Skin Deep

Vampire the Masquerade

Night One

I’m dead.

The face that stared back at Sorina from the mirror was her, but it wasn’t her. The face’s skin was sickly pale with a yellow-green bruised undertone that no amount of foundation could hide. The light brown eyes were sunken, dark rings around them like the deepest of exhaustion, barely even reflecting light. The dark green hair hung limp and thin, framing hollow cheekbones and dry, colorless lips. 

She reached up and poked her cheek, watching the indent fill out much slower than it should’ve. She used a finger to push the corner of her mouth up, trying to force half a smile. Her lip felt rubbery and heavy, the smile falling slack the moment she withdrew her hand. 

“I’m dead,” Sorina said. Her voice was cracked and broken, just like how her bones should have been. There was no one else in the room to talk to. Just her reflection. “I’m dead, right?”

Her reflection didn’t answer. It just stared when she finished talking. 

Yesterday, she’d been alive. Warm. Happy. 

Today, she was a broken corpse put back together wrong. 

She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the air into lungs that felt too heavy. “It’s okay. I can fix this. I can fix this…”

Months Ago

“It’s okay, I can fix this.” Sorina plucked at the strands of hair so fried from bleaching they felt like straw in her hands. “It won’t be perfect, but at least you’ll still have hair. The problem is the repeated dyeing; we’re gonna have to ease back on the heavy colors until your hair is healthier.”

“And how long’s that gonna take? I got a reputation! A brand!” Riot ran a hand through their hair, looking distressed. Sorina caught their eye in the mirror, resting her hands on their shoulders to ease them back into the seat. “Tell it to me straight, doc. I’m done, ain’t I? Stuck with one boring color for weeks. Weeks! Not days! My fans will think I’ve been replaced by an imposter if I show up next week with the same color.”

“Just sit back and let me work my magic. I said we can’t use heavier colors, not that we can’t use any. Lighter dyes might not hold up as well if you wash your hair every day but it should hold up for a week at a time. It’s either that or we go short to cut the damage and you rock a buzz for a few weeks until the roots grow out healthy.”

“No, no buzz. I… I can do light dyes.” Riot closed their eyes and sighed dramatically. “It’s fine. I’ll survive.”

“Yeah you will!” Sorina gave them a pat, smiling brightly and watching their face turn from playfully distraught to just playful. Next to their currently electric-blue hair, Sorina’s natural brown looked almost dull in the overhead light. The contrast between the industrial DJ with their hair and piercings and tattoos and her professional appearance was stark. Sure, she had her ears pierced and her own tattoos, but the irony of her being the one to change her customers’ appearances while keeping her own pretty tame wasn’t lost on her. Yet, for some reason she couldn’t fathom, she hadn’t taken the leap herself to do more. Her tattoos could be hidden with long sleeves or high-neck shirts. She usually only wore one or two sets of earrings. It was like she was waiting for something. Permission, maybe? But from who? She’d moved out of her parents’ house years ago. She had no partner, no guardian, no roommates to judge her choices or deny her the opportunities. What was it then? She was making decent money, even if rent ate up more than half her paycheck. Price wasn’t that big of an issue. Maybe it was just… deciding what to do next. “So, what are we thinking? Do you want to stay in the cool tones or switch back to something warm?”

“I’m thinking… green, maybe. Not too neon, but a bright shade. Something that looks like it could be glowing if the stage lights hit me just right, you know?”

“Excellent choice. Let’s get you over to the sink and start the wash to get some of this blue out. Remember, it won’t be quite as vibrant since we’re going gentle but I promise it’ll look stunning.” Sorina snapped the sheet around Riot’s neck and rolled up her sleeves as they stood and followed her to the wash station. “Depending on how much color your hair gives up today you might need to come back tomorrow for a touch-up if the green doesn’t take all the way. You good with that?”

“Totally. You’re the best, Sorina. I can always count on you.” Riot settled into the chair and gave her a thumbs up. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not planning on going anywhere anytime soon.”

Night Three

Sorina watched with equal parts fascination and horror as Grigori worked his craft. Some of the humans that milled about in the mansion could hardly be considered human anymore based on appearance. The ghouls, as he’d explained the previous night, giving her some basic information on the world she suddenly found herself existing in, had been in his service for literal generations. Those that had been around the longest looked more like flesh golems with skin like melting candles, or perhaps clay, barely holding onto a human shape with sagging facial features and limbs of mismatched sizes and lengths. She sat perched on the edge of a leather couch, trying very hard to keep her gaze on what her sire was doing and to not look at the eyeball protruding from the armrest. When she’d first sat down, her elbow had poked it by accident and the entire couch had made an unsettling groaning noise. 

