KINDRED SPIRITS
by Soledad
A "Pathways in the Dark" story
Part 09 of "The Toreador Chronicles". Follows "Courtship Rituals".
For disclaimer and background information see the Introduction.
Rating: 14+ for this part, mostly for language.
Author's note: In my universe, events of Angel: The Series took a very different turn after Season 2. Angel has learned to accept his vampiric nature, and he was practically blackmailed by the Camarilla in the city to take over the seat of the Prince, in order to keep the Sabbat out. Also, I postulated that Russell Winters from Angel (killed by Angel in the pilot) and Cyrus, the Brujah Prince of LA in Kindred – The Embraced were one and the same person.
Summary: continued from Page 1, as this story has grown too long.
Alain was familiar with the elegant and expensive villa that served as the Prince's residence. In fact, he had been an infrequent visitor in the times of the former Prince, Cyrus, known among mortals as Russell Winters. Cyrus was fond of artwork, although his taste wasn't the most refined, and in spite of being a ruthless monster – and in league with the Sabbat at that – he frequently invested his wealth into paintings and sculptures. He sometimes hired Alain as his expert, so that he wouldn't buy anything worthless.
Unlike in Cyrus' times, security measures were rather on the low side now. Angelus, aside from being the Prince, was very much Anarch in his mannerism and lifestyle, working as a private investigator and beating the shit out of demons and the Sabbat every other night, supported by Spike, his Enforcer and favourite Childe, and in league with the local group of Legacy hunters. The latter of which was a fairly unusual alliance for a Kindred Prince, but it helped the never-ending struggle against Sabbat infiltration, and besides, Angelus never really cared what other vampires thought about him.
Alain rang the doorbell – as the porter's room seemed abandoned – and one of Angelus' youngest Childer, a tall, blond young man named Owen, answered it. Owen hadn't been freed yet, was still struggling with the aftershocks of his unusually long and painful Becoming, the result of his hurried, irregular Embrace. Angelus had saved him in the last moment from becoming a human sacrifice in a Setite temple – but not timely enough for him to continue a human life, due to the poisoned wounds from the ceremonial knife and to having been almost completely drained already. As a result, Owen's transformation had dragged on for months, with many agonizing throwbacks. Alain felt sorry for the friendly and good-natured young man who endured the phases of excruciating pain with stoic acceptance.
"Hey Owen," he smiled. "Is your Sire in? I'd like to speak with him… in some urgent Clan business."
Owen shrugged and gave him an easy smile. For one of the Line of Aurelius, which usually produced vicious monsters, he surely was a charming guy. And handsome, too. But again, the Line of Aurelius was supposed to have been "reformed" now – whatever that could mean in the case of a bloodline that had been feared even among the Sabbat.
"I can ask," the fledgling led Alain into Cyrus' former foyer that had been transformed into a magnificent library, with heavy furniture made of dark wood, stained glass lamps, burgundy velvet curtains and a beautiful fireplace. Angelus apparently had a more exquisite taste – Alain appreciated the changes, he never really liked the creamy colours Cyrus had preferred, they were ridiculous for a powerful male vampire and a Brujah Prince at that – and a vast interest in ancient lore, too.
However, Alain didn't have the time to study the changes to the extent he'd have liked to. Only moments later, a door opened on the opposite site of the library, and a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man strode in with long, confident strides. Having spent half a millennium in the Dark (give or take a few years), Alain wasn't easily impressed… or intimidated, for that matter. Yet facing the former Scourge of Europe, whom he'd never met before, he could feel the power radiating from this vampire who was barely half his age. Alain liked calling himself a monster – which, in a sense, all Kindred were, no matter how disciplined – but now he had to admit that compared with the new Prince of LA he was a boy scout.
Angelus wore black on black on black – black slacks and a black silk shirt, both of which wore the emblems of the most expensive fashion houses, and tailored black leather shoes – all of which emphasized his pale complexion, even in vampire terms. He was handsome, in a rugged, almost primitive way – Alain suppressed a grin, remembering Spike's snidely remarks about his Sire's "caveman brow" and "nancy-boy hairdo". It was a dangerous memory. Spike could get away with making fun of his Sire, but Alain didn't have a death wish. Well, a Final Death wish. Whatever.
He bowed from the waist, kissing the red-stoned ring on Angelus' middle finger. It wasn't exactly the Ring of Amarra, but it symbolized the status of the Prince. Plus, it was warded, which, together with the natural abilities of the red sunstone, protected its wearer from the destructive powers of direct sunlight. At least for a short time, that is. The Line of Aurelius, belonging to the True Undead, had no tolerance whatsoever against sunlight, nor did they have a reflection (just like the Lasombra). So they needed special measures to protect themselves.
