After some consideration Galeb decides to not follow the Beckoning. Hazel is quick to act and entrusts him with a new task for the Camarilla.
Spoilers for all of Vampire the Masquerade: Swansong.
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 1,631
Link to Chapter 1 Chapter 2
on Ao3
Can't you feel
Electricity
It's dripping through my veins
The syzygy
It's twisting me endlessly, endlessly
Like you don't know what they said a couple of nights ago
But you didn't hear that one
Galeb was ravenous. Although his skin colour had faded to grey the moment he had walked the secretary back inside the club, the whole act had pushed him to his limits.
As he looked at the woman seated next to him, it hit him suddenly. He felt it in his whole being. It was his Ventrue nature that was making him so tense around her, giving him these visceral reactions. He craved her blood; the purity, the class. And the fact that he could not have it only intensified his desire.
“The usual?” Emem asked with a cocky grin as she stepped closer to them.
“Yes. And a gin and tonic for her.” he answered.
As Emem was about to turn around, Galeb rose from his seat.
“I must excuse myself, Cyrene.” he said, “I will be back momentarily.”
Emem turned back towards Galeb, he overcame the distance between them.
“I need a real drink” he spoke through clenched teeth. Drained of vitae, the beast in him had become far too impatient.
“Did you not eat before coming here?”
“I did” he hissed, “I didn’t think it would take that much convincing.”
“Well I don’t have anything for you. Go and serve yourself.” Emem hissed back. “Be careful with what you pick though.”
Without another word he disappeared into the darker corners of the club. His mind was racing, consumed by the desire for only one thing. But it could not just be anyone and he had to be careful it was not a ghoul. So he lurked in the dark, watched the prey and fellow predators. His gaze wandered back and forth between people, then fell back onto Cyrene. Her blood was perfect, truly, but he could not risk it. A soft growl escaped him. His trained senses made him aware of a human not bound to anyone. A man in a business suit -- dark brown hair, swept back, an expensive silver brand watch around his wrist, the old money kind not the electronic touchscreen trash -- walked towards the restrooms. Galeb followed him at once.
A deep sigh of relief escaped him as he regained his composure and left the stall with the man behind. He centered himself as he adjusted the collar of his shirt in the washroom, making sure his clothes had not been soiled during this moment of weakness. A quick glance reassured him of the fact that the bathroom stall doors were closed and the Kindred walked off.
“I made a bit of a mess in the men’s washroom” he confessed discreetly once he had arrived back at the bar.
“Ugh” Emem rolled her eyes, “Seriously?”
“He’s alive.” he reassured her firmly, “Just some stains on the floor.”
“I’ll have someone get it.” she sighed and shook her head in disapproval.
Galeb noticed their drinks that had been served as he lowered himself onto the bar seat next to his new acquaintance.
“I’m so sorry I made you wait.” he spoke softly.
“Oh don’t worry about that at all.” Cyrene replied with a smile towards him, her demeanour friendly, less suspicious. Now it seemed like a perfectly normal thing that this man wanted to get to know her.
“I’ve been thinking” Galeb spoke, “We should spend more time with each other until you feel comfortable with me. And then you could introduce me to Mr. Hartwell.”
Cyrene set down her glass that she drank from.
“I would like that. I think that might work.” she answered. Galeb could feel that she was honest, even less careful than before. His dominance over her mind was still apparent.
“You think?” Galeb checked. “You’re not sure?”
“I don’t know. I will have to make sure he doesn’t feel suspicious about anything that you do.” she answered.
“Maybe it’s better you manage our assets. Inofficially at least.” the Kindred suggested.
“Oh I can’t do that” she laughed casually, “I’m not in that position.”
“You give yourself far too little credit, Cyrene.” Galeb spoke, his influence over her strong.
“Maybe.” she chuckled, “But I can’t be doing anything like that behind his back.”
“Do you have access to his clients’ files?”
“I do.” she responded, “In case of emergencies. Or an urgent meeting that he doesn’t agree to.”
“What about confidentiality? How much trust does he have in you?"
"A lot. I don’t want to betray him. I wouldn’t-- I can’t--” There was a certain agitation in her voice, like her own will that struggled against Galeb’s influence.