He was working on one of his ghouls. The man’s face had looked like wax that had sat in the sunlight, drooping eyelids and ears mismatched and a mouth hanging halfway off his face. Grigori worked carefully. Not tenderly, like Sorina would work on her clients. Just carefully. His fingers smoothed the skin, tied invisible stitches to keep the ghoul’s features in place, worked the skin like clay to reshape, stretch, bend, and squish the man into an almost entirely new shape. When he’d started, the man was a hunched, decrepit creature that looked like he’d stepped from the screen of an old monster movie. When Grigori stepped back to examine his work, what stood before them was a tall, gangly man with skin like glazed ceramic. The only things that stayed the same were his eyes. They were still watery, dull, and unfocused until Grigori held his wrist out and drew a sharp nail across it to draw blood. The ghoul leaned in to take a sip, almost bowing as he did, before straightening up with eyes that glinted with refreshed energy.

Despite her mixed feelings, Sorina stayed quiet. Grigori made it look so easy. She stared at her own hands. Thin, almost skeletal, the nails looking overgrown because of how her nailbeds had receded, slightly yellowed at the quick. Hands that had worked miracles for years, rescuing bad haircuts and poor makeup choices and smoothing wrinkles. Hands that couldn’t hide the corpse-like pallor of her own skin now, that shook slightly when she tried to apply her mascara and ended up smearing it across her eyelids. 

“Are you in need of a meal, childe?” Grigori’s voice startled her. He had dismissed the ghoul and turned to glance at her over his shoulder, like he’d finally remembered she was in the room. 

“I – no, thank you. I’m good. Thanks, though.” She was hungry, but it was manageable. The sensation of feeding was even harder to adjust to than her new appearance. The memory of her first meal in that alley… the warm, intoxicating rush of blood giving her new life… trading her cold death with the unfortunate driver of the truck that had run her over… the poetic justice of taking the life of the man who had taken hers still sat uneasy in her stomach, next to the remnants of his blood. I just need a little more time, she thought. “Can I go now? Or… did you need me for something?”

“Not tonight. You may go. I have business to attend to. Your lessons will begin tomorrow. But if you wish for something to fill your time, the books in the study are yours to peruse.” Grigori adjusted the fastener of the cloak around his shoulders and headed for the door, looking every bit the towering, terrifying vampire he was. When she stood and moved to follow him out, she noted the massive height difference between them. Almost two feet. Yet again, she wondered if he had always been that tall, or if he’d somehow stretched his own body like he’d stretched the ghoul. But she bit her lip and stayed quiet. He hadn’t been cruel or rude or dismissive of her, but at the same time, he’d turned her into a vampire. That meant he was powerful. And scary. And it had only been three days. She still didn’t quite know what to make of everything. 

In the hallway, he turned left towards the front doors and she turned right to head back to her room. The manor had an oppressive air to it, like the walls and the floor and even the light fixtures were watching her as she walked through it. The first night, it had set her teeth on edge and made her skin crawl. The sensation hadn’t disappeared yet, but it had lessened somewhat over the past couple nights now. Like the house was settling. Adjusting to her presence. 

Back in her room, she found herself in front of the mirror once again. Same sunken eyes, same hollow cheeks. Skin smooth and waxen, but when she ran her fingers over it, it felt cold and heavy. She flexed her fingers, a frown tugging at her thin lips. Then, she raised a hand and stretched out her pointer, pausing just in front of her eyes like she’d done many times to put in contacts. Just try it. Start small. The curve of her nail was tipped with a tiny notch, almost like a fountain pen or a tattoo gun’s needle. She stood as still as she could manage, eyes red-rimmed and watering at the corners with tears that looked too much like blood to be anything else. It hurt. But it would be worth it. Like ink, the black ran down her finger, over her nail, spreading across her sclera. When the darkness touched the edge of her iris, the brown shimmered. It swirled, rippled, her vision swimming in and out of focus. But she could make out enough to see the change. The brown fought valiantly, but it wasn’t strong enough. Slowly, beautifully, her eye grew bright. From brown to gold to a vibrant yellow that almost seemed to glow in the dimness of the bathroom. The fully blackened sclera made it stand out even more, and it looked wonderful. 

She carefully withdrew her nail from the corner of her eye and blinked. One black and gold, one white and brown. Beautifully unique and painfully plain. A tiny tear escaped the corner of her new eye, red and bloody and tinged with black. She wiped it away and gave her reflection a small smile. 

It smiled back, and its teeth were sharper than before.

Weeks Ago

“Welcome back, Dr. Shaw. What’s on the menu for today?” Sorina patted the chair and started setting out tools: scalpels, gauze, needles, medical thread, forceps. Beside her, Vic was setting up his own kit; she stared at the implants on the tray and wondered yet again what they felt like once they were under the skin. Did they itch? Did they ache? Did they eventually fade into the background, like tattoos and piercings, something easily forgotten about until it was pointed out again? 

“Everett here is about to get himself a pair of horns,” Vic said. 

