dupont

Regina frowned, “I- I beg your pardon?”

“It’s not too late, you know. I’ve got contacts- if you wanted, I could get you on a ship back to England by sunrise. You could leave your- What is it you’re actually trying to do?”

“I’m trying to find my mother,” said Regina, looking down into the emptiness of the teacup.

“You could leave your mother to her fate, and go back home. Go pick up the scraps of your life, and move on.” he shrugged, “It’s what I would have done, if I had the choice.”

Regina thought about that. She thought about returning home to an absent Joanna, a drunkard of a father, and a fiance who…

She supposed that there was, somewhere, a woman who could have done it. Who returned home with good cheer in her heart, found Joanna, helped her father out of the bottle, and pulled herself together enough to marry Malcolm. She doubted, however, that she was that woman. With Joanna’s support, she could maybe drag her father out of his stupor, and with the knowledge that she would have Joanna as a sister, she could force herself into Malcolm’s marriage bed, but she had no clue where Joanna might be. Then there was the question of Parr- he clearly had some kind of stake in the matter- when Joanna was considered, at least- and she doubted that he would let her withdraw entirely. Perhaps he would even hurt her, as Anatole had attempted to, if she tried to take Joanna from him.

And then there was the question of her mother. She may not have wanted it for herself- she may not even have considered the possibility- but there was no way that Regina could just leave her to her fate. At the very least, she wanted to see her mother one last time, even just to apologise for the way that her own existence had ruined her mother’s life.

“It has been too late for a long time,” said Regina, despondently, “Maybe it is only the way that I am seeing things, maybe it is only the peculiarities of my circumstance, but I believe it was too late from the moment that I found my mother’s remains.”

Dupont studied Regina. He squinted at her, then tilted his head to the left, then to the right, then leaned forwards, “You fascinate me.” he said

Regina frowned, “How so?”

“You are a woman,” said Dupont, “And yet you have the guts and the head of a man. You chose to take on the investigation of your mother’s murder yourself. Still- you clearly have a woman’s heart. You speak kindly of Malkavians, and you pursue your mother even after a better option has been presented to you. I wonder how that came to be.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Regina.

There was silence, for a moment. The other guard, seemingly for lack of anything else to do, brought Regina another cup of tea, and removed her empty cup. She thanked him, quietly, and attempted to make eye contact with him in order to escape conversation with Dupont, but she could not catch his gaze. Feeling somewhat abandoned, Regina took a sip of the second cup of tea.

“Tell me,” said Dupont, “Are you a virgin?”

Regina spluttered, spitting her tea back into her cup, “I- I beg your pardon?!”

“I think you understand the question.”

“I- I-” Regina felt her cheeks grow red, “I am unmarried, sir!”

Dupont shook his head, “That’s not an answer.”

Regina felt her stomach drop. She suddenly wished that she was with Miss Vykos, or Mr Parr, or- hell- even her father. She bowed her head in shame.

“That will explain it then,” said Dupont, “A woman’s psychology changes after the hymen is broken. It is a-”

Dupont stopped suddenly, his eyes widening. He stared at a point slightly above Regina, an expression of horror on his face.

Regina turned, slowly, a knot in her stomach, only to find Anatole standing above her. She did not know if she was under the effect of her own presence, or if she had simply gone a little mad, but she found herself feeling rather calm with the Malkavian looming over her.

“This is enough,” said Anatole.

“Right- yes,” said Dupont, “I’ll take Lady Blake out of the-”

“Lady Blake sleeps here today,” said Anatole, “I will walk with her around the courtyard, and you will set up a cot in the records room. Am I understood.”

“I- Ah- Yes- I- Sorry- I-”

Anatole put his hand on Regina’s shoulder, then turned to walk out of the kitchen. Regina stood, quickly, and trotted after him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, “He’ll hit you later, I know it, and I don’t want you getting hurt on my-”

“Have you ever seen,” said Anatole, “A lapdog interact with a working dog?”

Regina blinked, “One of the little yappy things? We used to have one when I was a child- it hated my father’s hunting dog.”

“When something without power finds something that has power and does not use it, then it often becomes very insecure. If power is actually used against it, it will buckle quickly.” Anatole moved a clump of hair out of his face, “It’s quite simple.”

Regina looked at Anatole. She compared him, in her head, to the vampires that she had known. He did not have Victoria’s subtle command of situation’s, nor Miss Vykos’ undertone of violence, nor even Mr Parr’s sheer audacity. It was difficult for her to think of him as powerful.

And yet he was the only one who could help her, the only one who had the information she needed and the cunning to understand it. She wondered how many others had this exact relationship with him, how many relied on him to get their heart’s desire. She wondered if Dupont, too, was reliant on Anatole for something. She wondered what it was.

