Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.
This is the part where I usually write that such and such a character is the intellectual property of so-and-so, and that I'm using that character with permission. I'm not doing that this time. Fact is, Icy Mike Molson and I have both written these characters so much that there's an annoying bit of each of us in all of them. Therefore, I'm just naming him as co-author, since without his earlier (and hopefully ongoing) contributions to all of these characters, this story would not exist.
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Author's Note: This story is intended to be one part in a continuing series, and as such will not be as satisfying if read as a stand-alone story. I'm attempting to do what I can to make it readable as a stand-alone, but there's a lot that came before that simply cannot be suitably condensed as referenced back-story. Further complicating the matter is the fact that this story builds on the events of two stories by Icy Mike Molson, neither of which has been posted and only one of which has even been written. Events of a third story, also unwritten, are peripherally important and I'm reasonably certain I can work around them.
So what does this all mean? For those who read this fairly short Prologue and find it interesting enough to take a shot at reading the whole story – but who want more of the back-story – the shortest (and I use that word loosely) way to catch up is to read my story Le Bon Temps Roule. That has all of the same characters dealing with some issues that develop into the action herein. Bon Ton (as I call that story) is also fairly stand-alone, though there are over a half-dozen preceding stories that add greater depth if read first. Icy Mike's Sleight of Hands would also be helpful, as it serves as a sort-of origins story for Erica Blackwell and introduces Philip and Hassan (while pointedly passing up on the opportunity for the presentation of their origins).
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On the Road to Recovery
by Nevermore
with Icy Mike Molson
Prologue
All of the beautiful people, Erica Blackwell mused as she looked around at the crowd of who's who in South Beach. Everyone who was anyone was there at Versace's First Annual Beach and Bodywear Show, and Erica had to remind herself not to gawk when Giselle Bundchen spilled some of her chocolate martini and every man within five yards rushed to the woman's aid. Ten years ago it would have been impossible for me to get in here, she knew, enjoying the fact that all of her hard-earned money had finally bought something she could appreciate. And with a hundred thousand in my own account, plus well over a million in the emergency fund I share with K.T., there'll be many more things my hard-earned money will buy tonight. Because, after all, this is an emergency – a fashion emergency.
"Excuse me," Donna Karan muttered as she stepped past Erica and toward a man who looked like a younger version of Tyson Beckford. The designer did a double take when she saw the mercenary, making Erica certain that she recognized her from one of the many shows the Ventrue had attended in Manhattan, but she then moved on without stopping for any chitchat. The simple fact that Erica may have been recognized, however, was enough to keep her glowing for over half an hour. By that time it was starting to hit her just how different fashion shows were when you were alone in the room.
Minutes started to drag on, and Erica began to wonder whether it was solely her isolation that was responsible for her increasing lack of interest in her surroundings. After all, there were a couple of shows I went to alone in New York and I still managed to have a blast. It was only then that Erica realized that she was actually expending effort trying to have fun. Just a few years ago this would have been the realization of a dream; now it seems like a waste of time. All those years of running around with K.T. must be having an effect on me.
Celebrities strutted past her like peacocks displaying their feathers, all of them allowing her the same comfortable amount of personal space that they made certain they gave each other, while never actually acknowledging her presence. No one seemed to have a clue that the normally rough and tumble mercenary had no business at Donatella Versace's latest impromptu party; she was young, attractive, and expensively dressed. She had an eye for fashion that allowed her to blend effortlessly, and had any partygoers given Erica Blackwell's presence any thought, they likely would have concluded that she was an up-and-coming designer who at one point might have had aspirations of being a model. At least before discovering that attractive just wasn't good enough in a world where ravishingly perfect was the industry standard. But no one paid her any mind.
Erica had been to enough shows in Manhattan to know that she only needed to wait a few hours and no end of men would eventually approach her. Once they all figure out that they're not leaving with a supermodel, anyway, she thought bitterly. Not long ago – though it seemed like a lifetime ago, now – she looked forward to that palpable change in atmosphere, when the superstars began to mingle only with each other and the 'commoners' were left to fend for themselves, eventually organizing into several other social strata that consisted of the ridiculously wealthy nouveau riche, the up-and-comers, the hangers-on, the has-beens, and the never-will-be's. Two years of party hopping in the garment district had allowed Erica to make the tough progression from a never-will-be to a hanger-on, and there were signs she had the potential to be an up-and-comer. Then K.T. had come; and change had come with him, faster than a speeding bullet. A .44 bullet fired from a Ruger Redhawk. One little mistake by my friends, and I lost everything that ever meant anything to me. For years I've been quietly miserable about that, but being here now… It doesn't seem like it's really that big a deal.
A thumping bass beat suddenly started reverberating through the large club, and Erica almost gagged when a horrifying thought popped up in her mind – I could really go for some Stevie Ray right about now… maybe 'Texas Flood' or 'Little Wing.' "Oh God, why have you forsaken me?" she muttered, stifling a laugh at the realization of how much she had changed since meeting K.T. As Blink 182 sang, I guess this must be growing up.