“Nubs, really. Just to see how I like them. And if the department doesn’t make a fuss, I’ll probably come back for something a little bigger in a few months.” Everett settled into the seat, reclining and folding his hands across his chest, perfectly at ease. The professor already had subtle ridges implanted along his collarbones, and Sorina spotted the small telltale lumps across the top of his thumb joints. Easy to miss if they were hidden under a shirt or gloves. Subtle. Not like the ones he was about to get on his forehead. “Figured it’s about time to go a bit more extra, you know?”

“Felt,” Vic agreed. 

He slipped on the medical mask and Sorina followed suit. Then she finished the setup and stepped back, swapping to fresh gloves and waiting on standby. Vic usually led the piercing and implant appointments, but Sorina was always happy to help. And observe. Tattoos were more her thing, but maybe one day she’d take the plunge. Split her tongue, maybe. Put ridges down her spine. Gauges in her ears. So many possibilities. She watched as Vic cleaned Everett’s forehead with wipes, measured carefully, and marked circles where the implants would go and where the incisions would be made. Then Vic held out his hand and she gave him the anaesthetic shot, trading it for the marker. Everett winced slightly when the needle pierced his skin but Vic worked with steady hands, his years as a paramedic the perfect experience and training for his current job. 

They waited a couple minutes, idly filling the silence with small talk. Everett was working on a new syllabus for his advanced anatomy course. Sorina burned with questions, fascinated by his knowledge of how the body worked, how he mapped out exactly where he wanted his body mods and piercings, how he spoke of pressure points and acupuncture points and knowing what places to avoid with tattoos and needles versus which points helped ease the pain of new mods. When the anaesthetic took effect, Vic got to work. The talking stopped, instead replaced with quiet music playing from the speakers overhead. Sorina didn’t really need to do all that much aside from hand Vic tools and dab at the dribbles of blood with the extra gauze. Everett stayed mostly calm, eyes half-closed, but Sorina saw how his hands occasionally tensed and gripped the arms of the chair, how his nose flared with each heavy breath. 

Every careful cut with the scalpel, every gentle nudge with the prod, every neat stitch with the needle, Sorina watched. By the end, Everett’s forehead was the same, yet different. When the blood and sweat was wiped away, the small bumps sat just below the surface. The skin would bruise, the cuts would heal, and if he took care of the implants, in a few months it would almost look like the bumps had always been there. Natural. Part of him. Such a superficial change, in more ways than one, and his appearance was the same and yet different at the same time. 

As Sorina cleaned up the tools and gauze, throwing away anything that couldn’t be sanitized while Vic bandaged Everett’s head, she kept turning the procedure over and over in her mind. Everett, like Vic, like her, like so many of her other clients, spent so much money on all kinds of operations and procedures. Piercings, tattoos, surgeries. Even those like Riot, who kept things mostly tame and just changed their hair often, still yearned for change. To change their appearances. To alter their bodies. Looking for that final tweak or adjustment before it would be enough. And yet so many changes were still barely deep enough to scratch that itch. 

Sorina stripped her gloves, washed her hands, then paused and stared down at them. The blackened fingers still looked good, but over time the edges of the tattoos would grow fuzzy. She looked up at the mirror. The green in her hair held strong, but the roots were already growing out after just a couple weeks. She had to redo her makeup every day. So much effort. And every substantial alteration, like her tattoos, like Everett’s horns, had to be made with confidence and certainty. There was no room – or budget, for her at least – for simple experimentation. She had to know for sure before taking the next step. She had to be completely certain of what change she wanted next. 

“See you in a few months, then!” Vic said to Everett, helping him sit up. “Remember the aftercare. Regular check-ups to make sure those are healing nicely, and you come to me or your doctor if anything, and I mean anything, hurts or turns a color it shouldn’t. Got it?”

“Yep. Absolutely.” Everett shook Vic’s hand, then leaned around him to give Sorina a smile. She returned it and walked back over to shake his hand as well. “Always a pleasure to work with you guys. I keep telling some of my colleagues if they ever want to try something new they should come here. Even if it’s just a haircut.”

“Well, we appreciate the business and the free advertisement,” Sorina said. “Take care of yourself, doc.”

“You too, Sorina.”

Night Eight

No wonder the ghouls that still have mouths scream. Sorina’s hands were shaking slightly. A bloody tear escaped the corner of one blackened, golden eye. This hurts worse than getting hit by the van.

Yet she didn’t stop. If she did, it would look all wrong. Steeling herself, she pinched her pinky between two newly elongated fingers and squeezed. Beneath her touch, she felt the muscles and tendons and bone shift and rub against each other. She pressed harder and one of the bones snapped. She stifled the shout by biting down hard on her lip, the teeth digging in enough to draw cold, thick blood, and pulled. Bit by bit, she massaged her finger into shape. The tiny pieces of bone shifted beneath her skin, poking and crunching and reforming, settling into their new places. When she was satisfied with the length, she eased up on the pressure and waited for the pain to fade before giving her new hand an experimental flex. 

