THE EMBRACE
"Do you have to enter?" he asked, almost whispering into the phone with anticipation and fear.
"I have to." Her reply was sure, with a soft undertone of forgiveness to it. He knew things she would know soon, he knew the prices she would pay and the pain she would go through. He knew it wasn't worth it. But she also knew this, and she knew what had to be done. This was her calling.
After a long pause, "I have found someone."
He said no more.
"Do I get to know?" she asked, vainly trying to contain her excitement.
"You will.... when the time is right."
The rest of the conversation was dull, she no longer felt the sweet, honey-buttered taste of conversing with the closest person to a true kindred and friend that she had ever had. No, in fact, she delighted in nothing anymore. Lately, everything had run together, some lost and forsaken water colour painting thrown to the winds in a midsummer's storm. Nothing made sense, her attention simply could not be held, and her boredom made her unalert and unaware with senses dulled from the monotony. She was frightened, but couldn't fight the waves of depression.
That night, she went to her window and prayed to a god who had outcasted her, a god not her own, then wrote a long poem. "When the time is right," angst, pain, and something else... indefinable, filled that poem, the many poems from the many lonely evenings, many lonely prayers before, and her dreams that night. She had always had horrifically vivid dreams, but that night the dream turned into her reality and consciousness was only a shadow of a vague and only partially remembered nightmare. The truth in sleep that night told of things to come, a doorway to the future.
A week, she waited. She spoke with Jon, her only friend and comrade, who had searched and found a proper way for her to become one, but he mentioned nothing of "when the time is right." School, days, nights, dreams, poems, thoughts, people, reality, consciousness, all things came and went.... but no creatures of the night or true, true kindred passed her way.
Then, when she had almost given up hope and was about to question Jon about it, her horror-reality slumber was interrupted.
A shadowy, black figure slipped through the open bedroom window and sank to the floor with ease. Slinking across the small room without the slightest sound or disturbance of even the air, this dark figure sat, resting on the edge of the bed. There, it made a disturbance. The slight slump of the newly placed weight on the bed made her sleeping body roll down against the shadows of a person. The man-boy, a mere 300 years old in the kindred world, jumped as her warm, naked body entwined in thin sheets fell against him; she didn't see his jerky movements, her unconscious self didn't open glued-shut eyelids, only vibrated dormant vocal chords in a deep, mortal moan.
Smoothing down, relaxing his ruffled-feather, tensed muscles, the man-boy laid a hand to her shoulder.
Rather painfully, her eyelids jerked open. Blinking in the darkness, she rolled over to face the cold rush of energy being sent through her by the soft touch of some unknown source. The pale light shining in from the window outlined the figure, showing her nothing but a rough shape and a vague profile. Intrigued, she sat up, hugging the sheets close to her.
The figure took the hand from her shoulder and instantly she missed the strength and power the touch had given. The figure raised the hand to perhaps touch one of the thick brown chords of hair streaming down from her head and spilling onto soft shoulders, but she took the hand in her own before the figure could manage it. She felt the rush of cold-heat again, and was at that moment absolutely certain that these shadows of a man were from either Heaven or one hell or another, it didn't really matter which, to finish her off and put her mortal soul in its final resting place.
The man-boy was shocked. He had come in her window in the middle of the night, having never seen her before, and she did not scream, nor cower in fear, did not hide from him... but openly accept and take the surroundings, the situation, without doubt in herself; she couldn't have been more than fifteen years of age. Her hand, warm in his, gave off an energy all its own. Yes the force between the two forms passed, tainted only with the electricity they each contributed.
He looked down at her with ancient eyes, eyes long dead, and wondered why he was even there. No, Jon was not a true kindred, only possessed the skill and knowledge to masquerade as the second oldest vampire still having escaped the Final Death. He could not bring her in himself, though he terribly wished to protect the small, frail little girl who had been the only person he could ever confide in. The one thing he could do for her was to find one of the only members of the clan who wouldn't use her as a feeder or a sacrifice.
