Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.
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CHAPTER 2
I
"Has our guest volunteered anything yet?" Yashida asked as he walked into the back room of the clan's house.
"Not yet," Uiko murmured. "If he doesn't start talking soon, I'm gonna get really nasty." The ninja made sure that her prisoner heard her. She could only imagine what was going through his head when he heard things could get worse. The captured Sabbat had already lost his right foot and eight of his fingers. Acid burns covered the left side of his face, and a small fire was kept burning a foot in front of him. Fire was what all kindred feared most, and the Telemon's captive was faced with it at all times.
"You've already had two full nights with him," Johnny said. "If you haven't gotten anything yet, you might just have to cut your losses. We'll need you back on the streets soon enough as it is."
"I know," Uiko replied. "He has until tomorrow's dawn, and then I'll stop being so goddamned nice. Has anyone been asking about him?"
"Simeon asked me where I ran off to, and I said this guy chased me into Audubon Park," Johnny answered. "I simply said I came out the other side, down by the zoo, and this guy was nowhere to be seen."
"So you said you lost him," Uiko surmised.
"Well, rumors have been floating around that a pack of garou has moved into the park," Johnny explained.
"There haven't been garou in this city in almost ten years," Uiko answered. "Even I know that. If there were garou anywhere near here, Cancer Alley wouldn't exist. The werewolves are far too devoted to their defense of nature to allow such large-scale pollution."
"I only said they were rumors," Johnny explained. "Maybe this'll help fuel them. Who knows? Who even cares?"
Uiko was about to answer when Johnny's cell-phone rang. A brief exchange followed, during which Yashida's face took on a definite worried look. "Shit," he mumbled as he stuck the phone back in his pocket. "I have to go." Without another word, Yashida walked out of the room, leaving Uiko to wonder what had shaken her sire.
Uiko had just about let her curiosity fade when Michelle opened the door to the room and walked in. "Do you know what's up with Johnny?" she asked, not bothering to mask her concern.
"He was fine until he got a phone call," Uiko replied. "As soon as he hung up, he bolted out. He didn't stay long enough to say much more than 'shit.' It must have been serious."
"Yeah," Michelle murmured.
"You should probably be leaving now," Uiko said evenly.
Michelle looked at Johnny's childe curiously, wondering what she could say in response to an obvious dismissal. "What?" was the only reply she could frame.
"I'm about to get back to work on our guest," Uiko explained. "You aren't gonna want to be around for this."
"I'm a big girl," Michelle said confidently. "I've seen shit that would give you nightmares for months."
"And what I'm about to do would give you nightmares for years," Uiko replied matter-of-factly. "Don't get me wrong, Michelle. You're good enough at what you do, but interrogation was something I was learning at the same time I was learning how to read. This comes naturally to me. It would only upset you."
"Fine," Michelle said, deciding not to pursue the conversation any further. The Gangrel convinced herself that she could handle seeing any torture Uiko was capable of inflicting, but she had little interest in arguing. All she wanted to do was find out what had rattled Johnny, and Uiko was obviously not going to share any information. The Gangrel walked out, finally leaving the ninja in privacy with her Sabbat prisoner.
"You'll never be able to hurt me enough to make me talk," he said bravely. "You might as well just kill me now and save yourself the time."
Hurting you is not my plan, Uiko thought wickedly. I'm going to break you, and I have no problem waiting. "I think you misunderstand my role," the ninja replied, voicing her thoughts. "My role is not to hurt you."
"Oh, is that what you've not been trying to do?" the Sabbat soldier said venomously. "I thought you've been trying to make me hurt enough to offer anything to make you stop. It won't work."
Perhaps not. Pain is only the first step, though. I've shown you I am willing to cut you apart piece by piece. I've shown you I have the will to disfigure you for life. Now comes false hope. Later I'll bring that crashing down around you, and after that, pain like you've never known.
"I'll admit, you seem to be more resistant to torture than I had been led to believe would be the case," Uiko said. Too bad torture is not my plan – it is interrogation. It is breaking of wills. Torture is simply a tool, not an end unto itself. "The Camarilla always said the Sabbat was weak." Let's see how you like that.
"We're a lot stronger than anyone in the Camarilla knows," the Sabbat said.
"Yeah, I've heard it all before," Johnny's childe replied sarcastically. "The Sabbat is a brotherhood. You fight as one. Blah, blah, blah. I can't say I've been terribly impressed by Sabbat combat proficiency so far."
"The Sabbat will triumph in the end," the prisoner said stoically. "Like you said, we're a brotherhood. The vampires in the Camarilla constantly scheme against one another. We can always count on our packmates for assistance. We are never alone."
Exactly where I wanted that little rant to end up, Uiko thought, congratulating herself. "But you are alone," Uiko pointed out. "No one knows where you are. There will be no rescue attempt. There's not even one of your treasured brothers to share the pain with you. Face it, they're all probably out on the town, and you're all but forgotten."
"I doubt it," the Sabbat said. "The city is under siege. There's no time to be out on the town."
"So you say," Uiko responded evenly, silently admitting that her charge still had more resolve than she had expected. I have to remember what I'm dealing with, she reminded herself. My training was meant for dealing with mortals. Kindred are a completely different animal. This is going to take some time.
Michelle was just tuning into a hockey game when Johnny walked into the room, dressed once again in a formal black suit. "I need you to watch over everything," he instructed. "Don't let anyone leave."
"Mason and I are supposed to pick Brett up at the airport later," Michelle replied.
"Brett's arrival has been postponed," Johnny answered. "Stay inside, and get all of your weapons together."
"What's wrong?"
"The shooting started," Johnny replied. "Two Ventrue were gunned down just after dusk, and a Toreador gallery was set on fire. The place is still standing, but the damage is bad. The worst thing, though, is that the violence tonight is just the tip of the iceberg."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Michelle asked, already knowing she would not get an answer. She knew that something major had occurred, and that in keeping with his nature, Johnny would not discuss the details until he felt he had an angle on getting things under control. It was his way, Michelle knew. It was almost as if he felt that not speaking of a problem prevented it from becoming real, and as long as it was not completely real, he would be able to deal with it before things really got out of hand.
"So where are you going?"
"The primogen of the city are meeting in about ten minutes," Johnny responded with a quick glance at his watch.
"And when did you become a primogen?" Michelle asked sarcastically.
"Never," Yashida replied evenly. "But they're going to want to hear what I have to say. This is going to really suck."
"Be careful."
"Don't worry," Johnny said with a thin smile. "What's the worst thing that could possibly happen?"
II
"Ah, it's good to see you again, K.T.," Jacques said with a smile as he approached the Gangrel. "And you, too, Marla," he added, turning toward Erica. He knew that both of his mercenaries would appreciate the extra flourish, which would give the Ventrue's false identity some extra credibility. "Let me introduce you to the others." The bishop led K.T. and Erica through the lobby of the Palace Theatre, a massive, twenty-screen movie multiplex, while three other kindred followed behind the bishop and his two guests. The contact at the monster truck rally had revealed that Jacques had chosen this theater as the meeting place for his people, a staging area where he could introduce his mercenaries to his packs and distribute assignments for the night. Of course, he had already used one of his packs to start the fighting, but the rest of his people would not see much action until the end of the night.
"Are we actually going to see a movie, or are we just meeting here?" Erica asked. K.T. rolled his eyes, a gesture that seemed to go unnoticed by the others, but he remained silent.
