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Tonight, Seattle rains.
It lashes against the windows, raindrops leaving slashes that never end yet never last, as layer after layer comes.
Ryong doesn’t bother herself with the weather. Watching that in stillness reminds her of mindfulness. Grounding. Practices of Kine and her old self to stay alive. But she concedes, it is calming, watching the sadness of the sky unleash itself upon the dark towers of the city.
Eurgh. Such words belonged to Patience, if they bothered with the literal.
“Calming, is it not?”
Ryong knows who she is. Her shadow in unlife. Never too far, neither too close — but closer than what the Court or the Kindred in Seattle would consider appropriate. And my, had the Court been intrigued.
Ryong crosses her arms a little tighter around herself. It’s not the chill that she feels.
“Before I turned, I enjoyed watching the rain.” Ryong Choi, an executive slaving away in the halls of this very tower. Often, she was burdened with impossible requests made by colleagues both immediate and distant. Often enough, she found herself by her lonesome; watching, waiting, as if time would also erode the heaviness on her shoulders.
Time did not erode it. Time cemented the suffering she now bears. And time for her now, is forever.
“Now, I do not care for it.” Ryong turns to her companion, who despite their years, remains distractingly tall and dark and roguishly handsome.
Whispers in the Court abound on their relationship. A Sheriff and her Prince. The shadow to the throne. Blood-bound, the quietest whispers say. Neither have seen the need to dispel these rumours, despite being untrue.
It was only once. It was only made in desperation. Nor was it vitae still pulsating from the vein.
No matter how smartly-dressed Banu Haqim are in suit and tie and slicked-back hair, Ryong sees the predator with the cheek to cheek grin. The half of her cast in shadow. The curling of the darkness on the outline of her silhouette. Banu Haqim remain monsters, even if their dignity and decorum softens the edges of their fangs.
The rain pours ever louder.
“You are nervous, my Prince.”
Ryong barks, the first of herself she lets loose. “I know why you’re here, Phyre. Do not toy with me. If not out of respect for your Prince, then for old time’s sake.”
“Mm,” Phyre hums, moving to join Ryong by the wall-length windows. Once upon a time, they burned here. They died here.
“You remember our promise, made here?” Phyre murmurs. She tries to make eye contact with Ryong, but the Prince, shorter and smaller, does not. The rain transfixes. The rain gives certainty.
Which one, Ryong yearns to say. The one in the aftermath of meeting the Lasombra Prince from New York? The Justiciars from South America? The Anarch Barons who stupidly and infuriatingly still linger in Seattle despite the Court’s best efforts?
“You went on your knees,” Ryong says instead. She remembers how shocked she had been. How her blood roared, unfamiliar and beastly all at once, warring with the composure she painstakingly gathered and built into the concrete-hard wall she wears in her short years as Seneschal and then, Prince. “You kissed my knuckles and swore your allegiance to me. I loathe to admit it, but you moved me and whatever was left of my humanity.”
Is there anything left, still? Perhaps that she still wonders might be a reassuring point in her favour.
The rain will cease soon. Ryong hopes the rain will linger, if only to witness—
“Then you remember my duty to the Traditions.”
A sigh; not long-suffering in the presence of fools, but of relief, quietly made in the presence of comrades and partners. “I will not beg, Phyre. I knew what I did and I will not apologise for it. In fact, if presented with the same choice, I would do it again.”
I know. Ryong thinks she hears Phyre whisper. Or perhaps, she hears it instead as echo in the back of her mind. This is not the first time we’ve had this conversation.
Lightning flashes. Ryong feels her skin prickle with an instant of a burn, supercharged light that reveals the reflection of two Kindred standing side by side. As they always had, those years ago.
If she could feel emotions still, this feeling would be nostalgia. “Drain me hollow, if that’s what your code dictates for sinners who don’t learn. Send me to my Final Death. I have lived longer than I should have the day you gave me your blood.”
A crackle of thunder, a brief streak of light in the sky. The boardroom illuminates in bright colour once more — and Ryong sees the shadow of Phyre tower over her now.
