From the Journals of Mordwyr, the Marquis de Troyes
August 27th, 1222
This is a faithful recounting of the fateful night in which the Grand Alliance of European Cainites came into being.
When I awoke, I was dismayed at, though prepared for, the sight of Isabelle’s serpent tongue. I quickly cut it from her mouth—I slept that night with my dagger—and she mended it once more. I long to leave Paris, for the answer to the Setite mystery lies wrapped up inside some fleshcrafted box, or inkwell, or what-you-will in the Voivode’s haven. After a mutual Kiss, we dressed in our finest—Isabelle in her red satin dress; I in my black vest and red silk shirt—not wanting to keep our esteemed and honored guests waiting. We found them all assembled at the Lycée des les Roses. It was Elysium, and all Kindred were in attendance. Everyone hoped to see the great Jürgen Swordbearer, to hear some witty scrap of sense from Doña Beatriz with which they might later amuse and impress their friends. Bartholomaios had gone with me and Isabelle in our carriage, but when he confessed to me his obvious and inappropriate urges toward my consort, I stopped the carriage and asked him to exit the vehicle. He did, and the Angelus Mortis, whose carriage had also stopped, picked him up, and we all continued. I had to remove the object of his temptation from his field of vision, but I applaud the young Brujah’s sense, for he has publicly admitted to us his dilemma. Bartholomaios is wise beyond the deceptive youthfulness of his fresh face.
Of those personages either directly or indirectly involved in the proceedings hereafter, their names are recorded here: Isabelle la Fey; the Angelus Mortis, Voivode of Buda and Pesth; Lucia, formerly known as the Virago Tenebrae, Voivodin of Buda and Pesth; Jürgen Swordbearer, Prince of Magdeburg and Regent of the Fiefs of the Black Cross; Auderico, Seneschal of Paris; Bartholomaios, childe of Kephalos; Helene la Juste, Prince of Paris; Doña Beatriz, Mistress of Shadows, Ruler of all Christian Lasombra; Thomas of Gaul, Sheriff of Paris; Santiago Giovanni, attendant to Laura Giovanni; Erašts, attendant to Laura Giovanni; Laura Giovanni, head of the Giovanni Clan; and Mordwyr of the Masque.
Helene la Juste asked me for a song, to give the proceedings a proper Toreador beginning. I obliged her request and sang “Blackbird’s Song.” It is a simple, lovely tune that requires nothing more than a well-played lute and a gentle voice, but I could not fulfill even those basic requirements. Perhaps it was being faced with the most powerful Kindred of Europe, save Avalon; or perhaps it was the open scorn with which Doña Beatriz glared at me that upset me. Whatever the reason, my performance was a complete failure, and as my song finished, and no applause was forthcoming, I realized I had failed. They did not like me, and my Beast strained at its chains to escape! That maddening howl which I have not heard for so long echoed out of the dark well of my soul, and the Beast snarled from behind doors I had thought secure. But the wood splintered, and the metal bolts, rusted through from neglect, began to give. My eyes blackened over, and my fangs were brought to bear—but then Isabelle threw back her veil (I was later told), and all eyes in the room fell on her divine aspect! She had done so to divert the attention of all the Cainites from my struggles with my Beast. Like Jacob I wrestled, but my foe was no angel, terrifying though it was; nor did I strive till dawn. I mastered the Crouching Inmate of My Soul and tossed it, screaming, back into the dark abyss. As the echo of its howl faded from my ears, the Angelus Mortis began applauding politely. A further distraction—and I thanked both Isabelle and the Angelus Mortis wordlessly with my eyes. Jürgen had never before seen Isabelle unveiled, and now that he did, he sat in utter astonishment. Helene la Juste sat entranced, clearly. Once Isabelle had re-veiled herself, Helene’s eyes cleared, and she rose to say, “Shall we all retire to the Red Room?”
Crisis had been averted, and yet Beatriz stood and looked about curiously. I immediately saw in her eyes a total lack of recognition: she had no idea what the Red Room is! Beatriz had been my Scourge, so she certainly knew where and what the Red Room is. But this creature, who followed the crowd clearly because she did not know where to go, knew nothing of the sort. Finding it hard to believe that Beatriz had selectively forgotten such specific information, I watched her closely. Her eyes seemed harder than usual—merciless and indomitable, even for Beatriz! We all went in, but Isabelle and Lucia waited without. “Please watch over Isabelle,” I asked Lucia, “and keep Bartholomaios away from her.” Lucia smiled and said, “Have no fear.” I turned to go in and saw Doña Beatriz taking the head seat, the seat which belonged to the host of the convention, Helene la Juste. Beatriz was bold beyond imagination as she ordered everyone to their seats. She pointed disdainfully at Helene la Juste and indicated where she should sit. This was not the Beatriz I knew! And then the Mistress of Shadows took charge, speaking first, and saying, “So, someone acquaint me with the ridiculous reason why Mordwyr is not King of the United Courts of Love, and this creature,” she gestured to Helene, “rules the Toreador.” Beatriz stared at me, but I indicated that Helene la Juste, as Queen, should answer. Beatriz cut me short and repeated the question, this time nearly rising from her seat. “Because that is my will!” I cried. The Angelus Mortis quickly interceded on my behalf, saying, “And if you will overlook the documents which record the transfer of power, you will see that Helene’s power is rooted in the hegemony of Michael.” Beatriz snorted and said, “Let these documents be brought, and we will peruse them. But it still baffles me,” she turned back to me, “why you abdicated the throne.” I was quick in my reply, saying, “I have no desire to rule. I have not the head for politics but only wish to live a life in which I might compose my music and enjoy all the beauty that this world has to offer.” Beatriz was singularly unimpressed, and at that moment, I realized that I was not speaking to Beatriz. Beatriz had never before so openly questioned my decision to abdicate. This was a newcomer, someone who did not appreciate my disinclination to expend myself in the name of power and politics.
As Beatriz overlooked the transfer of power, Helene made a feeble attempt to make herself heard, but Beatriz silenced her with a withering stare. “I am reading.” Jürgen, however, then turned to Helene la Juste and addressed her courteously as the Queen of the United Courts of Love. “Thank you, Swordbearer,” Helene replied to his kindness. “I am indeed she who speaks for the Toreador.” And she glared at Beatriz. Beatriz, however, never looked up. Helene was nothing to Beatriz. During this whole exchange, Laura Giovanni had not spoken one word. She only sat and smiled haughtily. She clearly enjoyed watching everyone quibble, and she was waiting for the moment to step in and seize her advantage. Having finished perusing the articles, Beatriz looked up and said, “This transfer of power is legitimate only if Michael’s get stay out of politics.” I took that insult on the chin, and thinking myself the better Cainite for not responding with more abusive language, I withdrew. Let my actions speak louder than words: on that point, we agreed. I left the Angelus Mortis in the room to do what he could, to get what he could for the Tzimisce and the Voivodate.
When I explained to Isabelle and Lucia the inexplicable behavior of Beatriz, Lucia laughed. “But Mordwyr, surely you know that when a Cainite diablerizes another of the Blood, he is no longer alone.” My quizzical expression prompted Lucia to continue. “The souls one devours do not die but live on inside the diablerist. Beatriz ate Montano. Do you think one of his legendary resolve, his indomitable spirit, would be content to live quietly within Beatriz? No, make no mistake: Montano is surfacing, and he may never sound again.” Lucia patiently waited for Isabelle and me to catch up. Then, she said, “The stress of having to deal with blockading the Giovanni has no doubt divided Beatriz’s mental faculties, and in that moment of distraction or weakness, Montano seized the opening and ripped the breach wide open. Beatriz and Montano are now warring within the Mistress of Shadows’ soul.” It was all clear to me, but I knew that meant trouble for Helene, for “Beatriz, or whoever she is, despises the Toreador Queen.” Lucia smiled grimly and replied, “Indeed, Helene is finished. She will have no say in the negotiation of this alliance. Either the Voivode or Laura must take the lead in erecting a barrier between Jürgen and Beatriz. The Lasombra and the Ventrue are both proud and hungry for power. They wish to dominate and control all they see. Either Laura or the Angelus Mortis will bring them to a compromise, and whoever is successful will obtain for his Clan a more favorable position in the Alliance.” A thought struck me, for I was eager to give my friend all the help I could. “My Lady,” I said to Isabelle and offered her my arm, “let us walk out into the night air. I wish for you to look inside the Red Room and tell me if you see Augustus Giovanni there.”
So we stepped outside to find Bartholomaios guarding the door. When he saw Isabelle, he became flustered, bowed awkwardly, and retreated inside the Lycée des les Roses. “He is wise enough to know when he is not strong enough,” I remarked to Isabelle. “Yes,” she replied, “but it is sad that his encounter with those of Cartageña, that his cursed blood, has brought him to this point.” Then Isabelle’s eyes turned white as she peered across the mystical distance into the Red Room. “Augustus Giovanni is there, my lord,” she said, “and he is whispering to Laura, instructing her, giving her what she needs to defeat the Angelus Mortis.” That was all I needed. We re-entered Elysium, and Bartholomaios, sensing my animated state, asked if anything was wrong. “Stay close, young Bartholomaios. I may need your help, for Augustus Giovanni is here!” The young Brujah stood tall, ready to confront any challenge that might take his mind off Isabelle. Just before I went in, as I stood before the doors of the Red Room, Isabelle said to me, “My lord, Helene says nothing but only sits, useless. Jürgen and Beatriz are locked in verbal battle, and Laura, with her father’s help, is quickly outmaneuvering the Voivode.”
With that knowledge, I threw open the doors to the Red Room and stood framed in the doorway. All eyes turned to me. Beatriz/Montano, again, was singularly unimpressed and laughed mockingly. I smirked at her and cried aloud, saying, “Here we fancied ourselves on equal footing of truth and honor, yet here stands Augustus Giovanni!” And I gestured to the empty space behind Laura where no one stood. I could not see him, but I trusted Isabelle. “Look with eyes stronger than these fleshy orbs,” I said, pointing to my eyes. When Beatriz and Jürgen saw what Isabelle had revealed to be there, they were incensed. Beatriz ordered Augustus Giovanni to leave before the combined might of all in the room destroyed him, and Jürgen, always the chivalrous knight, turned to Laura and said, “And you. You will sit here and accept whatever we give you, or I will obliterate your Clan, starting with you!” Laura was dumb, and fear reigned in her eyes. At this point, Bartholomaios tugged on my shirt, trying to get me to leave the room. But I stood there, waiting to see how the situation I had created would play out. I wanted acknowledgement from Beatriz/Montano! Jürgen turned to Helene then and bowed to her, saying, “Forgive me, Your Grace, for using such harsh words in your presence.” Bartholomaios tugged on my arm again, saying, “It is time to go.” But in my pride, I shook him off a second time. I was then able to finally catch Beatriz/Montano’s eye, and with my raised eyebrows and cocked head, I successfully communicated to her how resourceful and powerful I am. And then I was made aware of just how big a fool I really am. Beatriz/Montano shot me a look right back, and she might as well have yelled it, so clear was her expression: “Do you now see? Helene is nothing, and since you have not the courage to rule and have given over the reins, the Toreador, also, will be nothing!”
What an ass I am! I should have left when Bartholomaios tried to make me. Furthermore, I should have asked Isabelle to tell Helene la Juste about Augustus Giovanni’s presence, thus allowing the Queen to take the credit and earn respect at the table. But no—I must do all things myself! It must be I who stands at the moment of crisis and revelation! It must be my figure that all eyes behold! Alas, it must be I who throws open the doors to whatever establishment I happen to be entering! It is my foolish pride which has brought the Toreador low tonight and for all nights to come. The Voivode has told me that the Grand Alliance is formed, with the Lasombra and Ventrue still vying for control, though their striving is mitigated by the Tzimisce influence, not the Giovanni’s. So, the Angelus Mortis outmaneuvered Laura in the end! At least he used his head tonight! The Voivodate is to be left untouched and stable; the Giovanni will enjoy the economic prosperity that comes with peace; and the Toreador “get the scraps.” I am a complete ass.
