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Shadowpuppet	By : CammyCape Category: +S through Z > Vampire the Masquerade Views: 2686 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Vampire: The Masquerade, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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THREE

Author's Note: I'm sorry for the delay in posting this, but we had several family crises one after the other that put me out of the writing mood for a while. I suck, I know. Now that everything is back to normal and everyone is okay, I finally feel like getting back to this. Updates should be at least once a week from now on.

She knows she's dreaming.

That knowledge should give her some sort of power over the situation. Enable her to banish it, shape it. But her mind refuses to comply.

She blinks, and she's still there. Standing in front of an enormous plate glass window that overlooks the city at night. A million tiny points of glimmering light in the darkness, streetlights or stars she doesn't know. If not for the ground beneath her feet, she would have felt as though she were floating in the air above it. She can see her reflection, too, a transparent glimmer of it like that night in the hospital. But she's not wearing what she was then; now she's clad in her work clothes, the blouse, skirt and heels Athill demanded she wear. Except . . .

When has she ever really looked like this? Her reflection gazes back at her with half closed eyes, heady with the promise of satisfaction to come. Her lips look puffed and slightly swollen, as though she's been sucking on something, and as she watches, she sees the pink tip of her tongue emerge and dot at her upper lip.

And behind her . . .

She can't see his face. She should be able to; he's taller than her, certainly, and he's pressed against her back, but the shadows keep her from seeing him. She knows him, though. Knows him even without the sensation of his fingers on her skin, slipping just below the hem of her skirt, even without the dark blue suit he's wearing.

Her body remembers.

Is this what she really wants, then? This strange tableau her psyche has conjured up?

She can feel his lips on the back of her neck � the merest whisper of something � and they move soundlessly as though he's speaking, whether endearment or something else she doesn't know. The sensation makes her shiver. She wants to turn around, to face him and . . . well, at least to face him. But the grip he has on her hips won't permit it, and her legs make a restless, silky sound as they shift together.

�Who do you belong to?� he murmurs into her ear, lips tickling the sensitive flesh. She groans and turns her head aside, shifting her hips to try to force the contact, but he avoids it easily, continuing his maddening, teasing stroking. His fingertips press into the sleek muscle of her thighs, tracing trails of ice that make her gasp. She can feel a hardness pressed into the small of her back, and she moves instinctively back against it. �Tell me. And maybe I'll give you what you need.�

�I don't . . . belong to anyone.� she moans, a weak protest.

He chuckles into her ear. The sound is low and dark and promising. He's stroking her thighs now, caressing her flanks and kneading the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. �I put my mark on you.� he whispers. �Sealed it with a kiss. What more could you ask for?�

She wants to be angry with him, wants to push him away and run . . . somewhere. But she can't. Not with his hands on her like that. Not with his fingers seeking the inside of her thighs, coaxing them apart with feather-light touches that promise so much more. His skin is so cool, and hers is so flushed with heat. She can feel wetness building up between her closed thighs, droplets of moisture that tickle her, and suddenly, all she wants is to open herself to him, completely. The thought should shock her, but it doesn't.

�Emily . . . where would you go?� he whispers. �Where would you go that I couldn't find you? And why would you want to, when all you want, all you need, is right here? And all you have to do . . . is tell me . . . �

Who you belong to.

He doesn't finish the thought, but she knows that's what he means. And as much as she rebells against it, she can feel her lips trying to part, trying to tell him what her body knows even if her heart fights it. And when he finally slips his fingertips over her most intimate flesh, it's all she can do not to cry it out.

The contact is electric, but she only sucks in her breath. She wonders what he thinks of finding her smooth shaven, and his fingertips wander over that flesh with something like approval or curiosity. They tease the line where her thighs meet her pelvis, stroking back and forth over the sensitive flesh until she wants to beg him for it. For whatever he intends.

�Yours!� she gasps finally with a sound like a broken sob. �Yours, yours, I'm yours. I belong to you.�

�Well, then.� he murmurs, and when he turns his head she sees the gleam of his teeth in the darkness. A grin? Or a snarl? �That's all I needed to hear.�

And as his head darts forward to his neck, she sees the sleek, dark cap of his hair that she knows so well.

Her master.

