Ballistics

"Fucker tried to kill me," Nines snapped, closed his phone, and turned to the perpetual smirk of Isaac Abrams.

Baron Hollywood sat placidly at one end of a leather couch; the stare he wore tonight was made of false regrets and a thin side of concern. To tell you the truth, there's no bona fide fraternity between these two. They are two Anarchies that could never combine without breaking everything up. So you'll need to understand this going in: Abrams's concern, as it ought to be, is for the seat he holds—and any concern for Rodriguez the Toreador feels is because the Brujah's soldiers are important instruments in holding that seat. You need their kind of sweaty, angry trench power. Any grudge is tolerable when it keeps you off the guillotine. Anything can be forgiven to fill a battlefield with troops that aren't your own.

"I see that," Isaac noted, because it's good to agree with smaller voices about smaller things, and because he couldn't ignore the bandages seeping beneath Baron Downtown's shirt. It had been a little too close for the both of them. It didn't mean any part of this relationship would change. "Well, he got his just deserts. Maybe the Bible-thumping son-of-a-bitch died. That lands the Society something else to brood over, anyway, apart from burning us down."

Nines's look hardened, squarish mouth thinning. "Not Bach," he grunted, annoyed by the intentional misunderstanding. His eyes narrowed into hateful tough-guy squints. "Venture. They engineered this whole thing—gave us a feint, set us up to take a nose-dive. I know it."

It's a simple act. The grandstanding of veteran Brujah—those few Brujah, that is, who are clever enough and persuasive enough to hit middle-age—makes a nice protagonist to motivate the younger, stupider ones. Children like the children they have in LA are difficult to mobilize, if you're not that sort of veteran. They won't stop screaming long enough to hear from a Toreador—even a likeable one—even when that Toreador is the only Baron in America whose territory still stands on both its feet. Better give them a revolutionary, instead. Give them someone wronged, straight-talking, who goes on about things like brotherhood and resistance and what your rights are, rights that nobody can, supposedly, take away.

That performance had been working for Rodriguez many years before Sebastian LaCroix marched into California to make a Camarilla Court from a Free-State tribe. Then suddenly he wasn't a power-player anymore—suddenly his resources dissolved; suddenly he couldn't bully anyone; suddenly he was dead-in-the-water without the backing of a less warlike man. It set the stage for a convenient arrangement: Isaac provided funding, so long as Nines positioned his armies to keep Hollywood clean. A convenient arrangement, and a great show, too: one last Anarch poster-child rallying the cry while sharks circled, and bided their time.

A risky asset; you had to keep an eye on him. Brujah don't scheme like Ventrue do—they aren't smart enough to do like the Ventrue do—but they can be cunning, and they won't trust anybody else. You had to keep his excesses under control. You couldn't let him into your courtroom. But you could send provisions and encourage him from afar. Abrams's job, in the aftermath, was easy. It's easy to spin a deseated warlord into a recruitment voice for you. He only had to make sure Nines didn't die and he didn't climb back in that seat.

"That could be," Isaac agreed. He was kicked back against the chenille, gray suit sleeves unbuttoned, looking languid, and like he might be thinking about something else. "I won't tell you it's not. And I wouldn't put it past LaCroix. It's just like a wind-up charlatan to extend a handshake and deal a sucker-punch. Fits his character. But here's the breaks, kid: There's no evidence he's involved. Until you get some, and get it good, I can't imagine how you'd be able to prove it."

Baron Hollywood is going to survive this faction war, as he'd survived many of them before. With politicians like Abrams, opposition to the Camarilla is always about personal maneuverability, whether your interests are about ancient biological feuds or more libertarian in nature. Isaac's distinct advantage is that he's the latter sort of free-man. He's been making his own money and playing his own strategies for since day one, amigo; he doesn't need an advisor. He does not need a partner. Hell, if things go on like they've been—if LaCroix keeps offending his own officers, and Rodriguez keeps grabbing them up; if a knocked-out Baron can stay alive—then the Brujah might win Isaac a freebie shot at West California in a decade or two. It's a lot of 'if's. But it's also nothing new. This one's a contrived history play he'd directed countless times during the expanse of his career.