“It’s okay” he calmed her with a soft voice, his eyes flashing just for a second. “You’re safe. You are not betraying Hartwell. Everything is alright.”
She visibly calmed again, her breathing and heartbeat normalizing. The Kindred watched her fingers wrap around the glass and drink from it again. He leaned over, his body turned towards her.
“Where does he live?”
Slowly her gaze was drawn from her glass towards Galeb. A smile formed on his lips before she could even answer.
“Where do you live?”
With his head lowered Galeb returned to Hazel’s quarters.
“What is it? You don’t look like you have good news for me.” Hazel spoke, behind her was the moon shining in through the tall windows, the light being reflected on the sleek surface of her desk.
Galeb sighed, shaking his head before speaking.
“It’s not the best news. Hartwell has turned into a recluse. He doesn’t take any new clients it seems. And the secretary, Roberts, she is very careful. I think I can gain her trust but it will take some time.”
“Unfortunate news” Hazel spoke and turned around towards the windows, her arms crossed in front of her chest, her gaze lowered. “Is that all?”
“My Prince, forgive me the suggestion, but would it not be easier to find someone else?”
“No. I want Hartwell” she insisted, “All others out there are not malleable enough. I’ve seen the prospects.”
“This will not be easy.” Galeb suggested.
“But once we have him, he is ours. We can use his paranoia against him.” Hazel explained, turning around again.
“What if we use just the secretary? She does most of his business for him these days anyway.”
“But in his name, right?”
Galeb tilted his head, watching her as she paused.
“So it will be him either way. If she has access to everything, I’m not against it.” Hazel explained, her hand outstretched in a presenting fashion, “But remember, she can’t be influenced if she is the one working with us. And Emem told me you already forced your will onto her.”
“Of course she did.” Galeb sighed and looked down for a moment.
“Her bodyguard was at her heels and she was extremely cautious. I could not let her go just like that.”
“Galeb, I’m not mad at you.” Hazel reassured gently, shaking her head. “I just want to make sure you know that going any further than that will be out of the question. Especially if you choose her as the one to work with us.”
“We will never get our hands on Hartwell.”
“You don’t know that” Hazel disagreed with her voice a tone higher, trying to persuade him. “Maybe we just have to be careful and watch Roberts and Walker for a while. Why don’t you become friends with them?”
Galeb coughed up a laugh.
“You say that like it’s so easy.”
“You’ve done it before.” Hazel reminded him. “Just go slow.”
The pressure of her gaze made the man look away.
“Have you set up another appointment with her?”
“I have. I was worried she would not let me meet her again if she wasn’t under the influence of my power.” Galeb confessed.
“Smart move. I am sure you will be able to make her trust you and then in no time, she will be introducing you to Hartwell, you will see. Or, she will the one handling our finances. Your choice.”
“Would you at least consider giving this task to somebody else? Anyone else, in fact. Emem Louis could do this easily with her connections to the--”
“No” Hazel responded firmly. “It has to be you. Emem doesn’t even come close to you in strength. You can protect these people if anything happens. Don’t you think they will be swarmed with ghouls and other agents soon enough? You can sense them. You’re the only one I can rely on for this task.”
Galeb sighed in defeat.
“I hadn’t considered that.”
“I know it’s hard for you. She’s probably all a Ventrue like you could want in a vessel.” Hazel chuckled. Galeb’s eyes widened.
“It’s not-- it’s not that. That’s not a problem at all.”
“Oh come on now. Don’t be shy about this. We’re birds of a feather, you and me.” she reaffirmed with a smile. “Go downstairs to the lounge and have a drink. Ask Sylvia for what I had them prepare for you. It will relax you. I know your type.”
Galeb stood in shock, at a loss for words but finally spoke, unable to decline.
“Thank you, my Prince.”
“And then focus. We need these people.”
“Of course, my Prince.”
The following night a black car with tinted windows was parked in front a high-rise apartment complex at 10:30 pm. The front doors of the building opened and Cyrene walked out into the night. Her steps brought her to the car, she overlooked the license plate quickly before she opened the back door from the side of the pedestrian walkway. She climbed in, greeting the man that was sitting inside with a smile.
After some consideration Galeb decides to not follow the Beckoning. Hazel is quick to act and entrusts him with a new task for the Camarilla.
Spoilers for all of Vampire the Masquerade: Swansong.
