From the Journals of Mordwyr (Adonis Devereux)
October 29th, 1997
The past few nights have been quiet and have been spent in ease. The Angelus Mortis, of course, slept through most of them. Since our battle on the 21st, my old friend has done little else than heal and feed. On the 23rd, I awoke, completely healed—save for my ever-present wound of the Magdalena—and I took a bit of vitae from Isabelle, for I was again famished, having spent my vitae in healing the Quietus damage. My Lady and I then went into a nearby village for a bit of light hunting. These nights, it is much easier to hunt. Everyone is out at night. It is not like the ancient nights when kine were in their houses and asleep at sundown. Now there are plenty of people—usually youngsters—loitering on the streets. Pickings have never been easier.
On the 25th, the Angelus Mortis awoke, and though he had slept for three days and nights, he was still in bad shape. But he needed food—and quickly—for we could all hear the growls of the Beast in his breast. Lucia escorted him to Igor’s party. I do not know in what manner they fed or entertained the kine, for Isabelle and I stayed behind. Lucia has spent all the nights her husband has been asleep reading. She devours books as the Jyhadi devour kine—she is insatiable.
It was not until last night that the Angelus Mortis awoke and was fully healed. I led my companions to a different nearby village and got hotel rooms for all of us before dawn. Tonight, we awoke in our rooms, and I wasted no time in buying a car—something fast, something that handles well. We then drove with all speed to Edinburgh and have just arrived and boarded my plane; and all is well. William, of course, has no passport, so I had to Entrance the immigration officer to let him through. Once I had him in my sway, he let William pass by unmolested. Dawn approaches, and we are on the runway. The engines are warming up—I hear their muffled roar. William is astonished by technology. I think he should not look out the airplane window, lest he go into a frenzy or catatonia. I think William should be given the facts about this age in small doses, lest his mind crack.
November 1st, 1997
Rest in fame and comfort, my dear Sire! God knows when we will meet again! Though it saddens me to think of you going into torpor for your long, centuries-long sleep, I am also overjoyed at the prospect of your long-deserved repose. You have tirelessly enacted the Great Architect’s plan and, in so doing, have built a marvelous city. O Worthy Builder! Visionary! Pioneer! How much the world owes to your labors, O Hidden Carpenter! Now is the time of your respite! Recline in ease next to Michael, the Master Builder, and Heaven watch over you.
Yesternight was the last night I will see Chrétien for some time. God willing, it will be an age before we look upon each other again. My Sire needs his rest, lest he go mad from despair and loneliness. Remembering the name of St. Margaret, as she relates to Marcus Tertius’ recent awakening, Chrétien had fallen into a melancholy. When we flew into Constantinople (near the city, at least—no planes are allowed over the city skies), I saw the sadness in his eyes, heard the dejection in his voice. He had been too long awake, too long alone, and now—to hear of his lost love. It was too much for him to bear. Constantinople was beautiful, and I am sorry I stayed there only one night. But business called me home, and I leave the Perfect Dream behind. The city is a beatific vision of which even Kindred can readily partake. Let Heaven’s Gates be closed to Caine’s childer—we have Constantinople, my great-grandsire’s Vision—so we are content with a reachable Paradise!
Once I had explained the situation as it now stands in Scotland, William went immediately to his rest. Chrétien had planned to watch over him, but now he sleeps, too. We could not tarry long in Byzantium, for the Spear of Longinus must be kept safe. “There are too many Jyhadi agents about, my childe,” Chrétien told me. “It is not so easy to hide myself here in the city. But you, in Nouvelle Orleans, are Adonis Devereux, and your Masquerade is iron-clad. Furthermore, it is easier to hide in the New World from the Ancients. So you must away, and deposit the Spear of Longinus in the vault at Temple.” My Sire then took me by the shoulders and said most gravely, “I am entrusting you with this relic. Do not fail to guard it from the Enemy.” I assured Chrétien that I would be ever vigilant. It was then that I noticed my Sire’s loneliness. “It is bitter for me, my childe,” he admitted to me in private. “I am old and alone—and it is bitter!” I tried to comfort Chrétien, but he was inconsolable. Too deep was his grief. “I envy Marcus Tertius!” he cried aloud. “Why did Margaret lead Giulietta to Marcus? She entered the convent after she rejected my offer of Embrace! She chose the Church over me, and now, after that decision which broke my heart, she led a mortal into the Embrace! Why?” Chrétien wept bitterly, and I thought, in his utter anguish, he might do a desperate outrage to himself. I stood and drew near him. “Might you sleep, Sire?” I asked. “Why not awaken Michael?” My suggestion sobered Chrétien immediately. “My childe, you do not know what you say. Let us pray that Michael never awakens. As he sleeps, he is the Dreaming Architect. Were he to awaken, he would be as proud and ambitious as any Kindred. The moment he found out the Dracon is dead, Constantinople would crumble. Michael would fly into a rage and, at best, come into conflict with the other great Methuselahs. At worst, he would, like an angry, wind-tossed wave, crash against the Rock that is the Church. And think: if he ever found out what truly happened to Salome, he would go to open war against Desheru. And our grandsire would surely perish before Desheru’s might! No, my childe,” Chrétien reiterated, “let Michael sleep till doomsday.”
With a heavy heart I re-boarded my plane. Isabelle, the Angelus Mortis, Lucia, and I began the return journey to the New World. Isabelle sensed my distress, and I unpacked my heart to her. She took my burdens upon her and bore them like a saint. “Why not, my lord,” she asked as she held my head in her lap and stroked my hair, “ask Marcus Tertius to be Prince of Constantinople? He would make an excellent Prince, and then Chrétien would be able to sleep. Marcus is completely trustworthy and an old friend of Chrétien’s.” What a wonderful thought! My Bright Angel! I jumped up in my joy, kissed Isabelle full on the lips, and dialed up Giulietta. As Giulietta was trying to get Marcus to take the phone, Isabelle and I were entertained by her voice whispering, “No, no. Just talk into this here. Hold it like this. No, you do not have to use any Disciplines. Mordwyr will hear you just fine.” And then we heard Marcus Tertius’ voice quite clearly. He was hesitant and unsure about talking on the phone—such a new experience for him—a device similar to the most potent secrets of Auspex! After explaining the situation to Marcus, I was able to convince him to become Prince of Constantinople. He was happy to aid his old friend in any way he could. And Giulietta was amenable to the idea, as well. When I told Chrétien the news, he was overjoyed.
And now I am back at Temple. I have just hung up after a four-hour-long telephone call with Chrétien. He goes to his glorious slumber, and Marcus Tertius is now guardian of Michael and Chrétien. Harm and ill fortune, fly far from them!
From the Journals of the Angelus Mortis
November 2nd, 1997
Isabelle is nearly catatonic with grief, and so I write but briefly. I must not forget what has occurred tonight—I must make a record of it, to remember when the Infernalists struck again, when the Black Spiral Dancers made their move against the Angelus Mortis and Lucia. The subdued hum of the jet engines soothes my troubled mind, and writing, as always, forces me to order my whirling thoughts.
Marko called my mobile phone tonight to inform me of a primogen meeting that was to take place within the hour. I was perturbed at having received no advance warning, but I said nothing. I merely made sure that the Angelus Mortis, also, was inclined and disposed to attend, and off we went. Lucia and Isabelle rode with us to Coco’s, and along the way, the Angelus Mortis showed me an interesting article about some fool who calls himself ‘Zod’ and forces people to kneel before him. “What nonsense is this?” I asked, but the picture of the newspaper revealed everything—people kneeling before a non-existent man. “Ah, Lasombra.” The Angelus Mortis’ eyes gleamed in the low light of the limousine as he said, “Soon we will have the power to personally deal with fools such as this.” We arrived at Coco’s in short time and found the leather-clad band of miscreants, headed by Bryan, loitering in a corner, obviously looking for any mischief in which they might involve themselves. We said nothing to them, though they stared brazenly at us. What is it with the bravado of these neonates? They feel a bit of power in their belly and think they can stand on equal footing with the Elders. But oh! They proved more foolish than that tonight.
A new Kindred introduced himself to Marko, and we were present to hear the name of Seth Sinclair, of the Ventrue. “He is lying. He is not Ventrue,” Isabelle immediately whispered in my ear, “but Setite!” I instantly growled and beared my fangs—old habits die hard. Of course I thought better of the situation and exerted some measure of control over myself. “Bastard Setites,” I whispered back. I then leaned in and told the Angelus Mortis what Isabelle had just told me. “I fucking hate Setites,” I added. The Angelus Mortis looked at me mockingly, his eyes telling me that I did not have to say that for him to know. “We must do something!” I cried, but the Angelus Mortis grabbed my elbow to restrain me. “Do what?” he asked. “What will you do? We cannot prove it—though I believe the Lady Isabelle. Where is your proof?” The Angelus Mortis was right. It would be hard to prove, and even if I could, I would not want to. If people knew that I—or Isabelle—had the ability to determine another Kindred’s Clan, we would have no end of Cainites coming around looking to pick a fight. I must keep secret Michael’s gift to Isabelle; none must know of her ability. “When we are Enforcers,” my friend soothed my rage, “we will need no proof but may suspect anyone by virtue of our office.”
The Prince then dismissed everyone save the primogens. Isabelle and Lucia bid us good fortune and departed, hoping to find a seat apart from the leather-clad ne’er-do-wells. When the doors were shut, these Kindred remained: Marko, the Angelus Mortis, Christopher Miller of the Ventrue, Lucca Giovanni, William Redding of the Gangrel (who looked like he did not even want to be there), Jennifer Rivers of the Lasombra, and me. “We have all assembled here,” Marko began, “so that I might introduce to New Orleans two new primogens.” Objections erupted from around the table, and my voice was not least among the protests. “This is highly irregular!” one cried. “It is expressly against the tenets of the Camarilla!” shouted another. “You have no authority to do that!” I cried. Marko’s eyebrows shot up as he said, “Oh, don’t I?” I wanted to reach across the table and throttle Marko—the lazy idiot—and the Angelus Mortis detected my ire. Before I had the chance to do anything rash, the Tzimisce primogen stood and silenced everyone with a stare. “It is quite simple,” the Angelus Mortis began calmly, though he, too, was perturbed. “The reason why the Clans have primogens is because each Clan’s representative signed the original treaty back in Paris in 1222. This means that each Clan accepts its responsibility for the welfare of the Camarilla—both its safety and security. With responsibility comes privilege.” Marko sat with lips pursed, and his eyes danced merrily. He then waved his hand flamboyantly and said while still leaning comfortably back, “But that was so long ago, my dear Tzimisce. I am of the mind to make Martin Wells a primogen, because I am tired of looking at his ugly face whenever he has a gripe against Pamela. And vice versa. This solves the problem!” And he flashed his winning smile which made me want to bury him. I sat, fuming, while the Angelus Mortis retorted. “But the Nosferatu have made no commitment to the Camarilla, Prince. If you make Martin a primogen, that would mean the Nosferatu in New Orleans gain all the Camarilla privileges but none of the responsibility. The other Clans won’t be happy.” And general protestation erupted again. “But they are so ugly!” Marko cried out over the din. “I don’t want to deal with them!” When the primogens had calmed somewhat again, the Angelus Mortis told the Prince that to do this would be to set a bad precedent. And then I could hold my peace no more but interrupted my friend and added, “Look, Marko. You cannot change Camarilla policy simply because you are uncomfortable!” Marko shot back with “I can, and I will! I dictate policy in this city!” I gnashed my teeth in frustration but did nothing. I would not embarrass myself in front of the other primogens—I certainly would not make the same mistake I made at the Grand Alliance all those centuries ago. I simply turned to the Angelus Mortis and spoke directly into his mind, saying, “Damn him! This is why we need Enforcers!”
Someone else started speaking—I think it was Redding asking about why he was even required to be present—but I could hear nothing save Isabelle’s silent scream of horror in my blood. I remember little of what happened next—I heard something shatter, found myself flying through the air—I think I smashed the doors down in my haste. There was a loud splintering of wood and wrenching of metal. Before I knew it, I was standing in the street, listening. I searched my vitae until I isolated that certain strain in the bloodsong—then I pulled it out and created a whole new theme from it. Isabelle’s Auspex came rushing in at me, and for a moment, I could see as she does—across great distances. I saw a room, windowless but lit with electric lights. It was also lit with the unveiled beauty of my Isabelle. In her distress, she had forgotten to suppress it. I saw her, clad in a long, white bridal gown, standing up against a wall. That is, I thought she was standing, but my eyes quickly absorbed what my mind refused to accept: Isabelle was chained to the wall, hanging, supported only by the chains. Makareta’s nefarious smile flashed through my mind. There was a garland of white roses in Isabelle’s lovely red hair, but the expression in her green eyes was one of utter agony—oh! I still see the vision even now as I write. Oh, desolation! Isabelle stood absolutely motionless, and at her side, caressing her cheek, was Bartholomaios! He was whispering filthy, despicable things in her ear. She heard things no lady should hear, especially not my Angel, my Goddess! Bartholomaios then ran his hand delicately down her neck until it came to rest on one of her perfect breasts. He fondled her. I thought to run, but the vision held me fast as it communicated to me all that I needed to know before I would go to confront my enemies. I heard a growl echo through the room, and then a voice, which I did not recognize, started speaking. “I say that we rape her first and break her afterward!” The voice was gruff and iniquitous. “I want to taste that white flesh while she still will recoil from me!” Isabelle’s eyes seemed to darken even more, and despair filled her once-sparkling green orbs. I could feel the terror through the bond. Isabelle’s bloodsong had slowed to a dirge, and with her eyes, she begged only for a quick death, death while she was yet only mine.
“I am at 119 St. Claude Avenue, in the lower 9th ward,” Isabelle said in my mind. “Make haste, my love!” How I wanted to hold her, but all I could do was cry back, “I will be there! As surely as my blood sings in your veins, I will be there!” But Isabelle despaired yet again and said, “If I am violated when you arrive, destroy me. I am staked and cannot resist.” I howled in frenzied anguish, and then the vision vanished. The Angelus Mortis was standing at my side, a puzzled look on his face. “Bartholomaios,” was all I said, and I sped off to get my car. The Angelus Mortis and Lucia, not willing to let me go fight the battle alone, rode with me. It took me ten minutes to arrive at the location, and that was after taking several shortcuts, running red lights, and taxing the limits of a limousine’s handling. Bryan, Christie, and Zachary—the leatherheads—blocked the door to the premises and boldly announced, “You’re not getting in here!” I saw in their eyes that they had been Entranced, no doubt by Bartholomaios. A wave of horror and terror threatened to overwhelm me. My Lady was in pain. Something was about to happen, and I had no time to waste. Not a moment for a word could be spared, and so I slaughtered Bryan with my bestial claws. Final Death had claimed him before his corpse even hit the ground. And I, blood-drenched, was past the neonate guards in a flash—I had opened a hole, and that was all I needed. I ran down the stairs and shattered the basement door with a single punch. And then I saw my poor Isabelle against the wall, and some shaggy-haired, black-eyed base villain groped at her with its filthy paws. “She is mine!” Bartholomaios cried out in protest to this unknown violator. Isabelle’s dress was ripped to tatters, and her breasts stood exposed. I could see the sawed-off stake in her chest! I snarled and dove in, my claws sharp for the kill. But the black-eyed thrall of Hell, whose name I have since learned was Black Maw, shrugged off my attack as if I were a boy wielding a plastic sword, ineffectually attempting to injure his father at play. Black Maw then revealed himself to be a lupine, for his hands plumped out and rippled as the flesh broke and the bones cracked and reshaped themselves into lethal weapons. Thick hair sprouted from the backs of his ragged claws as he met me swing for swing. But I was ready for his assault—I located a deeper melody and called upon Isabelle’s Fortitude to save me. It did. His attacks buffeted but did not injure, much the same way I was unable to affect him. So we circled each other, deadlocked, matching each other strength for strength, savagery for savagery. I hated Black Maw and wanted him dead. He had touched my Isabelle, had put his hands on her, and so he had to die—and quickly! I redoubled my efforts and lunged at him, but the Angelus Mortis’ desperate voice stopped me. “Do not attack the wolf!” he cried, and I could tell by the slurring and slavering of speech that the Angelus Mortis had transformed himself into the monstrous Marauder. I turned, and my monster-friend said, “He is transferring his damage to Bartholomaios.” I immediately looked to Bartholomaios, but the young Brujah was a tattered mess of fleshy ribbons. Running at Bartholomaios, I snarled and, catching the Angelus Mortis’ sword in mid-stride, struck that unfortunate, unwilling childe of Moloch down into torpor.
