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^{P e p p e r d i n e U n i v e r s i t y}

Carefully tapping her slender fingers in the shadows, Esther stared at the milky skin beneath her silk, black lacework. No matter how modern the drama, it was always fundamentally the same thing. She preferred the classics for this reason. It dumbfounded her that Malkavians could get so lost in the unnecessary simplistic theatrics of this world. However, it also dumbfounded her that Malkavians could see the future in so helpful of a manner. There was mystery in all their weaves. However, she could not have been more more bored at watching the little girls sprinkle their ballerina toes on stage.

Not only was the theater less than spectacular in comparison to the baroque displays of Imperial Russia; nor, the arts being exasperated in comparison to this postmodern era of the Western World, lacking the ornate peasantry of elegant leaflets and delicate intricacies, but the sparkles of glitter reflecting from the girls' cheeks were all too posthumanist for Esther's interest. They would have to work harder to flourish at this rate. Their fundamentals were so bare and dry, and the fluidity of their limbs were wandering through the raspy air like stillicide and icicles, fighting the puritanical, straight tatting with their flounce and flamboyancy. There was more than a play birthing on the stage. There was a historical fight re-announcing itself under yet another veil.

O, drama. How depressing.

Her head tilted slightly, eyelashes brushing closed against her pale cheeks in the darkness of the room. A yawning thumb slid to gently touch the rim of a gold ring placed upon her middle finger. No matter the redundancy, there was a reason she had gilded herself to the more classical nature of theater arts, her time spent under Catherine the Great had made a complexly lasting presence in her. She could have been to blame for the travesty of the Third Rome’s abortion. However, she knew better than to scold such a figurehead. Perhaps, it was du Bois. Perhaps, it was Jean-Baptiste.

Esther opened her eyes and discreetly watched Peter’s reactions unfold. Each recital had shown her a different side of him. She was remarkably more interested in the Kindred’s childish reactions than the theatrical debacle performing a temper tantrum on stage. There was still respect to be made in obvious notes for their attendance, but such a compliment towards the nearly incomprehensible Malkavian, was as much passe as the late tsarina and her husband, Peter the Great.

O, Peter. He had caused so much controversy in that long dream. And, here he was, playing thoughtlessly and helplessly again, right next to her. He was a thorn in her side. It would be such a shame if something happened to him. He had some good in him -- it was not great, but it was worth the chase. He adored his supposed niece. Her golden locks were cupped into a bun, and her leotard was flounced with Yuri’s expertise, “Your little kotik,” Esther hushed lowly at the Malkavian. He was nipping his bottom lip in hungry, patient anticipation, as if he expected something different from the performance.

His head moved slightly in the ambiance; brown hair skirting against Esther’s cheek as his frame balanced an elbow on the arm of his chair. he grinned softly back at the Ventrue, slightly uninterested in her melancholy whims, “Come to us and stay the night, to rock our little baby. I will pay you, kotu, for your work - I will give you a piece of piroga and da, a jug of moloka,” Peter’s words were contritely sarcastic sounding in his lullaby. The brim of his nose touched her cheek playfully, creepily.

Pulling her hand from the cloth of her lap, she brought her fingers to her neckline, adorned with several a small golden cross. The lacework caught the outlines of the trefoil, and scrolled the outline of its motif and buds. The rich, ornate feel was cold to the touch, just like her. A small breath concentrated under her, “Your little kotik,” she nodded stoically towards the stage. The dim reflections caught her pale skin, gently maneuvering Peter’s attention back to the spotlight, again. As she rested her head against his childish, irresponsible foibles. For the time being, this spectacle was less depressing than the drama ensuing in Los Angeles. Her complacency was less than obvious.

There had been ruffles of rumors and smoke emerging from the sewers; all likely to find their stench under her nose. It was why she held it so high and inclined her neck for very few. Peter was one of those few, him and his little toys. All three of them. She had stayed away from the primelight successfully for some time. It had been her role in her first life and now this one, it seemed. She was always passing herself as one thing or another, but rarely was she ever herself. For now, she was Uncle Scott’s friend, who introduced little Annie to the art of mastering the grand pas de deux.

