Spelling Television, Inc. (a subsidiary of Spelling Entertainment group, Inc) owns the characters of Julian, Cameron, Daedalus, Lillie, Sasha, Cash, Eddie Fiori, Sonny, and any others from the Kindred: The Embraced TV show that I may have forgotten to mention. Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights.
The character of Matt Reimer springs from the mind of Eric Bowmaster.
K.T. Corben, Erica Blackwell, and Michelle Marlowe are the products of Icy Mike Molson's overactive imagination
Marcus Dietrich, a character that certainly possesses an abundance of passion and plucky spirit, was created within the rather disturbed mind of Dwayne Gamble.
All of the other characters, as well as the story, are mine.
Finally, I would like to also mention James Gleick's book, Chaos: Making a New Science, Penguin books, NY (1987), which was an invaluable resource in explaining chaos theory well enough to round out the character of Heinrich Schacter. I would highly recommend it for anyone that gets off on reading books about non-linear mathematics.
I include this small little warning for the benefit of anyone who considers himself to be an overly sensitive person. There is violence presented in this story, often graphically, there are several nasty words, and a little bit of torture. If you have a problem with this, don't read it, and don't tell me later that you found it offensive because forewarned is forearmed.
Author's Note
: This story is the fourth in a series of five. Although this story stands well on its own, it follows a several-story arc, and it is recommended that you read "Blood Under a Full Moon," "Friends and Foes," "Blood Feud," and "The Final Death" before you read this.Gehenna, Part 1
By
Nevermore
CHAPTER 1
I
The first thing that San Francisco's newest visitor noticed as he walked into Albion was the perfect mood that it set for its most fervent patrons. The black latex paint on the front room's walls absorbed most of the light from the numerous neon signs in the window, lending an eerie, almost narcotic feel to the establishment. It was still early in the evening, so the bar was relatively empty, with only three small groups sitting in the front room. A young couple sat at the bar, obviously professionals unwinding after a day of work. The woman sipped lightly from a glass of wine, White Zinfandel the newcomer guessed, and the man downed what appeared to be a Scotch on the rocks while he waved his hand toward the bartender for another round. The woman turned toward the door for a brief moment and was immediately held transfixed. The man standing before her smiled briefly, accustomed to the reaction that his appearance often evoked. The woman looked him up and down, trying to decide what it was about the man that she found to be so attractive. He seemed young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and stood a shade over six feet tall, with fairly pale skin and sandy blonde hair cut to only an inch or so in length. He wore plain gray clothes that would not commonly attract any attention. She had just about given up trying to figure out what it was that held her attention when she finally figured out what it was. It was the man's eyes. They glowed in the neon light, much like a cat's would. Rather than the piercing yellow of a cat's eye, however, his eyes gave off a cool, dark blue iridescence.
Without giving the woman any more attention, the man in gray moved on, looking over the next group sitting at the bar. They appeared to be three college students from UCSF, if their sweatshirts were any indication. None seemed to pay the newcomer any mind, as they seemed to be involved in a drinking game involving a deck of cards. The man did not care to stand around and find out what the object of the game was, however. He had come to find information, not to partake in extraneous drinking games.
His gaze finally settled on the last couple at the bar. Two men sat side by side, apparently also businessmen that were unwinding after a long day. While they were obviously trying to hide it, the man in gray could tell that the two were enjoying more than simple business camaraderie. Well, he admitted to himself, I am in San Francisco, after all. The city's reputation didn't come from nowhere. He slowly walked past the two, deciding that the people he planned to meet were likely in the back room.
As he walked over the threshold from the front and into the back of the bar, the man could sense the very feeling of the air change. There was a slight crackling around him, almost as if the air itself were alive and trying to communicate with him. The man smiled, recognizing the implications well. This was a place of magic. In this dimly lit room containing a couple of pool tables and pinball games he would be able to find men and women who could alter the very form of reality through the exertion of their will. This is where he would find the information that he sought.
In the back room he saw four people, all of them circled around one of the pool tables, their attention obviously centered on the game that they were playing. The man in gray stood for a few moments, watching, trying to discern from their behavior who the most powerful of the group was. The most accomplished one in the group would be given a wider berth than the rest, although he would also likely receive more attention than any other would. It did not take long to figure out who it was.
One of the men playing pool looked up and examined the newcomer, obviously paying attention to details that the woman at the bar had overlooked moments before. Such was to be expected, however. This man was a mage, and could see that his visitor was also a practitioner of the arcane. He smiled and extended his hand. "I am Hugh," he said smoothly. "Me and my friends are Cultists of Ecstasy. What are you looking for in our bar?"
"I need information," the visitor responded, a slight hint of an Irish lilt evident in his voice. He did not change his expression, seeming to remain completely intent on the purpose that had brought him to the dark bar. He began to look over the man in front of him, trying to determine what sort of person he was dealing with. The man was neatly dressed, but was still rather casual in appearance. Obviously, he cared more about comfort than image. His black hair was neatly trimmed, as was the thin beard that outlined his square jaw. He was young, the visitor noted, which would likely be an indication of the mage's power. Often a mage would remain relatively inexperienced until later in life. Of course, there were exceptions, as the occasional prodigy reminded all, but the man in gray doubted that the Cultist before him was one of these overachievers. Few of his school ever were.
"Really?" Hugh answered, ignoring the fact that his guest had not introduced himself. "Why don't you sit down and have a drink? We can talk about what it is that brought you to our fair city." The man in gray continued to stand, his face still unchanging.
"I do not drink," he replied. He had little time to socialize with the city's residents. There was much that he had to do.
"But you're Irish," Hugh responded, betraying the fact that he had noticed the newcomer's accent. "I thought all of you people drank."
"No," the man responded. "Not all of us." He looked over the other three people around the table, noticing that they had suddenly become rather interested in the conversation. All of them were already drunk, he noted. He was not surprised. After all, as Hugh had said, they were Cultists of Ecstasy. They were most concerned with the hedonistic pleasures that could be found all across the world.
"What are you, Muslim or something?" Hugh joked. He raised his glass of beer, offering it to the man.
"I'm Akashic," the man replied. All four Cultists looked at him in surprise. They all knew of the Akashic Brotherhood. Like the Cult of Ecstasy, the Brotherhood was one of the schools within the world of magic. Its members trained both the body and the mind, and rarely were to be found polluting the temples that they considered themselves to be. The fact that was most surprising was the man's ethnicity. Most of the Akashic Brothers were Asian, as it had been in the Far East that the school had developed. In the previous century this had slowly changed, but most in the Brotherhood were still of Asian descent.
"I met one of you once, down in Chinatown," Hugh said, once again looking the man over. "What's your name?"
"Tristan Reilly," the man answered. From the look on the faces of the Cultists, they were well aware of what he was doing in the city. He was known the world over as a vampire hunter, the scout that his two partners sent ahead to learn about their enemies. He would find the weaknesses of the kindred, and the twins would do most of the work in cleaning the city of the undead.
"You here for Luna?" Hugh asked, referring to the Ventrue prince of the city.
"My associates and I are far more interested in what happened in Oakland," Tristan said. "We know that a new prince has taken the city. We also know that he was able to do so because the anarchs that had lived there had disappeared. We want to know what happened to them."
"They left," Hugh answered, relaying the information that every member of the Bay Area's awakened community already knew. He was surprised that this man, renowned across the world for his talents in seeking out the kindred, did not know the most common of knowledge about his prey.
"No, they did not," Tristan replied, once again seeing surprise in Hugh's face. "They simply vanished. We want to know why."
"How do you know they didn't leave?" Hugh asked, doubting Tristan's information.
"We have our sources," the Irishman answered. "Find out what you can. I'll be in touch." He then turned and began to walk out of the bar. He had had enough of breathing in the second-hand smoke, and could almost visualize the insides of his lungs turning black with soot.
"What do we get out of it?" Hugh asked as Tristan left.
"Our eternal gratitude," Tristan answered, turning back momentarily. "Besides, I heard you had a problem with the kindred a little while back."
"We have an agreement with Luna now," Hugh replied. "I don't want to mess up the status quo."
"That may not be necessary," Tristan said with a slightly mischievous grin. "Like I said, we're just curious. We do not necessarily plan on cleansing the city unless something serious is going on." With that he left, hoping that the Cultists of Ecstasy would have contacts that could help dig up some information. Tristan hated mysteries, especially where the kindred were concerned. In the meantime, however, he would scour the city to find the other two contacts that he had been advised to locate.
II
Jenni walked up to the door of the Place Pigalle and glanced toward the motorcycles parked by the sidewalk outside. One she immediately identified as Cash's, while the other she suspected was Jana's. She did not know for sure, however, and she decided that she needed to know. The child opened the front door of the club and walked in slowly, expecting to be stopped by one of the bar's employees. She was not disappointed. She had taken no more than three steps into the club when an average sized man stepped in front of her, denying her entrance.
"Aren't you a little young to be coming in here?" he asked in a condescending tone.
"Aren't you a little small to be a bouncer?" Jenni replied sarcastically. She had no desire to be held up by foolish mortals. Had anyone been close enough to the child over the past few months, they would have noticed that he confidence had increased dramatically. One could even accuse her of arrogance. However, no one had taken a strong enough interest in her to see the change. Even Sasha, her adopted mother, had all but turned her back on Jenni. The Brujah had become wrapped up in her own problems. For Sasha, the lack of a clan to run with, even one that she had never liked when it had existed, was a far greater problem than the struggle of a kindred who would forever be locked in the body of a young adolescent. Sasha did not even seem to care about Cash much anymore, though Jenni knew that in the case of Cash, appearances were definitely deceiving. She knew that Sasha missed her lover greatly. Jenni found it amusing that Sasha did not care enough to keep an eye on the Gangrel, however. Had she bothered, she would be seeing the view that held Jenni transfixed and disgusted. She saw Cash in the back room, holding a cue stick in one hand and Jana, one of his Gangrel, in the other.
Sickened, Jenni began to walk past the bouncer as if he were not even in the room. He put his hand on her shoulder gently, indicating that he would not allow her to enter. Jenni simply looked up at the man, her patience for the ignorance of mortals having run out.
"Get your hand off me," she ordered, locking eye contact with the man. His hand immediately left her shoulder, his eyes having glazed over. Jenni felt the same rush that she always felt when she dominated the thoughts of the kine. "Now back off and stay the hell out of my way," Jenni added, watching the bouncer take a few steps away from her. She smiled once again and walked through the front room of the club. She looked at the décor of the room, shaking her head in disappointment in the surroundings that Cash had recently started to spend time in. The front room was dominated by a green beer and wine bar that complimented the copper walls. The couches that allowed the patrons to relax were too much for the child to stomach. She missed the rowdy dives that she had spent time in when she had gone out with Cash and Sasha. She missed the good old days. As she approached the back room, however, it became obvious to her that Cash was not as sentimental.
The former primogen of the Gangrel clan stood behind Jana, leaning over her back and helping her take aim at a shot on the worn pool table in the rear of the bar. Again Jenni found herself glancing at the surroundings, and her disappointment only grew. The red walls lent an interesting contrast to the paintings that were hung, advertising the talents of one of the Bay Area's newest artists. Just two nights earlier the paintings had been displayed at a party that Lillie had sponsored. Jenni almost wretched – Cash was spending time in a Toreador bar. The child could hardly hide her distaste for what Cash had apparently become.
Cash, however, was oblivious to Jenni's presence. He slowly caressed Jana's arms under his hands as he helped her aim a shot, and felt her muscles twitch ever so slightly as she made the bank that he had advised, sending the last of the high balls into the corner pocket. She would only need to make the eight, and they would win their third straight game. Jana looked to her fellow Gangrel again for guidance, unconsciously grabbing his hand as he pointed out the best shot for her to take.
Jana had grown to greatly enjoy her time with Cash, and was coming to understand why he had the reputation that he did. Shelly described Cash as one of the most passionate kindred that had ever existed, but none of the city's Gangrel had ever seen this in their primogen. They had not known him in the days when Sasha was not present. According to Shelly, before his forbidden tryst with the Brujah woman, Cash was one of the most independent and desired kindred in California. Jana smiled as Cash sneaked a look at her out of the corner of his eye. He had not meant to be caught, Jana realized. She had seen the desire in his gaze, and suddenly felt extremely special. This Gangrel, a man with an almost legendary reputation, wanted her. She was elated. She wanted to throw him to the floor then and there and bite passionately into his neck. She wished to taste his blood, to share her own blood with him. Such was the way of desire for the kindred. No longer did they desire sexual pleasure, as the mortals did. They were able to experience something far more intimate and gratifying. When blood was shared, so was the very essence of the individual. She could gain a more profound understanding of Cash's being through the sharing of blood on one occasion than most human couples could after a year of intimacy.
Cash, for his part, was similarly consumed. He pulled Jana close as he helped her gauge her shot. He put his face into her hair, smelling the soft scent of the perfume that she applied sparingly before going out for the night. He took a step back, leaving her to her own devices while she took her shot. He looked her up and down. The curves of her body were flattered by the tight, faded black jeans that she wore, along with a tight, cut off white tee shirt. She looked back to him for a brief moment before she shot, making sure that he approved of what she was doing. He gazed deeply into her green eyes, and then allowed his gaze to drift over the rest of her face. Her pale skin was accented by her red hair, cut short in the back but with long bangs that had the habit of falling into her face and covering her left eye when she laughed. His eyes drifted further, scanning her entire body and settling on the dragon belly-button ring that she wore. Jana smiled when she noticed how his eyes were wandering. Had Cash been mortal, he would have blushed, knowing he had been caught again. He was not, though, and so he simply smiled in return. He would be able to make himself appear as if he were far more calm and cool than he actually felt. He knew that image was almost everything.
Jana took the shot, gently dropping the eight into another corner, and looked at Cash with a triumphant air. Both kindred shook the hands of the mortals that they had been playing, and hugged each other in celebration.
"You want to get out of here?" Cash asked, unable to contain his desire any longer.
"We won," Jana replied. "The table's still ours. Why would we leave?" She knew well what Cash had in mind. She was aware of the fact that he wanted to share blood as much as she did. She wanted to hear him say it, though.
"We can't be alone here," Cash said, looking at the people in the back room. He turned toward the door, pulling on Jana's arm, and immediately set eyes on Jenni, who was standing in the doorway that led back to the front room of the bar.
"Jenni," Cash said, almost stumbling over the child's name. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"
"I don't need you to get me in to these places anymore," Jenni responded caustically. "I don't need you for anything." She looked from Cash to Jana, and the Gangrel were both struck speechless as they saw Jenni's appearance become almost sinister. "It looks like you didn't waste any time replacing Sasha," Jenni spat, her words dripping with venom. Jana's soul filled with terror in the face of the child. Never before had she felt so threatened by anything, and she could not understand why. She looked at Jenni, and suddenly understood her reaction. The child's face was innocent, as was the rest of her. She appeared to be so very young, so pure, but the emotions rolling off of her spoke of malice that one so young had no business understanding. Jenni had been forced to grow up too fast.
"Does Sasha know you're out?" Cash asked, doubting very much that the Brujah that had volunteered to be Jenni's caretaker was aware of her location.
"Probably not," Jenni replied, "but I doubt she would care. She's busy with her own things nowadays."
"Like what?" Cash asked.
"Fuck off," Jenni responded with hatred. "If you really cared, you'd be with her. You'd just rather make time with this Gangrel whore." Cash looked at Jenni in shock, not knowing how to respond. In the wake of his silence, Jenni continued. "You have no idea how good you had it, Cash," the child continued. "You could have had everything."
"I could never have been happy with Sasha," Cash replied quickly, his voice sounding as if he needed to convince himself as much anyone else.
"I wasn't talking about Sasha," Jenni said with a sly, almost seductive smile. Again Cash was struck speechless, and Jenni turned to walk out of the bar before the Gangrel could come up with a response. Jenni darted quickly through the thin crowd in the front of the club, and then out onto the street. She quickly hid, and saw Cash come out the front door with Jana closely in tow. The Gangrel both scanned the street, looking for the child. They gave up quickly however, and got on their bikes and took off back toward the Mission District.
"That could have gone better," Jenni muttered to herself as she watched the motorcycles fade off into the distance. Still, she thought, he will be mine yet. I just need to make him understand just how much he wants me.
III
Daedalus walked through the dark sewer slowly, listening intently for any sign of his friend. Though there was no light in the damp tunnel, the primogen of the Nosferatu clan was able to see clearly. The two red pinpoints of light in the sewer's gloom were the only indication of the vampire's presence, and also betrayed the fact that he had the kindred ability to see in complete darkness. Daedalus had just begun to lose hope in finding one of the last Nosferatu that still lived in San Francisco when he heard a slight noise to his left. His head spun quickly, revealing only a rat scurrying through a shallow puddle. For an instant Daedalus considered snatching up the rodent and making dinner of it, but he quickly put the thought out f his mind. He was here to find Rex. There would be time to feed later.
"Rex," Daedalus called out weakly, as if he expected no response. He listened for a few moments, and then continued on. The nightly search for the members of his clan had become custom for the Nosferatu primogen. For over three months the Nosferatu, or sewer rats as they were derisively referred to by the surface dwelling kindred, had been disappearing. Initially, Daedalus had thought that a slow exodus of his people was taking place. Such an event was not uncommon. When the Brujah had gone to war shortly after the departures began, Daedalus had assumed that some members of his clan had caught wind of the impending conflict, and had fled to safety in other cities. The apparent wisdom of this plan had been validated shortly thereafter, when Metairie, the Brujah Justicar, had shown up in the city. Something about this belief in the Nosferatu choosing to leave had never sat well with Daedalus, however. He had been alive for centuries, and he had seen migrations of the Nosferatu before. This time had been different.
Daedalus had almost gone to Julian with the problem, but at the time the prince had been struggling with the Brujah war and the presence of their Justicar. The last thing Julian Luna had needed was another problem. So Daedalus had hidden the situation, hoping it would work itself out. Now, however, he became aware that it was not working out at all. Several members of his clan had sworn they would not follow the others to wherever they had gone, but they had now also disappeared. Daedalus had become convinced that something was going on that he did not know about. He had discussed the situation with Rex, his most trusted friend within the clan, and the younger Nosferatu had eagerly volunteered to wander around the sewers and look for any sign of what had happened.
Daedalus suddenly smiled as the thought of Rex being the younger Nosferatu leapt into his mind. While it was true that Rex was indeed younger, he was himself over two centuries old. He had seen many things, and had always stood beside Daedalus, whom he considered his mentor. When Goth had returned several years earlier, threatening to take control of the clan away from Daedalus, it had been Rex that had gone to the other Nosferatu on his primogen's behalf. He convinced many to stay with their primogen, to not give in to the temptations of power that Goth had presented. Daedalus had always felt in debt to Rex for his intercession, and resolved once again to find his friend. He wandered down another tunnel, going further and further into the old areas of the sewer, catacombs that had not been seen by any mortal for over a century.
Ahead of him Daedalus suddenly saw a form on the ground, half concealed in a pool of stagnant, putrid water. He rushed ahead, his black cloak billowing out behind him. Daedalus reached the form and recognized it immediately as Rex's body. He reached down, searching for any signs of life. Though there was, of course, no pulse to find, there were several indicators that Daedalus could check. He immediately looked at Rex's eyes, and saw the blank expression of death in his friend's gaze. Had he been in torpor, the eyes would still have held a glimmer of life. It was beyond doubt, though, that Rex was dead.
