[despite her tendency to flex and play when opportunity presents itself, she is careful enough with the bag. her fingers close around the strap, shift it onto her shoulder. obvious enough, that the satchel weighs next to nothing to her. barely a dip to her shoulder, and what there is, is clearly to compensate for the weight bellying inside the fabric. paper and glass. not a problem.]
You don't worry, that Faerie's influence seeps into your magic? [a sidelong glance, brow curling high.] You using the local flora. Bits and leavings grown by them.
One of us—vampire alukite—he said the sun ain't 'real,' you know. [she toes through a little pile of leaves, sending up fragments of orange and brown like confetti. all without rousing even the slightest clink from the items inside his luggage. the litter falls again, eddying in the air.] Probably means the flowers, the water, rest of this isn't, either. In the essence.
Not criticizing. [a glance up, her red eyes studying him sidelong.] Know you've got to make do. Just figure a wizard's thinking about it. Even if he's cardigans over robes.
No more than I worry about the Fae's influence seeping into the food I eat, the water I drink, or the room where I lay my head. Which is to say: I do worry about it, but there's not much to be done. I must simply use what is available to me and hope for the best. At least the outcomes have mostly been as expected—except for with some of the books.
[ He looks over at her now, smiling slightly. ] Which is, incidentally, what you'll be helping me with today. In Hush House, it was quite often that I had to strip the protections of a book so that it could be read and catalogued, but the Fae use different sorts of enchantments than the ones I'm used to. In many cases, I can't dispel them alone. I need someone a little less... hmm... habituated to my own world's way of doing things. Though, there are still a few preparations we need to make.
[she's listening as he speaks. footfalls tramping along on a steady, ground-eating rhythm. not endlessly tireless, but close enough, compared to a human being with their normal biological limits. claudia is good at making people feel normal around her. better than most vampires, she thinks. but daniel owens doesn't seem the type to be perturbed by much of anything.]
Mind? [a quirk of her mouth, up in the corner. at least, in this way, she is easy enough.] Don't just read non-fiction, Mr. Owens. Big fan of all kinds of stories. All kinds of truth.
[she gives her little brown hand a little roll and wiggle in the air, as if setting a stage for someone. specifically, for him. the floor is his. in lieu of a spotlight, the warm winter sun, newly released back unto the world, just in time for his walk-and-talk performance.]
Wonderful. [ Daniel's smile broadens. ] I will preface by saying that this account contains both truth and rumors; in all, it is difficult to classify definitively as fiction or non-fiction.
I'll start with what is known to be true: long ago, in Bronze Age Greece, there lived an order of Long known as the House of Lethe. These were Long who, rather than serving the Hours, chose instead to live in self-imposed exile, rejecting both their past and future. Rather than seeking glory, they lived lives of obscurity and restraint, and their rules were many. However, there was one rule that was observed with a particular sort of severity and dread, a rule so great that even the Hours themselves live in fear of it: that no immortal may bring forth children.
The House of Lethe was considered radical, for even flirtation between members of the opposite sex could be met with corporal punishment or disfigurement. Indeed, potentially procreative copulation was punished with death.
Yet, there were whispers that those of the House in Damascus were even more zealous. Male initiates, it was said, were required to undergo castration, while female initiates were required to pay an still more grievous price: to strangle any of their children who still lived.
[ As Claudia listens, she may become aware of something within her reacting to the story, something simultaneously repulsed and captivated by it—a part that balks at the prospect of such rigidity and stricture, yet longs, too, to shed the past like too-tight skin. ]
In the end, the House of Lethe in Damascus shook itself to pieces with schisms and strife, yet it was said that some of the Long among them became wandering healers and exorcists under the auspices of the Sisterhood of the Triple Knot. Still, if any remain of their number, none have come forward to claim their history, and thus it remains a matter of speculation and rumor.
[ Daniel turns his head to look at Claudia, observing her carefully. ] It's not a particularly happy story, I'm afraid. But perhaps it is of interest to you, to know the history of some of the Long in my own world or at least their tales.
[as there are phases of the moon, claudia's expression passes through emotions in unmistakable succession. easy curiosity to start. she does understand he's telling her about his world's equivalent of her people, and that's reason enough for curiosity. but then dicks start coming off, kids start getting strangled, and—it's not visceral disgust or anything, because she did her share of dismemberment back in the day.
but movement lofts through her brows, genuinely surprised. her irises showing in full ruby circles as she studies daniel. quite a story to tell. technically, she knew that the librarian sees her as a full adult; he's never actually treated her like anything else, up to and including that initial telling off. the glint of her teeth is gradual, like something hatching through a crack in her face. a moment or three until she's smiling at him, wry, almost mirthless.]
Some vampires in my world took oaths more or less like that. Nothing to do with genitals, though. [a sigh.] All of them said I was a mistake. For obvious reasons. [a vague gesture of her hand toward herself, her short frame, its clear immaturity. her incapacity to age. sure, she can haul his stuff like it's nothing, tear a door off its hinges, kill a horse with one hand. but surviving in society, independently—impossible. her gaze shifts ahead.] Could say they succeeded, right?
A coven that's sworn off procreation has sworn to destroy itself.
[ Histories often rhyme; perhaps it should come as no surprise that the immortals of her world had abided by similar rules. Still, it is with a small shock of sympathy that he hears her admission. His own mentors had been too kind to call him a mistake outright, but it was clear enough in their laws—people like Daniel were not supposed to exist. Had they had the option, they would have killed his parents for even risking his conception. Knowing what he does, Daniel can't say he disagrees with such severity. ]
The House of Lethe saw their oaths as an act of kindness. I'm sure the Damascene branch felt the same, much as we may judge them for their brutality today. I don't think it was ever about ensuring their perpetuity—as individuals or as a group.
[ For a few moments, it seems like that's all he's going to say. But then, abruptly, he adds: ] Unless I'm misunderstanding how one is turned into a vampire, I don't see how it could be your mistake. It would belong to... what was it you called him? Your vile dog of a maker. Am I being naive, hoping they at least assigned blame correctly?
[ The Obliviates had had the sense to make that clear to him from the very beginning. Perhaps if it offered little solace and less protection, but the sin had belonged to his progenitors—not to him. ]
Don't think it's my mistake, Daniel. [her lips flatten mirthlessly, but somehow, the pull of her lips still bears some strange resemblance to a smile.]
I'm someone else's mistake. Or. Was. [the briefest, minnow flash of humor on her face. she glances at him briefly, pleased there's not any sodden, sappy pity in his eyes. is compassion different? she wouldn't know. vampires are bad at all of it. but at least, she doesn't want to reach over, dig her nails into his face and unseat it a layer at a time.] Pretty sure I'm the only one who dies for it, back home. Well. Me and my girl.
