Panic.
Frantic arrangements were made.
Phone calls were made on the go. Toreador were warned within the area that the Theater was deemed unsafe and was to be abandoned immediately. Already, her clan mates were preparing to torch the building and then flee to a new location.
The Prince was then called and informed he would need a new Toreador Primogen and Seneschal. Brief explanations were given only. No time for anything else. Her two surviving ghouls were informed of the location of paperwork which would sign the club over to them. No, they will not likely see her any time soon. Someone would be contacting them, however, soon from the clan. Do not worry about me, my pets...my faithful ones...
And then she was gone with all that she could carry. A bag of clothes with a sword wrapped and tucked away within it, slung over her shoulder, and a plane ticket in hand, Tori slipped out of New Port in under an hour of finding poor Steven's body at the Theater...
A quick shudder snaps her back into reality as Tori looks out the window of the plane. It's just landing. Ice-blue eyes frantically look about. Where are we? Are we here? The pilot makes the announcement of arrival as the plane slows and eventually stops. Grabbing her travel bag from the compartment above, the once Toreador Primogen of New Port steps into the isle, shaking like a leaf.
An attendant asks her if she's well, only to get a quiet reply from Tori... something about being air sick, but that she'll be fine, she just needs air. The attendant's pleasant smile is vaguely returned, then disappears as Tori escapes into the chill air.
The cold air at your elbow, my butterfly... Do you not know that it is my hand? I have waited so long and past patience. Why did I ever let you run so far? So beautiful...
Especially when you are so afraid...
People move past me. To and fro, like a sluggish sea. Slow motion. I am waiting here, my dear. The man against the pole, with a dark coat, dark trousers. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Invisible to the sluggish sea that parts us.
You are running...
From the plane, past the tarmac where you should have entered. Perhaps I should play at being taxi. I will take you where I want you to go... but first...
First...
I will follow you. The cold air at your elbow, Victoria. My Victoria. It is me. Smile when you turn...
The airport is rather busy. The holiday season. As as you step upon the soil of France, south of Paris, you are swallowed by a crowd. People returning from holidays elsewhere, others here on business. There are taxis, blue and white, waiting outside. Hands waving and French is spoken roughly, rapidly.
Take me to Paris...
Take me to Tours...
Take me to the railstation. "Madame! Avez-vous besoin d'un tour? Je puis vous prendre ou vous devez aller!" An middle aged man sticks his head past the window, his face expectant as he sees you.
"Chinon..." Tori's voice says, almost numbly as she glances around frantically, ice-blue gaze flickering from person to person. Oh gods, don't let him be here already... no... please...
Ah, but she knows he is... that feeling, like the prickling on the back of her neck, is there. He is here. But where? Her head swivels about as she looks, seeking him out... Maybe he's not here, but definitely in Europe. No, Tori, don't kid yourself. At least she can't hear him yet, his voice in her head...
Blinking and looking back at the man in the taxi, the raven-haired one murmurs in French, "Will you take me to Chinon? To the manor there?" Her expression is hopeful that he'll go that far. To help convince him, she adds hurriedly in the same tongue, "I can pay, monsieur... I have enough. And only one bag... no luggage."
This has gone on long enough.
The swarthy man who weaves and bobs between patrons is quick to exit the plane, milling along with the throng that heads off the craft.
Why didn't I think things would end up here. Following these two...and for what? Last thing I needed was to end up here of all places on the planet.
Once more into the breech, Hefe, and then you can go...
"Certainement, est il ce que je... Chinon est de petites voies, mais le temps est clair..." And he smiles and curbs his cab. He is out with a breath of frost hanging on the air. The trunk opens. His hands are out to help you, beautiful madame, with your things. "Laissez-moi obtenir cela. Je l'arrimerai dans le dos." A nod to the back of the cab. The door is open...
And other passengers attempt to flag down taxis of their own. Turning, moving to buses. To the nearby train depot. It is constant commotion...