Title inspiration & mood visualizer
Rating: Teen (might become Mature if continued)
Word Count: 1,018
Note: I don't know if I want to make this a You/Galeb thing or to make it a third person perspective OR not overly romantic but still with strong character ties. I'm really torn! But this man and the whole setting of the game keeps coming back into my thoughts so I just had to write this.
My fingers moved on their own typing this but I feel I could maybe still not replicate my exact imagination of the world that was put in my head at the start of the game and upon reading Galeb's backstory. Maybe I'll leave it like this but I'm also itching to write more.
on Ao3
No one ever, no one ever proved
That you can claim a whole lot more than I
I give all my gold
To transmute some minds
Why are my lungs so tired?
Galeb was seated in the lounge of the Headquarters, his fingers consequently tapping the cushy chair’s armrest slowly, deliberately. It was here where he once left Feng to wait for him. And it was not far off from here where he decided to let her go.
April walked past the tidily drawn-back curtains, looked right, then left, then found his gaze that instantly met hers and walked over.
“She is ready to receive you.”
“I will go at once.” Galeb replied dutifully.
The elevator doors opened and he walked straight past Delsin with an acknowledging nod. The main doors revealed Hazel standing in front of her desk, turning around to the man she had been expecting.
“Galeb.”
“My Prince. What is it that you have me summoned for?”
“A somewhat urgent matter. But first of all I would like to express my condolences about what happened with Xu Feng.”
“There is no need.” he responded coldly.
“It was on my watch.”
“Feng decided on her own.”
“Under the influence of a Kindred from our circle.”
“Under the influence of my blood in her veins no less.” Galeb countered. The Blood Bond had not become strong enough. Galeb had been cautious, possibly too cautious in spacing out the intervals. He had underestimated their bond -- or her. Now an uneasiness crept in.
“Rest assured that I will keep a tighter leash on Berel.”
“I will expect no less. We all need to keep him in place.”
"We indeed do. We need to keep each other in place. That is what the Camarilla is about, after all.”
Galeb blinked carefully, stood unmoved. He had already stated his question. Hazel caught onto his silence.
“I had already sent Delsin to find a new associate for us a while ago, if you remember, and his investigations turned out fruitful. There is someone that manages the assets of all sorts of influential individuals and families in Boston. Some of them no less corruptible than the people we employ.”
“Excellent news.”
“Yes. And this is where you come in. Given the nature of their work, they are highly cautious. Jason Moore was never seen without his bodyguards -- which as you know had been replaced by ours long ago -- but this one employs an even more tiered security system. Their own secretary comes with a bodyguard.”
“Huh” Galeb let out in surprise. “One can’t be too careful in this business.”
“They are smart. They learn from others’ mistakes, not their own.” Hazel agreed. “I suspect he is already scenting what sort of business we are up to from afar.”
“What is my job? To reassure him?”
“Not quite. It’s the secretary I want you to meet. Delsin could only arrange a meeting with her. It is her that you must reassure.”
“By all means necessary?” Galeb checked.
Hazel smiled in an all-knowing fashion.
“No. I would prefer you keep this clean. As clean as possible. So long as the Court is under my guidance I do not want to resort to the kind of modus operandi your Childe is so fond of.”
“I understand. I will keep my respectful distance.”
“I knew you would. Let us settle this as smoothly as possible. As it was with Moore before, discreet and clean.”
Galeb, as well as everyone else in the Court, understood the rules with mortals. These ties were important and needed to be pure. There needed to be a certain foundation of trust that could only be slightly influenced in their favour but ideally never to the degree that one became completely bound to one of the Kindred by sheer force of will.
“Where am I to meet this secretary?”
“At the Black Rattlers.”
Galeb’s eyebrows raised involuntarily.
“Emem Louis’s nightclub?”
“That’s right. It will be neutral ground. Well, neutral enough.”
“Consider it taken care of.” He replied without further hesitation.
“Report back when you return.”
“Of course.”
Emem made her round at the club at 11:01 pm. The night had only just begun. Her hair was elaboratively braided, silver accessories adorning it. The teal-coloured dress with the extravagant slit at the side complimented her eye colour; a firm round-shaped silver necklace complimented her slender neck and figure. The music blasted around her. Even though the club was busy, it was a week day night and there were plenty of spare seats. One reservation in particular caught her eye from afar.
