I am sincere, even when I lie

[sourdre]

Jean-Claude found the whole request terribly amusing. And more than a little gratifying to his ego, less so to have his power acknowledged and more in terms of how representative it is of his success in ingratiating himself to the human world. Vampires have not been legal ten years yet, and already Jean-Claude is considered approachable enough, dangerous yet safe enough, to receive requests like these.

There was a considerable amount of work behind that, and more than being a Master of the City or even a sourdre de sang, it is not something another vampire could do, or has done.

So it puts him in a good enough mood to accept. He has many questions of his own, but he prefers to ask them in person and on his own territory. Although he knows phones and computers, Jean-Claude has never gotten comfortable with them, as they remain a peculiarly human insistence. Important vampire functions are always carried out in person, no matter the distance to travel. The time involved feels immaterial when you are immortal until killed.

Of course, he puts on a show for his visitor, awaiting him in an old-fashioned receiving room beneath the Circus of the Damned. The Circus itself might've been an experience just to walk through on the way down - there are a couple truly singular acts, such as the world's last living lamia, a fierce and inhuman woman with the lower body of a snake. On entering the restricted area, the Circus's dark gothic decor meant for tourists gives way to a more sincere and lavish set of living quarters. Bronze sconces and both fine and modern art line the stone walls, far enough underground to be devoid of windows, and tufted area rugs scatter between clean white and black furniture. Staff and residents mill about, casting the visitor curious and sometimes covetous looks, but leave him alone given his escort, who he sheds at the door to the receiving room.

Jean-Claude himself is arranged on a wing-backed armchair, an over-the-top vision in lace and leather, as always, one leg slung over the other. He has an empty wine glass in his hand as a prop, and water and wine set out on a coffee table between the chairs and couches.

"Monsieur Sims, welcome," he says in his smooth, tactile voice, without standing. "Have a seat. Help yourself. It is a pleasure to receive such a distinguished guest so unattached from my normal circles." He smiles a politician's smile, polite and sincere while giving away nothing of substance.

Comments

[end_recording]

Jon does not like being underground. He does not like being in America, either, particular the hot part of it. And, of course, he deeply does not like being away from the Archives. Perhaps it was merely the comfort of being surrounded by sustenance that he missed, but his thoughts kept drifting to the smell of old paper and familiar, labyrinthine disarray of the stacks.

But it is undeniable that there is plenty here that should go into the Archives. Walking the circus floor is like strolling through a banquet: Jon feels his mouth water. Avatars are always hungry, but the sense of the secret and supernatural so thick in the air makes him feel ravenous. He nearly walks straight over to the lamia, but a sharp glance from his escort pulls him back to himself.

Right. He's supposed to be interviewing some vampire. As if there hadn't been enough of that.

Jon himself is quite a lot to look at. A rail-thin Indian man in crisp slacks and collared shirt under a wholly unnecessary sweater. Everything about him seems sharp - his features, his gaze, the way he moves. The impression is offset only by the comfortably battered messenger bag at his side and his hair: a thick, dark tangle pulled back into a short tail, threaded through with strands of grey. It leaves his face bare of any cover, showing half a dozen perfectly round, pale scars. Dime-sized, they scatter over his cheeks, the contrast emphasizing his dark eyes. Jon's aware it gives him something of a ferocious countenance, which he turns on anyone who's gaze lingers a little too long as they move deeper into the circus.

So this is who enters Jean-Claude's parlor. "Master Jean-Claude." Jon sits, stiff-backed. His voice is clipped, business-like. "Thank you for accepting the Institute's request. We are... honored to be granted such access."

Jon's superiors had told him to say that specifically, and it sounds just as stiff as Jon looks. He only barely remembers not to look into Jean-Claude's eyes; at the last second his gaze skitters to the left and then down as he pulls his bag into his lap to start getting out his tape recorder.

"Er... would it be alright if I recorded this conversation?"

[sourdre]

Jean-Claude notices the scars, and finds them fascinating. He has a thing for survivors, being one first and foremost himself, and although his scars aren't on his face he has more than his fair share. Not aging since his death means nothing has healed, either, and since his death he has also acquired a particularly dramatic perfect cross-shaped scar seared into the flesh over his heart, the edges of it visible beyond the ruffle of lace at his plunging neckline.

His stilted greeting certainly sounds like he's reading off a script. It sparks amusement in Jean-Claude, who instantly assesses this to be a scholar here for knowledge, put-upon by politics and disdainful of caution. It's about as far from his own natural proclivities as it's possible to be.