Now, it looked right. Fingers that were longer, more slender, able to poke and prod and adjust with much finer dexterity than she’d ever been able to as a human. One last step. This time, she held the nail and pulled. Agonizingly slowly, the nail slid from the nailbed, elongating just like her finger had. Another tear dribbled from her eye but she didn’t bother wiping it away yet. Just a little further… she pinched the sides of the nail, massaging it into a point.

When she let go, she stuck her hand out and spread her fingers wide. Each long finger tipped with a curved nail that looked more like claws. The pain stopped. Even after ten fingers, she still expected the throbbing of a pulse under her skin in response to the pain. But there was nothing. Just… stillness behind her ribs. 

She still didn’t know exactly how she was changing herself. Grigori had barely spoken to her since she watched him reshape the ghoul; he’d been leaving the manor as soon as he woke and returning just before dawn the past few nights. Too busy to see the steps she’d taken or to offer constructive criticism. But each time she poked and prodded and stretched and molded something new, some deep instinct took over. Like the muscle memory of washing a client’s hair before a haircut or the repetitive tedium of microblading eyebrows, the less she thought about it the smoother it went. It was like her hands and her subconscious saw the blueprint under her skin and worked like a sculptor’s hands to chip away at the unnecessary excess. She didn’t know how much there was left, but when she looked in the mirror, she knew she wasn’t there yet. 

The face that stared back at her was still gaunt, still pale. The dark sclera and golden eyes watched her, dead and yet more alive than the brown they’d once been. When she reached out to lay a hand on the mirror, her reflection did the same. Cold glass stopped her hand, and she looked at the splayed fingers now tipped with long, curved claws. They were disproportionate to the rest of her. Yet it felt… right. 

Sorina gave her reflection a smile. It didn’t reach her eyes. It had no warmth. She tried anyway, watched the way her skin stretched over her cheekbones, studied where the muscles went taut and stopped her lips from stretching further. The teeth were pointy, but only just. Not enough to match her new eyes and her new hands. They were too normal. And she was anything but normal now. The outside had to match the inside. 

“Is this what you all felt?” she asked. Her reflection didn’t answer. “Your surgeries and procedures and appointments. Is it something inside? How do you know what it looks like? How do you know when you’re done?”

She tilted her head to get a better angle on her face and a few strands of hair fell across her eyes. Annoyed, she brushed them away and tucked them behind an ear. Ears… 

“… why not try?”

Carefully, still trying to get used to her new hands, she pinched the tip of her ear and pulled. It stretched, then hurt. She stopped and sighed. The feeling wasn’t there. Where did it go? She tried again. Nothing changed. Frustrated, Sorina ran her hands through her hair. 

Her scalp tingled. 

She froze. 

That. That’s the feeling. Maybe it wasn’t time for ears. But there was something else. Grigori had told her that she was frozen now. A vampire was like a photograph. A snapshot, capturing their appearance at the moment of their death. Forever the same. 

Except the Tzimice. The clan she now belonged to. That she was only just beginning to scratch the surface of. Grigori had told her, shown her how they could change. Even make it last. Make it permanent. She stared at her hair, fussed with it, shook it out. It fell to just above her shoulders. Her bangs were at that awkward length of too short to tuck behind her ears but too long to stay out of her eyes. At least the green looked good. 

Sorina lifted a hand to her scalp. Started running her fingers through her hair. The tingling returned. Like a live wire under her skin. She remembered Riot. The process of massaging their scalp when she shampooed and conditioned their hair. Preparing them for a change. The muscle memory kicked in again. Slowly, methodically, she massaged her head. Loosened the skin. Started sliding her fingers through the strands of hair, starting at the tips and working her way higher until the tingling became a tugging at the roots. Similar to how it had felt when she pulled the nails longer, she felt her hair slide from her scalp without actually being ripped from it. Instead, it was a strange but not entirely uncomfortable sliding sensation. Little by little, she pulled her hair longer and longer. It grew not just in length, but volume. Some strands she twisted, others she fluffed, playing with the texture until some parts almost looked feathered and layered. It was… fun. 

And when she was done, it looked fantastic. It hung down to her waist and didn’t even feel heavy. She knew when it was right, too, because the tingling sensation faded and the hair stopped growing and when she ran her hands through it, it just felt like her. Another step in the right direction. Another part molded. There was more to go, that she knew. But she’d done plenty tonight. 

And she realized she’d worked up an appetite. Her reflection smiled, and the teeth were sharp once more. 

Sorina smiled back and this time it reached her eyes. 

Days Ago

It was a slow day at the salon. Only a handful of appointments overall, and only one client for Sorina. It was supposed to be two, but Harper had canceled at the last minute with an apology and an even bigger tip than usual despite Sorina not charging a cancellation fee. Apparently there had been a nasty shootout at a club downtown and the precinct had called her in to help with the cleanup after forensics took all night to collect evidence. Sorina scrolled through the local news sites, curious, but saw no updates aside from a police alert from earlier that morning advising people to avoid the area and saying some suspects might still be at large. The name of the club was familiar, but Sorina couldn’t quite put her finger on why. 

