Chapter 83
Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 82
“Mr Cobb is down already, but I thought I’d check if you’d like to join us for the after party. Advantages of being a patron and all that.” With a smile, Quincy waggles his mane, the last part of the costume he didn’t quickly get out of (and thank the Divine for that, those fur trims are itching his skin about as much as his dignity).
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…An after party? “Uh…” Arthur says, because that really doesn’t sound like his sort of thing. Especially with actors, who he assumes are very… people-people, and all strangers…
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Internally, Quincy coos: aw, a shy one! But this is his new personal patron’s friend, so he’ll be damned if he doesn’t also try to be nice to him, well, nicer than he would anyway. So on goes the gentle smile. “Parties aren’t your thing, hm? No pressure to come at all, but you aren’t the only one who prefers it a bit more quiet. If you’d like, you could talk to some of our shyer actors. In case you have questions or comments.”
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Does he have questions? Well, he is kind of wondering how exactly the wires with the flying thing work, and he supposes he could tell them that he really enjoyed the play… But talking with strangers? But also, interesting strangers. And Quincy seems nice enough. “Um, yes, I’m not that much for parties… but some conversation would be interesting?” And he supposes he can always slip away if he feels too out of place.
Reaching out with easy familiarity, Quincy pats his upper arm and waves him along. “Let me get you into a quiet corner then. Basarab is going to lurk there, too, and he has stories to tell.”
“He’s the Captain Hook actor, right?” Arthur asks, and thinks that he looks a bit intimidating for someone who likes quiet corners. “Uh… and I really liked the show?” he adds, because Quincy should know that too, surely.
“The man with enough presence to stop a rowdy crowd for a second when on stage and adorably quiet and gentle-mannered otherwise? Yes, that would be him.” Quincy’s smile turns grin for a moment before he giggles and puts a hand to his chest. “Why thank you, I’m glad you enjoyed yourself!”
Arthur decides he’ll have to see that for himself, because anything “adorable” is really not what seems to fit someone with that much, as Quincy aptly calls it, presence… “I really did,” he agrees. “Um, so… did it go well from your side, too? I mean, everyone seemed to like it, and everything went like in the rehearsal. Does that mean it was a successful first show?”
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“We got some good gasps and I spotted one of those newspaper…” Quincy holds in for a split-second, looks at the way Arthur walks and holds himself. That one’s not high-born, very low if anything, trying to play over it out of new habit, not perfect at it and not focusing on it right now, well then, let’s try the gutter talk then: “Prunes. We’ll be the talk of the town with the moral outcry over nothing, and that should get us a few more sold-out houses. Ergo, oh yes, this went well!”
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Arthur bites back a snort at Quincy calling the newspaper person a ‘prune’. “…Moral outcry?” Not that the papers aren’t kind of always giving theatre performances suspicious looks- Arthur supposes there’s too much fun involved, fun isn’t proper, after all.
“Oh, the usual, costumes too daring, Peter and Wendy nearly kissing on stage, frivolous incitement of the masses. Please, those prunes just haven’t watered themselves enough with grape juice. Then they’d maybe remember to enjoy themselves from time to time.” As he waves dismissively, Quincy leads Arthur to the back and opens a door, starts to laugh and point at his patron, apparently the first one already heavy into the liquor and on the table. “Shining example right there.”
Given the daring-ness of Quincy’s own costume, yes, Arthur realizes his expectation of moral affront is probably right. Though as Quincy also said, in Arthur’s experience, that just makes everyone want to see what the fuss is about… Seeing Gregory already drinking and totally not acting appropriate to his new station, he would wince- except that Quincy kind of approved of that, didn’t he? So he manages half a grin, and an: “Uh, yes, Gregory usually remembers to enjoy himself…” Of course he would be in the rowdy, loud middle of the actor crowd…
“Life’s short. Fight back against the grey drudgery those moralisers try to smother all of us with.” Looking back at Arthur with a wide smile, Quincy winks and shows him to a back corner with a few plush chairs in it but so far nobody else. “You hold down the fort of quiet enjoyment. Don’t you worry; I guarantee you Basarab’s going to be out as soon as he got his makeup off. And I guess I better see to coaxing my new patron safely down before he falls off the table and I’m unpaid again.”
