Welcome one and all! I am Thor and this is the continuation of the story started in The Cost of Living. I would suggest that you might want to read that story first as many themes and characters introduced there are dealt with in this tale. However there is (I think) more then enough information given away by the characters here for you to read this story seperately from The Cost of Living, so therefore (if you wish) feel free to give this one a go first. I would like to take a bit of time to thank those who helped me get through the second section of this tale. First off a big thanks to Tremere, take a look pal! You got me writing and dealing with HTML! (At least now I no longer need to sneak in a few extra scenes to force you to read all my new stuff again) Second I would like to thank Icy Mike for giving me the inspiration to start working on longer and longer stories. Lastly, and always, I'd like to thank Linda for being Anne to my Flint, thanks for putting up with it all.
The Cost of Dying: A Tale of Detroit
Night 1 - The Darkness Given Form
The four figures walked down the dark and narrow passages between the massive warehouses. They were lead by an elderly man in a black suit. He was bald and had a closely trimmed white beard that was set off by his dark and piercing gaze. His cane tapped along the ground as he walked, the length of it's black surface glinting with the many small and intricate runes carved along it. Walking alongside him came a nondescript woman. Her hair was curly and unruly, her features plain and bland, her eyes hidden behind thick glasses. Yet it was her eyes that set her apart. They seemed to dance around and take in everything around them. Their was a tint of madness to her gaze, madness and delusion. Behind the pair came a dark shape, hard to even concentrate on. At best it seemed an older man dressed in long black robes, or a dark suit, or a young man, or perhaps just a shadow, a figment of imagination. Finally, behind him, came a young man dressed in black jeans and a black wind breaker. His pale face was slightly unhandsome, and had a trace of unwholesomeness about it. His thick dark hair blew in the wind as he trudged along.
Hank followed behind the "Dark Master" the apparent head of his "clan". It had only been two nights since his change, yet it felt like an eternity since they had come to him and freed him from his cell. His new family, his clan. Hank was adjusting slowly to life amongst the walking dead. He still longed for the hunt, however the others were far more powerful then he, and forbade him to go. Thus he was forced to stay by their sides, to serve their will. Hank hated it, hated the fact they had freed him only for a new type of servitude. Jilean motioned to the building as she looked questioningly at Decker. The Malkavian "sorcerer" nodded, he walked up and opened the door. Inside was a large room, scattered around the edges were some sleeping bags. However the center of the room was dominated by an altar and dozens of sigils inscribed upon the floor.
"A few of my mortal 'friends' were willing to allow me use of their ritual altar for a night," Decker said with a snicker. "It is more sham then reality, even with some of the secrets I have taught them. But I believe it shall serve well enough."
The Dark Master walked up to the symbols, and seemed to snort in amusement. He nodded in thanks to Decker, who, pleased with the approval, turned and left. Jilean patted Hank on the shoulder and motioned him to the altar. Hank happily complied, and hopped onto it. He had been told that the Dark Master had decided to give him extra power. In return Hank would have to perform a task or two, but he would be allowed to hunt. To hunt for Leanne. Hank smiled in satisfaction as he laid down on the altar and listened to the soft chants of the robed figure. Soon Leanne....soon.
Knight Bishop Christopher St. Johns walked down the hallway of the opulent hotel. The young bishop nodded to the Black Hand guards that lurked in the shadows. They scowled at him but allowed him to pass. St. Johns ran a hand through his flowing blonde hair and straightened his suit. He had figured it wise not to appear before the Archdeacon with any sort of pompous airs, and had thus forgone his usual archaic knight ensemble. The Lasombra paused before the entrance to Archdeacon Beriayl's room, again wondering why he had been summoned. St. Johns slowly raised his hand and knocked on the door.
"Enter," came the reply. St. Johns opened the door and strode into the room. "St. Johns, it is good to see you," said Beriayl as he looked up from his desk. St. Johns shifted uneasily and hoped the Archdeacon had summoned him only for a pleasant chat. Though he rather doubted that.
"My every fiber awaits to hear and serve your whim lord," he said as he swept into a graceful bow. Beriayl stood up from his chair and walked slowly around the desk as he eyed St. Johns. The Lasombra forced himself to stand straight as he met the steady gaze of the Archdeacon. Beriayl appeared as little more then a middle-aged man. His features were nothing special, his dress simple and conservative. Even his eyes were plain, simple and blue. But there was something about him, some inner confidence, some sense of power. Beriayl grinned and St. Johns wished he could flee the room. That was it, thought the Lasombra ruefully, something about Beriayl exuded the aura of a predator.
"How many men are in your 'New Sabbat'?"
St. Johns looked up, concerned by the question, feeling more and more the prey every moment. "I am unsure of the exact number Milord." He felt a cold shiver of fear pass through him. The New Sabbat, his secret ploy at gaining power. A large coalition of lesser packs and packs that had suffered heavy losses battling in Detroit. He had used his natural charisma and leadership skills to combine them under his banner. It had been by assembling this large force that he had managed to force Cooler into acknowledging him as a bishop. If Beriayl had thought it time to end the charade as too dangerous...
"Yet," continued Beriayl, still not looking up. "It is a force that nearly equals that of Cooler's." St. Johns swallowed nervously. This was not a good line of thought.
"I suppose, if you didn't count the Hand and only were concerned about numbers."
"I am," Beriayl looked up from his writing. St. Johns froze in fear. He was done for. He was doomed. He was dead. Beriayl didn't like his upstart actions and was going to destroy him. St. Johns watched in apprehension as Beriayl spoke, "how would you like to be Archbishop of Windsor?" The Lasombra blinked. What was Beriayl playing at, was this a test, a trick?
"I would be honored to attain such heights eventually," he managed weakly.
"How about in a few weeks?"
St. Johns couldn't contain his surprise, "what do you mean Lord?" He realized he had almost shouted the words. Beriayl grinned at him, looking like nothing less then a shark with a minnow in it's sights.
"The problem that keeps us from taking Detroit is how un-unified we are. I intend to unite the various coalitions and packs into one strong whole. Tomorrow night I have called a meeting of the most powerful Sabbat in Windsor. I shall take their forces and combine them. I need a charismatic and intelligent leader to head up the force. Do you want the job?" St. Johns pondered the offer. Obviously it was risky, obviously he was being used by Beriayl as an expendable figurehead. If anything went wrong he would be cast to the wolves, and another leader chosen. Also, if Beriayl failed in his unification then St. Johns stood to lose many men as well as some status and perhaps his life as well....Only an ambitious fool would choose to leap at the offer. But...the possibilities.
"My Lord," said St. Johns as he bowed again and grinned widely, "I would be honored."
Raymond waited patiently before the airport. The Toreador elder stood at ease, his blue suit hanging perfectly on his trim figure. His blonde hair and blue eyes along with his strong jaw and fresh face made him appear like the perfect and successful young American businessman. Around him dozens of women paused to peer at him, wishing they were whoever he was waiting for so patiently. But he ignored them, his thoughts were focused around his plan. Soon his guest would arrive, and soon he would receive the accolades of his clan and the prince. Raymond glanced about as another small stream of humanity issued forth from the gates. He smiled to himself when he finally spotted Anton escorting a slim woman who moved with near perfect grace and form. Anton quickly lead her to his sire, and bowed slightly to Raymond.
"I have brought her sire," rumbled Anton's deep voice as the massive bodyguard and enforcer moved to load up the multiple suitcases he easily carried.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance Madame Treble," Raymond said as he smoothly bowed to his guest.
She was dressed in a long black coat, and wore a black hat and veil over her face. She nodded slightly to Raymond.
"I trust that you enjoyed your trip, and that Anton provided for you?" Again she nodded slightly. Raymond turned to glance at Anton. His brows rising quizzically at her silence.
"She never speaks unless it's to sing," was the reply. "Apparently she seeks to maintain her voice in its purest state."
Raymond nodded in understanding. "If Madame Treble wishes to remain silent, then we shall simply have to learn to anticipate her needs," he replied gracefully. He swung open the door to his Mercedes and motioned her inside. She quietly climbed in and Raymond shut the door. He grinned as he and Anton entered the car, the singing skills of a Daughter of Cacophony would surely bring him great status within his clan. Things looked good.
Things looked bad thought Charles Payne as he rode quietly up the long elevator ride to the suites at the top level of the hotel. The Lasombra bishop had been expecting some sort of political skullduggery to erupt after the failed attempt on Prince Steven's life. However he was unsure as to how the events would play out, or what effect they would have on his own goals. Thus he was hardly looking forward to this meeting. Payne checked his black pinstriped suit over again, ensuring that it remained as impeccable as it had been when he had put it on. He nodded in satisfaction at his appearance, even as he shifted nervously.
"You are worried sire?" Payne glanced up at Juli, his childe's dark eyes watched him carefully. Her thick dark hair was trimmed short, and hung heavy around her shapely face. She was dressed in a mid-length skirt, black leggings, and a oversized black sweater. Her fingers were just visible poking out of the sleeves of the sweater as they gripped her notebook securely to her chest. He frowned and nodded to her.
"This situation bodes ill," he said slowly. He brushed a few fingers across his short white hair as he sighed. "A storm is brewing, and I wish not to be caught within it." Juli considered his words even as a bell sounded and the metallic doors of the elevator swung open.
"Good evening bishop," said one of the three figures who waited on the other side. Payne scowled at the Black Hand operative, he had never cared for the amount of power wielded by the secretive sub-sect. Nor did he enjoy how prevelant they were in the guard operations in the hotel. He glanced up and down the apparent leader of the trio. A young man dressed in the usual Hand uniform of all black plus a long black overcoat. His dark face was decorated by a series of spiraling and curving black tattoos. The man bowed slightly to him. "May I inquire as to the purpose of you visit?"
"You may," said Payne coldly as he walked past the man, Juli keeping pace with him.
"But you might not answer," said the Hand operative with a smirk as he watched him go. He nodded his head to one of his aides who quickly followed. Payne strode down the hallways of the hotel, he chose to ignore his tail as he proceeded to his destination. He rapped smartly on the door and waited only a moment before the voice within called for him to enter. Juli opened the door for him and slipped in quietly behind him as he stepped into Archdeacon Beriayl's chambers.
"Greetings Charles," said Beriayl with a crooked grin as he looked up from his desk and motioned Payne closer. "I trust this meeting didn't pull you away from anything too important."
"No, the timing was perfect," said Payne coolly as he sat down in one of the chairs opposite Beriayl. Juli stepped up quietly and stood behind him. "So, what is this important matter you wished to discuss with me?"
"Straight to the point," chuckled Beriayl, "I knew there was something about you I liked." Payne said nothing, he simply sat quietly and waited. Beriayl's wan smile slipped away to be replaced by a simple and businesslike demeanor. "Yes, I suppose you wouldn't care to waste your time beating around the point. I wish you to support me in a matter I shall soon be bringing forth in council."
"And what matter is this?"
"I plan to establish a true archbishop for the Sabbat forces in Windsor." Payne leaned back in surprise. His eyes narrowed slightly as he thought over the possible repercussions of Beriayl's plan. He stroked his thick white mustache a few times and then looked back to Beriayl.
"A interesting move. However, I was unaware that it was your right to do any such thing. Weren't you simply sent here to aid Flint in setting up his assault plan against Steven?"
"That was my original intent. But that issue has come and gone, and it is time I moved on. You are well aware that my powers are fairly malleable, it is not unheard of for a priscus to elect a archbishop."
"But, you will of course need plenty of support to pull the whole affair off," said Payne with a smirk. "So tell me, who is it you plan to choose? Yourself?"
"Oh heavens no," chuckled Beriayl as he shook his head at the thought. "Such an action would be looked on poorly by certain acquaintances of mine back in Mexico. They might suspect me of making a bid for power that they do not wish to deal with."
"Then who...Cooler?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of Knight Bishop Christopher St. Johns."
"That fop," cursed Payne in surprise. He sat up straighter in his chair as he shook his head. "He is a lacheur and rabble-rouser who shouldn't be trusted with leading a pack of mass-embraced thin bloods into battle!" Payne spat the last few words in annoyance. When he finished he looked again upon Beriayl, but the Archdeacon's face was once again smirking. Payne hissed in annoyance. "Father, I suggest you seek your choice elsewhere."
"I think not," said Beriayl as he leaned back in his large leather chair. "Now, I wish to know something. You have always stood with Cooler in the past, but where will you stand now?" Payne nodded his head, he had known this was what Beriayl would start angling for. If St. Johns bid as archbishop was to succeed then Cooler would have to be removed as a contender. Thus Payne, as Cooler's strongest supporter, was the logical piece to deal with. Payne looked up into Beriayl's wide grin. Yes, deal with, or destroy.
"I have and always will stand with the Sabbat," said Payne noncommittally.
"There is no place for Cooler in my new unified order," Beriayl softly announced. "Yet there may be a place for someone who knows the right path to choose. A man who has, perhaps, not been rewarded as he should for his vigilant loyalty to the old rule."
"Indeed? What would this new order hold for such a man," asked Payne slowly.
"Abbot Shalom has caused quite a few flared tempers of late." Beriayl waved one of his hands idly through the air as though just thinking of his words. "I would wonder how well she and her packs would survive such a troublesome time as the unfortunate period of unrest that will inevitably arise during the transition of power." His words were well chosen indeed. Payne frowned and ran his fingers along his chin while he thought. A dangerous game for all involved, but less so for him then for Beriayl or St. Johns. Especially if he played his hand well.
"I question your choices and methods," said Payne sternly as he rose. "Yet I believe that our forces cry out for a true leader." He bowed to Beriayl as he backed away from the desk. Beriayl's eyes shone with satisfaction as he smiled and nodded his head in acceptance. Payne turned and walked out of the room, he nodded his head to the assortment of guards lurking outside the door. All Beriayl's trusted and loyal men. Payne nodded in understanding, Beriayl could no longer trust The Hand to protect him. When Flint learned of the Archdeacon's plans there was bound to be trouble.
"Sire, is this...what I mean is....should..." Juli glanced nervously at him as she followed him down the hallway back to the elevators. Payne chuckled.
"Don't worry, however this little drama unfolds I stand to emerge unharmed. We have dodged the storm my dear, now let us watch who is destroyed by it."
Hank slowly regained his senses. The room now hung thickly with a haze of smoke and incense. The Dark Master was gone. So were Jilean and Decker. They had finally set him loose! Hank grinned maniacally as he stood up and saw his hunting gear laying before him. He pulled on the windbreaker and slid the mask and gun into it. He held up the knife slowly and marveled at its gleaming blade.
He had never felt so alive or powerful. It felt almost as though he could fly! Hank slid the knife into his coat and dashed towards the door. He slid to a stop before it, he suddenly realized that he had just decided to start moving, and yet he was already here! He laughed wildly as he easily spun around the entire building in scant seconds. He hissed with glee as he grabbed a steel rod and easily twisted it in his bare hands. He finally relaxed. Now he was a perfect being. But he was not yet a perfect hunter. For that he would need practice...
Night 2 - The Darkness Walks Among Us
Flint sat in the shadows of his room. He held a small hunk of wood, and was slowly carving at it with a knife. He appeared as a middle aged man. His long blonde hair was worn and disheveled as it hung down his back. His skin was dark, almost as black as night itself. Pale white scars decorated his flesh, giving his skin the appearance of marble. His dark eyes were not paying attention to the piece of wood in his hands. Hey were locked across the room, on his childe, Anne.
Her long black hair cascaded across her face as she flipped it forward. Her small pale hands nimbly zipped up the black leather bodysuit she wore as part of her uniform. She flipped her hair back. Revealing her face once again to him. Her soft, full lips. Her almond shaped green eyes. The gentle arc of her flowing white neck. He watched as Anne gingerly pulled on her battle gear. She still moved stiffly from the wounds he had inflicted in his brutal beating, but she would soon heal once she had more blood in her system. She had been here for the last three nights, he had been alternating assaulting her and holding her while begging forgiveness. He was still unsure as to which he had meant more.
"Where are you off to," he asked, never stopping at his slow whittling. His eyes remained locked on her. Hoping that she would look at him, forgive him, understand him. He hoped that she would once again show that youthful fire and exuberance that had driven her. It had been her refusal to grow old that had so endeared her to him. He needed her to be young, that he might enjoy the world anew through her. Instead she didn't even look up. Her voice was sharp and clipped, the voice of a commander.
"I need to go assess the damage caused by the failed attack. I also should perform a review of the men, and ready them." Anne grimaced as she stretched out her arms to slide on her black coat. The heavy armor plates dragged painfully down on her battered shoulders, but she forced herself to cope.
"I already assessed the injuries and losses," Flint told her. As for the review, there is no need, another raid shall not come too soon." She didn't respond, she kept her back to him. He watched her delicate movements as she pulled on her gloves, hiding her soft and pale flesh under her harsh leather exterior. Flint continued to watch as Anne strapped on her weapons. She finally looked up at him, for a moment he was hopeful. But her large green eyes were not full of life, instead they held a hidden hurt within them.
"Maybe I just need to get out of here," she said as she spun around and stormed through the door. It slammed shut, and Flint listened as she stomped down the hallway to the stairs. He shook his head and continued to carve. She was hurt from the beating he had given her. He had allowed her to see the beast that lay beneath his quiet demeanor, and it had frightened and repulsed her. The beating had left her with a lack of trust, and the monster with a lack of connection. Flint felt a twinge of remorse for the touch of hatred that had been in her eyes when she had looked at him. He slowly resumed carving.
Michael Cooler stood gazing out a window of his conference room. Behind him was a massive black oak table, seated around it were the heads of Sabbat operations in the area. Cal Jericho was currently arguing loudly about the relative point of the failed assault on the Camarilla a few nights ago. Bishop Payne sighed as he leaned away from Jericho, a disgusted look on his face. Cooler couldn't blame him, Jericho hadn't bothered to argue logic or measurable gains and losses. Instead he had merely stuck to the fact that more Camarilla had died then Sabbat. Never mind the financial losses, the morale decrease, the increased security it would bring about from the Camarilla. Cooler shook his head, he had expected better from the attack, but it had fallen apart simply due to miscommunication and stupidity from the packs on scene.
"I see that Dominion Flint has chosen not to join us," said Beriayl as he stepped through the door. The room fell quieter as all present bowed or nodded their heads in respect to the powerful Tzimisce priscus.
"I suspect he is still angered over his failed plan," commented St. Johns as he drifted in with Beriayl. Cooler turned about and noted the look of pleased superiority on St. Johns' face. St. Johns kept the smile as he moved casually to his seat. Nearby Jane Doe sat in regal pose. She began a quiet discussion with St. Johns over some minor skirmish between one of her packs and some of his New Sabbat packs. Cooler's eyes narrowed as he glanced back at Beriayl. It seemed more then coincidence that the two had arrived together. Cooler slowly walked over to his own chair and sat in it. The door opened again as Anne slipped into the room and quietly moved to her customary corner position. Cooler noted that she appeared tired and worn. He had not seen her since before the assault, and had heard that she had been in the thick of the fighting. Still, he was surprised that she still didn't seem to have recovered from her wounds.
