Suppressing her Beast the nomad's way felt awful.

The change was not dissimilar to a Chrysalis, Christine decided, but if any Chrysalis could be attained by what she would normally consider nothing more than a practice exercise plus a good sound slap to the head, it would be worth explaining to the Ordo Dracul how difficult a process they were making everything for themselves.

The Coil of the Beast did not feel awful like this. Rather than an evolved change like the Coil, this new thing from this nomad was like the inverse of Surrendering. Where the Surrender felt good, warm and strong and sexy and powerful and sharp, this felt cold and clumsy and nauseating.

But it held, in a way that the Coil of the Beast did not. With the same effort of will that she would use to hold the Beast off temporarily, the Beast remained absent now. And while she felt slower, less powerful, she found it seemed that her mind was clearer. The Man was sharper, more clever. Was this what it was like for non-Gangrel, or was this an actual potential evolution?

It angered other Gangrel. Gail came up to her and snapped and snarled and Christine snapped back – the anger of someone who felt like crap and didn't want to be yelled at for a decision, not the heat-rage of the Beast. But it angered something inside them, too. One of those who had meditated with the nomad was turned away by his pack. Gangrel who didn't know what had happened found themselves angrier at those who had meditated with her, just by being in their presence. Their own Beasts were angry at her for repressing her own.

Christine was relieved that her Covenant had superior control over their Beasts when they met.

Gail came up to her Saturday night and told her that the nomad had also been the woman who was claiming to be conducting experimental research on the repression of frenzy requiring blood samples and switching and delivering blood samples to the Legio Mortuum. Also that somehow the Beast was removed into a syringe, and that it invited other Beasts to jump into the welcoming bodies left behind, and Christine imagined that the bodies were particularly inviting to the Strix.
 

Gail would remain on the warpath. Christine would remain out of Gail's way. If it came to be that this really was a step backward, well … everything could be changed somehow.

But it would be nice if Gail could hurry it up, because it would be nice to know if it really wasn't worth feeling this bad all the time.

Senex sought out St. George on his arrival.
 

The conversation was brief; Christine caught most of it from her position behind St. George's Axe. Then the two men parted and she returned to sit in the corner table. To the Dragons there, including two more of the Oracles who had rebuked her the night before, he reported in his quiet voice that Senex' attitude was that of a man going to his death.

“If you had anything to ask Senex,” she turned to Jack. “You should probably ask him sooner rather than later.”

The Khaibit went off, weaving through the puddles of Kindred and making his way in the direction that Senex had disappeared.

He was back a minute later, reporting that Senex was standing on a dais, surrounded by members of the Legio Mortuum. She looked, but sitting where she was she could not see. St. George did not seem inclined to move from his seat.

Christine stood, and went to see.

As she walked, conversation all around the room simultaneously reached a lull. Senex' presence washed through the room, drawing eyes to him. She stopped moving forward; her cautious nature warned her to stand back. She stood on an empty chair as the Old Man spoke.

The speech was short. His rich voice, made for debate and discussion and compelling speech, carried easily through the space hall. He was wearing the coat and braids and sash he had worn in Norwich.

Simon Cassio was the first to stand on a table and denounce Senex, for abandoning their Covenant and creating another to be their adversaries.

Then it was the Carthians, equally angry.

Then a speaker for the city.

Then Senex was bloodhunted.

Instantly, the puddles of Kindred became a wave and crashed against him. Senex called out that at long last the Covenants had been united, with irony. Very clearly from where she stood, Christine could see the final blow as a Savage in the Red Surrender – the Surrender she had rebuked the night previously – punched through Senex' rib cage and the Old Man was torn in half and he disintegrated. There was a howl of victory.

She returned to St. George's table. He looked at everything impassively and she was struck by how internal the Daeva's reactions must be. All he said was that is was an abominable waste.

Misery hit her then. Absolute black misery at the ignorance and brutality of Kindred.

Her vision became a red-tinged blur and tears crawled down across her lashes before she could prevent them. She quickly reined herself in; she would not be perceived as weak in front of the other Oracles, not after the previous night.

Julian sat back, uncaring and flippant. He criticized Senex' final words. He went for a cigarette.

Evelyn eventually left too, restless and fidgety. Christine moved closer to St. George. He watched more people; she watched him.

After a time she asked. He said it would take some time to consider. She offered her Regency for his work, and she left.

