Roots and Doubts

by Soledad

A "Pathways in the Dark" story

Part 16 of "The Toreador Chronicles". Follows "Reunited".

For disclaimer and background information see the Introduction.

Rating: 14+, just to be on the safe side. Mostly for language and slightly disturbing topics.

Author's note: Velvet Vellour, just like Ash Rivers, is a canon character of the Vampire: The Masquerade game. I used some of her canon background, but not all of it, so she's most likely quite different here. The bath tub scene was, of course, inspired by certain stands from the Queen of the Damned movie. The floor manager of the Vesuvius is "played" by Von Flores and named after the character the actor played in the series Earth: Final Conflict.

Summary: Michael is slowly finding his place within the movie industry. However, he's having doubts about the wisdom of his decision to leave Pittsburgh in such a hurried manner, as Brian seems to have changed a great deal.

Two months flew by as in a dream. The pre-shooting work was finished, the sets built, the costumes sown, and Brett Keller was just about to start shooting the Rage movie. Sometimes Michael had the eerie feeling that he'd died and awakened to an alternate reality. He'd followed Vera Vignes' advice and enrolled to some courses about writing and movie-making, and as a result, he'd begun to move around Tinsel Town with more confidence. He was slowly but steadily building his connections within the movie industry; connections that would secure his future position as a screenwriter, even after the work with the Rage movie would end.

In his spare time – little though it was – he still worked on the Rage comic with Justin's replacement, a gifted young comic artist, recommended by Alain. As a result, the overall look of the comic had a slight change for the better: it was a tad less brutal and a tad more professional, as the new artist had extensive drawing studies and years of experience under his belt, despite his relative youth (he was about Michael's own age).

Michael had also begun to write the screenplay for Rage II: The Black Widow – the sequel to the Rage movie – because Brett Keller and Edward Blount wanted to save money by shooting a lot of scenes back-to-back, as long as the sets were standing and the costumes still available. These scenes, featuring mostly the three male stars, were supposed to be added to the DVD-release as teaser. But they shot other scenes, too, with Suzie Wong and Bai-ling, and even Sarina got made up and put into her future Spider Queen attire, in which she looked creepily gorgeous, to appeal the male audience.

The PR campaign for the movie ran smoothly under Brian's expert hands. The Girard Fashion House and the Jade Flower boutiques brought out toned-down, elegant versions of some movie costumes, and a new collection of perfumes was prepared to come out on the day of the premiere: Zephyr for men and Lotus Blossom for women, with the pictures of the characters on box and bottle.

Diego Martinez had created a Rage website, covering both comics and movie, with all sorts of background information, an online shop for Rage merchandize (from action figures to mugs and all sorts of completely useless but very popular articles), a forum and a chat room, where interested fans could talk to Michael directly, once a week. He was also working on the Rage computer game, for which he needed to consult Michael regularly.

All these activities left little time for Michael to think about his life in general and about his strange relationship with Brian in particular. They worked together on various Rage-related projects, they even lived under the same roof, and yet they hung out even less than at the time when they'd both had other partners. Alain's hold on Brian seemed very strong, and Michael was afraid of making any attempts to break it. He might fail, which would lead to losing their friendship as well – and that he couldn't bear.

Now he finally understood why Brian had always hesitated to initiate anything but friendship between them in all those years… save a few occasions when he'd been either drunk or high. But that revelation didn't really help things.

So he hung out with Emmett instead, which was great fun, just like in old times. Emmett had become a regular customer in the Asp Hole, and the other regulars, half of whom belonged to the movie industry anyway (and the other half desperately wanting to belong there) took Michael in with open arms. Literally. That provided him an active and interesting sex life – but didn't fill the emptiness inside him.

"Sweetie, you're running yourself ragged," Emmett said worriedly.

"It keeps me distracted," Michael replied with a shrug. "Keeps me from wondering whether I should have stayed in The Pitts, sitting in my little store, playing the grieving husband."

