The world seems to come and go. In between the curls of smoke from a cigarette. In glimpses through the haze. In brilliance past the scented fog. The world seems to come and go. In flashes of lives, in heartbeats, in laughter. And in the sobbing we try to make silent. Like a movie, and you find yourself sitting back and watching it. Reflected in the glass that holds your beer...
     It's an early evening. Just getting started for you. The mortals swirling their lives around your head, before your eyes. Who will be the lovely one tonight? Male or female? Have you decided, Edward? The club is just now beginning to pull itself up, to shake dust of the day from its shoulders, to turn to the glitter of another night. You may end up in Phantasmagoria by the night's ending, but now? Now you are nursing a beer at Black Jack Davy's -- part pub, part club, on the edge between West and East End. A lovely way to spend a twilight. Smoke curls upward, and between the wisps comes the approaching Form Female. The waitress. A hand lands on your shoulder. A smile comes to ruddied lips. A shine to green eyes. Her hair is naturally and unnaturally red. "You're pint's a bit thin," she says in her warm way. Ah, sweet daughter of Eve...
     In another part of the city... a black sportscar wheels through a roundabout. A blur. It makes no rumble, but rather slices its way through the night. Fingers control car, cigarette and begins dialing a phone...

     "It is?" Edward murmurs, looking up at an angle. "If you say so," he observes, grinning at the situation. Ah, this is the end of Boredom, is it not? Young women offering me fresh pints. He chuckles, sighing as he sits back in his seat to see the waitress better. The pint is pushed in her direction, a rub lighting from the scrape of wood against glass. "Thank you," Edward says, hands cradling in his lap. What to do, what to do? This is getting harder to sort with each passing decade.

     You're bored, she is at the height of entertained. Tending you, that is. Oh, she might be looking for a tip, true enough. She looks at you, and there is a rush of blood. It can't be helped. Can you hear it sing, Edward? As her slender hand takes up your glass and she moves to the bar, with a look to you over her shoulder. You can see her past the smoke. In the reflection of your glass. And the world comes and goes. Does it seem slow motion, Edward, in your boredom?
     There is ringing to wake you. Soft at first. Chirping like an insect. Then growing louder. Louder by the third ring still. In your jacket pocket, Edward...
     Slow, pulsing jazz. Haunting. An odd soundtrack for the swift speeding world. Toward East London, the black car barrels, sparks lifting and metal sounding against street in the too fast cresting of a hill...
     Hush-a-bye... don't you cry
     Go to sleep little baby
     When you wake, you shall have cake
     and all the pretty little horses
     black and bay, dapple and grey
     coach and six white horses...
     Green eyes lift, reflected in the mirror briefly, and cigarette is held in the mouth, phone to his ear -- one hand on the steering wheel. Three rings. Where are you? Already in the sheets? Davydd smirks around the body of his cigarette. Fucking figures.

     She is watched, as much out of lack of anything else to place his blue eyes upon. His hands. The table. The smoke tendrils. A sigh comes to Edward's lips, and his attention turns elseplace. Reaching in, the dark phone is retrieved and flipped open, reverie of all things Red broken. "Yeah," comes his voice, lazy and lush. Someone calling. Either someone on his team, or one of the others of the world of the undead. "What can I do for you?" Oh, you have spent too much time in the cynical, but marbled, halls of Paris. A car. Someone in motion....

     "Edward!" The volume. The roar. The laughter. Davydd. "Oh, have I caught you in a lull ... tell me, how was she? Full and ripe or virginal?" An exhalation sounds amid the sounds of a female voice singing in the background and the sportscar traveling at a high rate of speed. "Oh, when the world yet had a virgin. Those were the days...Say, do you think I could borrow you from your night's entertainment ... and touché as they say for starting early..." Of course he assumes you're out drinking and whoring, or whoring from last night's drinking. A man has to have his priorities. Just ask Rose...

     The red head returns with your pint. Deep amber beer, a tone less red than her hair. Like the flush against her skin. You're on the phone. Lips pucker slightly. Pity . She marks on a ticket... your tab? ... And her phone number. Her name is Juliana.

     "Um, well," Edward mumbles, looking up at the waitress and smiling --can you hear that Davydd Llewelyn -- before accepting the paper, "...why are these things contradictory?" A pause. Him reading. Then, "But, yeah, I am in a lull..." eyes lifting to the waitress again, lips moving silently, thank you. For the number. And yes, he is suddenly distracted, unfortunately. A blue eyed wink tells the tale, and then Edward goes on, "What's the story...aye, I guess you're not a morning glory." That's William.

     He can't hear that, his car's too ruddy loud. Well, you know how they say dogs and their masters begin to resemble one another. Same can be said for cars, really. You can hear the engine. The speed. The sounds of traffic. You miss the sight of red hair -- cut short overall but long on top -- being tossed about by it all. "Bah! Morning Glory. I'm not that weedy. Listen. I've two words for you, mate. St. Germaine." The Lasombra last seen in Paris. At a party. Worlds turned to shadows before she could be caught. Do you remember. Davydd's voice is serious now. "I have a crow in the Odeon..." A spy. "Cawing loud and clear. Would you care to join me in a romp, old boy...?" Ah, the courtesy of old friends. You have been looking for her, and he wouldn't dream of depriving you of the pleasure. "I'm..." A pause for glancing. "... about to hit fucking traffic. Don't you people have families!" That shout was to the general public. What a bellow. He and Morning Glory should have a contest, wot? "Where are you?"

     Please call me. Her eyes speak it as her lips give the polite smile. She doesn't want a tip. She wants the whole thing, Edward. The walk. The tilt of her head. The way her hair falls. The subtle signs of it. Beneath it all the singing pulse. The waitress smiles and mouths, "You're welcome." Call me...

     Ah, but now is his interest peaked. When he has to depart and things are made more clear. Edward tumbles into a momentary stare, then frowns suddenly at the phone. "Here? St. Germaine? I'm in Davy's," Edward says clearly, standing quickly, "And I'm about to head outside t' wait for you, mate," he explains definitively. Yes. Fishing into his pocket, a bill is retrieved and tossed at the table. Fifty pounds. Yes, I'll call, but I have to go. A hand lifts in the waitress' direction, but already Edward's mind is elsewhere.

     "Why aren't you here yet?" comes Edward's voice again, in motion, "I'll be outside. Hang up." He wants to. He needs a cigarette and hand is in use.

