TEXT: G H E R B O D  F L E M I N G
  
  White Wolf Publishing
  735 Park North Blvd.
  Suite 128
  Clarkston, GA 30021
  www.white-wolf.com
  The Winnowing
  ©1997 White Wolf Publishing.
  All rights reserved.
  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part
  without the written permission of the publisher,
  except for the purpose of reviews.
  The characters and events described in this book are fictional.
  Any resemblance between the characters and any person,
  living or dead, is purely coincidental.
  The mention of or reference to any
  companies or products in these pages is not a challenge
  to the trademarks or copyrights concerned.
  Because of the mature themes presented within,
  reader discretion is advised.
  First edition March 1998.
  Printed in Canada.
  
  One
  4
  Two
  38
  Three
  82
  Four
  126
  Five
  159
  Six
  201
  Seven
  222
  Eight
  249
  Nine
  280
  Ten
  302
  Eleven
  318
  Twelve
  347
  Thirteen
  371
  CONTENTS
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  4
  CHAPTER ONE
  Rage drove Nicholas on through the night. His
  thirst for vengeance would be sated only by blood,
  and it was the thought of that blood that fueled
  his fury. Blood that once, maybe a thousand years
  before, had run through the undead veins of his
  ancestor across the seas. Blood that had been sto-
  len from Blaidd, the murdered Gangrel. Blood that
  Nicholas would reclaim for his lineage, for his clan.
  But it would be another night that would see
  Nicholas’s vengeance satisfied, for the moon had al-
  ready run its course across the blue-black sky. Mighty
  Orion, the hunter, had also completed his trek, and
  the faintest traces of pink and orange were becom-
  ing increasingly evident on the eastern horizon.
  
  5
  The Winnowing
  Unrelenting, Nicholas pressed the limits of his
  wolven form. Mile after mile fell away behind him.
  Already the wide plains of the Midwest, empty ex-
  cept for acres of winter wheat and the wind that
  danced through the stalks, were only a memory. It
  was on those plains, less than a day ago, that the
  truth had been revealed to him. Visited by another
  of the waking dreams that had plagued him over
  the past weeks, Nicholas had seen through the eyes
  of his great-great-grandsire as the most heinous of
  crimes among the Kindred had been committed
  against Blaidd. And though the deed was nearly a
  millennium past, Nicholas had laid eyes upon the
  perpetrator less than a fortnight ago, and each step,
  each mile that receded in the distance, left Nicho-
  las closer to the criminal. Closer to justice.
  Countless rolling hills of bluegrass passed almost
  without notice. Horse country. Nicholas had
  stopped only briefly to feed from an old roan, a
  creature that in ages past might have been a proud
  beast roaming the plains, but instead was the bro-
  ken-down beast of burden of a struggling farmer.
  With an animal so large, it was easy for Nicholas
  to drink his fill without too adversely affecting his
  prey. As Nicholas fed, he grieved for the beast,
  fenced in amongst such squalor. Had Nicholas been
  in less of a hurry, or had there been signs of abuse
  on the horse, he would have stormed into the
  farmer’s shack and fed instead from him and his
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  6
  family. But what would have been the use? The
  roan, utterly domesticated, would have squandered
  the gift of freedom. Even without fence or tether,
  it would merely wander until other mortals placed
  a rope around its neck. It pained Nicholas to see
  the spirit of a fine beast so completely broken by
  the mortals.
  Feeding was painful for Nicholas in other ways
  as well. For weeks now, as long as the dreams had
  been assailing him, each feeding had brought not
  relief from his hunger, but increased pain. It burned
  from within, as if his very blood boiled. Tonight,
  only the fury of his running had kept Nicholas from
  falling to the ground or going mad from the agony.
  The blood curse. Nicholas had seen it in the city,
  had heard stories from Edward Blackfeather. Nicho-
  las had hoped that returning to the nurturing wilds
  would cure him, but although the wide open spaces
  had helped him control the hunger and the mad-
  ness somewhat, the curse clung to him like the
  stink of the city that could not be washed away.
  Ahead, the Smoky Mountains loomed, less ob-
  stacle than milepost to Nicholas. It was a shame,
  he thought, that the dawn was breaking so chill
  and clear. The mountains, when bathed in the fog
  and mist for which they were named, were truly
  an awesome spectacle, and on the darkest and most
  overcast of mornings, Nicholas might have stolen
  another hour from the sunrise. But his time was
  
  7
  The Winnowing
  nearly at an end for now. Soon he would have no
  choice but to sink into the ground, into the wel-
  coming earth that protected him from the day.
  Tomorrow night. He would enter again the ac-
  cursed city, and vengeance would be his. Nicholas
  would exact justice. He would tear it from the flesh
  of the Gangrel-killer. Owain Evans. The Ventrue
  elder played the part of civilized gentry. He was gra-
  cious and polite, offered refreshments to his guests.
  But in his past, secrets were buried that, without
  question, damned him. The modern businessman
  had, at one point in time, dirtied his own hands.
  Nicholas had seen through curse-born dream the
  cruel pleasure Evans had taken in destroying the
  Gangrel’s great-great-grandsire. How many other
  Kindred had Evans murdered likewise in the in-
  tervening years? How many, Gangrel or otherwise,
  had fallen to this respectable elder? The other
  clans, Nicholas knew, derided the Gangrel, mocked
  their “beastly” ways. But who was the real beast—
  he who dealt forthrightly with his peers and was
  tied to no single place, or he who clung frightened
  to his city and fed upon his own, while pretending
  to adhere to some higher, sophisticated code?
  Nicholas grunted. Too much thinking. He had
  been among the city Kindred too much of late. A
  burning was beginning to grow within him. He was
  so exhausted from his two nights of running that
  he couldn’t tell whether the pain was the protes-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  8
  tation of muscles pushed beyond their limits, or the
  tiny pin-pricks of the sun’s first rays sizzling his skin
  like the bacon his mother had fried over an open
  flame back in Kiev so long ago. Or perhaps the pain
  was the hunger demanding attention, the yearn-
  ing that only grew worse after any attempt to
  appease it, a reminder of the curse that had latched
  onto Nicholas his last time in the city. How would
  he bear it this time, going back among all the kine
  and their buildings and roads and automobiles?
  But that was not the most important problem,
  Nicholas reminded himself as he began to sink
  down into the rich earth. There were age-old
  wrongs to be redressed, offenses ten times
  Nicholas’s age to be set right.
  Owain Evans would pay for his crimes. That
  Nicholas swore. On the blood of his ancestry, the
  blood that Nicholas would savor as he drained it
  from Evans’s tattered body, Nicholas swore. As he
  became one with the soil beneath the emerging
  rays of the sun, his pain, for a brief while, drained
  away. His fury did not.
  Owain had retreated into the study to seek the
  comfort of solitude. He wanted nothing to do with
  his uninvited houseguest, or with the swirling tem-
  pest of Atlanta’s Kindred politics, which Owain
  would doubtless be dragged into more fully. There
  
  9
  The Winnowing
  were also the day-to-day responsibilities that he had
  been ignoring for the past few weeks as other mat-
  ters had loomed, and without his servant ghoul
  Randal to attend to such details, more of the bur-
  den fell back onto Owain.
  Damnation! he thought. How, of all things, can I
  run off to Spain right now?
  With Prince Benison’s decrees of the night be-
  fore clamping down on the liberties of the anarchs,
  trouble was sure to follow. Owain, as elder and all-
  but-in-name primogen, might be called upon to
  help maintain order. Or there was always the pos-
  sibility that he might be able to gain some
  advantage through the likely turmoil. Benison’s
  wife Eleanor, Ventrue like Owain, would be in a
  difficult spot, her loyalty tested between her hus-
  band and Baylor, her justicar sire who would
  undoubtedly frown upon Benison’s decrees. An-
  tagonizing the anarchs was most likely not at the
  head of the Camarilla agenda these days. Anything
  that distracted from the organization’s endeavor to
  survive the curse would be a liability. For Eleanor’s
  position to be compromised, either she would have
  to become estranged from Benison, or more likely
  Benison himself would be disciplined by the
  Camarilla for his rash actions. The prince could be
  censured or even removed from power. But who
  would step in to pick up the mantle of authority
  in Atlanta? Certainly neither brainless Marlene nor
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  10
  Thelonious the Brujah. Aunt Bedelia was too far
  removed from reality, though less than she let on,
  Owain suspected. Aurelius would never leave the
  sewer long enough to be of any use, and though
  Hannah would be an able administrator, she was
  far from inspiring, and at any rate, it was doubtful
  the Camarilla would let a Tremere move to the
  fore. There was too much distrust from the other
  clans.
  Owain’s eyebrows rose at the thought that no
  suitable successor to Benison dwelled within the
  city. None except perhaps…Owain himself?
  He smacked himself lightly on the cheek several
  times. What vampire in his right mind would even
  want to be prince? Owain wondered. In his right
  mind. That explains how Benison got the job. Owain
  couldn’t believe that he’d even entertained the lu-
  dicrous idea at all. He was not enough of a
  recognized factor within the Camarilla to assume
  a position of such prominence. He was too much
  the outsider, too much an unknown quantity. And
  that was how he liked it. Owain had had his day
  in the sun, so to speak. He had been the control-
  ling force behind the small Welsh kingdom of
  Rhufoniog for two hundred years. There was more
  to be gained, he had finally realized, from remain-
  ing even further behind the scenes, and he had
  stuck to that strategy for the past seven centuries
  or so.
  
  11
  The Winnowing
  No point tampering with what works, he decided.
  But was it working? He had survived longer than
  most of his kind, but after the past few weeks, noth-
  ing in his undead existence was certain. The
  predictable routine that Owain’s nights and months
  and years had fallen into was utterly shattered. The
  siren had seen to that. Owain stretched back in his
  chair. He pressed with his hands against the large
  ornate desk at which he sat. The solidity and
  weight of the piece of furniture was reassuring, as
  was the smooth grain of the black walnut. A very
  hard wood, it had not been easy for the carpenter
  to work with, and Owain had paid a handsome
  price for the desk, even back in the century of its
  origin. Later modifications, such as the installation
  of an intercom into the structure, were regrettable
  concessions to modernity that displeased him more
  and more as time passed. He wished he had not
  sullied its pristine beauty so, but had refrained from
  having the situation corrected for fear of further
  marring the integrity of the piece. What was done
  was done. The desk served as something of a grim
  reminder of so many unfortunate decisions.
  The commonplace book that lay on the desk be-
  fore Owain was a reminder in different ways. The
  cover of the book was several shades lighter than
  the walnut beneath. There were no markings or
  inscriptions on the smooth leather. It had been dis-
  turbing enough when the original embroidered
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  12
  cover had deteriorated well beyond the possibility
  of repair. Owain could still envision the design that
  had graced the cover—Welsh grouse trussed, from
  the crest of House Rhufoniog—when the original
  owner had given him the book. Angharad. She had
  been done such a great disservice by House
  Rhufoniog, but still she had retained her loyalty.
  So had Owain, until years later.
  He had hated to replace that cover, but still the
  book held special meaning. Even without markings,
  Owain knew he could never mistake it for another,
  or another for it. Place it amidst a library of thou-
  sands identical to it, and he would pick it out with
  hardly a glance. Unlike many elder Kindred, there
  were few heirlooms that Owain valued, but those
  that he did—this book, his sword—were irreplace-
  able for reasons beyond the reach of his vast wealth.
  The contents of the book were largely inconse-
  quential: handwritten bits of scripture, common
  sayings, countless scribblings in two distinct hands
  and a handful of languages. But still Owain could
  not bring himself to relegate it to a glass case where
  its life might be lengthened.
  What kind of life would that be? he wondered.
  A book like this was meant to be handled, to be
  touched. That was what Owain needed it for, at
  any rate—reminding him of and connecting him
  to his humanity of centuries past. There was little
  other actual use for the book. Finding the refer-
  
  13
  The Winnowing
  ence to absinthe several months ago was probably
  the first time he had needed information from the
  tome in several years. And when was the last time
  he had written in it? Curious, he took it from the
  desk and gingerly turned the stiff parchment pages,
  so as not to crack them or strain the aged binding,
  until he found the last entry. The legible but less
  than technically perfect handwriting was unmis-
  takably his own, though the words were rendered
  in Spanish. After all, he remembered upon seeing
  the text, he had been living in Toledo for over a
  hundred years when it was written.
  Earlier tonight I sat atop the walls near Bad
  Yehudin, Jews’ Gate. Behind me, fires burned in
  the Jewish quarter. In the days to come, the Jews
  will be blamed for the fires—“criminals hiding
  evidence of their crimes,” people will say, or “lay-
  ing deathtraps for devout Christians.” But it was
  those “devout” Christians who could not even wait
  to loot until the Jews were driven from their
  homes. I have no religious sensibilities left to lead
  me to persecute them.
  Before me as I sat atop the wall, an endless
  procession of Jews streamed into the night, be-
  yond the Basilica de Santa Leocadia, beyond the
  limit of even my sight. Ferdinand and Isabella have
  their wish. The Jews will be gone from Spain, and
  both a proud people and this kingdom will suffer.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  14
  The Jews will suffer the most, however. They
  will go…to Portugal? France? Will they find
  any better there than what they leave? I doubt
  it will be so. Their possessions on carts, on horses,
  on their own backs, the descendants of Don
  Samuel are laid as low as any. And for what?
  For much the same reason I was chased from
  my lost Wales. At least I had the luxury of
  contributing to my own misfortune.
  The last sentence surprised Owain. Seeing the
  words, he remembered crouching on the wall that
  night as the Jews were leaving the city, expelled as
  they were from all of Spain. But how could he have
  thought that he had contributed to his own expul-
  sion from Wales? Obviously, not quite two hundred
  years after his exodus, he hadn’t had the proper per-
  spective, the broader historical overview, to realize
  that the fault lay entirely with the Normans and the
  Ventrue conquerors who accompanied them driv-
  ing the native Ventrue of Britain before them.
  At any rate, Owain reminded himself, his past
  misconceptions were of little concern. He had writ-
  ten that last entry just over five hundred years ago.
  Though he had not placed the commonplace book
  in a museum or in a hermetically sealed container,
  for more than five centuries he had added nothing
  new to it. So why have I bothered to keep it? he won-
  dered. Nostalgia? Self-pity?
  
  15
  The Winnowing
  Owain’s introspective mood began to turn dark.
  For that matter, what have I done since my last awak-
  ening? It had been roughly three hundred years since
  he had last emerged from torpor, and though in that
  time he had traveled across the great Atlantic and
  constructed a relatively vast financial empire, in
  many ways those endeavors had been merely going
  through the motions. Owain had taken little plea-
  sure or satisfaction in his accomplishments. This
  book, the desk it rested upon, the objects that were
  of any value to him, these were only visions of the
  past. They held no meaning, no value, in and of
  themselves in this modern day. Owain felt suddenly,
  looking at the book, that he might as well have spent
  the centuries in a hermetically sealed pine box, him-
  self a relic of bygone days, surrounded by the present
  but not really a part of it.
  That was the predictable routine of his linger-
  ing nights that the siren had shattered. While the
  objects guarded Owain’s memories of the past, the
  siren had reawakened the feelings of the past, emo-
  tions he had not experienced so acutely for
  centuries. He truly had been the living dead.
  No more!
  The commonplace book open before him, Owain
  reached for his gold-accented fountain pen. For the
  briefest of moments, he hesitated, nib fractions of
  an inch above parchment. Then he lowered the
  pen and wrote:
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  16
  What would Angharad think?
  The words, the last spoken by Albert before
  Benison had slammed a stake through the con-
  demned Malkavian’s heart, had been echoing in
  Owain’s mind since last night. How ironic, Owain
  thought, that they should be given form in this
  book that Angharad had given him so long ago.
  Perhaps expelled onto parchment, they would not
  haunt him for countless nights to come. Perhaps.
  Owain capped his pen. He reached for his blot-
  ter but then paused and just watched as the ink
  soaked into the parchment. The new words were
  so much darker than those that had been on the
  page for hundreds of years. The dichotomy was
  unnerving, this mingling of the ancient and the
  modern, but Owain would have to accustom him-
  self to it. The past had been forcefully thrust upon
  the present in recent weeks. There were too many
  coincidences, Owain realized, seeing the patterns
  in hindsight. Reminders of Angharad—in the
  siren’s song, in Albert’s last words. And all had co-
  incided with the spread of the curse.
  Owain had witnessed the carnage of the Black
  Death during his years in France. Many had pro-
  nounced it a judgment of God, the coming of the
  apocalypse. This curse had made similarly deadly
  inroads among the Kindred as the Black Death had
  
  17
  The Winnowing
  among mortals. Cainites were growing wary of one
  another, those who had not already succumbed to
  the curse. Some were calling it the onset of the
  Endtime, of Gehenna. Even Prince Benison be-
  lieved the curse to be a divine reprisal against
  wayward subjects of the night. His decrees, basi-
  cally repressing the anarchs, were supposed to
  rectify that situation somehow and restore super-
  natural favor. More likely, Owain suspected, the
  decrees would only serve to further damage the thin
  social fabric of the Kindred world, that which was
  already dangerously frayed by the curse.
  The strange visions, too, that were plaguing
  Owain had begun shortly after the spread of the
  curse. Was there actually a connection running
  through it all, or like the inept historian, was
  Owain erroneously attributing cause and effect
  where there were none?
  I am not your brother, Owain instinctively wanted
  to say, but he restrained himself. No good could
  come from unnecessarily antagonizing this irritat-
  ing but dangerous vampire.
  “The hour grows late,” Miguel continued, unper-
  turbed by Owain’s silence. “We must leave soon.
  Are you packed?”
  Demonstrating forced calm, Owain, the gracious
  host, smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t get away this
  evening.”
  Miguel, remaining in the doorway, cocked his
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  18
  head to the side and, with an exaggerated motion,
  cupped a hand by his ear. “Que?”
  Owain maintained his rigid smile. “I must put
  certain affairs in order before I could go anywhere.
  But don’t let me stop you. I can catch up.”
  Miguel laughed. It was a loud, grating sound.
  “But, mi hermano, I have made arrangements for
  both of us to travel.”
  The ticking of the clock on the shelf seemed to
  grow louder to fill the silence in the room. Owain
  took measure of his guest. Obviously Miguel had
  his orders and would not be swayed, and in the end,
  Owain would have little choice but to respect the
  summons from El Greco. Most likely it was pride
  that drove Owain, but he could not bring himself
  to give in to the perverse little Spaniard. Not yet.
  “Well, mi hermano,” Owain asserted through
  clenched teeth, “I suppose you will just have to
  make other arrangements.”
  Miguel, his patience cracking around the edges,
  stalked over to the desk and glared down at Owain.
  “You deny El Greco’s request?”
  Slowly Owain stood to his full height behind the
  desk, allowing him, in turn, to glower down at
  Miguel. “You misunderstand, my little amigo,” said
  Owain. “Our mutual friend asked me in his mes-
  sage, which you seem to be familiar with, to ‘come
  to Toledo with all possible haste.’ For me to leave
  tonight—it is not possible.”
  
  19
  The Winnowing
  The two faced one another across the desk.
  Owain knew he had made his point, but it was a
  victory of style rather than substance. He would
  be traveling with this detestable man soon.
  Miguel took a step back from the desk. “Very
  well, then,” he conceded. “When will it be possible
  for you to accompany me back to our lovely city
  of Toledo?” His tone was still demanding.
  Enjoying the upper hand for the moment, Owain
  made a great show of mulling over this question
  for several moments. “Normally, I would say a mat-
  ter of weeks at the very least.” Owain almost
  laughed as Miguel tensed and his eyes grew wide.
  “But for El Greco,” Owain continued before Miguel
  could protest, “I will leave…tomorrow.”
  For an instant, Miguel did not trust what he had
  heard. He expected trickery, or a challenge of some
  sort, but as Owain’s response sunk in, a genuine
  smile blossomed across Miguel’s face. He quickly
  tried to hide his relief, as if it was a matter of course
  that they would leave tomorrow. “Very well, then,”
  said Miguel, businesslike. “Tomorrow. I will make
  the arrangements.”
  “You do that, Miguel,” said Owain. He remained
  standing until Miguel had scurried out of the room
  and the door was again closed.
  It was no use, Owain decided. He could not hide
  his dislike for Miguel. The little weasel invades my
  study as if he were in his own home. What good is
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  20
  knocking if he doesn’t bother to wait for a reply? Of
  course, if Miguel had waited for an invitation,
  Owain probably would have left him standing in
  the hall the entire night. Miguel always had been
  a prickly type, and with Owain in a bad mood most
  centuries, the two had never gotten along particu-
  larly well. Owain took some small satisfaction in
  having delayed their departure; it had always been
  a question of when they would leave for Toledo, not
  if, despite whatever Owain might say.
  As his thoughts turned to Toledo and El Greco,
  Owain’s gaze drifted toward the chess board in the
  alcove before the window seat. He and El Greco had
  measured their gamesmanship, one against the other,
  for centuries now, and excepting this recent game,
  Owain had generally enjoyed the upper hand. Ab-
  sent-mindedly, Owain stood and went to the board.
  Now that his energies had been drawn to weightier
  matters, he was able to examine the game a bit more
  dispassionately. He was still amazed at how El Greco
  had managed, in one move, to transform the game
  from a near rout for Owain to an assured victory for
  himself. Owain scratched the stubble on his young-
  looking face. Such subtlety, executed to perfection,
  was not the norm for El Greco. He aspired to
  subtlety, but rarely possessed the patience necessary
  to succeed. An anarch who has survived beyond his
  time, Owain thought of El Greco as, but the old
  anarch had certainly blindsided Owain in this game.
  
  21
  The Winnowing
  Though the anger was more controllable now, just
  looking at the board still raised Owain’s ire and did
  little to ease the mood of the night that, already,
  Miguel had quite ably soured.
  Owain returned to his desk. There were actually
  arrangements that needed to be taken care of. He
  had not put off Miguel purely out of spitefulness,
  though that was largely the reason. Owain had still
  not responded to Lorenzo Giovanni’s request for in-
  formation regarding several Atlanta Kindred. It was
  a simple enough favor and would go far in cement-
  ing favorable relations with the Giovanni clan’s local
  representative. Also, Owain had not decided whether
  he should have his driver and most dependable ghoul,
  Kendall Jackson, accompany him to Spain, or if she
  should stay behind to manage the estate. She did not
  yet, Owain supposed, know enough about his finan-
  cial affairs to be much help in Atlanta, so he might
  as well take her with him. Besides, she had proven
  herself useful in tight situations, and Owain didn’t
  fancy traveling anywhere near his Sabbat “allies”
  without a pair of day-time eyes.
  There were other details to attend to, though for
  a moment Owain entertained the perverse idea of
  having a bit of sport with Miguel and delaying their
  departure for another night or two.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  22
  Blackfeather curled inward—one leg folded be-
  neath him, the other hugged to his chest. He beat
  time with one foot, marking the passage of clouds
  across the moon.
  Wa-Kan-Kan Ya-Wa-On-We.
  In a holy manner I live.
  For the third time tonight, his quarry had nar-
  rowly eluded him, seeming to vanish entirely from
  the face of this world. Still, the beast could not be
  far and Blackfeather was a peerless hunter.
  A lesser hunter would have given up the chase
  as darkness fell, masking the nearly imperceptible
  signs along the path—the bent stalk of grass, the
  crushed leaf, the displaced pebble, the nettle-snared
  tuft of fur. A mortal hunter scoured a trail in the
  wake of his prey. His gaze focused ever downwards,
  scrutinizing the earth, wringing it for answers.
  Blackfeather had not even risen until well after
  sunset. He was not in the least inconvenienced by
  the shadows and silences that lay thick upon the
  land. Quite the contrary. It was the intensity of the
  light and bustle of the day that was most likely to
  distract him, to make him uneasy, to throw him
  off the trail.
  His preternatural senses were finely tuned to the
  half-light of the stars and waning moon. He could
  travel more swiftly than a horse over treacherous
  ground without ever missing the small telltale signs
  of his quarry as he raced along.
  
  23
  The Winnowing
  But now the trail had grown cold and
  Blackfeather had come to rest. He sat in the middle
  of the trail, carefully folded in upon himself, slowly
  tapping one foot. He did not fear obscuring the
  subtle signs of the beast’s passage. He knew full well
  that there were no such signs to obscure. This prey
  left no mark of its passing upon the earth.
  Blackfeather ignored the ground entirely. His
  head was thrown back, his attention was turned
  upward. His gaze remained unfocused. His sight
  blurred at the edges as if scanning for something
  in the realm of the peripheral.
  Nothing.
  No sign of the beast, his counterpart, his nem-
  esis. No sense of its presence.
  The tapping of his foot slowed. Time seemed to
  stretch away before him, matching its pace to the
  rhythm of his foot.
  The change was imperceptible at first. His first clue
  was that the cloud that was passing across the moon
  seemed to pause midcourse. It hung suspended, in-
  verted, as if waiting for the next footstep to fall.
  Then the moon itself seemed to stretch, to
  lengthen. It grew oblong, a lustrous egg perched
  high above him in a nest of translucent cloud. A
  shadow fell across Blackfeather’s face and he
  thought of the Thunderbird, Lord of the Heavens,
  whose talons struck sparks of lightning from the
  mountaintops at the four corners of the world.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  24
  Blackfeather whispered a silent prayer that the
  beast might not take the form of the Thunderbird
  this night. He watched the egg as carefully as ever
  a mother eagle had sat sentry over her nest.
  His fears soon proved groundless. The moon con-
  tinued its transformation, and Blackfeather allowed
  himself a slight sigh of relief. By the time he had
  again drawn ritual breath, the moon had stretched
  itself into an arc, forming a wide road of light across
  the night sky. Blackfeather noted that the stars
  were likewise lengthening, expanding into the
  middle distance. They kept pace with the wayward
  moon, following its passage from east to west.
  It seemed to Blackfeather that he was taking in
  their entire night’s journey at a single glance. Time
  had spread its bounty before him. He picked out a
  single arcing star at random from the feast of lights,
  studied it intently. Rigel, he decided after a mo-
  ment, the radiant heel of Orion, the Hunter. A fine
  omen.
  He soon picked out Betelgeuse and, having
  caught the Hunter’s eye, had little difficulty mak-
  ing out the three jewels of his belt. The
  constellation curled in upon itself as it stretched
  across the night sky in pursuit of its elusive quarry.
  Each of its component stars spanned the entire
  vault of the sky from horizon to horizon, both rac-
  ing and motionless in the same instant.
  Below, Blackfeather sat at the still point, gazing
  
  25
  The Winnowing
  up intently at the play of lights. His senses stretched
  away into the dim recesses of the night sky. He felt
  as if his very essence were being stretched thin. The
  shadows fell heavy upon him until he seemed more
  a shade himself than a physical being—a restless
  shade, summoned from the earth’s arms to witness
  this strange motionless dance of starlight.
  Yes, a shade, he thought. Something of the grave
  clung to him. A touch of shadow that was not cast
  from above, but drawn out of him and made in-
  creasingly obvious by the growing illumination of
  the night sky.
  The streaks of light splashed a more sinister as-
  pect across Blackfeather’s features. They picked out
  the intricate network of lines carved into his leath-
  ery face. His visage was so deeply scored, it called
  to mind a weathered fishing net—crisscrossed,
  frayed, cracked by the sun. A person could lose his
  way among the lines of that face, fall victim to the
  subtle pattern of the labyrinth. Blackfeather gazed
  upon the world past a parched, cracked landscape
  of desolation. A maze of gulches, ravines, arroyos
  spread out across the badlands of his weathered fea-
  tures.
  Above his head, stranger patterns still were form-
  ing—feverish matrices of fire and night. Like
  shooting stars run in reverse, the arcs of light ap-
  peared to burn out into the dim distance, to lose
  themselves amidst the smudge of the Milky Way.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  26
  Blackfeather raised one insubstantial hand in
  mute salute and let it fall again. He repeated the
  motion, watching his other hand drift leisurely
  earthward. He suddenly caught a vision of himself
  as if he were standing over his own shoulder. The
  curious shadowy figure seated before him on the
  trail appeared as a solitary phantom juggler.
  Arms as insubstantial as shadow, translucent as
  cloud, waved slowly skyward then earthward, sky-
  ward, earthward. The limbs were beyond his
  volition, moved by a gentle breeze or a barely per-
  ceptible tug at invisible strings.
  Above his head a thousand brilliant silver balls
  cut an arc across the sky. At its crux, triumphant
  moon bounded high and plummeted fast.
  Blackfeather jerked, lunging to catch the moon
  as it streaked earthward. But his hand had no sub-
  stance to it, no hope to arrest the fiery orb in its
  flight. It struck the earth with a sound that raced
  the length of Blackfeather’s spine, cracking it like
  a whip. The concussion that followed a moment
  later pitched him into the air and sent him scram-
  bling on all fours trying to regain some semblance
  of balance.
  A great cloud of dust arose from the south, mark-
  ing the point of impact. One by one, the stars
  dimmed and then fell from the sky with the sound
  of tinkling glass. The sky found itself once more in
  darkness. Cleansed of light. Primeval, pristine, pure.
  
  27
  The Winnowing
  Blackfeather was on his feet and racing south-
  ward. He hardly took note of his path in his
  headlong flight. His feet seemed sure of themselves,
  finding their footing of their own accord. His foot-
  falls, however, sounded different now—the
  unmistakable slap of leather on wooden planks.
  The path had twisted unexpectedly, taken a turn
  not of direction, but of substance. Blackfeather
  found himself racing along disused railroad tracks
  towards some unguessed destination in the far
  south.
  Even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew
  it to be untrue. His destination was not unguessed.
  Some part of him recognized instinctively the point
  towards which the tracks were inexorably leading
  him.
  All roads, it is said, lead to Rome. When rail-
  road men speak of the End of the Line, however,
  they have quite a different destination in mind—
  a place they once called Terminus.
  Ahead of him, from beyond the expanding cloud
  of ash, Blackfeather could now pick out the first
  flickering hints of conflagration, little more than
  ruddy glowing coals on the horizon. Somewhere
  ahead, fields were burning. And surely buildings by
  the look of it, he thought. Many buildings. And
  there were mounted men with torches among the
  buildings.
  Blackfeather shook his head to clear it. Surely
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  28
  even his keen eyesight could not pick out such de-
  tails at this distance. A riderless horse streaked past
  him, nearly knocking him to the ground. It
  stamped, reared in panic and raced on.
  He could hear the sound of confused shouts and
  feel a searing heat stretching his face taut. A man
  in a blue uniform carrying a rifle swore at him
  loudly, giving him a rough shove. When
  Blackfeather failed to react, the man shouted again.
  “…damned wind’s kicked up and turned the
  flames back around! If you’re not out of this field
  double time, you will be mustering out of General
  Sherman’s army the hard way, soldier!”
  Then the man was gone, vanished back into the
  maelstrom of heat and sound. Blackfeather heard
  a great roar drawing close and turned back toward
  the source of the blaze. There, rising from the cloud
  of ash that blanketed the city, a thousand tongues
  of flame rose, joined, blossomed heavenward.
  Each tongue voiced a great cry. The shrieking
  cacophony rose ever higher, not a wail of despair,
  but the birth-wail of the beast, the phoenix, the
  city rising from its own ashes. Atlanta.
  The great beast, the firebird, soared forth, re-
  vealed in all its glory.
  Blackfeather saw his quarry resplendent in all its
  majesty, rising in the heavens like a newborn star.
  He let the terrible beauty of the beast, his beast,
  wash over him. He felt the sense of purpose quicken
  
  29
  The Winnowing
  within him. The age-old chase was once again
  afoot.
  There was no question of his running his prey
  to ground this night. Blackfeather rocked back on
  his heels and smiled, content to be bested. His
  thoughts were already leaping ahead, anticipating
  the coming hours of dogging his own personal star
  across the heavens.
  Soon enough dawn would press him gently back
  into the earth. No doubt the first hints of sunrise
  would take him on the outskirts of Atlanta. He was
  not likely to lose the trail again now. But the night
  stretched away before him like a lover’s promise.
  Tonight, there was the chase, the hunt, the quest.
  The beast opened its maw with the sound of one
  hundred baying hounds and Blackfeather, peerless
  hunter, dutifully followed after.
  It had been two nights since the gathering of
  practically all of Atlanta’s Kindred, and still
  Eleanor had heard nothing from Benjamin. Of
  course they had to stay reasonably clear of each
  other when Cainites gathered—no point in invit-
  ing gossip, especially when it might be true—but
  what could be the harm in a private walk? An
  evening meal?
  Eleanor paced about the parlor. This was her
  province, her contemplative retreat. Just as she left
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  30
  the library to Benison, aside from when she needed
  particular books, he left the parlor to her. Just be-
  cause they were joined to one another for eternity,
  an unusual enough arrangement for vampires, did
  not mean that they didn’t both need their privacy.
  Though each thrived on the other’s company, they
  did both, in fact, spend much of their time in soli-
  tude. Merely intensifies the time we spend together,
  Eleanor reasoned.
  At the moment, however, it was Benjamin, not
  Benison, who occupied Eleanor’s thoughts, and
  solitude was not her craving. Theirs was a relation-
  ship of the mind, unsullied by the physical passion
  of mortals, though certainly not devoid of passion.
  Eleanor longed for Benjamin’s companionship, his
  insight, his sharp wit—so cerebral, while Benison
  was…less so. What did Benjamin think of
  Benison’s pronouncements? Would the anarchs re-
  spect the decrees and take up their places in
  respectable clans, or would unrest ensue? Did Ben-
  jamin think the Camarilla would intervene?
  Actually, Eleanor was more knowledgeable on
  that front, with her connections through her sire
  and her own former position of archon. Even so,
  she could no more than guess. The Inner Council
  might step in, or they might have more urgent busi-
  ness elsewhere, responding to the ravages of the
  curse. Chicago, Miami, Washington D.C., London,
  Berlin—all maintained more precarious balances
  
  31
  The Winnowing
  of power than here in Atlanta. Benison had a his-
  tory of stability—for his city, not necessarily his
  temperament—on his side. He would have a cer-
  tain window of time during which he must
  maintain control. Only no one had any way of
  knowing how large that window was.
  But these were the thoughts she wanted to share
  with Benjamin! Eleanor realized that she was crum-
  pling in her fist the lace doily on her writing table.
  She carefully smoothed the lace, then sat. This
  table, in other venues, had seen written some of
  the most influential epistles of the Kindred world.
  Eleanor did not feel she was flattering herself to
  think so. But she had left behind the larger world
  of Cainite politics to be with Benison. Sometimes
  she wondered if he remembered that. Tonight he
  was gallivanting around the city keeping an eye out
  for trouble—an important job, but if the prince saw
  to all that himself, why did they have hired help?
  It could be interpreted as weakness, the prince on
  patrol, and she had told him as much. But what
  good had it done? Meanwhile, she was here alone.
  No Benison. No Benjamin.
  Why hadn’t she heard from her childe? That was
  one secret that her husband need never learn—that
  she had Embraced Benjamin after her intellectual
  desire for him had left her little choice, other than
  to destroy him, and that clearly had not been a vi-
  able alternative.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  32
  Eleanor frowned at the blank stationary before
  her. Why hadn’t he responded to her previous mes-
  sage? Her waifish serving ghoul, Sally, said she had
  delivered the letter. Again, Eleanor put pen to pa-
  per. Benjamin had often assured her that, though
  it tore a small piece of his heart away each time,
  he destroyed each of her letters to him, for the sake
  of prudence. Still, Eleanor generally tried to couch
  her phrases ambiguously enough that an errant
  missive would not be her undoing. This letter
  would be less ambiguous than most, she felt, as her
  aggravation with Benjamin flamed higher.
  How long had it been since she had heard a ten-
  der word from him? How long had it been since
  she’d heard any word from him, other than the
  most perfunctory of greetings at a social gathering?
  Not since before that disastrous exhibit of Marlene-
  the-idiot-whore’s so-called artwork at the High
  Museum, and that had been months ago!
  Her pen bit into the stationary. She had been
  willing to play coy for some time, but enough was
  enough. In no uncertain terms, she let Benjamin
  know just how she felt about being ignored. The
  ungrateful childe, she fumed. Eleanor believed that
  affairs of the heart, unlike marriage, which was as
  much a political as an emotional arrangement, re-
  quired brutal honesty at times, and she spared no
  brutality with Benjamin. She could understand,
  after Owain Evans’s threats, Benjamin’s wanting to
  
  33
  The Winnowing
  thicken the veil of discretion beneath which their
  relationship necessarily existed, but she would not
  tolerate him using that as an excuse to slink away
  and leave her unstimulated intellectually. Because
  that’s what was important really—the encounters
  with her in, and then out of, her negligée were
  mainly just a change of pace, to keep things fresh.
  It all came back to Owain Evans, Eleanor no-
  ticed. If he hadn’t tried to unduly influence
  Benjamin, then she would not have to be dealing
  with this personal turmoil. How much did Evans
  know? she wondered. There was no one other than
  Benjamin and herself who knew that he was her
  progeny, so there was no way Evans could have dis-
  covered that little tidbit. But then again, he had
  found out about her and Benjamin’s…involve-
  ment, despite their precautions. An infuriating
  thought crossed Eleanor’s mind. Had Evans merely
  suspected and taken a blind gamble, and Benjamin
  had panicked and confirmed Evans’s suspicions? If
  Benjamin had been so clumsy, could he have dis-
  cussed his Cainite lineage with someone as well?
  Perhaps; though her secret childe was superior to
  most intellectually, he was lacking in guile.
  Eleanor completed her letter to Benjamin. Hope-
  fully the expression of her displeasure would bring
  him to his senses. Certainly, she was sure, he could
  hope to do no better than her, neither intellectu-
  ally nor socially, while her status was quite safe
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  34
  without him. Safer, in fact. And, she reminded her-
  self, J. Benison was quite the adept debater. What
  his arguments lacked in subtlety, they made up for
  in conviction. Certainly she could be content with-
  out her wayward childe, if it came to that. Yes, dear
  Benjamin had better just watch his step, or he might
  find himself walking all alone in the dark city, she de-
  cided.
  As she folded the note and applied sealing wax,
  Eleanor’s thoughts turned again to Owain Evans.
  She needed to find out how much he did know;
  but more importantly, she needed to make him pay
  for dragging her name into his little schemes—re-
  gardless of the accuracy of his allegations. She
  would keep her eyes open, and she would find a
  way. Of that, Eleanor was certain.
  Kli Kodesh walked dripping from the sea. The
  waters rolled back from his shoulders and fell away
  unnoticed in his wake. A tangle of long white hair,
  plaited with streamers of seaweed, stretched out
  behind him like a fishing net cast out upon the sur-
  face of the waters. His simple white linen robe
  clung tightly about him as he emerged. It had gone
  distinctly gray from exposure to sea and salt, and
  drew attention to the unmistakable bluish tinge to
  his features.
  The lines of his face were striking—sharp, clas-
  
  35
  The Winnowing
  sical, almost sculpted. Sand and bits of shell coated
  his skin, glittered in the moonlight. The effect
  made him seem more a work of marble and arti-
  fice than a creature of flesh and blood. Even his
  bearing was regal, statuesque. He rose from the
  water smoothly, seamlessly, like the prow of a ship
  cresting the beach.
  Kli Kodesh felt the water stream away from his
  chiseled features. He blinked experimentally. Once,
  twice. He had the unsettling impression of strug-
  gling to awaken from a dream. And it had been
  such a lovely dream.
  He had dreamt of crossing a vast desert. The
  sands beneath his feet were cool and soothing, even
  at midday when the shadows themselves fled the
  desert wastes. The sky was a blue of infinite depth,
  ever-shifting. It filled the vault of heaven from ho-
  rizon to horizon. Kli Kodesh had wandered that
  desert for forty years, moving with the languid grace
  of the sleeper.
  But the sea had cast him up again. In all his years
  of wandering, he found that the oceans had, by far,
  the greatest patience. An ocean might spend the
  better part of a century worrying away the tip of a
  jetty, or a single brass fitting on a sunken ship. Even
  the long-suffering oceans, however, would not long
  abide his presence.
  Kli Kodesh felt the night wind on his face, sharp
  and cool. He smiled, scoring deep lines into the
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  36
  layer of brine and sand that caked his face. Half of
  his expression cracked, broke away and fell to the
  beach. It was good to be back in the world.
  But where, in the world, was he? Slowly, but
  without misstep, he picked his way to the top of
  the nearest dune. His garment hung heavily upon
  him. Even the weight of his skin seemed an unac-
  customed burden. As he crested the ridge, a blare
  of lights broke over him, streaking upwards into the
  night, filling the vault of heaven.
  Whites, reds, yellows—a city of lights flared out-
  ward. It etched its image into the underside of the
  heavy layer of yellowed cloud that hung in perpe-
  tuity above the city of men below. The greasy ring
  of cloud shone like a halo.
  Kli Kodesh closed his eyes and swirled the murky
  clouds like tea leaves, turning them over and over
  again in his mind. Searching for some dimly re-
  membered snatch of story or song or prophecy.
  He had spent centuries watching cities gather
  and disperse, dissolve and resolve. He was an adept
  at sifting the jagged shards of civilization from the
  uncertain sands of time. He was a master of possi-
  bilities and permutations.
  As he watched the play of lights, he could see
  cities long forgotten standing side-by-side with
  those that were as yet unguessed. He traced their
  growth and decline absently with one finger, as if
  following a treacherous route on a map. His mind
  
  37
  The Winnowing
  raced down branchings of past and future that
  spread themselves before his scrutiny, butterflied,
  laid bare.
  Ah. Just…there.
  A Beacon on the Shores of the Western Nyght.
  A City of Angels.
  It has begun.
  With great anticipation, Kli Kodesh descended
  upon the city. All about him were heard lamenta-
  tions and the gnashing of teeth.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  38
  CHAPTER TWO
  John Rotty knew there was going to be trouble
  as soon as he saw Thu come through the door. She
  was cracking her knuckles, and that chain hang-
  ing out of her jacket wasn’t just for show.
  Atlanta was dead these days, or more precisely,
  anybody who was anybody in anarch circles was
  dead. Tobias, Aaron, Eddie Cocke, Liza, Jolanda,
  Matt—the list went on and on. All dead. Bloated
  and belly-up. The few Rotty had seen had been
  pretty messy—bleeding out of eyes, ears, nose,
  among other places. Like there was too much blood
  for their bodies. But everybody says, Rotty remem-
  bered, if the curse gets you, you starve to death. It
  doesn’t make any sense.
  
  39
  The Winnowing
  Rotty figured: it hadn’t caught up with him yet,
  maybe he wasn’t the right type for curses, maybe
  he was just lucky. Either way, he wasn’t going to
  sit around and twiddle his thumbs in his room all
  night. He had been a vampire for about ten years
  now, and one thing he had decided long ago was
  that he had to keep moving. He didn’t like the idea
  of spending the rest of eternity sitting on his butt,
  bored to undeath. So he’d checked out Under-
  ground. Dead. There were a few kine, but no
  Kindred. How many times could he mesmerize
  some mortal chick and then drain her dry? For real
  excitement, he needed other vampires. So he’d
  cruised over to Little Five Points. Pretty slow there
  too. He’d wandered into Nine Tails. Same old story.
  Loud goth music—moaning and machinery. Can’t
  anybody play a guitar anymore? Rotty wondered.
  More mortal meat. No Kindred.
  Until Thu waltzed through the door, that was.
  And she ain’t the Kindred I want to see, Rotty knew
  right away. The only thing worse than a chick with
  attitude, is a chick with attitude who can kick your ass.
  Rotty had seen her in action before and didn’t care
  to see any more.
  There were enough black-clad goth types and
  multiple-body-pierced yahoos in the S&M club
  that Rotty was able to slide away from the front
  door. He didn’t think Thu had noticed him. Yet.
  Maybe she was just hunting, scoping out some
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  40
  meat, but then again, being a permanently ragged-
  out bitch, maybe she was looking for trouble. He
  kept his head down and stayed near the bar—it
  wasn’t normally a favorite hangout for Cainites. As
  he edged toward the back hall and the bathrooms,
  Rotty stayed away from the dancers who were gy-
  rating the most spasmodically. He didn’t need them
  attracting attention to him. One chick bumped
  into him and spilled her drink on him, but he let
  it slide. He didn’t need a scene now either.
  Rotty decided against the side door. Everybody
  tended to watch that exit more closely now, ever
  since Liza’s and Aaron’s messed-up bodies turned
  up in the alley a couple of months back. Down the
  back hall, and Rotty was safely out the back door.
  He breathed a sigh of pure relief.
  Then the two-by-four smacked him in the back
  of the head. Rotty was face-down in the alley, his
  nose flattened against the grimy, cracked pavement.
  Swung by a lot of people, even a lot of Kindred, a
  two-by-four across the back of the head would have
  been no big deal. Whoever this was, it was not one
  of those people. That board was swung with some
  oompa!
  Before Rotty’s vision had cleared or the ringing
  in his ears had stopped, he was being lifted off the
  ground by strong hands grasping his shirt. “Nice
  of you to help me up,” he muttered, wondering if
  the words were too slurred to make sense.
  
