That was more than he had ever said to anyone about those who hunted him. She seemed so sincere in her attempts to help him, and yet he knew that he would only bring death to her doorstep. Until he gained more mastery over what had been done to him, and what he was still becoming, mobility was the only sure key to his survival. He hoped that she would take his warning. He had awakened on more than one night to find the signs of those who hunted him.
She shook her head. "Do you think I know nothing of death, Maxwell? Or of pain?? I have known both, and they are with me also. I am beginning to see that we may have more in common than even I suspected."
A powerful flash nearly blinded his mind. He saw this youthful-looking singer staked out on a field of grass, possibly in a park. The sky overhead shifted through the spectrum of sunrise, and as it touched her, her anguished screams nearly shocked him from the vision. Heavily robed darklings had danced around her flames, laughing and even leaping through the fire while he was held in heavy iron shackles, forced to watch. He blinked, suddenly horrified by what might have been a vision, sent by a cruel and taunting God.
He shared nothing of what he had seen, but pulled his hand from hers as if she herself had been that consuming Sun. "I think I should take my leave now," he said. With that, Maxwell stood.
She held his gaze as she stood also. "Go, if you wish, for now...but I will not withdraw my offer. If you do decide you need -any- aid whatsoever I will do whatever I can. No matter what risk there is to be faced."
* * * *
Max, leaving Catherine at the bar with her drink, looked for the nearest way to the exit door. He could not play again that night, and he lived a mostly solitary life.
Looking around and mapping the movements of the partygoers in his mind, he spotted Sloane sitting at a table with a member of what he presumed to be her entourage standing nearby. He headed over that way, threading through the tables and milling bodies.
"Sloane?" he said. "I just wanted to thank you again for helping me back at the bar."
"You are leaving already? The night is young," Sloane said looking at Max," Oh, where are my manners tonight. Maxwell this is my bodyguard Derek Granger. Derek this is Maxwell Hardin I believe is the last name."
"Nice to meet you Mr. Hardin," Derek said holding out his hand to the man. Derek could tell by his eyes that he was no threat to Sloane's well being," I enjoyed your music tonight and hope to hear you play again."
Max shook Derek's hand. Sloane seemed to have likeable friends. "Same here, Mr. Granger. A musician always enjoys pleasing his audience." The way he stood implied 'bodyguard' or 'chaperone'. "Or hers, as the case might be. I have been contacted to perform at the club Gothos on New Year's Eve. Perhaps I will see the two of you there?"
"Yes, Max you played wonderfully tonight. I am sure Lillie is very happy," Sloane said,"Please sit down and have a soda." A waiter appeared and set a soda on the table.
Max looked between the table and the exit. He was still disturbed by the 'vision' which had presented itself to him, but Sloane was very kind, and he always repaid what he was given. Carefully setting his guitar by the empty chair, he unbuttoned his duster again and sat down.
"After what happened to her bouncer and her outer doors, I doubt that she feels as happy as she could have. Since other talent has arrived, my services here no longer appear to be required. Catherine will undoubtedly continue to entertain ... in her own way."
"She is okay, but not outstanding like you are," Sloane said," I look forward to the New Year's Eve Party. Yes, that bit with the wolves and such was bothersome. You would think they could have left the Ghouled wolves at home. But you never know with the Gangrels. Has Lillie arranged for a place for you to stay? The Ritz Carlington is a good hotel if you need a place. Most choose to stay at the St. Francis but the Ritz is much better."
"Sloane, I am sure he can find a place to stay," Derek said smiling down at her.
"Yes, you're right Derek," Sloane smiled at Max," Sorry, I did not mean to grill you. Maxwell can you help me?" She looked at Derek who nodded and moved off.
"Tonight Someone sent me flowers, and I just found out he is Primogen of the Brujah. In many ways, that clan was responsible for my embrace. I would like your opinion of him if possible."
"I've been in Las Vegas for the past two months. I haven't been in this city for nearly two years. I'm sorry, but there's not much I can tell you about the Primogen. Perhaps he was paying his respects to the Luna family? It seems that such an action would be proper, would it not? But then, he would have included the fact that he was Primogen in sending his regards, so it represents a more ... personal token. I would advise caution, until his motives become clearer. He might be seeing you as a means, rather than as yourself." He blinked a couple of times, realizing that he sounded like one of his teachers. "Is that the kind of information you wanted?"
"Actually yes it is," Sloane said her eyes clouding over,"I have forgotten what is like... to have people wanting to be your friend because your Sire and Father is prince of the city. Always wanting something from you to aid them. I got use to being just Sloane in New Orleans. You're lucky, Max. Not to have a Prince as your sire. Gives you much more freedom. You never have to second guess what people really want from you."
Sloane looked at Cameron who was making his way to the table," There he is now."
"It might not be that way, or if it is, it might be turned in another direction. Caution does not mean automatic dismissal. Do not disallow the potential of hope." Max looked down at his drink. "You are correct about one thing, though. When people come for me, what they want is most times all too clear." Reaching over, he touched her hand briefly, then returned it to his drink. "If it matters, to me, you are Sloane, -not- Ms. Luna."
