A/N: Some language in this chapter is quite colorful (especially for the period), but all to capture the proper character. Bonus points and cookie to anyone who can identify the bawdiest comment in the whole chapter! Unfortunately, less of our dear Sébastien in this chapter, but all for good reason...though avid fans of our future Prince may not like the reason at all! All reviews, comments, questions and concerns appreciated! ALSO! If anyone is artistically inclined (or knows someone who is) and would be willing to draw these characters...I would greatly appreciate it! Simply PM me for further details. Enjoy!
There are few things Ramon Devereux cannot afford. One of those is patience. He never had it and since he never had it, he cannot buy it back…or at all. He was impatient to come into the world, impatient to live and impatient with what his vampiric life had to offer him besides meaningless Jyhad and clan traditions. For nearly five hundred years, he has managed to play a wonderful façade of patience by reenacting intimate, sacred moments in his head he can never gain back but knows still give him peace in these nights of monotonous boredom. He entertains himself with a one-man game of chess until Cifuentes invades his piece and settles himself on the black side of the board.
"You are awful at this," he said as he refilled Ramon's glass.
"I am playing myself, Denis. Thus, I am both best and worst. It is your own fault you sat on the worst side of the board."
"Leave it to you to seclude yourself when a perfectly acceptable celebration is going on right behind those doors." Denis moved a knight.
"Says the host who joins the hermit. What is her story Cifuentes?" Ramon asked, changing the subject. He moved a piece of his own.
"I figured that is the only reason you were here. They do not trust the two of them. No matter how their stories align and validate nothing but business," he paused to sip from his glass, "The elders do not trust their relationship will not degrade with time and scandal the reputation of the clan."
"Hmph…I doubt they have anything to worry about, in truth. Sébastien seems hardly interested in her." He studied the board, looking for a good move now that Denis had turned an awful side of the board to a decent one.
"Besides being his mentor in brief, what makes you so sure?"
Devereux shrugged. "Maybe I believe all the scandalous gossip floating about the clan concerning him."
"Which is?" Denis moved another piece.
"That she would have to lose her tits and grow a prick between her legs for him to make a go of it."
Denis choked on his blood and gave Ramon a severe look. He could only smirk back at his old friend and offer a shrug of a shoulder. He took a swig from his glass and waited for Denis' body to stop shuddering from muffled laughter.
"Do not worry so much, Denis, your great oak doors are closed."
"You would say such things about a former protégé?! I wonder what you have say about a friend?"
"That he serves a damn good vintage and plays a hell of a game of chess," Ramon laughed.
"Oh, my old friend…In all honesty, you cannot believe those awful rumors."
"Maybe not, but you could not blame me if I did what with de Croÿ as his Sire and a name like Sébastien!" Ramon stole one of Cifuentes' pieces. "It's a right proper name…for a Sodomite."
"Yes, whereas a name like Ramon…" Denis' voice drifted as his fingers snatched one of Devereux's pieces. "Wets the Netherlands like a summer squall."
"Absolutely. But I am a saintly man, as you know, and not victim to the lusty penchants of sinners."
"Oh yes, as saintly as the Gomorrans. If LaCroix could hear you now," Cifuentes' voice droned off as he focused on the game.
"That is precisely Sébastien's problem. He's not nearly as concerned about what people are saying about him behind his back as he should be. He has always been too eager to create a name for himself that he forgot to make sure the whispers behind his back are created by him and him alone. And now he's gone and muddied his water with this girl…"
"And I suppose you plan to clean it for him?" Denis sounded intrigued.
"Dost thou taketh me for a servant that I should clean his messes?"
"You are awful at theatrical speech too." And with that, Denis checkmated him.
Louisé took the Praetor's advice and asked her Sire about a more detailed explanation of how Kindred consummated relationships. She did not do this immediately, since he had labored enough to look pleasant through the party. She waited until there was privacy between them to impart upon his wisdom. What she received was unexpected. She anticipated a silence, then educated explanation accompanied by a dismissive wave of his hand. Instead, he stared at her with eyes wide and mouth curled in disgust. He straightened and rose from his chair.
