Lothaire crouched in the darkness, his lean form shrouded through obfuscation, melding him into the very shadows in which he dwelt. Although he had every intention of killing her this night, the Baali found himself rather content to sit and watch Rachelle Rousseau as she worked, the soft tones of Edith Piaf drifting tenderly out of a nearby radio.



She glided daintily through the room, floating from place-to-place with such delicate grace that she seemed almost spectral in nature. Dressed in a lavish set of lingerie, with her long golden locks falling over her shoulders like flowing water, Rachelle danced towards her masterpiece; a long, polished blade clasped in one hand.

Lothaire recognised Rachelle’s latest work of art as Elijah, the man from the other night at the Ahmanson Theatre. His smart suit was gone, and he hung, naked as the day he had come into the world, from a series of glossy steel hooks and chains, which were fasted to the ceiling of Rachelle’s luxury apartment. His eyes had been removed, leaving sickly red sockets in their place, and twisted gouges were dotted across his bare flesh.

Rachelle took a single elegant step forwards, pressing the sharp of the blade beneath Elijah’s throat, and drawing forth yet another stream of trickling carmine.

Lothaire watched the Toreador delight in her meager display of pain, and it almost elicited a chuckle from him. Even her very concept of suffering was laughable. What she envisioned as agony was but a pinch, a minor, insignificant annoyance. Her mind was rooted in the arbitrary limits of what the tangible, material shell could comprehend, but he would shower her in darkness and hellfire, the likes of which even night terrors could only barely fathom.

Readying himself, Lothaire leapt from the shadows, soaring towards her, but Rachelle whirled effortlessly beneath him, striking upwards with her blade, so that the pair came crashing to the ground, biting and clawing and stabbing and roaring in a monsterous cacophony of tooth and steel and claw.

Had she know he was there, the entire time? Had she simply been waiting for him to strike, so that she might launch her own onslaught against him?

“You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are, my dear boy,” Rachelle cackled, her eldritch strength burrowing into him with each slash of her knife, shattering his senses, and rocketing his body with freakish bouts of pain “and now you’ve gone and made such a silly little mistake!”

“You will regret crossing me, Rachelle,” Lothaire promised, his voice calm, seemingly emotionless, with only the faintest quiver of rage that would remain inconceivable to all but the most perceptive of ears “and you will die screaming.”

The Baali kicked upwards, his body jolting with supernatural might, and Rachelle was forced off of him, flying across the room, her knife falling from her fingers, and crashing into the blackwood bookcase which housed the tomes and novels she had collected throughout her unlife. The Cabinet collapsed as the vampire came slamming into it, splintered wood and tattered paper raining down onto the floor in a mess of flakes and fragments.

“You’ve spent far too long in the shadows, Lothaire,” Rachelle hissed, pulling herself up out of the ruined bookcase, and darting back towards the Balli, her eyes burning with hunger “you don’t know what it means to stand near the heart of a roaring flame!”

As Rachelle leapt forwards, Lothaire extended one arm, grabbing her by the throat, and hoisting her up into the air.

“Is that so? Allow me to show you what it means to truly burn.”

Suddenly, the air around both vampires began to crackle and smolder. Hissing, screeching embers seemed to leap out of nothingness, gnawing and skimping across Rachelle’s skin, whilst the aura which encircled her became hotter, and hotter, and hotter. The vampress spat in frustration, kicking and scratching as she fought to be free of Lothaire’s grasp.

“You trickery and blood magics won’t work on me, Tremere!” She snarled, sweat coating her forehead.

The air itself began to shriek, and blaze, tides of boiling wind billowing across Rachelle’s flesh, and clouding her vision with vapour and sweat. She roared in defiance, whilst Lothaire’s grip wrapped tighter and tighter around her.

Suddenly, through eyes that were veiled with mist, Rachelle witnessed the form of Lothaire Loyonia bend and burn, his outline twisting and twirling, loosing shape, and breaking away into an inferno of clamorous, conflagrigating bursts of booming terror. Pale fleshed rotted and crumbled, flaking away and giving birth to skin that was as black as the very depths of the night itself. Horns, curled and magnificent like those of a ram, burst through the beasts’ forehead, sprouting out of its skull like weeds from the dirt, and rocketing upwards.

“No...no!” She heaved, her words pouring out of her “You’re not real! You don’t exist! None of you exist! You’re just a...j-just a story!”