"My Prince," Alain murmured, respectfully but not submissively. You didn't show weakness while facing a monster.
Angelus waved impatiently. "Leave the show to impress the fledglings. You said it was urgent. So, who are you and what do you want?"
"I'm Alain DeLaigle from Clan Toreador, and I came on behalf of my Primogen, Victor Girard," Alain replied.
Recognition showed in those dark, impenetrable eyes.
"You're the one who took in Sarina and who keeps Oliver Simon and his mate on my side?"
"Yes, my Prince."
"I owe you," Angelus said simply. "So, what's the emergency?"
"There has been an… accident," Alain said, choosing the words very carefully; it was a delicate act of balance. "By one of our minor bloodlines, the Sons of Discord," seeing the Prince's blank look, he added helpfully. "The male line of the Daughters of Cacophony?"
"Hasn't the male line become extinct some ten years ago?" a precisely accentuated voice – so British that it almost hurt – asked from the background.
Alain whirled around, agitated that he hadn't felt the presence of the human by entering the room. The tall, thin, bespectacled man, who rose from a deep, dark leather armchair, was wearing a three-piece tweed suit, with a totally unimaginative tie, and the seal ring of a Legacy Percept on his finger. That explained how he could veil his presence from a vampire as old as Alain. The LA Precept was known to have Watcher genes.
"Well?" the mortal demanded. "Is it not true that the last Son of Discord, Harlan Graves, was killed in the late 1991?"
Alain nodded. Harlan had been a great guy; a freelance scriptwriter and art director at the Vignes Studios, and completely safe in his Toreador disguise – until he made the fatal mistake to fall for Celeste, a human transgender singer, and Embrace him. Her. Whatever.
"True," he said. "But shortly before his Final Death, he Embraced Celeste. Muse, the blind Sabbat killer of the Daughters, didn't find Celeste, because she was looking for a male Childe and didn't know Celeste wasn't a woman."
Angelus looked from one to another with growing impatience. "Would you two care to enlighten me?"
"Sorry," Alain apologized. "According to legends, back in the Dark Ages, there was a great Toreador singer who sought the secret of her Fae rival's singing. She was being taught deep under the hills the arts of Fae Song and was thought to be lost, forever. Hundreds of years later, in the 17th century, she suddenly reappeared and began to gather like-minded people around her. That's the origin of the bloodline."
"Unless you follow other legends involving the Lamia and the Songs of Lilith," the bespectacled Englishman added in slight amusement. "Some people see them as a Malkavian offshot, but they also might be Ventrue…"
"Oh, no," Alain shook his head, "the Daughters are basically facetious Toreador who are 'above' the conflict between poseurs and true artists, or so they say."
"Because they are poseurs, all of them," the Legacy Precept snickered.
"Well, they are very entertaining to listen to," Alain shrugged, "but only if you have industrial strength earplugs. Anything that can shatter glass and do bad things to living flesh…." He shuddered. "But Celeste is basically harmless. The Sons of Discord lack the destructive powers of their 'sisters'."
"Which is the reason why the Daughters were able to exterminate them," the Precept finished.
Angelus looked like someone just this side of a killer headache.
"What. The. Hell. Has. Happened?" he asked, with angry emphasis on each single word.
"Celeste took a shine to one of our new associates," Alain summarized. "They were heavily involved in oral sex, and Celeste got a bit carried away while feeding on the mortal. So, instead of letting him die from the severe blood loss, he spontaneously Embraced his bedmate. Who's now going through the agony of Becoming without help, as Celeste has suffered a nervous breakdown. Well, Victor is there with them, doing what he can, but…"
"Has the human known about our kind before?" Angelus asked.
"No," Alain said promptly. "We've been very careful."
"Why don't you put him out of his misery, then?"
"Well, firstly, we need him for work-related stuff," Alain sighed. "Secondly, it wasn't his fault. Thirdly, he'd do just fine in Toreador disguise, with the proper foster care."
"Hmmm…" Angelus raised an eyebrow. "You again?"
"No," Alain said quickly. "I'm grooming someone else for the Clan right now, and that one might come complete with a soul mate. No, Victor suggested the Blount family. The fledgling already knows them from the studios, and between the three of them, they could easily manage."
Angelus remained silent for a moment. "You realize that this is against the rules, right?" he then asked.
"It's said you're not such a sticker to the rules as stiff-necked Ventrue Princes are," Alain replied. It was a calculated risk, knowing Angelus' tempers, but he couldn't let Emmett be put down like a rabid dog, just because Celeste couldn't keep hold on his Beast. It had been bad enough to lose Harlan because of him. Alain was not willing to lose Emmett, too. Not if he could do anything against it.