"Thanks. All that matters to me is you are Max a wonderfully talented musician. I know what it is to be judge on blood alone," Sloane said,"I hope he is nice. Because there is something about him something that is drawing me to him- or does that sound to weird?"
"Nothing sounds weird to me anymore, Sloane. Some people have that effect on others. I found something wonderful by following a similar feeling, but my world was much simpler then. Would you like me to remain, or leave you to your meeting?"
"I guess It is time for me to deal with things myself," Sloane answered,"I am grateful for your advice. You looked like you were leaving; I should not keep you."
Max nodded and wrote a number down on a coaster before rising. "This is my number. If you need or want anything I can provide, call. I stand by my friends." He nodded at Derek, then continued on towards the exit.
Max looked at his watch as he stepped out of the Haven. The night was, unfortnately, still very young. The party had been blown for him by a multitude of calamities, so he decided to stop before someone or something else just threw some more gasoline on the fire.
Cities really didn't sit well with him anymore, but he knew that was part of his Embracing. Isolation and solitude seemed to sit well with him now, but he was determined to fight that. He was not going to end up an eternal wanderer like Caine. And he'd taken steps in that direction. A year ago, he wouldn't have said a single word to Sloane if he'd met her then, and he would have gone back to Catherine's hotel just long enough to stabilize, and then would have just left without a word. But like alcohol was to an alcoholic, so was wanderlust to Max. It was in his blood, trying to destroy his attempts at a 'normal' un-life, and keep him deep in a pit of despair. He could only deal with it one day at a time.
Opening the lid to his trunk, he stowed his guitar and brought out a pair of flasks, which he then filled from a bottle which was much like Sloane's at the bar. It had been a gift from a Toreador in Vegas. He'd needed a love song to help him mend a broken love. His lover had become transfixed by a poem given to her by a rival, and had left him to pursue a pointless liason. She'd left a note behind with her former lover, a singer of exceptional merits in his own right, but without the gift of composition, having lost it to his broken heart. The note had contained the poem, and the broken-hearted artiste had showed it to Max after an performance at the MGM Grand Hotel. Max could feel the poem's power, even in a copy. It was of Shakespearean intensity, even though it was written in modern English.
He accepted the Toreador's hospitality in return for his services, even though he'd been well paid for his performance. He liked Vegas, the managers always thought in terms of money, gambling chips, and complimentary room and board when it came to payments. But the greed of the casino's patrons raked at him, and he visited frequently, but never for long.
It had taken Max the better part of two nights and days to come up with something better. The work itself hadn't been difficult, he'd just framed the Word in his soul and let his heart do the rest. His host and client was struck dumb when he'd first heard the song, and a third of the time was spent getting his fingers to stop shaking long enough to play it. It had Max's trademark twinge of tragedy, but the message it delivered was powerful. Of course, Max let the artiste take the credit, for he -had- been responsible for the song's creation.
That very evening, the poem's hold was broken, overpowered by the combination of poetry in word and music. The artiste brought his lady love to Max, and tried to force Max to admit to the song's creation. All Max had said in reply was, 'I helped a little.'
They'd caught him outside his last performance for that visit to the City which Never Slept, and had given him a bottle of another artiste's blood. One who'd died all too soon, brought down by an assassin outside his own home.
"You've changed our world," they told him. "Please, take it. I think he'd have wanted you to have it."
He took a sip from one flask, and then put the other one back. There was too little of that kind of spirit left in the world, and he wouldn't squander it just because he was thirsty.
The artiste had put the song to paper, and had recorded it with the help of a producer/performer in Hollywood. It had even been made the main song in a Major Motion Picture, and had it's own video. He liked the little note of homage, shooting it so that the artiste appeared to be alone inside a crowded train station, set apart from everyone by his loneliness, which had 'removed' him from the rest of the world.. The popularity of it had faded slightly, but when he was on those long night drives between cities, he still heard it during every 'love song hour', and sporadically at other times.
Closing his trunk, Max decided to take a walk, leaving his car where he'd parked it, a few yards away from the Haven's door. He couldn't have taken it out anyway without physically moving a number of motorcycles which had him blocked in.
Around him, the night glowed with the light of life. He looked at the brilliant auras of the kine who roamed the streets, feeling their holiday festiveness and trying to draw some of it into himself. They were mostly in a very merry hurry, trying to return home to waiting lovers and loved ones. Like a rainbow of bonfires, that happy faerie fire seemed to leech into his bones, canceling out some of the pain he'd drawn from others. In solitude, he had no such balm for the pain in his soul, and it blazed steadily in his heart with no relief or release.
(I guess that makes me sort of an 'emotional vampire',) he thought, his mood lifted slightly by the transfusion of holiday cheer. (But at least I can give, as well as take.)
Of course, there were those who just had to put their stain on the rainbow. His ears picked out the sounds of terror in the night, and he felt his connection to the human world grow stronger again. He did not kill, but several purse snatchers, muggers, rapists, and brutalizers came to the first step on the rougher road of justice, helped there by a sudden, powerful guide from the shadows. He left them with a warning and a few broken bones, along with a laceration or two to cover their minor blood loss. A little here and there, taking adequate care, and no one was the wiser. And as a parting gift, he would shift a little pain from prey to perpetrator, adding a little of his own, to help them all in his own unique way.
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