From the Journals of the Angelus Mortis, Voivode of Buda and Pesth
August 27th, 1222 The terms of the Alliance have been finalized, and the Voivodate remains strong in spite of the machinations of Augustus Giovanni. I owe Mordwyr's intervention in the Court for that, though by doing so, he unwittingly undermined Helene la Juste and the entire system of rule and succession which Bartholomaios, Lucia, and I codified for the Courts of Love. It still holds meaning within the Toreador, but the other Clans will forever consider the Queen and her successors nothing but figureheads while Mordwyr and the line of Michael still exist. And the bickering between Lord Jürgen and Doña Beatriz—or rather, Lord Jürgen and Lord Montano, whose spirit, unbeknownst to but a few, has come home to roost within the one who committed the Amaranth upon him—does not bode well for the future. I fear we have only witnessed the beginning of the conflict between the Ventrue and the Lasombra. Still, the Alliance exists, and at the very least, the threat from Avalon should hold us together for the moment. If I were of a more fanciful nature, I might consider Mordwyr's shockingly-poor musical performance an ill omen. Perhaps my friend was unsettled by the presence of Montano, but by the standard we have come to expect from him, it was truly awful. The shame of his poor showing, let alone in the presence of the heads of five Clans, nearly drove him to frenzy. If the Lady Isabelle had not distracted the others by removing her veil, granting her Lord a chance to recover with some dignity, his shame would have been compounded. I applauded politely to soothe Mordwyr's pain and smooth over the awkwardness of the moment, driving towards the business at hand. Events only became worse, however, when Montano refused to recognize Helene la Juste's authority, as she is not a signatory. Mordwyr insisted that she did indeed have the authority of the line of Michael, which served only to stir Montano's ire further. If the Queen depends on the approval of Michael's line, Montano insisted, then what authority does the Queen truly have? Attempting to soothe the situation, I had the documents of succession brought out for Montano's perusal, but this did little to shift his position. Things did not improve once Mordwyr left and closed the doors behind him. Helene la Juste was a lamb in a den of wolves, hiding in the corner for fear of drawing attention. She may be one of the most sensible and accomplished Toreador, but that matters little to Clans who forge empires with blood and iron. Montano and Jürgen ignored all else as they tore into each other, whilst I was left to combat Laura Giovanni. I had wondered if Laura would make any private mention of our agreement to try and unsettle me, but she is far too wise. There would have been no gain for her; she had been outmaneuvered and forced to the table, and going over old ground would have accomplished nothing. Instead, she looked forward and advanced without mercy, using legal maneuvering that left me defenseless against her gluttonous consumption of favourable terms. The Voivodate was being decimated before my eyes, and I could do nothing but slow the inexorable juggernaut that was Laura. I realized then that Montano was not the only unexpected visitor in that chamber, for I knew of only one Cainite who was so skillful in lawyering—Augustus. I knew the rapist was certainly over Laura's shoulder, advising his daughter on how to strengthen the Giovanni at the expense of the Voivodate. I was helpless to stop him, just as I was helpless to stop him from violating my Lu I knew Augustus was there but unfortunately had no way to prove it. But who should throw the doors open but Mordwyr, dramatically revealing the presence of Augustus within the chamber. Clearly he had the foresight to have Isabelle observe the proceedings, but to all others, this was Mordwyr, whose uncanny intuition was second to none. Jürgen and Montano stopped their battle long enough for the Lord of the Fiefs of the Black Cross to stand and, in no uncertain terms, demand Augustus leave the proceedings immediately. I grinned at Laura wolfishly and turned my eyes towards Augustus, who was now visible to our own keen senses. The hate was apparent in his nearly-transparent visage, and before he left, the room echoed with his words, “This is not over.” And with that, he disappeared, leaving his daughter to fend for herself. Still, even without the aid of her father, Laura was a formidable opponent. Though I am knowledgeable in politics, I realized Laura has a keener mind than mine, perhaps almost comparable to Lucia's. She easily batted away my own legal constructs with the power of her sharp logic; if I had continued to battle her on her own terms, the Voivodate would have paid the price. And so, like the arrow that struck Achilles' heel, I honed in on her insecurities as the daughter of Augustus. Intelligent though Laura is, she has never been without her father over her shoulder, and in a negotiation that would shape the centuries to come, she was alone. My constant allusions and jibes put Laura on the defensive long enough that, by the time the negotiations concluded, I had regained all that had been lost and had strengthened the Voivodate as well. While the Giovanni certainly benefited, they did not do so at the expense of the Tzimisce. I am thankful for Mordwyr's intervention but, as I noted before, in doing so, he proved Helene is nothing but a figurehead. He claims to not want the responsibility, but he does not hesitate to take the stage. I wonder when Mordwyr will finally realize that he will never be happy if the world does not hang upon his words. Perhaps one night I will have to be the one to tell him.
From the Records of Bartholomaios of Thessalonika
September 24th, 1222
Isabelle and I have tried to fuck the pain away—we have been at it for hours. But, alas, the hurt still remains. We weep at the cruel necessity forced upon us. Arriving in Buda-Pest, I was sure we would get our answers from Brutus. We did, but I did not want to hear what he had to say. It is painful to think on even now as I write. My Lady still weeps, and I confess I am deeply troubled in my spirit. Oh, unkind! Oh, pitiless Fates!
When we first entered the Angelus Mortis’ home, elder lupine vitae was liberally passed around. The Voivode truly understands what it means to be a peerless host! We all drank, and Bartholomaios, being seated next to Isabelle, rose quickly and left. “Ah, the young Philosopher cannot hold his vitae,” Lucia laughed and threw back another glass. I raised my half-full chalice and replied, “It is no disparagement on your good wine, Voivodin. Bartholomaios simply does not want to do anything untoward among friends.” The Voivode and Voivodin nodded but said nothing, for we, being blood-bonded, all perfectly understood Bartholomaios’ plight. After Isabelle had sat on my lap for a while and had played with my hair—she is always more frisky when elder lupine vitae courses through her veins—I hinted at getting down to business. The Angelus Mortis wasted no time in having his trusted revenant ghoul, Igor, bring in a small box which, I learned, was the unfortunate Brutus. The Voivode had his ageless servant stoke the fire, and we Kindred all moved to a healthy distance. “Now this Setite dog will divulge his secrets,” the Angelus Mortis said, taking the hot poker from Igor. And then the Voivode crafted a mouth in the box, and the screaming started—a ceaseless, depthless wailing communicating to me profound madness and horror. To be shaped into a box while staked and kept that way for nights on end! It is torturous beyond the limits of all endurance—of course Brutus’ mind cracked. “Voivode,” I said, taking Isabelle’s hand, “my Lady and I will await word from you.” And we left. As the screaming faded away the farther we moved from the room, Isabelle thanked me for leaving, for “the horrors of the boxed wretch frightened me.”
We waited for word, and the Angelus Mortis at last emerged from the room. “My friends,” he began, “forgive me for bringing this ill news. Desheru is in possession of the ring which holds Isabelle’s hair.” Desheru, of all Cainites! My ire rose within me, and I stood and shouted, “Oh, gods! Wherefore do ye torment me thus?” And then Isabelle and I wept on each other’s shoulders; we clasped each other to our breasts, hoping to squeeze out the Serpentis that separated us. Lucia then entered into our misery and was apprised of all that the Angelus Mortis had learned. “Well,” Lucia said, “there is no need for woe. At least Desheru does not have Isabelle’s blood!” And then I remembered the Nosferatu in Alexandria who had stolen the vial of Isabelle’s vitae which I had worn around my neck. “Actually,” I replied in a low voice, raw with sorrow, “he does.” When Lucia was made aware of the whole story, she sighed and concluded that the only thing that can be done is for Isabelle to develop her Serpentis, to take control of the Discipline before it takes control of her. What a bitter choice this is! My Isabelle is forced to become the image of the very thing she hates, lest she become, in truth and essence, a Serpent. This is Desheru’s plan and chief desire: to make Isabelle, through this ritual, a Setite, or at the very least, some abomination that is in all practical considerations an Asp! “I have brought you nothing but woe!” Isabelle cried aloud, and I took her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. “Listen now, my wife, to what I say: you are my life and my all. Pain is but for a moment; love is everlasting—and our love can be broken by nothing, and it will out-burn the stars and out-sing the Spheres.”
How much longer, then, will I have to cut out her tongue before she learns to control it? This is most bitter, indeed!
September 24th, 1222 We have returned to Buda and Pesth, and though we have celebrated the Alliance by crushing some cups of elder lupine vitae, the impending trip to the Mountain weighs on my mind. The others are also in a dark state, though for different reasons. Bartholomaios retreated shortly after taking his first sip, for he has been feeling the effects of the bond with Isabelle, and the vitae only aggravated his passion. Not only that, but Mordwyr revealed that Isabelle has begun to demonstrate the effects of Serpentis! Surely this is the result of the mischief inflicted by Brutus, so we required words with him. I had Igor retrieve Brutus from his shelf and, shortly after reaching for a hot poker, gave the Brutus-box a mouth. He immediately began screaming, his mind cracked by madness. Mordwyr and Isabelle quickly excused themselves, and I set to work. I had thought to threaten Brutus, but he is so far gone he can barely perceive anything outside the prison of his broken mind. Instead, I reminded Brutus of the hair, molding the flesh of my chest into images of Isabelle and Salome. It took some time, but eventually the Brutus-box croaked out a small phrase, “Hair for Desheru!” He repeated it incessantly before I removed his mouth once more and returned him to Igor. Needless to say, Mordwyr and Isabelle did not take the news well, especially once Lucia discovered the full extent of the ritual that was inflicted upon the Marchioness. For the hair was combined with the vial of Isabelle's blood stolen long ago in Alexandria, and it cannot be reversed. The only hope Isabelle has, my love informed them, is for her to learn to control the Serpentis before it consumes her. My friends are shaken to the core, but they will have the strength to persevere in the face of this malicious act. Igor was pleased to accept Matteo into the collection, as I knew he would, and was ecstatic over the additional testicles placed upon Corneliu. Lucia and I prepare to take from one another upon Kanmi’s back and for some moments drive away thoughts of what we will find in the Mountain.
September 29th, 1222
We arrived at the Dracon’s Mountain tonight, but we will not stay, for the castle which housed the Patriarch of the Tzimisce is now a tomb. No longer will we sit at Viorica’s knee and listen to the stories of ages long past. All has become ruin and desolation! We have collapsed the Mountain, and rubble is all that remains of the Dracon’s legacy! But my feelings sweep me away, for the Angelus Mortis still lives, and while he lives, the Dracon’s birthright continues, and the Voivodate thrives.
I envied the Angelus Mortis his chance to meet his grandsire face to face, but when we arrived at the castle, the doors were shut and all was dark and silent. Nothing stirred. The Angelus Mortis pushed on the door, and it swung wide, having been standing ajar for gods-know-how-long. Gone were the guards; gone were the lights. A smell of decay and rot and death swept over us. The moon traveled behind an overcast sky, so the interior of the structure was indiscernible. The Angelus Mortis picked his way forward until he found the fireplace then ordered Igor to set it alight. The faithful ghoul then set torches while we waited for him to complete his task. Once the room was bathed in firelight, we saw what horrors awaited us: where the table had once been—where the chairs had once been—now only bones remained. Misshapen, twisted bones of cruel designs. The living flesh of the castle was gone; only cold stone remained. On the thrones lay piles of dust, and I looked with pity upon my friend, the Voivode. If the Angelus Mortis grieved for the Dracon, his remade features betrayed nothing. “I am sorry,” I said, staring at the ashes of the Mountain God. The Angelus Mortis said nothing but picked up a handful of the dust. “So, the Dracon has perished, then?” His question was rhetorical, but I thought it best to know for certain, so I touched the Dracon’s chair, hoping to learn the last moments of his life. The images came clear to me and with such force that I buckled under their onslaught. The Dracon’s passion blazed like a star in the firmament, and for a moment, I saw the tumultuous soul hidden within the immutable frame. His final moment was filled with horror, despair, and resignation—something which the Dracon had not experienced before. Despair and horror, certainly, but resignation? When has the God of the Mountain ever been accused of submission to any force on earth? And then I caught the glimpse of red Cross on white tabard. No force on earth, indeed, but the army of heaven! “The Dracon fell to the servants of the Church,” I said sadly, trying to console the Angelus Mortis. But the Voivode was inconsolable and said simply, “We must then access the Mountain. What of Jubal, the Dracon’s prisoner?”
Lucia walked behind the empty thrones and into a back room. There she found a lever of some kind which revealed a set of hidden stairs. While she did this, I collected the ashes of the Patriarch and his consort as best I could and placed them in a container. Though the Angelus Mortis is not aware of this, I plan to have them placed in proper urns, each bearing the noble Tzimisce crest. They can then rest in fame upon the Angelus Mortis’ mantle! The stairs descended into a cave which reeked of old blood. It pains me to write of it, so I must put down in disinterested terms what we found there. Bits of Gervais were scattered across the cavern floor! It broke my heart to see the knight meet such an ignominious end, lured by his sire, Mesud, to the Mountain where Jubal devoured him! Bartholomaios lovingly gathered up the good knight’s remains and has buried him. Isabelle, that perfect angel, placed her rosary upon his gravestones and breathed a prayer for his soul. Again, farewell, Gervais! Farewell, and forever!
It was the Angelus Mortis’ decision to collapse the cave, and Lucia told us the three precise points to strike which would bring the Mountain down in on itself. Simultaneously, Bartholomaios, the Angelus Mortis (now the Zulo monster), and I struck at the stones with our fists, and the ceiling collapsed in on itself. I picked up the monster on my way out, and we all made it to safety. So end Gervais of the Broken Lance, the Dracon, and Viorica, Queen of the Mountain.
