[IC] Vampire: The Masquerade. Dance of the Damned

[Zacharius]

Saxon Investigations, Santa Monica, Los Angeles


The office in which Frederick Saxon now found himself, as he did on many occasions, was a far cry from pristine. It wasn’t dirty, there was little in the way of dust and grime, it was simply well used. Photographs were pinned to the walls in collections, some as simple data, others on specific ‘cases.’ A map of the city, in great detail but with little flair, adorned one wall, pins and information placed upon it, many lines connecting to each other, weblike. The cabinets, behind and to the right of his desk that was more a large table than anything else, were for once shut, storing yet more information, currently irrelevant. Upon the table sat books, some seemingly random, others with a clear connection to the city, and a great collection of smaller maps, a number of accounts and a few more photos. Rested on top of one pile, a laptop, the clunky thing currently turned off as he scrawled in a pad, sat at his ‘desk.’

Chaos as it might have appeared, it simply reflected the shambling order of Saxon’s mind. He could find anything relating to his current focus within a second, and knew the location of anything else. Moonlight flooded the room, along with a low-glowing bulb, provided as much brightness as necessary. The window, equipped with the thickest shutters he had even seen, able to withstand a nuclear blast as Larry Smith had previously joked, often enabled him to work into the day, shrugging off the building sickness his kind felt awake at that time for a few more hours. Tonight would not end similarly, he had already tracked down his main objectives for the day, now he was simply updating, deciding what would still need further looking in to, and if there was anything new that required attention. Since the days of conflict, his work had never slowed down, in the uneasy peace, there was far more interest in the plans of your neighbour, than when he openly came to your door with a loaded shotgun. His body may not have needed it in much the same way as in life, but even still, he enjoyed falling back into his chair, relaxing as he looked up at the ceiling, pins and glue marks pointing out where once that surface too had been covered. Those had all been filed of late, had been a futile effort in tracking down an elusive creature that had proven herself the better.

There was a problem with your life when you knew so many G4 pilots on first name basis. A problem when you were never quite sure upon wakening just where, exactly, you were--and only because you never stopped moving. Every twilight, the vampiric morning, began the same for Eva: sunglasses, a balcony, and a long cigarette.

When chocolate and tobacco were birthrights not of globalization but ancient roots, it was truly the simple pleasures in life that brought Eva back into the gravity of reality. Much like a mortal wasn’t truly awake until that first cup of coffee, for Eva it was the cool air on her skin and the sting of gray smoke.

As Friday afternoon sank past the horizon and began the transformation into Friday night, Los Angeles was just starting to come to life. It was as if the city itself was a vampire at heart: all glamor, night life, and viciousness. As soon as those massive lights came alive and light up the white block lettering proclaiming the city’s true God in the hills overhead:

Hollywood.

On the way to Santa Monica, the only cars on the road were Bentley's, Lexus', Aston Martins, Porsche, Audi, Benz, BMW, Cadillac, the very lavish automobiles parading under the idol of Hollywood, holy pilgrims to the religion of Materialism. Photoshoot fresh, a land of golden hills and endless sunshine where couture was a genuine path to Enlightenment. A land of dinner parties, wine tastings, and yoga Sundays. It got a little better for Eva the closer she got to Santa Montica down the 2, the freeway that ran into the city from Santa Monica Boulevard like a river snaking from it's mouth.

On a Friday night, the moment her Land Rover parked and she slipped from the vehicle's passenger side, her lips spread into a wide smile. There was cotton candy and joy in the sweet SoCal evening air coming from the carnival rides and games on the Santa Monica pier. Across the street were the old beach side bars, popular with the older and white crowds of the area, more apt to sport crimson Angels banners than Dodgers blue. All she could taste from the direction was salt and Corona, a fact that laughter her snickering as Samantha locked the vehicle and walked up behind her.

"The office is down the street, to the right. It's the Columbia building, according to Google Earth."

Eva didn't need Google Earth to know where the office was, but Eva corrected Samantha with that fact. In most Kindred-Ghoul relationships it was the Kindred that made the decisions. In Eva's, Samantha was essentially her 'handler.' if Eva needed it or wanted it, Samantha handled it. If Eva needed to go somewhere or coordinate some event, Samantha handled it. A job that could entail everything from browbeating a famous Director into regaining his artistic focus to running down the streets for a mocha latte.

But this one...this one had to be Eva's, and Eva's alone. It was a decision Samantha didn't like, the lengthy blonde's body language alone making that painfully clear. At least until one of the cell phones in her Gucci clutch began to buzz, demanding her attention. By the time Samantha answered it, Eva was gone; already down the street and into the historic office building that still rented out space, mostly to law offices and small but wealthy talent agencies. Saxon Investigations said the small black lettering on the hazed glass of the otherwise single entrance to the PI's office.

As good as his senses had gotten since she'd originally found him, entering the office in such complete silence that there was no hope to detecting her was childe's play. She left the announcement of her arrival to the metal on metal strike of a Zippo lighter opening and striking flame that was quickly followed with a cloud of pale gray cigarette smoke, the woman in pale black jeans that rested well worn on her hips and a thin gray metallic button up silk blouse with a deeply plunged V-neck. Her hair was straight as it'd ever been, carefully combed and pulled into a pony tail set with pins too close to the color of her hair to be easily seen without a much closer inspection.

There was no trick of Presence, no unholy glory in which to behold. Just a native girl and the ghost of red painted lips on the butt of the cigarette held between her thumb and index finger as her big, dark eyes, smiled at him and his reaction to her sudden appearance. The smile her lips gave was much more demure, like a shy girl admitting some secret.

"I feel like I'm back in the 30s, Private Dicks and all."

“Maybe you got lost, maybe you’re back her, finding me all over again.” He didn’t look up immediately as he replied to her in a voice slightly huskier than his usual tone. He knew to look up was to be lost and the ‘detective,’ almost as much a relic from another time as the office itself, white shirt, two buttons undone and a pair of thin black suspenders, treasured the brief moment before his eyes inevitably left the contents of his desk to lock with those which studied him. That wasn’t quite true, on the way up they more than slowed over her body. Saxon didn’t think it was just for him, a deliberate ploy to ensnare only him, but it worked none the less, and he was sure it was no accident.

In those moments, before they really began talking, it was hard for him. Standing there was the woman he’d spent more than half a century trying to find after the horror of a war that had touched even his undead soul. She had breezed back into his life, as if none of his work had even mattered. At times he’d wanted to be angry, to rage against the absolute dismissal of time by the Toreador elder, but how could she be any other way? He may have been ageless, but she’d been around so long as to be timeless. He’d lived longer than any kine of his generation, but he was still a child next to her. It would be a long, long time before that even had a chance of changing.

“It’s not often I have attractive female company here...I apologise for the mess, I’d promise that next time I’ll have it in better shape, but I wouldn’t lie to you.” He continued with a slight smirk, it didn’t show, but there was a slight amount of discomfort for him, to have her there, where all the countless pieces of evidence to her potential locations had once been hung. “Business or pleasure?”

"Business is pleasure." Normally, it was true. When your art was your life, business and pleasure tended to mix in beautiful, if chaotic, ways. But the truth of the moment left her more serious and grim than she might have otherwise ever appeared before him. There was something on her mind--and you didn't have to be a Detective to figure it out.

Just helped if you were.

There was a nervous flick of her cigarette, preceded by an even more nervous stare; her eyes taking in every little inch of his appearance, and more. He was Kindred, he had some idea of what she was capable of if she had the same Disciplines most Toreador had. She'd pluck the thoughts from his very mind, if she thought it would have helped her. Luckily for him, she knew it wouldn't. She didn't come here for that.

She came to talk.

"I know you don't know much about me, Frederick. What I am, what I do, what my role is in this very strange town. But you've lived in the Night long enough, I think, to have a pretty good idea of those things." Then she trailed, escaping to the cigarette, escaping to the thoughts in her mind. And how very uncomfortable they made her.

"Things aren't right in LA. That's no surprise to you, I'm sure, but...maybe it WOULD be news to you to learn things weren't right in LA...not on any level."

There was a weight to the way she said it, and to the look her eyes gave him before they trailed away from him again, and back into her own thoughts before another nervous flick of the cigarette. The veiled message was, at most, thinly veiled. If he were to assume she were part of some unknown power structure, maybe the kind of structure in which the entire city rested, and then were to be told things 'were not well' on any level?

She couldn't have been more obvious if she used neon lights and firecrackers, it seemed to her. And Eva always distasted being overly obvious about anything. "I need your help. I require the kind of discretion that makes the NSA look like gossiping girls. If that's no problem for you..." Then she moved, far too quickly for him to actually see, just a blur of motion between when she stood near the entrance and when she was standing next to his desk, borrowing a pen and scribbling something onto the nearest clear piece of paper she could find--a manilla envelope, in this case. There in big, looping, cursive letters was an address: 415 Sunset Boulevard, Lot B.

Then she tossed the pen back to the desk, and smiled at him once more. "I'll meet you there in sixty minutes. If it's a problem, don't come. If you show up in sixty-one minutes...well, I'm sure we'll run into each other again in another decade or two, right?" There was a teasing edge to her smile, even as she killed the cigarette with a pinch of her fingers and tossed the butt into the nearest bin.

"Thanks, Freddy."

He knew worryingly little about her, maybe slightly more than she thought but still, far less than any other kindred he had encountered within LA. What he did know however, was enough so that when she told him that things were awry in LA, he believed her. As much as he liked to think there was some amount of bond between them, he also doubted she would have told him such if things weren’t heading towards dire straits, if they weren’t there already. He almost physically cringed at her tease, but instead it formed a grin across his features. Did he have a problem with just being called on at less than a moments notice? Maybe, but not enough to let him turn this up. She was gone herself before he could reply, before registering what she had called him. No one calls me that.

None of the members of his small band, or ‘coterie’ were present, so any preparations he made were alone. A quick check of the location online, planning routes for a variety of situations. A Revolver holstered, hidden in its sling beneath the blazer going on over his shirt. A more modern
take on the jackets he would have worn in his police days. He locked up, a fairly simple affair, given how much information could be found within the walls of the establishment. A single lock.

And a host of tripwires.

This, however, left him with plenty of time. A dangerous situation to be in. Try and attempt something else and he might overshoot the time, arrive early, and that might be as much of a call off as turning up late. Instead, he found himself waiting on a bench, beneath a street light with the sea air pressing at him. The eyes of the Kine could often not pick out the stars in a city at night, but it took only a few moments for his vision to pierce the haze and light pollution as he watched the celestial bodies above. It was serene, for a few moments, before his momentary enforced respite was punctured by the noise and bustle of the city around him, possibly even more so than during the waking hours of the Kine.

The meeting lot was hardly noteworthy, but then, couldn’t that be said of any such places? He arrived at the turn of the minute, having gone on a deliberately winding route, rather than have to hang around oddly on any of the roads. The Kine presence was minimal approaching the lot, unlike much of the surrounding area, which seemed more than a coincidence. He found a wall to lean against, turning his eyes, again and again, over the lot, picking up everything but lingering on nothing.

[Ruby]

The spectacle of landing a jet black helicopter onto an empty lot around other buildings and establishment right next to a busy Los Angeles street was a sight, even if it went wholey ignored by the pedestrians in the area. Of those in vehicles only half-glances were tossed in passing. It's not as if any citizen of LA wasn't used to the sight of private air transport, and helicopters were becoming more and more popular as a way to avoid the choking traffic of the PCH or the 405 and simply, and easily, just get out of town.

An Asian man wearing black aviators was a deft touch at the controls of the flying machine, the powerful chopping of air by the blades sending gusts this way and that all about the area around the landing zone didn't last very long, all things considered, the red and green and white lights that were active during night flights by FAA mandate flickering as it landed and the engines died quickly.

A door behind the cockpit opened, and Eva hopped out with an unnatural easiness. Her face alive with a grin as she looked to the PI, and motioned for him to come on. It wasn't until he was in the chopper that she moved to hop back in herself, Samantha already straped into a leather bucket seat, a smartphone pressed to her ear, her conversation quickly wrapped up as the two Kindred climbed into the back of the helicopter.

"This is Samantha Hart, my personal assistant." The blonde pin-up's smile was welcoming and warm, even if there was some residual distance to it. Eva's tone was flat, but it gained humor as she introduced the woman to Saxon. "She probably knows everything about me you wish you had in your files."

"Oh," Samantha cut in, with the look of someone disapproving of such a blatant understatement. "Much, much, more than that."

It made Eva laugh as she turned her body to click her seat belts into place, before turning back to Saxon after she was secure. "Right." And there, at light laughter, Eva left it until the helicopter was ascending, tipping it's nose just slightly down, and plodding through the air in a distinctly forward motion--over buidlings, hills, beach houses, and quickly over Santa Monica and past along the coast and the PCH into Malibu.

"The city's watched, I'm sure I don't have to tell you. And what I have to discuss with you...it's something that can't get out. I work for someone here in Los Angeles. It's always been something of an artistic partnership. But recently my partner is not the same, and I'm afraid his well being is often an extension of how goes the city of Los Angeles. When I returned from overseas just in time to catch LaCroix's nasty fall, and the new Anarch uprising, I knew something was wrong. Too much had been allowed to happen, from LaCroix himself to Smiling Jack to the gang wars. It was as if suddenly for the first time in LA's history there was a massive brain drain at the top, and those with enough balls and resources were filling in."

It was enough to make her frown openly. "Maybe the new players are worthy, maybe they aren't. Without the steady leadership at the top, it won't matter--it'll only be a matter of time until the Camarilla comes in and makes the world of Night uniform as they see fit," a prospect her tone was too soft to make it obvious whether she approved or disapproved, "I was always hoping for something better for LA. Something unique. Los Angeles is a lot of not so great things, but it's still a world center for the arts, and a center for turning art into capital. I fear what Camarilla or Sabbat control would do to that. But if my partner refuses to do anything? What am I left to do? I've kept all the plates spinning so far, but how long until they start to fall?"

Eva grew silent as she sighed, and let her eyes fall onto the blonde woman, and the amused smile she held as she watched the world fly by out the window. After a long silence, Eva looked away from Samantha, and out the same window. Even as she spoke up, and spoke to Saxon. "I'm not trying to fight the same fight everyone else in this town is, Saxon. My battlefield is invisible to most, never seen and never heard of before. I would like it to stay that way, but I'm afraid I have to pull some people into this secret little war of mine. If you have questions, any questions, I would ask them now. Before we land."

He remained silent, both when copter landed and when he was ushered on board. He greeted Sam with a nod, reserved only in terms of words, it lacked the hint of distance she had shown him. Her response confused him somewhat, small enough that a kine may not have picked it up, but still, perplexing. In the few previous times he had travelled over LA by air, he had been enraptured by the city, now, after only a few moments of gazing out across the land of a billion lights, his eyes returned to Eva, before uttering his first words of the flight.

“There are no files. Not anymore.”

It wasn’t bitter, although it could have been mistaken for such, an admittance perhaps, that he was no longer watching, following her. Those who had known about his extensive project to track her down had often labelled it an obsession, perhaps it had been, but it was not just because of who she was. Kindred often forgot his clan, he may not have been a great artist or performer, but he was stuck in his own form of art. The hunt for Eva had been his muse for so long, but as soon as it was complete, at least for now, those files had held no lustre as they once had.

Saxon listened intently to what she had to say, processing and calculating. To an extent he trusted her, but even still what she said went through the first process, whether it was possible, and then the second, whether it was probable. From what he knew about her, the pause it took for him to believe her didn’t even register, not even for a kindred. What took longer however was to project his own role in such things.

“Something has been wrong in LA for longer than LaCroix, even the Kine have felt it, a building pressure in these nights.” The Toreador were the closest to the Kine of all the clans, and that particular trait, Saxon exemplified even more so than others. For years, patterns had been starting to form between the issues the Kine had brought his little company, Eva’s description did much to confirm what he already believed, rather than provide new information. A deeper insight for a problem he had already been working on.

