Chapter IV
Tincrown Pawn
"God's Judgment? Don't make me laugh. There is only one here who will be passing judgment tonight. Dare you guess who?"
"The only way to test a sword is in the heat of battle, the only way to test a man is in the heart of war."
Leonard couldn't remember how long ago Albrecht had said it. It had been a habit of his, to dispense wisdom at seemingly random times. His sire had been part of the old guard, of times when Ventrue had still been chosen from amidst dukes and marquises and not the up-and-comings on the latest Forbes list. Albrecht had always been, first and foremost, a warrior. The centuries had forced him to discard the armor and change his weapons, but- in chainmail or in Hugo Boss- the Ventrue's fire-tempered soul had remained unaffected. Maybe that was why his sire had born such disdain for younger Blue Bloods. It had never been an open sort of hate, oh no. It had been hidden in plain sight, somewhat- a thin veneer of contempt, signature for any Elder, had served to cover the man's disgust for the way the clan was heading in the Modern Nights.
And the man's childe couldn't help but agree. Much too many childer, with proverbial silver spoons tucked between their fangs, had made it into the ranks of the Kindred world's finest. It was his greatest source of pride- beyond even the blue blood in his veins- that he had earned with his own hands what others had been given freely upon birth. Many amidst the clan- pampered Old World Fauntleroys and mollycoddled American legacies- had the habit of looking down on him. No lineage, no history, no pedigree- as if the lack of such trivialities could brand him as inadequate. It was a mild annoyance at best and a headache-inducing aggravation at worst. But there was one thing which had always kept his spirits up- the ashen looks of shock on their faces when he pointed out he was off to build an empire of his own and not mooch off someone else's.
Indeed, for all the not-so-subtle sneers directed at the Clan of the Rose, many Blue Bloods themselves had a decisively Toreador way of handling their childer. There was no gothic romance flair or airport paperback saccharinity, but the level of familiarity was just about there. Ventrue lineages all too often emulated Kine nobility, much as they surely wanted for it to be seen as the other way around. His relationship with Albrecht had been anything but. The Ventrue Elder had never wanted an heir. A right-hand man, a confidant- perhaps- but never an heir. Irony of ironies, Albrecht had probably imagined himself ruling his modern-day kingdom for probably a millennia to come. And, accordingly, he had sired a proverbial general. Leonard's lot had been to rule, but never to inherit. To regulate and steer and expand- fully in command of whatever parts of Albrecht's financial empire were allotted to him.
A regent at best. A temporary, glorified accountant at worst.
"A throne is earned, and never given."
At first, it had been just yet another piece of Elder wisdom, yet another riddle taunting Leonard as his consciousness drifted away with every sunrise.
But he had solved it with the years. It was the way the world was meant to be- at least in Albrecht's eyes. Leonard had never been meant to be his heir. But if one day he could prove himself better- stronger, faster, wiser- then he would deserve the right to stake his claims of inheritance. Some would have called this line of thinking backwards and barbaric. Yet Leonard couldn't help it but believe the clan- and the Camarilla by extent- would have never faced the problems which plagued them these nights if they had only learned to judge by merit and not by right.
The piercing car horn of the pickup truck behind him tore Leonard away from his musings on Camarilla politics, the Universe and Everything. The Ventrue suppressed his childish desire to patiently wait for the light to turn red again, whilst the driver behind him spewed fire and flames, and just took the left at the intersection of 2nd and Main. It had apparently rained during the day. The reflected gleam of the headlights made the wet asphalt glisten, as if covered with a thin layer of glitter. Aged streetlights revealed glimpses of the local nightlife. A hooker in a neon pink skirt, short enough to be qualified as a belt, was desperately trying to warm herself up on her cigarette's flame while waiting for the next John. No few then ten meters down the road a worried woman was fidgeting at the bus stop, seemingly well-aware she wasn't in the best part of town after dark. Some baby-faced punks were getting their latest fix across from a bum loudly proclaiming the inevitable Apocalypse. The usual night owls were sulking around, hoods up and hands in their pockets, deluding themselves there was a single person in that God-forsaken city who cared what they did.
And the police car parked next to the Surfside Diner clearly showed where the local PD's priorities laid.
"Welcome to Santa Monica," mumbled the Ventrue under his breath, half a sneer and half a sigh.