  41
  The Winnowing
  “What was that?” The voice very close to Rotty
  growled.
  As his vision cleared, he could see another face
  inches away from his own—snarling mouth, flat
  nose, wide-set eyes, exaggerated Neanderthal brow.
  Xavier Kline, Rotty realized. Crap.
  Kline held Rotty in the air, his feet dangling sev-
  eral inches above the ground. “What did you say?”
  Kline demanded again.
  “Nothin’.”
  “Hmph.” Kline, the huge, muscled Brujah, didn’t
  seem to believe Rotty, but settled for violently
  shaking the smaller, airborne vampire. The rough
  motion set jolts of pain shooting from the back of
  Rotty’s head to his temples. “You gettin’ smart with
  me, gothboy?” Kline challenged him.
  Gothboy? Despite his precarious situation, Rotty
  took exception to this. “Just because I hang out
  here, where the feedin’ is easy—Ah!”
  From behind, a chain whipped against Rotty’s
  head just above the left ear, interrupting his retort.
  Welts rose almost instantly.
  “You are what you eat,” said a voice with a thick
  Vietnamese accent. Many Asian accents, to Rotty,
  sounded rather melodious. They created a synco-
  pated rhythm almost lyrical in nature. Not this
  accent. Rotty recognized Thu’s voice, and it grated
  like a butter knife over burnt toast.
  Kline shook him again. Again the pain shot
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  42
  through Rotty’s head. “What you doing tonight?”
  Kline demanded.
  “I thought I’d kick some Brujah ass,” Rotty
  quipped. The chain tore into his flesh again, this
  time on the back of his neck. Okay, smart guy, he
  told himself, shut your mouth. Always were a slow
  learner.
  Kline grinned. “Keep talkin’, gothboy, and there
  won’t be nothing left but a mess of bones and blood.”
  Rotty didn’t doubt it. Kline and Thu were noted
  for their savagery, even among Kindred—not a sen-
  sitive, touchy-feely lot.
  “You weren’t at the gathering Tuesday night,
  were you, gothboy?” Kline asked. He didn’t wait
  for a response. “You heard about the prince’s de-
  crees, right?” This time he shook Rotty, apparently
  wanting an answer. Rotty nodded, but either Kline
  didn’t notice or that wasn’t good enough. More vio-
  lent shaking followed. “What’d you say?”
  “I heard. I heard!” Everybody had heard, at the
  gathering or not. The prince was not only going
  to start enforcing the Traditions to the letter, he
  was also demanding that all Cainites in the city
  not belonging to a clan must join one, or face ex-
  ile—or worse. The back of Rotty’s head was
  throbbing. He knew he was bleeding from several
  wounds now. He wished his head would fall off, but
  then he decided he better be careful what he
  wished for with these two around.
  
  43
  The Winnowing
  “Good,” said Kline. “I’m glad you’re keeping up
  on current events.” He showed no sign of tiring or
  of intending to put Rotty down anytime soon. “So,
  you decided what clan to join yet?”
  “I was thinking about the KKK,” Rotty said,
  against his better judgment. The chain bit into the
  right side of his head this time, striking hard
  enough to snap his head to the left. His vision be-
  gan to blur again, or was that blood getting in his
  eyes? He was too woozy to be sure. All the blows
  to his head were taking their toll. Thu was silent
  except for the jingle of her chain.
  “I hear good things about the Brujah,” Kline sug-
  gested. “In fact, I highly recommend them.
  Wouldn’t you like to work for me?” Rotty heard
  what he thought was Thu chuckling in the back-
  ground.
  Working for Kline. That sounded like hell to
  Rotty. Never mind that Thelonious was the Brujah
  primogen. He was more the upper-crust type, not
  the Brujah presence on the street like Kline. Pru-
  dence and physical pain finally having gotten the
  best of him, Rotty kept these details to himself.
  Elaborating the finer points of Brujah hierarchy
  would only earn him more of a beating.
  Kline noticed this change of heart as well.
  “Nothing smart to say, gothboy?” Still getting no
  response, he threw Rotty to the pavement. “Re-
  member, Brujah clan. You wouldn’t want to go
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  44
  wrong.” Kline laughed as he walked away. Thu
  kicked Rotty in the stomach for good measure, then
  followed Kline.
  Rotty lay on the ground, not moving, just glad
  he was no longer being chain-whipped or beaten.
  He could hear the bass pounding from inside Nine
  Tails, or was the pounding inside his head? His eyes
  would not focus on the stars overhead. As badly as
  he hurt, he knew he was lucky. Kline and Thu
  could have done much worse. They could have
  drunk his blood, destroyed him, left his body so
  close to where Liza and Aaron had turned up dead.
  Among all the carnage of the curse, who would
  have cared? Still, that was small consolation with
  head wounds that, for a mortal, would have re-
  quired fifty or sixty stitches at least. For Rotty, the
  injuries would require one or two mortals. The
  blood would do the healing.
  He would recover, but Rotty decided he would
  have to be more careful in the future. With so few
  Kindred around these nights, those out in the open
  attracted a lot more notice. Would he join a clan?
  He didn’t know yet. He would rather keep away
  from Kline than join the Brujah. That was certain.
  But if the prince was serious about this decree,
  Rotty didn’t want to run into too much trouble on
  that front. He would have to ask around with the
  remaining anarchs, those who hadn’t been laid low
  by the curse. Give in to the prince’s demands, try
  
  45
  The Winnowing
  to circumvent them, or fight back? Tough question.
  At the moment, Rotty didn’t feel like fighting
  anybody. He tried to sit up, but the racking pain
  convinced him that lying where he was for a while
  longer might not be a bad idea. Then he noticed
  something under his elbow. Trying not to move his
  head, Rotty reached under his arm to find the splin-
  tered half of a two-by-four. He started to laugh, but
  it hurt too much. You wanted excitement, he re-
  minded himself. You got it.
  Benison crouched on the roof of the shop behind
  Nine Tails, the best venue he had found from
  which to watch Kline’s shenanigans. A mindless
  brute, the prince thought of Kline. No, not mind-
  less, he corrected himself. Predictable. Predictable but
  devious.
  The prince had charged Kline with finding the
  half dozen or so anarchs who had not attended the
  gathering of the Kindred two nights ago, at which
  Benison had delivered his New Year’s Decrees, and
  making sure they received the news. Approved by
  the primogen, despite the narrow margin, the de-
  crees carried the force of law. The first decree
  reclaimed control of the streets. The Traditions
  would be upheld without exception. There were
  too many dangers to the Masquerade without Kin-
  dred running amok, necessitating that Benison
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  46
  cover their tracks lest the mortal population dis-
  cover their predators lurking in the night. The
  rights, too, of Domain, Progeny, and Hospitality
  were all too often abused. No longer.
  The second decree would set the Kindred of At-
  lanta back in accordance with the ageless
  teachings, handed down through the eons from the
  scribes of the ancient First City. Cainite blood had
  grown weak. There were those most recently cre-
  ated in whom the strength of the Dark Father was
  so little that they were unable to create progeny.
  The scraps of The Book of Nod, which Benison had
  acquired over the years, had predicted that such a
  thinning of the blood would come to pass. Other
  predictions had borne truth as well—the Clanless
  running rampant, the ensuing chaos. If the Kin-
  dred of the Camarilla did not act, the Endtime
  would overtake them. The teaching spoke of that
  as well—physical and spiritual upheaval, the de-
  struction of both Kindred and kine worlds as the
  eldest of the elders, the antediluvians, returned
  from their rest to reclaim all that they had directly
  or indirectly begotten.
  Benison would not sit idly and watch that hap-
  pen. Already, he had cleansed with flame the
  desecrated church, whence the unrecognized
  Daughter of Cacophony had conspired with de-
  mons to rain divine wrath down upon the city and
  to set all Kindred on the road to the Endtime.
  
  47
  The Winnowing
  Benison would not let it be so. With the force of
  his individual will, he would fight off Gehenna, or
  at the least he would enlist so much collective sup-
  port as to forestall that end. His Atlanta would
  serve as a beacon of salvation to the rest of the
  world. This was his messianic crusade—to trans-
  form the city that had begun as Terminus to one
  known as Primus, the new First City, in thought
  and deed sanctified in its relation with the Lord,
  He who had handed such prominence to the Dark
  Father and all his race. The recasting of the city,
  Benison had come to believe, would be a conver-
  sion as miraculous as the transubstantiation of the
  bread and wine to the body and blood.
  He realized that he was now standing atop the
  building, no longer crouching. His mind preoccu-
  pied, his body had attempted to parallel his thoughts
  on their exalted and transcendent path toward sal-
  vation. Let them see me, he decided, a figure of
  righteous realignment, as they gaze toward the heavens.
  As it turned out, Kline and Thu did not notice
  him. They finished beating the anarch and left him
  to bleed in the alley. The attack on the anarch did
  not overly concern Benison. Penance is good for the
  soul, he felt, and unquestionably the anarch had
  much reason to repent, though Benison doubted
  that spiritual improvement was the motivating fac-
  tor behind Kline’s actions. The Neanderthal Brujah
  was doubtless a bit overzealous in carrying out his
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  48
  second charge—to remind all the anarchs that
  their indefinite status which had, to some extent,
  left them beyond the law of the Camarilla, was a
  thing of the past. Kline had combined with that
  task his own rather indelicate recruitment drive in
  an attempt to boost his status within the Brujah
  clan as well as in Kindred society as a whole. Can’t
  fault him for his initiative, the prince conceded.
  Benison did not fancy a city full of young Brujah;
  it was a clan he could just as easily do without. But
  probably, he suspected, Kline’s tactics would back-
  fire. While intimidation could prove useful in
  temporarily persuading others to a particular course
  of action, it usually did little in the way of inspir-
  ing loyalty. Any Kindred might say whatever Kline
  wanted to hear if it meant avoiding being beaten
  to a bloody pulp, but that Kindred would also re-
  member Kline’s bullying. The aggrieved Cainite
  might fear and respect the decrees of the prince,
  but would grow to loathe the Brujah.
  It did not surprise Benison in the least to see that
  Kline was mixing equal parts politics and intimi-
  dation with his official duties. The prince had been
  using Kline for some time now, in one capacity or
  another, and acting with subtlety upon discretion-
  ary orders was not the Brujah’s strength. But better
  to keep an eye on him than not. Easier an oxen un-
  der yoke than a bull in the field. Benison remembered
  the saying from his mortal days.
  
  49
  The Winnowing
  The prince crouched again and watched from his
  concealed vantage point as the anarch lay unmov-
  ing on the pavement. There were at least a dozen
  or so unrecognized Kindred residing in Atlanta.
  There had been more, perhaps two or three times
  as many—they were so difficult to keep track of—
  before the curse. Benison’s muscles tensed. The
  mere thought of the malady that had so afflicted
  his city was enough to stoke his temper, but he
  forced himself to maintain control. From every trag-
  edy there are lessons to be learned, Benison reminded
  himself. The Lord has visited my city with this dam-
  nable curse to challenge me, to spur me to greater
  triumphs. Primus. He considered his new mantra.
  “Primus.”
  Eleanor had advised him not to go out this night.
  She had worried that he would appear to be deal-
  ing from a position of weakness. Did she think I was
  going to scurry around and beg the anarchs to do as I
  wish? Benison wondered. Surely she didn’t account
  him so little credit as that. She plays her Camarilla
  politics well, but that is not the same as leadership. The
  politicians manipulate. I build. I shore the foundations
  of my city. How did she think that he could stay
  home? How did she think he could do nothing
  while his city crumbled? Benison knew that he was
  called to a higher purpose.
  It was this new vision of immortality—glory and
  inspiration discovered within the depths of despair
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  50
  brought on by the curse—that kept Benison go-
  ing. He was supremely confident that all his
  personal tragedy, his having to watch as the city
  he had helped build for over one hundred years
  unraveled at the seams, was the ransom demanded
  so that a greater good could emerge. His own childe
  had fallen prey to the madness of the curse. Mad-
  ness, pain, death. Benison had locked that fact
  away deep within his own soul. He knew the trag-
  edy, but he had not felt it. His city was his childe
  now, and there was no time to grieve. Only to per-
  severe.
  If that isn’t the darnedest thing, thought Dr. Will-
  iam Nen. How could those bodies have been found
  there? He set the files on his desk and began ab-
  sently tugging on the corner of his thick mustache.
  It was a habit he had picked up as an undergradu-
  ate so many years ago, back before the mustache
  and his thick head of hair had been invaded by
  gray.
  The files he was reading were the latest directed
  his way by the examiners. No one at the Center
  for Disease Control and Prevention quite knew
  what to make of these cases, so the enigmatic re-
  ports made their way to Nen’s desk. He didn’t know
  what to make of them either. Not yet.
  
  51
  The Winnowing
  He reached for his coffee mug, but instead of
  drinking, ran his tongue along the rim. That was
  another habit—one he had picked up in medical
  school. Each milestone in his career seemed to
  leave its own indelible mark, a personality quirk
  here, a peculiar mannerism there. Symptoms of
  progress, Nen called them. Leigh, his psychologist
  wife, had had plenty of suggestions regarding the
  significance of his “coffee mug fetish,” as she called
  it, but William never had put much stock in Freud-
  ian analysis himself.
  It had been early in his career, almost twenty
  years ago, after he had helped pinpoint the vec-
  tors of the ebola outbreak in the Sudan, that he
  had begun washing his hands so compulsively be-
  fore and after every meal that he sometimes drew
  blood. His involvement in the Sudan had led to
  the containment of that outbreak—only thirty-four
  cases and twenty-two deaths. Three years before
  that, similar outbreaks there and in Zaire had left
  over three hundred dead.
  He had been called upon again in 1995, when
  the Zairian strain of the virus had reappeared in
  Kikwit. Even in that city of four hundred thousand,
  an epidemic waiting to happen, timely quarantines
  and aggressive public information campaigns had
  kept casualties at a minimal level. Nen had re-
  turned from that trip to Africa with an occasional
  tic near the corner of his left eye. He could feel
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  52
  when it happened, but short of lying on the couch
  with a wet, steaming hot washcloth over his face,
  there was nothing he could do to stop it.
  These latest cases that had so baffled the exam-
  iners were not ebola. At least not any strain that
  Nen had encountered before. There were some
  similarities, on a superficial level, that could con-
  ceivably be construed to indicate a hemorrhagic
  fever—uncontrolled bleeding, internal and exter-
  nal; absence of clotting; liver and kidney
  deterioration—but the bloodwork didn’t bear out
  the symptoms, not according to the reports, at any
  rate. Nen wanted to follow that up on his own. Not
  that he didn’t trust his colleagues in the lab, but
  when faced with contradictory data, his first incli-
  nation was to reexamine the data gathering. He
  had caught mistakes in the past, and considering
  that the consequences could include a hemorrhagic
  fever epidemic with fifty to ninety percent of cases
  proving fatal, double-checking some lab work
  seemed a small price to pay.
  Nen set his coffee mug on his desk. The failure
  of the tests to corroborate the autopsy evidence was
  disturbing, but even more puzzling were the data
  concerning the bodies themselves. Looking down,
  Nen realized that he was wringing his hands, lightly
  but steadily, as if he had soap and water and were
  washing away the contagions he studied. He forced
  himself to stop and reached for the reports.
  
  53
  The Winnowing
  These particular bodies had been found here in
  the city, in Atlanta, in an alley by an active night-
  club. The blood samples recovered had been
  relatively fresh, no more than several hours post
  mortem. The condition of the tissue samples, on
  the other hand, indicated that the individuals had
  been deceased for a number of weeks. The infor-
  mation was circled in red on the page before Nen.
  Someone else, several someones, most likely, thought
  Nen, had already been confounded by the same
  material, and no matter how many times Nen read
  over the report, the words were always the same,
  as was his conclusion. Impossible.
  There were, he realized, some freakish possibili-
  ties. For whatever reason, fresh blood could have
  been left on the long-dead bodies. But some of the
  blood samples, in fact most of the samples, Nen
  noted, had been collected at the morgue, not on
  the street. Could someone have filled the body
  cavities with fresh blood? Unlikely. And besides,
  one of the two bodies had been nearly empty of
  blood. Nen tossed the files back onto his desk and
  started tugging on his mustache again. He had his
  work cut out for him.
  For just a moment, the tic in his eye started up.
  He thought he faintly smelled the rot and the death
  that he had known in the Sudan. But these were
  the antiseptic offices and hallways of CDC. It must,
  he decided, have been the stale coffee he smelled.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  54
  Probably his mug could use a washing. William
  Nen shrugged and reached again for the reports.
  Nicholas smelled the city from miles away. The
  highways stretched out in every direction from its
  black heart, arteries bearing the poison of human
  progress out through the last reaches of wilderness.
  Asphalt, exhaust, subdivisions—every time he left,
  he tried to forget how far they had spread, how
  much had been destroyed; and Atlanta was even a
  relatively green city, not like Chicago or Detroit
  or Indianapolis.
  Months ago, he had come to the city simply to
  bring a message, a task that was a favor for the
  friend of a friend, and in exchange for another quite
  handsome favor. Had he known that the journey
  would bring a curse down upon his head, he would
  never have agreed to make it. No favor was worth
  that. To retrace the footsteps and choose a new
  path—if only that were possible. But the city had
  marked him, and now the curse ate away at him as
  surely as the mortals consumed the wilds.
  Nicholas would not linger in the city. He would
  vent his rage, see justice served, and then return
  to the healing forests, the soothing plains. For one
  of these city Kindred had wronged Nicholas’s lin-
  eage long ago. But what was long to the damned?
  It was an idea that belonged to the mortals. To the
  
  55
  The Winnowing
  forest that grew and burned and grew and washed
  away and grew again, what was a long mortal life?
  And what was it to Nicholas?
  He kept to the green places as he could, cross-
  ing the blacktopped automobile pathways only
  when he could not avoid them. He was well prac-
  ticed, in his wolven form, at sniffing the route least
  tainted by mortals and their ways of progress. He
  had traveled much of two continents, and never
  had it been the allure of man-made wonders that
  had guided his steps. The closer he came to the
  city, however, the more arduous his task became.
  The property boundaries rose before him more fre-
  quently. Undeveloped tracts of land grew less
  plentiful.
  With every mile traversed, his sensibilities were
  gradually losing ground to the rage that burned
  within him. Each obstacle delayed by seconds or
  by minutes the moment he would reach that walled
  estate, that false oasis of greenery within the cursed
  city. Each change of direction kept from him that
  much longer the instant when his claws and fangs
  would tear into the flesh of Owain Evans, and
  Nicholas would reclaim stolen Gangrel vitae.
  As the outskirts of the city grew more dense
  around him, Nicholas veered less often from the
  most direct path toward his prey. Those few mor-
  tals he encountered at this hour of the night would
  likely be unaware of his passing. A passing motor-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  56
  ist might see, if anything, a peripheral blur. A deer
  darting from the side of the road? A gust of wind
  from nowhere whipping through the weeds? As the
  farms and undisturbed stands of trees gave way to
  subdivisions and convenience marts, Nicholas felt
  the last of the wilderness-inspired peace evaporate
  from him. He cared less and less for keeping to the
  unspoiled places, for masking the signs of his pass-
  ing. His attention grew more focused on his
  destination, more riveted to his goal.
  Blood. He could smell blood. Already he could
  taste it, the blood of his ancestors. His wolven ears
  were laid back, his fangs bared, as his powerful
  muscles drove him forward with each unrelenting
  stride. Blighted suburbs remained undisturbed by
  his passing.
  Nicholas had not fed this night. He had not
  wanted to stop, to divert the time from his progress.
  But mostly he had wanted to feel the hunger, not
  the curse-fueled pain that assailed him without fail
  when he drew sustenance. The emptiness was filled
  only by hate, insatiable except from one source.
  The hours of darkness were passing rapidly it
  seemed, but Nicholas was certain that time enough
  remained. Closer now was the skyline, that great
  beacon, the silhouette of what on other nights he
  had almost been able to forget were merely lighted
  buildings, the sullying hand of man reaching up-
  ward into the once unblemished heavens, another
  
  57
  The Winnowing
  paradise defenseless against corruption. Nicholas
  veered southward. Soon he was among the great
  houses, the monuments to mortal wealth, so close
  to, yet so separate from, the more prevalent urban
  squalor. The paths that he had taken before were
  familiar here, engraved into his mind as were per-
  haps each and every step he had taken in his
  wanderings over the decades. Each home was sur-
  rounded by acres of ivy and shrubs and trees,
  convenient routes to traverse with only the occa-
  sional stone wall or wrought-iron fence to hurdle.
  They were the most mannered of the mortals, those
  that lived in these dwellings, and Nicholas knew
  that it was their money that drove the ever-expand-
  ing pestilence, the bulldozers and concrete. Just as
  it had been Owain Evans, living secretly among
  these parasites, who had somehow visited the curse
  upon Nicholas. The night he had delivered the
  message had been the beginning of the bloodtaint,
  the beginning of the hunger and the pain. That
  was something else for which Evans would answer,
  something else for which Nicholas would make him
  pay, the price extracted in blood and flesh.
  Over one last wall and down a tree-covered lane,
  and Nicholas had arrived. He stood before the es-
  tate of the Ventrue elder who had so woefully
  wronged Nicholas and his clan. Nicholas forced
  himself to pause, to reclaim the more human form
  that would most effectively serve him in the con-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  58
  flict to come. Even in this guise, Nicholas’s ears
  retained a slight point, his eyes their wolven glare,
  and at his side he flexed the fingers and claws that
  would soon draw blood. He growled from deep
  within his throat, a sound no human should be able
  to make.
  Slowly, Nicholas approached the outer wall of
  the estate. He had been here several times. First,
  delivering the message, later lying in wait and then
  following Evans to that broken-down church from
  which the disturbing music had emanated. This
  time there would be no introduction, no exchange
  of pleasantries. Nicholas would find Evans and then
  tear him apart.
  As he leapt the wall, Nicholas felt his ancestors
  rising, felt the memories becoming more than that,
  taking control. He knew from before where the sur-
  veillance devices lay, what to look for, but he didn’t
  care and made no effort to avoid them. His thirst
  for blood, for vengeance, drove him forward. Soon
  the braying of dogs marred the night. Nicholas was
  undeterred. He awaited their onslaught, welcomed
  it. He would have blood.
  Blackfeather awoke, cradled within the earth’s
  arms. He kept his eyes, which still burned with the
  afterimages of last night’s star-chasing, tightly shut
  as if clinging to the remnant of his vision.
  
  59
  The Winnowing
  He stretched, his arms digging inverted furrows
  beneath the earth’s surface. His hands instinctively
  sought out the moist, loosely packed topsoil. Scrab-
  bling fingers worked like compass needles,
  searching out the only significant direction in this
  subterranean world—up.
  There.
  Blackfeather reached towards the surface, work-
  ing the kinks out of his back and shoulders as he
  rose. He stifled an urge to yawn, a habit that not
  even decades of unlife had been able to break.
  He felt the resistance suddenly give way as his
  hands broke the surface. This was always the anx-
  ious moment.
  Blackfeather could never be entirely certain
  where the previous night’s chase had released him.
  He had simply run until dawn overtook him, forc-
  ing him back into the earth’s embrace. He knew
  all too well the chaos that might ensue if he should
  emerge to find that he was not alone.
  Well, there was no help for it. Banishing nag-
  ging memories of the glare of oncoming headlights,
  the hooves of a panicked cattle herd, and that un-
  fortunate tent revival, he planted his palms firmly
  on the upper surface of the ground and pushed him-
  self skyward.
  Silence.
  It appeared that he was in a park, or at second
  glance, perhaps on some well-manicured estate.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  60
  Yes, he could pick out the line of stone wall to his
  right and that darker shape at the end of the col-
  onnade of magnolias had the look of a manor house
  about it.
  He scraped the dirt from his eyes and face, re-
  lieved that there did not seem to be anyone in the
  immediate vicinity. There was certainly some ac-
  tivity, a flurry of movement, in the direction of the
  house. A sense of apprehension passed over him.
  There was something unsettling here.
  Blackfeather could feel a drumming in his chest.
  It took him only a second to realize that it could
  not possibly be his heartbeat. His blood swelled and
  ebbed in obedience to a different tide now.
  No, the vibration in his chest had to be the re-
  verberation of some other disturbance.
  Blackfeather’s hands went to his ears, dislodging a
  layer of tightly packed dirt on the one hand and
  something that squirmed on the other.
  There was now no mistaking the sounds coming
  from the vicinity of the house. Shouts, running
  feet, a bestial roar, glass shattering, wood cracking
  and giving way—a gunshot.
  Blackfeather hit full stride before the retort ech-
  oed back off the stone wall.
  He had covered the length of the colonnade be-
  fore the hammer fell a second time. Just as he was
  clearing the trees, Blackfeather heard a noise be-
  hind him in the undergrowth and he checked his
  
  61
  The Winnowing
  headlong rush. As he spun, he beheld an immense
  black sow with blood-red eyes. The beast held his
  stare briefly and then, disdainfully, returned to scav-
  enging for acorns among the roots of a grove of tall
  oak trees.
  Blackfeather shook his head sharply and the
  magnolias sprang back into focus as the oak grove
  vanished. The Veil between this realm and the
  next was thin here—a precarious situation at best
  and one that might soon prove to be far more than
  a distraction. He whispered a silent prayer that the
  moans of the dying emanating from up ahead would
  not attract any unwanted attention from beyond
  the Veil.
  Turning the corner, his thoughts kept returning
  to the Black Sow. She was no direct threat, al-
  though the huge beast must have easily weighed
  over eight hundred pounds. No, she was no hunter,
  but rather a scavenger—a mere harbinger of death,
  a speaker of omens.
  The third gunshot rang out like the voice of a
  prophet.
  Blackfeather stepped out from beneath the shel-
  ter of the magnolias, fully alert, but utterly
  unprepared for the carnage erupting before him.
  Almost at his feet lay a midnight black mastiff,
  its teeth gleaming up at him, wet and bright. Its
  neck was bent at an improbable angle. The ani-
  mal was clearly still alive, although the only sure
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  62
  indication of this was the unearthly keening that
  arose from behind its clenched jaws.
  Blackfeather’s first thought was to end the beast’s
  suffering. No, he admitted to himself, his first
  thought was a kind of revulsion, followed by a
  vague uneasiness at the disturbing geometry of the
  creature’s broken spine. Only then did he get
  around to thinking that something should be done
  about the beast.
  When it came right down to it, however,
  Blackfeather was somewhat at a loss as to how this
  might be accomplished. The mastiff had already
  lived through worse than any coup de grâce
  Blackfeather might hope to inflict upon it with his
  bare hands. He strongly suspected that nothing
  short of the sunrise would end this beast’s
  unflaggingly loyal service.
  He gave the poor creature a wide berth, taking
  no chances in the proximity of those preternatu-
  rally powerful jaws. As he stepped around the fallen
  mastiff, the outbuilding in front of him suddenly
  flattened.
  Blackfeather flung himself aside and instinctively
  rolled away from the point of impact. He came up
  in a fighting crouch.
  The building had folded in upon itself. A large
  cast-iron stove, indication that the structure had,
  in days past, housed the estate’s kitchens, stood
  undisturbed at the center of the wreckage. The
  
  63
  The Winnowing
  blackened stovepipe pointed a crooked, accusing
  finger toward the heavens.
  But there was a blacker shape still among the
  tumult of toppled walls. Blackfeather did not so
  much see it as feel the wave of fury emanating from
  it. The intensity of that rage wrenched loose the
  overhanging stovepipe with a scream of metal on
  metal. Frustration tore at the pipe, twisting it into
  an implement of destruction, a great unhewn cud-
  gel.
  His wrath is like unto a hammer, an unhewn cud-
  gel. He drives the lightning before him.
  Blackfeather could hear, above the howling rage,
  the subtle but unmistakable sound of shadows gath-
  ering. The denizens of the realm beyond the Veil,
  drawn by the play of light and color streaming
  through the Rent into their twilight domain, be-
  gan to circle cautiously closer.
  Soon they would catch the scent of human emo-
  tion and lifeblood spilling through the torn Fabric
  and there would be no restraining them.
  The pipe whistled as it cut its arc through the
  air and descended upon Blackfeather, giving him
  a fraction of a second’s warning. He rolled aside,
  his body thrumming with the concussion as the
  iron cudgel buried itself half the height of a man
  into the earth.
  The makeshift club quickly reversed direction,
  spraying tufts of carefully manicured lawn in all
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  64
  directions. Blackfeather flattened as the metal sang
  overhead, missing him by a mere handsbreadth.
  Then he was again on his feet, carefully giving
  ground as he backed toward the shattered outbuild-
  ing.
  He nearly fell over the body of the guard. It was
  only the sharp sweet smell of the guard’s precious
  lifeblood that caught Blackfeather’s attention and
  saved him from stumbling over the body in the
  dark. The guard’s uniform was soaked down to the
  waist in blood. It flowed still from the shattered
  remains of his forehead. The butt of a military-is-
  sue pistol protruded from the jagged break in his
  skull where the barrel of the gun had been slammed
  home.
  There was also a stronger unmistakable smell—
  the heady, musky scent of vampiric vitae mingled
  with that of the guard’s own blood. Blackfeather
  thought of the gunshots he had heard earlier and
  knew that at least one had found its mark.
  The pipe end caught Blackfeather squarely in the
  stomach, doubling him over and knocking him
  backward into the ruined outbuilding. His flight
  was checked sharply by the cast iron stove and he
  could feel the hot rush of blood on the back of his
  head. Colors swam before his eyes and then, more
  disturbingly, tactile shades of black and gray as
  Those Beyond the Veil crowded over him.
  Their tender ministries were suffocating. Dozens
  
  65
  The Winnowing
  of mothering hands poked and prodded him. The
  press of bodies blanketed him, blocking out the
  light and colors of his own world, sealing him in
  like the closing of a coffin’s lid.
  With a supreme effort of will, Blackfeather thrust
  his way through the clinging throng. He latched
  on to the sensation of cold metal along his badly
  torn back and climbed hand over hand along it,
  back into the waking world.
  Immediately, he regretted it. The awareness of
  pain and bloodloss had patiently awaited his return.
  It now gripped him fully, monopolizing every ounce
  of his attention. He was vaguely aware of a high-
  pitched whistling noise cutting through the haze
  of his body’s demands.
  At the last possible instant, the screaming of his
  senses broke in upon him, and somehow his body
  managed to obey their warning.
  Blackfeather did not so much dodge as fall
  heavily to one side. The resounding clang of the
  metal cudgel shattering against the side of the cast-
  iron stove burst windows in the nearby manor
  house. Blackfeather had the distinct impression
  that the concussion alone might well have knocked
  several teeth from his mouth. He was undoubtedly
  bleeding freely from the mouth and ears and had
  neither the time nor inclination to make a more
  complete inventory.
  A flurry of claws and fangs descended upon him.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  66
  A bestial face pressed menacingly close to his own.
  Through the fog of pain, a realization—a shock of
  recognition—tried to force its way to the surface
  of Blackfeather’s thoughts. But the blood-film
  closed like a visor before his eyes.
  The Beast Within strained at its tether. The sur-
  vival instinct seized Blackfeather, pushing aside the
  demands of screaming nerves, the haze of bloodloss.
  He lashed out with the all the ferocity of a cor-
  nered animal.
  The two combatants thrashed and rolled among
  the ruins of the collapsed building. Debris pierced
  Blackfeather’s back. Some distant part of his mind
  registered relief at each rusty nail or metal fitting
  that found its mark—grateful that it was not in-
  stead some jagged remnant of timbered walls or
  ceiling. At any moment his struggle might end, not
  with the hot ecstasy of his antagonist’s fangs, but
  with the icy torpor of a makeshift stake through
  the heart.
  Despite his injuries, Blackfeather held his own.
  He was running on instinct now. Each new offen-
  sive his opponent launched had a subtle note of
  the familiar about it. Blackfeather was surviving by
  anticipation. His shield was a mere fraction of a
  second in thickness, but he unerringly interposed
  it between himself and his attacker’s claws.
  With each increasingly familiar attack, feint,
  block, a word fought its way closer towards the sur-
  
  67
  The Winnowing
  face of Blackfeather’s awareness, a name. It was
  quite close now. All that remained was for it to slip
  past the jaws of the Beast Within, who stood like
  three-headed Cerberus, guardian of the gates of
  consciousness and oblivion.
  “Nicholas.”
  The whispered name struck his opponent like a
  blow. The shadow of the Beast masking his features
  wavered, flickered.
  It is Nicholas, Blackfeather thought. But his blood
  is very near the surface and the Beast rides him.
  Blackfeather scrambled backwards, regaining his
  feet, wary. He remembered their first meeting, mere
  weeks ago.
  He had come upon Nicholas rampaging through
  the woods outside of town, deep in the grips of the
  Bloodrage. The younger Gangrel had been disori-
  ented, confused, laying waste to everything around
  him—actually uprooting and shredding trees sev-
  eral years in girth.
  “Tree-Render,” Blackfeather said aloud. There
  was no hint of scorn or mockery in his voice. He
  spoke matter-of-factly, as if calling the other by his
  family name. Blackfeather’s eyes never left those
  of his opponent. He could see the struggle there,
  the first hint of comprehension. Nicholas circled
  closer.
  They had fought on that earlier occasion as well,
  Blackfeather recalled. Nicholas, deep within the
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  68
  clutches of the Beast, had fallen upon him imme-
  diately. But Blackfeather had bested him, using
  Nicholas’s blinding rage against him.
  This night, Blackfeather was not so certain of vic-
  tory. There was something in Nicholas’s aspect that
  Blackfeather was reluctant to meet head-on. The
  peerless hunter did not fail to recognize that look.
  He had seen it many times in that most danger-
  ous moment of the hunt, when the prey turns upon
  its pursuer. There is a certain abandon that courts
  the power of the Beast, drawing it as surely as mor-
  tal blood draws shadows. Blackfeather kept his
  distance.
  Nicholas snarled back something that
  Blackfeather could not quite catch. But the words
  were heavy with age, distance, and meaning. They
  rang with a tone of reverence usually reserved for
  quoting scripture.
  Blackfeather did not recognize the tongue, but
  he thought it wise to keep his opponent speaking.
  “You remember, then, your battle with the trees?”
  Nicholas barked a scornful laugh. Then he an-
  swered in that same alien musical tongue—words
  that rang with poetry, ritual, ancient challenge.
  Blackfeather caught the word “Blaidd.” Recol-
  lection pawed at him.
  Blaidd. Nicholas’s words came back to him from
  across the intervening nights. Blaidd, who was
  called, in the tongue of the Hillfolk, the Wolf.
  
  69
  The Winnowing
  “Blaidd. Yes, I know you, Nicholas childe of
  Jebediah, childe of Beauvais, childe of Ragnar,
  childe of Blaidd.”
  Nicholas drew back, his struggle for control plain
  on his face. Blackfeather pressed on, his words for-
  mal, prescribed by centuries of tradition.
  “When last we met, you yielded to me. I carved
  my mark upon you. By what right do you challenge
  me again tonight?” Blackfeather pressed closer.
  “Have you brought the heads of our enemies taken
  in battle? Have you brought food to our starving
  children? Have you brought the words of power
  from high places?”
  Blackfeather threw his arms wide and bared his
  throat to the stars. He spoke as if from a great dis-
  tance:
  “I am a stag: of seven tines;
  “I am a flood: across the plain.”
  From the corner of his eye, Blackfeather could
  see the shades crowd closer in anticipation. The
  Reciting of Deeds was the most sacred of Gangrel
  traditions. The rite of challenge was more ancient
  than the Seven Traditions of the Camarilla and
  even more essential to the survival of the clan. It
  was a ritualized combat, a struggle to assert domi-
  nance. Its consequences were no less decisive or
  deadly.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  70
  Blackfeather hoped that Nicholas was not so far
  gone in the grips of the Bloodrage that he could not
  be reached. If he could divert the course of Nicholas’s
  fury, it was still possible to satisfy honor without leav-
  ing one or more of their corpses to greet the sunrise.
  Nicholas started to retort, stopped, and began
  again more deliberately. He forced his thoughts into
  ill-fitting English words with obvious resentment.
  “At the Battle of the Trees, I was there. Each
  time Nicholas drew your blood, I was there. When
  the master of this house sent Blaidd to the Final
  Death, I was there.
  “I am a storm: upon a deep lake;
  “I am a tear: the sun lets fall.”
  The shades clustered tightly around Nicholas,
  almost blocking him from view. They drank deeply
  of his pride, his anger, his age-old vengeance. They
  began to grow bolder, testing the uncertain waters
  of the waking world. One had broken away already
  and reached the body of the guard.
  “My blood runs deeper than your claws can fol-
  low,” Blackfeather replied, meeting the other’s gaze.
  “It was in this land when the moon was young. It
  was in this land when yours was adrift upon the
  sea. What is it to me if my blood returns to the
  land? Take care that your own is not scattered upon
  the waters and lost.
  
  71
  The Winnowing
  “I am a thorn: that pierces flesh;
  “I am a hawk: above the cliff.”
  There was a nearly audible wail from the shades
  and they furiously set to smoothing over Nicholas’s
  wounds—as if they were afraid even one drop of
  his precious vitae might escape them. Their hands
  grew ruddy with smeared blood and began to take
  on substance.
  Nicholas, oblivious to their presence, pressed his
  challenge:
  “I do not ride upon the waves, but travel a river
  of singing blood. What is your land to me? No more
  than your blood. If I wanted either, I would take
  them. Men call me exile for I am not of their lands.
  They call me enemy for I am not of their blood.
  But I am in their lands and I am in their blood.
  They hunt me, and hound me, but I drive them
  before me.
  “I am a terror: upon the plain;
  “Who but I sets the cool head aflame with
  smoke?”
  The shade that had been feasting on the guard
  took two staggering steps forward. It reeled uncer-
  tainly, trying to find its balance, to relearn the
  unfamiliar weight of flesh and blood. Encouraged
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  72
  by its success, more shades struck out towards the
  guard, making their way hand-over-hand along the
  tenuous lifeline of his spilled blood.
  Blackfeather advanced slowly, trying to keep
  both Nicholas and the Rent in the Veil in plain
  view. It seemed to have grown larger. Scores of
  hands clung to its jagged gray edges, all trying to
  fight their way through at once.
  From the agitated state of those clogging the ap-
  erture, it was clear that their eagerness to pass
  through was motivated by more than simple hun-
  ger. Fear was plain on their faces. Something, on
  the far side of the Veil, was feeding upon that fear
  and driving them before it.
  “You are, perhaps, a hunter among men,”
  Blackfeather countered. “But I have not seen you—
  or the signs of your passing—along the paths of
  deepest night. Have you given chase to the quest-
  ing beast, which bays with the voice of a hundred
  hounds? Have you tracked the white stag to the
  silent waters?
  “I am a spear: quenched in blood;
  “I am a salmon: in a still pool.”
  Blackfeather had already lost sight of the appa-
  rition that had shambled away from feasting upon
  the guard. The body itself had now vanished be-
  neath the press of flickering shades. There was a
  
  73
  The Winnowing
  loud retort as the gun came free of the shattered
  skull. Blackfeather saw the light catch the raised
  barrel as one of the gibbering dead triumphantly
  waved the dripping pistol overhead.
  There was a growing illumination coming from
  the Rent. The shades clogging the aperture tried
  to flee, but succeeded only in stretching away like
  shadows at sunrise—shrieking into the dim dis-
  tance.
  Nicholas rose to his full height. The clinging spir-
  its were wrapped tightly about him like a cloak.
  Although there was no wind, the garment seemed
  to flap in the breeze as the shades stretched away
  from the light streaming from the Rent.
  “The pathways you describe, they are only
  twistings of the mind, labyrinths of thought. Your
  eyes are set backwards in your head. You see only
  internal landscapes, phantasms, delusions. How can
  you lead the people, you who stumble over shad-
  ows?
  “I am a boar: ruthless and red;
  “I am a breaker: threatening doom.”
  The mass of flickering shades upon the guard’s
  body had grown more distinct. Individual blood-
  flushed hands and Cheshire-cat maws were clearly
  visible among the throng. A knot of shambling
  apparitions wove drunkenly towards the manor
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  74
  house. Their leader, still waving the pistol over-
  head, discharged it at random. Their roaring
  laughter was faintly audible, like the sound of the
  wind through dry leaves.
  The Rent itself seemed to glow now. The light
  was bright enough that Blackfeather could not look
  directly at it and had to squint to make out
  Nicholas’s silhouette.
  The shades unfortunate enough not to have es-
  caped the aperture seemed frozen in time,
  unmoving, captured like a photographic image.
  The light streamed through them, throwing into
  bold relief their expressions of pain and terror.
  Time was growing short. Blackfeather harbored
  no romantic notions about sealing the Rent. Nor
  had he any heroic idea of banishing the rampag-
  ing shades. He certainly had no intention of facing
  the entity looming just beyond the opening. The
  task he set himself was a much more modest one.
  He needed to have himself and Nicholas away from
  here before the Other emerged from the Veil.
  Blackfeather was maneuvering very carefully
  now. He chose each word with care. He was bal-
  anced precariously between the consequences of
  failing the rite of challenge and the threat of pro-
  voking Nicholas to renewed violence. He was very
  close now.
  Blackfeather continued to give ground slowly.
  “Perhaps there are no landscapes but the inter-
  
  75
  The Winnowing
  nal. Perhaps our people hunt only upon the mind-
  plains, war only upon the self-enemy, speak only
  with the thought-tongue.
  “Perhaps our kindred are only shadows from be-
  yond the Veil of Death, preying upon the warmth
  and passions of the living. Do you tell me you are
  somehow more real, more living, than our fore-
  bears? Or are you something less—blood grown
  thin through ages and generations—the mere
  shadow of a shadow?
  “I am a light: from beyond the Veil;
  “I am a barrow: where poets walk.”
  The light was blinding now. Blackfeather could
  no longer see the silhouette of Nicholas. He could
  not pick out the reeling shapes of the reveling dead.
  He could not even glance in the direction of the
  Rent. He moved towards where he thought Nicho-
  las must be, following the sound of his voice.
  Instead of being cowed, however, the voice was
  crowing now—sensing victory. “My blood, it is real.
  My rage is real. If we are but shadows, place your-
  self under my claws. They stretch out to you across
  the ages and the generations and when they mark
  you, you will know it with certainty. And your pain,
  that will also be real.
  “Already you stagger like one half-dead. Come,
  let me finish it.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  76
  “I am a tide: that drags to death;
  “Who but I peers from the unhewn dolmen
  arch?”
  Blackfeather stumbled blindly forward. He could
  feel, rather than see, the light from the Rent. Puls-
  ing. It threw distorted images past his tightly
  clenched eyelids, projecting them directly onto the
  inside of his skull.
  “Yes,” he managed to whisper, although his teeth
  ground together. “There are two worlds—one of
  light and one of shadow. The one you call real and
  the one you deride as dream. They are sides of a
  coin, waking and sleeping, spinning end over end,
  catching the light.
  “But what you do not know is this: that the
  boundaries of the two kingdoms are not as forti-
  fied as either would hope. The great wall is a mere
  eyelid’s thickness. And sometimes, the eyelid flut-
  ters.
  “How will you lead the people when the fiery
  gaze of the Beyond fixes us with its wrath? How
  will you even warn them of the danger? How will
  you draw them forth again, alive and whole, from
  the far side of the forbidding dolmen arch?
  “I am the blaze: on every hill;
  “I am the womb: of every holt.”
  
