dig your own hole

dig your own hole

part two: dig your own hole The cowled figure stepped forth from the shadows, seeming to pour out of them like wine from a pitcher. It surveyed the surroundings, sniffing a bit in the humid air.

What a curious scent, the figure thought to itself. Like blood, only... everywhere.

Pervasive. As if the air itself...

A peal of thunder rent the night, shaking the Egyptian sands and even the pillars of the palace itself. The pharaoh no doubt slept poorly this evening, probably rousing his concubines with his nervous stirrings. For nights now, an ill spirit had fouled his temper, and no amount of pliant flesh or tender foods could calm him. Ever since the disgraced son had spoken his fateful words, the king's manner was one of discomfiture.

What was that curse again? That blood shall fall like rain? That rain shall follow blood?

Something perhaps about a bloody reign? The figure trod silently across the sands from the temple to one of the lesser buildings. In this time of miracles, almost any oath may carry literal truth. Men and gods — impossible to understand! Where one land swears by the existence of one all-powerful, its neighbors spill blood in the name of numerous divine lords. And even this simple Egypt, with its notions of the king who walks among them — how strange! That a god should stink and rut and befoul the water among his very people!

Yes, how does this Egypt stretch as far as any of the nations of man? Here, far from the Father's Garden?

Away from the palace, carved into another rock wall, a portal stood guarded only by a small boy. The figure stood before the boy, showing him a scepter and a scarab brooch, clasping each in a thin, bony, cadaverous hand. The boy smiled blankly and ran his fingers over a bas-relief of a skull on the rocky face of the wall; the portal opened.

Dank air crept out, like the exhalation of a sick man. The figure entered, still musing to itself. Every moment is at once an absurdity and a miracle. The spark of life that sustains the boy, that animates my flock — why does God choose to give them such a precious gift?

And why does He spite me, who knows of Him and reveres Him and fears Him as he wishes? Why does He force me to walk as the dead among them, while painting them — ignorant savages! — with the colors of vibrant life? Why should He let them watch His glorious sunrise? Or sate their lusty loins beneath the flawless skies? Do You hear me, Gods Are You with me in death, or have Your ears groom deaf to the voices of Your disavowed?

If God was listening, he gave no indication. A single serpent crawled from one of the steps the figure descended, into a crack in the sandstone wall.

Oh, how very like my angry God. Always punishing the councilor for the sins of the artisan. Or perhaps, always punishing the children for the sins of their father. The figure smirked beneath its hood. I know Your ways, God. You have turned Your back on me, yet it has allowed me to step nearer to You without your knowledge. You do nor see me; You force Yourself not to hear me. And it will be Your undoing. One night, You shall feet my fangs — the very affliction with which You cursed me and my sire and my sire's sire — at Your throat. And then, great God, You will know what fear can breed in a man — even a dead one. My dead heart still beats, but it is not with mercy or love. No, my heart beats with the black blood of anger... an anger that Your wisdom has left as a scar. Better to have struck me down than to permit the kiss of — Night unknown Mycerinus's courtyard Memphis, Egypt "Master?"

A child's voice interrupted the figure from the growing histrionics of its reverie. Taking the last step, the cowled form entered a low, arched room that stank of sweat and youth and the waste of mortal bodies. A single torch guttered against the far wall, bestowing precious little light on the squalid chamber but giving the figure far more luminescence than it needed to see. The cool stone walls bore no marks, other than a few streaks of offal and a haphazard pattern of russet hand-prints. A boy emerged from the far corner, his face obscured by unknown filth, naked as the day he was born.

"Master?" The wretch repeated his question, unaware that his master indeed stood before him. The figure shook its head. Perhaps the boy would never learn — he peered too purposefully into the darkness.

"Yes, Nusrat. It is I." The figure peeled back its hood, its head emerging, baring a rictus of teeth, like a skull plucked from a lifeless body. Which, in truth, it was...

The boy leapt into the dead man's cold arms, clambering exuberantly up them to kiss his master's face. The master turned away, sparing himself the boy's clumsy affections. He looked about, lifeless eyes leering from pitted sockets, scanning the darkness. "Nusrat, where is your sister? Elisha?" He called out, but received no response.

"She's not sick, my dear boy." A charnel hand emerged from the robe to pat the boy's shorn head affectionately. "No, she isn't sick. She's tired. I've taken so much of her precious blood that she hasn't the power to walk." As he spoke, the dead man led his ward hand-inhand to the comer where Elisha lay. "See? Elisha. Elisha..."

The girl sprawled in a heap on the floor, looking like nothing more than a pile of bones herself. Flies buzzed about her — How did they find their way in? — and crawled across her half-open eyes, in and out of her parted lips. "Elisha? Are you not well?" The dead man's skeleton-head grinned a particularly vicious smile. "Do you need your rest? She does, doesn't she, Nusrat? She needs her precious sleep." The dead man nudged Elisha's head with his foot as Nusrat stared up at him plaintively. "Oh, yes. She's very tired.

"May I ask something of you, my boy?" The dead man stroked the boy's hand, his bony fingers leaving brief, bright trails on the boy's bronzed skin. He looked down, his face a mask of deathlike serenity.

"Take this to Djuran, at the top of the stair" He handed the boy a small scarab with a human skull in place of its head. It was a magical, alchemical elixir-tablet, fashioned from his own blood, created to augment his servants' powers and bond them to his will. "I'll have one for you when you return."

As the bog's naked feet flapped away into the darkness, the dead man turned his attention again to Elisha. "My dear, sweet girl. I am sorry to have left you so."

He lifted her — she weighed little more than a bundle of river reeds — and cradled her in the crook of his arm. Pushing the tattered shift away from her body, he bent one weakened leg away from him, exposing the flesh of her thigh and the delicate pink pucker that hid above. As a hungry man eyeing a roast and spitted calf, the dead man stared at the enfeebled girl's haunch. Carefully, delicately, he bit into the flesh of her leg and felt the musky skin give way beneath his fangs. A weak trickle of blood coursed into his mouth, at first slowly and then in greater volume. The dead man drank with a detached fervor, indulging himself in the sole passion that animated his cursed frame, lapping up the blood in rivulets. With but a few seconds' draught, the flow ceased completely, just as the boy "She's sleeping, master. She's still sick."

"Yes, master?"

The robed specter dropped Elisha's body to the floor, where it came to rest with a dull thud. He rubbed one finger coarsely across his lip and motioned to Nusrat to come closer.

"And now, would you please get rid of that?"

The boy answered, "Yes, master," but the dead man had already turned to go.

Before he reached the top of the stair, the dead man met the door attendant, whose eyes held a wide look of shock. "Master, you-the skies have — "

"Spit it out, boy. I don't keep idiots in my employ," the dead man snapped, nonetheless worried about the effect whatever lurked outside had had on his attendant. Djuran was not the brightest of slaves, but he was stalwart. Could it be that the pharaoh had finally tired of his cadaverous vizier's ways? Had he sent a royal guard to arrest him and press him beneath stones? Had a sergeant come to arrest him? It would likely be the gravest error of that sergeant's life...

As he ascended the stairs with the stammering Djuran behind him, the dead man saw what had the boy so agitated.

The skies were lit with brief bursts of ruddy lightning and the humid air held the tang of blood. Indeed, as the dead man looked out over the sands and walls of Egypt, they all became stained with a heavy brown-red rain. returned from his errand above.

The Lord God had caused blood to fall from the sky.

Thursday, 15 July 1999, 1:27 AM Seasons Restaurant, Bostonian Hotel Boston, Massachusetts "So, you're proposing what, exactly?" Isabel looked sternly at the Kindred before her. He had been sent from Baltimore at the behest of Jan Pieterzoon to entreat Giovanni support against the Sabbat. His name was something French, or maybe Canadian, but his English certainly didn't have any accent.

"Recognition of the Giovanni claim to Boston," replied the agent. "The Camarilla will formally acknowledge the supremacy of Clan Giovanni in Boston and its immediate environs. That is, in exchange for the support of the present members of the clan against the Sabbat's efforts along the eastern seaboard. It's in your best interests, you know."

"Don't patronize us, you fucking pindick," barked Chas from across the table. This meeting had convened at the last minute, by request of Francis Milliner.

Francis was the eldest member of the Milliner family, the Boston branch of the Giovanni.

Isabel believed him to be more than a bit paranoid, but she indulged him. Much had recently taken place in Boston, including the execution of one of the most dangerous loose cannons ever known to the clan. Genevra Giovanni had been a Sabbat sympathizer, having use for the Giovanni family only insofar as it served her immediate needs. Not that every Giovanni vampire — and probably every vampire, period — didn't harbor similar selfishness, but the open display had made her powerful enemies among the clan. Masterfully, the Milliners had hidden her elimination beneath a veil of organized crime violence. Isabel had to give Francis credit — he had crafted an almost century-long ruse to use as a smokescreen for whatever untoward befell him and his brood, and never thought twice about playing it out to take Genevra out of the picture. For his foresight and cleverness, the elders of the clan decided to allow him to drink the heart's blood of the rogue, bringing him closer to the power of the elders themselves. Who knows how many other contingency plans Milliner had up his sleeve?

To that end, Isabel had little interest in talking details with a second-rate yes man. Francis was the man with the plan, but she was his smokescreen, she knew. The Camarilla probably didn't even know that it was Milliners and not Giovanni who exercised the most influence in Boston. Outside a few individuals, everyone knew that the Giovanni were the preeminent power there. Of course, the Milliners were Giovanni, but such semantic games were the coin of the Kindred realm. Misdirection and subterfuge could take a Kindred much farther than. brute force, and Isabel was walking, unliving proof of that.

"Chas, please. Settle down," Isabel remarked. He was still headstrong, ostensibly here to deal with the Benito Giovanni affair, and a liability to this discussion. Chas was a testament to the fact that sometimes nasty and brutish did the job, particularly in America. He wasn't especially strong, powerful or clever, but he had a mean streak a mile wide and had less and less reservation nightly about showing it to a rival. That had begun to shine through — his eyes had sunk in the few weeks since Isabel had met him, and his once-full lips were pulled back into a perpetual growl or sneer. His hands. were always white-knuckled, as if only by the most persistent concentration could he keep the Beast in check. Isabel knew: Chas was bound to snap soon. She had planned to play her cards right, however, and unleash Chas when it was most convenient, watching him go down in a blaze of glory that would no doubt take a few others with him. The key was to do it subtly, however — again, discretion made sure one need not keep escalating her efforts — and to make sure his inevitable kamikaze took place visible only to Kindred eyes and nowhere she'd have to call upon favors to cover up among the media, police, etc. Still, he had a "But don't let that mislead you-I'm sorry, what was your name again?" She put the diplomat in his place.

The guest's eyes narrowed to slits, regarding Isabel coldly. "Gauthier. Jacques Gauthier.

Childe of Paul Levesque, childe of Shlomo Baruch, childe of Christianne Foy, childe of Vidal Jar — "

"Yes, yes," Isabel interrupted, "very impressive. Archbishop of Canterbury, extract of vanilla, Milk of Magnesia, and so the old joke goes. We realize that you're here to represent the Camarilla's interests and that you're supposed to butter us up and make this seem like the most fantastic deal ever to fall into our laps. But let me offer you my counterposition. Your approval means nothing to us. Your high-handed 'recognition of sovereignty' and other quasi-political jingoism won't work in this room. You're not dealing with rank neonates. Your Camarilla is not a government, nor is it a military body. It is a simple social convention, a contract supported by its members in the interests of furthering its own ends. Quite frankly, it is a civil sinecure with which bored, effete elders play games and delude themselves. Am I to believe that, if we could not reach an agreement in this room, before the next dawn Boston would face a liveried phalanx of Camarilla shock troops? It's more likely that a few rowdy insurgents of your sect would swag-ger among Boston's Kindred like a mob of drunken soccer hooligans for a few nights until routed by the very same Kindred whose havens they disturb.