“Midnight Delight… where have I heard of that place before?” Sorina tried googling it, but the site didn’t offer any clarity. She’d never been there. Hmm. Maybe a client mentioned it? She shrugged and spun around in the chair. Her gaze lingered on the wall of photos at the back of the salon. Some were before-and-after snapshots, others just the after shots. Happy clients, mostly. Return clients, almost entirely. Tattoos, microblading, permanent makeup, hair styling, cosmetic surgeries. Thousands of dollars spent on chasing an ideal appearance. She checked the calendar, saw the weeks blocked out with multi-hour procedures and appointments, sighed and leaned back in her chair. Sure, today was a slow day, but business would pick up again. 

Unable to sit still for long, Sorina stood and paced the salon. She caught glimpses of her reflection in the mirrors and finally noticed how tired she looked. Under the makeup, her eyes looked dead. Her hair hung limp around her face, having lost the volume from the morning’s styling. Even her sweats looked baggier around her hips, though she hadn’t really felt like she’d lost weight. 

“You look rough,” she said. “What’s going on?”

Shit, am I really that stressed? The shop was doing fine. Despite the cancellation, she wasn’t losing that much money. Then again… 

New York was expensive. After rent and bills, she wasn’t actually left with much. Enough to survive, at least. Enough to not struggle. Almost enough to be comfortable. But it wasn’t like she’d be getting a raise anytime soon. She could go independent, maybe. Set her own prices. But that would mean starting over, rebuilding a client base, hopefully not poaching anyone from Blackthorn. 

Besides, she was happy. She liked her coworkers. She liked her clients. She liked being able to help them get closer to who they wanted to be. Watching them transform under her careful efforts was the most incredible reward. It was satisfying. So… why did they never seem satisfied? Always another tattoo, another piercing, a new hairstyle. Always something more. Just one more. I just can’t stop. It’s good but I’m not there yet. I wanted to try something new. I’m experimenting. She’d heard them all and more. After so many years, the explanations sounded more like excuses. Like they were justifying it not just to her but to themselves as well. 

And Sorina understood. She’d started with earrings. Small tattoos. Moved on to sleeves. Then the blackouts. Cut her hair. Dyed it every other month. Small tweaks and adjustments and it always looked great the moment it was done. Then she’d sit with it. Days would pass, maybe weeks. She’d get the itch again. The urge to do something else. Try something new. Go bigger, go bolder. 

“But what if I’m not happy with it?” She asked one of the mirrors. Is that why I haven’t done it yet? Taken the big leap? “Buyer’s remorse is real. I don’t want it to feel like a waste.”

“What’s a waste?” 

“FUCK.” Sorina jumped so hard she almost tripped over the hems of her pants. She felt her heart pulse in her ears. “Mara! Where’d you come from?”

“I was in the office,” Mara chuckled. “Been there all morning. You good? Jesus, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen someone go pale in real life.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry. Thought you knew. What were you saying? Did Juno waste some ink again?” Mara put her hands on her hips and frowned. “I thought we did inventory last week. Don’t tell me I need to order more already.”

“No. I was just…” Sorina sighed and sank into one of the chairs. “You ever actually think about how much money people sink into all this? Quality work isn’t exactly cheap. Like yeah, people like Camille and Harper make good money, but what about Riot? Dude’s in here basically every week and it’s not easy to completely switch colors without frying their hair.”

“What’s brought this on?” Mara sat next to her and gave her a curious look. “Something happen? You wanna talk about anything?”

“Nah, I’m just thinking out loud about stuff. It’s like, we call tattoos permanent, right? It’s even in the name, permanent makeup. Surgeries are supposed to last. But you can cover up tattoos. Bodies can sometimes revert. Hair keeps growing. Nothing really lasts. Maybe that’s why they keep coming back. ‘Just one more’, right?”

“Well, I like to think that our bodies are our canvases. Even if you finish a painting, you can cover it up and start again. Or adjust a tiny detail. It’s fun to see what people can do. It’s… transformative.”

“Yeah. Totally. But how do you know when it’s finished?” Sorina looked down at her hands, turned them over, saw where the edges of the lines on her wrists were ever-so-slightly growing fuzzy. Maybe in a year or two they’d need a touch-up.

“I’ll let you know once I figure that out,” Mara said. “This isn’t some sudden existential crisis, is it? Should I be worried? You’ve got some PTO lined up; I can schedule a leave if you want a break.”

“No. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m just tired. And bored. Brain’s working because my hands aren’t, you know?”

“If you want something to occupy your time and make your brain think about something a little less metaphorical, I could use some help getting filing done. Nothing better than mundane work to make you hate taxes, right?”