Emmett's eyes teared up in sympathy. He knew, of course, that Brian had to finish his basic Kindred training before earning his independence, so that he could be there for Michael the same way they'd used to be. Having interrupted his training for more than a week had been a setback and prolonged his dependent status. But Emmett couldn't tell that Michael who still had no idea about the existence of vampires.

"Don't give up just yet, sweetie," he begged. "Alain and Brian are just going through… through a particularly intense phase in their relationship. That won't last long, trust me. And then, things will return to normal again."

"Em, I've been waiting for twenty fucking years!" Michael said tiredly. "How long am I supposed to sit on the sideline yet?"

"I don't know, sweetie," Emmett replied seriously, "but I can introduce you to someone who might."

"Let me guess," Michael said dryly. "Another eccentric old queen of an oracle like Mysterious Marilyn, right?"

"No," Emmett said. "A lot better. You came by car?"

"Yeah, what else? This is LA. Where are we going?"

"To the Vesuvius. Don't worry, you'll like it."

The Vesuvius was an exotic dance club in West Hollywood; a well-frequented establishment, that – unlike the Asp Hole – was prepared to serve the needs of Kindred clientele, as most of the dancers were willing to serve as blood dolls for a sufficient fee. Emmett, who still had difficulties with Hunting (like other Sons of Discord before him, he lacked somewhat the necessary vampire aggressivity), was a recurring visitor, and a beloved one. Some of the male dancers liked him enough to volunteer as donors, without expecting to be paid for it – at least not in money. They usually negotiated about a more… natural payment: sexual favours for blood donation, which satisfied both parties. But tonight Emmett wasn't there to play. He wanted to speak the club owner.

"In the private playroom," the floor manager, an extremely hot Latino in his mid-thirties, said. He was small, compact and beautiful, with a thick mane of jet-black hair and dark, almond eyes. According to his name tag, his name was Sandoval. He eyed Michael with interest.

"Another time, sweetcakes," Emmett told him, dragging Michael away.

The "private playroom" turned out a moderate-sized chamber with shuttered windows and a sunken bathtub in the middle of it, huge enough to offer room for at least five people. Its only occupant was, at the moment, Ash Rivers, who was floating in the water amidst a sea of roses – blood-red rose petals, to be more accurate, that covered the water surface almost completely. The heavy scent of the flowers filled the entire room. Ash's eyes were half-closed, his bare arms resting upon the marble rim of the tube, and he seemed out like a light.

"Oh, dear!" Emmett rolled his eyes, which were emphasized by silver-and-blue eyeliner today, bringing out their colour to full effect, "he seems on a trip again. If Isaac hears of this…"

Michael, already familiar enough with the personal dynamics between film mogul Isaac Abrams and his errant protégée, nodded grimly.

"I hope he'll be able to shoot his scenes at all," he said.

As if answering his concerns, a dark-skinned goddess with beehive hairdo emerged from the rose bath, wearing a golden bikini and some sort of dramatic, water-proof eye-makeup in the style of an Egyptian pharaoh.

"Don't worry, guys," she said in a low, husky voice, nipping at Ash's pecs playfully. "I do not drug my customers. The rose bath helps him relax, that's all." And she stepped out of the tub gracefully, shaking off the water like a big, elegant cat.

At first Michael thought he was looking at a drag queen of extraordinary beauty, as she was very thin, flat-chested and straight-shouldered for her five-foot-eight frame, with legs so endless that the eye grew tired from looking at them. But a second, more thorough look revealed that she was either a fully changed transgender person or a genuine woman – albeit a very unusual one.

She took a wide-cut robe of translucent white gauze off from a peck on the wall and wrapped herself into it, without caring to dry herself off first. Then she gestured them over to a low, marble-plated coffee table and picked up a crystal flute half-full with some ruby liquid with one hand and a long, thin, golden cigarette with the other one. She lit the cigarette from one of the thin, red candles that were burning in a silver candlestick and looked at her visitors with mild curiosity.

"Emmett, dearest, we've missed you lately," she said. "Where have you been and who's the hot stuff with you?"

"Caught up in the showbiz," Emmett replied blithely. "Oh, and by the way, this is my friend, Michael Novotny. The screenwriter of the Rage movie, among other things."