"Do not strain yourself; merely Jean-Claude alone is acceptable." He has no taste for being insincerely called Master. Being intensely suspicious by nature, Jean-Claude then offers a beautiful smile and asks, "Who would have access to such a recording? Is it for your private record-keeping?"

[end_recording]

Jon misses the smile, gaze trained on the tape recorder in his lap. Of course Jon had put in a fresh tape before he came here, but checking it is a familiar task to focus on while he tries to get ahold of himself. It is fairly difficult not to look at Jean-Claude. The - smell? taste? Jon had yet to find an adequate way to describe the sense for statements the Eye had given him - of Jean-Claude's history is heady. He really should have had a statement before he came here, rather than just a cigarette.

Thankfully Jean-Claude asks a rote question. "The recordings can be kept sealed within the private section of the archives, which is accessible only by the archive staff, and only with clearance from the Head Archivist - that is, myself." Jon recites this with the droning air of someone who has said it many times before. "Otherwise, the archives are accessible to vetted scholars, and records are kept of everything that is accessed."

Throughout this Jon finishes fussing with the recorder and places it on the coffee table between them. His gaze falls to his hands in his lap, which curl with the urge to fidget. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips.

[sourdre]

Although this is also a recitation, it's one he sounds much more comfortable with. It's adequate, he supposes. He's not about to reveal anything that could be exploited as a weakness. Furthermore, Jean-Claude is not prone to talking about himself, however egotistical he can be, so he is genuinely curious how many of any ensuing questions he will choose to answer.

It is charming to see him so nervous. Jean-Claude idly plays with the empty glass in his hands, bringing it to his lap as he watches him. If he gets enjoyment here, it is in observing and learning about this odd man, not in divulging his own thoughts.

"Very well, Monsieur. How is this to work? Do you lead with your questions? I am unused to being the object of... academic interest."

He had been so low status for so long - centuries - Jean-Claude relishes his freedom and power immensely, even several years after he'd come into his own. He'd fought tooth and claw to keep it, and he knows better than not to savor it while he has it. But it is still recent enough that the only type of sycophants or admirers he's had to date have been purely for his looks, not his power or experiences.

[end_recording]

"If you could just start with the, er, basics. Your name, your titles, a, um, a little about yourself. This session is... preliminary." A dry sense of amusement colors Jon's tone as he continues. "This is a unique venture in terms of research, and, of course, limited to how much you care to share."

Jon himself doesn't have much interest in vampires - they're very mundane as supernatural beings go - but objectively, he can appreciate that at least the situation is novel.

And perhaps he'll have a chance to speak to the lamia later.

[sourdre]

It's more respectful than he's expecting, honestly. Though he really hasn't been the subject of anyone's academic interest - that wasn't just a flirtatious comment. Though it was that as well.

"I am Jean-Claude, I have never been called anything else," he says with an effusive shrug, elegant even in that. "I am Master of the City of St. Louis for several years now, and newly sourdre de sang, previously of Belle Morte's line. I was made by Lissette in France some centuries ago." Age is often an indicator of vampiric power, and no smart vampire gives away their relative power; accordingly, they're often coy about their age, and Jean-Claude is no exception. The rest of this is all what passes for public information in the admittedly very closed vampiric community.

"I was selected for my physical beauty in life, as all of my line are; we acquire abilities centered around passion and lust. They take a slightly different form in each of us. I would say I am most known for my voice."

As a deliberate tease, he doesn't do anything particular with his voice throughout this recitation, though even without effort Jean-Claude's voice is ethereal and unreal in a way hard to articulate. As if there is a tactile sensation carried along the sound. It's not hard to see from this much alone how vampires focused on beauty and seduction might serve as extremely effective predators.

[end_recording]

Jon barely manages not to sigh in relief as Jean-Claude begins to speak. After weeks of stale and meager statements, Jean-Claude is like wine on an empty stomach. Distantly, Jon wonders if Jean-Claude's voice is somehow intensifying the normal effect statements have on him, or if it is simply the richness of his histyory. The aching hunger that scrapes against Jon's bones fades, replaced with a sense of completeness.

Jon knows that it is a lie, that the Eye would hollow him out if he let it. But he has never felt as alive as he does when he is satisfying the inquisitive nature that the Eye had found in him, cultivated in him.