[a shake of her head. her strides continuing at a steady, ground-eating pace.] Maker's still alive, pretty sure. And the other one who raised me— [she actually doesn't know precisely how culpable louis was, but she will, one day.] —another here knew him. Said he made it out. No reason not to believe him. They wanted me, once. Thought themselves my parents. But that ended. Both the thought and the ... nature of the relationship.
Ain't a new story, if you think about it. [she kicks her foot through another mound of leaves.] You ain't naive, Daniel. Just—righteous. [her lips purse into a smile. she doesn't know what he's thinking, but by the shadow on his face, he is thinking. and when is he ever not? always a gerbil running in that wheel.] Were you wanted?
[ Dying for the sins of her maker—it’s a common tale in his History, too. In fact, it has generally been the inescapable fate of every child sired by Long—every one except Daniel himself.
He wonders about the Long who took Claudia in as their child. When one’s life is theoretically eternal, perhaps it is inevitable that any sort of familial framework would eventually break down. Another of immortality’s rubs, it seems. Not just outliving those that you love, but outliving love itself. And yet, so many still pursue eternity...
Her question startles him from his musings, and maybe it shows on his face, that flash of unguarded pain. He knows the answer. Sometimes, he wishes he didn’t. ]
I never knew my parents, [ he says, shoulders rising stiffly in a shrug. ] I was surrendered to a monastic order as an infant. My parents were always an abstract concept to me, I suppose. Perhaps it was better that way.
[ None of it is a lie. But none of it answers her question, either. Does it hurt her to talk about the mistake of her creation? Cowardice and shame keep Daniel from speaking about the mistake of his own. ]
There, [ Daniel says suddenly. ] That clearing up ahead.
[ Indeed, a few meters away, the trees thin, leaving a small glade. Perhaps in the springtime it would be a pretty little scene full of green stalks and wildflowers, but now, still in the grip of winter, there is nothing more to see than a sprinkling of dead leaves and patchy yellow grass. ]
[it's too much to say she regrets it, that flashpaper blaze of pain on his face. frankly, it's interesting. she's hurt too many people to feel it viscerally anymore, not the empathy that lights up your nerves as if what's happening in another person's body is within yours. but there's a downward tug at the corner of her mouth, and she thinks, maybe, maybe, she doesn't need to know more about that. not immediately.
'better that way.' maybe so.]
Gonna add 'optimistic' to your profile, Daniel. [there. that's positive, isn't it? granted, maybe just a more flattering spin to you think you know when you should back down from a fight, but you don't, but sounds prettier, looks better on paper. she smiles at him, gentle enough now to let go of that topic, her question. her head straightens on its stem, and she marches after the way he's pointing, carrying his belongings into the bare stretch of forest floor.
she lays down the bag carefully, carefully, so there's just the gentlest tinkle of the glassware inside. doesn't immediately move to open it, either, though she's deadly curious, this point. fingers curling at her sides, restraining the urge to help more, unasked.]
[ Daniel walks about the clearing, eyes downward like someone looking for a lost coin. After a few seconds, he seems to find a suitable spot: a relatively even patch of ground carpeted with low, scrubby grass. He takes the bag and sets it beside him there before gingerly sitting down himself. ]
Here will do, [ he says with satisfaction, motioning to offer Claudia a seat on the ground opposite him. Hopefully she doesn't mind sitting on the grass—if this were an ordinary picnic, Daniel might have brought a blanket for them to rest upon, but it is not, and such contrivances could subvert the Principle they are trying to cultivate.
He'll then reach into the bag, rummage around for a few seconds, and then pull out two objects. The first is a stout glass bottle filled with a dark, almost-syrupy liquid. The second is a small drinking glass wrapped in paper. He unwraps it before handing it to Claudia. ]
This, [ he says, hefting the bottle, ] is leathy. It can be consumed like any other liquor if one is adventurous, but for our purposes, it is a means of preparation. [ He'll gesture for her to extend her glass so he can fill it. ] Put simply, it will intensify the desired Principle for our ritual. Please, sip at your leisure; there's no rush.
[ He'll pull a few more objects from his bag as she drinks: a book, also wrapped in paper, a small gardening trowel, and a large pair of iron barber's shears. The book, he'll unwrap and place between them, opening it to show Claudia the pages. All of them are completely blank. ]
And here we have the purpose of our outing here today. There is something written in this book—I'm quite certain of it. But it's being hidden by a Fae enchantment. I need your help to persuade that enchantment to depart. I'm rather too... rigid, as you said, to be convincing.
[ There's a slight upward tug to the corners of his lips. She hadn't been wrong in her assessment, even if she'd put it bluntly. ]
[he makes a joke about the description she'd administered earlier, and her eyes swipe left and right, demonstrating the good grace to acknowledge that—might—have been a little exacting. not embarrassed, of course; certainly not apologetic, judging from the way her cheeks bunch up, two merry brown apples. she sat on the grass. no compunction about that, even if she does feel the chill emerging through the ass of her pants fabric.
and somewhere amid her happiness, her curiosity, she does finally locate it in herself—the vaguest sense that perhaps she should be afraid of what this is.
the vampire's eyes fall upon the book, irises two big red moons with burnt-black cores. pupils contracting at the faint glare of sunlight off the unmarked page. a beat, and they lift again, studying his face. knowledge kept from her—how intimately familiar, like a long knife fishing around between the ribs. what's new is the frisson of a thought, that maybe it's better that way. maybe she shouldn't know. maybe taking what she wants, reaching for what everybody else gets to have, is not safe. but there is too much defiance in her to let it stop just then. she reaches a hand to touch the corner.
easy enough, to hide fear under gruff irreverence:] Could cuss it out for you, sure.
[ For what it's worth, Daniel does not seem afraid. Sober-minded, yes, and focused, but also calm in a way he usually isn't. The nervous energy that usually radiates from him is absent. Here in the woods, amid his little assemblage of material components and recalcitrant book, he seems utterly in his element.
At her offer, he smiles. ] You'll certainly need to provoke it. It has been guarding this book for a very long time. It's grown prideful and stubborn. I need you to sew doubt, inconstancy. A yearning for something new.
[ A gesture to the glass of leathy in Claudia's hand. ] That should give you some additional influence, in the regard. Enough to get its attention and keep it.
[ He reaches now for the gardening trowel, taking it up and starting to gouge a small hole into the soil by his side. ] There will be several steps to the ritual. First, I will remove a garment and say a few words. You will do the same, then repeat those same words. Second, I will cut a lock of my hair, bury it, and say a few words again. Again, you will repeat the action and words for yourself. Then, you shall place your hand upon the book and close your eyes. You should neither open them nor remove your hand until instructed. As for the rest... [ A nebulous gesture. ] It would undermine our efforts for me to give you instructions that are too precise. Remember: Moth is instinct, yearning. Let those faculties guide you.
