Despite the pain the players were in due to an absolutely brutal game, the team had beaten the odds and won. The locker room was in celebratory chaos, and chants of “Stanley! Stanley!” chorused and echoed in the showers. The team had been on a winning streak, and had made it to the final game of the Stanley Cup playoffs.
Casey was laughing and celebrating along with his teammates, but they didn’t have too much longer to celebrate in the locker room. There was a post-media scrum to attend. Normally, the scrum would be immediately after, but the coach insisted on letting his players clean up before presenting themselves.
After dressing, they filed out to the conference area, where they each took a seat, and reporters clamored for answers to questions. Many of these questions were directed at Casey himself, and it was not the first time he had heard of h himself potentially being named MVP of the season, or the team’s good luck charm, due to his skill. He did his utmost to answer the questions with his usual charm, eyes darting over everyone present in the room, save for his coach and team. It was the usual assortment of reporters and photographers — nothing special.
After the scrum, he collected his gear, and headed through the back hallways to the parking lot, and set about locating his rental car. When he managed to find it in the parking garage next to the area, he frowned a little as he noticed a woman leaning against the sleek red sedan. She was shorter than he by a couple inches, he guessed, but she was wearing heels and leaning, so it was hard to discern.
Studying her further, he could tell that she had ash-blonde hair with subtle lowlights, styled into a bun at the nape of her neck. It was difficult to tell her eye color form a distance, but as he got closer, he could tell they were a gray-blue, set in and oval face with high cheekbones and symmetrical features. She wore a tailored black blazer, fitted to the waist, an ivory silk shell blouse beneath, and a black pencil skirt to match.
Casey sighed, figuring her for a fan, or another reporter. All he wanted to do was grab a bite to eat, and go back to the hotel, maybe soak in the hot tub to ease his aching muscles. Noting him coming her way, she approached him as he headed towards the trunk, stepping to the side to allow him to stow his gear before speaking.
“Casey Beauchamp?” she asked, her voice calm; controlled.
“That’s me.” he replied, a bit wary. “Can I help you?”
“I believe I can help you.” she stated, giving a small smile before producing a cream-colored envelope.
Casey looked at it, then back at her. “What’s this?”
“An invitation. Within you’ll find an address. You will meet me there tonight. We have things to discuss.” she answered. “You’ll come.”
Feeling a little fuzzy headed and tired, he took the envelope and just nodded, then listened as she walked away, the sound of her heels clacking against the pavement echoing in the garage. Shaking his head, he unlocked the car, tossing the envelope onto the passenger seat before climbing in himself. He took a moment to sip from the bottle of water he’d left in his car, then started up and pulled out, making the drive back to his hotel.
Knowing the hotel kitchen would be closed, he stopped to pick up something to eat, reaching in the bag occasionally for fries as he drove through the New York City streets. Once back in h is room, he finished his meal, and took a proper shower. It wasn’t until he stepped out of the room that he noticed the envelope on the bed. He sat down and opened it, his curiosity getting the better of him.
Contained within the envelope was a thick, cream-colored invitation, roughly index card sized. It was simple, and written on the invitation in neat calligraphy, it read:
Charlotte Devereaux requests the pleasure of your company
This evening
One o’clock
The Hawthorne Club
16 East 64th Street
Manhattan
Checking his watch, he realized he’d only have half an hour to get there, and may end up being late. He quickly got dressed into some comfortable clothes jeans, pulled on a basic navy tee, and headed out, invitation in hand. He pulled up to a six-story limestone townhouse, situated amongst what appeared to be embassies and old-money residences. Wide granite steps led up from the sidewalk to a pair of dark mahogany doors, framed by fluted Corinthian columns.
Above the column, on the triangle piece of roof, a simple hawthorn branch served as emblem. Next to the entrance was ap polished brass plaque, that simply read:
THE HAWTHORNE CLUB
Founded 1908
Casey raises his hand and knocks. After a moment, the door is answered by a man in uniform. The butler looks him up and down, and Casey suddenly feels underdressed, expecting to get turned away. Instead, the butler simply holds out a hand, and Casey offers the invitation. It is looked over, then handed back with a curt nod, and he is ushered inside.
The butler leads him past other rooms; a bar where patrons are talking quietly. A billiards room. He is led through the house and up a grand staircase, to a door marked: PRIVATE. The door opens into a room that is perhaps twenty square feet, but feels more intimate than that. Dark oak paneling covered the walls, and, instead of the towering bookshelves one might expect, there were only a few carefully curated shelves.
One large oil painting hung above the fireplace, the subjects being that of the Hawthorne Club’s founders. To Casey, they appeared to be wealthy industrialists. A large Persian carpet softened his footsteps as he entered, and noted that the only light in the room came from a pair of shaded lamps, a pair of candles on the mantle, and the fire itself. It felt like he’d stepped out of time almost.
Standing, hands clasped behind her back, was the woman he’d seen earlier. “Thank you, Geoff.” she says without turning.
The butler nods and leaves. A short time later, Casey hears the click of the door closing, and it is only then that the woman turns.
“Ms. Devereaux?” he asked.
“Indeed, Mr. Beauchamp.” she replied.
“Casey, please.” he offered.
“Casey. Please call me Charlotte.” she explained, then gestured for him to take a seat.
“You said something about us needing to talk?” he asked, taking the offered seat.
Charlotte walked over to a mahogany sideboard, where a crystal decanter set sits. She picks up the bottle of liquor, and begins to pour out an amber liquid, about two fingers worth. Setting the decanter down, she places the lid back and picks up the glass, light from the fire twinkling in the cut crystal.