“It wouldn’t even have to be you, for me to take this. LA and mystery, my true loves.” He spoke, eyes turning from the beautiful native kindred to the cityscape of LA once more, it was a far cry, and at the same time completely the same, as the city he had first seen with mortal eyes, coming to the big city to fight for a dream that to the countless others flooding West would have seemed so mundane. Who ever heard of the man who moved to the City of Angels to become a policeman.

“Do I get my own helicopter?”

That only made Eva laugh. “No.”

It wasn't but mere minutes until Los Angeles and Santa Monica faded away behind the hills containing the city of Los Angeles in it's valley, the green and gold and ocean blue of the Malibu landscape rolling up beneath up. Unlike Los Angeles, the hills in Malibu were dotted with private mansions, just as the sea side cliffs were. Inbetween the two were the PCH, a two lane freeway that snaked along the coast from Santa Monica up through Malibu to Camarillo, Oxnard, Ventura, then Ojai, the fruit fields of the large Fruit corporations, before the seaside resort town of Santa Barbara, and up past that went the PCH--all the way to San Fransisco and the Bay Area.

Saxon knew the area well, as he did most of the out laying regions. His eyes tracked landmarks in the dark, some even he couldn’t see, but that his mind knew would be there, shrouded in darkness. The countryside had brought new danger in his life as a kindred, of the monsters that prowled in the night, seeking vampire blood. It was refreshing to see it all once more without such dangers.



One of those dots on a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean and the Malibu coast started getting larger, and larger still. When the hill top mansion came into view, it was a reflection of dying twilight on the glass walls and the shifting fire lights scattered around the exterior of the home; around an infinity pool, lining a wooden exterior wall like a great brazier, and finally the blinking lights of the helipad on top. Eva waited for the tell-tell 'thud' that signified the chopper had returned to the safe embrace of gravity and land.

The first one out was Samantha Hart, who appeared on Eva's side of the helicopter almost as quickly as she'd jumped out the other side. Eva tried to shoo the tall blonde away, but Samantha just grinned and took but a few feet back. The turboshaft engine's whine slowed to a dull groan as power was cut, the pilot out almost by the time Eva was out.

There, grinning like an Asian Top Gun, what with the aviators and flight suit, was the pilot of their helicopter. Eva waited to Saxon before slipping her arm into his, and presenting him to the Asian. "This is my friend Eto Abe, a Gaki and one of the oddest additions to my little Coterie family. He's been on the Kuei-jin surge for me the past year."

Grinning then smiling, the man excitedly took and shook the PI's hand. "Yes, yes, Saxon-san. Your name is on the lips of many--not usually in happy tones, I fear," he added, before laughing. "Excuse me, I need a shower, and a drink."

An initial look of surprise had broken Saxon’s calm, although it was put to rest quickly. For the moment, he had questioned whether Eva had embraced, or made a ghoul of a man from the territory of the Kuei-Jinn or Gaki. That would have been risky, the revelation, both of her words and by his own sense, that the individual was a Gaki himself, was, oddly enough, far less surprising when it came to Eva. The handshake was equally returned with similar force, and Eto Abe’s words met with a grin.

Fire whipped from pits on either side of the helipad, the rest of it bordered in tropical flowers leading to a white cement wall, and opened glass doors leading into one of the many lounges in the house. A house of white walls, bright yet indirect lighting, and lush white furniture so comfortable it was like hopping onto a cloud, flat screens located strategically around the house of white walls and dark wooden walls.

Once inside, Eva disappeared from his side and motioned for him to sit. "I was born in one of the valleys in this area. I was one of those 'native heathens' to the Catholic white men their Empire sent to explore their New World, my home. Can you imagine? Masters of their universe, the Kindred elders of the time literally," Eva chuckled, as if it were funny, "chomping at the bit to see the marvels their mortal slaves reported experiencing from their journeys. They started taking pretty girls to take back to the Old World."

She'd stopped laughing, then. Not a single show of amusement left to her. "When I finally got back home from my time in the Old World, I came back a Kindred, but I felt more like a Goddess coming down from up high to lay waste to old enemies. But when I got back, I saw nothing I recalled. Forests had been felled, valleys flooded for irrigation...my people huddled in Missions, paid nothing for endless labor. There was a rancher named Don Sebastian nearby that was employing natives and paying them fair wages. Interested, I came to what would one day be called Los Angeles. You know what I found?"

She waited for a response, her eyes big and bright and poised.

“Physically? A small agricultural community I imagine. Ranches. Don Sebastian was Kindred, I remember from my earlier studies. The Exact account, well, that along with what you might have felt I can’t even guess at.” His own eyes, green, but he felt couldn’t have rivalled those that he was looking into, for once seemed lost. When talking with those he trusted, he wouldn’t pretend to have knowledge where he did not, but despite being kindred, the time her memories covered, his mind still failed to wrap around. His family had still been poor, near starving farmers under the reign of interchangeable Germanic princes. The thought that the woman in front of him, who had in many ways played such a grand part of his own life predated even his parents was astounding.

“Tell me.”

"Toreador, Fifth Generation." Eva's bright beauty took on a cloud of confusion as the next part, "He was a child. Embraced at Thirteen, born not to far behind me...but at stuck at thirteen? I've never met a more paranoid individual. On a helicopter in the sky I'm still not exactly sure it's safe to talk. Here," Her eyes went this way and that around the millions dollar home. "It's safe, even from him. Poor kid. Not too long ago I had to go abroad for Hollywood business. It's all about relationships, showbiz, all around the world. And even I can't escape some people that require an in person meeting."

Eva stirred, her body moving to the front of the chair she'd sat in. "When I came back...LaCroix had just been disposed. But something was wrong with the kid. He'd lost his nerve, isolated himself and retreated away from everyone except me. That's a problem. I need him. Don Sebastian was a Prince in name only; the kid ran him. Then the kid developed a crush on an Anarch and there's your first revolution. The second happened because the guiding force behind the city since before it was a city just stopped. It's like torpor of the soul he's in. So I've waited as long as I can."

Her eyes dipped towards the floor, what humanity remaining to her struggling with what came next. "I need him. Or his power."

As Eva recounted her discovery, Saxon frowned. A combination of details, the fact a kindred would embrace a kine so young, trapping them in a body preparing for change that it would never undergo, then the fact the child could manipulate and control other kindred on such a grand scale. Even Eva. Despite his relative mastery of it, the twisted nature of Kindred society often still managed to surprise and perplex him. He’d often considered that much of the events of his own, as well as the lives of many kindred were secretly manipulated by a greater party, but he would never have suspected a child. The smirk grew on his features after. That’s exactly how it had managed to occur, and nothing that old could be a child any longer, even one trapped in an adolescent shell.

It dawned on him he’d never seen her confused before. Surprised maybe, but the conflict on her peerless features was new, almost unsettling for the man who had come dangerously close to idolizing her once. That was nothing in comparison to seeing her head drop slightly, to see doubt and struggle. Only after blinking away the surprise, did he realise one of his hands was placed on her knee, the other, at her chin, tilting her head back up to him.

“Such power, that of a kindred and of the controller of a city of teeming souls, should not rest with a mind caught in childhood, not one who would risk everything in his paranoia. Perhaps that doesn’t make things easy, but it makes them right.”

It was unexpected. And for Eva, there were very few things in the unlife that were truly unexpected. Her mind was coiled around the black deed that she knew, if Los Angeles as she knew was going to have a chance, would have to be done. It was disturbing, it was unsettling, and it made her sad. Then she felt the presence of touch; and her eyes jumped with shock--even if it was the only sign of shock or surprise to physically manifest itself.

If only Eva could've seen herself in a mirror, she might be surprised once more: to find a smile on her lips. "Thank you. I wish a pep talk was all I had to ask of you...but it's not. I need you to be there with us. You're quite the survivalist with a lot of knowledge about this city...in case something goes horribly wrong for us, you need to get out as fast as possible. And stay very, very low for a while."

With the very real threat upon her lips, there was no place for the smile. Not now. "If you're ready, we leave now."

He was standing the moment she finished speaking, offering her a hand to stand as he did so. When he spoke, the usual grin that showed whenever he discussed his own exploits was missing, the tone in her voice had told him all he needed to know about such a time being passed.

“Thankfully, pep talks aren’t my speciality. Don’t worry, I’m usually the one tracking people down, I can hide like the best of them.” His infliction, and the way his eyes met with her’s suggested that he might even be in the presence of one of the aforementioned best. “I have a habit of noble causes anyway.” That’s what he liked to think of himself anyway, all of his noble causes had other motivations, and he wasn’t sure if he’d have accepted such a plan from anyone else. But it wasn’t anyone else who was asking him, if that made the difference, so what.

[Myst]

Fate...
She was a cruel bitch with a taste for irony.

The world around her was dark, smelly and cold. Damn it how she hated being cold. It was all she had known for a long time now. Ever since he had come into her life.

Sebastian Lacroix...
She would spend her entire unlife cursing the day she had heard his wretched name.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Say hello to our honored guest Jennifer. My business partner Sebastian Lacroix. Sebastian, my daughter Jennifer."

The pretty young brunette smiled a charming smile. "It is good to meet you Mr. Lacroix."

"What a charming young lady," the pale stranger had said, taking her hand and lighting kissing it. Only her training at finishing school had kept her from shivering at the coldness of his hands and lips.

He had done the same with her mother, remarking on what a wonderful and handsome family the Von Jordan's were...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If only she had known then what kind of monster her father had let into their home, into their lives.
He had taken everything from her, not even deigning to let her keep her name.
'Juliette', that was what he had renamed her when he had killed her...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"But I don't understand. Why did you ask me to attend your meeting with my father?"

"I am afraid your father is not coming my dear."

His voice had chilled her, his eyes causing a shiver down her spine. "I don't understand," she repeated.

"You will, in time. You see dear child, your father is really not as good as business man as everyone believes. Nearly all of his success is due to me. And now the time has come for me to collect payment for my generosity."

"Payment?" she echoed, a horrible suspiscion creeping into her mind like ice over a pond.

He had chuckled, a dark sound that she would grow to hate with all of her being. "Why ask when you already know? I can see it in your eyes. The growing awareness... the understanding... the fear..." he had inhaled and licked his lips. "It is intoxicating."

"Don't touch me!" she had cried and ran for the door. With inhuman speed he had moved to block her way, laughing the whole time.

"Come now. Surely you don't think I have designs on your pure innocence? I would not do something so... vulgar."

"Then what do you want?" she had demanded.

In a blink she had been trapped in his steel-like arms. "I want to give you a gift..." he had said before a blinding pain had enveloped her body.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They called it 'The Embrace'. The warmth of the name hid the pain and utter cruelty of the action.

On that night, the girl known as Jennifer Von Jordan had been murdered. In her place rose Juliette, a child of the night whose beauty was forever frozen at the age of eighteen.
She had become Lacroix's doll, his trophy, his pet. He kept her locked away for many months, using mental and emotional torture to break her down. When he had finally let her out again Juliette had been a shell of her former self.
From there the Ventrue Prince had reshaped her, molded her into the perfect little childe, a pretty doll to have at his side.

He dressed her lavishly. Only the finest silks touched her porcelain skin, only gold and fine jewels adorned her, only the highest quality blood passed her lips.
But all in secret. No one was to know that their prince had sired a childe, not until she was absolutely perfect in every way.

Juliette had seemed to comply with all of this, adjusting quickly and beautifully to Lacroix's every desire. But it was all a show that even Lacroix couldn't see through. What kept her going was her burning hatred for the man that had taken everything from her : her life, her name, her future, her freedom...
Once she had gained his trust, she had begun her plan for revenge. She had soaked up all of the information she could, about the Ventrue, their history, their wars and their enemies. Under the guise of the perfect student she had absorbed all she could in order to learn what she could use against the monster who held her captive.

In time she had learned of the Anarchs. They were enemies of Lacroix and were working against him and his empire. That was all she'd needed, and wanted, to know.
Getting in touch with them, and gaining their trust, had been difficult and had taken all of her cunning and wit, not to mention paying off quite a few underlings. But Juliette had been happy to feed them information about Lacroix and his plans, waiting for the day when she could watch him suffer horribly before enduring final death.

But, once again, fate had stepped in and screwed her over. Quite royally this time.
Not only had Lacroix been blown to pieces, taking away her enjoyment of watching him die, but her secret had been discovered and revealed to the Ventrue in the city of Los Angeles, not only of her existence as Lacroix's childe but also her affiliation with the Anarchs.

And now, the once spoiled rich girl turned high class vampire was now a refugee, on the run from her own clan who no doubt had put a high price on her head.
It was almost enough to make her laugh.

Juliette felt the pangs of hunger for the first time in her life, and unlife. But every human she passed in this low-life part of the city had such low quality blood that if she tried to drink it she would get sick. The bad part about being a Ventrue was that they required high quality blood.

Even if she knew where to find what she needed, she had no time to stop to hunt. She couldn't stand still for more then a minute if she wanted to survive the night. She had to get somewhere safe before the Ventrue found her and before dawn. They only people she could trust were the Anarchs, but finding them was proving to be harder then ever. Since Lacroix had been excecuted all Anarchs had gone underground, afraid of being pinpointed in the murder. Lacroix had many enemies but most of them had remained in the shadows and not as vocal as the Anarchs.

Her white gown was out of place here. Lacroix had always insisted she wear white. She hated the color white now.
Half of her hair was done up in an elegant bun with the rest hanging down, curled and flawless. She had ditched her jewelry immediately, no doubt making some homeless person very happy once they found it.
But the knawing hunger was really starting to get to her. It was starting to affect her vision and her sense of balance.
She needed to feed. Now.

The next person she laid eyes on happened to be a cop. Not ideal, but beggars couldn't be choosers. She shuddered at the very thought of herself begging.
Tapping into one of the Disciplines she had inherited as part of her Ventrue bloodline : Prescence.

"Excuse me sir? Please, I need help."

The male cop did exactly what she thought he'd do. "Miss? What are you doing out here? This is no place for a lady."

"I was kidnapped and robbed," she said, forcing tears to her eyes, another ploy that had worked many times for her. "He's back there," she pointed behind her. "Please..." she begged softly, touching him gently, shyly. "Please help me..."

The effect was immediate and almost laughably simple. He followed her like a lamb to the slaughter right into an alley between two buildings. "Where is he?"

"There," she whimpered, pointing behind some piles of trash. When he went to look she was instantly upon him and breaking his skin with her teeth. His blood rushed into her mouth and she nearly gagged from it. Desperation was revolting. The blood hit her stomach like a brick and made her nautious, but she drank anyway. She had to force herself to choke it down.
When the edge was taken off of her hunger she released him. He stood in a daze and she knew he likely wouldn't remember a thing when he came out of his stupor. She spat out what little remained on her tongue and hurried away, disappearing into the night.

One name had constantly come up when she had been feeding information to the Anarchs. It was this name that stuck in her mind and she was sure it was the one she needed to find.

Saxon...

[Instantes]

Vernon Grant-Bell leaned forward a little in his black leather chair; his was a studious face, impressed with several lines of concentration; a pair of dark green eyes moved over the page in front of him before his hand scratched at the finely cut beard of raven black hair that sculpted round his jaw. His posture adjusted a little more, just so he could more easily rest his elbows on the smooth ebony and oak desk that sprawled out in front of him. He wanted to look carefully at the numbers. His ink-emerald eyes led his mind like a navigator through cloying fog, allowing a little upward turn at the mouth to follow: a confident certainty that he had read it right. Vernon didn't make errors of judgement in straightforward financial matters such as these. Pausing, he drew his eyes away from the last business item in his in-tray, removed a set of gold cuff-links impressed with two well cut, square black diamonds which he set aside, and rolled up the sleeves on his white shirt. A momentary gaze through the large window behind him hinted at the night's enticing secrets; he wanted to know them. He needed to get out, into the city that teased him with her fresh, bold new lights and the dark shadows they drew eyes away from. He afforded himself a small self-vow: he would know those secrets tonight, both shadow and light, he just needed to finish this final document first...