Jon's gaze drifts upward, meeting Jean-Claude's gaze full on. Visually, there is no change in Jon beyond the sudden release of tension. Yet there is certainly a difference. His dark eyes seem somehow more vivid, deeper. His voice, too takes on a different quality when he speaks, his tone is soft and inviting. "Tell me more about your sire and your turning."

[sourdre]

He offers out an open palm in gesture, saying, "It was not remarkable. Lissette was not a master."

After the blood thirst had been slaked on his initial turning, Jean-Claude had been overtaken by the ardeur. For five years. Even the memories of it centuries removed are degrading and humiliating, and he is not about to even hint at them now.

Especially since he recognizes someone feeding when he sees it. Perhaps he should share a little more, as a way of leading the conversation where he wants it to go. The hand he'd gestured with is now used to rest his head, elbow braced on the arm of the chair, a relaxed yet inquisitive pose. Jean-Claude always places his limbs deliberately, placing himself on display at all times.

"Or, it was not remarkable at first. Some vampires, in rare cases, can feed on substances other than blood. Nighthags, for example, may feed on fear. I did need blood at first, but after I had fed I began to realize I had inherited another hunger: lust."

He feels comfortable sharing this much since it, again, is no secret in vampiric circles - but it is absolutely unknown outside of them. It truly is a vanishingly rare ability, and a human would have had to both realize they were being fed upon that way, and survive the encounter, to create tales of it.

[end_recording]

The tease is effective. Jon leans forward slightly, his flicking out to wet his lips again. His tone is colored with eagerness, though there is still a coaxing element, buried somewhere in the rich timbre of his accent. "Have you ever encountered a nighthag? Or any other vampires that feed off lust before beginning your line?"

Jon can feel the gaps that Jean-Claude is leaving in his statement. But there is so much that he's easily distracted.

[sourdre]

Jean-Claude has never met someone so entranced not with him, but with his stories. It's completely transparent that the man is engaged in what he's saying - but also oblivious to the fact that the sexual component could be at play now, here, between them.

It's as annoying as it is fascinating. That, and how he's blatantly lost his fear - or pretend caution - at meeting his eyes. It's so very tempting to try, and see what happens... but he has a different thread he's pulling right now.

"I have met one who feeds on fear, but that is not a topic we should discuss," he dismisses, because Moroven is not idle chit-chat or someone he wishes to name in an archive. Belle is much more public with herself. "La Belle Morte, of course, and a handful of others of her line. But tell me, is this a one way conversation only?"

Jean-Claude smiles, allowing a hint of fang to show.

"You have changed completely since I began. I might think you had inherited another hunger yourself."

[end_recording]

Jon completely ignores Jean-Claude's observation. He doesn't even seem to hear it - and in a way, he doesn't. It's not relevant to the statement.

"Tell me about the one who feeds on fear," he says, as if Jean-Claude had not just forbidden the topic. And this time... Jean-Claude might find himself more inclined. Like telling Jon about this being is a wonderful idea, an opportunity to unburden himself.

[sourdre]

"Ah, but you were doing so well," he says, and clucks his tongue, chiding. Jean-Claude straightens up in his chair and sets his glass down. His eyes gleam with predatory interest. He could be offended, to try such tactics on a Master of the City in his own lair, but this is far too interesting for that. He can reinforce his authority in less trite ways.

It's not that it hasn't affected him. It's that this is nothing compared to the daily pull of the ardeur, which tugs at his thoughts, his impulses, his very body with a whisper that rises into a roar if it is unaddressed.

"You must play the game more subtly, mon ami, especially with prey as powerful as myself. You are like a child who is used to being able to club others over the head." He lines his voice with velvet, making good on some of the tease from earlier: it is a caress down his spine, something in it carrying a promise. "I am Master of the City. Perhaps these seem like mere words to you, but they mean something. You cannot feed in my city without my permission, even from me, or I will know it."

[end_recording]

All of that seems to pass through Jon's ears to no effect; only when Jean-Claude infuses his voice does Jon react with a soft, wanting sigh. It sates him only fleetingly and then he is left with a growing frustration. Hungry again. Starving.

Had Jon considered the matter more deeply beforehand, it might have occurred to him that Jean-Claude's appetite would be sublimated into him through the statement. But Jon had never been well-known for foresight whereas his employee evaluations consistently pointed to issues of over-indulgence when it came to collecting statements.

Those incidents of over-indulgence had usually involved chasing down other avatars for answers. Trying to understand what was happening to him and how to control it. But Jon had found that avatars were even less interested than other supernatural creatures with unnatural appetites; their gods were each an fathomless maw, and feeding it was bliss.