Rhinebeck Athill.

**

The morning after was . . . bad. Would have been even without the dream she'd had. Emily couldn't remember all the specifics, only that it had apparently featured her new employer rather prominently. Which was more than enough for her to want to recall at the moment.

After she woke up from LaCroix's . . . well, what would you call it? It definitely hadn't been a love bite. She'd been too weak and pained to really steam up a good panic attack over what had happened, and she thought that probably saved her from descending into blithering idiocy. Never mind how good it had felt � Martin had told her about the physical effects � someone had been feeding off her, damn it, as though she were a juice bag. Someone � likely a flunky of LaCroix's rather than LaCroix himself -- had apparently carried her back here last night and tucked her into bed after first removing her shoes. Somehow, that little courtesy made it all the more worse.

Since she'd been gone with Martin during the night, there had been several items added to her little chambers. A television, looking out of place propped atop an antique sideboard across from the bed that had probably cost more than Emily made in a year. A stack of books and magazines on various subjects neatly arranged on the bedside table. A small fridge that reminded her of something from her college days tucked discreetly in the corner behind an old armoire. LaCroix might have been a monster, but he was certainly a conscientious host.

Well, to a point anyway.

There was still no phone. And when Emily had felt well enough to make a small trip out into the hallway in the early afternoon, all other doors had been securely locked, and the elevator hadn't responded to her repeated attempts to summon it.

Now she sat in a small, snug armchair next to the windows, staring moodily out over the cityscape and rubbing absently, compulsively, at her neck. It was maybe a few hours before sundown, and she knew she should get some more sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. She was a prisoner. A well-kept prisoner, to be sure, in a place that might have put a lot of four-star hotels to shame, but a prisoner nonetheless.

The television was no help. The news in Santa Monica was apparently only important enough to warrant the briefest mention about �continuing investigations into the apparent murders and disappearances of two local women from the hospital two nights before�. Emily didn't like that. It almost sounded as though she was being given up for dead. But really, even if she could have gotten to the police, what could she have told them? About the monster in the hospital, or about the man in the ivory tower who'd held her hostage in luxury and bit her neck? Neither was likely to be received well.

What she mainly was interested in was finding out what Martin had meant about the blood. She knew the basics of creating a Ghoul enough to know that at some point, probably when she'd first been brought in, LaCroix had given her his blood. The thought made her feel uneasy, and was frankly a little . . . well . . . ghoulish. But there had to be more behind it, behind the way she found herself reacting to him when she should have been terrified, furious, repulsed. It was more than just the simple fact of his being easy on the eyes and the command he exuded, had to be. Martin had understood too much about the way Emily felt for that to be all.

I don't know enough. Emily thought wearily as she dressed, the last of the sun sinking below the horizon. I don't think I ever could.

About an hour after full darkness had finally descended, there was a knock at the door. Emily had been expecting it for a while. She didn't know what was typically demanded of a Ghoul � Martin had said it varied from vampire to vampire � but she didn't think LaCroix would be content to leave her idle, a suspicion that was confirmed when she opened the door to find a bland-faced security guard who lead her back to LaCroix's office.

The man himself wasn't there. Not yet, anyway. The doors were shut behind her, and Emily wandered resignedly around the room. Even without her situation, she would have felt out of place amidst the lavish, early French d�cor. LaCroix's desk was completely cleared of anything and everything, not so much as a pen remaining on the surface. She wondered if he was that obsessively tidy, or if he had people who did it for him. Probably both.

Barely five minutes later, the doors swung open and LaCroix walked in. He paused, fixing her with a level look. �Good evening, Ms Roivas.�

�Good evening.� Emily replied. She was surprised at how normal she sounded.

She'd already decided it wasn't worth making an issue over. Well, of course it was, but he would do what he wanted. She'd learned that the hard way. Easiest just to do what he wanted and keep her head down, hope she didn't make it onto his radar more than was strictly necessary. Besides, what was the alternative? Out there, with the crazy Sabbat vampires who couldn't seem to decide whether they wanted to fuck her or kill her, with the crazy Anarchs who spent their time rescuing people and then threatening them with bodily harm? At least, in this case, Sebastian LaCroix was the monster she knew.