September 29th, 1222 The Dracon and Viorica are dead, slain within the Great Hall of the Mountain by agents of the nailed God. Jubal has escaped his imprisonment, fed with the blood of Gervais by Mesud. There has only been one night when I have felt greater despair than I do now, but I will not weep. They were as solid as the mountain, the earth itself, unmoved by even the most dire events. To collapse and wail would stain the honour of the Dracon and his Consort and destroy all that they had invested by remaking me into a True Voivode. I saw the Dracon’s words and actions as an example to follow to the greatest of my imperfect ability. Now, my all-too-brief memories of him will have to suffice. That the vile monster Jubal walks the earth once more is a crime against all Tzimisce. Perhaps he is forever beyond our reach, for how can we find him if he does not wish to be found? But Mesud, while difficult, is not necessarily impossible to hunt down. I will prepare for the night when we find him, for there is a reckoning coming for his violation of the Great Hall. Were I only able to hunt down the murderers of the Dracon and Viorica! But their faith forever puts them beyond my reach, and by pursuing revenge, I would put the Masquerade at risk, and the Voivodate and Alliance would suffer for it. I must be content in the knowledge that they will eventually die, as all things mortal do. The Hall was naught but a tomb, and neither we nor anyone else deserved to walk its halls. I asked Lucia to point out the structural weaknesses, and with the might of my Zulo form and the mighty sinews of Mordwyr and Bartholomaios, we brought the hall down upon itself, forever sealing it. We—Mordwyr, Isabelle, Lucia and myself—are the Four now, and the deaths of the One Voivode and his Consort make the weight of that even greater upon my shoulders. Knowing that what I nearly did in Venice occurred long after the Dracon and Viorica were ash upon their thrones shames me even further. Never will I lose my way again, on the honour of the Tzimisce and for the sake of all, I swear this.
Chapter IV: New Mutiny
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From the Journals of the Angelus Mortis
October 10th, 1997 Los Angeles I had thought I had put this behind me. I had hoped that I would never have to write in this journal again. No matter where I go, the corruption of the Brujah follows. I have been in L.A. for years now and have never had any problems with the Brujah. They mostly keep to themselves and don't cause any trouble. But tonight, I was called before The Hand. I was told that four of the city’s Brujah have been causing trouble and have burned down a haven. As the Brujah Blade, it is my job to put an end to it. I spoke with a young Gangrel named Vikk. Vikk is an idiotic child, but he is brave and loyal. His service was invaluable tonight. He knew where these young Brujah liked to feed and drove us there. The Brujah's hunting grounds were not far from my store, on the University grounds. It was early in the evening, and the streets were filled with kine, not like the old nights when kine wisely stayed indoors after the sun went down. The young Brujah were easy to find, and I went to speak with them. Once they learned that I was the Blade, they drove off at a terrific speed. Vikk followed in pursuit, but the chase was short lived. The Brujah drove as far as a block away before crashing into a fire hydrant. Their vehicle was destroyed, and they started to scatter. I was able to catch one of the fleeing rats and would have killed him there, but the streets were crowded, and one of the University guards was fast approaching. One of the most frustrating things about this modern era is being forever treated as a child. In my breathing days, I was an adult years before I died at age 19. But in this new world, 19 is still a child. I explained to the guard that I was a manager at a local bookstore and had caught my quarry shoplifting. I had retrieved my property, however, and did not wish to press charges. Perhaps he believed me, perhaps not. I was not going to stick around and wait as this simpleton made up his mind. Vikk followed the fleeing Brujah, and I soon met up with him. We chased him into an abandoned lot and spoke with him. I could recognize the look in his eyes and the tremble in his voice. He was a thrall of the demon Moloch and had to be destroyed. It was a simple matter of separating his head from his neck and keeping a watch on the body for any infernal insects that crept out. 800 years and the sound of those insects still strikes fear into me. Vikk was very capable at body disposal and got a large dog to maul the body. We returned to the shop, and I answered his questions about the demon. That idiot boy could not understand the seriousness of the situation. He was fixated on how 'cool' the name Moloch was. I am a fool to think I could teach him anything. He knows the city and is handy to have in a fight, but Vikk's mind has been warped by all those drugs. Tomorrow, we will track down the remaining three, and hopefully the city will be free from Moloch's power for now.
October 13th, 1997 Los Angeles It is over for me. I have resided in peace for centuries, while my enemies made their plans. I walked into Moloch's trap once before in Cartageña and was saved by an angel. Now, in the city of angels, I have met my end. Finding the three was a trivial task. Vikk knew they spend their evenings at the mall, and there we went. After the mall closed, we followed them until they went to a warehouse near the center of town. Vikk made use of his Gangrel powers and acquired a cat to peer into the building for us. There were four Kindred in there. At the time, I thought it was perhaps Khilletzbaal guiding the Brujah, but I was sadly mistaken. Vikk went around the back of his jeep, threw aside a tarp, and brought forth an old axe and shield. We snuck into the building and found only the three young Kindred there. The fourth one was either gone or in hiding. We dealt with those three, and in no time, they had fallen to our assault. Then the fourth Kindred revealed himself. It was the Prophet! He has come to L.A. to finish what he started 800 years ago. In his pride, he revealed himself too early, and I saw my opening. Without thinking, I attacked him with all my might; I put everything I could into that attack. I could feel his bones snapping, and his skull was crushed under my fists. He fell to the floor broken and bloody, and I knew he was within an inch of his unlife. I leaped on him to continue the assault, but as I did, he stood up, completely uninjured, and with a look, he sent waves of terror into my brain. I could hear the insects again; they were crawling inside my body, in my eyes and down my throat. I could bear it no longer, and I turned and fled. I do not remember what path I took, but I know that I used all of my abilities to escape that horrible fate. It was to no avail, for the ancient one quickly caught me and attacked me again. His violence broke the fear I had, and I turned to face him. I prepared to show him my wrath, but once again, he was too quick for me. In a single blow, he knocked me down, and I remembered no more. When I regained my senses, I was face down in a trash dumpster. I quickly escaped and looked to my injuries. My worst fears were confirmed. I am infected with the damned infernal insects again! I wanted to claw my stomach open and spill my guts, rip off my skin and rid myself of the hellish pests, but that would accomplish nothing. I vomited in the alley, and somehow I made it to my haven. From my research, I know that I have only a couple weeks. Soon the demon will have another thrall, and the creature that was once Bartholomaios will be nothing but a hellish shadow. The angel who saved me once is no longer here, but tonight I hear her bloodsong louder than ever. It calls to me faintly from the east, and I imagine that she is out there, somewhere. I long to go to her, to see her again, to receive her divine gift once more. I desire it more than I have ever desired anything in my life. But I know that I can cause her only pain. She can never love me, for her blood calls to another. There is no salvation for me; I was a fool to think that I could stand against the might of hell. Damned as I am, I will not join the ranks of the fallen. There is only one path available to me, only one option left to take. I shall take my own life; I shall silence the Beast forever. I will drive deep into the desert and travel as far as I can. There I will meet the sun, and I will deny Moloch his prize.
A Mojave Interlude
October 13th – October 20th, 1997
From the Journals of Mordwyr (Adonis Devereux)
October 14th, 1997
As I begin yet another journal, I cannot help but wonder how many volumes now rest on my bookshelves in the library. Hundreds, I presume, though I have never stopped to count them. Tonight, Isabelle and I went to La Fey instead of Elysium because there was playing a promising new band called “Blue Cotton.” “If they are any good,” I said to Isabelle as we pulled out of the garage, “they will have to change their name. ‘Blue Cotton’ is simply the worst name I have ever heard for a band.” Based on their name, I was not expecting anything stunning or particularly good. I threw the Ferrari into second and sped down the dark, ash-tree-lined driveway.
By the time Isabelle and I were on Interstate 10, my cell phone rang. Isabelle turned down the music as I checked the display: User Unknown. Expecting it to be Marko, I enabled hands-free mode. “Prince?” It was not the Prince but rather Igor! I have not heard his voice since last I saw him in Paris over 200 years ago. “Igor!” I cried. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Igor, in his much-improved French, told me that the Angelus Mortis and Lucia are arriving in the States tomorrow night. “Oh, I long to see them!” I exclaimed in surprise. “And how are they, the Voivode and Voivodin?” Igor replied, “They are well, Mordwyr.” I laughed and said, “That name is all well and good among old friends, Igor, but remember—here in America, I am known as Adonis Devereux.”
My Lady and I talked animatedly and excitedly about the imminent arrival of our friends from Moscow. “Shall we not then take the limousine to the airport to pick them up, my lord?” Isabelle asked. “Of course, my love,” I replied. “We will show our old comrades all courtesy and hospitality. Friends such as the Voivode and Voivodin are rare indeed, and they will be expecting a certain level of decorum.”
Having arrived at La Fey, Isabelle and I sat and listened to the sounds of “Blue Cotton.” They are certainly experimental, but Jake does not recommend bands to me lightly. I liked their sound and can see potential in their approach to jazz. I told the boys to set a date with Théodore and get in the studio. We will then be more equipped to judge whether “Blue Cotton” has what it takes to make an album. “And boys,” said I as I was turning to go, Isabelle on my arm, “think of a new name. ‘Blue Cotton’ is terrible and uninspired.” We left with a chorus of “Yes, sirs” and “Of course, sirs.”
October 15th, 1997 I write this entry within Mordwyr's study, for the situation in his parlor is too nerve-wracking. Marcus Tertius has awoken, and with his faith, he has shattered our bonds with our consorts. Lucia is here with me, for though we have begun to restore the bond with a first drink, the connection is very faint. Not since the Usurper and the Traitorous Bitch assaulted us within our Parisian home have I felt the bond so weak, and even then it was only dulled. But this time, the bond was snapped instantaneously, like a bolt of lightning from a clear summer sky. Lucia was there before my eyes, but it was as if I was outside of my own body, for I could not feel her. In that moment, my Beast rose and threatened to consume me, and it took all of my force of will to push it back down into its cage. Mordwyr and Isabelle collapsed onto the floor, nearly destroyed by the severance. Even Lucia was shaken, her head in her hands, only her magnificent intellect and supreme force of will preventing her from falling to despair. But I comfort myself with the fact that in two more nights our bond will be restored. But, I have gotten ahead of myself, and I should account in relative order what occurred. We arrived at New Orleans International Airport, cleared through customs with little difficulty, and were met by Mordwyr and Isabelle. Aside from their more modern styles of clothing and Isabelle's strangely muted appearance (which I did not inquire about, as the reason for it was apparent), they unsurprisingly looked much the same as they did the first time we met. They, on the other hand, were somewhat put off by the brutish appearance I have taken as Maxim Prokhorov, but they understood its necessity when I explained the details of my mortal identity. And then we were whisked off in a sizable limousine to Temple Plantation, our friends' new home. Not as majestic or apparently defensible as Nouvelle Caledonie, but at least the largely-clear landscaping surrounding it would make it somewhat difficult for intruders to approach unnoticed, at least without the aid of Disciplines. Mordwyr and Isabelle continue keep house servants who are unaware of their true nature, including his 'bodyguards'. With his romantic inclinations, Mordwyr refuses to ghoul any of them, insisting he would not share his blood song with anyone else aside from Isabelle. In a country which shows an endless thirst for celebrity exposés, often provided by former employees, it seems foolish to have not even one servant ghouled to help keep control, but such is his choice. And what of his bodyguards? I hope for the sake of Mordwyr's conscience that he is not fired upon like Reagan or that musician; how would he feel if one of his 'bodyguards' is mortally wounded by a gunshot whilst shielding him or Isabelle, well knowing we can shed such projectiles as water? They would doubtless be upset for some nights. But I digress. We moved on to the reason why we had come, and Lucia and I were explaining the situation within Europe when the lights flickered out. The change in light was hardly disconcerting, but shortly after, I felt the shock of the bond snapping and saw Mordwyr and Isabelle collapse to the floor. And in strode Marcus Tertius, clad in his centurion's armour demanding to know my and Lucia's identities whilst standing to protect Mordwyr and Isabelle. Knowing full well the danger of antagonizing one such as he, I identified myself as a descendant of the Dracon but otherwise said as little as possible; fortunately, he considered us no threat for the moment (and if he is half as powerful as Chrétien, I well understand his lack of concern). One of Mordwyr's 'bodyguards' banged upon the parlour door to offer assistance, but a quick whistling of the Song made him docile, and he left with no concern. So, we now wait within the parlour, since I am uneasy about moving about without having Marcus Tertius within sight. Perhaps if he sees us share an undisturbed evening with our friends, it will ease him somewhat, though I find his constant gaze unsettling. In addition, Mordwyr and Isabelle are our friends, and while I know they are as safe with Marcus Tertius as they would be anywhere, I feel uncomfortable leaving them in the care of one who is centuries behind the events of the world. But now it is time to scatter our soil over the floor and sleep until the evening.
October 17th, 1997
To have lost all but the first seven volumes of my journal in the Great New Orleans Fire of 1788 was bad enough, but to lose everything I have written since then to the thieving paws of the Fae? I was not angry ere I came to New Orleans! I did not think the Fae could rouse my ire as much as Mithras’ ghouls did when they set that fire over 200 years ago. Was Mithras trying to outdo himself, to effect an even greater piece of villainy than having his ghoul, Anne Boleyn, be instrumental in the weakening of the Church in England? And here, yet again, I have lost my journals—all that has occurred in my life for the past eight centuries! Again, my original seven are saved, having been locked in my fire-proof, photosensitive safe at Temple Plantation. Before I proceed with what wonderful and terrible event has occurred these past few nights, I must first attempt to recall the fate of all those about whom I wrote so much in my original seven volumes. For the sake of posterity—were I to meet Final Death—it is important that these Kindred, for good or ill, are not forgotten.
Chrétien survives and is still Prince of Constantinople. His city is the most perfect on earth, for Michael’s Dream thrives, and I love to walk about the city—the only city on the planet that forbids the use of motor vehicles within its limits. And all power lines must be buried. Constantinople has therefore, naturally, not been subjected to modern urban sprawl and retains its ancient beauty. My Sire rules a city so much at peace that he was delighted to host, incognito of course, the Constantinople Conventions from the late 19th-century through the mid-20th-century.