Dark eyes peer through the crowd. And he cannot be still. Nor with those around him bumping into him, can he be invisible. Morgan can, however, make himself seem... easy to ignore. Don't look at me. Ah, but get out of the way! She is right there! Can you not see! I am so close. So close...
...so close...
The cabbie closes the door behind you and moves to enter. "Chinon n'est pas jusqu'ici parti. Vous retournez des vacances?" Idle chit-chat as the car is started. A Peugot. Goddess help you, if you get in a race. But it is sturdy enough, oui? And it pulls out... heading from the curb...
There he is. Peering above the crowd, someone's eyes scan. How he made it here in such fashion...well, that's still beyond him. Having to take another flight, risking losing all of the threads.
Not this time. This time, I win.
"Merci," the raven-haired one manages to choke out as the hairs on the back of her neck stand up on end, along with those on her arms beneath her heavy coat. Ice-blue eyes move frantically once more, scanning the crowd as the cabbie ushers her into the taxi, speaking to her.
Dear gods, let's get out of here! Now! Fear begins to seat itself deeply within her belly, even as the cab pulls away from the curb. Behind the blue specs, her eyes close tightly. I know you're there, Morgan... leave me be!
Hearing the cabbie's question, she murmurs in French back to him, "Oui... a very long holiday. Monsieur, I am in a bit of a hurry... could we take the quickest route, si vous plait?"
Someone in a hurry to get to Chinon? This is a first. "Oui, oui... fast as wind and lightning..." And the cab is put into gear and speeds off. Well, speeds into the rest of the traffic. With taxis jockeying for position. Like Le Mans, yes? Only the cars not so pristine. Grey eyes glance up in the mirror, twinkling. "Madame, je vous y arriverai a l'heure ou mon nom n'est pas Martel du Montaigne. Vous etes dans la cabine la plus rapide en tout de la France!" And he laughs, and he switches two lanes over without giving a signal. You would get from him that he will, indeed, drive like lightning and wind...
You thought that was your cab, Monsieur, but I beg to disagree. The tall and dark man -- beautiful... so that when he is visible others cannot help but look at him -- cuts in front of another gentleman, much slower. And the door to the cab closes before the other can even begin to protest. "Chinon," he says to the cabbie.
"Oui, monsieur. Chinon..."
Chinon. Why are you going there, my butterfly? Do you think the high castle walls will keep me from you? And the beautiful mouth pulls in a smile as the cab pulls from the curb, heading out into the stream of traffic ahead. And he closes his eyes. My beauty... can you hear me... you can hear me... I'm right behind you. Soon, oh soon my butterfly I will hold you in my hands again. And I will hear you sing. Could you know... what ...torture it has been to be without you? To be in such silence?
It has made me mad...
In The City, The Louvre sits dark tonight. No parties, no functions. No occasion deep within her vaults. It is quiet in the Tuileries, and the outer office phone clicks an instant before the large doors are swung open.
The attendant moves quickly across the bronzed carpet, the ornateness of the office still a shock to him. They say in time that one gets used to such things, but that was forty years ago.
"Sir," he says softly, hating to interrupt the Master's ruminations. Something is afoot...he normally leaves the office a little earlier than this when nothing is planned. "It seems the planes have landed, Sir. Manifests show the time. Verification is difficult though, and Meliite says --"
It's a sigh that comes from the chair that faces away from the dutiful attendant. Someone sitting, waiting. In the quiet. His voice is even, however, almost lyrical, when he replies.
"Tell them to get Meurelle on the phone."
"Merci, Monsieur, merci.. I am weary and just wish to get there soon... merci..." Tori murmurs politely to the grey eyes in the mirror. She even manages to offer him a polite, but quiet smile.
Turning a bit in the seat, her ice-blue eyes look out through the back window periodically, causing Tori to look much like a deer caught in headlights. She watches as the taxi passes many cars and weaves through traffic. Thank goodness she's not mortal.
Then she hears it...