The numbers made for an interesting, rather telling read; it wasn't a traditionally volatile market, but it had faced a steep downturn in the last month or so. The old Camarilla Prince of L.A., Sebastian LaCroix, had been subsidising several local and state level courier firms in quite an unprofitable way, likely as a front for an intelligence network - his own, not the Camarilla's. His death, although behind the scenes for many kine, had caused such subsidies to dry up, affecting business operations negatively and thus the share prices. The market had levelled a little, but Vernon was curious as to what a little tinkering could do. If he was right, and he was confident that he would be having worked in the Camarilla, as a spy and as a banker both, for many years, then he knew exactly how to play it. He would target the first, second and third weakest companies to short sell on their stocks, drive the market down to the basement based on this and a little bit of rumour selling amongst old friends in the press and banking; he'd then buy up stocks across the companies and provide long term loan solutions to recapitalise them, put some expert man managers in place on their boards and push a positive news spin with aggression. The market would quickly re-establish - give it a year and he could sell shares for major profit whilst keeping the intelligence assets which proved useful. There wasn't much risk in it, and although it wouldn't have the money rolling into Camarilla coffers in any ineffably grand way, it would begin securing and making money on some important assets. He finished writing his plans and sent a quick email out to his share broker - Vernon would meet with him tomorrow.

Tonight held other plans...

What awaited him now was a pallet of his own musing, and the desirable company of his favourite co-artist:

Aurelia, come over in twenty. Paperwork done - need to see this city first hand; care to join?
PS - bring someone to eat...
Vernon x

He was hungry, but always choosy, as most Ventrue were. Blood needed to have an energising richness, vibrancy and subtle layers: it was champagne, after all, to one of Cain's lineage; why settle for products of inferior quality? Aurelia would bring someone delicious and refined though - she knew his tastes well enough, as well as the benefits of keeping her boss happy.

Twenty minutes... His mind was alert now: the prospect of heading out into a new town for the first time excited him. He rose from the chair, feeling the newly laid cream carpet absorb the weight of his tall, lithe frame. Leaving the jacket of his light grey Ozwald Boateng suit behind the chair, he slipped his hand into its left breast pocket and removed a set of uniquely rolled, medium cigars encased in a walnut box with sterling inlay to the edges. Lighting the first, he took the smoke in deeply and let the rich flavours infuse: the blood that would follow would be made all the sweeter for setting his pallet correctly. He smiled at the thought of this, although only a touch. Replacing the box, he then made his way over to the beautiful off-black Fazioli piano that stood as meekly as such a grand object might in the corner shadows, and ran his finger down the keys, listening for the perfect tuning and rich tone that he had come to expect. He bought a new piano every year: they were precious to him in a way few other things were. This one he had only played twice before, and never in L.A. He walked over to the large window that overlooked the city from his office at the very pinnacle of the 777 tower, looked into the night one last time - its brightness and activity antithetical to the pleasing docility of the starry night - before turning to sit and to play. He didn't consider what he would play, but let his fingers lead so that his mind finally caught up with the exquisite sound: Chopin

Nothing happened except music. No facts, figures, plans: music was indulgent escapism intertwined with something more sublime than he could muster to thought. It was only with the arrival of Aurelia, slipping in through the large double doors outside which Gregor, his guard and captain, stood. She held the room like an aesthetic counterpoint against the ballade's furious coda; grace and fire: a symbolic fusion: one fitting for an evening like this one.

"Hello, Victor." The simple greeting, softly spoken, was an understatement afforded by their greater-than-lifetime understanding. She stood like a dark angel of youth: her midnight hair held high into an elegant up-do complemented the complexion of her bronze skin. She wore a smart, maroon suit jacket that was empowering and yet surprisingly feminine given it's adaptation to her frame. Her smile warmed him from his musing, ponderous mood and her hazel eyes smoked wildly in the ambient lighting of the room.

"Hello, Aurelia." His reply met the genial understatement in likeness. "Care to join me for an evening stroll?"

"Yes, would you like to eat first?" She spoke tellingly, almost teasingly. The silence and slow nod from Vernon led her to click her fingers and in walked a delightful, petite red haired girl, around nineteen by his estimates; she wore... very little.

"Lovely..." The feeding was exquisite - she was compliant enough, which told him that this wasn't her first experience. That made it easier - she accepted and they took. Vernon rarely drank the blood of anything other than young, red haired girls. Through experience he found it a transcendent taste in comparison to everything else. He could afford to feed on the best, so he did.

In the action he ascended his vitality once more for the night; he stopped, took it in - let the thrill and rush surge like a river of power. When he opened his eyes the girl had already been taken away. The readiness good blood provided was like the opening of a door to glimpse the predator within; as a Ventrue he had far more mastery over the beast than the Gangrel which stood outside his door, but it didn't mean it wasn't there: it spoke now - a bass, throaty growl that lingered in foul temper against the cultured reason which subjugated it; but Vernon listen to it now.

"Quite finished?" Aurelia spoke, resting a feminine hand upon his shoulder, re-centering him. "You always were a little too obsessed with your food. So, where are we headed?"

"Only for a drive. There's much to be said for letting things come to you, Aurelia. I always told you that." He returned the compliment of a hand to the shoulder as he spoke, his touch every bit as soft as her's. "But you must be out in amongst events to experience them, it's no good staying in a place where the world can't touch you. Let's live feelingly for a night."

She always remained impressed when he spoke in abstract; Vernon held a room like no other man she had met. She would follow him to the ends of the earth on that alone. Taking his hand, she pulled him and in a twist turned herself also towards the doors. They were leaving.

"Coming Gregor?" Victor said as he left. The bullish looking Gangrel at the door flexed; he stood in a pair of washed jeans and a tight black t-shirt that contrasted the Ventrues' formal wear. "Aye, sir. Be good to get out for a change. Can I speak freely, sir?" The rough tones of his voice echoed a similar accent to Vernon's, but somehow the sounds were far less refined.

"You may..." Vernon replied curiously, still content that his best soldier had lost little of his discipline, despite his closer proximity to the beast.

"Standing at your door has made me mightily hungry." He grinned. Vernon returned it; then Aurelia.

"We've overlooked our best man," Aurelia mused. "The night is your picking my friend." Gregor grinned further - that was as good as a promise to him.

They took the elevator down from the top of the tower and into the basement. There waited a stunning, velvet coloured Rolls-Royce Wraith. It was a statement car: power, refinement, luxury, wealth. The cream leather interior greeted them like an old-friend. The two Ventrue sat in the back, getting a clear view of the city out of the blacked-out windows as Gregor drove. The streets sung with action as they ambled through the city; this place never rested - perfect territory for kindred. No wonder the Camarilla were so interested in re-securing it. Looking at a city as assets on paper was one thing - to take it in first hand, see its people, its problems, its wonders: that made you understand it. Of course, this wouldn't come in a night, but as an intelligence man Vernon knew he had to begin the process.



"Any direction?" Gregor muttered from the front. Teaching the Gangrel to drive had been hard enough; to do so well had taken an age, but he was exemplary at it now. The Wraith weaved in and out of the traffic, but they were heading nowhere in particular. Vernon was about to speak when something familiar yet striking caught his eye out of the window.

"Turn around Gregor, at the next junction. Then drive passed slowly." There was a curiosity laced with tempered excitement in Vernon's voice. Gregor complied, wheeling the grand, powerful car round with expert control.

"What is it, Vernon?" Aurelia spoke softly, her subtle Spanish accent accentuated by the whispering in his ear. She was interested in what he had seen; whatever it was, it was more than the everyday, that was certain.

"One of our own, I think... a Ventrue. I only saw her for a second, but I know our kin. She was of our blood..."

The Wraith pulled up outside an alleyway - it's blackened windows slipped down a little; there was no trace of her now, but Vernon starred into the darkness knowingly. "Blood. Poor blood, common blood, not fit for one of us. She's desperate; lost perhaps. Cut off."

He stepped out of the car. His sharp suit, tall figure and natural elegance made him stand out amongst the scruffy kine that littered the streets. Once Aurelia stepped out in all her striking, composed beauty, the effect was doubled. They drew looks, but very few looked for long.

"Gregor, watch the car. Come Aurelia, we have one of our own to locate." The certainty he spoke with somehow lent a warmth to the cool night air; a confident aura. She would follow him anywhere, down any alleyway - even in this strange, unfamiliar town called L.A.

[cider]

GIOVANNI

Samuel Giovanni looked up at the dark skies before turning his gaze towards his wrist watch. Midnight. He drew a deep, silent breath, filling his lungs with unwanted air. There was an unmistakable chill this night. A cold, harrowing breeze tugged its way through the dark, sweeping over the specks of grass and caressing the old gravestones. Straightening the sleeves of his grey jacket, Samuel silently looked on as a male ghoul dug his way into the cold, hard ground. They would soon reach the casket. Beside him, Julie Giovanni spoke in a mild, gentle tone Samuel thought reserved for him.
"Are you certain this is necessary?"
"Yes. Certainly." he answered matter-of-factly. Julie remained quiet a few seconds, then spoke again.
"And what do you - we - do if the Camarilla finds out?" she asked. Samuel turned his head towards her, met her hazel eyes. There was hesitation in them, as there was in her voice. Julie was a blunt and unabashed woman, but she was not an idiot. Angering the Camarilla tended to be an unwise move by any vampire, especially if said vampire's only backing consisted of memories of the past. Before Samuel answered, the ghoul whistled, and as Samuel spun around he clearly saw the casket. He nodded at the human, who cleared the rest of the dirt and opened the box. The three of them quickly gathered around the casket and looked down on a decaying body. The ghoul hurriedly covered his mouth, clearly taken by surprise by the powerful odor.
"That's him, alright. Get the fucker in the van." The ghoul, still covering his face, used one strong arm to lift the thin body up and hoist it over his shoulder. He then strolled past the two Kindred and opened the back of an oxford blue van, before placing the corpse in a wooden casket of decidedly cheaper make than the one in the grave. After closing the back doors again, he walked back to the now empty grave.
"Can you vampires like, uh, sense that the corpse is gone? 'Cus if so, the guys we're stealing this from might find out, y'know." Julie's eyes seemed to turn bright with fire upon hearing the insolent, human word for Kindred. Samuel reached into his jacket.
"You cannot steal a corpse. The truly dead belong to no one. And no, thankfully I am not aware of such a power." Samuel's hand came out in the open again, this time with a pistol, and he attached a silencer with quick, practiced ease. "But I am careful." He shot the ghoul twice in the face, who neatly fell dead into the grave. Samuel walked over. "Well what do you know, a perfect fit." he said coolly. He then picked up the shovel and watched Julie coming over. "The Camarilla will never learn of this, but they'll fucking wish they had."

One week earlier

Passing through the open gates, a black sedan slowly rolled up the entrance to the Giovanni mansion. Situated in Burbank, it had long been the base of operations for the Giovanni family in the Los Angeles area, and ultimately California as a whole. The building had been built hundreds of years ago, and it had been grand. Huge in size, filled with hidden rooms and large catacombs amidst the expensive dining rooms, library, gathering halls and similar, excessive rooms.

Now, however, the once proud mansion was reduced to a shambling corpse. The east wing was completely collapsed, and repairs had seemingly stalled, leaving the mansion half in ruin two years after the Fledgling tore it apart. Samuel got out of the car and shook his head in disbelief. Julie followed him out of the car and sneered in repugnance. The couple briefly looked around at the desolate area, before entering the mansion through the unlocked main doors.

The sight that followed left Samuel practically tearing at the seams in disgust. The main hall was strewn in smashed furniture, broken statues and busts. Moreover, dried blood stained floor and walls alike, all lit up by the moonlight through a hole, high up in the ceiling. The electricity seemed to be off or not there at all. After simply standing there, taking in what was left of this Giovanni legacy, a loud noise was heard as a creature suddenly crossed the hall from left to right.
“You!” Samuel shouted. The creature suddenly stopped and turned to face Samuel. It approached quickly, and Samuel recognized it as Henry Putanesca, the supposed proprietor of this shithole. Henry looked surprised. Surprised and horrified.
“Mr. Giovanni? W-what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here until Thursday!” he exclaimed, forcing a smile.
“I am here now. My mansion is not. Explain.” Samuel answered through clenched teeth, venom practically dripping in his response. Henry desperately started rambling.

Samuel and Julie listened for a good five minutes as the Putanesca, too scared and caught in the act to lie, told them about the in-fighting following the attack, the lack of hope as the chapter’s leadership fell apart and the general downwards spiral of violence and decadence that had lead them to where they were now. Initially, the survivors had banded together and blamed the Camarilla for what had happened. Trying to get revenge, the Giovannis had put together a plan only to have it backfire, with most of the survivors ending up killed as well, this time indeed by the Camarilla’s hands. After this, the remaining Kindred were all higher gen, inexperienced and none of them had been part of those Giovanni who handles outside contact. As time went on one by one holed up in the mansion and turned away from the outside world, to the point of hardly leaving the grounds at all, sometimes even leaving the gates to the property open and unguarded. The Giovanni interests had crumbled along with the Kindred, and few local assets remained. The last week, the electricity had been cut off, presumably some sort of power failure. No one had bothered fixing it. A mere handful Kindred remained, all of them 11th gen and above.

Henry Putanesca himself claimed he had been too afraid to let the elders know just how bad the situation was, and figured he didn’t need to either, as Los Angeles had been viewed as a lost cause up until now, completely disregarded as the Hidalgo family south of the border had been wiped out as well.
“In truth, it is good you came now. If the situation gets any worse, it may get completely out of hand. It could be irreversible, then.” Henry finished. Julie couldn’t keep quiet any longer.
“May? It is well and truly fucked, you filthy, rotting waste of flesh and bone.” On Samuel’s order, Julie then proceeded to lunge at the Putanesca, literally tearing the pitiful man limb from limb. When done, Samuel stepped forward and lifted Henry’s head off the floor, tossing it out the front door. He grabbed his cell and hit a number. Things would change, and they would change fast. He’d bring every damn asset he could to town, and he’d hit the locals hard. If there was anything he despised more than the Camarilla and Sabbath, it was facing his own clan’s inadequacies.

[Kingfisher]

“As I sleep, late at night
Wide awake, eyes drawn tight”

One note flowed effortlessly after another, the musician’s hands gliding over the piano keys with graceful ease, the mellow rhythm of the instrument’s musical beat drifting throughout the tavern, softly blending into the relaxed atmosphere.

“Whilst I scream, Inwards fight
Darkly dream, fear and fright”

Madeline accompanied the pianist, reclining gently against the large glistening frame of the grand piano, long tresses of raven hair flowing down across her narrow shoulders like water, clad in a little black dress that was tied up at the back with lace, her indulgent voice hitting each note with great skill, as one lyric after another spilled out of her supple lips.

“I look to the midnight sky
In the darkness I’ll fly”

The young Vampress captivated every member of the room as she sang, holding each and every one of them firmly in her grasp with the sensual sound of her musical prowess. The sheer intenseness with which she entranced those who listened to her voice might lead one to wonder whether there was some form of magical force at work.

“Broken body, filled with regret
Haunting memories, sins I can’t forget”

The ghoul that accompanied her on the piano played passionately, performing with increased vigour as the piece came to a close.

“He was all I craved, by his touch I was saved”
For one lingering moment an unyielding silence gripped the entirety of the room, the bars patrons taking a few moments to bask in awe of the performance that they had just witnessed.

Next, they were all up out of their seats, clapping and applauding loudly, a few cheers and whistles of approval caught up in the gleeful mixture.

The ghoul briefly rose from his stool, taking a prompt bow, before dutifully returning to his seat.

“Thank you, brothers and sisters…” Maddie’s voice was soft yet edgy, as though she were not entirely certain of the company she kept. She curtseyed awkwardly, before sashaying off into some misbegotten corner of the room, removing herself from the vision of the prying eyes that she could feel skipping across her necrotic skin.

Zaylee watched the performance from her private booth at the back of the bar, her fingers dancing lightly across the wooden table in front of her. Owen Townley sat across from her, taking delicate sips from his glass of scotch. The centuries old Vampress was unaware whether he partook in the drinking of alcohol to help uphold the masquerade, or if he did it to try and appease some fragment of humanity that still remained within the confines of his subconscious. It didn’t really matter to her, anyhow.

“She’s quite the little performer.” He observed nonchalantly, all but the slightest hints of his original German accent having long since faded from his voice.