Daedalus began to pore over the corpse, searching for any sign of what had killed his friend. It did not take long. Almost immediately he discovered two holes in Rex's neck, at the jugular vein. The younger Nosferatu had been fed upon by another kindred. Daedalus shuddered in horror as he realized that Rex may have been diablerized, his strength taken by his attacker. The Nosferatu primogen rose to feet and howled, releasing all of the primal rage in his soul. He wanted revenge, but he was unable to gain it. He had no idea who had committee this crime. He would need help. Daedalus lifted the body of his friend over his shoulder and began to race off, back toward the surface. He would first burn the body to protect the Masquerade, as Rex would have wished. Then he would go to the home of Julian Luna. It was obvious to Daedalus that many, perhaps all, of the disappearances had been due to the slow murder of the Nosferatu clan. Daedalus realized that he would need Julian's aid and resources. Eventually, though, he would gain vengeance for the blood of his clanmates. He swore it.
IV
Vincenzo Gambioni walked slowly behind the hostess of the Campton Place Restaurant. Following him closely was Kristen Genetti, one of the most accomplished of his underlings. Normally, he would not have been seen in public without at least two or three bodyguards, but he knew that he was perfectly safe in Kristen's hands. Besides, he thought, the meeting is in a private room. Should things go wrong, he knew he would be more than capable of defending himself. The hostess led the couple to a small room with a round table, already occupied by four men. Vincenzo looked the group over before he sat. Two of them he recognized – Michael Morini and Eddie Farona. The other two, he knew, were bodyguards, and thus not worth any attention. The large guards looked Kristen over with obvious amusement, and Vincenzo knew that his granddaughter was probably just as amused as the two men were. No one at the table knew the extent of Kristen's talents. Had they even known half of what she was capable, she would never have been permitted to enter the building.
Vincenzo considered his two counterparts as he sat down, picking a napkin off of the table and spreading it gently on his lap. Eddie Farona, commonly known as Crazy Eddie, was the reckless head of the Santo crime family in San Francisco. Blond hair and a fair complexion betrayed Eddie's Neopolitan heritage. While he was still Italian, he was not Sicilian, and this had always been seen as a handicap in the eyes of many of the city's older crime bosses. Eddie had considered his heritage a challenge, and nothing more. The Santo family had a vise-like grip on virtually all of the so-called "soft" drug trade in the city, including marijuana, amphetamines, and LSD. A few smaller operators were tolerated, but for the best deals in the Bay Area, everyone who was anyone knew that the Santos were the people to see. Eddie had grown up without showing any significant promise. Indeed, he had been considered no more than a thug. As time wore on, the initial impressions of his character proved to be completely accurate. He had become one of the most eager and trusted trigger-men in the family. However, when the Justice Department's Agency on Organized Crime had investigated Farona's superiors, the young Eddie Farona had lost the guidance of the family's leaders' wisdom. Within two years of the supposed collapse of the family, Eddie had rebuilt the Santos' power by waging a bloody war with the Tong, the Japanese Yakuza, and the families of both of the other men in the room. He had gotten assistance from Eddie Fiori, one of the more influential mobsters in the city a few years earlier, and with Fiori's unexpected demise, Farona had been released of any obligations. He had been almost unstoppable ever since. The only thing that had prevented him from making a play for the entire city was Julian Luna, the man that had controlled Fiori. Julian would never allow a large-scale war to take place. Eddie, however, had begun to claim that there was hope. That was the reason for their meeting.
Michael Morini, unlike Farona, was more of the prototypical Italian Don. He was dark-haired and had a matching dark complexion. His deep brown eyes displayed his intelligence and ruthlessness, betraying the warm smile that he always wore to ingratiate himself to those around him. The one factor against Michael's holding of power in the Vinci family was his age – he was only twenty-eight years old. None of the Dons in Chicago or New York had supported him when he had been moved into control of the family two years earlier, but they had eventually all come around. Now he was one of the most highly regarded Dons west of the Mississippi. Only Don Gambioni himself was accorded more respect. Surprisingly, this was Vincenzo's first opportunity to meet Morini. The younger Don had been in hiding for the greater part of the last two years, as he was a marked man in the eyes of not only many of his own people, but also in the eyes of the street gang that had once been ruled over by Fiori. They had come under the control of a man known only as Cameron. With the fall of Eddie Fiori, the Vincis had attempted to get out of the life of organized crime, preferring legitimate industry. Cameron, however, would not allow the Vinci family to escape. The Vincis were well-known racketeers and professional muscle. Cameron had desired to maintain a relationship with what he considered to be useful soldiers for hire. Once Cameron had been killed, Morini had succeeded in restraining his people from hiring out to other interests, and focused the Vinci family on controlling racketeering and prostitution. Cameron's successor, a man known as Rayce, had seemed to have similar aspirations, and the Vincis, along with their Don, had acquired their freedom.
Seeing Vincenzo Gambioni for the first time, Michael Morini was suddenly aware of why everyone considered the man to be one of the greatest forces in the city. Everything about the aging Don screamed out "power." Although he appeared to be in his late fifties, perhaps even his early sixties, Vincenzo held himself proudly, standing almost six feet tall. His shoulders were wide and obviously still well muscled despite his age. He carried a cane, though it was obviously ornamental, as each of his long strides was taken with purpose and strength. The manner in which he examined the men seated at the table with him indicated how little he was impressed with them. His eyes betrayed the requisite respect that he held for the men that shared his station in life, but it was quite clear that he did not consider either of them to be his equal.
"So let's get started," Eddie said before Kristen had even sat down. Vincenzo looked at Farona with an almost dismissing glance, and waited for his bodyguard to be seated comfortably before he responded. Morini followed the lead of the older Don, mentally taking notes of everything that Gambioni did. He had already come to the conclusion that when he grew old, he would like to be seen in the same way as the head of the Gambioni family was. He knew well the history of the Gambionis. They had wrested control of all of the now-defunct De Roma family's interests, and then consolidated to control illegal gambling in the entire Bay Area. All of the other Gambioni family's interests were legitimate, and their wealth could only be guessed at.
"Why are you in such a hurry?" Vincenzo finally asked Farona. "We will most likely be at this table for quite awhile, enjoying an exquisite meal. Must we rush into business? It can disturb the palate." Morini smiled as Gambioni spoke, and Farona blushed slightly. Still, however, the head of the Santo family pushed on.
"There's a lot I want to discuss with you guys in those two short hours," Eddie replied, his speech fast. "I want to make sure we cover everything."
"I assure you, we will not cover everything tonight, despite what you wish," Vincenzo replied, noting approvingly that thus far, Morini had been wise enough to hold his tongue. The head of the Vinci family would wait and see which of the other two Dons would control the situation. He apparently had no desire to split their interests three ways so early in the evening.
"What do you mean?" Eddie asked. His eyes blinked quickly, keeping pace with his words. Both of the other Dons had already decided that the rumors of Eddie's use of the family's amphetamines was probably true.
"We came here to toss around a few ideas," Vincenzo replied. "The specifics can be worked out later." He looked over to Morini again, and when the young Don nodded, Vincenzo knew that his opinion on the meeting would hold sway. Given the support of the Vinci family, Vincenzo continued. "You come here to ask for an alliance, yes?" Gambioni asked Farona. "You wish to rush headlong into another war?" His disapproving tone let Eddie know exactly where he stood with the Gambioni family, and he decided that his best chance at gaining allies would be in getting Morini to back him. Still, he knew, he would have to make a good case to Vincenzo Gambioni, lest Morini just blindly follow the older Don's example. Eddie could already see the awe in which Michael held Vincenzo.
"I wish to take back what's ours," Eddie replied quickly.
"And what is it that you consider to be yours?" Vincenzo asked.
"Everything the damned Orientals took," Eddie growled. "It all belongs to us, the Italians. We were here first."
"The Tong and the Yakuza?" Vincenzo asked, referring to the Asian organized crime syndicates in San Francisco. "One would say that your ineptitude in running your businesses led to their being able to consolidate control. That's called capitalism, Eddie. Supply and demand. Competition in the marketplace. You lost, deal with it. I don't think either the Gambioni family or the Vinci family is in a hurry to fight your lost war for you. What the Asians now hold is nothing that we want."
"Absolutely not," Morini agreed, finally breaking his silence. "Your family is in competition with these two other organizations. They control the cocaine and heroine, and you want it. My family has no interest in such things." Eddie looked from one Don to the other, trying to formulate a strategy to break the unified front that they were presenting against him. For a brief moment, he considered pulling his pistol from his pocket and shooting each of the men through the head. Perhaps their successors would be more reasonable.
The tension was broken when two waitresses came in with trays loaded with food. The Dons had ordered before arriving, and all had forgone any appetizers or salad in favor of skipping directly to the main course. Had things gone poorly, as they were quickly seeming they would, none of them wanted to be caught sitting at the table for longer than they would have liked, and none was comfortable with the faux pas of an early exit. All six people waited as the waitresses placed broiled lobster in front of Eddie, Michael, and their bodyguards. Both Kristen and Vincenzo were served huge steaks, neither one very thoroughly cooked.
"But Luna won't help out," Farona said a few moments after the waitresses had left, deciding he could still persuade at least one of the men before him. He knew that while neither man said it, the real reason for their hesitation was the fact that Julian Luna had always taken an interest in maintaining the city's peace. If he were indeed to stay out of the fighting, keeping his incredibly effective enforcers on the sidelines, both men might be willing to reconsider their decisions.
"It makes no difference," Morini reiterated. "My family is interested in going legit. We have nothing to gain by fighting this war."
"Can you guarantee that Luna will not partake?" Vincenzo asked, surprising everyone at the table with his shift in position. Farona had thought that the younger Morini would be the more likely man to want war. When Michael had declined, Eddie had begun to resign himself to the belief that the Santo family would be alone in the fight. Now he began to have hope.
"So you're interested?" Farona asked the old Don with a crafty smile.
"Simply intrigued," Gambioni replied. "I think that is a more accurate word." He would need far more than Farona's guarantee that Julian Luna would stay out of the fight. He knew more than either of the other two about Luna. First and foremost, he knew that Julian and his enforcers were vampires, that stopping them if they were to become involved would be costly both in money and lives. Luna's true nature did not frighten Gambioni, however. It simply added another variable to be considered.
"Luna hasn't met with any of us in over two years," Farona stated simply. "He's lost the heart for the business. He's retired. As far as we're concerned, Julian Luna is dead." Vincenzo smiled at the irony of the words, but sat in silence, thinking for a few moments before he spoke.
"As you say, things change," Vincenzo said. "He may indeed have retired. As my family has no one close to Luna, and I assume neither of you do either, I feel there is only one way to test you theory, Eddie."
"What did you have in mind?" Farona asked, getting excited. He could see in Vincenzo's eyes that the old Gambioni was willing to go to war. Morini could not believe that Vincenzo was ready to fight for illegal interests that his family had renounced years earlier. What neither man could guess was that the Don of the Gambioni family had his own scheme in mind, and that he would need some soldiers in order to achieve his goals.
"A string of assassinations across the city would be a nice start," Vincenzo answered, looking directly into Farona's eyes. The head of the Santo family was somewhat unnerved by Gambioni's gaze, but he held his eyes in a tense stare in return. "The targets will be ones of my choosing, Eddie, though I assure you that you will be satisfied." The old Don cut and ate a large piece of his steak, blood dripping from the meat down his chin. Vincenzo appeared oblivious to his appearance, instead seeming to relish the taste of the almost raw beef.
"Your people will do the jobs, as well?" Eddie asked. Eddie was hoping that he would not have to risk his own soldiers hitting the targets that Vincenzo chose, but he would not have been surprised if Gambioni had been presumptuous enough to plan to use the Santo family's men.
"They will all be my people," Vincenzo replied. Kristen knew that she would be the one called upon to undertake the assassinations, and she was pleased that she would again be seeing some action. It had been too long, in her opinion, since she had been able to kill.
"And what do you think will happen?" Eddie asked. He wanted to know how Vincenzo's plan would answer any questions about Luna's intentions. He realized from the looks on both Morini's and Gambioni's faces that the matter seemed obvious, and he was angry at them for being so smug in their intelligence. Once again he considered shooting the two Dons, but calmed himself down with a great expenditure of effort.
"Julian will have to call us all together," Vincenzo replied, explaining the simple plan he had come up with. "If he does not, the peace will be threatened. He would never risk that." Don Gambioni knew well the kindred law of the Masquerade, and knew that Luna would do everything in his power to keep things under control, lest too many people start poking their noses into matters that did not concern them. "If Luna takes no action against us within a week, you will have our cooperation," Vincenzo said. "If, however, his meeting takes place, you will bother us no more with your petty schemes."
"Fair enough," Farona replied, missing Gambioni's slight against his ability to formulate a worthwhile plan. All that he had heard was the agreement of the Gambioni family to his latest idea for the acquisition of power. Although the Gambioni family had always been the smallest organization in the city, they had been able to effectively defend their interests. They were generally regarded as having the finest soldiers in San Francisco.
"Then may we enjoy our meals?" Gambioni asked, tearing into his steak again.
"I don't see why not," Morini responded. Although he was nervous about the other two Italian families combining their efforts against the Asians, he had no desire to aid them. He would deal later with any long-term alliances that may grow out of the current situation. He resolved to let himself relax until such time, however. Any war against the Tong and Yakuza would be bloody, especially if Luna's people got involved. Morini was more than willing to let the other families take the casualties for awhile.
V
Julian Luna sat once again in front of the fire, Lillie Langtree sitting in a matching leather chair just inches from him. Although the prince was comfortable sitting a few feet from the flames, Lillie was still learning to relax. The only comfort she could derive was from Julian's presence, the one calming force in her life. It seemed that every time she turned around, there was another problem within her clan that needed to be dealt with. The artists of the city had begun to have a kind of feud, with painters and sculptors at odds, while actors and musicians never seemed to stay in the same room without expressing their beliefs that the 'talents' of the others were a sham. Petty arguments had become the norm in the artistic community, and Lillie had virtually had it with all of the temperamental artists in the city. Of course, she could not broach the subject with Julian. First of all, he would never have understood the differences that many artists felt they had from each other. In his Ventrue eyes, there was little difference between the skills of a painter and sculptor. He would probably not even appreciate the subtle rivalries between trumpet and saxophone players, she thought wryly. Besides, she realized that Julian had similar problems of his own. Economic warfare seemed to have broken out amongst many of the city's richer inhabitants. It would not be long, she realized, before the tension in the city reached a boiling point.
Julian looked at Lillie, oblivious to the thoughts that raced through her head. Unlike her, he was not disturbed by the current mood of the city's inhabitants. He had seen it all before. Julian Luna had been in the business world long enough to realize that things ran in cycles, and that there would be periods of incredible stability, such as during wartime production in the early forties, and times of financial war, such as the takeover-ridden eighties. His businesses, he felt, would be a constant. He had survived before, and he would again. What touched Julian most was the fact that while so much had changed recently within his city, there was relative peace.
The Brujah had been all but exterminated. Their civil war had resulted in the death of virtually every member of the clan, on both sides of the conflict. The Gangrel had broken from Julian's conclave, being more concerned with strengthening themselves from the inside rather than building a place of political power. The Tremere had been strangely silent. Patrick Collins had advised the prince that his clan would be withdrawn for awhile, seeking to experiment a slight bit with the Tremere blood magic known as Thaumaturgy. The Telemon had also been fairly aloof. Matt Reimer had been busy training several ghouls, deciding which of his soldiers he felt was worthy of embrace into the clan. His lieutenant, Magnus Horzbach, had been occupied with increasing the defenses of the Telemon compound. Word on the street was that the home of the Telemon was a fortress more formidable than the home of the prince. Julian did not doubt that this was true. As if to accent his point, he saw one of his guards walk down the hall just outside of his study. It was a Toreador. The artists had never been widely thought of as soldiers, but Julian had found them to be rather efficient. He knew, however, that being efficient was not necessarily the same as being effective. Time would tell whether or not they were actually worthwhile.
"What do you think of the guards so far?" Lillie asked Julian, herself apparently having seen Toby, the Toreador that had just walked past.
"I'm extremely impressed," Julian replied. He lied. The prince knew that Lillie took a lot of pride in the fact that her clan was responsible for the prince's safety. He saw no reason to insult her by relating his belief that while they seemed fine enough when nothing was wrong, he seriously doubted that they would do much more than slow down many of the attackers that might one day come looking for him. Still, he admitted to himself, just having the Toreador as a human shield was better than no protection at all.
"I think they're working out just fine," Lillie commented, agreeing.
Of course you do, Julian thought in return. What the hell do you know about security, anyway? He smiled slightly at what he had wanted to say, though had successfully held back. To his amazement, Lillie seemed oblivious to his true feelings. Generally, she was able to see right through him.
"Mr. Luna?" a voice called from the doorway. Julian looked back over toward the door and saw that Toby had returned down the hall. The prince saw the somewhat distressed look on the young Toreador guard's face, and quickly had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Once again, it appeared, he had allowed himself to grow comfortable just before a crisis started in his realm.
"What is it Toby?" Julian said with a thin smile. Though he was somewhat concerned, Julian still derived amusement from the formality of the Toreador. Toby had not even set foot in the room, instead addressing the prince from the doorway. In the days of his Gangrel guards, such formality had been unheard of. Whoever was in the area would have walked right into the room and just told Julian what was going on. They would never have stayed at a respectful distance, and they certainly would never have waited for Julian to indicate that it was alright to speak with him.
Julian had always liked Toby, though. At least, he admitted silently, he liked Toby more than he liked most Toreador. The reason had probably been that Toby should never have been embraced into the Toreador clan in the first place. He was, in many ways, more like the Ventrue. He appreciated power and wanted to gain some for himself. He actually had little appreciation of the arts. He had been in Berkley, and was paying his way through law school by playing in a local band. One of the Toreador had been so impressed with his talent that she had embraced him. She had overlooked the fact that Toby was not enraptured with his music. He played only as a means to an end. He had wanted to become a rich, influential corporate lawyer. Becoming kindred had destroyed that dream, though it had certainly allowed him to build new ones. Like any Ventrue, Toby appreciated the power of money over time. He planned to be a multi-millionaire within twenty years. From Julian's experience, this would certainly be possible. He even had occasional talks with the Toreador when no one was around, counseling him in investment strategy. In all, Julian expected Toby to be one of the more influential Toreador within fifty years. The prince wanted to make sure that Toby had fond memories of his time in the Luna mansion.
"Someone is here to see you," Toby said. "He says it's rather important."
"Great," Julian said with a sigh. He had visions of Basil Romanov strutting into his home again, needing to be introduced to one or another of the Bay Area's politicians or businessmen. "Show him in," Julian instructed, turning quickly to Lillie. The Toreador primogen did not miss the sign, and stood to walk out of the room, leaving the prince to conduct his business in private. She was shocked, however, when she reached the door and almost ran into Daedalus, who appeared extremely distressed.
"What's wrong?" Lillie asked quickly. Daedalus smiled, impressed at how genuinely concerned the Toreador had sounded. He knew better, though. She wished only to gain an advantage, to find out what was going on before anyone else did. He would not treat her to the information she wanted, however.
"It is a private matter," Daedalus replied respectfully. "I'm sure you understand." The Nosferatu walked into Julian's study, not looking back to see the indignant look on Lillie's face. She was surprised that Daedalus could still see through her so easily. What she did not understand, though, was that Daedalus was no better at seeing through her than anyone else was. He simply understood that people like Lillie never changed. He would never accept the possibility that she could care about anyone but herself. As a result, she would never be able to charm information from him unless he felt it was in his own best interests to have her know. This was not such an occasion.