"Did your mother not explain these details to you before she passed?"
She shook her head, "No. Since I was not engaged to be married, she felt no need to educate me."
"And I feel no need to educate you either."
"I was accused of being sired for the sole purpose of consummating a relationship. I at least deserve to understand the mechanics behind how such an accusation has substance," Louisé countered.
"The mechanics do not concern you! You are Ventrue! You do not lower yourself to the carnal whims and satisfactions of lesser clans! You are neither whore nor courtesan that this issue should concern you. You are to fix your mind and efforts upon material that matters. Dignity, domain and reputation…those are what matter, Louisé. Those are but a few of the elements that make for a long Kindred existence."
She could accept this, if she were older and had been married and mothered several children. But she was young…eternally young, unblemished and curious about parts of the world she had not yet experienced. Being robbed of the right to experience these parts left her curiosity more than blooming. She wanted to know. She felt she at least had that right. "And what about pleasure?"
He strode to her and grabbed her face. He stared into her eyes, his words cold and frightening, "Are you Toreador?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Are you a whore? Hm?"
"No!"
"What are you?"
"I am Ventrue," she whispered.
"Say again? I barely heard you."
"I am Ventrue!"
He released her face. "The greatest pleasure we shall ever know is the blood we drink. Do not go looking for it between the legs of men." And that ended the discussion.
Ramon's fingers danced along the hilt of his sword as he sat back and listened to the crone prattle on about her business being taken away. He was never so bored as when he had to defend himself against the slings and arrows of fellow Ventrue. He went deaf to the crone's accusations and instead amused himself with the most recent melodies of the Burgundian court. Melodies of troubadour, instrument and, best of all, gossip. This is how Devereux made himself the self-proclaimed impenetrable man he was, by listening for the sweet tune of loose lips and using it likes currency. Gossip bought a lot more than most Ventrue cared to admit, but he made a fortune (and destroyed those of others) with it. He collected juicy tidbits like some collected fine fabrics or jewels, and he exchanged them on his own Silk Road. Burgundy ran hot with the mass of burning ears he lived amongst, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He enjoyed the way the throng of Kindred clambered through his doors, or to his agents, more often than they did their own Prince.
The more he thought about gossip, the more he ignored the shaken youth off to his side. The Italian was a once upon a time protégé, now released to his own fortunes and the source of all this trouble. Apparently, he had attempted to expand his own domain and revenue by stepping into a potential business venture. Too bad the prospect resided within the hag's domain and was incapable of moving. Devereux wished he cared more, but he didn't. He wanted to leave to find better prospect for nocturnal entertainment. Or, at the very least, surround himself with people of prettier facades than this harpy. Ramon craned his neck back and turned it to each side so the bones cracked and gave him brief relief from the physical discomfort he experienced while sitting in the beautiful, but completely dysfunctional, chair the Prince had offered him. The Prince looked about as interested in this preceding as Ramon was, but that was hardly surprising as Toreador were rarely interested in anything unless a shiny object was dangled in front of their faces.
Ramon stood as the hag sat. His fingers drummed on the handle of the sword as he straightened himself up and flashed the Prince a charming smile. "Sir, I will not waste anymore of your precious time this evening. I have no need to explain myself when the culprit of this crime is no more attached to me than my long dead wife! May she rest in peace." The Prince straightened and Ramon continued, "Secondly, the wealth of my business is tied into the Duchy of Burgundy…therefore, I have no interest in Lyon for business sake."
The Prince brightened with a smile as wide as an excited child's, "Did you say Burgundy? Oh how I adore Dijon! The art, the fashion, the court!"
"Ah! Then you understand why I wouldn't dare stray from there for here. But this is all contending upon the fact that Madame Gautier believes this lad to be an agent of mine." Ramon snapped his left fingers, summoning the youth to his side. "Now, while it is true he was a protégé of mine whilst he lived in Dijon, he chose to strike out on his own. And, as I have already mentioned, I released him of any connection or obligation to me as a mentor."