Esther and Peter had to be somewhere later, after the suite — affectionate and loving. The Kindred has long forgotten what that entailed. It had been something that embroidered her past, and now, after so many centuries, there was evidence that there was some sort of brilliant insight, which tied the nous of all the happenings, surrounded by this mystical, redundant phenomenon. The romantic desire for something; anything; everything; nothing — all at once, like a choreography: the world was dancing to a dark tune, and her most comforting lead was her date with a schizophrenic rabbit.

She was being pulled into the mess one way or another. Getting spun in the puppeteer's web was not too terribly hard after centuries of life being granted. Getting untangled was in itself another mystery Esther had long since been pondering with various intervals of defeat. Unfortunately, her dismissive slumber had ended. She was being summoned, again, down into the grave hole of her duty. The dance would be over soon, and the curtain would be closing. Merci.

---

^{M i r a c l e M i l e}

Beneath the evening sky, the colors draped beautifully and lovely, as always. The three were sitting at a small patio table outside of an gelato parlor. Weather had warn on the materials of the table to add an antique flavor of fashion. Annie's face was powdered with ladylike features. It made her appear older and more mature. One of her hands, small and supple, draped its fingers into a loose weave with Peter’s own hand. She was licking the top sugar of vanilla and bubblegum ice cream scooped like a unicorn into a waffle cone. The excitement of the recital seemed to have settled, and the Malkavian’s focus had seemingly calmed to a passable level of vocal sanity, “Why didn’t Melanie come?” Esther's voice questioned passively but with a sharp silibance, indicating the unfortunate impatience she was feeling between the two guests.

A pause was given for him to answer, but like most Malkavians, his obedience had left with his sire. His dark eyes were staring at her, begging a reason as to why she would ask such a question. The pondering thoughts were scattered amongst a dismal expression of carelessness. He seemed oblivious to the nature of what was happening; the course of his own knowledge had ridden him lethargic and incapable in the event of Los Angeles' perpetual tragedy. He was true to his essence. He did finally reply though, “I did not want her to get jealous,” his answer was spoken in a polite, gentile manner, and his grip on Annie rose, as his eyes stirred from Esther and back to the youth of the little girl. An dull smile crept onto his lips, “of Annie.” His smile continued whimsicall, now directed at the Ventrue.

Before Esther could respond, supressed by her own lack of assumption and judgement to have even troubled with entertaining his response, Peter continued, “And of you, of course, my kotu.” His eyes played with both Annie and Esther in his mind; an obvious disorder was spinning in his thoughts, “I did promise you hoarfrost.” His spare finger dipped into the vanilla of Annie’s dessert and glistened the treat into the tip. Quickly, he tapped his finger on Esther’s nose, “White-Nose Syndrome has murdered millions of bats across America.” Annie giggled at her uncle's silly display, matching his Cheshire grin. The Ventrue swiftly tapped the cream from her skin, giving the reaction as if an itch had bothered her and caught Peter's hand as he was withdrawing it. Esther's silence continued in her silhouette of movements, and her palm guided the Malkavian’s own hand closer to himself, “It’s a good thing you’re a cat and not a bat,” he spoke smugly, as his personality resided back into the depths of his own uncharted imagines. His mind had already changed subjects; turned phases.

Esther released his hand, like a nurse to a patient slipping back into a therapeutic coma. She pitied the Vampire, sometimes. He was mad; his happiness was lost. His unyielding amusement with woman was to show. Unfortunately, tonight was not a night for a dispense in emotion. They would have to leave soon, and there was little room for the Malkavian’s nursery rhymes and idiosyncratic dialogue to interefere with age old conversations. Perhaps, there would be excuse the poor White Russian’s slurred alveolar ridge. No, Annie was older than a young girl, even if she retained many attributes of one. Peter and Annie had this in likeness, and Esther was not bothered enough to pry. The girl, however, smelled less innocent than her appearance — much like the tsarina and her pet unicorn with its broken glass horn.