Once Lillie had walked down the hall, Daedalus softly closed the door to the study. He looked at Julian for a few moments, trying to gauge his reaction, and then sat down in the chair that Lillie had vacated moments earlier.
Julian had been surprised to see Daedalus walk in, though it had explained a bit. The Toreador, so enraptured with beauty, were more affected than any of the other kindred when faced with the often gruesome appearance of the Nosferatu. Even Toby was affected by the blood enough to give pause in the face of the Nosferatu. Indeed, Julian thought upon seeing Daedalus enter, there may not be anything wrong after all. He figured the primogen might simply want to talk. When the Nosferatu had sat down, however, the prince knew that his hopes had been in vain. There was obviously something wrong, and Daedalus was finding the subject very difficult to address. Had it been otherwise, he would have begun speaking immediately. Instead, he sat and gazed at the fire. Julian knew that his friend was reciting what he would say, making sure that he chose his words perfectly.
"I have a problem, and I need your help," Daedalus finally said, breaking the silence. The Nosferatu's directness surprised the prince, and Julian found himself staring at his friend, not knowing how to respond. Daedalus had never asked for help. He was widely regarded as the strongest of the kindred in the city. Even when challenged by Goth, another extremely powerful Nosferatu, Daedalus had not requested aid from the prince. Julian had forced himself into the situation, knowing that politically it was the wiser course of action.
"What do you need?" Julian asked instantly, no hint of his surprise displayed on his face. He did not need to know what it was that Daedalus needed before he made his decision. The Nosferatu primogen was the prince's one true friend, as far as Julian was concerned. Anything that Daedalus needed, he would receive.
"My clan is disappearing," Daedalus said grimly. "There has been no trace of any of them until tonight, when I found a body."
"How many are we talking about here?" Julian asked, needing to know details before he could come up with a plan to deal with the situation.
"All of them," Daedalus replied. Julian noticed a small drop of blood form in the corner of Daedalus' eye – a teardrop. Julian had no idea how to respond. He had always known Daedalus to have a deeply emotional soul, but he had never exposed it to the outside world in such a manner. In a hundred years, Julian had never seen Daedalus cry.
"How long has this been going on?" Julian asked, hoping that a return to conversation would help divert Daedalus' attention from the pain. When the Nosferatu's eyes cleared and he obviously began thinking rationally again, Julian mentally patted himself on the back.
"For a few months," Daedalus replied. "It was just before the Brujah civil war. You asked me the night that Metairie showed up whether something was wrong, and I told you everything was fine. This was the problem that was on my mind at that time. I simply did not feel the need to include you. It was a matter for my own clan to deal with. Besides, you had enough problems."
"You still could have told me," Julian said. "It was my responsibility to look into it. I am the prince, after all." He smiled thinly, knowing that it would have been unreasonable to expect Daedalus to come to him any sooner with the problem. The Nosferatu was proud, and did not want to appear as if he needed help with any of his problems.
"What if they're all simply hiding?" Julian asked. "Could this be another situation like Goth's return? The Nosferatu disappeared from sight during that affair, as well."
"No," Daedalus replied, rejecting the prince's suggestion outright. "I would have at least heard something. There was nothing this time. They would just disappear slowly – one here, one there. It wasn't even as if there was a mass exodus from the city. It was too gradual. Something is very wrong in San Francisco, Julian."
The prince gazed deeply into the fire, as if the flames would suddenly present him with an answer to his problem. He believed the Nosferatu. Indeed, there was no reason for Daedalus to lie to him. He never had before. Still, Julian had no idea what he could do. The Nosferatu lived within the sewers below his city. He had not even known how many of them there were. How would he even know what to look for, or more importantly, where to start looking? He looked across to Daedalus again, and saw the defeated expression on his friend's face. Daedalus would need every bit of help he could offer.
"I'll see what I can do," Julian finally said. He held back his doubts, his confusion in the face of this problem. Despite the fact that Daedalus was his best friend, he would not reveal his limitations to him. Only Archon had been permitted to see the weaker side of Julian Luna. With his sire now dead, Julian had no one to go to when presented with self-doubt. Still, he would never betray weakness.
"Thank you," Daedalus replied softly. The Nosferatu rose and walked briskly out of the room, not making a sound as he moved. He had seemed completely satisfied in Julian's ability to handle the situation. For a brief moment, the prince of San Francisco felt guilty for having deceived his best friend. Such are the ways of people with power, Julian decided. Friends were a luxury that one could not afford, as sooner or later, a man in power would have to lie even to his closest friend in the world.
Julian reached to the small, polished oak table that sat on the left side of his chair, and lifted the receiver off of the phone. He quickly dialed the number of Sonny's cell-phone, and waited for the response.
"Yeah?" came Sonny's voice after only one ring. Julian's childe knew well that few people had the number to his phone, and that any call he received would doubtlessly be extremely important. He would always answer as quickly as possible.
"Sonny, I need you check into any reports of unusual events in the city," Julian instructed. "Also, see if there have been any problems with city employees in the sewers, and check into anything that you might come up with."
"Sure thing," Sonny replied quickly.
"This is important, Sonny," Julian said. He knew it was unnecessary to say the words, as any call that Sonny received from his sire would be given utmost importance, but Julian felt the need to stress the urgency anyway. "And be discreet," the prince added, also unnecessarily. Julian then hung up the phone and gazed once more into the fire. He had a sense of foreboding, an unusually chilling dread of what was to come. He sensed that he would soon be faced with another great test of leadership. Strange, he suddenly thought. Usually, he would get a warning from Johnny Yashida, the Telemon harbinger of doom, before one of the city's great crises. Perhaps things were not as bad as he thought, he tried to tell himself.
VI
Johnny Yashida floored the gas of his new BMW Z3 roadster as he raced down the narrow streets that led to the Telemon Compound. The area was strictly residential, and he was certain that the wealthy residents did not appreciate his flaunting of the 25-mph speed limit, but he did not care. He was running late. He looked down at the speedometer – 93-mph. For a brief second he wondered what he would do if a child ran out in front of him. With that thought Johnny eased up on the gas a little, deciding that he had no desire to damage his car before he even had 500 miles on it.
Johnny reached the gates to the compound, and pressed the automatic door opener that he had on his dashboard. He hardly came to a complete stop as he waited for the heavy, wrought iron gate to open, and sped past the first checkpoint. As he rounded a slight curve in the drive, he could see the inner gate already opening. The guards at the inner perimeter had already looked at him through the cameras at the front wall, and knew that he would not want to be held up. By the time he reached the gate, he was able to drive straight through and up to the mansion.
Below the house, Magnus Horzbach shook his head slowly in disgust. He could not believe that the guards had opened the gate without confirming Johnny's identity, or at least giving the car a quick examination to make sure no one had him at gunpoint in order to force him into gaining them entrance. The guards would need to be spoken with.
Johnny pulled up next to Magnus, and the German looked down to see his reflection dimly reflected off of the black paint. He had to give Johnny credit for one thing – at least he bought German cars. The one compliment faded from his mind quickly, though, and he prepared himself for the discussion that he felt was long overdue. Magnus had reached the end of his patience with his blood brother.
"So where did you steal this from?" he asked as Johnny climbed out of the driver's seat. Magnus wanted to immediately put Johnny on the defensive.
"I bought this one," Johnny replied, the cheerful look on his face vanishing instantly with Magnus' insult. While Yashida was willing to admit that he was a thief, and a rather good one, he believed, he had no patience for others looking down on him because of his occupation. He knew that Magnus saw him as inferior because he was smaller and weaker than any other member of the clan. Still, he would not back down if Magnus was looking for a good argument. "I would hook you up with a good deal if only you had more than a buck fifty in your bank account." Magnus simply smiled in response. He had more money than any member of the clan except, perhaps, for Yashida, and everyone knew it. His lack of style was what Johnny had actually been attacking. While Magnus was wealthy, he had no desire to pamper himself with many of the amenities that Yashida found to be a staple of existence.
"There are a few things that I wish to discuss with you, brother," Magnus said, stressing the last word as he slowly rounded the car to come face to face with the smaller Telemon. Johnny realized immediately that he was in for an extremely serious conversation, and considered leaving. He had no desire to be serious. Magnus had come up to him, however, and Johnny knew that the German would probably not allow him to leave until he had been heard out.
"When will you be leaving San Francisco?" Magnus asked, bluntly getting to the point.
"When I get around to it," Johnny replied sarcastically, not willing to back down. He was immediately aware that he had apparently worn out his welcome, at least in Magnus' eyes, but he wanted to know how bad the situation was. More importantly, he wanted to know whether Matt also wanted him to leave.
"I have grown tired of your interference, Yashida," Magnus growled. Johnny immediately recognized that Magnus was speaking only for himself, and not for anyone else in the clan, though he was willing to admit that the German was probably not alone in his feelings. That was why Magnus had faced him alone. This was not a conversation that had been sanctioned by Matt, the primogen of the clan in the city. Knowing that official clan policy was not yet against his presence, Johnny began to grow more confident, and decided to stand up to Magnus. He had done so rarely enough, and he knew that he was in a position to do so. Siras, the head of the clan, had never fully resolved the status of the two in relation to each other. That had always irritated Magnus, who refused to accept that Johnny could be seen as his equal.
"What the hell do you mean, interference?" Johnny asked. "I'm not the one that went behind Matt's back and offered to sell weapons to both sides during the Brujah war." Johnny hoped that his accusation would stun Magnus into silence. The German had no idea that anyone had known about his scheming behind Matt's back a few months earlier. It was not a major transgression, they both knew, but it would not look good to either Matt or Siras if such a truth were discovered.
"It's funny you should mention the Brujah war," Magnus replied. "You got the primogen of our clan to enter the fighting without ever explaining to him why it was allowed. You could have gotten us all killed."
"But we're all still very much alive," Johnny replied with a smile, taking pleasure in the fact that his glibness would just further infuriate the other Telemon.
"You also assassinated Rayce without any authorization," Magnus replied, obviously growing angrier with every passing second. "Were the other primogen to find out what you did, our position would be severely jeopardized. As it is, Julian Luna can now hold that over our heads for years." Magnus waited for Johnny to reply with one of his witty remarks, and was surprised when Yashida held his tongue. It had appeared he was about to say something, but had instead remained silent. Seeing no resistance coming from his adversary, Magnus continued.
"I know what part you played in Angelica's death," Magnus said angrily. "You pushed and pushed until Siras gave you permission to extinguish her. What do you think the others would say if they ever found out about that?" Johnny revealed his surprise that Magnus had found out that Johnny had executed Angelica during the Sabbat siege of the city, but he quickly recovered.
"They would probably thank me," Johnny said evenly. "The bitch was an anarchistic terrorist that had been trained by the IRA. She had no loyalty to us. In fact, she had trained some of our own enemies, knowing full well they would put her techniques to use against us. She was a catastrophe waiting to happen. Siras had the intelligence to see that. I can't say, though, that I'm surprised you missed that detail."
"Your thievery has given the clan a bad reputation," Magnus added angrily, continuing his accusations. "You of all people should understand what image can mean in kindred society. There are people laughing at us."
"No," Johnny said quickly. "There are people laughing at you. You have to learn to loosen up."
Magnus passed on continuing the verbal exchange and instead grabbed Johnny by the throat and lifted him off of the ground. With his free hand he struck the smaller Telemon in the chest, the sickening crunch of bone betraying the fact that several of Johnny's ribs had been broken. "Do you realize that I could rip your head from your body with the greatest of ease?" Magnus said in a menacing voice. "Please, give me a reason. Do you think people would be laughing now?"
"Yeah, I do," Johnny replied with a slight grin, knowing he risked sudden death.
"Why is that?" Magnus asked smugly. The only response he received was an almost inaudible click. He looked down to see that Yashida held a sawed-off shotgun aimed directly at his heart. Magnus immediately dropped the smaller Telemon. He knew well that the shotgun Johnny had brought to bear against him contained phosphorous rounds. If Yashida had pulled the trigger at point-blank range, Magnus would have been left with a charred crater where his chest had once been.
"It didn't have to be like this, you know," Johnny said, feeling the need to diffuse any remaining anger that Magnus felt. He was afraid that the German would pull his own gun and disable him first, and then close for the kill. Johnny knew he probably would not survive such an attack. Magnus was simply too strong.
"Leave the city," Magnus said, repeating his desire to rid himself of Yashida's interference in the clan's business.
"Eventually," Johnny replied. "Rest assured, this is not my home. For now I'm just resting until Siras has a new assignment for me."
"You never relaxed here before," Magnus replied. He knew that Johnny had historically only shown up when he knew something was wrong in the city. He had always disappeared any other time he felt the need to get some down time.
"No, I didn't," Johnny agreed. "Last time I went on vacation, I wound up in New York. Spending time in Manhattan and Staten Island was not exactly therapeutic. I have no desire to go somewhere I could end up entangled in Sabbat politics again. That shouldn't happen here, so here is where I choose to relax."
"What exactly do you do that you need a vacation from?" Magnus asked, finally coming to the topic that was truly bothering him. He had always seen the relative freedom that Johnny enjoyed in the clan, while everyone else was loaded down with responsibility. He had had enough, and wanted to know why Johnny seemed to be so special.
"What do you mean?" Johnny asked, already suspecting the motives behind Magnus' question.
"What is your role in the clan?" Magnus clarified. "Why do we still have you in the clan when we've gone to great lengths to unload other dead weight, such as Butterfly and Angelica."
"Every army requires diplomats and spies," Johnny answered, choosing his words carefully. "I fulfill both needs." He knew that his response could lead Magnus to realizing a great truth, but he said the words just the same. He feared that Magnus would guess that Johnny had pushed for the death of Angelica not only because of her crimes, but also because within a few short years, she would be able to duplicate many of the skills that he himself brought to the table. He feared being made obsolete, as he would then be expendable.
"So you wander around and spy on everyone for the clan?" Magnus asked. "Are you spying on me?"
"Absolutely," Johnny answered. "I want to make sure that your actions are consistent with the goals of the clan."
"And who are you to decide what the goals of the clan are?" Magnus asked, becoming suspicious of Johnny's motives.
"I am the second child of Siras, the founder of the clan," Johnny answered. He refrained from his more boisterous answer. In many ways, Johnny knew, he was the policy maker of the Telemon clan. While it was true that Siras made all of the ultimate decisions, and had done so for the entire short history of the clan, he was subject to the information with which Johnny presented him. Yashida had not always been entirely honest with his sire, seeing value in keeping secrets. He never did so maliciously, or to purposefully manipulate his sire. He often only suppressed information temporarily, and his greatest secrets were his sources of information rather than the information itself. Still, he knew, Magnus would never understand the fine line that he was drawing.
"Remember that I am the first childe of Siras," Magnus replied. He wanted to make sure, once again, that Johnny understood his place in the clan.
"Like you'd ever let me forget," Yashida said sarcastically. "All you need to know is that I have been given a mandate from our sire, and I will follow it faithfully. My loyalty, like yours, is to my clan before all other things. Don't ever try this interrogation shit with me again." With that, Johnny bumped into Magnus as he climbed back into his car and took off back down the driveway. The irritation he had been feeling faded extremely quickly, almost too quickly. However, Yashida did not notice. Instead, he thought about where he would be able to meet up with Uiko and Mason. He also wanted to spend time with Michelle, but she was busy on a job, and he would have to wait until daybreak before he saw her.
Yashida reached the road and drove along at 30-mph, making sure he did not hit any late-night joggers or other random pedestrians. He had hoped to spend time with Matt that night, but that would have to wait until another time. Johnny wondered how many more chances he would have, however. K.T. had warned him the night before that his sources said something was very wrong in the Bay Area. No one had any idea what it was, only that things were not what they should have been. Johnny silently wondered if K.T. could have been any more ambiguous, but decided that he should not expect anything else. K.T. was what he was, and he had always been mysterious. Johnny looked up at the moon and wondered what could possibly be wrong in a city that had such a beautiful sky.
VII
Inside the dark, noiseless basement of the Tremere chantry, Mario Cabrezzi silently mouthed the words to a complex ritual. He had long been considered a prodigy among the Tremere in the study of Thaumaturgy, the warlocks' dreaded blood magic. He had finally decided to move beyond the limitations that had usually been placed upon one so young. He had heard the words of encouragement from his elders for long enough. He would finally prove his ability by creating a new ritual.
One of the most sought after goals of Thaumaturgical practitioners was to use the blood magic to block the abilities of the Tremeres' enemies. Over the centuries, the warlocks had realized the need for secrecy. Some of the oldest kindred were able to see through the facades commonly used by the Tremere, however. They were capable of looking into the very hearts and minds of the warlocks, employing telepathy and empathy against the Tremere. Mario felt that he had finally discovered a way to prevent this violation of his clan's privacy. All he needed was the courage to experiment. He finally felt as though he had it.
He walked slowly within a twenty-foot wide circle, closely examining every square inch of the floor on which he would carry out his experiment. He knew that the recently-laid cobblestones had been swept over a dozen times in preparation for his rituals, but he felt the need to make certain that there were no impurities in the area which could lead to unexpected results. Members of his clan had been destroyed by being sloppy. He would not make the same mistake. After about twenty minutes of poring over the dark stone floor, Mario was finally satisfied that the basement was prepared for his workings.
The experiment that Mario had planned would be undertaken in two steps. Before he could be certain that his new ritual was capable of erecting an impenetrable wall against empathic ability, Mario would first need to perform another ritual. This would give him the ability of empathy – he would be able to feel the emotions of those around him. The first ritual was fairly simple, he knew, and created virtually no risk for the practitioner. He began to mutter the words of the ritual, and walked over toward a silver brazier that sat on an ornate stand in the center of the room. Earlier he had placed pine chips and incense in the brazier, and with a flourish the Tremere struck a match and dropped it into the magical components, sparking a flame to life.
Mario continued chanting, and he could feel his awareness slowly expand. He sliced his wrist open with a silver stiletto, and allowed his blood to slowly drip into the fire. Immediately his head began to swim, and the only thing the Tremere could sense was the scent of the incense. He was not aware of anything else, his universe consisting of nothing more than absolute, silent blackness. He felt as if he was detached from his body in the inky darkness for hours, then felt himself snap back to reality with a shocking suddenness. He knew he had been incoherent for only moments, and grinned as he began to feel his senses return to him. The details of the room became clearer, and he could once again hear the low hum of the city that existed outside of the chantry. Along with his other sense, he also felt a sixth. He could sense emotions – the emotions of every living being anywhere within a 100-foot radius. The feeling was exhilarating at first, but then Mario began to feel the subtlety of a feeling that was present in everyone near him. He could sense irritation. Everyone that walked by the chantry on the sidewalk outside, everyone who drove by, even his own clanmates in the building, everyone seemed to be slightly on edge.
The sensation was surprising, but Mario ignored it for the time being. What was important was that the first ritual had worked. He would have to begin the second phase, which was the ultimate goal of the entire experiment. He walked around in a circle again, making certain one last time that all was prepared. Satisfied that it was, Mario walked over toward the far side of the room. On the wall were several shelves that held the components that he would need for his second ritual. He glanced quickly toward the brazier in the center of the room, making sure it was still lit. Seeing the wisps of smoke rising from the bowl, he turned back to the shelf. He gathered a jar with dark dust, a book, a bottle that contained blood, and a second brazier. Each of the items was fairly rare, but Mario did not mind. There was an element of permanence to his ritual, and that made the expense of the working worth it.