Even whilst at the bar, Mr Townley dressed to impress; clad in a hand tailored crisp suite, with his dark hair slicked back across his scalp.

“If only she applied herself so dutifully to her other other…activities.” Zaylee stated with the slimmest inclination of humour, the earliest stages of a smile creeping across the corners of her plump lips.

“Nevertheless, I would rather share the young dame’s company then that vile…creatures.” As he spoke the ex-Nazi’s eyes flickered back and forth across the farthest crooks of the room which they occupied, almost as if he were worried the Nosferatu was lurking somewhere in the shadows.

Zaylee chuckled lightly, reclining further backwards in the booth’s cushions, easing herself into a position that would seemingly supply her with more comfort.

*

The predator slunk silently though the darkness, gazing out at the Los Angeles skyline from his shroud of shadows.

A seemingly endless tide of glass and concrete spread out across his vision, leviathan towers of industry and urbanisation surrounded by a mass of comparatively smaller constructions. Glimmering lights dotted the sprawling cityscape, bright neon beams of varying shades and hues flickering against the moonlit night sky, flooding the blackness with a brilliant electric brightness.

It finished draining what little blood remained in the mangled carcass of the coarsely furred rat that it clutched in its grime-smeared talons, before flicking the fresh rodent corpse to one side, letting it hit the ground with a distinctly wet thud .

The cool midnight air washed over its warped body, encasing it in an ethereal coffin of whispering winds. It made no difference though. It was always cold, always, always cold. Never warm.

Its serpentine tongue ran across the scarred surface of its fractured lips, drawing no saliva as it did so.

Rotface was dead. Always, always, always dead. Never living, never breathing, never feeling .

*
The bar was empty now; the tables which dotted the room completely abandoned, the stoic grand piano standing elegantly by itself, a few empty beer bottles littering the counter and table tops. Some tune from the indie rock charts eased quietly out of the muffled speakers, barely audible even amongst the almost silent room.

Zaylee skimmed through the last corpulent batch of dollar bills, before placing them neatly into one the till’s compartments.
The young-in-appearance Vampress slid out from behind the counter, wading out into the middle of the deserted room.

Mere moments from taking her leave for the evening; Zaylee spun around suddenly, confronted by the sight of three armed men barging in through the front door.

Each one was large in stature, possessing broad shoulders, muscular chests, and tree trunk-like limbs. They had varying hues of skin colour, and closely cropped hair.

Uzi’s in hand, the three men swaggered into the room, filling into a sort of motley line.

“Nice play ya got here.” The darker skinned of them remarked, flashing a toothy grin.

“We’re closed.” Zaylee remarked simply, adopting an emotionless tone of voice.

“Little young to be running a business, ain’t we?” Observed the olive skinned one, cocking one eyebrow into an inquisitive arch, his piggy eyes taking in every inch of the seemingly young girl’s body.

“I’m older than I look.” She replied plainly, smiling inwardly.

The biggest of the bunch, a Latino brute that towered above his comrades, stroked one spade-like hand over his bristly chin, his eyes flicking over to the till that sat atop the bar’s counter.

“We’ll be takin’ everythin’ in that.” He said with a curt nod, gesturing to the cash register.

“Nah, I’m rather fond of my money.” Zaylee stated, coolly admiring her painted nails.

“You think you’re in a position to stop us, little perra ?” He snapped with a throaty chuckle, the other thugs joining in.
“Guess so.” She mussed, mischief briefly flashing across her rose coloured eyes.

The olive skinned one lumbered slowly towards her, his entire body swaying in an exaggerated strut. Once he was no more than a few feet in front of her, he raised his Uzi so that it was level with her head, snarling viciously as he did so.

“Step aside, whore” he barked in a raspy voice, his brow furrowed.

Zaylee let out a quick snort, eyeing up the goliath in front of her.

“You must think you’re such a hard man, holding up little girls at gun point.”

“Move.”

“I think I saw some small children playing outside in the street earlier, perhaps you could go frighten them?”

The dark skinned one let out a booming laugh, whereas the olive one simply tightened his grip around his machine pistol, grinding his teeth together.

“You should watch your mouth, you little cunt !”

Zaylee sighed loudly, making an overly dramatized display of the whole ordeal.

“See, I REALLY don’t like that word…”

In a fraction of a second, her arm shot forwards, moving at inhuman speeds, fuelled by dark energies, battering into the big fellow’s hand, sending the Uzi flying from his grip. In that very same moment her other arm went bolting towards the brute, hurtling through the air at a pace that couldn’t even be fathomed by the human eye, simply appearing as a blur to the outside world. Microseconds before impacting with her opponent’s chest, her hand clenched into a fist, rapidly smashing into the giants stomach, the combination of speed and force that propelled her attack allowing her hand to tear through, skin, muscle, and bone, her fist erupting out of the man’s back in a torrent of blood and guts, a spray of red matter cascading down upon the other two goons.

All of this happened in an inconceivably fast handful of flashes, and by the time colossal thug could feasibly conceive what was happening, the last spark of life had vanished from his eyes.

Zaylee pulled her hand free from the man’s ribcage, leaving his humongous body to clatter to the ground, crashing to the floor with an immense thud .

A look of sheer horror flashed across the other two’s faces, and for a hauntingly long moment it seemed as though they had become statues, frozen with a permanent look of terror plastered across their features.

“Waste this bitch!” Roared the dark skinned one, his finger squeezing down on the Uzi’s trigger, a spray of bullets erupting from the gun’s barrel.

Before he had even managed to pull the trigger, Zaylee had swiftly veered to the side- still utilizing her celerity discipline-one lone shell just about managing to graze her leg as she darted out of harm’s way.

Several bullets whizzed inoffensively through the air, landing harmlessly in the uncostly wallpaper that coated one of the bar’s farthest walls.

The two hoodlums turned to face Zaylee, as she phased back into existence, unsteadily clinging to their automatic weapons, pointing them squarely at the little girl, the bodies shaking nervously as thick clots of sweat poured down their brows.

“THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” Gasped the dark skinned one, blinking repeatedly as he did so, as though he could somehow expel the peculiar situation in which he had found himself by recurrently shutting his eyes.

The young Vampress triggered her presence discipline, her body oozing both dominance and intimidation, manifesting itself in the already doubtful consciousness of her attackers, thriving off of their existing fear.

“Run.” She whispered, speaking so quietly that the pair had to strain to hear what she was saying. It was a simply command, but one that struck something deep inside hearts of the brigands, somehow confirming all of their uncertainties with one single solitary suggestion.

In a matter of seconds, the pair had bottled from the bar, tearing out of the self-contained room, and rushing out into the grimy streets that lay beyond the Sleepwalker bar.

[Squrmy]

As the last beams of sunlight began to slip away into darkness, Hollywood and the majority of its inhabitants were just waking up - both mortal and otherwise. Alexander Vereshchagin’s eyes opened slowly, blinking several times; irises dilating slightly as they adjusted to the dim lighting of his ‘bedroom’, if the room could be called that: it was a massive, rectangular room above a warehouse, thickly insulated and with only a single, small window - over which a heavy metal shutter had been pulled to keep out the bright light of the day.

The room was complete with cream-coloured wallpaper and wooden floorboards, and several propaganda posters - relics from the soviet union, along with a massive flag which dominated one wall: the flag of the now-fallen USSR. The floorboards happened to creak subtly underfoot whenever they were walked across: one of Alex’s many security measures, implemented by the Kindred himself because of his paranoid nature. He rose from his perch - a large, well-cushioned couch - with a yawn, stretching his arms out behind his head; cracking his knuckles as he tilted his head slowly from side to side.

The upper story of the warehouse, one of Alex’s many safe houses throughout LA, was sparsely furnished: containing only a rarely-used bed, a desk, and a large couch with a coffee table in front of it, on which sat his closed macbook. There was a massive flat screen TV taking up much of the wall facing the couch, which itself was sitting in the middle of the room - if he’d put it up against a wall, he would have been able to see the TV, but the kine whom he occasionally brought back would likely have been confused, as he had learned through experience.

He made his way over to the king-sized bed, eyes scanning over the clothes that he had set out across it: picking out a white t-shirt, a pair of black jeans, and some canvas shoes. The Russian quickly got changed, sitting on the bed with a soft grunt as he did up his laces. Rising to his feet, he shrugged on a leather jacket which he wore near-constantly, running his calloused fingertips across the rough, stubble-covered surface of his cheek.

Alexander threw one last glance around the room, ignoring the gnawing feeling which he was beginning to experience as the result of his hunger: making his way over to the coffee table and picking up his smartphone, shoving it into his back pocket. He also paused to open one of the table’s drawers, revealing roughly three handguns of different makes, along with ammunition for each of them. The Russian’s fingertips closed around the grip of a Makarov pistol, which he had brought back with him from one of his trips back to his motherland - a 1971 version, which he tucked into the back of his jeans, covered by his shirt and the hem of his heavy leather jacket - along with about three clips: he’d need them tonight, from what his kine had been telling him.

He saw himself as a shepherd, of sorts: the leader of his coterie, a woman whom he had only ever known as Eva, had given him the task of coming to control the Russian element of organised crime in LA. Alexander had set to the task with gusto, quickly coming to control the Russian Mob through his influence over its leaders, and several of its most prominent and successful members: over whom he had exercised his skills of persuasion, and where that had failed, he had used mind control - a skill taught to him by his Brujah sire and mentor. Alex was protective of his ‘flock’, as he had come to call the Mobsters under his control when he was talking of them to other Kindred, and was almost unreasonably possessive of these Russian men and women - the majority of whom had originally emigrated from the USSR.

He approached the only entrance and exit to the large room - save for the window, which was made from bulletproof glass (not that it would help if anyone that could cause Alex any real harm wanted to get inside). It was a large, thick door made from oakwood - reinforced with bolts of steel. Turning the handle, he swung the heavy door open with ease; stepping outside and locking it behind him with a key that was attached to his belt.

Alex found himself on top of a flight of metal stairs that led down to a mostly-empty parking lot: the beauty of the night sky above him invisible to the mortal eye because of the light pollution of Hollywood, and the larger area of LA itself - it was very, very built up, and extremely developed: a world and a half away from the Russian City of Petrograd in which the man had grown up. He barely remembered his homeland, but he felt a warm feeling in his heart everytime he thought of his childhood, and the family who’s faces he had long since forgotten.

The man descended the steps, shoes tapping lightly upon the metal plates as he made his way down to the parking lot - unhooking a set of car keys from the loops of his jeans, index finger pressing down upon the ‘unlock’ button; a loud beeping sound and the flashing of headlights responding to his action - coming from the chassis of a beautiful and well-looked after Audi S8. He opened the door to the car, sliding into the leather drivers’ seat and placing the key in the ignition, turning it with a grin as the expensive vehicle roared into life. “Beauty,” He mumbled to himself in Russian, pulling out of the car park and starting to make his way down town.

As he drove, he used his car’s bluetooth to phone one of the mobsters whom he controlled, speaking in rapid Russian: quickly gaining the information he needed; a group of Irish gangsters had been trying to encroach upon Russian-controlled territory, and had apparently started shifting heroin in one of the areas which Alexander’s men controlled. Despite his kine’s assurances that he and his men could take care of the problem - which sounded almost frantic in their intensity - Alex told him that he’d take care of it himself: it had been a while since he’d gotten his hands dirty, and he had a desire to shed blood tonight.

An Hour Later

“Aye, an’ then I said to ‘im - ‘you fookin’ Russian prick, you can go back an’ tell your boss that the paddies own this place now’, an’ the coont did jus’ that - not a word out of ‘im, ‘ee fucked off! I was expectin’ a fight, or somethin’ - seems the Russians here ain’ -real- Russians, just pansies! So I shot ‘im in the back of the head, y’know - didn’ want him runnin’ an’ gettin’ ‘is friends onto me..” Laughter, along with the ramblings of several Irishmen continued to meet Alexander’s ears, his eyebrows creasing into a frown. Killing his kine? He’d make sure that one suffered, for that.

The men were standing in a loose circle in an otherwise-deserted alleyway, lit only by the dim light from a singular, flickering lamp post a few metres away from them, at the beginning of the dead-end alley. Although they had no idea of his presence, Alexander had been watching the paddies from his position on top of a liquor store which was situated next to the alley for about fifteen minutes, making sure that they were the men he wanted: he didn’t want to kill just anyone.

But, any doubts that he might have had had vanished, replaced by anger - fueled by his near obsessively protective nature for those that he considered ‘his’ - that the mortals beneath him had dared to touch a hair on his kine’s heads. Deciding that now was about as good a time as any, he pushed his earphones into his ears: pressing ‘play’ on the touchscreen on his phone, a classic Russian symphony beginning to play as he jumped from his position on the roof down onto the cobblestones below, landing with a dull ‘thud’ - which was masked by the sound of far-off bass music, coming from one of LA’s many clubs.

He gradually rose from his crouched position, eyes slightly illuminated in the dim light of the alleyway: deliberately making his appearance known to the gangsters in a slow and intimidating fashion. It took a moment or two, but eventually one of them realised his presence - a shout of surprise leaving his lips as he saw a pair of dead-looking eyes staring at him, unblinkingly, from over his friend’s shoulder. “Jesus, Mary and Jose-,” He started, but was stopped mid-sentence with a bullet to the throat: fired from the muzzle of Alexander’s makarov.

His friends immediately stopped in their joking, staring in shock as the Kindred’s first victim fell to the ground with a loud thud, squirting blood from a gaping hole in his neck. Alex watched the men’s reactions almost as if they were in slow motion, eyes flicking between each of their faces: analysing if they were going to try to fight him, or if they were going to run away. Fight or flight. If they were wise, they’d run - not that it would help them anyway.

The first man to turn was obviously used to seeing violence, not that it didn’t make him angry: he was furious, and it was written all over his face. Alexander allowed the man to draw his gun, even allowed him to take aim with it - before he, too, received a bullet: this time to the chest. A yell of pain accompanied the Irishman’s subsequent fall from grace, the remaining three men looking between each other with uncertainty.

They were quite certainly yelling in their panic, but Alex didn’t hear them - all he heard was the sound of the music playing loudly in his ears, masking their shrieks and yells. Although he knew how to read lips, he didn’t bother: the pleading of mortals bored him, and the sight of blood had him hungering for more.

One of the Irishmen’s spirits broke, then, and he decided to make a run for it: attempting to pass Alex in the process. “Big mistake,” The Kindred murmured in his deep voice, the Russian coming from his lips as easily as English. With a blur of speed that was almost invisible to the human eye, he was suddenly beside the fleeing gangster - a fist that could well have been a steel bar slamming into his stomach, winding him and breaking at least three of his ribs. He fell to the ground, too - incapacitated for now. The sound of crashing cymbals and increasingly intensifying violin-playing filled the Russian Vampire’s ears, as his victims thrashed about on the ground at his feet.

While he’d been dealing with his friend, one of the two remaining mobsters had drawn his gun - and fired it in the direction of Alex’s chest. The bullet impacted with the Kindred’s flesh, a grunt leaving his lips as he staggered back a few steps - his right earphone falling out of his ear. Suddenly, he was exposed to the true sounds that had been created as a result of his playtime: the screaming of dying men, the gradually receding ringing sound of a bullet being fired, and the frantic yelling of two men who were raised in Ireland: a country full of superstitions, and not all of them completely made up.

He looked relieved when Alex staggered back, and even a few drops of blood began to dribble from his wound: but he didn’t fall to the ground, and he certainly didn’t look like the bullet had hurt him. Alex stayed on his feet, simply.. staring at the two remaining mortals.

“You fookin’ demon!” The man screeched, the familiar sound of his voice registering with the Kindred’s now-exposed eardrum: marking the man who had just fired his weapon as the man who had been bragging about shooting Russian mobsters. “Demon?” Alexander smirked, another blur of superhuman speed and the dim lighting of the alleyway causing him to look as if he had just teleported to the side of the other Irishman who had not yet drawn his gun; snapping his neck with ease, as if he had just been pulling apart a toothpick. It made the same sort of noise, at least.

The remaining man’s face turned pale as he struggled to come to terms with what he had just witnessed: a loud “fook this!” coming from his lips as he turned and sprinted away, towards the only entrance and exit of the alleyway: and Alex let him go. For a moment, at least.

