Liv

The bittersweet taste of memories

Mon, 02 Jun 2003 15:09:51 GMT

Liv looks down at the paper in her hand, black ink looping across the neat square. She rereads the address and matches it to the numbers on the dilapidated building in front of her. .In a way, it didn't seem right that a Toreador would live in such squalor. The neighborhood was built on harsh lines and haggard looks. The people here were worn, their tired faces and slouched shoulders pulling at the air around them, drawing the atmosphere down.

But there was something here. There had to be. Sabine, attaché to the Toreador Primogen, had assured Liv that the location was correct, that this was where Orlando spent many of his days.

Liv stops in front of the door, hand hovering over the door knob. Absent-mindedly, she twists some strands of hair around her fingers, plucks at her jacket uneasily, buries her hands in the pockets and takes them out again.

It’s not like when she had seen Sean. True, she had been afraid that evening, too. And both not afraid because of the unexpected flash of softness in Sean’s eyes. As deep down she had naively hoped her suspicions wouldn’t be true in the end.

This time, it’s different though. This time, she knows. Of course, she doesn’t know Orlando, nor why he might have sent this letter. But the knowledge that he’s the only link left now connecting her to her Sire makes her mind spin. And, at the same time, lets her heart sink. Foolish hopes – why can’t she let go of them? As if Cate would have actually chosen this way to pass on a message to Liv. Come to think of it, as if Cate would ever send her a message again? Hardly likely, after the way she had looked at Liv with those cold eyes, reptilian glance, each of her words cutting through Liv’s heart like shards of glass, jagged at the edges.

Liv’s looks for a kind of doorbell or intercom. There is none, however. But when she pushes the knob the door – unexpectedly – swings open. As if she had been expected, Liv can’t help thinking.

Liv steps into the apartment, a one-room hovel, tiny kitchen to the left, unused, of course. Small bathroom to the right, the scents of essences and herbs still hanging in the air, as if someone had recently taken a bath.

“Bon soir,” says Liv with a small voice. “Anybody at home?”

No one answers. Outside, Liv hears people quarrelling on the street, from somewhere else fragments of music, something Arabic, drift over. But in here it’s all quiet.

It’s a small room, mostly clean, the flat being too small to accumulate any build-up of dust. There are no mirrors in the narrow hallway nor anywhere else in the next room. In one corner there is a worn, overstuffed, wing-backed chair. On the floor there are piles of fresh paper, forming an arc of sorts across the scarred boards. Small boxes and tins are strewn about, spilling over with charcoal, pencils and pastels. Swirls of color and shade trail across the floor, cut clean by the lines of papers that are now hanging along the wall.

Curiously, Liv kneels down and touches the drawing materials, feels the soft pastels crumble under her fingers, grey and rosé smeared on white. Looking up again, she immediately sees it. A wall, a full wall covered with sketches of Cate in various poses. Each one filled with life and movement. Some of joy, some of anger, some of that soft look she gets when her mind gets hazy and logic escapes her grasp.

Like in a trance Liv steps closer, a hand covering her mouth. So many images of Cate … So many. Orlando must have been an artist in his former life, otherwise he couldn’t have captured these scenes so brilliantly. Ah, Cate, Liv sighs and feels like laughing and crying at once.

For a long while she just stands and looks at the wall, remembering when she had seen Cate for he very first time, a luminous appearance in the darkness that had surrounded Liv at that time. And how Liv had ceased to exist in her Sire’s embrace. Only to be brought back by rich red-golden kisses.

Liv doesn’t notice how time passes. She just stands there, motionless, staring. If only for these pictures it was worth coming here. Even if the owner of the flat still has not returned and she still does not understand the meaning of his mysterious note.

Should Liv leave a message for Orlando in return? But what to write? Suddenly, a wave of bitterness washes over her. What these pictures only show too clearly – and how could Liv have failed to notice that before? – is how close Orlando had been to Cate. And probably still is. The incomparable Orlando, whose beauty in life was too bright to look at directly. And to whom in comparison Liv must appear as nothing but a dark star, dull and lifeless.

Suddenly, the room feels too narrow, the air stifling. Liv thinks she can’t stand staying one second longer and rushes, rushes out onto the street again. Not looking where she’s going, just away from this place with all its devastating memories.

AN: Warm thanks to the wonderful (((Orlandomun))) for helping to fill in the details of Orlando’s room.

Late hours, nocturnal candles and making a decision

Thu, 15 May 2003 21:40:57 GMT

Liv sits on the hardwood boards of her rooftop terrace, countless tea lights arranged around her, a sea of tiny candles. It’s a balmy spring night, the air is still warm, almost sultry. There are no stars tonight, only low hanging clouds. The atmosphere is charged with electricity. Sooner or later there will be thunder and lightning. And rain will extinguish the candles. It’s the quiet before the storm.

Liv tries to straighten out the crumpled paper that lies before her. When opening the letter for a split second Liv hoped that Cate had sent it. Foolish hopes, foolish dreams. Crushed as soon as she had seen the letters at the back, clearly not Cate’s handwriting. “Adsum, in memoriam”, slowly Liv repeats the three words, trying to figure out their meaning.

Suddenly, singsong rhymes and sunny afternoons come back to her, little girls with pigtails and faultlessly pressed white blouses. And Mlle. Béart’s clear stern voice sounding from afar: “Like Descartes once said: Cogito ergo sum” – I think, therefore I am”. Liv looks up. Of course, how could she have forgotten? “

“I am … I am …here … in memory.” Liv swallows and her heart sinks low. There is only one person who could have sent the letter.

Catherine’s other childe. The one she had loved.

Orlando.

Liv shakes her head, even if she now understands the words, they still don’t make sense to her. Why should Orlando send her a letter all of a sudden? Why?

In memoriam …Could that mean something … happened to Cate? What could Orlando know that Liv doesn’t? Liv pulls up her legs and lays her head on her knees, feeling defeated, broken-hearted. It’s hard to say what is worse: knowing that Cate is gone forever or that Cate refuses to see Liv ever again. While she’s still in contact … in love with Orlando.

And equally hard it is to say whether uncertainty is a curse or a blessing. No, Liv can’t leave it at that. She must know. And despite everything … Liv touches the wrinkled paper lovingly. The memory of Cate is like a precious stone. It shines mysteriously in the dark and shimmers even through layers of mud and dirt. To catch only a fraction of that splendour again every risk is worth taking.

Having made up her mind at last, Liv gets up quickly and hurries inside. Blesses Craig for having given her the card of the Toreador Primogen of Paris “in case you need help again. For remember, you are not alone.”

Yes, they will be able to help her to find Orlando. Liv snorts sarcastically. Orlando, her long lost … brother.

Another letter arrives.

Thu, 01 May 2003 15:26:48 GMT

What do you thing of love?
I have been told that its flame is worse than a vulture
And that in loving one suffers bitter pain ...

.

Liv wakes up dizzied. ”Do vampires dream?” she wonders. And yet, it must be so. She never remembers. The moment she wakes up, the dreams escape her. Slip through her fingers like a book suddenly dissolving into dust.

But she knows, she feels there was something. Something that doesn’t want to get caught. Perhaps it’s better this way.

Liv shrugs her shoulders. It doesn’t matter. Like so many things that don’t really matter these days.

Fortunately, there is always blood. Sweet luscious blood helping her to forget. Even if all other things have lost their appeal in this bizarre afterlife, the blood never fails her.

So Liv gets up and dresses and paints her lips red. And stops the moment she opens the door to leave the apartment, stunned to see a white envelope lying on her doorstep.

Suspiciously, Liv looks around, but, of course, the house is empty and quiet, as always. No one near. Quickly she snatches the letter, tears it open and unfolds the stiff paper.

On the back, in low, neat letters is written, Adsum, in memoriam.

Liv walks back into her apartment, gazing at the drawing and the words. Speechless, completely overwhelmed. This came so unexpected that she had no time to brace herself against it, to convince herself that she wouldn’t care anymore. And never again.

Her mind’s spinning. Tracing the drawing with trembling fingers Liv sinks down on her knees.

Catherine dancing, exuberant, royally. That’s how Liv remembers her.

"Cate," she whispers again and again, holding the drawing in one hand, the other arm wrapped around herself, rocking back and forth like in a trance. A silent scream trapped in her throat. And when it finally breaks free it’s an eerie, unearthly sound, like the wailing of a wounded animal somewhere in the wild.

Strayed tears stain the paper crimson.

AN: Picture created by the wonderful talented Orlandomun

Come, sweet death, and dance with me

Sun, 27 Apr 2003 20:41:01 GMT

Ah! gentle may I lay me down, and gentle rest my head,
And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gentle hear the voice
Of Him that walketh in the garden in the evening time!”

William Blake

The nights are getting shorter around this time of the year. The air is milder now. Tastes of spring.

A secluded garden in Saint-Germain, hidden behind high stone walls.

Liv sits in a dark corner, crouched on a low withered stone bench, listening to the distant sounds of the big city, dimmed not only by solid walls, but also by centuries of quiet contemplation lying over that noble quadrangle.

In the centre, there is a small Tinguely sculpture on a stone pedestal, the intricate ornaments now and then moving slightly, making faint jingling sounds when stirred by a breeze. These little noises fall into the quiet of the yard like raindrops, like flower petals sailing to the ground, weightlessly.

Humming quietly, with her head on her knees and her arms folded around her legs, Liv sits and waits. Wishes her mind was blank. That she would think of nothing. Feel nothing. But at times, when she doesn’t try hard enough, Catherine’s golden laughter steals into her thoughts, coming from far, far away, searing Liv’s soul. Just like the faint afterglow of Sean’s kisses that still burns on her lips.

Next to Liv there’s a magnolia tree, waiting like Liv. Waiting for the magic moment that will change everything. The moment may come any time. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps the day after tomorrow. Liv knows that, of the two of them, she will be the one to wait in vain. Her magic moment is over. The transformation completed, never to be reversed. Still, she sits and waits.

Suddenly, she hears footsteps approaching, a voice speaking up fearlessly: “Who’s out there?”

Liv sits up, listening. It’s a man’s voice, low and melodious, its resolve frayed by time, but not broken. No reason to run away, Liv thinks. Just a mortal. An old man. And although he’s using a cane and moving slowly, he walks very straight, his steps not wavering.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur,” Liv says. “You must take me for a thief. And, actually, I am. I’m stealing the peace and quiet of this place.”

“Come here,” commands the old man, his head turned upwards as if he were listening, stretching out his hand. “So that I can see you.”

Liv steps closer and then she sees. The man’s eyes stare into the void. He’s blind. He only sees with his hands that touch Liv’s cheeks. Slowly, hesitantly, he withdraws them, his expression questioning.

“So is it time already? Have you come to get me?” he asks softly, not frightened, merely curious.

“No,” Liv shakes her head. “I’m not what you’re thinking.”

“Aren’t you?” the man returns. “I wouldn’t mind if you were. Wouldn’t mind if you took me to the other side.” His hands move over Liv’s face again, feel the long strands of her silky hair. “Beautiful, so very beautiful. Like the stone angels watching the sleep of the dead. I would so love to sleep, you must know. And never wake up again.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” replies Liv sadly, thinking what you’re asking of me.

