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 coincidental and unintended.
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Author's Note: Sorry for the long time before the update. Serious character issues have been raised, and it was necessary to spend more time than expected making sure that I don't destroy the integrity of certain characters contained herein.
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Chapter 1
I
Johnny Yashida had just finished Part 2 of The Stand when he heard an insistent knocking on his door. Placing his beaten-up Batman bookmark in place, the small Telemon trudged sleepily toward the doorway, not even bothering to carry a weapon with him. While he was far from home and in a relatively indefensible hotel room, he found it hard to become too concerned. The war with the Sabbat was easily put out of one's mind in the less-than-buzzing city of Boise, Idaho.
"Who is it?" he asked as he reached the door, standing to the left of the doorway to make certain that he would not be shot if he had run into the one or two aggressive vampires in the upper Midwest.
"Western Union," a cheery voice announced from outside. "I have a telegram for a Mr. Jonathan Yashida."
"Slip it under the door," Johnny instructed, grabbing his 9mm from the holster hanging in the closet just inside the entrance. He was not expecting a telegram and couldn't remember ever receiving a telegram in his life – either before or after his embrace. He stifled a yawn that reminded him of how close sunrise was. If it's a hit, I'm fucked. The sun'll be up within a half hour; if I have to run, I won't have much time to find a place to bed down for the day. If that's someone's ghoul out there…
"I'm sorry, sir, I need a signature," the man explained from outside. "If you'd prefer that I come back-"
"Who's the telegram from?"
"A Princess Michelle Marlowe," the man answered. "Wow, you know a princess?" The question was spoken with such surprise that Johnny was immediately convinced that he was in no danger.
"She'd like to think so," Johnny grumbled under his breath so that the messenger would not hear. "Hold on," he said more loudly, opening the door with his right hand while concealing his left hand – holding his pistol – behind his back.
The messenger handed a pen to the Telemon while holding out a manila envelope in his other hand. "Right here, sir," he said far more amiably than Johnny thought should have been possible so early in the morning. Or so late in the night, depending on who you're talking to. Johnny signed a slip that was attached to the envelope, and then the messenger tore off a copy of the receipt and handed the parcel to the kindred.
"Thanks lots," Johnny said, a flourish of his hand producing a five-dollar bill that he handed to the messenger. He was completely unsure of telegram etiquette, but he would rather tip when not necessary than not tip when it was expected. Far better a spendthrift than a tightwad. He closed the door, fought back a yawn, and opened the envelope, finding a hand-written letter rather than a telegram. He immediately recognized the handwriting as Michelle's.
Dearest Johnny,
I have to go away for a while to work some things out. It's no secret that it hasn't been the same between us since the whole thing with DuPree, and I'm tired of sitting here waiting for everything to get better on its own. It's been two years now, watching you look at me for permission when you want to turn off a light, or walking on eggshells every time you say something that you think might remind me of the Sabbat and what they did to me. I've had it.
Don't worry about me while I'm gone – I'll be careful, and I'm not gonna be alone. This isn't me getting kidnapped again or anything, so relax and know you're not about to get a call from some new spooky bad guy. I just have to do the Gangrel thing – spend some time away from the safe, secure, and familiar routine and face my fears head-on. I think it's the only way I'll ever get my head screwed back on straight. I guess I'll see ya when I see ya.
Love,
Princess Michelle xoxoxo
P.S. – Let's be honest, Boise is kinda Dullsville anyway, so it's not like I'll be missing much. Maybe I'll catch up with you again in time to head somewhere fun. Like maybe L.A.!
P.P.S. – Wasn't that cool with the Western Union guy? I've wanted to do that ever since I saw Back to the Future 2. And I know it was a dick move to send you this letter just before sunrise, but I wanted to get a head start before you got it in your head that it's a good idea to talk me out of this. Because it isn't, and you couldn't. See ya soon… hopefully in the dark.
"Goddamn it," Johnny cursed, stifling another yawn. "Of all the half-ass stupid things she's ever done, this takes the cake. What in God's name is she thinking?" For two years Johnny had watched as his companion suffered with the emotional and psychological scars of her captivity, oftentimes wondering if she would ever recover and occasionally – though very rarely – almost being thankful for the fact that her wounds kept her close to him. He had been through the wringer himself while she was held, and having her by his side meant knowing that she was safe, that she had not been taken again. Now she was gone, asserting her Gangrel-esque independence for the first time in years, and doing it at a very inopportune time.