"Hm?" The Prince seemed to snap out of the trance that was Burgundy's lush court. "Oh, yes. Cifuentes mentioned something like that. I told him coming here would only be burdensome to you, but he insisted that you would want to represent yourself!" A nerve in Ramon's face twitched. So, Denis was to blame for all this. The Prince continued, "I would scarce want to leave Dijon either, though you must admit the silk in Lyon is much finer! And our literature..." He drifted off then snapped back to when the three Ventrue in the room simply stared, thoroughly unamused. "But… C'est la vie!" The Prince clapped his hands together and dismissed them after dueling proper consequences to the youth.
Ramon strode down the hall, turning a deaf ear to his former apprentice's apologies. He watched the old bat wear her semi-triumphant smirk upon her pox-marked visage and fought an ungentlemanly and un-Ventrue urge to punch her in the face. Entering the chilling night air was a welcome relief from the over-perfumed Princely quarters. He gave Denis of Portugal a smug look when he saw the man standing, presumably waiting for him, across the street. "You did this on purpose, Denis and I am not sure how amiable I shall be toward you now," Ramon faked his anger well when his impatience reached an uncomfortable boiling point.
"Oh, bide your temper, Devereux…it was the only way to get you here in such a manner as to avoid your whining or games of hide and seek. You ought to join society more instead of sending grasping protégés to do it for you," Cifuentes chided.
"'Tis what they are good for! I do not like society. At least not ours in its entirety," Ramon defended himself. "And I do not whine! I object passionately."
"Oh, my mistake. Pardon me for failing to distinguish your passionate objections from the sounds my dogs make when they need to take a piss."
Ramon took offense, but laughed anyway because that was a damn good response. "This is why I like you, Cifuentes! You are nowhere as stuffy as that cankered old prune who works with you. You know how to be bawdy with the best of them!" He slapped Denis on the back.
He noticed Denis roll his eyes and smirk. "She knows how to get a job done, though. I have never met anyone quite as attentive to detail and tradition as her…always out and about making the community and clan stronger."
"Well, with a stick as big as that up her arse, I doubt she can sit down."
"You are going to get yourself in trouble with a mouth like that. Besides, she had no legitimate knowledge you had released that boy. She catches him by the bollocks and the first thing he sings is your name. Can you blame her for thinking you were encroaching on her domain?"
"Yes! And no," Ramon admitted. "I did not think the boy was such a coward. And for all the hard work you claim she does, she could have pressed him a bit more to discover I have already released him. You could have done that, too, and spared me a trip."
"Well, as you wisely discovered, I did that on purpose." Cifuentes' hand disappeared into his cloak and when it came back out, it held an envelope. He held it out to Ramon. "Nice has written me."
Ramon's brows drew together. He plucked the letter from Denis and scrutinized it. "What does Nice want?"
"A Sheriff."
Ramon slapped the letter against Denis' chest, making sure to give it a good press with his palm, "No."
"Come now, Devereux! I have neither need nor want of their offer and I can think of no better man to meet their interests than you!"
"I have explained this to you before, Cifuentes but it appears as though your head is as thick and ears as clogged as ever. I have sworn off the court!" Devereux felt his pace pick up with his agitation. Thoughts long buried deep with himself surface with a painful punch to his chest. Denis met his tempo and shoved the letter back into Ramon's hand.
"I care not that you have sworn it off!" Denis grabbed Ramon's arm to stop him. He glanced down either way of the street then backed himself and Ramon into the shadows of the alley. "My friend, I know of your deep distain for politics and have never abashed you for those sentiments, but you would be a fool to refuse Nice," his whispers were harsh and eyes ever darting for eavesdroppers.
"What is Nice going to do, Denis? Come and kill me in Burgundy? I doubt Nice would dare such an insult."
"'Zounds, but you are a sincere frustration! I care not what you do with the letter so long as Nice is satisfied." Denis stepped back from his friend and exited the alley. Ramon waited for the nerve in his neck to stop pulsing. He stared down at the letter and contemplated what to do with it because he certainly was not going to be the reason Lyon, Nice and Burgundy dragged each other into meaningless quarrel, nor was he going to uproot his satisfying life to gratify the selfish needs of Denis' Sire's greedy sibling.