“Oh, but I do. I’m weary. Alone. This is no life anymore. All that I have left are my memories …”

“That’s more than I’ll ever have,” whispers Liv, more to herself, intently studying the man’s face. Expressive features, high cheekbones, beard and hair still black, face still youthful, despite the wrinkles and creases that give testimony of a life that has seen both joy and sorrow to their extremes.

“Will you tell me about your life? About your memories?” Liv asks softly.

The man smiles. “I was a dancer once, a choreographer.” He chuckles. “And not a nameless one, you might say.” He puts down his cane on the floor, extending his hand in invitation. “May I have the pleasure?”

“I’d be delighted,” answers Liv, stepping into his embrace. For a while they dance in silence, the old man seeming to have forgotten his weariness, guiding Liv safely and firmly as they slowly waltz around the garden. And Liv, too, forgets – if only for a short while – what has been haunting her all these weeks. Dancing as they listen to some imaginary tune, mysterious and beautiful, transparent and soothing like moonlight.

Finally, the dance is over.

Gently, Liv presses the man’s hands. “I must go now. Will you allow me to come back again?”

“Of course, you can come back any time,” the man replies, smiling quietly. “But may I ask something of you, too?”

Liv shakes her head, frowning, and lays her hand on the side of his face. “Don’t ask that of me.”

“Death doesn’t scare me, my lovely. Nor do you. I know you will be gentle. Much gentler than all the tubes and apparatus with which they’ll torment me.” He snorts derisively. “In order to keep me … alive. Will you think about it?”

“Maybe,” says Liv and before the man can say anything else, she’s gone. Off into the night.

AN: The blind man in this story was inspired by the picture above showing the brilliant French choreographer Maurice Béjart. Of course, in real life Maurice Béjart is, thank God, neither sick, nor blind, nor is he yearning for death.

Kisses and blood

Tue, 01 Apr 2003 14:14:51 GMT

Sprawled on her settee, wrapped up in her flower kimono and a soft quilt Liv watches Jean-Paul Belmondo kiss Jean Seberg. Watches him run a thumb across his lower lip before he dies. The screen goes dark.

Liv licks her own lips, tasting the tingling after-taste of the girl’s sweet blood. Wild mane of springy golden curls and lip-gloss tasting of strawberries. Yeah, strawberry girl, who so perfectly draped her gentle curves around Liv’s cold limbs, when they were dancing till the wee hours. Liv still fills dizzy from her kisses. Drunk from the crowd’s mad energy and all that blood.

There was a flash of regret on the girl’s face when Liv told her that she couldn’t take her home. Liv would have loved to, but how to explain that she had to be alone after sunrise, could not share a bed with a mortal just like that.

But actually it’s not a mortal’s embrace she desires. All that tenderness and frailty, those brittle bones. Almost sickening, all that sweet mellow blood, like syrupy lemonade when in reality she wants wine.

Slowly, Liv’s hand sneaks down into her kimono and parts her own flesh. Teasing herself, like the girl had teased her in a dark corner under the boys’ greedy eyes. Like Miranda had been teasing her while Liv had slowly drained her. How she had always loved Miranda’s small shrill cries ….

Miranda, who’s gone and dead now. Nothing but ashes. Golden hair rotting in the damp earth. Killed by Sean, that callous, cold-hearted bastard. Sean, who has two different faces and a cruel smile. Sean, who kisses by far too good.

Liv bites her own tongue, tastes hot blood while her hand speeds up its movements. And hates herself that when she comes it’s with Sean’s name on her lips.

Revelations III

Mon, 31 Mar 2003 14:14:13 GMT

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you."

Friedrich Nietzsche

The curtain comes down with a near-audible metallic snap. Sean presses his lips together, steel-tight, as he jumps to his feet. Reaches down and pulls Liv up by the arm, none too gently.

“What is it you’re playing at?” he says, voice leeched of warmth. “What have the Tremere promised you?” This last comes out in a hiss, and Sean sees Liv flinch, fear flickering across her face for one brief moment before she masters herself. He hates seeing the fear there, hates that it’s because of him—at the same time he feels a brush of respect at Liv’s strength. Not as fragile as one might initially suppose. But none of that matters now, when it seems this elaborate setup has been to trap him here. From the corner of his eye he notes the possible exits, weighs the situation. He could run now, possibly escape before the Tremere swarm in—if they are coming, if—but he stays. He has to know what part Liv is playing in this. If it costs him the last of his life.

“The Tremere?” Liv asks puzzled, her voice quavering, the vein at the side of her throat pulsing madly. “What do think I am? A spy? I told you that I’m not interested in politics or getting involved in any clan rivalries. What do I care about the Tremere? I have seen how their treat their own Kindred. What ways they have to punish disobedience.” She looks down on Sean’s hand that still has her arm in an iron-hard grip.

“It’s Miranda I care about. I have loved her. But obviously loved her not enough because I was not there when she would have needed me. I did not even realize that she was in trouble. That’s something I can’t forgive myself. Maybe that’s why I want to find out who killed her. I am not so naïve to demand revenge. Or punishment. Although I wish there would be retaliation for such brutality. No, I have learned by now that this world has its own rules and that I’m nothing in that system.” Liv pauses, anxiously scanning Sean’s face that seems more impenetrable than ever, all tenderness and warmth gone now. “But still I want to look her murderer in the face and ask him why?”

I have loved her. Ah, so that’s it. Not the Tremere after all, then—Sean is good, very good, at detecting lies, and Liv’s confusion is apparent. Sean is simultaneously relieved that Liv is not a spy and caught in the sure knowledge that this rare glimpse of beauty will now burn, ash-white like the remnants of Miranda’s skin.

“Then he will tell you why,” Sean says coldly. “She was a spy. She infiltrated the home of the Prince of Paris, and through her witchcraft gave the Tremere a clear picture of the layout…the better for them to murder my lord in his sleep.” He lets go of Liv’s arm, the dead blood pooling silver-purple where his fingers dug deep. “Such an offense is unforgivable. A message had to be sent.” He pauses a moment, watches the hurt crest on Liv’s face. Speaks again, more gently. “You have not been wise in your choice of loves.”

“Probably not,” mutters Liv in a dead voice, crest-fallen, thinking of Cate, of Miranda. How broken-hearted Miranda had been, venting her anger and frustration on Liv, when all she ever wanted was to be loved and to belong. But Liv, caught up in her own tangled emotions, had been distant, true offspring of her sire, and uncaring, like the moonlight on that night.

Could things have turned out differently had Liv stayed with Miranda? Could Liv have kept her from embarking on such a foolish enterprise that was doomed right from the start? But would Miranda have even told her? Not very likely. After all, Miranda had never confided much to Liv, just as Liv had kept her secrets.

Liv leans back against the mantelpiece, her mind reeling while the knowledge is slowly sinking in. It is hard to say which of Sean’s revelations is worse. She sighs. So it is true, true, true. She had feared it all the time and so much wished it wasn’t.

“I … I didn’t know that. About Miranda,” Liv begins hesitantly, weighing her words. “And that your Prince commands your loyalty is out of question. And yet … killing someone because one has to is one thing. But this is … “She breaks off again, shaking her head vehemently. “I do not even want to imagine what happened during that night.”

Sean’s expression is absolutely unreadable. Where there was warmth before and passion there is only ice-cold detachment now. Seeing this makes Liv shiver, desperation and anger coiling hot-cold around her heart.

“Seems it doesn’t trouble you very much, Sean. For it had to be done. A message had to be sent, you say. Did you enjoy doing that? Did you enjoy seeing the fear in her eyes and ignore her pleas for mercy?”

Liv bites her lips. The memory of Sean’s kisses tastes bitter now. “ Still, I find it hard to believe that you could be capable of such atrocious cruelty. But you had to do it, hadn’t you? I wonder how your wife would feel if she could see what sort of man you have become.”

The words slide home like a stiletto, precise razor between the flank of ribs and up into Sean’s unbeating heart. He would not want Paloma to see him like this, no—would walk into the burning sun before he would endure seeing disappointment…disgust…sadness in her eyes. For a moment the sheer stunning pain of it overwhelms Sean—seeing it now in Liv, where earlier he had caught the reflection of his long-dead wife as in a flat and glassy pond. Different, muted, but still an echo across the fading years. He has thought before of what Paloma would make of him now, this creature so changed by the Beast; those thoughts come in the dark times, and Sean pushes them away with blood and brandy. He has neither here, only the deep hurt. If he would allow it, the hurt would stain his cheeks with crimson tears.

He does not allow it. Above all else, Sean endures.

“I am not a man, petite,” Sean says, measured low words working through the tight set of his jaw. “I have not been in a very long time.” His hand comes up again, this time to brush gently across Liv’s cheek. He trails a finger across her lips, sees her shudder. “And you should not ask questions you know the answer to already.” His smile is cruel then indeed.

“Sometimes fear is sweeter than honeyed wine.”

“Is it?” Liv asks resignedly. “You have no idea how it grieves me to hear you say so. If this is what you hold onto, your existence is miserable. Perhaps even more miserable than mine. And all I feel now is pity. For you. And for myself as, like you’ve put it, I tend to choose my acquaintances not wisely. I almost wish I had not met you. But, well, I have my answers now. Even if they are not to my liking. What more can I say?”

Liv shrugs her shoulders wearily, holding Sean’s gaze for a long moment. “There is nothing more to say. For you are blind to see that there are fruits even more delicious than those tasting of bitterness and fear. But,” she takes Sean’s hand and gently places it against the side of her neck so that he can feel the blood pulsing there. “These are given only freely and can’t be forced.”

Liv’s words slide off of Sean, slip of syllables that cannot penetrate further. He knows that later he will take them out and turn them over in the confines of his chamber, fondle their sharp edges in the glinting firelight, take them inside himself until they twist and burn and there isn’t enough brandy in the world to put them out.

But not now.

Sean pulls his hand away, twist of his wrist and he grasps Liv’s hand, pulls it toward his lips. Dips his head to brush a kiss, whisper-soft, against the back of her hand. His lips move with the whispered words, trailing cold syllables like a brand.

“The truth of this world will seldom be to your liking,” Sean says, and releases her hand. Stands up ramrod straight, and turns away. He’s at the door in a mortal eyeblink, but he stops and turns back, fluid-slow with eyes flat burning ice.

“And you may keep your pity. I have no need of it.” Small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Or of you.” And then he is gone.

Revelations II

Tue, 25 Mar 2003 22:22:14 GMT

I taste the blood
that shimmered
on your lips.
Lingering like guilt does.

Ten Last Night

“I’m sorry,” Sean says, and means it. He does not say anything else; pity won’t change things, and he has an aversion to platitudes. After a moment he slips off the recamière and sits beside Liv on the floor, legs tucked neatly Indian style. Doesn’t reach out to touch- no, not that. Merely sits in the proximate space, solid and waiting. Sean wants to touch, to reach out and enfold Liv into his arms, offer what meager comfort he can; but Liv’s nostrils are twitching, barely perceptible, and Sean thinks of a doe, shivering and ready to bolt. Silence hangs like gardenia perfume or grief in the air.

