Mayfair Manor

[Vikteren]

+Rotting Lunacy+

"Vikteren," she breathed softly, turning her eyes on him and smiling slightly, reassuringly, "Of all things, I won't let this kill me. Can't you trust that I know what I'm doing?" When she turned back to the trunk, her cigarette rested on a small glass dish nearby, already populated with a handful of ashes and other burned papery remains that might suggest Antha sat here often.
She pressed her hands into the dark depths as if she expected something to bite her yet didn't care. She didn't rush, she didn't feel around in the darkness, and she was always quite careful until a few moments later she drew out a doll, barely the size of her hand, made of something thin and hard, yellowed almost to brown, complete with a small mass of black hair attached to the very top.

"If I didn't trust you, you'd be well aware of it by now," he said. And it was true. If he didn't think she could handle what she was doing, Vikteren would have her out of Osiris City by daybreak. But his heart wasn't in the verbal parry--the vampire's attention was snared by the doll cradled in her hands. "Antha," he said warily, cautious of what the reply might be--considering her somewhat gruesome artistic bent--"What is that?"  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

She smiled vaguely, holding the doll up by it's arms a bit above her eye level. "It's great grand-mère," she answered simply, her voice reverent. "Marquerite Mayfair---the only one anyone has ever considered as mad as me." She let the image of a discovery she and Nicolae had made flash into his mind, the image of a concealed room on the landing below the attic, wallpapered with jar after jar covered in dust. This memory, though nearly a decade old, became very vivid suddenly as Nicolae dusted off a jar to discover a preserved severed head, then an arm in another, and finally an entire body in a filthy tank. Nothing but a small, crowded room of old body parts in congealed liquids. She was proud of herself that she had been so collected until they had sealed it up again, but then she didn't blame herself for bursting out screaming and running frantically to Uncle Louis's attic bedroom and whispering to him the horrors of what they had found under the cover of Moonlight Sonata on the little record player he eventually left to her. "It's tradition in our family," she explained softly, "When a 'mainstream' Mayfair dies, you cut off a hand or foot and use the bones and hair to make a doll. It's a link." Another memory then, of she and Nicolae and Malakai unlocking the door of one of the mausoleums in the Mayfair Clock shortly past midnight. Antha held the lantern while Malakai pried open the most recent coffin and Nicolae ducked inside with a hatchet and came out with the hand of a skeleton. She was angry with them at that time, furious that they hadn't followed tradition and done it when she had first died.

 

[Vikteren]

+Rotting Lunacy+

She smiled vaguely, holding the doll up by it's arms a bit above her eye level. "It's great grand-mère," she answered simply, her voice reverent. "Marquerite Mayfair---the only one anyone has ever considered as mad as me." She let the image of a discovery she and Nicolae had made flash into his mind, the image of a concealed room on the landing below the attic, wallpapered with jar after jar covered in dust. This memory, though nearly a decade old, became very vivid suddenly as Nicolae dusted off a jar to discover a preserved severed head, then an arm in another, and finally an entire body in a filthy tank. Nothing but a small, crowded room of old body parts in congealed liquids. She was proud of herself that she had been so collected until they had sealed it up again, but then she didn't blame herself for bursting out screaming and running frantically to Uncle Louis's attic bedroom and whispering to him the horrors of what they had found under the cover of Moonlight Sonata on the little record player he eventually left to her. "It's tradition in our family," she explained softly, "When a 'mainstream' Mayfair dies, you cut off a hand or foot and use the bones and hair to make a doll. It's a link." Another memory then, of she and Nicolae and Malakai unlocking the door of one of the mausoleums in the Mayfair Clock shortly past midnight. Antha held the lantern while Malakai pried open the most recent coffin and Nicolae ducked inside with a hatchet and came out with the hand of a skeleton. She was angry with them at that time, furious that they hadn't followed tradition and done it when she had first died.

"A form of relic, then," Vikteren said, thoughtfully. The way she handled it reminded him of the reverence a priest might show a saint's fingerbone. The cobbled-together bits of skin and hair didn't disturb him as much as they would once have. "In a way...it is rational." The Mayfairs didn't seem the type to invest their memories in painted likenesses of their dead; something more tangible--of-the-essence, Cyrus had called it once--would be preferred. And what was more of-the-essence than one's remains? Far more unsettling to the vampire was the unvarnished frankness of Antha's presented memories. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he asked, "Did you know your great-grandmother well?"  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