"Your recognition means nothing. Your support means nothing. Your sect is incapable of maintaining the quiet influence it has along this entire coast of one of the most affluent nations in the world, just as it has proven powerless against the unknown Kindred of the East sweeping in from the West Coast. Oh, Jacques Gauthier, don't be so shocked — I've looked into matters. I wouldn't dream of entertaining an envoy such as yourself without knowing the full ramifications of the relations you propose. When weighed against other options, the only benefit that a loose agreement of support provides is in the hope that the Giovanni of Boston could simply turn their backs on the whole matter and allow the Sabbat and Camarilla fanatics to shred each other in the streets. How does that sound? Is that answer satisfactory?"

Jacques had risen from his seat, his mouth open wide, his head turned slightly downward and his teeth clenched. At Isabel's side, Chas twitched, undead veins bulging, like an epileptic bound to his chair in the throes of seizure.

"Do not presume that we are so powerless, Isabel Giovanni," retorted Jacques. "The Camarilla, as you say, is not a military organization, but to believe that that renders us powerless is pure folly. Neither is the Sabbat a military power, but these are not battles fought exclusively in the trenches. For-every brawling fool who sees this solely as a matter of martialry, three more Kindred behind him make their moves through quieter channels.

This is a war of influence, and the resources of the Camarilla are orders of magnitude more than the resources of Clan Giovanni. We are merely interested in minimizing and localizing the influence of our enemies — and your enemies as well — the Sabbat."

"The resources of the Camarilla! Absurd. The Camarilla has no resources! The only power it wields is that which is voluntarily afforded to it by its members. Your sect is far more fractious and selfishly motivated than you would have us think. The Camarilla does nothing as an entity, and you know it."

"Nor does Clan Giovanni, by that rationale," countered Gauthier.

"True, but Clan Giovanni in this case is a community of Boston's Kindred. We will more than point. The liaison sneered at Chas, who bristled visibly. certainly protect our own interests, and put aside our personal grudges when opposed with a greater opposition. Whether that opposition is Sabbat or Camarilla — or both — is irrelevant. I know the man who has sent you here. I know Jan Pieterzoon. He has made quite a name for himself among the Kindred, and I suspect he may one night find himself among the — what do you call them? — archon and justicars of the Camarilla. But he will not do it by playing the role of firebrand. Rather, he will master the game of politics, promising one thing, delivering another, and then convincing those beneath him that what they wanted in the first place was what he actually delivered. I know that Boston is only part of Pieterzoon's larger move at this stage, but I'm not going to pretend to know what cards he still holds in his hand. Jan is a much more proficient plotter than I will ever be, but I am far better at seeing the secrets within. Pieterzoon and those like him depend upon Kindred like me to provide the pieces with which they play. I — we, the Giovanni of Boston — may be pawns in that game, but we know that we are pawns. And a pawn that turns against the side that pushes it forward is a dangerous piece, indeed." Isabel stood straight up, arms crossed high over her chest, staring imperiously at Jacques.

Gauthier showed no sign of backing down, however. Pieterzoon had charged him with this negotiation — warned him that the Giovanni were deadly as vipers in their nest-and expected no failure. "You're speaking in metaphors, Isabel. You're occluding the issue. This is not a game, as you want to rush to conveniently reduce it to. Pawns and pieces and chess allusions are the stuff of florid-fiction, and we're dealing in matters quite tangible.

We need your help. In return, we are willing -to leave Boston be. You will not receive such a plain or sincere offer from the Sabbat, as their dominance of the East Coast attests. It may be that you are truly prepared to weather the storm. But I have no reason to suspect that you would prefer to stand against this conflict if we offer you a chance to avoid it altogether."

"It would seem, then, Jacques, that we are at an impasse for the time being. I will take the details of your proposed alliance back and peruse them. You know where to reach me.

I suggest we meet again in a few weeks too finalize the nature of the relationship — should I decide one exists."

Thursday, 15 July 1999, 1:48 AM Seasons Restaurant, Bostonian Hotel Boston, Massachusetts "What the fuck were you doing in there?" Chas asked Isabel as they left the building, headed for the silver Audi coupe she had borrowed for the trip. Normally, the car had only a one-point-eight-liter four-cylinder, but Isabel had arranged to "preview" one of next year's upgrade prototypes with the six-cylinder.

"Quiet down, Chas. And don't speak to me like that or I'll have your tongue. Literally."

The pair climbed into the car, which was slung low to the ground. Isabel disdained driving, so she handed the keys to Chas. She preferred luxury cars, of course, for their amenities, but in a city that was about to be torn apart by three rival factions, speed and maneuverability were preferable to cabriolet leather.

"But there's no way you're going to cut a deal with the Sabbat, right?"

And who says the Milliners would honor it if I agreed to it?"

"But isn't that why you're here, Isabel? To negotiate the deal?"

"I'm here because Francis Milliner asked for me. I'm here to get the most out of this little venture with the least investment on my part or the Milliners'. Why are you here, Chas?"

"That's right. So why don't you worry about that and I'll worry about this, okay? Have you made any progress on Benito's disappearance?"

"No," Chas had started to scowl, his hands gripping the steering wheel with a new fervor.

"Were you expecting to get something out of that meeting?"

"I figured maybe they'd offer some information about Benito as part of the deal."

"And maybe they will, Chas. Now you see? Putting Jacques over as many barrels as I can means that if he really wants this support arrangement to go through, he's got to give me what I want. Pieterzoon wouldn't suggest this unless it was necessary, so I know I've got a lot of leverage. And Pieterzoon didn't want to come himself, so he sent that little lickspittle so it would look like this is no big deal. So he thinks I think this is nothing. But that's not what I think, get it?" She smiled. Chas was playing the same game of "she thinks I think" with her and she had called him on it, if only allegorically.

The Audi swung around a corner, its wide tires grabbing the road and holding tight as the chassis rolled low to keep the turn radius tight.

"In the meantime, Chas, I've got a side project for you. It'll teach you some fundamental investigation skills."

"Whoa, hang on. I'm not here for you on this deal. I'm still working for Frankie Gee."

Chas sighed, pointedly, as if to remind Isabel that since he didn't breathe, he meant something by it.

"Are you out of your mind, Chas?"

"No, but why were you busting his balls so hard?"

"Who says I have to throw in with anyone?

"Benito thing."

"Yes, well, you need the practice. I'll bill Frankie later."

"That's my boy. So tomorrow night, you find out what you can about Jacques Gauthier. And tell me who calls the shots for the Sabbat in this city.

"Shit, my haven's in New York. Boston's just a shot up the road. Frankie's moved more stuff through Lowell than I care to think about. Fuck, if this shit comes down to a shootout, it'll probably be with Frankie's guns."

"See," he said with a smirk, "I'm not so stupid as I pretend."

Nope, Chas thought to himself as he boarded the T to ride back to his hotel, I'm not so stupid at all. And when he arrived, he dialed Frankie's number — the one with the **# area code.

"I already know part two. It's Max Lowell."

"How do you know that?"

Isabel looked unwaveringly at Chas.

Tuesday, 6 July 1999, 9:48 PM A subterranean grotto New York City, New York Calebros set down the report dealing with the strange phenomenon of unusually aggressive rats. Rats hostile — to Nosferatu! What was the world coming to?

He placed the report on his desk, atop one of the precarious stacks of thousands of other reports on any of hundreds of dissimilar topics. The data were flying fast and furious these nights: The Camarilla non-resistance in Washington, D.C., had finished crumbling within the past week, with the exception of the Tremere chantry which had circled the wagons and not lifted a finger to save the city. The insular warlocks had dispatched a particularly mid-level representative, one Maria Chin, to Baltimore, where Prince Garlotte was attempting to create some sort of order from the chaotic streams of refugees inundating his city. His task was made no easier by the maneuverings of Victoria Ash, Toreador ne'erdo-well, socialite, and eye candy.

But now, by the dim, flickering light of his desk lamp, Calebros pondered a matter that was considerably nearer and dearer to his heart.

What, indeed.

Montrose reports — two East CoastGiovanni lightweights (Victor Sforza,Chas Giovanni Tello) asking questionsabout Benito; meet w/Milo Rothstein 6/29;return 6/30 AM, unceremoniouslydispose of Rothstein. Tello flies outnext night; Sforza terminated byunknown assailant(s).

Repercussions of M.R. death — few ornone; already cultivated connectionswith other Giovanni-related elements inL.V.

Now that the ruckus out westhas died down, las Vegas nightbe the safest place to move Benito.They've already looked there. 6 July 1999 Re: Benito Giovanni: Las Vegas Commend Emett — False pointersto L.V. successful Saturday, 17 July 1999, 9:51 PM Forgotten Worlds Gallery Boston, Massachusetts Whoever the fuck wanted to know where the fuck Benito Giovanni was should just leave him wherever he was and be done with it. Milo Rothstein died because of it. Victor died because of it. No telling how many of the Nosferatu shitbags who'd black-bagged Benito in the first place met the Final Death because of it. And tonight, new news. While Chas was in Boston, Frankie had heard that Benito had turned up in New Orleans. The moment he heard it, Chas knew it was bullshit — Benito had disappeared from here and then showed up in Vegas. Unless those Nosferatu were setting up a touring Benito Giovanni Petting Zoo exhibit, there was no good reason in the world for him to have surfaced in New Orleans. If he had escaped his captors, he would have gone home or called someone from the road. If he was still in someone's possession, he'd be locked down tight in either Vegas or Boston until whoever kidnapped him made whatever demand it was they planned to make. The whole thing didn't make any sense.

Who made the tip, Chas wanted to know. None of Frankie's other people could answer.

Speaking of being unable to answer, Frankie hadn't picked up his phone in almost twentyfour hours, despite Chas and any number of other goombas calling him nonstop.

Then the call came in from Italy, to Isabel. Frankie Gee was dead. She told Chas, conveyed the appropriate words of condolence, and bought a plane ticket to meet some contact of hers in Atlanta.

"That's nice, Isabel. Any idea why you got the call before me, and why Italy knows but no one in New York or Boston knows yet?" Chas demanded.

"Don't take that tone, Chas. I didn't have to tell you at all. As to why I found out, it relates to something I'm doing here."

"You're here to fucking handle the Camarilla negotiation for the Milliners. What the fuck does that have to do with going to Atlanta and getting calls about my dead capo?"

Isabel had had enough of Chas's continually worsening attitude. "You know what, Chas?

That's right. I was here to talk to Pieterzoon's people. And I did it. You, however, are here to find out where Benito Giovanni has gone, and you haven't done that. So while I have handled two separate affairs for the family, you still haven't finished your first, and you're racking up an impressive body count to accompany your failures. Victor, Frankie, and I'm sure there are more. So please, before you get all heavy-handed and indignant, just sit quietly and wait for me to get back." She knew he had become frustrated with the lack of anything leading him to Benito, but Chas was being unconscionable, and it showed no signs of abating.

"Fuck that, Isabel! I'm just supposed to sit here and wait? I'm coming with you to Atlanta to do whatever it is you're doing down there."

"No, you're not. You're going to stay here and accompany the person I've hired to handle the rest of the talk with Gauthier."

"You want me playing backup for someone else while you take your little vacation?

