Chapter Text
It happened about a year ago.
An envoy arrived at our court. He was supposed to stay for a few weeks to attend to his diplomatic affairs, and I was supposed to assist him. Shadow him, watch him, listen.
Angeline kept my instructions vague. It was crucial I make this very important guy feel welcome; the spying, to my disappointment, came second.
I remember his name, the envoy's. Some idiotic stubborn part of me insists on calling him a "dude" or "that man" or "the diplomat", like it changes anything. His name was Theodore Latham.
Theodore didn't look down on me. We talked every other night, and he was good company. He shared anecdotes and asked for my help using please and thank you and I managed to figure out his sense of humor and he laughed at my jokes.
He felt welcome. It fed my ego, this disgusting treacherous thing, it got to my head. I thought I kept it professional. Evidently I was wrong.
I probably lingered around him for a little too long or made too happy of a face, because on his last day at court, Theodore looked me over, smiled, and went for the jugular.
It fucking hurt. I tried to push him away. He either didn't notice or didn't care or I was too scared to hurt a man like him, especially a vampire. I stood there and thought how horrible would it be if someone walked in on us; saw my hands pressed against his chest barely pushing barely anything; saw my blank face; saw that it's okay to use me like that, because I'd do nothing. And I did nothing.
At some point Theodore sat me down. The time to tell him to fuck off clearly passed. Misery filled my lungs, misery burned as I sat there and thought if he might just kill me. But my neck didn't hurt as badly anymore and he draped himself too carefully over me and oh – fuck – his fingers were at the buttons of my jacket. Didn't feel killer-like. And in the poison spreading from the wound I didn't feel that either.
Far away through my horrible emptiness I saw flecks of his pleasure, here and there, and I followed them, waiting until it was over.
Then it finally was. The envoy tried talking to me with his mouth still bloody – I didn't listen, I fought the urge to collapse. I hated him, but my hatred was empty and dejected and meaningless, so I buttoned up and left.
***
There are two of us in the interrogation room: me and the vessel. I've held her here for as long as needed, talked to her like a friend, talked to her like she's just another name on the list ready to be crossed out. The results seem at the very least satisfactory. I hope Angeline would use a word better than 'satisfactory', but I try not to hope too much in case she doesn't.
Her name is Marina and her surname is something-something-ova. Makes we wonder if she moved to Cali in search of a better life. Married for a green card, maybe. And maybe my assumptions say less about her and more about my pessimism, and she chose the name to attract certain clientele. No depressing background.
Marina is sitting opposite me in silence, tired eyes glued to the table.
"We're done here," I say. She doesn't look convinced.
"Let me give you a closing statement. In my eyes, you did nothing wrong; you're safe, you're pretty much free."
As much as she can be, considering people like her tend to leave Benevolence in body bags. Unless they turn out to be really, really good runners. I push the thought back and make sure to keep a smile on my face.
"I'll need a couple days to verify your story, then you can do whatever. Half my colleagues wouldn't answer today or tomorrow, it's the weekend after all, so you might have to stay in the cell for a bit. Sorry. Would that work for you?"
Marina's brows furrow for a second, then unfurrow, and her gaze finally leaves the table. There's something good in her eyes now, barely readable. "So you're not sending me back to Gomorrah?"
"No. We're not."
I take a few moments to move the papers off the table into cute colored folders I stole from Gomorrah's reception desk after plucking Marina out of their hands. They fit into my bag perfectly.
Right before I leave I think again about her surname, and about body bags, and ask to see her passport. She says she doesn't have one at this point.
***
I arrive at my apartment building with an hour to spare. The locks here don't recognize my key fobs half the time – guess at this point it counts as a security measure – but every surface and fixture here is more sleek, more designer, more lustrous than anything I've dreamt of before receiving my first Benevolence paycheck. I'm lucky to have this. I'm grateful.
So, an hour to get ready, which is barely enough, then a four hour drive to Lake Tahoe. In Cali, I attend social events as Angeline's right hand: I'm usually given an agenda, or a retainer's chair at the big boys table. In Nevada, I get absolutely wasted.
How many Marinas are there?
I close the door, kick off my shoes, and tug my jeans down without unbuttoning them. It hurts a little.
Hundreds? Thousands?
The stairs stay silent under my feet while I haul my body to the bathroom. There's a rain showerhead here, my joy, my savior, and a weird floral shampoo, and three different scrubs, just in case. The first moment under the shower is almost too hot to bear. It should burn right through my skull into the brain and stop this stupid fucking counting game, but –
I see some at court every night. At least twenty faces I can remember right off the bat; means there are much more. Should count the Relish girls, and Gomorrah, and... Who took her passport, us or them? Does it matter? Those other two couldn't repay their college debt. Sylvia followed her husband here, and now they pass her around like a human sized blood bag.
Right there in the word, huh? Vessel.
It's really not my place to think any of that, so I get out of the shower, get the hair dryer from the shelf, and stop thinking completely.
Each time I visit Incline Village, a private little tax haven next to a gorgeous lake, I do my makeup in a very specific way. An antithesis of what I wear to work.
I lean towards the mirror and start with the contouring, pulling my cheekbones up, giving my nose a curve, making my jaw less prominent. The eyes are the best part. White here, liner there, done, who is she, nepo baby starlet? I pin back my bangs – unfortunately, they are recognizable.
These bi-monthly trips could by some be considered an execution-worthy offence; would be such a pity to be buried in my Louboutins because I couldn't part with the bangs for a couple hours.