It took a moment of thought to respond. "She died before I was born, just like my mother. But every so often, when the mood takes her, I can call her from the other realm and she'll speak with me. Not that she's all that intelligible---too far gone into madness." Very carefully she slid the doll into her pocket and closed the trunk, rising to her feet as she did so. "Come here," she instructed lightly, a smile coming to her lips as she took Vikteren's hand and dragged him up. It was down the stairs to the second floor hall that she took him, turning to the wall where a straight row of large pictures showed a number of faces from her family's past. Every Designee of the Legacy stared forward into the eyes of the portrait opposite, all together in a consecutive row. Even Antha's countenance was copied with brilliant dark paint, the expression on her face darkly serious and her eyes showing as much wickedness as paint would allow. Here Antha paused for several moments, staring with distaste. The girl never had seen why nearly everyone considered her so beautiful. Even in the painting with her dramatic make-up and lacy dress and the Mayfair emerald strung regally around her neck, she wasn't beautiful. There was too much of Julien in her, too much Irish blood, and certainly many too oddities, like her extravagant eyes or dreadfully pale skin.

 

[Vikteren]

+Rotting Lunacy+

It took a moment of thought to respond. "She died before I was born, just like my mother. But every so often, when the mood takes her, I can call her from the other realm and she'll speak with me. Not that she's all that intelligible---too far gone into madness." Very carefully she slid the doll into her pocket and closed the trunk, rising to her feet as she did so. "Come here," she instructed lightly, a smile coming to her lips as she took Vikteren's hand and dragged him up. It was down the stairs to the second floor hall that she took him, turning to the wall where a straight row of large pictures showed a number of faces from her family's past. Every Designee of the Legacy stared forward into the eyes of the portrait opposite, all together in a consecutive row. Even Antha's countenance was copied with brilliant dark paint, pouting faintly because she didn't wish to have it done. Here Antha paused for several moments, staring with distaste. The girl never had seen why nearly everyone considered her so beautiful. Even in the painting with her dramatic make-up and lacy dress and the Mayfair emerald strung regally around her neck, she wasn't beautiful. There was too much of Julien in her, too much Irish blood, and certainly many too oddities, like her extravagant eyes or dreadfully pale skin.

The vampire lifted his eyes to her portrait; not searching it out at first, rather--holding himself from it, making himself first examine the likenesses of her forebears. He pushed black hair out of his eyes and met the painted gaze of Antha's portrait. He did not speak for a long time, looking back and forth from Antha to the canvas. When he did speak, it was almost nonsensical. "Cyrus was disappointed," he murmured.
And in splintered, mirror-bright memories, it made perfect sense.
Vikteren d'Argnet had been painted when he was seventeen; partially because it was a sort of celebration for having survived childhood, and partially because his younger sister demanded it of him. And he had never been very good at refusing her. He wasn't certain what had become of that portrait--after he was turned, he had no desire to seek out the remnants of his human life.
But the vampire had been painted one other time in his existance, at the bequest of his sire.
He remembered Cyrus leading him along a corridor, dimly lit. He remembered the sheen of light on oil paint. He remembered his own face, stark white, luminous, staring back at him, eyes brilliant green, lips crimson as blood, the frigid haughtiness that he knew his gaze did not possess. Had not, as a human, possessed.
He remembered Cyrus's laugh, a cruel whisper in his ear.
He remembered anger, that his sister's gift could be so warped, a gesture of love so twisted into one of mockery.
He remembered, disjointedly, flickers of sanity within the storm that had torn away all reason, his nails ripping into the canvas, two of them torn away, blood on the paint, a gash of color across the darkness. Cyrus's snarl. Pain.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

She was very careful about prying into his mind, not wishing to destroy any permanent barrier that could drive him over the edge. Immediate panic hit her, just a little too easy for such a rare emotion to Antha, and without any idea of what to do she grabbed desperately at his arm. "Vikteren," she whispered quietly, glancing up at him as she pulled on his arm and led him back down the hallway, past the gazes of Julien and her mother, Marguerite and Vincent, Charlotte and Petyr, and a dozen inconsequential Mayfairs. But, by habit, she stopped dead in her tracks before the one next to the library door, the one labeled as Louis Mayfair, and pressed a kiss to her fingers that only hovered near the paint, never touching it, and just as quickly she continued on into the library with Vikteren. The only thing she could think to do was make him sit down, which she did, and sit down in the armchair adjacent a few feet. There was a copy of 'The Old Man and the Sea' in the seat, which promptly she tossed through the window. "Dorian was here," she growled softly, glancing toward the hallway, and then looking back to Vikteren.
The thing about Antha's panics was that rational, logical Antha lost all reason and all she had left was an intense anxiousness. It wasn't often that it happened to Antha, and it didn't last very long, but those who knew her pitied her when those moments came about because she never had any idea what to do.

 

[.David Talbot.]

