Another day, another load of socks, thought Rebecca, hauling a basket up the last few steps. I bet Malkavians do their OWN laundry...
She shifted the load to her hip, freeing a hand, and gave Steven's door a brief knock. Without waiting for an answer, she gave the knob a twist, and it opened easily. Steven, sitting in his armchair, looked up to identify her, then went back to the newspaper in his lap. Walking by, Rebecca glanced at the headlines, and one caught her eye: Tosco says it has met most goals for safety. She stifled a chuckle.
The bedroom was dim and still. Light spilling through the archway gave her enough illumination to find the light switch, and the main lamp's amber glow threw everything into detail. Setting the basket on the bed, she slid the closet's door aside, and began hanging shirts.
She had finished bundling the socks away when she paused, then ran a finger across the back of the bureau. Houses with wooden floors rarely collected as much dust as carpeted ones, but the vast collections of very old books probably made up for any difference here. She sighed, starting for the bathroom.
Rebecca's aunt, now long gone, had taught her to clean; some lessons stayed with her, and she remembered Tillie as she wet a washcloth and wrung it out. Terrycloth had much more surface area than a plain rag, and stayed damp easily, making it an ideal duster, or so Tillie had said. Rebecca had rarely had time to put this theory to the test.
Starting back, her eyes fell on the smaller of the built-in bookshelves in the main room, and she groaned inwardly. This might take a few hours.
The bureau was first, then the shelf. Steven was meticulously neat, almost spartan in his habits, and there were very few items to dust around; Rebecca was silently grateful, as she stood on tiptoe to reach the back of the shelf. There was a long, flat, cardboard box off to one side, looking old and completely undisturbed, its nondescript brown giving no hints as to what it contained. It was tall enough that she couldn't reach the back of it from tiptoe, and she reached to pull it down -- then stopped, her fingers just touching its sides. This was an unmarked box stored away in a Tremere closet... She got sudden recollections of certain fairy tales, involving wizards' castles and Things You Mustn't Touch. Carefully, she released it and took a step back.
It might be harmless, of course. Tremere had ordinary things, like CDs, and hats, and hairbrushes -- and socks. The thought didn't help much, and her mind replied sardonically that they owned mops, too, which might be how they would need to pick her up afterward. She spent a minute of indecision staring at it, trying to judge whether the worn, musty cardboard concealed a death trap or a bowling trophy. It stood mute, revealing nothing.
She thought briefly of leaving it alone and going on to the rest of the room, but the thought that it might just be old shoes haunted her. If it was harmless, then she was being silly, but she would feel sillier if she avoided it anyway, just on the off chance... She sighed, and turned toward the archway.
Steven was still idly perusing the paper, oddly domestic in his shirtsleeves and slacks. All he lacked was a tie to be The Generic Businessman -- and twenty years of apparent age, she revised, realizing again how young he looked. Younger than she was, maybe; his face was relaxed, the stern lines of discipline and strong will smoothed somewhat to reveal a younger, more human character. He seemed to be in a good mood, at least.
Bracing herself, she came around to face him and said hesitantly, "Steven?"
"Yes?" He looked up at her with mild inquiry.
"May I ask something that... might be personal?" Rebecca hated prying at the best of times, and tried especially hard to avoid it around Kindred. It tended to be difficult when burdened with a strong curiosity, but she managed most of the time. Except now.
His eyebrow raised. "You can ask."
"I was dusting your closet, and came across a box in it, and I--"
"And you want to know what's in it," he finished, not unkindly. He was still relaxed, and regarded her with a slight amusement as she flushed and backpedaled. She murmured hastily, "Actually, I just wanted to know if I could move it."
Steven was silent, his amusement gone as he gave her a long measuring look. After a half-minute he folded the paper and stood, his movements brisk and decisive. Rebecca backed up, afraid that she had offended him in spite of her precautions; his expression was unreadable, his usual enigmatic mask. He said simply, "Come with me," and strode into the bedroom.
