Time: Wednesday evening, Oct. 30, the night after "Dancing
in the Dark", the evening following "A Meeting of Minds"
"Thorne?" came a deep voice from the bed. "Come back to bed, please, Thorne?"
The Tremere Regent paused in his pacing to regard the beautiful male package in his bed. His latest playmate was Toreador, a ripely muscled, gorgeous man with ice-grey eyes and long black hair named Argon. [Tempting...]
"I've got something to do, Argon..." But Thorne came back anyway, leaning over the bed. He bent down to kiss the man's mouth, long and deep, then pulled away reluctantly. "I'll come back for more fucking later, I promise."
Argon reached for his hand, pulled him back a little. "Thorne, you're such a dom... why do you let me top? I mean, you haven't yet..."
Thorne grinned at his lover. "Because I need it... sometimes. Because I like something heavy on me, pounding into me... you do have more bulk than I do. Because I have plenty of ass around here to fuck whenever I want... is that enough reason?"
The Toreador shivered with utterly no will to complain. "Plenty... you really like my fucking?"
"You're the best, baby," he murmured, finding clothes off the floor, beginning to dress. He glanced over, chuckling. "Argon, the only things bigger around here than you and me are Gargoyles, and they're such fucking bottoms, it isn't funny!"
The light gray eyes went wide. "You actually have sex with... Gargoyles?" Argon was finding out slowly but surely about Thorne's kinks. "Really??"
"Sure, why not?" Thorne murmured, running fingers through his long, dark blonde hair. "They're plenty willing - they're just BIG. You know, modern Gargoyles are intelligent. They're just a different species, like mortals, only they're immortal."
"I guess I never thought about it..." The tall Toreador, every bit of Thorne's height at 6'2", lay back on the bed, displaying himself. "Don't take too long..." He wasn't under a disillusion; he knew the Tremere would tire of him soon. But he intended to take full advantage of his luck while it held out.
Thorne laughed, eyeing the heavy scrotum and long, thick cock of the other man. "I'll be back soon enough. Want some company in the meantime?"
Argon gulped. "I'll be fine..." [Who knows WHAT he'd send in here!]
Still chuckling, Thorne blew him a kiss and walked out.
[Damn, it's been days since I've had a chance to do this,] he mused as he walked to the research center through the underground passage. [So much else going on... damn...] Sighing, he entered the pristine building and rode the elevator to the main level.
Waiting for him in his office was the CEO of their research company, Dr. Frederic Kynd. "Master," Frederic murmured as the Regent entered. The scientist, one of the usually very staid members of Clan Tremere, gasped as his regnant pulled him close for a kiss.
[Nice, Freddie, you really should get out more, have you fed, my boy?]
The man stumbled backwards as his boss and Regent released him, glasses askew. [Um, no, Regnant, I don't much...]
"What do you have for me?" Thorne asked, smiling as Frederic got himself together.
"Ah, master, I have a willing volunteer... I think you will find all the necessary controls firmly in place..." He opened the door to an inner office. Within a mortal man stood up, looking a bit nervous but meeting the magus's eyes directly. Although he was in his fifties, he was fit and trim, handsome still.
"Dr. Severan, I'm Dr. John Walston," the man introduced himself, holding his hand out to Thorne.
Thorne shook the hand firmly. Already he was in the man's mind, checking for trouble, testing the light controls Kynd had already placed for him, that which was necessary to maintain the Masquerade. The man would leave there with no memory other than of a successful job interview. But at the moment... "Walston... you know what we are?"
"No, sir."
"You know what is going to happen?"
A soft intake of breath. "Yes, sir."
"You're consenting to this..."
"Yes, sir." No hesitation. [Excellent.]
Thorne spoke to him a little longer, ensuring the man's willful cooperation, setting up signals that would allow the man to come to them again in the future for the same purpose, but not remember before or after, much less tell anyone about it.
Kynd, pleased with his work and seeing that his master was pleased, grinned and departed from the office.
The magus sighed, already handling the mortal, feeling the muscles in his arms, the cords in his neck. "Let's get you more comfortable," he murmured. In moments they'd removed coat and tie, and the man's shirt hung open. Thorne drew the collar back from the neck, then pulled the man against his body.
The mortal watched him in wonder, curious and not a little titillated. But when Thorne put a finger to his chin, he obediently tilted his head back and to the side.
Purring deep in his throat, Thorne smiled deeply as he bent his head to the man's taut neck. Opening his mouth, he extended fangs and bit shallowly, carefully.
The hot mortal blood filled his mouth wonderfully. Thorne fed lightly, just enough to satisfy him completely but not in the least endanger the man's health. Then, finished with his meal, he withdrew his fangs and licked the wounds clean. They disappeared in two seconds. He paused, his head against the mortal's as he lifted it up again, savoring the blood. He swallowed a few times, clearing the blood from his mouth. Then he looked down at the man.
Walston was smiling, bliss on his face. Thorne kissed
him deeply, his tongue enjoying the heat inside his mouth.
Thorne retreated to his private ritual chamber. He was a very long way from relying on materials that most magus depended on, the bat's wings, crystals, and other arcane accoutrements. His chamber was fitted only with a large, plain, marble altar and a side table with a pitcher of clear water, a crystal bowl, and a large white candle, which he lit. Above the round chamber was a clear crystal dome, revealing the stars, but it was constructed so that no one could look in, only out.
Slipping out of his short boots, the magus took up a tall staff in hand and quickly went around the chamber, renewing the wards, clearing his mind for the work ahead of him. The feeding a short while ago made him feel powerful, indeed he needed to gather power to himself for this night's work. This gathering would take him several hours before he felt he could send his mind out alone to scry, observe his world.