"Go to bed Oncle Julien. Please. You look very tired." Julien sat in slight shock, mulling over Antha's words, and nodded when Malakai made the kind suggestion. Malakai ambled up the stairs behind him and saw that he went to his room then went on down to the library. He was afraid the minute he saw Antha but kept from rushing. He was as calm as he could be when he stood by her chair and put a hand on her shoulder to try to calm her panic. Stepping behind the chair and smoothing down her hair, he allowed his gaze to go to Vikteren him and it questioned the vampire. His concern was dominate and evident and unlike most others it was pure. He knew Antha loved him as well as his twin and he knew it was for different reasons. In the Mayfair family everyone was fair game. Malakai and Malakai alone treated Antha like his precious little sister. To him she was untouchable and Antha loved him for that as much as she loved Nicolae who he thought would have married her by now if they weren't such close kin. "Are you alright, Vikteren?" he asked. Each word was very distinct. "Evie?" His fingers froze in her hair for fear of the reply.

 

[Vikteren]

One might have thought that Vikteren's unearthly vampiric grace came along, automatically, with the fangs and aversion to sunlight; not so. At Antha's insistence, he stumbled back into the red velvet armchair, his head falling into his hands like a puppet that had had it's strings cut. He made a noise in his throat, something like a hiss and something like a death rattle.
After a moment, the noise became identifiable. The vampire was laughing.
And awful as that laugh was, the silence following it was worse.
Pardon my theatrics,
The vampire's voice is burned velvet
soft, smoky
reeking with death.
I did not mean to give fright to Miss Mayfair.
Vikteren tipped his head up, eyes flicking half-open, and immediately thought the better of the idea. The room swung around him, forcing him to shut his eyes against the rising swell of dizziness.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

Without a sound the drapes were unlaced and came fluttering closed over the large windows while Antha went down on her knees beside Vikteren's chair, her extravagant eyes gazing helplessly up at him as she laid a tentative hand on his arm.
Just imagine the tide, Antha. Hadn't Julien told her that? Like a tide that sweeps the shore clean, the spirits can wash over the mind.
She took this little lesson now and tried to pry into his mind, to let the umbra in, without seeing anything---without intruding. As she did so, without thinking it seemed, she took his hand and placed it lightly against her forehead. It had become a habit of hers around vampires, whether it was Singe or Atticus or Nicolae, because she realized quickly it felt good against her almost constant fever and generally they relished the feel of warm skin against the ice of their flesh. By the time she realized she had done it, she felt able to do no more than loosen her grip to give him the option of pulling away and continue watching with an internal eye the slow stream of spirits about him and the weakness of them as they were released again and drifted off to restore.

 

[.David Talbot.]

It isn't Miss Mayfair I'm worried about. Not now. His reply was hesitant. Like his sister, Malakai worried too much and panic came easy.
He worried about the stranger sitting in his library.
He worried about his doomed twin Nicolae.
He worried about Sleet pacing the crypts.
He worried about his worn oncle Julien.
On his list Antha was not in the urgent section. He was used to her panic frenzies so he knew she was alright. Antha was insane so she was generally alright. She had become very good at taking care of herself after all. "Maybe your friend just needs some time alone. To breathe, you know?" When he spoke he watched Antha. When he was finished he looked questioningly to Vikteren. He didn't know at all if this was what he needed. Maybe a few moments with only Antha as company was the trick.
When it came to vampires Malakai was useless. He didn't know a thing about the workings of their minds.

 

[Vikteren]

+Rotting Lunacy+

Without a sound the drapes were unlaced and came fluttering closed over the large windows while Antha went down on her knees beside Vikteren's chair, her extravagant eyes gazing helplessly up at him as she laid a tentative hand on his arm.
Just imagine the tide, Antha. Hadn't Julien told her that? Like a tide that sweeps the shore clean, the spirits can wash over the mind.
She took this little lesson now and tried to pry into his mind, to let the umbra in, without seeing anything---without intruding. As she did so, without thinking it seemed, she took his hand and placed it lightly against her forehead. It had become a habit of hers around vampires, whether it was Singe or Atticus or Nicolae, because she realized quickly it felt good against her almost constant fever and generally they relished the feel of warm skin against the ice of their flesh. By the time she realized she had done it, she felt able to do no more than loosen her grip to give him the option of pulling away and continue watching with an internal eye the slow stream of spirits about him and the weakness of them as they were released again and drifted off to restore.

The vampire watched her settle beside him from beneath his eyelashes, his green eyes imbued with all the sensuous venom of a coiled serpent.
Vikteren did not lash out at the umbra, at least, when they took entrance. Even in the half-cognizant state, he remembered that Antha would not intentionally attempt harm unto him.
Rather, he let them take their leave, seeping through his mind, encountering what they may; the distant sensations of centuries past. The copper-salt tang of blood on his tongue. Hands as cold as ice, linked with his. The clink of iron links. The wards against his skin, burning, silver cuffs around his wrists, cutting through his flesh in throbbing waves of agony. The sound a human makes, the low, despairing moan, when they resign themselves to their death.  