It wasn't hard to find a parking space for the Audi in the nearby garage. If anything, the place was dismally empty. Suspicious vans and beat-up Honest John classics were the only other vehicles in sight. Leonard vaguely wondered if he was ever going to see his car again. The autumn wind hit him hard when he reached the street. Heavy clouds loomed far above, blotting out the waning moon, and promising another storm to come. Leonard could only hope the proverbial one didn't arrive even before the literal. The air smelled different in Santa Monica. There was still the signature city stench- of gasoline and burnt tires on tarmac, but the ocean's salty tang was clear even amidst the smell of fresh rain. It seemed that the Lady by the Sea was living up to her name.
His destination was anything but hard to spot. Bright neon letters proudly proclaimed "Asylum", without a single care for ruining the façade of one of the older, architecturally decent buildings in town. A mish-mash of teens and twenty-somethings were crowding the front, their voices still obnoxiously loud after getting used to the artillery barrage of beats inside. The alleyway on the side was apparently a hotspot for those of the establishment's clientele who want to puke, piss or get it on- all three in a glorious drunken stupor.
Things weren't much better beyond the double doors. The music- or at least what passed for it in this place- hit him with the force of a freight train. The overflowing dancefloor was filled with people seemingly hell-bent on giving the wildly spazzing strobe lights a run for their money. Amidst this cacophony of colors, screams and grinding bodies, Leonard was pretty sure a guy could have a seizure, and the rest would just applaud his masterful performance. There wasn't much elbow space on the second-floor railings. Dozens of pairs of glazed-over eyes were fixed either on the gyrating clusterfuck on the dance floor or the group reigning over the small podium. Yet another was waiting in the wings, instruments at the ready.
Band fight night. Just his luck.
Leonard made his way to the bar with some trouble and a whole lot of elbow work. The bartender- a petite girl in her twenties, who showed no signs of outgrowing her teenage rebellion- was barely visible behind the wall of screaming clients. Half a minute and a fifty pinched between his fingers later, the Ventrue finally got the blue-haired girl's attention. Bright red contacts, encircled by what seemed half a pound of mascara, swiftly locked onto the treat and the bartender finally obliged to give him her time of the night. The girl leaned on the counter, as if to hear him better, and revealed a rather lackluster cleavage.
"What's it gonna be, hotshot?"
"A meeting with your boss upstairs," answered the Ventrue, sliding Ulysses closer to the bartender.
"Do you have an appointment?" asked the bluenette- Leonard mentally cringed at this description prowess- now visibly in no hurry to accept any tips or bribes.
"No, but I'm sure she would prefer to hear what I have to say," replied the albino, trying to keep the hunger-augmented agitation out of his voice. "Just tell her it's Weissmann."
"If you say so," said the bartender after some hesitation. Ulysses disappeared in some back pocket of her jeans. "Anything else?"
The crowd awarded the band's performance with a roar of approval. The lead singer, a woman with stringy black hair in a theatrically-tattered white dress, bowed to the crowd and just about skipped down the stairs of the podium. The wall of people soon hid her bare back from view, leaving only the nagging emptiness in his stomach as Leonard's companion. The Ventrue checked his reflection in the wall of mirrors behind the bartender- he had dressed down for the occasion, trying to be more casual to blend in. Alas, the sheer normalcy of his black jeans and red high-collared shirt made him stand out in this sea of poseurish doom and gloom. The mask of indifference he was trying to keep on was visibly cracking- lips pursed; pale knuckles rattling on the bar top. His eyes were going steadily paler, cherry red already drained into whitish pink.
Leonard wisely decided playing Jyhad on an empty stomach would be a notoriously careless idea and ordered a glass of the first brand of alcohol he laid his eyes upon. His chill-soaked fingers seemed to siphon the warmth of the drink even faster than the ice cubes in it. The albino let out an irritated sigh at the picky restrictions imposed on him by the curse of his bloodline and set off to find the stringy-haired songstress. Not his usual choice of prey, but she would have to do.
"Oooh, what do we have here?"
Tone all too reminiscent of poison-laced sugar, voice fit only to belong to a wolf in rabbit's clothing. Jeanette Voerman sauntered seemingly out of thin air, hands on her hips, and beamed the Ventrue a seductive smile.