(part 2)
 

It wasn't the chill left when the hot water was drained that drove her out, it was the realization that she had lost track of time.

Dressed in her clothes, the long shirt and loose pants, she walked through the dark, but had nowhere in particular to be. The place was the same, but not quite; she could find her way around, but would miss the details in the pitch blackness.

She felt for the candles and lighter (why not just buy a flashlight?) and lit the room she was sleeping in. Night-blooming roses filled it; those were new. He had never gardened before that she knew about. She had been left a small shelf of books in case she wanted to read, but she never got more than three pages into something before realizing she was not absorbing information, or before her mind wandered far enough that nausea drove her back to the bathroom. Maybe she should just take the blankets and pillows and stay there.

The first time, when she had shut herself in her bedroom, it had just been another instance of her frail constitution getting the better of her – a lie she had given sometimes when she wanted to be alone with Cecile. Her longtime friend would dutifully promise to take care of her, and they would spend an afternoon laying together without the interruptions of her family, and they would giggle and whisper and touch. She would always report feeling better soon afterward, and Cecile was deemed a personal cure; whether anyone realized that being alone with the girl was the reason that she began to feel unwell, she did not know.

Cecile had come back from Boston and crept into her bed one afternoon while she had been dozing. The feeling had been familiar and comforting but at the same time terrifying, and no matter what Cecile offered, she could not be enticed. Even when Cecile tried to distract her with scandalous tales hinted at by the girls at the Union Club; usually they would get into an argument over whether such tales were even possible – a rational, scientific excuse to try something, and eventually most of the stories were indeed deemed impossible by the young ladies.

And so Cecile realized that her ailment was not an act designed to get the two of them alone together, and she had smoothed her hair through the nausea and tears until she had gotten the truth of what was wrong.

Shortly after that, Cecile heard her father calling – no no, he is couldn't she hear him too? He's in a mood, she should go right away – and after she left it was the last time the two of them were alone in the room together.

A hundred years later, she was left alone again to throw up in a basin, to pace aimlessly, and to lay in bed.

It hadn't escaped her notice that her host had guessed, and then left her alone too. But this was his home and he could have encouraged her to leave in his own absence.

She entered the garage; it had the faint smell of flammable chemicals and it didn't take long to realize that the odor was neither gasoline nor oil. She left the candle in the entrance and stepped forward into the dark, eyes straining to interpret shapes in the gloom and her Beast rolling around restlessly in her gut (dangerfiredanger).

There was a car, and a motorcycle, some tools, some boxes and some wide, irregular panels. No, not panels, canvases. The smell was stronger this way. Turpentine and paint thinner; they must be oil. She touched them lightly in the dark, feeling to see if they were dry, before she held them up to look more closely. A human would have brought them closer to the light; her mind told the Beast they were finely coated with a flammable substance and it warned her about bring them nearer to the candle.

It was violent art. Some of it more coherent than others, but all of it angry. Patience and fine detail was not present. She was not especially surprised. The artist's Beast was not like her own. She looked at each of them and then set them back where she had found them.

She left the garage then, and blew out the candle. She knew her way around the rooms again. She followed the scent of flowers back to the room she shut herself in.

(part 1)


She vomited blood and trusted it was rinsed down the shower drain, since it was too dark to see.

Thoughts were incoherent, even the Beast as it rearranged itself. She'd felt much of this before, when she breathed. The only reason she knew she hadn't actually lost her progress was because she could remain awake during the day – at least, she assumed it must be day now. If this was what being human was like she did not understand why anyone missed it.

Surely it had begun when -S- had told her his real name. Not the name that -S- stood for; she already had that, but his real one. It had seemed … personal. Not just a transfer of information, but a transfer of essential information. Misuse could destroy a person, and it was freely given. So she had done what had seemed appropriate: she had given him her own mortal name.

He'd used it, as easily as if he they had always known each other that way, even though she'd explained it was who she had been. He ignored things sometimes.

So she had been willing to consider that she should revisit it.

She had spent weeks evaluating her Beast, about the existence that had defined it, how things had changed it through her century of efforts, and how it was different from the previous existence. How it was the same. How he was relevant to her Beast, and how reasonably the brief interaction could alter it and her Man, and how his absence now could let her slip backward.

She retched again, more a dry heave so soon after the last time. Thick metallic blood caught in the back of her throat; if she needed to breathe she might have drowned in it. As it was, she inhaled a painful gulp with a sob that surprised her; she thought she had run out of those.

