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Chapter Text

by Diane Webster, student archaeologist

If I told you how I spent my summer vacation, you would never believe it.

I’m still not sure I believe it myself.

I know a lot of people think the life of an archaeologist is bullwhips, ancient curses, walking mummies, and finding ancient tombs filled with golden treasure. Straight out of the summer movies, right?

Usually it’s sifting through a metric ton of sand to find a handful of pottery shards. That’s what I was expecting. Backbreaking and painstaking work, with or without air-conditioning, depending on whether we were doing it in the back room at some museum or in the field.  Which was fine with me. It doesn’t pay all that great, but it pays something, and it counts as professional experience. I considered myself lucky I got a graduate assistantship that summer that was actually in my field. The professor was a bit eccentric, but I assumed it was something I could deal with.

But as it turned out, “eccentric” didn’t even begin to cover it.

And that boring summer job of sifting through sand and identifying pottery shards? That turned out to be more like something out of the movies, complete with special effects by ILM and WETA.  It started with a random bellboy attack, and progressed from there to airport stalkings, museum robberies, weird prophecies, kidnappings and heroic rescues, secret societies, cryptic cyphers, ancient curses, forgotten tombs, ritual murder, blood, corpses, giant serpents, a lunar eclipse, flying monsters, resurrected gods, earthquakes, and entirely too much unexplained supernatural shit to be at all plausible even by Hollywood standards.

But let’s not forget the epicenter of the weirdness that was my summer job-slash-vacation, without which none of the rest would likely have ever happened.

I’m talking, of course, about the Vampires.

Chapter Text

Chicago, Illinois – June 7^th, 2004

It was a stroke of luck, or so Dr. Charles E. Hewitt liked to think of it later, that he even found out about the estate sale.  He’d known the deceased, of course. Mr. Alfred Drayer had been somewhat of a collector, starting with pieces his father, the General, had rescued from a Nazi hoard back in ‘45, and over the years the historical foundation the family had founded to handle the growing art and antiquities collection had occasionally called on Dr. Hewitt’s services as an appraiser and authenticator.  That such appraisals only took place after dark, never during the morning or afternoon, was not something Mr. Drayer ever thought to question.

By the same measure, the Foundation’s secretary did not question a kind request from Dr. Hewitt to review the list of artifacts now being offered for public auction from the collection.

The catalog listing for the sale had already been published, but it only took minor persuasion from Dr. Hewitt to convince Mr. Drayer’s secretary and estate executor to allow him (in light of their long-established business relationship and personal friendship, of course) to privately purchase a few of the less valuable artifacts two nights before the auction was scheduled to be held.

And so it then followed that when certain other less well-connected but very determined parties broke into the auction house’s secure storage facility, looking for certain artifacts listed in that catalog, they were not at all pleased to find the items they were most interested in acquiring (without proper compensation, naturally)  had apparently already been sold. And due to the Foundation’s secretary having taken the paperwork home with him, there were no records as to who had even purchased the items in question.

Chicago, Illinois – June 8^th, 2004

Night security guard at a warehouse was not supposed to be dangerous job, or even a terribly exciting one.  There might not have been a live guard on duty at all, but the insurance company tended to prefer a storage facility with so many valuable items not rely entirely on remotely monitored electronic security systems. Especially not the night before a major auction that had been widely advertised, and included original art pieces and historical artifacts of considerable antiquity, some of them quite valuable items indeed.

And so the auction house had made the usual arrangements with a local private security firm, and hoped that the profits from the auction itself would cover the additional overhead of one night security officer, whose job was, quite frankly, to make sure the electronic security system stayed armed and functioning.

Even though this was only a part-time gig for him, Garrison nonetheless took his job extremely seriously.  He listened carefully to the instructions he was given, which included spending forty minutes of every hour sitting at the security desk, where he could monitor the cameras and alarm systems, and listen to his iPod at the same time.  Then for about fifteen or twenty minutes, he was to walk through the warehouse itself, to look into  all the dark corners the cameras couldn’t reach, and make sure all the security systems were still in functioning order.  He did this in part by walking through motion detectors and test-tripping proximity alarms, so that his compatriot back at the main office could see the alarms’ response and fill out the appropriate check list.

It was during his fourth hour on the job, about halfway through his shift, when he was sitting at the desk, that he got a call from his supervisor.

“Hey, Reggie.  You forgot to call?”  

“What?  What call?”  Garrison asked.

“The call you’re supposed to make before you go walking through motion detectors and kicking off the alarms, so I know it’s you.  That call.”

“I’m not walking anywhere. I’m sitting right here at the desk.  Look at your camera, I’m wavin’ at you.”

“Well, if you’re there, what’s trippin’ the alarm down on the floor?  That’s Zone 4 West.. and now Zone 3, too.” 

“I don’t see anything on the monitors,” Garrison said, clicking through each of the camera feeds he could see.  “Guess I’d better go have a look. Probably just rats.”

“You do that. Dammit, I’m gonna have to file a report on this, aren’t I.”

“Better you than me,” Garrison said.  He stood up, tucked his iPod in his pocket, and picked up his flashlight.

He had just gotten down to the main warehouse floor when his cell phone buzzed again.

“Reggie—are the emergency lights still on down there?”

“Yeah, near as I can tell.  Why? Another alarm go off?”

“No, it’s the monitors—they just all went dark. Not a peep from the alarms, either. But if the lights are on, there isn’t anything wrong with the power.”

“Huh.  That’s weird.”

“I got a bad feeling about this, maybe you ought to—“  The phone went silent—no static, not even the signal breaking up, just suddenly silent.

“What?  What the hell—“ Garrison started to say. Then he realized he had spoken aloud, and yet he’d heard nothing.  “Hey.  Hey!” 

Silence.

Then they came, out of the darkness, and because of the silence, he never heard them coming.

Nor did anyone hear him scream.

Cayman Brac, Cayman Islands – June 9^th, 2004

Marius was getting restless again.  Gabriel Roark could sense it, an odd sort of itching echoing through the blood they shared.  After centuries of wandering, Gabriel had his own reasons to treasure the peace and solitude of his remote tropical island haven.  But Marius was not made for solitude.  He would come home for a break, to relax and be lazy for a few nights or weeks at a time. But sooner or later he would get restless, or he’d get some kind of message from somewhere else in the world, and he’d be off again, a dark fleeting shadow in the eternal night.

“So where are you going this time?”  Gabriel asked, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, watching Marius pack. Almost everything Gabriel could see stuffed inside the duffel looked to be black; it didn’t look as though he was taking his more formal business attire. “Anyplace interesting?”

Marius glanced up from packing. “That would depend on your definition of interesting.”

“In the very best traditions of the Chinese Curse, of course,” Gabriel said, smiling.

“Merda, I hope not.  Mexico City certainly could get interesting, but if so, I don’t plan to be caught in the middle of it at the time.”

“Ah, the central buzzing hive of Sabbat politics,” Gabriel shook his head.  “So have they picked a new Regent yet? Please don’t tell me you’re under consideration—you might just be considered both sufficiently old and expendable enough to be nominated. And you might even be foolishly noble enough to accept—for the good of the Sabbat, of course.”

Marius grinned.  “I don’t consider myself expendable. And I promise you I’m not that noble.   Besides, the Prisci will never choose their puppet from the Black Hand.  I think I’m safe enough from politics this trip.”

“Let me guess.  You got a secretly coded message from Aajav-Khan, delivered by a highly trained messenger bat...”

“Have you ever tried to train a—never mind.  No, I actually got an email.  From someone who knows which century this is.”

“Are you sure you know what century this is?”  Gabriel persisted, following Marius as he headed upstairs, the duffel slung over one shoulder.  “It changed recently, you know.”

“So I heard,” Marius said. “And amazingly enough, the world did not end, despite all the doomsayers promising it would. The computers did not stop working, clocks kept on ticking, the Antediluvians did not rise, and Our Lo—“ He stopped in mid-sentence, then continued. “Biblical prophecy is still waiting for the right moment, I suppose.  And besides, you’re traveling soon too.  Aren’t you?”

“Am I?”  Gabriel was not especially good at feigning innocence, but it wasn’t as though he was trying  to hide anything, either.  “Where am I going, and am I going to meet anyone fascinating?”

They were passing through the foyer, heading towards the front doors.  Marius scooped up a magazine from a side table, held it up as evidence.  The Stolen Treasures of Egypt: A Diplomatic Dilemma Three Thousand Years in the Making.  “You’ve been reviewing  your ancient Egyptian studies of late—did you think I didn’t notice?  You’re determined to beat Pieterzoon to this—whatever it is in this exhibition that’s caught your eye.  Some kind of Noddist relic? Ancient Cainite treasure?”

“Most likely not, but you never know.”  Gabriel took the magazine from Marius’ hand and flipped through the pages to one with the corner turned down. He held it up for inspection.  “What do you think?”

Marius glanced at the photo, a beautifully preserved sarcophagus which took up most of the page.  “A stone coffin is still a damned uncomfortable place to sleep, no matter how much gold it’s decorated with—and I can speak from personal experience. But those things are usually empty.  Aren’t they?”

“Usually, yes.  But it’s not the sarcophagus I’m interested in.  Look down there, off to the side, in that display case.”

Marius took the magazine back, letting the duffel slide to the tiled floor.  “The black rock thing? Why?”

“The article said it hasn’t been translated yet. And they aren’t sure where it came from, but they think it was found in an Egyptian tomb.”

“And you think you can read it?”  Marius flipped to the front of the article.  “So where exactly are you going—not Egypt, I presume?”

“It’s a traveling exhibit.  It just closed in Atlanta, and will be opening in Baltimore in about two weeks.”

“Baltimore?”  Marius handed the magazine back again.  “Well, that should be safe enough, it’s still Camarilla, isn’t it?  Better than Atlanta, definitely.”

“You could come with me,” Gabriel suggested, hopefully.  “Broaden your horizons. Learn to read hieroglyphs. Protect me from Pieterzoon.”

Marius chuckled, and shouldered the duffel again.  “You don’t need my protection. Just be careful. And try not to wake up any mummies.”

“Don’t worry,” Gabriel sighed. “Some things really do happen only in the movies...”

Chapter Text

Madison, Wisconsin – June 12^th, 2004

“Hello, you’ve reached Grad Central Station. We’re all out working very hard on our theses right now, honest. No, stop giggling, it’s TRUE! We really are!  Leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we come up for air and ramen.  Hopefully soon, but you know how it is. You know the drill...”

“Good grief—“  Diane Webster hit the pause button on the answering machine and gave her roommate her patented over-the-glasses Are you shitting me?  Look, though she still found it hard to totally suppress her smile.  “You were drunk when you recorded this, Lisa, don’t try to deny it.  Come on, shouldn’t our message be a bit more, I don’t know, professional?”

“You’re welcome to record the next one if you want,” Lisa said loftily.  “Go on, listen to the message.  Maybe someone wants to ask you out—someone with a sexy British accent.”

“Yeah, right,” Diane replied.  “He’s my boss, he’s not allowed to ask me out.  Okay, hush, let me hear it.”

She pushed play again.  The voice that emerged was male, a pleasant light baritone, and did indeed have a distinct British accent that could have come straight out of Masterpiece Theater.

“Oh, I’m supposed to talk now, aren’t I?  Right.  Well. This is for Diane, of course.  I was just wondering if you and Thomas would like to take a closer hands-on look at the new pieces I’ve acquired from the Drayer Foundation. They just arrived today, and I’m uncrating them this evening.  Come by the office around… let’s say, ten? Give me a call when you arrive and I’ll come down and let you into the building.  Well. Hope that’s sufficient enticement to lure  you out on  a Saturday night.  Hope to see you soon, then...”

“See?”  Lisa grinned.  “What did I tell you?  Nothing like a late night secret rendezvous over ancient Egyptian artifacts—so romantic.”

“Stop it,” Diane let a bit of annoyance show in her tone—the joke was getting a bit old now, and Lisa really did know better.  “Besides, if TJ is there, and he will be there if he gets the same message, this is going to be work. What time is it—ten-thirty?  Oh, shit, I’d better get a move on—“

“What—going in to work now? Can’t this wait until, you know, Monday?” Lisa asked.  “Or at least normal working hours?  Are you crazy?”

“No, I’m an archaeologist,” Diane said, scooping up her car keys and cell phone.  “Besides, if he did get some pieces from Drayer, no way am I gonna let TJ hog all the fun.”

“You have a really weird idea of fun.”

“Oh, like I’ve never been told that before,” Diane said, grinning. “I’ll see you tomorrow, don’t wait up—“

When she arrived, it was TJ who came down and let her in the building.  He was two years older than Diane, a tall and lanky young man with long sandy-blond hair he kept tied back with a rubber band (though some pieces were always escaping and dangling loosely around the edges of his face).  This was TJ’s second summer working for Dr. Hewitt, so he was well-accustomed to their professor’s quirks, including (apparently) late-night lab sessions with newly acquired artifacts.

“Hey, Di—“ he said.  “Your timing is spot-on, we were just about to open it.”

“What is it?  What did he get?” Diane had to stretch her legs to keep up with him, especially going up the stairs.  “Come on, TJ, is it authentic or what?  Give!”

“You’ll see,” he said, grinning down at her.  “Hey, don’t blame me, Charles made me promise to not talk about it outside the lab.”

“Oh? A vow of silence now? This had better be good.”

Except for the security lights, the building was mostly dark. But there was light coming from the office at the end of the hall.  The name on the door read Dr. Charles E. Hewitt, Archaeology. It wasn’t a terribly big office, since Charles was only a part-time adjunct, but the office had a second door into a very well-kept working lab, and that was where the professor and his surprise awaited.

Diane saw it on the table as soon as she came through the door: a large square box of carved and painted alabaster. The sides were inscribed with columns of hieroglyphic characters and the figures of four goddesses, and the lid was adorned with the recumbent figure of a traditional Anubis jackal,  its head raised on guard duty.

“A canopic chest,” she said in awe. “Oh my God, Charles—is that what I think it is? Is it authentic? No, it can’t be, can it.  I’ve seen your budget…”

“Is it really 19^th Dynasty, is that what you mean?” Charles Hewitt, PhD, was tall, slim and professorial, from his wire-rimmed glasses down to his khaki slacks and sensible shoes.  He also sported a waxed mustache and long sideburns, which (along with his accent) rather made him appear as though he just stepped out of a BBC documentary. “Well, take a look.  You tell me.”

Accepting the challenge, Diane leaned closer, to better study the hieroglyphic text inscribed on the side closest to her.  After a few minutes, however, a slight frown creased her brow, and then she exhaled.  “Gibberish,” she pronounced at last.  “It looks good—until you try to read it. And there are symbols here I’ve never even seen before.  How old is it, really?”

“Very good,” Charles said, nodding approval.  “Circa nineteen-twenties, according to the provenance the Drayer Foundation had on it.  There were a lot of replica artifacts made back then—it was all the rage, as they say.  And according to the documentation, it’s complete—shall we look inside?”

“We were waiting for you,” TJ said.  “Okay, we weren’t going to originally, but since you called, Charles insisted we had to wait.”

“Thanks so much, TJ,” Diane said.  “I’ll remember that.  Sure, let’s see what’s inside.”

The stone lid to the chest was quite heavy, so they used the portable winch—the same piece of equipment that had doubtless assisted with raising the stone chest to the reinforced table top earlier in the evening.  The winch lifted the lid without a hitch and set it down gently in the prepared space for it further down the table, allowing them to see what was inside.

The canopic jars themselves were nestled in their compartments, padded with some carefully placed bubble wrap and felt to prevent the jars from shaking around too much during transit.   Charles donned gloves and lifted each one out, setting them down on the table with great care.  Like the chest, they were made of alabaster.  They stood about sixteen inches tall, and each had a well-fitted lid in the shape of a head—a man in Egyptian headdress, an Anubis jackal, a Horus falcon, and a baboon.

“All four jars—at least it’s a really nice fake,” Diane said, looking them over. “And the hieroglyphics on the jars look like the traditional text.  Though… that’s odd. Look at the base of each head… I’ve never seen that before.”

“That is most unusual,” Charles agreed.

Around the base of each head there was an additional raised lip, perhaps intended to provide additional security for the jar’s lid.  There also appeared to be something inscribed on the lip.

Diane found a pair of gloves and examined the nearest jar, the one with the Anubis jackal head, more closely.   “Interesting… it’s a lotus pattern.  Rather an odd place to put one.”

“A—a lotus pattern, did you say…”  Charles murmured.  He had picked up the last jar in the line, the one with the human head.

TJ donned gloves as well, and picked up the falcon-headed jar.  “Yeah, definitely lotus—why?”

“How odd—“  Charles was still staring at the jar in his hands.  “Come over here and tell me I’m not seeing things? Because I might be—does this look like a lotus pattern to you?”

Diane put the jackal-headed jar back down and started around the table to take a better look.

“I’m probably seeing things,” Charles said.  “Am I?”

“No, Charles,” TJ said, leaning closer.  “That is definitely not a lotus pattern. Looks like some kind of writing, but I’ve never seen those characters before.   Diane, take a look at this one, you’re the Paleography geek.”

“Flatterer,” Diane said, and leaned over their professor’s other shoulder. “Those are definitely not hieroglyphs—or hieratic, or demotic, or anything I’ve seen before. Why is this one different than the others?”

“This jar isn’t the same grade of alabaster, either,” TJ pointed out. “Look at the graining here, and the color.  It’s close, I’ll grant you, but it’s not the same.  The bands of darker color are thicker on the three other jars, and they are more or less at the same height.  But this one, that’s not really a thicker band, see? Look at it through the magnifying glass.  See the layering?  It’s still the same kind of stone, but the grain is much finer.  And the layering shows it came from a different place, where the calcite sediments were built up at a different rate.”

“So one of these things is most definitely not like the others,” Diane said, thinking aloud.  “But why would the Drayer not list it separately?  Why try to pass it off as a part of a replica set?”

“That’s a very good question,” Charles agreed.  “I did some authenticating for them from time to time, but they never showed me this set. I only learned about it when I saw the sales catalog.”

“If they thought it was a modern replica, why bother?” TJ added.  “But you’d think that script would have caught someone’s eye before now.”

“Charles… what if this jar—just this one—isn’t a replica?”  Diane asked.  “Could it be authentic? A genuine artifact? Maybe we should have it tested.“

The professor re-arranged the order of the jars on the table, putting the falcon-headed jar next to the more unusual human-headed one.  “I think I’ve seen this before.  That raised lip… on a falcon-headed jar.   Not quite like that one, but—“

“Yes—yes, now that you mention it—” TJ closed his eyes for a moment.  “Let me think… yeah.  It was in some auction catalog, I’m pretty sure, from when I did all that filing last winter. Right-hand side of the page.  Falcon-headed jar, not a very big pic, but I think it did have that extra lip.  Don’t remember which auction though.”

“In these files?  Let’s just take a look.”  Diane went straight to the file cabinet.  “Auctions, auctions—here we go.”

Twenty minutes later, with all three of them paging through old sales catalogs, TJ gave a whoop.  “Found it!  Here we go.  KMX-3426, canopic jar with falcon head, oriental alabaster, circa New Kingdom. Found Valley of the Kings, estimated 1890s, provenance unknown.”

“That’s the one,” Charles agreed, bending over TJ’s shoulder.   “See, it’s got the same lip. And the stone looks the same too—“

TJ attempted to study the photo closer with the magnifying glass.  “Dammit,” he muttered.  “Can’t see the detail on the lip.  It could be that script, or… maybe something else.”

“Let me take a look—“ Charles took custody of the catalog and magnifying glass, bringing it over under one of the working lamps.  “Yes, there is something.  Damnation. I should have taken a better look at it when I had the chance—“

“You were there?” Diane said, her voice rising in excitement.  “Charles!  It was an auction, right?  So someone must have bought it.   Maybe we can find out who the new owner is, and get some better pictures.”

“Or maybe they’ll let us see it close up,” TJ put in.  “Wouldn’t it be cool if they were originally  part of the same set?  I wonder how they got separated?  Who breaks up a matched set of canopic jars, anyway?  Seems almost, you know, sacrilegious.”

“Especially if you’re an ancient Egyptian,” Diane added, wryly.  “Charles—?”

“I’m sorry, what?”  Charles looked up, a somewhat startled expression on his face.

“Charles,” Diane repeated, to make sure she had his attention.  “We have to find out who bought this jar.  So we can go take a look at it.  See if the same script is on that one too.  We can call the auction house on Monday. They must have records—“

“Oh,” Charles said. “Oh, there’s no need for that.  I know exactly who bought it.”

“You do?”

“Yes, of course I do.  The blasted fellow outbid me, you see.  Though he might not still have it, he was a broker—handled sales on behalf of some very wealthy clients, and he certainly had deeper pockets than I did. But he’ll have records.  He’ll know who the current owner is, I’m sure.”

“Great!” Diane pulled out her notepad.  “Can you find his number? I’ll call him first thing Monday morning—“

“Uh, actually, if you don’t mind,” Charles said, “I think this is one phone call I’d better make myself.  Professional courtesy, you know, one old hand to another.”

“Okay, Charles, if you want to do it that way,” Diane nodded.  “Then I’ll start looking to see if I can find any clue as to what that script is, or where it might have come from.  Just because I’ve never seen it before doesn’t mean there aren’t other examples somewhere.  Maybe we can start making some headway on figuring out what it means.”

“Excellent idea,” Charles said, beaming at her.  “And I will call my contact to see if we can get some better photos of the other jar, or possibly even go see it in person.  This is exciting, isn’t it?  We might actually discover something this summer after all!”

Chapter Text

Houston, Texas – June 17th, 2004

The hotel lobby was quiet, mostly deserted except for the desk clerks and one jet-lagged businessman hunched over his laptop in a far corner of the lobby. The bartender was wiping down the tables in the lounge, preparing to close, when three very late arrivals came in the front doors, hauling their luggage behind them.

Diane looked around at the spacious hotel lobby, the vaguely Texas-themed decor, the scattered leather sofas, tables, and carefully cultivated greenery.  “Your contact lives in a Hilton hotel?”

“Well, no, he doesn’t live here,” Charles explained. “Actually he lives in Hong Kong, but as luck would have it, he happens to be in Houston on some business, so he asked if we could meet him here.  Splitting the difference, as it were.”

“Technically speaking, halfway between Madison and Hong Kong would be more like Hawaii,” TJ felt obliged to point out. “But I don’t think the department’s travel budget would go that far.”

“Sadly, no,” Charles agreed.  “Ah, there he is.  Right on time.”

The two graduate students looked across the lobby to the man approaching them from the bank of elevators.  He was of average height, middle aged, wearing a well-tailored suit in dark green.  But what set him apart was his hair, red-brown and oddly long, combed back away from his pale face.  Too long for an ordinary businessman, Diane thought, although a wealthy collector and broker in arts and antiquities might tend towards the eccentric side. And from his pallor, he certainly didn’t look like he did much actual field work.

He offered a polite little smile as he approached them, and held out his hand to Charles.   “Dr. Hewitt.  Good evening, it’s been far too long.”

Charles’s smile was much broader and more open, as he shook the outstretched hand with great enthusiasm. “Mr. Copperfield, a pleasure to see you again.  So kind of you to make time in your schedule—oh, let me introduce my graduate assistants—“

Copperfield held up his hand. “A moment—if you don’t mind, let’s not do our business in the lobby. I’ve a private suite reserved upstairs, then we can observe all the proprieties.”

“Oh. Of course, as you prefer—do lead on.” Charles picked up his carry-on bag again, and the extended handle of his suitcase.  The carry-on was heavy, but he hadn’t let it get out of his reach during their entire trip.  Given what it contained, Diane certainly didn’t blame him.

Diane and TJ fell in behind their professor as he followed their host back towards the elevators, pulling their own luggage behind them.  Diane checked her watch and did her best to suppress a yawn.  She already knew Dr. Hewitt was a night owl, but clearly Copperfield was worse, if he was the one setting the time of this meeting.  Who the hell scheduled professional consultations at three-fifteen in the morning?   There had better be coffee, that’s all I can say.   

Mr. Copperfield led them to a corner suite on the 18^th floor.  He unlocked the door, and flipped on the light switch.  “Fiat lux,” he said, dryly.  “Come in and be welcome.”

Diane smiled.  At least he seemed to have a sense of humor. 

“Now,” Copperfield said, after he carefully closed and locked the door behind them.  “Would you be so kind as to introduce me to these young assistants of yours?“

“Oh.  Yes, of course—“  Charles laid his free hand on TJ’s shoulder, who happened to be closest.  “This is Thomas Greer, and Ms. Diane Webster—they’re my graduate assistants this term.”

Handshakes were exchanged.  Diane noticed that Copperfield seemed to be gentler with her hand than with TJ’s.  She was also gratified to see that their host had not only provided a generous assortment of muffins and pastries, but there was also a pot of hot coffee ready to pour, as well as hot water for tea.

“So,” Copperfield continued, as they settled with the beverages and muffins around the table, “before we begin, perhaps you could tell me what studies Ms. Webster and Mr. Greer are pursuing—have you managed to seduce them into Egyptology, or—?”  

“Well, Ms. Webster is working on a masters’ degree in archaeology, specializing in ancient Middle-Eastern Cultures—the Fertile Crescent, Babylon, and so on, though she’s also quite knowledgeable in Ancient Egypt as well,” Charles replied.  “And Mr. Greer is our is our archaeological engineering specialist, and he’s currently researching for his dissertation on Egyptian architectural engineering.”

He smiled at them, proudly.  “Meanwhile, they’re also helping me keep my schedule straight and carry my luggage, with first dibs on getting to dust anything I discover.” 

“Archeology and architecture?”  Copperfield echoed.  “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not on the dusty end of the business.”

TJ had started  buttering a muffin, but he put it down quickly enough at the chance to talk shop.  “It’s figuring out how they built it, based on the archaeological evidence present at a work site,” he said.  “Tools, signs of rope marks, footprints in the sand, places where scaffolding was built and so on.  How the stone was moved, and how far away the quarries were, which tells us a great deal about the level of transportation networks, and—“

“That’s enough for now, Thomas—“ Charles interjected, before their host’s eyes had a chance to glaze over.  Diane smiled.  She knew only too well how long TJ could talk once he got started on something he was really interested in.

“Yes, I think I see the basic idea. It sounds fascinating,” Mr. Copperfield agreed.  “Still, the professor is right to bring us back to…well, to our business.” He glanced over at Charles.  “And I confess, I am very interested in seeing this script you mentioned.”

Charles set his tea aside, and lifted the carry-on bag up to the table.  “Well.  Perhaps I should first show you the catalog images,” he began.  “Diane, if you would be so kind—“

Diane unzipped the side pocket of her suitcase and brought out a pair of folders, passing one to Mr. Copperfield, and opening the other on the table between herself and Dr. Hewitt. 

“As part of the mummification rites as practiced in the New Kingdom period,” Diane explained, “the internal organs of the deceased, the liver, lungs, stomach and intestines, were removed and placed in four canopic jars.  Each jar was dedicated to one of the four Sons of Horus, and the lid for each jar had the appropriate god’s head. Those four jars were then sealed and placed in a specially designed chest, which was buried in the main tomb chamber along with the sarcophagus.”

“The liver, lungs, stomach and intestines—“ Mr. Copperfield opened the folder, which contained a series of large 8-by-10 photographs in protective plastic sleeves.  The first sleeve held a series of generic line drawings showing the four canopic jars and the chest they were typically stored in.  “What about the heart? Didn’t that go in something too?”

“No,” Charles replied.  “The Egyptians believed the heart was the source of thought and emotions, where the soul itself was centered.  That was left in the body, protected by scarab charms, so it could be weighed on the scales of Ma’at—the Egyptian version of final judgment. But it was necessary to have the organs preserved in the jars, so the deceased would have them to use in Du’at, the afterlife, for eating and drinking, and so on.”

Copperfield turned to the next page; this photo was of the alabaster chest, on which the figures of Egyptian goddesses and hieroglyphic writing can be just made out.   “So this is the canopic chest you were telling me about?”

“Yes,” Charles nodded.  “It’s a fake—that is, it’s a very skillfully made replica of what a real chest would look like, but it only dates back to the 1920s. I knew it was a replica when I purchased it, of course.  But it is still a work of art in itself, and very well done—useful as an example to show aspiring Egyptologists.  However, when we opened it up and took a better look at the jars  themselves, we discovered something very unusual.  Three of the jars are replicas; they are a good match for the alabaster of the chest itself, and can be dated to the same time period.  

“However, the fourth jar—the Imseti jar of the set—was different.  As you’ll see in the next few photos—”

Copperfield turned the pages, studying the jars shot at different angles.  “The differences must be subtle indeed,” he said at last.  “I don’t see them.”

“Nor did I, in the photographs alone,” Charles agreed.  “Do you see the extra raised section, around the base of the heads?  That’s a feature I haven’t seen on other jars, either in modern replicas, or in any authentic artifact from the New Kingdom period.  It’s quite unusual.”

“Yes, it is...”  Copperfield frowned.  “Though it also looks familiar.”   He reached for his own briefcase, and withdrew  a slim folder, opening it up to compare the photos contained within to the ones Diane had provided. 

Diane sat up, trying to see the new photos without being too obvious about it.  She couldn’t quite see all the details, but she could make out the shape of the falcon head that formed its lid.  “Qebehsenuef,” she murmured. “The falcon-headed jar.”

“Yes,” Copperfield nodded.  “This is the jar you asked me about, Hewitt.  The one you thought would match yours.”   He pulled one photo out of the folder and slid it across the table where Diane and Charles could see it. 

TJ stood up and leaned closer for a better look as well.  “Same extra lip,” he says.  “Looks like the same grade of stone, too, though that’s hard to tell in a photo.”

“But does it have the additional script?” Diane asked. 

“Additional script?”  Copperfield echoed.  “What additional script?”

“Yes,” Charles said.  “Well.  That’s the other reason we wanted to meet with you in person—“  He pulled on a pair of gloves, unlatched the travel case, and very carefully brought out a box, which he set on the table.  With great care, he opened the box, setting aside foam and bubble wrap packing materials, and an inner layer of quilted white silk.   Nestled in the foam was the mysterious Imseti jar from the Drayer canopic chest, with its lid sculpted to look like a man’s head in a typical pharaoh headdress.

Diane spread out the white silk on the table surface, and Charles lifted the jar out and set it upright on the table. 

Around the extra raised lip at the base of the head, they could make out a double row of characters carved into the alabaster, in a fashion similar to the hieroglyphs carved into the body of the jar below.   

“Those... do not look like hieroglyphics,” Copperfield murmured, coming around for a better look.  “I’m not exactly sure what those characters even are—“

“Neither am I,” Charles admitted.  “I’ve never seen anything quite like them.  They’re not hieratic, they’re not Phoenician, they’re not Demotic, they’re obviously not Cuneiform, or anything else we have been able to identify.”  

“Hmmm—“  Copperfield studied the jar and its mysterious inscription.  “Do you have another pair of gloves, by any chance?”

“Oh, yes, of course—“  Charles reached into the travel case and brought out another pair, still in their plastic wrapping.  

“There’s some similarity to Phoenician, in that they appear to be a set of abjad characters,  and there may be some connection to ancient Aramaic,” Diane commented.  “But it also uses character shapes I’ve not seen before, and they don’t appear to be any kind of pictogram system.”

Copperfield pulled the gloves on over his hands, though he didn’t try to pick the jar up. Instead he let his hands float over and around the jar without quite touching it.  A puzzled frown crossed his face. 

“May I see the photo again—“ he asked, and Diane moved out of the way so he could look at her copy of the folder.  He stared at the photo of the Imseti jar and then looked at the artifact itself again.  “Now that is very odd.  Are these photos touched up?  Modified at all?”

“No, not at all,” Charles assured him.  “Other than being enlarged to show detail…  at least, that was the original intent of the enlargements.  As you can see, the results were… “

“Interesting, to say the least,” Copperfield said.  “There is something carved on the lip—but it looks more like some kind of repetitive decorative pattern.  Lotus blossoms, perhaps?”

“Exactly.” Charles said.  “That’s why I want to examine the Qebehsenuef jar—the one you outbid me on back in—what was it, 1997?  I think it was ’97.   I’m almost certain it had that same lip design.  I checked the catalog of that auction, it was part of another mixed lot of pieces from a number of different tombs, but it was definitely the same period. I’d like to compare the scripts on the lip.  It’s even possible that they’re part of the same original set—“

Copperfield reached across the table and pulled over the photograph of the falcon-headed jar.  “But this jar doesn’t have the same script on it...“

“Actually,” Charles said.  “Yes, it does.”  

“Really? Are you certain?”  Copperfield picked up the two photos and studied them more closely.

“But it does—“ Diane started to say. “You have to look carefully, but if you do—“

“Oh my heavens,” Charles interrupted her suddenly. “Would you look at the time?  I had no idea it had gotten so late—it’s a wonder we’re all not positively falling over from weariness.“

Across the table, TJ half-sat, half-collapsed back into his seat again and yawned, covering his mouth up with one hand. 

 “TJ—stop that,” Diane mumbled, at first fighting the yawn, and then finally succumbing. It felt like the lateness of the hour was hitting her all at once, regardless of the coffee she’d drunk, and her personal fascination with the topic being discussed.  Her body felt heavy and slow, almost too tired to move, and keeping her eyes open was suddenly a real struggle.

“Oh, dear,” Charles said, sounding  quite concerned. “Mr. Copperfield, I hate to impose, but might you have a spare room where my young assistants can get a bit of rest?  They’ve had a very long day.” 

Copperfield looked up from his perusal of the photos.  “Oh, of course. I reserved the entire suite—why don’t they take that room through there?  Unless the young lady would prefer a room of her own, of course, I’m sure that can be arranged.”

Diane took off her glasses and rubbed at her eyes.  “Sorry, Charles,” she managed.  “I guess it really has been a long day—“

“Oh, no need to apologize,” Charles assured her.  “It’s all my fault, we should have taken an earlier flight.  Why don’t you and Thomas get some rest now. Don’t worry, these artifacts have been around for a long, long time—they can wait for you to be at your best!”

“Yeah, I guess we’d better—“ Diane agreed.  “Thank you, Mr. Copperfield.  I guess one room is fine, so long as there’s two beds.”  

She grabbed the handle of her overnight bag with one hand, and with the other, she steered TJ in the right direction.  “Come on, TJ, you’re practically sleepwalking.  And I’m not going to carry you or your luggage.”

The two grad students made their way to the bedroom door, that Mr. Copperfield was kindly holding open for them.  “I’ll put the card keys right here on the dresser for you, in case you need them later,“ he said. “Good night to you.”

“G’night, Charles—“ TJ mumbles as he followed Diane inside. 

“Good night, Thomas, Diane.”  Charles said, smiling.  “Sleep well.”

The door closed, and Mr. Copperfield came back to the table.  “That was rather sudden, wasn’t it?”  he asked in a low voice, studying Dr. Hewitt carefully.   

“Well, it really has been a long day for them,” Charles said, not meeting his eyes.  “Can’t expect them to be up at all hours. They’re only human, after all.”

“Indeed they are,” Copperfield agreed.  “So I take it that means there’s something here you did not wish them to see—or hear discussed?” 

Charles glanced back towards the closed door.  “Oh, they  can see it just fine—that odd script on the jar, I mean. But you’re right—it isn’t visible in the photographs. And my colleague back at the University, she couldn’t see the writing even when she was looking directly at the jar itself. Couldn’t understand why I was getting so excited about a—a lotus pattern. I suppose that explains why that detail wasn’t mentioned in the description, either.”

Copperfield’s face took on a new intensity; clearly his curiosity had now been fully engaged.  “Ah. How very interesting...”   He stared at the jar again, letting his eyes go a bit unfocused, as if he was seeing something normal eyes could not perceive. 

“It’s most unusual, don’t you think?”  Charles asked, watching him a bit warily.

“It is indeed,” Copperfield said at last.  “More than unusual, in fact.  It appears to be masked by some form of thaumaturgy.”

“Thaumaturgy?”  Charles echoed. 

“Blood sorcery,” Copperfield replied.  “In simplest terms—magic.”

“Magic?” Charles repeated, although he was not entirely surprised.  “Well.  I suppose that’s one explanation. And that is more your area of specialty than mine.”

“I wasn’t sure if you remembered my clan,” Copperfield said.  “But yes. House and Clan Tremere have rather cornered the market on that specialty—at least in the Camarilla.”

“Right,” Charles agreed. “But this jar—if it’s authentic, and I believe it very likely is—is thousands of years old.  Surely there weren’t Tremere in Egypt at that time. Were there?”

“No, we don’t go so far back.  Historically, though, we’re hardly the only clan to practice some form of blood sorcery.  The Setites and Assamites have much longer histories in the region than we, and they have their own occultists. But even so, that does not explain these letters.”

“Or why Diane and Thomas could see them—and my colleague in the department could not?”

“It’s possible anyone with some degree of talent could see the writing,” Copperfield mused. “But your young associates have been trained as scientists, not as seekers in the mystical traditions.”

“I would presume so,” Charles agreed. “Archaeology is a science, after all.  It relies on the careful examination of physical evidence. They study old religions and mythical traditions only in context of understanding more about the people who did believe them.”

He chuckled a little. “I dare say they don’t even believe in vampires.”

“Ah, so they don’t know the truth about you,” Copperfield said, frowning slightly.  “But—forgive my intrusion, but it is relevant to the mystery—have they tasted the blood?”

Charles looked distinctly uncomfortable.  “Yes, of course,” he said at last.  “Once, for their own protection, and to preserve the Masquerade.  But no more than once.  I have to be able to let them graduate, after all. To go on with their lives, their professional careers.”

“But the colleague you mentioned, the one who could not see the writing—she has not, I presume?”

“Of course not,” Charles exclaimed, shocked. “Our relationship is strictly professional!”

“Of course, Dr. Hewitt, of course—“  Copperfield raised his hands.  “I understand completely.  I do not mean to pry.  I was only gathering evidence, as it were—thaumaturgy does have some things in common with science. It has rules and conditions.”

Copperfield turned back to the table, gesturing at the jar.  “And it appears that the condition here... is the blood.  Kindred blood, in particular. Only Kindred—or those who have tasted Kindred blood—can see these letters.  Which implies this may well be a Kindred artifact—or at the very least, an example of very ancient thaumaturgy using Kindred blood as its medium.”

“A Kindred artifact.”  Charles came back to the table as well.  “From the New Kingdom, if the jar is as old as we think it is.”

Copperfield sat down and spread the photos out on the table, putting the best shots of the two jars side by side.  “I do not remember seeing this same unusual script on the jar I purchased, however,” he said.  “I think I would have noticed—if not the script itself, then the aura of magic itself, should have been obvious, as it is with this one.”

“But did you actually see the jar?” Charles asked.  “Or did you only look at the photographs?  You bid on the lot, as I recall—not any individual piece in it.”

“That’s a very good point,” Copperfield admitted.  “It was the entire lot. I knew my client was looking for Egyptian pieces—and it’s not really my field of historical expertise.  Thinking back... No, I don’t think I ever did see the jar.  Did you?”

“Yes.  Not a very good look, mind you—it was one artifact out of a dozen or more in the lot, and they were in a hurry to get the auctions started, so I only got a glimpse.  I did remember the lip around the bottom of the head—I don’t remember seeing anything inscribed on it. But the lighting was poor, and I was not very close.   That’s why I want to see it now.  And if you could provide the name of your client, or at least ask him if he’d be willing to meet with me and allow me to examine it, I’d be forever in your debt.”

“Forever, really?  Forever is a very long time, for one of us,” Copperfield pointed out, with a just the hint of a smile.  “But don’t worry, I won’t hold you to it.”

“Oh—I suppose it is, isn’t it.”  Charles  might have blushed, had he been able. “I never even thought about it—just a figure of speech and all.  But I would be grateful if you could put me in contact.”

“And I would be happy to do so,” Copperfield replied, “but unfortunately, he is no longer with us—he passed on a few years ago.  Now, as far as I know, his haven here in Houston and its collection of artifacts  came into the possession of his childe. However, she doesn’t seem to regard me with the same fondness that her sire did—at least she has yet to return one of my calls.”

“She doesn’t blame you for—for what happened to her sire, does she?”

Copperfield shrugged.  “No idea.  She apparently doesn’t share his interests in antiquities, but she hasn’t put the collection out on the market, either. ”

“What if I gave her a call?”  Charles asked.  “I mean, if you thought it might help?”

“It might,” Copperfield said.  “You at least… are not Tremere.”

“Well, that’s true,” Charles admitted. “You don’t suppose that makes a difference—”

Copperfield gave him such a look of incredulity that even Charles couldn’t miss it.

“Oh.  I—I suppose that could be…”  Charles looked away, embarrassed.  “Well, I’ll be happy to make a call. I really do want to see that jar, if at all possible.”

“So do I,” Copperfield agreed.  “I’m curious to see if it’s a match for yours, and if it has the same odd script.  There would have been four of them originally, correct?”

“Yes,” Charles nodded.  “Four jars and a chest, as part of the original grave goods. It’s a bit odd that they’d be broken up, really. Even the worst of the old tomb looters knew a full set was more valuable than selling them separately.”

Copperfield held up one of the photos, showing the original canopic chest the jar had been found in.  “You were saying this isn’t the original chest, then?”

“No, most likely not.  It’s not even a century old—and the hieroglyphs on the outside don’t even really mean anything.  Whoever carved the chest had no idea what the symbols meant.”

“Or they knew very well what it meant—but not in ancient Egyptian.  These symbols here—do you know them?”

Charles bent closer to see.  “Oh, those.  Those aren’t even hieroglyphs.  I’m not sure what they are, really.”

“They’re a variation on an old hermetic ritual script. An alphabet and secret language created  back during the Renaissance, used for magical and esoteric workings. Do you have photos showing all four sides of the box?”

“Oh.  Oh, yes, just a moment—”  Charles went back into the travel bag, and came up with another folder.  “Yes, here we are.  Why would anyone go to the trouble of making a replica of a New Kingdom chest and then put Renaissance-era characters on it? It would seem to defeat the purpose of making a replica at all.”

“I can’t say anything about the hieroglyphs,” Copperfield said, spreading the photos out on the table.  “But I’m pretty certain they did know what the hermetic symbols meant, because of how they were used—ah, wait, this is out of order, isn’t it?”   He shuffled two of the photos around.

“Yes—yes, now you’ve got it,” Charles said.  “That’s Neith, Nephthys,  Selkit and Isis—the funerary goddesses in order, by their cardinal directions—“

“Starting with north, correct?”

“—Yes, how did you know?”

“Because this—“ Copperfield pointed to the unusual characters at the base of the chest, “is the sigil for north—and the letters N-E-I-TH. I don’t suppose you brought the chest with you?”

“No, it’s much too heavy.  It cost me enough just to have it shipped from Chicago to Madison. Though you seem to have gotten quite a bit from just the photos already—have you ever considered a career in archaeology?”

Copperfield seemed taken off guard for a half-second, and his lips curved in a half-smile. “Well, I did run an antiques business for some decades,” he said.  “And I do have a particular fondness for history—particularly with regards to letters and writing.”

“So why would anyone combine these hermetic symbols with Egyptian? This is very odd.  I thought it was just a replica—they did quite a few of them, you know, back when artifacts from ancient Egypt were quite the rage. But there’s no good reason to go to this much trouble to carve such a beautiful piece and then deliberately put these odd letters on it.”

“Oh, I’m sure they had a reason,” Copperfield said. “One use for hermetic characters—if one is thinking in terms of rituals and arcane workings—is in the setting of wards, which are magical protections and barriers. It’s possible these were intended to function like that—but I can’t really tell that much from a mere photograph.  Like the script on your jar—some things are likely not visible to the camera’s eye.  I’d have to see the original box.”

“I wonder,” he added, studying the jar for a moment. “If there was a reason this jar was in this particular box—hiding it, perhaps?  And if so—why?  And from whom—or what?”

“Well, you’re welcome to have a look at the original chest, if you don’t mind a side-trip back to Wisconsin,” Charles said.  “In the meantime, I do hope we can have access to the Qebehsenuef jar, if its current owner can be persuaded to permit it.  This is quite the mystery, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,”  Copperfield agreed.  “It is indeed.”

Chapter Text

Houston, Texas – June 19th, 2004

As a Kindred diplomat and negotiator of many years’ standing, Etienne de Vaillant had more than a passing familiarity with the biased nature of vampire politics in general and Toreador clan snobbishness in particular. He had made three attempts—two of them before Dr. Hewitt and his fascinating artifact had even arrived—to contact Ms. Laeticia Robicheaux, the childe of his late friend and client Colonel Beauregard Litton. But to her secretary’s deepest and sincerest-sounding chagrin, Miss Robicheaux was always regretfully unavailable for any appointment whatsoever with Mr. Copperfield of Tremere. She was out, or taking another call, or simply ‘not receiving this week.’

One might think that for Dr. Hewitt of Ventrue she’d be terribly busy washing her hair or something, but no—one call and he was on her schedule. Never mind that Stephen Copperfield of Tremere had been one of Colonel Beau Litton’s oldest business associates, and Hewitt was a merely a visiting Kindred college professor from the other side of the country she’d likely never even heard of before.

But Hewitt was Ventrue, a member of the clan of bankers, businessmen, aristocrats and princes. And Etienne was Tremere—a clan whose mysterious powers of blood sorcery and secretive ways had never put them at the top of anyone’s social call list. True, he probably could have pulled rank, used his real name and title to force a meeting, but there were equal disadvantages in revealing his true identity and age in a city where he knew nothing of the political dynamics and how his presence, if known, might set them all askew. Especially since he hadn’t even revealed that identity to Hewitt as yet. So as much as it galled him to be treated like an unwelcome salesman at the door, retaining his anonymity and accepting the advantage of Hewitt’s Ventrue heritage was—at least for now—the more prudent course.

When Etienne came out into the main siting room of the suite, Dr. Hewitt was waiting for him, looking considerably less professorial and much more Ventrue in a very nicely-tailored three piece suit.  While Etienne could appreciate the necessity of dressing up—he’d dressed up himself, of course—he’d really found the professorial Hewitt to be much more interesting. Fortunately, the longer sideburns and neatly styled mustache prevented him from being mistaken for any of his banking cousins.

“Good evening, Mr. Copperfield,” Dr. Hewitt said, cheerfully.  “The limousine will be arriving any time now.”

“Limousine?” Etienne echoed, amused.

“Style points,” Dr. Hewitt explained.  “And I’ve also got these—I inquired of a cousin of mine in New Orleans, and she told me that Ms. Laetitia was very fond of classic Americana.”   He waved a hand at a largish, flat portfolio case, leaning against the couch.  “And as it happened, I had some original Rockwell first-edition prints from the Saturday Evening Post just taking up space in the attic, so I had them sent down.”

“Saturday Evening Post?  Well, you can’t get much more classic Americana than that,” Etienne agreed. “Especially Rockwell.”  Actually, it was a good idea—when asking another Kindred for a favor, an appropriate gift could tip the scales of prestation in one’s own favor, making it much more likely the favor would be granted.

“Taking up space?” Diane exclaimed.  “Goodness, Charles.  What else  do you have taking up space in there, and does it need to be catalogued?”

“Oh.” Dr. Hewitt looked taken aback.  “Actually, I have quite a thorough inventory list—the insurance company rather insisted on it, in fact—“

“Joking, Charles,” she said, raising her hands.  “But if you have any other Egyptian pieces, I’d love to see them sometime.”

“He’s got a couple of mummies in the basement,” TJ said. “But don’t worry, they haven’t gotten out since… when was it, Charles, last Octo—OW!” he complained when Diane punched his arm.

“You had it coming,” she told him. “Be grateful I’m not in a position to revoke your archaeologist credentials!”

“Indeed,” Dr. Hewitt said, firmly.  “We’ll discuss the Egyptian collection later.  I am sorry I cannot bring you along this evening—but under the circumstances, I do think it’s best that Mr. Copperfield and I make the first contact.  If we can have access to the pieces, I will most assuredly bring you both in for that!”

“S’okay, Charles,” Diane said.  “I’ve got plenty of reading to do, and I’m sure  TJ does too—if he wants to get a dissertation even started this summer.”

TJ rubbed at his arm and tried to look studious. “I did already get started, so there.”

“Very good,” the professor smiled at them both.  “I’m sure we’ll all have a very productive evening.”

Miss Laetitia had her haven in River Oaks, a very affluent neighborhood of large, expensive homes set back from the road, often enclosed behind genteel (but secure) walls and elegant gates. After their driver announced the names of his passengers, the wrought-iron gate swung open for them, allowing them to pass through and up the driveway to the circular round-about at the front doors.

The house was a faux-Georgian mansion that might have looked less cramped had it presided over its own plantation estate instead of squatting on a walled-in half-acre. The grounds featured well-placed old trees draped in Spanish moss and flowering shrubs that did their best to conceal the fact there were other houses very much like it just over the wall. Etienne could easily imagine a Southern belle in hoop skirts and ruffled bonnet sitting on the colonnaded front porch, fanning herself and listening to the cicadas singing in the sultry evening air. The cicadas were certainly doing their part. He idly wondered if Miss Laetitia was even that old.

“Now, you just let me do the talking,” Dr. Hewitt said, as the car pulled up to the front steps. “I’ll introduce you as my consultant.”

“So long as I’m not expected to consult on demand,” Etienne said, dryly. “I charge extra for that.”

“I’ll, uh, bear that in mind,” Hewitt said, and his brow wrinkled up a bit, as if he was already calculating it. “Though I hate to think what a bill I’m racking up already—“

“It’s a joke, Hewitt,” Etienne explained. “Your own expertise will be more than adequate, I’m sure. If we even get to see the artifacts, that is.”

“Oh. Of course.” Hewitt looked quite relieved. “Yes, well, I should hope so.”

The butler met them at the door, in full regalia that was several decades out of date, right down to the white gloves. Dr. Hewitt proffered his card. “Dr. Hewitt and Mr. Copperfield to see Miss Robicheaux,” he said, politely. “We have an appointment, if you’d be so kind as to let her know we’ve arrived?”

The butler accepted the card, perused it briefly, and laid it on the silver tray he was holding. “Miss Robicheaux is expecting you, Dr. Hewitt, and you, Mr. Copperfield…Please follow me.”

Etienne prepared to do his duty as the “consultant” by accepting the portfolio case with the Rockwell prints from the chauffeur, before following in Hewitt’s wake.

As it happened, to say Miss Laetitia's taste tended to “Americana” didn’t even begin to describe the decor he found himself subjected to within. Pop culture memorabilia was more like it—there was an entire wall area dedicated just to items featuring old Coca-Cola advertising, and no available surface or stretch of wall that wasn’t taken by mass-produced collectible bric-a-brac or heavily-textured landscapes in elegantly carved and gilded frames.

Etienne had, in the course of his years running his antiquities business, become something of an interior decorator as well. All he could say about this house, as the butler ushered them through towards his employer’s inner sanctum, is that a few pieces from Norman Rockwell would actually be a step up.

Dr. Hewitt pressed onward, apparently oblivious to their surroundings. Etienne maintained a firm hold of the portfolio case to prevent its being stolen by a sweet-faced bevy of ceramic kittens, and kept his tongue firmly leashed. Though to be perfectly fair, old Beau never had the best artistic sense either. He just preferred to do an entire room in, say, modern Danish, or like a Moroccan coffee shop. Or an ancient Egyptian tomb.

The butler led them up a short flight of stairs to a pair of double doors, which he opened before them. “Miss Robicheaux, your guests have arrived. Dr. Charles Hewitt, the Third, and Mr. Stephen Copperfield.”

“Do show them in, Mansfield.” Her voice had the sort of artistically sleepy Texas drawl designed to sound airy and unconcerned.

They were ushered in to what appeared to double as a private parlor and office. Here, at least, the décor was more classical and dignified, consisting of elegantly framed prints of famous American paintings. One or two might even have been originals.

Dr. Hewitt offered his most winning smile and authentic Cambridge accent. “Good evening, Miss Robicheaux. It’s most gracious of you to see me on such short notice. And let me also introduce my consultant, Mr. Copperfield.”

As Miss Laetitia came out from behind her mahogany desk to greet them, it was clear she had been Embraced not just for her love of the arts (if indeed for that at all), but because she could fill out a red Chanel suit in such a way that even the undead could not fail to notice her figure. And naturally, she was blonde.

Well, Etienne conceded, perhaps not entirely naturally.

Dr. Hewitt, either utterly oblivious to their hostess’ physical charms (and Toreador allure), or being as obtuse as only a British Victorian gentleman could be to the sensual, bowed politely and kissed Miss Laetitia's hand with perfect poise.

Etienne settled for offering a gentleman’s bow dating from the early 20th century and kept his distance. Besides, the view was better from a few paces back.

“Dr. Hewitt, it is my pleasure to meet you,” she said, ignoring Etienne entirely. “I am always delighted to discuss my late sire’s interests with fellow academics.”

Academics, my ass, Etienne thought, but kept silent. This was Dr. Hewitt’s show, and he was curious to see how the Ventrue professor would handle it.

“Of course, your sire was greatly respected in his field, and it was the greatest of tragedies for our studies when he was lost,” Hewitt assured her. “Though I am quite certain that you are carrying on his work in your own way, of course!”

“I do try to honor his memory however I may,” Miss Laetitia said demurely, and took his arm. “Why don’t we sit over here where it’s more comfortable….”

Etienne followed, still carrying the portfolio.

But in the process of turning to sit in one of the ‘more comfortable’ chairs, it seemed that Miss Laetitia noticed his existence for the first time. “Mr. Copperfield, wasn’t it? I do believe we might have met before, but I can’t recall exactly where…?”

Etienne was quite certain she knew exactly who he was, but was willing—at least for now—to play along. So often in Kindred society, appearances mattered more than reality—especially when acknowledging an unpleasant reality might lead to having to then do something about it. “Well, I’m not sure, Miss Robicheaux,” he replied easily. “Plainly you are quite an art collector, so that may well have been the setting?”

“That may very well be it, Mr. Copperfield. I do travel quite a bit. Shall we make ourselves comfortable?” She took her own seat, and crossed her legs, her perfectly manicured hands resting lightly on her knee. “Now, I understand you have some interest in certain objects that reside in my late sire’s collection?”

“Of course,” Charles said, sitting down as well, and leaning his walking stick—of course he had a walking stick—against his chair. “Yes, that’s true. As it happens, he outbid me on those very same pieces some years ago.”

Miss Laetitia smiled. “He always did have a way of getting exactly what he wanted when he wanted it.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Hewitt agreed. “Although now I wonder if it was I who was the lucky one that night. As it happened there were certain similar pieces, I regret to say, from that same source, who used to be so reliable in the past—which have turned out to be complete forgeries—can you imagine?”

“Oh?” Miss Laetitia inclined one eyebrow questioningly. “That is interesting. I’m relatively certain that my sire had all the pieces in his collection authenticated to the best of his ability—”

“I was as shocked as you, of course! They were very good forgeries—even other experts have been fooled! But my colleague here has discovered the trick of determining their authenticity. He’s been able to identify several pieces in my own collection that were very clever deceptions, and spared me quite a bit of embarrassment. And I thought it would be a kindness to the memory of my old friend if I were to offer his services to you as well. At my own expense, of course.”

Forgeries? What the hell was he yammering about? Etienne managed to keep a straight face only due to centuries of practice in the art of diplomatic improvisation. Dr. Hewitt had not mentioned exactly how he was going to explain his interest in Miss Robicheaux’s sire’s collection. It was an audacious ploy, bold as brass—but also rather clever, if Miss Laetitia was as ignorant of real Egyptian antiquities as she appeared to be, but did not wish to admit that fact in front of her guests.

“That’s a most generous offer, Dr. Hewitt,” Miss Laetitia said. “I’d be happy to take you up on it, but as it happens, that part of my sire’s rather extensive collection is currently out on loan, as part of a touring exhibit of Egyptian artifacts.”

“Indeed?” Charles responded, straightening in his chair. He withdrew a folded piece of paper from inside his jacket, opened it and studied it for a second. “Ah. That would include the New Kingdom era canopic jar with a Qebehsenuef head, item numbered 24959W251, the bronze mirror, item number 34523W294, and the others of that lot?”

“It is possible. I would have to check the catalog to be certain.” Laetitia’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You seem to have fairly detailed knowledge on this issue, Dr. Hewitt.”

“Well, as I said, he outbid me for the lot, so I had already researched the pieces quite extensively,” Dr. Hewitt explained, folding the list up again and returning it to his pocket. “And of course, when those items turned up on the list of possible forgeries from this unscrupulous dealer, I was concerned for you, and your sire’s impeccable reputation.”

“Just a moment, please. I’ll fetch my copies of the release I signed for the exhibit.” She rose and crossed the room to a polished walnut sideboard, whose drawers had apparently been modified to act as a file cabinet.

Audacious and bold as brass—and whether Miss Laetitia recognized it as earnestly told bullshit or not, she was not going to challenge it. No, much easier to just give them what she thought they wanted, since it cost her nothing but a few minutes of pleasantly vague chit-chat. And of course, the promise of the portfolio case could not be overlooked.

Their hostess returned to her seat bearing a slim file folder. Laying it open on the coffee table, she extracted a stapled inventory list, glancing over it before offering it to Dr. Hewitt. “Ah, here we are—this is the list of the pieces out on loan. I offered them the entire collection, of course, but those were the only pieces that they were interested in.“

Dr. Hewitt seemed engrossed in the list, so Etienne took the opportunity to ask what seemed to him to be an obvious question. “Why those particular items, Miss Robicheaux? Did the curator say what the criteria were?”

“Well, as I recall, it had to do with the, shall we say, somewhat shady and less than proper means by which those particular artifacts had been exported from the area in which they were first discovered. I did explain, of course, that my sire had bona fide receipts for each item in his collection, having bought them honestly at legitimate auctions over the past several decades. The curator assured me that current ownership of the artifacts is not at all in dispute, regardless of the exhibit’s somewhat provocative name.”

Etienne could see the brochure in the file folder now. “The Stolen Treasures of Egypt,” he murmured, and extended a hand towards the brochure. “May I?”

“Oh, of course,” Miss Laetitia picked up the brochure and handed it over to him. “I suppose if the artifacts you’re concerned about are part of the tour—perhaps we can arrange for you to see them at one of the museums where they’re being displayed. I believe they’re currently in Atlanta.”

Etienne turned the brochure over to find the itinerary. “Today’s the 19th—no, they’ve left Atlanta, according to this. Which is just as well, Atlanta’s hardly a safe place to visit.”

“It’s not?” Dr. Hewitt said, suddenly looking up from the list of artifacts. “Oh. Right. There are Sabbat in Atlanta, aren’t there?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Etienne said. “But the exhibit will be opening in Baltimore on Friday—less than a week from today.”

“Well, Baltimore is still Camarilla, isn’t it?” Dr. Hewitt asked. “I thought it was, the last I heard.”

“Yes, it is,” Etienne agreed.

“Of course,” Dr. Hewitt continued, handing the list back to his hostess, “It’s entirely possible that the collection is every bit as genuine as it should be. But I’m sure it would ease your heart to know the truth. Since the last thing anyone would want is to have the wrong parties discover any forgeries and publicize it.”

“It certainly would ease my mind, I will admit.” Miss Laetitia said. “I could—as a favor to you, and in memory of my beloved sire—put in a good word or two on your behalf to the Toreador who oversees the museum in Baltimore. I’m sure I could persuade him to let you take a closer look at the items in question. I would personally go to any length of maintain my sire’s good name, God rest his soul.”

“If you could, I would most appreciate it,” Dr. Hewitt assured her. “I will be certain to let you know about the authenticity of the artifacts as soon as a determination can be made. Hoping for the best of course.”

“Of course,” she agreed, smiling.

“I thank you so much for your assistance, Ms. Robicheaux. There was one other thing I hoped you could help me with,” Dr. Hewitt continued smoothly, making a slight hand gesture in Etienne’s direction. Etienne, recognizing his cue, brought the portfolio case out from where it rested against his chair, and laid it carefully on the table in front of them.

“I found these in my attic—quite well preserved, in fact! They’re hardly a match for the rest of my collection, but I am given to understand you might find a good home for them—as a token of my appreciation for your assistance.”

Etienne unzipped the case and brought the works out of their tissue paper wrappings. Each one had been carefully placed in a protective folder, with a sheet of tissue paper to protect the surface of the print. Even after so many years, the color was still quite vibrant.

“Oh, my word,” Miss Laetitia murmured reverently. “First edition, you said? I’m sure you won’t mind my own authentication service examining them?”

“Oh, not at all,” Dr. Hewitt assured her, smiling and rising to his feet. “Do enjoy them, Ms. Robicheaux. And thank you so much for your time and trouble.”

Business having been satisfactorily concluded, polite courtesies were exchanged, goodbyes said, and soon Etienne and Dr. Hewitt were back in their hired limousine, on their way back to their hotel.

Overall, Etienne was quite pleased. “Baltimore it is, then. This works rather well! Well, with one slight hitch.”

“Slight hitch?” Dr. Hewitt echoed. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, as it happens I’ve met the Toreador who I’m sure has jurisdiction over the Baltimore museums, and he actually promised me a tour he never got a chance to give me.”

“Oh? Excellent. That will be just splendid!” Dr. Hewitt was clearly in a good mood as well.

“The hitch is that the reason he never quite got around to it is that he thinks I’m dead.”

“Oh. Well, that could be a touch awkward,” Dr. Hewitt agreed. “But perhaps you could... uh, explain?”

“They all think I’m dead,” Etienne continued. “All the Kindred in Baltimore. I went to a great deal of trouble to convince them of it, in fact. So we will have to move rather quietly, or things could become… well, as you said. Awkward.”

He grinned. “Ah, I see... Got on someone’s bad side, did you? And you don’t want them to know the difference? Well, then. Mum’s the word! Who was it tried to kill you, by the way?”

“Oh, the Sabbat.”

“Oh, well, then. We won’t say a word to them either.”

Etienne chuckled. “Good. Sounds like a plan.”

Chapter Text

Houston, Texas — June 19, 2004

“Oh, cool,” TJ said, playing with the TV remote. “The new Tomb Raider movie’s on pay-per-view.”

Diane looked up from her book.  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said at last.  “That is SO not real archaeology…”

“Of course not,” TJ said.  “Nobody makes a movie about real archaeology.  If there aren’t curses and traps and magical artifacts and shit, nobody would watch it.“

“Not to mention guns and boobs,” Diane said sourly. “You’re not really going to put that on Charles’ credit card, are you?”

“I’ll pay him back,” TJ said. “Chill out, will you?  It’s just a movie. You want to pick something else?”

“No, I was about to go to bed anyway, soon as I finished this chapter.  Which I can do in the bedroom.  Rot your brain if you want, just don’t cite Lara Croft in your footnotes.”

TJ chuckled.  “That’s an idea—at least then I’d know if my advisor was actually reading my footnotes—“

Diane rolled her eyes, took her book and note cards back into the bedroom and shut the door.

By the time the movie was finished, TJ was comfortable and drowsy. He spent a moment considering whether sleeping in a real bed in the next room was worth the effort it would take to get up off the couch.

The next thing he knew, he was awakened by a persistent knocking at the suite’s main door.

Pushing the hair out of his eyes, he sat up.  Charles and Mr. Copperfield weren’t back yet.  Maybe Charles had misplaced his room key.  With a grunt, TJ lurched up to his feet.  “Charles, is that you?”

More knocking.  “Room Service!”  A male voice, somewhat muffled by the door. “Open please, I have food you order.”

“Huh?”  TJ left the chain on the door, but opened it just a crack to peer out into the hallway. “We didn’t order anything.”

“Yes, yes, I have order for this room, it says right here, 824. I have receipt, see?”  The uniformed bellhop held up a piece of paper, but TJ couldn’t really see what was written on it.  “Let me in, I show you.”

Well, it was possible Charles had called the kitchen, if he and Copperfield were on their way back—and there wouldn’t be much else open at this hour.  “Alright, just a moment—“ TJ said, and shut the door so he could take the chain off.  “When did he call—“

No sooner had he unlatched the door than it opened, abruptly smashing into his face, knocking him back against the wall and down.  “HEY!”  TJ yelped, landing hard on one elbow, his vision blurred, his head ringing with pain.

The bellboy pushed his cart into the room, barreling past him.

TJ tried to get up, but a wave of dizziness and nausea kept him from moving; it was all he could do to not throw up right then and there.

“Get him up,” he heard a someone say, in a hissing whisper. “Bring him to the door. Bring him to me—“

Then the bellboy bent over him, grabbed his arm and started pulling him up again.

“Oh, hell no, you don’t—“ TJ growled and rolled sideways, knocking the smaller man off balance and down to the floor as well.

Charles tipped the limo driver and followed Mr. Copperfield into the hotel lobby. Focused on putting his wallet away, he nearly ran right into the Tremere’s back as Copperfield stopped short, unexpectedly.

“Oh, I beg your pardon—” Charles started.

Copperfield held up a hand, warningly.  His gaze was focused upwards, as if he was trying to peer through the vaulted, beamed ceiling itself.  “The wards—” he said. “Something’s wrong.”

Then he took off, walking rapidly towards the lobby bar.  Charles followed.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Copperfield went straight to the waitress’ coffee station, scooped up the three-quarters-full pot of decaf from the warming plate, and then made a direct beeline for the elevators, his speed picking up but still staying short of an actual run.

Now getting more alarmed, Charles stretched his own legs to catch up.  Something was wrong; though he wasn’t sure how exactly he knew.  Or was he just reacting to Copperfield’s urgency? He wasn’t sure about that, either.

Copperfield took one look at the bank of elevators—none of which were on the lobby level at that moment—then went straight to the emergency exit and the stairs, still balancing the steaming pot of coffee in one hand.

But once in the stairwell and out of mortal sight, Copperfield did start running, at a speed no human could match. By the time Charles had reached the base of the stairwell, Copperfield was already well past the third floor.  Charles picked up his own pace as best he could, gripping his walking stick tightly in one hand while trying to unscrew the top knob with the other, following the scent of coffee up all eight flights to their own floor.

Diane had been awakened by TJ’s first yell, but it had taken her a few seconds to realize what she’d heard was not part of some ridiculous movie soundtrack.  A few thumps and a metallic clang from the other side of the door brought her up to her feet.

“TJ?” she called, padding over to the connecting door in her bare feet. She listened, hand on the doorknob.

A grunt and a crash answered her.  Diane pulled the door open, and narrowly missed getting kicked by one of TJ’s flailing feet as he grappled with a uniformed bellhop on the floor in front of her.

She yelped in alarm, and jumped back. Something moved in her peripheral vision; she glanced up and saw someone standing in the hall.

“Don’t just stand there, help—“ she started to yell, but her voice faltered when she saw the man’s eyes. She felt a sudden chill pass through her, as if her very blood had been run through a refrigerator.  His eyes were so dark, so compelling. She couldn’t look away.

“Come here, girl.  Come to me.”

Diane took a step towards him, and he smiled. The chill she’d experienced just seconds before abruptly melted away, and now a seductive languor stole through her body. There was a such a promise in his smile, desire in his dark eyes, all focused entirely on her. “Come, my beauty,” he whispered, “Come to me.”

Two steps. Even as she walked towards him, some little part of her was still protesting, Stop, what are you doing? This is wrong, who is this guy, what about… about… something…  Her train of thought  trailed off to nothing, the rest of the room seemed to fade away. He stood outside the door, smiling, waiting for her. She could already imagine his hands on her, feel her body yearning for his touch. Only a few steps more—

At that moment TJ managed to get better traction in his floor struggle, and shoved the bellhop directly into the cart, which in term sent it skidding sideways into Diane’s hip. The plate of food it had contained went flying, and the glass of iced tea tipped over as well, its frigid contents dashing down her bare leg.

“Ow!” She glared at TJ and the sprawling bellhop for a second. “Dammit, TJ, what are you doing? I was almost—“

Almost what?  Shit!

She turned again, looked back at the door, but the figure standing there was gone. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and for a second she felt a pang of loss.   Where did he go?

“Diane, look out—“ TJ gasped from the floor.

The bellhop scrambled to his feet, eyes wild.  TJ was down, but still moving. There was blood running down his face, and his hair was loose and wild.

Diane looked around sharply for something heavy, and picked up the solid brass lamp from the desk, wrenching it free from the wall socket.

The bellhop looked at Diane, brandishing the lamp, and at the open door.  His original belligerence seemed to be fading quickly into uncertainty now that he was clearly outnumbered.

TJ grabbed the bellhop’s ankle.  “Oh no you don’t—“

The bellhop kicked TJ hard with his other foot. With a grunt of pain, TJ let go, .

Diane advanced, but the bellhop was now only interested in escaping. He shoved her roughly aside and made for the door, only to encounter another even bigger obstacle—Mr. Copperfield, who threw the contents of a pot of hot coffee right into the man’s face.

The bellhop cried out in pain, hands raised to his face; it took almost no effort on Mr. Copperfield’s part at all to knock him down again, and hold him down with one knee solidly placed on the man’s chest.

“Mr. Greer, Ms. Webster—are you alright?”

Diane set the lamp down and knelt next to TJ.  “I’m okay.  TJ got hit with something—“  She looked up, suddenly.  “What happened to the other guy?”

“Other guy?  There was another one?” Copperfield asked.

“In—in the hallway—“ Diane said, pointing, just as Dr. Hewitt arrived in the doorway, a long, narrow sword blade in one hand, and the wooden barrel of his walking stick in the other.

“Good lord,” the professor exclaimed.  “Whatever in the world is going on up here?”

“Here,” Diane pressed the iced washcloth into TJ’s hand. “Hold that on your head.”

“Thanks…” TJ groaned and did as he was told.

“So,” Copperfield said, staring rather coldly down at their captive. Ramon (at least that was the name on his employee’s badge) was sitting in the desk chair, his wrists bound behind him with the strap from TJ’s carry-on bag.  His face was puffy, red and blotchy.

“I only deliver the food,” he repeated, his eyes shifting between Copperfield’s glare and the more tangible threat of the sword blade in Charles’ hand.

So, Charles’ walking stick had concealed a sword inside.  Diane wondered why she was in the least bit surprised. She also wondered how he’d gotten it through airport security.

“But as my young associates have already stated, we didn’t order any food,” Copperfield said.  “In fact, your order form here says this order was for room 624.”

“No, no, cook write on slip very clear, room 824,” Ramon insisted.  “Please, I am only doing my job!”

“What about the other guy?” Diane asked.

“What other guy?” Charles echoed.

“You said that before,” Copperfield nodded.  “Tell me what you remember—he was outside the door the entire time?  Or did he ever come inside?”

Diane frowned.  “He was outside, standing in the hall.  Just watching.  He wanted me to come out.  To come to him.”

“He told you to come?” Charles asked, sharply.  “What did he look like?”

“I—I don’t remember, exactly,” she said, flustered. The more she tried to remember his face, the less of it she could see.  “I think he had dark hair…. Some kind of accent. Not like this guy’s, though.  Something else.  Then TJ and that guy there knocked the cart into me, and when I looked up again, he was gone.”

“Perhaps I should go take a look,” Charles said.  “See if he’s still lurking about.”

“No, he’s long gone, I imagine,” Copperfield said.  He turned back to the bellhop.  “Ramon,” he said sternly, “Look at me. Yes, like that.  I want your complete and undivided attention. Now, I want you to tell me everything you saw and heard tonight, starting with the cook giving you the order. “

“I am going to lose job,” Ramon whimpered.

“Remember the cook giving you the order,” Copperfield continued. “Don’t think about anything else. The cook gives you the order, you see the number on the paper.  What do you see? What room is the order for?”

“824,” Ramon said.  “He say, take this up to 824.  So I go do that….”

“Did you talk to anyone else in the hallway?  Or the elevator?  Anyone at all?”

“No… I…  the man in the elevator, he…”  Ramon’s eyes blinked rapidly.  “He has badge. FBI agent.  He… he says he needs my help—“

“FBI?”  Diane started, but Charles held up a hand, and put his finger to his lips meaningfully. She fell silent again.  FBI?  Really?  Then how come he didn’t say so back then? And what the hell would the FBI want with us anyway?

“Of course you would want to help the FBI.” Copperfield’s voice had changed. Before he had been stern, dangerous.  Now he was reassuring, sympathetic, his voice smooth as honey.  “What did he ask you to do, Ramon?”

“He say… he wants me to go into room, and look around. Search…  He say people in 824 steal valuable things from museum. I should go check, and then he will call police.”

“Did he come with you to the room?”

“No… he followed to door.  He said… I could go in without warrant.”

Copperfield held out the kitchen’s order form.  “And this is for what room number?”

“I told you, 824. See, it says right there!”

Even Diane could see the slip of paper now, where the numbers 624 were clearly written in black felt-tip ink.

Copperfield frowned, and exchanged a glance with Charles. “Interesting….”  He then turned back to their prisoner.

“Ramon, tell me about this FBI man.  What did he look like?  Tell me about him, as much as you can remember.”

Ramon swallowed hard.  “He… wears very good suit.  Nice tie.  He speaks good Spanish. His face…. “  He blinked again, more rapidly. “I don’t remember.  He looked like FBI man.  Like on television.”

“An FBI agent? Oh, dear,” Charles murmured, and turned to Diane, speaking in a low whisper. “Did he look like an FBI agent to you? Did he have a badge?”

“No,” she whispered back.  “I mean… I don’t remember seeing a badge. I think he was wearing a suit… It was dark, I really couldn’t see him clearly.”

Charles glanced over towards the suite’s door. The entryway light was on. “Dark? Even in the hallway?”

“I told you, I don’t remember!” Diane snapped. It came out a little louder than she had intended. Even Mr. Copperfield was looking at her now. Her cheeks felt flushed.

“Anyway, shouldn’t we be calling the police?  For this guy, I mean,” she said, waving her hand at Ramon. “That’s their job, isn’t it, asking questions? Finding the other guy?”

Copperfield glanced at Charles again.

“Of course, you’re right,” Charles assured her. “That’s what the police are for. But heavens, look at the time. You must be exhausted—especially after this rude intrusion woke you out of a sound sleep! There’s no need for you and Thomas to be involved in the rest of this. You two go on to bed—we’re going to call the hotel security right away about this little incident, I assure you.“

Her agitation faded away, giving way to fatigue. At that moment, there was nothing more she wanted than to crawl back into her bed and pretend all of this had been a bad dream, especially the guy in the doorway, whose face she could no longer remember.

“But—but what if the—the police want to interview us, too—“ she managed, as Charles was gently ushering her and TJ back towards the adjoining bedroom.

“They can just call you in the morning,” Charles assured her. “Not tonight. I’m sure they’d much rather talk to you when you’re awake and thinking clearly.  Don’t worry, Diane. Everything will work out just fine….”

With that reassurance, she was able to sleep.

“Keep an eye on this fellow for a moment, would you?” Copperfield asked, when Charles came back from escorting his young grad assistants off to their well-earned rest. “I’m curious to see if there really was an order from room 624.”

“Right—“ Charles agreed, and stood where he could give their unfortunate captive his very sternest gaze. But being realistic about his ability to intimidate with his gaze alone, he also kept the sword in his hand and clearly visible.

Copperfield held the receipt in one hand and tapped in the room number. “Yes, this is the kitchen,” he said, when the occupant in 624 picked up, his voice picking up a very genuine French accent, “Pardon the intrusion, but did you place an order—“

Charles could hear the outrage sputtering out over the phone without even trying to listen.

“I just TOLD you, you nitwits, I ordered that swordfish steak dinner over an HOUR ago! And it’s STILL not here, but you guaranteed—”

“Yes, yes, sir, I’m so sorry sir, there’s been a bit of confusion—“ Copperfield said, keeping an absolute straight face.

“There sure has!,” the angry voice continued. “When are you lunkheads going to get it RIGHT? I run a three-billion dollar company, if I was as half-assed at filling MY orders as you seem to be in filling yours—”

“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” Copperfield said, raising one eyebrow. “But just who do you think you are, a prince?”

Charles blinked. That possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. But why would a prince order from—oh, right. Room service.

“I’ve had just about enough from you, Miss-Zure!” The angry patron’s rant had gotten a good deal louder. Copperfield was now holding the phone a good foot from his ear. “I am a Gold Passport member of this hotel chain, and I also happen to play golf with James Monroe, who is on your board of directors, and I will be sure to let him know—“

“Très bien. Vous faites cela,“ Copperfield snapped right back. “Après avoir supprimé le espadon de votre cul—” and hung up the phone. Then he chuckled. “Well, that was fun.”

“I—I don’t believe that is anatomically possible,” Charles pointed out. “Also not entirely polite.”

“Of course not,” Copperfield grinned. “But he did deserve it, you must admit. Now. As to our friend here—“

Ramon groaned.

“Let me take this fellow back down to the kitchen,” Copperfield said at last. “Give me about five minutes, and then you can call housekeeping—just make sure they understand which room it is they’re not cleaning up, if you know what I mean?”

“Oh. Yes, of course—“ Charles nodded. “Certainly not one on this floor! But what about him?“

“I’ll take care of him. But do be on your guard. Our friend the FBI man might still be out there.”