  77
  The Winnowing
  Blackfeather reached out. His hands closed upon
  Nicholas’s arms, clasping him just above the el-
  bows. The gesture was an embrace, an entreaty, an
  appeal.
  He felt claws sink into his own biceps as Nicho-
  las mirrored the gesture. The grip tightened as
  Nicholas bore down upon him, forcing him to his
  knees.
  “You need not trouble yourself for my people any
  longer. My arm will lead them in battle. My voice
  will guide them in the hunt. At my word, they will
  brave the dark archway into that forbidden king-
  dom which is the Final Death. But I will hide them
  in the secret places of my heart—that no harm
  might come to them, unless it first proves my un-
  doing.
  “I am the shield: for every head;
  “I am the tomb: of every hope.”
  Blackfeather felt a fist tighten in his hair, felt his
  head forced slowly back, exposing the arc of throat.
  He did not resist. He did not speak. He did not
  squander his remaining energy in what was now
  needless struggle.
  Concentrate.
  Deliberately, Blackfeather drew a rasping breath.
  It was not something he did often. Breathing was
  not particularly easy or even remotely comfortable
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  78
  for him anymore—muscles atrophied through de-
  cades of disuse. It was still much more pleasant than
  what he was about to do.
  Blackfeather focused and drew another painful
  breath, then another. He was no longer aware of
  his surroundings. All of his concentration focused
  on this one simple act—inhale, exhale—a task that
  even a newborn baby can perform effortlessly.
  Blackfeather threw every ounce of his will into
  maintaining this most basic, fundamental motion
  of life.
  The tiny halting breath that was Blackfeather
  was dimly aware of Nicholas’s presence looming
  over him. It lay heavy upon him, like a blanket
  smothering flame. It pressed down upon him.
  It has to be now.
  Blackfeather drew breath as deeply as he could
  and held it. One beat. Two. Three.
  He felt the hot stab of fangs driving into his
  throat.
  Now.
  With a sigh like a wall of snow tumbling off a
  mountainside, Blackfeather’s heart began to beat.
  He could feel Nicholas jerk back in alarm, tear-
  ing free. Spray of blood. Rasping breath. Heartbeat.
  With a twisting motion of one hand,
  Blackfeather caught the trailing ends of those three
  vital threads—blood, breath, heartbeat. His nails
  dug into his palm, holding fast, a death grip. With
  
  79
  The Winnowing
  the same motion, he drove the heel of his palm
  upward with all his might, straight into the seat of
  his opponent’s Chi.
  The blow caught Nicholas just below the ster-
  num. Had it been a physical blow, it would
  certainly have shattered his ribcage, driving shards
  of bone through his heart and lungs.
  But there was nothing of the physical about it.
  Nicholas felt nothing more than a slight hiccup as
  Blackfeather rammed the life-energy deep into his
  chest. The entire weight of the blow fell squarely
  upon Nicholas’s Chi, his spiritual energy.
  There was an audible crack, like a latch giving
  way.
  Blackfeather’s hand still rested gently upon
  Nicholas’s chest. He felt the younger Gangrel go
  rigid, jerk, pitch forward. Blackfeather bore him up.
  Nicholas fought for balance. His eyes, wide and
  moon-bright, were fixed on something just beyond
  Blackfeather’s shoulder. A chaotic jumble of im-
  ages flowed from Nicholas into and over
  Blackfeather—as if the overloaded sensory signals
  were uncertain where one individual ended and the
  other began.
  Nicholas’s gaze flitted distractedly back and forth.
  It was as if his mind could find no purchase amidst
  the unfamiliar dreamscape. The grounds erupted
  with the cavorting dead. A translucent apparition
  raised high the severed head of the mastiff. With a
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  80
  howl of glee, he popped it down over his own fea-
  tures like a mask. The deadly jaws snapped
  experimentally, as if trying out the fit.
  Three wavering figures danced around the old
  cast iron stove, stoking the blaze to bonfire height
  with shovel, poker and billows. Another shade
  worked furiously nearby, cobbling together like
  implements from available materials—human flesh
  and bone.
  Shrieking corpses hurled themselves from up-
  stairs windows, got to their feet again as best they
  could, and shambled back towards the house for
  another attempt.
  Blackfeather could feel Nicholas slipping away,
  spiraling inward under the onslaught. He was not
  about to lose him now.
  “Nicholas,” his voice was sharp, urgent. “You will
  not fall here. Your death is no longer your own.
  You must live on to lead our people. You have
  sworn this thing, and it cannot be unsworn.”
  Nicholas’s gaze lowered, fixed upon
  Blackfeather’s own, anchored. Slowly, the young
  Gangrel drew himself back up from the depths.
  Taking Blackfeather by the arms, he raised the seer
  to his feet. “And you will live to guide them.”
  Nicholas’s voice was regal. All hint of the earlier
  menace had fled his countenance. “I have been…”
  His voice died abruptly. His hands fell away.
  Blackfeather felt the contact sever. It was as if
  
  81
  The Winnowing
  he had suddenly been blinded in one eye. Half of
  his range of vision was suddenly and irrevocably
  lost. He was never to know exactly what Nicholas
  saw emerging from the Rent.
  The howl that came from Nicholas’s lips had
  nothing of the human about it. It was a bestial cry
  of terror, pain and incomprehension. The outpour-
  ing of emotion unerringly drew the attention of the
  Other.
  Blackfeather did not turn. He heard a sizzling
  sound, like a sustained arc of electricity, and then
  the ground rippled and flowed towards him under
  the concussion of what he took to be a monstrous
  footstep.
  He threw his full weight against Nicholas, but
  the latter needed no urging. Together they fled,
  heedless and headlong, into the first hint of the
  sunrise.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  82
  CHAPTER THREE
  Owain reclined in the plush seat and tried once
  again to make himself comfortable. This should
  have been simplicity itself. Everything about the
  tiny cabin suggested not only comfort, but opu-
  lence.
  The Giovanni had spared no expense in outfit-
  ting this private jet—the pride of their line. It was
  a matter of great satisfaction to them that their
  unique clientele would tolerate nothing but the
  very best.
  Owain thought they had perhaps gone a bit too
  far to put their guests at ease. The cozy, darkened
  compartment, curtained in red silk, was a bit too
  suggestive of the coffin for his tastes.
  
  83
  The Winnowing
  Every other detail, however, was “just so.” The
  overall effect was that of a gentleman’s library. The
  walls left and right were lined in rich, leather-
  bound volumes. The opposite wall was dominated
  by an antique map of the world that stretched from
  chair rail to vaulted ceiling. Owain brushed the
  controls recessed into the surface of the mahogany
  desk before him. The map seemed to fade, dissolv-
  ing into a series of large projection television
  screens.
  The only light in the room was a pale blue
  banker’s lamp on the desk to Owain’s left. With a
  tug at the delicate golden chain, he snuffed the
  light and thumbed the television to a public sta-
  tion he knew would be off the air by this hour. He
  let the cabin fill with soft static.
  It was a soothing sound, a purely unorchestrated
  effort. There was no hint of artifice about it, no
  note of the self-conscious—no sense that it had
  been carefully arranged for his benefit.
  It was a sound that might have been before man
  walked the earth. A primordial friction. An ever-
  expanding wave carrying the sound of stars being
  born. The music of the spheres.
  Owain let tumultuous thoughts of what lay
  ahead—of Toledo, El Greco, the Sabbat—slip away
  from him and lose themselves among the intrica-
  cies of that grand, patternless music. At last, he
  closed his own eyes, surrendering himself to dreams.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  84
  It was not dreams that came for him, but visions.
  A shadow seated itself across the mahogany desk
  from Owain. The surface of the desk had resolved
  itself into alternating squares of light and dark
  wood—a chessboard. The shadow crouched over
  its pieces. Owain could not follow its stealthy
  movements as it shifted the pieces around, shuf-
  fling them, subtly altering their starting positions.
  The side of the board nearest to Owain was
  empty. Before him, there were thirteen black chess-
  men; there was no sign of their mates. Owain was
  not about to start any game at such a material dis-
  advantage.
  His opponent, however, seemed unconcerned.
  He began advancing his pieces in orderly ranks,
  closing inextricably on Owain’s home row posi-
  tions.
  Owain hastily began slamming pieces onto the
  board, throwing up a defense. He checked suddenly,
  struck by a disturbing detail on the intricately
  carved figurine in his upraised hand. The dark king
  held an upraised cudgel—captured in the act of
  slamming it down upon the upraised face of a fig-
  ure huddled at the piece’s base.
  Caine, the First Born, the Dark Father.
  Owain set the piece down carefully. He picked
  up another and studied it closely, apprehensively.
  The black knight was depicted on his knees, in the
  act of gouging out his own eyes with a pin.
  
  85
  The Winnowing
  Oedipus, certainly. But why…?
  The shadow spoke, tauntingly. It wore a voice
  that Owain had not forgotten all through the dim
  procession of centuries. It was his brother’s voice.
  “Is something amiss, Kinslayer?” The word dripped
  with vitriol. It struck Owain like a blow. “This is
  the Endtime. This is the fading of the blood.”
  Owain felt the warm lifeblood trickling down his
  wrist. He stared in alarm at the figure of Oedipus,
  tightly clenched in his fist. He had the unmistak-
  able impression that the piece bled from beneath
  its dark marble hands. Owain loosed his grip and
  the figure fell heavily to the desk. Only then did
  he realize that his white-knuckled grip had actu-
  ally driven the knight deeply into his palm, drawing
  blood.
  The adversary pressed his advantage. “The shadow
  of Time is not so long that you might shelter beneath it.
  And by these signs, you shall know I speak the Truth
  which abides no darkness. I have seen the Isle of Angels
  trembling as if struck a great blow. Michael, most ex-
  alted of that Glorious Company—he that cast the Dark
  One from on high—is himself thrown to the Earth. Men
  look up without understanding at the darkened sky and
  the Children of Caine waken at dawn.”
  The shadowed figure punctuated his words by
  advancing an exquisite white rook. Each fold of its
  toga stood out in bold relief. The figure was frozen
  in the act of drawing a concealed dagger.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  86
  Brutus.
  Owain strained to catch a glimpse of the white
  king, to delve into the nature of his adversary, but
  his opponent kept the piece well hidden within the
  shadow of his billowing sleeves. Owain advanced
  a bishop into a position of vulnerability.
  His opponent pounced. “I have seen a Cross,
  steeped in the blood of our Lord, burst forth into new
  life. I have seen it ring itself in Holy Thorns, lest the
  impure approach and taste of that forbidden fruit. I have
  seen a great white Eagle perched in its branches. It
  opens its mouth and lo, it speaks with the hidden voice
  of mountains. Words of Undoing it speaks for the Chil-
  dren of Caine.”
  The shadow swooped upon the exposed bishop
  with a contemptuous laugh, but as he extended his
  reach far across the table, Owain caught a glimpse
  of the forgotten white king.
  Its head was bent disturbingly to one side. A
  noose coiled about its neck and a bag of coins lay
  at its feet.
  Thirty talents of silver, Owain thought. Betrayal.
  He retreated his queen to a more defensive posi-
  tion.
  The shadow paused and cocked its head as if
  harkening to the sound of another’s approach. “And
  at its feet crouches a Lyon spitting flame and vitriol, its
  hide the color of blood. It lifts one great paw with the
  sound of all the Earth’s tombs being broken asunder.
  
  87
  The Winnowing
  Beneath that terrible claw there lies the Book. And I,
  Joseph the Lesser, beheld what was writ upon the face
  of the Lyon’s book and I was sorely afraid. I called out
  to the Lord, but my voice was lost amidst the wailing
  of the afflicted. And as I watched, those wails took on
  substance, twisting upon themselves, and I beheld that
  they were a great and terrible road, stretching away
  before me into the dim recesses of night. And the road’s
  name was called Gehenna, for it was paved with dy-
  ing dreams.”
  Owain now found himself sorely pressed. He
  fumbled with a rook, as if trying to use it to check
  the unfolding of this strange revelation. As he
  reached out to lift the piece, however, he found
  he could not. As his hand came away, he saw not
  the cool gleam of his ebon castle, but a deeply
  veined red marble.
  All of the pieces along the left edge of the board
  had suddenly taken on a similar aspect, as if a third
  party had joined their game. The shadow faltered,
  shaken by this latest turn of events. The red pieces
  seemed to threaten each of their delicately con-
  trived positions.
  The shadow’s voice was halting, uncertain. “I hid
  my face, and again the Eagle spoke. Its voice filled the
  Heavens and the Earth saying, ‘Let it be thus. Thy
  will be done.’”
  The shadow swept its long flowing sleeve across
  the desktop, scattering black, red and white pieces
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  88
  to the floor. Owain lunged after them, trying to re-
  construct some semblance of order, to divine some
  elusive pattern from their arcing flight. The pieces
  were hopelessly scattered, sliding away from Owain
  as he was pulled back to the world of flesh and blood.
  He felt the hum of the landing gear as it de-
  ployed, and he felt the jostling of the plane as it
  dropped down through the cloud cover toward
  Madrid.
  The stacks of books surrounded Eleanor, row af-
  ter row, shelf after shelf. She was a woman slight of
  build and could easily have lost herself amidst this
  collection of mortal knowledge. How much they had
  discovered over the centuries, yet how little they
  knew. There were some Kindred, Eleanor knew, who
  had taken it upon themselves to gather the knowl-
  edge of the ages, to possess every tome produced in
  every language across the world. Eleanor had never
  met one of these quixotic beings personally, but she
  had heard firsthand accounts from those who had.
  The collectors had begun their task, and perhaps
  brought it close to fruition, long before Johann
  Gutenberg had made their unlives hell with his little
  toy. Some toiled on, refusing to acknowledge their
  defeat. They had an eternity to work, an eternity to
  waste, slaving in the darkness, a flickering candle
  flame and the musty scent of mildewed paper their
  only companions.
  
  89
  The Winnowing
  Everyone needs a hobby, Eleanor supposed.
  The books meant something quite different to
  her. They were not the secret knowledge of ages
  so much as the key to liberation. She felt empow-
  ered as she surveyed the books in the Morris Brown
  library, this feeling heightened by the mingling of
  anticipation as she awaited her lover. Benjamin had
  responded to her epistle with a note of his own,
  and the words had brought her to this place once
  again. The written word had served her well, as it
  had many times over the years.
  Books were the closest to having friends that
  Eleanor had ever come—companions to whom she
  could entrust her thoughts, allies she could utilize
  to get what she needed. She had excelled at read-
  ing and writing from her childhood days as a
  mortal. Steered away from the depravities of fic-
  tion, as well as the histories and political texts of
  the male world around her, she had sensed a higher
  calling, even in her voluminous consumption of the
  treatises on etiquette and natural history that were
  allowed her. When she had caught the eye of a
  wealthy planter, the articulate letters she had
  crafted, utterly proper yet beguiling nonetheless,
  made a mere formality of the courtship. Ten years
  later, when her husband, by that time a colonel in
  the Confederate army, had died in the early years
  of the War Between the States, Eleanor had ably
  administered the plantation holdings.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  90
  All that was before Baylor had Embraced her,
  before he had molded her as his protégée in the
  duplicitous world of Camarilla politics, and before
  he had subsequently, for all practical intents and
  purposes, disinherited if not disowned her when she
  had married Benison. It was also before she had met
  Benjamin, the lover whose presence she now
  awaited.
  Eleanor had sent Sally, the delicate, pale serv-
  ing girl, with the angry letter to Benjamin three
  nights earlier. First one night and then another
  passed with no response. Eleanor had wondered if
  she had been too harsh in expressing her thoughts.
  She had, after all, forgone her typical grace and tact
  in communicating her anger. Had Benjamin taken
  such offense, she had wondered, that he would not
  respond? But equally as strong as her anxiety had
  been her irritation at being ignored, her ire at be-
  ing taken for granted. She vacillated between
  trepidation and aggravation, consoled only by the
  fact that Benison was busy elsewhere and not a
  complication in addition to her mood swings.
  On the third night, much to her relief, a response
  from Benjamin had arrived. Sally, returning from
  errands, had delivered the note: E, I have instructed
  Edgar to present this to you or your staff at the first
  possible opportunity. Please, the night after receiving
  this, meet me at the library. As always, Yours.
  Edgar, Benjamin’s executive assistant ghoul—
  
  91
  The Winnowing
  though Eleanor doubted that was his actual job
  title—must have followed Sally when she had left
  the house and then slipped the note to her on the
  street when he was sure they were not being ob-
  served. The message itself Eleanor considered pure
  Benjamin, equal parts affection and caution. The
  opening “E” was lovingly familiar, yet at the same
  time protected Eleanor’s identity. He formally re-
  ferred to her “staff,” but asked her to “please” meet
  with him, and his usual closing, which had so en-
  deared him to Eleanor, was intensely personal
  without being explicitly passionate. Seeing the
  words lifted Eleanor’s heart. This would not be the
  first time they had met at the library.
  Thirty-odd years before, Eleanor had watched
  from a distance as the mortal Benjamin had parlayed
  his formidable legal skills into a successful law prac-
  tice. She had watched, also, as he had abandoned
  that practice to offer his services instead to the ac-
  tivists of the civil rights movement. From the
  beginning, his sharp intellect had attracted Eleanor;
  that and the idealism that had governed him. Such
  principled actions were novel to Eleanor, steeped as
  she was in the politics of the Camarilla. She had
  followed him as he moved among the books. Then,
  as she was again this night, she had been one of the
  few non-African-Americans in the Morris Brown
  library, but Eleanor had a way of blending in when
  she wanted, as far as mortals were concerned.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  92
  After watching Benjamin for hours, Eleanor had
  spoken with him, and with the proximity, events
  had spiraled beyond her control. She had found
  herself unable to repress her desires any longer and
  had drunk of him there between the stacks. Leav-
  ing a body in the library would have been a messy
  affair, and she probably could not have brought
  herself to destroy the object of her infatuation re-
  gardless. But when Eleanor had attempted to
  remove from Benjamin’s mind the memory of her
  feeding upon him, she was unable to do so. His will
  was too strong. The memory was permanent. Not
  content merely to enthrall such a brilliant mind
  as a ghoul, she had Embraced him. For more than
  three decades, her secret childe had proven her in-
  tellectual equal, and on the rare occasions that she
  had desired more physical stimulation—a nostal-
  gic remembrance of mortal days more than any
  actual physical pleasure to her vampiric body—he
  had satisfied her in that capacity as well.
  There was no denying, in Eleanor’s mind, that
  their fates were intertwined, and his choice of this
  venue indicated to her that he felt similarly. She had
  ushered Benjamin into the world of the Kindred, and
  he had enriched her unlife beyond measure.
  But where was he now? Eleanor had been wait-
  ing for three hours, since ten o’clock, and though
  wandering through the stacks had engendered
  memories of more pleasant times, her relief at hav-
  
  93
  The Winnowing
  ing heard from him was beginning to give way to
  irritation at once again having been kept waiting.
  It would not have been difficult for him to have
  chosen a time to meet, Eleanor fumed.
  Just as her mind turned to such bitter thoughts,
  however, he was there. Eleanor felt his presence
  before she saw him, standing stiffly in front of the
  collected volumes of jurisprudence, cardigan
  sweater unbuttoned, tie loosened. Again, Eleanor’s
  heart lifted. All anxiety and aggravation were in-
  stantly banished from her soul. As she moved
  toward him, her long dress, the height of fashion
  in 1893, rustled against her ankles.
  “Benjamin.”
  It seemed like forever since she had been able to
  speak to him thus, revealing the depth of emotion
  she held for him.
  Benjamin remained where he was. He mechani-
  cally took Eleanor’s hands in his and leaned down
  so that she could kiss him. His lips were cold against
  hers, and Eleanor sensed only the barest response
  from him. Her anxieties returned, sweeping over
  her, an avalanche of doubt and fear. She took a
  step back, wondering who this was in the form of
  her childe and lover?
  “Eleanor.” The way he spoke her name pained
  her. Gone were the thrill and anticipation of the
  past. The word formed upon his dead lips conveyed
  only custodial tolerance, not passion. “Eleanor.” He
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  94
  attacked her by naming her again.
  She withdrew her hands from his, not wanting
  to be confronted by the reality of his lifeless touch.
  “You’ve kept me waiting.”
  Sadness and pain were buried in Benjamin’s eyes.
  This gave Eleanor hope, the knowledge that she
  still held some small power over him, but it also
  stoked the darkest of her fears. She looked away
  from his face.
  “I’m sorry,” he said.
  Was he referring, Eleanor wondered, to his be-
  lated arrival or to more portentous matters? She
  turned her back to him. “We cannot continue this
  way,” she whispered.
  “I know,” he said behind her.
  Eleanor felt herself cringe, struck by the weight
  of resignation in his voice. He was quietly destroy-
  ing them. With a half-dozen words, ambiguous in
  denotation alone, he had sealed the fate of over
  three decades of involvement. For a moment, she
  collected her thoughts. His mind was made up.
  That much was clear. But Eleanor had swayed
  princes and archons in her time. She would not
  make this easy for him. “Do you remember the first
  time we were together here?” she asked.
  “How could I not?”
  “What did you feel that first time I fed from you,
  those last hours of your mortal life?” she asked, her
  back still turned to him.
  
  95
  The Winnowing
  “Eleanor, you know…”
  “What did you feel?” she demanded, spinning to
  face him. “What was going through your mind,
  through your heart?”
  Benjamin bowed his head and sighed. “I felt the
  blood, the very life, draining out of me.” His voice
  was tired. These were words he had spoken before
  many years ago. Hearing him, Eleanor was increas-
  ingly angered that although he answered her, though
  he followed the letter of her command, he was merely
  humoring her. But there was still a chance she could
  bring him back to her, and she would not give up
  that chance. “But I wasn’t afraid,” he continued. “I
  was curious. I knew somehow that I was being pre-
  sented with an opportunity to learn more than I’d
  ever imagined possible. I knew you wouldn’t kill me.”
  “How did you know?” she prodded.
  Benjamin hesitated. His gaze met Eleanor’s, then
  he looked away. “I don’t know.”
  “What of the years since then, Benjamin?”
  “Since then…” he answered, staring at his feet,
  “since then, you have introduced me to Cainite
  society. You have taught me those people I should
  know and those I should fear.”
  Eleanor allowed herself a gratified smile. Surely
  Benjamin realized that he would be nothing had
  it not been for her, nothing but a poor, aging law-
  yer engaged in social causes, the specter of
  retirement and a slow death looming in his future.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  96
  How much she had given him! She had opened
  the world to him, allowed him to use his natural
  abilities as well as his vampiric influence and pow-
  ers to help his people. She hoped he wouldn’t
  grovel before her. She would rather maintain a dig-
  nified relationship.
  But Benjamin was not finished. “Since then, I
  have been forced to feed upon the blood of those
  still human around me in order to survive. I have
  become, in reality, the worst caricature of the le-
  gal profession.” Benjamin met her gaze now. His
  voice took on the conviction it had lacked since
  his arrival. “Since then, I have learned on my own
  ten times, a hundred times, what you taught me.
  Though you would have preferred to have kept me
  in tow, I have taken what you showed me and rec-
  reated myself.”
  As Benjamin spoke, Eleanor stood dumbfounded.
  Only slowly did his words sink in, and even then,
  her realization of the incredible extent of his in-
  gratitude was slow to form. Could he really be
  saying what she was hearing? “Benjamin, you would
  be nothing without me.” She meant it honestly,
  not as a slap, not as a blow against him.
  He glared at her from behind his steel-rimmed
  spectacles. “I would be my own man without you.
  A different man, yes, but my own. Never in these
  thirty years has my world revolved solely around
  you, as you seem to think. There have been nights
  
  97
  The Winnowing
  that I haven’t seen you, nights that I haven’t
  thought of you. I would be more human without you,
  but I would still be my own man.”
  Eleanor could not believe that he would go to
  such great lengths to slight her, to offend her. As
  the depth of his rebellion grew apparent, a pro-
  found anger took hold of her. She hissed at
  Benjamin, baring her fangs. It took all her breed-
  ing and social graces to keep her from pouncing
  upon him and ripping his throat open, taking back
  the gift that so clearly had been spurned. “You for-
  get, Benjamin, I am the master. You are the childe!”
  “I am the childe, yes,” he retorted, “but I am my
  own master. As I have always been, Eleanor. You want
  to know how I knew you wouldn’t kill me that first
  night so long ago? I knew because I could feel your
  passion. It was later that I realized that passion was
  not for me as much as for the idea of owning me.” His
  voice rose in volume. He was too incensed to care if
  mortals heard this argument. “I was your childe. I was
  your boy, or so you thought.” Benjamin’s own fangs
  were visible now. “And I hated you for that.”
  Eleanor pressed her palms against her eyes. This
  insolence was too much to bear. She would reveal
  his treachery to Benison. She would see Benjamin
  destroyed, staked out for the morning sun to burn
  away the offending flesh that had once been hers to
  command. But when she lowered her hands to tell
  him this, he was gone. Trembling with rage, she
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  98
  stood alone among the stacks. Hundreds and thou-
  sands of volumes crowded around her, all staring, all
  laughing at her impotence in the face of her childe.
  The two cars raced up to the front of the projects
  from different directions and screeched to a halt,
  front bumpers coming to rest only a few inches
  apart. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air.
  Mohammed al-Muthlim stepped out of one car into
  the night air. “This the place?”
  His ghoul Rodney got out of the same car.
  Marvin emerged from the other car with an assault
  rifle, but before he could respond to his domitor’s
  question, automatic weapon fire ripped into the
  cars and the ground all around them. Mohammed
  ducked behind his car. Marvin and Rodney jumped
  over the hoods to join him.
  “I think it’s the place,” said Rodney.
  Marvin was grimacing and flexing his left hand,
  which had a bullet hole clean through it. “Damn!
  That pisses me off!”
  More bullets slammed into the cars. Windshields
  shattered. Air hissed out of punctured tires.
  “Where’s Kenny?” Mohammed asked.
  “’Round back,” Marvin answered, still flexing his
  hand. “He’s there with Pancho and the others.
  We’re here. Them’s the only ways out, ’cept
  nobody’s gettin’ out.”
  
  99
  The Winnowing
  Mohammed nodded grimly. He had never been
  impressed with Marvin, at least not before the gang
  war had broken into the open. Between the rav-
  ages of the curse through the ranks of Mohammed’s
  underlings and the attrition brought on by the
  bloody hostilities, Marvin had first been ghouled,
  then thrust into a position of leadership within
  Crypt’s Sons, and he had proven himself a tactical
  asset. So much so that Mohammed was consider-
  ing Embracing the enormous ghoul and recruiting
  him for Mohammed’s secret inner circle of Sabbat
  followers, who had been nearly annihilated by the
  curse. “Then go do it.”
  Marvin smiled. Forgotten was the pain from his
  hand. He took a cell phone from his baggy pock-
  ets and dialed. “Yeah, Pancho. It’s a go. Right now.”
  He replaced the phone and checked his rifle. Sat-
  isfied, he turned to Mohammed and Rodney.
  “Cover me?”
  They nodded and checked their own weapons,
  two semi-automatic pistols. On three, they stood
  and returned fire at the apartment from which the
  sniper fire had come. Without hesitating, Marvin
  was out from behind the cars and running toward
  the front door, firing as he went.
  Mohammed and Rodney dropped back down as
  more bullets tore into the cars. “Think he’ll make
  it?” Rodney asked.
  “We’ll see.” There was much still to be seen,
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  100
  Mohammed knew. Turf skirmishes between Crypt’s
  Sons and La Hermandad had always been a way of
  unlife in L.A., but since open warfare had broken
  out two weeks ago, the Cainites of Whittier and
  Covina had thrown in with La Hermandad, and
  though Mohammed was holding his own, maybe
  even gaining ground, the cost was high. His ranks
  already decimated by the curse, he was having
  ghouls and mortal flunkies blown away at every
  turn. Every ambush, every retribution, cost him one
  or two more people. There were always more to
  take their places. That was no problem. But lead-
  ership was a quality less easily replaced, and most
  of Mohammed’s top men were already down. La
  Hermandad was undoubtedly suffering the same
  difficulties, but what concerned Mohammed was
  that his enemies were hanging on without their
  charismatic leader. If Salvador showed up in town,
  more L.A. Cainites would probably jump on the
  La Hermandad bandwagon, and that might just tip
  the balance. That was why Mohammed wanted to
  press his advantage as forcefully as he could, to win
  outright or at least to extract some favorable settle-
  ment from Jesus Ramirez, leader of La Hermandad
  during Salvador’s absence.
  More shots echoed inside the dingy apartment
  building. Stray bullets escaped into the night.
  Mohammed wanted this wrapped up soon. Al-
  though Compton was relatively free of interference
  
  101
  The Winnowing
  from the local authorities, a protracted gun battle
  in the street was never wise. Plus, Ramirez had al-
  ready had some success in buying off cops who had
  been in Mohammed’s pocket, though probably the
  example Mohammed had made of one officer and
  his family would dissuade other potential turncoats.
  Mohammed snuck a look around the car. He
  didn’t see Marvin lying on the ground. The ghoul
  must have made it inside. Just as that thought
  crossed the mind of the leader of the Crypt’s Sons,
  glass shattered and a screen was ripped from the
  building. From the fourth floor, a body came sail-
  ing through the window. Mohammed could tell at
  a glance that it was not Marvin. Too small. A loud
  thud reverberated throughout the courtyard as the
  body hit the concrete. Marvin grinned from the
  broken window above. He had taken care of the
  sniper. Then Marvin’s smile faded.
  Mohammed was suddenly aware of another au-
  tomobile speeding toward him. Police? was his first
  thought, but what he saw as he turned was worse.
  A small pickup truck was bearing down on him,
  two Hispanics in the back pointing sub-machine
  guns at him.
  Mohammed jumped the car as bullets slammed
  into the less shot-up side of the vehicle. Marvin
  returned fire from the window, but the truck sped
  on and was gone.
  Mohammed stood and brushed himself off. The
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  102
  indignity of being attacked in his own territory riled
  him more than anything. He hoped that one of his
  patrols would stop that truck, and that at least one
  of those La Hermandad members would be cap-
  tured alive. Just one.
  Then Mohammed noticed Rodney lying on the
  ground. He hadn’t made it out of the way, and at
  least one bullet had caught him square in the face.
  Most of the back of his head was scattered over fif-
  teen or twenty feet of pavement. Mohammed
  stared after the truck.
  From the opposite rooftop, the violence looked
  almost staged—an impromptu drama performed for
  an audience of one. Kli Kodesh impassively sur-
  veyed the carnage below.
  Although he gave no outward sign of concern,
  he calculated furiously. With great care he plotted
  the trajectory of each stray bullet. He was acutely
  aware of the exact time and distance a body would
  plummet before impacting the pavement below. He
  apprehended the precise angle of each shard of
  bone exploding from the splintered skull.
  It was always the same. The individual acts of
  violence, the specific deaths, were unimportant. It
  was the larger pattern that held his interest.
  The wind tore at Kli Kodesh in vain, failing to
  displace a single strand of his long white hair, or
  
  103
  The Winnowing
  rustle the least fold of his robe. He stood like a pil-
  lar, a statue carved of marble. He was a colossus
  perched precariously at the very edge of the world.
  Those below would not see him. Not because he
  concealed himself, for he did not. They would not
  see him because their world had no place for be-
  ings such as he. Their thoughts could find no
  purchase upon him. Their minds could not hope
  to encompass the thousands of miles he had
  walked, the hundreds of thousands of violent acts
  he had endured through the ages.
  The words of the ancient prophecy were slight
  solace in the face of this procession of death and
  betrayal: They also serve who stand and wait.
  But his waiting was drawing to a close. A great
  reckoning was at hand. He looked down upon the
  City of Angels, surveying the great expanse of as-
  phalt and neon for the last time.
  Already it had begun to recede. For a long time
  afterward, Kli Kodesh clung to the distant echo of
  the city’s cries—the mechanical wailings of the
  great machine winding down, devouring itself. The
  haunting sound comforted him, whispering that
  release was at hand.
  But he recognized in the city’s parting promise,
  the cry of a newborn who would not live through
  the night.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  104
  Sally knocked at the parlor door. “Miss Eleanor,
  the gentleman you asked me to find, Pierre, I’ve
  brought him back.”
  Eleanor looked up from her journal. “Where is
  he?”
  “I showed him into the living room.” Sally was
  a slight girl, two or three inches taller than her
  mistress but gaunt and frail. Like Eleanor, her skin
  was pale, her long, dark hair kept up in a bun. The
  ghoul was everything Eleanor wanted in a serving
  girl, all deference and dependability, and though
  Sally appeared fragile, she was one of only two of
  Eleanor and Benison’s five ghouls not to fall vic-
  tim to the curse.
  “Very good,” said Eleanor. “Tell him I’ll be down
  shortly.”
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  Eleanor heard Sally’s light steps receding down
  the stairs. Eleanor’s journal still lay open before her
  on the writing table. For the better part of three
  nights, she had collected and organized her
  thoughts in light of her disturbing meeting with
  Benjamin. She had considered what he had said,
  tried to make sense of it, attempted to see the past
  years from his perspective—attempted and failed.
  The more often she reconstructed their argument,
  the more convinced she was that he had fallen vic-
  tim to the delusional ravings of the curse. She had
  witnessed with her own eyes as Benison’s childe
  
  105
  The Winnowing
  Roger had succumbed to the insanity and then per-
  ished shortly thereafter. That seemed to be the way
  of things. Across the nation, across the world if the
  stories were to be believed, Kindred were suffering
  similar fates. Obviously Benjamin’s usually impec-
  cable mental faculties had given over to the
  madness. Could death be far behind?
  She had, over the past nights, regretfully resigned
  herself to that inevitability. Even so, she had diffi-
  culty so callously abandoning her prodigal childe.
  The possibility did exist, however slight, that he
  was not, in fact, affected by the maleficence of the
  curse but had instead arrived at his baseless con-
  clusions on his own.
  Eleanor closed her journal, not meaning to slam
  it, but the oil lantern on the table rattled alarm-
  ingly. If he hasn’t been driven mad by the curse, she
  wondered, how could he have been swayed by such
  wrong-headed ideas? The ideas that had led him to
  renounce her love could not, Eleanor felt, be the
  result of his normally precise thinking. Someone
  had influenced him unduly and, with very little ef-
  fort, Eleanor had divined the identity of the culprit:
  Owain Evans.
  This realization was actually confirmation of sus-
  picions she had held for some time now. It all fit
  together too well for coincidence. Evans had black-
  mailed Benjamin over some inconsequential legal
  matter months ago. The information that would
  
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  have so compromised Benjamin had it been made
  common knowledge: his involvement with Eleanor,
  the prince’s wife. There was also the possibility,
  though Eleanor considered it incredibly remote,
  that Evans was aware of the specific nature of
  Eleanor and Benjamin’s relationship, that Ben-
  jamin was secretly her childe as well as her love.
  Eleanor could easily reconstruct Benjamin’s line
  of reasoning. The only way to ensure that their ac-
  tive relationship was not found out was to end it.
  They had been cautious enough that past actions
  would almost certainly prove impossible to uncover,
  and so if no additional rendezvous occurred, they
  were beyond reproach. This would leave Benjamin
  free to battle any future blackmail attempts with
  complete confidence and nothing tangible to hide.
  Seen in that light, Eleanor knew that Benjamin
  had done it all for her. He was trying to protect
  her, to shield her from possible harm. He realized
  that any aspersions cast publicly against them with
  even the slightest substantiation would be far more
  damaging to her, considering her rather significant
  social standing. So idealistic was he in his motiva-
  tions and in his desire to protect her, he was
  pretending to actually break off their relationship
  rather than risk trying to work secretly with her to
  negotiate these perilous waters. The darling. It was
  all so clear to her now upon reflection.
  Of course he wouldn’t risk hurting her feelings
  
  107
  The Winnowing
  unless it were to safeguard the long-term stability
  of their love. That was where she could help.
  Owain Evans was the only individual who had re-
  vealed his knowledge of that which he should not
  know. Quite possibly, he received information, ru-
  mor or fact, from spies. It would be helpful if
  Eleanor could find out who those spies were, so
  they could be dealt with properly. That would be
  ideal, to eliminate the leak at the source. At the
  very least, however, if Evans were removed from
  the picture, there would be no one in a position of
  influence who could threaten her and Benjamin.
  So the past nights of soul-searching had not been
  without success. Eleanor had constructed three al-
  ternative scenarios to explain the uncomfortable
  situation in which she found herself. First, that
  Benjamin had fallen prey to the curse, his insanity
  and rejection of her derived therefrom, in which
  case he would soon be dead. Second, that Benjamin
  was misguidedly attempting to protect her from the
  recriminations of Owain Evans’s extortion, in
  which case her removing Evans from the scene
  would alleviate the problem and Benjamin would
  be hers again. Third, that Benjamin did actually,
  through some twisted delusion of his own incep-
  tion, want to bring an end to their involvement.
  If that were somehow the case, it would become
  apparent if Evans were dispatched and Benjamin
  refused to resume contact with Eleanor. If that hap-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  108
  pened, Eleanor would make sure that Benjamin did
  indeed wish that he had fallen to the curse rather
  than to the revenge she would arrange for him.
  None of that, she knew, would happen if all she
  did was sit in her parlor night after night writing in
  her journal. Eleanor methodically straightened the
  book on her writing table, along with her pen, ink
  well, and lamp. She was careful not to dribble any
  of the ink on the white doily. She had learned long
  ago that, even in a fit of pique, a lady conducted her-
  self in a composed and calm manner. It was a
  standard up to which Eleanor did not always mea-
  sure, but one to which few even aspired these modern
  nights. Only after smoothing her dress and attend-
  ing to her hair did she venture from the parlor.
  The first night after her altercation with Ben-
  jamin, Eleanor had barely left her room, so
  consumed by despair had she been. Her firm re-
  solve to carry on had been achieved only through
  reflection and self-examination over the next eve-
  nings. Two nights ago, on Tuesday, having largely
  decided upon a course of action, she had sent Sally
  out to contact Robert Gillus, a younger Ventrue
  whom Eleanor had always treated kindly. Unfor-
  tunately, Gillus had taken insane and expired
  several weeks ago. Twice more Eleanor had sent
  Sally in search of junior Ventrue who likewise
  turned out to have been victims of the curse. Only
  then did Eleanor truly realize how completely the
  
  109
  The Winnowing
  curse had devastated the ranks of even the recog-
  nized vampires of the city. It was not a malady
  reserved for the anarchs and unestablished, though
  they seemed to have borne the brunt of it initially.
  And so Eleanor made her way into the living
  room and greeted Pierre the Toreador, he to whom
  she was turning for lack of any viable alternative.
  “Eleanor!” He was pleased to see her and rose as
  she entered the room, stepping forward as if to take
  her hand, but then hastily stepping back as if afraid
  to be too forward with one of Eleanor’s standing.
  Pierre’s thin frame was topped with listless black
  hair trimmed on the sides to long, narrow side-
  burns. As Eleanor did take his hand and smile, she
  could see distinctly the bones in his hand, wrist,
  and forearm. She imagined that if she jerked too
  hard, his arm would pull out from the socket, but
  such Kindred of seeming frailty as Pierre were the
  only available tools of the trade in desperate times.
  “Pierre, how kind of you to join me with such
  short notice,” she said graciously.
  The Toreador placed his other hand over hers,
  as a grandmother might do to a child. “No trouble
  at all, Eleanor. No trouble at all for our friend, the
  wife of the prince.”
  Eleanor nodded. “You are too kind.” She took
  her seat on the armchair and watched as Pierre
  perched daintily upon the edge of the couch. “I
  trust you are doing well?”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  110
  “As well as can be expected,” Pierre sighed. “So
  much uncertainty in these…well…uncertain
  times.” He looked at her solemnly, as if he had im-
  parted a most profound wisdom. He spoke with his
  hands, gesturing with each word. Only, there
  seemed to be a short lag time after he finished
  speaking, when his hands continued moving until
  realizing there were no more words to accompany.
  “You are so right,” said Eleanor. She had never
  cared for the Toreador as a clan—gossips and
  arthouse dandies for the most part—and generally
  found that she cared for them as individuals even
  less. Marlene, the leader of the clan in Atlanta, was
  a prime example, affecting pretensions as a sculp-
  tor while spending most of her time maintaining
  the strip joints lining Cheshire Bridge Road. On
  top of that, Marlene had claimed illness last Sat-
  urday and, along with Hannah, had missed the
  weekly bridge game, leaving Eleanor alone to en-
  tertain the senile Aunt Bedelia, Benison’s sire.
  Eleanor regarded Pierre in his black boots and
  Renaissance-style blouse, measuring him against
  the task she had in mind. There were just so few
  accessible Kindred in the city these nights. Most
  of those who had not succumbed to the curse
  avoided all other Cainites like the plague for fear
  of being stricken. Eleanor believed that her own
  moral fortitude protected her.
  “Pierre,” she began, “I have an important favor
  
  111
  The Winnowing
  that I must ask of you.” He sat bolt upright on the
  couch, attentive, a little soldier ready for command.
  “It is a matter that requires a modicum of discre-
  tion.”
  “I see.” He nodded vigorously. Eleanor feared he
  might strain his neck.
  “It is not a matter with which I wish to trouble
  the prince,” she explained, “so I will ask you to re-
  port exclusively to me.” Eleanor was a little worried
  by the degree of eagerness with which Pierre was
  approaching his task, not yet even knowing what
  that task was to be. The Toreador, as a rule, were
  schemers. Not as devious as the Tremere or as un-
  predictable as the Malkavians, but conniving
  nonetheless. Pierre, being a Toreador of no great
  standing, could be genuinely excited to serve the
  wife of the prince and by extension, one would as-
  sume, the prince himself. Pierre could, then again,
  be interested in furthering his status within his own
  clan in particular, perhaps by double-crossing
  Eleanor in some way. That would make him, with
  his obvious enthusiasm, quite the bungler. Such
  transparency was unlikely, but Eleanor was not yet
  ready to rule out complete ineptitude. Also pos-
  sible was the scenario in which Pierre was the
  skilled infiltrator intentionally projecting the dis-
  arming manner of the fool. This, from what little
  she knew of him, Eleanor doubted.
  “I need you to keep track of a certain vampire
  
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  112
  in the city,” she explained. “There is nothing too
  complicated about it. Follow his movements.
  Record whom he sees. I prefer that he not realize
  he is being watched, but should you be discovered,
  neither my name nor the prince’s enter into the
  matter. Understood?”
  Pierre’s smile was a bit more nervous now. His
  hands began their motion anticipating his response.
  “It sounds as if there is ‘nothing too complicated,’
  but the complications could arise from the iden-
  tity of he who is followed.”
  “You are quite right,” Eleanor agreed. “I must first
  ask that, even should you decide not to undertake
  this favor, which would be quite disappointing to
  the prince and myself but which is still a valid
  choice, this conversation remain confidential, no
  word spoken of it to anyone. May I have your word
  on that point?”
  Pierre swallowed, feeling that he was somehow
  getting himself in deeper before he knew all the
  details, but Eleanor’s request seemed innocent
  enough. “You have my word.”
  “Many thanks.” Eleanor smiled warmly. “The
  Kindred in question is Owain Evans. Do you know
  him?”
  Pierre thought for a moment. “Ventrue?” Eleanor
  nodded. “Young looking, fairly stodgy?” Again
  Eleanor nodded. “I know of him,” said Pierre, “but
  we’ve never been formally introduced.”
  
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  The Winnowing
  Eleanor waited until Pierre’s hands completed
  their gyrations and were still. “I’m afraid I don’t
  have a great deal of time for you to think about
  your answer,” she pressed him slightly. “I was think-
  ing, in return, that I might be able to arrange an
  exhibit of your work, of your…”
  “Paintings,” he prompted her.
  “Yes, your paintings. Perhaps at the High Mu-
  seum?” Then Eleanor shrugged her shoulders. “But
  if you are not able to help me, I’ll have to find
  someone else…”
  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Pierre in-
  terrupted, almost before he knew what he was
  saying. Even his own hands were caught off guard
  by his sudden answer, and rushed to catch up. “I
  think I should be able to help you.”
  Eleanor smiled warmly. “Wonderful.” She had
  known that the possibility of a showing at the mu-
  seum, aside from any other motivations Pierre
  might have brought with him, would be a difficult
  temptation for the young Toreador to resist. She
  still didn’t trust him. There was always the possi-
  bility that he would run straight to Marlene with
  this information, but frankly Eleanor saw no great
  harm in that. What could Marlene, the Toreador
  whore, do with the knowledge? Besides, if Pierre
  crossed Eleanor, she would merely fabricate some
  story for Benison, and he would have Xavier Kline
  dispatch the little Toreador.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  114
  Pierre seemed only slightly less nervous now that
  he had made his decision. His fingers twiddled con-
  stantly in his lap.
  “Wonderful, Pierre,” Eleanor said again. “I know
  you’ve made the right choice.”
  The spray-can rattled like knucklebones in
  Blackfeather’s hand. He popped the top and fired
  off a few short bursts at the underside of the bridge.
  Satisfied the nozzle was working properly, he re-
  turned to where Nicholas sat cross-legged on the
  concrete.
  Even before Blackfeather had turned his back on
  the hastily rendered sigil, he began rationalizing.
  After all, he seriously doubted that anyone would
  be able to pick out the arcane cipher amidst the
  scrawl of graffiti. And even if someone did make
  it out, there were only a dozen people on this con-
  tinent that might recognize the spidery rune as a
  symbol from the (thankfully) long-forgotten lan-
  guage of the Howling Priests of Mu. And there were
  maybe three beings on the planet that might at-
  tempt a rough translation of the cryptic rune,
  which would be most closely rendered, “Don’t look
  now, but there’s an Elder God in your beer.”
  Blackfeather often felt that his best efforts went
  unappreciated.
  Nicholas was watching him expectantly. As
  
  115
  The Winnowing
  Blackfeather approached, he was again struck by
  the visible changes that had been wrought upon
  the young Gangrel. It had been no more than a
  week since their encounter at the Veil and al-
  though each of them was once more whole in body,
  the signs of the struggle were still all too clear in
  Nicholas’s bearing and visage.
  His figure was stooped as if under a great weight
  of age or responsibility. Blackfeather could not
  quite shake the image of Nicholas at the manse,
  standing defiant despite the horde of shades claw-
  ing and clamoring over him. The comparison was
  not a flattering one. Although Nicholas had never
  bent under that burden, it was clear that the spir-
  its had left a more lasting mark upon him.
  Any encounter with the powers beyond the Veil,
  Blackfeather reflected, was like placing oneself at
  the mercy of a rather clumsy sculptor. The shapers
  of spirit are unused to working with such ephem-
  eral materials as flesh and blood.
  Nicholas had been in the grips of power before
  Blackfeather came upon him at the mansion. Judg-
  ing from the carnage, it was not a gentle power.
  Blackfeather knew full well that the dark spirit that
  rode Nicholas would never have released him of
  its own accord.
  Over the years, Blackfeather had seen similar
  forces at work in those who had lost themselves
  irrevocably to the ravenings of the beast. More re-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  116
  cently, Blackfeather had witnessed such baleful spir-
  its perched upon the shoulders of those touched
  by the blood curse. Even the clan’s Wailing Women
  had been unable to drive off the predatory spirits.
  The Fading of the Blood, the Women would whis-
  per, making the sign against evil. Dark crows among
  the ripening corn.
  Blackfeather had been too long among the spirit
  paths to disregard such obvious trailsigns. Surely
  some great reckoning was at hand—not only for
  his clan, but for all of his kind. A Winnowing, he
  thought, a separation of the wheat from the chaff.
  These thoughts did not comfort Blackfeather.
  They did, however, steady him and give him a strong
  focal point for his will. If a judgment were at hand,
  the challenge before him was clear—to go among
  the Fallen, to identify those who still managed to
  cling to the true, the beautiful, the compassionate,
  the sacred—and to make them endure.
  Blackfeather circled three times, laying down a
  wide terracotta-colored ring of paint as he went.
  A perfect circle.
  He was taking no chances. Last week’s mayhem
  was still fresh in his mind. There was no telling what
  creatures from beyond the Veil might still be abroad,
  having weathered out the days in the manor’s wine
  cellars or family crypt. Some of the apparitions, for-
  tified by blood and suffering, might even have had
  the strength to pass among the waking.
  