Then, there he was - in front of him, a hand taking a rough hold of his jacket - eyes staring into the human’s own, almost as if he was hypnotizing him. Soon enough - within a few seconds - the fear in the Irishman’s eyes subsided, replaced by a sort of.. blank obedience. Without having even said a word, Alexander had taken over the man’s mind - which hadn’t been too hard, because of all the drugs he’d been abusing.

Leaving the scene of carnage behind him, Alexander made his way back to his audi, which was parked a few blocks away. He got back into the drivers’ seat, the Irishman climbing into the back without complaint. A grin upon his lips, and blood splattered all over his clothing, Alex turned the key in the ignition - driving off, back towards the main ‘home’ of his coterie - Eva’s mansion in Malibu. He was sure she wouldn’t mind that he was bringing a guest back with him.

[Vanq]

Welcome to Watts

A few nights previous...

In the neighborhood the Plebes called home, there was no right side of the tracks, not to outsiders at least. Within the community, though, lines were clearly drawn, territory fiercely protected by the gangs the kine flocked to. Within their world, tucked away in an unassuming house, the Plebes oversaw it all.

Lily did not care for the neighborhood one bit. The house that the Vadim and Ivan had claimed as their headquarters had been untouched from its previous state, rundown, paraphernalia strewn about, it had been disgusting. Though she had only been there two years, her renovations had begun nearly instantly and had been finished less than a year ago. The house had been split into numerous rundown apartments at one point, but all that had been fixed. The basement and downstairs were left to the “brothers,” as they liked to call themselves, while she had set aside the upstairs into a spacious and open floor layout of a penthouse. It only took a few steps into the abode to see that a Toreador called it home, and to travel upstairs was jarring whenever there was a need to peer out a window to the outside world.

She had surrounded herself with seduction, a large sitting room resplendent in its decor and details that lead into an equally large master bedroom. There were no doors, no real separation. Few people met her in this environment, it had been a selfish pursuit, but completely worth it to sooth her sensibilities and desires. For this Mr. Saxon, however, it seemed an appropriate place to do business; to have him travel through the ghettos of LA and to be met with the luxury hidden within it.

This had been years in the making, but only recently had she found the right connections to make her way to the mysterious kindred that she would finally meet tonight. Vadim and Ivan were unaware of her activities, and she doubted they would appreciate what she looked to do. Vadim perhaps would understand her desires, her desperate need for revenge. What they wouldn’t understand is the danger she threatened to put them in. Jean-Marc was primogen of the Toreador now. One of the highest ranking kindred in LA. And she wanted to tear him down from that precipice and watch him burn for his sins against her.

It was exhilarating.

While Lily readied herself inside, upstairs, in her penthouse, outside, two gang bangers squatted on their stoop. Both were ghouls, their orders to watch the place and street for outsiders who didn’t belong, for those who could threaten them. Hunched over, they sat smoking. Few words passed between them, their eyes ever vigilant even if their bodies didn’t show it. They knew they were waiting for someone, a white man, the only guest they would allow entry to for this night.

For once, Saxon did not appear to have stepped out of the world of noir, instead, a large Superdry coat covered his appearance, appropriately scuffed and torn to further give the impression he was someone of no consequence. The hood pulled up around his features, the only looks he received, despite travelling through gang territory, were of pity and contempt. He could tell he was not what the ghouls were expecting, at least until he pulled back the hood, straightening up to stand an inch or two above them. It was a cold night, at least for this time of year in LA, the sea wind biting harsher than normal, but the three figures didn’t feel it so badly, all three imbued with the powerful blood of the kindred, in some way or another.

“I believe you’re expecting a Mr. Saxon.” With a shared glance, one of the ghouls eventually took it upon himself to show him in, before pointing him in the right direction. The initial inner sanctum was as much to be expected, not quite as run down as the area outside but not far off it. However, as he approached his eventual destination, the trapping of luxury became even more prevalent, until he felt like he was standing back in Post-war Berlin, the first war, enjoying the glamourous sights of a defeated nation. It was only when he was within sight of his contact, the toreador, that he finally removed his coat, hanging it up as if it were an expensive jacket, not something to be found curled around a street bum. Beneath, he was Saxon once more, suit trousers, white shirt, thin black suspenders, just missing his blazer.

“You called, Madame.” The cigarette was in his lips as he finished speaking, using a spark simply from brushing his fingers together with the force of supernatural strength. Fine quality, from far afield, the aromatic smoke soon billowing forth from him.

Lily, as she had taken to being called again, a former stage name of sorts, sat perfectly lady-like, reclined on a long and plush chaise. Most nights she had taken to emulating the style of the brothers, though anyone with real knowledge of the underground punks that called LA home would know her to be a fake, to be a poseur. Tonight though, she was back into the style of old Hollywood, a glimmer of the life she had once wanted so badly, she had given up everything for it. Red hair done up in soft, rolling curls that framed her angular face, deep red lips against her pale face, and a vintage black dress that flowed from her hips.

She looked up, meeting Mr. Saxon’s eyes as he spoke to her. “Welcome, Mr. Saxon. I hope the journey here was without any inconveniences.” She reached, gracefully, for the cigarette holder that lay on a nearby table. Made of ivory, and cocktail length, it was just one more touch, one more detail, that had cost a pretty penny. She breathed in, the cooled smoke a pleasant sensation. Sitting up and crossing her ankles, she revealed the slit of her dress and a brief glimpse of her perfectly paled thigh. “Sit, put yourself at ease, if you will.” She gestured to the matching chair across from her, a welcoming and seemingly genuine smile across her face. “Pour yourself a drink if you desire, the cabinet is well stocked.” She would play hostess for the moment, for as long as the moment called for it. “But tell me, is there much word of my presence in the city?”

“A few whispers of a Toreador making her home in a place she doesn’t belong, none who may even have an idea of who you may be seem to find it overly..critical.” He spoke as he moved to the seat, coming to a halt and reclining into the welcome rest of the chair. Saxon took a long drag, blowing out the smoke as he paused for a moment, allowing some manner of suspense and pause before he continued. Attractive though she may have been, he managed to keep any visible sign of his eyes being drawn to the games she played with her legs. As a detective in LA, he’d learned to sidestep such things long before he was born again as a kindred.

“The journey was fine, I’ve walked these streets for far longer than this coterie of yours, the gangs may be working for new people, but I still know how to get around them.” Replying to her first question, in opposite order, a slight grin pulled at his lips. Many of the newer additions to the city often forgot that, they may claim certain territory as their own for now, but the natives, well it had been their city for far longer.

A small dose of relief flooded her, it had been two years-a second really in the life of the kindred-but it was good to know that she had not caught the wrong sort of attention yet. Vanity though, a most selfish trait, tugged at her, illogical as it was. In time, she told herself, she could set free that side of her. "Of course, but there seems to more tension in the night air then even my young mind can remember." The smile remained, friendly and welcoming, even as she drew another long breath on the cigarette.

"You strike me as a man who likes to get to business, so let's, shall we?" Lily leaned forward, letting some of her curls fall over bare shoulders. “Jean-Marc Fais.” The words left her mouth with a noticeable bite of bitterness. Even saying his name brought a bad taste to her mouth, and sent her anger spiking. She could see him, in her mind, like it was the first day she had met him, beautiful man that he was, the cruelty it hid. “Since you are here, I must assume you have something that I can use, and price you would like to exact.” If she still had a soul, she would sell it if it meant getting what she needed on the primogen. She flicked the ash off the tip of her cigarette and looked up expectantly.

“There’s an abandoned industrial estate, near Nickerson Gardens. Except, it isn’t abandoned, hasn’t been for a long time. The Sabbat have claimed it as their own. I need a… significant amount of muscle to expel them from the premises, but leave the place as intact as possible. I want to uncover what the Sabbat are doing of late, not simply stomp down on a minor operation. If you can secure that for me, then we can keep talking.” He didn’t bother assuring her that he even had information to give, if she knew enough of his reputation, and practically anyone observant within the city did, then it was more than an educated guess that he’d be able to provide. Straight to the matter, his own interest, and followed by another long drag and puff of his cigarette. His eyes met her’s after that, able to ignore the pull to examine the room he was in further, both the lure of investigation, and the toreador urge to regard such things put aside, for now.

“Otherwise, this isn’t worth the potential upheaval. I tend to sympathise with neonates, but we’re not so familiar for me to swing in your favour out of preference.”

There was a moment of hesitation, of silence, once Saxon’s price was put on the table. Lily flicked the cigarette once more, inhaled one last draw, before rubbing it out in the ornate ashtray before her. That their target would be Sabbat meant both Russians would go for it, there would not be much argument over it. Ivan had been craving a fight, a real fight, for months. “I see.” Softly spoken while exhaling a small plume of smoke. “It seems what I have heard of you is quite a fair assessment.”

She wasn’t in a position to negotiate. Some part of her wondered at whether she was already getting a much better deal than she deserved. They had manpower, in the form of kindred rejects, and too often that felt stretched so thin. “We will pay this price, but we will have whatever information you currently have on the pack.” Numbers, clans, you never knew what exactly would make a difference in a fight. Lily leaned onto the high armrest of the chaise, a mischievous smile flickering. “But I think such details could be discussed under more pleasant circumstances.” It was a ridiculous notion, that surrounded by the opulence she had created was somehow less than pleasant. “Why don’t you join me for dinner, Mr. Saxon.” The Russians’ tastes were deplorable, their fancy being in the drug-addled groupies that hung about, and it had been too long since she had the company of a like-minded individual.

“I would hardly send you in unprepared. Your coterie will know all that I do, in regards to the operation.” The cigarette, by now, was little more than a stub and it soon joined her own in the ashtray, a smile, not quite spreading across the whole of his face, touched his lips, although at what comment it was hard to tell. “Dinner, would indeed make for a more appealing conversation. Do you have a place in mind?” He lent back into the confines of the chair, raising an eyebrow at her suggestion. He had not drank his fill in a few nights, enough to sustain himself without discomfort, but hunger was never far off.

“If not, I’m sure I can find somewhere to your liking.”

“Lovely.” She stood, slinking from her chaise. “Please, I’m sure you are much more aware of what the city offers now, much more than I. I have trusted you so far, I think I can trust you in this. Allow me a few moments to find something more fitting.”

Lily moved to the opposite end of the room, skirts flowing around her legs, to the area she had designated as her bedroom. A wide arch marked the entrance to it, and all that closed it off from the main room was a couple of layers of sheer golden fabric. As she rummaged through the walk-in closet and pulled out a new ensemble, she couldn’t help but feel a spur of excitement. She had closed herself off to much of the world, through necessity and because of fear. Choosing this moment to allow herself some freedom in the type of environment she craved, with the kindred in the other room may not have been the wisest of decisions, but perhaps it would allow her a chance to make herself more favorable. She could only hope.

It didn’t take her long to gather the outfit and change behind the curtains. Lily didn’t spare a glance to see if she had managed to entice the former detective to sneak his own glance, or to see if he had contented himself to exploring her abode as she was certain he must have wanted to. “As long as our dinner is beautiful, I will have no complaints.” She spoke as pulled aside the curtains once more. It was a tougher look now, with a feline grace to her curves. Tight black pants that ended at sky high heels, a metallic plum shirt that plunged, and covered, almost tastefully, with a black leather jacket. She had even taken the time to pull her waves back into a tight ponytail. “Shall we?”

Saxon had taken the time she was away to further examine his surroundings. The manner in which he approached this was more in the style of a detective than an admirer, but nevertheless, there belied his true reasoning. The blood of the Toreador clan was strong in him, and while he may show his own art through his work, he still felt the pull towards artificial beauty. It had been many years since the curse had worked him into a state of bemused wonder, and that had been because he had attempted to suppress what he found to be an embarrassing addiction. Now it was moments like this, of quiet appreciation, that kept such things at bay.

When she returned, some time later, he turned to face her, another smile spreading across his lips. She was a sight, it was clear why a Toreador elder in one of their many flippant phases might choose her for a childe.

“I feel remarkably unprepared, had I known what company I would be entertaining.” A lie, he knew exactly of course, but it was an easy compliment to make, and to be fair, he hadn’t known he would be ‘dining’ with her. He left his coat, instead, offering his arm for her to take while he made a call, a cellular conversation of a few short words. By the time they had reached the less profoundly well maintained sections of the hideout, the sound of a powerful engine could be heard outside, alongside the startled voices of the ghouls on watch. He opened the door to a sedan, Hans Achen, the older ghoul, sitting in the driver’s seat glaring rather unimpressed at the two gang banger ghouls now seemingly ready to pounce.

“If you wouldn’t mind calling them off.” Saxon spoke, little more than a whisper to the kindred beside him, so as to not worsen the situation. Ghouls may have been loyal, but they weren’t drones, and particularly when it came to gang members, he was not certain that if aggravated, she would have complete control.

Lily had eased herself to Saxon's side, nothing so close that any observer would call it an intimate distance, but it was a pleasing thing, to have herself in an attractive man’s company. This sort of experience had been sorely missed of late; she hadn't even found a kine man to wine and dine since returning to LA. It had always seemed too dangerous, to expose herself as such. Making a ghoul of LAs top men seemed a poor decision if she wanted to stay beneath the radar. The kindred took his compliment in stride, a light squeeze of his arm in acknowledgement, anticipation of the coming meal heightening her senses and sharpening her desires. It had not been easy to become accustomed to hunger feeling so similar to what sexuality had during life. She had come to appreciate it though, the pang, the conquest, the victory.

The sound of his car roared into the neighborhood, her ghouls quickly at the ready to defend, to fight. She turned her head as Saxon offered his advice to see just bad they had been. They were coiled, eager, their hands itching to move to their weapons, and all she could do was roll her eyes and sigh.

"The ride’s for me, boys. Back off." She had turned, pulled her arm away from Saxon reluctantly when they didn’t immediately respond. She’d have to talk to Vadim about these two. Just a few steps away, hands on her hips and her lips turned down in displeasure, a low hiss came from her throat. “Back off.” They shared a look, hands hovering against the small of their back, one of them spat to the side. They nodded, and the tension passed, their bodies no longer coiled for attack. “Keep an eye out until we’re all back. And one of you make sure Betty gets dinner.”

Lily returned to her companion's side, the anger smoothed away from her face, a coy smile taking it’s place. "Problem solved." She gave a quick, soft pat to his arm and eased herself into the back seat of the car, long legs pulled in slowly. He might have the sense to not react to her, but she doubted he didn’t notice.

"Where are we off to tonight, or is that a surprise?" Her voice came from within, having slid over just enough to give him space to sit.

“The Los Angeles County Museum of Art has recently opened a new gallery, showing off up and coming talent from across California. While that may be an interesting sight in and of itself, what’s more appropriate for the current circumstances is the party the Museum is throwing tonight, for these young, talented artists. While a humble investigator like myself doesn’t have the financial clout to earn tickets, my company helped locate the Museum's curator’s missing son a few years back. I have a permanent RSVP on such things.” Saxon explained with a slight grin as Hans began to drive, the engine roaring to life once more as the car moved through the gang territory. People weren’t caught here for speeding, much less anything else. Hans knew the route well, had made many a similar drive before.

“The location precisely, the Omni, California Plaza. Something of a luxury hotel.” He leant back into the comfort, if not overly luxurious feel of his seat, for a few moments watching the world go by out of the window, before turning back to face his ‘date.’

“Will that suffice?”

If her heart still functioned, it would have skipped a beat. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been truly entranced by beauty. Ivan joked too often that there was plenty of “urban” artwork in their neighborhood she could go stare at if she missed beauty so much. Lily breathed out sharply and shook her head with a small laugh. “I said I wanted dinner, not a childe, Mr. Saxon…” She winked at him before leaning her head back to rest against the seat, her body angled such that she could still see him.

“It will suffice very well, I think.” A knowing, hungry grin passed her lips before pulled it back into something more controlled, more suitable.
She watched the city pass by, the neighborhood change to that of the middle class. “You have a file on me. My short, terrible history of being an embarrassment to all Toreadors, all Kindred depending on who you ask, I’m sure.” She was musing aloud, she hadn’t been able to pull together why exactly he would have agreed to even toy with her request. The Sabbat pack may have been a problem for LA, but putting the pieces together mattered, and this puzzle didn’t make sense, not yet. “I don’t mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, but what did you see that made you decide to even meet with me?”