As I stood over Bartholomaios, I heard a gibbering and snarling very near me. The well within me had run nearly dry! I turned but saw nothing, and then I saw within myself my Crouching Inmate. No more did it crouch but stood fully erect and shook off its heavy chains, shattering that which I had thought unbreakable. At the bottom of the near-empty well it stood and looked up at me, into my soul, and back in on itself. I thought I would faint from hunger, but the Beast had other plans. Its eyes glittered murderously—it is Ravenous Insanity, and as it leapt out of the well in a single, mighty bound, I knew I had to meet it head on. I would stand on the precipice and wrestle it, or I would be undone. I would throw it back down into the well, breaking its body, or else my friends would pay dearly for my failure! I caught the Beast by the arms, but its strength greatly superseded my own, and as it brought me close to its jowls, it snarled and bathed me into its foul excretions. Its breath was the rot of Hell, and its teeth hideous knives. I thought I would succumb to its dreadful strength and hunger, but then it began to rain. A cool torrent of vitae soaked me, and Isabelle’s bloodsong sang all around me. The air reverberated with the joy of her melody, and it lent me strength! The well began to fill with the precious liquid. In my moment of victory, I bound the helpless, snarling Beast once more and cast him back into the darkness of my soul. Last I saw of it, it was thrashing and drowning in Isabelle’s vitae. How I wish I could seal the well, but that would mean my death. No—I must be ever vigilant and stand guard. I must be a constant and unswerving watchman. The Beast is me, and I am the Beast—but that Gibbering Brute must be made to understand that I am the master!
With the Beast quelled, I saw that Isabelle’s wrist was in my mouth. My Goddess had given me her nectar to drink—that which I had sorely craved and needed. “You aided me, my Lady,” I whispered in awe, “and helped me tame the Crouching Inmate of My Soul.” I kissed her immediately. I do not know how long I wrestled with my Beast—perhaps it was only a few moments—but the scene in the basement had changed altogether. Lucia said to the invisible air, “Go, and chase off those neonates standing outside.” I can only assume she was talking to one of her summoned wraiths. Bartholomaios lay in torpor, and Black Maw was cowering in the corner, curled up in a ball and weeping like a terror-struck child. “More like a dog that just got whipped with a rolled-up newspaper!” the Marauder joked, some thick secretions oozing out of untoward pustules on its face. I smiled politely but said nothing. I chanced but a glance at the monster. The far wall had been torn into, and when I inquired as to its state, the Marauder flapped its misshapen wings and said, “Yes, the wolf tried to escape from our combined gaze—mine and Isabelle’s—but there was nowhere to go.” And here the monster laughed—I guess—a kind of grotesque inhalation and exhalation through orifices that should not exist. What noise it made—what snorts and wheezes! And then I looked at Isabelle once again, and our hearts cried out to each other. Catching her up in a tight embrace, I wept on her breast, and she wept into my hair. Oh, what despair, and yet what felicity at having so narrowly avoided a fate—I hate this cliché, but it is the perfect phrase—a fate worse than Final Death.
When I had recovered some of my senses, I turned and asked Lucia what should be done about the whimpering wolf. “Silver,” Lucia replied quickly and confidently. I then turned and drove a splintered piece of the door into Bartholomaios’ chest. “He must not die,” I said. “Remember Ishmael and how when he died, the buzzing insects said that Moloch would know of Marcus Tertius’ resting place? Well, Bartholomaios knows about our blood bonds, and if the demon within him escapes, it will go tell Moloch about our great secret.” We all agreed that Bartholomaios must be kept alive at all costs, and as Lucia left to fetch some silver, the Marauder stood guard in the basement. I escorted Isabelle out of that chamber of desecration—desecration against my Love Goddess! While my Lady and I waited outside—I think I will have 119 St. Claude Avenue burned to the ground—Lucia learned much from Black Maw’s wraith after she had killed the monster. He was of the Black Spiral Dancers, a lupine sect that worships Tanit, a wicked goddess whose altars stood side by side with Moloch’s in ancient Carthage. Bartholomaios had driven out into the desert to watch the sunrise, but as the glowworm brightened, his resolve had failed him, and he fled to a nearby shack. His Fortitude kept him alive until he was safely in the comforting darkness, but he was charred quite badly. Black Maw nursed Bartholomaios back to health, heard about Isabelle, and they both had come to take her from me! Bartholomaios wished for my death so that he might possess Isabelle entirely, but Black Maw was bent only on rapine and black deeds of villainy. And to think—Marko was going to make Bartholomaios the Brujah primogen in New Orleans! Fool! He knew Bartholomaios was in town and did not even tell me? A Cainite with whom I had traveled together more than eight centuries ago turns up in New Orleans, and Marko did not think it worth calling to tell me about it! Bastard!
We are bound for Constantinople, where I hope Marcus Tertius will be able to rid us of the demon which infects Bartholomaios. And after that, rid us of Bartholomaios. The cursed Brujah got through Stateside customs as fleshcrafted Christmas ham. A bit of garnish, and the customs officer looked the other way. Such is the way of things—man, as ever, greedy and eager to amass for himself wealth which will not increase his stature one jot nor extend his breath of life one moment.
November 3rd, 1997
What a delight to be returned so soon to Constantinople, the Jewel of my Grandsire’s Dream! I hope to stay here some weeks, for Isabelle is still distraught and needs time to recover. We will stay here in this fly-trap for Toreador, this place where no non-blood-bound Toreador ever leaves! We will take our ease here in this paradise until the meeting of the Inner Circle on December 6th. Until then, we rest, love, and live in the unmatched felicity that is Byzantium! And who better to play host to us than the peerless Marcus Tertius and his lovely bride, the newly-made Giulietta? They have quickly and comfortably situated themselves in Chrétien’s mansion—my Sire and Grandsire sleep beneath its stones. When first I arrived, I went to visit them. “Great Ones,” I whispered over their sleeping forms as I lovingly placed my hands on their cold sarcophagi, “Be at peace, and may we all be continually replenished by the Dream.”
Of course we were obliged to land at the airport outside the city, and when the customs officer told us that our Christmas hams would have to be quarantined, I slipped him a thick wad of cash and told him all was well. The officer’s eyes lit up as he took the bribe, and he said happily, “I think I’ll take a vacation…to Constantinople!” I could not help but laugh, and the Angelus Mortis was also mirthful. “Indeed,” my friend commented as we walked to the car awaiting us, “why would he wish to go anywhere else, even though he is resident of yon city?” True enough—what better place to vacation than in the heart of the Dream? There is no more perfect place in creation. When we reached the city limits, we took carriages to Chrétien’s house. We had called ahead of time, so Marcus and Giulietta stood in the courtyard ready to greet us. They are indeed kind! Marcus has turned Chrétien’s house into quite an antiquated haven. Chrétien was not a modern neonate and held to some of the older, intricate, more beautiful interior styles of past centuries, but Marcus has delved even farther into the past. He has turned Chrétien’s house into a living recreation of Constantine’s city. “I wanted to feel at home,” our host explained, “and the only way I could do that would be to render my surroundings truly Byzantine.” Byzantine, indeed—for he has chosen a design scheme that is, by my estimation, fourth century! “And to what do I owe the pleasure?” Marcus asked, escorting us through the grand halls. “It is a delicate matter,” I began, looking hesitantly at Isabelle. She returned my gaze with a pained expression, and Giulietta—bless her!—correctly interpreted the matter immediately. “Lady Isabelle, shall we retire?” she asked, taking my Lady’s arm. Lucia gave the Angelus Mortis a look of resignation and said, “Perhaps I should accompany them as well?” The Angelus Mortis nodded and smiled wryly, knowing that Lucia is more like a man in matters of delicacy and sensibility and therefore did not desire to leave.
Once the ladies had retired to other entertainment, I explained the situation in full to Marcus Tertius. I was agitated and missed some points, so the Angelus Mortis helped fill in the gaps of my story. “So, if the demon escapes,” I concluded, “it will tell Moloch about our blood bond. Then Desheru would most certainly find out; and then I would die.” To answer Marcus’ puzzled look, I added, “Desheru desires Isabelle above all things, for she is the very image of Ishtar. She is Ishtar reborn.” Marcus understood fully the gravity of the situation and assured me that he would deal with the problem. He took the hams and exited the room. When he returned a quarter of an hour later, he said simply, “It is finished.” And so, Bartholomaios passes into oblivion, into eternal damnation and torture! I remember vowing those many nights ago that I would not let Bartholomaios fall to Moloch, but, alas, he has. But we have had a measure of success, for the demon which infected him Marcus has sent screaming back to Hell. It will trouble us no more!
The Angelus Mortis then took the opportunity to tell Marcus all about the need for Enforcers. “You see, Marcus,” the Voivode began, “it has been some years since you went to sleep, and Kindred have simply grown more and more stupid. Some Princes have little sense but great personal power, so there is no one to oppose their stupidity. Marko, for example, delegates all things to his primogens and creates new, non-Camarilla ones to save himself trouble. Who can stop him besides the head of the Clan, which is you? There is no authority above him in New Orleans. We cannot simply have Marko strong-armed out of his position, for that would set a precedent of anarchy and instability. Rather, Princes must be made to recognize and obey a higher authority, a codified hegemony of those Kindred who have the best interests of the Camarilla at heart. We need Enforcers.” Marcus listened carefully to all that the Angelus Mortis said, then replied, “But Enforcers is too brute a name.” And he smiled merrily, indicating that he only meant the comment as a kind of joke. Marcus then threw up his arms in feigned surrender and cried, “I am Toreador! What do you expect?” We all enjoyed a chuckle before Marcus returned to the matter. “Yes, I see what is happening. Europe is threatened with chaos, for the Ventrue and the Lasombra strive as no two Clans ever have. The Tzimisce are stable, yea, but they are too few in number, too isolated to effect any great change.” And he nodded in way of apology to the Angelus Mortis. “The Giovanni, sensing the unrest, are poised to make a move, but I do not know what they are planning,” he added. I sat stunned, unable to believe that Marcus had learned so much in so little time. “Quite impressive, Marcus,” I said, “for you have just awoken, and yet you stand apprised of the entire situation in Europe!” Marcus shrugged and replied, “I have had my Lady to aid me, of course, and I have spent all my time doing nothing but studying the current political configurations.” His voice suddenly sounded quite weary, for he has obviously been taxing himself. “We tried to create the Enforcers back at the Grand Alliance,” the Angelus Mortis continued, “but we were unsuccessful. We need some kind of mobile group that can deal with problems in any Camarilla city.”
Marcus Tertius has told me who will be present at the Inner Circle meeting: Laura Giovanni, Julian of the Ventrue, Olwen of the Glacier (Gangrel), Sergei of the Bloody Blade, and Marcus Tertius himself, representing the Toreador. I assumed Doña Beatriz would also be present, but Marcus informed me that she has just gone into torpor for her long, deathlike sleep. In her stead, her grandchilde, Samael, rules the Lasombra, and he will be present in Venice at the Grand Gold Star Hotel for the meeting of the Inner Circle. “Everyone is invited to arrive on December 4th for entertainment and such,” Marcus added. “In addition, members of the Inner Circle are expected to bring attendants, and,” he turned to me, “I formally request Isabelle’s and your presences by my side.” I bowed low in gratitude and said, “We would be most happy to accept your gracious invitation. As I have heard, any present may speak at the Inner Circle, but only the members may vote. Am I correct?” Marcus Tertius nodded. “But I will speak for the need to create,” and here he paused, amused, “Enforcers. But what shall I do about Constantinople. I am Prince and cannot readily leave my city. Can you advise me?” The Angelus Mortis and I just smiled knowingly at each other. “Worry not,” the Angelus Mortis said. “Just leave the Lady Giulietta in charge. She is your consort, thrice-bonded to you, so Constantinople will be safe in her hands.” I added, “Besides, she is powerful almost beyond reckoning, for she is your only childe, is she not?” Again, Marcus nodded and said, “She is. I have made no other, and the fact that I waited two millennia to make her—her power rivals even my own. Furthermore, as she is my first—and my only—she enjoys the lion’s share of my potency. You have not sired, Mordwyr, correct?” I told him I have not nor ever will, and then he mentioned that the Angelus Mortis’ childe, Lucia, is prodigious. “But she is your first,” he said, “and you two are almost equal in age.” Then Marcus’ eyes lit up. “All this talk of childer puts me in mind—Chrétien left something for you,” and Marcus went to the bookshelf to retrieve an ancient volume. Presenting a cracked, leather-bound tome to me, he said, “This is Jean-Louis’ journal. Your Sire wanted you to have it. He thought it would be enlightening.” I took the book gently, reverently and thanked Marcus. “The words of my dear, lost brother!” I cried and wept anew at the memory of his death. “I will read it and treasure every passage.” Having composed myself, I continued, saying, “I cannot believe that Jean-Louis did not devour Wilhelm upon his Embrace—but yes, I know he restrained himself because of his sense of duty to me. And I love him for that!”
As I sat down to leaf through the journal, the Angelus Mortis spoke more to Marcus about various matters. I heard them touch on the Angelus Mortis’ powers of Presence, and Marcus remarked, “Not since the Dracon has any Tzimisce known the secrets of Presence, and as Mordwyr taught you, so Michael taught his dear friend of the Mountain.” I immediately thought of the Four—those Second Generations shrouded in mystery, of which the Dracon, Viorica, Michael, and Salome were to be reincarnations. But they failed, for Salome’s love was imperfect, so it has fallen to Isabelle, the Angelus Mortis, Lucia, and me to somehow fulfill that ancient and terrible destiny. Oh, the thought of Gehenna makes my cold blood run even colder! As I continued to read Jean-Louis’ words, they continued to talk of Augustus Giovanni, how Laura is most likely mad (but her father controls her), and how Samael and Julian are certainly not mad and will be great contenders at the Inner Circle. Sergei will apparently have the Angelus Mortis and Lucia stand as his attendants, and I am glad to know that my bosom friends will be there with us.