“God, I’d give anything to not have to pay taxes anymore,” Sorina groaned. But it helped. She managed to smile. “If I got hit by a bus tomorrow, I’d probably thank the driver if it meant I’m free from bills.”

“Mood. But don’t plan on it, okay? We’d all miss you if you were gone. Maybe just hope for a broken leg or something, yeah?” Mara stood and rolled her neck, which popped in a couple places. “Alright. Back to the grind. Gonna help?”

“Sure. But just for a bit. I have a few ideas I wanna sketch, actually.”

“Oooh. New designs?”

“Maybe. Been thinking about doing something on my back.”

“Oh, that’ll look hot. You gotta show me the finals.”

“Definitely.”

Night Twelve

Everything ached. It reminded her of the pain she’d felt in the brief moments of consciousness between the van slamming into her and watching the world spin around her before she’d closed her eyes and breathed for the last time. Bones splintered and shattered, skin stretched and tearing, body broken and being put back together. Grigori’s cold hands working methodically, surgically, resetting limbs and smoothing out the bumps and shards. Fixing the canvas. Preparing it for a new coat of paint. Making sure when she opened her eyes to her new world, the only permanent change would be a heart that no longer beat.

Sorina squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip to keep from screaming as Grigori’s nails sank into her skin and her shin turned to jelly. He molded it, stretched it, adjusted it until the length matched her other leg. It’s just like a tattoo, it’s just like a tattoo, it’s just like getting a fucking tattoo… 

“It is done.” Grigori withdrew his hands and took a step back to admire his work. “Can you stand, childe?”

“Yeah. I just – gimme a minute,” Sorina panted. He waited, hands clasped, face blank, until the pain faded enough for her to move without wincing. Then, she got one leg under her. Then the other. She managed to get upright but swayed and almost lost her balance; it was like standing on stilts and her equilibrium was off. Grigori held out a hand and she took it instinctively before she faceplanted on the carpet. The final step was forcing her spine straight. That did make her whimper as the vertebrae crunched and slid into their new positions. But as she steadied herself and the pain continued to fade, she eased her grip on Grigori’s hand until she could stay up without his help. 

Now there was maybe a foot of height between them instead of two. He still loomed over her, but not quite as ominously as before. And, for the tiniest moment, she thought she caught a glint of satisfaction – maybe pride – in his gaze as he looked her up and down.

“You’ve done well, Sorina. Your new talents are emerging faster than even I expected. Soon, you will not require my assistance for small adjustments like this.” 

“Is it always going to hurt like a bitch?” Sorina cautiously stretched, testing out her new limbs. Her knuckles clunked against the wall. It was going to take a bit to get used to the extra reach. But now that the worst was over, it felt good. 

“Over time, you will no longer notice the pain. And you will be capable of more than just altering your height or your face. The gift of our clan is freedom from conformity. The changes we bring can be made permanent even after death. There will be no need to redo all of this upon each waking.”

“Oh, sick. Can you teach me?”

“Perhaps. Continue to demonstrate your ability. Hone your skills. Show me what you are capable of, and I will show you what you can master as you grow powerful.” He paused, head tilting towards the door. “I have an appointment.”

“Can I watch?” Sorina tried and failed to keep her excitement contained. “I mean, if I can see more, I’ll learn faster. I pick up things quick when I can see demonstrations.”

“There will not be much to watch tonight. It is merely a… consultation.” Grigori rubbed his chin in thought. “Though it may be beneficial for you to observe the necessities of politics. I may operate outside of the bindings of the Camarilla, but you will be presenting yourself to the Prince in a matter of days. It will do you well to know the intricacies of the other clans.”

Sorina beamed and folded herself into the armchair against the wall to wait. Grigori moved to the door and swung it open before there was a knock or sign of someone waiting. Sorina wondered if he had some special ability or super vampire senses that let him know. There’s so much to learn! 

Her excitement faded somewhat over the course of Grigori’s meeting. At first, she’d been stunned by the vampire who walked into his study. She was gorgeous. Not a hair out of place. A body a human model would kill for. Large doe eyes that gave her an innocent, sweet look. But the more the woman – the Toreador, as she gleaned from the word Grigori used with a pointed glance in Sorina’s direction – spoke, the more Sorina saw that despite her seeming perfection, she wasn’t happy. It was an eerie parallel to Sorina’s former life. A client coming in for a consultation. A procedure. A change to be wrought upon her appearance because something still wasn’t right. What really got to Sorina, though, was that the Toreador’s requests were almost entirely mundane. Why, when she could look over at Sorina’s new body, knew of Grigori’s talents, did she want a small nose job and a new hairdo for the upcoming gala? Grigori himself offered to make her taller, to mold her ears into fins or her spine into spikes, something to really make an impression with her grand entrance. But the woman turned down all the suggestions, insisting that she had to be perfect, not inhuman.