"A little orphaned cub, perhaps?" cooed the Malkavian, mismatched eyes locked onto Leonard's. The blonde tilted her head quizzically, as if wondering what to do with her newfound prey. She reminded him all too much of a kid armed with a looking glass, searching for some ants to burn. "Are you lost, little one? Did you come here looking for a way to wash away the grief, hmm?"
Jeanette leaned closer with each drawled out word, sharp canines biting a carmine lip for emphasis. The effect was much more noticeable on her than the bartender- some long-dead part of his mind wondered if she wore red lingerie on purpose, to accentuate even further the undead parlor of her ivory flesh.
"Or," almost chirped Jeanette, circling around the Ventrue- wildcat sizing up prey. "Maybe- just maybe- you've come here seeking revenge?" the Malkavian brushed a hand across his shoulders, lips pressed closely to his ear. "I'm sorry, little cub," drawled out the Jeanette. "But I just don't think we can be playmates if you've come here on a righteous quest of misguided vengeance. Nuh-uh! That. Just. Won't. Do."
Each word of her final sentence was emphasized with polished nails digging a bit deeper into his shoulders. Leonard let out an irritated sigh- he had been doing that a lot for some unfathomable reason- and turned around to face his fellow Kindred. Jeanette Voerman was- in his eyes at least- a venus flytrap.
Catholic school dropout turned stripper- the whole act was so over the top you either got reeled in or dismissed her completely. But Leonard Weissmann was neither too young nor too old- he didn't drool, nor did he laugh. The whole getup was meant as a distraction anyway- and even he had to admit she was pulling it off greatly. A magician's trick: misdirection meant to mask and cover where the real "magic" happened. Or maybe it was just nature's way of warning the unwary predator, like the brightly-colored scales of a snake, whose fangs were dripping with poison.
Malkavians were feared for a reason, even if no self-respecting Kindred would be ever heard admitting it out loud. And no amount of cleavage, midriff or luscious thighs could make Leonard forget it. Voerman Junior was too much of a wildcard. There was no a rhyme or reason to her actions, and certainly no guessing her whims. "Better tread carefully there," warned himself the Ventrue. "No telling how thin the ice really is."
"They must've called the wrong sister," bluntly stated Leonard, keeping his eyes adamantly fixed on hers. Sapphire and emerald twinkled a bit too mischievously for his liking. "I've come to do business, not play around."
"Oh, is that so, darling?" chirped Jeanette, jester smile from ear to ear. "Haven't they told you already? The business services I offer far surpass those of my dearest sister. Are you sure she is the one you're looking for?" A manicured finger was currently tracing circles around his chest.
"Getting surer by the second," shot back the Ventrue, trying to will all lack of amusement into his features. He should've figured earlier that if there was one thing on Earth Jeanette Voerman didn't do, it was subtle.
"You're no fun," said the Malkavian, smile shifting into a perfectly faked pout. "And here I thought I had found myself a new playmate for the night. Alas, I guess it's just not meant to be, darling. Don't be a stranger, alright!"
Leonard Weissmann had experienced many things since becoming an undead monster- but none had ever flabbergasted him as much as one Jeanette Voerman flicking his nose as a form of goodbye. The seductress was just about to saunter off to whence she had come, without a single care in the world, when the Ventrue grabbed hold of her wrist. Some white knight waiting in the wings decided to interfere- all righteous fury and dreams of just rewards. Leonard's snarled "Out!" cut him off before he could even word a full sentence.
"My, my, the little cub had fangs!" said Voerman Junior, tacking on a sorority-girl giggle for good measure. "Aren't you the bad boy, using Disciplines in a Camarilla-sanctioned Elysium! What would my dearest sister say, I wonder?"
"Oh, I'd very much like to speak to her and hear it with my own ears," said the albino, keeping an iron grip on his infuriating captive.
"Tut-tut! Not so fast, darling," chastised him the Malkavian, blonde twintails mirroring her shake of disapproval. "So few visitors come here looking for sis, true, but I just can't let her see a man alone without checking him first. That would be so scandalous,"-eyes widened for good measure-"wouldn't it?"
"Voerman!" grumbled the Ventrue through gritted teeth.
"Just 'cupcake' is fine, dear," chirped the blonde.
The Malkavian jerked her hand free and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Leonard to marinate into his own fury, with no outlet in sight. The albino was pretty sure he was bordering Frenzy already, but there was no time for such trivialities. His sire's death had erased all chances for half-measures. With each minute trickling away all trails were getting colder- if there were any left. And unless the orphaned childe took measures, he knew full well that would be the least of his problems.