Louisé went from student to errand runner with her acceptance into Ventrue society solid and unwavering. She hated it and, perhaps, would not have been stuck running around the streets of Lyon had she not posed her Sire such a sensitive question as one concerning consummation. It also did not help that immediately concluding her agoge, he resumed his demanding position as Scourge. Court positions and politics still confused her. She thought the Sheriff was responsible for conducting executions, tortures and the handling of unsavory Kindred. Louisé desired to know why her Sire was doing the bulk of the Sheriff's work but did not want any more work to do than she wished as consequence for asking him such a question. She hardly had to wait long for an answer though. One of her first errands brought her to the steps of a fine Toreador home, and as her Sired had warned her, Toreadors loved to gossip. Even more than that, they loved intrigue and Louisé was not released from the extravagant home of this Toreador count until she had experienced both. Her small amount of suffering fed her curiosity completely. A great reward for a small inconvenience. She learned there was little love between the Sheriff and LaCroix. The former believed his Prince misguided by assigning LaCroix the position of Scourge, which had been previously held by a great friend (possible former love) of the Sheriff. Unfortunately for her Sire, the Sheriff was a favorite of the Prince long before, and after, appointed to his station so there was no room for Sébastien to complain.
Thus, it trickled down this way: the Prince gave tasks to the Sheriff, whatever work the Sheriff did not wish to conduct was assigned to LaCroix and whatever aspects of his personal business he could not complete, because of the Sheriff, were delegated to her. Her nights were filled with menial tasks, leaving her very little personal time or progression. Her Sire's strict eye left her no room to whine about her load lest the sting of his belt reacquaint itself with her backside. She was left to make the best of an unsavory situation until she had nudged herself far enough out of LaCroix's grasp to live the nights for herself. Until then…until then…until then she was stuck beneath his cold thumb and joyless gaze. Until then she would be severed from her estate and finances. Until then she would deliver his messages, carry his letters and sort his documents while he balanced her inheritance. Until then she would be as passionless as him, forced into dresses so tight in the collar and ruff it would have choked her had she needed to breathe.
Yes, the secondary consequence for her question was a dramatic change in wardrobe. She returned from delivering messages to find her elegant gowns of jade, amethyst and sapphire removed from her quarters. Just when she had allowed herself back into the colors of youth, he snatched them away and replaced them with the shades of grey and black of mourning. When she demanded them back, he shoved books to read into one hand and letters to deliver into the other. He declined explanation or return of the dresses, though he did say she could have new ones made so long as they met with his prior approval.
She felt like she was wearing darkness as she moved down the alleys and cobblestones. Perhaps the only benefit of such drab attire was that no one saw her coming. She was a shadow. A shadow sentient of duty, boredom and hunger. A shadow with a shadow of its own is what she had become and it only became more complicated when she gained a second shadow. For a full two weeks following the formal celebration at Cifuentes' estate, she swore someone had been following her through the streets. She often passed, or was passed by, fellow Kindred but this one stayed just far enough behind and ducked when she turned her head to be anything but distressing.
Tonight would be different though. This is what she told herself when she rose at eight and dressed herself. She fed from a member of her herd (now permanently stationed in their home), took the pile of messages and left to complete her duties. There was very little time between leaving her home and gaining her second shadow as she strolled along Rue de Pierrevive then connected with Rue Saint-Jean. She turned three sharp corners then pressed herself against the stones of a building and waited. She ticked the sands of time away in her head, but no one rounded the last corner. Perhaps she had been imagining it all. Perhaps it was nothing more than a troublesome adjustment to life of the night. Louisé crinkled her nose and drummed her fingers against the smooth stone of the corner.
She fought a violent scream when strong fingers closed over her own. She swung her body round the corner to gaze at whom was holding her fingers. He was a tall man of some years with large green eyes, black hair streaked and patched with grey and rough, untended stubble along his strong, square jaw. She might have found him attractive were it not for the mischief in his eyes, audacity in his smirk and unapproved grip on her person.
