Le Bon Temps Roule

by Nevermore

Against the backdrop of a Sabbat siege in New Orleans, young kindred try to make sense of their lives and relationships. Let the good times roll....... (Complete)

5. Le Bon Temps Roule, Chapter 4

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 4

I

Johnny Yashida walked into Fat Harry's slowly, scanning the bar for anyone who might launch an attack. He saw no one pay any undue attention to his entrance, and so walked further into the room, allowing his eyes to pass briefly over the young blonde tending bar and the middle-aged man who was busy hitting on her while ordering a beer. The sight would usually have provided a moment of amusement for the small Telemon, but not tonight. He was in the neighborhood college bar for only one purpose – he had come to find out what had happened to Michelle Marlowe. Despite his tense mood, he unconsciously put a spring in his step as the opening chords of Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water" began to play on the jukebox, inciting a squeal of delight from a young college girl in the corner.

Yashida had no idea who had sent the note informing him that Michelle was still alive, but something inside his head assured him that he would know whoever it was he would be meeting. The message had contained no threats, no demands, and no offers of alliance. It had simply said "Billy-- Come to Fat Harry's at midnight to get Michelle back." It almost sounded like a message one would get from a neighbor when his dog escaped again from the backyard and needed to be returned.

Johnny walked down a short hall into the rear section of the bar. The scent of frying bacon passed gently under his nose, reminding him that he had yet to eat. Once again, as with the man and bartender in the front, the extraneous thought was forced from his mind. He turned right around the corner, and his eyes settled upon the last person he had expected to find in a city under Sabbat siege.

"I assume it was you that sent the note," Johnny muttered instantly, focusing in on K.T.

"If it were anyone else, you'd probably be dead already," K.T. answered evenly. "You shouldn't have come to New Orleans, Yashida."

"I was about to say the same thing to you," Johnny responded. For the briefest of moments, Johnny had the strange sense that he was being watched, and he looked into K.T.'s eyes for any sign that he had walked into a trap. There was nothing. Not that I would definitely be able to pick up on any deception, anyway, Yashida pondered gloomily. This guy's been a hired gun for longer than I've been alive.

"If I had it to do again, I probably wouldn't have come," K.T. admitted. The Gangrel was racking balls for a game of pool on the less worn of two pool tables in the back room, and motioned for Johnny to break. The Telemon simply shook his head, letting his associate know that he was there only for business. "You know, I'm still trying to figure out why I didn't kill her," K.T. commented, not minding how his friend took the news. He walked around the table and had already lined up his shot to break by the time Johnny replied.

"So she's still alive?" Johnny asked.

"For now."

"So is this a negotiation, or are you going to give her back without trying to use her as leverage to get a favor?" the Telemon asked. He kept his demeanor calm, not wanting to let K.T. have an edge. Johnny knew he was vulnerable. He wanted desperately to get his companion back and would go to virtually any length to ensure her safety, but he knew keeping that fact to himself was probably the best way to keep Michelle alive.

"I haven't decided yet," K.T. answered truthfully. He immediately saw Johnny's anxiety and irritation and began to wonder whether Yashida had allowed himself to become blood-bound to his Gangrel companion. The mercenary had no trouble imagining Johnny blood-bonding all those around him without giving up any of his own independence. Giving up control, on the other hand, was not something K.T. would have expected. For a brief moment he wondered how he would be behaving if his and Johnny's situations were reversed, but he immediately fought to push the thought from his mind. He could not honestly be certain he would be holding himself together as well as Johnny was. Then again, given his own well-honed combat skills, he would have less reason to remain composed and passive.

"Well I'd really rather not fight you for her," Johnny admitted. "But I'll tell ya, I don't see myself easily leaving without her." He hoped the thinly veiled threat would accomplish his goal of combining menace with professionalism.

"I want you to leave the city," K.T. said suddenly, ignoring Johnny's restrained show of bravado. "I don't want anything bad to happen to you or Michelle. As much as I've avoided getting to know anyone, I seem to have gotten comfortable with you as an associate."

"Our services have been bought and paid for, as I'm sure yours have been as well," Johnny said simply. "I can't leave any more easily than you could. It wouldn't be good for my reputation, or the reputation of my clan."

"Yeah, reputation," the Gangrel muttered. "I went decades without worrying about my reputation. I would kill anyone, anywhere, anytime. For a price, that is," he added, almost as an afterthought, as he lined up a shot on the seven-ball and sent it into the corner. "Mercenaries were uncomfortable working with me, since they never knew which side I would be on the next time. Employers were uneasy hiring someone they might have trouble controlling. Once in awhile one of the old-timers would tell me that I should straighten up and fly right, that I should at least develop respect for fellow professionals. I figured they could go to hell."

"No offense, K.T. but do you have a point here?" Johnny asked. The Gangrel noted Johnny's steadily increasing tension, and silently marked a point in the column supporting the conclusion that Johnny was blood-bound to Michelle.

"Give me a second," K.T. said angrily. "I'm trying to explain myself." He turned and glared at Johnny for a moment, and then looked back at the pool table and smoothly sank the three-ball off the rail. Maybe talking all this shit out will help me get it straight in my own head, the Gangrel hoped. There was no one else in the city he could feasibly get to listen. Johnny Yashida was, unfortunately, the closest thing that K.T. had to a friend, and he knew it. Of course, as fate would have it, my one friend is fighting on the other side. K.T. shook his head as a new thought occurred to him. Maybe it wasn't fate at all. Maybe someone actually planned this. Some old Gangrel motherfucker who loves seeing me jump through his hoops. The mercenary dismissed the thought as quickly as he had entertained it. He could not imagine any way that Philip could have arranged for the Telemon to arrive in the city, and he saw no true advantage to be gained by having himself fight against the young mercenary clan.

"I guess that lately I'm a little more aware of what other people think about me," K.T. continued. Yashida silently decided that the current change in K.T.'s personality was due in large part to Erica, but he made certain he kept the thought to himself as he waited to see if K.T. had finished. "Not that I really care all that much about image, but at least I notice now," K.T. clarified. "What I'm saying is this – due to the fact that I've worked with you, and because you are also a mercenary, I'll give you the professional courtesy of not going out of my way to kill you."

"Thanks," Johnny said gruffly. "So where does that leave us?"

"I'll be more than willing to fill you with bullet holes if I see you around," K.T. said. "And I expect you would do the same. I mean, that is the job, after all. But I won't rip your head off with my bare hands if I can avoid it. I'll put you down, but I won't kill you."

"Fine, then I won't kill you," Johnny replied. K.T. only smiled, as if he found Johnny's statement amusing, and then he sank the five-ball. "And what about Michelle?"

"I won't kill her either," K.T. said. "And I expect that you won't snuff Erica."

"Of course," Johnny answered. He did not continue, but he also did not need to. He had been assured that Michelle would be safe, and that was all he needed to hear. Despite the fact that he knew just how formidable a warrior K.T. Corben was, Johnny found himself relaxing a slight bit.

"As for the rest of your clan, all bets are off," K.T. continued. "I don't know them, and they don't know me. I don't think my new trial policy of professional courtesy should necessarily apply to people I don't know."

"So are you saying we're, like, friends or something?" Johnny asked with a mischievous smile that would have made the Cheshire Cat jealous.

"Don't push it," K.T. responded. "Like I said, this is just something I'm trying out. I can't guarantee I won't change my mind before the siege is over."

"I expect you'll at least warn me if you've decided to kill me," Johnny surmised.

"Probably," K.T. replied evenly. "I'll let you know after I shoot you, but before I rip your heart out." Johnny was about to smile at the Gangrel's joke when he noticed that K.T.'s eyes held no mirth. Yashida realized his associate was completely serious, and reminded himself that he was dealing with a very dangerous man, a professional mercenary who, at least until recently, had known no friends or loyalties.

"So where's Michelle?" Johnny asked, deciding that he would be best served by gathering up his companion and getting to a safe area as soon as possible.

"There's a van parked out front," K.T. said. "She's tied up in the back."

"And how do I know that the van's not rigged to blow up?" Johnny asked.

"I guess you'll just have to trust me," K.T. said grimly. "Now get your ass out of here. Some of my Sabbat contacts are due to show up soon, and I can't decide whether it would be worse for you to be caught here, or for me to be found talking to you."

Yashida walked out without another word, and a moment later K.T. put down his pool cue and walked to the front room to play some music on the jukebox, hoping desperately that 'Little Wing' was somewhere in the machine. The Gangrel could hardly believe he had said so much to someone he did not know too well. Giving Yashida that much insight had cost K.T. a slight bit of his one greatest advantage – the mystery that surrounded him. Those who knew him – including all of his most questionable alliances, assassinations, and atrocities – would never have thought that K.T. had anything remaining that resembled a heart, or even a soul. Now the secret was out. K.T. had a shred of humanity remaining, after all. He just hoped that Yashida kept that information to himself. It would never do to have word get out that a mercenary had gotten a heart.

Neither man noticed a barely audible chuckle as they left the back of the bar. Ah, Philip, I wonder how you'll react when you hear your pet Gangrel has gone soft, Hassan wondered silently. Gone is the mindless, heartless killer you wanted. Now you have a seasoned warrior with a slowly developing code of honor. How will you possibly adjust to such an embarrassing predicament?

II

"I need soldiers, not nursemaids!" Brett shouted at Johnny. For his part, Yashida was unimpressed. He simply nodded once toward his commanding officer, and then turned back toward Michelle.

The Gangrel winced as Johnny removed her hastily applied bandages, revealing a gaping wound in her abdomen. "He wasn't messing around, was he?" Johnny asked softly. Michelle shook her head in response, and lay back on the bed. The pain was almost more than she could bear, but she grit her teeth and resolved not to make so much as a whimper. As long as Brett was in the room, she would not show weakness.

"I'm serious, Johnny," Brett said again, his tone becoming slightly menacing.

"I'll go with you when I'm certain I've done all I can for her," Yashida said, finally responding to his fellow Telemon's voice.

"Last I heard, I'm in command here," Brett shot back, "and that means I decide when we do or don't go back out there. I say we go now. She's not a human. She's in no danger of dying. Just make sure she has enough blood and leave her to heal her own wounds.

"I'm just trying to make sure she's comfortable," Johnny replied. "There's no harm in that."

"It's unnecessary," Brett stated. "We're soldiers. We can take the pain."

"She's a scout, not a soldier," Johnny answered. "Besides, I would take this time even if it were you on the floor."

"I would not allow it," Brett said stoically. "I can handle pain."

"I know," Johnny murmured, "and Michelle can handle it just as well. She'd be fine if we left her here. Still, you just don't get it."

"Get what?" Brett asked antagonistically.

"Permission to speak freely, sir," Johnny asked formally.

"Granted," Brett replied without skipping a beat.

"Then come with me," Johnny instructed, striding quickly from the room and walking into the empty kitchen. Speaking freely was one thing, but being insubordinate, as he was planning, was something else entirely. Yashida knew better than to allow an audience for what he was about to say. "You make a poor commanding officer," Johnny said evenly, carefully watching Brett's reaction. Yashida did not know for sure how the other Telemon would take his verbal attack, so he felt it best to keep his eyes on his clanmate.

"Just shows how little you know," Brett answered. "If you had been at that rumble last night, you would have seen. Your precious little group of anarchs has never done anything but get their asses kicked by that Sabbat pack. Last night was different. We were winning."

"I don't doubt it at all," Johnny said. "You're an excellent soldier and an above-average strategist."

"You just said I was a poor commanding officer," Brett replied. "Why don't you make up your mind?"