"Let's get this thing going," Cal Jericho loudly said, more then pleased that all of the attendees had finally shown. "I don't know about you fossils. But I have things to do tonight!" The templar leaned back in his chair, which creaked loudly in protest. Cooler winced in pain for the delicate and old piece of furniture, but decided he wasn't up to ordering Jericho to treat a chair better. It probably wouldn't have done any good in any case.
"My friends," said Beriayl as he sat in the head chair, "I have come to a decision about the factions in Windsor. I have decided that they should be abolished, for we will be stronger if united under one commander." Cooler cocked an eyebrow in interest. Was the Archdeacon going to finally authorize his position as Archbishop? It had been most bothersome for Cooler to have to constantly defend his self proclaimed position. Many were the times that his command had been called into question because he was only a bishop, despite the fact that he was by far the most powerful in the city. Cooler leaned in slightly, paying careful attention to Beriayl's words. "Though I have not yet decided upon that leader," continued the priscus in his calm and commanding tone, "I am supporting Knight Bishop Christopher St. Johns as the current best choice."
Cooler growled as he swung his gaze to St. Johns, who was nodding in pleased acceptance. Cal Jericho tilted his head in mild surprise, but for the most part he couldn't care who was in charge. Anne's eyes narrowed as she heard the announcement. Most of the other bishops muttered in surprise and turned to look at the smirking Lasombra.
"I am humbled and pleased by your support Archdeacon. As I am awed and amazed by the opportunity to further serve our great cause." Pretty words, thought Cooler, pretty and empty. What game was being played here, and for what purpose.
"I will attempt to serve to the best of my abilities the will of the Sabbat and our new Archbishop," said Charles Payne. The Ventrue was wily enough in the political game to know that loyalty to your leader always paid off. Cooler was shocked to see his strongest supporter pulled away from him. Of course Payne had only served Cooler because he seemed to be in charge, now that the situation changed so did Payne's loyalties. Many of the other pack leader and priests offered their own support. Anne had an odd look on her face, but Cooler knew she would remain loyal to whomever the Sabbat leadership told her to, and for the moment that seemed to be St. Johns. Cooler fumed, his two strongest aides had just been taken from him in the blinking of an eye. He glanced at Beriayl, the Tzimisce grinned back at him gently.
"Just make sure you keep beating on those Camarilla pukes," muttered Jericho as he accepted Beriayl's suggestion.
"This hardly seems a wise choice," said the quiet Jane Doe. The hauntingly beautiful Ventrue stood up, and swung her cascading red locks back out of her face. "Christopher is an over ambitious fledgling, to trust in him the command of our unified forces is idiotic."
St. Johns glowered at Jane and even Beriayl frowned slightly. Jane stood tall, her pale lavender eyes stared about the room for supporters. Justin the Saint, who command great respect amongst the priests seemed unconcerned. Of course he rarely ever bothered with politics. As for Anne, she was a soldier and would serve whoever was in charge. Jericho didn't play politics, and Payne played them too well to support someone against Beriayl. Bishop Deanna was too new and too tenuous in position to want to risk crossing Beriayl. Most of the other pack leaders remained silent, too weak in political and military power to want to chance it on this one dissenter, whether or not they agreed with her.
Cooler was surprised, Jane was hardly the sort to make any sort of mistake when it came to politics. Plus she was usually silent in most of these matters anyway, why make a move she knew she'd have so little support on? It seemed foolish, and that was one trait he had never thought to apply to the canny Ventrue. Then Cooler realized that Jane had thrown herself wide open on purpose. By doing so she had opened the question of whether someone else should be archbishop. She had obviously done so in order to give him a chance to offer himself as a leader. But, could he succeed against the powers of Beriayl and St. Johns? It would be a risky and dangerous game. Cooler grinned.
"It would seem rude to leave a lady alone with her opinion," Cooler said as he turned to Beriayl. "I am the longest dwelling Sabbat member in Detroit, I have studied and fought in the city for ages. I also wield more power then St. Johns." He turned and cast his gaze along the table, meeting the eyes there and finding support. He turned back to Beriayl. "Why not choose me?"
"But St. Johns seems to have as many followers as you," said Beriayl smoothly. His cold eyes bored into Cooler. "Not to mention, you have been fighting here that long, and yet Detroit remains Camarilla. It would seem your accomplishments are little more then a long list of failures." Cooler realized it was an illogical argument, but by making it Beriayl showed that he had picked St. Johns for his own reasons. Around the table there was low mutterings of agreement. Beriayl had been obviously been seeking supporters of his own. Cooler scowled and sat down. If Beriayl refused an open debate or challenge, then to cross him would be pushing the boundaries of protocol. Cooler would need some time to think, to plan his next move.
"I shall follow, but I do so under protest," he said. He would think about this, see where it was heading. He leaned back and looked away from Beriayl, accepting defeat. For now.
"I shall not follow," was Jane's comment. It cut through the nervous tension as gently as a buzz-saw through Plexiglas. Eyes widened in shock and bodies shifted away from her in worry. Beriayl turned and watched her coldly as she stood up again. She met his gaze as she gathered her things. With a snap of her fingers she and her escorts turned and stormed from the room, "neither shall my men!" The others watched the Ventrue rage down the hallway and out the door.
"Well," said Beriayl with a chuckle as he leaned forward. "I do believe, my dear Archbishop St. Johns, that the first order of business should be a discussion about the trimming of the fat."
"The fat?" St. Johns head turned in surprise to look at Beriayl's smiling face.
"Of course my dear friend. I am afraid that there may be a few fools who wouldn't grasp the wisdom of your rule." Payne watched St. Johns swallow nervously and nod his head. The poor ambitious buffoon hadn't fully realized what he was getting into. Now Beriayl would be pulling the strings and making them all dance to his tune. Payne glanced over to the stony face of Michael Cooler. The Brujah was intently watching Beriayl, Payne saw his face flush slightly as he poured blood through his body in readiness for a sudden attack. Payne didn't think that Beriayl would be so audacious as to attempt to destroy Cooler outright and openly, he would want to try to cover it all up as an accident or deserved punishment.
"Very well," said St. Johns with a nod of his head, "speak my friend, what concerns you in my city?" Payne forced himself not to smile at St. Johns flippancy. Poor deluded fool, how long would Beriayl allow him even that illusion of power.
"We must deal with the major problems," said Beriayl as he looked at the others. The assembled leaders all shifted uncomfortably as that gaze swept across each of them. "First off let me remind you that we are all brothers and sisters of Caine, I expect no violence against anyone unless the archbishop himself approves it as necessary." St. Johns nodded and smiled. "Let it be known that though she didn't approve of his election Bishop Doe has broken no laws here tonight. She and her forces are to remain unmolested." Payne bowed his head slightly at the order, as did the others. He thought it a brilliant move of Beriayl, setting up more of an appearance of wise and just actions. It would hopefully fool the bulk of the rabble.
"I agree and endorse fully this action," said St. Johns quickly. "Let it be known that my rule shall put an end to the petty fighting and wasted energy of our forces. I shall channel that aggression instead into the accursed tools of the Antediluvians that dwell across the river!" The bishops and other leaders pounded the table and shouted their approval of his words. The room quieted again as Beriayl raised one of his hands.
"Anne, step forward please," Beriayl said as he motioned to the dark figure lurking in the corner. Payne scowled as he watched the leader of the city's Hand forces step forward. He didn't care for any of the Hand agents, especially not with the danger they might pose to the whole coup. Anne's almond shaped green eyes were narrowed cautiously as she watched Beriayl. He smiled at her. "Tell me Anne, where do your loyalties lie?"
"To the Sabbat," she said stiffly.
"Excellent, tell me then, do you serve your new archbishop?"
"He is not archbishop just yet." There were a series of small murmurs and nervous shifting from some of the ducti and priests seated around the table. Payne smirked, Anne spoke the truth of course, but she had perhaps just opened herself up to be easily destroyed by Beriayl. He leaned back and waited eagerly for her death.
"Oh, yes, how foolish of me," chuckled Beriayl, "we of course have yet to enact the acceptance ritae. But in the meantime he is still the accepted commander of the Sabbat within the Detroit area. Don't you agree?" Anne frowned but slowly nodded her head. "Excellent," hissed Beriayl, "thus you, and your men, now serve him?" Payne scowled, this was not what he had expected. He suspected that Beriayl was trying to play an even more dangerous game then he had at first expected. This boded ill.
Footsteps were coming back to his room. Flint felt a flash of hope, but then realized that there were too many for it to be Anne, the hope died away. Flint shifted slightly so that he would be near to his weapons, he also made sure that his false image of an old man was still up. The door was opened without a knock, immediately Flint knew it would be Beriayl, no one else would dare enter his chambers without asking permission.
"Dominion Flint," called Beriayl's smooth and cultured voice.
"I am here," said Flint as he allowed the shadows to drop away from him. Beriayl turned to look at him and snorted in annoyance, apparently little pleased with Flint's game.
"What are you doing here? Playing at being an artist?" he sneered as he gestured at the piece of wood in Flint's hands. "That little seems the proper action of a general who has failed so miserably!" Flint ignored the insult, he was more curious as to exactly what game Beriayl was playing here. It was not exactly the move he had expected. Behind the Archdeacon Flint could now see St. Johns, Bishop Payne, and Cal Jericho. As well as eight other Sabbat warriors. Flint quickly realized why Beriayl was being so insulting, he was planning on removing Flint. Possibly permanently. Flint stood up slowly and set down the carving. He also pulled out a sword and scabbard and held them up.
"What is the problem?"
"Why do you arm yourself before me," growled Beriayl. Despite his gruff facade Beriayl did take a few steps back. Not willing to risk the chance that Flint might suddenly strike.
"You burst in with warriors and bishops," said Flint as though everything were fine. "I presumed there was trouble afoot and I would be needed." Flint silently slipped across the room towards Beriayl. "So, what is the problem?" Beriayl took a few more retreating steps back. Cal Jericho easily drew forth his blade and stepped between Flint and Beriayl. The other warriors drew their weapons and also stood ready.
Flint looked at each of them in turn, "I suppose that there is a problem, with me?"
"That is correct," said Beriayl, "due to your failure to perform your duties I am releasing you from active duty, and removing you from command of The Hand."
Flint smiled, though the smile held little warmth, "you are not capable of dictating the commanders of The Hand, nor are you my superior in any sense of the word." Flint was surprised. Beriayl was overstepping his bounds left and right in this power bid. He hadn't thought the Tzimice's position so desperate. Still, it would only make his job easier in the end. Let the fool grasp at straws, it would be Flint who claimed the prize.
"Boast not thyself of to morrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth," said Beriayl, "Proverbs 27:1." Flint chuckled slightly, Beriayl didn't realize how prophetic his words would be. Beriayl scowled in annoyance at the sign of mirth. He motioned for Flint to drop his weapon. Flint continued to coldly smile as he strapped the scabbard to his back.
"Most especially you fail to have the right to order me to do anything with my blade," said Flint. There was nervous shifting from the soldiers Beriayl had brought. None of them wished to be first to approach the deadly killer. They glanced nervously at the Archdeacon, fearing his next orders would be to attack. But Beriayl grinned and motioned his men out of the room. With grateful expressions they slowly filed back out.
"Suit yourself Flint," Beriayl sneered as he took a few steps back. "But you are to consider yourself under house arrest. Seek not to leave this room." Beriayl turned and marched out. Flint walked up to his doorway, and was suddenly stopped by a pair of blades dropping in front of him. He glanced at the two door guards. To his actual surprise he realized that both were Black Hand! Flint was about to demand a reason his own men would turn against him, then he spotted Anne standing in the shadows nearby. Of course, she would still hold the loyalty of her own men. Things had suddenly become more complicated.
"I suppose you accept Beriayl's orders now," he asked. There was a discordant note to his voice as he spoke. A judgment of her decision.
Anne shook her head, "I just want to keep some insane civil war from breaking out. Things are very unsteady at the moment, I'm sticking with the orders of the archbishop, as per my orders. From you." He frowned, she was twisting about his orders to serve her own plans. But he didn't think she did it for any personal gain, no, not his Anne. Flint watched her, she was desperately struggling to do the right thing. She was seeking to keep open bloodshed from erupting amongst the sect. Thus she had chosen the side that appeared to be the most orderly and likely to bring a peaceful resolution to the problems. Of course her beatings at his hands probably did little to predispose her towards him, or his side, at the moment. "Just wait a while. Stay here and don't force these men to have to make a choice about what to do. I'm sure the political situation will calm down."
"You realize that I am only locked up to prevent Beriayl's own bid for power?" Anne chewed on her lip in worry, and then nodded her head. Flint nodded back, she was uncomfortable with the thought of Sabbat fighting Sabbat. He could also easily tell she didn't much care for Beriayl or his actions. This problem would take a bit of extra work on his part, he didn't plan to lose her just to deal with one power hungry priscus. "Very well, I shall allow this charade to last....at least for a while." Flint closed the door and left Anne considering her betrayal.
The Cardinal slowly stepped out onto the street. The skilled Cainite warrior had been hunting the streets of Detroit since his arrival one week ago. He was a middle aged man, his face scruffy with a day's growth of beard, and scared by a lifetime of battle. He was dressed much as a Spanish Inquisitor would have dressed. Red robes and gloves, a wide brimmed red hat. A crucifix hung from his neck. Despite his appearance he passed unnoticed amongst the humans of the city. His form hidden from their eyes by his mental powers. He bade them to not notice him, and thus none did.
He was an old and powerful Cainite. He was well aware of the problems currently shaking the foundations of the Sabbat within the city. If he had wanted to he could have thrown in his might with one of the factions and quite likely have shifted the balances of power. But he cared not for such matters. He only cared about his mission, his quest, his crusade. The Cardinal pulled out a small stone from within his robe, the tiny shard of obsidian hung from a slim silver chain.
The Cardinal held it before him and allowed it to dangle freely. In moments the stone began to spin rapidly, then it finally stopped, pulling towards a northern direction. He put away the stone and pulled out a map of the city. He quickly found his current location and drew a line from it to the north. He had been busy triangulating the sources of evil and corruption within Detroit. Thus far he had failed, but now there was a new source of evil, that seemed to scream out to be found. And he would find it. The Cardinal grinned as he again set out across the city. The hunt had now truly begun.
Steven reached out and slid his queen's bishop forward to pierce into Octavian's line. Octavian was, as always, playing white, he disliked the thought that Lasombra should always akin themselves with shadows and black. The Sheriff of Detroit cocked an eyebrow at the move. He glanced across the table at the prince. Prince Steven of Detroit. Octavian eyed the calmly smiling face, the relaxed posture. Steven gently brushed his tapered and well cared for fingers across his lips. His thumbs tapped against his chin, resting amongst his rich and finely trimmed beard. Even Steven's flashing and intelligent eyes had gone unreadable, they simply twinkled in amusement at Octavian's hesitation. The Sheriff frowned as he eyed the board, then he spotted his move and grinned.
"You leave yourself open Steven," he said as he advanced a rook into Steven's last knight. Immediately Steven leaned forward again, he moved the bishop yet again. Octavian frowned once more. He always ended up feeling pressured by Steven's quick decisions. But, could the prince so easily follow such a quick pace? Octavian scowled and moved his rook again, it claimed a pawn. Only two more moves and he would have him. Octavian leaned back with a sure grin.
"I only leave part of my forces open," chided Steven as the bishop suddenly slid forward to claim a pawn and place Octavian in check. Octavian's eyes narrowed as he looked down at the board. Of course, he had been corralling Octavian's king into position. Now that wasted gambit that had cost Steven his queen made sense. Octavian brushed a hand across his chin and shook his head.
"And mate," Octavian sighed as he tipped over his king and conceded the match. "Always willing to lose the pawns to win the game," he said as he picked up the black knight. "But I wonder, who was this black knight you so willingly lost?"
Steven smiled at him, "fear not Octavian, I consider you more the bishop then the knight." Octavian laughed slightly. The pair were seated in one of the libraries within Steven's mansion. The massive building was built more like a fortress then a household, and stood on the outskirts of Detroit, though well away from Windsor.
"So what business did you call me here for," Octavian asked.
"The Park Stalker."
"Ah, you heard."
"That he had mysteriously escaped police custody? Yes."
Octavian stood up from his chair, "I'll find him my prince, and he shall not be given another chance to escape." Octavian turned and started out of the room. "And if I discover that a Kindred aided his escape?" Octavian glanced back to Steven. The prince reached out and tipped over his own king. Octavian bowed and left.
The hunter stalked it's prey, silently slipping through the shadows. The prey sensing the danger, shivered in fear. The hunter leaped, the prey attempts to move. Too late. Anne idly watched the gray alley cat pounce on the rat. She was crouched in a dark alley watching the distant window of Flint's room. Four hours, twenty minutes, thirteen seconds since she had betrayed him. Anne shivered as she again saw his face as he had watched her from the room. He could have destroyed her and her men in moments, instead he had allowed her betrayal to happen. Anne watched as the cat played with the rat for a few moments, then tore it apart.
"Just like Flint," she said. He was simply playing with her, soon his wrath would fall on her again. She could still remember the power of his blows, the fury in his eyes. The hate, the evil. He had been a monster. But then he had held her, and comforted her. Once more the intelligent, kind, capable man she had loved. But which was he really? Man....or beast?
The cat looked up at Anne and regarded her, he slowly sauntered over to her and brushed against her leg. Anne smiled and allowed her hand to drop down to the cat's back. It issued a rough growling purr as she ran her hand along it. She watched the cat's reactions, why did she bother? Flint wouldn't stop to pet a cat, neither would Cooler, or Beriayl, or any other Sabbat. Most would ignore the cat, some might kill it for kicks or to drink from it. But only she would pet it. Was she still human? Or was she just going through the motions. Four days ago she would have fully defended her humanity, tonight...tonight she wasn't sure anymore.
"Hey, Anne!" She looked up at the figure who walked into the alley. Sunglasses were perched on top of his head, his pot belly protruded from his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. Torn khaki shorts and a pair of worn red tennis shoes completed the ensemble. She nodded in greeting to her second in command.
"Good to see you Roy. What's the word." Her voice sounded tired to her. Worn. She hadn't felt right since she had stood in the council chamber and agreed to help Beriayl deal with Flint. But could she be held to blame? Flint was a monster, what loyalty did she owe him...but...was Beriayl any better? No, definitely not, Beriayl was perhaps even more of an animal then her sire. Then who was she to follow? What choice was she to make. With a start she realized that Roy had been talking to her.
"...problems could arise, but I doubt it. Then comes the little issue of Bishop Doe and her packs. But of course they're over in Grosse Pointe and she's never really been known to step into political issues." Roy scratched his head as he frowned. "Yeah, and one other little thing. We still have a few Hand agents who seem to be questioning your choice concerning the Dominion. Mostly the guys he brought in, but...some of the other guys are starting to question the whole business."
"It had to be done," sighed Anne, "we had to maintain order."
"Well, yeah, I ain't doubting that. But...usually the Hand just stays out of political issues unless one of the Seraphim themselves says otherwise." Anne looked over at him, he quickly raised his hands to ward off her words. "I'm not saying that me and most of the boys aren't with ya. Hell, I'd follow you into that hotel room and try to kill the guy if that's what you wanted." Roy gestured and Anne couldn't help but look up at the darkened window high above her. So high, always looming over her. Flint's shadow, judging and controlling her.
