Alexander Vadross-Born in Shadows

[landisfarne]

Early Autumn

Rasah al-Seti closed his eyes, releasing all the air in his lungs and sitting perfectly still. It took all his mental strength to resist the terrible fear that overcame him from being so close to the fire before him. The brazier was little larger than his hand, yet to him it seemed a blazing bonfire ready to consume him. He imagined he could feel the heat causing his skin to crackle and burn, peel back, blackened and burned.

He forced the thoughts away. Now was not the time. There was never a time for those thoughts.

Taking the ritual dagger in his left hand, he dragged the ragged edge of the blade across his right wrist. Instantly his hand went numb, though a slight tickle, combined with the tangy smell of vitae and the crackle of the fire told him his blood was pouring into the flames, burning away.

Akhu – Setite blood magic – was a far older and more powerful practice than the pitiful magics of the Tremere, less forced, more natural. It was like the desert sands, awesome, powerful, fearsome and, ultimately, terrifying. It was a personal thing, and one that few in the clan ever learned existed; fewer still sought to learn even the basic mysteries, and almost none reached the level of mastery he had – and he had barely scratched the surface. A few minor rituals, nothing more. His childe had shown great interest in thaumaturgy, the blood magic of the Tremere, and he had considered teaching the rudiments of Akhu to him…

He would not understand.

The voice was nothing more than a whisper, a hiss, of thought. It surprised him; he had been expecting his sire’s voice. The ritual had been designed to summon his sire’s attention.

Al-Seti opened his mental eye, focusing on the voice. A vista of sand opened before him; in the distance he could see pyramidal structures, which he recognized instantly: the step pyramid of Akry, long hidden beneath the desert sands. Looking down he found that he sat upon a silken divan, a pair of slave girls to either side of him, scantily clad and enticing. Turning from them, he looked to the left: the Nile stretched, a thin ribbon of black, deeper than the desert to either side.

And to the right:, a low pedestal upon which sat a dog-like animal, long, squared ears and equally long snout giving lie to the description.

Rasah al-Seti gasped, nearly falling from his place on the divan. “Set!”

A low hissing laugh escaped the ugly creature, though it neither confirmed nor denied his suspicions.

He would not understand, because he lacks faith.

“Y-yes, I know. I am- I-“ Al-Seti tried to explain, but the sudden appearance of the god had him unnerved. What did it mean? Had he angered Set? Had the god come to reclaim what he had been granted sixty years before? He looked down and realized the mental image of himself was shaking like a leaf blown in a strong wind.

I know. The avatar’s words soothed him some; they seemed to convey an unlimited, eternal knowledge, understanding of all things. Understanding of the way things would come. He wondered at the Antediluvian founder’s true power: could he know the future? The time nears when he will learn faith, the Set-animal hissed, confirming his suspicions. I have foreseen it.

“Then-?” I have been successful? He wanted to ask, but he dared not speak out of turn. The god would tell him what he would, nothing more.

A time of tests approaches. The Set animal looked into the distance, and Rasah followed its gaze out into the desert. There, far away, stood a metal statue that looked like a golden angel, wings drawn back to reveal wounded sides. As he watched the angel began to decay, the metal turning the red-brown of rust, then the rust flaking away into dust and- A sand storm rose in the distance, overtaking the statue and ripping it apart in its ageless fury.

Rasah turned back to the god, not understanding. The ageless awaken from their dormancy. The dead cry out in their sleep. Soon the light of Re shall be blotted out forever. Only the faithful will survive; only those that please will be saved. The Set-animal let out another hissing laugh. His loyalty to Maat fades. Soon, the last of the chains shall be broken, and he shall praise the name of Sutekh. He is a teacher; he has much to teach.

“But he is not ready,” the ancilla said, his voice sounding awed; My own childe? Known by Set? The thought awed him.

No. The hiss was soft, barely audible even to his mental senses. He is not yet ready. But soon. Events will unfold as I will them, and he will find himself in the presence of the one who will break the last chain. The Set-animal smiled, its long tongue lolling out in mimicry of a dog. Perhaps then he will be ready to delve into my secrets.