“I also have a hat,” Esther leaned forward. Keeping Peter focused would be a good deal of business. Her elbow assumed on the table, and her cheek rested atop of her hand. Peter was already lost in the nightlight and the noise buzzing around them. Esther shifted her gaze to the Ghoul, “How old are you again, Annie?” Her eyes pondered over the young girl. Annie was fourteen, now, about the same age of when Esther had met Rodericus. Peter had no similarities to the altar server other than his mutual regurgitation of: O samaya svyataya ledi Bogoroditsy, svet moyey temnoy dushi, moya nadezhda, moya zashchita, moye pribezhishche, moy otdykh i moya radost'. His parents would be so ashamed of him, now. Tsk tsk. Not that he remembered much of his life before his embrace.

“I am eight,” Annie chimed in a youthful disposition. Her automatic response seemed like it had taken years to master. The girl smiled, revealing a flawed character of an eight year old. The shimmer in her eyes was older and more thirsty for knowledge than an ordinary juvenile. She had a dark corruption that an eight year old could only know from something outstanding such as abuse or force. To Esther, it was obvious the girl was an addict. The child enjoyed his kiss and her temporal immortality; she had even lost her youth before reaching the age of contemplation. Her types generally interested Esther. However, as a retainer to a Malkavian, she had a lack of reason that kept Esther from furthering her inquiry on the girl's state of affairs. The Kindred knew much better than to dabble with that. Her sire had taught her well. Losing dignity, especially in the face of madness was not one of the Truths of the Ventrue.

They would be leaving soon. The travel and small stop by Milk Jar Cookies was enough to passify the girl and the time while they waited for Saint Sophia Cathedral's Great Vespers to end. Esther was looking forward to the golden pomp and brilliant display of light fixtures. Peter hardly favored under the site; and often times he reunited with memories that left him haunted for days. For this reason, she had given him several gifts in hopes that he would mind himself. This was evidence enough that both were always nursing on a small mad hope, artistically caged to immortal imagery to which they had no real freedom; and no free man needs God.

---

^{S a i n t S o p h i a ' s G r e e k O r t h o d o x C h u r c h}

“Don’t forget to cross yourself before entering…”

Upon opening the intricately wooden, adorned doors, the scene was written like a memory of the Dream; as if Esther had closed her eyes and awaken in the lavish pageantry of militant mercy amongst the Divine. Chandeliers dripped in golden, pearly tears from the ceiling of the Cathedral, draped in decadent and ornately rich and flaxen engravings. The smell of candles and incense graced the dimly lit atmosphere, arising like smoke in the ambiance of a low echo chanting the psalter. A velvet red carpet lead the back of the Church to the Royal Doors, closed with protective wings of the illuminated icons, painted firmly on the iconostas with headdress of sculpted twilight and articulate halos.

The Malkavian responded to the backdrop and glass stained history with stiff arms and wandering eyes. Memories were floating around, and he was not sure which one he should choose. Each held their own world of mystery. A silent flame was standing firmly in a small puddle of trophic sand. The fire was like a desert rose, wandering through a scorched wilderness that was enclosed with aurelian leaves that were cold to touch, like Annie’s cheeks in the winter. His thoughts were pushed by the sound of a male, rich in vocals.

“O, Esther,” Father Bill stepped out from the corners of the Nave. His heavy black gown moved the sounds of the incense through the tiny kingdom. He seemed pleased with a closed smile of allurement and attraction to the visitors, “You’ve brought friends, family, are they inquirers, as well?” His body glided patiently through pews. Automatically, lifting a wrist, with fingers bent and curved. Unabatangly, he crossed the air with minimal effort before letting his palm rest in the cups of Esther’s extended palms. His eyes looked to Peter, as he felt the Ventrue’s soft lips press reverently against his skin.