Saxon had been switching between watching the outside world and cursory glances at his travelling companion, so as to not appear to be ignoring her, until the conversation changed to her own failings. Now his eyes honed in on her, not predatory or probing, simply focused, before he replied.

“From a pragmatic point of view, those on the lower rungs tend to be willing to sacrifice more to climb a few more, or pull others down behind them.” He didn’t speak in a particularly mean tone, but it was clear he wasn’t honeying matters, but then, there was no need to, empty words would only make her less likely to follow his plans. Things needed to be done to the letter.

“From a personal point of view. I too had...misgivings in regards to my sire. Admittedly I wasn’t shamed. Instead for decades she tried to kill me because I dared to rescue a female kindred from persecution in the Middle East. It was satisfying, to watch her burn. You are yet another wrong childe. That connection alone makes me want you to feel that same satisfaction.” It was almost as if the fires of that night gleamed in his eyes as he spoke, until and oddly jovial, thus slightly disconcerting, smile spread across his lips.

“Now, that was dark. Hopefully the fine company of artist may be a little more upbeat.”

She believed the first without doubt. What she had heard of the man who sat beside her seemed to fit that explanation to a T. What came after, was surprising, if true. Everyone worked towards their own goals, kine or kindred, but the machinations of a kindred ran deep. Omissions, half-truths, lies, everyone manipulated everyone else. And he was a Toreador, a much more experienced one than she. If she was being played, she doubted she would ever know for sure. But it was a pleasing story, the fire in his eyes igniting the need for revenge that at times felt as if it would consume her. She would believe it, whether because he wanted her to or she did, mattered not.

Lily nodded her acceptance of what he had said and let the city pass by in silence until they reached the bright lights of true civilization, and their destination.

[Kingfisher]

Abraham stood anxiously in the foyer of the extravagant hotel, awkwardly trying to iron out the creases in his cut-rate suite. Everything around him looked like it cost more than the average working class man made in their lifetime, from the ornate vases, to the marble pillars which supported the elaborately painted celling.

Exhaling quietly, the businessperson steadily made his way over to the front desk, soundlessly composing himself as he did so.

The figure that leered behind the reception table was gaunt-faced and limber in appearance, with haggard features, needle-like teeth, beady eyes that were the colour of dense mist, and a noticeable hunch.

The bestial exterior of the figure made Abraham recoil slightly, but he had come too far to turn back now. The fact that he had been afforded such a seemingly miraculous opportunity, the prospect of finding a buyer for his grandfather’s dilapidated old manor, was beyond a stroke of good fortune, and he would not let one slightly monstrous-looking figure hold him back.

“Can I help you sssssir…?”The crooked man hissed, his slender tongue briefly peeking out from behind rows of rotten teeth, spraying flecks of spittle across the luxurious wood of the front desk.

“I believe you may,” Abraham begun, forcing a smile by way of greeting. “I have an appointment with Miss Kosmar. Might you be able to direct me to her?”

The crooked man’s black lips contracted into a serpentine grin, as though he found something terribly exciting.

“Miss Kosssssmar isssss awaiting you in the dining room.” He extended his bony arm to his left; one slender finger pointing in what Abraham assumed was the direction of the eating place.

Dinning? At this hour…? His eyes drifted over to one of the room’s enormous glass windows, noting the ceaseless blanket of darkness that loomed overhead, illuminated by the glowing radiance of the glistening sheet of starts.

Abraham thanked the man, before continuing on his way, venturing down a long corridor that stretched on like some immeasurable tunnel.

The hallway was plastered with overly-elaborate pale wallpaper, and floodlit by a gush of ghostly moonlight, which seeped in from the immense skylight that covered the entirety of the corridor’s celling, its glass panels elegantly catching the moon’s glow. Every few feet or so, there was an authentic wooden table, which had some sort of classy-looking ornament on top of it.

The dining hall itself was a vast cathedral, the very depiction of exclusivity. Cut-glass chandeliers of immense girth hung down from the ceiling above, huge tables which ran the breadth of the room were covered in spotless table cloths, and a gargantuan glass panel gave guests a spectacular view of the Los Angeles waterfront, the dark waves blending seamlessly into the incalculable vastness of the night sky. The room was entirely abandoned, with the exception of one table, which housed two solitary figures, making it that much easier for Abraham to discern his destination.

As he drew closer to the table, the duo became more visible.

Sitting in a dark oak chair that looked as though it were twice her size, was an almost elfin young woman, who barely looked old enough to be out of school. A partially shaven head of shoulder length blonde hair cascaded loosely to the right, the left side of her scalp completely shaven, exposing a glistening pale scalp. Striking emerald eyes that adopted a bold assertiveness adorned her slightly mouse-like face, and a somewhat stout nose ran gracefully down her likeness. She was clad in a short black evening dress, which exaggerated her generous curves, and was taking large sips of some dark red liquid from an ornate wineglass.

Her entire form had a statuesque beauty to it, as though each of her features had been intricately carved by some master sculptor, and simply gazing at her stirred something dark and primal within Abraham, an unrelenting lust that whispered twisted notions in his ear.

Looming over her, lacking even the slightest inclination of any emotion, was the largest and most muscular man Abraham had ever seen, his broad figure clad in a long black trench coat, his finer features obscured by the combination of a darkly coloured scarf and a wide-brimmed fedora.

Abraham managed to catch the young woman’s attention, and she beckoned him over with one sleek hand, grinning broadly as she spotted him, something slightly unnerving flashing across her eyes.

The businessman regarded the giant brute with a curt nod, but he continued to be completely still as Abraham sat down at the table, remaining frozen to the spot.

“Mister Williamson!” Tanith Kosmar exclaimed with some flourishing hand gestures, dabbing at the small amount of her drink that was trickling down the corner of her mouth.

“Miss Kosmar.” Abraham spoke in a friendly manner, extending his hand to the young woman. She gripped it in her own, shaking it firmly.

As their skin touched, the first thing Abraham noted was the sheer coldness of the young woman’s hand, that in itself almost making him pull backwards, followed promptly by the fact that he could have sworn he felt her flesh soften as he touched it, his fingers seeming to sink into the putty-like surface of her hand.

Dismissing it as his imagination running wild, Abraham calmed himself, as he prepared to address the potential buyer.

“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,” he begun, lightly dabbing at the perspiration on his forehead.

“It was of no inconvenience to me, Mister Williamson.” Tanith casually stated with the wave of her hand, her tongue running back and forth across the edges of her lips.

“I trust your journey here was without incident?” One of her neatly plucked eyebrows curved into an arch as she asked her question, the sheer elegance with which she conducted herself making the businessman more than slightly flustered.

Never in his life had he felt so very out of his league, as he did now, sitting before this graceful young woman.

“Ehrrrm…No, not at all! My journey was very…ehrrrmmm…smooth.” He just about managed, all the while struggling to make eye contact with Tanith, something almost dreamlike dancing across her stunning orbs.

“I find this particular area to be refreshingly free of traffic, wouldn’t you agree?” She snickered lightly as she spoke; it was a dainty and delicate little laugh, one that ooze innocence and incorruptibility, that dark voice once again whispering in Abraham’s ear.

“Ah yes, quite,” he stammered nervously, desperately trying to gather his bearings.

His awkward fumbling made Tanith snicker again, but it was not a degrading laugh; she was laughing with him, not at him, as though they shared some private and scandalous joke.

It took everything Abraham had to dispel the depraved whispers in his ear.

“Shall get down to business?” She queered with a sweet smile, her expression warm and reassuring, making him feel as though whatever he did in life, she would always be there, always supporting him, having faith in him like no one ever had.

Repressed memories, forced back images of his disapproving mother, his string of judgmental ex-girlfriends, and his golden sister, who had always been everyone’s favourite, flashed across his vision, yet they did not matter anymore: Tanith had made all the bad things go away.

Coming to the realisation that he had spent the past five minutes staring at the young girl, without saying a word, Abraham decided it would be best if he said something.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to hear about the property-“He begun, but she almost instantly cut him off.

“I’ve already made my decision, Mister Williamson; I’m interested in acquiring your grandfather’s estate.”

That caught him off guard. He wasn’t one to question good fortune, but deciding to purchase some rickety old manor house, based off of a few pictures, without even having heard his sales pitch? It seemed almost too good to be true.

“Oh, I-I see…” He spoke slowly, trying to maintain his composure. “Well then, there’s just the small matter of payment, I suppose.” Something about this struck him as off, but he didn’t want to potentially ruin an easy sale by asking stupid questions.

Tanith giggled manically; it was a horrid laugh, high pitched and screechy, likes bone scrapping against bone, and it made Abraham’s skin go cold.

“My associates have already persuaded the right people to sign the appropriate documents.”

“I…I don’t quite follow, Miss Kosmar.”

She laughed again, but this time it was a deep and throaty cackle, layered as though there was a whole chorus of demonic beings bellowing in some satanic symphony.

“I simply invited you here in order to more easily factor you out of this particular equation.”

Before he had time to react, Tanith hurled her wineglass across at him, the cup shattering into a mass of broken pieces, the blood it contained mixing with his own as the jagged shards bit into his skin.

Abraham cried out in pain, tumbling off of his chair, and crashing to the wooden floor.

Within an instant, the humongous brute was looming over him, now very much alive an animate, fiery red eyes bearing down into his very soul. He pulled away his dark scarf, his multiple mouths, snapping and snarling, being the last sight that Abraham Williamson ever saw.

*




The long black limo eased slowly into the manor’s driveway, surrounded by dense thickets of overgrown bracken and twisted greenery on all sides.

Tanith stepped elegantly out of the smart car, a wine glass full of Abraham Williamson’s blood poised gently in one hand, gazing up at her recently commandeered mansion.

The Blythman estate had long ago fallen into a state of dilapidation, its once imposing gothic pillars having become cracked and fractured, gaping holes criss-crossing the surface of the supports. The glass panels of its windows were chipped, shingling had fallen from the slopped roof, and even the brickwork itself was starting to erode in places.

Tanith grinned eloquently “No one will look for us here,” she begun, addressing her Szlachta as they fell into place besides her, Mister Grudge standing strikingly to her right, his black trench coat concealing his muscular form. The Koldunic sorcerers gestured for her party to enter the manor, taking a delicate sip of blood with her one free hand.

“Let’s get to work.”

[Ruby]

There was something off putting about knowing, on a first name basis, so many twisted and terrible souls. It wasn’t as if Eva went out of her way to find these creatures--no, when you had a direct hand in the operations of an entire metroplex area such as Los Angeles and it’s surrounding regions, the cretins came to you. Whether living or unliving; one of the creepiest creatures she had ever met was a slick young Talent Agent only five years from passing the California State Bar. Completely mortal, completely made her skin crawl.

Then there were the others. Sara Anne Winder was an English born, English embaced, Italian raised Ventrue; she was also the Prince of San Fransisco. As far as cities went in the state of California, there was Los Angeles and there was California. Sacramento was the state capital, but it hung on strings that were pulled by bases of power in the two main cities. And with the even greater rise of nearby Silicon Valley, you would think San Fransisco would be a very large thorn in the side of whoever ran Los Angeles.

You’d be wrong, though. The New Promise Mandarinate, the Kuei-jin court of San Fransisco, was the true power in the city. Sara Anne was an embattled Prince, an 8th Generation Ventrue that was thrown into the frozen deep by her Camarilla masters. The Camarilla was seductive--it was also heartless. Eva did not envy Sara Anne, but neither did Eva hold any sympathy for the woman...she’d asked for it, after all.

But every now and then, Eva had to speak to Sara Anne. It was always on the phone, and in truth Sara Anne had no idea just who she was speaking to. The Prince of San Fransisco believed she was speaking to Sophia, a public relationships Executive in Hollywood, and an 8th Generation Kindred. When Sara Anne needing something in Los Angeles, it was Sophia she called. A ‘hook up’ from Don Sebastian that survived his death.

Go figure. Today Sara Anne sounded tense. Which was in no way different than any other time Eva spoke to the devil woman--it just sounded a little worse today. “Have you heard of the event, or not?”

The woman snapped at her over the phone. Eva’s eyes narrowed at first, but only for that half-moment before her honey coated tone returned to the line. “Yes, of course.” Everyone in Los Angeles had heard of the coming Rant. It was being called ‘The Big Rant’, and like any good Los Angeles event it was the kind of affair where anyone who was ANYONE was going to be there. From Primogens to self-proclaimed Princes (LA currently had two of those) to thin-blooded Caitiffs just looking for their next meal and to avoid the gangs.

Even, as expected, members of Sara Anne’s Court. “Will it be safe?”

“Of course, it’s being held in Disneyland--the biggest Elysium in all of California, and the safest.” Both were true. How Disneyland was kept SO safe and orderly was a mass mystery. One known to but a few...and Eva was, surprisingly, not one of the few.

A bark of bitter laughter followed Eva’s words as Sara Anne’s pride seemed to take a hit. “Every from Los Angeles boosts about their city so much.”

“Weeeell, from Hollywood and it’s billions of revenue a year to the Port of Los Angeles and it’s nearly 200 million metric tons of cargo a year to the millions of barrels of oil the Los Angeles City Oil Field produces to the fact that our weather is just a lot nicer than yours.”

“Ha,” The Prince of SanFran seemed sharply amused at that, “As if the weather is a boon to the Kindred population.”

When Eva looked out her window to the sight of the Pacific Ocean under a clear velvet black night sky and a big, round, silver moon...Eva had to smirk to herself. “You’re far too stressed, Sara.”

“Remind me again how LA repulsed the Kuei-jin?”

Eva responded in the only way she knew how: smirking, and as a smart ass, “We’re just boss like that down here in LA. Stay safe, Prince.”

The line went down just as a shadow appeared in the doorway to Eva’s third story office. By the time Eva turned to look, Mandy was on her, nipping at her ear and sighing a trail of air light kisses up her neck. “Alex is here. He has a guest.”

“A guest?”

But Mandy only shrugged in response, prompting a mutter from the Native before Eva found herself moving faster than the human eye, and most Kindred eyes, could process. Eva was just in time to see the gates opening, and the man drive up.

For once, Eva looked less than pleased, standing straight as a dagger, arms crossed, eyes once more narrowed.

Alex’s audi made its way up the long driveway of Eva’s mansion at about ten miles an hour, the Kindred keeping such a slow pace so that he could admire the sight of all of LA’s city lights at such a late hour. Although it was a sight that he saw quite often, he did love seeing all those lights - and felt almost like a Toreador in his adoration of them: not that he would stand and stare at them for hours, however - he had far too much work to be doing.

The expensive car came to a halt just a few metres away from Eva - and the front door which she stood in front of - parked neatly in the middle of the massive building’s courtyard. Taking in a deep breath, Alex opened the door of his vehicle and stepped out into the open air: a small smile spreading across his lips as he approached the woman whom he had served for the last sixty years, opening his muscular arms wide; aiming to wrap them around her waist, pulling her close and squeezing lightly - well, lightly by the standards of a Russian Brujah who was at most times unaware of his own strength. “Eva,” He began, pulling back slightly - that smile still on his lips. “How are you?” He inquired, concern evident in his voice - he knew what had been going on over the last few days since he had last seen the woman, and he was worried about her.

The Russian took another moment or two of holding the native woman close before releasing her completely, pressing a brief kiss upon her forehead; stubbled cheeks brushing against her smooth skin. He had noticed her less-than-pleased expression as soon as he’d seen her - which had been a good few metres down the road - but had decided to ignore her displeasure until he absolutely had to address it: which was now.

Clearing his throat, he took a half-step towards his audi: inside which the Irish gangster he’d brought back with him was sitting, looking as docile as a half-grown sheep. “I, uh.. brought a guest,” He murmured, in English with no hint of a Russian accent, glancing back towards Eva with a sheepish smile. “He killed a few of my kine. I took care of the rest of those that were responsible, but I wanted to, uh.. make this one’s experience a bit more.. special.”

