Cinderella

for the prompt: someone defends the other from vampires. Really just an excuse to write vampire subculture.

New England,

January, year four

Worth tugged at his collar with a grimace, fingers looping through the cut-away center of it and curling over the silk black tie underneath.

"Careful," Conrad hissed, "you'll rip the thing apart."

Worth bared his teeth and gave the collar another pointed tug. It didn't rip, but Conrad still winced. Honestly Worth was being a big sullen baby, his costume wasn't even that far removed from what he used to wear back when he was a humdrum black market doctor. Yes, okay, the coat was a little bit like a floor-length fur bathrobe, as Worth had complained hours before, but at least there was something hefty between him and the rest of the manor.

Conrad nervously smoothed his suit for the millionth time. There was something magical about the way that muffled excitement turned into anxious mortification as soon as you stepped out of the closet. It was one of those inexorable mysteries of the universe. His suit had been something from Casimiro's closet, the only thing short enough and wide enough to fit Conrad—it had belonged to someone else originally, but Casimiro had been headfirst in a pile of old clothes as he was explaining how it came into his possession, so all that Conrad knew for sure was that it had involved a bet in Milan and a miffed supermodel.

Conrad plucked at the corseting down the front. He never imagined himself wearing Gaultier in all his years on the earth, but life just kept on doling out the surprises. At least Worth didn't have any room to start in on him about froofy fashion so-and-so's this time.

"'S like a room fulla cats," Worth murmured, squinting at the shapes passing underneath the balcony, "cats that got inter the crafts box."

Conrad sighed. There was no point in try to explain high fashion to a man like the doctor. His own sister was a model, if he didn't get it by now then he wasn't likely to ever.

"Wait till you've lived a couple centuries," Casimiro replied, from the other side of Conrad, "you'll develop an appreciation for the arts too. Or you'll die in an embarrassing attempt at erotic decapitation like Angelus' sister, one or the other."

Conrad winced and wondered how you even got the idea to try something like that. Casimiro noticed his expression and winked.

"Hedonism has its dangers, yanno," he said. "You start gettin' creative."

"Casimiro," Finas called, nodding towards the edge of the stairs ahead of them, "it's our turn."

Grinning, Casimiro adjusted the leather sleeves of his suit and saluted the two younger vampires. A light flickered. The man at the banister gestured gracefully, and Casimiro approached him with Finas in tow. There was a brief exchange of low voices as Casimiro handed over his invitation, and then the man turned his attention back to the room below.

"The Laird Graves and Patrizio Casimiro," he announced, silver gloves flashing. Casimiro did a little mocking bow to the room below and strolled down the steps, disappearing into the dimness, and Finas quietly adjusted his hat before disappearing down the same way.

"Oh I don't want to do this," Conrad moaned, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The tips of his gloves had swirls of raised fabric sewn into them just like the rest of the suit, and one ridge dug into the corner of his eye.

"Awright," Worth said, "let's ditch the duds an' fly back ter Hanna's place then."

The lights were flickering again. Conrad dragged a glove down the side of his face and took a deep breath. "No," he said, "we're here now, leaving would be worse than going in. We'll just… hang around long enough to convince everyone that we're tolerable guests and then we'll sneak out through the servants' entrance and never speak to anyone ever again."

Worth scowled but didn't argue. He'd spent most of the last two days arguing, and Conrad had made it pretty clear that he wasn't going to hear any of it. Conrad had offered to just go alone at one point, despite how the very thought of it made his head spin with lip-chewing terror, but Worth had been too stubborn to let him come alone.

He thought it was dangerous.

Well, Conrad thought as he eyed the servants passing around them, it was dangerous, of course, but probably not the kind of dangerous Worth was imagining.

The man at the banister beckoned them closer, hand outstretched to take their invitation. His eyes had a pinkish sheen to them, in the same way that Worth's eyes had a yellow tint to them over the red—Conrad tried not to think about how Adelaide's had been only a little bit pinker than this. He pushed the gilded letter into the man's hands.

The man hummed, flipped it over, and then seemed satisfied enough to hand it back. "Names and primary titles?"