“Thank you,” says Liv in a flat voice, her eyes still fixed on the screens for she knows the moment she’d look at him she’d break down and start crying. Uncontrollably. It takes an enormous effort not to do so.

Getting up and running, running away from it all would be easier. But where should she go? Besides, it’s time to stop running and face the truth instead. “Thank you for … for your understanding,” she adds feebly. She’s feels so weary now, if she only could lie down on the floor, curl up in a neat little bundle and cry. And then feel his hand on her hair and hear him saying in a soothing voice. “It’s alright.”

But she knows only too well that nothing is alright. Nor will ever be.

“Although I guess, you cannot understand”, she continues. “Or did you ever have … a wife? Or children?”

Sean’s reaction is, at first, as it always is; closing down inward, the iron gates of will slamming shut. This is not to be spoken of. This is not brought into the air, to be shared like breath. This is to stay in the chambers of the secret heart, as best Sean can construct them, decorated with tattered fragments of dappled sunlight. His and his alone, for this night and all the rest of the innumerable nights in his dark everlife. A chalice of suffering bedewed with honeysuckle wine.

But this creature who is asking- Sean knows without question how long it has been since he felt this way. How very, very long. And he knows better than to hope- hope is the province of mortals and fools. But somehow, still- something with the color and texture of hope curls under his skin, ns his clenched jaw.

“I had a wife,” he says, voice low. “Her name was Paloma. My Spanish dove.” Pause while the words take shape in the air- he has not said her name aloud in nearly two centuries. “We did not have children. Although…we wanted them. Very much.” Sean’s voice trails off to the merest whisper, one that would not be heard by mortal ears. “But there wasn’t time.”

That voice, that hint of a voice, makes Liv turn her eyes from the flickering images and look at the man next to her instead. Next to nothing she knows about Sean, yet instinctively she feels that even admitting as much as that must be tough for him.

“Did you lose her before or after you were … turned?” Liv asks, not out of blind curiosity, but because the tinge of that voice sounds so very familiar to her. Instantly, she recognizes that faint echo of grief, notices that pale outline of despair, well-hidden in the deep, covered by layers and layers of ashes. Almost forgotten, but still there after all those years and not dimmed in its intensity.

“Before.” Suddenly it’s there again behind Sean’s eyes, the image of Paloma dimmed, lying in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets, her color going from bad to worse as she struggled for breath, blood flecking her lips with each tearing cough as Sean sat helplessly and held her hand. “She had tuberculosis.” So many syllables to describe death. Ironic that Sean has lived to see a world where that disease would not have automatically meant the end to every dream worth having.

There it is, once more, Liv thinks. That sudden flash when Sean’s features become soft and he seems no longer tough and determined and uncompromising, but looks … vulnerable. A victim of fate’s haphazard schemes. Just like herself.

And before thinking she slips closer and gently puts a hand on Sean’s arm. “I know how it feels when your world suddenly splits up into a thousand tiny fragments. And the only thing you can do is watch the pieces fall. But, Sean, what is there to hold on to? During all these cold empty nights when you know there’s nothing left?”

What, indeed, Sean thinks, and then he stops thinking. Threads his hand through Liv’s silky hair and pulls her to him, gentle yet resolute, and kisses her.

Immediately, Liv’s hands come up between them, arms tense, fingers spread wide as if to fend off Sean. This is wrong …, is her first thought. And it’s foolish …and … I shouldn’t … shouldn’t ...

But even before her mind has finished this sentence, she finds herself kissing Sean back.

Sean feels the precise moment when Liv gives in, opens to the kiss, and crushes her to him, flooded with the heat of reflected need, flaring brightly in the sweetly perfumed air. He kisses her with all the longing of seventy thousand nights, tasting the faint traces of blood on her tongue, and Sean wants, wants Liv with every hard pulse and throb through his body.

Cate’s kisses had tasted like forbidden fruit, rare pomegranates stolen from a secret garden, an addictive treat. Miranda’s had been like sweet golden honey, mellow and gentle. But this, this is different. It’s like being swept away by a giant wave and drowning, drowning in blue-green waters, wild and unfathomable.

Breathless, Liv struggles not to go under, opens her eyes and looks at Sean. Sean’s eyes seem so very dark now, bottomless pools of shadow, lit by fires smouldering deep within.

Why does it seem so desirable to lose oneself there? Shouldn’t she get up and walk away from it? As if it would be as easy as that.

For a split-second Liv’s hand hovers in the air before touching Sean’s face. “But I do not even know you,” she whispers. “Nor do you know me.”

Common sense tells Sean that she’s right—he doesn’t know her. He’s used to ordering his existence by what is practical, and thus it’s unexpectedly difficult to reconcile this new, overwhelming urge to throw practicality aside. Still, he does. “You’re right,” he says, but at the same time he covers Liv’s hand with his own, presses it closer to his cheek. Memorizes the softness. And lets go.

With closed eyes Liv takes in how it feels to touch Sean’s face with his hand covering hers. Imagines how it would feel to sleep in his arms with his hands on her skin. For a short moment time seems to stand still. But then Sean’s hand is gone and Liv’s eyes flutter open again. She takes a deep breath.

“Besides,” she starts calmly. “There is something I have to know first. And something else I have to show you.”

“Very well,” Sean says, recovering equilibrium as he leans back. “Show me.”

“Only one more thing before we start,” Liv begins. “No one knows that this tape exists and after I’ve shown it to you, I will destroy it. I don’t want to get involved in any clan rivalries. But I need an explanation for this. Although,” she adds looking at Sean for a long moment. “I hope and pray that you won’t be able to give me one. At least not immediately.”

Swiftly, Liv gets up and changes the tapes. Her hand trembles slightly when she uses the remote control to start the second video. This time, only one screen in the centre flashes up. There is no music, only faint sounds of laboured breathing mingled with muffled sobs. The camera’s shaky, the pictures of a bad quality. But even with this poor lighting one can recognize the traces of destruction everywhere about the room. Chairs turned over, pieces of torn clothing scattered on the floor, the blood smears on the walls, the crumpled bloody sheets on the bed and finally the charred remains of Miranda’s body nailed to the wall with a pole right through her heart.

Liv turns away from the screen, her eyes fixed on Sean.

To be continued over here.

Revelations I

Wed, 12 Mar 2003 20:09:41 GMT

When one has made a decision to attack a person, even if it will be very difficult to succeed by advancing straight ahead, it will not do to think about doing it in a long, roundabout way. One's heart may slacken, he may miss his chance, and by and large there will be no success. The Way of the Samurai is one of immediacy, and it is best to dash in headlong.

- Tsunetomo Yamamoto, Hagakure

8 o'clock. Anxiously, Liv glances at the antique clock residing on the chimney mantelpiece. Eight, already. She paces around her apartment nervously, waiting for Sean.

Since Craig had not exactly been generous with information on that matter, Liv's thoughts revolve - for the nth time - around the same question: can Sean actually have murdered Miranda?

In her last letter, Miranda mentioned that grave things had happened, things she might not survive. Perhaps it had been her own clan who had punished Miranda for having committed some sort of crime. Something to do with those odd rituals she had been researching. Miranda had often alluded to the Tremere's strict regime, to the brutal methods they used to discipline or even eliminate disobedient clan members. Liv had seen with her own eyes the marks this pitiless regime had left on Miranda's body.

Or maybe Miranda had taken another vampire lover? Liv remembers how desperate Miranda had been during their last meeting. It seemed she simply could not bear to be alone. She so much wanted to belong and be loved. Perhaps she had taken home some rogue vampire … Or … maybe - Liv's heart almost stops at this thought - maybe there are hunters out there aiming to eliminate all of them one by one.

Another reason to talk to Sean again. After all, he is the Prince's childe. He might know if there are vampire outcasts in Paris. Or even hunters.

If only … if only, however … Liv's fidgets uneasily with the pearl necklace she's wearing. Now that she has actually met Sean it seems difficult to believe that he had been stalking and threatening Miranda. And while her mind still harbours doubts, and lots of them, her heart already whispers: this is not a murderer.

A man of honour, that's what Sean seems to be, perhaps not always as gentle and good-mannered as when they had talked, but such cruelty, such brutality? After all, he had been the first one - or so it had seemed - who understood why she couldn't let go of blue skies and sunshine. Or is she being naïve again? Seeing only the things she wants to see? Liv sighs.

And almost jumps when the bell rings. Please, let him not be the one who … , she silently prays while hurrying down the corridor to open the door. Or I may not survive this evening.

Sean waits outside the door, listening to the sound of feet approaching on the other side. She's rushing, and that means she's nervous. Sean notices those sorts of things. The thought that Liv is unsettled by this meeting merits consideration- but at the least it brings the touch of a smile to his face. Since the previous evening Sean's had time to regroup. The smile is still there, however, when the door swings open.

Liv looks, if possible, even more incandescent than the night before. Her hair frames her face in glossy dark waves, and Sean has the sudden urge to bury his face in it, inhale deeply of her scent. He can smell her from here, of course, a lovely warm perfume that smells like a summer garden, and Sean reels a bit inside. They stand there for a second, frozen and unsure.

"Good evening," he says at last. "May I come in?"

It's as if his voice wakes Liv from a dream. He smiles, she thinks. Sure, he's good-looking, who could not notice that? But it's this small smile that suddenly makes everything much more difficult. And his eyes … like the sea at dawn, unexpectedly calm after turbulent storms raging all night long. Liv takes a deep breath and blinks. Of course, "she says, smiling back. "Bon soir. Please come in.

"I'm glad to see you. After all, I guess you have more important things to do than look at some bizarre piece of art, "she continues leading him across the entrance hall to the grand salon, past the bulky painting that is still there. Still unwrapped. Waiting.

"And I'm not sure whether the term art applies to it at all. But what does it matter? That's a very personal thing. So why show it to you at all? Because I thought of destroying it. Yes, it would - most probably - be better. But," she bites her lip, staring at the floor for a second, "I can't bring myself to do it," she looks at him again for a long moment as if seeking absolution, Miranda's words still ringing in her ears: This is not good. But somehow these words grow weaker and weaker.

Sean follows Liv into a beautifully decorated salon, follows the slip and turn of her words, so full of doubt and fear. He doesn't know what she's talking about, of course, but despite his general intense dislike of surprises…he wants to find out.

"So," he says as he stops, reaches his hand out to enfold Liv's, "show me what it is you can't destroy."

"Yes," Liv smiles nervously, feeling his hand close around hers not exactly has a calming effect. "Please, come on this way," she leads Sean on to the next room, a spacious salon, too, old floorboards, an antique fireplace, high walls and stucco ceilings. This room, however, holds no pieces of furniture, there is only a settee situated in the centre facing a rack containing 20 video screens on one wall, whereas a high-tech sound system is installed on the opposite wall.

"Well, I don't know what to say," Liv shrugs her shoulders. "Just have a look. We can stop when you think you have enough. Please take a seat," she motions to the recamière while turning on both the video screens and the sound system via remote control. And finally sits down on the bare floor, holding her breath.