     The last thing you hear is tires screeching. The line goes dead after. You're hoping, of course, that he decided to just talk to you about it upon arrival and not that he's been run over by a lorry or the like. Then the world is quiet again. The pub-club is picking up in business. Crowds starting to shift -- current patrons will head to edgier locales, others are just arriving from work -- there are crowds, and heartbeats. And a few immortals as well. Young. They only peer at the darkness then decide it's better left the hell alone...
     Black Jack Davy is girded by restaurants and entertainment. One of the old malls once used for markets, now crawling with this-and-that pub. Here, at borders East and West. The more fashionable are heading elsewhere. The more raucous will head east. For a brief moment every night they actually co-exist. You are the center of that swirl, Edward...
     Five minutes pass. Moon is covered by clouds overhead. It may well rain. You can feel the moisture on your skin. The hum of a storm in the air. Ah, no... it is the sound of a barreling car. Curved, sleek, black. When it rounds the street and slows in approach to Black Jack Davy's, you can hear that hum. Purr of Ferrari engine. Old Ferrari at that. And in it? Red hair disheveled and short -- if left to its own devices, it's normally long -- is Davydd. Sporting a goatee tonight, beard shaved elsewhere. The last of his cigarette held in his hands, lighting his gesture. "D'you mind?" a rumble of his voice to a woman crossing the street in front of him.

     The phone was already put away. The cigarette enjoyed as Edward watched the swirl around him as he stood out in the midway of revelers. Come one, come all to see the vampire that is our show. Eyes may pass over him, but what do they see? Another bloke with a bit of cash -- look at his jacket. Other than that, unless you're looking at Edward Meurelle with supernatural eyes. If he was looking back, it may not matter. He did not move in your direction. A blessing maybe.
     The sound of the car is what gets his attention. Blue eyes lift from whatever's caught his attention. Edward watches you come down the street towards him, he anxious in his stance. Moving through people. Edward arrives at the curb, hand already out to grab at the doorhandle. "I was about to head out," Edward says at the window, calling out to you, "I didn't want to wait much longer. Are you sure it was her?" he asks, more insistently interested than upset or the like.

     "I won't be altogether certain," comes the lilting English he speaks, Rs and Ls lifting. A trill to one, a lilt to the other. "Until I hear her scream my name. But I'm ..." Davydd pauses, and the smile is darkly curving. Draconic. "...more than a little hopeful, Edward." You know the various faces of the Prince of Wales better than nearly anyone. You've seen the madcap, rough-hewn prince. You've seen the drunken warrior-poet. You've seen the Immortal Dragon. And you see the Commander. There's no quipping now but incisiveness. Green eyes are flecked with emerald shards and something darker, like a forest. "If we play it right... we might find her connection tonight..." Funds and guns are going in and out of England all the time. Wouldn't it be loverly to finally roost the Saint and her supposed lover spy? "Come on..."

     The crowds fold around you, and avoid you. Something about wanting to get out of the weather. Suddenly. Some thud against the air. Sometimes charisma is a soft touch, the stroke with fingers for a sigh. And sometimes it's as blunt-hitting as a fist. Mortals eddy elsewhere as the engine guns...
     The Odeon.
     Colored drinks and colored lights. A lovely young woman with a copper bob moves through the crowd. Her skin is so pale. Her skin is so white. Milk white. Plays with the reflecting light. Her shorts, the shortest made. Her boots, to her thighs and laced. Heels of chrome. Or is it silver. She passes an envelope and smiles a cherry smile. A beauty mark beside her grin.
     Hello darling.
     What took you so long.
     Oh, the traffic sucked.
     Let's go somewhere and...
     The Odeon is already packed. With dancers. On a Friday night. With mortals and immortals, every single one of them grasping. For a little fun. For a little screw. For a little taste of something new...

     He's certain this place has gotten busier. If one of Davydd's crows has seen her, then others have as well. It is the immortal eye that scans the club as he enters, first checking his companion, then gazing across the faces as Edward imbibes the sensations. No Toreador is he, but he has learned the value and skill of empathy. Just enough to be of use. Eyes wish to look at the coppertop, but now is not the time. He is doing well to have convinced the coolers and bouncers outside to let him pass with a weapon in tow. All a part of the job, really. A small suggestion here, a shake of the hand there. Better to be the jester, knowing a little of so many things, instead of twenty lifetimes of just a few.

     "I don't like this," Edward says in a soft French. Just so you know. It is not fear, but instead simple awareness and reality. The immortals and mortals mixed, conglomerating in better-than-normal concentrations. Perhaps St. Germaine has new friends. No matter, a bullet is a bullet, and silver is silver. It'll stop most creatures at least a moment, or, better, scare the daylights out of the mortals to send them scurrying. That separates the Real from the Unreal. Professionals we all are....
     He shall let you lead. No need to call a ton of attention -- as if your very presence doesn't -- by conversing. The most sensitive ears can pick up much. Smile never leaves Edward's face, and familiar boys and girls are given bright grins and the occasional kiss as he passes along...

     "I don't either. I hate this bloody music," Davydd murmurs, his French is... impeccable. Without accent and coming with ease. Not even a portion of Cymraeg upon it. Deadpan. Sounding all the moreso for the lack of accent, yes? He is dressed for a fashionable night out -- quite cleaned up. That's Rose's influence, that. The leather coat is thigh length, concealing whatever it is he carries on him. His hand. You feel a brush of it against your side. To the right. Davydd continues on. A last look to you, as hands slip colored, Lennonesque lenses on. Yellow. Just at the passing of a yellow stream of light. Red. And red hair seems darker. We walk alone for now. You and he together? Tongues will wag...

     Her skin is so pale. She moves past you but her eyes are caught by something else. A feeling? Copper hair glistens and the bob flips with the turn of her head. Just as a yellow light passes by in a stream. She sees the back of a head familiar. A strong arm circles around her small waist, and she turns. Can you hear them, Edward?
     No, we don't have time, let's do it right here...
     We've got all night, it's done, let's get the fuck out of here...
     The bathroom...now.
     Okay..alright...okay... I don't like this. I don't like this...
     You'll like it ...you like it like that, Angel...

     The house music thuds against the air. Electric -- sweat and chemicals, alcohol and hash, ecstasy. Girls with painted skin already worn to smudges move past you to the dance floor. And the copper haired girl with the long legs has merged among the crowd...