The Tremere placed the items on the floor in the center of the room, and then lifted the jar and removed the lid. Inside was obsidian dust, combined with steel powder. The dust represented the shroud of darkness and mystery that Mario wanted to throw over those who attempted to see into the souls of those of his clan. The steel powder would bring strength to the shroud, allowing it to hold fast and resist the attempts of others to break it. Mario began to slowly pour the mixture on the floor, leaving a trail as he retraced the steps that he had taken so often in the basement. He outlined a circle on the stone, leaving the lit brazier directly in the middle. He walked around the circle a second time after tracing it on the floor with the obsidian and steel, and muttered the first incantations of his ritual. He felt a slight tingling in his fingertips, alerting him to the fact that the ritual was taking effect. The Tremere grinned slightly, and then returned to his task.
Mario then walked to the center of the circle again. He removed the lit brazier from its silver stand and placed it on the floor. He then picked up the second brazier, allowing himself a moment to admire the intricate etchings that had been worked into the gold. This brazier was fashioned from the melted-down wedding bands of failed marriages, and the gold still held the residual hatred and indifference of the former owners. Mario placed the brazier on the stand and cut his wrist again, allowing a slight bit of his blood to pour into the bowl. He then licked his wrist quickly, closing the wound, and returned to his ritual. He took the book from the floor, reading over the title quickly as he placed it in the brazier. It was the collected works of poetry of a local author. The Tremere knew well that few in the world could express the emotions of the universe as well as the poets, and thus it was crucial to include elements of these most astute members of humanity. He then picked up the first brazier, and poured the pine chips into the golden bowl. There was slight crackling as the wood fell over the paper book and slowly brought its pages to life with a low flame. Mario watched the fire grow and dance along the sides of the bowl. He was almost done.
As the fire reached the brightest Mario knew it would get, he took the last remaining component from the floor. He opened the lid of the bottle, and quickly inhaled the scent of its contents. The blood inside was fresh, and smelled sweet. It had belonged to the woman that had written the book of poetry that slowly burned as part of the ceremony. Mario began chanting the final phase of his ritual, and carefully poured the full contents of the jar around the edges of the brazier. The blood sizzled as it oozed along the heated metal. Mario continued his chanting, oblivious to the singed scent that rose in the fire's smoke. He spoke the last words, and suddenly felt his empathic contact with the world around him become severed. The Tremere looked around, and smiled. He slowly walked toward the edge of his circle, knowing that would be the test of his results.
If, when he stepped outside the circle, he was once again able to make empathic contact with those around him, he would know that the barrier he had put up had been successful. He approached the edge, and then stopped, hesitant to leave the protected area. He feared that he had failed. Mario gathered his resolve, and finally stepped outside the circle. He was immediately assaulted with a menagerie of feelings from the world around him. He smiled widely, knowing he had been successful. Out of his elation came a slowly growing sense of alarm. He did not notice it immediately, but after a minute he could not deny it.
His joy was not long-lived. A new feeling quickly raced into Mario's soul, displacing the pleasure that he had felt just moments earlier. He felt on edge, as he had during the weeks leading up to his experiment with the new ritual. The success of the ritual began to feel anticlimactic, and the experience seemed strange to the Tremere. He knew, deep down inside, that he should feel pride in the wake of his accomplishment, but he felt no such emotion. Mario took a step back, walking back into his circle, and once again was assaulted by a blast of delight. The warlock was overcome with confusion as the unexpected sensation washed over him. His feelings were contradictory. On one hand he was pleased that he was once again happy, as he would have expected himself to be. On the other hand, however, the Tremere was puzzled.
Mario cautiously stepped outside the circle again, and felt his euphoria fade once more. He felt anxious, and could not understand why. He stepped back within the circle, and began to consider the problem. It was then, with a sense of horror, that he began to understand the situation. His circle had provided protection, just as he had planned that it would. However, while it had simply been intended to provide a defense against the reading of emotions, it appeared to also protect him from an assault against him, an attack against his ability to control his own feelings. Mario remembered the passers-by, and the agitation that all of them had been feeling. He remembered the others of his clan that were in the building, and the fact that they, also, had seemed on edge.
The first thought in his head was that someone was attacking the Tremere, using subtle magical effects that would cause the clan to tear itself apart. He then thought about the other clans, and realized that not only were none of them capable of such a feat, but that they were very likely affected themselves. The Gangrel had recently seen an increase in street violence with mortal gangs. Julian's Toreador guards seemed far too willing to get in a fight. The Telemon appeared to be at each other's throats. The mortal community, too, had seemed to be affected. Mario remembered having heard on the radio that the crime rate had spiked in the previous month. The police department had become concerned with road rage, which had become all too common – there had been four shootings on the Golden Gate Bridge in just over three weeks. It seemed, Mario concluded, that every one of San Francisco's residents had been affected by the magic that he had inadvertently found a defense against.
The next question that presented itself in his mind was how such magic could possibly have been utilized without anyone noticing. The only answer he could come up with was that the onset of the effect had been gradual. No one had noticed that with each passing day there seemed to be a little more irritation. How could it have been done? Mario wondered. He could not imagine anyone capable of such works. Only human mages could possibly affect reality on such a large scale, and he found it difficult to believe that the strain of working such an effect would not have killed the practitioner. A group of mages, perhaps? Mario shook his head, knowing that he did not have the information he needed to make an educated guess as to what was happening. He would need help.
The young Tremere walked again to the edge of the circle, and braced himself for the onset of agitation that would affect him when he walked beyond the protection of his ritual. He stepped out quickly and walked up the stairs. He bounded up the steps, taking them two at a time, driving himself toward Patrick's office. He reached the door and knocked lightly. He could hear Stephen and Patrick's voices inside, and assumed that the two were in conference. It would not be proper to simply barge in, even given the circumstances. Mario waited until he was invited to enter.
"Come in," Patrick said from inside after a couple of minutes. Mario walked into the office, and saw that his suspicions had apparently been correct. Stephen was in the room with the Tremere primogen, and several papers were on the desk. Mario guessed that the pages were updates from other primogen of the clan from around the world, but he knew he would never be told for sure what was going on. He was too young.
"We have a problem," Mario stated immediately, knowing his choice of words would intrigue his elders immediately.
"What is it?" Stephen asked. "I thought you were working your ritual tonight."
"That's the problem," Mario replied. He saw the look of dread that immediately crossed the faces of the other two Tremere, and realized that he might have misspoken. Both of the other men assumed that something had gone wrong, and that they would be forced to fix the younger Tremere's mistake.
"What happened?" Patrick asked worriedly. He had already risen from his large, leather chair and was halfway around his desk.
"The ritual worked, I think," Mario replied, trying to put his elders at ease. He remembered that they were both affected by the magic that was present in the city. They would both be quick to get worked up, and he made a point to settle them down quickly. "There was simply an unexpected result."
"What?" Stephen asked, seeming intrigued.
"You have to come with me now," Mario replied, turning toward the door. "I can't simply explain it. You have to feel it for yourself."
"We have to feel it?" Patrick asked as he raced across the room and down the stairs after Mario. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Mario did not answer, and instead continued down to the basement. Patrick and Stephen followed, and were impressed when they walked into the basement and saw the neatly traced circle and the lit brazier. Mario was waiting for the two of them inside the circle.
"Come inside the circle," Mario instructed.
"Is it safe?" Patrick asked. In the back of his mind he remembered a story of a young Tremere who had failed tragically in creating a new ritual. He had become possessed by a demon, and attempted to destroy his elders. Patrick was suspicious of the situation. For all he knew, Mario had also been possessed, and he could possibly expose himself to the same fate if he walked into the circle.
"Just enter the circle," Mario repeated. His eyes seemed to be pleading, and certainly seemed to lack any malice. Patrick took a step toward the circle, and immediately felt Stephen's hand on his shoulder.
"Wait," Stephen said. "Let me go first. If something is wrong, you'll have to do something to fix it. You are the strongest warlock of us here." Patrick simply nodded in response, being more than willing to have his clanmate test the waters first.
Stephen walked into the circle, and immediately felt a change come over him. The intense, unreasoning anxiety and fear he had felt moments earlier faded quickly, almost completely. He turned to Patrick with a look of astonishment on his face, and gestured for Patrick to follow. The primogen did so, and experienced the same result.
"What the hell?" Patrick asked. "What is that? A calming effect?"
"No," Mario replied. "I think it's actually protection from an agitation effect." Both Tremere looked to the younger member of their clan in surprise, and each of them seemed to instantly arrive at the same conclusion that Mario had only minutes earlier.
"Can you duplicate this effect to protect the entire chantry?" Patrick asked. He knew that the defense of his clan was his primary responsibility. He would address any other concerns only after the safety and welfare of the Tremere had been secured.
"I'll need at least a day," Mario replied. "But yes, I think it can be done, as long as I get some help, that is."
"A mage do this?" Stephen asked. "Maybe a demon of some kind?"
"I don't know," Patrick replied. "We'll have to get in contact with our elders. Perhaps they can shed some light on the situation."
"Elders?" Mario asked, suddenly remembering something he had read years earlier. "I think I heard once that elders can affect emotions on a city-wide level."
"So it could be a mage, a demon, an elder, or something else that we don't even know of?" Stephen asked. "How should we deal with this? Can we get some other members of our clan here?"
"No," Patrick replied immediately. "We are alone here. Our superiors are already disappointed with our apparent lack of progress. The last thing they'll do is reward us with more people."
"Perhaps the time has come, then, to gain allies," Stephen suggested. "We have worked against the other clans since we arrived in the city. We might want to start working with at least one of them."
"Like who?" Patrick asked sarcastically. "Which clan would even be worth our time to approach?"
"Not the Toreador," Mario said, echoing the thoughts of his clanmates.
"The Telemon," Patrick stated. "They are strong, but seem to lack ambition and intelligence. They are the youngest and most easily manipulated of the clans, and they lack any kind of significant ties outside the city. If they feel we abuse them at all, there will be no one for them to go to with their complaint."
"Yes," Stephen responded. "The Telemon seem ideal. So what do we do?"
"You will meet with one of them," Patrick said, answering Stephen's question. "Their second in command is named Magnus, yes?" Stephen nodded in response. "I will call Reimer, and arrange for him to send Magnus to meet with you tomorrow night. You will both be going alone. Perhaps that will put their minds at ease. I don't think they particularly trust us, you know."
"I got that impression," Stephen replied with an unconcerned grin.
"Then prepare yourself for tomorrow," Patrick stated. Then he turned to Mario, his face becoming serious. "The rest of the clan will work with you to get our defenses raised. For now, though, it is late. The sun will be coming up soon. You should get some sleep."
CHAPTER 2
I
Toby walked quickly through the hallway of the Luna mansion, hoping that Julian would be willing to speak with the guest that had arrived moments earlier. It had been some time since a mortal had visited the prince of the city's kindred. In fact, Toby had no recollection of such a thing happening since the Toreador had taken over security. He was unsure if there was a separate set of formalities that he should observe, or whether a human should be treated much as any other guest would be. The Toreador simply shrugged in answer to his own question as he walked up to the door and knocked. The door opened immediately, and Toby stood face to face with Julian Luna.
"Yes?" the prince asked, seeming somewhat irritated.
"Someone's here to see you," Toby answered unsteadily, diverting his eyes to the floor to avoid Julian's penetrating gaze. "A human," the Toreador added, just in case such information would be considered important.
"Who is it?" Julian asked. He did not expect any mortals to be visiting him, and was somewhat intrigued. Toby hesitated before responding, and Julian simply walked past his guard and toward the front door so that he could see for himself. The prince walked out of the hallway to the top of his stairs, and looked down at the man standing just inside the entrance. The man stood about five and a half feet tall, and had a somewhat tired and unkempt appearance. He wore gray slacks and a brown sports jacket, with a brown tie that had been loosened from his neck, and he held a beaten-up brown leather briefcase. Julian could tell that the man felt uncomfortable in his surroundings, as he slowly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and looked around at every detail of the foyer.
"Who are you?" Julian asked quickly. He descended the stairs quickly, though smoothly, and walked right up to his visitor. Toby arrived at the top of the staircase just as Julian reached his guest, and the Toreador realized with horror that he was too far away to be of any assistance if the man attacked Julian. Toby's fears were assuaged immediately, however, when the man simply held out his hand in greeting.
"My name is Maurie Tyler," the man said pleasantly. "I'm the editor of the Times. Mr. Luna is my boss, so to speak. He owns the paper." Julian smiled with amusement. Maurie was the editor of the largest paper in the city, but he did not even know what his boss looked like. Caitlin would never have allowed such an oversight. A brief twinge of pain shot through Julian's body when he remembered his dead lover, and pushed the thoughts into the back of his head once again. He had sworn to never again think of Caitlin Byrne.
"I am Julian Luna," the prince replied, shaking Maurie's hand. The editor looked slightly embarrassed at not knowing that he had already been speaking to the man he had come to see, but Julian ignored the faux pas. "I've been meaning to meet you," the prince lied. "It's good that I finally have the opportunity. Follow me." Julian led the way back up the stairs and toward his office. While he had no desire to take the time to speak with his irrelevant guest, he had to admit that he had been given an opportunity that he felt the need to take advantage of.
The prince walked into the study and closed the door behind Maurie as he entered. Julian motioned to the two leather chairs, and the editor sat down nervously. He had heard that Luna was a good host, but he had to admit to himself that rather than feeling safe, Maurie felt as though he were being schemed against. He doubted that a good host would generally make one feel that way. Julian ignored his guest's unease, and simply walked over to a cabinet in the corner. In a series of fluid motions he produced two red wineglasses and poured the glasses half full. Then, concealing the glasses from sight momentarily, he cut his wrist slightly and allowed a couple of drops of his blood to drip into the glass of wine that he planned to offer his guest. Julian knew that once Maurie drank the blood, he would become a ghoul. The editor would become stronger, and would stop aging. Such results were not the main goal of the prince, however. The true purpose behind the blood was that by imbibing the vitae of a kindred, Maurie would begin to grow blood-bound to the one whose blood he drank. He would feel a greater sense of loyalty and affection for the prince, which was something that Julian certainly was interested in. He had bought the Times not only because it provided him with the opportunity to get word of things in the city as they happened, but also because it offered him the chance to control news as it was told. This gave him a greater opportunity to protect the all-important Masquerade when one of the city's kindred endangered it. By gaining an amount of influence over the paper's editor, he would move closer to once again achieving the original goals of his purchase.
Julian walked over to the two chairs and offered one of the glasses to his guest. Maurie was not too interested in having anything to drink, but accepted the wine anyway, out of courtesy. As he took a sip, the editor realized just how expensive a vintage his host must have offered him, and he began to relax, feeling for the first time that there was truth to Julian's reputation.
"Is there anything in particular you'd like to speak about?" Julian asked, "or is this just a 'getting to know you' visit?"
"I heard you were looking into some things in the city," Maurie replied as he bent down and picked up his briefcase. He placed it on his lap and opened it. A moment later the editor produced a file and handed it to Julian. "A source of mine in the police department informed me that you were interested in disappearances in the city. That file contains all of the information that you'll probably want."
"Thank you," Julian said graciously as he took the papers. Inside, however, he was fuming. He had counted on Sonny's discretion in gathering the information. Julian made a mental note to instruct his childe again in the art and necessity of subtlety, and then started to look through the file for himself.
"The police seem to be stumped in their investigations of the disappearances of a half dozen teenage mothers and their infants within the past three weeks. You'll also see that there are records of a couple of gangs in Oakland disappearing a few months back," Maurie commented. Julian nodded, knowing that those gangs had been anarchs that had apparently deserted their turf. He was far more interested in reading about the teenage mothers. He had not heard anything about that. "There's also stuff that's too new to be in there," Maurie added. "A couple of businessmen with shady connections were abducted earlier today. I don't know if you heard about that yet." Julian shook his head, as he had not been up long enough to see the news. "Caitlin mentioned that you always took an interest in the really personal stories," Maurie commented as Julian read through the file. "She said you even helped out where you thought you could." Julian nodded in response, and continued looking over the papers.
"This is pretty thorough," Julian finally commented, noting that Maurie had added a couple of the paper's articles to the police files where he had any information that could be helpful. Maurie was about to respond when his pager started beeping. The editor looked down at his pager and then looked up at the prince, his face seeming somewhat embarrassed by the interruption.
"Could I use a phone?" Maurie asked sheepishly. "Seems something big just happened."
"Of course," Julian replied, motioning toward the same cabinet that he had been standing at a few minutes earlier. Maurie caught sight of the phone and walked over to call his office. The prince ignored the conversation that Maurie was having, knowing he could pump his employee for details once he was off the phone. Instead, he used the time to skim over more of the file in front of him.
"Sometimes it feels like this city is going to hell," Maurie said as he hung up the phone.
"What happened?" Julian asked curiously.
"Looks like a mob war might be brewing," Maurie replied as he walked over to the leather chair and picked up his briefcase. Julian bristled at the comment, instinctually wondering what the Brujah were up to. A moment later he remembered that the Brujah were no longer a significant presence in his city, and he felt the need to hear more.
"How do you know?" Julian asked.
"A Tong casino operator and a Yakuza enforcer were apparently both killed about an hour ago," Maurie replied. "It looks like one of the families might be trying to make a move."
"Any idea which one?" Julian asked as he weighed the possibilities himself. The prince was willing to guess that Crazy Eddie Farona was behind the hits, but he needed some kind of proof.
"It's too soon to know what happened," Maurie replied. "I'm sure the cops will figure it out, though."
"Sure," Julian responded absently.
"I'm sorry, but I have to get going," Maurie said. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Luna."
"And you," Julian replied. As soon as the editor was out the door Julian was on the phone, calling Sonny.
"Hello?" Sonny said as he answered his cell phone.
"What the hell is happening to my city?" Julian asked immediately.
"The families seem to be pretty pissed off," Sonny replied. "I'll find out what I can and get back to you."
"Make it fast," Julian said. "I'll be meeting with them later." The prince then hung up the phone and started to pace his office. Yes, he thought, I'll have to meet with the heads of the Italian families. It had been awhile since he had seen them. Perhaps, he pondered wickedly, the time has come to remind them of just who is really in charge of San Francisco.
II
Magnus Horzbach walked slowly around one of the cannons that were on display on the first floor of the Fort Point National Historic site. The building had once been the fort that guarded the entrance into San Francisco's harbor. Now, no longer necessary, it stood under the Golden Gate Bridge in remembrance of times past. The large German ran his hand softly over the metal of the cannon, wondering what it would have been like to fight a war when such a weapon was considered one of the greatest assets on the field of battle. It was Civil War-era artillery, a relic from almost a hundred years before the Great War in which Magnus had fought. While planning strategy, he had not had the pleasure of limiting his tactics to considerations of light cannons, mounted cavalry, and orderly rows of infantry waiting to be cut down by .50 caliber bullets. Instead, he had been faced with surface to air defenses, infantry armed with automatic weapons, artillery with a range of miles, and the greatest advance in land warfare –armored units. Tanks had made completely obsolete anything that he was viewing at that moment. On the one hand, he was glad. Advanced weaponry was the edge that his clan needed to survive in a world where the kindred around them were older and, in many instances, physically superior. On the other hand, his sentimental side was disappointed to know that he would never do something as theatrical as ride into combat on horseback.