For some reason, that seemed to disappoint her.

"There go my hopes for the evening," she said with a sigh. "It's so unfair, really. Whenever someone really hot finds its way to town, Alain snatches them away before anyone else could get a chance."

"He's not into girls, Velvet," Emmett grinned. "But I thought I'd introduce you guys to each other anyway. He needs new friends in town. And I think he might need a little guidance, too." Turning back to Michael, he added. "Michael, this is Velvet Vellour. She owns this club, and she regularly performs here. One day, you should see her dance; or perform poetry. But today, I brought you here because Velvet's some sort of medium as well. I think she could help you gain a better insight into your own situation."

"My pleasure, Michael," the exotic beauty set down the crystal flute and proffered a slim hand to Michael, who shook it clumsily. He had the vague impression that kissing her hand would have been more appropriate, but such worldly gestures still didn't come to him easily. Her amused smile revealed that she'd read him like an open book, at least in this matter.

He wondered if she was a psychic or something like that.

He couldn't know, of course, but his guess came very close to the truth. Velvet Vellour – whose true name nobody seemed to know – was a Toreador Anarch of the 9th generation, with a Sire whom she adamantly refused to name, just as she refused to speak about her (mortal) past. This fact had soon led to the speculation that she might have been Embraced by some Sabbat Toreador but had turned her back on the sect. Her dismayed rejection of the violent Kindred nature might have been an overreaction to her origins.

She didn't go Hunting – she didn't need it. Her blood dolls, all of them utterly devoted to her, males and females alike, were all too happy to serve her needs, and she kept them in her thrall with the irresistible sexual magnetism of a true siren. All Toreador females had great powers of seduction, but the sirens had it magnitudes stronger – and didn't hesitate to use it. Velvet Vellour was no exception. In fact, she used her natural sensuality as a tool to assure her own survival in the undead society too violent for her personal taste.

Like all Toreador sirens, she also epitomized passion, which she expressed through poetry and dance. In fact, her poems had been published as a leather-bound, richly illustrated book, thanks to one of her mortal thralls, and had great popularity among fellow Kindred and in the Goth subculture. When she performed in the Vesuvius, the club was always full, and her fans all but worshipped at her feet. She also had an uncanny knack to make people do what she wanted them to do, be they mortal or Kindred. Many of the younger Anarch would have done anything to protect her. Such strong Dominance was unusual for someone so young in the Dark – she'd only been Embraced in 1994, after all – and it was assumed that she must have absorbed some Lasombra Vitae through vaulderie before leaving her pack, as she could also read the blood she tasted, which was, usually though not exclusively, a Lasombra trait. Phillipe Navital was one of the very few exceptions.

As a true Toreador, she seemed to thrive on the company of artists, writers, dancers and actors. Consequently, she was a frequent visitor in the Asp Hole and a close friend of Ash Rivers, even younger in the Dark than she. Understandably enough, she was in league with Isaac Abrams, the most powerful Toreador Anarch in town – it was a useful alliance for her, and a profitable one.

It was in the Asp Hole that Emmett had met her for the first time, and they'd hit off at once. As an Anarch, she was a lot easier-going on rules and traditions than the Blounts, and Emmett found that refreshing. Besides, they were closer in age, both in their mid-twenties when Embraced, both children of the same time. On the other hand, she had been drifting towards the Camarilla for a few years by now, the only place where she could find real protection from the Sabbat – especially if rumours about her origins were true. Through Emmett, she could be in touch with the Camarilla Toreadors, without actually seeking them out – theirs was a connection of mutual benefit.

"So, you need guidance?" she asked, eyeing Michael with interest. "We can try a reading, I guess, although I can't promise any straight answers… pardon the pun. The future is in a fluidic state, and even past and present are a lot less static than most people would think."

Michael wasn't impressed by all that mystical mumbo-jumbo, and he said so, before realizing how rude that must have sounded. Fortunately for him, Velvet Vellour wasn't a sensitive one as mediums go.