“I am sorry for his behaviour,” said Anatole, “I should have stepped in sooner.”

“I’m surprised that you were able to step in at all.” said Regina, “I thought he’d locked you away.”

“So did he.” said Anatole.

Regina waited for some further explanation, and when one wasn’t given, she decided to change the topic, “It wasn’t a problem, anyway,” she said, “He- he was right.”

Anatole shook his head, “You were delivered to me by Archbishop Vykos. Given their history, I made certain… Certain assumptions…” he shook his head, “It is my understanding that what happened to you was an attack.”

Regina’s stomach turned.

“Was I wrong?”

“Yes,” said Regina, “It was my fiance who- My virtue was always his to take.”

Anatole frowned, “But you didn’t want it?”

Regina had to stop herself from gagging, “I- I willingly walked there. I willingly undressed.”

Anatole looked at her in a way that Regina couldn’t quite read. She felt as if she was being scrutinised again, and she felt bile rise in her throat. She swallowed to stop herself from vomiting.

Eventually, Anatole shook his head, and turned away, “I won’t force you to think how I think,” he said, “But I worry for you.”

“You aren’t the first,” said Regina, quietly, “There is a Malkavian in London who tried to help me. It went rather poorly.”

Anatole laughed, “Perhaps it is his worry that I feel.”

Regina frowned, “I’m sorry?”

“Malkavians,” said Anatole, “Are connected. We feel each others’ emotions, think each other’s thoughts, and so on.”

Regina made a face, “Like ants?”

“Nothing so collective,” said Anatole, “We are individuals, we are just… We are aware.”

“Is that why- I’m sorry, may I ask-”

“Ask as you please,” said Anatole, “I care not for propriety.”

“Is that why you’re all mad?”

Anatole laughed, again, but it was quieter and sadder, “It is one theory.” He shook his head, “Regardless, you…” he shook his head, “You should consider what Paul said. About returning home, you mean.”

Regina shook her head, “I can’t. I can never…”

Anatole stopped, then placed his hand on Regina’s face. His palms were surprisingly soft, and his touch was gentle but firm, more the touch of an examining physician than that of a lover or a friend. He paused, staring into her eyes for a moment.

“Ah,” he said, turning away from Regina and beginning to walk again, “I imagine you think yourself almost lucky that your mother went missing.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Regina, beginning to walk after him, “But you- I won’t ask how but- you understand?”

“To a degree,” said Anatole. He frowned, “Though you could still abandon your quest. Archbishop Vykos could take you in.”

Regina considered a life with Miss- with Archbishop Vykos. She hadn’t known that women could become archbishops- but then again, she supposed it was some sort of vampiric title. She didn’t know much about the woman- but then again, she hadn’t known Victoria much before she’d plunged her into the world of darkness. But then again, look where that had gotten her…

“Truth be told, I barely know Archbishop Vykos,” said Regina, “I- We met at the Elysium and- I mean we- I-”

Anatole shook his head, “Still- it’s an option. They’re taking up residence in America, I believe.”

Regina had never even considered that vampires might want to go to America. It was such a young country that she hadn’t really imagined many people at all would want to go there.

“If they are clever, they will head to the capital,” said Anatole, “They will build a base there and use their influence to shape the country as it grows. It will be easy enough to find them there.”

Regina considered being alone in America. She almost preferred the idea of facing her father.

“I’m sorry,” said Regina, “But I must continue on my path.”

“I see,” said Anatole. He shook his head, “As you will. I will walk you to your room.”

Chapter Text

There was, apparently, a meeting in Raoul’s kitchen.

Raoul had not organised a meeting in his kitchen, nor had he agreed for someone else to hold one. Nobody had informed him that there would be a meeting, and he doubted that he had enough groceries in to host comfortably.

Nevertheless, the vampire hunters were huddled around his table. All four of them- the tall man, the eyepatch man, the policeman and Seward- had seemingly helped themselves to Raoul’s supply of tea and biscuits, as they pored over a very large plan of some kind of building, moving little paper tokens around and scribbling furiously in various notebooks.

Raoul, who was still in his nightgown, and had been angling for a cup of tea himself, took a moment to consider his reaction. On the one hand, he would have to buy more tea, and he wasn’t quite sure if he would have enough left in his stipend afterwards. On the other, this was a drastic turn of events. Not only had the policeman returned to the group, but they were making actual plans, in an actual location. Had they found an actual vampire..?

Raoul decided that it would be best to watch. He could demand the hunters replace his tea later.

