Stories From a Cat

Also, another thing.

Many of my gaming friends have it, so I suppose I'll put it up here as well; it's already up on my other journal, but no harm in spreading the love. If you know one of my characters, are in the same game as they are, comment here and choose a prompt or two from the drabble chart. I'll write drabbles with your characters and mine, using the prompt you choose.

( Chart behind the cut! )

The woods of upstate New York are chilly in the late afternoons, even in summer, but the boy doesn’t notice. He's too full of youthful fire to get cold, whether he’s plunging through icy streams or running in the December snow. And on a day like today, he walks along a fallen tree trunk in a fraying t-shirt and grubby jeans and is perfectly content. Ordinarily he’d be out with Celie, or Mary, or Sammy, or especially Andy… but today fate was nudged, and he’s alone. Just as well, he thinks with a grin, I can explore the-

“Boy.”

The voice startles him, and he skids off the moss-covered log and into a patch of prickly ferns. Fighting his way out of them, he looks over the log, expecting to mouth off to an adult and go tearing off into the trees. Instead, he is transfixed, arrested with mouth half-open. He has never seen this woman, and Lake Placid isn’t big enough for him to have missed someone like this. Later, he will try to describe that first sight of her, but all he will remember is the eyes, large and luminous and tawny gold. He will try to compare them to a lion he once saw in the zoo, but a lion’s eyes are pale and dull next to these.

“Lovely boy, out in the deep woods. Art thou not afraid?”

He stands up straight, still stunned but recovering his natural confidence. He barely notices the strange turn of her speech; it seems proper coming from her. “No," he says, and then, because he is what he is, "these are my woods.”

She laughs at that, a beautiful ringing laugh that makes him feel good. Too good, almost; it reaches into his soul and plucks strings that no child should ever feel vibrate, and his entire young body shivers to their chord. “So confident. How delicious. Though the hour grows late.” And indeed the shadows are lengthening, though he would have sworn that it was no later than three-thirty only moments ago. “I will bring you home, if you will come with me.”

His will is not truly his own, but even so, he senses he has a choice. But she is lovely, and he wants to know who she is… and this does not seem like the kind of woman an eleven-year-old refuses, not even a young tiger like him. And home, after all, is barely half a mile away. So he nods acquiescence, which is of course all she needs. She is standing by his side in that instant, and of course she must have traversed the space between, but he does not see how. It’s rendered unimportant when she takes his hand.

“What is your name, sweet boy?”

He answers her as they start to walk. Years in the future, he will scream and sob his frustration that he cannot remember what he said.

There’s a light shining in Gideon’s eyes, and it hurts him.

He stirs fitfully, rolls over, and tries to muffle the light with a pillow, but it’s no good; it’s one of Lara’s pillows, and her scent is in his nose. It stirs him, brings him more awake. After a moment of lying still under the pillow, hoping to drift off again, he gives it up as a bad job and sits up in bed with a low grumble, squinting against the shafts of morning sunlight that leak through the blinds.

( Is this... the end? )

It’s nearing midnight when I ease through the doors of La Basilica de Notre Dame de la Garde.

I meant to come earlier, to keep more of the night free and open in case... well, in case any number of things... but I found myself obsessing over details in a way that amazed me. What I would wear, how I looked, whether I should feed first. Should I straighten my apartment, should I bring this or that along, should I, should I... I finally realized what I was doing, got thoroughly annoyed with myself, and lit out from my tiny sanctuary in short order.

The Basilica sits on a high hill in the city, with many a wandering path leading up to it aside from the main avenues, and it was one of the smaller paths that I found myself taking, a meandering route of many stairs. I spent the climb thinking over what I was about to do, of possible consequences... but most of all of M-A. Memories, reflections, moments frozen forever in my mind’s eye. ( Memories, that lead inevitably back to the present. )

News of my parents’ death brings me to Marseilles, and I feel her the moment I arrive.

I step off the plane I chartered and onto the windy tarmac, draw a breath of fresh Mediterranean air, and there it is. At first it’s only an intuition, a prickling at the edge of my mind. But then, I’ve learned over the years to listen to those subtleties. Despite what the majority of people inside and outside the Circle seem to think, the gods don’t often speak to us with grand visions and prophecies in fire. They just give us a little push and want us to figure it out our own damn selves.