"You'll probably change your mind when we're done," she replied with a throaty laugh. "But we should relocate to the salon for the reading. It's more private… and we won't be distracted there."

Michael shrugged. He didn't really care where she was doing her esoteric stuff. Still, he wouldn't reject flat out what she might say. The experience with Mysterious Marilyn had taught him to be careful, even with his doubts.

"Excellent," she said, rising. "Ash, baby," she added, glancing at the actor still floating among the roses, "I'll have to leave you here for a while, but I'll be back soon, I promise. Perhaps Emmett wouldn't mind to keep you company in the tub."

"I'd love to!" Emmett was shedding his clothes already to join Ash in the rose bath. Michael didn't blame him, 'cause honestly, a rose bath? For someone like Em, it had to be the epitome of luxury and decadence – both things Em embraced fully.

"I wonder how they're gonna do the deed," he commented dryly. Both Em and Ash were such bottoms it almost hurt to see. Michael preferred to be on the receiving end himself, but there was a difference…

"I'll send them champagne for inspiration," Velvet Vellour replied with a shrug and tossed lightly against the nearby wall. Well-concealed door wings swung open noiselessly, allowing them access to the adjoining salon – more like a small boudoir, actually, furnished with expensive elegance and refined taste.

"So, what are you gonna read?" Michael asked, taking the offered seat on the low sofa. "Cards? Tea leaves? My palm?"

"Really, darling, you shouldn't expect something that mundane from me," Velvet said in a reproachful tone. "I'm a medium, not some gipsy fortune teller – not that I wouldn't respect Madame Zorza's abilities; she's great. But I'm playing in a different league – I'll read your blood."

"My what?" Michael was trying very hard not to freak out – with very poor results. What kind of weird shit were Brian and Em involved in, and why had they felt necessary to drag him into it as well?

"Oh, don't be such a baby!" Velvet exclaimed. "This won't hurt a bit… well, actually, it will, but you'll enjoy it, I promise."

Looking deeply into Michael's eyes, she pushed up the Rage T-shirt to his armpits and playfully tugged on the small patch of dark curls between his pectorals. Her eyes turned silver, and Michael, mesmerised like a bird by a snake, was unable to protest, much less to defend himself. She hovered over him, licking his chest like a big, graceful – and deadly – cat, dropping her delicate canines but not showing them openly yet.

Completely at her mercy, Michael screamed when a razor-sharp fang pierced his nipple, white-hot pain shooting directly to his groin and making him hard as steel. Velvet made a purring sound deep in her throat, licking the small wound to close it, and then licked her lips, savouring the taste.

"Hmmm…" she murmured. "Delicious. There's a lot of passion in you… and a lot of strength, too. I like that. But your resources are nearly depleted. That's not good."

"I've had a hard time," Michael murmured, consciously ignoring the weirdness of the circumstances, because if he thought about the whole situation, he'd freak out completely.

"No shit," she agreed unconventionally. "But you'll pull yourself together, eventually. All you need is a little TLC."

"You call this tender loving care?" Michael snorted.

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous," she replied. "I'm just having a little fun… which you'll forget anyway."

"I will?" Michael had his doubts about that.

"Rest assured, you will," she nodded. "I'll make sure of it. Now, let us talk about why you're here."

"Because Em dragged me in?" Michael suggested.

"Because you feel neglected by the man for whom you've left your old life behind," she corrected.

"Because he's not being himself, and it seems as if I wouldn't even know him anymore," Michael corrected her.

"I see," she said. "Well, I haven't met your friend in person yet, but I know his reputation. Or, to be more accurate, I know what he was like when he first came to LA. Before he gave himself into Alain's hands. Would you prefer if he remained the same? Drinking and abusing drugs and all the nine miles in the night?"

"Yes," Michael replied without hesitation. "I didn't always like the life he used to lead, but at least it was his own choice."

"So is the one he leads now," Velvet pointed out. "I've known Alain for years – he'd never force anyone to submit."

"It's not in Brian's nature to submit," Michael said. "He's been sexually aggressive all his life."

"And did it bring him true satisfaction?" Velvet asked.