"In the field, you are everything a commander should be," Johnny clarified, "but you are no leader." He watched Brett's reaction closely, attempting to see if his clanmate understood. The befuddled look on Brett's face made it clear that Johnny would have to continue his explanation. "You were sent here to learn to lead," Johnny said.

"No, I was sent here to get experience in the field," Brett clarified sharply. "Siras feels I am ready to lead. He just wants me to get some practical training."

"If that were truly how Siras felt, then he would be wrong," Johnny replied. "But I assure you, that is not how Siras feels. Anyone embraced into the clan is a capable soldier," Yashida continued. "Except for me, that is," he added with a grin. "Haven't you ever wondered why you were chosen for leadership when others were not? The clan has been growing well enough lately. It's not like we're hurting for people, although some of our best were lost in San Francisco."

"I'm simply one of the best now," Brett said, feeling his straightforward explanation resolved the issue.

"In combat?" Johnny asked. "Perhaps," he continued, answering his own question before Brett could. "The Telemon clan is about more than kicking ass, though. This is supposed to be an army in and of itself. Knowing how to kick ass is not enough to lead – that's true whether you're mortal or kindred. If Siras sends more people down here, those soldiers will follow your commands because they have been told to do so. The Telemon are about obedience and discipline, after all. But simply getting people to follow your orders is not enough to make you truly great."

"And I suppose you think you know what would make a truly great commander," Brett said sarcastically. "I can't believe I'm even listening to this."

"That's part of your problem," Johnny shot back angrily. He could see his sudden change of mood threw Brett back on his heels, so Johnny continued with his verbal assault before his superior could form a reply. "You don't see a reason to listen. All good commanders listen, it's part of the job. Siras always listened to me, and then Matt did the same. Siras has also always listened to Marcus, just as Matt listened to Magnus. Advice is valuable, and different perspectives can lead you to new answers."

"This is an army," Brett said. "We cannot afford the luxury of giving everyone a voice. The commander makes the calls, and everyone else obeys. To do otherwise would lead to a breakdown of discipline. On the battlefield, that could mean the end of all of us."

"On the battlefield," Johnny pointed out. "That's true enough, and on the battlefield, I would never even think of questioning an order. No more than you would. But this is not a battlefield, Brett. This is a time for thought and discussion." Yashida saw a strange look in Brett's eyes, something akin to gradual enlightenment, and so he pressed on, hoping to drive his point home. "Generals have meetings with their subordinates, Brett. You should know that. They ask for advice and alternate views. Our clan is small and generally operates in small units. With such an organization, it's possible for you to ask us our individual opinions and then come to a decision. As you said, once a decision is made and that order given, your subordinates are to follow without question. You're trying to play the role of tyrant, and that won't fly in this clan. You might get everyone to follow you, but sooner or later you'll overlook a point that perhaps someone else might have seen, and you'll get yourself and your entire unit killed." Johnny watched Brett for several minutes, and could almost swear he saw smoke coming from his clanmate's ears as he worked through everything that Yashida had said.

"You're right," Brett finally replied. "So, do you have any opinions?" The words were spoken hesitantly, as if just saying them made Brett feel awkward.

"I already made my opinion plain," Johnny answered. "You're a bad commanding officer."

"How?" Brett asked, his voice suddenly hinting at rage. "You wanted me to ask for opinions, and I have. What more do you want from me?"

"I want you to care about your subordinates," Johnny shot back. Johnny could hardly believe that he had been able to get Brett's mind to open enough to ask for advice, and he seriously doubted that he would now be able to make any other changes in his commander's policies. Still, he felt he needed to try. "There are many types of commanders, Brett," Johnny said calmly, trying to take the same fatherly tone he had always used with Matt. To his shock and amazement, the change seemed to make a difference, and Brett seemed to relax, to absorb what Johnny was saying.

"On one extreme, you have situations like General Custer," Johnny began. "He led his troops out onto the field only to have them butchered at Little Bighorn. They all followed because they had to, though you can be sure that there were a few who had a very good idea what they might be getting themselves into. He commanded absolute obedience. Is that enough, as far as you're concerned?"

"If Custer had won that battle, everything would be different," Brett pointed out. "His failure as a general is based on his defeat on the battleground and his recklessness in strategy. It has nothing to do with his troop's attitude toward him."

"Then forget Custer," Johnny said quickly, having to admit silently that he had erred in his choice of an example. Still, he would not concede defeat. He did not know too much about military history, but he did know enough to make his point. "How about Julius Caesar?"

"What about him?" Brett asked curiously. "He wasn't a loser, like Custer. Caesar won just about everywhere he went."

"Including Rome," Johnny said evenly.

"What's your point?" Brett asked curtly.

"Caesar's troops were loyal enough not only to die on the field for him, but to openly revolt against their own home, thus throwing away all that they had held dear before joining the legions. They followed Caesar not simply because he was the general, because they were expected to. They followed because they wanted to."

"Enjoying one's commander is not a luxury a soldier can expect," Brett pointed out.

"True," Johnny agreed, "but let me tell you this – I will follow you, since that is my duty, but don't ever believe that I do so because I want to. I am simply doing my duty, and no more."

"Fine," Brett answered.

"Fine?" Johnny asked incredulously. The smaller Telemon felt as if he had just been punched in the gut. When he had heard Brett was being assigned to New Orleans, Johnny had held out a little hope for the young commander. He knew that Brett was capable, and thought he might make a good leader. Now, however, he was not so sure. "I thought you were beginning to understand, but you proved me wrong."

"How so?" Brett asked, his tone making it apparent that he did not care overly much about Yashida's opinion.

"I told you I would do my duty, and no more," Johnny pointed out, "and you said 'fine.' But that's not fine. You should want to get as much out of me as possible. A great general has subordinates that do not simply do what is required, but who go above and beyond the call of duty. Your goal should not be to command simple obedience, but rather to inspire fanatical loyalty and service. We're fighting the Sabbat, Brett. Simple obedience won't cut it here."

"I see your point," Brett said sheepishly. "I know what you're saying, Johnny. I really do. But I don't think great leaders can be made. They can only be born. I don't have the kind of charisma that you're talking about. I know my strengths and weaknesses."

"That's a good start," Johnny interjected.

"I'm not finished," Brett said quickly. "I know my strengths and weaknesses, and I know strategy and combat are strengths, and leadership is a weakness. I can command, but I don't do an overly great job of leading. At least not the way you described it. I'm no Caesar."

"You can at least make an attempt," Johnny said calmly, trying to hide his shock at Brett's statements. Johnny had had no idea that Brett had been trying to be a better leader, and that he felt he was inadequate.

"How?" Brett asked. "I had this same exact conversation with Marcus… you know how everyone likes him, how they all look up to him. No one's ever been that way with me; I told him that I was unsure of my ability to lead, but he said to give it a try. He told me Matt had the same doubts before he went out to San Francisco, but that he had quickly found himself to be not only a good administrator and commander, but also a leader."

"Yes, he was," Johnny agreed, feeling another pang in his heart at the mention of Matt. Sometimes Johnny felt he would never get over the death of his favorite childe.

"You taught him, didn't you?" Brett asked suspiciously.

"I don't know what you mean," Johnny replied. "I can no more make a better soldier of someone than Michelle could."

"It's like the anarchs," Brett explained. "I heard them talking about you. They follow Simeon, but they would follow you instead if you wanted to lead. You inspire them to want to follow. You have that elusive type of charisma that a great leader needs. You know how to get people to follow willingly, and you taught Matt how get people to do it, too."

"Not really," Johnny explained, finally deciding he may yet have a chance of making Brett an excellent leader. "See, there's no formula for what you want to do. You can't simply read a book on being a great leader and expect miracles."

"Is there anything I can do?" Brett asked, a surprising hint of desperation in his voice. "I know that Siras and Marcus have high hopes for me here, and I don't want to let them down. I want to be everything they seem to think I can be."

"Then care," Johnny said simply. "Not just about what Marcus and Siras think, but about what your own subordinates think. Care about how they feel about not only you, but also themselves and their situation."

"What do you mean?" Brett asked.

"Michelle is the perfect example," Johnny explained. "Just like you said, she doesn't need any kind of medical care. Sure, her abdomen is ripped open, but she'll heal that in a matter of days. The bandages don't really help much at all. She's kindred, so it's not like she's going to get an infection, or anything. Sure, she's in pain, but that'll go away soon enough. Then she'll be as good as new, and she'll be thrown in the meat-grinder to follow your newest commands. We don't need to do anything to get her back into action. We only need to wait."

"So what's your point?"

"Care," Johnny answered. "Care about Michelle. She is, in theory at least, one of your soldiers. She told me about that blowup you and she had on the way in from the airport. I know she doesn't plan on following your orders. I also know that I will be following your orders, and that where I go, she'll usually follow. She can protest all she wants, but in essence, she'll fight the battles for you." Brett smiled thinly with Johnny's words, revealing that he had already reached the same conclusions. "Do you think your attitude toward her in there is going to help her want to serve you, though?" Johnny continued, reminding Brett of his callous attitude toward Michelle's wounds. "It's like we were saying before. She'll do what's required, but no more. If we all get gunned down in a building that starts to burn, do you think she would risk her neck to pull your body out?"

"No," Brett admitted.

"I don't think so, either," Johnny agreed. "But if you show you care about her as more than a combat asset, then she'll start to see you as more than a commander. She'll see you as a friend, and people do more for friends than they do for superiors."

"Just care?" Brett asked dubiously. "That's it?"

"Well, there's actually a little more to it than that, but if you genuinely care, then everything else will follow. If you fake it, it won't work. If you really care, then you'll be fine."

"I'll try," Brett said. "Go on back and finish patching up Michelle. Get her anything she needs, but try to hurry. We really have to get back out there soon, and we have a bit to talk about before doing any fighting."

"Such as?" Johnny asked, already suspecting the answer, but still hoping that the conversation could be avoided.

"I want to know who did that to Michelle, and why they would give her back," Brett said, confirming Johnny's fears. Yashida had hoped to avoid the topic of K.T., but now it seemed he would be forced to come clean about his associate.

III

"Where were you this evening, K.T.?" Roi asked smoothly as the Gangrel walked into the Superior Grille and sat at the table the bishop and his Templar had in the corner. "We were to meet at Fat Harry's, and you weren't there. One of the doormen told me that a man fitting your description had been there but left moments before I arrived."

Here it comes, K.T. thought. He knows I was talking to Johnny, and he won't take long to put two and two together. The mercenary wanted to steal a glance toward the doorway, to make certain he had a clear route over which he could flee. He restrained himself, however, knowing that Roi would see the action and realize that K.T. was planning to run. And if by some miracle Roi doesn't notice, his bodyguard certainly will, K.T. realized. He looked away from the bishop and at his Templar once again, the large man's face not betraying any hint of emotion or thought.

"Yeah, I was there," K.T. confirmed, knowing that Roi had likely reached that conclusion anyway. "Your supposedly secure location was less secure than you thought, though. There was an anarch in there." K.T. threw in the information about Johnny, not willing to make the omission in case Roi had heard that K.T. had been speaking with someone.

"Really, an anarch?" Roi asked curiously, leaning toward K.T. as he spoke. "I didn't see any signs of anarchs."

"Maybe he left before you got there," K.T. offered, feeling more uncomfortable with every passing second. He was getting the definite feeling that Roi was waiting to catch him in a lie, just so he could have the mercenary killed. Of course, enforcing his decision could be problematic, K.T. thought stoically. They'll find I'm harder to kill than most kindred in the New World.

"Maybe," Roi agreed, though his expression made K.T. feel as if the bishop did not completely buy into his story. "Tell me, how did you know this anarch?"