Marcus Tertius, torpid, made the voyage with us across the Sea to Louisiana Territory and slept peacefully in a secret chamber beneath Temple Plantation until two nights ago. Calum did not survive, for he met Final Death saving my and Isabelle’s lives. When our haven caught fire, we awoke in the evening to flame, smoke, and ash. In our fear, we retreated back into our crypt and waited for the fire to consume us. But Lord Calum, brave soul, fought back the Red Fear and cleared a way for us. After our escape, the building collapsed in on him, and he perished in fiery death. He died, truly my Lady’s champion.
Jürgen Swordbearer died in a battle with the Tremere, just before the Usurpers moved to Avalon. The battle was won by the Ventrue, and it was this battle which caused the exodus. Daniel of the Seine was killed on the guillotine during the Terror. It is suspected that his death was due to the influence of the Avalon Brujah, against whom he tirelessly fought. The Archfiend has survived by going underground, literally. There is a mountain in the Carpathians which is filled with him to this night. Noble Dimitri did not survive. He and his lady both died at the hands of Nosferatu assassins—my old friend, the Angelus Mortis, believes Mesud is responsible. Beatriz (and sometimes Montano within her) lives and leads the Camarilla Lasombra. Because of Beatriz’s internal struggles, the Lasombra have not risen to dominance above the Ventrue, even though Jürgen, her only worthy foe, is no more.
Helene la Juste was killed in the Terror, one of the first Kindred to die in Paris. It is rumored that the Terror was influenced by Avalonian Ventrue and the London Brujah (Adonibaal and his loathsome associates). The Final Death of Helene la Juste was accomplished to weaken the French Toreador. Not long after her death, the Courts of Love disintegrated. Petrov of Novgorod lives and is Prince of Budapest. The once-effervescent Marko, calling himself Marko Prince, is now Prince of New Orleans. He accompanied my Lady and me to the New World when we decided the De Troyes family could make fortunes in lands not so debt-laden as France. Sergei of the Bloody Blade and Princess Marya still live, but their influence is not what it once was. Sylvester de Ruiz is no more, having died during the Spanish Inquisition. His death was the trigger which caused many of the Carthaginians to go into torpor—much to my regret! Also regrettable, Alejandro is still staked and torpid in his glass case. I assume he is now in Sicily under the watchful eye of Doña Beatriz in Castle Lasombra. Vlad Tepes was later known even to the kine as Vlad, the Impaler, and he got himself decapitated during the daytime. Vladimir Tepes, Vlad’s childe, did not survive. His Masquerade was never perfected, and he was killed.
Desheru still stalks the night. He went into torpor not long after 1222 AD, but there are rumors that he has recently awoken again. Erašts died most ignobly. His favorite tailor found him out, and Laura had him killed to keep him from compromising the Giovanni. Geza of Ezstergom is, thankfully, burning in Hell. He was one of the last Avalonian Kindred to die, not long before Anne Boleyn worked her influence on Henry VIII. Philosir is unfortunately still with us. He went into torpor during the Spanish Inquisition, along with a few of the most intelligent Carthaginian Brujah. He awoke again in the mid-20th century. Khilletzbaal, like his sire, has survived, and for much the same reason: timely torpor. Laura Giovanni is still numbered among the childer of Caine, and she is still the apparent head of the Giovanni Clan. She was not lying when she said the Giovanni Masquerade was impeccable. Madalina survives, thanks to the protection and direction of Mithras. As his resident Vicissitude instructor, she is important to him. Damn her! Michele du Bois is lurking about somewhere. It would have been too much to ask the Fates to see to it that I escaped him. But the last time he was heard of was just prior to the Black Death. There have been rumors that the Infernalists altered the Assamite blood-curse and threw it into the kine, thus causing the Black Death in its successive waves across Europe.
Mithras of London still reigns from his English throne as the overlord of the Avalon Alliance. The Prophet still lives, because I have not yet had the opportunity to slay him. His precise movements are not known, but he was not present in Europe much, nor is he now. He seems to spend most of his time in the Middle East. Santiago of the Giovanni lives, and he is still Laura’s lackey.
As for the current political setup, I cannot go into centuries of detail—that is all in my stolen journals!—but it is sufficient to record here the overarching structure of Cainite society. The original Grand Alliance of the 13th century blossomed into the present-nights Camarilla, named such for a Cainite’s ability to rule from behind the scenes (as the film-making metaphor goes). The Camarilla Clans are the Toreador, the Tzimisce, the Giovanni, the Gangrel, two-thirds of the Lasombra (Europe and most of the New World), and half of the Ventrue (those outside the Avalon Alliance). Originally founded as a counter-alliance against the Grand Alliance, Mithras developed his power base into the extremely influential Avalon Alliance. Their numbers are fewer than the Camarilla, but they are extremely united in purpose. They also control a large number of cities in the Americas. The Avalon Alliance Clans are Mithras’ Ventrue and the Tremere. United in purpose against the Camarilla, but with different ways from the Avalon Alliance, the Jyhadi maintain very strong Clan identities within their coalition. They do not believe in Masquerade, but they are too sly to be caught often. The Jyhadi Clans are the Setites, the Assamites, and the remaining one-third of the Lasombra. The Independent Clans have no affiliation with one another, but nor do they belong to any other group. The Independent Clans are the Nosferatu, the Brujah, and the Malkavians.
The Ventrue dominate the Camarilla, but the Lasombra make them work for the position. In fact, the Ventrue-Lasombra tension is the biggest destabilizing factor in the Camarilla. The Toreador tend not to be Princes, as they can rarely be bothered to run a city, but their social influence, even in other Clans’ cities, is not to be underestimated. The Tzimisce had the most difficult time growing into the Camarilla ideals, but they did well under the Communists. They are not numerous, but they are comfortably established in the former Voivodate. Their ties to the land have remained, so they are nearly never found outside their area of influence. Within their sphere, they are the only Princes. There have been rumors of possible fractures within the Camarilla, as some Ventrue and Lasombra under opposite Princes have complained of their treatment. The Gangrel are thinking of leaving the Camarilla, as they feel they gain little by being in it, but the Malkavians are considering joining. Interestingly, there is a large Malkavian presence in Mexico and Central and South America.
The Jyhadi is either Middle Eastern or Egyptian in flavor, depending on the subset or Clan. The Assamites and Lasombra call their agents “prophets,” “martyrs,” or “Hands of Haqim,” depending on their status and function. The Setites call theirs “priests of Set” or “hierophants of Sutekh,” and, of course, there is always the Voice of Desheru. The Avalon Alliance is the most unified and stable of the three groups.
There. It is done—once more, though briefly, recorded. And now I calm my mind and try to recall all that has occurred these past three nights. I have lived and died, fought and wept, fasted and prayed all this time. Was it but two nights ago that my world came undone? Has it been but a mere twice-rising and twice-setting of the sun from the moment Isabelle was ripped from me until now? Surely, an age has passed. Truly, I have grown old, old even for an Elder, in my soul. I have seen the Void, and it would terrify me still, were it not for the veil of Isabelle’s bloodsong around my heart, flowing over my senses, clothing my naked spirit. Isabelle, Bright Goddess of My Heart, has tied together those loose, swaying cords, the frayed ends of my soul. She is the Antidote to my Curse, the Balm to my Fever, the Solace to my Madness. Oh, how it threatened to overthrow me! Oh, how the silence crushed me!
On the 15th, Isabelle and I, along with René and Tristan, took the limo over to New Orleans International Airport to meet the Angelus Mortis’ chartered jet. I first saw Igor emerge from customs, and he looked as he always has—severely Romanian. But then followed a heavy-jowled, flat-top wearing, bullet-eating bulldog of a man. I had never seen him before, but on his arm was Lucia, wearing a stylish black turtleneck. She had murder in her eyes, and I knew the man who escorted her—the thick, brutish, aging Russian stranger—was none other than the Angelus Mortis himself. “My my, Maxim Prokhorov,” I addressed him by his kine identity. “The years have certainly not been kind to you.” My old friend greeted my jest with equal humor, saying, “Perhaps too much of my wife’s good cooking.” I gave the Angelus Mortis a hearty hug and greeted him warmly as the ladies exchanged a kiss of welcome and reunion. Two more ghouls—I assume they are—other than Igor, carrying the luggage, accompanied the Angelus Mortis and Lucia. “Dear friend,” said I, “it does me good to see you again, though to my eyes you are not yourself. We have not seen each other since the Revolution!” The Angelus Mortis looked off as if calculating and then agreed. “Indeed, since before, actually. For it was in the Revolution that Daniel of the Seine and Helene la Juste died. By then, you had fled Europe. By then, the De Troyes family was thriving here in the Mississippi Basin.” I looked at my friend more closely and with a critical eye. “But why this form? Could you not have fleshcrafted yourself into something more pleasing to the eye? I remember the young, impressive Voivode of Buda and Pest! Where is he now?” The Angelus Mortis only eyed me with a mischievous glint in his dark orbs and said, “He is in here somewhere. Perhaps you will see him again some night. But there is much more that resides within these fleshy bounds.” And he clapped his heavy, meaty hands together, his mouth twisting into a nasty grin. My eye then caught a peculiar thing: the Angelus Mortis’ mouth, in its smile, extended a bit beyond the confines of his bone structure, meaning, he smiled wider than any human should be able to. I looked more closely, but the Angelus Mortis’ face had returned to normal. For a moment, it seemed the corners of his mouth nearly touched his ears! But then, as quickly as the crafted flesh extended, it had snapped back into proper shape again. I thought to say something about the risk of exposing one’s Vicissitude, no matter how slight, to all the cameras installed in the airport, but my words were cut short before they took form.
Lucia interrupted us by saying that perhaps we had best continue the conversation in the car. She is prudent as she has always been, and once safely in the limousine, with Tristan and René sitting up front, the Angelus Mortis told me all about the necessity and practicality of having to adopt different personas and disguises within the former Soviet Union. “I am now known as an ex-KGB operative who never carries a gun. Rumor has it I like to use a blade, and there is even a story floating around out there about how I once hammered a tent peg through a man’s temple and left him out in a field to rot. It is all in the image, Mordwyr, and this one is utilitarian.” I nodded and agreed, saying, “Indeed, it is serviceable and lacks any ornament or ostentation. I salute you, old friend, on all that you and Lucia have accomplished in the former Voivodate. And congratulations to Petrov on becoming the Prince of Budapest.” The Angelus Mortis raised his eyebrows curiously. “I know he has been ruling there for quite some time,” I said by way of explanation, “but I still wanted to congratulate you face to face.”
The Angelus Mortis then changed the subject. “Those two are your bodyguards?” he asked, gesturing to the tinted, sound-proof glass that separated us from Tristan and René. “Yes,” I replied. “And yet you have not ghouled them?” the Angelus Mortis asked. “Indeed, I have not,” I replied. The unspoken question in the Angelus Mortis’ eyes obliged me to elaborate. “Because I cannot bear to think of my bloodsong in anyone else’s ears save Isabelle’s.” Looking at Isabelle, I spoke into her mind, telling her how she is the center of my world, the Goodness around which all Creation naturally wishes to congregate. And then I thought of the one who, if he still lives, lives with Isabelle’s song in his blood: Bartholomaios. I know it is awful of me to think this, but if I were to learn that Bartholomaios—whom I have not seen these past eight centuries—is dead, I would not be grieved. I must admit to myself—and only to myself—that I would be overjoyed at the news, for so would die Isabelle’s illicit bloodsong, forced from her by our mercy towards Bartholomaios in Cartageña! But I cannot help but think: does Bartholomaios still wear Jean-Louis’ Templar ring on a chain around his neck? And if he does, then how can I gainsay my brother’s approval of the young Brujah?
Isabelle sensed my pain and attempted to lighten the mood—the darkness of which no one was aware except me and my Lady! She said, “But Stefan, our hairdresser, has been Entranced so many times that he is, in all practical definitions of the term, a ghoul. He comes to my boudoir each night and crafts some new delightful style for me, so how could he be trusted if he were not entirely devoted to me and my lord?”
We arrived at Temple Plantation, and the Angelus Mortis’ ghouls hauled everything up to the rooms that had been prepared for our guests. Once we were all settled in and no kine were about, I put to the Angelus Mortis this direct question: “So, why are you here?” The Voivode took a seat next to Lucia and said, “Mordwyr, you live here in the New World, bastion of the Avalon Alliance, so you do not see what is happening—has been happening—to the Camarilla in Europe. Over the centuries, the rivalry between the Lasombra and the Ventrue has only grown and deepened until, now, their bickering is threatening to divide European Kindred. Recently, a notable Ventrue died in Paris, and Auderico has done nothing about it. Although we Elders know that Auderico does nothing because he is mad—driven so by centuries of tedious Toreador Elysiums—no offense.” I smiled and nodded my head in affirmation. I took no offense. Helene la Juste used her Seneschal most ill. The Angelus Mortis continued, “But others do not see it that way, especially the Ventrue. They say that Auderico does nothing because he is Lasombra and is prejudiced against the Ventrue. Now, there have been new reports of Lasombra being abused in Ventrue-held cities, and vice versa.” The Angelus Mortis then rose, wanting to clearly state his opinion in no uncertain terms. As he approached me, I watched him closely. “My friend,” he said, “I cannot help but think that this Parisian Ventrue is like the Archduke, whose death was the fuse to the powder keg.” I gasped, fully understanding his meaning. “Do you mean war within the Camarilla?” Lucia joined her husband, and, by his side, she said, “It is time to make the proposal again. We failed in Paris back in 1222, but now, more than ever, the Camarilla is in need of the Enforcers—but they must be more than that. They must be Judges as well. The Alliance is made; all was set centuries ago. As Elders, and as original signatories, we can come in from a position of dispassion. We control no cities; we are not the leaders of our Clans, and the fact that we have survived, with our wits intact, for 800 years speaks volumes in our favor.” I could not deny Lucia’s logic and simply looked at Isabelle and shrugged. “Should we present our proposal to the Inner Circle then?” I asked.