Michael shrugged. "He seemed content enough, going through the entire gay population of The Pitts."

"Establishing his dominance," Velvet nodded in understanding.

"Exactly," Michael agreed. "That's why I don't understand how the Stud of Liberty Avenue could have morphed into Alain's fucktoy."

"You tend to see things in black and white," Velvet said, "without recognizing all the shadows of grey in-between. Natural born subs tend to that sort of thinking; but it's a rough simplification. Life doesn't run in such simple categories."

"If you mean that I'm a bottom, you're right," Michael shrugged. "But I don't see why that would matter. Brian's the ultimate top. What he seems to be doing with Alain is… unnatural."

Velvet shook her head. "There is a difference between submission and being a bottom by nature," she said. "You submit, because you enjoy submission. If Brian submits to Alain, it's because he needs it, to establish balance. I don't know a thing about his past, of course, but can it be that he's picked up the dominant role out of fear and mistrust? Perhaps he never allowed himself to be vulnerable; possibly for very good reasons."

"He never pretended with me," Michael said slowly.

"Just with everyone else, right?" she asked. "And tried to find some sort of false balance in drugs, alcohol and promiscuity. Oh, I might not know him personally, but I've heard stories. This is a small scene, you know. He could have ended up like Ash – in fact, rumour says, he's accepted Alain's dominance after having met Ash for the first place."

"And doing kinky stuff is supposed to help him?" Michael asked with a humourless laugh.

"This is not about kink," she replied. "Not primarily, at least."

"It sure as hell looks like that to me," Michael said. "Brian has shown me that weird fetish club; I've seen enough. And now, if you really can make me forget this conversation, I'd prefer not to remember any of it."

"Of course," she said. "Look me in the eyes and relax. You won't remember a thing."

Alain had always loved the Hunt. Watching his potential prey, choosing the right one, coursing his victim, seducing them or Dominating them into obedience – and then making them forget, after he'd drunk his fill. He'd honed his skills for half a millennium and was a highly developed predator now, very choosy about his prey and artistic in the execution of the task.

With Brian, the Hunt was an even greater pleasure. The fledgling had already come with well-trained powers of seduction, and he seemed to enjoy it as much as Alain did. And he had style. Instead of attacking the fist homeless person, as other fledglings would do, someone too drunk to even realize what was happening, Brian chose his prey from the young, half-naked studs in a gay bar, seduced him, fucked him, and only bit the guy in the height of his orgasm, when his blood was overflooded with adrenaline and endorphins.

"You're a gourmet," Alain said with satisfaction. "A true Toreador to the bone – making such a simple necessity as feeding to an act of artistic pleasure. I'm very proud of you."

Brian shrugged. "Well, feeding is a fairly disgusting habit, so why not do it with style?" They both laughed with easy, newly-won camaraderie, two bloodsuckers in the night.

"It's such a shame I have to make them forget, though," Brian then added with a lascivious grin. "Usually, the tricks I fuck remember it till the end of their sorry lives."

"When you've had more experience with domination, you'll be able to manipulate them however you want," Alain promised. "You can make them forget certain details and remember the rest, keeping your infamous reputation. But that takes time… and more training."

"I understand that," Brian said, slowly coming down from his high. "I don't like neglecting Mikey, though. Right now, he needs me more than ever. I've taken him away from The Pitts – granted, with Brett's invaluable help – because his mother and the lezzies would have smothered him completely. I didn't plan to abandon him."

"You're not abandoning him," Alain said, "although I agree that the timing was the worst possible one… and not for the reasons you might consider. Your training was interrupted at a crucial point. Had you not gone to Pittsburgh, you'd be Hunting on your own by now, and be presented to the Conclave within the month."

"Mikey needed me," Brian said simply. "He's always been there for me, no matter what. Now it was my turn to give support. It still is – if you'd only let me."

"I will – when it's time," Alain said. "Right now, however, finishing your training is top priority. I can't keep you in fledgling status much longer; that would make the Clan Elders think that you're too weak, not capable of handling the Beast – and that could lead to your rejection."