Magnus suddenly sensed that something was wrong, and whirled to his left, dropping to his knee as he leveled his MP5 at Stephen Jackson's head.
"You have very good ears," Jackson stated with a somewhat amused grin. "I had rather thought that I was being very quiet."
"You were," Magnus replied, lowering his weapon but not placing it back under his German Army Officer's coat. "I smelled you."
"What?" Stephen asked, obviously surprised.
"I suddenly caught a scent of cinnamon," Magnus said. "It came out of nowhere, and I knew that meant someone else had come in."
"I see," Stephen responded simply. He hid how impressed he was at the Telemon's acute senses. He remembered that he had been wearing the same black fedora the night before, when he had gone into the basement and watched Mario prepare for his ritual. Cinnamon had been one of the spell components that his clanmate had been using. Though he doubted that the Telemon could possibly have picked up the scent after such limited exposure, Stephen still locked the information away, knowing it might one day prove to be useful, though admittedly it would need to be under a fairly bizarre set of circumstances.
"What is it that you wanted to meet about?" Magnus asked, revealing a slight bit of the discomfort that he felt at being so close to one of the warlocks. Magnus was a soldier. He was more than willing to face death in battle, and feared nothing that he knew he could fight. The Tremere, however, with their blood magic, were something entirely alien to him. While he knew that he would be able to break most Tremere in half with his bare hands, he knew also that he could face unknown consequences were he to ever attempt to do so. The mystery surrounding the Tremere, constantly fostered by the members of the clan, was enough to set even a warrior like Magnus ill at ease. Stephen seemed to notice Magnus' discomfort, and chose to ignore the question at first.
"It is easy to see why you chose this location for our meeting," Stephen said, looking around the large, open first floor area of the fort. "With your clan's reputation for association with all things military, I would expect you spend much time here."
"Sometimes," Magnus replied, not wanting to satisfy the Tremere by confirming his suspicions. This had, indeed, become one of Magnus' favorite locations to be alone in the city. The fort closed at 5 p.m., which allowed for plenty of time for the staff to leave before Magnus would have ever wanted to get in. One of his ghouls worked at the fort as a park ranger that gave tours through the structure for visitors. He had provided Magnus with a key. In the months that followed, the Telemon had come to know the building very well.
"We have detected a threat in the city," Stephen said matter-of-factly, his voice conveying none of the concern that he actually possessed. The Tremere ran his hand along the same cannon that Magnus had been admiring minutes earlier, and the Telemon had to stifle the urge to bat the warlock's hand away. He found it almost blasphemous for the kindred standing opposite him to appear so familiar with a weapon that he so obviously did not understand. To Stephen, the cannon was little more than decoration, a pretty piece of metal used to add to the décor of the room. Magnus saw it for what it was – a piece of history that should be respected as such.
"You mean you have discovered a threat that has given you reason to be concerned," Magnus corrected, locking his gaze onto Stephen's eyes, looking for any reaction. He saw one, though only for a flicker in time. He saw fear. Something frightened the warlock standing before him, and the very thought made Magnus feel uneasy as well.
"It is something we have not yet identified," Stephen said. "All we can be sure of is that it is definitely of a mystical nature." Magnus' stomach sank at the words. Once again, his fears were being played upon. He did not want to have anything to do with any kind of mystical threat. He would face any enemy, so long as he would be able to hurt it. He had no idea how to injure something that he might be able to see or touch.
"Why did you come to our clan?" Magnus asked. "The Telemon are not sorcerers. We have never claimed to be. I do not see how we could be of any use to you." Magnus looked away from the Tremere, glancing toward the far wall. He saw an old-fashioned Union uniform hanging on the wall, and was suddenly struck with a new thought. "Unless, of course, you're looking for soldiers to fight the battle for you. However, I do not think we will be willing to be used in such a way." Between the glare that Magnus shot at him, and the threatening growl that hung over his German accent, Stephen was able to receive the message clearly. He knew he would have to be careful. One misspoken word could ruin the chance for the alliance that his clan's primogen desired.
"We are not looking for soldiers, at least not the way in which you mean it," Stephen replied. "There will be battle, of that we are almost certain. However, we will be right beside you, should you choose to work with us. For the time being, however, we are vulnerable. As I said, we have no idea what we are facing. We feel that our actions have thus far gone undetected. Should that change, we might need your assistance in protecting ourselves until we are able to strike back."
"So you need us to shield you?" Magnus asked, surprised that the Tremere would openly admit to being defenseless.
"No," Stephen answered sharply. "We will take care of ourselves, at least for the time being. Should things get out of control, we would like to know that we can go to you, so that we can combine our forces against a common foe."
"So you will stay on your own, unless things go badly for you," Magnus said, attempting to sum up the substance of the conversation.
"Yes," Stephen confirmed. "You will not be expected to do anything unless things go badly. At least not until it's time to strike back. By then we will have brought the other clans in on this."
"Until then it's just us, though," Magnus said.
"What could possibly stand against our two clans?" Stephen asked. "In all matters mystical, my clan is first and foremost in the city. In terms of sheer ability to cause destruction, no other clan matches yours."
Before Magnus could answer, he detected a noise coming from the floor above him. He raised his MP5 and started to look around intensely.
"What is it?" Stephen asked, confused by the German's actions. The Tremere had heard nothing, but immediately remembered the heightened senses that his newest associate had displayed earlier in the meeting.
"We are not alone," Magnus responded in a gruff voice. "Did you bring anyone with you?"
"You know I did not," Stephen answered. "That was the agreement. We were both to come here alone."
"You'd better be sure about that," Magnus replied. "Because none of my people are here. If I see anyone else, I'm filling them full of holes and asking questions later." Stephen did not respond. Instead, he simply pulled out a stiletto, holding it in his left hand while he drew a Glock 10-mm pistol with his right hand. The Telemon looked at him approvingly, and motioned for the Tremere to move closer to a wall, so that no one would be able to creep up on him from behind. Stephen nodded silently and moved toward a corner, muttering the words to a spell that would temporarily increase the potency of his blood, allowing him to perform as a kindred that was several centuries older than he himself actually was.
On Fort Point's third floor, Johnny Yashida quietly slipped in through the window that he had pried open. He shook his head slightly, disgusted at the ease with which he was able to break into a building that had once secured the entire San Francisco Bay. "I hope they don't build forts like they used to," the Telemon muttered as he closed the window behind himself. He concentrated on his eyes, sending blood to the area and causing the darkness around him to begin to glow with the faint iridescence of night vision. He smiled, happy that he appeared to have finally learned the ability from his friend, Michelle. Ever since he had almost been killed in a dark basement, Johnny had considered night vision to be extremely important. Up until that point, he had simply always relied on a penlight that he had always carried with him. As a thief, he had always been intrigued by the idea of seeing in the dark, but it had always seemed like he would be cheating. However, the combat benefits of night vision had never been apparent to him until that point. Now he knew why governments had spent so much money in developing technology that allowed their troops to se in near-total darkness.
The small Telemon looked around the room he was in, noting the rows of cots and small footlockers. He concluded that the third floor of the building had once been the soldiers' barracks. Johnny slowly made his way toward a door that led from the room, making certain that he was being completely silent. He knew that by the terms of the agreement between Magnus and Stephen, he was not supposed to be in the building. Still, Matt had insisted that he go in order to back Magnus up should anything go wrong. The Telemon primogen trusted the Tremere no more than anyone else did.
As soon as Yashida reached the door, he opened it slowly, finding a hallway outside. He looked down the hall and saw a staircase leading to the lower levels. The Telemon began to move more quickly, knowing that he had taken longer to get into the building than he had wanted to. He had assumed that there would be some kind of formidable security on a fort, and had moved toward the building more slowly than he usually would have. To his amazement, there had been no motion sensors, no lasers, no electrified fences. In fact, the Telemon had to admit that he had robbed several private homes that, in comparison to this structure, were actual fortresses.
He reached the stairs and started down, noting that he could not hear anything from below him. He found it hard to believe that Magnus and Stephen could have reached a consensus on anything in such a short period of time. For that matter, he found it hard to imagine Magnus and anyone reaching a consensus so quickly. A voice in the back of his head screamed out that something was wrong, and Johnny stopped for a moment to consider the situation. He had grown accustomed to listening to his instincts. Indeed, over the years, his instincts had often been the difference between life and death. If something were wrong, he might be wise to advance slowly, making sure he did not rush into anything that he was not ready for. On the other hand, it was possible that Magnus needed help, and that every moment's delay put his clanmate more at risk.
Yashida's thoughts were cut abruptly by a salvo of gunfire from below. A scream followed only a brief moment later, and Johnny knew immediately that it was not Magnus. His best guess was that it had been Stephen. The scream was one of pain and terror, combined into a hideous wail that shot straight to Johnny's core. He drew his Berettas and pushed his fear out of his mind as he started to run down the stairs, hoping that he would not be too late for whatever was happening below him.
"If you want revenge, you're gonna have to try a helluva lot harder than that!" Johnny heard Magnus scream from below. Another hail of bullets followed, Yashida recognizing that his clanmate had just emptied the entire clip of his MP5 in the direction of his attackers. Johnny felt as if it took forever to reach the first floor. In the moments he needed to reach the battle, several thoughts raced through his mind. Who would attack Stephen and Magnus? Who would be stupid enough to try? What if they won? Who would be powerful enough to succeed in such an assault? What was he rushing into? It was the last thought that seemed to dwell in Johnny's mind for a fraction of a second longer than the others, and Johnny stopped short of the first floor, just a few steps down from the second. He listened as intensely as he could, straining to hear any noise. There was nothing. He pooled a fraction of his blood in his extremities, activating the power he had developed to move completely noiselessly, and advanced slowly down the remaining stairs, walking onto the wide-open first floor of the fort. He quickly surveyed the scene, but saw nothing. There was no movement, and still no sound.
He took a few steps into the room, and began to look more carefully at each of the shadows that lay across the room. After only a few moments, he caught sight of Stephen Jackson's body lying on the floor. It had been ripped in half at mid torso. All of Jackson's vital organs were spread out on the floor around him, the effect of decades of atrophy obvious even to one who had never studied medicine. Johnny recognized the possible threat to the Masquerade, and made a mental note to have the prince deal with the situation. He continued his search for his clanmate, and quickly found Magnus' corpse lying ten feet from Stephen's. It had been decapitated. Johnny walked up to take a closer look, and noticed strands of flesh hanging from the shoulders, and also from the neck lying four feet away. The head had obviously been torn from the rest of the body, not cut off cleanly by a sword or other sharp, cutting weapon. Johnny was wondering who or what could have possibly done such a thing when he suddenly realized that he might not be alone. Out of force of habit, he turned toward the darkest corner of the room, and caught sight of a form that vanished in front of his eyes. In a moment of revelation, everything that had been happening around the city suddenly made sense. Johnny had recognized Magnus' attacker, but realized with considerable horror that he would likely not make it out of the building alive to tell anyone.
In an action of pure, instinctual response to a threat, Johnny summoned the blood within him to activate the ability that was known to the kindred as obtenebration. It gave him the power to manipulate, and even create, shadow. It was the latter use that he employed, blanketing the entire first floor in an inky darkness that shrouded all vision. He was himself plunged into darkness, his night vision being useless against the more advanced power that he had activated. In one motion he also dropped his legs out from under himself, hitting the floor just as he felt something pass above his head. Whatever it had been had moved with incredible speed. It sounded as if a 90-mph fastball had just whizzed above him, barely missing caving in his skull. Without thinking, Johnny then activated his ability to fly, streaking up toward the ceiling, hoping he would avoid his attacker's next assault. He flew along the ceiling, back toward the stairs to the second floor. As he was floating through the air, he was confident that he would able to make it to the next floor quietly enough to avoid detection.
He was successful, and raced up the stairs, once again moving into normal darkness, where he was again able to see. He moved down the hall of the second floor, hoping he could make it to a window through which he could escape.
"Very clever," he heard someone say behind him. Johnny looked back, almost petrified with terror. He ran down the hall, using his blood to power his movements, moving more quickly than he ever had before. He saw a door at the end of the hall, and hoped that he could reach it before his pursuer. Suddenly, he felt a blur of motion move past him, and he stopped in mid-stride, almost stumbling to the floor. At the end of the twenty-foot hallway stood his assailant, grinning wickedly.
"If it's any consolation, you provided more amusement than your clanmate." Johnny heard the words in the back of his mind, but did not truly listen. Instead, his thoughts swam along, searching for the opportunity to escape. He dug his hand into his pocket as he saw his attacker move toward him, arrogantly causing fear, confident that Yashida had no escape. Johnny took his penlight from his pocket, amazed that such a simple device could do so much to give him a chance at life. He flipped the switch and dropped it, sending a slight shaft of light down the hallway. More importantly, however, was the dark shaft of shadow that accompanied it along the wall. Johnny looked at his assailant and smiled, and then simply fell into the wall, engulfed in the shadows that had been lying upon it.
Johnny heard a scream of rage behind him as his world was engulfed in darkness. He breathed a slight sigh of relief, having escaped the most direct threat. Over the years, Johnny Yashida had grown so skilled at the ability of obtenebration that he had become able to transverse the boundary between the waking world and the realm of shadows. He now stood in a border realm, adjacent to the reality in which he had lived his entire life. Here, he would be safe from Magnus' murderer, though he knew the inhabitants of shadow would beset him. Moans of agony and pain surrounded him. Every whimper of every child that had cowered underneath a blanket for fear of what lay in the shadow of the closet door could be heard all around him. He heard the screams of every woman that had been attacked by a man from the shadows. Then he heard the whispers, the threats that only children could ever hear, the words that adults attributed to the bogeyman that haunted children's imaginations. In the realm of shadow, all of this was real, and given form. Here, the sounds had teeth, and talons, and vice-like mandibles that could take the life from any that were foolish enough to leave the waking world and delve into shadow.
Johnny knew that it was all illusory, figments of his imagination given form. He was surrounded by the quintessence that gave nightmares an independent existence. By itself, it could never hurt him. Only by giving in to fear, by allowing the despair of his surroundings to reach his heart, could the Telemon be harmed. Johnny steeled his will, set upon being determined enough to brush off the madness that was not altogether uncommon for those that became strong enough to make this journey where man was not meant to go. Finally, after what seemed like half an hour of struggle, Johnny appeared on the front lawn of the fort, emerging unscathed. He shook the confusion from his mind in an instant, and took off again into the air, flying as high as he could, as fast as possible. Now that he was back in San Francisco, in his own reality, he could be killed just as Magnus had been. He needed to let someone know what he had seen. First, however, he would have to get out of the city. He knew he would not be lucky enough to escape such a foe a second time. Reason left the Telemon in the face of his terror, and Johnny Yashida resolved to get as far from San Francisco as he could before the sun rose again.
III
From the top of the stairs leading down into the Haven, Tristan Reilly scanned the room spread out before him, looking for anyone that matched the description that he had been given. He initially saw no one that came close, and so walked down into the club, smiling inwardly at the reaction that some of the patrons gave him. Among the mages of San Francisco, the Haven was known as the club where the kindred could all meet in peace, declared elysium by Julian Luna, the prince of the city. Had the kindred in the club known that he was a vampire hunter, their peaceful demeanors would probably have changed instantly. As it was, however, Tristan was sure that they did not know. To them, he was simply another mortal, little more than a happy meal on legs. It was this fact that amused the Irishman as he walked to the bar.
Tristan could feel several sets of eyes looking him up and down, comparing him to the other mortals that had come to the club. While it was against Luna's laws to feed inside the club, it was not at all uncommon for the kindred patrons to follow the mortals to other locations, where they could feed more discreetly.
"What can I get for you?" a woman behind the bar asked as the mage arrived at the bar. She smiled broadly as she talked, obviously flirting with her newest customer. Tristan almost grimaced, appalled by the arrogance of the woman before him. Of course, she did not know that he was aware of her true nature. In her eyes, he was a lone man in a club, probably looking to hook up with a single woman. She hoped that she would be the one he would choose, giving her an opportunity to feed later in the night. Such presumptiveness, along with the bright, revealing clothes she wore indicated that she would probably be a Toreador. Tristan allowed himself to relax slightly, not seeing her as much of a threat.
"Coffee," Tristan replied, his Irish brogue bringing a spark in the barmaid's eyes.
"You want some whiskey in that?" she asked.
"No," Tristan replied, "I'm driving." Normally, the Akashic brother would not have drank coffee, knowing that the caffeine would set his body out of the perfect balance that he normally maintained. However, given his surroundings, Tristan saw no harm in being slightly more on edge than usual. Getting relaxed in a club half-full of vampires could mean the end of his life at any moment.
"Where you driving to?' the woman asked as she poured a cup of coffee for her customer. "If you're just visiting the city, I could show you some of the sights."
"Perhaps some other time," Tristan said absently as he turned to look the room over again. A moment later, he could feel the woman's warm breath on his right ear.
"I could make your visit something to remember for all time," she whispered seductively. Yes, definitely Toreador, Tristan mused. No other clan would be so forward. While the mage knew that he had come to the club with a well-defined purpose, he saw no harm in playing for a short while. From what he could tell, there was no sign of the man he was sent to contact. He would have to kill time somehow without drawing attention to himself.
"Well, what exactly did you have in mind?" Tristan asked under his breath as he turned back to the kindred standing behind the bar. He gazed directly into her eyes, playing the part of the confident man on the prowl.
"Why don't you come with me, and I'll show you," the woman suggested.
"I don't even know your name," Tristan responded playfully. "What kind of guy do you think I am?" The woman drew back instantly, unable to hide her surprise at Tristan's reaction. The mage knew that she had just attempted to dominate him, to subject him to her will. Though her words had been spoken as a suggestion, there had been no mistaking the fact that she had expected them to be heeded as a command. Tristan almost giggled inside, wondering what she was thinking. Of course, he knew he could simply read her mind to find out, but that would ruin the fun. He preferred to toy with her for a bit.
"My name is Chelsea," the woman said with a smile, seeming to recover her composure.
"Of course it is," Tristan replied, seeing the name as perfect for a Toreador. Somehow, it just seemed to fit the woman standing before him. He looked her over again, this time paying more attention to the details. She was wearing a red miniskirt and a lacy red bra. Over the bra she wore a black, button-down silk shirt, open halfway, giving the impression of a slight bit of modesty while all the while being more tempting because of the sporadic glimpses it allowed of what was underneath. Her hair was bleached blonde, shaved in the back with long bangs that occasionally flopped over her green eyes. Tristan found himself admiring the beauty of the woman before him, regretting the fact that she had been embraced. He wished he had been able to spend a night of passion with her, trying to forget the place that he had carved out for himself in the world. Instead, he was forced to see her as the very reason for his role.
"So what would you like to do?" Chelsea asked, noticing the way Tristan's eyes were looking her over, taking in every detail.
"Don't you care what my name is?" Tristan asked, feigning indignation.
"You didn't seem willing to give it," Chelsea said with a smile, becoming more comfortable with the verbal sparring match in which Tristan seemed to have decided to partake. "There are lots of guys who come into the city that would just as soon like to keep a low profile."
"Are you reading my mind?" Tristan asked with a smile. "I think I feel a little violated."
"Oh, when I want to violate you, you'll know it," Chelsea replied with a thin smirk. "Why don't you wait around for a little bit? I'll be getting off soon."