The clan is finally starting to get back out there, and this is when she decides to face her demons. Thinking in those terms sent a chill through the small Telemon, and he reread the letter carefully, searching for any clue as to where Michelle had gone and what, exactly, she was planning to do. 'Do the Gangrel thing,' Johnny mused, pondering Michelle's choice of words. "Just what in hell does that mean?" His mind raced from one possibility to the next, until he arrived at an extremely uncomfortable possibility. One thing I know for certain – the Gangrel are notorious for being loners. Is she trying to tell me that she's finally just gone off? Was it something I said? Was it something I did? As much as he tried to avoid it, his mind posed the inevitable question. Did she finally have enough of me spending time with Uiko?
That thought rattled around in Johnny's head, stirring up feelings he had thought he would be free of once he abandoned his mortality. Angst, he thought bitterly. I feel like a goddamn teenager again, wondering what's really going through my girlfriend's mind. This is ridiculous.
"Stop it," he ordered himself. "She's as blood-bound to you as you are to her. Even if she had the will to break the bond, which I honestly doubt she does, she has no real reason." Yashida's thoughts went to countless blood-bonded relationships he had encountered over the years, and he remembered vividly how some thralls remained with their regents despite frequent, sometimes brutal abuse. All I've done is not spend as much time with her as I did in the beginning. That's no reason to try to break a blood-bond. And besides, he reminded himself, she doesn't have it in her. Not anymore. Not after what DuPree did to her.
So that brings me back to the beginning – just what in the hell does she mean by 'do the Gangrel thing'? A frustrated laugh punctuated his realization that while his very own blood-bound companion was a Gangrel, he had virtually no idea what she meant by writing that she planned on behaving in some unpredictable, stereotypical Gangrel way. All he was certain of was that he did not care for the ominous tone of the words 'face my fears head on,' written just below the more ambiguous phrase that had kept him thinking so much already.
Although I guess that could mean anything, Johnny reasoned. Could be she's wandering off to spend a day sleeping in a cave, knowing how it would freak her out when she woke up. Then again… Johnny could not imagine Michelle knowing where there were any suitable caves for such an experiment. The truth was that while she was a Gangrel, she had a far greater affinity for cities than most in her clan did. That difference in attitude had kept her from spending a great deal of her time socializing with clanmates, and that in turn kept Johnny from knowing much about them.
"So what's she gonna do, and where's she gonna do it?" Johnny asked his empty hotel room. A soft knock at his door distracted him. "Who is it?" Johnny yelled warily, once again moving toward the door and picking up his pistol.
"It's Mel," his childe's voice answered from outside. "Uiko's with me."
Johnny opened the door and stared at his two childer. "You both had room keys when you left earlier," he commented, stepping aside so they could enter. "Any particular reason why you knocked?"
"We saw the telegram guy outside," Melissa replied, once again doing the talking for the pair. "Uiko commented that she hadn't seen Michelle around, so we wanted to give you time to do what you need to do."
"Huh?"
"Did someone take her again?" Melissa asked.
"No," Johnny answered, confident of that much, at least.
"So, umm… was the telegram from her?"
"Yeah," Yashida admitted. "She's gone away for a bit to deal with her issues or something."
"Oh. Okay." Johnny turned and watched as both women stripped down and climbed into bed, trying to figure out how they could be so casual about a teammate walking out to do something on her own.
"That's it?" he finally asked. "Just 'Oh. Okay'? We have no idea what she's doing."
"But she hasn't been abducted," Uiko pointed out. "That means you're not about to abandon us again in favor of running off on some suicidal rescue mission."
"I guess," Johnny admitted, knowing better than to get into a debate involving that particular topic. He had always known that Melissa, Uiko, and Mason held a bit of a grudge that he had all but abandoned them two years earlier when he ran off to recover Michelle. He had explained briefly one time that he had not wanted to risk their safety dealing with something that was primarily his problem. He had had no idea that they all still harbored some resentment. "But the truth is that she may be getting herself into more than she can handle. I might have to go get her."
"She's a big girl," Melissa countered with a yawn. "Have you ever thought that if she's out there dealing with her issues – alone – that she doesn't want you there?"
