Let Me Follow - noisemagnolia (2024)

Chapter Text

"You—you blood-bonded them?" Beckett clamps his diary closed, holding it askew in his hand as he pivots to scowl at Anatole, who stares at him blankly.

They're standing atop the newly-built Eiffel Tower, unveiled weeks ago in a lavish opening ceremony. Beckett had watched from a distance as government officials stood stiffly next to Monsieur Gustave Eiffel, smiling gauchely and clapping as the head engineer of the project cut the silk ribbon in front of hundreds of thousands of visitors from all over the world. While many lauded it as a revolutionary architectural milestone, the historian wasn't in a position where he could admire this rare Kine achievement.

Rather, the incident at La Santé Prison preoccupied him as it had gone up in flames days earlier. The official police report recounted that a violent fistfight had broken out between the most recent batch of ill-fated guards and a group of 'mentally disturbed' inmates. The prisoners only said one thing to the officers interrogating them after they had set the old courtyard woodshed ablaze, shaken and gutted as they twitched and stirred: "The Lord's Disciple has deserted us. No, He has deserted us."

He should be surprised, but the blonde beside him is not as constrained by the hopeless desire to preserve his humanity as he is. It's still unnerving, though, the way Anatole says it so nonchalantly. "They had to believe. They refused to listen. God wanted them to believe, so I made them listen," he defends, leaning against the iron fencing and studying the tourists and city natives below who are still up in the dead of night.

"Oh." That's rich. "And what, you just expected them to be quiet and lucid, dutifully waiting for the Lord's command?" He laughs plaintively, gently kicking the ridged steel platform below his boots in annoyance.

At this, Anatole crooks his head as he snaps, "I do not expect you to understand, petit loup. More followers were needed to amplify the breadth of His prophecies." With a flourish of his frock, baggy and frayed, he continues as if to convince the younger Kindred. "The guests were to evangelise outside of the fortress."

Beckett nods, lips in a thin line as he joins his companion in people-watching against the rail. He props up his face with one hand, rubs at his chin and jaw in frustration, and notes with dissent, "Ah, even better, a promising breach of the Masquerade." That draws a sneer from the blue-eyed Seer, who's quick to retort.

"Wauw. You've become Camarilla meat. Weak. Worried about conventions, and ignorant of Fate," he exasperates. Beckett scoffs, almost offended at the accusation.

"It's totally not the blood hunt that sack of sh*t François is likely to call upon you that I fear," Beckett replies satirically, shaking his head in disapproval as he gives up the pastime in front of him to confront the eccentric prophet. "You're right. I don't understand. So why? Why bother telling me?" He meets Anatole's eyes. They're portents of insanity, of a controlled psychosis burrowed deep in that flourishing mind. Beckett wants to dissect it. He wants to connect, even though he's hesitant to follow.

The blonde's face immediately softens, his knit brows smoothing as something else burdens his gaze. It's not often that the Harbinger of Gehenna breaks face. "I-I..." He stutters. Not good. "The offspring. Of your paramour, the late Lady Emma."

Beckett sees red. His stare drops to the floor, to the middle of their feet. He feels a sting in his heart, as if his wounds are being reopened and exposed to the frigid Parisian air.

"Regina!? Did you hurt her? Tell me you didn't. You— You're—!" He would have said it, grabbed Anatole's face and not the air instead. If only he hadn't looked up at the older vampire. If only he hadn't watched his eyes droop in an odd exhibit of remorse. Anatole smiles ruefully. The centuries have taken a toll on any compassion he had. What little remains of it is something to behold; he's a husk of a man, grown distant not just by time but also by the mania afflicting him.

"Non. She's the reason it fell apart. She and her Domitor, Ms. Ash, stormed the prison and broke the bonds." There's a wall between them. Invisible, but impenetrable, so Beckett's fists drop, overwhelmed by a flurry of emotions. Dwelling on it for too long gives him a headache, so he chooses to cherish the image of the wind flitting Anatole's locks of wispy hair like sand being displaced from a beach. He's blown away to new horizons, cursed to be temporary by the unpredictable climate.

Every time Beckett feels like he's close to catching him, he slips from his hands and sieves through the gaps between his fingers. This is one of those circ*mstances where the historian feels like pushing him away.

It's necessary, he thinks. His feelings are too raw, too brittle to withstand whatever truths the Seer has to offer.

"Where to now?" With just a glance, it's clear Anatole understands. There's no malice in his eyes, only acceptance. Perhaps he knew it would reach this point, what with his uncanny foresight. It wouldn't be far off.

"Wherever the Lord bids me. Gehenna calls, and I follow," the Malkavian conveys, cryptic as ever. Both men heed the bustle of the French nightlife with an uneasiness that drives a wedge through their forced peace.

The next time they meet is when Beckett's curiosity is sparked by the mysticism of the Ankaran Sarcophagus. At the base of a billboard in Los Angeles, they sit and watch the flames atop Venture Tower burst and crackle, rubble coming loose from Prince LaCroix's penthouse office. In the distance, sirens blare from ambulances and the fire rescue brigade.

At least Beckett can say that he warned the fledgling. They seemed pretty receptive, though, so there's a tug at his chest as he smells the smoke in the air.

Anatole nudges his shoulder. "It's... not your fault," he says as if he's read his mind. The words slip unnaturally from his lips as if it's impossible for him to offer comfort when he knows it changes nothing. That makes Beckett appreciate it even more. He turns to stare at the blonde as ashes catch in his hair. "The father toys with his children. He scorns his own blood, bitter and exhausted," Anatole proclaims. "I do not yet know why."

"Ha. If you don't know, then we're all doomed," Beckett jokes, but it strikes a chord with the older Kindred. "Oh, sod off, you know I'm not being serious. But if this was planned, then it's just Jyhad doing what it does best. How unfortunate."

"I know you of all people are incapable of thinking that way." Anatole frowns, his words falling upon deaf ears. He's quick to remark, "You're sorry— sorry you couldn't do more. But it does not work that way. You cannot control Fate. You know this, and yet you seek a way to change it." His voice takes on an inflexion rarely heard when speaking to Beckett, and it reminds him of Paris.

It reminds him of the humiliation he felt when he was finally convinced that Gehenna was real. So much research turned meaningless by what he'd hoped was one of God's cruel jokes.

"So what!?" Beckett lashes out right in front of him. He pinches the bridge of his nose. There are countless reasons why they haven't seen each other in over a hundred years. It's not resentment, and neither is it spite. It's weariness. It's loneliness. It's infested his voice, and he doesn't register what he says before it's too late. "Fate this, Fate that. Your every movement, action, and thought is plagued by the f*cking future!" He rips off his glasses, hands rubbing his temples, and he can't deny that he's still livid over the pettiest of things. It's being deserted at the Court of expert womaniser François Villon. It's going no-contact back in London. It's the violation of his trust at La Santé. And then, of course, it's Jerusalem.

He's up close and personal. "You give up too easily, and then you project your sad, little wretched delusions onto the first bloody soul you can find, because if you suffer, then everyone else has to suffer. Do you even care? Do you even think about how utterly miserable that is? You have so much power, and you choose to waste it in compliance with Fate!"

But those things add up. They add up until they boil over and irrevocably damage everything. Beckett realises that Anatole has gone rigid, with his jaw clenched and nostrils flared. The fire of the explosion just buildings away is reflected in his eyes, just like the decades of pain and torment that have blown up on him.

He handles it with class, or with as much class as someone who's been verbally attacked can muster up without returning the favour. "Mm. I guess I've been... cold on multiple occasions." He smiles bitterly. "I'm glad." Beckett's eyebrows furrow. "No, really. I'm glad that you're so... optimistic." Anatole swallows thickly, insulating himself from the fallout of defeat. "You are correct. Misery is not meant to be shared nor squandered on."

"That is not what I meant—"

"I know exactly what you meant," Anatole silences him firmly, and now that Beckett's not seething, he can only fixate on how unfairly beautiful Anatole looks when surrounded by destruction. The latter looks up at him, eyes wide and engrossed. He wants to commit him to memory. The historian exhales and tries to cup his face with one hand, but the Seer flinches and steps away from him. "Goodbye, Beckett," he whispers, and then it’s too late to run after him.

Beckett wouldn't even get to grieve properly. He can't forget Lucita's screams when he broke the news to her in Madrid. The last of her world had been destroyed. "What did you do? Why, Beckett? Why, why, why, why!?" Her lips quiver, and she tries to put herself together, but it only results in another heart-wrenching cry as she collapses into his arms and weeps in anguish. She had vanquished her sire but lost everything in the process. All Beckett wanted was to console her.

"It could be false, you know. Primogen lie all the time, and a Malkavian is no diff—"

"Stop. Just stop," Lucita shakes her head frantically, long black hair sticking to her face. She pushes him out into the daylight, but he doesn't move despite the harrowing sting of the scorching Spanish sun burning into his skin. "You... It's so funny. You don't know when to let it go. You're all hands off the politics, refusing to engage because you'd rather pour over knowledge, static and permanent."

She glowers at him, and it's the most incensed Beckett's seen her be. She goes ballistic. "Ironic, isn't it? You run away from Jyhad. You run away from us. And yet you're still caught in the thick of it. But no, you'd rather play with your little projects, wear and go at them until there's nothing left! Nothing!"

"Lucita—"

"You can think of me as weak, Beckett. You can think of me as a fool for surrendering. But you will never know what it means to take the high road. It's not always about avoiding conflict. It's about taking ownership of the mess you make, and to set it right. To watch out for those you love, even at the cost of your own life." She crumbles and bursts into tears again, failing to meet his gaze. "Otherwise, you end up alone."