"Sounds great," Tristan said with as gregarious a smile as he could muster. "You getting off, that is," he added, the smile becoming a more coy, playful grin. He then stood up and walked into the main area of the club, directing himself toward one of the vacant tables. The mage would have preferred to sit in a corner, but it appeared as if the various kindred in the establishment had taken all of those seats. Apparently, even in elysium they were not completely at ease.
The mage sat down and looked over the crowd again. There were two businessmen in suits that were more fashionable in the 60's. While few would have noticed it, he picked it up as a sign that they were probably kindred. Given the relatively high price that he guessed had been paid, he concluded that the two were Ventrue. Likely they were both visiting the city, as there were no more highly placed Ventrue businessmen in the city. In San Francisco, the Ventrue derived their strength from the fact that they had the few members of their clan spread out in various government and criminal organizations.
In the far corner, Tristan focused on a group of half a dozen young men and women, all obviously underdressed for the location. Although they were neat, the blue jeans, boots, and leather jackets did not fit in with the power business suits of the mortals that came to the club to relax after a day at the office. The mage knew that he had probably found the Gangrel. He looked at each one individually, and picked out Cash from the group. He had been made well aware of the appearances of the city's primogen, and there was no mistaking the head of the Gangrel. Rather than the rough and ready appearance that many of his clan seemed to work so hard to cultivate, Cash was more than happy to look like the stereotypical pretty-boy rebel character from a mediocre Aaron Spelling drama.
Even as the mage watched, a new woman walked into the bar and up to the Gangrel table. She seemed almost as out of place as Cash did, although from the way she was treated, Tristan was willing to guess that she was also a member of the clan. The newest arrival was a shade over five feet tall, and appeared to be rather young, no more than seventeen or eighteen years old. She had curly, shoulder-length black hair and, from a quick glance that Tristan had thought he caught, green eyes. Altogether, she was physically attractive, but not overly so. It was her clothes that were the true attention-getter. She wore tight black jeans with ripped knees, and a black halter-top that showed off her thin, athletic figure. To complete her ensemble, she wore a pair of black Airwalks and black leather gloves. The mage strained to listen in on the conversation that was taking place across the room, focussing on the minds of the participants. He knew he had no real chance of having his ears hear what was said, but his mind would be able to pick out the echo of the words present in the kindreds' minds.
"How's it going, Michelle?" Cash asked, referring to the newcomer.
"Fine," Michelle answered cheerily. "Any of you seen Johnny around?" Tristan picked up a definite sense of anger from Cash at the mention of the name Johnny, and became intrigued.
"Not lately," Cash responded, adeptly concealing his feelings.
"Yeah, Yashida hasn't been in yet tonight," another one of the Gangrel added.
So, they were speaking of Johnny Yashida, Tristan noted. He knew the name. He made the assumption that the woman who had just arrived was Michelle Marlowe, a Gangrel that had been known to travel with the smallest known member of the Telemon clan. Tristan wondered what Cash would have against Yashida, and allowed himself to delve into the Gangrel primogen's mind. It did not take long to find the source of the hostility. On the surface of Cash's thoughts was a memory that the Gangrel was dwelling upon. Tristan saw a man with a sword, who he recognized to be Rayce, the Brujah primogen that had reportedly been extinguished not too long ago. He saw the Brujah standing over another man whom Tristan knew to be Basil Romanov. A moment later Rayce was shot, thrown back by a surprise burst of gunfire from Julian Luna. The mage saw Luna advance on the fallen Brujah primogen, and saw him swing the Brujah's own sword down at his defeated foe. Rayce was missed by the sword, instead being thrown backward in a hail of bullets. Johnny Yashida arrived and took the head from Rayce's shoulders, then went out of his way to secretly dispose of the body.
Tristan grinned. He had been unaware of the role that the Telemon had played in the fall of the Brujah clan from the ranks of San Francisco's kindred. Not only had the warrior clan been involved, but it had also been caught. Such an act would not soon be forgotten by the primogen of the Gangrel. Tristan wondered if he would be able to make use of that rift. After all, he reflected, my purpose is first to find out all I can about the kindred in the city, and then destabilize them. In the ensuing chaos, his allies would step in and clean up the mess quickly and brutally.
"Are you ready to go?" Chelsea asked, walking up to the table, consciously swaying her steps seductively with every step. Tristan looked up at the Toreador, surprised that he had forgotten her.
"I guess so," Tristan replied. He gave up hope of meeting his contact. From what the mage knew, if the man he was to meet did not come into the club early in the evening, it was unlikely that he would come in at all. The last thing Tristan wanted to do was sit around the Haven for hours, surrounded by vampires. No, he would instead spend some time with the alluring Chelsea, and dominate her as she had attempted to do with him. She would be put into service, reporting the movements of the more powerful kindred in San Francisco. She was a useful source of information, he thought. After all, sooner or later, every vampire in San Francisco ended up in the Haven. It would be nice to hear about it all.
As he walked out of the door, he was struck again with the disappointment that such an attractive woman had been killed and embraced. It seemed like a waste of material. Being close to her was a rush, though, he had to admit. It had been a whole week since he had last shared a woman's company. Once he was done with Chelsea, Tristan figured he would have to go out to one of the local clubs. After all, life could not be all work and no play.
IV
Julian approached the door to the private room he had arranged for within the Campton Place Restaurant. As soon as he had heard about the possibility of a gang war brewing right under his nose, he had realized just how much he had been ignoring the mortals of the city. It had been far too long. Of course, his oversight had not occurred without reason. He would have been remiss in his duties as prince if he had ignored a garou or Sabbat invasion, or a Brujah civil war, or the encroachment of anarchs, just to make sure that the mortals were appeased. He was confident, however, that he would be able to quickly fix the situation. The prince stopped just outside the door to check his appearance one last time. His black jacket and slacks, along with a black silk shirt and leather shoes, gave him exactly the dark, threatening appearance that he desired. He just hoped that the time he had put into choosing his wardrobe would prove useful.
Julian took a moment to gather himself, and dug deep into his kindred nature to find the strength of presence that some of his kind were renowned for. Generally, he hated to utilize such abilities, as he preferred to keep a fairly low profile. For such an occasion, however, he would want to command as much attention and respect as was possible. He grasped the doorknob confidently and turned it, entering into the room with long, commanding strides. He gave the room a cursory evaluation, noting that everyone he had invited had shown up. That much was a relief. It meant that the mortals at least remembered his reputation, and were willing to hear him out before allowing the situation to get out of hand. The Ventrue walked to the head of the table and sat down, looking the men over.
The words that Julian had heard from Archon so long ago came back into his mind. "Control the kindred through force, but take care to manipulate the humans. Never allow the violence to start, as that could endanger the Masquerade more than anything our kind could do. There are too many humans to control once they begin fighting." The prince knew the wisdom of the words, and reminded himself to speak carefully through the night's meeting. He looked around the table, allowing himself a minute to consider everyone that was present.
On his left was Joey Nguyen, the head of the Tong in San Francisco. He had grown up in America after having been born in Hong Kong. He had Old World connections but knew the rules of the New World well enough to have risen to the top by the age of thirty-five. That had been four years earlier, and he had only grown more powerful in the intervening years.
Next to Joey was Masato Matsuoka, the head of the Ibe Yakuza clan in San Francisco. As usual, he was as well dressed as any man in the world. Matsuoka was probably the oldest of the mortals in the room, being sixty-five years old. He had held his position through several decades of strife, and had been the only man to be able to work with Eddie Fiori, Cameron, and Rayce. That in itself was an accomplishment worthy of note.
Seated on Julian's right was the man that Julian knew the least about – Michael Morini. The young Sicilian was the head of the Vinci family, but had not been on the scene for long enough to have developed any kind of set reputation. All Julian knew for certain was that Morini had worked hard to direct his family toward legitimate enterprise. Other than that, he was a complete enigma. The prince had members of his clan in the Vinci family, but thus far none of them had gotten close to the young Don, as there had been attempts on Morini's life from within the family. Recently his authority had been accepted more, so Julian hoped that in the coming years he would learn more of the kingpin sitting next to him. For the present, however, he would need to play his cards close to his chest.
On Morini's right was Eddie Farona. Eddie's reputation for rash behavior had made Julian initially suspect the Santo family's involvement in the assassinations that had taken place. However, his contacts had informed him that such involvement was extremely unlikely, though Eddie had certainly appeared to be willing to join the fray should the opportunity present itself. It was just such a situation that Julian had come to prevent. With Eddie ruled out as a suspect, Julian was left with the man sitting opposite him, at the end of the table.
Vincenzo Gambioni locked eyes with Julian as the Ventrue shifted his gaze toward the head of the most tightly-knit organization with which he was meeting. Although Julian had been able to infer much about the old Italian's personality over the years, he had always been deprived of inside information. Every time he successfully embraced a member of the family, the man would be killed soon after in a hit gone bad, or a freak accident, or because his loyalty had come into question. For a couple of years Julian had been willing to attribute it all to coincidence, but after losing the tenth Ventrue he had placed in the Gambioni family, he had to admit the fact that the small family was somehow able to pick out his agents. That meant, very possibly, that the Gambionis were well aware of his true nature. Should that in fact turn out to be the case, Julian had little idea of how he should react. He was almost certain that Vincenzo Gambioni had been involved somehow with the hits, though the prince had little idea why. The Gambionis had apparently gone legitimate, and had little or nothing to gain by going to war with the Tong and Yakuza. Furthermore, if they knew Julian and his associates were vampires, they should have been even more reluctant to get involved in a fight that could bring Julian's wrath down upon them. Gazing at the smug look on the large Italian's face, Julian decided that the Gambionis probably had an ace up their sleeve that he was not aware of. He would have to be cautious.
For his part, Vincenzo had to force back a smile. He could not help but be amused at the irony of the situation. Julian Luna had gathered the group of them together to meet about the actions of the Italian families in the same room in which those families had decided to oppose him just one night earlier. Vincenzo was certain that had Luna known, he would have been embarrassed beyond words. Such was the way of the self-styled 'prince of the city.' He needed to maintain the illusion that he was in complete control at all times.
"So are you going to look at us all night, or are you going to tell us why you summoned us here?" Farona asked, predictably being the one to break the silence.
"I think you know damn well," Nguyen said angrily, not hiding the fact that he suspected the rival Santo family was behind the attacks that had killed a well-placed member of his organization. "He's here to tell you to settle your punk-ass down."
"What was that?" Eddie asked, half-rising out of his chair. "You gonna make something of it, yellow-boy? You ain't shit, far as I'm concerned."
"Sit down," Vincenzo Gambioni ordered, causing Eddie to immediately slink back into his chair. Julian had to admit that he was impressed at the Don's ability to command. Now he would test his ability to follow orders.
"As Joey has said, I have indeed called you all here to discuss the events that have recently taken place," Julian said smoothly, attempting to settle the remaining tension in the room. A waitress walked in as he spoke, placing two bottles of wine on the table, white and red. She left immediately, as she had been instructed to, not bothering to pour the wine. Her job that night was to serve the food and get out of the room as quickly as possible. Privacy had been the greatest concern.
"What exactly do you plan on doing about the situation?" Matsuoka asked the prince, immediately putting him on the spot.
"I wish to determine who was behind the attacks," Julian replied. "Once that is done, we will discuss reparations. There will be no gang wars in this city." He looked at the men sitting at the table, making certain that they all understood his position.
"Who are you to tell us how to behave?" Farona challenged. "You're nothing, from what I can see. You don't have any piece of the drug trade. You have no gambling, no prostitution, no racketeering, or even some half-ass chop shop in the Mission District. What the hell are you doing here?"
"What am I doing here?" Julian asked, repeating the question. A broad smile spread across his face, and the prince leaned back in his chair. "You're right, I have no significant criminal interests in this city. Do you want to know what I have, Eddie?" Luna shot a penetrating stare at the Italian, and slowly leaned forward as he spoke, using his body language to accentuate his words. "I have the police. I have the courts. I have the newspapers. I have the fire departments, the television stations, the theaters, and the goddamn ice-cream man. I own more of this city than you can even imagine, you small-time shit. Your insolent delusions of grandeur are going to hurt my business, and I won't allow that. If you defy me, I'll turn against you with everything I own. Then, just when you think you have nothing left to lose, I'll add in those things that I simply influence, rather than fully own. When I'm done, all there will be is ash, and no one will even remember you existed." Julian glared at Farona, who had shrunk back from the kindred prince more and more with every word. "When I speak, you will listen," Julian instructed simply. "Start getting ideas that you can do anything you want, and I'll bury you."
"No problem," Eddie said in barely more than a whisper. "I can see your point." Gambioni shook his head in disgust at the weakness of the head of the Santo family. Secretly, he wished that Luna would try the same intimidation tactics against him. Vincenzo doubted seriously that Julian would deal too well with someone who could not be made to simply back down.
"Should you choose to work with me, rather than oppose me, I think we could arrive at a very lucrative arrangement for both of us," Julian said, beginning to settle down and open up the possibility of alliances.
"You would work with them after what they did?" Nguyen asked incredulously. "Years ago you said we could do as we will, so long as the peace wasn't threatened. The Italians destroyed the peace. They should be made to suffer."
"We do not know exactly who was behind the assassinations," Julian replied. "I came here tonight to start the process of moving past this incident. Keep in mind that I am still here. I may not have met with you for a couple of years, but I certainly remember all of you. Back off of whatever plans you have been hatching, and we can sort out all of our problems peacefully. Do you all think you can behave for the time being?" Each of the men at the table nodded in agreement, and Julian immediately stood to leave.
"Where are you going?" Matsuoka asked. "We have lots left to sort out."
"I have other pressing matters," Julian replied evenly, his tone making it obvious that he was not planning to stay for a moment longer than he thought was necessary. "I wanted to make sure you all understood my position on these events. I trust you all to abide by your word until we can meet again and finish working everything out. I feel that it would be best to give this a couple of days so that tempers can calm themselves, and we can approach the situation rationally." Julian walked to the door, not bothering to look at any of the men that remained seated. Part of him screamed that he should not trust them all behind him, that he should remain to make sure that no one got any ideas about opposing him. The arrogant voice that had grown so strong within Julian Luna in recent years reassured the prince that everything would be all right, that none of the bosses in the room would ever dare oppose him. Uncertainty continued, however, and before he left, Julian turned and faced each of the men at the table, looking for any sign that they would not abide by their agreement.
Matsuoka was the only one to respond to the prince's gaze, and he simply bowed in acquiescence. Knowing there was nothing left for him to do, but feeling more uncertain than he had before turning, Julian left, moving to his limousine as quickly as possible. The prince was reasonably sure that none of the families would take a shot at him at a peaceful meeting, but he was unwilling to take any chances, especially while he was being guarded by Toreador. He silently hoped that he had been able to achieve his objectives, but he could not be sure. Over the years, he had been able to keep the mortals in line by manipulating the Brujah to come into conflict with them in crucial areas. With the Brujah gone, however, that was no longer an option. If it came down to exerting force, Julian figured he could turn the Telemon loose on the mortal bosses, but that held problems of its own.
Since learning that part of the renowned Telemon strength derived from their elders' practice of diablerie, Julian had been hesitant to use the soldiers in any capacity that would indicate that he sanctioned their activities. True, he admitted, none of the Telemon embraced in San Francisco had ever diablerized another of their kind. Of course, their primogen, Matt Reimer, had once drank the blood of an elder in order to increase his power, but from all accounts that had been before he had learned that doing so was against kindred law. Since he had found out, he had not broken that law, which was second only to the Masquerade. Using the Telemon might not bring such heavy consequences after all, the prince mused, already trying to rationalize the decision he felt might become necessary. Still, he would need to think about the issue carefully. When the Brujah were still in the city, he could always have hoped to turn the Telemon and Brujah against each other should either of them get too powerful or insolent. With the rabble gone, the only group that Julian could feasibly use to trim the Telemon's strength was the Gangrel, and they were no longer even an official clan in the city, having no representative on the Conclave. Increasing the presence, and therefore the prestige, of the Telemon could be extremely risky. Julian Luna decided that the best course of action would be to effectively handle the mortals on his own, and hope that the situation did not begin to spin out of control.
In the back of his limousine, Vincenzo Gambioni reflected on what he had seen at the Campton Place Restaurant. The Italian bosses had both played their parts as he had expected. Morini had been completely silent and controlled, betraying nothing to Julian Luna. Indeed, had he not known better, Gambioni himself would have believed that Morini had known nothing of the attacks on the Yakuza and Tong. Eddie Farona had been just as predictable, though his behavior had been a polar opposite to that of Morini. He had played the part of the loud-mouthed fool that could not see the forest for the trees. While it had been embarrassing seeing the head of one of the Italian families make such an jackass of himself, Farona had nonetheless served a legitimate purpose. He had occupied Luna's attention, allowing Gambioni to watch as the kindred prince betrayed more than he would probably have wanted to.
Both Matsuoka and Nguyen had been too respectful of the prince, their memories apparently being longer than those of either Morini or Farona. The Asians both remembered what Luna was capable of when pressed, and were unwilling to risk raising his ire. That would have to change, Vincenzo knew, if his plans for the city were to succeed. He would simply have to push events in a certain direction.
It had been obvious to Vincenzo that Luna was concerned about the situation, despite his grandstanding. He had begun to lose touch with the mortals, as all kindred eventually did. It was, perhaps, their greatest weakness. Ever since Caitlin Byrne had been cut down in the Sabbat siege, Julian had been reclusive. Now he would have to pay the price for ignoring the activity that had been going on beneath his nose.
"So how did it all go in there?" Kristen asked, finally breaking the silence that had dominated the interior of the automobile since Vincenzo had gotten in. She had allowed him a few minutes to sort everything out in his mind, as was his custom. However, she also knew that, as also was custom, Vincenzo would want to discuss the meeting with his granddaughter.
"It went just about as I had thought it would," Vincenzo replied, his vacant stare betraying the fact that he was still considering the possibilities. Kristen gave her uncle a few more moments of thought, and then continued.
"He doesn't know we were behind the attacks, does he?" she asked curiously. There was no indication of fear in her voice, Gambioni noted. That was good. She simply wanted to know how the situation stood.
"Not for sure, but I am certain he suspects," Vincenzo replied. "Remember, ours is the only organization he has not been able to infiltrate. If something happens that he has no knowledge of, it will be natural to suspect us."
"Suspicion is not the same as knowledge," Kristen said. "The question is whether or not he will find suspicion enough reason to get involved in our affairs."
"Oh, he will probably get involved," Vincenzo answered. "Not that it will matter much. The shamans have told me that there are portents all around us, and that the spirits speak of death for the vampires. It will be our time to consolidate control of the city. The mortals are to take back their city."
"Which means that I'll be fairly busy in the coming weeks," Kristen concluded, a thin smile crossing her lips.
"Do you have a problem with that?" Vincenzo asked.
"Not at all," Kristen replied. "I live to serve the family. You know that." She looked over her uncle, noting the approving smile that spread across his face. "Where do we go now?" Kristen asked. "It looks like we have some time to kill before the next meeting."
"Yes," Vincenzo agreed. "Robbie," Vincenzo said, turning towards his chauffeur, "drive around town a bit, will you? We'll be less of a target if we keep moving."
"Sure thing, boss," Robbie replied. "There any place in particular you want me to end up?"