"Tell me," he says again, and this time it is a firm yank on Jean-Claude's mind; there is the undercurrent of a growl thrumming through the words.

[sourdre]

Interesting - so he is not so unaffected? But Jean-Claude is not sure what he is feeding on, except it began when he started telling his story, and he is obstinate and blind to anything else until sated.

Much like a new vampire, really. Calling him a child was perhaps truer than he'd thought, but he doesn't know for certain yet. He doesn't know much, to tell the truth, so Jean-Claude falls back on centuries of experience handling sadists much stronger than him, and the ardeur.

The secret is always to give in. But to give in in a way that you could live with, so you maintained some piece of control. He is not so prideful as to abandon all that now that he is Master.

"Why would you want me to," he begins, "when one of my oath-sworn here lived under her for a thousand years and more?" Telling him, without telling him - the weight in his voice deeper, like hands stroking through the fur of a wild creature, and his eyes darkened blue. "I swore him shelter from his former master in exchange for his service, and now he will not even speak her name, because he has learned to fear every syllable. Would you not rather hear it from him? My knowledge is only secondhand."

Unkind to Damian? Absolutely. But Jean-Claude's people all know they are here to be pawns on the board. He is a kinder king than most, but they would not respect a kind one. That being said, Jean-Claude has real sentiment to his feelings for Damian: he does care for him, in his way, and there is a genuine empathy to his protectivenes.

[end_recording]

"Yes," Jon says heatedly. The promise of a bigger meal doesn't sate him, not really, but Jean-Claude's voice washes over him like cool water, dissolving his tension and frustration for the moment. When the Eye cannot feed on others it contents itself with Jon and while the subtle manipulation Jean-Claude accomplishes with his voice are not it's preferred meal, it is familiar enough.

Sort of like having ice cream for dinner.

[sourdre]

He raises a single eyebrow, watching this without comment for long moments, letting him compose himself a bit.

"Are you returned to me yet, Monsieur? I feel it is your turn to answer questions... if you wish for some reward."

Jean-Claude can't know all the specifics of what's going on here, but he'd intended this to be a small initial lesson in control. Learning to accept a substitute for what you truly want is the real crux of it. It is an eternal balancing act of keeping his hungers just satiated enough with consensual acts that they do not boil over into nonconsensual acts. That's the line Jean-Claude's chosen to walk, even if he can't say he's always able to stay on this side of it - he does try.

Whether Jonathan Sims is receptive to or even able to learn this, or whether Jean-Claude is the appropriate teacher for him, he doesn't yet know. But he does remember all too vividly how it had been to be lost in the ardeur for five years, and to have his teacher at the end of it be Belle Morte, cruelty itself.

[end_recording]

Jon's obviously not used to doing complicated reasoning in this state. His brow furrows softly. But with Jean-Claude no longer giving a statement, the alien intensity does fade from Jon, leaving him blinking mildly, staring at Jean-Claude full in the face.

After a beat, Jon claps a hand over his mouth, eyes widening with horror. Another moment of processing and he jolts out of his chair, putting distance between himself and Jean-Claude, looking wildly around the room. He has no idea whether he should be groveling for forgiveness or attacking - and to Jean-Claude it does look like he's got midway between bristling and cowering. Both options seem overwhelmingly useless.

"I, I - I didn't mean to - " His voice shakes. Jon's not soothed at all by Jean-Claude's casual demeanor. Many others had been casual, indeed cheerful, right before trying to murder Jon.

[sourdre]

So he hadn't been off the mark in his comparison to a new vampire after all.

Since he appears to understand the gravity of the infraction, Jean-Claude isn't about to insist on retaliation. They're not in a situation where he's forced to in order to keep face, and Jean-Claude values every opportunity he gets to use his own discretion on these matters. He doesn't take any pleasure in grinding someone into the dirt who is already remorseful. Though clearly, this is not, in lycanthropic terms, a submissive. Dominant preternatural types are always half-inclined to attack rather than apologize - Jean-Claude himself isn't immune from that instinct.

He continues to remain seated so as to appear unthreatening, leaning back again. "Peace. You will get nowhere if you flee. If you are indeed newly come to your power, I am willing to, how do they say, let bygones be bygones?" He gives another disarming smile.

[end_recording]

Jon grimaces, knowing Jean-Claude is right about his chances if he runs. He does not sit down yet, instead gripping the back of the chair to try and suppress his trembling.

