He added her to his contacts, then looked up, a single eyebrow raised. Rather than answer her question, he only held her gaze. Barely a second later, there was a chime. A notification popped up on her own screen, indicating a text message. It didn’t read anything, just a dot, but she had his number now, and what’s more: he had confirmation that she hadn’t just rattled off any random combination to get him off her back.
With a casual glance at her screen to try and glean her network provider (just in case she’d screw him over and he’d need to have one of his Nosferatu contacts track her), he put his own phone away.
“Name’s Barrow. I want you to direct Maxwell to Mercury’s, off East Union Street. Next Friday, 1 AM. You let me know if he accepts or not.”
A blink and she glanced down at her phone, lips parted. The almost blank message confused her for a moment before she remembered a page straight out of Cellular Phones for Dummies – how to add a contact straight from a new message. She did so wordlessly, under the name ‘Barrow’ and making no particular effort to hide her provider.
“Barrow.” When she finished she softly repeated his name, placing her phone back on her vanity. “I – I’ll try. If I have trouble getting in contact with him, I’ll contact you. Do you want me to meet him there? Or will just sending him there myself be enough, and you’ll take over?”
She’d cooperate, was what he distilled from all the meandering theatrics around it. He glanced at her offered hand very briefly, but rather than take it, he pulled his phone from his back pocket.
“Yeah, I don’t think so.”
A press of his thumb unlocked his screen. Marvelous technology, this. Never in his former life would he have thought humanity would’ve advanced as far as they had in so little time. Too bad he had to rouse his blood to even use it without an additional instrument.
“But you have my utmost sympathies if that is the moniker you have to bear.” He nodded at her own phone on the vanity. “What’s your number?”
She looked briefly offended at both his refusal to shake her hand and the reaction to her chosen name, then a smirk curled her painted lips. She reached for her phone, apparently having already called on the blood to mimic life earlier that night during her performance. It took a few swipes, but it eventually cooperated.
“It’s my name, and it suits me. I don’t mind it.” She ran through her number for him before glancing back his way. It wasn’t difficult to tell that she was still adjusting to kine terminology with how she hesitated, the pauses in the phrase. “… May I ‘add’ you, as well? In case there’s any trouble? And if so, might I have the pleasure of knowing what moniker you bear?”
That she would sooner consider to not just break the Masquerade but risk blowing the whole thing wide-open by getting kine law enforcement involved than drop a hint with the nearest Baron or the Camarilla… Well, that was an egregious slip of the tongue if ever he heard one.
God knows he wasn’t a fan of the Camarilla, either, but at least he agreed that the best thing for the whole of their kind was to continue to go unnoticed. Was there something he ought to know about her?
But that wasn’t why he was here. The job came first.
“Do you have any way of contacting him? Set up a meeting? Tell him–” He took one hand out of his pocket, and waved it around a bit while he tried to fabricate some kind of excuse for her off the top of his head. “I don’t know. Tell him you got invited to a girls’ night out, that they’re just his type and that you thought he might like to share them with you? Something like that?”
“I…” That single syllable bled reluctance, supported by the sudden tightening of her jaw, the way her lips parted as she sought excuses to give, protests to make. Then, acquiescence. She dipped her head, curls tumbling over her brow.
“… I can do that. It might take a little time to get ahold of him, but I think he would be interested.” She glanced back up from under her lashes, features soft, the very image of ingenue despite her attire suggesting anything but.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to seem unwilling. I know I owe you. I’ve simply tried to – keep my head down, since I came to this city. I don’t want trouble, or politics. I just want to get by as best I can without raising suspicions. But if this the best way of handling him quietly, then I will do what I can.”
She took a poised step towards him before offering a gloved hand.
She flexed her fingers, locked her shoulders. Then, an exasperated sigh and irritation. Anger? It certainly wasn’t fear. Valuable information, before she’d even said a word. Maybe she was a friend, disgusted with the man’s appetites, or peeved about having to cover for him.
Careful not to confirm or deny anything that might give her a clue as to how much he knew of the situation, he neglected to dignify her assumption outright. Instead, he raised a brow.
“So you’re aware of his proclivities?”