“He’s a pacifist,” said the policeman, “In theory at least, so we should be able to subdue him easily. It’s the girl I’m worried about.”

“...She is formidable,” said Seward

“It’s you that’s formidable,” said the tall man, clapping Seward on the back, “Giving your girl to the cause like this.”

“I think,” said the policeman, “That we should move him once he’s paralysed,” he picked up one of the paper tokens and moved it across the map, “If he’s in one of the staff-only areas then it’ll be easy enough to do what we need to without him alerting one of the other prisoners.”

“What if we did something to stop him from crying out?” asked the eyepatch man, “Threaten him, or…”

The policeman shook his head, “It’s subconscious,” he said, “He doesn’t know he’s doing it.”

The eyepatch man scoffed, “That’s ridiculous!”

“It makes sense to me,” said Seward, quietly.

The eyepatch man fell silent, but a look of horror fell over his face. Raoul understood how he felt- if he were to accept this for a moment, to deny that it was all fantasy, then the idea that he could be controlled without knowing it, without the person doing the controlling knowing it, was more terrifying than he thought was possible.

“We’ll take him to the storeroom.” said the policeman, “It’s small and quiet, and easy to keep people away from. I’ll wake the girl up when everything’s in place, and bring her to the room. We’ll make sure she does what she needs to, and see what effect it has.”

“What if it doesn’t do anything,” said the tall man

The policeman shrugged, “Then we keep him paralysed until we find out what kills him. He’s been very gracious in giving us a test subject. The least we can do is give him a chance.”

There was a general murmur of agreement among the men.

Raoul felt a little sick. The man in question surely couldn’t be an actual vampire, could he? Had these men gathered in his kitchen to discuss the murder of an anaemic,

“Then what if it does work?” asked the man with the eyepatch, “What do we do with him then?”

“He must have friends,” said Seward, “The vampires in London worked in groups. He could lead us to his fellows.”

“It’s one thing to deal with one of the bastards in a space that we control,” said the policeman, “It’s quite another to manage a group of them in god knows where.”

“It’ll still be good to know where they are,” said the tall man, “Know who we can trust.”

“We’re set on a plan, then?” said Seward

“I’m happy with what we’ve got.” said the policeman, beginning to fold the map up, “If we’re all alright with it?”

Raoul scurried off, deciding that he’d heard enough. What had these men found? What would they do with it?

Regina had pulled her cot against the door. She knew it was locked, but she was not the only one who had the key, and she did not want to put that level of trust in a man like Dupont.

This did, however, mean that she was awoken by her bed shaking violently as someone tried to open the door. She toppled off of the cot and onto the cold stone below her, and scrambled behind the writing desk before she’d had the chance to register the pain.

Dupont managed to get the door open after a few solid shoves. He noticed Regina almost immediately- she hadn’t really had much time to hide herself. He raised an eyebrow at her, curiously, then approached her, shaking his head.

“He’s under lock and key, you know.” he smiled, unpleasantly, and offered his hand out to Regina, “Worse than that now.”

Regina, not seeing another option, reached up and took his hand.

“What’s going on?” she asked, trying to exaggerate the tremor in her voice. She hoped, distantly, that he saw her as pathetic enough that he wouldn’t hurt her.

“Me and a few of my colleagues,” said Dupont, beginning to tug her out of the room and through the corridors of the prison, “Have had an idea for an experiment.”

Regina, clad in only her chemise and suddenly very aware of the cold of the prison hallways, tried to tug away from Dupont. When he simply held her hand tighter, she cleared her throat, “I’m sure it is all fascinating,” she said, “But will you not allow me a moment to dress myself.”

“You see, Lady Blake,” said Dupont, readjusting himself so that his arms were around Regina’s shoulders and he was frogmarching her through the hallways, “Anatole and his ilk purport that they are dead, yes?”

Regina swallowed. She tried to make herself heavy, to slip out of Dupont’s grasp, but he merely gripped her tighter.

“And yet,” said Dupont, “They walk. They breathe. They pray. Surely you see the contradiction.”

There was a great whispering, and Regina realised that they were approaching the cells for the convicts. She looked to them through the bars as they walked past them, trying her best to plead without speaking, but they just stared at her- seemingly half confused and half pitiful.

“So the question is,” said Dupont, “How far does this contradiction go? Obviously there is something supernatural going on- I don’t imagine Anatole a pretender- but there must be some way to harness it for good. If we were to create a vampire that was purely loyal to Queen Victoria- for instance- would that not be a brilliant thing?”

Regina thought of the military men in the Taurus Club. She thought of the words of the soldier’s lot that she had overheard before Malcolm had done what he had done. She thought of how Victoria had defined the Camarilla- as an organisation made for the good of the world. She felt as if she was going to be sick.