The music starts quietly, electronic sounds, sometimes voices can be heard, scraps of conversation, a saxophone is playing, there are piano sequences, too, rustling sounds of wind in the trees or of birds singing.

At first, all screens only show clouds and sky, then the scenes split up. And while some monitors show the Paris rooftops, chimneys, antennas, the traces of a plane in the sky, a hot-air balloon, others display scenes of street life: people talking outside a bistro, children playing hopscotch on a square. But there is always the sky. And the light of the sun.

Liv forgets fidgeting about when looking at these scenes. It's been quite a while since she last watched this, so seeing the tapes almost feels like meeting an old friend again. "Oh, look, there is the old Monsieur Legran from the boulangérie down the street, always smoking those dreadful cigars," she chuckles pointing to one screen. "And here are Madame Cléments daughters. That was last autumn, see, they have a kite".

Sean leans forward, elbows on knees, and watches the various screens in silence. Fleeting glimpses of the mortal world, some a product of modern times- a car honking and swerving around a bicyclist- others almost could have been lifted from Sean's day. A tiny dog barking at a toddler, the toddler's laughter breaking bright and pure. The images don't really affect him much; Sean's seen movies, of course, has seen the rendered blue of sunlit sky up on a screen. The first time, of course, it was a bit startling, eerily over-bright Technicolor painting the firmament an impossible azure. But that was years ago in itself, and it's only a flat image, after all. No, Sean understands…but it isn't the sight, isn't the colors he longs for. No, what Sean misses is the warmth of the sun on his skin- the warmth of a sun that burns hotter than in Paris. A sun that brushed gold over lovely warm skin.

On the screens Sean watches as more and more the images flicker to children. Small, chubby-wristed little ones…an older girl, dropping ice cream on her crisp, new-looking pinafore, her mother fussing…a group of boys, racing through the street, all skinned knees and open mouths.

He understands. Turns to look at Liv, who is watching the play of images with love writ plainly on her face.

"How old was your child? The one you lost?" Sean doesn't know if the child died, or if he or she is lost to Liv merely because she is changed. It does not matter, really. Either way, the outcome is the same. A permanent hollow in the place your heart used to be. Lost.

Slowly, Liv turns her head and looks at Sean, wide-eyed. Unbelieving. Nobody ever asked me that, she thinks. Nobody ever wanted to know … Why must it be him? The one person I know I cannot, I must not, trust.

"My daughter … ," she starts tentatively, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as if a mystery was hidden there." She … she died about three hours after she was born. Her lungs were injured badly in that accident. Damaged irreparably. They did all they could to save her, but … " Liv's voice falters, yet she forces herself to go on. "Eliane was the most perfect creature I've ever seen. If she had survived, I would have survived, too. I would not be here."

To be continued over here.

Chance encounter

Thu, 06 Mar 2003 11:45:43 GMT

Jewels being lost are found again, this never.
T’is lost but once, and once lost, lost forever.

Christopher Marlowe, Hero and Leander

Sean sits in the reading room at the Bibliothèque Nationale, comfortable in the atmosphere of books old and new, the scents of leather and paper and binding mingling with the varied smells of the mortals. He does not spare a glance out the window into the Vivienne garden, dark now with night; instead, he turns his attention to the volume of Napoleon's maxims in front of him. He witnessed their ruthless application first hand, paid for his lessons in blood and bitter tears. Still, he recognizes their brilliance, and Sean does not hold it against the Emperor. His death, after all, was not permanent. Napoleon can not say the same.

His eyes linger on the page at maxim 42. Feuquieres has said that you should never wait for the enemy in your lines of circumvallation, but should go out and attack him. The maxim is erroneous. No rule of war is so absolute as to allow no exceptions, and waiting for the enemy in the lines of circumvallation ought not to be condemned as injudicious in all cases. Watch and wait...Sean is not sure whether this will be best given the current situation. By now the Tremere will know of Miranda's death and the manner thereof; the message has been sent. Part of Sean wants to pursue them while they're shaken, before they have a chance to regroup. But there is still dissension within Marton's walls, and that makes for dangerous ground to begin an attack from. He is turning this thought over in his mind when he looks up and sees a female Kindred, her face partially obscured by a lustrous fall of raven hair.

There is a conic pile of stones, neatly piled up at the beach, water lapping at its base already. There is light reflected on the waves. It’s the moment before sunrise, a gentle silvery light enveloping the horizon.

Liv traces the surface of the photo with her fingers. Imagines she could hear the small sounds the water is making, imagines she could feel the sand under her fingers. Be at that beach, quietly awaiting the sunrise. And she wouldn’t be afraid. Afraid ….

She lets the book sink into her lap and looks out of the window, out into the night. Had Miranda been afraid of the sunset on her last night? Had she been afraid to die? Or had she even welcomed dawn as she knew it would at last end her agony?

Thoughts like that are constantly spinning around Liv’s mind these days. And it doesn’t matter at how many beautiful pictures and photos she looks. Sooner or later ashes begin to emerge from below, slowly eating up the lovely images from within … She winces imperceptibly, closing her eyes. And is so lost in her thoughts that she does not hear quiet footsteps approaching. Startled, she looks up.

Sean looks down at the picture the vampire woman is cradling like it was an infant. A photograph of still waters, the stone sentinel bearing witness to the burgeoning of day. He looks then at her eyes, sees a shimmer of longing for things lost. She is beautiful beyond words, and so very young. Mortal air clings to her still—and something else. A gentleness of spirit that the Beast hasn’t broken…not yet, at any rate. Despite himself Sean feels something long dormant turn over inside.

“Why so sad, my lady?” he says softly.

“Because,” answers Liv and looks at him for a long moment. Somehow, the voice seems too gentle for this face, sharp, handsome features, revealing determination and a natural authority, green-grey eyes unfathomable.

Normally, her first impulse would have been to shy away from other Kindred, but she feels too worn out these days to be wary any longer.

“Because I should not be here,” she begins, but then her voice trails off again. There are simply too many reasons why she cannot be happy, will never be again.

Miranda.

Cate.

Layers and layers of pain enclosing her heart, wound up so tightly that with each layer it gets more and more agonizing to uncover the next until the final one is laid bare , the one at the core, where everything began.

“I should be out there,” she finally says, looking away from Sean. “Under one of those roofs, watching my daughter sleep. Or go to a solitary beach like this for the summer holidays, sit in the sand, holding hands with the one I loved, waiting for the sunrise …”

At this moment, her voice breaks and she feels she won’t be able to hold out much longer. Reaching for her bag, she gets up quickly, the book falling from her lap. “Excusez-moi, Monsieur. I’m sorry,” she says, making for the exit. “You shouldn’t have asked.”

Sean reaches out, action before thought, and gently places his hand on her arm. “No, it is I who am sorry. I did not mean to upset you.” He studies the woman more closely. Toreador, he thinks. They would have chosen her without question, admiring her fragile beauty. Sean wonders who fashioned this reverse Galatea, changing her from warm flesh into smooth-cold ivory. Thinks the sculptor should have left well enough alone. But it’s too late for that now, and Sean knows she has all the lifetimes of the world before her to regret. Sean very rarely regrets anything anymore, save those things he holds closest to his heart in the endless nights- and he does not speak of those. Clearing his throat, he ventures more.

“My name is Sean,” he says. “Might I have the pleasure of yours?”

Liv looks at him wide-eyed, her mind spinning. Sean - the name echoes eerily in her ears, like a death toll. Is this the man Miranda had told her about? Who had been stalking her? Who might have even killed her?

Instantly, Liv regrets having poured out her heart, of all people, to him. Who – even if it does not appear so at first sight – seems to thrive on others’ fears almost as much as on his victim’s blood. Still, she is not afraid. Why should she be? She has lost everything that once was dear to her, what could happen worse than that? Death? She should have died years ago. No, she must know – under all circumstances - if it is him who caused Miranda’s death. There is only one way to find out …

Blinking, she swallows the unbidden tears. “Of course.” Bowing her head and sinking down into a low, formal curtsy she says. “I am Liv. And I feel honoured to meet the Prince’s Childe. Forgive me my unconsidered indiscretions. It’s just … “She looks up, meeting Sean’s eyes unwaveringly now. “I still hold on to things I should not. Sunshine. Daylight. I should give it all up. I know. But somehow I find I can’t.”

Sean finds himself truly off-kilter for the first time in untold years. One thing that he despises most in female Kindred is their frequently catlike cruelty; he isn’t unaware that some- Harry in particular- would be quick to levy the charge of hypocrisy. But Sean cares little for their opinion. He is how he is and makes no apologies for it. It was not always so. Still- here is one who is different, and seeing her is almost like catching a glimpse of reflected sunshine, flickering still in her gentle eyes. “There is nothing to forgive,” he says, his voice raspy in the silence of the library. “There are things that are…difficult to put away.” Memory of sweet laughter in the courtyard, sweeter than the wild honeysuckle run rampant over the blue-tiled wall, dances briefly through his mind. Sean swallows hard and pushes it away.

Liv watches Sean intently, does not fail to notice his features grow soft for a moment, fleeting glance of a different man. “Indeed there are,“ she says wondering whether they might be referring to the same things. “Although I’ve been called sentimental and naïve for still clinging to the waking world.”

She steps closer, hesitating, confused. Can this really be the man Miranda had described as cold and merciless? For in his eyes she sees no cruelty, instead there is a sadness hidden deep within and - could it be? - understanding.

“Then can you, who have seen many nights more than me, can you tell me if those things will ever stop haunting me? If I will ever wake up one evening and no longer feel the pain about what I will never have again?”

Sean hesitates before replying, senses with innate accuracy that his next words carry the weight of hurt behind them; but whatever else Sean has become, he isn’t a liar. He knows, too, that he stands on the edge of a precipice…but what lies at the bottom, he can’t say. “I can only tell you that I have yet to forget,” he says quietly. More of an admission he has never made to any creature, even Marton- although Marton knows, reads much in Sean’s silences.

“Oh, and what is it you want to forget most?” Liv would have liked to ask him right then and there, but she doesn’t dare. Not yet. All of a sudden, however, a plan forms, a dangerous plan most probably, but she has to understand and she has to know.

“It may sound strange to you. You don’t know me and I hardly know you. But there is no one I could talk to and there is something I’d like to show you,” she begins. “Something I’d like to forget. Maybe …,” again she looks at him intently. “Maybe you could help me to understand … “

She takes a deep breath and continues. “It’s a video installation I made some time ago. Modern art so to speak, but not so modern that it may not be to your taste. I have it at my apartment. Would you like to see it? Would you like to come, tomorrow night perhaps?”

The invitation is unexpectedly bold, and Sean steps quickly back, considers Liv with appraising eyes. She holds his gaze, however, and he does not sense deception in her words. A trap set by the Toreador is also unlikely…and suddenly he realizes that he would very much like to see Liv again. Perhaps this, at least, is simple after all.

“I must confess I care little for modern art,” he says, and Liv’s face begins to fall, so he continues quickly. “However…if it matters to you…I should like to see it. Tomorrow night will be fine.”