Interesting, coming from someone who’d just said she wasn’t all that well acquainted.
“Didn’t know that was common knowledge around here.”
“I feed on customers here regularly. One picks things up, over time.” She gave a shrug. “He – tried to approach me, at one point. Like those girls. I don’t know if he didn’t realize I was Kindred, or if he assumed I was weaker than him. I simply suggested he’d be better off with me as a friend, ‘alive’, as much as that word is applicable. Once he realized I wasn’t the helpless sort of victim he prefers, he backed off.”
Her expression softened, tinged with regret. “… I… I had considered approaching kine law enforcement, knowing what I do, but – I can’t afford that sort of attention. So I’ve mostly turned a blind eye. But I’m aware of his habits, yes. I’d hoped someone, maybe his sire, would reel him in…”
A sigh. She half-sat on the table of her vanity, tugging the silk of her glove back up to her elbow. “I’m – I don’t know where he lives, or where else he goes, but… is there anything you want to know, in particular? I haven’t forgotten what you did for me.”
They sounded pretty chummy, Kelly and his darling.
Alaric turned the corner and walked in, hands still in the pockets of his jeans, casual as all get-out. It looked like ‘Darling’ had sensed his approach, unlike her live friend. More curious than anything else, Alaric stared the man down, until she had him dismissed. He might be her boss on paper, her employer, financially and legally, but he wasn’t in charge. That much was obvious.
He waited until the door closed behind him, and cast a look about the room. The clothes, the shoes, the marks on the carpet, the posters on the walls, the products lined up on the vanity– He committed it all to memory.
“Maxwell Young,” he stated, then, and let the name hang in the air a moment to see what kind of reaction it might elicit.
“I’m looking for him.”
To kine, Dahlia might not have seemed to react at all. Her gaze didn’t waver. There was no theatrical gasp, no widening eyes. But to kindred – especially kindred as practiced as Alaric – the reaction was clearer. The slightest draw of breath, swelling long cold lungs in order to expel the air to speak. The curl of painted fingers, the sudden tension in her naked shoulders.
At last she sighed, eyes drifting shut. A flicker of annoyance pushed through, a line between lip and nare creasing as she massaged her brow. “… I know him. Not well, but I do. I last saw him here – three weeks ago, perhaps? A month? Schmoozing, with some pretty thing on his arm…”
She worried at her plum lipstick for a moment, gaze flickering back to Alaric. “… I take it she’s turned up dead.”
The ‘cowardly lion’s den.’ Had to be. It sounded like a long shot, but it wasn’t nearly as far-fetched as Alaric’s next best guess. A little digging into Maxwell Young’s favorite haunts turned up this place, among others. One or two of his victims had been if not regulars here, at least a face the staff recognized off a photograph when questioned by the police.
And Lionel Kelly. Soft-spoken, kind-hearted Lionel Kelly was known in the business to be a bit… yellow-bellied in negotiations. Not quite cut out for the big bucks, but his place did well enough. That was him over there, in fact, at the piano.
The club owner wasn’t the main recipient of his attention, however. He’d recognized her the moment he walked in. The woman on stage. This ‘Darling of Late-Night Jazz’. The same woman he’d found on the wrong side of town too close to sunrise. She hadn’t given him her name, and neither had he given his, but perhaps she’d remember the good turn he did her that night.
Hands in his pockets, he leaned against the back wall and waited for the performance to end. Christ, he despised jazz. Always had. Death hadn’t cured him of that particular bias. Fortunately, it wasn’t much longer until ‘Kelly’s Darling’ left the stage with Kelly himself in tow.
Time to see if the Malkavian’s vision had any merit. He waited a beat, two, then crossed the room for the doorway he’d seen them leave through. A big, burly man with biceps bigger than his head moved to stop him.
“Settle down, huh?”
A look, a few simple words infused with the blood’s power, and Alaric walked into a hallway without any further resistance. His quarry wouldn’t be hard to find. Just had to follow the stench of death.
Inside the dressing room, Lionel leaned against the wall as Dahlia took her seat at her vanity. The young man sighed, dragging a hand over his face, nasally voice audible even beyond the door to the hall. “Not a bad crowd tonight. Could’ve been better. Any dates?”
