Chapter 1.12 - Albert VII
The rain patters on the glass of the window. The gentle staccato of precipitation marks time to the murmuring of conversation from my fellow celebrants at tonight’s gala. My Lord is not present - Lady Anne is our host tonight, and occupies the Regent’s Seat on the dais. Over thirty of my kind are here - and whilst few will stay all night by the time the gala ends an hour before dawn a goodly majority of our population in London will have been present. I always attend. These are the only formal social events I count as pleasures.
An unofficial sorting has, as usual, taken place. On one side gather those who consider themselves more refined, civilised beings. On the other cluster creatures who might have a word or two to say about what refinement and civilisation actually mean. It is the current echo in a very ancient debate. Then there is the question of how close or far away one chooses to be from the dais, and why. Thus it is that Antony has a place at the table on the disreputable side, but very close to the seat of power. Henri is freer: his role as envoy allows him more movement - literally so - but he always returns to the same general area about half-way down the room amongst those who consider themselves superior. The youngsters, both less certain and less constrained, throng in the middle portion of the hall, through not too close to the dais.
It is a fascinating dance that I observe from my oriel at the far end of the hall exactly opposite the throne, and therefore in the centre ground.
The outer walls are lined by silent figures - conditioned vessels who are our fare tonight. In most venues my Lord will permit the fiction of the goblet, the crimson wine - but not here. Here he offers hospitality according to elder lore. There is nothing coarse, nothing depraved. The vessels are modestly attired, in muted shades designed not to attract attention - but one always knows they are there. If one attends one is expected to appreciate my Lord’s offerings, and in the expanse of this hall there is nowhere to hide. Less notorious than the fevered whispers in foreign Courts, and yet altogether more terrifying. The customs of yesteryear brought into the modern night. It is the Blood Court of London, in its second hour, and I will see the whole night through.
I notice Dara surrounded by a small group of beings younger than he, talking, laughing, almost at ease with each other. One seems quieter, a face I do not immediately recognise. This one offers a comment now and then, but his smile is tight, and fleeting. From Dara’s glances it is clear he is aware of his companion’s uncertainty. In between everything else I keep my eye on them, and Dara notices. He offers me a quick grin. I nod in return, and let my eyes wander further. Henri is approaching Lady Anne, an associate in tow. In the hall, to my right, the Anarch Fowler tells a loud joke to his little entourage of followers, and they all cackle obligingly.
Dara disengages himself from his group, leading the new face towards me. The remainder start a furious bout of whispering. I beckon to the bench opposite, but Dara shakes his head, though he does prod the newcomer to sit. Dara stands over him, comfortable and confident in whatever this is about.
“Sorry to bother you Guv,” Dara says, “but this here is Nathaniel, newly arrived from Liverpool. Was introduced whilst you were away. He’s come to the Water a time or two.”
Which is, at least, part of why Dara has chosen to introduce him to me. “And what brings you to London, Nathaniel?”
“Ah,” Nathaniel starts, stops, and continues, “I had to leave … said I did something which I didn’t.” Unexpectedly he flushes. I look at Dara.
“Was picked on by a group of centurions, he decided it was better to flee,” Dara explains.
“Is that right?” I ask
“I … suppose so, Sir, yes. In essence.”
“One of yours, Dara?” Dara shrugs.
“I don’t know sir,” Nathaniel answers, “never knew my sire.”
“Which no doubt made you easy prey for some bored louts,” I observe. “Why London?”
“I knew someone here, hoped he could help me.”
“Victor Melhuish,” Dara supplied. Well, Victor did some travel at the behest of his sire. “Victor helped present him, and he was told to attend tonight. But Nathaniel here, well guv he’s a bit intimidated, and last night at the Water he asked for my advice on how to handle the whole -” he takes a moment to wave his hand at the vessels, “- business here. So I told him to talk to you, given you are one of the few I know who actually seem to ever relax at one of these. Hope I’m not taking advantage…” Dara lapses into silence.
I smile, regarding Nathaniel. He cuts an unassuming form, maybe my height or a little less, a neatly cut covering of brown hair on his head. He is holding his hands together, the fingers interlaced, his thumbs rapidly tapping as his green eyes stare towards the floor, only occasionally flicking up to look at me.
“No,” I say quietly, “you are not.” I look at Nathaniel a little longer, and then shift myself so I am leaning forwards towards him. “Tell me, Nathaniel, do you wish my advice? I will give it, if you desire - truly desire - the consequences.”
“What … consequences?” Nathaniel asks.
“I do not know.”
Nathaniel jerks his head to look at Dara. “I told you,” Dara says evenly, “that whilst Lord Albert can help you, he’s remarkably honest for one his age.”
I flash Dara a quick, tight, but honest smile. “I do not know you, Nathaniel, so I cannot say. But even now you are being observed. So far you talking to me might be a polite social gesture, engineered by Dara here, by someone who frequents the Water. Go further, and you will cease to be just a clanless neonate refugee exhibiting uncommon social grace, to be a known associate of, well, Dara can probably tell you better than I of how I am described.”
For the first time Nathaniel looks straight at me and holds my gaze. “He did. He told me you were the strangest elder he ever knew, or heard of. He told me … things. I … suppose I do … want … want to be something … else.”
“Leave us Dara,” I say, “but ask if Annabelle is yet taken. If she is not, her and someone as fresh as possible. Let us see if I can help Nathaniel partake of my Lord’s hospitality.”
Dara nods, and steps aside. Nathaniel tracks his movement a moment, until I ask, “How do you usually feed.”
Nathaniel looks down, and then at me, “Animals,” he murmurs.
“Why?”
“To take someone … against their will, I fear … I fear what I might do.”