     He winces for the rush of sounds. No, he could not improve upon this skill. It is too difficult to use already. And for some reason, being so -aware- also makes Edward desire to be involved. And that...is dangerous. Blue eyes glance back at the girl, but he has no time. Laughter. Imagine that Blois, you have no Time...
     The brush of your hand causes Edward's attention to return solely to you once more. A change of direction...

     I have no friends. There's no one to call. You're on this... on your own. On your own, angel. Make the switch, the cash is there. Envelope gone. You should be gone too. Too risky. I said it was. Not all the makeup in the world can hide the smile of the courtesan. You can't shoot in the crowd. You can't turn to a shadow -- might as well strip naked and dance down the street naked. Fuck! You have no time, St. Germaine. Funny. Imagine that, Germaine. You have no Time. Her arm unwinds from the guy's side, his back. A shove and she mouths, "Go." And turns. Into the shifting lights. Toward the dancefloor to get lost.
     Nobody saw me... right. Nobody saw. This is the last time, Godfrey...

     Toward the dancefloor to get lost and to find the back door. The side streets and the alley ways. Her car. And consolation. The job was fucked from the moment she left Paris. Followed. You have no choice, Germaine. Make the delivery and make yourself disappear...
     The touch lasted for an instant. A quiet signal and then Davydd was on the move. Toward the dancefloor, no along the periphery. He can't do those dances. He'll not pretend. He never learned. In the Modern Age it's like not knowing how to swim. Bloody hell. What is she wearing again?

     A copper wig and too-short shorts. She looks like that chick Mila Milosovich...

     What? Edward tugs at the back of your jacket. Did you not hear it? Feel it? Fuck. Distraction. "Shite," he calls, spinning on a boot to angle. "Dancefloor," he murmurs, hoping you have the message. And in thinking, the prey might be lost. It would not be the first time.
     You are too distracted these days, Edward. Hunting is a failed pastime. Now, you take directed jobs. Not to hone the senses, but to simply destroy the sitting object. What do you do, when the object's in motion.
     Angling around a few, Edward peers above shoulders and around arms to spot the highly-colored bird. He hopes you are behind. If not, he is on his own. But what is new? Did she see you? Better yet, did she know you? Edward sighs as he picks up his weaving, unsure of where his feet take him.

     Distraction is your friend. Or ...maybe it's just neutral. Nothing gained in it, nothing lost from it. The lights, the bodies, the music, the mortals. These were all chosen purposely to disguise the act. The crow got lucky. Will you? The Odeon was chosen on purpose. Least expected. Least suspected. Loud, brimming with sensations. What's one more?
     The pulsing lights catch the twist of a slender woman. A metallic silver tank top, black too-short shorts. The black boots, chrome-heeled. She turns her head. Just glances...
     I'm alright. Almost there, Germaine. Almost there. Then fuck this, I'm heading to Spain. To hell with this. I'm going to Italy. He owes me. He owes me...
     You see her, Edward. In the turning of her head. The unmistakable profile bathed in crimson light. Beautiful. Imminently doable. The Courtesan. St. Germaine.

     Dancefloor. As you spoke and moved, Davydd turned. You can feel it... oh, it is measured. Released. Withdrawn. Released. Withdrawn. Just enough to move people out of the way. Hopefully not enough to alert her. The way is easier. Davydd is behind you. "Heading for the quick way out... just like a whore..." comes the whispered French behind you. Mortals weave in their dancing, but you can ease through them well enough...

     Germaine is not as lucky. She pushes past a grabbing guy. I'd fucking break you in half! If I had the time...

     She looks like that to confuse me. Edward blinks, trying to clear his eyes and his mind. Feet pick up the pace and people are summarily walked through in quick fashion. Breaking up dances. Causing drinks to tumble. At your words, he flinches within. She is not a whore...she is...just misunderstood. Dear God, what are you thinking, his name recited to himself in a string of French. His mother's voice. His mortal self, talking. But, she is beautiful, Edward confesses, as if his mother and his old self are chiding him even now. How can you chastise me for saying what is true...
     Yet, his arm reaches out and a lunge is made. Around the grabbing guy. Two hands at St. Germaine, one more strong than the other....immortally so...
     Help me, Davydd, help me before I fuck this up royally...

     Nope, she's actually a whore. A bonafide, bend her over a table and shag her till you drop, oh, and leave your money on the counter or she'll gouge your eyes out whore. It's what she does. It's who she is. She's good at it. She's good at reaching out and grabbing men by their testicles. Her hands. They are said to be among the most talented in the world. It is suspected that a few of Your Brethren have that on very good authority...
     Holy Shite! It's not said, but as you lunge, Davydd moves. To get in front of her. He's got your flank, Edward. Maybe you don't see him, but you see a shifting of the crowd.
     I've got your back, Edward. Her front actually. Worse case, we scare the fuck out of her. Six one way. Half dozen the other...

     Body turning, copper hair shifts, shining. Brilliance. Beauty. Don't you want me? Don't you want me. In her turning, she glances to the club. Oh shit. It's too late, Germaine. She feels an immortal hand. A grip. She flashes with her first response -- shock. Even a little fear. It's electric against the air. Alkaline. "Fuck you..." she mutters in perfect American. "I'm trying to go out for a smoke. Do you mind ?" Perfect accenting.

     "I do, actually," sounds a rumble of Welsh-laced English. "I think women who smoke are cheap," he grins, "... and prone to sucking anything that comes their way..."

     Don't say it like that, Davydd. Edward keeps his grip, coming to stand at Germaine's side. Hand still at her wrist, he finds himself flush at her side, allowing Davydd to have the lead before the woman. If you would like to leave, you'll have to get out of my range. Blue eyes look at copper hair, marveling momentarily at the color. Am I supposed to say something now?

     "You're a long way from the States, yank," Edward notes, finding something dry to offer. Leather jacket caresses like a hand. Is this how I saw Maria? Edward smiles suddenly, amused with himself. You always have been a sucker for a gorgeous face, Vicomte. A friend's voice. What is new? Is it not how he became what he is? Well, at least that can't happen again....