“Now Anatole himself is too fickle,” said Dupont, “He’s too old- had too much time to establish himself. Plus he’s mad. No, he wouldn’t do as a weapon. But if we could get him to impregnate a woman…”

“Mr. Dupont.” said Regina, sharply, “I am engaged to be married. If you are implying what I think you are then there is no possible way that I could be involved in your… In your little scheme.”

“Oh don’t worry,” said Dupont, smiling broadly, “I’ve managed to get consent from the relevant parties.”

Regina gaped, more genuinely confused than shocked at this point, but then they turned the corner, and began to walk down a row of empty cells. At the far end, three men were gathered. Two she didn’t recognise- one was unusually tall, and one had an eyepatch- but the third was unfathomably, horrifyingly familiar.

“Hello Regina,” said Malcolm.

Chapter Text

Gareth had but a few drops of vitae left in him.

It was enough to keep him alive, but it was a slow, terrible existence. Hunger and thirst had begin to dig their claws into him, and while the dull throbbing pain of the meat hook had long since stopped registering to him, the exhaustion of being in constant agony was beginning to take it’s toll. Add to that the fact that he didn’t dare sleep. He didn’t think he would have been able to, but he’d dozed off about a week into his stay here, and he’d been rewarded with a hot poker applied to the sole of his foot.

“Have you done much research into Emma Blake’s husband?” asked Beckett, as Jules gave him a hand up into the cab.

Jules shrugged. He hadn’t seen much need to- Blake left Elysium before he’d become Sheriff, and while her daughter had certainly been something, he’d trusted Joanna far too much to bother looking into Lord Blake himself.

“She hates him, I think.” he said, as he settled down into his seat, “Or at least she’s worried he’ll hurt her. That’s what she said to the daughter.”

Beckett nodded, “Poor woman.”

Jules hadn’t really thought of it like that. He’d been too busy trying to figure out the plot, then too busy trying to get Regina out of the fire, then too busy trying to… He supposed he should pity her really, despite it all.

He reached back, and knocked on the glass separating himself from the cab driver. He supposed it was time to see for himself.

Today, Lord Blake had taken one of the whips meant for his coachman’s horses, and whipped him until his back was cut open. Gareth had, quite honestly, barely noticed- it seemed his lordship had forgotten that he was whipping over layers of scarring from knife cuts, and burns from oil poured over him, and that all this had been done to skin that had long since been pushed to the very brink by hunger and exhaustion.

And so, Gareth hung there, lifeless, swaying slightly in response to the strikes. The whole procedure really seemed to be hurting Lord Blake more than it was hurting him- he really shouldn’t be using his shoulders like that at his age.

It was that thought that really got through to Gareth, after all that. It wasn’t the concern for Lord Blake- far from it- it was merely the realisation that if he had had that thought a week ago, he would have voiced it aloud to Lord Blake, to watch his reaction. Now, he did not even have the energy to laugh to himself. He found himself sinking into a new depth of pity for Emma- the poor thing had to deal with this man for years, with only the knowledge of an eventual gorey demise to keep her sane. How had she lived like that?

“I'm not getting out of here.” Said Gareth, quietly.

Lord Blake stopped whipping him, “What?”

“I'm not getting out of here,” said Gareth, “You're going to kill me.”

“Yes?” Said Lord Blake, “That's the idea, anyway.”

“Will you return my body to my family?” Asked Gareth, his voice taking on a strange raspy quality

“And subject you to the same fate as my wife?” Lord Blake shook his head, “I will cremate you, and spread your ashes somewhere discreet.”

“Right.” Said Gareth, his mouth dry, “Right.”

Gareth had not expected to live long after Emma had completed her task. He had nursed a quiet hope that the Tremere would set Lion’s Green alight once Mithras had passed, and let all the Ducheskis burn down with it. It would, at the very least, be a pretty death. Elanor had told him, once, that he was not to kill himself after Emma had gone, but that had done nothing but put the idea in his head.

He had never thought that he would die in a place like this, in a basement, naked and bleeding, far away from everyone he loved. If he were to look at it objectively he would suppose it wouldn’t matter much- he’d more than played his part, and everything was in place now.

Still, it stung. He didn’t want to die before Emma. He didn’t want to give this man the satisfaction of killing him, or suffer the final, terrible humiliation of having his body dumped in a gutter somewhere.

He gathered what little vitae he had left within him, and held it close to his heart. He didn’t quite have a plan yet, but he would make one, and he would get out of here, and he would see Emma and Elanor one last time.