“And well you should.” I lean back, and whilst Nathaniel’s speech might still be hesitant his back is now a little straighter. “But you will never master yourself if you do not face it, and tonight … ah,” I pause a moment as I note two women approach. “Tonight I can offer a safer experience.”
Nathaniel looks to where my gaze is, and sees them just before them stand before us. The servitor behind them leaves as I signal his dismissal with a wave of my hand. “This,” I say, pointing to the older of the pair, “is Annabelle. She is one of the longest serving of my Lord’s current vessels, would you not say Annabelle?”
“Yes, Master Albert,” she replies, the Black Country imprinted on her speech.
“Whereas I have not seen the other, your name is?” I ask the younger - much younger - woman.
“Jane,” she whispers an answer.
“It’s her first night, Master Albert,” Annabelle says, “she’s just shy.”
“Indeed. Well, Annabelle, it so happens my companion here is a little shy himself. Thinks you are forced to this life.”
Nathaniel looks at me, mouth agape.
“Is that not true?” I ask him.
“Um, yes, but - you talk…” he closes his mouth, and thinks. “I don’t understand.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Annabelle, how came you to this service?”
The older woman turned to Nathaniel, and held his gaze. “I was about Jane’s age here, and I was hunted, and fed from. When I came to, I knew I wanted that experience again. I did not know … stuff, of course. But I asked questions, silly questions, nearly got myself killed, but didn’t, and after wasting about eighteen months was asked a question myself, to which I said yes. Nearly thirty years ago.”
“Annabelle is one of the older vessels, but her story is not that unusual amongst my Lord’s stable. Even this young thing is here because she would rather be here than elsewhere. Am I right Jane?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“Have you ever had your mind played with?” I ask Nathaniel.
He hangs his head a moment, and then straightens, “Yes.”
“Willingly?”
“No!” he says, quickly.
I smile. “That is a tale for another time, but know this - those who open themselves to dominion can be made to the crafter’s needs like a potter shapes clay - but only if they wish to be the vessel that is being made. Try to turn a person in a jug when all they want to be is a plate, and cracks will soon appear.”
Jane continues to look with no expression, but Annabelle smiles.
“Now, onto practical matters, there is no need to make this dramatic. Annabelle, Jane, and the others here are willing vessels. New ones - like Jane I am sure - have their terror controlled and taken away from them. Older ones, like Annabelle, barely require any attention.” I notice Nathaniel has closed his eyes.
“Well, perhaps a little ceremony, for your first Blood Court.” I grin, “Do you Annabelle, consent to be the source of young Master Nathaniel’s sustenance tonight, to be bitten, to be fed from, to be food?” Nathaniel’s eyes are open again.
“I do,” she says instantly, a hunger in her own eyes.
“And do you, Nathaniel, agree to feed from this vessel, under my supervision?”
“I, ah, ah, yes,” he manages “Umm,” he makes no move.
“The practical - nothing obscene. Jane, your arm please.” The vessel steps up to me and holds out her left arm. I turn it over, exposing its underside. “The trick is not to make a fuss, like so,” I say. I bend over the wrist, my fangs extending and they plunge into her flesh. She gasps, a catch of her breath as I consume her offering, followed by some rapid pants. First time.
After what seems like too short a moment I withdraw my head, my tongue caressing the marks I leave behind which immediately begin to heal. Another shuddering breath from the vessel. I draw out a handkerchief and dab my lips, and then wipe Jane’s wrist. “And all done. Now you,”
“Um,” Nathaniel hesitates, but Annabelle steps up.
“Young Master, let me help you,” she says. Kneeling down in front of him, she touches his shoulder, and then the back of his head and draws him down to her neck. I watch, and I see him tense - but she whispers to him. He goes slack, and then he too samples my Lord’s gift. I think perhaps he had fed poorly, for he drinks more deeply. I signal a servitor. There is more though - something relaxes as he feeds. There is no sense of gluttony, and nothing as obscene as lust, but something more … he begins to draw back. Annabelle's mouth is curved in the wide loose smile, and her eyes are half-lidded in pure bliss.
“Thank you, Master,” she offers as she levers herself to her feet, holding tight onto the wall. Two servitors appear. One gently propels Jane away. The other goes to Annabelle. She bats a guiding arm away, turning to Nathaniel. “Please ask for me again,” she says, and then leans in against the servitor who guides her out of the room.
I pass a handkerchief over to Nathaniel, who tidies himself.
“How do you feel now?” I ask.
“Fine,” he says, strongly. He smiles broadly, “I never knew…”
“Of course you didn’t,” I say. “Abandoned, left to survive as best you might. Tonight … you have done well. Tell, Nathaniel, you said you wanted to become something else. What?”
“I don’t want to always be afraid. But I don’t want to turn into a monster. I want to be my own person. “
“Well, you have already begun to walk that road. I might even be able to help you. I am about to go away for a time, but when I return - if you are still walking the night - we should talk again. If you wish it.”
“If?” he queries.
I move my hand in a gesture encompassing the gathered throng. “They have all seen you partake of my Lord’s gift with me. You can be sure you are about to hear a lot of stories about me. When I come back you may think you have supped with a devil.”
“And are you, a devil?” he asked, the thrill of feeding still lending him a confidence that is not yet truly his.
“I am a Satrap of Lord Mithras. Remember that, when you listen to any tales. For now though enjoy the rest of the Court. And remember what Annabelle asked - her favour is not lightly bestowed.”
He looks at me a moment more, rises, and leaves me once again alone. I look across at the dais and see Lady Anne returning my gaze. She has, of course, been watching. Sitting as I am I place my hands one atop the other on my chest and bow in her direction. It is the Blood Court of London, now in its third hour, and I am truly enjoying myself.
