Chapter Text
If you have a century or two to wait, sometimes the world delivers gifts, just lying there, ready to be pocketed. A seashell, pearlescent and only a little chipped at the edges. A shiny new quarter forgotten on the sidewalk. Los Angeles.
It even might deliver what Sebastian LaCroix would have called, in his day, a “dandy”, freshly dying, on the steps of the Sacré-Coeur Basilica.
Only minutes remained until sunrise. LaCroix’s heart, though it had no need to beat, contracted in terror at the nearness of sunlight, at the piercing golden glow already illuminating that beautiful creature’s parted, breathless lips. This was risky business, swooping in like a vulture at such a time. A little longer, and they might never have met. Sebastian thought of that too often in the days and years and centuries that followed.
Only minutes remained until the bullet in his brain would have laid waste to the most vigorous life force Sebastian had ever encountered.
But as matters stood, he watched from the shadowy columns where he had chosen to shelter during the daylight hours of his visit to France, and clung to the sound of a distant pulse. It persisted (though feebly) even once its scent exploded into open air.
A great bulk of a man in a dark overcoat bowed down his head and sighed. He lifted Vincent’s body with the solemnity of one who knows what death means, and carried it within, into the shadow where Sebastian waited, under those forgotten awnings just beyond the pews. The carnival of stained-glass light pouring through the windows did not penetrate there.
As they passed, the man halted, overcome with a sudden unease, and could not move his feet. Sebastian smiled on him, an open hand outstretched. “Would you allow me to bless this man before he passes on?”
The man had, of course, no choice, and he would not remember laying his charge at Sebastian’s feet, or saying, “Who are you, sir? A man of God?”
“Think of me as a healing angel.”
He stared, knowing quite frankly that this was bullshit. He could see a barely restrained urge to devour flaring up within Sebastian even now, not so different from the look his own superior had worn on occasion, equally recognizable on both kindred and kine. “If you are an angel, then so is he.”
.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸. ཐི♡ཋྀ.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.
There was never total certainty that it would work. A headshot was unfortunate to say the least, and even with a truly massive outpouring of vitae, the bullet still had to be pushed out of Vincent’s brain, dragging on the neurons as it went.
There wasn’t physical pain, exactly. No nerves are to be found in the grey matter. Inside the brain itself, the only pain is mental.
Time and place fragmented themselves, breaking apart in front of Vincent to form a dazzling kaleidoscope. He was drifting on his back, through a flooded Château de Versailles. The water must have been deep, because he was lifted so high, close to the frescoed ceiling where angels leaned down over him amongst the roiling clouds. Why was the palace full of water? No…not water. Blood. Of course. He was being carried up to judgement on the tide of blood he’d spilt, that was it. He could hear his own music coming from another room, the reveries he used to play at the piano, but it was wildly distorted, devolving into devils’ trills. The angels crawled down over the mountains of clouds, over the ledge of the upper moulding, down the columns on all fours to descend on him, snarling as angels never snarl, with fangs at their lips. Their unnatural motions sparked a total horror in him but he could not flee, could only float paralyzed on the sea of blood that was starting to seep into his mouth, into his eyes. They were upon him, someone was bending over him, a face that flickered and distorted and jeered. A devil. His father. Then John Wick. His heart strained with wild terror.
“Your heartbeat is growing stronger. Good. It took long enough.”
And the face resolved. It was, at least, none of the faces he had feared a few moments ago. And it wasn’t unpleasant to look at, with strikingly high cheekbones and full lips, with a strawberry blond slick of hair and eyes like pools of pale honey. It had a magnetism about it, deeper than its inherent charm and beauty. He had trouble looking away from that face – it was in focus even though the rest of the world remained blurred, and it made something sickly sweet well up inside of him. He could have forgiven the cruel satisfaction painted all over it, but that sweet magnetism, tugging on his heartstrings…he could not forgive that. He decided that whoever this was, he disliked them very, very much.
For a few moments, Vincent tried to speak, but his brain had not yet made contact with his tongue, it seemed. He just gasped and gasped until the man laughed and held up the bullet, coated in blood. “Can you believe this little scrap of metal was all it took to put you into a state of such total confusion? And you would be far worse off if I hadn’t taken a liking to you. Life is so fragile.” And the man…well, there was no getting around it. He popped the bullet into his mouth like a candy and licked his fingers, apparently savoring the taste, before pulling it out of his mouth again, sucked clean of blood. He swallowed and grinned widely, this time baring fangs.
Okay. So he was still hallucinating, then. Good good, nothing to worry about. Just slowly breathing his last breaths on the steps of the Basilica, hallucinating violently while John Wick probably gloated over his body. It was fine! Everything was fine. The world started to go fuzzy and dark at the edges as his wild gasping continued.
“Oh no no no, you’re not passing out again just yet. Solo jet rides are interminably dull. We ought to use our time wisely and get to know each other.” The man slapped lightly at his cheek, trying to keep him conscious. Vincent felt his brows furrow, and couldn’t control his muscles enough to wipe that affronted look off his face.
“Who…who…” do you think you are, that had been his intention for the sentence. But he couldn’t quite get there, and the man answered just the same.
“Sebastian LaCroix, Camarilla Prince of Los Angeles and your new regnant.” The man took his hand and shook it. “Of course, none of that means anything to you just yet, but it will very soon.”
It didn’t, except for “Los Angeles.” Vincent was still catching up to the part about “jet rides,” and noticing that the ceiling above them was curved in the manner of an aircraft cabin. Where the hell was he? Was he…kidnapped? A feeling set in then. Whether it was made of greater parts relief or sinking dread, he couldn’t tell. But he had the feeling that this was far too vivid to be a hallucination.
He wasn’t dead after all, and Sebastian LaCroix, whatever he may be, was real.