Think December, as the first real winter weather locks down on Berkeley...
There was a polite tap on the door. Rebecca was reading a novel, quietly, half-reclined on her bed; she looked up at the sound, and pitched her voice to carry. "Yes?"
The door opened and Steven stepped in, something strange about his demeanor. She tried to identify it as he strode to the side of the bed and said, without preamble, "How much do you weigh?"
Rebecca blinked. "About one-fifty, I think. Why?"
His gaze was intense, and she heard tension in his voice. "How much, exactly?"
"I don't know..." She thought a moment, taken aback. "I suppose I could measure, but..."
He said briskly, "Do it." Not quite a command, it was still a tone of firm request, expecting no argument; not strange for him in general, but not something she heard much when dealing with him casually. She paused a moment more, and several things clicked at once -- his tone, his abruptness, the tension in his posture. Something major was going on, and he was wrapped up in it, preoccupied and edgy. She didn't say a word more, but closed her book and got off the bed, heading toward the bath.
Steven followed her to the doorway, as she stepped out of her slippers and onto the scale. The numbers came to a stop and she read off, "One fifty-two."
He didn't pause. "Unclothed."
She looked at him, seeing only his usual impassive expression. Shrugging a little to herself, she took off her outer clothing and got back on the scale in her underwear; the air was a little chilly, even in the heated chantry. "One forty-eight."
"Good. Come with me." He turned and strode to her door, then turned and waited somewhat impatiently as she put her clothes and slippers back on. Fastening her belt buckle, she joined him, and he led her out into the hall.
The smell of pine and lemon wafted to her as they walked down the hallway and descended the stairs; the ghouls had been cleaning today, using Murphy's Oil Soap on the hardwood floors and banisters. The scent mingled with that of old books and dignity, as their steps wound down into the lower floors and on to the basement.
Rebecca was not terribly surprised when they descended the last set of stairs -- the labs for individual Tremere were down here, and she had half-suspected he needed her for an experiment he was doing. He passed the door to his own lab, though, and her eyebrows rose, as she tried to think of what else was down here, and what on earth he would need to know her weight for.
Steven led her down an unfamiliar corridor, and paused to unlock a nondescript door. It opened on a largish room with no furniture and bare concrete on walls, floor and ceiling. In the center was a collection of bowls, candles, and assorted small items, next to a diagram on the floor. Some of the candles were lit, illuminating the middle of the room with multi-shadowed light, and casting deep shadows in the corners.
The setup was more elaborate than Rebecca had seen yet from a Tremere, and she looked around, reminded of what she had heard of Pagan and Satanist rituals. The candles were colored black, white, and various shades of blue, and ranged from tapers to columns thick as her wrist; some were simply resting on the floor, rather than in holders. The bowls held several things -- she saw white feathers, water, small black pebbles, and what she thought was blood, as well as some other things she couldn't identify. Small pouches rested beside the bowls.
The diagram, as she approached, appeared to be geometric shapes drawn in chalk and different powders. Central was a circle, six feet across, nested in curlicues and lines. It took her a moment to realize that the lines were straight as a ruler, the curves and circles as smooth as if they were drawn on a drafting table. She stopped some feet away from the lines, afraid of disturbing what was obviously the work of many hours.
Steven swept past her, checking on everything. After a few moments, satisfied, he turned to her where she stood near the diagram. "Strip. Place your clothes over there," he said, waving toward the corner. Turning toward the collection of items, he added over his shoulder, "Completely, this time."
Rebecca flushed a little and, still mystified, began to undress. As she put her clothing carefully in the indicated corner, Steven took up a couple of pouches and sprinkled pinches of powders in various places, then picked up a book nearby and began to study it intently. His movements were quick, precise, and betrayed nervous anticipation. Rebecca slowed, finishing her task with a small sense of dread, more and more unsure of what he needed her for.
As an afterthought, she removed her wristwatch and put it on the pile, then walked slowly back to where she had been. Steven still had his nose in the book, pacing as he studied it; he drew near and looked up at her, then took a quick step toward her and removed her glasses with a swift movement. He nodded once, sharply, and told her, "Good. Now enter the circle -- don't step on anything -- and lie down in the middle of it." He glanced back at the volume he held and turned away, absently folding her glasses with one hand as he paced.