"I got tickets to Scream 3," Jacques replied. "It seemed an appropriate enough title, and a few of the younger people in our packs requested it."
"Great," K.T. muttered. The Gangrel had to admit that the first Scream film had been clever, but the second had lacked much of its predecessor's edge. From what he had already heard about the third installment in the trilogy, the writing had become stale and predictable.
"You of course remember Vlad?" Jacques asked, turning once more to K.T., and indicating the large man that had accompanied the bishop in Tennessee. The Gangrel simply nodded in response. "This is Riddick and Selano," Jacques added, gesturing toward the other two men that had come out with him. "They are two of my pack leaders. The third is Chang. He'll be joining us a little later, after he and his group take care of a little business."
"Fine," K.T. muttered. He looked over each of the Sabbat pack leaders, trying to figure out the caliber of people he would be working with. Riddick was a large man, almost equal in size to the Templar that strode along next to the bishop. He looks like he'll be able to take care of himself in a fight, K.T. thought. By contrast, however, was Selano. The second pack leader was a small man, standing about 5'10" and possessing a frame that K.T. would dare to classify as frail. He had the dark skin of a Spaniard, and features to match. The man had a faintly regal appearance, and K.T. decided that he had met the brains of the bunch within the packs. Likely he's Lasombra, and second only to Jacques in the line of command. Very interesting.
The small group of vampires walked into the theater, a large room filled with stadium-style seating and possessing a massive screen on the front wall. The bishop immediately led K.T. and Erica up the stairs and into a row with a motley assortment of men and women, which K.T. assumed was the membership of the two packs that were already present. Quick introductions were made just as the lights dimmed, and Erica sat back to relax and watch the show while K.T. increased his guard.
The Gangrel mercenary could hardly believe that Erica seemed so comfortable. She had hesitated to come into the city after making the trip, and had almost balked again as K.T. arrived at the multiplex. Now she sat in her seat, completely engrossed in a preview for Titan A.E. She seemed completely uninterested in the fact that she was surrounded by the Sabbat, a faction of vampires that had hunted her halfway across the country for months after tearing New York City apart trying to extinguish her. K.T. could hardly wait to get away from his comrades in arms and find out what could possibly be going on in Erica's head.
III
Johnny Yashida strode into Gregory Ash's home, wondering what would be waiting for him. Just inside the door, a large number of armed men stood waiting. Yashida guessed they were the bodyguards that the primogen all brought to the meeting. He noticed they were all looking closely at him, most likely pondering who he was and what threat he might pose. One of the men broke away from the group and walked over.
"Mr. Yashida," the man said graciously. "Southpaw informed me that you were expected. The meeting has already begun."
"I suppose you'll be wanting my weapons," Johnny commented, making certain each and every one of the guards had heard that he was more than willing to comply with any security requirements. The last thing he needed was to be attacked by a dozen armed vampires that considered him a potential assassin. The man that had greeted him nodded, and Johnny slowly produced two Beretta 93 R's from within his black Armani sport jacket. He handed them to a second guard that had approached. With a flick of his wrist he produced a tanto blade in his right hand, and a moment later had removed a Walther PPK from the small of his back.
"That's it?" the first man asked sarcastically. Yashida patted himself down, as if he was double-checking that there were no weapons he had overlooked, and then nodded. Then the second guard also frisked the Telemon, making certain that no weapons were smuggled in. After a thorough search, he nodded. "Very well then, Mr. Yashida. You may follow me."
The first guard led Johnny down the hall, past the meeting room where he had introduced himself to the regent, and to a large, intricately carved oak door. The guard opened that and led the Telemon down a flight of stairs into a luxuriously furnished basement – a fixture that was uncommon in a city that was built eight feet below sea level. A dimly lit hallway led to another door, this one ironbound oak. The guard knocked three times, then once again after a second's wait. The door opened, and Johnny was ushered into a large room dominated by a large, oval oak table. Seated around the table were five men and two women. Yashida noticed immediately that Southpaw, the only one he knew, was seated at the head of the table.
"I am glad you could join us on such short notice, Mr. Yashida," Southpaw said immediately. Johnny noticed the Ventrue was flustered and guessed that Southpaw had been immediately beset by the primogen. Being inexperienced in dealing with self-involved elders, he had quickly reached the end of his rope.
"Who the hell is this?" one of the men at the table asked immediately, directing an accusing stare in Southpaw's direction. "As far as I know, he is not a primogen. Therefore, he has no right to be here."
"He is here at my request," Southpaw shot back. Despite his quick answer, Johnny noted that Southpaw's voice contained doubt, as if he had said the first thing that came to mind, hoping it would be a sufficient response.
"I am Jonathan Yashida, an emissary from the Telemon clan," Johnny offered, hoping he could take the heat off of Southpaw long enough for the neonate to regain some semblance of composure. While Johnny was himself less than a decade older than Southpaw was, he had obviously had more experience dealing with primogen and princes. While the rest of his clan could stand on the field of battle as comfortably as any vampire their age, Yashida had fallen into the niche of ambassador and spy. The role had grown on him considerably over the years. He would not be so easily rattled.
"Telemon?" the same man at the table asked. Yashida noted that two of the people at the table, one of them obviously a Nosferatu woman, did not seem surprised at his introduction. "What the hell is Telemon?"
"Telemon is the name of my clan," Yashida replied evenly. "I assume you have led a sheltered life, and have therefore not heard of us." His remark had the desired effect of setting his verbal attacker back on his heels, taking a moment to select an appropriately scathing reply. Johnny did not give him the opportunity. "My clan was asked here by the regent, who is now no longer among us. The Telemon have little interest in your politics, and only wish to know what the future holds for our situation. I expect the lot of you to come to a conclusion quickly, and not impede my clan's efforts."
"What efforts?" the man asked.
"They're here as mercenaries, Du Lenne," another man offered. Yashida noticed this man was the second of the two that had not been surprised at his introduction. "They have a great deal of experience in dealing with Sabbat sieges and were hired by Ash to fill that role here in New Orleans."
"Sabbat siege?" Du Lenne asked. "What are you talking about? There's no siege."
"Leave it to the Toreador to be so oblivious to the world," the Nosferatu woman chimed in. "I can't believe you're the only one that doesn't know."
"You all knew?" the Toreador primogen asked. "Why didn't anyone tell me?" No one answered, but Yashida cracked a smile. Du Lenne caught the grin, and immediately called the Telemon to task. "And what do you think you're smiling at?"
"You amuse me," Yashida answered frankly. The Telemon had ceased to care whether or not he offended the primogen. The news that the regent had been killed earlier that evening clearly put he leadership of the city up for grabs. Without a clear consensus, he would advise that the Telemon leave the city. He had nothing to gain by kissing anyone's ass.
"I amuse you?" Du Lenne asked, obviously shocked at the Telemon's candor.
"I think you amuse us all," the second man at the table answered. "As always, my clan knew what was going on." He turned to Yashida and stood. "I am Carlos Martin, of Clan Tremere," he stated smoothly. That much Johnny had already guessed. The conservatively cut black silk suit had been a dead giveaway. "Ash had come to me to seek my opinion on the hiring of your clan's mercenaries. I felt, and still feel, that the Sabbat threat is indeed great. I was fully in support of the proposition, and will continue to hold that view."
"We only work for princes," Johnny replied. "It was a touchy situation with us working for a regent. There's no way in hell we'll continue past Wednesday unless you all elect someone to lead you. Not that it's such a bad idea anyway, with a Sabbat siege already begun. A central authority is crucial to your success."