  117
  The Winnowing
  But Blackfeather and Nicholas would be safe
  here. The circle was inviolate. The trick was not,
  as some suspected, the Patterner’s magic of perfect
  Platonic forms. Nor the Gnostic wonders of real-
  ized Euclidean dreams. Blackfeather’s circle drew
  on a more humble enchantment—the everyday
  miracle of flawless craftsmanship, of the job impec-
  cably done. The circle itself was just a
  ready-to-hand expression of this mundane en-
  chantment. Blackfeather would have been equally
  impervious to all harm in the eclectic little house
  he had constructed with his own hands, the car he
  had saved from scrap and rebuilt, the night-bloom-
  ing garden he tended.
  In that garden, the clan’s Rootweavers had slowly
  nursed Nicholas back to health. When the pair had
  fled the disturbance at the manse, Nicholas was
  barely aware of himself or his surroundings. He had
  been ridden and discarded by the dark power; he
  was little better than cast-off clay thrown from the
  potter’s wheel.
  It was all Blackfeather could do to drag the in-
  coherent Nicholas as far as Piedmont Park. The
  latter kept involuntarily sinking ankle-deep into
  the earth, his body obeying a primal need to flee
  the first hints of the sunrise. Blackfeather struggled
  to put as much distance as possible between them
  and any pursuit.
  The Dreamstalkers found them at sundown. A
  
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  118
  layer of earth barely six inches deep was all that
  had lain between the pair and the deadly rays of
  the sun. Both were broken in body from their
  struggle as well as being severely burned from ex-
  posure. The Dreamstalkers carried them back to the
  rest of the clan in the mountains to the north.
  It was a full three days before Nicholas showed
  any signs of awareness. Each day he would walk in
  the garden, shuffling forward, eyes staring fixedly
  into the middle distance. When the clan pressed
  Blackfeather with questions about the newcomer,
  he would answer them only, “We must have him
  back.”
  On the third day, one of the Rootweavers came
  running to Blackfeather to report that their young
  charge had awakened briefly, still in the grips of
  delirium, and then fallen back into his somnam-
  bulism.
  “What did the young lord say?” Blackfeather
  asked.
  The Rootweaver was taken aback, puzzled by this
  turn of question. “He raved only, Guardian.”
  “Can you remember what he said in his ravings?”
  “Yes, Guardian. He said to summon his people.
  Do you know who his people are? I think he was
  afraid. He said something about a nightmare—a
  nightmare, carved in marble, walking dripping from
  the sea.”
  “Do not leave him,” Blackfeather replied, “either
  
  119
  The Winnowing
  by day or night. You are accountable for his blood.
  You are his people.”
  Blackfeather sat down inside the protective
  circle, facing Nicholas across the low pile of de-
  bris they had collected. When they had
  painstakingly cleared the area that the circle would
  occupy, Blackfeather insisted that all of the moldy
  leaves, Coke cans, odd scraps of clothing, fast food
  wrappers, etc., be gathered in the center. Not one
  cigarette butt was lost or wasted.
  Blackfeather reached into a hip pocket and
  pulled out a turquoise-studded silver Zippo.
  “Wa-Kan-Kan Ya-Wa-On-We,” he recited. The
  traditional words rang with about the same sense
  of reverence that a paratrooper invokes in yelling,
  “Geronimo.” The lighter snapped open, sparked.
  A turquoise-blue flame, two feet in length, leapt
  out.
  Nicholas drew back with a start in the face of
  the adversary—for fire and sunlight are the two
  most ancient and respected enemies of the Gangrel.
  He quickly checked himself; he hoped Blackfeather
  had not noticed.
  The pile of wet debris roared inexplicably to life.
  Nicholas could feel the heat of the sudden blaze
  stretching taut the skin of his face. It was not a
  pleasant sensation. He was acutely aware that his
  face, neck, and arms were still badly cracked from
  his headlong flight into the sunrise.
  
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  120
  It was strange to be back in the city. Details of
  that night at the estate were still hazy in his mind.
  It was the fever again—the blood curse that rav-
  aged this God-forsaken city. Not for the first time,
  Nicholas found himself cursing the city, cursing
  that dilettante Evans, cursing the damned
  Nosferatu, Ellison, who had first put the idea of
  Atlanta into his mind and that ominous message
  tube into his hand.
  But thoughts of vengeance slipped from him,
  finding no purchase. With resignation, Nicholas
  admitted that it was unlikely he would live long
  enough to avenge this wrong. The attacks were
  growing more frequent now.
  Each time the ancestor-memories returned they
  gripped him more fiercely and were more reluctant
  to loosen their hold upon him. At first they were
  merely memories—ghost images, stray thoughts,
  snatches of conversation. Soon, however, the
  scenes began to take on detail and substance.
  Nicholas was no longer recalling events, he was
  reliving them, acting out scenes of ancient vio-
  lence—the heritage and legacy of his bloodline.
  And always there was the hunger. The pangs of the
  blood-longing were overwhelming, banishing
  thought and awakening the ravening beast.
  Dazed by fever and hunger, Nicholas found him-
  self slipping again and again across the narrow
  divide between the two worlds. The transition was
  
  121
  The Winnowing
  as easy and seamless for him as the shift of perspec-
  tive achieved by alternately closing first one eye
  and then the other.
  Last week, at the estate, the situation had taken
  a dramatic turn for the worse. He felt as if he were
  sleepwalking, viewing both realities—the past and
  present—at once. Nicholas was overwhelmed by
  the impressions streaming in from two distinct sets
  of senses. It was like looking both forward and
  backward in the same instant.
  The immersion had been complete and nearly
  irrevocable; Nicholas had lost all sense of self in
  the grip of the past. He had no idea whether he
  could have emerged from it of his own volition,
  without Blackfeather’s help. Nicholas did know
  that he had very nearly killed his friend.
  Nicholas looked across the fire, but did not meet
  Blackfeather’s eyes. This was the second time that
  Blackfeather had come upon Nicholas fighting
  with phantasms, tilting at windmills. Each time,
  his friend had called him back from the brink of
  berserk abandon at great personal risk.
  Nicholas knew that the curse he carried in his
  veins was a threat not only to himself, but to all
  those around him. He resolved that he would slip
  away from Blackfeather at the first opportunity.
  If Blackfeather were aware of the nature of the
  struggle within Nicholas, he gave no sign. He pa-
  tiently studied the younger Gangrel and waited.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  122
  Nicholas broke the silence. “I’m going after him.”
  Blackfeather continued to regard him without
  expression.
  “I’m going back to the mansion,” Nicholas hur-
  ried on. “I’m going to find this Evans, or whatever
  he’s calling himself nowadays. I’m going to get some
  answers.”
  Blackfeather shook his head. “It will do no good.
  He is gone.”
  “Then I’ll find him. I know him and I know his
  kind.”
  “Nicholas, this vendetta of yours, it will be
  the…” he broke off.
  “The death of me?” Nicholas could not keep the
  hint of bitterness from his voice. “No, my friend,
  you can’t deny the evidence of your eyes. I’m dy-
  ing now. You’ve seen the victims of this plague in
  the city, dead of hunger, face down in pools of their
  own blood.”
  “And you wish to hasten this end?” Blackfeather’s
  voice was guarded. “Here is the flame. Give me
  your hand.”
  Without waiting for him to respond, Blackfeather
  reached out and clasped Nicholas by the wrist.
  Nicholas did not pull away from him. Blackfeather
  drew Nicholas’s clenched fist into the fire. Nicho-
  las stiffened, locked his jaws around a rising howl
  of pain, and held firm.
  His eyes were locked on Blackfeather’s, boring
  
  123
  The Winnowing
  into him. Blackfeather could read the rising agony
  and fury there. Nicholas’s features contracted into
  an animal snarl.
  With a whoomph of bright white ignition,
  Blackfeather’s hand caught flame, burning like a
  torch within the larger bonfire. Slowly, he raised
  his hand from the fire until Nicholas’s fist broke
  the plane of their locked gazes.
  The fist dripped with liquid shadow. It trickled
  down his forearm, black and viscous. In its wake,
  the flesh of his hand gleamed, unburned and un-
  blemished.
  Blackfeather released his grip and hastily extin-
  guished his own hand. Nicholas stared in dumb
  amazement at his fist. He clutched it to his chest.
  He stroked it absently with the other hand. He was
  silent for some time.
  “You saw that night,” Blackfeather said, gingerly
  wrapping a bandage around his own badly charred
  appendage. “I do not know if you remember it and
  it is probably best that some things remain unre-
  membered. What did you see when you drew your
  hand from the flame?”
  Nicholas did not answer at first. “It was wrapped
  in shadow, living shadow. The shadow interposed
  itself between me and the flames.”
  Blackfeather was suddenly intent. “But where did
  the shadow come from?”
  Nicholas was puzzled. Of course there had been
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  124
  no shadow in the heart of the fire. It was ridicu-
  lous. He couldn’t image why he would have said
  such a thing. It was just the fever again—another
  spell brought about by the pain.
  “I don’t know,” Nicholas stammered. “I’m sorry.
  It will pass. The delirium, the hunger. I’m, I’m not
  myself.”
  “But where did the shadow come from?”
  Nicholas had the overwhelming urge to break
  away. He felt the silly spray-painted circle closing
  in on him like the walls of the city rising on all
  sides.
  Blackfeather caught the cornered glances. He
  reached to his belt with his good hand and drew a
  long bone-handled hunting knife. He held it by the
  wicked-looking blade and gestured towards Nicho-
  las with the hilt.
  “Would you like to see the source of the shadow?
  Take the knife.”
  Nicholas looked at the ground; he did not reach
  out for the knife.
  Blackfeather’s voice came to him from very close
  by, as if his friend were behind him, bent over him,
  and whispering.
  “Nicholas, the curse is in your blood. The shadow
  courses through your veins. The fury races up and
  down your bloodline. The rage pulses just beneath
  the surface of your skin. If I drew this blade,”
  Nicholas felt the whisper of cool steel just below
  
  125
  The Winnowing
  his ear, “downward, blood and shadow would spill
  together. Your vengeance, your ancient hatreds,
  they are consuming you.”
  Nicholas raised his head and, unconcerned,
  turned into the knife. Its edge was cradled in the
  folds of his throat, but it did not bite. He looked
  steadily at Blackfeather.
  “I would know why I have been brought here,
  across continents and oceans, to bring a message
  to a man, a creature, who killed my ancestor-self.
  If it is by his device that I have been lured here to
  my death, I will put an end to his foul lineage be-
  fore this curse overtakes me.”
  The knife fell away, and his tone softened, “Don’t
  fear for me, old friend. Wait here and I’ll return to
  you. By tomorrow evening.”
  Nicholas rose, clapping his friend on the back
  and, without a backward glance, walked from the
  shelter of the circle.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  126
  CHAPTER FOUR
  Antoinette smiled again at Maxwell Ldescu, who
  sat at the table. They had been waiting in the con-
  ference room in the Academy of the Arts for very
  close to an hour, and still there was no sign of ei-
  ther Wilhelm or Gustav. Maxwell nodded politely
  in response to Antoinette’s smile, then returned to
  his own private contemplation. He was there as a
  representative of the western primogen, but more
  importantly was one of the few Kindred in Berlin
  whom both Wilhelm and Gustav accorded some
  degree of respect.
  Antoinette was acting as mediator to some de-
  gree. At Wilhelm’s request, she had secured this
  meeting place in the Tiergarten district. Though
  
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  The Winnowing
  the Toreador clan was avowedly neutral in the con-
  flict between Wilhelm and Gustav, Antoinette’s
  predilection for Wilhelm was fairly common
  knowledge. Still, Gustav did not reject the loca-
  tion of the meeting.
  The sound of footsteps in the corridor was a re-
  lief to Antoinette. Though she admired Ldescu and
  his company was not unpleasant, there was a great
  deal of pressure involved with having arranged this
  conference, and she was anxious for it to be un-
  derway.
  Peter Kleist, Wilhelm’s bodyguard opened the
  door and surveyed the room. He disappeared back
  into the corridor briefly, then opened the door for
  Wilhelm, who entered. He, Maxwell, and
  Antoinette exchanged polite greetings. Antoinette
  was amazed by how calm and relaxed Wilhelm
  seemed. Gustav had repeatedly sworn to destroy
  Wilhelm and reassert undisputed control over the
  city, while Wilhelm had vowed upon his unlife to
  keep that from happening. This face-to-face meet-
  ing between the two would be the first in many
  years. If Gustav attended. There was the distinct
  possibility that he would utilize the knowledge of
  Wilhelm’s whereabouts to stage some sort of attack,
  a scenario for which Kleist was not unprepared. He
  had examined the entire Academy building hours
  ago, and was again scrutinizing every cranny of the
  conference room. No doubt, Antoinette realized,
  
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  Peter and Wilhelm had arrived late in order to
  avoid providing Wilhelm as a stationary target for
  any longer than necessary. Still, if that was indeed
  their strategy, Gustav had disrupted it by being
  even later.
  Kleist completed his inspection of the conference
  room. “I will wait in the corridor, Wilhelm.” The
  recognized prince of the western portion of the city
  nodded his assent.
  Ldescu retook his seat, deep wrinkles crossing a
  face that otherwise appeared fairly young. Wilhelm,
  his blue eyes friendly and at ease as he began to
  walk slowly around the table, smiled warmly at
  Antoinette. “Thank you so much for arranging this
  meeting.”
  “I am glad to have been of service,” she answered
  formally.
  Wilhelm extended no further pleasantries, and
  Maxwell seemed disinclined to offer any, so they
  waited in silence, Antoinette standing patiently,
  Wilhelm slowly pacing, Ldescu leaning with chin
  on hand, index finger crossing his lips.
  Antoinette was relieved that they did not have
  to wait long before Kleist returned. “Gustav is here.
  And de Lutrius. No others.”
  He sounded so sure that Gustav and de Lutrius
  were alone. How, Antoinette wondered, could he
  be certain there weren’t others lying in wait?
  Ldescu rose as Gustav and Thomas de Lutrius
  
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  The Winnowing
  entered the room. Gustav halted just inside the
  door. He glared at Wilhelm. How long it had been
  since these two enemies last stood so close to one
  another, Antoinette did not know. They faced each
  other across the table, neither offering a hand or
  word of greeting. Gustav, with his solid, square
  build and severely short gray hair, gave the impres-
  sion of being an immovable boulder, a force of
  nature. Wilhelm was not intimidated, Antoinette
  noticed. Even though more slight of stature, he
  more than held his own in the presence of his
  former friend.
  Thomas de Lutrius, standing next to Gustav,
  wore matching black turtleneck and slacks. His
  strong jaw could have been a younger, more hand-
  some version of Gustav’s imposing jowls. Unlike
  everyone else in the room, de Lutrius wore a broad
  grin across his face.
  The very sight of her Toreador rival was enough
  to grate on Antoinette’s already strained nerves,
  but she attempted to ignore her own discomfort
  and proceed with the task of mediating this rarest
  of meetings. She could see her efforts would be re-
  quired, for neither claimant to the title “Prince of
  Berlin” had moved or spoken since Gustav entered
  the room. They remained immobile, glaring at one
  another. The three or four feet that separated them
  was undoubtedly the closest they had come in de-
  cades. Antoinette would have been far from
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  130
  surprised had one, or each, lunged for the other’s
  throat. Such hatred burned in the room. And they
  hope to come to some agreement? She was bewildered.
  But dear Wilhelm had asked her, as a favor to him,
  to arrange the meeting, so she would do her part.
  “Gentlemen.” Her words seemed very small,
  dwarfed by the vehement animosity between prince
  of eastern Berlin and prince of western Berlin. “We
  are here tonight to speak in a civilized manner. I
  believe no introductions are necessary.”
  Neither prince responded.
  “Perhaps, Fräulein Mediator,” Thomas de Lutrius
  interrupted, still with his mocking smile, “you could
  introduce yourself and explain how a neutral meet-
  ing site can be procured by one so decidedly
  unneutral?”
  In an instant, Antoinette’s train of thought es-
  caped her. Not only flustered, she was angered that
  the miscreant poseur was so easily able to distract
  her. Obviously, it was why Gustav had brought
  Thomas, to upset her, to keep her from aiding
  Wilhelm in any way. Like the two claimant princes
  within clan Ventrue, Thomas and Antoinette
  maintained a bitter rivalry of long standing.
  Antoinette was the titular leader of the Toreador
  in Berlin, but Thomas made a regular practice of
  defaming her and her chosen artistic medium—
  film—whenever opportunity presented itself. For
  her part, Antoinette did not hesitate to savage
  
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  The Winnowing
  what she referred to as Thomas’s “attempts” with
  charcoal.
  Strangely enough, it was Maxwell Ldescu who
  came to Antoinette’s defense. “Thomas, certainly
  there are enough points of contention to be dis-
  cussed already?” scolded the normally
  mild-mannered Tremere.
  De Lutrius turned his sly grin that direction. “How
  can she,” he gestured derisively toward Antoinette,
  “claim any status except that of partisan?”
  “To evaluate or classify Antoinette was not the
  reason this meeting was deemed necessary,” Ldescu
  reminded. His words were soft-spoken, but for just
  a moment his eyes glowed angrily red. “You and I
  are here to advise. Not to complicate.”
  Thomas’s confidence visibly withered in the face
  of this unspoken challenge. He began to reply but,
  words escaping him, contented himself with strok-
  ing his chin.
  Instead it was Gustav who finally spoke. “Yes.
  Exactly correct, Maxwell.” The menacing tone of
  Berlin’s former Kindred ruler belied his agreeable
  words. He had shifted neither his stance nor his
  gaze. Barely acknowledging the presence of any-
  one else in the room, he stared directly at Wilhelm.
  “Why is this meeting deemed necessary? I am a rea-
  sonable man. I am here to talk.”
  Wilhelm, also, had not looked away from his
  opponent. From his expression of studied concen-
  
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  132
  tration emerged a smile, slight and politic. “I thank
  you for agreeing to this meeting, Gustav. I have al-
  ways known you to be a wise man, and it is wisdom
  that our city needs at present.” Wilhelm relaxed
  somewhat as he spoke. Gustav retained his rigid
  stance.
  “I thank you, Antoinette,” Wilhelm nodded in
  her direction and even shifted his gaze from Gustav
  momentarily, “for arranging this meeting, and I
  thank you, Maxwell and Thomas, for attending as
  well.” Maxwell nodded his acknowledgment. Tho-
  mas looked at no one.
  “And the purpose of this meeting?” Gustav asked
  again, though Antoinette had communicated that
  information to him on repeated occasions before
  he had agreed to participate.
  Having satisfied the dictates of protocol,
  Wilhelm turned earnestly to Gustav. “Berlin is rav-
  aged, as is the rest of Europe, as is the world, by a
  curse of unknown origin. What is needed, if any
  of our kind are to survive, is cooperation. Maxwell
  and his brethren have made great strides in com-
  bating this threat, but there is much more work to
  be done. We cannot be distracted by…” he ges-
  tured dismissively, “by personal squabbles. We must
  set aside, for now, disagreements that are political
  in nature, that are divisive. We must focus our en-
  ergies and our resources and aid the Tremere in
  their endeavors if any of us are to survive.”
  
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  The Winnowing
  Gustav, having listened patiently, shrugged. “I am
  a cooperative man. What do you propose?”
  “I propose,” Wilhelm responded immediately, “a
  truce.”
  Antoinette could feel the intensity with which
  he spoke. She knew how he had wracked his brain
  and combed the city as the fatalities had mounted
  over the past months, searching for any clue as to
  the cause of the curse. But always, as the Kindred
  of Berlin wasted away, there was Gustav to deal
  with, to watch for, to guard against. Wilhelm had
  been unable at any time to devote his full atten-
  tion to aiding Ldescu.
  “A truce,” Gustav repeated noncommittally. The
  words seemed to hang in the air, pregnant with
  possibility.
  “I propose,” Wilhelm continued intently, “that
  we both turn our attention to aiding the Tremere.
  I believe they are our best hope in determining the
  cause of this curse and in stopping it. Let me speak
  frankly.”
  “Oh, please do,” said Gustav.
  “The Cold War of the mortals has ended. But
  between you and me it carries on. There is a more
  pressing need at hand than either of our individual
  goals. This curse is more immediate and more
  deadly than either of our grievances. We must find
  a way to bring it to an end. We will find a way,
  and then both east and west in our city will be
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  134
  healed.” A fire burned in Wilhelm’s bright blue
  eyes. He was fully committed to that which he be-
  lieved was the only sane course of action.
  Gustav remained silent. He crossed his arms.
  Antoinette realized that they had launched into
  negotiations without so much as sitting down.
  Maxwell looked on with interest. Thomas still
  nursed his wounded pride. Peter Kleist kept close
  to Wilhelm, lest any trouble should erupt.
  “You place a great deal of faith in the Tremere,”
  said Gustav. “No offense meant to Herr Ldescu, but
  I am not sure that I share your confidence that what
  you hold out as the best interests of all Kindred are
  actually the best interest of the Tremere.”
  Wilhelm was prepared for this contention. “I have
  been quite explicit with Maxwell and with his su-
  periors that attempting to extract some sort of
  political leverage from the dire need of their fellow
  Kindred would be a certain way to alienate the
  Tremere from every other clan and to bring their
  chantries down in flames and ruin across the world.
  Though I am positive that they would never resort
  to such duplicity and opportunism, I have assured
  them that if they did, I would lead the charge against
  them. I will work beside the Tremere. I will not hand
  them the city. This is Berlin, not Vienna.”
  Gustav still appeared skeptical.
  “This is so,” added Ldescu in way of reassurance.
  Gustav, his ire suddenly raised, ignored the
  
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  The Winnowing
  Tremere and spoke to Wilhelm. “You spoke with
  his superiors? With Schrekt? I will not have him
  in my city!”
  Antoinette flinched at Gustav’s outburst. She
  had always felt that he was merely such an outburst
  away from attacking anyone in his presence. She
  had also heard rumors of the fateful confrontation
  between Gustav and Schrekt centuries ago. Kleist,
  alerted as well, edged closer to Wilhelm.
  Wilhelm was taken aback by this sudden turn of
  the conversation, but he quickly recovered. “We
  cannot order about the Tremere Justicar as if he
  were a chamber maid,” Wilhelm smiled and spoke
  in reassuring, reasonable tones, “but Maxwell and
  I can do what we are able to see that he does not
  enter the city.”
  Gustav cast a sidelong glance at Wilhelm, and
  then at Maxwell. “You will keep Schrekt out of the
  city?”
  Ldescu nodded. “We will do our best.”
  Gustav snorted. He seemed satisfied with this
  concession. “Very well. A truce it will be, and I
  will not disrupt your working with the Tremere to
  counteract this curse.”
  A moment of amazed silence followed.
  Antoinette could not believe what she was hear-
  ing, that Gustav and Wilhelm would agree to
  anything. Wilhelm and Maxwell looked surprised,
  but expressions of pure shock registered on the faces
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  136
  of both Thomas de Lutrius and Peter Kleist.
  “And in exchange for this truce,” Gustav added,
  “you will, of course, publicly acknowledge me
  prince of Berlin. You will renounce your claim, and
  you will leave the city, never to return. I am a gra-
  cious victor, Wilhelm. I will allow you your life.”
  Wilhelm’s optimism instantly deflated. His brief
  hope for sanity came to an abrupt end, while
  Thomas’s smug grin, Antoinette noticed, was re-
  stored. How could any of us have thought Gustav
  would be reasonable? she wondered.
  “Gustav,” said Wilhelm, not yet ready to give up,
  “I am not proposing that we definitively resolve our
  situation. We are too far apart. It is possible that
  our differences will never be reconciled, but let us,
  at the least, defer them to another night so that
  we might, for now, combat the curse.”
  “You have heard my price,” Gustav snapped. “If
  it is too high, then you are not serious in your de-
  sire to save the city.”
  Wilhelm stifled a derisive laugh. “Be reasonable,
  Gustav.”
  The implication of unreasonableness brought
  color to Gustav’s cheeks. His gray eyes darkened.
  “Reasonable? Reasonable! You!” He pointed with
  quivering finger at Wilhelm. “You manipulate. You
  stroke egos. You betray. You do these things because
  you want to rule, because that is the way you are.
  I…” he pounded his own chest with the flat of his
  
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  The Winnowing
  palm, “I have a passion for this city. It is a posses-
  sion to you, something to be lorded over. For me,
  it is my child. I have made it what it is! And I have
  seen it stolen from me, handed over to foreigners,
  violated.” Gustav spewed vitriol. Every word was
  formed in the forges of his hate. “And you would
  have me aid you? You, who turned on me and took
  my beloved city? Why? So that you may turn it over
  to the foreigners, to the Tremere? Their word is
  worth nearly as little as yours!”
  As Gustav’s tirade progressed, and Antoinette
  saw any hope of reaching an accord rapidly slip-
  ping away, Wilhelm grew increasingly calm. He had
  heard all this before—recriminations, veiled
  threats. He could not end this war by himself.
  Kleist, expecting this harangue to break into open
  violence, watched Gustav and Thomas closely.
  Gustav stood before them, his face flushed, a
  semi-permanent snarl creasing his features. “That
  is my proposal.” They stood silently facing one an-
  other, Gustav’s eyes burning with hatred, Wilhelm’s
  face showing only pity and resignation. “Just as I
  thought,” Gustav said eventually. “You care that
  Berlin is yours, but you do not care about Berlin.”
  With this, he turned on his heels and strode to the
  door, but stopped before he left the room. “And,
  oh yes, Wilhelm…” Gustav’s expression softening
  to a facsimile of concern, “my condolences regard-
  ing your childe’s recent difficulties.”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  138
  Wilhelm stiffened. His normally pale cheeks
  blanched solid white. Antoinette couldn’t help but
  gasp. Weeks prior, Wilhelm had sent, via his beau-
  tiful young childe Henriette, a message to Gustav
  requesting just such a meeting as this. The choice
  of messenger had been deliberate, a show of good
  faith on Wilhelm’s part in hopes of establishing the
  basis for cooperation. Also quite deliberate had
  been the manner in which Gustav had ravaged
  Henriette. Beyond mere physical injury, he had
  blood-bound her, and sent her back to attack her
  sire. Gustav had covered his tracks, with the help
  of some renegade eastern Tremere no doubt,
  Antoinette suspected. There was no definite proof
  linking Gustav to Henriette’s attack on Wilhelm,
  but, Antoinette knew, there could be no other ex-
  planation.
  For Gustav to refer to the affair in such a diplo-
  matic setting, for him to gloat so blithely before
  Wilhelm, was the mark of highest cruelty. Laugh-
  ter danced in Gustav’s eyes as he left the room. “I
  would destroy anyone who harmed my childe,” he
  said with a nod.
  Childe or child? Antoinette wondered about his
  meaning. Progeny or the city that was his self-
  avowed child? Although for Gustav there was likely
  no distinction.
  Wilhelm was completely still. He did not move;
  he did not speak. Antoinette marveled at the rage
  
  139
  The Winnowing
  he must be suppressing. Thomas, absolutely beam-
  ing now as he followed Gustav out, winked at
  Antoinette and then closed the door.
  Pierre rapped at the door of Rhodes Hall. It had
  been only two nights since Eleanor had charged
  him with his mission, but he felt she should be in-
  formed of the unusual visitor to Owain Evans’s
  estate. Peachtree Street was fairly quiet. Some mor-
  tals drove by every now and then, but there was
  no sign of other Kindred about. Pierre was one of
  four recognized Toreador in the city, and there were
  rumors floating about that Marlene, the primogen,
  was not in the best of health. Ominous news for
  such uncertain times.
  Sally, Eleanor’s serving ghoul, opened the door
  at last. She did not invite Pierre inside and checked
  back over her shoulder before greeting him. “Pierre.
  What brings you here this evening?”
  Pierre was surprised not to be asked in, and took
  some umbrage at the affront. His was not to speak
  with minor retainers. “I must see Miss Eleanor,” he
  informed Sally rather coolly.
  Sally looked behind her again, uncertainty cloud-
  ing her actions. Pierre could hear voices from the
  living room. “I’m afraid Miss Eleanor has company
  at the moment,” she said. “May I deliver a mes-
  sage?”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  140
  This was not at all what Pierre had been expect-
  ing. He was undertaking a personal favor for the
  prince’s wife, a matter of some delicacy. To be
  turned away at the door, and by a serving wench,
  no less, was unacceptable. “I must deliver this mes-
  sage in person, I’m afraid.” Sally was clearly
  troubled now, not comfortable standing and talk-
  ing in the open doorway, but unwilling to ask Pierre
  in. He decided to press his advantage. “If you do
  not tell Miss Eleanor that I am here, I will stay here
  on the doorstep and pound on the door until she
  comes.”
  This terrorized Sally. She stared at Pierre aghast,
  as if he might force his way past her and barge into
  Rhodes Hall. A third time she checked over her
  shoulder as high-pitched, twittery laughter re-
  sounded from the living room. She frowned at
  Pierre. “Stay there please.” Then she quietly closed
  the door, but Pierre was certain she would not
  abandon him to pound upon the door.
  Sure enough, after a few moments, the door
  opened again, and this time Pierre faced Eleanor.
  She greeted him with a chillingly polite smile. “Yes,
  Pierre? Back so soon?”
  This was more what Pierre had expected. Per-
  haps she would offer him some refreshment. They
  had been trying nights, sneaking around outside the
  Evans estate, secretly observing the beastly Gangrel
  that had shown up. She and he could even discuss
  
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  The Winnowing
  some of his pieces that might be most appropriate
  for an exhibit at the High Museum. “So sorry to
  disturb you, Miss Eleanor. I have some important
  news.”
  “Important news about Evans in only two
  nights?”
  He could imagine that she was quite impressed,
  but then he realized that he had not actually laid
  eyes on Evans himself as of yet, but that was in-
  consequential. “Not about Evans himself, not
  directly,” Pierre explained. “But important news
  nonetheless. If I may have just a small amount of
  your time, perhaps a half-hour…”
  “I’m afraid I don’t have that luxury at the mo-
  ment,” Eleanor interrupted him. “I have company.”
  Wafting from the living room, Pierre heard a
  voice that could be mistaken for no other save
  Aunt Bedelia, Prince Benison’s sire. “Eleanor?
  Eleanor, where have you gone? Who is there?” This
  was a high society gathering, indeed, Pierre real-
  ized. If only he had the opportunity to show them
  some of his paintings…
  “It’s a message from Marlene,” Eleanor called
  back to Bedelia. “She won’t be able to join us again,
  I’m afraid.” Eleanor faced Pierre impatiently. “What
  do you need to tell me?” she asked quietly but in-
  sistently.
  Pierre was appalled by the indignity, but what
  else could he do but answer? “There has been a
  
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  Gangrel, not a resident Kindred of Atlanta, tres-
  passing at the Evans estate,” Pierre informed her.
  “Why?” Eleanor asked.
  “Pardon me?”
  “Why?” she repeated. “What is the Gangrel do-
  ing there? And where does it go after?”
  “I…I…” Pierre had, of course, wondered simi-
  larly, but he had not followed that line of inquiry
  any further. “I don’t know.”
  Eleanor placed her hands on her hips. “Why do
  you bring me partial information?” she asked point-
  edly. “Why do you interrupt me with worthless
  news?” Pierre was speechless. This was so far from
  the warm, respectful reception he had expected.
  “You have much work to do,” Eleanor pointed out.
  “And if that Gangrel returns, follow it. Find out
  why in the world it’s interested in Evans.”
  This charge caught Pierre quite off guard. “A
  Gangrel?” he asked, assuming that he must have
  heard her incorrectly. “You want me to follow a
  Gangrel?”
  Eleanor stared at him as if he were merely con-
  firming a grocery list. “Of course,” she said. “Now
  go do it, and don’t bother me with inconsequen-
  tial bits of nothing.”
  Before the dumbfounded Pierre could summon
  a reply, the door was closed, and he was again alone
  on the street. Follow a Gangrel. Why not spit on
  the prince, or take up sunbathing? Follow a Gangrel.
  
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  The Winnowing
  What, Pierre wondered, had he gotten himself
  into? What indeed?
  The hunger was gnawing at Rebecca. It had been
  a couple of nights since she had fed, but she
  couldn’t help wondering every time she was
  hungry…not after seeing what had happened to
  Tonya. Rebecca shook herself and tried not to
  think about it. A girl’s gotta eat. Curse or no curse.
  “Greg, let’s go out.”
  Gregory was where she knew he would be—on
  the couch in the living room of the cramped apart-
  ment, chain-smoking and watching TV, America’s
  Funniest Home Videos, no less. Rebecca hated the
  show. “Watch this, hon,” Gregory called. Against
  her better judgment, Rebecca watched as a man
  on the screen leaned over the railing of a boat. He
  leaned a little farther, and a little farther, then he
  flipped over the railing and fell off the boat. Gre-
  gory howled uncontrollably with laughter.
  “How can you watch this shit?” Rebecca asked.
  Gregory hadn’t stopped laughing yet when a small
  child with a plastic bat hit his father in the crotch.
  Gregory doubled over, pointing at the screen and
  laughing. “At least hit the mute button, so we don’t
  have to listen to what’s-his-ass, the idiot host,”
  Rebecca suggested. Disgusted, she went to the bath-
  room and began brushing her dark hair. She was
  
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  144
  going out, with or without Gregory. He could stay
  and smoke and watch TV if he wanted. Serve him
  right if he fell over laughing, knocked over the ashtray,
  and set the couch and himself on fire, she thought.
  That’d make a hell of a video.
  Over the sound of the TV, Rebecca heard knock-
  ing at the door. She also heard Gregory, instead of
  answering it, turn up the volume on the TV and
  pretend not to hear the knocking. Great. Probably
  the neighbors complaining about Gregory being so loud
  again. Of course, Rebecca realized, if they fed on
  neighbors and then removed the memory from
  their minds, it wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe
  Gregory’s noise was easier than hunting. But he
  could at least get off his lazy butt and answer the door.
  More knocking, and louder to be heard over the
  TV. Rebecca stomped to the door. “No, no. Don’t
  worry. I’ll get the damn door.” Gregory ignored her.
  “And get dressed. We’re going out. I’m hungry.”
  “Just order pizza,” Gregory suggested. “You always
  like the pizza boy.”
  Rebecca was debating the merits of food that
  came to her, rather than the other way around, as
  she unlocked the door. As soon as she turned the
  knob, the door crashed open into her face. She
  stumbled back and fell, nose bloodied and broken.
  Xavier Kline stepped into the apartment, axe in
  hand, his buddy Ron right behind him. Without a
  second thought, Gregory made a break for the slid-
  
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  The Winnowing
  ing door to the balcony. He threw it open and ran
  headlong into Thu, Kline’s other Brujah helper.
  She smacked Gregory across the face with a chain
  and shoved him back into the apartment. He
  landed roughly on the couch, knocking over the
  overflowing ashtray.
  “Nice of you to check on your girlfriend before
  you leave, Greg,” said Kline. He closed the door
  behind him. Rebecca sat on the floor, both hands
  clasped to her face. Gregory looked back and forth
  anxiously between Kline and Thu. “You people
  know you’re supposed to choose a clan, to be re-
  spectable vampires like me and my friends.” Ron
  bowed. “And you really should have done it be-
  fore now.” Kline shook his head like a parent
  disappointed with a child. “We will have to dis-
  cuss this.” He reached for one of the cigarettes that
  was smoldering on the couch. The tip glowed red.
  For a moment, Kline smiled contentedly, then his
  expression went blank as he approached Gregory.
  “Thu, turn up the TV. We don’t want to disturb
  the neighbors.”
  Pierre hugged the shadows as the Gangrel he had
  been following loped off into the night. Perhaps
  Pierre should follow, but he wanted to see what the
  Gangrel had found so interesting amidst the ruins
  of the burned church. Besides, Pierre still was not
  
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  146
  convinced that following a Gangrel was the wisest
  of activities. In fact, he was convinced of the ex-
  act opposite. Few activities could be more foolish.
  Or more suicidal. So if the Gangrel happened to
  slip away while Pierre was examining this impor-
  tant scene, that would be just too bad. If Eleanor
  thought the Gangrel was so important, she could
  follow it. That’s what I should have told her, he de-
  cided. “Now go do it,” he mimicked her aloud.
  “Some appreciation I get.”
  After his humiliation on Eleanor’s doorstep,
  Pierre had returned to his hiding place across the
  street from the estate of Owain Evans. Hoping for
  an uneventful evening, devoid specifically of
  Gangrel, Pierre had been singularly dismayed when
  he saw the wolf figure appear before the estate and
  lithely leap the brick wall. Shortly thereafter, the
  Gangrel had leapt back out, this time in its more
  human form, able to pass as kine among the un-
  initiated. To Pierre and anyone with even passing
  knowledge of the Kindred, however, the Gangrel’s
  true nature was obvious; the curve and hidden
  point of the ears, the slight hint of wolfish snout
  gave the secret away.
  The Gangrel had seemed agitated, constantly
  pausing to scrape at the earth or sniff the air. When
  the creature had begun to wander away from the
  estate, Pierre, still stinging from Eleanor’s rebuke,
  had, against his better judgment, followed. He’d
  
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  The Winnowing
  been surprised by how easily he’d kept up. The
  Gangrel had maintained a steady but
  nondemanding pace, leading Pierre through sec-
  tion after section of the city. Eventually they had
  made their way to Reynoldstown, where the
  Gangrel had busied itself amidst the rubble of the
  burned church. Pierre had watched from the shad-
  ows and observed the one area of the debris that
  attracted the Gangrel’s particular interest. By the
  time the creature appeared ready to move on, Pierre
  had had his fill of traipsing around the city. He had
  also decided that every step he followed the
  Gangrel provided another chance to be discovered,
  and he judiciously chose not to push his luck.
  Pierre waited long enough to be sure that the
  Gangrel had moved far along. Not only did mem-
  bers of that clan smell like kennels, they nursed
  testy dispositions. Always steer a wide berth around
  a Gangrel, was one of Pierre’s primary rules of sur-
  vival. “And here I am following one,” he sighed,
  not believing it himself.
  There was not a great deal left of the old church.
  It looked to have burned fairly recently, Pierre
  thought, maybe in the past few weeks. As he picked
  his way through the debris, he tried to miss the
  dirtier parts. No need to track ash and filth all over
  everything for the rest of the night. Not all of the
  steeple had burned. One portion was even, with a
  little imagination, fairly intact. Pierre tentatively
  
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  climbed over to where the Gangrel had spent the
  most time. It took him several minutes to manage,
  searching for clean handholds and sturdy footing.
  What would a Gangrel find so fascinating here?
  Pierre wondered. He looked around carefully. Dirt.
  Filth. Par for the course for a Gangrel. Otherwise
  there was nothing of note. Perhaps the Gangrel had
  been curious about what had started the fire, or
  maybe it had smelled something peculiar, though
  Pierre couldn’t smell anything except ash. Gangrel
  were funny that way. Or maybe it was just scraping
  around in the dirt. Gangrel were funny that way too.
  Nothing. Nothing of any interest.
  Just as Pierre was turning to escape the disgust-
  ing pile of rubble, however, the glint of metal in a
  crevice between the pieces of a split floorboard
  caught his eye. Whatever was there was almost
  completely covered with ash and soot. Imagine my
  surprise. Pierre took a silk handkerchief from his
  pocket. He looked around for anything else to use
  but, to his great chagrin, found nothing. Finally,
  he reached down with the handkerchief to protect
  his skin from the filth. To his surprise, he retrieved
  a dagger from the shadows. He held it by the very
  tip of the point so as to sully his handkerchief as
  little as possible. A small area of steel showed
  through, and on the pommel a tiny glint of gold
  was visible. His handkerchief already in need of a
  washing, he wiped a bit more of the dagger. There
  
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  appeared not to be a substantial amount of gold,
  just gilding, but even so, the workmanship, what
  little Pierre could see through the grime, impressed
  him.
  His attention focused on the dagger, Pierre nearly
  lost his balance, and in catching himself was forced
  to rub against a particularly sooty section of wall.
  This surviving portion of the steeple was tilted, so
  there was no level footing to be found, and his
  black platform boots were designed for style, not
  traction. There was no reason, Pierre decided, that
  he must remain balanced precariously amidst the
  rubble to inspect his find. As much as possible, he
  wrapped the dagger with the soiled handkerchief,
  then slipped it into his jacket pocket.
  Carefully he turned, and found himself face to
  face with the crouching Gangrel.
  Pierre screamed and jumped back. He lost his
  balance on the unlevel footing and tumbled back-
  ward, landing in a heap. He remained there for a
  moment, eyes closed, arms covering his head, ex-
  pecting the Gangrel to tear into him any instant.
  But that did not happen. Eventually, Pierre dared
  to peak.
  The Gangrel still crouched, coiled to spring,
  Pierre imagined. Its nose twitched, sniffing at the
  cloud of ash that marked Pierre’s fall. Long, unruly
  hair framed a face that belonged in the primeval
  forest, not in civilized Atlanta. The Gangrel curled
  
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  its lip and snarled. Pierre covered his face again,
  but still the attack did not come.
  “You followed me,” the Gangrel growled, a state-
  ment of fact, not a question. It did not ask why.
  Pierre supposed it didn’t care. Wasn’t it enough to
  know that the hare followed the wolf, without won-
  dering why?
  As the Gangrel remained perched atop the
  rubble, Pierre slowly recovered from his shock, if
  not his fear. His mind was racing, seemingly hun-
  dreds of thoughts demanding immediate attention.
  He could invoke the protection of the prince. He
  was, after all, practically serving Benison. But
  hadn’t Eleanor said something about not reveal-
  ing his purpose? The details grew so hazy in the
  heat of danger. Any means to keep this beast from
  ripping his throat out were warranted.
  “You did not present yourself to Prince Benison,”
  said Pierre, wishing his voice had not cracked mid-
  sentence. His thoughts had not wandered far from
  the protection he wanted desperately to derive from
  the prince, or at least from invoking the prince’s
  name. Pierre did not know if the statement was
  true, but the accusation might give the Gangrel
  pause, might provide a few moments for Pierre to
  scheme.
  The Gangrel did not reply. Whether he consid-
  ered or even heard Pierre’s words, the Toreador
  could not be sure. The Gangrel remained incred-
  
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  The Winnowing
  ibly still, all its attention and concentration focused
  on Pierre, who was quite uncomfortable beneath
  such predatory scrutiny. Finally, the Gangrel spoke:
  “Do not follow me again.” And then it leapt.
  Straight for Pierre.
  When Pierre again opened his eyes, the Gangrel
  was gone. He hadn’t even felt the breeze of its pass-
  ing, but it must have come within inches of him.
  The realization sinking in that he was still bodily
  intact, Pierre looked around frantically. The
  Gangrel was indeed gone.
  Pierre scrambled to his feet and stumbled as
  quickly as he could out of the rubble. He did not
  pause to brush the soot from his hands or clothes
  or face. He did not fret over or even notice the rip
  in the knee of his pants. All he did was run. And
  keep running. Away from the ruins of the church,
  and more importantly, away, he hoped, from the
  Gangrel.
  William Nen washed his hands for the fifth time.
  He scrubbed as thoroughly as if he had just left a
  plague-stricken village in the Sudan rather than the
  CDC cafeteria. Some of his colleagues would say
  that there was little difference between the two,
  but then a cafeteria at a center studying infectious
  diseases was bound to take a certain amount of un-
  deserved criticism. He patted his hands dry with a
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  fresh white towel—always a fresh white towel—
  then applied the lotion that kept his skin from
  drying and cracking as it was prone to do in the
  winter from all the washings.
  As he returned to his desk, he knew there was
  something he was supposed to remember. He be-
  gan tugging at the corner of his mustache. That
  always helped him think, or maybe thinking always
  started him tugging at it. He wasn’t sure. As he
  pondered that vital chicken and egg relationship,
  his gaze fell across the file atop the stack on his
  desk. He might as well stamp a giant question mark
  on the folder. Over the past two days, he had per-
  sonally double-checked the labwork on cases
  JKL14337 and JKL14338, running again the tests
  on both the blood and the tissue samples, and what
  he had found was not helpful.
  Not only had he confirmed the contradictory
  information from the earlier reports, fresh blood in
  weeks-dead bodies, he had discovered through his
  probing another quandary. The blood in JKL14337
  was listed as O-positive. With his first run of tests,
  Nen came up with A-positive. Strange but not im-
  possible. He ran the tests again: A-negative. Two
  more tests resulted in A-negative and O-positive.
  There seemed to be three blood types from this one
  body, which led Nen to believe that some error had
  occurred in sample collection. Either that or some
  strange ritual had taken place that involved mix-
  
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  The Winnowing
  ing large amounts of blood from different people.
  Nen had found two different blood types in
  JKL14338, the body that had been almost com-
  pletely drained of blood.
  He rubbed his face then resumed tugging at his
  mustache.
  Call Leigh! he suddenly remembered. That was
  what he was supposed to do. He needed to let her
  know that he would be late getting home this
  evening, later than usual. These cases bore further
  scrutiny. There was the possibility of some local-
  ized cult ritual, or it could be a case of incredibly
  poor sample collection. It happened occasionally.
  Either way, Nen had more research to do, and
  he could see this stretching late into the night, a
  fact that he wasn’t any happier about than he knew
  his wife would be. It was a struggle, at times, just
  to keep his eyes open. He had not been sleeping
  well recently. That morning in particular, he had
  awakened anything but rested. His dreams were
  populated by the faces of those he had failed to
  save—Sudanese, Zairians, and now countless
  Americans who might be struck down if he failed.
  They accused him of not trying, of not caring for
  their diseased infants crying in distress, fevered
  bodies radiating heat. William tried to plead his
  case, but they could not understand his words, or
  would not listen. The specifics varied, but never
  with his impassioned pleas had he succeeded in
  
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  more than waking Leigh next to him. He worried
  about disturbing her rest so often.
  But perhaps this investigation would save thou-
  sands of lives. Perhaps it would put the shades to
  rest, and then Nen’s beleaguered wife would be able
  to rest as well. And William.
  Thelonious, in his dark business suit and tie,
  strolled along Euclid Avenue amidst the nightlife
  of Little Five Points. Some of the New Age shops
  were closed. All of the tattoo parlors and sex shops
  were open to the throngs of mortals who slinked
  from club to club. Normally, a fair number of Kin-
  dred would be mixed in with the mortals; normally,
  this was not an errand Thelonious would be attend-
  ing to in person. Since the onslaught of the blood
  curse, however, Cainites, especially the anarchs
  who had frequented this part of the city, were few
  and far between.
  For the longest time, Thelonious had been the
  only recognized Brujah in Atlanta. Neither Prince
  Benison nor Eleanor were fond of the clan, and
  though there had been underground Brujah occu-
  pants in the city, Thelonious had been alone in his
  task of pressing for social change while, at the same
  time, not aggravating the anti-Brujah prejudice of
  the ruling Ventrue elite. He had used stealth and
  cunning and patience. Secret messages encoded in
  
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  The Winnowing
  the personal ads in the back of the Journal-Consti-
  tution and Creative Loafing, both newspapers that
  he controlled, had instructed his Brujah and their
  anarch counterparts in what needed to be done.
  The curse, though, had struck hard among the
  anarchs. They were largely the first wave to be
  wiped out, though every week proved that the curse
  had not yet run its course, and increasingly it was
  reaching into the higher strata of Kindred society
  for its victims. Perhaps it only seemed that way
  because there were so few anarchs left, relatively
  speaking. Before the curse, there had been almost
  fifty unrecognized Cainites in the city, a gross over-
  population on top of the forty or so recognized
  Kindred. Thelonious didn’t think that most of his
  kind realized exactly how many anarchs there had
  been. Benison and his type had never bothered to
  keep track. But Thelonious, he had known by name
  every downtrodden anarch, every ancillae looked
  down at and spit upon by the powerful of the city.
  Many of them had trusted him, and many of them
  had perished, claimed by the curse.
  Perhaps, as Benison claimed, the curse was a form
  of divine retribution, but Thelonious was not con-
  vinced. He had known Benison too long to believe
  that the prince had exclusive insights into divine
  will. More likely, Benison chose to believe what
  he did because it was politically expedient. How
  convenient for both the Almighty and the Dark
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  156
  Father to be angry with those not following the
  prince’s rules.
  As Thelonious approached Moreland Avenue,
  he looked around for the anarchs he was supposed
  to meet outside the Little Five Points Pub. It was
  a very public spot, and Thelonious in his suit
  should have stood out among the punk and goth
  crowd, but no one seemed to take notice of him.
  After a moment, he saw Elliott and moved toward
  him.
  The scrawny goth, with his pierced nose and eye-
  brows and his green hair, jumped when Thelonious
  touched his shoulder but was relieved when he rec-
  ognized the Brujah primogen. “You about scared
  the piss out of me,” Elliott sighed. “I didn’t think
  anybody could sneak up on me anymore.”
  “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Thelonious’s calm,
  quiet voice was out of place amidst the raucous
  crowd, but Elliott heard him with no problem, and
  still no one seemed to notice them. “Where is
  Didi?”
  Elliott wilted at the question. He took a deep
  breath but was not able to form words.
  Thelonious needed no more of an answer. It was
  a story played out over and over again throughout
  the city these past months. He placed his hand on
  Elliott’s shoulder. “I am sorry.”
  Elliott nodded.
  Thelonious took a piece of paper from his pocket
  
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  The Winnowing
  and handed it to Elliott. “This is the name and ad-
  dress of a friend in Athens. Stay with him. I will
  let you know when anything has changed.”
  Elliott nodded again and took the slip of paper.
  As much damage as the curse had caused, it was
  Benison’s decrees and his persecution of the
  anarchs that was driving them away from the city.
  Thelonious had been tempted to lead a nonvio-
  lent resistance to the New Year Decrees, but
  whereas the mortal world could be swayed through
  the media and public opinion, the Kindred were a
  singularly bloodthirsty lot, in every sense of the
  word. Granted, an open display of defiance and an
  extremely violent reaction from the prince might
  draw Camarilla attention, but that was less likely
  now, with the curse raging across the nation and
  the world, than it would normally have been.
  There was trouble everywhere among the Cainites.
  The Inner Circle of the Camarilla would most
  likely be unable to respond to civil unrest in At-
  lanta, and so Thelonious would be setting his
  followers up for beatings and final death with no
  hope of producing change.
  Perhaps it was a lack of courage that stayed his
  hand. He doubted himself constantly on this mat-
  ter. But for now, he waited and watched and tried
  to help those he could to escape the persecution.
  Elliott was gone, slipped away into the night.
  There was no guarantee that he would even make
  
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  158
  it to Thelonious’s friend in Athens. Outside the
  city, the lupines held sway, and they seemed to be
  able to smell Kindred passing through their terri-
  tory, even Kindred speeding through in an
  automobile along the highway. More than once, a
  Cainite’s wrecked car had been found out there
  with no sign of driver or passenger. Only the rov-
  ing Gangrel and the rich who could fly traveled
  with any real degree of safety.
  To Elliott, Thelonious wished luck. He had done
  all he could for now.
  