His voice...
Morgan.
A quiet gasp escapes her lips, causing her to turn back in the right direction in her seat. Get out of my head... no... not this again... no... Get out of my head!
Trying to drown out the quiet voice in the back of her mind which is beginning to return after nearly a century, she focuses on the conversation from the cabbie.
Soft, there is the sound of sudden music. The radio. It is a song from America. You recognize it. It is one that would be played in your club, yes? What? Just because he is an old man, he cannot listen to young music? "Oui, Madame... Ne vous inquietez pas. Je vous y arriverai, pas plus de deux heures. Quand nous obtenons sur l'omnibus, il ira rapidement..." And it is not long. Not long before the airport is left behind and the nationale highway is reached. Southwest. The signs say Poitiers and Tours. It will be a little while, yes... just a little while...
And another taxi hits the highway. Heading southwest toward Poitiers. Toward Tours. It too will stop in Chinon.
Hands fold against the dark silk coat. Fine hands. Fine hands. That never knew a day of work. But the things they do know, they never can say. The fine face. The fine face, with features so noble, speaking of France or Gascony or maybe Spain. Long ago. Before any of these streets existed. Before half of these cities were named. His mouth so fine. Fine, but no smile is made of pure joy. Always... there is something beneath the beauty that taints the beauty. Black lashes lift and nearly black eyes glitter past. "How long will it take?"
"About two... two and a half hours, monsieur...but the roads are clear. The snow has melted nearly away."
I close my eyes again. I can feel your heart tremble. Do not be afraid. I only want to hold you. Is that so wrong? After so long, butterfly?
The presence of the familiar music soothes her strained nerves. She knows he's following. But at least in Chinon, she will not face him alone. Closing her eyes, she lets the music wash over her as she concentrates on the lyrics and the music only... trying to use this to ignore the voice in her head.
If her heart still pulsed life through her veins, it would be racing at this moment and she would likely be hyperventilating. She only allows a slight, slow beating in her chest, along with a slow, rhythmic breathing pattern... just enough to pass for a living, breathing woman.
For now, she just lets the time slip by, trying to push Morgan out of her head with the music...filling her thoughts with only that...
Interesting. I never thought I'd say it but...it's good to be home again.
Edward Meurelle smiles as he drives a motorbike up the Nationale from Bordeaux. Poitiers, Tours, Chinon...gah, Chinon...and then the fields of home. It's a warm thought on a freezing ride, but ah, this is living. This is what I do best. And now, with him...I want to do so much more. I want to live. Chilled ice slapping my face and jacket. Pinpricks on the skin. Feeling it all. How glorious!
And then the phone rings. Edward slips from his reverie, wondering what the noise is. Phone. A sigh. "Now I remember why I hate home," he sighs, taking one hand off bars and brake to fish phone out.
"Yeah, it's me..."
The way is quick upon the plateau south of Paris. But you can feel the rise and fall of the valley's foothills. You move south-southwest. Toward the Loire River Valley and its fertile fields, living with vineyards and its many chateau. Toward where the Loire crosses the Vienne, where the limestone hills become something like mountains. And the honeyed stone makes for fantastic vistas...
And you know you are not alone...
And you know you will not be...
Because even though we have been apart, my butterfly, I have never been far from you. For so many years, I was... deaf, I could not hear it. But now. Now. The air sings with You. As sweetly as I remembered your singing. The voice that drove me to madness. In the other taxi, a beautiful jaw clenches. You are so beautiful. So talented. It burns me. I did not create you, God did. Where is the credit and honor for Frederick?
Ice-blue eyes flare open again as she hears the voice once more. Did she doze off for a while? No. She was in deep meditation, though the cabbie would likely think she was asleep. Slowly, she stirs, making it seem like she just awoke and she begins to look about her, out the windows, trying to get her bearings...