     There is a struggle, but hearing Davydd's voice, you see her not give into that. Ruddied lips pucker. The beauty mark prominent in the slight scrunching. Tilting her head, she lifts her eyes to you. The copper hair. A wig. Her smile is slow. "I like to travel, what can I say. So... how about letting me be on my way... " Accent unruffled. You don't know me. Do you? You know me. Come on, wouldn't you rather screw me than twist my arm? Eyes flicker to Davydd. Too close. And he's too fast. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

     Davydd keeps his hands free and leans in. Becoming her focal point." Let's make this easy on all of us," he whispers. You and she... you can hear it through the music. Green eyes. So brilliant. Hawkish. Focused. "How about we... do a little traveling, my dear tourist. We'll have a grand time...our own little private party..." Come little party girl, to my party. Afterwards he lifts his gaze to you . Get the information first, fuck her second, Blois. If you must. And then he smiles, warmly. Blithely. "Excellent idea..."

     Of course it was yours, Germaine. Of course it was your idea.

     Is he so obvious? Edward only raises a brow at her need to travel, receding quickly into his own thoughts once she looks away. There. The Ventrue comes through. Always handy to have around, they are. Just one. Too many and you have a cluster fuck. Edward shudders at the thought -- or was that simply an absent step closer to the woman he holds?
     "Where?" Edward mouths at you, taking advantage that he stands facing you. He'll need to move soon, but control wins still in these moments. Edward is smart enough not to stare at your green eyes too long, eyes already shifting up and absently to the room at large.

     "A lovely little flat... convenient... just up the street," Davydd murmurs, even as he takes a step in toward her. His arm around her waist. To guide her toward you. And out. "You know... you're lucky you found us, love," he says to the copper-haired woman, with a smile, broad and warm. Inviting. "Too much of those... little red drinks... " A finger lifts and presses to her mouth. Painted. Ruddied. Courtesan mouth. "... can make you dizzy. Hard to find a decent bloke..." There, enough of that . A look to Edward. Let's go.

     St. Germaine is a talented Kindred. But outmatched between the two of you. Her hope... was stealth and swiftness. Always to be one step ahead. Too much early celebration along with too great a risk. And then to meet... you two? Edward... could crush her. Davydd could make her wish to be crushed. She moves, laughing... to the promises of a party. Yeah, let's go -- pours her French. Let's go get high, boys.
     The night air is the next thing felt. Moist and cool. Edward, you feel her fingers at your side. You hold her. She holds you. Those hands. To any and all, at Davydd's command, it is just a party. Just another night lads. He walks on one side of her, you on the other. She...tangled in between...

     Has he ever known what he's wanted from St. Germaine? She is in his arms now, and Edward is silent. Everything is in slow motion. His steps out, accompanying you both, his gaze left and right to see if any friends of hers might be approaching. A stake in the side is the last thing he'd like to feel right now. Her fingers at his waist? Those are different. Almost unfathomable. Edward's eyes lower, but it seems to take forever to reach the exit. Voices are muffled sounds sent through a receding hole. Images are but blurs of color, passing in a slow drag across the horizon.
     The car is not so far. That is the joy of knowing valets. Walking...he would not suggest as ideal. Blue eyes drift back into their homes, reconnecting to a body that needs to communicate. A toss of his dark head towards the automobiles. Is that acceptable?

     You search, Blois, and you see no such friends. Mortals milling about. Valets. Folks coming and going. One couple coming and going against the wall actually, though most mortals would miss that in the shadows for the other sensations and sounds filling the side street. Slow, the world comes and goes. Now, in glimpses between the passing of valets. The chime of keys. The car is found. Your shirt is tugged upon by slender, sure fingers. A touch to the skin. The least you could do is fuck me before you kill me, Edward...

     Davydd slips into the driver's side. It's not meant for three people, this car, but it will have to do. "The back is big enough, love, you can rest back there. It's a short enough trip..." All congenial. All warm. As if this were one of his ladies. Spoken like he has a rose between his teeth. The passenger seat is lain forward. Put her back there, Blois. Green eyes are on you. You alright, old boy?

     He glances at you as he dutifully puts St. Germaine into the rear seat. There comes a stiff nod and then a pause as Edward looks at you. Taking orders is perhaps best. He gives a scant wink, then returns to seeing the woman within. The touch speaks to him, but his eyes do not look her in the face. There will be time for us to settle things. There has to be.
     Slipping in, Edward sighs as he closes the door. "Alright," he says upon the vacuum sweep of air, adjusting himself on the seat. Looking ahead. We're ready.

     The grin comes in a flash and another touch lands against you. Though, this one is not slender. The touch not seductive. It's strong. Male. And oddly for reassurance. You're alright, mate. The engine roars after. The next moment finds the Odeon behind you...

     She rests back in the small space. Her eyes are alive with colors. Here, out of the flashing colors of the Odeon, her light-blue eyes have a dash of turquoise in them. Her blonde hair, hidden beneath the fitted copper wig, is cut short and curled. Her lipstick is smudged where Davydd's finger pressed against her. Her silver metallic tank top leaves little to the imagination, small breasts like English apples. Willowy figure. Long slender legs, accentuated by the thigh-high boots. The heels are, in fact, chrome and not silver. Full her lips ease a smile. "I can't believe... after all this time... you finally got the sense to join me in a drink..." Dry. She nudges the back of the seat. "Hey, Davy...how's it hangin..." The American accent has returned.

     "Low and to the left, as always ... I'm a creature of habit..." Words are slow. The car is swift. Ahead, lights and London streets. A section of flats, a nice high-rise. One of his ... economy quick hide-away flats. Not a haven, of course. Green eyes flicker toward you. "You know I'm not going to leave you," that spoken in Welsh. To you. Don't worry. Whatever you say or do. It stays here. Likely, not even she will remember. "Ah...there we go," Davydd croons, the low-voice hanging in his throat and chest. He pulls up the hill lane and to the left. A private drive. How nice for him.

     Ah, you can read my mind. His Welsh is not the best, but the statement was short enough for understanding. Edward's gaze turns slowly to you as you speak, careful not to wander further back to the seat behind. He smiles, reverie broken, and then looks out towards the approaching drive. Blue eyes then decide to glance behind, to see whether there are obvious followers. "I'll need to do a perimeter walk," he says, avoiding the use of your name. Nothing stern in the distant voice. "Unless...you have..." a wave of his hand. Some security here that you are comfortable with.