[ He'll wait for her to finish her drink before inquiring:]
[rare, for claudia to feel like she needs a drink. for nerves, for calm, for the intoxicating effects. not sure why that is; she's certainly seen plenty of mortals, even her own dubious 'brothers' enjoy themselves the afer-effects of sipping on a drunk. could be paranoia. not wanting her senses to be dulled, when she's always the most vulnerable, the weakest vampire in the room.
but somehow, it feels right to be putting liquor into her body as she listens to the instructions. as she contemplates the burial of hair and the emotional resonance that daniel is asking for. yearning. and he thought she was being a little much, with the way she'd described him. that word, that feeling, is the misery of her unlife. five decades of denial and want, of having nothing she saw the others hoard with greed and ease. not even more time.
suffice to say, she drinks a little faster. another swallow. then suddenly, the rest of the little vessel is emptied straight into her mouth. still tastes like chalk, but she tells herself she feels something, even as she gives her head a hard, brusque shake, rattling herself to focus. her scarf, the removable piece of clothing, abruptly feels too tight around her neck. she trusts daniel owens as far as she's ever trusted any man, but no. she does not feel ready to begin.]
Yeah. Let's do this.
Edited (edited one more word) 2026-02-16 09:16 (UTC)
Very good. Here. [ He hands her the trowel. ] I'll speak a few words, then we'll begin.
[ Saying this, he'll look away—or, not quite away. Just past Claudia, to the woods behind her. He takes a short breath, and then: ]
We call upon the Moth, who beats within the skull; who is dappled; who seeks among the trees of the Wood.
[ Not even a year ago, he wouldn't have dared invoked the Hours so boldly. Now, he knows they cannot hear him. They may as well harness the Principles of their liturgies.
This done, they can begin the ritual in earnest. He removes his coat and lays it on the ground beside him. ]
These are my garments, which I set aside.
[ He inclines his head just slightly towards Claudia, signalling her to do and say the same. Once she has done so, he continues, plucking the barber's shears from the ground. He lifts them to his head and snips off a curl of sandy brown hair, pinching the strands between his fingers. These, he drops in the little hole he has dug before pushing the soil back over them. ]
This is my past, but now I am changed.
[ He turns the shears around and passes them handle first to Claudia for her perform the same act and recite the same invocation. Once she's done, he'll hold a hand to take back the shears—then places them aside and, silently, puts forward the book on the ground between them.
Once Claudia places her hand upon it and closes her eyes, they will begin the next stage. ]
[claudia's heart beats only ever so slowly. it is a clockwork made flesh, a matter of magic more than biology, and that 'magic,' something never named to her. if her body were normal, her pulse would be galloping. making a break for it straight through her ribs. she watches him as he speaks to this 'moth,' to the 'wood.'
her eyes follow the article of clothing he ditches onto the ground. then the shining edge of the blade he takes to his hear. it's not very complex. not an intellectual challenge. certainly not—and she knows this, because she's listening to his nervy little rabbit heart—a trap masterminded by her companion. but it scintillates with promise beyond even her newly-seized power. teleporting through shadows is thrilling and esoteric and impossible.
dark books, buried hair. this turns in a different universe. (one called 'faerie.')
but she speaks and her voice does not waver. she lays down the scarf and her fingers do not tremble. and then the blade slices her hair with a brisk, dry snick, and that, too, meets the earth. in some perverse way, she learned all this from armand—she was, among other things, a stage actress, once. chin up and eyes clear, the moment before they close to accompany her palm on the exposed pages.]
Edited (tidying up the last step!) 2026-02-17 06:33 (UTC)
[ After Claudia closes her eyes, there is a moment of stillness. The soft forest sounds continue around them, birds singing, bugs chirping, unknowing and uncaring of the occult dabbling in their midst.
There is a rustle of movement as Daniel moves across from her, and no doubt Claudia will be able to sense him coming closer. A moment later, and she'll feel a slight pressure on her shoulder. At first, it's difficult to discern what it is by sensation alone, aside from some object resting there. But then, as it begins to drag slowly from her shoulder down her arm, she'll get a better sense of it: cold, metallic, and sharp.
It's the blade of the barber's shears, being dragged lightly down her arm. There is not enough pressure behind it to be dangerous, and yet as it moves from her sleeve to her skin, it becomes obvious that something is being cut, even if it's not her clothes or her skin. It feels as if she's been wrapped in cotton wool for her entire life, insipid and warm, and that only now is it being sliced away, only now can she feel what is outside of her, clear, and bright and real in a way that it wasn't before. The forest breeze, the vibrations of bird and bug-song, all of it flows across her nerves.
The blade continues down her arm, over her wrist and hand, and finally down the tip of her middle finger, leaving her skin prickling, a feeling of cobweb-thinness to it like some harder outer boundary has been dissolved. There's a soft scrape of metal on paper as the shears then carve gently down the pages of the book. ]
Your skin is but a blindfold, your name but a rope, [ Daniel's voice intones, more felt than heard. ] Both, I unbind.
[ And then, with the barrier between her and the book sliced open, she'll feel it—something in the book, pressed into the pages, something ancient, austere, and proud. Something that has sat in these pages for centuries and has grown haughty in its grand immovability.
This is where Daniel's instructions had ended. Now, it is up to Claudia to, through instinct, impulse, and desire to divine what happens next. ]
[to be perfectly honest, claudia thought he'd give her more instructions. some kind of an incantation. latin? does his 'history' have latin? sanskrit, maybe. also a popular one, in the old lore, or the references to them that claudia could actually read. but abruptly, they arrive at the precipice of what-could-be, and she has nothing but a naked book in her hands and the filaments of power contracting into a stranglehold around this moment in time, auspicious and terrifying. she thinks, doesn't say: why did he think i could do this?]
What the actual fuck, [is her eloquent headline, growled for all of faerie to hear. but she's not mad at him.
she's not even mad at it—this thing stained into the pages, deeper than the ink, intermeshed with the pulp of paper, so you'd break it beyond mending if you tried to get it out the normal way. with shears, for example—he ones he managed not to cut her with. but anger is sand on the bedrock for her, always, and beneath it, want and discord and the fundamental instability that all the old blood-glutting dead (ancient, austere, and proud) told her would kill her in the end. maybe it would have, if the fuckers hadn't come for her first. an angry line rifts her forehead in two.
it strikes with a flinty, ordinary fuck you and catches immediately, licking its way through the substrate of its existence, consuming, like fire that heeds no resistance, blackening with fervid intelligence. daniel owens cut the chrysalis off her. what comes forth is roiling and eyeless and misshapen. primordial goop and primordial flame are only differentiated, really, by texture. the visceral feeling kicked off in the soul of man who beholds it is the same. well. that is, if man were ordinary. the enchantment wobbles. the defenses of her mind do, too. he catches the thought escape like steam through fissure, old memory: like love as a small box to keep you in. don't stay in it.]