Dahlia sighed. 1:55 AM flickered on her cellphone after a few determined taps on the screen. “Not tonight. You?”
“Ha! No. Swear to god, every club this time of year is filled with either barely-pubescent teenagers wearing glowsticks or leather guard old enough to be my father.” She barely heard him, a sudden shudder clambering down her bared back. That scent. She stiffened, enough for Lionel to frown at her as she turned on her stool. “Darling? What’s the matter?”
Too late. The source of her sudden concern walked in, apparently having been unimpeded by the guard outside. She stood, idly fixing a glove as Lionel jerked from the wall with a start, glancing between the two.
“Wuh - “ His eyes went comically wide in his narrow face before he cursed, fumbling for another cigarette. “Fuck’s sake, Darling! No boyfriends backstage!” He wheeled on the other man, hands raised as though to pre-emptively protect himself from retaliation. “Listen, no offence meant, but - “
“Lionel.” She spoke softly, gaze flickering to the kine only for a moment. She’d never been so aware of his humanity before, how very vulnerable he was in a room with two predators. “Would you give us some time, please?”
His lips parted. A beat and he soundlessly nodded, apparently paying no more mind to the stranger in the dressing room and softly closing the door behind him. Only then did Dahlia look back to the other vampire, the stranger who wasn’t so strange at all.
“I’m going to assume you aren’t here out of an unrestrained love for jazz.” Her voice was soft, almost formal. “Can I help you?”
One would never know it was summertime in the air-conditioned lounge. Cool air hissed from vents all around the venue, and the heavy velvet curtains drawn over tall windows hid any further reminders of the season outside. The oval room was flooded with soft red light, punctuated by golden candles and a chandelier overhead, all working to make an atmosphere of luxury and seduction. Thoughts of summer breezes and blue lakes seemed far, far away.
In here there were only the scents of spirits and cigar smoke, mingled with soft chatter and the occasional cheer or bout of laughter and overlaid by the voice of the songstress on stage.
It was unusual – the woman singing had little in common with the one her display paid homage to. Her figure was slight instead of curvy, her voice sweet instead of smoky. But no one seemed to mind the disparity, especially as the woman flashed a grin and purred to her audience.
“It’s so warm, it’s so hot, you perspire, you perspire – and you perspire. What do you get?” A beat. “Perspiration.”
Gentle chortling made way through the thinning crowd, then died as the woman continued to croon. Soon enough she brought the song to a close, giving the audience a few blown kisses as they cheered before turning and placing a hand on the shoulder of the man at the piano. He nodded, and she vanished from the red-and-black luxury of the lounge to disappear into an open hallway, marked with a sign permitting ‘staff only.’ Soon another man took over the piano, and the original – a weedy man with hair tied back – followed her out.
“Ah, another decade gone by - how time flows, as does the blood. Isn’t that right, flower?”
“It does, Mistress.” Dahlia doesn’t have to think to reply. Really, she doesn’t have to think much at all, these days. She knows her place, her purpose, her duties - one of which is brushing her Lady’s hair, every morning before dawn when she retires. Ninety-nine strokes. The ivory handle of the brush, intricately carved with roses and vines, has softened and worn away where her thumb rubs the surface. Where it has every single night, for the past ten years.
“The new millenium has been something of a disappointment.” Though the ivory roses are white and pure, her Lady’s hair is rich red in her hands, smoothing into a waterfall of blood with every stroke. Her voice is deep like velvet, low and smoky. “It will become more and more difficult for our kind to thrive, as the kine grow more obsessed with documenting their every burbling inanity.”
Sixty-six. Sixty-seven. Sixty-eight. She nods as her Mistress speaks, listening as best she can while focusing on the task at hand. She doesn’t need to respond,, not really. She doesn’t make the mistake of thinking she’s her Lady’s confidante. No, she’s like a doll on the shelf, or a cat in her lap. Her input isn’t needed.
Besides, she can’t miscount. That would ruin her Lady’s beautiful hair, and she knows she’s counting, too, even as she purrs and chuckles, throat bobbing.
