Her Blasphemous Tongue
Disclaimer: This is a rewrite of Thirst; I decided to emphasize some of the more interesting aspects of Monroe's political machinations and her internal struggles, rather than focusing on the romance between her and Mizrah. I removed any scenes from Mizrah's perspective as well. I hope you enjoy it.
The sheet metal roof made a racket as if under the staccato tap of sharp nails under the rain. The abandoned lecture hall at San Toreno Tech College, closed since Hurricane Katrina had rushed through, was built in the style of an amphitheater and perfect for the raucous debates and contentious voting that defined the Syndicate's messy function.
When Karl Hann had, with no small amount of typical Ventrue hubris, presented the red vellum envelope - seriously, vellum? - with the black seal of the Overseer Committee to Monroe, she'd known what to expect. Dissembling. Stalling. A proposal that, while carefully crafted to sound promising and vaguely threatening, would ultimately amount to nothing. Once her trademark patience would have given her the fortitude to tolerate such expected bloviating. Now, however...
"The Committee has authorized me to take whatever your demands are and present them myself, which under Section IV of the Ashland Code is a power they may grant. After all, you agreed to it yourself," Hann reminded her - it wasn't necessary, she and every Kindred present had little choice but to make their mark on the Black Stellae to receive Hunting Grounds in their masters' domains. It was on those volcanic-glass pillars that the domain's laws were inscribed. The whole affair reminded Monroe of children who thought themselves victorious since they'd found a rule that prevented them from having to sit down and talk.
A rule was only as good as the grip it had on people's belief.
"I'm sure we can make accommodations without having to resort to anything like that chain insolence two nights prior."
Anger spiked in her throat again - literally, as if something sharp had risen from the furnace of her gut to stab her, a sensation she was unfamiliar with.
Insolence
. The Beast perched in her thalamus, whispering in tune with her base desires that such mockery made her look weak should it go unpunished, and uncharacteristically she'd given in. "You think that's all this is, don't you," Monroe growled through her teeth, crumpling the vellum in her hands without even reading a quarter of the document. "Some long-sustained tantrum that ya'll think you can just defuse, let it get lost in the tangle of administration."
She felt eyes widening in alarm around her - Little John, never one for confrontation despite his towering mass, put a hand on her forearm as she rose from her seat at the long table. She shook him off as heat flushed through her veins. "You've never taken us seriously, you look at us the same way the Kine see pigs and chickens."
"Respectfully Miss Carter I protest this characterization." He didn't even bother to sound like he believed it; the greasy way he looked down upon them, perched safely on the lap of Maksim's authority. "Every one of your contributions is admired, and the Committee remains dedicated to your protection. There have been some misunderstandings over the past two years, but that is all buried and forgiven; these nights require no less." His carefully manicured smile was poison in their hearts.
"Easy to say when you live in a penthouse on Saxby," Nettletongue pointed out, her voice like a barbed stinger piercing the surface of a pond. "My company never recovered after you provoked Ariadne and the other moon-cursed. You
know
she did something to my stock - "
"The case is still open Miss Nettle, last I checked with the compensator secretary." The Ventrue gave a genteel gesture toward the serpentine woman seated at Monroe's side. "You can't expect them to proceed without you doing your part in the investigation process."
"How do I prove
anything
about their weird voodoo beyond what I gave you? You haven't even changed my geld burden, I can barely keep my boats running," She snarled, a shiver coursing through her body from her torso to the tightly-drawn, black braid hanging down her back.
Monroe and most of the Syndicate were well and familiar with this particular casualty of the Cull, that ill-fated conflict with the Lupines that had consumed the previous year. The party line was that it was caused by their natural aggression toward denizens of the night, but everyone blamed everyone else for its ignition in some fashion. The savages had taken something from all of them, their claws dug into operations nobody had even known about...in the case of Nettletongue, who'd 'inherited' a small cargo-. firm from her brother-in-law under strange circumstances, a series of freakish mishaps had resulted in sunken vessels, lost clients and employee death.
"I understand that procedure can be burdensome, but you'll see that going through the proper channels will pay off if you can produce what is required on your end." The way he turned his palm upward to feign a sort of dignified helplessness reminded Monroe of the way one might beckon a dog. "Did not the Pakhan extend to you a loan from his very own pocket?"
Each of them felt the sting from that one - Monroe saw it in Little Sam's bedraggled gaze, shifting from sullen to ice-cold. She saw it in the way Carmine's jaw clenched, the young Ventrue's cracked pride showing through his cool stare. Yes the Pakhan had been terribly generous with his money, a gnarled vine of usury crawling through each of their gardens; typical
Bratva
he was, when members of her covenant had proven unable to repay the interest he demanded compensation in kind...whether repugnant labor or giving up precious relics of their human lives, at least a quarter of their number carried debt through Maksim.
"Your petitions will be heard, the lords and ladies of both estate and church will attend to whatever ails you as best as their resources can provide. I'll see to it myself." The Overseers' representative changed his tone with enough suddenness to catch most of them off guard - even Monroe had to admit Hann had Windy City politicians beat.
"How can we trust you?" Tucker rose from his seat with a sort of disturbing speed; she could feel the displaced air from his alacrity.
Karl calmly reached into the sleeve of his finely pressed suit, sliding forth a gilded stiletto - a mark of rank granted to all Ancillae in service of the Overseers.
"I hear you. I don't begrudge your mistrust, and I sympathize with your situation." He pressed the tip of the ceremonial blade into his palm, never flinching as a bead of oily crimson welled to the surface. The Ancilla's Vitae caught everyone's attention, like a kennel of hungry dogs focused on a single chop of fresh meat. "I, Karl Hann, solemnly offer this blood-oath. I will deliver your demands to the Overseer Committee, and will work to see them attended to within the month."
A murmur rose among the gathered. For many of the Syndicate's number, such a pledge was as good as any promises they could receive. Even Monroe, were she not in this state of heightened awareness and outrage, might have believed their struggle ended here.
Is this real? Is he actually operating in good faith?
No. Never.
What if this is real? What if...we can avoid more bullshit, more risking our necks and hearts?
Marley thought that.
But -