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  The Winnowing
  CHAPTER FIVE
  The plane touched down roughly. One moment
  the world was all night-time cloud cover and dark-
  ness, the next instant the plane was awash in
  runway lights. The landing gear tires took hold of
  the hardtop, reclaiming contact with the earth pos-
  sessively, as pleased to be reunited with solid ground
  as was Owain. Air travel was a concept with which
  he had never quite come to terms. From his earli-
  est days as a mortal, flight had been the province
  of birds, arrows, and gods. How disturbing that
  mere mortals had mastered the magic as well, and
  in such giant, glistening monstrosities of metal.
  Owain had experienced a similar skepticism years
  earlier as the construction of ships had evolved. A
  
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  160
  wooden ship, part of his life since his youth as a
  mortal, made sense. But metal ships that floated?
  He supposed that the step from metal armor and
  plating to a ship completely made of metal was a
  small one, and though he had eventually devoted
  time to study and understand the dynamics of wa-
  ter displacement and weight distribution, the
  notion remained in his mind that, although wood
  would float, metal should not.
  The first airplanes, at least, had been crude af-
  fairs, tinkerer’s quilts of canvas and metal rods, the
  pilots both bending the wind and the sky to their
  will, and at the same time hoping not to attract
  the notice of the elements which still reigned su-
  preme. Owain had not noticed for several decades
  as change had again asserted its furious chaos, and
  suddenly there were metal monstrosities streaking
  through the sky. Though he had come to accept
  it, he never really believed, and every time he heard
  reports of a plane bearing tens or hundreds of
  people plummeting to earth and disintegrating in
  a mile-long cascade of bodies and wreckage, he si-
  lently noted that the mastery of mortals over the
  elements was never truly complete.
  Not cheerful thoughts to contemplate as he
  crossed the Atlantic in the private Giovanni jet.
  Neither did the disturbing visions serve to improve
  his mood. The dreams he had come to associate
  with the slaughtered siren had mingled with his
  
  161
  The Winnowing
  inadequacies as a chess strategist to form images of
  truly ominous portent. Gone were the images of
  the living tree that reached out for his blood, and
  the hilltop chapel that crumbled around him, re-
  placed by the shadowed chess master and the
  invisible interloper, who turned pieces of both
  white and black to bloody scarlet. The shadow of
  Time is not so long that you might shelter beneath it.
  Owain pushed the words and images back into the
  depths of his mind. They concealed something that
  was vaguely familiar but that he did not want un-
  covered. More immediate concerns called for his
  attention: Spain, El Greco, the Sabbat. Distractions
  could prove deadly. A dark brooding had taken
  hold of Owain by the time the plane broke into
  the glare of the runway lights in Madrid, a fatal-
  ism that he was being carried along both by the
  mechanical creature to which he now played
  Jonah, and by the events of the past weeks.
  The descent reminded him of a ship having risen
  atop a great wave, now with no escape except to
  crash to the trough below. Even as the wheels
  touched down, he expected the entire contraption
  to smash into a fiery mass, spreading his blood and
  flesh across the earth that had already claimed his
  friends and ancestors.
  Owain joined Kendall Jackson in the rear cabin,
  where she unconcernedly worked crossword puzzles.
  She wore a stylish gray suit concealing her shoul-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  der holster and weapon that, thanks to the
  Giovanni and their transportation network, would
  not need to pass through customs.
  Miguel had gone up to the cockpit as the plane
  had approached Madrid, no doubt to give the pi-
  lot some vital instruction or to otherwise assert his
  ostensible control over the situation. Owain was
  just as happy not to have to look at Miguel. From
  the day they had met, they had hated one another,
  and Owain only wished that he could have started
  hating Miguel sooner.
  The jostling of the landing seemed to last for sev-
  eral minutes, but at the conclusion, much to
  Owain’s sardonic surprise, both he and the aircraft
  remained structurally intact. They had not yet
  come to a complete stop when Miguel entered the
  cabin from the cockpit. “The other plane is wait-
  ing. We will change over in just a minute.”
  “The other plane?” Owain asked. “Toledo is not
  so far from Madrid.”
  “We do not proceed directly to Toledo,” ex-
  plained Miguel.
  “Where do we proceed?”
  Miguel’s grin revealed his crooked teeth. He
  thrived on control, on parceling out information
  as he saw fit. “We will arrive in Toledo, mi hermano,
  but not by a direct route. There are too many eyes
  that might see you here and see you there and put
  two and two together. We will confuse them.”
  
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  The Winnowing
  “When will we reach Toledo?” Owain asked
  tersely.
  “A few nights.”
  “Just a moment.” Owain sighed. At least he had
  removed that idiotic smile from Miguel’s face. “It
  is urgent that I reach Toledo as soon as possible,
  but we’re going to waltz around for days first?”
  “It is urgent,” Miguel clarified, “that you reach
  Toledo undetected. It was important that we left the
  United States quickly, because this process takes
  time.” Miguel’s smile returned, his unspoken I told
  you so.
  Owain argued no further. Clearly, Miguel had
  worked this routine out with El Greco, and Owain
  did not wish to provide Miguel the opportunity to
  demonstrate how clever he was by explaining his
  plan. Instead, Owain proceeded without comment
  when they had come to a stop and Miguel indi-
  cated that the next plane was ready. Kendall
  walked a step or two behind Owain as they crossed
  the short stretch of runway, her eyes constantly
  scanning their surroundings for signs of any threat.
  Miguel, too, was vigilant ahead of Owain. The
  Sabbat lackey, Owain knew, would take pride in
  his charge reaching Toledo safely. Despite all of
  Miguel’s flaws, he served his master.
  Within a few minutes, the party of three was on
  the next plane. Miguel confirmed the identity of
  the pilot, and before twenty minutes had passed
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  164
  from their touchdown, they were once again air-
  borne. Only then did Owain inquire as to their
  current destination.
  “Barcelona,” Miguel answered.
  Owain was dumbfounded. They were within fifty
  miles of Toledo, yet very shortly they would be sev-
  eral hundred miles away. All in the name of secrecy.
  The situation in Spain must be volatile indeed.
  Owain, in his lethargy over the past decades, had
  not kept well-informed of the Cainite goings-on
  across the Atlantic from his new home. Aside from
  occasionally passing on bits of information he ac-
  quired regarding Camarilla activities, generally
  involving the contested area around Miami, he had
  had little interaction with the Sabbat for many years.
  That was how he liked it. Within the Camarilla, he
  was more easily able to keep to himself, to avoid
  entangling alliances that dragged him into conflicts
  not of his choosing. There was more constant ma-
  neuvering within the Sabbat, less subtlety. Ironic,
  he supposed, that the Sabbat, a sect formed on the
  principle of absolute freedom, would be the more
  cumbersome of the Cainite factions. Or had been,
  at least. That was not holding true currently, as both
  the Camarilla and the Sabbat seemed to have caught
  up with him with a vengeance.
  “Miguel,” Owain decided to pry, “I am flattered
  that you value my safety so greatly, but what ex-
  actly are you protecting me from?”
  
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  The Winnowing
  Miguel laughed at the question. “You were al-
  ways the sly one, mi hermano. Do you not think
  there is value in secrecy when an elder of the
  Camarilla visits a priscus of the Sabbat?”
  “But Spain is Sabbat territory, for the most part.
  Do we have so much to fear? Must our precautions
  be so extreme as to fly across the country?”
  Miguel shook his head but was no longer laugh-
  ing. “I have my orders to bring you to Toledo, and
  no one must know. Anything else, you must hear
  from El Greco.”
  That was all Miguel would say, no matter how
  much Owain pressed the point, and much to
  Owain’s dismay, he had many opportunities to do
  so, for he soon discovered just how extreme
  Miguel’s precautions were. Within a few hours, the
  plane had landed in Barcelona. A black Mercedes
  was waiting to whisk them away from El Prat de
  Llobregat. As the airport fell away behind them,
  Owain could see the gray outline of mountains to
  the west, but the smell of the nearby Mediterra-
  nean was inescapable as well. He and Ms. Jackson
  were in the back seat. Miguel, who seemed slightly
  more at ease as Barcelona receded in the distance,
  shared the front with the driver.
  They continued south, hugging the coast, deep
  into the night, not stopping until several hours be-
  fore dawn at a rancho north of Tortosa. The
  ranchero, after briefly conferring with Miguel, re-
  
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  166
  treated into a part of the house from which he did
  not emerge. There was no need for him to see his
  guest that morning and, in fact, all were safer if he
  did not. Owain, Kendall, and Miguel rested
  throughout the day in an underground room that
  was comfortable and conspicuously devoid of win-
  dows to the outside. The driver, Miguel explained,
  would wait upstairs, ensuring that neither the ran-
  chero nor his wife left the premises. When dusk had
  passed to evening, the travelers were again on their
  way.
  They spent the next days and nights in much the
  same manner. Much of the night they were on the
  road, not traveling directly to Toledo. If so, the
  journey would not have been excessively long. In-
  stead, the driver took them along routes that, to
  Owain, seemed to wind without pattern and even
  to double back on the way they had come. Their
  time was split between the coastal plain and the
  more mountainous inlands, stopping during the
  night only for more gasolina.
  The shelter they took during the day seemed as
  random as their routes through the countryside.
  One day they spent in an abandoned hut in the
  foothills, the next in a lavish hotel room in
  Valencia. All were safe houses of one sort or an-
  other, maintained by Miguel and El Greco for just
  such necessities.
  Lacking knowledge of the specific danger from
  
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  The Winnowing
  which Miguel was protecting him, Owain assumed
  an attitude of perturbed indignation. The incon-
  venience and constancy of the travel, combined
  with his pre-existing dislike of Miguel, were more
  than enough to justify his surliness, if in fact he
  had required justification. He allowed Ms. Jackson
  to coordinate all communication with Miguel and
  refused to speak to El Greco’s messenger except in
  the tersest of grunts.
  The Spanish countryside was not unfamiliar to
  Owain, though much had changed in the seventy-
  odd years since he had relocated to the New World.
  Humanity, sprawling development, had spread to
  every inhabitable cranny of the peninsula. There
  were still small, poverty-stricken villages which had
  seen little progress since the Great War, but even
  here, the obtrusive Coca Cola advertisement or the
  occasional satellite dish were reminders of the mod-
  ern age. As the nights of travel blended one into
  another, Owain peered out the tinted windows of
  the Mercedes less and less often. He had spent most
  of his existence attempting either to recapture or
  to escape his past. This land was a part of his past,
  and he did not wish to be reminded of it. He had
  moved to Spain, to Toledo, in 1375 after debacles
  in Wales and in France had proven the value of
  migration. The Spanish hills had become his resi-
  dence but never his home. Not until several years
  after he had awakened from his extended torpor
  
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  had he realized that he had resided in Spain longer
  than he had in his native Wales. On that night,
  another part of him had died.
  He refused to allow the nostalgia, the memories,
  to take hold. This might be the same land, but the
  mortal inhabitants were a different people. Even
  Señor and Señora Rodriguez, whom Owain had
  taken with him to Atlanta less than a century ago,
  were people of a different age. The world changed.
  It changed more quickly than he did, and he could
  not permit himself the luxury of thinking other-
  wise.
  More immediate concerns demanded attention,
  and Owain willingly turned his thoughts to them.
  El Greco had been a friend in the past. It had been
  his idealism and enthusiasm that had led Owain
  to join the Sabbat shortly after his emergence from
  torpor in the eighteenth century. El Greco had
  preached a doctrine of total freedom, and his words
  had echoed the call that Owain had always heard
  welling up from his soul. Libertad. Lealtad. Inmortal
  para siempre. But like any group to which allegiance
  was pledged, Owain had found that the Sabbat had
  made unwarranted demands upon him. It could be
  no different with a king, an archbishop, or a prince.
  El Greco had helped Owain almost a century ago,
  but what could Owain expect now? Years had ways
  of twisting friendships. Affection too often beget
  a desire to control, and that Owain could not,
  
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  The Winnowing
  would not, accept. He had been called to Toledo
  against his will. Did El Greco not recognize the
  immensity of the imposition, or was his need so
  great? Owain would reserve judgment.
  He would not reserve judgment, however, for
  Benison, the Camarilla prince of Atlanta. It was
  strange, Owain realized, that already he thought
  so distantly of Benison. For years, with no signifi-
  cant connection to the Sabbat, Owain had come
  to think of himself, by default, as a Camarilla vam-
  pire. He was never an ardent supporter of the sect,
  but he had identified himself with it nonetheless.
  Now, with this reassertion of his older ties with the
  Sabbat, he already was thinking of Benison as be-
  ing part of them. It was another grip that the Sabbat
  held on Owain, a hold that he preferred to be free
  of from any quarter.
  Regardless of the relative merits of either the
  Camarilla or the Sabbat, Owain realized, Benison
  had become a detriment and must be dealt with.
  Generally in the past, Benison had been a fairly
  unobtrusive, if temperamental, prince. He made his
  demands, as did any prince, but aside from expect-
  ing his subjects—and how Owain hated that word
  applied to himself—to attend infrequent prayer
  meetings or exhibits and the like, he had conducted
  himself fairly benevolently. With the onset of the
  blood curse and the prince’s attempts to counter
  it, however, he had egregiously wounded Owain.
  
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  Many times during the nights in the Mercedes,
  traveling across Spain, over hills and coastland,
  countryside and city, Owain was lost in reverie. He
  heard not the sound of the engine, but the magi-
  cal song of the siren. It carried him back to his
  mortal life in Wales, to his family, to his one true
  love. Like his previous life, the memory of the song
  was all that was left to him. Thanks to Benison.
  Thanks to the prince’s reactionary response to what
  he did not understand. Benison hawked Marlene’s
  abominable “art” at the High Museum, yet he de-
  stroyed offhand the greatest beauty to touch Owain
  in centuries. Owain had found some small link to
  his lost humanity, and had had it ripped away.
  Benison had sullied that joy, and another as well.
  He had put to death poor, harmless Albert. Albert,
  who had committed no crime more than Owain
  had. At least not until his final words. What would
  Angharad think? Owain fumed that the name of his
  only love should be invoked from the executioner’s
  stand, tossed before the masses like a pearl before
  swine. It was less the loss of one Malkavian that
  pained Owain than the fact that Albert, with his
  utterance, had indelibly linked her name with the
  tragedy of his death, in which Owain was
  complicit. In one brief moment, Albert had man-
  aged to dirty the name that Owain had carried
  closer to his heart than any other for so many cen-
  turies. That was Albert’s true crime in Owain’s
  
  171
  The Winnowing
  mind, and one that could never be erased, not by
  the Malkavian’s execution or by the passage of
  time. Albert and Benison, the childer of insanity,
  were both guilty, and only Albert had thus far paid
  the penalty.
  Owain had emerged from a world of emotional
  bankruptcy into an unlife full and rich with ha-
  tred. That was the gift that, in the end, both the
  siren and Albert had given him, and in both cases,
  Benison was the accomplice. Owain resolved that,
  when he returned to Atlanta, he would not see
  these crimes go unpunished. He would see Benison
  brought low; he would see the prince disgraced,
  humiliated. His city would cast him out. Whether
  or not Owain would take his place required more
  thought. Owain had tasted leadership, he had paid
  the price to rule and found it too high. Could he
  ever retrace those steps to power? That he did not
  know.
  Though Owain spoke barely a word through the
  nights of driving, his mind was full of hate, his heart
  overflowing with vengeance. It was with this dis-
  position that he greeted the city of Toledo, almost
  eighty years after he had left it last. Because of the
  twisting route that the driver had chosen to reach
  the city, they approached from the north. They
  passed the Puerta de Bisagra and were within the
  old wall of the city. The buildings of stone and sun-
  dried brick that lined the narrow, twisting streets
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  were largely unchanged over several centuries. The
  peacefully juxtaposed Moorish arches and Gothic
  flying buttresses were understated reminders of the
  religious and social turmoil the city had seen. The
  roads were roughly adapted to, but not designed for,
  modern automobiles. Horses and carts had still
  been plentiful when Owain had left, and even then
  the patchwork streets and blind corners had been
  treacherous.
  The driver of the Mercedes gave little thought
  for other motorists or pedestrians, however. He
  thrust the car forward as quickly as he ever had in
  the open countryside. Aside from the gunning of
  the engine, the city was quiet this night. The aus-
  tere facades of the buildings revealed nothing of
  their inhabitants, and Owain felt the familiar sen-
  sation that somewhere out of view, behind closed
  doors, the city was abuzz with life and activity.
  The car raced through intersections and past
  blind alleyways. Ahead loomed El Alcazar. The
  great fortress that had been destroyed and rebuilt
  more times than Owain could remember, most re-
  cently during his absence in the Spanish Civil War.
  The building, with its corner towers, dominated the
  skyline.
  Owain and Kendall in the back seat were jostled
  as the driver jerked the wheel and the car lurched
  to the south. Not far ahead was the cathedral. Mod-
  est by European standards, the sole completed
  
  173
  The Winnowing
  tower with its pointed, slate-covered cruet and
  spiked crowns seemed to duck in and out from be-
  hind the surrounding tall buildings. Fortunately,
  the cathedral was not the Mercedes’s destination.
  Owain had had quite enough of churches recently.
  Instead, the car darted into a series of alleys, speed-
  ing along as if on the German Autobahn, when
  there was not even sufficient room for two cars to
  pass. In fact in several spots, there was some ques-
  tion as to whether there was room for one car to
  pass between the overhanging buildings. Miracu-
  lously, the driver navigated the maze of streets
  without so much as overturning a garbage can or
  disturbing a stray dog. Without warning, he
  whipped the car into an opening in a building that,
  as a door slid shut behind them, Owain realized was
  a garage.
  As he stepped out of the air-conditioned auto-
  mobile into the just-closed garage, the rich smells
  of the city swept over Owain. Not far away was the
  Plaza de Zocodover and the odor of the various
  animals sold in that market during the day. No-
  ticeable in a different way were the lingering scents
  of food prepared earlier in the day in shops and
  kitchens all around—peppers, saffron, artichokes,
  seafood, sweet marzipan. The surroundings were
  more assertive, more demanding of attention, than
  in Atlanta where Owain had easily hidden him-
  self away from the world. The sights and smells
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  were all so familiar. He’d been gone not even for a
  century, Owain reasoned. If he ever returned to his
  beloved Wales, he wondered, would the surround-
  ings be as familiar? Would it be so much like
  stepping back in time, back closer to his mortal
  days, to his family and his love?
  “This way.” Miguel opened a door into the house,
  leaving no time for Owain to contemplate this
  painful question.
  He and Kendall were led to a sitting room and
  left to wait as Miguel conferred with servants in
  the other room. The house itself was rather mod-
  est, not the grandeur that Owain might have
  expected from El Greco, his long-ago friend who
  had such a taste for the finer comforts. Perhaps this
  was just another in the series of safe houses, Owain
  guessed. After a journey of nearly a week to get
  from Madrid to Toledo, he would be surprised by
  very little.
  Shortly Miguel, visibly annoyed, returned to the
  sitting room. “He is not here,” he said tersely.
  Ms. Jackson responded, used to, by now, acting
  as go-between for her master and Miguel, even
  when they were in the same small room. “El Greco?
  Is he supposed to be here?” She too had guessed
  that this might merely be the most recent in the
  progression of safe houses.
  “Of course he’s supposed to be here,” Miguel
  snapped. “This is his haven.” His dismissive tone
  
  175
  The Winnowing
  hinted that Kendall should have known that some-
  how. “He was called away last night. We missed
  him by one night. Your dallying in Atlanta has cost
  us, mi hermano.” He glared at Owain.
  Owain restrained his urge to stand and strike
  Miguel. Kendall did not restrain her tongue. “Per-
  haps one less night touring the Spanish countryside
  would have made a difference.”
  Miguel tensed at the suggestion that the poor
  timing was his fault. “I would remind you,” he said
  to Kendall, “that ghouls are not thought of so
  highly among the Sabbat.”
  Now Owain did rise. He walked very close to
  Miguel, and in a low voice spoke to El Greco’s lieu-
  tenant for the first time in several nights. “And I
  would remind you that Ms. Jackson is my personal
  retainer, and as such, a guest in this, the house-
  hold of my friend. I will consider slights to her
  slights to myself.”
  Owain and Miguel stood staring at one another
  for several moments, until finally Miguel, without
  a word, turned and left the room.
  The pounding at the front door was quite insis-
  tent. Eleanor heard it clearly, even from the parlor.
  The sound reminded her of the fateful night that
  Roger, Benison’s only childe, had shown up on the
  steps of Rhodes Hall carrying his poor, departed,
  
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  176
  mortal mother. Roger, delirious in the grip of the
  curse, had believed that he was Benison, and after
  a brief altercation with the prince, had collapsed
  and finally succumbed to the curse.
  That night had changed Benison. Though he ex-
  pressed little emotion at Roger’s loss, Benison had
  been affected. Eleanor knew him well enough to see.
  In her mind, the death of Roger was representative
  of the greater grief her husband was suffering as his
  city unraveled about him. It had been shortly after
  Roger’s parting that Benison had hit upon his cur-
  rent strategy to reclaim divine favor, to transform
  Atlanta into a model of spiritual propriety in order
  to circumvent the curse. Since then, he had barely
  spoken to her, except in passing. She had heard him
  muttering to himself about transcendence. He kept
  repeating the name Primus, whatever that meant,
  with great urgency. His nights were full of prowling
  the city. Seldom did he spend an evening with her
  at home. She understood his responsibilities as
  prince, his commitment to the city above all else,
  but she wished he would allow her to aid him, to
  lift some of the weight from his shoulders. But such
  were not his ways. So her nights were spent in iso-
  lation, without her husband, without Benjamin. But
  that would not last forever.
  The pounding at the door continued. With
  Benison away, and Vermeil attending to the prince
  or some errand, only Eleanor and Sally were in the
  
  177
  The Winnowing
  house. Eleanor imagined another crazed Cainite
  trying to get inside. Probably she should lend sup-
  port to little Sally, who tended to be easily
  overwhelmed by occurrences out of the ordinary.
  Eleanor descended the stairs as Sally opened the
  front door. A familiar voice, impatient and imper-
  tinent, carried into the foyer. “I absolutely must
  speak with your mistress. This is a matter of the
  utmost importance.”
  “Show him in, Sally,” Eleanor instructed as she
  reached the bottom step. Sally appeared relieved
  not to have to deal with this bothersome Cainite.
  She opened the door fully, and Pierre entered. He
  seemed somewhat unnerved to see Eleanor stand-
  ing there waiting for him, as if perhaps he had been
  prepared for more of an argument from the
  gatekeeper. “Do come in, Pierre.” Eleanor gestured
  toward the living room. “That will be all, Sally.”
  Within the living room, Pierre did not sit. In-
  stead, he engaged in truncated pacing, a step this
  way, then that, until Eleanor sat. He did not wait
  for her to invite him to speak. “I’m afraid I have
  done what I can. I can do no more.” He wrung his
  hands and avoided meeting Eleanor’s gaze. He
  seemed to realize how rudely he was treating the
  prince’s wife. The thought caused him some dis-
  comfort, but he pressed forward. “I performed my
  duties faithfully, but I cannot continue. I mean no
  disrespect.” He glanced nervously at her.
  
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  178
  Eleanor regarded him not too harshly, but with
  curiosity. He had run into something. That much
  was certain. For this ingratiating social-climber to
  disregard common courtesy with someone of
  Eleanor’s standing, he must be upset indeed. She
  felt a small amount of pity for him. She had, after
  all, sent a Toreador to do a man’s job. “I see,” she
  said flatly, conveying neither disappointment nor
  tolerance.
  Pierre, almost as an afterthought, reached into
  his jacket pocket and withdrew something wrapped
  in a dirty silk handkerchief. “Here.” He placed the
  bundled object onto the coffee table, obviously try-
  ing to displace as little of the grime from the
  handkerchief as possible. “I followed the Gangrel,”
  Pierre failed to suppress a shudder, “and found this
  at a burned church in Reynoldstown.” That was
  apparently all he had to say, as if it explained any-
  thing. He took a step toward the door, but then
  suddenly remembered his manners once again and
  stopped.
  “I see,” Eleanor said again. Pierre’s usefulness to
  her was at an end. “I thank you for your service.”
  Without further elaboration, or even inquiring
  about his reward, Pierre nodded nervously and then
  showed himself to the door.
  How odd, thought Eleanor. He had been more in-
  tent upon terminating their agreement than on
  pursuing any compensation. Not interested in an ex-
  
  179
  The Winnowing
  hibit? How unlike a Toreador. But Pierre’s actions
  themselves, including his churlish behavior this
  evening, were inconsequential, except in what
  Eleanor might be able to infer from them. Pierre
  had been scared away. That was apparent. Only fear
  would induce that degree of crudity in one such as
  himself. The explanation might, Eleanor realized,
  be as simple as his having been frightened away
  from the trail by the Gangrel. Such had happened
  to more stalwart a Cainite. If that were the case,
  was the Gangrel in the employ of Owain Evans?
  Eleanor had put out other feelers, hoping to discover
  as much as she could about this fellow Ventrue who,
  for so many years, had done virtually nothing to
  make waves in the Kindred community. Usually
  faced with more pressing matters, Eleanor had
  spared little attention for him. Until now; until he
  had driven her beloved Benjamin away.
  But no one seemed to know much about Owain
  Evans, and no one had seen him since the gather-
  ing just over a week ago when Benison had
  delivered his decrees. Evans’s absence was more
  frustrating than unusual. The number of questions
  mounted more rapidly than did the answers. What
  connection did this Gangrel have to Evans, and
  why was it at the burned church in Reynoldstown?
  It was undoubtedly the church where Benison had
  rooted out the interloper, the violated church that
  later the devout prince had had burned.
  
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  180
  Eleanor’s gaze fell upon the bundle that Pierre
  had left on the table. Gently, she pulled back the
  edges of the soiled handkerchief. Within it rested
  a dagger, partially covered with…soot? From the
  burned church. That made sense. Much of the
  weapon had been rubbed clean by the handker-
  chief. There was gilding visible, on the pommel and
  hilt, but even so, this was a functional dagger, not
  an ornamental piece.
  Eleanor pondered her discovery, the meaning of
  which was unclear at the moment. The presence
  of the dagger and of the Gangrel at the church were
  somehow connected, she felt. Because, however,
  questioning the Gangrel without Benison’s aid,
  which would potentially alert the prince to her
  mission against Evans and its underlying motiva-
  tions, was largely impossible, it only followed that
  she should investigate the dagger further.
  Oftentimes, where one avenue of inquiry was
  closed, a parallel avenue might achieve the same
  destination.
  Five more nights passed without sign or word of
  El Greco. Owain questioned Miguel repeatedly, but
  he was unshakably obstinate. He would reveal
  nothing of why or to where El Greco had been
  called away, though Owain sensed that Miguel had
  been unpleasantly surprised by his superior’s depar-
  
  181
  The Winnowing
  ture. The two human servants, Maria and
  Ferdinand, proved equally uncommunicative, and
  Miguel warned both Owain and Kendall against
  questioning them.
  El Greco’s absence forced upon Miguel the du-
  ties of host, a role he most certainly would have
  preferred to avoid. He accounted for his guests’
  most basic needs—safe haven during the day; he
  even brought a young Toledoan debutante for
  Owain to feed upon, though Owain was not par-
  ticularly hungry and had not requested a meal.
  Over the centuries, Owain had fed less and less fre-
  quently, and he could not remember the last time
  he had actually found pleasure in the deed. Other-
  wise, Miguel stayed as far away as he could from
  Owain and Kendall.
  They grudgingly respected his instructions not
  to leave the house. As Owain paced the corridors
  and examined the rooms that were not locked, he
  was nagged by a constant inconsistency. The de-
  cor was uniformly modest—tasteful but not
  expensive throw rugs, conservative modern furni-
  ture, paintings that might have been found in any
  respectable hotel. That, really, was the feeling that
  Owain got from his surroundings—that he was
  staying in a rental cottage, its furnishings bland
  enough to offend no one. Such restraint was not
  like the El Greco that Owain knew…or had
  known. This comfortable but tiny dwelling was a
  
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  182
  far cry from the sprawling chambers beneath El
  Alcazar that El Greco had occupied when Owain
  had first met him back in the fourteenth century.
  El Greco had surrounded himself with priceless art-
  work. He had ostentatiously fed upon the wives of
  the most powerful men in the city, leaving neither
  their memories nor their honor intact. Could it be
  the same Cainite who had taken up residence in
  such a cozy-to-the-point-of-cramped abode? Aside
  from the personal quarters of Maria and Ferdinand
  and one other locked room on the second floor,
  Owain inspected every room in the house. He even
  discreetly poked about the cellar searching for tun-
  nels or hidden rooms—tricks that El Greco had
  used to great effect in the past. Owain found noth-
  ing extraordinary, and by the end of the third night,
  his thoughts were drawn increasingly to what might
  be behind the locked door upstairs.
  Miguel did not reside in the house. Apparently
  he maintained a separate haven elsewhere in the
  city. Each evening, early and again late, he stopped
  by to inform Owain that there was no new word,
  and to remind the guests not to leave the premises.
  In Atlanta, Owain had often spent months with-
  out leaving his estate, but there he had a veritable
  mansion and acres of gardens and woods in which
  to wander. Staying in the house, especially after a
  week of being confined to the inside of planes and
  the Mercedes, was fairly maddening.
  
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  The Winnowing
  Kendall spent her time reading, meditating, or
  exercising. Owain had never taken notice before
  of how her every waking moment was dedicated
  to keeping herself, body and mind, ready to serve
  him. She did not rely solely on the vampiric vitae
  he fed her for her abilities. Owain had always pre-
  ferred brooding to meditating. He wondered if the
  yoga helped his ghoul maintain her unflappably
  calm efficiency. Regardless, he felt fortunate to
  have found her.
  Each of the nights that Owain spent in El Greco’s
  house, there came a brief period early in the morn-
  ing, just after four, when Maria and Ferdinand
  retired but before Miguel made his second visit,
  when Owain and Kendall were for all practical pur-
  poses alone. The second night during this time,
  Owain’s thoughts briefly turned to the locked door
  upstairs. The third night, he seriously considered
  pursuing the matter, but his manners got the best
  of him. Though he had been summoned across the
  Atlantic against his will, he was still a guest in El
  Greco’s house. The fourth night, he stood for half
  an hour outside the locked door, bored by the ster-
  ile confines of the small house, curious about why
  he had suddenly been brought back to Spain after
  so many years.
  The fifth night, shortly after Maria and
  Ferdinand withdrew to their own quarters, Owain
  quietly summoned Kendall. “Keep watch at the top
  
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  184
  of the stairs. If the servants stir or Miguel arrives
  early, alert me.” She nodded, not needing to ask
  what he would be doing.
  Owain had never had much trouble with simple
  locks, not since his introduction into the world of
  the unliving, at any rate. He was pleasantly sur-
  prised to discover that his concern El Greco might
  have an elaborate security system proved un-
  founded. With little more than a gesture of his
  hand, the bolt clicked free, and Owain entered the
  forbidden room.
  Seeing the simple furnishings through the dark-
  ness, Owain again wondered if this house actually
  belonged to El Greco—El Greco, who had lived
  so extravagantly and flamboyantly, who had
  thrilled at the touch of finely crafted furniture or
  sculpture more than a glutton at the finest feast.
  The room was quite plainly adorned. A sturdy but
  unremarkable rolltop desk was flanked by a flat desk
  and an end table supporting a common store-
  bought chess set. The arrangement of the pieces
  was unfamiliar. Evidently, El Greco had begun an-
  other game, for this was not the situation of the
  death knells of the game in which he had so re-
  cently bested Owain. Perhaps, like Miguel, El
  Greco kept a haven elsewhere in the city, and when
  he returned, Owain would be summoned to the
  luxurious chambers beneath El Alcazar. In the
  game currently before Owain, white was backed to
  
  185
  The Winnowing
  a corner, every piece save the king and three pawns
  captured. White’s position had undoubtedly been
  hopeless for many a turn.
  It was the rolltop desk, however, that held more
  immediate interest for Owain. Another lock. More
  complex, and trapped, no doubt. But to Owain’s
  amazement, that was not the case. Another wave
  of his hand, and he was free to inspect the con-
  tents. This small area, beneath the rolltop, was
  more in keeping with the El Greco that Owain had
  known. Stacks of papers were spread across the
  desk. Many were rough sketches of people or of
  landscapes. Even the financial documents, lying
  haphazardly askew, had drawings in the margins
  and encroaching over the text. There were bits of
  poetry, heavily marked and edited, some on scraps
  of paper that had obviously been balled up and
  then smoothed out again.
  Owain looked through the papers, trying to dis-
  turb them as little as possible. No need for El Greco
  to know I was inspecting his belongings. He opened
  the small drawers which contained a hodgepodge
  of pens, paper clips, and stamps—all quite mun-
  dane. He closed the drawers and began to inspect
  the wood paneling within the rolltop and shortly
  found what he sought—a concealed compartment.
  It was not laboriously hidden, just inconspicuous
  enough to go unnoticed at first glance. Owain
  would have been disappointed in El Greco if some-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  186
  thing of this type had been lacking. The stationery
  in the drawer was familiar to Owain. He removed
  it and saw that it was the same bone color and
  finely crafted style that he preferred. In fact, as he
  inspected the contents of the letter, Owain real-
  ized that the handwriting was his own.
  El Greco,
  My luck is holding in matters more weighty
  even than chess, so do not condemn your own abili-
  ties overly much. While Cainites the world over
  tremble behind closed doors, fearing to venture out
  into the night even to feed, lest they fall victim
  to the blood curse, I have discovered the true cause
  of the curse, and I believe that you will be keenly
  interested.
  Owain looked more closely at the words. The
  script, every idiosyncratic, technically imperfect
  stroke, was unmistakably his own. Even the paper
  and the irregular distribution of ink from his an-
  tique dip pen were a perfect match.
  But Owain had never written these words.
  Not able to believe his own eyes, he read on:
  I believe you have, on one or two occasions,
  made the acquaintance of one Carlos, bishop of
  Madrid. Would it not be unfortunate for him if
  those in positions of authority above him were
  
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  The Winnowing
  to learn that he was responsible for the outbreak
  of the curse which has so dramatically pruned our
  forces these past weeks? I’m sure nothing would
  be further from your mind than to wish ill luck
  upon a comrade.
  Perhaps this will not, after all, interest you.
  Perhaps it comes as no surprise to you to learn
  that Carlos is a Cainite of exceedingly healthy
  ambition, as are so many of our colleagues. It
  has come to my attention that certain of his un-
  derlings were, at Carlos’s instruction, conducting
  experiments upon Cainite vitae—magical experi-
  ments, bringing their dark arts to bear in an
  attempt to transform the blood, to strengthen it.
  Why might this be of interest to them? you may
  ask. There is a certain correspondence among our
  kind between age and power, is there not? Gen-
  erally, the older of us are of a generation closer
  to the original source of our power, the Dark
  Father. The older the vitae, the more potent. In-
  crease the potency of a Cainite’s blood, and that
  Cainite is more powerful. That is what Carlos
  was attempting to achieve through his “Project
  Angharad.”
  Owain’s every muscle tensed. Angharad. Here was
  her name again! His love, her memory evoked by
  the siren first, then her name profaned by Albert,
  and now this. Owain sat at the desk. He felt
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  188
  lightheaded, sick. The mists were swirling about
  him, the visions again encroaching upon his con-
  scious mind—the living tree, the tower—but he
  fought them off. He forced himself to continue with
  the letter:
  That is what Carlos was attempting to achieve
  through his “Project Angharad.” Perhaps merely
  to further strengthen our sect. But are there
  not other possibilities?
  If younger Cainites suddenly become more pow-
  erful, especially lacking as they do the seasoned
  wisdom of those of us from distant times, who is
  threatened? Are we not at greatest risk? Are
  not you? Is not the archbishop? If Carlos is the
  conveyor of this power, does he not stand to gain
  a great deal?
  Luckily, he has not achieved his goal. The curse
  is our proof. But how long until he does suc-
  ceed?
  How do I know all this? Because the curse
  was unleashed in my own Atlanta. An underling
  of Carlos’s, another ambitious Cainite, a certain
  Grimsdale, made off with a vial of the experimental
  blood, not yet perfected. He wished to sell the se-
  crets of the blood in the New World. Is it not
  the land of opportunity, mi amigo? But other of
  Carlos’s retainers tracked down poor Grimsdale,
  who as the pursuit closed in, drank the blood him-
  
  189
  The Winnowing
  self, no doubt hoping to utilize the power of the
  blood to preserve his own existence. He did not
  succeed. And as his blood was stolen by those who
  pursued him, the curse was spread.
  I need not elaborate upon the repercussions for
  those of us—
  “Greetings, Owain.”
  Startled by the voice behind him, Owain spun
  in the chair toward the door. There stood El Greco,
  in one arm the limp form of Kendall Jackson. His
  eyes gleamed red even in the darkness. The hol-
  lowed recesses of his face held shadows far darker
  than the night.
  Nicholas returned to the underpass early the next
  evening but Blackfeather was nowhere to be seen.
  The spray-painted circle was still clearly visible on
  the damp concrete. Nicholas fidgeted, cleared away
  some debris that had drifted across the circle, and
  settled down to wait.
  It was hard not to think about the gnawing hun-
  ger. It scratched at his insides as if impatient to be
  let out. He half regretted not killing that miser-
  able Toreador who had been following him.
  No doubt the fop had already made full and ob-
  sequious report to Prince Benison of Nicholas’s
  presence and activities in the city. The prince was
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  190
  not a patient man and he was given to fits of out-
  rage at the slightest perceived insult.
  He took a special interest in unannounced visi-
  tors who did not formally present themselves at
  court. If Nicholas stayed in the city much longer,
  he could certainly expect a summons to the royal
  presence to account for his breach of etiquette.
  Nicholas was no better off now than when he
  and Blackfeather had parted yesterday. He had
  found no trace of Evans. The mansion showed
  none of the telltale signs of habitation and no hint
  that the master would return anytime soon.
  Nicholas had had high hopes that he might pick
  up the trail at the abandoned church, but that had
  also proved a dead end. Judging from the condi-
  tion of the place, it had seen some kind of struggle
  and not entertained many visitors since. True, the
  dagger had smelled of Evans, but the scent was
  weeks old.
  The trail had grown cold and Nicholas had re-
  turned, no closer to either the answers or the
  vengeance he sought. He was, however, one
  evening nearer to the unpleasant end that he car-
  ried within his veins.
  “If love is blind, then hatred is stone deaf,” said
  a familiar voice directly behind him. Nicholas
  fought the instinctive urge to whirl and lash out.
  He even managed to suppress the heated retort and
  words of challenge that rose to his lips.
  