As the last of these words were spoken into his mind the scene of ancient Egypt faded, replaced by darkness. Darkness and hunger.

Check

[landisfarne]

Alexander Vadross stared into the flames of the small brazier in his sire’s quarters. His elder was absent, leaving Alexander alone with his two pet serpents, the rich carpets, the divan and the brazier his sire used for ritualistic purposes. He did not understand his sire’s reliance on ritual and tradition; there were benefits to both, of course, but the absolute reliance on them would ultimately prove a weakness.

One of the snakes slid closer to the flames, as though mocking his inability to do so, and he briefly considered roasting the animal, but shrugged the idea away; angering his sire was probably not the wisest idea he’d ever had. While generally kind, he knew the elder had the ability to shatter minds with his cruelty. He had no desire to be on the receiving end of those affections.

So he stared dully at the brazier, wondering at his sire’s lateness.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Alexander started as the shadows unfolded, revealing his sire sitting almost directly across from him. The elder was clean-shaven, save for a thin goatee, with sharp, serpentine eyes and a face that seemed to extend just a little too far to be natural – a result, he had once explained, of his mastery of Serpentis. Had his heart still be beating it probably would have been in his throat; as it was he felt the familiar stir of the Beast wanting to react to the sudden challenge. Fortunately he had only recently fed, and the Inner Beast was pliable to his desires.

He did not respond to the query; it was al-Seti’s latest attempt at picking up local slang, doomed, as had been all previous attempts, to failure. “A stupid idea,” the elder Setite went on after a momentary pause. “’Penny for your thoughts.’ Who would sell their thoughts for only a penny?” He shook his head, a slight smile creasing his lips. “I startled you.” It was not a question. Alexander nodded. “You must work on that; never reveal surprise. Others will take advantage of it.” He spun off his seat, moving to retrieve a paper file from his hardwood desk. “It, like all things, is a tool – one that you can take advantage of,” he glanced back, “or be taken advantage of through.”

Alexander nodded again, chastised. Recently his sire’s lessons had become almost repetitive. In the early nights after his embrace each word had brought a new lesson. Over the past few weeks, however, his sire had repeated, time and again, the same lessons, the same warnings. Good lessons. Good warnings. But the same nonetheless. He understood them intellectually, but trying to drill out all of his humanity in mere weeks…

They were difficult lessons to learn.

His sire grunted as he returned, lifting one of his pets into his lap, and replacing it with the file. “You will learn,” he said. “In the mean time, I assume all is in readiness?”

“It is.” The younger vampire did not reach for the file, waiting for his al-Seti to tell him to do so. Instead he sat, staring into the flames, refusing to give in to the terror that they raised within him. “Maria contacted me yesterday. She has identified two ghouls; and she suspects a third. She has not seen the master, but that should pose no difficulty.” He waved a hand as though wiping the issue away.

“Ah, Maria.” Al-Seti reclined in his head, sharp eyes watching him from the shadows. “Such a useful little whore she is, is she not?”

Alexander felt the Beast rise within him, a great serpent, its hood flaring in warning. He took a moment to force the sudden rage aside, seeking a calm, cold center that he had always lacked as a mortal; it came more naturally now, in death, than ever in life. Even so he had to clench his teeth as he spoke: “She has.”

Rasah smiled slightly, a vague, reserved motion of the lips that held no warmth. It was another thing that had come between them in recent weeks; despite himself he cared for her, sensing in her both a kindred spirit, of sorts, and a potential childe. She had already proven her worth to him, though al-Seti remained somewhat less enthusiastic. She is young, he would say. We shall see. Indeed they would. She would make him proud; already she showed signs of a strong, if uneducated, intelligence. Even Rasah could not truly fault her, since she showed much more interest in the dark god than he ever had. Alexander did not understand; perhaps he never would. Hopefully she would abandon her childish notion of ‘god’ as she grew up.

Rasah studied him as he thought about the girl then nodded at the folder next to the brazier. “I have made arrangements for transportation.”