Bullshit. Fucking bullshit. I'm not here working for you. In fact, I guess I'm not working for anyone anymore. There's no way I'm running second man to some punk-ass Kindred you talked into doing Milliner's — "

"Oh, she's not Kindred," Isabel interrupted. She flashed him a charming smile that became Chas Giovanni was not happy. insidious given the circumstances. "She's quite alive. Works for Milliner as an account executive. She knows all about our kind, though, and I've given her all the details. You're going with her to make sure she doesn't get hurt, and to let Gauthier and Pieterzoon know that we're not taking their side, or the Sabbat's."

"What? I'm right hand to a fucking kine?" It was one thing to play Victor's angle in Vegas — that was to mislead Rothstein. But backing up a mortal who was nothing more than a mouthpiece for the snot-nosed Milliners, without having it be some kind of ruse, that was inexcusable. "I'm not going to fucking do it. Fuck yourself, Isabel."

She turned around and slapped him, hard, across the face. "You will not speak that way to me, understood? That's fine — if that's what you want to do, you're free to leave. You don't owe me anything, you don't work for me, and you don't work for the Milliners. So crawl back to New York and let all the Giovanni and wiseguys know that not only could you not handle a simple assignment, you got one of your men and your boss killed on top of it. Go right ahead." One hand on her hip, she waved the other at the door.

Chas knew Isabel was right — in order to come out of this with any dignity at all, he had to see the matter through. If that meant attaching himself to Isabel until she was able to bring more pieces of the puzzle to the table, well, that's what he'd have to do. It was absurd that she expected him to be effectively Milliner's diplomat's retainer, but he didn't want to consider what would happen if he returned to New York with nothing but obituaries to accompany him.

It didn't help that Milliner's new go-between was a grade-A bitch. Even her name was pretentious: Genevieve Pendleton. Of course, she had been college-educated, which automatically made her arrogant toward the rough-edged Chas. Apparently, she'd been on the Milliner managerial staff for a few years, and they'd allowed her to be a part of the operation with-out making her a ghoul. That wasn't how they did things in the Old World, and it wasn't how Frankie and his ilk had adapted their racket to the New World. When you let people know what you were, it was either right before you whacked them, or right before you made them a ghoul — or a Kindred. Anything else left too many loose ends.

The net result: Chas didn't approve of his charge's being left with the opportunity to jump ship if things got ugly with this whole "Kindred" situation, and Genevieve didn't approve of having a kneebreaker present to punctuate her discussion with the other Kindred interest.

They had begun bickering only moments after Isabel left them sitting at the table. Chas had muttered a comment about Pendleton being a poor choice of negotiators — she wasn't Kindred and couldn't really represent one effectively, especially if they tried to use any of their mystical powers. She maintained that she knew Kindred inside and out, and was more than able to handle herself among them. Chas countered with a personal attack, saying that if someone sent his secretary to talk business with him, both the secretary and the presumptive business partner would end up dead. Pendleton, not about to suffer snubs from a pistol-whipping thug, remarked that she was sure that was how all of the lessevolved Kindred handled their affairs.

"We'll see who's less evolved when you piss off another Kindred and you need me to save your scrawny ass, Guinevere."

"Whatever. You'll just end up as someone's dinner sooner or later anyway. You think the Milliners are just going to let you grow old and trust you with the secret until you die?"

That's why he wasn't happy.

"Genevieve."

"It's in my contract," Pendleton retorted, crossing her arms and straightening her posture, as if she could hide behind the document as a shield.

Chas snorted. "Yeah, well, your contract's a load of crap. The minute the Milliners see you as more of a liability than an asset, they won't hesitate to shred that contract and you along with it. It's not like you can go to the Supreme Court and claim that you work for vampires, and they're being mean to you." His voice trailed off. "Naïve, prissy bitch."

Genevieve shook her head. "You think you're better than me because you're dead? Oh, that's a good one. Well, I have news for you. You can't just walk all over people because you're some secret, scary vampire, you know."

That was a strange reply. Genevieve cocked her head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the code. The morals you mortals keep. They don't matter. I'm Kindred, and all that inalienable-right bullshit you uphold doesn't mean fuck-all to me. Look at me! I fucking drink blood to survive! I kill people so I can go on... living... or whatever the fuck it's supposed to be called."

"That doesn't make any sense," Pendleton said. "It's psychologically not possible. It's not possible for vampire society to exist in a vacuum like that. That's the reason why serial killers are finally caught, and why you never hear about them until something really heinous turns up. Degenerate behavior exhibits the law of diminishing returns — the more abhorrent acts you indulge in, the more it takes you to experience the thrill of indulging in an abhorrent act. You get jaded. By way of analogy, you'd have to kill to experience even the minor emotional response you once received from, say, shoplifting. And I don't even want to think about what you do after killing becomes boring."

"No shit," Chas shot back. "We've got an old riddle for it: A Beast I am lest a Beast I become. We've all got the devil inside us, and we have to let him out every once in a while or he'd completely take us over. It's like fucking immunization or germ theory or something."

"That's not possible. You can't survive like that." Pendleton crossed her legs, lit a cigarette.

"Bullshit. Bullshit. After you've been through it all so many times, that anger — that Beast — is all you've got left, and if you fucking let it win, you're fucking done. Done."

"So it's a pity-fuck you're after?" Pendleton looked away, her eyes following the trail of smoke as she exhaled it.

Chas's eyes flashed red. He tasted the blood-bile rising inside him and his vision hazed with a flush of crimson. In a moment, he was on his feet, jerking Genevieve Pendleton up by the lapels of her designer jacket, lifting her so that her feet dangled above the ground, crushing the fabric of her jacket in his balled fists. Pendleton's eyes bugged wide, almost out of their sockets. "You fucking cunt," Chas roared, snarling lips and distended fangs barely able to form intelligible words. "Don't you fucking ever accuse me of playing on that shit. I don't need your fucking pity. I don't need your goddamn concern or your fucking pissant sympathy. When you're dead and gone and worm fucking food in a pine fucking box six feet under the ground, I'm still going to be here. Do you get it? You fucking understand?

Does that make it through your fucking self-centered rational little mind? You don't mean shit to me. The only thing that's keeping me from pulling your fucking head off right now is the fact that Isabel's already paid you to do your fucking job and I don't want to deal with her. Does that make sense, you stupid bitch? Nothing you can say means the slightest thing to me. You're just another fucking bag of blood to me."

"I can do it because it doesn't matter to me anymore."

With that, Chas reined himself in. He threw Genevieve back into her chair, which tumbled over backward, leaving her sprawled inelegantly on the floor.

"Fuck. You see what I mean? I... You got a husband, Pendleton?"

Genevieve couldn't be sure what direction Chas was taking. "What?"

"A husband? You married? Or maybe you have a 'life partner' or some shit like that?"

"I'm, yes, married," she gulped, picking herself up off the floor and straightening her jacket.

"He means everything to you, right? He's 'the one, ' as they say, no? The one person in the whole world who's absolutely perfect for you, right?"

"Yes. I suppose. I love him — I wouldn't want to go on without him."

"That's fucking right. Well, guess what, Pendleton? I'm going to tell you a story.

"Right after I got turned — just about a hundred years ago, maybe a little more — I met 'the one.' Perfect girl. I fell in love with her just a few months after meeting her. You see where this is fucking heading? I'm a fucking vampire in love with a mortal woman. I can't fucking tell her that I'm a fucking Kindred. So I play it up — the whole Masquerade thing. I try to set up this relationship with this woman in spite of the fact that it can't happen.

"But the thing is — she knows. She doesn't know that I'm fucking dead, but she knows that there's... something. And it puts her off. But it's not like I can tell her, you know? I can't break the secret because that means sooner or later I'd have to kill her and I'm not ready to do that. At least, not yet.

"So that's where I'm fucked. I have the, absolute perfect person in my... life, but I can't have her. I can't tell her, and any time I try to just 'let it happen, ' she feels what's wrong and it puts her off. And for all the fucking gifts that being Kindred provides — I can hit harder than anyone else, I can make people do what I tell them — I just can't fix his situation. This woman I love, I can't ever fucking have. I can't make her love me, I can't have her grow to love me and I can't just be with her. It's like being a thousand fucking miles away even when I'm right next to her.

"And it makes me sick. Literally sick. I wake up each fucking night with a big, empty fucking hole in the middle of me that I can't possibly fill. Ever. And the worse I feel, the more I think about her, which makes me even more goddamn miserable, which makes me think about her even more... It never fucking ends.

"And then she grows old, but I don't; I stay eternally young. And she dies. Maybe she gets married; maybe she doesn't, but it's not important because it's never fucking with me.

"And so on and so on, every time opening the same old fucking scars that just can't heat because you can never have what you need — that person — to fix it, to make it better.

Never.

"And sure, there are ways around it. You can turn the one you love — make them a Kindred — but when you do that, you kill them. You can bring them somewhat under the shadow: "You love this guy?"

"I do."

"And then there's another woman.

"And another. feed them you blood, make them your ghoul, but that's not an equitable relationship. You can force them to love you with the powers of the Blood, but that's not real. In the end all you can do is watch them die and feel that fucking hole inside you grow bigger every time.

"So, Genevieve fucking Pendleton, I can't ever have what you have. I can't have someone I love to come home to. I can't touch a woman's face and have her feel anything that's not touched with the natural revulsion that she's being fucking touched by something that kills. I can't ever have anything except a fucking blackness inside me that grows greater every fucking night and wants me to destroy everything I come in contact with.

"After a hundred fucking years of this shit, anger's all you got left. It's all you can use to keep that fucking Beast at bay — fighting fire with fire.

"Think about that next time you kiss your husband goodnight or wake up with him in the morning. Think about the fact that having him, having someone who can truly love you for as long as your mortal life, is something that some people just can't have. And for that, they'll never be complete men, or complete people. And then think about the only thing that can take the place of love. We can hate in abundance, and we have no more suitable subject for our hate than ourselves. So we rise each night because we don't want to fucking hate ourselves any more than we already do. But we're going to fail at even that."

Genevieve put out her cigarette. "I quit."

Sunday, 18 July 1999, 1:27 AM unmarked site Boston, Massachusetts Chas was right. The night she appeared before him to resign, Francis Milliner had Genevieve entombed in the concrete support of a parking garage his construction company was building.

Saturday, 17 July 1999, 8:27 PM Delta Flight 2065, Logan International Airport Boston, Massachusetts All the shaking shook Isabel awake, even though she wouldn't be able to rise for another forty-five minutes or so. Or rather, in another forty-five minutes she would be able to rise, if she weren't packed like cargo into an airplane-safe coffin. When the best flights departed before dark, she had found no other suitable manner of travel — moving about in daylight was a ridiculous risk, and she was always groggy before the sun fell completely.

Not that traveling cargo-class was any pleasant journey. Flying as a corpse was the only way it could be done. Airlines X-rayed the items that went into their planes' cargo holds, looking for bombs and what-not, and if a human-shaped thing turned up in anything but a registered transportable coffin, someone was bound to notice. Even if they did need to open the transit vessel, a vampire inside would have little trouble passing for dead — just sit still and let them poke at you. This always amused Isabel. No matter how grotesque it seemed, any time her cargo-method travel had been disturbed, at least one of the people opening the casket would always touch her. It probably would have unsettled anyone travelling with their dear departed to know that the corpse had been molested, but Isabel knew to keep quiet. It would have been more problematic if she rose and called the baggage handlers on it, but the image entertained her nonetheless — a burly, surly bag lifter fainting dead away as the corpse whose mouth he'd just put his finger in bit it off and spit it out at him.

Such reverie was always the lightest part of the trip, however. For the entire flight, the cargo Kindred had to lie stock-still — she had no room to move. This wasn't usually a problem during the day while the Kindred slept, but flights that ended after nightfall were a different matter; the traveler simply had to rest there. Some vampires who made a habit of "deadwinging" built custom caskets that afforded them a little room for comfort, but Isabel disdained this. It was only a matter of time before someone recognized a particular coffin and grew suspicious about the same dead body that had a habit of flying around the country.