"I didn't," K.T. replied smoothly, thinking of a plausible story even as he spoke, piling one layer of bullshit upon another but making certain there was still enough of a foundation of truth to prevent his tale from collapsing. "He came up to me and started talking. I guess he could read auras and recognized me as a vampire."

"You guess?" Roi asked dubiously.

"It wasn't like I was wearing a sign that read, 'Vampire.' " K.T. began. "He dressed like an anarch, and you've had me out there killing anarchs with Riddick. If he recognized me from a fight, he would probably have shot me instead of introducing himself. The only logical conclusion is that he could auras."

"True enough," Roi said with a thin grin. "And what was this anarch's name, Mr. Corben?"

"Billy," K.T. replied, remembering that Michelle had muttered something about addressing the letter to 'Billy' instead of 'Johnny,' just in case anyone saw the note.

"So why didn't you just kill him?" Roi asked evenly. "I believe that would fall into your job description in this city. I'm surely not paying you all that money to play pool with anarchs."

"First, I wasn't playing pool with him," K.T. growled. "Secondly, if I tried to kill him, and he had friends show up at an inconvenient time, I might have started a gunfight in public."

"I don't see a problem with that," Roi replied with an amused grin. "Upholding the Masquerade is not high on my list of priorities. In fact, it's not on my list of priorities at all."

"Even when the public place I'm in is where I'm supposed to meet you?" K.T. asked. "Hey, if you want me to start gunfights in areas where you're supposed to be about to walk into, I'll do it. I just thought your bodyguard here would appreciate me relieving him of that kind of work-related stress." K.T. searched his employer for the slightest hint of a reaction, but saw none. Roi's face had become as stolid as his Templar's. Then a new thought occurred to the mercenary, and he decided to play the risky card in order to free himself of any lingering suspicion.

"That was another of your shitty tests, wasn't it?" K.T. asked angrily. "I'm getting sick of this, Roi. Just because you pay me well doesn't mean you're free to toy with me. Pull another stunt like that, and I'm gone." The surprised look on the bishop's face let K.T. know he had set Roi back on his heels as much as he had hoped.

"What are you talking about, K.T.?" Roi asked, his demeanor appearing to be completely straightforward.

"You've been trying to get me to break the Masquerade ever since I came into the city," K.T. shot back. "What, you figure I'm not loyal to you unless I'm breaking every applicable Camarilla law you disagree with? Is that it?" K.T. noticed that he was shouting, and he could tell from Roi's face that the bishop was suddenly becoming very uncomfortable. K.T. saw that the Templar was well aware of his bishop's unease, and was slowly moving for the inside of his jacket, though the motion seemed to be more of a warning than an actual threat. K.T. ignored the Templar and continued to rip into the bishop, knowing that every bit of rage he showed made it more likely that he would be perceived as genuinely miffed and not desperate to hide a secret. "You can take your public displays and shove them up your ass," K.T. snarled, allowing just the tips of his canines to grow, making him seem more bestial and threatening, though not enough of a danger to have the Templar rip his head from his shoulders. "Refraining from opening up with assault rifles and missile launchers has nothing to do with adhering to the Masquerade," K.T. continued. "It has to do with professionalism. I have it, and you and your sad bunch of miscreants don't. You hired me for my experience, and my experience says to do my job quietly. If you don't like the way I work, we can part ways right now. You can keep the rest of my payment."

Several minutes of silence followed as K.T. glared alternately at the bishop or his Templar, and Roi did his best to avoid any direct eye contact. As they sat there, a sudden thought occurred to K.T. This guy is actually scared of me, he realized. Even with his bodyguard sitting right there, I make him uncomfortable. This is the guy Philip is here to watch? That makes no sense.

"I see your point," Roi finally replied. "You are, of course, correct, Mr. Corben. I have no interest in forcing you to fight our way, it is enough that you fight at all. Also, rest assured that I had nothing to do with that anarch being in the bar. That was not a test, and I do not feel that any of my other assignments have been structured in any way either to test you or force you into open violence." If K.T. still needed to breathe, he would have sighed, but instead he simply allowed himself to relax a slight bit. A moment later, he regretted his haste in calming down.

In a movement that was lightening-fast, Roi's hand flashed out, grabbed K.T. by the collar and pulled his head forward, smashing his face against the table several times. The mercenary's sight was blurred, and he could feel several broken teeth floating in the mouthful of blood that had collected from lips that split under the force of the impact. "However, Mr. Corben," Roi hissed, "if you ever think you can either try to intimidate me, or ever again insult me or my people, you will be best advised to leave the city." By that time K.T.'s vision had cleared, and he could see the Templar gazing at him intently, almost as if he was hoping K.T. would strike back. Despite the fury that was burning within him, the Gangrel refrained from attacking the bishop, knowing that to do otherwise would likely prove fatal.

"If you do not care to work for me anymore, feel free to leave," Roi snarled. "You forfeit the remainder of your fee. And you can also forget about working for my faction ever again." He gazed deeply into K.T.'s eyes, and then smiled savagely. "Also, one more small point. If you're not working for me, I cannot be certain that I can ensure the safety of Ms. Blackwell. I mean, Ms. Flaherty," he corrected absently. The smile broadened, and K.T. started to feel sick.

"I understand completely," K.T. replied. "You'll have no more problems from me."

"Fine, then take the rest of the night off," Roi muttered. "You look like you got hit by a truck."

K.T. nodded and cursed himself for having relaxed in a dangerous situation. Everything about the bishop's expressions and gestures had led K.T. to believe he had intimidated his employer. However, the exact opposite had been the case. He realized that Roi had simply worked to appear weak, hoping to get K.T.'s guard down and allow an opportunity to strike. Now I see why Philip is interested, K.T. thought. Not just strength, but patience and intelligence, too. I can't believe I was so fucking stupid!

"Oh, there is one other matter I would discuss with you," Roi added almost as an afterthought, just as he was standing from his table. "What exactly were you doing last night?"

"What's that?" K.T. asked, once more feeling as if he were in the hot seat.

"Ms. Flaherty spoke with me earlier this evening and mentioned that you had not gone home before sunrise. I was simply curious what, or who, it was that kept you away from your companion for such a long time."

"I was busy," K.T. replied, no longer caring whether or not Roi was suspicious of him. Of course he'll be suspicious, K.T. reminded himself. Be happy that he is. If he's not suspicious, it's because you're one of the family. Maybe Erica would be happy with that, but I'll never go down that road. "You want me to start phoning in every hour to let you know what I'm up to?" K.T. asked angrily, a large degree of his bravado returning with the rage he felt at the thought of Erica returning to the Sabbat.

"I don't think we've reached that point," Roi answered. "Yet. Just make certain there are no further extended disappearances. A less confident bishop might think you were up to something behind his back."

"Well then it's a good thing for me you're not a less-confident bishop," K.T. replied with a thin, ambiguous grin. "Otherwise I might have to spend my time defending myself against absurd accusations rather than earn my money putting down your enemies."

"Yes," Roi agreed. "Enjoy your evening, K.T. Only Caine knows when you'll be getting another night off."

IV

"So who is he?" Brett asked again, seeming more agitated with every passing minute.

"I think I've told you about all you need to know," Johnny said evasively, knowing that he was starting to really irritate his commanding officer.

"He's a mercenary that you've worked with before," Brett repeated back to his clanmate. "I don't think that narrows it down enough, so I guess I need to know more. Something like... I don't know... maybe whether he'd consider selling us some information about the Sabbat bishop laying siege to the city. Or maybe some of his soldiers. Or maybe we could get this guy to turn against his employers and work for us. Having someone on the inside would be really valuable."

"You can forget all that," Johnny said evenly. "He won't turn against his employers. Not for any price."

"So how is it you've worked with a Sabbat mercenary?" Brett asked suspiciously. "We have strict orders to work only for the Camarilla."

"No shit," Yashida shot back. "This guy is a true merc. He'll work both sides, either Camarilla or Sabbat. Whoever meets his price is good enough as an employer."

"And what's his price?" Brett asked.

"More than you'll ever see," Johnny replied. "Besides, like I said, now that he's been paid and is out in the field, he won't turn for any price. You might as well just forget about him."

"I want to meet with him," Brett demanded. He crossed his arms to emphasize the point, trying to display his well-developed upper body."

"No."

"No?" Brett asked. "That wasn't a request, Yashida. That was an order."

"He's an information source, and not an enemy," Johnny answered. "That means he comes under my jurisdiction, not yours."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Brett asked. "Jurisdiction my ass. Bring him in."

"Give me some room to work," Johnny said calmly, reminding himself that the more belligerent he got, the less success he would have when dealing with what amounted to a defrocked Marine. "Siras expects me to provide the entire clan with information. I get no help with this work, unless you count Uiko the neonate or Michelle the gun-happy Gangrel. I have precious few information sources as it is, and only one really good one here in this city. If I bring him in here, he'll likely never speak to me again. I can appreciate your position, Brett, I really can, but I can't do my job if the rest of the clan keeps scaring away my contacts." Johnny had to suppress the chuckle that almost formed when he suggested that K.T. could ever be scared of Brett, but overall he felt his plea had derived the desired effect.

"Then go speak with him again," Brett responded. "Alone, if that's what works. I really want you to turn this guy."

"I can't do that, either," Johnny answered. "He's working for the Sabbat, Brett. Use your head. If he's seen talking to me, he'll be filleted without even getting the luxury of explaining himself. If I get to speak with him, it's because he went out of his way to contact me, not vice versa. That's just the way it is."

"I'm sorry for you, and I'm sorry for your friend, but you have your orders," Brett replied.

"Don't ask me to do this," Johnny said evenly, his voice not quite reaching the edge of begging. "I'll do just about anything else you want, but I cannot risk my contact." Yashida was well aware of the risk K.T. had taken in contacting him and returning Michelle. He would be damned if he would not at the very least stand up to Brett on behalf of his friend.

"There is one thing you can do," Brett replied far too smoothly for Johnny's tastes. "You can release Uiko."

"Fuck you," Johnny replied.

"That's the choice," Brett stated firmly.

"Uiko is being trained to assist me, Brett," Johnny shot back. "You know that. She's not a stand-up soldier, she's a spy."

"Or an assassin," Brett added.

"Or an assassin," Johnny agreed. "Be that as it may, I can't release her. First of all, the Traditions demand she be presented to a prince to be released. We don't happen to have one of those in New Orleans. Second of all, her training isn't finished. I won't release her."

"Then you'll speak to your mercenary friend," Brett replied.

"Do you remember that conversation we had earlier?" Johnny asked. "You know, the one about caring about your people? Have you simply forgotten all of what we discussed, or what?"

"I remember it all," Brett answered, "but I'm trying to win a war here. It's just you and me, Johnny. Well, I guess you could count your anarch friends too, but they won't accept my orders. I have to do anything I can to win. Remember, I have Siras and Marcus watching me, making decisions based on what they hear. If they hear I'm allowing you to hold out mercenaries, or that we're paying Uiko even though she isn't even experienced enough to be released, what will they think?"

"I'm sorry," Johnny muttered, seeing for the first time just how anxious his clanmate was. He had forgotten that Brett was inexperienced in leadership, both during his mortal days and also during his time as kindred. The ranks of the Telemon were still relatively thin, so there was little time for formal training. Siras' attitude was that his people would learn by doing. Brett was as unprepared to lead the fight against the Sabbat as Uiko was to actually take part in the fighting. "Don't worry, though, sir, it'll be alright." Even as Johnny spoke the words, it struck him how absurd they were. He knew it sounded as if he was trying to console a child, to assure him that everything would work out ok in the end.