"Uh-huh," Johnny grunted, though Melissa's words hit home. She's right, he admitted to himself. This is the same kind of thing I might do in her shoes, and I wouldn't want her around while I dealt with my issues. Hell, I'd probably need her not to be around. The realization was uncomfortable but at least banished a great deal of Yashida's confusion and doubt. I have to leave her be. At least for now. There's no reason to interfere with what she has to do unless I have a reason to think she's in trouble.
II"Do you realize how hard it is to catch you alone nowadays?" Philip asked when Hassan answered the door to his small apartment.
"I haven't really thought about it," Hassan grumbled. "It's been a long time since I've had an apprentice; I'd forgotten just how much work is involved."
"Surely you've been watching me over the years," Philip said amiably, following the Assamite into his home and sitting down on the brand new leather couch. As in every other home Hassan had had since the pair moved to the New World, his current apartment was decorated sparsely and with all new furniture. Philip was willing to bet that in the entire place, the only item with any personal significance was Hassan's battle-worn scimitar. The assassin could leave at a moment's notice and never give a second thought to the things he left behind. So long as he had his scimitar, everything else could be damned.
"I've been watching," Hassan admitted. "But we've never tried to mislead each other before, old friend, so why start now? The fact is that most of your protégés train themselves, much like fledgling birds pushed from the nest to fall or fly on their own. You set up interesting scenarios and toss them in; if they survive, they continue your harsh variety of training. If they don't, then they prove themselves unworthy. Perhaps you forget Sabiha," he said, referring to the last apprentice he had taken, over two hundred years earlier. "I take a rather more hands-on approach."
"Of course," Philip agreed, sounding almost as if he were chiding himself for having been so forgetful. "Two hundred years, and now you have taken the mighty K.T. Corben as a student. I wonder if he knows how privileged he is. Tell me Hassan, have you mentioned just how selective you've been over the years? Does he know the success your previous apprentices have enjoyed, the prestige they have all earned?"
"No," Hassan said flatly. "And he will learn nothing of them until I'm ready to share that information," Hassan growled in warning.
"Oh, please don't feel as if I was planning on telling him myself," Philip said, sounding absolutely scandalized at the insinuation that he might say or do something with ulterior motives. "K.T. Corben is all yours now, Hassan. I have no more business speaking with him than you have speaking with any of my students."
"Of which you currently have none," Hassan pointed out.
"But I have my eye on one," Philip reminded his old friend. "I'm still interested in young Mr. Yashida."
"Even after his clan's recent setbacks? I thought your interest based largely on the apparent potential of his clan, along with his place of importance amongst such promising neonates. If the entire bloodline has been taken down a peg, then so has the one who represents them."
"But perhaps you haven't noticed – they're making a comeback, Hassan." Philip almost seemed to glow with the words. "Pushed to the very brink of oblivion, and they now seem renewed, like a forest after a purging fire. I know some would be shocked by the comparison, but it's not since the Tremere that an unrecognized bloodline has withstood such an onslaught.
"They continue to recruit ready-made soldiers, and their success in defending their home turf against a concerted Sabbat offensive has opened quite a few eyes. The princes who've employed them, often against the advice of their peers, have been vindicated; the princes who've held to the belief that the Telemon would soon step badly and be destroyed have been proven a bit pessimistic and short-sighted. The Telemons' greatest challenge now is not survival, but providing help for each and every one of their new friends."
"So I hear," Hassan grumbled. "And don't think I don't see your hand behind this."
"Excuse me?" Philip asked, his voice containing both genuine surprise and feigned offense, making it impossible for the Assamite to guess his friend's true reaction.
"Someone is aiding the Telemon," Hassan explained, "and you're the only one I know who has both taken an interest and is in a position to give what they need."
"And what is it you think they need?"
"Guidance," Hassan answered simply. "They're disturbingly capable for ones so young, but they lack experience. I believe in neither coincidence nor luck, Philip. No matter how savvy and intuitive your Johnny Yashida may be, no one walks through the halls of power without misstepping from time to time. Especially at his age. And no matter how well-trained they were in their mortal lives, no group of kindred should be so effective in combat against the Sabbat so early in their unlives. They have performed with inexplicable distinction, Philip. It was this distinction that attracted you to them in the first place, and it's this distinction that troubles me."