"Who cares?" Brian asked with a shrug.

"I do," Alain replied, with a silver glint of anger in his eyes, "and you should, too. Because the Cal Elders happen to be the people with the big money and the big influence in the world of the Kine; so you need to remain in their good graces if you want to pursue your career any further."

"What happens to a neonate who gets rejected?" Brian asked; the thought had never occurred to him.

"They're considered Caitiff – without Clan, without family, without contacts or influence. Unless they join an Anarch gang, or the Sabbat, of course," Alain added grimly, "and somehow I don't think that's what you'd want to do."

The nightmarish image of Yitzhak in full monster mode appeared in his mind's eye, and Brian shook his head mutely.

"Good," Alain said. "Not that I'd be really afraid that they might reject you; you're already involved in shared business with our Clan Primogen, not to mention several very influential Kindred from other Clans. But one can never be careful enough. There are some very conservative people among the Elders – and then, there's Rebecca Lowell, who has considerable influence within the Clan, and who hates Victor and me on principle. She'd gladly take every excuse to harm us."

"Why?" Brian only knew the actress from TV, but she'd impressed the hell out of him in the past. She'd been excellent in the role of Raven.

Alain sighed. "Well, now that her star as an actress is fading, she's developed other ambitions. She'd love to become Clan Primogen, ridiculous as it is from a neonate; perhaps her Sire is behind the whole scheme, I'm not sure. In any case, Victor is in her way. As for me; well, Rebecca is Sarina's Sire. She's Embraced Sarina on a whim when barely more than a neonate herself, and without permission; then she got bored and abandoned her in the middle of the Becoming."

Brian shuddered at that thought. Alain nodded.

"There was a big debate in the Conclave whether Sarina should be allowed to live or should be put out of her misery," he said. "Fortunately for her, in the end the Primogens agreed to give her a chance, and I was asked to take her into foster care. Which is why Rebecca considers me a thief, someone who's taken her Childe from her."

"But she didn't even want her anymore!" Brian said, understandably confused. Alain shrugged.

"Logic has never been one of Rebecca's strengths. Besides, she also hates me because I've Embraced Oliver and his boy toy for the Prince. Oliver is Rebecca's agent; but now he's loyal to the Prince."

"And Rebecca isn't?" Brian asked. "I thought all Camarilla vampires are supposed to, by default."

"Kindred," Alain corrected him automatically. "Watch your mouth in the company of the Clan Elders – as I've told you repeatedly, they're a bit sensitive about semantics. In any case, yeah, Rebecca should be loyal to the Prince… at least in theory. But she won't forget that the Prince refused to Embrace her when she asked for it, so it's a shaky loyalty in the best of times. Rebecca's Sire, Lorena was once hunted by the former Prince of LA, Victor's Sire – unjustifiably, or so they say – and was thought to be dead for decades. There's no way knowing what she's planning or whom she's in league with. But she's a strong one – 7th generation – and she might have influence within the Clan, mostly among the Anarch. It would be a mistake to underestimate her."

"Great!" Brian pulled a face. "And since Rebecca hates you as well as Victor, she'll hate me by default, too."

"Oh, I think she already hates you for your highly successful campaigns for Girard Fashions," Alain grinned. "Don't forget: we've originally brought you here to drive Rebecca's fashion efforts out of the market – and your campaigns have done just that."

"And I've made myself a real enemy," Brian said glumly. "Within the Clan. Within the Camarilla. Before I even knew that such things existed."

Alain nodded, suddenly deadly serious again.

"And a petty one, with a tendency to hold grudges," he said. "Don't worry, though. The Conclave of LA is more than just the Camarilla; we've got an Anarch Prince here, after all. Anarch leaders like Louis Fortier – who's your business partner – and Salvador Garcia have great influence. All we have to do is to finish your training in time; once you've been accepted, Rebecca and her cronies can't really harm you. But we have to finish it – do you understand me now?"

"Of course, but," Brian began.

"No," Alain interrupted, "no 'buts'. Michael is in good hands with Emmett, for the time being. You will focus on your training, and nothing – or nobody – else. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Brian replied sarcastically. Alain's eyes turned ice cold in a moment.