He caught up to Jeanette just as the elevator door was about to close. Leonard stubbornly lodged in a five-hundred-dollar shoe and squeezed into the cabin with all the righteous fury of a Ventrue scorned.
"Every girl likes to be chased, little cub," said the blonde, back to the wall, crossed arms accentuating her breasts. "But there is a thing as 'too pushy', y'know that? So I suggest you listen to big sister, go home and tuck yourself in bed. I promise to come over and play some other night, alright?"
"Fifteen minutes," said the albino, trapping the Malkavian between his arms and the wall. "No more, no less. And I'm out of your hair."
In hindsight, he walked right into that one.
"So quickly?" gasped the blonde and plastered on a sympathizing pout. "You should really see a doctor for that, sweetling."
In a vain attempted to save face, Weissmann chose to merely continue his futile attempts to stare down the Malkavian. After what seemed like eternity, the elevator ground to a halt. The iron door to the side opened with an almost echoing screech. Jeanette finally obliged to answer, all sugary sweetness gone from her voice.
"You really are a party animal, aren't you?"
"I'm a Ventrue," shot back Leonard. "It's a clan trait."
"Wait here," said the blonde and leaned under his arm. "I'll go talk to the queen bee. But you're so gonna owe me for that one!" shouted back Voerman Junior as she went into the apartment.
Weissmann let out the air he hadn't noticed holding in. He was acting reckless-and stupid, so very very stupid! But things had seemingly worked out. The walls weren't melting around him after all. He found it easier to delude himself that the hard part had ended. And eventually becoming yet another notch on Jeanette's bedpost would've been a small price to pay. Hell, some would've called it charity.
"Weissmann!" the elder Voerman's shrill voice put a swift end to the Ventrue's daydreaming. Therese was leaning on the doorframe, sizing up the younger Kindred from behind her glasses. Leonard had the nagging thought she was finding him wanting. "Come in," was the Malkavian's curt order, leaving him no choice but to follow his fellow Kindred inside her den.
The room clearly showed traces of its inhabitants- hell, it was as if there was a literal line to split the sisters' inner domain. Therese's overly organized desk contrasted sharply with the tacky heart-shaped bed on the other side of the room. The younger Voerman's clothes littered the floor- a trail leading to a door on the other side. The sound of a shower was clearly audible.
A positively unladylike snort came from somewhere next to him, prompting the Ventrue's skin to shift from 'excessively pale' to 'virgin snow'. The last thing he wanted now was Therese to think he was busy getting an eyeful of her twin sister's lingerie. And, judging by her flaring nostrils and wire-thin lips- she was doing just that.
It was shocking, in a way, how different the two sisters were. As shameless as Jeanette was, her sister was just as conservative. Remembering the old saying about emulation and flattery brought a weak smile to Leonard's lips. Therese looked as if born in a boardroom. From the tips of her Prada shoes to the carefully-styled topknot, Therese Voerman oozed coldness and confidence. But he found them much more welcoming than the over-familiarity of the younger Malkavian. The elder Voerman was the same kind of predator as he was, after all. The fact she was a known quantity- predictable and oh-so-easy to calculate- made her all the more easily dealt with. Or at least Leonard hoped so.
"My sister told me you were very insistent on seeing me, Mister Weissmann," finally said Therese, hands crossed and hawk-gaze fixed on the younger Kindred. "Dare I guess why?"
Leonard wondered why on Earth people would fixate so much on one sister and not even look twice at the other. They were twins anyway- it was the same 'body made for bedrooms' under that knee-length skirt and buttoned-up shirt… But he was getting sidetracked. Sidetracked!
"Well, it's an open secret anyway," answered the Ventrue with a shrug. "Many believe that chief suspect of my sire's death are you. At least among the Camarilla."
"And what about you?" asked Therese and leaned back on the desk, eyes never leaving his own. He could almost swear the temperature in the room was going down. "Do you believe these accusations?"
"I did ask for permission to enter, didn't I?" shot back Leonard, letting the not-so-subtle implications hang in the air.
"Bold words from a sireless neonate," replied the elder Voerman, a wicked smile playing on her lips. "What is it that you want then? And I advise you to speak quickly- Jeanette did tell me you insisted in being given fifteen minutes only, right?"