She entered a backroom, the soundproofing only letting the dull drumming bass through faintly. The clicks of her silver heels against the black fainted golden-lined marble floor echoed as she walked along the sparsely lit corridor and opened the door to the back office. At the desk she came to a halt, her finger running over the logbook of reservations.
At 11:30 pm her heels were clicking rhythmically over the marbled floors again, the door to the main floor opened and closed.
Galeb’s gaze at the bar met her instantly. It was clear he had been led there. Emem’s curled and darkly coloured lashes stood out as her gaze lowered in a subtle fashion and followed her staff that walked off. She walked over to the man who appeared strikingly alive with the Blush of Life.
“Always on time, Bazory.”
“As common courtesy demands it.”
“Courtesy” Emem remarked scornfully, rolling her eyes. Her gaze was automatically drawn towards the reserved couch seat area. A woman and a man had already been seated, although no drinks had been served yet. She nodded into the direction of the luxurious lounge seats with the two figures seated in them, the reserved sign had now been removed. Galeb’s gaze followed.
“Your associate is waiting.”
Galeb gave a firm nod in response and turned. Dutiful steps brought him to their table and as he stood in front of them, they rose at once, his presence was instantly commanding respect.
Archived from the official Vampire the Masquerade: Swansong website.
Three short stories were posted on the official Swansong website, providing more information on its main characters.
Originally posted on 6/24/2022 at "news.vampire-swansong.com", this entry's spotlight was on Boston's reigning Prince Hazel Iversen, detailing her background, beginning and rise to power. Other characters mentioned include Berel Underwood, Quentin King III and Iversen's sire, Nathan Appleton.
***
“I expected more of a struggle, if I’m honest.” Hazel Iversen watched on as Berel Underwood’s ghoul tapped away at the ceramic mold, creating the indentation she’d requested to symbolize her reign. Soon enough liquid gold would be poured inside, casting a signet ring suitable for the Prince of Boston.
“Oh, no. Don’t be foolish, my Prince. We supported you because you were the right choice for the role. I dare say, anyone else who stepped up would have faced a harder climb, but we, the city Primogen, were only too happy when you seized praxis. Truly.” Underwood bared his teeth in a smile, utterly insincere, but then, it didn’t need to be. He didn’t have to like Iversen to accept she was their Prince in this uncertain time. “And I’m sure your jewelry will wow the other Kindred at court. I’m sure of it.”
Prince Iversen stepped closer to the artist and his fine tools, being careful to not obscure the light, but keenly observing his every motion. “I don’t give two shits if the courtiers are wowed. But I will look the part, Underwood. King had knights, pageantry, and some idiots thinking he was King Arthur. I can’t exactly follow that with business attire and board meetings, can I?”
Underwood shook his head. “No, no, of course not.” He thought back to the last century of Quentin King’s reign… The small number of highs… The vast array of lows and assorted humiliations. Never again would the Primogen Council permit a Malkavian to take power, he was sure of that.
“And I could do without the sycophancy.” Hazel shot him a glare. “I came up the hard way. You know my story, so I won’t repeat it. I don’t need you licking my boots to know you’re supporting me.”
Underwood fixed that insincere smile back on his face. “Of course, my Prince. What good would I be were I not an honest critic and domain councilor? You can rely on me to lick nothing but what you present to me.”
The jeweler struggled to stifle a laugh as he continued to work, pretending to ignore the conversation taking place right over his head.
“Jesus Christ, Berel… It’s not like I don’t know you pushed your sire for praxis before me. Grow a spine.” Satisfied the jeweler knew what he was doing, Hazel Iversen left the back room, stepping out into the store, and then into the market. It was uncharacteristically quiet tonight. Maybe the city knows there’s a new manager at the helm… She ensured her collar was straight, her cuffs were visible, and her shoes were clean, before walking to her car.
In her wake, Berel Underwood listened for Iversen’s car engine before returning to the jeweler and leaning over him, blocking the lamplight entirely. “If these pieces you make are anywhere close to the quality of mine, I’ll take your eyes. I’ll push my thumbs into your sockets and pop those eyeballs out. And then, I’ll bite them off! Do you understand me?”