As he walked into the office, her gaze dropped to something swinging at his side. It was so out of place on him, one of the last things she would have expected to see, that at first she couldn't place it. It was a laptop, a silver, flat one that was probably more than a little expensive, slung low on his hip by a strap across his chest. He looked, for all the world, like any of the other young businessmen she'd seen; all he needed was a latte and a stack of lawbooks to complete the image.

�You're . . . handy with a computer?� Emily asked, feeling a smile tug at her lips.

LaCroix gave her an odd look. �If that is the term you wish to use, yes. I know my way with them. Why should that surprise you?� he added, a suspicious look crossing his face.

�I can't even teach my father how to run a word processor, and he's only fifty-five. You're � um.� Emily paused. LaCroix was simply staring at her, one eyebrow raised, so stiff and straight and proud she felt awkward all over again. She held up her hands and shook her head a little, biting the inside of her lip to keep from smiling. �Nevermind.�

He stared at her a moment longer; she wished not for the first time that she could read his expression better . . . or at all. When he moved towards her suddenly it was all she could do not to leap backwards.

Emily stood perfectly still, resigned to the flutter in her belly caused by his closeness. He made a soft, impatient sound as he eyed her, before reaching out and plucking the clip from her hair that had held it up. He seemed oblivious to her startled look. He ran a hand back through her hair, combing it back from her forehead into place, and looked slightly exasperated when several pieces swung foreward immediately after he took his hand away. The contact sent an electric chill down her spine. �You need to maintain a certain imagine as long as you work for me. Not nearly so . . . casual. Where we're going tonight, you'll be as much of a representitive of the Camarilla as I. So be on your best behavior.�

�We're . . . we're going out?� Emily asked, too startled for once to object to being spoken to in that way.

�That's what I said, yes?� He strode past her to his desk and unslung the laptop, sliding it into a drawer and locking it shut. �Is there a problem?�

�It's just that . . . after what happened last night, and how you were saying you needed to keep me away from the Sabbat -- �

�The encounter you had last night has made it abundantly clear that to act as though you are anything other than an ordinary servant is to invite further suspicion and likely more greater interest by the Sabbat.� LaCroix said. �Therefore, I have decided to take you with me tonight and whenever I have any other innocuous meeting. It will still the rumours and anticipation surrounding your . . . mystique.�

�Just how long do you expect to keep me around?� Emily asked before she could help herself.

He frowned at her. Why are you being so difficult? the look said. �As long as is necessary. Until we discover what Athill was doing, and what role you played in it.�

�I suppose it's useless for me to point out that I have no idea what he was doing, and I barely knew him.�

�Quite.� LaCroix inclined his head. �As you have seen by now, there are certain ways of clouding the mortal mind. Until we ascertain what may or may not have been done, you are to remain with me.�

�And how long will that take?� Emily demanded, threads of impatience creeping into her voice.

He gave her an annoyed look, and his tone was sharper when he spoke. �Perhaps you don't understand the seriousness of the situation. I suppose that's to be expected. You do, after all, know painfully little about this world. Rhinebeck Athill and all others like him are a very big danger to Kindred society. A security risk, if you like. The Lasombra are, by nature, a secretive and insidious lot, and whenever one has gone to such lengths as Athill has in covering his steps and put such an effort into his endeavours, it is obviously call for alarm.

�With Angela Drake dead, you are the only real link we have to him. What he may be doing. And I will do everything in my power to find out what that was.� he added, with a certain savage satisfaction. �As to how long that will take, I cannot say. There are ways to discover things that have been hidden from someone, but they take time. It isn't like filing a requisitions form, or going through your government's channels of law.�

�Well thank God for that.� Emily muttered.

He blinked at her for a moment before smiling slightly. �Indeed. In any case, suffice to say I have already placed a call to someone who I believe to be an expert in these matters. They will arrive in a few days. Until then, you are to stay with me, not attract attention to yourself, and function as any other Ghoul would in a typical situation.�

�And what does that entail?�

�Whatever I say it does.�

Well, obviously. Emily thought, but didn't say. She resisted the urge to rub at her neck again. She followed LaCroix from his office and past a pair of stony-faced guards into the elevator. �Where are we going?� she asked as they descended.