Arthur nods, and is happy enough to curl up in one of the chairs- and dares to quip: “Don’t worry, he’s not that fragile.”
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“Oh? You would know then, I take it.” After winking again and waggling his eyebrows for a moment, Quincy strolls back to the centre of attention, because, please, that’s where he belongs. That Cobb better not think that just because he’s throwing money around, he gets to be the king of the hill here. These are theatre people, they have their own pride. Yes, yes, they’ll take his money, but that doesn’t mean that he’s suddenly everybody’s favourite.
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Right, Quincy wouldn’t know… or, uh, shouldn’t he? Know that Gregory is knight postulant with the Order of Galahad? He wouldn’t know how Gregory came to his powers, but that would tell him that Gregory has some… But, well, it’s… really not quite Arthur’s business… is it? Gregory is part of their household… But, well, Quincy looks like he knows what he’s doing and like he can take care of himself, so Arthur chooses to sit back and observe rather than say anything more.
Not that there is that much to observe, besides Gregory drinking, much more than Quincy does, and making friends easily- though how much that has to do with the money he’s waving around, Arthur doesn’t know. But at least he’s not using any cheques.
There’s a soft creak of leather and a man’s voice comes from only two chairs over: “They are lively tonight. It was a good first showing. They deserve to celebrate. You are with young Quincy, I believe?”
Arthur gives the man a shy look- it’s the Captain Hook actor that Quincy called ‘Basarab’ or something, and his voice sounds rather different now than how he was projecting it up on stage. He’s still intimidating, though he doesn’t look quite as… large as he did on stage? Makes sense, Arthur supposes, since now he’s sitting down and all. “Um, well, I’m… friends with Gregory,” he nods over at him (and why does ‘friends’ not feel like quite the right term? Maybe because it’s kind of more like a familial thing?) “and he’s agreed to be Quincy’s patron…?” If Arthur got that right from what Quincy said. He doesn’t know whether that qualifies as “being with young Quincy”…
“I see.” Basarab’s gaze stays on the interaction between Quincy and Gregory for several long moments, steepled fingers held in front of his lips before he folds his hands and focuses back on Arthur completely. “May I have the honour of your name?”
Arthur’s not sure what exactly Mr Basarab sees, or whether that’s just one of those things you say, and then promptly blushes, because, yes, introducing himself, of course, probably he should’ve done that and that was rude. “Um, of course, I’m Arthur Lancaster. It’s nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine, Mr Lancaster. I am Cyril Basarab, at your service.” Inclining his head towards Arthur, he pauses for a bit, puts his hands into his lap, then chuckles. “May I also ask as to what brings me the pleasure of you being in this corner? Excuse my blunt question, at times it is hard to distinguish between a fellow man of quiet temperament and one who seeks me out specifically.”
“Uh, well, Quincy invited me to this party since Gregory is also here, but I’m not much for parties, so he said there was also the option of some quiet conversation with some of your colleagues. Though he did mention that you’d be likely to be there, too,” Arthur admits. Does that count as seeking him out?
“Ah, I have been exposed. Young Quincy certainly has no qualms about speaking up and talking about other people’s preferences.” Chuckling again, Basarab smiles, although it is half-hidden behind his moustache. “How may I be of service then?”
Arthur’s not sure whether that was a criticism of Quincy or not- it sounded kind of like one, but Mr Basarab doesn’t seem upset about it, either. So Arthur rather moves on, and tells Mr Basarab that really, he just wanted to say how much he enjoyed the play- and maybe ask how the flying is done.