He finished speaking, eyes resting upon the woman who’s opinion and approval meant so much to him - waiting to see how she’d react.

Despite her best efforts, the moment his massive arms were around her and he was clutching her tightly...she’d lost any irritations or anger she might’ve had over the guest. Even after she had been squeezed harder than a freshly unwrapped squeaky toy; an act that left her a little light headed for a moment.

Once she regained her balance, Eva found herself chuckling and stealing a kiss from the corner of his mouth, her hands coming together and resting on her midsection. “Use the sub-basement. Clean it up afterwards,” which, to be fair, was as easy as starting a dishwasher. “Please don’t let Samantha find out.”

If there had been any anger or irritation in the first place, it was only out of the fear that the human might find out. For some reason, Eva had a bad feeling on how Sam might react if she knew torture and murder were going on in one of their own sanctuaries. Still, it was better than doing it at Chateau Marmont or the Hollywood Hills complex.

“We’ll have to find a proper location for bloody business…” Then she drifted, her mind considering options: was there a meat packaging plant they could buy out and convert? Any food processing facility could work, as blood and meat were common waste products.

Another thought for another day, her head shaking quickly as her focus returned to the here and now. “Stay on the lookout for a place, and I’ll do the same. Maybe something in Long Beach?” Then she shrugged, and motioned for him to follow her--his guest could keep for a little while.

Once inside, Herr Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23 in A major filtered through the air as light and airy as the sea birds chirping outside, the cool Southern California night air and the cool air of the home’s interior a seamless transition. Eva moved straight to the first floor kitchen and the back lounge, with it’s wall of windows along the rear of the house, allowing the silvery moon and the view of the Pacific down below full command of the lounge with it’s built-in and stuffed bookcases every other direction you looked, and it’s cushy white furniture.

Upon the cloud like couch was a curled up Lasombra, Miranda West, with a book and a cashmere blood red blanket wrapped about her. It was there that Eva looked from the milk white, red and black veined, marble counters of the kitchen. “Mandy, do you want a drink?”

“No thank you.”

“I have a weird taste for a Vodka martini. Sit down, I’ll make one for you.” Considering she had everything she needed for it just under the counter, it wasn’t exactly a large task. “Alex you’ve already heard about ‘The Big Rant’? If your people don’t already know about it, get them talking about it. The rumors should be around town already, what else do I pay Nosferatu for? But just in case.”

“Relax, everyone’s going to be there that wants to be there.” Miranda’s tone was almost clinically calm.

“I’ll even be there.”

Mandy looked up, at Alex. “Don’t worry, not as herself.”

It was a precaution, the many guises and aliases of Eva. Christopher had gotten her used to it, and his paranoia...well, it had rubbed off. Just the thought made her turn cold as she finished the drinks, taking the Russian his before she sat herself on the edge of an adjacent chair and sipped at her drink, eyes down.

“I’m okay, Alex. I’m more paranoid than I was before...but I can’t tell if that’s consuming Christopher’s soul, or if it’s just the cold, lonely, realization that...there’s no one else now. I’m the only elder in the city, even if it is in complete secret.”

“You bloody Methuselah, you,” Mandy’s focus was back to her book when she made the wise crack, her grin all but chesire.

Eva chuckled, but stiffly so. “I guess. Anyway, I’m okay.”

I think, at least.

He was surprised that she wasn’t angry at him: but then, he was surprised every time she forgave him. As long as he didn’t do something too stupid - or even if he did - he knew she’d forgive him eventually: but that didn’t stop him from getting worried whenever she seemed irritated or annoyed. It was a strange relationship that the two of them had. “Will do, Eva,” He smiled, pressing a quick kiss to the woman’s lips as a gesture of gratitude. “He’ll stay in the car, for now - I’ll take him down once we’ve talked: she won’t know he’s here, promise.”

Alexander followed after her as she began to make her way inside, nodding his head slowly. “Sure. I’ll keep an eye out. A slaughterhouse would be good - or we could just use one of my warehouses in LA. Most of ‘em are empty, apart from a few cars that my guys haven’t had the time to move yet.”

The Russian Kindred fell silent as he entered Eva’s - and his, he supposed - home, a small smile spreading across his lips at the music. “A good choice, Eva,” He mumbled, casting his eyes around the interior of the massive, modernised home, “But I would have personally prefered something a little less.. German.” A grin, then - along with a mischievous chuckle. “Just a preference; I won’t hold it against you.” He caught the woman’s eye, winking roguishly and moving past her as they entered the kitchen - hand brushing along the back of her thigh, fingertips of his other hand curling around her hip for a brief moment as he pushed past, entering the back lounge of the building - moving over to Mandy, and settling himself down on the arm of the couch by her head.

“I’ve heard about it, yeah - and they’re talking about it already. The Russians’ll be about for the big event, don’t you worry.” His tone had been casual, as had his posture, but it abruptly changed when he heard that Eva was going to be attending the event - his gaze meeting Mandy’s, concern evident on his handsome features. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He demanded of the woman when he approached, accepting his drink with a muttered word of thanks. “Are you sure it’s.. safe? And so soon?”

He sighed, shaking his head at Eva’s reassurances - not that they really made him feel any better. “Well, I guess if you say you’re okay then you’re okay. But, I want to be there on the day - with you. I don’t give a shit who sees us, but I’m not letting you wander around the city all by yourself. You’re more of a target than ever, now.”

No was the first answer to the Russian that came to Eva. It was a protective instinct, not a rational request. And she’d be disguising her Generation, so none save the precious few who already knew would know just who--and what--was standing right there in the middle of the Big Rant. Why have a bodyguard? Wouldn’t it just draw attention to her? She was trying to find the next individual to throw the secret power of Los Angeles behind, not attract elder hunters.

It was the echo of Alex’s touch and tone that went unbounded through her mind; a gentle reminder that he was not just some protective guard--he was a member of her Coterie, and he had a right to her because of it.
A little pause after his declaration, Eva’s silence ended. “Okay, Alex,” her voice soft but sugary from her smiling red lips. “In the meantime, maybe taking care of that...thing...before you-know-who comes back?”

At ‘...thing...’ Eva had Mandy’s attention, though her question went unasked...for now.

“Good.” He stated, a small smile spreading across his lips; he hadn’t really been expecting Eva to agree with him so easily. The Kindred moved his drink upwards, towards his lips, draining the alcohol in a few large gulps. After all, it had little effect on him anymore, and he didn’t really like the taste: he was just being polite. As the woman mentioned the ‘thing’ that he’d brought with him to the mansion, the Russian met her gaze - giving her a small nod of confirmation that he would, indeed, take care of the ‘thing’.

“I shouldn’t be too long,” He grinned, rising to his feet - wiggling his fingers in farewell to Mandy as he exited the loungeroom, footsteps carrying him back through the front door and away from the soft sound of one of Mozart's symphonies. There was work to be done.

[Zacharius]

Hotel Omni



The Plaza was buzzing with activity when they arrived. The hotel wasn’t the only one leading on to the open space and their eventual destination wasn’t the only party happening by a long shot. Even still, the throng of people was easy to move through, such was polite socialite society, and soon both Saxon and Lily had been seen through the lobby of the Omni, to the awaiting lifts, carrying them to the debauchery of LA’s talented artists. Fairly typical elevator music played as they ascended, floor by floor, thankfully left alone, no kine wishing to call an elevator during their brief journey.

“Here, assured privacy, or so I’m told.” Saxon turned slightly, towards Lily, at the same time handing her a plastic card, that now in the modern era, constituted a room key. Perhaps in a drunken and drugged phase, the kine may not noticed one of their own being fed on, but it was never worth that risk, beyond the thrill one might get from being so… loose, with the Masquerade.

“Now, let us see if my file has nailed your preferences. Although, perhaps mentioning that will encourage you to go for variety? Many enjoy the thought of proving me wrong.” He grinned as he seemed to muse aloud, as much to himself as Lily, even if his eyes remained on her as they spoke, as was only polite.

It was a sight to behold, much had changed since she had last been here, years ago. Modernity, for all its wonders, could still be startling. She briefly wondered, not for the first time, how those with so many more years dealt with the ever changing times.

Lily took the room key offered, quickly slipping it into the wristlet that hung from arm. “So thoughtful of you. I would hate to make a scene.” Spoken tongue in cheek, a devilish smile flashed across her lips. “I’ll do my best to control myself, I fear what would happen if the buffet offered were to...overwhelm me.” A knowing look was accompanied by a nudge from her elbow to his sides as the elevator doors opened.

She took a few steps out backwards, still facing her companion, “Pay close attention, I want to know just how well you know me.” With a laugh, she spun around and took in her first look at the beauty that was hers for the taking.

White and light, an open expanse was there for the taking. People milled about, oohing and ahhing; the poor, young starving artists eating up the attention bestowed on them. You could still see the city, a perfect background to what this show offered. Her eyes darted from one piece to the next, mostly sculptures, many of overtly phallic or sexual nature. That must be back in vogue, a fleeting thought, before her eyes settled on a performance piece. Cordoned off by a low, black velvet rope, a woman, bare save for a belt of twisted white fabric about her waist, stood hunched over. The wall behind her had mirrors of varying sizes and designs with slurs written across them in deep red lipstick. Slut. Whore. Cunt.

Lily’s eyes went wide, her mouth dropped - just a little and only for a moment - before at last she took the steps necessary to draw her closer. Completely entranced, it had been so long since she had been in such a state. It was as if she had tunnel vision, though her reflexes were as good as ever, her shoulders twisting and turning to avoid brushing against anything less desirable than what she sought.

At the rope’s edge she stopped, her head cocking to take it in from various angles. A few kine joined her, she took in their presence and sorted it to a status of unimportance. She could stand here all night like this, all morning if she wasn’t careful. Slowly, she pulled herself back. It was not an easy thing to do, it never was, but she couldn’t draw attention to herself, standing and unbreathing. When she had regained control enough to avert her eyes, she sucked in an unnecessary breath, and turned her head to glance over her shoulder. Saxon couldn’t be too far behind, probably congratulating himself on being right.

Lily hadn’t bothered to try and deliberately avoid what he knew about her, which was promising. When you had already been read, it was only a futile activity to try and shut your cover. He had lied, when he said he had such details in a file on her, pandering ever so slightly to her ego that he would pay that much attention to the currently smaller players of LA. Equally, the more the kindred of LA though he could be everywhere, at anytime, watching, the more pause they gave before crossing him. No, the assumptions he had made about her had begun the moment they had met this evening, well, before then, when he had first seen her abode. A smile barely graced his features as he followed her, slowly, proving him right. He was beside her before he spoke, barely a whisper over the crowd.

“She will move in a hour...or, if you want the mind behind the creation.” Still appearing to whisper, Saxon pointed, almost overtly obviously, at a somewhat shy looking girl across the room, pretty, but seemingly somewhat scared of that fact. She noticed his motion, which seemed to perk her up slightly, obviously taking the compliment that someone would feel the need to locate her after seeing her art. Then, the kindred ‘detective’, turned back to face Lily.

“I will meet you at your room in two hours, make your decisions, whatever they may be, and be done before then.”

Lily’s eyes followed his motion, her eyebrow quirking up briefly as she made eye contact with the artist. A petite thing, pretty assuredly, not beautiful or sexy. “A difficult decision you leave me with.” She spoke quietly, musing it over in her mind, the choice before her. Saxon had become peripheral, “I will see you then.”

“Stealing” the artwork wouldn’t be a good way to go about it, and while she had not yet decided which was the more appetizing option, there was little harm in chatting up the mind behind it all. She had always enjoyed seducing her meal, men or women, it rarely mattered to her. And for a woman like the artist, to be approached and wooed by a woman like Lily, well, some heads would surely turn. Confidence had been a problem in her life, lacking it did not hold her back now.
Compliments, a gentle brush of her hand to the woman’s face, a few whispers...Lily listened as the artist explained her creation, her masterpiece. So shy when she had been approached, the kindred took pleasure in seeing her bloom to life, sweet smelling life, as she spoke of her work.

The model was beautiful, gorgeous, but it was the vibrant soul of the artist that won Lily over in the end. A few heads did indeed turn, as Lily lead her away from the exposition, to the elevators. It had not been difficult at all, a few minor protestations, a few kind and suggestive words to sway the woman. An easy meal, but not everything needed to be a full hunt, especially not in a place like this.

Saxon had chosen her room well, it gave an excellent view and was immaculately to her tastes. Perfection. The toreador offered her guest a glass of wine, but no more before the true seduction began. She wouldn’t remember a thing of it, and so there was little to be held back. Perhaps there had been a fleeting moment of fear in the artist’s eyes, but sensing the fear only drove Lily wilder.

The haze of feeding receded, and Lily took in her room in a new light. Sated, more than she had been in two years now, she spared a brief glance at the curled up body of the brunette on the couch. It was askew, the rug beneath it bunched up from where the furniture had been shoved in a moment of forgetting to restrain her strength. The glass coffee table was upended, though remained whole. Nothing too bad, then. She stood fluidly and went to check herself in the gilded mirror, lest Saxon happen upon her looking anything less than perfectly composed.

When Saxon stepped in the room, the tiniest detail about him appeared minutely ruffled, the second button of his shirt had joined the top in an undone state, otherwise there was no trace of his own, similarly carnal act. No drip of blood or hedonistic haze. He had knocked, but not paused on his way in. They had a time to stick to. The Kine was still present, he knew that even before standing outside the doored he had picked up the trace of a heartbeat. With seemingly no need to acknowledge his fellow Kindred, Saxon took a seat on one of the room’s loungers, before turning his eyes upon the scene.

“Try to be more careful. Wouldn’t want you accidently killing a kine in a fit. Particularly not my brother’s granddaughter.”The words came out without any form of hesitation, as if offering up your true, living flesh and blood was no matter. A simple tactic, topped off with a moment’s glance towards the slumbering form. Sweet girl.

“You wish me to tell you the secrets of your sire, so that you may bring them down. I plan on doing better than that. If this raid on the estate goes as planned, and the as expected, I presume I will have required further evidence that will force my hand against you sire. Ties to the Sabbat are not what I want in my primogen, nor in any kindred with a position of power over this city.” His business ‘voice’ came on once more as he began to explain, fixing his eyes with the resplendent Kindred before him, with an intensity that made it seem like he half expected Lily to strike him, as if he were preparing for her every motion.

“So, lets get down to business.”

[Vanq]

She wondered if she was supposed to feel honored, that he had introduced her to his mortal brother’s very mortal granddaughter. A delicious meal assuredly, but connections to the kine world, connections to family if you had the luck to be so young to as still trace such things, were not something Lily focused on. Her eyes stayed on the mirror, her hands ran over the red locks until, frustrated, she pulled it out of its ponytail completely.

The kindred turned at last, flipping her head as she did so to gather her back tight and sleek once more. Satisfied, she stood not far from where Saxon now sat, a hand on her hip. “I have seen kine destroy hotel rooms more in pursuit of sex. I was not going to hurt her too much.” With ease, she bent over to set the table to it’s legs.

Mention of her sire brought a low snarl to her throat, and seeing the look Saxon had in his eyes, Lily set herself down in a chair opposite him, her arms tightly crossed against her chest. “Despicable.” She muttered, Lily had nearly always hated him for what he did to her, and while she was not overly fond of the Camarilla or even the Anarchs, she loathed the Sabbat. “Let’s.” She snapped, eyes searching Saxon. “What’s in the warehouse?”

“In my efforts to gather information on all of the city’s Primogen, I found the hints of a connection between your sire and this warehouse, a purchase run through several different bank accounts and the ghoul of another childe being involved. Rather than stop due to the Sabbat moving in on the property, the two connections seem to coincide. If my suspicions are correct, then your sire has been dealing with the Sabbat, but I cannot act on suspicion alone.” Saxon did not pause in his explanation, commencing as soon as he question was uttered, ignoring her previous statement about the state of the room. It didn’t matter that kine could be worse, kindred had to be more careful.

“If the connection doesn’t exist, well then, you’ll simply have done a great favour for the Kindred community, and I have more on your sire than dodgy connections to the Sabbat. Perhaps enough to unseat them, or at least weaken their power base among the Toreador.”