"I was not quite sure when you would begin to suspect someone was following you," he said to break the silence.
"I am not inclined to waste precious time questioning why someone is walking behind me when the streets are not mine to own." She tugged on her hand. He did not release the fingers.
"Oh yes, we are quite the exemplary Ventrue, are we not? Talking in such a way as to make anyone feel lowly compared to thee. Too bad for you I am a Ventrue of more years and greater stature, so I highly encourage you speak to your elder with all due respect neonate," he spat out the last word. She flinched.
"Pardon my-" she stopped when he held up a hand. He moved his fingers beneath hers and lifted her hand to his lips to impart a customary kiss to the top of her hand.
"A Ventrue never apologizes. Your flinch was consequence enough."
He dropped her hand and she took a step back, never breaking their gaze as that may be considered rude by his standards. "May I have the pleasure of knowing to whom I am speaking?"
His eyes left hers to run from her head to her toes. He began to walk around her slowly, like a predator before he strikes and Louisé was not sure which was safer: staying put or fleeing. He did not spend much of any time behind her, since he had seen plenty of that side of her body while stalking her down the streets. Once his round was complete, he stroked his budding beard and rumpled his brows. It did not appear as though he had any intention of answering her question. Frustration bubbled somewhere low in her but she maintained an appropriate veneer of compliance. He closed his eyes and bobbed his head from one side to the other. His eyebrows rose and fell, lips contorted a little and fingers stroked more. What in creation was he doing?!
She clenched the letters in her hand. "Forgive me, but I have tasks I must complete or my Sire-"
"Sébastien LaCroix, correct?" he interrupted. How undignified…
"Yes, sire. Monsieur LaCroix is my Sire and-"
"He has you frolicking about the city, delivering vapid little letters that he may feel accomplished in his menial task as Lyon's Scourge. Though! As I hear it, he seems to play the role of Sheriff's servant more than Scourge, no?" She just stared at him instead of reply. "Well, not all of us were embraced for greatness. Enjoy thy evening, Mademoiselle Seyssel-Chambert."
And so he departed, leaving her at that corner with little more than vapid letters and wide eyes.
Ramon was not entirely impressed, nor entirely disappointed by the girl. From far away, she was quite intriguing. Or had been, during the celebration. She lost some appeal up close. He couldn't entirely fault her. What she wore hardly flattered the figure he presumed she had stuffed beneath that dull fabric. The worldly part of himself had a distinct dislike for dressing the same shade of dark as the shadows. Just because they had to live in the night didn't excuse dressing for it. But he wasn't surprised, given her Sire and what he was running from. Devereux figured Sébastien was too frightful to put her in anything more colorful than ash, lest someone assume she was luring suitors to their bed of impropriety. In the end, his judgment was that the girl had potential. Her ability for allure under the right circumstances left something to be desired…or experimented with, at the very least. Ramon laughed to himself before raising his sword to knock upon the door of his former protégé. A ghoul answered.
"I need to speak to Sébastien LaCroix. Inform him Ramon Devereux is here to speak with him."
The ghoul looked confused, but allowed Ramon into the foyer and departed to find his master. He did not reserve himself to the foyer. He walked down the hall as if the home were his own and nearly collided with Sébastien as he rounded a corner. There was no better sight to him than watching a man as serious and put together as Sébastien LaCroix, flustered. With five inches of height over LaCroix, Devereux did little more than smirk down at his former protégé.
"Good Evening, Sébastien. My, what a lovely hallway you have!"
He watched LaCroix's face fight a snarl. It manufactured a smug grin instead. "Devereux. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
"Have you anything to drink, Sébastien? This Lyon air has me absolutely parched!" Ramon flashed him a grin with his purposeful dance around his question.
Further flustering LaCroix was as enjoyable as initially doing so. Sébastien dawned a hospitable nature and led Ramon to his study. After offering him a seat, LaCroix poured two glasses of blood and handed one to Ramon. His old apprentice did not sit with him.