Her sorrow haunts him to this day. The colour in her eyes is snuffed, and blood streams down her pale cheeks. The cruel and cunning Lasombra assassin. A former Archon for the Inner Circle of the Camarilla. Reduced to a broken shell, split wide open for all to gawk at.

She gives him a head-start before disappearing into the Iglesia de San Nicolás de los Servitas, shrinking into herself and stumbling past the gates of her new, self-inflicted prison.

She was right. It happened with Okulos. It happened with Hardestadt. "Didn't think you had it in you, to be honest," the thin-blood leader of Los Angeles, Jenna Cross, had commented after destroying the former. "What gave?"

"I reckon it was about time I took action. Took ownership of the mess I've made."

-----

Beckett feels his age catching up to him when jumping upright makes his neck crack loudly. His consciousness comes back to him like a pawn abruptly thrown back onto a chess board, weak and unwilling. Nobody asked him if he wanted to return to the field, but here he is. He groans in discomfort, feeling the dryness coating his throat along with the stiffness of his skin and bones as he awakens from a painful slumber. It was probably more of a nap. A nap on a wooden board, to be precise. It would have been better not to nap at all.

By the heavens, he's thirsty. He's so parched it's unbearable, and the feral growl he lets out threatens to drain what little strength he has. It festers in his veins and threatens to knock him out cold, but as if an angel has descended from above, he's alleviated by a glass of blood skirting his lips. He needs his head to be tipped back so he can actually drink, and he'd be embarrassed if it weren't for the thrumming in his head and the soreness in his muscles. A gentle hand holds his hair as he viciously gulps it down, and it's so good, so deliciously sweet. It could have been days old and tasted like honey to him. It's exactly what he needs for his eyes to fully focus, and his first view is that of Anatole, concerned, pouring out more vitae from the blood bag placed next to him on a stool.

At least that's who he looks like, dressed in his long cargo jacket, one of his signature thrifted t-shirts, and worn jeans. This must be a prank. Or maybe Beckett's so devastated that he's finally breached the realm of insanity, and it's manifested as his personal Hell: seeing an illusion of the one person he so desolately wants to indulge for eternity.

He must have been staring menacingly, because the figure sighs, eyes cast into the distance as he recalls intimately, "Back when you feared not the sun, you wished to attend to a printing press for the rest of your days. You marvelled at the promise of preserving knowledge, no matter how tedious the job." He smiles as the flashback plays out vividly in his head. The sight nearly breaks Beckett. "You were enamoured by the prospect that knowledge may one day become wisdom."

Beckett’s shoulders sag in relief, and he transiently closes his eyes to bask in the succour. "Some things never change," he mulls, and then he glances down at Anatole’s lap, finding a needle and thread sticking out of the fabric of his wool overcoat. Beckett looks around to find that he's back in the apartment he leased for his temporary stay in Seattle. He had no idea when or if he'd be leaving, and he was tired of abandoned homes and warehouses by the second week of his stay. The decision was heavily influenced by the speed at which he'd piled up on books and invaluable ephemera, much like the ones from his most recent incursion.

Yes, he might be a hoarder. He certainly won't stop now.

Speaking of, Beckett's soon to stand up from the rickety metal-frame bed that has been the gracious host of his torpor, by which point he finds he's nude. He's been divested of his clothing save for his underwear, and it's not like he's awkward around Anatole—at least not that awkward—but he is puzzled as to the whereabouts of his garments and why they're absent from his body. However, he first compels his blood to attend to his injuries, still there from the brutal beating that got him unconscious to begin with. Then he raises an eyebrow at Anatole and opens his mouth to speak, but the half-stern-half-smug expression Anatole gives in return stifles him. Instead, he stammers, "H-How... How prolonged was my torpor?" He asks, signalling to his nudity in discontentment.

"Two uneventful weeks," Anatole reassures trivially, his smugness growing into a smirk. To Beckett, he feels like he's daring him to continue his original sentence. He nods toward the mattress nonetheless, where Beckett finds his old brown pants and a brand new collared shirt. He picks up the clothes and is met by the fragrance of linen and lavender.

"I presume you went to the laundromat?" He asks, fascinated at the image of the almost nine-hundred-year-old Kindred grappling with modern appliances. Beckett chugs the rest of the blood and proceeds to put on his pants.

"Oh, you ask too much of me," Anatole muses, continuing to stitch up his companion's trench coat. "You have a basin, if you weren't aware, and I would hope you are capable of buying a bar of soap at your ripe old age," he teases and Beckett chuckles naturally while pulling the shirt over his head. He's surprised and warmed by the gesture. "Though I still maintain that malls are unorthodox and pervasive, but alas, your tunic was unsalvageable."

"Of course." Beckett's gaze meets with the prophet's.

The silence quickly takes over, and he can feel a spark travel down his spine as his eyes lock with Anatole's. He gulps. "You were dead, you know. At least that was the gist of it in New York." He's treading on difficult terrain.

But Anatole simply tilts his head and says, "It's not your fault," catching them both off-guard. This time, there’s no hint of reluctance.

Anatole breaks their eye contact nervously. Still, he forces himself to speak through the tension. "Seriously, it had nothing to do with you. I was insistent on reconsecrating the Cathedral despite the fatal nature of the process. Redemption can be achieved by purifying the body and the soul, even if meagre. I was willing to feed my vessel to the monastery if it meant its heart could be found anew, holy and remedied."

Beckett watches Anatole drift, his hands still working deftly as he relives what he can only assume is the crisis which left him alive, sitting in front of him intact. "But as the flesh devoured me, I had... Well, I had an epiphany. Strong enough to galvanise me, half-gnawed as I was."

Anatole looks at Beckett. Unshielded, honest, and repentant. And by God does Beckett believe him.

"Thank God for that epiphany," he says, attempting to brighten the gloomy atmosphere, lacing up his clean boots and searching the room for his satchel.

"I did," replies the prophet dryly, and Beckett takes that as a success. "It required about a decade to come to fruition, but I found you regardless."

"Just in time," Beckett hums, further grateful when he finds the bag intact slung over a chair next to his study. He snatches it, pops it open and discovers only one book inside. "There's only one. Why is there only one?" He gripes aloud, scoffing as he examines the tome. It's titled Veiled Reflections, and it dawns upon him that this was the one bloody text he didn't skim through due to the untimely ambush. He huffs but opens it nonetheless.

It's f*cking blank. Beckett flips through it just to make sure, but it's still f*cking blank. "Useless. Brilliant," he grumbles. In his exasperation, he throws the book onto the desk, where it lands, open, on a random page. Beckett puts his hand on his forehead and tries to calm down, but he ends up contemplating all of the possible scenarios where he could have lost the other two articles.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Anatole rip the loose end of the thread as he finishes stitching up Beckett's coat. The blonde walks over and inspects the unused journal. Then he rummages through the drawers nearby and pulls out a lighter, and that alarms Beckett so much he can't help but blurt out, "What are you doing?"

Anatole clicks it and holds it carefully below the detached page. "There's an almost imperceptible hint of citrus to the paper," he indicates, and writing begins to reveal itself on the sheet as it heats up, releasing a lemony smell. "So quick to anger, petit loup."

Beckett is captivated by the use of the nickname and the prophet's playful tone. The familiarity brings him the sort of bliss that could make him forget the scourge of Gehenna, and it's what he's been missing for awfully too long.

"Well? What's it say?" The prophet chimes in, and it helps Beckett avoid being humbled by something as juvenile as invisible ink. He reads the words that have appeared. They make up sentences that form an autobiographical narrative of Petrodon's unlife, or at least some pensive ruminations leading up to his Final Death.

Monday, July, begins the excerpt on the first page.

Robin informs me that the alliance between the blue-bloods and the mages survives solely on the basis of mutual interest.
From his perspective, Warwick's strategic wits glue the otherwise threadbare operation together, but his obsession with the Web borders on sectarian, far past allegiance to the Camarilla.
Perhaps this promptly sanctions a coup d'état that could bolster our authority over another crucial piece of New England.
After all, it threatens the salience of his princedom and the security of his forces.
A century's worth of espionage shall finally bear fruit.

Thursday, September, reads another.

Ms. Stone's armada facilitated the victory at Bloods Brook, boorish as they were on the battlefield.
But it's Robin's acclaim that gave me ample room to promote our dominion not just over Rhode Island, but also over New Hampshire.
Now, I wonder, how do we squash the Sword of Caine before it inevitably backstabs us with the incentive of a debt collected?

Finally, Beckett picks up a third sliver of paper with the header, Tuesday, November, and the gears turn in his head as he pieces together the information.

In a sporadic turn of events, it seems that Cross' acquisition of Seattle is imminent, what with Robin's steadfast counsel.
My concerns, however, lie in the turbulence between my childe and the querulous Tremere, who complain of duplicity that bars them from entry into the city.
It always circles back to repaying favors, and their leader, Viktor Goga, prattles on about the Colonies; who imparted such knowledge upon this insolent childe?
Robin aptly looks to me for guidance.
Let them in, I say, as it helps to pacify a crying babe that is to be unwittingly nurtured beneath your wing.
Seattle only serves me for reticence, not prominence.
On another note, Leopold promises a gift extravagant enough to leave me stunned.
We shall see, sculptor.