"That's true," the Anarch Prince nodded "But this is one particular rule with which I happen to agree. Embracing people without their consent is a crime. I should know. I've done it often enough in the past."
"Then don't punish the victim," Alain said quietly. "I don't care about Celeste, he's insane. Have him killed, exiled, eaten – whatever. He's always been a liability for the bloodline and the Clan. But the fledgling is just as innocent as Sarina has been, and unlike his Sire, he's not an irresponsible fool. We can manage the situation with minimal effort. Let us do so. Please."
"Let's make a deal," Angelus suggested, a predatory gleam in his dark eyes. "I'll spare him – if you tell me why are you fighting for his life so hard."
"Very well," Alain said. He hated to show any weakness, especially in the presence of someone who had considerable power over his existence, but if this was the way to save Emmett, he could do so, every once in a while. "He's important for the one I'm grooming for the Clan. They've been friends for years. I don't want him to lose a friend; he doesn't have that many."
Angelus gave him a penetrating look. "Is he that important for you?"
"Yes," Alain replied without hesitation. "He'll be the first Childe I'm going to sire for more than a century. Embracing Oliver and his partner was a convenience for you. Sarina isn't even mine. And all my older Childer have been destroyed, back in Europe, a long time ago. I want this one to have a happy unlife."
"I see," the Prince said after a long pause. "I gave my word, so I'll spare the fledgling – for now. He'll still have to prove himself before the Conclave, though."
Which was the standard procedure and didn't worry Alain a bit. Emmett might be hard to bear sometimes, but he was no idiot. And he would certainly love the idea of remaining young and pretty forever. Even if he had to give up sunbathing for the rest of his life. Unlife. Whatever.
While Alain was doing his best to save Emmett from being killed for something that wasn't his fault and Melanie was sleeping (her early pregnancy and the flight draining her usual strength), Brian and Michael were having a good time. They had a lot of catching up to do, and for once, Michael's news were good ones. Ben's T-cell count had gone back up to almost six thousand; the new medication seemed to work, at least the time being.
Michael's own HIV test was negative, and though that still didn't mean absolute certainty, it was a huge relief – until the next control anyway. He had fathered Melanie's baby the same way Brian had done with Gus just before the condom accident and was now looking forward to becoming a father.
Debbie was still dating that gruffy cop of hers, and they seemed to get along better than anyone would have expected. Ted was the only one with his life still slightly out of synch, but he was slowly getting there, too.
"And how's Emmett doing?" Michael asked, stuffing popcorn into his mouth. They were lounging on the couch in Brian's living room, watching Brett Keller's latest action movie – one that had been leading the charts for seven weeks.
"Good, I guess," Brian shrugged, enjoying the familiar weight and warmth of Michael's body leaning against him like in old times. "I haven't seen much of him lately, to tell the truth. Not since he got involved with that weird transgender diva who looks like Hugo Weaving in Priscilla."
"Oh, God!" Michael shuddered demonstratively.
"Yeah, right," Brian agreed. "Not only is this Celeste character criminally ugly, he's also mad as a hatter. Em doesn't seem to mind – although I don't know how they decide who'd fuck whom. They're such bottoms, both of them that it physically hurts to see them together. As if Emmett in full Southern belle mode wasn't bad enough to begin with."
Michael laughed quietly, and Brian's heart jumped at that long-missed sound.
"Em does have beautiful eyes, you know," Michael then said thoughtfully, "especially when he puts that silver eyeliner on them. Very few guys could pull that one without looking ridiculous, but with Em, it looks…. well, natural. I'm glad you took him here. The Pitts wasn't the right place for a tropical bird like him – and he's been floating somehow ever since George's death. I wish I could see him before we leave."
"I'm afraid I have no idea where he could be," Brian admitted, reaching for his cell phone, "but perhaps Alain has. He's usually awfully well-informed." He speed-dialled Alain's number. "Hi Alain… yeah, me. I wanted to ask… have you seen Emmett lately? Michael asked about him. Yes? Very well," he hung up and looked at Michael with a frown. "Something is wrong. Alain said he'd be here in ten minutes to discuss the issue. I don't like this. He's never evaded a direct question before."
Michael gave him a curious look. "Do you know him that well?"
"Well enough," Brian shrugged. "Why?"
"It's just…" Michael made an uncertain gesture. "You live in his house… you fuck him… you seem to know him pretty well… Is it something, you know, serious?"
