Vampire Lord Crayve sat sprawled out in an inordinately comfortable armchair. He did this for several reasons.
The first and most principal was that the austere and imposing furniture chosen for the Sinistral Club's Ruby Auction Room -
[God, these rich douches!]
- happened to match the very style which Vampire Lord Crayve had made his hallmark. Everything was fabric or wood, dark and heavy and looming. Intricate ornamentation complemented functionality and comfort. It was a small room, but the curtains and hanging carpets, casting dark shadows on the walls, made it feel like an alcove, a little haven within the abyss.
Vampire Lord Crayve himself completed the picture beautifully, in colour and in theme. If he had claimed that his was his domain, none, not even the one who had painstakingly furnished and maintained the room, could have disputed it.
This was why the Lady Applecott had brought him to this particular nook. And it was also why Vampire Lord Crayve had chosen not to welcome the unwitting peddler of vices in his usual refined manner. A man like the Vice Count was used to people trying to impress. To exert dominance by removing his home advantage, by dethroning him before their eyes ever even met, therein lay the secret, the greatest chance at making this work. And it had to work.
It also didn't hurt that the luxurious pose eased some of the ache accumulated across the lengthy journey.
[I swear those coaches aren't half as comfortable as they look, and they don't even look that comfortable.]
He reached for the crystal goblet which had been filled with wine. It was unwieldy and rather heavy, but he insisted on holding it casually, balanced on his fingertips rather than his palm. He tested a few sweeping gestures as he held it, trying not to spill.
Across from him, on a well-cushioned love-seat, sat the Vice Count, an unassuming man in impeccable dress, whose fuzzy beard and even fuzzier eyebrows made reading his expressions more challenging than expected, though judging by his actions he seemed just the right amount of awestruck and cooperative. Most gratifyingly, he was apologetic to a fault, occasionally stealing quick, nervous glances at the Lady Applecott, no doubt constructing in his mind a narrative that made sense of his current predicament.
"I deal in fragments often, you see," he was in the middle of explaining, the quiver in his voice just as likely a result of age than of uneasiness. "Especially with things like this. Mighty obscure, the Tome of Undeath, and no-"
"UnDeath," Vampire Lord Crayve corrected him, taking a sip from his goblet.
"Y-yes, of course. Un-death, yes. Well, with old.. er, primordial texts like that it's rare to find them complete. Damage, neglect.." instantly regretting the potential insult against Vampires, who surely must have been the custodians of the Tome, though they didn't seem to be so any more, he swiftly corrected, "..just the general exposure to the elements, you understand. Lacking interest, stigmatization, you know.."
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
He was beginning to get a little too comfortable rambling on, so Vampire Lord Crayve raised his free hand to silence him.
"Please. All I want from you is the location of the Tome," a knowing look, "the Tome of UnDeath, which has found itself muddled away across mortal hands."
"Oh, but with respect, my Lord," the Vice Count said, and Vampire Lord Crayve could tell that he meant it, "if a complete version of your sacr.. er, crucial text has made its way to us, it certainly has not made its way to us, you, er, understand. Certainly not to the lower classes. And me, well, my feelers reach into the obscure, it's true, but also, ultimately, the desirable. And we don't live in an age where, well, your kind, erm, hrm.."
The traipsing around an unimportant point annoyed Vampire Lord Crayve, and he tried to theatrically break the goblet with one hand to express this sentiment. He managed only a crack, but fortunately its crisp, crystalline sound effected precisely what he had hoped of the shards.
[I wish to reiterate that this was not a glass but literally a goblet. A chalice, basically. Super thick glass. Honestly, it's impressive I got it to crack.]
"I-It's not mere mortal hands you should deign to inspect. Something of this calibre I can only expect to find among the Arch Mystics. A-across their secret library, maybe? The Library of Eternities, I think they call it? You would know of this, I'm sure?"
Vampire Lord Crayve tried his very best to keep his face even, though he had just completed an internal somersault. The Library of Eternities was a well-known secret within occultists' circles, but it had been a dead end. Every lead had lead simply to a normal library, usually private, with normal books, usually dull. Digging too deep was treated as a taboo, and he had lost a handful of valuable contacts because of it.
"Of course," said Vampire Lord Crayve, hating how he thought he could hear nervousness in his voice. "But I found it cumbersome to navigate, you see. Mortal hands removed the Tome from our crypts, so I wish to tear it from mortal hands, too. Not pluck it from some clandestine collection, like a thief."
"Quite so," the Vice Count said, nodding in most sincere agreement. "In which case you may have found it helpful to speak with the curator of the library?"
This time, Vampire Lord Crayve could not conceal his reaction, and the Vice Count noticed immediately. He began to fidget.
"O-oh, perhaps you have not? I'm sorry, you must forgive me. My contacts are my bread and butter, I'd hate for them to think, well, you understand, yes? That my confidentiality counts for nothing."
But the Vice Count soon found himself more than willing to share all he knew.
***
"Vampire Lord Statian?"
The Lady Applecott looked bewildered, openly taken aback by the mention of a Vampire Lord. This was the point when Vampire Lord Crayve realized he had not formally introduced himself, though he did not hasten to rectify this.
The Vice Count had shared simply a name - Hiram Statian. The Statian dynasty was old and influential, though not nearly as flaunting of their power as the Applecotts. They had produced a fair share of occultists, or 'Arch Mystics' as they preferred to be called, but their focus had always been on the Rite itself. They tended to be archivists of the obscure, not explorers. He had visited one of their libraries once, it had been linked to rumours of the Library of Eternities, but had found nothing save a statue.
Vampire Lord Statian. Patron of the Library of Eternities.
Those had been the words engraved beneath a statue of a proud, regal figure, welcoming visitors to the library with open arms. Of course, what it actually said was Lord Perceval Statian. Respected Protector of Knowledge & Founder of the Statian Archive. But the decorative symbols engraved around these letters told a parallel story, discernible only to the scholar of the occult, and only to an attentive one at that.
He had found nothing else of interest there, no further context on Perceval Statian that even hinted at the forbidden secrets he was looking for. The trail had gone cold. The journey had not been wasted, however. Consolation prize had been the persona of Vampire Lord Crayve. The look, in part, but the title especially. A self-important title which Vampire Lord Crayve may otherwise never have dared to employ.
Back in the darkened coach, trotting across well-paved roads in the night, he had told the Lady Applecott of this statue, of this inscription, and that, perhaps, there was more to the story than he had been forced to believe all those years ago.
"They are not a dynasty of Vampires," said Vampire Lord Crayve with conviction, and the Lady Applecott agreed on the back of her own interactions with the Statian family. If they were guarding more than just rare books, it was a secret kept very tightly.
The Lady Applecott stroked her chin ponderously.
"I wonder if we-" she began to say.
Then there was a cry, a sudden, violent veering of the coach, and the deafening roar of an explosion.