The sun was a bloody smudge against the western sky when she arrived. Stepping out of the limo, she looked up at the Darkmoor Hotel, the warm summer wind pulling at her stick-straight auburn tresses. Her dark green eyes caressed each feature of the hotel before she looked to the doors. This was the place.

She slammed the car door and made her way to the entry, her buttery black leather duster wrapped around her body, the embossed rose along its back screaming her clan as plainly as anything else.

Inside the hotel, she paid no attention to the few patrons gathered there. She crossed to the dark-haired woman who was approaching her with open arms.

Zoya smiled at Vanessa. "I've come as you requested. Now, where is this David Gray? If he is to learn what it is to be Toreador, there is no time to be lost."

Vanessa and Rastus saw that Zoya was settled into the Darkmoor. The Russian Suite was exactly to her liking; Vanessa said that she had taken extra care to make it so. Zoya's stay, no matter how long, would be a comfortable one.

While she looked forward to working with David Gray, it appeared that he was presently unavailable. Shaking her head, Zoya left her suite and made her way to Darkmoor. He had no idea where the lad had gone and seemed disgusted by the entire thing.

Zoya left the hotel to wander the night. She spied a young man sitting upon a bench. He looked up and stood as she approached.

"Are you the one I was told to wait for?" he asked respectfully. If this was the teacher Vanessa and Darkmoor both had spoken of, he would do nothing to antagonize her or them.

"If you are David Gray, then yes--I'm here for you. To teach you the ways of the Toreador. What it means to be one of our Clan, what it means to be Kindred." Zoya's eyes flicked over the man's injured hand and an eyebrow lifted in amusement. "I see your lessons have already begun."

He nodded. "I am David Gray, yes." He held out his good hand, and taking hers in his gave her a courtly kiss on the hand. "And yes," he glanced down at the maimed hand. "that was Master Darkmoor's idea of a lesson. Though I do not, as he fears, seek to break the Masquerade." He looked the woman in the eyes. "I will learn what you wish me to know, though I must tell you in fairness I was taught something of the Kindred by the one who Embraced me." He was careful to keep his tone calm, respectful in the extreme. He was merely stating facts, nothing more--though referring to Melisande only in such terms rankled he would not show that pain either.

Zoya drew her hand out of David's grip. The back of her hand flew up and made contact with his cheek. David staggered backward, eyes wide in horror.

"Lesson one--you don't touch me without permission." Zoya stepped toward David, wiping the back of her hand over his shirt. "Lesson two--you will not speak of your Sire again, at least not in my presence. She is inconsequential. I can feel your pain when you think of her--so don't. Don't dwell in the past, David. If you're lucky, your ...life will be long, and you don't want to spend it looking backward, do you? People tend to fall into holes when they aren't watching the ground before them."

David nodded, but said nothing. Zoya nodded as well, smiling faintly.

"Go on your way this night, David. Your lessons will commence tomorrow evening. Come to the Darkmoor; I will be waiting for you. As for now, I have to see the Prince." Zoya's dark eyes narrowed for a moment. "If your lessons go well, perhaps we shal l present you to him someday--as a proper Toreador. Nine tomorrow, David. Do not be late."

Zoya's feet led her to the Spire. Figuring that there was no time like the present, she entered and soon found herself being whisked to the upper floor. She had been presented to many a Prince in her day, but there was something unusual about this one.

Malcolm DeLarch was the first Brujah Prince she had heard about. She looked forward to making his acquaintance and having him approve her business in his city.

Before Zoya even reached the door, complex strains of piano music reached her ears. Chopin, definitely Chopin. She should know as she had more than a passing relationship with him many years back. She traced the melody in her mind, noting where the Polonaise rose and fell, shifted tempo...whovever DeLarch happened to have over was definitely of concert caliber. The sounds filled her almost as richly as if they were vitae.

As she reached the door it opened and the face of Covington, DeLarch's ghoul servant appeared, pleasant and impassive, immaculately clad in his tuxedo, a red rose in his lapel. Zoya raised her eyebrows.

"Good evening, Miss," he said in a proper English tone. "His Dark Grace is expecting you. May I take your coat?"

The music was louder now, but Zoya could not see the pianist. She was dubious at first, but decided it would perhaps be more polite and less guarding to remove her wrap. She handed it to him. "Please follow me, Miss."

Zoya walked along the red carpet, soaking in the incredible 1920's art deco style decor. Extremely tasteful furnished, almost unheard of from a Brujah; but then, what she'd heard of him was that he was of considerable age and European, quite a difference in itself from the more common Brujah street trash she'd encountered.

She looked to her right out the vast windows over the city. The view was spectacular at night from such a great height. It was a veritable palace in the clouds, most appropriate for a city's Prince. Her eyes then floated over his furniture, largely leather and chrome with old framed posters *most likely originals, she thought*. Above the mantel of the fireplace was one in particular that caught her eye: a presentation from the White Star shipping line celebrating their newest "unsinkable" vessel, The Titanic.