At least she was alone, and there was no one to see her. It was a shame she kept vomiting everything up, because right now she would rather face torpor than hunt for food. 

Christine picked a direction and began to walk.

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Christine had already said her goodbyes to Toledo, expecting that she would not be back until the lot of them had returned from their forced sleep. Instead, she’d been … not entirely tricked, but Jack had not been forthcoming about the conditions under which she had gotten on the plane.
 

She was the only one who had made the full trip, back to where her room would be waiting, and where she would have logical, informative, intelligent discussion and where the city was already stable, without an Urbiphage, a strange obelisk, Lhasa, or frenzy problems (she could have wished that was the problem in her city; at least then she would have gotten research in).

Seifred met her again, with Bob and Demetrius and Ameed, the last looking as stonily disapproving of her as ever the big Muslim vampire did. Likely of the opinion that she needed a male escort to travel with her. Christine knew she always presumed poorly of Ameed, but she was correct much of the time.

As she walked up to the waiting group, in front of their line of Humvees, Seifred turned to Demetrious and spoke in Turkish. Demetrious then got on a phone while Seifred returned his blue-eyed focus to her. Christine bowed and pressed her teeth together, feeling the ache in her spine, ready for judgment she’d invited him to pass.

He bowed in return. “Demetrious is calling ahead to have a change of clothing waiting for you upon our arrival to the compound. I was not made aware that you were lacking your usual amenities, or I would have had some on hand here at the airport.”

Prepared for much worse, she’d received ‘you look terrible’ as a greeting.

Several nights in a row of solid work had precluded her changing her clothes or taking the time to care for her appearance. She had worked until the message came about the plane, Christine reluctantly admitted it was logical in its implied arguments and had gone straight for the means out.

Ideally it would have gotten more of them away, but self-sacrifice was a trait that tended to breed itself out sooner or later.

Seifred had nothing to say about the lack of anyone else present, and she had not expected him to, really. But she had expected him to start off with attempting to discern whether she was carrying corruption of the Urbiphage (had Jack considered what would happen to Christine if she was somehow tainted? Had he thought ahead that he would be sending her to her death? She doubted he realized it). She had intended to face his scrutiny and judgment with proper composure and emotional reserve. Instead, she was thrown off, even annoyed, as he actually began to look at her.

She must have shown it, because his face registered the expression he got when the two of them had some misunderstanding -- noting that there had been a breakdown in communication, taking into account the situation, storing it all for later review -- then went back to scrutinizing her. His eyes faded into all-white orbs as he did.

Agitated, she looked at the three bodyguards. If she was deemed unfit, she would prefer Demetrious to do it. Bob instinctively protected women; to ask him to kill her would not be useful to his development. Ameed would be insulting. So, Demetrious. As she looked at them, so they became more alert, watching her carefully. Her back tensed and the Beast crawled along her spine with pointed feet and she put it back down. Scenes like this were why rivalries escalated into fighting.

Then Seifred perked up, satisfied with his conclusions, and the tension dissipated, first with Bob and Demetrious, finally with Ameed. Some night she would outlive Ameed.

She sat in a Humvee with Seifred on the way back, her body facing him, but looking out through the tinted window at the flat, night-dark landscape. He gave her a brief update on Jack and his intentions for those left behind, but otherwise he sat in quiet contentment.

A part of Christine wanted to keep her agitation at Jack, at Seifred, but Jack had done a correct action, even if he’d accomplished it with the grace of a drunken goat walking through a room of golf balls, and Seifred was simply not known for social graces, but he appeared nothing but content now that things were in order again. After a pause, she sent off a text to Jack.

Approaching the compound, she had to turn her neck and watch. The place was a flurry of activity in preparation for the departure of so many Dragons, and the efforts on the part of the staff doubled as soon as it was realized that Seifred had returned. “While we have a few things in a state of flux,” he spoke as the motorcade pulled to a stop, “you will find that many of the books to research are in place. As always if you need something more I will have the item in particular unpacked from the storage containers. Though I have held many of the related books that I felt could assist in reserve, so that you could peruse them.

“I will give you some time to refresh, please come to my room once this has been accomplished.”

He did not give a care for Albany, but he did accept it as his place to facilitate the needs of his student. The last of her agitation left her and she thanked him, looking briefly toward where the library sat, then heading to her room.