  191
  The Winnowing
  Nicholas was madder at himself for being taken
  unawares than at the gently mocking tone in the
  other’s voice. He mastered himself and rose to greet
  his friend.
  “He is gone,” Nicholas said simply. “And it is
  long past time for me to be gone as well. The prince
  put an agent on my trail. After the disturbance at
  the mansion, no doubt. I’m surprised they haven’t
  been…” He trailed off.
  “They have,” Blackfeather answered his unasked
  question. “They took a long look at me and the
  circle and the fire and fell back to regroup. If there
  is one of power among them, he will come tonight.
  If there is not,” Blackfeather shrugged, “then many
  of them will come tonight.”
  Nicholas scanned the surrounding shadows, kick-
  ing himself for his earlier inattention. “Then we
  need to get away from here. Not far, just beyond
  the sprawl of the suburbs. They won’t follow us fur-
  ther.”
  “But where would you go?” Blackfeather looked
  at him appraisingly.
  Nicholas did not answer right away.
  Blackfeather’s presence made him cautious, cagey.
  He was not at all convinced that it was a benign
  influence.
  “After Evans,” he said at last. “Either way, it ends
  with Evans.”
  Blackfeather was not sure what “either way”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  192
  meant. He could see nothing but death and ven-
  geance along that road.
  But he heard the finality in Nicholas’s words. No
  amount of arguing was likely to shake the young
  Gangrel’s conviction.
  “And how will you find him?” Blackfeather re-
  plied, pushing aside Nicholas’s carefully marshaled
  arguments. “By your own admission, there is no
  sign of him anywhere in the city.”
  At this, Nicholas smiled broadly. “You will find
  him for me.”
  For the first time, Nicholas noted with satisfac-
  tion, he had taken Blackfeather aback. Blackfeather
  muttered something dismissive, turned his back on
  Nicholas, and walked to the very edge of the circle.
  He stopped there as if held by some unseen force,
  his toes just touching the ring.
  Nicholas spoke softly, almost apologetically. “Of
  course. I understand. If this thing is beyond your
  abilities, I will just have to find myself another
  hunter, or perhaps a seer…”
  Blackfeather did not rise to the taunt. “You ask
  me to speed you to your death. You even try to
  make the choice more appealing.” Here he turned
  and smiled. “But I want you to think further than
  yourself,” he continued more solemnly. “Further
  than your bloodline and the demands of honor it
  binds you with. I want you to think of our clan, of
  our people. I speak with their voice.
  
  193
  The Winnowing
  “Ten nights ago, you were willing to fight to the
  death to prove your claim to lead. Tonight, you ask
  my help so that you might turn your back upon
  them and pursue a personal vendetta. There is no
  honor in this.
  “Come with me back to the wilds. There is so-
  lace there, among the pines, beneath the stars,
  within the unbroken circle of the clan.”
  Nicholas glowered, stood firm. “Would you have
  me go like a dark wind among them, a pestilence,
  a shadow of death? No, I am fit company for nei-
  ther man nor beast. Release me. Send me on my
  way.”
  Blackfeather studied him for some time. He knew
  Nicholas was right; he could never return. The
  curse that roiled the city had taken hold within
  Nicholas, was irrevocably enmeshed with the
  shadow rising within him. “Come,” Blackfeather
  said. “We will ask for guidance.”
  He led Nicholas back to their accustomed place
  near the remains of last night’s fire. Blackfeather
  took a cold blackened stick from the fire and, pull-
  ing Nicholas’s hair back from his forehead, marked
  a cryptic symbol there—Urdun, the ox. Not alto-
  gether flattering, perhaps, but those with eyes to
  see would know to steer well clear of Nicholas’s
  path. The ox was impossible to turn from its ap-
  pointed course, and none too concerned with who
  or what might be trampled underfoot.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  194
  Blackfeather then took soot and blacked all of
  his own exposed skin except for his hands.
  “Clear away the remains of the fire.”
  As Nicholas busied himself with this task,
  Blackfeather untied a tooled leather satchel at his
  waist and laid it between them, where the fire had
  been. The pouch was striking, covered with some
  intricate design or pictures that Nicholas could not
  pick out in the dim light. It occurred to him that
  he had never seen Blackfeather open this particu-
  lar pouch before.
  Blackfeather undid the clasp and began extract-
  ing a curious array of objects.
  He recited the inventory quietly to himself as he
  removed each piece. To Nicholas, this little ritual
  took on the aspect of a chant—an arcane formula
  recited by rote: Bus tokens, theatre stubs, American
  Express card; Tarot cards, keys from a twice-stolen car;
  Kennedy half-dollar, Camel unfiltereds; Straight razor,
  floppy disk, phillips-head screws; Spent tube of
  superglue, walkman, a rolex; Double-A batteries, sur-
  gical gloves; Boarding pass, dental floss, thirteen
  matched chessmen; Shotgun shells, snapshots, a cellu-
  lar phone…
  Blackfeather drew forth each new treasure as if
  it might well contain next week’s winning lottery
  number. He paused over certain objects, rolling
  them over in his hand, savoring their feel, their
  proximity.
  
  195
  The Winnowing
  He noticed that Nicholas was still standing
  nearby, staring in wonder and incomprehension.
  Blackfeather gestured him back to his seat. Then
  he spoke.
  His words had that same mystic, singsong qual-
  ity, but he was definitely addressing Nicholas now.
  He was patiently trying to explain something.
  “These things and more have I gathered and carried
  Like feathers and bearteeth, symbols to conjure Memo-
  ries and stories. I weave them around me. I cloak myself
  in them; I wear them as armor. I eat them for cour-
  age; I cast them for omens.”
  Nicholas waited anxiously for Blackfeather to re-
  veal the secrets hidden in the jumble of oddments.
  His mind tried in vain to draw meaning from the
  objects, or from the things he associated with the
  symbols, or from the relations of distance, proxim-
  ity or overlap between them. It was no good.
  He simply did not speak this obscure language
  of signs, premonitions and divination. Blackfeather,
  however, seemed to expect something of him. Hesi-
  tantly, he shifted some of the objects around.
  He picked up the straight razor, started to open
  it, checked himself and hurriedly returned it to its
  place. Blackfeather watched him impassively.
  “But I don’t…” Nicholas began.
  Blackfeather reached out slowly and picked up
  the Camels. Nicholas was almost too startled to
  catch the pack when Blackfeather tossed it to him.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  196
  “You need to relax,” Blackfeather said. “You’re
  trying way too hard.” The turquoise-studded Zippo
  snapped open and flared.
  Nicholas stared at the flame for a moment, think-
  ing of the test of the night before. Then, he
  suddenly seemed to remember himself. He fumbled
  open the Camels, stuck one in his mouth and
  passed another to Blackfeather.
  Nicholas couldn’t remember the last time he had
  smoked a cigarette. He wasn’t even sure he could
  manage the trick anymore. Breathing itself was a
  chore and he always felt as if people were staring
  when he tried it.
  Blue flame danced before his eyes and receded,
  leaving the smell of burning tobacco in its wake.
  Nicholas drew slowly, feeling the steadying prox-
  imity of the tiny flame. Now there was something
  he could understand.
  “Better,” said Blackfeather and forged ahead: “I
  lay them before you, That after our parting Their power
  be yours and Their story, your story, And that in the
  dark hours, You may find them familiar.”
  Nicholas still did not understand. But he was, at
  least, no longer struggling. Decisively, he wrested
  his gaze from the jumble of objects and looked
  squarely at Blackfeather. “Well, where is he?”
  Blackfeather laughed and began tucking the ob-
  jects back into his satchel. For a long while, Nicholas
  thought he was going to refuse to answer him.
  
  197
  The Winnowing
  Blackfeather reached the end of his scattered
  pile. “Car keys. Amex. Boarding pass.” Blackfeather
  slapped each object down in rapid succession in
  front of Nicholas.
  “The car’s parked across the street. The boat
  leaves from Savannah tomorrow night. Evans will
  be in Madrid by the time you embark.”
  Nicholas pocketed Blackfeather’s gifts. He rose,
  heaving a great sigh. “I’ll leave the car where you
  can find her again, outside of town.”
  Blackfeather stood and refastened the satchel
  about his waist. “Nicholas,” he started and fell si-
  lent again. After a long while he said, “It doesn’t
  have to end in blood.”
  Nicholas didn’t know if Blackfeather was talk-
  ing about the confrontation with Evans or the curse
  or some greater struggle.
  Nicholas did not know of any other ending. It
  all began in blood, it would have to end in blood.
  He did not give voice to these thoughts.
  Blackfeather stared after him for some time—
  long after he had heard the engine roar to life and
  then recede into the distance. He lit another ciga-
  rette, watched the smoke rise lazily skyward, and
  let his thoughts drift toward home.
  Kli Kodesh rode a maelstrom of violence, be-
  trayal and terror. He was vaguely aware that he was
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  198
  moving eastward at a breakneck pace—away from
  the City of Angels and out into the vast Ameri-
  can wasteland.
  The maddeningly regular progression of city, sub-
  urbs, city, suburbs, that flashed past him left no
  lasting impression. To his eyes, it was all one vast
  unbroken desert—rolling dunes of asphalt, concrete
  and prefab houses receding toward the horizon.
  There were, however, some details that he could
  not shut out. The irritation of a flickering fluores-
  cent light on a bared knifeblade. The retort of
  gunshots along a subway platform. The delicate
  tracery of red lifeblood spiraling down a pristine
  porcelain washbasin.
  Kli Kodesh was moving quickly and could not
  quite put a placename to each of the atrocities and
  bloodrites that intruded upon his consciousness.
  They came upon him suddenly and irresistibly—
  flashes of lightning through the storm that carried
  him forward.
  He imagined each act of violence as a single drop
  of blood amidst the raging downpour. The words
  of the ancient Cainite prophecy rose unbidden to
  his mind:
  At his word, the sky opens, raining blood upon the
  furrows he has prepared. His children raise expectant
  faces to the Heavens, but they are choked and drowned
  in the torrent of spilling life. Such is the price of their
  hungers.
  
  199
  The Winnowing
  The words from the Book of Enoch rolled around
  like thunder through the quiet corridors of his
  mind. The book, one of the Kindred’s oldest and
  darkest legacies, older perhaps than the Book of
  Nod—though who could know such things for cer-
  tain?—was an eclectic assortment of prophecy, saga
  and lore that revolved around the great reckoning
  to come—the Endtime.
  The father calling down a rain of blood upon his
  childer was certainly a reference to Caine, the Dark
  Father. But this particular passage might just as eas-
  ily be read as history rather than prediction.
  Other passages were less ambiguous, speaking
  directly of a Winnowing that was to come. Kli
  Kodesh lost himself in tracing the labyrinthine
  paths of tangled verses. He sorted and sifted cryp-
  tic shards of prophecy, weighing each one carefully,
  arranging them into careful piles, testing their fit.
  He soon lost himself in his systematic
  preconstruction of the future.
  It was some time before he realized that he was
  no longer being assailed by the storm of violent acts
  that buffeted him. He thought he must have left
  the Eastern Seaboard behind him and was now well
  out to sea.
  There was a solace in the oceans that Kli Kodesh
  could find nowhere else—a freedom from the con-
  stant demands of the hideous crimes of others—a
  prefigurement of his final release.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  200
  Kli Kodesh allowed himself to drift off towards
  oblivion. He softy repeated to himself the mantra
  of his newest acquisition—the shard of truth he
  had so recently sifted from the treacherous sands
  of prophecy, oracle and lore:
  Only then shall Caine unyoke his red-eyed ox, whose
  name is called Gehenna, for none may abide its coun-
  tenance, and loose it to graze upon the Plain of
  Mediggo.
  
  201
  The Winnowing
  CHAPTER SIX
  The people around Little Five Points this night
  were definitely not the type William Nen was ac-
  customed to—punkers with hair of various neon
  shades; second generation hippies in falling-apart
  clothes; homeless types who might live on any
  bench; young women in tight shirts who had for-
  saken brassieres. Nen could not help but wonder
  about the infection rate of the body piercings
  which were so numerous and obtrusive. Loud mu-
  sic poured from the clubs sprinkled along Moreland
  Avenue, one of which in particular attracted Nen’s
  interest. He tugged on his mustache as he looked
  at the address scrawled on the scrap of paper in his
  hand. Nine Tails was one of the loudest and liveli-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  202
  est of the clubs, and it was in the adjacent alley
  that cases JKL14337 and JKL14338 had been
  found.
  Let it go. That’s what Nen’s superior, Dr. Maureen
  Blake, had said. Nen found it strange that at first
  Maureen had been intrigued by the case, but then
  later had practically ordered him to drop the in-
  vestigation. But more important, in Nen’s mind,
  was the necessity that a potential epidemic be
  averted. He had seen all too personally what an
  unfettered hemorrhagic fever could do to a popu-
  lation center. So, since Dr. Blake had practically but
  not actually ordered him to drop the investigation,
  he was continuing with it.
  That was what brought him here to the alley be-
  side Nine Tails. As he moved out of the light of
  the main street into the shadow of the alley, Nen
  considered for the first time that poking around in
  a dark alley in a somewhat seedy part of the city
  might not be the most sensible course of action.
  Who knew what could be lurking there? But it was
  so hard to get away from the office during the day,
  and though it was not completely rational, after
  having survived highly saturated contagion zones
  in Africa on several occasions, Nen had trouble
  believing that a common mugger was much of a
  threat. As he moved more deeply into the alley and
  the shadows thickened, however, he conceded to
  that little voice warning him away that a mugger
  
  203
  The Winnowing
  would probably not be particularly interested in the
  fact that Nen had survived highly saturated con-
  tagion zones in Africa.
  The muscle by Nen’s left eye began to tic. He
  could hear the pounding bass from the music in-
  side Nine Tails. The patrons must all be half deaf by
  now, Nen thought. Halfway into the alley, he
  stopped. He turned and looked back to Moreland
  Avenue. He could see clearly the people walking
  past. In the other direction, the alley led to another
  street with houses and apartments. Probably
  throughout the day this alley was a well-used lane
  of foot traffic for the people living there. There was
  little chance, he felt, that two bodies could lie here
  undetected for several weeks, which is what
  would’ve had to have happened for the tissue to
  have been as deteriorated as it was. There was still
  the possibility that someone could have dumped
  the bodies in the alley, but why dump them and
  then pour fresh blood onto them? Nen didn’t have
  these answers, but he had learned what he could
  from seeing the alley. He at least had a picture in
  his mind as he continued to try to reconstruct what
  had happened.
  As Dr. Nen retraced his steps back out of the al-
  ley, he did not notice the figure standing against
  the wall to his right. He should have noticed, con-
  sidering how conservatively the individual was
  dressed in contrast to most everyone else around
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  204
  Little Five Points—a business suit and tie; neat,
  short hair; wire-rimmed glasses. But the individual
  whom Nen did not see was Thelonious, Brujah
  primogen of the Kindred of Atlanta, and he had a
  way of going unnoticed by mortals when he
  wanted. He stood silently and watched as Nen
  walked past, out of the alley, and back to his car.
  El Greco stood in the doorway, his silhouette
  bathed in shadow. Owain could make out only the
  gleam of his old friend’s eyes. El Greco was tall, but
  a bit more stooped than Owain remembered. With-
  out turning his back, Owain casually slid the letter
  back onto the desk. El Greco did not move. He
  stood completely still, watching the guest he had
  come upon rummaging through the host’s personal
  effects. After a moment passed, Owain could dis-
  cern more of the gaunt, almost frail, features. El
  Greco’s eyes and cheeks were sunken deeply, in-
  tensifying the depth of the shadows across his face.
  Without preamble, El Greco dropped Kendall
  Jackson’s inert form to the floor. She landed hard.
  “I believe this is yours,” said El Greco.
  Owain could read neither El Greco’s tone nor
  expression—anger, amusement? “El Greco,” said
  Owain, “meet Kendall Jackson. I will have to in-
  troduce you to her later.”
  “I am afraid so,” replied El Greco. He stepped
  
  205
  The Winnowing
  over Kendall and moved to a table in the corner
  where he lit an oil lamp.
  The struck match cast eerie red light and danc-
  ing shadows across El Greco’s nearly skeletal face.
  For an instant, Owain thought he was looking at
  the visage of the devil himself—narrow jaw, hol-
  lowed cheeks, pointed chin, thin mustache, and
  eyes as piercing as death. In fact, El Greco had
  called Owain here like Satan settling accounts with
  one who had sold his soul.
  “It has been a long while,” said El Greco, mov-
  ing slowly toward the desk. He carefully pulled back
  the second chair and sat. “I was called away unex-
  pectedly. You know how business can be.”
  “Indeed,” Owain responded. “One night, all is
  normal. The next, old favors are called due.”
  “A favor is one matter,” El Greco disagreed. “A
  duty is quite another. Don’t you agree?”
  Owain’s tone remained noncommittal. “The dis-
  tinctions are slight.”
  “I quite disagree.” The two aged Cainites faced
  one another, gazes locked, both probing, yet reveal-
  ing nothing. Finally, El Greco sighed mightily. “I
  appreciate you and la señorita helping Miguel look
  after the place,” he said cordially, “though sorting
  the mail is hardly necessary.”
  “I do so miss my own tedious chores,” said Owain
  dryly. Never mind that he had not opened his own
  mail for over forty years.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  206
  “Chores,” repeated El Greco. “How American of
  you, Owain.”
  Again the two sat and stared at one another.
  Owain had to concede that, six hundred years be-
  fore, the two had been friends. Toward the end of
  the fourteenth century, he had wandered to Spain.
  Banished at that point for less than a century from
  his native Wales, having finished his play with the
  Templars in France, Owain had been devoid of pur-
  pose, questioning whether or not he even wanted
  to continue with his hellish existence, his damna-
  tion on earth. It was El Greco’s energy and lust for
  all things living that had invigorated Owain and
  kept him going for seventy-five years, until the
  death of his long-time ghoul and companion
  Gwilym at the hands of the Inquisition had pro-
  pelled Owain into despair, and he fell into torpor.
  When he had rejoined the world of the living
  more than two hundred years later, that world was
  quite a different place. The Sabbat had been
  formed by those that would not give up the struggle
  when the Camarilla put an end to the Great
  Anarch Revolt, and El Greco was in the fore of
  that movement, one of the few Toreador to take a
  direct interest in the conflict. His enthusiasm, his
  passion, had been a magnet to Owain, who had had
  so little fire of his own by then. All the talk of free-
  dom, libertad, had been intoxicating, and Owain
  had joined the Sabbat.
  
  207
  The Winnowing
  That had been long ago, however, and Owain
  had greatly distanced himself from the group over
  nearly three hundred years. But now he sat across
  from El Greco, one of the few living or unliving
  beings who knew of Owain’s affiliation with the
  group El Greco had played such a fundamental part
  in founding. Owain had made certain promises, had
  sworn oaths of blood, and though over time they
  had come to mean next to nothing to him, that
  was certainly not the case with El Greco. El Greco
  would hold Owain to his word. Of that, Owain
  could be sure, but of little else.
  El Greco had obviously changed over the past
  hundred years. The pallor that hung over him was
  that of the grave. Even for a Cainite, normally
  drawn and pale, he looked bad. It happened some-
  times, even with the undead. The years caught up.
  The deterioration could be mental, or physical, or
  spiritual. As Owain looked at El Greco, he saw a
  tired, withering man, shoulders stooped, back tired.
  But the eyes…trapped within the decaying form,
  his eyes still held that same fire. They were aware
  of the failings of their physical prison. Undead was
  not the same as immortal.
  “You look well,” said El Greco on cue, as if he
  had been reading Owain’s thoughts. His words,
  however, were a mere observation, not a compli-
  ment, not evidence of caring. El Greco spoke
  abruptly, his words as cool as his previous comment.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  208
  “We must speak now, Owain, for tomorrow evening
  you must leave me, and none may know of our re-
  lationship.”
  Owain was caught off guard by this. He had trav-
  eled across the Atlantic at El Greco’s request, and
  now he was being sent away? He wanted to ask,
  why the bother? Why uproot him and risk discov-
  ery in the first place? But he kept his questions to
  himself. “Miguel will be heartbroken.”
  El Greco laughed. It was a cold, hollow sound, a
  weak seed of humor strangled among the weeds of
  decay. “You and Miguel were always fond of one
  another, weren’t you?” His smile lingered, but was
  anything but warm. “He, at least, is loyal.” The
  words bit as deeply as any dagger.
  “You say we must speak,” said Owain, irritated
  by the implied aspersion, true or not. He had not
  come all this way to be the target of innuendo.
  “Speak, then.”
  El Greco laughed quietly as he ran his fingers
  across the top of his desk. “The years have taught
  you the value of neither patience nor respect, have
  they?” He closed his eyes and laid his head back.
  “Ah, friendship is so like a fine wine, isn’t it, mi
  amigo? With the years it can grow richer and fuller,”
  he opened his eyes again, “or it can turn to vinegar.”
  Owain did not speak. He could learn more by
  listening than by feeding El Greco’s rising ire…for
  the time being.
  
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  The Winnowing
  El Greco, his eyebrows raised by Owain’s self-re-
  straint, nodded at his old friend. “Speak, then, I
  shall. As I said, I was called away several nights
  ago. Otherwise, I would have been here for your
  arrival as I had planned to be. I was called to a
  meeting by Monçada.” El Greco paused. “I realize
  that you have not kept abreast of goings-on within
  the Sabbat, but you do know who Monçada is, I
  presume?”
  Owain nodded. He knew of the Sabbat arch-
  bishop of Madrid, Ambrosio Luis Monçada, who
  at one time centuries ago had pulled the strings that
  had manipulated so much of western Europe.
  “Good.” El Greco was pleased. “I traveled to
  Madrid to meet with him. I was quite pleased by
  the honor Monçada did me, until I learned that
  Carlos had been summoned to meet with Monçada
  as well. I know you are aware of my…feelings to-
  ward Carlos.”
  Before reading the mysterious letter moments
  before, Owain had never heard of Carlos. Now he
  knew him only as El Greco’s rival, but that was all
  Owain had to go on. Again, he nodded.
  “Monçada, too, is aware of my feelings toward
  Carlos,” El Greco explained, “as well as Carlos’s
  toward me, especially since several supporters of
  Carlos’s who had been encroaching upon my ter-
  ritory, Toledo, met unfortunate ends.”
  Owain had little trouble imagining this. He well
  
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  remembered what El Greco had done to those who
  had crossed him back in the eighteenth century.
  “Monçada demanded that we cease our bicker-
  ing.” Without warning, El Greco slammed his fist
  upon the desk. “Bickering!” His face screwed into
  a fierce snarl. Saliva sprayed past his bared fangs.
  “Can you believe it? Calling it bickering when that
  treacherous jackal from Madrid is moving in on my
  territory!” For several moments, he seethed. Owain
  did not disturb him. It was not impossible for El
  Greco to whip himself into a killing frenzy, and
  Owain had no great desire to test just how far the
  old Toreador had deteriorated. After a few minutes,
  El Greco had regained his composure. “Ironic, is it
  not,” he asked, again in a conversational tone, “for
  Monçada to deliver such a pronouncement so soon
  after I receive your letter?”
  “Indeed.” Owain had no way of knowing exactly
  when El Greco had received the false epistle, but
  it had to have been at least in the past few weeks,
  since the curse had swept through the Cainite
  world.
  “Did it surprise you that Miguel did not partici-
  pate in the Vaulderie, that he did not share the
  blood, when he first arrived in Atlanta?” El Greco
  asked, abruptly switching topics.
  Owain pondered this for a moment. “It hadn’t
  crossed my mind, actually. It has been so long since
  I’ve performed the rites, nearly a century…”
  
  211
  The Winnowing
  “So, neither are you surprised that I have not of-
  fered you the blood. ‘Libertad. Lealtad. Inmortal para
  siempre.’”
  “No.”
  El Greco, suddenly seeming quite tired and old,
  laughed half-heartedly, as if the gesture were too
  taxing and required his full concentration. “Ah,
  Owain, you have been away for too long. I left you
  to yourself for too many years.”
  “I rather fancy the opposite is true,” quipped
  Owain.
  El Greco’s weak smile vanished. With his anger
  returned his strength. “You weary me Owain. I will
  put up with only so much.”
  Owain stiffened. It had been years and years since
  anyone had spoken to him so condescendingly.
  Benison, at least, had always been respectful.
  Owain could think of a very few individuals who
  had ever spoken to him thus, and they had all
  shared a similar fate. But by a supreme effort of will,
  he held his tongue.
  “The blood curse, Owain,” said El Greco. “It has
  been hard for the Camarilla, but it has devastated
  the Sabbat. Half, in some places three quarters, of
  our forces have wasted away or fallen into mad-
  dened bestial frenzy.” His stare was incredibly
  intense. His rheumy eyes bulged against their sock-
  ets. “Only the strong survive. As it should be.”
  El Greco, his fingers digging into the desk, leaned
  
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  close to Owain, but the emphasis of the brutally
  Darwinian statement was lost upon the Ventrue.
  Something about El Greco’s words struck a chord
  within Owain, causing his thoughts to shift back
  hundreds of years, long even before he had come
  to live in this ancient city.
  Only the strong survive.
  In that earlier time, in another place, Owain had
  spoken those very same words and more. Only the
  strong survive. Only the strongest rule. He had spo-
  ken to his nephew Morgan. His nephew and his
  ghoul. Owain had been old enough to have lived
  three mortal lifetimes, but young enough still to
  have believed himself invincible. He had spoken
  those words, and then he had sent poor Morgan
  to his death.
  Owain shuddered. His mind snapped back to the
  present as he realized that El Greco, a sly grin on
  his face, was staring at him. Owain was speechless,
  his concentration completely broken by the on-
  slaught of the unbidden memory from Wales seven
  hundred years past.
  El Greco was not speechless. “The years have not
  left you untouched, have they, Owain?” The
  stooped Toreador took smug satisfaction from this.
  “You may appear not a day older than when you
  were Embraced, but one does not survive through
  century after century without scars, eh? Some scars
  are merely more visible.”
  
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  The Winnowing
  The two vampires sat facing one another in El
  Greco’s study. In the corner, the oil lamp’s flame
  danced contentedly, oblivious to the conversation
  it bathed in living light and shadow. Owain could
  see in El Greco the remnants of the passion that
  had once been so attractive. In El Greco’s mock-
  ing smile Owain also sensed cruelty; he had been
  blind to it six hundred years earlier. Since then,
  Owain had become well-practiced at recognizing
  cruelty. He could see it in himself as well as in oth-
  ers. Cruelty was an outward manifestation of
  control, of power. Owain had spent too long fos-
  tering his own autonomy. Since his days as a
  mortal, he had balked at complying with a will
  other than his own. As he became actively in-
  volved once again in the world of the Cainites, he
  was faced anew with the challenge of those who
  would exercise control over him. He would not
  yield control to Prince Benison in Atlanta. He
  would not yield control to El Greco in Toledo. He
  would see them destroyed first. He would see him-
  self destroyed first.
  Owain did not care for this scrutiny under which
  El Greco was placing him. What did it matter,
  Owain wondered, if his mind wandered at times?
  Who, mortal or undead, could truly claim that the
  passage of time had not inflicted upon him or her
  certain regrets and sorrows? Was El Greco any dif-
  ferent? “You were speaking of the Vaulderie?”
  
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  El Greco chuckled politely, fully aware that Owain
  was shifting the focus of the conversation and at the
  same time implying that it was El Greco’s mind that
  was slipping, that it was the Toreador who was leav-
  ing thoughts unfinished. He dipped his head as if to
  say touché. “I was indeed speaking of the Vaulderie.
  I have instructed my followers not to engage in the
  rites while the blood curse persists.”
  “You speak as if you think the curse will pass,”
  said Owain.
  “All things pass.”
  “Perhaps it is the time of the Cainites that has
  passed.”
  “The Endtime?” El Greco’s eyebrows rose, but
  then he laughed dismissively. “There are vampires
  on every street corner preaching that, Owain. And
  do you know what they all have in common? They
  are the have-nots. They have nothing to lose and
  everything to gain from the end of the world. They
  may be correct, but if so, then there is little I or
  anyone else can do, so I will proceed under the as-
  sumption that they are not correct.” He leaned
  back in his chair. “But about the Vaulderie—you
  see, you distract me again—I have instructed my
  followers to forgo the rites.”
  “Because…?”
  “Because, as you stated in your letter, the curse
  is magical in nature, and only the most powerful
  of magics are permanent.”
  
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  The Winnowing
  The letter. Owain thought about what he had
  read, what he had supposedly written. He had played
  along with that misconception thus far and would
  need time to think before being willing to admit
  that he was, in fact, not the author. He had not
  been able to finish the entire letter before El Greco
  had appeared, so Owain needed to tread lightly. He
  could not afford to ask a question that might be
  answered in “his own” letter. Otherwise, he would
  have voiced exceptions to El Greco’s reasoning.
  Perhaps the curse was somehow self-sustaining. Per-
  haps it fed on the blood of every vampire it touched.
  There was no way to be sure. How could El Greco
  proceed based upon such a shaky premise?
  “This will pass,” El Greco reiterated. “There is a
  power, an energy, in the transference of vitae.
  We’ve all felt it, Owain—during the Embrace, dur-
  ing the Vaulderie. I believe it is that power that
  fuels the curse.” El Greco looked perplexed. “From
  your hints in the letter, I thought you had surmised
  the same?”
  Owain’s throat tightened. He offered no re-
  sponse. His mind was racing, assembling every fact
  and rumor he had heard about the curse in case El
  Greco asked a more pointed question.
  El Greco shrugged. “But as you suggested, I am
  somewhat intrigued by your notion that Carlos,
  thrice damn his soul, is responsible for the curse.
  You know that I cannot merely present hearsay to
  
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  Monçada and expect him to act. Tell me how you
  propose to secure proof of this allegation of yours?”
  Proof. Owain tried to reconstruct what he had
  read. Proof that Carlos inadvertently set loose the curse.
  Project Angharad. Grimsdale. Increasing the potency
  of vitae. Proof! Owain had been aware of the curse,
  but he had not paid Prince Benison’s ravings much
  heed. Owain had been more concerned with per-
  sonal matters—the siren, his reawakening
  desires—but they had all been touched by the mad-
  ness of the curse. Caused by it even? He didn’t
  know enough. How could he answer? El Greco sat
  waiting expectantly. “I have heard…” said Owain
  speaking very deliberately, assembling the words
  into some cohesive order as they crawled off his
  tongue, “that…some of those cursed all but
  starved…even though they fed regularly…and
  their bodies were full of blood.”
  “Yes?” El Greco obviously knew this already and
  did not see where Owain was going with this ex-
  planation.
  Unfortunately for Owain, neither did he. How
  could he hope to prove anything about this curse
  when hordes of sorcerous Tremere had failed to
  uncover anything? He was coming up with noth-
  ing. “Others…” he kept stalling, “went insane…
  more quickly.”
  “Yes?” El Greco was leaning forward in his chair.
  “And your plan?”
  
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  The Winnowing
  From the doorway, Kendall Jackson let out a low
  moan where she lay on the floor. Owain latched
  onto that sound. Trying not to be too obvious in
  his relief, he walked around the desk and knelt by
  Kendall. With each step, he tried to devise a plan,
  something that he could toss to El Greco to keep
  him content for now, at least until Owain could
  decide what to do about this entire matter. Gen-
  tly, he supported Kendall’s head and neck as he
  raised her to a sitting position. “Ms. Jackson, are
  you all right?”
  She raised a hand to her head, and then her eye-
  lids fluttered open. She moaned again, confused as
  her eyes focused on Owain. Almost instantly, how-
  ever, she was scrambling to her feet, alert for
  danger, reaching for the .45 magnum tucked in her
  waistline. She froze as she saw El Greco sitting not
  ten feet away, scowling slightly but not posing any
  obvious threat at the moment.
  “Ms. Jackson,” said Owain formally, “allow me
  to introduce El Greco, Priscus of the Sabbat, mas-
  ter of Toledo.”
  “Sir, I…” Again she was confused.
  “Would you be so kind, Ms. Jackson,” El Greco
  asked, “as to wait downstairs?”
  Owain nodded his assent and Kendall, all the
  while keeping her gaze locked on El Greco, eased
  her way out of the room. Owain watched her de-
  part, his back turned to El Greco and sorting out
  
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  what to say next. The supposed author of the let-
  ter had hastily settled on a plan that would have
  to do for now.
  “She’s admirably obedient, Owain,” said El
  Greco, referring to Kendall, “and not unattractive.”
  For the second time in the space of an hour,
  Owain’s thoughts were jolted back to the distant
  past. Blodwen is not an unattractive woman. Owain
  had spoken these words also to Morgan, shortly
  before Morgan had killed his own brother, before
  Morgan had become king of Rhufoniog. This time,
  Owain snapped out of the sudden reverie more
  quickly. He still had his back to El Greco, so per-
  haps his host did not realize that Owain had again
  lost his grounding in time for a moment. Was the
  old Toreador doing this on purpose, or could it just
  be coincidence? Were their pasts so linked that
  every phrase was a gateway to memories better
  forgotten?
  “As for your plan, Owain…?”
  Owain turned slowly. “As you said,” he spoke as
  if he had devised his plan weeks ago rather than
  minutes, “Archbishop Monçada will want proof.
  He will not act against Carlos based on hearsay or
  rumors.”
  While Owain explained, El Greco stiffly, even
  painfully, rose from the chair and made his way
  around the desk to his rightful seat. How had he
  bested Ms. Jackson, Owain wondered, without her
  
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  The Winnowing
  even having time to make a sound? But there was
  little time to ponder this question, with El Greco
  waiting somewhat less than patiently.
  “And circumstantial evidence will matter little
  to the archbishop in such a weighty affair,” Owain
  continued. “Even if you had the vial of tainted
  blood that Grimsdale had taken…” Owain paused,
  suddenly positive that he had misremembered the
  name from the letter, but El Greco did not notice-
  ably react, “that would not be proof enough. You
  must find the laboratory where Carlos’s underlings
  conducted the magical experiments. You must find
  it, and you must be able to reveal it to the arch-
  bishop.”
  El Greco thought solemnly for a moment, then
  nodded slowly. “You are correct. You are absolutely
  correct!” His sudden burst of enthusiasm quickly
  died away. “I had thought as much myself. But, of
  course, with this latest advisement from his holiness,
  the archbishop,” El Greco spat the honorific like
  vinegared wine, “my hands are somewhat bound.
  And regardless, I could no more enter Carlos’s do-
  main than Hitler could stroll through Jerusalem.”
  “You do have servants,” Owain reminded him.
  This brought a genuine smile to El Greco’s
  sunken, ashen features. “Indeed, I do.” El Greco
  smiled a bit too purposefully for Owain’s comfort.
  Owain could guess where this was leading, and
  he could see why El Greco had invited him to
  
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  220
  Spain. Owain smiled pleasantly. “I’m so glad I could
  help you with that matter.” He drew his pocket
  watch from his vest and glanced at the hands that
  had not functioned in over three decades. “I’m
  afraid I’ll have to be going. There’s so much to keep
  up with back in Atlanta.” He had not taken even
  half a step out of the room before El Greco called
  his half-hearted bluff.
  “Owain,” El Greco indicated the chair that he
  had recently vacated, “please sit.”
  Owain felt himself bound by old loyalties, oaths
  sworn back when he was less completely jaded.
  Whether he wanted to be or not, he was Sabbat,
  and El Greco was his master, the individual who
  inducted him into the sect. How that galled Owain.
  As he crossed the room to the offered chair, his
  mind was aswirl with scenarios by which he could
  free himself from his responsibilities to El Greco
  and to the Sabbat. This was a matter, he realized,
  that would require much thought, for El Greco,
  having left Owain to his own for the better part of
  two hundred fifty years, was now calling promises
  due. El Greco would not forget. And so Owain
  must find a way to sever the binds that held him.
  As Owain sat, he noticed again how old and tired
  his former friend looked. The bags under El Greco’s
  eyes were large and dark; his narrow face seemed
  fragile in the flickering lamplight.
  “Dawn approaches,” said El Greco, “so I will
  
  221
  The Winnowing
  speak plainly. You will find that laboratory, and
  whatever other proof is necessary to convince
  Monçada that Carlos is to blame for the curse that
  has annihilated much of the Sabbat. You will be-
  gin this evening. Miguel will be here shortly. He
  can tell you what you will need to know. Your con-
  nection to me, of course, must remain secret, and
  should you fail, I shall deny knowledge of both your
  presence in Spain and your task.”
  It was as Owain had suspected. “And if I refuse?”
  he asked as if in jest.
  El Greco found no humor in the question. “Then
  I will reveal your ties to the Sabbat to your
  Camarilla brethren, and for every night of your
  unlife henceforth, both war party and justicar will
  hunt you as a traitor, and the only peace you will
  know will be after you are staked out for the morn-
  ing sun.”
  Owain slowly stood. “I see.” So much for the ties
  of friendship, he thought. Threats are much more
  compelling. He left the room without again look-
  ing at or speaking to El Greco. There was no doubt
  in Owain’s mind that he would be free of this bur-
  densome Cainite. The only questions were when
  and how.
  
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  222
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  The biting wind whipped through the streets of
  Kreuzberg, but to Wilhelm it was little more than
  a summer breeze. He wore only a light jacket over
  his turtleneck. On his arm, Henriette in her thin,
  clinging sweater attracted the stares of passersby as
  she and her sire exited the Berlin Museum.
  Wilhelm did not begrudge the bystanders their rov-
  ing glances. His childe was a creature of beauty. Her
  physical perfection along with the deep soulfulness
  of her pale blue eyes had attracted him initially,
  and he had come to enjoy the envy she evoked
  from others. It was an almost tangible reminder of
  his success, of the status and prestige that he had
  achieved. Amidst dealing with the ravages of the
  
  223
  The Winnowing
  blood curse upon his city, there had been few oc-
  casions recently when he had derived satisfaction
  of any sort from his position.
  In the museum, Wilhelm had been showing
  Henriette the scaled models of Berlin as it had
  grown and changed over the years, from the mod-
  est stadt of the 1500s to the international center
  of the present. Wilhelm remembered the city from
  even earlier, and he had pointed out to Henriette
  some of the minor inaccuracies of the models. This
  visit, too, had served as a reminder to Wilhelm that
  he was the prince of a great city, that whatever
  challenges arose, he would conquer them, that like
  the spirit of the German people, he could not be
  broken.
  There was much to challenge his spirit these
  nights. As if the curse were not enough, Gustav
  was proving as obstinate and confrontational as
  ever. Wilhelm protectively stroked the flawless skin
  of Henriette’s forearm. The scars that she carried
  from Gustav’s tortures were not visible to the na-
  ked eye, but Wilhelm could see them when he
  looked at her face—the doubt and fear in her eyes.
  How could I have risked her? Why did I send her as
  the messenger? he asked himself. But risking her
  could have saved the city, if only Gustav had, for
  once, proven reasonable and sane, and Wilhelm
  knew that he would make the same decision again,
  as did Henriette. And thus the pain in her eyes.
  
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  224
  Doubtless some of the passersby who saw the
  prince and his childe leaving the museum won-
  dered how they had managed to be inside so late
  in the evening, but power, Wilhelm knew, carried
  its own rewards. Probably few of those same pass-
  ersby, captivated by Henriette’s beauty and
  Wilhelm’s charming smile, would notice the pres-
  ence of Peter Kleist several paces behind the couple
  he so capably guarded. Without drawing attention
  to himself, Kleist constantly scanned their sur-
  roundings. No one in the vicinity of the prince
  escaped Kleist’s awareness. Occasionally he would
  move off to one side or the other or out in front,
  his mere presence subliminally warding off poten-
  tially rowdy or troublesome mortals. The Kindred
  of Berlin knew better than to try anything while
  he was on watch.
  As Henriette and Wilhelm crossed the street
  from the museum, she squeezed her sire’s arm
  warmly. “It’s been so long since we’ve gone out for
  a pleasurable evening.”
  Wilhelm patted her hand gently. It had been a
  long time since he’d been able to do anything plea-
  surable, but being with his beautiful childe could
  almost take his mind off his omnipresent responsi-
  bilities. He had opened his mouth to respond when
  Kleist brushed past him. At the same time,
  Wilhelm noticed the attention of the mortals on
  the street shifting down the block. Around the cor-
  
  225
  The Winnowing
  ner came a man running. Not a jogger, or some-
  one late for an appointment. This was a Turk,
  Wilhelm saw, dressed casually, but not appropri-
  ately for an all-out sprint. As Wilhelm and
  Henriette watched, the man passed Kleist, who had
  positioned himself between them and the fleeing
  Turk.
  “He’s frightened to death,” said Henriette.
  “Of what, I wonder,” Wilhelm pondered.
  The nearby mortals also watched with curiosity
  and some confusion as the man continued franti-
  cally on his way, panting, speaking to no one. They
  shared the common thought that if the Turk were
  running, someone was chasing him—the police? a
  jealous husband? No one knew.
  Wilhelm was more curious than concerned. He
  was a predator in his city, not prey.
  “Look!” Kleist was the first to catch a glimpse of
  the mob swarming around the corner from the di-
  rection the Turk had come. They were young,
  fair-skinned men for the most part, some with
  shaved heads, many wearing jackboots, all yelling
  and angry. They wielded clubs or beer bottles, and
  they spread out to occupy the width of the street.
  Traffic stopped. The members of the mob poured
  around and over the cars in their way. If the driver
  was the least bit darkly complected, the hoodlums
  dragged him or her from the vehicle and began
  beating and kicking.
  
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  226
  Wilhelm’s first response was anger. His instinct
  was to dive into the mob and put a stop to their
  racist violence. He cared less for the well-being of
  the individual victims than he did for the image
  of his city. Such riots only served to blacken the
  image of Berlin across the world.
  But the crowd was too large. Many sported swas-
  tika armbands or tattoos. Wilhelm saw two
  neo-Nazis smash a windshield. Nearby, a shop win-
  dow shattered. The throng was surging down the
  street, seemingly swallowing all that stood in its
  way—automobiles, pedestrians. The mortals near
  Wilhelm, captivated until now by shock, began
  edging nervously away. Then, one by one, they
  turned and fled headlong.
  “This way!” Kleist grabbed Wilhelm’s arm. They
  were too far from the museum already, so Kleist
  pulled them toward a nearby sidestreet. Once the
  three were moving, Wilhelm and Henriette needed
  no further encouragement to vacate the main thor-
  oughfare. Twenty yards down the sidestreet, they
  stopped and turned back to watch.
  “Damn them!” Wilhelm muttered. It was not his
  nature generally to openly criticize. Such was not
  politic. Even those of whom he disapproved had
  agendas that Wilhelm could discover and use to
  his benefit. Every enemy was a potential resource,
  but these riots, these acts of senseless violence and
  destruction only harmed his city. There were ele-
  
  227
  The Winnowing
  ments of German society that abhorred the immi-
  grants Wilhelm had welcomed with open arms for
  the diversity of skills they brought to Berlin. Let
  the dissenters address that issue, not lash out with this
  barbarism! How have we Germans achieved the peak
  of world civilizations with such cretins as countrymen?
  The head of the crowd pressed past the street
  where Wilhelm, Henriette, and Kleist had sought
  cover. The sound of more shattering glass filled the
  air. The racist chants of the mob took on a rhyth-
  mic, fevered pitch. Turks, Jews, Pakistanis—all
  were targets of the free-flowing hatred.
  As he watched, Wilhelm only grew angrier. He
  strongly believed that the majority of Germans fa-
  vored liberal immigration policies as did he, but
  that majority did not demonstrate, did not make
  its voice heard so loudly and consistently.
  “Dear God!” cried Henriette.
  As Wilhelm’s anger was channeled into socio-
  political theory, a portion of the mob suddenly
  broke away from the main body and rushed down
  the sidestreet. Either they had lost track of what
  direction the Turk had run or, more likely, the riot
  had grown beyond the original purpose of appre-
  hending a particular individual, and these people
  were intent only on spreading destruction wher-
  ever they might. With unusual speed, the first of
  the hoodlums covered the yards that had separated
  Wilhelm and the others from the bedlam.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  228
  “Here!” Kleist shouted again, as he quickly ush-
  ered Wilhelm and Henriette toward the edge of the
  street. They turned their backs to the buildings.
  With their vampiric powers to influence mortal
  minds, they should have had little trouble blend-
  ing into the thronging mass of people, but though
  the first of the rioters did pass by, seemingly oblivi-
  ous to their presence, a ring of thugs from the
  following ranks quickly formed around the prince,
  his childe, and the bodyguard.
  “This shouldn’t be happening,” said Kleist.
  “Not if this were a normal mob,” Wilhelm agreed,
  but as he said so, he sensed among those surround-
  ing them several ghouls and at least one vampire,
  probably an anarch judging by the weakness of his
  aura. But numbers could make up for power.
  After a moment’s hesitation, the gang pounced.
  Kleist whipped a Luger from beneath his jacket and
  began firing. Wilhelm, too, was taking no prison-
  ers. He crushed the skull of the first skinhead who
  rushed him. The prince was distracted slightly by
  concern for his childe, but a quick glance revealed
  that, for the time being, she was holding her own,
  dodging the larger men who were trying to tackle
  and weigh her down. She lashed out with kicks and
  claws, hamstringing an opponent here, slashing
  eyes there. She was by no means defenseless.
  All around, chaos swept through Kreuzberg. The
  rioters were destroying cars, setting buildings ablaze.
  