Conrad shot a panicked look at Worth, who shrugged and indicated via pointed eyeroll that this had been Conrad's doing so Conrad was on his own here.

Oh, what had the list been? He'd looked over the holdings he inherited from Adelaide earlier in the week, just to get acquainted with them. Which one was the primary one?

"Um," he said, gesturing jerkily at himself, "Conrad Achenleck, Ecuyer? And this is Worth—er, Luce Worth, um, doctor?"

The man gave them a critical look, but dutifully turned to the room at large an announced, "Ecuyer Conrad Achenleck, Lord of the Leglise estates, and his tutelle Docteur Luce Worth."

Conrad winced and smoothed his hands down the sides of his suit, searching for pockets that weren't there. He wished deeply and not for the first time that he'd taken more than two years of French in high school. If only he'd known.

The light was on them, so they ducked down the stairs and joined the party.

The scene was something, oddly enough, less like a goth club and more like a dinner party in the part of Paris that charged you for just breathing the air. Everywhere through the room, the spires and curves of headdresses caught the candlelight from the glittering chandeliers above their heads. A lady vampire, dressed in the abstract bastard child of a kimono and a junglegym, glided past them with two flutes of dark liquid in hand.

"'Spected more velvet 'n coffins," Worth muttered, eyeing the place critically, "or at least some skulls."

Conrad shrugged helplessly. He had too.

"I guess that would be a little like putting pictures of beds and cows all over Hanna's place," he said, after a moment. "Kind of redundant?"

At the center of the room there was a raised platform, on the top of which was a mortal woman doing something exceedingly lewd with a large snake. Conrad did a one-eighty and marched off towards the refreshments table, which was large and glittering and completely free of snakes or human women.

"Ey," Worth said, catching up with him, "party's that way Achenleck, we're missin' all the good shit."

"Oh no," Conrad replied, "No way, we are not going back that way. Forget it." He reached for a flute of dark liquid, shuddering faintly. "That cannot be sanitary."

It seemed a little morally questionable too, you always had to be nervous about humans in gatherings of non humans, but Conrad was trying not to worry too much about that. They knew who they were inviting when they had sent him the letter, surely they wouldn't put anything too reprehensible on the floorshow.

Part of the treaty—the big part, considering their day jobs—was a clause in the first half of the agreement affirming that any non-human party responsible for the death or grievous injury of a human party was subject to the retribution of any second human party up to an including the equivalence of the original loss. Or, in more common parlance, lex talionis. You would need a viable witness to attest to it if the case ever came under review, but the effect was this: anyone who knew that Hanna was alive in the world knew that a reckoning would eventually reach them, if they stepped too heavily on the wrong necks. They had already killed one vampire. Another would be entirely within their capabilities.

Of course, it could be a trap. Conrad gave Worth an uneasy sidelong look as the man was mixing himself a drink, splashing liquor into the neat crystal glass. Worth had suspected a trap, but Conrad had thought—

"See ya found the drink table," Casimiro said, plucking the flute from Conrad's hand. "We can tell where your priorities lie."

Worth snorted as he poured a dollop of something green into his drink. "Connie here was too pussy fer the snakeshow."

"Hmm?" Casimiro straightened up, turned around, and scanned the crowd with his one good eye. "Oh, they got Santanico again. Excellent. Word of advice, don't let her play poker with you. She's got a mean bluff."

For a moment there was a thoughtful silence as Worth and Casimiro both admired the distant figure on the platform. Conrad hunched over his glass and tried to determine what the second flavor was underneath the blood, and tried not to determine where the blood might have come from.

"Oh," Casimiro said, "well, it looks like you two have company."

"Shit," Conrad said into the rim of his glass.

"I'll just be going," Casimiro said, knocking back the rest of his drink. "The guy coming up on us still hasn't forgotten about that girlfriend of his. Two centuries, I ask ya…"

Conrad nearly grabbed the bastard by the stupid grey coat and made him stick around, but he cut himself short with a vicious gnashing of teeth as a pair of vampires approached them.

They was a lady and a man, the man dressed in what appeared to be metal and white stones held together by hinges and little else. That absolutely could not be comfortable, but he showed no signs of trouble with the outfit, so maybe there was a trick to it.