And here the man-boy was, not young, but not old, certainly not foolish, time had helped him grow, but certainly not as wise as some of the mortals with the Gift.
The skin of her bare shoulders and arms let off a kind of pale luminescence in the darkness, the street lamp illuminating one side of her face, showing a beaten and unloved girl- not young, but not old, certainly not foolish, she had aged beyond her years, not sure if she possessed the Gift or not; maybe deep down somewhere in the recesses of her soul the Gift lay dormant, waiting for the time to be right.
He snapped his hand out of her grasp, as if she could read his thoughts through it, and stood, towering over the bed.
"Get dressed," he commanded in the surest tone of voice he could muster.
She watched the tall, dark figure easily hop out the small window to the grass of the badly kept front law and turn a corner. Then, as quickly and as quietly as possible, but still managing to make quite a clamor, she clothed herself. Clad in ripped jeans, older than herself, and a flannel shirt, she grabbed her black leather trench coat, a lovely thing she had saved and fought for, and hopped out the window.
It took her a minute to scan the yard and street and drive, but there he stood, under a tree. She began to walk his way and he stepped into the shadows, blending with the darkness using a defense skill he had mastered years ago. Carefully, she walked down the drive, hands in jacket pockets, thoughts enveloped in the dark figure now lost from sight.
Then, the sound of a very finely tuned car engine.
The figure, now in the driver's seat, pulled the car up slowly, got out, walked around, opened the door for her. This stranger moved slowly, carefully, almost stealthily, as to keep his face in the shadows. Why wouldn't this figure, this stranger, this bringer of something... indefinable, let her see his face? Where were they going? How would they get there? Could they get there from here, or would they have to make some sort of detour... some sort of preparation....?
He watched her slender, fragile porcelain, trench-coat covered figure slip into the cold leather seat, then gently closed the door, a small click of the latch being secured and the running engine the only sounds to be heard.
Upon getting back to his side of the car, he got in and began to drive carefully, avoiding the well lit areas while attempting to concentrate while that insance magnetic pulse filled the car. The child, the woman?, was definitely something. There was something there... her angst and his pain and something else, something... indefinable...
She sat, quietly wondering, wishing, hoping, praying to that disavowed god, asking only of herself, taking only of the darkness and the charged aura the car brimmed with. This unknown, but forever understood, stranger drove down the nearly deserted streets and hardly lit avenues, still concealing identity and thought, and emotion.
It was like a thick blue rope of lightning, of fire, of moonbeams, that burned between them. It burned within his skull, made him feel lightheaded, as if he were flying. His eyeballs were seeming to float in their sockets, his limbs as lights as feathers; his whole being seemed exempt from gravity but all the while being pressed on by some ever-present weight. She mustn't be allowed to do this to him, he must have control, he must complete this mission, he must help Jon, he must bring her in. The rest, the rest of something he wasn't sure he believed in anymore, would be left to clan and prince and... and people who just weren't him. He would bring her in, Jon was her sworn protector and would care for her after that.
After having even rationalized it in his head, why was he so uneasy? This girl could bring him no harm...
The car pulled into a small, ghetto-like apartment complex. The parking lot was dirty, all of the cars old and beaten up-weather faded; the stucco hung in odd clumps to the battered, gray, greasy buildings. The stranger parked in front of one of the dead-grease buildings, all of the lights out, not a soul in sight but her own and whoever, whatever, this figure was. The stranger got out and shut the door, beginning to walk around and get her door for her, but she opened it herself and caught a quick glance at the face. It was the face of a man-boy, the face of a twenty year old who had lived for a thousand different lifetimes, the face that had seen everything and anything, that had seen his own death. And the eyes, so old and weathered and sad... They were her own...
Fast, he turned away.
She followed him up the stairs to a yellowed, paint-chipped door. He turned the key and motioned for her to go in, concealing his face. He followed her, turning the lock behind them.
It was a studio apartment, walls and ceiling painted black, no windows, hardwood floor, only two doors - the one she had come in and one on the other end of the room leading to as yet unknown perils. Throughout the room, the thick smell of incense wafted up to, around, in, out, through her nose, and she thought there must have been more than fifty candles burning, too many to count, illuminating the room with an eerie, opaque, orange glow. The candles lined all of the walls, except for one corner.