***
“Nathan Appleton? I thought he was dead.” In a time before, Hazel Iversen drummed her fingers on the boardroom desk at Iversen Freight, and stared crookedly at her fellow board members.
Ever since her father died it was her duty to run the business, and though their freight and haulage services performed well throughout the New England region, she was alone, without allies in the industry. Her fellow board members were always attempting to push her one way or another, trying to control her, and through her, the flow of money out from her father’s empire. Her father’s untimely demise left him with no opportunity to introduce Hazel to business partners or warn her about rivals. And now, she was being presented with the name of a dead man as someone she just had to meet.
“Again, didn’t he die years ago? His business was textiles and textile shipping, if I recall. What do you want me to do; visit his grave?” She snorted a laugh and sat back in her chair. If this is some prank, or an attempt to make me look weak, I’m not playing along.
Boris Roberts, one of her fellow directors, all white whiskers and thick lenses, coughed and raised a hand. “That was, uh, our understanding, ma’am. Apparently it’s a common mistake. That was a different Nathan Appleton.”
Hazel’s brow furrowed. “You mean to tell me the Boston Herald, Globe, and other assorted press outlets all published obituaries for Nathan Appleton, textile king, when in fact another, completely unconnected Nathan Appleton passed away? Did they issue apologies?”
The board members all shrugged and muttered, looking between each other for answers nobody had. Boris spoke up again. “Um, we don’t know. Whatever the case, it’s apparently the textile-interested Appleton who reached out to us via Harmon and Corem Logistics, one of our competitors. They run a fleet between New Haven and Great Britain. This Appleton wants a private meeting with you.”
Hazel Iversen rose from her chair and started pacing around the boardroom; a common trait of hers. She locked her hands behind her back and played with her father’s signet ring, which she kept on a bracelet. “I know who Harmon and Corem are and what they do. I’ve heard of this Appleton, and I know he used to be a big player, before his death was announced. Why would he reach out to me via the competition, though?” She stopped at the head of the table after performing a circuit, pressing the button for her assistant. “Janice, please reach out to Nathan Appleton and invite him to our building. If he’s the real deal, he’ll come to Boston.”
There was silence on the other end of the intercom for five seconds before Janice responded. “Didn’t Nathan Appleton die, Miss Iversen?”
Hazel gestured at the board members, her arms out wide in exasperation.
***
Ultimately, there was no reaching out to Nathan Appleton. The invitation to meet him came via Harmon and Corem, and they would speak to nobody except Hazel Iversen, and even then, wouldn’t put her in direct contact with Appleton. Hazel took it on faith that the meeting she was invited to, just outside Ipswich, would be worth attending.
Hazel was surprised, upon arriving at the gorgeous manor north of Boston, to see the number of expensive cars parked in its spacious grounds. Maseratis, Mercedes-Benz, Cadillacs, but none of them off the forecourt, and all of them customized to show off their owners’ wealth. She felt humble rolling up in her Lincoln, and told her driver she’d call when it was time to collect her. His parents lived in Ipswich, and Hazel valued time spent with family.
As her car departed and she walked the short distance to the manor’s front door, she looked down at her dress. She could have dressed in a way more glamorous or revealing, but Hazel never felt comfortable in the role of sex object. If all these people at the manor were corporation kings and fat cats, likely older gentlemen, she knew she’d stand out by virtue of her gender and relative youth. She was in smart attire, and it would do the job. Hazel rang the bell, and waited patiently, until a wizened man answered. “Are you here for Mr. Appleton’s dinner?”
Hazel breathed a sigh of relief. In her experience, truly ancient people like this butler were less likely to go along with pranks, especially convoluted ones that took her all the way to Ipswich. “I am! My name is Hazel Iversen, of Iversen Freight. I believe Mr. Appleton is expecting me.”
The old man in the doorway nodded, but didn’t allow her to pass by immediately. Instead, he studied her from head to toe, leaving Hazel to return the gesture. She wasn’t going to be made uncomfortable. She elected to break the quiet. “Did you say dinner? I’m afraid I ate before I came here. I thought this was just a meeting, but now I see…” She pointed generally in the direction of the cars.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Miss Iversen. It won’t stop Mr. Appleton from eating, I can assure you of that.”