Two years would be considered 'new' by vampire standards, but Jon had mostly stopped accidentally compelling people at this point. Whether it was the presence of so much of the Eye's preferred fare in one place or some effect of Jean-Claude himself effecting Jon's self-control, he couldn't yet say. "I-I, um, I don't usually... Do that." He manages weakly.

[sourdre]

Two years is practically a toddler by vampire standards, it's true. That doesn't necessarily make vampires, or Jean-Claude specifically, more forgiving - the consequences can be just as severe no matter the inexperience - but in this case the consequences are minor.

"Bon, that is encouraging to hear," he replies, some amusement rising now that he feels firmly in control again, the situation recovered. "Perhaps we can determine what set you off." When he's not acting for his audience, and most of his pretence is stripped away, Jean-Claude takes on an eery deathly quality that is characteristic of older vampires. Younger ones might look half-alive at times, but Jean-Claude has shed every habit of the living: no instinctive breathing, no fidgeting, and a fixed gaze and focus that has not the slightest hint of impatience.

"I must ask, what is it that you feed on? I do not recognize it from this interaction." Jean-Claude suspects he hasn't seen his like before, which is not unusual. He is focused on the practicalities here rather than academic interest, himself. Not what are you, but what do you do.

[end_recording]

The stillness itself doesn't bother Jon but he can feel Jean-Claude's implacable gaze with precision. Fitting for the avatar of the Beholding, he does not particularly like being beheld himself. His own gaze is trained on his hands, gripping the chair as if he might tear it. Social awkwardness rather than caution.

Even gripped with pulse-pounding fear, Jon still has to suppress a scowl at the condescension inherent in Jean-Claude's response. Of course he didn't walk in here expecting to expose himself.

Not answering is really not an option. Jon presses his mouth into a thin line. His voice still shakes when he speaks. He still doesn't trust Jean-Claude won't hurt him, or won't decide to keep him as a new attraction in the circus. "I-it's... complicated. Technically, I feed on, on fear. Er, stories about fear. And pain. And - all that."

[sourdre]

It's tough to be more than 500 years old and not end up a little condescending sometimes. He appreciates greatly that Jon has chosen not to be difficult with answering his questions, basic as they are.

Jean-Claude makes a noise of understanding low in his throat. He assumes his profession lining up well with this is not a coincidence, and is more willing to disclose information for personal need than for an archive. "Thus your interest in nighthags. It is very rare, and I think not the same. Those with that ability constantly instill fear in all those around them, though perhaps those I know have never wished not to." He shrugs. "If I did not maintain control, I would compel sexual acts in every room I walked through. By your surprise, I take it you are usually less affected?"

[end_recording]

"Yes." Jon presses a hand to his face, as is trying to hold his trembling body still. He does gain some control back over his voice, though every word seems pried out, reluctant. "I don't know if it's simply the, the... volume of stories in this place o-or, er, something about you in particular."

[sourdre]

So it is more the stories than the emotion itself, perhaps? Or maybe they are both necessary components. It seems a damnably inconvenient hunger to have, to Jean-Claude, though if he is accustomed to better control over it and a job that lets him see it fed, perhaps it is not so bad.

He laces his fingers together placidly over his stomach, at ease. "Perhaps both. I have spent hundreds of years with the Council, mon ami, the oldest, most vicious and most powerful vampires there are. You will not have heard these stories before - there are no humans that survive them to speak, and I am the first of my kind to welcome public attention.

"If you want stories of fear and pain, that you have not heard before - " Jean-Claude chuckles, a vibrant sound with a resonance behind it. "Those sworn to me here have even more, that they would not say without my approval. I would not be surprised if you could sense it. Like a rare vintage."

It's a comfortable, familiar position for him, to more or less bargain with the currency they have. Jean-Claude isn't cavalier about offering anything, and indeed he hasn't made any offers beyond his own so far, but one does open a negotiation by persuading the other you have something they want. And it seems Jonathan is like any other vampire, in that what he most craves might be novelty.

[end_recording]

"It's not that simple," Jon snaps, confusion now making him more irritated than afraid. Is this Jean-Claude trying to collect him after all? Seduce him, so to speak, with an endless buffet? And if Jon refuses the nice offer... Perhaps Jon would see first hand what his voice could do. His laugh alone thrums against Jon's spine as if it were a plucked chord.

"Wh, when I take a statement directly from a subject, I. Feel it. And so do they. All of it, all over again. It's not pleasant." For the subject. For Jon, it is an all-too fleeting respite from hunger and pain and uncertainty.