�I have a meeting to attend to with several of the more influential members of the Kindred community. We have a number of issues to discuss. Most of them are disappointingly banal, political. But I believe Dominic DuPre has something he wishes to address. I'd imagine it's about the werewolves in Griffith Park. He's gotten paranoid in his old age, it's all he ever worries about . . . �

He said this last so casually, so off-handedly, as though he were informing her that there would be petit fours served, that it took her brain a moment to process it. �Wait. Werewolves?�

LaCroix glanced at her as the elevator opened and she hurried after him into the cavernous lobby. �Yes. Werewolves.� She thought he looked amused. �Did Martin not mention that to you?�

�No.�

�It isn't something you should be concerned about. They have an intense hatred for all Kindred, but they rarely venture into the city proper. They're little more than mindless, destructive beasts.�

Comforting.

They stepped out into the night, and Emily sighed a little at the soft breeze that lifted the hair away from the back of her neck. There was a sleek, long, low black car idling at the curb, another solemn man in uniform standing expectantly by one of the open doors. LaCroix didn't acknowledge him as he gestured past him to the car's interior. �After you.�

**

The car was a smaller one than others he had, only a single seat in the back and designed more for personal travel than making a statement. Emily's thigh was pressed against his, and the warmth was a mild distraction. He spent such little time around the kine that he often forgot about that little difference. It was fascinating, really, how after two hundred years as a vampire one forgot those details, like the soft sound of her breathing. He wondered how she could stand it, the constant needs and desires of her mortal frame. Looking back, he was surprised the constant demands for sleep, food, breath of his own body hadn't driven him mad with frustration long before his own Embrace.

She was looking out the window when he glanced at her. It could have been worse, he supposed. Although the Lasombra's vanity made it unlikely, Athill could still have hired some short, dumpy, unpleasant toad of a kine. This one was so young, with the flush of health in her skin. Most Ghouls, after serving their immortal masters for a stretch of time, tended to develop a faintly unhealthy, graveyard pallor from spending so little time in the day. That, of course, hadn't yet had time to happen to her. She was naturally fair-skinned, but there was still a pleasant, faint bronze cast to her skin, the warm blush of vitality.

His gaze wandered down Emily's profile, the curve of her jaw, to her neck. He wasn't hungry; not yet, anyway. He had actually drunk deeper of her last night than he'd intended, and if she hadn't been a Ghoul she probably would have been bedridden. The memory of that taste was still in his mouth, a faint, not unpleasant burn at the back of his throat.

Sebastian noticed suddenly that he could see the pulse in her neck beating hard and fast. When he looked back up at her face, she was still looking out the window, but her expression was tense and nervous. Colour stood in her cheeks and she swallowed once, convulsively. He felt a little like laughing. Had he really expected her to be oblivious to his scrutiny? She was feigning nonchalance, but her hands were clenched tightly in her lap.

Her continued skittishness was annoying, made doubly so by the fact that when she wasn't acting as though she expected him to fall upon her, she wasn't treating him with the proper respect his station was due, far too casual in her manner of speaking. If he'd been thinking clearly when it happened, he would have laid the line in the sand immediately, but he'd had too much on his mind these past few nights. Somehow, her tiny insurrections didn't make the top of the list. Yet.

No, not when he had so much else to deal with. Although he would have liked to have this Athill business resolved, he was privately glad to have a few days before they could do anything about it. He had a sneaking suspicion that tonight's meeting was going to be one of those tiresome political affairs that winds on and on without anything ever actually being resolved at the end. What he really would have liked to have been doing was addressing the problems they'd been having with the Anarchs lately, but Kindred were notoriously self absorbed; if their own affairs were in order, they saw no reason to trouble themselves over anything else. He thought, as the limo pulled up to the curb of the appointed place, that more than a few of the Camarilla were actually afraid of the thugs, too, which simply wouldn't do. No, he thought, he would certainly have to take steps as soon as he was able.