Hazel took a step toward the butler, finally compelling him to stand aside, and entered the manor.
***
“That motherfucker!” Hazel was pacing around her house, occasionally stopping to stare in the mirror at her unnaturally pale complexion before striding away, tearing apart another cushion or smashing another vase. Eventually, even the mirror was shattered and in pieces. Her cats cowered in their little den, as yet untouched. A sanctuary in this newly-formed asylum.
Appleton forced the Embrace on her in an act of humiliation, as a way of warning her from becoming too successful as a competitor, but most importantly, as a woman. He and his friends mocked her offers to sell Iversen Freight to the other members of the board. They laughed at her distressed pleas. They victimized her, threw her father’s signet ring into the fire, and finally, Appleton made her one of the undead, just like him.
“Oh, but you didn’t tell me the rules, did you, you piece of crap?” Hazel punched the wall, drawing blood from her knuckles, only to glare with disgust as the wounds knitted themselves shut. She’d seen this trick several times now. He had her dumped in the Boston Harbor with the message “mend thyself,” before leaving her to sink or swim, figuratively and literally.
At first, Hazel was gasping and clutching for air as she tried to surface. It took her a minute to realize she no longer needed to breathe.
When she finally emerged from the sea, she only felt a burning heat in her veins — a combination of anger and hunger — and like some monster in a dreadful b-movie, she attacked the first stevedore she found, opening his throat and drinking what she could take from his body. The act brought her to a state of lucidity, and to the realization that she’d just ended a man’s life. In a panic, she threw the body into the water and ducked into one of her company’s warehouses, coming to terms with her new state of being.
As Hazel stared at herself in the shards of broken mirror, she realized her good fortune of having found cover before dawn, that morning. The exhaustion that accompanied the sunrise prevented Hazel finding anywhere else to hide, and so she became a corpse, wedged between a stack of crates. Nobody found her during the day, and by the time the sun set her clothes were dry and she was ready to walk home.
Now, she was in her house, understanding she had an aversion to the sun, that her body was no longer living, that she craved blood as food and drink. She knew the stories of vampires, of course, but never knew the reality.
“I need to end this.” She paused at the window, staring out across moonlit Boston. “How difficult would it be to just stand in the street, or climb onto my roof, and wait for the sun to come up? Or turn myself in for… killing that man last night? That would be one for ‘Ripley’s Believe It or Not!’, wouldn’t it? When they put me in a cell with a small window, then come to interview me, only to discover a pile of ash...” She gave a quick glance to her cats, and smiled down at them before falling back into a sullen mood.
“No. Surrender’s not an option. I’m still alive… Kind of. I can still walk and talk and think. If this Appleton monster thinks that by cursing me, he’s defeated me, he’s got another thing coming, hasn’t he?” Hazel got down to the cats’ level, but they wanted nothing to do with her, the eldest mog hissing and scratching while the younger tabby bounded away.
“I guess that says it all.” Hazel Iversen stood back up, left the lounge, and ran herself a bath. “If I’m going to fight back, I’m not doing it stinking like the Boston Harbor.”
***
“Presenting Miss Hazel Iversen of Clan Ventrue, childe of Nathan Appleton, grandchilde of Nigella Hilman, great−” Quentin King cut the herald off with the wave of a hand, cautiously appraising Iversen as she approached his throne. Unlike most Princes in this hemisphere, King prided himself on the old ways of form, custom, and accoutrement. Therefore, vampires in his court were introduced and arranged themselves by clan, he bore a crown upon his head, and he sat on an opulent throne crafted for him by one of the most skilled sculptors in New England. While many vampires accused Boston’s style of Camarilla as anachronistic, it gave Quentin King a sense of calm to run affairs in the style of a faux-medieval court.
That said, Hazel Iversen intrigued him. She was a neonate with no formal representation in the domain. Her sire never presented her, and he was technically outside Boston’s limits, though Ipswich had no Prince. Despite her inauspicious beginnings, her acuity for investments, her reliable intelligence on domain matters concerning Kindred and kine, and the aid she gave King via her international freight company (indispensable for the vampire travelling long distance), made her entirely interesting. He was always delighted to hear what impetuous new scheme she’d come up with.