She looked at the diagram, liking this less and less. Intricate as it was, it was still quite possible to walk between the lines to the center, but she was loath to do it, her trepidation growing as she studied the whole setup. She shivered slightly, feeling the chill of the floor stealing her warmth through the soles of her bare feet; the chantry might be heated above, but the basements seldom were.
A couple of seconds passed, and Steven looked up, frowning when he found she hadn't moved yet. "Is something wrong? Step into the circle."
Caught between her fear and his displeasure, her stubbornness reared its head. She set her chin and looked at him squarely, drawing a breath against the tightness in her chest. "Why?"
Steven's frown deepened, and her gut clenched as he stood there for a moment, unmoving. His eyes flicked over her, then he sighed and dropped his gaze. Slowly and patiently, he explained, "It's all right, nothing's going to hurt you, I promise. Get in the circle and lie down."
Mollified, she looked at him a second longer, then turned to the drawing and picked her way through the lines to the center. She lay down gingerly, feeling exposed, bracing herself against the chill of the concrete on her bare skin. Steven's footsteps fell quietly as he went to the collection of bowls and pouches.
Rebecca tried not to shiver, wondering what this was all about. She couldn't help but think of summoning circles and demons, and wished she didn't feel quite so much like bait. Steven's assurances were slim help; she knew that overconfidence tended to be a Tremere failing, and her faith in any ability he had to protect her was probably much less than his confidence. She hoped it wouldn't come to that.
Steven stepped carefully through the diagram to stand beside her, holding two stacked bowls in one hand, the book under his arm, and a third bowl in the other hand. He knelt, setting them all down, and opened the book again to study it. After a moment, he reached into one of the bowls and brought out a handful of small white feathers. Consulting the book, he placed them around her, next to her arms and beyond her fingers.
Reaching back, he grabbed a rattling handful from the second bowl and moved to place something around her feet; stones, she thought. He paused for a long moment, and she felt goosebumps tracking their way across her body, trying to fight the cold. He moved back to her side and brought the last bowl forward, looking her over. She shivered.
Steven frowned. "Are you cold? We'll get this done with and then you can get dressed again." He glanced at the book again. "It's important that you relax completely and not move once the ritual begins."
Relax, she thought. Right. She took a deep breath, as he dipped his fingers in the bowl and brought them up to draw designs on her forehead in blood. It was tepid and slightly sticky, his touch impersonal. He moved to her cheeks, then her neck, and she tried to ignore the cold and focus on soothing things. Closing her eyes helped a little, though she flinched slightly as he drew long lines down her upper arms, her nerves drawn tight with anxiety.
Steven's voice was cool. "Relax." He traced curves on her ribs, around her breasts, across her belly. She shivered. Gathering her courage, she muttered, "It would help me relax if I didn't feel so much like a sacrificial lamb."
There was a small pause. She opened her eyes and found him poised, looking at her with a puzzled expression. "Sacrificial lamb?"
She took refuge in sarcasm. "You drag me down here, strip me naked, and put me in the middle of what looks like something straight out of Sword and Sorcery. For all I know, you're decorating me to be the bait-of-the-month for Saranas the Mighty or whatever. I don't find that terribly relaxing."
He blinked at her, then put down the bowl, bowed his head and massaged his forehead with his fingertips. Rebecca watched his jaw tighten and wondered whether she had gone a little too far; sometimes his humor went missing, when he was particularly intent on something. She was cold, though, and frightened, and not terribly well-disposed toward him at the moment.
He looked up. "I am not summoning anything, let alone using you as "bait". This ritual is a common one for fifth-circle apprentices, and is perfectly harmless. Nothing will happen to you, at least so long as you do what I tell you; however, if you are not relaxed and motionless, the spell will not work. Does that reassure you?"
Uncertainty must have shown in her face, for he sighed and put a hand on her chest. "I have promised I will not hurt you. Do you trust that?"
Hearing the edge of pain in his voice at her doubt, she relented. "I trust you."