It was so painfully ordinary. And the more the woman talked, explaining her preferences and desires and goals, the more Sorina understood what Grigori had been explaining. The woman was a regular with the Tzimice. Every month she wanted a new hairstyle. New eye color. A slight tweak to her cheekbones and nose and chin. And when she talked about making waves in the Camarilla, making sure people remembered her, Sorina understood that this woman could change her appearance as often or even as drastically as she wanted, but the inside wouldn’t change. And the Toreador was just like the other vampires who had visited Grigori over the past couple weeks. Superficial. Wanting desperately to change, yet they were stuck in their ways. Concerned with appearances and reputations and leverage against other clans. They always talked about change, but the changes they wanted would just shift power, influence, authority. The system itself wouldn’t be touched. Sorina’s excitement died as the minutes passed. Even when Grigori settled on the procedure and dismissed the woman to return the next night with her payment, Sorina sat in the chair and fiddled with her hair. 

“You are troubled.” Grigori studied her.

“I didn’t expect vampire politics to be so… mundane.”

“There is something you must understand. For many Kindred, the changes wrought upon their bodies after their Embrace are temporary. The day-slumber reverts their forms. They are cursed to remain as they are. But the beauty of our clan, my childe, is that we command our forms as we please. Our changes last. We are not trapped within the cages of our mortal forms. We are the artists. The sculptors. The painters. Flesh is our canvas. What changes you gave your human clients, however superficial, were but practice for your new skills. All that you know will serve you well. And I will teach you even more. We are the ones that will bring about change. Not just on the surface. From below. From beneath. Our world has been frozen for long enough.” Grigori drew himself up to his full height and held out a hand to her. “Come. Learn. Practice. Master your craft. Command your form.”

Sorina took his hand once more and stood. He led her to the center of the study before releasing her. “And to show you what we are capable of, I have something for you,” Grigori said. A gift from him could mean anything. A lamp whose shade was made with stretched skin. A cane made from a twisted femur. A block of solid gold she couldn’t actually spend anywhere even though Grigori said she could buy whatever she wanted with it. “You have been learning fast, childe. I was right about you. Your skills will only grow in time. Consider this a reward for passing your first test.”

Grigori waved a lazy hand towards the door, which swung open on its own with a too-human groan of the hinges. Sorina leaned forward in her chair, digging her nails into the armrests in equal parts curiosity and trepidation of what was about to walk through.

A hunched, elongated shape picked its way across the threshold. At first, Sorina struggled to make sense of what she was looking at. Her first thought was why is it green? 

Her second thought was it has hands. 

The lanky, slightly ungainly creature stopped when it saw the two of them watching it. Large ears twisted horizontally as bright black eyes darted between them. Its body still mostly resembled a cat… if the cat had been given a ferret’s proportions. Its limbs, however, were most decisively not a cat. Thin legs that ended in human-like hands in front, feet in the back. When the creature sat, it actually clasped its hands together and started wringing them nervously, the overly-long tail slowly swishing back and forth across the carpet. 

And yet when Sorina looked at it, she recognized it somehow. “Oh my god. The cat! My cat!”

She slipped from her seat and onto her knees, holding her hand out to beckon it to her. After a moment’s hesitation and a final look at Grigori, the cat rose onto all fours and trotted over to her. It sniffed her hand, then started rubbing its cheek against it. She started giving it scratches immediately and heard it purring in response.

“This was the animal you wished to protect, was it not? It will make a most loyal companion to you in the years to come.” Grigori spoke without actual affection for the cat, but he seemed almost… proud of whatever changes he’d wrought upon it while he’d given it new life. “You had a name for it, did you not?”

“Yeah its Gre–” Sorina froze. Oh god. I can’t tell him. It’s just awkward. Think. Think! “It’s, uhhhh… Beef. Yeah. Beef. ‘Cause he likes ground beef. Favorite food. You know.” She gave Grigrori a smile that was all teeth. His face remained impassive.

“... Beef,” he said.

“Yep. That’s him. Beef.”

“He will be in your charge. Your blood sustains him, just as human blood sustains you. Feed another, and he will cease to be.” Grigori settled back behind his desk and picked up the quill. “Now, I have work to attend to. See to your own business.”

The flat dismissal didn’t feel as cold as it had in the past. By now, she knew it was just how her sire was. No social skills wasted, apparently. She scooped Beef up into her arms, where he wrapped clammy hands around her neck and nuzzled his cold nose against her cheek, and gave Grigori a polite nod before exiting the study. Only when the door closed behind her did she allow the skip into her step as she cuddled Beef against herself. His purring vibrated in her ribcage, and his body – except for his hands and feet – was actually warm. She giggled slightly. “I’m glad to see you’re okay, too, buddy. Looks like we both went through some changes, huh?”

Beef meowed. 

“Yeah, buddy. We’re in this together. Whatever this ends up being. We stick together, okay?”

Beef meowed again and played with her hair like a child, seeming fascinated by the way the strands ran through his too-human fingers. 