When I retired to the chambers prepared for me and my Lady, Giulietta told me that Isabelle was very upset but would not speak of her pain. I thanked my hostess and went in. Finding Isabelle, I held her close to me and begged her to unpack her heart. She did, telling me that she thought she was a burden to me! “Oh, how can you say that, my love, my heart, my all? What have these eight centuries been if not pure bliss? We are the love gods, and all we see is ours! I love you, Isabelle, more than the Spheres rejoice in the Song; I long for you more than the deer pants for the water!” And then we fell to amorous play and have been conjoined until nearly dawn. As the dawn burns away the night, I have found a note slipped under my door. I heard some knocking earlier, but I told the servant not to disturb us. The note is from the Angelus Mortis; there has been an inexplicable outbreak of gang violence—involving ghouls and Kindred—in Moscow, so he has taken my jet. I wish him Godspeed and good fortune, but I will not leave the delight of my Lady’s eyes even if the world is burning! And Isabelle needs the Dream now more than ever.
November 4th, 1997
The Angelus Mortis called tonight, desperate for my aid. As much as I care for my friend, I cannot help him! The world is nothing to me compared to Isabelle! She needs me here, and so here I stay. The Angelus Mortis told me of some Setite ritual in Moscow that makes Kindred flout all authority and semblance of order. My friend believes Desheru is behind this, trying to stir up civil unrest to flush out the Elders, thus revealing Isabelle’s and my location. I understand the Angelus Mortis’ concern, but that does not change the fact that everything is as gnats to me compared to my butterfly. “But it’s going to happen in New Orleans, too!” the Angelus Mortis cried into the phone. “Remember Seth Sinclair?” Indeed, I do remember him—that he is a Setite—but at that point, I was growing increasingly distracted, for Isabelle had slipped under the silk sheets and was attending to me. Her pleasure is unsurpassed, more enjoyable because of our bond. She is mine, and I am hers! The Angelus Mortis continued to rant about losing New Orleans, but I had lost him. I dropped the phone in my ecstasy and took Isabelle into my arms, kissing her perfect breasts as I positioned myself to enter her. I am sure the Angelus Mortis and Lucia can handle any problems in New Orleans. They are Tzimisce Elders, after all!
To ensure the survival of Jean-Louis’ words, I copy here those entries most appropriate—
From the Journals of Jean-Louis de Troyes
8 August 1203 A.D.
I am ashamed to admit that I have been in Byzantium nearly half a year, and only tonight have I been able to bring myself to trust Chrétien enough to confide in him. Why so long, when Chrétien is obviously so good and honorable? Shame again covers my eyes. It is because of Mordwyr. My own sister’s husband. My very brother. He despises me for my weakness in hating the blood-bond. He thinks I do not know it, but he is not the only one able to read others. I tried to confide in Mordwyr, but my words wearied him. He considered them the whining of a spoilt child, and he took Wilhelm’s part. But I cannot hold it against him. He is good and honorable—Isabelle loves him! He could not be otherwise than good! But he does not know Wilhelm. He does not know that his friend—how unworthy of that honor Wilhelm is!—is an oath-breaking villain. Mordwyr is dear to me, and his disapproval pains me. If he only knew why I endure this hellish existence! But I am rambling. I took up my quill to write of the noble Chrétien.
Tonight, at last, I broke my silence. Chrétien had seen the weight on my soul, and when he asked the reason, I saw the true kindness in his eyes. I answered him. “I am weary of my death,” I said. “I despise the blood which flows in my veins. And yet I shall not watch the dawn, though this consummation is devoutly to be wished. I will not be such a coward, nor will I leave my task undone.” The words were bold, but Chrétien did me the courtesy of believing me, both that I long for release from this hated unlife and that it is my own choice which keeps me here. Chrétien looked at me with pity, but I could not resent the pity of such a noble heart. He spoke to me, saying, “And what is the task which you have set yourself?”
Oh, how loath my tongue was to pronounce the name which henceforth is forever bound up with mine! “I shall repay to Wilhelm the debt of honor I owe him for enabling my sister to marry the man she loves above all else.”
“My childe Mordwyr is a good man, but he was of common birth.” Chrétien understood my meaning at once. “And a marriage to a wandering minstrel would never have been countenanced by the nobles of France. They would have forced my sister into a convent first—and she is a De Troyes. She would not have broken her nun’s vows even if it broke her heart. Wilhelm obtained a knighthood for Mordwyr, and he thus enabled my sister to achieve her heart’s desire. So shall I obtain for my dearest foe his own heart’s desire, though for my own part, I wish him Final Death and eternal torment.” I can only think that Chrétien was astonished at the vehemence of my speech, but when he answered his voice was gentle.
“For both my childer I thank you, Jean-Louis. I will not do you the discourtesy of trying to dissuade you. You do what your honor requires, and I cannot ask you to be less than you are. But do not despair, dear childe. One night Mordwyr will realize what you do. He will not always misunderstand, and he will be the brother you desire.”
May God grant that this might be so! My prayers He no longer hears, I know, but Isabelle’s prayers He does. How could He not? And Isabelle prays for me; she has promised it. All the felicity left for me is to know that my precious Isabelle and her Mordwyr are happy in each other and think kindly of me.
12 August 1203 A.D.
Tonight I spoke again with Chrétien concerning Wilhelm and my debt. I told Chrétien that Wilhelm wants to rebuild the Brujah, and this is what I must therefore give him. (How my heart swells with pain when I think of Wilhelm! Would that I could have honorably slain him when he Embraced me!) And Chrétien told me the true horror of my Clan. It is not enough that I must be sprung of an honorless villain, no. I must be spawned of very Hell! The very line of the demon Moloch himself! But Chrétien has explained. Though I am claimed by Moloch, I can defy him. True, he will take my life in the end, but he shall not have my honor! But this means that when I have gathered the Brujah for Wilhelm, I will not be free of him. I must remain at his hated side to guard against the designs of Moloch should the Brujah be gathered together. The burden is heavy, but my Isabelle is happy with Mordwyr. That knowledge gives me the strength to go on.
7 September 1203 A.D.
It was a year ago tonight that I first took that fatal draught of Wilhelm’s thrice-cursed blood. I know now that I hate him. It is the only part of this Embrace for which I thank him—that my will is now free enough to hate him! It was on this night that he deceived me, and in my then-inexplicable melancholy I believed him. I now know that I was likely under the influence of that strange monk—a Malkavian Kindred—who was in Wilhelm’s company that night. His plans were deeply laid.
But I was not the only one made a ghoul that night. My angel sister Isabelle was also. Though I could not hide my pain when Mordwyr told me all the truth, I am glad of it! It was weakness in me to show, even to my brother, the agony I endure at knowing Wilhelm deserves death from me, but that instead I must serve him! I would not have Mordwyr feel sorry for what has become of me. It is not his fault. And, truly, I honor him for himself, even apart from his being my brother.
Mordwyr did not tell me the details of his ghouling of my sister, but I heard the story from her own sweet lips. She told me of how he came to her chamber in the evening, and there, when they were all alone, he revealed to her that he was a vampire! He placed himself at her mercy! And he told her that he would never die, and that he wanted her to be with him. My sweet sister interrupted him then, and she told him that she would rather be with him than to enjoy Paradise! Ah, Isabelle! What other woman is capable of such perfect love? But Mordwyr insisted she know all. He told her that the only way for her to live forever with him was to drink his blood, and he told her, too, that this would bind her to him. And what did my peerless sister say? She answered him that she was already bound to him by all the love of her heart, and she longed to prove it to him by freely drinking of his blood. And even after he had wedded her, he gave to her a free choice concerning the Embrace! That was, of course, a gift of Heaven to my seraphic sister, but Mordwyr, true lover that he is, could not have been satisfied without such knowledge, either. He told me, and the words were to him as precious jewels, that his wife—my sister—had told him, freely and with the bloodsong silent in her veins, that she longed for the Embrace that she might draw yet closer to him. Oh, sweet sister! Dear brother! May God grant to you the happiness that only you two can deserve. I am not such a fool as to think even a man so honorable as Mordwyr can truly deserve my sister. How can perfection be deserved by anyone beneath the Moon? But he loves her best. He is best able to discern her worth, and it is in this that he deserves her as no other man ever could. When I think of his worth and of how happy he has made my sister, I am resigned even to my lot as Jean-Louis, childe of Wilhelm of the Brujah.
10 October 1203 A.D.
I have met this night the childe of Prince Chrétien’s Sheriff. His Sheriff is, for the time being, a Brujah by the name of Kephalos. He turned against his brethren in the nights of Carthage, and he sold them to the Ventrue and the Toreador of Rome. May God bless him for it! And for Kephalos’ sake I have had pity on his childe, Bartholomaios. Bartholomaios of Thessalonika he is called, and he fancies himself a scholar. He is, indeed, intelligent and quick-witted, but there is no drive in him. He is a pitiful Kindred, and I do pity him. I have befriended him, taken him under the shelter of my wings. Ah, the irony of that! I am less than a year dead, and he has been a Kindred more than fifty years! But he follows me. I have resolved that I shall not add him to the number of Brujah I will take to Wilhelm. Poor Bartholomaios must not dwell so near to the line of Moloch. Thus shall it be.
[The following was a letter, in Jean-Louis’ hand, folded and tucked into the pages of the journal.]
To my esteemed Prince, Chrétien of the Blazing Noon,
I do not presume to write to you of what has occurred in Bavaria. Doubtless, your childe, my brother, has already informed you. Instead I write because I feel my own Final Death approaching. I do not know how or when it will come, but Moloch is coming for me. Hasruut cursed me for Wilhelm’s sake. At least my duty to Wilhelm was discharged! He released me at last, and I have spent these last nights in company with my dear brother, Mordwyr. He lies now at my feet, torpid. He was injured in a battle, and I know not yet how it happened. I only know that that monstrous Malkavian Elizaveta and her lover Alejandro, slave of the abominable Setites, watch his torpid form with ravenous hunger. Alejandro I doubt would yet think of destroying Mordwyr, but Elizaveta desires it above all things. She hates him. Serafim the Tzimisce is absent, sent by mistake to Cairo, and thus I alone am watching over my brother. I will guard him with my life. He has given me hope of what Kindred can be. I am glad that he is wedded to my sister, and I know that he will never falter in his love for her.
Isabelle, sweet perfection in woman! It is the heaviest of my burdens that I shall never see you again. But know, beloved of my heart, that I will give to you the greatest gift I can—the life of your lord and husband. I am free of my debt to Wilhelm, but my life is forfeit to the demons of Hell. And yet I shall give to you your love. Somehow I shall do it.
I would not confess this even to my sister herself, noble Chrétien, but it was as much for her sake as the Church’s that I became a Knight-Templar. How could I ever marry another woman when I had seen perfection in my sister? How could I swear to love a woman above all others when all my love was given to Isabelle? So I forswore all wealth and all society of women that I might free myself from the burden of swearing an oath I could not keep. Once I did think, for Isabelle’s own sake, of trying to make a wife of one of her maids. Oh, how I thank God, though I know He cannot hear my prayers even of gratitude, that that was not necessary. For how could I dishonor Isabelle by swearing an oath and breaking it? It would have made me no better than Wilhelm. But now my Final Death draws near, and I am not afraid. I wish only to protect Mordwyr, for his own sake as well as Isabelle’s. I send this letter on to you in Byzantium, and I ask that you pray God that I am able to die well.
Your humble servant,
Jean-Louis Chrysologous
5 April 1218 A.D.
This last letter I have re-folded and placed on top of Chrétien’s sarcophagus. It is for him; it is the last remaining symbol of love and fidelity Jean-Louis had for his beloved mentor and friend. And there the letter will lie until Chrétien wakes to read it. How these words of Jean-Louis break my heart! And now I see the wisdom of my Sire in giving me the vial of his vitae whereby I might proxy-Kiss Isabelle. The master-servant relationship forces itself upon the domitor and the thrall. My love for Isabelle, and her adoration for me, would have turned to the bitterest gall under those circumstances; true love is born from the freedom to love, and though Isabelle loved me apart from the blood-bond, we could not have long endured in such unequal states. I am her husband and her lord, but I do not rule over her as master. The blood-bond of the ghoul works like poison in his veins and overthrows his wits. Isabelle’s choice to love me is chiefly what I rejoice over, and I thank Chrétien for seeing the danger when I could not.
November 5th, 1997
Another night of arrival and departure from a city, this time with more enjoyable results. Seth's remains washed down the sewage pipes of New Orleans with no one the wiser, and Lucia and I enjoyed ourselves to the utmost. He was the proverbial fly in my wife's web of lust, succumbing to her charms and accompanying her into the stall in which I waited, concealed in my sanguine form. It took but a moment to tear his throat out, and as Lucia was already partially out of her clothing, what was there for us to do but continue in the natural progression of events? Seth's remains were not resilient enough to withstand our lust and were crushed underfoot, which was fortunate—it required remarkably little usage of Vicissitude to break up what was left and flush it away. We can be as passionate as any Toreador, yet when we express ourselves, someone is irrevocably changed or dead.
November 6th, 1997
Tonight is the first night in several nights that Isabelle and I left our bed. We have immensely enjoyed the time alone, betwixt satin sheets, bathing in our commingled passion, surrounded by the tranquility of Byzantium. But tonight was Marcus Tertius’ first Elysium, and we were obliged to attend. Furthermore, the Angelus Mortis and Lucia had returned from New Orleans, and I was sure they would have much to tell me about their efforts there. So when Giulietta came to our room to invite us to Elysium—at which time she also found it notable to point out that a new, much-heralded musician would be present—Isabelle and I knew it was time to put our week of lounging and love-making behind us.
“It is good to see you safely returned to the Dream,” I called out to the Angelus Mortis from the top of the winding stairs. As I fixed my cufflink, I descended with a smile. Isabelle was beside me. “Tell me, my old friend, of all that has occurred in Nouvelle Orleans.” The Angelus Mortis smiled wickedly and replied, “Whatever else might have happened there, you can be confident in the knowledge that Seth Sinclair will never be seen again. No ritual will be blathered through his lips!” I clapped the Tzimisce on the shoulder and said with a smile, “Thank you, my friend. You have done me, New Orleans, and all the Camarilla a great service. We must remember to bring this up at the Inner Circle: the Angelus Mortis saved New Orleans from becoming the hotbed of gang violence that Moscow has become. Moreover, you have prevented an indirect Jyhadi attack against Camarilla order and have maintained respect for the rule of Kindred law.” The Angelus Mortis could not share in my enthusiasm. “Indeed,” he said with a heavy sigh, “the situation in Moscow, though now under a bit more control, is still dire. That bastard Giovanni ripping off a police officer’s arm and beating him with it was only the beginning. Marya’s childe also rules a gang, and he is unfortunately lost to the Setite witchery. I do not know how to proceed, for surely Laura Giovanni, my old rival, will bring it up at the Inner Circle.” I commiserated with my friend but told him to take heart, for the Dream is a swelling chorus that inspires bravery, a gentle sonata that fosters romance, a theme of such beauty that the heart would break for want of it. “But I hear no such song, Mordwyr,” the Angelus Mortis said. “These musical swells and dips that you speak of—I hear nothing. But never mind that, for indeed, I feel the peace and serenity of Constantinople.”