"I couldn't agree more," Martin said.
"I bet," Du Lenne replied. "It wouldn't surprise me at all if you warlocks killed Ash yourselves, knowing the Sabbat would be blamed. Then you could use the siege as an excuse to consolidate power under yourself."
"An excellent plan," Martin said with a nod. "It's unfortunate I did not actually choose that course of action. It's funny, but I had rather thought you were responsible for Ash's untimely demise."
"That's what we all thought, too," a new voice said. A woman in leather pants and a leather biker jacket kicked her heels up onto the table as she spoke, spreading her lips into a toothy grin that Johnny found reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat. That would be the Brujah, he noted silently.
"And who are you?" Du Lenne asked the Brujah woman.
"My name's Sandy," the woman replied. She bobbed her head as she spoke, allowing her long blonde curls to fall over her blue eyes and slender face. "My clan elected me to sit in tonight. I had no idea it would be this exciting."
Johnny nodded his head in understanding. He knew that in many cities, the Brujah would rarely voice their opinions in kindred politics. They had little use in order, and sought only to make the elders look incompetent. Only in times of crisis, or when they wished to create one, would a Brujah commonly show up at a meeting of primogen. With the regent dead, the rabble had apparently decided there was need for a representative of the Brujah clan at the meeting. Sandy likely had little weight with her own clanmates, and had only been selected to represent them for this one meeting. It was not like the Brujah to ever have a permanent leader in a city.
"Exciting?" another man asked. "I hardly think exciting is the word. I would choose 'hell-raising.' It much better suits the mood."
"Right on," Sandy agreed.
"My name is Pierre Esteban O'Reilly," the man said, extending his hand toward Yashida. "But most people just call me Richie. I am the head of the Malkavians, and I am at your service."
Yashida tried to hide his discomfort at meeting the head of the Malkavian clan. As a whole, the Malkavians were considered to be insane. Indeed, virtually every member of the clan had some psychological disorder or another. They were often hard to deal with, but were certainly useful in a fight. They could take a bullet as well as anyone else.
"Pleased to meet you," Johnny lied. "It's been some time since I've had any dealings with a member of your clan."
"And most likely you would have preferred to keep it that way," O'Reilly responded. "Don't fret too much, young one. I'm not any less right in the head than anyone else at this table."
"That's not saying a whole hell of a lot, Richie," the Nosferatu woman shot back. Richie smiled in response, but refrained from any other verbal replies.
"You said you would be with us until Wednesday?" Martin asked.
"My clan was contracted to work for a week at a time," Johnny explained. "We started on Thursday, and will stay through Wednesday, as we were prepaid until that day. The Telemon will honor their contract. However, what happens after that time is pretty much up to the lot of you. This is one of only two sieges in North America currently in the combat stage, and we're already involved in the other one, too. It's not like there's really any other pressing engagement for us to leave in favor of. Here is where we would like to stay. However, we follow rules. As I said earlier, we only work for princes."
"To avoid creating enemies," O'Reilly concluded. He looked over toward Du Lenne, as if he had made the comment in order to explain the situation to the Toreador primogen. Du Lenne, for his part, ignored the expression, instead remaining focused on Yashida.
"Exactly," Johnny confirmed. "We all know full well the schemes that are constantly going on behind the scenes. We only work for princes, and never take part in an internal power struggle. My superiors are strong believers in the philosophy that we should respect the territory of others."
"What if the Conclave were to hire you?" O'Reilly asked.
"What?" Johnny asked, unsure of how to respond. The idea had never occurred to him. He did not know how Siras would want him to reply.
"While, as you have said, it would be in our best interests to elect a new prince post haste, there are certain problems that make the decision an uncomfortable one," O'Reilly answered. "I doubt any consensus could be reached until we discover who assassinated Ash. Even in the face of a Sabbat siege, you can only expect us to agree up to a certain point. If we were all to agree, in your presence, to hire your clan to aid us, would that be acceptable? We would all split the cost, and there would be no question of causing internal strife."
"I'm not agreeing," Johnny answered hesitantly, "but there are some conditions that would have to be met before I would bring the proposal back to my superiors." Yashida knew he was betraying his unease and inexperience, but he knew it was better to demonstrate inexperience and get the job right than to feign certainty and screw up.
"What exactly would you need?" Martin asked.
"You would all need to vote right now, in front of me," Yashida answered immediately. "Any vote would have to be unanimous. If a single clan is uncomfortable with a Telemon presence, we will leave at sundown on Thursday."
"And if we wish you to leave at before Thursday?" Du Lenne asked.
"Then elect a prince to order us to leave," Johnny answered evenly, once again demonstrating an unnerving confidence for one so young. "We made a contract with a prince. None of you has the authority to nullify it. If you elect someone who wants us to leave, we will gladly do so. However, we will not leave until a prince orders it. That would set a very dangerous precedent."
"How so?" Du Lenne asked, calling the Telemon to task. The Toreador primogen noticed Martin shake his head in disappointment, and then turned to Yashida for what Du Lenne had already decided was an obvious answer he had overlooked.
"Hiring mercenaries is not always a popular course of action," Yashida said, answering the Toreador. He had already reached the conclusion that Du Lenne was likely an artist of incredible skill. After all, he would have to be in order to hold a position of such stature within the clan while not having a shred of political savvy. "If we leave as soon as the prince is killed and one of the primogen requests it, then in the future any primogen that is uncomfortable with the decision to hire us will simply aim to kill the prince, and then have us leave. Also, the Sabbat might target the prince immediately, counting on one of the primogen to call for us to withdraw. In either case, the prince is put into jeopardy by hiring us. I don't want princes to shy away from hiring us because doing so would place a bulls-eye on their foreheads. If the decision to kill the prince was motivated by the desire to have the Telemon leave, then the assassin is out of luck. We're not going anywhere until our contract is up."
"Well said," O'Reilly chimed in. "However, you have not yet answered my question. Would you work for the Conclave, if we were to fulfill your requirements?"
"I wish I could answer that question," Yashida said smoothly, having taken a few moments to think the matter through more fully. He had decided how to answer the question properly. "However, my clan is structured in a rather strict hierarchy." He shot a sideways glance toward Martin, the Tremere primogen, whom he was confident would understand the benefits of such order. "What I would say in regards to this matter is irrelevant. You are asking a question pertaining to the overall procedures of hiring our mercenaries. Such an important matter must be left to officers higher in the chain of command than I am myself. As I said, I would like to see a show of hands, and nothing more. I do not believe the proposal has any merit unless there is a unanimous vote."
"Then let's vote," O'Reilly stated. "If you favor hiring mercenaries to help oppose the Sabbat, raise your hand."
"I think there are some things we need to consider," Du Lenne put in, immediately interrupting the vote. "How can we trust them? For all we know, they assassinated the prince themselves."
"They have not," the Nosferatu answered immediately. "My clan has watched the mercenaries since they arrived in the city. With the exception of Mr. Yashida's meeting with Ash for purposes of presentation, none of the Telemon have been near Ash's home."
"Oh, that's just great, Calaban," Du Lenne replied sarcastically. "How are we to know that you're not now covering up the Telemons' crime for them? Perhaps you were in on it."