“And how have you found your first ten years with us, Dahlia?”
A flicker of alarm rises in her. It’s rare her Mistress addresses her by name, rarer still she asks her such a direct and personal question, as though her opinion matters.
“I am - grateful, Mistress. To have been given meaning beyond what I knew as kine. To know the sweetness of blood.” The answer leaves her unbidden, the words she knows aren’t true but somehow fill her, leave room for nothing else. “To serve you.”
“Of course you are.” She simpers, tilting this way and that to examine her reflection in the smudged mirror of the vanity. Smudged? Her Mistress’s room is her duty to keep clean. She would never make such a blatant error. Would she? What’s happening? “And such a good help you are to me, unlike poor Nanette, whose only purpose is to suffer. Isn’t that right?”
Her mind races, terror welling up hot and spiked in her chest. Poor, poor Nanette. Once, she held the same position Dahlia does, now. But she was useless, forgetful, weak, and reduced to being less than a pet. Last she saw, she was being used as a dummy for sewing dresses, a living pincushion. Her voice comes out soft, halting. “Y-yes, my Lady.”
“Ah, but pride is a terrible sin, my haughty little flower.” Her Mistress rises from her seat. She falls to her knees immediately and hard, head low, knowing she’s wrong and failing and not knowing why, dread making her throat go tight. “And we must punish such flaws, musn’t we?”
She keeps her brow to the carpet as she whispers, as hot beads of blood form at the corners of her eyes. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Charlotte overheard you pitying Nanette. As though she shouldn’t enjoy her position. As though I am unfair to her.”
A single slippered step closer, the swish of a heavy skirt. “As though you are better than her.”
“No - I didn’t mean, that isn’t what I - “
“And informal speech, too? My, my.” She can’t think through the fear now, the fear and self-loathing that mingles. And worst of all, in that sickly sea of failure, there’s a spark of hate. Of rage. Some tiny spark of self, knowing this is wrong, knowing she’s been twisted, used, drowned into silence again and again and again and...
A hand in her hair. Her Mistress, so elegant, is also so very strong. She yanks her up, slams her face against the mirror, drags her cheek down it with a squeak. Is that how it got smudged? Nothing makes sense, nothing...
“Ten years, and still so much to learn. We shall see how you regard Nanette’s duties yourself, once you’ve tasted Charlotte’s needle.”
“NO!”
Dahlia jerks awake, certain for a moment she won’t be able to move. She’d been sewn together. Arms, limbs, lips, grotesquely stitched in place to suffer, to know she’s no better than any in the service of her Mistress -
But, no. These aren’t the red silk sheets of her bed - no, high-count cotton, creamy and cool. Those aren’t velvet curtains, but automatic blinds set to a timer, soundlessly sliding up to let in the view of city lights.
✍ - a memory of their mother - ☽ - a memory of their father
Papa don't preach I'm in trouble deepPapa don't preach, I've been losing sleep...
“Dahlia, is that you?”
A sigh managed to eke out just in time to be heard over the slam of a heavy wooden door, shoes scuffing off, walkman still crooning the latest hit of this sticky summer. “Who else would it be?”
“Turn down that infernal thing so I don’t have to shout, and come to the parlour.”
A groan. Dahlia fumbled to turn it off before, begrudgingly, obeying the order Her Majesty deigned to deliver.
Mama and papa were already there, of course, the latter hidden behind his newspaper, the former rising as Dahlia slung herself onto the doorframe, arms crossed, bag half-hanging off her shoulder.
“You’re late, young lady.”
“You said ‘be home after school.’ It’s after school.”
“I said, be home after - “ Anna gave her daughter a long, terse stare before sighing herself, giving a little shake of her head. “I didn’t call you in to argue, flower. We have dinner with the Vanderbilts tonight, remember?
“I already got Mcdonalds with the girls.”
“You’re going to ruin your skin and your figure eating that garbage.” Her tone stiffened in annoyance, bristles raised like the hair of an irritated cat. “I also got a call from your school that you weren’t in last period, today.”
“Maman, last period is pointless - school’s almost out, anyway - “
“I’ll have none of your excuses, missy!”