Constantinople’s Elysium is an old Roman bath, converted for Kindred purposes. It is a sprawling complex much like unto the Baths of Caracalla, complete with an impressive, ancient library and a gymnasium. Lucia stood amazed at the amassed knowledge of the numerous tomes, and I was pleased to see Marcus in his Princely mien. He entered Elysium like a general and is as Prince more like a soldier than a diplomat. That is the strongest impression I received from him tonight—a commander of men and not very Toreador-like. It seems strange, but Marcus is more Roman than Kindred! Everyone was on the edge of some apprehension, and the assembled Kindred all watched Marcus closely, wondering what he would do. Chrétien had ruled for eight centuries, and he had been a beloved Prince. And now, here, out of nowhere steps this Marcus Tertius who is indeed old, but nothing more is known about him. He is not Chrétien, and among Constantinople’s Kindred, that is condemnation enough. I know few of the Byzantine Kindred, but what I could read on their faces was clear: some recognized him; others feared him. Some wished him harm, and others were simply aroused by his beauty and his striking countenance. I took the opportunity to talk with Marcus before Elysium was called to order. “And so, how like you the seat of Constantine?” I asked, approaching with an easy smile. Marcus turned and took my wrist, and in a passion he spoke, saying, “Mordwyr! Though lovely, Byzantium is not what it once was. Truly it is perfection, but it lacks the assurance of faith.” I drew closer to Marcus in my worry and asked, “My Prince, what bothers you?” Marcus waved his hand in frustration and said, “I have been awake only a few nights, but I have already come to see what straits the world is in, by what bands humanity is bound to slavery to a master they cannot see and yet see every night! It is difficult to express. I have seen much, but I have also slept through much. I saw Christendom's rise, but her fall I did not see.” I nodded, and Marcus saw that I understood fully. “Oh, yes, she has fallen. I would not say that the Holy See now has power on the earth! It was difficult for me to accept, I admit. I had seen Rome fall, but the Church outlasted Rome. I had hoped that Christendom would endure; it seemed as though it might. But the Crusades should have given me warning that even Christendom could not last forever.” I opened my mouth to speak, to attempt to alleviate Marcus’ fears, but he anticipated me. “Have no fear! My faith is unshaken! The Church shall endure; thus much was promised us. But that even such a realm as Christendom should last is more than we can hope in this world. I will say that the world as I have seen it now is, of course, inferior to the Christendom which was dominant when I went to sleep, but it is also inferior even to the Rome of my breathing days. At least in those times it was possible for men to be honorable and pious, even if their gods were false. I do not mean that it is impossible for men to be good and honorable now. A man can always do his duty if he chooses! But this ‘modern’ world in which I have awoken considers it unmanly to cleave to one's wife! To be chaste is to be foolish! The idiocy of this world is astounding. And to believe in God—or the gods—is ignorance or stupidity. Cowardice is praised as gentleness—in the fall of Christendom men lost more than they know. Now piety and honor are nearly lost. But a man can follow the way of God even if the man is a fool; it is God's mercy that this should be so. And though the Holy Father may hold no temporal power any longer, his spiritual power is unchanged. He can still bind and loose, and the Sacrament of Penance is still valid. God still deigns to become our very Bread. So the Church endures in this state of half-toleration, and so it shall be until she is next persecuted. Then mayhap we will return to the catacombs, and the blood of the martyrs will again nourish the Faith.”
Marcus’ words stunned me. I believed everything he said, had known everything he said, but I have been awake all this time. For this reason, and because of my attachment to Isabelle, the fall of Christendom came on so gradually. It is gone, the world into which I was born. I have always known it but never examined it as only a newly-awakened Elder can. I had much to say to Marcus, but he was called away at that moment. Marcus Tertius took his throne and asked for any requests, petitions, or complaints. He handled Elysium with military efficiency, dispensing with social pleasantries. This was Marcus’ first Elysium, and no one knew quite how to respond to his straightforward manner. When no voice was heard, Marcus called for the planned entertainment. “Alexander,” Marcus called out to a plainly-dressed, unassuming Kindred standing nearby, “will your childe not play for us then?” Alexander stepped forward, his clear, light-brown eyes seeming to focus on some invisible thing just before him, and he called forth his childe, Hunter. A young man dressed in more tasteful, modern American fashion—collared, black silk shirt—stepped from the crowd. His face was drawn and pale—not pale like a Kindred’s but naturally pallid—and his long, bony fingers clutched at a stack of bent papers stored in a brown portfolio. Hunter took a moment to set up a piano forte right beside a synthesizer equipped with a digital sampler. I was intrigued at the setup and drew closer to listen.
Hunter’s piece was rooted in a martial theme—strong, steady beats and brass—but here and there he mixed in the romantic strains of violins doubling their melodies. The dark fugue that insinuated its way into the piece disturbed me solely on grounds of character—it was tastefully done and did not detract from the overall work. Now and again ebbed and flowed a clashing of order and chaos—from well-constructed themes wherein the instruments beautifully complemented one another to deliberate juxtapositions of tone and tenor. The complete tranquility of the Dream was only hinted at; Hunter never fully developed it to its fullest potential, and therein lay the work’s heart-aching beauty. As I watched Hunter perform, I quickly grew aware of the fact that the piece was better than he; in other words, the music was greater than the musician. Hunter could not do the piece justice—so much was lost in his rendering of it, though he played excellently. It would take a true virtuoso, I realized, to exploit the composition to its utmost promise. The performance finished, I strode over to Hunter amidst scattered applause. The Kindred did not rightly know what to make of it, but I knew the composition was genius. I was of a mind to ask the American musician for the score, but as I approached, Hunter opened his portfolio, drew out a few sheets of paper, and started composing immediately. Intrigued, I cocked my head to see what he was writing. Hunter was writing down what he had just played! He had composed the piece extemporaneously, and now he had to write it down lest he forget it. “Incredible,” said I, and Hunter looked up. “You performed the piece as you were writing it, in your head?” I asked, not expecting a reply. “But of course,” the strange musician replied. “That is the only way to compose.” He returned to his writing, and the world was nothing to him as he scribbled. Hunter wrote, and I saw that he knew the piece was better than he had performed it, for he stopped at various spots, saying “ah!” or “I must remember that.” When he was completely finished, he looked up at me and smiled eerily. Hunter seemed only half-aware of my presence, though he spoke to me quite lucidly. “Actually,” he started, taking up from where he had left off, “I composed the song during the time from which the Prince entered the room until it was time for me to take the stage. I had something else prepared,” he carelessly gestured to the stack of disheveled papers behind him, “but it’s garbage.” I was all amazement. “May I see the score?” I asked, and Hunter obliged me. “By the way, my name is Hunter Richards.” I shook his offered hand and told him my name. “Ah, the famous Mordwyr,” he commented jovially, and he cocked his head as if listening to something only he could hear. “My sire, Alexander, told me that we should meet, you being a musician and all.” I smiled and said, “I have been known to compose and play from time to time. You know, this music is genius, Hunter. I am most impressed with what you have done here.”
As I was beginning to settle into a pleasant debate about composition with Hunter, the Angelus Mortis approached. “I wonder why I am in the piece,” he said. For a moment, his comment was baffling, but then realization struck me. And the violins were me and Isabelle! “How strange!” I cried. “I have been caught up in the music and did not stop to think of how Hunter had composed us.” With a questioning look, I turned to Hunter. The sallow musician did not seem amenable to making any comment. He was once again distracted. Isabelle then came and stood beside me and, taking the score to examine it, said, “It is surprising that this musician has the ability to pull out everyone’s song. He has plucked our tunes, my lord.” She gave me a knowing look, telling me that perhaps we have encountered this before. “Perhaps we should collaborate,” Hunter suddenly asked, and the prospect of a partnership quite wiped the mysterious matter from my mind. I should have been more guarded in my behavior toward Hunter, but I found myself swept up in his enthusiasm and his genius. Rarely have I found one among the Kindred who is so gifted. Without thinking, I grabbed the score out of Isabelle’s hands and retired to a quiet room with Hunter. Once we were alone in the music room, I sat at the piano and played the piece he had just performed. I then picked up a violin and played Isabelle’s and my theme. It is a work of exquisite beauty, but there is deep pain in it conquered only by the purity of a love that has been tested in the hottest furnace. And still our love shines, and it is strong enough that even a musician who has heard nothing of our sorrows and our triumphs can hear the unconquerable melody! “You played that masterfully,” Hunter said in awe as I finished and placed the violin back on the table. “I have but played it,” I replied. “It is your masterpiece.” And I bowed low in recognition of his genius. “But how is it that you hear the songs of people and Kindred?” Hunter smiled and then sighed, turning his head to the right as he listened again to that unheard tune. “Can you not hear it?” he asked passionately as he drew closer to me. “The whole world has a song, sometimes harmonious, often cacophonous, and everyone swims through it. The song is like fathomless waters, having eddies, bubbles, currents, and wakes. Some people make waves that drown others; some take their ease by swimming through another’s wake. All are different, but all swim together, unaware of their splashing, thrashing, diving, or floating. Don’t you see?” Truly, I understood the metaphor—which I think was not a metaphor for Hunter—but I could not fully comprehend his meaning. I nodded, however, and said, “Of course. It is quite clear to me.” Indeed, it was all muddied waters to me! “This is the piece I was going to play,” Hunter said, showing me another score. I took it and tried to play it, but I failed to develop its complicated theme. “I would need practice to play this properly,” I apologized. “I cannot compose extemporaneously as you do.” Hunter showed me several other pieces, and I sat at the piano and picked them out. I was mildly successful at performing them. In my excitement, I turned to Hunter and asked, “How would you feel about being on my label? I own Orpheus Records and would be overjoyed to hear this music produced in my studios.” Hunter was not listening to me. He was reclining on an ancient Roman couch as he listened to the music that continually plays in his mind. I repeated my question, and Hunter distractedly agreed, though he did not want to go to New Orleans. Why would he, living in the center of the Dream? “But you play my music well enough,” he said, “so why don’t you just record it. I don’t care about becoming famous—I just want everyone to hear my music—their music! The music of the world.” I smiled and replied, “Well, if your music is on the Orpheus label, everyone will hear it.”
The Angelus Mortis came into the music room just then, and I was annoyed at the interruption. But once he told me what he had to say, I felt bad for feeling irritation at him. “Mordwyr,” the Angelus Mortis began gravely, “we need to talk.” I knew it was serious, so I drew my old friend aside. “This bard’s music has unveiled something rather unsettling. Isabelle has told me that she has analyzed Marcus’ theme. Marcus’ presence in Byzantium is waking up all the sleeping Methuselahs—those who came here to rest after the fall of Rome!” For the moment, all consideration of music fled my mind, and I was once again alert. “We must be ready to aid Marcus should he need it,” I replied, and the Angelus Mortis and I returned to Elysium. The Voivode pointed out to me a Toreador of Turkish extraction who, when the music was playing, did not even listen but only stared at Marcus Tertius. “A Toreador not interested in music?” I asked rhetorically. Though it was Elysium, I pierced the veil and peered into the Turkish Toreador’s soul. He was obviously full of distrust, but as he continued to stare at the Prince, suspicion and aggression crept into his soul. Isabelle, who stood nearby, said, “His blood is weaker than ours, my lord.” She knows me too well! I was already planning how best to assault him, to cut him off. “Perhaps you should follow the Turk,” I suggested to the Angelus Mortis, “while I talk to Marcus about what Hunter’s song means.” We agreed this was the best course, but then Lucia popped in with a better idea. “Why split up? I will summon a wraith and send it to track the Turk.” We all agreed that this was an excellent idea, and when Marcus Tertius ended Elysium—it did not trail off as my Parisian Elysiums used to—Lucia sent her cold, invisible servant after the Turk. “You know, Isabelle,” I said as we were leaving, “Hunter’s strange powers of perception remind me of two other Kindred we knew long ago.” Isabelle knew just who I meant. “Yes, my love. Giaccomo and Elizaveta. They both sensed things no one else could. It is the gift of Malkav.” I nodded. “Well, if Hunter is indeed Malkavian, then we will need to bring him along when we explain things to Marcus Tertius, for he may be the only one who can adequately elucidate the themes of his songs—though I am not sure if he even realizes what his music means.”
On the carriage ride back to Marcus’ home, I spoke directly into the Prince’s mind, explaining to him what Isabelle had discovered about the meaning in Hunter’s song. When we arrived, I asked Hunter to explain his music in full, but he could not. “I do not know what it means—I just hear it,” he said apologetically. Being surrounded by Elders, I am sure the neonate was not a little nervous and unsure as to why he was even there. “Well,” Lucia said, “it has been rumored since the Wars of the Princes that the Ancients cannot move without causing ripples in Cainite society.” She turned to Hunter. “But the edges of your music, Isabelle tells me, is a theme of chaos. If you could expand on the edges and develop the music more, I am sure we would be able to learn more of this mystery.” Hunter agreed to try, and as he wrote, Marcus looked about the house and said, “This is a fine house. Chrétien was indeed a great Prince. I never desired to be Prince, but Chrétien is my friend, and it is my duty to aid him in any way I can.” Indeed, I cannot help but think that Marcus’ Roman blood has overpowered his Cainite heritage! How strange that the values and piety of his breathing days should trump the power of Caine. Rome must have bred the best of men!
Hunter finished his composition quickly, and I sat at the piano and played it. It was a masterful work, but it was not pleasant. It was too chaotic for my taste, but I heard the value in it. And then rose shrill discordance. Just as quickly the notes dipped, and I banged out loud, low notes of anger, resentment, and hatred. We all felt the effect of the music and knew that the Ancients were speaking through Hunter’s composition. “When were you last in the city, Prince?” Lucia asked Marcus. “I was here when Michael and the Dracon were here, but I left shortly after the influx of Kindred from Rome.” I stopped playing—no more was necessary. “The hatred is clear,” I said. Marcus’s lips pursed in thought. “But Michael liked me,” he replied. I laughed and said, “Michael likes everyone, except Setites.” Marcus turned to me in surprise and said, “Yes, he hates them. Even the Dream loathes their existence. Setites stopped coming to Byzantium when even the kine were grabbing them and throwing them out into the sun! The Dream has become their enemy.” As we spoke, Hunter stood off to the side and simply stared at all of us, not sure what to make of our conversation. “If you don’t mind,” the neonate began hesitantly, “I’m going to head back home.” And he started to back out of the room. At the time, I wondered why he was being so apprehensive, but after thinking about it, I see now that Hunter must have truly been unnerved in the presence of so many Elders, speaking of things even he—a Malkavian—could not comprehend. I bade Hunter good night, and he was gone. What with the bloodshed that came later this night, the fledgling left none too soon.