Casey hotels up a hand. “I shouldn’t. I’m driving.”
Charlotte smiles. “One glass.”
He takes it from her after that. “You’re not having one?”
“No.” she replies politely, only the faintest traces of a smile on her face.
Casey frowns a little but nods, taking a sip from his glass.
Charlotte sat across from him, and struck up a conversation. They spoke not of hockey, or about one another, but about responsibility. How he handled balancing his career as an athlete, his studies as a student, and his role as a businessman was a big part of that discussion. After a time, the conversation turned, and she asked him a question.
“Tell me, Casey… have you ever wondered why some people are remembered, while others are forgotten?”
“Not everyone is forgotten. If we’re talking small scale, someone is always going to remember you, based on your actions. If we’re talking large scale… well, again, it’s the same thing really. Bigger deeds are going to be remembered by more people.” he explained.
Charlotte looked contemplative for a few moments, before speaking again. “There are those who preserve civilization from the shadows. Tonight, I am offering you the opportunity to become one of them.”
“I don’t follow.” he admitted.
“You could continue what you are doing: studying. Protecting. Defending. It’s really more of the same, but you’d have more resources and backing behind you. Do you accept?” she questioned.
“I don’t know…” he responded, trailing off as he thought.
“It’s not a bad deal. You should take it.” she said, subtle influence on the last sentence.
Casey set the glass down on a nearby coaster. “What do I need to do?”
“Stand up.” she said, following suit as he did so. “Now, follow me.”
She led him to a door — not the one he came through. Inside was a smaller room, decorated similarly, but appeared to be more of a comfortable office. There was a chaise lounge against one wall, and armchair across from it, and a desk. Heavy curtains were drawn, and single lamp lit the room.
As he looked around, she closed the door behind him, then approached him. “Don’t be alarmed.”
She placed one hand on the back of his neck, and the other beneath his jaw, tilted his head to the side.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Shhh…” was her answer.
Before he could react, he felt two pricks of pain at his neck. And then, pleasure. He became lost in the sensation, the warmth that flooded him and put him at ease. Gradually, he felt lighter. Weaker. Tired. He felt himself being eased into the chaise, and a moment later Charlotte pulled away. She held out her left arm, and he looked at her, unsure of what was happening to him, or at all. Raising her right hand, with one, perfectly manicured nail, she cut her wrist. After a moment, a bead of vitae welled up.
“Drink.” she commanded.
He didn’t understand. But he found himself bringing her bloody wrist to h is mouth, and drank deeply from her. One mouthful. Then two, before she pulled away, and healed her wound. She sat next to him and watched, as he went through the painful process of dying, before becoming Kindred.
Sometime the following evening, Casey awoke. The room was darker. The fire only embers. Seated nearby is Charlotte, reading a leather-bound, gilt-edged copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius.
“Good evening, Casey.” she said, without looking up. She turned a page, and spoke again. “You’re hungry.”
Casey blinked, realizing she was right. He looked at his wrist to check his watch, but found it missing. The second thing he notices was that, while he slept, his clothes had been changed. Rather than the comfortable jeans and tee he had worn before, he was now dressed in a navy suit.
“Where are my clothes?” he asked, finally finding his watch and wallet on a nearby table. “And my phone?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she placed a ribbon in her book, carefully closed it, and set it down. “Come now. You have much to learn, and before that, food. Then questions.”
She led him back into The Founder’s Room, the area from the night before. Waiting there was a young woman.
“Only blood will sustain you.” she told him patiently, leading him toward the young woman.
Casey eyed her up and down, his mind racing with disbelief at what Charlotte had said. AS he drew closer to the young woman, standing there in a black cocktail dress, her light blonde hair hanging loose, brown eye locked on him, he felt a sense of instinct take over. She looked at Charlotte, who Casey registered in his peripheral vision as nodding.
He took the young woman’s arm, and bit into her wrist, finding himself beginning to drink. But he stopped. Something was just…wrong. It wasn’t satisfying. With a face, he pushed the arm away.
“Lick the wound.” Charlotte commanded, and he did so.
“Rachel, you may go. Send in Jonathan.”
“Yes, mistress.” Rachel answered, and quickly left.
A few minutes later, a handsome young man enters. He’s got dark hair, hazel eyes, and glasses, and is wearing a black suit.
“Try again.” Charlotte says to Casey.
Casey took a deep breath, and then caught a whiff of something indescribably delicious. The hunger he feels becomes almost unbearable. The smell? Intoxicating. Without hesitation this time, Casey locks onto Jonathan, and begins to feed, deeply. The little voice inside him begins to quiet.
After a few mouthfuls, Charlotte speaks. “Enough.”
With immense effort, Casey pulled away, then leaned back in to lick the wound closed.
Sending Jonathan way, she looked at Casey. “Every Ventrue is particular.
“He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“We cannot feed from everyone.” she says, gauging his reaction. “You appear to prefer men.”
Panic spread through Casey, as his immediate reaction was that she knew, somehow knew he was gay, when he’d been so careful to hide it.
“What does that mean, exactly?” he asked.
“It means you digest one type of blood more readily than another.” she said, sounding mildly amused. “Your palate has changed. Not your identity.”
Casey began to calm as he realized she probably didn’t know.
“My cellphone?” he prompted.
“No. Not until your agoge is complete. Then I will decide if you can contact others.” she stated, matter-of-fact. “Follow me, there is much to learn.”
She gave him a moment to collect himself, then he followed her, wondering what was in store for him next.