[.David Talbot.]

"Evie," he prompted again. Knowing she wouldn't go of her own accord he touched her arm gently to warn her before he grabbed her arm and tried carefully to pull her up.
Malakai sympathized with Vikteren. Antha lived her nightmares so they weren't so strong but he knew what it was like to have a trigger pulled on him that sent all his nightmares out of their secret place in his mind. "Let's give Vikteren some space, okay?" Antha, you won't help anyone sitting here freaking out. Let's give him some space and go calm you down.

 

[XCandy and LunacyX]

It only took Antha a second to realize Malakai's intention and to thwart his plans, throwing off his hand and grasping the arm of the chair. "If he wants me to leave, I will." She turned to look at Vikteren then, the anxiety plain on her face. "But I want to stay." Very gently she touched his arm, knowing the effect the simplest touch of a witch could do to many and so not wishing to cut the connection.
A thought struck her then, so powerful her eyes glowed with the intensity of it. "Vikteren, what happened to Cyrus? What happened to you?" It had been her intention not to meddle, but curiosity got the better of her suddenly. "You never told me...why are you here and not with him?"

 

[Vikteren]

+Rotting Lunacy+

It only took Antha a second to realize Malakai's intention and to thwart his plans, throwing off his hand and grasping the arm of the chair. "If he wants me to leave, I will." She turned to look at Vikteren then, the anxiety plain on her face. "But I want to stay." Very gently she touched his arm, knowing the effect the simplest touch of a witch could do to many and so not wishing to cut the connection.
A thought struck her then, so powerful her eyes glowed with the intensity of it. "Vikteren, what happened to Cyrus? What happened to you?" It had been her intention not to meddle, but curiosity got the better of her suddenly. "You never told me...why are you here and not with him?"

He lifted his eyes to Malakai. There was a brief, dead silence. Then, as though hearing the words from a great distance, he said softly, "Your face does not betray your years; nor your mind your thoughts. Who was your sire, and why were you chosen to die?"
The vampire let his head fall back, the words spilling forth. I did not know my sire before I was turned, but I was assured that Cyrus had never been a kind man. His damned kiss did little to change that; excepting that power made him capricious, and I was the one most often subject to his whims. My bloodlines, and the fate of my family, pleased him greatly; the fact of his power over me even more. For all that, he could be...kind, at times; he taught me to ward off my waking dreams, my madness.
We became lovers, eventually, though I know not whether his intention was to seduce or degrade me. Still I despised him; for the death of my sister, for my confinement, for the rituals I barely understood and underwent at his beck and call. I tried to kill him several times; sometimes it would enrage him--often he would merely laugh...
"He went too far," Vikteren said after a moment, when silence seemed to fester in the corners of the room, and the shadows blurred and clutched at his vision.
The portrait was the first of many. Then a girl, chosen for her resemblance to my dead sister, was left in my quarters as my 'evening meal'. Reminders of my human existence became commonplace, his torment, for it could not fail to affect me. Grief, rage--these were his favored entertainments.
And so he brought me to the manor where I had been raised, where the last of my bloodline had been massacred. He took to surface the memories I had buried.
He bowed his head, black hair falling in harsh nails over his white skin, the curve of his smile only barely visible.
"I almost killed him," he said mildly. "I did not, but it was a near thing. He was badly wounded, enough so that it took him--well, a long time to heal. Too long. Cyrus could not find me again; or if he has, he has not sought me out."  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

For a long time Antha had known why Malakai hid her from the grief and pain of others, known that in his father's lament her brother had suffered his own demons. People related everything back to themselves and their lives; it was just that simple. So she did not blame herself as she sat staring up at Vikteren, the disgust in her eyes clearly not meant for him, when her mind went skidding to some dark place where her memories began---a place where her father was storming into her wooden prison and throwing her against the wall, reminding her with every vile word he knew that she was a monster amongst vermin. The rage of it---both her own memories and the cruel picture Vikteren had painted of his start in his immortal life---gripped her vividly so that she clutched at the sleeve of his shirt, her fingernails bearing into her palm, and cast her eyes away from any presence in the room as if she could look away and glare at one of the few cruel beings dominating her mind at the moment. "You should have killed him," was all she murmured, words dropping like venom in a low hiss. That was Antha's solution to every such person, after all. She had found it the only way to deal with her twisted father, the rightful punishment for a cruel aunt who rather forcefully wished to take her place, and countless crude beings she had encountered in the streets of her city. Were her family not linked so unfortunately to Sleet, it would have been his fate when so long ago she had escaped from his crypts and burned alive all but a handful of his coven.