“Right.”

The story, as Etienne de Vaillant carefully explained to the now very cooperative Ramon, was that when delivering room service to suite 624, he found the door not entirely closed, and heard something like a cry for help inside. No one answered his knock, so he went inside—only to be ambushed in the dark, and splashed in the face with scalding hot liquid. When the lights came on, he faced a very startled and naked young man (who quickly threw a bedsheet around himself) apologizing profusely for having mistaken Ramon for someone else—possibly the husband of the young man’s female companion. The young man tipped him two hundred dollars (which Etienne generously made good from his own wallet), and told him he’d better go see a doctor about the burns right away.

By the time Etienne had led the now woozy Ramon to the elevator, the bellhop remembered only what Etienne wished him to, and would remain utterly convinced this had all happened on the sixth floor. Needless to say, he no longer recalled any mysterious meeting in an elevator with someone who might or might not have been an agent of the FBI.

Then it remained only to assist Charles in making sure the housekeeping staff recalled cleaning up room 426 (no naked people were in evidence, however), and send them merrily on their way, also with a generous tip. (Etienne had learned that a good tip could explain away a great many oddities in a patron’s behavior.)

It was impossible to come up with a coherent story that explained everything—well, short of the truth, but Etienne knew better than to resort to that. Sowing confusion with lots of impossibly contradicting stories where those involved were all utterly convinced what they’d seen and heard was exactly what had happened was the only thing to do. And since hotel management and mortal authorities couldn’t sort out the truth from the stories and the evidence, they’d be inclined to just pretend the whole mess never happened. Those actually behind the failed intrusion would not, of course—but they’d not gained from it, either, and Etienne was willing to take that as a win.

“What worries me,” Etienne told Hewitt later, after housekeeping had come and gone, and whatever confusion Ramon’s story had caused in the hotel’s kitchen had failed to find its way back to the eighth floor, “is that I’m quite certain Miss Webster did see someone outside the door. And he was undoubtedly Kindred.”

“I fear you’re quite correct,” Hewitt agreed. “We’re just fortunate he didn’t come in—not as if he really believed that prattle about needing a warrant.”

“The warrant part was a lie. But he couldn’t come in,” Etienne explained. “The ward would have stopped any Kindred other than myself from crossing the threshold—remember, I told you not to open the door unless I was with you?”

“But what if I had gotten to the door first? I mean, just hypothetically, since clearly I didn’t.”

“You couldn’t have entered either,” Etienne said. “That’s something I can adjust—if you will let me have a bit of your blood to add to the wards. Then I can set them so you and your students can come and go as you like.”

Etienne could see from Charles’ brief hesitation that yes, he’d heard the rumors. Most Kindred didn’t know much about Tremere thaumaturgy, but they’d all heard the warnings: Never, ever let the Tremere get any of your blood!  But after a moment, the Ventrue nodded. “I see. Well. I suppose that only makes sense. And if it did keep him out, that’s a good thing, right? But who was he? And what was he really after?”

“A very good question,” Etienne said, sliding open the closet door, just to reassure himself that the case with the Professor’s artifact was still there, with the braided ribbons on its handles that rendered it all but invisible to any eyes other than his own. Satisfied, he closed the closet door again, and rejoined Hewitt in the main room of the suite. “I had rather expected that we might run into some difficulties of this sort at some point. I just hadn’t expected it to start quite this soon.”

“Actually, it may have started even sooner,” the Ventrue admitted. “I mean, at the time I thought what happened was just a coincidence. But maybe not—“

“Thought what was a coincidence, Hewitt?”

“Well, as I told you—I purchased the canopic chest from an estate sale. I didn’t actually buy it at the auction. I went and talked to the Foundation’s curator a few nights before. They knew me, I’d done some appraisal work for them. So I was able to persuade them to sell me a few items before they were boxed up for the auction house.”

Of course. Etienne was not surprised. Ventrue prided themselves on their connections—the backroom deals, favors exchanged, quiet ‘persuasion’—that usually ended up getting them what they wanted. Etienne had certainly made his share of the same kinds of deals when he could. Such ways of doing business had not changed in centuries. “But those items were already listed in the auction’s catalog, weren’t they? That could certainly have annoyed someone hoping to acquire them.”

“Yes, I daresay,” Charles nodded. “But as it happened, someone broke into the warehouse the night before the auction. Nothing much was taken, but… the security guard was killed. It’s just occurred to me—that maybe the thieves didn’t find what they were looking for.”

Aha. And then there were those who lacked such connections, or scorned the privileges of human society altogether. Vampires or mortals—but in this case, Etienne suspected vampires—who simply took what they wanted, and woe to any mortal security guard or even fellow Kindred who stood in their way.

“That’s certainly possible,” Etienne mused. “What about the rest of the set? The canopic chest, the other three jars? Are they secured?”

“Oh, that’s all quite safe. I made sure they were locked away in my storage facility before we left Wisconsin. And anyway, they’re just replicas. Not even a hundred years old. Surely they wouldn’t be after that—not if they know what they’re looking for?”

“Assuming they do, they still wouldn’t be certain you have the real artifact with you,” Etienne said. “Or that you even know what you have—which we don’t, at least not yet. Only that it’s sufficiently mysterious to warrant some investigation. I am coming to Baltimore with you, by the way.”

“Yes, I had assumed as much—if your unexpected resurrection won’t get you into too much trouble?”

“I’ve been through worse. But speaking of trouble—” Etienne hesitated. It was always touchy, talking about another Kindred’s blood-servants. “What are you going to tell them?”

“Oh, I’ll think of something,” Hewitt said, “Some kind of story. A prank gone wrong, perhaps. It’s not as though I can tell them the truth, after all.”

“It’s not going to get any safer,” Etienne warned. “In fact, if these are in fact Kindred artifacts,  it’s going to get a great deal less safe. Especially if they’ve no idea what they’re up against.”

“Yes, but—the Masquerade,” Hewitt said. “I have to let them graduate. Let them get on with their lives, their careers. The less they know about us, the better off they’ll be.”

“Of course,” Etienne agreed. It was true. Close involvement with the undead was dangerous for the living; and once drawn into the Kindred world of darkness and blood, few mortals were ever able to escape it.

Unfortunately, despite Hewitt’s most noble intentions for TJ and Diane and their futures, it was likely already too late.

Chapter Text

George Bush Intercontinental Airport, Houston, TX — June 20th, 2004

Another night, another red-eye flight.

Diane stifled a yawn and tried to get more comfortable in her seat—TJ had won the toss for the window on this leg of the trip, and was already out for the count. Just once, she wished they could find a cheap flight that didn’t turn her sleeping schedule upside down. But she wasn’t paying for the tickets, so it wasn’t as though she had much room to complain.

“The Atlanta connection was a bit cheaper,” she overheard Charles telling Copperfield, in the seats behind them. “But a two hour layover—I didn’t think that would be a good idea.” Then he dropped into French. “Vous ne savez jamais qui pourrait être regarder.”

You never know who might be watching. It was amazing how well her high-school French still held up.

“Oui, je suis d’accord,” Copperfield replied. Even to her ear, his pronunciation sounded perfect. “Yes, I agree. Chicago’s much safer. With any luck, they’ll never know we were there.”

Diane wasn’t sure who “they” were, or why a two hour layover in O’Hare was somehow safer than one in Atlanta. One airport was really much like another when it came to that, wasn’t it? Long terminals, long walks from one gate to another, and at that hour, they’d be lucky if anything was even open.

Then she remembered a dark-eyed stranger standing in the hallway outside their hotel rooms, and she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning on the plane. At least Charles and Mr. Copperfield were with them. Was their arrival what had driven the stranger away?

And what had that all been about, anyway? How could anyone suspect Charles of stealing from a museum? He’d purchased the jar from an estate sale, she’d filed the paperwork for him. He hadn’t even used University money.

Charles had told them it was just a misunderstanding. That they’d talked to the night manager and handed the deluded bellhop over to hotel security. There was no FBI, just a silly prank that had gone wrong when the bellhop misread his room slip. The hotel management had been extremely apologetic, and had even removed the cost of last night’s hotel room and their meals for the day off the bill.

But that guy in the hallway… Maybe he wasn’t FBI, but he had been real. And he hadn’t come across as the pranking kind.

Diane was very glad they were leaving Houston, even if it meant traveling overnight again, through Chicago to Baltimore. At least it felt like they were on the trail of something interesting, if they did get to see the Qebehsenuef jar. And if it had the strange writing as the Imseti jar that Charles had in his carry-on bag, that really would be a discovery. Would the writing be the same? Or different? Maybe they could even find the rest of the set, and track down how the pieces had been separated, and what the strange characters meant. She might even consider changing the topic of her dissertation, with such a fascinating find to research.

O’Hare Airport, Chicago, IL — June 21st, 2004

There wasn’t much open in the O’Hare terminal at that hour. But fortunately, the Starbucks café was, and it was close enough to smell as they stepped out of the gate..

“Donuts, TJ?” Diane asked, looking over at his tray. “At two in the morning?”

“I’m recovering from a traumatic head injury,” TJ informed her. “I need to keep up my strength. Hey, Charles—are you done with the paper?”

“What?” Charles looked up from his tea. “Oh, the paper—“ He started to reach for what remained of the Houston Chronicle, but Mr. Copperfield laid a hand on it first.

“Actually, if you don’t mind, Mr. Greer—“ Copperfield said smoothly, “I wanted to finish the crossword puzzle in that one. But if you just want some reading matter, I’m through with this one. Fair trade?” He offered the folded Baltimore Sun across the space between their two tables.

“Oh, sure,” TJ said amiably, accepting it. “That one’s probably more current anyway.”

“Yes, it is,” Copperfield agreed, giving a little half smile. “And it’s always better to read up on where we’re going, rather than where we’ve been, don’t you think?”

“I guess so,” TJ laid the paper down flat next to his donuts so he could eat with his free hand.

Copperfield fished inside his jacket for a pen, and got to work on the crossword.

Diane looked around. The coffee shop was almost deserted; other than their own group, there were only two other people in the shop. One was a jet-lagged businessman who kept checking his watch. The other was a young woman, a college student perhaps, who was sipping at her coffee, a paperback held open on the table in front of her.

Their eyes met for a second. The girl looked away quickly, coughing a little as a little coffee apparently went the wrong way. Then she got up from her chair, stuffing the paperback into her backpack, which she swung up over one shoulder.

She had to walk by their table to get to the exit. Diane offered her a smile, one sympathetic red-eye traveler to another, but the girl never looked down or back, dropping her used coffee cup into the trash on her way out.

“Well, that was weird,” TJ commented, watching the girl leave.

“Maybe she’s just tired,” Diane said, turning back to her own coffee.

“Then she should have finished the coffee,” TJ said. “That cup was still half-full.”

“How do you know?”

“It fell like it had weight. Empty Styrofoam cups don’t. Oh, hey—Di, look at this.” He folded the newspaper and turned it around for her to view.

It was a quarter-page ad for the upcoming Stolen Treasures of Egypt exhibit at the Baltimore Museum of Art—the very exhibit they were traveling to see. Diane pulled it close to read the smaller print and to study the images in the background of the ad. “Why do they always use stock shots for these?” she grumbled. “I know nothing from the Tutankhamen discovery should be there. And that looks like the Khufu sarcophagus—“

“Technically, the Khufu sarcophagus was stolen,” TJ said. “Smuggled out of the country, anyway. Along with a lot of other items, probably. That happened a lot back then.”

“So does this mean it’s actually in the exhibit? Or is it just another stock photo, like the Tutankhamen death mask?” She turned to the professor. “Charles? Did the brochure list any of the artifacts specifically?”

“That’s—that’s a very good question,” Charles checked inside his carry-on bag (which also held the precious canopic jar in its well-padded container). “I don’t think the Khufu piece was listed, but have a look—“

Diane put her empty coffee cup aside and opened the brochure Charles handed her on the table, reading quickly. The text wasn’t much help—it had clearly been written by the PR department, and while it did discuss the “stolen” nature of the various artifacts, and glossed over the sordid history behind it, it said very little about the artifacts themselves. But there were a few small photos of items that did not look like generic artifact shots, meaning they might actually be in the exhibit itself.

“Looks like maybe the Khufu is part of it,” Diane said. “I don’t see any shots of canopic jars, but maybe they hadn’t collected all the exhibit pieces when they did the photos. The Khufu was… British Museum collection, wasn’t it?”

“I—yes, I believe so,” Charles agreed.

“Cool,” TJ said. “I hope it is, that would save the cost of airfare to London!”

“Speaking of Baltimore—“ Copperfield put his pen back inside his jacket and folded up his newspaper. “It’s probably time for us to start heading to our gate.”

“Oh, right—“ TJ grabbed the last half-a-donut and his carry-on bag. Diane slid the brochure and the newspaper page with the ad into her own bag for later perusal.

Mr. Copperfield was the last one in line as they left the coffee shop; he dropped the folded Houston Chronicle he’d been working on into the trash, followed by his coffee cup—which fell with a heavy, sloshing clunk.

The walk to their departure gate was, as expected, long. A few clumps of weary night travelers were already sprinkled through the waiting area, in the ages-old pattern of strangers randomly distributing themselves at polite distances from one another. There was one section of seats still unoccupied, and so Etienne, Charles, and the students settled there.

Etienne placed his carry-on bag on the floor in between his feet and kept alert. Chicago was Camarilla territory, but unfamiliar, and he had not called the local chantry for any information. Part of the perks of being who he was meant he didn’t have to tell lower-ranked Tremere—not even Regents—of his itinerary. In this case, a two-hour layover scarcely required any kind of courtesy call—in fact, had he informed the local Chantry of his presence, they might have felt obliged to pay such a call to him, and that was a bother he could well do without.

Baltimore would be another matter, but he’d have Sarah McCullough to smooth things over for him on that count. And hopefully, they’d be able to avoid stirring up the political shit-storm that he’d gone to so much trouble to quash during his previous visit. Their hotel reservations were in Towson, the suburban city where Sarah claimed her Domain, not Baltimore proper, for that very reason.

At least Hewitt’s grad assistants had not questioned the story their professor had told them about what had really happened the night before. They might not have entirely believed it—Etienne had caught flickers of unease and doubt from Ms. Webster in particular—but he’d noticed they hadn’t protested about booking a flight out of town on very short notice, either.

For the time being, that was good enough. They weren’t his blood-servants, and therefore by Tradition, what they knew or didn’t know was Hewitt’s responsibility. But if Dr. Hewitt preferred to keep his graduate assistants ignorant of the true nature of the risks, then it might be better to bring in more experienced daytime staff and send the students back to Wisconsin. The only question was who—

Etienne felt a vague itching somewhere between his shoulder blades. He’d felt it in the coffee shop as well—when that girl had been watching them. Not the casual kind of looking around one might do when bored in a public place, but watching, with purpose. When Ms. Webster had noticed her, she’d left in a bit of a rush. Greer had been right about her coffee cup not being empty, too.

He was not surprised when a minute or so later, the same girl came into view again, walking a little too quickly to be entirely casual, and plopping herself and her backpack down in a seat where she could see them, but far enough away so as to not be too obvious about it.

She was young, casually dressed in jeans and one of those layered knit tops that were popular with the twenty-something crowd. But she wasn’t really reading the paperback she held up; her attention was elsewhere, and her colors flickered with stress, excitement, and a touch of fear.

“Hewitt,” Etienne murmured, in as low a voice as he could manage and still be understood. “We seem to have attracted some attention—that young lady over there has been watching us since the coffee shop.”

“Hmmm.” The Ventrue’s gaze flickered out to the girl and then back to his newspaper. “Why, I wonder?”

“Good question. She could just work for whoever watches O’Hare—but she does seem rather nervous about being here.”

“A little excitement in an otherwise humdrum night, perhaps,” Hewitt said. “Assuming our arrival was a bit of a surprise; at least I would hope it was.”

“There’s something else, too.” Etienne reached inside his jacket pocket and brought out a scrap of newspaper—an article he’d torn out of the Houston Chronicle—which had been far more of interest to him than the crossword. He passed it to Hewitt.

“Oh, dear….” Hewitt murmured, scanning the headline. Hotel Employee Found Dead in Staff Restroom. The article didn’t give the victim’s name, but it definitely had been their hotel. Local police thought it was some kind of drug deal gone wrong, from the evidence at the scene. “But you didn’t—“

“No. Of course not,” Etienne had to focus to keep his voice low. “No, I just gave him a cover story and sent him back downstairs. Apparently someone else was not as forgiving. I didn’t want your students to see it. But we’ll have to be on our guard. Even when we get to Baltimore.”

His eyes flicked back to the girl, pretending to read her book while her gaze darted nervously back and forth—watching them, but also sometimes watching down the long terminal corridor, as if she were expecting someone else to arrive. “Which also could mean this girl is a problem.”

“She’ll be able to see what flight we get on—rather obvious already actually, since we’re sitting right at the gate,” Hewitt said.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Etienne agreed. “Which wouldn’t really matter, if this is just an issue of the local Kindred watching airport traffic. But we don’t know that for certain.”

“We could ask her,” Hewitt suggested. “See what she says—or does. If she realizes we’re aware of her too?”

“We could,” Etienne nodded. “Or perhaps… since she’s already attracted the eye of Mr. Greer there… he’d like to do the honors?”

It was true. TJ was already stealing looks in the girl’s general direction.

“She does seem to be going our way, Thomas,” Hewitt said, just a little louder, and the young man turned his head towards the professor immediately. “It’s rather lonely to travel by oneself, perhaps she’d like a bit of friendly conversation… if you wanted to go chat her up before we boarded?”

“Maybe…” TJ hesitated. A touch of color heated his cheeks. “You don’t think it would be a bit creepy? Me just walking up to her out of the blue?”

“The mere fact that you can even consider that question is already a point in your favor,” Diane informed him. “Just give her space, and if she doesn’t want to talk, take the hint and walk away. You’ve got sisters, use your imagination.”

TJ gave her an odd look. “Uh… okay, then. I’ll try not to be creepy.” he said, and rose to his feet.

Well, if nothing else, TJ could take a hint well, Etienne reflected. His gaze remained mostly fixed on his remaining section of newspaper, but he focused his attention on the grad student and the girl, sharpening his hearing and senses to pick up what he could

TJ walked over to where the girl was sitting, and sat down, two seats away. “Hi,” he said. “Going to Baltimore?”

The girl picked up her backpack from the adjacent chair and held it on her lap, wrapping her arms around it a bit nervously. “Uh–yeah,” she stammered. “Are you?”

“Yeah, me too—kinda dumb question, sorry. That’s why we’re all sitting here, isn’t it. School?”

“What?”

Her colors were nervous, on edge—but it wasn’t TJ who was making her nervous, Etienne guessed.

“Are you going for school? In Baltimore, I mean. They’ve got some good ones there, I hear. Johns Hopkins, University of Maryland, and all.”

“No—grandmother,” she blurted out. “I mean, I’m going to visit my grandmother. In Baltimore.”

“Cool,” TJ answered. “So you live in Chicago, then–?”

“Evanston,” she said, looking down the corridor again. Etienne resisted the temptation to look himself.

“I’m from Iowa. Dubuque. My name’s TJ—“

She stood up, suddenly, holding on to her backpack. “I—I just remembered, I have to call my grandmother. To-uh—tell her I’m coming. I’ll be back. Don’t—don’t let the plane leave without me, okay?” Without even waiting for his reply, she turned and walked away from the gate very quickly, clutching her backpack close to her chest.

Then she ducked into the ladies’ room.

“Well, that settles it, she’s spooked,” Etienne said, and stood up, leaving the newspaper on his chair.

“You can’t go in there!” Hewitt hissed at him, alarmed.

“Of course not,” Etienne assured him. “But if I wave at you, please send Ms. Webster over.”

“What?” Ms. Webster looked up from her book.

Etienne walked briskly over to the restroom and stood near the wall, focusing his hearing inside.

She was the only one in there at the moment. He could hear her breathing, her heartbeat—both going a little fast. And yes, he was right—he heard the faint beeps of a cell phone being dialed.

“Where are you?” It was a man’s voice on the phone. “You were supposed to keep an eye on them, Chloe. Can’t you do anything right?”

“I—I know, sir, but—one of them saw me. He was asking all these questions, like where I was from and—“

“And then what? You panicked and ran off, is that it? That will only make them even more suspicious of you, you know. Where are you now?”

“I’m sorry, sir—I just didn’t know what else to—“

“Where. Are. You. Now? Just answer me.”

“I—I’m in the ladies’ room.”

“And you feel safe in there, do you? Idiot! You’re alone in there! There will be no one to hear you scream! Get back out there where there are lots of people around you. And you will get on that plane if Jacques doesn’t get there before they finish boarding. Is. That. Clear?”

She sounded like she was just shy of tears. “Yes—yes, sir.”

Etienne moved back, so he was not in immediate sight of anyone coming out of the restroom, and waited.

A minute or two later, she came out, swinging the backpack up on her shoulder again, ready to face the world.

Etienne slid in behind her. “Hello, Chloe—“

“Shit!” She whirled around and made for the restroom again, but Etienne intercepted her, blocking her way and catching her arm.

“Too late for that,” he hissed. “Look at me—“

She did, reflexively; a wide pair of blue eyes met his, and just as quickly, he had her.

“Now, Chloe,” he said, in a low voice, holding her gaze, guiding her gently away from the door. “There’s no need to be afraid. Just listen carefully. You don’t want to make a scene or attract attention. Nod your head if you understand me…. ”

She nodded. There were tears brimming in her eyes; one tear escaped and ran down her cheek.

“Good. Wipe your eyes, that’s it. Take a breath, slow and steady. That’s better. One breath at a time. Now, I want you to take your phone out and give it to me.”

She dug into her jeans pocket without looking and silently handed it over.

“Thank you,” he said. “I want you to remain calm, just keep breathing slowly and steadily just like that. We’re just going to go over there and sit down, and have a nice, friendly little chat.”

Etienne steered the girl back to the seating section, where TJ had rejoined the others. “Sit down,” he told her. “You will stay in that seat until I release you, and you will answer my questions. Is that clear?”

Eyes wide and frightened, she nodded, clutching the straps of her backpack where it rested on her lap.

Both the grad students, sitting just across from where he’d sat the girl down, were watching what he was doing with rather keen attention.  Etienne ignored them, turning slightly to hand  the girl’s phone over to Charles.

“Check the phone logs, and transcribe the numbers,” Etienne said. “Especially outgoing.”  He then turned his attention back to Chloe.

“You’ve been watching us. Why? And for whom?”

“I—I haven’t, it’s just—”

“Chloe,” Etienne repeated.  “Look at me—that’s it. You were watching us, we saw you. Just answer the questions. Who are you working for?”

She swallowed hard.  “I—I can’t tell you.”

“Hmm,” was his only reply to that. “ Well, then.  What were you looking for? How did you spot us?”

For a moment it seemed as though she might succeed in resisting this question too, but at last she said “You... you didn’t actually drink the coffee. You held the cup up like you were, but you didn’t swallow.”

“So you weren’t instructed to look for us specifically,” he said.  “You just happened to notice us and then called... let’s call him your employer, shall we? Is that correct?”

She nodded, miserably, twisting the pack’s straps in her fingers.

“I see,”  Etienne glanced over at Charles. “What calls were made recently?”

“Three,” Charles said, studying the phone’s tiny screen.  “One just a minute or two ago, the other... forty minutes ago, to the same number. The other call was about fifteen minutes ago, a different number.”

“Forty minutes—that’s about when we left the coffee shop,”  Etienne murmured.  “Local number?”

“Yes, I believe so. Chicago area code.”

Etienne turned his attention back to the girl. “And do you routinely hang around the airport watching for... travelers who don’t drink their coffee?”

She nodded again.

“What else do you look for, when you’re... observing.  Any other criteria besides not drinking coffee?”

“Lots of things.   Uh... Anything  spooky or weird.  At night.”

“And your employer just told you to get on the same flight as we’re on—correct?  That must have cost quite a bit. His credit card or yours?”

“I—I just called the travel agent. They set it up,” she said. “But I won’t go, I—I’ll just say I missed the gate or something. Please—” Her voice went suddenly soft, almost a breathy squeak. “Please don’t kill me!“

“Hush now.  No need to panic,” Etienne reassured  her.  “All I’m trying to do here is mind my own business, traveling through O’Hare on my way to somewhere else, and suddenly I find someone spying on me and my companions.  What would you suggest I do?”

“You—you could just let me go?,” she suggested hopefully.

“And maybe I will, if you continue to cooperate,” Etienne agreed. “But your employer seems to think we’re very dangerous. Do you have any idea why that might be so?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded, fighting tears.

Etienne lowered his voice. “You know what not drinking the coffee means. You know what kind of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Yes.” A bare and fearful whisper.

“Why would you want to do this, knowing how dangerous it is? What do you get?”

The two grad students had not been blind to this exchange, though it wasn’t clear how much of it they could hear. Diane still had her book open, but she hadn’t turned a page since he’d brought Chloe over to sit down. And TJ was watching intently. Now he stood up and came over closer.

“What’s going on?”  he asked. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” Etienne explained, a bit irritably. “But she has been spying on us, for an unnamed party—and after what you in particular experienced last night, I think it’s important to find out why. And for whom.”

TJ gave her a confused glance.  “But she said she was going to visit her grandmother—“

“She lied,” Etienne said flatly. “But I promise you that I am attempting not to make any bigger a deal out of this than I absolutely must.”

“Uh—okay, then. I guess.”  TJ sat down again, but leaned closer, his brow furrowing over his glasses.

Etienne turned his attention back to the girl.  “You were going to tell me what you got out of this arrangement? Why do you do this… for him?”

She looked down, her skin flushing. “He—he’s,” she started, then pressed on. “He’s... very good in bed.  I like it—I like what he does.”

“Oh, dear—”  murmured Charles, from behind him.

Alright, that was maybe a little bit more information than I really needed to know…but Etienne knew one of the hazards of mesmerizing a subject for interrogation was a tendency to overshare.

“Listen, Chloe,” Etienne said wryly. “I’m not about to advise you on your love life. But anyone who calls you an idiot and sends you to follow strangers around is really not a boyfriend worth keeping.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she protested.  “He’s—he’s my puh—my—“ Her lips moved, but nothing came out. “I can’t talk about him, sorry.”

“Professor?”  Etienne supplied.

She nodded.

“First boarding call, United Flight 215 to Baltimore Washington International Airport. Flight 215 is now boarding at Gate F3.  We would like to invite first-class passengers, unaccompanied minors and anyone who might need special assistance to board at this time...” 

“Professor. Well, that shouldn’t be too hard to figure out,” Etienne remarked to Charles.

“No, no, you can’t, he won’t like it! I shouldn’t have said that—“  She looked about frantically. “If he finds out I talked to you—“

“Is Jacques here yet?” Etienne asked, quietly.

“You know about Jacques?” Her voice choked a little on the name

“Yes, I know. Is he here yet or not?”

She shook her head. “No. Not yet. Please. Please let me go?”

People were already lining up at the gate to board the plane. Diane had put her book away in her carry-on, and was watching them warily, plainly awaiting a cue as to what to do next.

“We do need to board,” Charles pointed out mildly.

“All right, then,” Etienne said, and turned back to the girl, whose shirt had grown damp with perspiration. That more or less settled it—she couldn’t possibly be the type to work for their shadowy enemy voluntarily, and she didn’t seem to be under anything like the hypnotic suggestion that had forced poor Ramon into a rather badly-cast assassin’s part. “Now listen to me closely, Chloe. These are your options. Either I will let you go, and you can go and tell your professor what happened, or not, as you wish. Or you may board the plane with us and pretend to your professor that everything is going perfectly well, and you can even watch us all flight if you like, like Jane Goodall and the chimpanzees. It’s up to you.”

“And when we get to Baltimore?” she asked, not meeting his gaze.  “What then?”

He smiled mirthlessly. It was quite a dilemma she’d be facing, and she was smart enough to foresee it—but that was hardly his doing, and certainly not his to solve. Under Kindred law, she was her “professor’s” vassal, and interfering could only entangle them further in the affairs of a city that they only wanted to leave before their stalkers found them again.

“That also depends on you,” he replied. “I will protect myself, and I will protect my friends. But I have no interest in hurting you—unless you or your professor force my hand. Are we clear?”

“Yes.  Please just let me go, I won’t say anything—“

“Very well.” He sat up and looked at the gate. They were into general boarding now. He turned back to her. “Just please do let your professor know he and you both would be far better advised to mind your own business next time.  What you’re going to do now is stand up, smile and hug TJ over there, like a girl making up with her old boyfriend. You do that, and I will let you go.”

Then Etienne glanced at TJ, who was frowning, surprised to be suddenly brought into the proceedings  “Just go with it, okay?  Then we can get on the plane and get on with our own business.”

“Oookay—“  TJ got to his feet.

“You can get up now, Chloe,” Etienne said. “Go on, give him a nice hug—“

She got up and half-walked, half-stumbled into TJ, clinging to him as a shipwrecked sailor might cling to a bit of flotsam. He hugged her in return, clearly trying to be comforting, murmuring soft encouragements. Not exactly the smoothest  imposture Etienne had ever devised, but hopefully convincing enough for the others in the gate area who’d been glancing their way,  wondering what sort of personal drama had been going on in their little corner of it.

Meanwhile, Etienne reclaimed his own bag, and Charles, who had never let his precious antiquity get more than a few inches away from easy reach, stood up, case again in hand.

“Oh. I suppose we really should give her phone back—“ Charles said, holding it out. Chloe didn’t seem to even hear him (neither did TJ), so Etienne took it and slid it back into the pocket on her backpack as he strolled past.

“Allez, allez,” Etienne called to them, as cheerily as he could manage.  “All aboard, as they say.  Time to go!”

“Come along, Thomas—“ Charles said more quietly, as he and Diane also headed for the gate. TJ extricated himself gently from the girl’s grasp, picked up his backpack and followed.

“And just what was that all about?”  Diane muttered as they were settling into their seats—this time in first class, courtesy of Charles’ backlog of frequent flyer miles.

“I dunno, exactly,” TJ said. “I mean, she was shaking. Really scared.”

Etienne, who of course overheard this, glanced at Charles—they were, after all, his ghouls. But the Ventrue seemed totally absorbed in getting the case with his prized artifact securely stashed under the seat in front of him.

Etienne heaved a mental sigh. Then he stood and turned to face the two mortals in the seats behind him, leaning close so he could keep his voice low and still be heard over the steady stream of incoming luggage-laden passengers filing down the plane’s center aisle.

“Listen to me,” he said seriously. “After last night’s little incident, and what just happened—I think it’s very possible that our academic excursion has garnered a lot more interest from a lot more undesirable quarters than any of us expected... or, to be fair, than any of us hoped.”

Diane frowned, giving him a wary look. “You think they’re connected?  How?”

“I don’t know if they are or not,” Etienne allowed. “The girl, at least, could just be coincidence.”  He hesitated, then reached inside his jacket. “But what happened last night, I fear, was most definitely not.”

“I thought you said it was a prank,” Diane objected. “Just a misunderstanding of some kind.”

“Yeah, that bellhop was just crazy, man,” TJ said.

“Unfortunately, that crazy bellhop is now dead.” Etienne offered them the newspaper article. “And, it seems, under quite suspicious circumstances.”

Diane snatched the article out of his hand, scanning it quickly.  “Shit. That explains all the cop cars this morning. This is way too creepy for coincidence, isn’t it.”

“I’m afraid so. So until we do know what’s going on—it’s best to err on the side of caution, and keep our guard up, don’t you think?”

“Definitely,” Diane agreed.

“But what about her—what about Chloe?” TJ asked. “She’s in serious trouble, isn’t she? Isn’t there anything we can do to help her?”

“I don’t know,” Etienne admitted.  “I have no idea who she’s working for, but I doubt it’s anyone pleasant. However,” he continued sternly, “unless she gets on this plane—or we get off, which we are not going to do—there is very little we can do about it. All we can do is try to keep ourselves out of trouble, which is proving to be quite a challenge already, and you have the bruises to prove it.”

TJ slumped back in his seat. “I know,” he said. “I just wish... we could’ve done something.”

Could’ve. In the past tense. Well—good. Satisfied he’d made his point, at least for the moment, Etienne turned back around and got settled in his seat beside Charles.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t have enough challenges to look forward to in Baltimore, after all. Explaining to the Prince of Baltimore how he’d managed to get blown to smithereens and somehow not die, for one thing. Avoiding getting blown up again once the word got out, for another. One crisis at a time, and they certainly didn’t need to be picking up a new one in Chicago. However pretty.

But apparently, Fate was taking it into Her sadistic head to disagree—for the very last passenger to board the airplane was Chloe, her backpack slung casually over her shoulder now, her eyes steadfastly focused ahead as she brushed past them, toward the cheap seats in the rear of the plane.

“Merde,” Etienne grumbled softly. “One thing after another! Well, at least she’s not supposed to use the cellphone on the plane.”

“Yes, indeed,” Charles said, leaning forward slightly to look out the window. “Makes it exciting, doesn’t it?”

“If you want to call it that.  Did you see? She got on the plane after all. Clearly I wasn’t frightening enough.”

“No.” Charles crooked a deceptively casual finger in the direction of the window and sat back again. “I suspect Jacques is a lot more frightening than you are…”

Etienne leaned over to look, sharpening his vision until he could see what Charles had: two figures standing in the terminal observation area, staring out at the plane.  One was a tall, broad-shouldered black man in a chauffeur’s uniform, whose deep forbidding scowl had probably been his chief hiring point. Beside him stood a shorter white man in a crisp suit, youngish and handsome, but with eyes like black ice. Etienne needed no further clue to his nature than the weight of his gaze, palpable even from here. The Ventrue had the right of it—neither of them looked like the forgiving sort.

Behind him, he could hear TJ turning in his seat, watching Chloe make her way to the back of the plane.

Mon Dieu, save me from young men and their hormones.  Etienne turned around in his seat once more and beckoned.  “Mr. Greer—“

“Uh—yeah?” TJ got the hint and leaned closer so Etienne could keep his voice low.

“I know she’s cute, but her boss really sucks. Please don’t do anything classically dumb without letting me know first.”

“You said if she got on the plane, we could help her!” he protested in an explosive whisper.

“We can’t help her without having some idea what’s going on,” Etienne explained patiently, “which is exactly what she would rather not discuss. That is what I mean by classically stupid. Uninformed heroics could be disastrous. We wait and we watch until we understand things better.”

“I could ask her,” TJ offered, hesitantly. “You scared her. Sir. She might talk to me.”

“She might, but bear in mind she’s supposed to be gathering information on us. You’ve already been injured once. How much more of that do you want to risk?”

“She wouldn’t hurt me,” TJ insisted, though he did sound a little less confident now. “She’s not crazy, like that... that guy from last night.”

“TJ, don’t forget. That guy from last night is now dead,” Diane hissed at him.

“I know, I know.” TJ sighed.  “But, shouldn’t we at least try to help her? If we can?”

“Yes, we should,” Charles chimed in unexpectedly, without turning his head.  “If we can. We’ll see.”

“Yes, yes. If we can,” Etienne relented, though not without raising an eyebrow at his seatmate. Et tu, Hewitt?  “Just…please don’t go off half-cocked. I beg you by all that is holy.”

Seeing that there was no prevailing against the inconveniently gallant, he sank back in his chair and pulled SkyMall out of the seat pocket in front of him. At least some distractions on this flight were harmless to indulge in, and could be neatly and quietly put away afterward.

Chapter Text

BWI Airport, Baltimore, MD — June 21, 2004

The problem with sitting in the back  of a large airplane, Chloe knew, was that you were always going to be one of the last ones off the plane when it arrived at the gate. Even having no luggage in the overheads didn’t help—there were just too many people in the aisle between her last-minute seating and her targets up in first class.

The one thing in her favor, however, was the inevitable time lag between when passengers disembarked—and when their luggage actually showed up at the Baggage Claim.

So when Chloe followed the rest of the passengers from the Chicago-to-Baltimore flight to the baggage area, the vampires and their mortal assistants were still there, waiting on their luggage along with everyone else.

Great. Now what?  She had no idea. Clearly they would be going somewhere—but where? Dawn would be coming soon, and vampires would need somewhere to stay, secret and safe. It was unlikely she’d be able to overhear the address they told a cab driver, or be able to follow them, even if she had a rental car ready to jump into at the door.

Why was she even here? 

They’d seen her, of course. There was nowhere to hide, and she doubted she could have hidden from them anyway, now that they knew to watch for her.

She was all alone here.  What had she been thinking?  Why had St. Clair insisted—ORDERED—that she get on that damned plane?

The young man—TJ, who had chatted with her on the plane—left his luggage with his companion, and walked over in her direction.

TJ, at least, did not frighten her.  He’d been friendly on the plane, in a somewhat dorky but not uncomfortable way.  (Not at all like the creepy suggestive looks she’d gotten from the businessman across the aisle; in fact, his keeping her company for part of the flight had finally made the sleazebag give up.)

But now what did he—or those vampires—want with her?

“Hey, you made it,” TJ said, a bit awkwardly.  “Here we are.”

Chloe managed a thin smile.  “Yeah,” she said. “Together again. Yay.”

“So what are you gonna do now?”

“Uh—“  Chloe looked away, checking out the transportation options. Which were, of course, not much help if she didn’t know where she wanted to go.  “I guess I’m supposed to keep following you.”

“Kinda hard to do that if you don’t know where we’re going.”

“You could always just tell me.”

“Yeah. Or you could just come with us. We’re going to a hotel. We could get you a room. Your own room, that is, nothing nasty or weird. Until you figured out what you wanted to do. I—I just kinda hate leaving you here all by yourself.”

Chloe hesitated, then rubbed at her eyes.  “I have no idea. I mean, what’s your thought here? Do we all get together and do lunch at the hotel restaurant... or breakfast?  Honestly, this is all starting to feel a little bizarre.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I know. I don’t get it. But the Professor, he’s okay. And they said you could come if you wanted to.”

“You mean none of this makes any sense to you either?”

“Not really, no. Lots of things don’t right now. But unless you’re gonna get right back on a plane today—might as well come along, right? You look beat.”

“Good point.”  Chloe hefted her backpack over one shoulder. “Thanks.”

Maybe it would make more sense after a good night’s sleep—or at least a very long nap. And maybe she could learn something, enough to satisfy St. Clair.

She followed TJ back to where the others waited.  “So, uh... Introductions,” TJ said. “This is Professor Hewitt, and Mr. Copperfield, and Diane.”

Copperfield—her interrogator—just gave a half-smile and little wave, but Professor Hewitt’s smile was much warmer, with a touch of St. Clair’s charisma. He also had a very crisp British accent.  “So glad you could join us, Chloe. Come along. I reserved a rental car, I think it will hold us all.”

The car was a large Lincoln, with more than enough trunk space for all their luggage—except one satchel that the Professor only relinquished to Mr. Copperfield’s hands. Chloe kept her backpack, which she held on her lap as she, TJ and Diane slid into the back seat.

“Alright, then,” Copperfield said, settling the satchel down between his feet in the front seat and unfolding a map.  “We’re going to want Interstate 195 West, until we can get on the beltway—“

He stopped abruptly, lifting his head from the map.  “Dammit,” he grumbled.  “Another one.”

“On the curb, to the right,” the Professor said quietly. “No matter, we’re leaving anyway.”

Copperfield didn’t turn to look, but Chloe did. One of the baggage handlers did seem to be watching them with more than just casual interest. A chill ran down her spine.  No wonder they saw me. They just... knew.   She wondered if that guy reported to St. Clair too—or to someone else, someone here in Baltimore.

“Talley-ho, and we’re off,” the Professor said, cheerfully, and the car moved out into the exit lane.

There was very little talking, save for Copperfield giving directions. It soon became clear where they were going was not downtown Baltimore, but somewhere else.  It was all she could do to stay awake enough to hear those directions, so she might have some idea of where she was.  Neither of her companions in the back seat were any better off.  When one of them yawned, the other two soon followed suit—but the men in the front seat remained unaffected.

Of course.

By the time the car finally pulled into the parking lot of a Ramada Inn, Chloe had totally lost track of where they were. The Professor inquired at the front desk, and gave her a keycard for a hotel room just down the hall from their own.

“Time for bed,” Copperfield said as they get off the elevator, covering his mouth with his hand for what was clearly (at least to Chloe) a fake yawn.  “I don’t think I’ll even set an alarm.”

“Right,” the Professor said, looking at his watch. “It is very late, we’ll definitely need the recovery time. Let’s meet this evening and work out the details of our business... around nine, I think will be good.”  He put the keys to the rental car in TJ’s hand. “Just in case you want to go somewhere later. Get some rest, it’s been quite a long night.”

He and Mr. Copperfield vanished into their room and shut the door.

TJ unlocked the next door down the hall.  “I could sleep for a week,” he said, dropping his duffel bag on the nearest bed.

“No, you won’t,” Diane said. “You’ll be hungry by lunch time.”

“Yeah, then I’ll be ready for a nap afterwards.”

Chloe paused at the door to their room, her own key-card in her hand.  “I am just totally confused,” she admitted. “I guess I should pay your professor back for the room?”

“Don’t worry about it,” TJ said. “At least not tonight.  Look—“  He found the inevitable pad of paper and pen on the hotel desk, and scrawled a phone number on it.  “Here, this is my cell number.  Just give me a call when you feel like going out for some lunch, or late breakfast—or whatever.  Or call this room, 312. Okay?”

Chloe accepted the piece of paper.  Ramada Inn, Towson Maryland, it said across the top, and then a phone number… she could look up the area code later.  “Thanks.  Uh… good night.”

“It’s gonna work out, Chloe,” TJ assured her, putting the do not disturb tag on the doorknob.  “Night.”

In her own room, Chloe kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged on the bed, with TJ’s hastily scrawled phone number in one hand, and her cell phone—still turned off from the unexpected plane trip—in the other.

I am going to miss my classes tomorrow.

I’m in fucking Maryland.

No one else knows where the hell I am. If something happens to me, they’ll never even know where to start looking for my body.

It would be dawn soon—she could already see the early gray light through the sheers over the window. So the Professor and the very scary Mr. Copperfield would soon be sleeping, but Professor St. Clair, back in Chicago, might still be awake. She could call, ask for instructions. Maybe he’d just tell her to call a cab back to the airport and come back home….

Or maybe he’d still be angry. She couldn’t call him now, not with nothing to show for it.  She had to have something to tell him, to make up for her screw-up at the airport, and the price of the ticket.  Something about these travelers, where they’d come from, what they were doing, something. Something to make him proud of her again.

She put the phone on the side table, and left it powered down.  Might as well save the battery; she didn’t have the charger with her anyway.  Tomorrow. She could call tomorrow…. After she had something to report.

And hope it was good enough, so he would let her come home again.

When Chloe woke up again, it was past noon. There were (once she mustered the courage to turn the phone on again and check) no messages, not even a demand for more information she did not yet have.  She wasn’t sure if this was a bad sign or a good one—did he expect her to know what to do next?  Or had he written her off as a bad investment, and was already checking his class lists for his next trusted assistant?

No, no...  She could at least leave him a message, right? So he knew she was still on the job, still following through on... on whatever this was. Taking a deep breath, she called his daytime number, and then requested voicemail.

“Hi, Professor. It’s Chloe Lehrer. I made it to Towson and now I’m just wondering, um, what the next best step would be, what you had in mind? Um, you can reach me at my cell number if you want. I guess I’ll just keep doing... what I’m doing until I hear from you. Thanks, bye.”

She was still contemplating her phone (and the piece of paper with TJ’s cell number on it) when there was a knock on her door.  She opened it a crack, to see TJ and Diane standing out in the hall.

“You hungry?” TJ asked. “We’re going to hunt down a wild omelet—or whatever it is they serve at Denny’s at this hour.”

She was, in fact, hungry. And maybe she’d be able to find out a bit more—make St. Clair happy again.  “Sure,” she said.  “Lemme get my shoes on, and I’m good to go.”

The day was hot and bright, and the walk to the Denny’s down the block was just long enough to make them appreciate the cool rush of the air-conditioning as they went inside. The awkward weirdness of the night before seemed very far away.

They settled into a booth, with Chloe and Diane on one side and TJ taking up the other.  “It’s lunchtime—okay, late lunch. Definitely burger time,” TJ said, glancing over the menu.

“If it’s got eggs, I’m good,” Diane said.  “Breakfast served all day, just what I need.”

Chloe looked at the menu, calculating how much cash she had, and when she’d be able to hit an ATM. She ordered a cup of soup and half a sandwich from the budget menu.

“You can get more if you want,” TJ told her.  “We’re good for it, don’t starve yourself.”

“No, really,” she assured him. “This is fine. I—I don’t eat that much. And grilled cheese is comfort food.”  Shit. Watch what you say! 

“Yeah, I can see that,” TJ agreed.

Once the waitress had taken their orders and brought the first round of drinks, however, an awkward silence fell, all of them pretending (at least for the moment) to be more interested in getting their drinks sweetened or stirred to their satisfaction than looking the other people at the table.

“Okay, this is weird, right?”  Diane said at last. “Can we all just agree on that, and then get down to figuring out what’s really going on?  Like, why did you get on the plane and follow us here?”

“I’m not really sure,” Chloe admitted, nervously.  “I mean, my professor told me to, but I still don’t really know why.”

“You told me you were going to visit your grandmother,” TJ put in, puzzled.

“I had to tell you something. It was the first thing that popped into my head. Everybody’s got a grandmother, right?”

“Okay,” TJ said. “But you were watching us, last night. At Starbucks. I saw you. And all we were doing was having coffee. Hanging out, waiting for our connection. What’s so suspicious about that?”

“If anything,” Diane added, “Realizing some stranger is watching us, that’s much more suspicious than anything. At least the professor and Mr. Copperfield seemed to think so.”

“Nothing—I mean, that’s not it.” Chloe looks very uncomfortable. “Really, I wasn’t told a lot. Just to look out for the things you always look out for.”

“Things you always look out for?” Diane frowned.  “Like what?”

“You know, like the coffee,” Chloe explained.  “Mr. Copperfield, he was pretty good at it, but your professor... you should remind him to swallow when he puts the cup to his lips. Makes it look more natural, like he’s actually drinking it.”

Diane and TJ exchanged puzzled frowns across the table.

“But—why would that be something to look for?  I mean, he was drinking the coffee—wasn’t he?”  TJ asked.  “Who orders coffee at a Starbucks if you’re not going to drink it? It’s not cheap.”

“Exactly,” Chloe said, certain this proved her point.  “Because people don’t just normally go around buying stuff and pretending to drink it. So, that’s one thing to look for.  Food, too, of course, but most people don’t go to Starbucks for food.”

“Not at that hour, anyway—well, unless you’re TJ,” Diane amended.

“Hey, I was hungry,” TJ said, then refocused his attention back to Chloe.  “And anyway, you didn’t finish your coffee either. I heard it go thunk when you threw it out. You must’ve had at least half of it left.”

“What?“ Chloe stammered, caught off-guard. “Oh, maybe I did—I was nervous, that’s all.  I just wasn’t thinking. It’s not the same thing.”

“Not the same thing as what?”  Diane repeated. “You’re not making any sense.“

The waitress arrived with their food. Chloe was grateful for the reprieve, even though the conversation was eroding her appetite even for comfort foods. And every attempt to explain her actions was beginning to feel more and more like an ill-fated game of charades.

In fact, as they began to eat their assorted lunches, Chloe was beginning to wonder if these two had any idea of what she was talking about at all.

No. It couldn’t be.  They couldn’t possibly be that clueless. They were traveling with those men. They clearly didn’t even question why neither their professor or Mr. Copperfield had joined them for lunch. Or why they were traveling only at night.

Unfortunately, the distraction of the food didn’t last nearly long enough.

“Okay,” TJ said, after he’d wolfed down his entire burger and half his fries. “So you were watching us in Starbucks, and you said Mr. Copperfield and Dr. Hewitt didn’t drink their coffee. And then you followed us, because this professor told you to. And then when we spotted you, he told you to buy a ticket to Baltimore out of the blue and just follow us here?  But then Copperfield said you could leave... so why didn’t you? I mean, he was scaring the shit outa you, I could tell.”

“Yeah, he was pretty scary,” Chloe admitted. “I mean, I know how they usually react to that kind of thing, and—and he was asking questions I couldn’t—I didn’t have answers for. I didn’t want to follow you. It’s just what I was told to do.”

“Wait, who’s they?” TJ asked. “Copperfield?  Or your professor? I’m confused.”

“I mean Copperfield and your professor, and—and my professor,” Chloe said, hoping against hope they’d pick up the clue. “You know how They are. Don’t you?”

“I’ve had two cups of coffee and I’m still completely confused about this,” Diane said dryly.

“Okay,” Chloe said, stirring the residue at the bottom of her cup. “How long have you two been with these guys?”

“I’ve had Hewitt for three semesters,” TJ answered. “Just met Copperfield the other night. He’s an old... I dunno, business acquaintance, I think?  Hewitt’s a good guy, though. He only sounds like a twit, really. He’s sharp, sharp as they come.”

“Right, TJ, that’s enough detail,” Diane put in. “But yeah. I just started working for Dr. Hewitt a few weeks ago, and we just met Copperfield. Why?”

“I’m just saying—” Chloe glanced out the window for a second, reminding herself that it was broad daylight and They could not hear. “And it’s all I’m going to say... in all that time, have you ever seen them eat or drink... anything?”

“Well, yeah, I mean—Charles is British, likes his tea and all.”  TJ hesitated. “When we had those sandwiches. He had the salmon... didn’t he? Or was it the chicken salad? Damn. I don’t remember.”

“Of course, he eats—how can anyone not eat?” Diane said, though with less certainty. “I mean, we’re meeting for dinner tonight, aren’t we?”

TJ’s brow wrinkled. “We’re meeting tonight, but didn’t Charles say at nine? That’s way past dinner time.”

“Not for Europeans,” Diane pointed out. “And restaurants are generally open ‘till ten or eleven. We could ask to make it into a dinner meeting.”

“But my stomach’s on American time!” TJ protested.

“Fine, get a burger to go, to tide you over,” Diane told him. “I think a late dinner sounds just fine. Just to settle the issue, right?”

Chloe nodded, but her smile was entirely fake—because it had just occurred to her how deep a mess she was really in. If these vampires hadn’t told their mortal attendants what was really going on, they were not going to be happy if they figured it out (or worse, could blame it on her). Maybe Dr. Hewitt was a forgiving sort—but that still left the very dangerous Mr. Copperfield, and she was here entirely on her own.  Shit. Now what am I gonna do? 

Chapter Text

Towson, MD — June 21, 2004

Etienne sat on the side of his bed for a moment and delved into his memory for a particular phone number he hadn’t used in over two years. He then tapped those numbers into his cell phone.

A young, male voice eventually answered. “Prospero’s Books, how may I help you?”

“Hello,” Etienne said cheerfully. “I’d like to speak to Cassie Blair, if she’s available?”

“Uh, hold on a minute, let me see if she’s here—” and he was put on hold, listening to some kind of new-age vocalist—sounded like Enya, perhaps? —until the phone was picked up again.

“Hi,” another voice answered, warm and feminine, but still not Cassie. “She hasn’t come in yet, but I expect her in later this evening. Would you like to make an appointment?”

“Yes, but I’d like to leave my name and number for her, if that’s alright?” Etienne asked, and then gave his number. “Tell her it’s Steve Bishop—yes, that’s right. Thank you.”

“Bishop?” asked Dr. Hewitt, now emerging from the bathroom, fully clothed, his mustache freshly waxed. “I thought your name was Copperfield?”

“Bishop is the name she knows me by,” Etienne said, ignoring the unspoken query about whether perhaps Copperfield wasn’t his real name either. No doubt they’d be getting to that matter soon enough, but it would be a longer conversation than he wanted to have right now. “I’m sure she’ll call me back in a few hours. Meanwhile, we should probably figure out what to do about that girl—”

“That girl?” Charles echoed, in what couldn’t possibly be total obliviousness but was certainly a wonderful facsimile of it. “Oh. That girl.”  

“If she’s smart,” Etienne continued, “she’ll have called that travel agent back first thing this morning and taken the next available flight back to Chicago.”

“Yes, but it’s not so much if she’s smart, is it?” Hewitt pointed out. “It’s her boss—this professor—calling the shots, and she’s clearly quite intimidated by him.”

“Well, if he’s smart, he’ll just have her come home. If he’s just the city’s airport minder, we’ve gone way beyond his jurisdiction now.”

Dr. Hewitt was straightening up, folding his pajamas (burgundy silk, with blue piping and a monogram on the pocket) neatly into his suitcase. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure he is all that smart.”

“Then we can send her back ourselves,” Etienne said. Then added, a bit carefully, “She needn’t remember anything about it, naturally—it’ll be as if we just vanished off the plane, and I’m sure he’ll understand the cause.” As a vampire, and especially a Ventrue, Charles would of course know exactly what he meant—the odds that he’d never mesmerized a mortal or two of his own were low indeed; but Ventrue, and especially an English Ventrue, were also prone to thinking it gauche to mention such subjects too directly. He had no desire to add to the Tremere reputation for gracelessness.

“But after forcing her to get her on the plane, how will he react if she comes home empty-handed, without anything more to show for it?” Hewitt protested, “He doesn’t seem to be the forgiving sort.”

“The forgiving sort? What’s to forgive, he’ll know we didn’t exactly give her a cha—”

Etienne stopped mid-sentence and turned to peer frowningly at Charles’ face, which was still a blank coin free of any apparent stamp beyond befuddled innocence.

“Even if he’s a blithering idiot,” he went on after a moment’s silence, “his reaction should be to realize he’s dabbling in waters far too deep for him, and he should be grateful to get her back at all.”

“Well, one would hope,” the Ventrue demurred meekly, “but I wonder if hope is warranted. Copperfield, she’s little more than a child—”

“Be that as it may, she’s not ours to drag along with us! She belongs to another—for God’s sake, have you forgotten the law?” Etienne protested. He realized he was raising his voice, possibly to the point where little mortal ears in the next room could hear, and forced himself to bring it back down.

“Look, Hewitt—what else can we do? We still don’t know if this was just coincidence—or if her master is connected to that sinister fellow Ms. Webster caught a glimpse of in Houston. This whole thing is probably just a random encounter and the pique of a petty little tyrant.  Probably. But if someone else put sufficiently persuasive pressure on him to tell them when we were there, or where we went? I’d rather not bet our lives, or your students’, on his discretion.”

“I know.” Hewitt took a breath. “It’s just that—” He stopped, glanced towards the door between the students’ room and their own, just as there was a tentative knock on it from the other side.

Etienne stood up as the Ventrue went to the door and opened it, admitting his two grad students, with Chloe following close behind.

Dammit.

“Well! I hope everyone is rested up and ready to work,” Hewitt began, and then hesitated.

“Actually, Charles—” Diane interjected. “Not quite yet. We were thinking maybe we should have dinner first? I mean, we can talk over dinner, that’s fine—“

“It’s—it’s a little late for dinner, isn’t it?” Hewitt protested. “I mean, we’ve already—“

“I know, I told them it was,” TJ said. “But they said we should wait for you, and I’m starving.”

“I’m sorry, it was all my fault,” Chloe said, sounding a bit embarrassed.

“We had the car,” Diane put in. “Chloe didn’t have any luggage or... or anything, so we went shopping, and that took a little longer than we thought it would. And there’s not that many places to eat within walking distance, so I really apologize for not getting the car back earlier. But now we can all go together.”

“No, no, don’t apologize,” Hewitt said hastily.  “Of course we can all go together—let’s see, where was that list of local restaurants?”  He turned back to the desk and began to flip busily through the hotel guidebook.

“Just a moment—” Etienne was startled by the sudden change of focus, and the protest he wanted to make collided with his train of thought about the acceptable way to phrase it. If there was an acceptable way to phrase it... clearly, he was swift becoming a sane minority of one. Also—dinner?

“Hold on,” he tried again, looking dumbfoundedly from the Ventrue to the kids. “I’m a little confused on the plan here. She doesn’t have luggage because she’s... just how much clothing did you buy? And have we all forgotten that she admitted to spying on us for an unnamed employer?” he finally blurted out.

“That is true, of course—” Hewitt said frowning. “Unless perhaps she’d be willing to tell us his name now?”

“I—I can’t,” Chloe said, looking down.  “I’m sorry.”

“Have you spoken to him, since you got here?”  Etienne asked her directly. “What have you told him so far?”

“Nothing!” Chloe protested. “I haven’t talked to him. I did leave a message, I told him I was here, but he—he wasn’t available.”

“But he might call back, and then what will you tell him?” Etienne glanced at the others. But he still seemed to be the only one thinking any of this through. “Our reasons for being in Baltimore aren’t any of his business—or hers. And we can hardly have a dinner discussion of it with her at the same table.”

“Well, we may not have much to discuss, yet—” Hewitt said. “We’re waiting for that associate of yours to call us back, aren’t we?”

“We could just postpone the work stuff until after we get back from dinner,” TJ pointed out. “I mean, we all have to eat, right? We can talk about something else.”

“Exactly,” Hewitt blithely agreed, brandishing the restaurant list.  “Now, let’s see—what are you in the mood for?  I’m seeing Chinese, Italian, a place that claims to be Japanese… a place that claims to be Mexican…”

“Japanese,” said Diane promptly. “I haven’t had sushi in ages.”

“Ah, an adventuress—” Hewitt looked around at the others. “Thomas? Chloe? Mr. Copperfield?”

“Sushi sounds good,” TJ said, and Chloe nodded.

Obviously it didn’t really matter what Etienne thought at this point. They’re your students, so it’s your Masquerade, Professor, he grumbled to himself. Still, it made him uneasy. And the more they see, the more I’ll have to erase later.

“Fine, we can do dinner,” Etienne said at last. “However, if Chloe is joining us—I must insist her phone remains here at the hotel.”

“It’s turned off,” Chloe pulled it out of her pocket to show him. “To—to save the battery, I didn’t have the charger with me.”

“Fine. Leave it here.”

She instantly looked ten times as nervous. “Uh—what about in Diane and TJ’s room?  Just—just in case we get back really late?”

He nodded, waving his hand.  Chloe handed the phone over to TJ, who ducked back through the open door into the adjoining room, and set it on the desk.

“Excellent,” Hewitt said, picking up his satchel. “Let’s be off then!”

Etienne checked his keys, his wallet, and his hair—no change there, alas, it was still 14^th century hair. And here I thought having another Kindred’s ghoul spy among us would be the biggest problem I’d face tonight. But no. Sushi? Really, Professor? Sushi.

A strange word to strike terror into the heart of the undead, but there you had it.

Dinner might have been an amusing adventure, except, of course, it wasn’t.

They were seated promptly, in a round corner booth. Dr. Hewitt made sure the satchel containing his precious relic was situated on the seat between himself and Diane, with Etienne on his other side. This put all the mortals on the far side of the table, which gave them entirely too good a view of the spectacle about to ensue.

In the course of his duties as Pontifex for the Far Eastern Region, Etienne had attended several business meetings with the Japanese kue-jin and their mortal entourages—so he was at least somewhat familiar with the names of dishes listed on the menu, though naturally he’d never tasted any of them. Given the prospective audience, he settled on a bowl of udon with egg and a cup of green tea, as being the easiest to fake eating.

The students, of course, had no such worries. Diane ordered a sushi platter and miso soup, TJ ordered sushi and unagi, and Chloe decided to try a chicken teriyaki bento, not being entirely convinced that raw fish was as delicious as her new friends insisted it was.

Dr. Hewitt, after studying the menu with a rather puzzled frown, decided on chicken tempura. Etienne had hoped—though he recognized such optimism was likely futile—that meant the Ventrue actually had some clever tricks up his sleeve to handle it all.

Instead, it appeared he could barely handle his chopsticks. His first attempt to grasp a piece of the batter-coated chicken flipped entirely out of his hand, and he was forced to retrieve it (with exclamations of embarrassment over his own clumsiness) from the floor, placing the offending chunk on the place mat next to his plate. He then made use of his knife and fork to cut the pieces into manageable size,  attempting (not entirely successfully) to dip them in the sauce without losing them, and pushing them around on his plate amid remnants of batter with chopsticks. All the while, he kept up a steady stream of conversation with the students (and of course, with Etienne himself, who understood the value of talking as an excuse to not actually engaging in eating).

However, it was not easy to keep up with conversation regarding the history of the Shogunate, or the relative merits of Evangelion versus Princess Mononoke, or whether it was better to watch anime in original-Japanese-with-subtitles, or the English-dubbed versions—all the while aware that three pairs of little mortal eyes were watching every move of his spoon. Or when his thoughts tended to revert to mantras like Fucking English Ventrue, Putain d’idiot Ventrue anglais over and over again.

TJ polished off all his sushi and was already debating the choice between ginger-flavored or green tea mocha ice cream for dessert. There seemed to be fewer chicken tempura pieces on Dr. Hewitt’s plate, though it was also littered with so many broken pieces of the batter coating, it was hard to tell.

Etienne finally managed to catch the attention of their waitress, who had been occupied with the loud yuppie-bohemian crowd over at an adjoining table, to come and take plates away. She didn’t seem surprised at the nearly-full udon bowl—apparently she was accustomed to the average customer being unable to finish one.

She also took the dessert orders, at least from Diane and TJ. “Oh, none for me,” Etienne said, raising his hands. “I couldn’t even finish my soup!”

Dr. Hewitt likewise declined. “Yes, that was quite a dinner, really—much more than my usual. I couldn’t hold another bite!”

An unfortunate—or unintentionally revealing—turn of phrase, and it reminded Etienne that it had been two nights since he’d properly fed. Well, hopefully when Cassie called, she might have an answer to that dilemma as well.

The ice cream arrived, and Etienne simply nursed his tea, pretending to sip at it now and then, reminding himself that this painful ordeal was nearly over.

“This is so good,” Diane’s eyes closed in rapture over her ginger ice cream. “It’s—sweet, and still has a gingery bite to it. Charles, you should really try this—here, I’ve got a clean spoon—”

“Well, maybe just a tiny taste—” Hewitt admitted, and leaned towards her, over the satchel.

What? Oh, good God, what is he thinking? Ventrue were known to be finicky eaters even when it came to blood, after all—and a Ventrue barfing up force-fed ginger ice cream in public would be just the direction their luck seemed to be heading.

Etienne prayed silently for deliverance.

Fortunately for all concerned, Hewitt only nibbled at the end of her spoon, and didn’t seem to actually swallow. “Oh, my, that is lovely,” he said at last. “No, I don’t need any more than that. Must watch my weight and all.”

Finally the waitress brought the bill, which gave Etienne something more substantive to do than pretend to drink his tepid tea and try to refrain from visible eye-rolling. At least his discretionary budget could stand the strain, even if his nerves were down to their last tangled, fraying threads.

And then, quite fortuitously—as soon as he signed the bill and put his credit card away—his cell phone rang. The number was unfamiliar, but it seemed to be a local area code. Dieu merci. “Excuse me, I had better take this one—” he said, sliding out of his seat, phone in hand, and made for the restaurant’s front area for a bit of privacy. “Hello?”

“Good evening. Mr. Bishop?” A woman’s voice, with an English accent, and very familiar. “It’s Cassie. How are you?”

“Ah, very well,” he said, and felt all the accumulated stress of the past hour recede just a little. “Guess who’s in town with a couple of friends?”

“Oh, really? Should I be worried?  Or more to the point, should I let my... uncle know?”

He took her meaning at once—does my Regent know you’re here? and chuckled. “No, not with these friends—and let’s not involve your uncle just yet. But I would like to consult with you about some things. Tonight, if that’s possible? Sorry for the short notice, but matters did come up rather all of a sudden.”

“Oh, no problem. You know I’m always glad to see you. Do you want to come out to the house, or the shop? I’ve got appointments ‘till eleven, but I could cancel them if need be.”

“The shop, I think, would be best. We’re not far away, just finishing up… dinner.”

“Dinner?” she echoed, in a tone that could either be puzzlement or amusement.

“Yes, dinner. Don’t even get me started—” Etienne glanced back to their table, where Dr. Hewitt was smiling with his hands raised, fending off an apparent assault from a plate of almond cookies. “I don’t think you need to cancel, I’m sure we can just browse in the shop for a bit. I do have another favor to ask, however. Regarding… a certain friend of yours.”

“A friend of mine? That sounds ominous.”

“No, no, it’s not, really,” Etienne assured her, wondering which of her friends she thought he actually meant. “You see, he offered me a museum tour a while back, and I’d very much like to take him up on it now, but given the situation I was thinking it might be a bit... awkward if I just show up on his doorstep. Also, I’m not even sure where his doorstep actually is.”

“Ah, yes, I know who you mean. Awkward is certainly one way to describe it—but we can discuss it when you get here. I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Etienne found himself smiling, just basking in the moment with someone he didn’t have to worry about or lie to. “It’ll be lovely to see you again.”

“Likewise.” There was genuine warmth in her voice. “I’ll be watching for you.”

Etienne returned to the table, but remained standing. “Talk about perfect timing. That was my associate. As soon as we’re all finished here, we can go meet up with her. It’s quite close, actually, just around the corner from here.”

“Excellent!” Hewitt smiled, and then seemed to hesitate, glancing over at the students. “But shouldn’t we, uh… go back to the hotel first? I mean, if we’re going to talk about our actual work….”

“Wait a minute,” Diane interjected. “Please don’t say we have to wait in the hotel again.”

“Yeah, remember what happened the last time—” TJ added, his long fingers tapping the bruised area up near his hairline.

Chloe glanced over at TJ, looking a bit confused—clearly she’d either not heard the story, or had naturally assumed the only person being dropped off at the hotel would be herself.

“Hmm, that is a good point—” Hewitt frowned slightly. “Perhaps we should stay together, but—”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Etienne said, hoping that was indeed the truth. “As it happens, she works in a bookstore, and we’re meeting her there. So everyone can at least browse around downstairs. There’s even a coffee shop—”

“Ah, splendid,” Hewitt said, brightening.  “Just the thing, a spot of caffeine to keep us going!”

Etienne’s mouth opened, then closed before his thoughts actually became words and escaped, most likely ones he would later regret. But he silently cursed all Ventrue and their beaming, addle-witted progeny quite vehemently in medieval French all the way out to the sidewalk, until the thought of seeing Cassie—known also to him as Sarah McCullough, his younger sister in House and Clan Tremere—brightened his spirits once again.

Chapter Text

One of the bright spots (if indeed there had been any bright spots) to the choice of restaurant was its proximity to their next destination. Parking being rather tight in that part of town, they left the rental car parked where it was, and walked the short distance to the bookstore.

At first glance, it looked rather like any other college town hangout—with a few kids sporting dyed hair and visible tattoos standing out on the sidewalk having a smoke. A sign hanging over the door identified it as Prospero’s Books.

It was what wasn’t visible, however, that made the place so special. Etienne felt the protective wards as soon as they walked within about twenty feet of the building’s walls, though to him they were only a slight sensation of tingly warmth.

But Dr. Hewitt suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. When Etienne glanced back, puzzled—surely the wards had not been keyed against all other Kindred—he saw the Ventrue staring upwards at the building with a worried frown, clutching his satchel close to his chest.

Diane had noticed too, and was already turning around. “Charles?”

“Are—are you sure it’s alright to just drop in like this?” Hewitt asked. “We could come back later—“

Etienne glanced up as well—though it wasn’t the physical building he was studying. He could see the wards, of course, but he also saw the faint, shimmery image of a large bestial spirit rising out of the roof, glowing eyes staring balefully down at them. Ah, that was Caliban—a bit over-zealous, perhaps, in its guardian duties, but not unexpected.

—You carry something that smells of blood, it rumbled at them, though its voice echoed only in his thoughts. —Old blood and old bindings.   

“We’re expected,” he said aloud, partly to reassure Hewitt, who likely couldn’t even see the beast, but clearly felt its warning presence magnifying the effects of the wards, and partly so the guardian itself would hear and hopefully, check with its mistress. “She knows we’re coming.”

“I—I certainly hope so,” Hewitt said, speaking rather more rapidly than usual. “I mean that’s silly, isn’t it, because you said she asked us to meet her here, but I wonder, maybe, if we’re being just a bit too presumptive—“

—She comes, Caliban grumbled and then apparently withdrew, inside the shop or into whatever pocket of the spirit-plane it called its den when not annoying its mistress’ guests on this one.

“No, no, we’re fine, Dr. Hewitt,” Etienne said, hoping the spirit’s departure eased at least some of the Ventrue’s trepidation. Behind him, he was aware of the shop’s door opening, and could feel the wards shifting, a passageway opening. Ah, Cassie, good timing. “See, here she comes.“

Etienne turned back, one hand outstretched, in part to reassure Hewitt and the others, but also just to appreciate the view.      

It wasn’t just because Cassie was a lovely young woman, though she was; her coppery hair and vampire-pale complexion was a striking combination of itself. But Cassie also had her own sense of style, one that even local Toreador harpies had given a grudging nod of respect. Tonight that style what might be described as new age bohemian: a lime green tank-top and loose teal gauze shirt with rolled-up sleeves, over a long skirt apparently sewn from a collection of colorful silk scarves, fluttering around her calves. She also wore a very eclectic mix of beads, bangles and other jewelry, including several odd rings on her fingers and gold hoops in her ears.

“Oh.”  Hewitt let his death-grip on his precious satchel relax, and the stress faded away from his posture. “I guess we are.”

“I told you,” Etienne said, and then stopped forward to greet her, taking her be-ringed hands in his own, and exchanging kisses on either cheek, European-style.

“Cassie,” he said warmly. “So good to see you again.”

“Steve, it’s been too long,” she said. “I’m glad to see you, of course, but what are you carrying? Caliban said—“

“Not now,” he murmured quickly, “not on the street,” and was grateful when she gave the faintest of nods in response.

He turned back to do introductions. “Cassie, may I present Dr. Charles Hewitt, and his assistants, TJ and Diane. And this is Chloe,” he added, because she was there, and just as wide-eyed as all the rest, though since he didn’t know how to best describe her, he didn’t. “Everyone, this is Cassandra Blair, the proprietress of Prospero’s Books.”

“So lovely to meet you. I guess we should go inside, then?” She glanced at Etienne, and he nodded. “Very well, then,” she said, smiling. “Come in and sit down. We don’t have any live music tonight—and thankfully, no karaoke—but we’ve got plenty of teas and coffees.”

“Right,” Hewitt said. Whatever doubts he’d had a few minutes ago, clearly meeting Cassie had been as much a spirit-lifter for him as for Etienne. “Tea!  Just the thing.”

Cassie then delighted Etienne quite thoroughly by taking his arm, and they led the way to the shop’s doors.

The inside was divided into two separate but connected stores—a bookstore on one side and a coffee shop on the other. The dividing wall also supported a staircase that went up to the second floor. A few of the tables in the coffee shop were occupied, by students chatting over coffee, or huddled over laptops.  The bookstore side was fairly quiet—the girl at the counter was reading, but she glanced up over the rims of her glasses when they walked by.

Cassie led them to an open table. “Here you go. Have some tea and browse the bookstore if you like, we’re open tonight ‘till eleven.”

“Uh, Cassie?”  Diane asked. “I’m sorry, do you have a restroom?”

“Oh, of course,” Cassie answered. “Through that door, back under the stairs.”

“Thank you.”  Diane collected Chloe with a glance and slight tilt of her head, and the two of them went off together.

That was not a particularly encouraging development, but there was little Etienne could do about that right now. On the other hand, the timing was also somewhat fortuitous. “Cassie, I do owe you an explanation,” he murmured. “But preferably somewhere more private, and warded, if that’s possible?”

“My office is upstairs,” she said. “I actually did cancel my appointments, so I’m totally at your convenience. Or did you want to wait for—?”

“Now is actually very convenient,” Etienne said, briskly. “Mr. Greer, do you mind holding the table? Thank you. Professor, after you—and bring the satchel.“

Cassie’s “office” was, in fact, a charmingly cluttered Victorian parlor, with antique furnishings, shelves full of old books and bric-a-brac, windows masked by heavy red velvet drapes, and a central table sporting a crystal ball set in a brass stand.

“I don’t think we’ll be needing this,” she said, picking up the crystal ball and returning it to a less prominent place on a side table.  The English accent vanished from her speech; even her posture and the way she held her head changed, as she turned back around.  The fortune-telling bohemian was gone; in her place stood someone quite different, more mature, serious, and formidable.

“Dr. Hewitt,” Etienne said, noting the shift of identities, “allow me to present my colleague, Sarah McCullough of House and Clan Tremere. Dr. Charles Hewitt, of Clan Ventrue.”

“Ms. McCullough,” Charles said, taking her proffered hand lightly in his and bowing over it, not quite kissing her knuckles. “An honor.”

“Dr. Hewitt,” she responded, with a slight smile. “Welcome. Please, be seated. But before we begin—let me secure the room.“

She struck a match and lit a candle taper, then used that taper to light other candles—one for each cardinal direction—in the four corners of the room. Etienne recognized the sigils carved into the stout wax pillars, and the Latin invocation she murmured as she lit each one.

“Excellent,” Etienne said, nodding approval. These wards enclosed just this room within a protective shield—even if Dr. Hewitt’s students were standing just outside the door, they could neither enter nor even eavesdrop on what was going on within.

Sarah set the burning taper in a candle stand, and placed it on the side table next to the crystal ball. “Now can you tell me what’s in that case that Caliban was so unhappy about?”

“Easier to show than tell,” Etienne said. “Dr. Hewitt, if you please?  I’m wondering just what Caliban found so distressing, myself—perhaps we need a closer look.”

“Right, of course,” Hewitt said, opening his satchel and bringing out the padded box, which he set upon the table. “But—uh—Caliban? Surely you don’t mean the Shakespearean… uh, creature?”

“He’s a spirit,” Etienne explained. “Ms. McCullough’s guardian spirit—but mostly an invisible one. However, he did take particular notice of your artifact—he described it as smelling of blood, in fact. And then said old blood and old bindings, so I’m most curious to know why.”

“Old blood and old bindings?” Sarah echoed. “That does sound most interesting.”

Hewitt pulled on a pair of gloves, then carefully took the jar out of its nest of wrappings, and placed it upright on the table. The box he set aside out of the way.

“A canopic jar,” Sarah said. “Is it genuine—no, don’t tell me yet. Let me see… oh, my, this is old. Very old.” She stared at it intently for a moment. “Well. Isn’t that interesting…. Steve, do you see what I see? Is that a spirit?”

Etienne let his own vision drift, as he had out on the street, to peer into the unseen spirit-realms. He hadn’t done so before, not even in Houston—but he hadn’t had reason to suspect the jar’s aura of sorcery was anything more than an echo from the unusual runic inscription. However, now he could detect a spirit-aura as well—faint, yes, but present, emanating from the jar itself.

“It’s a spirit-vessel,” he said. “The aura’s very weak—dormant, perhaps, which makes sense if it’s been entombed for centuries. Caliban said it smelled of blood—I would think the organ originally placed in there—the, uh—“

“Liver,” Hewitt supplied. “Imseti guards the liver of the deceased.”

“—the liver, thank you. But that must surely have crumbled to dust by now. So perhaps he was sensing the blood magic used in creating these characters here—“ Etienne indicated the inscription around the base of the lid. “These are not hieroglyphs; in fact, they’re an indecipherable script, at least so far.  And they’re invisible—to all save Kindred, and those who’ve tasted the Blood.  Wait—I’m going about this all backwards. Let me tell you how this whole matter began—“

Etienne suddenly realized whose jar it really was, and glanced apologetically over to Dr. Hewitt.  “With the professor’s permission, of course?”

“Oh, by all means, please—“ the Ventrue waved him on. “I’m quite anxious to figure this out myself!”

“Well, then,” Etienne began. “Dr. Hewitt discovered this jar as part of a set—a full canopic chest—that he’d gotten from an estate sale, but upon closer examination, realized it was not, in fact, part of that set—” And so he continued, including the hotel room invasion they’d experienced in Houston, and the search for what might be another jar of the original set.

“Ah,” Sarah said, when he’d finished. “So that’s why you asked about a museum tour. You want to see the Stolen Treasures exhibit!  That’s been in all the papers—the controversy about it, anyway.”

“Yes,” Etienne admitted. “Preferably before it opens. As soon as possible, really, if Mr. D’Angelo can arrange it.”

“I’ll ask him. Well, first I’ll explain to him how you’re not really dead, and then I’ll ask about a tour. But if you’re going to go out and about in public in Baltimore—“ She hesitated. “You might want to give the Prince a heads-up, too. He took a lot of flak from the Regent and Mr. Dorfmann for what happened. He’s going to be really annoyed when he finds out they knew all along you’d survived—or that I knew—and nobody told him.”

“It’s hardly your fault he was left in the dark—I did swear you to secrecy after all!  But Mr. Dorfmann and the Regent?” Etienne said, a bit crossly. “They most certainly knew better! I’d rather not have to talk to either of them—or the Prince, for that matter—but I suppose you do have a point. Dr. Hewitt here at the very least should attempt to comply with Traditions. Even though I hope we won’t be in town long enough for it to matter.”