Edited (CATCHING MY TYPO BEFORE IT GETS LOCKED BY A REPLY !!) 2026-02-18 22:42 (UTC)
[ Through it all, Daniel watches, silent and still, the blades of the open shears in his hand pointed skyward. He’d told Claudia the danger was minimal, and he’d meant it; he’d judged her as being powerful enough to take on the gloating fragment of a soul sunk into the book—and if he’d misjudged her, he is at least confident enough in his own abilities to repair the damage. He’s never lost an assistant before, never.
Still, his fingers remain tense as they curl around the loops of the shears, ready to snap them closed if they need to metaphorically cut and run. Already, he can feel the air grow charged with the outflow of otherworldly energies, like sparks thrown from the collision of hammer and steel. His own skin prickles with it, with the echoes of unspoken words urging flight, escape.
But the enchantment in the book has not kept its vigil for so many centuries just to be tempted into dropping its guard now. It is the shadow in the soul's cellar—pride, yes, and hatred and fear. It darkens, condenses. This book is its domain, its duty, and sole possession. Why should it fly up into that world where it will have nothing, be nothing? Will it fly back to the soul that cut it loose and left it here to molder? No, no, anything but that.
It grows heavy and oppressive, threatening to drag down the soul that would lift it. It is immoveable. It is grand. That is all it has left. ]
[the power twists in the air like something struggling to manifest in physical form, the wan ghosts from old vodou stories, the vulgar tragedies that mixed in with catholic tradition and bayou stories. claudia is not without fear. she thinks to shrink from it. to lash out, short brown fingers curled like cat's claws. the defensive swiping of something small and frightened underneath the rage. but the soft marrow underneath does not weaken the bones of her want. she, like her maker, like every other vampire with predation branded into their blood before, does love to win.
you can't have this one.
where does the thought come from? she does not know this book. daniel chose it. never occurred to her to ask, and that is, admittedly, in no small part because she trusts the librarian's outsized sense of justice, of decency, but also his intellect. he thinks himself small in the grand scale of storied leaders, but claudia knows her history. ('history.' he'd like that.) she's experienced decades, herself, and felt the current of thoughts human and inhuman, of big men—mayors and artists and a maître or two. they began small. every single one of them. vampires aren't the only creatures borne of trauma.
you can't have this one. a lesson beaten into her, by hook and crook, a hundred times. not always malicious, but just the indifference of a universe too vast, too full of jockeying monsters, to buckle to one girl's every whim. but this second time she says it, it's gentler the way a silk cord, a tincture of laudanum, or a very sharp knife is gentle. reconciliation of terms. acceptance.]
[ At those words, sharp and precise as as scalpel, the thing in the books judders, rears up. That great and terrible pride it has is shaken; it feels all that it knows, all it has slipping away from it. And yet, if its pride no longer has a firm root in the pages of the book, its fear does.
What is there, beyond these pages? Beyond this purpose? Is it change? Oblivion? Is there a difference? Its defenses are weakened, its form wavering, but still, it will use the last of its will to fight like a cornered animal to stay in its cage. It must be overpowered—or persuaded. Perhaps both.
The pages of this book are all it has ever known. What is there for it to yearn for besides this? ]
[it is a good question with a terrible answer. a terrible question with a perfect answer. she does understand, has stared at both her own anemic prospects and the leering threats of her vampire elders. her anger had faded into lethal mercy, the compassion of a professional at slaughter, but now—holding the struggling vestiges of this thing—she understands, suddenly, it has to become something else, too.
what is there to yearn for beside this?nothing.
nothing—probably. ashes to ashes, dust to dust. in the void, we placed our trust. but if it grants you comfort, i'll join you there one day. claudia the vampire is only faithless in the manner of the formerly faithful. her first night as the loving dead was characterized by the joy of belief her maker was an angel. (her last—though she doesn't know it yet—she will look to him again, as if for rescue.) there always comes time you need something to believe in, or someone to believe in you, and maybe that's why she's betting on a rebellion that taunts her predestined grave to come and get her. because daniel thinks she can do this. or maybe—
maybe because you don't know, for sure. maybe there's something more than paper flesh and fighting librarians. won't know til you find out. maybe i'll join you somewhere else, one day. she doesn't really think so. these days, her faith is weak. but her skill with human kindness has never been stronger, and sometimes lying is the most loving thing you can do.]
[ As Claudia speaks, the charge in the air changes. There is an agitation to it now, as if it is boiling without heat, an invisible, paradoxical fire lapping up from the book. Inside its pages, the enchantment is changing as well, that austere, immovable pride rupturing from the inside like stony eggshell as change and longing burrow to the surface in a kind of ecstatic despair.
Daniel must be able to feel it as well. When he speaks, his voice is louder as if trying to be heard over a din. ]
Claudia. [ Firm, urgent. ] Take your hand from the book, then open your eyes.
[ Once she does so, the scene before her is jarringly mundane. The open book still lies between them on the forest floor, and the scissors are still held in Daniel's hand. But there is something different about the pages. The parchment is still blank, but the blankness itself seems to ripple, a still pond disturbed by a stone. The roiling un-heat in the air thickens until it feels almost solid—
—and then something breaks. The blankness—not the paper, but the blankness—seems to shred away from the pages, scraps of it flying into the air like insects. The winged swarm rushes sunwards, shedding motes of nothingness until they dissipate entirely. It is several moments before the multitude is exhausted, the air clearing, settling back into equilibrium.
And there on the page, are written words.
Daniel takes a slow, steady breath. When his gaze meets Claudia's, there's a look of wild delight in his eyes. ]
Wonderful, [ he breathes. ] That was perfect. I knew you could do it. [ And then, hurriedly. ] Ah, don't move around too much just yet! Give me your hand, the one that wasn't touching the book.
[ Because she can still feel it—that sensation of uncanny aliveness running down her arm, like some stifling, protecting membrane has been removed. Daniel reaches for his discarded jacket and removes a fountain pen from a pocket. This, he unscrews, opening the reservoir within to drip blank ink onto Claudia's fingertips. ]
Use your fingers to write your name on that arm, [ he instructs. ] First name or full name will both do, depending on how quickly you want it to seal up.
[ His gaze flicks towards the book even as he speaks. The words within are written in one of the Fae languages—fortunately, one Daniel has studied. Still, he'll need to get it back to the library with his notes to begin work on a full translation. ]
[victory is a lift of a blood-hot flutter in her heart, wings that have nothing to do with butterflies granting a rare optimism to her spirits. to her good sense. for a protracted moment, her eyes don't move from the new words exposed across the pages by the lepidopteran dissipation of emptiness. her big red eyes. she is incredulous, even as she's following his instructions, despite all evidence proving her success. she provides her hand. the other hand. she accepts the splash of ink.]