Just before dawn, Tolly would walk into her office as he usually does, where he would surely find her slumped over her desk. If Ryong is lucky, she would have her limbs intact. Perhaps then her only wounds would be the two puncture wounds on her neck, never to fade.
“You are awfully calm for someone resigned to their Final Death. I respect that. I… appreciate that.”
“I was sired by the best in Seattle.” Ryong cringes, hearing herself say that. “That’s all that Ventrue truly own. We are like — as today’s Kine say — nepo babies.”
The term obviously passes over Phyre’s head, the way her frown remains; worry and concern and everything Ryong has come to appreciate about her Sheriff. “Believe me when I say this, Ryong. I cannot change my judgement but I can afford mercy.”
“You’re funny, Phyre. As charming as the night you first presented yourself to me. Well, if this is my final night, I’m sure you’d happily indulge me with a few more hours together, my dearest Sheriff?”
Relief isn’t a word Ryong associates with Phyre, steel-solid in her principles. But Phyre doesn’t have a drop of duplicitous blood in her. It shows in her face.
Perhaps if Ryong was half the narcissistic schemer her sire was, she would’ve hooked on that. Played Phyre like a puppet on her string and charmed her into slipping this noose out of her neck. Then strung it around Phyre’s neck instead, before flinging her off the nearest roof.
Sadly, to Lou’s benefit and her eternal misfortune, Ryong did not lust for power how the average Ventrue did. Her Princehood wasn’t by choice, and her Embrace was a Faustian bargain she’s come to deeply regret. Call her modern and progressive – and sickeningly sentimental – the way she’s piqued more by Phyre’s everlasting fondness for her, in her awkward Kindred way. The same Elder who looked her in the eyes that night in Makom and read Ryong like an open book; called her out for the soft-hearted idealism that still lingered in the cracks of her business-like detachment.
(And Ryong had let her. Let her besmirch her reputation in that nest of Kindred vipers and walk away.)
This time, Phyre looks at her partways stricken and pensive. Hapless. What Elder would foolishly allow themselves the danger of attachments and risk destruction? Perhaps it is only the folly of Elders who have more power in their pinky finger than the rest of their higher-generation counterparts. And currently, in Seattle – Phyre is the eldest.
If Ryong was a quarter of the prideful miser her sire was, she would’ve schemed to destroy Phyre years ago. The notion of being bound to another, her unlife dangling on the rope of her affections – the existential discomfort with such was the undoing of her sire.
But now, here stand two Kindred who are foolishly – and willingly – ensnared in the footsteps of each other.
Ryong decides to take pity on her – and that’s how Ryong seizes power back into her hands, taking the lead like it's second nature. “Care for a drink? Tolly left me some vintages the other night.”
Female, late-twenties corporate executive, earnest and naive.
“Sure.” Like clockwork, Phyre moves to get them glasses while Ryong gets the blood. Like habit, shaped by countless moments spent together as Sheriff and Prince. Familiarity is what Ryong feels as they sit on her couch, side by side, with enough respectful distance yet not gaping enough to be called colleagues.
Phyre watches her as she pours out their glasses. Ryong likes to think the hunger she sees in her darkened eyes is heightened by the sweet-sour blood now flowing between them. Fucking loser behaviour from a Prince, the way she’s trying to delude herself nor bother resisting – hell, eviscerating – Phyre, a Kindred beneath her in hierarchy, audacious enough to render judgement on her Prince. It’s part blood bond, or whatever that manifested since that vial of Phyre’s blood from months ago, and part something else Ryong refuses to name, still.
Phyre’s fingers linger on hers when she hands over her glass, just like that first night in Makom. Her eyes cut into Ryong, digging deeper like silver bullets in her skin.
They clink glasses. Ryong looks away first.
“I know you’re miserable as Prince, Ryong. There isn’t much you can hide from me.”
“No reasonable Kindred would be happy as Prince, Phyre.” Unless they were despots like Lou and Campbell. Well, Ryong had her moments, but she’s beginning to feel the strain of dealing with crises that fell flaming into her lap. Fast-paced environments were not meant to last indefinitely. Vampire burnout is unfortunately real. “What am I supposed to do, leave? Fucking city will burn itself by accident. Did you forget what Max almost cost us in his childishness?”