"What brings you to Lyon, Devereux?"
"Oh…a little of this, a little of that." Ramon took a sip of the blood and mentally congratulated Sébastien on choosing a good vintage. "Had to clear up a little misunderstanding between myself and the local Aedile. And, of course, to lay eyes upon this rumored Childe of Passion."
Sébastien's look became so dark, it surprised Ramon. He always knew there was a part of LaCroix the world ought to never see, he was just incapable of describing it. Every Kindred has the beast to soothe now and then. Sébastien was no different. But the part that concerned Ramon was somewhere between the frenzied beast and Sébastien's manicured exterior. It was vicious, unpredictable and never satisfied. That is what Ramon, believed, anyhow… that there was this perverse aspect of Sébastien LaCroix he controlled and managed far less than the beast because, at face value, there seemed nothing wrong with it.
"Imagine my surprise when I learned she belonged to you." Ramon drank.
"She is nothing of the sort and I would kindly ask that you never repeat that phrase in my home."
"My apologies."
"Why are you in my home, Devereux?" Always Devereux…never Ramon. Honestly, Sébastien was never friendly.
"I came to make you an offer."
"Offer?" Sébastien's tone improved, but the suspicion did not entirely lift.
"Yes. I have had the distinct pleasure of receiving," he paused to pull Cifuentes' letter out, "A letter from Nice."
Sébastien's brow rose. "Good for you. How does this concern me?"
"Well, you see they are currently looking to fill the role of Sheriff, and if what I heard is correct, you seem fairly qualified for such a position," Ramon kept his tone free of any sarcasm.
"While this, I assure you, is most certainly true," Sébastien drank from his glass. Oh yes, LaCroix was always so humble. "How would uprooting my current lifestyle to move to Nice be of any real benefit?"
Ramon rested the letter against his thigh and ran a finger along the rim of his glass. He would have to choose his words precisely and with care for this to work. "Are you aware of your current standing within our clan?"
There was that dark look again. "Not definitively, but I am sure you will tell me."
"I have it on good authority that the elders are not satisfied with this choice. While I have been informed there is no solid evidence proving of physical intent on your behalf-"
"Of course there is none!" he snapped at Ramon. Ramon drummed the edge of the glass with his fingers to avoid doing something else with his hand that also involved Sébastien's face.
"There is no evidence disproving the possibility that there could be in the future," Ramon concluded.
Sébastien balked. "You cannot be serious!"
"How serious I am has nothing to do with the matter. This falls entirely upon the seriousness of the elders, who are willing to forfeit their presumptuous beliefs and possible consequences, if they have valid proof she means nothing more to you than a profitable acquisition."
"Pray tell what proof do they desire?"
Ramon lifted the letter and gave it a lazy wave. Sébastien rolled his eyes, took a step closer and snatched the letter from Ramon's fingers. His eyes scanned the letter and her frowned. "This was intended for Praetor Cifuentes…Why do you have it?"
"Because I am an old friend of his, he does not wish to step down from Seneschal to Sheriff and assumed I may want a change of venue." He finished off the blood and continued, "But I have no such desire. Praetor Cifuentes assured me I am well within my rights to send them a suitable stand-in. My rights, in turn, assured me that you would much rather prefer the station of Sheriff to being the marionette of one."
"So, were I to accept your offer, move from Lyon to Nice and take up the position of Sheriff…the elders will believe me infallible once again?"
"Not exactly." Ramon flashed LaCroix's third dark look a handsome smile. "There is a catch. A very slight, hardly trifling catch."
"Speak directly, Devereux for I do have other demands for my attention this evening."
"You would have to leave the girl behind."
Sébastien hesitated before handing the letter back. "No," he replied and finished his own glass.
"You want a way out, there it is! You want a way up, I have provided one for you. I do not need it. I have done it all and enjoy the luxury of Burgundy to any throne I could ever be offered. Burgundy is ideally located for any business I wish to conduct in Switzerland or Italy and has a scenic beauty I can still appreciate at night." Feeling well-executed sentiment might do the trick, Ramon drew on old memories and allowed his eyes to become distant, "If I had my Juliana, I would fight the world for her. There would not be any title too high for my ambition, too great that I would not seize it to secure her somewhere safe. But it is pointless now. Do yourself and she a favor and take this opportunity, Sébastien."
