Shades of Black

[jezebelinhell]

Continued from The Darkest Light

Los Angeles, California
mid-2011

This evening

Watch. Wait. Listen, he taught me once. He said, à l’œuvre on reconnaît l’artisan. You can tell an artist by his work. All you had to do was wait. Each brush strokes reveals a master’s hand, so unique that it would point to the creator, himself. But how terrible would that be if they could tell his brushstrokes on the blank canvas of my body? What good could possibly come of it? Sydney was fuming and cussing angrily as he paced in front of me, gesturing wildly with his hands and making empty---or perhaps just foolish—promises.

“It was that bloody cur, wasn’t it?” He paused to look at me. I had no words to give him as I sat propped up against the chair like some unhung painting. “Aidan.” He finished pointing an accusing finger in my direction. My eyes narrowed as I sat straighter in my chair.
“I ought to-“
“And what exactly do you think you know about Aidan?” I hissed lowly, my voice groggy with the exhaustion settling into my body. “Careful where you point fingers, you might find that you will have misplaced them one day.” Quiet in the room. Sydney straightened up adjusting his stance, like a solider that realizes that he is not a general but a private. “Yes, Meh-dem.”
I gingerly picked myself up and shifted to a more comfortable position, grimacing slightly, still half the 'woman' I used to be and almost quite literally at that. “The others have not called yet?”
Sydney shook his head somewhat with reservation. Why the guilt perched on his face like some somber gargoyle? Whatever did you do?
“You have not been called to the Chantry yet, if that’s wot yor askin’.” He held out a hand as if to try to steady me. "Aidan?" I questioned breezily. He shook his head to say that he's heard nothing but lent me his body to steady myself. Ever so loyal, even when the world was coming down. He looked at me strangely, however. His thoughts reeled to the night he found me. Poor Sydney. If I could I would have laughed. That would be hard to forget by oneself but I am not feeling generous tonight. No, I am not feeling much at all. He will have to make due with his Whiskey while I make due with the rust of my soul.

It was then he whispered, “Marc…” My eyes flew to Sydney’s face. “ He…requests your presence in Paris as soon as you as you are well. Sooner, if possible.” My errant Ghoul finished tightly. No. Not if possible. Not sooner. Now. Indeed, it was already too late.

What did you do? I seethed.

I am not certain if I killed him in my rage.


Last night

One could hardly see into the bathroom she had locked herself in once home. Something was still wrong. She felt it. It was like a noxious churning in her belly that radiated out, staining everything within her soul, for lack of a better word. Then it made its way into her head, trying to peel away the layers of her mind and sneak into the folds of her brain while eating away at her resolve. Why not trade in one monster for another? No. With great effort their rituals had driven it out and her magic had burned out the residue, which still left heavy soot on her soul. She felt dirty.

Billows of steam streamed out of the large glass shower, filling the room with white clouds that cloaked everything but the frantic wails and choked words coming from the mist. There was a soft methodical scratching noise in the air. Bristles against something soft. Skin. Up and down, up and down, Catherine scrubbed vigorously without stopping.

Harder and deeper, the dead skin flayed into the Dior scented lather as she continued to scrub forming a curdled consistency, except for the edges of the foam which turned red. Her blood. She scrubbed until her shoulder, her arm, her leg felt raw, and the red meat of her shapely thigh throbbed against open layers of skin.

Bringing the brush to her palm, she scrubbed until it turned pink with stolen blood. But no matter what she did, she still felt dirty and infected as if worms were crawling underneath the surface. No, not worms, maggots. They were consuming her. She glared at them wiggling underneath the surface of her skin. Catching a fat one, she pinched the skin around it and then dug her nails underneath the flesh to pop it out. There was a sense of relief when she did, the red blood plopping down against the floor and swirling down the drain. But then she saw another maggot and another. Catherine gasped with wide eyes and pinched again and again, wads of skin falling to the shower floor. There was something there. Something underneath. Her skin felt uncomfortable and tight as if it wasn’t hers. It was something she wore like a suit.

Looking down at her shaking hands, she reached out to one of the flaps of flesh and took it into her other hand. Clenching her eyes shut, she grasped it firmly in her hand. Gritting her teeth together she took a breath and pulled. The choked yell was louder than the ripping sound of her meat. There! Through the gleaming bone, there it was! Her self. It was cleaner, genuine and unmarred by this…path. Just there. She just had to rip off this shell. With another scream she pulled, feeling the first tug of her skin off her muscle and then the rip, like wet paper, as the fibers of her flesh were torn from one another.