A bed, made nicely with feather pillow and layers and layers of transparent silky sheets and lace, all black, was set off to that corner, not against the walls but close to it. Four large, tall, deep green candles were at the corners of this bed, this once sacred resting place.
He stood against the door for a moment, to let her adjust to the surroundings. Then, slowly, he walked up behind her and took her coat, hanging it and his own on an antique, wooden coat rack. beneath, he wore a pair of nice black slacks and a button up, white silk shirt, a nice woven vest, and his knee-high leather boots. She was standing before him in denim and flannel. He scowled.
She was searching him with her eyes, and he felt them caress him as if they were her very fingertips, but he knew that she couldn't see him very well at all. It was time to completely reveal his face and intentions, the time was right.
She looked him over, her eyes trying to find some sign of anything, but having nothing to grasp. In fact, that's all she found: nothing. His eyes seemed to glow through the empty darkness, and the sort of static that she had felt the whole time in the car seemed to grow at that second, the precise speck of time he stepped forward to put his face into full view. She then realized who he was and the meaning of everything. All of the events had lead up to this one moment, this was the moment that mattered, this was it. She wasn't afraid.... or very afraid, anyway...
She opened to mouth to utter some, any sound, but he took another two quick steps up to her and put his finger tips to her face, silencing her lips before they had a chance to bring forth a disturbance.
He reached into the pocket concealed within his vest and pulled out a beautifully crafted, silver, two-edged dagger. Silver, which could kill any vampire with the slightest break of the skin, but must be used for the initial sacrifice. He held it in his pale, strong hands carefully, as if he held death itself. And in a way he did.
Grabbing her wrist, lifting it up, he drew the knife to cut. As he gazed down at her with his ancient eyes, she knew that he was kindred and that the time was right and soon everything would be in its place. As he melted her soul with his eyes as dark as pitch and stirred with the currents of a raging sea of emotion, he asked,
"Are you ready?"
His voice as smooth as velvet, light as air, excited, enthralled her.
"I was ready the day Abel's blood fell."
In one swift, slick motion, he slid the knife across her skin. A single ruby drop fell to the wooden floor before his lips were sealed over the wound, sucking up, swallowing, ingesting the warm life force. She felt no pain, only the drain of energy, of life, of her mortal soul....
After what seemed to her a lifetime, he lifted his head and offered her his wrist, pulling a clean, brass knife out of his vest and handing it to her. She felt weak, unable to function, the weight of the knife seemingly massive. She sank to her knees, drained, and he lifted her hand to his wrist for her.
A few more glistening red drops fell to the floor, sparkling with life. She didn't want to, but knew she must drink to live. Hungrily, she lunged at his wrist, greedily drinking, swallowing, tasting blood, tasting life force, tasting his knowledge that had aged like fine wine in his veins.
To soon, it was gone, leaving her once again drained, but slightly reanimated. She needed more, had to have more to survive. Carefully, she ran her tongue across the blade, she ran her finger across the floor, then brought it to her lips, collecting the few drops that had fallen. Looking up for help, she saw one glistening drop hanging between his lips.
She stared up at him with such a look of despair and helplessness that he almost shivered. What had he created? Then she stood, coming closer to him. She raised her hand to his lips, stealing away a drop of the rich life force. She brought it back to her own mouth with a look of partial satisfaction.
The last drop from upon his lips almost satisfied her for a moment, but any feelings of appeasement were soon gone. Perhaps to kiss him, lips entwined, to make love to him, bodies entwined, to kill him, souls entwined, she could quench this... beast, beast that was driving her for life force, for blood.
Then her look of satisfaction was gone. She raised her hand to touch his face. He wanted to move from her electric, lightning touch, but didn't. The fire blue current ran through her hand, through his face, penetrating his very being.
He didn't move.