Sébastien refilled his glass and took a drink, resuming a bored expression. "Who do you anticipate that diatribe moving?"
"You wound me! You think me unauthentic in my emotions?" Sébastien's stony exterior did not crack. Ramon sighed and raised defeated hands, "I had hoped it would move you."
"That hope is based on your conjecture of my having feelings for her."
"Do you?" Ramon threw his lure in the hopes of a snag.
"None more than a Sire ought."
"And yet you are under such speculation…"
"My abilities and decisions, both past and present, speak for themselves! I am blameless of this accusation! It is defamation, pure and simple!" LaCroix roared.
"Sébastien," Ramon's response was soft as silk, "I was your mentor. Trust in my belief of your abilities. So, believe me when I tell you this is for the best. You must distance yourself from the girl, if not for her own personal development as a Ventrue, then for the sake of both your lives."
LaCroix stared at Devereux, fighting back a snarl. "What are you talking about? If you had been at her official presentation you would have seen their reaction, they loved her!"
"Who are you trying to convince with such passion? Me or yourself? Perhaps the locals loved her and love her still, but don't be fooled into believing those that matter still do not consider her a Childe of Passion. The only reason they let her live is because it will be more interesting to see what she is capable of providing for our clan than simply lopping her head off. Personally, I do not give two figs about the motivation behind your siring her but politically speaking, our clan cannot take the risk of you two becoming closer than you ought and causing a scandal."
"Ridiculous! I told you before, I have no interest in her that way. She's a child, for Heaven's sake!"
"Hardly a child," Devereux murmured. "Then why Embrace her at all?"
Sébastien shrugged, "She was heiress to a significant fortune and estate. Her marquisate would advance me socially and there is great revenue potential for her vineyards and fields."
Devereux smirked. "I would rather plow her fields than own them."
"I will not remind you again that you in are in my home and I will not tolerate such vulgarity here."
Ramon raised hands, surrendering. "My apologies to your fine sensibilities."
"Besides, you hate women… if memory serves." LaCroix smirked.
Ramon pointed a thick finger at Sébastien, "By your own admission, she isn't a woman." Devereux waved a hand when Sébastien opened his mouth to no doubt recant previous statements. "Anyhow, I only hate them politically. I do not, however, hate them conjugally."
LaCroix set his glass down and folded his hands behind his back, eyes staring into the fire crackling. He returned their discussion to their primary subject, "The potential for personal gain in embracing her was too great. I wasn't about to let the opportunity pass me by and settle into the hands of someone else."
Ramon stood up and took one of LaCroix's wrists, slapping the letter into his hand. "Then don't let this opportunity pass you by."
Sébastien's eyes looked down at the letter and Ramon knew he was beginning to waver. If not for wanting to wipe this mess clean completely, then most assuredly to make himself better. Ramon needed to push him only a little more to result in total compliance. LaCroix murmured, "And what if I do?"
Devereux whispered, "If you do not take this, then the elders may bar you from rising in the ranks as punishment. They will pass you over for someone less deserving at every opportunity until they believe you have learned your lesson or it no longer amuses them to make you suffer. And they never need to explain their actions to anyone, as you know, so complaining would be fruitless. But, if that is not enough to convince you...there is always the looming possibility of cutting both your heads off and pretending neither you, nor she, ever existed. I mean, if one does not exist, their sins certainly do not."
LaCroix closed his eyes and sighed, "What of Louisé? She is hardly ready to go it alone. I would be remiss in my duties as her Sire if I left her now. She will think I'm abandoning her."
"One day she will understand you did not."