Mr Basarab is very gracious in accepting the praise, but demurs that he only knows the very basics of those stage magics- which is just fine by Arthur. He can at least confirm that there are wires involved, and rails up above the stage for moving them one way or another.
And then Arthur dares ask him where he’s from- speaking privately like this, and with no lines, the accent is even stronger, but Arthur can’t place it. It’s something… soft and rolling?
Romanian is what it is, apparently, and since Mr Basarab doesn’t seem to get exasperated with Arthur’s questions at all, and in fact seems to get more animated on speaking about his homeland, Arthur keeps asking and learns that the Kingdom of Romania was only founded recently, less than twenty years ago.
So, still before Arthur’s birth, and that seems quite a bit of time ago to him, but he understands that in terms of countries, that’s not long at all. And it’s of course within Mr Basarab’s lifetime, so he talks about how he sees himself as being from what Arthur might have heard of as ‘Wallachia’, but they call Muntenia or Țara Rumânească- it’s far to the East, at the edge of Europe.
Arthur finds himself curled a little sideways in his chair to listen to Mr Basarab talk about his country’s history, being right next to and eternally threatened by the mighty Ottoman Empire, guarding the flanks of the Carpathian mountains, which are much higher and more stark than any mountains they have here on the British Isles. He talks about the Black Sea and the end of the Danube river, which gives Arthur a good sense of where the Kingdom of Romania is- very far away.
Of course, Arthur’s grasp on Roman history is far better than the one on modern history, so yes, he can place the Dacians even better, and Byzantium and the Eastern Roman Empire, and from there, they end up talking about languages, and how Romanian is, in fact, a Latin-derived one unlike the others in the region, but with a good dose of Slavic influence. Mr Basarab gives him some examples, and yes- he can almost hear the Latin underneath the unfamiliar endings and between the unfamiliar “ts” and “tch” consonants.
Then he tilts his head. Unfamiliar endings? Yes, they are- “cu”s and “co”s and… and that rings a bell. What does that remind him of?
He startles as the penny drops: The vampire hunter notes in the cabin! Didn’t Darcy suspect those of being Romanian? It looks like she was right!
Mr Basarab gives him a curious look and asks whether he’s alright, so Arthur explains that he thinks he once came across a text in a foreign language that he now thinks might’ve been Romanian, and thankfully, that seems to be explanation enough for his surprise.
It’s not like he’s going to explain the circumstances of that text to a stranger. But he wonders whether there’s any sort of significance to this- a vampire hunter text in, apparently, Romanian. And now, here, a possible dhampir and a Romanian actor. Is any of this connected, or is he being paranoid?
He can hardly ask Mr Basarab if he knows anything about vampires, so instead, he settles back into the conversation, because it’s really interesting- Mr Basarab is a good storyteller, and he’s travelled a lot, he knows a lot, and Arthur thoroughly enjoys himself.
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There she is, alone, or nearly so. This should do nicely for gaining entrance into the hunter’s house. From the window sill… Oh, but she is precious, human brought-up and she comes rushing to the window to greet the bat before he can even use his power and unlock her memory of him.
But quiet, hush, here, this should take care of your maid. We want privacy, do we not?
He doesn’t have to wait long, although now he is the one who has to tell himself to be quiet rather than laughing. How anybody could be this noisy as a rat is a mystery to him, but yes, the drug is administered to the maid’s water, and that absolves him of having to spend his mindcraft powers on her all night long. He would rather concentrate on the dhampir lady of the house.
The lady who affords him entry with a very enthusiastic invite into her room, complete with blush, but also dares to offer a helping hand for him to climb through the open window. Ah, it makes her think of stories. Interesting. He can work with this, he can be her… ‘rake’ apparently is the word. He believes he has a vague idea of the trope, although it is a terribly human concept.
And humans being terrible is rather at the forefront of her thoughts. Not a notion he agrees with, but then, the life of a dhampir among them might predispose her to resentment, so he shall not judge. Correct over time maybe, however. If he keeps her, she is so very valuable.