Before any answer could be made, the lights in the parlor began to flicker and then went out. We were plunged into darkness, but as we are all skilled in the ways of Auspex, we were in no way inconvenienced. “It is no matter,” said I. “A servant will turn the lights on again. Perhaps it is the breaker.” And then I heard the sound of something heavy moving. Turning, I saw my false bookshelf being pushed from the inside! “No one was down there,” I said. “Only my safe and Marcus Tertius—” and then I stopped. My words were caught in my throat as I looked upon a silhouetted figure standing in the revealed, secret doorway. “Marcus!” I cried in joy, but then all went to Hell. For a moment, I thought I had gone deaf and blind. I stumbled and fell. The room was dark—darker than anything my superior senses could penetrate. Nothing made sense, and for a time, I forgot who I was. It is the eeriest feeling not remembering oneself. But then I suddenly knew the terrible reason why! Isabelle is as much a part of me as my own soul, and when she is gone, I am no longer Mordwyr! The pressure of the silence crushed my ears, hurting me so much. In that moment, the whole world was wrenched and turned inside out, and I was deposited into the lowest pit of Hell. There was no Isabelle in my blood! The song—the bloodsong that is Life to me—was silent, and the universe had turned me out into the howling and gibbering of the Void. Then, into the deafening silence came the only thing which could possibly have been worse than the suffering I was enduring. I heard Isabelle—distant and faint, not within me at all—crying out in endless, wordless agony. How can that be? I thought. How can I be divided from myself and yet live? But I knew I was not long for the world. The Void threatened to devour me, and without Isabelle, I would gladly have leapt into its fathomless maw. Isabelle’s screams only added to my pain, and I knew I was apart from her. I was alone. For the first time in 800 years, I was alone. The Void beckoned, but my Lady’s suffering pulled me back. A shred of me knew that I needed to help her. I could not see, and yet I crawled, I scratched, I pulled my way across the carpet to her. We shared a mutual Kiss, and then a measure of my senses was restored to me. I saw enough to know that not only the Void existed; I heard enough of Isabelle’s bloodsong to know that the howling and the gibbering were not the only voices of the universe. I grasped at Isabelle, and we wept. An age passed as we cried, and all I could do was hold her close to my breast and wait the interminable stretch of time until the next night, when we might take our second drink. I did not think of it as rationally as I do now, for I was but a third of a man. My Rational Soul was still submerged in the Void; only my Animal Soul longed for sustenance and survival, and that nourishment came from Isabelle. So I held her and did not for one instant relax my grip.
The 16th was spent exactly in the same position, curled up together on the parlor floor. With the bloodsong stronger, a shred of rationality returned to me. I was aware of Marcus Tertius standing like a guard over us, and I heard other voices in the room but could not identify them. On the 17th, tonight, I awoke from torpor, hungry for my third drink, eager to possess my Lady body and soul again, desiring to pour myself into her as well. Isabelle was equally famished for my vitae, and once our Kiss—normally a private affair—was exchanged, we were ourselves again. I helped Isabelle to her feet as we tried to get our bearings. It took us a moment to remember we were in America, in New Orleans, at Temple Plantation. The last time our bond had been broken was by Lord Douglas, so we initially thought we were in Paris, at Nouvelle Caledonie, and that this was the 13th century!
“Without you, there is no world for me,” I said, looking at Isabelle. I grasped her face and drew her close to me, soaking in her eyes. “There is nothing left. There is no life away from you.” And Isabelle replied, “Indeed, my love-lord, this world is no place for me if you are not in it!” And it was then that I remembered Marcus Tertius. Turning to him, I warmly greeted my ancient friend. “You have slept for many centuries, Ancient Roman. You must be made aware of your surroundings. We are eight centuries removed from when you first went to sleep beneath the stones of Nouvelle Caledonie. Know this as well: we are not in Paris. Indeed, you are not even in Europe, for we reside in what is known to the Elders as the New World, a land of great bounty which lies across the Western Sea. This country, called America, is as big as all of continental Europe—bigger even.” There was much more that I might have said, perhaps to comment on the electric lights that illuminate without fire. I am sure there were a thousand strange things that Marcus Tertius, a 13th-century Cainite who hailed from Rome and the time of the Caesars, might have found baffling; but at that moment, only one thing concerned him. Only one thing dominated his thoughts. “Does anyone else hear that?” he asked in Latin, cocking an ear. When everyone responded in the negative, Marcus asked again, “Does no one hear the voice of that woman?” We heard nothing and told Marcus so. “She calls to me in Latin, in the tongue of my mother. I do not know her—she is strange to me.” It was strange to hear Marcus himself speaking Latin, for though I understand it, I have rarely heard it since the death of Christendom. For a moment, Marcus let that go, and he focused on Isabelle. “You, too, are strange,” he said, “unlike Chrétien but—” and his voice trailed off in thought. “She is most highly favored of Heaven,” I chimed in, “for how can that Ideal which is perfect reject Perfection itself?” Marcus Tertius humored me in my obvious conceit with a polite smile, and then I said, “I sense your doubt, but know this: her blood is proven myroblite!” At this proclamation, Marcus was profoundly surprised. “And so,” he replied, “she is allied to that Shining Country but not of it, for something else is chief in her thoughts. There is a matter to her more important than God.” I looked knowingly at Isabelle and spoke into her mind, saying, “You are my Venus.” And Isabelle, with eyes of love, responded likewise silent, “And you, my Adonis.” Thus, while she worships me, and I her, my Lady is barred from Heavenly Bliss. “I am sorry for the pain I have caused you,” Marcus then apologized, referring to the severing of our blood-bond. “Think nothing of it, old friend,” I replied. “It was not intentional, and I trust it will not happen again.” He has assured us that it will not, not by his hand.
Marcus Tertius, again being distracted by the voice, asked for quill and parchment. I had a sheet of paper and a fountain pen brought. To answer his quizzical look, I explained, “The ink is contained within. It requires no ink well.” Marcus simply shrugged, trusted me, and started drawing. What he drew resembled a police sketch—no great work of art but serviceable. We all got a clear look at the face belonging to the voice. “From her features,” said I, “I would judge her Italian.” Lucia and the Angelus Mortis agreed. Then Isabelle shocked us all by saying, “I have seen this woman at Mass.” We all turned to look at her. “I have never spoken to her, but she has asked the priest to say several Masses for the soul of—” Isabelle’s eyes grew wide, and she gasped. She looked directly at Marcus with eyes of utter disbelief. “For the soul of someone named Marcus!” We all decided that the most expedient thing was to get to the church before the late Mass finished, but Marcus was in no condition to go anywhere. Being dressed in high Parisian fashion from the 13th century, he was as conspicuous as any violator of the Masquerade. “We have to get you changed,” I said, quickly appraising his size. “And I am sure the Angelus Mortis, in his present incarnation, might have a suit for you to wear.” Marcus Tertius was truly puzzled as he looked at the Angelus Mortis. “Those are not then your nightclothes?” he asked.
Leaving the ghouls behind, we five Kindred took the limousine over to St. James’ Parish church. The whole time in the car, Marcus was distracted by the voice as it grew stronger. He paid no attention to the outside world passing by him, and better for him anyway—the less we had to explain to him about the modern world in his state, the easier it was for us. The driver knew quite a few quick shortcuts, which was nice, since we were pressed for time. He obviously drives Isabelle there often. When we arrived at St. James, I saw a shiny, new Ferrari sitting in the parking lot. “Well, that is not normal,” I observed. Isabelle laughed and said, “I will go inside and look for her.” No one stood in her way. No one else was certainly going to step foot on holy ground. Marcus, quite disconcerted, just sat with his head in his hands. Half an hour later, Isabelle returned to the limo, and she had with her the girl from the sketch. “Again, she has had a Mass said for the soul of Marcus Tertius.” There stood a beautiful, young Italian woman dressed in very fine, expensive clothes. She was kine—I could smell her fresh blood immediately. “Do you know of Marcus Tertius?” she asked me in Italian. I responded in her language of choice and said with a smile, “Know him? Searching daughter, I have him here with me.” And I gestured to the car door. When the Angelus Mortis and Lucia had exited the vehicle, I bade the young woman enter. Then I shut the door behind her. Isabelle was the first to speak. “She has been searching for Marcus Tertius for two years. She has traveled the world and has had Masses said for him in many different countries. She is most devout.” The Angelus Mortis, however, had only grown more suspicious as more of this woman was revealed. “But what do we know of her?” he asked. “Who is she? What does she represent? Why has she been searching for Marcus? If she is devout, who is to say she is not a kind of modern-night equivalent of an Inquisitor?” This frightened me, and my mind began to work furiously. “What if she is a ghoul of Mithras?” I asked, panicked. We fretted a bit longer, trying to decide whether to intervene, to err on the side of caution. But then I realized that if anyone can handle himself, it is Marcus Tertius. “There is little we could do to aid one of his might. Not only is he 2000 years old, he is two generations closer to Caine than we. I am sure all will be well.” But I was not sure. I smiled and put on my best brave-face.
The conference within the limousine lasted nearly half an hour, and then Marcus Tertius stepped out of the vehicle. “She wants me to marry and Embrace her,” he announced, and his declaration stunned me. “She is Giulietta D’avena, from Rome. She has told me that she has seen my face in visions since she was a little girl. She has told me that St. Margaret has led her to me.” Marcus was clearly in a daze as his mind attempted to grasp this rather slippery subject. “But I cannot Embrace her; I shall not damn her!” I realized that Marcus had no idea who St. Margaret was, so I told him about her life, how she had been the one true love of Chrétien, but that she rejected him in favor of becoming a nun. “For her life of heroic joy and service to God, she was canonized by the Catholic Church,” I explained. “It was in her name that a powerful Order of Inquisitors harried and destroyed many Cainites in Europe during the Burning Times—the Inquisition.” Marcus was in no state of mind to think through this affair logically, so I assisted him. “Marcus, think on this for a moment. Let us establish our presuppositions. Do you believe that a saint of the Church speaks in the name of God and communicates His Truth?” Marcus replied in the affirmative. “Do you then believe,” I continued, “that Margaret is a saint of the Church?” Again, Marcus nodded his head. “Do you believe that Giulietta’s vision is a true vision from Heaven?” Here Marcus looked me in the eyes and said, “Yes.” I smiled. “Then take her, man!” I cried, “For God would not send one of his servants to deceive one of his children, thus damning her—tricking her into Hell.” Marcus acknowledged my logic, but he could not reconcile the fact that Kindred are forever alone. “That is the true curse of Caine,” he said. “All those we love die, and those of the Blood ultimately feel antipathy toward one another. I am nearly 2000 years old, but I have never made a childe. I did not want to damn anyone. But Chrétien is not damned, and I know I am not. Not all Kindred must be damned, then! It was Giulietta’s voice that awoke me.” Marcus’ mind was jumping from one point to the next as he worked through his dilemma. “When Christ died, the dead walked the streets. That is what the Gospels say, but there is more to the story. Those dead were Kindred, and they walked right out into the sun as a warning. Of course, darkness was over the land for three hours, but during the earthquake, the Cainites awoke and all died. I was spared.” Marcus was walking around the parking lot now, looking at the pavement, talking to himself. He was lost in his own remembrances. Somehow, he was reasoning through this in his own way. Giulietta still had not stepped out of the limousine. And I stood near my friend, ready to give him my support were he to ask for it. “What do you mean? You spoke to Christ?” I asked, incredulous. But Marcus only smiled impishly at me and said, “I will Embrace her then, here, in this—what did you call it—limousine?” He started to walk back to the car with some speed, so I stood in his way. “Wait, Marcus,” I said, “Wait. Should you not first have your wedding Mass, then Embrace her, just to err on the side of caution?” Marcus Tertius was ecstatic and cried, “Indeed! Excellent plan. We will marry tonight, if may be!” “All right, Romeo,” I laughed. “Romeo?” Marcus asked, puzzled, his mirth momentarily subdued. “Who is Romeo?” I shook my head dismissively. “Forget about it.”