The beasts’ mouth opened, and a flare of ghastly, terrible flames rocketed outwards; bathing Rachelle in blistering agony.

She screamed in terror, and then Lothaire broke free of the illusion, Rachelle's demonic hallucination fizzling out into nothing, just in time for the Baali to sink his fangs into her neck, and begin sapping her of the very energies which fueled her unlife.

Do not be scared, Rachelle.

A voice seemed to whisper in her ear.

Now, two become one, and you will serve at the table of the First House. You will blaze bright.

Brighter than ever before.

Brighter than ever before.

Brighter than ever before.

---

Downtown Los Angeles | Gladys Ave & 6th Street

Skid Row, one of the least hospitable spots in the greater Los Angeles area -comparatively-, and certainly not a place you'd make a conscious decision of moving to. For some, it was the end of the line from a long life wasted away on drugs, alcohol, and general self-destruction. To others it was a pass-through to greater horizons beyond the muck and mire. But for those who dwelled in the darkest part of the shadows for a living, it was most certainly called “home" in one capacity or another. The younger Sabbat Anarch population rarely cared about keeping up appearances, but instead ruling the shit piles of the world knowing that the forgotten will one day rise up again to conquer. And for many, the end was already here.

The pink haired girl sat at the top step of the tenement building entrance stairway unlacing her black roller skates, loosening the leather supports and pulling both skates off of her sore feet, paying special attention to the left. They both hurt, but this one in particular, and for whatever reason, was the most painful. She wasn't sure if it was a muscle cramp or an ankle sprain, but whatever her master's blood did to mitigate the physical pain for the last few hours worked too well, at least until the effects began to subside. She slowly peeled off the sweaty sock on her left foot, clenching her teeth from the sharp spike of pain that coursed from her heel to about mid-calf. Part of her wanted to cry, but what the hell would that do except make her appear to be just another weak-ass mortal vessel for her Sabbat superiors. A “Ghoul" they called her, and probably more so out of humor at her expense than anything practical. But as far as Alex was concerned, the vampire creepers she’d had the displeasure of associating with all watched too many B-rated horror flicks.

Either way, it was a bittersweet relationship with her relatively newfound “friends”. On the one hand, she loved the acceptance they offered, a sense of belonging really, and all the perks and power that came with their bestowed gifts via blood bondage. It was exhilarating to say the least to be part of something bigger than herself. But, no benefits came without its conditions, and harsh they were, especially as a newly created Ghoul, serving the Sect’s cause in any capacity they saw fit no matter the physical or psychological impact to their mortal herd. Additionally, like any good addict was well aware, functionality without the source of their addiction was damn near impossible. Blood was the necessary element for sustenance, power, as well as subservience, and without the allotted amount per day, a bound Ghoul would simply go mad, even to the extent of starving itself or attempting to feed off their own flesh. Yeah, it can get ugly when fucking with the fragile mind and physiology of a human vessel, but the Sabbat kindred excelled at such things. It's what made them the assholes they are today.

“Jake?” Alex’s voice carried with it an undertone of apprehension as she stepped lightly through the already unlocked front door of her second floor apartment, unsure if her boyfriend was about. The scent of sweat, mold, decay, and expired dairy products hit her still heightened senses, and the flickering fluorescent lighting from the kitchen in the next room spilled through its entryway. “Jake? Don't fuck with me, dude.” Her voice cracked a bit as a feeling of dread crept into her head, pushing against thoughts as it slowly began to formulate into fear. She placed her skates and damp socks down on the stained carpet, and closed the front door behind her, before making her way over to the kitchen, her left foot still sore from earlier, causing her stride to be off balance.

“Well hello there.” A rather cheery, yet gravelly voice from the kitchen responded before the girl rounded the corner. “I was wondering when you'd be back.”

The male's broken English and slight lisp was unmistakable to the young girl. ”Cyrus?...ohmygod...”

Her hand instinctively went up to her mouth to stifle a shriek, and what came next sent chills up and down her spine at the bloodied corpse that laid ravaged in the middle of the checkered kitchen floor, and the head of her now very dead boyfriend sitting atop the small square table in the corner where Cyrus was seated. “Well don’t be so dramatic, my dear, it’s not like he was the best thing that ever happened to you.” The vampire grinned, licking his bloodied fingers before lifting the mangled head and hovering it over a tall mason jar full of thick vitae. “At the very least, I expected some gratitude for ridding this world of another deadbeat, yeah?”