When it was time, he lay down on the altar, his arms spread
wide. Thorne closed his eyes and opened his mind and senses...
A darkened office. A long figure sat in the large executive chair, his hands quietly folded before him on his desk. The man was dressed well, the tailoring fine, molding his slim body. Thorne knew this man, understood his pensive mood. This was Ian Cameron, Primogen of the Clan Brujah in San Francisco. In his hands he held a scrap of a photograph of his late sire, Juan Diego Sorrel. Cameron's hand trembled slightly, holding the picture, but whether from fear, grief, or rage, it could not be determined.
Abruptly more Brujah burst into the office, and someone was thrown onto the floor before the desk. Cameron looked up, saw Hiller Igen sprawled before him, scrambling to get to his knees. Charlie Wing, Cam's second, put a foot in Hiller's back, keeping him down. "I brought you the trash, as you asked, lord," Charlie announced with a smirk.
Cameron stood and looked down at his clansman, his lip already curling. "Tell me why I should spare your miserable life, Igen," he murmured.
Hiller lifted his chin off the floor. "Because I can tell you who was with me that night," he sneered.
The primogen went to a bookshelf in the sparsely furnished office and removed a sheath from which he drew a long sword. Hiller's eyes widened. "And why would I believe you were telling me the truth?" Cameron asked, his voice taking on a silken tone that ran a chill down Hiller's spine.
"His life is forfeit," another Brujah spoke up, a scowling, blond man named Jarlson. "He risked the Masquerade, brought suspicion to our clan, and embarrassed our primogen in Conclave. The scum cannot be allowed to live."
"He was *Eddie's*," Charlie Wing spoke up, as if that was reason enough. "One of the last of Fiori's mouthpieces. We shall root out the rest."
Cameron lifted an eyebrow at that; Wing, his own second, wasn't from that group of Brujah, but neither was he from Cameron's Manzanita bloodline. There were only two or three of his own left, those either sired or fostered by Juan Diego Sorrel.
"Igen," Cameron spoke levelly, bringing up the sword, "we will find your accomplices without your help, thank you very much. You can't really imagine I can trust you to give them to me, can you? You threaten me by existing. I will take your miserable life, take your blood to strengthen our clan." With one hand, he began to undo his tie, open his collar. It wouldn't do to get blood on silk.
Hiller began to struggle, but Wing and a couple others set on him, turning him over and stripping his shirt from him. Then, at Cameron's gesture, they stood the man up, holding him with an iron grip between them. Jarlson himself held Hiller's head to the side so that his neck was exposed to the primogen.
Cameron lay the silk tie on his desk, then approached. He raised his right hand - the sword was in the left - and extended a talon. He closed his eyes. Thorne, mentally watching from his chamber across the Bay, could feel the grief and anger pour off him. Then, the strike as Cameron lay Hiller's throat open. Immediately he bent his head to suck his blood from the doomed Brujah. Hiller screamed then gurgled as his primogen drank from him.
After a long while, Cameron straightened, wiping his mouth. He gestured to his clansmen, "Finish him." With eager growls the three others moved in and bit the languishing Hiller as well, draining the rest of the blood from him. Cameron lifted the sword in both hands, preparing to make the final strike.
When the others backed away, leaving Hiller to teeter, Cameron cried out in rage and wielded the sword in a wide swoop, cutting off the traitor's head.
The magus withdrew, shuddering, escaping the release of the dead Kindred's spirit.
Thorne was tempted to look in on Julian, but was distracted, remembering another Ventrue worth notice. Returning across the Bay mentally, he looked in on Dr. Anthony Carr, the history professor who was so wary of him.
The professor was in his office on campus, a stack of essays awaiting his attention, but he was working on his computer, composing a letter. Concerned, Thorne zeroes in, but the letter is to his department head, requesting a couple days off. [Which could mean anything... from a quick trip to England over a weekend to a midsemester break...]
He studied the man for a few minutes. [He's just wary,] Thorne told himself. [Don't be so suspicious. Just because he's Ventrue...] Then he remembered - Julian Luna himself had had a letter from Lady Anne Havormere, the Prince in London, about Thorne Severan, but whatever was in that letter did not sway Julian from giving the Tremere a chance, listening to Thorne's request to settle. [Still, I should assign someone to watch him discretely...]
The pain of the recent war threatened to return. Thorne spent a good while re-centering himself, calming to continue his scrying. [England is over...]
He turned his Sight to someone also fairly close by, the young, vibrant Shaman he met that afternoon on campus. Blair was alone, he noted, then realized that Jim must be still at work. Blair was sitting upstairs in the loft portion of the apartment he shared with Jim. He sat in lotus position, eyes closed, incense swirling around him and the sounds of jungle drums from the boom box. Meditating...
Thorne felt an inner shiver, gazing upon this amazing young mortal. Suddenly he was unable to tear his sight from him, his extended mental senses caught in the magic that was Blair Sandburg. And there it was again, what he thought he felt that afternoon, but did not pay attention to - the undeniable attraction of his spirit for the spirit of this mortal. Astonishing that a Kindred of his exalted age should be subject to such an attraction... and that it be mutual...
The Shaman's eyes flew open suddenly. The eyes of
the Magus, the other Shaman, flew open as well. Neither were present
any longer to the real world, their spirits drawn like magnets to each
other in the spirit realm.
The End
To be continued in "Shamans in the Spirit Realm"