Invariably, the trouble of whatever demanded the trip bore down on the Kindred. Such was the case with Isabel's trip to Atlanta. She knew before she ever arrived in Las Vegas that some problem had arisen with the border that separated the worlds of the living and the dead. At first, the elders of Clan Giovanni had thought that only the spirits of the dead had been involved. Even the rogue sorcerer Ambrogino Giovanni had been-affected, retiring to his sanctum at the loggia for two weeks to recover from the ordeal.

Elders, ancillæ and neonates alike vanished, as well as a handful of their ghouls, immediate families and entourages. Across the globe, the Giovanni had fought for years to extend their influence. Across the globe, they disappeared overnight.

Then Ambrogino had called her. One of the Giovanni Kindred in the area had taken a brief trip, never to be seen again. That had been Frankie Gee, Francis Alberto Giovanni del'Agrigento — Chas's boss. Isabel felt Chas should know that Frankie was gone, but not her suspicions why. In her opinion, he wouldn't have understood, and it was too grave to worry the Milliners with.

Isabel was too young to know exactly who the "old clan" were, but she knew that the Giovanni hadn't come by their current state honestly. Sometime in the murky past, the Then, members of the family had begun to go missing.

Ambrogino mentioned the old clan.

Giovanni had rebelled against the one who had made them vampires, destroying his brood and diablerizing him. Of course, many of the old clan escaped, never to be found. If Ambrogino was right, the problems in the lands of the dead had freed the members of the old clan who had fled there. No doubt they would be furious at their fate, and seek to exact some sort of revenge. Through his research, Ambrogino pursued that hunch, and it turned out to be true — the missing or dead Giovanni had all participated to some degree in the extirpation of their forebears, or their sires had. Don Pietro Giovanni's two childer vanished from Prague; boorish Martino della Passaglia had watched his sire snatched away by something that hid in the shadows of the ceiling in his own haven. Ludo Giovanni, the Chronicler of Bremen, left only an unfinished sentence in his notebook as his last mark on the world.

According to Ambrogino, the old clan had taken to calling itself the Harbingers of Skulls, and they would not rest until every member of the Giovanni had been culled.

Well, they certainly had ambition. The Giovanni, while not the most numerous of the clans of Caine, were neither the fewest. Such a pogrom would take decades, if not centuries.

But, as Ambrogino had noted, they had waited this long, and they had nothing but time on their side.

In haste, the Giovanni elders had dispatched many able agents of the clan to learn what they could of the matter. From what information they gathered, these Kindred reasoned that the Harbingers of Skulls were few but very potent. Isabel had been among these early fact-finders, and knew the grim reality — the one she had been seeking was no doubt at least five millennia old.

Of course, this crisis affected only the Giovanni — it didn't stop the earth from spinning.

Isabel had already been involved with two other important matters: monitoring the burgeoning Sabbat conquest of the American East Coast, and a prickly matter concerning the kidnapping of Benito Giovanni.

Isabel's connection to the East Coast affair was mostly a matter of consultation. She served as a liaison to members of the Sabbat and the Camarilla, intending to let both know that the Giovanni didn't care for either one of them. Giovanni-dominated Boston would not be the next on the menu for the Sabbat, nor would it become a haven for Camarilla refugees.

More than anything, she wanted to keep the Kindred ignorant of the true nature of Giovanni business in Boston — very few among the undead knew that the Milliner family maintained Giovanni influence there, and simply assumed that the only Giovanni were those named Giovanni. The ignorance of others was a very powerful weapon in the Giovanni arsenal, and the Milliners had retained Isabel to ensure that they didn't lose it.

Concerning Benito, Isabel had initially chalked up his disappearance to the actions of the old clan. After researching Benito's lineage, however, she found him only distantly related to and descended from anyone who had any relation to the purge of the Giovanni progenitors. Her contacts among the Kindred informed Isabel that Benito had fallen in with some dubious characters over a recent art deal. Thereafter, a bit of mundane detective work turned up details of Benito's abduction that linked it to the Nosferatu.

Right now, all three matters weighed heavily on Isabel Giovanni's mind, and she found it difficult to sleep. Doubtless, one of these matters would have to fall by the wayside, and she saw poor Benito as having drawn the short straw. After all, he was only one Kindred — the other matters affected all of the Giovanni in one city, if not worldwide. Still, she suspected she hadn't heard the last of Benito; she didn't want to write him off, but something had to give, and his kidnapping had the greatest likelihood of righting itself if left alone.

By the same token, the reappearance of the old clan took precedence, and Isabel planned to meet a contact in Atlanta who could provide her with information on a suspected member of that group. Apparently, the thing had made its haven in New Orleans, arranged somehow for Frankie Gee to come to it, and destroyed him. Frankie had been Kindred for about four centuries — he was one of the original Sicilian robber-barons who reinvented himself as the times dictated. That someone of such advanced age could be duped into walking into his own Final Death attested to the strength of whatever it was they were dealing with. Exactly how her elders expected her to succeed where other, older Kindred had failed was beyond her, but forewarned was forearmed. Meeting the creature on her own terms, if only to observe it and make a report back to other Giovanni, gave her an edge.

The plane shuddered to life, lurching onto the runway and climbing slowly into the sky.

Now all she had to do was maintain it.

Wednesday, 21 July 1999, 11:18 PM Laffitte's New Orleans, Louisiana Jake sat down. The bar had a low ceiling and French doors, looking — as did all of New Orleans's buildings — as if it had been there for over a hundred years.

But Jake hadn't come to Laffitte's to wonder at its architecture. Nor had he come to suck down prodigious amounts of tourist-grade daiquiris like the "vampires" at the other tables.

No, Jake had a personal matter on his mind.

He looked around the room, which teemed with gay, frivolous, wasted life. Weekenders in for an early debauch, locals who scammed the patrons for either cash or ass, frazzled bartenders and an enormous shit-sack of a man perched behind the piano, doing his best to sing songs that the bleary drunkards knew. Half of them were torch songs sped up to double-time and the other half were what counted as "oldies." Jake smiled at that thought.

An "oldie" was a song recorded in the 1950s or '60s. He'd been around for forty years before that — what did that make him?

It didn't matter. None of the drinkers saw him, or cared if they did. To them, he was simply a boozy comrade-in-arms, crawling the bars for a good time and a cheap drink. He was no threat — have a drink on us!

No one at this bar had any idea what he was. Or what the woman he was here to meet was. Marcia Gibbert, fellow Kindred. She'd had a keen interest in New Orleans for the past few weeks, having arrived from — Anaheim? — Just less than a month ago. Whenever she and Jake met, people thought they were a couple, a pair of eccentric, black, nouveauriche lovers. The truth of the matter was that Marcia was looking for information on a fivethousand-year-old killer and that Jake was willing to profit from her deranged crusade. He didn't care about whatever it was that was bothering her; she had called it a family matter and left it at that. Jake understood. As a Brujah, he knew that some Kindred were quick to make judgments based upon one's lineage. He had her pegged for a Follower of Set. Maybe a Gangrel or even another Brujah. Possibly even Caitiff, but she didn't seem as grungy as most of the ones he'd met had been. Whatever, it didn't matter. She had cash, and it wasn't like Jake could hold down a day job. Maybe he could take the morbid tourists on a midnight tour of graveyards...

Marcia walked in, stooping below the low doorjamb. Peering through the smoke, she saw Jake, who waved her over to his table with an unmarked manila envelope in his hand.

Suppressing the look of excitement that wanted to flash over her face, Marcia Gibbert calmly ordered a drink to keep up the charade and joined Jake at his table.

"You find something for me?" Marcia smiled. She knew Jake didn't have too much invested in her, but there was no reason not to be cordial.

Jake looked his guest over. She had broad features and fair skin, maybe even mulatto. And her eyes were blue, which was uncommon. Still, it wasn't his affair. He was here for money, so enough with the paranoia. "I found something you might like, yes. I'm afraid it's not big on facts — it sounds like it was written by a drunk or an opium addict, but you might find some of it useful."

He pushed the envelope across the table, waiting to see her reaction. If she whisked it away or made an effort to hide it; maybe it'd be worth his time to follow her later and see what she was up to. Then again, if it was really a family affair as she had said, it might be the location of one of her clan's oldest Kindred which, while interesting, was certainly not Of course, most of them had.

Marcia opened the envelope deliberately, unwinding the string slowly from around the clasp, and pulled out a sheaf of yellowed papers that had torn or softened around the edges. They had been written in an even, decorative hand, the ink damaged here and there by moisture or the acids in the paper.

I don't suppose Blind Tom had always been blind. He had the look of a man who'd earned it. That left eye of his, with the milky blur-white luster, and the right eye, vanished under a livid scar that touched his nose, made him a fright to look upon. I think I can even remember him with both eyes (or at least one), but as long as I can recall hailing him by name, I know I called him Blind Tom.

We had terribly good times, Blind Tom and I. Before I was born, he was the quartermaster or the sergeant or some such, but since losing his sight he tool up living in the storm cellar underneath my mother's house. Mamma left me with him – she left safe with him protecting me, I guess – during the day when she went to tea with her lady friends or took to town on errands. Blind Tom and I played at soldiers, or explored the patch of forest near the house. Sometimes we threw rocks at the gators from the trees, but Blind Tom never seemed to enjoy that as much as I did. He said, "Don't spit at the Devil when he's in his own house."

To be fair, I should say that I was a nervous child, always sick or worried or sleeping, and prone to spells of prodigious energy? Mamma laughed, "You see ghosts!

You see the children of the woods dancing under the moon!" When she put it so fancifully, I couldn't help but laugh along, hoping our mirth would help the… things… I saw at bay? And for the most part, it did.

But the charms of laughter couldn't last forever. Long about my eight birthday, I would sometimes wake to a peculiar sound beneath my room un the wee hours. It sounded alternately like a goat's scrabbling, a mad hen, or Blind Tom singing in church. I cried out for my mother, but the sounds would stop before she could attend me.

"Lord's sake, my son, you'd think the gators were come to take you away!" I knew these sounds weren't gators, though; gators sound like hogs, or Blind Tom when he's had too much wine. Mamma would always make them end, though, and I thought nothing of it when I rose each day thereafter.

Blind Tom showed signs of being tired as I got older, and he seemed to be careless with himself. Too many times, I would find cuts on his worn face or fingers torn and bleeding.

"Why you want to be so curious, boy; ain't cha know curiosity killed the cat?

"I cut masself shaving," he'd answer, or," I slammed my fingers in that demmed cellar door."

My nervousness had a certain tendency toward the clever – some might say I was precocious (though I've heard others call me fey). Before too long I noticed that the horrible sounds beneath my bed always preceded a new nick or blister on Blind Tom's frame. My interest piqued, I had to divine the truth.

"Blind Tom, was that you making all that racket under my room last night?" I asked innocently.

"Boy, you mind me and do it well," Blind Tom took a tone with me that I had never heard from my mother, whom Blind Tom said spoiled me, who doted or capered something he'd want to see firsthand.

"That's Old Scratch underneath your floor, and you just keep to your covers when you hear him dancin' round."

I couldn't believe such a thing! I must confess it frightened me awfully. My mother lost her patience with me that night, as I refused to go to bed after numerous admonitions. She finally carried me to the bed and tucked me in herself, warning me that I'd have more to worry about than a simple spanking should I choose to flee the safety of the covers: She'd leave me for the gators in the swamps or the brownies in the woods.

She didn't have to worry. Not two minutes after she left my room, those noises started, and there was no way I was leaving my bunk. I called and called for her, but she figured I was in a spell or crying wolf and knew better that to heed my summons.