"I don't think you are responsible," plainly stated Weissmann, choosing to bite back any comments on Jeanette's helpfulness. "You know full well about the possible consequences of Albrecht's death. And you're too smart to risk destabilizing the Camarilla even further in this situation just for the sake of position as Seneschal. It would be an empty title, nothing more."
Therese nodded in agreement and propped her chin on a well-manicured hand. Leonard took it as his cue to keep talking.
"Of course, some would say that this is your grand goal. Offering the ailing Camarilla to Rodriguez so he would accept you back into the fold, no questions asked. But we both know the Anarchs would never accept a traitor back, don't we? And you already have Santa Monica. There's nothing more they can offer you."
"So, if not vengeance…" said Therese and leaned forward, leaving it open-ended on purpose. Leonard had seen the predatory glint in her eyes in the mirror all too many times to miss it.
"It's an alliance I seek. Beneficial to us both."
"Do tell," said Therese and finally offered him a chair after moving to her own behind the desk. "You've got me curious now, neonate."
"It's quite simple, really," said the Ventrue and crossed his legs. Pale fingers tapped lightly on his knee. "The Anarchs, for all their stomping of war drums, know full-well they won't be able to handle open war on two fronts- us and the Kuei-Jin. And there's no way this is a Sabbat job. The very fact that the academy is still standing proves it. They do raids, not assassinations. And this can only lead to the conclusion that it's an inside job. But even if I find the one responsible from within the ranks of the Camarilla, it's going to be my word versus theirs. A nobody wouldn't even dream of pulling this off. It must be someone high up. Hell, it can even be another Ventrue. That's where you come in. I need the backing of someone with enough clout in LA to levy any accusations without being afraid of ending up as dust in the wind."
"Suppose I help you," said Therese and steepled her fingers as she leaned to study him more closely. "How would it benefit me, exactly, aside from letting me sleep with a clean conscious?" asked the Malkavian, with a tiny mocking smile playing on her lips.
"I would back you up as Seneschal," answered Leonard, carefully tossing bait in the proverbial murky waters. "Strauss would never appoint another Tremere. The Toreador and the Nosferatu would be too busy clawing their eyes out and the Brujah have never been a popular choice for Camarilla leadership in LA. That leaves our two clans. And if I vouch for you, the position's as good as yours, with no internal strife to ruin the Camarilla. So far."
"This all sounds fine and dandy indeed, Mister Weissmann," said the elder Voerman, absent-mindedly studying the crimson polish on her nails. "I just can't help but wonder how a sireless neonate would sway his elders."
"That's the thing," replied Leonard with a knowing smirk. "Being a 'sireless neonate' has its perks for a Ventrue. Right now, they'll be obligated to help me, whether they like it or not. The clan has to look united to outsiders, so even Albrecht's rivals from within our ranks are expected to assist me with anything I need, even if just so they could save face. No Ventrue in LA would dare show distrust or animosity to a dead Primogen and Seneschal's childe. The important thing is me making the first step, so they would look like dissenters upon disagreeing. But there's no one who would suspect, not even Strauss, who is currently under the assumption I'm on a crusade against you."
"You are a wicked man, Leonard Weissmann, you know that?" finally said Therese and granted the albino a rare look of approval for nearly ten solid seconds.
"I just do what is needed," replied the Ventrue with a shrug.
He knew his clanmates would be less than thrilled about his actions- and that there were going to be severe repercussions in the future. But those were worries for another time. Besides, Voerman's promotion would mean getting Strauss out of his hair, considering the Tremere would be too busy periodically checking his back for any stray knives.
"There is just one thing," suddenly said Therese, letting out a theatrical sigh.
There was a thing. Of course. There always was some twisted little thing. God forbid things went smoothly, the Earth itself could explode or something.
"Before we shake hands, I will need some evidence your help will be more than just a one-time occurrence," calmly announced the Malkavian and procured two wineglasses and a bottle from a nearby cabinet. "An… assurance of your aptitude, if we may call it so." The blood swirling in his glass was oh-so-inviting, but even as his lips cracked, Leonard waited to hear the end of it. "Lately we've been having some problems with the herd in Santa Monica. Substance abuse. Nothing unusual, you might say, but- sadly- this is not the case this time. Whoever's making this new brand of drug, he's mixing vitae in it. You can imagine how dreadful can be the consequences of such mass ghouling. And I cannot permit some overly-ambitious Kindred to build his private army of… junkies in my own domain!"