Now, finally, Alexander reached forward and retrieved the folder, ready to ease his curiosity. Clipped to the inside cover was a plane ticket, Chicago O’Hare to Rockford – there was nothing else inside. He looked up curiously to where his sire reclined, looking at him thoughtfully. “The Giovanni control Rockford.” Alexander nodded; that was common knowledge. “They have requested our services in return for assisting you on your way.”

“Why do I need their assistance?” Even before Rasah answered he knew the answer: misguidance.

“It is all part of the game of life, my childe; you have your enemies, simply because you are a … Setite.” He frowned, but held his tongue; Alexander guessed that he had no desire to get into the age-old argument about gods. “And we here at the Temple have enemies as well. Misunderstandings, to be sure.” He smiled, tongue flicking between his lips in silent amusement. The snake by the fire rolled forward into a tighter ball, trying to retain the warmth. “It would be unfortunate if I was to receive word that you had… died while assisting them, yes?”

Alexander nodded slowly, a smile tugging at his own lips now.

“So, assist them you shall.” He turned his head slightly to the side; Alexander knew that, just behind him, stood a time piece that might have seemed archaic a hundred years before -- a gift, he had learned, of a French Kindred for a favor done. “Come,” he said, “I will take you to the airport. Your flight leaves in just over two hours.”

The younger man stood, keeping the file close to hand and he hurried back to his private quarters here at the temple, then hurried back. His changes of clothing were somewhat less than impressive, considering: three suits – one black, one grey, and one white. His sire had once asked him about it, but he had no real explanation. He now wore jeans and a tee-shirt, however, giving him the impression of being little more than a college student out for a night on the town. Sometimes the best disguises were the simplest, his sire had taught him – why use a false mustache, when you can shave your head?

Alexander chuckled at that. “You are ready?”

He turned, this time holding his surprise in at finding his sire standing behind him. “I am.”

“Excellent.” He led the way out of the temple, down the front steps. From the inside the Temple of Set was a massive edifice that left little to the imagination of which god it served; outside, however, it was a rather plan two-story construction that fit in with the relative squalor of the Chicago south side where it was located. An outrider of the main temple, it served it purposes in collecting new servants for the god. “The trip will take approximately forty-five minutes once you are in the air.” They reached the base of the steps and stepped to the curb, where a limousine sat waiting. In his ‘costume’ it seemed somehow inappropriate for Alexander; al-Seti was a better fit, however. “Michael DiGiovanni, childe of Sama DiGiovanni, will meet you at the airport. It does not typically accept commercial airlines; you will be taking a-“ He hesitated. “A puddle jumper?” At Alexander’s nod, he continued. “You will be taking a puddle jumper to reach Rockford; your plans beyond there are in the hands of our temporary allies.”

Vadross nodded his acceptance of this. He had found that his sire did not like letting others know that he knew things, despite that, in his experience the elder Setite was considerably more knowledgeable than he usually let on. Al-Seti opened the door for him, and he stepped into the limo, followed by his sire. “Watch the Giovanni,” he warned as the limousine sped off for the airport. “They are not to be trifled with. They control the dead like we do the living.” He turned to peer into the greasy darkness of the Chicago night. “Be wary.”

Check

[landisfarne]

Alexander knew, even before the plane had come to rest, which of the three men on the tarmac was Michael DiGiovanni. The men to either side of him were larger, more physically intimidating, yet even they seemed ill at ease beside the tall, gaunt man between them.

He’d been one of only two on the flight from O’Hare to Rockford, and had spent the time writing a response to an article in the Journal of Moral Sciences, a professional publication for moral philosophers. The author of the article, Jonathon Quizno, was an ignorant fool in his opinion – he could respect him as a professional, of course, but his reliance on God in his arguments made him repetitive in the extreme. Like my sire. The thought came unbidden, but it was true as far as it went.

A cold breeze, unseasonable, blew into the plane when the crew opened the door. He imagined he could hear voices on that wind, and a shiver rolled up his spine. The Giovanni were said to be able to trap and control the souls of the dead. He’d never believed it before – he could believe in vampires because he had become one, but he’d never seen a ghost.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Moving to the top of the stairs he paused. In a tee-shirt, more of his skin was exposed to the baleful, if reflected, light of the full moon. It made his flesh prickle uncomfortably, and he wished he’d thought to bring a jacket.