"Is it because you believe the Nosferatu wish an open, violent war with the Sabbat?" Calaban replied venomously. "We all know that the longer and more out of hand this siege gets, the greater the likelihood the humans will notice. If they discover the kindred, we will be hunted again, as we were during the Inquisition. Unlike you, the Nosferatu cannot hide. Our appearance always betrays our nature. We support the Telemon presence because they have fought the Sabbat before. They are brutal, but discreet."
"Clan Tremere also supports Telemon involvement," Martin added.
"You can't be serious," Du Lenne said.
"Every Telemon on the street means another target for the Sabbat," Yashida stated plainly. "Every extra target means there is a decreased likelihood of Tremere casualties. Mr. Martin is simply a rather practical man."
"Indeed," Martin replied with a nod, not appearing to mind that he was unveiled as being coldly calculating in his decision. Indeed, he seemed to enjoy the image a great deal.
"As our former Ventrue prince supported the Telemon, so do I," Southpaw stated. "The Ventrue clan votes in favor of retaining the mercenaries."
"Well, given the way Mr. Yashida so frankly explained the situation, I'd have to be crazy not to vote for the Telemon to stay," O'Reilly quipped. He smiled broadly, pleased with his little joke, and looked toward Sandy.
"What?" the Brujah asked. She looked around the table, revealing that she had been completely lost in thought, and had no idea what was going on.
"Do you vote to keep the Telemon in the city?" O'Reilly prompted.
"The who?" Sandy asked.
"My clan," Johnny explained, rolling his eyes ever so slightly.
"I don't know," Sandy replied. "I mean, you look like a puss, if you know what I mean. You're supposed to help us fight the Sabbat? You don't look so bad to me."
"Then perhaps you'd like to meet down by the Little Dome tonight for a demonstration of just what I can do," Yashida said coldly, never taking his gaze from the young Brujah's eyes. He maintained the stare, knowing all too well how uncomfortable it would make her.
"All right, I'm fine with him staying," Sandy answered.
"Now that she's voted, I want her memory of this meeting altered," Yashida stated.
"What?" Sandy shouted, standing from her chair.
"I lack the strength of some of my clanmates, and I run with some of the anarch gangs," Yashida explained. "I don't want my cover blown. The Sabbat might think me a valuable prize."
"Like I give a shit," Sandy shot back.
"This is a condition of my staying," Johnny added.
"It will be done," Martin answered.
"What?" Sandy shouted again. "You can't do that."
"Shut the hell up, or we'll simply kill you rather than alter your memory," Calaban spat angrily. In the face of the Nosferatu's fury, Sandy immediately sat down silently, afraid that a worse fate could be visited upon her.
"I can see the way this is going, and the Toreador reluctantly support the decision to hire the Telemon," Du Lenne said.
"As do the Gangrel," a middle-aged man added. Yashida looked at the Gangrel primogen and nodded his head, knowing that Michelle had already met with the man to discuss the role of the Telemon in the city. The primogen, a man known as Jasper, was well known for his hatred of the Sabbat. He was only too willing to have allies in his quest to add to his list of kills.
"Then you have your unanimous vote, Mr. Yashida," O'Reilly said with a flourish of his hand. "Before you leave us, is there anything else that you feel we should know about your services?"
"Yes, it's funny you should ask," Johnny replied. He could only hope that the primogen would react as favorably to the terms of employment as Ash had.
IV
"So what were you so happy about in the theater?" K.T. asked as he got off his Indian bike and looked around, making certain he had not been followed. The Block-Heller House Bed and Breakfast, which he and Erica had booked as their sanctuary, made a great hideaway. No one would look for a couple of kindred mercenaries there, and K.T. had been careful to keep it that way.
"What do you mean?" Erica asked in response. "I was just being normal."
"You were on the verge of panic when we entered the city, afraid of being anywhere near the Sabbat," K.T. explained. "Then when we get inside the theater, you're all normal, like you said. It seemed a little weird."
"The Sabbat is family, K.T.," Erica said. "If I had acted uncomfortable, they would have noticed."
"We're mercenaries," K.T. replied. "You don't have to act like Sabbat."
"Mercenaries are a tough lot, too," Erica pointed out. "If I had acted nervous, they would have been suspicious."
"What are you doing?" K.T. asked after a couple of moments.
"What do you mean?"
"You're not being yourself," K.T. said. "You were scared, and now you're overcompensating."
"No I'm not," Erica snapped back. "I'm not scared."
"So you're perfectly comfortable being around the Sabbat?"
"I wouldn't say that," Erica replied, "but I'm not scared like I used to be. I ran with the Sabbat for a long time. They don't frighten me."
"The Sabbat elders would like to have your head on a platter," K.T. reminded his lover.
"But the Sabbat here don't know that," Erica responded. "As far as they're concerned, I'm just Marla Flaherty. They have no idea I'm Erica Blackwell, and they probably wouldn't even recognize the name if they really knew who I was, anyway."
"You willing to risk your life on that assumption?"
"I think you're the one who's scared," Erica said evenly.
"Of course I am," K.T. answered. "Fear is a good thing, Erica. It reminds us when something we're doing is stupid enough to get us hurt or killed. You should listen to your fear. Don't ever let it control you, but don't ignore it, either."
"I'm sorry, K.T., but I'm not afraid anymore," Erica said. "It's strange, but it almost feels as if I've come home, in a way."
"That's what I'm afraid of," K.T. muttered. "I have to get some air. Why don't you go upstairs and go through the papers that Roi gave us? I'll be back in a little while."
"How come I have to do the paperwork?" Erica asked.
"Being a mercenary isn't always about shooting people and blowing shit up," K.T. reminded his friend. "If we don't make sure of what we're doing, we could get killed. The papers have information on the target we're hitting before dawn. I want to make sure there are no surprises."
"Then maybe you should do it yourself," Erica suggested.
"No, I have full confidence in you," K.T. replied. He knew saying that would make Erica proud, as if she had finally begun to earn not only K.T.'s love, but also his respect. "I'm sure you can handle it."
"I'll do my best," Erica answered, her face brightening with K.T.'s compliment, just as he had hoped. "I'll have everything planned out by the time you get back."
"Thanks," K.T. replied. "I won't be gone long." He noticed Erica say something, but could not hear her as he started the engine to his bike. Without another glance at his companion, he pulled out onto Carrollton, turned around across the streetcar tracks, and raced off toward River Road.
Comfortable with the Sabbat again, he thought to himself, feeling his blood begin to boil within his veins. He could hardly believe it. It seemed as though Erica had come full circle. When they had met, she had been a tough Sabbat punk. He smiled as he remembered the look on her face when he first met her. The first thing he had noticed was how beautiful she was. Of course, he had been looking at her face down the barrel of his Ruger, and had been completely prepared to blow her head off, although he would have regretted it. At least a little bit. She had been so brave, though so stupid. Erica had lived a sheltered life, both as a mortal, with her parents protecting her, and as a vampire, with her Sabbat pack watching her back. She had almost gotten herself killed countless times during the first week she and K.T. had known each other.
K.T. smiled as he remembered it all. In some ways, she had come so far. He could, for instance, trust her to look over blueprints of a building and depend on her to formulate a proper plan of attack. However, he could still not trust her around the Sabbat. How could she not be afraid? he asked himself. After everything that's happened. He lost his train of thought for a moment as he raced around a truck, weaving back onto his side of the road a split second before he became one with the grill of an oversized SUV, but then quickly arrived back at the same point in his reverie.
