josephine
the havens of the tzimisce were known to be secluded, and shavona's own was no exception. they couldn't entertain the risk of human vandals disturbing their possessions, nor of any potential disturbance reaching the ears of frightened neighbors. working the strings of a ventrue acquaintance had rewarded them with a plot of land housing an aged estate on the outskirts of atlanta. gated and shadowed by woods, it wasn't unreasonable to guess that the property was once in the hands of a minor celebrity. the architecture was unusual. a jarring, modern exterior that contrasted with the theatrically antiquated furnishings within, the parlor large and open enough to house a gallery. it was perfectly suited to their tastes. a fair exchange, leland himself would agree.
their haven, their home. peaceful, isolated, theirs--and it had remained so for years, sheltered from the world that changed around it, gratefully undisturbed save for the welcomed presence of the occasional guest.
it was on one such peaceful night that there came a knock at their door.
shavona lifts their gaze from the collection of glass blood vessel sculptures they had been meticulously arranging in their case. caution glimmers in blackened eyes as they cast a glance toward the covered windows. tonight they desired no more than the company of their possessions. they certainly hadn't invited anyone. they slip their gloves off, tucking them under an arm.
they tongue a fang as they stride for the door. while civility was of utmost importance, and violence best indulged with tact, they were more than willing to sever a jugular if the need arose. if they were fortunate, anyway, it was only the host of their venue seeking shelter for the day.
they chance a glimpse through the peephole. the face that greets them on the other side of the glass is not that of an excitable gangrel, but that of isidora--their sire.
the locks click open, and shavona finds themself face-to-face with her for the first time in years. she stands tall, commanding in her poise, though their height now surpasses hers. their master, the one to which they owe their rebirth. adoration battles with heartbreak; her smile only twists the knife.
"shavona, dear." how they'd missed the caress of her voice. "you look well. may i come in?"
her bane is the same as theirs--a curse transferred by the embrace. they step back to gesture her inside. "please, by all means."
her footsteps click a rhythm against mahogany flooring. they lower their gaze; bone protrudes from her heels in grotesque mimicry of stiletto shoes. she looks different now, but only subtly. the same unnatural pallor they remember, but with perhaps a different luster. more reminiscent of unglazed ceramic than flesh. her hair cascades over her shoulders like spider silk, the ends rusty as if dip-dyed with old blood.
after they had been granted independence, isidora had a tendency to disappear from time to time. a quirk of their clan, they were told.
"it's been so long," shavona muses. "what brings you here?"
"is it not reason enough to visit my childe?"
they laugh abruptly, giving a dismissive shake of their head. surely by now they would know better than to question her whims.
"the nights have been kind to you." isidora speaks smoothly, with almost antiquated cadence. however old she truly was had never been disclosed to them. her tone is an appreciative purr as she takes in the elaborate vintage decor, the macabre art gallery that spans multiple rooms. it suits them beautifully.
her amused gaze comes to rest upon an arrangement of paintings. studies of dental abnormalities, hyperrealistic depictions of orthodontic surgery, impressions of fangs scribbled with the frenzied desperation of a malkavian. "...incriminating, these," she observes, a smile in her voice. "i don't recall you having such an interest before your rebirth."
"i didn't."
"what awakened it?"
"a nosferatu. he was my canvas."
isidora's smile widens, charmed. she had always encouraged such self-discovery, even when they were still tight under her wing.
she moves on, leading herself on a relaxed tour of their home. her slender fingers caress velvet curtains, the tarnished frame of a chaise lounge. "your haven is like an old movie set." she aims shavona a smile over her shoulder. "it's as if she still lives on within you--my dearest josephine."
dearest josephine.
the words pierce like an arrow to their heart. in their mind's eye, a flash of a vintage hand mirror, tied with a note. she sees it; the slightest twinge of pain in her childe's expression--and in the dim light of the parlor, shavona observes the gentle crinkle of her eyes in turn. the softened expression of a satisfied cat. hers was a strange manner of affection: the prodding of old wounds.
they were, at the time of death, a man--or at least something resembling it. they had spent their nights in elaborate costume, taking on the character of a mournful widow from a bygone era. but the sorrow had run deeper than mere act. draped over a scuffed atlanta stage, upturning a glass of red wine--that is where isidora found them.
their languid eyes had begged to be set free.
"josephine is dead."
isidora's fond laughter rings out.
"and what a kind death it was." isidora alights against a bar counter, draping her long limbs over the wood with the same inhuman grace that had captivated them years ago. "but i suppose i would remember it better than you. your first art piece under a new name. a collaboration, was it not?"
shavona allows themself to imagine their lifeless mortal body in third person, arranged by isidora's loving hands. they had died in their drag, isidora's fingers combing through the tight waves of a wig. unphotographed, unpainted, a treat for her eyes alone. a collaboration? perhaps. they had consented. their family, the community that offered protection from societal violence, the spirited queens that they'd shared dressing rooms with . . . they had traded all they had for isidora's gift, and they had traded it willingly.
"come," their master coos, gesturing with a delicate hand. "you've changed over the years. allow me a closer look."
shavona is helpless to resist. their cheek meets isidora's waiting palm, through no coaxing of any supernatural command. a distant ache blooms within their ribs. she studies the shape of their jawline, the elaborate carvings of their ribcage. if their heart still beat, certainly it would flutter at her touch. her thumb dips into the windows of flesh that they'd carved below their cheekbone. they remember those same hands guiding their own, instructing them in this strange new art.
it had been intimate. how else could they describe it? she had seen their body inside and out, had shown them how to shape and manipulate their dead flesh in ways they never would have imagined. isidora was a patient, attentive teacher. and yet, despite all they had shared, she had resisted their gestures of affection, had drawn back at their touch. they were hers; she was not theirs. a protégé. a possession. nothing more.
the pad of her thumb ventures deeper now, to press into pale gums, the double fangs they had painstakingly shaped. the act is deliberate, cruel. shavona endures, just as they'd been taught. isidora says nothing through the torment, but when she withdraws, there's a subtle glow of pride in her expression.
pride.
pride was enough.
if they could not have her love, they would settle for her pride.