“Oh, of course we should comply with Traditions,” Hewitt agreed. “But I didn’t expect to—well. I—I must confess I don’t even know who the Prince of Baltimore is, much less how to get in touch with him.”

“I can help with that, too—“ Sarah dug in a drawer, and came up with a business card. “His name is Axe. Just Axe, no surname. He’s Brujah, so he’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s not unreasonable. You can reach his office here.”

She offered the card to Etienne at first, but he held up his hands. “I don’t think I’d better make that call,” he said. “But if Dr. Hewitt will oblige me, here’s what I think we should do. Call the Prince’s office, ask about making a presentation, but don’t give our names, or make us sound particularly interesting or important. With any luck, we’ll be done with our business and out of here before nocturnal civil bureaucracy gets around to calling us back.”

“Us?” Hewitt asked, as he accepted the card and peered at it carefully. “But why shouldn’t I use my name? I mean, if I can’t be who I am, it’s hard to rely on my, uh, reputation, such as it is.”

Etienne gave him an odd look. “Well, yes, of course, you can be whoever you like. Just... oh, hmm. What name and clan should I be?  Ventrue?  I suppose you can leave it vague.”

“Ventrue,” Dr. Hewitt informed him, arching one eyebrow just a little, “are not vague.”

“Oh, very well,” Etienne sighed. Ventrue. “If we actually do meet with the Prince, I’ll be myself, since he’s met me before. But for now, you can make up a proper lineage for me, so long as I sound boring as all hell.  Call me... Hmm, not Copperfield.  Gray.  I’ll be Francis Gray.”

Hewitt nodded, accepting the substitution (and clearly not getting the centuries-old reference to the Franciscan Order it contained). “Right, then. I can do that,” he said, and tucked the card safely away in his shirt pocket.

Sarah, meanwhile, had been staring at the canopic jar again, though her fingers were playing with a charm bracelet she wore around her wrist. “I’m wondering,” she mused, with a glance at Etienne. “If Caliban might have more to say than what you heard out on the street—you had the jar outside the wards at that point, didn’t you? I could summon him to appear in here. Maybe he’d be able to see something more up close—or maybe even read the letters?  He’s very old, for a spirit.”

“Er, what?” Hewitt looked suddenly very nervous, glancing around the room. “I mean, would it... is it a friendly spirit?”

“Not that old, surely,” Etienne replied. “Though the presence of another guardian spirit so close to this one—“ and he indicated the jar on the table, “might interfere with its dormant state. Hmmm. Could you summon him within a binding circle? I realize he won’t be able to see as much, but it might be better to take a few precautions.”

“Certainly. He won’t be able to manifest for long in a small circle, but we can do it. He’ll be grumpy about it, though, I’ll warn you.”

“Better to placate a grumpy spirit we know, than risk awakening one whose nature and powers we do not. You can tell him it was all my fault if you like. I don’t mind taking the blame for it all.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.  Alright, then, let me get it set up. First, I think we’ll need to move this table back, maybe three or four feet—“

Dr. Hewitt watched the preparations with great fascination, Etienne noted. Very few outsiders were ever witness to Tremere arcane rituals. Partly because, frankly, an unpredictable audience was just one more complication that serious sorcerers preferred to avoid, and also, the Tremere were rather jealous of their magical arts, which were (or so most Tremere believed) the only reason the other proud, ancient vampire clans tolerated their presence amongst them. Of course, what Sarah was doing was spirit thaumaturgy, which was a rare study even among Tremere, most of whom could not see or sense the presence of a spirit-entity even when it was hovering over one’s shoulder. It was their shared specialty that had led Etienne to seek her out, three years ago; unfortunately, other circumstances beyond their control had also resulted the drastic choice to fake his own death to get the Sabbat off his trail.

On the other hand, Etienne reflected, perhaps it was just as well that Dr. Hewitt was there—it forced him to sit back and not hover over her shoulder, or offer constructive suggestions that might be interpreted as criticism of her methodology. He’d had to all but create his own ritual practices for dealing with spirits over centuries of trial and error, based on what he could remember from his own unorthodox teachers, or what he could observe of Tzimisce koldunic practices  (from a safe distance, lest he become their target). He had, in fact, written the book on it for Tremere practitioners—and he could tell she’d read it, based on the elemental anchors and vertices she was using; on the other hand, the five sigil-points within the outer circle had to be from some other source—her sire, perhaps?  He wanted to ask, but again—the presence of an outsider stilled his tongue.  Hopefully later, they would have a chance to catch up, both personally and professionally.

Sarah finished her preparations, and then knelt before the meter-wide circle she’d drawn in chalk on the hardwood floor. She held a ritual knife in one hand, pricking her finger to press drops of blood at the five sigil-points, and then sliced across her palm to fill a shallow silver bowl. Once that healed, she used the blade as a pen, dipping it into the bowl and drawing a much more complex sigil beside it, in the circle’s center—all the while whispering in Latin.

Then she sat back on her heels, and used the knife to mark the air, calling on the spirit by name.

The building shuddered, and objects rattled a bit on the shelves. Dr. Hewitt’s hands moved to steady his precious jar, though in fact, that had been one of the few objects in the room unaffected by the spirit’s display of pique.

 Grumpy indeed—but very discriminating in his targets, Etienne observed.

The thin lines of the blood-sigil vanished first, evaporating into the air, then the five points of the inside pentagon, and then finally, the blood pooled in the silver bowl. The spirit’s form materialized – compressed into the limited space, but still vaguely recognizable as a head and shoulders, hunched back, and long arms wrapped around its chest; the rest of its nebulous form remained out of sight below the floor.

“Uh… is it over?” Dr. Hewitt asked, his gloved hands still cradling the jar as it sat on the table.

“The shaking, I believe so, yes,” Etienne said, giving the guardian spirit a warning look. “I think Caliban has made his displeasure known, and we can now get down to business, yes?”

—Fuck you.  The spirit’s eyes blazed a sullen red.

“Caliban, manners,” Sarah admonished him. “Show some respect to his lordship, please.”

It growled. —Fuck you, my lord Pontifex.

“You know perfectly well why we had to use a circle,” Etienne said. “You saw this artifact was spirit-imbued right away, didn’t you? You warned us about it. That was your duty as a guardian, and you did it well.”  Etienne’s own training had stressed that it was much more productive to use flattery and encouragement with spirits than threats—especially if you needed information only they could provide.

“Caliban, we thank you for your diligence,” Sarah said. “But we need to know, why did you warn us about the jar?”

It grumbled a bit more, and rose up higher for a better vantage point. The red, however had faded from its eyes. —Old blood. Old bindings. It sleeps. Do not awaken it.

“We’ll try not to do that, thank you.” Etienne said. “What else can you see, when you look at the jar? What kind of spirit is bound within?”

—It is a guardian, one of four. I will not say its name, but you know it already.  

“You see it as one of four,” Sarah said, “but this jar was found alone—well, not alone, but not with the rest of its original set. Can you tell—do the other jars of its set still exist?”

—The set is divided, but yet unbroken. The bindings still hold.  

“He says the other jars do exist, but they were separated,” Etienne explained to Dr. Hewitt, who was looking a bit befuddled at the two of them talking into thin air. Then he turned back to Caliban. “Can you see where the other jars are?”

—Not from within this circle. One... feels... closer than the others. The others are beyond my sight. And also that which they guard.

“What do they guard—no, wait. It would be a sarcophagus, wouldn’t it?”  Sarah glanced back at the professor. “Containing the mummy, from which the organs came. A connection of blood and flesh. Is it near or far?”

— Not near.  I cannot see it. But... it is protected. The bindings still hold.

“That’s very helpful, Caliban, thank you,” Sarah assured him.  She glanced back at Etienne. “I think we can ask one more question, before I have to release him. It’s hard for him to hold this form.”

“One more, hmm.  Alright, then,” Etienne considered a moment. “Caliban, you can see the writing here, that goes around the base of the lid?  Can you tell us what the inscription means?”

— I do not know the writing. It is very old blood magic, not of Tremere, and beyond my knowledge. I am weary now…

Sarah glanced back at Etienne one more time, and he nodded. “Thank you, Caliban,” she said, raising her knife one more time, scratching a line through the circle’s chalk border.  “I release you from the circle, go now and rest …”

The apparition offered the slightest of bows, and then sank into the floor and vanished from sight.

“Well, that was... actually I’m not at all sure what it was.”  Hewitt still looked a bit befuddled. “You were talking, but I didn’t see anyone there!”

“According to Caliban,” Etienne explained, “this jar was part of a set, and the other jars still exist, as well as the sarcophagus they were originally entombed with. It sounds as though they’re all magically linked; if the guardian spirit in this jar is still sleeping, chances are the other jars have sleeping guardians too. And he did think one of the other jars was close. Which means it very well could be the jar in the museum exhibit.”

“Splendid!” Hewitt said, apparently recovering his optimism. “I guess we’re on the right track, then. All we need is to set up the museum tour. But—if we’re not going to be doing anything more with this, I should probably put it away. Wouldn’t want anything to, uh, jostle it, or anything like that—“

“Oh, yes, of course,” Etienne waved his hand, and the professor began to wrap the jar with its layers of padding to put it safely back in its box.

Sarah had been bending over the floor, using a rough cloth to smear and break up the chalk circle and its sigil markers. Now she straightened up, and turned slightly towards them. “Where are you staying?  If you don’t mind telling me—“

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all,” Etienne assured her. “At the Ramada, just off the beltway.”

“Ah, good. I can have one of my people keep an eye on the hotel during the day—just to be on the safe side.” She hesitated, and then added, carefully, “If—if you find yourself needing to, Towson University is just south of here, and the campus is within my domain. You’ll be careful, of course.”

He understood her at once. “Of course. Thank you, my dear, very much.” He turned to Hewitt. “So, how should we do this? Which of us should babysit first?”

The Ventrue pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger, and looked a bit confused. “What? Babysit? Babysit who?”

“Your mortal students,” Etienne explained, lumping Chloe in with the others, at least for the moment.  “We can’t just leave them here, we’ll have to take them back to the hotel first. And it’s probably not a good idea to leave the artifact without one of us on guard duty, either—after what happened in Houston.”

“Oh. I suppose that’s true—“

“Wait—“ Etienne said suddenly. “No, that won’t work either. I’d feel better if the jar was under a proper ward—just to be on the safe side. Dammit, that will take half the night.“ And if I’m hungry now, I’ll really be hungry after that, he grumbled to himself.

“You could leave it here,” Sarah suggested. “This shop is already warded—it won’t take that much more work to put a concealing cover over it. Or I could do it even better at home, if you trust me to look after it for you.”

“I—I don’t know about that,” Hewitt said, reluctantly. “I mean, I’d prefer to have it close at hand, really. I—It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that—“

“It’s a rare and priceless artifact, I totally understand,” Sarah continued. “I do. But you felt the warding on this building—remember? And Caliban is a very potent guardian.” She rose from the floor, looking Dr. Hewitt in the eye, laid a hand gently on his arm. “This is only temporary, for a day or two, at most. And if his lordship will help me with some of the warding, that means he can come and get it for you if I’m not available. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Another factor to consider,” Etienne added, having just thought of it, “we still don’t know how they—whoever they are—found us in Houston. But if Caliban could sense another jar was near, perhaps they have some means of doing the same. I could build proper defenses, but that takes time, and I’d rather not put your students’ lives or yours at risk in the interim.”

Hewitt sighed, and then nodded. “I suppose it’s better to be... safe and inconvenient, than sorry, right? I really don’t want Thomas suffering another concussion—or worse—on my behalf.”

“Yes, exactly,” Etienne agreed. “As to immediate logistics—why don’t you take the students back to the hotel? Sarah and I will ensure your artifact is safe and hidden here, and I’ll trade off with you in about—“ he thought a moment, “two hours, maybe three? So the students aren’t left alone.”

Hewitt gave one more little pat to the protective box, still sitting on the table, as if it were a child or pet he was loathe to leave behind, but finally picked up his empty satchel and straightened up.  “Very well. then.”

Chapter Text

Towson, MD — Tuesday, June 22, 2004

“When you said breakfast meeting,” TJ said, checking over the menu at Denny’s the next morning. “I didn’t think you actually meant, you know, at breakfast time.”

“TJ, how the hell did you survive undergrad optional courses?” Diane asked, exasperated. “And don’t tell me you copied your girlfriends’ notes, or I’ll kick you. Just so you know.”

“I took ’em at more sensible hours. Like at eleven. Or at night. I didn’t have a girlfriend.”

The waitress brought coffee. TJ ordered a stack of buttermilk pancakes with bacon on the side. Chloe checked her dwindling cash and ordered the two-egg breakfast, hoping a solid breakfast meant she wouldn’t be that hungry by lunch time, and could hold out until dinner.

Diane ordered an omelet apparently constructed by Pablo Picasso. She also availed herself of a big cup of coffee, half of which she drank before saying anything.

“TJ,” she began, “did you notice anything strange at the restaurant yesterday?”

TJ dumped sugar and cream into his coffee. “Strange?” he echoed.

Chloe nursed her coffee and sat back to watch, wondering when they were going to figure it out. It was all so obvious to her, how could they have really not noticed?

“TJ, do not try my patience this morning. I’ve not had nearly enough coffee for that yet,” Diane warned him. “Did you see Copperfield or Dr. Hewitt eat anything or not?”

“Well. I—I thought I did. I mean, Charles took a bite of your ice cream. And he did order the chicken.”

“He ordered all right,” Diane replied bluntly. “But most of the chicken ended up in his lap. And Chloe and I are pretty sure Copperfield didn’t eat anything, either. “

“Yeah,” he agreed. “That was a lot of udon soup left over, even for udon. And I never saw a noodle… well, you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know.” Diane paused as the waitress delivered their breakfasts. “What do you think we should… do?”

TJ focused on getting butter in between the layers of his pancakes before pouring syrup over it all.  “Well, do we have to do anything? I mean… hell, I’m not even sure what I mean.”

Diane speared a sausage link and chewed it for several minutes. “Chloe, you’re the resident expert on this.”

Chloe forced herself to take a bite of her eggs, though her stomach felt tied in knots too tight to handle any food. “I’m not sure you really get it yet. What else have you noticed?” 

“We’ve seen them not eat, or pretend to do so really badly.” Diane paused, and focused on her own eggs for a minute. “They apparently sleep all day. That’s not totally strange, though—I’ve met academics who keep some god-awful hours.”

“But have they ever, ever been out in the day?” Chloe asked. “Can you remember even one time?”

Diane glanced at TJ. “You’ve known him longer.”

TJ’s brow furrowed in thought. “His classes are at night. So are his office hours. I mean, that’s five pm during the winter, but… I—I coulda sworn I’d seen him in his office during the day once or twice. I think?”

“Yeah, but you’ve been traveling with them,” Chloe pointed out. “Flying only at night, right?“

“Academic budgets, night flights are cheaper,” he responded, but clearly he was beginning to think about that too.

“And if they’re not eating then, then when are they eating? And how does anybody not eat?” Chloe realized her voice was climbing a bit and forced herself to tamp it down.

“I mean, I honestly never thought about it before,” TJ admitted. “I know academics are a bit… eccentric. Hell, I—I don’t know.”

Chloe looked at Diane. “So, what do you think?”

“I honestly don’t know what to think,” Diane replied. “Okay, that’s not true. I think this entire situation is strange in the extreme and got stranger last night. That woman—she was strange.”

“Who, the girl at the cafe?” TJ asked. “She was very pale, but well, she’s a redhead. And she’s a fortuneteller. She had business cards at the checkout counter.”

“She was more than just pale,” Chloe said. “She was wearing makeup. It was put on well, but… all her color was makeup, except the hair and eyes. Though I did think she had the wrong color blush on.”

“Oh, that’s a sure sign of something,” TJ muttered.

Chloe glared at him. “Look, if you don’t think anything funny is going on, then there’s nothing to talk about, is there?”

“I didn’t say that,” he protested. “Look, I’m sorry. Something is going on. I just don’t know what. What are you getting at?”

“Look, you guys watch the movies, right?” Chloe blurted out. “What’s really pale, and only comes out at night, and doesn’t drink… coffee? That is what it is.”

TJ considered. “What meets all those criteria?  Goths, gamer geeks, vampires—“  His voice trailed off. He had actually meant it as a joke, but it suddenly didn’t seem quite so funny.

“I’m not making this up,” Chloe said, looking from one to the other. “I didn’t create it for you. You saw. Put it together.”

“But vampires are not real. They’re only in the movies. And in folklore, and goth fantasies,” TJ protested. “There’s no scientific evidence that I know of. Tabloids and bad documentaries don’t count.”  He was still thinking, though.

“How do you not eat and not die?” Chloe pursued. “Look, what you have to accept is that either, through this whole trip, for some mysterious reason they’ve been sneaking off to eat without you. And the one time you’re actually watching they knowingly put on a bad imitation. Or you accept that they just don’t eat. And nobody cannot eat. Okay?”

“But if they were... I mean... wouldn’t they have to at least drink—the, uh, usual?” He rubbed his throat, reflexively, but felt no tender spots or unexplained marks. “And then wouldn’t that drive us crazy, if they did? Like Winona Ryder in the movie?”

“I don’t know if they’re doing it to you.” She lowered her voice. “Mine... he does it to me. But he doesn’t hide it.”

“Yours?” Diane echoed, not entirely sure she wanted to hear the answer.

Chloe dropped her gaze. “Who do you think I’m following you guys around for?”

TJ’s eyes widened behind his glasses. He had been in the middle of a bite; his pancake stayed in midair, on the fork, and dripped syrup onto the plate.

“It really wasn’t my plan!” Chloe was blinking back tears again.

TJ put his fork down, the pancake forgotten. “Easy, Chloe. We’re on your side. We want to help you, okay?”

Diane reached up and massaged her eyes. “Let me see if I’m understanding this correctly,” she said. “You’re telling us that the professor I work for and his colleague are both vampires. And that you work for another vampire, who told you to follow us around to accomplish... what, exactly?”

“You’re understanding it correctly.” Chloe said. “I don’t know why he wanted me to follow you to Baltimore. Usually he just wants a report of who I saw. I guess you sounded more interesting than usual.”

“Why? To see if any other vampires invade his turf or something?” 

“Something like that.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out a tissue. “They’re very territorial. I just do what he says. I don’t ask questions, they don’t like that. I just watch.”

Diane rested her head in her hands, fingers massaging her temples. “I’m having a little trouble wrapping my brain all the way around this. There is this, and then there is the rest of, well, reality. And based on well, reality, this makes no sense.”

“Look,” Chloe said, “if you ever see them eat, if you ever see them out in the sun, if you ever see anything that proves it’s not so, then you can call the guys in white coats. I promise I’ll go quietly.”

“We could go check on them.” TJ suggested suddenly. “I mean, if they are—we know where they’re sleeping, right?”

“No!” That protest came out louder than Chloe had intended; she glanced around nervously, and lowered her voice again. “No, you mustn’t. They wouldn’t like that. They might even wake up. Your Copperfield, he heard a conversation I was whispering in the bathroom in the airport while he was standing out in the hall.”

“But aren’t they, like, dead during the day?” TJ thought back on every vampire movie he’d ever seen. “I mean, if they are—”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen mine during the day,” Chloe admitted. “But listen, if they don’t want you to know, and they think you suspect, then that’s not safe for you.”

“So, in other words, we should probably keep this as secret as we can.” Diane glowered at TJ. “We’re going to have to be careful, TJ. And so is Chloe. Her… whatever… had her following us. Something bigger than just this is going on here.”

“I know," he said. "But if they think we know anything? I mean, it’s a bit late to worry.” 

“Well, they know I know,” Chloe said. “They might figure out I told you.”

“In which case, there’s no point in pretending,” TJ said. “Besides, the professor is sharp. He knows things. Always knows when someone’s lying, for instance, about why a paper’s late.”

Chloe stared down at her plate. “Then I guess you could be in trouble.”

“And Copperfield—the man scares me,” TJ admitted, “I mean, the bellboy—long story, Chloe. But he had the guy shaking—”    

“Copperfield is dangerous, even if Charles isn’t.” Chloe assured him. “You should be scared of him.”

The waitress brought the check, and gave it to Diane, remembering from yesterday.

“Let’s go somewhere else and talk,” TJ suggested. “Somewhere not so public. Not the hotel.”

“Not too private either,” Diane cautioned. “Let’s be in sight of people.”

“Okay. How about that mall you guys found yesterday? A shopping center or something?”

“I think the mall would be a wonderful idea,” Diane agreed.

 “Great. We’ll go there, then. Okay, Chloe?”

“Okay.”

Diane paid the check. As she left the tip on the table, she noticed that for once, TJ had actually not polished off everything on his plate.  

Chapter Text

Towson, MD — June 22, 2004

When Etienne got out of the shower and dressed, he found Charles just closing his cell phone, with a pensive frown on his face.

“What’s the matter?”  Etienne asked.

“I just called the number Ms. McCullough gave us. I tried to explain who we were, but they didn’t even want to hear our lineages—cut me off after just two generations, and said they’d get back to me. Can you imagine?”

Etienne smiled. “Good. That was the whole point—the less interesting we sound, the better.”

“Odd, though,” Charles continued. “At first he thought I was someone else entirely. Someone named Roark. Clearly we aren’t the only visitors in town.”

“Roark? Hmm.” Etienne thought a minute, but Roark was a somewhat common name. He could think of at least three Kindred of varying ages and clans (even one Irish Tremere) by that name, and didn’t think any of them would be visiting here. “Well, with any luck, by the time they do get back to you, we’ll be long gone. And until we either hear from them, or from Ms. McCullough or her Toreador contact, we’ve nothing on the schedule—unless you need to… uh, take Ms. McCullough up on her invitation?”

“What?  Oh, that—” Etienne could have sworn Hewitt might have blushed had he still been capable of it. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m quite alright.”

“Well, then,” Etienne nodded briskly. “Maybe we can get a local paper and see if there’s anything else about the show.”

“Right,” Hewitt stood up and headed for the door to the adjoining room. “I could ask Thomas if they’ve picked one up—“

Etienne had been aware of a light buzz of conversation going on next door, along with what sounded like the rattling of ice cubes and pouring of drinks, but hadn’t tuned up his perceptions to hear what the discussion was about. He was, however, devoutly hoping it was not about dinner.

But at Hewitt’s knock, the conversation immediately ceased, and Etienne could hear the faint clatter of plastic against a hard surface, and the sharp intake of breath that seemed to indicate at least one person had been startled by the noise.

It took Diane at least eight more seconds to open the door.  Behind her, TJ was on his knees picking ice cubes up off the carpet, while Chloe, pale as a ghost, held an empty cup for him.

Dr. Hewitt stepped in.  “Good evening—” he started cheerfully, then apparently picked up on the tension in the room. “Oh, dear. Is something wrong?”

“Well, that depends,” Diane said, stepping back from the door. “Come in, Charles—and you too, Mr. Copperfield. We, uh—”

“We need to talk,” TJ chimed in, dropping the cup, ice cubes and all, into the trashcan, and standing up. “It’s important.”

“Well, then, of course—” Charles said easily, and came further into the room. Etienne followed him, noting that Diane stepped back to give them ample room to pass. The professor, still clearly concerned, stopped with his back to the desk; Etienne decided whatever the problem was, to follow Hewitt’s lead, so took the chair in the far corner of the room.

The students re-arranged themselves, Chloe and TJ sitting on one of the beds. Diane remained standing.

The Ventrue leaned back against the desk and looked quizzically at them all. “Is there a problem?”

Both TJ and Chloe looked at Diane. She swallowed hard.  “Well. I don’t know for certain. I don’t even know where to start.”

“At the beginning is usually a good place,” Dr. Hewitt offered helpfully.

“Well, I guess there’s no easy way,” Diane muttered, and then simply blurted it out. “Are-you-a-vampire?”

Dead silence.

Well, there it is, Etienne thought, wondering how the Ventrue would handle it. And here I thought it would be such a dull evening.

“Me?” Hewitt echoed, as though he could just plead ignorance and make it stick.

“Er,” Diane stammered, with a notable lack of eloquence. “Yes. You.”  

“Well,” Hewitt said at last, “I was wondering if you were going to figure that out. Undoubtedly you had a little help—” he glanced over at Chloe for a second. “But that’s just research. Perfectly fair. You are graduate students, after all, I expect you to take some initiative, even if it’s not entirely, well, convenient for me.”

“Whoa. Wait a minute, here—” TJ broke in. “You mean you are?  You really are? I mean, both of you—”

“Well, yes, of course, both of us,” Hewitt said. “There’s not much point in denying it, is there? And trying to prove otherwise would be, well, rather uncomfortable for all of us, don’t you think? I do hope you won’t hold it against me?”

Diane’s mouth worked as if she had trouble forcing the words out. “Hold it against you?”

Etienne chuckled aloud.  “Well, that has to be one of the most direct versions of this conversation I’ve ever witnessed.”

“What?” Hewitt was a bit more stressed than he was letting on, Etienne could hear it in his voice. “Would you prefer I lied? To them?”

“Good heavens, no, Dr. Hewitt,” Etienne said, holding up his hands. “It’s your show, I’m just along for the ride. Though,” he added, ruefully, “I wish I’d known last night we were going to be doing this. I would never have made such an idiot of myself with that udon.”

TJ chuckled, though Diane shot him a frantic look. Chloe, meanwhile, had been very carefully not looking at either of them, and was clutching the bedspread tightly.

But the moment of distraction allowed Dr. Hewitt to recover his poise of affability. “Well,” he continued, in a much milder tone, “Now that’s all out on the table, and I—I don’t know what to say next. You’re the first students I’ve ever had who figured it out.”

“You must have chosen inexplicably dim and unobservant students before us, then,” Diane said rather tartly. “Good God, Charles, I don’t know what to do now. I’m still not certain I believe it, even with the... confession.“

“Chloe is in trouble,” TJ said, his hand covering Chloe’s on the bed. “Another... vampire... sent her to spy on us.”

“Yes, I know,” Hewitt said, calmly. “And Joaquin St. Clair is not a forgiving sort, from what I’ve heard. Really unpleasant fellow all around.”

Chloe went even whiter at the mention of St. Clair’s name.

“Ah,” Etienne perked up. “You know who her boss is now?”

“I called a cousin of mine in Chicago,” Hewitt explained. “St. Clair’s the poor sap who’s supposed to keep an eye on the airports; I suppose he does so through students like Chloe here.”

“Can you help her?” TJ asked. “You said we could try—“

“That depends on Chloe,” Hewitt said gently, “and if she wants to be helped.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to do, professor,” Chloe whispered through dry lips. “I mean, it sounds like you know who he is now.”

“Well, officially, I can’t do very much,“ Hewitt admitted. “But unofficially? He’s got no jurisdiction outside of Chicago, and I seriously doubt he’s going to leave his own domains to hunt for you down here. Do you want to go back to him? Or not?”

“I—“ Chloe glanced up at him, then back down again. “I guess so? But I still don’t know why he wanted me to follow you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure he was just being nosy.” Hewitt folded his arms across his chest. “And since he clearly knew we’d spotted you, sending you out on the same plane was just petty vindictiveness, if you ask me.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how angry he’ll be,” the girl stammered. “But I can’t stay out here and keep not telling him things.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you tell him anything more about our business here,” Hewitt said. “That would be exceedingly unwise on my part, and I can’t risk what St. Clair would do with the information.”

“What have you told him, Chloe?” Etienne interjected. He tried to sound nonthreatening—but the threat was implicit in the question, so perhaps he shouldn’t have bothered.

She swallowed. “Not much. I—I haven’t really talked to him. Just that—he’s called Professor Hewitt, and he’s TJ. I was only going to tell him a little bit at a time.”

Hewitt nodded.  “Ah. And why not tell him everything? If he wanted to know?”

“Because then he’d just want more, and I don’t have any more.”

“So that really leaves you with two choices, since I am not going to let him learn about our research—not that he’d appreciate it anyway.” Hewitt held up one finger. “I can send you back to Chicago now, with only a few tidbits of information that will likely frustrate him more than help him. Or,” and he raised the second finger. “It would be somewhat risky for me to have you stay… but if you want to, perhaps that’s a risk I might be willing to take. On the explicit condition that you do not tell Mr. St. Clair anything I don’t approve first. And I hope you can understand why.”

Etienne felt constrained to point out the obvious, “If she’s bound, Hewitt—“ he warned. “We can’t let St. Clair in on any of this—“

“My show, Mr. Copperfield, I believe you said,” Hewitt shot him a surprisingly steely look from behind the wire frames of his glasses. “I’m well aware of the risk.”

“The risk is not just yours,” Etienne said.

“Let Chloe answer first,” Hewitt replied. “After all, perhaps she’s had enough of this spying game, and simply wants to go home and monitor the airport for passing vampires.”

Chloe shook her head. “I—I don’t know. I mean, yes, but—I have to tell him something.“

Hewitt drummed his fingers on his arms for a moment, thinking, then unfolded himself and stood up.

“This should probably apply to all three of you,” he said at last. “This research we’re pursuing is highly confidential, as my GAs already know. But now that you know this last piece of the puzzle, you can imagine just how much more confidential this is going to become. This is potentially a tremendous find. But this will not be written up in any publication you’ve ever read. It can’t be. You understand why.”

“It has something to do with vampires?” TJ guessed. “Holy shit.”

Hewitt nodded. “Yes. It does, or at least Mr. Copperfield and I think so. And it’s rare. You have no idea how rare it is to find archaeological evidence of our history.”

“Because if there was archaeological evidence, we’d have, well, more than legends and movies to go on,” Diane muttered.  “Why am I not surprised?”

“Exactly so. But that also makes it extremely perilous, as your experiences in Houston demonstrated,” Etienne reminded them. “We cannot guarantee your safety. We’ll do our best, of course, but the danger will always be there, because of what we are. And the Masquerade must be maintained.”

“Yes, the Masquerade,” Hewitt sighed. “I was getting to that. It’s one of our strictest traditions. More of an unbreakable taboo, really. It’s how we’ve stayed hidden all this time. Our existence must remain secret, at any cost. Most evidence is thus destroyed.”

“Wait a minute,” Diane broke in, looking up. “You mean that—that man I saw, outside in the hallway?  That was another vampire?”  

“Yes, that’s extremely likely,” Etienne answered. “It’s also extremely likely he murdered that bellboy after I released him, just to cover his tracks. That is what I mean by extremely perilous.”

“Holy shit,” TJ repeated.

“So, Diane, Thomas—“ Dr. Hewitt said. “Now that you understand the significance of this research—and its associated dangers—do you still wish to be a part of it? I—I wouldn’t hold it against you at all if you decided you’d rather spend the summer in the safety of the campus library working on your theses. I mean, I’ll pay you your stipend regardless—the university won’t know the difference.”

The two graduate students looked at each other.

“Oh, yeah,” TJ said. “I’m in.”

Diane hesitated. For a moment Etienne thought she was going to refuse—clearly she was well past her tolerance level for deviations from what she considered sane reality—but then she sat up straight and looked her professor in the eye. “Yes,” she said. “Dammit. Yes.”

Hewitt smiled. “Thank you both,” he said. “I can’t tell you what it means to me that you’re both willing to stick with me after all this. And I will protect you to the best of my ability—we both will,” he added, glancing over at Etienne.

Etienne nodded agreement. Reluctantly—he was well aware how the best of even his considerable ability might not be good enough—but at least now the students were aware of just why the danger existed, if not exactly the who, what, and how.

“Chloe. I need an answer,” Hewitt turned his attention to their accidental companion. “Do you want to stay, under these conditions?  Or shall I send you home? I’m afraid he’s probably not going to be happy with you either way—but those are the only options I can offer you.”

“I’ll stay,” Chloe said. “And I promise not to tell St. Clair anything without your permission. But I—I can’t tell you anything about St. Clair, either, okay?”

“Anything I want to know about St. Clair, I can find out from other sources than you, my dear,” Hewitt assured her. “But frankly, he’s of little interest to me, so long as he doesn’t make himself a nuisance.”

He already has, Etienne thought. But so long as he’s only a nuisance.

“This is a very serious promise, Chloe,” Hewitt continued. “I cannot allow you to break it. And to be honest, this rather goes beyond the standard GA non-disclosure agreements. As Mr. Copperfield will no doubt insist, the Masquerade must be maintained. I—I was not prepared for this eventuality, silly of me, I know, but perhaps my colleague Mr. Copperfield can assist,  as this falls more within the realm of his experience than mine?””

“Er, what, now?” Etienne went from grumbling silently to himself about just who ‘maintaining the Masquerade’ would be blamed on, to suddenly finding himself the target of every gaze in the room. “I’d be happy to assist, of course—but what exactly did you have in mind?”

“Oh. Some new, uh, non-disclosure agreements,” Hewitt repeated. “For our new circumstances.”

“Do we have to sign them in blood?” TJ asked.

“Honestly, TJ!” Diane hissed at him.

Etienne had to chuckle at the absurdity. “Too much work. I’d go with hypnotic suggestion first. Much easier.”

“Wait, what?” TJ interjected. “Hypnosis? That never works with me.“

“Yeah,” Diane echoed. “I mean, I trust Charles—I think, aside from the whole not telling us he’s a vampire thing, which I’m still not recovered from, to be honest. But we just met you a few days ago.”

Etienne looked up at Dr. Hewitt.  “Then I can’t help you. You’ll have to do the honors yourself.”

“Yes. Well. Let me think for a moment.” Hewitt waited until all three mortals were looking at him, and then he simply said, “Gil-razzle dazzle sorba sorba.”

The effect on TJ and Diane was immediate; they froze in place, their eyes fixed on their professor. Etienne was impressed; he’d guessed by the way Hewitt could make them sleepy on cue that his control over them was greater than he’d intimated.

“Diane. Thomas. You can sit and relax for now, close your eyes, hear only my voice. Don’t worry about anything else, it’s just like a dream, that dissolves immediately upon waking up. I’ll awaken you before long.”

Once he had them settled, he turned to Chloe. “Chloe—last chance. You know why I must do this, don’t you?”

She nodded, miserably. “I know. It’s— it’s okay, I guess.”

Hewitt was highly skilled in the mesmerizing arts, and Chloe, if reluctant, was a willing subject. Almost too willing—Etienne wondered what this St. Clair had done to her in the past. Hopefully, what Charles was doing now would supersede that, at least as far as this business was concerned.

“You may see and hear many things regarding myself, regarding Mr. Copperfield, regarding our present endeavor, regarding what we carry, regarding what we plan, regarding who we meet. Once you wake, you will find that you are unable to speak of any of those things, except to myself, Mr. Copperfield, Diane, or Thomas, unless you have the express permission of either myself or Mr. Copperfield. You especially will not tell your master, Joaquin St. Clair, or anyone who works for him, anything about us or our business unless you have the express permission of either myself or Mr. Copperfield. Do you understand what I have just said?”

“Yes.”

“Repeat it back to me.”

She did, and Hewitt glanced back at Etienne.  “Good enough?”

Etienne nodded. “That should cover it.”

“Then you can rest now,” Hewitt murmured to her. “That’s it. You can rest until I clap three times, alright?  Nod if you understand me.”

She did. Hewitt took a deep breath, and then moved on to TJ, and then finally, Diane, going through much the same script.

“You will not remember this,” Hewitt said. “You will wake after I clap three times, and we will proceed from the point where I said Let me think for a moment. Do you understand?”

Diane nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

“Excellent. You can relax now… wait until I clap three times. That’s it.”

Hewitt stood up. “Well,” he said. “I—I suppose that had to be done. For the Masquerade, I mean.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“I’ve never liked that conundrum. You can’t offer them an informed choice unless they know, and by the time they know that much, it’s a breach of the Masquerade to give them any choice at all. It’s not bloody fair.”

Etienne, who had his own experiences with that same conundrum and wasn’t sure he’d always made the right decisions, merely nodded. “It’s not, no. And the more they get involved in our business—the less choice you’ll be able to give them, short of total honesty and taking them fully into service. And then you may not be able to let them go.”

“I know.” Hewitt moved back to his original position, before he’d spoken his trigger phrase. “The choice is merely an illusion. But it’s the best I can offer them right now.”

He took a deep breath, raised his hands and clapped three times.

“I know!” he said, as if he’d just been struck by a brilliant idea. “Isn’t there a Gideon Bible in the drawer there? Why don’t we use that—unless anyone has a better idea?”

No one did, and swearing almost the same oath on the Bible was a polite fiction to what had really occurred. Etienne noted that it also kept the grad students in particular from thinking their professor was even capable of hypnotizing them against their will. But they were Hewitt’s responsibility, not his. So long as they were cooperative and not a threat to himself or the Masquerade, there was very little he could do or say about it.

In celebration of—or more likely, in a delayed reaction to—the full revelation that yes, vampires did exist and they were in fact working for one, the students cracked open the mini-bar in the room refrigerator, and sent TJ out to get more ice and soda.

“I knew there had to be some reason why you were staring at me in the restaurant last night,” Etienne said, returning to dispense yet more little mini-bottles of booze from the refrigerator in their own room. “I didn’t think I was faking that badly. I’ve definitely done worse.”

“The udon wasn’t bad,” Diane told him. “I mean, I’ve never seen anyone finish a bowl of udon before, and I worked in a Japanese restaurant.”

“I’ve finished a bowl of udon,“ TJ said. “But Charles needs to practice with his chopsticks more.”

“I do? I thought I was getting the hang of it after a while!”  Hewitt declined a sip of Diane’s rum-and-coke with a smile. “Now you’re just trying to get me in trouble. Oh—what’s that ringing?”

“That’s your phone, Charles,” Diane said.

He stood up and dug it out of his pocket  “Hewitt,” he answered, and then “Yes. Charles E. Hewitt… Yes, of course… Ventrue, yes… Childe of Gerald Wood, childe of William Rafferty, childe of—“

Etienne waved a hand to hush the students’ chattering , so he could listen to both sides of the conversation.

“—Well, his Highness is a very busy man, of course. Tell you what, since you’re Ventrue, come to the Inferno tonight. Right now, as a matter of fact. Be there in an hour. You do know where the Inferno is…?”

“The Inferno?”  Charles glanced at Etienne.

Etienne had visited, but wasn’t sure he remembered how to get there.  “Get the address.”

“Yes, of course, we can find it. The address would be helpful—”  The voice rattled it off, and Charles repeated it.

“Be there by eleven-thirty. Go upstairs to the salon. One of our people will see to you when you get there.”

“Of course. Right. We’ll be on our way.”

“Damn it,” Etienne grumbled, as Hewitt closed his phone and stuck it back in his pocket. “I was hoping they’d be just a tad more bureaucratic about it.”

“Is that a problem?” Hewitt inquired, and then, “Oh. I’d forgotten about that. What will we tell him?”

“A problem?” Diane asked. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, we have to go talk to the local potentate,” Etienne explained. “Something I was hoping to delay until a bit later, that’s all.”

“Local vampire potentate?” TJ seemed fascinated.

“Kindred,” Hewitt corrected. “We call ourselves Kindred. Much more polite.”

“Much more euphemistic,” Etienne said.

“Kindred,” Chloe repeated. “I thought that’s what it meant, but I wasn’t sure…”

“If you’ll excuse me, I suppose I should put on the suit,”  Hewitt sighed. “Expectations, you know…”

“What what meant?” TJ asked her.

“Kindred,” Chloe explained. “I heard people saying it but I didn’t know what it meant.”

“This is Kindred politics,” Etienne said. “I guess I should probably put on a tie, at least.”

“Do we have to dress up for this?” TJ said, “I didn’t bring a tie.”

The Ventrue came back to the door. “Well, I don’t know. I don’t think the nightclub downstairs has a dress code—”

“No, Hewitt,” Etienne reminded him. “It’s a vampire club. Think of what that means. They’ll be safer here.”

“Oh, dear. No, you’d better not come with us, I’m sorry—“

“And no opening the door for room service!” Etienne called out.

There was no arguing about that.

Etienne was just selecting his tie when his cell phone chimed. The number was unfamiliar, but it was a local one, so he answered it. “Good evening.”

“Mr. Courbet?” A man’s voice, deep and smooth as honey, with a slight hint of southern tang. “So you are still walking the night after all.  This is Lorenzo D’Angelo.”

“Yes, indeed. I’m very glad to hear from you, I was hoping you’d call.”

“I was pleased to hear that reports of your Final Death were greatly exaggerated. I’m not sure his Highness will be quite as amused as I was, but I can understand the situation.”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t blame his Highness for that. Did Miss Blair explain things to you?”

“Yes, she did. She also mentioned that you were interested in viewing a particular exhibit at the Baltimore Museum of Art…”

Baltimore, MD — June 22, 2004

“Ah, good evening, Mr. D’Angelo.” Dr. Gabriel Roark politely excused himself from the company of his Ventrue host, and went out in the hallway to take the awaited call. “Thank you for returning my call. Mr. Treach has informed me that you would be the man to speak to about arranging off-hours access to the new Egyptian exhibit at the Baltimore Museum of Art.”

“Ah, yes. The Stolen Treasures. It seems to be the most popular exhibit we’ve had here in years. Or the most notorious, if you read the papers. I think that can be arranged, Dr. Roark. I could also have the exhibit’s docent available to answer questions, if you’d like?”

“That would be most helpful, Mr. D’Angelo. Would it be acceptable for me to bring some photographic equipment to record images of the artifacts for later study?”

“Certainly, so long as you don’t actually disturb the artifacts. Some of them are in contained, climate-controlled cases, of course. I also have a full catalog of images myself you might find useful.”

“Excellent. And, no, I won’t use any flash equipment. I fully understand the delicacy of artifacts of this age.”

“I’ll have to make some adjustments to the schedule, so as to facilitate our visit. As I said, you’re not the only one interested in viewing the exhibit. Would tomorrow evening at eleven-thirty be convenient for you?”

“It would indeed, thank you. Ah—you said there were other parties interested in this particular exhibit? Might I ask who those parties are?”

“Dr. Charles Hewitt, Ventrue, and Mr. Courbet, Tremere,” D’Angelo replied. “And some of their staff, of course. Do you know either of those gentlemen?” 

Gabriel thought for a second, but neither name rang any bells. Not that he knew all of Pieterzoon’s operatives, but at least it was possible they were not actually there to steal or despoil the artifacts before he’d had a chance to see them. “No,” he said. “But I’m sure we’ll all get along quite, uh, academically. I look forward to meeting you.”

Chapter Text

Baltimore, MD — Tuesday, June 22, 2004

Etienne had visited the Inferno during his previous visit to Baltimore. It was near the waterfront downtown, a gentrified neighborhood of old warehouses and factories converted into shops, bars, restaurants, and entertainment venues for both residents and tourists.  The building stood a bit apart, a red-brick monstrosity of four floors with darkened windows, but a bright neon sign with stylized flames that flickered up the exterior walls. Occasionally, there was even a gout of real flame from its soaring smokestack, that revealed at the hulking shapes of concrete gargoyles perched on the building’s rooftop, leering down at the sidewalk and streets below.  

“Oh, my goodness—“ Hewitt said, catching a glimpse of their destination. “That is...  something, isn’t it?” 

“Something, yes,” Etienne said. “Turn right here, this is a good place to park—“ and Hewitt followed his directions into a parking garage, where they finally found an open spot three levels up. 

“This is a Kindred club?” the Ventrue asked. “So out in the open?”

“Well, it caters mostly to mortals, after all,” Etienne said. “Not like they can depend on the Kindred to pay the bills. It has to draw in the breathing crowd, or there’s no point. Interesting trio of owner-managers, though. A Toreador, a Ventrue, and a Brujah; they take turns acting as host for the night.”

Privately, he wondered whose turn it was—it was beyond hope that Madame Madeleine LeFevre was on duty tonight. She was one of the few here who knew exactly who he was, and would not be surprised to see him—because she’d helped him orchestrate his untimely (and dramatically staged) death three years before. And she’d been able to do that precisely because she was not the young Toreador she pretended to be, but he was fortunate to call her an old friend.

There were a few still standing in line at the front door, but Etienne led Hewitt around the corner to the members’ entrance.

“I didn’t know you were a member, Mr. Copperfield—“ Hewitt said.

“So are you,” Etienne said. “Kindred club, remember?”

A young Kindred with black-dyed hair and a black t-shirt stood outside the door. “Are you ready to abandon all hope?“ he asked.

“Not quite all,” Etienne responded cheerfully. “But ready to brave the first few circles, I think.”

“Welcome, then.”  The young man opened the door for them with a flourish and a knowing smile.  

The music hammered them in palpable waves, a throbbing bass and low percussion beat loud enough to jump-start dead hearts, and deafen undead ears. And that was before they even walked down the corridor and up the steps into the club itself.

Hewitt blinked behind his glasses and stared at the stylized mural depicting Dante’s first circle of Hell adorning the wall they’d just come through. “Oh—“ he said, having to almost shout to be heard. “How... appropriate. Inferno—now I get it!“

“They’re very serious about the effort.”

“What?” the Ventrue asked. “I can’t hear myself think!”

“Upstairs,” Etienne said, over-enunciating and pointing up into the darkness. The club had several levels, though the center of the vast space was open very nearly to the beams of the roof four floors above. It was like being at the bottom of a techno-gothic canyon; there were both faux-stone pillars and iron railings on the two balcony levels overhead, and a stage where a DJ with a Mohawk  and a lot of gold chains was playing music for the two dozen or so writhing figures on the dancing floor.

Etienne stopped Hewitt (who was still looking around him with an expression somewhere in between horror and awe) from walking into a waitress in a sequined flame-red outfit, complete with a barbed tail and little horns protruding from her hair. She smiled and edged past, expertly balancing her tray of drinks.

“Do you think perhaps we overdressed?” Hewitt asked, looking in bewilderment at the other club-goers around them, whose attire ranged from casual tourist dress to black leather, tattoos, and piercings. Most were young.

“Of course we overdressed, but he’ll be expecting that,” Etienne explained. “Ventrue, you know, right?”

“What?”

“Follow me—“ Etienne shouted at him, and then led his companion around the dance floor, heading for the wrought-iron stairs and glass elevator on the other side of the club.

There were a few Kindred mixing it up among the mortals—not many, but a few. No one he knew, however, which Etienne chose to regard as a good sign. He opted to take the stairs rather than the elevator, and Hewitt followed him. The view was better from the stairs, anyway—both of the people in the club and the guy in a skintight leotard painted with flames, pole-dancing on top of the elevator, riding it up and down. 

But when they reached the third floor landing, he felt a shiver on the edge of his awareness—someone was deliberately watching them. Moving slowly, he looked more intently out on the club, seeking the source of that sensation.  Ah—there he was. Definitely a Kindred, down below. Tall, dark-haired, dressed in black, half-hidden in the shadows just inside the arches of the first balcony—but clearly perceptive, because just as Etienne narrowed his focus, he stepped back, disappearing into darkness.

Damn. Well, maybe he was just curious—it didn’t feel like recognition, and he didn’t look familiar. Let’s hope.

The elevator up to Dante’s, the members-only salon on the top floor, was guarded by a burly black man in a tux. He clearly recognized them as Kindred, however—because he unhooked the velvet rope and stood aside. “Go on up, gentlemen,” he said.   

The elevator opened out into a small, glass-walled atrium, across from a pair of exotically carved wooden doors, depicting snarling gargoyles. Already the ambient noise from the club below was much reduced; when Etienne pushed open the doors and they went inside, it dropped off entirely.

Their progress into the club itself was blocked by a ghoul, whose entire stance shouted bodyguard, right down to the suspicious bulge of a holstered gun under his jacket. “Excuse me, sirs,” he said. “This section of the club is closed for a private event. Did you have an invitation?” 

“Yes, they do, in fact—“ another voice interrupted. “I’ll see to them, Mr. Hayes.” 

The guard turned, and nodded his head to the new speaker. “Ah—very good, Mr. Treach,” he said, and withdrew.

Dammit. Unfortunately, Treach did know him—or at least he knew ‘Etienne Courbet,’ and had doubtless heard of his fiery death three years ago. Well, there was no help for it now, and that secret would be moot in an hour or so anyway. Etienne turned to face their host.

Hewitt, of course, saw only a slim, middle-aged white man with boyish features and an impeccably tailored suit, who came up to them and extended his hand. “Jonathan Wesley Francis Treach, the third,” he said. “Welcome to Dante’s.”

Hewitt shook his hand. “Dr. Charles Hewitt,” Hewitt said. “And this is my associate, Francis Gray.”

“Mr. Gray—? “   For just a split second, Treach’s smile seemed caught between polite courtesy and bewilderment, but then he recovered, and shook Etienne’s hand as well. “Ah, yes. Mr. Gray. Of course. Come in, gentlemen—”   

Etienne let Dr. Hewitt precede him as the eldest (at least until they were actually introduced to the prince). The salon was not as packed as he’d seen it on other occasions—but then, the ghoul had said it was a private event. He did notice other similarly attired (and armed) men situated around one of the doors leading to the meeting rooms in the back, like muscular doorstops. There were only three other small groups of Kindred sitting at carefully spaced tables around the room, where they were both carefully observing the new arrivals while still apparently minding their own business.     

“I’m something of a welcoming committee,” Treach continued. “Since you’re, uh, both Ventrue, his Highness requested I make you feel welcome. But he didn’t tell me your lineages—?”  

“I’m not surprised,” Hewitt said, “since every time I tried to tell them, they cut me off after only two generations! My sire, of course, was Gerald Wood, God rest his soul; he was the childe of William Rafferty, who was the childe of Sir Gilbert d’Harfleur—“

“Ah, the Antonian lineage,” Treach nodded,  “I’m from the Mithraen lineage myself; childe of Catherine Adams, childe of Dorian Adams, childe of Thomas Carlyle. And Mr., uh, Gray—?”

“Oh, he’s from the Antonian lineage also,” Hewitt explained. “Childe of Robert Patterson, childe of Tommy Hinds, childe of Lodin of Chicago.” 

“Ah, one of Lodin’s descendants,” Treach nodded. “You were quite lucky to have survived when the Lupines attacked.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Hewitt agreed. “Fortunately, he was out of town at the time.” 

“And of course, you know his Highness will want to know why you’re here.” Treach continued, pointedly. “He doesn’t always appreciate... surprises.“

“Well, yes. That’s why we called ahead for an appointment,” Hewitt explained. 

“Ah, his Highness is already here?” Etienne asked, hoping to stave off any explanations of their mission—or at least, any truthful explanations—by distraction. “I had thought so, the security seems a bit robust for so few of us in such a protected place.”

“Well, yes,” Treach said, glancing over his shoulder at the back wall. “I’m honored by his Highness’ confidence in my security here tonight. In fact, he’s meeting right now with another visitor to our city, who is also my kinsman and guest.”

“Another Ventrue?” Hewitt asked. “Who, if I may ask?”  

“Well, I’m not sure—“ Treach said, hesitantly. “I mean, of course, I know, but I don’t know if he would want me to reveal his identity—“

“To another Ventrue?” Hewitt sounded shocked, as if this was never done—and indeed, Etienne privately agreed with him. Why mention the visitor at all if his identity was a secret? “But—“

At that moment, the doors to the back room opened, and Treach said, “Please, excuse me—“ as he got up to go intercept one of the men exiting them. The mysterious visitor, no doubt.

He was very tall—well over six feet—red-haired, and wore a blue suit. Mr. Treach met him half-way to the exit, and spoke to him briefly, apparently suggesting that his guest join them at their table.

“Recognize him?” Etienne murmured to Hewitt. 

“No,” the professor said. “But then, I really don’t travel much. At least he’s not Mr. Pieterzoon. That’s a relief.”

Mr. Treach’s guest glanced their way, but then he seemed to decline the invitation—reluctantly, but Etienne suspected that was merely politeness; he seemed eager to be away from Treach’s company. He beckoned to one of the waiting mortals—another bodyguard, from his solid frame and expertly-fitted suit—who then peeled himself off the wall and followed him out of the club.

Mysterious, indeed.

“Well, well, well.  As I don’t live and breathe,” a deep, gravelly voice came from behind them. “Mr. Courbet. Pardon me, but ain’t you supposed to be dead?”

Etienne turned to look up at a very familiar face—a dark-skinned man with a diamond-studded gold tooth—the prince’s major domo, Jules.

“I have been so informed on occasion, sir,” Etienne replied. “And then there were those who’ve outright made the request.”

“I can just imagine,” Jules drawled. “But you ain’t no Ventrue, as I recall. It was Tremere last time, wasn’t it? You wanna stick with that?”

“If you like.” 

“Fine. We’ll let his Highness sort you out. Mr. Courbet. And you—“ His glare turned to Hewitt. “You still Ventrue?”

“Yes, eternally,” Hewitt admitted. “My name is Charles Hewitt, childe of—“

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Jules interrupted with a wave. “I’ll tell the boss you’re here. Don’t go away now.” He turned on his heel and strode away, towards the back room.

“They never want to hear it, do they?” Hewitt complained.

Treach, who’d heard most of that exchange, sat down again. “I recognized you immediately, Mr. Courbet, but didn’t want to blow your cover. I must say, however, it was something of a shock to see you, after your, uh, notorious demise.“

“Oh, that was just to get in the door,” Etienne said cheerfully. “I knew it was only a matter of time before someone recognized me.” Though it won’t be quite so amusing if word gets back to certain members of the Sabbat.

The others in the room, Kindred all, had heard the conversation with Jules, and doubtless the story was now being whispered by those who knew it to those who didn’t. 

“And you knew?” Treach turned to Hewitt.

“Well, of course,” Hewitt said. “I created his lineage story, after all—which I do apologize for, but Robert Patterson is an old friend of mine, so it was at least a plausible fabrication.”

Treach turned back to Etienne. “It does raise the question of what would entice you—and Dr. Hewitt, of course—to visit Baltimore again. What could be so important that you’d risk exposing yourself, after going to such trouble to fake your own Final Death? Which, by the way, was the gossip of the city for at least a month—and I have no idea how you managed to pull it off.”

“It’s a mystery,” Etienne agreed. “But it’s better if his Highness hears it first from me, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” Treach replied (though a bit reluctantly). Etienne was spared having to be vague about anything else by Jules, who returned to their table with the news that Axe was ready to see them now.

Which was yet another thing for the other Kindred still awaiting the prince’s pleasure to grumble about, but Etienne could do nothing about that.

At least Mr. Treach, who was preparing to follow them into the Prince’s presence, was stopped from doing so by the guard at the door, much to his disappointment.  

The room beyond featured a long table of polished redwood, set perpendicular to the length of the room. The prince, a broad-shouldered black man with a goatee and shaved head, sat in the middle, in a three-piece suit that would not have looked out of place for the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. To his right crouched Dog, a twisted, bestial Gangrel who seemed trapped forever mid-shift between man and wolf, but whose loyalty to his master was known to be absolute.  

Jules took a seat on the far end, next to a smartly-dressed woman with a steno pad. A handful of bodyguards—two of whom were Kindred—stood against the walls.

Axe indicated the open space on the other side of the table. “Gentlemen. Do come in.”   

Etienne, fully expecting to be called up on the carpet, stood where he was bidden to, hands relaxed at his sides. Hewitt followed, standing to his right and slightly behind— this time giving Etienne the elder’s place.

“Your highness,” Etienne said, bowing low. Hewitt, clearly no stranger to court etiquette, followed suit.

“It seems congratulations are in order, Mr. Courbet, for your miraculous recovery from Final Death—that your fellow Regent Mr. Walsingham had assured us quite vociferously that you had suffered three years ago.”  Axe had the Brujah knack of intimidation—projecting awe and fearsomeness on those who heard his voice. Etienne stood still and just let it wash over him, being used to it after centuries of dealing with Kindred authorities. “And while we’re certainly relieved to see you still among the undead—I’m sure you’ll understand if I seem just a bit annoyed that Mr. Walsingham didn’t bother to inform us of the truth back when it happened. He was aware of your survival, was he not?”  

“I wouldn’t be able to speak to that, I’m afraid, Highness,” Etienne replied. “I did inform the Pontifex’s office in DC, and my assumption would be that it was passed down the line, but—” He offered a Gallic shrug. Axe would likely call Walsingham out for it—relish the opportunity, even. And that meant that both Walsingham and Pontifex Dorfmann would learn of his presence in the city, and eventually, he’d probably have to go smooth some ruffled feathers for not warning them in advance.  

“I see.” Axe gave him a stern look. “And here you are again. Mind telling me why? And why you saw fit to announce yourself with yet another name and clan?  Perhaps this time, you’ll do me the kind favor of telling me the truth. In fact, this time I fucking insist on it.” 

He beckoned to someone behind him; a young boy with black and red streaked spiky hair and a pale, thin face stepped forward to stand at his elbow, the other side from Dog. Etienne hadn’t even noticed him before. Interesting. Does he just see aura colors or something more invasive?

“Certainly, Highness,” Etienne responded smoothly. “My apologies, but I did think you would appreciate my keeping my re-emergence under wraps until we could speak in person.”

“Well, now’s the time, Mr. Courbet. If that even is your name.”

“No, not Courbet.” Etienne drew himself up to his full height, and assumed a more formal air, one hand on his breast. “My name is Etienne de Vaillant. And it is my honor to serve House and Clan as Pontifex of the Eastern Region under my most august, sage and immortal Lord Councilor, Timothy of Essex.” He bowed again.

The boy took in a breath, nodding slightly.

“Well, then. Mr. de Vaillant,” Axe continued. “So you think you being a Pontifex and all, you don’t need to follow traditions or tell ordinary folk, even princes, what you’re really up to?”

“Well, Highness, if I felt that way about it I would hardly be here now.”

“Then you will tell me what you’re here for, Mr. de Vaillant? You and your friend there?”

“Scholarly research,” Etienne answered, then gestured at Hewitt. “Professor Hewitt here has most kindly drawn my attention to a few matters on subjects he knew I would find of personal interest.”

Axe looked from Etienne to Dr. Hewitt and back again. “Research on what, specifically, Mr. de Vaillant?”

“Magical traditions in antiquity.” Etienne stopped, sensing the tentative brush of another mind against his own. He turned to the boy. “If you’re going to go on doing that, young man, I should like to have the pleasure of a name to know you by.”

The furtive, feather-light touch of the boy’s mind retreated. He did not meet Etienne’s eyes.  

“Does Jared make you nervous, Mr. de Vaillant?” Axe asked.

“I’m sure that’s his job,” Etienne said wryly, “but no, I simply don’t enjoy it when strangers poke at my mind while I’m trying to have a conversation. But if your Highness insists, of course.”

“It’s his job, yeah,” Axe said. “You said magical traditions in antiquity. What sort of traditions, and what antiquity? Ancient Egyptian, perhaps?”

Etienne inclined his head in assent. “Your Highness must be reading the papers.”

“And what is it about this particular exhibit that’s so fascinating? We’ve had ancient exhibits here before. They’ve never attracted this kind of attention.”

“Well, it does seem the political issue over these sorts of exhibits has been growing over the past decade or two,” Etienne explained. “But our interest isn’t political. There’s a few pieces Hewitt here been studying and trying to sort out for a while, and we think it’s possible this exhibit contains pieces of a like enough style and era to shed light on the ones that have eluded him. Right, Professor?”

Hewitt started, as if he hadn’t been listening—or more likely, was trying to fend off Jared’s intrusions into his own mind. “What? Oh, right. That’s right.”

“You’re not here merely for Dr. Hewitt’s benefit, Mr. de Vaillant,” the Prince said.

“No, not at all,” Etienne answered easily. “The pieces Dr. Hewitt has been studying are potentially of great interest to us also, for very similar reasons. Much of the House and Clan Tremere’s scholarship dates back to the era of Greco-Roman-Egyptian cultural mishmash, so we’re hoping to have some light shed on a few of our mysteries as well.”

The boy Jared wrapped his long arms around himself, as if he was feeling a chill—though as Kindred, his flesh would be cold as a corpse anyway—and rocked forward and back. Etienne wondered if the boy was Malkavian—it might explain both the psychic talent and the mannerisms.  

Axe, however, ignored the boy’s behavior. “What was it about the last time, Mr. de Vaillant? There wasn’t any museum exhibit here then.”

 “No, there wasn’t. As I said, I really was here to do research at the Baltimore chantry. Obviously it turned into something I was rather hoping to avoid.”

“You didn’t spend much time at the Baltimore chantry,” the Prince pointed out.

“I did spend some, Highness. But then I got a bit distracted.”

Axe referred to some notes in front of him. “One would almost think you didn’t care much for Mr. Walsingham’s company... ah, I see. Ms. McCullough distracted you?”

“No, although she is quite a charming distraction as our young students go. It was really more the bazooka.”

“Bazooka?”

Etienne shook his head. “Still can’t quite get over the bazooka. You know I went home and looked up how much those things go for? I suppose I should be flattered. I hate to think what kind of firepower they might have brought if they’d known I wasn’t just another Regent.”

“Which brings up another question, Mr. de Vaillant. My reports said the car went up in flames. How the hell did you survive?”

Etienne raised an eyebrow. “Well—magic, of course.”

And even a prince knew better than to ask a Tremere—especially an elder of Etienne’s rank—how a trick was done.

Jared, still standing at Axe’s elbow, suddenly stopped moving, and stood absolutely still. His eyes seemed unfocused, and Etienne no longer felt the touch of his mind. And when he shifted his vision to perceive auras, the boy’s colors were absolutely chaotic.

Axe, noticing Etienne’s gaze, was also studying his pet psychic. One of the bodyguards started towards them; Axe held up a hand to forestall him.

“The eye beckons—“Jared interrupted, his eyes staring into nothing, one hand stretching forward. His colors were still flickering rapidly, but pulled in closer to his body. “I see it, my lord,” he whispered, his vision focusing on Etienne. “Every night.”

My lord. The formal address for a Pontifex, but how would the boy know? Etienne took a moment to gird himself psychically, then met the boy’s gaze. “What is it you see?”

Axe signaled his stenographer down at the end of the table, and listened, intently.

The boy’s gaze became unfocused again, staring out into a place only he could see.  “The eye beckons. The blood thins. The dead rise up. The hidden city falls and its people scatter as shadows.”   

Then his voice changed, both the timbre and rhythm, deeper and harsher:

“When the shadow swallows moon
Ancient will for vengeance strives,
Four sons and ancient heart survives
Ancient flesh from dust revives

“Five go free and blind shall see,
Seven times seven makes the key,
Once thirteen is down to three

“Fire’s master, once-tonsured head,
Twice-cursed angel, priest twice dead,
Brother’s daughter, orphaned son,
Fortune’s pawn but freedom won,
Strong are seven bound as one

“Sleepers woken, dark names spoken,
Flesh to dust when heart is broken
Eternal the justice of the sun,
The time of judgment has begun.”

With that, the boy’s eyes glazed over, and he collapsed on the floor, convulsing. His colors evaporated into discomfort, fear, and (understandably) hunger.

Axe beckoned, and one of his Kindred bodyguards bent down to pick up the twitching, trembling figure in his arms and took him into an adjoining room. The woman with the steno pad at the end of the table was scribbling furiously.

Axe waited, until the stenographer looked up. “Read it back, Belinda.” 

She did, but stumbled over an unfamiliar word. Etienne, who’d been memorizing the utterances as they were spoken, spoke up. “I believe that was once–tonsured, highness. T-O-N-S-U-R-E-D. It’s a reference to the hairstyles of medieval clergy.”   

He resisted touching the crown of his own head, to make sure the hair was still there. That could be a reference to me—but no. Nobody in this city knows my past.  

“Interesting,” Axe frowned. “He’s never said anything like that before. And you seemed to trigger it. Do you know what any of the rest of that meant, Mr. de Vaillant?”

“Not sure, except for the blood thinning, which is yesterday’s news,” Etienne answered. “I’ll certainly think about it, though.”

“Do that, Mr. de Vaillant.” Axe drummed his fingers on the table, then apparently came to a decision. “How long do you anticipate this research project of yours taking? I presume that means you’ll also want access to the museum, after hours?”

“I don’t know, but I hope not very long. And yes, we would.”

Axe gave him a stern look. “And if I said no?”

Etienne responded with a slightly more amiable-than-usual version of his game face. “Your Highness is, of course, undisputed lord of Baltimore. But why would your Highness wish to do that?”

“To make a point, Mr. de Vaillant, that not even Clan Tremere has the right to withhold vital information from me,” he said. “But since, as you pointed out, you did come to present yourself to me tonight—I’ll take that point up with Mr. Walsingham.”  

He stood. “You have a week, Mr. de Vaillant, you and Dr. Hewitt. You can make arrangements to see the museum with Mr. D’Angelo. I’m sure your friend Ms. McCullough has his number. And I’d appreciate a report back on anything you find of particular interest. Or if you have any further insights into that… whatever that meant.”  

“I will most certainly do so, Highness.” 

“That will be all for now, Mr. de Vaillant. Dr. Hewitt.  And there better not be a peep outa the Sabbat while you’re here. Not a single fucking peep.” 

Etienne fervently hoped that would indeed be the case—but he merely bowed, in part to allow the prince to have the last word, and also to avoid making any promises he had no control over fulfilling.

Treach was waiting for them when they left the Prince’s audience, of course.  “I see you have survived the experience.”

Etienne smiled. “Of course. If the Sabbat couldn’t kill me, what have I to fear from the Prince?”

“And did you meet his Highness’ new little friend?” Treach was attempting to steer them back to the table.

Etienne resisted, however. “He’s a curious fellow, to be sure. What is he, a Malkavian?”

“Caitiff,” Treach replied, “and thin-blooded. He can walk in daylight, or so I hear. Axe believes he can foretell the future.”

“Thin-blooded?  I thought they were only a myth—“ Dr. Hewitt said, though he was still walking towards the exit, with Etienne’s hand on his elbow.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Treach,” Etienne said, “But if you’ll please excuse us, we do have a lot of other things to accomplish tonight—“

Handshakes and polite farewells were exchanged—much to Mr. Treach’s disappointment—but Etienne was relentless, and fortunately, Dr. Hewitt followed his lead.

“My hospitality extends to the floors below, if you feel the need—“ their would-be host was saying as the elevators closed in his face.

“Personally, I’d rather take Ms. McCullough up on her invitation again, if you don’t mind—“ Etienne explained apologetically to Hewitt, once they were in the elevator and heading down.

“Oh, yes, that would be much better—“

“Excellent.”

The elevator deposited them on the lowest level of the club. At this hour, the DJ and the customers had long since gone home, and the lingering employees were cleaning up, while waiting for the tip pool to be divvied up and distributed. Etienne wondered if the Kindred employees got paid the same as the mortal staff, or if that depended on their relationship with the three Kindred managers.   

They didn’t speak again until they were settling in the rental car.

“We’ve heard rumors of the thin-blooded in Wisconsin,” Hewitt said. “What are they—fourteenth, fifteenth generation?  Hardly vampires at all. But this is the first I’ve heard of one having prophetic visions. Or was he just making it up as he went along?”

“No idea,” Etienne replied, “Prophecies are tricky things. And prophets are worse.”

“There was the so-called Prophet of Gehenna in Madison last year. Raised quite a ruckus, talking about the coming apocalypse or something like that. Though he actually was a Malkavian, apparently.”

Etienne shrugged. “They’ve been predicting the end of the world for a thousand years. I find it hard to believe it’s any closer now than it was at the turn of the last millennium.”

That spot between his shoulder blades was itching again. Etienne glanced around, including the mirrors. “Turn left, next chance you get—“ he told Hewitt. 

“Oh? A shortcut?”

“Not exactly.” Etienne looked in the mirror to see if any headlights had followed them on the turn. “Now in about four blocks, turn left again—and then right, pick a street—that’s it. Pull into that parking lot, and kill the lights.”

They sat in silence, in darkness, for a few minutes. Hewitt had even picked the darkest corner of the parking lot. Only a few cars passed, and Etienne no longer sensed any watchers. “Ah, that’s either thrown them off our track, or they weren’t really going to follow us anyway,” he said at last.

“Better safe than sorry,” Hewitt quipped, and started the car again.  “Oh, I wanted to ask you—what exactly is a Pontifex, anyway? It sounded important.”

“It’s a rank in the Clan. You’ve heard of the Council of Seven?”

“You don’t mean the Camarilla Inner Circle, do you?”

“No, no. This is a Council of Seven that heads up the Tremere Clan.”

“Ah. Organization. My condolences.”

“Well, it’s what we’re known for. The Pontifices are the rank immediately under the Councilors,” Etienne explained. “In other words, I answer to the Council.”

“So you really are a lordship—like Miss McCullough said. I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t tell you my real name, either,” Etienne said. “So I’m the one who should be apologizing. It’s past time for that, really.” 

“That’s quite understandable, my lord—“

“Oh, just stop,” Etienne exclaimed. “None of that my lord nonsense. You’re not a Tremere apprentice, after all, and I’ve noticed your students just call you by your first name. So from now on, I’ll be Etienne and you can be Charles. Makes things a lot simpler.”  

“Except explaining to them your name isn’t Steve Copperfield,” Charles mused. “Maybe you were undercover? For the FBI? Or—“ 

“Why explain?” Etienne waved a hand. “They’ve just found out we’re vampires. Of course some of us have secret identities. Happens all the time, in the movies.”

“Oh. That’s true. But this will be... different.” The Ventrue murmured. “They’ve never found me out before. Most embarrassing.”

“Yes—they seem to be taking it quite well, though. I mean, in comparison. They’re not lighting torches.”

Charles gave him a sharp look. “That was a joke, I hope.”

“What was a joke? Lighting torches? No, I don’t joke about that. If they’re not scared, they’ll be fascinated. Or even if they are scared, maybe.” Etienne sighed. “I’m sure at least Chloe is scared.”

“Yes..” Charles nodded. “Yes, she is. Dear God, don’t give them ideas. I’m hoping to keep this, well, more amicable..” His voice trailed off. “I am not used to this at all.”

Etienne gave him a sympathetic look. “Yes, I’m sure you’re not. But maybe it’ll be instructive for you.”

 “And sooner or later, I’ll have to... well, explain something else.”

“Something else?” Etienne asked, frowning. “Oh. You mean that part. Have you ever taken them specifically?”

“Well, not Chloe, no. The others? Of course. It’s... it’s part of the job, the real reason I even have graduate assistants. They never remember it, of course.”

“Obviously not. Well. You’ll have to be very delicate about that one.”

“But—but they’re bound to figure it out. Delicate. Oh thank you so much, Etienne.”

“Charles—” Etienne’s voice went lower, deliberately displaying a warning, worried undertone. “I can see this bothers you. A lot. And I can understand that. And believe me, I’ve been there. We’re not used to being known, being seen. By them.”

Charles went on. “Well, it’s against Traditions. I’m going to get into so much trouble at home if this gets out, you know. Masquerade violations and all that. And it’s just the situation that Harvey White and his little clique has been waiting for.”

“I know,” Etienne replied.  “But screw Tradition for a second, and screw the possible consequences back at home. Whatever you’re going to do about this—and you’re right, you’ll have to do something—you’ve got to just grit your teeth and do it.”  

“I suppose—” Charles didn’t entirely sound convinced.

“We’ve got to have them on our side, Charles. They’ve got to trust us. You, at least, if they won’t trust me. You can’t shilly-shally around with this. If you’re going to be honest, then be totally honest. Get it all out there. We don’t want this to suddenly blow up in our faces later on, because I have a feeling things are just going to get more complicated from here on out.”

Charles was silent for a moment, then sighed.  “You’re quite right, of course, Etienne. I must talk to them—just my two, at least, I have a feeling Chloe already knows more than enough.”

“Yes, she certainly seems to.”  Etienne agreed.

They drove on for a while. They’d almost reached the university campus when Charles asked, suddenly, “You’re not one of those ancient codgers who’s secretly pulling strings and trying to rule the world—?“

“Good God, no. I’ve got enough to do. As for ancient, I guess that depends on your definition. Being an Egyptologist as you are, I’m suspecting the answer to that would also be no.”

He looks a bit awed. “I mean, I realize you’re quite my elder. How... ancient... are you? If I may ask, that is?”

“I predate the Camarilla, somewhat. I was alive during the Black Death.”

“You survived the Black Death, then? Quite remarkable.”

“Yes.” Etienne looked a bit awkward, as he always did when this subject came up. “I didn’t mean to imply I died of it. Lived through that.”

“So many didn’t.” Charles mused.  “I studied that period during my undergrad years—and the two popes, too. The Avignon captivity, or whatever they called it.”

Etienne closed his eyes. “Right. Well. No one ever tried to pretend it was a glorious century—”

After hunting—Charles had gone to prowl the Cook Library, Etienne to stalk the student union building—they met back at the rental car, and returned to the hotel together. The students were long abed (Charles listened at the door to their room, and reported both Diane and TJ were sleeping soundly, or at least were breathing deeply and regularly, and TJ was snoring a little).

“I suppose I should confess.”  Charles said, nervously.

“Confess?”

“Well. Yes.” He looked very embarrassed. “The expedition that—that took the Khufu sarcophagus out of Egypt?  Well. I was on it.”

“Well, I won’t tell the Egyptians.  Or your students.”

“Oh, thank you so much. I’d find it hard to live down. I was still breathing at the time. I didn’t understand. I haven’t ever admitted that to anyone else.”

“Oh, well. You and every other archaeologist in the Empire. It was a different time. Probably a crueler time.”

“Yes,” Charles took a deep breath. “It was.” He stood up again and put on his dressing gown over his pajamas.

“Well! True Confessions night.” Etienne said cheerfully. “Somebody stop us or we won’t even be recognizable as vampires anymore.”

“Right. Your turn.” Charles grinned.

“My turn?”

“For true confessions.”

“Was there something in particular you wanted me to confess?” Etienne asked, a bit warily.

“I don’t know. I’m sure you can out-confess me anytime, you’ve had a lot longer to do things worth confessing than I have.”

“That is very true.” Etienne sighed. “And I’m trying to be, as I said, more open. Up-front. You know, it’s our habit to be secretive, especially the older we get. You just assume that anything you put out there, someone somewhere will eventually use against you.”

“Oh, yes. I’m a Ventrue, after all. We rather specialize in stabbing each other in the back. That is, other Ventrue do. I never seemed to have the knack for it, I’m afraid.”

“But maybe it’s just not always quite as necessary as it seems,”  Etienne mused. “Lately it doesn’t seem quite as worth the bother anymore. I don’t know.”

“Well, It may be that secrets are only valuable if you’re anxious to keep them secret. But not of themselves—for what that’s worth. I suppose that’s true for me. I’m really quite dull.”

Etienne laughed. “Oh, no, you’re not. You do a good job of pretending in mixed company though.”

“Pretending what? To be dull?”

“Pretending to be harmless.”

Charles stretched out on his bed, arms folded under his head, ankles crossed. “I am quite harmless, I’m afraid. It’s why get away with as much as I do.”

“That would be the not-harmless part of it, Charles.”

“It’s not like I get away with that much.”

Etienne finished putting the rest of his pajamas on and curled up. “Well, we’ll see what you get away with this time.”

“You’re trying to distract me from your confessions,”  Charles pointed out.

Etienne chuckled. “Go easy on me, Charles. I’m not even used to telling people how old I am.”

“Most of the time I don’t even like to think about it.” Charles said. “I mean, really. How many of us are there left?  You’re probably the oldest vampire in Baltimore at this moment…”

“Well, you never know,” Etienne hedged, because he actually did know, and he wasn’t. “But think about it. What you personally remember is all history at best—legend more usually—completely forgotten at worst.”

“The prince at home remembers the nights when this was a British colony, and he thinks he’s old.”

“Well, he is, really. So much has changed since then, Charles. I’ve missed out on so much that people now just take for granted.”

“Missed out? How? You’ve been here for all of it.”

“Never had chocolate. Never had tomatoes. Never even had champagne.”

“Really?”  Charles sounded aghast at the thought. “Well. I suppose that’s true. I guess they didn’t have those back in your day.”

“Never got to enjoy indoor plumbing, that would have been nice. Antibiotics, underarm deodorant, dentistry. Birth control, that would have come in handy a few times. And evolution! Now that was a stunning theory!”

“Right!  Evolution. How do you suppose we evolved? I’ve always wanted to ask someone that.” Charles said. “But I can’t. Masquerade and all.”

Etienne gave him an odd look. “Oh, that’s right, you’re an ancilla Ventrue.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Charles asked. “We have to have evolved from something, don't we?”

“Didn’t your sire give you any bedtime stories? Or was he a scientist, God help us?”

Charles chuckled. “My sire, God rest his soul, had scant patience for questions like that. He liked to call himself a realist. Personally, I think it was because he didn’t know any answers either, and didn’t want to be questioned.”

“Charles—” Etienne rolled over on his side to look at him. His eyes shone in the dark. “You’re not honestly telling me that you don’t know anything about Noddist lore—that you don’t even have our creation stories?”

“Oh, that. Of course I know the stories. I keep it hush-hush, of course. Not politically correct and all, especially in the current climate. The myths are quite fascinating, really, but hard to actually research.”

