Post by kadenkeene on Nov 13, 2006 19:57:35 GMT -5
Van Hessler scurried past the guard, a bundle of parchment tucked under his arm. He checked his watch, and gasped at his miserable time management. Again, he touched the parchment rolls, just to be sure he hadn't dropped any. Van had a habit of forgetting things, but if there was ever a time when that habit would not be acceptable, it would be now.
Beyond the guards, a large oaken door stood solemnly between Van and the chamber. The hall in the meantime was plain, nearly colorless. There was a soft echo as Van's heels fell to the tile. There were no guards here, and Van thought that perhaps this added to the fatal feel of the hall. The sole decoration was on the door; an inscription, a signet of sorts. A lion, stood high on its hinds, paws ripping forward.
Van knocked lightly, and slowly pushed the door open.
Inside, the scene was vastly different; the walls were adorned with marvelous tapestries and fine oil paintings. The carpet was a fine red, and above it a grand table that took most up most of the room's impressive real estate.
There were a few men at this large table, mostly seated near the head which stood what seemed to Van to be miles away. The clean cut men who had been speaking among themselves all fell silent as Van entered, and directed their glares to the young man. He felt shadows on him, suddenly, and his hand shook as he held the parchments in front of him. They nodded approvingly, then looked back to the one at the head of the table. He was different...
Dressed in a dark suit like the rest, his distinguishing characteristic was his mane of long black locks, and a gathering of gold that hung from his neck. The chains were not overly done, considering how many there were, but imperial in their assortment. He saw the eyes upon him, and he nodded as well. He raised a hand, allowing the dull light to gleam from his rings, and he fingered for the young man to come forward.
"What news?" He said, his voice thick with the King's English.
Van hurried to the man's side, spreading the parchments on the table before him. As he did so, he smelled the old sweat and dried fluids of sex on them...maybe it was just the one at the head of the table, the one they called Montclair.
"These are the scrolls, sir," Van said, remembering his practices in the mirror. Stay calm, he thought to himself. "They say that this one is due the crown. See? The seventh son of the seventh House."
Montclair's cabinet leaned in for a better look at the old scrolls, mumbling among themselves and trying to make sense of the old script. Montclair himself seemed to have a detached interest in the things, but slowly leaned in to read it for himself, as if something on the parchment had caught his eye. Van himself knew exactly what they said; the seventh son of the seventh House would bear the crown of the Sabbath...legend says that men of this kind were made on the day that God rested, otherwise God would not have dared allow such an abomination to grace his new land.
Montclair leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of disgust. His cabinet followed his lead, even if some of them were still unsure of what they had just read. Van obliged, scurrying for the door. The cabinet began their bickering as Van's shaking hand touched the handle, but Montclair's voice came loud above them all.
"You know of this seventh son?"
Van's blood froze. He was not like these men, and he wished to be in their company for no longer than necessary. He could simply say no, and be done with it, but these men have a knack for knowing when you're lying. He sighed, and returned the the foot of the table.
"Yes, sir. I know of him." He said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking as it had a habit of doing.
Again, the eyes of the cabinet fell upon Montclair. He toyed with one of his rings with a thoughtful thumb as he studied the boy. Van was no more than seventeen, and he looked even less than that with his hairless face and bright eyes.
"Tell me, boy...what is your name?" Montclair said.
"Van, sir."
A few men chuckled, but Montclair's glare silenced them immediately.
"Van," He said, as if twisting the word in his mouth, looking for a flavor. "Tell me, Van, what are the politics of this...seventh son?"
Van fought to keep his breath regular. He quickly mulled an answer. "He is a wrestler...a modern day gladiator, of sorts, except there isn't any killing involved--"
"I know what a wrestler is, Van."
"Ah, yes, of course, sir. I-I meant no disresp--"
"None taken, Van. Please, continue. What is this man's name?"
"He goes by Kaden Keene," He said, thinking on it. "I've found nothing to show that this is an alias."
The cabinet mumbled in approval, and Montclair nodded slowly. He ran a hand through his thick curls, and sighed audibly. There was a great weight on this man; that much was obvious. What he was, exactly, Van was unsure. Van had been hired on as a page by the Montclair, Tenenbaum and Spitz law firm, but he had only ever heard of Montclair. Until now, that is. This was the first time he'd even been on the second floor of the firm.
Nearly a month ago, now, he'd been assigned to the man himself, and since then he had spent more time in the basements of museums than anywhere else. At first, the subject matter was baffling, but he had learned to make his peace with it. Sometimes, he even found himself enthralled by the pure fantasy of it, the Vampire Kings and order of Knights and all that. He never expected to be making a presentation about Houses and Kings and birthrights to Montclair himself, however.
"I assume he has knowledge of his birthright...?" Montclair said, again playing with one of his rings.
