If all goes as planned, I will be in Florida this morning.
But I scheduled this to post then. It is the last of my pieces from 2004.

This is a small piece of fiction for a play-by-email roleplaying game. The main character is an art thief and a vampire from the popular Vampire the Masquerade game.

Jeremy

___________________________________________________________________________

Clip Clip, Clip Clip went the sheers as a lone gardener tended a new

garden path. A soft breeze rustled the rose bushes and softly bent

the lush green grass in this place.

“I know how you think now, Rodriguez,” Jeremy thought as he clipped

the bushes in the moonlight.

Clip clip, Clip clip

“Thanks to this place, I know you,” he repeated aloud, musing on how

this had been a Sabbat haven, such a beautiful garden for such vile

creatures.

Clip clip, Clip clip

Jeremy’s mind spiraled, thinking back on the truths he had learned in

this place, “NO,” he admonished himself, “those are not my thoughts,

not my way.”

Clip clip, Clip clip

“But the philosophy is sound,” he thought to himself. As the moon slid

behind the clouds

Casting shadows on his work

Clip clip, Clip clip

“Any philosophy can be sound if you spin it right; I know spin,” He

corrected himself again.

Clip clip, Clip, Crunch

Bright red blood gushed from his hand as Jeremy looked down on his

severed finger.

A gleam struck his eyes, as he thought, “PAIN, PAIN IS, PAIN must be

absorbed and felt, for it is a defining point of our existence.”

Shaking his head, Jeremy Screamed, “Noooo!!, This is not my way.”

Hurling the shears into the ground, he stormed out of the garden and

into the streets of D.C.

—————————————————————————————

The cool autumn air cut a chill through the night as he sat in the garden.  Unrecognizable as he was, the gardener continued to work. Three weeks had come and gone, and he had not left the garden except to hide from the sun’s burning caress. His trademark cufflinks lost since lost, dark streaks of earth and worse stained his French cuffed shirt. His slacks were torn from where he had snagged them a week ago.  His face was a mask of mud hiding his gaunt features. He had barely fed, choosing to feel the hunger.

A small bird lands on the gazebo, taking in the night beauty, only to be scared off as the gardener stands from his work at last.

He mused to himself, “Tomorrow night, I will have to go out in public”, running his fingers through his beard; perhaps a mask would hide his gaunt countenance. He would have to feed before going out with his kind. They were predators and would know it if he was weak. 

Slowly, he stumbled into one of the nearby buildings. The foreboding and abandoned block matched his thoughts. He barely rinsed his hands and face in a sink and donned his leather jacket that would cover his filth.

Mounting his Enfield Interceptor, The brooding rider pulled out into the city in search of sustenance.

The damp fall made the hunt surreal. He went through the motions, luring his prey and covering his tracks, paying attention to it all with a mechanical precision that belied the turmoil of his soul.

The wheels of his bike hummed a steady rhythm. Even as he pulled away from his meal, he still had to find a mask for tomorrow.

The rider saw a costume shop ahead that would do.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

A hurricane wails

Voices lost cry out again

The dark wind haunts him

A breeze was forming as Jeremy gave Sarah a hug good night and left the

Marble Court is in a foul mood.  He mounted his Interceptor and pulled out of the parking lot.

He had been in a dour mood since his encounter with Guenther, but Court had made him even less amiable. First, there was Rosamund’s absence, which the Prince was now questioning – and with good cause. Then there was all the other detritus, from neonates too stupid to show themselves to their clan until after Court to elders too haughty to explain why they were in the Prince’s domain, making carrying out his duties as Keeper that much more difficult.  And still Rodriguez.  “Damn you, Rodriguez,” Jeremy cursed.  “I will teach you now.”

The wind grew cold as he pulled up the long, dark drive to his Haven, and the damp leaves padded his footsteps as he marched purposefully to the house.

Once inside, he paced the foyer back and forth like a trapped animal. “This city is full of fools,” he ranted.  “Most of them don’t deserve to continue.”

A soft footstep at the stairs broke his tirade. “What?” he snapped.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked Mia.  “Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No, Moppet. I will be fine,” Jeremy said, fidgeting with his cufflinks. “Please lay out my hunting clothes. I will be gone until morning.”

“Very well, sir.  Shall I drive, or will you be alone?” she asked with a worried tone.

“I think I will be alright on my own tonight,” he grunted.

Mia ran off to do her duties.