“Yes, they are,” Etienne replied thoughtfully. “Charles, given what we might possibly be stepping into here, you might want to think about starting to take the stories more seriously just for the immediate future.  If for no other reason than that we could be dealing with enemies who might take them extremely seriously.”

“Really? Why? I realize they’re very old stories, but—you’re not one of those who really believes in Caine and the Antediluvians, are you?”

“Charles, I was born in the fourteenth century,” Etienne reminded him.  “What do you think the received wisdom was at that time about it?  Of course there was a Caine. Of course there were Founders who started the clans. That was what people had believed for... for millennia, I’m sure. It’s only since this whole Camarilla business came about that it was even questioned.”

“Exactly. It’s—” Charles lowered his voice, as if he was afraid of being overheard. “It’s my clan elders, I’m afraid. Hardestadt’s the most adamant about it. No such things, it’s all a story. His policies make it very difficult to do the research to prove it one way or the other. Every time I’ve heard of some artifact or—or document—that even comes close to it, by the time I get to it, it’s mysteriously gone. Stolen. Burned up in some accidental fire. Very annoying.”

“Hm. Certainly not the Tremere policy—we’ll laugh at it, maybe, but burn it? Never.”

“So the Tremere don’t believe in it either?”

“The Tremere are, of course, ardent exponents of Camarilla doctrine.”

“Right, but does Caine and our biblical history qualify?”

Etienne considered this for a moment. “I’m a Catholic. Frankly, I’ve never seen what was silly about that.”

“Ah, of course. You would be. I’m Anglican, of course. Far be it from me to dispute the wisdom of the Inner Circle, of course. Or Hardestadt.”

“But there are many outside the Camarilla who are not so... enlightened,“ Etienne continued. “The Sabbat believe all kinds of weird things, I’ve heard,  And they are willing to do terrible things for those beliefs.  You must take that seriously, even if you don’t take the belief itself seriously.”

“Now you’re worrying me. Please tell me we’re not going to have Sabbat trouble here too.”

“We might. If it gets out. I don’t even know if the people dogging us are Camarilla or Sabbat. Or neither. They could be the damnable Giovanni. Or some Inconnu plot.”

“I don’t know anything about the Inconnu. Unsurprisingly.”

“Well, nobody does. That’s the charm.” Etienne said airily. “The Sabbat, however, are very real, especially here in Baltimore.  Miss McCullough’s sire died during a Sabbat attack. Baltimore has suffered greatly.”

“She seems like a nice girl—you’re not her sire, then? I thought maybe you were—she seemed rather fond of you.”

“No, no.” Etienne smiled. “She would have done me more credit than I deserve. I’m pleased to call her a friend. Her sire was a good man. I would have liked to have known him better.”

“She did seem rather un-Tremere. I mean, no offense... not like the usual.”

“That’s why they appointed such a firebrand Puritan like Walsingham as the next Regent. If there’s Sabbat trouble—which I hope there isn’t—he’ll want to put his buckle-shod foot right in it.”  

“Well, that’s just lovely. Let’s not visit him, shall we?”

“Charles, we’re going to do our best to avoid it.”

Charles chuckles. “Feel free to relax, my friend. You don’t have to act like the usual Tremere for me.”

My friend. Etienne stiffened for a second. Breathe in calm, breathe out stress… “Glad to hear it,” he managed finally. “It’s not much fun.”

“Unless, of course, the Sabbat do show up. Then by all means, blow them away.”  Charles shivered. “I never want to see them again.”

Etienne nodded. “That’s something else we’ll try to keep well away from, I promise. Not that ALL Sabbat…well.” Etienne paused, remembering one particular Sabbat, though she was likely an unusual sample. “But as a rule, you’re certainly better off not chancing it.”

“Oh, good. Right. We can do without that. Hard enough... to convince my kids... that we’re not monsters... without the real ones... showing  up.”  It sounded to Etienne as if Charles was starting to go under.

“That’s why you need to talk to them...” Etienne turned to lie on his back, preparing to sleep.

“Right... I will...” Charles got comfy, putting his glasses on the nightstand and snuggling under the covers. “Rest well, Etienne.”

“Douces reves…”

Chapter Text

Baltimore, MD — June 23, 2004

The directions Mr. D’Angelo had given them led them around the back of the museum to the loading dock.

“Considering the exhibit is called The Stolen Treasures of Egypt,”  Diane remarked. “This feels so appropriate somehow.”

“Hey, at least we’re not backing a truck up to the loading dock,“ TJ put in. “I wonder if we’ll meet any other vampires?”

“That’s Kindred, if you please,“ Charles corrected. “And yes, we will, so I trust you will be on your best behavior.”

“Our best behavior?” Diane was incredulous. “What about them?”

“They’re not going to do anything to us, are they? I mean, humans with red blood cells us,” TJ asked anxiously.

“Of course not,” said Mr. Copperfield—no, Diane remembered, his name was not Copperfield, it was something else. De Vaillant, that was it. “Mr. D’Angelo is a trusted associate of Ms. Blair, and a gentleman,” de Vaillant continued. “ Ah, and there he is. Park over there.”

Charles pulled in on the other side of the loading dock from a sleek BMW sedan. “Don’t worry, you’re with us, so it’s perfectly safe. It’s just a museum tour. What could go wrong?”

“That’s a rhetorical question, right?,”  Diane muttered darkly. “Because I could think of lots of ways.“ 

As Charles parked the rental car, two people got out of the BMW, a tall, distinguished man in a business suit, and a somewhat buxom lady in a pantsuit. Both were middle-aged. De Vaillant got out of their car and went to greet the man with a genial handshake. 

Diane, TJ, and Chloe trailed behind Charles.

“Ah, Dr. Hewitt,“ de Vaillant said, beckoning him forward. “Allow me to introduce you; this is Lorenzo D’Angelo, an associate of Miss Blair’s. Mr. D’Angelo, this is Dr. Charles Hewitt, a professor of Egyptology.“

“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,“ D’Angelo had a lovely speaking voice, smooth and deep as honey. “And allow me to introduce one of our museum docents, Ms. Gina Lattimer; she’ll be able to answer any questions you might have.”

“Ah, very good,” Charles said. “And these are my graduate assistants, Ms. Diane Webster and Mr. Thomas Greer, and my, uh, personal assistant, Ms. Chloe Lehrer.”  

Chloe smiled shyly; Diane thought the look she gave Charles was one part surprise and one part gratitude to be so included.

“Of course,” Mr. D’Angelo said, shaking each of their hands. “We’re waiting now for the rest of our tour group. Ah, there he comes now—“

“The rest?” Charles asked, as two cars pulled into the loading dock parking area.  

“I was expecting Dr. Roark, as he was the one who requested it,” D’Angelo said.  “It seemed more practical to combine your tours, given the scheduling. But apparently Mr. Treach is also planning to join us, as that is his car—well, cars.“

“Yes, that does seem to be his style,”  De Vaillant muttered. “And Dr. Roark was his guest, so why not tag along?”

“You’ve met Mr. Treach before?” D’Angelo inquired, in a low voice.

“Sadly, yes.“

The car was a silver Mercedes limousine, followed by a black SUV with tinted windows. The limo driver got out and came around to open the back door on the near side, allowing another man—a businessman, in an expensive suit—to exit. 

The back seat occupant on the other side was apparently not in a mood to wait, exiting the limo and unfolding himself to his full height, and looking all around, almost in relief to have finally arrived. Then he bent to get something else out of the limo.  

“Mr. Treach,” D’Angelo said to the businessman. The two men exchanged handshakes, but when D’Angelo turned to introduce Charles and de Vaillant, the man just held out his hand to them.

“Oh, we’ve already met,” Treach said, “Last night, at his Highness’ court, and indeed, Mr. Courbet is of even longer acquaintance. But let me present you to my guest and kinsman—“

Courbet?  Diane wondered.  I guess it’s yet another alias?

By this time, the young man from the other side of the limo had made his way around the rear of the limo to join them. He was very tall, with longish red hair that fell over the open collar of his shirt. He was dressed rather less formally, in gray slacks and a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm. He was also carrying a large camera case on a shoulder strap.  

“Dr. Roark, may I present Mr. Etienne Courbet of Clan Tremere, Dr. Charles Hewitt of the Ventrue, and Mr. Lorenzo D’Angelo of the Toreador,“ Treach said.  “Gentleman, this is Dr. Gabriel Roark, of the Ventrue House of Saar.“

Now Dr. Roark looked like a vampire—he was so pale, and his light blue gaze was of such intensity—and then Diane realized that maybe all of them were. D’Angelo, Treach, and Roark were, at least.  (Ms. Lattimer, well, maybe not. A docent, after all, had to work when the museum was open.)   

Great. More vampires. She exchanged looks with TJ and Chloe, who’d clearly made the same observation, and hoped that Copperfield (or Courbet, or de Vaillant, or whatever his real name was) and Charles were up to the task of protecting them from their fellow tourists.  This tour had better be worth it.

Behind them, the black SUV had also disgorged its driver and passengers; all wore very serious expressions and were clearly armed beneath their suit jackets. They were not introduced, but fell into position behind their respective employers—two behind Dr. Roark and two behind Mr. Treach, in addition to his driver.

Bodyguards?  Why would vampires need bodyguards? Diane wondered.

Diane also noticed that the three of them—the mortals, that is—had not been introduced this time around, either. Not that she wanted to call attention to that fact right now—maybe vampires considered ignoring mortals accompanying other vampires to be polite behavior. 

“Will your associates also be joining us on the tour?” Mr. D’Angelo asked the two newcomers.      

Mr. Treach glanced back at his driver, who was probably also one of his his bodyguards, given the guy’s build (and the glimpse of a shoulder holster under his suit jacket). “Mr. Pickering does go with me everywhere, but he won’t be any trouble, I promise you.”

Dr. Roark seemed to think about it for a second, then waved his own entourage back to the car. One of them, a middle-aged black woman, arched an eyebrow at him, as if to say  Are you sure about that?  But he waved again, and she rolled her eyes and went back to the car.

“Well, then,” Mr. D’Angelo said. “If you will all follow me,“ and he led the way up the steps to the loading dock door. He entered a code on the touchpad; once the red light above it turned to green, he used a keycard to unlock the door, pulling it open. Lights flickered on inside. “Welcome to the Baltimore Museum of Art.”

Mr. D’Angelo led them through the museum back offices and up a set of stairs to a broad hallway that formed a square around a glassed-in central courtyard. The actual special exhibit area was off this central hallway, and boasted Egyptian gods as poster art just inside the doorway. There was a velvet rope barrier, which Ms. Lattimer unhooked from its stanchion to let them inside.

Diane loved museums. She also loved seeing actual artifacts, even behind glass. Most of the exhibit pieces were small, which was only logical, since such pieces were more easily smuggled out of the country. But there were also funerary masks, bronze spearheads and daggers, several statues, assorted pieces of jewelry, a wide variety of ushabti figures, and two whole coffins, including the famous Khufu Sarcophagus. Many had unknown provenance. The tombs from which they’d come were unidentified, and the tomb raiders had sold them to European travelers during the 19^th and early 20^th centuries without documentation.  Most were on loan from either other museums or “private collections,” such as the one Mr. de Vaillant’s former friend had amassed, including one whose source was described as “the personal trove of a Nazi occultist.” 

“Here—here it is!  Or it should be—but isn’t—dammit!”  Diane found a case dedicated to canopic jars. She pointed to a tag on the wall: Canopic jar with falcon head, alabaster, 19^th dynasty, provenance unknown.  But in the spot where that particular jar should be, there was a little card reading REMOVED FOR PHOTOGRAPHY.   

Ms. Lattimer looked over her shoulder. “I think I know where they take the pieces for official photography,” she said. “Once we get through in the gallery, I’ll take you back down there and we can look for it. That is, with Mr. D’Angelo’s permission?“      

D’Angelo glanced over.  “Oh, I’m sure that can be arranged,” he said. “Was there a reason you wanted to see that particular item?”

“No, no reason,“ Charles said, quickly. “But it’s odd that it should be removed. Doesn’t the exhibit open tomorrow?”

“Yes, but the official opening is not until two,”  D’Angelo said. “I’m sure the museum staff will have it back in the case by then.”

TJ, meanwhile, had drifted over to where Dr. Roark had set up his camera in the next room, lining up different angled shots of what appeared to be a large hexagonal stone tablet with writing on it. “Those aren’t hieroglyphs,“ TJ observed. “In fact, I’m not entirely sure what that writing is.”

“No one does,” Dr. Roark said cheerfully. He had a British accent, rather like Professor Hewitt’s. “Well, that’s not entirely true, but I won’t know for certain until I take the photos back to compare it with my other samples—“

TJ read the tag. “Well, that’s weird,“ he said. “It says here that this tablet was part of war booty, but I’m not sure from where. I mean, that’s basalt, isn’t it? What other samples do you have, and are they also on basalt?”

Dr. Roark stopped fiddling with the camera and looked at him, curiously.  “Who are you, again?”

“Uh—“ TJ took a step back, suddenly realizing he was having a conversation with a strange vampire, and asking questions.  “TJ Greer. I’m, uh—“

“Mr. Greer is one of Dr. Hewitt’s graduate assistants,” de Vaillant put in smoothly, coming up behind him. “Archaeology and architecture, isn’t that right, Mr. Greer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm.  Maybe I ought to get myself one of those,“ Dr. Roark went back to fiddling with his camera. “But then, of course, I’d have to actually teach courses, wouldn’t I? And that wouldn’t be good for anyone—”   

TJ decided the question was best treated as rhetorical, since Roark wasn’t actually paying attention to him anymore. Besides, there was something about the strange characters inscribed on the stone—he realized he’d seen some of them before. On the rim of their mysterious canopic jar, in fact. He glanced around for Diane or Charles, and spotted them on the other side of the room, so went off to grab one or the other of them as a backup witness.

“Mr. Courbet,“ D’Angelo beckoned to him.  “A word, if you don’t mind?”

“Yes, what is it?” Etienne walked over to him, sensing unease.

“I laid wards across the other entrances to this building, just as a precaution, you understand. The ones on the east entrance, and on the roof, have been disturbed.”

“Wouldn’t that also trigger a security alarm?” 

“It should have, yes—“  D’Angelo pulled out his cellphone, tapped in a number. “Dammit,” when the number rang four times without a response. “The guard out front seems to be away from his post—“

“Or perhaps he's incapacitated—”

They’d been speaking in low voices, but Roark apparently had the ears of a bat; he’d already called his own security team outside the loading dock. “Ms. Gormley says it’s quiet out back. But that’s not where your wards were disturbed, is it?” He closed his eyes. “I’m sensing—nothing? Actually, I can’t pick up anything near the east entrance, not even your guard, and that means trouble.”

Treach and his bodyguard joined them. “Trouble?  What kind of trouble?”

Then the lights went out.

“That kind of trouble,” Etienne said grimly.

“Well, if this is Pieterzoon trying to do a last minute snatch-and-grab,” Roark said coolly, swiftly dismantling his camera into the carrying case. “I’m afraid he will just have to be disappointed this time.”

“I don’t think this is Pieterzoon,” Etienne said, frowning. “We’ve already had some trouble on this trip. It may have just followed us. Charles, can you get your students out of here?“

“Good idea.” Charles beckoned them all to him. “Diane, Thomas, Chloe—and you too, Ms. Lattimer—why don’t we go somewhere safe? Just in case, you understand.“

“Which would be where, exactly?” TJ asked.

“The lower level, away from the exhibit areas. Either the offices or one of the classrooms.” D’Angelo said, pressing a ring of keys into the docent’s hands. “Go with them, Ms. Lattimer. Use the Fox Court stairs.”

“What?” Diane was startled. “Why—oh. Shit. You think it’s those guys.”  

“Yes, sir,“ Ms. Lattimer pulled a flashlight from her purse, and led the way back out of the exhibit.  “Stay close.”

Charles waved them after her, then took up the rear.  “Let’s go. Quickly, quietly, now—“

They exited the exhibit area, and walked quickly around the glassed-in courtyard. It wasn’t until they were through the doors at the far end, and making their way carefully down the stairs, with only the emergency lighting and the docent’s flashlight to guide them, that Diane heard the pop-pop-pop of gunfire coming from above.

At the foot of the stairs, TJ held the flashlight while Ms. Lattimer fumbled with the key ring. “Here it is—oh, no, that’s not it, where is it?  Oh, this one. I think it’s this one.“  It was, but the click of the door lock being released was unnaturally loud after the utter silence of the courtyard stairs.

“Come on, come on,” Charles herded them all through the door, and made sure it was locked behind them afterwards. Beyond the door was a short hallway of offices that they hurried past, following the flashlight’s circle.

Ahead of them was a little common area, with a coffee station, sink, refrigerator and a couple of tables. Next to it was a series of work cubicles, with five-foot-high walls, and another corridor of offices. “Now where do we go?” TJ asked, sweeping the flashlight’s beam around the options.

“He said somewhere safe,“ whispered Ms. Lattimer. “The classrooms would be back that way.“

“Photography,” Diane said. “Where would they do the photography? You said you knew where that was?“

“Oh, good idea,“ TJ chimed in. “Might as well go looking for that jar.”

“Well, normally, they’d do the shots in the studio,“ Ms. Lattimer said. She pointed to a corner beyond the cubicles. “Which is back there, with the exhibit workrooms.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Charles said. “Let’s go that way.” 

“So who are those guys, exactly?” Roark asked. He brought out a hinged brass-and-silver wrist cuff, snapped it on his right forearm, and flexed his fingers.

“I don’t know,” Etienne had to admit.  “They fled before we got there. But they used a mortal agent to get past my wards.”

“Well, let’s see if they can be reasoned with,” Roark said, and strode back into the exhibit hall.

Etienne reached into his jacket pocket for the knotted hanky,  Only two knots remained charged, so he’d have to use them wisely.

Roark came skidding back out again, propelled by shadowy tentacles. He reached and grabbed the tentacles before they were retracted and hissed a short phrase in some unknown tongue. Ripples of red-violet shot back along the tentacles to their master, shorting them out. “Not Pieterzoon,” he said, turning towards Etienne, “Sabbat. And they’re trying to flank us—behind you!”

Etienne turned and found himself facing a Nosferatu built like a linebacker, with jutting tusks and little red eyes, charging in from the adjacent gallery. Thinking fast, Etienne used his levitation abilities to lift the massive brute up off the floor. The combination of lift and momentum carried the monster over his head and crashed through the plate glass into the courtyard.  Etienne then quickly triggered a knot on his handkerchief, freezing the Nosferatu’s right arm in mid-air. The knot left the rest of him hanging and kicking wildly, unable to touch the ground. It did not improve his temper, but it was a good (if temporary) holding place.

Meanwhile, Treach and his bodyguard were dealing with the Sabbat who’d been following the Nosferatu, and Roark had gone back inside the Stolen Treasures exhibit.

Etienne hadn’t realized Roark was a sorcerer. But now was not a good time to ask questions. Since it looked like Treach and Pickering had matters well in hand out here, he started to follow Dr. Roark into the exhibit area.

Roark had picked up one of the stanchions and swung it as if it were a club, smashing the glass case that had a collection of bronze daggers and spear heads. He picked up one of the spear heads, but dropped it almost immediately, snarling a short explicative, and then jerking back suddenly as he literally attempted to dodge a bullet. He did not entirely succeed, but it at least passed through his lung and not his heart. He did not attempt to pick up the spear head again, but charged in the direction the shot had come from, swinging the stanchion.   

Etienne felt a stream of burning agony ripping through his body from behind.  He yelped—it felt better to yell—and then spun around to see who to blame for it all. It was the same damned Nosferatu, still hanging in midair, but now wielding a massive handgun in his left hand. Oh, no you don’t! Etienne conjured a blob of silver-nickel alloy out of the coins in his pocket, and blocked the gun’s muzzle. The gun misfired and exploded in the shooter’s hand, but even that didn’t totally put the monster out of action. It did hurt him though—he roared in pain, and continued his thrashing around, still trying to break the hanky’s spell-grip.  Given that extreme strength was a common trait of the Nosferatu, Etienne knew he would eventually succeed.

Mr. Treach and his bodyguard were shooting, but then Treach took an arrow—an arrow?—to the chest, right through the heart. Mr. Pickering stopped firing and immediately dragged his boss out of the line of fire, into the central hallway, but leaving Treach’s gun behind.

Etienne snatched it up, levitating it across the room and into his hand. “D’Angelo!”  he called, getting the Toreador’s attention. “Can you shoot?” 

“Yes,” D’Angelo shouted back, ”but I don’t have a gun!”

Etienne hefted the pistol. “Here!” and tossed it over to him.

“Thanks!” D’Angelo caught it, checked it over, and then put it to good use, shooting at whoever was creeping in the back shadows of the gallery.

Etienne ducked into the exhibit area again, and looked for Dr. Roark. The Ventrue sorcerer was already in the next room, trying to stop a trio of Sabbat in dark clothing from taking a black basalt tablet from a broken case. One of the Sabbat was clearly Tzimisce, given his talons and body-armor formed from his own flesh, and one was Lasombra, who was trying to use animated shadow-tentacles to pin Roark in place. The other, a middle-aged woman in some kind of hijab, was wrapping the stone tablet in some kind of quilted padding.

Etienne reached back via the same telekinesis ability into the shattered glass case of weapons and pulled out two spear heads and three daggers, which he sent speeding into the next room, at the Lasombra holding Roark captive, the armored Tzimisce, and the woman actually lifting the stone tablet. 

But there was yet another Sabbat, an Assamite, who was incredibly fast, and carried a bow and arrows. She flickered into sight for just a second to knock aside the dagger he’d aimed at the woman in hijab, fired an arrow at Etienne, and then flickered away again. Etienne dodged—barely—but the arrow sliced across his ribs, and fouled his control of his bladed projectiles.

Instead, he tried to focus his telekinesis at the stone tablet itself, only to find the Tzimisce blocking his line of sight, and charging right at him. Fine, let’s do it this way. Etienne swiftly changed his focus, grabbing the Tzimisce and lifting him up just a few inches and to the left, crashing him into the same row of shattered display cases.

D’Angelo fired from the exhibit entrance, two shots precisely placed into the Tzimisce’s head, and the Sabbat was down for the count (again, temporarily, but it would take time for those wounds to heal).

“Go on,” Etienne said, waving D’Angelo through. “Help Dr. Roark—”

“No need,” Roark said, from the next room. “Stop her.”

D’Angelo went on through, going past Roark, following the Sabbat agent and her Assamite protector.

“Found it!” TJ called as he flipped the lights on. “Wow. It’s gorgeous.”

“It is gorgeous,” Diane said, coming into the room, followed closely by Charles, Chloe, and the docent.

“And look,” TJ pointed out, though he didn’t actually touch the jar. “The same writing is there, around the base of the lid—which, by the way, I also saw upstairs in the actual exhibit.”

“Where?” Diane asked, rummaging around for gloves.

“That black basalt tablet had writing like this on it too. Dr. Roark was taking photos of it.”

“Really?” Charles said. “I do hope we can get a better look at that later—Wait.” His gaze went unfocused for a long second. “Someone is coming—”

“Shit!” Diane had found a pair of gloves, and was quickly tugging them on. “We need to hide this.”

“The jar?  Why?” TJ asked.

“Because they might be after it.”

“Good point,” TJ agreed, “You grab the jar, we’ll find… uh, hiding places.”  He looked around the room, which did not have a lot of options.  “Chloe, Ms. Lattimer, duck behind the desk there. Charles, you can stand in that nook there.”

“I’ll get the light,” Charles said. “TJ, that nook is more your size, I think—I’ll just stand in the corner here, behind the bookcase.”

Diane, the jar in her gloved hands, got down on the floor between the table and the back wall. 

They had no sooner switched off the lights when they heard footsteps coming down the hall, from the other direction.

“It has to be down here somewhere,” an accented male voice said.

Diane felt her stomach drop. It was him. The voice from her nightmares, from the hotel corridor that night.

“In here.” A different voice, American. “The door’s even unlocked.”

The door opened, and the light flicked on again.  Two men, both in dark clothing, stood in the doorway. One was brown-skinned and bearded—the one from the hotel. The other was ghostly pale, clean-shaven, and carried a very businesslike handgun like he knew how to use it. He was also wearing a Kevlar vest and black knit cap.

“I don’t see it,” the bearded man shone his flashlight around the room. “It must not be here.”

“Oh, but it is,” the pale man said, a bit smugly. “So are at least three mortals—and one Cainite. Don’t move, mister!”  He suddenly turned and pointed his gun directly at Charles, who was standing in a corner. 

Charles raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Don’t shoot. We don’t have anything you’re looking for—”

“But you do,” the young bearded man said with a smile. “You have exactly what we’re looking for, and you’re going to give it to us, right now.”

“No.” Charles said, staring directly into his eyes. “We do not—”

The pale man fired. Charles gasped, and he staggered back against the bookcase.  A red splotch appeared on his shirt front. “Don’t try your fucking mind tricks on me, Ventrue,” the shooter snarled. “The next shot will go in one of your mortal pets. And I won’t miss.” 

“No,” Charles whispered. 

Charles. It’s not worth your life!  Diane stood up, and shakily placed the jar on the table.  “Fine. Here it is. Take it.”

The gunman swung his gun around to aim directly at Diane, and nodded to his companion. “Get it. And don’t block my shot.”

Diane was breathing hard, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure they could hear it. The bearded man walked up to her, pulling on a pair of gloves from his pocket, “Don’t worry. I’d never let anything bad happen to you—” he promised her as he took the jar from the table and slid it into a padded backpack apparently designed just to hold it. But she felt only an echo of his allure this time. Perhaps she had too much adrenaline in her bloodstream to notice. Or maybe it was because her attention was really focused on the pistol and the cold, blue-eyed stare of the man who was holding it. Or the fact that Charles was apparently bleeding out on the floor. 

The bearded man slung the backpack over one shoulder and went out the door. His pale companion, pistol still threatening them, immediately followed, shutting the door behind them.

“Charles!” Diane and TJ both started to go to his side, but their professor held up a hand to hold them at bay. 

“Stay back!” Charles gasped. “Don’t come any closer just now… Let me recover a bit more first… aahhh.”  He seemed to pull in to himself for a few breaths. “Well.  So much... for keeping you safe,” he said, haltingly.  “I should have... thought of this, dammit.  I am so, so sorry—”

“Sorry?”  Diane blurted out.  “Charles, he shot you!  Why are you the one apologizing?”

“Because he almost shot… one of you, and you are not… resistant to bullets.” Charles was almost breathing normally now, and the bleeding had clearly stopped.

“And you are?” TJ exclaimed.

“Well, yes,” Charles said, “As a matter of fact, I am. Resistant, that is, not bulletproof.” 

Chloe and Ms. Lattimer had been arguing—in hissed whispers at first, perhaps, but now their voices had been raised enough to be audible. “I still think we should call 911,” Ms. Lattimer was saying. “I mean, doesn’t the professor need an ambulance? And we should report the robbery to the police!”

“No!”  Chloe’s voice was echoed by Diane, TJ and even Charles himself.

It occurred to Diane that maybe the docent had not the slightest idea of just who—or what—D’Angelo really was.     

“Oh, bloody hell,” Charles muttered under his breath, and then, “Gil-razzle dazzle sorba sorba,” and Diane knew nothing more.

The Nosferatu, having finally freed himself from the hanky-knot spell, returned to the fight. He charged into the exhibit area, knocking Etienne into the wall with one solid shoulder, and then turned to face Dr. Roark.  Roark picked up the stanchion again, and swung it at the Nosferatu, hitting him in the ribs with all his considerable strength.  Etienne could hear the bones snapping.  

But shattered ribs just pissed the guy off. He lunged for the stanchion, ripped it out of Dr. Roark’s hands, and threw it at Etienne, who was forced to waste time and energy deflecting it. Then the Nos took a swing at Roark, who dodged the blow, moving faster than the Nosferatu’s fist. The Nos bellowed in rage and grabbed onto the metal wrist cuff on Roark’s right forearm.

It was a mistake. Roark bared fangs in a nasty smile, and murmured something in a foreign tongue, and then the cuff began to crackle with red-violet flames. The big Nos suddenly screamed in agony, trying to free his hand from the cuff, but he was stuck fast. The flames enveloped his body, crackling swiftly from his hand to the rest of him, his body withering away, then crumbling to ashes.

Roark sank to his knees, leaning over with his hands on his thighs, as if that spell had taken a lot out of him.

“Good lord,” Etienne exclaimed, staring at the drifting ashes that once had been a vampire, “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Roark drew a shaky breath. “Let’s just focus on not letting them get away, shall we?”

Etienne could only agree.

But it was clear that whatever artifacts the Sabbat had come for, they’d apparently already gotten, and were now in full retreat.

They found D’Angelo on the landing overlooking the open lobby, staked with another arrow, and bleeding from several gunshot wounds. He gasped and curled up in a ball as Roark pulled the arrow out. “Don’t... let them... get away!  I’m alright, go!”

Roark and Etienne rushed after the fleeing Sabbat. Roark simply vaulted over the railing down into the lobby, landing lightly in a crouched position, before getting up and running; Etienne levitated himself down to the floor and followed.

Outside, there was a helicopter—a helicopter? Etienne thought—hovering in eerie, unnatural silence over the sculpture garden, while two of the thieves climbed a lowered ladder up to meet it. Etienne used the last knot on his handkerchief, pinning the lower climber’s outstretched hand in place. It wouldn’t hold the helicopter for long once it began to lift, but it might slow them down just enough for him to do something else.

Until he realized the climbing thief he’d pinned no longer had a backpack on him—that was now in the hands of the Assamite archer, who’d come back down with uncanny speed, cut it off her pinned comrade, and was now disappearing into the ‘copter’s cabin. 

The helicopter was now trying to gain altitude, and the pinned climber on the ladder was in agony, judging from the expression on his face. The Assamite cut the ladder free, leaving the pinned thief floating in midair, while the helicopter lifted—still moving in absolute silence—straight up into the night sky.

Etienne snarled and levitated up after them, only to be met with a silent hail of bullets from a pale gunman inside the open helicopter door.  One bullet must have pierced his heart, because the sudden shock and forces of gravity conspired against his ability to remain airborne.  He fell, and landed badly, but at least it was on grass and not on the pavement.

When he’d recovered a little—only a little, he was very glad he’d fed the night before, but Jesu Christus, he’d need to feed again, and soon—he hobbled over to where the others were gathering. 

The ladder still hung in the air, secured in that position by a now-disembodied hand. Etienne released the hold the handkerchief knot had on it, and it fell, dissolving to ashes on the way down.

The museum fire alarm was ringing, which was going to bring police and fire fighters and other emergency first responders to the scene in short order. And none of them was in good shape, except the mortals, but it wouldn’t do to expose them to the scrutiny of the law either. Or the hunger of wounded Kindred.

Charles and the other mortals were there, having been escorted by Dr. Roark’s security detail out of wherever it was they’d gone to hide.  Ms. Lattimer seemed a bit shell-shocked, moving as if in a daze. And Charles had also been shot—apparently they hadn’t been as successful In avoiding trouble as planned.

“They took it,” Charles said. “The Qebehsenuef jar. We found it, but they took it from us.”

The very jar they’d come here to see, and it had been stolen out from under them. Etienne closed his eyes and cursed in fluent medieval French, Tuscan, and Schwartzwalder German. 

Then he opened his eyes again, because Dr. Roark was speaking to him.

“I just called in a favor,” Dr. Roark was saying, his voice low and serious. “Ventrue Hospitality. From Dorian Adams, who is Mr. Treach’s grandsire—and who is doubtless even now informing our incipient host of that fact.”

In fact, Mr. Treach was on his cellphone, and from the shocked expression on his face, was being told exactly that.

“I did not inform Mr. Adams that you were Tremere,” Roark continued, “though Mr. Treach may very well spill the beans on that one. But all of us seem to be in dire need of rest and recuperation, so….”    

Etienne noted that Roark had specified he’d asked Dorian Adams for the favor—not Treach. Which meant the favor would be owed to Mr. Adams, not Mr. Treach, even if Mr. Treach was the one whose haven they would really be occupying. It was a fine line of protocol, but worth the additional prestation he and Charles would owe Dr. Gabriel Roark of the Ventrue House of Saar for arranging it. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you. We’ll accept your offer of hospitality.” 

Etienne shared Dr. Roark’s opinion of their host, but the last thing he could imagine Charles or himself doing right now was driving back to their hotel in Towson in the same car (and in their current much-battered and weakened condition) with three very nervous and vulnerable mortal students.

Charles agreed.  “Ventrue Hospitality would be the best option, I think. My students are—well, this has been a trying ordeal for them, as well as for me.”

“I must escort Ms. Lattimer home,” D’Angelo said, “and my own haven is near enough, so I will respectfully decline your kind invitation.” 

“Very well,” Roark nodded. “Let’s have the mortals ride together—in your car, if that’s possible.  Your students and my security team. Ms. Gormley will look after them for now. We’ll ride in the limo, where it will be just us—well, us and Mr. Pickering, but he’ll be in the front, so not that much temptation.”

By the time the Baltimore City police arrived to secure the scene, the Kindred and their mortal associates had long gone.

Chapter Text

The Belvedere, Baltimore, MD   — Thursday, June 24, 2004 (immediately after the museum visit)

Mr. Treach’s in-city residence was just a ten minute drive away—and it was both expensive-looking and elegant. The Belvedere Hotel had once been the most prestigious hotel in the city in the early part of the twentieth century. Treach had purchased an ownership stake in the building when it was broken up into condos, business rentals, and event venues, taking up two entire floors on the west wing.

Charles Hewitt and Etienne de Vaillant were given an internal suite in Mr. Treach’s own apartments. The bedroom was protected from the sunlight, and Dr. Roark was also shown to a guest suite just like it down the hall.

Mr. Treach also inquired about more delicate matters—offering sustenance to his guests. Only Etienne—whom to be fair, was in greatest need of blood—took their host up on his offer. “Two men would do me very well, if you can spare them—”

“Of course,” Treach said, and sent two strapping off-duty security guards to wait upon Etienne’s pleasure.

But for Ventrue, it was a delicate matter, since to admit one’s “type” was to reveal a significant personal idiosyncrasy (and if the host actually fulfilled it, a significant boon). So Charles simply declined, and Dr. Roark said bluntly, “No, thank you.  I brought my own.”   

The students had been escorted to their own rooms, a fully furnished two-bedroom condo on the eighth floor they shared with Roark’s security detail (who had introduced themselves during their rescue earlier that evening as Samantha Gormley and Turk Raines). Both were black, and while Sam had a Jamaican accent, Turk was clearly from the American South.  By unspoken agreement, they divided themselves not by gender, but by their loyalties—with Sam and Turk in one bedroom, and the three students in the other. Or to be more accurate, the girls took the bedroom (which only had a single queen-sized bed), and TJ was relegated to the couch in the living room, which opened up to a full-sized double.

Diane and TJ were, however, just a bit disturbed when Dr. Roark came to “visit” his bodyguards—which meant he took each one into the bedroom for five or six minutes, while the other sat outside in the living room, just waiting patiently.

Diane could pretty much guess why.  

“I know what he is doing in there,” Sam Gormley explained to Diane. “Of course, I know. It’s fine. We do this for him sometimes. He doesn’t take too much, so yes, it is fine. He was wounded, and we are healthy. There is a bond of trust between us. Don’t you do the same for your professor?”

“No, we most certainly do not!” Diane said, vehemently. TJ frowned and clearly was thinking about it, though.

But later, when they were in the girls’ bedroom, all three of them together, Chloe said, “I don’t know how your professor does it. Or if he does it at all, to you. I just know mine did it to me. He didn’t hide what he was doing, and I—I liked it. It doesn’t hurt, it’s not bad, it was kinda… well, sexy, you know? Sensual. So I can understand why—why Sam and Turk do it for their boss.”

Diane shuddered. “Just the thought of letting a vampire bite me, drink my blood like that, makes my skin crawl. I mean, it freaks me out, you know?  How can they be just okay with it?  TJ, tell me I’m not weird for feeling like this—”

“You’re not weird,” he responded obediently, “but all the same, I’m not as freaked by the idea, I guess?  I mean, Chloe says it doesn’t hurt. Sam and Turk clearly don’t mind. Maybe it just depends on—on the vampire doing the biting, you know?”

“A bond of trust—” Chloe said, a bit wistfully. “What Sam said it was. It sounded... nice.”

“You didn’t have that with St. Clair, did you?”  TJ asked. “It sure as hell didn’t sound like it, anyway.”

“No.” Chloe half-whispered it, almost as if she was afraid her old master would hear. “I didn’t. He—he scared me. He had a kind of power over me, to make me do what he wanted. He could always make me do what he wanted.”

“I’m so sorry,” Diane murmured to her. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Their musings were interrupted by a knock at the condo front door.  Turk answered it, but it wasn’t Dr. Roark returning for whatever reason. It was Charles.

Diane and TJ exchanged panicked looks.

A light rapping on the bedroom door.  “Anyone awake in there?” Charles asked.

TJ sighed and got up to open the door.  “Yeah, we’re all awake.”

“Oh, good,” Charles was wearing different clothes, but they didn’t fit him well, and were clearly borrowed.  “I have a favor to ask of you—”

Diane held her breath. No-no-no, not that, not that—

Charles held out the car keys, his hotel keycard, and a map.  “Tomorrow, could you take the rental car and go to our hotel up in Towson, and bring back our luggage? You don't have to check us out—in fact, you shouldn't, just in case we need to go back there again.  Go during the daylight hours, it should be safe enough then—I hope so, anyway—but it would be really good to have our own clothes again. My own clothes—as you can see, these are not mine, they’re borrowed from Mr. Treach’s people, and they really don’t suit. But the ones I was wearing are—well, you saw them, all bloody and ruined, really…”

TJ grinned and took the keys and map from him.  “Sure thing, we can do that.”

“Good.  Thank you ever so much.”  Charles hesitated a moment. “I—I’m sorry about tonight, really. I had no idea it would be... Well, a disaster, like it was. The one thing we really wanted to see was stolen right from under... from your very hands, Diane—” He took a breath.  “Well, anyway.  Good night.” 

He turned and left, leaving the students to exchange dubious glances. 

“That’s it? That’s all he wanted?”  TJ started to chuckle.  “Of course. He’s not comfortable wearing someone else’s clothes—”

“Dr. Roark isn’t either,” Turk commented from the living room. “Did you see what he was wearing when he came? That T-shirt and jeans? He never wears jeans.”

“Dr. Hewitt doesn’t either,” TJ said. “Or at least I’ve never seen him wear jeans.”

“We’re going after our luggage tomorrow, too. We could offer you an escort,” Turk said, coming to lean casually against the door frame. “Dr. Roark was staying at the Hyatt downtown, so that’s a short trip from here. Where’s your hotel?”

“The Ramada in Towson,” TJ replied. “That’s a northern suburb, I think.”

Turk nodded.  “We can find it. Best to stick together, I think. Just in case.”

Just in case. Diane remembered the cold stare of the vampire with the gun, and how he’d just shot Charles for—for what?  Just talking? That guy wasn’t going to be out in the daytime, but better to be safe than sorry, because afternoon traffic was unpredictable, and there was no way in hell they were going to be up and out the door before noon at the earliest. “Thanks,” she said.

After seeing where the students had been quartered on the floor below, Charles and Etienne retired to their own guest suite, which was rather more luxurious than the mortals’ condo. They had lost track of Dr. Roark, but it was not unreasonable to suppose he was doing the same thing—avoiding their host.

“I’d probably know the bastard who shot me if I saw him again,” Charles said. “Very distinctive appearance, though he wasn’t anyone I had ever seen before. But the Kindred with him was definitely the same one from Houston. Diane said she recognized his voice.”  

“They were Sabbat,” Etienne said. “One was definitely Lasombra, and another was Tzimisce. And they had an Assamite with them as well. A really skilled one, which means she was likely an elder, since she was able to zip around unseen, fire arrows out of nowhere, and silence the helicopter.”

“She?” Charles gave an impression of a shudder. “Good lord. How progressive of them, using a female assassin.”

“There was also a Nosferatu, a big bruiser of a guy—though Roark was able to kill him with his sorcery.” Etienne frowned.  “I didn’t realize he was a sorcerer. Especially at that level.”

“He’s an elder, like you,” Charles said. “The House of Saar is a very old Ventrue line. I don’t know his exact lineage, but I’ve heard of the House at least. From the way Mr. Treach called him kinsman, and introduced us to him, I’d venture he’s at least as old as you are, if not older.”

“And he clearly has an interest in Egyptian antiquities,” Etienne mused.

“We only had a few minutes with the canopic jar before they showed up to take it.” Charles said. “And they were specifically targeting it—why else would they come looking for it?” 

“That’s not all they took,” Etienne said.  “They also took the basalt tablet—which Roark was very interested in. Interested enough to take photos of it, at least.”

“That was what Thomas called us over to look at, right before the lights went out and we were forced to evacuate,” Charles said. “It had the same kind of writing on it as the canopic jar—at least Thomas thought it did, and he’s got an incredible memory for things like that.”

“What else did they take?” Etienne asked.  “It looked like they knew exactly what artifacts they were after. And they have to also be after your jar as well. They tried for it once, and now that they’ve seen us here, they might very well come after it—or your students—again.”

“Oh, dear—” Charles said, suddenly.  “I asked them to run up to the hotel and bring back our luggage tomorrow—maybe they should take an escort.  You know, just in case—” He picked up his cell and called TJ, only to be assured that they’d already thought of that, and an armed security escort had been arranged already.  “Oh, that’s a relief,” he said, and hung up the call.

Meanwhile, Etienne called Sarah, who assured him that their own jar was still under wards and safe. She’d also already heard of what had occurred at the museum. “Lorenzo called me,” she said. “He was quite disturbed at what happened.” 

“I hope he knows nobody is blaming him,” Etienne said.

“He’s hoping the Prince won’t blame him,” she said. “I told him the Prince is a reasonable man, and that nobody expects him to predict the Sabbat.”  

“I’m not so sure,” Etienne muttered. “Certainly his Highness wasn’t that reasonable with me.”

“Nonsense,” Sarah said gently. “He didn’t blame you for not telling him you weren’t dead. He blamed Mr. Walsingham and Pontifex Dorfmann for that.”

“I suppose that means I should really visit Dorfmann while I’m here,” Etienne sighed. “Merde. I was hoping to slip in under the radar without anyone being the wiser—”

“You once told me that the biggest rock makes the biggest splash, and there’s nothing the rock can do about it.”

“Except own up to it, I know.”  He smiled, even if she couldn’t see it. Sarah always had a way of lightening his mood. “Well, I was just checking up on the safety of the Professor’s jar. Glad to hear it hasn’t been disturbed, but that may not be any guarantee in the future. We’ll try to take it off your hands soon.”

“Of course,” she replied. “You take care now, my lord. Lorenzo said you and the professor were wounded as well. If you need to hunt again, you know my domain is always open to you.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

Baltimore, MD — Thursday, June 24, 2004  (the following evening)

Etienne was happy to find that during the day, the students had indeed retrieved their luggage. They hadn't found the warded chest he’d hidden in the closet, but he could hardly blame them for that—he was just delighted to return the borrowed clothes to their host and wear his own. Etienne had his own personal style, dammit, and he rather enjoyed being metro-fashionable, now that he could actually afford it.

Charles was also happy to wear his own clothing, and use his own toiletries. He emerged from the bathroom looking quite like his usual self, his mustache freshly waxed and glasses perched on his nose in proper Victorian fashion.

They went out to where the others were gathering, in what appeared to be the common lobby /sitting area of Mr. Treach’s ninth-floor apartment. Dr. Roark was already there, as were his security people and Charles’ students. Mr. Treach was also there, along with his security chief, Mr. Pickering.

“Good evening, gentlemen, ” Treach said, beaming. “I trust you rested well, and are ready to tackle our little mystery?”

Our little mystery?  Etienne exchanged a glance with Charles, and then with Dr. Roark, who just shrugged.

“Now,” Treach continued on. “I’ve asked Mr. Pickering to get us the police reports, so we should have them later this evening.”

“I’m not sure the mystery has really dilly-dallied about waiting to be tackled, Mr. Treach,” Etienne said, in his most non-committal-but-friendly manner.

“Well, the Sabbat must sleep as we do,” Treach said, gamely.  “They can’t have gotten far—" 

“Mr. Treach, let me be blunt,” Dr. Roark interrupted.  “Neither you, nor anyone else in this house, is prepared to hunt a Sabbat pack as well trained and equipped as this one.”

“You might be surprised at what we can handle, Dr. Roark,” Treach replied, just a bit testily. “Mr. Pickering has some very good people, and we’ve access to some of the best equipment—”

“But—but from your descriptions,” Charles pointed out, “those were Assamites.” His voice carried the hushed tone of one who always considered the Assamites to be nigh-on invulnerable supermen.  

“My professional opinion,” Dr. Roark continued, “is that we are quite severely out-classed in terms of equipment and personnel. We are, in fact, fortunate to have survived.”

“I would be surprised,” Etienne broke in, “if this turned out to be an official Sabbat enterprise at all.”

The phone rang.  Mr. Pickering answered.

“I wouldn’t.” Roark said bluntly, again. “The Sabbat in general—and certain elements within the Sabbat in particular—possess a decidedly scholarly interest in—” He paused, looking at Treach’s head of security, who was trying to get his boss’s attention.

“Mr. Treach,” Pickering said, “I think you should take this one.”

Reluctantly, Treach did so.

“Do they really?” Charles asked, curious.

Etienne laid a finger over his lips and nodded toward Treach on the phone.

“Oh.” Charles whispered.

“Yes, sir,” Treach said. “Yes. Of course. Yes, sir. Right away.” He hung up the phone. “His Highness would like to know, in his words, “What the blue fucking blazes was going on last night”?  He’d like to speak to us tonight.”

“Of course,” Etienne murmured.

“Well, we rather knew that was coming,” Roark said.

“Oh, dear,” said Charles.

Etienne glanced up the taller man. “My point, Dr. Roark, is that if it were a mission sanctioned by the hierarchy, surely they would have waited one more stop on the museum tour, and caught it in New York. It would have been far easier.”

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Mr. Treach said, “We’ve got about two hours to come up with what he refers to as a ‘reasonable explanation.’”

“A reasonable explanation for the Sabbat?” Etienne asked mildly.

Dr. Roark folded his arms across his chest. “I make no claim of understanding the specific choice of Baltimore. In fact, we have no information to speculate on in that direction at all. Perhaps we should point this discussion in a productive direction, such as their choice of artifacts taken?”

“What did they take?” Treach asked.

“We need a catalog—” Etienne glanced back at Charles, who was looking at his graduate students. TJ produced it from his back pocket.

“We marked the specific items—” TJ said, handing it over.  “The Qebehsenuef jar. The black basalt tablet, that uh, Dr. Roark was photographing. A few other items, too.”

“The what jar?” Treach asked.

“Qebehsenuef,” Charles replied. “One of the canopic jars, with the head of a falcon, named after one of the Sons of Horus. That jar was missing from the exhibit, but they sent two of their number to take it from the photography studio downstairs. Where, as it happened, we had also gone, to see it—“

“Curious,” Treach said.

“Other items?” Dr. Roark asked.

TJ closed his eyes. “Uh, let me think. Two bronze daggers, one bronze spear head, two funerary masks, a bronze mirror, and eight or ten ushabti figurines.”  

“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” Treach put in. “How do you know?”

“I compared what was left behind in the cases to what was listed in the catalog.” TJ replied. “Except for the ushabti figures, those I was still counting when we were rushed out of there before the police showed up.”

“Of course,” Treach said, dismissing TJ’s explanation as irrelevant to the matter at hand. “What we must decide now is our most effective course of action. I’m not without some contacts—in unexpected places—and perhaps it may be necessary to call upon them.”

Spare me from this man’s excessive ego.  Etienne raised an eyebrow. “Really, Mr. Treach? What contacts are those?”

Treach played it cool.  “Perhaps you can even persuade the Tremere to get involved—what? Well. I really shouldn’t say. But it wouldn’t be the first time we—negotiated—with other parties over something lost or stolen.”

He must mean their negotiations over Corvo.  Etienne had heard this story, and it was hardly a flattering one for either Treach or the Sabbat. Though Sarah had come through it alright, as had Corvo—at least until his superiors in the Sabbat had heard about it. That had led to the young Tzimisce being sent after Etienne, which had been the indirect cause of the rather theatrical staging of his supposed Final Death three years ago.

“You certainly are familiar with our Sabbat problem, Mr. Courbet,” Treach continued.  “I seem to recall you had some very nasty run-ins with them the last time you were here.”

 “That’s a fair way to put it. I call being shot at with bazookas a nasty run-in all right.” Etienne shook his head. “I’ll handle the Tremere end of things, Mr. Treach, don’t let that worry you in the slightest.””

“—Bazookas?” Dr. Roark echoed, with a hint of a smile. “This is clearly a story I need to hear some night.”

“You may very well get the full story before the night’s through,” Etienne said. “Mr. Treach, what precisely did the prince request?”

“He wants a full explanation of the incident last night at the museum. He’s summoned Mr. D’Angelo as well. And you two—well, three, counting Dr. Hewitt.”

“Well, there you are,” Etienne said, resignedly. “Unfortunately, I haven’t got an explanation for the incident at the museum.”

“That,” Treach declared, “is not going to satisfy his Highness.”

“Nothing that resembles an intelligent explanation, at any rate.” Dr. Roark was quite visibly irritated. “Does the prince want what sounds like a good explanation or what actually is a good explanation, Mr. Treach? Because if we want to present him with a list of hypothetical follies, we can do that right now.”

“Axe isn’t much for half-truths and frivolities,” Treach said. “He’s a businessman; he likes things straightforward and clean.”

“Unfortunately for him,” Roark declared, “straight-forward and clean are not descriptions that can be applied to this situation.”

The house phone rang again.  With a sigh, Treach answered.  “Yes? Very well, put her through…”

He turns to Etienne. “Mr. Courbet. It’s for you.”

Etienne takes it. “Hello?”

“Good evening, my lord,” Sarah was being quite properly respectful on the phone, which probably meant she wasn’t alone.  “Mr. Walsingham has some questions for you. If you could drop by the chantry later this evening?”

“Yes, I can do that—much later this evening,” Etienne said, with a sigh. “I’m afraid his Highness wants a word first.”

“Yes, I’m sure he does. Call me when you’re through—I’ll keep Mr. Walsingham informed.”

Etienne hung up.

“Well, right,” Charles said, cheerfully. “Now what?”

Etienne sighed. “We’ve got to go visit his Highness. The club, or elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere,” Treach said.

“Dr. Roark,” Charles asked, almost shyly.

“Yes, Dr. Hewett?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you. I read your paper on The Labyrinth in Mythology, and I was most curious about the mandala pattern you mentioned that you found in Australia—”

“What can I illuminate for you, Dr. Hewitt?” Roark asked, amiably. He and Charles began a discussion that Etienne was soon totally immersed in, because while he had some academic understanding of the topic with regards to Tremere blood sorcery, what Roark was describing was considerably more exotic, and also rather more horrific. Involuntary spirit transference via gazing steadily into the image of a mandala on a page or a stone wall? Etienne had never heard of such a thing, but it didn’t sound impossible.

Both Roark’s security team and Charles’ students had retired to their rooms downstairs during this discussion, and even Treach had left the room with Mr. Pickering, so Etienne felt a bit freer to geek out (just a bit) at another sorcerer’s storytelling.

“Yes, but Beckett actually wrote that part—”  Roark was saying.

“Beckett? Did you actually get to meet him?” Treach interrupted, coming back into the room in mid-discussion.

“Of course, since he was there at the time,” Roark said, rather less amiably.  “In a manner of speaking, anyway.  Dr. Beckett himself has an extraordinarily rich and detailed body of work—and he tells even better ‘no, shit, there I was‘ stories than I do.”

“Sorry to break this up,” Treach said, glancing at the clock on the wall again, “But we need to leave now, in order to get to the Prince’s meeting place on time. I’m afraid it’s on the other side of the harbor.”

“Then let’s move.” Etienne looked at Charles. “I assume you’ll want the kids to stay here.”

“Yes, they’d better. I’ll tell them,” Charles said, and did so, calling them on his phone.

“Samantha and Turk will stay, as well,” Dr. Roark said. “For safety’s sake.”

Mr. Treach offered the use of his stretch limo. “We’ll have an adequate escort, don’t worry.”  

“I’m sure your limo is the height of comfort, Mr. Treach,” Etienne said, “but might you have anything a tad less…conspicuous, considering these Sabbat may still be in town?”

“Oh, good point. I’ll see what we’ve got,” Treach said. “The limo is armored, of course, but it wouldn’t stand up to a bazooka.”

Neither did my rental car, thought Etienne, but fortunately I wasn’t in it at the time...

Charles and de Vaillant had gone out, summoned by the prince (Diane thought it was just charming that vampires had princes and not, say, mayors or city councils or anything even vaguely democratic.)  Chloe told them it was the same in Chicago, or at least as far as she knew.

TJ was looking through the exhibit catalog, and found the black basalt tile that had been stolen, and then the Qebehsenuef canopic jar. He kept flipping between them, a frown on his face. “Diane—” he said finally. “Tell me I’m not crazy, but I don’t… I’m not sure Ms. Lattimer really knew Charles was a vampire. Do you recall what she was asking, something about calling 911, and—” 

“Because Charles had been shot,” Diane said. “You’re not crazy. I think he must have convinced her that he was alright. I guess? I’m not sure.”

Chloe was humming something under her breath.   

Diane, however, was thinking. “But I don’t know what he said to persuade her. You’d think I would remember something like that?”

“I don’t remember it either,” TJ said. “Which is a bit odd.  And disturbing. Especially given what that guy said... The one with the gun. He said something when he fired….”

“Don’t try your fucking mind tricks with me, Ventrue—” Chloe quoted. “That’s what he said.”

“And then I stood up, with the jar, and put it back on the table.” Diane said. “And they took it.”

“And then we tried to go to Charles, but he—he stopped us.” TJ said.  “He apologized—for something? And then Ms. Lattimer wanted to call 911—and that’s when… my memory gets a bit fuzzy.”

“Well, yeah,” Chloe said. “Because that’s when he said the magic words.”

Diane stared at Chloe. “—Magic words?” she echoed, dangerously. “What magic words?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Something nonsensical, funny-sounding.” Chloe said. “You both went kinda quiet, like you were in some kind of trance. And then he called Ms. Lattimer over, and sort of—well, ordered her to be quiet and said that he didn’t need any help. And she went along with it.” 

“In other words, he—” TJ started.

“He used his mind tricks on her,” Diane realized. “And on us.” She started to pace, all nervous energy.

“It’s probably okay—” Chloe said. “I mean, he meant it for the best, didn’t he?”

“What he did was mess with our memories,” Diane growled. “Which is just fucking wrong.”

“Thing is, it’s probably not the first time he’s done it.” TJ said.

“No,” Diane said. “No, it’s not. But you know what? It’s gonna be the last.”

The Kindred ended up using a Lincoln Towncar, which Pickering drove, and Dr. Roark claimed shotgun, sitting in the front seat in order to stretch his long legs. Etienne, Charles and Treach rode in the back, with Charles in the middle, and the bodyguards followed in the black SUV.

The trip involved going through the Fort McHenry Tunnel under the river, and up through the industrial warehouse district on the other side. There was little traffic at this hour, so when they heard the distinct sound of a motorcycle coming up behind and Treach started muttering about weapons, the other passengers in the Towncar were understandably a bit spooked.

It came into view, a big Kawasaki, with a sidecar, apparently empty. The single rider was clad in black leather.  Sam, in the front seat, relaxed. “It’s okay, Mr. Treach,” Mr. Pickering said. “I recognize the bike.  It’s Lukas.”

“Oh, right, of course, ” Treach said, “I knew that. But suppose someone followed him?”

“It’s probably about as likely as someone having followed us, Mr. Treach,” Etienne said. He’d met Lukas the last time he was in Baltimore. The Gangrel wasn’t exactly high society material, but he was certainly no Sabbat. And he was trustworthy, which was also a plus in his favor.

The biker pulled up alongside the car.  The rider was helmeted, with a full visor over his face, and a dark ponytail that streamed out behind him. He turned his head to glance inside the car. Etienne conjured up a smile and a little wave.

The biker merely nodded, and then gunned his bike, pulling ahead of them.

They drove on, and turned into a side street. A garage door opened as they approached; the biker headed on in, and the cars followed.  The garage door closed behind them.

Mr. Pickering parked in a line of other vehicles.  “Here we are, gentlemen,” Treach announced, somewhat unnecessarily.  

The biker pulled up, and dismounted, taking off his helmet and gloves, and left them on the bike. He was very tall, and wore jeans and a black leather jacket. His face was scarred, his eyes dark under heavy brows. “Treach,” he acknowledged. “And... Courbet, wasn’t it?”  Lukas asked, recognizing him and extending his hand.

“Luke.”  Etienne shook his hand. “You’re well, I hope.”

“Not bad,” the Gangrel replied, then grinned. “You know, you’re looking pretty good for being dead.”

“So they tell me,” Etienne said cheerfully. Of course, Luke had already known he survived—he was, in fact, one of the reasons for it—but nobody else knew that except for Sarah.

“Good evening, Lukas,” Treach said, a bit cooler. “We have an appointment with the prince—if you’ll excuse us.” 

“I guess that means y’all are here for the fun,” Luke said. “Heard y’all stirred things up just a bit last night.”

Treach sighed and did necessary introductions. “Dr, Roark, Dr. Hewitt, this is Luke Kowalski of the Gangrel—Luke, Dr. Gabriel Roark, Dr. Charles Hewitt, and you already know Mr. Courbet, it seems.”

Two cars down, Etienne recognized Sarah’s silver Toyota Highlander, from its bumper sticker that proclaimed My Other Car is a Broom.  There was also  a black BMW that looked like it could be the same one D’Angelo was driving last night, though tonight a uniformed driver was sitting in it, reading a book.  And just beyond that, a vintage Volkswagen van, painted with wild geometric tribal designs and flowers.  

“We’re expected,” Treach said. “Come on, gentlemen.”

“Oh, I’m also here for the fun,” Luke said, grinning.  

One of Axe’s minions met them, apparently counting them to see if they were all there, and then punched in a passcode to the building doors. They followed him up three flights of concrete stairs and into a carpeted hallway, then down past several executive type offices, to a large conference room. The room was dominated by a long mahogany table and surrounded by chairs, some of which were occupied: the Prince himself, sitting at the head of the table; his bodyguard Dog crouched in a chair to his left; and his consigliere Jules seated on his right.

There were others sitting at the table as well, though they, like the Prince, rose as the newcomers filed into the conference room. Sarah McCullough, of course, and Lorenzo D’Angelo. But also a big, shaggy hippy whose beard almost totally covered his face. He wore a tie-dyed t-shirt and rose-tinted John Lennon glasses, and his arms were so hairy as to be almost furred.

“Hey, Art,” Lukas murmured.   

“Come in, gentlemen, come in,” Axe called. “Take a seat. We’ve a lot to cover.”

“Hey, Lukas,” the hippy wheezed, in a rough, gravelly voice. “Good to see ya.”

“That will be all, Mr. Treach,” Axe said, curtly. “Thank you.”

The expression that crossed the Ventrue’s face was fleeting, but it appeared to be one of disappointment, realizing that for all he’d done, he wasn’t to be privy to this most interesting and doubtless important council. But it vanished almost immediately, to be replaced by obedient resignation. “Yes, your Highness,” he said, and bowed his way out of the room. The doors were closed by two mortal bodyguards in business suits, who were clearly going to guard them from the outside, thus preventing Treach from listening at the door.

Luke took the empty chair between the old hippy and D’Angelo.  Etienne and Charles sat down next to Sarah, and Dr. Roark sat on D’Angelo’s other side.

“Alright, then,” Axe said sternly, looking around the table. “You know what the problem is. I’ve heard Mr. D’Angelo’s story. Now I’d like to hear yours. The whole truth, for those of you who may not be entirely familiar with that concept. I trust I don’t need to explain. I want the facts, all of ’em. Mr….” he pauses and looked at Etienne.

“Whichever,” Etienne replied, meaning to give the Prince a choice of what name to call him.

“Might as well tell the whole truth,” the hippy says. “I’m Art, by the way. Art Morgan.”

Axe gave the hippy an irritated look, which Art Morgan ignored.  Etienne glanced at Axe, then nodded carefully at Morgan, but then returned his attention immediately to Axe.

“Your name, sir.” Axe said. “Your real name.”

“Etienne de Vaillant, Highness.” Across the table, he saw Dr. Roark turn to look at him curiously.

“Thank you, Mr. de Vaillant. And what can you tell me about what happened last night?”

“I, Dr. Hewitt, Dr. Roark, Mr. Treach, our host Mr. D’Angelo, and sundry others came to the museum for a tour of the Stolen Treasures exhibit, Highness, as you know.”

“Why?” The Prince demanded. “What was in that exhibit that was so god-damned interesting that not only pulled elders like the Tremere Pontifex for the Eastern Region, and a notorious Ventrue Noddist scholar from the Caribbean out of the woodwork, but the fucking Sabbat as well?”

“Pontifex?” Art Morgan murmured. “Hmmm.”

“I can’t speak for their interest, Highness,” Etienne said. “Only for my own.” He looked at the old hippy, and realized that behind the round rose-tinted spectacles, Art’s eyes were as yellow as a wolf’s.

Dr. Roark cleared his throat. “Theoretically?” he offered. “I rather doubt the Sabbat would engage in such an operation to steal an object of purely human significance. In short, the item I was most interested in was, at least in theory, of Kindred historical significance. Perhaps even, as you suggest, a Noddist one.”

“Exactly,” Etienne continued.  “It was my hope that these artifacts might shed more light on that epoch of history from a Kindred perspective—I’m not going to go as far as a Noddist interest, really. Though that was always a possibility. Plainly, in retrospect, more than a slim one.”  

“Yeah?” Axe said. "So did they get anything? What exactly was it they stole?”

“A large basalt floor tile, of unknown origin, with a previously unknown script, not hieroglyphic,” Dr. Roark replied. “It had to have been one of the items they were deliberately targeting, because the stone was large enough to be unwieldy, and basalt is pretty damned heavy.”

“Also a canopic jar, with the head of a falcon,” Charles added, “which they actually had to go looking for, because it had been removed from the exhibit by the curators for photography.”

“And a few other items, but those were likely stolen only as cover,” Roark continued. “They were small things, easily transported, such as bronze weapons or small statuettes.”

“So what’s the value in that?” Axe asked.

“We’d have had to have gotten a better look at it to really know that, Highness,” Etienne said.

Dr. Roark flicked a look at Etienne and Charles. “Yes. It’s difficult to determine its precise significance from catalogue photos.”

“Yeah… Well. That doesn’t look good,” Axe grumbled. “Not that I care what the fucking canning jar was, but that it took place on my fucking turf.  Clearly there was a serious lapse in security.” He turned his glare to Lorenzo D’Angelo.

“They were exceedingly well prepared, highness,” D’Angelo said. “And because of its public nature, I could not put more arcane protections on the building.”

“And extremely skilled in exactly the blood-arts that aided a stealthy approach.” Etienne said. “Meaning a helicopter landed on the building without anyone hearing it.”

“Not hearing it?”  Axe scowled. “Assamites.”

Art Morgan rapped his fingers, which were tipped with long, curved claws, on the table thoughtfully. “There are those in the Sabbat,” he rasped, “that would have a far greater interest in such relics than scholars in the Camarilla.”

“Mr. Morgan is correct in this matter, to a certain extent.” Roark admitted.

“If you mean there are more Noddist scholars in the Sabbat,” Etienne said, “Yes, certainly.”

“And they might have the wherewithal to hire Assamites, who do not work cheap.” Axe continued the thought. “But if it was Assamites, why did they settle for the artifacts, and not the… well. Excuse me, gentlemen. But the obvious.”

“The obvious?” D’Angelo asked.

“Not you.” Axe said, bluntly. “Your blood.”

D’Angelo blanched. “I—I don’t know,” he stammered.

“A helicopter?” Luke said, suddenly. “Where the fuck would the Sabbat get a helicopter? That ain’t exactly what you’d call Army surplus.”

“That’s a good question,” said Axe.  “I mean, you’d need someone to fly the damned thing too. A qualified pilot.”

“This was no ordinary Sabbat pack,” Art Morgan said, thoughtfully. “Those were their elite troops. The commandos, the special forces, the creme de la creme. The Black Hand.”

Axe stared at him. “The what?”

Etienne’s eyes widened slightly. One doesn’t just come out and SAY things like that in front of the children…

“Because Lukas is right,” Art Morgan continued, “The Sabbat do not use helicopters.”

“What the hell is the Black Hand?” Axe demands. “Sounds like a fucking ghost story.”

“That’s what it’s meant to sound like,” Etienne says grimly. “Scary bedtime stories for Camarilla. Camarilla elders especially.”

“They are a ghost story,” Art Morgan said in his raspy voice. “Even the Sabbat fear them. They’re very secretive. And very… efficient, as you’ve seen.”

“The Black Hand is, for want of a better term, the paramilitary arm of the Sabbat,” Dr. Roark said, with his usual bluntness. “And, as much as I might wish otherwise, they are something more than a scary bedtime story. I’ve brushed once or twice over the aftermath of their operations in the past.”

“The involvement of the Assamites is definitely unusual,” Etienne said. “Especially in something like this.”

“But not for the Black Hand,” Roark replied, “who can count Assamites among their members.”

“So. We got this super-para-military elite and they stole some ancient jar-thing. Now what? They gonna hunt you down for interfering in their operations? Or killing one of their number?” Axe demanded. “Or are they gonna stick around and have one of their fucking crusades?”

Etienne decided to let Dr. Roark field that one.

And Dr. Roark was happy to oblige. “Honestly? There’s no way to know. They are, as Mr. Morgan says, usually extremely tidy. And efficient.”

“And what are you gonna do about it?” Axe stared at the three of them.

“I,” D’Angelo said firmly, “am going to add some motion detectors on the damned roof, among other things.”

“Those relics are not going to stay here in Baltimore,” Etienne said. “They’re going to go to wherever they can do whatever they mean to do with them. Which I personally doubt is a local enterprise.”

“They may have used local agents for some of it,” Luke said.

“So.” Axe said. “You gonna go home and forget all about it? Or are you going after the fuckers?”

“Going after them, Highness?” Etienne sighed. “Maybe. If we can determine where they are actually going.”

Dr. Roark’s eyebrow inclined fractionally. “An exotic way to commit suicide, if I may be so honest.”

“Feel free to be as honest as you like,” Etienne said. “But if the Sabbat want this, and particularly if the Black Hand want these artifacts, whatever they want them for, I doubt it can be allowed.”

“That was the only item from its original tomb, did you say?” Sarah spoke up for the first time.  “Or were there others?”

“The exhibit was expressly made of items whose original tomb or provenance was unknown,” Charles said. “So, maybe, maybe not, but we have no way of knowing for sure.”

“Oh. A pity. Such old things, entombed together for so long, there might have shared some resonance,” She shrugged. “If any were from the same collection, maybe—though the correspondence would be weaker.”   

“How does that work?” the Prince asked.

“When things are in contact for a long time, Highness, they rub off on each other, psychically,” Etienne explained. “Other funerary objects from the same person, there should be some connection among them.”

“But it’s not likely any of them were from the same tomb, so that’s no good, then,” Axe said. “What other hocus-pocus can you Tremere come up with? Maybe a way to trace the others from the ashes of the dead or some shit like that?”

Etienne looked a bit beleaguered. “Believe me, Highness, I’m going to come up with whatever there is to come up with. But there would have to be some resonance, some real connection. Just the photograph of the thing isn’t strong enough.”

Axe tapped his steepled fingers against his lips, and then made a decision. “You got three nights, Mr. de Vaillant.”

“Thank you, Highness,” Etienne said, without audible irony.

“Dare we ask why ‘three nights’?” Dr. Roark asked, in a tone that clearly stated, and monkeys might fly out of my ass.

“After three nights, I figure, either they come after you if that’s what they’re gonna do, or you find a way to actually follow them. Either way, that’s enough. If you don’t find it in three nights, you’re not gonna find it here.”

“That’s probably true,” Art Morgan murmured. “Chances are, they’re gone—unless, of course, they decide you’re a loose end that needs tying up. In that case, well. They are efficient. They won’t waste your time.”

Axe continued, “Ms. McCullough, Mr. D’Angelo, and Mr. Kowalski are the locals you can call on if you need ’em. They know this city. Three nights. Then this will be history.”

Etienne nodded.

Dr. Roark inclined his head slightly.

“You probably figured this out already, but anything you tell Mr. Treach will be all over the city in three nights. So don’t.” The prince rose, and the others did also. “Thank you for coming in, and good night. Hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Baltimore.”

The prince departed through a side door, his associates following him.

“See ya, Dog,” Luke murmured as they left, and the mongrel nodded at him in return before following his master out of the room.

They all trailed out the way they had come, Lorenzo using a cane, and limping a little.

“Mr. D’Angelo,” Etienne said, most sincerely, “I’m so sorry about your museum, and yourself—”

“Thank you. I don’t think the police left much behind,” D’Angelo murmured. “But I’ll go and comb the area and see—and perhaps we can get some of the police evidence, if you think that would help.”

“Anything might help,” Etienne agreed.

“Then I’ll do that.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll come too,” Sarah interjected. “I have a good idea of what to look for. And,” she added to Etienne, “I know Regent Walsingham won’t want to see me.”

“Right, you steer clear of the old man.” Etienne squeezed her hand.

Sarah squeezed back. “Call ahead, so he knows you’re coming. He’s just a tad paranoid, and the chantry defenses are nasty.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed Etienne’s cheek.

Etienne smiled and hugged her. “Of course.”

“Yes,” Dr. Roark said with a sour expression. “Especially considering his poorly educated majesty expects us to exert ourselves for his benefit.”

Etienne raised an eyebrow at Dr. Roark. “Don’t all majesties?”

“I charge for this sort of thing, Mr. D’Angelo,” Roark said, “and you can inform him of my rates.”

“Normally, Dr. Roark, so do I,” Lorenzo said. “But this has become just a bit more personal for me.” 

He hesitated. “I didn’t want to say this before, when his Highness brought it up, but—they very nearly did. When I was staked and helpless, one of them wanted to… to take advantage of my situation. I owe my very existence to the one who stopped him. Who said ‘We haven’t got fucking time for this.’ And pulled him away from me.”

“See? Definitely efficient,” Art Morgan commented in his gravelly voice. “See you later, gentlemen—Ms. Sarah—Lukas. Been a real pleasure.” He went to the colorful van, got in, and started up the ancient motor. 

“So you do paid consultation?” Etienne asked Dr. Roark curiously.

The tall Ventrue reached into his trousers pocket, extracted a card holder, whipped out two cards, and handed one to Lorenzo D’Angelo and one to Etienne. “Yes, of course.”  

Etienne accepted a card, which was inscribed with Dr. Gabriel Roark, Scholar and Investigator of the Paranormal, a PO Box in George Town, Cayman Islands, and a phone number. “Thank you…”

“Luke, if you wouldn’t mind—” D’Angelo asked, and the biker nodded.

“Not a problem. I’ll go get Akela and meet you there.”  Luke dug into a back pocket and handed Etienne and Dr. Roark cards. It said DelRaven Investigations, Inc.  and had the name Luke Kowalski and a phone number.

“Well, hell. While we’re doing this—” Etienne handed out Bishop and Sons business cards.

Treach came bustling up to join them.   “Well, I see you survived.”

“Indeed, Mr. Treach.” Etienne said, resignedly.

“And what’s the plan?”

“What, you think there’s a plan?” Dr. Roark inquired, all innocence.

Etienne started to smile, then restrained it.

“Call me later, Etienne,” Sarah said. “I’ll let you know if we find anything.” D’Angelo got into the Toyota with her, dismissing his driver.

“Thanks. I will.” Etienne said.

Luke put on his gloves and helmet. “Be careful,” he said to Sarah. “I’ll be there in about an hour.  Good to meet you, de Vaillant, Roark, Hewitt,” he said to them. “See ya later.”  He kicked the motorcycle into gear, lifting it and turning it around, and then roared off.

“Gangrel,” Mr. Treach muttered. “Never did have much in the way of manners.”

Sarah waved, and backed the SUV out of its parking place.

“Now what?” Charles asks.

Roark sighed. “Shall we go back and begin constructing the brilliant master plan that will permit us to accomplish the virtually impossible—or, at the very least, permit us not to die sometime in the next three nights?”

“Now I have to—” Etienne looked at his watch and sighed. “At some point tonight I have to make a visit.”

“A visit? Where?” Charles asks.

“The local chantry. To pay a courtesy call on Mr. Everett Walsingham, as Sarah reminded me to do,” Etienne sighed.

They piled into the Towncar again. “Three nights to do what?” Treach asked.

“We’ll talk about that later, Mr. Treach.” Roark replied, wearily. 

Chapter Text

Baltimore, MD — Thurs.  June 24, 2004

From the street, the Baltimore chantry appeared to be a large and stately stone house behind an iron fence, with ornate iron gates, currently closed. Etienne felt the wards radiating look-away-look-away. He spoke the Words of Opening Sarah had given him; then the gates grudgingly recognized him, dropped the wards, and swung slowly open.

He drove up the driveway to the circular loop in the front. From inside the fence, the house looked a bit more grim and stern… unsurprising. A few dim lights showed inside.

Yup. Cozy.  

The youngest apprentice, Richard, opened the door as Etienne got out of the car and approached the front door, coming up the (creaky) stairs to the porch. The porch had dead roses or ivy trailing around its columns. In fact, a lot of the vegetation near the house looked rather the worse for wear, as if the gloom the house generated stunted their growth.

Jeez, Walsingham, Etienne thought sourly. Water the fucking plants.

Richard bowed politely. He was a nerdy looking young man, with slicked-back dark hair and glasses, wearing a plain black t-shirt and black slacks.  “Sir. My lord Pontifex. Do come in—welcome in the name of House and Clan Tremere.”

Etienne nodded at Richard. “Good evening.”

Richard stepped back and let him in. “I’ll let Master Walsingham know you’re here.” 

“Thank you.” Etienne found a comfy chair in the parlor to the right of the foyer. Richard scuttled off. Very rude of Walsingham not to answer the door, of course… and he doesn’t even have the excuse of youth, Etienne thought. He also observed that the inside of the house would be elegant, if it were not so faded and gloomy. He wondered if the original chantry, which this was not, had made a different—possibly better—impression. It certainly must have, given the personality of the previous Regent, Dr. Nicholas Blair.

Richard scuttled back. “My lord, Master Walsingham is in ritual. He’ll be with you very shortly. May—may I offer you refreshments?”

Etienne raised an eyebrow. “Certainly, thank you.”

Richard nodded. “Yes, my lord.”  And scuttled off again.

To be fair, Etienne could, in fact, sense some kind of magical working going on elsewhere in the house. Probably talking to Dorfmann. Probably about me.    

Richard returned with a wheeled cart, and a fine white china tea service set up on a silver tray; the cart was covered with a lace table cloth (that showed signs of having been torn and re-mended.)

“My lord,” he bowed, and poured warmed vitae into a delicate cup.

Etienne felt sorry for the young apprentice. “How’s the training going… Richard, was it? I’m sorry, I can’t recall your last name.”

“Frankel, sir.” The apprentice handed him the cup. “Fine, sir. My lord.”

Etienne accepted it, and took a sip. “Thanks.”

“My lord is welcome.”

“What Circle?” Etienne asked.

Frankel swallowed.  “Fourth, sir.”

“Fourth is a big advance over Third, but Fifth is even better,” Etienne assured him. “It moves faster from there on.”

“Yes, sir.”

Elsewhere in the house, Etienne sensed power cresting, and then fading; and then, the neat, precise chimes of a working circle being dispelled.

He continued to make small talk with Frankel.  “Got a favorite subject yet?”

“D-d-divination, sir. Only I’m not very good at it.”

Etienne took a swallow. “Well, what sort feels most natural? Dowsing? Pendulum? Cards?”

“N-natural? Oh. Uh… Pendulum, if I’m not too nervous.  Otherwise, I can’t tell if it’s moving on its own or if it’s me—sometimes, my hand shakes.”  He looked down, quickly, embarrassed, perhaps, at putting more than four words together in the presence of a Pontifex.

“Could be shoulder tension.” Etienne said, reassuringly. “You also have to breathe for that kind of thing. Oddly enough.”

“Sh—shoulder tension?”  

“Yes, if your shoulder’s locked up, then it’ll travel all the way down the arm.”

“So, for instance—” Etienne held up his right arm in the position, his hand strayed to his shoulder; left hand to right shoulder.  “If you’ve got the table too high, see, it forces you to hold your shoulder like this. Here, why don’t you show me how you do it?”

Frankel raised his left hand, and held it out. “Oh, wait—” and he dug a pendulum out of his back pocket, and held it in his left hand, so the heavy medallion hung about a foot below his hand. He took a slow, careful breath.