Sébastien leaned into his chair, eyes distracted by the flickering flames in the fireplace while his mind whirred with Ramon's offer. The letter rested in his lap. Though it had been decades since he was in Devereux's employ, the man still knew him well enough to whet his ambition with a generous proposal. He was so immersed in his own thoughts that he didn't notice movement in the room until she was at his side. He looked her over. With dawn but an hour away, she had taken the liberty of disrobing down to her dressing gown. The soft lave of her chemise poked through the V-shaped neck of her gown. How fragile she still appeared to him…fragile, naïve, young, tender. The list continued on in his head, replacing Ramon's proposition for but a little while. Deep in his chest, something tightened as he watched her tilt her head. Black hair fell into her eyes. He hesitated before lifting his hand to brush the stray strand behind her ear. Poor thing didn't have anyone in the world. What death had not claimed before, Sébastien had taken fully with her Embrace. The tightening in his chest told him he shouldn't go. He dropped his hand, listening to the letter crinkle.
"I placed the responses to your letters on your desk. Do you need anything more from me this evening?"
"No, child, I believe that will suffice it for this evening. Dawn is coming soon, so you may entertain yourself before retiring to bed."
She nodded and turned to go then paused and looked back at him. "A Toreador count extended an invitation to me to attend a party he is throwing two nights from now. May I attend?"
Sébastien's eyes looked down at the letter from Nice. "If you conduct yourself appropriately and complete you tasks, then yes, you may attend."
"Thank you, sir." He heard her walk to the door.
"Louisé?"
"Yes, sir?"
He turned his head to look at her, offering her a small smile. "Sleep well."
She left and he was once more abandoned to his thoughts. Yes, she was a pitiable and fragile creature indeed. Unfortunately for her, LaCroix was not her father, nor required to be responsible for her now that she had completed her agoge. The tightening in his chest disappeared. Indeed, unfortunately for her, his ambitious desires were greater than any vampiric paternal connection he had with her. Ramon was right. He would be a fool to give up this offer and Sébastien LaCroix was no fool. Why remain pressed beneath the thumb of a disgruntled Sheriff when he could be the Sheriff instead? And with Nice's proximity to Italy, he would no doubt have more to do now that the Lasombra were pushing out of their traditional Mediterranean domain and into the Camarilla spheres of greater Europe. A ghoul assumed the place Louisé had abandoned moments ago. He spoke to the man without so much as glancing his way.
"We will be leaving for Nice in two night's time. Make sure my things are packed but do not disturb Mademoiselle Seyssel-Chambert in the process. In fact, do not even inform her of the move, as she will not be joining us. Send your partner ahead of us to secure a residence for me…perhaps something close to the beach, yes?" The ghoul nodded. LaCroix stood and moved to his desk. He quickly scribbled a note on a piece of paper. He folded a rough envelope and held it out to the ghoul. "Take this to Monsieur Ramon Devereux. He is residing at the estate of Seneschal Denis of Portugal."
When the ghoul was gone, LaCroix walked to a window and looked out onto the still-dark streets of Lyon. He folded his hands behind his back and closed his eyes. Yes, something near the shore would suffice…the fresh sea air would do him good.
Interesting Historical Tidbits :D
Contractions- Some of you may have noticed the dialogue contains no contractions. Originally, it did, but Early Modern English grammar did not use contractions except among lower social classes. Landed gentry and nobility, like Ventrue, would most likely have spoken without contractions as we know them now
Burgundy- The Duchy of Burgundy was a powerhouse of Medieval Europe. It was originally granted to the son of the French king. This son married Maragret of Flanders, which incorporated the land of Flanders to duchy of Burgundy and separated the duchy from the remaining kingdom of France. The Burgundian court was famous for art, literature, fashion…making it, perhaps, the most illustrious court of its time.
Lyon- Immigrants from Florence made this a wealthy city during the Renaissance. By that time, the city is also quite dense! Apparently, Lyon was so popular that it became the site for the first printing establishment. Hence, the Toreador's reference to Lyon's literature. With its own printing establishment, they more than likely received literature, from other European cities, before any other French metropolis.
'Zounds- Pronounced "zoonds", literally means "God's wounds!" and is a general Medieval and Elizabethan exclamation of frustration.