One doesn't simply keep one of the most powerful Kindred in the city waiting. Except Natasha did. She'd gotten the notification of his arrival thirty minutes before she still hadn't even gotten out of bed. Hell, she wasn't even dressed yet.
The Prince of the city was fangless to her though. Natasha was well over 600 years old, an elder in the true sense of the word. She was also a Ventrue. The clan of rulers. Not a blood wizard like the Prince. His station was higher than hers though, by her own desire, so he could make her unlife miserable if she antagonized him too much.
With a sigh, Natasha rose from the bed, letting the silk sheet fall away from her nude body. She was a tiny thing. Barely over five feet tall, slender but curved in all the right places. Golden hair fell over her shoulders, tousled from sleep, but long enough to fall over her small breasts and conceal them except for the occasional tantalizing peek as she stepped across to the closet to pick an outfit.
"Mrs. Shire?" Brigitte asked softly. Her ghoul stood off to the side, unobtrusively.
"Miss." She corrected automatically. Brigitte had been with her for just a little over two decades, kept eternally 22 by the power of Natasha's blood. "I haven't been Mrs. for over 600 years. Must we go over this every night?" Natasha's voice was soft, and it had a feminine, musical quality to it.
"No, Miss Shire. It's just that Mr. Rathbone is in the front room, and he seems to be getting impatient."
"Yes, my dear. That is what happens when you keep the Prince of the city waiting for any length of time. Tell him I'll be along momentarily."
Marcus Rathbone, Prince of the city of New Gotham, stood glowering in the living room of the penthouse apartment. It was very tastefully decorated without being ostentatious. All ultra modern sculptures and leather furniture on pristine white carpet. A large flat screen plasma TV hung on the wall above a dark brick fireplace flanked by two dark bookcases filled with heavy tomes that were the only thing that clashed with the modern image of the apartment. They were old, leatherbound books, every one of them. Classics ranging from Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
It was these tomes that Rathbone focused his attention on to distract himself from his growing annoyance at being kept waiting by the Goddamn Ventrue Primogen. She knew he was coming. They had an appointment at 9pm. A glance at the smartwatch he wore on his left wrist showed 9:45pm in glowing futuristic letters.
The Prince, despite being from a clan of insular blood mages, did cut a dashing figure. He was slim, but in good shape for his apparent age of early thirties. Neatly styled russet hair topped handsome features covered by an immaculately groomed beard. His eyes were the real attention grabbers though, a piercing, intense shade of blue.
It was just as Marcus was running a manicured finger along the spine of what looked like a first printing copy of the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn that he heard someone clearing their throat gently.
When Natasha came out of the bedroom and down the short hallway to the living room, she found the Prince engrossed in her bookshelf, the one where she kept her signed first editions. A smile played across her lips as she saw this. Marcus always did have good taste in books. He knew that most of the autographs were personally acquired by her over the centuries.
The Prince did look striking tonight in a leather trenchcoat over his tailored Italian suit. From across the room, she could smell the subtle scent of his cologne. It was a testament to the acuity of her vampiric senses more than it was a mark against him for putting too much on.
The Ventrue took a moment to enjoy the tension in the Tremere's shoulders and the fact that he was still oblivious to her, so silent were her movements. Finally, she cleared her throat softly, an almost vulnerable sound that had exactly the reaction she hoped it would.
Marcus turned his head to look at her and some small part of her dead heart thrilled at the hunger in his gaze. It was entirely mortal, that hunger. Nothing of the predator for blood that they both were. Ever one in rigid control of his mental facilities, it was only a quick flick of his piercing cobalt eyes. That was enough. She knew he took her all in. Her blonde hair was gathered in a casual bun atop her head, held in place by chopsticks. She wore a silk robe, silver in color, left open, displaying another tantalizing expanse of alabaster skin, the inner curves of her breasts, her flat stomach, and the scant black panties she wore. The only thing saving her modesty was a matching silk sash, belted lightly at the waist.
Natasha stepped closer, still enjoying the way his eyes followed her. This kindred, this master of his domain, could barely control mortal urges dead and dormant for well over a century. And she wasn't even turning up the heat by applying her mastery of the Presence discipline.
"You know damn well that I hate to be kept waiting, 'Tasha." When Marcus spoke, despite the way he reacted to being near her, his voice was strong, clear, authoritative. This was a man that was used to being obeyed.
"Of course, my Prince." The Ventrue said with a demure smile as he stepped closer and trailed an elegant finger along his arm before she dropped into one of the plush chairs bordering the coffee table. The robe fluttered open to reveal just a tad more pale flesh of one breast, the pale pink tip visible now.
The Prince's face settled into an unamused expression as he reached out with one hand to pluck the hem of her robe and pull it closed. It had the familiarity of a lover, that gesture. It would have spoken volumes to anyone who happened to see that. Of course, there was no one who could hide from their combined senses.
"What did you call me here to discuss?" Marcus's tone betrayed his growing impatience.
"Why simple, my Prince." The playfulness had left Natasha's voice as she turned the full weight of her gaze up to him. "I seek the right of siring a childe."