Etienne got out of the chair and stood behind him, and yes, his hand did seem to have trouble holding still.

“Hm. You’re right.” Etienne touched the relevant muscles in Frankel’s shoulder and upper back, and found them tense as steel.

“Take a breath, hold it for a count of ten,” Etienne instructed.

The apprentice obeyed. He seemed to be good at obeying direct orders.

“Frankel,” Etienne said. “You’re all locked up here. Do a lot of chores?”

He finished his count of ten, then answered. “Well. I do what has to be done, my lord. I mean, someone has to, and I’m the only apprentice living here.”

“Right,” Etienne said. “But if you’re bent over a lot, that would be contributing. See, you wouldn’t think these things would still operate with us, but they do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Feel that right there? That’s the muscle that needs to release.”

Frankel closed his eyes and concentrated.

“I’ve got my thumb on it. Take another breath, concentrate on allowing that in deeper.”

He obeyed. Between the pressure and the blood rushing to the area, very slowly, the muscle relaxed. Frankel seemed to be concentrating hard.

Etienne could feel warmth slowly centering under his thumb, where he was touching Frankel’s shoulder.  “Good.”

“Keep releasing that. It’s fine to move the arm a bit.”

Frankel moved his arm a little, and gave a soft exhale of relief.

“Good, good. Let’s see—” Etienne looked to see if there was anything else blocking. “Alright. Here’s the other big muscle that’s constricting everything. Right here. Feel that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Etienne did not ask the question that did occur to his paranoid Tremere mind, whether Regent Walsingham used corporal punishment as a disciplinary measure. He had a feeling he knew the answer—Walsingham was very much a Puritan, and his philosophy was likely one of Spare the Rod, Spoil the Apprentice.

“Ohhh,” Frankel murmured. “That’s a bit stiff, isn’t it?”

Etienne smiled. “Yeah, that’s it, all right. Okay, same thing. Send your blood here.”

Frankel took a careful breath, and closed his eyes, concentrating again.

The warmth came a little quicker this time, and pressure and gentle motion helped loosen him up. He was even standing a little straighter. “That—that’s much better,” he said, sounding amazed. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome,” Etienne said. “Okay. Now we’ve got that going, here’s your visualization. You’re a tree. Your roots go deep into the earth, soaking up the local vis.”

“A tree.” Frankel closed his eyes again.

“Picture all the weight of your body as being centered lower down. You’re too much up in your chest and head here. Move down into your solar plexus. It’s drawing directly on the earth.”

“Oh—” Clearly he hadn’t thought of that, or had never been taught. He raised his arms; fingers spread sort of tree-like.

“This is your center of gravity, so to speak. A hundred and ten pounds of you from here to the floor, the rest is very light and just floats on top. Got it? Good.”

“Right—” He seemed to be getting it.

Etienne checked the boy out, shifting his vision into Auspex, and then back. “That’s better. This is a matter of changing your habit, bit by bit, but that’s definitely more the thing. Okay.” He brought the boy’s pendulum arm back out into the divining position.

Richard opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and relaxed—and this time the arm stayed still.

“Good,” Etienne said softly. “Good. Look at that.”

The pendulum itself hung straight down. Frankel grinned. It looked as though that was not something he did very often. “Thank you, sir.”

“See, we Tremere tend to forget we’re bodies as well as brains,” Etienne said, warmly. “You’re welcome, Frankel.”

There were determined footsteps on the hardwood floor in the hall, and Richard snapped to attention, all tensed up again. His pendulum disappeared into a pocket.

Walsingham wore a master’s black robe over his usual black suit, his long grey hair flowing over his collar. He offered Etienne the polite bow custom required. “Your lordship. My apologies for not being present to greet you personally—I had an urgent summons from His Lordship the Pontifex in Washington.”

“I had a feeling it was something like that,” Etienne replied in a reasonable facsimile of amiable.

“I hope Mr. Frankel was not a nuisance. That will be all, Richard.”

Etienne nodded kindly at Richard. “Not at all—”

The apprentice bowed, to Etienne and to his master, and then departed. But there was the faintest hint of a smile on the boy’s face, where his master couldn’t see.

Serves him right, Etienne thought. I’ll just play with his apprentices while he’s not looking.

“Please, come into my office, my lord.” Walsingham opened a door on the other side of the foyer. Etienne went on in.  The tea cart followed them obediently, like a little dog.

He offered Etienne the good chair, and Etienne took it, gracefully.

The tea cart wheeled itself into position at Etienne’s elbow. Walsingham took the hardbacked chair, and poured himself a cup of vitae also. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord,” he said, and Etienne noted he did look a bit peaked, “His lordship had a number of things he wished to discuss.”

“I see,” Etienne assured him. “No, please, refresh yourself.”

“Thank you.”  He drank the first cup down, and then poured another. “Might I inquire, my lord, as to the nature of your visit to Baltimore this occasion? I confess, I was somewhat surprised to hear you had returned, given the, uh, circumstances that ended your visit the last time.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Etienne said. “It was a bit of a surprise to me too.  But it seemed a better idea than going into outright Sabbat territory.”

“Oh? Ah, you mean the exhibit?”

“Yes. After this it would have been in Sabbat territory for most of the rest of the tour.”

“And yet it has been in Camarilla territory for some three months now.”

“Yes, it has. But I haven’t been looking for it for three months. If I’d hurried, I could have caught the tag end of Atlanta, but as it happened, I already had an invitation to tour this museum, so it seemed better to wait a week.”

“And were you able to see what you came for? Or did the little incident Mr. D’Angelo is now so concerned about preempt your studies?”

Etienne sighed. “Some of what I came for, but I may have to pursue the matter further.”

“You were there that night, my lord? When the Sabbat attacked?”

“Yes, I was. Why?”

“Would that I had known.”

“If only any of us had known that the Sabbat was going to be there.” Etienne quirked a smile.   “Really wasn’t the plan. Not their usual area of interest, either.”

The Regent sighed. “They’ve been laying low of late. To make such a bold move after all this time, is most astonishing. And I do confess, it does seem somewhat out of character for them. Unless they knew you were coming?”

Etienne shrugged. “Not to my knowledge, no. Though the exhibit itself has been getting nationwide publicity, unfortunately.”

“I understand Ms. McCullough was going to search for appropriate clues, means to track the foul creatures down,” Walsingham continued. “If she is able to find any.”

“Yes, she’s been helping out.” Etienne nodded.

“If you’d be so kind, my lord, I have heard only partial reports of what actually occurred. I’d greatly appreciate the full story from a reliable eye-witness.”

Etienne gave him a basic run-down of the incident.

Walsingham reached for a worn leather-bound notebook. “I had heard rumors that the Sabbat had a sorcerer among them?”

“No evidence of sorcery I can recall.” Etienne said. He’d mentioned Gabriel Roark’s name but hadn’t said that the Ventrue was a sorcerer, or that he’d actually set someone on fire.

Walsingham noted it all down. “Assamites. It’s been a long, long time since I saw any of that heathen rabble. A helicopter, though, that’s odd. Rather unusual for them to be that well-equipped…”

“Yes, that’s been remarked on,” Etienne said. “And it’s a very unusual action for the Sabbat on many levels.”

“Yes. This sounds like the Colonel’s kind of operation,” he muttered. “And they did indeed get away with something—what?”

“A basalt tablet and a canopic jar, and a few other items. You mentioned a Colonel?”

Walsingham nodded “Oh, yes. An old adversary of mine, a Malkavian, I believe. Clever as a fox, and ruthless as a snake, he is. Fought for the South, you see, and never admitted defeat.”

Etienne looked intrigued. “I trust he’s not local.”

“Oh, no. No, not as far as I know,” Walsingham said.  “He prefers the swamps of the south, but he’s been known to hire himself out on occasion. And he is a clever devil, sir, a clever devil indeed. He might have local contacts, though. One does hope that we have no resident Assamites in this city, or our nights are likely numbered.”

“You’ve run in with him before?” Etienne took Walsingham seriously when it came to fighting Sabbat—he’d certainly made a serious enough profession of it. 

“Oh, yes. Twice. The last was fifty years ago. He cost me a fifth circle apprentice, too.”

“Mm.” Etienne grimaces. “Get any of his?”

“We had captured one of his people, but the clever bastard had taken some kind of poison; he turned to ash before we even had the manacles fastened properly.” The Regent sounded disappointed.

“Well, that’s clever—” Etienne blinked. “Now that would be sorcery.”

“Of the foulest kind. He was staked and behind chantry wards, I’ve no idea how he managed it.” Walsingham leaned forward. “I’ve a theory, though.”

“Let’s hear it.”

His voice dropped. “Before every mission, the Colonel forces his men to all take this novel poison, so they must return in order to get the antidote. That way, those who are taken, even if staked, do not survive to betray him to us. No wonder they are so dedicated, if they must win in order to survive the night!”

“Interesting,” Etienne commented. “It would certainly ensure loyalty. This Colonel sounds like a Kindred to be reckoned with.”

“Yes, he is,”  Walsingham sighed. “But you weren’t able to capture any of the bastards, I suppose. Did you at least kill one or two?”

“Killed, yes.”

“Oh?” His eyes brightened a little. “Good!”

“Captured, no, alas.”

“Ah, well. You weren’t exactly prepared for the attack. Do you suppose they might be back for the artifacts they didn’t get this time? We might be able to lay a trap—”  He scribbled notes on his notepad. “I should talk to Mr. D’Angelo about that. Although he’s rarely cooperative on these matters.”

“They might come back,” Etienne mused. “The only way to see would be to make the location of the artifacts known to them, and that, unfortunately, would be a matter for Mr. D’Angelo to decide. And he may in fact find his hands tied by the mortal complications. “

A sour expression crossed the Tremere Regent’s face. “Yes, unfortunately. How long will you be in town, my lord? It occurs to me that you might be able to draw some of the bastards out yourself.”

Etienne chuckled. “Like I did last time, you mean?”

“Yes, but better,” Walsingham said. “We can do much better, if it’s planned correctly. If we’re ready for them.”

“Well, I’ll be here for another night or so at least, I expect.”

“You did very well, don’t get me wrong. To escape their ambush last time was quite a feat in itself, though I’ve no idea how you accomplished it. But if we could bring them to a place where we were ready… ” He sighed.

Evidently as close as he can come to a wet dream.

“Well, before we get ahead of ourselves,” Etienne said, attempting to rein Walsingham in, “I must assume His Lordship had some opinion to register on this matter.”

“The Sabbat are not into antiquities for curiosity’s sake,” Walsingham said, frowning. “They’ve no respect for the past, or the great works of mankind. Still, very odd. Unless they were hired, by some other factor, who is interested in such things—”  

“It is possible they were working for a third party,” Etienne admitted. “There are certainly those that would be interested: the Setites, for one, or the Giovanni. And then supposedly there are some Sabbat who do research such things.”

“Yes,” Walsingham said, “and the damned Noddist fools, who take any possible artifact as a sign of Gehenna.”

“But your superior,” Etienne repeated doggedly. “He’s heard about the incident, I take it?”

And don’t evade my question again, Everett.

“Oh, yes. Yes, he did.”

“And what is his current thinking?”

“He was most disappointed we were taken by surprise. We should have anticipated.” Walsingham sounded bitter.

Etienne certainly didn’t blame him. “In the Toreador’s domain?”

“So I was informed.”

“I see,” Etienne said, sympathetically,  Merde, Dorfmann is really playing this guy. “But given that everyone was surprised—”

“I will not be caught off guard again. There were signs. The rarity of the objects. There is little good telling his Lordship that I am best used fighting the Sabbat, not trying to second guess their puerile, blood-crazed minds.” The Regent got out of his chair, and started rummaging around in a drawer.

Not that Walsingham is a sweetheart, but come on, Etienne thought. He’s a good tool for what he was built for. Laying this kind of expectation on him isn’t good for anybody. Except maybe Dorfmann, obviously.

Walsingham came up with a silk pouch and a silvery sigil in a ring, about four inches in diameter. It rattled as he shook it. Etienne recognized the sigil as a runic sign meaning Come—>Earth.  It was a sigil designed to attract lightening. His interest perked up immediately.

“If you would be so kind, my lord, take this with you. And if you do have another altercation, break it, and I will know where you are. And help will be forthcoming very shortly.”  Walsingham slid it back into the little silk pouch and handed it to him.

“Ah, excellent,” Etienne said, putting the pouch inside his jacket. “If I see an opportunity for our enemies to die, Walsingham, you shall certainly be invited…”

Walsingham smiled. “Thank you. I would most relish the opportunity.”

Charles was out hunting when Etienne got back from visiting Walsingham. He had apparently asked for, and received, permission from Mr. Treach to hunt in the immediate neighborhood. He came back, however, within an hour of Etienne’s own return, after a successful hunt, and no longer feeling the effects of being shot the night before or low on blood.

But he was worried about the security of his artifact, and had something else he wanted to mention. “The thing is, we might want to look again at the chest the jar was stored in. You said that you recognized some of the symbols on the outside, right?”

“Yes,” Etienne said. “Though I’ve only seen the photographs you provided. I might be able to tell more if I saw the actual chest. It’s been my experience that thaumaturgical sigils may appear differently in photographs than in reality. Where is that chest? In your office at the University, or—?”

“It was in my office, or rather, in the adjoining workroom,” Charles said. “But I moved it to my storage vault before we left. And there are a few other items I got at the same time, which are also in the storage vault.”

“It would be a good idea if we could take a look at the chest,” Etienne said. “And if any of the other items are related, of course. Your identity as a professor at the university is public—yes?”

“Well, if not, it wouldn’t be hard to find that out, I’ve been using my real name. How do we get to my vault in Madison without tipping anyone off?”

“The Black Hand seems to have followed us, I think, from Houston to Baltimore; they can certainly track us from here back to Madison if we travel on a commercial airline.” Etienne considered their options. “We’ll have to smuggle ourselves out, Charles. Damnation. Have you ever gone as cargo?”

Charles blanched.  “Yes. It—it was awful. But if we must, we must. What about my students?  And Dr. Roark?”

Etienne sighed.  “Well, your students may or may not have been spotted, but it’s probably not a good idea for them to fly commercial either. As for Dr. Roark, if he wants to be involved, he’ll have to share whatever privations we undergo. Barring any brilliant ideas he may have, of course.”

“We also need to check with Ms. McCullough, to see how your wards are holding up,” Charles said. “I really would like to have that artifact back with us, as soon as possible.”

“Well, let me ask her,” Etienne took out his phone and called Sarah.

“So far, the wards are fine, Caliban would alert me if anything disturbed them,” Sarah assured him. “But if he was able to use the Imseti jar to sense the general location of the Qebehsenuef, we can’t rule out that the reverse might also be true.”

“No, we can’t,” Etienne agreed. “Were you able to discover anything more at the museum?”

“We didn’t find much to go on tonight,” Sarah continued. “Luke did say that Akela—that’s his dog—will certainly know any of those Sabbat if he smells them again.”

“They’re probably long gone, honestly. I doubt any of them were local.”

“They also knew exactly where to go, what to take. Extremely efficient, as Art Morgan said. They even had the exact right tools,” Sarah reported. “Luke thinks that was their second visit. At least one of them was there a night or two earlier. Checking out the place.”

“That’s going by scent?” Etienne asked.

“Yes. According to his nose, and Akela’s.”

“That would be something for D’Angelo to look into. The recon would have had to have gotten around security.”

“Yes. Lorenzo says he’ll do that,” Sarah said. “He’s taking this rather personally. It puts him in a difficult position with others of his clan. David Ross would love to take the Museum away from him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Etienne said.

“Yes, it’s unfortunate. But I think the prince still has his back on matters like this,” she said. “And Axe really doesn’t like David Ross very much.”

“We can’t risk bringing that jar out from the wards until we are actually ready to leave,” Etienne said. “I’m sure we’re being watched, and I’m not talking about the security cameras here at the Belvedere. We need to find an alternate means of air travel out of Baltimore. Do you think Mr. D’Angelo could arrange that? He seems to have the right kind of business contacts.”

“Certainly,” she replied. “I’ll ask him to look into it. For what departure date and destination?”

“I’d prefer not to say our destination over the phone, but timing should be as soon as possible,” Etienne said. “I’ll go ahead and make decoy hotel reservations for, say, Richmond or Charlotte, and maybe purchase airline tickets going one-way to Boston, leaving two nights from now. That should at the very least make them wonder, or maybe have to split their forces.”

“Good idea,” she said. “How was your visit with Mr. Walsingham?”

He chuckled. “I showed his apprentice a few tricks while Walsingham was in ritual chatting with Mr. Dorfmann.”

“How is Richard doing? I’ve met him a few times, but wasn’t encouraged—well, Mr. Walsingham didn’t encourage him—to maintain any kind of relationship with me. I’m sure he thinks I have cooties or something.”

“I’m afraid he gets that from Walsingham,” Etienne sighed. “He’s doing okay, I guess. He’d do better if there were more apprentices in the chantry, but I’m not suggesting you or Cohn move back there to keep him company.”

“Thank you,” she said wryly. “My house could be a chantry, but it already has occupants, and I’m not a master yet, so I can’t adopt. At least,” she added, “not officially.”

“Does that mean you’d consider adopting unofficially?” he teased her.

She laughed. “I’ve been teaching a handful of mortals in my coven, so yes. Not Tremere rituals, though. Just classical Hermetic techniques. As Nicholas once taught them to me before my Embrace.”

“I have no doubt that once you attain the rank of Master, any Tremere apprentices will be most fortunate to learn from you.”

“Flatterer,” Sarah said, with a smile he could hear, but he could also hear she appreciated the compliment.  “Well, I should call Lorenzo and pass on your request. Good rest to you, Etienne.”

“Good rest to you also, Sarah,” Etienne said, and ended the call.

Chapter Text

Baltimore, MD — Friday, June 25, 2004

Piotr Andreikov—code name Winter—was a perfectionist, and thus tended to be his own worst critic. The mission he’d set up the other night for the Black Hand had gone to hell in a hand-basket pretty early, but as a rule, Black Hand operatives were supposed to be good at rolling with unforeseen complications, and he was very good at his job. They’d gotten the artifacts, and only suffered one casualty, which was overall a pretty good record.

Especially since the casualty, a big Nosferatu from Philly known only as Tusker, was just Sabbat muscle, not actually even a Black Hand agent. Just a wanna-be, who was auditioning for something more, Andreikov told himself. An audition he clearly failed.

Jafar—the senior Black Hand operative in Baltimore, and Winter’s immediate superior—considered that an acceptable result. What had disturbed him, however, was how. “But what Tremere? Your research didn’t indicate any were expected?”

“D’Angelo had some out-of-town guests, apparently, and this was the night they were touring that exhibit,” Andreikov explained. “I could have handled D’Angelo, and even Treach—but we weren’t expecting these guys. Fucking elders.”

“Still, a very successful mission overall. You can always look into them a bit further for your written report.”

“I plan to, sir.”

He would need to identify them, at the very least. Fortunately, he had been a police detective when he was still breathing, so he knew how to conduct an investigation, and the best way to get info like that would be to go undercover. But not in a suit, the way he’d done it as a cop; they’d think he was a fucking Ventrue, and all the local Ventrue knew each other. They kept track of their lineages. So he needed to be something else, a Brujah perhaps, or just a clanless anarch—there were certainly enough of them locally. And of course, being identified what he actually was—a Tzimisce—was a no-go from the start.  

He dug into his closet and came up with a pair of tight black jeans and an old metal band t-shirt. Then he rummaged further and came up with some hair dye. His own white-blond hair was a bit too memorable, though he’d worn a knit cap over it on the mission. He considered magenta, but settled for basic black, both for his hair and fingernails, and goth makeup for his face. He also pierced his ears in a few places. Looking at himself in the mirror, he was generally satisfied with how it’d come out. He considered packing the gun—but decided against it. A knife concealed in the lining of his black leather jacket would be enough.

He’d been meaning to visit the Inferno one of these nights anyway. It was a Cam hangout, an open Elysium, but he’d heard one of the owners was also a secret Sabbat sympathizer. The word was, yes, anarchs and even Sabbat were welcome, so long as they behaved and made nice… until the time came for not making nice, but that wouldn’t be anytime soon. He needed to have a Cam identity, might as well start establishing it tonight. His aura was clean of diablerie scars, he knew how to behave in public, and he could keep his temper under control, which put him ahead of a hell of a lot of his fellow Sabbat, and even some fellow Black Hand operatives.

And then he’d see what the local gossip was about these guys.

Andreikov parked in a public garage near (but not next to) the club, and walked over, following two other Licks (who seemed to be regular customers) around back to the members’ entrance.  

The decorating scheme of the club’s interior was every bit as theatrical as he had heard. The band playing that night was a bit too loud for his tastes; he had to damp down his hearing a bit. Since this was his first visit, he planned to casually stroll through every level of the place, from the ground floor up.

He very quickly divined the logic of the place’s layout, and what areas were reserved for what sorts of vampiric activities.  It occurred to him that he could even hunt here, which was a rather tempting notion. Decadent, even.

But a sixth sense told him he was being watched, and he rather deliberately turned to meet that gaze. Huh. A pair of Cainite goth girls, who very quickly looked away, but were clearly observing him from their vantage point on the second-floor balcony rail.

He decided to seek them out, and went up to their level.

They weren’t there on the balcony railing anymore, but he still felt them watching—so he looked around and spotted them at a table nearby. He met their gaze, then looked away. Yeah, I know this game. I’ll play.  

They played along with him, exchanging looks and then looking away, all the while he was slowly approaching their table. Finally, he was close enough to actually speak to them.

One of them had red hair, and was really cute, with a nice, welcoming smile. The other was somewhat more goth, had black hair cut with bangs, and was wearing shades even indoors. “Hi,” the black-haired one said, looking at him through her shades.

“Hi,” he answered, and offered a tentative smile. It wasn’t a very big smile, but it was at least an appropriate effort in that direction.

“Sit down,” said the red-head. “Join us, if you’d like.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He sat down across from them.

“Yours is a new face—” The dark-haired one peered from over the tops of her dark glasses to get a better look.

“That’s a matter of perspective,” he said, with a bit more of a natural smile. “I’m rather bored with it, to be honest. Yours are the new ones.”

“Well, there’s always body-mod,” the dark-haired girl said. “But don’t pierce anything new till I’ve taken you for the first time. I would want you unspoiled.”

His expression must’ve given his reaction away, because the red-haired girl grinned. “She means take your picture. Don’t worry.”

“You mean, like a photo?” he echoed. Oh, shit.

“It’s what I do,” the dark-haired one nods. “That and photo-manipulation, now.  I could change that face you’re so bored with.”  

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to show you everything right up front,” he said, slyly. “What would be the fun in that?” 

“There, you deserved that, Shade,” the red-head said.

Shade acknowledged this with a little shrug and extended a lace-gloved hand. “Yeah. I’m Shade, by the way.”

He reached across and took her hand. It occurred to him he would need a name he could remember. “Sergei,” he said, and kissed her hand in old world style, his gaze holding hers. 

“Sergei. Like Prokofiev—” She seemed delighted with the hand-kissing. “And this is Tabitha.”

“No relation.” He smiled at Tabitha, and when she extended her hand for kissing, he did. It’s amazing how modern girls really like the old fashioned courtesies.   

“Well, have you enjoyed your descent so far?” Tabitha asked.

It took just a second for that to register: descent, I guess they’re referring to the club name?  “So far, so good,” he said, “but I guess I’m not deep enough yet.”

“Actually,” Shade corrected, “this is an ascent.” She gestured around. “You see, you start out in the lower circle, and then climb. Or maybe soar.”

He looked up. “So it is. Hell is reversed. I hope that’s a good sign.” Then he looked around. “This place is… different. Never seen anything  like it.”

“It is different,” Tabitha agreed. “In more ways than one. But then you probably heard that or you wouldn’t be here.”

“What other ways?”   

“Like its namesake, it’s open to everyone, regardless of race, clan, creed, or sect affiliation,” She gestured around again. “Damnation welcomes all without prejudice.” 

“All are equal in damnation—exactly,” he acknowledged. “But don’t you worry about the wrong sort coming in?”

“Should we?” Shade countered.

“What defines the wrong sort?” asked Tabitha. “Is it what they are, or what they do?”

He shrugged. “The ones that don’t obey the rules. Who just want to stir shit up and cause trouble.”

“Oh, there are rules.” Shade’s voice immediately dropped into a more dramatic register. ”And they are obeyed.”

“Are there?” Andreikov asked. “You should tell me what they are. I wouldn’t want to break ’em.”

“Our—” Shade paused and Tabitha put in: “—angels.”

“Yes,” Shade continued. “Our angels see to that.”

Andreikov was intrigued. “Are there really angels in hell?”

“Every place has its guardian angels,” Shade shrugged. “As for the rules: In a word—behave.”

“No one should fear to come here,” Tabitha declared. “That’s what our angels have decreed.”

“No one should fear?” Andreikov countered. “But our kind rarely admits to fear. There are other dark emotions that are far stronger.”

“Such as?”  Shade prompted.

“Jealousy. Anger. Hatred.” His voice was soft, serious. “How can you expect vampires who hold their hatreds so dearly to mingle without  violence? Has it never happened?”

This is not what I meant to be talking about. Dammit.

“It is happening so far, here.” Tabitha looked around. “Many different sorts have passed through. There have only been a few unpleasant incidents.”

“Your angels must be vigilant indeed.”  He looked around too, wondering who—or what—constituted an ‘angel.’ 

“All put down with—well, to keep up the theme—divine retribution.”

“Of course,” he said. “Must keep up the theme.”

“But that doesn’t fix the hatred, alas,” Tabitha said. “It’s only a respite.”

“What could fix it?” he asked. “Not even angels can totally banish hatred, I suspect.”

“No. But it’s such a good idea.” Tabitha said, a bit wistfully. “This way at least there is a meeting place. Every city has its Elysia, but some of those aren’t truly open.”

He gave her an odd look. “A meeting place?”

“If there’s a need. And there have been times. Or supposedly there have.” She glanced at Shade, who nodded.

“A meeting between whom?” Andreikov, who was a Black Hand Emissary, an operative whose identity was known to other Sabbat, found this line of discussion really intriguing.

“The different sects, of course. Or those who won’t claim loyalty.” Shade looked at him.

“Between Camarilla and Sabbat?” he mused. “Now, that’s a novel idea.” 

“That is not the word most would use,” Shade says dryly.

“I daresay not.”

She steepled her long-nailed fingers and studied him in the light. “You daresay not?”

“I can think of many other words,” he replied. “Can’t you?”

“Oh, of course.”  Her voice dropped to a murmur.

“Suicidal comes to mind. Idiotic. Ludicrous. Something along the line of A Cold Day In Hell. The chance of treachery—from either side—is so high,” he responded. “Can your angels prevent that?”

“Does it frighten you that much?” she murmured, and then Tabitha put a hand on her shoulder, and she seemed to rouse.

“Very little frightens me, to be honest,” Andreikov admitted.

“But you do seem to care.” Shade smiled.

Tabitha was actually frowning a bit though. Thoughtfully.

“Well, I don’t want to arouse the wrath of your angels. There may be worse things than damnation, but at the moment, Hell seems rather… interesting.”

Tabitha nods. “Well, you are welcome to it, as we said.”

You’re supposed to be asking about the damned Tremere.

“You’ll notice we haven’t asked who you are or what side you’re on,” Tabitha said.

“I think it’s clear he’s not what he seems to be,” Shade commented.

“But none of us are that.” Tabitha said.

“True,” Shade smiled. “Just think how much worse that would be for some than others.”

“Regent Walsingham, in a bucket hat and buckle shoes,” Tabitha said, “on the streets of Baltimore.”

They both apparently found that image highly entertaining.

“Heard of him,” he admitted. “Not quite that image, though—heard he’s quite the Sabbat hunter. Bet he never comes in here.”   

“No, he wouldn’t come in here.” Shade looked around.

“I don’t think so, no.” Tabitha said. “Unless it was to cast out demons?”

“Demons? Or angels?” Andreikov said. “Tremere don’t get out much, I hear. Hardly ever see them outside their walls.” He glanced up; two levels above was a glassed-in floor. Accessible only by elevator. 

Shade and Tabitha both followed his glance.   

“That the members-only lounge up there?” he asked. “The Salon?”

“Yes. Why, meeting someone?” said Tabitha.

“So far, just you two. I’m the new —kid in town.”  Almost said lick. Watch it, Peter.

“The drinks are a bit thin down here.”  He swirled the liquid in his glass. Right. Walk into a Camarilla Elysium all by yourself and no backup. Are you insane?  

Maybe I am. Let’s see how good their angels are.

“True. There’s better service up there,” Shade said.

“There’s also better service down here, of course,” Tabitha said. “Just not in glasses.”

Personally, he wasn’t as fond of it in the glass, except for—well. Don’t think about that now. Work first.  “What all’s up there? Do I need a membership card?”

“No. They’ll ask for a name. You don’t have to give them a real one, of course.”

“Want to go up?” he asked them. “Show me around?”

“Why not?” Shade smiled brilliantly. Tabitha reached for her purse.

They took the elevator up to the top floor. The ghoul minding the door asked for their names, and Andreikov simply said, “Sergei.” Easiest to keep to one name, especially since it wasn’t even his own.

The Salon was quiet tonight. Jon Wesley Treach was taking his turn as the official host, and positively brightened at their arrival, coming over to greet them.

Andreikov smelled Ventrue from across the room. Of course, the fact that he’s wearing a suit makes it kind of obvious.

“Good evening, Tabitha! And Shade.”  Treach gave them his best smile. Then looked expectantly at Andreikov.

“Sergei,” he said.

“Excellent. Welcome to the Salon, Sergei. I am Jonathan Wesley Francis Treach, the third, and I’m your host—if I can get you anything, please let me know.”  

Shade put out her hand. “Mr. Treach.”

Andreikov had heard of this guy. That the reality was every bit as unctuous as his reports had indicated did not surprise him. He even remembered Treach from the museum raid, but had not actually faced him that night, so the chances of being identified were low.  

Treach shook Shade’s hand, and Tabitha’s, and then even ‘Sergei’s.’

“I’m glad to see you’re all right,” Tabitha said.

“Oh, yes, not a problem—you heard, then? About the robbery at the museum?” Treach walked with them to the booth.  Andreikov politely hung back and allowed the ladies to pick their seats first.

The ladies apparently wanted to sit next to each other, so Andreikov slid in across from them and let Treach follow and pen him in. He wasn’t particularly worried about that, though.

“It’s all over town, Mr. Treach.” Tabitha said. “I think it traveled at light-speed.”

“That is not how I’d put it,” Shade intoned in her best Creepy Goth.

“It was most exciting. Terrible for Lorenzo, of course—that it should happen under his stewardship,” Treach continued. 

“Mr. D’Angelo is all right as well, isn’t he?” Tabitha asked.

He was when I left him. Andreikov caught the change in Shade’s tone, and was amused. “I heard there was some kind of incident,” he said, “But I hadn’t heard details.”

“Oh, yes, he’ll be fine. I don’t know about the exhibit, of course—so many priceless relics were taken. It was rather frightening, actually,” Treach said. “We were there for a tour—Mr. D’Angelo had kindly consented to show us that exhibit before it opened. It’s quite controversial, of course.” 

“They say the treasures were looted. Desecrated,” says Shade.

“Yes, it was terrible. I don’t know what the Sabbat saw in those relics—maybe some great Noddist treasure or something? Although I’ve no idea if they are even interested in that kind of thing. They attacked in force—there must have been three or four packs at least, and heavily armed.”   

Hah. Three Hand operatives, one of whom stayed with the helicopter the entire time, two Setites to pick out which artifacts they wanted, and three Sabbat for extra muscle.

Tabitha nodded with a frown of concern.

“Fortunately, we were not unprepared—and had some surprises of our own. But they did get away with—well. You don’t want to hear about that. I don’t know what will happen now.”

“Some surprises, you said?” Andreikov asked, apparently impressed. “Against four packs?”

Tabitha asked, “I heard there were out-of-towners visiting, too.”

“Well, yes. That was why we were visiting, of course. Dr. Roark had come so far to see the pieces—he was quite looking forward to it. As was Mr. Courbet and Dr. Hewitt, I fear. Dr. Roark has written some fascinating articles,” Treach continued. “He’s quite the scholar.”

“How did you fight off four packs?” Shade asked, a bit skeptically.

Treach’s voice lowered. “Well. It was due to the extraordinary talents of Dr. Roark and Mr. Courbet, really. Mr. Courbet is Tremere, visiting here from the west. Of some rank, although I really shouldn’t talk about that. And Dr. Roark knows a few unusual tricks too. Sorcery, ” he adds, in a whisper. “We did drive them off, finally—but alas, they had taken several of the artifacts—priceless pieces, now lost forever—and the survivors managed to escape.”

“Courbet—” Andreikov said, thoughtfully. “Heard that name before. Of course, Tremere are funny about names.  Was he a skinny guy, gray-bearded, a bit wild in the eyes?”

From the other side of the table, the girls looked to Mr. Treach for confirmation.

“Oh, no. No, no,” Treach assured him. “You must be thinking of someone else. This man’s much younger. Brown hair, middle-aged, a bit sharp in the face. And I don’t think Courbet was his real name—I think I heard Dr. Hewitt call him something else once.. what was it?” He shook his head.  “Damn. Can’t remember.”

I could probably make you remember, but not here…  

“We’ll do our best to recover the artifacts, of course. I’m sure they’re coming up with a plan even now.”  

Andreikov made a note: Treach will talk about anything to anyone.  

“That sounds extremely dangerous,” Tabitha said.

“I’m sure it is,” Treach beamed.

“I hope they’re not planning to drag you into it?” Tabitha asked.

“Well, I do feel some sense of responsibility—after all, Dr. Roark was my guest, and a fellow Ventrue. A pity he should come all the way up here and not get to see what he came so far to see.” Treach was so dreadfully earnest. “So I’m willing to help if I can. I can take care of myself.”   

Which is just so adorable considering how quickly Kashi put him out of action with just one arrow.  

“What was so fascinating about this exhibit?” Andreikov asked.

“Well, I know the artifacts are very rare—stolen from Egypt by unscrupulous archaeologists back in the 19th century.  And some of those tombs were just emptied—a real shame for collectors, er, scholars everywhere.”  

“Any mummies?” Andreikov asked, half-joking.

Shade smiled.

“You should have more respect for the past, Mr. —uh, Sergei,” Treach said sternly. “Those pieces are now lost to posterity.”

“It’s funny that it should all happen at once—out-of-town visitors there the same night that the Sabbat hits, and all the press, and it’s all about this exhibit,” Tabitha muses.

“It is a bit suspicious, isn’t it?” Treach echoed.

“Nobody got killed or hurt, did they?” Tabitha asked. “I mean people…”

“We killed a number of the Sabbat, of course—I think one of the museum guards did get killed…”

“Oh.” She looked sad, and crossed herself. “May he rest in peace.”

The guard was unconscious, but still breathing, unless someone finished him off on the way out. The only Cainite death was on our side. I stopped Amal from committing diablerie on D’Angelo, which the little Setite prick was more than a little pissed at me about, but we really did not have time for that shit. We barely escaped as it was.  

“Etienne!” Treach suddenly exclaimed out loud.

“What?” Both Andreikov and Tabitha spoke at once. Even Shade blinked.

“That’s the name I couldn’t remember,” Treach said. “Etienne Courbet. He said he was the Regent of—oh, someplace in Africa, I don’t remember now.

“He got into trouble with the Sabbat the last time too, if I recall,” Treach continued. “In fact, we thought he was dead until he showed up again a few nights ago!”

“Oh, that Courbet—” Tabitha realized. “You mean he’s not dead?”

“Not in the least,” Treach said. “He said he faked his death to keep the Sabbat from starting some kind of crusade—don’t know what that was about, Ms. McCullough has never told me what he was up to. But that does make me wonder who the hell he really is. He doesn’t seem to report to Walsingham, or Dorfmann.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Tabitha said. “That was kind of sad, really.”

“He was the one who came to the club that one time, wasn’t he?” Shade mused.

“I don’t know—” Treach seemed to think a minute.  “Maybe he did come, once or twice, that I recall.

“Ah, well, I’d better be going—I’ve got some calls to make this evening, Regarding our investigation, of course.”  Treach slid out of the booth. “Do enjoy your stay—if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Andreikov thought of what Vassar would say to her fellow Ventrue. That thought helped him smile and shake Mr. Treach’s hand.

Shade exhaled after he was gone. “I don’t know why, but I always seem to hold my breath around him,” she admitted.

“Is he one of your angels?” Andreikov asked.

“Yes,” she admitted. “Not the most angelic of them, I’m afraid.”

A smile crossed his lips, he couldn’t help it. He practically did my job for me, is what he did.

Tabitha shook her head. “He’s not so bad. He’s harmless…well. As we go.”

“Harmless?” Andreikov echoed.

“He means well, I mean,” she clarified.

“I don’t know,” Shade said. “I’ve met a lot who meant less well, that I liked a lot better. But we’ve had this argument.”

Andreikov noted the other Cainites—no, Kindred, he reminded himself—in the room. “I’m new in town,” he says. “Don’t know that many of the others yet.” 

Of course, that’s the kind of question a Sabbat spy might ask, but it’s also a legitimate question from a newcomer.

Shade nodded. “Well, are you planning to stay, or just passing through?”

“Depends on the weather,” he offered a half-smile. “It’s been a mite stormy in some places lately.”  

“Of course, what you get depends on who you are, I guess,” Shade said. “But if you’re not looking for trouble—”

“No need to do that,” Andreikov assured her. “There’s plenty of trouble out there looking on its own.”

“Well, if you want introductions, that’s easy enough,” Tabitha said. “We know who everyone here is. Even if we don’t really move in some of their circles.”

Andreikov looked around. There was a young man seated at the grand piano in the middle of the room, playing something classical and showy. “Toreador?”

Shade chuckled. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But no. That’s Cohn Rose. Vide the rose. He’s one of the two Tremere that play piano. The better one, really.”

He noted the rose in the man’s lapel buttonhole. “—He’s Tremere?“

“Not that that’s the sort of thing they get promoted on, I’m sure,” Tabitha said.

“Probably not, no,”  Andreikov agreed.

“He can’t come in here without sitting down at that keyboard, you’d think he didn’t have a huge custom-adjusted Steinway at home,” Shade said.

Tremere. He studied the man, made a note of his appearance, his mode of sitting, moving, and filed that away for later reference.

“Of course,” Andreikov said. “Well, at least he knows something other than Chopsticks.”

The piece the Tremere was playing came to a rousing crescendo, and then ended. Several of the other vampires in the club broke into applause;  Andreikov joined them.

“I guess he likes having an audience,” Andreikov said. He met Cohn’s gaze, and nodded politely.

Cohn nodded back, then got up from the piano bench, cracked his knuckles, and came over to where they were sitting.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said. “I haven’t seen you on the salon level in a while. Giving a friend the tour?”

“Yeah. Cohn, this is Sergei,” Shade said. “Sergei, this is Cohn Rose, of House and Clan Tremere.”

Cohn extends a hand. Andreikov shook it. “Just Sergei?”

“It’s enough,” Andreikov said, with a casual shrug. “What do last names mean to us anymore?”

Cohn smiled, and slid into the booth next to Andreikov. “Well, I’ve always been partial to mine, so perhaps I’m biased.” He gestured at the flower in his lapel.

“You play very well,” Andreikov said. “I mistook you for Toreador, until these kind ladies corrected me.”

“Oh, thanks.” He laughed, but it rang hollow to Andreikov's ear. “Don’t say that to the real Toreador pianist in town.” :

Shade raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on,” Cohn said to her eyebrow. “You know how Chas feels about Tremere. And he is much better than me, even I have to admit that.” He flagged down a waiter and ordered a ‘bottle of House Red.’ The waiter brought four glasses and a bottle what was clearly vitae.

“Well, I see you all escaped Treach unscathed,” Cohn said, pouring the House Red into each of their glasses. “I suppose he was telling you all about his adventure the other night. All that what-is-it can’t go to waste.”

“Kendo,” Shade supplied.

“I thought he was Ventrue?” Andreikov commented.

“Oh, he is,” Cohn said. “That’s why the kendo. It’s part of the Renaissance man package, you see; he knows how to use a katana! But he didn’t have it on him that night, apparently. At least he didn’t take credit for the kills.”

“And who did accomplish that? The Tremere, I suppose,” Andreikov said.

“Dunno, but I’d assume so. Actually maybe it was the other one. No idea who he is.”

“The other one?” Andreikov looked at Tabitha.  

“Gabriel Roark. He’s a Ventrue.” Tabitha supplied.

“Don’t know anything about him,” Cohn said. “I don’t think he’s ever been here before.”

“Isn’t it odd, to get so many visitors?” Andreikov commented. “And over one exhibit?”

“It’s definitely odd,” Tabitha agreed. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out what was really going on.”  She looked at Cohn.

“Don’t look at me,” said Cohn. “You know how much useful information trickles down the Pyramid.”

“Who is this Courbet, anyway?” Andreikov asked. “Some big muckety-muck or just a loose cannon?”

All eyes turned to Cohn.  

“He’s already heard from Jon Wesley, Cohn,” Shade says with a slight smile.

“Well, if he’s already heard from Jon Wesley, why’s he asking me?” Cohn stared at Andreikov, though his tone was merely exasperated. “Look, the last time Courbet was here, he survived a huge Sabbat attack. Plainly he’s old enough to be whoever he wants and do whatever he likes.” 

“Two Sabbat attacks,” Tabitha corrected, “if you count the one you were in, too.”

“Well, given the apparent reliability of the other source, independent verification seemed like a good idea.” Andreikov raised an eyebrow. “Two Sabbat attacks?”

“Independent verification?” Cohn echoes. “What are you, Camarilla Newsweek? Yes, two attacks. He’s one of those Old World French old farts. Said he was just there to look up things in the library, but he was keeping even Walsingham in the dark. We all thought he was really dead.”

A Ventrue sorcerer. A Tremere elder. Fuck.  Andreikov whistles. “That exhibit must have been very interesting.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree here, ladies. You ought to be trying Sarah,” Cohn said, finally.

“Sarah?” Andreikov echoed, and looked at the girls, feigning ignorance.  

“Sarah McCullough,” supplied Shade. “She hasn’t been around since it happened. You’re it, Cohn. You’re our Tremere Connection tonight.”  

Cohn snorted. “Look, if Mr. Courbet had kept Regent Walsingham in the loop there’s a good chance this wouldn’t have even happened, so.”  Cohn was plainly trying to make it clear this was not some mischief the Local Tremere were up to, and the Local Tremere were a bit annoyed about it, too.

“So, what’s the deal now? They didn’t even get to see what they came for…what are they going to do now? Hunt down the Sabbat and ask them to give it back?” Andreikov pressed. “That is, assuming that is what they came for.”

“I dunno, they’re holed up somewhere. Probably pondering that very issue. Why?” Cohn asked, almost plaintively. “I mean, the damage is done. At least as far as Baltimore goes.”

“Well. As far as Baltimore goes, yeah. I guess so.” Andreikov sounded almost disappointed. “And I guess we’ll never know the rest of it.”

“Or if we do it’ll all be long after the fact.” Cohn grumbled.

“Guess so.” Andreikov calculated. Leave now? Or stay a bit longer, see what else comes up? 

Andreikov smiled at Tabitha. “And what other angels are there? I don’t suppose Mr. Treach is here every night.”

Tabitha smiled back. “No, even angels can’t be everywhere. There are two other owners, who take their turn at being hosts.”

“Ah.” He let Cohn off the hook—the Tremere was beginning to sound a bit defensive, and that was a sign it was time to back off.

“Toreador and Brujah,” Tabitha supplied. “Not that that means anything, but between the three of them they cover a pretty broad spectrum. Madame Madeleine and Mister Sharp…”

Andreikov sipped his glass of ‘Red;’ it tasted just fine, if a bit stale.  “I guess I’ll have to come back again and meet the others.”

“They are quite a contrast,” Cohn agrees. “Madame Madeleine for certain.”

“Oh? She sounds intriguing.”

“Put it this way, she doesn’t need kendo to slay anyone,” Cohn said. “Not of the male persuasion.”

Andreikov said, “She’s the Toreador, then?”

Shade laughs. “You see, all these assumptions about Kindred just because of their clan. As it happens, yes, she is, but still. You don’t think only Toreador can slay men?”

“No, but someone known as ‘Mr. Sharp’ is not likely to use quite the same technique.” Andreikov shrugged. “It’s just logic.”

Tabitha shook her head, but she did acknowledge the joke. “You should meet Mr. Sharp, he’s not like that.”

“No, he’s actually rather smooth,” Shade agreed. “Very smooth-faced, statuesque almost…” She had her eyes closed, visualizing, her hands moving a bit in the air. Then she opened her eyes.  “Sorry. I’ve actually got a series on him I’m developing. He says it’s okay as long as I don’t make him look fat.”

“He posed for you?” Andreikov asked.

“Sure.” She shrugs. “I get everyone eventually.”

Oh, you do, do you? 

“Eventually.”

“You won’t get my boss,” Cohn chided her.

“Oh yes, I will. And maybe I’ll get Courbet this time too, if he does come out of hiding.”

Time to go. “Eventually will have to do…” Andreikov looked at his watch. “I’ve got a ways to go.  I’d better get going. Sorry to run out so soon…” He looked up and smiled at the ladies, nodded politely at Cohn. “But it was a pleasure to meet you.”

Shade puts out a lacy hand.  “Likewise.”

He took her hand, leaning over the table to kiss it, his eyes holding hers, old world style.  But as he leaned over the table, he very surreptitiously took the empty glass he’d been drinking from in his other hand, and slid it into the jacket pocket, when their eyes were on his face.

Not gonna give them an opportunity to run my fingerprints, or do whatever magic shit Cohn could do with the residue of what I drank.

Tabitha offered her hand too. “Stay safe, Sergei.”

He did the same with Tabitha. “I plan to. You also…”

Cohn slid out of the booth to allow him to exit, and put out a hand. “Sergei. Good to meet you.”

“You too,” Andreikov assured him, and shook his hand as well. “Thanks for the drink.” 

He then walked away, feeling their eyes on him as he departed.

Mission accomplished, I guess.

At least for now.

Chapter Text

Baltimore, MD — Friday, June 25, 2004

Etienne’s cell phone buzzed, with an unfamiliar number, but with a Maryland area code. He answered it. “Hello?”

"Good evening, my lord Pontifex." A flat, deep drawl echoes in his ears, a voice he recognized, and was really hoping not to hear this trip. But under the circumstances, it seemed unavoidable. One could hardly hang up on another Pontifex. 

“My lord Pontifex,” Etienne responded. “Mr. Dorfmann. To what do I owe this honor?”

“So. You’re here, again,” Dorfmann said, sourly. “Did your lordship really think you could just drop in, stir things up in my territory, and not at least come visit me and pay your respects?”

So it was that Etienne de Vaillant found himself making a social-but-really-political call on his fellow Pontifex, Mr. Peter Dorfmann.

Dorfmann’s invitation was not for the Octagon House, which was the actual D.C. chantry, but to his private estate in Bowie. The house was on several wooded acres, and was made of stone, or at least had a stone facing. There were several great glass expanses on the upper floor. It seemed to be built into the side of a hill as well, so underground rooms were entirely likely; it also sat squarely on the ley line. It was very modern and magnificent, but lacked the vintage charm of Sarah’s rather more Victorian family mansion in Baltimore.

Etienne pulled up in front, and got out of his rental car. He felt the wards parting for him; from the tones he heard, this house was well-guarded, and could function as a chantry if needed, despite all the glass windows. Impressive.

He had dressed in his three-piece suit tonight, in a somber shade of dark green, with a striped shirt and tie, and of course, he wore his pontifical regalia, which consisted of a loose collar of linked sigils worn over his suit jacket, and a jeweled ring on his right hand.

The great door opened for him; it seemed to be made of wood, but he suspected had a steel core. He felt the wards touch him, and then open.

An apprentice—a young man in a dark navy-blue suit—opened the door for him, and then bowed and stood aside. Peter Dorfmann, in a three-piece charcoal grey Armani suit, his own version of collar of sigils, and a black robe with occult symbols embroidered on it in black silk, stood ready in the foyer to greet him.  

Etienne bowed, Victorian style.

Dorfmann offered a short, polite bow, equal to equal. "My lord Pontifex, Monsieur de Vaillant," he said, in flawless (only slightly outdated) French. "Welcome, in the name of House and Clan, to my humble abode."  

"Thank you, my lord Pontifex, Mr. Dorfmann,” Etienne said, in English, without any French accent at all. “You honor me."

"Do come into my office, my lord,” Dorfmann continued.  “We've much to discuss. That will be all, Granger," he added to the apprentice, who bowed low to them both, and departed.

Dorfmann led the way down the hall to a large, round room, with wide windows. There was a pentagon and circle tiled on the floor in contrasting marble; the walls were either glass or paneled in rich wood. Drapes of dark maroon hung on either side of the windows. There was a fireplace, though, and several glass-fronted bookcases, and a fine old Victorian settee and two high-backed armchairs near the fire, which was crackling (gas-fueled, Etienne suspected) behind a glass screen. "Do come in, and make yourself comfortable," Dorfmann said. "Would you care for refreshment?"

"Certainly," said Etienne easily. "Thank you very much."

Etienne looked around, taking it in. The windows were a bit hard to see out of, since it was light inside and dark outside, but Etienne could tell they overlooked the hill falling away behind the house, and the stream below, with trees all around. In daylight, the view would be spectacular, but wasted on Kindred eyes which could never behold it.

Dorfmann made a gesture; a soft chime sounded. Another apprentice, a pale-faced, carrot haired young man in a suit similar to Granger’s, wheeled out an antique tea set, not unlike what Walsingham offered. This one was, of course, bigger and much more ornate.

Serving it as "tea" seems to be the thing out here.

The apprentice poured into large crystal goblets with perfect grace, and served, bowing low as he offered a goblet first to Etienne, with a murmured, "My Lord Pontifex."  and then to Dorfmann, with the same reverence.

Etienne accepted the goblet. Dorfmann accepted his. 

Etienne noticed a third-circle medallion pinned to the apprentice's suit jacket. The apprentice bowed low to them both. "My lords," he said softly after a moment. "Will there be anything else?" 

It was clearly a breach of decorum, at least from Dorfmann’s point of view. The Pontifex turned and stared coldly at the offense. "Not tonight, Mr. Riley. You may retire."

"Yes, my lord Pontifex." Meekly. He bowed to Etienne as well, and departed.  

He certainly runs a tight ship here.

"They know nothing of decorum, these young apprentices these nights," Dorfmann grumbled, and took a seat in one of the two high-back chairs. “Nothing of true obedience, or discipline. It takes some time to teach them what their parents did not."

Etienne took his seat in the other. "Not just their parents,” he commented, “but the years and years of social change."

Dorfmann made a careless gesture with his free hand. Around the room, the drapes moved, until not only the windows, but even the interior curve of the wall was covered, except for the fireplace. And as they closed, Etienne felt a ward snap into place, sealing them off from the rest of the house.

One hell of a ritual room, when in use for such. I guess we have total privacy now; no nosy apprentices listening at the door.

"Yes,” Dorfmann agreed. “Social change, the order in the world going right to hell. And it remains to us to do what we can with it, nevertheless.”

He then got right down to business. “You didn't tell me you were coming, Monsieur de Vaillant. By that I assume the decision was made with some urgency?"

"Time was rather of the essence, yes. I do regret my visit was, er, announced to you in such unorthodox fashion." Etienne offered a wry look.

“It must be of great importance, then, to House and Clan," Dorfmann said, "and who am I to stand in the way of that? We had suspected there was something... unusual... about the Stolen Treasures exhibit. Given the interest it has aroused from certain parties, including your august self, I can see we were not far off in our estimations."

Heh. Bastard.

"Indeed, it's attracting even more interest than I hoped or expected." Etienne nodded. "I should not be surprised that it piqued your lordship's curiosity as well. I don't suppose anyone in the area had actually gotten a chance to have a look at it yet, however?"  

"Well. Now that you mention it,” Dorfmann said. “As I said, we had our suspicions. Of course we did. Secretly, of course; no need to arouse unnecessary suspicion on the part of Mr. D'Angelo, whose record is not as spotless as it may be with regards to things of an occult nature."

"Yes, that would be something to avoid, I'm sure," Etienne murmured.  Mr. D’Angelo’s occult training is not news to me; he makes no secret of it. But it’s not Tremere sorcery.

"Of course, there was nothing to find. The artifacts are very old, very old indeed, but are merely mortal relics." He shook his head. "It was most disappointing, as you may imagine."

Heh. He’s got to be kidding me.

"Ah. Well, that's really a shame,” Etienne said, most sincerely. “Especially after going to all the trouble."

"I felt it best you should know—given  that you did not actually get to see the artifacts yourself,” Dorfmann continued. “I do not know what the wretched Sabbat were hoping to find—let  us hope that they are also disappointed."

Etienne wasn't buying a word of this, but he had his game face on. “Well, at the very least, they managed to wreak havoc, that should please them."

"Yes, indeed. And I hope Dr. Roark was also equally disappointed,” Dorfmann said. “That he would stir himself from his island hermitage for this purpose. It was, in fact rumor of his coming that drove us to investigate the exhibit. His interests have crossed with ours before, as you may be aware."

"Wouldn't surprise me a bit,” Etienne said, easily. “But he doesn't seem to carry any particular grudge."

"He hides his true feelings, and his true interests very well, my lord,” Dorfmann said, with a thin smile, “and in any case, his interests are often perilous things. Dark and forbidden things, that our founders' Code proscribes."

"Are they?" Etienne said curiously. "Plainly you've looked into them somewhat more deeply than most of those who claim acquaintance with his work."

Here's old Dorfmann going on and on about dark and forbidden subjects. Like the pot calling the kettle here.   

"I fear so, yes,” Dorfmann explained, “He dabbles in things that should not be dabbled in; one can only imagine what he might do, if he found something of true power. There are still those who hold power and are not of our blood, nor do they hold to our Code. Dr. Roark's name has been on our watch lists for some time. It is, I believe, only a matter of time before he becomes a danger instead of a nuisance."

Ah, so this is the game. It’s not me he’s after, it’s Roark.

"But, as you said, there was nothing there of interest,” Etienne said, “so presumably there's nothing to worry about." Game face, game face.

"What did your Dr. Hewitt think he would find?" Dorfmann inquired. "It must have been very interesting to lure you out of Hong Kong."

Etienne began by masking the truth just a bit. "He said he had some pieces engraved in some kind of hieratic not known to current scholarship. I believe he was hoping that some of these pieces might be of the right dynasty and region to shed some light on his problem script. If it were to turn out to have any relation to the Theban letters, that of course would be of great interest to any Hermetic."

One silvered eyebrow lifted. "What sort of hieratic? Ah, and did he show you  his pieces?"

“No, just photographs,” Etienne said, slipping pleasantly into Full-On Bullshit Mode. “Good enough quality to stir my curiosity, of course. Ventrue, still so untrusting after all this time. I shudder to think of the stories their elders must still be telling."  

And Dorfmann seemed to buy it. "And good enough to persuade the most honorable Councilor to permit you to indulge your curiosity."

“The most sage and immortal Councilor is always turning out to have areas of interest and expertise I never would have guessed at," Etienne shrugged. "But that is certainly his prerogative."

"Dr. Roark is Ventrue as well,” Dorfmann mused. “I should perhaps see if there is any relation to your Dr. Hewitt. They sometimes have an odd weakness for others in their own lineage."

Etienne could see him making a mental note on that. Privately, he doubted it; that would have been something Charles would have mentioned. 

"And what artifacts does Dr. Hewitt have?” Dorfmann asked. “Other objects that might otherwise qualify as Stolen Treasures?"

"Well, to the Egyptians, certainly." Etienne said. "And I'm sure he has things I'm not aware of. I've dealt with him in the past, but not on any particularly close basis."

"You know what I mean, my lord. What, exactly, does Dr. Hewitt have?” Dorfmann asked. “The last thing we can afford, in these unquiet nights, is to allow certain items, however dubious their authenticity, to fall into the wrong hands. Whether genuine or not matters little, if they believe such items are genuine."

Etienne frowned, puzzled. "Forgive me, my lord. I'm not sure what you mean by it only mattering if they believe. Are we speaking of Sabbat now, or of Roark, or—?"

Now what's the little pestilence dancing around? Please, Monsieur de Vaillant, you must secure for me these artifacts, even though I assure you they're totally worthless, but still we wouldn't want certain parties to get hold of them... even if they are worthless.

What a schemer.

“Either one, but since I presume the artifacts in Dr. Hewitt's possession are still in his possession. It is Roark I would worry about more. Everyone knows the Sabbat believe in all kinds of nonsense; fortunately, their usual violent behavior ensures their nonsense does not infect our society. Noddist rumors, however far-fetched, could cause widespread panic; I've seen it before,” Dorfmann said, with great seriousness. “And your presence, and Dr. Roark's, leads me to believe there must be something of great value to the heretics of Nod. Even if its only claim to fame is that it once belonged to one of us."

He knows whatever the Sabbat stole is now beyond his reach. Hewitt's 'artifacts' however are potentially Noddist relics, or could become so if they fell into the wrong hands.

"Hm. Your lordship has a point there," Etienne said thoughtfully, concealing he was lying his ass off. "I haven't really bothered to pester Hewitt on the subject so far, because I had no idea what we might or might not actually end up getting from this excursion, but am I correct in hearing a tone of urgency in your lordship's warnings?"

"Yes. It is indeed urgent. I need not tell you, I think, that not all of your companions that night were as discreet as they should have been,” Dorfmann said, earnestly. “Nor do we know what other contacts Dr. Roark may have, or what he may have surmised, or even gotten from Dr. Hewitt in your absence. You must secure these relics, whatever they are. Whether they are genuine or not is irrelevant; they must not be left in innocent—or ignorant—hands."

Etienne steepled his hands and took on a more serious mien, even though it was totally disingenuous. Go on, tell me why I should ‘secure’ these relics, or better yet, how…

“I think it is almost certain that others will hear of what happened, and know that an elder of the Tremere, a renegade Ventrue, and the Sabbat all sought the same things on the same night,” Dorfmann continued. “And that these things are but a few of others that may yet exist. And since you were there, there are chances that you, or Dr. Roark, or the Sabbat, know of others. And Dr. Hewitt is the weakest link in your chain, my lord."

"Well, we certainly don't want a panic, or an artifact for yet another Sabbat cult of doom to form around,” Etienne said. “But what precisely are you worried about from Roark? Somehow he doesn't strike me as the sort for religious demagoguery. Is he known to specialize in some particular field of sorcery?"

Stop wiggling, Dorfmann, and speak plainly.

"Yes. He does,” Dorfmann said, and he sounded very serious. “As I said, he delves into things forbidden by our Code. We've not proof enough yet to call a blood hunt on him, and he has powerful allies very close to the Inner Circle, so solid proof is necessary. One does not accuse even an autarkis elder of dealing with the infernal without proof. But I believe he is a diabolist, of the very worst sort."

"Tremere preserve us," Etienne murmured. "If only proof of such perfidy could be secured—”

"He is very old, my lord, and very cunning. And elusive,” Dorfmann continued. “But if proof could be secured, than his blood connections would not protect him. He would be put on the Red List, and hunted to his Final Death. And we would be able to squash yet another incipient cult of Gehenna fanatics before the heretics gained a following. But you see why these artifacts must be secured, or destroyed."

"Yes..." Etienne nodded thoughtfully.  "Unfortunately, I doubt Hewitt will quite see it that way. However, I believe I can deal with him."

"Excellent. He is young in the blood; you should have no difficulties with him. It is Roark you must be wary of. He is as old as the Camarilla itself, and he is most resourceful.”

"Right. Especially if he's a diabolist. Exactly the sort of thing it's useful to know in advance." Etienne nodded. "I thank your lordship for the warnings."

"Exactly," Dorfmann said, with satisfaction. "And you shouldn't be doing this alone. You should take one of my people. Or one of Walsingham's perhaps; I'm afraid Granger is only fourth circle, and that's not nearly high enough."

Here we go. Etienne stiffened slightly, then consciously relaxed. "A very kind offer, my lord."

Here, take my spy with you…

"Cohn Rose is sixth circle, and quite dedicated,” Dorfmann said, frowning. “And there's another, McCullough. Finished her circles, but not yet a master. Either of those would do. Rose is quite capable. And he knows how to obey orders."

Etienne, by sheer force of will, kept the pondering/calculating/puzzled looks from climbing all over his face. "Ah, yes—of course, I'm not sure Walsingham will feel he can spare either of them."

"I'd offer them both,” Dorfmann said, “but that would leave Walsingham too shorthanded, and if the Sabbat are getting active again, we can't afford that. But he knows how important your mission is. I can send van Dorn to him for a while—and he is a master of making do with short staff."

So I get to choose between endangering Sarah or fending off Cohn? Merde! And of course, if I demonstrate a preference, that’s dangerous too. Perhaps I could let Walsingham choose between them.

Etienne was reasonably certain it was Sarah whom Walsingham would feel he could best do without. Although if Walsingham suspected something? But no, Etienne was pretty certain he could run verbal circles around the Regent if necessary.

"I've got an old file on Roark,” Dorfmann offered. “You might find it… interesting."

"Oh? I daresay I will." Etienne nodded. "Thank you very much."

"This is not the first time he's been in my jurisdiction." It was clear from his tone that the last encounter did not go well.

Dorfmann rose, and took a folder down from a shelf (where it was apparently waiting for the opportune moment to be trotted out). "The report I heard of your encounter in the museum mentioned a possible involvement of Assamites?”

"Yes, I think so. It would be the readiest explanation for the helicopter's silent approach and departure."

Dorfmann nodded. "Dr. Roark has been known to hire Assamites himself. He had one as a bodyguard the last time he was here." He handed the folder over to Etienne. It's clearly a copy (probably an edited one) of whatever file Dorfmann really had. It had a Ventrue sigil on it, and the name Roark, Gabriel  (8^th gen?)  Line: Hardestadt-Saar.

Etienne accepted it. "Really? Well, as you said, even an autarkis elder gets away with the most outrageous things."

Calculated Date of Embrace: Early 1500s. Sire: Katarine Wolfram. Place: Germany, possibly the Saar valley. Current residence: Cayman Brac, The Cayman Islands.  PhD in Anthropology and Occult Studies, Miskatonic University  There were a lot of missing years in the history. 

There were also several photos; in one, Roark appeared to be asleep, in what looked like a hospital intensive care unit. There was an oxygen mask over his face, and signs of intravenous attachments, even a heart monitor, which appeared to be fully functional.  The file was dated October 21, 1984.

What the—?  Etienne was quite frankly, flabbergasted. "I assume there's quite a story here, my lord?"

"Yes." Dorfmann said, darkly. "Apparently, Dr. Roark was temporarily afflicted with a bout of mortality, and suffered an incident of severe cardiac arrest."

"How does one become temporarily afflicted with that?" Etienne flipped through. "He must have very interesting enemies—or friends." Or possibly both.

"Unfortunately, we were never able to determine exactly how that was done. Or how he returned to his normal undead state."

"That’s really bizarre." Etienne was very tightly controlling his emotions, not letting anything leak into his aura. There was mention of an Assamite bodyguard of some age, but the name given was simply "Mr. Rashid."  There was also a letter with rather official looking gold-embossed letterhead, showing an unfamiliar coat of arms, and a Camarilla emblem. The name at the bottom: Christophe Saar, Archon, Office of the High Councilor.  It's a very polite, formal thank you letter, in Latin, for the efforts of Clan Tremere in assisting his grandchilde, Gabriel Roark, in his “recent difficulties.”  

"Christophe Saar—” Etienne recognized that name. "Oh yes. I see what you mean about well-connected." The report on the incident was typed (originally on a manual typewriter, Etienne could recognize certain letters with identical flaws), and signed P. van Dorn.

The report included a formal apology from Pieter van Dorn over losing 'the subject' when he apparently checked out of the hospital early one morning, and nothing the Tremere tried could track him. The timing didn't help, of course; Roark checked out right before dawn. But the Tremere had lost him before he went three blocks.

Three weeks later, Christophe's letter had arrived. Scouring DC and Baltimore (Roark having turned down Tremere 'protection' upon his release from the hospital) failed to locate him again.

A side note, in someone else's handwriting:  It also seems Prince Vitel’s Assamite contact has gone missing— connection? Maybe... Etienne had seen that handwriting before, and it was on a few other notes in the file. HT were the initials; Helena Taylor, the Regent of the DC chantry.

Etienne noted there was one place in the account where a few things had been erased, or whited out before they were copied. There was doubtless also a lot missing.

"Yes," Dorfmann said, darkly. "Lord Saar apparently believes his grandchilde incapable of any wrong, so he too, must be convinced. And he will be, I'm certain of that."

"Well, I shall certainly peruse this closely."

Etienne took the file, and then mostly bullshitted his way out the door, Dorfmann said a bunch of bullshit back, and neither really believed anything the other Pontifex said. They did, however, bid each other farewell in a most polite (if totally insincere) manner.  And then Etienne got in his rental car, and left the premises.

Bearing Sarah’s warning about the chantry defenses in mind, Etienne called ahead; fortunately, Regent Everett Walsingham was willing to see him.

“Mind you, it could be a very dangerous mission,” Etienne said, warningly.

"We are the bulwark against the Sabbat here, the first line of defense,” Walsingham assured him. “Anyone who serves in Baltimore knows about danger, my lord."

"Ah, true. I'm sure you've taught them both well in that."

"Yes."  Walsingham scowled. "But his lordship cannot be serious. I need my apprentices here. We're on the front lines! He cannot mean to rob me of one of my experienced, trained people. Senior apprentices do not grow on trees in the park!"

"No, they certainly don't." Etienne tried to sound  sympathetic.

"He has apprentices aplenty, yet he expects me to make do."

"But his lordship seems to feel this is urgent enough that I need assistance,” Etienne tried to explain—well, excuse—Dorfmann’s orders. “His concern is that none of his apprentices are above Fourth Circle at the moment—"

"That's utter nonsense,” Walsingham muttered. “He's got van Dorn in DC. He's fifth circle at least, maybe even sixth by now."

Etienne sounded surprised. "Oh? Odd that he didn't mention that."

"He just doesn't trust him, that's what it is,” groused the old Puritan. “Doesn't want to give him any rope."

"Perhaps he's got van Dorn on assignment elsewhere—" Etienne sounded perfectly polite, but not exactly discouraging suspicions. "People can hang themselves on enough rope, as we well know."

"Yes, yes. Probably. He certainly won't let you have him,” the Regent said. “No telling what little tidbits of gossip he might have. Won't let him get a chance at getting away, or shooting off that big mouth of his."

Walsingham was ranting in earnest now. "I've put a lot of work into re-training other regents' problems! But as soon as someone needs an extra hand, it's me that has to give up the products of my investment."

Etienne nodded thoughtfully. "Well, frankly it does seem a bit odd to me that he should want someone from Baltimore and not from his own office to go with me. But his lordship has kindly provided me with some information that I expect will be of great use to me, and I would hate to turn around and refuse a perfectly reasonable request on his part."

"Eh. Yes. He set it up like that, I'm sure. So you couldn't say no."

Boy. Everett IS blunt. Etienne restrained a smile. So refreshing.

"Cohn Rose,” Walsingham was saying. “He's almost pulling his weight, at long last. Oh, he's good. Smart boy. Knows how to get results. Once he was persuaded to put the effort forth."

Instead, Etienne gave Le Shrug Francois. "Persuaded, eh?"

Everett certainly isn't known for his subtlety.

"Motivation is everything. Once you know how to motivate them, they learn very quickly indeed."

"That's very true."

"I expected his lordship to yank him back as soon as he amounted to something,” Walsingham ranted. “Instead, he's giving him to you. Well. Either way, I lose."

"And his areas of proficiency in the Art?"

"He'll probably give me van Dorn next. Wonderful."  He thought for a second. "Fire. And illusions. Deception seems to come naturally to him. And he knows what fork to use, and the proper shapes of wine glasses and other ridiculous minutia of Elysium. Spends more time out gallivanting around than at his studies, or he'd be a lot further along. Hmm..."

"Very well. And Miss McCullough, how do you find her? What’s her specialty?"

He scowled. "Levitation. She’s a regular poltergeist when it comes to moving objects. And she follows some idiosyncratic path of studies having to do with ghosts and spirits. She does set very good wards; that she did learn from her sire. She was working with balefire when last we discussed such matters, but I doubt she's mastered it yet.”

"Yes, spirits, from her old master. A pity she didn't have more information on his work," Etienne supplied. "And wards. Hm."

"In truth, I don't think she's very dedicated,” Walsingham said. “It goes to show you that apprentices should be moved on occasion. She was too fond, my lord, too fond."

"Of her old master?" Well, it appears Everett really has not a spark of cunning deception in him. Unfortunately, Dorfmann is a master of it.   

"Yes. He was her sire, as well. One teacher for almost two decades, until she was fifth circle. Marissa allowed entirely too much leniency during her tenure."

"Ah. I trust you've been working to correct that."

"I've tried, I've tried,” Walsingham sighed. “Hard to train out such bad habits. And she's a woman. Can't expect too much, can't be as firm. She'd crack under the strain. Cohn now, he's got a core of steel. It was just a matter of convincing him to use it.

"But as far as McCullough goes I haven't had time to focus on proper motivation for her—and now that I'll be down to one apprentice again, I definitely won't have time."

"I see. Now here's the real question, Master Walsingham. We may have to venture into some rather dodgy areas for the sake of this little enterprise. Speak to some less-than-reputable people. Which one of them is more likely to keep their mouth shut?"

"Hmm—McCullough would. That much I'll give her. Not a gossip, like some." He seemed to be thinking about it. “I thought you said McCullough wasn't advanced enough for you, when you were here three years ago?"

"For Hong Kong? Oh, no." At least that was the excuse I made to leave her here, and I guess I’d better stick to it, for her sake. “And I expect it would be a while yet in any case."

"Eh. Yes. A long while, I'm afraid, for her,” Walsingham sighed again. “As I said, not dedicated."

"But for purposes of this mission, perhaps it had better be her.  I have a feeling this project will be no place for neonates to practice their politics."

"Politics. They both play that game, my lord. In different circles." He sounds resigned at giving up either of them. “I guess she can keep a safe base for you, at least. Cohn might be more useful. I'm sure you could convince him to keep his mouth shut if you tried."

"Ah, I see." Etienne mused. "And Cohn, if I recall, was specially chosen by Dorfmann himself, so presumably he's very talented—”

"Cohn is very good at keeping track of things, favors, information traded. I have no idea how McCullough does it, but the prince seems to like her. D'Angelo likes her. Even the anarchs like her, no idea why.” Walsingham shrugged. “Oh, yes. Very talented. And as I said, once he's motivated, he can do very well."

"That must be why he was sent out here.”

"Yes. So I can motivate him, and once he's broken in, they take him back and give me some new misfit to break in."

"What about history?" Etienne asked. "We may be having to do a fair bit of anthropological or archaeological research. Cultural history, languages?"

"They've both had the basics. Latin, Camarilla history, etc. McCullough speaks French and German. Cohn speaks French and Spanish. But neither of them knows anthropology, that I know of." He gives a thin smile. "You'd want van Dorn for that. That is, if his lordship would even consider it.”

"Do they have files?" Etienne asked suddenly. "Here in the chantry?"

"Files? Well, yes, of course. I know my duty to House and Clan.”

Everett went over to a file cabinet (which had to taste his blood to open), and pulled out two brown folders. McCullough, Sarah M. (AKA Cassandra Blair) and Rose, Cohn (AKA Conner G. Andrews).

Sarah's file seemed a bit thin, compared to Cohn’s. Cohn's had a number of notes, evaluations, reports, and other things in it, going back to his Embrace, about four decades ago.

Etienne had never seen Sarah's file before—he hadn’t asked the last time he was here, lacking a good excuse. There was a letter from the Boston chantry, recommending and transferring her, 'per special request' to Baltimore, and there was a note that listed her lineage: She was of Meerlinda's line, through John Dee, Marissa, and Nicholas Blair. Born 1921, no birth date recorded, Embraced 1949. A few notes on her mortal family. Most of the material was from the last ten years.  

"What is this about negotiating with the Sabbat in here?" he asked, holding up a page. "Does this have something to do with that crow-spirit incident?"

Everett scowled. "Yes. It was Treach who put her up to it, but I'm sure she could have done something about it if she'd wanted to. She's not acquiesced to him before or since unless it profited her."

Etienne flipped (casually, he thought) through both the files. "How come his file is so much thicker and hers is so sparse?"

"Blair's chantry was burned to the ground. And all his files went with it."

"Ah, of course."

Sarah's file did have a note that indicated concern over her 'obsession' with determining her sire's 'true fate'—implying she did not accept the official answer, which put her under some suspicion from her superiors. She had officially been told not to pursue that matter any further.  

Etienne put the files down and sighed. "I see what you mean about having to make up for other Regents' mistakes. But I've got to take one of them."  At length he sat up, looking rather resigned himself. "May I ask you to do me the kindness, Master Walsingham, of calling Miss McCullough and informing her? I've still got some business to see to tonight."

I just hope she’ll forgive me.

Walsingham nodded. "Of course, my lord. I'll tell her."

Etienne had the feeling that the Regent was even looking forward to telling her. He had no doubt she would call him about it later, and he would hear any objections she had then.

An hour later, Etienne's cell phone rang.

"Hello?"  And at the same time, he got an old familiar bzzzzt-bzzzzt in his ear, like the buzzing of a gnat.

There was no one on the other end of the line. He hung up the phone and looked at the number the call had come in on—Sarah's. He got into a hastily-constructed ritual circle, and reached out to her through the ether.

She was waiting for him. —My lord Pontifex.

“Good evening, Sarah. I trust you got the news?”

 —My lord... yes. I did. I just wanted to confirm. And to ask about our timetable. I-I have things I must do, before I can leave the city, even for a short mission.  She didn't sound especially happy.

“Well, we're going to try to leave as soon as possible, but that's far easier said than done, given how quiet we'll have to be about it. I'm very sorry.”

—Sorry, my lord?

“Yes. I'm afraid this isn't my idea. I've got to seem to be going along with Dorfmann. We don't want him any deeper into this than he already is.”

—What do you need me to do?

“Get ready to leave town. And bring along anything you've got that's efficacious for spiritual protection.”

—Of course. I can't bring Caliban, I'm afraid he's bound to the store. But I'll see what I can get together.

“Good.” He sighed. “I was given the choice between Cohn and you.”  

The impression of a grim snort. —I see. Well, I would choose me over Cohn, too. 

—I should also tell you, she continued, —We experienced a brief testing of my wards around the Professor’s jar tonight. They didn’t actually get through, but they will doubtless learn where the jar is physically located shortly.    

“That’s not good. We definitely need to get that jar out of there—well, out of Baltimore entirely, really. As soon as possible.”

—Do you think there's any chance of me returning? After this business is done?  I just—well. I've got people here, I'll need to see them safe.

“To Baltimore? I don't see why not. Walsingham certainly needs the staff, or so he says.”

He could feel her smile. —Yes. Thank you, my lord.

“Don't thank me. Errgh. I could just flay that little Tory bastard. He's deliberately setting up the situation in Baltimore to stay just this side of intolerable indefinitely.”

—I do need to ask you something. She sounded worried. —Well, two things.

“What?”

—I know it's not customary to tell other Kindred when one of us is traveling or transferred. But I can't bring all my people with me, not on such short notice. The house, the store... I can't just leave them, either. They will need Kindred protection. If—if I could tell Lorenzo, at least... and one or two others that I trust—so they might take care of my domains for me?  

“I certainly won't argue with it.”

—Thank you. Also, there are two people I’d like to bring with me, if that’s okay? They’re under my blood, and, well, they’ve been with me a long time, and I’d be worried about them if they had to stay behind and I wasn’t back in a few weeks. They’re not young anymore.

“I understand. You can bring them with you, we’ll deal with them as we deal with the professor’s students.”

—Thank you so much. I couldn't bear to leave them for Cohn.  

“No, no. Do what you feel is best in that regard.”

—Thank you. Let me know when you think we need to leave?

“I'm hoping it can be tomorrow, but night after at the latest. We need to get that jar out of your shop, and on the road as soon as possible.”

—I'll be ready. I'd better go now. I need to call a few people. Good night, my lord. Warmth flowed through the link to him.

“Good night, Sarah, take care.”

Sarah sat back, in her circle, in the tower room that served as her ritual space. As she sipped her vitae cocktail—necessary for grounding and refueling after a ritual—she went over in her head all the things she needed to do.  

Well, she reflected, this is a complication I didn’t need, but…  On the other hand, she wasn't blaming Etienne. And she rather liked the idea of working with him again. It was just worry over her house, the store, and her people that made her a little less than enthusiastic.  

