She had never met Matthew, her brother; he had been made shortly after the fiasco in Boston. Many had been turned after that fateful night – most of them, Marius assured her, had been embraced as "fodder", but this Matthew was supposed to be different. The first of a second generation. Elena trusted in her Sire's confidence in Matthew's abilities, but secretly she decided it would be best not to allow herself to rely on him too much.
When the cell rang, her hand searching for it amidst the sheets, she growled low in her throat.
"Rise and shine, big sister. The moon has nearly been up for an hour now," his voice was youthful, without the taint of hollow years.
As she woke fully, Elena brought the phone to her ear. "Here already?"
"Our Sire made it quite clear how important your safety is to him," it was possible the disdain she heard in the words were not directed towards her, but unlikely. Elena chose to ignore it.
She pulled herself out of bed. "Where are you?"
"Look out your window."
The slightest wink of light amongst the shadows of a rooftop across from her building. She guessed the scope of a sniper rifle and promptly closed her blinds. "Good to know. Good to meet you," the last an afterthought, best to have him believe she valued his presence.
"Is there anything I can do for you just yet, big sister?"
He had apparently decided upon the nickname; it was either a sign of respect or mockery. Elena checked the display on her phone. "Not at the moment. Is this the number where I can reach you?"
"You got it."
"Just remember to keep a low profile," and she closed the phone as Matthew snorted in disbelief. Of course, Elena hadn't meant it as advice. Just remember, I'm in charge here.
ooo
New York had fallen to war, and Los Angeles was hovering on the brink. The burgeoning tension amongst the kindred of the city was nearly palatable, salty and bittersweet. Surely, Julian Luna was feeling the pressure with such chaos blossoming all around, threatening to infect his city.
Perhaps threatening was the wrong word.
For the third night in a row, Elena sat at her favoured booth observing. Peace was hanging by a ligament of stretched-too-thin tissue. One snap of the fangs and the entire thing would crumple to the ground. She watched as the Gangrel and Brujah sat in their separate corners, sizing one another up, dancing defiance with their posturing and staring contests. It wouldn't take much . . .
As her gaze swept over the goings-on of the nightclub, she wondered if the Prince was here again tonight, watching as well – if the Toreador Primogen was enjoying the scene from the mirrored window up above. She would be interesting to tangle with, but it was, of course, the Brujah Primogen Elena found the most intriguing. He had neglected to show even once, despite the number of Brujah who frequented the place.
She faced the stairs leading up to the Toreador's office for a change. This way she could observe the Brujah and Gangrel a little more directly and could see who, if anyone, went to or came from the rooms upstairs. This meant, however, that her back was to the front door; she placed her glass appropriately, keeping the reflected entrance in her periphery.
It was in this reversed world that she first saw the Ventrue Primogen and his woman enter the nightclub. Clad in a tailored suit that, because of it's cream colour, seemed to highlight his pale skin and beach-blond hair, he walked with the purpose of an aristocrat - a measured gait marked by the swiftness of his dark leather loafers. The woman clung to his arm, as the Primogen made his way over to Elena's table. She knew the type, a shoulder-trophy; she had been one herself once years ago. Despite his facade, the Primogen was wary of his surroundings atleast, eyeing the Brujah and Gangrel analytically as he strode over. Elena noted the unease in his eyes as he stopped at her table; she chanced a glance at the two clans before looking to the Primogen before her.
"Ventrue." Neither a question or a statement, an off-hand comment.
Elena assumed no pretense of arrogance for this one. "A seat, sir?"
"I'm not here because of you," he stated. "But I suppose some words between us are in order."
"I have been warned and subsequently admitted entrance here, by Mr. Luna."
"Yes, I know. If he doesn't believe you a threat, then neither do I." The Primogen glanced around again. Elena sensed Brujah eyes upon the couple, and when she took in the woman at the Primogen's side fully, she realized why. The youngest always were the easiest prey.
"We are family, yes? Mister . . .?" she tried as politely as possible, offering the requisite clan solidarity while a stray thought passed by her mind's eye.
"Aaron Cavenaugh, and yes, we are." He pushed his companion forward ever so slightly. "Katrina, allow me to introduce you to Miss Elena Franco."
"May I sit with you, Miss Franco?" Katrina asked, apparently in possession of a better understanding of the situation than Elena had given her credit for.
Elena looked to Cavenaugh and then to her glass; she smiled warmly. "So long as you get me another Scotch."
Katrina looked to her sire, who nodded. "Don't let any of the Brujah buy you a drink," he warned lightly as she made her way to the bar. Cavenaugh said nothing else to Elena. He crossed the Haven and disappeared up the stairs.