This is my new normal, I guess. Could be worse… She glanced at an armchair in the foyer as she walked, seeing the way its surface occasionally twitched like a horse trying to make a fly go away. Could be a lot worse.

Night Fourteen

“Shallow. They’re all so shallow,” she said. Beef meowed in response, looking up from where he was playing with stick dolls he’d somehow assembled from strands of her hair and bird bones from his hunts. “They keep coming here, talking about wanting to change, lamenting being stuck, but nothing about them actually changes, Beef. Nothing on the inside. They’ll wake up tomorrow and be exactly the same. 

All the reading she’d managed to do so far with Grigori’s library had shown her just how complicated and superficial Kindred politics could be. So many quarrels, wars, massacres, over sleights and insults and grudges decades or even centuries old. Vampires thought they were above humans. Some inherent superiority that came with their immortality and abilities. But they weren’t better than humans. Despite claims and beliefs otherwise, Sorina was starting to think that deep down, vampires couldn’t truly shed all of their humanity. The pieces that stuck were, unfortunately, the petty parts. The greedy parts. 

She’d read about the Sabbat. The Anarchs. The Inquisitions. Factions and organizations warring for control. Stalemating over and over. The clans of the Camarilla vying for authority. Vampires undercutting and sabotaging each other to become Primogens and Sheriffs and Keepers. Grigori had told her to be prepared for all manner of offers, deals, and proposals with hidden motives at the introductory gala. Apparently fledgelings were a common target at these sorts of gatherings, with older vampires hoping to take advantage of their ignorance and weakness to secure boons and service. 

Petty.

The old Sorina might have been nervous. Scared, even. If she’d been at Blackthorn, in her element, she could’ve plastered on her customer service smile and powered through it. Hide the nerves and insecurity behind her tattoos and makeup and hair. 

“Maybe it’s not so different,” she said. Beef meowed and trundled up to her, tugging on her pants to get her attention. She looked down to see him holding up one of the dolls to her. “For me? You’re just the bestest boy, aren’t you Beef?”

Beef purred and rubbed his face against her hand before plodding back over to the rest of his toys. 

“I mean,” she continued, fiddling with the doll as she talked to her reflection and Beef, “it’s kind of ironic if you think about it. Vampires are immortal. They can get basically anything they want between magic powers and connections. They keep complaining about how the world keeps changing. Is that why they’re all trying so hard to stay in control? ‘Cause they feel the world slipping away from them? All the fighting for change and then the years pass and it all just… reverts back. You can work so hard to make a difference and then you wake up the next night and nothing’s actually changed. Vampires live forever and yet nothing actually lasts forever.”

But you can change. Look at what you’ve already accomplished. Sorina smudged a bit of eyeliner with her finger and tilted her head from side to side. Then she pushed the tip of her nail into her cheek just below one eye and felt the familiar tingling as a black dot bloomed beneath the skin. She withdrew the nail and repeated the process on the other side, then sat back satisfied at the new tattoos beneath her eyes. You’re not that girl anymore. She’s dead. You’re not her. 

The Sorina that watched her from the mirror looked scary. Strong. Confident. Bit by bit, each change she’d wrought upon herself had buried the insecure girl beneath layers that would take time for people to peel back. If her new world was full of performances that were skin-deep, then that’s all she’d let others see. Let them think she was exactly what she looked like. If they never bothered to look past the superficial, they’d never see who she really was. And that would buy her time.

Time to learn. Time to grow. Time to plan. All the other vampires would see was another Tzimice trying to look powerful. By the time she had to back it up, she’d be ready. In the sea of the beautifully ordinary, she could be wonderfully extraordinary. When she walked into a room, she wanted to turn heads. Cause whispers. Make an impression. Slowly, carefully, she’d worm her way deeper into the system. She’d get to know her peers like she got to know her customers. Chat with them about anything and everything, picking up the small details people let slip when they got comfortable. Years in a service industry had taught her how to read people like the instructions of a new hair product or tattoo gun. As Grigori said, she’d hone her skills and grow more powerful. And eventually, she’d have the power to make real changes. Changes that lasted. Changes that could weather time. Changes from the inside out, not the outside in. The deeper she could get, the closer to the heart she could get her hands to, that was where the real magic would happen. A permanent fix. And then she could stop hiding behind the face in the mirror. Shed the layers and emerge as something new. Be herself.

Whoever and whatever that might look like.

“You’re dead.” Sorina stared at her reflection. The face she’d stared at the night she’d awoken to her new life was gone. That girl had died. She’d died that night, bleeding in the street, wondering what people would think of her corpse. Well, now her corpse would definitely make an impression. New face, new me. The mantra that so many customers carried into her shop. They walked in with requests. Ideas. Desperation. Curiosity. They walked out different. But they always came back because it never lasted. And she always told them the same thing. She smiled. Her reflection smiled back. Glowing eyes and sharp teeth and feathered hair. The outside matched the inside now.

“I fixed it.”