"Everything troubles you, old friend. I often think you worry too much," Philip chided the old Assamite as he stood and slowly walked toward the short hallway to Hassan's bedroom. He saw something unexpected hanging on the wall, and he decided he needed a closer look.
"I fear you worry too little," Hassan countered.
"Be that as it may, my one major concern about Yashida may soon work itself out," Philip said as he examined a faded map that had been set in a timeworn cypress frame. "Is that genuine?" he asked, surprised that Hassan would display anything at all that might give a hint as to the person inside. It stood out in sharp contrast to Philip's initial thoughts concerning Hassan's new furnishings.
"Of course it's genuine," Hassan said curtly. "I wouldn't bother with a reproduction."
"Portuguese, right?" Philip guessed, examining the map that showed most of Europe and the West African coast to the northern border of present-day South Africa."
"Yes."
"And is there a point?" Philip asked offhandedly.
"There may be a shockingly large world right there beyond our current knowledge," Hassan said with a smile. "And what might currently be just beyond our field of vision may change everything forever. It's a message you should bear in mind, old friend."
"Of course," Philip responded gruffly, turning to leave.
"What did you mean that your problem may work itself out?" Hassan suddenly asked.
"Ms. Marlowe," Philip explained. "As Erica Blackwell demonstrated during my time with K.T., companions are always such a distraction to the younger kindred… She's run off with an old friend to try to avenge herself on the Sabbat. I figure that course of action is likely to get her killed within the week, so happily enough Johnny Yashida won't present me with the same difficulties K.T. always did."
"It would seem that way."
"I'll let you know immediately if any problems arise," Philip told his friend.
"It would be unlike you to highlight your difficulties," Hassan said suspiciously. "What is it you're playing at, Philip?"
"Ms. Blackwell is the old friend with whom Ms. Marlowe ran off," Philip explained. Hassan was certain he could see the ghost of a wickedly pleased grin pass over Philip's lips, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
"What?"
"Erica Blackwell," Philip clarified needlessly. "She called Michelle and asked for help. Last I heard, Ms. Marlowe was headed for Florida… may be there by now, too. I'm not sure what Erica is up to, but I can only imagine that Michelle is looking for a fight. Young Gangrel who go looking for fights with Sabbat packs invariably end up dead, so my latest apprentice's companion will be nothing but a memory in the near future," Philip said cheerfully.
"And Erica is with her," Hassan muttered through gritted teeth, trying to keep an unexpected rage in check. "I would've appreciated you telling me this sooner, Philip."
"Hassan, really, I can't imagine Erica is going to do anything stupid," Philip answered. "She's been around the Sabbat enough to know what they can do. I have no doubt she'll be more prudent than Ms. Marlowe. After all, she's not the one looking to deal with post-traumatic stress by eviscerating a few Sabbat."
"Let me know as soon as you know anything," Hassan said, his voice taking on the tone of command he often used with his apprentice. Philip visibly fought back an inappropriate retort, and then smiled broadly.
"Of course, Hassan," he said pleasantly. "If you think it necessary. Although I would ask that if you decide for some reason Erica needs to be removed from the situation, please do not meddle with Ms. Marlowe. It's a small enough request." Hassan only nodded slightly, knowing better than to give Philip any verbal assurances.
IIIMichelle knocked lightly on the door to Room 117 at the Pensacola Holiday Inn. Several moments passed as she warily searched every shadow, wincing as she heard the rhythmic moaning and grunting emanating from Room 123 down the hall. It's probably just a Navy guy and his girlfriend, she told herself, rationality dueling with her overdeveloped inner voice of fear, which was insisting that Room 123 held a woman who was being tortured.
The door opened and Michelle gasped in surprise, immediately settling her eyes on Erica Blackwell's hands, making certain she was not holding any weapons. Once she was satisfied of her immediate safety, she turned her gaze toward the Ventrue's face. A crooked smile lent an uneasy air to Erica's expression.
"Come in," Erica said curtly. "I wasn't sure you'd really come down here."
"Me either," Michelle admitted as she closed the door behind her and leaned against the doorway. "But I had to do it."