"Thank you lieutenant, that will be all," said Anne as she looked at the window.
"But."
"That will be all." Roy grumbled but nodded his head in a half bow as he backed out of the alley. Anne stood and watched the window. Flint, looming over her, his eyes red with rage, his hands red with blood. Her blood. What was it Flint had told her? Keep your human feelings close, stay fresh, stay young forever. He had told her that after unleashing the beast inside himself. What was she then to do. Follow her duties, and abandon him. Or follow her anger and destroy him. She closed her eyes and turned away. The cat bounded back to the dead rodent and began to feast. Anne watched it. Within her she felt a stirring at the sight. An urge to slay. An urge to feast on the blood of the living. An urge to destroy. Many had been the nights she had felt this way. Usually all she had to do was concentrate on her job to shake off the cold grasping claws of the creature within her. Or to think of her sire, strong, and pure, and wise. But she had neither now. No clear structure. No shining idol. Anne stood in the darkness, and felt the claws rip away at her insides.
Night 3 - The Darkness Strikes
"He's a hunter," said Mazzo as he leaned back and gulped down another large mouthful of beer, "he considers his prey carefully, and then finishes them." Octavian nodded, he sat in the small murky bar listening to Mazzo describe his thoughts about the killer. "I think he considers himself a step above humans, and I also think he'll be mad that he ever messed up enough to get caught." Octavian nodded again, he considered the facts carefully.
"Detective," he said as he locked eyes with Mazzo, "I have one more question, what was the name of the cop who most aided in his arrest?"
Jane Doe sat quietly in the warehouse as her packs slowly filtered in to the building. She had called this meeting to discover how many were still loyal to her....and how many to Beriayl. She was playing a dangerous game, and she had to know whom she could trust. She watched the eyes of her soldiers carefully, noting who was averse to meeting her gaze. Crouched next to her, and agitatedly hopping from foot to foot, was Piss Boy. The Pander whined, attempting to get Jane to notice him so that he could deliver his message. Jane continued to watch the packs filter in. Piss Boy muttered and whined some more. He pulled his pasty pale hands through his long, stringy black hair as he waited impatiently.
"It looks like only Rat Killa's won't show," she finally said with a devious smile. Apparently Beriayl had less sway here in Grosse Pointe then he thought. Of course, mused Jane, she had... special... methods of controlling her packs. She smiled softly at the swarm of pack leaders who eyed her with undying devotion, and lust filled eyes. It was far too simple to mold these over aggressive Americans to her will, she grinned wider, yet still fun. Jane finally turned to see what the whine at her side was, knowing that it must be important for Piss Boy to risk angering her with his annoying mewling.
"I wish to offer thanks for being allowed to look upon you lady," Piss Boy said as he groveled on the ground before her. She watched in amusement as the grotesque little creature attempted to act like a knight bowing before his queen.
"I am always eager to see you, my dear friend," Jane replied as she reached down and lifted his face up to look at her. She smiled, knowing what effect even such minor acts could have on the pathetic messenger. "What news do you have for me Peter?" Piss Boy's sickly pale face was broken by his wide snaggle toothed grin, only Jane was kind enough to refer to him by his real name.
"Bishop Cooler wishes to be graced by your presence at his manor tomorrow. He hopes to meet to discuss the current political situation." She smiled wider. At last. She had known that someone as ambitious as Cooler could not long sit back and wait for his power to be returned to him. She had actually expected him to contact her much sooner then this. Jane continued to smile as she patted the Pander's head.
"There's something else isn't there?" Piss Boy offered a sloppy grin, she always knew when he held secrets, he leaned in closer.
"There is another who wants a meeting..." This time Jane was actually surprised. A state of being which didn't happen to her very often at all. She called the meeting short and rushed off quickly, her pace at best described as frantic. It was a surprise to her packs. That was another state that hardly ever happened to her.
Detective Leo Johnson leaned back in his chair and tried to force his eyes to stay awake. Where the hell was Dennis? He'd sent the young kid out to get him some coffee about twenty minutes ago. He sighed as he reached up and scratched at the stubby growth of beard on his face. He glanced over his shoulder at the door behind him. The hospital room for Officer Melissa Guthrie. The young woman he'd allowed to get cut under his command. He held himself accountable, she was too young to have sent out alone. He should have given her more backup. Leo groaned and crossed his arms, his mind lost in a cavern of blame and self-doubt.
His head snapped up at the soft ping that echoed down the abandoned white hallway. He looked up in surprise at the elevator. The doors slowly hissed open. The elevator was empty. Johnson's eyes narrowed as he slipped his hand slightly under his brown jacket. He stood up and walked slowly towards the elevator. His eyes peering around him, up and down the empty corridors of the hospital. He reached the elevator and looked it up and down. Empty, totally empty. Johnson stepped back and shrugged. Probably some crossed wires, or some punk kid hitting a bunch of buttons at once. He sighed and turned back to his chair. He never noticed Guthrie's door swinging the last few centimeters shut.
Jane Doe watched in amusement as the three muggers eyed her. She sat quietly on a bench in Sycamore Park. Her ankle length red hair was only loosely pulled back in a series of intricate braids, some of them had become undone and now wild wisps of hair floated about her face, blown gently on the wind. She wore a simple long green skirt and a gray sweater. Her pale lavender eyes carefully watched the men as they whispered and pointed at her. She smirked her perfect lips and tilted her finely sculpted nose up at them. It always amused her that no matter how much the world changed, or how long she lived, men remained the same.
"I am glad you were able to meet with me," came the soft voice from behind her. Jane had been expecting him, and had been alertly watching for his approach. Still she was surprised by his sudden appearance. She ticked one exquisite eyebrow in annoyance at being caught off guard, twice now, in one night. A slim and nervous looking man wearing thick glasses and with a pimpled face sat gingerly down next to her. The three men chuckled at the sight of her friend. They started walking towards her, a murderous intent clearly written on their features. The young man sighed as he turned and locked gazes with them. Their steps faltered, their faces grew pale. As one they turned and fled. Jane smiled, knowing well what they had seen in his dark eyes, the eyes of death, that only the most ancient and practiced of killers could have.
"I must say I was more then intrigued by your offer," commented Jane softly. She bowed her head slightly to him, acknowledging his superiority to her. Despite the fact that she had never seen his true face, nor was this even one of his usual disguises, there was no mistaking the way that he carried himself. Calm, deadly, sure, a true monster of the night. "I didn't think that you were allowed to leave your chambers," she added with a small laugh.
"Phaugh, a fool's trick," sneered Flint as he waved his hand in the air to brush aside her comments. "Do not think that simply because Beriayl says it is so then that is how it is." Jane nodded her head at the comment, easily spotting the multiple layers therein. "I heard about what you did in the council chambers when St. Johns was nominated for the archbishopric. What game do you play?" His dark eyes tried to meet her pale lavender gaze. But Jane shifted to look up at the stars, far too canny to lock eyes with a Cainite who was older and more potent of the blood then herself.
"I would think that before I give you information I should receive some in return. I risk myself merely by meeting with you." Flint smirked, he leaned back on the bench and eyed her carefully.
"You are far more wise and dangerous then you allow your fellow bishops to realize, aren't you?"
"I am honored to receive such compliments from one as respected as thyself," said Jane as she dipped her head in deference to him. "However groundless such accolades must be," she quickly added. Flint nodded his head again. As he leaned back, the pale and ugly face of the kid twisting into a smile.
"Very well, we all have our little masks to live behind. But I know one thing, you are planning on aiding Cooler to retain his position. I do not seek to know why, but that is your intended goal, is it not?" Jane grinned and nodded slightly. "Good, I wish this as well. However, there could be much bloodshed and violence amongst the packs. Such warfare will weaken us, this is something I shall not allow to happen in my domain. Thus, there is need of a plan." He reached over and cupped her chin to pull her in closer to him. "Go, speak to St. Johns. Assure him you have Cooler and the Hand. I am sure he will see things our way."
"Can you be so certain," asked Jane, her brows nettling in her uneasiness.
"Oh yes, I know how he thinks. He is a worm on a hook, he will gladly jump at a chance to wriggle free. Otherwise all he has to look forward to is being eaten, or dying impaled on Beriayl's claws. No, he needs a way out, and you shall give it to him."
"When should we move?"
"I shall contact you again, do not allow Cooler to leap too soon. This is still a delicate matter, and if he moves too quickly then only chaos will ensue." Jane nodded again, and grinned. This promised to be a most rewarding partnership.
Octavian waited in the darkened room. He had quickly surmised that the killer wouldn't like to leave a memory of his capture loose. Thus he would have to deal with the officer that had helped apprehend him. It had been simple for him to sneak into the hospital and past the police guards in the hallway. Octavian looked down at the cop. She was a young woman, with short red hair, and a round freckled face. Octavian sniffed, able to catch the slightly sweet smell of her blood from under the bandages and medical tape. He absentmindedly savored the aroma while he again tried to figure out who could be behind the escape of the Park Stalker.
The breakout had to have involved supernatural forces. The security cameras had all gone out. The cell door had malfunctioned and opened up. None of the officers in the building had seen or could recall seeing anything. It reeked of the involvement of the kindred. But who? The man had been a known sociopath, it made little sense to want to release him. The obvious choice was the Malkavians, but their clan was weak and highly subservient to the prince. Also, though they were mad they were not insane, it would be too dangerous to embrace a man like the Stalker. Octavian's eyes narrowed, of course, there was always the Sabbat. Yes, it might be just like them to release the killer just to give the Camarilla more problems. Would probably embrace him too just to add to the headache.
But...Octavian recalled the report about the Stalker being found weak and helpless on the ground, and of the bloody hand print on his cheek. The cops had assumed it to be Guthrie's, but Octavian had other suspicions. Assamite blood, it could weaken and immobilize. And the Stalker's capture had happened at the same instant that a brutal assault by Sabbat forces was taking place. Octavian growled as he recalled the three hard nights of work it had taken him to cover up all that had happened that night. But the Assamite, had he been Sabbat? Why had he stopped the Stalker? And why then later show up to release him? Octavian shook his head, too many questions, not enough answers.
Officer Melissa Guthrie tossed in her sleep, she issued a low moan of unease. It only took Octavian a few moments to also feel the slight stir of the unnatural. His eyes narrowed, there was a gut feeling, a certainty within him that something was coming. Despite his own unnatural state of being Octavian stiffened and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as the presence grew closer. Octavian drew the shadows around him, fading from sight. A few moments later a figure appeared outside of the window. The figure's face was hidden behind a grotesque skull mask, his wild eyes glinted in glee as he looked at Guthrie on her bed. The dark shadow gripped the bottom of the window and quickly jimmied it open. In slipped the shadowy form, a gleaming knife held in its hand. It walked forward, chuckling as it looked down at the helpless woman before it.
Immediately Octavian lashed out, his blade slicing into the intruder. But he was surprised when the killer lashed back with surprising speed. Even as Octavian's broadsword cut into the shadow's side the killer's hand lashed out to smash into Octavian's face. Octavian was hurled off his feet to smash back into the wall behind him. Octavian's eyes widened in shock at the figure's strength even as he quickly clambered back to his feet. The shadow was on him again in instants, his knife hissing through the air and jamming up to it's hilt into the Sheriff's side. The figure pressed in tight, too close for Octavian to use his sword. He promptly dropped his blade and instead grappled with the silent killer, twisting him about and shoving at his face. He marveled at the strength and speed of the fledgling, it was inconceivable that one so young could face Octavian in battle and live. Yet here they fought.
The knife was jerked from his side and slashed towards his face. Octavian's hand snapped up to grip the killer's wrist. He staggered back as the Stalker shoved his blade hard towards the sheriff's eye. With a grunt Octavian shoved the arm back. The Stalker responded by grasping Octavian's coat with his free hand. With a hiss of anger the wild figure heaved Octavian around like an animal. He slammed him first into one wall, then another. The monitors and cabinets were shattered as Octavian was pounded into them, he growled as he struggled, his mind only half on the fight. It was also thinking about the shadows...
Tendrils of darkness rose up from around the room and began to lash at the Stalker's arms and face. The deranged killer hissed in rage as he shoved Octavian back from him and twisted free from the clinging darkness. Octavian quickly knelt down to retrieve his fallen sword, even as he rose he looked in surprise at the blurred arm of the Stalker as it swept through the air towards him. Octavian howled in pain as the blade was rammed with incredible speed and strength into his gut. He staggered back in surprise, realizing that the Stalker had just driven his weapon through Octavian. The Lasombra grunted in pain and sank to the floor.
The shadows lashed through the room and choked and tugged at the Stalker, dragging and forcing him back from the fallen Lasombra. The Stalker howled in rage as he spun and ripped at the clinging tendrils of gloom. Even as Octavian rose he heard the pounding footsteps approach the room. With a curse he stepped back and allowed himself to fade into the darkness. The door was slammed open, spilling a beam of light into the room, and illuminating the Stalker and his bloody knife. The skull mask swung around in surprise as Detective Johnson and two officers burst in, guns drawn. The killer roared in rage and leaped out the window as the officers fired. Guthrie awoke at the brutal noise and jerked upright, just in time to see the killer plummet out of sight. Johnson rushed to the window, pointing his gun out of it as he looked far down to the street below. All that he saw was darkness.
Flint sat down again in his chair and picked up his carving. He cast a critical eye over it and once again began to slice and peel away pieces of wood. He heard the footsteps approaching, by now he had fully learned who to expect from that particular tread. Archdeacon Beriayl was coming to pay a visit. Flint noted that Beriayl had come alone, gutsy option. The door swung open as the Archdeacon walked into the room. He walked forward through the dim chambers towards where Flint sat carving. Beriayl nodded slightly to Flint as he walked across the room, he glanced at the carving.
"A remarkable resemblance," he said with a trace of false cheer in his voice. "I wouldn't have expected such skill from you." Beriayl reached out his hand, and Flint passed the figure to him. Beriayl held it up to the light and pursed his lips. "Quite skillful indeed."
"With eternity I have found time to pick up talents that don't involve killing," said Flint calmly. "I believe that all of us should seek to better ourselves. What use immortality if we only ply the same trades we did in life?" Beriayl glanced down at Flint in mild annoyance. In life he had been a politician and religious leader. Flint offered no hint that he had meant the comment as an insult, he merely waited quietly and watched.
"Good lines," Beriayl commented as he turned back to survey the wood. "You have definitely captured the look....But I think you have taken some artistic license with the pose and attire."
"Did you come here to discuss my art," Flint said coldly as he easily reclaimed the carving from Beriayl's hand. The Archdeacon smirked.
"Hardly, I merely wondered if you were ready to discuss my terms."
"Terms for what?"
"Your release."
"Go on."
Beriayl smiled as he turned to look out the window, "all I require is your support in consolidating St. Johns' position as Archbishop. Just a few simple words of support, and you'll be free again."
"No."
"No?" Beriayl turned towards Flint, "You do realize you are isolating yourself, how long can you survive alone? Even your own childe supports me! The longer you stay here the more tenuous your position and power become!"
"Hardly." Beriayl's eyes flashed in anger at Flint's calm reply.
"Explain yourself!"
Flint smiled thinly, "If I was so alone in my views, why do you seem so eager for my support? Obviously you still fear you have problems in getting the other bishops to accept your mad bid for power. As for my childe...if you think you understand Anne. Then you will be in for an unpleasant surprise."
"Please, I only want your support for appearances sake. As for Anne, I suspect that since she has turned on you to join me, I know more about her then you ever have."
"We shall see." Flint held up his carving before his eyes again and frowned as he spotted another minor flaw. "You may leave." Flint returned to his carving. Beriayl gripped his hands as he felt the inner rage rise within him. The beast beat at his senses and urged him to rip Flint limb from limb. However Beriayl's iron will overwhelmed the urge, he forced himself to relax. He didn't notice that while he had tensed Flint had picked up a carving knife and held it ready, now as he relaxed Flint set the knife down and grabbed a smaller and more delicate tool.
"We shall see," echoed Beriayl with a snarl of annoyance as he turned and walked to the door, "But you shall soon learn that however wise you are, I am the one who shall be right." Beriayl paused at the door and turned back with a feral grin towards Flint. "Give instruction to a wise man and he will be yet wiser: teach a just man, and he will increase in learning. Proverbs 9:9." As Beriayl left he heard the soft whispered voice of Flint float out to him. The words hissed across his ears, a mocking retort and insult to his wisdom. Beriayl seethed in anger.
"And there was given unto him a mouth speaking great things and blasphemies, and power was given unto him. Revelations 14:5"
Night 4 - The Darkness Grows
The body dropped to the ground. Her long black hair sailed about her face as her wide eyes stared sightlessly at nothingness. Hank had drained her of blood, she was dead. He had of course performed his usual hunting methods. All in all it had been a perfect kill. However this death brought him little joy. His violation of her and taking of her life had seemed dull and pointless. Even her blood had hardly seemed worth the effort to take. He allowed the shadows to hide him from view as a few concerned citizens who had heard the yells ran up. He turned and walked off into the trees. None saw his passage, too worried were they by the apparent return of the dread Park Stalker. Hank walked slowly, his mind locked in thought as they screamed and cursed. He needed something, something more...
"What you need is excitement," hissed a voice in his head. Hank froze, his body growing tense and alert. He cast his gaze about slowly, his enhanced senses easily picked out the smallest detail, heard the softest whisper. He could spot the bugs slipping along the dark ground, could hear the distant wail of police sirens. Could still smell the ripe warmth of his victim's blood as her last few drops fell to the pavement far away. Yet he saw no sign of the speaker. "Before, when you hunted there was danger," said the voice, Hank spun around, trying to find the source. But for all he could tell the words seemed to come from within his own head. "But now, you are too powerful, so deadly that there is no more sense of danger. You know you will not be caught, and thus the fun and thrill is gone. Why hunt creatures with no chance?" Hank had to agree with the voice, the thrill was gone. But what could be done about it? "You need to hunt something that will still give you excitement, and joy. Something that will leave you with a sense of danger throbbing at your temples and pounding in your heart. You need to hunt the most dangerous of prey," said the voice. Hank frowned, hunt the most dangerous? But humans were that hunt!
"You need to hunt the hunters," the voice said, filling his head with its echo. "You must hunt the Kindred!" Hank was nearly bowled over at the thought, he staggered and fell to his knees. He looked around, his eyes wide. Hunt the hunters, hunt the Kindred? They were vampires, old and powerful and dangerous. They were the masters of this urban wasteland, how foolish was it to ever consider crossing their might? But as he turned the wild thought over in his mind it began to appeal to him. "They believe themselves immortal," the voice hissed, "they never fear murder or hunters." Hank grinned as he felt the old thrill course through him. "But they shall learn to fear you!"
"I could hunt Death," he whispered. His mind danced back to the dark figure who had slipped out of the shadows to stop him. Her wide green eyes, her deadly sword, her pouting lips. He grinned at the thought of seeing those lips tremble in fear of him, of watching those green eyes widen in fear. "I will hunt her," he whispered.
"No! You shall hunt the girl called Chantille," boomed the voice. Hank was dropped to the ground again by the power of the voice. He shook his head, Chantille? He knew her not. He tried to stand and was again blasted back to his knees. "Seek not to question me, you shall hunt her!" Hank's vision blurred as a ghostlike mental picture of the girl filled his thoughts. Hank snarled at the image, it wasn't right, he couldn't hunt her.