Failing that, the Brujah would buy time for Hollywood, at any rate. At least until an understanding could be reached between Baron Abrams and the baby-faced Prince, and a bargain could be made.

"I'm not trying to prove it. Hunters. Shit. When do hunters need an ulterior motive to start shooting in LA? We'd never get a hearing. But I'm not going to sit down and take it. I'm not going to let them third-party fire at me. I'm not going to tolerate—"

The snarl faltered. Whatever Nines wasn't going to tolerate had pulled open some scabs, loosened the laceration that drew his left temple to his hairline. It made him wince suddenly, in a way he wasn't able to hide. The dramatic amber light of Abrams Jewelry's private office was uncomfortable; it made everything a general, cottony sting.

Most of the superficial damage had knitted back together. The shrapnel holes, however—the deep, gory dents speckling his lower back—had not, and would not for a while. Shallower, now, and less frightening, but hideous, and they hurt. They were a fuzzy, constant ache through the surrounding abdomen; phosphorous had stunted the regeneration, cauterizing old flesh. Occasionally Nines might stretch the wrong way, and fresh blood would ooze through two sheets of dressing and stain his clothes. It itched like fire, like pine branches against new skin. Mid-mornings were when they irritated him most; he'd never been a stomach-sleeper, and would drowsily turn over, jolting awake, full of malingering potholes, cussing his voice hoarse.

And you can imagine what Damsel said.

Doughie had been a fringe member of the LA Den, still freshman status, and was missed mostly as an addendum. The Den Mother got more upset than Rodriguez expected over Skelter's death, though. Losing his officer was a personal insult; he put knuckles through his drywall in the solitude of that dingy apartment, one of those private, pointless swings that don't make any sense but you have to take. The choke of cement only flared more anger because Nines immediately realized he'd have to plaster over his crumbling fist-print. It was a stupid thing to do.

He would remember Skelter for a while; he'd glance to the empty spot beside a worn-down door and get mad about the waste. But that was the best Baron LA could offer. Poor kid. There had been a dozen loyal old guards and maybe a hundred downed soldiers since the last king was kicked off his hill—somehow, they were all poor kids.

Except for Smiling Jack. Jack's eulogy went something like: "Saw that coming. Patriot shot down in the dirt like a big dirty goddamn patriot; saw it coming a million miles away. There's your war glory for you, buddy-boy. Soldiers get killed. We didn't invent that." He'd sighed cigar smoke, had a headshake and something that smacked of satire. "Ah, well. Black guy always dies." Made a tap-tap on the bar with his knuckles. Made Nines stare across the den, blank look going white. Made a memory hiccup out of nowhere: some slick-shit, jelly-gut capo, ghoul of Rochelle's, who'd smoke at a typewriter, chuff "Not dead yet, wetback?" every time he walked in. One more line on the list of why he couldn't fucking stand Smiling Jack. And one more reminder that there is nothing he can do about it but stand from the other side of a room and glare.

San Fran had come through, at least. Christie offered to stay put until their current—Nines just called it a "situation"—settled, and after Jack's told-you-so routine and another set of bandages, quietly asked if her Childe was needed here in a more longterm sense. It was a humbling offer, but he said no, because taking a last son is in bad taste. And he knew her own Den Mother's raggedy camp upstate was in sorrier shape than his own. They hopped a northbound train roundabout four hours ago; in the wake of what happened, he was sorry to see a couple more soldiers go.

"You're probably right," Abrams conceded, his tone more appropriate for a football game.

Isaac was a real laissez-faire man. It left a strange haze around him, a languidness and an ego, like somebody walking through afterlife drunk on a nice red wine.