"Ah, so that's why she knew the Justicar's address. It must not have sufficed for the Tremere to be permitted re-entry, so they sought insurance," Beckett surmises with a furrowed brow. "Petrodon was right to be apprehensive," he tentatively credits the deceased elder, clicking his tongue in annoyance as he glances at the rest of the diary's contents. There are more pressing matters to attend to. He looks at Anatole, who's staring at him curiously as he gathers his thoughts and hides the book in another drawer. "There was a name. Right before you saved me. Cicatriz."

"Yes. He manoeuvres himself proficiently, meanders the Free State unshielded but not compromised," the prophet responds, and Beckett doesn't fully understand, so he lets Anatole continue. "A dragon and a phoenix tussled for decades. The phoenix managed to feast on the dragon's golden scales, but first it had to fatten up to devour the dragon. For this, it fed from the Bishop's conniving hand. It still does so serendipitously out of an unslakable hunger."

The dragon tips him off. "Cathayans. The Camarilla remained silent, fixated on Cross' vie for the throne, so I suppose the Anarchs had no choice but to turn to the only benefactor they could find. Pity, that. How does this fit in with my lost effects?"

"There's a possibility."

"A possibility is what I need," Beckett replies, hopeful and somewhat desperate.

Anatole scrunches his nose as if he's about to say something unsavoury. "We might yet bargain with The Baron, for I fear his own reign lies in jeopardy," he conveys, and yes. Unsavoury it is. Beckett abhors playing the offensive when it comes to Jyhad. He'd admittedly rather take the coward's way out, as Lucita had chastised him for back in Madrid. That too. Beckett will have to tell him eventually, though he has a hunch that the blonde is already aware.

"So be it," he resigns, taking the coat from the older Kindred's clutches. He dons it as they leave his haven, commenting, "You'll have to lead the way, I'm afraid. Haven't fully walked this city as much as I wished I had."

"Par pied? Such primitive travelling." The prophet jogs down the stairs, turning over his shoulder to question the historian.

"Would you prefer I be your steed?" Beckett jests, and Anatole rolls his eyes, but he swears he sees a peek of a smile on that gorgeous face.

Anatole directs him to an old grey muscle car with a scratch on the side. "You're not disproving the argument, then?"

Beckett's shocked, at both his words and the vehicle as the other vampire takes out the key and opens the door to the driver's seat. "Not you too... When did you ever learn how to drive?" He queries, astounded, and frankly impressed.

"Erm. These automobiles are not so different from, say, a carriage. They both require some semblance of trial and error. De plus, quand je broie du noir, je deviens plus productif, contrairement à quelqu'un d'autre." He runs a finger along Beckett's jaw endearingly. "A wolf has fur. Lots of it. C'est presque fou. You like to be a wolf. Ergo."

Said wolf gets into the passenger seat, and with the ghost of Anatole's touch leaving tingles all over his skin, he reckons he shouldn't be so displeased he can't fully understand what's being said when he steered clear of French like the plague after his companion's apparent death. His fluency had been conversational at best. So it withered, much like his belief. Now it's returned, full of conviction, and Beckett realises it when he accepts that it's the Prophet of Gehenna, of all elders, who'd somehow adapt to the modern world against all odds.

"I must say, I am a bit perplexed about your residence," Anatole remarks uneasily while the engine rumbles, and the historian turns so he can better read his mannerisms. The blue-eyed male frowns as he elaborates, "After the complications with Emma and your old Silchester haven, I figured..."

"Mm." Beckett catches on, and he reassures the Seer, stating, "I confess a part of me harboured some resentment, but it rapidly turned into despair when it became clear she wasn't in control. I felt much better after executing Rossellini. Gave me closure. I can only hope her soul is finally at ease." He remembers being blinded by rage. The bloodshed didn't give him catharsis—it was the shame. She wouldn't have been proud of it. "I'm more keen to get a grasp on what's motivated this modern outlook of yours," he changes the topic mostly because he can't bear to see Anatole so guilt-ridden.

As expected, the blonde relaxes. "We are approaching the peak of this cycle of Gehenna. If we are to survive, it is only fair to discard the anchors that weigh us down. It's the little things we take for granted," Anatole propounds as he peers straight at Beckett. "Besides," he adds, "I hear you need a new chauffeur." He stresses this with solidarity, but to Beckett, Cesare was an exception. It all felt tactless to some degree, but that's how he regards the concept of ghouls in general. The pilot probably thanked death for freeing him from the bond.

Beckett stares out the car window and spots the restaurants and breweries as they pass by. There's something surreal about the liveliness of these streets, so candid and flippant, from the array of mom-and-pop shops and local businesses to the cabaret with a glimmering sign that's taller than the taquería behind it. Despite the reputation of this side of Seattle, there's a lot of colour. It's in the murals, it's in the poster advertisem*nts in Spanish pasted outside grocery shops, and it's on the tyre shop and storage billboards that stand tall down the road. A few people are still out at midnight, whether they're sex workers or residents trying to get back home as the stoplight turns green. Beckett swears he catches a glimpse of a junkie shooting up drugs in the middle of the road.

Minutes pass and the stores thin out, save for a Vietnamese eatery and a rustic café in the process of being built three blocks away. Anatole stops the car in a dirt parking lot next to a depot with two figures standing outside. One's on her phone and the other is keeping guard with his arms crossed as he glares at the vehicle. Truthfully, Beckett wasn't sure if Anatole was taking him on a scenic drive or something else.

"I'm here to talk with the Tiger," declares the prophet as he walks up to the bodyguards. Having a goal in mind works just fine.

"Oh yeah? And who are y— What the—" The one paying attention confronts him, but suddenly his pupils dilate and he loses balance, having to push against the big rusty door behind him. His buddy races to stop him from falling, and she mutters beneath her breath before warily opening it.

"Just go. f*cking freak."

"Much obliged," Beckett responds on his behalf. Meanwhile, his sympathies go out to the groaning man struggling to get up on his own. Anatole simply keeps on walking unimpeded as he elbows his way past groups of Kindred. Or at least that's what he assumes when he sees a group playing cards for what seems to be a betting pool of blood bags and cash atop a cardboard box. There's a makeshift dance floor made from fluorescent spray paint where another group of vampires are located, headbanging to a band playing some of the heaviest metal Beckett's ears have unfortunately heeded.

He just follows the elder right next to him up a flight of stairs next to a set of burn barrels. A few lanterns dot the second floor, casting light against the partitions that insulate the improvised hotspot. The Unbound symbol is etched onto a large back wall in prominent red graffiti that lets everyone know whose turf this belongs to. Some people flaunt their holsters as they notice Beckett and Anatole.

This is the Free State, alright.

Anatole pulls Beckett to a booth where the latter overhears a frantic exchange. "Tell her to shove that invitation up her ass," says a man with short beaded dreads. He pours over what appears to be a letter.

"Okay, sure," replies a woman with a long silk-pressed bob, adjusting her glasses as she types quickly on a laptop. Her nails are short and painted black, and her dark mauve lipstick compliments her sharp features.

"And right below that, hope everything nice for your side. How she think I help her when she didn't lift a finger against those Kuei-Jin sh*ts? And now this wet sock cleaner turned serial killer in my domain?" The man exclaims, crumpling the paper and kicking one of the legs of the table in frustration.

"We got company, Zuhrah," she responds, nodding at the two of them.

"Comot," he spouts as if trying to get them to go away.

"It's the Prophet of Gehenna and the English historian." That makes the man named Zuhrah sigh as he stands from his seat. He's nearing six feet in stature and dark-skinned, wearing an ensemble of a patched jacket, a ribbed tank, leather pants, and combat boots. His thick eyebrows and ears are pierced, and his eyes are grey in colour, wary and guarded. What strikes Beckett the most is that his pupils are vertical slits, similar to his own.

"What you want, Chalé?" He jeers, eyeing both Autarkis with distrust. His hands are in his pockets, and he's more irked than anything.

"I want to speak with the Baron," Anatole answers, giving the Anarch a particular look that disconcerts him. The Anarch’s eyes widen and his eyebrows knit together with apprehension, but he coolly surrenders, as if aware that resisting the notorious Anatole is futile.

"Always them Seers that mess with the plan," Zuhrah scratches the back of his head, gesturing to a repurposed control room with taped windows.

He barks out orders. "Josephine, we move."

The woman immediately closes her laptop to walk past some empty tables and towards the door, holding it open and ensuring no one is tailing them. Beckett's about to canvas what exactly he and Anatole are here to do, but Anatole just discreetly squeezes his hand as if to tell him to shut up and play along. It's unfair how much that flusters him.

"Again, obroni." Zuhrah leans against the control panel, angling his head towards Josephine as if to signal her, demanding, "What. You. Want?"

Josephine goes to the windows and tugs on the string cords to let the installed blinds lower for some extra privacy. Then she switches the lights on, dim and golden, before sitting down on the couch beside him and reopening her laptop, the sound of her fingers clacking on the keyboard irritating Anatole as he frowns.

The twist finally clicks for Beckett. His landlord, Dale, had signed off on his lease, chatting with him while slurping blood from the straw of a repurposed lidded styrofoam soda cup as he rambled about Seattle's power players. "So no one really knows who the Baron is, but obviously they gotta exist. And, like, no offence, but no one's found the dude since he... or she, you know, popped up in Aurora back in the late nineties.”

Then, as if he’s changed his mind, he swishes the cup distractedly to say, “Though I hear you're like, a mega nerd, so you might have more success with that. I do know they work through lieutenants, as militaristic as that is, but that whole fiasco's none of my business... Look, if one thing's for sure, it's that the Baron loves money more than my nan loves Hanukkah. Gotta build up your domain somehow." Dale was actually just talking to him, rather than talking with him.

