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I am sincere, even when I lie
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.
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.
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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.
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"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.
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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."
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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.
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Jon can feel the gaps that Jean-Claude is leaving in his statement. But there is so much that he's easily distracted.
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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."
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"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.
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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."
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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.
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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.
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Sort of like having ice cream for dinner.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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."
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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?"
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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.
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"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.
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He listens with evident interest. "Yet you still do so? I presume there are some kind of dire consequences should you not."
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"Not very often. I usually get by on written statements. They're..." Jon sighs, resigning himself to another food analogy. "Not as filling. But they don't harm the subject."
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"Is there not some benefit to them after all? Do they find it cathartic to relive the scene, perhaps?"
At least in vampires, their abilities tend to include some payoff for the victim, as a survival mechanism to lure in prey. There are a few exceptions, of course, but Jean-Claude doesn't expect them to ever be willing to live in harmony with humanity the way he does. That would be cruel to impose on someone who seems human to his senses.
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"Look - " And Jon does look at Jean-Claude in the face, completely forgetting caution. "I, I apologize. Really. A-and it won't happen again." Jon doesn't sound confident so he hurries past it. "I should, um, go have a few statements and we can meet again tomorrow." His tone lifts slightly at the end, more of a hopeful question.
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