“Catherine!? Jesusfuckinchrist!” Sydney dashed into the bathroom, throwing open the doors to the shower. He reached down and then withdrew, covering his hand with his mouth. “Ugh, God.” He wasn’t sure how to help. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but that made two of them. “Whad’ya do to yourself!”

Catherine shook her head in a fleeting frenzy. “They’re crawling. I have to get rid of them. Maggots.” Sydney caught her hand. “Catherine, there are no maggots.” Was she going crazy? Was this some deranged spell gone awry? “Christ.” It was then that what seemed like the entire coterie filed into the penthouse. The hive, he called it. He wasn’t far off the mark. Robed in deep hoods, some of their faces were obscured. The others were just a creepy dower lot, thought Sydney.

“Leave.” One commanded. He recognized him as one of Catherine’s inner circle. It was decidedly less a social group of friendly contacts than a circle of the more arcane nature. And Sydney knew better than to argue. As he stormed out of the bathroom, Zenia strolled in with a puzzled expression. “What’s going on? What’s th—“ He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her with him, shoving her in front of him. His finger was pushed into her face before she could protest. “Get out of here. Now. Now..” Zenia looked at him and back towards the bathroom cautiously. But she backed away slowly, keeping her gaze on her until she could turn on her heel and be right out the door. Combing his hand through his hair, he paced. He waited in the foyer, eying Catherine’s cellphone. Pacing back and forth, he kept eying it, trying to ignore the small voice in his head, which yelled to open it.

“Oh, fuuuck it.” Grabbing the phone, he flipped it open, scrolling through the address book. The name that he wanted glared back at him. A strong chill made it’s way up the wick of his spine. What right did he have? What right? Marc De Vaubernier? Before his thoughts could get ahead of him, he pressed the ‘call’ button.

The ring tone on the other end was European. It rang for an eternity.

“What is it?” Came the cold reply when the line went live. It could down a ship. It made his heart stop with the frost of it. This was a baaad idea. Stop being a fuckin’ pussy.
“It’s Catherine.” He said trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Well, not me, I’m Sydney, but…it’s about her.” Holy shite. Really?
“Go on.” The voice said tunelessly after a moment.
Was the voice even human? No, of course not, he had to remind himself as his thoughts froze in his head.
“She’s in a bad way. They’re with her now but something happened.”
To his credit, the voice on the other end of the line did not hang up on him. It just waited, immersing the silence under cold water.
“ I can’t even begin to descr-“
“-and, thankfully for my sake, you do not have to.”

Sydney stiffened for a moment before his shoulders lightly relaxed despite him drawing them back and somehow, gaining more height. Stature. He looked down at his suit with a sort of displeasure written on his face, smoothing out the lapels and straightening the tie. For a brief moment he glanced at the surrounding as if for the first time and slowly turned to walk toward the commotion. Opening the door to the bathroom, he stepped in. No one ushered him out this time. It was something about the eyes, they would say. One analytical glance at Catherine was all he needed before he stepped out and walked into a sitting room and, well, sat.

Sydney felt a subtle pull on his body and his eyes opened. He was still holding the phone. Marc was still on the other line. But...he had no clue how he had just gotten to where he was.

“A l’œuvre on reconnaît l’artisan.. Bring her to Paris at once.” But what did he say before that?

Then the line went dead.

Sydney was left looking at the phone and wondering if he hadn’t just made matters worse for wear.

The Tremere filed out of the penthouse exactly three hours later. Sydney slid into the bathroom to find her coated in blood and other symbols carved above the ones that had been on her arms. Something hung from her neck; a talisman of sorts and some sort of root powder was rubbed into the blood. Now that they had left, she held her head between her knees, rubbing her temples like he did when he was hung-over. Sydney grabbed a robe from the closet and lightly set it upon her shoulders. She winced when putting her arms through the holes. Her intense gaze studied him from behind a fog. “I am fine.” It was hard for her to believe as well. He nodded and helped her up. “C’mon. I’ll take you to your room.”

The blood soaked through the robe at the shoulder turning the red silk a slick purplish color. Sydney thought that she flinched because of his grasp against the bruised flesh. But she didn’t. It wasn’t his touch. It was the mirror she had caught herself in. She quickly looked away with wide eyes. It wasn’t the blood; powder or bruising that had caught her attention. Oh, no. Slowly, she turned to look over her shoulder at her face in the mirror again as they walked past. No, she no longer saw the woman or the vampire.

She saw the Beast.

“It’s alright, meh’dem. You’ll heal right as rain. You’ll heal.”

Catherine shook her head. She had her doubts.