***
My first Claude the Malkavian story not based on a V:tM gaming session. I created this as a commission piece for Eric Schneider, who gets credit for the basic story premise.
***
Full moonlight streamed into the stables from the gaps in the ceiling, cutting the shadows. The horses were uneasy for something moved in those shadows, something dark and deadly. Fear ringed their eyes with flashes of white, for the thing no longer tried to hide itself. It walked like a man, through the streamers of light, past the near panicked beasts of burdens.
But one horse did not panic. One horse had no fear of the creature. It was deadly, yes, every sense, every instinct told the stallion this was death walking up to its stall. Muscles twitched nervously, expectantly, and its huge head angled out of its stall, over the steel gate, laying its throat bare for death to take it.
Yet, the creature did not fall upon its throat, biting and feasting upon the volumes and volumes of blood it proffered.
The threat passed, silently, uncaring for the offer.
Disappointment and despair overcame that large creature and its noble black head dropped downward with a snort that sounded like a sigh.
The thing stopped and looked back. With no thought to caution or guile, the creature turned back and stepped into the sliver of light closest to the black stallion's stall. "Well, hello there," the creature said, curious and gentle.
The stallion looked up and saw a pale man in black, whose goatee of glistening blood was smeared over black streamers of clotted blood. The horse held its ground, not afraid for what he knew this creature to be, frightened of what the monster may not do. Fingers nearly as pale as whale bone in moonlight reached up and stroked the horse's muscular nose.
To the horse, it was if death itself was teasing it. The hand was delicate and careful, the fingers of an artist growing from the limbs of a monster. The horse whickered softly, a pleading noise, short and full of the bleakest hope it could manage.
The cold, blood soaked dead man, cocked his head slightly to the left. "My name is Claude Devereux." The creature of the night said with more than a slight French accent. "What's yours?"
The horse met his eyes as he stomped on the ground and flexed his nostrils in an angered snort.
"Oh, that's a nice name," the undead thing said. "What did you do to piss the Stag off?"
***
A man has needs.
This can not be denied, although many a man nobler than I deny them. Alas, I am not one of those so gifted by God the Almighty. Or perhaps it is that my needs were more demanding of me than of lesser men. The curse of virility that was nearly my undoing in the London of my youth, has surely lessened just ever so slightly in years of late. I have a wife and I have sired seven strong boys by her proving the curse to be a blessing in disguise. I am a land owner in the colony of Virginia, growing tobacco to put food on our plates.
Needs be that I must travel from time to time. A gentleman farmer who relies too heavily on the success of one investment, and crops at that, is a gambler and gambling is a sin I shall have no book with. Of all my Earthly weaknesses, I can say that much at least. I have my hands in many businesses and operations.
The last to pull me from home, was the business of a ship from France who was met with unfriendly welcome upon docking from Her Majesty's men. I left, not unhappy at the prospect of the two day journey south to Calders Bay, for my twin infant sons were in the midsts of teething and I was close to tears myself from lack of proper sleep. I rightfully reckoned I should sleep better in a moving carriage than under the roof with a screaming pair of babies. Yet, at once, I was concerned for while I was a silent, minor partner in this venture, I realized belatedly that I might have overlooked certain evidence that my partners might not be behaving fully aboveboard.
Even with the expected corruption and bribes, one hardly ever lost a freshly birthed and unboarded ship. Of a cert, Lloyd's would demand an investigation. Should the enterprise be dissolved, I fully intended to be there to collect my due.
My driver brought me to the manse of the major partner, Merlin Herne, where I had been invited to spend the week pending a trial of either Captain Dean of The White Lady or the Calder Bay harbormaster. A sizeable sum of money was at risk depending on which way the winds of jurisprudence blew.
I introduced myself to the dark skinned servant who met me in the drive as he welcomed me to Avalon. "Mathew Penrod, here to meet with Mr. Herne."
His eyes laughed at me, although the slave rightfully did not meet my eyes. With a gesture and a snap of his fingers, black boys snapped to from out of concealment and swarmed busily around my carriage and my man. A white gloved hand motioned for my attention as I watched the silent collection of my bags. "This way, if you please, Master Penrod."
I followed, telling myself that I was merely disagreeable from the road, for who can tell rightly what is on a darkie's mind. Assuming the proper Christian attitude, I let the incident pass. In any case, the younger slaves seemed well-behaved and the expression I saw in his face may well have been paternal pride as much as anything else.
The darkie led me up a short flight of marble steps and opened the dark stained oak doors for me. I stepped into an impressive entry hall with polished marble floors with intricate inlaid designs of interlocking black circles. Where the floors represented Herne's Irish heritage, a half-score white stone statues of ancient Roman mythological creatures, exhibiting a lavish decadence only the overly educated could give excuse for.
One large portrait of what might have been Merlin Herne himself if the clothing wasn't two centuries out of date stood watch over the whole of the room.
Just as the servant who showed me in, took my hat and coat, an anxious man waddled briskly into view. "Ah! Mister Penrod, so glad you could make it." A hand shot out as he approahed, signalling that we were equals, at least in this man's eyes. I took the hand and gave it the confident shake of one gentleman to another. "Welcome to Avalon. I'm Jarod Herne, Merlin Herne is my uncle. My uncle is calling upon some of the widows from that rather unfortunate incident and I'm afraid you've arrived slightly earlier than he expected. I've sent one of our Negroes to fetch him, but I do not expect him back before dusk at the very least."
"We made good time," I said with what I hoped was a polite voice. With the distinct shade of red hair common to the Irish, young Jarod was the spitting image of his uncle, except that he was slight of build and his hands were slightly calloused. He was just old enough to call himself a man without being challenged, but no older. His words added a new wrinkle to what was already an unsettling event. "Forgive me, but am I to understand there were deaths resulting from... why, I'm not even sure what word best suits what happened."
"Catastrophe," Jarod provided with a sour grin. "We simply cannot turn around without some new demon making itself evident. First, there was the confrontation that led to the burning of the ship itself. Then plague, Mr. Penrod. Nasty business."
"Plague?" I was a learned man and I knew full well the horrors history ascribes to plague. One tended to think we left such things behind us in Europe, where everything was old and corrupt. Everything in the Colonies was new and fresh; raw and untamed. "In this day and age?"
"Aye," Young Jarod nodded. "My uncle knows more details than I. Until his return, let me show you to your room where you might wash the road dust from your person. Perhaps, I can have someone bring up a bite to eat while you bathe. You must be starved from your journey."
With the image of food and a warm bath before me, I agreed readily with the young master's assessments and followed him past all the creatures of myth and up a flight of marble stairs. Never so willing before did a fly enter a spider's parlor.
***
To be continued