     "Of course," he will not argue with you. It is a matter of course. And you need the distance. The time. The settling of the cool wind for that hot blood. He is the shield for your sword, yes? Even as he is for William. And for many, many more. Davydd glances into the rear-view, then to the driver's side window. Looking for lights. Any lights. As he slows to pull into the private garage. There is a sound of a code. It will be changed tomorrow, just in case, and the garage door lifts.
     Upon further study, it will be noticed that each flat is more a townhouse condominium, more American in design than typical British. There are several self-contained buildings. There is one entry point and one exit point. They are for the high-rent set, with certain amenities -- like the garage for example. Davydd turns his head, looking to you a moment as he makes a circle with his car and backs into his garage. It takes only two adjustments. Fine bit of driving that. "I'll start a round of drinks..." Make a call to the Crow. Tend to the girl. "We'll wait for you," then Davydd twists in his seat to look back at Germaine. "Won't we, princess...?"

     "Sure we will..." again her tone is dry. She knows she's caught. Truth be told... a part of her wanted to be. He doesn't have to be so fucking smug though. Jesus. Like the Welsh ever won at anything other than... well... what have they ever won anyway? She looks to Edward past copper bangs. "Don't be gone too long," she whispers. We don't have a lot of time...

     No Time. Someone will come looking. Edward pauses at the words, letting them sink in. "I will find you," he says softly, directing that at no one in particular. A walk, indeed. She should prove no problem for you. And if he runs into trouble on the property? Just as well. Maybe it should siphon off some of the ferocity that wants to explode. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Edward retrieves a Glock .26. Something large. With a pull of the upper chamber, it is at the ready. As soon as the car pauses, Edward is quick to leave. "I'll see you in...less than ten." Minutes. Blue eyes steal a glance to the rear of the car, then settle upon you. I'll be back.
     With a quick push up, Edward closes the car door. Jacket is pulled around himself and the sound of snapping buttons fills the garage.

     He is, in this moment, the other half of your coin, Edward. For all his bombastic intensity, Davydd is now... miraculously calm. Domination has a way of ...settling him down, so to speak. "Come along with me, my lovely," he says to Germaine, taking her hand. Helping her out of the car. "Your party awaits..." Davydd glances up to you. A grin. You'll find me. Or I'll just summon you. Six one way, half dozen the other. The Ferrari is locked down. Gears switch. The very finest in security. Another press of his key ring and the garage door begins to close behind you. There is, one would assume, another way out.

     Germaine's mind is a fertile valley for Davydd. Open and full of life to be groomed. At least after enough ecstasy and alcohol have rifled through her system, perhaps. I wanted this. I wanted this and you gave it to me, Davydd. You're going to fucking hate that tomorrow. She smiles blithely to him and follows wherever he says to go.

     That leaves you outside, boyo. To roam for ten. The air is cool, wind constant. Soon the London air will have a bite to it. The high-rise complex is situated on a rise of land. Below, you can see where The Odeon is. A nice view actually. So far... no signs of being followed. What you will learn is that she was sent alone. No friends seem to have followed. The night is peaceful. Relatively.

     Tick.
     Edward's steps are slow, his eyes sharpening to peer into the night. The eyes of the wolf, they are called, and he smiles at the thought. A word never used for him. Canine has never been an attribute. With Glock at the ready, each step is measured. The air is crisp, reminding him that he is still alive. But how false is that?
     Tock.
     A rustle in the bush is but nothing, and a walk around the building is silent. Residents more than likely out. It seems a trendy enough place. A pool. He crosses the inner courtyard in silence, save the blue-silver gleam of fluttering water. Aqua. Like her eyes. Hmph. A deep inhale sends that thought scattering, and reaching a staircase, he heads upwards, on the trail of the undead. To another of the kind, it is not so difficult to follow. I am approaching. What presence of mind he has spills forth, a gentle notice to any immortal.

     Building Number 9. Chosen deliberately. It had to be 9, Davydd's number. An old druid thing. Diana would have appreciated it. Maybe somewhere...she still does. The door is through the courtyard, up the stairs. The door is unlocked. Davydd was not worried. The door opens out into a foyer. You can see Davydd from there. In the living room. It is a very nice trendy little pad. Decorated by Rose perhaps. Or someone else. Ready-made, maybe. The foyer is wood paneled. The living room is carpeted. From the living room, you see two hallways, one leading to private chambers. One to a kitchen and patio. It is a broad, open space, the living room. Furnished with the finest in leather. Very mod.
     Davydd's jacket is off, his holsters can be seen, his own Glock strapped in. He is wearing a very thin knit shirt, that follows his shape, tucked into black trousers. Very polished. Particularly for Davydd. He has a drink in his hand. Scotch by the smell. Conversation is halted on the tongue and he gives a grin. Close the door and lock it, boyo. "I've a scotch with your name on it, boyo," he calls you. A term of affection. Medieval.

     Draped over the sofa is the femme fatale, as they say. The copper wig is pulled off and set aside. Her blonde curls are a natural white-gold. This is more the Blancheflor that you recall. One leg is lifted, crooked over the back of the couch. The other splayed out, upon it her drink resting, balanced by her hand. Her eyes lift, brilliance. A slight arch of a plucked brow. Smooth her smile pulls. She wiggles her fingers in a slight wave. "We tried to wait... but you know... all this makes a girl thirsty..."

     Davydd exhales shortly at that, or was it his scotch? And he moves to take a seat in a chair. Alright then. You will notice, Edward, that any and all windows have been drawn tight. Security is in place. Davydd would have it no other way.

     The door is quickly closed after his entrance. The very modicum of late night security expertise is he, dressed in his comfortable black. "No need to wait," Edward says hollowly, quite interested in the scotch. Eyes scan the room quickly, assessing the layout and the woman strewn across the sofa. He seems much more settled, Edward does. Perhaps the night air has done him some good.
     Arriving at the drink, Edward picks it up, leaving the Glock available in his right hand. Downward cast, of course. He sighs before taking a taste of it, moving so that his back is given to an inside wall of the condominium and gun hand at door's side. A position. Blue eyes look to you, expecting the questioning to begin soon, in the fashion only Ventrue can do...