"Clever, posing as one of your own underlings," Beckett hazards a guess, and when Zuhrah doesn't deny it, he petitions, "I'd appreciate it if you returned those assets. I've been made to understand that you're not lacking in capital, so it'd be a painless transaction."

"So it was you who stole it, ooo," The Baron of Aurora acts surprised but then goes on to explain with a heavy accent, "I got an asset. Some of the boys had to clean up your mess, yanno, before Prince Prissypants' bunch came in for inspeck-tion," he addresses Beckett. "All we found was that 24-karat finery, right outside the complex." Beckett clocks the shape of his hands, observing how his fingers extend like talons as they grip the board behind him.

"Hmmm, okay." Zuhrah scratches the bottom of his chin in thought, "I could just cut a big check from Ms. Ankhe... But, I could also cut a deal with you. Big offer. Just one thing, priest."

"Mm," reacts Anatole with what sounds like slight interest.

"Curieux. J'ai pensé que vous ne parlez plus," Zuhrah presses him.

"Oui. Et puis il a décidé de me courtiser et tous étaient bons. Ou du moins j'en ai eu une vision de ça," Anatole remarks as if to confirm what the Baron's alleged.

Then the black vampire seems to lecture him, "Il n'y a pas de bite si bon, prophète."

Anatole counters decorously, "It's not always about the size."

Beckett clears his throat. He's pretty sure he knows what that was about, so he tries to bring the conversation back to the issue at hand. "About the offer. Go on," he asserts, and Anatole concurs with a squint.

"Ms. Grand wants me to go to Princeypoo's charity gala as her plus one. Obviously cannot. You step in for me," proposes the Baron. It takes Beckett a second to ascertain that he's referring to the prophet.

"She singled you out by moniker," challenges Beckett, "so she must want to make a statement."

Anatole corroborates this, emphasising, "Eventually, you'll be cracked open, prodded and pickled like a herring. The longer you wait, the longer your torture."

Zuhrah shrugs, acknowledging it, and purports, "Eventually. But it won't be you." He's confident but not co*cky. "So I'll take advantage of you. You did uncover my best-kept secret. Josephine, scratch that email, and tell 'er I send something better. Come back to me with a token of her gratitude and I give it back. If you play Judas, I hunt you down, no matter how many football fields you run under the sun," he denigrates. "Or how much God talks to you in your sleep."

Anatole just chuckles as he and Beckett turn to leave. Out of the corner of his eye, Josephine’s icy glare catches Beckett’s attention, and he can’t help noticing that her smart casual suit clashes with the self-assured chaos of the Baron.

"We're playing all three fronts here, just so you're aware," remarks Beckett as they settle back in the car.

"They're not," quips Anatole as he starts the engine.

-----

One night later, Beckett receives a text from an unknown number. Instead of alarming him, it piques his curiosity.

Josephine here. Here's the address to meet with LG. Baron says to be careful.

The historian has to confess he didn't know what to expect. Most Artisans of Lou Grand's standing tend to be reserved, with the occasional libidinous streak to preserve their attachment to Kine. Her manor, the rendezvous, is on Millionaire's Row, a setting so applicable for an individual so closely tied to the foundation of the city. It's a wonder of Gothic revival with gabled roofs and finials galore, and some lancet windows on the side that scream elegance and splendour. The property is fenced off, but the gate is unlocked upon his and Anatole's arrival.

Their footsteps are loud against the paved brick walkway, but Beckett still hears muffled voices gossiping from within the residence. The path leads to an ornate front door with accented panels that gleam in the moonlight, and Anatole knocks on it firmly, but his forced uptight demeanour betrays stifled words that have Beckett rushing to get them out of him. "What is it?" He pries with urgency, but the prophet is silent as the door is opened by a man who’s likely Grand's butler if his attire and gelled black hair are anything to go by.

The butler must be Kine, given his rosy skin and blood fragrant with the unmistakable vitae of the distinguished Toreador patroness. "Ah, Mr. Anatole. The madam's been expecting you. And Mr. Beckett, your presence is... not unwelcome."

Beckett knows that’s posh-speak for 'you weren't invited'. The butler gestures towards the interior of the mansion, extending his hand behind him in a show of courtesy as he smiles amiably.

"We're not sold separately," Anatole utters at last, satisfying a selfish urge in Beckett that he hadn’t known existed until now. It's fleeting, however, because as soon as they step into the foyer, Beckett realises that the voices are not snippets of conversation but moans.

There are people, vampire and human alike, f*cking on nearly every surface available. Some are fully dressed and some only half. Regardless, clothes are scattered all over the luxurious burgundy runner and the glazed porcelain floor all the same, explaining Anatole's uneasiness.

"Miss Grand awaits at the balcony," the servant announces, and he's more than grateful to ignore the orgy. He walks up a grand staircase that's been polished to perfection, spotless and glossy as if recently cleaned. As soon as he's gone from their vicinity, Beckett turns to accost Anatole with disbelief.

"You knew this would happen," he accuses, volume barely at a whisper.

"I foresaw vulgarities, not pure perversion," refutes the prophet, and his trepidation makes Beckett sigh with trust that he's being earnest. "At least they're enjoying themselves," Anatole contends with a pout.

"And one another, I suppose," Beckett contributes benignly, but it earns him a look of disdain from his blonde counterpart that riles him up so much he has to defend himself, "Oh, so it's not exactly lascivious to be witness to a room full of people shagging, but when I comment on it, it's a bloody blasphemy."

Anatole just pushes him to trail behind the butler. Near the top of the steps, Beckett feels a stranger's eyes watch him from afar. He twists briefly to peek behind him, and he perceives the shape of a woman with an updo darting through the shadows.

The attendant guides them through a hallway with golden busts and display tables made of hand-carved wood; the chandeliers above them seem to touch the sky, opulent and candle-lit. The carpet they walk across is woven so thoroughly and meticulously, illustrating the image of the priestess Cassandra in front of the burning city of Troy. Her city, her prophecies—their destruction. Beckett glances at Anatole, and he's looking right back at him with the same disquietude.

At last, the steward opens another set of ornate doors to the mezzanine that hovers over the foyer. Inside is the woman with the updo, a brunette wearing a red strapless co*cktail dress that accentuates her curvy figure and a black bolero for some modesty. Her dress is fastened by a flower brooch made of diamonds and pearls. What's more, she wears diamond drop earrings and three sets of pearl necklaces, fancy but somehow classy, mostly because the rest of her décor is far more ostentatious than she is. She holds a wine glass of blood in one hand.

"Kine." Her voice is smooth like butter and impassioned like a Broadway actress. "You promise them a taste of your blood, and they'll do anything you ask of them," she delivers while observing the tangled bodies absent-mindedly, her fingers gliding over the rim of a bejewelled pitcher. Then she pivots and simpers at Anatole, laughing with glee as she celebrates, "When The Baron said they'd send something better, this was certainly not what I envisioned. It's even better." She outstretches her hand toward him, wagging it as if to beseech him.

Much to Beckett's chagrin, Anatole takes it and kisses her signet ring. It delights her colossally. "And this is what you asked of them?" He alludes to the carnal demonstration.

"No. I asked them to show me their greatest desires. What happened next was of their own accord," Grand boasts, yanking her hand away. "You'll have met Francis over there," she points to her butler while tracing the carafe on the cart. Francis gives a bow of his head, and then the Toreador resumes, "But you're not here for niceties and civility. I'll be frank, I wanted to dig that Baron out of his Anarch-shaped hiding hole, but you'll do fine, Harbinger. Just fine."

She snaps twice, and Francis disappears into another room with an obedient nod. "While I was caring for those girls at the Square," and she hoots as if she forgot to clarify, "before it was known as the Square, of course, I knew something would give."

Her butler returns with a tape measure and a notepad. Grand twirls, the click of her heels punctuating each move as she snatches the items and guides Anatole towards her. With brisk efficiency, she takes his measurements, scribbling them down with haste. "It helped to have whor*s dressed like Gibson Girls. It certainly helped when I opened that shop on S Washington Street." She muses aloud, her thoughts trailing off. Then, she makes her intentions clear. "I'm going to make that asshole Cross regret sitting his flat little ass down on my throne. And you're gonna help me," she firmly declares.

"And you suppose the Holy Harbinger is your best bet?" Beckett goads.

"Oh, bold of you to assume he's the only trick up my sleeve. Still, it shouldn't be a problem, right?" She puckers her lips, taunting him, and then she quarrels, "It's not like he's a taken man. Aren't you hitched to God, prophet?"

Anatole stays quiet. He stays quiet, and Lou Grand dangles that over his head. "Must be pretty desperate if you're willing to play Jyhad. I like you like this." She flicks his chin, and his nose scrunches in revulsion.

Beckett's fists tighten, claws digging into his skin. But then the Seer chirps, "He's coming with. It's non-negotiable."

"I'm only allowed a plus-one," she protests.

"Play or no play?" Anatole provokes, smirking at her as he inches closer to the historian. It's incredibly tempting, even though Beckett would rather not participate. His landlord sounds like better entertainment.