“But maman - “
“Don’t argue with your mother,” came a gruff reply from behind the New York Times. Dahlia bit back a snarl and glowered instead, sucking at her teeth.
“Go get ready for dinner.”
“I already ate. I shouldn’t go. Do you want me to sit there and look rude, picking at my plate?”
“You knew we were going, so you’ll just have to do what you can.”
“I hate the Vanderbilts!” A clatter as she dropped her bag to the floor. “They’re so full of themselves, social this, charity that - as if they’ve ever really done anything that didn’t get them a tax break - “
“Dahlia.” Her father raised his face, looking out from behind the newspaper at last. That was enough. She trailed off and pouted, blinking back the threat of tears.
“They’re a lovely family, darling, but you don’t have to like them.” A sigh from maman as she closed in, picking up her bag to push it back into her arms and try to smooth down her hair. Dahlia dodged the hand, staring hatefully at her feet. “You just have to smile and nod for a few hours. Maybe if you listen, you’ll find - “
“So, what? I have to pretend?”
“Dahlia - “
“I hate this.” With all the anguish of a sixteen-year old girl her voice turned harsh with unshed sobs, face twisting up. “I hate having to dress up and lie for you, to be something I’m not! I hate the parties, I hate the socials, I hate business - it’s not fair!”
“You are blessed to be born into - “
“I wish I’d never been born!” She ripped away, stomping towards the spiral stairs, making her feelings known with every stomping step. “At least then I wouldn’t have to live a lie!”
Her mother shouted something after her, but by then she’d managed to get to the shelter of her room, slamming the door shut. Through sniffles and blurry eyes she fumbled with her walkman again, this time putting on something a little more suited to the bullshit her parents insisted on putting her through, time and time again.
Oh, we're not gonna take itNo, we ain't gonna take itOh, we're not gonna take it anymore!
An example of Dahlia’s typical ‘working’ outfit, the sort of thing she’d wear performing at one of Seattle’s classier lounges, with a jacket for a little appearance of warmth and modesty while waiting for her ride home.
And as for the other one, well... did I mention Dahlia grew up in the lawless 80′s?
On a clear, brisk autumn morning October 14th of 1969, David and Anna Gable welcomed their first and only daughter into their lives. David was the CEO of an international communications company, Anna a well-known public figure hosting socials and balls for charity. Together, their little girl was just one more step in the perfect plan of their lives. Considering her origins, surely she too was destined for great things.
Naturally, Dahlia was raised with these expectations in mind and the privilege such wealth and publicity brings. She grew up in her family’s home in a Cortlandt estate by the Hudson River, attending a prestigious private school. With tutors for her schooling and lessons for extracurriculars such as ballroom dancing, horse riding and piano, she was given every chance to excel and lived quite a busy life, just as her parents did. She was perhaps a little overburdened with goals, a little neglected with parents often away but nevertheless well cared for and much loved.
Perhaps this is why her parents were baffled by her struggles in school, her flightiness. She did well, but she was never the straight-A’s honour roll student they expected. She dutifully attended her lessons, but showed true interest in only a few. There was a lot of conflict over this in her teenage years but, as Dahlia grew, her parents learned that while their daughter lacked their drive and ambition, she certainly had tenacity and a sense of self.
At twenty-five after a particularly nasty argument regarding higher education, Dahlia left home for good to live with her boyfriend Liam, a welder, and cut herself off. Using her savings she opened a small business catering to one of the few interests she’d maintained over the years - that of horticulture. ‘Dahlia Blooms’ became a loved little floral boutique, known especially for the hand-crafted care and attention to bouquets. She and her boyfriend made enough together to maintain a comfortable lifestyle, and on the surface all seemed well.
Unfortunately, after a few years of living together with only rare contact with her family, Dahlia’s relationship with Liam began to sour. Not wanting to return to her parents and unable to see the truth of her situation, Dahlia stuck through the abuse for another two long years, on-again-off-again, engagements proposed and cancelled, counselling sought and abandoned. At thirty the abuse came to a head and she was hospitalized.