“Penny for your thoughts?” asked Beckett

Parr had been uncharacteristically silent for the entire drive, staring out the window with dark, unfocussed eyes rather than going off on one to Beckett about acting or cats or Camarilla drama. It wouldn’t have concerned him normally- the kindred were fickle creatures, Malkavians doubly so- but he had not quite yet moved on from finding Parr unresponsive on the floor.

Beckett was not normally the type to care about such things as suicides, but he supposed that Parr had brought out a strange sort of fondness in him. The man was- unusually for a sheriff- focussed on the actual good of those in the city he policed, rather than looking out for his own needs, or following the whims of the prince. A crueller man might have chalked this up to the man’s madness, but Beckett chose to take it at face value. It made sense that some people might want to do some good in the world.

Which made Parr’s suicidal impulses all the more tragic, Beckett supposed.

“There’s something horrible waiting for us at the end of all this,” said Parr.

Beckett nodded, “I felt it too.”

Parr raised an eyebrow, “You sure you’re not Malkavian?”

Beckett laughed, “Perhaps,” he said, “I have earned myself an honorary sort of madness.”

Parr nodded, seriously, “I’d co-sign on that one.”

Beckett’s laughter tapered off. He didn’t really want to think too hard about that. He cleared his throat, resolving to change the subject, “What do you think it is?” he asked, “That we’re moving towards.”

“Death.” said Parr, simply

Beckett couldn’t really argue with that.

It hurt more when Lord Blake stopped whipping him.

When the pain was active, he at least had a focus- something to guard himself against. Without the strikes, he was left alone with his injury. It took him an age to pull himself out of it. He felt as if he was being dragged down, dragged towards something worse.

Lord Blake had left him to hover near the door to the basement, talking to a servant who eyed Gareth with caution. By the time Gareth was paying attention, they had mostly finished their conversation, but he managed to catch a few words at least. Something about an unfamiliar carriage, with an unfamiliar man, and an unfamiliar woman. Gareth scoffed internally. Perhaps the Tremere had sent someone to clean up the mess he’d caused. He wondered if they’d get to him, or if Lord Blake would somehow find a way to kill him first.

There was a face watching them from the window of Lord Blake’s manor. Jules stuck his tongue out at them, and they pulled the curtain shut, covering themselves again.

“They know we’re here.” he said to Beckett, as the other man paid the cat on the driver’s lap with a generous quantity of dried meat.

Beckett made a discontented noise, “You don’t think it’ll be a simple visit, then?”

“I think this is the end of something.” said Jules, “I think this is where someone dies.”

Chapter Text

Emma Blake looked up from the book she was reading and stalked over to the window, flinging it open.

It was raining, and yet she knew, somehow, that she ought to be wet. A crack of lightning struck one of the fields that the train was running past, and yet she knew, somehow, that she ought to be watching it with her bare eyes rather than through the glass.

Aunt Eleanor looked up from her embroidery to squint at Emma, “You are alright?”

“Something horrible is happening,” whispered Emma, “The worst possible thing.”

Anatole was sprawled in the far corner of the cell, limbs a tangle around his body. He was naked, save for the heavy brass crucifix around his neck. There was a solid oak stake stuck solidly in his chest, and yet there was very little blood around him.

It was Dupont who shoved her into the cell with the creature, but it was Malcolm who closed the door behind her. Regina turned, and tried to squirm her way out, but Dupont held the door closed as Malcolm turned the key.

“It will be better for everyone involved,” said Malcolm, “If you co-operate.”

“The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be finished,” said Dupont. He smiled at Regina, probably trying to be reassuring, but the gesture only made her skin crawl.

Regina looked over her shoulder at Anatole. He didn’t look like a thing that she might willingly consider having sex with- in fact he didn’t look like anything she might find palatable at all. He was dirty- without the protection of his prisoner’s garb Regina could see how the filth had worked its way into his skin. He was injured- she couldn’t tell at a first glance, but the bones in his arms and his face were resting in ways that they shouldn’t be able to. Worst of all he wasn’t responsive. His eyes lay open and he stared blankly at the ceiling. He did not react to Regina’s presence in the cell- less still the men outside it.

Victoria had no pulse when she slept, but she was always careful to arrange herself delicately. To close her eyes and rest her hands just so, so that nobody would suspect her true nature. Regina had not seen Anatole sleeping, but looking at him now she was reminded more of the pile of flesh that her mother had left behind than a body at rest.

“And if I refuse?” she said, “What then?”

“Then we leave you here,” said Malcolm, “Without food or water.”

“-Until you perform the task, of course.” added Dupont, smiling, “We’ll leave someone to watch, to make sure you begin, but we fully intend to make sure they turn away during the act itself. We’re not animals.”