Leaning forward a bit, Tori asks quietly, "Monsieur, o sommes-nous maintenant? Est-ce que j'ai dormi longtemps?" Where are we... did I sleep long? Frowning, she tries to block out her creator's voice, touching a hand to her forehead for a brief moment.
The phone is held against the throttle. The Ducati rumbles to a slow, and Edward's thumb presses buttons. Strangeness. A ring lilts amidst the rushing wind, and the motorbike suddenly gains speed and an exit taken under a sign that says 'Chinon 30km'.
"Toujours petites voies d'aller, madame. Une heure ou demeure ainsi..." he replies, grey eyes in the mirror again. An hour or so is left. "Vous etes les amis ou la famille de reunion? Vous etes de Chinon?" Eyes are back upon the road, but the flicker up to you, steel grey. It is hard not to look at you, yes? So lucky I am... to be ferrying such a lovely woman. Martel, you are a lucky son of a bitch, as they say.
The wide highway begins to narrow somewhat, as it leaves the confines and suburbs of the airport and city. Heading toward the countryside of the Loire Valley...
The Nationale is busy tonight. Cars going to and fro. Mortal and immortal both. Some drive themselves, having managed to arrange a vehicle. Some...are not so public with their activities. No matter. It ends the same. Down the pavement and off onto something smaller and narrower, heading to the beautiful Loire, shrouded now in darkness. Heading towards the great castle itself at Chinon.
The specs are left upon her face, even thought it is night. She does not wish to alarm the cab driver with the fear which is no doubt very clear in her eyes.
"Je suis un ami de ceux de Chinon. J'ai voulu visiter avec eux," she replies quietly, in a controlled voice. I am a friend of those at Chinon and wanted to visit. Quickly, she glances back over her shoulder through the back window, seeking out any cars which might appear to be following.
Leaning back against the seat again, Tori watches the scenery rushing by, almost attempting to -will- the car to go faster..
The Peugot, being the fine piece of French engineering that it is, dare not go over the 90km/h it is currently traveling, but even so the driver nods. Switching lanes to the fast lane. As if he heard you. And it speeds through, passing the even slower American that was in front of him. And the way begins to darken. Civilization is behind you. Paris... a far distant glow to the northeast.
There are not so many cars now... But you are not the only one going toward Tours and Poitiers tonight...
Again, she slips into a meditative state, attempting to calm her nerves. Soon she will be with her friends, her allies, and safe. She will not be alone. And he will not be able to harm her. She focuses on her memories of being in Europe not that long ago... of touching stone walls which spoke to her... of seeing the past...
To the cabbie, the young lady in the back has fallen asleep once more as her head rolls back against the seat...
Somewhere in Poitiers, a hand reaches into a lined leather pocket, a small phone nearly lost in the large hand that reaches for it. "Oui... d'Angevin..." His voice is a clip of deep French. And the speaker distracted. Indigo eyes peering past a cafe's awning. Around him, Poitiers flickers. An old city brimming with young life. And he, amid it... like a king. The long black jacket is as a mantle. And so long as there is a Plantagenet upon this earth, so shall it be. But at least the rainshower is over. Now, all that is left of it is a kind of chilly mist. It makes the old city look like a queen's gem...
The blonde looks over at William, hands stuffed into his longcoat. Ian's eyes narrow, wandering the street and the people who are out this night. Dreary thing, really, but what can one do? He glances to the phone, hoping information is forthcoming...what in the hell is going on?
The rise and fall of land. Does this lull you into sleep, like a lullabye. The rise and fall of land, like the rocking of your mother's arms. Do you remember that, Victoria Whitethorne? Do you remember what it was like to feel at ease. Safe. Without the shadow at your elbow...
And so the way goes. Climbing now. There... ah there it is...
It is lit up against the night. Seen from a distance. Commanding the landscape with its twelve towered sprawl. The village at its heels is dwarved by it...
"Chinon..." says the driver.
And you can feel the car pulling in a curve and climbing. The castle is nearing...
Chinon. "Let me out at the village..."