"I don't believe so, sir," He said, drawing a gasp from the cabinet. Even Montclair seemed surprised. "He is very new to...um...the family, you see, and he's still adjusting."
"I see. It appears as if the Lucia is keeping that bit of information to himself."
"At least until Kaden is ready, sir. A-At least, that's what...ah...I think, anyway...at least..."
"How does he make preparations, Van? This Kaden person. Does he wrestle to keep his well health?" Montclair said.
"If that's what you'd like to call it, sir, then yes. He wrestles the one called Mentis this week. He's a strange one, but he's as smart as--"
"I care not for the details of his profession, boy, and you'll learn well to not waste my time with them in the future!"
Van felt his spine shiver, but he fought the slack jawed shock he was feeling, and steadied his shaking hands. He would heed Montclair's words exactly, and never make that mistake again. But aside from who Kaden was facing this week, he had little information for his boss. Kaden didn't know about his birthright, and that was about all that was of interest, wasn't it?
"You may leave." Montclair said, waving him away.
Van held his breath, but scurried for the door again. And again, his hand touched the handle, and Montclair's voice cut through the air.
"Wait," He said, and Van wondered if Montclair was just playing with him now. He bit his lip against his frustration, and turned calmly to face his boss.
"Any news of the Iscariot?"
The eyes of the cabinet grew wide as they rest on Van. There was a new heaviness to the air, but Van couldn't place why. All he knew was that this information was of the utmost importance...he could sense that...unfortunately, he had no idea as to what Montclair was talking about.
"I...I don't know what you mean, sir..."
Montclair sighed. Again, with that ring-laden hand, he dismissed Van. "Nevermind. Go."
******
"Carelessness!"
Francis pounded his fist on the wall before placing it back on his hip. He paced around the apartment, in all its glorious mess. Kaden, sullen, sat on the sofa, the only remaining piece of furniture that wasn't broken.
"You have a career, and you risk it! You have your freedom, and you risk it! You have your life, and you risk that! What do you do with my words? Ignore them outright? Or do you disrespect me on purpose?" Francis shouted, not caring that the neighbors were listening.
"I couldn't help it, Francis. I--"
"You didn't think! You payed no mind to what I've told you, shown you, taught you!"
Francis put a hand to his eyes and bowed his head. This was too much. He had tried his best to show Kaden how to survive and even thrive in this new world, but Kaden has shown nothing but impudence and ignorance thus far. At times like this, Francis wondered if this was even worth it. And at times like this, Francis found it quite unfortunate that he no longer had a choice in Kaden's wellbeing; it was his duty to make sure that Kaden lived, if not prospered.
"I-I'm sorry, Francis," He said.
It actually sounded...yes, it sounded like he meant it!
"Well, I'm glad that you feel regret, Kaden, but that doesn't change the fact that I have to pull a lot of strings in order to fix that." He said, gesturing to the corpse splayed out on the floor, sans a jugular.
Francis stuffed his hands in his pockets and stepped to the hole in the wall that used to be a window and carefully peered down. A smirk crossed his face, and he stepped away. He pointed a thumb back at it.
"Your friend is gone."
Kaden's eyes widened, and he jumped up, running to the window. He hung half his body out and scanned the area, disbelieving that James had somehow survived...there was no way...
"He couldn't have..." Kaden began.
"I doubt he did, Kaden. You're not exactly alone in this neighborhood, as far as our kind goes. And even the proud ones have turned scavenger since the Iscariot took to this city."
Kaden looked at Francis quizzically. "The Iss..."
"Iscariot. They," Francis stopped, looking for the words. "They're like human Holy Water, get it? They hunt our kind, but more than that, they cut off our resources. They kill us, but they do so defensively, and given enough time, they can put a stranglehold on entire cities. It's hard to explain...you would have to see it for yourself. And I'm sure you will."
"Sounds fantastic."
"Now how can I expect you to be ready for Mentis this week?" Francis said.
Kaden bowed his head, ashamed. He had murdered his old friend, and a cop, and because of it, his head was no where near being ready to wrestle a man who had fought him to a draw last time around. He should expect no less effort (or success, for that matter) from NCM this week...it wouldn't be wise to underestimate such a man as Mentis.
He looked up, finally, and met Francis' glare. "I will be ready, Francis. I've put my past behind me, and I'm ready to--"
"Bullshit! I've heard this all before! You've talked and talked and talked, and proven nothing! You have Lantlas in your reach, and what do you do? You let him slip away! You have the title shot in your hands, for God's sake, and you let James Keenan stop you? James Keenan? You haven't the first notion of putting your past behind you!"
Francis stormed off to the hole where the door used to be.
"Where are you going?"
"Some of us have jobs to do, and still plan on doing them well."
"What about the cop?" Kaden pleaded.
Francis stopped, and cocked his head. "Do you remember the one I called 'The Butcher'?"