"Ecuyer," the man said, eyes flashing as they locked onto Conrad's. "What a pleasure it is to finally meet you. I am Lord Christo de Charuse, Chevalier, and this is my companion the twice-titled Chevalier Lady Agnes Churchman. We hope you received our cards without incident?"

"Oh, er, yes." Conrad frantically tried to remember either of their names from the stack of inexplicable cards he'd been carrying around for the last year, and drew a complete blank. He stared at both of them, looking for a clue—the lady's headdress was intricate and tall and looked almost familiar, maybe there was a symbol worked in—and was distracted by a series of rough tears all across the lady's dress. There were dark, hard patches too, the color of bruises and oil spills.

"Er," he said, "that dress is very interesting, those dark patches look almost like, um, blood."

Chevalier Churchman looked down, brows lifting. She ran a hand down the gill-like folds of white fabric over the hips. "Thank you," she said, "I won it off the Marquis Judith at the ball in Charleston last year."

"You… won it…"

"Oh yes," Churchman replied, twisting to retrieve a glass from the table beside them. As she turned, a splash of slick dark stain was visible between her shoulder blades. "It makes a statement, don't you think. I'm old fashioned in that regard."

"Of course," the male added, "you must be familiar with the sentiment. We know all about your unfortunate circumstances, Ecuyer. You must tell us all about your duel with the Lady Leglise, I'm certain it was a grand contention."

Yeah right. Conrad had a feeling that three non-humans interfering in a brawl in the basement laboratory of a necromancer wasn't going to be exactly what these people had in mind.

"He don't wanna brag," Doc Worth said, drawing attention to himself for the first time, "ain't gentlemanly."

"Of course not," Christo conceded, the tilt of his lips souring. "And may I say what a delight it is to be the first of the court to welcome you into our company, Docteur?"

"Y'may," Worth said, tipping back half his glass.

"I'm sure you will find the company generally of pleasant disposition," Christo said, turning back to Conrad, although his eyes flickered back to Worth as he pronounced the word generally.

"We will all be watching your progress with the upmost interest," Churchman added.

"It is such a shame that you were brought to us through such ignoble beginnings," Christo continued, "but I am certain that given time and the right opportunities, you will overcome your disadvantages and demonstrate the honor which your sire was so famously lacking in."

Conrad squinted uncertainly.

"Of course most fledglings are selected for their natural beauty and grace after careful grooming and consultation, but I for one am happy to see that some of humanity's rougher charms will be joining our table, after all it is always beneficial to keep the, aha, blood fresh." He glanced again at Worth, lips thinning. "I'm sure we have much to gain from someone of such an earthy disposition."

"'ssat a crack about my hygiene?" Worth asked, disinterestedly. "You'll hafta come up with sommat cleverer than that."

The lady, who had been watching the proceedings with vague amusement, seemed to spot something of interest in the crowd behind them. She caught her companion by the arm and handed him her glass.

"It has been illuminating," she told Conrad as she pulled the long white veil from her headdress and handed it to Christo as well. "Please consider calling on me at my Minnesota estates after I am a baroness."

"She has estates in Minnesota?" Conrad murmured, trying to imagine what kind of estate you could possibly have in a place like that.

"Not yet," Christo said. He turned and whistled one long high note, and then a server at the center of the room nodded to him and disappeared. "In any case," he went on, "I hope you will remember who your friends are as you navigate the waters of this ancient ocean. I myself am a valuable ally, if I may be so bold as to suggest. My estates encompass two southern plantations and a wealth of lands in the north of Spain, as well as a significant collection of titles. Some more modern thinkers may suggest that it is liquid wealth and treasury that make a successful net worth, but I myself have always believed in more long term investments."

"Modern?" Conrad echoed.

Christo flapped a hand. "Well we hardly acquired any new blood during the late nineteenth century what with all the Stoker business going around, so we've had a bit of a baby boom this last hundred years and they have all these odd ideas about stocks and money. Of course they're young, and it does take a while to fully grasp the impermanence of government currency."

"And you prefer…?"