"I already spoke to the Prince's people. They were very apologetic. Almost offensively so. Asked if we wanted to reschedule. Cheeky bureaucrats." The way the Brujah's pupils tightened communicated enough. Isaac folded both arms, his frown settling somewhere between amusement and sleep deprivation. "The young lady I spoke to was awfully concerned. I've never heard a suit so concerned. Left half her resume—can't recall who, at the moment—something Spanish. She asked me to relay the Camarilla's embarrassment to you directly. LaCroix hires some bold broads, I'll give him that."

"What did you say," the lesser Baron wanted to know.

"I took the liberty of telling her buzz off for you. Their alibi for the first, however, is concrete, and that complicates things. Speaking of." Hollywood tossed a mildly curious glance. "What did… what was the name? Something -brook. -berg. What did she have to say?"

Nines didn't bother correcting him. Isaac 'forgot' the names of most women younger than he was. "She's in Chicago. I don't know why."

"You didn't ask?"

"She hung-up on me," the Brujah snorted. Abrams shrugged a shoulder as if he might consider caring on another day.

"Bright kid. Do you think she knows?"

"Most definitely," Rodriguez insisted. He paced the marbled floor, arms crossed, looking away from lackadaisical Baron Hollywood. Stained windows looked back, diamonds of sickening orange and moss green. On the couch: gold, grandfather privilege, gray fade. They had slipped so far. "She knew I would not show up at a Camarilla thing without my soldiers. I had my best people. I would not be standing here otherwise. I had them because I suspected they would try to pull something like this; my mistake was assuming that bullet was meant for me, specifically. What I think is that LaCroix hoped he'd hit my army. Cripple the heavies from a distance, cowardly shit. And in case they didn't get me—which they were not going to do—he sent his tool to bail my ass. It covers his bases if this ever comes to court, but it won't. That's exactly what happened. You can write it down."

"I'll take your word for it," Isaac figured. Rodriguez could not let that brandy foam voice curdle his temper again.

"Now," he pressed, swallowing, harder than he meant to, letting the air start a burn in his throat. "I don't know if Woeburne was aware of where the hell she stood in this mess. My guess is probably not." That was truth. London had some guts stuck under her black tie; still, he didn't think she was cool-headed enough to maintain them under the full weight of a Camarilla plot. High clearance for a pawn, sure, "But that woman's not stupid. A superior bitch with her head halfway up her ass, maybe, but not stupid. She had to suspect it. She had to know it was going to get dropped on her."

"Well, what do you intend to do about it? We can't afford to antagonize hunters," the Toreador fat-cat observed. "I told the Prince we weren't signing any agreements until our parties regrouped. Offered us extra manpower. Hear that! Outrageous." Isaac shook his head, clucked his tongue. "It's old news. Bach's cronies were pressing their thumb into Hollywood long before the incident in Santa Monica. We've had ongoing issues. I'm not sure if you knew, but—"

"I knew," Downtown spat, hackles bristling, affronted by the presumption.

"Then you also know what a delicate position this puts me in. I can't approve a counterattack; my Childer are already in danger. They're buckling under it. They're not like your people. I hope you'll understand that."

"I understand it." That Toreador face, smirking even when it wasn't—Nines could feel the rumble through stomach, muscle, throat. His rear teeth clenched. "I understand I've got men in the ground and shrapnel in my back. You're about to stand in front of those people, drop some speeches about 'sacrifices' and expect me to go along, but we all understand that. The Brujah will remember it. I will remember it," he barked. Three brigadiers gone in the span of a few deadly, dynamite months. "My soldiers choke down their blood so yours can hide in a theatre house."

"Consider the options," Isaac suggested. The relaxed way he said it made Rodriguez want to hit right on the break of that cleft. A smug, smug, curdling grin; Nines could blink and see one blow cripple those teeth in the dark of his eyelids. "I'm happy to finance your boys. You know that by now, I'm sure. We wouldn't serve you well in any other way. On that subject, my advisors tell me you are now receiving eleven percent off Velvet's monthly profit; that's without the additional donations from this office. You're spearheading this effort. I'll be the first to say so. But, with every respect, the effort depends upon my boys, too. It depends on Hollywood functioning like we always have. We can't function beneath Bach's rifle sights."