"...Have it your way. Quid pro quo," Grand yields, and she swiftly takes Beckett's measurements and shoos them as she instructs, "The suits will be ready by tomorrow. Come with your companion to this manor as soon as the sun sets in two nights. Don't stand me up. You'll break my heart." She leers at Beckett but in a 'it's-your-responsibility-to-make-sure-he-shows-up' type of way. The number of threatening stares that Beckett's received since his arrival in Seattle should entitle him to a discount on long overdue psychiatric treatment. It's worthless, though, because Beckett's bound to comply out of necessity. So come the woes of Kindred politics.

As the pair depart from the manor, scrupulously avoiding the exhibitionist mess by the entry, Beckett notices that Anatole is stiff again. He opts to give him space, but the Malkavian airs out his grievances. "I did something akin to what she did."

Beckett misinterprets it, having trouble rationalising that possibility, but then he remembers their altercation in Paris and how it so disastrously cascaded to that painful decade of solitude. He’s aching to comfort him. He's not too good at that if his previous attempts are any indication.

Beckett takes a breath, ready to blunder it, but Anatole says, "I'm sorry." It leaves Beckett at a loss for words, and all he can do is regard that dejected look with ambivalence, powerless and uncertain.

-----

They spend the following night deciphering some more of Petrodon's pseudo-memoir, and Beckett learns that the sculptor Leopold was in league with his sire, a Tremere antitribu named Nickolai, who ended up delivering the killing blow to the Justicar. This was the same sculptor who had slaughtered an entire group of Gangrel in New York in his fixated search for Victoria Ash, empowered by a relic known as the Eye of Hazimel. Nickolai's manipulations were just the tip of the iceberg, given the Sabbat's inopportune revival in the city.

He also learns that Anatole does not know how to waltz, which brings them to their current predicament. Beckett is trying to teach him some basic steps to a gramophone record—waltz he can do, not dubstep—but Anatole is just gawping at him dumbfoundedly. "Not the best coordination, as you know. The centuries haven't been kind to me."

"You fought in the Crusades," Beckett calls out, but the older vampire just scoffs.

"What part of centuries don't you understand, you buffoon?" He whines, and the historian cannot resist the urge to guffaw. He bites the bullet and moseys over to where Anatole is standing against the living room wall of his haven.

"Here. I'll be Grand. Just mirror me, hm?" Beckett takes one of Anatole's hands and places it on his waist, delicately resting his own on Anatole’s shoulder. Then he lifts the other hand into the air slightly, beginning to sway as their bodies press closer to each other. The air between them gets warmer despite their inability to generate body heat.

He encourages the other man's efforts, stating, "Yes. You're making triangles with your feet. And you'll be leading, so you set the pace to the music..." Their noses are almost touching now. Anatole's staring at him as if there's something at the tip of his tongue, soft and tender, but he wusses out of it. Beckett's not sure why. Instead, he notes that Anatole's hand has lowered from his waist, likely by accident. "I'm sure she'll be pleased by your, ahem, zeal," he teases.

Anatole gasps and flees to the couch much like a feral stray cat, covering his face in mortification. "It's almost dawn. Thank you very much for your help. I'll continue practising in my dreams. No, no I won't." Beckett grins as he saunters over to his bedroom.

—--

Another night passes. By then the prophet no longer has two left feet. They're both walking to a parking lot a few minutes away from Beckett's apartment, which Dale insisted on with a scold, blathering, "I mean, c'mon, man, aren't you guys like super old? Better safe than sorry, because I'm telling you I'm not paying for any 'ambush' damage fees. Not my circus, not my monkeys. Also, can you maybe tell me my future if I pay you? I'd like to know if I'll get those 5-star draws on my gacha game."

Beckett doesn't mind. There's an appeal to walking the town with the oracle of doom. Anatole might be well-adjusted for an elder, but most of his detour into Washington had been spent nursing after Beckett, so he's still acquainting himself with these streets. He tells Beckett of the soap debacle at the local corner shop, where he was exclusively called gringo until he asked for a bar of laundry soap in flawless Spanish. Suddenly, a dozen packages of pink Zote soap he found stashed in one of his kitchen cabinets make perfect sense.

"Now if only there was a convenience store for vitae," bids Anatole.

"I believe that is the blood bank, but your little 'accident' has left you banned from the nearest one's premises," Beckett remarks with a raised eyebrow.

"He was trying to show me a 'good time,' so I could only reciprocate in kind. He'll come around eventually," Anatole maintains with a 'hmph.' "The DMV clerk was worse, requesting that I take a drug test on the grounds that I resembled a 'co*ked-up Mormon,' as paradoxical as that may be."

"Reckon it's not the lifelessness that's holding you back, then," Beckett says as he opens the door to the driver's seat for the prophet, joking, "you do have a penchant for some... eccentric fashion choices." He pats the cross design on the front of Anatole's shirt. The prophet huffs in fake offence, but there's a hint of a smile upon entering the vehicle.

Not for the first time in their centuries-long friendship, Beckett considers that if he can be the reason for Anatole's happiness, then perhaps unlife is not so bad after all.

Once they reach Grand's manor, the historian has to check on the prophet, understanding that they would rather not encounter another case of unsolicited lechery, despite it being fairly tame in their collection of shared experiences. "No pure perversion?" He asks bluntly.

Anatole replies with a wince, stipulating, "No. It was a show of power in bad taste."

True to his word, all that awaits them on the other side of the front door is a very impatient Lou Grand, who practically throws them into the living room with a fuss. She leads them past an archway where her butler bears a silver tray carrying a half-empty flask of vitae, and into a massive lounge adorned with numerous portraits and still-life paintings in gold frames. The Toreador herself wears a black satin dress with delicate pearl straps tapering into a sweetheart neckline that shows off her cleavage. The skirt of the gown is nearly endless, corseted at the waist but long and dragging on the floor.

Grand has to pick it up as she walks to a chaise, flaunting her steep red-bottom heels while she drapes herself gracefully on the furniture. Her hair is braided, clipped and rung into a crown, and her hazel eyes are brought out by her dark eyeshadow and ruby-red lipstick. There's a classic beauty about her, effortless as much as it is rehearsed. She breathes and bleeds money, living in it to the utmost degree.

"I don't have all day, gentlemen," Grand complains. With a nod to Francis, he sets down the plate on the end table beside her before disappearing into another room. He returns promptly with two maids, each of whom hands the Kindred a garment bag and a box of shoes.

After this, they station themselves on either side of the restless woman. "There are restrooms going down both hallways. Hurry up," she ordains, so fidgety and terse that neither man dares defy her.

Beckett takes the left hall and ends up in a bathroom almost twice the size of his bedroom with crystalline mirrors that take up a whole wall. Sidetracked by the clarity of his reflection, he nearly trips over the clawfoot bathtub in the centre of the room but manages to balance himself on the oak bench a few feet away from the marble sinks.

Nearby is a walk-in shower with a clothing rack attached. Beckett hangs the bag and sets the shoebox down on the counter. He unzips the bag, revealing a tailored dinner jacket.

It's quite beautiful, made of soft cloth with a subtle charcoal lustre. Beckett takes it off the hanger, finding an ironed dress shirt and a pair of slim-fit pants. They all fit perfectly, which comes as no surprise. The jacket fits snugly around his torso, the pants break slightly over his heels, and the half-brogues he's been given also add a touch of flair, reflecting Grand's affinity for timelessness. He swiftly laces the shoes, buttons up the suit jacket, and ties the bowtie with ease despite not having worn such formal attire since the late 19th century. For him, it’s all a matter of muscle memory.

Though not insecure, Beckett feels he probably doesn’t meet a Toreador's stringent standards of attractiveness. They are hard to please, with their obsessions with aesthetics and all. However, Beckett believes that if his sire had been the kind of individual consumed by beauty, it would be the kind rooted in wisdom. Maybe that's his secret strength. He can dress up all he wants, but at his core, he's just another man trying to find the truth behind his condition. He's one of few who has survived in the search.

He steps out of the bathroom and makes his way back to the living room, where he tunes in to another session of Grand's reveries.

"Barathea, of course, only the finest quality. A pain to import, yes, but so worth it. And these lapels, gotta show them off, so your hair must not be in the way," she rambles while putting pomade in Anatole's tresses.

It’s safe to say Lou Grand had good reason to accept the Prophet of Gehenna as her cohort. He's a sight to behold, lithe in luxurious fabrics. The lines of his body are incredibly enticing: his lean legs are flattered by the fit of his pants, his shoulders and arms are strong and prominent in the sleeves of the jacket, and his small waist is accentuated by a matching vest with silver buttons. Looking at him reminds Beckett that Anatole was embraced at the peak of his youth, a man with defined features, handsome and sublime. His allure is further enhanced by the way Grand styles his hair, tied loosely in a low bun and sleek from the gel that keeps it from his face.

Anatole's eyes dart fretfully between Grand and Beckett, worried that he looks foolish. But to Beckett, he’s never seen anyone more divine.

"There," Grand says as she hands the balm to one of the maids. She inspects her work like an art critic at an exposition. With a hum, she turns towards the entry and states, "We've dawdled enough. My driver Scott's waiting for us outside." She starts walking, followed by her household staff, leaving the two Kindred alone in the room, enwrapped by another wave of silence.

"Dare I say you look sane?" Beckett smirks, though he tries to conceal what he'd say if he was a braver man.

"Only if you want that book of yours to burn to a crisp," Anatole sasses, then smiles. "You clean up well," he compliments, strolling outside with Beckett in tow.

Grand stands beside a saloon limousine, vintage yet functional, and Anatole walks up to open the door for her. Beckett settles into the passenger seat once more, as if it were his destiny. Once all three Kindred are seated, Grand's chauffeur drives off, beginning their journey from Capitol Hill to Downtown Seattle.

