Personal Confessions of a Modern-Day Prince

location: Kelly's Cold Storage, Inc.

mood: angry

Dan Pat Doneghan was feeling pensive. He'd been in a dark mood for weeks, and tonight, he felt the need to vent a bit.

Fhwap. 
Fhwap.

The frozen meat was cold and iron hard against his knuckles, and the impact of his fists striking it sent jarring chills right up his arms. Hot blood, fresh in his veins from feeding, spattered the ice where his skin had split while striking it. The sound was somewhat satisfying, too, a meaty slap that echoed in the dark silence of the cool storage warehouse. No matter the issue, coming here and taking out his frustration on a side of beef always made him feel better. 

Out of the corner of one eye, he could see figures lounging about in the shadows of the warehouse. The lads knew better than to be around him when he was in one of his moods, especially these last few months. The boss had a nasty habit of taking out his frustrations on them if they wandered too close. Dan Pat chuckled to himself. He knew his servants were safe, at least for tonight. Despite his mood, the edge had been taken off his anger for a time. The night he'd spent with his confidant had made sure of that.

Fhwap. 
Fhwap.

Such an odd thing to say, his confidant, especially in regards to her. After all, hadn't it been Elena's fault that  he had suffered so much shame? If only she had given in to his whims months ago, the whole mess could have been avoided. If he had just killed her when he'd had the chance, he wouldn't be feeling this now.

He sighed - was that what he truly felt, or was that the Beast talking again? Any more, he couldn't tell the difference.

Fhwap.
Fhwap.

Truth be told, it had been so long since he could tell the difference. All these months, he'd thought the Beast under control, kept in check. He'd been blind to the truth - that he'd fallen under the sway of the monster that lay in his breast. The seed that had been planted that night of exquisite decadence had blossomed into a flower he neither cherished nor wanted. Every action taken, every decree made and every ruling given had been tainted by the sickness in his mind. The Beast had woven the excesses of cruelty into his thoughts, and only now did he truly realize the extent of the damage it had done. 

Elena had bore the brunt of it. Mason and Elizabeth, as well. Though games were not uncommon among the Kindred, the games he'd played with them were of the sort that Penrose had played with him, and Dan Pat had hated his sire for it. He still bore the scars of them after all these years, even after Penrose's death. 

Fhwap.
Fwhap.

Dan Pat took a moment to reflect. Exactly why had he sought Elena out, then? What had made him seek out the one vampire with all the reason in the world to hate him, and bear his soul to her? She'd always been able to make him talk. That was perhaps what had drawn the Beast to her in the first place - she was a weakness, a soft spot that his enemies could use to strike at him.  Regardless of the reason, he'd cemented the ruination of her reputation in Colorado Springs, then had her dropped in a block of concrete to rot until he saw fit to release her. By any account, she should be howling for his blood. Maybe she was, and just playing along until she had her moment. The very fact that she wasn't, at least openly, was enough to shock him into wondering if perhaps he was redeemable.

Dan Pat sighed again, and stepped away from the flank of beef. He flexed his hands, and felt the sting of his split knuckles reverberating into his hands. The sensation revitalized him, gave him a rush, and the Toreador allowed himself a small smile. Idly, he realized that he missed sweating. Once, long ago, he'd been a prize fighter. He'd spent a lot of time in small rooms full of people and smoke, pummeling any challenger who came into the ring to the sounds of bloodthirsty cheers. The purity of that feeling, that sense of triumph he'd felt when his opponent fell, was tied in his memories to the sting of sweat in his eyes and in the split flesh of his face. 

Penrose had taken that from him.

Fwhap.
Fwhap.

He laid into the meat once again, pummeling his fists into the side of beef with renewed vigor. Chips of ice, mottled with crimson,  broke free and splattered his face and bare chest, sliding down his frame to pool at the waistband of his slacks. He felt his fangs distinctly under his upper lip before the tips tore into the lower, and his mouth filled with the taste of his own vitae. It wasn't the sting of sweat in his eyes, but it was enough. 

So, six months after he'd sunk her in a piece of concrete, he'd sought out his worst enemy and made her his confessor, of sorts. He'd bared his soul to her, and the conversations they'd had since burned in his thoughts. She was right, of course - he'd allowed himself to be controlled by everything around him except himself. Most of all, the liege lord to whom he'd signed eternal obedience.  Looking back on it now, Dan Pat should have known it was a devil's deal, but he'd been so eager to take the city Penrose had built. If only he had followed through with his plans for seizing Praxis, he wouldn't be in the place he was now: sworn to a rogue Kindred who played at being Invictus but in truth cared nothing for anything but his own murderous power. Sinassa was a monster, and Dan Pat was becoming just like him as the nights passed.  Maybe that's what the bastard wanted, in the end.  Misery loved company, and Sinassa was the most miserable guttersnipe Dan Pat had ever known. 

Regardless, Dan Pat didn't care what Sinassa wanted.

Dan Pat wanted himself back. He wanted the sicknesss in his mind gone, and the Beast back where it belonged in the shadows of his conscience.

Fwhap..
Fwhap.

Dan Pat wanted to be free of the chains that bound him to Sinassa, to be free of the slavery he'd sold himself into for the price of his soul.

Fwhap.
Fwhap.

And he would stop at nothing, nothing, in order to be free.

FHWAP.

Dan Pat stood on his bedroom balcony, clad only in a black silk robe and matching silk pants. He leaned against one of the cool marble pillars that flanked either side of the open double doors, his arms crossed over his bare chest as he looked out over his domain. The Toreador was only vaguely aware of the cool breeze that rolled over him, carrying with it the promise of rain later in the day. The sliver of faintest pink along the mountains, along with the growing heaviness in his veins, told of the coming dawn. Soon, he’d need to find shelter from the rising sun.