And again, precious. She had to ask about his accent, somewhat rude, maybe, to point out that he struggles with this dastardly English, but coming from a place of genuine fascination with him. And ah, only adding to his allure. “A real monster”.
Now, that stings, he has been seen that way before, but oh, going deeper into that mind of hers, she means it as an endearment? Curiouser and curiouser. This dhampir… Her drac just might remind him of somebody. So very well, he shall answer all those questions.
He wanted to have an impact on her, bring her to his side, and apparently, the way there is through long conversations about culture, travel, and all things not human. All the things he could give her by stealing her away into the night with him.
He finds himself dancing with her, first on human feet, but angels, she has no sense of stealth at all, so to the air they take. The room is too small for his wings to unfold, but she does not weigh a thing as he first lifts her for a twirl, then pushes onto her drac with his mindcraft, keeps a delicate hold of her batwings for one turn, then joins her in flying circles around each other as her drac laughs and squeals at him.
Oh, but this is actual joy, a joy he wants to have for himself, a joy he needs. He shall keep her.
And she had asked for it anyway, so after more hours of talking and dancing and her drac being right up in his face, he takes her back to the sofa under the window where the night started. Remembering her reaction to his last bite and knowing that he wants to leave more evidence, he gives her the best rakish grin he can (of course, he has to make assumptions as to how that would look, but he has enough of a repertoire of seduction to feel confident,) and slips a hand over her mouth before leaning into her neck.
Only to falter at her thoughts, the unbidden memories of her husband, her tormentor, and he cannot, no he will not, not ever, be a man like that!
He rips his hand away immediately, instead cups her cheek and soothes her with words, only to have her drac whimper at him that words never help. A kiss it is, then. “Hush, beloved, your pain is so precious. But it is not the pain I want from you.”
He can enthrall like this, he can take blood and give, he can bind her drac to his just as easily, and oh, how he cherishes the scream against his lips as his bite magic takes hold of her. She has to be the first person to ever dissolve into masochistic bliss under his bite. Who else would have this reaction as the very foremost urge keeping them close to him? But who is he to not take his pleasure from that?
Pain is precious. Pain is the rawest form of expression of emotion and he will make her faint with how much he has to give!
Evidence is still left easily enough, her lovely blood on his tongue is applied as a red sigil on her pale skin. His mark is left on her, and he can feel his drac give a slight growl before he quickly places the chains tighter on it, he does not want to feel it.
But hers is pleasant to his mental touch. Hers presses so trustingly and eagerly into him that he finds himself somewhat reluctant to leave out the window again. Alas, he can feel the return of her companions and it would not do to be caught, so he leaves her asleep on the sofa under the window. Yes, like the haunted heroine in a ghost story, because who ever said he could not help a chess piece regain her confidence in being the heroine of her own story?
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Arthur is actually surprised when the party ends and Gregory and Quincy come to fetch him. Gregory is leaning on Quincy like he’s drunk… though Arthur thought he couldn’t get drunk anymore? Either way, he thanks Mr Basarab for his company and the good conversation, and then follows Quincy towing Gregory outside and to a cab. Quincy says something to Gregory that Arthur doesn’t catch, then tells him goodbye, too, and then they’re off.
Oddly, Gregory doesn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation. That’s fine by Arthur, though, because he hadn’t realized how late it is, it’s well into the small hours of the morning. He really hopes they didn’t wake the man who opens the door for them at Art’s house when they knock, and Arthur yawns after wishing Gregory a good night, heads to his guest room- he assured the man at the door that there was no need to wake anyone to help him, of course.
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Darcy feels peaceful, not fully asleep but drifting in the soft stream of outside air from the open window. She must have lain there a while, she can’t remember opening the window, but it makes sense, she likes sensing the outside more. Maybe there was a bat to visit her? She has the vaguest impression that that might be it, because it makes her smile and cuddle deeper into the cushions.