Liv bows her head. “Thank you. It means a lot to me, indeed. You know the Place de Vosges? I live very close, Rue de Turenne, 18. The roof-top apartment. Oh, and I forgot, my last name’s Tyler. She watches Sean nod and turns to go, extending her hand: “Very well then, tomorrow night”.

The photo Liv was looking at is from Andy’Goldsworthy’s book Time

Memento mori

Tue, 18 Feb 2003 23:04:23 GMT

(warning: the scene of a crime never looks nice; implied torture)

There is no sense of foreboding, no inner voice that warns Liv of what she will find in Miranda's apartment. The house is silent when she rushes up the stairs, taking two at a time as is her custom. Only muffled sounds of traffic from the street below can be heard. And no one answers when she knocks on the door.

In that instant she realizes that something is wrong. Terribly wrong. For there is this smell, a faint but distinct odour. Of fire. Ashes. Burnt flesh.

"Miranda!"

Feverishly, Liv tries to open the door that is locked from the inside, flying fingers, her pulse quickening with each second: "Now go open, you damned thing". Finally, she manages to unlock the door, rushes into the apartment and … freezes in her tracks.

Liv remembers when she once found Miranda lying on the floor, the door covered with odd symbols and letters written in blood. Obviously, these bizarre rituals could not protect Miranda. For the sight she encounters this time is worse, a million times worse. A nightmare.

It's cold in the room as the windows are opened wide, curtains blowing in the wind. On the wall facing the east there are the charred remains of a body, fixed to the wall by a stake driven right through what once was Miranda's heart.

And nothing is left of Miranda's body, only ashes, while her hair still shimmers and shines, still unharmed. And nothing is left of Miranda's face but a blurred mask, its features marred and twisted in agony. Some burned tie that looks like a torn strip from her gown has been put as a gag over her mouth.

Liv swallows thickly, stepping closer, each step more strenuous than the one before, a hand over her mouth to stop her jaws from shaking. And if she could scream now, people could probably hear her down on the street, but the screams are trapped in her throat.

Like in a trance she lifts the camera and presses the record button. As if everything was less real when seen through the view finder: the crumpled blood-stained bed sheets, Miranda's torn and soiled silk gown on the floor, the bloody smears on the wall.

Liv doesn't even want to imagine what happened within these walls. How painfully Miranda died and how she had to suffer before she could finally die in the morning light. All of a sudden, Liv feels sick, drops the camera and hardly makes it to the kitchen sink, retching, hurling blood on white enamel. This is all too much.

Shaking all over, Liv sinks down on her knees, sits and stares. Stares for a long time, unable to move.

Some time or other, the sound of an ambulance car passing by shakes her from her stupor. She realizes that she must do something. Miranda must no be found like this. Mortals must never find out what happened in this room. Something has to be done. Quickly.

But who could help her? Once more she curses her refusal to get in touch with other Kindred. But wait, there is someone. Not exactly a friend, not exactly someone she looks forward to seeing again. But he is the only person to whom she can turn to now.

Hastily, she picks up her mobile and dials a number.

Beautiful is the night. And terrible.

Mon, 17 Feb 2003 23:26:38 GMT

The square in front of Sacre Coeur – 7.20 p.m.

Once more I’m standing on the terraces looking down on the vast sea of lights that is Paris. Countless lights, whites and yellows and silvers, some reds here and there, sparkling, shining in the darkness. The brightly illuminated boulevards in the distance, the sporadic lights of Montmartre nearby.

"The night sky is beautiful, too,” Miranda once said to me. And she was right. It was me who could not see that beauty.

I press down the button of my new digital camera and try to capture the sights that unfold before me. When I move the view finder up to the whites cupolas of Sacre Coeur I pause for a moment. Almost expecting to see the face again I once spotted there, a sudden revelation under the street lights of that square, unexpected and unwelcome at the time. A face white like mine, gone just as quickly as it had suddenly appeared.

While my eyes wander over to the houses near Sacre Coeur I have to think of Miranda again, about the last time we met in that little park. How forlorn she had appeared in the pale moonlight.

Now that I look back on that encounter I begin to doubt the way I treated her that night. I let her slip through my fingers like water. Being so caught up in my own desperation and grief I had paid attention to nothing else.

Why couldn’t she understand that I couldn’t go home with her as if nothing had ever happened? Why couldn’t she see what I had gone through?

But wait, I hadn’t even told her about my last meeting with Cate. Had not been able to. That was then … Now, however …

It’s not that the pain would have disappeared all of a sudden. It is still there and I still don’t know how I can go on with the knowledge that in the end I meant nothing to Cate. Well, maybe not exactly nothing, but not nearly half as much as she meant, and still means, to me. It feels like there is a huge black hole in my chest, absorbing all energy and all emotions.

But maybe I’m able to talk about it now. At least I’ll try.

We must talk again …

And with that idea on my mind I quickly hurry along the narrow alleyways leading up to Miranda’s house.

Fire and ashes

Fri, 07 Feb 2003 23:29:07 GMT

Fire. White-hot flames dancing in the darkness, licking and lapping at the crumpled paper, slowly devouring it, turning the parchment into ashes. Liv stares down at the gradual disintegration, entranced, unblinkingly. And freezes all of a sudden.

"You must learn to blink". It's almost as if she could hear Cate's voice, a low melodious whisper, soft velvet barely covering the sharp edges beneath.

Silliness to burn that letter, and to no avail as well. As if fire could burn away those words that will be forever engraved into her heart. Together with the dreadful realization that she has meant nothing to her Sire. That Cate made her just out of a whim. Maybe because Cate had pitied her, maybe because she had wanted to indulge in motherly feelings. Whatever it had been, it had passed quickly. And now there is nothing left for her Childe. Only ashes.

But Liv feels no heart-ache, no pain. Or maybe she no longer feels it because it hurts all the time. There is only emptiness now and numbness.

Nothing matters any more.

As it does not matter when two young clochards approach her, one placing a hand on her shoulder possessively, the other stepping between her and the fire burning away in an empty dustbin, a sly grin on his face "I wonder what a woman like you is searching out here. You don't look like you do drugs."

Liv looks at him calmly, can almost physically feel the hardly concealed hunger. "No, I'm searching for something else," she answers in a soft voice. So sweetly and quietly, just like the perfect victim, almost asking to be pushed up against a wall and be fucked again and again.

And that's what they do and Liv does not even move, a lifeless doll, eyes opened wide. Lets them do with her as they please.

She feels nothing.

No sadness. No pain.

Knowing full well that it's only the blood that will her give her some momentary peace. Together with the short small sounds when bones are suddenly broken, quickly and unexpectedly, or a frail human neck

En attendant Catherine

Fri, 17 Jan 2003 09:29:48 GMT

Liv's apartment - evening

The fires are lit and so are the candles. There is soft music, trumpet and piano, and there are rose petals, white like her skin.

And there is Liv, lying on her bed, dreaming. Barefoot, but no runaway hippie child tonight, no leather jeans, no trendy designer shirts. She is dressed in soft velvet instead, midnight-blue, a long simple dress. No jewellery, no necklaces.

Instead of pearls or precious stones she wears a smile.

Snow and a gift after midnight

Thu, 16 Jan 2003 22:15:22 GMT

Liv's apartment - well after midnight

It's after midnight when the doorbell rings. Sitting at one of the long windows leading out onto the rooftop terrace I watch the snow fall. Thick flakes twirling through the air, an animated kaleidoscope of whites and greys.

It's the quiet of the wee hours. The clocks are ticking away the time on the mantelpiece, the fire cracks now and then and I sit there, staring out into the night.

Trying not to think. Not of Miranda. Not of Cate.

I'd rather lie down and sleep. Sleep forever. No dreams. No thirst. No hopes.

I wonder if Miranda will come over tonight. I've left a message on her answering machine earlier the evening, but she hasn't called back yet. I cannot blame her. She knows what's going on. Useless to hide something from Miranda, she's too clever to not see through my cheap excuses and half-hearted promises.

I know that I hurt her. Know that with each kiss and each embrace I hurt her even more. And I regret doing so, but at the same time it's beyond my control.

Too bad, that Miranda off all people will never be able to understand what Cate means to me, Miranda, who never gave me details about her own Sire, just some vague allusions, murmured in a low, flat voice. But from what she told me I gathered that it wasn't done in love when she was it embraced.

With Cate it had been different though. It was Cate who saved me when my life had narrowed down to one steadily escalating progression of shadows that would, in the next phase, only logically end up in eternal darkness. Or so it seemed to me then.

Cate's love saved me. In her arms my former existence began to fade. And in her kisses I could even forget the grief I had felt for Stéphane and my lost child. Cate healed me with her blood.

The mere idea of having another Sire but her appals me. No one could replace her.

The buzz of the doorbell rouses me from my musings. Miranda?

But it's not Miranda - it's a young man from a special delivery service with a parcel. A neat little parcel for me! He has not yet turned his back, happy about the more than generous tip I have given him, when I start to rip open the wrappings.

When some dried rose petals fall from the box I sink down to the floor, my knees suddenly growing weak, and huddle up on the thick rug in front of the fireplace.

With flying fingers I tear open the envelope. It's her handwriting! She has written a letter to me!

My head spins, the elegant letters swimming before my eyes. It takes a while before I actually understand the meaning of the sentences.

Cate has been there. All the time. Watching over me. She … she has even watched me with Miranda. I feel the blood rushing to my face. This knowledge feels strange to me. Strangely exciting, too.

My pulse quickens, quickens even more, when I read the last line.

I will see her tomorrow night!

A crucial letter

Thu, 02 Jan 2003 22:27:25 GMT

Liv's apartment - 5.10 pm

Liv rose shortly after sun set. Unlike it was her normal custom- but the conversation she had had with Craig the night before was still weighing heavily on her mind. There were things to do that night. Things she'd rather keep to herself. She slipped into a pale blue silk kimono and lit a fire in the ancient fireplace as quickly and quietly as possible to not disturb Miranda. Then, she walked to her study, sat down at her antique bureau and began to write:

Cate,

I'm sending you this heart. Burn it and send me the ashes when you're done with me.

Or keep it. When you want to come back to me.

It's not because of indifference that I have not yet tried to contact you before. I know when you think the right moment has come you will do what you want to do.

The reason why I'm writing to you is that a certain person - and you may well know to whom I am referring - has warned me that he will see to it I should be fostered by another Sire. In case you would not be willing to complete my education that is. What a devious fool he is. As if you hadn't educated me well enough.

I know now it was a big mistake choosing to ignore your efforts to introduce me to the ways and traditions of our kindred. It was naïve of me to believe I could disregard all this as if it was some ancient lore holding no relevance for me. Time and again have you told me to give up my fascination with the mortal world and get acquainted with our world instead. It seems I have worn out your patience in doing so - and that's the worst of all. Mistakes, so many mistakes! I have to come to regret them dearly and I have to pay a high price now.