"Just… just-let me clear things up," said Leonard, cutting her off. "You want me, who is offering you the position of Seneschal- basically for free- to track down some vampire drug lord?"
"Congratulations, neonate," said Therese and raised her glass in a toast. "You've hit the nail on the head." The Malkavian seemed most amused by the younger Kindred's astonished expression. "Consider it the traditional boon owed to the leader of the domain you visit. After all, you Ventrue are such sticklers for tradition, are you not?"
Leonard answered her toast in silence. Not like he had any other urgent business to take care of, oh no! With so much free time, why not chase down some cult-building bad guys?
Whatever part of Leonard's brain housed his last shreds of humor reminded him to take a bag for any stray coins floating in mid-air he might find.
The cab trip to Hollywood was mercifully uneventful. The distant rumble of rolling thunder was now accompanied by October rain, its speed steadily picking up. The raindrops bombarded the car like bullets, competing with the throbbing currently pulsing in Leonard's skull for which annoyance would be the first to drive him crazy. The Ventrue rested his forehead on the window, tired eyes trying to pierce through the veil of the rain on the other side.
"Rough night?"
The Ventrue couldn't tell if the driver was looking at him- a pair of unneeded nighttime shades was the only thing he saw in the rearview mirror.
"Something like that," muttered the sireless childe, more to himself than anyone else. The cars in the opposite lane were melting into a single streak of disjointed light as they passed by. The looming skyscrapers of the city were soon replaced with the sparkly neon landscape of Abrams' Barony.
The old cab screeched to a halt in front of Café Cavoletti. The high-end restaurant was a leftover from the previous regime, a little piece of Camarilla paradise smack-dab in Anarch territory. It wasn't that much of a profitable business. Leonard suspected LaCroix had bought it out of spite, more than anything else. 'Cavoletti' was the proverbial slap in Abrams' face, a constant reminder of how easily the Camarilla could enroot itself in his Barony, barely on a whim. Things weren't that simple, of course- nor nearly as easy as the last Prince had wanted the rest of LA to think. Hollywood was Anarch to the bone. Hell, you could say that for the majority of Angeltown. The once-jewel of the Free State had never forgotten its origins. This concrete oasis was still the Wild West, no matter what some Tradition-obsessed Camarilla Elders said. The Anarchs knew it. The Kuei-Jin knew it. The Sabbat, too.
Leonard was pretty sure even Maximillian-bloody-Strauss was aware that the Old World had declared Los Angeles an unimportant backwater case of free-for-all decades ago. The city wasn't just the center of a Cold War- it was just another West Coast battlefield stuck in transitory peace. It wasn't a question of if or who or why. The only valid question was when this powder-keg of a city would go up in flames.
Indeed, 'Cavoletti' was nothing more than the Elder equivalent of a childish prank. Leonard frankly couldn't fathom how Kindred who numbered their years in the hundreds could so easily mirror the thinking of a twelve-year-old with an overflowing bank account in Switzerland. But, nonetheless, he liked the place. Not many Camarilla spies bothered with this place, given how obvious it was. And it was a welcome respite from all the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. Some would have called the place 'stuck-up'. One Leonard Weissmann found it to be borderline cozy, but whether it was personal taste or Ventrue haughtiness, he couldn't tell. All in all, a good place for a business meeting, regardless of the factions involved. Camarilla agents considered it their proverbial high chair in Abrams' Barony and Anarch middle-men saw it as relatively safe and harmless, considering its location. Why she insisted so much on calling them business dates, Leonard still couldn't tell.
The Ventrue shook the stray raindrops out of his hair as he entered, red eyes scanning for his contact. For a Nosferatu, she was rather easy to find. The again, it wasn't like Imalia ever tried to hide herself or anything. Hell, any Kindred not in the know would have pegged her as your run-on-the-mill, vanity-stuffed Toreador dollface. Leonard had to give it to her, for being barely a decade old, she sure knew her Obfuscate. The narcissism of a Cleopatra was a scary thing indeed. Imalia had lived for the spotlight, died because of it- and kept on clutching it even after, clan curse be damned.