“So, who wants you dead, Prince?” Lucia asked once Hunter was gone. “So many,” was Marcus’ immediate reply. “I am not temperamentally suited to being a Toreador, but there it is. My sire Embraced me for my beauty, and that is all. Poetry is my mode of expression—strange, I know, for a centurion—but Julius decided to make an experiment of me. As you know, he died when he foolishly attempted to lick the blood of Christ from the foot of the Cross. Well, he was fascinated with Christ and wondered what would happen if he Embraced an adherent of this cult. I was his choice, and my faith has garnered me many enemies over the centuries. The allies I made were always Ventrue, for they suited my disposition better than Toreador. The new Kindred that fled to Constantinople after the fall of Rome did not like me because of my age and my aura.” I knew just what he meant, for even as he spoke, I felt uneasy around him. Marcus Tertius is my dear friend, but his faith is unsettling. Were I mortal, I would describe it as nausea. “Aemilianus, a Ventrue of Rome, was always cordial to me but no more. He never meant me any harm. Then there was Hilarion, a Toreador who openly despised me. Kosmas led the Malkavians here; he was tedious and preferred Hilarion’s company.” Marcus continued talking about Kindred and times unknown to us, and when he finished, I stood and said simply, “In my experience, you do not wait to talk, do not try to negotiate, but catch your enemies by surprise, stake them and throw them out for the sun. We must strike quickly, before these Ancients can fully rouse themselves and gather a force about them.” Marcus looked at me questioningly, but the Angelus Mortis only smiled ever so slightly. He knows how I operate: strike quickly, thoroughly, and without mercy. “You are more an antique Roman than a Scotsman,” Marcus said. “Like Rome, you have learned the mistake of Carthage. But I will not act dishonorably, slaying those who have done no wrong. I fear nothing from them. They cannot harm me.” I drew close to Marcus, stood toe-to-toe with him and looked him directly in the eye as I said, “No, they cannot physically harm you. But they can break your heart, and they will, once they beget some villainy on Giulietta.” Marcus’ eyes flashed in anger, and I knew I had him. He would not back down from a fight now. I would rather not have brought Giulietta into it, but I could tell Marcus, in some misplaced sense of charity, would not have struck the first blow, and thus not only he but all of Constantinople would have been in jeopardy. I said just what needed to be said to get Marcus Tertius moving.
Lucia left the room suddenly, and she returned a few minutes later. “Elias is the Turk’s name, and he is Hilarion’s servant,” she reported. She had learned this information from her wraith. And so our bloody plan was enacted. Isabelle searched for and found Elias, and then we were off. “I do not like fighting unfairly,” Marcus said as we sped across the city. “Kindred like us never fight fair,” I explained, “for we do so to protect our bloodsongs. In my experience, the aggressors always win!” But Marcus only chuckled. I suddenly felt foolish as I kept referring to my experience, as if it was vast and impressive in comparison to Marcus’. I shut my mouth and spoke no more of the matter but let my actions in the ensuing battle justify my words. “My lord,” Isabelle said as we stood outside the house in which Elias hid, “I see more.” Her eyes were again pupil-less, pure white fields of Othersight. “Kosmas and Hilarion are also within, and they are devouring the golden-haired Aemilianus! They nourish themselves with his death, and now they stand strong and blood-drenched! And Elias is fleeing.” Marcus Tertius’ rage was uncontrollable, and we burst into the house. The Angelus Mortis and I kicked in the front door, and then my old Tzimisce friend transformed into a sentient, mobile pool of vitae! Having never seen this transformation before, I backpedaled in horror but quickly recovered my wits. “Gods above and below!” I cried. “Warn me next time!” I spied first Kosmas and held him in my gaze of Entrancement. The Malkavian’s hostility slipped away, and he felt nothing for me save love and devotion. Hilarion, however, rose in terrible beauty, ready to send our entire assault force scattering. “I will save you!” Kosmas, seeing my danger, cried and tackled me out the door. Just then, his Entrancement was broken (I did not learn until after the battle that Marcus was preventing everyone—friend and foe alike—from using Presence), and he snarled in rage at me. Kosmas tried to infect my bloodsong with his madness, but he failed. How can anyone overcome my bond to Isabelle? Foolish Malkavian! Truly, your madness lay deeper than any of your brethren! With my bestial claws, I tore Kosmas’ throat out and ended his life. He slept; he woke; he died. With the speed of Celerity, I found myself back in the house. Giulietta was covering her eyes in horror—for she is newly made and has never before seen battle! Marcus was standing in the middle of the room holding his sword out like a cross while Lucia and the blood-blob were fleshcrafting Hilarion into unnatural, hideous shapes. And Isabelle, with her serpent’s tongue, had him held in the ecstasy of the Kiss. Having a feeling that my friends would rather have kept Hilarion alive for some reason, I sprinted over and, with my claws, punched through his chest and took his heart before anyone was even aware that I had re-entered the room. Hilarion’s dead body fell as I crushed his heart in my hand. With the battle finished, I was once again drawn to the horror of the Angelus Mortis’ liquid form. But my friend did not resume his normal shape, though I begged him to! “Lucia and I need some time alone,” was all that the voice in the blood said. I took Isabelle’s hand and wasted no time in getting as far away from the monster as I could. A few minutes later, as Marcus was standing nearby comforting Giulietta, Lucia emerged from the house alone. “Where is the Angelus Mortis?” I asked. Lucia smiled darkly and replied, “He is here, with me.” That is all I needed to know, lest I be mentally scarred in some other way. We said no more but returned to Marcus’ home.
November 7th, 1997
December 3rd, 1997
We are arrived, unpacked, and installed comfortably in the Albergo Gran’Stella D’Oro in Venice. In this opulent hotel, the Inner Circle will meet in three nights’ time. We have come early for the entertainment. I awoke tonight in Constantinople and will lay my head to rest in Giovanni’s city. No longer do Isabelle and I repose in the bliss of the Dream. I wonder how Laura rules Venice. Does she maintain the old forms as Marcus Tertius does? Most Princes these nights have done away with the old fashions of the Kindred Court, but Marcus, being asleep through all the changes, has reinstituted something of the kind in Byzantium. Giulietta serves in a position that combines the responsibilities of the Chamberlain and the Seneschal, and yet some of the more mundane matters of the offices have been done away with. Marcus asked the Angelus Mortis and me about the political situation in Venice. We knew very little but told him what we knew of Laura Giovanni’s character and how she is still ruled by her father’s wraith. Augustus Giovanni cannot be inconvenienced by something as trivial as death, and he still rules the Clan. Marcus expressed his apprehension about attending the Inner Circle, for he is not Chrétien—the ruler of the Toreador these past eight centuries! Of all the Inner Circle members—with Beatriz now in torpor—Chrétien and Laura are the only ones who were present at the Grand Alliance. But now Chrétien also sleeps, and Laura stands alone. Marcus was not there, but he rivals her in power—and this fact she will not appreciate.
Sergei has arrived as well, and the Angelus Mortis has gone to conduct some business with him. I will sit with Isabelle upon our balcony and take in the beauty of Venice before the sun rises.
December 4th, 1997
This is my first trip to Venice—since my initial visit to the Giovanni mansion—in which something has not gone terribly wrong or has not devolved into a bloodbath. I am thankful that, for once, I can come to Venice and enjoy a bit of civility. But there has been a touch more than that! Laura arranged a “Renaissance Festival,” those ridiculous fairs wherein kine dress up in “period” costume and re-enact the lifestyles of Europeans who could have lived anywhere from the time of Charlemagne to the rise of the Italian city-states. To modern man, those very different time periods have all been lumped into one age. Rare is the man who can point out the error of putting some Ivanhoe next to a Venetian merchant. It is tantamount to me throwing a festival in which we celebrate the Wild West—and I make sure Redcoats are there for historical accuracy! They are as far removed from the cowboy as scholasticism is from humanism, Magna Carta from Machiavelli! Regardless of the absolute lack of context in which humans now live, Isabelle and I had a fine time, and since Laura Giovanni arranged the fair, it had a high degree of authenticity. I saw the fashions and the weapons and knew they were genuine.
The festival had been running all day, but we Kindred of course made our appearance in the evening. Whereas most Renaissance Festivals make liberal use of torchlight, Laura made sure the organizers cited some kind of fire hazard, so we were able to enjoy a fair fully-lit by electrical lights. They were strung above the tents and stalls like Christmas seasonal illumination. When Isabelle and I reached the lobby of the hotel, we were greeted by a man dressed in impeccable fashion, though his hair was deliberately disheveled and held that way with gel. “Well,” I whispered jokingly to Isabelle, “I see that purposeful bedhead has made a comeback.” Isabelle giggled as the man, armed with a pen and clipboard, approached. “Mr. and Mrs. Devereux, I presume,” he said with an easy smile. We answered to those names, and he told us that gondolas awaited to take us all to the fair. Marcus Tertius joined us, and then came all the rest of the Inner Circle and their attendants. In all, we were a company of three Toreador, three Gangrel, three Tzimisce, three Ventrue, and three Lasombra. Laura and her attendants would meet us later beneath the festival lights. Marcus took the lead of Isabelle and me. Olwen, the leader of the Gangrel, is a magnificent Scandinavian warrioress, though in the world now, she cannot walk openly as she is wont to do. She is crafted from the clay of Valhalla, and her white-blond hair frames her rigid face. She looked about, bored. Samael, Beatriz’ grandchilde, led his two attendants, and I found his presence unsettling. He appears no more than 20 years of age, though his eyes betray centuries of dark deeds. He is Spanish, good-looking, with black hair exquisitely oiled. He has quite a surprisingly-unassuming air about him, but he is always watching. I am wary of Samael, for he watches and watches and speaks little. His black eyes are frighteningly intense and searching, and, knowing that he was hand-picked by Beatriz, I find him unnerving. He is a bird of prey. What does he see in me?
Knowing that there would be music, I decided to bring along my ashwood lute, and I hoped to regale the crowd with an authentic medieval song, though the fair was misnamed Renaissance. I was happy to see that Laura had arranged the festival to be properly feudal—I felt as if I had been transported to the 13th century. It was marvelous. It was easy to feed, for the streets were packed with revelers. I spied Laura, and beside her stood Santiago. He was sullen, as usual. I thought to go and speak to Laura—I had not seen her since the Grand Alliance!—but Bedhead intercepted me, saying, “Ah, Mr. Devereux! Your reputation precedes you, and my mistress wonders if she can trouble you for a song.” And he turned back, smiling fawningly at Laura. I bowed in recognition of the hostess and then tuned my lute. I played “What is a Youth?” The milling crowd ground to a halt as my voice rose above the din. All stood enrapt by my song of love and death. A fading rose lately blooming easily captured their imagination. As I sang of death claiming the souls of all men, a hush fell over the crowd. As the last note faded on the air, the revelers erupted in ecstatic applause. Then Laura walked up and congratulated me. “And a new opera is opening tomorrow night,” she said. “I hope you and your lady are able to attend.” I knew it was not an invitation—it was a command. All of us would be obliged to attend. I then sang “O Mistress Mine,” and though I did not sing it as well as my first song, it was a tolerable rendering of the piece.
As Isabelle and I spoke to the increasingly-enthusiastic crowd, Lucia came up and asked me to keep the Kindred there entertained while she and the Angelus Mortis dealt with something back at the hotel. What mischief they got into I do not know. I was pestered for autographs, so I started signing “A.D. 1997.” The kine enjoyed the little pun, and I kept everyone happy. Julian also approached me, and we spoke at length of Jürgen. I do miss him—but more than that, I miss that stock of honorable Kindred. They have fled the earth, it seems. “And I do not know what to make of Beatriz entering torpor,” Julian said, changing the subject. “No one has heard of Samael, though he is no neonate. I think he was Embraced in the 16th century.” I knew he was old, but I never imagined him to hail from a time before the rise of the New World. “But it is his ever-searching eyes that bother me,” I said. “What power is he hiding? But I do not fear him, for we now have my old friend Marcus Tertius in the Inner Circle.” Julian was eager to hear more of the newcomer, so I told him that Marcus Tertius is in temperament more Ventrue than Toreador, that he is honorable and was a good friend of Jürgen, that he has always been more comfortable around honorable Ventrue. “Then I look forward to meeting him,” Julian said with a smile. “He is a Roman of uncommon piety,” I replied cryptically. “If you do not mind, I will introduce him to you before the opera tomorrow night.” Julian agreed to this and was well pleased. “I have no reservation or hesitation in doing so, Julian,” I continued, “for I see Jürgen’s strength and honor in you. I know you and Marcus Tertius will become good friends. The Inner Circle needs honor, and you two can provide it.” I left Julian a very happy Kindred indeed, and Isabelle and I returned to the hotel for our bout of amorous sparring. She is coming to me now, fresh from the shower. We will, for as long as we can, watch the black sky bleed into grey.
December 5th, 1997
I thought the Angelus Mortis might jump right onto the stage and tear the soprano to pieces. What audacity Laura Giovanni had in commissioning such a libelous piece of (well-written and -composed) trash! The Angelus Mortis will have his revenge for “Sicilian Supper” (that is the name of the opera). Here is the synopsis: there is a wealthy noble family of Sicily, modeled after the paterfamilias. The father is a widower, and he has a son and two daughters. The youngest daughter is a bad seed, and she runs away from home, employing her natural intelligence in all manner of wickedness. She marries some stooge and then returns home, pretending to be someone else. In her disguise, she attempts to seduce her brother for no other reason than it is perverse. When she fails, she turns her charms on her father, and he, not knowing it is his daughter, couples with her. She wants to cuckold her husband and involve as many people in her wickedness as she can. The ruse is discovered, and in their shame, the brother and father kill themselves. The poor middle daughter is left all alone in the world and is about to fall victim to the bad seed. But the middle daughter draws up her courage from the sacrifice of her dead brother and slays her wicked sister at supper. That is it. That is Laura’s great commissioned opus and attempt to smear the reputation of Lucia.
When it became clear just what the hidden message was behind the story, I watched the Angelus Mortis and Lucia carefully, expecting an unpleasant scene. Lucia quickly got up and excused herself, saying she needed to visit the restroom. The Angelus Mortis, however, was in perfect control. His eyes flickered black for just a moment, but with a quick centering of himself—he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw—he mastered his Beast thoroughly. He did not flinch! We were forced to sit through the entire performance. The music was good, but I felt for my friends. I told the Angelus Mortis what I knew, that Laura had paid someone to write the opera to her specifications. When Lucia returned from the restroom a few minutes later, she pointed out that her sister has always had an inferiority complex—to use modern psychological terminology. “This might even be the seat of her madness,” Lucia continued, “for my father Embraced her only because there was no one left!” Lucia took pleasure from this thought, but as I looked through my binoculars, I could see that Laura was equally enjoying herself at Lucia’s expense. “Laura has no control over anything,” Isabelle commented, comforting Lucia.
According to the program, “Sicilian Supper” was written by Antonio Rosso. A fake name, obviously. But I have no doubt that the Angelus Mortis will find this Rosso and make him pay for what he has written in ignorance. I pity the composer.
Throughout the entire performance, Sergei was texting on his cell phone. He looked worried—nay, nearly overwhelmed with anxiety—so I mentioned it to the Angelus Mortis. I hope he speaks to the Tzimisce representative before the convention begins tomorrow night.
I turned back to the performance and looked once again at Laura. She still sat smiling. I then thought it a good idea to get a quick look at some of the other Kindred, but when I found Samael in my spyglass, I saw that he, too, was paying no attention to the performance but rather looking at everyone as I was. He then turned his binoculars on me, and I quickly looked away, feigning interest in the aria. Still Samael has spoken to none of the leaders; still he does nothing but watch. What a creep!