Cate, I don't want any other sire. Least of all the person who has brought all this upon me. He has no love for me, certainly not the love you once had for me. Oh, I have grown so weary of all these lonely nights. Therefore - see, I do not hide anything from you, even if it may turn out to my disadvantage - I have taken a lover. A beautiful gentle creature named Miranda who took care of me when I most needed it. It is also for her sake, for she has been nothing but kind to me, that I must know how you stand to me now.

But know also this: I will send her away, instantly, should this be your wish.

Into your hands I lay my heart now.

Don't send me ashes.

Yours forever,

~ Liv

Hurriedly, Liv wrote Cate's address on an envelope and put the letter inside. Then, she flipped out her cell phone to inform Monsieur Francois, her maitre fleuriste, that she would leave a letter with him later that evening and gave him instructions to make up a heart from white rosebuds.

After that she walked into the bedroom again. Miranda was still asleep, her face buried in the pillows. In the light of the flames her long tresses shimmered like pale red gold. Liv's heart tightened when she saw the mark on Miranda's left shoulder blade, visible evidence of the all the times Miranda had been wounded and hurt in the past. Liv sighed. Crawling across the bed, she opened her kimono wide and then began to kiss Miranda awake. Kissed her like there was no tomorrow.

Trying to forget

Tue, 31 Dec 2002 18:34:14 GMT

CrimsonLiv: *Taking two steps at a time I'm hurrying up the long stairs leading to Miranda's flat. Anxious what might have happened to her. She always seemed such a calm and rational person - at least most of the time. I smile when the image of Miranda writhing in my arms, not calm and reserved at all, flashes up on my mind. But I can't dwell on that now. She sounded frightened and upset when she spoke on my answering machine. What has happened? I finally reach her door and knock frantically.* Miranda? Are you at home? It's Liv.

mirandoovamp: *I launch myself off the bed, running to the door. I open in, and pull you in, enveloping you in a hug.* Thank you for coming over.

CrimsonLiv: Miranda. *I kiss you breathlessly* What is the matter? You sounded horrible.

mirandoovamp: *I lead you over to the sofa. When we sit, I lean against you. Your presence is a comfort and I relax a little.* I was out hunting. The Prince's Childe found me. He questioned me about what the Tremere have been doing. He hurt me. *I hold up my right hand. It is a bit swollen*

CrimsonLiv: *I take your hand cautiously and place a kiss on your palm* The Prince's Childe has threatened you? *my eyes widen* But why? You are new to this city. Or are you involved in .... something?

mirandoovamp: I'm not involved in anything. I assume that my Clan is, but I don't know anything about it. He told me that he'd be checking up on me. *I lean in and kiss your lips softly.* By the way, you missed an interesting party last night.

CrimsonLiv: *I return the kiss, licking your lips playfully* An interesting party? Can't have been half as *I chuckle* interesting as the night I spent over here.

mirandoovamp: Well, It seems that Harry, who is dating a Kine named Dominic, and Craig, who is dating a Kine named Dave, don't like each other. There was a lot of verbal sparing going on. Sean, the Prince's child, was introduced to everyone there. And we met some of your clan mates... *I trail off, unsure if I should continue.*

CrimsonLiv: *I sense that you are hesitating and that makes me curious* My clan mates? Craig Parker perhaps, *I snort remembering the previous encounter I had with him* fashion designer most extraordinaire?

mirandoovamp: Him, and Cate. *I grab your hand as I say it.*

CrimsonLiv: *my lips begin to tremble as I hear you saying that name. It is as if someone has stabbed a knife right through my heart* Cate? *my voice drops to a whisper* Cate … was there?

mirandoovamp: Yes, and Craig voiced his displeasure as to how she has treated you. She told him that you were capable of taking care of yourself. She had a young man with her, tall, slender, curly dark hair.

CrimsonLiv: *I feel my hands start shaking, even if I try hard to control myself, but that's almost too much information to digest* A young man you say .... *No, no! My mind's spinning. Please don't let it be so! Grasping the last straw, I reply as casually as possible* A mortal?

mirandoovamp: I don't know. We weren't introduced, and I didn't study him long enough to see if he was breathing or not. *I gather your trembling form into my arms, and kiss your forehead*

CrimsonLiv: *Upset as I am, I hardly notice your efforts to comfort me* And what about Craig? What did he tell Cate?

mirandoovamp: He hold her that she should be punished for releasing a Childe into the world that wasn't ready, that didn't know how to live like one of us. *I hold you tighter, raining soft kisses on your face and hair.*

CrimsonLiv: What are you saying? Cate should be punished? *I feel a desperate fury rise within my that can hardly be contained any longer* Why does he have to meddle into things that are none of his business? * I free myself from your embrace and get up excitedly* What does *he* know about me? Or Cate? *my voice is seething with anger now* Why did I have to run into him that night? That devious scheming bastard!

mirandoovamp: Ssshh. *I stroke your back, massaging gentle circles.* Nothing will happen to Cate, other than she might beat the crap out of Craig. He's just doing what he thinks is right. I'm trying to get him to stop pestering her as well. I won't let anything happen to you.

CrimsonLiv: *I shake my head furiously* I'm not afraid for Cate. She knows how to deal with the likes of Craig Parker. Hah, doing what Monsieur thinks is right. He only made everything worse! What if she thinks now that *I* am responsible for his scene? That *I* have been speaking ill of her?

mirandoovamp: I wouldn't worry about that. I have a feeling that she doesn't believe a great deal of what Craig said. It'll all be fine. *I tilt your face up and kiss you softly.*

CrimsonLiv: * I bite my lips and look into your eyes. You have been nothing but good to me, and I don't want to hurt you, but I feel that I have to be open to you now. I frame your face with my hands* Miranda, you do not understand ... *I draw in a deep breath* This is not about the rules or about how a fledgling should be looked after. Cate is not only my sire. She also is ... *I shrug my shoulders* or maybe was .... my lover. And *I let my hands sink and look away from you now, voice low* And despite everything that has happened. I still .... love her.

mirandoovamp: Oh, *My face falls. Not again. First Harry and now Liv.* I'm sorry. *I pull away from you and move away, drawing knees to chest.*

CrimsonLiv: *I instantly realize how this revelation must make you feel. I kneel down before you, taking your hands in mine* Miranda, I have come to love you, too, in the short period of time that we've known each other. And I'm not speaking about our night together. It's more than that. And because of that I can't lie to you. But unless I haven't cleared up the situation with Cate I'm not really free. Do you understand that?

mirandoovamp: Yeah, I guess so. *I draw you up and lay a powerful, soul searching kiss on your lips.* It's getting late, would you like to stay?

CrimsonLiv: *I smile faintly, searching your face for answers* Would you like me to stay?

mirandoovamp: Only if you are comfortable doing so. I personally would like a repeat of the other night, but if you're not ready to do that, I would be fine with holding you while we sleep.

CrimsonLiv: Comfortable? Oh dear. *I sweep some unruly curls from your face* You seem to have no idea how beautiful and sexy you are, Miranda. *I let my hands slowly crawl under you skirt and up your thighs* I'm not sure whether I would be fine if you were only *holding* me while we sleep.

mirandoovamp: Really? What would you have me do then? *I give you a sly grin.*

CrimsonLiv: *I smile back at you, taking your hand and leading you to the four-poster bed across the room* I'd like you to feel me and touch me like you did the last time and ... *whispering in your ear seductively* drink from me while you make love to me.

mirandoovamp: *I start to remove your clothes, covering each newly-revealed expanse of skin with kisses and caresses. After helping you step out of your pants, I kiss my way up your leg, I find your sweet spot and flick your nub with my tongue.*

CrimsonLiv: *I bite my lips, moaning, burying my hands in your hair* God, this is so good .... you're so good.

mirandoovamp: *I continue licking, sucking and nipping until you start to shudder, as you shudder, I sink my fangs into your thigh, taking a small sip. When you sag against my hands, I help you to lay down. I then strip and join you.*

CrimsonLiv: *I draw you down on me and start kissing throat, while caressing your breasts. Can't get enough of your sweet soft skin, the curve of your neck*

mirandoovamp: *I moan and arch into your touch. * Oh, Gods! *I roll off of you, and pull you up so you are laying on me, spreading my legs to accommodate.*

CrimsonLiv: *I'm that far gone already that hearing you moan like this is almost enough to make me come again. I want more of your sweet moans. More of you. I lick my finger slowly, reach down between your legs and part the lips there slowly, very slowly, caressing you while I scrape my fangs over the curve of your neck.* Come for me Miranda. Please, my lovely.

mirandoovamp: *I feel my muscles contract, one by one, raising me off the mattress. I feel your fangs pierce my skin as warmth spreads through my body and I shudder my release. I sag back on the down comforter, feeling both boneless and weightless.*

CrimsonLiv: *I hold your trembling body in my arms while I feel my own climax returning. Your blood is like fire, devouring me and I cry out your name*

mirandoovamp: *I reach down and cover us with a blanket. I then take to the window, I've already drawn the shades, and the door, I locked it after you came in. The lights had been turned off after I called you.* Goodnight Liv. *I kiss you gently and gather you in my arms, falling asleep almost immediately.*

CrimsonLiv: *Cate seems forgotten ... for the moment. And so are the intrigues of the others. I'm floating into a dream and the last thing I feel is your body against mine*

A glimpse of light

Fri, 27 Dec 2002 11:54:30 GMT

Liv's apartment - around 9 p.m.

Liv paces around her apartment, from time to time she glances at the huge canvas that's still standing in the hall, still unpacked. Of course, the men from the gallery had offered to hang it for her. But she hadn't wanted it. So it stays there. A silent reminder of another failure. Liv sighs, flips out her cell phone and dials a

CrimsonLiv: Bon soir. Miranda? This is Liv.

mirandoovamp: Liv! How nice to hear from you. How are you doing this evening?

CrimsonLiv: Oh well ... I guess I'm fine.

CrimsonLiv: I thought I give you call and thank you for the lovely Christmas card you left under my door.

mirandoovamp: Oh, you're welcome. Thank you for calling me. Are you sure that you're ok, you sound down.

CrimsonLiv: I've been thinking a lot about the things you told me last time. You were right. About many things. And I'd like to talk to again ... that is, if you have time.

mirandoovamp: I have plenty of time. Would you like to come here, or would you like me to come to you?

CrimsonLiv: Just as you like, but ... maybe you'd like to come over to my place.

mirandoovamp: Sure. You're at home?.

CrimsonLiv: Yes. You know the way, don't you?

mirandoovamp: I'll be over in a few minutes.

CrimsonLiv: Thank you. I look forward to seeing you. Bye.

mirandoovamp: I hung up the phone, and was out the door. A few minutes later I was knocking at you door.

CrimsonLiv: **I open the door and smile* Hi Miranda, it's good to see you *I give you a hug*

mirandoovamp: It's good to see you too, Liv. *I embrace you back.*

CrimsonLiv: Come in! Let me get your coat.

mirandoovamp: Thank you. *I remove my coat and look around, taking in the elegance of the flat, which made my own look shabby in comparison.*

CrimsonLiv: The living room's over there. Come on. *We walk down the corridor*

mirandoovamp: *I follow, absorbing the surroundings. Once we reach the living room, I wait for you to sit before I do.*

CrimsonLiv: *after motioning you to sit down I fidget about nervously, not quite at ease* Do you want something? A hot chocolate perhaps? To me it always taste stale. But I like the smell.

mirandoovamp: No thank you, I'm fine. What is it you wanted to talk about?