"But, she's blonde!"
"DARE YOU OPPOSE ME!" The voice screamed in his head and Hank was blasted onto his back to writhe in pain. Blood oozed from his ears, and he felt as if the force of the echoing words would split his skull. "You shall hunt her, you shall hunt her or I shall crush you!" Hank nodded weakly, his hands gripping his head tightly as though it would explode unless he could hold it together. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. The voice returned, quiet and soothing. "Yes, you understand now. You have the power you need, but you are not yet ready. You must learn your skills, hone them, and learn the dangers. First you must practice on other Kindred. Listen to me now, there is much you must learn."
The cat mewled in surprise as the large fish was dropped in front of it. Anne smiled down at as she bowed her head slightly. "I figured as long as I was always intruding into your home I should bring a few gifts now and then." The cat peered at her for a moment and then padded softly forward to sniff at the gutted and cleaned fish now laying before it. It hissed in pleasure at the smell and started to chew at the fresh meat. Anne walked over and took her usual position, staring up at the massive hotel, and at the window of her sire.
Every moment she had been working with Beriayl she had questioned the wisdom of her choice. Sure he was the representative of the Sabbat hierarchy in Mexico. Sure he represented order. Sure he was a powerful and capable leader. But it was how he acted, how he embraced his inner demon. Anne wasn't sure if she was disgusted by it, or simply jealous that she could not so easily live like that. Not live like her sire. She nodded her head at the revelation, that was what this was all about in the end, wasn't it. Her sire.
He had shown himself as a beast. He had crushed her image of him as a wise and learned warrior scholar. He had betrayed her vision of him, and she hated him for taking that dream from her. That was why she now served Beriayl, that was why she had abandoned Flint. He had crushed her dream, and she couldn't forgive him for it. But did the dream have to die? Just because he lacked a heart and soul did she have to? She looked down at the slight thump of the gray cat pressing and rubbing against her. It blinked up and purred as it ran it's tail across her leg. She smiled, yes, why couldn't she keep her dream. At least for herself. She leaned down and scratched the cat's head softly.
Michael Cooler quietly stood in the alley. He had foregone his business suit in favor of his leather jacket and jeans. He figured Jane could learn to overlook the necessities, considering they were plotting against an Archdeacon. He patted the reassuring bulge of the shotgun he had hidden under his jacket, and strapped on the other side was a razor sharp hatchet. From the alley he could easily watch his manor. He had not actually gone inside of it in the last two nights, instead spending his days hidden in various secret hiding spots he had arranged over the years. He didn't trust Beriayl or St. Johns not to send in an assassin to finish him off quietly. They had to know that he would be making a move on them. He only hoped that they wouldn't expect him to have any support.
Doe arrived precisely on time, her limo pulled smoothly to a stop before the manor house. Cooler nodded when he saw the Rom Raiders climb out first, he had expected Doe to bring her pack of bodyguards. The eight Sabbat were all dressed up in black and leather, except that each of them also wore a colorful scarf somewhere on them. The Rom's were a European pack who had come over with Doe when she had first arrived in Windsor. They were disliked, and distrusted, but Cooler had to acknowledge that they were all deadly fighters. But that was okay, he had backup of his own. He turned to the figures who lurked in the alley with him.
"Let's do it, and remember you don't do anything unless I say so." The figures nodded, they readied their weapons and followed him out towards Doe and her pack. Jane Doe looked up as Cooler suddenly appeared from an alley across the street, trailing behind him came the twenty odd members of The Marauders. The whole pack was armed, their weapons ranging from pistols and Uzi's to some swords and a chainsaw. Jane arched an eyebrow as Cooler came closer, she looked up and down his warlike attire.
"You appear loaded for bear," she said, a slight smile on her lips at the joke.
"Or loaded for Beriayl," replied Cooler. He didn't even smirk, it wasn't a joke. Both figures stood in the street eyeing one another. Around them their packs shifted, watching each other just as carefully as their masters. Rich Varda, pack ductus of The Marauders, rested his shotgun against his shoulder as he eyed the Rom's. Next to him Lolita giggled and waved to them. The Rom's remained silent and glaring, but their hands all hovered near their own weapons.
"You asked to see me," Jane finally said, breaking the tense silence.
"You supported me in council?" Cooler's voice was questioning, dubious. Jane smiled, he was unsure if she was really willing to support him against Beriayl. Cooler waited, wondering if she believed him worthy of helping, or if she was just going to betray him. Lolita placed her chainsaw against her thighs and rocked back and forth. Jutting and pointing it at one of the Raiders, all the while smiling inanely at him. The Raider growled at her, his face darkening in anger. His black gloves spilt slightly as spikes of bone extended from his knuckles, he clacked them together menacingly. One of The Marauders crouched down, his fingernails extending into claws. Meanwhile Cooler and Doe exchanged quick and sharp words, each laced with multiple meanings and questions. Each trying to find the common ground for their planned treason.
"I don't trust Beriayl in control." An open statement, aligning herself politically.
"Nor I." An agreement, an acceptance of her statement, no more.
"A partnership?" A question, dangerous and with implications, yet never clearly stating her goals.
"Of what sort" Clarification sought, throwing the ball back into her court, he awaited tensely.
"A brief alliance, no strings." She claimed to seek nothing, yet offered no answers.
"There are always strings." He questioned her, convince me was the message he sent.
"There needn't be." She dismissed his worries.
"Oh?" Doubt, wonder at her motives. He would go no further without her.
"Beriayl must not control the archbishop." She stated it openly, an admission of betrayal.
"Will I have your full support?" He sought her level of commitment, how far would she go?
"By that you mean?" Cooler paused. She did seem to be willing to put herself on the line quite a bit. And she had been the one willing to open up. That either meant she really was trying to help him....or that she had already made a deal with Beriayl. Jane watched the barely seen play of emotions and thought across Cooler's face. He was wondering if she had made a deal. She had, but not the kind he was thinking of.
"I want your support in council and access to all of your packs." A large demand, seeking control of the partnership. She had expected no less, and would have given no more.
"Agreed, unless what you say in council is outside the bounds of this agreement." Cooler eyed Jane. She had agreed! He could hardly understand why such a canny politician would so easily throw in to help him. Still, he was still the prime risk taker. But he now had her packs to help him. Their strength, combined with the forces still loyal to him meant that he now had a chance to make a stand against the Archdeacon.
Night 6 - The Darkness Readies
Cal Jericho walked into the alley and stood over the corpse. He looked up and down her, she had never managed to draw out her weapons, the gun still securely strapped under her leather jacket. Death had also not come easily for her, she had suffered. Her pants were bundled around her ankles, and she bore multiple stab wounds. However apparently the cause of death had come from diablerie. He eyed the two garish holes punched into her neck. Jericho looked over at the other figures in the alley and motioned at the body.
"Who was the bitch?"
"She was my packmate," snarled a massive black man. Jericho snorted in annoyance even as most of the other figures stepped back from the grieving Brujah. The man looked up, his eyes flashing in anger at Jericho's dismissal of his bereavement. He howled as claws extended from his hands and he moved towards the templar, blood in his eyes, however his other packmates quickly restrained him. Jericho ignored the scuffle as he squatted down by the corpse.
"Hmmm, was she any good?" There was another howl of anger from the massive warrior. Jericho glanced up in annoyance, "I meant at fighting!" Jericho yelled at him.
"She was good enough," came the growled reply. Jericho scratched his head. This was obviously not the work of another Sabbat, they would have killed her openly. The local Setites had been weakened and cut down over the last few years and were in hiding. He seriously doubted that they'd try to pick a fight with the Sabbat. No self respecting Assamite would have bothered to take a contract on such a worthless nobody. As for the Camarilla, why bother to only kill one measly pack member and then run off? It just didn't make much sense. He glanced up as Anne Arbor drifted into the dark alley. The Black Hand commander looked over the body with a distasteful twist on her lips. He nodded at her and gave his usual warm greeting. "Bitch."
"What happened," she asked Jericho. He stood up and walked over to her. He couldn't help but chuckle at the look of revulsion on her face. How such a prissy dame could have ever managed to become a commander in the Hand had always mystified him.
"Somebody whacked the cow," he said as he shrugged and pointed at her. The loud growl of annoyance made him glance up to her pack. "Her pals found her, she had gone missing for about an hour. They ran to St. Johns for help and he asked me to go check things out for him."
"Of course he did," muttered Anne with a frown. "You do realize that this type of investigation is Black Hand work, I don't appreciate amateurs clogging up my-"
"Whoa there bitch, watch your fucking mouth," snapped Jericho in annoyance. "Just cause I ain't a high and mighty Black Hand whore don't mean I can't figure out this sorta shit for myself. Maybe I just so happened to solve the fucking issue all by my lonesome, you ever consider that possibility?"
"And?"
"And what?"
"If you solved it," she said with a small smile that made him want to punch her, "what did you find out?" She crossed her arms and waited patiently, her green eyes looking at him with a hint of mockery.
"Well....I guess it could have been one of the Camarilla." Jericho scowled as she just sighed at him and shook her head.
"The Camarilla aren't responsible for every Sabbat that meets final death you know." He stepped back in annoyance and swept his hand out to motion her to go look at the body. Hmph, see if you can get any more out of it you bitch, he thought in annoyance. She walked over and looked down at the body, almost instantly her eyes narrowed. "Looks like...." Anne's voice trailed off.
"Looks like what?"
"Nothing, I have to go." Anne quickly turned around and dashed from the alley. Jericho watched her retreat and then glanced back at the corpse. This was odd.
Anne considered this state of affairs as she walked through the streets of Windsor. Her mind whirled and danced along the paths of her thoughts. It couldn't be...Could it be? The body looked just like the humans that had been slain by the Park Stalker. But he was just a human! She had stopped him. Anne considered the possibilities. She had heard of his escape. It was possible that he had gotten loose with the help of a Cainite. It might even be possible that he had been embraced. But for him to be wandering around killing so early in his unlife....Anne doubted he would have had the power to slay a Sabbat warrior, or at the very least the woman should have seen him coming and fought back! But the wounds, the method, the style...she just didn't know.
Anne paused in her wanderings and looked up. She was back in the alley. The cat sat upon a small trash can and watched her through slit eyes. Anne looked farther up to see the darkened room where she knew Flint to be. She suddenly spotted an easy solution. He would know what to make of this, he would...no. Anne shook her head and turned away. She was not going to go running back to her sire begging for forgiveness and seeking his help. Anne began to walk once more. If the Stalker was loose again, he would have to face her again. And this time she swore, she wouldn't leave his punishment to the mortals.
Raymond stretched out on the roof of his condo. He was laying on a wicker sedan wearing nothing more then a pair of swim trunks. Nearby, under a beach umbrella, stood Anton. Sitting in a chair next to him was Madame Treble. Anton wore a simple dark suit, and held in his hands decanter of blood and a tray holding a pair of glasses. Madam Treble still wore her long and concealing black dress.
"Madame, you may wish to partake of this moon bathing," said Raymond. "It does wonders for the complexion." He held up his hand to inspect it, "one might even go so far as to call it a tan. A moontan." This last he said with a wide grin as he turned towards her. Treble remained sitting silently and staring off into the dark Detroit sky. She watched him quietly. He sighed and snapped his fingers, Anton poured the blood into the glasses. Raymond took his, but Treble waved off her own. Raymond scowled. "I begin to wonder if I am boring you," Raymond growled as he stood up and pulled on a robe. "Perhaps you would prefer to just stay in your room till your performance?" Treble nodded and silently stood. She quickly descended down the stairs back into the house. Raymond and Anton watched her go.
"I guess you bug her boss," Anton finally offered. He quickly grew silent as Raymond's dark gaze turned to glare at him. Raymond tossed his glass back to his childe, spattering him with blood. Raymond left him there to clean up as he stormed down the steps as well. She was driving him mad with her silence and her unspoken insults. His only consolation was that soon she would perform and reap for him many benefits. And then he would be more then happy to slap her onto a plane bound far, far away from him.
Hank walked slowly down the street. Looking for fresh prey. "You have been doing as I asked," whispered the voice in the back of his head. "It is good, do you feel your power growing, are you learning to control it. To appreciate the rewards of the amaranth?" Hank smiled, once again the voice was growing softer, and the more vitae he took from other vampires, the weaker the voice became. He felt a vague shudder pass through his body. "Do you think your constant diablirie will silence me?" the voice hissed. "You have a job to do, you have someone to kill. Do not think I lack the power to finish you." Hank scowled, it was true. He wasn't sure what the voice was, but something about it told him it was far stronger then himself. He sighed as he listened to it begin to describe his final mission. Tomorrow he would find this Chantille, and he would end her. Then, promised the voice, then he could hunt Leanne again.
The side access door of the warehouse was slammed open. George and the other Acolytes of The Hidden Flame spun around to look at the figure in the doorway. The man wore a flowing red robe and gloves. On his head was a wide brimmed red hat.
"Jeez, that guy looks like he just left a Monty Python show," said Frank. The figure cast his gaze over the sleeping bags and the altar around which the acolytes kneeled.
"Demon worshipers," he said with a sneer. George slowly reached into his robes to grip a gun he hid there, he had known that sooner or later someone might discover the temple. He should have known it was a bad idea to fall in with all this demon worship stuff. But it had seemed like a fun way to escape the boredom of his life, and it wasn't like they were hurting anybody.
"Who are you that disturbs our rituals," demanded Charles. The head of the order set down the Blood Chalice and stood up. The robed figure strode into the room and eyed the altar and the items upon it.
"Blood worship," he said with a nod of his head. Frank stood up and grabbed the stranger's arm. Despite the fact that Frank was built like a linebacker his massive grip was easily broken by a shrug of the robed man's arm. Then the figure lashed out and grabbed Frank's face. Frank whimpered as the figure glared into his eyes.
"Fuck you!" George yelled as he pulled out his gun and pointed it at the red robed man's chest. A flick of an arm swept a blade out from the robes, George's hand dropped to the ground spurting blood. "Jesus," George gasped as he dropped to his knees.
"Take not the Lord's name in vain," said the man as he dropped Frank. Frank collapsed to the floor, drool leaking from his mouth and a dead look in his eyes. The man turned, his hateful gray eyes locking with Charles's panicked gaze. "Whom do you serve?"
"We serve the fearsome Beelzebub, Lord of Flies and master of the Sixth Circle," proclaimed Charles as he and the others warily watched the dread figure before them.
"Who is your earthly contact?"
"Contact?"
"No, you know nothing and suspect less." The figure nodded slowly, "Another dead end," he sighed, "ah well, back to the search." He turned and walked back towards the entrance. Charles leaned down by George to help him, the other two members started to help Frank. The figure turned around as he stood in the doorway. "I hope you recall Daniel 3:11." So saying he raised his hand and a stream of fire roared out to bathe the altar and all the cultists in the cleansing wash of flame. "That he should be cast into the midst of a burning fiery furnace, Amen"
So saying The Cardinal closed the door and walked down the dark alley. He shook his head, he had been sure that this was the source of the ritual thaumaturgical energy. However those men had been fools, not effective servants of a powerful infernalist sorcerer. He sighed, this might take longer then he had first thought.
"Abbot Shalom is dead," said Juli as she walked into Payne's bedroom. He sat quietly on a wooden chair set before a large oak table. Juli walked over to him and waited patiently. He continued to study the chessboard laid out before him. His narrow eyebrows nestled together as he frowned, deeper lines spreading across his aged face. Finally he reached out and moved one of the pieces forward.
"How did they do it?"
"Beriayl made life difficult for her, claimed she had been harboring Cooler and planning to overthrow St. Johns. She began to become too violent in her protests, made some threats. Jericho and a squad of paladins were sent in to destroy her and her pack. They did so, and also destroyed a visiting pack of nomads who tried to interfere." Juli waited quietly once again, Payne slowly reached out and turned the board around till he was placed on the opposite side. He began to study the board again, one of his fingers lightly tapping the tabletop.
"What word of Cooler?"
"He has disappeared. Many seek to find him but he is hiding well." She smirked slightly as she spoke. "It also seems that The Marauders have also disappeared. Of course, they would be at the forefront of any attempt of his. He plans something."
"Obviously," said Beriayl as he reached out and moved a rook forward to threaten the other side's king. "I would expect no less from him. He will yet try to make a fight of it." He again rotated the board.
"Sire?"
"Yes?" She pointed down at the chessboard curiously.
"Why do you play both sides?" Payne looked up at her as he grinned.
"Because. This way, no matter what happens, I always win."
Night 7 - The Darkness Deepens
The sign in front of The Martini Lounge announced that it was closed due to a private party. Dozens of expensive cars now crowded the parking lot as small streams of richly dressed visitors entered. It was indeed a very private party, no one living need apply. Octavian opened the door for Steven. As the prince entered the upscale club Octavian's eyes swept over the assembled guests, searching for any signs of danger. He spotted none, but that did little to reassure him. He trailed along after Steven, a dark and dangerous hound tailing it's master. Steven was quickly intercepted by the beaming Raymond.
"I am ever so grateful that you have opted to grace my humble gathering with your august personage." Raymond bowed gracefully and immediately gestured to a table very near the stage. "I have taken the liberty of arranging the premier table for yourself and your friends." Steven nodded and allowed himself to be escorted over. His ghoul Honor Guard and Octavian followed closely.
"I trust that this performance shall be all I have heard it to be," said Steven with a slight grin at Raymond. The Toreador quickly bowed again.
"I can assure you that Madame Treble's voice shall be the sweetest thing to grace your ears this decade." Raymond smiled as they took their seats and then turned to rush over to a newly arriving group of Toreador.
"Look there, seems even the prince turned out for this shindig," Carnellia said as she sipped her drink. The Brujah, and suspected anarch, glanced over at her companions. The three of them had been forced to twist a few arms, in some cases literally, in order to attend. They did so for two reasons. First, they truly appreciated art and wished to hear the famed singing of a Daughter of Cacophony. Second, they knew that their presence would offend Raymond no end, and lower the prestige he gained in the eyes of his clan for allowing such riffraff in. "Oh for the lack of a rifle," she commented dryly while eyeing Steven.
"Peace Carnellia, the Ventrue have not actively warred with us of late," Brandon quietly interjected. "It would be unwise for us to attack him without just cause." Carnellia glanced over at the most soft spoken and reserved of the Brujah of Detroit. Brandon leaned back in his chair, his fedora pulled low over his eyes, his thin face looked calmly back at her. Carnellia sneered at him, her pretty face twisting up into a look of scorn at his naiveté.
"You have only to look in his smiling eyes to see the daggers waiting for our backs," she answered.
"Perhaps," allowed Brandon slowly, "but I for one would like to think we could maintain the moral high ground." Carnellia turned away from him and snorted in amusement at the idea.