Alex had to give herself a moment to even remotely process what had happened in her apartment, and the realization that the guy she’d spent the last six months with was now a bloodied mess on the floor with his head ripped off in the most violent of ways. The girl wanted to vomit, but hadn’t hadn’t really eaten anything throughout the day for much to come up, and yet the gagging started regardless.

“Oh please.” The other said in a mockingly pathetic tone of voice. “Don’t be a pussy.” Cyrus tossed the severed head back onto the table, lifted the glass jar of blood and held it out for Alex. “Drink it. One part me. One part of asshole over there. It’ll make you feel better.” The vampire kept the same smug expression across his veiny face.

“I-I don’t want-”

“DRINK IT!” He growled, his hand shaking enough from the outburst to spill a bit of the blood over the rim of the jar and causing it to run down and splash onto the floor, mixing with the rest of the blood, guts, and caked-on grime. “Now look what you made me do.”

The supernatural fear brought on by the vampire’s dark presence engulfed the poor girl as she slowly stepped toward her master and went to reach for the lifeblood that would re-orient her thought pattern and push away any further anxieties, even if for a little while. Cyrus suddenly let go of the jar and watched it crash to the floor, the glass shattering into a thousand pieces, and the blood splattering in all directions, leaving a pool at the foot of where the vampire was seated.

“Now drink it.” The Sabbat’s voice took on a much more guttural tone while he motioned his pale hand toward the crimson mess at his feet. “I want to see you on all fours like the slut hound that you are.” A wry grin slowly crept across his thin, bony face before it disappeared into a stern expression. “You will drink, regain your composure for fucks sake, and you will tell me why that piece of shit Archon is still alive…”

---

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” Nicolaus stepped through the doors to Gallery 66, accompanied by his underling Servire, Adriana, who -judging by her sunshine and unicorns expression- was way more excited to be there than the Ventrue.

“Because you know a good thing when you see it?” The red-haired woman chuckled, elbowing the other as they both entered into the front area of the club, the relatively pleasant atmosphere easing it way into their senses. “Besides, this place has that ‘Old World’ flair, which your kind are into, yeah?” She smirked again, taking a bit of pleasure at little fun jabs toward the Elder; smoothing the fabric along her navy blue cocktail dress and do a last make-up check in her cell phone’s camera.

Nicolaus had to agree with the fledgling though, the two-level club was something he could definitely warm up to, and somewhat reminiscent of the Sunset Lounge in certain aspects. But either way, he was there now, and hopefully -aside from a semblance of relaxation- he may be able to discover answers to several pending questions.

“Mmm, who’s that yummy morsel of pale flesh near the bar?” Adriana said in a whispered voice, as her attention fell squarely on the host and entrepreneur of Gallery 66.

Nicolaus turned his head toward that direction and saw the tall, dark-haired figure standing near the end of the long bar, his aura giving away more than the Ventrue had expected, but perhaps not. It was non-threatening, but if he were to guess the kindred’s age…

“It’s someone you may want to exercise some caution with, Fräulein.” He said, raising a hand to greet the their host from across the floor, followed by a nod of acknowledgment and thanks for the invitation.

There wasn't any race. The moment Yanci pateintly walked into the four car garage and plucked the purple key with the black stripes, any race was over. Midnight purple low gloss paint over the steel skin and frame of the 1971 Plymouth Hemi Barracuda. The interior was black leather, it's age on par with that of it's kindred owner with the care that went into it's upkeep. Bucket seats and a dash from another age in human history, and all Yanci had to do was wait for Henry to get in. He wasn't far behind. A side glance when he sat revealed his grin, and instantly she knew why.

Yanci had given Eva this car as a birthday present. Of course she'd take this one. 425 Horsepower and 490 ft-lb of Torque didn't hurt either.

Didn't hurt for her that she was a better driver than Gwen. 'Catlin' was an expert driver, and was tasked with everything from stealing cars to driving get-away cars. She was one of L.A.'s best for decades, and was apparently the source to some pretty wild theories from the LAPD. None, according to one of her favorite LAPD contacts, were even remotely close to the simplicity of the truth. Back wheels smoked grey, and there was no point to music or talking while the race was on: the car's massive engine was simply too loud. At the occassional traffic light Yanci simply looked at Henry and smiled, wondering to herself if she could hide her fear in front of him, or hide anything from him.