"Brian," he said evenly, the warning overtone very obvious," you're treading a slippery path here. Go on like this, and I'll have to discipline you again."

Brian flashed him a naughty grin. "Promises, promises."

Alain shook his head in exasperation but couldn't quite suppress a grin of his own.

"Childe, if all you want is to play why don't you simply say so?" he asked. "You don't need to provoke me every time."

"I know," Brian said, "but where would be the fun in that?"

Alain rolled his eyes. "Neonates!" he growled. "You still don't seem to understand that challenging me would include no fun at all. I'm giving you a lot of leeway because that's how you function best, but I won't have my authority questioned. Not now, not later; and you'd better get used to that thought."

"I thought I was supposed to be freed after finishing my training," Brian said.

"That's correct," Alain replied. "Which means that no other Kindred would have the right to question your existence or harm you, as long as you don't break Kindred law and unless the Prince calls a Blood Hunt on you. But you'll still be my Childe, until your Final Death – or mine – and in certain things, I'll still have authority over you."

"Like fucking me whenever you want?" Brian asked sarcastically.

"That's a fringe benefit," Alain declared calmly. "Not the most important part, though. If you break the law, it'll be my duty as your Sire to kill you – or be killed in your stead, if I fail, unless a Blood Hunt is called, in which case whoever finds you first may kill you and absorb your very essence. This isn't some modern-day law enforcement. The Prince is the jury, the judge and the executioner in Kindred society – well, theoretically. In praxis, our Prince would send one of his Enforcers: either Spike, or Faith, the Sabbat Slayer, and even I'd be hard pressed to fight them. You won't stand a chance."

"I know, I know," Brian said impatiently. "You've only told me this, oh, a hundred times or so."

"And I'm gonna tell you another hundred times, if necessary," Alain riposted. "Your generation has made challenging authorities an art form. The sooner you understand that it won't do you any good among Camarilla Kindred, the better. Unless you're strong enough to challenge your Elders, which, trust me, you won't be for the next couple of centuries yet."

"Well, this sucks," Brian growled.

"No," Alain said, smiling. "This is the way that leads to power. To long-lasting power. And you're designed to wield that kind of power, eventually."

"Yeah, sure," Brian couldn't help laughing. To his surprise, Alain seemed quite serious about the whole thing.

"You've played the power game all your adult life," the artist reminded him. "Only the rules are different – and the magnitude of that which you'll be able to gain. You can rise to great power within the Camarilla. You're young, ruthless, intelligent, gifted. One day, you might become Clan Primogen, or even the Prince of a city of your own choice; with enough power to protect those you love. So don't be a fool. You've got unlimited time. Watch, learn, build your network of influence. Play by the rules, and one day, the rules will serve you. What?" he asked, because Brian suddenly bent over with suppressed laughter.

"Nothing," Brian replied, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "I just imagined myself returning to The Pitts, say, in fifty years, taking over ad business in the whole town and building my undead empire. It was just too hilarious an idea."

"No," Alain corrected seriously. "It was a long-term plan; and Pittsburgh is a reasonable choice. The Kindred population is very small there, and it has practically no Sabbat influence, as the city has never attracted our kind."

"Small wonder," Brian said dryly. "The place sucks."

"Perhaps," Alain allowed. "But you know it well, and you won't have much competition there. We've checked out the city before approaching you. It doesn't have a Prince, and not even all Clans are represented. There are a few Ventrue, a few Brujah, some of our own Clan and a handful of Nosferatu. Country Gangrel visit town sometimes, but they don't stay. So, you've got plenty of time and opportunity to 'build your undead empire', as you so eloquently put it. Preparing your return through business contacts and carefully suggested Embraces."

"You're serious about this!" Brian realized in mild shock.

Alain nodded. "Of course I am; and so should you. LA is a great place for an artist, but you're more of a businessman, and in that area, there's too much competition here. But should you want to return to Pittsburgh eventually and elbow your way to the top, your business associates here would support you with everything they have. Because that would widen their own area of interests – we don't have much influence up North – and remove the competition for them."