"The Ventrue wouldn't know the moral high ground if it ran up and bit them on their high ends!" She smirked to herself at the amusing play on words she had come up with. She glanced back at Brandon, who failed to even smile slightly at her line. Carnellia sighed at him. "Jeez Brandon, what the hell is your-"
"Hush, both of you," Jaynie said. Carnellia quickly fell silent at the words of the primogen of the Brujah. Jaynie nodded their attention back towards the stage and smiled softly. "I for one am merely looking forward to tonight's performance." As usual Jaynie's quiet demeanor and gentle words quickly diffused the situation. Both of the other Brujah nodded, Madame Treble was a daughter of Cacophony. A member of a bloodline that was obsessed with perfecting the art of singing. Thus her performance ought to be a truly amazing experience.
"Lots of Ventrue are showing up for this shindig," Carnellia noted. The trio looked up as three more of the ruling clan of the city arrived at the party. Trailing behind them came five Toreador, each attempting to outshine the others. "If the anarchs had the brains God gave grasshoppers they would bomb this place. They could wipe out the bulk of the old blood while only losing three Brujah," said Carnellia as she set down her drink. The three paused at the thought and looked at each other in uncomfortable silence. "Not that I think they wouldn't warn us," Carnellia quickly added.
"Most definitely," said Brandon.
"I'm sure they would," chimed in Jaynie.
The three sat in silence once again.
Hank was floating outside one of the upper windows, it no longer occurred to him how amazing his powers were. He was the hunter, anything he needed to catch his prey was his. He was the strong, the strong hunted the weak, that was the way of the world. Thus he floated unseen outside of the window and cast his murderous gaze over the assembled Kindred below. This was too large of a crowd to hunt in. It was the way of the hunter to hunt those separated from their herd. Hunt the foolish and alone. Too many people, too many...it was not the way of the hunt. And Chantille! There she sat, laughing and talking to a large gathering around her. She was not separate.....and she was too blonde.....yes. Too blonde. She was not Leanne, not the dark haired spectre of death that haunted his dreams and teased his waking hours.
Hank scowled as he looked around the rest of the room. All of them, the whole damn room acted like hunters. Weaker then he certainly, of this he was sure, but a roomful of hunters nonetheless. He frowned, there in the corner was the big guy who could control shadows. Hank darkly recalled how dangerous that one could be. He shook his head as he slowly lowered himself back into the alley. He set down silently on the damp pavement, his hands reached into his wind breaker, they brushed the handle of his knife. This was no proper hunt. But.....it could be. He slowly circled to the rear of the building, as he did he cloaked himself from the eyes of those nearby and easily slipped within the building. The dozens of ghouls working in and guarding the club never saw him pass.
The hunter walked among them now.
Anton shifted slightly, he watched as Madame Treble prepared for her performance. She was even now slowly pulling on the evening gown she would perform in. Her luxuriant black hair fell in cascading locks down her back. He had been set by Raymond to look over her. Personally he would be glad when it was over, his sire had become far too aggravated by the Daughter's presence. Anton sighed, at least his job would be easier after she left. He could relax again, and not have to listen to any more boring operas for a while. He shook his head in exasperation as he continued to carefully watch her, he had to admit that at least this part of his duties wasn't so bad. In truth she was rather pleasant to watch... She glanced over her shoulder and caught him staring. Anton quickly glanced away.
"Do you like what you see?" she asked in a strangely lilting and multi-toned voice.
Anton's eyes widened. "I, uh, thought you didn't speak until..."
"I speak when I choose to, and to...whom...I choose to." She slowly walked over to him and ran her hands along his massive chest, she idly circled the line of the large revolver under his coat. "My what a big.... pistol you have," She smiled at him as he shifted uneasily.
"Ah, yeah, I...why didn't you talk to the boss? He, uh."
"He is a simple and idiotic buffoon. You are an interesting and handsome young man."
"Uh, heh, yeah," Anton felt as though her smile was reason enough for him to be pleased, but when he tore his eyes from it and glanced at the rest of her it only got better. "I'm flattered."
"Sweet boy, when my performance is done I think we should find some time to be alone, together." Anton was nearly collapsing in excitement. He eagerly nodded his head, almost like a puppy. "But now it is time for my show, why don't you go out front and watch. I'll sing a special song for you. Oh, and don't bother to tell Raymond, tonight is for you and me."
She lead Anton out the door and sent him out to the front while she headed for the stage. She paused and blew him one kiss, with a look in her eyes that promised tonight would be like no other for him. Anton swelled up in pride and joy. He quickly turned and headed out to the front to watch the show. For once eager at the thought of listening to a singer.
Raymond stood before the curtain, he saw Anton step out of the backstage door and nod. Treble was ready and in position. He grinned as he looked out upon the audience. The room was filled near to overflowing, almost all of them had been forced to beg and curry his favor in order to gain seats. He grinned wider, and he would collect on all those favors, in his own time. The stage was set, the actors ready, and soon they would all be dancing to his tune! Raymond's smile grew yet wider, almost splitting his face apart in his glee. Oh yes, this was his night, and nothing could take it from him! They were his!
"Ladies and gentlemen, damned and debased," Raymond said in a loud clear voice that immediately silenced the room. He nodded approval, how sweet their obedience and attentiveness were, it was all as it should be. "I wish to thank you again for attending my gala, I hope you have enjoyed the cuisine, and been entranced while perusing my artwork," his hands swept around the room, motioning to the multiple paintings and sculptures that lined the walls. Raymond pointedly ignored the few groans and catcalls about his art. Let them pretend they were still free, they all owed him now. Oh yes, Raymond smiled in the face of their insults, he almost felt like laughing at them.
Octavian rolled his eyes at Raymond's strutting. Bloody grandstanding Toreador. Octavian glanced at Raymond's face, a pleased and self-assured grin plastered across it. He frowned, it looked like he'd have to carefully watch what Raymond opted to do with all the favors this event was getting him. Octavian paused as he spotted a slight rustle in the curtain. Curious he kept his gaze fixed on the red satin as Raymond reached for the rope that would pull the curtain apart.
"It is my great pleasure to now offer for your entertainment. The talented and beautiful. Madame Treble!" So saying Raymond jerked the cord and the red satin was whisked aside to reveal the stage behind it. Raymond spun and pointed at the stage, and then froze. Even the horrible grin remained locked on his face as he looked back at the stage. There was a gasp of shock from the crowd as they gazed upon the scene of brutality therein. Madame Treble lay in a pool of blood, her dress had been torn apart, cruel gashes tore through her soft, pale flesh. Her throat had been ripped open, obviously by a brutal use of fangs or claws. Her body was propped against the back wall of the stage and her eyes stared out at the audience. A look of pure terror frozen upon them, many of the cold hearted killers in the crowd quickly looked away, unable to bear the terrible death gaze.
"Sabbat!" Howled a fool in the back. Others leapt to their feet and began shouting. Octavian drew his blade as he leapt onto the stage. His dark eyes casting about, but unable to find any clue of where the killer had gone. Anton roared as he suddenly dove back through the doors to the backstage area. Raymond stared in shock at the bloody spectacle and shook his head slowly, the manic grin still attached to his face as he looked at the carnage. Steven stood up and rapped his cane sharply upon the table.
"Silence!" The word was filled with power and control. The room quickly fell silent as the assembled Kindred stared in awe at the stage and at the prince. Steven paused as he looked at the spectacle, his mind searching for the best method to calm the chaos that was waiting to erupt from the frightened guests. There was a sudden roar and sounds of gunfire from the back, more wails of fear erupted from the crowd. "Silence!" The word again cut through them all. Steven raised his arm and pointed back towards the gunfire. "Octavian!" The Lasombra was already moving. His sword gripped in his hand he leapt through the exit of the stage and disappeared behind it.
"Silence my ass," hissed Carnellia as she reached into her purse and pulled out a micro Uzi she had hidden there. Brandon looked at her wide eyed.
"We weren't supposed to bring weapons in..."
"Oh zip it you dork," Carnellia snapped as she shoved him out of the way and ran to follow Octavian. Jaynie shook her head and muttered something about the passions of youth. Carnellia ran towards the doors, shouting out for some of the guards to follow her, as she rushed after Octavian.
Octavian dashed through the hallways, following the sounds of battle to the doors at the end of the hall. He burst through them into the kitchen. Three armed ghouls lay dead on the floor, ripped apart by powerful knife strikes. Anton was laying on the floor, his gun lay nearby, still smoking. The dangerous Toreador bodyguard's right arm was a twisted ruin, and a knife was planted through his left wrist, pinning it to the floor. Crouched atop Anton was a shadowy figure, barely visible and seeming to flicker in and out of sight. Octavian recognized it. The Stalker was here! Octavian lifted his sword, and this time he wouldn't get away! With a growl he lunged forward, but the figure was a blur of scarcely seen motion. It lashed out and Octavian was sent sprawling back into a metal counter.
He rolled up to his feet as the figure leaped at him. On the floor Anton grunted in pain as he ripped his arm free from the knife. Octavian grabbed the shadowy killer as the Stalker rushed him. They staggered and wrestled about, each fighting for dominance. Anton stood and charged forward, the knife hissing through the air. The Stalker twisted away, fighting to free himself from Octavian's grasp, but the sheriff held firm. The knife plunged into the Stalker's shoulder, he howled in pain. Octavian was suddenly jerked back by the force of the scream, it seemed almost a physical thing. Anton's ears leaked blood as he staggered back, the Stalker took his chance and shoved Octavian away from himself. The sheriff sprawled on the ground as the Stalker jerked his knife from his shoulder.
The door slammed open again as Carnellia and three more ghouls burst in. All carried pistols. Octavian quickly rolled away as they began to fire rapidly at the Stalker. The wild blaze of gunfire staggered the shadowy killer. It quickly turned and in a blur tore out the rear door. Anton made a feeble attempt to grab a foot as the Stalker ran by, but he was too weak and exhausted. Octavian cursed as he grabbed his blade and staggered to his feet. He rushed for the door, Carnellia dashing alongside him. They charged outside and into the large back alley. Octavian swung his head about as he looked around. But the alley was totally silent and empty.
Anne walked up to the door and tapped lightly upon the polished and gleaming wood. She glanced around her at the hallway, it was filled with guards and servants. She pursed her lips, finding herself strangely vexed by the small horde of ready minions. Flint had never sought such splendor or service. He would rather fetch and serve for his own guests, playing the part of a servant to them. She had never really been sure why. Surely someone of Flint's stature could have easily arranged for a swarm of servitors. She quickly shoved her odd ramblings aside as she heard the call from the other side of the door.
"Enter," the voice was authoritative and strong. She swallowed nervously and checked to make sure her appearance was in order before she stepped into the room. Her nose immediately scrunched up slightly as she caught the pungent aroma of some unknown incense that filled the room in it's cloying grasp. The room was bright and warm, lit by scores of candelabra that were littered around the gleaming and polished furniture. Anne stepped onto the rich carpeting, feeling it give way beneath her feet. Soft and cushioning, it was far too plush for her tastes. A large bed dominated one side of the room, the canopy of luxuriant and thick red silk drapes were pulled back from it so she could look upon the gleaming smooth satin sheets and the figure who lounged comfortably upon them.
"Sir," said Anne as she bowed stiffly to him. Beriayl looked up at her from the book he was perusing. His eyes glanced up and down her, as he smiled softly. He was dressed in a soft black chiffon bathrobe, and he cocked one finely trimmed eyebrow in an invitation for her to continue. "I have come as requested and am ready to give my report, sir." She snapped back to attention, her green eyes downcast as she awaited his orders. Instead she heard his soft, almost childlike, laughter.
"Ah, Anne, please....relax. Be at ease." His voice purred, brushing across her senses like a gentle caress. Anne shivered, feeling strangely violated by that voice. A strange feeling to be sure, she shook it off, it was silly to feel profaned by a few simple words. "Come here child, no need to talk across the room." Beriayl beckoned her over to him, a slight smile tinged across his face and eyes. She walked a few steps forward, then paused. He again smiled and beckoned her closer, Anne advanced a few more tentative steps, until she was only a few feet from the bed. "Ahhh," said Beriayl with a subtle smirk, "isn't that better?" Anne kept looking down, the strange cloying scent of the incense filling her head.
"You asked to see me sir?" The aroma drifted around her. Clinging to her hair, grasping and gently fondling her skin. She felt a slight flush run through her, strange sensations filling her, thrilling her. She gasped and breathed in, trying to slow her suddenly racing blood. She lowered her face, allowing some of her hair to drift across it and hide her confusion. What was she feeling? Why was she feeling?
"Why yes dear girl, yes I did." He sat up and placed his book on a night stand next to the luxuriant bed. He leaned towards her and reached out his hand and took one of her black gloved hands in his soft grip. Anne's muscles suddenly jerked at his unexpected touch. Her face twitched up in surprise, her green eyes widening. She cursed herself as she tried to keep the startled jump from reaching her hand. Beriayl looked up and caught her eyes as he smiled at her, his hand still firmly holding hers while his other reached up and patted it gently. "Why child, you seem tense." Anne quickly shook her head, but found herself unable to tear her eyes from him. His gentle pats tingled through her glove, she felt her face flush even warmer, certain a soft trace of crimson now blushed across her cheeks. "Is something the matter?"
"No sir....nothing," she tugged slightly, trying to free her hand, but his grip remained sure. He stopped patting and instead exerted a steady pull. Her knees bent as she allowed him to drag her in towards him, the aroma of incense only growing stronger. Anne grew wide eyed in startlement as he pulled her down to sit on the bed next to him. She sank onto the lush sheets. The bed gave way around her, cushioning her as it seemed to envelop her.
"Please child, do not hide your fears. I am willing to hear all that concerns one of my allies. I consider it my sacred duty, and in some cases....a pleasure." His hand reached up to brush at some of her long dark hair, his skin smelled much like the incense. His hand left a minor trail of moisture across her brow and down her cheek as he brushed it. The smell filled her nose, Anne blinked. The aroma was strange, saccharine sweet yet as heavy as mud. It dragged at her thoughts, slowing them down with thick, syrupy sugar.
"My thanks sir," she said, feeling as if her words were slurring together into a simple moan. "But I have no fear. I....I think that, that we....I don't think...." She blinked again, her eyes seemed so heavy. Beriayl brushed a thumb over her lips, leaving a sticky sweet trail behind him.
"Shhh, child, try to calm thyself." She was shocked to feel her tongue involuntarily slip from between her wide moist lips, brushing at the strange residue. She tried to force herself not to, to regain composure. But her body felt so sluggish....so relaxed. She gasped as his other hand reached up to cup her face, his fingers trailing around her mouth and nose as delicately as the legs of a spider. "You are distressed, I can tell so merely by looking into your eyes. Your, wide open eyes..." His gaze locked with hers, she felt as though she had never been safer. The sweet aroma of the incense surrounded her, entrapped her. The bed rose up around her, wrapping her in it's soft embrace. She stretched out upon it, felt her coat open and pull away from her as she relaxed. "There, do you feel at ease, do you feel safe now?"
"Yes," she breathed softly, she fell into a serene state, and just allowed the warm blanket of his secure grip to wash over her. The smell was everywhere, tickling at her nose, brushing through her hair, rubbing against her skin.
"Now sweet Anne, I need your report," said Beriayl. His voice seemed so distant, yet so near at the same time. Near and distant....like Flint, she thought dreamily. "Yes, Flint, what is Flint like?" So strong, so wise. Yet not a man, a monster. "Interesting," said Beriayl, "but your opinion of him. Do you serve him still? Is he your master?" She felt his hand brushing the zipper on the front of her bodysuit. Felt it pull down, away from her neck and down her chest. Felt the tantalizing caress of the aroma on her bared neck, on her exposed, soft, white flesh. How did she feel about Flint? Strange question. But did she serve him? She almost smiled at the thought...no, she served no monsters, not anymore. She heard a chuckle, it filled her with joy at hearing Beriayl pleased. His hands ran along the slick leather of her suit, pressing against her soft flesh underneath, she felt him move closer to her. His face brushing along her neck. "Ah, you please me child....how shall I reward you?"
"Anne?" There was a respectful and very timid knock at the door, the voice of Cole, one of her lieutenants. The voice and knock seemed to echo to her like a thunderclap that shook the room. Her eyes snapped fully open and she jerked upright. Beriayl quickly leaned back from her, acting as if nothing had happened. Anne shook her head, trying to shake out the cobwebs.
"What is it," she called in annoyance. Next to her Beriayl smirked at her apparent confusion.
"A bit of information, you asked to be told about no matter the situation," came Cole's quiet voice.
"What Information?"
"The Park Stalker." Anne's eyes widened as she quickly hopped to her feet, shoving herself clear of the clinging, warm bed. She turned and bowed apologetically to Beriayl.
"I'm very sorry sir, but this needs my immediate attention," she said quickly. He nodded his head in mild annoyance and waved her off. Anne bowed again and grabbed up her coat and sword, hardly recalling when she had set them aside. She clutched them to her as she bowed again and turned to scurry for the door.
"Anne," called Beriayl with that scrawled on smile of his. She stopped and turned towards him, her coat half on, and her sword clutched under one arm. "We shall....finish what we started her later. I promise it, and look forward to it." She bowed again, unsure of what he was talking about, her minor update reports hardly seemed worth his time. She stepped through the door and back out into the hallway full of guards and servants. The blast of fresh air wrapped around her, slicing through the clinging fragrance of Beriayl's room. She looked up at Cole, the Assamite stood with his arms crossed and his gaze darkly cast into Beriayl's room. Anne closed the door and glared at him.
"Lieutenant, what seems to be the problem?" Cole turned to look at her, the curling black tribal tattoos on his ebony cheeks adding to his deadly appearance. Anne knew well that Cole had been chief among the Hand members who had advocated staying true to Flint, and that he didn't like Beriayl at all. He had however stayed loyal to her and followed her choices. But, she couldn't afford her underlings going around and scowling at her. It was too close of a breach of proper discipline. "Is something wrong Cole," she asked again as she pulled her trench coat fully on. His eyes flicked down and then back up, scanning over her.
"You tell me." Her eyes narrowed as she prepared to dress him down for questioning her publicly, but as she lifted her arm she felt the strange pull of her uniform. She glanced down and blushed in surprise as she realized her uniform had been unzipped from her neck to her navel, revealing a long strip of her pale skin. She quickly zipped it back into place and pulled her coat tight around her body. She spun on her heel and quickly started to walk away.
"Ahem, yes lieutenant. You were coming with some news for me," she blustered in embarrassment as she walked swiftly away from the small horde of Beriayl's men who had probably also noticed her opened uniform. Cole followed after her, matching her quick stride seamlessly. His quiet face didn't betray any hint that he had caused her any discomfiture.
"One of our agents has reported a rather brazen assault that took place at a large gathering of the Camarilla. Apparently our friend the Stalker struck at and killed a visiting Daughter of Cacophony Anne looked up curiously, Cole glanced over at her and pretended he wasn't annoyed by her ignorance. "A minor bloodline, offshoot of the Toreador, powers relating to manipulation of the voice....In any case, the Stalker killed her and traded blows with the sheriff and some other guards."
"Right," said Anne as she entered the elevator. "I'm going to go look for clues, where was it?"
"In Detroit," reiterated Cole, she said nothing. "Camarilla territory...." He let the obvious implication hang in the air. Anne frowned.
"Where," she leaned forward, her green eyes blazing as she locked gazes with Cole and froze him in his tracks. "And I mean the exact address."