It had been somewhat of a shock for Malcolm to treat her so cruelly. It made some sense in hindsight- he had never exactly been kind to her- but it wasn’t exactly making the experience any more pleasant. Dupont’s kindness- if one could even call it that- wasn’t helping either. She rather felt as if she was a child that had done something that she didn’t understand as being wrong.

“The stake,” said Regina, clumsily, “It’s not killed him, has it? Mr P- A friend told me that it doesn’t kill the Cainites to be.. If I remove it, he’ll wake up, won’t he?”

“Yes,” said Dupont, “but I wouldn’t advise it. He’s been fasting- if he wakes then he’s likely to go into a frenzy. He’ll drink you dry.”

Regina considered the prospect. She did not really want to die, even considering the alternative. She had to see her mother one last time, before it all ended.

Regina sat on the cold stone floor for a moment, considering her options.

There was a wailing somewhere deep in the asylum

Joanna knew that she shouldn’t be able to hear it, but it seemed to be calling to her in particular. She knew that it was probably trying to call to Jules- or to his blood at least. She opened the window, and clicked her tongue at the cat that had been sitting on the sill since Jules had left- a scraggly little ginger thing with a notch taken out of its ear. It tried to pretend it didn’t notice her- instead committing itself more solidly to washing its paws, but it looked up at Joanna when she sighed and folded her arms.

“Come now,” she said, “There’s no point in us pretending. We might as well wait this out together.”

The cat made a loud harrumphing noise in protest, but it did slip through the window and move to settle on Joanna’s lap. It sat still for a moment, before the wailing started again, and it headbutted Joanna’s hand, lightly. Joanna laughed, and gave the cat a scratch behind the ears.

The wailing grew louder, and Joanna sighed.

“Something horrible is happening,” she said, “Perhaps the worst possible thing.”

Regina paced, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. She considered Anatole. She considered Malcolm. She considered dashing her own head against the wall.

She turned to look at Malcolm, narrowing her eyes.

“Why?” she said, “Why this? Why me? If you wanted to break the engagement, you could have just said!”

He could not have just said, she knew that. She highly doubted that her father would have permitted a peaceful cessation of their union without some kind of risk to Malcolm’s career, or at least to his future prospects. She reasoned, however, that locking her in a prison cell and forcing her to make love to a vampire was not exactly the most reasonable next step.

“I don’t want to break the engagement.” said Malcolm, sharply, “I just imagine your father will be quite concerned when we do not bear a child.”

Regina spluttered, “What?”

“These men needed a woman to impregnate, and I find you so repulsive that I know I could never force myself to have sex with you. Our agendas aligned quite neatly.”

Regina gaped, and looked at Malcolm for a moment. Then it hit her- he didn’t know, did he. He thought he’d fucked some unnamed whore and then killed her. Her face had been covered, and he didn’t know her well enough to recognise her voice. He didn’t realise the full extent of what he had done to her- hell, he didn’t even realise a portion of it.

Despite herself, Regina threw her head back, and laughed.

Mithras groaned, and writhed, and tried his best not to hit his head against the wall.

He was always surprised by how much fate hurt.

It was like a cord had been tied to the very centre of his spine, and being yanked and twisted until all of his innards were pulled out with it, coiled in a long neat thread. He wondered, half hysterical, what part of the tapestry he would be this time.

Perhaps he would be something that would end it all.

He collapsed, shaking, on the pile of rags and woodchips that had once been his bed. Anne had stopped replacing them after he’d destroyed the third in his frenzied hunger, and so he’d grown used to nesting in the remains.

He knew, somehow, that someone, somewhere, was in the same boat- locked away somewhere by someone much lesser than themselves. He wondered if he ought to feel pity for them, but he realised quite quickly that that was ridiculous, and that he should probably be incredibly jealous instead.

Something, at least, was going to happen to them.
Even if it was the worst possible thing.

“Very well,” said Regina, coming back to herself, “I’ll do as you ask.”

Dupont smiled, his shoulders relaxing slightly, “Thank you, Regina. I knew you’d come to understand.”

Malcolm scoffed, and shook his head, “I won’t watch this,” he said, and he turned to walk away.

Regina turned, and began to walk towards Anatole. She began to tremble, but she didn’t let her fear stop her. She knew what she needed to do.

She leaned down over him, her loose hair falling onto his face, and the smell of mud and blood filling her senses.

A bolt of lightning struck slightly too near the train window, sending Emma flying back into the train cabin.

The cat stood on Joanna’s lap, yawned, and hopped off onto the floor, before sauntering over to the cot in the corner of her cell and settling itself there.