Esther spoke quietly, “Yes, Father. Uncle Scott.” Her gentle breath whispered quietly against the priest’s flesh. She paused before straightening her and then turned towards the Malkavian. His dark eyes were wandering over the Church, as they tended to do. Excitement was setting them to life, and his lower lip, nibbled with nervous blood, was moving slightly, mumbling inaudibly to himself about something that minded nothing with Annie who appeared enchanted and bored all at once, “this is Father Bill,” she relaxed her shoulders. Silk threads gently touched against her pale skin as she moved. There was pity in her voice as watched the Kindred lose his mind in the details.

“Th-the chandeliers are flickering, sh-shaking,” Peter finally noted in response to Esther, locking eyes with her and then tracing the weave of her black dress as it fitted and flounced over her body. They wrapped around the fabric-covered buttons that held her blouse over her neck, bosom, and waste. She was like charcoal, burning like a spinneret in the midst of a radiant, dead dream. The lace on her dress began smoking and evaporating into the air, stringing each of its threads from every corner of the room until all he could see was a web and three trapped flies. A darkness messaged and crawled over the back of his head, massaging its body tenderly into his mind; claws and tarsi appendaging his ears as its pincers began cutting the threads of his mind open.

There were muffled voices that he could not quite makeout. They came and went through cups of sounds. It was the flies, squirming in their voices. They made him thirsty, and he could feel the dryness of his tongue swiping over his cracked, bloody lips trembling with the beast re-awakening in him. Sweet sickness dripped down his throat as he tried to hold back, but the domineering command, “Eat him, Peter” vibrated in warped pochette echoes from the cobweb’s silk strings, like bells notifying the beginning of the Creed.

A bestial growl rumbled over the Malkavian, hungry with madness and lust. This was his favorite part of him. He remembered now as his strong frame tingled with sensation and compulsion while it moved forward. His shackles of insanity had been unlocked from his flesh, and snarls were foaming through his teeth, sharp to the point, overly excited to devour in the imagined Network placed in front of him. The feeling was strong and starving. He had not succumb to his beast in a long while, but he was drunk on this long sought after fever of hysteria, now, famished for satisfying her command and his appetite.

Esther watched as the two Kindred’s veins flexed and entwined together, each ripping for each other’s lives. She placed her hopes on Peter winning, if not because she decided he was the stronger of the two, but she was also penanced with the duty of caring for him. A girl of Annie’s age should not have to witness this. However, the Ventrue had little interest in securing the sanity of a child who had already lost her reason for living to Malkav. She was but a snuffed flame in the loins as a potential Childe.

“Uncle Scott might not kiss you goodnight, Annie,” Esther miffed. Her slender fingers extended and combed through the child’s long, golden locks. They were soft to the touch, still mended from a bun holding the human warmth of a beating heart despite being the deadest thing on her. The Ventrue let out a lofty sigh as the Toreador antitribu crumbled under the pressure of the frenzying Malkavian. Humiliation by surprise had brought the beast out of the Toreador, as well. However, by the trembles and groans rummaging through the cathedral, it was fair to believe there was and enjoyment of agony from both parties. So complicated dying had to be.

Her hand left Annie’s hair and tipped her fingers against her lips. Peter really had no manners. Lulling him out of a frenzy would be difficult. He was enjoying himself so much, right now. However, for the sake of time — her fingers intertwined with the lines and shadows and pulled the scene into a soothing display of debauched memories. Heavenly aromas budded like roses from the ground. The fields of incense blossomed and sprouted, vines twisted its leaves and sprouts over the cobweb, turning the weave gold, again.

Rich tapestry and iconography provided gentle siloques into reality. Breaths pressed through the Malkavian’s fangs, guilty in blood and gray skin. As the room swayed in soothing motions, he lifted his gaze from the mess and found himself, again, lost in the dark trances of the Ventrue’s eyes. His undead heart could feel her state beating through him, now, changing the rhythm of the night. His lower jaw stuttered as drool and Vitae collapsed and spilled from it.