     ...Ten cigarettes in the ashtray. Glasses once full are empty. Air once clear is hazy. Hazy and electric. Electric. What only left him in bursts in The Odeon now presses against the walls of his own condo. He can fill the space of seven men, it is said. Even when sitting in a chair with his boots propped up on the table. Fire leaps from fingertips, a hidden lighter, and ignites the end of the eleventh cigarette. Davydd's mouth grasps it, pulls from it, as his fingers toy with the lighter. Flipping it now, even as he did the night you found him on your porch. Nervous habit. Or is it to occupy him... to focus him, in all this energy. Green eyes have darkened in shade, in ways only preternatural eyes could see and preternatural minds comprehend. Fastened on the Lasombra, as they have been all night. What is significant in all this storm of energy and swirl of power and cigarette smoke is the perfect and complete calm. Like he was watching telly. A kind of dispassionate sub-interest. Pictures seen, events witnessed but only with the most superficial care. Davydd is more worried about inadvertently putting coals out on his floor...

     It has been a steady and methodical wearing down. Strong St. Germaine, the dragonfly for the Camarilla spy. She sat on that leather sofa, at times belligerent. At times seductive. At times righteous. At times silent. But now? Now, curled up on the sofa, her eyes glassy and unable to look away from that pair of green. She doesn't breathe -- she doesn't have the energy for the pretense. But as of yet, she has not given up her contacts either. A real battle of the minds.

     Davydd lowers his boots from the table and leans forward, ash flicked from the burning end of his cigarette and into the full tray. He doesn't say anything -- rather, his lips do not move. He neither smiles, nor frowns. It is his Neutrality that is the worry for her. "Shall we start from the beginning..." comes the lilt of his Welsh-flavored English. It is a question. He doesn't expect an answer.

     He has managed to be patient enough. Edward's only foray from the condominium has been right outside the front door for air. Then, after a cigarette and a moment of quiet, he returns to take up his position against an inside wall, perhaps leading to the bedroom. But now, instead of standing, he has a half-crouch sit, letting his back do the work as it holds him against the wall. The Glock sits on the floor near him, no need to remain in his hand. Nearby is good enough.
     Listening to you speak and her respond has been tiresome. Not that the information is not interesting, it is simply all questionable. Certainly he would be smart enough to imbue such a controller as Germaine with all sorts of disinformation, things she truly believes. And she is smart enough to have it done for herself. Yet he will remember it all and verify what parts might be true and what portion is but believed lie. A few moments of such have already transpired, he shaking his head negatively or positively when a nugget has dropped forth of some seeming value. A blue gaze to you and a shake no of the stories of recent activities in Spain regarding traitorous Tremere. He has that one on good authority. Her version does not jibe with his own. A yes on a tale regarding a broken supply ring near Tunisia. Not commonly known in the Camarilla itself, considering it is on the Brujah Justicar's own home turf. They say he saw to that himself and the fence-sitters and their Sabbat friends involved paid more dearly than any would want to know. Maybe you had not heard that one. Regardless of the value of the stories St. Germaine weaves, it is interesting to simply hear the information...that in of itself lets him know what stories, in whatever form, end up where....
     "Beginning?" Edward queries, not sure where you are going now . St. Germaine does look glassy. Perhaps it is the best time to be in her mind...you know these things best . "Are you looking for something other than her attaché?" he asks in broken Welsh-older English.

     There is only a smile for that. Back and forth. Criss-crossing. Never a direct path to the heart of the matter and the center of the mind. To the beginning, to the end, to things said in between. Do you remember what you said that time, Germaine? And how it differed. And where. And for and about whom. It is not one thing that is the reason for this foray. It is about how and where inconsistencies occur. This... this is much more valuable. A name could mean little. It is what she does not say. It is what she said that she doesn't remember. Lost in the forest of her mind that she herself planted. And this is Davydd's terrain. This is what he knows to do. To wander in that grove. And now is the best time for it. "Not particularly, actually..." comes the Welsh-older English, slow and mulling. Predatory? Methodical. "I'm finding the construct. Knowing its walls...and how high...and how thick. It is not what she says... names, places... it is how they are... arranged."
     Smoke is exhaled and the dragon sits back. And then he shrugs, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "It's like one of those puzzle games..." And the puzzle is the labyrinth of her mind and mine and the mind of the one who deals with her. Davydd tips his head to the side, making a wave of his hand. "Whatever they're called. You know what jives and what does not...aye...?" From what you have heard. "So," he continues as he focuses on the vampire in the fetal position, "...is there anything you'd like to do with her while you still have the chance...she's pretty malleable just at the moment..." Cruel ass isn't he.

     But the truth hurts. Her mind has been whittled and whittled, willpower sucked and sucked, until eyes show the shell and not much more than that. She's not even as lovely as she was in the colored lights of the club. She's dumb. "I want a cigarette," she mutters. She can't look at you. She'd like to. You seemed to be.... sympathetic. Make him leave me alone...

     "His name is James," Davydd says, an exhale of smoke. "The attaché, that is..." Davydd grins, feet back on the table. "James Suffield. Who..." fingers gesture to her, cigarette as a pointer, "...has a spiffy little Mercedes with the gullwing doors. Likes rugby but bets against the Crusaders. Can't say as I blame him, they're all gits..." Bits and pieces of what she has said, puzzled out, rearranged and spoken in a new order. And you can see he has something there. There is a little clarity left in those dazed eyes. "I'm going to take that as a yes." Davydd lowers his boots again and leans forward, extinguishing the cigarette, holding her gaze through the smoke. "Why don't you rest for a moment."
     "When you wake... you shall have cake... and all ...the pretty little horses..." Davydd whispers, sing-song after. The song you heard over the phone in his car. An old lullaby, with typical Medieval darkness. Rarely were those songs for children. This, the seduction of the innocent by those of the Otherworld.

     A cigarette. Perhaps he was too sympathetic. Edward fishes one from his pocket and pushes himself from the wall. He cannot bring himself to have you cease and desist, but he can at least give the woman a smoke. "When will you pause?" Edward asks softly, non-committally. Walking over he offers the cigarette to St. Germaine, but keeps his gaze at you. No comment for the offer of doing anything with her. Not like this. There is shame for you even asking him the question -- did he look so obvious and does he seem a man who would take advantage of a woman so? Maybe it is technically no different than being with any of his normal crowd when they are higher than the circling pattern at Heathrow, but it feels different. Somehow. "And I'll see about her compatriot later," his Welsh-laced English comes. He should not be so difficult to find and remove.