"Then, on top of everything else, you're not helping," Brett said, continuing to vent his frustrations.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Johnny asked. "Just because I won't introduce you to my friend--"

"I'm not talking about your friend, Johnny," Brett said, cutting him off. "I'm talking about you. You refuse to fight."

"Fighting is not my strong suit," Johnny replied. "You should know that."

"I think you're much better than anyone gives you credit for," Brett said, each word sending a chill down Yashida's spine. Johnny had spent years developing his fighting skills, though he had always kept a low profile. The truth of the matter was that he was just as good as dealing out punishment as anyone else in his clan, but he had not spent enough time and energy enhancing his undead body. Vampires like Marcus or K.T. could stand up to gunfire like they were being shot by a BB gun. Johnny had no such superhuman constitution. As he had been a spy and thief, he had developed stealth instead of brawn, hoping that in combat he would either be able to sneak up on his enemies, or else have one of his clanmates dispatch the threat for him. It was a philosophy that had always worked for him. "You forget," Brett added, "I was in San Francisco during the Sabbat siege. You killed a Templar, Johnny. In fact, you killed the very same Templar that had me on the verge of death before you intervened. You can't convince me, of all people, that you can't fight."

"I'll make you a deal," Johnny offered, cursing the night he had to display some of the powers he had secretly developed behind his clan members' backs. "I can see the situation you find yourself in, and I want to help out. Let's go back out there with Damage, Incorporated. We'll find Damage Control, and this time we'll stick it to them. Really hard-core shit, we'll even wipe them out if we can. If we do that, then let me keep my secrets and my childe. If we don't do any better than we have in the past, though, I'll release Uiko to you, and only to you. She'll still be considered unreleased as far as any princes are concerned, which means you'll have to take over her training. But you'll also have the advantage of being able to command her to do anything, without worrying about whether I'll allow her to undertake the task."

"You have yourself a deal," Brett said with a smile, his mood seeming to lift immediately.

"Just one condition," Johnny added.

"What?" Brett asked nervously.

"When we go out there to fight, you have to take Riddick," Johnny said. "I don't know that I could beat him, and if I did, it would be because I used some abilities that make me very nervous. I'd rather not do that."

"You mean your shadow powers," Brett concluded.

"Yeah," Johnny confirmed.

"Marcus told me that you were getting worried about that stuff," Brett replied. "I'm fine with that. Just keep all of his packmates off my ass, okay?"

"Not a problem," Johnny said with a grin. "Now let's get out there, eh? Nighttime's wasting."

V

"So what have you been up to?" K.T. asked as he walked into the bedroom that he and Erica shared in the Bed and Breakfast. He could still hear Roi's words echoing through his head – Ms. Flaherty spoke with me earlier this evening, and mentioned that you had not gone home before sunrise. Rage built up within him as he imagined Roi playing with Erica's mind behind his back, seducing her away from K.T. The mercenary would not allow that.

"Just watching the hockey game," Erica replied, gesturing to the television, where Fox Sports Southwest was airing the game between the Dallas Stars and the Phoenix Coyotes. "I don't think these two teams like each other too much."

"Good guess," K.T. answered. "That's not what I meant, though. What have you been doing? You leave here at all?"

"Nope," Erica answered. "I mean, it's not like I have to go out to get beer and pretzels or anything, though Caine knows I could sure use some right now."

"Caine knows?" K.T. asked immediately, seizing upon Erica's returning Sabbat-like speech patterns. The Sabbat claimed to fight for the pure vision of Caine, the first of the vampires. To the Sabbat, Caine was like a god. It was unusual outside the Sabbat for a vampire to invoke the name of the first of their kind.

"Yeah, Caine knows," Erica answered absently. "Like you've never heard that before."

"Not from you," K.T. replied.

"I used to always say it," Erica shot back.

"I could've guessed," K.T. answered.

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Erica screamed. Her shouting startled K.T., and the Gangrel had to take a moment to collect his thoughts. Erica did not allow him that luxury. "Ever since we got here, you've been going off about how much the Sabbat pisses you off. If that's true, then why the hell did you even take this job?"

"You want to know why?" K.T. asked angrily, using the precious moments it took to ask the question to formulate a plausible lie. He knew there was no way in hell he could ever have told Erica the truth. Telling Erica would have been a huge breach of Philip's trust, and it would likely have brought Hassan to K.T.'s door, and not for a social call. "The reason is simple, Erica," K.T. stated. "I'm a mercenary. A very expensive one, actually. There are few enough people that can afford my services, and when one comes along, I've learned that it's unwise to turn him away. I don't like the Sabbat, but I'll work for them. For that matter, I don't like the Camarilla much at all, either, but I'll work for them, too. It's just business. There's nothing here to get personal about. You'd be well served to figure that the fuck out."

"What?" Erica asked, obviously stunned.

"Which part didn't you understand?" K.T. asked, once again pressing the verbal attack. He knew it had been a long time since he had talked to Erica like this. In fact, it had not been since their earliest hours together, under fire in New York, that he had been so hostile. He also knew that being so vicious ran the risk of forcing her to get closer to her new Sabbat 'friends.' He was past caring, however. He was too angry – angry at Philip for sending him to New Orleans, angry at Erica for actually taking to the assignment on a personal level, angry at Roi for smashing his face open, and angry at himself for not being strong enough to deal with everyone that was making him angry. "What the fuck, Erica? You've been with me for long enough to figure out that a mercenary does not get involved personally in his job. Strict professionalism – that's the way of a mercenary's life."

"Well maybe I don't want to be a mercenary anymore," Erica retorted, failing miserably at concealing the bloody teardrops that were forming in her sparkling, almond-colored eyes. "We left New York too quickly, K.T. Maybe we should have tried to make them understand. Polonia would have at least listened if we tried to tell him the Camarilla had made an attempt on his life."

"The Camarilla?" K.T. asked immediately, before he caught himself in horror. He had almost forgotten that Erica's memories of the events in New York had been altered considerably. She had no recollection of the intricate conspiracy that had taken place, or the involvement of the Black Hand. She had been allowed to retain the memory of the battle with the cardinal's Templars, but not the actual reason for the gunfight.

"The assassination attempt," Erica said, prompting her companion. "Don't act like you don't remember."

"It's something I've been trying to forget," K.T. said without missing a beat.

"There was no assassination attempt, was there?" Erica asked suddenly, her question coming out of nowhere. K.T.'s stomach completely bottomed out when he heard the question. "You don't have to answer, K.T., I can see it in your eyes. I already guessed that much. I talked to a couple of the younger Sabbat vampires a bit, and the topic of New York came up. And don't worry, I still didn't tell them who I really am, but I heard quite a different story from the one you told. Actually, I heard a few stories that were different from the one you told. Seems the official story matches up with what you told me, but there are a lot of rumors. I don't even know for sure what really happened, and I was there. Doesn't that seem odd to you?"

"The Sabbat has a cover-up going on, Erica, you have to see that," K.T. replied. "You think they would let it get out that the Camarilla got that close to taking out the Cardinal of the Eastern United States? You might as well expect the Camarilla to start advertising in the New York Times for new Justicars every time one is killed."

"Why have you been lying to me all this time?" Erica asked. "How could you? I trusted you. I loved you."

"Loved?" K.T. asked. "Past tense?"

"I don't know, K.T.," Erica said, her body finally starting to rack with slight sobs, scarlet teardrops now running freely down her pale white cheeks. "I can't love somebody I don't trust, and I can't trust you."

"Yes you can, Erica," K.T. replied. In the back of his mind he could vaguely tell that his voice sounded weak, as if he were begging. That added to the list of irritants in his life, making him even angrier, but his overwhelming feeling of grief quickly drowned out his rage. All that was left was a wounded young man. "I'm the only person in the entire world who you can trust, Erica. Don't you see that?"

"I wish I could believe that, but I don't," she responded, getting up off of the bed and grabbing her backpack from the closet.

"Where are you going?" K.T. asked, a sense of desperation beginning to take over him.

"Away from here," Erica said sadly. "Away from you."

"To the Sabbat?"

"I don't know," she said evenly. "Maybe, but not right away. I have some things I need to think about."

"Like what?" K.T. asked, taking her by the hand, clenching her soft skin in his callused hands, as if the physical contact would be enough to drain her resolve and bring her back to him. It did not work.

"I have to figure out why you would allow someone to alter my memories, and then lie to me for years," Erica explained calmly. "And don't stand there looking shocked, as if you had no idea of what had happened. The only thing that should surprise you is that I figured it out, I guess. And just so you know, I don't remember how things actually went, so you can feel okay about that. I'm going to figure it out, though, and then we're gonna talk."

No, K.T. thought grimly. If you figure it out, you're going to die. Philip and Hassan will never allow you to regain your memories of the True Hand. "Don't do this," he pleaded, keeping his true concerns to himself.

"It's done," she said, pulling her hand from his grasp. She walked through the door without looking back, and K.T. was left to close the door behind her.

Part of him wanted to run after her, to convince her that everything was still all right, that her fears and suspicions were unfounded. Another part of him knew that was a lie, and felt she should have some time to figure things out for herself. The strongest part of the mercenary, however, the one part of his personality that had been with him for as long as he could remember, would simply not allow him to chase her. Ever. His pride, his independence, his overly stubborn iron will would not permit him to play the role of a lovesick puppy that had been hurt. He would leave her to her own devices. If she never comes back, I'll probably be better off, he tried to convince himself. And if she does come back, she'll have some apologizing to do.

"I believe that could have gone better," a voice said from behind the mercenary. K.T. whirled as he drew his Ruger, and came face to face with Philip.

"You keep coming in uninvited, you're liable to get yourself shot," K.T. grumbled. "What the hell do you want this time?"

"I was watching you and your lover, and I was wondering what you plan on doing about this situation," Philip answered.

"First of all, she's not my lover," K.T. shot back.

"Oh, my apologies," Philip replied smoothly. "I was under the impression that you had shared blood with her more than three times, and that you had not been blood bound to anyone before doing so. I assumed that a blood bond had been formed with our dear Ms. Blackwell, just as it would have been with any other vampire in the world. Forgive me if the biological laws of vampirism do not hold true to you."

"Fuck off," K.T. muttered.

"That's hardly the way to talk to the person who could fix your little problem," Philip chided. "You really should be more friendly.

"Fix my problem?" K.T. asked. "How you plan on doing that? You think Hassan will be willing to pay Erica a visit?"

"A valid suggestion, Mr. Corben," Philip answered. "I had not thought you would be open to the possibility of liquidating Ms. Blackwell. That could, of course, be arranged."

"Forget it," K.T. replied. "What did you have in mind?"

"I have many friends, K.T.," Philip explained, "and many of these friends owe me favors. I'm sure we could have someone alter her memories again. Perhaps this time we can have her convinced that you saved her from the vile clutches of some fiendish Sabbat bishop."

"No," K.T. said immediately. "No more fucking with her head."

"It would solve your problems, K.T.," Philip responded. "I thought that would please you."

"She was right, you know," K.T. said. "Everything she said was right. I've been lying to her ever since we left New York. Everything we have is based on lies."

Philip gazed at his protégé for a few moments, and then let out a long sigh. "What the hell was I ever thinking when I recruited you?" he asked rhetorically. "In you I thought I had found an peerless warrior, but here you are wallowing in self-pity and misery like some lovesick teenager. You could have been great, K.T., but now you're pathetic. You had best get your act together."

"Meaning what, exactly?" K.T. asked, already suspecting the answer.

"You're a smart enough boy to figure that out, Mr. Corben," Philip said. "I have no use for weaklings. If you are not strong and resourceful, then I will find someone who is."

"I'm sick and tired of your shit," K.T. grumbled, cupping his face in his hands for a moment to gather himself. When he removed his hands, Philip was nowhere in sight. "Fine, you want bad ass, you'll get bad ass," K.T. said angrily.