“Alexander Vadross.” It was not a question. Michael DiGiovanni’s voice was empty of humanity that so many Kindred sought to cultivate. It was cold, emotionless, and ultimately sought to dissect him.

Alexander nodded, peering down at the majordomo of the dominant clan-family of Rockford. His skin was pale, his cheeks drawn, his eyes hollow. He looks dead, the Setite realized with a start. Despite sharp eyes that bespoke a rabid intelligence, the creature – he could hardly be described as a man – looked more like a corpse than any Kindred he had ever seen.

“Welcome to Rockford, the Forest City.” He smiled, revealing perfect teeth. The aura surrounding DiGiovanni made Vadross’ hackles rise.

When death speaks, it is with this voice, he thought.

One of the two guards -- Why does this man need guards? -- moved to stand beside a limousine, black as night. He opened the door and the Giovanni made an inviting motion toward it.

Steeling himself, Alexander moved down the ladder to the tarmac. “Al-Seti has told us that you are here to assist us.” Alexander nodded once. “Ordinarily,” Michael DiGiovanni said, closing his own door even as the guard closed the Setite’s, “we would prefer to keep this in the family. In this particular case there are … other factors to take into account.”

“Other factors?”

The Giovanni nodded but seemed uninclined to satisfy his curiosity.

Alexander allowed the length of a mortal heartbeat to pass between them as he sized the other vampire up. He could tell the Giovanni was giving him much the same treatment. “And what is this ‘assistance,’” he asked, breaking the silence.

DiGiovanni explained as the vehicle pulled out of the airport: “My family has controlled Rockford since the end of the Civil War.” He paused, as though collecting his thoughts, headed cocked to the side.

As though he is listening.

“Back then the city was largely devoted to Camp Grant, a training facility for the American army. We created the business industry in the city, such as it is, and we have ensured that it remains economically viable despite-“ he made a face of mild disgust “-the best attempts by the mortal politicians to ruin it.” The Giovanni hesitated as though about to add something, then thought better of it.

“Until recently, there were never more outsiders than there were Giovanni. Not a conscious effort on our part,” he added, “but neither did we seek to change it. During the ‘50’s a Ventrue decided to proclaim himself ‘Prince of Rockford;’ as we had little interest in the politics associated with the Ivory Tower, we made no move to stop this – especially since Kurt Anderson was young and… pliable.”

The Setite nodded, listening even as he watched the city they had finally entered. He could barely consider it a city – less than 200,000 people and few, if any, buildings over three stories tall. There was evidence that commercial rail traffic existed – or had in the past – but mass transit seemed almost non-existent. There was no sign of any taxis, commuter rail system or even, it seemed to the Chicagoan, an efficient bus system.

“I take it that has changed?” He turned back to the conversation, haunted once again by the man’s eerie visage and the hunts of lost humanity.

Michael DiGiovanni nodded. “In 1997 the Sabbat laid claim to the old Camp Grant grounds. Among their first acts was the destruction of ‘Prince’ Anderson and the few non-Giovanni who would not join the Sword of Caine.

Sword of Caine? Obviously a reference to the Sabbat; he filed the information away for later use. “Go on.”

“In ’98 the Sabbat launched an assault on Chicago.” Alexander remembered the event quite well, though he had not yet been turned. The police had been stretched more thin than they had been during the riots in ’68. Fires had popped up everywhere. And, he had later learned, the long-term prince of the city, the Ventrue Lodin, had been destroyed. “It was a failure, of course, and the Pack that ‘claimed’ Rockford was decimated.” Another pause; again Michael cocked his head as though listening to some unheard voice.

“In the political infighting that resulted from Lodin’s Final Death,” the vampire continued momentarily, “a number of lesser rivals chose to flee rather than face destruction; some came here.”

Alexander nodded his understanding. His sire had Embraced him as that infighting had been in full swing. Lodin’s childe, the infamous gangster Al Capone, had used mob tactics to gain ground over his rivals, while the Brujah of the city had gone on a wild spree that left dozens – both mortal and not – dead. Only the oldest – and the members of the independent clans – had truly gained anything. Capone had finally gained control, but the price had been his power: tonight Chicago was all but ruled openly by the Primogen of the Camarilla clans, Capone a mere figurehead.