Following, she stood uncertainly with the rag in her hand, as he went to the closet and lifted out the long box, handling it with no special care she could see. He placed it on the bed and sat beside it, indicating with a small motion that she was to join him. She perched on the edge of the coverlet, the box between them, still trying to read his mood.
"You've always wanted to know about my past," he began, looking at her. She dropped her eyes, and when he didn't continue, she murmured, "I don't ask personal questions." Reluctantly, her eyes raised to his again, and she thought she could see the impartial mask lift a little.
His voice altered as well, becoming tighter, rougher. "It's come to the point when you should know some of these things." As she worked to grasp this, he hesitated, visibly fighting his impulse to secrecy, a habit of keeping everything to himself; when he spoke again, his tone and manner were calm. "To start with, my name has not always been Steven Millan."
Stunned, Rebecca simply stared at him, not knowing how to respond to his sudden desire to reveal himself to her. It was entirely unexpected, especially after months of telling herself that there were things she mustn't ask and would never know about her Kindred acquaintances, even he who was closest to her. She had resigned herself to guessing about him, until suddenly he seemed eager to show himself. The thoughts ran through her frozen mind as he extended his hand and said, incredibly, "Hi. My name is Paul Morris."
She blinked. Patiently, he held his hand out, and after a moment she grasped it. He shook it gravely, and withdrew. Collecting herself, Rebecca said hesitantly, "I assume you changed it because you were listed as dead."
"Actually, I never was -- Paul Morris is still considered alive." His attitude was open, as if he were discussing some nuance of Latin grammar rather than himself. She relaxed a little.
"How do you manage to keep it up? I mean, it might get a bit difficult when you get invited to family functions and such." Daring greatly, she ventured, "How would you ever handle Thanksgiving?"
He smiled, as she had hoped he would, then sobered again. "I'm not very close to the rest of my family. The last time I saw any of them was years ago; I've written a letter or two. We never got along very well."
His words conjured up visions of tense dinners, unspoken troubles, disagreements that stuck like thorns and festered in bitterness; familiar scenes. Rebecca dropped her eyes and said quietly, "I know how that goes. My parents were ecstatic when I told them I was moving out here to go to college... They never got over it when I told them I was going to study to be an herbalist. Dad was furious. They told me that I was a disgrace, and that they wouldn't have anything to do with it... I moved out here on my own, and I worked my way through the two years until I got my certification, and started my own business." She looked up, not hiding her sorrow. "Mom still won't talk to me."
He nodded, and went on. "I've spoken with my brother once or twice, but he followed in my parents' footsteps: conservative bureaucrat and politician. I didn't want to be like them -- I was a bit of a rebel." He reached back and brought forward the long ponytail that usually trailed down his back, bound with two ties, top and bottom, to keep it under strict control. "They didn't approve."
She had no response to this, and after a moment he looked at the box, then took the lid off of it. It contained dark cloth; reaching in, Steven pulled out a black T-shirt with a bright logo on it. Rebecca started as she recognized it as the name of a heavy-metal band, one she remembered hearing about and seeing on MTV. Folded beneath were a pair of jeans, frayed and worn, and a few other items: a couple of tapes, some papers, an envelope. Slowly, almost reverently, he put the shirt aside, gazing at it, then spoke in a voice leached of all emotion. "I went to Sac State, as a Liberal Arts major, the ultimate non-subject... I graduated in '89. The Tremere were waiting, and I was Embraced and put on a plane to Vienna within days. I was twenty-five."
Rebecca swallowed, feeling like she had been punched in the gut. So young...
Steven half-smiled in self-mockery, and she realized she had spoken aloud. "Yes. A rank neonate. Hardly suited to become Prince."
