pennysheets | Vampire cult nonsense (PSL for Natasha)

She leans into him a little, playing up her lightheadedness. Playing up, not feigning - it's at least half adrenaline drop, but she is drained after being, well, drained. It's not enough to bury the brief flicker of frustration that she can't inspect that prep room now, when there's the best chance of the vampire being gone long enough for her to be in and out without getting caught.

"I'll come with you," she says, because that will at least allow her to see a little more of the complex, if not the most useful parts. "I'm pretty sure I'll be out cold about five seconds after I stop moving."

"I know the feeling," Stolen Moon says, clearly sympathetic, not just happy to have the pretty new initiate in his care for a little while longer. "That one hasn't fed from me before-- and thank god, that's the first time I haven't seen him murder somebody-- but the other two have. It does leave you pretty woozy. Here, it's this way."

The complex isn't really very big, in the end. There's three wings off the entrance hall, which is the only room with any windows at all. There's the vampire's wing off to the right with the infirmary, coffins, the prep room full of weapons, and (perhaps incongruously) a small library. The dormitories and baths are off to the let, where the initiates had gotten dressed, and where a couple higher-ranking members have offices. The a third wing goes straight back, with a couple conference and meeting rooms, a big dining room, and a kitchen.

Stolen Moon takes her straight back to the kitchen. All the doors on the way are shut tight, and Stolen Moon holds a finger to his lips as they pass. Natasha might overhear muffled voices coming from one of the conference rooms: Raven, Fox, and Hawk. Raven sounds irritated, Fox still thoughtful, and Hawk impatient.

Now that's interesting, and while Natasha is certainly grateful that the vampire hadn't drained her dry, she can't help but wonder why he'd made an exception, and what it might mean for her cover.

The warning to silence buys her a little time to consider how to ask after the vampires' patterns in a way that won't sound like anything more than curiosity and perhaps a little bit of unease over being expected to provide sustenance again. The voices catch her attention, and she strains to hear anything of note as they pass, regretting the fact that a sudden spell of dizziness that forces a pause would probably be suspicious.

Stolen Moon does slow a bit, too, as they pass, as if he, too, is listening. (It's possible he might have yet another motive for taking her down this way.)

They can make out a couple words as they pass, Raven saying, "--should check the spell."

Fox puts in slowly, "Maybe."

Hawk replies, "No, we would know if--" and then they're past the room, the voices fading to muffled sounds again.

Stolen Moon doesn't speak again until they hit the kitchen, and then it's to brightly say, "Have a seat, then, Snakeroot. And let me know if there's anything you absolutely hate, or are allergic too."

"No grapes," she says with a small, chagrined smile as she eases herself into a chair, tucking her bandaged wrist up against her abdomen.

She's silent for a moment before venturing quietly, carefully, "That sounded bad back there."

Privately, she's not sure it did. On the one hand, if the magic binding the vampires could be severed, there would be vampires on the loose. On the other hand, on the loose means not under the control of a death cult.

"Worried the monster will slip his leash?" Stolen Moon asks, back to her as he rummages in a cupboard. "Mmm. I trust the senior members will handle it, if there's a risk."

He turns back with a little smile, and a plate with a mundane ham and cheese sandwich for her. "Though maybe we lock our dorm room doors tonight, just in case. Shove a chair under the handle." Like that will do a lot of good against a vampire with a clockwork arm. From his expression, he knows it.

"Thank you," she says fervently - and honestly - and is a few bites into the sandwich before her complaining body relents enough to let her continue civilized conversation, without her mouth full.

"At least that would buy us some warning." A brief pause. "They don't do bed checks, do they?"

She wouldn't, she thinks, put it past them to want to be sure all the good little murderers are safely tucked away where they were left. It wouldn't even be bad practice. Aggravating, but not bad.

Stolen Moon laughs. "No, no. We're adults here, even if we're novices. Good thing, too." He grins, leaning is elbows on the counter. "There's a handful who wind up in each others' beds, instead of their own. We're not policed. So long as we don't leave the complex, and we're awake enough for the dawn ritual if they need us, they don't care what we do."

So, if she feels up to snooping, she can certainly give it a go-- though that's not what Stolen Moon is hoping for. Clearly.

She smiles at that, crooked and slightly sly, and while it isn't an invitation, it suggests that one may not be off the table - when she's not dealing with blood loss and likely to fall over unconscious as soon as she hits the bed. Any bed.

"Good to know," she says.

She doesn't linger long over the food, though she indulges in a little flirtatious banter to keep up the appearance of friendliness. Eventually, though, it comes time to depart for their quarters, and while she's exaggerating her exhaustion a little, there's certainly a weariness that has sunk into her bones.

Stolen Moon walks her back to her room. They're small, windowless things, with no more than a bed, a little desk, a small trunk, and a washbasin. Old fashioned. If she wants a full wash, before bed or in the morning, she'll have to use the communal baths.

"Sleep well, guess I'll see you in the morning," he says, lingering a little, but not beyond polite hope that she might ask him to stay. "We'll be up before dawn, for the vampire's return, so be ready for that."

Natasha lets herself sway very slightly, steadying herself with one hand on the door.

"Good night," she says, with a slightly-rueful edge to her voice that is utterly feigned. "Don't let the vampires bite."