It's the blood, he reminded himself. As a member of the Sabbat, Erica had partaken in the ceremony of the Vaulderie. She had formed a blood bond with her packmates, a bond that could not easily be broken. It would not be much longer, he knew, before she would finally break completely free of the Sabbat's hold on her, but that was not his greatest concern. K.T. and Erica had been sharing blood ever since that week in New York. While Erica had only slowly become attached to K.T., leaving behind her pre-existing bond to the Sabbat, K.T. had become totally and irrevocably bonded to her after sharing blood only three times. To a certain extent, she had more power in the relationship than he did, and knowing that made K.T.'s stomach churn. It was possible, though admittedly unlikely, that she could shake off her almost complete devotion to K.T. and return to the fold of the Sabbat. If that were to occur, he might possibly want to follow her. He knew it, and hated it, but also had to admit that he could not avoid it. The blood bond was not something that could be overcome by rational thought. I can't believe I got myself into this situation. I should never have even allowed her to come into a city under siege, especially not working for the Sabbat. He knew the blood bond was responsible for his error in judgment. Had he not been blood bound to her, he would have been able to leave her behind. With the bond, though, he always wanted to have her close, no matter what the cost might be to him.
I knew there was a reason I never allowed myself to share blood before, he thought angrily. How did I get myself into this? What if she goes over to the other side? Will I be able to walk away? Will I be able to kill her? He realized the answers even as he asked the questions. He was powerless. If only there was someone else in the city I could go to, someone to watch my back and make sure I don't do anything patently stupid. K.T. shook his head, though. He knew there was no one he could go to, no one in the city, besides Erica, that he could call 'friend.' He only hoped that living the life of a loner had not finally caught up to him.
V
"So what's the deal?" Michelle asked as Johnny hung up the phone, immediately seeming lost in thought.
"We're staying," Yashida replied. "Siras says we need the money and that it's good enough to work for the collective primogen if there isn't a prince. He didn't say it, but he also wants to get Brett some much needed experience."
"Why?" Michelle asked.
"Because we lost Matt," Johnny explained. "The ranks were thin as it was, but with Matt gone, we lost the best soldier we had outside Pennsylvania. If we're going to keep hiring ourselves out to oppose sieges, we're going to need experienced and capable leaders. Siras is busy building the clan, so he can't do it. Marcus is needed at our sire's side. Brett is the next most qualified candidate in the clan. He has to be prepared to be a command officer."
"I don't get it," Michelle replied. "I thought that since you were Siras' childe, that you would be the one in command."
"I'm no soldier," Johnny admitted, "and everyone knows it. My orders are to defer to Brett. I may technically be the higher ranking Telemon, at least in theory, but he will have control here. He's far better suited for this command. "
"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," Michelle said, trying to comfort her friend. Though Johnny never said so, she knew he had always felt a little left out within his own clan. He would likely never be able to wade into a large battle the way his clanmates could. Of course, Michelle was of the opinion that Yashida would avoid full-scale assaults due to his superior intelligence rather than his inferior strength, but that was another matter she left unspoken.
"I'm not being hard on myself," Johnny replied. "I don't think it's any secret that I'm not a warrior. I'm a diplomat and a spy. Every army needs people like me, so I at least have a niche. I just don't get in on the whole 'We Can Blow Up Shit Really Well' club that seems to exist in the clan. Anyway, it's not like I'm a complete pushover."
Michelle only smiled in response. She knew well that Johnny had always been adept in getting close to an enemy and finishing him off quickly and quietly. If he had remained mortal, he might have one day become an assassin. With that one disturbing thought, her thin smile vanished and her demeanor darkened. Thankfully, Johnny seemed too wrapped up in making plans to notice her change in mood. She could see a slight tendency in the direction of becoming an assassin, and it had only gotten worse since Yashida had embraced a Yakuza ninja. Uiko had already taught Johnny a great deal, even as he tutored her in the ways of the kindred world. Within a few decades, should they both survive that long, Michelle knew that those who contracted the services of the Telemon might do so as much for an assassination as for a stand-up fight against the Sabbat. Sometimes she feared for Johnny, as she knew that once he started down that road, he would likely never be the same again.
"So when is Brett getting here?" she asked, trying to shake the uncomfortable thoughts from her head. The last thing she wanted to do was start thinking about Uiko. It was bad enough that Johnny was spending more time with her, and even worse that he thought Uiko deserving of training that he had denied Michelle. The Gangrel would be damned if she started dwelling on the woman she increasingly thought of as her rival.
"He'll be here tomorrow evening," Johnny answered. "He's flying out of Pennsylvania tonight, but only going as far as Memphis. He'll take a puddle-jumper in tomorrow, so that he'll get here as early as possible."
"I guess Mason and I are back on pick-up detail?" Michelle asked.
"Yeah," Yashida answered. "I'll keep Uiko here with our prisoner, and you and Mason will get Brett. Try to get out in the field as soon as possible. We need to get us some kills so our employers feel they're getting their money's worth. We'll be staying in until then."
"Should we try to get prisoners, too?"
"Definitely," Yashida answered. "Anyone you take will be brought back here. Then we can hand them over to the Tremere. Their primogen seems to have quite a bit of influence, and very well might be the next prince. I want to make him our friend."
"So what are you going to be doing while I'm at the airport?" Michelle asked suspiciously, letting on that she was surprised she had not realized sooner that Yashida had conspicuously left himself out of the plans.
"I have to meet with some contacts," Johnny answered evasively. "I also--." His sentence was cut short by a knock at the door. Immediately, Michelle picked up her Glock, and Johnny produced two Berettas, seemingly out of nowhere. Michelle dashed to a small screen in the corner, and checked to see who was outside. She breathed a sigh of relief, and gestured for Johnny to open the door. As Yashida did so, he came face to face with Southpaw.
"What the hell are you doing here?" the Telemon asked evenly, not bothering to hide his irritation. He had been asked to leave his whereabouts in case of an emergency. From what he could tell, the city was still standing, and no large-scale violence was endangering the lives of hundreds of humans. His definition of 'emergency' had not been fulfilled.
"I need to talk with you," Southpaw answered.
"I left a beeper number for you to get in touch with me," Yashida answered. He made a couple of subtle hand motions, meant for Michelle, which alerted her to the fact that Johnny wanted her and Mason to patrol the perimeter to make certain that Southpaw had not been followed.
"I wanted to talk to you about this face to face," Southpaw said. "It's a rather sensitive subject, and I wanted to make sure no one else knew we had this conversation."
"Are you sure you weren't followed?" Johnny asked in a condescending tone.
"I'm certain," Southpaw replied. "I may not be the best politician, as you could tell at the meeting earlier, but I have some talents. I worked as a courier for the regent for over ten years; I'm the one who carried all of his important messages. I don't get followed."
"So what's the big secret?"
"My sire was, of course, well aware of his precarious position," Southpaw started. "He knew he could be killed at almost any time, and that few questions would be asked higher up in the Camarilla because he was not even really a prince. He wanted to make certain that if something ever happened, that I would be able to seek out his killer and visit vengeance upon him."
"Sounds rather melodramatic so far," Johnny commented. "So why should I care about any of this? My clan is here to fight the Sabbat, not assist you in a private vendetta."
"I don't need help getting revenge," Southpaw shot back. "I need help finding out who was behind it. My sire put aside five million dollars, to be paid to the person or persons that discovered who his murderer was. If you can find out who killed Ash, the five million is yours."
"Not a bad chunk of cash," Johnny commented, making certain he hid how interested he was in getting his hands on such a large sum. "What exactly did you have in mind? I mean, for all you know, I could have done it."