But she had a good half-dozen mortals under her blood, that needed to be seen to, before House and Clan did it for her. She was going to have to call in a few favors, from Lorenzo and Dorian, mostly. There was no help for it. She couldn’t leave her mortals—some of whom had been with her for years—to Cohn's mercies. Especially Max and Sylvia, who’d been her friends and housemates for decades, or Claudia, who had already been a victim of Kindred abuse, exploited for her psychic gifts.

But Claudia also happened to be Lorenzo’s great-niece, a descendant of his younger sister, and he’d been wanting to meet her for years. He was also keenly aware of her history, however, and trusted Sarah to make that introduction when his far younger kinswoman was ready for it.

Well, it was time.  She went and knocked on Claudia’s door, and then went to the house’s newer wing and woke Max and Sylvia. “Something has come up, rather suddenly,” she told them. “And I need to tell you about it—” 

Chapter Text

Baltimore, MD — Friday. June 25, 2004

When Charles rose that evening, he took the three students into the girls’ bedroom downstairs and gave them a very brief summary of their meeting  with the prince the night before. 

“Well,” he said, “In short, they want us to keep on with what we’re doing and find out what’s going on. Which we were going to do anyway, so not much has changed. But I don’t think we’ll be staying here in Baltimore too much longer.”

“Where are we going next?” TJ asked.

“Not quite sure yet,” Charles answered. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

“We’ll probably have to contact the university,” Diane remarked. “To inform someone of  the, uh, change in our itinerary.”

“No, we won’t,” Charles said, and then amended it, “Well. I’d better handle that. We don’t want the wrong people to know where we are, or where we’re going. And it’s not old Dr. Baker at U-Wisconsin Racine I’m talking about, and I think you know that.”

Diane nodded, her eyes a fraction narrower than they were before, clearly contemplating the matter. “Yes, I’d guessed. Dr. Baker is a washed-up hack, but he’s not really evil.”

“We’re kind of off whatever the official track was, aren’t we?” TJ asked.

The kids were sitting on the bed; Charles, as usual, was pacing. “Yes, we are. This wasn’t in your syllabus, I’m afraid.”

Chloe was picking like mad at the bedspread.

“I’d planned something much—well, more routine, less exciting, and much less dangerous.  I’m sorry. This rather became bigger than I’d imagined.”

TJ looked at Diane, and then at Chloe. “How big?”

“Yes, Charles,” Diane said. “Exactly how big is this, and what, exactly, have we gotten into?”

“I don’t really know yet. It all depends on what exactly it is we’re looking for. What that missing jar is, and the other things. But I don’t know that yet. That’s the exciting part, you see.”

“Yes. Well,” Diane massaged the bridge of her nose, but made no response about differing definitions of ‘exciting.’ “You said it has to do with vampire history?”

He nodded. “Maybe. I—I should warn you about asking too many questions about the ‘what’? Damn. I am not handling this well.”  He found a single chair, turned it around, and sat down.

“Charles, if you’re going to expect to take us along on this little expedition,” Diane said, “you can’t keep us in the dark about what we’re looking for or what its importance is.”

Chloe nodded. “If it’s vampire history, and there are other vampires who are willing to steal the stuff, it must be really important.”

“It is important, yes.”  He sighed. “The thing is, I’m not exactly sure what it is we are looking for. Our history is very, uh, vague, before a certain point. There are old prophecies, old writings, but are they representative of an oral history, handed down over the centuries, or are they merely myths? We don’t know. And so few of even those survive. Many have been destroyed. That is, in fact, why I enlisted the aid of Mr. Copperfield, whose knowledge is far greater than mine, and I’m sure Dr. Roark knows things I do not.”

Chloe glanced at TJ at that. And then at Diane. “They know more than you do?”

“That sounds familiar.” Diane shakes her head. “There are specialists in every field, Chloe. Probably this one, too.”

“Yes. I’m fairly sure they do. They’re—” He hesitated. “They’re older than I am. I have my specialties, but even I can’t read one of the other artifacts I know of.”

 “How much older?” Chloe tried gamely.

Charles looked up. “What?”

“How much older than you are they?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Centuries?” he guessed, and then, “—Damn. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“Centuries?” Three pairs of eyes widened.

“Well.. I—”  Charles was suddenly bewildered. “I am a bit older than I look, after all.”

“How much older, Charles?” Diane asked in a rather strained tone.

He couldn’t sit still any longer, so he got up and paced nervously back and forth, in front of them. “Well. I—I—” He took a deep breath and tried again. Three traumatized mortal faces followed him around the room.

“I’m terrible with the math,” Charles admitted. “But I attended one of Budge’s lectures once. I—I was on some early expeditions. The Khufu Sarcophagus, I was on that expedition. Before I knew better. “

“Charles,” Diane said, sounding Dangerously Calm, “Are you telling us that you’re over a hundred years old?”

“Well, yes,” Charles said. “If you count the time, well, that I’ve been… undead.”

“For heaven’s sake, Charles!” Diane burst out. “Don’t you think you should have mentioned this earlier? And Copperfield and Dr. Roark are older than YOU?”

He looked at Diane, met her eyes. She felt a wave of his regrets, his worries, his concerns… for her, now that she knew so much. “Well. No, I deliberately did not mention it. I didn’t want to upset you.”

Chloe felt kind of sorry for him suddenly. “You’re not used to talking about this, are you?”

“No. I’ve never talked about this, not with mortals. It’s—It’s discouraged, if not outright forbidden.”

He slumped down in the chair again, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “I’ve really made a complete muddle of this.”

“The professor, I mean St. Clair, sometimes he would talk like an old movie,” Chloe said, “not on purpose, accidentally I think. So I—I kind of guessed. But he never said—”

TJ was staring at the distraught professor. “Charles, sir. Are—are you going to get into trouble because of us?”

Diane was feeling a certain lack of pity at the moment. “A good many things are muddled in this situation, Charles. Including, apparently, the function of our own minds.”

“Your minds?” Charles echoed, looking more than a little muddled himself.

“Yes, our minds. And more importantly, our memories. Like what we can’t remember all of what happened that night, at the museum.  There’s a certain point… when neither TJ nor I have any recollection, but for some reason Chloe does.”

“Oh. That.” Charles swallowed. “I—I just did that because, well—”

“Because,” Chloe broke in, “It was really obvious that Ms. Lattimer had no idea you or Mr. D’Angelo were vampires, and she was going to call 911, because you’d just been shot.”

“Well, yes.” Charles admitted. “I had to do something at that point, and I didn’t want to—to take the time to explain.”  

“And that’s not the only time you’ve done it.” TJ asked. “Was it?”

Charles sighed. “No,” he admitted, reluctantly. “No, it wasn’t.”  

“That is so not acceptable, Charles. Really, it’s not.” Diane said, flatly. “TJ and I, we must insist that you return our memories to us, and do not do that—thing with the magic words… ever again.”

Charles raised his head, looked at them both, then stood up. “Of course—”

He looked infinitely weary and sad and worried. “Come here, Miss Webster. Mr. Greer. I will need eye contact. ”  

TJ exchanged a Look with Diane. Diane most definitely looked pissed off and not at all inclined to let anyone off easy just now. But she stood up as well.

“Come. Stand here before me.” Charles beckoned to her.

She did so. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was radiating a combination of irritation and deep resentment.

Chloe looked on anxiously.

His entire attention was focused on her. “Would you prefer Mr. Greer goes first? You have to trust me for this to work, Diane.”

“Charles,” Diane said, forcing the words out from behind gritted teeth, “I do trust you. I am, however, rather angry with you at the moment. Just get on with it, if you please.”

“Very well.”  He gently took her shoulders in his hands, holding her in front of him. His eyes were hazel-green, gentle and sad.

He whispered a phrase—“Gil-razzle-dazzle sorba sorba—” and it touched a trigger deep in her subconscious. She felt herself falling involuntarily into trance—a deep trance, in which all she could hear was his voice, and all she could see were his eyes.

As this happened, the tension in her posture relaxed and her arms fell to her sides.

—Listen to me, Diane, his voice said in her mind, and it touched a chord deep in her soul, echoing in the taste of the blood she had taken. —When you awaken tomorrow morning, you will remember. You will remember everything that happened between us. You will remember what I did, and how I made you forget, and hopefully, you will understand why.   

—I had no choice, if I am to survive, if I am to keep from going mad and forgetting that I was once human too. I am so very sorry.  But you will know.  You will remember what I am telling you now… 

He let go of her shoulders, and clapped three times. She was released, suddenly back in the room, his words echoing in her mind, and she was standing in front of Charles. “That’s all,” he says.  

Diane blinked rapidly a few times, then found a chair to sit on.

He then turned and did the same procedure with TJ, who was not angry, and trusted Charles more.  

“Well, then,” he said, when that was done. “I think—we have work to do yet—or at least, I do.”  

Chloe went looking for Dr. Hewitt later, and found him in Mr. Treach’s library upstairs, with his nose deep in a book. She knocked on the side of a bookcase to get his attention. “Sorry to interrupt you, professor, but do you have a minute?”

Charles looked up from the book, setting it aside, with a folded piece of paper to mark his place. “Of course, Chloe. Why don’t you sit down?” he suggested, and smiled at her.  

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. What can I do for you?”

“It’s about professor St. Clair,” Chloe said. “He hasn’t called me since the bookstore, but I know he’s going to. And I’ll have to say something to him.”

“Ah. And what are you going to say?”

“Well, there’s not much I can say, after what Copperfield did,” she said. “I would have to have your permission….”

“Oh, right.” He remembered now. “Well. Maybe we should come up with an appropriate story? What do you think he wants to hear?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I wish I knew if he really was all that curious about you. Or just mad.”

“It’s entirely possible that he was simply curious about who was at the airport that night. And the rest is his—well. I can’t put it gently. His irritation with you for getting caught.” He paused thoughtfully. “I suppose it really depends on what kinds of results you want from him, Chloe. What do you want to happen next? Do you want him to summon you home, in a way you cannot resist? No? Then what do you want?”

“I—I don’t know.” She worked her hands on her knees. “I mean, I know what he’s like. I’ve learned how to please him, most of the time. He knows people. He can open doors. He said there was no limit to what I could achieve.”

“But that rather sounds like it could be conditional,” Charles said. “As in, you could only achieve it if he helped you, either directly or under his patronage.”  He leaned his elbow on the sofa arm, chin resting in his hand, the other hand lying on his lap. His legs were crossed. “Is that what you want, to achieve things you’re beholden to him for?”

“I don’t want to work in a job where I could get my hand caught in a fucking machine—” She blushed. “Sorry. I also don’t want to work till three in the morning so I can buy a plane ticket for my kid to go to college. That’s what I don’t want.”

He gave her a gentle smile. “That’s a good place to start, to know what you don’t want. But that leaves a rather wide range of possibilities. What are you studying now?”

“Business Admin, looking at getting an MBA, Minoring in comp sci.”

“And do you like it?” 

“Sure. I mean, it’s not exciting, but you can walk right into a good job.”

“Do you have a head for business? Computers? Or do you see that as merely the road that leads away from what you know you do not want?”

“Well, St. Clair says I do.”

“But do you think you do?”

“I hope so.” Her lip trembled a bit, but she was determined not to get emotional in front of Charles again.  “I hope I’m good at something.”

“It’s a valuable skill, a certain way of looking at the world. We certainly need people like that. But it’s not for everyone,” Charles gave her a rueful look. “I know it’s not for me. You might not believe it, but I’ve no head for figures at all.”

“I—I believe you.” She tried not to smile. “I think TJ is the same way.”

He smiled. “Yes, I’m afraid so. That’s why Diane has the credit card. You are good at something. Many things, I suspect. Everyone has their strengths. You must simply discover what yours are.”

“Do you think he’ll take me back?” she suddenly asked. “I mean, he doesn’t have a lot of patience for mistakes. He had a different kid before me.”

“That depends on how much you can impress him upon your return—”  He stopped, realizing that maybe this wasn’t a good direction to let their conversation go. “What happened to this different kid?”

“Well, he didn’t say. I just put it together. I searched the student directories, and it said on his entry that he was dead. Carjacking.”

“Coincidence, perhaps,” Charles murmured.  “But you don’t really believe that, do you? Why are you asking if he will take you back? Do you want to go back, knowing that?”

“I thought I’d found a chance,” she almost whispered.

“You have,” he responded. “Just maybe not with St. Clair.”

“I mean, you do what you have to do. I know the rules.”

He looked a bit lost himself. “The rules?”

“That secrets have to be kept. That I—that I’m his property, like a lost cat…”

“You are not a cat, Chloe, lost or otherwise. You drank from him. Drank his blood. Do you remember?”

“—Yes.” She was seriously blushing now.

“Once? Or more than once? It’s important, my dear, or I would not ask. I’m sorry.  More than one occasion, I should say.”

“It was just the one time, I-I think? He could have made me forget. He can do that, like you or Copperfield.  But he wanted me to know that I was linked with him. He had me wear a red silk bracelet at the party, so the others could see.”

“I think if you remembered the one time, he would have you remember the others. He strikes me as the type who wants you to know.”

“Does it matter how many times?”

“Yes. Three times is unbreakable.” He shook his head. “There. I have told you something I really should not have.”

“Unbreakable how?  Like I could never disobey again?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“So if I’d drunk from him three times—then I wouldn’t even think about—?” She didn’t finish the thought.

“Now, you can, if you desire, be free of him. Your will is weakened, but not yet overcome. You can still resist, if you really want to. If you had drunk from him three times, I could not help you,” he said gently. “Not as long as he lives.”

“But I’m still involved. I can’t not be involved. Now that I know.”

“That is unfortunately also correct. But you can choose how and with whom you are involved.”

She frowned. “Well, it sounds like you’re proposing something.  Or am I misinterpreting?”

“No, you’re not. I propose you stay with me.”

“But I’m not—” She shook her head. “I’m not like TJ or Diane. I’m not really into Egyptology, I never paid attention in history even. I mean I got good grades. But I always forgot after the test.”

“Well, I guess we won’t ask you to translate hieroglyphs, then,” and he smiled. “We’ll find something you can do. We will need every hand and mind, I’m sure, before this investigation is done, and every skill. The question I put to you is this, if I offered you either a ticket back home to Chicago, or one to parts unknown in our company—which ticket would you choose?”  

“I’ll go with you. But don’t make me… don’t make me drink the three times like you said. I guess I can’t stop you, but I’d really rather you didn’t.”

“No. Just once,” he said, extending his hand to her. “Twice only if you cannot be free of him any other way.”

She took his hand, still nervous.

His fingers were cool, and closed gently around hers. “It’s alright, Chloe. I’m not St. Clair. I—I hope to God I’m never like him.”

He drew her hand up to his lips, and kissed her knuckles gently, and then released her.  “Shall we take care of that now?”

“Okay. If you think we should, okay.”

He found a glass for her in the kitchen, and took a knife from the drawer, and cut into his own wrist, dribbling a small amount of his own blood into the glass. When the cut had stopped bleeding, he handed the glass to her. “Drink,” he said.

She did, drinking down the entire glass in a few swallows. “Funny, it tastes just a little different.”

“Does it? Well. I am a different Kindred.”

She felt a rush of something—fondness, trust, appreciation—for him. She had felt this before. She knew what it was, or at least thought she did. But he was so different from St. Clair.

“Thank you, Chloe,” her new master said. “I also think you should consider getting rid of that old phone.”  

Baltimore, MD — Saturday. June 26, 2004 (near mid-day)

TJ opened his eyes and just lay in bed for a while, replaying his own version of the memories. They were a bit disturbing, on one level. But on another, understandable. For once, he got up before Diane, put on yesterday’s clothes, and went in search of breakfast. Or even lunch, since it was closer to lunchtime. 

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Diane woke up, breathing hard, clearly in the middle of a panic attack. Then she grabbed her pillow, buried her face in it, and screamed.  She finally snarled through gritted teeth. “I. Am. Going. To. KILL. Him.”

Chloe winced, sitting up in bed beside her.

“And tonight, we’re having a frank and meaningful conversation about professional fucking distance and the way he is never touching me again, or fucking with my mind.”

TJ knocked on the bedroom door. “Diane?  Diane, are you alright?” 

Diane jumped out of bed, jerked open the door and snapped, “No, I’m not all right. What the hell do you want, TJ?”

“I—I heard—I mean, I remembered too.” He was startled  at her vehemence. “I was worried about you—”  

“Oh, good,” she said. “Then I won’t feel silly while I’m telling Charles to keep his hands to himself from now on or I’m walking, immediately, no fucking questions asked or excuses accepted. I’ve had enough.”

“Wow. I mean, what—” he swallowed. “Do I even want to know?”

“I’m not his—his goddamned cow and I’m sure as hell not going to be his little grad student slut. And he has a lot of explaining to do.”

“Diane, Diane, please,” Chloe pleaded. “You’re going to get Dr. Roark’s staff all in here.”

“I mean, I remember, but—” TJ blurted out. “He’s a vampire, Diane, what did you expect?”

“Oh, TJ, for fuck’s sake.” Chloe sighed.

Turk poked his head out of other bedroom, looking confused. “Huh? Is there a problem?” he asked in a deep bass.

“He’s a vampire, what did I EXPECT?” Diane actually shouted. “For God’s sake, TJ, listen to yourself!“

“No problem,” TJ said hurriedly to Turk.

“Let’s, uh, let’s go take a walk. How about a walk?” Chloe suggested, frantically. “There’s a whole city out there, let’s walk somewhere. Somewhere else.“

Turk gave Diane a wary look. “You sure? Sounds like she’s kinda pissed off…”

“It’s okay, she’s just a little stressed,” TJ assured him. “It happens…”

“Fine. Let’s take a walk.” Diane gave Turk the sort of look she usually applied to freshmen and other lesser creatures. “Is there something wrong with me being pissed off? No? Fuck off.”

She stomped back into the bedroom to get dressed, slamming the bedroom door.

Turk frowned, shaking his head. “What’s the problem? She just find out about the vampires? Hell’s bells. Thought ya'll knew.”

“She does know. It’s not that,” TJ said. “It’s, uh, related issues.”

“Related issues?”

“Related issues,” TJ said. “Look, please, just—could you do us a favor? Just let it go. We’ll straighten it out. Everything’s cool.”

Turk leaned against the door frame, powerfully muscled arms across a broad, t-shirt clad chest. “Well. I’ll let y’all work it out for now. But she better have it together before They wake up, okay? Last thing we need on this trip is a screamer. You never know when there might be Sabbat about, or worse. Gotta keep it cool, man. Keep our heads together. Okay?”

“Okay,” TJ agrees. And then, more cautiously. “Turk—what do you know about all this?”  

The big man shrugged. “You mean, specific to this situation? Not all that much yet. But you need anything, you just ask, okay? I think I been around longer than you.”

“Thanks, Turk. We’ll keep that in mind.”

Chloe threw on clothes and chewed a Starbucks mint in lieu of brushing. Diane emerged in jeans and a tee-shirt, still looking less than pleased.

“Coffee?” TJ asked.

“No, let’s just walk,” Diane said through gritted teeth, watching for Turk or other eavesdroppers.

“Okay.”   

They took the elevator down to the lobby, and out the front door to the sidewalk, which was busy with weekend and lunchtime pedestrian traffic. It meant they had to walk a little ways away before having any kind of private conversation, but that also gave Diane a chance to formulate her thoughts.

“I resent—strongly resent—that Charles thought telling me that he ‘needs me’ would somehow make what he did all right,” Diane said through gritted teeth. “He did that thing with making me forget about him biting me at my goddamned interview.”  

TJ decided perhaps now was not the time to even attempt to discuss this, and just let her vent. Chloe made some inarticulate yes-I’m-paying-attention noises.

“And then afterwards, several times. And it really simply repulses me at this just completely visceral level that it feels good. Like you’re supposed to enjoy it. Enjoy having someone consume you.”

“I’m sure it helps them,” Chloe offered, treading very carefully. “Otherwise people would fight back.”

“Obviously. But it’s done,” Diane growled. “If he ever tries to do that to me again, it’s over. There will be no compromise on this point. I’m a graduate assistant, not a fucking cheap entree on legs.”

“Why did he do it, then?” TJ murmured. “He could have made up memories for us. Something less, I dunno, traumatic? But he let us remember the truth.”

“Even if he feels bad, that doesn’t make it right,” Chloe said, more strongly.

“Chloe’s right, TJ. The fact that he feels bad about it doesn’t make it right,” Diane said. “It was wrong in the first place and he will not continue doing it. Period.”

His hand strayed to his throat. “I mean, it was—”

“It was what?” Chloe asked.

He looked at Chloe. “I dunno, it wasn’t that bad. I mean, when your guy in Chicago…”

“That was different.” Chloe said.  

“Was it? How?” TJ asked.

“I wanted to—” Chloe tried to explain. “I mean I was attracted to him. I was ready to just—just sleep with him because.”

“Because of some power he had?”

“Because he was hot, TJ,” she said, irritably. “And he could be really charming, when he wanted to be. I’m not saying what he did was right either, I’m just saying I went into it with eyes more open. And it did feel good.”

“Yeah, whatever, it did.” TJ said. “Diane. What are you going to do?”

“She already said what she’s going to do,” Chloe said. “The question is what the professor’s going to do, and Copperfield.”  She looked at Diane. “That is the problem. I mean, he’s got to take from somebody. They all do.”

“I don’t think I was being particularly vague on that point, TJ.” Diane snapped. “If Copperfield lays a hand on me we’ll find out if vampires and that stake thing are a myth or not.”

“Copperfield said,” TJ paused. “He said the professor is breaking the rules, talking to us. They’re not allowed to tell us the truth, Diane. He’s taking a big risk, being honest with us.”

“He shouldn’t have lied to us in the first place, TJ.” Diane continued. “And, at this point, I’m entirely indifferent to the ‘risks’ he’s taking. He owed us more respect than this, and he owed it to us from the start. And he should have never done this to us, at all.”

“But that’s only part of it,” Chloe said. “The real question is, will he agree not to do it to her because she doesn’t want him to, and if he does agree, then how will he—I mean, I admit. I think if I’d said no to St. Clair, I’m not sure he would have listened.” She blinked rapidly.

“He didn’t sound like the understanding sort,” TJ said.  

“And if Charles won’t take no for an answer, then how different is he from St. Clair really?” Chloe said. “And that’s the question, right?” She gestured at Diane.

“I think he’s a lot different!” TJ exclaimed. “Don’t you see it? Do you think St. Clair would have ever let you know something that he knew would make you angry at him? Like this?”

“I am angry at St. Clair, TJ,” she said, quietly.

“Yes, he’s different inasmuch as he chose to violate our minds and our bodies, TJ.” Diane replied, acidly. “There’s no excuse. For either of them.”

“I do think Charles is more honest,” Chloe glanced at Diane. “And maybe it’s just that he was assuming that it was going to be the only way he could, uh, eat?  It might not have even occurred to him that someone might say yes. But like I said, it all comes down to whether he’ll back off now if Diane tells him to.”

“And then what? What about you, Chloe?” TJ asked. “I mean—they’re all vampires. They… they have to eat. Roark, Copperfield, this Treach fellow.  There are an awful lot of them…”

“Then they can eat someone else.” Diane’s tone was flat and devoid of compromise.

“And that will ease your conscience?” TJ asked, pointedly.

“It’s not my conscience that needs to be eased, you sanctimonious little asshole,” Diane retorted. “It’s that I choose not to be used as a fucking happy meal.”

“I’ll let him,” Chloe said, and then exhaled, shuddering. “It’s okay. If he doesn’t do any funny stuff, and if he doesn’t make me forget. Then I’ll let him.”

“He won’t hurt you,” TJ said. “He’s never hurt me. I’ll let him.”

“TJ,” Diane says irritably, “you’re not getting it. Didn’t you go to the little presentation freshman year? Do you understand the concept of consent?”

TJ sighed. “Yeah, I guess I do. Look. You can be mad at him if you want. I mean—”

“Of course she can be mad at him!” Chloe said. “That’s what we’re talking about. Maybe this is a woman thing, but turn your sensitivity training on, and try to get it?”   

“I’m trying, Chloe. Really. I am,” TJ said. “Maybe it was worse for Diane. I mean, I’m mad at him for not telling me.”

“Look, TJ, you’re really not grasping the core of the problem here.” Diane sucked down a couple breaths of calm, and did her best to keep her voice level. “Like Chloe says, it’s an issue of consent. He violated us. And that does not fly with me, in any way, shape, or form.”

TJ folded his arms across his chest. “Okay. I believe you, Diane. I do.”

“So you’re going to tell him that, right?” Chloe asked Diane. “You do know how dangerous that could be.”

Diane nodded. “Yes, I am. And he’d better process it on the first try.”

“I mean, even if Charles gets it, which I hope he does,” Chloe said, “I don’t hold any such hopes out for Copperfield. Especially if he is centuries old or whatever.”

“As far as I’m concerned, Copperfield can twist it around and screw himself. He doesn’t get a vote here,” Diane said. “I think we should all be together.”

“You know, we could talk to the others,” TJ suggested. “I mean, the other people who work for the vampires too.  We could find out more about them.”   

“Yes, we should do that, but we mustn’t act like fucking idiots when we do,” Chloe warned.  “We’ve got to stay cool, like Turk said.  Any problems with Charles or Copperfield, we keep between us and them. That’s what would be really dangerous. If—if any of the others know that your professor’s having a little problem with his people.”

“Turk told me he’s worked for Dr. Roark for over twenty years,” TJ said. “And Samantha even longer, like thirty-five years.”

Samantha’s words echoed in Diane’s head. I know what he is doing in there. Of course, I know. It’s fine…. There is a bond of trust between us.  

“Okay. So we’re going to talk to Charles, again,” Chloe said. “And he can’t say he wasn’t expecting it, but till then, no freaking out in front of the other staff. Right?”

“I think he is expecting it,” TJ says.  “That’s why he was so reluctant. But he still did it. Even though he knew. So maybe he really is sorry. Maybe he’ll listen, Diane.”

“Maybe,” Diane said.

“Let’s go hit up a Starbucks somewhere,” Chloe suggested. “I really need some coffee now.”

There was a bagel-and-coffee place in the Belvedere, but they opted to walk two blocks to the closest Starbucks instead, just to get away from the old hotel and its sleeping vampires.

Baltimore, MD — Saturday. June 26 (later that evening)

Charles woke in a blood sweat, and ducked into the shower, passing Etienne (who was on his way out on some errand). He stood under the shower for a long time, then finally  screwed up his courage, dried off, combed his hair, got dressed, and went in search of his students.

He knew he’d find them together, and he did.

“Miss Webster. Mr. Greer.  Miss Lehrer,” he said, pleasantly. “Perhaps we should  have a private chat?”  His eyes swept the trio, going a little unfocused to read auras. Oh, bloody hell.

“Someplace more private than this—come along. If-If you don’t mind,”  He stammered a bit  and ushered them upstairs to the suite he was sharing with Etienne. Etienne, fortunately, was not there.

Diane was simmering. Almost literally.

“Have a seat—” he says, letting them in, and motioning vaguely at the couch and chairs in the sitting area. He closed the door, stuck his hands in his pockets, and leaned against the desk across from them.

“Right. I suppose you’ll have things to say.” He took a deep breath. “Well—now’s the time.”

 “Charles. What you did to us was utterly unconscionable in every conceivable way.” Diane clearly felt no need to sugarcoat her response. “You violated us in body, and then you violated us in mind to cover it up. If you ever do that to me again, this relationship is over.”

He studied her, eyes a little unfocused, absorbing the flare of colors in her aura.

“I will not tolerate this one day longer. Am I making myself clear?”

He took another deep breath. And another. “Quite—quite clear, Ms. Webster.” He looked down, away from the brilliance of her aura. His inner Beast, which was restless with all the stress in his inner soul, plus tension in the room, was acting up. Oh, yeah? We can take ’em.

No, he told it firmly, pushing it back down. That’s really not at all necessary.

“Does that mean you would like to leave the project? I can arrange that, if you wish.” His voice was very quiet.

“I won’t leave now,” she said, bluntly. “And I won’t tell anyone your secrets. But I’m your graduate assistant, not a walking blood-bank. TJ feels differently, and that’s his prerogative.”

He nodded, and turned to TJ. “Thomas?”

TJ looked at Diane. “I can’t say I don’t mind about—about what you did. It’s— it’s what she said. A—a violation. But I know about you now. And I know—well, I know you. Better maybe, than Diane does. So I’ll stay. And—and if…” He stopped, stumbled. “Well. It’s not that it’s okay. I mean, it’s my blood, and I need it and all. But if it’s necessary, I guess, I can handle it. So long as I come out okay.” 

Charles nodded again. “Thank you, Thomas. Ms. Lehrer?”

Chloe swallowed. “I—like I told them. I can take Diane’s place. If that would help. As long as there’s nothing weird…”

“—weird?” Charles echoed, puzzled.

“I mean about how you do it.” She blushed and looked away a second, then returned to looking at him.

“Oh.” If Charles could blush, he would have at that moment. “Thank you, Ms. Lehrer. Yes. That does help.”

“He wasn’t weird—precisely—with me,” Diane admitted, somewhat grudgingly.  “A little too intimate for the second date but, well, some guys are just like that.” Minute traces of sarcasm were readily apparent in her voice.

He looked at all three of them—actually, he found himself focusing primarily on Diane. He wasn’t sure why.   

“Ms. Webster. We are embarking on what could be a very perilous journey. I can—I will—give you my word to respect your wishes. I will not touch you, without your permission. I cannot, however, guarantee you will be entirely safe from vampires. And there are those who will not respect your will in the least. You—all of you—will be at risk.  But-but if you stay, I will do my utmost to protect you.”    

“Thank you, Charles.” Diane nodded, slightly. Her temper seemed to be cooling down a little.

“And I do appreciate whatever assistance in this matter you are willing to give.” Charles met their gazes with his own. “I cannot undo what I did. I cannot promise I will never do it again to anyone else. I can only make that promise to you. Is that enough, at least, for now?”

Chloe and TJ nodded.

“For now, that’s enough for me,” Diane said. “Your apology, such as it is, is accepted.”

He took one more breath. “Diane—if I may call you that…?” he paused, waited. 

“Yes. Go on, Charles.”

“I have one more thing I should do for you and Thomas, if you can trust me one last time.” He beckoned. “Closer. For eye contact…”

Diane hesitated for a moment, then nodded slightly. She came a bit closer.

He met her eyes; his were slightly rimmed with blood. “Gil-razzle dazzle sorba sorba.” he murmured, and she felt it again, that sudden dropping into trance, the command buried in her mind.

All she could see were his eyes, all she could hear was his voice. She knew what he had done, and knew she was trapped. “Diane,” he said, and his eyes held hers. “You remember those words, the trigger I placed in your mind? Those words have no meaning. They are simple nonsense, and from now on they will mean nothing. When I clap my hands three times, you will awaken, and no words of mine can bind or compel you against your will. I have no power over you.” 

And then he clapped, three times. 

It took her a minute to manage a passably cordial, “Thank you, Charles.”

“You’re welcome. Thomas…?” 

TJ came forward—somewhat more relaxed, and it occurred to Charles that maybe he should have started with TJ, so Diane would have realized what was going to happen, but… Oh, bloody hell. I’ve muddled everything up with her.

He repeated the same procedure with TJ. 

“Right, ” he murmured, as TJ thanked him also, and returned to where he was sitting before. “I—I suppose this is where I tell you what we’re doing next, but I’m afraid I’m not sure myself.  As soon as I have an inkling, though, I’ll tell you straight away.    

“And—and if you want to talk, or ask questions,” Charles continued, “Now’s a good time for that, too. If you have anything you were wondering about—or worried about.” 

He scooted himself up to sit on the dresser, leaned forward on his hands. “Anything?” His best professorial tone.

“When you say that other vampires won’t necessarily respect,” Chloe spoke up, hesitantly. “Do you mean the ones in this house? Dr. Roark and Mr. Copperfield and Mr. Treach? Or just…in general?”

“More in general.  They won’t harm you, not Copperfield or Roark or Treach. But, well. Thomas asked, the other night, about that old Friend versus Food question? The ones we encountered in the museum—I’m afraid they’re very much in the all mortals are food mindset. They’re not, however, the sort we’d invite to tea. Or to be in our company. Drat, I am making a muddle of this too.”

“You’re saying they’re outside the pale, like?” Chloe asked.

“There are, basically, two sorts of vampires in the world,” Charles explained. “Two sects, or philosophies, if you will. Quasi-political organizations.”

Chloe sat up at that, it sounded important. Diane was visibly resisting the urge to take notes.

“They call themselves Sabbat. They’re the other side. And they would kill me as well as you—that’s probably not very comforting, though, is it? Well. Those we—Mr. Copperfield and myself—associate with are in the Camarilla. I wouldn’t necessarily trust all of them, either, but at least they follow the Traditions. The Traditions are, quite simply, the laws we exist by. And under those Traditions, you all are mine—well. Under my protection. My authority. My blood. That is a potent protection and shield for you. Do not be afraid, or ashamed—to claim it, if you must.  Does that make any sense at all?”

“You mean only vampires count under the Traditions,” Chloe said. “So the living are only protected if some vampire claims them.”

“Yes. That is, unfortunately, true.”

Diane looked decidedly displeased by that thought, but, considering what she knew about insular cultures, she was not entirely surprised. And they were clearly dealing with some fairly freaky, insular rat-bastards in this little culture.

“You have tasted my blood. That makes you mine. The Traditions do not say I need to drink yours—and so our agreement will hold. Nor can they touch you, under the law.”

“We don’t have to do something special, do we, to make it clear that we’re yours.” Chloe asked, thinking of St. Clair and his red ribbon.

“No. Just stay with me—there’s no markings, no collars, no sign of who you are associated with. No standard conventions. Mr. Copperfield and I will make it clear, should it become necessary.” 

Chloe nodded.

“I suppose I should tell you. Ms. Blair and some of her people will be joining us. Perhaps Dr. Roark and his people. So you won’t be alone. I—I hope that makes you feel better.”

“It’ll be nice to have some other people around to talk to,” Diane assured him in her most soothing tone of voice.

“Yeah,” TJ said.  “I guess it’ll be okay with them.”  

Chapter Text

Baltimore, MD — Saturday (evening). June 26, 2004

Etienne woke up in a terrified blood sweat, with a chilling vision of Gabriel Roark wearing Saracen robes and armor, a few whisps of his auburn hair escaping from under the turban, but his pale eyes and face unmistakable. Not just a vision, he realized. A memory. I remember this man.

He remembered even more in the shower. It had been in 16^th century Milan, when Marius had been the Prince, and Etienne had been a not-quite-undercover spy for the Tremere and the Camarilla. There had been a masked ball, and a murder attempt on Lord Ruthven, and he and Gabriel had both been asked to investigate. Gabriel had been there with a party of Assamites; in fact, Etienne had just assumed he was an Assamite at the time. 

He wasn’t going by Roark then, either. It was something else, Kris-something. And his Lombardic was very poor. But he was still a sorcerer.

And he realized that Gabriel had finally recognized him too. That was the meaning of his look, when Etienne had said his real name in Axe’s meeting. Well, merde.

Etienne left Charles still in the shower, striding out with great purpose to find Dr. Roark.

He located Dr. Gabriel Roark in Mr. Treach’s home office, the Ventrue having just given Treach’s secretary, a young mortal named Brian, a copy of his consulting contract earlier in the evening.  

"You want me to fax this to the prince, sir?"  Brian asked, holding it up.

"Unless, of course, the prince requires a lawyer to review such documents beforehand."

"Well. Mr. Treach is his Highness' usual corporate legal counsel, sir,” Brian said. “So if you don't mind, I'd like to make a copy of these for him as well.”  Brian had actually seen worse, in terms of documents. It was Roark’s aura of outrage that made him a little nervous.   

"Feel free." Roark's tone was coolly professional. "Mr. Treach knows where to find me, after all."

"Yes, sir." Brian accepted his task. "Do you need a copy, sir? Or did you keep one?"

"I have one already, thank you." He glanced over his shoulder, and saw Etienne loitering just outside the door. "If there's nothing else—?"

"No, sir. Thank you, sir."

Dr. Roark was wearing a pair of gray cargo pants and a short-sleeved shirt in a very flattering shade of royal blue. He had shaved, and he had reading glasses perched on his nose, which he put away in his shirt pocket now that he no longer needed them. His longish red hair was tied back with a green elastic.

Etienne was in jeans over black boots and with a very nice too-thin-to-be-a-sweater-really knit top. "Dr. Roark," he said in an amiable tone, "I was wondering if I might have a private word with you?"

“Of course,” Roark said.

Etienne gestured up in the corner, where a tiny camera was set. Treach apparently had his entire haven bugged. "Maybe we should take a walk around the block instead?"

He flicked a glance in that direction and nodded slightly. "If you prefer."  

It was a lovely evening, if a little cool. The pavement was wet from a rain earlier in the day.  It remained overcast, though, and humid, with a flavor of more rain yet to come.

"You remembered first, didn't you?" Etienne asked quietly. "Or was it when I said my name in the prince’s meeting?"

"It was when you said your name in that meeting,” the Ventrue sorcerer said. “I admit, I had an inkling before then, though. You seemed familiar, I just couldn’t place from where or when.”

"You look very different," Etienne nodded. "Or you're dressed differently, anyway." He gestured towards the cargo pants.

"It doesn't pay to dress like a Arab in America, I've found,” Roark said. “Not if you look as white as I do, at any rate.”

Etienne took a quick look at the Ventrue’s aura, which was actually colored with bemusement more than anything else. "Well. This is awkward."

"Really? In what way?" Roark asked, frankly.

"But at least you seem—” Etienne stopped, started again. "All right, there's no diplomatic way to put this that I can think of offhand. You seem to have established some kind of certification in the Camarilla, at least. So maybe it doesn't really need to be awkward, but still.  The last I knew of you, you were with the Saracens. And the Lasombra. Has that changed?"

"If you're asking if I'm a member of the Sabbat, let me set your mind at ease,” Roark said, “I don't do causes. For anyone."

"Ah." Etienne considered that.

"I certainly don't do causes for people who consider personal hygiene an unacceptably human affectation." Roark paused while they passed a few random mortals who just happened to be walking down the same sidewalk. "Neither do I particularly incline to the altar of the Camarilla, though I have known to let myself be seduced into a contractually guaranteed relationship now and then."

"I trust you don't object to working with the House and Clan?"

"Personally? It depends on the individual Tremere. I have yet to work with 'House and Clan,' et al." His tone was wry. "Of course, I'm well aware that the Tremere in the DC chantry have little use for me, and the local Pontifex even less so."

Etienne nodded. “Dorfmann doesn't seem to like you, no."

"I was in DC, some thirty years ago,” Roark said. “I assume he told you what happened?”

“He did, in fact, mention that to me.”

“Ah, good. You’ll have to fill me in later on what his side of the story was. But since I declined their ever so polite invitation to spend some time with their Advance Thaumaturgic Forensics and Vivisection Glee Club, my welcome in DC, has, to put it plainly, quite worn out."

"Well,” Etienne said, “that's certainly one way to put it. It was a rather bizarre story."

"More bizarre than most people would imagine," the Ventrue assured him dryly. "But, for the record, if Pontifex Dorfmann doesn't like me, the feeling is more than mutual. I do not, however, extend that dislike to anyone who hasn't actually earned it."

"Well," Etienne said, "I think we'll probably be out of his jurisdiction in short order."

"All to the best, then."

"Very honestly now,” Etienne asked, “exactly what did you hope to gain from viewing these artifacts?"

Roark inclined a brow slightly. "Gain? Monsieur de Vaillant, I am a historian, and these artifacts have a distinctly historical significance—both for humanity and for our kind."

"Yes, all right," Etienne began irritably, and then quickly reined himself in. "I mean—forgive me, Dr. Roark. It's pretty obvious to me that they have some historical significance, I just haven't the foggiest idea precisely what that means. Whose activities exactly are we dealing with? Are you aware? Are these Ventrue ancestors?"

He shrugged. "It's immaterial to me whose ancestors they are. The exhibit came to my attention through scholarly channels—a colleague suggested to me that there might be Noddist artifacts among them. When I researched the nature of the exhibit, and the somewhat iffy origins of some of the artifacts, it seemed rather likely to me as well."

It had begun to rain again, and the two of them took refuge inside the hotel’s parking garage, standing on the entrance ramp just out of sight.   

"Noddist is an exceedingly broad term, Dr. Roark."

"Not particularly, Monsieur. 'Noddist' means 'pertaining to the Book of Nod.'"

"Well, let me explain right now that I have less than a student's acquaintance with the Book of Nod,” Etienne responded. "I've heard bits and snatches of verse that were supposed to have come from it—but that's all. So just knowing that this thing is of interest to Noddists tells me very little about what one could actually do with it."

"Do with it? Monsieur, we are speaking of the history of our culture and species. You don't have to be able to do anything with it for it to be valuable. Some consider the knowledge alone worth killing or dying for."

Etienne tried not to bristle and failed. "I'm not a philistine, Dr. Roark! But in this case there is very clearly something meant to be done with it."

"Our history—and, to some, our future. Though, to the Camarilla, I understand that the history alone is quite threatening enough,” Roark said. “I'm curious as to what leads you to that conclusion, Monsieur."

"Well, we're talking about a canopic jar, yes?" Etienne explained. “Now, granted, I'm not an Egyptologist either. But what I've learned so far tells me that one does not inscribe canopic jars with lengthy historical accounts. They might have names on them. They might have spells. Or they might belong to someone of importance to Kindred history, though how likely that could be I don't know, since the jars were meant to keep internal organs and elders do not generally eviscerate themselves before taking a nap..."

"They might also contain the desiccated remnants of human organs, Monsieur,” Dr. Roark replied. “The odds of a single canopic jar alone containing a spell of earthshaking worth to a vampire are rather small."

"But someone wants this thing, for some reason,” said Etienne. “And I have been studying photographs of related artifacts which contain characters of significance to Hermeticism."

"Canopic jars held the organs of the dead,” Roark said. “The spells attached to them were traditionally magics of preservation. Would such a thing function for a vampire? I honestly cannot say."

But then, Roark never actually saw the jar, Etienne suddenly realized. In fact, he wasn’t interested in the jar at all, he was focused on that basalt tablet.

“And the tablet?” Etienne asked, switching topic gears. “What is your interest in that?”

“Essentially scholarly,” Roark replied. “The text is supposedly unknown, but I might have other examples of it in my records. Every instance of that text is more of a clue to its meaning, especially in conjunction with related samples. It was suggested to me that I might wish to observe them—or, if necessary, preserve them—before other interested parties within the Camarilla decided to take that option out of my hands." His tone was cool. "That suggestion is usually sufficient."

"This someone who put you on to the lead,” Etienne pressed. “Was this a someone you trust, or someone who might possibly have had ulterior motives?"

"He is," Roark said firmly, "imminently trustworthy."

Etienne rubbed at his chin, cogitating. "All right. Given the fact that it has been stolen, likely by the Black Hand, does that do anything to your personal level of interest, Dr. Roark?"

"It's been my practice to avoid agitating the Hand whenever possible." Dr. Roark shrugged. "Sometimes, however, it's not possible."

"Then I take it you don't wish to get any further involved."

"Did I say that?,” he asked with a wry smile. “I distinctly recall saying 'sometimes, it's not possible.' If the Hand pilfered the artifacts, for whatever reason, that in no way alters my interest in the matter, Monsieur. The Hand tends to be populated with rather soft-headed fanatics who take every scrap of Noddist lore as holy writ and not the legitimate intellectual inheritance of all vampires."

"Ah, I see. But my point is here, is there a danger?” Etienne pressed on, “Should decent folk be worried? Are you simply going on the assumption that anything they're that interested in must be equally interesting to you?”

"Danger for us? Quite certainly. This is the Black Hand we're talking about. Does anyone else have a reason for concern? It's too soon to tell."

"Is that worth risking your existence?" Etienne asked.

"You sound just like—” Gabriel Roark chuckled, just a little, and didn’t finish the sentence. “Well, Monsieur de Vaillant, I assure you, I've risked my existence for things that interested me far less and gained me far too little before. I feel no particular hesitance in doing so now, either. If safety were my sole concern, I would never leave my little island. Or I'd invest in one of those airless vaults that Mr. Treach insists on sleeping in."

"You’re an adventurer, then." Etienne sighed—a rather human sigh—and then devoted himself for a second to calming down. “Like Indiana Jones, in the movies.”

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Roark said, with just a touch of good humor, folding his arms across his chest.

“Well, given my druthers, I'd certainly rather not be chasing the Black Hand. They've never been especially keen on my blood."

"Unfortunately, all our druthers have fallen by the wayside,” Roark replied. “For what it's worth, Monsieur de Vaillant, if we share the risks in this matter, they will be shared."

"That's good to hear," Etienne said. "I would also, of course, assume that any ill feelings from the past would be put aside?"

Dr. Roark sighed. "I don't have the stamina to carry a grudge for more than four hundred years, Monsieur de Vaillant. I’m not Tzimisce."

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Etienne said.

"Besides, there's no point to it." he offered a wry smile. "I do, however, admit to a certain curiosity concerning your own interest in this matter—since, as you said, you're neither an Egyptologist nor a Noddist historian?"

"No, just a warlock," Etienne shrugged. "As I said, Dr. Roark, Dr. Hewitt has shown me photographs of what he believes to be related pieces, and I have seen symbols on them which resonate for me as Tremere."

"So, your interest isn't personal, it's professional—and related to the interests of House and Clan?" Roark paused.

“And now that the Black Hand have taken a clear interest, I'm very worried. What if, as you say, someone is collecting canopic jars? Or other tiles or tablets like that one? It's the sort of thing that sets a magician's imagination wandering, and not to anyplace healthy.”

"That's entirely true and correct,” Roark replied. “One has to wonder."

"Also, my sire is more learned than I am," Etienne said, "And he has made it clear that this is a matter that must be investigated."

"Ah. That's the other reason why I avoid associating myself with causes." There was a little twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"What is...?" Etienne asked gamely.

"No orders from my sire."

"I'd be astonished to learn you had a living sire left, frankly." Etienne raised an eyebrow, amused.

"Well, true. No living sire. But grandsire? Yes, indeed. And, alas, clasped to the bosom of the Camarilla. I fear I've disappointed him dreadfully on more than one occasion." He laid one hand over his heart, in a theatrical gesture.

"Will you be claiming rights of eldest?" Etienne asked a bit coolly despite his best attempt otherwise.

"What, to run the show?" Roark answered, arching one pale eyebrow, "No. I tend to prefer more cooperative arrangements, to be perfectly honest."

Etienne nodded. "And I must also assume that you will remain Dr. Roark, and not—" He cast  backwards again through his memories. "Whatever it was. Began with a K-sound."    

"Let it lie, Monsieur de Vaillant,” Roark replied, wearily. “Even if it were relevant, I'm not that person any longer. I will, of course, assist our little enterprise with the resources at my disposal. But I don't expect, or even desire, to be in charge. That," he added, "would be a pain in the ass."

"Dr. Roark, if you're coming along, I must warn you—”

A wry look. "Warn me?"

"I'm already making arrangements for our departure, and they're not going to be especially comfortable—”

They both paused, sensing someone, another Kindred, approaching. Etienne saw a figure coming down the sidewalk through the scattered shards of light from the streetlamps; a skirted figure with an umbrella. Ah, Sarah.

She approached, and climbed the ramp up into the parking garage, lowering and closing her umbrella as she stepped inside. She was bareheaded, her hair up in some kind of chignon at the back of her head, and wearing a raincoat.  

"I hope I'm not interrupting?" she said, smiling.  

Etienne smiled. "Not at all. Dr. Roark, may I present Miss Sarah McCullough, my younger sister in the House and Clan. Miss McCullough, Dr. Gabriel Roark, renowned Ventrue scholar."

"Dr. Roark," Sarah said, and extended her hand. "We met the other night, briefly, but not properly."

"Miss McCullough." He accepted her hand and shook it firmly. "I'm pleased to see you again."

"We're packed, sir," she told Etienne. "We're ready to go, whenever you are. And Mr. D’Angelo says he's got some arrangements for you to consider. You should give him a call."

"Ah yes, of course,” Etienne said. “I'll do that right away."

"I think, Monsieur de Vaillant,” Gabriel Roark said suddenly, “that if our travel arrangements are in progress, I should tell you that I do have my own mode of transportation. At the moment, my private plane can accommodate eight other passengers. If we fly by day, up to four passengers with, uh, special travel needs."

"Really? That sounds marvelous,” Etienne said. “Unfortunately, we can't do that."

He glanced at Sarah. "After all, airport security is certainly heightened these days, is it not? And all flights must file a flight plan in advance?"

"Monsieur de Vaillant,” Roark persisted, “I am not leaving a Lear jet sitting in a hangar in Maryland accruing storage fees when it can be put to some use."

"A Lear? Very nice, Dr. Roark,” Etienne said, “But I'm afraid the only way we can possibly use it is as a decoy."

"Monsieur de Vaillant,” Roark said flatly, “nothing I paid over a million dollars for is going to be used as a decoy."

"We are following a lead of Dr. Hewitt's,” Etienne said. “He thinks he knows where to find more information on the items' provenance.  And I do not want anyone tracking us, which they will most certainly do if we take off in your Lear jet."

"Uh, I'll go check on Charles—” Sarah said quickly, opening her umbrella again and making her exit, leaving the elders to argue it out. 

“Unless you have some absolutely foolproof way of not filing a flight plan or landing somewhere completely different from the flight plan's stated destination—”

"Only if they know how to find us, Monsieur de Vaillant. You seem to be laboring under a certain misapprehension on this matter—my staff and I will be taking my plane.”

"Can't you send the plane home?" Etienne sounded exceedingly doubtful.

"If you searched the local airports,” Roark argued, “you will find no reference whatsoever to my plane’s ownership or flight plan. It’s one plane out of hundreds of private plane flights that take off and land every day at a big airport like BWI. It’s not even listed in my name. The Black Hand did not follow me here."

"No, but they will sure as hell follow you out," Etienne protested. "I would not rely on the assumption that they haven't found your plane."

"Monsieur de Vaillant, the only way that plane is returning to Grand Cayman is with me on it. I'll freely offer its resources to anyone who wishes to avail themselves of it. But I gave up traveling by crate in the 1940s."

"Look, if you have to take your Lear jet everywhere than perhaps you'd better not come at all," Etienne finally exclaimed. “If you think traveling by crate is my idea of a good time, it’s most certainly not—but we're dealing with the Black Hand here!"

"And, thus far, post-9/11-terror hysteria or not, I've been tripped up by many things but the plane has never been one of them."

"Have you had the Black Hand after you in the intervening time?"

"You're making the assumption that the Black Hand is 'after us,' Monsieur de Vaillant. You’ve also shown no proof or logical origin for that assumption. In fact, we are pursuing the Black Hand. If the Hand wanted us, we'd likely be entertaining a strike team by now. They're very efficient like that."

"I prefer to err on the side of paranoia, for reasons I'll be happy to explain once we reach our destination. Sacre Dieu..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I just realized I've been very rude to my elder, Dr. Roark. Please forgive me. You've done us the great kindness of offering us a fine conveyance, and I am deeply honored and gratified by your generosity. However, the fact remains that I cannot accept."

Gabriel Roark flinched, for just an instant, but continued. "Erring on the side of paranoia is all well and good, but I've found it mostly ineffective in the long run."

"Either you come along with us in the manner we have already chosen, or you will simply have to try and pursue whatever leads and methods are available to you individually. If we meet up again, I'll hold you no ill will—I'll understand if you don't feel the same."

"If there are travel plans in progress, I would like to review them—before they become set in stone. Which, as far as I am concerned, they are not yet."

"As far as I'm concerned, they are set in basic outline. But I really don't think we can afford the risk of your plane."

A shrug that, if Dr. Roark were actually from France, would almost be Gallic. "We will see."

"It's very simple, Dr. Roark. I know where we're going. You don't. I'm happy to reserve a place for you—or not. But those are the terms." 

"Then I regret to say that our partnership is at an end. Good evening, Monsieur de Vaillant. I wish you success in your endeavors, and I would humbly suggest you stay the hell out of my way."

Etienne bowed.  "Rest assured, I'll try."

Roark bowed as well, then turned down the ramp to the sidewalk, where he strode away in the rain.

Etienne returned to the Belvedere, cutting through the garage instead of using the sidewalk.

Sarah was waiting for him in the lobby. "Dr. Roark?" she asked, hesitantly.

"He isn't coming," Etienne said, shortly, “’Fils de pute têtu. Sorry. He insists on using the jet. It's too conspicuous."

"But he thinks it's not?"

"He may not quite realize. There's a couple of things I haven't told him yet.  But I don't want one word about where we're going leaking to anyone that's not one hundred percent trustworthy until we actually get there.  After that, then things could have been discussed more freely. But it's now moot."

"So, what is the plan? We have the three of us, and including my two, five mortals to transport?"

"We go as cargo. At least a couple of the mortals should fly, so as to meet us there. The rest might actually be better advised to drive."

"Drive to Wisconsin?"  She sounded dubious.

"If they switch off drivers, they can make it in about fifteen, sixteen hours, with rest stops and meals. I hear people do it all the time. They can rent a nice big van with a TV in it. I'll pay. It's probably safer for Charles' students than flying.”

He looked at her seriously. ”Sarah, someone's been trying to track us ever since Charles and I left Houston. You know what we have, and what they might be after. So it seems wise to operate on the assumption that someone's trying to follow our every move."

"Ah. I see."

"Your two might actually be the best to meet us, if we only let a couple fly,” Etienne mused aloud. “I doubt they're even on the Hand's radar. And they're least likely to be startled at the sight."  

Sarah gestured to a senior couple who were standing in the lobby, beckoning to them to approach. “Let me introduce them to you,” she said, waiting until the couple had joined them before continuing. “Max Klein and Sylvia Walters. My oldest friends.”

Max was a short man in his apparent mid-to-late sixties with a close-trimmed beard that was more salt than pepper, and a lot of energy, whose accent had twinges of Brooklyn. And he had a firm handshake. "Mr. de Vaillant. Sarah's told us good things about you. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise. She tells me you're both very good friends of hers. That's certainly all I need to know." Etienne smiled.

"And this is my wife, Sylvia Walters,"  Sylvia smiled and shook his hand as well. She appeared to be in her early seventies, with silver hair, stylishly coiffed.

"Ms. Walters, a pleasure, madame."

"If you're wondering where Mr. Treach is," Sarah murmured to him, "He's had to run out and see to a small … emergency. Emergency courtesy of Mr. D'Angelo, I believe. And speaking of Mr. D'Angelo, he needs to know our numbers. He thinks he has a plane lined up for us, he said."

"A plane? I trust you mean a cargo plane."

"Well, he said he had several options, depending on where you wanted to go. You should call him. Use the name Francis Grey."

"Ah. Yes, I'll do that."

"Mr. D'Angelo please. This is Francis Grey calling."

"One moment."  He heard symphonic music—Copeland, Etienne thought—while he was on hold.

Then the line was picked up.  "Mr. Grey. I'm glad you called,” Lorenzo said. "I've got a couple options for you, but it would help if I knew where you were going, or at least in what direction."

"Ah, yes, but can you secure your phone line?"

"Just a moment, I'll do that—” A few beeping sounds.  "Done. That's not a guarantee, but it will help."

"Unfortunately, I'm on my cell. Know anything about that?"

"Well, I can put a scramble on it. It should at least fuzz you out. Unless you want to call me back on a more secure line."

"Oh, okay." Etienne felt a bit lost. Hopefully scramble was good enough, whatever that was. "No, let's go with that. We want to go to Madison."

"Madison. In which state?"

"Wisconsin."

"Alright, let me see what we've got—” There's a sound of keys clicking; apparently Lorenzo could use a computer with greater ease than most CEOs. "You wanted to travel as freight? Would that be UPS or Federal Express?"

"Ha! I suppose either is fine.  The crucial thing is our ability to go as anything but what we are."

"When do you want to leave?"

"A.S.A.P."

"Hmm, alright, then. Let's see, three for freight?  What about your mortals? They can't travel in freight, it's too cold, and there aren’t any restroom facilities."

"Three for freight, yes. We'll be making our own arrangements for them, thanks."

"Separate containers, I presume. That would be best—"  More key clicking. "Daylight arrival okay? Or is there an address you can be delivered to?"

"Hang on one second. Let me confer."

"Will do."

"Thanks."  He hit the mute button. "Where’s Charles? This is a question we need him to answer—”

"Let me go find him," Sarah said, and ran off. She returned a few minutes later with Charles in tow.

Charles was looking a bit more distracted than usual. "What?" he asked, and when Etienne explained. "To my house—or would that be too obvious??"

"It shouldn't be anywhere widely known to be frequented by you."

"Oh. Well."  He frowned.

"Got a good friend? A really good friend?"

"Well, yes. I think." He dug out his wallet, and extracted a card.  Minniver Peacock, Antiques. "We've done favors for each other from time to time."

"That looks good. I assume you're not famously cronies or anything."

"She's still mortal, and still a secret, or at least she’d better be. She used to be one of my graduate assistants."

"Ah. So she knows. And presumably she gets deliveries a lot. That should be good."

“Yes. She'd rather have to by now," he said. "If I call her, she'll take care of things.”

"Good enough. Thanks, Charles."

Etienne got back on with Lorenzo and relayed this.

“Excellent. I can make this a furniture delivery then, and mark you as fragile..."

"Good, good," Etienne chuckled.

“You'll need to get down to the shipping dock by—” a pause as he checked his watch. "By 4 am, I should think, to get you all packed up.  I'll meet you there. Here's the address—” and he rattled it off, then once again slowly for Etienne to write it down. "Sarah will know where that is."

"Good. Many thanks, Mr. D’Angelo. Hopefully we can find out something of use to all of us..."

"I will want a full story when you get back. I wish I could go with you. Take good care of Sarah."

"Believe me, I will."

"Then that's all that matters. I'll see you at four."

"At four, then. We’ll be there," Etienne confirmed, and hit disconnect.

"Furniture?"  Sarah shakes her head. "Alright, if that's the way it is. What about the kids? And Max and Sylvia?"

"I--I'm not sure they should drive alone..." Charles murmurs.

"I would say, Max and Sylvia should buy plane tickets—I'll pay," Etienne said, "It'd be better if they didn't have to, but I'm worried about putting them on a plane."

"Alright," Sarah nods. "To Madison?"

"Yes. Goes without saying, I'm sure, but don't put it on your credit card or anything. I've got cash."

"They could do that. And if you think Max should go with the kids he could." 

"Perhaps we should talk to Dr. Roark again," Sarah suggested later, in a small voice. "Arrange to meet him somewhere, say, in a few nights?"

Etienne looked at her, eyebrows raised. "We could do that," he says slowly. "But either it has to be somewhere a good way away from Madison. Or we can't tell him until we've safely recovered Charles' things."

"I can understand him not wanting to leave his plane behind,” she said. “They're a bit hard to replace. And he could be doing his own research as well. He did promise the Prince a full three nights' investigation."

"Dorfmann says he's convinced this man is a diabolist."

"A what?" Charles blinked.

"A demon-worshipper."

"Well, is he?" Charles asks. "I don't suppose that's the kind of thing one can just, well, ask—"

"Obviously if I believed him I'd be doing things very differently. But until I have some better idea of what he really is—and isn't—I want to be careful. He is known as a Noddist of long standing."

"Dorfmann also told me that my sire was killed by the Sabbat," Sarah said, with just a touch of bitterness.

Charles looked confused. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. Was he?"

"Thank you, Charles. But no. He wasn't."

"I'm not taking Dorfmann's word for any of it,” Etienne said (though he did wonder how Sarah was so certain of that fact). “But no, it's not the sort of thing one can just ask either, and expect to get an honest answer."

“How did Dorfmann know?" Sarah asked. “Has he encountered Dr Roark before?”

"I don't know if they've personally met. Roark and I have met before, a long time ago—unfortunately, not in a terribly informative context.  So I honestly don't know. He's a sorcerer, and he's very old."

"Ventrue sorcerers are rather unusual. Though I actually know three, if you count Treach,” Sarah said. “But it's odd Dorfmann would make that accusation without some backing for it—I suppose I should say, ‘his lordship the most noble Pontifex—'"

“Just Dorfmann is fine," Etienne said dryly. "It's possible Dorfmann is engaging in some truth-shading. It's also possible he's just flat lying. Or it's just possible he's right."

"Oh, no, really?" she said, just as dryly. "It's just odd—for all I know, Dr. Roark has never been to Baltimore before. Well, at least, not to my knowledge.  I could ask around if it matters."

"He hasn't been to Baltimore, as far as I know. He has, however, been to DC. He was in contact with that Pieter van Dorn you've mentioned." 

"Oh, yes, I know Pieter,” Sarah said. “Now, Pieter we could talk to, if you were interested. He's a good man. I trust him."

"Unfortunately, Dorfmann is probably waiting to see if I call him."

"If you really want to talk to him without Dorfmann finding out, I could arrange it. But maybe not before we have to meet Lorenzo. It takes time to be sneaky."

"Speaking of Lorenzo,” Etienne reminded her, “Four A.M.?"

"Yes. My bags are packed. I think I'll wear more casual clothes if we're going to be roughing it, though."  She smiled. "The last time I flew, it was in a Tremere Lear jet."

"Seven Stars Express!” Etienne chuckled. "But no, not this time I'm afraid."

"Oh, well. It's an adventure. I don't think I've ever flown as freight before.."

"It's not that much fun," Charles sighed. "Had to do it trans-Atlantic once. Most uncomfortable. I suppose I can rough it, seeing as it's my things we're rushing back to secure."

"Well. Charles, Etienne—should Max go with the kids or not?"

"If it'll make Charles feel more at ease, yes."

Charles looked down. "I let them remember," he whispered. "Diane was not happy. She wanted me to promise to never touch her again."

Etienne put a hand on Charles' shoulder. "I'm sorry to hear that. Can you manage?"

"I won't make a promise I can't keep, not under all circumstances. When we get back to Madison, I think I may have to leave her there." He looked miserable. "Chloe wants to stay, though."

Etienne sighed. “I see. Well, that's too bad. Let's have Max go with them, then. Sylvia and Ms. Peacock at the other end should be sufficient to help us out."

“Alright,”  Charles swallowed. “Let’s do that, then.”

Chapter Text

Baltimore, MD — Sunday, June 27, 2004

Andreikov wasn’t able to get back to his research until Sunday night; he had obligations to his packmates that had priority, since he’d skipped out on them two nights out of three in the past week. But tonight he was holed up in his room at their shared haven, with the door closed and his laptop and a steno pad open on the desk, ready to make a few calls.

He’d heard of the incident where Courbet had been (supposedly) killed. That was before he’d arrived in Baltimore, of course, but he’d talked to a lot of other Sabbat since then, collecting stories in his function as Emissary, and he had a pretty good idea of what happened—not how Courbet had survived, but how the situation itself had been set up.  

There had been an Inquiry started by one of the Red Robes, a.k.a. the Sabbat Inquisition. The Inquisitors were notorious for their hide-bound orthodoxy to the whole Sabbat War Against The Antediluvians And Their Camarilla Puppets doctrine, Personally, Andreikov was not enamored of that doctrine, and most certainly not of the Red Robes themselves; he considered them the worst kind of religious zealots. But he was Black Hand, which meant the Inquisitors were both automatically suspicious of his personal allegiances, but also couldn’t touch him.    

As he had learned, the Inquisition had targeted a young Tzimisce named Corvo, who had been unfortunate enough to be captured by the Tremere— by Sarah McCullough, in fact— and actually survive the experience, and even was released in some kind of prisoner exchange. He was thus suspected of being a Tremere puppet, and given a task to perform to prove his loyalty: to kill a visiting Tremere Regent known as Etienne Courbet.

Andreikov had talked to Corvo, and Corvo’s sire, and the Lasombra ductus who led that particular pack. They were all deeply resentful of the Inquisitor who’d handed down that sentence—it was very plain that that particular Red Robe had intended for Corvo to be tragically killed while trying to carry out his mission. But instead, Corvo had actually succeeded, blowing up the car Courbet was driving. The Inquisitor had left Baltimore shortly after that, having failed to get a war started, the local Tremere having not taken the bait as a sufficient trigger (which, given who the local Regent was, should have tipped them off that maybe something didn’t smell quite right).

But now Courbet was back, having successfully faked his own demise, and given that had come as a surprise to the locals (even to some of the Tremere, apparently), he must have had a reason for his return.

Then there was Gabriel Roark, a Ventrue sorcerer. And while he was at it, he would look into Charles Hewitt, too.

But that would take time. And he was deeply suspicious that time was something he didn’t have a lot of.  

So he made a few phone calls, the first to a Ventrue Black Hand colleague, Vassar. She was in his time zone, being stationed up in New England somewhere. She had also once been in the Camarilla, but had fought her way free to join the Sabbat, and from there, the Black Hand.

“Good evening, Vassar,” he said. “Katherine. It’s Winter.”

She recognized his voice. “Hey, Pete. What can I do for you?“

“I wanted to get an expert’s opinion on Ventrue lineages. Cam Ventrue, that is. How’s your memory of the good old nights?”

“Oh, God.  Well, obviously what I’m connected to is what I know best,” she replied. “You’d be better off ringing up old Tonto. Why?”

“Yeah, I don’t know if you’re connected or not.” he acknowledged. “Got two names for you. Dr. Gabriel Roark.  And Dr. Charles Hewitt. Ring any bells? Don’t know sires or anything. Just those names, and they’re not local branches. My guess is that Roark is no spring chicken, though.”

“Gabriel Roark? Yeah, he’s a Noddist.”

That made sense to him. “Connections? How old?”

“I don’t know his lineage, though. He’s not on my immediate family tree for sure. I seem to remember hearing some vague rumor he was of Hardestadt’s line.” She seemed to think a minute. “Keeps to himself. Doesn’t mix with rest of the clan. I guess his brand of scholarship doesn’t go over very well with the salon set. But he doesn’t talk to us either. Or at least he’s always said no when approached.”

“British lineage, then. Well, it’s not kosher to admit the past is real, not with that set. Hmm—”  He typed that into his laptop.

“You want to know what he thinks, you read what he publishes. One of those.”

“Ah, good idea. I’ll see if I can find anything. Nothing on Hewitt?”

“Hewitt. Where’s he from?”

“Don’t know yet. Not local, though.  His accent was British. And he’s running around with a Tremere—some archaeologist-related trip. Tremere elder, old enough to be running around on his own, and the local warlocks can’t do shit about it. The name I have is Etienne Courbet...”

“Well, whaddya know,” he said, suddenly as information came up on his search. “Bullseye.”

“What? Are you typing while you’re talking to me?” She sounded amused. “You’re such a geek.”

“I take that as flattery, Vassar,” he responded. “What he wrote, here it is.  Charles Edward Hewitt. University of Wisconsin, Madison. Shit. Archaeologist professor, specializing in Ancient Egypt. I’m guessing he teaches only night courses.”

“Well, that’s darling,” she said. “I’m sure he’s a great favorite with the kids.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. We had a mission here—liberated a few Ancient Egyptian artifacts. Old shit, special request from someone High Up, if you know what I mean. Roark, Courbet and Hewitt were in town to see the same items. We got to ’em first. But we didn’t expect them to be there—which is why I’m scuttling around covering my ass on this one. Damn them.”

“Well, you can’t expect the Cam to always be there or not there on your schedule, my dear,” she said wryly.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he answered. “But it was my nice little operation they fucked up, so I’m taking this just a bit personally.”

“Sometimes they break routine. Thankfully not often.”

“Thankfully,” he echoed dryly.

“Ah. Well, if Hewitt’s in Madison, Wisconsin. Let me think—I think that’s mostly the Loganite tribe out there. But there was some kind of shakeup recently.”

“Yeah, I suppose you could call what happened to Logan a shakeup,” he said. “Do we have any Tremere experts left? Trying to pin down this Courbet fellow.”

“Well, let’s see. That’ll talk to you? You could try Matchstick. He’s only up on matters American though, if this goes back to, you know, Alexander’s Paris or something you could be out of luck.”

“Yeah, I remember him.” Andreikov kept typing, distractedly.  “I’ll do that. Thanks, sweetheart. Let’s hope not. American will do to start.”

“Welcome, hot buns,” she says dryly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, chuckling a little. “You know what I mean. I owe you one.”

“No problem.” She seemed satisfied that he had been properly chastised. “Keep it together, walk in the Word…”

“You too. Keep your eyes open.”

He hung up, and made some more notes. I always do that, dammit. And she never lets me slide.  He didn’t argue with her, though. Vassar was a Remover, whose skills lay in front-line tactics and get-away driving, and Andreikov had actually seen her fight.

“Okay, Matchstick.” He closed his eyes, walked through his boyhood home in his mind. There. In the cellar, on a shelf on the wall, a box of matches, with a number scribbled on the box.  Thus remembering, he dialed.  Somewhere on the west coast, a phone beeped.

He got a recording, which he left something appropriately obscure on, and a few minutes later he got a call back.

“Somebody is looking for me?”

“Yeah,” Andreikov replied. “This is Winter, in the Old Port City.”   

A few code phrases got passed through, and then they got down to business.

“Oh yes, Winter.” Matchstick was an Assamite, and he spoke English with a slight accent. “All right, go.”

“I’m told you know a few Tremere,” he said. “I’ve got one here I’m trying to get some information on. He seems to be interested in the same things we are. Name I have is Etienne Courbet.  Or maybe Francis Grey. Middle-aged, brownish-haired. Old enough to ignore the local regent if he wants.”

“Oh, a history question? What a breath of fresh freezing air you are, Winter, so few care where these people come from. Let me write down. Maybe Etienne Courbet or maybe Francis Grey.”

“And he’s definitely not a local boy.” Andreikov said. “Spelled C-O-U-R-B-E-T, I think. But I only heard it pronounced. He may be French.”

“Almost certainly pseudonyms,” Matchstick said. “But you think he may really be French? Well, if he’s really new off the boat then I probably cannot help you. If he has been living  in the States for a while, then we should look where there are substantial French populations. Louisiana, up the Mississippi, near the Quebec border. One moment.”

“Probably. The locals jump when he says jump and don’t know what he’s up to and wish they did. Yeah. I think he is. Just a gut feeling. Etienne ain’t as common a name for ’round here.  He spoke very good American English, I remember, no real accent. So maybe not fresh off the boat.”

“I get my file. Well, up in Quebec of course we have many Frenchmen…hm. How old is he again?”

“The source I heard said centuries. And he didn’t know for sure, and he actually was Tremere.”

“Ah. Well, most of the ranking Tremere in Quebec were brought into Blood in 18th and 19th centuries—” Matchstick mused. “Let me look at Louisiana and move up north from there…”

Andreikov was thinking out loud. “He’s old enough to vanish out of a flaming car without being detected, and stand up to a war pack single-handedly. And old enough to come and go as he pleases and not tell the local Tremere jack shit. Try older than 18th century.”

“Well, it is that last that most signifies.  I am looking.”

“—with an interest in Egyptian antiquities. Maybe even an authority.”

“Oh, St. Louis had an old Frenchman…Gaulois…Late Renaissance, is theorized…oh, no, he is dead. Let me see. New Orleans once had an elder from the Old Country. And the first name is Etienne, but that is very common French name.”

“Oh? When was that?”  He was making notes on the steno pad, using a ballpoint pen,

“His tenure is listed as circa 1830 to circa 1900…then it says, see California.”

“California. Okay. What’s his full name?”

“Etienne… Let me spell this for you. D-E. Then V as in vocal, A, I, L, L, A, N, T as in Tremere. This is my sire’s file…”

“V-a-i-l-l-a-n-t. Got it. What did he do in California?”

“I look. California…that’s odd. It says that he appears to be consulting. Was in San Francisco, then Santa Barbara… Has been sighted in New York, antique auctions. Ah, Bishop de Polonia, the old bastard.”

“What?”

“That is his fault. Always making little back-door deals with Camarilla elders.  Tourist passes into New York. This is part of why we lose the City. So they want to see Carnegie Hall, I say fuck them.”

“Ah. Yeah, fuck them. We’ll get it back. So is de Vaillant still in California?”

“I don’t know.” Matchstick said.  “I should check. This file hasn’t been updated in several years.”

“I’d appreciate it. How old is he? Does it say?”

“Let me look in Louisiana again.”

“Sure, thanks.”

“Heh. It says he makes large donations to abolition society…”

“Oh? Interesting. Anything I could use to identify him, to see if this guy is that guy? A name. A hook.”

“It just says ‘dialect – pre 1400.'”

“Ah, shit. Fucking old. Need something to dangle, and see if he bites.”

“To identify him? Well, speak to him in medieval French and see if he understands.”

“I don’t know any medieval French. Hey. do you have a signature?  Any copy of his handwriting at all.”

“No, but if you get one, I know a man who can analyze them. These elders, they keep little habits from the days of feather pens.”

“I’ll see if I can. Ah, right. I just bet they do…” He glanced at his cheap Bic. Well, I guess I’m not an elder... yet. “How about a name, some other Tremere from the chantry at the same time?  Or someone he was connected to. Anybody.”

“Certainly. Yvette Montrachet, Embraced 1845…oh, she’s dead. Let me see. Nicholas Lambert, it says see Texas… He is Regent of Conroe, evidently…”

“Ah. Good. That’s good… When did Yvette die?”

“1897.”

“Good. Any other possible Etiennes… or Francises, for that matter? Just to make sure we’re covering all the bases….”

“Well, if we look in French areas…let me look at the towns along the Mississippi,” Matchstick said. “And in old French Canada. I call you back in twenty minutes.”

When he did call back (in thirty-eight minutes, actually), Matchstick did come up with a mysterious “Etienne,” no last name, who was thought to be operating as a special scout in Kansas City, no age given. And a couple of Francises, one on the West Coast and one on the East Coast, only the latter of whom sounded at all likely.

“Oh, well. If it comes to you out of the blue sometime, feel free to let me know. This is a good start, though. I’ll let you know if I find out anything. So you can update that file. Thanks a lot, Matchstick. I’ll let Jafar know you’ve been a big help.”

“Do that, and tell him to call me back, I have interesting news for him if he will sit down long enough to listen to it.”

“Oh? I’ll tell him. Thanks.”

“Not everyone has your patience for historical research, Winter.”

“Takes all kinds, I guess.” Andreikov knew Jafar had little interest in pre-20th century history unless it was directly relevant. But this might well become relevant.

He thanked Matchstick again, and hung up. Made a few more notes on the information the Assamite had given him.

And then he checked the time, gathered his nerve, and called South Dakota, to Blackhorse Tanner, otherwise known as Otaktay. The expert on lineages, whom Katherine referred to as “Tonto.”  

Katherine had never actually met Blackhorse Tanner, but Andreikov had. The old Lakota warrior was the most Tzimisce-like Ventrue Andreikov had ever met. He tracked lineages, yes, but he did it on parchment made from the flayed skins of the very clans each book was tracking. Andreikov had interviewed him once, and actually witnessed the way the parchment had been made. Fortunately, Andreikov wasn’t the squeamish type.

“Winter? Young Winter? What could you want of old Otaktay?”

“Good evening, Otaktay. I’m looking into a little mystery here in the Old Port City and I’ve got some odd folks poking their nose in. Two Ventrue, one Tremere. And I’m trying to figure out where they’re coming from—and why.”

“Tell me their names, then, and I’ll see what I have.”

“Dr. Gabriel Roark.  Dr. Charles Hewitt.  and a Tremere, Etienne de Vaillant. At least I think that’s his real name—he’s not using that name here.  It’s a matter of some lost Egyptian antiquities, if that helps. They lost ’em, we found ’em.  Roark’s a Brit, I think. Mithras’ line, maybe, but not sure.”

“Well, I don’t got much on Tremere, but with Ventrue, all I need is the name.  H-E-W-I-one or two t’s?  And which spelling of Roark? Never mind, better check all of them. Gabriel? I know that name. He pisses me off.”

“Does he? Why?”

“Well, he’s supposed to be from Hardestadt’s line.”

“Supposed to be?” Andreikov heard the creak of parchment books opening. The creaking sounded like the cries of the victims whose hides had been harvested, sometimes multiple times, for those very pages.

“There’s just one little problem. Ever heard of the Conclave of Milan?”

“Which one?”

“The first one. The one that sorta blew up.”

“Shit. Is he that old?” Andreikov said.  “Heard about that, yeah.”

“Well, I think he is, but every account I have of his lineage puts him as a childe of Katarine Wolfram. Thing is, she wasn’t even Embraced until ten years after the Conclave. But I’ve got this Keeper letter that mentions somebody matching his description pretty damned closely being at the Conclave, as ‘His Highness’ mysterious red-haired Ventrue sorcerer guest’...”

“Sorcerer?  Shit. That may be him, going by what I’ve seen. And he’s got red hair. What else does it say?” Andreikov made some more notes on his steno pad.

“Now, I have to tell you, I can count the number of red-headed Ventrue sorcerers out there in the history of Clan Ventrue on half of one hand.  And I know what I’m talkin’ about on this subject, sabe?”