For the first time in centuries, Mithras was still. He blinked, wetly, and shook his head.

“Dammit girl.” he said, “What the hell are you trying to do?”

Regina reached down, taking one last moment to steel herself, and removed the stake from Anatole’s chest.

He lunged forwards, grabbing onto her, his teeth digging into her neck. Regina cackled, beyond hysterical, letting the vampire consume her.

It was not, all things considered, a horrible way to die.

Chapter Text

Jules and Beckett had stood outside Lord Blake’s door for what must have been millenia by this point. Nobody had answered when they knocked, and they’d not seen any activity when they peeked through the windows.

“Of course he’s out now.” scoffed Jules, “D’you think he knew?”

Beckett shook his head, “I’m not so sure. There’s a smell…”

“Yeah,” said Jules, “There’s lots of smells-”

“Blood, faeces, and sweat.” Beckett grimaced, “Someone’s being tortured. They have been for a long time. I don’t think he’s avoiding us, I think he’s avoiding everyone.”

Jules swallowed. Technically speaking, it wasn’t his job to morally police Londoners, especially not the Kine. And yet, would he have been lead here, with someone who could figure out what was happening, if he wasn’t meant to find out?

He turned to Beckett, “You think we can break a window?”

Beckett shook his head, “No need.”

He took a few paces, crouching behind a bush that hid him from the view of the road. His body dissolved into mist, and rose up, pushing through the decorative little holes in the ventilation. Jules stared, trying to guess the path that the mist would have to take in order to make its way through the town house, becoming so distracted that he nearly missed Beckett opening the door from the inside.

“Shall we?” asked Beckett, gesturing to the darkened hallway leading further into the house.

Lord Blake’s servants seemed, paradoxically, to be afraid of Gareth.

There were only two left now- most had sought alternative employment when the smell of his body got too significant to ignore. The first was the butler, who Gareth supposed was far too invested in his master’s madness to leave now. The second was a scullery maid- who had apparently been temporarily promoted to cook, given the state of her apron- who Gareth doubted had anywhere else to go.

They both stood as far away from him as was physically possible, the butler holding one of Lord Blake’s weapons of torture protectively.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like when you go to the butcher’s…” said Gareth, breathlessly. He took a moment to laugh at his own joke, before the sound caught in his throat, and he descended into a fit of choking.

“We know what you are,” said the butler, waving the wrong end of the torture implement in Gareth’s direction, “And we won’t let you hurt us!”

Gareth’s eyes slipped closed. He didn’t have the energy to retort properly, not when whoever had broken in probably wanted to make him answer for his failures. He let out a sigh, and stopped listening to the butler’s ramblings. At the very least, he had been granted a moment to rest, and he was going to take advantage of that as best as he could.

Beckett had taken wolf form- mostly to save himself the indignity of crawling around on his hands and knees while in the shape of a man- and had begun to try to trace it. Parr hadn’t exactly told him to, but given the man’s reaction to the information, he supposed the source was at least worth looking for.

And yet even with his heightened senses, he made no headway. The smell seemed to at once be coming from the kitchen and from the dining room, and perhaps the library as well. It was odd, and overwhelming, and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

That was until Parr, who had been watching him carefully, strode forwards, and made a declaration.

“We’re on top of it.”

Ah, well. That would do it.

The cellar door was easy enough to find. There was no attempt to hide it behind a bookshelf or such like, and the kitchen was dirty enough that the marks on the floor from the door being opened regularly stuck out like a sore thumb. When Parr opened the door, Beckett’s hackles instinctively raised, the fur on his neck standing on end.

There was a staircase leading downwards- dark enough that even Beckett, with his enhanced vision, was having trouble seeing. He stood close to Parr, only moving forwards when the Malkavian’s hand gripped the fur at the back of his neck.

The stench got worse as they descended, to the point where it became almost unbearable about halfway down the staircase. Beckett had to stop, and retake human form, dulling it to a manageable level. He sat down heavily on the staircase, and took a moment to draw a handkerchief from his pocket, and cough and splutter into it.

Parr placed a hand on his back- though the touch was light, almost as if he was nervous.

“You gonna be alright?”

Beckett shook his head, “It’s too late to worry about that now. It’s not like I can get ill.”

“Still…” Parr sat down heavily on the stairs, “We could come back? Report it to the kine’s police, see if it’s mundane, move on from there?”

Beckett sighed, and sat down next to him, “Then what? It gets escalated to you anyway and we don’t have a chance to explore on our own.”

“I’m just saying…” Parr swallowed, “There’s something horrible down there.”