I don't know how long it went on, but after what must have been hours of bed-wetting terror, it was morning. I said nothing at breakfast that day, and my mother looked at me curiously, but went about her errands as normal.

"Blind tom," I asked in awe, nothing a pronounced limp in his gait, "what was all that commotion underneath my floor last night?"

"Demmit, boy, I told you to mind your own affairs, didn't I? I said before that's Old Nick down here, and you'd best leave him to his own wickedness!"

And again that night, my mother ushered me to bed though I gave a chase like the dickens. When she finally caught me, I had exhausted myself, and helplessly collapsed in a heap she deposited in my bed.

After her shadow disappeared from the doorway, the sounds started up again, this time sounding like a mad piper playing an infernal tune. Frozen with fear, I stared at the ceiling, rigid lest I move too greatly and tumble into Lucifer's hands. Again, I wet myself that night, adamantly determined not to leave my sheets until down broke.

Mamma remarked that I looked sick the next morning, and that I should rest in the dayroom until she returned from Madame Poncelucard's home (upon whose newly engaged daughter she would be calling that day). She told me she would have Blind Tom check on me to make sure I wanted for nothing at all.

The day went by in a delirious blur, and sprites cackled at me from the dayroom's long shadows, or so I thought. In the early afternoon, Blind Tom came in to inquire after my wellbeing and I observed in him a distinct favoring of his right arm. It may have been the poor light filtering past the burgundy drapes, but I thought I saw dark blood staining his coat by the dubious arm.

"Blind Tom," I begged, and a tremor colored my reedy voice, "do you know who stirred up all that ruckus last night under my floorboards?"

Blind Tom sighed before answering, tired and old. "That was the Devil my boy, now never ask after him again."

The Devil! Under my mother's house! Unthinkable and yet palpably real came Blind Tom's response. Did he truly expect me to believe that with all his peculiar wounds and exhaustion, it wasn't him down there raising Cain?

Needless to say, I dreaded the bedtime looming that night, which came mercilessly early with my mother's suspicion of my impending illness. For long hours, I peered at the ceiling, hoping to block the sounds when they arrived. whimsically on my every word.

The noises came late that night, and upon their arrival, I had steeled myself with an unyielding resolve. Terrified as I was, I could not abide this vile and mysterious wolf in sheep's preparing some awful spell to vex with consumption or smallpox or – blindness. How jealous was he, that he resented the vigor of a small boy so he could contrive to strip the child of his sight?

The gorge of my terror rising, it took only the tinny strains of that cursed pope to drive me from my bed. With the white tails of my nightshirt flapping, I grappled a candle from the hall table and lit it with the embers of the kitchen cookfire. I bolted in the night from the kitchen door, running around the house to where Blind Tom's cellar door stood. Sure enough, the dreadful piping rose from therein, and I knew that I must disturb his curse or suffer his own bitter fate.

Throwing open the door, I shrieked, "Blind Tom! Break your spell! And leapt into the poorly lit rocky bowels of my mother's house candle guttering and almost setting my nightshirt aflame.

There before me stood Blind Tom, shocked at my arrival. As he turned to me – an action that suggested he once had sight – I saw his lips, split and bloody around a horrid hornpipe, forcing out the tune as sweat speckled his forehead and stained the front of his jacket.

Just then I heard a deep rumbling, and Blind Tom whipped back around, too late. An invisible force racked his body and his head snapped back with violence. Blind Tom crumpled to the ground, dropping the pipe and coughing out one final gout of sticky blood, rasping, "Demm you, boy, I told you to stay back. Now he's loose."

In shook I stared down at him, but looked up as the rumbling sound formed the ominous word: "Tomorrow."

There, in the dim, far corner of the room, stood a dead man wearing a black robe or cowl. His vicious mouth curved into a horribly satisfied smile. He spoke to me, and his voice was like steel dragged over a rock. "Thank you, boy. I have work to do and men to see." That awful apparition faded into nothing, leaving a room swathed in shadow and heavy air.

It was then that I fled from the storm cellar, running north until I collapsed and never looking behind me. For days, every bit of energy I could muster served to propel me further and further from that hellish place. Even after I crawled out of my exhausted, starved mania and into whatever town it was, I never spoke another word. And I have never returned to my mother's house, where the dead walk and only terrible night-songs can keep them at bay.

"What is this? Where'd it come from?" Marcia asked Jake, her eyes wide and her words quick. "Who gave it to you? Did they see anything that this paper describes?"

"Damn, slow down." Jake pushed himself away from the table a bit, as if to calm the conversation with distance. "More important is, do you want it? And what can you pay me to make it worth me giving it to you?"

Marcia, no stranger to dealing with Kindred, opened the bidding low — cash was disposable, especially to the Giovanni. "I'll give you six thousand for it, as long as you answer the rest of my questions. I've got it here, in New Orleans, cash, that you can have tonight."

"Six large for some dead man's diary? Sounds pretty steep. Must be worth something. I wonder what else you have?" Doing his part to further the endless dance of the Jyhad, no matter how small the individual motion, Jake held out.

"My most immediate offer is the cash. Sixty-five hundred, tonight." Marcia countered.

"Tell you what, sister. I don't need money. -I'll give you the papers. I'll even give you the background. But you owe me. I can call on you once, at any time, for a small favor. It won't necessarily require that you be here, but you'll have to help me when I need it."

Marcia pretended to mull it over for a minute. Jake wanted some sort of minor boon, the kind of promise the Camarilla thrived on. Small price to pay, if this was at least a recent and reliable record that the ancient killer she sought had once made its refuge here.

"Deal," she said.

"Sweet," Jake quipped as they shook hands. "Now what else you need to know?"

"Well, first of all, what is this? Is it a piece of something larger?"

"No, it's a journal entry someone I know found in a storm cellar of one of the houses by the swamps. The rest of the papers in the satchel were just records-finances, birth certificates, deeds that had been voided and so on. It didn't sound like you were looking for any of that."

"Was there anything else in the cellar? Any makeshift tombs or anything like that?"

"Jesus, keep your voice down. These people are drunk, not stupid. And no, the place was picked clean. It's been deserted for about forty years — someone bought the estate a while back for pennies on the dollar, but no one's moved in since."

Marcia looked incredulous. "How can you have a cellar in a swamp?" She raised one eyebrow, letting Jake know that she was hoping to catch him in a lie. It would be easy to fabricate this sort of thing; if she found out that it was false, he wouldn't be any worse for the effort, and if she never found out, she'd have repaid her favor for nothing.

"The house was built over a grotto. The storm cellar's a natural rock cave that's above the water table. They just built a storm door over the cave mouth and put the house right next to it. I think there's a mention of the rock walls in the journal itself."

"Okay, so how do we know that this house is the one in the journal? It says he never went back."

"Look at the back side of the last page — this thing was sent as a letter, back to the house itself. And I did a bit of research, finding the name Poncelucard on a property title for a piece of real estate about half a night's walk away. The title was dated back to 1860, which is presumably when the Poncelucards bought their house. Also, and I don't mind praising my own cleverness here, the house where this was found has a rotten set of burgundy curtains in what might have been the dayroom. That doesn't prove anything in and of itself, but it's a minor detail that matches."

"No, someone I know did. I just checked out the details afterward. I have to stand behind my merchandise, don't you know." Jake smiled, which Marcia returned demurely.

"No, I'm not. I just need locations — where was this?"

"Within twenty miles of here, I'd say. I can get you there."

"So you found this at the mansion?" Marcia continued.

"Well, I'll respect your secrecy."

"I have the address." Marcia pointed to the back of the last page.

"So, we're good on the favor." It was a statement, not a question.

"Good luck, then," Jake remarked, without a hint of a smile. "If you need me, you know where to find me."

Jake rolled his eyes as Marcia rose, "accidentally" knocking over her drink so no one would see she hadn't touched it. She barked, "And I never want to see you again!" before storming out of Laffitte's, not loud enough to make a huge spectacle, but with enough drama to convince all the drunks that she and her "boyfriend" had had a falling out.

A red-faced man at the table behind him tapped Jake on the shoulder. "Aren't you going to go after her?"

Jake shook his head without looking at his commiserator. "No, we're done. I've seen her for the last time." He wondered if it would prove to be so.

"You don't want to know if I made any copies?"

"I don't care if you did."

"And you don't want to see the house?"

"We are, indeed."

"Thanks, Jake. I'll be making my usual exit."

Friday, 23 July 1999, 12:27 AM The Tabernacle Atlanta, Georgia An addled youth in an orange shirt and oversized pants, obviously under the influence of some hallucinatory demon, staggered past the bar. He shouted something at one of his group of friends, which took the other fellow by surprise, who in turn gave an "Oh, my God" look to another member of the group before finishing what remained of his plastic bottle of beer in one enormous gulp.

Isabel Giovanni and Marcia Gibbert exchanged knowing glances — should either of them need vitæ before the evening's close, it would be ready for the taking. Of course, it would also likely be laced with no end of designer chemicals and more organic sub-stances. They had both affected the clothing styles of the assembled concert-goers: straight-legged khakis far too large for them and tiny T shirts that clung to their torsos. Marcia had braided her kinky hair into cornrows; Isabel pulled her straight, black tresses into a pair of ponytails. They blended into the crowd perfectly.

Anyone who knew these Kindred's secrets, however, would have found it utterly incongruous — a pair of Cainites, each at least a century old, dressed in fashions that the mortal world had adopted just years ago.

Almost ironically, they looked stunning, and a seemingly ceaseless train of libidos wandered up to them and threatened to buy them drinks.

"Because no one we know would come here, and because none of these people will care what we're doing, or remember us if they do," Isabel smiled.

They climbed a set of stairs, leading them to a lounge just beyond the bathrooms, but away from the dance floor below and the stadium seats one floor above. The crowd in front of the stage surged energetically, some in states of natural exultation, others in states of drug-induced frenzy. The performer on the stage mixed a strange version of one of his signature songs, the surf-punk dance samples of the tune laid over the melody and harmony of an old Rolling Stones classic. Isabel and Marcia were simply two more guests at the raucous party.

Marcia took off her stylish-yet-functional backpack, which was all the rage among the accessory crowd currently. From it she produced the journal she had received just the night before in New Orleans. The two sat on a battered leather couch, further withdrawing from the crowd.

"The whole thing. It looks like that thing you're after stayed on one of the plantations within the past hundred years. That's the most current sighting I've found. If it's as old as you think it is, it's probably fallen back into torpor since then, as no one else seems to have seen it afterward. I've checked everywhere sensible within two states around Louisiana and even with some of the offshore oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. Nothing. I can't imagine why a Methuselah would go to Mississippi or East Texas unless it was trying to hide, which, if it's hunting us like you say, isn't what it's trying to do."

"You're probably right — I don't think it's even considered that we're wanting to find it.

Then again, that's moot. I'm not even going to pretend to be able to outguess it. If it's as old as we think it is, it's got to be very cunning to leave no trace of its passing."

"I don't know. It's impossible to say now, but it certainly seems to hate Giovanni enough to "Tell me why we're here again?" Marcia half-kidded.

"Is this it?" Isabel asked.

"You really think it's one of the old clan?" Marcia asked. kill us specifically. Frankie Gee's only the most recent one, and when he disappeared in New Orleans, I knew it wasn't over the Milo Rothstein affair. It probably smelled him the moment he set foot in the city." Isabel was concentrating on the document before her, looking for any clue that might make certain that the monster below the journalist's home was indeed a vengeful Kindred. The journal seemed strange — a much more poetic account of the event than one might think would show up in a diary. Still, not only did she have no clue about the monster's identity, she had no idea as to the personality of the author. Still, it wasn't written in Enochian, Sanskrit or Egyptian hieroglyphics, so she hoped she could rule out being set up by the creature itself. "Did you go by the house itself?"