CrimsonLiv: Oh, well. *I look away, not knowing quite where to start* Do you see the canvas in the hall? That unpacked monster?

CrimsonLiv: I saw it at a vernissage about a week ago. Immediately fell in love with it. It's a summer sky. And then, these days are so dark, I thought why not buy it.

mirandoovamp: Sounds like a good idea to me.

CrimsonLiv: Yeah, I thought I give myself a Christmas present *I laugh sarcastically* So I fixed an appointment with the owner of the gallery, a M. Mortensen and bought it right away.

mirandoovamp: *I look to the painting, and then to you.* Then why haven't you hung it?

CrimsonLiv: Before I left he said he hoped there would always be summer skies for me*I blink because I still can't forget those words* He only wanted to be polite, he's a charming man. But in that instant I realized how absurd everything is ... and that this painting's nothing but …… a meager substitute for something ... *my voice falters and I feel there are tears running down the side of my face* for something I have lost forever ... Of course, I couldn't tell him. I can't tell anyone.

mirandoovamp: *I lean over and cradle you in my arms.* You have to let your old life go. Every one of us does. We have to, or it will drive us mad.

CrimsonLiv: But I can't! *I almost cry and lean into your embrace* I can't let go of it! Especially not around this time of the year.

CrimsonLiv: Maybe I should have left this city long ago ... but where should I go?

mirandoovamp: I know it's hard. *I place a light kiss on the top of your head.* We all go through this. If you leave, then you will just be running away from your problems.

CrimsonLiv: It seems I'm quite good at running away from my problems.

mirandoovamp: Then stay here and face them. I'll help you. *I hold you tighter, and rub circles on your back.*

CrimsonLiv: *I sob only more and lean into your touch. It's as if something inside me was melting.* Thank you. You have no idea how lost I felt since ... *I bit my lips and stop abruptly*

mirandoovamp: Since?

CrimsonLiv: *I swallow hard and wipe the tears away* I must be looking dreadful. I guess my make-up is all ruined.

mirandoovamp:*I lean up and brush the tears away.* It's not that bad.

CrimsonLiv: *I take your hands in mine* Talking to you means a lot to me. All these encounters I had in the last weeks …… they frightened me and then, slowly, I began to realize that I couldn't go on as before. But I didn't want to admit it at first.

mirandoovamp: Are you ready now? Are you ready to give up your old life?

CrimsonLiv: *I shrug my shoulders and sigh* I don't know. That's not an easy decision. And if I gave up my old life? What then? To what should I hold on then?

mirandoovamp: You can still have your hobbies, and you can embrace you clan mates and new friends. *I punctuate the statement by leaning in and hugging you.*

CrimsonLiv: My new friends? *I smile faintly* Seems you're my only friend at the moment.

mirandoovamp: You'll make more. Just look at me. A few short weeks ago I didn't know a soul in this city. Now I have all sorts of friends, both Kindred and Kine. Give it time. Be open and you'll meet people.

CrimsonLiv: Oh, it's not that I have not met people ... but so far my encounters both with Kindred and Kine didn't turn out so well. And as for my hobbies. You might find them somewhat bizarre, too.

mirandoovamp: Why didn't they go so well? What happened?

CrimsonLiv: Oh, there was this vernissage, you see. I so wanted to go there and even managed to find my way in. But then suddenly it became all too much. All these mortals around me. The scent of their blood was overpowering. I couldn't stand it any longer. The hunger almost drove me mad although I had fed before. And right afterwards I ran into a Mr. Parker, Craig Parker.

mirandoovamp: *I smile when you say his name.* Ah, Craig. He's a very nice fellow. And now you know to feed before you go to places like that.

CrimsonLiv: *I raise an eyebrow* A nice fellow? He was a bit too curious for my taste. And so convinced of himself. But maybe I judged him too hastily.

mirandoovamp: He is very curious and can be very sure of himself. But he was there for me when I was going through a rough time. He's also very free with praise. I often look him up when I need a confidence boost.

CrimsonLiv: But why would you need a confidence boost? Just look at you. You're beautiful.

mirandoovamp: Your quite beautiful yourself. I still have bad days. Days when I think that no one wants me.

CrimsonLiv: But Miranda you could have anyone. I don't know about kindred, but mortals are can be fooled so easily. Almost too easily.

mirandoovamp: I know. I don't really want mortals, and I don't want to fool anyone into being a lover.

CrimsonLiv: Yes, that's true. One cannot fool someone into being a lover. Or remain a lover.

mirandoovamp: I don't want to talk of lovers right now. Are you feeling any better?

CrimsonLiv: Yes *Talking about lost loves is something I don't want either. I smile at you* Much better.

mirandoovamp: That's good. I'm glad that I could be some help.

CrimsonLiv: I wonder … do you want to see some modern art for a change?

mirandoovamp: Modern art? Sounds lovely.

CrimsonLiv: Yes, tell me what you think about it . *I take you by the hand and get up* Come on.

mirandoovamp: *I get up after you and laugh.* My, aren't we impatient! I'm coming!

CrimsonLiv: *I laugh too* Oh, where do I always leave my manners? But you're going to see something I haven't shown anyone before. *I lead you to the next salon that is completely empty. Apart from 20 video screens on one wall and a sound system on the opposite wall*

mirandoovamp: Oh my. This is very high tech!

CrimsonLiv: It is! And this is an exclusive performance for you only! *I switch on the video screens on by one. There are various sights. Skies. Clouds. Glimpses of the rooftop Paris rooftop silhouette. The branches of a tree. The traces of a plane in the sky. A collage of bits and pieces of everyday life. By daylight.*

mirandoovamp: *I survey the screens, and my brows knit together. This isn't good.* This is.. really... interesting.

CrimsonLiv: *I run over to the sound system and switch on the music. Electronic sounds combined with a piano, a saxophone, church bells, sounds of birds. But when I hear the tone in your voice I turn down the sound instantly, looking at you anxiously.* What is it? You don't like it?

mirandoovamp: No, I like it. I now can see just how strongly you were holding on to your old life. *I walk over and touch one of the screens.* I had forgotten how much i missed the sun.

CrimsonLiv: Yes. The sun ……*I look down crestfallen* Maybe ... you are right. I should give this up, too. But it's so hard.

mirandoovamp: Not give it up entirely. Just make it a lesser part of your life. You know, the night sky is also beautiful.

CrimsonLiv: *I tilt my head, beginning to ponder your last statement, speaking more to myself* Hmmm, I would need a better equipment. *Looking up and continuing aloud* Miranda, why did this never occur to me? To discover the beauty of the night. This is brilliant!

mirandoovamp: *I turn, and walk over to you, cupping your face.* It might help you heal.

CrimsonLiv: *I look at you and I feel the tears rising again. But this time it's different. Maybe, after all, I could be happy again. I lean forward and kiss the side of your face.* Thank you.

mirandoovamp: *I return the kiss, on the opposite cheek.* You're welcome.

CrimsonLiv: *Being so close to you confuses me. I look into your sea-green eyes wondering whether there's a question hidden there. But maybe I only imagine that. I would like to say something, but don't know what. And then you pull back.*

mirandoovamp: Well, Liv, I should be going. If you need me again, just call.

CrimsonLiv: I'll surely do that. *I close my hand over yours* You helped me a lot. You're a real friend, Miranda.

mirandoovamp: No problem! I'll talk to you soon. *I walk behind you as you lead me to the door.* Thank you for inviting me over. I'll call you in a couple of days. Bye!

CrimsonLiv: Bye! * I watch you walking down the stairs and close the door when you're out of sight. I touch my face. There is a tingling sensation on my skin. On the spot where you've kissed me.

A plan

Sat, 21 Dec 2002 17:53:13 GMT

Liv's apartment - 11.14 p.m.

Liv had spent the evening watching old Godard movies in black and white. Everything seemed black and white these days. And the nights were so long. Almost too long.

The videos she had taped the last days showed nothing but grey skies with low-hanging clouds. But she was hungry for the sun. Always hungry. Sometimes the hunger for sun and light was even worse than the hunger for blood.

And the bright Christmas lights on the streets were no substitute. On the contrary. She'd rather ignore the upcoming holidays. She didn't want to picture herself on those streets, carrying bags and parcels, a little girl at her side pointing excitedly to a shop-window: "Look! Look at the angels over there, they have real wings!"

Another life. A life that had never existed.

Suddenly, she remembered the Dumonteil skyscape she had instantly fallen for at the vernissage. Those incredible blues. Maybe she could afford the painting. Yeah, probably, she could.

Money had never been an issue. There had been money enough, old money, on Stéphane's side - even if they had preferred to lead a rather bohemien lifestyle. Cate, too, had always been generous with her.

More than generous with kisses and sweet smiles. Liv touched her lips.

That was another life, too.

Liv looked at her watch. Past 11 already. Of course, the gallery was closed now. But maybe she could leave a message for Mr. Mortensen. Or was this going to be another faux-pas?

Without hesitating she flipped out her cell phone and dialled the gallery's number she had found on the internet. As expected, an answering machine started off.

Liv drew a deep breath: "Bon soir M.Mortensen. This is Liv, Liv Tyler. The run-away girl from your vernissage. I wanted to say how very sorry I'm about that sort of … turbulence I created. It is not my usual style to run off like a lunatic."

She paused for a moment thinking hopefully, not.

"Anyhow, I'd like to see you again regarding the Dumonteil skyscape. The exact title escapes me. But you'll surely remember, the summer sky. I'm still interested in that painting. Very interested. Could you please contact my agent M. Dussolier in case it's still available. His telephone number is …."

She switched off the phone. Still unsure whether this was a good idea or not. But she had to practice, had to become better at pretending to be someone she was not. A mortal Liv that had ceased to exist long ago.

(To be continued over here )

Liv's story

Sun, 15 Dec 2002 12:54:00 GMT

Père Lachaise - Sunday, December 15, 1.23 a.m.

Isn't it amazing how little it sometimes takes to change your life in a matter of nothing? Having to wait for a few precious seconds too long at a red light. Taking a different road home. Not the one you took countless times before. When nothing ever happened.

Contrary to that night, the night of December 15th, exactly six years ago. It had been a Sunday and Stéphane and I were driving home after a dinner party with friends. Stéphane had been my husband. Maybe husband's the wrong for we had not been married in the traditional sense. But what means a ring, after all, a ceremony? It's only your heart that matters. I had never cared about conventions like that. Nor had Stéphane. Maybe we would have married later on. Maybe not. It wouldn't have made any difference.

We were on our way home, talking about our friends, about Christmas presents and the upcoming holidays. Suddenly from the opposite lane, there were car lights, approaching us too fast. On the icy streets, it was matter of seconds. "Hey, why doesn't that guy try to stop?" Stéphane cried out and tried to make a sharp turn to the right, but it was already too late.