Before the opera, I introduced Julian to Marcus Tertius. They got along famously, and though I sensed some discomfort from Julian toward Marcus (all childer of Caine feel it), the Ventrue representative pushed his revulsion aside, for he liked Marcus enough to ignore it. They spoke fondly of Jürgen Swordbearer and rued the darkness of the modern nights without the light of his nobility and chivalry shining.
December 6th, 1997
This was the night of the convocation of the Inner Circle in Venice. For clarity and ease of remembrance, I here record in my journal all that has occurred at this momentous event of the formation of the Justicars.
The conference began in the Rose Room, room 793, of the Albergo Gran’Stella D’Oro. Laura Giovanni, as hostess, sat at the head of the long table, and an attendant unknown to me sat on her left while Santiago Giovanni sat on her right. Going clockwise around the table, Julian the Falconer sat flanked by his two Ventrue attendants. Next sat Marcus Tertius, ruler of the Toreador, with Isabelle on his left and me at his right hand. At the opposite end of the table from Laura Giovanni sat the Gangrel leader, Olwen of the Glacier, along with her two attendants. Then there was Sergei of the Bloody Blade, head of the Tzimisce, and he was flanked by the Angelus Mortis and Lucia. Finally, to Laura Giovanni’s right sat Samael, enigmatic lord of the Lasombra. He is Beatriz’ grandchilde and is newly-seated in his throne of shadow.
Laura Giovanni’s ghoul, Antonio Rosso, called the convocation to order, and as he spoke, everyone except Marcus Tertius and Isabelle felt ill at ease. There was a malaise hanging over the room, penetrating the air, curling up in every corner. We all felt it pressing down upon us, like some displeasing, invisible gaze. Laura’s eyes flitted from left to right repeatedly as she searched for something—no doubt, she looked for her father, who was not present. Marcus Tertius had been successful the previous night in warding the room against wraith incursions. It was this warding, this holy dread, which unsettled us Kindred. I continually felt a gnawing urge to jump from my seat and flee the room. I can only describe it as being covered in loathsome insects—one wishes only to jump about, frantically brush away the vermin, and flee the area in horror. Marcus’ ward, though not as hateful, was more terrifying than the darkest Carthaginian ritual! Antonio sensed his mistress’ discomfort—indeed, the anxiety of all was obvious—and so he asked if anyone wanted coffee. He thought to stall for time by reinforcing Masquerade. When no one answered him, he left the room to fetch the drinks which none of us could imbibe. Olwen only sat and glared at Antonio’s back, thinking he was the stupidest ghoul alive. Marcus Tertius sat carved out of marble, and Julian and Samael both looked at their peers curiously. Sergei was absorbed in his own private worries and paid no heed to anyone or anything. “Perhaps it would be best to get things underway, Prince,” I spoke into Marcus’ mind.
“So be it,” he replied telepathically, and then he rose. Marcus stood tall and proud as he said, “For the record, I am Marcus Tertius, childe of Julius the Wanderer, childe of Ishtar.”
Olwen, wanting to waste no more time, rose and, in exasperation, declared, “I am Olwen of the Glacier, childe of Brunhilde, childe of Kriemhilde, childe of Ennoia.” She plopped back down in her seat.
Sergei rose next, going in order around the table in clockwise direction. His mind was distracted as he spoke, and he impressed me as a mere shadow of a proper Voivode. “I am Sergei of the Bloody Blade, childe of Vlad Tepes, also known as the Impaler, childe of Viorica, Queen of the Mountain, childe of the Dracon, childe of the Eldest.” And then great sorrow overwhelmed me, for cruel Memory tormented me with thoughts of sitting at Viorica’s knee, listening to her tales, and enjoying the unmatched hospitality of the Voivode of Voivodes. And thoughts of hospitality threw my mind back to Dimitri. He also has passed into oblivion—and I then keenly felt that the true, old times are dead!
Samael stood next, and Memory fled from me as I turned to hear the Lasombra ruler. He had not spoken yet, and the first words from his mouth were his lineage. His voice was small but hard, and I fancied I could see shadows pour from his mouth as he spoke. “I am Samael, childe of Kabal, childe of Beatriz, childe of Lasombra.” Childe of Ordoño, he means! Beatriz diablerized Montano, and she has been tormented by the Lord of Shadows’ soul within her ever since. He is one of the chief reasons why she now sleeps! What audacity—Samael claiming such a direct connection to Lasombra himself! But no other member of the Inner Circle would gainsay him, and it was not my place—as a mere attendant to the Toreador lord—to voice any objection. I sat and held my peace. Of all the members of the Inner Circle, Samael seemed the least disturbed by Marcus Tertius, but I could read the agitation in his eyes. Samael hides his feelings well, but he cannot hope to disguise his emotions from my eyes!
Laura’s turn came next, but as hostess, she chose to say nothing but only looked to Julian on her left. The Ventrue ruler stood, his forehead high, his chest proud. I could envision him in splendid armor as he overlooked a battlefield. I could see his banner flapping in the wind behind him. “I am Julian, childe of Jürgen Swordbearer, childe of Hardestadt, childe of Veddhartha.”
Antonio Rosso then returned with waiters bringing in trays of cups, saucers, and pots of coffee. The smell was delicious, but no one touched their drinks—obviously. Antonio personally served Laura, and as he stood near her, his look of love and devotion was plain. I read in him a love that was different from ghoulish thralldom and have since learned that Laura recently acquired him from a Toreador. Antonio is, therefore, probably not fully bound to Laura. He adores her without reference to the bond, though Laura obviously uses him as she would any common slave.
Once the hotel staff was gone, Laura stood and took a moment to look at everyone individually. Her making us wait was tedious, and she did not impress me. I remember her from the Grand Alliance of 1222! “I am Laura Giovanni, childe of Augustus Giovanni, childe of Cappadocious.” She spoke the name of her father with clear reverence, and I smiled, happy in the thought that she was temporarily cut off from Augustus. “I now call this convocation to order,” she announced, and then she looked about the room once more, hoping that her father might whisper to her. Santiago interpreted her desperate movements and smiled at her misfortune.
Marcus Tertius rose to speak, but Olwen also rose and said, “By your leave, Prince.” Marcus bowed to her and resumed his seat. Olwen is nearly as tall as Marcus, and she stood unimpressed and quite bored by everything. With a snort she began, saying, “Will no one ask the obvious question? Where is Chrétien, and, more importantly, why is Marcus Tertius the head of the Toreador Clan?” And then she looked at me scornfully.
“Indeed,” Laura rose and seconded Olwen’s objection. “Marcus Tertius is not of Michael’s line, a stipulation expressed in the treaty of the Grand Alliance, that document which is the basis of the entire Camarilla. What if someone of Michael’s line challenges his rule?”
I rose and said, “I assure you all I will not, and I also speak for Isabelle la Fey. She will not.”
I sat, and as everyone glared at me, upset at being so inconvenienced by me not simply taking the throne and keeping everything nice and neat, Julian took advantage of the silence to rise and say, “I support Marcus Tertius as ruler of the Toreador. Chrétien named Marcus Tertius his successor, so there is an end of the matter! The affair has been satisfactorily handled among the Toreador.”
And then Samael stood to speak, verbalizing his first voluntary utterance. His dark eyes narrowed as he said softly, “Let us not forget, esteemed colleagues, that Marcus Tertius can hold the position by power of blood alone—if nothing else.” Samael resumed his seat, having called to everyone’s mind, without explicitly mentioning, Marcus’ unsettling power. I thought he might smile privately to himself for his maneuver, but he simply sat low in his chair and looked hawkishly at everyone.
Then suddenly, without any warning, Sergei collapsed out of his chair and started screaming! It was a cry of utter anguish, of unmitigated madness, of absolute terror and grief. I jumped up in alarm, as did several other people, but the Angelus Mortis and Lucia, betraying none of their feelings about the collapse of their leader, were hastily carrying Sergei from the room. I was in a near panic, but when I looked around the room, no one save Isabelle was concerned! Yes, there sat the most brutal of all the Cainites, the cruelest of all Kindred. Olwen did not hide her exasperation and threw her hands up in disgust and mock resignation. What was happening to Sergei, and would he recover? No one seemed to care. Samael, from his low seat, looked with equal parts suspicion and fascination on the wailing, struggling form of Sergei. Julian rushed over to Lucia and said, “Lady, allow me to aid you.” But Lucia brushed off his attempt at chivalry as nothing more than an antiquated annoyance. I felt sorry for Julian trying to live chivalrously in these nights, trying to exercise his outmoded ideals on the coldest and most independent of women!
“The Voivode’s blood-bond has been broken,” Marcus Tertius said into my mind. I looked with shock at Isabelle, and I saw that she too had received the message. “Is Marya then dead?” I asked. Marcus did not answer, but the pregnant silence in his mind seemed to ask how else a Kindred triple-bond is broken if not by Faith or Final Death. And Faith is extremely lacking these nights. The Angelus Mortis returned a short while later, but in his absence, Laura Giovanni had grown impatient. “Lucia tends to the Voivode,” the Angelus Mortis announced. I telepathically asked him to elaborate, and he said that Sergei was indeed in dire straits, but this was a perfect opportunity for Lucia to bow out of the proceedings. “She hates Laura with every drop of Caine within her.” Indeed, I think Lucia showed remarkable restraint tonight to not challenge her sister openly about the plot of last night’s opera. “But Lucia needs Isabelle’s expertise,” he added, and I sent Isabelle out. My Lady was glad to go to the aid of the Tzimisce.
“And what of Sergei?” Laura asked disdainfully. “The Inner Circle cannot go forward with the representative of one of the founding Clans of the Camarilla absent.”
“I have been given authority to speak for the Tzimisce,” the Angelus Mortis announced. My friend was an oak, and I could not discern whether he spoke the truth or not.
Would someone have objected to the Angelus Mortis assuming control? Perhaps not, since he is of the same generation as Sergei. But any possible opposition was cut off by Samael. “Well,” he said, standing slowly, “I think perhaps it would behoove us to remove ourselves to another conference room?” And here he looked directly at Marcus Tertius. Samael was using Sergei’s breakdown as an excuse to change rooms and thus be rid of Marcus’ wards (which he only felt—he did not know the particulars). Marcus Tertius wanted to object but could not, lest he reveal his handiwork of last night. Again, Samael outmaneuvered his peers, and we all relocated to room 707. Antonio Rosso arranged it with the hotel staff.
“Perhaps Samael thinks the uneasiness in the room caused Sergei’s outburst,” Marcus whispered to me as we walked down the carpeted hall. “I think not,” I replied. “Perhaps he does, but I think he simply used Sergei as an excuse to be out of that room. He knows—as do we all—that there is a—” I wanted to say loathsome “—an unsettling aura in the Rose Room.” Marcus caught my hesitation and understood my full meaning. I think he was a bit sad to know that his presence affects even me so adversely. I do not know what to say! I am a childe of Caine! I am cursed! I drink blood, for gods’ sakes! Of course a Saint—a friend of Heaven—would trouble me!
Everyone felt immediately at ease in room 707—though I still felt the ever-present anxiety Marcus engenders in me. I was at his right hand. The Inner Circle was more relaxed, though Laura’s eyes still flitted about. She sat for a few moments in silence and visibly calmed herself. But then she whimpered and began to panic, for Augustus, apparently, did not come to her. Even in this room where Marcus’ wards were not in place, Augustus dared not approach—not while the indomitable Roman sat in union with the heads of the Camarilla. Marcus Tertius is newly awake, so he does not understand this age. Unlike Chrétien, he walks about with unveiled piety. I do not doubt that this will make him very unpopular in most Kindred circles. If he stays in Byzantium, only leaving for the Inner Circle, his enemies should leave him alone. For in Constantinople, who will harm Chrétien’s—and therefore Michael’s—proxy?
Marcus Tertius took the floor. “Now that we are reassembled, esteemed peers of the Realm, I formally put forward this proposition: the immediate creation of the office of Masquerade Enforcer. He should be free from all ties to city or region, able to wander where he wills, being judge and enforcer of Camarilla order, which is founded on the Masquerade.” Marcus was prepared for this speech. “In order to prove the necessity of these Enforcers, I cite now the examples of Paris, Moscow, and New Orleans.” And then he spent the next half hour enumerating the problems in these three cities, mentioning the gang warfare in Moscow, the Jyhadi attack on Camarilla order, Marko and his ridiculous ideas about how to run a city, and of course the age-old rivalry between the Ventrue and the Lasombra. Julian and Samael only stared dead-faced and unyielding at each other. Their reaction alone—in my opinion—was reason enough not to leave the matter in the hands of local Princes. There must be a higher authority to which one might appeal!
Olwen was the only one not listening to Marcus. She was clearly only waiting to talk. Laura listened, but she was also trying to locate her father. No doubt she was mentally begging for Augustus’ assistance. But more than that—she needed him. He keeps her stable. Laura is ancient, and being alone, she is also quite mad. Augustus must be her steadying hand. Samael stared through Marcus, and his dark eyes were flaying apart Marcus’ soul. Though he hid it well, Samael despised Marcus for his piety, and Samael’s veiled look of murder unnerved me. Marcus was unfazed and paused just long enough to stare pointedly at Samael, silently daring the Lasombra lord to make a move. Samael did not.
When Marcus resumed his seat, Julian immediately rose. “I second the motion! Marcus Tertius’ words are too true. Never were truer words spoken. We have need of these Enforcers.”
Samael then rose. “I, too, see the necessity for these Enforcers, but I wonder what the Toreador hope to gain from the creation of such an office.” And he stared once again unflinchingly at Marcus Tertius. Samael’s shrewd mind was working furiously, trying to find a way to exploit the situation, to not follow Marcus’ lead. “We must be cautious, however.” And here he turned his dark gaze upon me, though I knew he was not speaking to me but about me. “My grandsire told me what happened at the Grand Alliance. We must be wary in following the capricious Toreador in any matter of policy.”
I had been watching Olwen closely all this time, and it did not take me long to realize that she was on the verge of taking her attendants and leaving, thus effectively removing the Gangrel from the Camarilla! I rose. “I believe I have leave to speak, to influence where I will, but have no vote.” Laura nodded, so I continued. I did not reply to Samael’s jab but rather addressed the current matter. “We need Enforcers to bring order to our cities. We need them to help stop the disintegration of the Camarilla.”
“Disintegration is a rather strong word, don’t you think?” Laura asked.
“Think you so?” I asked and gestured to Olwen. All eyes turned to the Gangrel warrioress. I had read her displeasure correctly. She looked at me with pleasant surprise.
When she rose, I sat. “Well done, Toreador,” she said and nodded to me. Then she addressed the assembly. “What can any of you offer the Gangrel? I am weary of the Camarilla and these Inner Circle meetings. They are ridiculous. We Gangrel hardly inhabit cities, and therefore we fall under no Princely jurisdiction. Furthermore, when a Gangrel is in a city, he is automatically named primogen, though he is the only Gangrel in the city! He is therefore forced to attend all kinds of wearisome and tedious meetings—just like I am now. It is meaningless! I mean no offense, but with all this talk of Enforcers, all I see is more hassle for the Gangrel. We are not your unfriends, but we have no need of the Camarilla any longer. Therefore,” and here she paused to make sure everyone clearly understood her meaning, “the Gangrel withdraw from the alliance.” And she turned, flanked by her attendants, and strode proudly from the room. Olwen exited among surprised shouts from the other Inner Circle members, but she was no longer listening.