Steven had ordered the room to be cleared. Most had been only too happy to comply. Now only a few Kindred lurked around the room. Some were Toreador, who were talking quietly with Raymond. A pair of men in dark suits waited nearby the door. They were a Ventrue and his ghoul, messengers and observers for the prince, ready to bring news of any new findings directly to Steven's ears. Carnellia had also hung around, but was under careful watch by a small swarm of Raymond's ghoul security force. Apparently even in his shocked state Raymond still knew enough not to trust a Brujah nosing around his club. Octavian was going over the murder site. Anton was in the back under guard. He had been in a near frenzy, and was still unable to quiet down and answer questions.
"You're next Leanne," said Octavian as he looked down at the corpse. "Who's Leanne?" The Toreador in the corner looked up at the sheriff.
"Why should I know?" growled Raymond. Octavian motioned to the bloody scrawled message above the fallen form of Treble. He was sure it was important to the case, he just didn't know why.
"He left that message in blood. He took time out of his hurried kill and escape to write that in her own blood. It's important to him, and a warning and message to us. It was done in your club after he had attacked and destroyed some of your resources. Why shouldn't it be for you?"
"So I'm Leanne now? Fuck you Octavian!"
The sheriff shook his head, "careful there." Raymond made to reply, then he paused as he looked into the dark eyes of Octavian. Sheriff of Detroit. Enforcer and killer for the prince of the city. Raymond's jaws snapped shut, his muscles tense. Octavian grinned menacingly back at the Toreador and turned away from him. No, Raymond was a fool, a dangerous fool yes. But he was not the sort to murder like this, especially when it had hurt his station so massively.
"Octavian, we should talk!" Lewis Rathcourt walked out of the room where Anton was being kept and wandered over to a quiet corner away from the others. Octavian frowned and started to walk over. A suggestion from the dangerous primogen of the Toreador clan was best taken as an order by everyone nearby. Still, Octavian had to admit that Lewis had shown just as much interest in catching the killer as he had, thus Octavian hoped he would be helpful.
"Lewis," said the sheriff as he nodded his head slightly to the young and bright faced young man before him. Lewis nodded back, his flashing teeth and golden hair giving him more the appearance of a god then a man. "What were you able to get out of Anton," Octavian asked, he had prayed that the distraught Toreador would be more open to one of his own clan.
"He knows little. He will only speak of the unnatural power and speed of the killer."
Octavian nodded, "that much I already knew."
"I have instructed some of Raymond's ghouls to take him home to recuperate."
"Good." Octavian would have preferred to keep questioning the bodyguard. But once again, if Lewis 'suggested' you needed rest, then you needed rest. Octavian turned to leave, but Lewis held up a hand to stop him. Octavian paused as Lewis motioned slightly up to the stage.
"This is an unfortunate happenstance," Lewis's voice didn't exactly seem to be filled with compassion for the dead woman. Octavian listened warily, suspecting he knew what was coming next. "Her death will reflect badly upon me and my clan. It would be such an embarrassment to me if I allowed one of the Daughter's to be slain with impunity within my city. The other Daughter's wouldn't be pleased with me at all...."
"Yeah," agreed Octavian with a frown. He had known exactly where it was going.
"I do trust you will do everything you can to bring those responsible to justice. I also encourage you to move quickly in this matter." Lewis grinned at him and nodded his head to Octavian. "Just a suggestion mind." So saying Lewis turned and walked over towards Raymond. Octavian watched him go.
"Yeah, just a suggestion." Everything. Do everything in your power. Read that, get the killer, or at least a scapegoat. And do it quickly....or else. Octavian knew full well what that suggestion was. He watched as Lewis gathered his brood and departed the room. He walked over and offered a final report to the messenger for the prince. Best to just clear them all out, clear them out and start a thorough search. He cast his gaze over the now deserted building, even the ghouls had been sent home. There had to be a clue here, somewhere. The body of Madame Treble still lay, mutilated on the floor. He grabbed a tablecloth and gently draped it over her body. Then Octavian slowly began to reexamine the scene.
Anne parked a few blocks away. It had taken her a bit of time to pierce the border, but such operations were easier to accomplish then the Camarilla would ever like to admit. Though she had to acknowledge that the knife did cut both ways in that regard. She walked towards the club, sticking to back alleys and shadowed paths. She never particularly liked crossing over in Detroit. It was the home of the enemy, and she always felt she had to be on edge and ready for them. She found the club and circled around to the front. She found a window and was able to open it. It was a tight fit and she managed to scuff her boot on the windowsill. She cursed her own clumsiness, but since no guards came running she figured it didn't matter.
She looked around the room, and quickly spotted the tablecloth draped figure on stage. Anne walked slowly over to it. She looked at the message written in blood upon the back wall of the stage. Coming for Leanne, her eye's narrowed, it had to be the Stalker, there was no more doubt in her mind. She looked down and kneeled next to the body. She pulled back the covering to reveal the frightened face of the once beautiful woman underneath. Anne looked into the wide, staring eyes. She shook her head, how could they have left the body like this. Humans would have long ago cleaned up the body and taken it away. The Camarilla instead left it to lie.
"Rest now," whispered Anne softly to the figure. "Though you walk through the shadow of the valley of death you shall fear no evil. For he is with you, your Lord and keeper. And his strength shall guide you on to the eternity that justly awaits you in the hereafter.....Amen." She reached down and gently pulled the wide eyes closed. She looked down at the now peaceful appearing face and nodded. Yes, it was better this way. The human way. The right way. Anne was so caught up in her thoughts she didn't hear the watcher until he spoke to her.
"The plan proceeds wonderfully, the Sabbat grow stronger every hour now that I have stopped their petty bickering!" Beriayl leaned back comfortably in his chair and grinned to himself. Yes, their power grew, and with it his own.
"Of course lord," agreed Archbishop St. Johns as he nervously stood before the large desk in the back of Beriayl's room. The Archdeacon lifted an eyebrow as he studied his accomplice in this power grab. For the last two nights St. Johns had appeared to be growing progressively more anxious whenever Beriayl saw him.
"Does something concern you my friend?" St. Johns quickly shook his head, yet he didn't meet Beriayl's steady gaze. "Ah, poor wretch. You fear that we are not yet secure in our power, you question my wisdom and planning?"
"Lord, I would never..."
"Quiet fool," though Beriayl said the words in the same peaceful tone he had been speaking with, they still managed to cut through St. Johns protests and silence him. Beriayl smirked as he leaned forward. "The plan could not be going better. The packs flock to your banner, you were more popular then even I had hoped. Only the small faction in Grosse Pointe still holds out, as well as a few packs still loyal to Cooler. But Cooler will do something foolish soon, his honor demands it, and when he does I can have him destroyed openly and with no impropriety involved. Plus, your hands will remain as clean as ever. Do you not notice it is I who orders Jericho and his templars to destroy a few of the more bothersome packs. You are free my boy, you are untouchable." St. Johns nodded slowly, his eyes finally drifting up to meet Beriayl's.
"I know lord. I was just concerned....your actions with the Hand. It is dangerous, and not part of the plan." Beriayl actually laughed slightly.
"The Hand, the dreaded Black Hand. They are not as potent as they would have you think. I was only forced to move on them in order to ensure total loyalty from them. By removing Flint and placing Anne in charge I have insured a commander who is far more pliable to my whims and plans." Beriayl grinned to himself as he recalled the sight of Anne spread across his bed earlier tonight. Her soft and sudden gasps for air, her delicate white neck. He knew now what Flint found so interesting in her. He grinned wider, but she would be his now, as would Windsor, as would Detroit. All his...his to toy with. His pleasant thoughts about what to do with Anne when next they met was interrupted by St. Johns worried voice.
"But...surely Flint is still a threat, once he leaves Detroit he'll reorganize his power in the Hand and remove Anne from command, and then..." Beriayl looked up at St. Johns. The archbishop's voice died away as he looked into the cold grin that now snaked across Beriayl's plain face.
"But my friend," hissed Beriayl, "whatever makes you think I'll allow Flint to leave Windsor alive?"
Octavian had found how the killer had gained entrance. There were slight muddy footprints that tracked through the otherwise spotless kitchen, they were a match for the obvious marks he had made upon fleeing. An entrance and an escape, and both made possible by his powers in the discipline of stealth. When did the prick have time to learn powerful Obfuscate? Not to mention also developing enhanced strength and speed to levels that allowed him to face and pound Octavian around. It didn't make sense, the guy was too dangerous. The sheriff paused as he heard a minor scrape out in the main hall. As silently as he could Octavian crept down the hallway and peered through the half open door.
A young woman dressed in black leather and wearing a heavy black trenchcoat was kneeling over the body. She had lifted the cloth and was looking at the body. She seemed to be uttering something under her breath, but he couldn't make it out. Octavian recognized her as Anne Arbor, head of the Sabbat Black Hand. He had even had the displeasure of facing her in battle a week or so ago. Octavian watched as Anne reached down and closed Treble's eyes. He cocked his eyebrow at the odd gesture. After all, why bother?
"Find anything?" He stepped from the shadows, yet still seemed to keep them wrapped around him. Anne was immediately on her feet, a gleaming saber drawn in a fraction of a second. Octavian raised his hands. "If I wanted to fight, you would already be dead." Her green eyes narrowed as she smirked at him.
"Is that so?" She raised her blade, the dim light of the room dancing along the sharpened Damascene steel. "So does this mean you'd like a rematch?" Octavian couldn't help grinning slightly at her bravado, he pulled open his coat to reveal the old broadsword that was strapped within it. His hand gripped the worn handle and pulled it out in one quick move.
"Perhaps I do....or perhaps I want to know what you are doing here?"
"Probably the same thing you are, trying to catch a killer." Octavian nodded, he had known that The Hand served as the police force within the Sabbat. Still, it did clash with his own conclusions about the case.
"I presumed that he was one of you." Octavian stated it plainly, a question. Anne's green eyes narrowed further. A trace of a snarl crept across her smooth features.
"Not all Sabbat are monsters!" He was surprised he had gotten such a reaction out of her. There was something more to this for her then just capturing a killer. This had become personal for her.
"But are all monsters Sabbat," asked Octavian with a chuckle. Anne sheathed her blade and backed away from him, he smiled at her. She was headstrong and brave, much like himself when he had been younger. Plus she was naïve enough to still think of the Sabbat as a basically good force, he chuckled again, poor girl, how deluded. "Stay out of this child, it isn't safe for you." Her features grew harder as she stiffened when he called her child. Octavian grinned wider, "he is far too powerful for you to deal with."
"I wouldn't count on that if I were you. I seem to recall facing you in combat and almost winning. Maybe you just aren't as tough as you think!" Octavian's grin left his face, he did recall how close he had come to death when facing her. It still galled him to no end. "Besides, I've dealt with the Stalker before, this time I'll just be making sure he stays down." Octavian's eyes lifted in surprise. It had been her, she had been the one to stop the Stalker before.
"You should stay out of this girl. The Stalker is mine."
"Really," Anne smiled at him, "we shall see if you can get to him before me." Octavian started to devise a snappy retort when she stepped back into a shadow and suddenly seemed to fade into the darkness. Octavian sprang forward, he landed amidst the shadows. Cursing as he reached into them, yet came into contact with nothing. He stared at the murky gloom where she had disappeared. He considered how well the prince would like to know about a Black Hand agent who had slipped into Detroit, and all the hell it was likely to give him.
"Damn!"
Night 8 - The Darkness by Any Other Name
Flint blew lightly upon the small elegant piece of wood in his hands. The last minute shavings flicked away into the night air. He pulled up the cloth and quickly polished over the final section. Flint reverently placed the figurine down on a piece of velvet, he then carefully wrapped it up. His piece was finished, the time for waiting was over. He placed it gently on a shelf. There was a knock at the door.
"Come," Flint answered. The door quietly swung inward, Anne entered his room. Even with his back turned Flint knew who it was. He could hear the faint sounds of her breathing, a habit of the living she continued to cling to. He caught the scent of her drift to him, he closed his eyes and savored it for a few moments. Flint turned around slowly, Anne stood there, in one hand she gripped her sabre, in the other was clutched a worn and vicious looking gray cat. Flint eyed the cat with a look of mild surprise. Of course, despite his age Anne still managed to surprise him with some of her actions.
"I've named him Flint, after you," she said as she lifted it slightly towards him. She waited as though expecting something from him, he watched the feline bare it's fangs and hiss at him. Flint frowned and looked back up at her in puzzlement.
"Why do you have a cat?" The small flicker of light he had caught in the back of her eyes died away. He had failed whatever test she had tried to give him.
"I suspected you wouldn't understand." Her voice was slightly hurt, she looked away from him and shook her head.
"Understand what?"
"Exactly," she answered, as though that said it all. Anne set the cat down by her foot, it purred and rubbed up against her. Flint picked up the carving and stood up. He stepped towards her. The cat hissed at him in warning. Anne smiled down at it, Flint merely glanced down in annoyance. He shoved the bothersome feline out of his thoughts as he looked back into her almond shaped eyes.
"I carved this for you, here." Flint handed her the velvet bundle. She looked at him curiously, then down at the bundle. Her pouting lips shifted into a slight frown as she slowly unwrapped it. Flint noted that she didn't seem excited by the gift. No light of excitement danced across her face. Had he gone and crushed that part of her innocence as well? Anne flipped away the final layer of velvet and pulled forth the carving. The smooth and gleaming wood shone in the dim candlelight of the room. The carving was of her. She stood upon a grassy field, she was wearing only a plain coarse wool slip. Behind her was her blade, dropped to the ground and embedded in the earth. Her face and arms were upturned as she seemed to bathe in something. Her eyes were open, her face smiling in peace.
"What am I looking at," asked Anne as she held the piece up questioningly.
"The sun, a dream, the answer to your questions. All this and more." Anne studied the fine and perfect lines of the figure, eyed the joyous and serene expression on her face. Flint waited, never before had he found himself caring so much about someone's opinion of his work. Finally her large green eyes flicked up from the figure to look at him. They seemed confused, unsure. Her lips quavered slightly, whether in anger or melancholy he was unsure. But her voice was a soft whisper when she spoke.
"Is this how you see me?"
"It is how I saw you once, and hope to see you again." He reached out to brush her cheek, Anne drew back suddenly from him, as though his touch were deadly. The figurine dropped to the ground with a soft thud. The cat hissed in annoyance and swiped it's claws at Flint. His eyes grew dark again...no, she still thought of his touch as a painful thing. He felt a slight twinge inside him, as though he had lost something.
"If you thought this false little 'gift' was going to make me forgive you, you truly are a fool!" Her voice was sharp, her eyes blazed as she glared at him. With a snap of her hand her coat billowed open and her sabre snapped into her hand. "This is the only gift you've given me that still serves a purpose," she growled as it swung up to float near his neck. "Now, Archdeacon Beriayl and Archbishop St. Johns wish to speak with you. There is going to be a council meeting, I think soon everyone will know who really rules Windsor!" Anne held her blade before her and called for the guards. The door swung open as a small group of Black Hand walked into the room. "Take him to the council!"
The Black Hand guards motioned for Flint to move, he looked quietly at Anne, "I am sorry Anne, I never meant to kill you." So saying he then turned and followed the guards out of the room. Anne watched them go. A frown on her face in anger at Flint's words. She spun away, turning her back on the door and her sire. A mewl caused her to look down, she shook her head at the cat, and then noticed the piece of wood laying, forgotten, on the floor. She knelt down and scooped up the carving.
"Pretending to not be a monster," she said in annoyance as she looked at the figure again. "Still he has gotten better at carving over the years," she smirked as she remembered his first few faltering attempts to master the craft. Back then he had barely managed to craft a cup well, she shook her head at the pathetic sight. He had always responded to each failure by keeping it, still treasuring each of his early works. She even recalled the bizarre carving he made of his first human face. She had offered to model for him, he had claimed he wouldn't carve her till he was skilled enough to do her face justice.
"I guess you did it justice then," she half snarled as she walked over and set the figure down on the shelf he had taken it from. As she turned to go she happened to glance into a dark corner of the room. She spotted the many dark forms laying on the ground there, she stepped forward and looked down in surprise. Anne knelt down and picked up one of the pieces of wood. It was the beginning of the carving of her. Something had gone wrong and he had discarded it. She picked up another, and another. Some were very good.
Curious she again grabbed the finished work for comparison. This one's head tilted a bit too much. Here a hand hadn't quite formed properly. And this one the wood of her face had been too dark. He had carved one or two a night, trying to properly create his work. Anne looked at the collection of half finished carvings. It was as if he had been an artist possessed. Into the work he had poured his...heart...and soul? Had he? Could he? She felt a tightness in her chest and brushed at her suddenly damp eyes. Anne looked upon the carvings, any would have been as good to her untrained eye as the next. But Flint had wanted it to be......To be perfect. Perfect for her. A few red lines dribbled down her cheeks as she sat amongst the discarded forms of her sire's quest.
Archdeacon Beriayl sat in the massive gathering hall. It had been the same chamber that two weeks ago he had swept them into a frenzy of glee over the plan to destroy Prince Steven. Then he had been little more then a glorified speaker to help Flint's plan, now...now he was the speaker. He was the voice. He was the Word of the Sabbat. And his word would be death to those who opposed him. He watched as streams of Sabbat flowed into the room. Many of them eagerly bowed or saluted him. Others simply tried to avoid looking at him. Beriayl watched as Jane Doe and four of her packs entered en masse. They quickly claimed a corner at the back of the hall. Good, obviously she had realized she couldn't stand alone against him. The proud Ventrue tried to avoid his gaze. Beriayl chuckled, she would be allowed into the fold, after a suitable abject apology of course. Cooler was nowhere to be seen, and had not been heard from for three nights. But that was expected, Cooler would try to make a move sooner or later. And then Beriayl would have him!.
"Hey Lord, we come bearing gifts!" Jericho's call broke into his musings. Beriayl looked up as the other head speakers and delegates walked onto the stage. Flint was surrounded by three templars. Their leader, Cal Jericho walked along directly behind Flint, keeping a careful watch on the dangerous Cainite. Even in chains Flint seemed to be a deadly force. His dark gaze watching Beriayl as though he were nothing. Archbishop St. Johns smiled and waved as he walked onto the stage. Behind him trailed The Knights, his personal pack of guards wore their usual black tabards with red crosses emblazoned on them. The New Sabbat cheered at the sight of St. Johns, as did many others. They were happy to finally have one true leader. Doe and her men remained silent. Beriayl sent a silent mental impulse to his war ghouls, the massive creature shifted closer to him as Flint approached.
"Are you ready to accept my rule here yet?" Flint said nothing as Beriayl walked up and smirked at him. "Come now Flint, this may be your last chance, it would be wise of you to just accept that you lost and I won." Beriayl grinned at Flint, still Flint said nothing. "Ah, poor misguided fool. Seek ye me, and ye shall live. Amos, 5:4." Flint eyed him warily. As he did his eyes flicked past Beriayl to something behind him. Flint suddenly smiled coldly.
"I serve no false pretenders to power." Beriayl turned to look at where Flint had. All he saw was Anne Arbor and a large squad of Black Hand marching up onto the stage. The only odd sight that he saw was that Anne for some reason was carrying a gruesome looking gray cat. The creature hissed and spit at anyone who came too near to her. Beriayl met Anne's eyes and she looked back with calm professionalism. He grinned, there was no question of her loyalty, he had searched her mind only last night. He turned to again look at Flint.