( Where did They want me to look? )

He’d had to promise Joule that he wouldn’t hurt himself if she left, before she would. She was obviously unwilling to leave him by himself, and she kept her eyes on him like a disapproving hawk, frowning at his every attempt to stir past the lightest activity. And yet he’d watched her scrape her cupboards clean the previous day to feed the two of them, and watched her preparing to live another day on the dregs. So he’d steeled himself and convinced her.

( But did he convince himself? )

It will all be so very different. Leaving my home of bright sun and busy streets, of the smell of oranges and olive groves, of the pomp and pleasure of the court… to be exiled to a cold, rainy country of uncivilized heathens, all because of Vittorio’s paranoia.

There’s probably a good song in that somewhere. Let me think…

Paolo started at the sharp call of a sailor, and straightened, looping the rope an extra time over his shoulder and bracing himself freshly against the gunwale. Muscles tightened all up his back as he held the rigging taut, and his face burned with embarrassment at his distraction.

( The voyage. )

Two days have passed slowly, time flowing like molasses on a cold morning.

Anthony sleeps when he can, when grief and pain will allow him. Otherwise, he spends a lot of time meditating deeply, pulling his focus together and keeping his mind clear. In the moments when he can talk with Joule, when they break through unfamiliarity and awkwardness and actually exchange a few words, Anthony finds some measure of relief and distraction. But those times are few enough.

( Otherwise... )

The skies grew leaden, and the frost on the Embassy windows came and went and came to stay. We worked at the usual tasks, watching them both.

When it began, Marcello and I ran into a swirling white evening, the better to break a swift path. We spirited the midwife away like robbers, wrapped her in our cloaks, delivered her like a prize to the women.

Luciano was hiding in the chapel, and so the Bande drank for him. When he sprinted upstairs, we let him go alone, and fell silent. And when the laughter came, we roared and toasted.

Anthony is dreaming.

( Dreams, waking, and what comes after. )

Anthony has been running through the snow for a long time, though some interminable while ago, he knew it had been five hours.

When he began, he’d carefully put himself into a meditative trance. He’d shut out the searing grind of his right shoulder, the flayed feeling of his torn abdomen, the dull, creeping burn from the slashes across his back. He’d wrapped himself tight in what layers he could salvage, and set magic flowing through his veins, carefully marshalling the heat in his blood and making sure it flowed all the way out to the tips of his fingers and toes.

( Where his feet take him, and what happens there... )

Anthony tries his best to ignore the master sitting next to him, keeping his eyes out the window of the battered old truck. Great Forks, Montana didn’t impress him at first glance; in terms of size and style, it had nothing on San Francisco or L.A. All the same, the sight of a city covered in snow is unique to him, and it’s held his eye. Apparently in Montana, winter blows in early and hard. Early November, and there must be six inches of snow on the ground.

The truck lurches as it rolls onto a street bordered by an industrial row. Reflexively he looks at the directions he wrote out earlier, but they seem to be on the proper street. Flicking his eyes over the buildings, he spots the small sign and the address number near the end of the street. His hand comes up to point, but Master Kaminari is already turning into the small drive in front of the big bay doors. Well, of course he memorized the directions at one read-through. Silly of me.

( Just a little garage in Great Forks. Couldn't be too strange, right? )

February 14th, 1969.
Sao Paulo, Brazil.

Warmth. Salty heat against my lips, in my throat. So cold… that heat feels wonderful.

I swallow, weakly, and it hurts. My throat is ravaged, raw. Sea water? Whatever it was sears my throat. I cough, spit up cold salt water and bile, but I barely notice. Gone for an instant, that heat is back against my lips, and I swallow again. It hurts less… and tastes… good. Oh, God… so good…

It ignites a fire in the core of me, and that quickly I can feel my arms. One hand doesn’t work – why not? – but I grasp with the other, weak as a kitten, curling my fingers around whatever is feeding me this trickle... this amazing trickle… I want it… no… I want more.