Grand informs them of the details of Prince Cross' fundraising event with unparalleled vitriol. Beckett is made aware of the very important facets of this gala; first, it's Cross' strategy to strengthen his ties with various companies in the technology sector, leveraging his reputation as an investment titan. These companies include start-ups and national corporations, but the ball’s spotlight is on a thriving small industry that has innovated prosthetics to be more 'affordable'—ideally accessible to the average Washington resident.

Secondly, the event takes place at a landmark hotel, where the Prince has reserved nearly half of the available event space for roughly three hundred guests. It wouldn't be a proper Camarilla party without its trademark excess and expense.

The last point Lou Grand makes is troubling, to say the least: Cross is holding the event with Kine.

"That imbecile wants to toy with the Masquerade, tiptoeing the line between us and them. It goes against all of the Traditions! He's rubbing it in; that company was my project, and he wants to go and pretend that he's been the head sponsor all along!" Lou Grand fumes, her anger redirected towards the flow of her blood, giving her a soft blush as she breathes slowly.

Beckett suspects it's more along the lines of a covert power play; Cross aims to bolster his princedom by demonstrating that he can uphold the Masquerade while improving relations with humans. He wants to have his cake and eat it too. It's a shrewd strategy in theory, capable of swaying a few ancillae who doubt whether elders can adapt to the modern world. However, it's ultimately futile, especially for those so disconnected from their humanity.

"I hope you've taken the proper precautions," Grand tells Beckett as they approach the venue.

In response, Beckett nods. It's strange to feel the skin beneath his nails now that they've been clipped, but his claws are only useful in combat, not for interacting with Kine. Luckily for Beckett, he views Kindred stasis as a perk, as a chance for a nightly reset, a second opportunity.

Anatole's blood bank escapade ended up worthwhile, Beckett thinks as he readjusts his glasses. He abides by Grand's counsel, commanding his blood to restore a semblance of life to his appearance, a temporary mortality flush anew.

The car comes to a halt outside the main entrance of the hotel. As Beckett steps out onto the road, the building towers over him—a masterpiece of Renaissance architecture with its symmetry and imposing columns, standing out at the street-to-avenue intersection. While not the tallest building in the area, it contrasts sharply with the surrounding hub of skyscrapers and attractions. Seattle, it seems, is running out of room, pushing against its boundaries one way or another.

However, none of this concerns Beckett. His objectives are clear: survive the night, secure tangible evidence of Grand's praise for his company, and bargain with The Baron to ensure another one of his valuables remains safe and accessible, all so that he can get a good day’s sleep. He's slowly but surely making progress on the first goal, watching as Anatole opens the door for Grand. He extends her hand to her like a true bloody gentleman, and she grabs it coyly, flashing a cunning grin in Beckett's direction. He waits for them to lead the way, determined to endure whatever charade she's playing if it means she'll stop flaunting it in his face.

As the three Kindred stroll into the lobby,Beckett thinks he's made considerable progress catching up with the aspects of Kine 'culture' he missed out on for three hundred years. Yet, it’s evident that he hasn't seen everything.

The building is a marvel, alright. It’s an art deco wonderland with maximalist tiles, lush plants, futuristic consoles, abstract paintings, velour and duvetyne couches, and an abundance of ornaments and displays that overwhelm the senses. Across the reception stands an oval bar bustling with gala attendees who are dressed to the nines, juxtaposed with hotel guests who stick out amidst the sparkly dresses and bespoke suits. Beckett takes in the reliefs carved into the ledges of the mezzanine above, Greek-inspired sculptures tucked into low spaces amidst the sensory onslaught.

Grand escorts them up a staircase to a smaller yet equally opulent foyer. Panelled walls and tall windows give the room an expansive feel, heightened by its relative quiet compared to the bustling lobby.

They're barred from entering another room by a pair of bodyguards, sharply dressed and serious yet polite. "Invitation, please," one requests, and Grand presents it to her at once.

When the other bodyguard scans Beckett suspiciously, the patroness scoffs, clarifying, "My security detail. Trust me, he's here to do his job, no?"

As she beams at him slyly, expectant and almost nagging, Beckett feels his teeth grind, but all he can manage is, "Yes, ma'am," with a reserved smile. That, coupled with a palpable energy in the air, convinces the ushers to part ways and let them in without further delay.

The ballroom is frankly magnificent. It's every Ventrue and Toreador's wet dream served on a silver platter, exuding a flavour of Spanish neoclassical architecture that brims with aristocratic pride in the wicked past. The pillars jutting from the walls are grand and adorned with gold accents, while the floor boasts a geometric design overlaid with Victorian damasks, all gleaming under a lacquered finish.

There are a lot of guests, most gathered by the draped tables, engaged in conversations about their portfolios and the successes and failures of their latest investments as they drink. It all feels painfully drab.

Grand is practically bouncing with excitement, hauling Anatole along by the arm. Beckett observes Anatole’s expression—a mix of worry and calamity, obvious in his hesitant movements. Grand stops at a table, suddenly snatching a co*cktail from a passing waiter, who grips his tray tightly to prevent other drinks from spilling. He doesn't dare look her in the eye, though, wary of her fierce determination. She is about to seat herself when a voice from behind interrupts their proceedings.

"Grand?"

It's none other than the Prince himself, momentarily breaking away from socialising to acknowledge her. He's impeccably dressed in a smart and classy manner, distinguishing himself with a fitted navy blue ensemble that emphasises his authoritative aura. Less pale than usual, his complexion appears ruddy beneath the crystal chandeliers. At his side stands his Sheriff, silent but ever so present with his arms held behind his back. Beckett notices Grand shooting a glare at the Sheriff before turning her attention back to Cross.

"Oh, Alec, what a pleasure it is to see you," Grand laughs loudly, and Beckett spots a twitch in the Prince's eye as her boisterous greeting captures the attention of the Kine beside him.

"I see you're here with... interesting company," Cross remarks, tipping his head and pursing his lips as he nods towards Beckett. His gaze then shifts to Anatole, who Grand has pushed forward a bit as she hums in delight.

"Yes. This is my... business partner, Anatole. A right ace at predicting... the market, yes," she swiftly improvises. She glances at Anatole, squeezing his arm until he winces.

Anatole blurts out, "The bull has wings, but only as the bear must briefly stew," with a forced smile.

Grand clears her throat awkwardly.

"That's what I've been saying, my friend!" Exclaims a man as he drinks his champagne, shaking Anatole's hand. "Every time someone asks me about cryptic currency, I tell them to invest in this new coin called wings. Can't go wrong with it."

This makes Beckett raise a brow. He's never heard of this 'cryptic currency,' and it sounds ridiculous.

"If you're interested in other ventures, Miss Grand, you and your associate are always welcome for a coffee," he broaches.

The astute Toreador bids farewell as she glides away. "I'll be sure to consider it dutifully, Haynes. Good to see you, gentlemen." Then, her attention shifts to the other side of the room, where a man and a woman appear to be observing her intently. Beckett follows along as they all converge, and it's the other woman who speaks first.

"Lou, it's been a minute. Nice to meet you, Mr. Beckett... and..."

She looks at Anatole warily, her nude lips puckering as she licks her teeth in contempt. Crossing her arms daintily, the sheer sleeves of her dress shimmer as she sips on a glass of pinot grigio. Beckett judges from the half-full bottle on her table that she's struggling to swallow it without throwing up.

"Yes, it's the f*cking priest,” Grand clarifies. “Lola, Nathan. How's this sh*tshow excuse of a party going?" She clasps her hands as Nathan approaches, sighing dramatically.

"I've seen about twenty Kindred who've had to excuse themselves to the bathroom, and it’s not even nine o’clock yet." Nathan takes a sip from his martini and runs a hand through his coiffed brown hair. "All superfluous, Grand, and you know it. Cross failed to hook Jackson, but he's still got Kumar in his pocket and God knows how many other CEOs creaming at his bills." He then smirks at Anatole mockingly, "Back from the dead again, are we?"

Beckett is on the verge of pestling him into the floor, Masquerade be damned, but Anatole just clicks his tongue, unfazed. "All flesh, no soul," Anatole retorts with snark, blue eyes drilling into Nathan ruthlessly. The brunette responds with a low hiss, his fangs briefly flashing from his teeth, prompting Grand to hush them vehemently.

"Stop fighting, you fools," she snarls, then adds sharply, "You're both elders, so start acting like it!"

There's the sound of clapping as she speaks, accompanied by the incessant screech of a microphone's feedback as it's adjusted on a stand.

Grand looks at the two Kindred in front of her with camaraderie, leaving Beckett and Anatole to watch as she declares, "We made this city, and we will never let anyone, and I mean anyone, forget that."

Lola inclines her head to the side, trying to ignore her, but eventually nods in reluctant agreement. Nathan follows suit.

"Watch," Grand commands as she strides back to her table. Anatole pulls a chair out for her, and she gestures to the stage, which Beckett surveys as she takes her seat.

"Today, we celebrate not just the achievements we've made thus far, but the advancement of prosthetics as a whole," soliloquies an Indian man, drink in his hand. He grins from ear to ear, and the crowd of well-dressed executives cheers as he takes a sip from his glass.

"We've come a long way from wooden toes and iron hands," he jokes, prompting scattered laughter as he smiles triumphantly. "For this, I have to give my gratitude to Mr. Cross, our leading investor." Applause follows as the Prince raises his glass in amity. "Without you, our latest carbon fibre model would not have come to fruition."