It was one of the smaller meeting places for the Kindred in the city, a long, low building made of metropolitan grey and black bricks. Several years ago it had been a restaurant that had failed spectacularly when it's owner had built it . . . and then unfortunately failed to pay back the loan he'd received from his Kindred beneficiary. The building, naturally, had been confiscated once the previous owner had been dealt with, and it had since served as a discreet area for discussing business in the community. Sebastian saw curious looks from passing Kine as he got out of the limo; Bartleby, the Ghoul who handled the building's upkeep, said that they still frequently received calls from frustrated mortals trying to book a dinner at the quaint restaurant that was oddly never open to the public.

�Wait. Wait.�

Sebastian didn't bother to conceal his irritation as he looked back at Emily where she stood on the steps. She looked nervous, smoothing her hands down over her hips. �What do I do?� she asked. �I mean . . . do I just stand there besides you, or, uh . . . �

�Follow me at a distance, keep silent, keep out of the way.� Sebastian replied impatiently.

�What if another vam . . . Kindred wants to talk to me?�

Usually Ghouls, at least proper ones, were carefully chosen and educated, even if it was more for keeping them out from underfoot than their own benefit. Emily, however, had been thrust rather unceremoniously into this new life a short while ago, and she was very much a lamb amoung the lions. He had to force himself to keep this in mind. It wouldn't do to react to her honest ignorance with blind violence out of sheer frustration like an animal.

�They won't. The Kindred here tonight are a vainglorious lot, and most of them will consider you beneath their notice. If someone speaks to you, be polite, but do not volunteer nor provide any other information beyond your first name. Simply tell them you work for me and that will be sufficient.� He paused, studying her face. �Nobody will try to feed from you.�

�That's not what I was worried about.� she replied, but she was a poor liar. He read the relief in her posture as well as in her gaze. She followed him into the building thereafter without complaint, silent as a ghost on his heels. If a nervous one.

Once inside, Sebastian forgot all about her.

It wasn't just the ambiance, although there was plenty of that. Molly O'Malley had organised the event, and her taste was more sombre than extravagant. It was a long, low room entirely done in the sort of rich, mahogany panelling you couldn't get unless you could tell your architect �Money is no object� and honestly mean it. The buttery-soft looking wood caught and held the light of dozens of thin, tapered candles placed strategically throughout the room, standing in plain silver holders atop the furniture. The skylight above let in another measure of moonlight, cold and silvery to contrast the candlight. There were maybe a dozen of the city's more prominent Kindred present, standing like pale statues throughout the room appraising one another. Despite the lack of warmth in their features, Sebastian felt himself relax a little nonetheless.

Because of the nature of the face he was required to present to the world in order to keep his legitimate business ventures afloat, he spent more time than he would have liked in the company of the kine. A constant stream of eager, twitching faces, sweaty palms, and bad teeth bared in plastic smiles slick with saliva that he faced each day left him feeling as though someone was sitting in his head with a piece of sandpaper and was patiently rubbing it back and forth over his nerves. There were times when he would have liked nothing better than to reach across his desk at the end of a particularily trying business night and cheerfully throttle whatever poor Kine happened to be sitting in the opposite chair.

Sometimes he forgot how quiet it could be, around others of his kind. The Kindred were free of the most trying traits of the Kine, and even his least favourite amoung them was suddenly like welcoming an old friend after dealing with the Kine for so long.

Well. Perhaps 'old friend' was stretching the truth a bit.

Particularily where Maximillian Strauss, gliding forward on silent feet, was concerned.

Molly O'Malley was with him, and this time wearing a silk cocktail dress of deepest chocolate fabric that whispered when she bowed before him. �Sire, it's my pleasure to see you.�

�My Prince.� Strauss had a low, soft, but oleaginous voice that never failed to set Sebastian's teeth on edge. Of all of the Camarilla, Strauss had been the most private in his estimations of Sebastian's leadership, but the Prince felt the Tremere's veiled mockery and scorn more sharply than the other Kindred probably thought. �How good of you to join us this evening. You must be very busy . . . I see you have had to take on another Ghoul to help with your affairs.�

�I am always pleased to have someone competent in my organisation, Maximillian.� Sebastian replied evasively. A glance at Emily showed she had chosen a bland yet polite poker face and was studiously not meeting anyone's gaze. She looked, for all the world, like any other servitor; attentive, respectful, silent. He made a mental note to impress this upon her later. �You have the same problems, I'm sure. It must be difficult for you, keeping the collapse of your chantry at bay every night.�

It was a thinly concealed barb, and Sebastian saw Molly's eyes dart keenly back and forth between them, anticipating conflict. Sebastian held his smile. Part of the reason he'd survived as long as he had was because he knew better than to let people get under his skin, so to speak, and especially not to let them know when they did. By contrast, the Tremere, for all his supposed upbringing and knowledge, was perhaps one of the more easily angered Kindred Sebastian had known.