Does the name have to be true?
[is a strange question to ask. and what name is 'true,' anyway? only but old celtic faerie stories are lodged in her head, maybe also the obvious aliases of the rivaling djinni, half-remembered invocations of catholic prayer and vodou ritual from before she was turned. names, claudia knew even before this, have power. de pointe du lac was won of necessity after too much forgetting—but as soon as she thinks it, she realizes, the old mortal name wouldn't be right anymore, either, so she's shaking her head.] Never mind.
[her name is claudia. she is claudia the vampire. and so it is just the one name that she writes on her arm, her finger smearing black in its wake along her arm. thus busied, it doesn't occur to her to ask if the book is interesting; she naturally assumes he started her on something frivolous and understanding. offhandedly, she says,] Let me guess. Recipe book. If it's got good blood cookies in there, I expect some answers.
It just has to be yours, [ Daniel says to her question, tone distracted. His eyes are still on the book as screws his fountain pen back together and places it in his pocket. He scans the page for a few moments more as Claudia reapplies her name, eventually tearing his eyes away to attend to the vampire's quip. ]
No cookies, unfortunately, [ he says with a quick, keen smile. ] It's a chronicle.
[ He picks up the book—and that's all it is now, no more stifling presence clouding its pages—and closes it to show her tiny Fae lettering stamped into the cover. ]
This word here is what caught my attention when I found this book in the library. The other chronicles and histories I've found tend to name rulers or kingdoms as their subjects, but this one— [ he taps a particular word, ] —is unusually inclusive. You see these two wedge shapes here? Each one is a pluralizing particle and when doubled like this, the effect is likewise doubled. Not "person," nor even "people," but "peoples." It may be a long shot, but my hope is that it might shed light on what became of the Taken before us.
[ Having explained, he'll tuck the book away into his satchel and begin to also gather up the scissors, bottle, and glass. ]
Alas, I'm not yet a proficient enough in this language to simply read it as is. I'll need to bring it back to the library to begin to translate it properly. [ A glance at Claudia. ] You are, of course, more than welcome to come, though I'm afraid it's unlikely to be a very exciting process.
[as he clinks through his gathered tools, the vampire drops into a crouch by the bag. her fingers make easy work of the fastenings, and she rises again, holding the satchel open for him to place the goods back inside. her brow remains furrowed as she watches each mundane yet mystic implement snug itself back into the shadow. his words turn over in her head.
seems like overdoing it, at this point, to point out that he might have taken a risk with such valuable a prize, setting her amateur hands on it. claudia doesn't like to fish for compliments. but this is not a compliment—it's unforeseen respect, some measure of trust, ripping out of the ocean like a damn marlin, dorsal fin flapping in the sun, nosedived into her unsuspecting boat. maybe he could have fixed it if she fucked it up. maybe these pages will turn out to reveal nothing. maybe, maybe.
still, claudia had accepted his invitation with the blithe excitement for a token caper, maybe a bit of charity, dug from the same toolkit of lestat's hunting lessons, and the first cigarette louis lit for her. what daniel describes has implications to shockwave through all faerie and alter the fabric of their community of the adopted. but, true to the vanity of her kind, all claudia can think of—for a moment—is herself.
she catches herself staring at daniel. then cuts her eyes away, clearing her throat. nonchalantly,] Don't have other plans. You and your hardback are event of the day.
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You don't worry, that Faerie's influence seeps into your magic? [a sidelong glance, brow curling high.] You using the local flora. Bits and leavings grown by them.
One of us—vampire alukite—he said the sun ain't 'real,' you know. [she toes through a little pile of leaves, sending up fragments of orange and brown like confetti. all without rousing even the slightest clink from the items inside his luggage. the litter falls again, eddying in the air.] Probably means the flowers, the water, rest of this isn't, either. In the essence.
Not criticizing. [a glance up, her red eyes studying him sidelong.] Know you've got to make do. Just figure a wizard's thinking about it. Even if he's cardigans over robes.
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[ He looks over at her now, smiling slightly. ] Which is, incidentally, what you'll be helping me with today. In Hush House, it was quite often that I had to strip the protections of a book so that it could be read and catalogued, but the Fae use different sorts of enchantments than the ones I'm used to. In many cases, I can't dispel them alone. I need someone a little less... hmm... habituated to my own world's way of doing things. Though, there are still a few preparations we need to make.
Namely: do you mind if I tell you a story?
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Mind? [a quirk of her mouth, up in the corner. at least, in this way, she is easy enough.] Don't just read non-fiction, Mr. Owens. Big fan of all kinds of stories. All kinds of truth.
[she gives her little brown hand a little roll and wiggle in the air, as if setting a stage for someone. specifically, for him. the floor is his. in lieu of a spotlight, the warm winter sun, newly released back unto the world, just in time for his walk-and-talk performance.]
cw: mentions of castration, infanticide
I'll start with what is known to be true: long ago, in Bronze Age Greece, there lived an order of Long known as the House of Lethe. These were Long who, rather than serving the Hours, chose instead to live in self-imposed exile, rejecting both their past and future. Rather than seeking glory, they lived lives of obscurity and restraint, and their rules were many. However, there was one rule that was observed with a particular sort of severity and dread, a rule so great that even the Hours themselves live in fear of it: that no immortal may bring forth children.
The House of Lethe was considered radical, for even flirtation between members of the opposite sex could be met with corporal punishment or disfigurement. Indeed, potentially procreative copulation was punished with death.
Yet, there were whispers that those of the House in Damascus were even more zealous. Male initiates, it was said, were required to undergo castration, while female initiates were required to pay an still more grievous price: to strangle any of their children who still lived.
[ As Claudia listens, she may become aware of something within her reacting to the story, something simultaneously repulsed and captivated by it—a part that balks at the prospect of such rigidity and stricture, yet longs, too, to shed the past like too-tight skin. ]
In the end, the House of Lethe in Damascus shook itself to pieces with schisms and strife, yet it was said that some of the Long among them became wandering healers and exorcists under the auspices of the Sisterhood of the Triple Knot. Still, if any remain of their number, none have come forward to claim their history, and thus it remains a matter of speculation and rumor.
[ Daniel turns his head to look at Claudia, observing her carefully. ] It's not a particularly happy story, I'm afraid. But perhaps it is of interest to you, to know the history of some of the Long in my own world or at least their tales.
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but movement lofts through her brows, genuinely surprised. her irises showing in full ruby circles as she studies daniel. quite a story to tell. technically, she knew that the librarian sees her as a full adult; he's never actually treated her like anything else, up to and including that initial telling off. the glint of her teeth is gradual, like something hatching through a crack in her face. a moment or three until she's smiling at him, wry, almost mirthless.]