Erica's inhuman charisma suddenly rolled off of her, and no one seemed to mind overly much when she all but threw them out of her way as she sought a spot in the corner, allowing herself as clear a view of her surroundings as possible. Once her back was firmly against the wall, a whiskey sour in hand, she realized that she was standing in the very place K.T. would have selected, offering a commanding view of her surroundings while minimizing her own profile and presence to those who might be looking for her. She had not made any concerted effort to behave as she thought he might; her actions, while identical to what his would have been, were now her own. And a small teardrop of blood formed in the corner of her eye as she realized that she was no longer the little girl who had played socialite in Manhattan.
"Holy shit! Erica Blackwell?" Erica's head whirled with the question, the sound of her name drawing her attention immediately despite the continued pounding bass that had recently changed tempo slightly as one techno song bled seamlessly into a different – though fairly indistinguishable – European electronica song. The young woman who stood only four feet from Erica's shoulder was staring at her with an awed and fairly dumbstruck expression that seemed so genuinely benign that Erica was able to resist the impulse to draw her weapon and put it to the stranger's forehead.
"It's Maria Di Generro," the woman prompted, as if the utterance of her name should have immediately cleared up any and all confusion. Seeing that Erica still had no idea who she was, Maria continued. "From high school," she prompted. "I was the homecoming queen our senior year. President of our class. Our boyfriends were best friends. We hung out like all the time. You were in my old Cadillac when my boyfriend totaled it."
"Oh, sure… Maria," Erica said with a faux embarrassed roll of her eyes. "I don't know where my head is," she laughed as she wracked her brain for a single relevant memory of the woman who stood before her. Try as she might, she could only recall snippets of her days as a carefree teen; she had the Sabbat to thank for that. Years of indoctrination had done a thorough job first of making her resent her mortal life, and then forget it. She was suddenly surprised that her time of freedom with K.T. had not inspired her to try to remember her earlier years. Maybe it's because K.T. always seems to be in a hurry to forget his own mortal life… "You look so different," Erica commented, directing a wide, sweeping gesture toward her forgotten friend's voluptuous figure. "I hardly recognized you."
"I recognized you right away," Maria replied, her jet-black curls bouncing on her head. "Seriously, Erica, you've hardly changed at all."
"How little you know."
"Married? Kids?"
"No," Erica replied curtly, deciding that she had quickly had her fill of her two-woman high school reunion.
"Not missing anything on the marriage front," Maria told her, "though I do have a little girl waiting for me at home. She was the only good thing that came out of my marriage, I guess."
"Great," Erica said with a smile as fake as a three-dollar bill. She was surprised at how empty she felt. It had been a long time since she had thought about the fact that she would never have kids. Like K.T. said one time – people achieve immortality through their children. Since we're already immortal, it seems sterility is a logical tradeoff.
"Hey, you okay?" Maria asked. "Your eye… I think it's bleeding."
"Oh, crap," Erica muttered, immediately peeling her cocktail napkin from the bottom of her condensation-drenched glass and dabbing at the corner of her eyes. "Scuba-diving accident," she explained, shouting over the music the first thing that leaped to mind and regretting it as soon as she spoke. A scuba-diving accident? she asked herself. That's the best you could do?
"Your eye bleeds because of a scuba accident?" Maria asked, her own eyes going wide in shock.
"Yeah, something about the tear ducts getting torn or something," Erica explained absently. "I don't really understand much more than I can't go diving for at least another year."
"How'd it happen?"
"Moray eel," Erica answered, wondering whether the casual observer would choose her or Maria as the stupider of the two – her for coming up with such a half-ass story, or Maria for believing even a word of it.
"Wow, that's… different," Maria said. "I've never heard of that." Which is why you probably believed it, Erica decided, knowing from experience that people knew all too well that truth was often stranger than fiction. "You gonna be around awhile?" Maria asked. "We could catch up. Last I heard about you, you ran off with some artist while you were at NYU, started posing for nude paintings and stuff."
"If only it were so," Erica responded, wondering whether she meant it. Would I really change anything if I had it to do over again? Would I really give up immortality? Would I prefer to grow old if it meant that I could get married and have kids and do all that stuff I always thought I'd do someday when I was still a kid?
"Well, it was great to see ya, but I really should get back to my roommate's gang of admirers," Maria said, pointedly failing to invite Erica over for a round of introduction. Maria smiled broadly and then walked away to a large crowd that Erica was certain was full of hangers-on; Erica stood alone for hours, plagued by her questions as she stared vacantly around her.
The party was starting to die down, the music fading to a volume that allowed dozens of self-serving conversations to crop up around the club, when she recognized another familiar face. "Another blast from the past; and this one, I remember." Horatio – she had never known him by any other name – stood at the center of a large group of up-and-comers, his affable smile drawing the admiration of the men and the interest of the women. In all actuality, he was nothing worth writing home about, at least not in a party full of models, movie stars, and entertainment power brokers. Horatio stood just under six feet tall and had dull brown hair, dull brown eyes, and features that could be considered proportional but would never be mistaken for handsome. His skin was noticeably pale against the backdrop of copper-tone South Beach bodies, and his black pants and shirt, while suitably fashionable (Erica was of the opinion that black never really went out of style), only enhanced his pallor.