He wasn't disappointed this time either. One corner of Maximillian's mouth twitched, but that perfect socialite smile might as well have been nailed in place. �I manage.� he said, only somewhat stiffly.

They might have gone on in that fashion for quite some time if not for the sudden appearance of another Kindred. Or perhaps he'd been there all along and had simply stood so still, so silently, Sebastian had looked right past him and he was only now making his presence known. In this case, it wasn't unlikely.

Dominic DuPre was a tall, painfully thin man � so much so one almost expected him to rattle when he walked, like wind through the bare branches of a tree. The angles of his legs and arms so severe it was hard to believe they didn't slice like knives through the expensive, slate-gray suit he was wearing. His face was drawn, dark red hair slicked back from a high forehead, and yet he was still an oddly handsome man, as though the weight of his position and his grave nature were greater than the sum of his parts. Or, more than likely, it was the simple fascination of the Toreador nature.

�Sebastian.� Dominic's voice was as low and morose as ever. Sebastian had known him for years and he'd never sounded any different. How he managed to inspire any sort of loyalty or enthusiasm in his followers was beyond Sebastian's ken. �I didn't think you'd come.�

�Of course I came. I attend to the needs of our society whenever they arise, Dominic.�

�Indeed.� the other vampire agreed with a heavy sigh, as though the mere thought of such burden pained him. He glanced past Sebastian to where Emily stood, then dismissed her in the span of a glance; it took more than a Ghoul to pique the curiosity of a Kindred, especially when they were so fleeting in their employment. �I do try to do my part, you know.�

�Of course, Dominic,� Sebastian said impatiently, trying to head off what he knew was coming, �you know I find you -- �

�Unfortunately, with the wolves at my door on a nightly basis, I'm uncertain how long I will be able to continue to be of service to you. But until then, I remain your humble servant.�

Sebastian grimaced, turned it into a painful looking commiserating smile at the last moment. It was unavoidable; the older a particular Kindred became, the more neurotic they tended to become, and Dominic was perhaps one of the oldest in the room. What was annoying about it wasn't the certainty that the Garou were after him; it was his apparent utter compliance with what he thought was his fate. He truly believed the werewolves were coming for him, and he seemed disinclined to actually do anything about it. He spoke with weary, resigned detachment, and there were times when Sebastian felt like slapping him for it.

�And how are you this evening, Miss Roivas?� Molly said, voice a rich purr.

Without turning his head, Sebastian glanced to the left and found Emily watching him. His mouth tightened slightly. He could read the stubbornness in her gaze like a book, and he glared at her. She wouldn't be the first woman to have an almost instinctual dislike of Molly O'Malley, but unlike others, Emily could find herself dead for whatever catty little remark she might be thinking of indulging in. It was a complicated thought to put into just a look, but he must have done at least a decent job of it, for she suddenly went several shades paler, cut her eyes away, and swallowed heavily.

Whatever Emily had been about to say was cut off by the sound of something heavy landing on the roof.

Emily gasped and jerked in surprise, but the only movement the Kindred made was to turn their heads upwards almost in silent unison. The ceiling was perhaps fifteen feet above their heads, dominated by a modern square skylight, and in the dead center lay a dark mass that writhed once, and then lay still. Footsteps sounded, rapid and heavy across the roof, and the unlit chandelier jingled once, then fell silent.

If he'd had breath, Sebastian might have been holding it. They all would. Every face was turned towards the ceiling, every unblinking eye watching the fine webwork of cracks appearing throughout the glass around the dark mass, transfixed. The sound was unnaturally loud in the stillness, like someone stepping very slowly and deliberately on thin ice with all their weight.

Sebastian wondered almost dreamily who the assassination would be aimed at this time.

And then the skylight broke in and the bodies hit the floor.

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