The mercenary withdrew his cell phone from his duster pocket and dialed Roi's phone number. The bishop answered almost immediately. "It's Corben," K.T. said. "Give me someone to kill."

"I thought I told you to take the night off," Roi replied.

"I seem to have found a lot of unexpected pent up aggression," K.T. responded sarcastically. "I plan to use it to dust some poor unsuspecting Camarilla dope. Now either you give me a target of your own choosing, or I'll just blow away the first jackass who gets in my path. So you gonna give me a name or what?"

"Settle down, Mr. Corben," Roi said smoothly. "I have the perfect target in mind for you."

VI

"I don't care if they're out there talking shit about us," Simeon said sternly. "I'm not fighting those guys again. They want our turf that bad, they can have it."

"But they're probably Sabbat," Johnny replied, looking over his friend for any sign that Simeon was considering giving in. He saw none.

"Simeon's right," Cabbage Patch said, adding her voice to the discussion. "I think we should just leave town."

"Leave town?" Brett asked, making certain he did all he could to bring Johnny's anarch allies into the battle. "Weren't we here first?"

"We were here first," Simeon shot back. "You didn't get here until after the Sabbat did. Don't think we've forgotten about that just because you fought Riddick to a draw."

"We can win," Johnny said, his voice overflowing with confidence. "Trust me."

"You weren't there last time, Billy," Simeon said, turning to talk to the smaller Telemon. "They kicked the shit out of us, and whacked Ghetto Blaster, maybe Michelle too."

"Michelle is fine," Johnny replied. "Well, close enough to fine. She'll need a couple of nights to heal the gaping hole in her stomach."

"She's okay?" Simeon asked.

"You think I'd be out here if she wasn't all right?" Johnny asked. "No way, man."

"For all we know, she got killed and you're going to use us to help you get revenge," Cabbage Patch interjected. "I have no use for your vendetta, Billy. I really think we should leave."

"We?" Johnny asked. "All of us, or just you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Cabbage Patch asked.

"It just occurred to me that if I were in the Sabbat, I would try to get the anarchs to either join the cause or else leave the city," Johnny answered. "They tried to enlist most of us, and we said 'no.' Maybe now they sent one of their inside people to convince us to leave."

"Someone like me?" Cabbage Patch asked. "Is that what you're saying?"

"She catches on fast," Brett commented to his clanmate."

"As if," Cabbage Patch replied. "I think if I were in the Sabbat, I would try to trick the anarchs into coming back as often as possible, until they were all wiped out."

"Oh, that makes sense," Johnny shot back. "Spend time and resources wiping out anarchs in the open so that the older kindred have a chance to prepare themselves for when it's their turn. The Sabbat would never do that."

"How do you know?" Cabbage Patch asked. "Is it because you're one of them?"

"It's because the plan is stupid," Brett answered for his clanmate, bringing an amused smile to Johnny's face. "Look, we can send accusations back and forth all night, but we'll end up in the same place."

"And where's that?" DeNiro asked, finally walking over to join the group.

"I don't know, you tell me," Brett responded. "Where did you guys sleep last night? Where were you planning on sleeping tonight? You seem unwilling to go back home as long as Damage Control is in the area," Brett pointed out. "Where we end up is up to you."

"You're right," DeNiro said. "I'm not gonna bend over and let those faggots fuck me up the ass. We're gonna go give them somethin' to remember."

"And what's that?" Cabbage Patch asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"An ass-kicking for all time," Simeon answered. "Either we win, or we don't, but we're not backing off of our own turf."

"Damn skippy," Johnny agreed. At that moment Barb and Uiko walked over, just in time to hear the news.

-------------------------------------------------

"You know, part of me pities you," Riddick said arrogantly. "I mean, we killed off one of your people last night, and you still come back looking for more. This time we're gonna hurt you real bad."

"Talk is cheap, asshole," DeNiro replied, looking to get the fight started as soon as possible.

"Isn't there some way to work this out?" Johnny asked, trying desperately to buy some time before the cutting and shooting started. He figured every second was crucial, so that he could have all of his people in place.

"What?" DeNiro asked, turning to his packmate. "I thought you were the one that really wanted to grease these sons of bitches."

"Only if we have to," Johnny replied, never taking his eyes off Riddick. "What if we agree to stay out of your little war?" Johnny asked the Sabbat pack leader. "Just leave us alone, and we'll leave you alone."

"No deals," Riddick answered. "Uptown is ours now. Seems to me you can just accept that, and leave, or you can keep coming back up here and get killed."

"No deals?" Johnny asked. No way we let you keep Uptown, he thought silently. While Uptown and the bordering universities were generally considered an anarch playground, it was also accepted custom that any vampire in the city could go there to feed. That was obviously the reason for having Damage Control pay so much attention to a seemingly worthless area. By keeping out the locals, the Sabbat would slowly starve off the vampires that offered any resistance. "Then it seems we're at an impasse."

"A what?" Riddick growled. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means there won't be any agreement, jackass," DeNiro offered. "It means we kick the shit out of you now." Johnny's Brujah packmate lunged forward at Riddick, only to be intercepted by one of the other Sabbat.

Riddick quickly took three steps back and gestured for Brett to come at him alone, and the large Telemon accepted the challenge gladly. While Brett and Riddick started to fight with knives as they had the night before, everyone around them drew a gun and either started firing or diving for cover. The Sabbat soldiers, more confident in their fighting abilities, controlled the fight early, sending the anarchs into an immediate state of confusion.

"What the fuck do we do now?" Simeon asked Johnny as the two crouched behind a beaten-up lime green Cadillac. "Is this what you had in mind?" Bullets tore through the vehicle's steel body and ricocheted off of the pavement all around the two vampires.

"Run away," Johnny answered quickly, gazing directly into Simeon's eyes. The act of domination was simple, as Johnny was ordering his friend to undertake an action toward which he was predisposed anyway. "I'll cover you for a few seconds." Simeon needed no other prompting, and gestured for Uiko, DeNiro, Barb, and Cabbage Patch to follow. Simeon dove away and all but Uiko followed immediately. The Telemon neonate held her ground firmly, shooting blindly over the hood of a Chevy Cavalier in the general direction of three Sabbat that had organized themselves into a cohesive unit. Now that they're gone, the fun can begin, Johnny thought. He had only needed Damage, Inc. to come with him into Uptown to help attract more attention. Now that Damage Control had found them, the Telemon preferred to send his friends away, both to protect them, and to make certain they would not see any of the abilities he was about to display.

Yashida started to focus the blood in his body, sending it into his arms and legs so as to increase strength, stamina, and physical coordination. The effects would be temporary, he knew, but would last long enough to give him every edge that he would need. Once he had augmented his supernatural body as much as he could in so short a time, he changed his focus from enhancing his mortal form to activating vampiric disciplines. Every muscle in his body began to shake ever so slightly as he accelerated his movements. In a blur of motion he darted from behind the Cadillac and at the three Sabbat. Only one of them even saw him coming, and the comparatively inexperienced combatant did not have enough time to get off a well-aimed shot. Johnny drew his ninja-to as he shot toward his enemies, preferring to use the hand-held weapon in close-quarters combat.

Johnny hamstrung one of the gunmen before the Sabbat even knew he was there, and followed the initial attack with a spinning slash that severed the Sabbat vampire's forearm, taking his Uzi from his grasp. By that moment the other two had recovered enough to turn their attention to Yashida, and Johnny braced himself for the shots that he knew he would not be able to avoid. Be like the water, he could remember Uiko advising him not long ago, perfectly serious but reminding her sire of Bruce Lee in 'Enter the Dragon.' Water can be soft, but it can also be hard. It can yield under pressure, but it can also destroy with solid force. Both Sabbat vampires opened up on the Telemon, and Johnny was thrown back farther than either had expected. In the last moment before they had fired, he had levitated himself the slightest bit off the ground. By not having his feet firmly planted below him, he was able to move better with the impact of the bullets. His body was less like a wall than an upright mattress absorbing the impact of each bullet.

Behind his foes, Johnny saw Uiko approaching with her own ninja-to. He knew she would gain a free strike from behind before either could react, and set about healing as much damage as he could so that he would be able to make an effective counter-strike of his own.

Brett, however, was not in as much control of his situation as his clanmates were of theirs. Riddick only seemed stronger than he had the night before, and Brett found it difficult to keep pace with the obviously older and more experienced vampire. Only the advanced training and combat experience that Brett had received as a mortal kept him alive against a Sabbat soldier that should have been tearing him to pieces. Riddick would dive at Brett, throwing quick combinations of kicks, punches, and knife slashes, and then suddenly, inexplicably, back off as if he was reevaluating his adversary. The constant changes in tempo threw Brett off of any rhythm and prevented him from anticipating any of Riddick's attacks.

Twice Brett tried to get his right hand free long enough to draw his Colt 1911 .45 cal. sidearm, but it seemed as if Riddick was reading his thoughts. Before Brett could get his hand more than a few inches in the direction of his pistol, Riddick immediately pressed his attack harder, forcing Brett to use all of his concentration to hold the other vampire at bay. It was during the second attempt at drawing his weapon that Brett realized his opponent was toying with him.

Johnny, meanwhile, watched with delight as Uiko approached unseen and drove her ninja-to into the back of one of Johnny's opponents, the blade impaling the vampire's heart and sending him into torpor. The second vampire facing Yashida gasped slightly as he realized his partner was suddenly gone from the fight. He tried to back off, but Johnny was expecting the attempt at escape. For the briefest moment, the Sabbat soldier was left vulnerable as he was half-turned toward Yashida. Johnny made good use of the momentary opening. He thrust forward with his ninja-to, driving the sword into the vampire's abdomen. He then twisted the edge upward, and lifted with as much strength as he could muster. For the briefest moment, the vampire was lifted an inch off of the ground, but then the wickedly sharp blade quickly suddenly sliced upward through ribs, muscle, and flesh as easily as a knife through Jell-O. One more quick gasp escaped the vampire's lips, and then he collapsed to the ground. By that time, the third vampire, whom Johnny had initially hamstrung, had healed his wound enough to also try to flee. Uiko saw the vampire's movements, and stomped her foot down onto the Sabbat's leg, which was still bleeding from an open wound. She looked toward her sire, and Johnny shook his head as he drew a sawed-off shotgun from his back. A bright flash of light illuminated the dark alley as a jet of flame burst forth from the shotgun, the dragon's breath phosphorous round that had been in the weapon incinerating the Telemon's foe.

With his three adversaries defeated, Johnny turned back toward Brett to see if his commander had yet finished up with Riddick. To Johnny's surprise, Riddick was winning. Brett was being forced back several steps, blood flowing freely from several slashes across his arms and legs, with one large wound on his left shoulder. Riddick was grinning widely as he drove the Telemon back on his heels.

"Shit," Yashida muttered. He was about to power his undead body toward his clanmate when he saw a brief flash of light reflecting off a small metal object. A brief moment later Riddick grunted in pain. The large Sabbat pack leader tried to reach around toward the back of his left shoulder while still holding off Brett with only his left hand. While Brett was cut up badly, he was not yet defeated, and he had more than enough skill to sneak in a strike against a foe that was only paying him half as much attention as he should have been. Brett slashed at Riddick's right thigh, the one part of his body that was stuck out the farthest. Riddick's left hand moved a fraction of a second too slowly. The blades met with a sharp clang, but Brett's military issue survival knife slid off of Riddick's knife and cut into the vampire's thigh. The large vampire staggered, and then grunted as he rolled his right shoulder. This time Johnny could see the cause for Riddick's distraction. Two Japanese throwing stars were embedded in his back, one right behind each shoulder. Yashida turned slightly toward Uiko, and saw his childe withdrawing a third star in her hand. A brief moment later Uiko was thrown back in a hail of gunfire, a salvo that also knocked Johnny from his own feet. He looked up to see Cabbage Patch emerge from behind the same lime green Cadillac that he had been using for cover a short time earlier.