Truthfully, it was the best thing that had happened in a long time. Her parents were called as her emergency contact, Liam was given a restraining order and at last the Gable family was able to reunite. Though they still had concerns for her future, Anna and David were simply happy to have their girl back and relieved she was alright. At last, they began to respect the choices she made in rejecting their socialite lifestyle, and the three began to rebuild their relationship.
Then, two months later on the brink of the millennium, Dahlia vanished.
The search was a desperate one, the Gable family putting every resource they had at their disposal to good use. Naturally Liam, with his history, was pinned as a major suspect in her disappearance. However, no physical evidence was ever found to link him to her further, and by all reports she seemed to have simply been plucked out of the world. With no sign or word, her parents eventually had no recourse but to assume and accept that their worst fears had come true.
A funeral was held for Dahlia Gable on a stormy April morning, a year and four months after her disappearance. As her parents said their goodbyes, Dahlia, hidden under her Regnant’s shroud, said her own.
“Bring back our flower,” pleads distraught mother of missing woman. “There is no price we wouldn’t pay.”
Three months ago, Ms. Dahlia Ava Gable was at her prime – a bright young socialite and much loved daughter of David and Anna Gable, she ran her own floral business and was a well-known face around the historic river town of Cortlandt. So when she vanished in the last weeks of the millennium last December, it came as a shock to everyone who knew her.
“She didn’t seem the type to get involved in anything messy,” said one of her former customers, who declined to be named. “No drugs, no partying. She was a good girl. She wouldn’t run away – something must have happened to her.”
While that remains the popular speculation, no evidence has yet been found to speak of Dahlia’s current whereabouts, or what may have become of her. The search has been frantic, but despite the resources at their disposal and the hard work of the New York State police, she seems to have simply vanished into thin air.
“We’re not giving up hope,” said Constable Aaron Burke in a live interview, two weeks ago. “If anyone has any leads, there is a substantial reward being offered, or they can call in on our anonymous hotline.”
“She’s so bright and loves to laugh and sing. She lights up everything around her.” While Mr. Gable declined to comment, Mrs. Gable described the young woman in vivid detail, voice strained with tears. “We only just got her back, and to lose her now is indescribably painful. I know she’s out there – we just need some good-hearted soul to bring her home to us.”
The public doesn’t seem to hold Mrs. Gable’s optimistic view. The former site of Ms. Dahlia’s business has become something of a memorial, laid with flower wreaths, photos and candles as well as notes from her clientele, praising her cheery nature and beautiful work in the floral arts. A local gardening club she was a member of is holding a candlelight vigil next Saturday evening.
“Wherever she is, we hope she knows we’re thinking of her,” said the club leader Meredith Linnet.
Dahlia Gable is a 5’1 female, slender frame, with mid-length, curly black hair and blue eyes. She was last seen December 31st, 1999, leaving her place of business after closing early for New Year’s Eve. She was wearing a pale yellow sweater, denim jeans, a black wool peacoat, brown boots and a light purple tuque. If anyone has any information as to her current whereabouts, we urge you to call the New York Anonymous tip line at 1-866-5555, or contact the New York State police directly.
“I suddenly have the desire to walk down that dark and foreboding alley over there! …Care to join me?” [Allen]
Pale blue eyes narrow, Dahlia’s normally placid expression twisting into one of suspicion. She doesn’t - feel influenced, and she has no desire to walk down into the alley with the stranger. Still, better safe than sorry. She stands taller, chin tilted and nose high, and flags down the first cab going by.
"Normally I would ask you things like do you blow bubbles, and what's your favorite color, but I've learned since then that it's rude, so hi, how are you?" [Allen]
Dahlia blinks, needing a moment to regain her composure as she looks this stranger over. A Malkavian? She hopes not. Or just one of a thousand thousand, oh-so-unique ‘quirky’ types in the city? But he doesn’t smell kine. Finally, she remembers to answer.
“... I am well, thank you. And how are you tonight?”
“I will invade this orifice.” [Wrong choice of words, Elias lmao :3c]
If Dahlia still had colour, it no doubt would have flooded her face now in an indignant blush. Nevertheless she stiffens, and without even thinking moves to try and sharply slap Elias across the cheek with a silk-gloved hand. “You shall do no such thing!”