     Which is why he said it. He's a shit sometimes, that Llewelyn. But it has been a long night. Only after she closes her eyes does it show. He holds his hand out for the smoke instead. "She won't need it," he murmurs. There is a softness in his voice, for you. You can take it as an apology for the other part. "I need a bit of a break, my eyes are going squirrely. You do this for five hours..." Davydd snorts at that and reaches for the last of his scotch. A swallow taken and he sits back in the leather chair. "Someone has... really done a number, boyo..." he murmurs. On her. They've done a number on her. "And Suffield is a small player, but one more link up the food chain perhaps. Worth removal." There is a pause and his red brows knit up. He does look tired. Like he's been smoking and drinking all night. Wait a tick...
     "I'm not sure I want to find where this ends. I have the string in my hand... but now... mid maze I'm wondering if I shouldn't have just gone out for a shepherd's pie. I don't like it..." He shakes his head. "I don't like it at all..." Green eyes find you. Settle there. Dark green, like pine trees of north Wales now. "I've been piss and vinegar... " His way of saying he's sorry. For though he's not all that empathetic with most, he is with you. "I don't know..." He closes his eyes and exhales again, settling heavy in the chair. "What do you think, Edward..." Edward. Not Blois. A professional opinion sought.

     The arm is still out when her eyes close. Oh well. Edward pivots and offers the cigarette to you, taking a seat on the sofa near the woman's feet. "Suffield's mortal, I guess then?" His lips twist. "I'd hate to remove him if you think yer onto something with this. In fact," Edward sighs, sitting back, "...I'd rather leave him for now, and let a few people know who and what he is. Disinformation works several ways. Besides, if we get rid of them, that's just a red flag. They'll find another route." He shrugs. "I can understand," his brows arch, "...not wanting to know. And maybe we don't have to. We might borrow Suffield for a while, get info from him, and put him back on the street as well. Basically...just see how long the thread is, without actually going to either end. Can't do much about the ends anyway, really, mate. It's more interesting making sure the middle sections are utterly unreliable...." As for the apology, his head only cocks and a smile forms. "You've had a long night. I know that..." Edward's hands wiggle in all sorts of direction, "...those Jedi Mind Tricks can be painful."
     A somber look follows though, as if an after-thought. "I've not been the cheeriest, but..." wait, something serious following, "....I'm not going to put her back on the streets, Davydd. Not like this." But not termination either. Blue eyes stare at you, to see if you understand.

     Davydd's red brows lift and his expression is... well... funny. Theatrical. "In the movies... they all make it seem so easy and exciting..." Then the smirk spoils it. Fucking Hollywood. "Let's leave him then... make life interesting." Davydd looks to the cigarette in his hand and to the lighter he's been playing with all night. But maybe he hears Rose's voice -- You need to quit that filthy habit, Davydd, or that's it for you, I'm tired of kissing Lord Ashtray -- for he pockets the cigarette and the lighter. For now. A stretch and a groan, and he waves off your own half-apology. Bah! Not between friends. "You're right... subterfuge, subterfuge, subterfuge... so... we will do what we do best, aye." Making things useful for other people. Like ruining women for other men. It's a gift you both have. Oh, and Plantagenet. Of course. Who could forget Prince Battering Ram? Davydd grins, suddenly, makes a half-shrug and looks to you.
     Your somber expression tempers the smile a bit. What's the matter with you, Edward? The smile fades altogether for a more...well...business look. "Oh, she's not fit for company... won't be... for a while. I'll have to put her back together again." Green eyes roll at the very thought. Fuck me. Being a Jedi sucks sometimes. He smirks then, not out of joy but out of understanding and knowing. And he nods. "Aye...not like this..." He does understand you. You see it in the eyes.

     Edward's head cocks deeper. "No, Davydd," he says softly, "...she'll be drained, put into torpor...and buried in a vault underneath the west face of Chateau Fleurilil." In Blois. Blue eyes drop to his jacket, and Edward filches out another cigarette, this one for herself. "She's done with this work," he says firmly, if quietly, mostly to himself. "They'll miss her, the pack, and if you..." he looks at you, needing your help, "...put the right stuff into Suffield..." then he can get away with removing her from the thread altogether.

     "I will ... do what I can," comes the smooth voice of damn near Ventrue himself. Don't you hate it when he does that? There is a glimmer of emerald returning to his eyes. A smile? An understanding. "I will remove her from his Existence... I am the Obi Wan Kenobi to Suffield's Imperial Guard... Who says I can't keep up a motif. Bah." Davydd groans as he begins to rise. I need to move. "And... you will call me... before you wake her," he whispers as he rises, his Presence rising with him. "She ... will need... repair work...Edward." A pause as he stands beside you. A hand upon your shoulder. Briefly. And then what will you do with her, Edward...

     She rests, unmoving. In that sleep we are all subject to. Like Death, but one from which We awaken. Most of the time. Her blonde hair. Her face. She was French, St. Germaine. Her real name... Blancheflor, like the Arthurian heroine. White Flower. Hmm.
     "You should...fix her...before..." Edward murmurs, watching you. Do you disapprove? Have you thought of the risk? A pack might come looking, if they care so much . He's prepared clearly to deal with each of them as well. There could be as many as eight or ten in a large bonded pack. But, she will be in France, as will he. No need to have his decision cause too much trouble. Blois suddenly at Blois. The citizens will be shocked. "Well, before...I go home," he says softly. Real home. And for how long?
     He stands suddenly, unable to keep still. Lighter comes out and he finally does something with it. "Speak now, Davydd," before he steps along a path that will take him from you all for a bit, maybe. "Stupid, hmm?" Edward grins, turning to see you, the candor returned with his smug smirk. "As if I can make her somehow different in a... oh, I don't know....what do you think? Twenty years? Thirty? A hundred?" Lighter's put away, and he removes the smoke from his lips, pulling at his tongue. Stray tobacco. "Fill her with my own blood..." he laughs, "...well, if her pack or some fucker who gets annoyed and figures it out and doesn't hunt me down to tear me to shreds. Not that any of them truly cares about her. Just," he shrugs cynically, "..wanting to snatch back the woman and teach a lesson." The smile grows wickedly, he almost amused with the notion of being hunted for a while. "I doubt any Prisci or Cardinals would care though, just her own pack. But still, hey," he laughs, hands opening as Edward rambles, "...who the hell cares anyway." About him. About her. Cynicism seems to have found root. Blue eyes squint at you, smiling as he knows at least part of that is untrue. A group would care about him.
     "She'll be under the chateau, sleeping, for a long time, Davydd," anyway you slice it. "And I doubt my own blood will do much for...making her right." To borrow a Donal phrase. Edward sighs and turns to face the woman on the couch. "Once Lasombra, always Lasombra, hmm?" Maybe if you can strip the vestiges of Humanity to create Sabbat member, can you possibly restore some semblance of it? "Lasombra was not always Sabbat," he recalls softly.