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  The Winnowing
  Kleist rapidly emptied his clip and was then swal-
  lowed by the tide of mortals and ghouls rushing
  toward him. Wilhelm warded off blows as best he
  could, but the press of the thronging attackers lim-
  ited his movement and the effectiveness of his own
  blows. A club to the back of his head, a blow hard
  enough to kill a mortal, drew blood. Someone hit
  his knees. The prince faltered, stumbled. And then
  he was on the ground, and people were piling on
  top of him, the weight of their bodies full upon him.
  He heard and felt his own ribs snapping.
  This was no random mob. Not even the Final
  Reich, that collection of fascist Brujah and
  Malkavians, could assemble this many foot soldiers.
  Wilhelm could feel the presence of other vampires
  in the crowd. They were moving in. The smell of
  death brought them strong and thick. This riot had
  the mark of Gustav all over it. He used hatred and
  fear to manipulate all those around him.
  Wilhelm could struggle no longer. Even with this
  preternatural strength, his movement was so ham-
  pered by the horde atop him that he could mount
  no effective defense. He had no idea if Henriette
  or Kleist were faring any better.
  As the prince’s head was kicked to the side, he
  saw the ring of rioters part. A man in Nazi garb
  stepped through and threw something. Instantly,
  the entire world was a flash of fire and pain. A
  Molotov cocktail. The flames seared away Wilhelm’s
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  230
  skin. Screams of agony filled the air, as did the smell
  of petrol and burning flesh.
  Kli Kodesh opened his eyes upon riot. His eyes
  were glossy black and expressionless. It was as if
  the artist who had carved the marble features had,
  as an afterthought, added two quick daubs of paint
  to the smooth sockets.
  Kli Kodesh quickly took the measure of this city
  divided against itself. Its most telling feature was a
  fresh pink scar that seemed to cleave the city in
  two. It was as if the metropolis had built itself
  around some great scab and then worried it until
  the wound bled afresh.
  Berlin.
  He needed no atlas to put a name to this place
  or its people. Among the sharp young businessmen,
  he recognized many of the same faces he had seen
  waving torches in the Forum in the last days of the
  Republic.
  He wondered that those who burned the trea-
  suries of Rome now found themselves the
  champions of an economic community that
  spanned all of Europe. People, like cities, Kli
  Kodesh reflected, are continuous in time. They are
  often, however, discontinuous in purpose.
  He banished such conjectures from his mind.
  Thoughts of the City of Seven Hills always put him
  
  231
  The Winnowing
  in a foul humor. Images of Caesar, minted in sil-
  ver, often intruded upon his rest.
  To banish the lingering doubts, he threw him-
  self into his work. The violence spread out below
  him like the face of a shattered mirror. There were
  clues here for those with eyes to see—hints of a
  pattern of great subtlety.
  With exacting precision, Kli Kodesh traced the
  familiar lines of a pattern he had first discerned
  thousands of miles away, in the City of Angels. Like
  the augurs of the accursed city upon the Tiber, he
  had little difficulty reading the portents—distill-
  ing the flashing arc of a knife, the spurt of blood,
  the tumble of entrails.
  One could not be immersed in violence and be-
  trayal for as long as he had without acquiring an
  intimate knowledge of the rituals that adorned
  these crimes. Yes, the omens ran true. Surely some
  great reckoning was at hand.
  Kli Kodesh blinked and looked again. The pat-
  tern had shifted slightly. Somewhere, in the heart
  of the riotous maelstrom, someone was manipulat-
  ing the delicate strands of emerging truth.
  He focused on the heart of the disturbance. The
  anomaly was spreading out in languid circles,
  originating from somewhere deep beneath the
  streets of the city. Kli Kodesh could get no bear-
  ing, however, on the power behind the disturbance.
  It was alien, not of his kind.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  232
  The art of weaving the ancient prophecies had
  been lost long before Kli Kodesh had first awak-
  ened to this nightmare. He could only watch in
  wonder as one dark thread of the pattern doubled
  and then redoubled itself—gathering power, tens-
  ing to spring.
  Suddenly and silently, it streaked off into the
  night, like a shooting star run in reverse. Kli
  Kodesh doubted that he would have been able to
  pick it out at all if he had not been watching it
  directly.
  His mind, however, was honed to this work by
  centuries of waiting. Before the new star had
  reached its zenith and burned out amidst the
  smudge of the Milky Way, he had already calcu-
  lated its exact angle of descent.
  Without a second thought, he turned his back
  upon the carnage still raging through the streets
  of Berlin. With a twist of will, he caught the tail
  of the vanishing comet and rode it westward—to-
  ward Iberia and the man that awaited at the far
  edge of the strand of dark prophecy.
  Walking through the narrow, twisting streets of
  Toledo brought memories of bygone years flooding
  over Owain. Not so much in the early evening
  when the tourists were wandering about, but after
  the shops and restaurants that catered to the for-
  
  233
  The Winnowing
  eigners closed, he was hard-pressed to tell if this
  was a city of the twentieth century or of the four-
  teenth. The Moorish architecture still caught his
  eye. The sprinkling of Gothic, Renaissance, Ba-
  roque, and modern buildings were an anomaly to
  Owain, centuries of window dressings by people
  who had occupied Toledo, but never captured its
  heart. The austerity of the Moors, the plain,
  rounded arches, the relatively unadorned facades,
  these held for Owain the measure of the city—a
  sense of hidden brooding, of schemes behind face-
  less walls, of traps laid for the unwary. Ignoring the
  presence of automobiles and other obtrusive re-
  minders of the modern age, Owain could imagine
  the year was 1380, or 1830, but even those were
  not fabled golden years. Plotting, politics, death.
  From the day of his birth, they had been ever-
  present. There was no time Owain could think of,
  spanning ten centuries and two continents, in
  which pain and suffering had not followed him like
  his shadow.
  Most of the other Cainites that Owain had
  known here had perished over the years. All save
  El Greco and Miguel. Owain was not surprised that
  Miguel had survived. A cockroach among men.
  The previous night, or early morning rather,
  Miguel had arrived and consulted with El Greco
  shortly after Owain had left him. Then Miguel had
  informed Owain that he would not have to go even
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  234
  as far as Madrid to locate Carlos. El Greco’s en-
  emy was much closer. “Why is he here in Toledo?”
  Owain had asked incredulously upon hearing that
  news, but Miguel had offered no further explana-
  tion.
  “You will leave here tomorrow evening,” Miguel
  informed Owain, “and not return. If you must con-
  tact us, there is a small pottery shop across from la
  Iglesia de San Nicolas. Ask for me. You will be given
  instructions.”
  “And if I would like to confer with El Greco…?”
  “Contact me only if you must. You will not speak
  with El Greco again until this matter is resolved,”
  Miguel said bluntly. “We have already taken too
  many chances in keeping you here.” He handed
  Owain a small, sealed envelope. “This is the ad-
  dress and the key for a small house where you can
  stay.”
  At that point, dawn was rapidly approaching and
  the debate was cut short. Besides, Owain had
  thought, eternity is too short to spend it arguing with
  Miguel. Owain had won the concession that
  Kendall Jackson would remain, for the time being,
  with El Greco. “Until I make contact with Carlos,
  she will only be in the way. Afterward, I may need
  her.” Miguel, pressed by the need to return to his
  haven, reluctantly acquiesced.
  Owain gave brief instructions to Kendall. “Keep
  your eyes and ears open here. Each night at mid-
  
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  The Winnowing
  night, wait at the Puerta del Sol. Come and go by
  different routes. Make sure you are not followed.
  Stay for no more than fifteen minutes. If I need
  you, I will meet you there.”
  Tonight, with little more in the way of prepara-
  tion for this deadly quest, Owain had left the
  colorless house that was El Greco’s—and yet
  strangely was not. I know El Greco, Owain pon-
  dered. Or at least I did. He could not be content in
  such a dwelling. It lacks all the trappings, all the aes-
  thetic touches that were so important to him. After all,
  it had been not even a century since Owain had
  seen El Greco last. Could a Cainite change so dra-
  matically in such a short period?
  Owain’s wanderings took him east past the ca-
  thedral and then south to the edge of the Rio Tajo.
  The river surrounded Toledo on three sides, all but
  the north. The often steep and rocky banks lent
  natural defense to the city which, nonetheless, had
  changed hands numerous times over the ages—
  Romans, Visigoths, Moors, Christians. The
  struggles for control were by no means restricted
  to the mortal world. The clans of the undead had
  just as long and bloody a history here. Young Span-
  ish Brujah had fought both their own elders and
  the restrictive Ventrue hierarchy. The fiendish
  Tzimisce, as well as the Lasombra and the dreaded
  Assamites, had joined the Brujah. The Anarch
  Revolt, as the conflict had come to be known, had
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  236
  failed, but from its ashes rose the Sabbat, carrying
  on to this day the battle against Cainite tyranny.
  How ironic, Owain again thought, that it was the
  Sabbat with its doctrine of freedom that was tyr-
  annizing him. Just as with that brief experiment
  that had been Soviet Russia, there was theory and
  there was practice. The utopian ideals of commu-
  nist theory were no more immune to the abuses of
  corruption and megalomania than were other so-
  cial structures. In much the same way, the Sabbat
  had come to resemble its nemesis, the Camarilla,
  in all the worst ways. Self-aggrandizing leaders pre-
  tended to act in the interest of the sect while
  actually doing everything they could to maintain
  their personal grip on power. Underlings struggled
  aggressively and treacherously to climb the ladder
  of status and prestige, only to fall victim to the fre-
  quent purges orchestrated by the elders. Chaos and
  violence had superseded freedom.
  None of this was new to Owain. He had seen
  the cycle of decay through a perspective of years
  that few Cainites could match. He had been part
  of the charade. Centuries before the Anarch Re-
  volt, before the Sabbat had added its bloodlust to
  the night, and the Camarilla its hollow Masquer-
  ade, he had perpetrated the basest cruelties,
  ostensibly in the name of freedom. But he had
  learned that the roads to freedom and to power fol-
  low similar routes, and not until they diverge does
  
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  The Winnowing
  the traveler truly know where he is. And maybe
  not then.
  Owain moved quickly as he followed the course
  of the river northwest. Did the Tajo protect the city
  of Toledo, he wondered, or did it constrain it, cut-
  ting off avenues of expansion and growth? It was
  not a question he could answer. Owain shortly
  found himself at the base of the Puerta del
  Cambron. The gate had been altered many times
  since that night when he had perched atop it and
  watched as the Jews had been expelled from the
  city. Two additional towers had been added and the
  facade extensively redesigned. The gate had once
  been known as Jews’ Gate, but after the Jewish
  quarter of the city was emptied, the sobriquet was
  something of a misnomer.
  With grace and ease, Owain scaled the tower wall
  and found a comfortable perch from which to gaze
  out over the city of his past. It was difficult for him
  to believe that among the United States, Spain,
  France, and his native Wales, he had spent the
  most time residing here, even discounting the two
  and a half centuries of torpor. Still, he felt a
  stranger. Despite the general familiarity and the
  nostalgia of remembrance, he had never felt at
  home in Spain. The people, the language, the ter-
  rain—none were above mastery, but neither were
  they his beloved Wales.
  Owain refused to follow that vein of thought. He
  
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  238
  was too easily swayed into romanticizing what had
  gone before. How many years in Atlanta had he
  dwelled in the past? That same siren song that had
  reawakened his ability to feel the past, rather than
  merely to long for it, had also enabled him, once
  again, truly to experience the present. Such was
  the gift of life to a vampire. To become stagnant
  in the past was to wither and die, as surely as if he
  had succumbed to the blood curse.
  The reality of the present, however, was grim as
  well. El Greco held all the cards, or so it seemed.
  If Owain refused what El Greco had requested,
  what El Greco had ordered, then El Greco would
  expose Owain. He would be found out as both a
  traitor to the Camarilla and to the Sabbat, to be
  hunted down to the end of his nights. Never again
  would he have a moment’s peace. His unlife would
  consist of fleeing from one temporary haven to the
  next, always wondering how long his luck would
  hold out. Though his appearance was that of a
  mortal slightly over twenty, Owain was too old for
  that type of existence. He would rather meet final
  death—not altogether out of the question consid-
  ering his current mission.
  If any trace of his and El Greco’s friendship sur-
  vived, Owain decided, El Greco would not have
  coerced him into such a course of action. Together,
  they could have come up with a more reasonable
  plan; but El Greco had made up his mind about
  
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  The Winnowing
  what needed to happen before Owain had even
  arrived. I could have admitted that I didn’t write the
  letter, Owain pondered. But would he even have be-
  lieved me? It would have seemed too convenient,
  as if Owain were merely trying to avoid the ser-
  vice he had sworn to provide so many years ago.
  Also, for whatever good it did him, by not admit-
  ting that he hadn’t written the letters, Owain had
  the advantage of knowledge denied to El Greco.
  Owain knew that someone had perfectly forged not
  only his handwriting, but his tone and word choice
  as well. Reading the letter, even Owain could have
  believed that he had written it. Who could know
  his mind so well?
  So Owain played along, and here he was, charged
  with the task of infiltrating Carlos’s faction, finding
  the secret laboratory in which the curse was alleg-
  edly devised, and then securing proof to fulfill a
  vendetta which, in the first place, was expressly for-
  bidden by Archbishop Monçada. Owain sighed. He
  watched the water flowing serenely beneath the
  bridge to the south, the Puente de San Martin. Was
  there ever a Cainite, Owain wondered, who had
  found serenity? Perhaps that was the worst of the
  curse of vampirism. Though the lives of mortals, too,
  were consumed by fearful striving, they at least en-
  joyed the solace and the release of death. For Owain
  and his kind, there was no relief in death, only con-
  tinued fear, continued striving.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  240
  Whether it was fear or hatred, or both, that mo-
  tivated El Greco, he was certainly striving to rid
  himself of his enemy. Owain could sympathize with
  that desire, but the manner in which El Greco had
  enlisted Owain’s aid left Owain cold. El Greco
  could at least have explored the possibility of
  Owain offering to help of his own volition. As far
  as Owain had read, the letter had not been an of-
  fer to solve the problem but rather a sharing of
  information. No, as with any interaction among
  the Cainites, beneath the obvious topic, the de-
  struction of Carlos, there was a subtext of control,
  and Owain had already decided that he would not
  be controlled. If he were able to fulfill this mission,
  if he managed to contact Carlos and to live to speak
  of the encounter, it must be in a manner that would
  ensure that El Greco no longer exercised control
  over Owain. It was unlikely, Owain suspected, that
  El Greco, out of the goodness of his heart, would
  release him from his commitments. That left trick-
  ery or violence, or both, to eliminate El Greco’s
  advantage.
  Owain believed he could probably destroy
  Miguel, and the task would not be without its plea-
  sure. Owain might also be able to destroy El Greco
  himself, though that would be a closer task. But
  even if treachery succeeded, how many servants or
  allies of El Greco would be aware of the deed? The
  driver of the Mercedes, the ghouls Maria and
  
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  The Winnowing
  Ferdinand—were there others? If so, would they
  rejoice at the downfall of their master, or would
  they seek vengeance, and spread word of what
  Owain had done? There was no way to know, and
  Owain was not one to leave a foul deed only par-
  tially done.
  He would bide his time, Owain decided. He
  would pursue this goal of finding Carlos. The op-
  portunity would present itself, Owain knew. He
  would remain watchful, and he would be rid of El
  Greco.
  Finding Carlos, however, meant taking action,
  not perching atop a gate to history and reminisc-
  ing about the past. Owain made his way down and
  headed back toward the heart of the old city. He
  had not seen any Cainites earlier, but he had not
  been looking very diligently. He had been playing
  the tourist, strolling through the streets and soak-
  ing up the ambience but noticing little of detail.
  It was late now, and few mortals roamed the dark
  streets. Again Owain climbed, taking to the roof-
  tops of the low buildings. Walking down the street,
  he would more likely be the observed rather than
  the observer. Owain made his way back toward the
  cathedral, moving from building to building with
  powerful leaps and silent landings. No mortal, on
  the street below or in the buildings beneath
  Owain’s feet, would be aware of his passing. The
  north wind carried away the sound of his steps, the
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  242
  very darkness cushioned his every footfall. Even
  among his own kind, Owain was skilled at moving
  unnoticed through the night; an odd gift for a
  Ventrue, but one that had served him well.
  Thus, after perhaps two hours of searching,
  Owain felt an unmistakable sensation, the innate
  awareness that alerts a Cainite to the presence of
  another of his breed nearby. He was not surprised
  when he came to the edge of a shop above a nar-
  row alleyway and peered down, careful not to
  present a clear silhouette against the sky above.
  At first, he saw only shadow. The position of the
  moon did not allow any of its reflected light to pen-
  etrate the depths of the alley. The darkness,
  however, was no match for Owain’s vampiric eyes.
  He saw in the mask of the shadows the individual
  he had sensed moments before. The Cainite was
  hunched over a still body—as he fed from it, no
  doubt—and gave no indication of having heard
  Owain. The intensity of the shadows in the alley
  suggested to Owain that this vampire did not want
  to be seen. Only Owain’s acute awareness had cut
  through the other’s powers to obscure.
  “Greetings, friend,” said Owain from the roof-
  top, confident of his ability to conceal his exact
  whereabouts.
  The vampire below swung about quickly, fling-
  ing blood from his fangs. He glared all around, then
  upward, but his eyes, glowing red as he scanned the
  
  243
  The Winnowing
  night, passed over Owain without pausing. The
  Spanish Cainite appeared to be in his twenties or
  thirties, the receding of his hairline eternally halted
  at midcourse. The boy he fed on was younger, per-
  haps fifteen, and had certainly paid the price for
  violating his curfew. “Come here,” said the vam-
  pire.
  Owain recognized the tone of voice, he felt the
  power in the words, but to one of his age, the com-
  mand of a brash youngster was but a trifle. “I think
  not.”
  The Cainite in the alley continued to scan his
  surroundings. Clearly, he was not close to deter-
  mining Owain’s location. Not yet. “Where are
  you?” the vampire demanded, but received no re-
  sponse. “Who are you?”
  “Save your questions and answer mine,” Owain
  taunted, careful still to mask his presence, lest his
  voice give him away. “I am searching for Carlos.
  Do you know of him?”
  The vampire below smiled. He stepped over the
  unconscious boy, more interested now in this
  strange disembodied voice in the night. “Do I know
  of him?” The vampire laughed. He was addressing
  his comments upward now. He had discerned that
  much of Owain’s location. “This is his city. I serve
  him.”
  Carlos’s city? Owain was taken aback by this.
  What of El Greco? Toledo had long been the prov-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  244
  ince of the Greek. “You are not from here,” Owain
  accused.
  The vampire squinted, puzzled by that. He was
  staring very intently now at a spot not too far from
  Owain. “Carlos does not tolerate trespassers in his
  city. Who are you?”
  “Tell Carlos,” said Owain, “that Morgan has ar-
  rived, and I would offer him a bargain.”
  “What is your name again, friend?”
  “You heard,” Owain again taunted, “and you will
  tell him.”
  The balding Sabbat vampire launched himself
  into the air, razor-sharp claws swinging as he landed
  on the roof, but Owain was already three rooftops
  away. Silently, Owain lowered himself from the
  building and was off through the city streets.
  Carlos. This is his city, the vampire had said. The
  words echoed in Owain’s mind. How could it be?
  El Greco had said nothing of this. This is his city.
  Nicholas almost didn’t notice when the city first
  became visible. It blended somewhat with the low
  hills, dried by winter; many of the stone buildings
  shared similar shading with the rocky soil on both
  sides of the river that snaked around Toledo.
  Nicholas had not seen this city before. He was fa-
  miliar with much of Germany, France, his native
  Russia, but he had roamed little across Spain. His
  
  245
  The Winnowing
  unfamiliarity with the region was only one reason,
  however, that he happened upon the city sooner
  than he had expected.
  Distraction was not a malady that normally af-
  fected the Gangrel. A clan of hunters conditioned
  to the wilds, they were known for their awareness
  of their surroundings, for noting every rustling
  bush, for taking account of every depression and
  rise beneath their feet. But Nicholas’s mind was
  absorbed by thoughts of vengeance—no, by more
  than vengeance—by pure animal fury. A rage far
  more primal than anything Blackfeather could
  comprehend burned deep within Nicholas’s breast.
  The Cherokee Gangrel had spoken of harnessing
  the inner rage, of learning the lessons it had to
  teach. But there was no taming that which was
  growing within Nicholas. To attempt such was to
  deny his own nature, to live as pretender within
  the confines of mortal society. Nicholas could pull
  it off when he had no other choice, but the task
  was becoming more and more difficult.
  The trip by boat across the Atlantic had been
  less arduous than Nicholas had remembered. He
  had traversed the ocean several times in his exist-
  ence, but his more recent crossings had been by
  air. Though always vaguely uncomfortable with the
  idea of flying in a man-made contraption, he had
  been seduced by the rapidity of the transport. This
  trip over the surface of the sea, however, had not
  
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  246
  seemed cumbersome. Nicholas had rested deep
  within the hold by day, while at night he had come
  out on the gently rocking deck to gaze at stars, the
  sight of which revived memories of other nights
  long ago watching the same points of light above
  the ocean. He could again hear the rhythmic swash
  of the oars and the steady drumbeat as the oars-
  men silently propelled his Viking ship forward.
  Then he had been going west, not east, and the
  route had lain far to the north. He could note eas-
  ily the altered position of the familiar
  constellations. Ragnar. Nicholas was Gangrel, wan-
  derer of the world, teller of stories. He knew well
  the tales of his great-grandsire. But these were not
  mere stories that he remembered. He saw the stars
  that Ragnar saw, felt the same swell of ocean lift-
  ing the hull. Traveling, on the move, he was
  content. For a few brief nights, Nicholas found the
  serenity of his ancestor. The solitude of wide open
  plains was replaced by the expansive calm of the
  ocean, the purple-black sky that spread uninter-
  rupted from horizon to horizon.
  Nicholas was almost able to forget that which
  drove him, though it was Ragnar’s blood, too, that
  screamed for vengeance. As the boat had chugged
  into Lisbon harbor, the modern world again thrust
  itself upon Nicholas. Piers and other boats closed
  in upon him; the sounds and smells of humanity
  stole away the quiet of the ocean at night. The city
  
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  The Winnowing
  lights on the horizon too quickly enveloped him,
  rekindling his resentment, his hatred, his fury.
  He slipped off the boat without a word to
  Blackfeather’s captain friend, not because of in-
  gratitude, but because the fury was once again upon
  him and he could not restrain it. Amidst the re-
  newed stink of humanity, Nicholas hunted and fed,
  fiercely, roughly. He left the man lying in the gut-
  ter, perhaps still living, perhaps not. Nicholas could
  no longer bring himself to respect the Masquerade.
  It was a concession to the mortals who had rav-
  aged the wildernesses. He continued quickly east
  and that same night was far away from Lisbon.
  Blackfeather had said that Evans had touched
  down in Madrid, but Nicholas could now feel that
  his destination had shifted. Not from Madrid but
  from Toledo the blood called him. The content-
  ment of the ocean voyage grew increasingly distant
  as Nicholas made his way across the arid interior
  of Iberia. This was a land of human poverty, of
  small villages cloistered among barren soil and te-
  nacious brush. A determined ruggedness pervaded
  all that survived here, and the untamed wildness
  stirred the blood rage that had been growing within
  Nicholas. Owain Evans. Defiler of Clan Gangrel.
  Reclaim the blood. This became Nicholas’s unspo-
  ken mantra. The sentiment, if not the words,
  measured his every stride. He could feel his claws
  rending flesh, taste the tang of vitae reclaimed. His
  
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  thoughts were occupied thus when he crested a
  bluff and nearly missed the outline of Toledo in the
  distance.
  Nicholas could still feel the energy of the ritual
  he and Blackfeather had performed. The power of
  the blood could not be silenced, and it called to
  the Gangrel across the miles. Somewhere in the
  city ahead was the violator of the clan, and Nicho-
  las was very close.
  
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  CHAPTER EIGHT
  Never before had Eleanor set foot in Hannah’s pri-
  vate office, and the prince’s wife could not help but
  suspect that the disorder within was a result of the
  crisis gripping the Kindred world. To many, the dis-
  array might not have been apparent—notes and
  papers spread across the desk, open books stacked
  atop one another on every table around the room,
  several vials scattered about, empty except for the
  darkened residue of blood—but Eleanor was familiar
  with the completely fastidious state in which Hannah
  normally maintained her chantry. The only thing
  more amazing than the current state of the office was
  the fact that Eleanor was allowed to see it so. One of
  the neonates had led her here to wait for Hannah.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  After a very few minutes, Hannah walked briskly
  into the room carrying an armload of aged, leather-
  bound books, which she almost dropped upon
  seeing Eleanor waiting for her. “Eleanor!” Hannah
  quickly regained her composure. “What a pleasant
  surprise.” Eleanor suspected more surprise than
  pleasant. “Kathleen showed you in?”
  “Yes. She was such a dear.” How embarrassing,
  Eleanor knew, to be caught unaware in such a man-
  ner. It was not intentional that she had been
  allowed to view this inner sanctum. Undoubtedly,
  Kathleen was supposed to seat guests in one of the
  more comfortable and tidy rooms. Hannah, Eleanor
  was certain, would not permit such a lapse to go
  unpunished. “I received your message that you had
  completed the experiments.”
  Hannah set down the books she carried on one
  of the smaller piles of books she could find. “I see,”
  she said. “I did not expect you to stop by so soon.”
  “This is an important matter,” Eleanor explained
  sweetly.
  “I see,” said Hannah again. She opened a cabi-
  net behind her desk and removed a pillow covered
  by a white silk cloth. She placed the pillow on her
  desk before Eleanor and removed the cloth. Nestled
  atop the red velvet of the pillow was the sparkling
  steel and gold of the dagger Pierre had found while
  following the Gangrel. Pierre having been scared
  off the job, and the Gangrel not available for ques-
  
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  The Winnowing
  tioning, Eleanor had brought the dagger here to the
  Tremere chantry. If anyone could help, Eleanor rea-
  soned, it would be the Atlanta regent. Even should
  the task have proven too much for Hannah, then
  at least Eleanor would have had that to hold over
  her friend.
  “Have you had any luck?” Eleanor innocently
  inquired.
  Hannah’s fatigue was readily apparent. She was
  harried and short-handed. Before the curse, several
  neonates would have been evident scurrying
  around the large chantry on Ponce de Leon Av-
  enue. Today, Eleanor had seen only Kathleen
  briefly, and now all was quiet. Most of Hannah’s
  time, no doubt, was taken investigating the dread
  curse. She was attempting to satisfy Benison, her
  prince, as well as her Tremere superiors around the
  world who were also occupied trying to unscramble
  the mystery of the curse. On top of all this, Eleanor
  had asked a personal favor of Hannah: Examine the
  dagger. Tell me whatever you can about it.
  Eleanor had been no more specific than that. She
  realized that it might have been helpful to Hannah
  to have more information to go on, but the chance
  that the dagger would prove to be anything mean-
  ingful was minuscule. Just because Pierre had
  followed some strange Gangrel to the burned-down
  church and found a dagger did not mean that it
  would prove useful. It was only Eleanor’s dream that
  
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  the dagger was somehow connected to Owain
  Evans, and she had seen too many dreams left un-
  fulfilled in her time. There was always the
  possibility that Pierre, trying to retain a scrap of
  dignity, had been less than forthright in relating
  how he had come to possess the dagger. With so
  many possible avenues to failure, Eleanor was not
  about to reveal her desire to discredit Owain or,
  more importantly, the reason underlying her quest
  for justice.
  Hannah let the dagger rest on the pillow between
  them for several moments without comment. With
  her left hand she rubbed her eyes, then massaged
  the bridge of her nose. “What I did,” she explained
  at last, “was to trace the auras with which the dag-
  ger has been associated. Normally, I should be able
  to divine information of a general sort about who-
  ever had possessed the object.” Hannah looked up
  to make sure Eleanor understood so far. “The stron-
  ger the attachment to the object or the more
  intense an emotional experience connected to the
  object, the clearer the picture I am able to envi-
  sion of the individual involved.”
  Eleanor nodded. She was hopeful, but at the
  same time was preparing herself for disappoint-
  ment.
  “The passage of time,” Hannah continued,
  “weakens the links to the object, obscures the as-
  sociated auras. So except for the most recent or
  
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  The Winnowing
  emotionally charged situations, this process often
  proves fruitless.”
  Eleanor was still nodding politely. Her patience
  was waning. She did not need a discourse on the
  arcane practices of the Tremere. “I understand.”
  Hannah paused. She stared at the dagger for a
  long while. Finally, she removed it from the pil-
  low and cradled the blade and hilt gingerly with
  her fingertips. “In my investigation, I found sev-
  eral auras connected to the dagger.” Eleanor edged
  forward on her seat. “The first, though most recent,
  was very faint,” Hannah said. “I sensed fear, and
  little else. This individual was definitely Cainite;
  my guess would be a Toreador, but that is far from
  certain.”
  Eleanor nodded knowingly. Pierre, no doubt.
  “Before that is a stronger aura,” said Hannah.
  “Not necessarily strongly associated with the dag-
  ger, but quite bestial, predatory.”
  That description, Eleanor knew, could fit any of
  thousands of Kindred, but it certainly was not in-
  consistent with the story of the Gangrel that Pierre
  had related. So far, Hannah seemed to be on tar-
  get with her magical sleuthing, but she had told
  Eleanor nothing that she didn’t already know.
  Again Hannah paused. She continued reluc-
  tantly. “Before I go on, Eleanor, I feel I must request
  it be remembered that, though I uncover informa-
  tion that may be displeasing to yourself or to the
  
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  prince, I am not associated with the information
  except as messenger. I do not wish to be held re-
  sponsible for any unfortunate knowledge my
  investigation might bring to light.”
  “Yes, yes.” Eleanor waved away Hannah’s con-
  cerns. “Completely understandable. The prince can
  be rather…abrupt in his judgments at times, but
  by doing this favor for me, you have earned my sup-
  port, and I will allow no misdirected criticism to
  fall upon you.” Somewhat reassured, Hannah still
  hesitated. “Of that,” Eleanor added, “I give you my
  word.” Eleanor knew that for Hannah to delay or
  negotiate further would be tantamount to question-
  ing the word of the former archon of Clan Ventrue,
  and of the prince’s wife.
  Hannah, having little other choice, continued.
  “The third aura I observed was the most intense I
  have ever seen….”
  Eleanor absorbed every word, each nuance and
  implication of Hannah’s description. She allowed
  the Tremere chantry leader to finish her account
  uninterrupted, then asked her to repeat it again.
  Only then, after two tellings, did Eleanor begin to
  ask questions. She demanded elaboration of one
  point after another, both of the details Hannah had
  divined and of her certainty of their accuracy. The
  two women talked deep into the night, and for the
  first time since Eleanor last felt Benjamin’s gentle
  touch, her heart warmed with anticipation. She
  
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  The Winnowing
  and Benjamin would be together again. She would
  have her day.
  And Owain Evans would have his.
  Owain stood motionless in the shadows near the
  Iglesia de San Nicolas. He was perhaps too near
  the quarter of the city where El Greco resided, but
  Owain’s prey had led him there, and considering
  the imposition that El Greco had become, Owain
  felt little need to go out of his way to protect his
  former friend. Had it not been for the mysterious
  mention of Angharad’s name, he might never have
  undertaken this mission, treason or no. But, again,
  her name had surfaced. There was no possible way
  a mortal woman, over eight hundred years dead,
  could be connected to the havoc wrought upon the
  Cainite world. Owain kept telling himself that.
  Still, he felt there was more at work than coinci-
  dence.
  From his place of concealment, Owain could see
  the pottery shop across the street that Miguel had
  mentioned as a contact point should Owain require
  assistance. Owain snorted. Does Miguel really think
  that I will continue to play his little games?
  Owain’s prey had not, in fact, led him to his place.
  More accurately, Owain was lying in wait. For so
  many years Owain had shied away from contact with
  other Cainites, especially his lessers, those of more
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  256
  recent Embrace whose vampiric vitae was diluted
  by time and distance from the Dark Father. Over
  the past few nights, Owain had been somewhat sur-
  prised at how effortlessly he evaded the young
  whelps. Three nights running, like the first evening
  preceding them, he had contacted vampires in the
  city. He had hidden himself from them each time,
  and each time he had found them proud and boast-
  ful. They were Sabbat. They were followers of
  Carlos. Not once had Owain come across a Cainite
  avowing loyalty to El Greco. These young fools did
  not speak with the caution of interlopers invading
  a rival’s territories, but rather with the swagger of
  the victorious. Carlos. This is his city. Owain had
  heard variations on this theme with each neonate
  he taunted, and each time the assertion was made
  not merely as boast, but as simple statement of fact.
  Not once had Owain stumbled across an El
  Greco loyalist. Surely El Greco would have mentioned
  something as vital as having lost control of the city,
  Owain imagined. How could someone left in the
  dark about such facts be expected to complete a
  mission? Yes, Owain realized, El Greco was arro-
  gant, but he had always been a passable strategist
  and tactician. There must be some explanation,
  though Owain had not yet arrived at it. He had
  stalked different parts of the city, in case various
  quarters were loyal to opposing masters, but he had
  found only Carlos’s influence, never El Greco’s.
  
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  The Winnowing
  Approaching footsteps attracted Owain’s atten-
  tion, footsteps that in all likelihood a mortal would
  not have heard, but in many ways, Owain was as
  superior to these foot soldiers of the Sabbat as a
  vampire was to a mortal.
  “Buenos noches, Señor Brillante.” Mr. Shiny. It was
  what Owain had taken to calling this balding vam-
  pire he had first encountered four nights ago.
  Brillante stopped in his tracks, let out the slight-
  est of hisses as he casually scanned his surroundings.
  He wore all black this night—shirt, tie, leather
  jacket, pants. Unable to locate Owain, he stretched
  his neck, rolled his shoulders back. “So you are still
  here, Señor Morgan.” The vitriol of his words be-
  trayed the intent of his disarming smile. “I have
  heard. You must know that even the streets have
  ears in Toledo.”
  “But does Carlos have ears?”
  Brillante stiffened slightly. He cocked his head
  trying once again, Owain knew, to trace the voice
  from the darkness. “He has ears, señor. And he has
  claws, and he has fangs.”
  Owain did not respond. He had no desire to re-
  veal prematurely his whereabouts. With each word
  he spoke, the Sabbat lackey was more likely to pin-
  point Owain’s position. For all that concealed him
  were the shadows of the night that he wrapped
  around himself, and the slight disorientation that
  he projected into the mind of the younger vampire.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  258
  “Come out here!” Brillante snarled, but then his
  tone immediately softened. “So we can speak. Face
  to face.” Their was no hidden power in the chal-
  lenge. He remembered how his preternatural
  command, which would be law to a mortal, was
  ineffectual before. “Or maybe you are Nosferatu,
  and you do me a favor by hiding your face.”
  Strangely enough, Owain found the pure defi-
  ance of the Cainite on the street more compelling
  than any vampiric power. Brillante’s complete as-
  surance that he could take any comer, his
  unwavering self-confidence provoked Owain. For
  the past few nights, Owain had accosted those who
  were his lessers from the shadows, and though he
  was a creature accustomed to years of tedium and
  plans that unfolded over decades, he found him-
  self short of patience, a fleeting virtue when dealing
  with his lessers. Impulsively, Owain stepped for-
  ward, first one stride then another. Even the
  movement did not completely undo Owain’s power.
  Not until they were only a few paces separated did
  Brillante start at Owain’s sudden appearance.
  “So we can speak,” said Owain. “Face to face.”
  Brillante’s surprise quickly receded. Again he
  smiled. “That is much better. Now we can speak
  properly.” Without warning, he swung claws in-
  stantly called into being.
  Owain caught the blow inches from his face. He
  did not release Brillante’s wrist but held the clawed
  
  259
  The Winnowing
  hand suspended aloft. “This is how you would
  speak?” Brillante tried to pull his hand away, but
  Owain did not let go. Owain could feel strength
  in this one, but not an unmanageable degree. Star-
  ing down his would-be assailant, Owain still made
  sure to listen for others approaching. The Sabbat
  typically roamed in packs, and four or five of these
  whelps would undoubtedly prove a more serious
  test. “You gave Carlos my message?” Owain asked.
  Brillante stopped trying to pull his hand back.
  “You are nothing to Carlos.”
  Owain tightened his grip until he knew pain
  must be shooting up Brillante’s arm, but Brillante
  did not so much as flinch. “You told him,” Owain
  said smugly. “And the others told him as well.” He
  knew baiting these violent Cainites was dangerous,
  but he also knew they were easily goaded into ac-
  tion. “Tell him again that I would offer him a
  bargain, and tell him that I would speak of
  Angharad.”
  Brillante did not react to the name. It meant
  nothing to him. Or perhaps he was too intently
  concentrating on the pain in his wrist, or on his
  seething hatred for Owain that grew more fierce
  with each passing second of humiliation. Owain’s
  thumb and razor-sharp nail were digging into
  Brillante’s flesh. Blood began to trickle and then
  to run down both of their raised arms.
  “I will tell him,” said Brillante, still defiantly. “I
  
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  260
  will tell him, Señor Morgan. Or do you prefer
  Owain Evans?”
  Owain tightened his grip even more, but other-
  wise hid his surprise.
  “You are not the only stranger in town. Some-
  one is asking about you,” Brillante said with
  self-satisfied bite.
  “Who?”
  Brillante shrugged. “Some Gangrel. Some of mi
  hermanos had been telling me of how they had
  talked to this invisible Morgan, just like I had, and
  then this stranger Gangrel with dirt in his hair
  shows up and wants to know where is Owain
  Evans.”
  Owain was trying to remember the Gangrels he
  knew—there weren’t many—and which could
  have discovered that he was in Toledo.
  “You don’t have to tell me you are Owain Evans
  if it makes you feel better to pretend, Señor Mor-
  gan. I thought it strange that we should have so
  many visitors in our quiet city. But we get two for
  the price of one, eh?”
  Owain released Brillante’s hand and took a step
  back. “Tell Carlos.”
  “I will tell him,” said Brillante, flexing his injured
  hand as Owain stepped around the corner of San
  Nicolas. “And I will tell your Gangrel friend that
  I talk to you. I do not think he is happy with you.”
  Once out of sight, Owain made a few quick turns
  
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  The Winnowing
  in case Brillante was following, then climbed to a
  low rooftop to wait and see. Someone is looking for
  me, Owain thought. A Gangrel. He couldn’t think
  offhand of a Gangrel that would want or need to
  find him. That would bear some looking into. And
  so much for keeping secret who I am. It was not the
  end of the world that his identity was revealed, but
  he would have preferred anonymity.
  The minutes passed. Owain saw no signs of pur-
  suit. Apparently Brillante did not have the stomach
  for a chase. Perhaps he was nursing his injured
  hand. Owain knew his claw had penetrated well
  into flesh and tendon, probably to the bone. It
  would have been exceedingly painful. At least he
  hoped so.
  Nen caught himself before he had drawn blood.
  He stopped scrubbing his hands, gently patted them
  dry on a clean white towel, and then rubbed in
  hand cream, making sure to wipe the residue from
  his wedding band. I really should get home, he
  thought as he glanced at his watch. But he was fi-
  nally ready to begin his report, and Leigh would
  understand.
  Another body had arrived, this time from the
  medical examiner in Chicago. Again, fresh blood
  but tissue samples that indicated the subject had
  been dead for weeks. Nen had seen enough in the
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  262
  past weeks to feel confident that this was not lo-
  calized cult activity. No one was dumping blood
  on these bodies. In every case, the internal organs
  and many of the muscles were atrophied, but the
  blood was only hours old. Add to that the repeated
  presence of multiple blood types within a single
  body.
  For weeks, Nen had worked on little else. He had
  double-checked lab findings, researched case his-
  tories, visited sites where bodies had been found.
  He had ignored his supervisor Dr. Blake’s advice
  to drop the case and had even gone as far as to en-
  list the aid of his pathologist friend Martin Raimes.
  Now Nen held the report that Raimes had sent af-
  ter examining the blood samples Nen had provided
  from cases JKL14337 and JKL14338. For probably
  the twentieth time, Nen thumbed through the
  summary.
  He wasn’t sure why Dr. Blake was so opposed to
  this research. The situation appeared quite serious
  to Nen. Even at the start, before his investigation
  had heightened his alarm, he had felt that merely
  the possibility of the presence of some strange new
  contagion was reason enough for the Centers for
  Disease Control and Prevention to direct some
  attention toward the enigmatic cases that were
  popping up.
  The disturbing deaths were still occurring, and
  at an increased rate, or perhaps Nen merely knew
  
  263
  The Winnowing
  what he was looking for now. By actively search-
  ing recent autopsy reports, he had noted another
  disturbing trend as well: Even in cases where the
  strange blood mixture and tissue decay anomaly
  were absent, there were increases in deaths from
  unexplained massive hemorrhaging. Very much as
  if there were a contagious hemorrhagic fever on the
  loose, Nen surmised, and that was the missing piece
  of the puzzle that Martin Raimes’s data had pro-
  vided. Maureen Blake or no, Nen decided, this needs
  to be pushed forward, and if she can’t see that, then
  I’ll have to go over her head.
  Nen pulled up the computer file he had been
  working on and began to type. He had no way of
  knowing that eyes were watching him, that a fig-
  ure clung to the wall just outside his window and
  took in every word that he wrote.
  Owain did not leave early from the house where
  he was staying. He did not want to fall into too
  predictable a pattern. Certainly Brillante and some
  of his ilk were growing tired of an unwanted
  stranger in their midst, and now that Owain had
  revealed himself, he would have to be even more
  careful on the streets lest he be recognized.
  Not once had Owain, in his contacts, come
  across a follower of El Greco. That was befuddling.
  None of the Sabbat that Owain had antagonized
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  264
  had even mentioned El Greco. Not only had none
  of them accused Owain of being in league with
  their rival, they seemed oblivious to the very ex-
  istence of any rival, as if El Greco were not even a
  factor in the equation. Owain could not make sense
  of it.
  Perhaps it is the curse, Owain wondered. Perhaps
  more of El Greco’s followers have been claimed, or it
  could be that he has ordered them off the streets. There
  were many possibilities, but none sounded plausible
  to Owain. He glanced at the clock on the book-
  shelf. In a few moments he would leave to meet
  Kendall. Perhaps she could provide him with in-
  formation of value.
  Owain paced restlessly around the tiny house
  that El Greco had provided for him. This restless-
  ness, the sense of directionless agitation, had been
  growing in him lately. For decades in Atlanta, he
  had been numb to the passage of time, whiling
  away years as if they were mere minutes to be
  squandered, but now a delay of only a quarter hour
  drove him nearly to distraction. So much had
  changed since the siren had entered and then been
  torn from his life. Or was it the visions that had
  changed him? Or the curse? There was no way to
  tell.
  The furnishings and decor of the house did little
  to soothe Owain. They were similar to what he had
  found at El Greco’s—vaguely impersonal, chosen
  
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  The Winnowing
  for no one in particular, and for no other reason
  than to be inconspicuous. As inconspicuous, per-
  haps, as El Greco had become in this city where
  he used to rule. As he paced through the kitchen,
  Owain knocked over a chair, deliberately left it on
  the floor. At least it was a sign that someone, any-
  one, an actual person, inhabited this space.
  The time was at hand. Owain left the house and
  made his way north-northeast, keeping to the shad-
  ows that welcomed him. The streets were so quiet.
  Aside from the nearby tourists at the plaza and the
  occasional pedestrian or motorist, no one was
  about, a circumstance that would have made
  Owain easy to spot had he not taken precautions.
  He kept away from the broad thoroughfares—broad
  only in comparison to the other streets—favoring
  instead the dimly lit, narrow passages between the
  austere building faces. Owain remembered from
  earlier years the feeling that there was more going
  on than one could hope to see; that, behind the
  nondescript facades, plots were being formed, tak-
  ing shape. If anything, he was more sensitive to that
  mood now. Back then, he had been brash, confi-
  dent, too sure that he was destiny’s hand, that he
  was the author deciding the plot.
  Now, he wasn’t so sure. In recent years, he had
  wanted mostly to be left alone. He had strayed from
  his relative seclusion to savor a few inspired memo-
  ries of a better time, a time that, if not placid or
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  266
  tranquil or even happy, had at least known him to
  feel, to have the capacity for emotion, to live. But
  the song that had brought those memories was sto-
  len from him. He had wanted only to listen, but
  the curse had pushed Benison over that edge to
  which, Malkavian that he was, he had always
  walked so closely. And now Owain had been
  brought back to Spain by a friend turned tyrant,
  set upon some death-wish mission, lured along by
  the name of his long-dead beloved. Looking up at
  the triple-crowned spire of the cathedral of Toledo,
  Owain knew afresh that a spiteful God looked
  down upon him and laughed. It wasn’t enough to
  take her from me in the first place, he turned his face
  to the darkened heavens, to drive me from the land
  I loved as well. They were all I cared for, and you left
  me neither. And now you taunt me with her. Owain
  had often wished that, when final death did some
  day take him, that he might at least glimpse para-
  dise—even from a distance, for surely the streets
  of gold would be denied him—only so he could spit
  in the direction of the Almighty. Perhaps he would
  be lucky, and his saliva would go as far as to moisten
  the hem of St. Peter’s garment, but Owain would
  not hold out for such phenomenal success.
  As he approached the     he saw Kendall stand-
  ing alert in a recess of the gate, her dark hair and
  clothing rendering her virtually invisible to lesser
  eyes. Owain checked carefully to make sure he was
  