"Let's get the serious shit out of the way first," Erica stated evenly, her tone sounding eerily like K.T.'s had every time he and Johnny sat down to go over a plan. "I called you because, quite frankly, I didn't know who else I could go to. Recently, my only real friend has been K.T. I'd prefer he not know what I'm doing, so I can't get help from him or any of his friends. Before I met him… well, I don't know how much you or Johnny already knows about me, but I ran with some bad people. I can't get help from them, either. Especially with this." Michelle nodded but remained silent, and Erica did an exemplary job of hiding her irritation. This would be a lot easier if she would at least hint as to what she already knows, but of course she has to play the mercenary game as much as Johnny always does… as much as K.T. and I always do. What a pain in the ass. "Thing is," Erica continued, "I used to run with the Sabbat." Michelle nodded again, and Erica was forced to wonder whether the Gangrel was completely unsurprised or just had one of the best poker faces on the planet. Silence reigned for several minutes, both women having learned the important law of nature that an unexpected break in a conversation, like a vacuum, needed to be filled. Michelle did not fall for the trick, though after a few minutes of waiting Erica out she finally grew bored.
"Fine, I guess I'll comment," she said, choosing her words and finally deciding that there was just no way to diplomatically ask whether Erica had completely left her old friends behind. For all I know I'm her peace offering, her way back into the club, she told herself, the thought causing the hairs on the back of her head to stand back on end. Oh shit, Michelle… Why couldn't that have occurred to you a little sooner? Like, maybe before you were alone with her in a small, enclosed space? "I guess what I really need to know is what the job is," Michelle said quickly, attempting to change the topic nonchalantly so that it would appear as if she was completely unconcerned with Erica's original loyalties. "You said on the phone there's the possibility of Sabbat involvement; now you also say you used to run with them. I can only imagine there must be a connection."
"The job description is a little vague," Erica replied, being every bit as careful as Michelle when it came to selecting her words. "There's a Sabbat guy I just saw in Miami, and it really freaked him out when I walked right up to him and said hi. He bolted out of town and I've been tracking him ever since. Right now he's three blocks away at the Best Western. I would like to have a few choice words with him, but he called in a few friends and I just don't have the firepower to take them all down."
"That's where I come in," Michelle surmised.
"Yup. The one we want is named Horatio; all the others can die as far as I'm concerned. I'm gonna take Horatio alive, and then I'm gonna conduct a nice little interrogation."
"Sounds simple enough."
"If all goes as planned, it should be," Erica agreed. "The big issue is whether or not you can do this."
"I see."
"Not to be a bitch, but I remember how you were at Disney. I'll admit that you were far tougher than I expected, but that was only when you weren't curled up in a fetal position in the midst of a panic attack. That shit happens this time, then at best I'm leaving you behind." She left unspoken what would happen at the worst, though Michelle was willing to hazard a few guesses.
"I understand." Part of Michelle wanted to smack Erica around the hotel room for her comment, but she also could not really blame her. I'm broken, and Erica knows it. The fact that she even called me in shows how desperate she is for back-up, but she's also been around K.T. enough to know that desperate is not the same as stupid. She'll make use of me, but she won't take the effort to bail me out if things go wrong and it's my fault.
"So… can you do this?"
"We're gonna find out," Michelle replied uneasily. "I haven't seen much action since Disney; in fact, Johnny and all of his clanmates have pretty much been laying low since they fought off that invasion of State College. I haven't been put in a position where I've had to find out whether I made much progress in putting the past behind me. But I'm Gangrel, and you know K.T. well enough to know what that means. I'm ready to go out there and face my fears. If I can get past it, fine. If not… well, I'd rather be dead than start whimpering in a corner every time the shit hits the fan."
"Okay," Erica muttered uneasily. "I guess that's really all you can do, isn't it?"
"And I guess you're not in a position to go looking for anyone else, are you?" Michelle countered, voicing what she thought was already obvious.
"I suppose not. So you wanna get down to business?"
"Not yet," Michelle answered. "I saw a Wal-Mart when I was driving over here. Let me go over there to get some ammunition; if everything that could go wrong does go wrong – and it always does, you know – there's no telling when I'll have another chance to stop for bullets. You need anything?"
"No, I went earlier tonight."
"Then give me an hour," Michelle told her, striding confidently until she reached the door, mustering the will to open the door into the night.
As Michelle left, Erica was forced to wonder whether she had done the right thing. She's probably gonna get herself killed out here, she decided almost immediately. I understand what she means, preferring death to living in fear. I've been there. But if she dies, I hope she's considerate enough to avoid taking me with her.