( The embrace, and what follows... )

February 14th, 1969.
Sao Paulo, Brazil.

I leave the office that evening harried, angry, and confused.

I’d had mysterious meetings for half the day, including two scheduled with smug strangers of vague association, who seemed more interested in the affairs of the embassy than was warranted. They dodged around my efforts to make them get to the point, dithering on local politics and national affairs alike. One, a Mr. Quirano, asked that I come to a social event later in the evening and meet some other local fixtures who I no doubt was unfamiliar with. I did my best not to scoff at the invitation, managing polite ambivalence instead.

My surprise when Ambassador LeBlanc - and when did I stop thinking of him as Devan? - called me and ordered me to attend that ‘social gathering’ was manifest. He told me not to argue, that very important people had asked for a representative, me in particular. I knew him well enough to read worry, even fear, behind his brusque tones, and I was too stunned to question until he’d already hung up. My secretary had the details for me; a time and an address, orders to be stylish and presentable.

The rest of the day had trudged by in veiled tension, and a horrible job of work trying to arrange more meetings with local officials. To a man, they were either too caught up in their duties, or too afraid to step out of their guarded offices. The guerillas were in theory well-contained, but everyone felt their shadow, and it made my efforts at reaching out hellish. The news had begun to give storm warnings at two o’clock, warnings which had grown steadily more dire as the afternoon advanced.

I finally manage to get myself outside when it is well after dark, snatching up an umbrella against the threat of the weather. Outside, it is warm enough, but the air is heavy and tingles against the skin, legacy of the storm that’s trembled all day on the edge of breaking. There’s an electric thrill to it, a bite and a threat. I hurry out to the sidewalk, turning my collar up and slinging the umbrella over a shoulder in readiness for a downpour.

( What happens when the sky opens up? )

January-February, 1969. Sao Paulo, Brazil.


Something was happening.

There were strange currents all around me, movement in subtle social and political channels.
I sought the cause, eyes open; asking questions, searching out answers in my spare time. I was lost in it, consumed by this mysterious happening, but I couldn’t find the shape of it, no matter how I looked.

It wore on me terribly. It was harder and more stressful to do my job each day. I slept less, and fitfully; fell asleep even when talking with M-A. I was ever distracted, couldn’t concentrate.

A man in the hurricane’s eye cannot see the storm.

February 3, 1969. Sao Paulo, Brazil.

I’m lost in the jungles. Rain pours down around me, roaring in the foliage, silvery curtains that obscure everything past a dozen yards. I’m looking for a path, but the rain has washed it away. I know, if I don’t find it soon, that there will be trouble, consequences most dire. People will be hurt if I don’t find my way.

I become aware that I am not, as I thought, alone out in the rainforest. It’s a sensation that sneaks up on me, that at the corner of my vision things are moving, marking me, coming closer in the jungle. Now and then I think I see a man standing in the shadows and staring at me, or something crouched and sleek prowling behind a tree. Every time I turn to look, however, there is only the rain battering relentlessly at the foliage, wind shifting fronds and vines, and water drizzling down from above.

I spin, as I have before, But this time, something strikes me, slamming into my shoulder and spinning me around. I look wildly around, and there is a sudden rustling all about me, a lashing of vegetation that has nothing to do with the rain. I turn to flee, stumbling blindly now, reason forgotten, and things flickering by all around in the heavy undergrowth.

The world begins to move in nightmare flashes. I trip, twist, and land heavily on my back. There are men standing all around, tall men in suits or uniforms, faceless in the storm. There is something crouched above me, graceful, lithe and scaled. I scramble. It pins me.

It reaches for my face with dripping black claws.

I wake to a touch on my face, a gentle touch I know so well, but it makes my breath seize in my throat. I start, violently, and jerk upright. M-A, somehow maintaining her gentle hand on my cheek, smiles teasingly at me. Only a dream… thank god.

“I… oh, god, I fell asleep. M-A, I’m sorry, I…”

She stops me with a finger on my lips and a widening smile. She’s perched on the arm of the chair I dozed off in. “It is well, love. But you’ll be no good to me dropping on your feet. Go get some rest.”

I pull myself more upright, rub at my eyes. “What time is it?”