That, too, benefited the Setites.

“One of those to come to Rockford was Sandra Lae. Not typical Rabble, to be sure, but little better.” The Graverobber’s face was a death’s head mask devoid of motion or emotion until he spoke again. “She laid claim to Rockford as her domain and drove the Sabbat out of Rockford: tonight there is a Tzimisce hidden in the ruins of Camp Grant, and a mixed pack holds Belvedere.” The limousine turned onto a wide, brightly lit street with moderately taller buildings. Alexander decided this must be downtown Rockford.

It was quiet, dark and all but deserted, even so early. Nothing like Chicago.

He was loathe to admit it, but he was being all too truthful in his ignorance when he turned back to DiGiovanni. “So what, exactly, is the point of this history lesson?”

Michael studied him with cold, dead eyes before answering. “Sandra does not seem to realize she exists only because we – the Giovanni – allow her to. Until last year she was still battling intrusions by the Sabbat; however, since these seem to have stopped, she has become more of a nuisance.” He waved the reasons aside with a thin, pale hand. “We wish you to prove a point.”

“A point?” Alexander sounded incredulous, even to himself.

Michael nodded. “Her childe made a… poor business decision when he chose to steal from a local credit union. Despite our efforts to convince ‘Prince’ Lae that it is in her best interests to point out the folly of such actions, she has done nothing.”

Vadross hesitated. “This… seems more suited to your family’s talents than to my own clan.”

“Indeed,” Michael said, “I agree. But our sires seem not to share our wisdom.” Though the words were said easily, almost humorously if it could be imagined, Alexander detected a note of warning as well.

Vadross wondered, suddenly, what else his sire had gotten out of the deal. It seemed odd that he would send Alexander on such a trial-seeming task that was so out of character for him. And it was impossible for him to imagine al-Seti being taken advantage of so badly.

Anger swelled in him at being played the fool. The Beast seemed to throw itself against the cage in his mind, but he yanked it back mentally, dragging the serpentine monster back into the darkness through will alone. Biting back on his unruly rage, the Setite asked, “So what, precisely, am I to do?”

DiGiovanni looked at him for a long moment before answering, cool, dead-seeming eyes studying him; there was no fear in those eyes, no recognition that he sat beside a potential ravening monster. Merely… curiosity. It was as though he was asking: Can you maintain control of yourself? At last he spoke. “That is for you to decide; we merely require her childe be taught a lesson.”

Alexander nodded tightly, still unhappy about the obvious manipulation that had taken place. “Who is this childe?”

At this question DiGiovanni opened a briefcase obfuscated by the seat, removing a sheaf of papers. He handed the collection to Alexander, who flipped through them quickly, stopping at the images of a tall young man with long dark hair, pale skin and a pierced lip. “Aaron Allen.” The Giovani’s voice was devoid of emotion, as though reciting the most recent stock quotes. “Age twenty-three at Embrace, now twenty-six.”

Nearly the Setite’s age; he nodded, and the other continued. “Survived by father, Thomas, and mother, Maribeth, divorced. Two younger sisters, Crane and Shawnna, both live with his mother. One older half-brother, Jacob, and one older half-sister, Shelly, both of whom live with his father.” The recitation seemed memorized, and the Giovanni didn’t even bother looking away from his fellow undead with those unblinking eyes. “Currently spends most of his time at The Pound, a club on the east side of the River; other known…” he finally offered a smile, and it sent a shiver down Alexander’s back, “haunts include Irish Rose down town, Perkins on the west side, and a Denny’s down the street from his mother’s home. All necessary information is in the file.” He nodded at the papers in Alexander’s hands.

In the silence that followed, he skimmed through them, memorizing the images there. When he finally looked up he said, “Do you have a driver and a vehicle I can make use of during my stay?”