"Good. Relax now, entrust yourself to me, and you'll be fine." He left his hand on her sternum a moment longer, his eyes on hers; she could feel the weight of his personality like the pressure from his hand. Letting go of the rest of her fear, she abandoned herself to him, going limp under his touch. He released her and went back to tracing lines in blood on her skin, as she tried to relax fully, muscle by muscle.
He was drawing a curve on her foot when a thought occurred to her. "You said not to move. Can I breathe?"
After a moment's thought, he responded, "I believe so. Very small, gentle movements are allowed. Any muscle tension would break it, however."
She nodded, and he finished, taking up the bowls and book and standing. "Are you relaxed?"
"Yes." She felt as though she were part of the floor, nearly numb with cold and boneless as a cat.
Steven nodded and stepped out of the circle, and Rebecca closed her eyes and tried not to tense up. She heard his brisk step, and a minute or so later there was chanting in an unfamiliar language. She reminded herself again that he had said he wasn't summoning anything, and concentrated on staying limp.
He chanted for a few minutes, and her mind wandered, daydreaming that she had fallen through the floor and into some realm deep beneath the earth, where gnomes chanted and sang as they worked. She was a little warmer there, closer to the center of the world, and she just let the sound wash over her...
Rebecca came to herself abruptly as the chanting stopped, and realized that, while she was hardly warm, the heat was no longer being drawn out of her. It felt as though she were lying on a firm mattress somewhere, though she was still naked and she detected no covers.
She opened her eyes, seeing the ceiling of the basement workroom. Wondering how she had ended up on a bed -- what bed? -- without any memory of being moved, she started to look around, then caught herself. Steven had told her not to move during the ritual, and she couldn't tell whether it was over yet.
Cautiously, she peeked out of the corners of her eyes, without moving her head. Things seemed different somehow, and it took her a moment to realize how. That candle had been at a different angle, and she couldn't see the cluster of bowls at all. It hit her suddenly why the angles were wrong; she was nearly four feet off the ground.
She tensed involuntarily and felt herself wobble. Sweating, she relaxed by an effort of will, and the support firmed again. She tried to ignore the fact that she was suspended in midair with no tangible support, and concentrated on keeping herself limp, pliable, relaxed. Glancing to the side, she could see the candle flames rising as she descended, very slowly. She kept her mind on relaxation.
Awareness of her physical state brought other concerns, however. Her chilled body, silent in her previous state of near-trance, awakened again and demanded heat. Goosebumps flared across her arms and legs, and she shivered abruptly with cold.
There was a sudden change and a moment of complete disorientation, then a violent slap as the ground hit her. She saw a few stars, and heard Steven's hiss of displeasure; stunned, she lay there, and a moment later there was a hand under her head, and Steven's voice, tight with concern, asking, "Are you all right?"
A headache was starting, and her hipbones and shoulders hurt where they had hit the concrete, but she managed a small nod. He gave a small sigh, then put an arm under her shoulders and brought her to a sitting position, supporting her. "Damn! I thought I told you not to move." His tone was one of irritation, and she couldn't muster the strength to answer; all her determination had been shocked out of her in the fall. She just leaned against him and shivered uncontrollably.
He pulled back and looked her over, bringing her head up to look at her face, as she shuddered violently. His brows drew together slightly in concern, and he got to his feet, bringing her with him. She couldn't feel her legs, but she used them anyway, trusting them to hold her weight as she stood. Steven guided her to the corner where her clothes were, an arm around her waist; her muscles moved stiffly, and she fumbled as she picked out her clothing. He held her upright as she dressed, helping her when her numb fingers couldn't fasten buttons and clasps.
His body lent no warmth beside her as they climbed the stairs, and her clothing seemed to hold the chill to her against the warmer air. She shivered again, her teeth chattering, and almost lost her balance. Steven paused until she had her footing, then continued along the first floor corridor, past the kitchen and the entry hall.
Turning the corner to the staircase, they nearly ran into Vladimir, striding along with his usual exuberance. He took in their tableau with a glance, and was immediately at Rebecca's other shoulder, supporting her. "What's going on?" He took her hand, then immediately touched her face and neck, still smeared with blood. "Christ, she's like ice! What have you been up to?"