The door to her room opens and she wants to just stay where she is, she’s so happy and relaxed, but she knows the way her drac is tensing, it must be Gregory. Definitely Gregory, she startles as he doesn’t just hover over her, as she expected him to, no, his hands are suddenly on her shoulders and he’s shaking her awake. Demanding an explanation.
Explanation for what, she doesn’t know, but she was so comfortable and her drac feels strong and bold and somehow not as alone as it normally does, so it reacts before Darcy can fully realise what’s happening. Her drac snapped back and for once the mask didn’t stop it.
She only realises what she did when she feels the sting on her palm and that puts the mask right back on. Puts it on so harshly she feels it cut down to her bone as a sense of foreboding fills her together with a growing feeling of powerlessness with Gregory’s eyes cold on hers. So cold, so deep, so hungry, as if he’s sapping all her energy right out of her in retaliation.
She can’t do anything… but maybe somebody else can? It’s half a whimper, half a plea, and no proper shout at all, but she tries because there’s nothing else she can do. “Arthur!”
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Arthur just closed his door behind him when he hears Darcy’s call- he did hear it, right? He turns and pokes his head back out in the hallway, doesn’t think that was his imagination. The door to Darcy’s room is ajar across the corridor and past the landing of the stairs from his, so he hurries over. “Darcy? Is everything alright?” It’s late, shouldn’t she be asleep?
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She whimpers, Gregory’s hands are still tight on her shoulders, but she can just about look past him, tries to catch Arthur’s eyes with hers in a plea after having to fight to be able to look away from Gregory.
“I’m dealing with it, Artie.”
The words sound like Gregory, but her drac hears them differently, with a scratch of glass and crystal scraping against each other.
“Dealing with what?” Arthur asks, clearly concerned now, steps in and walks through the dressing room and up to them, crouches down by Darcy’s side. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s angry with me.” It’s not even close to everything that’s going on, but Darcy finds she can hardly speak, she feels so cold and empty and helpless.
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Arthur frowns, looks between them. “Why’re you angry at Darcy?” he asks Gregory, because… that doesn’t make any sense?
“I’m not angry!” Gregory exclaims. “I’m just worried, something’s wrong with Darcy!”
Darcy does seem a bit… off, but also, Gregory’s voice is really loud and Arthur makes shushing motions at him.
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“No!” It’s as much of a bark as her drac can manage with how unsteady on its paws it feels. But it was happy and it was peaceful and then Gregory attacked it and no, just no! She feels like her body weighs a ton with how hard it is to move, but she pulls away from Gregory’s grip, feels the fabric of her dress strain as she has to rip out from his grasp and instead… well, she tries to lean against Arthur for support, but the moment she gets out of Gregory’s hold she can’t keep herself upright and falls against him.
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“Darcy?!” Arthur says in alarm, wraps his arms around her to hold her up. She seems… weak, and maybe even paler than usual?
Before Darcy or anyone else can say anything, there’s a motion at the door to the dressing room, and Arthur looks over to see the girl who’s been assigned as Darcy’s maid standing there. She’s holding on to the door frame with one hand and has the other to her temple as if she’s feeling woozy. “…Sirs? My lady? What are you…?”
It occurs to Arthur that he’s sitting in Darcy’s bedroom with his arms around her and how that must look really inappropriate and… blushing really doesn’t help that situation.
Then the girl gasps, and he thinks it’s because of that, which doesn’t help the blush any, but the girl staggers over. “What is that?”
Her hand moves like she wants to point and then remembers that’s rude, but her eyes are on Darcy’s neck and when Arthur follows her gaze, he sees a rust-coloured smudge on Darcy’s skin.
“My lady!” The girl sounds terrified, her eyes wide, and they dart to the open window. “My lady, did you open the window?!” she asks urgently.