The Ventrue’s features started to appear more abstract, as the vision dominated him. Her face started to resemble something more pure and holy. Her voice chimed his name, and his body relaxed, drawn to her presence like a moth to a flame. Panting he spoke questionably, “Ma-ma?” his voice was weak and withdrawn with a lock fastened around his madness. There were no longer spiders; and they were no longer in a web. Flowers were dressing a California field; and the sun was glowing all over the sky. He wanted to touch the image of the woman in front of him and feel her cheeks — they looked soft like petals that had grown like wings on the back of a butterfly.

He could feel against his own cheeks a breeze brushing against his cold skin. It had a warmth, like a mother’s embrace, against the fold of her chest. She looked like an angel, and she made him think, he was in heaven, with the hilt of her arms spread open. His body moved towards hers, magnetized by her presence. “Mamuschka. Matuschka…” his voice twisted for tenderness and piety, as he fell at her feet. Saliva and Vitae drooled as he made small laughs, giddy and sad all the same.

Esther knelt down, bending her knees and softly tipping his chin upward to look at her. His grin had closed in his hazy stare, lost to mortal memories he would soon forget, “Thank you. You’re such a good little boy.” Her neck declined, and she placed a small butterfly kiss upon his forehead, pressing her matted lips against his dark, duey hair. Several strands pulled with her mouth, as her body and attention rose. She smiled politely at Annie before turning her attention to the undead corpse.

Her body stepped around the awakening Malkavian and approached the antitribu. Her smile paused for a solemn moment, feigning pity upon the poor, stupid priest. He was almost nothing, now. “Memory Eternal, Father.” Esther bent her knees, again, tucking the frou-frou of her skirt beneath her. Her body leaned over the limp and pathetic ruins of a Kindred. She drew her right hand to her mouth and nipped the tips of her glove from her fingers, removing the lace gauntlet from her hand. Her fingers tiptoed quickly through the mess, and untwisted the gold cross from the black cloth. The ornament was relished inside a hanky and tucked into her purse thereafter.

Standing and turning towards the Malkavian, again, Esther lightly commanded in a petite manner, “Uncle Scott, you should call Big Joe,” she watched as the Kindred stirred to her voice, as he began returning to his reality, “I am under the impression that he has some cleaning to do.” Her eyes fell on Annie again and quickly dismissed the swollen eyed doll. She was a waste of innocence, as they all were. She was also a waste of time. This whole scenario was had its own vessel of a story; and this was merely the prologue. A small sigh escaped her.

How depressing.

The Ventrue fitted her hand into her glove, again, and began making her way to the Narthex of the Cathedral. There were several more stops the three would have to make. Each foot was placed carefully in front of the other, minimizing the bustles of her flouncing attire. There was much to do in preparation before he arrived.

“Don’t forget to cross yourself before leaving…”

Peter’s body moaned silently as it dragged itself through the corridors of the Church. His darkened eyes faltered, landing cowardly on the three lit candles, like withering irises. Their flames were burning pollen, melting the stems into the finely grounded rocks, Raz, dva, tri... Umirayet zaychik moy...

The heavy close of the wooden doors veiled the masquerade and revealed the day having clothed herself into a maddening darkness with dusty clouds and blankets of sunless sky. The contrast between the dim lights of the Church were still noticeable. Annie’s small body was trembling, kept at a distance that was weary of her Uncle Scott and shunned by the Ventrue. Her small lips made no sound, pressed together in a supple manner of confused innocence. The Malkavian cracked a smile, uncurling his posture to her vulnerable attired emotions and bare neck, uncurtained by her golden locks dressed once in a bun, and while closing the gap between the girl and him, Peter toyed with his voice, “One, two, three, four, five. Zaychik came out to play.” His hand extended and crawled through the air swiftly as it took hold of the scruff of her neck, petting the nymphette’s nape lightly.