     "It's ... a little ballsy..." That's about all he says. Arms flail a moment. Eyes in motion. "I'm not the most conventional man..." As if he doesn't give out advice much. It ends with Davydd folding his arms against his chest and exhaling as his eyes focus on you and on your shoes. Lovely, those. A hand then reaches up and scratches his face. Fingers jolt momentarily, expecting to find a beard and finding his skin instead. Oh, that's right, I partially shaved . "Oh aye... I'll have to ... fix her, bind her... get her sleep worthy..." All matter-of-factly said, dismissed. His thoughts are on you. Green eyes flicker, slowly, slowly returning to their more usual emerald color, flecked with jade. Fingers that landed to his skin now gently squeeze at his lips. And he turns, pacing away in thought. "Her pack... will care. They will howl at the moon. And should any... hair on that ruddy head of yours, Blois, be so much as mussed by them, you'll know who'll be coming..." He doesn't even have to say it. All of us. With Plantagenet and Llewelyn in the lead. His hand leaves his mouth, rakes through his hair and he settles himself again, on the arm of the chair. Looking fit to vault from it at any moment. "We remove her from Suffield... I will... have to find him... " I need to find him tonight. He screws his eyes up tight and presses his thumb against his tired third eye -- the mind's eye. Healing pressure for a moment, then he lowers his hands, folding his arms at his barrel chest again.
     "A hundred years, Edward... enough for the pack to lose the scent. It is the only way...Thirty years..." a wave of his hand. "It's nothing. Not enough time. A century should do. She will wake up... forgetful ... and I will..." Green eyes cut to you. "See what we have then. There is no choice, Blois..." comes his voice softly. "In matters of you and she. There is no choice." She will die.
     Davydd stands with an exhale. "As for tonight..." rumbles that deep, familiar voice, "... I will take it from you. Hard to hunt... when you do not have a target..." There will be nothing for you to tell or say. And upon that there seems to be no room for argument. Shall you? "You should stay in France for a while... In fact... you will have arrived two nights ago..." Green eyes glint to you. "We'll... deal with it ..." Moving to you, Davydd puts his hand to the back of your neck, head. A squeeze. "They were not always Sabbat, Edward. But they all are now..." he murmurs. A pat. I understand. "That does not mean that... we should not ... try to fight this on ... all possible fronts. And... if she cannot be redeemed, we send her to God and give the Almighty a crack at her. Done well, we lose nothing." He lowers his hand. "And I'll not do it any other way."

     A smile birthed at the idea of you and Plantagenet, and he appears to appreciate at least your entertainment of the idea. "What will I remember?" he asks. "I'll need to know what I've done, at least...."

     "What was the last thing you saw ... did... at Davy's...?" A grin cuts across his mouth and the copper goatee moves with it. "Or should I say Who? and What was the bird's name?" A pause. "We can do it however you like, Blois. I'm easy... " A pause. "Course, you'll need to know she's down there. Nothing like having a Lasombra in the cupboard and forgetting about her." Now that's funny. Davydd's eyes go bright and wide and he chuckles at the very thought. "Second thought... I'm not sure I want to be squirming around in that brain of yours... I'll leave you as-is... until I can think of something flashy..." A hand to your shoulder, another reassuring pat, Davydd turns his attention to the young woman. There is yet the humor on the surface, but beneath it... the many layers of power and thought and planning.
     "First things first," he murmurs. "We need her incapacitated...." That's a nice word for it. "...and I need to find Suffield. We need to ... chill the path and dispense of the scent of it. Then we'll worry about the rest..." Like getting you to Blois with a body in the bag. Plantagenet is going to crap pure gold. "She'll sleep for a long time, Edward... and you must let her rest...after tonight..." No talk of it. Nor word of it. Perhaps he shall have to pluck it from you. Perhaps he shall have to rearrange it. To plant a grove of trees in your own mind. But for tonight... it is the obvious to deal with. A last pat, and Davydd steps away. If he can revive Dunross for Plantagenet, this is the least he can do for you...

     He nods. You're the king of details. He...is not. Edward nods and says, "I'll find Suffield," doing his part. "I can..take care of myself." And his remembering. "If they come for me, recalling what's happened is really not of the essence, y'know?" Edward laughs, eyes turning to St. Germaine on the sofa. "I can...incapacitate her...get her to a place and packed for travel. I'll drive." Back to France. "Tonight," he guesses, thinking about it, "...Christ, I guess...we had better get moving." If this is going to happen at all. "I guess you can stay here with her...and fix...whatever...while I find Suffield?"

     "If what I understand is true... we have a window of opportunity here. For a little piracy..." Oh, and how he loves that. He fancies himself a bit of a pirate. "I believe this was... as she said... a quick passing of hands, from Paris to London... to be hidden in the distraction. Without her pack... to cause or stir attention... But you're right," he quips, "...it has to be done tonight. Toot sweet, as they say." Well they don't say it like that, but you know what he means. "I'll handle this. You find Suffield... I'll meet you at the Chunnel?"
      Ha! He loves the Chunnel. England and France joined at the hips. Bah! Fuckers. But it is better than having to hop a plane. He hates flying. "Ah... and one more thing, Edward of Blois." Davydd holds up a finger. "There is no try. There is only do or do not." And then he winks. Jedi joke. Maybe you have to be there. "Just go get him... do what needs to be done..." I'll handle the rest.

     It was not supposed to go this way. And maybe... it shouldn't. Maybe Edward shouldn't be humored and Davydd shouldn't crack jokes. But in a way... Blancheflor aka St. Germaine... is a special case. And a matter of history. Would we all rather the Lasombra returned to us... than have to continually kill old lovers and friends? Does it not get tiring. Well, that is all part of the rationalization. This night will never be mentioned. Her sleep will last for a hundred years. Or more. For who knows what the world will be like then...

Posted by rowan at February 01, 2001 11:40 PM