"Well once upon a time I was quite the slaver," Christo said, wistfully, "but now that's all gone out of fashion, so I've moved my investments back to real estate and I'm thinking of expanding into textiles—we should really discuss business, I have been looking for backers—"

Conrad shot Worth a desperate plea for assistance, but Worth only grinned and looked up at the ceiling as if it contained a fascinating work of art that was absolutely too engrossing to look away from now. The rotten traitor.

Somewhere in the crowd there was a shout, and then another, and then a low babbling erupted from the whole south side of the room. Christo looked around, distracted, and Conrad offered a quick and fervent thanks to whatever terrible god was responsible for vampire fortunes.

"Agnes appears to be moving more quickly than usual tonight," Christo observed, "I suppose someone must have insulted the drapes. Why don't you follow me," he added graciously, "you won't want to miss the first duel of the night."

In the center of the room the platform stood empty now, the woman and her snake both disappeared into the press of bodies. It was maybe an average woman's height off the ground, and as Conrad trailed after Christo towards it, he noticed a purplish stain against the stone around its surface.

Churchman appeared over the far side of it, cresting the stairs with swift steps as her opponent made his way—more slowly—up the nearer side.

Conrad stared. All vampire duels were to the death, weren't they? How could you—how could you sustain a population with a death rate like this? The opponent who was climbing the stairs looked younger, somehow, less certain and graceful in his movements.

"Maybe they're like turtles," Conrad murmured to Worth, "you have a big litter and then you whittle it down to just a handful?"

Worth shrugged, expression intent. "If it's yer first night at Fight Club, ya think ya hafta fight?"

Conrad pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "God I hope not," he said. "Once was enough for me."

Up on the platform, the two vampires shook hands. Off came the gloves. The male flexed his hands nervously, fingers lengthening into short spikes. They circled each other, like cats, skirts and cloaks swishing.

Churchman dove.

The platform blurred into a merry-go-round of hacking and slashing, bared teeth and talons catching the pinkish light of the dim room. There was a faint ripping sound, and a splash of blood spread across the floor, a couple drops splattering the faces of the audience. The man stumbled.

Conrad winced and looked away just before Churchman could rip the mutant remains of a heart out of her opponent's chest. He had plenty enough nightmare images floating around his memory without adding another one to them.

Worth whistled, just a beat after the whole room broke into admiring applause. "That one's experienced," he said, crossing his arms. "Like ta get inta sommat with her."

Conrad screwed up his face. "I don't know whether to be jealous or terrified on behalf of your dwindling sanity."

Christo seemed to have lost all interest in them for the moment, already half way to the place where Chevalier Churchman was brushing ashes off her hands with brisk, precise motions. Conrad thanked Dubious Vampire God again for a future that did not include discussion of textiles or property mergers. This whole place was a bizarre chimera of the dull and the monstrous.

There was a polite noise from behind Conrad, and he whirled. Behind him was Casimiro accompanied now by a woman, beautiful in the way that all undead were beautiful- except Worth obviously- with eyes the color of black cherries.

"Bonjour et bienvenue," she said, offering one elegant hand. "Je m'appelle Valkuren. Tu es Conrad, non? Et… qui est ce garcon?"

Conrad took the extended hand, trying not to let it show that this was literally everything he remembered from high school French. "Worth," he said. "This is, er, Worth."

"Il est une compagne de Conrad," Casimiro interjected in a flawless accent, jerking his thumb at Worth, who was still distracted by the duelist. "Il est un toubib."

"Ahhh, je suis désolé. Continuer, s'il vous plait," the beautiful vampiress said, showing her wicked teeth.

"I, um," Conrad said, "I'm very sorry, but I really only speak English. Do you—can we speak English here?"

The lady blinked at him, and then narrowed her eyes. "Of course," she said, gesturing gracefully. The metal bands of her bodice glittered and clanked faintly. "As the night's hostess, certain concessions to tradition are expected of me. Most prefer to slip in and out of tongues. We are very pleased to note your attendance, Ecuyer Achenleck. Some of us thought you might not…" she paused delicately, "grace us, this evening."