Marcus escorted Giulietta from the limousine, and they disappeared into the church. “They can take her Ferrari,” I said. “It is time for us to go.” When we were all back in the car and driving once more, the Angelus Mortis said, “Won’t Marko be upset that a Cainite is Embracing in his city without his permission?” I sighed, having forgotten all about protocol. “Do not worry. I will tell Marko privately about this whole matter. He should be able to save face that way.” Not long after leaving Marcus Tertius, we arrived at Coco’s, which is perhaps the worst name I have ever heard for an Elysium. But as I am not the Prince, I do not have any say in the matter. Besides, Coco was Marko’s pet ghoul of whom he one night tired and let starve to death. Afterwards, in his guilt, he immortalized her in his club, the establishment which also serves as Elysium. Upon entering, the first familiar face I saw was Christopher Miller’s, the Ventrue primogen. Though nowhere near my age, Christopher is an Elder as far as the neonates are concerned. He came to America with the original English colonists. The music was lively, and the light show was interesting enough to take Isabelle on a twirl across the dance floor. But soon we spied Marko, and he motioned to us to come over. “Have you come to be boring, Adonis?” he asked me with a wink, about to put down his drink. “No, my Prince,” I replied with a smile. “But by all means, finish your drink. It is not like it is a cup of coffee or something.” We all shared a laugh, and then I said, “There are new arrivals in town.” And I gestured to the Angelus Mortis and Lucia. “Ah,” Marko’s eyes brightened, “Lucia! How long has it been? Oh—and, is the Angelus Mortis then no longer with us?” His voice was unmasked false concern. “No,” the Angelus Mortis replied slowly, “I am here, though now I wear this form, for it suits my purposes.” Marko turned up his nose as he appraised the Voivode’s appearance. “As a Tzimisce, you have the ability to look any way you want, and you choose that ugly face? Well, that is quite beyond me!” The Angelus Mortis engaged the Prince in small talk for a bit, but then he, Lucia, and Isabelle left the room. Once alone with Marko, I said, “Prince, you should know that Marcus Tertius woke up.” Marko looked stonily at me. “And? He does not come to present himself?” I could tell that Marko felt threatened. “No, Prince, for he is busy making himself a childe.” Marko’s eyes grew hard. “A childe, you say. Without my permission?” I tried to appease the Prince. “You must understand, Marko,” I began, “that Marcus has been asleep a very long time. When he awoke, he said this woman was calling to him. Perhaps it is madness; I do not know.” I know it is not madness, but I had to tell the Prince something. “He would have come to present himself to you earlier, but it took some time for him to recover from his torpid state.” Marko did not detect my lie but replied simply, saying, “Mordwyr, you are the Toreador primogen of New Orleans. It is your responsibility to deal with Marcus, for he is Toreador. He is breaking the Traditions, so you deal with him.” I snorted and said, “And what can I hope to do against one so ancient and so mighty?” Marko rose from his chair and cried, “Remove the offense, Mordwyr! Kill the neonate!” I had no intention of doing anything of the sort. I would never sin against a friend in such a way, but I bowed and lied, saying, “I will resolve the matter.” Again, Marko believed me, and I left the room.
When I found Isabelle, she was crammed into a booth with four other Kindred, two on each side of her. Lucia and the Angelus Mortis were nowhere to be seen. I recognized two of the neonates, Bryan and Christie, both of the Toreador Clan. The other two I had seen before but did not know their names. They were all clad in matching leather jackets. I stifled a laugh. The children, Christie included, were all attempting to ply their amorous charms on Isabelle. “Excuse me,” I yelled over the music. “You all know she is with me, so how can I help you?” Bryan, the wit of the group, said, “You can go get me a drink!” I rolled my eyes. Never heard that one before. “What? From the bar? Or shall I go drain someone into a cup for you?” And then I leaned over the table menacingly. “Stop watching shitty movies from which you lift all your witless dialogue! Now, you kids know not to fuck about. If you don’t want to see me angry, I suggest you all fuck off right now!” The neonates, emboldened by the protection of Elysium, grudgingly gave up their seats. “I apologize, my love,” I said to Isabelle, “for speaking so crudely. The youth simply do not comprehend any other speech.”
Just then, I saw the Angelus Mortis and Lucia dragging Scott through the crowd. Scott’s knee was broken, and he was grimacing in pain. The Angelus Mortis had him in a devious chokehold, and Lucia had his arm pinned behind his back. It was probably broken, too. “Now, what trouble has the young Ventrue gotten himself into now?” I wondered aloud, and Isabelle and I followed our friends back into the Prince’s chamber. We learned that Scott was in one of the kine rooms openly attempting to make a blood doll. Scott denied it, of course, but it was the word of two Elders against him. “Do not lie to the Prince,” Marko said, “or antagonize the Fiends.” Scott brushed himself off, fixed his knee and arm, and said haughtily, “Who the fuck are the Fiends?” When Marko indicated the Angelus Mortis and Lucia, Scott said, “What? The old guy and his trophy wife?” The Angelus Mortis did not react in any way but simply stared at Scott, a gaze that unsettled the neonate no small amount. Marko said, “I am turning you over to Christopher for punitive measures. He will deal with you. And do not ever break Masquerade again, or next time, I will let the Fiends play with you.” The Angelus Mortis’ and Lucia’s eyes twinkled in murderously fiendish delight. And then the Voivode stepped forward and said, “Please do it again. Please break Masquerade one more time.” Scott backpedaled from the room and fled. I took the opportunity to tell Marko that I was having some problems with Bryan and Christie and that, as primogen, I might have to take matters into my own hands. “Do what you must, Adonis,” Marko said. “You are, after all, qualified and required to do so.” Marko Prince—the Great Delegator. “You are gracious, Prince,” I said and bowed once more. Marko smiled and replied, “Yes. Yes, I am. I am quite gracious.” And then the room was filled with the sounds of exhaling, and Marko swelled in the mind’s eye. An unnatural glow came into his eyes, and the air seemed to whisper of his glory. We all bowed and left the room, but even now, as I think back on it, I cannot understand why Marko felt it necessary to awe us all.
Taking the same booth where Isabelle had been sitting, we four all engaged our minds in a chat. Words are not necessary for us, as we can communicate directly into one another’s minds. It is a handy trick, and one that keeps the neonates frightened. “There is a rumor I picked up tonight,” the Angelus Mortis thought, “that many of the Cainites in New Orleans think that Isabelle is either a ghoul or a blood doll. Many think the latter, and so they are going to appeal to the Prince, to complain about her presence at Elysium.” I thought back, “These children are brazenly arrogant beyond the scope of their Blood and think they have the right to parade their ignorant assumptions about. Well, Marko knows Isabelle, so there is an end on it. But I thank you, old friend, for bringing this matter to my attention.” Lucia was in the mood to learn some more Elysium gossip, so she took Isabelle out onto the dance floor. Into Lucia’s mind, I thought, “But do not stray too far from my line of sight.” Lucia understood my full meaning and engaged Isabelle in a sexually-provocative dance. I invited Christopher Miller over to introduce him to the Angelus Mortis. Christopher started talking to us, but I hardly paid attention, for Lucia was, one by one, undoing the buttons on Isabelle’s dress. As my Lady’s flesh was revealed to me, I became increasingly aroused until Christopher Miller’s voice was nothing more than an annoyance. But then the dance was over, and I had been tantalized. I then caught Miller talking about the Nosferatu. To the Angelus Mortis, he was saying, “Yes, and now the Nosferatu want a primogen in New Orleans, even though they are not Camarilla!” I turned back to the Ventrue primogen and said, “And why are you so upset? A Nosferatu primogen is an impossibility, a contradiction in terms.” Miller laughed and replied, “You might want to tell that to the Prince, then, because Marko is considering giving the Nosferatu primogen status so as to avoid having to deal with the Sewer Rats. Far be it from me to criticize the Prince, but he delegates too much. Too often, he takes the easier path rather than the right one.”
As the ladies were exiting the dance floor, that same leather-jacket-clad gaggle of fledglings tried to intercept them. Lucia said something to them, but I could not hear. Whatever she said made the neonates scatter. “What did you say to them?” the Angelus Mortis asked when the ladies had taken their seats next to us. Lucia smiled slightly and said, “I told them that if they did not get out of my way, I would stake them with their own forearms.” Neonates are like gnats, always flying in your face, always annoying you, and no matter how much you swat at them, you cannot disperse them. How difficult it is to remember their names! How difficult it is even to remember that they exist! Christopher left, sullen, knowing that he had to discipline Scott for his stupidity. Once he was gone, Lucia said, “I have learned a few things, most importantly that Lucca Giovanni is using his kine connections and his wealth to buy out Christopher Miller. If Lucca succeeds, and I think he will, Christopher will have to leave, no longer able to afford to live in his New Orleans home. This is another reason why we need the Enforcers. They would serve as protection, defending Kindred from one another. Christopher needs someone to whom he can appeal, and there is no one. The Prince has no traditional authority in matters such as this.”
“When, then, is the next meeting of the Inner Circle?” I asked. “In two months,” Lucia quickly replied. “And of course, we would have to return to Venice for it.” The Angelus Mortis added, “And there, with our proposal, we would bring up the problems in Paris and New Orleans as evidence of a crumbling Camarilla, of infighting that must be regulated and controlled. And we can compare these cities to the stability enjoyed among Cainites in the former Voivodate.” Isabelle then recommended we all return to Temple Plantation, an idea which we all agreed upon, for Coco’s was much too loud for our taste. When we stepped outside, my chauffeur met me and told me that the tires on the limo had been slashed. Bryan and his witless friends, no doubt! The driver was pale from blood loss, and he had obviously been the victim of Presence. I saw it in his eyes. Though I was angry, I kept my temper and had my driver call for a taxi.
When we arrived back at Temple, the house was in an uproar. René, frantic, ran up to me and cried, “Sir! Someone broke in. One of the maids discovered several of your old books missing from the library.” Fearing the worst, I raced down the hall and into the library. I was met by a police officer, but I ignored him. I looked past him, and my fears were realized. My journals were gone! All of them—from the formation of the Grand Alliance until three nights ago! “The theft happened during the day, Mr. Devereux,” the police officer informed me. “There are several minutes of snow on the surveillance tapes at that time.” I knew the Fae were responsible, but I certainly could not tell the police that. Who else would come in the day and take nothing but my journals? What will they learn about the De Troyes living here in New Orleans and other parts of the country? What of those who are glamer-touched! I must, as soon as I can, look in on my mortal family. But I turned to the police officer and said, “How do you know about the surveillance tapes?” The policeman replied, “We took them as evidence.” But I would have no need of kine investigative techniques, even if I were poor. “You will return the tapes immediately. I have a technical staff that can analyze the tapes better than anything or anyone your police labs have.” I will have to deal with this Fae business soon enough.
As the police were being escorted off the premises, Tristan came in and begged my forgiveness. When I asked him why, he said, “Because I let him in. I am sorry! I could not refuse him.” I knew he spoke of Marcus Tertius, so I told Tristan not to worry, that he was an old friend of mine. We all went upstairs and met Marcus and Giulietta. In Latin, he introduced her, and I could see that she was kine no more. Marcus then hinted at his effect on us all when he first appeared to us, how Lucia and the Angelus Mortis had been unnerved, and how Isabelle and I had wallowed in freakish misery for two nights. “It is because of the blood bond,” I said. “You are a dear friend to me, so I do not think I risk anything in telling you that we are wedded in blood, Isabelle to me, and Lucia to the Angelus Mortis.” Giulietta was intrigued. “Tell me more of this wedding in blood.” I bowed to her and gestured to the Voivode. “Perhaps the Angelus Mortis can explain.” Since the Voivode does not speak Latin, Giulietta engaged him in Italian, and she was shocked—and I think the Angelus Mortis was, too—to learn that the Tzimisce lord took his name from St. Michael the Archangel. My friend looked at me quizzically, and I quickly explained how tradition maintains that the Angel of Death who slew all the firstborn of Egypt was St. Michael.
After that brief interlude, the Angelus Mortis began his dissertation on the blood-bond, explaining to Giulietta that, in his profound wisdom, the Dracon instituted the triple-bond as a symbol of the strength, stability, and indissolubility of the Voivodate. Here I broke in and told Giulietta, a fellow Toreador, that the mutual triple-bond is “happy enslavement to love.” Giulietta understood at once. The Angelus Mortis rolled his eyes and continued. “But the blood-bond is most often used as a weapon against other Kindred, a way in which those mightier in the Blood control the weaker. Thus, Cainites are naturally distrustful of any blood-bond whatsoever. We are not trusting creatures by nature, but as far as blood-bonds are concerned, they represent all that is reprehensible to Kindred—enslavement to another’s will. Domination. The mutual triple-bond, however, has been a closely-guarded Tzimisce secret and was unknown to any outside the Voivodes until Mordwyr.” Marcus then asked, “And now?” The Angelus Mortis replied evenly, “Only those within this room, and two others—Sergei and Marya—in all the world know of this secret.” Having adequately explained to Giulietta the nature of the triple-bond and also having made her aware that the Kiss should not be performed in mixed company any more than one would engage in sexual intercourse, we turned our attention to generations. I explained to Giulietta that, since she is the childe of Marcus, she is one generation closer to Caine than I. “Thus, Marcus Tertius is two generations closer than I.” To illustrate the point, Marcus said, “For example, I am Marcus Tertius, childe of Julius the Wanderer, childe of Ishtar, childe of Iltani, childe of Caine.” I sat stunned. I could not move. With those words, I had just learned my lineage complete, all the way back to Caine. When I recovered, I stood up and cried out in joy, “Then that means I am Mordwyr, childe of the Chrétien of the Blazing Noon, childe of Benedict of the Cross, childe of Michael of Constantinople, childe of Ishtar, childe of Iltani, childe of Caine.” I looked around the room in wonderment. “I know who I am in the Blood. Thank you, Marcus.” Lucia, curious, asked Marcus, “Then did Caine have only one childe?” Marcus replied, saying, “No. He had six.” Lucia gasped in joy. “Voivode, my book!” The Angelus Mortis unbuttoned his shirt, opened up his chest with his fingers, and pulled out Lucia’s little leather-bound book in which she keeps all her Kindred secrets. “We have learned a great mystery tonight!” she exclaimed and wrote. We all talked a bit more, but the Angelus Mortis and Lucia said they had business to attend to, and they left.