Kaden froze.
The knives.
The box.
A name....what was that name...Sarah? No...Cynthia?
"Some more of that past you put behind you?" Francis said as he left.
Beyond the guards, a large oaken door stood solemnly between Van and the chamber. The hall in the meantime was plain, nearly colorless. There was a soft echo as Van's heels fell to the tile. There were no guards here, and Van thought that perhaps this added to the fatal feel of the hall. The sole decoration was on the door; an inscription, a signet of sorts. A lion, stood high on its hinds, paws ripping forward.
Van knocked lightly, and slowly pushed the door open.
Inside, the scene was vastly different; the walls were adorned with marvelous tapestries and fine oil paintings. The carpet was a fine red, and above it a grand table that took most up most of the room's impressive real estate.
There were a few men at this large table, mostly seated near the head which stood what seemed to Van to be miles away. The clean cut men who had been speaking among themselves all fell silent as Van entered, and directed their glares to the young man. He felt shadows on him, suddenly, and his hand shook as he held the parchments in front of him. They nodded approvingly, then looked back to the one at the head of the table. He was different...
Dressed in a dark suit like the rest, his distinguishing characteristic was his mane of long black locks, and a gathering of gold that hung from his neck. The chains were not overly done, considering how many there were, but imperial in their assortment. He saw the eyes upon him, and he nodded as well. He raised a hand, allowing the dull light to gleam from his rings, and he fingered for the young man to come forward.
"What news?" He said, his voice thick with the King's English.
Van hurried to the man's side, spreading the parchments on the table before him. As he did so, he smelled the old sweat and dried fluids of sex on them...maybe it was just the one at the head of the table, the one they called Montclair.
"These are the scrolls, sir," Van said, remembering his practices in the mirror. Stay calm, he thought to himself. "They say that this one is due the crown. See? The seventh son of the seventh House."
Montclair's cabinet leaned in for a better look at the old scrolls, mumbling among themselves and trying to make sense of the old script. Montclair himself seemed to have a detached interest in the things, but slowly leaned in to read it for himself, as if something on the parchment had caught his eye. Van himself knew exactly what they said; the seventh son of the seventh House would bear the crown of the Sabbath...legend says that men of this kind were made on the day that God rested, otherwise God would not have dared allow such an abomination to grace his new land.
Montclair leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of disgust. His cabinet followed his lead, even if some of them were still unsure of what they had just read. Van obliged, scurrying for the door. The cabinet began their bickering as Van's shaking hand touched the handle, but Montclair's voice came loud above them all.
"You know of this seventh son?"
Van's blood froze. He was not like these men, and he wished to be in their company for no longer than necessary. He could simply say no, and be done with it, but these men have a knack for knowing when you're lying. He sighed, and returned the the foot of the table.
"Yes, sir. I know of him." He said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking as it had a habit of doing.
Again, the eyes of the cabinet fell upon Montclair. He toyed with one of his rings with a thoughtful thumb as he studied the boy. Van was no more than seventeen, and he looked even less than that with his hairless face and bright eyes.
"Tell me, boy...what is your name?" Montclair said.
"Van, sir."
A few men chuckled, but Montclair's glare silenced them immediately.
"Van," He said, as if twisting the word in his mouth, looking for a flavor. "Tell me, Van, what are the politics of this...seventh son?"
Van fought to keep his breath regular. He quickly mulled an answer. "He is a wrestler...a modern day gladiator, of sorts, except there isn't any killing involved--"
"I know what a wrestler is, Van."
"Ah, yes, of course, sir. I-I meant no disresp--"
"None taken, Van. Please, continue. What is this man's name?"
"He goes by Kaden Keene," He said, thinking on it. "I've found nothing to show that this is an alias."
The cabinet mumbled in approval, and Montclair nodded slowly. He ran a hand through his thick curls, and sighed audibly. There was a great weight on this man; that much was obvious. What he was, exactly, Van was unsure. Van had been hired on as a page by the Montclair, Tenenbaum and Spitz law firm, but he had only ever heard of Montclair. Until now, that is. This was the first time he'd even been on the second floor of the firm.
Nearly a month ago, now, he'd been assigned to the man himself, and since then he had spent more time in the basements of museums than anywhere else. At first, the subject matter was baffling, but he had learned to make his peace with it. Sometimes, he even found himself enthralled by the pure fantasy of it, the Vampire Kings and order of Knights and all that. He never expected to be making a presentation about Houses and Kings and birthrights to Montclair himself, however.
"I assume he has knowledge of his birthright...?" Montclair said, again playing with one of his rings.
"I don't believe so, sir," He said, drawing a gasp from the cabinet. Even Montclair seemed surprised. "He is very new to...um...the family, you see, and he's still adjusting."
"I see. It appears as if the Lucia is keeping that bit of information to himself."