Without waiting for an answer, he turned them around and pulled them back down the hall, into the kitchen. Standing Rebecca right in front of the stove, he cracked the oven door and turned it on, then filled a kettle and put it on a burner. Busying himself with pulling items out of cupboards, he called over his shoulder, "Steven, go get a blanket from the linen closet next to the stairs, would you? Wait, make it two."
Steven, nonplussed, blinked and went back out into the hall, as Vladimir finished preparing a mug for tea. The ghoul turned to Rebecca, taking her hands and chafing them, checking her neck, sliding a hand up her shirt to check her sides and back. He sighed, exasperated, and dragged a chair over next to the stove, pulling her numb hands right in front of the open oven door to catch the warmth. "Kindred, I swear... They have no concept of temperature after they're dead, you know, December is just like June to them. They forget that we're human, and we need some sort of heat when it's this cold out... What were you doing, anyway?" He examined the blood streaks with curiosity.
Rebecca, marveling at the feeling returning to her hands, tried to remember how to speak. It was like her brain was as numb as the rest of her, slow and unresponsive; the throb of the headache didn't help much, either. Just about the time she was figuring out how to open her mouth, Steven returned with a couple of blankets and an anxious expression. Vladimir took one more look at her, then strode over to the doorway and took the stack. "Thank you. This way, I can throw one of these in the dryer to warm up while I bundle her up in the other. Here, stand up, please, Rebecca..." Helping her up, he wrapped her up deftly and sat her down again, pulling her hands over next to the oven, which was getting quite warm now.
Vladimir grabbed the other blanket and headed off in the direction of the laundry. "Be right back -- turn the kettle off if it boils, please!"
The whirlwind that was Ezra's ghoul gone for the moment, Steven's footsteps sounded loud as he walked over to stand beside Rebecca. She was still shivering convulsively, and felt cold through and through, like nothing could warm her. She wondered whether she was as cold as a Kindred -- it certainly felt like it. Steven was silent, studying her, perhaps; she kept her gaze on her hands, almost hypnotized by the tingle of returning sensation.
The kettle started to gasp asthmatically just as Vladimir returned, and he turned it off and poured the mug full with quick, deft movements. He pulled an ice cube out of the freezer and added it to the brew, then stirred it impatiently. "Here... This should warm you up like nothing else, and the blanket will be out of the dryer in a minute." He closed the oven door and handed the mug to Rebecca, who took it slowly and stared at it for a long moment before remembering to drink.
The first sip was hot, just short of scalding, and almost shocking against the cold. It burned its way down her throat and into her stomach, feeling like it was thawing her out as it went. She shivered hard, and Vladimir held her hand to keep the tea from spilling. He was watching her intently, and seemed satisfied when she took another mouthful. "Good. Here, I'll go get that second blanket, and you'll be warmed up in no time." He straightened, eyes still on her, and jogged into the laundry, emerging a moment later with an armful of warm cotton.
At his urging, Rebecca stood again, and he took the first blanket from around her, replacing it with the warmed one, then rewrapping the second around that. Steven helped as he could this time, and knelt to make sure her feet were tucked up. Sensation was returning to chilled limbs, and she felt like her brain was thawing out as well, freeing her to think.
Vladimir checked her over, touching her neck again, feeling the back of her hand. "Better, much better -- we'll make a ghoul out of this popsicle yet. Feeling warm? Probably not, but if you're feeling cold, then that's probably an improvement. Just sit here and drink that, and cheep when you get hot, ok?" He smiled at her, and she managed a faint smile in return.
Straightening, Vladimir caught Steven's arm with a murmur and pulled him to the back of the kitchen, next to the door to the laundry. Rebecca watched them idly, and a thought occurred to her; curious, she turned her hearing up a notch, trying to catch what the ghoul was saying.
"...recovering, but I didn't like her color much, or her skin temperature either. Was she out streaking or something? She must have been outside for hours to get like that."
Steven was mildly puzzled. "She was just cold... Warm her up and she'll be fine. I don't see why it's such an issue."