“Son of a bitch.” She snapped. It was rare for Lily to use vulgarities...vulgar as they were by design. She crossed her legs and then uncrossed them a moment later. On edge, perhaps more so because of her recent meal, perhaps only because at long last she had something that could bring down her sire. Something big. If the connection wasn’t there, she quickly wondered if she could manufacture it. Weakening him wouldn’t be enough, but neither did she have the connections to pull to fake evidence of it.

“You know our numbers, you wouldn’t ask this payment if you thought failure was certain.” She leaned forward, not entirely sure that that logic was truthful. He might, if someone else needed them out of the way. It was a fantastic story to spin to one such as herself. If she thought that way though, all was lost. “Two trained fighters, no matter their previous defeats, myself, a gangrel we barely understand, and a Malkavian. And our ghouls, of course.” Lips pressed together, her eyes flicked back and forth as if she was reading something that wasn’t there. “Who owns the neighborhood in the kine world? Crips, Bloods? MS-13? Lasombra inside?”

“MS-13 have a loose hold of the area, but they have no presence in the warehouse. From what I have gathered, the operation is lead by a single Lasombra, with two gangrel antribu, a trio ghouls from out of town, and twice that number in ghouls ‘recruited’ off the streets. The Gangrel lack any real mental stability, perhaps they do not even know they are truly kindred, it would not suprise me with the Sabbat. Everything is an attack dog except the Lasombra.” Saxon ignored, even in terms of a simple subconscious reaction, here outburst, instead following with a response to her question. He had hardly expected her to remain perfectly level headed with the stakes at play, and even if her coterie were of reasonable strength, this would hardly be a walk in the park.

“I will be sending an associate of mine, an Assamite, to accompany you. In part to assist and, honestly, to make sure every aspect of the deal is upheld. Beyond that, she will...probably, do what she is told.” At the corners of his mouth the briefest, minute impression of a grin formed, before being replaced with his previous mask of business. “If this information proves correct, you might find yourself in a race among the Kindred of LA to grant your sire a final death, a fitting end no less.”

Lily let out a low growl. She was not the one to plan the battles, Ivan and Vadim would do so, once she shared this with them. But it did seem manageable, by the numbers at least. And they would be smarter than the pack that had taken up in the warehouse, it had been a long time coming, the boys would jump at it, and Betty would do as she was bid. But an Assamite? That was not a pleasant though. Sending someone to keep an eye on them was one thing, a creature such as that, entirely another.

Negotiating, she reminded herself, was not really a possibility. “Very well.” Her displeasure was not well hidden for that moment. The death of her sire would make it all worth it, it was almost serene, the thought of the long nights that could be spent without his specter hanging over her. The frown morphed into a cruel smile. “As you insist.” But he will be mine. After going through all of this, there was no way in heaven or hell that she would allow anyone else to grant him his demise.

“Delightful to be doing business with you.” She rose, her mind tackling how she would need to present this to the others. There was little time to waste.

((Zach and Vanq))

[Myst]

((collab post with Instantes))

A whisper of a scent made her freeze and turned her head to the side. Closing her eyes, Juliette inhaled deeply, sorting through the various scents in the air, searching for the one that had alerted her.
It was there. The scent of a Kindred. And her bloodline told her it was Ventrue, her clan that had forsaken her.

Fear spiked along with anger. Anger at herself for having been found so soon. She had at least expected to get as far as the Anarch territory before being found.
Fear because she was aware of what a stronger Ventrue could do to her before they destroyed her. She had seen the state of Kindred after Lacroix had them tortured by the Sheriff. It wasn't a pretty sight.

Tapping into another of her disciplines, Fortitude, to increase her defense before jumping as high as she could to reach the fire escape above her head. A few more jumps got her to the rooftop. If she stayed high above the ground, perhaps she wouldn't leave a scent behind for them to track. She ran and jumped to the next rooftop, then to another, trying to keep her feet off the roof as much as possible.
When she reached the fifth rooftop she was too tired to jump anymore. Kindred had amazing reflexes, heightened senses and super human abilites, but using these cost energy.
Sliding down the fire escape, she kept to the shadows of the alley and waited, inhaling deeply to scent the air around her. What she found was not good. The unknown Kindred, now she could pick out several, had managed to follow her. It actually wasn't that farfetched. She was still young to the world of the Kindred and inexperienced in the real world thanks to Lacroix keeping her in her gilded cage.

Her fear spiked again, like a beacon letting them know where she was. All they had to do was follow the smell of her fear to find her.
Juliette was still trying to decide what to do what she sensed them close. Very close. When several shadows appeared and headed her way she didn't bother to hide anymore. It was useless. She had failed to reach the Anarchs. Now she would enter final death.
But she would face it according to the pride in the bloodline of her clan. She would not beg. She had begged too much under Lacroix's thumb, begged for him to stop, begging him to let her go. It had always made him laugh while it left the taste of bile in her mouth.

Juliette came out of the shadows. Her perfectly coiffed hair was disheveled, her bun coming loose and several strands falling into her face, which was streaked with dirt as her white gown was streaked with dust and grime.
But her eyes... her eyes held power. They were strong and hard, holding the fire of rebellion.

"Why can't you just leave me be?" she asked, her voice full of venom and her chin lifting stubbornly. "I have no interest in your politics. All I ever wanted was to be free of your vile and cowardly Prince. My only regret is that I did not end him myself."

The voice that came from the shadow was surprisingly gentle. "Childe, who would blame you? You speak of LaCroix with sagacity and gall. You speak with anguish - with hurt. I am not him; we are not him..." Vernon stepped forth into the pale moonlight, using an open hand to indicate Aurelia by his side. "Even the Camarilla, controlling as it might seem at times, is not akin to that fool LaCroix. Listen before you judge..."

Vernon kept his eyes on this estranged member of his kin; she was passionate, rebellious, strong and fragile all at once: she immediately prompted memories of Aurelia when she had come back to him after years on trial with the Prince of London. Beneath that anger though, submersed amongst complex layers of vitriol and indignation compounded by time, there was a quietly germinating gift of brilliance - Ventrue choose their childe carefully - even arrogant and unbalanced ones such as LaCroix. What Vernon saw in Aurelia, he now saw in her.

"This is my childe," Vernon continued, indicating Aurelia again. He had sensed her fire and rebellious spirit flared on the mention of the Camarilla and its former Prince; he wanted to appease that notion quickly - so he made an educated guess. "Your sire treated you as no true Ventrue treats their progeny, I assure you of that. LaCroix and I are of around the same age - I'm actually quite confident we fought against each other, back as kine. I know trusting me seems difficult, but examine the truth you feel, not just what you see. My childe suffered early as you once did, there being little I could do to prevent it; but since that time I have done everything within my power to ensure she flourishes. Everything." He gazed deeply into her eyes with his own. The opportunity to try and dominate her arose, but he resisted. He needed to build trust, not power.

As the rain fell, finely and with no little grace as raindrops flourished over the scene, Vernon slowly raised a hand and took a slow step forward.

"Let us start with the first block of trust - the most simple one of all. My name is Vernon. Vernon Grant-Bell. My childe is Aurelia Nunez. May I have your name?"

Juliette regarded him with distrust in her eyes. She could scent no deceit in his words, but time and experience had taught her to be distrustful of Ventrue, especially male Ventrue.

His hand stretched towards her and she pulled back a little, then cursed herself for her fear and come forward again.
"My sire," she said, speaking the word acidly, as though it left a bad taste in her mouth, "he renamed me Juliette when he murdered me. He took my life from me, embraced me without my consent. Then, to cover his crime against the laws that govern us all, he kept me caged like an animal. Like a pet or a pretty doll for him to play with."
She hissed at the memory. "I will never be anyone's plaything again. I would rather enter the second death then ever be treated as he treated me. Lacroix was a disgusting shell of a kindred, not worthy of the Ventrue blood in his veins nor the title of Prince."

She put her shoulders back and shook her head, trying to shake off the darkness that threatened to engulf her as she thought of the years of torment she had endured in Lacroix's clutches.
"My name is Juliette. I have no last name. No real lineage other then my Ventrue blood. What is it that you want of me sir? I doubt you wish to have a cast off stray in your company, for that is what I have become now that my sire is dead and my bloodline has forsaken me."

[Kingfisher]

The Sleepwalker was used to a fairly bustling clientele-the mixture of live performances by their very own Madeline Hollinghurst, and relaxed atmosphere, being quite attractive to those looking to get off of the streets come nightfall-on the other hand, tonight there was no more than a handful of patrons scattered about the establishment’s tables.

Throughout the late afternoon, Zaylee remained behind the counter, occasionally serving the odd straggler. However, the evening became a great deal more interesting when a heavyset gentleman in a trench coat found his way into the bar, pulling up a stool and seating himself at the counter.

He had a neatly cropped beard, sandy blonde hair, glassy blue eyes, and a slick smile.

“What can I get you?” The Vampress inquired, disinterestedly running one finger through her black-red hair.

“I’m looking for some answers.” He stated bluntly, fixing Zaylee with his glassy blue eyes.

“This is a bar, not an encyclopaedia.” She placed one hand gently on her slightly-too-pronounced hip, looking rather unimpressed.

“You see,” He begun, loudly cracking his knuckles as he did so, gently leaning back on his barstool “I sent a few of my guys down here, a couple nights back, fairly routine stuff; scope the place out, get a feel for the general tone of the establishment.”

Zaylee had a feeling she knew where this was going, but let him continue nevertheless.

“Next thing I know, two of ‘em comes back screaming about witches and monsters, lookin’ like they’ve gone ‘un pissed ‘emselves. So, I tell ‘em both to take the night off, gather their senses and whatnot, only they both turn up dead in their sleep, the next day.”
He let the moment linger, pausing for some sort of dramatic suspense.

“I suppose I’m lookin’ for a…rational explanation to all of this.” He kept his eyes on her the entire time, as though he were searching for clues in her body language.

“I can’t explain the ramblings of every junkie and sloshed who comes in here.” She retorted nonchalantly, her face an emotionless mask, letting nothing on.

“I was ‘oping you’d make this easy for me…” He sighed loudly, before foraging a cigarette out from one of the many pockets of his trench coat, lighting it with an ornate-looking lighter.

He took a long puff, a thread-like trail of smoke wafting back over his shoulder.

“You can’t smoke in here.”

He extinguished his cigarette on the counter, leaving a large ash stain on the smooth wood.

“I’ve been livin’ in LA for a long time, missy…and I’ve seen some weird shit-and I mean frickin’ BIZARRE -, but a little girl makin’ two ‘ardened men piss ‘emselves scared , and then those two men turnin’ up dead, that’s gotta be pretty damn high up the list.”

Zaylee gave an indifferent shrug “I can’t help you, there.”

“Well then, you’re gunna be hearing from me again real soon, sista’” And with that he upped and left, strolling out into the moonlit streets.

Zaylee watched him leave, keeping her eye firmly fixed on his retreating figure.

This could be problematic…

*



A lean figure stood at the end of a grimy brick road, coolly gazing up at the dilapidated storeroom that lay ahead of her.

Madeline’s lithe body was covered in a black and grey woollen coat, adorned with golden buttons, which ran down to her ankles. A stainless steel machete was fastened to her waist, concealed by her choice of attire.

The gloomy woman had sent her on a journey, to take care of some bothersome brutes, so Maddie had brought her favourite toy with her.

She walked at a gentle pace, boot clad feet clicking loudly against the ground, a gentle gust lifting up her raven tresses. The Vampress whistled a tune nosily, the steady melody carrying on the wind.

She reached the entrance of the building, a grubby construction of cracked concrete and broken glass, before slowly making her way through the empty doorframe, stepping into a world of urban rot and decay.

The celling was coming away in places, and chunks of roof were scattered across the stony floor, lying in big heaps of fallen brick. The glass panels that comprised the windows were cracked and broken, shards of glass stricken about the place, and the humongous pillars that supported what remained of the celling were wracked with fractures and indents.

Maddie eventually found her targets on the third floor, happening upon a large group of diverse looking folk, scattered about the room in various states of preoccupation.

Obscured from the vision of others, via the use of Obfuscate, She stalked silently through the broken building, strolling up to a group of four, who were playing blackjack with a set of old playing cards. Maddie stood over the shoulder of a man who was wearing a stained wife beater and a baseball cap, peering down at his hand.

She leaned in so close that he could feel her cold breath against the flesh of his neck-whilst still being but a spectating spectre, to the eyes of the Kine-and whispered quietly in his ear, her voice no more than a soothing ripple in the back of his mind.

“The motley pack lives a life teeming with trouble and desolation,” she cooed “it would be an act of kindness to free them from their bondage.”

The moment she begun to speak, the man sat up straight, gooseprickles running across his skin. Her words seeped into his mind, sliding in through his ear, easing their way through his hollow skull, and planting their wicked talons in his brain. They swarmed over him, consuming everything, until there was nothing left but that single solitary suggestion.

The man in the baseball cap turned to the nearest card player, a stocky brute about twice his height and girth, fixing him with unblinking eyes, before slamming his fist into the bloke’s face, shattering his nose in a flurry of bursting blood and broken bone.

The big fella crashed to the floor, his grubby playing cards falling from his hands and spilling out across the floor, an unhealthy amount of gore trickling down his face.

“Yo! The Fuck?!” He roared, once he’d managed to register what was going on, wiping a fat smattering of blood up with the back of his beefy hand.

The big one knocked his assailant to the floor, gripping both hands tightly around the man’s windpipe.

Within seconds the two were upon each other, punching and biting and hissing and spitting and kicking, whilst others swarmed in to try and pull the pair apart. Blood and saliva soon covered both men, and a huge crowd of confused onlookers had gathered around them.

Maddie fell in beside a wiry looking figure with a gaunt face and eyes like a vulture, still very much invisible.

She had to stand up on her tip toes to reach his ear.

“The hounds have hearts of black ice. They will all turn on you.”

Her voice wove itself into the intricacies of his mind; twisting and consuming it, as it had done to the last man.

The gaunt man became rigid and bug-eyed, his previous fascination with the fight on the floor forgotten.

He pulled a lock knife from his pocket, falling upon a nearby figure-who was consumed with trying to pull the two fighters apart from each other-. His blade bit into the other man with eager glut, a thick spray of blood spurting out of the shocked thug.

The one who had been cut coughed and gaped, fighting for air, as he fell to the floor, the knife’s blade still stuck in his exposed trachea.

Blood pooled out across the floor, and suddenly all eyes were upon the stabber.

For a long moment there was simply an everlasting silence, as the room gawked at the gaunt faced man with bug-eyes.

Maddie spoke again, but this time she did not whisper, and her voice carried out to the entire group.

“The little lamp is lost in the wild woods, hunted by the dogs of war. It clings to life as though it matters, but there is no clear line between real and unreal.”

What ensued was sheer anarchy.

Chaos erupted, as brother fell upon brother, comrade upon comrade. The men fought each other with everything they had; clawing and biting, kicking and punching, stabbing one another with pieces of broken glass, and caving in each other’s heads with bricks.

Bones shattered, and blood spilled out across the floor. Clothes were torn, and skin was ripped.

One man’s rib tore through his flesh, and he simply pulled it forth through the red tear, using it to blind a man whose jaw had come unhinged.

Another had his eye knocked out, but persisted to fight on all the same, biting out the throat of a man who had burst the head of another, by smashing his skull against a pillar again and again and again and again and again.

A man opened up the throat of another with his razor, before pulling apart the wound with his hands.

After what seemed like an eternity of haphazard brutality, the floor was coated in red ooze, and chunks of body were strewn about the place. Bodies were piled on top of bodies, and twitching limbs clawed at nothingness.

Maddie saw a man’s neck bent at a funny angle, and giggled to herself.

Pale moonlight flooded in through the broken windows, casting a web of shadows against the concrete walls.

They were all dead now, but Maddie could still hear their voices; new friends come to join her in the sleek strands of the sprawling cobweb.

In the end, she hadn't even needed to use her machete.

As she left, Maddie stepped over the bloodied body of a heavyset gentleman in a trench coated, his glassy blue eyes staring into oblivion