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"Wallowing much?" Michelle asked, startling Erica out of her train of thought. It was obvious that the Ventrue had not heard Michelle return from her short shopping trip. Or maybe she didn't expect me to come back, Michelle decided, avoiding facing the fact that she had left half-planning just to take off into the night and not return. It had taken almost all of her will to buy her ammunition and actually go back to Erica's hotel room. I guess that's victory #1 for the good guys.
"Huh?"
"The song," Michelle answered, gesturing toward the portable c.d. player resting on a bedside table. " 'Long, Long Time.' That has to be one of the most miserable songs out there. An unrequited love lost, or something… great lyrics, and the vocalization is perfect. One of my all time faves."
"I bet," Erica answered. "And how is Johnny, by the way?"
"Right about now I'm thinking he's pissed."
"You ran off without telling him?" Erica guessed, hardly able to believe it. She had always felt that Johnny and Michelle went together like bullets and guns; the thought of either one simply ditching the other without a damn good reason was unexpected. Then again, maybe she thinks the same about me and K.T., and it's not like we're actually anything like that. At least not totally.
"It's not like he hasn't done the same thing to me from time to time," Michelle replied. "Besides, I think he could use some Johnny Time."
"Johnny Time?" Erica asked, hoping she would be able to suppress an inappropriately amused chuckle. "What exactly is Johnny Time?"
"Time to spend on his own, away from me and especially away from his clanmates," Michelle explained. "He hasn't been out on his own for years, now. Between jobs for his clan, time spent training his various childer, and time spent blowing shit up with K.T., he's sorta… I don't know… I think he's started to lose some of what he used to be. If that makes sense."
"Actually, it makes perfect sense. K.T.'s sorta the same way, though it's in his blood more, I think. You'd understand that better, though, being Gangrel and all."
"Yeah, I understand," Michelle agreed. "But back to business, huh? I need to know if you're already screwed," she said bluntly, not wanting to waste time talking when there was the possibility that armed Sabbat could burst through the door at any moment. "You told me you're tracking them. Do they know it? Are they setting a trap, or are they in any position to go on the offensive?"
"No, you're only here because I'm being careful," Erica assured her. "I didn't call you out of desperation… at least not totally. Like I already said, I'd prefer some back-up and you're the only one available."
"It's good to be wanted."
"Well, calling you was more a matter of being overly cautious than it was about getting someone to pull my fat outta the fire. If it was that bad, I would have called K.T., no matter what he would have said."
"You're sure?"
"I promise. I'm just trying out planning ahead for a change. I never get the chance when I'm with K.T., so I figured I'd see what it was like." Michelle smiled at that, and Erica continued. "The guy we're tracking – Horatio – is Toreador antitribu. His sister, Crystal, was a good friend of mine, so we hung out a bit. Helped that we were actually embraced within three months of each other, too. He ran with a pack that spent lots of time in the Bronx, so it's not like we saw each other all the time, but I probably saw him as much as I saw anyone outside my own pack." Erica stopped as a new thought occurred to her. "I know it's a bit late for this, but I expect you to hold this all in strict confidence."
"Of course," Michelle responded. "It's not like anyone I know would be interested in much of this, anyway. You can count on me to forget as soon as we're done with the job."
"Okay. Anyway, Horatio was probably at the Palla… at a big party that was going on around the time I left," Erica continued, trying to choose words that would both explain the situation and leave everything cloudy enough to keep Michelle in the dark. "There were things going on that I want to find out about, but as I'm pretty much a pariah for leaving New York in the company of a Gangrel mercenary, I can't just stroll into town and start chatting up the locals."
"I can see how that would be a problem," Michelle commented sarcastically. Erica gave her a withering stare, and Michelle let her continue.
"Here's the big trick, Michelle. He cannot get too far north. If he even gets close to New York, we're gonna have to break off and let him go, because I'm not going anywhere near the Sabbat metroplex. Got it?"
"Sure. I guess we're gonna have to make sure he and his buddies never leave Pensacola."
"That's what I was hoping you'd say. Now all I guess we need to discuss is payment."
"Ah yes, that," Michelle replied with a grin. "If I risk my neck for you, will I get a chance to kill the Sabbat?" the Gangrel asked in a ruthlessly butchered Irish lilt as she mimicked Stephen, the Irishman in Braveheart.
"You bet your ass you will."
"Excellent! That's payment enough for me."
To be continued………………………………