Just driving Lucifer to the chic kindred watering hole.

A side road, a daring dash through a back alley, and a careful dart through a massive parking lot got Yanci all the room she'd need to rub Gwen's face in it. Parking wasn't even difficult, which seemed to Yanci like some kind of club owner magic trick, given the LA way of things. Parking was so primordially evil not even Henry, not even Lucifer himself, could be be held responsible. The Plymouth hugged up against the curb across the street from the club. A long haired hispanic man with height and weight to him stepped out from the small gallery across the street, an old brown biker jacket over a black buttonup mixed with a pair of gray LeBron 15's at the bottom of old blue jeans. Yanci had added a black denim jacket that didn't quite reach her waist, something tucked in the car--something she was actually putting on when the man stepped up to the curb. Smiling.

"Yance."

The Tremere 'boss' of LA was jumped, the hug so fast and without regard to gravity that Mateo was forced a few steps back on the sidewalk. With awkward happiness Mateo helped her down, laughing at her. "I know it's been a while girl, but damn...Henry." Mateo offered Henry a quick wave, before a weight pulled itself down over her former coterie mate's features. "Listen, Yance, I'm sorry for the distance but I think we both know why."

She had never blamed him for that. "No, it's okay Matty. Promise."

"Good. I've seen Eva. Not directly, but the chantry have seen signs of her. In looking deeper into things...something is here. It's not just India. The Camarilla and the Sabbat both are--"

It was a good time to step in, she thought, "--Gehenna is coming, Matty. I know Eva's active in one way or another, even if not physically. I've spoken to her. She's the one who told me it's coming."

His brown eyes squinted, a few moments of silence as his brain worked it out. "Think she could be wrong? Gehenna is a web of threads, of countless small actions and incidents weaving into larger events at just the right time to have their impact. Then again, India..."

"Something else is going on, Mat. Stay low, and please stay safe." She'd lost so many of their coterie to final death in the chaos and conflict of the past few years. Now Gehenna? Thanks, LA. There wasn't much else she could say to him here, in the open. He only surprised her by reaching in to hug her before saying goodbye, and escaping back into the small gallery. Except when the gallery's glass door closed behind him, there was no sign of him. Yanci tilted her head at the bizarre sight, only to chuckle at Matty-O the Magician.

"Ready, Henry?"

Before he could answer the Ferrari pulled up, it's windows down as an impossible bass beat came out deafening before being turned down to simply annoying. Gwen leaned over Sam, and glared at the Plymouth. "You're a cheater, Yanci. I'm going to park. See you guys inside." The Ferrari prowled forward before turning behind the building. Yanci finished fixing the cuffs to her denim jacket sleeves, a quick smoothing of her long hair over the jacket with her left hand, and she was thanking Henry for opening the door to Gallery 66. Of course when she stepped in and took a look around, the first thing she saw?

Nicolaus.

Of course. "Nicky," was all that slipped from Yanci's full glossed pale pink lips as she passed within biomes distance of the Ventrue, before stopping just past him, her chin tilting in his direction without ever turning back to see him, "you will have to tell me all about your recent drama in my city. Later." Maybe it was pettiness, maybe it was the singe of an old flame, but Yanci never did address the woman with him before moving on, hearing the door behind her as Gwen and Sam stepped in, looking like a couple of the Hollywood types that they were. Yanci made a beeline to a back booth, watching the scene as Gwendalyn all but smirked as she saw Nicolaus, greeting both the Ventrue and the girl with him before heading back to the booth, the tall blonde peeking on tippy-toes to find exactly who to ask about a drink.

"I think they'll come soon, Gwen."

The woman snickered at her. "Oh but it's never soon enough, sweetie."

Syn’s eyes focused upon the smooth smudge free bar beneath which he wiped clean with a microfibre cloth. His attention occupied with the curiosities of events transpiring across the city and further outward to India. With an attention to detail as controlled as his own, the Lasombra felt the wavering tension as esteemed guests had begun their approach into his territory. It seemed that his calling cards were delivered with utmost efficiency, Alexa had done herself proud again.