There was confusion for nearly ten minutes, and the natural hostility between the Lasombra and the Ventrue almost had Julian coming over the table to throttle Samael. The Angelus Mortis sat calmly and observed, and Marcus stood to protect Isabelle and me from any possible assault. When Laura finally gained control of the assembly, her voice was weary. “Clearly, we have need of the Enforcers, as Marcus Tertius has proposed.”
“Yes,” Antonio, who was standing near her, piped in, still agitated from all the excitement. And in a feeble attempt to impress Laura, he switched into Italian. He tried to say something about the Enforcers being judges, but instead of using the word ‘judicar,’ he said ‘justicar,’ which of course has no meaning.
“Judicar, you idiot,” Laura sneered over her shoulder at her ghoul. And then she rolled her eyes in disgust at Antonio’s failed amorous attempt.
“No, wait,” Marcus said. “Justicar. It is perfect. It is not as prosaic or revealing as ‘Enforcer.’ The word should be quite popular with Kindred.” Everyone thought about the word for a moment and then nodded in agreement. Antonio Rosso straightened his slumped shoulders as he realized that he had just contributed something substantial to the proceedings of the Inner Circle. He looked once again and hopefully at Laura, but his mistress paid him no heed.
I rose and said, “We need to replace the Gangrel. We are now only five Clans.”
“And to whom do you propose we go begging?” Samael asked scornfully.
The Angelus Mortis jumped to my defense. “Have you not heard the rumors that the childer of Malkav have expressed an interest in joining the Camarilla?” I thought fondly of Hunter, my new friend in Byzantium. His sire, Alexander, seems a fine Kindred, as well. Yes, the Malkavians would make a far better addition to the Camarilla. And they would not be dead weight—forgive the pun—like the Gangrel. “The Malkavians have a strong presence and influence in Mexico and South America,” the Angelus Mortis added.
“Then the first task of the Justicars—should they come into existence—would be twofold: court the Malkavians and investigate the Jyhadi activity as it relates to the chaos in Moscow.”
Samael would not be outdone by his rival and stood, interrupting Julian. “It is clear these Justicars must exist. But I propose there be only one from each Clan at any given time.”
“Five Justicars are not enough,” Laura observed dryly.
“Then they should be given authority to appoint assistants—Archons, if you will,” Marcus suggested.
Julian added, “And the Justicars must be made to answer to the Inner Circle alone.”
“And they must be hand-picked by us,” Samael said.
Laura weighed in. “The Justicars will be chosen by us and then will answer to the Inner Circle as a whole, not just to their respective Clan leaders.”
“But what of the time constraints?” Marcus asked. “Should the Justicars be made to wait 13 years to put forward any matters or grievances?” The Inner Circle discussed this matter for some time until it was agreed upon that they would continue to meet once every 13 years unless one or more of the Justicars called for an assembly.
“It is decided, then,” Laura said, “but Justicars cannot be chosen until we know what has become of Sergei.” I desired to speak with Isabelle just then, and she felt my wish. From Sergei’s room she spoke telepathically to me, telling me that Sergei was mad, thinking he had murdered both of his wives. “By Embracing them, he ultimately blames himself for their deaths,” Isabelle said. I then asked if Isabelle might influence him enough to give him some measure of temporary sanity, enough time for him to vote. Isabelle handled the difficult situation with expertise, and in no time, Sergei was sitting back among his peers. No one suspected anything, so complete was Isabelle’s work. The vote was unanimous in favor of the creation of Justicars. Then Lucia rushed Sergei out of the room, apologizing, saying that the Voivode had a private matter to attend to. No one questioned the prerogative of a member of the Inner Circle.
“Just look at that pretty little Degenerate,” one of Samael’s attendants then whispered to another one as he pointed out Isabelle walking across the room to resume her seat next to Marcus Tertius. The two Lasombra attendants shared a laugh at Isabelle’s expense, and though I was furious—am still furious—I will bide my time. I know Marcus will name me Justicar, and then I will have all the authority—legal authority—to deal with that worm! No longer will I have to burn down an Elysium. I will be able to walk into a gathering of Kindred and demand whatever I wish.
“We shall extend the session to tomorrow evening,” Marcus said, “at which time each member of the Inner Circle will officially name his Justicar.” And with that, the assembly disbanded. Laura eyed Marcus murderously, for she did not appreciate him usurping her authority over opening and closing the session. Marcus rivals her in generation, and he is more than double her age, so she could not object to his assumption of authority without seeming petty and ridiculous.
Back in our hotel room, I learned that Sergei was indeed a wreck of a Cainite. He howled and thrashed and beat his breast in guilt and despair. I thought he might tear the room apart—he was already shredding the mattress with his teeth!—but the Angelus Mortis sang him a song and calmed his tortured Beast. A profound serenity overwhelmed Sergei, and he fell into an almost catatonic state. Before retiring to my room to enjoy some private time with Isabelle and to write this entry, I said, “Perhaps a Malkavian could erase his memory and thus restore his mind to a wholesome state. I remember well how Elizaveta could get into the minds of her enemies. And cannot a Malkavian’s madness cancel Sergei’s?”
December 7th, 1997
Isabelle told me that Sergei’s problem is not one of despair but rather madness rooted in guilt. He Embraced his consorts, and then they died. As a Voivode who has lost two of his blood-bound wives, it is only natural that Sergei should blame himself. We do not fault him—he had no control over Marya’s life or death—but he holds himself chiefly responsible, and it was that disposition upon which I had to work tonight.
When we awoke, Sergei had resumed his throes of guilt, so the Angelus Mortis sang serenity into his soul once again. Once the Voivode was calm, I talked to him, gaining his trust. Sergei knows me, but it is my ability to read others that allowed me to touch upon the feelings closest to his heart. After a long talk with him, I assured my friends that we would have a mere half hour of lucidity from Sergei. “Then I will assure we begin promptly,” Marcus said.
We did, for Marcus had the Inner Circle assembled in conference room 707 in a matter of minutes. Sergei spoke first, robotically naming the Angelus Mortis Justicar, and then Lucia rushed him off to privacy once more. More than one eyebrow was curiously raised at this behavior, but no one said anything. Sergei is still a member of the Inner Circle, and no one would risk further division among the Camarilla Clans by hazarding a guess at Sergei’s condition and thus insulting the entire Tzimisce Clan. Marcus Tertius appointed me his Justicar, and I in turn have named Isabelle my Archon. Laura Giovanni was wise enough to put aside personal enmity and name Santiago the Justicar from her Clan. With him in such a position, he will no longer be required to be perpetually at Laura’s side. Samael has appointed one Roderigo Alberione to the august post, and Julian has named his favorite attendant, Johan Christofsen, his representative.
The five Justicars are as follows: Mordwyr of the Masque, the Angelus Mortis, Santiago Giovanni, Roderigo Alberione, and Johan Christofsen.
“The Justicars have the authority to name three aides and no more,” Laura announced. “Furthermore, the privileges and discretion of the Justicars are above those of local Princes.” Looking at each of us in turn, she added, “You now answer only to the Inner Circle.”
“In that case,” I said, stepping forward, “as Justicar, I have issue with that Kindred!” And I pointed out Samael’s other assistant, the one not named Justicar, the one who called Isabelle a Degenerate.
“Roberto?” Samael asked, indicating his aide. The Lasombra lord made Roberto step forward.
“This one last night called my Lady a Degenerate,” I said. “I understand that this pejorative term is used by many to describe the Toreador Clan, and I do not mind it. Call me Degenerate—call anyone Degenerate—but Isabelle is no such thing! She is perfection and beauty and purity. She is everything that a Degenerate is not. Call her that again, and you will meet Final Death at my hands.”
But Roberto only sneered at me. He dared not speak, but I knew his thoughts. He despised me and thought me quite foolish to publicly bring up so petty a point. “I am a Justicar, little insect,” I said, stepping forward menacingly. “Even your lord must support me in this! Now, you shall apologize to Isabelle for your idiocy.” Roberto looked to Samael for help, but the dark-eyed lord of shadows could not gainsay me. I was well within my rights. Finally, Roberto apologized to Isabelle. My Lady glowed with pleasure, not because Roberto had been humbled, but because I had defended her without thought of others’ disapproval. I could see in Laura’s and Samael’s faces that they thought me quite the fool for abusing my Justicar privilege in such a trivial matter. But it was not trivial to me! My Lady had been slandered. She is not immoral, not perverse, not hedonistic as many Toreador these nights are. Let the world take note: Isabelle la Fey is pure light and goodness!
I turned to Isabelle and immediately sensed her desire for me. We wanted to do nothing but return to our room with all haste and enjoy each other’s bodies and vitae until the rising of the sun, but I was waylaid by Samael. “Mordwyr,” he said with a sly smile, “I thought you might like to know that the Serpents’ Rattle is no more. My grandsire, before she slept, tossed him out into the terrible Spanish morning. Beatriz did not want to assign anyone the tedious duty of watching over Alejandro’s desiccated husk.”
“I thank you for this news,” I said, bowing hastily, trying to depart with Isabelle. My desire for her doubled as each excruciating moment passed.
“Not so hasty,” Samael said, taking my elbow. “I have a matter to discuss with you.” And then he paused for some time, only looking at me. I suddenly realized what he was doing. As I had used my Justicar privilege in shaming Roberto, Samael was now going to exercise his rights as a member of the Inner Circle by keeping me here and dictating to me. I folded my arms over my chest and waited. I made it quite clear to him that I knew what he was doing. When Samael was satisfied, he smiled and resumed, saying, “The Toreador are in a much better position now. Chrétien was wise to name Marcus Tertius his successor.” As opposed to me? I wondered at his meaning. Samael then called the Angelus Mortis over. When my Tzimisce friend was at my side, Samael said, “Now, gentlemen, we have two serious matters which need immediate attention. Concerning the situation in Moscow, the Jyhadi must be investigated. Other than the Holy Land and the vast deserts of Arabia, the Jyhadi’s strongest presence is in California.” Samael turned to the Angelus Mortis. “I am sending you there. As a Tzimisce, you can assume every changing shape to find expression, and thus you are the perfect spy. Go to Los Angeles and discover the intricacies of the Jyhadi plot.” Then, with his dark-eyed gaze turned back upon me, Samael said, “And you, Mordwyr, will be responsible for bringing the Malkavians into the fold. As has been evidenced in this assembly, few can match you in persuasion and discernment. You must discern the motives of the Malkavians in wanting to join the Camarilla, and if their motives are pure, you must persuade them to become a member Clan. Do not go to Mexico—for you would have no authority there—but meet with the Malkavians on neutral ground. As the Angelus Mortis said, the childer of Malkav have their strongest presence in Mexico. May I suggest Texas as a safe place to set a meeting?”
Samael has masterfully maneuvered the new political situation in his favor, and the Angelus Mortis and I are obliged to obey. I have bidden goodbye to Marcus Tertius. He will take his jet back to Byzantium as soon as may be. Isabelle, Lucia, the Angelus Mortis, and I will take my jet back to the States, and then we will part ways—the Tzimisce for California and we Toreador for Texas. I must contact the Malkavians. I think I will try the Prince of Mexico City. I do not know who he is, but he must be quite influential. Now that I am a Justicar, I find I do not know how to proceed!
From the Journals of the Angelus Mortis, Tzimisce Justicar
December 8th, 1997
I hastily pen this as we ride to the airport, for we may need to call in a Soviet plane to pick us up. We have only a short time to secure Bucharest before we go to Los Angeles, and so we cannot afford to fly with Mordwyr and Isabelle to the United States. But oh, I must write of my experiences during the day. I have used my ability to possess my ghouls before, but never until today have I fully experienced the sweet, agonizing limitations of a mortal body! Possessing Ivan, I went with Gregor just as the sun came up, and we roughly abducted the simpering Antonio and brought him to our room. What a wonderful imagination Gregor has, particularly for a brutish thug! He found such horrifically painful uses for wine bottles that I will certainly incorporate them into my next project. Oh, but the torture of Antonio was only the beginning! For I looked upon Lucia's perfect body, her breasts still as the dead yet so perfectly shaped, and I felt myself becoming erect quite naturally. This was something I had not felt since I spied upon the daughters of the Mironescu's serfs as a lad. I awoke Lucia and, grinning with lustful-sleepy thoughts, she agreed to my request before falling to torpor once more. And so Gregor and I took pleasure from all her orifices. Gregor paced himself, but I threw myself to the vinegar strokes well after I lost count, until Ivan's member was raw and bloody. Yet even the pain was ecstasy to me, for it had an edge that even the lingering death of the Assamite's poisoned blade did not possess. Can they feel pain more keenly than we, or is it merely the intoxication of the experience that makes me think so? I will have to experiment more, though perhaps Ivan deserves some rest after the fine showing his body allowed me to give. Perhaps what Lucia and I can come up with will create something even more shocking than what inspired that Japanese cartoonist who caught a glimpse of our careless coupling. But enough lustful thoughts for now. Bucharest awaits!
December 9th, 1997 Our business in Bucharest is concluded, and we have chosen a caretaker whilst Sergei is sequestered away. A bookish Tzimisce by the name of István is now the primogen of the Tzimisce, and he will act as the supposed conduit for the Prince's wishes. While István appears intelligent, he does not possess the iron will of my wife; he has existed within the relative stability of the Voivodate, never tested by conflict. We could not trust him with a disclosure of Sergei's condition. Instead, we have informed him of as much of the truth as he needs to know: Marya is dead by unknown means, and whilst I as Justicar investigate the death, Sergei goes to consult with the Archfiend. There will be no formal installation of István as primogen; instead, he accepts my word and will inform the denizens of his installment. If anyone should choose to question István’s word and force Sergei to leave the Archfiend to confirm his decision in person—well, the Bloody Blade would be most displeased. This will hopefully shore up István's confidence whilst squelching any protests for the time being.
December 10th, 1997 We have left Sergei staked in a deep grave, in a cavern that is the last known location of the Archfiend. I had a private urge to contact the Archfiend whom I have not seen in so long, but he is not one to answer the summons of another. I am currently the oldest of the active and mobile Tzimisce in existence, and I find it disconcerting. It pains me to leave Sergei in this state, and even now I consider destroying him to end his misery. Being staked and left in a box is a horrifying experience; I can only hope his current madness in some part insulates him from the experience. But one way or another, Sergei's experience will not last for long; we will either find the cure to his madness in the Malkavians, or we will destroy him as quickly and mercifully as possible.