Some vampires in my world took oaths more or less like that. Nothing to do with genitals, though. [a sigh.] All of them said I was a mistake. For obvious reasons. [a vague gesture of her hand toward herself, her short frame, its clear immaturity. her incapacity to age. sure, she can haul his stuff like it's nothing, tear a door off its hinges, kill a horse with one hand. but surviving in society, independently—impossible. her gaze shifts ahead.] Could say they succeeded, right?
A coven that's sworn off procreation has sworn to destroy itself.
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The House of Lethe saw their oaths as an act of kindness. I'm sure the Damascene branch felt the same, much as we may judge them for their brutality today. I don't think it was ever about ensuring their perpetuity—as individuals or as a group.
[ For a few moments, it seems like that's all he's going to say. But then, abruptly, he adds: ] Unless I'm misunderstanding how one is turned into a vampire, I don't see how it could be your mistake. It would belong to... what was it you called him? Your vile dog of a maker. Am I being naive, hoping they at least assigned blame correctly?
[ The Obliviates had had the sense to make that clear to him from the very beginning. Perhaps if it offered little solace and less protection, but the sin had belonged to his progenitors—not to him. ]
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I'm someone else's mistake. Or. Was. [the briefest, minnow flash of humor on her face. she glances at him briefly, pleased there's not any sodden, sappy pity in his eyes. is compassion different? she wouldn't know. vampires are bad at all of it. but at least, she doesn't want to reach over, dig her nails into his face and unseat it a layer at a time.] Pretty sure I'm the only one who dies for it, back home. Well. Me and my girl.
[a shake of her head. her strides continuing at a steady, ground-eating pace.] Maker's still alive, pretty sure. And the other one who raised me— [she actually doesn't know precisely how culpable louis was, but she will, one day.] —another here knew him. Said he made it out. No reason not to believe him. They wanted me, once. Thought themselves my parents. But that ended. Both the thought and the ... nature of the relationship.
Ain't a new story, if you think about it. [she kicks her foot through another mound of leaves.] You ain't naive, Daniel. Just—righteous. [her lips purse into a smile. she doesn't know what he's thinking, but by the shadow on his face, he is thinking. and when is he ever not? always a gerbil running in that wheel.] Were you wanted?
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He wonders about the Long who took Claudia in as their child. When one’s life is theoretically eternal, perhaps it is inevitable that any sort of familial framework would eventually break down. Another of immortality’s rubs, it seems. Not just outliving those that you love, but outliving love itself. And yet, so many still pursue eternity...
Her question startles him from his musings, and maybe it shows on his face, that flash of unguarded pain. He knows the answer. Sometimes, he wishes he didn’t. ]
I never knew my parents, [ he says, shoulders rising stiffly in a shrug. ] I was surrendered to a monastic order as an infant. My parents were always an abstract concept to me, I suppose. Perhaps it was better that way.
[ None of it is a lie. But none of it answers her question, either. Does it hurt her to talk about the mistake of her creation? Cowardice and shame keep Daniel from speaking about the mistake of his own. ]
There, [ Daniel says suddenly. ] That clearing up ahead.
[ Indeed, a few meters away, the trees thin, leaving a small glade. Perhaps in the springtime it would be a pretty little scene full of green stalks and wildflowers, but now, still in the grip of winter, there is nothing more to see than a sprinkling of dead leaves and patchy yellow grass. ]
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'better that way.' maybe so.]
Gonna add 'optimistic' to your profile, Daniel. [there. that's positive, isn't it? granted, maybe just a more flattering spin to you think you know when you should back down from a fight, but you don't, but sounds prettier, looks better on paper. she smiles at him, gentle enough now to let go of that topic, her question. her head straightens on its stem, and she marches after the way he's pointing, carrying his belongings into the bare stretch of forest floor.
she lays down the bag carefully, carefully, so there's just the gentlest tinkle of the glassware inside. doesn't immediately move to open it, either, though she's deadly curious, this point. fingers curling at her sides, restraining the urge to help more, unasked.]
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[ Daniel walks about the clearing, eyes downward like someone looking for a lost coin. After a few seconds, he seems to find a suitable spot: a relatively even patch of ground carpeted with low, scrubby grass. He takes the bag and sets it beside him there before gingerly sitting down himself. ]
Here will do, [ he says with satisfaction, motioning to offer Claudia a seat on the ground opposite him. Hopefully she doesn't mind sitting on the grass—if this were an ordinary picnic, Daniel might have brought a blanket for them to rest upon, but it is not, and such contrivances could subvert the Principle they are trying to cultivate.
He'll then reach into the bag, rummage around for a few seconds, and then pull out two objects. The first is a stout glass bottle filled with a dark, almost-syrupy liquid. The second is a small drinking glass wrapped in paper. He unwraps it before handing it to Claudia. ]
This, [ he says, hefting the bottle, ] is leathy. It can be consumed like any other liquor if one is adventurous, but for our purposes, it is a means of preparation. [ He'll gesture for her to extend her glass so he can fill it. ] Put simply, it will intensify the desired Principle for our ritual. Please, sip at your leisure; there's no rush.
[ He'll pull a few more objects from his bag as she drinks: a book, also wrapped in paper, a small gardening trowel, and a large pair of iron barber's shears. The book, he'll unwrap and place between them, opening it to show Claudia the pages. All of them are completely blank. ]
And here we have the purpose of our outing here today. There is something written in this book—I'm quite certain of it. But it's being hidden by a Fae enchantment. I need your help to persuade that enchantment to depart. I'm rather too... rigid, as you said, to be convincing.
[ There's a slight upward tug to the corners of his lips. She hadn't been wrong in her assessment, even if she'd put it bluntly. ]
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and somewhere amid her happiness, her curiosity, she does finally locate it in herself—the vaguest sense that perhaps she should be afraid of what this is.
the vampire's eyes fall upon the book, irises two big red moons with burnt-black cores. pupils contracting at the faint glare of sunlight off the unmarked page. a beat, and they lift again, studying his face. knowledge kept from her—how intimately familiar, like a long knife fishing around between the ribs. what's new is the frisson of a thought, that maybe it's better that way. maybe she shouldn't know. maybe taking what she wants, reaching for what everybody else gets to have, is not safe. but there is too much defiance in her to let it stop just then. she reaches a hand to touch the corner.
easy enough, to hide fear under gruff irreverence:] Could cuss it out for you, sure.
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At her offer, he smiles. ] You'll certainly need to provoke it. It has been guarding this book for a very long time. It's grown prideful and stubborn. I need you to sew doubt, inconstancy. A yearning for something new.
