As One Dead

Two hideous gargoyles guarded the door. They were almost exact replicas of works Bianka had watched created in the 10th Century. She was seven years old then, maybe eight, still human- -it was so long ago. She used to sit by the clay well in the square of Venice, watching Giovanni the stone artist chisel grotesqueries for the churches, at least until her mother would drag her away, chastising her for taking so long to bring the pitcher of water.

Giovanni liked to work in silence, but he also liked Bianka. Sometimes he would talk to her about the gargoyles, as if he talked with them. "They are demons, you understand."

"Why does God let demons live?" she asked.

"Because only the legions of hell know how to protect the sacred."

As with much of what Giovanni said, Bianka did not understand the words, but she felt the truth imbedded in them.

"Childe, the world would sully the Mysteries. These creatures stand at our doorways to confront us. If our hearts are impure, the demons rip them from our chests. If we are respectful of the Divine, we may pass through and enter the spirit realm. They can see your heart, these demons. And if you are pure, you can see theirs. Always remember that."

That was then. This was now. And the bronze gargoyles, twice the size of Giovanni's, might as well have snarled at her as she stared up the tall flight of steps at the entrance to Savage Garden.

This club, one of many along an artsy strip of Toronto known as Queen Street West, catered to Punk Babies, Industrial and Euro Trash Musicians, WraithBoys and GothGrrrls. And vampires. Camarilla, to be precise.

Bianka watched a human couple enter. One guy wore torn tight black pants and shirt, letting the crisp autumn air reach through the shredded fabric to caress his skin. His left ear was pierced with a small calibre bullet. A deep scar ran the length of his face on that side, from bald head to bald chin, and she wondered if he'd been cut in a knife fight, because the scar was recent and looked the type that a serrated edge makes. Unlike the scarred boy, his boyfriend had neatly-clipped shoulder-length black hair, a pouty baby-face, and eyes that said he was addicted to coffee and heroin, not necessarily in that order.

She caught the gaze of the enfant terrible--thoughts too flat to decipher, too focused on his obsessions to be interesting. All she wanted was info on the easiest and most conservative way to gain access to this place, and he handed it over mentally.

She watched their taut butts pass through the doorway and climb the wooden stairs to the top. They knocked at the enormous grated doors--doors that looked like the entrance to a crypt. Someone inside recognized them, no doubt. The doors opened, and they were admitted, passing by the gargoyles easily.

Bianka started to laugh, letting the air stroke her fangs. Giovanni was a fool, but then he said all that long before the Kindred had formed, before The Masquerade had been created. Nobody believed in gargoyles anymore.

She grasped her ankle-length black velvet dress in her hand and started up the wooden steps. At the top, she imitated what the two before her had done. The pale face peered out at her through the wrought iron. A face that did not recognize her. A face that noticed the large black bird sitting on her left shoulder. A face that turned distrustful and made the mistake of looking into her eyes, eyes, she knew that must, for a split second, have reminded this muscle of a blue-eyed husky--a startling contrast, dead black hair, dead white flawless skin, blood red lips, and eyes that...disappeared like the clouds...

The gate opened; the gargoyles did not come to life. She was admitted into what probably was not a sacred realm, but then maybe...

Bianka looked briefly at the bouncer. Yet another vampire imitator, this one adorned with chainmail and shin guards, and a severe-looking braided whip dangling down his right hip. She caught his eye again, erasing the memory of her eyes, the memory of the oblivion he had for a moment visited. A visit that would last him a lifetime, that he would wake in the middle of the night feeling, that, on his deathbed, he would remember in vivid detail.

He shivered, and the blood drained from his face. A mental shrug from her, and he occupied himself with staring out at the openings in the grate to the busy street. "You look under the weather," she said casually. "Maybe you should take the night off."

He began to nod absently and she turned away. The music called her.

Nine Inch Nails pounded out a song that reminded her of the rhythm of the Inquisition, for some reason. She didn't want to get into that now. She had vampires to stalk.

They were scattered throughout the room, some alone with humans, some together in small groups, one or two vying for the same morsel. All doing what vampires do best, scouting out food in their territory. She caught a few eying each other jealousy. One, at least, seemed to be having a good time seducing the pretty Winona Ryder look-alike whose hand he was massaging and whose neck he was nibbling on. As Bianka passed, this Kindred wearing Lord Byron drag noticed her. His eyes opened wide, startled, curious, enthusiastic. He couldn't have been that enthusiastic; his teeth did not leave the slim throat.

The walls of this dimly-lit club were midnight, except for the areas that had been painted by a local artist. A collage of vampire motifs mingled with S&M imagery. Some intuitive human, no doubt--she peered close and saw the name Meek. Every artist she'd met for the last nine hundred years had been like that, picking up on the vibrations of their era and recreating the undercurrents in an artform. Yet when pressed, each of them had been almost completely incapable of verbalizing what it was they had created.

The main group of Camarilla sat at one chrome table--seven of them--four females, three males. They spotted Bianka the second she walked in, of course--several of them must possess Auspex in abundance--after all, heightened senses were not uncommon--and at least one of them wouldn't have missed her pale, almost white-pewter aura.

Fourteen pairs of eyes watched her suspiciously until she reached their table. Which one is the leader, she wondered. First guess: the female, blonde and green hair, brush cut, more piercings than natural orifices in her body--Bianka did admire the tattoo of a ring of barbed wire around her bicep, though. She had the toughness, but there was something missing.

Before Bianka could seriously check out the others, the female said, "What clan are you, stranger? Just so we know what we're dealing with."

"Well, I'm not exactly Brujah, if that's what you're wondering!"

The female jumped to her feet, Doc Martens planted on the floor, ready to attack.

A tall, slim male with crazy, quivering eyes said, "Swan! Cut her some slack!"

"Why the fuck should I? Who the fuck is she?"

"Ask me nicely and I might tell you," Bianka said.

"Tell me, or I'll rip your throat out!"

"Do you always welcome help like this?"

That stopped the female, at least for a second. In the meantime, the rakish Kindred in the velvet coat and ruffles must have finished with dinner, because he came up to the table and said, "What have we here? A new beauty." He reached out to touch Bianka's face. The raven on her shoulder pecked his finger, so fast he looked startled. The tiny hole seeped blood, and he sucked on the beak-wound for a second, then, stubbornly, reached out again. This time he had the sense to stop short, not because of Ravena, but as if he'd encountered an invisible layer of protection around Bianka's body, which wasn't far from the truth. "A powerful beauty," he said. His hand moved around her face, her shoulders, her breasts, her entire body, two inches from contact. This time the raven squawked, but it did not attack.

He's harmless, she told Ravena. They all are.

"Are you the leader?" Bianka said to the tall gaunt one.

"Yes," he nodded, his movements a bit jerky. He looked like a mortician in stove-pipe pants, long jacket--where was his top hat? "I lead the sheep to the slaughter."

Ah, she though, a Malkavian. This will be a challenge!

"I'm DeWinter. This is Swan." He pointed at the tough- looking female with the seven nose rings. "Reg," he said, indicating the dandy. He proceeded around the group, naming them. When he finished, he gestured to a chair that Reg had pulled up, and Bianka sat.

"My name is Bianka. This is Ravena." She looked at DeWinter first, out of respect--if he was the leader, she needed him onside, nuts though he might be. Then she made eye-contact with each of the others, briefly, Swan last, and most briefly--no use challenging anybody. Yet. "I've come to save you," she added. She'd never been above theatrics. _