"You're an outsider, and my sire hired you himself," Southpaw said. "He was thorough in researching you. I don't particularly trust you, but I trust him not to be stupid enough to hire the people that would kill him. Anyway, it's not like I could go to anyone else in the city. They all make much more likely suspects."
"True enough," Yashida agreed. "I'm pretty busy, though. I don't know if I have time for this." Johnny guessed that more than just five million had been set aside, and that Southpaw was holding out on him. He wanted to get more money.
"I know what you're doing," Southpaw replied smoothly. "There's only the five mil. If you want more, you're out of luck; I'll just do it myself. You don't have to decide now. You can think about it first."
"You can have my answer now," Yashida said. "I'll look into stuff as I fight the Sabbat. Opposing the siege is what I was hired to do, and I'll do it. If I run across any valuable information, I'll let you know. Can't devote all my time to this, though."
"Whatever you can do is great," Southpaw replied, his spirits seeming to rise despite all of the problems that he was facing. "You have my number. Give me a call if anything comes up."
"I'll do that," Johnny answered. As Southpaw turned to leave, Yashida could only smile. I never expected this trip to be so lucrative. I wonder what other surprises are waiting for me here in New Orleans. Southpaw was halfway out the door when a thought suddenly occurred to the Telemon. "Hey, I need to know something," Yashida called out, stopping the Ventrue messenger dead in his tracks.
"What's that?" Southpaw asked suspiciously.
"Exactly how was the regent killed?"
"That's an internal matter," Southpaw answered. "I can't discuss it with you.
"So you want me to investigate this for you, but you won't even give me the most basic information to begin my inquiry?" Johnny asked dubiously. "Do you want the killer found or not?"
"Of course I do," Southpaw responded, "but it has to be done my way."
"Even the mortals start with the scene of the crime and look for clues on the body," Johnny said. "Am I to presume that you're also gonna keep me away from the scene?"
"Yes," the Ventrue confirmed. "To let you see the scene of the crime is to let you see the defenses of Ash's home. Since I still live there, I don't feel comfortable conducting such a revealing tour."
"I see," Johnny replied, noting silently that he now knew that Ash had been killed in his own home. That much the Telemon could have guessed, but knowing it for a fact at least answered one of his laundry list of questions. "Well, like I said, I'll look into this a bit when I have some spare time, but I can't make any promises. Especially if you're not willing to work with me at least a little bit."
"That's how it has to be."
"Fine," Yashida muttered. In the back of his head, he wondered why Southpaw would go out of his way to ask for help, while all the while denying him access to the information that would help him most. True, the Telemon admitted, Southpaw had every right in the world to be paranoid about his defenses, especially if they had been breached once already. Silently, Johnny made a note to himself to remember that Southpaw, and presumably the other Ventrue, did not truly trust him or his clanmates as much as they professed. He only hoped that would not make matters difficult down the line.
VI
K.T. stopped his Buick Century one block away from his planned target – Miss May's bar, located on the corner of Magazine and Napoleon. The mercenary approached slowly, making certain that no one was watching him. Not that he would likely be able to tell, he knew. He felt reasonably certain that not only was one of Roi's people keeping an eye on him, it was likely that one of Philip's associates was, as well. Miss Mae's was out in the open, but it was getting late and there would be few witnesses to anything that happened. The real problem, the mercenary knew, was that a police station was just across the street. He could hardly come up with a plan for the hit that would allow him to escape before any cops showed up. He tried to talk Roi out of the assault, but the bishop would have none of it. An old Gangrel worked the bar, and the Sabbat leader wanted him out of the way. K.T. knew it was a test. He wants to know if I can be discrete, he thought, and whether I am enough of a mercenary to kill a clanmate in cold blood. He shook his head in disgust at having accepted the job. He knew he should have expected something like this. I really need to remember to think things through before I accept a job my associates plan for me. Or maybe I just need new associates.
The Gangrel looked up the street one last time as he got close to the dive bar, making certain that Erica was in position. She was still in the car, keeping it running. Too late the thought occurred to him that he should have gotten his hands on a more powerful getaway vehicle. If he was unfortunate enough to be pursued, the Century might not cut it. What made his fears even worse was the knowledge that Erica would likely be driving in an escape, and K.T. had serious issues with Erica's driving ability. Lack of driving ability is more like it, he corrected himself. Well, at least if we evade any pursuers, no one would have any luck finding us in a Buick Century. There are at least a dozen of them in any given half-mile radius in the United States.
Erica waved slightly as he looked back, and K.T. steeled himself for what he hoped would be a quick and efficient kill. Just go in, kill him, and leave, K.T. repeated to himself. Roi had commented that any excessive show of violence was acceptable, as would be expected. The Sabbat generally did not bother keeping a low profile. The greatest law of the Camarilla was the Masquerade, which dictated that vampires hide their existence from mortals. In defying their elders, the Sabbat decided, rather foolishly, that taking actions that could avoid another Inquisition was not in their best interest. The hell with that, K.T. thought. They might be paying me, but I'll be damned if I lower myself to their professional standards. Roi wants high profile, he can come down here and firebomb the place himself when I'm done.
K.T. checked himself one last time just before he walked in. Why the hell are you so nervous? he asked himself. It's not like you've never done anything like this before. Do you really think this will be any different? K.T. thought for a moment, and decided that he would probably not find anything he had never seen before. He knew his target would probably be tougher than he had been led to believe, and he knew that he was performing for at least one audience, and possibly two. Perhaps that's it, he mused. Maybe I just don't like knowing that people are watching, measuring me against whatever unknown expectations they have of me. The Gangrel paused for a brief moment, and laughed. The hell with that. Who gives a rat's ass what they think of my performance? They have a problem with me, they can go fuck themselves. Just forget all this crap and be professional, K.T.
The mercenary shook off any doubt, opened the door, and took in his environment with one experienced, sweeping glance. Over the decades he had trained himself to see every vital detail in a matter of seconds. He saw two men sitting at the bar and a middle-aged man working the taps. His target was the bartender. K.T. prepared himself to stay for a couple of minutes, just to make sure that no one was in the bathroom. The last thing he needed was to be shot at by an off-duty police officer... or one of the million armed southerners in the city.
"Give me a Dixie," K.T. said as he walked up to the bar and laid down a five. The bartender just nodded and pulled a long neck from the refrigerator and handed it over. K.T. walked over toward a dartboard in the back of the bar and looked quickly at his watch and decided he would wait two minutes before making his move. The Gangrel looked at the bottle and smiled slightly, despite the tension of the moment. He found it amusing that he had remembered a fairly clever ad campaign for Dixie beer. It had been that 'Dixie beer is better than every other beer in the world combined.' When he had first heard the statement, K.T. had doubted its veracity. While he could not drink beer any longer, he had been in enough southern bars to know that Dixie was on a par with any American swill, though that was not saying much. However, the radio commentator had gone on, explaining that a representative of Dixie beer was traveling all around the world, collecting samples of every beer made anywhere. At the end of the trip, every single sample would be mixed together and compared with the taste of Dixie. It had been a long time since K.T. had drank a beer, but he was fairly certain that Dixie's claim would hold up in that case.