"She is mine fool, she gladly turned against you."
"We shall see," said Flint far too calmly. Beriayl scowled and leaned in close, his voice a hissing whisper in Flint's ear.
"Aye, we shall see. See if she again lies upon my bed and offers her soft flesh up to me. See if again I peel off that armored shell and look upon the white skin of her gentle neck, see if she again moans for my touch." Beriayl grinned as he saw the spark flash in the back of Flint's dark eyes. He leaned back and ran his tongue lightly over his lips as he watched Flint. "I shall recreate the rituals of Sodom and Gomorra with her, I shall watch her eyes quiver and her body shake." Flint's eyes grew darker yet, his hands clenched by his sides. "Goodbye Flint," sneered Beriayl, "I guarantee she shall at least not suffer for lack of your touch." He nodded to the guards.
"Hey man, just play it easy," said Jericho as he forced Flint into his seat. The dominion's eyes remained dead set on Beriayl, his chain bindings creaked as he seethed in quiet rage. Jericho crossed his arms and stood over the bound dominion. Flint's eyes remained locked on Anne as he watched Beriayl walk towards her, under his calm exterior he felt his blood boil. Suddenly he glanced up as a small group of Black Hand agents walked over to surround him and the templars. "Hey," said Jericho in surprise, "what the hell are you pissants up to?"
"Anne's orders, we are to take over the guarding of the prisoner," the man's voice was cold and calm. His mouth twisted into a sneer, the black curling tattoos on his cheeks only adding to the dark look.
"Yeah right dillweed," scoffed Jericho, "I got my orders too."
"That is fine," the Hand agent nodded his head as more of his men drifted in and pressed around and about the templars. Cole smiled thinly. "We shall guard him...together."
"Anne!" Beriayl walked over to greet Anne, she bowed and returned his greeting. Beriayl noticed a crucifix hanging from around her neck. He reached out and held up the old and heavy piece of metal for his inspection. The cat hissed and swiped at his hand. "It is good to see the young showing such faith."
"Thank you lord."
"It is an old piece, where did you get it?" Anne paused, Beriayl immediately noted she seemed unsure of her answer. Even as he was about to question her more deeply the doors slammed open.
"Everybody better play nice!" bellowed Rich Varda as he walked into the room holding an assault rifle. Behind him came The Marauders, also all heavily armed. Through other doors came other packs, all armed and with their weapons drawn. The packs in attendance shifted and muttered as they looked around uneasily. Beriayl smiled as he watched Michael Cooler walk into the chamber. Most of the other packs grew even more nervous, they knew where this would probably lead.
"I was expecting this from you, you struck me as the stupid sort," Beriayl said as Cooler marched towards the stage. He pushed Anne gently to one side as he smirked and watched Cooler approach. "So tell me Cooler, what is the plan now?"
"I call into question your right to proclaim St. Johns Archbishop," Cooler said. Beriayl chuckled at the comment.
"Oh that's good...this isn't even a council meeting. But
tell me, where did you plan to get support?"
"I second," came the cold voice of Jane Doe from the
back. Beriayl glanced up as her packs stood en mass and pulled
out their own weapons. They quickly filed out into the walkways
and helped Cooler's few packs to cover the rest.
"Very well," Beriayl said, as though he were a parent indulging a child. He turned to St. Johns and grinned, "what do you say?" Beriayl chuckled, all he would need was for the archbishop to call Cooler a traitor and then the other packs would be honor bound to rip apart all of the insurgent packs. As well as the bothersome Cooler and Doe.
St. Johns looked up, "I have been made Archbishop, and am honored by the glory this title bears." His words were full of energy and honor. Some Sabbat in the crowd began to murmur in support of his words, others seemed to be siding with Cooler. Yet still all their hands were slipping towards their weapons.
"You see," Beriayl gloated, "you will have to start a war to stop this rightful succession. And I know you don't want to risk that. Especially since the Black Hand stand with us!" Again there were murmurs, debates started within the packs. The New Sabbat packs looked to St. Johns, ready to spring into battle. Cooler watched in concern as eight Black Hand approached him and The Marauders. The black cloaked figures circled in around Cooler, cutting off his escape.
"However," broke in St. Johns, "I do not wish for this conflict to tear us apart. I will step down and ask for consul from the leaders here in the choice of archbishop." Beriayl's eyes widened as he turned towards St. Johns. The Knights had drawn their blades and easily dropped in round their leader to protect him. St. Johns smiled at Beriayl and then nodded to Jane Doe. She and her men advanced to stand with Cooler.
"We wish to discuss your choice of archbishop," she repeated in her cold voice. Beriayl growled in anger, his massive war ghouls rumbled as well. Many glanced in concern at the engines of destruction that loomed over Beriayl.
"I will gladly offer my opinion," said Flint from his chair.
"No you won't!" Beriayl shouted, he still was in control, he still could win! His mind danced over his options, and then he grinned as he realized he still had them beat. "Anne," he glanced over at the slim woman in black next to him, "destroy Cooler and Doe!" All of the Black Hand warriors turned towards Anne, awaiting their orders. She raised one gloved hand and lifted a finger. The Hand around Jericho suddenly grabbed him and shoved him back, others snapped up their blades and guns to hold off the other surprised templars. Cole quickly freed Flint from his shackles and handed him a finely honed blade. The Black Hand around Cooler also drew their weapons and dropped into a defensive stance around him and Doe, guarding them from any sudden attacks.
"Betraying whore!" Beriayl howled in rage and turned on Anne in a blur. His suit shredded apart in a spray of blood as spears of bone tore from his chest and flew through the air to impale her, Anne collapsed to her knees only barely having managed to twist in time to save her cat's life. Beriayl's war ghouls roared a near glass-shattering bellow and attacked anyone near them. Beriayl seemed to bulge as his flesh shredded off his body and his size nearly tripled. The war ghouls now battled, wading into the Hand agents nearby. The deadly killers quickly fired dozens of bullets into the beasts as they fell back from the multi-armed terrors. A few were too slow, and lost arms or were sent sailing through the air by an impact with one of the powerful tendrils. Some packs still loyal to Beriayl leapt to their feet and engaged Cooler and Doe's men.
"Oh yeah, it's on now," laughed Rich Varda as he spun and fired a burst of his rifle into the chest of one of the raising figures. "Marauders, take it to 'em!" Around him the room erupted into a wild chaos of violence and blood. The Black Hand around Cooler and Doe quickly began firing a steady stream of bullets with deadly accuracy into anyone who came too close to the bishops. Rich pulled a fresh clip from his jacket and slapped it into the gun. It looked like most of the packs were just running for cover, unsure of what side they were on yet. He grinned, by the time they figured that out it would already be over.
Cooler drew a shotgun out from under his coat and fired three quick shots into the attackers. Nearby a band of enraged New Sabbat also leaped up and began attacking. Cooler almost laughed, they were assaulting Beriayl's force. Yes, the Archdeacon had, in the end, needed St. Johns more then even Cooler had thought. He quickly fired again. Then was able to ignore that pack as the Rom Raiders rushed in and ripped into them. Cooler glanced over to Jane Doe. She quietly stood amongst the Hand guards and watched the fight. A slow smile spreading across her elfin features.
When exactly things had gone so mad he wasn't sure, but Payne didn't like the change at all. He turned and quickly rushed down the steps to get off the stage. He looked up as a skinny punk holding a pair of switchblades jumped in front of him.
"You betrayed the Sabbat," howled the punk in fury. Payne wasn't even sure which side the fool thought he was fighting for. Even as the man pulled back his arm to strike Juli hopped off the stage to land between them. Her dark eyes narrowed as she watched the punk.
"Step back and you don't get hurt," she snapped in a clipped voice.
"What the hell are you talking about you stupid cunt?" The crazed punk looked her up and down, she was dressed in her dark skirt and large sweater. She tossed aside her notepad as he sneered at her. "You ain't even armed!"
"Juli, end him," growled Payne in annoyance. The punk snarled as he lashed out with a knife towards her throat. Juli's hand snapped up to grab his wrist, stopping his thrust suddenly. The punk gasped in surprise and tried to break her grip, he may as well have tried to rip apart a set of handcuffs. Juli's foot snapped up and crashed into his free arm. There was a sharp crunching noise as the bones shattered. She twisted his wrist, a audible pop signaling that she had dislocated his shoulder. He screamed in pain as she shoved him up to slam into the front of the stage. Her other hand snatched the knife from his feeble grip and planted it through his shoulder and into the solid oak underneath.
"This way sir," she said as she turned back towards the chaos of the meeting and lead Payne towards the nearest exit. Payne followed her, but his eyes were locked on the conflict erupting around them. The pieces were moving fast and wildly, but it was still a chess game. He just needed to see who's set was losing to know what side of the board he needed to be sitting at in the end.
"Die!" Anne looked up as a clawed hand hissed for her face. She ducked under the blow and drew her sword. She quickly slashed it outward, it sliced lightly against Beriayl's trunk-like legs, the light blade barely cutting into the thick meat below. The Archdeacon hissed as his other arm lashed up and caught her in the chest, the force of the blow easily picking her off her feet and flinging her against a wall. She gasped as she hit hard and collapsed to the floor, her armored coat ripped open, and blood seeping from the brutal wound. Beriayl advanced upon her, his glowing red eyes promising her a cruel and painful death. Anne tried to get to her feet, but her injuries were too much and she could only lay there and look up at her advancing death helplessly. He stopped before her, his fanged maw split in a wide smile as he moved to finish her. Even as he raised his hand the cat leaped out and slashed at his leg. Beriayl was unharmed but he paused for a brief moment to glare at the cat. That instant was all it took for a black blur to hiss across the stage and stop between them. Flint stood before the Archdeacon, blocking the Tzimice's path to Anne. He smiled at Beriayl as he drew his sword across his palm. Beriayl roared in rage and attacked.
"Come on you pig molesters!" Lolita howled in laughter as she swung Louie, her chainsaw, into the chest of a shotgun wielding brute. The large Sabbat howled in pain as he staggered back and brought his .357 to bear on her face. Lolita laughed wildly at him as she quickly heaved up on Louie and sheared through his arm. Blood sprayed her face as the Sabbat turned to try and flee. However Grunge came leaping across the room and slammed into the wounded Sabbat, the Gangrel's claws quickly ripping through his throat and removing him from the fight. "Grunge! Grunge," gasped Lolita as she hopped up to him, her bloody face split by a wild smile.
"What?"
"Lucky for you I disarmed him before you attacked! Get it......dis-armed? Dis-armed, dis-armed!" The mad Malkavian priest giggled inanely at the comment. Grunge stood up and looked at her with a scowl.
"Yeah, okay, I get it," she continued to laugh. "Ha-ha, funny, I get it," she began pounding his arm as she pointed down at the severed arm on the floor as she laughed louder. "I get it, just shutup!"
"Louie has a very....disarming personality! Get it! Get it!" Her cheeks became streaked with more blood as she continued to howl in mirth.
"Yeah, great, same damn joke," still she laughed, "wasn't even all that fucking funny the first time," Lolita collapsed to the floor and cuddled her chainsaw as she twittered with more amusement. "I GET IT, OKAY!!!" Grunge turned and rushed away to the fighting, left behind Lolita could only look down at Louie and grin inanely.
"I wonder what made him want to keep....an arm's length away from me!" She and Louie laughed for quite a while after that.
The war ghouls howled as they fought. Their massive arms lashed and spun around them as they tore into anyone who came too close. Two more Hand agents were batted aside like playthings as the lumbering monsters stormed towards the small circle defending Cooler and Doe. Cole growled as watched the engines of destruction push through and rip apart any who got in their way. Beriayl had obviously ordered the beasts to destroy his betrayers, and if they succeeded then Beriayl might still yet claim a victory.
"Watch them, don't let them interfere," Cole snapped to his men as he pointed at Jericho and the other templars. Jericho snarled but remained motionless as the other Hand agents kept their blades and guns ready. Cole spun away from them as he drew out his scimitar and charged forward. He sprang off the edge of the stage and sailed through the air towards the back of one of the war ghouls. It was only as he dropped towards it that he realized that the damned things had eyes ringing their heads! One whip-like arm snapped through the air and ripped into his chest, smashing him to the ground.
Cole didn't allow himself the luxury of time to feel pain, instead he rolled sharply to the side as the whip arm quickly snapped down again, splintering the floor where he had been but moments before. Cole hopped back to his feet and charged again towards the monster. The whip arm hissed through the air towards him, but Cole spun in a blur and slashed through the limb. It fell to the ground as black gore sprayed from the stump. He batted the thrashing arm out of his way as he again rushed forward. His hand reached under his trench coat as his blade tore two sharp cuts in the shape of an 'X' into the beast's side. Cole pulled out a grenade from under his coat and prepared to lodge it into the bloody opening before him.
Suddenly he was wrapped tightly in an inhumanly powerful grip. His arms were crushed into his sides as he was lifted upwards, trapped in the clawed grasp of the second war ghoul. Cole looked around in shock as he was hoisted over the monster's head, he gritted his teeth as he prepared himself to be hurled across the room to splatter against a wall. Instead the crown of the pulpy mass that formed the head of the beast split open into four fleshy lips glistening with rows of razor-sharp teeth. Cole cursed as he was lowered down towards the cavernous maw below him. The lips smacking together in eager glee as it tipped him head first towards it.
Thinking quickly he smashed his head against the sharpened claw of the creatures thumb. Cole's ebony forehead split open as blood from the gash splattered the monster's finger. However simple blood it was no longer, infused by the powers of the Assamite's disciplines it was now a potent acid. The burn was mild, and barely hurt the powerful creature. However it did shock it enough that its grip loosened for a split second, allowing Cole to tear one of his hands free. He snarled as he looked down into the loathsome depths of the ghouls stomach as he neared the gore covered fanged maw.
"Chew on this!" Cole popped the pin on his grenade and shoved his hand forward even as the lips snapped shut over his arm. He howled in pain as the teeth tore and ripped into his flesh, grinding along the bone and popping it apart like dry kindling. Then there was a dull report as the grenade erupted within the bowels of the beast. The mouth was torn apart even as its belly burst open and sprayed its insides across the room. The beast collapsed backwards, crashing hard to the blood spattered ground. Cole gasped in pain, in its death throes the creature had only tightened its grasp upon him. He glanced ruefully at his lost arm, it would take him many nights to regrow it.
"Here, you look like you need help," said a woman's voice above him. Cole glanced up as a dark haired woman dressed in an overly large black sweater and dress leaned down and began prying open the fingers of the ghoul. Cole's eyes narrowed in surprise. He knew this woman as Payne's aide. He turned to look beyond her. He could see the second ghoul dropping to the ground as it was suddenly assaulted by a wave of packs. All of them loyal to Payne. He could even see the bishop himself standing proudly next to Cooler and Doe as he watched the battle. A battle it now seemed they would win.
"You think I fear you? You are nothing to me!" Beriayl growled as his claws slashed through the air towards Flint. However Flint easily ducked under the blow avoiding yet another of Beriayl's attacks.
"You fight as a beast would," said Flint calmly, "there is little honor in felling an animal. Your death will bring me no honor." Flint suddenly smiled at him, his dark eyes glinting maliciously. "Though it shall bring me some pleasure."
"I am no beast! I am your master! And you will know my name is The Lord, when I lay my vengeance upon thee," bellowed the enraged Archdeacon. Beriayl's claws lashed through the air, but to Flint they may as well have been in slow motion, he easily whipped around them and sliced his blade through the massive calves and tendons of the Archdeacon's legs. His heavier blade easily accomplishing what Anne's light sabre could not. Beriayl collapsed to his hands and knees. Flint moved in for the kill but Beriayl turned and snarled at him, his back splitting open as tendrils of sharpened bone burst from it. Flint leapt back as they hissed through the air towards him. His sword sang as he swept it in four sharp and blindingly fast cuts. The bloody stumps of the tendrils reared back as the bloody ends fell to the floor at his feet.
"God damn you!" Howled Beriayl as he swung one of his long arms around. But Flint only rolled under it and up to his feet again. Coming to a stop directly in front of the Archdeacon. Beriayl screamed in fear as he lashed his arms about wildly. Flint's mocking smile remained unchanged as he deftly leaped back again, moving faster then Beriayl could ever hope to follow. But the Archdeacon was no longer looking to fight, he could feel the death wails of his war ghouls and knew the tide had turned against him. Beriayl took his chance and tried to run for it, gamely limping towards the exit. Flint was a blur as he charged and leapt through the air, slamming hard into Beriayl's back while his sword sank deep into the flesh and severed the bones of the Archdeacon's spine. Beriayl collapsed to the floor, Flint stood atop him like some triumphant hero of old.
"Whoso despiseth the word shall be destroyed," hissed Flint as he pulled out his sword and raised it again. Beriayl howled in fear and anger at the words. With a quick slash Beriayl's head left his shoulders and the twisted form of the Archdeacon dropped to the ground. "Proverbs 13:13."
The battle had ended. Beriayl had not had enough support without St. Johns and Anne to even make a worthwhile fight. The ghouls lay twitching in pieces before The Hand. Rich Varda was standing with one foot on the severed head of one of the few pack members to fight (and die) for Beriayl. Cooler nodded to Jane Doe as he stepped onto the stage.
"What you witnessed here tonight was the mad scramble for power by one man. Rest assured that the rest of the Sabbat leadership never truly supported him."
"Luckily," broke in St. Johns "I was able to organize a successful coup in order to stop the madman before he had caused too much harm." A cheer broke out from the Sabbat, as Cooler and St. Johns both glared at the other. Rich Varda sighed as he and Grunge walked up to Lolita, who was busy telling Louie about nuclear disarmament. They shook their heads as they grabbed her and dragged her away from the battle. Trailing after them came the delicate shape of Jane Doe as the Rom Raiders escorted her away from the carnage. She spared one last look back at Cooler as he shouted at St. Johns. She grinned, she would have a powerful ally in both of them. And both would think her on their side. She shook her head and grinned again as she slipped out the door.
Payne too walked away from the carnage. Juli fell into step behind him as he and his packs also departed. The storm had come, and he had survived it. He had gained little from the experience, but he had also lost little. He grinned as he walked away. Yes, he had won. Others may have won more, but they had risked Beriayl's fate. And that was one part of the game that Payne had no interest in. None at all.
"Take my hand," Flint reached down and helped Anne to her feet. She was using large amounts of blood to patch up her grievous wounds. She hissed in pain as she straightened, her face splattered with gore. But she, and everything about her was beautiful to his eyes. Flint softly touched the cross upon her bosom. The cross he had carried with him for ages. The cross she had taken from his room and worn here. "I am beyond words to express how I feel about this."
"I am sorry sire."
"As am I."
"I would like to thank you for the carving, it is beautiful." Flint smiled at the old gleam that once again entered her eyes.
"I would like to thank you too," he said, "for being yourself." Anne allowed herself a brief moment as she leaned in and clasped herself to Flint's solid and powerful frame. She sighed as she felt one of his hands reach up and gently brush a lock of her hair from her face.