"But... I can never, ever, ever forget to thank the woman who got it all started. Ms. Grand," the host gestures to her, looking at her with appreciation. "You gave us the green light, the funds to start... and hey, you got our bill to Congress!" The crowd erupts in applause, and Grand revels in the moment, standing up and blowing a kiss from across the room.

"Tonight we honour a little bit of ballroom tradition, bringing back a blast from the past with the help of our ensemble here. I'm Ishan Kumar, founder and CEO of Arms Up United. Thank you all again for attending the Arms Up Charity Gala!" Mr. Kumar waves graciously, stepping away from the stage to a standing ovation.

Grand remains standing, inhaling deeply with rapt satisfaction. "A little Presence goes a long way," she remarks, and with a tug on Anatole's sleeve, she declares enthusiastically, "Come. I want to dance."

Anatole is pulled away, shooting Beckett a side-eye that makes Beckett laugh at his predicament.

Beckett sits down, his focus on Anatole even as other guests gather on the dance floor. Anatole begins awkwardly and reserved, his mind adjusting to the decorum of the occasion. Grand sneers momentarily, prompting him to take charge. He starts leading with an unforeseen mastery of the art, a skill honed back at Beckett's haven. There's a fluidity to his movements as he spins Grand to a lively waltz, set to a jaunty tempo of dulcet strings and a piano. Grand radiates bliss, matching each of his gracious movements.

Suddenly, a familiar voice calls out from the other side of the table. "Hey stranger."

Beckett turns to see Elif Parmak taking the seat of a chair apart from him. She's dressed in a dark indigo trumpet dress with an off-the-shoulder number that accentuates the prominence of her collarbones and long neck, a svelte figure sitting upright as she flags down a server for some refreshments.

"I'll take an aviation, but substitute the crème de violette for crème Yvette, and add an extra squeeze of lemon juice, if you'd be so kind." She glances between Beckett and Anatole then lets out a giddy whoop.

"So that's what makes you tick. You're just eating him up like communion," she teases, resting her chin on her hand. Her eyes, instead of a glowing purple, are a subdued midnight blue, blinking at him expectantly.

"I'd prefer that you stay away from my personal affairs," Beckett says, deflecting the question candidly. Changing the topic, he asks somewhat arrogantly, "Where's your chaperone, Ms. Parmak?"

"Ha, ha. Funny," Elif glares at him, but he waits patiently. She scoffs before tilting her head towards the left side of the room, where Viktor Goga fraternises with a group of Kine. He's stubbled, hair neatly combed but without product, adjusting his glasses over his amber eyes as he converses.

"He's always thinking about networking, so I guess I'm off my leash. Sorry," Elif sulks, echoing Beckett's earlier inquiry.

Seconds go by and Beckett doesn't say anything, which leaves Elif to tap at the table incessantly. She gets bored of it quickly, though, and she makes a bold pitch. "You never danced in my club. Show me those moves and I'll call us even," she extols, and it's either that or sit and brood miserably, so Beckett stands up and offers his hand.

"Milady," he rolls his eyes when she giggles, appeased. But when she joins him, he gently walks her to the dance floor.

Beckett wishes this wasn't his return to the etiquette of the Regency era, but he prefers this to playing a bodyguard without a mission. He leads proficiently, counting in his head and syncing his movements: one, two, three, one, two, three. As much as he detests the spectacle of court, de Laurent taught Beckett that a thorough education would at least impress in some circles, including music theory and its real-world applications.

"So prim and proper," Elif comments as he places his hand against her back rather than on her waist, but Beckett makes no move to change it. "How was your little field trip?"

"Oh, brilliant. The destination I was bestowed had a lovely view, and I especially valued the part where I had to wrangle the animals that escaped their enclosures," Beckett's other hand tenses as he explains sarcastically. "Were you aware the gates to their cages had rusty locks?"

"What an accusation!" Elif laughs as Beckett spins her slowly, swaying, "I can neither confirm nor deny. You haven't paid my fee."

"But you said we're even now," Beckett smirks, smug and dismissive as she glares at him again. "I'll tell you this: odds are your Regent's aspirations are as big as you fear. Your misfortune is that he's willing to discard you if it ensures his victory, because he's not the only claimant to the throne."

"What do you—"

Beckett doesn't hear the rest of it because he's immediately alerted by Anatole dashing out of the ballroom, hand trembling over his face.

"Pardon me," Beckett murmurs, rushing after him, leaving Elif to mull over his words.

He slows down once he finds Anatole leaning on the balcony opposite the room, outside the foyer. He's picturesque, posed and wistful under the stars. Anatole doesn't react when Beckett approaches, keeping to himself as his jaw tightens in uncertainty.

Beckett opts for direct questioning; no shortcuts or workarounds. He finds it most effective when Anatole tries to be elusive.

"What's wrong?" Beckett asks, resting one arm on the thick balustrade, a polished blackwood platform.

"Imminent disaster. The usual," Anatole replies, though he can’t stop flicking his nails anxiously.

"Certainly more than that," Beckett says, eyebrows furrowing in scepticism. This only earns him a glower from Anatole.

"Do you always have to care?" Anatole sighs, veering abruptly as he paces past the guests in the lobby and onto the mostly empty mezzanine. "Ce n’est pas la mer à boire. Some things are best left unsaid."

"No, no they're not," Beckett insists, chasing after him. He quickly whisks Anatole into one of the vacant meeting rooms, locking the door behind them. "Not between us. Must I remind you it was miscommunication that originally separated us?" He points out, stalwart and unflinching. Anatole finally meets his gaze. Beckett desperately searches for a sign in his eyes, anything, until the pieces slot into place. Jealousy.

"Oh." He walks up to Anatole, trapping him against the executive table in the far corner of the lounge. His hands land with a thud, and Anatole jolts as Beckett leaves little space between their faces.

"Don't," Anatole begs, shying away a bit from the contact, though he makes no effort to push Beckett away.

"Don't what?" Beckett pries tenaciously.

Anatole scowls, indignant and riled up.

"Is it about this?" Beckett asks, pointing to the space—or lack thereof—between them. "Does it run deeper than you thought it would?"

Anatole grits his teeth and tries to retaliate, but all he can manage is an agitated and uncertain exhale. Beckett has never seen him act more human. "How brave of you to point out the obvious, petit loup." He moves closer to Beckett, and their lips are almost touching. "What if what you feel is not the same as what I feel? How do you know that what I want of you isn't what I saw of you?" Anatole shouts sullenly.

His eyes are wide, disheartened and shaken. Every step forward spells disappointment for him even though it hasn't happened yet. It isn't augury or foreboding. Anatole is afraid, filled with trepidation that everything will come crashing down in flames and leave his psyche in ruins.

Beckett grimaces, reluctantly accepting the growing distance between them. Yet, he notices a flicker of regret in Anatole's expression that prompts him to react. He places his hand on Anatole’s chest, feeling his heartbeat racing, a product of Anatole’s mimicry of life. This act helps alleviate some of the doubt from Beckett's shoulders. "You must have faith. Isn’t that the whole point?"

"You still reckon with Fate," Anatole frowns, but Beckett remains steadfast, refusing to let him retreat behind voices and walls.

"I would reckon with Fate and all of its siblings if it meant you would stop being so bloody obtuse. Screw that bloody artefact. I would do anything if you could just be as enticed with the idea of us as I am—" Beckett braces himself as Anatole grabs him by the collar, tense, silent, and defeated.

"You idiot, I am not just enticed, I am consumed! I want you to ruin me, to devour me, to feast on me entirely, and I want to do the same to you. But temptation undoes, Beckett. I do not want to undo you." Anatole professes, tightening his hold on the fabric, wrinkling it, his words brimming with raw honesty. "I know you're not weak. I am. I'm weak when it comes to you. I'm willing to forego destiny for you, to unite my very soul with yours—I could lose you, my blood would sully yours... I can't put you through that..."

Beckett kisses him and shuts him up because he’s speaking nonsense. Anatole stiffens, and Beckett feels the racing of his chest slow down as he melts into the touch, urgent and desperate. With a gentle push, he sits Anatole down on the desk, feeling one of Anatole’s legs wrap around his own while he clings to Beckett's shoulders. They pause, flushed and longing, and Anatole still trembles with uncertainty.

"There are people outside," Anatole breathes out.

Beckett takes off his glasses and places them nearby, gazing at Anatole with determination. "It hardly matters. I'll take my chances and have my way with you regardless."

This time, Anatole seizes the kiss with fervour, and Beckett would have been left breathless if he wasn't already dead. He slips his hands beneath Anatole's dinner jacket, untucking his shirt to grasp Anatole's waist. Anatole shudders, leaning into the touch as Beckett undoes his bowtie, unbuttons his waistcoat and opens his blouse.

Anatole’s physique is toned and well-defined, a testament to his mortal life in service to the Lord. The tiny scars spread across his torso speak of bygone eras, where swords clashed and kingdoms fell.

Beckett tastes his soft lips, trailing kisses along his shivering skin, from his neck and collarbone to his chest and his abdomen. He grazes his fangs over his navel until he reaches Anatole's half-erection. He looks up, requesting to go further. Anatole nods, his gaze reverent.

Beckett unbuttons Anatole's pants and is surprised to find out that he isn’t wearing anything underneath.

Anatole chuckles and plants a gentle kiss on Beckett's cheek. "It's not like it works on its own," he remarks casually.