"Weren't gonna," Worth growled, over Conrad's shoulder. "Cas here conned us inter it."

Casimiro looked deeply amused and only shrugged, stem of a glass tucked between two fingers.

"Well then we are deeply grateful, Patrizio," she conceded, dark eyes flashing thoughtfully. "We would so hate to be robbed of such fresh… company. Ecuyer Achenleck—"

"Oh," Conrad interrupted miserably, "please just… call me Conrad. No one should have to pronounce my last name."

A startled laugh burst out of Valkuren's mouth, a single throaty sound almost like a cough, before she pressed a finger to her dark lips and tightened her expression.

"I hope you will not hesitate to approach me if you have need of anything," she said, with a shallow bow. "As the guest of honor we all look forward to your introduction tonight."

With that she seemed to have satisfied herself. She turned and wove through the crowd until she was out of sight, the thin blue fabric of her dress billowing behind her. A few furtive heads turned as she went.

Casimiro watched her go. "You know she killed the prince of Denmark with half a sword. Nobody knows how they reattached her arm afterward."

Worth shot Conrad a dark look.

"What does she mean," Conrad said, weakly, "introduction?"

"Oh, first dance, social hour, you know."

"No," Conrad said through gritted teeth, "as a matter of fact I don't know, because I've never been to a ball."

"Wait a fuckin' minute," Worth cut in, "we gotta trot out on the floor 'n do some poncy little folk dance?"

"Just Achenleck. Nobody cares about you, Doc, you can just hang around the drinks for all they care."

Doc Worth loudly and sullenly resented that comment.

The evening continued, a furthering of the same unnerving balance between dull and monstrous—Churchman was having her dead opponent's ashes compressed into a fashionable jewel, a man in a pink suit attempted to buy some property off Conrad that Conrad was not aware he owned, two more vampires got into a duel over who approached which designer first, a lady vampire hit on Conrad to the complete bewilderment of Worth, and Casimiro did something late into the night that involved a stolen snake and a man's coat that got both him and Finas kicked out.

Conrad was gradually getting more and more invested in a heated debate about horse breeding as the violinist in the west wing of the room began to tune up. When the cello started in, he turned around.

"Ah," said the man he had been talking to, "Forgive me, I've distracted you and it's almost time for the waltz."

"…Waltz," Conrad repeated, mouth going dry.

Doc Worth rolled his eyes and said, "Ya always start with a waltz. Thissus kindergarten stuff."

Conrad shot the vampire he'd been speaking with a smile that was more of a grimace, held up one finger, and then pulled Doc Worth around by the tie.

"I can't waltz," he hissed.

"An' this is only occurin' ter ya now?"

"I thought—bloody hell, I thought I could fake it or something!"

Doc Worth stared at him, almost pitying, underneath raised eyebrows. "Ya just hadda come here, huh Connie. Ain't prepared, ain't got a sire, ain't done any research. Come up in here half cocked 'n hopin' nobody looks at ye too hard."

"I know," Conrad said, squeezing at his temples with both hands, "I know, I make bad decisions, I always do this, fuck, okay I'm sorry. I'm awful."

Doc Worth sighed and grabbed Conrad hands, prying them off his face. "Awright, stop that. Look, next time, ya learn how ter say no. Don't care how many fancy cards yer gettin', just say no. An' if ya do gotta go, do some fuckin' research, Christ. You got me?"

Conrad nodded, taking deep desperate breaths. It sounded so easy when you put it like that.

Doc Worth looked at him for a few more seconds, expression inscrutable.

"Okay, okay," he said at last, "let's go."

And then he grabbed Conrad by the shoulder and pulled him out onto the expectant dance floor—the violin made one eager swipe, and then the wooden floors were bouncing with music.

"Swore this shit off twenny years ago," Worth grumbled, shifting them into dancing positions. "No more fer me, I said, fuck this gala shit, I said. 'N lookit me now, this society shit's draggin' me back under. Yer lucky ya got a decent ass, Princess."

He glanced up, around the room, at the multitude of pale faces in dresses and feathers and suits, and cricked his spine up to its full, daunting height.

"Now," he said, eyes narrow, "follow my lead."