Vladimir responded patiently, "She wasn't just cold, Steven, she was freezing. She was unresponsive, stiff, and a little shocky, and that's past the point of just putting another sweater on."
Steven drew himself up. "She'll be fine."
The ghoul snorted. "Yes, now. I wouldn't have spoken for it earlier, though."
Scornfully, Steven retorted, "You make it sound like she was dying."
Vladimir gave him a long, level look, and when he replied, his voice was very quiet. "She was much closer to hypothermia than I like to see; I'd have to ask her, but I suspect that she was close to not feeling the cold, and I'd bet that she had stopped shivering before she hit the warm air. That is serious, Steven, and not to be taken lightly -- I get a lot of people that bad and worse when I'm on shift, especially around this time of year, when people don't realize how cold it is until they're already chilled to the bone. They go to the hospital sometimes when they're not much worse; once they stop feeling cold, it's a short hop to feeling warm and sleepy, and that can be fatal."
He let that sink in, then as Steven drew breath, he interrupted, saying, "Look, I'm not saying it was your fault -- she should have been more careful, too -- but she's your ghoul, and you're responsible for her. You should try to make sure that she takes care of herself, at the very least. I know you were doing what you could for her, and getting her out of the cold was a big step. But I'm just asking you to try and make sure it doesn't happen again, or she won't be around very long."
Rebecca could read Steven's posture across the room: his spine was ramrod-straight, shoulders back and chin up. She could imagine his expression as well, knowing him. Vladimir had hurt Steven's pride, and offended him as well, by taking his social superior to task. She could imagine his mouth working, and waited for the explosion.
Seconds passed, and it never came. He simply glared daggers at Vladimir, who bore it with equanimity, and kept silent. Apparently, though it might infuriate him, he knew that Vladimir was right; now all he could do was clutch the tatters of his dignity to him, and never admit that he was wrong. He obviously hoped to take the ghoul down a notch to achieve some sort of victory, and seemed to be willing to take the crumbs when Vladimir finally turned away.
Steven remained at the far end of the kitchen as the ghoul came over to Rebecca and checked her skin temperature again. As he bent to check her ankles, he murmured, "The man won't listen to me; he's too full of himself and that damn Tremere superiority to get past the dominance games." He straightened, looking down at her with one of the gravest expressions he had ever seen him wear. "If he won't take my advice, at least make sure you do -- keep yourself warm and fed, because it's easy to forget around their kind. And for heaven's sake, if he tells you to do something like this again, stand up to him. You'll do him no good if you're in the hospital with pneumonia."
Vladimir turned off the oven, then took her mug over to the sink, and continued in a louder voice, "Looks like you're back up to speed now, but take it easy for a day or so, and don't hesitate to bundle up if you feel at all cold." He turned, addressing the both of them. "Well, I'm done mother-henning for the night, so I'll release you from my clutches... Sorry about grabbing you like that, but old habits are hard to break. I'll see both of you later, no doubt." Smiling, he tossed a bow in Steven's direction, and patted Rebecca on the shoulder, then left with a bounce in his step.
There was a small silence. Rebecca found it hard to look at Steven, feeling awkward that she had overheard his argument with Vladimir and his subsequent loss of face. After a few moments he walked over and stood beside her, and she felt cool fingers under her chin. Obediently, she looked up. His expression was closed and brooding, unreadable.
He studied her for a few seconds, then murmured, "You're all right?"
She nodded, searching his face, trying to read his thoughts. A few more moments passed, then he offered her a hand. He held it there patiently as she divested herself of the blankets, and helped her to stand, waiting again as she gathered them up. With a hand on her shoulder, he guided her out the door and down the hall, following her up the stairs and to her room.
She heaped the blankets at the foot of the bed, making a mental note to fold them later and put them away. Pulling her robe off its hook, she hesitated; Steven was standing near her bed, watching, his thoughts still hidden. She felt suddenly self-conscious, and laughed at herself, but couldn't dispel the unease.
Steven didn't move as she walked past him into the bathroom, closing the door. The marks drawn in blood stood out darkly against her skin, a little smudged now and dried to a dull brown. Undressed, she studied them a moment before climbing into the shower, savoring the warm water.