The night wind moaned as Jeremy left his Haven in his black suit.  Form

Fitting for stealth and silence, he used this gear primarily for performing his art. A small bag of tools hung at his side: things that would help him get in or out of most places undetected.

‘Back to patrol,’ he thought as he moved about the city.  He was looking for activity from the Sabbat pack that had attempted to burn one of his companies. Ashley was there with two of her new friends. Jeremy knew about Rodriguez’s new lesson for Sarah, the slaughter he had done to her family.

The three on the wall…  He had been there looking over her shoulder in obfuscate.

Rodriguez has been directing all his efforts to Sarah recently. ‘Which was actually good,’ he thought. ‘That leaves me free to take you out, you Rodriguez.’ Jeremy grinned as he relished the pain he would cause Rodriguez. ‘Perhaps I will pay whatshisname to break you.  You must have a limit for pain.’ He thought to himself that it was too bad he could not rid the city of some of the other monsters, some people and kindred deserved to die.

Howling, the wind cut through him as he heard a scream in the ally below. Perching on the ledge of a two-story building, he looked down to see a beautiful red-haired girl of about 25 being raped by a large Neanderthal of a man. “This is what I mean,” he growled softly.  “Why can’t these animals be stopped?” He was torn for an instant as three voices vied for his attention.

In rapid succession, he thought that she would learn from this pain, and thus, she was finally living; then, he thought again, in his usual way, how wrong it was that this should happen. Finally, a new voice screamed, ‘KILL if you don’t like it! Kill the bastard!’ Jeremy leaped silently from the rooftop. Hidden in his cloak of shadows, he deliberately walked up behind the rapist and waited for his victim to close her eyes to the pain.

Pulling his twin pistols out, he aimed them inches away from the back of the man’s knees and then pulled the triggers.

The man howled in pain with the driving wind as his kneecaps shattered.  The victim looked up at Jeremy, and he growled, “RUN.”

As the redhead’s footsteps faded and the rapist’s screams continued, Jeremy kicked him in the leg.

The man screamed and cursed, “Fuck you, man! What did you do??”

“I believe I disintegrated your patella, sir.”

“Pet-fucking-what?!”

“Your kneecaps,” replied Byrd.  Jeremy kicked him again, asking, “How does it feel?  Describe your pain for me.”

“It fucking hurts you, psycho,” the man cried.

“Would you like me to make it stop?” Jeremy whispered, nudging the man’s knee again.

Crying, the man nodded. Jeremy reached out with his supernatural speed and twisted the man’s neck till it snapped.

Cold rain and the relentless wind Hid Jeremy’s tears as he headed across the city to retire for the evening.

A cold wind cries out

Scouring his twisted spirit

A Lone Byrd Struggles

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

The flames danced, reflecting in the tears on Byrd’s cheek as he

reread Mariah’s message, “If you have not already been informed:

Sarah Updike is dead. Percy slew her.” It was so cold and to the point; no

details, like Sara’s existence, did not matter.

Jeremy Raged inside, thinking, “I wonder if they would be up in arms

if one of their tight circle of power died, or would it slide as

coolly off the Malkavian then; the seneschal is an angry and violent

misfit one instant and a cold, passionless corpse the next.”

Jeremy hurled the note into the fire. “Damn You Mariah”, Jeremy

grumbled, knowing she was within her right to be the way she was.

Frustration welled up inside him; yet again, he had gathered all the

information and dutifully gave it to the city, only to be ignored and

left by the wayside, and this time the price had been Sara.

Smoke rose from the paper as it slowly disintegrated, Sara was gone, and it hurt like hell. Gunthar was to blame, he was supposed to

protect her, had taken her out of Jeremy’s care, and FAILED. Gunthar

could not even defend himself; he was a weak old man that needed to

be replaced.

The confines of the study only fueled his feeling of helplessness,

Grabbing his keys, Jeremy started to look for the door.

“I will be out most of the night, Mia,” he told his aid. Minutes

later, he was racing down Rock Creek, opening the Enfield to its full

power. He pulled through the turns like a man possessed, whipping

back and forth from lane to lane. Jeremy lost himself in the speed. A

deer shot out in front of him. With reflexes of lightning, Jeremy

turned the bike off the road. Rocketing down the grassy hill, the

Enfield careened off several large rocks, bouncing along as Jeremy

used all his skills to keep it upright. Finally sliding to a stop in

the slick grass, Jeremy dumped the Interceptor.

“Bullocks!”, snapped Jeremy in a distinct White Chapel accent.

Pulling himself off the ground, his leg screamed as he stepped on his

now broken shin and fell back down.