“Lady Iversen, my heart beats again to see you visit my court. The knights spoke of your approach with great enthusiasm, for we excite at the possibility of a new quest. What news have you for my ears?” King steepled his fingers and looked at his courtiers faces. Oh, they derided him for his archaic nature and turn of phrase, but it always caught their attention. Let them mock. For as long as they laugh at me, they underestimate me.
“Prince King…” Hazel Iversen started, dropping to her knees. “Prince Quentin. My liege.” She felt the urge to grind her teeth, but refrained. She knew that King was a keen observer of human microexpressions. “I bear dire news from Ipswich. It is truly a shame on my household, and one I fear to bring before you, but I know that as Uther’s crimes were his alone, and Arthur made a valiant king in his own right, that the sins of the father are not always destined to fall on the shoulders of the son. Or daughter.”
Quentin King shifted in his seat, and gestured for one of his knights to come close. Sir Cum Laude leaned over and King lowered his voice. “What’s she saying, Laude?”
“I know not, my liege.”
“Very well, you may go.” The knight stepped back, leaving the Boston court to switch glances between Iversen and King, wondering who might speak first.
Quentin King broke the impasse. “Ah! I understand. Yes, indeed. While Arthur was flawed in many ways, as are we all in God’s eyes,” he looked to the court for affirmation, “he was not responsible for his father’s sins. No, in our Camelot, we do not punish the childe for the sire’s misdeeds. And I assume this is the subject of which you speak?” King sat back, proud of himself for his interpretation of Iversen’s words.
Hazel Iversen looked up at the Malkavian Prince, resisting the desire to call bullshit on all this pomp. “Indeed, my liege, you are correct. Nathan Appleton of Ipswich has been conspiring with the British Triad, and I have the evidence to prove it. It grieves me to condemn my sire in such a way, but−”
“−let me see!” King jumped from his throne and advanced on Iversen, thrusting his hand forward. Suitably, she presented the photographs and documents in the form of a scroll, placing it firmly in his hand. King unfurled the evidence and studied it with wide eyes as he made his way back to his throne, collapsing into it in distress. It was important he play the part of the shocked monarch, taken aback at this treason. Better that than they conclude I am also in the Triad’s thrall… “This is appalling, but I see the evidence with the eyes God gave me. Oh, lackaday! Woe, woe, thrice woe.” He brought a fist down onto the arm of his throne, breaking it clean off and provoking a howl of distress from its sculptor deeper in the court.
“My liege,” Hazel Iversen rose to her feet but kept her head bowed, “allow me to deliver justice in this case. For my Prince, for Boston, and for my noble lineage. It is the Ventrue way.”
Hazel banked on Quentin King knowing very little about “Ventrue ways” and was right to do so, as King, acting his part as a dejected, betrayed ruler, sadly nodded and waved her away. “I call a Blood Hunt commencing on the morrow, on the one known as Nathan Appleton. The good lady Hazel Iversen may initiate the hunt tonight, for the sake of her own honor. Return here once the deed is done, and we shall know your loyalty for certain, good lady.”
***
Thinking back to that time, that sheer insanity, Hazel Iversen considered how well everything had gone. Her retainers seized Appleton before the court convened, so “hunting” him was more a case of visiting the manor at which they met all those years before, and taking the rest of the night to disassemble him at the joints, before removing his head in the same room where he Embraced her.
Hazel spared his bodyguard — she didn’t believe in punishing the staff for the boss’s crimes, which she supposed came through in her whole “sins of the fathers” speech — and retained him as her own, before absorbing Nathan Appleton’s business interests and making his name a dirty thing to mention in court.
“Pull over here, Geoffrey.” Hazel ordered her driver to stop as they approached the Boston Harbor. “I’ll get out here. You go on without me.” As she started walking around docks, spotting old warehouses she recognized and a few of her cargo ships in dock, in service for decades now, she thought back to her relationship with King.
It wasn’t that Quentin King was utterly incompetent, so much as utterly compromized. In the years following her sire’s destruction and elevation within the court, she came to know King, and realize his collusion with the British Camarilla under the direction of the Kindred known as the Triad. She discreetly threw her support, financially and politically, behind the Kindred of Liberty faction of Boston Camarilla Kindred, not out of any fanatical loyalty to the K.O.L.’s beliefs, but because she knew that King would fall, one night, and she didn’t want to be in his circle of friends and followers when that happened.