Once he's gone, she takes the time to examine the room, searching it inch by inch for surveillance devices, then washes her face in the basin, waiting until the rooms fall quiet around her and she's fairly certain most of the others are abed. Her temples throb faintly, trying to remind her that bed is where she should be as well. She ignores them.

It doesn't take too long. If she waits half an hour, she'll hear the senior cultists pass by her room on their way to their own suites, Hawk murmuring to Raven, "We'll see what happens at dawn when we bring him in. Then we'll discuss it after. Okay?"

"Fine, fine," Raven mutters back, and then they're past.

Another ten minutes from that, and all is silent.

Natasha waits those ten minutes after the senior cultists pass, then another five for good measure, before she carefully opens the door and slips out into the hall. Her tread is careful, silent, as she retraces her path back toward the infirmary - and, more importantly, the vampire's staging room.

It's a risk - but she doubts much information is kept in the conference rooms, where anyone might poke their heads in, and the library seems far too easy.

The ritual room is locked, and it resists any lockpicks Natasha might have on her person. The staging room next to it is open, though, if she wants to poke around at the collection of clothing and weaponry. There's a twin bed in there, as well, as if occasionally a vampire is left out long enough to need a nap. There are a couple books next to it, cheap paperbacks.

There are higher-tech and more protective gear than the one from earlier put on, with sturdier masks, goggles, and even a full suit of very thick material in black-out black, suggesting attempts at letting them out during the day. Not all of it will fit the one she met: there's some in the staging room closet to fit a small, slender man; a tall but lightly built woman; and a short, broad man. That's four vampires total, despite there being five coffins.

Depending on how long she lingers, she might find she gets some company.

Natasha is thorough in her inspection, but efficient. She notes the range of gear, frowning slightly at the disparity between the apparent number of individuals and the number of coffins in the ritual room. Perhaps two of the vampires are close enough in size to share - or perhaps one of those coffins holds one better suited for other work.

She's aware of the night ticking steadily onward, of the risk of getting caught at this juncture. Eventually she determines that there's nothing more to be learned here, and moves on toward the library after all.

It may not be likely to hold answers, but it might tell her a little more about the people she's dealing with, and what they find important.

As soon as she steps into the library, past the edge of the door, she'll find a cold hand clapping to her mouth, and a soft thump of something falling to the carpet, to her left. As if whoever just grabbed her face dropped a a book.

That person really does not want her to scream.

And she doesn't - screaming would be counterproductive, would only draw attention where she least wants it. She does, however, throw weight back in an attempt to break the hold, to gain herself some distance. She can write that off as having some self defense training. Maybe. Hopefully.

If her assailant were human, that would work. Even if it were a vampire less rigorously trained than this one, not expecting resistance, it might have worked. As it is, he lunges with her, too fast to see, so her motion backwards winds up with her bumping up against his chest. "I know what snakeroot is now," he hisses into her ear.

She gasps out a breath, half from the force of the unexpected collision, and half from surprise at how fast he'd moved. She'd seen him in the ritual chamber, but here, now, that speed seems all the more immediate.

She doesn't try to speak against his hand. She taps his wrist, a pointed reminder that if he wants any answer from her, he'll need to let her speak. Beneath that veneer of control, her heart thrums wildly, like it's trying to beat its way out of her chest.

Really, he's impressed at her self-control. He gives her one more second to wonder, then lets her go and steps away, holding up both hands. "You're not supposed to be here," he says, voice low, watching her. Will she bolt? Will she talk to him? It'll be interesting to see where this goes. He hasn't had anyone interested in talking in a long time.

There's a moment in which she tenses to run, the frantic impulses of her hindbrain telling her that she is prey, that she should flee before the predator loses interest in playing with her. But then she marshals herself, driving the impulse back with iron control and the knowledge that, fast as he is, it doesn't matter if she runs. If he wants her caught, she will be.

Better to get him talking, to build some kind of rapport, to wait for a moment in which his guard isn't so securely up.

"Couldn't sleep," she says. She studies him, wary and curious in equal measure. "Did you actually leave?"

Or rather, had he already killed his target and returned? It would give her something to look for, a likely working range to report.

"Came back. Conditions weren't right yet for a clean kill," he shrugs. "I'll be going back out again shortly." But he had some research to do, and this was the closest library he knew how to get into.

He studies her, back, fangs safely behind his lips for the moment, and expression cautiously curious. "And you aren't supposed to be here," he says again, still quiet. "You know I was supposed to kill you. Right?"

"Yeah," she says, fingers flexing below the clean white bandage wrapping her wrist. "I caught that. What I don't know is why you didn't."

The corners of her mouth curve faintly, not quite a smile. "Not that I'm complaining about a stay of execution."

"You talked to me like I was a person and not a monster. Made a dumb joke out of an intelligent question. How could I kill you after that?" He watches her steadily. "And I looked up what snakeroot is. So now I'm thinking you're not supposed to be here for another reason, too."

He doesn't want to know what that reason is, or he might have to tell his handlers. Then they'll tell him directly to kill her, instead of just relying on tradition to make him do it. So he adds, "And I'm going to warn you not to come back if they release you after tomorrow morning's binding."

Edited 2022-08-19 07:59 (UTC)

"You are a person," she says, and it comes out more vehement than she had intended. It doesn't take any soul searching at all to come up with exactly why this aspect of the cult's activities makes her skin crawl.

She cants her head slightly, still studying him. "Is it the binding that makes you come back after you've completed your mission?"

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