One minute down, one to go, K.T. thought as he stole another glance at his watch. He kept an eye on the men at the bar, trying to discern if they would be an obstacle to his plan. Both of them had certainly consumed some of their beers, so it was highly unlikely they would be vampires. The most K.T. figured he would be facing was a couple of ghouls. That much he could handle. He thought about his actions, making certain it was all scripted perfectly in his head. Walk up, incapacitate the patrons, and kill the bartender. He went through a series of ways of achieving his goals, but refused to choose one. He would only subject himself to a plan to a certain degree. The ability to improvise was more important to the Gangrel than the certainty of a plan.
Whatever happens, make certain he does not escape, the bishop had warned. This Gangrel had countless contacts, and many friends that owed him favors. If a Sabbat siege got out of hand, he could have a dozen Gangrel come into the city to form opposition. That was the last thing Roi wanted. He hoped that killing the Gangrel would prevent this. Of course, he was gambling that there were not enough good friends to come looking for payback. I hope so too, K.T. thought. The last thing I need is to be gunned down by some friend of this clown twenty years from now.
Okay, two minutes, the Gangrel noted. He walked toward the bar, sending his blood moving into his arms, chest, and shoulders, increasing his upper body strength. As he came within a couple of feet of the patrons, he also grew his hands into claws. He moved the beer into his left hand as he came within arm's reach, placing his hand on his Ruger even as he began to strike.
As his left arm began to move, swinging the beer bottle in a powerful arc, K.T. could see that the bartender had not been surprised. Makes sense, K.T. acknowledged. He's a bartender that's used to working all night in a rough city. Even being across the street from a police station, he would have seen some scuffles in his time. The mercenary ignored the bartender for the first couple of seconds, feeling that eliminating eyewitnesses was of the utmost importance. The beer bottle shattered as it impacted against the first man's head, and K.T.'s victim slumped off of barstool and onto the floor. The second was still alert enough to be halfway turned around as K.T. slammed the cylinder of his revolver into the man's forehead. He knew from experience that the second man would not remember much of anything.
K.T. was putting his Ruger back in his shoulder holster and beginning his move against the bartender as he saw his target raising an Ithaca shotgun from behind the bar. One blast from that and this place'll be crawling with cops in thirty seconds, K.T. knew. He dropped his revolver as he launched himself over the bar, using his blood to accelerate his movements, making use of the vampiric discipline of celerity. The skill allowed him to move at supernatural speed, taking several coordinated actions in the same amount of time that a mortal could make only one.
The mercenary could see the look of surprise as the bartender saw him speed up, and he saw his target respond in kind, also accelerating his motion to keep pace. Rather than bothering to take aim, the bartender swung the shotgun, using it as a club to fend off his attacker. His first swing was aimed impeccably, catching K.T. on the right side of his head, crushing his jaw. K.T. stifled his howl of pain and focused on his attack, knowing that every second the confrontation lasted was another second that allowed a witness to walk through the door. The mercenary threw a quick punch, aiming to thrust his taloned fist into his opponent's chest, but the old man parried the attack with the rifle, spun it around deftly, and brought the stock down on the top of K.T.'s head. The mercenary knew that his skull had been fractured. The crack and the immediate feeling of blood running freely both inside and outside his head told him that. He knew the pain would set in within a fraction of a second, and that extreme disorientation would follow. Only his unnatural speed gave him the opportunity to act before his mind could catch up with reality and process the information he was certain his pain receptors were sending.
K.T. allowed his legs to drop out from under him, knowing that he would be heading toward the floor involuntarily in a moment anyway. As he fell, he swiped out at the older Gangrel. This time, the bartender was unable to block the unexpected attack. He was opened from neck to nape, and blood and internal organs poured from his body and all over K.T.
As he hit the floor, K.T. lost all sense of reason. Pain erupted in his skull, and his vision went black. He could not hear anything, and could not even remember where he had been before he lost touch with his surroundings. Out of his blur he felt something moving against his leg. That's bad, he thought, trying to focus on what was happening. He rushed blood into his head, knowing from experience that his state was probably the result of a massive head injury. I was fighting someone. If he's moving against me, then the fight isn't done yet. I have to get off my ass.
K.T. willed himself to stand but was unsure that his effort was meeting with any success. He focused his energy and thought he could slowly start to make out the scene around him. The mercenary knew that his blood was healing his injury, and he tried to stand again. This time, he succeeded in pulling his body from the floor. He looked down, and saw the bartender stirring, trying to pull his torso back together. With every passing second, K.T. recovered further from a wound that would have killed a mortal. He began to remember where he was and what he was doing, and looked toward the door in terror. He surmised instantly that no one else had walked in, and knew that he was okay, at least for the meantime. Erica should be outside by now, he realized, remembering that his Ventrue companion would pull up outside four minutes after he entered. She would not follow him in unless there was an obvious emergency. He hoped that she had followed instructions as he hefted his victim from the floor. K.T. saw that his hands were still grown into claws, and plunged them into the bartender's chest once again, this time ending all movement permanently. The older Gangrel had simply been injured too greatly to ever recover, and was extinguished.
Now the only chore left was to dispose of the body. This would serve two purposes. First and foremost, it would protect the Masquerade. Secondly, and only slightly less importantly, having no body would likely delay any forthcoming retribution. No friends would come to town looking for justice if they could not be sure that the old man had died. The Gangrel were wanderers by nature. It would be a long time before anyone would know for certain that this particular vampire had been killed. K.T. balanced the corpse on one shoulder, attempting to make it seem that he was carrying an intoxicated man to a car. Of course, he knew that the gallon of blood that covered both of them would betray the truth to anyone who looked at them for more than a brief moment, but he needed to take the chance. He opened the door slightly, and was relieved to see Erica waiting outside. He could see a similar look of relief in her eyes, and offered a thin, reassuring smile. In a heartbeat he had covered the five feet between him and the back door of the Buick. He tossed the body in and dove in after it as Erica pulled slowly away from the curb, making certain not to draw the attention of anyone who may have been watching from across the street.
"You look like hell, K.T.," she commented.
"The old man was a little more skilled than I had been led to believe," K.T. returned.
"I guess the bishop wanted to test you," Erica said. "I guess it's understandable. He just wanted to make sure that you are every bit as good as advertised."
"That's enough," K.T. replied, not wanting to hear even one more syllable of Erica defending the actions of the Sabbat. It was bad enough that she was comfortable with them. The last thing he needed was for her to start thinking like them again.
"Enough of what?" Erica asked innocently. "You know what I'm saying, though, right? Anyway, there wouldn't have been a problem if you hadn't insisted on being so damned subtle. Are you really going to sit there and try to tell me it wouldn't have been easier to just walk in with an AK-47 and blow away everyone in the place? That's what I would have done."
"That's why you only get to drive the getaway car," K.T. countered. He hid his shock at Erica's comments. Just a short time around those animals, and already she's starting to fall into line again, K.T. realized with growing dread. He heard Erica say something in reply, but never bothered to listen to what it was. Instead, he simply stared out the window as she made her way toward the cemetery where they would dispose of their victim's body. I should never have come here, and I most certainly should never have brought her with me.
VII
"So, what do you think of my young student?" Philip asked cordially.
"He seems competent," Hassan replied, avoiding giving Philip the satisfaction of a more positive response. The Assamite was many centuries old and had worked with Philip for a long time. While the Gangrel was indeed an excellent recruiter for the Black Hand, he had the habit of becoming rather annoying in his search for approval. Both men knew that K.T. was an acceptable recruit, despite his youth. Hassan saw little point in lavishing praise the way Philip would have liked.