Coming to a halt at a railing overlooking the water, Prince Iversen looked down into the water and tried to penetrate its near-freezing depths. She wondered whether the body of her first victim was still down there in some form. If his family ever discovered what happened to him, or were given a sanitized version of the truth.
***
“That’s six now, Hazel.” Richard Dunham spoke absently, placing a vial of vitae into his centrifuge, before switching it on. “Six Kindred we’d consider elders, by any measure, just gone and unaccounted for. Their childer — those of whom with descendants in New England — have no clue as to their sires’ whereabouts. And it’s not just here. I’ve heard similar things from New York, Chicago — though some seem to hold off on the urge to just vanish, through methods I’d love to discover…” Dunham hadn’t looked away from his spinning device, watching the vitae whir and interact with his various chemical mixtures.
“Six. Jesus Christ.” Hazel’s feet were up on one of Dunham’s many cabinets. She enjoyed spending time with Dr. “call me Richard” Dunham, because he made no demands of her. Yes, the screams and moans from the rooms beyond his office were unsettling, but she accepted that different Kindred had different roles to play in the domain. “It won’t be long before King’s gone, in that case.”
“Hmm.” Dunham concluded his spin and carefully extracted his vials from the machine, placing them in a rack near seven pipets, a microscope, and a series of petri dishes.
“You’re not concerned about the power vacuum? God, imagine if Berel tried to claim praxis.” Hazel took her feet from the cabinet and started reading some of the papers and posters Dunham had hanging on his office wall, many of which were for medicines and health advice predating the Vietnam War.
Richard started the process of extracting liquids and squeezing them into his dishes, still without looking up at his guest. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Berel already said he’s going to convince his sire… The executioner… Galeb. I think Berel considers himself more well-suited to power-behind-the-throne than sitting in the big chair.”
Hazel stopped at the mention of Galeb. She raised an eyebrow at the Malkavian doctor. “And you’d be okay with that? The man’s an unrepentant murderer.”
“Aren’t we all?” Dunham lifted his glasses to his forehead and stared into the microscope lens.
“There’s a bit of a difference…” Hazel let her words hang, considering the opportunity that an absent King might provide. She’d worked diligently her entire life, and honestly, for the most part. She was respected, but not so old as to be dreaded or jaded. She had allies, and the Kindred of Liberty owed her for the years of support she’d been funnelling to them. “What if I took praxis?”
Finally, Richard Dunham stopped his experiment, rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, and let his glasses drop back down to his nose. “Yes, Hazel, I’m sure that’d be fine. You’d encounter some opposition. Snakes in the grass, and all that. But for what it’s worth, as a member of the Primogen Council — if it survives Quentin King’s eventual departure, final death, or whatever the gods have in store for him — you’d have my support. Just… Allow me to keep doing what I do, and you’ll have my people in your pocket.”
One down. “Thank you. I mean that.”
By the time Hazel left the laboratory, Dunham was once again leaning over his microscope.
***
It was easier than she expected. Power’s supposed to be hard to attain, but perhaps the impossibility comes with holding onto it. When she seized the opportunity, the waves appeared to part, the court welcoming her into the role of Prince. Any challenges were from minor personalities with no weight behind their words. The broadest smiles were from the Primogen once in service to Quentin King; Berel Underwood, Richard Dunham, Hilda MacAndrews…
But Hazel Iversen knew smiles concealed harsh realities. Her father’s rivals smiled at her during his wake. Her board members smiled at her when she accepted Appleton’s invitation. Appleton smiled at her as he threw her father’s signet ring into the fire.
Maybe we’ll have to encourage some new Primogen, to dilute the influence of a few old hands. Iversen stepped away from the harbor edge, playing with the bracelet on her wrist. Let’s force Boston’s enemies… my enemies... to reveal themselves.
Prince Iversen walked away from the docks, in the direction of Boston’s lights.
Three decades after her Embrace, Iversen had made enough contacts at court to request — and have granted — a Blood Hunt against her sire (…) Methodically, painfully, she decapitated him with her father’s saber, on the same Persian rug where she’d had the Embrace forced upon her.
— Quentin King III, on Hazel Iversen, Ventrue Prince of Boston.