"Not in your hopelessly romantic sense of 'serious'," Brian laughed. "I still go tricking, and he… well, he has several more or less permanent partners, both male and female ones. But he can give me something none of my former bedmates could."
"And that would be?" as always when discussing Brian's sex life, there was a hint of jealousy in Michael's voice.
"He's stronger than me," Brian replied simply. "And I don't mean muscles or that inner strength that you have, No, just shut up," he said, seeing that Michael tried to protest. "We've had this discussion many times. Why can't you admit that you are strong and brave? How would you have endured me and your mother and Ben's steroid escapades otherwise? You are strong, Mikey, strong and good and wonderful, so just fucking accept it!"
"I love it when you talk dirty," Michael laughed gently. "But what about this Alain person? He makes me nervous, just sitting across the table gave me the shivers – and not necessarily in a good way. He's dangerous."
"Yes, he is," Brian agreed, "he even admits it freely. He calls himself a monster – albeit a reformed one. I don't really know what that means, but I know I'm playing with fire… it's an incredible turn-on."
Michael shook his head in exasperation. "You should finally grow up, Bri."
"What for?" Brian asked. "To become boring and domestic and wrinkled?"
"Does that mean you find me boring and domestic?" Michael asked, slightly hurt.
"Nah, you're just wrinkled," Brian answered and had to laugh at the honest panic on his best friend's face. "Relax, Mikey, I was kidding. You're the exception from every fucking rule." He ran his fingers through Michael's dark locks, and then kissed him, saying. "You are unique."
"I'm also married," Michael reminded him gently.
"How could I have forgotten that?" Brian replied with biting sarcasm.
This was the one topic still too sensitive to be discussed in a casual manner, and things might have gotten ugly, had Alain not finally arrived.
After a lengthy period of time spent in the Dark, each vampire develops certain abilities that go beyond general Clan characteristics. Phillipe Navital could read emotions, even memories in the blood he tasted. Alain DeLaigle could see auras. Not all the time, thank Caine; that would have led to sensory overload, just when he wanted – and when he concentrated hard enough. It was a useful treat. By the changes of size and colour in the aura of a person he was familiar with, he could guess the emotional state of said person with great accuracy.
All the time he had known him, Brian's aura had been tightly bound to a thin but almost impenetrable layer of an icy blue-white colour. The mortal wore it like a plate armour… or more like a forcefield. It matched the dead emptiness in his eyes, even in the throes of passion. Alan had always found it strange that a dedicated hedonist would find so little pleasure in what he supposedly enjoyed.
Now, however, as he entered Brian's living room, Alain registered an almost dramatic change in his selected Childe. Brian's aura had extended to almost thrice of its original size, with a slightly blurred perimeter – and it was pale gold. The reason for it was, of course, the aura of his best friend: the largest one Alain had seen in quite some time by a mortal, and if had a colour of deep amber. There could be no doubt that Michael Novotny was an empath – in that passive way as some mortals were who reacted strongly to other people's feelings and supported them unquestionably and unconsciously.
Which explained how Michael could have endured Brian for twenty years. He was probably the only one who knew Brian's true feelings, despite the cold and arrogant mask and the sometimes hurtful behaviour. He believed in Brian because he knew him, in a way nobody else did. And Alain understood that Brian would only last in the Dark if he didn't have to lose Michael.
Seeing Alain enter, Brian's aura tightened around him again, like some automated defence mechanism, although it kept its golden hue… at least for now.
"That was fast," he commented softly, "considering that you've left in an awful hurry."
"I have," Alain agreed, "but the situation is under control now."
"Good to hear that," Brian said. "In which case we can cut the bullshit and talk like mature adults. What did really happen? And don't give me that 'family emergency' nonsense. I happen to know that you don't have any family left."
"Unfortunately, that's true," the artist admitted. "It's just something we always say when we don't want to discuss the topic publicly."
"Is this about Emmett?" Michael asked quietly.
Alain nodded. "Yes. He and Celeste got… well, a bit over-inspired, and Celeste slipped him something that didn't bode him well."
Which was probably the worst euphemism for being sucked dry and then turned into a vampire, but what else could he tell two clueless mortals?
"Oh, shit!" Michael paled considerably. "Will he make it? Can we see him?"
"No, you can't at least not right away," watching an unprepared fledgling's Becoming wasn't a pleasant sight, not even for another vampire. "Victor Girard had him taken to a private clinic, so he has good chances. But he's not responsive right now – stable but critical is the expression the doctors used. As soon as he wakes up, you can call him. A visit, though, might be out of question for a while yet."
At least this part was more or less true. Victor had called the only Kindred clinic in LA, led by Brujah doctors, and Emmett had been transported there. Gloria Martinez, Salvador Garcia's Childe, had given an optimistic prognosis, and since she was practically never wrong, Alain felt carefully optimistic, too.