Composing himself, Jeremy reached down and set the bone with a wince.

Calling upon the blood, he felt the marrow stitching itself together.

He stood again, kicked a tree, and inspected the bike.

Pulling out his phone, Jeremy put in a call to Mia.

“Hello, it’s me”.

“The motorbike is in ruins, Mia. Can you send someone to round it

up”.

“No, I am well”.

“I will take a cab home later.”

“Going for a stroll”.

“Fret not, dear.”

“Good night, Mia”.

He hung up the phone and started walking towards the city.

Jeremy walked through the woods; he had come here many times before

to release his tensions; he was really more at home here sometimes.

The bike was totaled now, beyond repair, but he had moved on and,

short of erasing the signs of it, had all but ignored the

wreck. “Just as Mariah had ignored her ‘accident,'” he thought

snidely.

His mind quickly turned back to Sara; the pain was too fresh, too

biting to let him be distracted by his disappointment with Mariah,

his rage at Gunthar, or even this accident with the bike. The truth

was, he had let Sara into his heart, and now there would be pain.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Jeremy pulled his Interceptor into the garage after another night of hunting. Lights reflected off the Spider and the sedan as he walked over and punched the security codes in. Sealing the garage, he entered the estate.

Mia waited for him by the door; the petite ghoul was always there waiting for him with that look of an older sibling. Jeremy flashed her his best impish grin and quipped, “No trouble tonight, “Mia. I am going out to the tea house to relax for a few hours.”

Walking through his new garden, Jeremy followed the winding path out to the tea house. He stops as he crosses a small bridge near the coy ponds and watches the fish swim lazily in the water.

In the past two months, so much had changed for Jeremy. He looked back and found he was closer to his soul, yet further away than he had ever been. His ordeal with the thorns had come close to destroying his humanity, and his dance in Court only reinforced those feelings. Yet the ties he was making to other Cainites brought him closer; like a tether, those relationships kept him from sliding into the abyss.

When he entered, the room was cold. Walking towards the fireplace, he began to build a fire, precisely placing logs and kindling to yield the most light and heat.

He had slain his foe with cold steel; the flamenco dancer would bother him no more. A shame Dean and Kendal had interrupted. The cold killer in Jeremy had wanted a fair fight to feel his foes defeat in single combat.

A single flame burst to life as he lit a long match and watched the flame dance in the wind.

He had worked many years to become what he was, and yet now he changed in the breeze of chaos. He was no longer the writer and master thief. He was something more. He had duties, responsibilities, and a target on his back for all to see. He was a player now in the game. Pawn to some, master of others. He could no longer hide in the background.

Taking the match to the kindling, he touched it in a couple of places to get the logs started.

His fellow Primogen dance in a game of his design, yet to their own tunes. Jeremy wondered how long they would last. He genuinely wishes them well but is already worried about their chance of survival. James worries him with his tendency to find trouble. “He is growing in power faster than he was ready for.” Jeremy muses to himself. And then there was Luman, so stoic and harsh. Eventually, Jeremy will be on the opposite side of an issue to him. A day Byrd is not looking forward to. Jeremy wants to be Luman’s friend even more than James, but Luman marches to the drum of Clan Tremere. Eventually, they would disagree. Jeremy hoped that day would wait till they established enough reports to weather a conflict. Luman thought much like Jeremy, but more analytical; he would be a dangerous foe.

He touched the match to two more places as the fire began to take hold of the kindling.

Then there are his Prince and his Seneschal. Jeremy is no longer unnoticed by them, an advantage and a danger at once. He moves under their light, no longer in the shadows. “A thief in the light”, Jeremy chuckles. He has raised his station, and yet it has a cost. He can no longer hide and take shots at those above him.

He was no longer a political satirist taking shots at princes from behind his pen. No, he was a politician, and sooner or later, some young writer would take a shot at him. The tables had turned.

Finally, he tosses the match in the center, and it ignites in a gout of flame, finally giving heat.

And then there is her, he thought, “she warms my soul, with passion and compassion, yet I shy from the flame. A heat that will forge me.” She is a valuable ally and so much more. His thoughts were jumbled, and he reached for words he did not have, words that did not exist, to describe this new relationship.

Flames dance before him, licking the wood above them like greedy beasts longing for sustenance, devouring everything they were given till they die of starvation.

His mind wandered down memory lane, thinking of past lovers who had betrayed him or worse. Some had died while he was powerless to save them; he stood by helpless as they were consumed by his “KINDRED.”