Pre-Debriefing Report on the State of the Jyhadi as Discovered in Los Angeles Compiled by the Angelus Mortis, Justicar, and Lucia Mironescu, Archon For Submission to the Inner Circle I will first highlight the most important points of the investigation, followed by an account of the events. The major points discovered from the covert investigation into Los Angeles:
The Jyhadi and the Avalon Alliance forged a non-aggression pact one century ago. This became a full alliance 50 years ago, although it has lain dormant until recent nights. The Jyhadi have accepted the Brujah into their ranks. The Prophet holds the position of Blade (their equivalent of Primogen) within Los Angeles, and this was held by at least one Brujah, Bartholomaios, prior to that. The Brujah forged an agreement with the Avalon Alliance on the evening of December 14th, healing the rift between the followers of Moloch and Adonibaal's brood.
December 13th, 1997 Archon Lucia and I, in our identities as Lucy the Gangrel and Andrei the Brujah, first went to Bartholomaios' bookstore, as it was our only lead. At the bookstore, we met a Gangrel neonate going by the name Vikk who took us to be introduced to the Hand and his seneschal, Khai, within the back of a Turkish restaurant. Afterwards, Archon Lucia was taken to meet the Gangrel elder, Brynhilde, and her band of warriors. The Gangrel have no agreement with the Jyhadi and appear to be tolerated as Independents, at least within Los Angeles. I was then brought to meet the Prophet, who was accompanied by Philosir and Khilletzbaal. The Prophet noted that he had a scheduled meeting with a representative of Adonibaal, whom he had not seen “for 1000 years.” They were to meet with the intention of healing the divide caused by Adonibaal's defection to the Avalon Alliance. I, along with two neonate Brujah, was instructed to aid in ambushing Adonibaal's representatives should the meeting prove acrimonious and unsuccessful. All present then partook in a blood sacrifice which I could not protest against lest my identity be brought into question. The sacrifice proved to be a ritual enabling the Prophet to track me with a single insect, acting as his eyes and ears. Immediately assessing the situation, Archon Lucia and I communicated through mental contact whilst outwardly maintaining our cover, demonstrating no knowledge of the insect. We then spent the evening in the company of Brynhilde and Vikk, engaged in innocuous activities, finally staying at Vikk's haven and feigning sleep at an earlier hour to obscure our power.
December 14th, 1997 Accompanied by Vikk, Archon Lucia and I returned to the Turkish restaurant, wherein I was ushered to a back room to join the Prophet's side of the table in the meeting. Archon Lucia remained in the main part of the restaurant with Vikk. Below is a list of all who were present at the meeting, aside from me: The Jyhadi:
The Hand of Haqim of Los Angeles (Assamite) Khai, seneschal to the Hand (Setite) Jasmine (presumed ghoul of the Hand)
The Brujah (allied with the Jyhadi):
The Prophet Philosir Khilletzbaal Ricky (neonate) Bobby (neonate)
The Avalon Alliance
Hasdrubaal (Brujah) Unknown Kindred with British features (presumed Brujah) Another unknown Kindred with British features (presumed Brujah)
December 14th, 1997
I awoke tonight in New Orleans; I will sleep this day in the farthest thing from the teeming, ever-shifting vibrancy of the French Quarter—Rio Grande City, Texas, a miserable, dusty crossroads where it is not ironic to wear a cowboy hat. From the window of the rented Hummer limousine, Isabelle and I looked with dread upon the abandoned streets. “Kindred are urbanites for a good reason, my love,” I commented to Isabelle, who sat beside me, sharing my incredulous look of dismay. René, Tristan, Philippe, and Michele rode with us. It was best to maintain, as best as possible in this forsaken steamboat hub, the ostentatious lifestyle of Mr. and Mrs. Adonis Devereux. “Ah, the burdens of being named Justicar, my heart,” Isabelle replied with levity. I turned and smiled at her, thinking of how we had found ourselves in the Realm of Tumbleweeds.
Marcus had called me earlier tonight while I took my ease at Temple Plantation. He had arranged a meeting with the Malkavians on neutral ground—former Camarilla territory—Texas. Marcus had somehow gotten the Gangrel to host the initial contact, and I was to locate one Mr. Owens at the Brown Jug. I have since been educated in the meaning of the term “honky-tonk.” We took the jet from New Orleans to the nearest airport to Rio Grande City as we could find, and from there, we rode in the limousine that awaited our arrival. The first indication I had that we were drawing near our destination was the lighting up of the nearly impenetrable darkness. Texas highways can grow quite dark. We turned off some forlorn state road and took the dirt path down a hill that opened into a large parking lot. At the far side of the lot stood a structure built of wood, with a corrugated steel roof. Light poured of its windows, and its large, garish neon sign lit up the parking lot and the night in harsh red that flickered white as the animated brown jug endlessly poured out alcohol for a populace that has no other hope than the momentary bliss it receives from drunkenness.
We pulled up, and Isabelle and I stepped from the vehicle. She was dressed beautifully in red; my tie and belt matched her hue, but my suit was grey and pin-striped. When a jean- and cowboy hat-wearing local denizen walked by us—his eyes like saucers, his tobacco dripping from his lower gum as his mouth hung agape—we knew we had come overdressed. “But we come to see the Malkavian ambassador,” Isabelle commented, “not these bar patrons.” Kindred Justicar or not, I am Adonis Devereux, so there was no compromise of Masquerade. If nothing else, I am merely an eccentric billionaire—but I doubt anyone I met tonight at the Brown Jug has ever heard of my name. Philippe and Michele waited outside by the limousine while René and Tristan accompanied us inside. When we got to the door, I read the prominently-displayed, handwritten sign: “Charlie ‘Slim’ Owens Tonight!” “So, our Gangrel host is some sort of performer,” I said and smiled, suddenly hopeful of the upcoming proceedings.
The honky-tonk was crowded with rowdy, eager patrons clutching mugs of spirits awaiting the advent of the main attraction. The jukebox played Merle Haggard, the Bakersfield sound of “Branded Man” an interesting counterpoint to the raucousness of the bar patrons. But no one dared change the track, for near the stage sat a man listening intently to the lonely refrain. He was dressed in all black, a pack of battered cigarettes in the breast pocket, a tall, lean man drumming his fingers on his battered guitar case. His bushy sideburns thrust out from beneath his battered Stetson, and I can only assume his eyes stared thoughtfully into the distance. He wore dark sunglasses, and before him sat an un-drunk beer. Without Soul-sighting him, I knew this man was Mr. Owens. Everyone looked at him, waiting for him to emerge from his private meditation and take the stage. I directed Isabelle to a table near the stage, and I sat beside her. She drew brazen looks and cat-calls from all corners of the bar. René and Tristan thought to make a move toward the offenders, but with a smile, I wordlessly instructed them to go stand near the door. They obeyed, and “I Fall to Pieces” drew to its heartbreaking end. Slim Owens then stood, slung his guitar, and mounted the two thin, wooden steps to the stage. The crowd whipped itself into a frenzy. I have since learned that Mr. Owens is known state-wide and is a favorite at fairs and bars. After hearing his music, I knew he could be so much more—he could be nationally famous. But for many reasons—the least of which being that he is a Cainite—he has no desire for such exposure.
“Thanks for comin out tuhnight, yall,” Slim said wearily into the microphone as way of preamble. The patrons cheered. “Jes like ta tell yall uh story afore ah sing. Sa story uva woman.” And here he paused, looking long at his fans. The men cheered—some made off-color comments. Slim chuckled. “This bird wuzent purty—jus lookt that way. I learnt from her that wut ya see ain’t always wut ya git.” Slim sighed as his head dipped a bit in resignation. Then, with redoubled effort, he pressed his lips against the microphone and declared emphatically as he took his guitar firmly in hand, “Sumtimes there’s uh predator lurkin behind those purty eyes!” And he launched into his first song. He sang with passion and pain about a lover who had trapped him with webs—like a spider—in her bed. She was bleeding him dry, sucking all she could out of his life, out of his soul. One night he finally found the courage to leave, but she pursues him. She calls him up late at night, telling him how lonely she is without him. She leaves notes stuck on his door. She begs for him to return to her, but he declares in his song that he is not yet lonely enough to forget all he has learned and return to her. The song is beautiful, and the pain in the imagery is something only a childe trapped by his sire in an abusive, hopeless, inextricable relationship could have written.
The performance was marvelous—bare and unsophisticated—but wonderful all the same. Slim’s passion runs deep. Indeed, to spice up the songs would be to ruin them. Their meaning is carried on their simplicity, and I salute Mr. Owens for composing such beautiful songs in the Country genre. In the middle of his set, something upset Slim, and I got the sense that he wanted to exit the stage as quickly as possible. He had seen something or someone in the crowd. When I turned, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. By this time, Slim had recovered and continued his song—a typical tune about lost love. When the set was finished, and after the wild applause and hoots had died down, I walked up and introduced myself to Slim. “Good evening, Mr. Owens,” I said, extending my hand easily. “I believe you are expecting me. My name is Adonis Devereux. And that,” I gestured to where Isabelle still sat, men beginning to surround her, “is Mrs. Aphrodite Devereux.” Slim was distracted by something uncomfortable, but he shook my hand and said in reply, “People jes call me Slim. Pleashure ta meechoo. You’ve bin expected.” And he motioned to the booth behind him. There sat a Latino man with a pallor uncommon to his genetic stock. I assumed he was the Malkavian ambassador. He was well dressed, but not ostentatiously so, in standard, uninspired Texan fashion. “This here’s Miguel Brown.” I shook the ambassador’s hand and sat opposite him, while Slim took his place of meditation between us. “Señor Miguel,” I began, “allow me, on behalf of the Camarilla, to express my unmitigated pleasure at finally being given the privilege to meet one of the worthy scions of the noble tree that is Malkav.” The ambassador smirked and said in English, “I have heard of your honeyed tongue, Mordwyr, and I will not be swayed by it, no matter how pleasing the utterances.” I smiled and leaned forward, saying, “Then let me speak plainly. The Camarilla seeks alliance with the childer of Malkav. We are not desperate but simply crave the unique gifts that you can offer. It may or may not surprise you to know that I have had several friends and acquaintances among the Clearsighted. Indeed, most recently counted among my friends is one Hunter of Constantinople. We have become quite close, for I respect the genius of the Malkavians, that genius which is often dismissed as madness. As an old acquaintance of mine in the Old World once said—a phrase I have not forgotten—the Tzimisce are to be feared because they mold the flesh, but beware the ones who can break the mind!” The ambassador’s eyebrows shot up, and he smiled pleasantly. “I am glad to hear of your extensive contact among my brethren. I am sure the Maestro would like to hear more, but before you can meet him, there are a few preliminary points we must first go over.” He opened his briefcase and produced a number of documents. The chief concern was the matter of equality. “We want to have an equal seat and vote at the Inner Circle,” Miguel demanded, “and we require equal representation among the Justicars.” My shock was plain. “Ah, yes,” the ambassador continued, “my Maestro knows a great many things, not only about you but about your enemies, as well.” I had expected word about the formation of the Justicars would have taken longer to reach the ears of the unaligned.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught a commotion. Turning, I saw Isabelle being harassed by half a dozen half-drunk fellows, so I called my Lady to me. She was happy to come sit at my side, and I read the reaction of the proud Texans from whom I had torn her: they wanted to give me a good thrashing and may have even attempted such a foolish thing, had I not made such good friends with Mr. Owens. “As Justicar, I speak for the Inner Circle and, on matters of policy, for the entire Camarilla: I guarantee the Malkavians an equal seat at the table. Equal rights and equal privileges.” The ambassador nodded. “Then I will speak with the Maestro. His answer I will deliver to you here tomorrow night.” I shook his hand as we stood. “Agreed.”
Having dispensed with business, I turned to Slim with a glowing smile. “You play very well, indeed, and your confessional lyrics betray much about your life,” I said. “If you possessed technical skill alone, I would not be impressed. We are Cainites. Of course we can perfect ourselves technically. But there is soul in your music, a sense of pain and loss and loneliness, feelings that most Kindred quickly lose by growing numb to that which made them human. You, however, have retained it, and I would be honored if we could play together.” I gestured to the stage. Slim was certainly not prepared for my request, and he said, “You wanna jam with me?” I turned and motioned René to me. “Go and fetch my guitar,” I said. With my servant gone, I said to Slim, “Yes, Mr. Owens, if you would do me the honor.” Slim was a bit hesitant—he did not know of my musical ability—but finally he agreed, and we took the stage. I took off my necktie and handed it to Isabelle. Slim and I agreed to jam with “Alberta,” with me taking vocals while he played the lead. “Howdy ’gen, yall,” Slim said, quieting the crowd. “Uh, this here’s a frien uh mine called Adonis. We’re gonna play anuther song fer yall, so jes sit back an enjoy.” We played beautifully. What a simple tune, and yet how satisfying in its easy chords! A first-year guitar student could play this song well! The bar jumped in delight at our performance. Our guitars complemented each other perfectly, and we had everyone clapping and boot-tapping. Isabelle sketched as we played. She loves it when I perform, and I love her for finding me a worthy subject of her pen.
After the performance, those surly drunks who did not like me much could not very well have attacked me in the parking lot with their axe-handles. They would have looked like complete tools. I took Isabelle’s hand, and we got out while we could, before anyone could ask for an encore or mob me for autographs. Next to Isabelle sat another redhead—a natural redhead, but with hair not nearly as lovely as my Lady’s fiery tresses. This other woman’s red was garish; it was brushed back in a rustic, tasteless fashion. She was dressed trashy and had the unmistakable look of destructive hunger in her eyes. Her makeup was sloppy and too thick. Isabelle dropped her sketchbook as we were leaving, and Slim picked it up. “You dropt this, ma’am.” And then he saw the sketch. “Damn—excuse my language—” He tipped his hat courteously. “I ain’t seen nuthin quite like this drawin.” Into Isabelle’s mind I suggested she give it to him, and my Lady agreed that this was a good idea. “Please keep it,” she said, “as a gift for your lovely performance.” Slim tipped his hat again, “Ma’am.” As we walked away, I saw the redhead’s jealousy rise from her like a phoenix. Her anger threatened to set the place ablaze.
She met me at the door, cutting me and Isabelle off from our waiting bodyguards. “I’m Emma-Jean,” she said, her voice hoarse and bitter, though she was trying to make herself sound sweet. “That wuz sum fine playin ya did up there.” And she inched closer to me, hooking her thumbs into my belt as she slowly raised her eyes to meet mine. Emma-Jean is a temptress—no doubt the woman of whom Slim had sung—but I have encountered far better than she in my eight centuries of life. Even Arianne, unskilled as she was, was better than Emma-Jean! I effortlessly sidestepped the redhead and exited the honky-tonk. In the limousine, I received a phone call from the Angelus Mortis. His voice was different—most likely fleshcrafted—but he assured me it was he. He informed me that he has been successful in Los Angeles. I was glad to hear it and congratulated my friend. “But there’s more,” the Tzimisce lord said. “Lucia and I—and therefore all the Camarilla—are indebted to a group of local Gangrel.” He then proceeded to tell me that these Gangrel are led by a Viking warrioress—a proper one from 1200 years ago—and that they have all been training while looking for a ship on which to sail. I understood what the Angelus Mortis wanted me to do and told him that I would see to the details. I have since contacted my steward and empowered him to purchase up to a 120-foot yacht and have it registered under the name of Hawthorne West. I have directed my steward to purchase it through a local dealer, thus enabling the Gangrel to take to the high seas as soon as may be.
From the Journals of the Angelus Mortis, Justicar