"Perhaps," Philip said, enjoying the brief moment of surprise on his associate's face.
"You see a problem?" Hassan asked. He found it more than simply unusual that Philip would seriously question the abilities of one of his own recruits. In over two hundred years, that had never happened. To question his protégé would be to cast doubt on his own judgment in bringing him into the fold. Philip had always seemed far too infatuated with himself to believe that he could ever possibly commit an error.
"Mr. Corben's abilities are unquestionably adequate," Philip responded, agreeing with Hassan's earlier statement. "That much had been determined before I ever appeared to him. However, his judgment may be impaired. Perhaps he was too young, after all."
"Maybe he was not ready yet," Hassan agreed. It had never been any secret that Hassan had never particularly cared for K.T. He felt that the young Gangrel was little more than an anarch that had survived longer than he should have. He was incredibly skilled, but lacked direction. He simply sold his services to the highest bidder, without a care for his employer's motives. He had worked for the Camarilla and the Sabbat alike. While Hassan's own clan would also work both sides of the fence, he knew the Assamites had a code of conduct that provided honor and direction. For all of K.T.'s impressive abilities, Hassan was unsure that the Gangrel had gone the necessary step of developing a code. That was what would define a true warrior, separating him from the rest of the unworthy neonates in the world.
"Maybe he is one that would never be ready," Philip commented, his tone possessing a hint of regret.
"You think you made a mistake?" Hassan asked, making certain his feigned disbelief was expressed enough to be sensed by his comrade.
"It had to happen eventually," Philip said, avoiding eye contact with the assassin. "K.T. is everything we would want physically, but he never really uses his head. Take tonight for example. He walked into that bar alone, and employed a means of attack that left him vulnerable to an enemy he never bothered to scout out. He actually depended upon the accuracy of the Sabbat reports. No one who works for us should make such an error."
"He had no reason to believe his employer would put him in a position that would risk his life needlessly, especially after the amount of money he has already been paid," Hassan pointed out. "The error was Roi's, not K.T.'s. A Sabbat siege has to rely on sudden and brutal attacks. K.T. can't take the time to research every single job that's offered to him. Nothing would ever get done. You should know that by now."
"Are you defending our young associate's actions?" Philip asked, not hiding his curiosity at the situation. K.T. had apparently supplied the pair with two firsts. Never before had Philip doubted one of his own recruits, and never before had Hassan defended one of them.
"I would have to think the man worthwhile to take the effort to defend him," Hassan answered. "He is only a whelp, and not yet worthy of such attention from me. I simply mean to make certain you have not lost your own perspective."
"Of course," Philip replied. "Perhaps you're right. He did show the forethought to at least be discreet and also dispose of the body. He survived the attack, which was more than I may have expected, especially given the fact that he actually walked into arm's reach. Tacoma was no slouch. He'd killed many kindred in his days."
"If I remember correctly, there was a time you had actually observed Tacoma with an interest in recruitment," Hassan reminded his companion.
"Yes," Philip said. "Like K.T. may be, he was physically capable, but lacked the requisite brain. Besides, Tacoma never had any aspirations other than to hang out and tend bar for all eternity. He would never have been an ideal candidate, despite his impressive combat skills.
"Anyway, the matter that has me most concerned is the presence of Miss Blackwell," Philip continued. "Bringing her into the city was a risk that K.T. should never have even considered. The blood bond may need to be eliminated."
"That could only be done with her death," Hassan pointed out. "I thought we wanted to keep her around, to use as leverage if K.T. didn't ever toe the line."
"Our love-struck Gangrel is going to get himself killed, or perhaps worse," Philip answered. "He's no good to us if he ends up following her into the Sabbat, and he will likely be impaired for some time if he's forced to leave her. I guess I should have seen this coming."
"Probably," Hassan agreed, "but I think you're being too pessimistic. The Blackwell woman has not turned to the Sabbat. At least not yet. She's simply shown that she's not quite as afraid of them as one would expect. Neither one of them will likely end up in the Sabbat. As for K.T.'s lack of judgment, I think you're taking that too seriously. He fought and defeated a vampire of greater age and generation. Does it truly matter whether he did it the way you would have?"
"I suppose not," Philip admitted.
"Then there's no problem," Hassan concluded. The Assamite patted himself on the back for being so convincing. Of course, he had had much riding on his being able to talk Philip out of getting down on K.T. If Philip had not been convinced, Hassan would have been subjected to his griping for days, perhaps even weeks. The assassin had just won a great victory for his own peace of mind.
"There is still one problem," Philip reminded his associate. "There is yet the matter of the Telemon running loose in the city. I would very much like for them to be extinguished."
"You mean you would very much like for your initiate to extinguish them," Hassan clarified. "I do not understand this obsession with the Telemon."
"They're mindless grunts," Philip answered. "They're a blight upon the kindred world, and I'm tired of their meddling constantly interfering with our plans. They may prove to be a disruption."
"How so?" Hassan asked, genuinely curious as to how Philip viewed a young upstart bloodline as any form of impediment.
"They have had an unexpected, and unprecedented, rate of success against the Sabbat," the old Gangrel explained. "Obviously they've been lucky thus far, and I'm certain that sooner or later someone in the Sabat will direct his attention in their direction. Thatw ill likely end the complications the grunts cause, but if it doesn't happen soon… If the clan grows, there will be a small force with expertise in opposing sieges. This may, in time, bring about some degree of stability in the New World. You know as well as I do that stability is the last thing we want."
"They are too young to ever pose a threat," Hassan stated evenly. "Your scenario is not without merit, but they would need to need to evade special attention from the Sabbat for decades more to come, and we both know that will not happen. If they keep fighting the Sabbat, they will die off soon."
"I remember reading similar words in regards to clan Tremere," Philip replied coldly. "No one expected them to survive a war with the Tzimisce. Not only did they survive, they prospered. They immediately found a niche and filled it. At this point in history, we do not need another such success story."
"The Tremere grew up in different times," Hassan reminded his friend. "It was possible for them to find elders upon whom they could feed. The warlocks were able to advance their founder to the third generation, to make him an antediluvian. This is not something the Telemon can achieve."
"Are you so certain?" Philip asked. "Is that's omething we would be wise to take for granted? They have proven to be quite resourceful. I would not bet against them so readily. They're professional mercenaries, trained to be the best on the field, and all adhere to a strict code of conduct and discipline. An Assamite, of all people, should see the threat such a group could pose."
"You worry too much," Hassan said as he stood wearily from his chair. "The sun will be rising soon, and I need sleep."
"I have made you uncomfortable," Philip said.
"You have made me bored," Hassan clarified. "In the whole scheme of things, whether Mr. Corben kills the Telemon is irrelevant. If he does, he will simply earn your fickle approval for another day. If he is killed, you will find a new recruit. If he decides, for one reason or another, that he should not engage the Telemon, then he will prove himself to be, perhaps, more than you give him credit for being."
"More than I give him credit for being?" Philip asked, noting once again the strange sensation that Hassan approved of this recruit. "And what exactly would that be?"
"Something that you have grown too set in your Machiavellian ways to ever understand," Hassan replied.
"Oh, that's rich," Philip answered. "Me Machiavellian? That's the crow calling the raven black."
"I am what I am," Hassan said. "You are what you are. And K.T. is what he is. What exactly that is, I guess we will see soon enough." Without another word, Hassan walked from the room and toward his own private cell, where he would be able to sleep safely until the next sunset.
To be continued……………………………………