"No," Marcia said, "I didn't think it would be wise. If the thing was still there, I'd stand no chance against it, and the only thing you'd have to go on would be my disappearance." She shuddered a bit in spite of the intense heat of the concert hall, which was warmed beyond the normal Georgia heat by the mortals dancing around them. "I hope these pages help out. I had to promise a favor to get them."

Isabel looked up, a thin smile on her lips. "To Jake Almerson? Next time you talk to him, tell him you don't owe him any favors. And tell him he doesn't owe me one, either."

Marcia nodded whimsically and turned her own attention to the journal.

"Is there a test in the morning?" Distracted by the journal and the overwhelming music, neither Marcia nor Isabel saw the approach of the young man in the tennis visor.

"Fuck off," Marcia shot back, almost automatically, while looking up to meet his gaze. She stopped short of her attempt to chase him away verbally, though, when she felt Isabel's cold hand on her arm.

"No, wait," Isabel said. "This one's okay." Marcia turned to look at her and saw her wink; Isabel hoped the suitor saw the wink, too.

Pushing them apart with his ass, the newcomer dropped himself on the couch between them. "I'm Scott. Either of you want something to drink?"

Isabel shifted into full flirtation mode. She looked meaningfully at Marcia. "Oh, I don't know. But I guess I am kind of thirsty."

At this last remark, Marcia shook her head and smiled. "Girl, you have no shame." Then she turned to Scott. "I'm Patrice. Nice to meet you, Scott. Sorry about cutting you off like that, but your pick-up line blows."

A sheepish smirk overtook Scott's face. "Yeah, well, I didn't really expect to see anyone looking over a notebook at this show." He looked over at Isabel. "I'm sorry, beautiful; what was your name?"

"That's a really cool name. And you know what else? You have beautiful — "

"How did you know I was going to say that?' Scott said through a broadening smile.

Marcia interjected. "'Cause that's what every motherfucker says when he's trying to take home a prime piece of pussy." She made a grotesque face at Isabel, playing the part of the vapid club girl, but letting Isabel know just how stupid she though it was.

Isabel, though, was thoroughly enjoying herself by this point. She knew it wasn't any stupider than their mark. It was amazing just how often a vessel would fall into a Kindred's lap, never knowing what was in store for him. "Shut up, Patrice. You're going to nun my "Chlöe."

"Eyes," interrupted Isabel.

Oh, so it's a game, now, is it, Isabel? Marcia though to herself. Well, I'm better at this than you are. See if your old ass can keep up oath someone who's young and still got it. Isabel fought back a smile, as if reading Marcia's mind. The hunt was on.

Scott, of course, loved every minute of it. Little had he known when he selected the two women to be the recipients of his dazzling attentions that they would be so responsive to him. He didn't even have to turn on too much of his boundless charm — chalk it up to the power of natural charisma. In fact, the most difficulty these ladies gave him was in the decision between them. What the hell, Scott reasoned, deciding to attempt to take them both to bed. After all, life is boring without a little risk. They way things were going, the worst he'd do was to get only one of them.

The innuendo proceeded, Isabel and Marcia baiting Scott and each other and Scott responding, leaving no question at all as to his singular goal. "Patrice" wrapped her arm around their suitor's shoulder; "Chloe" crossed her legs so that one rested over his. Scott grinned and stretched backward, making himself comfortable and allowing the women to battle over the field of his body. Marcia leaned in to kiss his ear, Isabel pulled his head away from her and rested it on her shoulder. Scott bowed his legs away, allowing both of them greater and equal access to his libidinous bounty. Marcia tugged at his shirt and slunk one leg over his, dry-humping his thigh. Isabel locked her mouth around his, chasing his lazy tongue with hers. Certain of his impending carnal victory, Scott grew bold and slid his hand under Isabel's shirt, his hand inexpertly kneading the flesh of her small breast — which he didn't seem to mind was uncommonly cool — in half-tempo to the thundering music from the ground floor. Isabel had to fight back a spasm of laughter at his clumsy lotharian ineptitude — but blood was blood, so she persevered, shooting a grin at Marcia after breaking off her kiss.

"Why don't we take this back to the hotel?" Isabel suggested. "We're just right up the road."

Bleary-eyed, Scott acquiesced. Marcia pulled him up from the couch by his hand.

Apparently, it didn't matter to him that his paramours weren't local. In fact, all that mattered to him was the recurring I can't believe this running through his mind.

The amorous trio stalked the five blocks to the Westin Peachtree in short order, stopping briefly in the hotel bar for a round of largely untouched vodka martinis and earning the derisive looks of the more staid guests. The drinks deterred their course only temporarily, however, and within ten minutes, they had settled their tab, taken an elevator, and stood outside Isabel's room.

"Patrice" made a grand show of fumbling with the key, though she knew it was probably unnecessary — Scott hadn't been paying attention to details since he weaseled his way onto the couch back at the Tabernacle. She pushed open the door, staggered inside and collapsed supine on the vast bed.

That was all the encouragement Scott needed. He walked deliberately over to her in a drunken attempt at sultriness and forced his knees between her legs, which Marcia had bent at the knee and left somewhat apart.

Isabel, no longer under the pretense, closed the door quietly and slid the lever over the post. She killed the light, which she had left on before leaving for the concert hall.

Meanwhile, Scott had gracelessly removed Marcia's backpack and left it by the side of the bed. He tugged her T-shirt over her head and dropped it over the pack. Marcia giggled.

Jesus, he licked his lips. chances with this dashing Southern gentleman "

Isabel took the opportunity to relieve Scott of his shirt in her own fashion — she tore it at the neck and split it downward, pulling it off his body like a jacket that had been donned backward. He turned around for a moment, eyes flashing in preparation for the lusty fornication that was no doubt about to ensue, only to see her appreciating his body. Scott had well-defined muscles, but not enough bulk to make him too big. A frisson of vain pleasure surged through him: Yeah, I know I look good. But Marcia distracted him back to her with a tug at the front of his pants, and her fingers quickly found their way over the top and into his waistband. Isabel took to running her hands over his back and pectorals.

Not wanting to deny his lovers access to his greatest prize for a moment longer, Scott undid the button and zipper of his pants himself while Isabel threw his visor-cap aside.

Marcia grabbed the elastic of his exposed boxer shorts and jerked them down, exposing his engorged sex.

He does have a reason to be so smug, after all, Marcia thought to herself before taking his girth into her mouth. And waited on the physical cue...

Marcia felt Scott's body go rigid all of a sudden. She looked up just as his hellish scream choked off, silenced by Isabel's powerful hand, which had clamped over his mouth — and broken his jaw. Isabel herself peered down at Marcia, biting down between his shoulder and neck, her eyes glazed over as the gluttonous Beast grew fatted with the young man's vitae. Marcia then distended her fangs, piercing Scott's tumescent penis and gulping in the rich blood that had traveled there in his arousal.

Scott twitched violently, held in place by Isabel, who pinned his arms in place and silenced him, and Marcia, who held his legs, preventing him from buckling or collapsing. He felt as if his body had been doused in acid — his blood turned to fire as it flowed out of his body and into the mouths of the witches who had tricked him. He kicked, shook, neither to any avail. Even as he grew tired, his blood no longer able to carry oxygen to his extremities, his exhaustion was one of anguish. This is what it must feet like to burn to death, Scott thought. Tears rolled down his cheeks, his nose bled and he could taste the coppery metal of blood in his mouth from where Chloe had shattered his mandible with her bare hand.

This is how it feels to die of poison in your kings. And these monsters are real.

The Kindred took their time drawing Scott's precious vitae from him, prolonging his agony.

Weakened by the loss of blood, Scott could no longer resist them as they broke off their kiss and moved their mouths to other parts of his body. They opened his wrists and inside his thighs, drank from his tongue and from the rippled flesh just below his left breast. For half an hour, Marcia and Isabel fed from their wretched vessel, carrying out the act as though it were mortal sex — tempting, prurient, orgasmic, base and cathartic all at once.

When the two women were done, Isabel rose and brushed stands of hair out of her eyes. "I didn't intend to finish him."

"Me, neither," said Marcia as she pulled her top back on. "But I couldn't stop once it got going."

"Help me put his clothes back on. We'll walk him out of here like he's passed out drunk and leave the body somewhere."

"Yeah, that happens when there's no blood in your veins. Quick — I've got makeup in the bathroom. Dust him with base and rouge while I call a cab."

Marcia did as she was told. Twenty minutes later, the Kindred and their dead companion took a taxi to the neighborhood around Fort McPherson, in the southern part of Atlanta.

They broke into an aban-doned box factory, surrounded the corpse with corrugated "He's turning blue!" cardboard, doused it with lighter fluid, and set flame to the whole mess.

"This is fucked up," Marcia commented to no one in particular.

"Well, it's more inconvenient than anything else. Think of the time investment like you were cooking dinner as a mortal. Except as a Kindred, you get to eat before you prepare the meal." Isabel shrugged.

"No, I've done this before. It just never gets any easier," Marcia said.

Isabel saw blood-tears trickling down her cheeks. She resisted the urge to tell her companion that, yes, indeed, it did become easier. Too easy, at times.

After an hour of burning the body and re-igniting the portions that remained, they swept the ashes around the factory and gathered the bones. These they pounded into unrecognizable bits of detritus and scattered them around the factory, in the trash, around the weedy outside lawn and into the sewers. One thing was sure — no one was going to find Scott.

Marcia wiped her eyes, staining her forearm with a bloody smear. The two women caught a cab and returned to their hotel.

Thursday, 29 July 1999, 3:43 AM Seasons Restaurant, Bostonian Hotel Boston, Massachusetts The night could end only in disaster. That much Chas knew. Isabel expected him to accompany Genevieve Pendleton in her discussion with the Camarilla's diplomat, Jacques Gauthier. Pendleton was dead, Gauthier was pompous, Isabel hadn't made the diplomat very welcome when they last met, and Chas wanted to tear the guy in half on principle.

In the interests of keeping things from becoming a complete cluster fuck, Chas had kept his involvement fairly low-key. Isabel hadn't called him, which meant that the Milliners had assumed that she was taking care of things after they'd received Pendleton's resignation, and hadn't bothered her. The best thing for him to do was...

Well, was what? Buy time? Wing it? Tell Gauthier to fuck himself? Chas had to meet with the guy — he didn't have Gauthier's contact information to postpone the meeting — but he didn't know what the Giovanni's stance was going to be. Sure, he had an idea after speaking with Isabel, but he didn't know any of the finer details, and "Screw you, we're going to stay neutral" didn't seem to be the best way to handle things.

Chas had decided that the best thing to do was meet with Gauthier and tell him that the Giovanni needed a bit more time to consider what they planned to do. After that, Isabel could handle it. With any luck, Chas would get off with only minor punishment for indirectly — well, all right, directly — fucking up the situation in the first place, by preventing it from becoming any worse.

But shit never went down like that, Chas knew. Something bad was bound to happen. He felt worry gnawing behind his hunger when he woke, shaved, and dressed for the evening.

To be sure, he left his pistol and brass knuckles at the Milliners' guest house where he stayed and didn't bother to take the sawed-off Louisville Slugger from the trunk of the car.

If he didn't want a fight, it wouldn't work to took like he did, after all.

Jacques arrived early, which was a good sign. It showed that he took the matter seriously and cared more for the content of the meeting than he did for his own status. Maybe this won't be such a problem after all, Chas thought to himself. Still, Jacques and Chas hadn't exactly been pleasant to one another at their last meeting.