I then took a moment to reprimand Marcus for Embracing without the Prince’s permission. “I have no qualms about what you did, Marcus. You did what had to be done, what was required of you. I know you will not be staying in New Orleans and will most likely be returning to Rome with your bride, so consider yourself officially chastised.” And together, we shared a laugh at Marko’s expense. Giulietta wanted to know how Isabelle and I were married, and my Lady told her that we were married both in kine and Kindred fashion. I have agreed to perform the Kindred rite of marriage for Marcus Tertius and Giulietta in two nights’ time. They are eager, as Isabelle and I once were, to feel the full sway of the bloodsong, to take the ancient oath of marriage in Kindred fashion.
As the night wore on, Giulietta continued to speak about her lord. She is utterly devoted to him, as I am to Isabelle. She told us that she had done her doctoral work in Rome and had, at the prompting of her visions, studied the movements of the Roman army during the time of the Caesars. “Specifically, I was drawn to the reign of Caesar Augustus, but I did not know why,” Giulietta explained. “And I have, through my research, almost concluded that my husband is that Faithful Centurion from the Gospels of Matthew and Luke. But now that he is here, I no longer need to consult books.” Turning to Marcus, she asked, “My love, are you he?” Marcus, unable to deny his bride anything, answered in the affirmative. “What?” cried I, with yet another incredible, astonishing thing piled upon my brain. “Surely you jest!” But he did not. He was in earnest. “Do you not realize Marcus—no, I guess you would not, for you have been asleep for all this time—that millions of people throughout the world recite your famous words at Mass every day? ‘Lord, I am not worthy for you to come under my roof, but only say the word, and my servant shall be healed.’”
October 18th, 1997
I awoke tonight in acute discomfort, though Isabelle felt nothing of my unease. It is good that my old friend Marcus Tertius is awake, sane, and happy, but his presence—his very existence nearby—unsettles me. He is too close to Heaven, too much allied to that which despises our kind. Marcus’ faith is like a wet blanket over the house, smothering all those unfortunate to rest within. For this reason, I dressed quickly and took a stroll beneath the ash trees. Temple Plantation is so lovely at night. Though Isabelle was comforted by the sensation which filled the air, still she accompanied me on my walk. While out, we ran across the Angelus Mortis and Lucia, also out of the house and patrolling the grounds. We all instantly understood why we had exited the house so quickly, and nothing was said on the topic. “My Lady and I are off to La Fey,” I said in manner of greeting. “Will you two not join us, to hear the Basin Street Brothers? By all accounts, they are the premiere jazz band in the United States.” Trying to tempt the Tzimisce into coming, I added, “Their album enjoys the number one spot on the charts.” The Angelus Mortis and Lucia politely declined my invitation—I was not surprised—and we went our separate ways. My friends expressed a wish to go into the city, so I have given them the limousine for the night.
Isabelle and I took the black Ferrari and arrived in style—I, draped in black Hugo Boss, accentuated by a red silk vest with tasteful stitching; Isabelle, never looking better in line-hugging, crimson Versace. It was a red-carpet, invitation-only affair, and all the industry men were there. The Basin Street Brothers are the benchmark to which all others bands aspire; they no longer play private clubs. Of course, La Fey is an exception, since it was I who discovered them and gave them their shot. Now, they are in demand everywhere they go, and I cannot be more proud. Someone has made the rather bold comparison that the Basin Street Brothers are for jazz what the Beatles were for pop: revolutionizing the genre. Perhaps, yes—I flatter myself—they are!
Jake met me just inside the door—after we got past the flash-bulbs and calls for signatures—and was happy to inform me that not only had Blue Cotton changed their name to Storyville—these boys certainly know their music history!—but that they sounded even better in the studio. “Their energy, their improvisation is pure magic,” Jake said excitedly. “But David West, the pianist—you know him?” I looked around and located David. Pointing, I said, “That fine looking young black man over there?” Jake assured me that West is the soul of the group, that he is what makes it great. I will keep a close eye on David West, for that and for more personal reasons.
After a short meet-and-greet with some of the industry executives, my Lady and I settled into our booth to enjoy the sounds of the Basin Street Brothers. We had just ordered and were whispering to each other when our privacy was interrupted by a rather excitable and nervous man by the name of Remy Silver. “You see,” he began anxiously, “I’m a photographer, and if I could be so bold to say—the camera adores you, Mr. Devereux! And Mrs. Devereux, too, of course,” he quickly added. Producing his business card, he hastily pressed it into my hand and said as he backpedaled, “Think about it, Mr. Devereux. Let’s have a photo shoot together. The hottest couple in the world! We could do so much!” My Lady and I will most likely not involve ourselves in such a high-profile photo session, lest the pictures go public, enjoy wild popularity, and my face be exposed to my ancient enemies. Desheru has seen me before—800 years ago—and though he most likely will not remember the face of Ganymede of the Brujah, the insignificant Kindred who once visited Alexandria, it is best not to take chances. The Prophet and others, however, would instantly recognize me, and then Adonis Devereux would be the known alias of Mordwyr of the Masque. Tracking me down would then become quite easy. I cannot risk the exposure. I will, regrettably, have to decline Mr. Silver’s gracious invitation.
The Basin Street Brothers played excellently, and it was a rare treat to hear them in such an intimate setting. From the stage, they thanked me and Orpheus Records for supporting them—but what could I have done? Could I have ignored such wonderful talent? I accepted their gratitude graciously. The set they played was ingenious, and they performed for us a couple new songs off their upcoming, not-yet-released album. My Lady and I were in high spirits as we made ready to leave. And then Isabelle discovered a package, wrapped in a red ribbon, under her chair. “To My Love Goddess” was all that was written on it, and I smiled. “Well, it certainly is not for me,” I commented playfully. Isabelle opened it, revealing a mixed CD. Handwritten on the label was a list of the songs, which included “Lady in Red” and “Hide Your Love Away,” both original compositions of mine from centuries ago. When I owed a friend of mine a favor a few years ago, I repaid him by allowing his favorite ghoul to record my old tune, “Lady in Red,” originally written for Isabelle. When the artist—what is his name again?—enjoyed immeasurable success with the song, my friend asked me for another. But, my debt being repaid, I refused. The ghoul has since sunk into musical obscurity. Lennon, being a favorite of mine, was the grateful recipient of “Hidden Love.” He took my tune, made some alterations to it, and performed it beautifully on the Beatles’ fifth album. These songs were here, on this CD. Wanting to know who had made the CD, I touched the case and let my mind flood with the images, the mystical imprints of the creator. First, I saw a dark, cluttered apartment, in the middle of which stood a baby grand piano; then, I saw David West sitting at his desk writing down the names of the songs. Finally, I caught a glimpse of him, alone, after hours, in the studio, recording. “My love,” I said in astonishment, “I am eager to here the songs contained herein, for I believe David West—he made this for you—has recorded at least some of the songs himself.”
We listened to the CD as we drove home. West is brilliant, and his simple rendering of “Lady in Red” with piano and raw vocal accompaniment almost made me turn the Ferrari around, drive back to the club, and shake West’s hand for such a lovely track. I think he could have a hit with it. I know it has been a mere 11 years or so since the original release, but I will talk to Théodore and ask him what he thinks of the possibility. When we got home, my voice mail was full of Remy Silver begging for a photo shoot. I will deal with that soon enough, though I do not relish the idea of his disappointment. He is manic, almost obsessed with us.
Even now, as I sit at my rose-desk and write, I feel uneasy again. Whereas Isabelle is at peace, I am sinking in a malaise. Marcus Tertius has just left my chambers. He came to ask me to be the celebrant in Giulietta’s and his nuptials tomorrow night. I am pleased to perform the ceremony as I did for my friend the Angelus Mortis those many centuries ago. “These are the words of the oath,” I said, handing Marcus Tertius a copy of the vows, “and just after you recite them, I will hold out a chalice. Into this chalice, you and your wife will pour your vitae. Once mixed, you will both drink of it in turn, and your blood-bond will be completed. I am happy for you, noble Roman, for you will soon know true bliss and felicity beyond anything Heaven can offer.” Marcus Tertius’ eyes danced merrily; he had a comment, but he refrained from voicing it. He only smiled wryly, knowing there was no point in debating a topic upon which we both held very decided opinions.
My dearest childe,
I have received a letter from young Bartholomaios, addressed to you and our dear Isabelle. I do not know what it contains, obviously, but I obey his request to forward it on to you.
I am sending it via overnight express, but please expect a phone call from me probably the very night you receive the letter. There are things which I do not wish to commit to ink and paper. They are of grave import, and they affect your very life, my dearest Mordwyr.
All my love and prayers,
Your sire,
Chrétien
(Received 19 October 1997)
Isabelle la Fey and Mordwyr Daywalker,
Forgive me for writing to you. I'm sure that any news of me can only be unwelcome, but I had no choice. The fires of Hell that you once saved me from have been rekindled. The Prophet is here in the New World, and I am sure he comes for you.
Isabelle, guard well your husband, for he is undoubtedly hunted by Hell. Daywalker, keep close your wife. She is the most precious gift God has bestowed upon man. I have nothing but love and gratitude for both of you, and I will forever remain indebted to you for all you have done. Daywalker, I beg of you to think well of me. The love I hold for Isabelle does not rival yours. I love her according to my bond, neither more nor less.
Do not pity me. I shall not become lost to the darkness like so many of my kind. My friends have gone before me, showing me the path that lies ahead. Your dear brother, who taught us all how to be just, and the noble Gervais, who taught us how to bear suffering with dignity, precede me on this journey. Alas, I will not join them, for I go to my rest doubly damned, and the gates of Heaven are eternally barred to me. But I shall not go as a thrall.
I am returning your dear brother's ring. It is only fitting that you should keep it. Farewell, my friends.
Bartholomaios Komes
Childe of Kephalos
October 13th, 1997
Los Angeles
From: Adonis Devereux <adonis@orpheus.com>
To: Paul <13corinthians@2ndrome.com>
Dearest Sire,
I have received your letter and am sorry to hear of young Bartholomaios’ fate. I cannot help but wonder how he ended his existence. It is no small feat, especially to self-slaughter the Beast, the very soul of a Cainite. All right—I would be lying if I told you that I am saddened by his death; indeed, all these centuries, the thought of Isabelle’s bloodsong running through his veins has only served to produce very violent thoughts within me. I would not trust myself around him, so I am glad—there, I wrote it!—glad that he is dead. The bloodsong died with him, and now I alone in all creation hear the divinity that sings out from my Lady’s vitae. I apologize for sending this by email—I know you prefer letters, as do I—but I am aboard my plane, and I want you to receive this missive as soon as may be.
I am for Scotland, as you know. My pilot submitted a flight plan for Paris, but we will change that en route. The airport will undoubtedly impose a hefty fine on me, but what concern have I for mere money when so much more is at stake? I know you are surprised, as you told me earlier in your phone call, that Bartholomaios had the courage to kill himself. And to think, Jean-Louis befriended Bartholomaios out of pity and nothing more. Are you sure there was no true friendship, no true equality between them? Indeed, there could not have been, since Bartholomaios has slain himself so ignobly! At least Jean-Louis died in true defiance of the curse of Moloch; at least his death meant something, for here I am, still numbered among the Kindred. I have been thinking of what you told me—that Jean-Louis was motivated by only two considerations: love for me and Isabelle and duty to his sire. It grieves me to learn that Jean-Louis felt honor-bound to Wilhelm only because Wilhelm had secured for me a knighthood, thus allowing me to marry Isabelle. Such ignominy he suffered under the shame of his oath-breaking sire! And it would not have been so, had he not felt it his duty to repay Wilhelm for his kindness toward me. Can you blame me, then, for feeling somewhat responsible for Jean-Louis’ miserable predicament? Anyway, enough of that! Jean-Louis would not want me to wallow in regret and self-pity! I have his ring—returned to me by Bartholomaios—and I wear the ancient crest of the Knights Templar on a chain around my neck. Let it be ever close to my heart, to continually remind me of courage and sacrifice! And to think—I had once vowed to keep Bartholomaios from succumbing to his cursed Clan’s fate. It was foolish of me to assume that the young Philosopher would succeed where mighty Jean-Louis had failed.