"Am I interrupting something important?" Anne quickly released Flint as she turned to look at Cal Jericho. The templar had a slight smirk on his face as he looked at the two. Behind him lingered Cole and two other Hand agents, Anne quickly motioned them away. Jericho had, after all, only followed orders. Much like she had done.
"What is it," Anne asked in annoyance.
"Aren't you worried what the Sabbat leadership is going to think about you cutting up a Archdeacon? I mean, sure he was a prick, but he's still gotta have some friends in high places."
Don't count on it being a problem," said Flint with a feral grin, "you might be surprised how well this goes over in certain circles." Flint turned and walked over to speak with Cooler. Leaving a pair of surprised Cainites. "Is it just me, or do you think he planned this whole thing," asked Jericho.
Anne shook her head slowly. "Like a cat stalking a mouse," she said with a wry grin.
"What?" Jericho turned to glance over at her in confusion. Anne looked over and almost started to explain. Then she paused and looked again at the crude and violent templar.
"Never mind." Anne started to walk off, as she did Jericho fell into step after her.
"So, what happens now?"
"Now? Now we start putting ourselves back together. There will probably be all sorts of people out for revenge against certain others for what they did under Beriayl's rule." Se glanced over pointedly at Jericho who had undertaken a few executions at Beriayl's behest. The templar scowled and shook his head. "As for the rest of us, we should probably all get back to our usual business." Jericho nodded in agreement.
"Hell, I know I'll be happy to only have to worry about my job...hey, that reminds me, you get to do all the investigating again." Anne glanced over at him curiously, Jericho shrugged. "St. Johns kept sending me out ta do stuff. Like right before this meeting, there was another killing down by the river." Anne's gaze locked on Jericho, her eyes holding an inner fire.
"When?"
"Few hours ago." Anne quickly turned and dashed for the exit, leaving the surprised templar standing alone. Jericho watched her go, then shook his head. He had expected her to be interested in the killing....but. It was only just another death after all.
Octavian's eyes were darker then usual as he walked into the meeting chamber of the Primogen. The powerful heads of the clans looked up in interest as he strode into the room, a body slung over his shoulder. Octavian pulled it off and dropped it to the floor. It was a young man with dark skin wearing a black trench coat. A wooden spike was planted into his chest. Octavian looked up at the Primogen, he saw Lewis beginning to smile slightly. Steven looked down at the figure and back up to Octavian, he lifted an eyebrow in invitation for the sheriff to speak.
"He's a Black Hand agent," Octavian reported as he prodded the man with his toe. "I caught him lurking around the outskirts of West Detroit. He was armed with some knives, and seemed ready to sneak back into Detroit. After studying his fighting style and weaponry I am certain that he is the killer who slew Madame Treble." Octavian wrenched out the last few words. His honor almost screamed for him to continue the hunt for the real killer. The Stalker. But his responsibilities and duty held him back, forced him to find the Toreador a scapegoat.
"My prince," interjected Lewis with a gentle wave. "I request that he be given over to my clan for a proper execution. It would mean much if we could display our opinions about what he did to the dear Treble in our very own city." Steven nodded his head. Lewis grinned and stood. Octavian picked up the young Sabbat punk. He would die tonight for a crime he hadn't committed. Octavian sighed, he didn't like it. But that was the way of the kindred, sometimes the right way, the humans way had to be set aside for the efficient way, and the expedient way.
A lonely streetlight shone down on the muddy shore of the river. The water sparkled like a black mirror, reflecting up to her a worn and pale image of her face. Anne was tired, she was low on blood, and she needed to still talk some things over with Flint. But she would be damned if she was going to let a possible lead on that sick Park Stalker slip by her. She walked slowly along the edge of the river, she could easily see the disturbed area of ground where the Stalker had struck. Where he had claimed another Sabbat as his victim. Slinking along next to her Flint mewled lightly, apparently nervous here. Anne smiled and knelt down to scratch his ears. Suddenly the cat tensed and bolted away from her. Anne's eyes widened in surprise as she spun about.
Rising out of the water was a dark shape, a grinning skull mask leered at her as it rose from the black water. He had been waiting here in ambush. He had decided to turn the tables on his hunter! Anne whipped her coat open and grasped her blade, there was a blur as a spinning knife slammed into her shoulder. Anne gasped in pain as she was hurled to the ground by the force of the blow. She quickly grabbed the knife and tore it from her arm, but even as she did so a large figure leaped atop her. She gazed up into the mad eyes lurking behind the eerie skull mask that grinned down at her.
She lashed up with the knife, but he moved even faster as he grabbed her wrist and twisted the blade from it. She pumped blood into her wounded arm as she twisted it, causing a gleaming steel rod to slide from her sleeve into her hand. She slammed it into his head, he merely laughed. His arm was a blur as he smashed it into her face, her head jerked to the side from the force of the blow. Another blur as she was struck from the other side, another, and another. Her senses reeling Anne lashed upward with her knee, slamming it sharply between his legs. Sure enough the figure had been pumping blood there. Thus he had enough feeling to at least grunt in pain and loosen his grip slightly.
Anne brought her knees up to her chin and planted her feet on his chest. With a grunt she shoved with all her strength and barely pushed him off. She quickly rolled backwards and came up on her feet. Her blade flicked into her hand as she faced....nothing? Massive arms wrapped around her from behind, Anne gasped in pain as she felt one of her ribs pop. She twisted desperately as she felt the air go rushing from her lungs. He quickly slammed her to the ground and sat on her back, she wriggled wildly in the mud of the riverbank. But was unable to free herself. His hands grabbed her head as he leaned down next to her ear. She reached up and attempted to gouge at his eyes, but he easily twisted away from her feeble attack.
"You're mine now Leanne," he hissed into her ear. "Body and soul!"
Flint was sitting in a corner while the Hand members around him finished disposing of the bodies. He always took it upon himself to make sure any of his messes were cleaned up. He watched as they poured a canister of gas over Beriayl's head. He even smiled when they dropped the match. "And the beast was taken...and cast into a lake of fire and brimstone. Revelations 19:20. Goodbye Beriayl." Flint nodded to the Hand agent in charge and motioned him over. He continued to watch the fire as the man rushed over and saluted with his one remaining arm.
"Sir?"
"Where is Anne, I wish to speak with her." The man paused and rubbed his hand across the swirling tattoos on his cheeks. Flint turned to look at him, his eyes narrowing. "Well?"
"I'm sorry sir, she rushed off after the battle, she didn't tell any of us where she went." Flint growled and turned away from the man. Cole stepped back and respectfully waited. Flint's mind raced as he recalled the moments after the battle. He had spoken with Anne. They had been interrupted by Jericho. He had walked off and Anne had spoken to the templar...Flint's eyes narrowed as he looked back over to Cole.
"Bring me Jericho. Now!"
"Definite signs of a struggle," said Roy, the Gangrel Hand lieutenant as he looked up from the muddy riverbank. "Smells of blood too, hers and a little of someone else's." Flint's eyes seemed to smolder as he looked down upon the empty and disturbed patch of mud. He suddenly caught a glimmer of movement off to his side and turned to look at it. His eyes fell upon a gray cat. Flint snarled as he walked over and looked down at it. It mewled and looked at where Anne had fought her attacker.
"Sir," said Cole as he stepped up, "the men have found no evidence that she is dead, but..."
"Hey!" Cal Jericho jogged up from where he had been inspecting the surrounding area. He held up Anne's coat along with most of her weapons. "I found them dumped in an alley two blocks over, looked like the guy was carrying her and decided not to lug all her weapons too. So looks like the guy wanted her alive, figuratively speaking that is." Jericho's eyes bulged as Flint covered the twenty feet between them in the blink of an eye. His hand clamped around the templar's throat in a vise-like grip.
"You had best pray that she is still alive templar. Figuratively speaking. For as it stands I hold you responsible for her being here."
"All I did..."
"I care not, she would not have rushed off unprepared if you had kept your mouth shut!" The Black Hand had stopped working and were watching as the mighty templar writhed in the grip of the dangerous creature they followed. His eyes blazed, more like a beast's then a man's. "Listen to me well, all of you. I shall have her returned to me. Or you shall all regret it.....Go, find her!" Flint dropped Jericho to the ground. The templar quickly leaped to his feet again. Flint took up Anne's gear and also picked up the hissing cat that lurked nearby. He ignored it as it slashed and tore at his hand and arm. Jericho watched as Flint walked off.
"Men, spread out, start looking," growled Cole. "Roy, get up here!" Cole turned and looked at Jericho. "Now, where exactly did you find her gear?"
Night 9 - The Darkness And The Lady
Anne slowly opened her eyes, she had been assaulted physically and mentally last night. It had taken her a while to piece her thoughts back together. She shivered as she recalled laying in the mud, he had forced her down and entered her mind. She had felt as helpless as a child before those gleaming eyes. Anne growled in anger at his violation of her mind. She quickly took in her surroundings. She was in a inner room, small, with no windows. She was handcuffed to a metal ring in the ceiling and hung half a foot from the floor. Her armor and weapons were gone, and all she wore was the tattered remains of her leather bodysuit. Anne nearly sobbed in frustration, again she felt small, weak and helpless. She shook her head violently. What had he done to her! She could feel the whispers in her head, urging her to be submissive and weak. Telling her that she was his.
A wall of blinding rage swelled from within her, she began to thrash and scream and spit. Howling that he could go to hell. She swung violently and desperately tugged at the manacles which held her. Finally she quieted, exhausted from her exertions. She was weak and low on blood. She hadn't feed recently, and then with the battle with Beriayl and the Stalker... Anne knew she didn't have enough blood to burn up to break apart the cuffs. Nor would she have enough blood to fight him off when he got here. The thought hung chilly in the air as she heard the dry hiss of a door opening. Behind her she heard feet slowly descending wooden stairs. She twisted, trying to see him. But her restraints denied her the ability to turn.
"Hello Leanne, it is good to see you are awake."
"Fuck you."
"Yessssss." She hung there in silence, she realized he wasn't even breathing.
"What the hell do you want!"
"You, Leanne."
"That's not my name."
"Oh, but it is. I gave it to you, so much better then your old name."
She tensed as she felt his hand brush along her back, tracing the smooth outline of her shoulders.
"You once called yourself Death," he said with a chuckle.
Anne's head was jerked back brutally as he pulled her hair.
"You don't seem like fucking death now bitch!"
Her head was flung forward, her body swung slowly. Anne gritted her teeth as she again felt a wave of helplessness roll over her. A single tear dripped down her face.
"Why do they always cry?" His cold hand brushed at her cheek, wiping at the tear. "Can't you see that I love you?" Again the soft caress, it ran down her spine. Anne shivered in disgust at the cold feel of the hand. "Why did you have to mock me Leanne? Why couldn't you just let me be? You just had to taunt and tease me didn't you!"
"You're out of your mind."
"That's right, I'm in yours." Anne could feel the dark force worming through her head. She screamed in fear as she tossed her head back and forth, she still felt his hands running and roaming over her body.
"Get out of my head!"
"But you flirted, you knew you wanted it! But then you made it so difficult!"
The hands became rougher, painful. Anne desperately tried to shake them off.
"Well now it's my turn, now I get what I want!"
The hands left, as did the coiling darkness in her head. Anne let out a weak gasp of relief as she drooped in her cuffs.
"The voice wanted me to hunt someone else. Can you imagine, me forgetting you Leanne? But no matter, I discovered that if I drank all of them dry, then the voice got quieter. But I'd get stronger! I'd never dreamed of the powers I could gain. The power is in the blood, and now it is in me."
His hand snapped out into her side, the blow rocked her from side to side as he spun and lashed out again on her other side. Anne howled in pain as she gasped for breath. His blows were like wrecking balls, as cold and unyielding as Flint's. Anne's eyes slipped open as she thought of her sire. How this beating made her recall Flint's own assault on her. When he had released the monster, when he had become dark and deadly and maddened. She found herself tuning out the Stalker's prattle as two images of her sire entered her mind. One was the monster, harsh, unstoppable, unforgiving. The other was the man, educated, wise, kind, creative, caring. Were they the same? Could they coexist? She felt his hands and tongue on her body, she forced herself to ignore the mental probes that screamed for her to be weak.
She closed her eyes and pictured two images of herself. One was a dark figure, clothed in leather and covered with weapons. The killer, merciless, cold, harsh. The other she allowed to strip free of the leather, and cast aside her sword, it sank into the ground. She walked along, smiling at the sun. The two faces of her own life danced before her. Did she do as Flint did? No, she couldn't, the deadly her was an act, a mask for the weak girl beneath. She didn't need that weak girl. She didn't need philosophy and contemplation. She didn't need emotions and musings. All of that would be useless, all of that would just get her killed. What she needed was a cold her, a hard her, a merciless her. She needed to be a killer. A killer to stop a monster? No, a monster to stop a monster. She needed more, she needed to be a monster herself.
The happy her walked along, walls of black stone circled in around her, trapping her in. Anne crunched the ball down. Couldn't look at it, couldn't think of it. No, she had to be hard, deadly, monstrous. Just like Flint. Had to be like Flint...The warrior her filled her thoughts, pushing back the dark whisperings of the Stalker's voice. She hardened her mind, encasing it in bleak walls of black stone. She was hard now. She was dangerous. But she needed more....more! She opened her arms and called for the bestial and dark half. Called into the deepest recesses of her soul for the monster that had always been forced down and out of her thoughts. But now she opened the doors wide, begged it to come, to join her, to take her all.....It came all too willingly.
Hank looked up as Leanne suddenly purred in pleasure and arched towards him. This had never happened before! He looked into her gleaming green eyes as she smiled demurely at him.
"Oh, this is so nice," she sighed. Hank blinked a few times. Then he smiled.
"All for you Leanne," he said as he again reached for her.
"But," she suddenly frowned. Hank came up short, still about to kneel down and resume his previous activity. She seemed almost about to pout.
"What is it," he asked, intrigued by her actions.
"Can't you kiss me, on the lips, just once?" Hank paused. He had never done that. That was the sign of pure and simple love, he had ever been more in tune with carnal lust. He looked up into her wide green eyes.
"Please? It would make this all so, perfect." Hank grinned widely as he stood up before her. He cupped his hands gently on either side of her delicate face and drew her in for a gentle kiss. Soon she was demanding more, forcing his mouth open and exploring with her tongue. Hank was thrilled and clasped her to him as she seemed to press herself harder against him, deeper into his mouth. Ah, Leanne.
Anne had to be careful, she wanted to make sure not to waste a drop. She pressed into him as she summoned up the last few ounces of her blood. Using her innate powers she infused the blood to become the most lethal of acids and sent it hurtling upwards out of her mouth. The Stalker was thrown back as he roared in pain! He slammed against a wall as he felt his lower jaw dissolve away. His eyes widened in fear as he felt the acid pouring down his gullet. He quickly wiped out his knife and slashed into his gut. Still the acid burned. He tried to heal the injuries with his own blood, still the acid burned. He fell to the floor and rolled in the dust, still the acid burned. He looked up through pain filled eyes at the woman glaring down at him. Her green eyes flashing in hate and triumph. He gurgled in fear as he turned and ran from the sight. He weakly crawled up the stairs, feeling old terrors dance in his thoughts as he staggered away. Those eyes! Her eyes! His Leanne. His Death.......
Anne was falling in a world of darkness. Above her the beast roared it's approval as it forced her down, down into the bowels of her soul. She tried to fight it, to grab onto something and hold firm. But there was nothing, she had cast it aside, emptied her thoughts of all but the harsh demesne of the monster. It grinned as it demanded all that it had always desired. Anne whirled around aimlessly, she was lost, the darkness had claimed her.
Night 10 - The Cost of Dying
She awoke with a start. Warm life-giving blood was being dripped into her mouth. She looked up into the eyes of Flint, he was dribbling blood out of the rough carved cup he so favored. Anne nearly broke the cup as she shot up and tore it away from him. She greedily drained it dry, and sat there licking the remnants until Flint offered her an IV bag filled with blood. She eagerly sank her fangs through the plastic, and drank deeply of the smooth rich liquid.
Inside of her the painfully roar of hunger dulled to a dim ache. She was in his hotel room. Jericho stood nearby, holding her coat and weapons. Anne looked down and realized she still only wore the torn and shredded bodysuit. She stood up slowly and took her coat from Jericho. Flint noticed she didn't bother to try to cover herself modestly as she once would have.
"What happened?"
"You were kidnapped," Jericho answered.
"I know that, what happened after I killed him." She said the words without the slightest tremble.
"Killed him huh? Damn if there wasn't enough blood around to suggest it. Me and some of your men followed a bloody trail of gore and melting flesh down into the basement. We found you chained up and in torpor. The only sign of the Stalker was a nasty pool of melting flesh and blood that was bubbling by the back door. So we cut you down and brought you here to recuperate."
"I can see that, thank you, you may leave." Jericho glanced at Flint, who nodded. Jericho bowed slightly to the pair.
"See ya around Anne." She watched him leave, then started to strap on her weapons.
"We had to clean you off with a hose." Anne paused and looked at Flint, he sat there working on a carving. He glanced up from the wood to glance at her. "You were covered in gore and dissolved flesh from the killer."
Anne nodded, "probably to be expected. It was a nasty death." Flint nodded his agreement. He returned to his work, his eyes dark and tinged with another emotion she couldn't place.
"What are you carving?" He held up the piece for her. It was another carving of her, she was dressed in her coat and battle gear. A grim frown was on her face as she seemed to be looking down at something below her.
"I carved it while you were recovering."
"Looks more like me then the last one."
"Yes." They looked at each other, Anne strapped on her last weapon.
"I better get going, there's still some clean-up to do after Beriayl's death." Flint again nodded agreement. Anne turned and started to walk from the room. Flint lowered his eyes in shame as she walked away. He looked at the shelf next to him and made to replace his first carving of her with the second. Suddenly she paused, her shoulders seemed to sag. Flint heard her take a deep breath. She let it out with a shake and took a few more.
"What happened to my cat?" Flint opened the small pet carrying case behind his chair, the gray feline slashed at him and then quickly dashed across the room to rub against Anne's leg. She looked down at it in silence. It looked up quizzically at her. "Oh, I guess he got away then." She began to walk from the room. The cat mewled at her in wonder. Flint exchanged the carvings. Anne paused again.
"I was covered in pieces of him," she said in a weak little voice. Flint watched as she sank to her knees and sat there quietly. The cat padded up and rubbed against her. Anne's gloved hand slowly extended and scratched it behind the ears. She stood up, picking up the cat and draping it over her shoulder. "I'm glad you cleaned me off," she said as she walked out of the room. The cat glaring over her shoulder back at Flint. He allowed the image to set in. The door swung closed with a soft click, Flint stared after her, as though seeking answers from the empty room.
"No child," he whispered to himself slowly. "I did not clean you off....I dragged you down into the filth." He looked at the second carving, and then down at the first. "You clean yourself. For that I am thankful, and jealous." He replaced the first carving on the shelf. He picked up the second and almost crushed it. Then he paused and looked at it, he shook his head. "No," he said as he sat down again. "Forevermore you are now part of her too. But I think that..." He reached for his tools and began to carve again. The wood gave way to shape a contented cat draped across her shoulder. As he did so he changed her face to include a simple and wistful smile.
To be continued.