Beckett is still taken aback, but Anatole dispels his surprise by rubbing his knee against his crotch. Beckett releases a stifled groan as he steadies himself on the table, cursing his fantasies for falling short of reality.

"I can control myself, unlike you," Anatole teases, and Beckett wonders if Anatole realises how his attitude tests Beckett’s restraint. Every fibre of his being yearns to rip these clothes apart and take him right then and there.

Instead, he carefully removes Anatole’s pants and admires his legs, adorned with sock garters that stop just below the knee. The muscles in Anatole’s leg tense as Beckett folds one leg and hooks it over his shoulder, and he’s so captivated by Anatole's provocative allure in formal attire that it has Beckett worshipping his co*ck.

He licks a path up Anatole’s long shaft, causing Anatole to cry out his name. His hands grip Beckett's hair, trying to pull him up from between his thighs.

"Ah! Beckett, stop," he exclaims, sensitive and blushing from the intense sensation. Beckett rises at once, unwilling to cause him any discomfort. Anatole focuses on the bulge in Beckett's pants, pressing his forehead against his as he unzips his fly and slips his hand lower into his boxers. He strokes Beckett lightly, feeling him thick and hard, whileBeckett responds by thrusting into his touch, panting softly.

They look into each other's eyes. It's intimate. It's silent. It's Beckett cupping Anatole's face, and it's Anatole eagerly taking his fingers into his mouth when Beckett touches his lips. He doesn't choke, and he doesn't gag. Beckett's mind runs rampant with perverse thoughts he chooses to save for another night, one where he can privately take him apart to the very depths of his soul.

He withdraws his fingers, slick with saliva, and Anatole instinctively spreads his legs wider, propping himself up on his elbows, enamoured and trustful as he allows himself to be prepared. Anatole hisses slightly at the intrusion, prompting Beckett to pause and press kisses to his neck, nibbling at his Adam's apple until Anatole urges him on with a whisper to his ear, promising to be good for him. Beckett twists his fingers and this time, it produces an audible cry of pleasure.

So he adds another finger, gradually stretching him open, mindful of the friction until all that fills the air is a symphony of arousal spilling from Anatole’s lips. Only then does Beckett take out his fingers, kissing Anatole's sternum fondly in appreciation of his vigour.

Anatole yelps as Beckett withdraws his hand, leaving him empty and desperate. Beckett then aligns himself with his entrance, but remains still, an unspoken plea in his hesitation. He breathes heavily against Anatole's throat, silently asking for the deepest form of affection he could possibly receive.

"You'd be dedicating yourself to me entirely," Anatole warns apprehensively, though his pupils are dilated with yearning, and he digs one heel into Beckett's thigh to pull him closer.

"I'd dedicate my existence to no other," Beckett avows, bolder and surer than ever before. He reckons it’s centuries too late, but he's tired of waiting, and tired of forsaking what could have been if they hadn’t been so daft. He sinks his teeth into Anatole's flesh and buries himself inside of his body. This elicits a sweet, breathy moan from Anatole, who rolls his hips to meet Beckett's thrust, tipping his head back to offer his vitae.

Beckett drinks deeply, savouring the exquisite and rich taste. Not even madness could deter him from indulging in this.

Beckett drinks from Anatole while f*cking him senseless, his eyes burning red and the back of his head tingling as he feeds, ravenous and full of desire. The shared ecstasy of the Kiss intensifies, and Anatole mumbles filthy phrases in French—something about staying like this forever. It makes Beckett's co*ck throb with pride, spurring him on further.

Anatole scratches at his back, signalling his want for more. Beckett is overwhelmed by Anatole's taste, by his body laid out in front of him as he had long wished, and by the tightness that grips him as his shaft drags against Anatole's insides. The lure of the Beast threatens to fully consume him, a terrifying yet addicting sensation as immense ripples of power surge through his blood. But Anatole trusts him, clutching onto him—a reminder that they are here together, in this moment.

It takes a tremendous burst of self-control for Beckett to detach from his neck, licking the wound closed and sucking a large bruise over it. He snaps his hips, quickening the pace,and drinks in Anatole's mewls instead.

“Beckett,” he mutters adoringly, lapping up the blood dribbling from Beckett's chin. Each time he chants his name, it sounds like a prayer. Anatole eagerly kisses Beckett and savours himself on his lips.

Beckett senses Anatole’s hunger as he nips at his tongue, alternating between adjusting the knot of his bowtie and fumbling with his button-up shirt. Beckett assists him, allowing his hands to roam and impatiently pinch his bare skin—they've come this far. Suddenly, Anatole bites down on his shoulder without ceremony, catching Beckett by surprise.

There's a sharp sting followed by a buzzing sensation washing over him, akin to what Beckett imagines drugs must feel like for Kine. The sensation grows heady, and soon Beckett finds himself back in that bubble of euphoria, surrendering to Anatole with rife devotion. He pulls his hair, combing through the pomade and sweat, and positions himself to stimulate his prostate. Anatole cries out, pulling back only to bite Beckett again, but another thrust causes his back to arch and his head to slump against the table. Beckett cushions his head with one hand to soften the impact. With his other hand, he pins Anatole down as the pleasure coils deep in his stomach. "I'm close, love," he mumbles into Anatole's neck, slowing his pace.

Anatole nods frantically, pulling Beckett closer to whisper in short, breathless gasps, "Don't stop, please, right there."

Beckett, frustrated with himself for not acting sooner, complies, mesmerised by how Anatole moves against him as though they aren’t entirely connected where it matters most.

Anatole screams obscenely as he climaxes, the sound etching itself into Beckett's memory, aroused by the thought that only he can bring Anatole to such a raw state. Anatole shudders from overstimulation, and Beckett considers pulling out, but Anatole tightens around him possessively, growling and taking him so well that Beckett releases inside him with a grunt. He feels Anatole's nails scrape into his back, leaving marks.

As Anatole catches his breath, exhausted, Beckett watches his chest rise and fall. He gently wipes the sweat from Anatole’s face, then realises the aftermath of their encounter. Beckett slips out of Anatole and tucks himself back into his pants. He leans down to kiss Anatole’s thigh tenderly, then proceeds to clean him up without hesitation.

"No, you bastard—!" Anatole complains, but he lifts his hips and lets out a weak moan, powerless as Beckett moves up from his arse to lick at his stomach, splattered with seed.

"You're crazy," he says, which causes Beckett to laugh softly as he lazily kisses him, refusing to let him go. Beckett tastes the sweetness of his vitae on Anatole’s tongue, and he lifts Anatole’s chin so that he can savour it better.

They remain tangled until Beckett suddenly remembers that they're in a meeting room at a bloody 4-star hotel. Unsure of how much time has passed, but certain it hasn’t been long considering the event is slated to end at midnight, Beckett picks Anatole's pants from the carpet and helps him get dressed. He lifts Anatole to his feet, feeling his gaze as he does so.

"Better?" He asks, tying his bowtie as Anatole buttons up his shirt.

"Mm," Anatole murmurs in agreement, but his eyes betray a hint of uncertainty. He hands Beckett his glasses and flattens the wrinkles of his waistcoat in silence.

"We just shagged at a gala," Beckett points out bluntly as if stating the obvious. Anatole just rolls his eyes in response.

"That's not it," he reassures, gently stroking Beckett's cheek. "There was something else. It started when we set foot into the ballroom, and it persists even now." Anatole smooths his hair and ties it back, fixing it after it had come loose during their encounter. When he’s finished, he pulls Beckett in for another kiss, slow and affectionate. Beckett hums contentedly despite feeling his thirst increase from the exertion.

Leaving the room, they descend the stairs and re-enter the salon. There are more guests than before, and the festivities show no sign of stopping. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, but Beckett senses that there is more to Anatole's concern than meets the eye. Returning to their table, Grand and Elif gossip quietly, and Elif is the first to notice their return as she takes a sip from her drink.

"Speaking of," Elif chimes in, her smirk curious as she eyes Anatole. He moves to cover his neck with his palm, failing to be discreet.

Grand turns around in her seat with a scoff. "There you are," she sneers, pushing her chair back as she stands. "Cross wants a dance, so I'm going over there to find out what he wants. After that, we leave, as I have other business to attend to," she declares, striding off to where the Prince congregates with another group of tycoons, all merry from the wine.

"Mr. Anatole, I believe we haven’t been properly introduced," Elif says, extending her hand. Anatole, ever the gentleman, cordially pecks it. Beckett, feeling a pang of jealousy now that he and Anatole have consummated their union, manages to compose himself only because of their recent desk encounter.

"A pity that your chains return to imprison you," Anatole remarks just as Viktor Goga approaches and places a hand around Elif’s waist.

"Hey, we gotta go," Goga smiles, though strained, catching Elif off guard.

"We just got here," she protests, but Goga doesn't relent. He sighs, reluctant to discuss further in front of Beckett and Anatole, giving the two a vague glance.

"Yeah, but something came up back at the Chantry," he explains, but it’s clear he’s not telling the whole truth. Elif concedes nonetheless, taking his hand as they excuse themselves from the venue.

"Interesting," Beckett comments, turning his attention back to Anatole, who fidgets with his collar while keeping watch on the pair. "Are we still worried about that imminent disaster?"

"I believe Miss Grand just set it in stone by waltzing with Prince Cross," Anatole cringes. Just then, a scream pierces the air from the middle of the dance floor. A Kindred publicly feeds from an attendee, swiftly rendering him unconscious. Blood spills onto the floor, and Beckett glimpses a bullet from a guard’s pistol before things descend into chaos.