Disclaimer: see in the Introduction.
Rating: G, for this part
Author's notes:
Now that Cash finally is on his way, we can start to make some crossover references (not too many of them yet, so no need to get nervous) as well as introduce on of the original characters. In the upcoming parts the inner struggles among different vampire clans would be referred to – a lot – but still no need to fret. Even if you never gave any attention to Vampire – the Masquerade, you'll still understand what this is all about.
Still, I want to pay my respects to Mark Rein-Hagen, who created all the vampiric clans. Without him, we won't have Kindred now.
PART THREE Highway to the South, 26. August 1999The night was getting old and dawn came nearer. Not a real sunrise yet, not even the false dawn, but the eastern horizon was beginning to fade to dark grey instead of the impenetrable black velvet of the true night. Well – impenetrable for mortal eyes. It made not the least difficult for Cash to find his way through the darkness.
He was a creature of the Dark, after all.
And he also was quite late. Fixing that broken drive chain set him back. Well, even the best-laid plans could have their not-so-nice little surprises, and he was beyond tired now. No matter how fast the big Harley ate up the miles as the sky lightened, it had been a long ride from San Francisco; one that he made with almost no rest at all.
It was less than an hour before sunrise when he finally arrived at the gas station Lorraina had showed him on the map, about half a mile or so from the outskirts of the urban monstrosity called Los Angeles. He turned in to the tanks for a refill, then parked his Harley safely and looked around. The station looked empty, almost abandoned – except of a small night café, only a few meters away.
Deciding that it was as good a place to start as any, Cash headed towards the small shop. It proved just as empty as the whole station itself.
"I'm looking for Eric," he said to the tired-looking girl behind the counter. "Is he here?"
The girl shrugged. "I don't know the people by name. Maybe you should just sit down and wait for a while. Your friend will show up eventually."
Cash bit back a rude answer (after all, the girl wasn't supposed to know every biker that rode through the station), bought a mug of coffee and positioned himself at one of the four empty tables, facing the door.
It took him by surprise, nevertheless, when a deep voice addressed him from behind.
"You looking for me?"
He stood immediately and turned around, looking at a not very tall but broad-chested and well-muscled young man, clad in leather pants and a black T-shirt with a narrow silver collar that had a beautifully-crafted wolf's head in the exact middle. The long, raven-black hair, the broad cheekbones and the slightly slanted eyes told of the stranger's Native American descent, but there was wisdom in those eyes that belied his apparent age of about 30.
''It depends," Cash answered warily. "Are you Eric?"
The stranger nodded. "I am," then he added, "Eric, The Spirit Crow. They call me that because I've returned from the death. And no, that was before we became… related. You're C.R., right? Lorraina's brother?"
"Cash, actually," Cash took the proffered hand, relieved that he had found his guy. "She didn't give me a detailed description, though. She said you might have changed a lot in all these years."
"I haven't really," Eric shrugged. "Too old for changes, I guess."
Cash gave him a curious look. "How old?"
"Thirty-one mortal years," Eric grinned. "Ever since 1911. You?"
"Before or after 1952?" Cash asked. They both laughed.
"Now, we have to decide what to do," Eric continued. "The only really safe haven for our people is another 40 miles from here, and the sun rises in about 35 minutes. Are you in any shape to ride during daytime?"
"Not really," Cash admitted. "I've been on my way all the night and had only bottled stuff at home. Better than nothing but certainly not the right thing against a sunburn."
"That's true," Eric scratched his nose thoughtfully. "Okay, then we'll have to risk to go to Rose's."
"Is that dangerous?" Cash began to feel a little uncomfortable. Eric shook his head.
"Not in itself. But it's a known place."
"Whose territory?"
"Anarch. It belongs to the gang 'La Hermandad'. They have a Brujah leader, though."
"Brujah? Are you tired of your unlife? They'll kill us by sight!"
"Not really. You see, the Anarch here won't recognize Cyrus' claim of Princedom. Not even the Anarch Brujah. Especially not the leader of this gang."
"Why not?"
"He is allied with the Minister of the Eastern City, who happens to be his Sire – and who hates Cyrus more than even we could hate him."
Cash shrugged. "The Rabble always fight among themselves. That's nothing new."
"True," Eric agreed, "although 'La Hermandad' is not such a bad bunch of people. You have to understand that here, in L.A., alliances are not always formed along Clan boundaries. But we can talk about everything when we've reached Rose's haven."