“A little past two,” she says, glancing at a clock on her desk. “But no arguing. You’re off to your own bed and some real sleep.” Bending, she kisses me on the forehead, and pulls me to my feet with surprising ease. I mutter, resist, but there’s nothing for it. Her mind is made up, and soon enough I’m stepping out the front door towards my car that Roberto’s brought around for me.

The sky is striated with clouds; thick, dark masses silvered by the moon. I look over my shoulder at M-A, who’s standing in the doorway with fond eyes on me.

“It’s going to rain soon.”

She nods, smiling, but she’s biting her lip, and I know what that means. I open my mouth to ask, but she blows a kiss, gives a truncated wave, and then the door is shut and I’m nothing to do but drive back into Sao Paulo alone.

What's happening?

It’s always strange, when only after having given up hope for a thing does it actually occur. Sometimes, it’s a blessing in disguise; you find that with time and consideration, the thing you wanted has paled, or your wish for it has faded. Then again, sometimes it’s otherwise. Sometimes hope and desire flare up again like a wick held to a flame, and burn all the brighter for the time they waited.


The lightswitch in the storeroom, when I finally found it, was one of the ancient round ones, a simple button. Pressing it coaxed one dusty lightbulb to life, up near the rafters, and that muted light fell over a room brimful of cardboard boxes, wooden packing crates, old chests and pieces of furniture, and the occasional shapeless, tarp-wrapped bundle. I remember looking at M-A skeptically after my first glance around, but she just gave me one of those impossible looks of hers, cheerful and enthusiastic, and moved right on in.

( And what do they get up to in there? )

I’d been waiting for her most of the night. I’d come a couple hours after sunset, hoping to talk and not entirely sure what I was going to say, but needing to have something out. After greeting Roberto, who told me she wasn’t there, I took a book and a few candles out on the terrace to sit, read, and watch for her. Thankfully it was a clear night… though there was something in the air, a stirring and a foreboding. I leaned closer to my candles and did my best to ignore the feeling.

I end up sitting out there for quite a few hours, long enough to get engrossed in a rare account by a Haitian vaudun priest. By the time I stand up and stretch, it’s getting close on dawn, and there’s still no sign of M-A. I draw a few conclusions, feel freshly put out, and decide to walk home. I have things to put into place anyhow; it couldn’t hurt to start. I realize I’m hungry – ravenous, really, how many days since I fed? – and resolve also to eat before dawn.

Book returned to its place, I gather up my jacket and set out. Really, I should know better. ( Oh? Why, what happens? )

She’s begun to pace, her braid swinging and switching like a thick strawberry-blond whip. That agitated, exaggerated motion is the best expression for the two of us; me irritated and distracted, her frustrated and desperate, neither of us trying to let it show too much. She’s been throwing this family-lecture at me for over an hour.

"Not all families are close. Ours is and isn't. There are some that keep such close track of each other that every move of every member is known. There are some with sires who have spilled their seed so far and wide that no one knows who is related to whom any more. One of the few benefits of being Ventrue - and there aren't many, I assure you - is that someone has written down who we're all related to, and if we can just find who's taken up genealogy as a pastime, we'd find out about cousins we never knew existed." ( Family? Really? )

I hesitate at the door of the Lion. It’s his club, and as genteel as the arrangements to meet him were, it’s not lost on me that I’m walking willingly into a place where I could be killed quietly and with nobody the wiser. Ah well. A small crucible, but there it is nonetheless.

I’m met by a woman in a dark suit; tall and grim and aggressively Nordic. She wears gloves, and that makes me hesitate slightly, but she merely points toward the back of the club, beckons, and turns. Not a word, not a moment’s pause. I follow, trying not to think about how stupid I may be, and knock lightly on the door I’m shown to.

She looks at me scornfully, opens the door, and follows me in, standing off to the side. If he’s going to kill me, I certainly haven’t much chance now. St Julian rises from behind a heavy desk, and nods. He’s dressed in a conservative suit that, at a guess, costs more than I used to make in a year. His face - surprise, surprise - is stony and impassive. "Do you want the niceties observed, or did you want candor?" ( Which do you think? )