[ A gesture to the glass of leathy in Claudia's hand. ] That should give you some additional influence, in the regard. Enough to get its attention and keep it.
[ He reaches now for the gardening trowel, taking it up and starting to gouge a small hole into the soil by his side. ] There will be several steps to the ritual. First, I will remove a garment and say a few words. You will do the same, then repeat those same words. Second, I will cut a lock of my hair, bury it, and say a few words again. Again, you will repeat the action and words for yourself. Then, you shall place your hand upon the book and close your eyes. You should neither open them nor remove your hand until instructed. As for the rest... [ A nebulous gesture. ] It would undermine our efforts for me to give you instructions that are too precise. Remember: Moth is instinct, yearning. Let those faculties guide you.
[ He'll wait for her to finish her drink before inquiring:]
Do you feel ready to begin?
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but somehow, it feels right to be putting liquor into her body as she listens to the instructions. as she contemplates the burial of hair and the emotional resonance that daniel is asking for. yearning. and he thought she was being a little much, with the way she'd described him. that word, that feeling, is the misery of her unlife. five decades of denial and want, of having nothing she saw the others hoard with greed and ease. not even more time.
suffice to say, she drinks a little faster. another swallow. then suddenly, the rest of the little vessel is emptied straight into her mouth. still tastes like chalk, but she tells herself she feels something, even as she gives her head a hard, brusque shake, rattling herself to focus. her scarf, the removable piece of clothing, abruptly feels too tight around her neck. she trusts daniel owens as far as she's ever trusted any man, but no. she does not feel ready to begin.]
Yeah. Let's do this.
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[ Saying this, he'll look away—or, not quite away. Just past Claudia, to the woods behind her. He takes a short breath, and then: ]
We call upon the Moth, who beats within the skull; who is dappled; who seeks among the trees of the Wood.
[ Not even a year ago, he wouldn't have dared invoked the Hours so boldly. Now, he knows they cannot hear him. They may as well harness the Principles of their liturgies.
This done, they can begin the ritual in earnest. He removes his coat and lays it on the ground beside him. ]
These are my garments, which I set aside.
[ He inclines his head just slightly towards Claudia, signalling her to do and say the same. Once she has done so, he continues, plucking the barber's shears from the ground. He lifts them to his head and snips off a curl of sandy brown hair, pinching the strands between his fingers. These, he drops in the little hole he has dug before pushing the soil back over them. ]
This is my past, but now I am changed.
[ He turns the shears around and passes them handle first to Claudia for her perform the same act and recite the same invocation. Once she's done, he'll hold a hand to take back the shears—then places them aside and, silently, puts forward the book on the ground between them.
Once Claudia places her hand upon it and closes her eyes, they will begin the next stage. ]
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her eyes follow the article of clothing he ditches onto the ground. then the shining edge of the blade he takes to his hear. it's not very complex. not an intellectual challenge. certainly not—and she knows this, because she's listening to his nervy little rabbit heart—a trap masterminded by her companion. but it scintillates with promise beyond even her newly-seized power. teleporting through shadows is thrilling and esoteric and impossible.
dark books, buried hair. this turns in a different universe. (one called 'faerie.')
but she speaks and her voice does not waver. she lays down the scarf and her fingers do not tremble. and then the blade slices her hair with a brisk, dry snick, and that, too, meets the earth. in some perverse way, she learned all this from armand—she was, among other things, a stage actress, once. chin up and eyes clear, the moment before they close to accompany her palm on the exposed pages.]
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There is a rustle of movement as Daniel moves across from her, and no doubt Claudia will be able to sense him coming closer. A moment later, and she'll feel a slight pressure on her shoulder. At first, it's difficult to discern what it is by sensation alone, aside from some object resting there. But then, as it begins to drag slowly from her shoulder down her arm, she'll get a better sense of it: cold, metallic, and sharp.
It's the blade of the barber's shears, being dragged lightly down her arm. There is not enough pressure behind it to be dangerous, and yet as it moves from her sleeve to her skin, it becomes obvious that something is being cut, even if it's not her clothes or her skin. It feels as if she's been wrapped in cotton wool for her entire life, insipid and warm, and that only now is it being sliced away, only now can she feel what is outside of her, clear, and bright and real in a way that it wasn't before. The forest breeze, the vibrations of bird and bug-song, all of it flows across her nerves.
The blade continues down her arm, over her wrist and hand, and finally down the tip of her middle finger, leaving her skin prickling, a feeling of cobweb-thinness to it like some harder outer boundary has been dissolved. There's a soft scrape of metal on paper as the shears then carve gently down the pages of the book. ]
Your skin is but a blindfold, your name but a rope, [ Daniel's voice intones, more felt than heard. ] Both, I unbind.
[ And then, with the barrier between her and the book sliced open, she'll feel it—something in the book, pressed into the pages, something ancient, austere, and proud. Something that has sat in these pages for centuries and has grown haughty in its grand immovability.
This is where Daniel's instructions had ended. Now, it is up to Claudia to, through instinct, impulse, and desire to divine what happens next. ]
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What the actual fuck, [is her eloquent headline, growled for all of faerie to hear. but she's not mad at him.
she's not even mad at it—this thing stained into the pages, deeper than the ink, intermeshed with the pulp of paper, so you'd break it beyond mending if you tried to get it out the normal way. with shears, for example—he ones he managed not to cut her with. but anger is sand on the bedrock for her, always, and beneath it, want and discord and the fundamental instability that all the old blood-glutting dead (ancient, austere, and proud) told her would kill her in the end. maybe it would have, if the fuckers hadn't come for her first. an angry line rifts her forehead in two.
it strikes with a flinty, ordinary fuck you and catches immediately, licking its way through the substrate of its existence, consuming, like fire that heeds no resistance, blackening with fervid intelligence. daniel owens cut the chrysalis off her. what comes forth is roiling and eyeless and misshapen. primordial goop and primordial flame are only differentiated, really, by texture. the visceral feeling kicked off in the soul of man who beholds it is the same. well. that is, if man were ordinary. the enchantment wobbles. the defenses of her mind do, too. he catches the thought escape like steam through fissure, old memory: like love as a small box to keep you in. don't stay in it.]
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Still, his fingers remain tense as they curl around the loops of the shears, ready to snap them closed if they need to metaphorically cut and run. Already, he can feel the air grow charged with the outflow of otherworldly energies, like sparks thrown from the collision of hammer and steel. His own skin prickles with it, with the echoes of unspoken words urging flight, escape.
But the enchantment in the book has not kept its vigil for so many centuries just to be tempted into dropping its guard now. It is the shadow in the soul's cellar—pride, yes, and hatred and fear. It darkens, condenses. This book is its domain, its duty, and sole possession. Why should it fly up into that world where it will have nothing, be nothing? Will it fly back to the soul that cut it loose and left it here to molder? No, no, anything but that.