She forgot herself for a while under the spray, then finally got out to dry off. Robe wrapped around her, she came out into the bedroom and was mildly startled to find Steven still there, idly poring over a book from the collection next to the door. He swung around as she entered, then closed the book and put it neatly back in place.
Uncertain, she paused, and they looked at each other for a moment. Steven simply regarded her, expressionless, revealing nothing; something about the way he held himself suggested strength or power, but she couldn't place it, or even be sure whether it was really there. He said nothing.
She shook herself out of her paralysis and walked to the bureau to bring out her flannels. She placed them on the bed, then hesitated again, her back to the room, Steven behind and to her right; she felt rather vulnerable, exposed, and was reluctant to take off even the scant protection of the robe. Moving slowly, she undid the ties in front, then started slightly at a touch on her shoulder.
Gentle hands lifted the robe up and away, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Steven fold it once and put it on the foot of the bed, with the blankets. She picked up the flannels and drew them on; loose pants and a long, warm shirt in dark greens and blues, serving as her nightclothes in the winter. Finished, she turned, finding Steven an arm's length away, still watching.
He took a step toward her, bringing his hand up and placing it on the back of her neck, his long fingers on the line between the neck and skull. His touch was warm, soft as he buried his hand in her damp hair. Rebecca looked into his eyes, trying to judge his mood; as she studied them, dark grey and shadowed, she felt again the force of his personality, like the tangible pressure of water or wind. She offered no resistance, yielding before it, feeling him take control of her as he might of a horse or machine. It was terrifying, but exhilarating as well, and her breath deepened as she watched him, expecting everything and nothing.
He took one more step, his body inches from hers, and looked down at her for a moment, as she felt his other arm settle around her waist. With a deep, slow sigh, he bent and held her tightly, his head nestled in her shoulder; a heartbeat later, her arms stole around him to return the embrace. His body relaxed, his cheek warm against her neck.
A minute passed, as Rebecca basked in the affection. Steven was very businesslike much of the time, and always wary of revealing their relationship to others. He would occasionally give her a caress in passing, when they were alone, or give her a small kiss goodnight whenever he happened to put her to bed, but by and large he gave her little sign that his feelings were anything above mildly platonic.
She understood, of course, that between the risks involved, and the fact that he was Kindred and no longer familiar with human relationships, it was difficult for him to tell or show her how he felt. She also knew that he loved her deeply, with a passion as fierce as any emotion felt by his kind. Neither thought brought her as much contentment as she felt now.
A long, long moment later, he drew back very slightly, and she loosened her hold. He held her a little more, and abruptly a small stab of pain -- brief and familiar -- made her start, melting immediately into a wash of absolute bliss. It was gone almost as soon as she felt it, leaving the ecstasy to fade slowly as he straightened.
She looked up at him. The dark, brooding expression was gone, his eyes once again their usual twilight blue-grey. Whatever had been bothering him was past, apparently, and he had relaxed, regarding her with a mild concern, such as he expressed when he felt she might be too tired, or weakened by blood loss.
His hands slipped away, and he turned, drawing back the covers for her to get in. Obediently, she lay down, and he tucked her in like a small child. She watched him, her love for him joining with the last of the pleasure to warm her. He turned to her again, took her glasses off and put them on the table, then stroked her hair back from her face with gentle fingers. His voice a low murmur, he said simply, "Goodnight."
She turned her head swiftly and kissed his palm, and looked up at him with a small smile. "Goodnight."
The ghost of a smile passed over his features, and he straightened, then turned and walked over to the lamp. He turned it off and paused for a moment, then she could hear his footsteps to the door, and the door open and close. Long after silence descended, she thought about his arms around her, and held the memory to her as she drifted into sleep.
For the curious Vampire player: no, the ritual was not one from White Wolf -- I made it from what I know of paganism and Tremere style. It was very limited, taking only about 150 pounds of unmoving weight within a prescribed circle, and requiring much preparation; no Movement of the Mind here. The blood was from five doves, which also supplied the feathers. For more detail, email me.