Page 216 of White Wolf
The next floor down, subbasement one, housed files and books that were in the process of being converted to digital records. A quiet, dusty, cobwebbed place, DampRid packets hung up in each corner, bookshelves loaded with boxes lined up like dominoes, on and on into the shadows. It smelled of the damp stone walls, and of ink, paper, bindings, dust.
The third, the deepest, subbasement two, required three layers of access. The steel door that slid back into a pocket chiseled deep through the stone wall and into the earth, accessible via keycard. And then the second steel door, this one with a big spinning lock, like a bank vault; that one opened with a hiss and a blast of stale, cold air. The third door was made of bars, unlocked with a key on a ring. Beyond lay a narrow hall: stone on one side, bars on the other. Cells. Two dozen of them. Two dozen and one – the last was made of silver bars. It was lit with a single caged bulb whose glow didn’t reach all the way into the corners. This cell was stone on two sides, the rings set in them made of titanium. The chains were titanium, too, the cuffs silver.
Tiny channels led to the surface, air holes, covered with welded grates. The AC system funneled air down here, too, but it couldn’t kick the tang of basement that permeated everything. The whole of this level stank of age, and rot, and vampire.
Fulk le Strange, First Baron Strange of Blackmere, walked through the second subbasement of the manor that used to be his with a set of keys in one hand, a tray balanced on the other.
There were two vampires in the house now, and Fulk had long since grown used to their scents, so he was surprised by how forcefully the scent of this one hit him now, when he was in close proximity. The normal blood-smell was undercut by unwashed skin, and sweat, and the toxic spice of frustration and despair.
A very small, wolfish part of him recoiled from that smell. Some old instinct to comfort and please. He shoved all such thoughts aside and whistled, once, sharply, though he didn’t need to; the vampire could smell him, too, knew exactly who he was, and that he’d brought lunch. The chains slithered across the floor like unhappy snakes, though, in response to the whistle. Two eyes opened in the shadows, bright blue, glowing.
A low, rusty chuckle echoed off the walls. “You again?” the vampire asked in his musically accented English. “I suppose they think you can bring me to heel, the way you did for my brother.”
Fulk suppressed a shudder. He wasn’t sure which brother unnerved him more. Vlad was so…sonice. It didn’t fit with his expectation, and therefore he couldn’t trust it. Val, though, was his usual charming asshole self, and that was something he could deal with.
“No one expects you to behave,” he countered dryly. “I brought you lunch. Here.” He slid the tray through the little slot in the barred door and onto the shelf there.
“It smells like shit.”
“Hmm. Probably tastes like it, too.”
After a long moment: a rustle of cloth, clank of metal, the drag of the chains across the floor. And Prince Valerian of Transylvania stepped into view, no less regal for his ragged state.
Not much could be said for his caretakers – neither the current ones, nor the ones from the past several decades. He no longer wore the velvets and brocades of his own time, but judging by the state of his tattered shirt and pants, Fulk realized his clothes had been changed only once they gave up the ghost and rotted clean off his body. This set wouldn’t be long: smudged with dirt, and grit, and filth he didn’t want to think about, flecks of blood that had dried to rust. Holes gaped at the knees of his pants, in the shirt under his arms. A jagged rip in the shirt collar showed a little more pale collarbone every day. His tangled, greasy hair belonged to a savage who’d been shipwrecked; all its blond luster was gone, the whole of it clumped and knotted, though Fulk had watched the prince try to comb it with his fingers. Fulk suspected he’d have to shave his head, eventually.
But no amount of dirt and degradation could hide the crisp lines of his face, the aristocratic bone structure, the sharpness of his eyes. And despite the indignities, he carried himself like the royalty he was. Valerian, human surname Tepes, son of Remus, co-founder of Rome. Nephew to Romulus…the most frightening creature to walk the earth.
Fulk folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, one booted foot propped against it, the picture of disinterest as Valerian sniffed disdainfully at the meal that had been sent to him. “Chicken potpie,” he explained, “steamed vegetables, German chocolate cake, milk, and pig’s blood.”
Valerian snorted his disgust, but sat down on the floor in front of the tray, reaching for the plastic spork. The fast food utensil looked ridiculous in his long-fingered, elegant hand. “Fine dining. I see a lot of care went into microwaving it, how thoughtful of them.”
Fulk turned his chuckle into a snort of his own.
“I can smell someone working that massive kitchen upstairs. But I suppose prisoners just get whatever was on sale at Walmart, hm?”
“I suppose.”
The trouble with all this – well, the trouble from Fulk’s perspective – was that he found it hard to hate Valerian. He’d always loathed vampires: their pomposity, their sense of entitlement, the way they always expected wolves to behave like good little doggies, licking their boots and begging for scraps of affection. The old line about mages and wolves acting as left hand and right hand? Bullshit. Wolves were slaves, and mages were conniving toadies.
Up until now, Fulk hadn’t ever met a vampire who spoke in his own language: that fake-charming disdain for the world and everyone in it. It was delightful.
It was terrifying.
“I’m surprised to see you down here again, le Strange,” Valerian said between dainty bites of potpie. “It’s usually your darling little wife who comes to visit me. She’s much more fun to look at than you.”
Logically, Fulk knew he was being goaded. But on an instinctual level, he couldn’t help but react.
He snarled, low and deep, and lunged at the bars, pressing his face between two of them, growl echoing off the stone walls of the cell. “Don’t talk about her,” he snapped, voice only half-human.
Valerian grinned. “I’ve never met a mated pair of wolves. It’s fascinating.”
“You’ve been locked up for centuries. You haven’t met anyone,” Fulk shot back, easing away from the bars. Shame weighed hot in his belly. He’d long prided himself on his total control over his wolf side. He wasn’t a snarling, snapping, animalistic monster like some of them. He’d been born a titled gentleman, and that’s how he’d always behaved.
Valerian’s chuckle was mean and suggested he knew this. “I think it’s cute. Look at you: you really love her. And, for your information, I’ve met plenty.”
He wasn’t going to get pulled into another display, though every part of him wanted to reach through the bars and grab for the prince’s throat. He forced himself to turn and pace back toward the opposite wall, remembering the reason he’d been asked to come down here in the first place.
Keeping his voice casual, he said, “Met plenty, huh? You must be up to your old tricks again?”