"At least until Kaden is ready, sir. A-At least, that's what...ah...I think, anyway...at least..."
"How does he make preparations, Van? This Kaden person. Does he wrestle to keep his well health?" Montclair said.
"If that's what you'd like to call it, sir, then yes. He wrestles the one called Mentis this week. He's a strange one, but he's as smart as--"
"I care not for the details of his profession, boy, and you'll learn well to not waste my time with them in the future!"
Van felt his spine shiver, but he fought the slack jawed shock he was feeling, and steadied his shaking hands. He would heed Montclair's words exactly, and never make that mistake again. But aside from who Kaden was facing this week, he had little information for his boss. Kaden didn't know about his birthright, and that was about all that was of interest, wasn't it?
"You may leave." Montclair said, waving him away.
Van held his breath, but scurried for the door again. And again, his hand touched the handle, and Montclair's voice cut through the air.
"Wait," He said, and Van wondered if Montclair was just playing with him now. He bit his lip against his frustration, and turned calmly to face his boss.
"Any news of the Iscariot?"
The eyes of the cabinet grew wide as they rest on Van. There was a new heaviness to the air, but Van couldn't place why. All he knew was that this information was of the utmost importance...he could sense that...unfortunately, he had no idea as to what Montclair was talking about.
"I...I don't know what you mean, sir..."
Montclair sighed. Again, with that ring-laden hand, he dismissed Van. "Nevermind. Go."
******
"Carelessness!"
Francis pounded his fist on the wall before placing it back on his hip. He paced around the apartment, in all its glorious mess. Kaden, sullen, sat on the sofa, the only remaining piece of furniture that wasn't broken.
"You have a career, and you risk it! You have your freedom, and you risk it! You have your life, and you risk that! What do you do with my words? Ignore them outright? Or do you disrespect me on purpose?" Francis shouted, not caring that the neighbors were listening.
"I couldn't help it, Francis. I--"
"You didn't think! You payed no mind to what I've told you, shown you, taught you!"
Francis put a hand to his eyes and bowed his head. This was too much. He had tried his best to show Kaden how to survive and even thrive in this new world, but Kaden has shown nothing but impudence and ignorance thus far. At times like this, Francis wondered if this was even worth it. And at times like this, Francis found it quite unfortunate that he no longer had a choice in Kaden's wellbeing; it was his duty to make sure that Kaden lived, if not prospered.
"I-I'm sorry, Francis," He said.
It actually sounded...yes, it sounded like he meant it!
"Well, I'm glad that you feel regret, Kaden, but that doesn't change the fact that I have to pull a lot of strings in order to fix that." He said, gesturing to the corpse splayed out on the floor, sans a jugular.
Francis stuffed his hands in his pockets and stepped to the hole in the wall that used to be a window and carefully peered down. A smirk crossed his face, and he stepped away. He pointed a thumb back at it.
"Your friend is gone."
Kaden's eyes widened, and he jumped up, running to the window. He hung half his body out and scanned the area, disbelieving that James had somehow survived...there was no way...
"He couldn't have..." Kaden began.
"I doubt he did, Kaden. You're not exactly alone in this neighborhood, as far as our kind goes. And even the proud ones have turned scavenger since the Iscariot took to this city."
Kaden looked at Francis quizzically. "The Iss..."
"Iscariot. They," Francis stopped, looking for the words. "They're like human Holy Water, get it? They hunt our kind, but more than that, they cut off our resources. They kill us, but they do so defensively, and given enough time, they can put a stranglehold on entire cities. It's hard to explain...you would have to see it for yourself. And I'm sure you will."
"Sounds fantastic."
"Now how can I expect you to be ready for Mentis this week?" Francis said.
Kaden bowed his head, ashamed. He had murdered his old friend, and a cop, and because of it, his head was no where near being ready to wrestle a man who had fought him to a draw last time around. He should expect no less effort (or success, for that matter) from NCM this week...it wouldn't be wise to underestimate such a man as Mentis.
He looked up, finally, and met Francis' glare. "I will be ready, Francis. I've put my past behind me, and I'm ready to--"
"Bullshit! I've heard this all before! You've talked and talked and talked, and proven nothing! You have Lantlas in your reach, and what do you do? You let him slip away! You have the title shot in your hands, for God's sake, and you let James Keenan stop you? James Keenan? You haven't the first notion of putting your past behind you!"
Francis stormed off to the hole where the door used to be.
"Where are you going?"
"Some of us have jobs to do, and still plan on doing them well."
"What about the cop?" Kaden pleaded.
Francis stopped, and cocked his head. "Do you remember the one I called 'The Butcher'?"
Kaden froze.
The knives.
The box.
A name....what was that name...Sarah? No...Cynthia?
"Some more of that past you put behind you?" Francis said as he left.