"I'm not a competition for them," Brian protested. "Neither of them is in the ad business, and that's all I do."

"That's all you do now," Alain corrected. "But you'll have all the time you want to enter other business interests in the future. They all know how ambitious and talented you are. They'd efficiently support you to use those excellent abilities somewhere else."

If Brian thought about it, it made sense. He'd always known that his undead business partners only embraced him – ha! ha! – because he was useful for them, and not for some kind of personal sympathy. Still returning to The Pitts didn't seem particularly attractive.

"To tell the truth, I was happy to leave The Pitts behind me, forever," he said. "I like it in LA; I actually thought I'd stay here for good."

"You'll have stay here for quite a few years," Alain said. "People who know you well would become suspicious of your tendency of not getting any older. But after a few decades, you can simply return as your own son, Brian Kinney II, and nobody will ask questions about your late Dad. Many of us do it the same way. And it will give you enough time to plan your glorious return in detail and prepare everything for the day."

"Sounds plausible," Brian admitted. "This is a concept I need to digest for a while first, though."

"Of course," Alain said. "For a neonate, it's always a slow process to learn to think and plan in long-time terms. There's no need to haste. You'll manage just fine." He patted Brian on the ass encouragingly. "Now, go and rest. It's almost sunrise, and we've been out all night."

"Will you join me?" Brian asked.

"Later, perhaps," the artist said. "I've morning classes today; and besides, I prefer you well-rested for our… extracurriculary activities. You'll need the rest for what I've got on my mind."

"Promises, promises," Brian teased again, but returned to his apartment nonetheless. He was still getting used to vampire lifestyle, and the Hunt had been exciting and exhausting at the same time.

On his way to bed, he risked a look into the guest room. Michael was sleeping on top of his unmade bed, wearing only his Superman boxer shorts and looking all about fourteen. He seemed to have a not entirely pleasant dream, and he was rubbing one of his nipples as if in remembered pain. That was strange, as he had no visible injury. Brian wanted to know what the reason could be, but he knew he shouldn't wake his friend. Mike slept way too little lately, and he needed the rest himself.

He shook his head in concern and went on to his won bed, wishing that his training were finished already. He missed Michael in his life – well, all right, unlife – more than ever before. This separation, while living under the same roof, had gone on too long.

Alain was looking through his teaching plans for his classes when the phone rang. It was Velvet Velour, which surprised him a little. Sure, Velvet had been drifting towards the Camarilla in these days, but the two of them had never been particularly close.

"Michael Novotny visited me tonight," Velvet cut to the core at once. "Emmett has brought him, so that I can do a reading."

"Have you?" Alain asked, suddenly very nervous. He didn't know why, but he had the feeling that whatever Velvet had to say couldn't be good.

"Of course," she said. "That's what I do… well, among other things. Listen, Alain, the situation is at a very precarious balance right now. Things can start spiralling down any moment. Michael is severely depressed, and keeping him away from Brian isn't helping."

"I can't let them be together right now," Alain reminded her. "Brian's training…"

"I know," she said. "I've tried to make Michael understand that this doesn't mean he's losing Brian for good."

"And?"

"And he didn't believe me. Alain, I think he's regretted coming here in the first place, and he might be considering leaving again. Based on what I've heard from Emmett and what I've read from Michael, Brian won't take that kindly."

"Merde!" Alain cursed. "If Michael leaves now, Brian might take a walk in the sun."

"My fears, exactly," Velvet agreed. "I don't even know him, so it's no concern of mine. But Michael's a nice one, and I'd like to spare him another loss of that magnitude."

"Any suggestions?" Velvet might be a raw neonate of questionable origins, but she was also a medium, with more insight into people's hearts that even half a millennium in the Dark would grant.

"The key is Michael," she said. "Has always been, if I'm reading the signs correctly. You should talk to him. Privately. Try to assure him that he's not losing Brian. That he shouldn't leave town for good. 'Cause if you fail… well, you won't like the alternative."

The End – for now