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?"