She leaned in, their bodies touching. What was she doing? Her warm eyes shone into his ancient gaze. Why didn't he pull away? Their lips touched.
Electric current, fire sparks flew between them, scorching his soul. She tasted so good, life force, soul, lust passing between them. He wanted her. He hadn't wanted anyone in a hundred years. He wanted her. He feared. A mortal no longer, she posed threat, she could turn and kill him. But not in this newly formed, helpless state.... could she?
Her hands found his neck, slid down his shoulders, tense shoulders, felt down his chest, found buttons to vest, shirt... Their lips never parted as she stripped his upper body, clothes falling to the floor dully, lifelessly. Then he pulled away.
His hands found her shoulder, tense shoulders, found buttons to shirt... He slid the oversized flannel carefully from her delicate frame and into the heap with the others, it fell. He pulled her closer to him, roughly.
She nibbled, sucked on his neck, on shoulders. He kissed her face, her soft, porcelain body. Shoes were kicked off, jeans practically ripped off. Their naked bodies fell together upon the once sacred bed. They tossed and rolled, entwining, feeling, touching, searching, then......
He stopped.
No, that wasn't the way he wanted it. She must let him go slow, explore the territory undisturbed for so many lifetimes.
He moved on, more cautiously, kissing her neck and running his hands around her middle, up and down her back, finding the latch to the thin, black lace bra, the only thing left concealing her small, beautifully formed breasts.
Finally, completely naked bodies were wrapped together, laying hotly in the midst of their sweat and lust.
All of the foreplay had built up to this one moment, with such a great shudder of relief and pleasure, he penetrated her. He came almost instantly. At the same time, she bit down into his shoulder, spurting fresh vitae into her eager lips.
What was this treachery? Turning on the same vampire that had embraced her? No, she wouldn't do such a thing.
He let her taste his blood once again for only a few shocked seconds of ecstasy before realizing and pulling away. A snarl played across her red-smeared lips and she scratched at him with her fingernails as if they were claws. The Beast had taken a firm hold on her now, as he threw her off of him onto the floor.
She was startled to find herself pushed away, then realized she was hissing at him, clawing at him like an animal. No, she mustn't let herself regress, this beastly thing inside her must not prevail.
But the urge and hunger were too much.
Stealthily, like a snake, she slithered across the floor, with him watching her in startled confusion. She passed by the heap of clothes, grabbing the silver blade from inside is vest without him noticing, and continued toward him. Then, like the cat, she sprang upon him, slashing with the most precise aim. But he dove from the bed, her blade striking into the pillows where his heart had been moments before.
He found the brass knife, which had been carelessly dropped to the floor, just as she attacked again. He ducked, sidestepped, and swung at her with his won blade, but she fell back onto the floor, kicking the knife out of his hand and pulling his legs out from under him.
Who was this girl, so skilled in battle tactics, so aggressive, so seductive? Why hadn't she been brought in before? Where did Jon find such an intriguing creature?
But there were no spare seconds for those petty questions then, in time all answers will be revealed. Currently, he had to keep himself from befalling a second death, without harming this precious girl in the process.
He watched as her agile, stringy body jumped back up and prepared to pounce again. He watched her circle him, then grabbed a nearby candle and heaved the hot wax at her.
It burned and stung her skin for only a second before she could regain her composure, but that second was enough for him to leap up and knock the knife from her petite hand.
She would still have him, she would drain his blood and soothe the savage beast. She could still take the upper hand.
He wound his arm around her bare chest, pinning her arms to her body and restricting her movement. She kicked her legs and strained all of her muscles, twisting in his grasp, but was unable to escape.
The dagger..... it lay at her feet... if she could get it...
He pinned her close to him, sending new sparks of arousal through his loins. But he quickly surpressed those emotions. She could pose quite a threat if he weren't careful. At the moment, he had her restrained, conquered. She would not deceive him again.
.... Deep down inside him.... behind all of the power of victory and animal pride.... was a whisper of despair. He, too, had once suffered the new sickness and hunger of the Beast after his Embrace. He, too, had been where she is right now.