"Get out of here Riddick!" Johnny heard the local anarch shout, her voice clearly on the verge of panic. She's part of the Sabbat, he realized immediately, not at all surprised at the revelation. He had fully expected one of the members of Damage, Inc. to be Sabbat, but had he been a betting man, his money would have been on Barb. Like Michelle, Johnny had already decided that Barb's behavior was just not right for a Caitiff. Johnny concentrated on healing his wounds, flowing his vampiric vitae into every part of his body that hurt, knowing his mystical blood would take care of the healing process almost on its own. He cleared his head and looked up, just in time to see Cabbage Patch standing over him, a crazed gleam in her twinkling grey eyes. "Who the fuck are you?" she asked venomously, suddenly seeming more concerned with interrogating Yashida than she was with getting Riddick to safety.

"You'll never know," Johnny muttered in response, a thin smile forming over his lips. "'Cause after all, you're dead." Cabbage Patch gave him a puzzled stare, and then a thick red mist burst forth from her chest. She gazed down with a puzzled look on her face, not initially realizing that she had been shot. A moment later the pain hit her, and she grimaced just as another bullet tore into her, this one spraying half of her head all over Johnny. Yashida stood quickly, a grimace on his face. He did not try to find Mason, whom he knew was responsible for the well-placed and timely sniper support. He would simply commend his childe later on a job well done. For now, there were other pressing matters.

Johnny looked immediately toward Uiko, who was already struggling to her feet. By the time Johnny turned back toward Brett, the larger Telemon's confrontation was over. Riddick's body was lying on the ground, Brett's knife sticking out of his chest. Yashida assumed that Brett had been able to make fully effective use of the distraction that Uiko had provided.

"Can you carry him?" Johnny asked his superior immediately. He could already hear the less than faint sound of sirens in the distance, doubtlessly responding to calls regarding the intense gunfire that had been raging only a couple of minutes earlier. Brett nodded, and Johnny gestured for Uiko to pick up the second staked vampire, who still had Uiko's ninja-to protruding from his back. She also nodded, then hoisted her trophy and melted into the nearby shadows.

"What are we gonna do with them?" Brett asked, his eyes not on his clanmate, but on the street, from which the sound of sirens was growing louder every second.

"Take him back to the haven," Johnny replied with a gesture toward Riddick, wondering why he was the one giving orders. "I have something special planned. I'll meet you back there after I get rid of these bodies," he called, referring to the other two that he and Uiko had been able to kill. "Mason, take care of your own kill," Johnny muttered, knowing his childe was listening through the microphone that Johnny was wearing. As Johnny's two victims were dead, they served no special purpose other than to endanger the Masquerade. While the two vampires would have had no problem with knowing that their corpses would have led to the violation of one of the Camarilla's greatest laws, Johnny had the exact opposite sentiment. He grasped each corpse firmly, and then flew twenty feet into the air. Flight was a relatively new power for the small Telemon, and he was still working out a lot of the finer points of the ability. Holding over three hundred pounds in dead weight was not making matters any easier, either. After a great deal of time and exertion, he was finally able to set the bodies down two blocks over and throw them in the back of a car that he appropriated. The rest of the plan was easy – drive to a deserted parking lot and torch the car, thus destroying all evidence.

VII

Give me someone to kill, K.T. thought, recalling his own words, spoken not too long ago. Roi had satisfied his desire for a worthy victim, that much was certain. He looked with perverse amusement at the name on the thin file in his hand – Jules Du Lenne, the Toreador primogen. K.T. could hardly believe Roi's nerve. Well, that'll teach me not to question his orders again, the Gangrel thought ruefully. Goddamn temper's gotta get under control. I could have had a night off, but now I have to ice a primogen. Before he could mutter another curse at Roi, K.T. remembered what it was that had driven him back onto the battlefield that night. Erica had left, taking a huge piece of him with her. K.T. could actually feel the void in his soul where, until recently, he had kept his heart. That was a space meant only for Erica, though, and if he did not have her, he had no place for empathy, mercy, or love. He could just imagine how Philip would feel when he saw the carnage that K.T. planned to unleash. Son of a bitch'll probably have wet dreams all day while he sleeps.

Jules Du Lenne lived in a large Victorian style house directly on St. Charles Ave., right at the edge of the Garden District. That posed two major problems for the mercenary – first, the location was entirely too public for his tastes, and second, there would be police response within two minutes, and likely within less time. My ass none of your assignments are meant as a test to get me to be publicly violent, K.T. thought angrily, remembering his conversation with the bishop in Superior Grille. If you really wanted me to be able to keep a low profile, you would have had your own people do your dirty work here instead. I can't wait until this job is finally over, K.T. thought with a thrill, his emotions shifting from simply hostile to absolutely murderous. I'm gonna skin you alive, Roi. No one can treat me like this.

The mercenary checked his weapons and almost laughed. He had his trademark Ruger Redhawk .44 cal. hand cannon, and four speed loaders. In all, that gave him only thirty shots, and he had doubts whether he could do the job with such little ammunition. Of course, once I open fire I'll have about a minute and a half to finish the job and escape before the police arrive, he acknowledged as another wave of rage passed over him. I'm gonna do this job, and I'm gonna scare the holy hell out of Roi with the way I do it, K.T. decided.

The mercenary stepped back into a shadow and scanned the streets in every direction, making certain that there was no one near him that would see what he was about to do. In the course of only a few seconds, his body started to shift and fade, and then began to change consistency. In a frighteningly short time, K.T. had gone from a six-foot tall mercenary in a brown duster to no more than a wispy, intangible mist. The ability to shift his form into a mist was something new to the Gangrel, and the sensation still felt extremely awkward to him. He always wondered exactly how he looked as he spread his form out thinly and floated through the air. This time, however, he was struck with a memory of Cecil B. DeMille's movie "The Ten Commandments." He remembered the Angel of Death as an apparently harmless green mist, behind which the wailing of mothers could be heard as the first-born sons of Egypt were struck dead. Yes, the Angel of Death, K.T. thought, pleased with the analogy. Tonight, that's me, and every Toreador will weep for their primogen, who is about to be cut down in his prime.

K.T. floated up to Du Lenne's house, amazed that not a single one of the half-dozen guards had noticed him. He did not stop to count his blessings, however, and examined the building closely. All of the windows seemed shut tightly enough to prevent even a mist from getting through easily. K.T. wondered if such a precaution was taken to prevent the very thing he was attempting, and hoped that it was not. Otherwise, his job would be far more difficult than he wished. Any concerns the Gangrel had were pushed from his mind immediately, however, as he came around the front of the building. Two guards stood before the door, but both were looking away from the mist that hugged the building's white wood paneling. The one feature that drew K.T. attention was the mail slot in the door. It was obviously still in use, and K.T. inched his way over toward the glaring oversight in the building's defenses.

The thin mist gathered itself slowly in front of the door, and K.T. marveled that neither guard ever even flinched. They seemed as well disciplined as the English Beefeaters at Buckingham Palace, but unfortunately for Du Lenne, his sentries were facing the wrong direction. The Gangrel floated inside the building and scanned the entrance's parlor. No one was in sight, and he could not hear any voices. Taking faith in his ability to shift back into his solid form quickly enough if danger presented itself, K.T continued on in his mist form.

He floated out into the main hall, finding a huge dining room with a sixteen-foot high ceiling and a massive kitchen beyond. Gotta love this Southern architecture, K.T. mused, allowing his mind to drift from his chosen task for the first time since Erica walked out. When he realized his lapse, he would have shuddered if it had been possible. Instead, he simply redoubled his resolve and focused on the faces of everyone who had angered him during his life. Roi came first, followed closely by Philip, and then, predictably, his sire, Ty, also made an appearance in his memory's menagerie of despised acquaintances. K.T.'s thoughts settled once again, however, as he found a staircase. He drifted upwards, keeping his form as thin as possible, and emerged on a landing that was decorated, predictably enough, with several paintings on the walls.

It was then that K.T first heard the voices. He could hear the muffled sounds of an argument taking place in a nearby room, so he followed the noise. He stretched himself out incredibly thinly, extending his form over twenty feet and keeping himself at the point where the wall met the floor. He figured that would be the best way to prevent detection.

"I think you'd better just play ball with the rest of the primogen right now," a voice said, K.T. finally able to make out the words as he arrived at the outside of the room. The slightest hint of a Japanese accent tinged the voice, and K.T. ran through the names of all of the house guards, coming up with none that were Japanese. He concluded that the voice belonged to someone from outside the home, and from the firm tone he was taking, that someone had to be rather influential.

"Fine, I'll take your opinion under advisement," a second voice answered angrily. That would be Du Lenne, K.T. realized immediately, unable to believe his luck at arriving in the right place at the right time.

"No you won't," the first speaker accused. "Damn you, Jules. If you screw this up, you might just take all of us down with you."

"Fortune favors the bold," Du Lenne replied. "This siege is no time to play it safe. If we do this right, we can not only defeat the Sabbat, but also win the city for our own clan. It is the Toreador, not the Ventrue, who have guided New Orleans for most of its history. There is a great opportunity here."

"If you split our resources for this power-grab of yours, you'll only succeed in tearing our clan apart," the first man stated firmly. "You're a great artist – you're every bit as good as your old mentor, Rafael – but you're no strategist."

"Battle is an ugly thing which only occupies the minds of grunts like those Telemon mercenaries Carlos is so intent on having around," Du Lenne shot back. "Strategy is a simple enough thing. It all comes down to who has the greatest will."

Well, that's at least partially correct, K.T. admitted silently, acknowledging that the Toreador primogen was right on the mark when he cited will as a major factor in emerging victorious from a conflict. Butr the whole 'strategy is simple' thing is just about as stupid as anything I've ever heard in my life… and I hang around with Erica. Remembering the Ventrue antitribu sent a new wave of fury through the Gangrel, and he focused again on the conversation, hoping that concentrating on the job would banish thoughts of the mess his personal life had become.

"It's called the martial arts for a reason," the first man answered after a deliberate silence. "You are a fool, and I simply hope you realize that in time to avoid destroying us."

The door opened unexpectedly, and K.T. did not even have time for a short prayer that he would not be discovered. The primogen's visitor did not see him, however. The brief moment that K.T. had to look in the room allowed him to see that along with Du Lenne there was only one bodyguard. The door closed again, leaving K.T. in the hall to formulate a plan that would allow him to kill both Toreador without having an alarm raised. Before he could come up with anything, the voices started again.

"Maybe he's right, sire," a voice that could only have been the guard's said. "I've heard a lot about the Sabbat. This might not be the best time to make a play for the city. We should help the other clans and then take the city once we know for sure that it still belongs to the Camarilla."

"Why are you even speaking to me?" Du Lenne asked. "I don't remember asking you for an opinion, Sebastian. You like the Jap's plan so much, then run along with him. Maybe he'll hire you as a bodyguard. God knows you need the work."

"What?" Sebastian asked.

"You're fired," Du Lenne clarified. "I embraced you only to protect me, not lecture me. If I want advice, I'll consult my lieutenants, Sebastian. If you can't do your job in silence, you won't do it at all. Now get out."

"Seriously?" Sebastian asked. "You'd be alone up here."