“Let them burn, then.”
Ryong is thankful for her Ventrue blood that she doesn’t spit out her drink. “Excuse me?”
“Fuck them.” Phyre matches Ryong’s ever-suffering expression, not a curl to her lips or the curve of her dimples in mirth. She’s serious. Caine take them all. “Leave the city to its malaise. You never wanted praxis anyway.”
“Let me get this right, Phyre. First you tell me I deserve Final Death for another alleged transgression of mine as Prince despite my intentions of protecting the Masquerade, and now you insist I shirk my responsibilities as Prince?”
“Yes. Unless you mean to tell me you now cherish the taste of power like your former predecessors?”
Yes. Ryong feels this is the end. “Phyre.”
Phyre holds out her arm, using her telekinesis to float her empty glass back on the counter. Licks her lips clean of the smudges of blood from before. “You know, Ryong. You may have fooled the world, but you are not a very good liar. Not to me.”
She’ll miss the sound of her name on her lips. It really was a good run of Princehood for a city that didn’t deserve her. Oh, Tolly… She hopes her efforts in leadership planning and transition will outlast her. But Princehood was always a gilded cage with a flaming floor – no amount of planning could blunt the hurt that Tolly would eventually feel.
“I do not ordinarily toy with my prey, but you are different. I do not suffer indignities for just anyone. But you know that already.”
A flash of anger. Tugging on their… closeness… at this moment? It feels like a leash. Ryong detests chains, even if her ascent to Princehood has been defined by nothing but chains.
Ryong almost snarls at her Sheriff. “Get to the point, Phyre. What do you want?”
Before Ryong can react, Phyre seizes her hand. They’re Kindred, but her skin on hers burns.
Her danger sense spikes; a cold drip of metaphorical sweat down her spine. For Phyre doesn’t just stop at holding hands. Phyre starts playing with her fingers — tracing the outlines of each digit with her bony ones, the pad of her thumb running over her nails. Once. Again. Another, and again.
“I will be honest, Ryong.”
She watches Phyre raise her fingers, tingling and sensitive from her delicate touches.
She doesn’t dare look Phyre in the eyes, even as her gaze bores holes into her forehead.
Phyre lifts her fingers to her own lips. Ryong tenses. This time, Phyre doesn't kiss her knuckles. Phyre wraps her lips, chapped and crimson, around her index and middle fingers. It takes all of Ryong’s self-control to not gasp right then. How cruelly Phyre does it – the lightest sucking on her skin, taking her sweet time to drag her tongue and lips along the length of her fingers – and all that with her eyes firmly shut, as if savouring the taste of her undead skin. At the very end – in the most brazen Ryong’s seen of her – Phyre leaves the briefest graze of her pointed fangs against the tips of her fingers.
It’s harrowing, the way Ryong almost expects her heart to thud out her chest. Expects to feel the throbbing of her pulse down to her fingers. She doesn’t feel that, of course – but the shadow of a memory shudders through her nevertheless.
It’s agonising. It’s horrifying. It’s the first time they’ve been this physical.
In another life, Ryong would be soaking wet at this point.
“I would like to sup from you. I would like to suck you dry. My blood demands I do so, the way it claws and eviscerates my insides. But I too enjoy you still full and bursting with unlife.” Phyre sighs, blowing her blood-tinged breath on Ryong’s moistened fingers. Still she gently holds on to her, a tether that Ryong doesn’t want to break. “An unfortunate predicament.”
In this life, Ryong thinks she would happily agree with whatever Phyre would want from her.
“I’m not surprised. In fact, I knew the very night you pledged yourself to me.” Not as Sheriff to a Prince, but as Phyre, Elder of the Banu Haqim to Prince Ryong of the Camarilla Court. With whatever tatters of her dignity and fortitude Ryong can muster, she forces her voice to stay strong, her chin raised; her gaze unflinching towards Phyre’s half-lidded gaze, lazy and self-assured in her hold over her Ventrue counterpart. “You’re lucky there isn’t another Kindred in Seattle more capable than you as Sheriff.”