They got onto their bikes and Eric led the way deeper into the City, albeit not very far. They only had to go about ten miles, then they arrived to one of the Latino-inhabited parts of Los Angeles and stopped in front of a big block of flats – obviously the home of many poor Mexican families, if one could trust the smells coming out of all the open windows. In many homes the preparation of breakfast has already begun.
Eric climbed onto the saddle of his bike and knocked on one of the closed ground-floor windows. He used a certain pattern that had to be familiar to the owner because the window opened immediately, and out looked a young Latino woman – not particularly pretty but lovely nevertheless. She recognized Eric and gave him a relieved smile that lit up her whole face.
"Eric! You're back already?"
"Yeah. Can we come in, Rose? We have to stay for the day; my friend here isn't in any shape to take a sunbath."
"Okay, but bring in your bikes, too. I don't want to announce to the whole neighborhood that I have visitors."
With that, she closed the window again and opened the front gate from the inside, most likely with a remote control. Cash and Eric wheeled their heavy bikes inside – not only into the inner court but also directly into the narrow hall of Rose's flat. It seemed to be common practice because Eric didn't even hesitate.
Rose ushered them into the kitchen and offered them some bloodwine. Eric made the introductions.
"This is Rosa Hernandez," he nodded towards the young woman. "She's of the 'Lupus' bloodline; I'm a 'Coyote', by the way. Rose, this is Cash."
"Nice to meet you," Cash hugged Rose, as it was custom among Gangrel and rubbed his face into her soft hair; she smelled familiar, not unsurprising from someone of the same bloodline. "I'm called Cash, and I'm a 'Lupus', too – one of the 10th generation."
Rose chuckled. "Well, in that case I'm your Elder, being of Ancilla blood and all… not that it would be of importance among Clan-brethren. Besides, I'm really young for a Kindred, spent less than 30 years in the Dark. Who's your Sire? Where are you from?"
Cash grinned. The girl might not be the stunning beauty Sasha had been, but she was funny. And sweet. And pleasantly rounded on all the right places.
"Actually, I'm the Clan Primogen in San Francisco – or I used to be, until Xavier decided to make my job a meaningless one. As for my Sire, well, he's dead. I mean, Final Death sort of dead. His name was Stevie Ray. And he wasn't only my Sire; he was my predecessor, too. As Clan Primogen and as the chief bodyguard of the Prince."
Rose and Eric exchanged a strange look.
"Stevie Ray, huh?" the girl asked. "Do you know anything of his ancestors?"
"No," Cash shook his head. "We weren't really close, to be honest – he wasn't close to anyone from us. And he never spoke about his past. Why are you asking?"
Rose shrugged. "Just wondering. Our bloodline is so widespread, you can always meet people you've never heard of before. But you must be tired. It's a long ride from San Francisco to here," she turned to Eric. "Are you planning to take him to Blackfeather's haven?"
Eric nodded. "It's the only safe one."
"True," Rose agreed, "but I think… perhaps he should meet Madame Zorza, too. It might be… interesting for him."
"Is she in town at all?"
"Just got back. Had to hunt down Isabel again."
Eric rolled his eyes. "That brat will be the death of us one day."
"Technically, we are dead," Rose reminded him mildly. "Besides, that 'brat', as you call her, is nine hundred years old."
Eric shook his head in exasperation. "No, she's eleven. She was eleven nine hundred years ago, and the centuries she spent in torpor didn't increase her brain functions a bit. She's still lurking around in cemeteries and stealing fresh corpses to feed on them. She should have been destroyed a millennium ago."
"I know she's crazy," Rose said, "but other than that, she's quite harmless. And at least Madame Zorza has some company."
"Excuse me," Cash had been listening to their conversation with morbid fascination, but now he needed some solid facts. "Who exactly is Madame Zorza?"
Rose and Eric exchanged that strange look again.
"She's our local Elder," Rose answered then, "and a gypsy fortune teller above that. We never exactly had a Primogen in L.A., most of us being Anarch, so the Elders of the two bloodlines more or less took over the job…"
"Why do I have the feeling that you don't tell me the whole truth?" Cash asked.
Rose smiled. "Because we don't. There are… things we're not authorized to tell you. But I'm sure Madame Zorza will be happy to fill you in. I can contact her if you want."
Cash hesitated for a moment – the whole situation seemed somewhat strange to him – then he shrugged.
"Why not?"
"Good," Rose seemed relieved. "Now, you two go sleep. Eric knows where my guest room is. I'll call Madame Zorza and make an appointment for you."
The two men agreed and went to sleep. Rose withdrew to her own bedroom, too far away for even their keen Kindred ears to listen to her whispered phone conversation.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Now, what sort of secret might the L.A. Gangrels keep? And will Cash ever find out?