"That's too bad," Michael's face fell. "I have to leave for home the day after tomorrow. Is there any change he'd be able to have visitors before that? Or at least have phone calls?"
"I don't know," Alain shrugged apologetically. "He's not exactly in a coma, at least according to the doctors. His body is just trying to adjust to that invasive stuff."
Which, again, was a major understatement – even though the Becoming of a Toreador wasn't half as bad as that of a Malkavian or a Nosferatu, it was still a painful process. The body fought the changes of rebirth, and the first Hunger after the awakening was always terrible. But Emmett was in good hands in the clinic, and the Blount sisters would take care of him properly.
It was ironic, Alain thought, that the very person they hadn't even considered fit for the Embrace – or even desirable as a Clan member – would be reborn to the Dark from Brian's small circle of friends. They'd wanted Brian before they had even met him. They had been considering Theodore Schmidt for Clan Ventrue. Alain himself was slowly coming to recognize the necessity of Embracing Michael, when he wanted to keep Brian for the long run. But Emmett… none of them had ever thought about Emmett.
Well, that had been a mistake, apparently. In hindsight, had they given the issue any thought, they would have realized that Emmett was due to clash with the Dark, more than anyone else. Because Emmett was curious and perceptive and not easily frightened, despite his nelly manners. They hadn't realized that. And now they would have to live with the consequences. Including the responsibility for this clueless young man, who was about to adjust to some dramatic changes in his life.
Two days later, Michael was packing his suitcase already when his cell phone rang. To his joyous surprise, it was Emmett… sounding a bit weak, but back at his usual, cheerful self.
"Michael, sweetie," he trilled, "I'm so sorry that I can't see you right now. But we'll make up for it the next time you come to town, honestly!"
"Em, are you okay?" Michael asked, torn between concern and relief.
Emmett suppressed a sigh. No, he was definitely not okay. The changes still hurt like hell, plus he was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he apparently was a vampire now. Wanting to throw up every time when he realized he was drinking blood. Wanting to cry and scream when he realized that sunbathing was now out of question, forever. How was any sane person supposed to be okay with those facts?
"Well, I've been better," he admitted. "It will teach me to take any unknown substances from people I know are completely nuts. But I'll be better, eventually, or so the doctors say. Hey, at least the doctors are pretty here!"
"I wish I could see you before I leave for the Pitts," Michael said.
"Me, too, sweetie, but trust me, you wouldn't enjoy the sight," Emmett forced a talon that had extended on its own back to hiding and made a disgusted face; was manicure even a possibility after the changes were finished? He certainly hoped so. "I'm not exactly my normal, pretty self right now." And wasn't that the understatement of the century? "Tell you what, though – how about chatting on the 'Net when you are home again? I've gotten myself a laptop lately… we could exchange gossip and stories about our conquests."
Michael laughed. "I see you're feeling better already. All right, Em, Brian has my e-mail address, you can reach me any time."
"Will do, darling. Take care," Emmett hung up and curled into a fetal position on his bed, shivering. "Shit, it hurts again!"
"That's because you haven't been feeding properly," a stern male voice said, and Edward Blunt walked into the room, as big as life and twice as handsome, making Emmett nearly swoon. Em had always had a weakness for tall, blue-eyed men with longish hair and an excellent fashion sense. "Stop being such a stubborn fool. You can't change what happened, so try to accept it. It does have its advantages, you know."
The idealized version of Kevin Sorbo sat down on the edge of Emmett's bed, rolled up his sleeve and offered the fledgling his wrist.
"Either you feed now on your own, or I'll force it down your throat, Childe," he threatened. "I've accepted responsibility for your well-being, and I've had enough of your antics."
Whether it was the commanding presence of an Alpha male or Emmett's heightened sensitivity for the enticing male scent and the pheromones of his foster Sire, he didn't know. But smelling the blood in Edward's veins, his fangs dropped on their own, and for the first time, the heady taste of his Clan's blood filled him with ecstatic pleasure.
Edward Blount supported the head of the fledgling with his free hand and released an unnecessary – but relieved – breath. Now that he'd broken through Emmett's instinctive resistance, Edit and Enyd would be able to handle the boy.
With Celeste sent to San Francisco to live there under the iron fist of the Ventrue Prince, Emmett was no longer in danger to be discovered by the murderous females of his small bloodline. And perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to have a fledgling in the house for a while.
Throwing his head back in pleasure as the ecstasy of being fed from washed over him, Edward Blount considered the possibilities of this new arrangement.
The End - for now