"So I have to."

"Yes, if it comes to that." Abrams tossed one bent leg over its neighbor knee. "Don't worry; I wouldn't leave you to roast out in the fire. I'll be sending a few guards to replenish your ranks. But I know well enough what you've come to ask me, and much as I'd like to endorse everything my allies put forward, I've got to say no. In the interest of preserving this thing—this kangaroo court, half-budget semblance of ceasefire—I cannot support your petition. Not about this. If the Brujah start repopulating directly after a ban, I don't know about it, and I won't defend you. I don't mean to point fingers. But your people's discretion has been questionable, their decisions have been risky, and it isn't exactly a comfort to see that jen of a Den Mother you've got running the show."

What you could call this is an alliance of convenience. It's a mutineer's hierarchy, Hollywood and Downtown; for right now, one needs the other, and both others are aware of this fact. It's a prewar pact, a partnership. But all things considered, Isaac didn't really give two cents about Nines.

Funny.

Nines hated Isaac.

Nines Rodriguez hated Isaac Abrams almost as much, in fact, as he hated the Prince that made them allies. Once they smacked Los Angeles out of Ventrue hands, Baron LA fully anticipated 'Baron' Hollywood would try to snatch that open territory right back up—or, more likely, sell the Brujah out for a settlement with their Camarilla neighbors. Nines was not going to let that happen. The only solution was to bide his time, wait for LaCroix's downfall and an opportune moment, then wipe Isaac's snide grin off the coast. He would not white-flag his Domain for a haggard old honcho counting bills in a gallery. He would not.

"Keep your spies in Hollywood," Nines threatened; it wrinkled the bridge of his nose. "They'd get in my way."

Abrams sighed. He fisted a hand and used his knuckles as a pillow, elbow propped on the sofa arm. "If that's really how you want to leave it. Let's talk about buckling down on our security plans, then. I suppose I'll have to forward this to my Childer…"

But his complaints were interrupted by a crack in the mahogany door. Velvet Velour walked through it.

Isaac's decadent charity-case was quiet tonight. She slunk through the threshold of their small war room all eyes-to-herself, cloaked in a neck-to-floor black coat. It was puritanical for Velour. Her cotton-candy spiral of hair clung to shallow cheekbones in the humidity; the trench's silver clasps winked vertically down her front. She was big, Velvet—big, leggy and tall—tall as Nines was in shoes—and you couldn't tell any of that in the dark sublight of a club, or from the distance of a stage. She smelled powerfully of rosewater, baby powder, caramel, other artificial things; the combative auras of Presence in this room worsened Rodriguez's already foul mood.

"Sorry I'm late," Velvet lisped, face unreadable, gate catwalk. Baron Hollywood waved her in with an annoyed rotation of his hand.

That said, she turned her attention on their guest, blasé expression twisting into concern. 'Good little actress, Velour.' Her eyebrows dented; the pursed fuchsia mouth turned downwards. Good actress, but bad judge of character. Toreador should know better. Presence is not an exclusive thing.

"I heard you were shot, Nines," she said, colorless eyes flicking over him—trying to be worried, looking critical.

He did not bother being gracious. The Brujah's dislike for them was obvious in his voice, on the architecture of a wounded, adamant face. It sounded snotty, like an insult: "As a matter of fact, Velvet, I was."

She did not take the bait. Unamusedly: "Are you all right?"

He would lose this game. He would lose this one, and god, how that woman looked straight into your eyes—directly, unabashedly across a lot of space or only a little—made him hateful for reasons he could not really break down. She made you feel like a child caught breaking eggs on a kitchen floor. A millisecond glance and curt "fine" was the Anarch's only response; his ringed fingers pressed tightly around captured thumbs. He hadn't given them the details of that fight, and had not said anything of the embarrassing way he'd survived.