Elena sat back, watching the awkward childe as she ordered the Scotch. In collective, the Brujah regarded her from where they sat, in the same manner a cat might regard an injured bird. She returned as quickly as possible, carrying the drink in both of her hands.
"Sit," Elena instructed as she took the highball from Katrina casually. "You didn't get anything for yourself?"
"I haven't the stomach for it yet," she admitted. She spoke with a slight French accent, Parisian Elena guessed.
"People don't come to a nightclub to sit and not drink. Even a glass of water," Elena took a sip to emphasize the point. "Survival is about fitting in." She tried not to play the part of the teacher, but the naiveté in the girl's eyes made it damn-near impossible. Elena had been in charge of Mariella's upbringing. She decided to change the subject. "How do you find San Francisco, Miss Katrina?"
"Beautiful," she said. "You must be new to the city? Aaron makes a habit of meeting all of the new . . ." a pause as she ventured to say the word in public, "Ventrue."
Elena simply nodded. If this girl didn't know who she was, there was no point in enlightening her. "Your master is here to speak with the Toreador Primogen?"
Katrina remained silent, apparently unsure of how to respond.
"I was merely making conversation. It's obvious that he is."
"Oh," the girl said, smiling in spite of herself. "Yes."
"Have you ever met the Toreador Primogen?"
"Miss Lillie is a very powerful figure," she sounded as if she was reciting the line from a textbook or some lesson.
"You're not used to being without your master," Elena commented as she enjoyed another taste of the strong alcohol. When Katrina only stared at her, she added, "That too, is obvious, by the way."
"You're here, by yourself?"
"Yes. I've been without such a master for quite some time."
Aware that the conversation had suddenly become faux pas, Katrina piped, "Shall I go and get myself something to drink then?"
"If you want," Elena returned. She had told Matthew that she had had no plans of inciting any trouble tonight, but with such an opportunity sitting before her . . . that idea was starting to nag at her. "If you'd excuse me for a moment, I need to make a call." It's not that she wasn't sympathetic to the girl's plight, it just so happened her will outweighed her compassion. Childer - despite what the most humanitarian of sires might believe - were always embraced for one singular purpose; they were tools, and tools were used to solve problems.
"Of course," Katrina allowed as the elder Ventrue got up from her seat.
As Elena meandered over to the back corridor of the nightclub, she couldn't help but smile. Katrina got up to get herself a drink almost as if on cue. The elder Ventrue turned her back from the scene as she brought out her cellphone.
"Matthew?"
"Here," he greeted simply.
"I do need you to do something for me."
"I'm here to serve."
"I need a glock by tomorrow night.Oh, and I'll be leaving here shortly. Try to keep up."
Brujah were unpredictable in the way pyromaniacs were, Elena had come to understand. They might burn down their own house just to satiate their passions, but give them a match and watch them ignite it. Two had flanked Katrina as she made her way back to the booth. As she sat down, they took up position at the end of the table. Let's have a dance, cutie. I'll buy you a drink, babe. Perhaps they had sophisticated their language since then – probably not.
And there it was, one of them tipped over Katrina's pathetic daiquiri as she refused them yet again. That alone would have been enough. Still, as Elena walked over stealthily, the Brujah closest to Katrina grabbed for her arm.
A shove. The first was of little import, but the second Brujah sensed the danger. He turned – into Elena's palm. Like a piston, and the Brujah's head snapped back accordingly. There was no blood behind the move, just her own wiry strength. The visceral crack! that followed, the blood that spewed from his nose was ineffectual. His roar of rage, however, brought the Brujah clan to its feet, some casually reaching into jackets or pockets . . . Elena had her hands raised as she stepped back from the inevitable one-handed slash that followed, a mindless attempt to return the hurt – the other hand, of course, cradled the crushed nose.
The mortals among them had even stopped, caught in the pudding of tension that now enveloped the club. Thick, slow movements epitomized the scene. A large hand came down around Elena's shoulder, holding her back from inciting a foray; she looked behind her to see one of the bouncers. She still had her hands up, one covered in crimson albeit. This was not an action of malice, but of honour - something like that. A jerk backwards from the bouncer and she walked away without incident, eyeing the Brujah who stood there, one fist clenched hard enough to draw blood – drip, drip, drip! to the floor. She smiled.
"Allez vers votre maître, et lui dire ce qui s'est passé!" Elena muttered as she was pulled away.
Katrina was no fool atleast. Hearing the words, she nodded and flew passed them, up the stairs and out of sight. Few paid her little notice; it was the Ventrue who had broken the sanctum of the Haven whom everyone now looked to, and still Elena smiled.
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Can anyone tell that I'm avoiding an essay on rhetorical theory? Thanks for reading – k.ramsey
PS- "Go to your master and tell him what has happened!"
version 2.0 . . . revised and refocused for your delight . . . ah, clarity.