Presence, Erica decided, reaching the conclusion that she was not the only one in the club making use of abilities unique to the kindred. Except he's not kindred – he's a vampire. He's Sabbat. Erica tried to remember when she had last seen Horatio but came upon the same mental fog that always clouded every attempt at recalling her final two months in New York City. Erica was certain that she had run into Horatio at some point shortly before leaving Manhattan, but she had no memory of specifics.
A familiar flash of rage shot through her body; she felt violated, victimized. It was the same way she felt every time she remembered how K.T. had admitted to allowing someone to alter several of her memories and completely erase a great many more. Oftentimes, in the evening when she woke up early and K.T. always slept late, she would fantasize about tracking down the facts of her past, about finding out exactly what had happened to her and why K.T. thought allowing the rape of her mind was preferable to the alternative. Whatever that was.
Fuck him, Erica decided, tossing aside all of the warnings he had given her, all of the earnest pleas for her just to let it go and not pursue something that could get her killed. I've had it with all this secretive shit. Being what I am has already cost me enough – marriage, kids, grandkids, holidays with family, all that happy horseshit. I gave up my mortality and everything that went with it in exchange for another life. Then I lost that life because one of my friends decided to play politics and sell us out. Sure, if it weren't for K.T. I'd probably be dead; but if not for K.T., I would at least have known why I was dying. He's away doing whatever it is he does when he wanders off… Time for me to do what I want for once.
"Horatio?" Erica called out, waving cheerily at the vampire whose eyes practically burst forth from their sockets when he set his gaze on her. Erica sashayed on over, as if she hadn't a care in the world, as if she hadn't spent years honing her combat skills and becoming an increasingly competent mercenary. For a moment, Erica almost felt as if she had fallen out of a time machine and into the middle of her life as it had been years earlier, before she had met K.T. The world was her oyster; she was surrounded by like-minded people who understood the value of going out to see and be seen, and she was now the center of attention of a man who commanded the attention of others. As Erica focused more on the expression Horatio was trying to hide, the one that spoke of fear and a sudden consideration of the merits of bolting, she was reminded that there was no time machine, there was no going back. Her mind was too occupied with the situation, though, for her to notice how happy she was about that. All that mattered now was dealing with the New York vampire who had mustered a happy smile that would make any glad-handing Republican jealous.
"Erica Blackwell!" His voice was full of a joy that his eyes obviously couldn't hear – his suspicious gaze never left Erica's hands. "I haven't seen you in ages. Everyone, this here is Erica Blackwell," he said, introducing her to his new circle of friends. "Erica Blackwell is an old friend of mine from New York City." Erica had not missed the fact that he all but shouted her name three times with one breath, or that he had seemed to put a slight stress on the words 'New York City.' It was subtle, but she had caught it. And she was certain she wouldn't have noticed back when she was a Sabbat neophyte in Manhattan, concerned only with partying and fashion. That was before she could better resist the effects of a vampire's presence, before she learned to read body language and voice modulations. Of course, the fact that someone on the edge of the group broke away and immediately opened a cell phone did little to add subtlety to Horatio's ruse.
"What have you been doing with yourself?" Horatio asked as Erica walked into his little circle of admirers.
"Why, I've been hiding from you, silly," she said, slapping him lightly on the shoulder as she laughed for the entertainment of everyone else. They all laughed with her, as enthralled by her presence as they were with Horatio's. The other vampire's eyes darkened, only for a moment, but Erica knew enough to realize that she was playing a very dangerous game. And if I don't get out of here soon, I may not get out at all. "I'm sorry to say this old friend, but I have to be going," she said, turning again to the crowd as she flashed a playful pout that elicited a new round of smiles.
"But there's so much we could catch up on," Horatio objected.
"There'll be time," Erica promised. Horatio's sycophants continued to smile, demonstrating the single-minded focus of trained circus monkeys, but she was certain her old friend caught the sudden menace she was subtlely injecting into her tone. "There'll be plenty of time, Horatio. So long as you're away from New York, you can count on running into me. I'll be seeing you."
Erica turned and walked away, remaining focused on the main doors even as her eyes passed across the room, verifying the position of every one of the emergency exits she had located first thing upon entering the club. She heard a young female voice fawning to Horatio behind her, and she barely resisted the temptation to turn and see the look on his face when she said, "Gee, Horatio, you and her must be pretty good friends if she's willing to meet up with you anywhere."
To be continued………………………-------------------------------------------------
Author's Endnote: Too many notes, so I'll make this brief. This story is pretty much done in its initial draft, which means only editing and one more scene are needed. The hold-up is Icy Mike, who's had the first draft for weeks and has yet to return any work on it. If you want this updated quickly, email him.