The sounds of breaking glass and creaking metal mixed with the dull thud pounding in my ears. The windshield came down on us, pulverized into countless tiny fragments by the enormous impact, and we were pressed into our seats. My memory ends in a surrounding darkness.

***

Whether Stéphane died at the scene of the accident or on the way to the hospital, I do not know. They never told me.

And if you think it couldn't get any worse. It did. For at that time I had been pregnant. Our child should have been born in mid-January.

I hardly remember how they took me to the hospital. It was all a blur. Fleeting lights, the sound of the ambulance horn, a nurse holding my hand and speaking to me in a soft soothing voice.

What I did notice, however, in my half-conscious state was that they seemed to be worried about the baby. They feared it might be hurt, too. "We will do a C-section, Mlle.Tyler," one of the doctors informed me. "Don't worry. The tests show that the baby is developped enough that we can get her. We'll start as soon as the epidural sets in."

***

When I saw my daughter for the first time I believed everything would turn out alright. At that moment I didn't know about Stéphane. I only saw this tiny, little bundle they gave me to hold. A tender frown crinkling her forehead. Such delicate little fingers and toes. She was the most perfect creature I've ever seen. Gasping and making faint mewling, coughing sounds. But her lips were blue, apparently she had trouble breathing.

They didn't let me hold her for long. The faces of the doctors and the nurses were serious when they took her away. They did not meet my eyes. Up to that moment things had happened so quickly that I hadn't had the time to be afraid, but now I was. Mortally afraid. It was as if the ground was sliding out from under me.

***

The next time I saw her she was dead.

All night long I held her tiny body. I refused to let them give me any painkillers that would have made me sleepy. I would not even have needed them, I did not feel any physical pain. And I didn't want to be drowsy. I wanted to experience every moment I could with her. Hold her as long as I could, her little hands in my hands. Kiss her smooth little head.

She looked so beautiful, so peaceful.

Eliane, my daughter, who died on the day she was born, December 15, six years ago.

And I still have not tears enough to cry for her and Stephane. I wish I could have died with them on that icy road. Instead of standing here at their grave at Pere Lachaise. Stone angels looking down on me. Chilly winds coming from the North. I feel frozen from head to toe. The long black coat with the fur collar doesn't warm me.

All the blood in the world is not enough to soothe that pain.

I lie down a bouquet of white Christmas roses and I cry.

An uninvited guest

Mon, 09 Dec 2002 22:14:11 GMT

In front of Viggo's gallery - Saturday, December 7, around 8 p.m.

Invitations only, that should be no problem, I thought while waiting in an alleyway just across the gallery for a suitable candidate to show up. Right then an elderly gentleman turned around the corner. Hastily walking up to the gallery. Black moustache. Friendly eyes. Impeccably dressed.

So go for it! I told myself.

"Excusez-moi, Monsieur. I know … it's a bit strange. Normally, I do not address strangers like this. But do you happen to be invited to the vernissage in the gallery over there?"

The answer was a surprised smile, the man looking me up and down, interestedly, but not interested in a bad way. Yeah, I could be his grand-daughter. Couldn't I?

"Monsieur …. ," I start again. "I'd love to see the paintings over there. But it's invitations only. And I thought …." - yeah Liv, use your most charming smile -"Wouldn't you want to show up there with a new acquaintance of yours?

It never hurts to top a smile with some mental suggestions we vampires tend to use more often than our fangs. "That is with me?"

And, as always, a little mind trick worked wonders, or was it the appeal to Monsieur's vanity?

Slowly, he smiled back. "Why not? After all. I'm a good customer. I'm sure Mr. Mortensen will not mind if I show up in company.

"I only wish I knew my "new acquaintance's" name".

"It's Liv, simply Liv".

"That doesn't sound French, Mademoiselle."

"No, it's not. My father was American. Monsieur ….?

"Oh, pardon. Where did I leave my manners? Louis Le Corvec. May I offer you my arm, mademoiselle?"

And so, after no time at all, I entered the crowded gallery, arm in arm with the charming Monsieur Le Corvec

Curious

Sat, 07 Dec 2002 15:22:03 GMT

Café Costes - Friday, December 6, 9.45 p.m.

The gallery had stirred my interest from the moment I came across it on the way to my apartment some weeks ago. Then, a few minutes ago I overheard a conversation in a café, some stylish ladies chatting on an upcoming exhibition in that gallery. Young modern artists should be presented painting in the Impressionist style.

It sounded too intriguing.

"It's going to take place tormorrow, December 7. Invitations only," one of the ladies chirped. "Of course, Serge and I are invited. Serge, you must know, has been acquainted with Mr. Mortensen since he opened the gallery.

I smiled to myself. Oh, and I will be there as well ..

Unbroken

Fri, 29 Nov 2002 22:10:05 GMT

The square in front of Sacre Coeur - around 5 p.m., not long after sunset.

Stupid, so stupid. Should have fed that night before I went to the Catacombs. Would have been more rational then, would not have over-reacted the way I did. Panicked like a little girl. Should have tried to find out long before what was behind Cate's cryptic statements. Obscure accounts on traditions and clans and rivalries.

But I would hear none of it.

So there are others. At the back of my mind I had always known.

But had not wanted to know. They meant nothing to me.

The more I lost touch to the mortal world, the more desperately I clang to it. They seemed the true mystery, living, breathing, ALIVE. Not the animated corpses we vampires are.

"It will pass, my lovely," Cate had said, her hand soft on my hair. "You will come to understand." Whispered promises against the side of my face.

What is left of these promises now?

These others will not take the streets away from me, this city I cannot leave even if memories are lingering there at every street corner. I walk down a chaussee and suddenly these recollections flash up, crystal clear and painful, sharper than a knife in the dark - or a vampire's fangs.

Of course, the Catacombs will be taboo from now on. Too dangerous the darkness down there, where an ancient could get you - just like this. Rape, even kill you without anybody ever finding out.

The streets still belong to me, the museums, the wide open squares. Or is it an illusion feeling safe in the human crowd?

I have to be wary from on. But not a coward

An unexpected encounter

Tue, 26 Nov 2002 14:08:32 GMT

Metro station Denfert-Rochereau - 1.35 a.m.

The wind blows the hair from my face as the train leaves the station again. Up the stairs, rain on my face, and across the street until I'm standing in front of an unassuming door, one of the many - mostly hidden - entrances to the Parisian Catacombs, l'Empire des Morts as they call it.

Down a long stone spiral stair case, down into a seemingly endless maze of tunnels and corridors. There is no echo, the chalk walls devour each sound I'm making. I move in silence. Eternal darkness down here, but thanks to my keen vampiric senses I do not need a flashlight to find my way. I've been down here before and I know where I'm going.

Passing lines of neatly stacked bones and skulls along the walls I head on, alone. Until I hear voices from afar and music. Pounding techno beats mixed with some sort of Gregorian chants. And suddenly there is light, flash lights, torches. People dancing.

Of course, these parties are illegal - that's why the locations change so often. No one wants to risk being caught by the tunnel police. And there is not only the jeunesse d'oree or students from the nearby university. There are drug dealers, as well, all sorts of odd existences. What could be a better hunting ground for me?

But I have not come to hunt tonight. It's music and dancing I'm longing for. And the comforting illusion of being not alone. At least not for a few precious hours.

Someone hands me a bottle of wine and I pretend to drink. As if I was mortal again. Move my body to the music, let myself drift and sway to the beats. Just want to forget where I am and what I am.

But suddenly … I feel something. There is something. A powerful presence I've never sensed before. I open my eyes and there he is. I can spot him immediately over the heads of the other dancers, even if he's on the far side of the hall, standing in the shadows. Tall, long dark hair, clad in black leather, regal and … terrifying.

If a heart was still beating in my chest I'm sure, it would stop now. I want to turn away and leave, leave immediately, but find I can't. It is as if I was drawn to him. As if he was calling me.

In a flash I see him hovering above me, smiling, but his eyes do not smile. He traces the vein on my throat, almost tenderly, and bends over … I gasp. This is too terrible! Why did Cate never tell me there are others? For he is … he is a vampire, too! But not like me, much older and immensely more powerful.

What could he want from me? Better not try to find out. I must leave here. NOW.

With an enormous effort I manage to break eye contact. Turn around quickly and start to run. Run as fast as I can, bumping against people, kicking others aside. Run back into the corridors. Fast. Fast. And pray that he will not follow me.

On the move

Sun, 24 Nov 2002 14:33:05 GMT

Liv's apartment, 1 a.m.

Can't stand these empty rooms any longer. Glass and steel and mahogany. The continual flicker of the TV screens. Feel like a beast trapped in a cage. Must go. Escape.

Though I cannot escape her. Her image will follow me wherever I go. Shimmering lips, her graceful milk-white throat. But then her smile can be so cruel sometimes. It makes me shiver.

Enough! Away from here!

Hair open and wild. High-heel boots, low riding jeans, some fancy Dolce&Gabana top, black pearls tight around my neck. Now where's that hippie jacket?

Off and away!

To the Empire of the Dead.

My lips are red. Blood-red

Voyeur

Fri, 22 Nov 2002 16:29:06 GMT

Liv's apartment, 2 a.m.

It’s not that the people in my street would not know me. After all, I’m not invisible.

I buy magazines at the tabacs et journaux across the street, a baguette or chocolate croissants at the boulangerie next door that invariably end up – and no one can explain how - in somebody else’s shopping basket or with a homeless guy on the street. But whatever I do I always make sure no lasting images are left on their minds.

“A young woman with long dark hair, pale skin. Sure, I know her”.

“Yeah, she told me she suffers from some sort of rare photo allergy. That’s why she goes out only at night.”

“Pauvre petite.”

That’s all they know, but then their memories get blurred. Like a ghost I live on the fringes of their minds. They do not know what I am.

But how surprised would they be that I know quite a lot about them.

It started when I began to install cameras on my rooftop terrace. To film the sky. The clouds. The sunshine.

Then one day the wind must have changed the orientation of one of the cameras and instead of trees and skies there suddenly was the little grocery store across the street. People came and went, bought melons and artichokes, talked about the weather, their little ailments or the latest soccer game. Street life. Ordinary life.

I became addicted to these tapes. I re-installed all my cameras so that I could view more and more of my neighbourhood. The little square a little further down the street. The bistro two houses further up. Other shops. Apartments. And I would spend night after night watching these tapes.

In my spacious roof-top apartment one wall of the living room only consists of TV screens that play my videos non-stop. They give me the illusion of still being part of their lives. Of being not alone.

“This is insane,” Cate once said, when she discovered my video installations. “This is a different world. And you are no longer a part of it.”

As if I didn’t know.

She gave an exasperated sigh and shook her head in discontent. As she does so often these days when she’s with me. There’s not much I can do to please her, it seems. And I would so desperately like to please her. Make her stay with me. But she’s cold and distant. More and more. And I can only speculate what is the reason why. Is it me? My insane eccentricity? Or is it somebody else?

Once she mentioned the name “Orlando”, a brief lapse from her lips. But she wouldn’t say more and since then this name’s tormenting me. Orlando. Such a beautiful name. But how I hate it already.