She shook her head. "I remember being twenty-five -- I was just getting established, and realizing what the world was like... God, I sound so old, and I'm only thirty. It wasn't so long ago..." She fell silent, realizing that he couldn't be more than five years older than she was, and ten years a vampire, nothing like the half-century or more she had figured him to be. The vision of how recently he had been mortal, in her own era and her own surroundings, gave the knowledge of his Embrace an immediacy she hadn't felt before. The old panic stirred as the thought hit her that it could have been her in his place... She quelled the terror, but the fear still cast a shadow over her thoughts. To be that young, with so much life ahead, and have all that potential vanish in one act by a stranger -- it depressed her, filling her with a sense of injustice. She had always avoided thinking about how the Tremere "recruited" new Clanmembers, feeling uneasy with the fact that they rarely got a say in their own fates. She blessed her own exception.
She looked at him again, the marks of isolation and determination etched in fine lines about his eyes and mouth, the only hint that he was older than he seemed. The Tremere were a hard family, in many ways. The thought came to her of how he must have been back then -- rebellious, probably angry, with no real direction and no outlet for his abilities; the classic metalhead with no future. So far from the rigid discipline of the Tremere apprentice he was now, though he still had some of the same fire and passion. She wished, fleetingly, that she could have known him then.
Very softly, afraid that the memories might be painful, she asked, "Do you miss it?"
"Sometimes..." Steven paused, frowning slightly, as though in puzzlement. "After my Embrace, I threw myself into the ways of the Tremere, abandoning mortal life, and reveled in the power I had been given. I realized how pitiful and powerless I had been before the Tremere took me in, and I was thankful. Then... After I met you, I began to realize what I had had before... What I gave up to become what I am. You made me wish, sometimes, that I was more human." His voice trailed off into a whisper.
Sensing his distress, Rebecca looked away. "I'm sorry. I never meant to cause you pain."
He shook his head. "You've done more for me than anyone."
Torn by conflicting emotions, Rebecca was silent, trying to resolve the fear and grief she felt at his Embrace with the love she felt for the cool, ruthless Kindred he was now. Finally, unable to bear the confusion any longer, she spoke, her words choked and quiet. "I don't know how to react... I don't know whether I should grieve that it was all taken from you like that, or be glad that you are what you are -- I don't know whether to wish it hadn't happened. We would never have met -- but you would still be alive..." She stopped, unable to speak any further, hoping that she hadn't hurt him, hadn't offended him. Was it painful to him? She still couldn't tell.
After a moment, he said simply, "No." He drew breath to speak, and his voice strengthened. "No. I may regret what I have lost, but I will not regret what I have become. I am more than I was, and I would not trade it for my mortal life."
She looked up, and he was composed again, seeming to radiate power and confidence. This was Steven Millan, Tremere and ex-ruler of Contra Costa, the Kindred to whom she had given her loyalty and love. Any wounds he had suffered were invisible now, covered by the unruffled dignity she had often seen displayed by cats. His pride was unshaken.
Feeling his strength like a balm on her ragged emotions, Rebecca took a deep breath and released it, then met his gaze. Driven by a sense that he needed her, somehow, her words carried an intensity, a desire to express to him the depth of her devotion. "If there is ever anything you need... Ask me."
Steven met her eyes, looking into them as though seeking any reservations she might have; she held his, fearlessly, trying to show him that she had none. Without breaking contact, he said finally, very softly, "I know."
He looked away after a moment, and she blinked, feeling an ache deep within, a need to... what? She wanted to do something, anything for him; he needed her, even if she didn't know how. An impulse rose to throw herself at his feet, to beg to serve him, a thought that she quickly squashed. Awkwardly, she sat, twisting the rag in her hands, as he stared broodingly at the box between them.
His voice startled her. "I think... I'd like to be alone."
Rebecca searched his face, then nodded slightly in acquiescence. If that was what he wanted, then she would do what he asked. She hid the regret that she couldn't do anything more for him, and rose, her steps quiet as she left. He was still sitting on the bed when she took a last glance through the doorway, gazing at the remnants of a former life; softly, respectfully, she closed the door, to retreat until he called on her again.