It grows heavy and oppressive, threatening to drag down the soul that would lift it. It is immoveable. It is grand. That is all it has left. ]
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you can't have this one.
where does the thought come from? she does not know this book. daniel chose it. never occurred to her to ask, and that is, admittedly, in no small part because she trusts the librarian's outsized sense of justice, of decency, but also his intellect. he thinks himself small in the grand scale of storied leaders, but claudia knows her history. ('history.' he'd like that.) she's experienced decades, herself, and felt the current of thoughts human and inhuman, of big men—mayors and artists and a maître or two. they began small. every single one of them. vampires aren't the only creatures borne of trauma.
you can't have this one. a lesson beaten into her, by hook and crook, a hundred times. not always malicious, but just the indifference of a universe too vast, too full of jockeying monsters, to buckle to one girl's every whim. but this second time she says it, it's gentler the way a silk cord, a tincture of laudanum, or a very sharp knife is gentle. reconciliation of terms. acceptance.]
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What is there, beyond these pages? Beyond this purpose? Is it change? Oblivion? Is there a difference? Its defenses are weakened, its form wavering, but still, it will use the last of its will to fight like a cornered animal to stay in its cage. It must be overpowered—or persuaded. Perhaps both.
The pages of this book are all it has ever known. What is there for it to yearn for besides this? ]
cw death, depressed thinking
what is there to yearn for beside this? nothing.
nothing—probably. ashes to ashes, dust to dust. in the void, we placed our trust. but if it grants you comfort, i'll join you there one day. claudia the vampire is only faithless in the manner of the formerly faithful. her first night as the loving dead was characterized by the joy of belief her maker was an angel. (her last—though she doesn't know it yet—she will look to him again, as if for rescue.) there always comes time you need something to believe in, or someone to believe in you, and maybe that's why she's betting on a rebellion that taunts her predestined grave to come and get her. because daniel thinks she can do this. or maybe—
maybe because you don't know, for sure. maybe there's something more than paper flesh and fighting librarians. won't know til you find out. maybe i'll join you somewhere else, one day. she doesn't really think so. these days, her faith is weak. but her skill with human kindness has never been stronger, and sometimes lying is the most loving thing you can do.]
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Daniel must be able to feel it as well. When he speaks, his voice is louder as if trying to be heard over a din. ]
Claudia. [ Firm, urgent. ] Take your hand from the book, then open your eyes.
[ Once she does so, the scene before her is jarringly mundane. The open book still lies between them on the forest floor, and the scissors are still held in Daniel's hand. But there is something different about the pages. The parchment is still blank, but the blankness itself seems to ripple, a still pond disturbed by a stone. The roiling un-heat in the air thickens until it feels almost solid—
—and then something breaks. The blankness—not the paper, but the blankness—seems to shred away from the pages, scraps of it flying into the air like insects. The winged swarm rushes sunwards, shedding motes of nothingness until they dissipate entirely. It is several moments before the multitude is exhausted, the air clearing, settling back into equilibrium.
And there on the page, are written words.
Daniel takes a slow, steady breath. When his gaze meets Claudia's, there's a look of wild delight in his eyes. ]
Wonderful, [ he breathes. ] That was perfect. I knew you could do it. [ And then, hurriedly. ] Ah, don't move around too much just yet! Give me your hand, the one that wasn't touching the book.
[ Because she can still feel it—that sensation of uncanny aliveness running down her arm, like some stifling, protecting membrane has been removed. Daniel reaches for his discarded jacket and removes a fountain pen from a pocket. This, he unscrews, opening the reservoir within to drip blank ink onto Claudia's fingertips. ]
Use your fingers to write your name on that arm, [ he instructs. ] First name or full name will both do, depending on how quickly you want it to seal up.
[ His gaze flicks towards the book even as he speaks. The words within are written in one of the Fae languages—fortunately, one Daniel has studied. Still, he'll need to get it back to the library with his notes to begin work on a full translation. ]
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Does the name have to be true?
[is a strange question to ask. and what name is 'true,' anyway? only but old celtic faerie stories are lodged in her head, maybe also the obvious aliases of the rivaling djinni, half-remembered invocations of catholic prayer and vodou ritual from before she was turned. names, claudia knew even before this, have power. de pointe du lac was won of necessity after too much forgetting—but as soon as she thinks it, she realizes, the old mortal name wouldn't be right anymore, either, so she's shaking her head.] Never mind.
[her name is claudia. she is claudia the vampire. and so it is just the one name that she writes on her arm, her finger smearing black in its wake along her arm. thus busied, it doesn't occur to her to ask if the book is interesting; she naturally assumes he started her on something frivolous and understanding. offhandedly, she says,] Let me guess. Recipe book. If it's got good blood cookies in there, I expect some answers.
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No cookies, unfortunately, [ he says with a quick, keen smile. ] It's a chronicle.
[ He picks up the book—and that's all it is now, no more stifling presence clouding its pages—and closes it to show her tiny Fae lettering stamped into the cover. ]
This word here is what caught my attention when I found this book in the library. The other chronicles and histories I've found tend to name rulers or kingdoms as their subjects, but this one— [ he taps a particular word, ] —is unusually inclusive. You see these two wedge shapes here? Each one is a pluralizing particle and when doubled like this, the effect is likewise doubled. Not "person," nor even "people," but "peoples." It may be a long shot, but my hope is that it might shed light on what became of the Taken before us.
[ Having explained, he'll tuck the book away into his satchel and begin to also gather up the scissors, bottle, and glass. ]
Alas, I'm not yet a proficient enough in this language to simply read it as is. I'll need to bring it back to the library to begin to translate it properly. [ A glance at Claudia. ] You are, of course, more than welcome to come, though I'm afraid it's unlikely to be a very exciting process.
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seems like overdoing it, at this point, to point out that he might have taken a risk with such valuable a prize, setting her amateur hands on it. claudia doesn't like to fish for compliments. but this is not a compliment—it's unforeseen respect, some measure of trust, ripping out of the ocean like a damn marlin, dorsal fin flapping in the sun, nosedived into her unsuspecting boat. maybe he could have fixed it if she fucked it up. maybe these pages will turn out to reveal nothing. maybe, maybe.
still, claudia had accepted his invitation with the blithe excitement for a token caper, maybe a bit of charity, dug from the same toolkit of lestat's hunting lessons, and the first cigarette louis lit for her. what daniel describes has implications to shockwave through all faerie and alter the fabric of their community of the adopted. but, true to the vanity of her kind, all claudia can think of—for a moment—is herself.
she catches herself staring at daniel. then cuts her eyes away, clearing her throat. nonchalantly,] Don't have other plans. You and your hardback are event of the day.
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