"Oui, monsieur. As you wish..."
A cab circles into the east village square. It is late. The village of Chinon is quiet. Sleeping...
Slowly, she pulls out of her trance-like state, feigning a yawn. "Mmm? We are here? Good.." she murmurs in a drowsy voice, looking toward the castle with a not-so drowsy glance. Ever mindful of the mortals about her, she is...
She begins to mentally prepare herself... she might have to run for it once the taxi is out of sight...
Money is shoved at the driver. The swarthy man gets out, unceremoniously, moving towards the driver's window.
"Fare..." he says, wondering whether the swarthy man is about to try and stiff him. Bastard. The driver leans out his window to extend his hand, and the swarthy man turns toward him slowly.
The taxi's lights suddenly go out.
"You are expected...?"
The way is rough as the cab moves over cobblestones that lead over the old bridge. Beneath it, the waters of the Vienne, flowing black and edged by the remainders of yesterday's snow. At the head of the bridge is a tower. The first of the several gates. This, even before one enters the first perimeter of Chinon's walls. The cab rolls, slowing. And he rolls down his window. The cabbie turns his head, a glance to you, "Give the gatesman your name..."
The security at the first gate. A young but serious man. He waves for the cab to halt and he peers in to see if he recognizes the passenger...
"That'll be forty..." But the cabbie in the village square stops there. Tongue halted. His backseat is empty. What the fuck...
A wind moves through the trees and scatters the leaves at a shadow's feet... Rue du Chinon...
The castle and You... are dead ahead...
Leaning forward a bit in her seat, Tori says clearly for the gatesman to hear, "No, I am not expected. My name is Victoria Whitethorne. I have an open invitation from the Lords of the manor..."
She pauses, hoping that he recognizes her name, finds it on a list, or something. For a long moment, she sits upon the edge of her seat, holding the breath she had been so careful to maintain... a human reaction...
"Can you speed up?" comes the voice at the back of the taxi. More money is dropped onto the passenger's seat, a compelling reason to break all laws. The passenger is frantic now, glancing at his watch between stares at the driver. Please, oh, please, hurry. I will not lose them. I will win this. It will end like I want.
Speed is good, but the driver isn't sure about the risks. He glances back at the agitated man and increases his pace.
A glance of the board in his hand, and the sheet. The names of those who might enter without a call. And then he makes a motion with his hand. "Oui, madame. Pilotez s'il vous plait a travers..." A nod is given toward the tower, and as the young man turns to head within, the large iron gate rises. Opening.
Soon you will be safe, oui?
... and the cab pulls through once it is lifted, into the front courtyard, where he slows, curving around...
And I see the guard going back into his shelter of stone. And I do not care whose estate this is. I will not lose you now. I will not lose. I will hold you in my hands... And I pass beneath the gate as it is opened. Unseen. A shadow against night. I will wait for the door to open. I will wait until we are within. And then the doors will close and I will have you. Such a large estate, there are sure to be a few beds...
A sigh of relief escapes Tori's lips as she leans back against the seat. The taxi pulls past the gate and she relaxes, but only slightly. He is close. She knows it. But, she is here now... Chinon. Won't William and Ian be surprised to see her?
If only she could have had time to call before she left... but now she is here and there was no time...
She is already pulling out a bundle of cash from a pocket. Rolled up bills of French currency. She did have time to arrange for that with the plane ticket, at least. Checking the fare on the meter, Tori then says softly, "I will need my bag quickly once we have stopped. I will give you the fare money now..." The entire roll is passed over the seat, held toward the cabbie. There is probably at least a week's worth of pay for him right in that bundle. She did say she could pay.
Moonlit angles cause Chinon's towers to send pointed shadows across the landscape. But some shadows are darker than others. They move in patterns out of time, shapes that pass no laws of nature. Across the grounds and to the moat. To the gates. Within. (repose)
5km.