“Si, yo se.” Andreikov answered. Yes, I know. “Any more information in that letter that might be pertinent?”  He wished he could examine all these cool sources first hand, dammit, even if that meant handling Otaktay’s parchment volumes. “His Highness. Giangaleazzo, I guess, he’s old enough. Shit. Ain’t talking to him.”

“Well, he certainly pissed this Lasombra off. It’s a letter from a Bishop Colonna to an ‘Angelic Majesty’ in Rome. No, this is before Giangaleazzo. This is back when Giangaleazzo was just wishing.”

“Before Giangaleazzo?  Who was prince before Giangaleazzo?  Heh. Wish he was still wishing.”

“One of the dell’Aquilas, I think. Damn. I keep meaning to get back to that lineage. The old Lasombra houses, very interesting…”

“Full of old Lasombra.”

“But side interests have to stay side interests, right? Still, it comes in handy every so often to know who their mommies and daddies were. You can shut them up when you need to.”

“Yeah, it does. Got anything on Hewitt? He’s British, but currently in Madison, Wisconsin, I think.”

“Oh, Wisconsin, that should be pretty easy…Yeah, here it is. He’s the childe of Gerald Wood, who was the childe of William Rafferty, who was the childe of Sir Gilbert d’Harfleur—” 

Andreikov wrote all that down.

“So, what is this really about?” the Lakota elder asked. “Let’s trade…”

“The Stolen Treasures of Egypt. Traveling museum exhibit of looted antiquities from the turn of the century, back before they had laws about it. Heard of ’em?”

“No, but I heard about the rape of Egypt. White man’s burden all over.”

“We liberated a few key pieces. But those three—Roark, Courbet and Hewitt, plus a few locals—got it in their heads to visit the museum right as we were doing our job. And they weren’t even on my fucking radar. So now I’m doing the cover-my-ass trick. But some Setites must’ve wanted those pieces awful bad. Don’t know why Lord Bardas asked us to run the op for them. I just did the local set up.”

“I sympathize. Cover it quick and well. You don’t want Roark on your tail.”

“Oh? What’s this about Roark? Who the hell is he?”

“However old he really is, he’s bad news. Freelance Noddist. Not affiliated with either sect.”

“Not affiliated?”

“Not that I know of. Which goes against everything I know about Noddists. How can you believe and know and still not take a side?”

“There aren’t too many Cammie Noddists,” Andreikov said. “That’s a damned unpopular point of view to take from the Ivory Tower. And if he believes, and even if he’s not with us, stands to reason he wouldn’t be in too cozy with Pieterzoon’s bunch, either.”

“I’m not sure how Camarilla he is. Keeps to himself. Personally, I think he is one of those loathsome black magicians who would sacrifice anything to any of the Betrayers for personal power.  But that’s purely a guess.”

“Oh. Fuck. Well, I’m not gonna stand in his line of fire. He really is a sorcerer, though. Teamed with a Tremere—oh. Speaking of—“

“He’d better not be with the fucking Inconnu.  But I will take him regardless of what he is. Some night.”

“Yeah.”  That kind of talk always made Andreikov nervous, even though he had noticed there wasn’t a Tzimisce book. He’d been afraid to ask why. “Tremere. Etienne de Vaillant. dialect pre-1400.”

“I have precious few Tremere volumes.”

“European old fart, from what I’ve discovered so far.”

“You want to talk to Genghis, or to al-Qu—no, he’s martyred, isn’t he. But his childe Matchstick makes a hobby of Tremere genealogy too…”

Creak, creak, creak, went the parchment books.

“I talked to Matchstick already,” Andreikov said. “Just touching all the bases.”

“What do you mean, dialect pre-1400?”

“That was a note Matchstick had on this guy. From when he lived in New Orleans. Meaning he’s really old, I guess.”

“Well, there’s only three big Tremere lineages. Etrius, Meerlinda, and our friend Goratrix. Any idea which one?”

“Nope. He’s French, if that makes any difference. Don’t know if that really mattered, back then. Could be from before Goratrix became our friend, so to speak?”  Even as he said the name Goratrix, Andreikov found his fingers making a sign he remembered his mother doing, when someone was dead, against the evil eye.   

“Well, Goratrix was the Councilor in France. Let me look.  Ooohhh—Now that is interesting.”

“What?”

“It’s good I write this shit down.”

“Yeah, and—?”

“Well, you remember that a few years back the Oriental Councilor was assassinated?”

“No, but I’ll take your word for it. Did we do it?”

“No, sadly, we did not. But his successor caused a stir in Noddist circles because he came absolutely out of nowhere, a Timothy of Essex, who wasn’t on anyone’s genealogies. But turns out he is of Goratrix’s line.”

“Ah. Right, Timothy of Essex, now that sounds very English.” Andreikov wrote that down.

“And I had de Vaillant in here, sire unknown, but evidently he’s a childe of this Timothy, so I cut him out and pasted him in place. No childer of his own, though. Wait, that can’t be right…”   

Creak, creak, creak, as Otaktay flipped through his books.

“What?”

“No, no childer. In six hundred years?”

Andreikov was all but on the edge of his seat. “Six hundred fucking years?“

“Nobody goes six hundred years without making a childe—well, maybe Tremere do. Ventrue sure as hell don’t.”

“I guess he’s not the family type. Okay. Childe of Timothy of Essex, six hundred fucking years old. Shit. Well, don’t they got to get permission or something?”

“Sure, but how else do you get little Tremere cockroaches running around?”

“Maybe they just breed.”

Otaktay gave a snort of laughter.  “You wish, Shaper.”

Andreikov chuckled. “We’d prefer they not breed, to be honest. Well, shit. And these are the two elders poking their nose in our business here.  Given the odds, our casualties were light.”

“Bend over and kiss it, Winter.  You might want to let your old Jafar know about this…I am sure this changes things.”

“Does make me wonder what the hell it is with those Egyptian things, though. Yeah, I was going to, believe me.  If I should be so unlucky as to see Roark again, I’ll be sure to give him your regards.”

“Please do. Count coup. I’ll be back for the rest.”

Andreikov grinned. “I’ll be sure to tell him—” And they exchanged formal goodbyes and thanks, and Andreikov hung up the phone.

He typed his report all up, with detailed backgrounds on the various Cainites involved. It was, in fact, only now starting to occur to him that it might have been nice to know just why his superiors were so keen to lay hands on these artifacts. Because it might make a hell of a lot more sense if he knew what they were really after.

He sent the report to Jafar, who would then (presumably) send it up the chain of command to the Seraphim, the mysterious circle of elders who decided what missions the Black Hand should undertake.

Meanwhile, Roark had vanished, probably gone home to his Caribbean island. De Vaillant and Hewitt had also disappeared mysteriously, to parts unknown. Baltimore, the ‘Old Port City’ in Black Hand lingo, went back to normal, more or less, and the Stolen Treasures of Egypt exhibit never did open to the public.

Andreikov made a few notes for himself, things to watch out for, in case he was ever assigned a mission like this one in the future. Though to be honest, he expected that this would be the last he heard anything about it.

(He was wrong, but it would take a while for him to find that out...)

Chapter Text

The Belvedere, Baltimore, MD — Monday, June 28, 2004 (after midnight)

“Charles, would you happen to know where the kids are?” Etienne asked.

“The—the kids?”  Charles didn’t quite jump, but it was close.

“TJ and Diane and Chloe,” Etienne said. “They’re around, yes?”

“Oh. Well—” He closed his eyes, and concentrated. “They’re in their condo, downstairs. I imagine they had some things to talk about.” He shoved hands in pockets and tried to look nonchalant.

“Well, I was just going to introduce them to Max, since he’s going with them in the van.” Etienne gave him a half-questioning, half-sympathetic look. “You can come along or not, as you like…”

“I think I’d better come,” Charles said.

“All right.” Etienne retrieved Max and Sylvia, and proceeded downstairs to the kids’ condo.

He knocked, and TJ opened the door.

“TJ. Hi.” Etienne peered past him a bit. “Everyone here?”

“Well, if you’re looking for Dr. Roark’s people, they moved out already,” TJ said. He fell back to stand with the girls. Charles smiled in an encouraging manner.

“Along with Roark, I suppose. That’s okay, they’re not coming with us. We’ve figured out the basic plan.” Etienne explained, as he surveyed them.

“Yes. We now actually have a plan!” Charles said.

Diane studied Max and Sylvia and tried to guess if they were vampires or not.

“You three are going to be driving home—not that that’s what we’re telling the van rental people. And Max here is going with you. This is Max Klein and Sylvia Walters—they’re friends of Miss Blair’s, who is coming with us.” 

Chloe was at least semi-reassured by Max and Sylvia. Sylvia looked like the kind of society matron type who had her hair done once a week, attended garden parties, and sat on Symphony Committees. Her nails were done, she was wearing subtle but tasteful makeup, and expensive, stylish clothes. Max seemed far more down to earth. He had a kind of genial older uncle vibe to him, not quite old enough to be grandfatherly.   

“A van?” Max echoed, doubtfully. He and Sylvia exchanged looks.

“Yes, you know, one of the big ones with the TV set in it. Max, Sylvia, meet TJ Greer, Diane Webster and Chloe Lehrer. I figured you’d want something with room to stretch out in,” Etienne explained. “Since you’ll more or less need to drive a straight shot.”

“Well. There’s Keiko. That’s Sarah’s—” Max paused, trying to think how to explain. “The silver Toyota Highlander.”

With a resident spirit, Etienne remembered.

“But whatever Sarah says,” Max added, not about to argue with a vampire without backup.

“I don’t know if that would work, that would be something we’d have to discuss with her,” Etienne mused. “Sarah is—” he turned to the kids. “That’s Miss Blair.”

“We might start getting into some real name confusion around here,” Etienne flicked an eyebrow at Charles.

“Right. A good point,” Charles agreed, having only one name.

“Well.” Etienne looked a bit awkward momentarily, then blustered on. “I think it’s become apparent my name’s neither Steven nor Copperfield. I’ll answer to it, but my name is Etienne de Vaillant, and I’m sure that’s how most of the others will be addressing me.” His complete and total lack of French accent was startlingly evident, except when he said his name.

“And Sarah is not Miss Blair, really,” Max put in. “She’s Ms. Sarah McCullough. Or just plain Sarah. I don’t think she’ll need Dr. Blair’s name on this trip, and she’s not really the formal type.”

Etienne nodded; he had been wondering about that last name. “Right.”

“How are you traveling, Charles? Sir?”  TJ asked. Etienne was still a “sir” to him, apparently.

“Ah.” Etienne’s glance slid over to Charles again. “Well, we’re taking advantage of one of our peculiarities…”

TJ inwardly pleaded for a sanity check: Please, please don’t say you’re flying as bats or something…

“We’re going as cargo,” he finished lamely. “A precaution, in that I’m afraid that someone is likely trying to spot our exit from the city. Which means I don’t want to buy plane tickets under any of the names I currently have at my disposal.”

“Cargo?” Diane echoed, startled. “As in, locked up in a coffin or a crate?”

“Crate,” Charles confirmed. “You’ll be far more comfortable in the van, trust me.”

“I don’t think the coffin part will be necessary,” Etienne said. (This was clearly not an appetizing thought in any case. Though Etienne had met numerous vampires who did travel as mortuary shipments, and, in fact, swore it was the only way to travel long distances.)

“And it’s too obvious, I guess,” TJ adds.

Etienne nodded. “Right. That would be too obvious.”

Diane looked at the two of them. “And what about Dr. Roark?” Inwardly, she was thinking, Please, no Turk, I can’t take it he’s watching me the whole way to see if I crack…

“He’s not joining us, at least not for the present.”

Diane tried not to look too relieved.

“So. You’re taking either a rental van or Sarah’s SUV, we can discuss that…”

“And leaving when?” Diane was already mentally packing.

“I think you’d better leave as soon as you’re ready,” Etienne said with a conferring glance at Charles. “If we’re all going to meet up at something like the same general time. If you rent the van, you’re renting it one-way to Boston, which, of course, is not really the plan at all.”

“Where exactly are we going, then?” she asked, still in mid-mental packing.

“This address.” Etienne showed them the card.

“In Madison?” Diane took the card. “Oh, I know where this is. It’s over in Middleton.”

“Right. Don’t say it out loud again though,” Etienne said. “And if you get pulled over or anything like that, wherever you’re going, it’s not there.”

“And we hope no one follows us, either, right?” TJ asked.

“If you see someone following you, then you already have a problem,” Etienne told them. “Go somewhere else and call us that evening.”

“We’ll handle it,” Max said, confidently.  

“Right. Max and Sylvia know the ropes,” Etienne said. “And if anyone asks you where you’re going, you say…?”  

“Boston?” TJ guessed.

“Unless, of course,” Max put in, “we’re already westbound on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Say Chicago then. It’s big, and it’s on the way. After that, say Minneapolis.”

Chicago, Chloe remembered, and flinched a bit. She was doing a whole lot of alternately staring and trying not to stare, wondering if being “friends” with Sarah McCullough was the same as being a “protégé” of St. Clair.

Max seemed ready to go. “I’ll wait to hear from you or Sarah about Keiko,” he said. “And we’re packed to go. Sylvia?”

“Yes, Max, you’re packed,” Sylvia answered dryly.

Etienne nodded. “Excellent.”

“But I’d better go help Sarah pack—how are your things going, monsieur?” Sylvia’s French pronunciation was perfect. “And is your luggage going in the crate, also?”

“Ah, good question. Let’s see. Some of it should actually go in the car. And Charles…”

Charles wasn’t listening.

“Charles?”

“Right! What?” He looked at Etienne.

“That one bag of yours, that Sarah brought back with her? I’m torn about it. If there’s trouble in daytime, it’s safer with them, if there’s trouble at night it’s safer with us.”

“Oh…” he paused. “That bag…” Charles looked reluctant to let it out of his possession again, now that he’d reclaimed it. But he knew during the day, they were helpless.

“I think perhaps it had better go with them,” Etienne said finally. “I can renew the protections quickly. But they will be awake—someone has to be awake—at all times. Yes?”

“Someone had better be,” Max said. “The driver, and at least someone else.”  

“Coffee, Max,” Sylvia said, with a smile.

“Yes, dear,” he replied, easily.

“The Sabbat do not operate by day, of course,” Etienne said. “But I think we should assume they have daytime help. Get me the bag and I’ll do it right now. I’m more or less ready otherwise.”  

“I-I guess I’d better go pack, then,” Charles suddenly realized. “I’ll get that bag.”

He scurried off, though not without one final look at Diane and the others.

“Good. I’ll be down the hall.” Etienne, too, cast a wary look at the kids and moved off.

Max followed him, but he smiled at the kids. “See you shortly.” Sylvia followed them out.

The trio of students looked at each other. “That’s a long drive,” TJ said, stating the obvious. “It’s doable, sure, but we will need to switch off the driving.”

“Yeah. Nothing like diving right through,” Chloe murmured. “I mean, right off the deep end…”

“We won’t stop in Chicago, Chloe,” TJ assured her. “It’ll be alright. We’ll just drive right through on the freeway. And it’ll be daylight by the time we get there, anyway.”  

“We’ll also have the—” Diane stopped, remembering Chloe hadn’t seen it. “The artifact. The Imseti.”  

“Yeah, but don’t talk about it,” TJ said. “Not yet.”  

Chloe retreated into the bedroom to pack. Or, well, to help Diane pack. Since she had exactly two changes of clothing in her backpack still.   

“So, now it’s Sarah McCullough and…Ed—”

“Etienne,” Diane said. “Just call him Monsieur. That’ll save trying to remember the rest.”

“Etienne. Is that French?”

“Yes.”   

“He doesn’t sound French. I wonder if that’s not his real name either.”

“I have no idea,” Diane said. “But so long as he sticks to one name, I guess it doesn’t matter. Charles did say he was older. Here, I’ve got an extra t-shirt. This one might look good on you. Or you can just use it to sleep in.”  It was black, and had some fantasy thing with a woman in armor brandishing a sword.  

Chloe looked at the t-shirt, considered, and then accepted it with a smile and thanks.

Diane started to take out a University of Wisconsin t-shirt, and then buried it under her other pair of jeans, finally settling for a plain red one with a slightly scooped neck. If I’m going to spend 16 hours in a car, I want to start with a clean shirt.

“How many centuries, that’s the only question now,” Chloe said. “I mean, I wonder if Charles E. Hewitt is even right—”

“Charles?” Diane thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know. But it’s the only name—well. Of course it’s the only name I’ve heard.”

“I wonder what would happen if you looked back,” Chloe said. “I mean, the professor said he was doing archaeology on the Khufu sarcophagus. When was that?”

Diane considered. “1880s, I think. You mean, look up who was actually on that expedition? That’s a thought. If I have a chance to access the University computers, I’ll bet they have some documentation. Egyptology was very popular in England back then. They used to unwrap mummies over tea, can you imagine?”

“Yuck,” was Chloe’s succinct comment.

“We could look in the museum catalog—” Diane mused. “Do you suppose they’d mind if we took one? There were two.”

“There’s a copier downstairs.” Chloe, the business major, had already found the copy room.

Diane rolled up the last t-shirt and stuffed it into its corner of her bag. “No, I want the original. With the color pictures. Come on. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Okay…”

She poked her nose out the door, looked both ways. Then went, at a good pace, but not too fast.  Chloe padded along.

There was no sign of Dr. Roark or his escort, or anyone else. The hall was quiet.

“The private sitting room,” Diane whispered. “Come on…”

Chloe nodded and followed Diane in her best Mission-Impossible style.

The hall outside that was deserted too, but, as they discovered when they poked their heads in, the room itself was not.

The vampire who had been Cassie Blair but was now—uh, Sarah—was sitting there, curled up on one of the loveseats, reading the catalog. And she looked up as they come in the room.

The girls drew up short. We probably look nervous—and slightly guilty, Diane thought.

“Hi,” Sarah said, smiling. “I wanted to see one of the artifacts, but it turns out the one I was most interested in was one of the ones the thieves actually took.” She sounded disappointed.

“Oh.” Diane tried a smile. “No, that’s fine, I can probably tell you a couple things about the artifacts if you need to know something.  We got to look at them. Not for long, though.” She was attempting nonchalance, but wasn’t sure how well that came across.

Sarah uncurled, and put her feet on the floor, balancing the book on her lap. “I did get to see the ones still in the museum. There was that big sarcophagus, and the gold statue of Horus. But I was hoping to see the bronze mirror. This one.”  She opened to the page. “And of course it wasn’t there anymore.”

Diane was hesitant to come closer, even though Chloe nudged her.

Sarah turned the book around and held it open on the end table. “This doesn’t show the actual mirror side, just the back. Did you get to see—” She stopped, looked at them more carefully. “It’s alright,” she said, softly. “Honestly. I won’t bite.” She smiled, revealing perfectly normal human teeth.

Diane was not really amused, but she tried to pretend like she was. She offered another rather sickly smile.

“Right. The mirror, okay.” She finally gave in to Chloe’s prodding and came forward.

Sarah regarded them more carefully. “You’re new to all this,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have joked about that. But it really is alright. Tell me about the mirror face. Was it smooth? Scratched or cracked? Shiny, could you see yourself in it?”

“It was still smooth. If it were polished and treated it could probably shine. There was some verdigris, of course,” Diane said, doing her Brisk Professional thing. “There was also a bit of writing along the edge, but it’s in ‘demotic G’, which means that nobody knows what it says.”

“I wonder whose it was?” Sarah mused, leaning on the arm of the chair, her chin in her hand. “Someone must have spent a lot of time gazing into it. Checking her—or his, I suppose—kohl. The braids in their hair—”   

Diane and Chloe exchanged a look. Weird gal…

“Maybe it was a gift, and whenever she looked in it, she was reminded of the giver? But I don’t suppose archaeologists think about that part of it much.”

Diane blinked. “Well, we do speculate, at least a little. The  catalog states that it may have been for priestly use, but I don’t know if that’s actually right. They’re probably just presuming because of the material and the shape that it was used in the worship of Ra.”

“Oh, because it could reflect sunlight, and was in the sun’s shape,” Sarah said. “And bronze, painted originally in gold. Metals with a solar association.”

Diane did not know where to put this mentally. “Why?”

Sarah looked up at her from her seat. “Why what?” 

“Why are you interested? I mean other than just curiosity.”

“Because of the magic. And because I’ve always liked very old things.” She fingered one of her necklaces; it had an unusual pendant, of silver and a rounded gem set in it. 

“The magic?” The girls edged minutely closer.

“The Egyptians were known to work magic,” Sarah explained. “As you said, the priest may have used the mirror in a ritual. Hermetic Tradition has Egypt as the foundation of all magic—tradition, of course, is not exactly based on archaeological facts. But it would be interesting to find out where that tradition really started.”

“So you’re a… a historian, or—?”

“I’m a witch,” Sarah told them, quite matter-of-factly.

“She does own a New Age bookstore,” Chloe murmured. One of Sarah’s pendants was a pentagram, right side up. The idea of a vampire witch didn’t seem terribly reassuring, however.

“You’re Wiccan?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re coming with us?” Diane had meant that to come out much friendlier.

“Yes. Well, actually I guess you’re driving with Max, and I’m going with Etienne and Charles. I gather you’ve not met many of us before?”

No joking now. Diane and Chloe look at each other.

“No,” said Chloe. “Not many.” She rubbed at her wrist.

Sarah’s eyes caught that. “You’ve known one other, though.” she guessed. “Not Professor Hewitt. Not Monsieur de Vaillant. Someone else.”   

Chloe’s eyes widened. “No—I mean, why?”  

“There was an echo of pain in the way you held your hand—but perhaps I am mistaken.” She shrugged, and didn’t press Chloe any further. “You have no need to fear me. But if you’re not quite ready to believe that, it’s really okay. It does take some getting used to.”

“Sarah—?”  From the hall, it sounded like Max.

“You’re a friend… of …of the monsieur—”  Chloe said.

“Yes.” she nodded.

Chloe looked as though she’d like to pursue it but didn’t dare.

Max poked his nose in the room, peering around the door. “I might have known. You’re wanted, missy,” Max said. “Hello, Diane, Chloe.”

“Am I?” Sarah looked amused. She closed the catalog and offered it to Diane.

Diane accepted it with a surprised smile.

“Yes, you are. Sylvie’s been looking for you—” He came closer. “You’d better go help her with your, uh, working bag, before she starts putting your picture on milk cartons.”

He reached down, took her hands, and pulled her to her feet, which Sarah allowed him. “Alright, alright, I’m going. I’ll see you later, then,” she said to the girls. “Have a safe trip.”

“You too,” Diane managed to blurt out.

“Thanks,” the vampire-witch said, and departed, Max made little shooing motions at her as she went.

“Well, I’m getting better at that,” he said, with satisfaction.

“At getting her to move?” Diane asked.

“At finding where she’s hiding.  Although this wasn’t that hard to guess. Are you two packed yet?”

“Yeah—yeah, basically,” Diane said. “I just wanted to look up one last thing before we left.”

“Look up—oh.”  He noticed the catalog in her hand. “Oh, that’s from that exhibit—the one that got broken into. The Stolen Treasures of Egypt—I read about that in the paper.”

“Yes. It’s kind of central to this whole thing. This, uh, caper. It’s what TJ and I do. We’re graduate research assistants.”

“So you know all about this Egyptian stuff?”

“At least somewhat, yes.”

“I read this book. Land of the Pharaohs. It was pretty interesting.”  

“Right, I know that book,” Diane said. “It’s reasonably accurate, if simplified.”

“You’ll have to fill me in on more of the details on the way. Bring your bags out to the back alley—you can cut through the pub’s kitchen downstairs, it’s not open—when you’re ready.”

“Okay.” Diane nodded firmly. “Will do.”

“I better go see what car it is we’re taking. Keiko was a bit low on gas. I’ll see you in a few—”  And he gave them a bit of a salute and departed.

Etienne looked critically at the silver Highlander. “I’m concerned that the Sabbat already know what kind of car you drive…”

“They won’t notice her,” Sarah said. “Honestly. She’s almost invisible, if Keiko is paying attention. And she will be, if she understands what’s at stake.”   

Etienne pointed to the bumper sticker that proclaimed My Other Car Is A Broom. “That would seem to be a giveaway to your identity.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll remove it,” Sarah said, though not with any particular enthusiasm. “I can always get another one when we get back.” She dropped down to a squat, and began to peel off the sticker.

The back of the SUV could hold quite a bit of luggage, and it sat four people very comfortably.

Until Charles approached the back of the truck with his satchel under his arm. The hatch slammed down suddenly, startling both Charles and Sarah, not to mention Diane and Chloe, who were about to load their own bags.

“What?”  Charles jumped back, alarmed, cradling his satchel against his chest.

“What is it, Keiko?” Sarah asked.

Diane and Chloe looked at each other. Is she talking to the CAR?

Etienne seemed to hear the car's complaints, and Sarah did, too. But no one else did.

She laid a hand on the hatch. “Keiko. It’s important. We must keep it safe. Out of the wrong hands. Can you guard it for us?”

She paused for a moment, listening. Then she said, “No, Keiko, it can’t. I know you just brought it here, but Caliban isn’t as mobile as you are. You still need to guard it for us. You and Max must take it far away from here, so it can be safe.”

There was another pause, as if the spirit was thinking this over. Sarah smiled and responded, “I can’t go with you, at least not this time. Your road will be in daylight, so I have to go another way. But I will meet you at the other end of the road. You and Max will have to handle this. Can you do that?”

The car seemed to agree that yes, it could.

“That’s my girl,” Sarah said, and patted the hatch. It then opened obediently.

“Good,” Etienne nodded. “Thanks.” 

Sarah introduced the three students to the car, and vice versa. They looked at her oddly. Etienne gave them a “just go with it” look.

“This is Keiko,” Sarah said. “She’s very sensitive, so be careful what you say.” 

Max, fortunately, was taking it all in stride.  “Good girl, Keiko,” he said, and patted the hood. “Glad to have you with us.”

“In short, be nice to the car,” Etienne supplied. “And she will be nice to you.”

Diane gave Chloe the High Weirdness glance, and exchanged a shrug with TJ.

Max offered to drive the first leg, since he knew the general Baltimore metro area. He gave Diane the map.

“Who wants to ride shotgun?” Max asked, packing his own bag in the back. “Have we got everything?”

“If I’m map-woman, then I’d better.” Diane said.

TJ and Chloe bundled into the back seat.

Please fasten seat belts. The voice was feminine, with a slight Japanese accent, and this time they all heard it, in their heads.

Max was adjusting the front seat to fit, then buckled up. “You heard the lady, buckle up,” he said.

“Did you hear that?” Chloe whispered urgently. Both Diane and TJ nodded, though Diane was looking around for the hidden speaker.

Max chuckled. “I got one rule on this trip. Whoever is driving picks the music. That okay with you?”

TJ shrugged. “Sure.”  There was a fold-down armrest in the back seat between them. He rested one arm on it, smiled at Chloe.

“Sounds fair,” Diane said.

“Not that we have a lot of selection. Is there a CD case back there? TJ, Chloe, look around.”

“Got it,” Chloe said. “We got Sarah McLachlan, Clannad, uh, some classical music, one very goth-looking one, and a couple of home-recorded things. This one's labeled C. Voyager.”  

“Oh, that one’s piano. Good stuff,” Max said. “But let’s start with the radio. Just to keep an ear on the news, until we’re out of the metro area.”   

Sarah came around to squeeze Max’s hand before they pulled out. “Be careful,” she said.

Charles waved to them through the doors. “Have a good trip,” he said. Etienne waved too, and gave a friendly smile.

TJ gave Chloe’s hand a squeeze too.  And they all waved, as Max backed up, and drove  away.

Diane turned the radio on, searching the AM band till she found a news station. “God, I hope this isn’t one of those right wing idiot stations.”

News sounded about normal. “Well, if it is, you can change it,” Max said. “Haven’t much use for idiots on either wing, to be honest.”

First, they had to get out of the city, which Max was not totally sure how to do from the Belvedere, so Diane fed him street directions until they got to a street with signs to the interstate. Of course, since they were leaving in the middle of the night, there was no real traffic—yet.

Chloe tried to sound nonchalant when she ventured her first question.  “So, you’re probably pretty experienced with all this, since you’ve been friends with her for so long—”

“Experienced with what?” Max asked.

“With Kindred,” Chloe said, and almost sounded natural.

“Ah. Well, we haven’t had that much. Sarah tried to keep us out of all that. As much as she could, anyways,” he said. “But we couldn’t let her go off on her own again. Not this time.”

“Why not?”

“We’d worry about her too much, not knowing where she is, if she was gonna make it back in time—but you know about that, don’t you? With the professor and all…”

Silence. In time for what? Diane wondered, but didn’t dare ask.

“He seems to be pretty good at taking care of himself,” Diane said finally. “Why, should we worry?”

“Well. Given what bits I’ve heard of what you ran into the other night—” he gave them a look in the rear view mirror.

“Well, he has said it’s dangerous,” Chloe admitted. “For all of us.”

“Yes, I imagine it is,” Max replied. “Anytime you got the Sabbat involved—what I heard of that lot, it’s plenty dangerous.”

“So it’s just been Sarah, pretty much?” Chloe asked. “You must like her a lot.”

“Yes. Just Sarah. And Dr. Blair, God rest his soul, but he’s gone now.” 

“Is that her… father?”

“Well, in their terms, yes. And he was a good father to her, too, when she needed one.”

“Well, we’ve only really known the professor,” Diane said. “And Copperfield—Monsieur de Vaillant—but he only joined us recently.”

“He seems like a good sort,” Max said. 

“Sarah isn’t that old, is she?”

“Old? Well,” He hesitated. “Depends on who you’re comparing her to.”

“Charles,” Diane said shortly.

“I don’t know how old your professor is.”

“He’s something like a hundred, he said, and he also said de Vaillant is ‘centuries old’.”

“She’s not that old, no,” he admitted.

“So did you know her—before?”

“Before what? Spit it out.”

“Before she became a vampire,” Diane said, with great annoyance.

“Ah.” He was quiet for a moment. “No,” he said, at last. “Sylvia did, I’m pretty sure, but I only met her… I guess it was about eighteen, twenty years ago?”

“Oh.” She was clearly sitting on another question.

“It was after I met Sylvia.”  He glanced over at her. “What?”

She looked back at him, evidently determined to bare-face it now. “So it didn’t throw you? I’m just thinking, it might be easier to deal with when you know the person beforehand.”

“What—ah. That she was Kindred? Perhaps. Sylvia might be able to say, I don’t know.” He mused for a bit. “Yeah, it threw me, as you said. Took me a while to get used to it. It’s kinda hard to believe, when you first find out.”

“No kidding.”

“But it did help—the explanation, that is. Made it easier to understand her. She was such a charming girl—”  His cheeks and ears flushed, and he changed his focus. “Sylvia and I got married then. So it’s been the three of us—well, others sometimes, in and out—for a long time. So we couldn’t let her just run off into this alone.”

Diane nodded. Cogitating.

“You just found out, didn’t you?” he asked. “About them. About Kindred. That’s why you’re so full of questions?”

“It was fairly recently,” Diane said wryly. “Only a few days ago, really. And we haven’t had any real chance to talk with anyone else. All these rules they have, and enemies. It’s a little confusing.”

“Yes, it is. Sometimes even to them, I suspect. To us, well. They’re like another species. An alien civilization, existing right alongside us.” 

“And Charles isn’t always forthcoming.”

He chuckled. “No, I imagine not.”

“He has his reasons, I’m sure—” TJ puts in. “You remember what Copperfield—er, whatever his real name is—what he said. That Charles was taking a risk talking to us.”  

“De Vaillant,” she replied tartly. “Yeah, he said that. But who knows what he actually meant, he’s not exactly talkative either.”

Max took this in. “Did he now? He’s right. It’s one of their most important traditions, their Prime Directive, if you will. They call it the Masquerade. It means that ordinary folk like us can never know that they exist. Unless, of course, we’re under control. In their service, under their blood. So him talking to you isn’t as bad as him talking to, say, your parents back home.”

They paused to consider THAT surrealist scenario. “Mr. and Mrs. Greer, allow me to introduce myself…”  

“Right, ” Chloe murmured. “Otherwise it would eventually get out. Get proven.”

“And by the way. You talking to anyone else—like your parents or a friend back home—would be blamed on him. And you’d all suffer for it. Their laws only carry one penalty.”

“Death?” Diane guessed, suspiciously.

“For all of you. Including anyone you told. Either memories must be adjusted, or it’s death. No leaks are allowed.”

“I don’t imagine Kindred fool around a lot.” Diane said.

“They tend to go for the easy way out,” Max explained. “Memories are easier to play with than trying to explain a lot of deaths. But they also won’t hesitate to kill if that solves a problem for them. You should take that seriously.”

“Believe me, we’re taking it all very seriously,” Diane assured him.

“So you have met others?” Chloe asked. “Or is this what Sarah told you?”

“Mostly it’s what she tells us,” Max said. “Like I said, she’s tried to protect us. But we hear things, anyway.”

“I’m sure that there are lots of not-so-good sorts,” TJ said, thinking of the pale gunman.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. You take the average person, we all got little character flaws inside. You make that person Kindred, and all the flaws tend to come out to play, because, well, they can. So you learn to appreciate the ones who still hold on to the good inside them.”

They pondered this too. Chloe wondered what St. Clair had been like, before. “I don’t guess becoming a vampire does a lot for your personality,” Chloe ventured.

“I don’t know,” Max admitted. “I never knew any of them before and after. But the rules change. Suddenly, you’re just not human any more. And you can try to hang on to what you were, to remember what it felt like to be human. Or you can go the other way, become something else entirely, something cold blooded and monstrous.

“But you’re lucky,” he finished. “The professor seems like one of the humane sorts.”

“Sarah told you this too?” Diane asked at last.

“No, not really,” Max said, cheerfully. “This is me reading between the lines, and keeping my eyes and ears open, and my mouth shut. Sarah won’t let me meet the other kind, if she can help it. But I know they’re out there.”

Diane nodded again. “So you don’t think de Vaillant is the other kind.”

“Him? Oh, no. No. Sarah thinks the world of him,” Max said, with some confidence. “He’s old, and he’s seen a lot. Been through some really tough times, I’ll bet. But he’s still got his heart. And he really dotes on her, like she was his own daughter. I see it in his eyes, sometimes.”  

“Yeah, he does seem to like her a lot,” Chloe said at last.

Max smiled. “Yeah.”

“He’s a scary gentleman,” Diane said bluntly. “There was a thing a little while ago—a guy attacked us and he stepped in.”

“Yeah, I guess so. He has to be able to scare other Kindred. They get that way, when they’re old. But he’s not really a monster, not in here—” and he tapped his chest, over his heart.  

“Yeah. He almost had the guy wetting his pants. And that thing they do where—” She cut  herself off.

“Don’t look at me, I had a concussion,” mumbled TJ. 

“That thing they do?” Max prompted her.

“When they look into your eyes and make you do things,” Chloe supplied quietly.

“Yes, he was doing that to the guy,” Diane said.

“Ah. Yes. That thing,” Max said. “I imagine he’s quite good at it, yes.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“That depends on circumstances, I’d guess. I mean, if you want to know why someone attacked you, but that isn’t what you’re really talking about, is it?”

Diane opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again. “Well. Yes, the guy attacked us out of nowhere. Yes, de Valliant was protecting us. I guess it’s the principle of the thing I have a problem with.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Max agreed. “I would too. She’s never done that to me. Well, hardly ever. The one time, it was a good thing she did, but that was different. Not all of them can do that, of course. But those that can, tend to use it. An old guy like de Valliant, it’s easy for him.”

“So Sarah can do it too.” That means they can all do it, Diane reflected. Great.  

He nods. “Yes. She can. She can do a lot of things, but she won’t. She won’t mess with your minds, you don’t have to worry about that. Honestly. She won’t.”

“What else can she do? I mean, if it’s okay for you to tell us…”

“Let’s see. Sarah can move things with her mind. She’s a regular poltergeist—though I think de Vaillant can do it too. That’s a Tremere trick, that is.”

“Tremere?” Diane jumped on that.

“Tremere.” he repeated. “The Kindred are divided into clans—bloodlines that share common abilities and traits. The Tremere are one of those. De Valliant and Sarah are Tremere. That means they’re sorcerers. Your professor, he’s a Ventrue. That’s something else entirely.”

“Sorcerers?” Diane echoed.

“She said she was Wiccan—” Chloe said, a bit faintly.

Diane interrupted her. “You mean as in spells and potions and—”

“You’ve heard of the Golden Dawn?”  He nodded. “Oh, she is, but that’s her religion. She’s also a magus of the Hermetic School, that’s her profession, and the organization she works for is House and Clan Tremere.”

Diane only had the vaguest notion of what Hermetic meant. Chloe had none. “Golden Dawn?”

“Spells, rituals, knowledge of sun and stars, the patterns of life and existence. Well, that’s the most common variant, you can find in all the bookstores—”

“You mean—wait a minute, that’s like Aleister Crowley.” TJ put in.

“Pahgh!” He snorted. “Crowley was insane, and a sex maniac besides. But yes, something like that. Only older.  They’re much older; they go back hundreds of years. The knowledge the Golden Dawn tried to rediscover, the Tremere never lost. They’ve been keeping it secret all this time. But that’s about all I know,” he finished, and sighed. “I’m not Tremere myself, and Sarah won’t teach me more than is permitted—”   

“All right.” Diane massaged the bridge of her nose. “Vampires? Sure. Sorcerers? Why not.”

TJ was wide eyed. “You mean you study magic, too?”

“Of course. Though I’m Jewish, not Wiccan.”

“All right. Well, that’s not what I expected,” Diane said. “So Charles has collected two sorcerers for this enterprise. And what exactly is a—what did you call him? It began with V.”

“Ventrue,” he said.

“And what is that?”

“That’s his clan. I heard Sarah saying it. The Ventrue are… hmmm. Businessmen and leaders of society, most of them. A lot of the princes are Ventrue. Mr. Treach, who owned that part of the hotel you were staying in, is a Ventrue. So was Dr. Roark.”

“Well, Charles certainly isn’t a businessman,” Diane snorted.

“That’s for sure,” TJ agreed, yawning.

“So we were staying with his blood kin or some such.”

“Well, they’re many things, really. Yes. A kinsman of some kind. Charles could probably tell you the exact relation—the Ventrue keep track of their lineages.”

“So it really is like a—like a subculture,” Chloe said, thoughtfully.

Max chuckled. “Oh, yes. It most certainly is.”

“Are you getting all this, TJ?” Diane prodded, looking over her shoulder at the back seat.

“Huh?” He blinked. “To be honest, I’m getting sleepy—” He found one of the pillows that got tossed in on top of the luggage, and tried to get comfortable, while still holding Chloe’s hand.

“We’ve got a long trip,” Max said. “And some of you should get some sleep. Diane, if you’d like to keep talking, that’s fine with me. Put on some of that music if you like.”

“Right,” Diane said. “Hand me the case,” and Chloe passed it up front.

TJ yawned again. “Okay,” he said, and offered Chloe a shoulder to snooze on if she wanted it.

After this, Diane didn’t press him, and just let the conversation move on to other topics. She discovered that Max could talk about pretty much anything. And he’d let her talk about anything, too.

She also learned a few bits of trivia. When Sarah got upset or angry, things rattled on shelves. Max had served in the army, in Korea. He had been married before, but his wife died, and he had grandchildren he hadn’t seen in over a decade, because his Orthodox son didn’t approve of his marriage to a non-Jew, and then the son died in a car accident before they could be reconciled, and his widow remarried and moved out of state. He was a writer, he had written articles for magazines, newspapers, and even written some short stories—detective fiction, mostly. And as a writer—he’d learned a little about a lot of things. Max even knew a little about Egyptology (they discussed Budge for at least a while), and he had traveled a lot. He was full of stories, and stories were good for long car trips.

Diane decided she liked him.

At one point she took out the A Little Night Music CD, by someone named Rachel Evans. It looked, well, rather goth.  “You may not want to hear that,” Max said. “It’s a little odd.”

“Well, let’s see—”

“It’s beautiful stuff,” he said. “But it’s vampire music. Rachel is Kindred, Sarah told me.”

“Vampire music?” Diane lifted one eyebrow, and put it in. “This I have to hear.”

The music was lyrical and haunting. Rachel had a beautiful voice, a velvety smooth contralto. She sang about always waking up in the dark, about loneliness, about the Hunger, about being on the outside of life, looking in. About losing hope, and then finding it again. About warmth, desire, longing, and though she never exactly said it—blood.

Diane wasn’t sure if she liked it or not, but it was definitely tapping into her emotions. She could hear Chloe sniffling a little in the back seat, so it clearly had the same effect, maybe a bit stronger, with her, too. TJ, of course, was dead asleep, even snoring a little.

Diane wondered what Charles would think of it.

The Highlander headed off into the west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, its destination a medium-sized Midwestern city halfway across the country, as the skies gradually lightened behind them.

Chapter Text

Baltimore, MD — Monday, June 28, 2004 (after midnight) 

“What exactly does one wear to be packed in a crate?” Charles asked, as he was packing his suitcase for the trip. “I don’t think I’ve had that experience. And I wouldn’t wish to wear something inappropriate.”

Etienne looked up from his People magazine. “Nothing you don’t want to get rumpled and need serious drycleaning,” he replied. “It’s your friend who’ll be opening us up, yes? This Ms. Peacock?”

“Right. Got it.” He started going through his clothes again. “Yes, that’s the plan, right?”

Charles trotted into the bathroom to get dressed and brush his teeth and comb his mustache. “I’m probably going to come out rumpled,” he muttered.

Etienne checked that he was at least as fresh going into the crate as he was likely to be coming out of it.

Charles ended up wearing a nice pair of khakis, sneakers, and a bright red U-of-Wisconsin-Madison sweatshirt. “This isn’t too casual, is it? I never get to wear this.”

Etienne tried manfully not to raise an eyebrow. “Well, you know your own friend, but I’m sure it’s fine. Patriotic, even.” He offered a slight smile.

Charles brightened. “Right! School spirit, and all that.”

“Exactly.”  Etienne nodded reassuringly. “Now let’s hurry. We’re supposed to be there in half an hour. Which means we should have walked out the door five minutes ago.”

Charles closed his suitcase and carry-on bag, and declared himself ready. Etienne grabbed his bags too.

Sarah was waiting for them, already packed. She was talking to Mr. Pickering. “I’m sorry, we can’t wait for Mr. Treach, our flight leaves very soon. Do give him my warmest regards, and thanks for his kind assistance—”     

Sarah was wearing a black college hoodie, with Towson State University emblazoned across the front in gold, jeans, and sneakers. Her hair was pinned up in a ponytail, and she looked like a college coed going out for a jog.

Etienne grinned at her. “You’re matching!,” he exclaimed with delight. “You and Charles.”

She glanced at Charles, and smiled, giving him a thumbs-up sign. “So we are. I just wanted something comfy.”

Mr. Pickering helped them pack Charles’ rental car. Their luggage filled the trunk. Sarah shook his hand; he seemed a bit surprised at the courtesy.

“Yes, please convey our thanks and felicitations to Mr. Treach,” Etienne said, and Charles chimed in as well. “Yes, do that. Much appreciated.” 

“Yes, sir. I’ll do that,” Pickering said.  

Charles was driving. “I’ve got the directions,” Sarah said, “but if you’d like to sit up front?”

“No, no,” Etienne told her. “You’re the navigator, you should sit up front.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, and let him open (and close) the car door for her.

They were going to a warehouse complex near Baltimore-Washington International Airport, where Lorenzo had arranged to have their crates prepared.

Lorenzo D’Angelo was there waiting for them, along with a pair of his ghouls (and several others on guard duty), Etienne sensed them around the area. There were three separate crates, slightly different shapes, all marked ‘Fragile‘ ‘This End Up’ and ‘Do Not Stack’.

“Good evening, Mr. D’Angelo,” Etienne said. “Looks like you’re ready for us.”

“Good evening, Mr. de Vaillant, Dr. Hewitt, Sarah,” Lorenzo smiled, and showed them the crates. “Here you are—we’re going to weigh the crates afterwards, and list that weight on the lading bill, since that’s one of the things they’re actually checking for these days. Your luggage should go in first, in the sub-compartment here.”

The crates had layers—there was room in the bottom for luggage, and then it was filled with packing material. Then another layer of wood was laid down, with a person-sized compartment fitting on top of that, packing material of Styrofoam blocks holding it in place.  The resting cavity was lined in dense foam, and had a kind of blanket laid on top of that, which could be tucked around the occupant.  The crate’s lid was lined with more of the foam material.

“Ah, good,” Etienne said gamely. It never looked comfy, of course. But it was better than the last time he went as cargo. And at least the crates were large enough so that he could lie down full length. Getting good and wrapped in the blanket was a good precaution, too.

Charles looked dolefully at his crate.  Right, that’s how you do it. He tested the foam padding, poking at it tentatively.

Etienne clapped a hand on Charles’ shoulder on the way to his own crate, but didn’t say anything.

“Miss Blair?,” a ghoul said, coming into the room. “There’s someone here for you, a young lady. She says you told her to come?” 

“Oh, yes, of course. I’ll just be a minute—”  Sarah followed him out to the office front of this warehouse.

Etienne waited, making sure his one ‘working’ bag was well secured in the crate.

“Is this long enough?” Charles asked, making a big deal of measuring. He seemed none too anxious to get in it.

Etienne eyeballed it. “Looks fine to me, but if you want this one, be my guest. You’re tallest, you should get the biggest box.”

Sarah returned in a few minutes; there was a girl with her. Etienne remembered seeing her at the bookstore. Sarah called to Lorenzo, who went to join her. There seemed to be some kind of introduction going on. Lorenzo took the girl’s hand, bowed and kissed it.

Charles studied Etienne’s crate, also. “I don’t know—maybe they are the same. I’m not sure I’ll fit in any of them, really. I-I guess this one will do.”

But he still didn’t get into it. 

Etienne was more interested in what was going on over with Sarah and Lorenzo, and the girl. He overheard her name, Claudia—or was it Deidre? He wasn't sure. He also heard the name Lucia, but didn't see anyone else. Goodbyes were being said. The mortal girl hugged Sarah, and Sarah hugged her back.

Etienne went over to Charles. “It’s all right, really, Charles. In just a little while you’ll be out like a little light and not care where the hell you are.”

Sarah and Lorenzo walked the girl back to the offices.

“I—I really hate being in a coffin,” Charles admitted. “Funny, isn’t it? I mean, you’d think it wouldn’t be a problem. Tight, enclosed spaces. Like—like being in a tomb. Like a mummy.”

Etienne quirked a brow. “Well, I hadn’t thought about it like that, but now that you’ve brought it up, I won’t be able to think of anything else. You really don’t look like a mummy, though, I have to say.”

Sarah and Lorenzo started to come back, but he stopped her for a private word. Very private, given how close they were standing to each other, in the shadows under the stairs.  

Lorenzo caught her arm. “A moment, Sarah. Please.”

She let him lead her into the shadows under the stair.

He took her hands in his. “I… had two things I wanted to say to you, before you left. First—” He smiled. “I am honored, and deeply grateful for your trust—I will look after her as if she were my own daughter. I will earn her trust—and Lucia’s; for now, it is enough to be given a chance.”

“I have the utmost faith in you,” she said, and gave his hands a squeeze. He gave her a bit of a squeeze back.

“Second,” he murmured. “I have been—I am—grateful for your friendship. It—you—have come to mean a great deal to me, far more than I can express.” One hand released hers, rose to brush her cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers.

She smiled at the caress and stepped closer, slipping her arms in under his suit jacket and around his ribs; with a soft sigh, he enfolded her in his arms as well, holding her close, his cheek against her hair.  “I’ll miss you too, Lorenzo,” she murmured into his shirt.

He released her, then tipped her chin up to look into his eyes. “I know your heart is elsewhere,” he whispered. His dark eyes seemed bottomless; his gaze held her in its warmth. “But know you take a piece of mine with you, always.”

He bent down slightly and kissed her. It was brief, sweet; they had shared kisses before. But then he kissed her again, and this was no light gesture between friends, but something longer, more intense, and as she responded to him, more passionate. She would have been breathless at the end of it, had she still breathed.

As it was, she simply let him hold her close, until he mastered himself again. “Forgive me,” he said at last.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she assured him. And indeed there was not; how could she condemn him for offering her such a precious gift, even if it was not one she could give in return? She did care for him; he had been a loyal friend, and he was handsome, intelligent, with a soul and spirit to match her own. Had her own heart been free, there was no one else she knew who was more worthy of it.

But her heart was elsewhere, and so even if Tremere Code did not forbid such unions (which it did), she could not be his lover.

“I’d hate to spend eternity in—in a sarcophagus like that,” Charles was babbling now. “Heh. Funny. A bit too casual to be a mummy—”

“Too big and strapping, too. Remember, you’re furniture.” Etienne thought for a moment. “You are—let’s see—you’re a nice big Louis XVI rolltop.”

“I am?” Charles repeated. “I’m not sure I’m dressed for Louis XVI—”

“Certainly.” Etienne grinned. “Or you could be Queen Anne if you’d rather. Or an Art Deco coffee table?”

“Oh, I never liked Art Deco—” Charles dismissed that.

“Art Nouveau, then?”

“That might be a bit better,” Charles considered that image, tried it out mentally as a concept.

Etienne was curious about Sarah’s intimate farewell to D’Angelo too, but he was more invested in calming Charles the hell down. “Are you a coffee table or a writing-desk?”

Charles checked the foam again. Just to see. “I-I think I’m more of a writing desk type.”

“Good. Then you’re probably insured for something on the order of fifty thousand.”

Charles checked the bill of lading just to be sure. “Why, so I am! Very good, Etienne!” He gave a brave little chuckle. “I-I should have packed my glasses in something.”

“Here.” Etienne produced a pocket handkerchief and handed it to him.

Charles took off his glasses, wrapped the handkerchief around them and then realized his sweatshirt lacked a pocket. “They should really put pockets on these things.” he mumbled. He unwrapped the glasses and then hooked one earpiece into the collar of the sweatshirt. “I saw this in a movie once.”

“Put it in your bag then, that ought to be all right.”

“Oh, good point.” So the layers had to be taken out for Charles to get to his bag. He found a case for his glasses, he put them in that, and then the bag was stowed, and the riding compartment was set down again. “There, that’s taken care of…”

“Yes. I’ll watch and make sure you’re secure in there,” Etienne offered.

Lorenzo and Sarah returned. She had her hand tucked in the crook of his arm.

Very cozy. Maybe she figured that since Marius is presumably out of the picture? (At least, as far as he knew, the Lasombra elder was out of the picture—which was all to the good, as far as Etienne was concerned. Sarah really did not need that kind of complication in her existence. And Marius was nothing if not complicated.)

“Oh. Right. I-I guess. I guess I should get in. I-I can do this, I can do this—” Charles muttered to himself, as he gingerly stepped up on a box, got in place, and lay down. “I didn’t wrinkle the blanket, did I? Do I need to get out again?”

“You’re fine,” Etienne said firmly. “Into the breach, Hewitt.”

Sarah slid her arms around Lorenzo’s neck; he picked her up, and then laid her down gently in her own crate.

“Right—” Charles lay down, crossed his arms over his chest, and shut his eyes tightly. “Right. Okay, I-I guess you can lock me in—”

“That’s a lad.” Etienne checked the padding. Charles was in there nice and snugly.

“You’re good. All right, I’ll see you there, Hewitt.” The crossing of the arms is another detail I won’t even ask about.

Lorenzo was doing the same for Sarah, tucking her in. He kissed her hand, and then finished covering her up. The ghouls were there to help secure the crates as well.

“Mr. de Vaillant, your turn,” Lorenzo said at last, leaving Sarah to be sealed in by his crew.

“All right,” Etienne said in a good semblance of joviality, “Thanks.”

Lorenzo helped him get settled. “Take good care of her,” he said in a low voice.  

“I will,” he murmured back. And Etienne was sealed in as well. If he listened, he could hear Charles reciting something, some 19th century poem with lots of verses, trying to stay calm.

Why on earth did Charles not even mention being claustrophobic?  Englishmen!

They were aware of being nailed in, and then of being moved. Charles’ recitation got a bit more frantic then.  A forklift took them into the truck, and then the truck drove off.

Charles, you’re going to have to SHUT UP to play cargo…

—Etienne? Sarah’s mental voice in his head. She and Etienne had shared blood in the past, which made it possible for her to reach him. —Is Charles alright?  

—Doesn’t sound like it, does it? Can you get hold of him? Help him out?

—I’ll see what I can do. Poor Charles.

Etienne listened for mortal heartbeats in their area, and heard none, save the two in the cab.  The truck was moving, on its way to the airport. He waited a little bit longer, and listened to see if Charles calmed down and shut up.

—Poor Charles. He’s petrified—what’s the problem, do you know?  Sarah asked him.—He’s actually trembling.

—No idea. I think his imagination’s getting the better of him, Etienne replied. —He said it was like being a mummy in a sarcophagus. Which I guess is what an Egyptologist would think of, but it’s not exactly a healthy meditation for this situation!

—He’s claustrophobic, clearly—let me see if I can get to him, Sarah said. —And don’t give me the lecture about astral walking without a guide, just spot me.

—No, go ahead. I’ll watch you as best I can from over here. Etienne tried to relax and go into closer to trance mode, and turned on his spirit-sight.

—Charles. Charles, listen to me. No, no, it’s alright, it’s me, Sarah. Shhh. Just me. What’s wrong, Charles? 

At least Sarah is a very charming spirit-visitor to have, Etienne reflected.

“I—Nothing, nothing. I’m fine—”  Etienne could almost hear his teeth chattering.

—Shhh. shhh. Close your eyes, Charles. You’re going to be fine, this will be fine. You’re safe, Charles.

Etienne lent her as much support as he could through the mental connection.

Charles was striving to not be afraid, but it wasn’t helping much. “I really, really don’t like small spaces,” he whispered.

—Move your fingers. You can do that, right? Move your toes. That’s it. You’re fine, Charles. It won’t be long now.

“I’ll be fine, thank you..” 

Did he seem any more fine? Etienne wondered, but was forced to conclude, not really. But he’s trying. He’s not dead.

—You’ll be okay, Charles. You’re not dead. You’re just resting. Tomorrow night you’ll be out of there. 

“Right—”  A whisper.  

—I have an idea, Etienne sent a thought to her. —Ask him about the buildings at University of Wisconsin-Madison. See if he can remember what’s where. We’ve got to get him thinking about something besides whatever he’s actually obsessing about.

—Got it. She picked up on that quickly. —Charles, tell me about the university at Madison. What building is your office in?  

“Oh, Sterling Hall, room 341.”  

She started by getting him to give her a play by play tour of the campus. Gradually, he was telling more details without prompting. He also sounded a bit less stressed. In the meantime, they learned more faculty gossip than they ever wanted to know.

He went silent when the truck stopped.

—Charles, you need to remember who’s in what office in Sterling Hall. Start on the first floor. Walk through it, remember every office—shhh. Not aloud. You can do this in your head. We don’t want anyone to hear you. That’s it.   

Sarah was beginning to sound a bit weak, though. The sun was going to rise in another hour, but she was just getting tired. Burning blood, maintaining the link. —Get back to your body, Etienne sent to her.  —We don’t want the sun catching you projecting. 

—Charles, I need to go now. Sarah told him. —You keep on doing that, right. Every office. And then do Chamberlin Hall.

“Right,” he whispered back. “I think I remember. “

—You’ll be there before you know it…

Voices, instructions in rapid fire Spanish.  “Tráelos, tráelos, el avión está listo. No seas tan lento.”  Bring them, bring them, the plane is ready. Don’t be so slow.

More forklifts. Not as smooth as Lorenzo’s man, though at least they were well-padded. But they were moved, taken up a ramp, set down. Etienne heard hooks being latched and cargo webbing secured. Then the sound of other things being moved, loaded.

Then, silence. Etienne kept observing Charles’ colors.

Charles was doing a bit better. He was concentrating hard on memories. He was going through the names of every student in his classes for the past twenty years. But the focus had helped; he was definitely calmer.

The plane began to move. In the cargo hold, they could hear (and feel) the rumble of the engines more than they would have in the cabin. They felt it taxiing, turning onto the actual runway. Then the jets kicked in, and the plane accelerated down the runway, and took off, into the air, leaving the ground behind. All three Kindred felt that, felt the momentum pushing them against the side of their respective little nooks.

Sarah’s thoughts touched Etienne one last time. —Rest well, Etienne. He’ll be fine…

—You too. Yes, once the sun rises….

The sun was rising. Torpor inevitably tugged them all into darkness.

Thank heaven, Etienne thought, then he was out like the proverbial elder light.

Meanwhile, Max, Diane, TJ and Chloe had a long but almost uneventful trip. TJ drove for a while in Ohio and Indiana, while Max snoozed a bit in the other reclining front seat. The girls curled up in the back seat, though Chloe tried to stay awake to chat with TJ.

They stopped to eat breakfast in Ohio, and lunch in Gary, Indiana, and Max took the wheel again.

Their route was going to take them right through Chicago. However, it seemed to be a pretty straight shot on the highway, and it was daytime.  

“Look, it’s broad daylight,” TJ said. “None of Them are awake. They don’t even know we’re here.”

“I suppose—” Chloe curled up into a little ball.

“We won’t stop.”  TJ slipped an arm around her. “It’ll be okay.” She huddled into TJ’s arm.

“It’s okay, it’s fine—” Chloe said, shivering. “Could you turn the music up?”

“Sure,” Diane said, and did. It happened to be something more upbeat. 

The side and back windows darkened suddenly, for no apparent reason at all, going nearly opaque.

“Weird—which button is that?” Diane frowned at it and looked at Max’s hands.

“What button is what?” Max asked. His hands had never left the wheel.

“To make the windows go dark. Is the glass polarized or—”

“No, I guess Keiko decided we needed some privacy.”

“You mean the car—?” Diane looked extremely askance.

TJ leaned close and held Chloe protectively. He seemed very concerned.

“Well, of course,” Max said cheerfully. “This is a haunted car, didn’t I tell you that?”

“Haunted.” Diane sighed. “I’m going to stop questioning things that are weird, you know? I’ll just get mad.”

“Get mad? Or go mad?” Max asked, with a smile.

Diane shrugged. “Take your pick.”

Chloe didn’t feel even a twinge from her old master. Of course not, he’d be sleeping. The darkened windows made it hard for her to see the city, or realize how close to home she was. That reassured her somewhat.

The music changed, the CDs flipping without Diane even touching the controls. The one that came on was one that Chloe liked earlier:  It was Clannad, soothing New Age Celtic.

Luckily, there wasn’t too much traffic—for Chicago, anyway—they were through the city and away in about an hour.

Chloe cheered up considerably once they had left Chicago behind them. In fact, she was more animated than she had been the whole trip.

TJ let her go when she seemed ready. “Better?”

“Yeah. Yes, I’m fine.” She smiled.

The windows lightened up and went clear. The CD continued to play.

Diane was most put out by this. “Let there be light?”

“Guess so.” Max was unperturbed.

“Just go with it, Diane,” Chloe advised. “It’s not going to get any less weird.”

“Probably true,” TJ agreed.

Diane sighed. “I’m going with it. You are watching me go with it.” (But she was very offended by the idea that she was having to give this much credence to this much bullshit in this short a time span. Reality was clearly taking a fucking vacation or something.)

“Well, we’ve got another two hours to go,” Max announced after a few minutes. “Anybody hungry? Pit stop? There’s a rest stop in about ten.”

“Water. Bottled water,” Chloe said.

“You keep drinking that water, we will need a pit stop,” TJ commented, and reached over the seat to the cooler to get her one.

“I know my limit,” Chloe said serenely.

TJ laughed. “Oh, good.”

“I hope this Minniver Peacock knows to expect us.” Diane was frowning at the business card, trying to remember where this street was. She thought it was actually near the University district.

“I’m sure she does.”

“Sounds like a weird name,” was TJ’s opinion.

Diane was also hoping anyone named Minniver Peacock wouldn’t turn out to be something supernatural, like, oh, a mermaid. Or a mummy.

“It is weird,” Chloe says. “Could be an alias. A private joke, like. Not that I’m going to ask her that—”

“Could be,” TJ says.

Diane went back to the catalog. Khufu sarcophagus, Khufu sarcophagus…ah, there it was. Page 57. There was a brief history, and description. Three very nice photos including a closeup of the face, and some of the paintings on the side, with the hieroglyphs.

“Anything about the acquisition?” TJ asked.

“Yes,” Diane reported. “Donated to the Chicago Field Museum by its previous owner forty years ago. So it was the Field Museum that actually loaned it to the exhibition.”  

“Huh.” Diane frowns. “Chicago. Look.” She showed TJ and Chloe the page, and frowned at Chloe. “There’s a brief mention that it was discovered in the late-1800s by a British archaeologist, and smuggled out of the country. It was reported in London later, but then vanished, and its whereabouts were unknown until it was donated.”

Diane continued to read aloud. “Says here that it wasn’t certain exactly where it had come from. They thought it had been found in the Valley of the Kings, but the exact tomb it had been in is, and continues to be, unknown. And of course, this is just the catalog. The museum itself might have kept better records—”

“Maybe you could call them and find out?” Max suggested.

“Maybe,” Diane said. “But I doubt they’d tell me anything more than this, which was clearly written by their promotions team. And it’s not related to the current mess we’re in, anyway.”

“How do you know that?” Max asked.

“Because if it was, the fact that it’s a big, incredibly heavy hunk of stone is not something that would’ve stopped a gang of evil vampires from stealing it.”

Max thought about it for a few minutes, and then agreed she was probably right about that.

It was late afternoon when they found the right street. The front was an antique store: PEACOCK’S. They pulled around to the back parking lot, which was larger than it looked. “Well.” Max said. “Looks like we’re here.”

“We made it!”  TJ yawned. “Yay.”

Chloe was now feeling the effects of the bottled water.

“Told you,” TJ whispered, and grinned.

“Oh, shut up,” Chloe said, with an embarrassed half-smile.

They piled out. The back door had a door bell and a sign: Please Ring and Wait. No Deliveries Accepted After Dark.  There was also a loading dock and large garage door, but it was closed.   

Max stepped up and pushed the button. They heard it ring inside.. well. Not exactly ring. It played a tune: the William Tell overture, better known as the Theme from The Lone Ranger. 

“Oh, Max—” Diane said suddenly. “Let’s get the, uh, special case out of the trunk?”

“Ah, yes—” Max said, and opened the back hatch for her. They all claimed a few pieces of luggage. Chloe hauled Diane’s small suitcase, so Diane could hold onto the satchel containing the precious Imseti jar.

A few minutes passed, and then the inside door opened. A plump, middle-aged woman in a loose flower-print caftan came to the door, and grinned broadly at them before opening no less than three locks to let them in. She also had short, bright magenta hair.

“Well, well, you made it!” she exclaimed. “Come on in, don’t mind the mess, I don’t use the back door much anymore.” 

“Thanks,” the kids said as she let them in.

“Up the stairs to your right. Go all the way up, and then turn left.”

They glimpsed, through a doorway on a landing partway up the stairs, the shadowy forms of three crates in the warehouse area beyond. A bit creepy, knowing the contents of those crates were sleeping vampires.

Chloe shivered, Diane suppressed a shudder. “Welcome to the set of Sons of the Mummy,” she whispered to TJ.

TJ stared curiously until Diane reached back and tugged on his arm. “No kidding,” he whispered back and got moving up the stairs again.

“You can call me Minnie,” their hostess said briskly. “Bathroom’s through that way, living room is that way—”   

“Ladies first,” TJ said, and let Chloe get first dibs on the bathroom, for which he got a grateful smile.

Sylvia came out of the living room, and seemed quite relieved to see them. “There you are,” she said. “I was beginning to wonder.” She and Max shared a quick kiss, and she then led them into the living room.

“I’m Diane, this is Chloe and TJ—” Diane said, “And as you probably guessed, that’s Max.”

Minnie actually lived over her shop, in a very nicely kept two-story apartment. As befitted someone in the antique furnishings business, her apartment was full of beautiful antiques. Cluttered with them, actually. There was a huge roll-top desk, a number of unmatched chairs and an elegantly upholstered couch; there was also a glass-topped coffee table with a tray of cookies, and a marble-topped end table with a stained glass Tiffany lamp. The floor was covered in overlapping Persian rugs. A life-sized brass greyhound sat by the hearth, and a plushie moose head (only one-quarter the size of a real moose) was mounted over the fireplace.  

A huge black cat perched on the back of the couch, looking suspiciously at them with big yellow eyes. “That’s Isis,” Minnie said. “Don’t worry about her, she’ll either let you pet her or not, but you’ll know where you stand with her very quickly.”

Minnie shook hands all around. “Have a seat, relax. I was just going to make some more tea—or would you prefer coffee?”

“Coffee, please,” Max said.

“Yes. Coffee is good.” Diane zeroed in on the cookies on the coffee table. Sylvia and Max took the couch, and Isis the cat huffed a bit and departed for uncontested territory, clearly not in the mood to entertain more guests.

“I’ve got some chili on the stove,” Minnie said. “And some cornbread baking. And I’ll throw a salad together in a bit. Might as well feed the ones who can appreciate it.”

They could smell the cornbread and chili, and soon, the coffee. Minnie served tea and coffee in bone-china cups, no two of the same pattern or shape. There was also a salad. Minnie being a practical sort, the food was actually served on disposable (but thick) paper plates and bowls, but with real silverware.

Diane took some cornbread, she wasn’t as interested in the chili. But TJ was delighted, and Chloe liked it. They were all hungry.  

“This is a neat old place,” Chloe said. “The building, I mean, the antiques—”  

“Well, it’s why I got into the business,” Minnie said, with a grin. “So I could buy wholesale.”

Diane chuckled.

“Sarah will love this place,” Max said, quite certainly. “She absolutely adores antiques.”

“Well, I do try. I have to sell some of them, of course—the shop is downstairs, and it’s just as full as this apartment! But I try to make sure they all go to good homes.”

There was an Egyptian piece—Diane was sure of it—on one of the shelves, between a china doll and a vintage red metal truck. A small statuette of Anubis, in a glass case. She got up to go check it out. “Ooooh,” she murmured. “Hello, Mr. Anubis.” It didn’t look like a replica.  

“Oh, you found him,” Minnie said. “I think he’s the oldest piece I have…” 

“I would hope so—” Diane was simply gawking, then turned and looked at Minnie. “So if I asked you where you got him from?”

“He was a gift. I could never have afforded him.”  Minnie dimpled just a bit. “Charles gave him to me, actually. You know how he is. Such a generous soul.”

Diane nodded gamely.  

A grandfather clock in the hall started to chime, quarter-till-nine. Chloe started a bit…

“Well. I think it’s about time—” Minnie looked out the window, and saw it was getting darker. “Yep. Time to open the presents—shall we go downstairs and see?”

Chapter Text

Madison, Wisconsin — Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Minnie headed for the stairs. Sylvia followed. Max glanced at the threesome, smiled, and then followed his wife. Diane and TJ followed, nervously.

“Come on,” TJ urged Chloe, and she trailed along behind him.

They trooped on downstairs. The warehouse was a large, crowded room, that took up a full third of the ground floor.  It was crammed nearly as full as the apartment above, with a number of furnishings and other things in various stages of repair. There were also three large crates. Minnie flicked on the lights and picked up a crowbar.

“Alright,” she says, apparently talking to the crates. “Who wants to be first?”

Etienne woke to the sound of her voice. And “looked” over at Charles’ crate, but he apparently wasn’t awake yet. Uh oh.

“Sarah?” Sylvia approached one of the crates, instinctively going to the correct one. “Are you awake?”

On second thought, Etienne supposed, maybe I’d better be out when they open up Charles. “I’m awake,” Etienne called from inside his crate. “But ladies first.”

Minnie listened at one of the other crates. “Professor, you awake yet? Hello?” She left that one and went over to the one that was talking. “You ready?”

“I think so. Kids? Max? Sylvia? Are you out there?”

On Sarah’s crate, the nails began to wiggle.

“We’re here, Mr. de Vaillant. All safe and sound,” Max says.

“Excellent,” Etienne said. “Is that Sarah? I can wait.”

Max waved Sylvia away from the crate. The nails were wiggling more earnestly. “She’s letting herself out, I think,” Max said.  

“Well, then. Let’s get some of those—”  Minnie attacked Etienne’s crate with the crowbar.

TJ noticed the nails working themselves out on Sarah’s crate, and poked Diane. “Look.”

Diane gawked. “Holy. Shit.“

One nail popped out and fell to the floor. Then another. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Max went to help Minnie with Etienne’s crate. TJ belatedly realized he could help too, and went to do that.

Diane, however, was in no hurry to let vampires out of crates.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Chloe felt she should help, but since she didn’t have a crowbar, she bent to pick up nails, gingerly. Several nails scooted along the floor to meet her. She started and swallowed, but picked them up. The nails, however, behaved themselves once she picked them up.

Meanwhile, the others had Etienne’s lid off quickly with him helping.

“Okay, here we go,” Minnie said, and the lid was free. “Heave it up—”  

They lifted off the lid. Inside, Diane saw a blanket-wrapped bundle in an almost coffin-shaped compartment.  The blanket was thrown back and Etienne sat up and ran his hand through his hair to smooth it down. “Ah, what a feeling, fresh air,” he exclaimed.

He looked at the three at his crate. “Good evening,” he said, a bit awkwardly. “You must be Ms. Peacock?”

“Minnie will do,” she said, and extended her hand. “Come on out of there—”

He took her hand. “Thank you so much for having us.” He allowed them to assist him in getting out of his crate.

With a creak, Sarah’s crate lid lifted itself up, about six inches, and then slid off, to lean on the side of the crate. The blanket wrapped bundle within moved.

Max and Sylvia went immediately to help Sarah get out of her crate. Sarah smiled accepted their assistance, and once she had her feet on the ground, hugged them both. She still looked a bit disheveled, but simply tucked the loose hair behind her ears, and went to join Etienne.

“Glad to meet you,” Minnie said. “Now, what’s with the professor? He should be awake by now.”

“Yes, let me have the crowbar,” Etienne reached for it. “I’m thinking perhaps I should be the one to open up his crate. We had a little trouble en route. “

“Trouble?” Minnie echoed. “What kind of trouble?”

“Well,” Etienne dropped his voice a bit, “an unexpected attack of claustrophobia.”

“Oh, right,” And for a minute, Minnie sounded almost like Charles. “He’s not keen on small, cramped spaces, no.”

Etienne grimaced. “Would have been good to know before we arranged to go as furniture. But, no matter, we still made it.”

“He’s still sleeping,” Sarah said, staring at the crate. Then she stared at a nail, and it began to wiggle.

“Yes, he is.” Etienne frowned at the crate. “Now if he’s having a nightmare—I trust you’re doing that.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Let me go ahead and open him up. You stay if you want. I’m thinking the rest of you—” He looked back at the mortals. “Not to be overly an alarmist, but the living people might want to step out of immediate sight? I’d rather err on the side of caution.”

TJ and the girls backed up immediately. Max and Sylvia retreated to stand with the students. 

Minnie, however, stood her ground. “He won’t hurt me.”

“I’m sure he won’t, I’d just like to be the one closest to him, that’s all.”

“Okay, if you insist—” she acquiesced.

He went over to the crate, watched as Sarah was popping out nails and catching them in her hand. “Having fun?” he asks wryly.

That wasn’t something that Minnie had ever seen before. Her eyes widened a bit.

“Beats getting splinters.” Sarah said, with a grin.

He chuckled. “True. Especially big splinters.” He joined her in getting the nails out.

Pop. Pop. Pop. The nails were all out. “I’ll lift it, you want to be ready to catch him?” Sarah asked.

“Yes. I’m ready.” Etienne was, in fact, positioned so as to use either his body or his levitation skills as necessary to stop Charles from hurtling himself out of the crate.

Sarah moved her hands; the lid—which had to weigh thirty or forty pounds—floated up and off to the side.  

Inside was a rather twisted blanket-wrapped bundle that was not moving. Etienne used his levitation to gently unwrap the blanket.

Charles was still asleep—but with his eyes closed, jaw clenched, hands crossed over his chest, and knuckles white, his whole body looked tense as a spring.

“Well, let’s see,” Etienne murmurs. “Charles?”

Minnie took a step forward. “Professor?”

There was the slightest flicker in his aura colors, showing he was beginning to wake up.

“That’s it, Charles,” Etienne said. “You made it, you’re fine. You’re at Minnie’s place. Time to wake up.”

A sharper flicker. Etienne held himself ready to catch.

—Charles?  Sarah sent, then glanced at Etienne. —Should I touch him?

—One of us should. Why don’t you, that way I can be ready to hold him…

She nodded, and stepped forward, laying her hand over his. “Charles—”

Charles’ aura colors suddenly spiked, flaring in absolute terror. He shot up to a sitting position, arms thrown out, eyes wide. Fangs down—fortunately, Etienne blocked the mortals’ view of that. “No!“

Etienne’s first reaction was to try to meet Charles’ gaze, but he also had a hand on the Ventrue’s arm. “Charles!” He finally managed to get eye contact, but Charles appeared to be in full panic attack. “Charles, hold it. Just hold still,” he commanded.

The students moved closer together, not certain if it was really safe.

“No—” Charles was breathing, but it was more like panting. Trembling, he wrapped his arms around himself, his knees came up. He tried to focus.

“Charles, look at me. Listen to me,” Etienne said, evenly. “You’re safe. Do you know where you are?”

“Tomb… Khufu…” He blinked, shook his head a bit. “No. Wait—”

“Charles, it is June 29th, 2004, and you’re at the house of your friend Minniver Peacock, in Madison, Wisconsin. What’s my name?”

“Dammit.” He slumped a bit, all the tension going out of his frame. “Yes. Yes, I—I remember.”

He took a couple of long, slow breaths. “That is really not a good way to travel,” he said at last. “In fact, it’s bloody awful.”

Etienne chuckled—a tension-dispelling kind of chuckle—and relaxed somewhat himself. “No. No, it’s not. We won’t be doing this again. All right?”

Charles ran his hand through his hair, causing it to stick up in odd spikes. “Good. Yes, I think so—I need my glasses. Where’s Minnie?”

“Your glasses are in the bottom, in your suitcase.  Are you in shape for company?”

“I’m right here, Charles,” she said, and came up to him. “Now, if you’re done playing slug-a-bed?”

He smiled, a bit sheepishly; his fangs had already retracted. “I think I need a bit of freshen-up.”

“Here you go, let’s get you out of there—” Etienne helped Charles out of the box, and set him on his feet.

Minnie gave Etienne a Look. “Pardon me,” she said, politely. He stood aside, and Minnie gave Charles a big hug, which he accepted (and returned), slightly embarrassed, but without protesting.

“It’s good to see you too,” he said. “Ah, Diane, TJ, Chloe—that is you, isn’t it? I can’t quite see—”

It occurred to Charles that they had actually witnessed his rising, and a far stronger flush of embarrassment colored his aura. But he put as good a face as he could on it, and soldiered on.

TJ, Diane and Chloe looked at each other, and then slowly approached him. They did not hug him, but TJ did shake his hand, and they all congratulated him on getting to Madison in one piece.

Meanwhile, Etienne pulled up the false bottom, retrieved Charles’ luggage, and extracted his glasses. “Here you go, Charles—”

“Oh, thank you,” Charles said, accepting his glasses from Etienne and wiping the lenses on the hem of his sweatshirt before putting them on. He clapped his hands together, and gave them a big (if not dazzling) smile. “Now we’re all here. Splendid! I trust everyone’s ready for more adventure?”

“Come upstairs, professor,” Minnie said, “You need some tea. I’ve got some very fine Darjeeling, it’ll be just the thing for you…”

Minnie seemed totally fearless when it came to Charles. In fact, Diane thought, Minnie was blowing their minds on numerous levels. Not to mention Sarah with her levitating nails and crate lids. I mean, Max did try to tell us, but I guess it’s one thing hearing a story about it, and yet another seeing it just—happen—right before our eyes.  Diane also wanted to get the Minnie background story, but wasn’t entirely sure how—or who—to ask.

They had unpacked the truck earlier, and TJ was happy to present Charles with his satchel containing the Imseti jar, which the professor would then not be parted from. The cat, Isis, having attempted to take possession of the big velvet chair, heard the army coming up the stairs and hightailed it down the hall to the office.

Charles had done a quick clean-up, and also changed his clothes, stuffing the torn and bloodied sweatshirt into his bag, clearly hoping his students hadn’t noticed, or at least, wouldn’t ask inconvenient questions if they had. 

Diane actually had noticed, but she knew better than to inquire—at least not now, when the memory of it was so fresh and sensitive for him.

Etienne felt bad about the whole thing. If Charles had just said anything… I mean, nobody likes getting shut up in a crate, but there’s a difference between that and a full on claustrophobic panic attack!  Etienne was concerned about the students, but had to acknowledge they seemed to be more nervous around him than Charles. Well, it’s not MY blood they’ve had a taste of, he reminded himself.

“Alright, then,” Etienne said, looking around at them. “Shall we get going then? Charles, where is your storage vault—is it in a local facility like U-Store-It, or what?”