Beckett raised an eyebrow, “I’d deduced that one-”

“No- Like…” He closed his eyes, “Like when someone’s told you a character dies in a book, but you read it anyway, because maybe they were wrong, or maybe it’ll be different this time. It’s like that, but real. Like that, but for us.” He began to bite at his nails.

Beckett closed his hand around Parr’s, “But it hasn’t happened yet, has it?” He smiled, though he doubted Parr could see it, “Maybe it will be different this time. Who’s to say?”

Parr went to respond, but Beckett didn’t let him, instead tugging him to his feet and beginning to make his way down the staircase instead. It would be better to face this thing- whatever it was- head on, then try to get away from it and have it devour them.

And yet, the voices that spoke from the other side of the door were normal. The footsteps were quiet and tentative, and the conversation was hushed, as if the two who had approached were afraid.

This was not the Tremere.

The Tremere would have- no doubt- sent down a fireball before they sent people. It would have been an undignified death, but a quick one, and Gareth had spent a not insignificant amount of time coming to terms with the idea. For the level of blunder that he had committed, it was definitely a fate that he deserved- it was perhaps even kinder than that.

But then that begged the question- who was coming down the stairs?

It was likely not the kine. Even if Lord Blake’s neighbours had noticed the smell coming from his cellar, they were more likely to label him an eccentric and shun him at parties than actually do anything about it. Besides, the butler had mentioned a woman.

Blake might have angered the local kindred, he supposed. He wasn’t exactly a subtle man, and while Gareth’s disappearance was unlikely to have raised any alarm bells, there would always be something else absurd that he could have done.

But then why would they come down here? And why so slowly? Surely the done thing would be to quickly search the place for the good Lord himself, or- better still- set a fire in the kitchen and run. That would be what he would have done, in their position. There was no point in searching the basement, even if they noticed the smell. There was nothing down here worth finding.

Perhaps it was just kids on a dare. Some young servants who’d heard a rumour and wanted to prove their worth. It seemed the most likely conclusion- kids wouldn’t want to burn the place down, and it made sense that someone who wasn’t aware of what was truly happening would be nervous on that staircase. Plus, it was a boy and a girl. It would make sense that one would want to impress the other, or that they’d broken in for the thrill of it- to add to the excitement of a romantic encounter.

Gareth laughed to himself. It would mean that there would be no end to his torment, but it would be funny to see the looks on the kids’ faces when they realised what they had found.

The butler braced himself- putting himself between the door and the maid- as the footsteps grew closer.

And then Jules opened the door, and the cobweb began screaming.

It had seen horrors before- seen myriads of them- but it was always terrible to see something new. It was terrible to see how clean the floor was compared to the man hanging far above it. It was terrible to see the wound in the man’s shoulder- the meat hook piercing him in a very precise spot so as not to nick any veins and have him bleed out. It was terrible to see the wounds, especially the ones on the inside of his legs, where his waste had trickled over them and made them swell and fester. It was terrible to see the two servants in the corner, more terrified of the man on the hook than they were of Jules.

He didn’t scream himself, instead standing in the doorway and gaping. The cobweb roared in his head- a great sea of voices trying to form a wave so it could crash ashore. Jules tried to fight it, tried to keep from being swept up in it, but it was too much too quickly. He stumbled into the room, holding up a hand to the man on the hook, feeling the same way as he had when he had tried to catch the sun as a child.

“How does it feel?” he asked, in a voice that didn’t belong to him.

The sheriff of London- for even Gareth recognised the sheriff of London, even if he didn’t know her name- reached up to him, reverently.

It was not what Gareth had expected. He had prepared himself for death, for pain, for humiliation. He did not want to look at a girl who was so much smaller than him, who reminded him- even just a little- of Emma, and tell her the truth of what was happening to him.

“It’s- It’s alright,” he whispered, “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

She shook her head, “And yet still- I want to know.”

Gareth swallowed, looking into her large, empty eyes.

When Emma had been very young, she’d killed a mouse by accident. There had been an infestation, and she’d stepped on the poor creature’s head in the heavy shoes that Elanor had made both of them wear to avoid being bitten. Gareth, as the elder and wiser child, had taken her in his arms, and wiped away her tears with his sleeves.

“Everything dies, Emma.” he’d said, “They’re tiny creatures, and it’s a big world. A quick death at the hands of someone who didn’t mean to is probably the best thing that could happen to it.”

“But it must have been scared,” said Emma, “It must have been so scared, and it knew it couldn’t do anything…”

Gareth wondered if the sheriff would let him take her into his arms, and quiet her as he passed.

“It feels right,” he said, solemnly, “It feels like destiny.”