The Nosferatu's olive eyes stumbled upon him seemingly on accident, and Imalia visibly perked up, a crimson smile dancing on her painted lips. Leonard had no doubts she had noticed him before he had even entered, but played along. The Ventrue had no idea why she insisted so stubbornly on this charade. It was a coin toss between stroking her own ego and goading him into breaking Elysium rules.
"You're late," said Imalia as she rose to greet him, an accusation as false as it was theatrical. He was ten minutes early. The Nosferatu pressed a kiss on his cheek- Leonard didn't bother returning the gesture. His… 'date' showed no outward signs of being irritated by it. Seeing no other viable option, the Ventrue opted to just echo the cab driver.
"Rough night."
"Well, you know I specialize in making things better," said the Nosferatu as she returned to her seat. The baby-blue dress chosen for the evening came with a generous slit to the side. Imalia pretended not to notice the leers of the other male patrons as she crossed her legs and bared a thigh. The curls of her raven hair flowed freely down the only shoulder covered by her asymmetric dress, leaving the other bare, so men could freely marvel at her Mediterranean complexion.
It was in moments like those that Leonard wondered what her admirers would say if they could see past the glamour. Curse, retch, pass out from shock? Weissmann knew his fellow Kindred was fishing for praise and not for prey. Even now her almond eyes were innocently looking around, stopping only to hold gazes with some unfaithful husband or other. Leonard had no doubt that Imalia would end up with one of them after this little rendezvous. She'd lead her victim away with promises for a quick romp in the bathroom or maybe a full night at some nearby motel. She'd whisper in their ears, press her body to theirs, have them run their fingers through her non-existent hair. Perhaps she'd feed during the deed, maybe after, maybe not at all. The blood was an afterthought to her. Imalia hunted solely so she could revive her old self for some fraction of the night.
Did she drop the Obfuscate in the end? Or perhaps in the middle of it, burying sharpened claws in their backs to keep them from running? Leonard himself could only guess what was underneath the false skin of a death supermodel. But the Ventrue was really sure it was a pretty damn educated guess. Putrid breath, corpse-like skin peeling away, piss-colored eyes, teeth like rotting needles- the works. Weissmann was pretty sure there were thin-bloods less in denial of their clan status than Imalia.
But she was useful and it was all he needed. If the Nosferatu wanted this pity-party date charade, he was willing to oblige. Hell, it was a better way for information exchange than the jump scares most of her clanmates favored.
"Anything on Saint Lucia's?" asked the Ventrue, not even sparing a glance for the waiter who had just arrived with the 'wine'.
"Now about that," started Imalia, sounding almost apologetic. The Nosferatu ran a finger on the edge of her glass before answering. "Keep in mind, when the Camarilla got the idea to turn the academy into a blood doll factory, they made sure to keep us Nosferatu out. Apparently you types don't like anyone poking their noses around while you nibble on some schoolgirl's tender, juicy neck."
Imalia emptied her wineglass in a single gulp and shot a teasing look at the Ventrue. "Go figure."
"So you can't get in?" asked Leonard, his voice unable to hide the weird mix of frustration and amazement. He didn't know anyone could make a place Nosferatu-proof. The very concept was baffling.
"We can't get in undetected," corrected him Imalia, visibly amused by his reaction. "That's quite the important detail, y'know. The maze of tunnels under the school is out of the question. Up until twenty years ago they were fully sealed, nowadays the whole place is under video surveillance. Can't use rats, too. They poison the air five times over to make sure we don't send any living critter past. Same story up on the surface. Feeding is done only in specially designated rooms equipped with infrared cams. Even if we use Obfuscate to pass off as some prissy Toreador, we'd get noticed setting up our own cams. Every blood doll is examined periodically to uncover any trace of ghouling- so we can't get an agent on the inside either. The whole surveillance system is a self-sustained, closed-circle network. No connection to the Internet, so no chance to hack it from a distance. The mainframe is in a panic room inside the principal's office, which can be opened only with a combination of a password, finger and retina scan. Since getting in there would be obviously a one-time-only thing, we haven't even bothered to do it. The Camarilla higher-ups are taking turns providing blood for the principal, so no clear domitor who can take advantage of it."
Imalia twirled a lock of hair around her finger and let out a theatrical sigh.
"So, you see, there's just no way I can help you on that front. A Primogen-or the Prince- may give you permission to view the footage from that night, but if it was an inside-job, I bet anything important has already been deleted."