“Privezli yego domoy Okazalsya on zhivoy,” Esther finished the rhyme, “You tease her too much, Uncle Scott,” she gently scolded as her steps slowed to allow the two others the ability to retain the same pace as she was traveling. The heels of her shoes clicked softly against the gray pavement, carefully judging the wrinkles in the cement as they landed. Esther’s back was arched straight, holding her head high with an authoritative air. Perhaps, she had overstepped her conversation. It so much appeared patience and time were not on her side tonight, “Ivan is a bit away down the road,” her chin nodded towards. A black sedan that was parked a little ways from the cathedral, “He’ll be able to help us with your attire.”

Esther had not been the least bit amused with the Malkavians outfit, especially in reference to his attending a ballet recital at Pepperdine University, so eloquently adjusted in Malibu. The pretentious disposition, which rested on her face, smiled in regards to her comment. Although, there was a shrug of hope that his performance would give his new outfit any true longevity, she was calloused towards crushed dreams and was rich enough to not mind a short lived suit, so long as it served its purpose.

The Malkavian made no reply to her nipping commentary. His mind was long gone, tangled with the flocculent flesh running over Annie's mortal parts. Esther took note of his lack of response and continued in her walk towards the Rolls Royce, parked under the dusky covers of trees, hiding the streetlights and any attention that might be watching or listening. It might have been well that there had been only an ignorant reply to Esther's commentary.

As the three approached closer, it was made out that inside the dark car, there was a shadow of a driver who was propped in his seat with an arm relaxed on the sill of the window. His clothed elbow was leaning against the pain, and his cheek was pushed into a closed knuckle. A solemn emotion was drawn on his face, even with his eyes watching intently and brutally as he watched the three figures emerge from the large temple. His body did not stiffen or relax at their sight; and it was not until Esther opened the door, did the man stir, brustling his skin against coarse hair.

“Dear Ivan, oh were, oh where did your manners go? Tsk. Tsk.” A quiet glare pierced over the driver. His body tensed at the sound of her voice snipping through his strings of lull. A moment of silence passed through him as he tried to find means of attention and begs for mercy in a pious manner. Her demeanor was offering less of a threat than the internal flame raging inside of her. He was sure of it as klutzy movements or large hands pushed open the driver door to help the two others inside of the sedan, forfeiting his intelligence.

“Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?” Peter mocked the driver. His smile wired up his face as he studied Ivan, “Why, she's been to London to visit the queen, and all the bridges are falling, falling, falling down.” His hand left Annie’s neck and crept towards Ivan’s tan, masculine features. Excitement was dripping from his movements as his upper body leaned forward, giving the escort several kisses upon both of his clean shaven cheeks. A laugh was bubbling inside of Peter, but for unbeknownst reasons it refused to truly surface and merely swayed the Kindred into the car, bloated with a saturated memory of the father’s taste. He would gladly dine again with Esther's permission.

The little ghoul crept after her master, tiptoeing around the brunt card driver, as if he was a large monster, ready to erupt at any moment, even if he, too, was also on his toes, afraid to cause any stir in his mistress’ temperament. The ghoul, void of emotions and moving in frames of kindred instinct, snuggled up close to her master, and her head limped like a doll against his side. The leather seating was stiff and made their own sounds with the movements of the two, but soon after, with the presence of Esther fuming with a heavy pretense of despondency that drowned out any curses from the Cobweb, quietness appeared from both of the backseat passengers.

Ivan closed the door and swept his own huge body into the car, once more — Esther was already settled, sitting upright and patiently agitated, wandering memories of her own undead life, “We are going to San Francisco, my dear Ivan. If you could please, pozhalyoostah.” She spoke politely and grimly to him, turning her cheek slightly to face him. His obedience stirred stiff muscles to start the car, and after the car started with a low rumbling purr, her last words spoken before entering San Francisco were, “Thank you. Spasibo.”