"I have other guards," Du Lenne said absently. "Now get out before I have you thrown out. In several plastic bags. Understand?" No further words were spoken; the door opened and Sebastian walked out quickly, leaving the primogen alone.

Roi couldn't have done his homework, K.T. thought. Why kill this clown? He seems utterly incompetent. He'd have to be the best artist of his generation to be able to hold influence with his management style. K.T. started to move toward the door when a new, frightening thought occurred to him. Maybe he's not a great artist. Maybe he's just the biggest bad ass in the clan, and now I'm about to go in there and fight him. The mercenary considered that thought for a moment, and then began to wonder if he was, perhaps, wrong in trying to be subtle. His best bet might lie in just throwing it all out there and getting the job done, simply forgetting about subtlety. Then some of Du Lenne's words came back to the mercenary – Battle is an ugly thing which only occupies the minds of grunts. With an attitude like that, K.T. doubted that Du Lenne would be as formidable a foe as his age indicated he could be; the mercenary had not missed the mention of Rafael as Du Lenne's old mentor.

The mercenary started to filter in under the door before he got a chance to rethink his decision again, and found Du Lenne standing looking out the window, his back to the door to his room. K.T. saw that he was in a study, noting that if he needed them, the letter opener on the desk and the silver candelabra on the bookcase could be used as effective makeshift weapons. He did not plan on needing weapons, however. The thin mist that drifted under the door gathered behind the Toreador primogen and coalesced into the form of K.T. Corben. The Gangrel grew his hands into sharply taloned claws and gathered his strength to strike. Before he could swing, however, Du Lenne turned quickly, a startled look on his face. Damn, he saw my reflection in the mirror, K.T. realized angrily, surprised that he had overlooked the crucial detail that had betrayed his presence. He quickly attributed the oversight to the fact that he had been in mist form, which was still an unusual experience for him.

"You shouldn't have fired your bodyguard," K.T. said evenly. In a flash his right hand slashed out, leaving a thin line of blood across Du Lenne's throat. The Toreador tried to call out for help, only to find that his foe had severed his vocal cords with the first strike. Before Du Lenne could react, K.T. slammed his left hand into the primogen's abdomen, his claws shredding through flesh and spraying blood onto Du Lenne's Oriental rug. With a flick of the wrist the Toreador produced a jeweled stiletto in his left hand and lunged at K.T. The Toreador was fast – faster than his foe – but he obviously had not had much practice stabbing unexpected visitors. The mercenary managed to sidestep, grabbed Du Lenne's arm by the wrist, and landed a crushing blow on the elbow with his free hand. The Toreador's arm was completely bent in the wrong direction, and his scream of pain found no voice.

K.T. could see that he had already defeated his target, and that all that remained was the killing. He could hardly believe that it had been so easy to kill a primogen. Then again, he realized, everything about this primogen screamed 'weakness' and 'inexperience.' He was physically incapable of fighting, and his inane plans appeared to include making a play for the seat of prince while the city was under siege. All things considered, K.T. knew, Roi and his soldiers were better off leaving this primogen alive. Du Lenne would only make things worse, and it was possible that his successor would have a solid head on his shoulders. K.T. smiled when he realized that killing Du Lenne was probably a bad move for the Sabbat. Fuck him, the Gangrel thought happily. Roi should have researched the situation better. Under most circumstances, I might consider leaving this clown alive for the time being and ask Roi if he's sure about killing him. Too bad for Roi that I hold grudges. K.T. reflected again on what Roi had done to him. He thought about getting his head bounced off the table, about Roi seducing Erica with dreams of the Sabbat, and of testing him with every job. Fury was rolling off of K.T. in waves, and he went from thoughts of Roi to memories of other antagonists in his life.

Suddenly, a voice from deep down in the Gangrel's mind told him to get a grip, and he gathered his cool. When he finally regained control, he looked around him to see that there was blood all over the study; Du Lenne's body had been ripped to pieces, appearing to have been drawn and quartered in the center of the room. Did I do that? he wondered. K.T. knew that those in the Gangrel clan always had closer contact with The Beast within than most other vampires, but he had never had it take control of him like that. There's no way I did all that quietly, he realized suddenly. Without another thought he opened the window a crack and turned into a mist once again, even as voices were approaching down the hallway outside. By the time anyone arrived to help, K.T. was long gone, out into the night.

VIII

Johnny Yashida stopped his black Yukon outside the darkly foreboding home and scanned the streets nervously. There were more police cars than usual in the Garden District, but he figured that was to be expected. With the increased violence the city had recently seen, it made sense that the wealthy elite would see to it that patrols were increased around their homes. He stepped out of the vehicle and began to walk around to th rear when someone called out to him.

"Excuse me, sir, but could I see some I.D.?" a man asked, walking out from the shadow of a small elm. Johnny looked the man over and decided immediately that he was not kindred, and almost certainly not a ghoul. That would not have made sense here.

"Who are you?" Johnny asked suspiciously, casting a subtle glance over his own person. Under his black wool overcoat he was carrying several weapons, including his ninja-to, and he did not care to have them seen by non-kindred.

"Neighborhood watch," the man answered. Johnny nodded, knowing that it was common for off-duty police officers to make the rounds through the more affluent neighborhoods. Yashida had never taken the time to look into it, but he was certain that there was an exchange of either money or favors as a gratuity for these services. Yashida slowly took a wallet from his left inside coat pocket. He opened it for the man, who shined a penlight down on it. "Homer Thompson?" the man asked incredulously as he read the name on Yashida's fake Louisiana driver's license. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"Why, because I'm Asian?" Johnny asked, putting just the right blend of offense and anger in his voice, doing a capable job of hiding his amusement. He had chosen the name half-hoping that something like this would happen. "I'm only half-Japanese," Johnny explained haughtily. "My father's surname name was Thompson, and my grandfather's name was Homer. I don't see why it's so funny."

"I'm sorry, sir," the cop replied quickly. "I didn't mean any offense."

"That's all right," Johnny answered quickly, "I'm pretty much used to it. After grade school, nothing anyone says can really bother me." Johnny could hardly believe that the man had called him 'sir,' though. While Yashida was well past forty years old, his body appeared to be no older than twenty, maybe twenty-one.

"I bet grammar school was hell," the neighborhood watchman replied with an understanding nod. "You here visiting friends?"

"Actually, I'm going into the Martin house," Johnny replied, gesturing toward the Tremere chantry. "It's a business meeting."

"Really?" the man asked. "What business you in?" he asked, sounding much more like he was making conversation than continuing an interrogation. The change in tone made Johnny relax a slight bit, though he was fairly certain that the man before him had spent years perfecting that ingratiating change in tone.

"I'm in life insurance," Yashida replied with a thin smile, slightly disappointed that the man would never understand the slight joke he had just made. "Maybe you'd be interested in seeing what my company has to offer." He played up his part well, figuring that any low-life insurance salesman weasel would likely have made the same offer, trying to make any sale he possibly could.

"No, I'm a cop," the man said, confirming Johnny's earlier suspicions. "The department takes good care of our families in the event of anything unfortunate."

"Suit yourself," Johnny replied with a shrug, turning once more toward Carlos Martin's home. "I suppose I'm free to go, officer?"

"No problem," the man answered. "If you see anything suspicious, make sure you call it in."

Something like the two corpses in the back of my truck? Johnny asked silently. "I'll make sure I do," he said, keeping any sarcastic remarks to himself. "You can't be too careful these days." He then walked away without another word. Two guards were standing inside the gate, which was one of only two openings onto the Tremere property, surrounded on all side by a six-foot brick wall. The other gate was the entrance to a circular drive and a large garage. Yashida could only guess at what mystical security measures were added to the slim physical barriers.

"Who are you?" one of the guards asked.

"I'm here to see Martin," Johnny answered. "I'm not entirely comfortable talking out here. If you would just let me inside the gate, I'll explain myself and the reason for my visit.

"We'd rather you just tell us before we let you in," one of the guards answered.

"That off-duty cop is probably watching us, and any delay in letting me in is only going to arouse suspicion," Johnny answered evenly.

"The cop works for us," the other guard replied. "There won't be a problem with him. One last chance. What do you want?"

"I'm a representative of the Telemon," Johnny answered, "and I'd really hate to have to say more until we're away from any unwanted listeners."

One of the guards opened the gate without another word, Johnny's limited identification seeming to have satisfied them enough. "We'll have to wait here a moment," one of the men said briefly. Within a minute a third man came up to the pair at the door and looked over Yashida.

"Please follow me," he instructed, and then turned to walk up the short walkway toward the house. "Now that we're free of any unwanted listeners, would you care to explain yourself more fully?" he asked.

"I'm Johnny Yashida," the small Telemon answered. "I came by to drop off a gift."

"Really?" the man asked, a disturbing tone in his voice. It was almost as if he knew exactly why Johnny had come, and was looking forward to any interrogation a little too much. The two crossed the threshold and into the building, Johnny wondering the whole time why his footsteps seemed quieter than usual. Is the entrance enchanted or something? Or am I totally wigged out by being in a chantry and I'm over-reacting to everything? He only hoped that his anxiety was not showing.

The man gestured toward a chair in the foyer. "Please sit there until Mr. Martin comes to speak with you," he instructed. "There are things in here you wouldn't like to see. And others that wouldn't like to see you," he added eerily. "It would be best for all concerned if you just wait."

"That's not a problem," Yashida answered. One part of him had always wondered what it would be like to wander around a Tremere chantry, but his rational side would never allow him to do anything so foolhardy. He had already seen enough Tremere blood magic and mystical constructs in his short unlife to convince him that all things Tremere were best left alone.

The small Telemon sat in silence for no more than five minutes, all the while trying to absorb as much as he could about his surroundings. Everything about the building seemed mysterious, from the dark paneling to the thick scents of cinnamon and incense that hung in the air. Yashida was about to risk moving from his seat to more closely examine a portrait hanging on the wall when Carlos Martin came walking down the dimly lit main hall, a thin smile on his face. "It's wonderful to see you again, Mr. Yashida," he said pleasantly. He looked the Telemon over intently with a gaze that made Johnny somewhat nervous. "What is that?" he asked, gesturing toward Johnny's black suit. "It's not Armani, but close. I really like the cut."

"It's Trevani," Yashida answered, producing a puzzled look from his host. "Giovanni Trevani," Johnny explained. "He's a designer from Venice who just moved to Miami. I happened upon his stuff purely accidentally, but I was extremely impressed. I ordered several custom-made suits, and he was happy to oblige. He seems to take a slight bit of pleasure in adding additional pockets and sewing in gun holsters and sword scabbards," Johnny added. "I'd be happy to give you his number, if you'd like. Just please tell him I referred you. He might give me a break on my next order."

"I think I'd like that," Martin answered. "But let us get down to business, yes? I doubt you came here to discuss new trends in men's fashion. My great-grandchilde told me you came bearing gifts."

"A prisoner," Johnny explained. "He was a member of a Sabbat pack in Uptown."

"Yes, I've heard of them," Carlos replied. "Damage Control or something, yes?" Johnny only responded with a nod. "They've been making it difficult to feed as freely as we would like in that neighborhood. The college students have generally been one of our best food sources."

"I think obstructing the food supply was that pack's very purpose," Johnny answered. "That's the only reason I already eliminated them."

"Eliminated them?" Martin asked, either unable or unwilling to hide his surprise; Johnny could not decide which. "The entire pack?"

"The entire pack, in addition to a Sabbat spy that was placed in one of the local anarch gangs," Johnny answered. He noticed the slightly impressed look on the Tremere's face, and congratulated himself on a job well done. "I would have preferred to trail them for awhile, hoping that someone from that pack would have eventually led us to a haven or some members of the other packs, but, as you pointed out, feeding was becoming more difficult. We can't have problems feeding during a siege."