Leonard was starting to wonder if he would ever stumble upon anything but dead-ends. More and more the Ventrue was starting to realize how perfect a place the murderer had chosen. After all, white spots on the Nosferatu map of espionage were rarely- if ever- found. Still, there was no reason to despair, Weissmann reminded himself- he could still try to investigate the academy in person. Or at least the people concerned.
"But," announced Imalia with a victorious smile and leaned forward on the table, tossing back her hair. "I do know that Camarilla puppet holed up in the academy has been… outsourcing blood dolls to the Confession. I bet he wouldn't like it if you announce he was giving those juicy morsels to the Anarchs behind the Camarilla's back."
"I knew you'd pull through," said the Ventrue, part of him pretty sure he even meant it. Good news was scarce to come by these nights after all.
"Anytime for you, Leo," just about purred Imalia and leaned forward with a smile. The Ventrue was pretty sure the cleavage-display was meant for the almost-gaping guy on the table behind them. Ignorance truly was bliss sometimes- the mental image of fake breasts on a non-Obfuscated Nosferatu made him cringe on the inside. Strauss had claimed Albrecht's death had visibly unhinged the neonate. Leonard dared say he was starting to doubt if some Malk hadn't tossed him on Albrecht's doorstep, given the thoughts recently swimming around his jumbled brain.
"One more thing," said Weissmann, desperately trying to reel things back on track. "Do you happen to know anything about some new… ghouling drug in Santa Monica?"
"Oh, that one's all the rage, Leo," absent-mindedly answered Imalia while signaling the waiter for another glass. "Yet I can't help but wonder why you would be curious about the troubles in Voerman's domain. Anything you might want to share?"
"I heard Therese is dead-set on hunting down the one behind it," replied Leonard, pretending not to notice as the Nosferatu nonchalantly snaked his own glass away from him. "Considering how likely it is Albrecht's death is yet another of her power-grabs, it is in my vested interest to keep her as occupied as possible for now. Giving a helping hand to whoever's behind this would be the smart thing to do."
"You heard?" echoed Imalia, raising a delicate eyebrow.
"You're not the only Nosferatu around," plainly stated the Ventrue. He didn't care particularly if she believed him or not. But he wasn't about to divulge such gossip as his newborn alliance with the saner Voerman.
"You've been seeing other Nosferatu!?" exclaimed Imalia with mocking shock clearly evident on her face. "I'm hurt, Leo, I really am," she added and placed a hand on her chest to strengthen the façade of her false surprise. The Ventrue pretended not to notice how the other customers were throwing curious glances at their table. With yet another tired sigh, one Leonard Weissmann clasped his fellow Kindred's hand, leaned forward and muttered through gritted teeth: "I'm sorry."
"Your acting is just horrid, you know that?" shot back Imalia after a second or two, pulling her hand out from under his. "Everybody thinks this new drug is a Santa Monica thing," said the Nosferatu, finally getting back on track. "But the drug was introduced to the streets in Downtown. Surprise, surprise, the very first hotspot was the 'Confession'. I think Dreyson's due for a visit, hmm?"
"That's it?" asked the Ventrue, raising an eyebrow in surprise. "You know nothing else?"
"Oh, I know plenty of things, Leo," replied Imalia, biting a nail suggestively and leering at the guy behind her fellow Kindred. "But you know I can't divulge any info for free," she said, finally turning her eyes back to his own. "No matter how much I like the one asking."
"Name your price."
Leonard said it before she had even finished speaking. It was a Ventrue trait, instinct too deeply ingrained in his nature. Too trade and haggle and-no matter what- to obtain what he desired. Wiessmann found something disturbing in the Nosferatu's smile.
"Who is Albrecht Weissmann's childe going to support as LA's next Primogen?"
The question took him by surprise and Leonard had no one but himself to blame. No matter her quirks and vanity, Imalia was still her sire's childe. And the Ventrue had the nasty habit of forgetting Gary Golden would have never assigned her as his personal agent on the surface just because of familial ties. Lying was out of the question. She was too valuable as an informant, plain and simple. And now, more than ever, he needed a Sewer Rat on his side. Well, she had given him some clues to work with…
"He'll vote for the one whose rise to power will benefit him the most," said the Ventrue and rose from his chair, leaving a slightly-disappointed Nosferatu behind.