Thank you, Sire, for your words of warning. We will of course be ever watchful for the Jyhadi. Now that they personally seek vengeance on the Angelus Mortis and me, we must be doubly careful and triply vigilant. In our caution, we can also observe any movements they make against the Camarilla as a whole. The Assamites blame us for their blood curse—and they are right to do so. It was the Angelus Mortis—then Serafim—and I who held Michele du Bois down as Alejandro forced the Archfiend’s blood down his throat. Indeed, they are right to seek vengeance! We will stop them, though. We will find the ancient temple of the Knights of the Bitter Ashes, which you have told me is at the bottom of Loch Loyal. We will fly into Edinburgh, rent the fastest car we can get, and drive like mad to the loch. I am certain we can make it before the sun rises. Sire, I wish you could come with us, to aid us in our quest for the Spear of Longinus, but, as you said, there are those who watch you closely, and were you to make such a bold move toward Scotland, agents of the Avalon Alliance would be alerted. We cannot let them know where the Spear of Longinus rests! We cannot allow such a relic to fall into the hands of those less than worthy, those who would desecrate it in their Infernalist rituals.
I am sorry that you are pained to hear of Marcus Tertius’ awakening, and it grieved me to hear the sorrow in your voice. Surely St. Margaret, guided by the goodness of God, has given Marcus his reward for being so loyal and devout an adherent to his faith. It would please you to know, I am sure, that your old friend enjoys illimited felicity. He has taken the sacred Oath, and he and Giulietta have bonded themselves as closely as any two Kindred can. Before you called, indeed before the wedding, Isabelle wept at hearing the loathed name of Bartholomaios. But seeing her brother’s ring again gave her comfort. And then there was the wedding, a beautiful, private affair at Temple Plantation. Isabelle offered Giulietta her wedding dress, and my Lady had freshly-cut roses from the hothouse brought for the bride. Isabelle keeps the hothouse completely shielded from the sun and has the sunlamps come on at night. She has thus tricked the roses into blooming at night. When first she discovered this some years ago, I wept for joy at the beauty of an open rose. It had been centuries since I had seen one. Now, Isabelle keeps the hothouse full of them, in myriad colors, and when Giulietta entered, clad in white silk and pearls, she cradled an armful of full-blown crimson roses. Marcus, having not seen a blooming flower for millennia, gasped in his astonishment, both at the beauty of his bride and the loveliness of the flowers. Tonight, my angel clothed a saint.
When Marcus had drunk, he stood again flabbergasted, and it took him some moments to speak. When he did speak, his words were to the blood bond. “The first two drinks were different only in intensity.” And then his eyes shone as he took Giulietta’s hands, holding them close to his breast. He spoke to his bride alone. “But this third drink, oh! It is different in kind! I could spend a thousand years just trying to analyze the counterpoint of your bloodsong.” Isabelle and I were immensely pleased at Marcus’ good fortune, and we heartily congratulated him. “This,” the Angelus Mortis said solemnly as he approached and shook Marcus’ hand, “is your greatest strength. Giulietta will be all to you. But remember, your enemies can reach your through her, so guard her as you do your own life.” I added, “You have received the greatest good a Kindred can ever hope for.” But Marcus shook his head and replied, “I did not think I would ever enjoy even but a shadow of the happiness I now feel.” I smiled and quoted simply, “‘If a son shall ask of any of you that is a father, will he give him a stone? or if he ask for a fish, will he for a fish give him a serpent? If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him?’” Marcus could only stand amazed at my quotation. “I have studied a few things since you went to sleep,” I explained with a smile. “Is He not the Comforter, and is not Giulietta your chief comfort now?”
Marcus Tertius and Giulietta left before we did, even before your call. They are for Rome, for they have much to do. Furthermore, Marko wanted me to destroy the unlawfully-Embraced neonate, so they had to flee as quickly as possible. I have since lied to the Prince, telling him that I took care of the matter. A half-truth at best. I will call when we touchdown in Edinburgh and I am once again awake. Until then, I am, as always,
Your loving childe,
Mordwyr
October 19th, 1997
October 21st, 1997
Scotland! Cruel land—inhabited by the enemy, controlled by my foes! I shall name you Babylon, a land of exile and mourning. I could sit down by the water’s edge and weep for your captivity, sit by the cold, dark waters of Loch Loyal and rejoice in my tears, for happy are those who dash the brains of the Assamites—and all the Jyhadi—upon the rocks!
We landed in Edinburgh yesternight, and when I awoke aboard my plane, the sun had just set. My pilot told me that we had landed mid-afternoon, so he made sure he got in a long line of planes waiting to disembark. He let other planes go before him; he told the tower he was having some kind of console malfunction. And then, the crew made sure copious amounts of luggage—Isabelle always over-packs in case we need to stall for time—were unloaded as we passengers within prepared to come ashore. I thanked the pilot for the delay, and we all got off the plane. I sent Tristan ahead with my credit card to get a suite for himself, my other attendants, and all of the Angelus Mortis’ ghouls. I sent Michele, equally armed with plastic, in the other direction to rent the fastest car he could find.
The Angelus Mortis, Lucia, Isabelle, and I hopped into our waiting Lexus and sped off. I took the driver’s seat and was luckily able to find several shortcuts and back roads. I drove like mad all night, and just as the sky was lightening, we spied Loch Loyal looming in the pre-dawn darkness. A high, rolling mountain rose above it in the north, and the water was like an abyss, seemingly fathomless and void of all color. But inexorable Hyperion approached, so we threw off our belongings, stashing them under the seats. I tore off my jacket, took off my shoes and socks, and, together with Isabelle, dove into the frigid water. The Angelus Mortis and Lucia were right behind us, and as we all sank like stones into the blackness, we saw the surface of the loch begin to shimmer with the dawn. Torpor overcame us, and we knew nothing until we awoke tonight, lying on the still, dark bottom of the loch.
When I awoke tonight, I was famished, and after closing up my seeping chest wound, I spoke to the Angelus Mortis’ mind, telling him that I required food. As we sat at the bottom of the loch, the Voivode mystically called out to the inhabitants of the cold waters, and in a few moments, a school of fish appeared. “Is this all?” I asked into the Angelus Mortis’ mind. He thought back, “Yes, for some reason there are few fish in this lake.” Thinking it strange, I ate what fish I could, though their blood was disgusting. I gained very little nourishment for my troubles. I did not enjoy sinking my fangs into their scaly flanks, and the way the fish wriggled about sickened me. I turned to Isabelle and held her close. The bottom of the loch was pitch darkness. Not a ray of light pierced this gloom, and I alone, with my Protean, could see down there. I took a drink from Isabelle—she said she could spare the vitae. “All right, everyone,” I said, speaking into my companions’ minds, “everyone grab hold of me. Whatever happens, do not let go. If you lose your grip and find yourself separated, swim straight up until you breach the surface. We can find you more easily there.”
I swam along as Isabelle grabbed my ankle, Lucia grabbed hers, and the Angelus Mortis brought up the rear. I soon discovered a conspicuous stone path and began to follow it. And then it struck me. “Gods!” I cried into my companions’ minds. “We left all our personal information in the car! If anyone comes along—Jyhadi or whoever—they will find our identification. Adonis Devereux will become the known alias of Mordwyr of the Masque! And Isabelle will be revealed as well. I must go.” In my panic, I began to swim up. “Everyone wait here for me.” I breached the surface moments later and walked out of the loch. There I saw another car beside my rental. There was a Mediterranean-looking man standing beside it. I panicked again, and Isabelle sensed the danger immediately. I put on a bold aspect and approached, crying out, “Who the fuck are you?” My talons burst through the tips of my fingers, and I stood ready for a fight. “That is irrelevant,” the Mediterranean man replied calmly, still leaning against his car, “since I’m not here alone.” I knew he was Jyhadi, so I flew in at him, raking with my talons. My foe easily avoided my attack, and I dug a gash through the steel door of the car. I spun and swung again, and again he dodged. He was nearly as fast as I—but not quite. My third strike caught him across the neck, and my enemy fell instantly and Finally Dead. My talons tore the Beast out of him as quickly as if the sun had risen upon him. As he fled to the dim netherworld, his companions piled out of the car.
The Assamite—for clearly, with their looks and their Celerity, this is what they were—all took directions from their leader who popped out of the front passenger seat. I went for him but decided not to move with enhanced speed, for I had very little vitae left within me, and I heard the snarls of the Beast within. The well had suddenly grown quite shallow. Calling upon all that is terrible and beautiful within me, I flew in at the leader. Just as I snarled at him and sent him scurrying, he struck me with his blade. It would have cut me in two, had not Isabelle felt my distress and lent me her Fortitude. I turned aside the death blow of the Quietus-blade, and then my foe was running from the terror of my aspect. I heard an explosion of water behind me and turned to see a winged monster burst through the surface of the loch! What horrors was Loch Loyal vomiting into the night? What swooping, slaughtering fiend was this? I considered fleeing, but then I came to my senses—of course, this scaly, winged, misshapen, monster of cord-like tendons, leathery skin, and cruel claws was none other than the Angelus Mortis. Like a merciless marauder he dove upon his enemies. Meanwhile, Isabelle stood beside me and let her long, serpentine tongue destroy her foes. She buried her tongue into one Assamite’s neck, and he instantly succumbed to the ecstasy of the Kiss. He died quickly but happily, and I was able to enjoy drinking from my Lady, for she certainly now had vitae to spare! As I drank, I saw the Assamites’ car spontaneously catch alight. Lucia, hair soaking wet, stood at the water’s edge and said nothing, only staring, directing something invisible with her eyes.
The Angelus Mortis flew over me, and I pointed to the leader who was running across the open field through the heather. “Do not let him escape!” I cried. I also pursued, and in only a moment, I found myself several hundred meters from the loch. I was burning my vitae away yet again. When I reached the leader, I found that he had severely wounded the Angelus Mortis—the monster had a Quietus-blade buried in his left shoulder, just above his wing. But though the Voivode was close to his eternal doom, he bravely swept in and removed the top of the Assamite’s head with his monstrous claws. Blood splattered in all directions, and the Assamite dropped, senseless and dead. He was, doubtless, surprised to find himself so suddenly in Hell. Lucia drove up and picked us up. The battle back near the cars had been won. I was worse off than when I woke up, and I said, “I long for vitae.” Meanwhile, Lucia spoke to the groaning spirit of the lead Assamite. Though I could make no sense of what Lucia did, and though I strained my ears to hear, I was completely insensible to the spirit. We learned that his name was Yusuf Taffiya and that he served the Black Hand of Haqim, who is none other than Michele du Bois! So, our knavery which we committed upon Michele du Bois all those centuries ago has now come full circle. Now he hates us and desires revenge above all things. Now he is the Black Hand, the leader of all Jyhadi Assamites, and he rules from Damascus. We also learned from the spirit of Yusuf that three more crews were out looking for the loch. “And ask him how he was planning on handling the Spear,” I said to Lucia. Lucia listened to the silent voice and then replied, “They have a ghoul in the trunk.” Not anymore—that car had become a burning wreck.
The Angelus Mortis was not fit to continue, and Lucia made sure that he went nowhere. She made him sit in the car—once he had returned to his man-like form. And so Isabelle and I, wanting to waste no more time, dove down again to the bottom of the loch. Following the path of stones, we came to a tunnel and then a cave. We were on dry land, though beneath the water. We heard the rumble of wheels and machinery somewhere in the distance, and Isabelle said, “My lord, I think this cavern is being continually drained. I do not think even modern technology could produce such a feat.” I marveled at the chamber, filled with books, an ancient record of the nights when I had first awoken as Kindred. I saw suits of armor, tomes, swords, rugs, paintings, mosaics, and the like. Isabelle also located symbols scratched into the cavern walls—symbols which pre-dated, she reckoned, the formation of heraldry in Medieval Europe. “And so,” I concluded, “this cave pre-dates the Order. I wonder, then, who built it.” Turning to Isabelle, I said, “You might want to tell Lucia to go get a lot of plastic bags, because I am sure she will want to bring all these texts to the surface.” Isabelle reached out with her mind and did so. I cannot yet accomplish that feat—I must see my target. But my Isabelle is unmatched in the secrets of Auspex.
We were not standing there long when a voice gave us a fright. I had expected the place to be abandoned—as Chrétien had said—but here walked an ancient Scot, armored, in the tabard of the Knights of the Order of the Bitter Ashes. “Who treads upon this ground after so many years of silence?” he asked. “It is I,” I replied readily, “Mordwyr of the Masque. Be of good cheer, good sir knight, for I come with Chrétien’s blessing.” The knight’s grey eyes widened. “You know my liege, Chrétien?” I laughed and replied, “But of course! I am his devoted childe and friend to the Order! And what is your name, good sir knight?” The knight stepped forward and proudly announced himself as William of Douglas. I was certain he was Kindred, but just to make sure, I peered into his aura. Indeed, there stood a childe of Caine. “Now I understand why there are so few fish in the lake,” I commented. William only shrugged. “And may I introduce my companion?” I asked. “Isabelle la Fey.” And I brought her forward graciously. The knight bowed before her and kissed her hand. I then informed William that we had come for the Spear of Longinus. He laughed and said, “But who can take it from this place, even if Chrétien wants it?” I indicated my Lady and said, “The lady will pick it up. It will do no harm to her.” We were directed to a glass case, under which rested a spearhead on black velvet. “That is it,” William gestured. “If the lady can take it up, then she is welcome to it.” Isabelle did, and she looked with love and tenderness upon the spear-tip. “To think,” she whispered distractedly to the spear, “that you pierced the side of Christ.” And then she held it close to her breast and breathed a silent prayer.