DiGiovanni nodded. “I will have Rocko made available. Do you need anything else?” At a shake of the younger vampire’s head Michael nodded once. “Good. We have rented you a room,” he half turned to look out the window; as though conjured by the man’s words, a long, low hotel, stylish, appeared, “at the Clocktower Inn.” He motioned out the window at the large tower that must have given the hostel its name. “There is no need to worry about your safety; arrangements have been made.”

We’ll see, Alexander retorted silently, his face an unreadable mask. “I appreciate your concern.”

“Not concern,” the Giovanni clarified. “We protect our investments; you are an investment.” Alexander blinked, surprised at the disinterest with which the man spoke. Any other man would have seemed vehement: Michael DiGiovanni seemed to be stating a fact, nothing more, nothing less.

“Then I will ensure you receive a return on your investment.” DiGiovanni nodded, and Alexander had the vague feeling that he was appreciated – in one way or another.

[landisfarne]

As promised, Alexander’s room in the Clocktower Inn was an interior room, protecting him from any chance of sunlight penetrating so far in. He could only imagine that the rooms in the area in which he stayed had been designed specifically for Kindred, despite the hotel’s advertising them as “businessman’s suites.” The idea of a hotel room without a view was one of the most ridiculous he’d ever heard; no mortal would want such a place, certainly not for the price they asked.

A vampire, on the other hand, would gladly pay double the price for such safety. He was glad the Giovann had paid. It also made him wonder what they would want in return – unless that had been part of the agreement with his sire.

The sense of anger returned, dulled somewhat, along with frustration. He wanted to know what had been offered and what had been exchanged. It wasn’t, he decided, the fact that his sire had manipulated him – although that annoyed him, certainly. It was also to be expected. No. What truly made him angry was his own ignorance, the sense that if he only could see the entire puzzle he would understand.

He turned the television on, flipping through the channels until he reached a news station. They had passed through the top stories of the evening and were now playing through the weather: And next: Sports! He thought with some disgust.

Nevertheless, he kept the newscast on, loudly, as he stripped and took a quick shower, allowing the water to massage away his annoyance, both at his sire and himself. There is always going to be someone manipulating you, Alexander, his sire had once told him. You must come to expect this. It is the way of the Kindreds – and the Sabbat. His sire had shaken his head, then, continuing softly as they walked through downtown, watching the people passing by. True power, he had explained, is the ability to avoid manipulation entirely. He had smiled his serpentine smile, then. But you and I? We must stick to the next best thing: redirecting the worst effects of those who manipulate us. When an elder uses you, you must ensure that you cannot be tied to either the effects – almost always negative – nor to the reason.

Alexander stared at the ground, allowing water to roll off his nose, one hand holding him up as he allowed himself to become lost in memory. In this at least, his sire had said, the Mad Clan is far wiser than any other. Nonsense is the greatest form of reason. He had not bothered to explain the comment, his eyes twinkling with amusement as Alexander pushed for further enlightenment.

He probably would have been disappointed if his sire had given him the answers so easily, of course; he’d never been one to approve of the simple path. Not that he would turn it down, of course – why do things that hard way when the simple way lay open to you? Likewise, he’d had trouble with his logic classes not because he was poor in logic – he was an excellent logician – but because he approved of using all the tools available in an argument: including lies and ‘illogical arguments.’ In the long term logic served better – but he found very few occasions when the long term was more important than the short term.

Again: why take the long path, when the short hairs present themselves?

He smiled to himself, looking up into the hot shower, feeling his muscles relax.

He hadn’t been aware that he was so tense; DiGiovanni’s sheer oddness had really gotten to him. He would have to learn from that experience, learn to remain relaxed and calm even in the presence of … the abnormal.

He shut the water, pausing a moment to let it drip off his body, then slid open the curtain and grabbed the towel. Wrapping it around his waste, he made his way into the living area, glancing at a house burning merrily away, “Live!” according to the tag at the top of the screen. It was in Belvedere. A Sabbat attack? Camarilla?

He shook his head. Kindred prided themselves on their subtlety, yet they didn’t seem to understand the meaning of the word. Setting fire to a building was about as subtle as beating someone with a baseball bat. True, there were times, but-

He flipped the television off, uninterested in hearing more. He had work to do.

Dropping to the bed, he shivered involuntarily; it was even colder than he was.