"Yes, L'Osteria del Forno," Vincenzo replied, referring to a small Italian restaurant that he owned on Columbus Avenue. The old Italian boss leaned back, running through the plans that he had made for that night. After a few moments he leaned forward and picked up the car phone, dialing one of the men whose permission he would need to get in order to proceed with his plans. The first, and most difficult challenge, would be to get Eddie Farona to agree to meet with Matsuoka and Nguyen, the same men he had been itching to go to war with only twenty-four hours earlier.
V
Just after midnight, Vincenzo Gambioni walked into L'Osteria del Forno slowly and looked over the men that had assembled in the small restaurant. As he had hoped, he was the last one to arrive at the meeting. Matsuoka, Nguyen, Farona, and Morini had already settled in at a table in the corner, each of them having a bodyguard standing behind him. Vincenzo smiled as he walked in, amused at the reaction that Kristen received from Matsuoka's and Nguyen's bodyguards. The Asians, unlike their Italian counterparts, seemed rather uneasy in the presence of the female guard. Indeed, they had more reason to be, Vincenzo thought. Asian culture seemed more willing to accept a woman's lethal potential that western culture normally did.
"I hope my staff has made you all comfortable," Vincenzo said magnanimously as he approached the table, sitting down at its head. Each of the men smiled, and Gambioni noted approvingly that each of them had sampled the wine and focaccia that had been supplied at the table. Apparently, none of them was expecting to be double-crossed at the meeting. Very good, Vincenzo thought. That will make everything that much easier.
"Are you still with me?" Eddie asked Gambioni as the old Don poured himself a glass of the red wine, again being the first one to get to the business that had brought them all there.
"Relax," Vincenzo replied, leaning back in his chair. "Let us first consider the situation, Eddie," he said calmly, attempting to sooth the Santo family's Don. "As the old saying goes, only fools rush in."
"I'm sure you'd know about old sayings," Eddie replied partly under his breath, though he had spoken loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the table. Vincenzo ignored the slight and continued along his planned path.
"The question is Luna," Vincenzo stated evenly. "I know that you were all hesitant to meet with me here, especially given recent events, but I thought it best that we meet away from Luna's eyes and ears." Farona squirmed in his seat, betraying how uncomfortable he was with being in the same room as both Matsuoka and Nguyen. Only one night before he had been trying to go to war with the two Asian crimelords. Now, however, he had been directed to see the true threat – Julian Luna. He had been made to accept the fact that any move against the Yakuza or Tong would necessarily fail until Luna was put out of the way.
"I have spoken with each of you separately in the past couple of hours, suggesting a certain course of events," Vincenzo said, taking control of the meeting. "I trust you each know what I am speaking of." Each of the men in the room nodded, allowing Gambioni to continue.
"We all know that we have disputes that we wish to settle between ourselves," the Gambioni Don stated. "This may involve some bloodshed. Let's face it, sometimes war is the most efficient way of achieving one's goals. However, we cannot wage war as long as Luna is around. He has embraced the misguided concept of peace. That is not the way of those in our profession. I suggest we dispose of Mr. Luna."
"It is impossible," Matsuoka said quickly, remembering a time when he had attempted to move against Julian's mentor, Archon, thirty years earlier. That particular blunder had cost the Yakuza boss millions of dollars and the lives of several of his best assassins. Julian had received all of Archon's resources, and over the years had proven his willingness to make use of everything at his disposal. Matsuoka was more than willing to bide his time and not risk war with Luna.
"Julian Luna, in the past, replied on Eddie Fiori's gang to help him enforce the peace," Vincenzo replied. "Now Fiori is dead, as are his successors, Cameron and Rayce. That gang is now defunct. Julian has no strong backing, no soldiers." Vincenzo knew he lied as he spoke, admitting only to himself that as long as the clans known as the Gangrel and Telemon were in the city, Julian would have access to soldiers. However, the only clan that these men had ever opposed before had been Fiori's Brujah. It would not be difficult to convince them that Julian was relatively vulnerable.
"So you want us to combine our strengths against Luna's remaining enforcers, whoever they are," Joey Nguyen concluded. Vincenzo noted that Joey was not foolish enough to expect that all of Luna's soldiers had been dispensed with, but the Tong leader was, nonetheless, following the line of reasoning that the Don had hoped for. They were all concluding that for the first time, Julian Luna was exposed. It would not take much to convince them to go for the jugular.
"That is exactly what I am suggesting," Vincenzo confirmed. "I propose a moratorium on all violence between any of us for the duration of the war, and for six months after that. Once the six months is over, it's every man for himself, the way it should be. We don't need a babysitter."
"Fuckin' A!" Farona said, indicating his agreement.
"Whose family will supply the bulk of the soldiers?" Morini asked, betraying his concern that his organization might become more depleted, and thus more vulnerable, than the others.
"We will each initially donate only ten soldiers to the war," Vincenzo replied. "Should the need arise for more, we will take equally again from the families."
"And what if our family is smaller than yours?" Morini asked, pressing the issue. "The Morini family does not have the numbers that the Santo family has."
"Yes, but they are considered some of the finest enforcers in the city," Vincenzo countered. "I find it highly unlikely that you will lose as many of your people as the Santos will."
"Oh, thanks a lot," Farona put in, not seeming overly concerned about the welfare of his people.
"Other details, like leadership, can be voted on as the need arises," Vincenzo added. "For now, all I ask for is your tentative approval of the plan. I can get together with some of your people and hammer out the details over the next couple of days."
"You have my approval," Morini said, making his family the first to officially join up.
"Like you even need to ask," Farona put in. "You all know I want to bury the son of a bitch."
"I am also agreed," Matsuoka said. He then looked over the men at the table. "To your entire proposal," he added. Vincenzo nodded in response, the faint glimmer of a smile coming to his face.
"I join with Matsuoka," Nguyen said.
"The whole deal?" Gambioni asked, making sure he had understood the Tong leader.
"Yes, the whole deal," Joey replied.
"Excellent," Gambioni said, looking his associates over. "Go back to your families and choose the men that you'll be sending to work on this project. I'll be in touch."
With the meeting obviously signaled as being over, each of the men rose and walked out, followed by his bodyguard. Eddie Farona, however, stayed behind, just as Gambioni had known he would. The leader of the Santo family would waste no time in pressing Vincenzo to use the Tong and Yakuza soldiers for the more dangerous jobs. Farona would never cease looking for an advantage, and had no idea how to go about achieving his ends subtly.
"I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes," Farona said as soon as the others had left.
"Oh, really?" Vincenzo asked, feigning surprise. He looked quickly to Kristen, and saw her exchanging seductive looks with Farona's bodyguard, and sighed. Well, he thought, kids would be kids.
"I think we should work to get the families working against the chinks," Farona stated evenly, as usual not wanting to present his case eloquently.
"I just agreed to work equally with them," Vincenzo replied. "You did too, for that matter. Does your word mean nothing to you?"
"Not to them it doesn't," Eddie answered. "They're not like us."
"No, they're most certainly not," Vincenzo agreed. "Did you know that Asian culture was already achieving unparalleled accomplishments in the arts and warfare while Rome was still little more than a group of farmers?" Vincenzo asked.
"What?" Farona asked, not seeming to be able to comprehend the direction in which Vincenzo was taking the discussion. The older Don realized the futility of trying to show Farona the error of his bigoted views, and sighed. Some things would simply never change.
"You're an idiot," Vincenzo said after a few moments. "I can't believe you were able to take control of the Santo family." He turned to Eddie's bodyguard and nodded, and the man stood up and walked out of the restaurant quietly, leaving Eddie alone in the room with Vincenzo and Kristen.
"What the hell?" Eddie asked, beginning to realize that something was amiss. He moved his hand slowly toward the Magnum that he had in a holster underneath his sports jacket.
"Don't bother," Vincenzo said calmly. "You'd never even get a shot off."
"You're absolutely nothing," Eddie shouted back.
"You are wrong," Gambioni replied. "I am actually the new head of the Santo family."
"What?" Eddie replied, dumbfounded. In his shock he let his arm drop to his side. No sooner had he done so than Kristen was upon him. In one fluid motion she threw Eddie to the floor and disarmed him.
"Yes, Eddie, you have been fired," Vincenzo replied. "I received word from Santino and Infante last night that they were looking for a way to get rid of you. They wanted my help." At the mention of his two most trusted capos, Eddie went suddenly pale. He could not believe his most trusted lieutenants had turned against him.
"You can't just kill me," Eddie blurted out, fear starting to overcome him. "There are rules against that."
"Yes, there are, aren't there?" Vincenzo replied. "Funny that one who has flaunted the rules his entire life should turn in desperation towards them now. Rest assured, Eddie, that I am not the rule-breaker that you are." Eddie seemed to relax for a moment, until Vincenzo continued. "The rules are quite clear that I cannot kill a Don without the knowledge and consent of the other Dons. Let's see," the old man said wistfully, "that would mean that Morini and I would have to agree to the job. Morini was only too willing to go along with it. He doesn't seem to hold a high opinion of you. For that matter, neither do I. I actually found it all too easy to get my own approval of your death." The Don walked up to Eddie and sat down in a chair next to him.
"You know what the really ironic thing is?" Gambioni asked.
"No," Eddie replied, starting to see his end rapidly approaching.
"I wanted to be completely open in this deal," Vincenzo said. "Since we're forming a temporary alliance with Matsuoka and Nguyen, I asked them if they would go along with your death. See, those chinks, as you so affectionately refer to them, were the ones that got to decide whether you should live or die."
"Why the hell would they agree?" Farona asked. "You killed some of their people today."
"Yes, funny thing about that, too," Gambioni said with a smile. "See, when you came to me with your idea, I in turn went to them and asked if they had any dead weight that they wanted jettisoned. I told them all about how you wanted to go to war with them." Eddie looked in horror at the older Don who had betrayed him, not able to believe that a fellow Italian had sold him out to the Asian gangs. "They were none too pleased with you, to say the least," Gambioni said. "I told them that I wanted to get Luna's attention. They each gave the name of someone in their organizations that they were planning to dispose of anyway. I simply utilized Kristen as the button man, or should I say button woman, for the jobs." Gambioni looked down at the younger Italian and smiled. "Are you following along so far?" he asked, hoping that he could get Eddie to keep up with him. Farona nodded, and Vincenzo continued.
"Well, as agreed, they raised holy hell about the executions, which brought Luna down from his tower. That rattled the people in the Santo family, especially Infante and Santino. When I went to them with my proposal to cut you out, they were more than happy to agree." Vincenzo smiled as he looked at Eddie, who still seemed to be working everything out in his head. "You see, Eddie, my true target the entire time was you. Luna was simply the catalyst to get the people in your family to agree to let me take charge. If it's any consolation, the war will, in fact, take place as you had wanted. That can be your legacy to the surviving members of your family."
"The surviving members of my family?" Eddie asked, obviously confused.
"Yes," Vincenzo replied. "Do you remember Eddie Fiori?" the Don asked. "Oh, of course you do," Gambioni answered for his prisoner. "He helped you rise to power. You wouldn't have ever been anything more than a thug without Fiori. You owed him big, didn't you? Well, do you remember when Fiori died? Of course you do," Vincenzo added, again not waiting for Farona to respond. "Well, three of his people became the frontrunners to take over his business. There was Herb Callous, Marty Beck, and, of course, Cameron, who eventually won. You didn't know that we were supporting Marty Beck. He was utterly incompetent, and would have run the organization into the ground even more effectively than Fiori did. You, however, supported Herb. Herb had promised to repay tenfold all that Fiori had taken from you. All he wanted was a temporary infusion of cash. You were more than willing to give it to him, weren't you?" Eddie began to look more worried with every passing second, completely unaware of where the conversation was going.
"What you didn't know, because you were too blind in your quest for power, is that Herb used the money you gave him to arrange the assassination of two children in my family. He hoped that doing so would break our spirit. It did. However, these were very special children, and the crime is not to be forgotten. You are the last living man that had any connection with this crime against my family."
"I didn't know," Farona squealed pitifully. Vincenzo simply looked at the weak don lying at his feet with emotionless eyes, and continued.
"You could have," Vincenzo's voice thundered, in marked contrast to his calm demeanor. "You just never bothered. You were blinded by your lust for power. It is for this crime that I have decided you should be punished. Morini has agreed because of the bad name you give to all Italian Americans. Both Matsuoka and Nguyen agreed because you had tried to go to war with them. As you see, I have followed the rules, and more. I have gotten the approval of all the other Dons in the city, as well as the Asians with whom we share San Francisco. You're finished."
"No, please, I'll give you anything," Farona pleaded.
"Can you bring back my twin grandchildren?" Vincenzo asked as he stood up. Eddie simply looked at Gambioni with a blank stare. "No, I didn't think so," Vincenzo concluded. "He's all yours, Kristen."
"Come on, Kristen, please," Eddie continued, attempting to sway the Gambioni assassin. Kristen looked at her grandfather as he walked out of the restaurant toward the limousine parked outside. He would be making sure that Robbie had the car pulled around to the back alley and ready to leave as soon as she carried out the body.
"You provided for the murder of my cousins, and you expect me to show you mercy?" Kristen asked incredulously. "Are you kidding me?"
Eddie simply looked at her with a blank stare. The empty gaze became a mask of horror, however, as he watched Kristen's form grow and alter. Thick fur came through her skin, and her face elongated into a wolf-like maw. Her body suddenly became heavily muscled, and her hands grew into razor sharp claws. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Eddie understood that he was face to face with a werewolf. However, he could not get the rational side of his being to accept that fact. He was raised from the floor, and felt as something cut deeply into his chest. He felt his blood flow freely from the wound, and felt temporarily suffocated by the pain. Then he felt nothing, as his life slipped from his corpse.
Kristen appraised the room quickly, making sure she had not been so messy that the restaurant would not be able to open the next day. She was confident that the clean-up crew would be able to manage, and so carried Eddie Farona's body toward the rear exit.
VI
Tristan walked into Chalkers pool hall, noting first that he was surprised at how empty the place was. He would have expected a pool hall to have at least a few tables occupied at one-thirty in the morning, but such was not the case here. In fact, only one game was going on at the time. As luck would have it, however, the person he had come to see was one of the four that stood around the table.
The Irish mage instantly recognized Sasha from his brief encounter with her years earlier, an encounter that Sasha would never remember. She was unmistakable standing out in any crowd, though her appearance screamed for attention in the polished wood surroundings of Chalkers. Her black leather ensemble was everything Tristan had been told to expect. Next to Sasha, he assumed, was the child vampire that he had heard about. He knew that her name was Jenni, and that she had reportedly been embraced by the Sabbat during their recent siege. Other than that, however, he knew nothing. From what he had been able to determine, no one had done any significant checking into her background. For all he knew, she was the daughter of a member of the Society of Leopold, and the Inquisition would be riding down upon all of them any minute. He had thought that such an oversight was not typical of Luna, but from his latest impressions of the prince, not checking into Jenni's identity did not seem too much out of character. Indeed, the entire city seemed to be slowly disintegrating around all of them. The human gangsters were launching another war. The mages seemed oblivious. Luna was distant. The kindred of the city appeared alternatively ambivalent and restless, seemingly without reason. Things would have to change.
Tristan walked toward the table where Sasha and Jenni stood next to two college-aged men. As he approached, he got the attention of Luna's niece, who looked him over from head to toe. Sasha knew that the man approaching was not a regular, and got the impression that he most certainly did not belong there. Granted, he dressed the part well enough. However, while he was wearing the dress slacks, shoes, and button-down shirt that many Chalkers patrons wore, the look was completely wrong with him. First of all, she noted, none of the well-dressed patrons were ever in the bar so late. By 1:30 on a Wednesday night they were all asleep, next to either their wives or mistresses. Secondly, she realized suddenly, the man was too well built. Even with a button-down shirt and a wool overcoat, it was obvious that Tristan was fairly well muscled. No one who was the professional businessman that he seemed to want to resemble would have the time to develop the physique that he had. Sasha raised her guard, not knowing what to expect from the newcomer.
"Sasha?" Tristan asked as he walked up to the group. He saw no reason for formalities. He had come to make contact with this kindred and would do so.
"Who wants to know?" Sasha asked, putting up as much of a tough front as she could muster.
"I don't have times for games, Miss-," Tristan paused for a moment, not knowing how to continue. "I'm sorry, what's your last name?"
"None of your business," Sasha replied as she leaned up against the pool table.
"That is fairly unique," Tristan replied, suddenly deciding that the direct approach might not, in fact, be the wisest course of action. He decided to play along with the Brujah woman, and then come to the point when she seemed more comfortable. "That's German-Bulgarian, right?"
"Dutch-Italian, actually," Sasha replied with a smile, already seeming more comfortable. Tristan returned a smiled. With one flip remark he had been able to make himself seem cooler, while also allowing Sasha to feel that she had more control of the situation than she actually did. "What's your name?" Sasha asked flirtatiously. The two men with whom she had been shooting pool began to shift around uneasily. Obviously, they had expected a little action from Sasha, and suddenly sensed that they would have some competition.
"I'm Tristan," the mage replied, extending his hand.
"A name as Irish as your accent," Jenni put in, moving to stand next to Sasha.
"Yes," Tristan said. "Word has it that the Irish are a lucky lot." Tristan looked over the two men, and realized that they would not try to stay around if he continued to press for Sasha's attention. That was fortunate. He had no time to compete for the troublesome kindred.
"You looking to get lucky?" Sasha asked. She looked around her, seeming to take in her surroundings with one sweeping gaze. "This is a place of skill, Tristan. Luck has no place here. Do you think you have the necessary talent to play the game?"
"I don't disappoint," Tristan replied coyly, moving closer to Sasha. At that, the two men walked away, having had it with Sasha's fickleness. The Brujah watched them walk away with disinterest, and then turned back to the new toy she had acquired for herself. Jenni, seeing that Sasha had decided to use Tristan as a meal, began to walk after the two departing young men. Both Tristan and Sasha turned for a moment to watch the young girl go, both knowing that she intended to do a little feeding herself.
"So I won't be disappointed?" Sasha asked playfully.
"Enough games," Tristan said, his demeanor changing instantly once the child had moved beyond earshot. No longer was he the young man looking for a good time. Once again he resembled the assertive man on a mission, just as he had when he had first walked in. "I'm here to give you a message," the mage said.
"Oh really?" Sasha asked, obviously uninterested.
"We have a common acquaintance, Sasha, and he wanted me to get in touch with you," Tristan replied.
"Who's that?" Sasha asked, her eyes wandering toward the doorway. The serious tone that Tristan was using made her lose her appetite, and she only wished to leave.
"Henry," Tristan replied. "He is a man you met here in this very pool hall a couple of years ago."
"I don't know anyone named Henry," Sasha countered. "I mean, look at me. Do you think I'd want to hang around with some guy who actually let other people call him 'Henry'? I don't think so."
"You sure?" Tristan asked. He had seen the effects of the minor magic that Henry always used with his contacts. They would never readily remember him unless they were presented with someone else that certainly seemed to know who Henry was. It helped to guard against contacts that talked too much. Tristan imagined Sasha would certainly fall into that category.
"Oh, wait a second," Sasha suddenly said with a growing smile. "I remember now. Big scary black trenchcoat, right?" Tristan nodded. "Yeah, what a great guy," Sasha added. "I can't believe I didn't remember him right away."
"He seems to have that effect on people," Tristan replied sarcastically.
"Is he in town?" Sasha asked excitedly.
"He just came in tonight," Tristan replied, causing Sasha's face to brighten.
"Can I see him?" the Brujah asked.
"Not yet," Tristan replied. "Henry needs some things done before he can start meeting with people. I'm one of the people he always sends hither and yon, running his errands for him."