Well, that's what the sign says at least. But that's the village, and that's not where I'm going. Edward's speed causes the ice to leave marks upon his skin and danger in the icing roads. But he presses on, glancing at his watch, and sending his Ducati towards the revlimiter.
You could have counted the seconds it took... marked them with a heartbeat if you had one... from the moment you handed him the money... to the moment the trunk was opened... to the moment the large doors were opened by one of William's servants. You are recognized... and you are shown in...
The door held open for you... the servant reaches to take your bags. "I will show you to a room," he says. "You may freshen up after your travels. The lords are due to return soon from Poitiers..."
They are not here, Victoria.
...But I am. Ah, such an estate all to ourselves...
There is a cool breeze that enters just after you do...
Another servant moves to shut it. And the flames of the torches that line the wall flicker. Shadows shift and dance against the hallway. Well lit, clean swept. But shadows tend where other hallways fan outward.
"...due to return..." her voice repeats numbly.
At those words, Tori's heart could have leaped out of her chest on its own.
"I... I understand. I apologize for not calling to announce my arrival before," she murmurs quietly, looking about. There is something about the castle... it is not as safe-feeling now. Shaking her head, she dismisses that as her own paranoia.
Allowing the servant to take the bag, Tori nods distractedly and replies, "Oh, of course... merci..." and follows closely behind, her gaze darting about her nervously.
"I am certain they will be pleased to see you," the servant continues down the main passage of the Front Tower. He continues toward the double doors at the far end, and the Inner Courtyard. "If you would like, I can bring you some dinner, something to drink? In the Inner Courtyard... until they arrive?"
Materializing briefly, in a shimmer of darkness Morgan pauses in an alcove where two passages intersect. And then another shimmer, and he is neither shadow nor creeping darkness. But as invisible as the surrounding air...
Yes, Victoria... you would like that...
And I follow you and the ignorant servant to the courtyard. Bold. I know I am in the haven of d'Angevin. And there is not time. The servant must die. And I must take you...
Now...
There is a hum against your skin...
...the pricking of skin...
The Ducati rolls up the road that leads towards the southern face of Chinon. The dust roils in the near light cast from the castle. The quickest 5km ever.
Before the Ducati comes to a halt, Edward is already calling to the guard there. Pale and soaking, he waves a hand, trying to indicate something.
This place is huge.
But I am not daunted.
The shadow moves along dimmed walls, skilled in its hiding. It heads not towards the beings down another radial web, speaking of courtyards, but instead deeper within, as if having its own plans.
And for Edward, the gate always rises...
The guard steps out of the bridge tower as the gate is in motion, "Sir..."
Shall he get farther, Edward, before you pass him by...
"I will wait for them there, yes, but I am not hungry or thirst, non.. Thank you," Tori replies quietly, following him into the courtyard.
"They will not be long, you sa--" the raven-haired woman says, stopping abruptly at the sensation she feels. No. Oh gods, no!
Spinning around suddenly, eyes seeking out the one who has dared to follow her into this safe haven, Tori gasps. She asks the servant quickly, "Is anyone else here?" A slender hand takes off her specs now, letting her well-trained senses seek him out. She's already reaching for her bag in the servant's hand..
"Take that," Edward says of the bike, pushing past the guard and retrieving something from his jacket pocket.
A 9mm.
"Your Master's on his way back," he says to the guard, expecting familiarity, "...close the gates and lock the castle...
...it looks like Chinon's been breeched."
The young man nods and the serious look turns severe. "Oui...I will call the house. The interior gates have to be locked from within..." The bike is set upon its kick stand, he'll tend to it later. The iron gate closes after you. It locks in place.
"Armand... Victor... we have report of an intruder... close the interior gates... lock down the Logis..."
And there is a sound of iron against stone... issuing down the hallways. The young valet looks to you, Victoria, with upraised brows. "Ah... non, madame... only the servants... locking up the house for the night..."
But I do not remember the last time the gates were lowered inside the house...
Posted by rowan at February 10, 2001 11:34 AM