"Good evening, Mr. Giovanni," Gauthier replied in kind. "Where is the esteemed Miss Giovanni?"

"Something came up at the last minute and she was unable to reach you."

"I've been available all night. Every night, in fact, for the past two weeks. I even left her with information on how to leave a message for me during the day, should something strange have come up."

"I understand that, Mr. Gauthier, and I apologize." Chas wanted to go back to the name calling that had suited him when dealing with this prick earlier, but that wouldn't have made things run any smoother. "She had left another representative of the clan" — not too far from the truth — "to attend this meeting, but something came up that made her unable to attend, too."

"I see. So, the original negotiator with whom I had spoken about our mutual concerns left, and put someone in charge who couldn't attend our meeting, thereby leaving only the bodyguard who sat in on the first meeting to handle the follow-up. A very indelicate "Good evening, Mr. Gauthier," Chas greeted the emissary.

"I beg your pardon?" Gauthier looked incredulous. He raised his eyebrows in a manner that suggested he'd be quite interested in hearing what could possibly be more important than a consultation with a Camarilla dignitary in the middle of a sect conflict.

"Something different. Not related to the Camarilla interest' in Boston."

"Oh, I understand perfectly. Allow me to outline the situation as I see it. A member of your clan receives me and then decides that something else demands her time more than seeing the initial concern through. In her stead, she leaves a proxy, who also has business elsewhere. And the person who finally does deign to meet me to resolve the matter doesn't actually have anything to do with the situation in the first place. I'm afraid this doesn't look very good, Mr. Giovanni. At the very best, even if I determine that Clan Giovanni has not chosen to entertain Sabbat sympathies, it certainly has no intention of forging some arrangement with the Camarilla because it won't even lend their spokesmen an ear. Am I correct?"

"Well, no, not exactly," Chas felt himself grow embarrassed, and then angry. He knew how this looked, and knew he'd have to take a few jabs for it, but there was no need to keep escalating.

"Oh, not exactly? Well, then, Mr. Giovanni, please tell me exactly what sort of impression I am to draw from the current turn of events?"

"Don't presume such an informal relationship, Mr. Giovanni. I can assure you that even if I chose to ignore the utter disrespect you've obviously assumed for myself — which I haven't — I still would not overlook the fact that the collective Giovanni of Boston have such a low estimation of the Camarilla that they do not choose to treat it as a serious partner even when faced with the possibility of suffering harm themselves at the hands of a mutual enemy. Whether or not you openly embrace our overtures, Mr. Giovanni, ignoring the threat posed by the Sabbat does not make it go away."

"Hey, you want to listen to me, here? I fucked up. This isn't Isabel's fault and it's not what the clan intended. I accidentally screwed up the situation with the woman who was supposed to talk to you, and I didn't know where to reach you. And rather than just noshowing or running with what I thought might be best, I just thought I'd tell you what happened."

"Hey, pat, sometimes things just go wrong. This is one of those times. Sorry it had to be you."

"Look, don't get all fucking sanctimonious. You don't want me to go back and tell everyone that you're getting all indignant, 'cause that might hurt your precious relationship or whatever you were just yammering on about." Chas couldn't resist the dig. Despite the fact that he had almost defused Gauthier, his temper refused to let him yield.

Gauthier once again looked shocked. He had never been spoken to so plainly — at least not solution, to be sure."

"Now, settle down; I'm not Isabel's bodyguard."

"Then what are you, Mr. Giovanni?"

"We're working on something else together."

"Look, man, I'm trying to tell you — "

"Ineptitude!"

"As you should be. Do you have any idea — " to his face — by anyone, especially someone who should by rights have taken a deferential attitude. "You had best stop while you're ahead, Mr. Giovanni. Before you do any more damage to this potentially explosive arrangement, I think you should hold your tongue."

"Don't talk down to me, you stupid motherfucker, or I'll give you the beatdown of your unlife. I apologized, Isabel will fix everything, so just shut the fuck up and let everything go back to normal." What the fuck am I doing? Chas wondered to himself, but he couldn't stop. Gauthier had pushed him too far — with just a few words! Chas, fucking rein it in.

You know he was 1; to be all prissy when you omnia here, so just let it go.

But the voice in Chas's mind didn't have control — something else did. He wasn't saying anything he had been actively thinking; the uncontrollable part of him had roused from its sleep and taken over.

"Threats?" It was a statement, not a question. Jacques's voice had become ominously deep and his eyes focused into a stare. "I will not have you threatenme. Do you hear-me, boy?"

This last he punctuated with a snarl and a spit, his fangs jutting out, revealing him as the monster he truly was. Jacques's hands had become talons; his face twisted into a mask of rage. Chas, overwhelmed, shrank away from Gauthier's withering display — — for a brief second, before his own Beast snapped the chain on which it had been tethered. Balling his hands into fists, he charged Gauthier as visions of blood and murder spun through his mind.

Jacques proved to be too nimble, however, and spun quickly out of the way. Chas barreled past, knocking over a table, scattering the settings across the room. Gauthier looked over his shoulder, his eyes slits, a reedy laugh coming from his demoniacal mouth. Almost too fast for Chas to see, he sprinted toward the kitchen. Indeed, if Chas hadn't seen the door move, he wouldn't have known Gauthier had passed through it. Like an enraged animal, he followed, bursting through the door with enough force to hurl aside anyone who had waited behind it.

Fortunately, even the staff had left the restaurant by this time, or bodies would have surely littered the kitchen floor. The room was lit in a sterile white which suddenly became darkness. Had Chas been able to think clearly, he would have guessed that Jacques could see in less light and turned off the lights to give himself an advantage. In his frenzied state, though, reason had left him and he rushed blindly at where he guessed the light switch to be. A great row of ranges and ovens stood to one side of him; to the other loomed a tall row of shelves stocked with oversized cans of food. Chas gave this second a heavy shove, toppling it and the one behind it like a series of dominoes. One by one, the entire kitchen's worth of shelves toppled to the floor. The cans and jars likewise fell, some shattering, others clanging loudly. As the last shelf fell, Chas saw a speed-blurred shape streak from behind it. A half-second later, he found a huge metal fork protruding from his chest and he doubled over in momentary shock before jerking it out and spraying a gout of blood across the kitchen. Again the kitchen doors swung — Gauthier had bolted out of the room.

Chas roared and followed, perhaps foolishly, fork in hand. Still, Gauthier had drawn first blood, which only infuriated Chas all the more. Bursting back into the dining room, Chas saw the outline of Jacques's form, backlit by light that poured in from the outside. A pair of headlights.

Jacques Gauthier laughed once more. "You ignorant brute! You can't catch me, you know."

But Chas didn't need to be faster. Someone entered the front of the restaurant. Jacques looked over at the intruder in disbelief and Chas took full advantage of the opportunity.

He dived at Gauthier with all his might, knocking over the hostess's podium. As he pinned Gauthier to the ground, he noticed another person outside, in addition to the one just beyond his peripheral vision. He could deal with them later.

Gauthier struggled beneath him, but Chas's strength was far superior. Over and over, he drove the heavy cooking fork down through Jacques's face, using the stabbing motions to punctuate his spoken hatred. "You... stupid... fuck! What... did... you... think... would... happen..."

A cold mist washed over Chas. He looked up in surprise, a snarl on his face. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Can't you fucking see I'm trying to kill this guy? Go away!"

The voice continued, unwavering, "Get thee behind me, Satan. Tempt not the Children of Seth, and return to the hell from which you were spawned!"

Beneath Chas, Gauthier bucked, taking his aggressor by surprise and throwing him off.

Chas tumbled backward onto his haunches. Like a bolt, Gauthier was off into the night, leaving a viscous trail of blood-gobbets behind him.

"Goddamn it. Goddamn it. What is wrong with you? Now they're going to kick my ass over this!"

Another cold mist hit Chas in the face. "Creature of darkness! Thief of the living's blood! A walking affront to the righteousness of God!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, give it a rest!- That doesn't work! Jesus, where do you people keep coming from? First Frankie's thing in New York and now this? Who the fuck are you?" Chas peered into the darkness and saw a pale glow outlining what must have been hands. The cold mist came from the left, where he saw a slighter shape wearing some bulky backpack.

"The holy water has no effect! Jessica, switch to the other tank!"

Chas heard a click, heard the hiss that accompanied the bursts of mist and smelled gasoline. "Oh, no you fucking don't," Chas growled and leaped toward the black outline with the glowing hands. He swung the kitchen fork upward, calling upon his hellish strength to carry it through. With a sickening wet slap sound, the fork traveled upward, through the unseen man's mandible, past his mouth and into the upper part of his head, breaking through the topmost bone of his skull like a bullet punching through sheet metal.

A feeble noise came from the man, who immediately slumped forward into Chas's arms.

Chas dropped the man and whirled to face his other attacker — a short, thick woman holding some kind of spray gun. She must have bought it at a hardware store; it looked like the kind of thing someone would use to treat their yard with pesticides. The woman stood frozen, aghast at the death of her partner, and Chas slapped the clumsy nozzle from her hand.

"Hello? I'm talking to you, you crazy bitch. What, you can shoot me with holy water and set me on fire but you can't talk to me?" Chas shoved the woman backward, sending' her asprawl over a small dinner table. The spray gun dangled uselessly aside. The woman's eyed gaped as big as saucers. She choked out some kind of simple, repetitive prayer, presumably for protection, but an answer didn't seem likely. "I'm fucking serious here. Who the fuck are you people? If you're vampire hunters, I think you need to do a little more Another voice cut him off in mid-stab and sentence.

"Don't move. Jessica! Spray him!"

"All right. What the fuck is this about?"

The woman only stammered. homework next time, because that holy water crap doesn't work."

The woman kicked weakly as Chas advanced, her stout legs unable to turn back his greater strength. He slapped her on the thigh, sending her spinning sideways, and stopped her just as her head ended up before him.

"Now, are you going to give me a fucking answer or do I have to eat you?"

Still the woman protested weakly, too terrified by being so close to such a monster to summon her strength.

"Jesus, you freak, you'd rather die? Fine. Fucking have it your way."

Chas bit down as hard as he could, not even bothering to find a large vein or artery. The woman finally found her voice and shrieked, a long, shrill wail that could have shattered glass. When he had finally drained her to the point of collapse, he licked the wound and it sealed. With any luck, when whoever found this mess tried to put two and two together, they'd assume some sort of fight between two lunatics, one with a fork through his head and the other wearing an atomizer filled with bizarre liquids. Fuck 'em — it didn't scream vampire! and it was probably weird enough for the police to keep it quiet from the media.

With that, Chas adjusted hi elf as best he could and drove back to the Milliners' guesthouse. He'd have quite a job explaining himself to them and to Isabel — but that was best accomplished on another night.

As Chas drove away, Gauthier slunk from the shadows and sated himself on the woman's remaining blood. Then he fled into the night.

Sunday, 25 July 1999, 1:18 AM The Malecón Havana, Cuba Anastasz di Zagreb, justicar for the sorcerous Tremere vampires, tilted his head, encouraging her to go on. "Yes, and it is...?"

"You and I, we are much alike," Isabel began. It was a thread that made the Tremere none too comfortable — he was familiar with the debased Kindred of Clan Giovanni and he was aware of a certain quirk that this one in particular indulged while feeding. He wanted nothing more at the moment than to be as little like her as possible. "And our histories share more than one sympathy." Anastasz hated this part. The Kindred and all of their petty games irritated him, and his preference was to be either "in the field" or in his own sanctum. No doubt what would follow this pretty-but-cold woman's requests would be some unpleasant request couched in the form of a favor. The Tremere was familiar with such double-bladed social engineerings — his own august position was the result of hidden favors and boons exchanged. His predecessor, the potent Karl Schrekt, had been miraculously left unconsidered for reelection to the justicar's title. Instead, at the assembly of the Camarilla's Inner Council in 1998, the Tremere had put forth the dark horse di Zagreb. Isabel's pending offer was surely some similar ruse, carefully couched in eloquence and deceit.