.... Deep down inside him... behind all of those thoughts, all of the lust and adrenaline..... a little voice-whisper asked him "How could you do this to her? How could you be so cruel? How could you have ever regressed this far?"
And with that thought, perhaps he let his grip loosen a little, perhaps she had just struggled a tid more forcefully than before, perhaps she had just gotten lucky, she wriggled free, with a brutal yell, knocked him backwards and grabbed the knife, letting it fly as she spun around.
Once again, her aim proved true. She smiled as the knife slid into its target.
He ducked as the flash of silver slid past his ear, over his shoulder and into the oblivion behind him. He watched as she slowly stood from her fighting crouch. All he could offer her was confused, frustrated look.
What the Hell was going on?
There was no time for that, doubt. He grabbed the brass knife and prepared himself for more battle. He was just about to lunge when she walked him, not caring if he had a knife or not, toward the destination of the flash of silver.
An unnamed assailant lay slumped in the doorway, knife in heart of her doing. She looked at the lifeless figure, at hte stranger/ man-boy, back to the figure, then hungrily pounced at the body, sinking teeth in, licking up blood.
After subduing the Beast, she lay on the bed, so tired from all of the events from that evening and the previous day. He pulled the sheets up around her and, for the second time that night, watched her sleep. She would need much rest during the following week. Her body would need to adjust to vampiric lifestyle, causing her great sickliness, and the body racking pains that came during the transition, but her mind would need to make the greatest adjustment. She would need to feed a lot, and someone would have to care for her.
He had been greatly impressed by her ability to fight, her agility, her grace and beauty. She was gentle, but had the animal instincts that many of the kindred of the latter generations had forgotten. He was sure her mind would prove spectacular as well.
Yes, this young maiden could be quite an asset to him.
More importantly, though, she would grow to be one of the strong and powerful, with the skills that she possessed, and would rise to apocalyptic heights... certainly she would need to get there.
She had earned his respect. She had shone him she deserved it. He would take care of her.
He dressed himself and prepared to leave, knowing the caretaker of that stronghold would clean up and prepare during the day (also taking care of the assailant's body, probably a Sabbat anarch). Then, he would return and take her to his home for her training. Yes, he had decided, he would train her. She was too vibrant and great to be wasted by someone who trains them by the dozens. She deserved more than the generic rights and stories. But would he be able to handle it? He could hardly keep himself in line and out of trouble, much less a neonate of unharnessed, yet massive gifts. He had many doubts in himself, but none in the girl.
Before he walked out the door, in his carefully mastered, Old-English script, he wrote a short note, leaving it on the silken pillow beside her.
She awoke slowly and stretched like a cat. When she opened her eyes, she was so startled that she fell out of the bed, to the floor, and sat, wide-eyed, on her rump. Then, she remembered. no, it hadn't been a dream...
In her mist of remembrance and sleep, her eyes feel upon a small piece of paper on the pillow where her head had been, neatly creased in half. Gently, slowly, she reached up for it. It smelled old, pleasing and wafting up to her nostrils, it smelled not unlike a leather bound book that's been sitting on the shelf for the past century or two. She opened it. In Old-English scrawl so thick she could hardly comprehend, it read:
Forgive me, luv, for I have sinned,
Forgive me for the state you're in.
Forgive me for the all consuming flood,
The need, the greed, the lust for blood.
Forgive me for the elders' laws,
Forgive me for the pain I've caused
.
Forgive me for you soul on fire,
Forgive me, luv, but I'm you're sire.
It was unsigned and she looked at it questioningly for a moment. Who had written it? The stranger from the previous night? That beautiful stranger who felt so good against her, inside her... she reminisced for only a moment before that word hit her.
Was he her SIRE?
What was she? What had she become?
Her head spun in a daze of questions and amazement until she slowly floated back to reality. She was that unknown stranger's, that man-boy's childe, she was now one of the cursed children of the night. She was a vampire.
The adrenaline rushed in her veins.
She stood, clumsily clothed herself, grabbed her coat, and dashed out into the night and the stars, out into her first hunt....
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