“Please,” Charles said, a bit huffily. “Don’t you remember I told you the storage at the auction house was raided the very night after I bought the pieces? U-Store-It and places like that just aren’t secure!”

“Alright, then,” Etienne sighed. “Whatever it is, can we go there now?”

“Well,” Charles said, “I suppose we’d better. Who’s coming?”

There was a momentary silence. Then Diane observed, “I didn’t think anyone wasn’t coming—”  

“I’d rather only use one vehicle—” Etienne said, and then counted noses, and realized that wasn’t possible—at least not if the SUV was their only option.  

“I assume all three of us,” It was clear what Etienne meant by us. Three vampires, that left four mortals.

Chloe said, “Well, TJ and Diane should go for sure, right?”

“Well, what have we got for vehicles?”

“Keiko seats five, with space in the back for luggage—or whatever,” Sarah said.

And Minnie added, “You can borrow my car if you like, Charles—”

And so it was settled: Sarah was driving Keiko. Max, Diane, TJ, and Chloe refused to be left behind, even if it meant riding with a vampire witch. Charles drove Minnie’s green Subaru Forester, with Etienne as his only passenger. Sylvia opted out, and Minnie said she’d seen that place before, and “Oh, and by the way, Charles, here are the keys you wanted—”

“Well,” Charles said, pocketing the keys, “Hopefully we’ll be back before too long—”

“Where to, Charles?,” Sarah asked.

“Machinery Row,” he said. “It’s on the northern shore of the lake to the south, Lake Monona, follow me. Take a left out of the drive—”

Diane said, “I think I know where he’s going, if it’s anywhere close to Machinery Row. At least I know how to get there from here.”  She quickly changed seats with Max, so she was sitting shotgun, as the native guide.

Madison had a proper downtown, but this was not it. This was a street right out of the 1930s, that had actually undergone a face lift in recent decades but without losing that Small Midwestern Town Ambiance.

Sarah followed Charles to park in a now-empty lot behind the building. “Just a short walk from here,” he promised, and got out the keys Minnie handed him—a veritable ring of them.

They rounded the corner, and there was a bank: First National Bank of Madison, on the corner. While in an old-fashioned brick storefront, it seemed to have the latest technology on alarms and security, though.

Charles unlocked a door to the side of the main bank storefront. There was an iron grill, and then two locks on the door; when he stepped inside, he went immediately to a button panel on the wall and typed in a code. “There,” he said. “Come in. Don’t touch the bank door. Follow me, there’s more locks at the top.”

He went up a narrow stair. At the top, as promised, were more locks; he undid those and stepped inside, flicking a light switch. “Well,” he said. “Do pardon the mess. I haven’t had time to clean up in here. I’m afraid it’s gotten a bit cluttered—”

“Reminds me of Grandma’s attic, and then some…” TJ commented, looking around.

“Cluttered,” of course, did not even begin to cover it. There were a dozen or more old file cabinets, some of them actually wood. A couple pieces of dusty furniture (some of the distinctly 1960s vintage). There were boxes and old wooden chests and steamer trunks; coat racks, old dressers, and even an old bedstead. A veritable fortune in back issues of National Geographic, Archaeology Today, and The Saturday Evening Post. And an antique Victrola, with a proper horn-shaped speaker, and several boxes of old recordings on shellac vinyl discs.

In front of them, in plain sight, was the canopic chest, sitting on a sturdy crate (likely the crate it had actually been shipped in).

“Wow,” Chloe breathed in awe. “Would you look at that. And it’s not even behind glass or anything—Is it real? Can I touch it?” 

“We’d rather you didn’t touch it, at least not without gloves on,” Diane answered. “Is it real? Yes. Is it thousands of years old? No, it’s a replica from the nineteen-twenties, and it was constructed by someone who didn’t really know what they were doing, at least in terms of hieroglyphic inscriptions.”

“It’s a really good replica otherwise, though,” TJ said. “I mean, with regards to the construction and the position of the goddesses, and all that.”

“But that’s not the only valuable treasure here,” Charles said. “If you’d like to see something really antique and valuable, I can open the vault for you—it’s really rare my treasures get such an appreciative audience, other than myself.”

“Oh, yes—” Diane said, turning to Charles. “Show us your treasures!”

All three of the students trailed after Charles as he went to open the vault, which was clearly an extension of (and built over) the bank vault below. Sarah was drawn to the vault as well, following the students, but at a respectful distance. Max, however, went to look at the stacks of magazines and records.

Charles went through his ring of keys, counted off, and then opened the vault. “This is where I keep the really valuable items,” he explained. “Things like jewelry, or small antiquities, or pieces of jade sculpture—”  The vault had a number of climate-controlled glass cases. It included gold pieces, ancient Chinese jade, several pieces of jewelry, both European and Asian, and even Ancient Egyptian artifacts.

Diane stood at the door to the vault. “Oh. My. God.”

“Come in and take a closer look if you like,” Charles invited. “I’ve disabled the alarms, I think I got all of them. This has been some work to collect—and usually I’m the only one who gets to see them.”

Diane stepped into the vault with some nervousness. Chloe followed TJ, who was making a beeline to whatever Charles was inviting them to look at.

Below the visible glass counters were drawers that slid out—glass topped, with even more goodies. Everything, of course, was neatly labeled.

Even Chloe was impressed.

Charles was just beaming to show this off. Especially to a knowledgeable audience.

“You’ve got two jade bi-disks?” Diane breathed, in awe.

“That’s jade?” Chloe asked. “I thought jade was green.”

“Pure jade is white, but green jade is the most common,” TJ said.  “Jade can be all kinds of colors.  Jade is two different minerals, either nephrite or jadeite—” but then he realized no one else was listening, so he stopped talking. (It was clear he had a lot more to say, but recognized his obsessive enthusiasm for jade was not shared by his companions).

Diane was awestruck. “That’s two thousand year old jade…”

“Yes, it is,” Charles agreed.

“And an unguent jar, that looks like Old Kingdom,” Diane continued. “Ooh.”

There was also a medieval brooch, and a jeweled renaissance cross. A thousand-year-old icon from Byzantium.  And a Book of Hours from the 15th century.

“There’s no way you can afford this on an adjunct professor’s salary—” Diane mused. “Did you actually find these?”

“Well, no,” Charles admitted. “I have—uh—investments. And I didn’t find all of them, no. Some I actually purchased.” 

He squatted down beside them. “I did find this one, though—this was a bronze comb and mirror set, see?”

“Well, yeah,” Chloe said. “I guess if you buy IBM stock in, like, 1920 and then just hold it…”

Diane sighed. So much cool stuff.

“Exactly,” Charles agreed. He dug around on the key ring, found one and opened the case, taking the jeweled cross out and handing it to her to look at more closely.

She did. Very carefully. “This looks Venetian—”

“Yes, very good,” Charles said. “Now, can you find the maker’s mark?”

She looked for it; the Italian Renaissance was not her era. “Not sure. It’s a bit dark—”  She was so engrossed in the discovery, that she hardly stopped to think about Charles kneeling right beside her.

“Bring it up to the light,” he urged. “Now, tilt it just a bit—there, you see?”

She did. “Oh, it’s on the back of the stone. Cool.” She looked at him and suddenly seemed to become aware of their proximity. Her expression faltered, but since he hadn’t yet leapt on her with fangs out, decided not to move. “It’s really nice, Charles.”

She handed it to Chloe, who was looking over her shoulder, so she could examine it for a minute, and she passed it on to TJ after carefully looking at it.

“I actually obtained that one at an estate auction,” Charles explained. “They didn’t realize what it was, they were valuing it for the stones alone!”  

Diane said, “I guess you’d be great to have along at an auction.”

“Well, sometimes I get lucky. You never know what you’ll find. So I keep going to them, even when I usually come home empty-handed.”  

Charles rose to his feet, sensing Diane’s unease with his continued presence. “Just close the case when you’re done looking,” he told the students and left them handling several thousand dollars in antique gold.

The kids looked up a bit nervously when Sarah entered the vault. They were getting up and preparing to tear themselves away.

“He just said lock it up when we came out—” Chloe began, as though expecting to be admonished for something.

“Oh, look–” Sarah was immediately drawn in. “I’ve only seen crosses like that in museums.”

“There’s a whole bunch of stuff in here that would look good in a museum,” Chloe said.

“I’m sure normally that’s the only place anyone would find it,” Diane said. “That or some billionaire’s house.”

Sarah declined to hold it, however. “I’d better not. I have no idea what spirit emanations are attached to that.” 

“And you’re psychic, aren’t you?” Chloe asked.

“I can be, yes,” Sarah said. “I’ve learned not to pick up things in my bare hands whose history I’m not already familiar with unless I want to learn it the hard way.”

“Well, if you’re psychic, I can see how that might be a problem,” Chloe said. 

Diane continued, “And then this Book of Hours here is 15th century—”

“Oh, look at that.. Etienne would just love this, I know—” Sarah was happy to let Diane give her a mini-tour. Sarah knew jewelry very well, but she wasn’t into the history of other odd items. And Diane was gratified to see that at least this vampire was as impressed by the beauty of historical objects as they were.

“Well, the bi disk was believed to have certain powers,” Diane was expounding on the two jade disks. “It could make rain—”

Etienne, meanwhile, had been walking around the canopic chest, studying the hermetic and Egyptian symbology engraved on its surface, and sketching the symbols and designs on a pad of blank paper. 

“Definitely wards,” he said. “And very unusual ones at that.” He let his vision drift into the unseen ether, and observed the lines and patterns of the wards, and then looked at the chest with his spirit-sight. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he commented.

“It doesn’t?” Charles emerged from the vault, and came over to look at what Etienne was sketching. “Well, some of that IS supposed to be there, it’s hieroglyphic; those are prayers to invoke the goddess’ protections. It’s funny characters like these that aren’t—” He pointed to the hermetic symbols, which Etienne had drawn in dotted lines.

“They’re warding sigils,” Etienne said. “But they’re still active. Which, if they were protecting the jar, they shouldn’t be, if the jar isn’t in there anymore.”

“We even had all of the jars removed at one point,” Charles commented.

“And you didn’t notice any changes to the chest? Or particular difficulties removing them?”

“No, not that I recall.”

“Then the jars were not what these wards were meant to protect.”

“They weren’t?” Charles echoed, looking at the chest again.

“Let’s take a look, shall we?”  Etienne set his sketchpad aside, and stood up. “Sarah? Can you come out here, please?”

“Coming—” she responded, and exited the vault. “I’m sorry, my lord, I was distracted—”

“No need for apologies,” Etienne assured her. “Look at the chest, analyze the wards, and tell me what you see.”

“Is this a test?” she asked, arching one eyebrow.

“Yes, it is,” he said, and then smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m just double-checking myself.”

“Alright, then—” She let her vision slip into the ether, and then the spirit plane, and then reported more or less what he’d just told Charles. “The wards are protecting something else. Not the jars. Something that is still in the chest.”

“Let’s open it—but let’s do a circle first, just in case,” Etienne said. “Chalk?”

“Got it,” she said, and began to draw a binding circle, much as she had in the upper room of Prospero’s. It was not a small circle, so Charles, Etienne and even TJ, Diane, Max, and Chloe were pressed into service to move things out of her way. Max found a silken bed comforter, to use for whatever they needed.

The chest itself was in the center of her circle, but the circle was a good fifteen feet in diameter, so there was also room for at least two of them to be standing inside it, as well as space to set down the lid and jars it contained, and also extra room for whatever the mysterious item it was protecting might be. At Etienne’s suggestion, she incorporated the renaissance-era glyphs and hieroglyphic names of the four goddesses into the towers symbolizing the four cardinal directions, basically expanding the wards on the chest to a somewhat larger warding circle. They also rotated the chest itself so the goddesses actually were lined up with their matching geographic directions.

Etienne double-checked the calculations for her, though he was pleased to see how close she’d managed to get them.

Finally, the circle was ready, even by Etienne’s standards, and he and Sarah activated it from the inside, while their companions waited and watched on the outside.

“Let’s open it up,” Etienne said, extending his hand. She did as well, and together they levitated the stone lid off the chest, and set it down on the floor.  They next lifted out the three jars, one at a time, while keeping an eye on the chest’s own wards. Nothing blinked.

“Alright,” Etienne said. “Let’s take a look at it—” He and Sarah studied the chest, analyzing its dimensions, trying to figure out what its secret was.

“The bottom of the chest looks like it’s almost ten inches thick,” Sarah said. “I’m thinking there’s something else in there.”

“Yes, it would seem to…”  Etienne bent over it, peering inside. He turned and looked at the lid. “That’s not a light lid, either.”

“But it’s only four inches thick,” Sarah said. “Calculating the dimensions needed to support the figure of Anubis on top of it, I’d say that’s just about right.”

“The floor, then.”  Etienne levitated out the two interlocking partitions, which divided the interior into four spaces for the jars. The partitions, which were slabs of alabaster nearly three-quarters of an inch thick, fit inside slots cut into the sides of the chest, and nested in shallow grooves in the bottom.

“It’s not a solid floor,” Sarah reported. “No more than an inch thick, probably less….”

“Let’s lift it out, then—” Etienne said, “but carefully—”

There was a little explosion like a rifle shot, as the ward shattered, with alabaster dust puffing out of the chest as it dissipated. The alabaster floor itself cracked in half, though Etienne still held on to both halves, and lifted them both out. He set the broken pieces down and waited for the dust to settle.

“Well, that was definitely something…” Charles said. “Is that… was that it, do you think?”

Etienne stared at the chest with his inner sight. “Seems to be. The ward just—snapped. I don’t understand it.”

“Maybe because the ward also was looking for the Imseti jar?” Sarah suggested. “Not seeing it, then it did… what it was supposed to?”

“….Maybe?” Etienne murmured. “Or maybe there’s another reason we don’t understand yet—let’s see what it was protecting.” 

He looked inside the chest. “Well, merde,” he commented. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it.”

Three broken pieces of what looked like a twin to the black basalt tablet lay inside the floor of the chest, nestled in a thick layer of sand. These appeared to have more of the unknown writing on them, and also appeared to be stained with blood.

“No kidding,” Sarah replied, taking a look herself.

“Basalt tablet, in three pieces,” Etienne reported. “Looks a lot like the one from the exhibit. Same kind of writing. But these are stained with… blood, it looks like.”

“Don’t take them out yet—” Charles warned. “Aren’t the, uh, wards on the chest still active?”

“Not anymore…” Etienne said. “That little explosion was the ward actually breaking.”

“Let’s wrap them in the quilt, then, for padding and magical insulation—” Sarah said. She arranged the silk comforter on the floor. “Okay, lift them out one at a time—”

Etienne did so, starting with the largest piece, and Sarah guided it to the center of the quilt, then folded one side over it. The next one, which was a bit smaller, went on top of that, and then the third, with layers of the quilt in between.  

Meanwhile, TJ had discovered some old photo albums. “Diane,” he whispered. “Chloe. Look here—”

Diane saw what he was pointing to, and then shot a quick look at Charles, but he was hovering over what the two Tremere were doing with the broken tablet. He was not paying attention to anything else.

“Cool…” she said, gathering up the albums in her arms, and following TJ to a dusty Victorian settee where they could look through them. A daguerreotype photo of his entire family was pasted into the scrapbook; Charles had been an adorable baby, sitting there on what they assumed was his mother’s lap. He’d apparently been born in 1858, and was the baby in the family; the third son, and had several sisters (two of whom died young), in addition to two older brothers. His father had held a military rank at one time; he wore a uniform in several portraits, as did at least one of the older boys. They lived in a great big stone estate that wasn’t quite a castle, but close. Charles had attended an elite prep school, as well as Cambridge University. He rode to the hunt, and even traveled to India and got his picture taken on an elephant. And of course, he’d been photographed in Egypt, posing with appropriate artifacts for his career as a gentleman adventurer/explorer/scientist.

“Jesus Christ.” Diane muttered sourly, “Much more of this and I’ll have to start believing it.”

And then, at the end of the book, one final photo portrait, done for whatever reason, where he looked very much as he did now. Posed, stiff, formally dressed. And then the obits. Short. terse. “Edward Hewitt, Lord Eppingshire, and his lady wife Margaret, regret to announce the passing of their youngest son, Charles Edward, from consumption…” The date of his death was October 9, 1894. He’d been 36 years old.

TJ’s mouth was hanging open. Even Chloe had to shiver at bleakness of the obit.

Where earlier there were quite nice articles on Charles Edward Hewitt, third son of Lord Eppingshire, and his accomplishments, from returning successfully from an Egyptian Antiquaries Expedition to his attainment of his doctoral degree in Ancient Studies, the notice of his passing was… ominously brief.

“Look—” TJ murmured, tapping Charles’ brief obit, and the florid one next to it, which had black roses and everything. “This slacker didn’t do squat, never even finished university, and look at all the things they had to say. And then Charles...”

“Maybe lords’ sons weren’t supposed to go digging in the sand?” Chloe suggested.  

“But then, they had all these other articles, look,” TJ pointed out. “They were proud of him then—” His voice trailed off. He’d been whispering.

“Well, obviously he didn’t really die of consumption,” Diane muttered.

“Well, no, of course not,” TJ agreed. “I guess that was all they could say…”

“You’d think a tragic accident would be a better lie than a lingering illness. Like this guy.”

“A shooting accident?”

“Translated, a duel, I’ll bet,” TJ said.

“They weren’t still having duels in the 1890’s, were they?” Chloe asked.

“Of course not,” TJ whispered. “It was illegal. There were a lot of shooting accidents, though. Especially,” he added with just a touch of sarcasm, “in the American West.”

“Right.” Diane nodded.

 “One has to wonder how an archaeologist gets—” Diane trails off and looks around suspiciously.

There was an old letter stuck between the pages of one of the photo albums.

Diane carefully unfolded it. If Diane and TJ didn’t know better, they’d say it was a bit of a love letter. It was written a bit hurriedly, on plain paper. It had been sealed once.

“E.” Diane snorted. “All my heart, old chap. Brits—” She was frowning over it.

“Well, you know,” she whispered in TJ’s ear. “I was pretty clear on Charles not being gay, but this is weird—”

“Weird?” Charles was suddenly standing there. His quizzical look turned to one of slight alarm when he was what it was they were reading.

The kids jumped as one, and froze. The letter was still in Diane’s hand. Diane hurriedly folded it up, as though that would help.

His expression went from slight alarm to taut, contained anger, all in a matter of a second.

“Well, if you’re quite finished poking about in my personal life,” he said, and they could hear the ice dripping off every word, “kindly put those back where you found them. They’re not at all relevant to the real matters at hand.” And he turned on his heel and stalked off.

Diane attempted to maintain some semblance of dignity—a reply almost reached her lips, but he moved too fast.

“I guess that was really personal,” TJ whispered.

“Guess so,” Diane muttered. Chloe shushed them.

Etienne looked up as Charles strode over to the file cabinets, and started picking through the files with a vengeance, suppressing his emotions.

“Omnia recte?” Etienne asked quietly, in Latin. Everything all right?

“Ita, satis.”   His reply was curt. Yes. Enough.

Etienne nodded and glanced over at Sarah. She was still at the Victrola, but she gave Charles a Look and then made  the smallest shake of her head. She then glanced to where the kids were—they were in the process of putting the photo albums back where they found them.  

Charles’ colors were flaming with shame, hurt and anger, which he was trying desperately to suppress. That he was also hungry didn’t help.

—Would you mind seeing if they’re all right? Etienne asked her.  —I’m afraid… that is, they’re a little afraid of me.

— Yes, of course, she answered.  —You keep an eye on him, something’s clearly upset him.

Etienne felt a wave of discomfort. —Right.

She put the last record down, and then casually walked away, looping around the long way to where the kids were. She saw them putting the books back on the stack. Given what she could see in their auras, she decided this was not a good time to ask about what had just happened. They were physically okay, anything else could wait. She withdrew before they even noticed her.

Etienne was letting Charles work, afraid of saying anything that might disturb Charles’ already frayed sense of dignity.

—Given what I overheard, I think they were looking at some very personal things… she told Etienne.

Etienne was also starting to recall the fact that Charles said he thought he was in Khufu when he woke up and realized there was something big Charles was not telling him. And wondering how much it had to do with their mission.

—So I gather. Etienne sighed. —How bad off are they?

—They’ll be okay. Poor kids are still a little afraid of all of us. How’s Charles?

—Not good. He needs to feed as soon as we’re out of here.

—Then we should hurry with getting what we need—that was the other pieces, and the documents he’s getting now, right?

—Right. We’re trying to find who might have those other jars. And maybe see if there were other tablets other than the broken one we’ve got and the one that was in the museum.

—That was over a hundred years ago.

—I know. But there’s bound to have been auctions. Exhibitions. This sort of thing can be tracked down over time.

—If we have the time. We could also use the one jar to find the others.

—True. That has its risks, of course. Etienne sighed again.

—Maybe Max should take the kids back to Minnie’s. Then Charles and I can take a break to hunt before it gets too late to find students abroad on campus.

Clearly Etienne was upset and worried.  —Right…

—And it’s probably better if the kids don’t stop to think about where Charles and I go and why.

Even less happy.  —Right.

—What is it?  She came up to him, rested a hand on his arm. —What’s troubling you?

He looks at her, a bit shamefacedly. —Oh, I’m all right. It’s just Charles. I’m worried about him.

She smiled. —We can talk to him after the mortals are gone, and he’s fed. Poor fellow is strung out thin right now, as they say.

—Something’s going on that he’s not telling. And it matters a lot to him what his kids think, and they’re—” He waved his hands. —Well, honestly it’s bothering me too.

—What they think?

— Well, they’re not quite over the revelation yet.

—Revelation—ah. Well, let Max handle them for a bit. Poor kids. I remember that time. I didn’t have anyone to share it with. They do.

—Right. Maybe Max can say something, I don’t know.

—I’ll ask him to take them back with Keiko. It is late, and they did have a long drive today.

He nodded. She patted his shoulder affectionately, and then went to extract Max from the treasure trove of his childhood.

Max nodded and obeyed, wandering back to where the kids were. “Hey. How ya doing back here? Find anything interesting?”

“There’s not an uninteresting thing in the place,” Diane said, glumly.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Max agreed, cheerfully.  “Listen, I’m thinking we should head back to Minnie’s. Leave the night folks to do whatever it is they need to do, but what we need right now is some shut-eye. I know that’s what I need, how ‘bout you?”

TJ yawned. “Sounds good to me—” he said. “We can always come back, you know?”

Diane nodded. “I guess we are all a bit tired…”

Charles was focused on his work, but they would need his keys. And Etienne contemplated the unpleasant idea of broaching that idea to Charles.

—Etienne, Sarah told him. —They should take the crates with the tablet pieces, and the other jars.

“Charles,” he says gently.

“Huh?” Charles managed a smile.

“Max and the kids are taking off,” Etienne said. “I’m thinking perhaps they should take the crate with the tablets, so you and Sarah can visit the university.”

“The box… university?  Oh.”  He seemed torn. “We could take it later… couldn’t we?” he asked.

—No. They must take it now. Trust me, Etienne.

“No.”

“Oh. Well. I suppose you’re right.. I-I do feel a bit peaked, really.”

Etienne agreed. Once anyone could be seen leaving this place, it should be cleaned out of anything valuable. Just in case….

“I guess I should go pack it up—” 

“Good idea,” Etienne encouraged. Sarah went to help him.

Chapter Text

Madison, Wisconsin — Wednesday, June 30, 2004

Charles found a straw-lined crate to pack the silken comforter and the pieces of the tile in, and also put some of the other Egyptian pieces—including two of the other jars—into a second crate, again with straw. 

And after a moment of thought, Charles went back to the vault, opened it up, took out the jeweled renaissance cross, secured the vault again, and packed it away in the crate too, in its own little box.

The crates were secured, then Max went back to the parking lot and brought the truck around to the door. Etienne and Sarah levitated the two crates, one at a time, down the stairs, and slid them into the Highlander’s back hatch.

“Come on, kids. You all look like you could use a good night’s sleep in a real bed,” Max said. They had to walk by Charles on the way out. They realized they were officially in disgrace here. Diane summoned her best blank look, and couldn’t quite look at Charles. Charles’ look to her—she was the only one whose gaze he actually met—was soft and hurt, and worried.  She was struck by that but quickly looked away.

Then he looked away, fidgeting just a bit.

They also took the satchel (which was now locked) filled with all the documents Charles and Etienne had dug up in the file cabinets.

Diane was utterly confused. Okay, was Charles mad, or was he hurt, and why would he be so hurt when they just looked at some old pictures? It must be that letter.  

Max and the kids drove off. Charles carefully re-locked all the locks, and reset the alarms. He was very quiet.   

Etienne cleared his throat. “I’m thinking I’ll just ride with you, and walk to Minnie’s from the campus—”

“You should have gone with Max, then—” Sarah says. “It’s really a bit of a walk.”

Etienne gave her a glance. “It’s all right, I’ll get a taxi or something.” 

“Or we can just drop you off,” Charles said. “It really is a longish walk; my house is closer to the campus than Minnie’s place is.” 

“If you think you can still hunt after that kind of delay—”

“Of course,” Charles assured him. “The summer semester is in full swing. The Library and Student Center will still be busy enough.”

Etienne relented. “Alright, then—but only if dropping me off doesn’t impede your hunting.”

“It won’t,” Sarah assured him. “We know where to go. Don’t we, Charles?” 

“Yes, we do,” Charles insisted. He sounded almost like his old self, and Etienne was glad to see that.

Meanwhile, Max was driving. “You kids okay? You look like you seen a ghost or something.”

Glum silence. “I guess it’s fair to say… no?” Diane said at last.

“What happened back there?” Max asked. When the sound of silence got to be too much, he added: “Look. Who else ya got to talk to?”

Diane sighed. “Charles found us looking at his old family photo albums. He wasn’t happy.”

“He wasn’t?” Max probed. “Why, what was in ’em?”

“I think it was the letter, not the album,” Chloe said, hesitantly.

“Yeah,” TJ said. “I think you’re right, but I don’t know why.”

“Well, it was stuck in the album. It’s just a short little note!” Diane looked at TJ.

“Maybe it was from an old girlfriend or something.” TJ suggested.

“I don’t think Victorian girlfriends called their boyfriends old chap,” Chloe pointed out.

“Oh. Good point.” TJ admitted.

“Maybe that’s all it is, maybe it was from his boyfriend and he’s all freaked out about that? I don’t know,” Diane said. She sounded frustrated. “It didn’t say anything but just I miss you and I’m thinking about you and look me up.”  

“He’s Victorian, that’s enough,”  Max said. “They had a lot of problems with sexual repression and all, or so I’ve heard. Couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t even look at themselves naked.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Diane scowled. “Of course it doesn’t bother me at all, I don’t care. Clearly he’s not picky either way. Anyway. I guess he’s mad at us now.”

“He’s never taken his clothes off, though,” TJ said. “Or, well, he never did mine, either.”  

Diane blushed.  “Well, no, but you know what I mean. For God’s sake.  I guess it was personal, but sue me, I just wanted to know who the hell he is!” She threw a glare around.

“Well, they all have to learn to adapt somehow,” Max said. “They have to, just to survive. They don’t have a choice.”

“Do they really not have a choice?” Chloe asked.  “I mean, what happens if they just don’t... do it?” 

Max met their eyes in the rear view mirror, glanced at Diane in the front seat. “They go mad with it, the hunger. They lose control of themselves. And that’s when they kill.”

That had a chilling effect, as Max no doubt had intended.   

“So they tend to feed a little, here and there, to keep the madness away,” he went on. “That way, they can keep from hurting anyone, keep from killing. They’re terrified of that madness. They call it the Beast Within.”

Diane sat back.  “Great. A month ago I’d have said I couldn’t even picture Charles raising his voice.”

“They’re dangerous, kids,” Max told them. “Every one of them can be very, very dangerous. But they—at least our vampires—strive to be something better than that. To hold on to feeling human, to hold on to compassion and love and all the good things in life.” To his credit, he sounded very sincere.  

“You mean Sarah does,” Diane said.

“Sarah does, yeah. Your Charles does too, just look at him. Even Mr. de Vaillant does, believe it or not. He’s got it harder because he’s so old, but he’s still trying.”

“But how do you know that?” Diane blurted out. “Believe me, I’d really like to believe that of Charles. I’d rather not think we’re with a bunch of-of murdering sociopaths here. At least you know Sarah. Charles has always seemed perfectly nice and harmless, but then it develops that there’s all this stuff you would have never dreamed was there. I couldn’t have pictured Charles sucking blood, but clearly he does. So how do I know what else he’s capable of? How do you tell?”

“By what they do,” Max replied, calmly. “He was hurt, he was angry, perhaps—but what did he do? He walked away. He restrained himself. Even when he feeds—and you know what that’s like, don’t you? Something in your voices says you do?”  

She scowled. “Oh, we know it, all right.”

He glanced over at her. “Did he ever actually hurt you? Ever take so much you couldn’t walk away afterwards? Or put you in the hospital?”

They all looked at each other. “Ah. A big question,” Max observed. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want. But if you feel like getting it off your chest—I’m here.”

“No,” Diane said at last, “he’s never taken too much, I suppose. And I guess he could have if he wanted, and I suppose that’s something.”  She sighed. “Like you said, who else have we got to talk to? Thanks, though.”

“Any time. I know this is big news, really hard to swallow at first. I got it more gradual when I got involved. You’re getting it all at once, and in the middle of something I don’t think even they understand, with these Egyptian artifacts and all. Just take it the best you can, and keep your eyes and ears open. And when in doubt, trust Charles over any other vampire you meet.”

Chloe nodded.  But she’d had a lot more time to get used to the concept of vampires and ownership.

“I don’t suppose it’s any good telling Charles we really don’t care who his old boyfriend or girlfriend was, we’re not Victorian and we’re not scandalized either way?” Diane mused. “I mean, it’s all small potatoes next to him being a vampire.”

“No, probably not.” Max said. “You could try apologizing, whether you think you did anything wrong or not. Or you could let it go. I wish I’d seen it, it would have been fascinating. But that’s the way it goes.  It’s not small potatoes to him.”

“Apparently not.”

TJ murmured. “His obituary said he died of consumption, of all things—”  

“Consumption? Hah! Now that’s a story for you. A polite lie. He didn’t die of anything like that,” Max said.

“How do you know? Well, I mean plainly he died from… getting made a vampire, but maybe he was sick?” Chloe sounded curious.

“No, he wasn’t. Just look at him. Does he look as if he’s been sick? They don’t change, you see. They’re always just like they were when they died. That’s why he’s still got that mustache, and why de Valliant’s hair is the way it is.”

“Yeah, that is a weird hairdo,” said Chloe, shaking her head.

“My guess is he was perfectly healthy up till the time someone made him a vampire,” Max said.  “That’s what really killed him. But I’ll bet his family didn’t know that.”

“I don’t guess it’s the kind of thing you get to tell your family,” Chloe commented. She was thinking of her own family, far away from the Chicago vampire who’d seduced her. She wondered if St. Clair deliberately chose his “protégés” from students with no local family, or better yet, with no family at all, like the kid she’d replaced.

“Exactly. The one who made him a vampire murdered him that night. Think about that.”

From the uncomfortable silence that followed, they quite obviously chewed on that for more than a minute.

“So I guess Sarah was murdered too?” Chloe tried cautiously.

Max looked uncomfortable. “I don’t really know much about it. She loved her sire—the one who made her a vampire—like a father. He was a real gentleman, was Dr. Blair. He was killed himself a few years back.”   

“So maybe she wanted to be with him.” Chloe said. “Even if it meant dying?”

“Yeah, it was something like that, I think. She knew him a long time before, even when she was a girl.”

“I wonder if Charles wanted to be with somebody.”

Max shrugged. “Maybe. We don’t know. Do you even know who his sire was, or is? He’s Ventrue, right? They keep track of those things.”

“They do?”

“Oh, yes. He can probably recite his lineage all the way back to Caine himself.”

“Caine?” That roused the disgruntled rationalist in Diane. “As in Caine and Abel? From the Old Testament?”

“Caine was the first vampire, according to their mythology. He murdered his brother, and God cursed him with being a vampire, or so the story goes. Not all of them really believe that, but they can still recite lineages for it.”

“Right.” Diane massaged the bridge of her nose. “I should have just guessed there’ would be a story like that. It fits. Mark of Caine.”

They drove on in silence for a while, until they were past the University campus and its immediate neighborhood, and finally approaching the part of town where Minnie’s store was.

“So. What you gonna do about Charles?” Max asked them. “You gonna cut him a break, or what?”

“I guess we should apologize,” Diane said at last.  “I just hope it doesn’t make him madder…”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t want him mad at us. He was so friendly in the vault,” TJ murmurs. “I think he liked telling you about all that stuff, Diane.”

“Well, like he said, he’s the only one who ever gets to look at it, that’s got to gall him,” Diane said. “I don’t know why he doesn’t keep it in his house? Because it’s so valuable or because he doesn’t want the questions?”

“Both, probably,” Max said as he pulled into the alley behind Minnie’s shop. “That reminds me. You two have homes—student housing, apartments, or something—around here, right?”

“Yeah,” they echoed.

“Well, if we got time, we could go swing by your places tomorrow. Pick up some stuff, if you want. If that’s okay with the bosses.”

“Good idea. Chloe still needs clothes,” Diane said. “I could lend you some shirts at least.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that,” said Chloe.

Minnie came to the door right away. “Ah, there you are. I’ll bet you all are tired too,” she said. “I’ve got some hot chocolate, with marshmallows, if anyone wants. And I’ve got beds made up for you.”

“That would be lovely—” Diane said, with real feeling. “With marshmallows even.”

“But of course,” Minnie said.

Sylvia joined them for hot chocolate, and then suggested very strongly that Max needed to go to sleep now too.   

“Yes, dear,” Max said wisely, and let his wife bundle him off to bed—leaving the kids with Minnie in her cozy kitchen, with copper molds on the walls, a pot of real hot chocolate, and a framed piece of cross-stitch needlework over the door that proclaimed No Matter Where I Serve My Guests, They Seem To Like My Kitchen Best!

“Did you find what you were looking for over there?” she asked.

“Think so. Think Charles found it anyway,” Diane answered. “At least I hope Charles found it.”

“Yes, it’s a bit of a rabbit warren over there,” Minnie replied. “He saves everything, Charles does.  Well, they’ll be back before morning, that I can guarantee. Unless they go to Charles’ house or somewhere else. But I told him he should call if he does that, so I won’t worry.”

“They’re still out—” Chloe said. 

Minnie reached behind her and opened a cabinet, taking out a roundish brown bottle of Irish Cream. “I do like a spot of this in my chocolate sometimes,” she said, and poured in a healthy dollop in her cup. “Helps me sleep. Anyone else?”  She offered the bottle around. “Go on, dear. What happened?”

“Well…” Diane hesitated, then decided the hell with it, she’d already gone too far. “We found an old letter of his in the vault, and I guess it was something he didn’t want us to see. I don’t think it was Kindred business, just personal, and it didn’t look like that big a deal honestly but—he was really upset. And I don’t know if apologizing will just stir up whatever Victorian repression complex he’s got about it even worse and make him even madder, or not. You know him, what do you think we should do?” 

“Ah. Well—” Minnie paused to think about it. “Apologizing never hurts. You don’t have to be too specific. There’s things he’s never talked about even to me. I know where he’s from, I know he and his sire didn’t get on all that well, and he won’t talk about him. I think his sire is dead anyways. But I think he truly wants to be a good person, even if he’s—well, what he is. He does try.”

Diane nodded. This was new information. Maybe it was something to do with the sire. “Okay.”

“You may never know,” Minnie said. “Not likely he’ll explain, not if it’s that personal. But does it really matter?”

“No, I guess not,” Diane admitted. “It would just be nice to know what’s safe and what isn’t. And how can you not be curious? The man’s lived over a hundred years. But if he doesn’t want to talk about it, then.”  She shrugged. What else can you do?  

“It would be nice to know about a lot of things,” Minnie agreed, “but we don’t. Sometimes you just gotta feel your way and be prepared to apologize if you go the wrong direction. But at least he never took anybody’s head off for it.”

Chloe shivered.

Minnie passed her the bottle of Irish Cream. “You know, don’t you, honey?” she asked Chloe. “You’ve seen worse, haven’t you?”

Chloe looked a bit like a deer caught in the headlights. “Not really seen. But I know it can be worse.”

“Right. Some of them are downright vicious, these creatures. Or so I’ve heard. I never met any of them but Charles before tonight.”

“Really?” Chloe asked.

“Really. Not much reason for me to, after all, and Charles wanted me to be safe.”

Diane mused, “And the more of them know about you, the less safe you are, I guess.”

“Oh, I’m sure of that.” Minnie said, emphatically.

There was a knock at the front door, and Minnie went to get it.

It was Etienne.

“Ah, there you are,” she greeted him. “We were just finishing up some hot chocolate in the kitchen—Charles isn’t with you?”

“Evening. Oh good, I didn’t wake you. Ah, no, Charles and Sarah are still out for a bit. I don’t think they’ll be too long though.” He smiled, a bit awkwardly.

“Would you like a cup of chocolate?”

“Ah—” he glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “I don’t want to keep anyone up.” 

“I think we’ll all be turning in shortly,” Minnie said. “I know better than to wait up for Charles.”

“Well, the chocolate and Irish Cream does smell good, but I’ll have to decline. Although I should just ask—”  He headed toward the kitchen, and stuck his head in. The students were finishing up their chocolate. “Sorry to interrupt, but are the things from the car all right? Did you bring them inside?”

“Oh, yeah,” TJ said, and yawned. “We put them downstairs in the warehouse.” Diane, Chloe and even Minnie echoed his yawn. Etienne, of course, did not.

“Oh, good. I probably should ward them. Or something.”  

“You can sleep with them under your pillow if you like,” Minnie told him. “In fact, I should show you where you’ll be sleeping. It’s downstairs too, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, that’s fine, really,” Etienne assured her. “It’s very kind of you to put us up on such short notice. And you’ve got such a lovely place here…”  

“I should show you, just so you can make sure it’s suitable.  Girls, you remember where your room is, TJ, I’ve got the couch made up for you.”

“Yes, thank you—” the students echoed, even as she was leading Etienne away.

“I don’t have a real bedroom space for three Kindred,” she explained as she led him down the stairs, “but I’ve arranged a light-safe corner of the warehouse—at least, I think it’s light safe—”

It did appear to be, to the best of Etienne’s judgment. She had taped cardboard over the windows on the garage doors and pushed the empty crates and other items together as a screen. On the other side of the crates, in the darkest corner of the warehouse, there was a trio of army cots, all made up nice and cozy with mattresses (Etienne realized she had used the foam padding from the crates) and sheets, pillows and a nice old-fashioned quilt on each.

“Should work nicely, thank you,” Etienne told her.

“Well, if  you’ll excuse me—I’m going to wimp out and go to bed myself. I’m afraid I can’t keep your hours on top of my own. “

“No, that’s quite alright, we hardly expect you to—” he assured her. She wished him a good night, and went back upstairs; he returned the sentiment and set to work.

Etienne saw where Charles’ two crates of artifacts from the storage place had been placed, and brought them in to where the cots were and drew up a ward up around the whole thing but didn’t activate it until Charles and Sarah had returned.

There was also a lamp, which he flicked on, and sat down to read for a while.

About an hour later, he heard: —Etienne?

—Here. You all right?

—We’re coming round to the back door, can you ask Minne to open the garage for us?

—Miss Peacock’s in bed, I’ll let you in.

He went to the garage door and opened it from the inside, and Charles drove Minnie's car in. Sarah and Charles both looked much better. Charles’ aura had calmed down to almost normal.

“Well, now there’s some color in your cheeks,” Etienne told them, smiling, and closing the garage door again.

“Please tell me we’re not sleeping in those,” Charles quipped, looking at the crates. He sounded half-joking, half worried.

“No, we’re bunking army-style. Well, a bit better than that, she made mattresses from the pads,” Etienne said, showing them in. “See, we’re fine. And I’ve got a ward set up, ready to go.”

“Oh? I wasn’t sure what she’d come up with…” Sarah slipped past him to see. “Ah, I see—that will be just fine.”

Charles blinked, and then gamely agreed. “Well, I suppose I should get ready for bed so you can do your…uh, whatever it was.” And he picked up his overnight case and toddled off to the little bathroom to change.

Sarah, brazen hussy that she was, changed to her sleeping t-shirt (well, for the sake of Charles, she added shorts) right where she was. Almost as if she was daring Etienne to watch—as if he hadn’t seen it all the last time he was in town.  

He did not take her up on it, but he did enjoy the dare. —Little witch.

—Guilty as charged, my lord Pontifex, she told him cheerfully.

Sarah clearly had no qualms about being nude—but she did make sure she was dressed before Charles got back. “Nicholas was like that, you know,” she said in a low voice. 

“Like Charles?”

“I don’t think I ever but once saw him anything less than fully clothed.”

“Ah. Well, you’re certainly not going to see Charles that way,” Etienne said. “I’m not exactly an exhibitionist myself.”

“I never told him I did rituals sky-clad.”  She grinned. “Not for his rituals, of course.”

He chuckled at the sky-clad. “Granted, it might be different if I had anything to exhibit.”

She padded over in bare feet and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good night, my lord Pontifex.”

He reached over, rather suddenly, and pulled her into a hug, which she returned. 

“You too…” he mumbled into her hair. “And thanks. I don’t dare think how Cohn would have been in like circumstances.”

That made her laugh.  

“You’ve been so good with Charles,” Etienne murmured.

—He’s a sweetheart, he really is, she told him silently. —We’re just constantly tripping over all the things he’s been trying to blissfully ignore for a long time.

—I know, I just wish the timing wasn’t so bad. And I’m getting a bit tired of feeling like Frankenstein, or the Mummy. Charles’ students are so damned twitchy around me!  

She ruffled his hair a bit, and then returned to her own cot, and was under the covers before Charles returned.

—Don’t worry about it, she told him. —Let’s hope they never get to see anyone worse for comparison.

Etienne sighed.  —Let’s hope fervently.

Charles came out of the bathroom, in his dressing gown and silk monogrammed pj’s and slippers, having combed his hair and brushed his teeth. He then took off the dressing gown, hung it up, and got into the cot, leaving his slippers on the side of the cot and his glasses on the jar’s crate for safekeeping.

Etienne activated the ward, sealing them in for the day.  

Sarah let her vision drift a bit so she could see the ward energies flowing around them. “Ah, that’s much better,” she murmured, and snuggled a bit in her cot.   

As the three vampires drifted off to their daily sleep on their cozy little cots—they could (just barely) hear a lot of sirens in the distance—but before they even could wonder about it, they succumbed to oblivion.  

Chapter Text

Madison, Wisconsin  — Wednesday, June 30, 2004

The next morning, there was an enticing aroma of coffee and bacon coming from the kitchen as the assorted mortal house guests rubbed sleep out of their eyes.  

TJ smelled breakfast and roused pretty well, and Diane marveled at his energy first thing in the morning—okay, maybe not the first thing, because it was after ten—but it was before coffee.  Sylvia was helping in the kitchen, fixing eggs to order, and Max was having coffee.

“Oh, prime,” Chloe breathed. “Real food—” She had rather hurried through her shower, just to make sure she actually got some breakfast, but there was really no need. There was not only bacon and coffee, but muffins and eggs and orange juice and a bowl of cut melon and blueberries.  Minnie apparently loved having company.

“You’re a goddess,” Diane informed her.

“Oh, nonsense. I just came from a large family,” Minnie said, but she was clearly pleased. There was only room for four at the table, so the younger folk ended up sitting on the floor in the living room and using the coffee table.

Everyone was enjoying breakfast, and Max was making noises about going out to get a paper since Minnie didn’t get one herself.

The phone rang, and Minnie picked it up. “Hello?  No, why? Oh. Oh—” Her expression changed to one of great dismay. “Oh, no! Yes, I can have him call you. Thank you.”

She hung up the phone, and then hurried into the living room and turned on the TV. “Oh, no, oh no,” she kept repeating, while she flipped around to find the local news station. 

Chloe got up in alarm. “What?”

“…Firemen are still working on containing the blaze. Recapping for those joining us late: The First National Bank of Madison, on the 400 block of East Wilson Street, was robbed last night. The thieves got away with an estimated two million in cash, jewelry and rare antiquities kept in the two-story vault, and then set fire to the building to cover their escape. An early morning commuter saw what she described as ‘suspicious activity’  in and around the bank building and called police. When city police arrived at the scene, the blaze was already started. Whatever clues there were to the thieves’ identities were likely destroyed. The bank vaults would have withstood the fire, but both had been opened and emptied of most of their contents. Exact articles claimed to be missing have not yet been released….”

Behind the newscaster were images of fire trucks and spraying hoses, and the smoking, fiery shell of the very same building they had been in last night.

“Holy SHIT,” Max exclaimed, and Sylvia didn’t even chide him.  

Diane’s jaw dropped; she felt a hollow, twisting knot in her gut, even as she came toward the TV. “Those unbelievable bastards—”  

“So all of Charles’ treasures—” Chloe murmured.

“—were in there.” TJ finished the sentence in a hollow voice.  

“Yes, his bi disks and his medieval manuscript, and his—” Diane was just beyond outraged.

“Stolen. Or destroyed.” TJ sounded as though he was in shock, and Diane didn’t blame him one bit for that.

Max had a steely hardness to his eyes. “You know why that happened, don’t you?” he asked. “Because they didn’t find what they were looking for. That’s someone being pissy because  they didn’t get what they wanted.”

“Because someone wants the stuff we’ve got that badly?” Diane muttered. “Well, they got enough.”

“What were they looking for?” Sylvia asked. “We know that much, I presume?”

TJ and Diane looked at each other.  “Well, we think so,” Diane said. “They’re ancient Egyptian artifacts. And they’re all downstairs right now, with—with them.”

Glancing at Minnie, who had tears trickling down her cheeks. Sylvia silently found a tissue and handed it to her.

“Are the police looking for Charles?” Chloe asked at last.

“Police?” Minnie echoed, and then shook her head. “No. No, that was his attorney’s office. They’d like to talk to him, but the police wouldn’t know about him.”

That was a scary thought, which had not even occurred to Diane. “They wouldn’t?”

Minnie shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. He owned the building, but not directly, it was some kind of business trust or investment partnership or something. The lawyers set all that up for him.”

“He owned the building? Well.” Diane blinked. “Never mind. Shouldn’t surprise me.”

“The bank was just leasing the first floor. Or maybe the bank’s management was part of the partnership, I don’t know. I’m sure he had insurance, even on all the things in the vault, but.. that’s just not the same.”

“No. It is not even remotely the same.” Diane was still steamed, and clearly contemplating ripping someone’s lungs out.

At least after this, Chloe thought, snooping in a photo album will probably seem like small potatoes.  

“They—they won’t find us here. Not in daylight,” Minnie found her way to an armchair and sat down. She seemed to be in shock herself. “We’re safe during the day. Right?”

Chloe stood over her. “Yes, we’re probably safe. Would you—can I get you a cup of tea? Or a shot of something?”

Minnie looked up at her gratefully. “Tea? Oh, you’re a sweet lamb, thank you.”

Max headed to the back door with the car keys, and said something about hiding Keiko’s Maryland plates.

“Oh, yeah,” Diane said, “That’s a good idea. TJ, why don’t you help him?” .

Together, Max and TJ swapped out the plates from Minnie’s car, which was in the little garage anyway, and put them on Keiko for the day. They weren’t the right kind of plates for an SUV, but at least they weren’t obviously from out of state. 

Chloe got the tea going. She also stared out the window in the kitchen a lot—just in case whoever burned down the bank building had daytime help, or (even worse) weren’t nocturnal to begin with.  

Max and Sylvia consulted with Diane, who seemed to be the leader among the students, as to possible plans of action. “When they rise tonight, they may want to leave town quickly. Any idea on where they might want to go?”

“Well, they wanted stuff on certain expeditions,” Diane thought a moment. “They’re probably trying to track down other pieces, or past owners, or both.”

“Where are those files? With them, or—ah,” Max said, and headed for the stairs. “I remember where we put those. Let’s see if we can get to them.”

Diane froze, horrified.  “What, are you crazy?”

Max turned. “What?”

“They’re down there.”

“They’re asleep,” Max said, calmly.

“You don’t think they’d mind?” Diane was not about to go walking in on a trio of vampires.

“Well, that depends. I won’t know till I get down there. Depends on how close I have to get.”

“I guess if they wake up we can say we came down to tell them the news?” Diane was torn between morbid curiosity, and a rather sensible (or so she thought) fear. “Have you woken her up before?”

“Yes,” Max assured her.  “I’ve also moved her while she’s sleeping. I could move her. I’d be afraid to even touch Monsieur de Vaillant, though. Anyway. Lemme go see if the files are easy to get to or not.” He began to go down the stairs.

Diane followed, hesitantly. TJ, up for anything (and admittedly a bit curious himself) was right behind her.  Chloe, more scared than curious, but not willing to be left behind, trailed after them. 

Max stepped inside the warehouse and flicked on the light, and then paused, getting the lay of the land (and listening for movement). Then he slowly moved towards where the vampires were resting. He was really looking for the satchel Charles had packed with the files, but once he started feeling the first wave of doubt—as in, you really shouldn’t be doing this—he knew there was a ward protecting the vampires. 

The students huddled together, staring at the unconscious forms. Sarah was curled up on her side, looking for all the world like she was just sleeping. Charles was lying on his back, covers up to his chin. Etienne was a side sleeper too, but looked rather more haggard asleep than awake.

“Damnation,” murmured Max. “They took it inside the ward. Okay, that will have to wait for tonight, I guess.”  He backed away.

“The ward?” Diane whispered.

“You feel that?” Max raised his arm and swung it about. “Like you shouldn’t be here, like you should run away now? Like you’re trespassing and about to get caught?”

“Well, yes—”

“That’s a ward, a basic one, anyway. That’s magic,” Max said. “It’s to keep people away. So we should probably comply with that, and go upstairs now.”

He led them back out of the warehouse and flicked off the light. They followed him gratefully up the stairs, and exhaled a big sigh of relief once the door to the downstairs was safely closed.

“What did you mean, a basic one?” TJ asked. “I mean, if I were a vampire hunter—which I’m not—I might be able to withstand the impulse to just run away. At least until I’d, uh, done whatever a vampire hunter does to any sleeping vampires he encounters.”

“Ah, but you’re not a hunter,” Max said. “And furthermore, you’ve tasted the professor’s blood—so the ward isn’t keyed to you. Or rather, it is keyed to you, but to let you withstand the impulse and get through if you had to, which would also wake them up, or at least whichever of them created the ward. Otherwise, if you tried to cross that barrier, it would do a lot more harm to you than simply making you feel unwelcome.

"A really good ward will not only keep someone away from a closed door, for instance, but will somehow keep you from even noticing the door is there,” Max explained. “Or so I’ve heard. I’ve not had much opportunity to study it.”

Chloe shuddered. “Creepy—”

“Creepy? Oh. Them. Yeah.” His face saddened a bit. “When you see them asleep, you remember—they’re really dead. They’ve been dead for years and years, and that’s sad, I think.”

“Ever since some night in what was it, 1894?” TJ said, rubbing his arms.

“In Sarah’s case, 1949, but something like that, yeah.”

“I still want to know whose bright idea it could possibly have been to make Charles one of the undead,” Diane grumbled. “I mean, talk about casting against type.”

“They choose for all kinds of reasons. Sometimes there’s not much logic to it. Sometimes there’s just spite,” Max said. “For all we know, he could have been chosen simply because he could read Egyptian hieroglyphs.”

“Oh, that’s great news for me—” Diane’s voice trailed off as she realized this was not near as funny as she meant it to be.

“I don’t think Charles is that type, however,” Max assured her.

“I guess it must have had something to do with Egypt—that certainly does seem always to have been his number one interest—Wait.” She ran for the catalog.

“What?” TJ said it, but other people echoed him at the same time. “What? Huh?”

“Okay,” Diane was flipping through the catalog as she returned, “The Khufu sarcophagus is thought to have been discovered in either 1888 or 1889, though nobody knows which tomb in the Valley of the Kings it came from. But it was probably one of two expeditions financed by the voracious collector, voracious mind you, Gerald Wood—”

“That was his name,” Minnie murmured.

“1888 or 89. And by 1894, he’s dead—right at the height of his career. Whose name?” Diane looked up, over the tops of her glasses.

“Charles’ sire, the one who Embraced him. Gerald Wood. I remember, he told me once,” Minnie said.

“Gerald Wood’s name was on the contracts too,” Chloe remembered. “One of the financial backers.”

“But a Kindred can hardly go digging in the hot Egyptian sun, so of course, he hires experts to do that for him—” Max put in.

“You mean his backer was a vampire, and then decided to turn Charles into a vampire too?” Diane said. “God, that’s… just appalling.”  

“That’s what it looks like, yes.” Max said.

“They didn’t get along, either,” Minnie commented.

“I bet Wood is in Who Was Who,” Diane said, turning to TJ

“Well, probably—” he said, and then, “Hang on, I’ve got it in my bag. We can look it up.”

He unfolded himself from the floor and went to look in his backpack.

“Who was who?” Chloe asked.

“Who Was Who in Egyptology,” Diane clarified for her. “A book listing almost all known explorers and archaeologists in Ancient Egypt, from the early days of exploration to the relative present.”

TJ came returned with the book, flipping through the pages rapidly. “Warner… Winslow… Wood… Ah, here we are. Wood, Gerald H.”  He handed the book to Diane.

“No birthdate, died in 1925, prolific 19^th century collector—” she read aloud. “Acquired some pieces for the British Museum, particularly during Budge’s tenure, and also operated a private antiquities business. Was openly condemned by both Mariette and Maspero in the press of the time but seems to have succeeded in either evading or colluding with their agents throughout the Nile valley.

“Estate auction in early 1926 yielded some of the most famous pieces of the 18^th and 19^th Dynasties, including the ‘Khufu’ sarcophagus, though the accuracy of this designation is still contested.  The mummy had been sold to the British Museum, along with its wooden inner sarcophagus, decades earlier—”

“So is Charles in there?” asked Chloe.

“Good question.” Diane flipped back through the book, looking for Hewitt, Charles E. “Goddammit, he is in here. Birth and death dates, third son of Lord Eppingshire. It just says he was an excavator, known to have assisted both Flinders Petrie and Victor Loret in the field. Also says here he proved Egyptian and Greek cross-influence on Memphis with his work on the pottery found there.”

“Cool,” murmured TJ. “That explains why all those pieces of Egyptian pottery were in his vault. I had been wondering about that.”

“Jesus. He was in Who Was Who all this time! Just teaching away in freaking Madison, Wisconsin.” Diane sat down to absorb that little coincidence.

“He’s a good teacher,” Minnie says, coming to join them with a fresh cup of tea.

“Well, yes,” TJ agreed. “I guess you’ve never had one of his classes,” he said to Diane. “He really is full of stories. He makes ancient history come alive.”

“I guess if you really are historical, that helps with the stories—” Chloe said. Then she turned to Minnie. “So is Charles an old friend or did you…meet him through your antique business?”

“Oh, no, no,” she replied. “I knew him long before that. Actually, I was one of his grad assistants for two years.”

Diane glanced at TJ.

“In—in archeology?”   TJ asked.

“Well, it was actually the study of Middle and Old Kingdom Egypt—I’ve always found that era fascinating. But that was back during the Suez crisis, and we couldn’t manage a real field trip. I never did finish my master’s. Had some family matters that took priority.”

That was in the mid 1950s, Diane remembered, long before any of the rest of us were born. Minnie didn’t look that old. But then, she realized, neither does Max. Or even Sylvia, really.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Chloe said, sympathetically. “You did get into a line of work that’s good for historians though.”

Diane was willing to bet that Chloe didn’t know just how far back in modern history the Suez Crisis even was.

“But Charles was very understanding,” Minnie continued. “He actually loaned me the money to get into this business. It does take a bit of an investment up front, and I didn’t have quite all I needed. I paid him back, of course.  It took a while, but he was very patient.”

“That was good of him,” Diane said.

“He’s a marshmallow inside, really,” Minnie said, and winked. “Don’t let that crusty Victorian British exterior fool you.”

“Yeah. Not all that communicative though.”

“Well, no,” Minnie smiled. “That’s the Victorian in him. And I suppose it’s part of his nature. He has to hide his feelings so much.”

Diane muttered, “Makes it hard to know how to navigate—”

Minnie looked thoughtful. “Does it?”

“Well, you know,” Diane said, “It seems like there are so many things that are just off-limits, or he makes it feel like they’re off-limits.”

“Well, if it’s Kindred business, he’s got to be careful about that,” Minnie said. “He can’t go just telling us poor mortals anything he likes. Would get him into a lot of trouble with the others.”

“So he was just exactly like he is now, wasn’t he? When you were his student.”

“Well, yes, pretty much. That wasn’t here, of course. He was at Brown then. We both were.”

Diane’s ears perked up. Brown.

“It was just fortunate for me to be able to move here and open up my shop.”

Brown. And after that, where? Or even before? Diane wondered. But she didn’t ask. Instead she brought up something far more relevant: “Oh, I know it’s a favor, but we do have to do laundry at some point, I was wondering—”

“Oh, not a problem,” Minnie told her. “I got a machine right off the kitchen here. We can take care of that this afternoon, easy.”

Max went out at some point and got a paper. The fire story was on the front page.

Minnie made lasagna for dinner, with assistance from the girls and Sylvia. TJ napped on the couch. Max read, fretted, and paced. TJ and Max did the cleaning up after dinner.

Minnie kept an eye on the time.  At precisely 8:40 PM, she took the front pages of the newspaper, girded up her nerves, and headed for the stairs.

Max, with a meaningful glance towards Sylvia, followed her.  

Sylvia remained upstairs. “Stay,” she told the students, and they gladly did.

Down below, Etienne was the first to awaken. He picked up a vague sense of uneasiness from outside the ward. Not any immediate danger, but that something was wrong, and the light was on. He groaned and sat up.

And someone—ah, Minnie—with Max right behind her, was hovering anxiously outside the ward, awaiting their waking.

“Hello?” Etienne said, blearily, attempting to snap out of the torpor that still clung to his bones.  “Ms. Peacock? What’s going on?”

“Sir.” Minnie sounded stressed.  

Etienne dismissed the ward with a hand gesture and a polyglot phrase. “Yes?”

Sarah began to awaken. A look of concern passed over her face as she picked up the vibe too.

Minnie approached, very nervously, holding a newspaper in her hand. “Sir,” Minnie’s face was pale, drawn under her makeup. “I think you should see this first. Because he—he’s going to be upset. His lawyer is trying to get a hold of him now, too.” She laid the newspaper down on one of the crates and backed away.

Etienne frowned, got up and came over. He was wearing pajamas, in a peacock-green silk.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked, sitting up and throwing the covers back.  

Charles opened one eye, saw a bare female leg and quickly closed them again.

“It’s all right,” Etienne said to Minnie. He picked up the paper, and read the headline. “Oh, merde.”   

Minnie looked sad. “Please, break it to him gently,” she said. “I’ll—we’ll all be upstairs.” Then she turned and fled, and Max followed her.   

Etienne ran a hand through his hair.  “Well, I’ll try.” He showed the paper to Sarah.

“Oh, Goddess—” she murmured, then looked over at the lump that was Charles.

Etienne said, “Charles, are you awake?”

“You’re.. you’re uncovered…” Charles whispered.

Etienne glanced at her.

“Oh, alright,” Sarah grabbed her clothes and overnight bag. “I’ll go get dressed, then—”

“Wake up, Charles,” Etienne said, crossing over to the Ventrue’s cot.

Charles opened one eye to make sure it was safe, and then pushed himself upright. “Damned gloomy here,” he murmured, and reached for his glasses. Ran his fingers through his hair, messing it even further. “What?”

Etienne said, “I’m afraid there’s bad news.”

“Diane—TJ, Minnie, Chloe..?” Charles’ eyes grew wider, as he tried to imagine what the bad news was.

“No, no, no. They’re fine,” Etienne said hastily. “It’s not that, thank God, but it’s about your vault.” He hesitated. “It’s been looted. Looted and burned. Charles, I’m sorry. It’s in the paper—and Ms. Peacock says your lawyer’s trying to reach you.”

“—What?”  Charles took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes, put them back on. He reached for the paper, and Etienne let him take it.

The Ventrue stared at it. Read it slowly, as if he couldn’t believe what he was reading.

“I’m so sorry.” Etienne said, and it was the honest truth. “All your wonderful things, and your keepsakes.”  He himself had always kept certain things just to remind himself he wasn’t just hallucinating being a 600 year old vampire, and he knew how upset he’d be if he lost those  few, treasured possessions from his earlier nights.

Charles sat there, motionless and numb, his eyes reflecting absolute shock. His aura was contracted tightly in, not yet clear on what color it should be rippling. Then he said, weakly: “We’re leaving here tonight. And Minnie, she can’t stay here, either—she should go to her sister’s. For at least a week. Then—it will probably be alright. I—” he stopped, and then started again. “I don’t know where—Oh, damn-it-all!“

Charles crumpled the newspaper in his fist, took his glasses off again, and let them fall to the rumpled quilt. He bent over, his head in his hands.

Etienne hesitated for a minute, then laid a hand on his shoulder. Charles didn’t object. There was a scent of blood; his shoulders were shaking.

Etienne sat beside him on the cot, and turned it into a half-hug. He wasn’t sure how non-Victorian Charles would allow things to get, but he went ahead and sat with Charles for a few minutes, comforting him.

Charles didn’t talk, but he didn’t pull away, either.  

Sarah peeked around the corner, not sure if she should approach or not. She decided to let Etienne handle this man-to-man, and slipped by to go on upstairs.

“I should have just let them have the damned thing.” Charles whispered. “Why are they doing this? Who the hell are THEY anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Etienne replied, “but they might very well be the Black Hand, as Dr. Roark thought—and from what I’ve heard, there’s nothing they’re not capable of, nothing sacred they won’t profane, and I can’t think of anything good they could want those things for.”

“And if they don’t get it, what will they do next?” Charles raised his head; his pale cheeks were streaked with the faint traces of blood tears.

Etienne’s face was all concern. “They will, of course, try again. You’re right, we should leave. Tonight.”

“It—it must be very important to them. We need to find out why, Etienne. There has to be a reason.”  

“We will find out why,” Etienne promised him. “Yes, there is a reason, and we’ll figure it out.”

Charles wiped his eyes and cheeks with his pajama sleeve. “I’m not inclined to let them have it, either,” he says, and there was now a new steel in his voice. “They’ve gone too far, damn them. This is not at all right.”

Etienne offered him a handkerchief. “No, it’s not right. They’re bastards, is all there is to it.”

Charles accepted the handkerchief and used it. “I suppose I’d… I’d best get up. Dressed and all—”  he mumbled.

“Take your time.”  Etienne stood up.

“Must put on a good face for the troops, and all that—” It was bravado, and thin at best, but he was at least moving.

“I’m sure the troops will understand why you might not have your best face available, but yes.” Etienne started getting dressed himself, pulling on jeans and a light sweater, a casual look—if their activities tonight demanded better, he’d simply change.

Charles’ aura was flickering all over the place: anger, hurt, grief, worry, fear. He took his clothes to the bathroom, as usual.  

Etienne could smell the lasagna as soon as he started up the stairs. It was a little strong an odor (particularly the garlic) for sensitive vampire noses. But he could deal; there were other actual emergencies to consider first.

Minnie was hovering at the top of the stairs, just inside the open door. “Is he alright?”

Etienne shook his head. “No, he’s upset and grieving, but I think he’ll manage. How is everyone else?”

“Well.. it’s been a rather rough day, as you can imagine,”

He nodded. “I can imagine, yes.  The news came this morning?”

“Yes. During breakfast. Mr. Tierney called—Charles should call him back, when he’s ready.”

“Right, I told him.” Etienne said. “I’m not about to rush him though.”

“Right, right, mustn’t rush him.”  She peered anxiously past his shoulder. No sign of Charles.

“He is very distressed.” Etienne said, turning her physically around and steering her, and closing the door behind him. “He’ll be along. Just give him a few minutes more.” She moved reluctantly, but she wasn’t fighting him, either.

A circle of anxious faces awaited him in the living room.

Etienne could, if he extended his hearing, recognize that Charles was having another little cry in the privacy of the bathroom, but he was sure Charles would pull himself together eventually. (He was, after all, British, and thus accustomed to putting a stoic face, or at least a stiff upper lip, on utter calamity—if for no other reason than that was what was expected of him). 

Meanwhile, Etienne surveyed them. “Charles is getting dressed,” he informed them.

Sarah, whose Auspex was good enough to pick up what was truly going on, merely nodded.

“He’s—he’s okay, though, right?” TJ asked.

Etienne sighed. “Well, no, he’s really quite distraught, but he’ll manage.”

“You have to understand—” he began, a bit awkward at the avid attention. “Well. I mean, that was his life in there. Or all that was left of parts of it—” He trailed off again, sure he had just said something he oughtn’t somehow. “Well, when you reach a… never mind. You understand, I’m sure.”

“His family pictures,” TJ said. “From when he was—was a baby. And the articles about his schooling and honors and successes.”  

“Right.” Etienne hesitated again, torn between the vampire instinct to keep mum about vulnerabilities, and the sense he had that these kids were looking for something human about Charles to grasp. “The sorts of things no one else is alive to remember. You see?”

He glanced a bit guiltily at Sarah, as if to say, sorry, I’m breaking the rules. But she wasn’t objecting.

“And those priceless treasures—” Diane was mourning all the lost history, Charles’ and otherwise.

“They were priceless to him, I’m sure,” Sarah said. “Memories are precious things. Tangible fragments of your past—all the experiences, the events that make you who you are.”   

Chloe murmured, “He spent all that time collecting all that stuff. Years, decades maybe—and they only needed one night to burn it.”

“Right, exactly,” Etienne agreed, relieved that Sarah was helping and the kids seem to be getting it, more or less.

TJ certainly looked like he did, and the girls were of the same mind. Minnie was wiping her eyes.

“I think we need some more tea,” Sylvia said, and went into the kitchen to make some.

“Poor Charles.” Diane said.

Etienne heard the door to the warehouse downstairs open and close. Then slow footsteps on the stairs. “He’s coming.”

Charles appeared in the doorway, looking rather subdued, but at least neatly dressed, his hair combed and mustache curled. Hands in his pockets. Looked around the room.

“Well,” he said. “I—I really don’t have anything to say. Well. Maybe I do. Minnie, I want you to pack a bag and go to your sister’s place—with your cat, if you can—for at least a week, maybe two. That for a start. And we—we can’t stay here any longer. I—I haven’t the foggiest notion of where we should go, but we really need to leave, preferably without leaving any traces of where we’re going.”  

He crossed the room, found an unoccupied chair, and sat down, then took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “But we’ll soldier on, right?” He looked at his mortal students, at the other Kindred.

“Charles,” Diane said, “I’m really sorry, Charles.”

He offered a faint smile, but a smile. “Thank you, Diane.” The others chimed in as well, and Charles acknowledged them also. Minnie came over and took his hand as well, and he patted her hand in return. “Thank you, Minnie.”

“I guess I’d better figure out where we’re going—” Etienne sighed.

“Yes, that would definitely be the next step,” Sarah said.

“Well, we could fly back to Hong Kong, I’d like to see the devils try to besiege us there—” Etienne mused. “But I don’t know.”  

“But does that do us any good?” Sarah countered. “I mean—there are presumably four jars. Assuming they have at least one, the one from the museum in Baltimore. And we have one, still. What about the other two?”

“Well, we’ve got to look for the other jars obviously,” Etienne said. “But since we have to do some detective work to even figure out where to look, it might not be unwise to at least put what we’ve got in safekeeping. And we still have no idea about what significance those tablets have, if anything.”

“We didn’t even take a good look at them last night,” Sarah said.

“No, true, we didn’t get the chance. We should probably get out of Ms. Peacock’s house beforehand if we’re going to try tonight though.” Etienne said, assuming that Sarah meant a good look, in a circle, using Tremere blood sorcery. 

“Okay,” Sarah said. “Hong Kong’s too far, and we can’t very well take Keiko there, anyway. Where else could we go that’s unexpected and yet not too far away?”

“Well, anyplace closer to Sabbat territory, though that likely won’t deter the Black Hand,” Etienne answered, thinking out loud. “Or where there are lots of Lupines—” His mouth took on a tiny crook of humor.

“Well, that would be... unexpected.” Sarah was forced to admit.

“Sabbat, Lupines,” Charles sighed. “I don’t care. Lesser of two evils, whichever that is.”

“Sabbat are at least more predictable than Lupines,” Sarah said, with a slight shudder. “But no less problematic.”

“Lupines?” TJ asked, not really sure if he wanted to know.

“Werewolves,” Charles said softly.

“Well,” Sarah said. “Etienne—it’s your call.” —If you think you can swing us safe passage in Lupine country, be my guest.

“Actually, maybe sunny California would be just the thing. I know a lot of people there. They might also be able to get us an introduction in points further east,” Etienne said, still thinking out loud. And then, “Actually, what I should do is make a couple of calls.”

“There’s another phone in there,” Minnie said, pointing. “Or you can use your own. But feel free to use my office.”

“Thank you,” Etienne said, skimming over his contacts list on his personal cellphone.

Minnie brought Charles some tea; he sat and held the cup in his hands, breathing in the scent, and taking the tiniest sip. She then went up to pack a bag for her own trip. Sylvia and Max went into their room to pack as well. 

“We should look at the files,” TJ reminded them, and trotted downstairs to go get the satchel.

By the time he was back, Etienne was in Minnie’s office with the door closed.   

Chapter Text

Madison, Wisconsin — Wednesday, June 30, 2004

Charles took his cell phone out to the stairwell to talk with Mr. Tierney for a while. He also asked him to check on the state of his house (which Mr. Tierney had anticipated, in fact, and was already done—it was fine). The loss of the scrapbooks hurt the worst. He did have some other family photos at home, thankfully.

Afterwards, he just sat on the stairs, to have a good, long, brooding think.

That was where Diane found him, after a while. “Do we know where we’re going yet?” she asked.

He looked up at her, offered a half-hearted shadow of a smile. “Where? I-I’m not sure. ‘Somewhere unexpected’ was the last I heard.”  He kept running his fingers through his hair, messing it up.   

Diane stood on the step just above him. “Is Cop—is de Vaillant deciding?”

He made another vain attempt to smooth his hair down. “I think so. He has a lot more contacts than I do—and I’m afraid I’m totally out of ideas at the moment. Although if you—if you had any good thoughts on that, I’d be happy to hear them.”

Her eyes widened. “Me?” She shook her head. “First I’d have to have a clue what the hell is going on, sorry. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing—”

“Well, yes. I wish I knew that myself.”

“You really don’t know why these people want this stuff?” She sat down on the steps right above him.

He shifted position slightly, so he was facing across the stairs and he could look up at her. “Well, no. I mean, they’re valuable in themselves, certainly—but this level of…” he hesitated. “Um—persistence,” he said finally, “indicates something far more than the value we can see. It implies they know something more than we do about them—the jars, the other tablets, if there’s more than two of those—I’m beginning to wish most fervently we’d never found the things, or that I had not acquired this one.”  

“This level of putrescence—” she corrected disgustedly.

A faint hint of a smile. “Yes. That too.”

“But de Vaillant said we had to find the other two jars,” she said. “Is that so, and if so, why? Since it’s plainly not safe to even have one of them.”

“Well, it’s likely that whatever they want it for, they need all four—and it occurs to him, as it does to me, that anyone who would go to such brutal lengths to acquire them cannot possibly have an ultimately benevolent purpose. I fear that if there is something significant about having the four together again, it can’t be a good thing. And therefore it is incumbent upon us to stop it. But I don’t know.”

“What would be significant about it?” she asked. “It’s not like you can put the mummy back together and bring it back from the dead, can you?”

“An actual human mummy, no—” He hesitated, not sure if he wanted to tell her the next part, but knowing she’d likely get it anyway. 

She waited.

“But—” He hesitated again. “You know what organs are normally contained in canopic jars. And which organ is not.”

“Right, and—?”

“A vampire does not really need a liver to survive. Nor lungs, nor stomach, nor intestines. Not to merely sleep, at least—as I do during the day. And we can sleep, if we choose to, or are badly injured, for years. Decades or even centuries on end.”  By the end, his voice was a mere whisper. “Maybe even... millennia.”

“I see.” She was staring by the time he finished this. “Well, at least that doesn’t sound like a happy thing to you either?”

“No.” He shuddered. “No, it does not.”

She tried to un-boggle. “But you would need the heart. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes. You would need the heart. The heart and the head… must be intact, and connected. Anything else will regenerate, given enough time, and enough blood. Which makes me wonder, if that is the case, why the hell are they trying so damned hard to get the original canopic jars back?”

Diane didn’t know the answer to that, though she had to admit he’d asked a good question. She decided to change the topic. “Max said Sarah and de Vaillant are, like, sorcerer vampires, is that true?” 

“Right, but they don’t know either.  I haven’t mentioned that possibility, though. I only thought of it myself just now.”  

“Oh. I thought we were starting to get onto an Evil Cult Of Sorcerers Theory here.”

“Ah. Well. It may be that. It may not. We don’t know yet. The world is so vast, there are so many possibilities—we’ve hardly begun to eliminate any of them.”

“Like in the movie—”

“The movie?”

“The Mummy remake,” she said. “Where they can raise mummies from the dead if they’ve got the jars. Five of them, which is not really accurate, but hey, it's Hollywood.”

“Ah—Good lord,” He shook his head. “You managed to sit through that entire thing?”

“Sure. I sat through the original too, that was even harder.”

“Yes, it most certainly was,” Charles grumbled. “One wonders if the script writers got all their Egyptology from Saturday morning cartoons. Or off of cereal boxes.”   

“So just to be clear: you actually buy this. You think magic is real.”

“Oh, yes. Given what I am, it’s rather hard to deny the reality of the supernatural. Yes. It is real, Diane.”

“And werewolves?”

He wrapped his hands around his arms, and shivered. “I could wish they were not, and thank God I’ve never encountered one, but yes. They’re real, and very dangerous—and they hate our kind. Kindred.”

“So, magic. And werewolves. And you.” She put her forehead in her hand.

“You are real too, Diane. Your wits, your intelligence, your courage,” he said. “Your reality is as strong as many magics, I should think.”

“It hasn’t been feeling like that, lately.” She frowned and rubbed at a spot on her jeans. “Charles, when I said I was sorry I didn’t just mean your vault. I meant what we did, looking in your things. And I’m speaking for all three of us. We’re sorry.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I-I should not have snapped at you. I’m sorry, too. I should have burned Edmund’s letter years ago.  I keep forgetting this is all so new for you. I don’t mean to fright you at every turn, but circumstances seem to-to conspire against me.” 

She nodded. “I know. I realize you’re not trying to scare us.”

“As Kindred go, I’ve never considered myself to be particularly frightening. But-but I guess you don’t have a great deal for comparison. And I’d really rather you didn’t run into the ones that make me look that good.”

Diane remembered the pale gunman, and shivered. “Yeah, I know. But it’s kinda late for that. It’s too much happening too fast, and even you admit we’re all in danger. I guess I keep thinking if I just get enough information I’ll start feeling like I have a handle on things. But suddenly it turns out there’s all these things I didn’t know. Starting with you—not that I really knew jack about you before, but I thought I could assume some things. Obviously you were British, and you looked about so old, and you were teaching part-time in Madison and you liked classical music and Rembrandt. And of course, that you were human, which as it turned out, was not the case at all.”  

“Well, what else do you want to know?” he asked. “About me, that is—don’t ask me about de Vaillant. I’m not sure I should—or even could—answer for him.”    

Diane frowned. “I thought you didn’t want us to know anything personal.”

“Well, I’m not very good at talking about myself.” Charles managed a faint smile. “But I need you to trust me, Diane. And I’m thinking maybe it’s unfair to ask that of you if you don’t know who—or what—kind of man you’re being asked to put your trust in. You thought you knew me, and now it turns you don’t—but maybe you need to. God, I’m rambling, am I making any sense at all?” 

She gave a faint snort. “Welcome to the club. But, yes, you’re making sense. I just don’t want to step on a sore spot.”

“Well,” he mused, “What is it they say to never talk about—politics, sex and religion?”

She pondered. He actually seemed more relaxed now than he had earlier.

“All right.” Then she hesitated. “You didn’t ask to be a vampire, did you?”

He hesitated, but not for long. “No,” he said, after a minute. “It came as rather a nasty surprise, in fact.”

She nodded. “So this has all just been you—making the best of a bad situation. Or do you not think it’s bad?”

“Well, it’s not always bad,” he replied. “When you’re with the right people, sometimes it’s very pleasant. But otherwise—I just try to survive, and not lose my conscience. Although I admit, it’s had some rough wear and tear.  

“I do like teaching,” he continued. “I like being around people, ordinary mortal people. Students with questing minds. I don’t want to forget what that’s like.”