Still, he found himself frozen in place as his mind raced over the events of the last few weeks. So much had happened, in so little a span of time. Even though Dan Pat was well over a hundred years old, it never ceased to amaze him how time seemed to pass for his kind. Some Kindred blinked, and a decade had passed. Others closed their eyes for what seemed like eternity, and only a year had gone by.

What would it be like, he wondered, for Elizabeth? It had only been two weeks ago that he had given Mason permission to Embrace her. That’d been difficult, considering how long he’d thought of doing that deed himself. It was a sign of the Prince’s favor for his Harpy that he’d allowed it to happen at all. In a way, it was also his manner of apologizing for bringing Cale into the Invictus fold. While Dan Pat wasn’t entirely sure he was capable of love any more, he felt a fondness for Mason that was beyond his typical pragmatic view of his fellow Kindred. The look of betrayal in the Carthian’s eyes when Mason discovered Cale’s shift of allegiance had sent a chill down Dan Pat’s spine. Dan Pat couldn’t decide at this point whether that chill had been born of regret or out of some perverse pleasure at wounding the ever-stoic Mason. In the end, he supposed, it had been just another move in the chess game they played - Carthian and Invictus, Moirai and Toreador, regnant and thrall.

A soft noise from the bedroom behind him interrupted his reverie. He half-turned his head to watch as Eamon, his ghoul majordomo, quietly entered the chamber to attend to Dan Pat’s latest conquest. She lay languidly on the bed, her flame-red hair arrayed on the silk pillow behind her head like an angelic halo. The Toreador couldn’t quite remember her name – in the end, it didn’t matter, really. She was just some beauty who’d picked the Prince’s Irish pub as a place to drown away her daily fears and kick up her heels. To her misfortune, she’d resembled his long-dead Shannon enough for him to take an interest in. After a century, he still acutely felt the sting of his wife’s leaving of him. He took a deep and abiding satisfaction in avenging himself on her look-alikes through the years.

Dan Pat smiled softly to himself, and ran his tongue over his teeth. He could still faintly taste the sweet, whiskey-accented blood he’d taken from her veins. The flavor was all he could savor of the evening, as she’d proved just as droll and boring to him as the rest of the women he took home from the pub. They were easy victories, these cheap modern floozies. Most of the time, he didn’t even need to rely on his Kindred powers to lull them into his bed.

Eamon glanced up at his master, and gave a submissive nod as he gathered the woman’s clothes from the bedroom floor and neatly folded them at the foot of the bed. The Prince had made sure that she’d remember only that he had given her intense pleasure, then allowed her to stay the night. She’d be given a brief breakfast, a convenient excuse for Dan Pat’s absence, and a polite but firm invitation to leave the estate.

Dan Pat chuckled to himself, then turned back to his mountain view as his servant exited the room as silently as he’d entered.

Thinking of easy conquests, his thoughts turned to Elena. His smile faded to a grimace as he thought of the conversation they’d had earlier that evening. After months of listening idly to the rumors of her whereabouts after having escaped the prison he’d made for her, he’d initiated contact. Truth be told, he cared very little for her personal feelings. He certainly wasn’t going to honestly apologize for putting her in a concrete block – after all, she’d pushed his patience over and beyond its limits with her continual refusal to bow to his whims.

No, tonight’s contact had more to do with politics than anything else – at first. Ever since she’d escaped him, he’d lived in fear of the reprisal of her powerful family. The De la Cruz were an expansive lineage spanning several convenants, and though he had acted within his right as Prince, they had not reacted well to his actions. He’d contacted Elena in the idea of calling a truce, as it were.

Dan Pat scowled, and kicked off the pillar to pace across the cool marble of the balcony floor. Elena had this strange ability to make him talk. She’d always had it, since when they’d first met. Her presence comforted him on some level, made him trust her enough to tell her things he wouldn’t have told any other person, Kindred or mortal.

He hated her for that, even more than he hated her for her casual dismissal of his power.

At first, the conversation had gone as he knew it would. They spewed vitriol at one another, each word edged with silent threat. After a while, however, they’d sunk into old patterns. Elena had called him Sean. She was the only one who knew his real name, instead of the name he’d created for the current incarnation of the Doneghan patriarch. Then she’d asked if he’d been married. The question alone burned his tongue to answer. When she asked what had happened and why Shannon had left him, he’d quickly shut himself off from her.

The Prince had no desire to speak of a beloved daughter dead of tuberclerosis. It still brought to mind the memories of that night spent by her bedside, watching helplessly as she choked to death on her own blood. It was ironic to him that he now was given life by the same thing that had sent Mary Katherine to an early grave.

Perhaps she is right, a small part of Dan Pat Doneghan that was still Sean Michael Doneghan murmured in the back of his mind. Perhaps you have become a monster, a cancer upon yourself that has to be excised for the good of all.

Insolent bitch, Dan Pat thought to himself as he banished his wayward conscience. He clenched and unclenched his fists by his side, and slowly allowed his head to loll back on his neck. He looked up to the slowly brightening sky, then closed his eyes. How dare she make him feel this way, reminding him of who he’d once been! How dare she intimate that he’d been anything other than the Prince of Colorado Springs, among the most powerful Kindred of their area! How dare she….

How dare she be right!

The Prince sighed, and shook his head, as he reigned in his Beast. His anger was of no use to him. He’d made many too many mistakes in his ambitious rise to power, made too many enemies. If he was to maintain all he’d earned, he would have to make amends to those he’d offended along the way. He’d have to swallow his pride, drown his arrogance, and accept the bittersweet taste of humility in order to secure his survival.

“Damn her”, he murmured. “And damn my pride, as well.”

With that, he turned to make his way to slumber.