"Oh," Sasha said, seeming to grudgingly accept the situation. "Well, is there anything I can do to help out?" she asked excitedly, realizing that the sooner Henry's errands were done, the sooner she might be able to see him.
Tristan looked back at the young Brujah and smiled widely. "It's funny you should ask…"
VII
Matt Reimer paced anxiously across the floor of his office, playing out several scenarios in his head. Magnus was hours overdue, and that was certainly not like him. While the German was known to commonly disappear for a night, he would never have done so when he knew that he was expected to report to his primogen. The nerves were only made worse by the fact that Johnny Yashida had likewise been silent since Magnus' meeting with the Tremere. Unlike with Magnus, however, Matt would not have been surprised if Johnny had not followed instructions. The combination of the two was unbearable, however.
Matt thought about what could have gone wrong. Perhaps it was a trap after all, despite the fact that his instincts told him the Tremere had, for once, been on the level. It was easy to disregard his instincts in this situation. Those same instincts had, after all, led him to send Yashida along as backup, to watch the meeting from a distance. Given that truth, how trusting could his instincts have been?
Perhaps Stephen Jackson had seen Johnny and thought Magnus had been the one planning a trap. He might have turned on the two Telemon. Would he have been ale to defeat both of them? Matt had to wonder. Despite the fact that the Tremere were regarded as one of the more formidable clans in combat, the fact was that no one outside the Tremere clan truly understood what the warlocks were capable of.
If it had been a well-laid trap set by the Tremere, however, Matt had no doubts that neither Johnny nor Magnus would have made it out alive. The Tremere left little to chance. That very fact led Matt to become more convinced with every passing moment that it had indeed been the Tremere that had been behind Magnus' and Johnny's apparent disappearances.
The ringing of the phone knocked Matt out of his thoughts, and he strode quickly across the room to answer it. Normally, one of his ghouls would have been assigned such a mundane task, but as the hours had passed, Matt had become increasingly uneasy. He wanted to be the first one to get any news.
"Yes?" Matt asked, the tension in his voice completely obvious to his caller.
"Mr. Reimer?" a voice asked. "I expected someone to be screening your calls." Matt recognized Patrick's voice on the other end of the line. So it begins, he thought. The Tremere had not killed his clanmates, but had instead captured them. Doubtless they would be held until Matt performed some favor for the warlocks.
"So do you have an explanation why Magnus is overdue?" Matt asked, not having the patience to play games with the other clan's primogen.
"Unfortunately I do," Patrick responded. "Your clanmate is dead." Matt felt rage boiling up within him, and started running through the mental list of actions he would need to take before he would be able to launch an assault against the Tremere chantry. "Both Magnus and Stephen were killed at the meeting. Thus far my people have been unable to determine who was behind the attack."
"Both of them?" Matt asked incredulously. It had never occurred to him that anyone else would have attacked the two kindred. They were each regarded to be the second most powerful members of their respective clans within the city. Matt could not imagine anyone actually being willing to risk such an assault.
"We have removed both bodies," Patrick replied. "As it is near dawn, we will have to wait until tomorrow night to return Magnus' remains, so that you can carry on any ceremonies that are customary for your clan."
"Thank you," Matt said, surprised at the apparent compassion and regard that Patrick held for Telemon ritual. Still, however, he was not entirely convinced. How could he know whether Magnus was actually dead? For all he knew, Patrick had abducted his clanmate, and planned to have the German tortured during the day.
"I have already contacted Julian," Patrick added. "Do not be concerned about him knowing about our dealings. The corpses were removed before his people showed up. He knows nothing about the deaths of either Stephen or Magnus. I figure we might want to hold back on that for now. I told him that I had discovered a small group of anarchs that had a slight understanding of my clan's blood magic. We had gone in to eradicate them ourselves. The damage was attributed to these fictional kindred punks."
"Damage?" Matt asked immediately.
"Magnus appears to have sprayed the inside of the building with gunfire," Patrick answered. "From what we've been able to tell, he didn't hit anything. Neither did Stephen, for that matter." Matt stayed silent, not revealing his thoughts to his counterpart within the Tremere clan. A widespread pattern with no hits would be indicative of panic fire, but that would have been extremely unlike Magnus. Matt had never seen the older Telemon lose his cool. "You have ghouls, right?" Stephen asked suddenly.
"Yes," Matt replied suspiciously. He had no idea what Patrick had in mind, but he already knew that he did not like it.
"Could you send a couple of them to the fort?" Patrick asked. "I assume they have some military training."
"Of course they do," Matt replied, mildly offended that Patrick could even entertain the thought that anyone worthy of being a Telemon ghoul would not have a military background.
"We could certainly use their opinions," Patrick answered. "Like I said, we have no idea what happened. Maybe your people could piece it together a little better."
"What exactly do you know?" Matt asked, wanting to know what kind of situation he would be sending his people into.
"The two bodies were mutilated," Patrick replied. "It looked like the attackers could have been garou, but if that were the case, I'm sure Magnus would have at least shot one. There would be blood, or something. From what we've seen, there's nothing." Patrick's voice betrayed his sense of disbelief at the situation, and that set Matt more at ease. He was comfortable in concluding that the Tremere had not been involved.
Matt thought quickly – two bodies. It appeared that Yashida had been able to escape. Unless, of course, Patrick was holding out, waiting to see if Matt was willing to admit that he knew about Johnny's presence at the meeting. Matt decided he had no choice but to accept responsibility for violating the terms of the meeting. He had to know if Yashida had been found.
"Did you find any trace of Johnny?" Matt asked.
"Yashida?" Patrick asked suspiciously. "He was there? I thought we had an agreement."
"Stephen and Magnus had an agreement," Matt stated evenly. "I sent Johnny to watch from afar. He was only there to keep an eye on his clanmate. His orders were to not do anything that would violate the trust of the meeting."
"I see," Patrick replied suspiciously. The Tremere primogen was surprised that he was not angrier about Matt's actions. In fact, he acknowledged that the Telemon's motives had been fueled by the fear and distrust that all of the other clans felt for the Tremere. Such a reputation was useful enough that Patrick had cultivated it over the years. He would not allow himself to act self-righteously when such a public sentiment worked against him. Instead, he would congratulate himself on having achieved his goal of making the other clans uneasy around his own.
"Did Mr. Yashida carry a silver penlight by any chance?" Patrick asked.
"Yes," Matt replied after a moment's thought. He remembered the light as being a souvenir Johnny had taken during the robbery of a mall in Pennsylvania. It had been his first job with Michelle, and the light had always had sentimental value. Matt was surprised that Patrick would have known about it. "Why do you ask?"
"We found the light on the second floor," Patrick replied. Matt grimaced as he heard the words. Johnny had been given strict orders to keep his distance. He was not supposed to have been anywhere near the building unless he saw signs of an attack. Then again, Matt thought, perhaps his sire had indeed seen something.
"There was no other trace of him?" Matt asked.
"None," Patrick replied. "You have not heard from him?"
"Not yet," Matt said. "Perhaps he saw something."
"Perhaps he did something," Patrick replied caustically. "How am I to know that Johnny was not sent to assassinate my clanmate."
"You'll just have to trust me," Matt answered.
"What if he didn't tell you about it," Patrick responded. "After all, he does have a history of acting on his own, despite what you tell him."
"So you want me to seriously consider that Johnny is responsible for the murder of Magnus and Stephen?" Matt asked angrily. "That's absolutely absurd."
"Why?" Patrick asked.
"First of all, there's no way he could have done it," Matt replied. "He's nowhere near powerful enough. Secondly, he would have been able to get close to Magnus, so there wouldn't have been a roomful of bullet holes. Magnus would have trusted Johnny to get near him, and then the attack would have come."
"You have a point," Patrick admitted, obviously reluctantly. "That leaves us back where we were. We have no idea who was behind the attack."
"Don't we?" Matt asked immediately. "What were they supposed to be meeting about? What was so important that it seems to have gotten two, maybe three, of our best kindred killed?"
"This is not the time or the place for this conversation," Patrick replied. "Given the circumstances, I want more than ever to discuss this matter with you, but I hope you'll forgive me when I say I am unwilling to expose myself to my clanmate's fate. I will tell you all the information that Magnus would have brought to you tonight, but the meeting will have to be held in my clan's chantry. You will be permitted to bring any two guards of your choice."
"When?" Matt asked.
"As soon as the sun goes down tomorrow night," Patrick responded. "By then perhaps Mr. Yashida will have reappeared and shed some light on the subject."
"Yes, perhaps," Matt agreed. Only Johnny would not be reappearing anytime soon. Matt knew that much. If Yashida had seen anything, his first impulse would have been to tell someone right away. That would at least prevent any knowledge from dying with him. If nothing else, Johnny knew that if he was not the only one that knew something, he would not be as great a target. Minimizing his exposure to danger had always been Johnny's greatest desire. Only two possibilities really remained. Either Johnny was dead, which seemed to be the greatest likelihood, or he had been so frightened that he had gone to ground. If the latter was the case, Matt could not imagine how great the danger would be. Johnny had never been so intimidated by anything that he did not seem to feel his clanmates could protect him. If he thought that not even the entire Telemon clan could offer safety, then the situation could indeed be grim. "I'll see you tomorrow night, then," Matt said.
"As soon as possible," Patrick added before he hung up the phone.
Matt did not hang up his phone. Instead, he pushed the hang-up button, and then pushed it immediately again, knowing he would have to make a crucial phone call before he did anything else. While Matt had a few hours before sunrise, the person he was calling would be falling asleep any moment. He dialed quickly, knowing the numbers well enough to not have to look at the keypad. The phone rang three times before there was a voice at the other end of the line.
"Hello?" a voice asked in a faint Chinese accent.
"Wong, this is Matt," Reimer said, unable to hide his anxiety. "Is Siras asleep yet?"
"Not quite yet," Wong responded. The Chinese retainer that Siras employed had been in the service of the head of the Telemon clan for over forty years, and was trusted with keeping records of the clan's activity. Although he was only a ghoul, and would probably never be embraced, he was kept eternally young by the blood that he drank from his master.
Matt waited in silence for a few moments, knowing that Wing was looking for his master, and that Matt would be able to speak with his grandsire in a short time.
"Hello?" came the familiar, confident voice of Siras Telemon. "Is something wrong."
"Magnus was killed tonight, sir," Matt said quickly, knowing that Siras would not have appreciated any sugarcoating of the news. He would be far more appreciative of the facts being given succinctly.
"How?" Siras asked after a few moments. Matt could tell that Siras was disturbed by the news. Though the head of the clan had never shown any affection for any of his childer, Matt had always suspected that underneath the hard-ass shell, Siras actually did have feelings. He felt sorry for his grandsire, but also knew that Siras would not allow the sadness of loss to interfere with his duties. He would move on.
"He had gone to a meeting with one of the Tremere," Matt replied. "Both of them were attacked and killed. We do not yet have any idea of who was behind it."
"I see," Siras replied. "You know that the Tremere are on the level?"
"I'll never know if, and when, the Tremere are on the level," Matt replied. "I think they're scared, though. Their primogen wants to meet with me at sunset tomorrow. He wants to meet in his chantry. He doubts that he would be perfectly safe anywhere else." Despite his better judgement, Siras had to admit that it did actually seem that the Tremere were frightened. Of course, it could all be a ploy. It was possible, he thought, that the Tremere would portray a frightened exterior if they thought it would gain them anything. The progenitor of the Telemon clan put that thought out of his head quickly. No matter what the Tremere were hoping to gain, he found it unlikely that they would ever allow themselves to appear afraid. Especially not with their background.
"Make sure you make it to the meeting," Siras said, knowing that his order was not necessary. Siras guessed that Matt had already reached the same conclusions that he himself had.
"There's something else," Matt added, finding himself surprised at the fact that he was hesitating in completing his report.
"What is it?" Siras asked impatiently through a yawn. Matt was reminded that his grandsire would probably not be able to stay awake much longer, and resolved to simply say what he had to.
"Johnny's missing," Matt added. "I sent him to keep an eye on Magnus' meeting, but he never checked in."
"You haven't heard anything at all?" Siras asked. "What about Michelle? Have you checked with her?"
"She's out with the Gangrel," Matt replied. "I'll have to wait a couple of hours until she gets in."
"What do you think happened?" Siras asked.
"He might be dead," Matt answered. "I don't know. I need help out here."
"I'll have someone come in tomorrow night," Siras replied. "It probably won't be until late, though. Not until after midnight."
"Ok," Matt replied. "Thanks."
Siras Telemon simply hung up the phone, rather than say goodbye. He was shocked. His clan had functioned for years without losing a member in combat. Only Angelica and Butterfly had ever fallen, and neither one had ever truly been a part of the clan. Neither had ever fit in. Now, however, he had lost his first childe, and perhaps his second, as well. Magnus had been Siras' voice in San Francisco, lending the wisdom of years of experience. It would not be easy to replace him. Indeed, it might prove impossible. Such was also the case with Johnny. He had been the one and only information broker in the clan. If he did indeed prove to be dead, the clan might be left out of the loop in many situations.
As he drifted off to sleep, Siras wondered how to handle the crisis. Matt needed help. Who should he send, however? The Sabbat had once again turned their sights to State College. Siras could not risk sending a large number of his troops to California. He could really only risk sending one or two. To make matters more complicated, there was the chance that something might happen to Matt going to or from the meeting with the Tremere. If something went wrong, the Telemon clan would be without leadership in the city. The next oldest kindred in the clan was Holden, and he was not yet ready for the burden of leadership. Siras would have to deal with both contingencies, or else decide to cut his losses and pull out of San Francisco. No, he decided. It was not yet time for that. He smiled as he decided who he would send. Yes, there was one member of the clan that would be able to not only help in battle, should it be necessary, but who would also be able to assume responsibility for the clan should the need arise.
VIII
With dawn rapidly approaching, Michelle Marlowe raced into the apartment building in Japantown that she and Johnny Yashida were sharing. It had been quite awhile since she had spent an entire night with other Gangrel, and the experience had helped her to forget all the stress that she had been under lately. Of course, she thought, it would have been more fun if Johnny had come along, but she figured he had probably found some adventure of his own. She was sure she would hear all about it as she drifted off to sleep.
The Gangrel walked inside, and then ran up the stairs, making it to her apartment door in a matter of seconds. However, she was left speechless when she walked in. All of the furniture had been ripped to pieces. The television set and stereo had been smashed. Michelle drew her Glock and started to walk through the apartment, figuring that she and Johnny had been robbed. She wanted to make sure that no one was still in the apartment. She reached the bedroom and found the closet door ripped off of its hinges. The mattress appeared to have been torn in half. Michelle scanned the dresser, and found it curiously intact. She opened the top drawer, and saw a wad of twenty-dollar bills sitting right where she had left it.
Robbery was obviously not the motive, she surmised. Why would someone break into the apartment and not take money that was practically lying out in the open? What else would they want? In horror, Michelle realized that Johnny was not there.
"Johnny?" Michelle called out. "Are you here anywhere?" There was no answer. Michelle glanced out the window again. Within minutes it would be too bright for Johnny to comfortably be out on the streets. "Johnny!" she yelled, panic starting to overtake her. In no more than half an hour, the sun would completely clear the horizon. The Gangrel raced to the phone, only to find it had been pulled out of the wall. Instead, she took out her cell-phone, and dialed the two childer that Johnny secretly had living in the city. The phone rang seven times, and Michelle had just about given up when Uiko answered.
"Yes?" the woman asked tiredly in her light Japanese accent.
"Uiko, it's Michelle," the Gangrel said quickly, unable to calm herself. "Have you seen Johnny?"
"No," Uiko answered. "Is something wrong?"
"He wasn't here when I got in," Michelle replied. "He was supposed to meet up with me earlier and never did. When I got home the place was torn apart."
"Shit," Uiko said, obviously becoming concerned herself. "It's too bright out to go looking for him."
"I know," Michelle said. The Gangrel looked quickly out the window, having to prove to herself that the sun was indeed still rising. To her disappointment, her sensitive eyes confirmed that it was still getting lighter. Her vain hope that dawn would somehow wait until she had Johnny safe within her arms again was proven to be the fool's dream she had known deep down it was. "I don't suppose Mason has seen him at all."
"No, we were both together all night," Uiko replied. "Why don't you call Matt and see if he knows anything?"
"Good idea," Michelle replied. "You going to sleep now?"
"Yes," Uiko replied. Michelle could tell that Johnny's childe was trying desperately to hold off sleep, but it was a futile effort. All kindred would pass out when the sun rose. It was a part of their nature.
"I'll call you first thing tomorrow night," Michelle said. Then she hung up, almost seeming to dial Matt's number before the connection with Uiko had been ended. Again the phone rang several times, but Matt picked up on the fifth ring.
"Have you seen Johnny?" Michelle asked immediately. She noted the panic she heard in her own voice, but was far past caring. She needed to find him. Michelle could not imagine going to sleep without Yashida beside her. It had been years since she had had to.
"He's missing," Matt answered, his voice sounding sluggish and grumpy.
"What?" Michelle asked. She could not believe no one had contacted her.
"He did a job for us earlier, and never came back," Matt replied. "We tried to call you, but there was no answer." Michelle looked at the wall, remembering the phone line having been ripped out.
"Well, someone trashed our apartment," Michelle said. "They ripped out the phone line. I guess that's why you couldn't get through."
"Are you sure you're alone?" Matt asked. "Johnny was with Magnus earlier. Magnus is dead. If Johnny got away, they might go there looking to finish the job."
"Now you tell me," Michelle muttered. She knew she could not risk leaving the building. Of course, she could always break into another apartment, but that would leave her vulnerable if the owner came home during the day. She would be unable to awaken. If someone did something as simple as open a curtain next to her, it could prove fatal.
"The sun's coming up," Matt pointed out needlessly. "Why don't you get some sleep and start looking for him tomorrow night."
"But what if he's in trouble?" Michelle asked desperately. "I have to know. I can't just go to sleep when he could be dead, or tied up in the park. Oh my God, what if he's tied up in the park, Matt? He'll die."
"He's a big boy, Michelle," Matt answered. "He can take care of himself. You can't go looking now, though. You have to go to sleep. If you leave the apartment, you'll just get yourself killed. That's not going to help him any."
"I know," Michelle replied with a yawn. Her eyes went wide with disbelief at the fact that she could be falling asleep in such a situation. She had to stay awake. She had to wait and see if Johnny came back to her. "I just want to find him."
"We all do," Matt assured her. "First thing tomorrow night, Holden will be out looking for him."
"So will I," Michelle added. She yawned again, and immediately took out a knife and cut her left palm open. She winced with pain as blood slowly seeped from the wound, but the pain was enough to jolt her fully awake once again.
"Ok," Matt said as he hung up. Michelle began to pace. "If I'm walking, I'm awake," she muttered over and over to herself, her mantra helping her fight off the sleep that she knew was inevitable. Every few minutes she would cut herself again, and then glance out the window, hoping that she would see Johnny below, running into the building at the last moment before it was too late. Finally, she drew back the curtain one too many times to look for her friend. Sunlight streamed in and instantly scorched her hands and face. Michelle screamed in agony as she fell back from the window and the exposed sun outside. Once she hit the floor, her body became too weary to move any longer. Even the pain of her burns was not enough to keep her awake. "Johnny," she muttered one last time before she fell asleep. However, there was nothing more that she was able to do, other than sleep the day away.
To be continued........................