Her head followed the sounds of the continued beautiful music, the player's head obscured by the angle of the Steinway's open lid. In seconds she knew the music would stop. She would wait until then to speak.

As she predicted, the piece ended and Covington addressed the musician.

"Ah, splendid!" came a shout. From behind the piano, clad in a red silk smoking jacket came Malcolm DeLarch, an almost diabolical grin on his face. He looked as if his very eyebrows were smiling as well. "Miss Zoya Valeska of the Clan Toreador." He held out his hand in welcome.

Zoya debated the action, but gave a brief curtsy. If he was as traditional as Darkmoor had said, it couldn't hurt. She accepted his hand and he brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss.

"Mmmm...a kiss to a rose from the grave," he grinned.

"You flatter me, Sir."

"Rastus tells me you've come to turn our young Mr. Gray into some semblance of a Kindred."

"I shall do it or he shall die in the process, your Dark Grace."

"Excellent. He has potential, but his meekness gets in the way. Most of my advisors say he should have been simply dispatched after his Embrace, but...well, that's another story." Malcolm turned to Covington. "Lafitte '62, Covington, if you please."

The ghoul bowed slightly and turned for the kitchen. DeLarch led Zoya to a nearby sofa.

"Your Dark Grace is most kind." She smiled. Malcolm watched every magnificent alabaster curve of her body from her thin, choker-clad neck, to her cleavage and down past the curves of her black leather clad legs to her silver-tipped boots.

"You have my favor for such an undertaking, Miss Valeska, and you needn't constantly refer to me as such." She nodded her acceptance with a faint grin.

"I consider it a favor for an old friend, my Prince."

"So, do you plan to stay in Gothik for long?" Malcolm asked.

"As long as it takes."

"Any approximate time window?"

"David is pathetically weak and unimposing. He requires a combination of physical, mental and spiritual exercises. He needs to increase his passion and develop proper Toreador panache." Zoya threw back her auburn locks almost as if to accentuate the point. She reeked of Clan pride. It was a scent more potent than all the

"Methinks you're just what the Doctor ordered, my dear."

"The cure for a sick Kindred." She grinned wolfishly at him.

Covington returned and poured them wine as well vitae from a Lalique crystal decanter. Zoya mentally commented on the piece's exquisite detail. Indeed, Malcolm DeLarch was far beyond that of any Brujah she had ever met, Prince or otherwise, in both his style and manner. Were all his kind as such, perhaps she wouldn't detest them as much as she did.

"A toast then!" he proposed, raising his glass.

"To...?"

"Building the Kindred of the new millennium!"

Zoya smiled. Yes indeed, this was no ordinary Prince and she could rest assured that his karma would definitely attract things way beyond the ordinary. The city, under his guidance, promised many interesting things to come. She could sense it, like something wicked in the air coming her way. As long as she stayed in Gothik, she knew she wouldn't lack for amusement.

Zoya and the Prince drank long into the night. He was like no other Brujah she had met; he was truly other-worldly. But even that description didn't exactly suit. As he guided her through his rooms on a tour, Zoya found everything about this experience remarkable. And the way he played Chopin--it had been like being in the room with the composer himself. Malcolm DeLarch was a curious man indeed.

Zoya was sorry to leave his company, but knew that in order to get back to The Darkmoor before sunrise, she needed to be going. Zoya rose from the couch and Malcolm came up with her, looking up slightly to meet her eyes.

"A most interesting evening," he said.

Zoya smiled, having to agree. "Most interesting, my Prince. I thank you for the hospitality."

"And I thank you for undertaking this task." Malcolm smiled but then his eyes widened. "Oh! I almost forgot... Don't go anywhere."

He dashed off and Zoya watched him go, too intrigued to even consider disobeying. When he returned, he was carrying a beautiful black case. It was made of obsidian, that much was clear to Zoya, each edge traced in mother-of-pearl which ran in a Greek Key design. Zoya's eyes widened when Malcolm extended it to her. It was roughly two feet in length, and five inches wide. Zoya accepted it and Malcolm lifted the latch and then the lid with a smile, watching Zoya's face.

Her eyes widened further, looking from the contents to Malcolm. "My Prince?" she asked.

"A little gift from Eva," he murmured, peering over the lid to look upon the leather lash that lay inside. "She told me that Adolf was rather fond of her using it to--" He broke off with a chuckle. "Well, she did ask me to keep that to myself."

Zoya's right eyebrow shot up. At Malcolm's nod, she reached in and took hold of the leather crop. The handle was beautifully braided, thick and sturdy. The body of the crop was likewise strong, the very tip traced in silver. Zoya looked at Malcolm with a smile.

"On loan," Malcolm said. "To help you with your...student."

Zoya inclined her head, returning the lash to its case. "It's breathtaking, my Prince."

Malcolm chuckled. "So say those who have tasted its tongue." He snapped the case shut and gave it up to Zoya's grasp. "Take care of her and use her well."

Zoya grinned. "My Sire said the same to my first lover. Good day, my Prince."

"Indeed," Malcolm said, watching her walk away.

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