"Our clans have both risen from the ashes of others. We both hail from long, distinguished lines of sires who saw weakness and chose to light a candle rather than curse the darkness.

I don't pretend to know the secrets of those fateful nights" — don't patronize me, you florid bitch, Anastasz thought — "but I do know that our clans both rose like phoenixes from the folly of others. Wouldn't you agree?"

"As much as it displeases me, I concur. Where are you headed with this, Isabel?" Such insolence! Moments like this allowed Anastasz to savor his position. To think that one as young as himself — a Kindred for only one century — could speak with such insouciance to a scion of the Giovanni! But then, Anastasz remembered, it was only the strength of the Camarilla that allowed him this luxury. Were Clan Tremere as removed from Kindred affairs as the Giovanni, his title would have meant nothing. She would have crushed him like a beetle, if only he hadn't had the ubiquitous ivory tower behind him.

"Patience, Justicar. Do not leap to judgment. Allow me to explain."

"Then be about it, Isabel. The summer nights are short and I am hungry." Masterful!

Dismissive yet authoritative! Perhaps the game of politics had its benefits after all...

"Very well. Surely you are familiar with the fate of the Ravnos?"

Anastasz nodded. Earlier this very month, the Kindred world had shaken at its very foundation as one of the original, Biblical Kindred had awoken from its sleep. The founder of a clan had risen too early for the end of the world and was destroyed, dragging his childer screaming into Final Death with him. Or so the tale was told. No one who was there had been to eager to step forward — and most who had been there had been destroyed. "I am."

"Then you understand that they stand poised to retake their fallen status, much as our own sires claimed the mantle of clanhood. Once again, as the rest of the Children of Caine watch the death of their siblings, they mutter their own thanks that it was not they whom fate conspired to harm. But you Tremere know, Anastasz, as well as we Giovanni, that those who are dismissed as weak or few can turn the tables and snatch victory from the "I have a proposition for you."

Good Lord, thought Anastasz, she certainly is painting this in epic strokes.

"Many Ravnos escaped the Week of Nightmares with their unlives. The few who remain may take advantage of the weak light in which others see them. Clans have fallen before, and never without dire re-percussion. Your own clan and mine came as a result, and it is whispered that the formation of the Sabbat had similar circumstances."

"Of course not. I am suggesting that we strike while the iron is hot. The Ravnos are crippled. Our work is almost done; we must simply finish the deed."

"Destroy the remaining Ravnos?" Anastasz considered sidered this. It certainly had its merits. A line of mystics and scoundrels, the Ravnos left trouble in their wake. Many Kindred princes of Europe and the l New World refused to allow Ravnos in their domains.

The Ravnos had no allies, nor did they want them. They practically begged to be extinguished. Such a tactic would not only remove a lingering thorn from the Camarilla's side, it could consolidate the sect's strength and allow it to focus on larger threats. And if he played his cards right, he could prove his worth to an inner Council that harbored doubts about his ability.

Anastasz stopped, shocked at his thoughts. Was he actually considering genocide? Did he honestly think that his reputation was worth the death of other Kindred? How blind and instinctual a creature had he become, that slaughter and murder were subjects so easily entertained? Even as a predator, he retained a sense of his own humanity — it was the only bulwark he had against the bestial urges that lurked in all Kindred. If he gave in completely, he would no longer be a conscious being; he would become wholly a monster.

"Yes." Isabel's response snapped Anastasz out of his reverie. "They offer nothing, and it is in the interests of all Kindred that we isolate and remove the threat they are still quite capable of posing." The moon shone down on Isabel's face, making her look ghoulish, and her suggestion compounded the discomfort Anastasz felt.

"No, Justicar, this is survival. Death is part of the cycle of all life — and unlife. Perhaps more so for the latter. I assure you, no Ravnos would hesitate to deliver you to your final reward."

"That's impossible to say, Isabel. We are Kindred — our motives are our own. Not all of us are murderous monsters."

"You don't think so, Justicar? You are fooling yourself. The Ravnos progenitor arose from its slumber and destroyed its own children! What more ar-gument do you need to convince you?"

"I suggest you hold your tongue, Isabel." The discussion had taken a turn for the ugly.

Anastasz whispered tersely, "Whether or not you and your clan claim membership in the Camarilla, we still claim dominion over you. Your words show little regard for the Masquerade, and we are in a public place with mortals about. I will not hesitate to take the necessary recourse — "

"Listen to what you are saying, Anastasz," Isabel returned, equally as quietly. "You apply your Masquerade and crusade selectively. The deceitful Ravnos are a far greater threat to the Masquerade than I could ever hope to be — "

"I'm not going to suggest mass murder based on your cajoling, Isabel. I won't take a stance jaws of oppression."

"Are you suggesting that the Tremere and the Sabbat — "

"This is murder, Isabel." against the Ravnos because some bigoted Kindred doesn't like them. Their witchcraft and illusion are less damning than your own behavior — we know about your little predilection, my dear. We know that you drink vitae only from your victims' severed heads. And I can assure you that not every Kindred is as jaded and callous as you. I will not be used, nor will I allow my position to be exploited by a clan that refuses to accept the responsibilities of undeath."

"I see that I have misjudged you, Justicar. You condemn me with petty, mortal conceits.

This political correctness, as they call it, is not a product of the times during which either of us were Embraced. Modem does not mean better, and all your arguments crumble beneath the cold truth. For I know members of the Tzimisce, with whom your clan has struggled since your earliest nights. It is a sorcerer's war, with both of your bloodlines putting each other to death for personal power. You and the House of Tremere are far worse than any course of action I suggest, because my motives are utilitarian. You slaughter each other over eyes of newt and forgotten spells, and yet you claim a moral high ground when I suggest removing a problem before it becomes dire. Your hypocrisy disgusts me."

Anastasz closed his eyes and rubbed them, signaling his weariness to Isabel. Then he dropped his hands to his sides and peered out over the Atlantic Ocean, as if to encourage Isabel to make her final argument or let him go. She saw his growing frustration and played to it.

The justicar turned, his eyes flashing hotly. "And what does that have to do with what you're putting before me here?"

"Pieterzoon told me everything. Well, not directly, but through his liaison, Jacques Gauthier. They asked me to convince the body of Clan Giovanni to help. That's a dangerous position to take, Justicar. The Sabbat are not pleasant enemies. We Giovanni have maintained our independence by not taking sides — at the request of your Camarilla, if my history serves me correctly — and we're now being asked to act in direct opposition to that."

"Yes, well, your personal opinion is secondary to the facts of the matter, Anastasz.

Whatever esteem you hold for Jan and his compatriots, you have common interest in the Camarilla. That's why I've bothered to talk to you at all. I'm sure you can understand the value of knowing as much as you can about a situation before acting on it, no? I'm not willing to drag other Giovanni into your Jyhad for the sake of Pieterzoon's ego. But I am willing to strike a deal with the winning side."

"I understand that, Justicar, but Jan has placed a tempting offer on the table. I'm sure you're no stranger to the unattainability of Boston." Isabel couldn't resist the dig. Di Zagreb, as well as anyone else who dirtied themselves in Kindred politics, knew that influence in Boston was divided into a seemingly unbreakable three-way impasse between the Camarilla, Sabbat and Giovanni.

"I know all about the situation in New York, Anastasz."

"Pieterzoon is power mad and Gauthier is a buffoon."

"New York is part of the means. It's not the end, Isabel."

"So then, what are you doing here, Isabel?"

"Talking to you, Justicar."

"No, you Giovanni. What are you doing here?"

"What everyone in Havana is doing. Waiting for Castro to die."

"Pure economics, my dear Anastasz. Once the old man goes on to his final reward, this whole country's going to become the biggest free market in the western hemisphere."

"Triangle trade. It's what the Fat Man wants to do, and you're going to back it with him.

When, as you say, Castro dies, this whole country's going to be the biggest black market in the New World."

"So?" Isabel smiled sweetly. "When the change to capitalism comes, greed won't be a crime anymore — it'll be standard operating procedure. It won't even be a black market, because Cuba will establish itself as a governmentally backed international shopping mall. Anything goes."

"But that's only part of the equation. Cuba's still going to maintain some severe antidrug legislation, because it'll be in their best interests. Half the government will be against drug trade and keep it illegal while the other half will be on the take, so keeping it illegal will make them rich on bribe money. They couldn't go too lax. on drugs, anyway, because the United States would crush them politically."

"Well, if I know you and the rest of your clan, the simple, legal investments will only wet your beaks. Sure, you'll make millions — probably billions — in the tourist boom, but it's also part of the triangle trade. You're going to run heroin from Italy to Cuba, where you'll either send it in to the U.S. through Boston or sell it and convert the profits to coke and marijuana, then move that through Boston, because that's where you have the customs vice in your pockets. Then, the money goes back to Italy, where it buys more heroin, which again goes through Cuba, etc."

Isabel's eyebrows rose and her mouth curled up a bit at the ends. "Not bad, Justicar. Not bad at all. But it won't affect you at all, will it? Boston's already a Giovanni haven, Venice has always been one, and we only need a few Kindred handling the operation here. It doesn't matter if Cuba becomes a Sabbat or Camarilla playground — both of you will shut your mouths for a few points."

"But we don't have to, Isabel. That's where I'm headed with this. It would be equally profitable for us to watch every import-export company that sets up in the area and shut down any that smell like Giovanni. In fact, it would be more lucrative for whoever comes out on top to run you gravediggers out of business — because they could then charge you whatever they wanted to keep the lanes open."

"I'm willing to play that game, Anastasz. The Kindred have long been masters of such maneuverings, and this is simply one more. Who knows — Cuba may even turn out to be Utopia, where Kindred can go about their business without that awful, artificial baggage that your ideological war seems to thrive on. The Giovanni are glad to take such risks, Justicar. It is our bread and butter, our vitae, and we have done it for more than a thousand years, since the nights of the crusades and before. Dealings like these are our raison d'être. Can you say the same? Cuba is ours — it is only a question of when."

Di Zagreb turned his shoulder away from Isabel, remaining silent.

"As I said, though, Justicar, we are willing to deal with the side that wins. We have no "And why is that?"

"Triangle trade, Isabel."

"What?"

"Where are you going with this, Anastasz?" illusions as to your superior numbers, and in truth, we would prefer to deal with the Camarilla, as it is almost universally more civil and urbane than those cackling lunatics of the Sabbat. But don't think for a minute that you have any influence that we don't allow you to have. It would be a bitter fight between us, and one that you would almost certainly win. But at what cost?

"Keep that in mind, Justicar. For the time being, the Giovanni side with no one, but our sympathies lie with the Camarilla: And also keep in mind that we offer our sympathies by choice."

With that, Isabel turned and walked away. The Tremere justicar thought on the meaning of her words. Perhaps he still had much to learn, after all.

Friday, 23 July 1999, 8:17 PM Westin Peachtree Hotel Atlanta, GA Marcia Gibbert rose early — she knew she had to be up before Isabel to do what she needed to do. She walked over to the end table, took out a pad of paper emblazoned with the Westin logo and a pen from her bag, and prepared for Isabel a note.

I can't do this, anymore. I'm sorry to leave you without any help, but the prospect of another night is too much for me.

With that, Marcia covered herself as much as she could with a bathrobe, took an elevator to the top floor, climbed the access stair to the roof, and walked into the last, fading rays of the sun.

I. — I guess Jake Almerson still owes you a favor.

— M