"Where's Ash?" Abrams asked the exit. No one else came through. You could see a Sire's feather-light hope fall to confusion, frustration, then disappointment. "I thought I told you to round him up."

VV shook her head. Snap-dragon pink nails folded neatly over the Toreador's navel. She sighed in a way that her surrogate Sire had heard a thousand times before. "I'm sorry, Isaac. He wouldn't come."

The Baron somehow did not seem surprised. But his laugh-lines deepened without any laughter. "Unbelievable. To think that boy remains too wrapped up in ancient grudges for a half-hour meeting on safety protocol?"

"You know how he is," Velvet answered helplessly, shrugging, luxuriantly alto, a voice you couldn't help hear and not feel calmed down by. She returned to Nines. "But you oughtn't to be standing. Please, sit." She strode across her patron's office to direct Rodriguez to a chair, but there was little warmth about her invitation, and when she tapped his forearm, no heat in the tips of fingers acting hard to be more alive. "You must be in pain."

Nines yanked away, met false empathy with a bark. "Don't try that shit on me, Velvet. You are not my friends."

She blinked at him, put-out by the failed attempt, and took a seat beside Abrams. VV thought she was everybody's Lady Love. Whether or not that was true depended—but what does not change, and does not "depend," is that a big animal growls when he is in the most pain.

Isaac observed their brief scrape. His only comment was a stale, uninterested breath out. "See what I've been dealing with all evening?" The Brujah knew he was being belittled. He swallowed his hurting and his hiss.

"I do not have time. I do not have time for this," Rodriguez rumbled. It felt like ants biting the wounds in his back. "If you're looking to make good on that promise of doing something worthwhile for me, contact your sewer-rats, put down a line, and keep me informed. Get somebody on footwork in Santa Monica. Figure out what Woeburne's doing in Chicago. I want to know about it. Otherwise, you can keep your people collared in Hollywood. You can keep them tied to the fucking pole."

Velour was one of those remarkable people who could not be offended. She hid her thoughts and her preferences behind a glitter of conflict-resolution; the tinted face was a slate of dispassion, unreadable, and utterly closed.

"I wish you'd calm down, Nines."

"I wish you'd shut up, Velvet," the Anarch cut back, burr hardened into shotgun flak. She looked at him with wordless displeasure. Isaac said nothing. He watched his recruiter caught back-and-forth in the end of the rat's maze. "As for the Society: if they become an issue, I'll take care of them. As usual. Because I am apparently the only one in this whole fucking outfit who can."

Abrams turned a cheek on this one. He had the age to forgive Rabble when they inevitably blew a fuse. He had the experience not to care about toothless fury. So he listened—absently, unruffled, propped on one edge of his office couch, fingertips drumming the polished pine.

Anarchs only buck like this when they see the chains on their feet; and though he still spoke like a MacNeil free man, Nines Rodriguez saw his a long time ago. If letting him yell and deal orders made the man more manageable, then by all means, Baron Hollywood wasn't getting tangled up over it. They all had seen who their betters were.

The Toreador was calm when his collaborator about-faced and made to storm out onto an empty street.

"One last thing, Nines, before you go."

Abrams did not rise, and Nines did not turn. He directed the polite aside to a back that was bleeding through its scabs, bandage, and armor.

"I've never been a sticker for protocol among my friends," Isaac mentioned. "But, since you pointed it out: let me remind you where you're standing. This is my Barony. So please, speak your mind. I encourage it. But as long as it remains my Barony, I expect you will address me with the respect a Baron deserves."

Rodriguez's look was odious blue moonstone. "Address me with soldiers or get out of my way."

Watching the door bang, Isaac had a nagging suspicion that boy was going to try and kill him someday.

But not tonight.