The words ‘Remind me again why I agreed to this?’ puncture a relaxed ambience as the Ventrue and his female companion entered his establishment. A soft laugh escapes Syn’s lips as he elegantly took two flat bottom glasses and a bottle of his Picasso branded single malt whiskey. The Lasombra’s aura radiating a constant, unrelenting force of sheer indomitable will. “Because I called for you and I do believe it is polite that I make myself known in the city of which I reside.” An accent of smooth French reaching their ears with a refined tone. How old was Syn exactly? A smile spread upon his lips as he stood before the two of his esteemed guests. “Pleasure to meet you finally.” Syn’s left hand extends one of the two glasses to each of them as he continues. “My name is Syn De Rais and welcome to Gallery 66.”

Syn’s movements paused for a moment, a soft smirk spreading across his lips before returning his attention to the two guests. “It seems the remainder of my guests is on their way.” How Syn knew that two cars were within minutes of approaching his establishment, he did not say. Instead, he busied himself with pouring the two glasses with a small amount of his Picasso single malt. “All drinks and other desires are free for those who gather here tonight. This is my party, and no guest shall cover a single cost.” The words fell from his lips in that fluent French accent, the melody harmonious to any who heard it.

Returning his attention to the bar, Syn placed the freshly opened bottle down on the bench upon a brass tray. Stepping behind the bar, Syn took another tray from beneath the counter and set it upon the bar. Step by step Syn moved the elegantly in the process. Each movement intentional, refined and careful. Vanity ran deep into his core. Every action must be beautiful and with purpose. One by one various glass from Cherri glasses to champagne glasses of beautiful crystal were checked for any dust or refuse then sat upon the tray. Following a small crystal bowl was placed in the middle of the glasses. Wide at the opening but shallow which Syn filled with black marble cubes that were chilled. These cubes were a substitute for ice, something he preferred for his guests. Looking up towards his current guests, he spoke calmly. “If you find yourself a place to make yourself comfortable, please do so.”

Syn’s demeanour was a juxtaposition. His aura whispered desires of domination and submission of all subjects beneath him while action and speech spoke of treating others as equals. Was it because that these guests of his were in positions of merit? Or did he have far more nefarious plans? Tonight would tell all. Turning his back to the bar, Syn began choosing an array of his hand-crafted spirits. First, he chose a beautiful bottle of Augustine #5 A multi-distilled and refined Vodka infused with vitae. Following on came two whiskeys, an Aged 35-year blended whiskey, an aged 18 Rye and the prior opened single malt. Finishing the assembly of drinks, Syn removed a bottle of white and red wine from his personal collection. The red, a beautiful Cabernet Franc barrelled in 1974 while the white an elegant Sauvignon blanc.

His assembly of drinks was completed as the second series of his guests had arrived. Had Syn not noticed the Tremere that stepped through his door prior? Perhaps not, if he did Syn said nothing of the matter. Turning his attention to the new entrance, he, of course, caught the minor interaction between them. It seemed that his meeting had prior connections with each other. Syn had been about to speak when another woman and man followed suit. The four new guests had taken their way towards the end booth away from everyone, Syn smiled. Upon the door closing, and with keen hearing would hear the door lock itself, as to prevent others from joining their small gathering.

Syn’s eyes focused however on the man that followed in with the first woman, to whom he had guessed was the Baron of the city. His intelligence had eluded to that possibility but the man that was beside her, he felt Off. Sliding around the bar, his steps silent as the women speak amongst themselves. Their chatter about drinks catching his attention.

‘Oh, but it’s never soon enough, sweetie.’ The beautiful blonde spoke openly only for Syn to respond instantaneously from behind her. His presence, cold and unwavering, the etching of age and power seeping through him. “To whom you must ask for a drink would be me.” Syn shifted past the young woman to place the drink selection and the glasses down on the booth’s benchtop before rising to his full height, grey suit immaculate and without a crease. “My name is Syn De Rais, and I would like to officially welcome you to my establishment.” After a brief pause to see the reaction, he continued. “Please enjoy the selection of drinks before you on the house.”

Turning his attention to the Ventrue, now known to be Nicolaus, he was the Archon of the Camarilla before returning his attention to the gathering. “Thank you for coming. I would have visited myself, but you all have been rather busy.” Syn continued. “I want to know what it is I can do for this city. I know about San Francisco, and I know the Sabbat are making moves for businesses in this city.” Upon the word ‘Sabbat’ leaving his tongue the word was said vehemently, malicious hate for such leeches. “So, what can I lend to this city to protect my new home?”