Baldwin County

Micheal D'Angelo's Sanctum

Mike sat in a folding chair he'd scavenged to replace the recliner he'd lost during Calibration. It was an uncomfortable lump of metal that fit his sour mood. The half-empty fifth of tequila hadn't brightened his spirits. He flipped something between his fingers while his mind chased phantoms in circles. It was a messy Spirograph of anger, justification, recrimination, and back to anger.

He couldn't believe Axe left. After all the crazy shit they'd been through together, he'd left. He hadn't even had the decency to talk privately to him about the situation. He'd just taken his bike and driven away, never returning home.

Mike didn't have enough time to explain that he had everything in hand. He hadn't been about to talk about it in front of the New Orleans Gestapo. He had called a couple of guys he knew; gangsters for sure, but men of their word. They flew under the radar in the Big Easy. They weren't supernatural and didn't draw eyes. That was something Mike had learned was worth more than most minds could grasp.

They were professionals, the sort who would never hurt an underage girl. That sort of degeneracy would earn you a quick trip to see the sea floor out in the Gulf of Mexico. A couple of grand in payment for a few hours of work, they'd be happy and forget what they saw. Problem solved, his student would have been back home with no one in on the occult scene being any wiser.

It all came down to trust. He and Axe had trusted each other for most of their lives. For two decades they had prevailed against everything set against them. Then the stupid mutt flakes out a pace from the finish line.

Even this failure had been a victory of sorts. He was out from under his debts. Money wasn't shit, the death threats had been the issue. Now, with them gone, the world should have been theirs again. Mike had confidence that they would have done great things, amazing things.

Now, for the first time in his adult life, he was again alone. Alone as he had been when he had watched his uncles gunned down. As alone as he'd been when he dove into that junkyard trying to shake the men on his tail.

That lack of someone to trust hurt. He had precious little to replace it within his life. It had been the only bridge he'd never wanted to burn. Now, he had nothing to fill that void with.

The Prince of Mobile wouldn't meet with him. He was concerned about Alex Silbern leaving. Alex had been a known quantity in New Orleans. His exit could only shake up their coalition government. The Prince dared not risk talking to a pariah, not until he knew how it would affect his standing with the new administration.

The Order was furious with him. They had been proud and restored most of his suspended privileges when he had been chosen to tutor the girl. Now, his unofficial excommunication from the Order of Hermes was looking like it was going to become an official one.

When word got around he had no ties and Axe had left, he'd have a huge target on him, larger than the one he already had. In the shadow world, killing someone with a rep for being unkillable, even as half of a broken partnership, was a quick way to earn respect.

He was under no delusion he could make it all alone in the world. Everyone had a back that needed watching. Everyone had to sleep sometime. Eventually, he'd be holding the Aces and Eights with his back to the door. The legend would fall to some no-name pissant.

He never imagined going out like that. He'd never imagined being without Axe. He had never imagined a bunch of stuff. It looked like it was time to start imagining. Any solution would be an outside-of-the-box one at this point.

Go it alone become a hermit? Nah, madness and becoming a Marauder didn't appeal to him. Sell-out for power? To whom? There was no devil he would trust not to directly stab him in the back. No vampire clan, even the Tremere, would trust a living magi. He hadn't ditched being a blood addict just to go back to being someone's blood fuck boy. The Ferra were laughable. The Fae didn't have any real power. Ghosts were virtually worthless in the Skinlands and he wasn't willing to migrate while on this side of that veil.

He would have to make an unexpected move. One even he couldn't believe he was making. He stopped flipping the business card and pressed his thumb into the center of it. The card unfolded, becoming heavier and more solid in his hand. He lifted it to his ear.

"Claus Rayner's residence," a crisp German voice answered.

"Yeah, I know he's a busy man and likely unavailable."

"This is regretfully true. I can take a message. He will get back to you when time allows, I'm sure. Very few have this number, sir."

"To be expected. Yeah, sure, tell him Mike called. Tell him- D'Angelo is willing to entertain his offer."

"Your companion, sir? I understand that was an issue?"

"Not anymore it's not. We've gone our separate ways."

"Regrettable, sir, but perhaps for the best. Some things are simply too wild to be tamed."

Mike didn't reply.

"Very well, sir, I will deliver your message as soon as an opening presents itself. Shall I use this number to call you back to arrange a meeting after that, then?"

"Sounds reasonable to me. I'm not currently in any hurry."

"Excellent, good evening then."

Mike put away the phone as the line disconnected. He reached down, picked up the bottle and tipped it back taking another slow pull from it. He slowly let it slide down his throat.

No hurry. He had nowhere to go. Nothing to do. He had all the time in the world. He drained the bottle. He looked at it and a fireball appeared in his hand, engulfing the glass before it disappeared with a flick of his wrist. A moment later a corresponding fireball streaked into the sky like a reverse meteor. Its molten glass center would land in a tree a few miles away.

Mike stumbled into bed to get some sleep. As he did he mumbled to himself.

"All the time in this God-damned world."