"Of course not," Martin agreed. "So, you have a prisoner," Martin said. "What can you tell me about him?"

"Not much," Johnny admitted. "His name is Riddick, and was the leader of the pack. I figured you'd want him more than the other guy."

"The other guy?" Martin asked curiously.

"We took two hostages," Johnny replied evenly. "I figured I'd present one as a gift to the gathered primogen, to show them that my clan has been busy enough earning its money."

"And you saved the best one for me alone," Martin replied. "I'm touched, Mr. Yashida."

"Don't be," Yashida answered. "I figure the primogen will either just kill any captives, or else stumble along in interrogation no better than my own clan would. The Tremere claim to have special, how shall we say... ah... methods of persuasion. It was my hope that you could get something more out of Riddick if left to your own devices. If you can find out where the bishop and the other packs are, that would be enough for me. What you do with him after that is none of my concern." While the delivery of Riddick was explained as a business transaction, Yashida knew that Martin would see it as the gift it was. He simply hoped the Tremere would remember his act of charity in the future.

"I will let you know as soon as we find out anything," Martin replied. "However, as for the other hostage, perhaps you would be best served by leaving him, as well. I can deliver him to the primogen for you."

"Wouldn't make the desired impression," Johnny said with a suspicious glance. Best served? he wondered. What did Martin mean by that? Something here is very wrong.

"Jules Du Lenne was killed earlier this evening," Martin answered. "While the primogen haven't officially gathered yet, there was a conference call. A man named David Kingman has claimed control of the Toreador clan and has accused members of your clan of being responsible for Du Lenne's death."

"Oh really?" Yashida asked, sounding none too impressed. "So we whacked a primogen in the same night we wiped out a pack of Sabbat? We must've been pretty busy. I think I'll ask for a raise."

"I haven't accused you, Mr. Yashida," Martin replied. "I was simply doing you the service of letting you know what some have been saying. It might be best to keep your people off the streets until this unfortunate misunderstanding is resolved. Of course, this current situation with Kingman may mean little in the long run," he added suddenly, as if a new thought had just occurred to him. "Another Toreador, Martina Silas, has also claimed leadership of the clan. It seems Kingman and Silas will duke it out for a while, and your employment should be secure at least until that's decided. If Kingman wins out, though, things could get uncomfortable for you here."

"Of course," Yashida responded, his brow furrowing in thought. While Johnny appeared to have plenty of time to concern himself with appearances, accusations, and strategies, he felt there was no time like the present to begin his work. "Why would the Toreador think we did it?"

"Because Du Lenne was killed in his own home, and there were no other victims," Martin answered simply. "Someone got past all of Du Lenne's guards and killed the primogen in his own study. You had come around tooting your own horn about being able to take out your enemies without endangering the Masquerade. Add that with the facts that Du Lenne was the only primogen to speak out against your clan's presence and the instant dislike the two of you seemed to take to each other. It seems some people were all too willing to put two and two together and come up with five."

"Great," Johnny muttered.

"I'll help you clear up this problem," Carlos offered. "It seems the least I can do in gratitude for the gift you so graciously brought me and my clan. If you ask me, I would guess an Assamite did the job. The Sabbat does have access to some Assamite antitribu."

"Probably," Johnny answered. "I guess I should get back to my commander and let him know what's up."

"You mean you're not the commander?" Martin asked, seeming genuinely surprised. "I had simply assumed that you were the one calling the shots."

"Nope," Johnny answered. "The Telemon clan isn't all about structure and discipline. It's also about doing the job right. My commander takes looks around personally and makes a great deal of his decisions based on what he sees. Then he also sends me to talk with all you guys, while all the time keeping himself insulated from you. There are some that might try to use certain abilities to affect the minds of our people," Yashida admitted, not feeling at all bad about one of his young clan's strategies. He figured allowing the information to get out into the open might actually serve to protect his clan in the future. "Not that you're one of the people we would expect not to play fairly," Johnny added slyly. "It's just that it's policy. We like having a system of buffers, to insulate our leaders from undue influence while in their decision-making process."

"I see," Martin said absently as Yashida rose to leave. "I do have one other question, Mr. Yashida, before you go," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"What's that?" Johnny asked.

"Your sword," Martin asked, referring to the ninja-to that was concealed underneath Johnny's coat. "Where did you get it?"

"From a dealer in Japantown in San Francisco," Johnny added simply. "The metal had been folded several times, creating over sixteen-thousand layers. I guess it's not quite up to par compared to some of the stuff made back in the day, but it's certainly better than most swords you'd find nowadays."

"No doubt," Martin replied, "but that's not entirely what I meant, and I think you know it."

"No, I figured not," Johnny admitted, hiding his glee. He had worn the sword to the chantry intentionally. He had had Heinrich Schacter, a mage, take the blade for a short while several years earlier, ostensibly to enchant it. While Johnny was relatively certain that the blade was every bit as magical as the wizard had assured him it was, Yashida had figured that wearing it to a Tremere chantry was the prefect way to test it – no magical weapon would have gone unnoticed by the Tremere. "It was enchanted by a mage that I knew, in return for services rendered."

"What services did you need to perform to get your hands on a weapon like that?" Martin asked.

"I helped him arrange to have a pack of garou run into a group of heavily armed Brujah and Ventrue enforcers," Johnny answered slyly, offering no more information.

"So these games are something you're used to playing," Martin concluded. "Fine, Mr. Yashida. I'll be in touch with you at some point in the near future when the dust settles. I think the primogen will be most impressed with your gift and recent successes. I doubt there will be much open hostility."

"Great," Yashida muttered. "I'd rather have open hostility than more of the back-stabbing shit that's all too common for our kind."

"Wouldn't we all?" Martin asked rhetorically. "I'll have my guards help you unload the bodies. Have a good night, Mr. Yashida."

Johnny left the chantry feeling slightly ill, wondering just how bad the situation actually was. If his clan was suspected of murdering a primogen, it was doubtful things could get much worse. Of course, if it was the Sabbat that was behind the attack, and if it was indeed an Assamite that had done the job, he could expect to make that Assamite's acquaintance in the near future. That definitely made things dangerous. He decided he had to get his clanmates together as quickly as possible, so that they could be reasonably certain they would survive the current crisis.

IX

"Sit down, Mr. Corben," Roi said with a smile, his demeanor having shifted completely from the enraged attitude he had displayed when K.T. had last seen him.

"I'd rather stand," the Gangrel replied, making certain he would not be sitting across from the bishop ever again.

"As you wish," Roi returned, a look in his eye making K.T. think the bishop could read his thoughts. "I am extremely pleased with your work earlier," the bishop commented. "You have exceeded my greatest expectations."

"I figured it was another attempt to get me to break the Masquerade," K.T. said evenly. "I thought you'd be pissed again that I was able to do the job too quietly."

"On the contrary, I hoped you would succeed in using the same discretion you have displayed in all of your previous jobs," Roi responded. "This particular assignment needed to be done with care. It needed to be efficient."

"Why?" K.T. asked, now suddenly curious as to Roi's motives.

"Because that is how the Telemon would have done it," Roi answered.

"The Telemon?" K.T. asked, feigning surprise at the mention of the name.

"They're a clan of Camarilla mercenaries," the bishop said.

"I know who they are," K.T. said, "I just didn't know they were here." He knew he needed to admit to knowing who the Telemon were. To do otherwise would have cast suspicion over him. One in K.T.'s line of work needed to know who the competition was.

"They won't be here for much longer," Roi answered. "I had rather thought I would keep Du Lenne securely in his place controlling the Toreador. He was incredibly inept and was certain to run his own clan, and perhaps a couple of others, straight into the ground." K.T. nodded as Roi spoke, not completely surprised at the revelation that Roi knew exactly how incapable Du Lenne had been during crisis situations. That still left the question of why Roi would kill Du Lenne if he had so much to gain from keeping him alive. "Unfortunately," the bishop continued, "I was not given the luxury of keeping Du Lenne in place. Some of my superiors have advised me that it would certainly be in my best interest to remove the Telemon from the situation. Do you agree?" he suddenly asked very pointedly.

"Perhaps," K.T. answered ambiguously. "I've met a couple of them, and they're all very young. I've heard they're efficient, but I don't know how effective they would be against your forces."

"Effective enough," Roi growled, his mood darkening as quickly as if someone had simply turned off a light switch in a room. "Riddick's pack has apparently been exterminated, and I can only assume that the Telemon were behind it."

"The whole pack?" K.T. asked, unable to hide his surprise. He knew that Riddick and his cronies were not as incredibly formidable as some of the Sabbat packs K.T. had seen in New York, but they were, nonetheless, a powerful group. The mercenary was impressed at his counterparts' ability to win such an impressive victory so quickly.

"The whole pack, and a spy in an anarch gang," Roi spat. "My people had effectively closed off Uptown from the free feeding that they natives were accustomed to. In a short time we would have been able to see the effects of our 'blockade.' Instead, we're back at square one, with the exception of me now having two packs to work with instead of three."

"I see," K.T. muttered. He knew this would likely mean a far heavier workload for him. He would have to remember to thank Johnny. "In that case, maybe you should take out the Telemon."

"As I first thought," Roi answered, his face offering no clue as to whether or not he was still searching K.T. for signs of betrayal. "I was going to give the job to you and Erica. It seemed only fitting that I use my mercenaries to destroy theirs. Then I heard a wonderful little tidbit from one of my Toreador spies."

"And what was that?" K.T. asked.

"The Telemon only work for princes," the bishop replied. "They appear to want to stay out of purely local problems."

"Makes sense," the mercenary said with a nod. "I wish I had used that policy a few times. My life certainly would have been a lot simpler."

"I bet," Roi commented. "The Telemon are only here working now because the Conclave of Primogen voted unanimously to have the Telemon stay. Apparently, if even one of the primogen reverses his position, the Telemon will pack up and leave."

"I get it," K.T. responded with a knowing look. He could see exactly where this was going. "So you decided to do politically what would take far longer to do militarily," he said.

"You catch on rather quickly, Mr. Corben," Roi commented. "Yes, I plan to have Du Lenne's successor be a man of my choosing. He will make certain that the Telemon contract is not renewed. Once the grunts are gone, it will be open season on the locals. Of course, without Riddick's pack we will still be hard-pressed, but I think in the end we should be able to take the city."

"Great," K.T. replied with less enthusiasm than he figured Roi would have liked to hear. "So did you call me here simply to congratulate me and gloat, or did you have something special in mind?"

"When you called you said you had some pent up aggression," Roi said, referring to K.T.'s earlier phone call. "From what I heard, you must have taken out a lot of it on Du Lenne. His study apparently resembled the inside of a slaughterhouse when his guards finally arrived on the scene. I was wondering if you have worked everything out of your system yet."

"Why?" K.T. asked, getting a slight twinge of anger in the back of his mind. He could feel heat start to build up in his chest, the ignition of a small fire that he knew would grow into an inferno quickly enough. "You got something else for me?"

"As a matter of fact I do," Roi said. "I will warn you, however, that this is not a job that you might be able to do with absolute subtlety. However, I think you might still find it enjoyable."

"What is it?" K.T. said with a malevolent stare.

"Once the Telemon are gone, the local Brujah, both anarch and not, will likely be the largest nuisance," the bishop said. "I was wondering if you would be kind enough to wipe them out, so that my people will be able to focus more on the city's elders."

"So that your people are able to kill the ones worthy of diablerie," K.T. concluded. Roi simply nodded in confirmation. "Sure, I can wipe out the rabble for you," he said. "Just give me a list of places where I can find them."

To be continued……………………………………