“A pity, I believed you kept me around because I cleaned up well.” Finally, Phyre releases her. Phyre leans back on the armrest, pining Ryong to her seat with her eyes and a toothy grin. “I know how you look at me.”
“So where does this leave us, Phyre?” Ryong sidesteps her jab – such a line of thought was unproductive. Unnecessary, especially knowing what will befall her. “Clearly, I need you. Unfortunately, I adore you. You wouldn’t have lived as long as you have otherwise. Neither would I, without you around. And — needless to say — I will not beg you to spare me. Destroy me if you wish. I would be a weak Prince if I cannot survive you.”
Ryong doesn’t look away. No – Ryong looks at Phyre, bloodshot eyes to brown ones, and tilts her head at an angle. One that delicately and deliciously exposes the curve of her neck to Phyre.
If anything, it would be the best high of her life before eternal darkness. A good way to die utterly and completely before fading into the void. Ryong considers herself lucky to be drained by someone she harbours tenderness for instead of the vile, brutish feel of her sire’s lips.
Just thinking of this makes Ryong sigh quietly, a breath of air escaping from her parted lips. Embarrassing, if she still retained the ability to feel that.
Her gold hoop earring weighs heavy on her earlobe; an uncanny sensation that asserts itself now of all times. Ryong moves to unclasp it, to make it easier for her silly Sheriff – only for a hand to stop her.
Phyre, being Phyre, never was someone where life unfolded normally. She leans into Ryong, close enough for Ryong to smell the hint of oud that followed her.
Phyre whispers into her ear, “I have an idea.”
+++
“Don’t go in yet.”
Silky frowns hard enough at Tolly for his creases to disappear into his skin.
“They’re getting it on right now. They do love their verbal sparring…”
“Hmph.” The Brujah Primogen, formidably unperturbed despite Tolly’s best efforts, does not roll his eyes. “I did not need to know that, but sure. Don’t mind if I wait downstairs.”
“Be my guest, Handlebars.”
Interestingly, it’s Ryong who walks out a few minutes later.
Tolly was certain Phyre would have left first – sure, even with Lou dissolved into the waters of Elliott Bay, Seattle still teemed with the cockroaches and rats of Kindred society intent on ripping apart a Masquerade that never stopped being a hairsbreadth’s thin. Yes, the Sheriff had work to do, despite having Hounds at her command now.
But no. It’s Prince Ryong who strides over to Tolly with a rhythmic click-clack of her office-black heels.
“Good session, Ryong?” Tolly smirks as sleazily as he can, winking as Ryong approaches.
She doesn’t take his bait. She only goes, “You’re Prince now.”
“See, this is why Phyre is good for you. You’re picking up her absurd sense of humour. Can’t be deadpan and deprecating all the time now, it’s bad for your health.”
Something’s wrong. Tolly knows when Ryong still wears that fierce look on her face, her eyebrows almost knitted together.
No way. “You’re not joking, are you?”
“I’m leaving. Call it a sabbatical. I’ll let you know again if it’s a resignation. If you ever hear from me again.”
“Ryong honey, listen – you can’t do this. You can’t leave me to deal with–”
“I haven’t been to Portland in a long time. Maybe I wanted to see it one last time.” Ryong shrugs, and it’s the last she gives the Nosferatu before she walks away. “I’d apologise, Tolly, but we both know I’d be lying.”
Eyes bulging, Tolly activates his blood to reach Ryong in a dead heartbeat. Tries to, at least, only to find a hand gripping his arm hard enough that Tolly winces from the pressure. Jeez, what are these Elder blood-bones made of — Damascus Steel?
Phyre’s fangs peek from her lips in a devilish grin. “Gather yourself, Prince.”
“The everlasting fuck, Phyre. This is not what I meant when I told you to shit out the stick in your ass. This is not what I meant by please take care of our beloved Prince which you do exceedingly well—”
“We will be back in a week. I will send you a text message.” Phyre waves the decrepit smartphone that now has a cracked screen, yet stubbornly and reliably soldiering on for its current owner. “You know how it goes.”
“You better!”
“Pray that Ryong makes the right choice, or we shall live in the aftermath of her foolishness.”