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  The Winnowing
  not being followed, then crossed the final yards to
  her.
  “What have you learned?” he asked without pre-
  amble. Owain knew his ghoul better than to think
  she had been idle these past days, but also he sought
  unfiltered information, so he did not prejudice her
  view of what was important by directing her re-
  port. There would be time enough for specific
  questions shortly.
  “I have not seen El Greco since the night he first
  appeared,” Kendall began. “He could have been
  coming and going without my knowing,” she gri-
  maced briefly, probably remembering how the elder
  vampire had caught her unaware that night, “but
  I have not seen him again.”
  Owain did not stop her, so she continued. “Our
  friend Miguel, on the other hand, has still been
  stopping by regularly, once in the early evening,
  once in the morning, sometimes with his ghoul
  driver, sometimes without.”
  “Whom does he speak with? What does he do?”
  asked Owain.
  “He ignores me, or tries to.”
  That sounded likely to Owain. Miguel had been
  less than pleased at Owain’s insistence that Kendall
  remain at the house, but there had been more ur-
  gent arrangements to attend to, and Owain had
  persevered on that point.
  “Mostly he bosses Maria and Ferdinand around,”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  268
  Kendall elaborated. “They would both be glad to
  be rid of him, not that they would ever say as much.
  Otherwise, there’s only been one visitor, a Cainite,
  Javier. From the sounds of it, he might be Miguel’s
  childe. I tried to listen in, but Miguel is careful.
  All I heard was something about a Gangrel.”
  I will tell your Gangrel friend that I talk to you. I do
  not think he is happy with you. Owain remembered
  Brillante’s words from the previous night. Whoever
  this Gangrel was, he was interfering with Owain’s
  plans. He had already given away Owain’s iden-
  tity. Who knew how he might further jeopardize
  the situation? “Anything else?” Owain asked.
  Kendall shook her head. “No. That was all I
  heard, and nothing else has happened.”
  “Does anything strike you as particularly strange
  about this city?” Owain pressed.
  “Too damned quiet.” Kendall thought for a mo-
  ment. “I mean, for Sabbat territory, I’d have
  thought there’d be more activity. New York, Mi-
  ami—there’s chaos; the Sabbat packs run wild. As
  far as the mortals can tell, the social fabric is un-
  raveling. Here…” Kendall gestured to their
  surroundings, “nothing.”
  Owain smiled. “Your New World is a brash,
  young thing, Ms. Jackson, as are the Sabbat there.
  In this part of the world, our kind are more staid.
  There is the lingering memory here of the Inquisi-
  tion, of mortals rising up in fear and anger.” Owain
  
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  The Winnowing
  tried not to think of his own first ghoul and com-
  panion, Gwilym, who had survived so long only
  to fall to the Inquisition in this very city. “But do
  not mistake caution for inactivity. Toledo has
  changed hands many times over the centuries.
  Today’s lord is tomorrow’s pariah. It is safer to keep
  one’s allegiances to oneself. Do not allow yourself
  to be lulled to sleep by guarded ways.”
  Kendall absorbed Owain’s words. She was a quick
  study, Owain had noticed. Perhaps worthy of the
  Embrace. She would be even more useful entrusted
  with more power. But could Owain subject another
  to that curse? In all his years, he had propagated
  numerous ghouls, but never had he created prog-
  eny.
  “Have you seen or heard of any other followers
  of El Greco?” Owain asked.
  Kendall thought for a moment. “Just Miguel and
  the driver, Maria and Ferdinand, and now Javier.
  No others.”
  “I see.” Kendall stood quietly waiting for any
  other questions while Owain pondered what she
  had said and what he had seen. “I have encoun-
  tered no one else loyal to El Greco. I do not know
  if they have been destroyed, or are in hiding, or
  simply do not exist, but every Cainite I have spo-
  ken with has been in Carlos’s camp.” El Greco had
  volunteered no help in sending Owain on this task;
  perhaps the old Toreador had none to offer. “Keep
  
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  listening. There must be other Cainites than
  Carlos’s. We may need to call on them, if we can
  find them.”
  They may want to be rid of El Greco as much as I,
  Owain thought, if they exist. More and more, he
  was beginning to flirt with the idea of eliminating
  El Greco, of having done with his secret connec-
  tion to the Sabbat and returning to his unlife in
  Atlanta. Why, Owain wondered, was he holding
  to those old, tired oaths? If there were no others
  over whom El Greco held sway, it might be con-
  ceivable for Owain to challenge him.
  But that would not answer Owain’s questions
  about Angharad, about how her name came to be
  involved with the blood curse. So there was still
  reason to proceed with his plan. And there were
  other immediate considerations.
  “How long since you have fed?” Owain asked.
  “Quite some time.” Kendall did not seem des-
  perate. Owain suspected she would die stoically
  should her master decide to end her service. She
  was not the type to make demands, to mistake her
  ghoul status as a right rather than a privilege.
  Privilege or curse? Owain was not certain. In many
  ways, the existence of a ghoul was more subtle,
  more insidious than that of a vampire, and more
  tenuous. For now, though, he needed her service,
  and with a flick of his wrist, the stiletto from his
  forearm sheath was in his hand. Owain drew the
  
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  The Winnowing
  blade quickly across his palm. He offered his hand
  to Kendall as the blood welled up, and she drank.
  She did not take much, but Owain could feel his
  power flowing into her, could sense her muscles and
  flesh invigorated, strengthened. For some, this shar-
  ing could carry emotional entanglements. It had
  not been so for Owain for many centuries, and
  never had he been able to decide whether this loss
  was a relief or a burden. As Kendall drank, he
  watched her lips against his skin, felt her tongue
  caressing his wound. With time, could she come
  to mean more to him than any of the string of ser-
  vants who had come and gone over the years, now
  that the siren had reawakened certain impulses,
  certain capacities for feeling within him? As
  Kendall drew away from his hand, Owain pushed
  away such thoughts. As ever, time would be the
  final arbiter.
  The shadow of Time is not so long that you might
  shelter beneath it.
  The words from his vision came unbidden to
  Owain. Those, too, he pushed away. He would not
  afford them reality by devoting thought to them.
  Not now.
  Without another word, Owain left his servant.
  He couldn’t allow himself the luxury of intro-
  spection. He had lost too many years already in
  brooding and grieving, and now the pendulum had
  swung back. The time to act was at hand. He had
  
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  yet to contact Carlos, and the added complication
  had arisen of a Gangrel searching for Owain. That,
  he decided, would be the first order of business.
  There were some Gangrel who were at home in
  cities, but they were few and far between. Most
  members of that clan preferred to roam the wilds,
  and ventured into urban areas only out of neces-
  sity, perhaps to evade hostile lupines.
  Owain began his search along the northern edge
  of the city. He made his way to the Puente de
  Alcantara then circled back west, keeping to the
  shadows. It was not so late that the streets were
  deserted, but this portion of the city was quiet. The
  earthen brick structures held their secrets as silently
  as ever. There were not a multitude of kine about,
  nor of Cainites. By the time Owain wound his way
  to the familiar Puerta del Cambron, he had seen
  two vampires searching the streets, for food or per-
  haps for Owain himself. The first was Sabbat;
  Owain had met her a few nights before and had
  given her his message to relay to Carlos. The sec-
  ond was a stranger but not Gangrel. Owain avoided
  both. The Sabbat, if not Carlos himself, would be
  easy enough to find, Owain hoped, after he had
  found and dealt with this Gangrel.
  Owain followed the old city walls around to the
  Puente de San Martin. Looking across the bridge
  to the countryside beyond, he was struck by the
  peacefulness of the land, at the same time both
  
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  The Winnowing
  comforting and desolate, lacking the trappings of
  civilization, the secrets, the intrigue. Forcing him-
  self to keep moving, he turned eastward again.
  Even with a systematic sweep, this blind search of
  the city, Owain knew, could take several nights,
  and even if he covered every inch of Toledo, he
  could not expect necessarily to be in the right place
  at the right time to come across the Gangrel inter-
  loper. Owain was considering the risky option of
  continuing with his attempts to contact Carlos and
  ignoring the Gangrel, or of letting the Gangrel find
  him, when he was overcome by an unusual urge.
  Without intending to, he had veered to the
  south, and with each step he was drawn more in-
  exorably forward. He quickened his pace; he was
  moving rapidly now but still concealing himself
  from any casual observers. There was something
  important ahead. He didn’t know what it was, and
  he didn’t know what drove him, but there was
  something ahead. He was sure of it.
  Owain rounded a corner and froze. Movement
  caught his eye as he entered a long, open plaza. At
  the far end of the square was a person, a mortal,
  an agente de policía, by his uniform. The police of-
  ficer strolled along past the storefronts, checking
  to make sure the doors were locked, shining his
  flashlight down the alleys between buildings.
  Watching the officer, Owain began to question the
  impulse that had led him here. But then movement
  
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  from a different direction attracted his attention.
  Several dozen yards behind the police officer,
  another figure crept forward. Crouched low,
  stealthily moving only a step or two at a time, the
  hunter possessed the shape of a human, but its
  movements were more instinctive, sprung from the
  low cunning of a predatory animal. Now that
  Owain had spotted it, he could make out the long,
  untamed hair, the ragged clothes, and the more he
  observed, the more the wolfish mannerisms called
  out to him, Gangrel.
  The Gangrel was closing the distance to the
  oblivious policeman with deceptive speed. Owain
  realized that, in the wilds, he probably never would
  have seen the hunter until it had pounced upon
  its prey, but here in the city the Gangrel made the
  same mistake that many Cainites did, growing so
  intent on its hunt that it did not maintain com-
  plete awareness of its own surroundings and the
  approach of other predators.
  Owain could have waited for the Gangrel to
  strike, but he decided instantly to do otherwise.
  “You!” he called out across the plaza. His voice ech-
  oed against the cold stone, took on a larger, more
  ominous sound.
  The policeman jumped, his hand moving to his
  holstered sidearm. Owain was gratified to see the
  Gangrel start as well, but still the officer was not
  aware of the nearby danger. Owain began across
  
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  the plaza, each deliberate step punctuated by the
  staccato click of his heel against the cobbles. For
  the moment he ignored the Gangrel, other than
  to remain aware of its location. Halfway across the
  plaza to the policeman, Owain stopped. He glared
  until he could feel that his ever-black eyes had cap-
  tured the policeman’s gaze. Owain pointed
  eastward, away from the plaza. “Go.”
  The officer’s hand dropped away from his hol-
  ster. He straightened and walked quickly out of the
  plaza.
  Owain turned to the Gangrel. “I hope you
  weren’t too hungry. We need to talk.”
  The Gangrel, not having moved appreciably
  since Owain had first spoken, now came forward,
  slowly. A low growl rumbled in the back of its
  throat. Owain held his ground and tried to place
  the vaguely familiar Gangrel, now within leaping
  distance. I have seen him before, Owain realized. But
  where? And when?
  The Gangrel came even closer, the growling
  more noticeable.
  Owain was quite aware that he was placing him-
  self in harm’s way, but he knew he had met the
  Gangrel before. Not since I left Atlanta…And then
  it came to Owain.
  “The courier.” The Gangrel had brought the
  most recent chess move. He was the strange fel-
  low who had broken into something of a fit of
  
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  hysteria in the study. “I don’t remember your
  name,” Owain offered almost apologetically. He
  was not taking for granted that this would be a vio-
  lent confrontation.
  “You never asked my name,” the Gangrel snarled.
  He was only feet from Owain now, poised to strike.
  “Just like you never asked my great-great-grandsire’s
  name.”
  This sounded very like an accusation of some sort
  to Owain, but of exactly what, he was uncertain.
  There were countless sins of which he could be
  rightly accused. “I am asking.”
  The Gangrel was both perfectly still and bal-
  anced to spring. It flexed its claws. “My name is
  Nicholas.” An animal glint shone in his eyes. “My
  great-great-grandsire was Blaidd.”
  Blaidd. Wolf. The sound of his native Welsh in-
  stantly took Owain back hundreds of years, back
  to the days before he had ghouled his nephew Mor-
  gan. Owain had just returned from England, forty
  years after his Embrace, his heart filled with black
  hate, his head full of grandiose plans, some of which
  had taken shape.
  Blaidd. Wolf.
  Nicholas lunged. Owain snapped back to the
  present just quickly enough to dodge out of the way.
  Nicholas’s claws sliced through the air where a
  moment before Owain’s throat had been.
  Owain landed hard but rolled and was on his feet
  
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  The Winnowing
  within seconds. Only the reflexes of a Cainite of
  his seasoned age saved him. Nicholas, too, recov-
  ered quickly. He feinted, then sprang again.
  Even Owain’s speed couldn’t spare him the full
  force of Nicholas’s fury. Owain sidestepped and
  blocked the Gangrel, but Nicholas’s claws dug
  through Owain’s coat and into his forearm. and
  scraped bone. Owain stumbled backward, the pain
  jolting through his entire body. He could not keep
  himself from crying out.
  Nicholas paused in his attack, lifted his hand to
  his face. He sniffed his claws then licked a bit of
  the fragrant vitae. A mixed sigh and snarl escaped
  his lips, and as Owain watched, the Gangrel’s eyes
  glazed over. He still looked at Owain, but distantly,
  as if through a haze. When he spoke, the words
  were deep and throaty, noticeably different from
  how Nicholas had spoken before. “Trespasser. De-
  filer. Murderer.”
  As Owain clutched his left arm, he saw the eyes
  of the staked Gangrel that he had stood above so
  many years before. He saw the hatred, the penned
  rage. Owain shook his head violently. He didn’t
  have time for these memories that were forcing
  themselves upon him. The pain. Cling to the pain,
  he told himself. It would keep him in the here and
  now. He flicked his right wrist and held in his hand
  the stiletto that earlier had drawn his own blood.
  No more would he be a target for this raging
  
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  Gangrel; he would carve him and leave the pieces
  to feed the night’s rats.
  Nicholas charged again. Eschewing subtler tac-
  tics, he dove low and was met by Owain’s blade. It
  dug deeply into the Gangrel’s shoulder. Nicholas
  tried to knock the legs from beneath his prey, to
  bring him to the ground, but Owain was too quick.
  He jumped clear, jerking his stiletto upward and
  to the side, slicing muscle and tendon and open-
  ing a deep, jagged gash.
  The blood of Gangrel and Ventrue mingled as it
  splattered on the ground, slickening the uneven
  cobbles. Nicholas flexed his arm and hand, deter-
  mining how much damage had been done. He felt
  the wound, Owain was sure, but was nowhere near
  debilitated. Owain wished for his sword.
  Before Nicholas could attack again, gunfire rang
  out in the plaza. Owain’s head whipped to the side,
  and the next he knew he was sprawled on the
  ground. All he could feel was the throbbing in his
  head. He had fallen and hit his head. Slipped on
  the blood. No. More than that. He was shot. Owain
  reached up and felt the bloody mess of scalp and
  bits of skull at his temple. More blood. He smelled
  it, tasted it.
  He felt faint, weak, and for the first time in ages,
  hungry. Owain rolled to his side and began licking
  his own blood from the cobbles. His vision danced;
  his hair fell across his face, grew thick with blood
  
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  The Winnowing
  from the open wound and from the ground.
  The Gangrel. Owain had forgotten about him.
  Where had he gotten a gun? No, it wasn’t the
  Gangrel that had fired. Owain’s thoughts were
  jumbled. He had been shot in the head. He was
  losing a great deal of blood…so quickly.
  More gunshots. They sounded so far away. Still,
  Owain knew he should take cover. He wanted to
  move, but his body would not obey him. He was
  lying now in a deepening pool of blood. His own
  blood.
  Suddenly he was moving but not of his own vo-
  lition. Hands were lifting him, none too gently.
  And then a muffled but familiar voice: “This is him.
  This is Señor Morgan, or Owain Evans, or who-
  ever he is.”
  Owain wasn’t sure if his eyes were closed or cov-
  ered with blood. He thought he could make out
  shapes, but perhaps they were just the stones of the
  plaza beneath him. He raised his head, or maybe
  someone was lifting it by the hair. For a moment
  he saw a figure standing above him, a hard face full
  of metal studs. Glaring down, leaning closer. But
  Owain’s vision was failing him. A sickening gray-
  ness was falling around him, taking him in. Carlos,
  he thought. I have found him. Carlos. This is his city.
  And then the gray turned to black.
  
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  CHAPTER NINE
  The first gunshot struck Owain Evans in the
  head and slammed him to the ground. Blaidd,
  bleeding from his wounded shoulder, stood over his
  downed prey, but the gunshot itself was a befud-
  dling incongruity. The plaza was spinning, the
  cobbles shifting and flowing together, forming the
  inner wall of a cave, then the face of a sea-swept
  cliff. But this was neither the land nor the age of
  Blaidd, and the stones would not conform to his
  memories. Back into the mists of time he was
  reined; he retreated, leaving only Nicholas, disori-
  ented, standing over his downed prey.
  Confused or not, bullets Nicholas understood,
  and several were flying toward him. He dropped
  
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  The Winnowing
  sideways to a crouch, no time for the pain and dis-
  traction of his shoulder. His arm was still
  functional. That was the immediate concern. He
  launched himself toward the edge of the plaza, to-
  ward the cover of buildings, instinctively changing
  directions every two or three steps. Bullets rico-
  cheted off stone around him.
  Closer to the buildings bordering the plaza,
  Nicholas leapt. He latched onto the side of a wall.
  The sun-dried bricks crumbled beneath the force
  of his claws, but he dug in more deeply and
  scrambled up to the roof.
  Two armed Cainites awaited him. They fired
  their pistols, but Nicholas had already sprung high
  into the air. He landed on the vampire to the right,
  knocking him to the rooftop and slashing into his
  neck and face. The upended vampire’s gun clat-
  tered over the edge of the building.
  The second Cainite recovered his wits quickly
  and fired several shots at Nicholas who, having lost
  only half a step in his attack, was bounding off the
  building. One slug caught him in the back of the
  same shoulder that Owain had slashed. The force
  of the shot knocked Nicholas off balance. He
  crashed to the ground below.
  Other Sabbat were closing in from the direction
  of the plaza, but they miscalculated how quickly
  Nicholas would be back on his feet after such a fall.
  Before any of them had fired a shot, Nicholas was
  
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  sprinting down the street. He ducked down a nar-
  row avenue to the right and kept making turn after
  turn, racing along the winding streets, the names
  of which meant nothing to him.
  At first, there were shouts and a few more shots
  behind him, but these sounds quickly died away as
  Nicholas’s speed carried him beyond their reach.
  When he no longer heard pursuit, he stopped only
  briefly. With a towel snatched from a clothesline,
  he tried to stanch the flow of blood that might give
  away his route. For who could track a trail of blood
  if not a vampire?
  After a very few minutes, he was on the move
  again. He moved more cautiously now, confident
  that he had lost the Sabbat and not wanting inad-
  vertently to rush headlong into them again. As he
  ran, Nicholas cursed the Sabbat who had cost him
  his kill. For several nights, he had searched for
  Evans, had asked those Cainites he had seen. The
  Sabbat did not automatically assume that a Gangrel
  was an enemy, Nicholas knew, because members
  of the wandering clan would come and go fre-
  quently and seldom become connected to larger
  political matters. So most of those Sabbat he had
  encountered had spoken with him, and they had
  turned out to be of little help.
  But apparently Nicholas had been of help to
  them. They had followed him, tracked him, a great
  embarrassment for a Gangrel, though not incon-
  
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  The Winnowing
  ceivable in the city. Nicholas had been preoccu-
  pied by his task, and by his visions—by the
  ancestors who, more and more, wanted exposure
  to the modern world. Ragnar and Blaidd were close
  to the surface now, and oftentimes Nicholas could
  not keep them down. Sometimes he did not try.
  The bullet in his shoulder and the gash from the
  knife began to throb more forcefully. Though pain-
  ful, they were not fatal wounds, Nicholas knew.
  The prospect of infection meant little to a vam-
  pire. With blood they would heal.
  He had come very close. But he had not crossed
  the Atlantic to come close. Perhaps if the old debt
  of blood were repaid, the ancestors would again
  sleep. This was Nicholas’s hope; it was what he
  chose to believe, no matter what Blackfeather said
  about the rising beast.
  Nicholas was still very close. And next time he
  would strike true.
  “So it is as I suspected. Gustav.” Wilhelm rubbed
  his face gingerly in the darkness. His eyes were still
  particularly tender. Nearly two weeks later, not all
  the scars from the mob attack had healed com-
  pletely. The Molotov cocktail had badly burned
  Wilhelm. He had found himself blinded, his eye-
  lids melted shut, flames searing the flesh all over
  his body. Were it not for Henriette’s determination
  
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  284
  and an inordinate amount of luck, he would have
  met his final death there on the street.
  The initial blast of the homemade explosive had
  also killed or dislodged many of Wilhelm’s attack-
  ers. Henriette had pulled him, still burning, from
  the carnage, and somehow to safety. That she had
  been able to get him away unseen was nothing if
  not miraculous. Also fortunate was the fact that
  pursuit had never developed, for the blind prince
  and his injured childe would have been easy marks.
  The chaos of the rioting mob that was to have been
  his destruction had made possible his escape.
  Closing his eyes, Wilhelm could still feel the
  blows as Henriette beat out the flames that burned
  him like the fire of the sun itself. He could hear
  her whispering gentle warnings in his ear: Hush
  now. Quiet, my dear.
  “Gustav.” Wilhelm spoke the name again, savor-
  ing the hatred it evoked.
  Ellison stood silently, listening, watching—ever
  the charge of a Nosferatu. In the shadows of the
  park where Ellison had asked to meet, Wilhelm
  could almost ignore the blue-tinted, warted skin
  of his informant, the mangled ears, the deformed
  arm, the pained way in which Ellison held him-
  self. Almost. But what did Ellison’s freakish
  countenance matter? For years he had provided
  Wilhelm with accurate intelligence that had
  helped him stay a step or two ahead of his rival.
  
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  The Winnowing
  There was very little that happened in Berlin that
  remained unknown to Ellison for long. Besides,
  since the attack, Wilhelm’s own visage was marred
  and disfigured.
  “So Dieter Kotlar and the Final Reich were the
  foot soldiers,” Wilhelm pieced together the infor-
  mation that Ellison had related, “but Gustav was
  the general giving the orders.” Wilhelm was not
  surprised. “Do you have proof of this?” he asked.
  Ellison took an almost imperceptible step back
  from Wilhelm. “I deal in information,” said the
  Nosferatu in a near-whisper. “Not in proof.”
  Wilhelm knew this to be the case. He did not
  need proof to believe this news. It fit too perfectly,
  and Ellison had never before delivered question-
  able information. Wilhelm believed all too well
  that Gustav had orchestrated the mob rampage, but
  aside from personal vengeance, Wilhelm was at-
  tempting to construct a case against Gustav should
  the Camarilla powers-that-be decide that arbitra-
  tion was required to preserve the Masquerade. They
  would want proof. Although if Karl Schrekt, the
  Tremere justicar with whom Gustav had had such
  acrimonious dealings in the past, sat in judgment,
  he would be certain to rule against the eastern
  prince. Ruling against Gustav, however, would not
  necessarily mean ruling for Wilhelm. Much better
  for Wilhelm to take care of this problem on his
  own, once and for all.
  
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  286
  “I provide information,” Ellison added, his voice
  barely audible. “What credence you place in it is
  completely up to you.”
  “You have always proven yourself reliable,”
  Wilhelm assured the Nosferatu. It was not the
  prince’s intent to affront this, his most valuable of
  allies. “I am in your debt.”
  It may merely have been a trick of the shadows,
  but Wilhelm thought he saw the faintest of smiles
  flutter across Ellison’s grotesque features. Of course
  I’m in his debt, thought the prince. He remembers
  every favor, every service, each and every scrap of
  knowledge he’s ever conveyed to me. Nothing,
  Wilhelm knew, was free, and Ellison was not shy
  about asking for favors in return when he needed.
  And he always makes sure the balance of debts is in
  his favor. Always.
  “I am always pleased to serve the prince,” Ellison
  whispered, and then he was gone.
  The lethargy clung to Owain as his eyes fluttered
  open. Lethargy brought on by weakness of body,
  not the even more debilitating weakness of spirit
  that had once led him into torpor for over two cen-
  turies. Only slowly as the fog receded did he
  become aware of his surroundings. He was beneath
  blankets on a large four-poster bed, veils draped all
  around, and next to him lay an unconscious man,
  
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  The Winnowing
  naked above the waist, young, perhaps twenty—
  very close, Owain realized, to the age that he
  himself appeared to be. The young man’s skin was
  dark and smooth. The sound of blood pulsating
  through his veins was torturous to Owain. It was
  rare for Owain to thirst, to desire blood. He’d as-
  sumed it was another passion that had dulled over
  the centuries, a pleasure that had lost out to en-
  croaching ennui. But Owain remembered his blood
  thick upon the plaza, and he felt the weakness of
  his undead body. To heal, he needed blood, so from
  an ingrained sense of self-preservation more than
  any thrill, he turned to the body next to him.
  Owain reached over and touched the man’s ca-
  rotid artery. The flowing vitae just beneath the
  surface caressed his fingertips. Tilting the man’s
  head, Owain drank. He was prepared for the wrack-
  ing headaches and nausea that assaulted him on
  the rare occasion he fed from those of less than
  noble birth. Every member of his clan held to simi-
  lar proclivities of one type or another. It was a sign,
  Owain believed, of the inherent Ventrue sense of
  order and form, and was only one indication of why
  his clan was most suited to guide the destiny of the
  Cainite race. To Owain’s surprise, the vitae of this
  dark Spaniard flowed smooth and true. Owain
  drank deeply and could feel as his undead body be-
  gan to repair itself. The gash on his forearm would
  require time to mend. There was a certain destruc-
  
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  288
  tive quality to the claws of a Cainite that produced
  a wound of a more lingering nature, even for an-
  other vampire. The gunshot to Owain’s head,
  however, though more potentially dangerous, be-
  gan to heal. Skull, veins, skin, all began to knit
  together.
  Owain continued to feed, and the blood that was
  his curse also gave him life. As his rejuvenation
  progressed, he felt just how close to final death he
  had come. A gunshot to the head, from closer range
  or in a slightly different location, could quite defi-
  nitely terminate the existence of a vampire. Owain
  wished for a return to the nights when a blade was
  the weapon of choice for noble or for low-born. A
  confrontation between men or Cainites was more
  complete when they stood face to face. No strength
  of character was required to shoot from a distance,
  but to face an opponent over crossed steel—that
  was how men should settle differences.
  Strangely enough, even as Owain fed, his
  thoughts remained fairly rational. He followed the
  recovery of his body with interest, tracking to what
  degree the gaping head wound had closed, noting
  the fatigue which would recede only with much
  more blood than this one mortal could provide.
  Owain could remember the frenzied passion of his
  feeding as a more youthful Cainite. In those days,
  the kiss was overwhelming, providing a glorious
  rapture that more than compensated for the
  
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  The Winnowing
  vampiric lack of interest in other mortal niceties
  such as sex or gluttony. But now he fed dispassion-
  ately, drinking only because he knew he must.
  Where were the pleasures, even the shallow titil-
  lations, of this extended unlife to be found? Why,
  he wondered, did he bother to refurbish his dam-
  aged body?
  Angharad. Only his feelings for her had truly sur-
  vived the test of time, though even they had
  resurfaced only haltingly over the past millennium.
  Her name had somehow been dragged into this af-
  fair, and Owain had long ago ceased to believe in
  coincidence. With a spiteful God hell-bent on tor-
  turing him throughout eternity, nothing fell to
  chance.
  “Not too much,” said a voice from beyond the
  veil.
  Owain withdrew his fangs from his provided
  meal. Already he felt much improved, but it would
  be some time and several feedings before his
  strength returned in earnest, as much blood as he
  had lost. His immediate needs satisfied, Owain
  peered through the bedcurtain but could make out
  only the general shape of the person who had ad-
  dressed him. Pulling back the drapery, Owain rose
  to sit naked on the edge of the bed.
  Before him stood Carlos, his dark hair severely
  short, his square jaw jutted forward, his ears, nose,
  and eyebrows adorned with at least a dozen rings
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  290
  and studs. He indicated the sleeping man. “He’s the
  son of one of the first families of Toledo. Drugs,
  prostitutes,” Carlos shook his head disapprovingly.
  “It’s a sad story. They don’t care for him and
  wouldn’t be that upset if he turned up dead, but
  he’s worth more to me alive.”
  Owain glanced back at the vessel he had very
  nearly drained of blood.
  “I assumed you to be Ventrue,” said Carlos. “All
  my people reported that you were arrogant beyond
  belief, so what else could I think?” He shrugged.
  “You were mumbling about nobility when I asked
  about feeding, so I took a chance.”
  On a chair by the bed were fresh clothes—a crisp
  white shirt, black pants, Owain’s own shoes,
  cleaned and shined. Gone were his coat and other
  bloodstained clothes. Also noticeably absent were
  his stiletto and sheath. While Owain dressed, he
  was struck by the familiarity of the room. The
  roughly hewn stone of the walls and the high ceil-
  ings were unmistakably distinctive. These were the
  chambers beneath the Alcazar that El Greco had
  occupied when last Owain had been in Toledo. El
  Greco had demanded that the stonemason ghouls
  he employed raise the ceilings to fifteen feet, an
  exorbitant height considering the labor involved.
  The small team of five masons worked diligently
  for just over three and a half years to create each
  room to the exacting specifications of El Greco, a
  
  291
  The Winnowing
  taskmaster as demanding as he was unforgiving.
  He’d displayed artwork of his choosing, large paint-
  ings of his own and of various mortals who had
  fallen under his influence over the years. The tex-
  ture of the walls and ceilings, the refraction of light
  from the surfaces, had to meet El Greco’s wishes
  exactly. No matter what political instability or
  deadly conflict had raged in the Cainite world, El
  Greco had overseen the transformation of these
  rooms into a shrine to the finer pursuits.
  No artwork marked the walls now. The cold,
  empty stone stared back at Owain. El Greco’s sig-
  nature was as completely absent from this, his
  former palace, as from the small, anonymous build-
  ing in which he now resided. The cavernous room
  was too large for the bed and two chairs which were
  its only furnishings. Carlos sat in the second chair
  and watched silently as Owain finished dressing
  and then brought his chair near the Sabbat bishop
  and sat.
  Carlos’s appearance was that of a street punk.
  When he spoke, he revealed a metal stud through
  his tongue. He looked to be of the same mold as
  Brillante and the other Sabbat that Owain had
  contacted. Carlos’s mannerisms and speech, how-
  ever, were more refined, almost aristocratic. From
  his accent, Owain guessed that Spanish was his
  native tongue, but his English was flawless as well.
  He appeared to be in his late thirties or early for-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  292
  ties, but this, as Owain could attest, meant very
  little.
  “I hear that you have come to Toledo to offer
  me a bargain?” said Carlos.
  Owain did not respond at once. “You are diffi-
  cult to find.”
  “I am pleased to hear that.” Carlos waited pa-
  tiently. He had asked a question and expected an
  answer.
  “Your friends are not particularly hospitable,” said
  Owain after a moment.
  “Santiago?” Carlos made a pistol shape with his
  fingers and bent his thumb for the hammer com-
  ing down. “He is what you would call quick on the
  draw.”
  “Santiago.” Owain rubbed his forehead to indi-
  cate the ill-tempered, balding Cainite. “Brillante.”
  Carlos smiled. “Brillante. You called him that?
  That would explain why he shot you. Or maybe it
  was a lesser reason.” Carlos waved dismissively. “At
  any rate, he is not my friend. He is an associate.
  And you are here. You wanted to see me.” He laid
  his hands open before him as if to say, You see me.
  “I do have an offer to make you,” Owain began.
  He’d planned this conversation in his mind doz-
  ens of times, but still he went slowly. He was
  venturing far into unknown territory, making as-
  sumptions from the portion of the letter he had
  read at El Greco’s. Assumptions that, if incorrect,
  
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  The Winnowing
  could well lead to his destruction. Angharad. It all
  came back to her, and this was the only way Owain
  would find out how. If he stepped carefully. If he
  survived. “I know about Angharad,” he lied.
  Carlos did not respond to the mention of the
  name. He was not about to give anything away.
  Could it be coincidence, Owain wondered, that
  after four fruitless nights of accosting Sabbat vam-
  pires on the street, the night after he had
  mentioned Angharad he was face to face with
  Carlos himself?
  “I know about the blood curse,” said Owain. “I
  know how it began. I know how it spread.”
  Carlos nodded thoughtfully. “Very interesting.
  Tell me what you mean.”
  Just as Carlos was being careful not to give away
  the truth, Owain had to be certain not to give away
  what was fabrication. He had to conceal the fact
  that everything he said was pure conjecture, for if
  the mysterious letter was inaccurate, revealing de-
  tails would only advertise his duplicity. But at the
  same time, if he did not reveal enough to convince
  Carlos, Owain would end up just as dead. He would
  have to gamble on certain facts. “Does the name
  Grimsdale mean anything to you?”
  Carlos said nothing, did not so much as move a
  single muscle.
  “He came to the United States, to Atlanta.”
  Owain knew he was pushing his luck but felt that
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  294
  he had little choice. “He brought the tainted blood
  to sell to the highest bidder, but he never had a
  chance to sell, did he?”
  Carlos leaned forward in his chair. “I find your
  story fascinating. Please tell me more, Señor Owain
  Evans of Atlanta,” he said, reminding Owain that
  he was no longer shielded by anonymity, that he
  had nowhere safe to run where the Sabbat would
  not be able to find him.
  Owain could sense the trap that Carlos was at-
  tempting to lay. He wanted nothing more than for
  Owain to give himself away, and when that hap-
  pened, despite his refined manners, Carlos would
  take great pleasure in rewarding Owain for his im-
  pertinence. “Why should I waste our time telling you
  what you already know?” Owain postured. “You
  never recovered the blood, and Grimsdale managed
  to set the curse loose. To devastating effect, I must
  add. You must be proud.” Owain stopped. He needed
  some sort of reaction from Carlos, some indication
  of whether the truth lay in this direction.
  “And what does this Grimsdale have to do with
  me?” Carlos prompted.
  “He took the blood from laboratories under your
  control, probably without your permission. But that
  matters little, no? I wouldn’t want to be the vam-
  pire responsible for destroying practically all of my
  Sabbat brethren. Wouldn’t engender enormous
  goodwill.”
  
  295
  The Winnowing
  Carlos sat back, crossed his legs. His face betrayed
  nothing. “This story of yours—if there were any
  truth to it—it does not cast me in a very favorable
  light. Who did you hear these things from?”
  Owain smiled incredulously. “You don’t expect
  me to tell you that.”
  “These are serious allegations you make,” Carlos
  explained. “Should I not know those who attempt
  to sully my good name?”
  “I imagine you would merely ask them to stop
  spreading such rumors?” Owain shook his head. “I
  can no more tell you their names than I can tell you
  the names of the people I have told this ‘story,’ as
  you call it. For then I would not be safe, and it would
  do me no good to tell you that I have instructed at
  least a half-dozen of my associates to make ‘this story’
  known, should I fail to return from Spain.”
  Carlos sat back in his chair. He stared unblink-
  ing at Owain. The nearby bed and the unconscious
  mortal in it might well not have existed for all the
  notice the bishop gave them. The creak of the chair
  as he shifted his weight was the only sound to be
  heard. Something in his expression had changed;
  he looked at Owain in a different way, with a mix-
  ture of respect and ire, Owain guessed. “You have
  yet to make me an offer,” Carlos pointed out. “But
  let me warn you that I would rather have my repu-
  tation marred by baseless allegations than submit
  to blackmail.”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  296
  “Baseless?” It would be dangerous, Owain knew,
  to antagonize Carlos further. He should reach some
  accommodation with the Sabbat bishop, an agree-
  ment that would allow Owain the opportunity to
  spy around this underground cluster of corridors
  and chambers that, once, Owain had known very
  well. That would be his best chance to learn the
  whereabouts of the laboratory. It might be here
  beneath the Alcazar. More likely, it was hidden
  somewhere in Madrid. Then, if he found the labo-
  ratory where the blood had been magically altered,
  he could obtain the proof that El Greco desired.
  That was what Owain knew he should do.
  But Carlos’s thinly veiled threat did not sit well
  with Owain. He considered it a challenge; he re-
  sented the fact that this probably younger Cainite
  would dare lord his position as one of the most pre-
  eminent officials of the European Sabbat over
  Owain. First Benison, then El Greco, and now
  Carlos was attempting to exercise control over
  Owain. He had taken as much of that as he could
  stand, so Owain raised the stakes of his bluff.
  “Baseless allegations?” he repeated. “Do you
  think me such a fool as to come here with nothing
  more than unfounded rumors?” Owain stood. He
  stepped around behind his chair and spoke down
  to Carlos. “Grimsdale may have loosed the curse
  before his demise, but he did not dispose of all of
  the tainted blood. I have acquired a portion of the
  
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  The Winnowing
  blood and, no, I will not reveal how I came by it.
  But this does bring me to the heart of my offer.”
  Carlos sat, his expression again blank. He listened
  but did not appear agitated by the condescending
  manner in which Owain addressed him. But ap-
  pearances, Owain well knew, often did not hold
  true when put to the test.
  “Every Tremere across the world,” said Owain,
  “is trying his damnedest to unravel the curse, to
  find a way to counteract it and become the savior
  of the Cainite race. With the number of dead
  claimed by the curse mounting every night, this
  discovery may well shift the balance of the con-
  flict between Camarilla and Sabbat. Whoever
  solves the riddle of the curse will win this war. Not
  only will that sect survive, it will be victorious. It
  will watch its enemy defeated and utterly de-
  stroyed!”
  Carlos did not disagree, nor did he interrupt.
  “I believe that your sorcerers, Tremere or whom-
  ever they might be, as the originators of the curse,
  will be the first to discover a protection against it.”
  Owain pounded the back of his chair with his fist.
  “If I’ve predicted the wrong outcome in this, I am
  already Camarilla. I will survive. If I am correct, I
  want protection from you. Protection from the
  curse, whatever your people have learned, and pro-
  tection from the hordes of Sabbat who will sweep
  over the territory formerly held by the Camarilla.”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  298
  “Your loyalties run deep, Owain Evans,” Carlos
  said dryly.
  “My first loyalty is to survival.”
  A long moment of silence passed between the
  two. Owain still gripped the back of his chair.
  Carlos regarded him thoughtfully. “You have told
  me what you want, but every bargain has two parts.
  What am I to receive?”
  Owain slowly stepped back around his chair and
  sat again. “I will agree not to present the tainted
  blood to Archbishop Monçada and reveal to all the
  Sabbat that you were responsible for the plague that
  has nearly destroyed them.”
  “You claim a great deal of knowledge about the
  Sabbat,” said Carlos.
  “I have many sources,” said Owain and almost
  left it at that, but his personal curiosity got the best
  of him. “Though I believe I was misled on one
  point. I was led to believe that you had a rival for
  power here in Toledo. Is that not the case?” Owain
  knew this to be a dangerous admission of ignorance,
  but he could not believe that the situation was, as
  it had all appearances of being, so completely other
  than El Greco had represented it.
  Carlos laughed quietly. “You have been misin-
  formed, unless your information is fifty years old. I
  have no rival here.” To Owain, the words thun-
  dered across the cavernous room. I have no rival
  here. Not boastful. A mere statement of fact. “But
  
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  The Winnowing
  as to your offer,” Carlos added, “how could I ever
  be assured that you would maintain your part?”
  “You would have my word,” Owain responded.
  “I see.” Carlos rubbed his stubbly chin. “Perhaps
  if you presented me with this allegedly tainted
  blood…”
  “Then I would have no guarantee of my safety.”
  “You would have my word,” Carlos echoed
  Owain.
  Again the two Cainites regarded one another si-
  lently. Carlos sat at ease, deep in thought. Owain
  remained calm—what else could he do?—wonder-
  ing if he had pushed the game beyond an unspoken
  boundary, if he had too blatantly affronted the
  Sabbat bishop.
  Carlos uncrossed his legs and straightened in his
  chair. “I do not believe that you have any of this
  blood that you speak of, Owain Evans.” Owain
  glanced at the two thick, wooden doors on either
  side of the room, expecting Carlos’s lackeys to rush
  in any moment, guns ablaze. Carlos saw Owain’s re-
  action but waved away his concern. “If I wanted you
  dead, you would already be dead,” said Carlos. “Just
  because I do not believe you does not mean that the
  cost of what you ask is not worth the assurance of
  your silence. Dead you would be silent, true. But
  there is the chance you may not be lying.”
  “Why would I bother coming here if I were ly-
  ing?” Owain asked.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  300
  “Why, indeed?”
  From the four-poster bed, Owain’s recent meal
  moaned. Carlos looked that way. Owain considered
  rushing for a door, trying to escape the Alcazar be-
  fore a proper alarm could be raised, but that would
  doom him to failure, and he would never find out
  more about Angharad.
  A moment’s hesitation and the opportunity was
  gone. Carlos turned back to Owain. “I will think
  about your offer for one evening. Return here to-
  morrow at midnight and I will give you my answer.”
  As if on cue, the door to Owain’s right opened and
  Santiago and the female Sabbat that Owain had
  contacted a few nights ago stepped inside. “As a
  show of good faith, I grant you safe passage from
  here tonight, and tomorrow night. On that, Owain,
  you have my word.” A mischievous glint shone in
  Carlos’s eye; it was the playful look of a victor, of
  one who could afford to be magnanimous.
  Santiago and the woman escorted Owain
  through the hewn tunnels that had once belonged
  to El Greco. As they progressed, Owain was sur-
  prised by how many of the turns and barely
  discernible landmarks he remembered. With each
  step he grew more confident of his ability to navi-
  gate the maze-like corridors, so much so that he
  had to make a conscious effort not to outpace his
  escort and give away his secret.
  The tunnel through which they exited surfaced
  
  301
  The Winnowing
  just beyond the Iglesia de San Miguel, as Owain
  knew it would. There were probably a dozen en-
  trances to the catacombs beneath the Alcazar that
  he could think of, and it was just possible, Owain
  realized, that not all of those tunnels were known
  to the most recent residents. He would not try to
  sneak back in tonight, for there might still be head-
  way to make with Carlos tomorrow night, but if
  that failed, Owain would not give up. He would
  find the laboratory, whether it was here or in
  Madrid or somewhere else. He would find the birth-
  place of Project Angharad.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  302
  CHAPTER TEN
  “For God’s sake, Bill. It’s Saturday. Weekend. You
  remember that quaint little idea—those couple of
  days that separate one work week from another?”
  Leigh had been somewhat perturbed. She had made
  reservations at Dante’s Down the Hatch—steam-
  ing fondue on the old ship in the middle of the
  restaurant—a surprise for her husband.
  But Nen was mere hours away from completing the
  task that recently had taken hold of his every waking
  hour, and many of his nonwaking hours as well.
  Leigh had stood with her hands on her hips as
  he put on his coat that afternoon. “We need to
  leave here at 7:15.” That was all she had said. Wil-
  liam had nodded.
  
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  The Winnowing
  At each red light on his way to the office, he
  looked at the occupants of the cars around him.
  Though the people were light-skinned or dark-
  skinned or any of various shades between, Nen saw
  superimposed over each the image of one of hun-
  dreds of Sudanese that he had seen over twenty
  years before—skin flushed, eyes sunken yet bulg-
  ing, moments before the final hemorrhaging began.
  Death was not long in coming. That was the only
  merciful part.
  He would work only until 6:30, Nen decided.
  That would give him plenty of time to get home
  and change. There was only the summary of his
  report to conclude, and there was always Sunday
  afternoon and evening, as he wanted to hand the
  report to both Maureen and her superior, Dr. An-
  drew McArthur, the Research Director, first thing
  Monday morning. Nen had raised more questions
  than he had answered, true, but certainly the CDC
  administration would not be able to deny that the
  matters he had been investigating deserved more
  attention, perhaps even priority status. Public edu-
  cation was one of the most powerful tools in
  heading off an epidemic, and in a society so satu-
  rated with print and broadcast media, there was no
  excuse for the general populace to remain ignorant
  of a potential hazard. Granted, the information
  needed to be presented in a way so as not to cause
  panic, but dissemination of facts was vital, and even
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  304
  a good scare could sometimes prove beneficial.
  Much to Nen’s chagrin, he struggled with the
  conclusion to the report. What should have been
  two hours’ work stretched out to three, at which
  point he decided he was taking the wrong approach
  and started over. Already it was five o’clock. Why,
  he wondered, hadn’t he come in earlier, in the
  morning? Why had he wasted those hours trying
  to fulfill Leigh’s expectations that he spend more
  time around the house? He would be done by now.
  Finally, the words began to flow. One idea led
  naturally to the next. The proper details revealed
  themselves to illustrate his points. Still, there were
  facts to check. In his notes, Nen had at one point
  transposed two case numbers, an error that had
  crept into the report and managed to corrupt sev-
  eral calculations. Accuracy was everything in this
  type of case. An unreceptive superior would all too
  willingly turn away at the first sign of inaccurate
  data, never mind that the original hypothesis re-
  mained unshaken.
  When Nen glanced again at his watch, he was
  shocked to see that he had overshot his 6:30 quit-
  ting time by half an hour. But he was so close.
  Surely he and Leigh could be a little late for their
  reservation with no harm. That way he could fin-
  ish and spend all of Sunday with her. He decided
  against calling. The explanation would take longer
  and make him that much more late. Besides, hav-
  
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  The Winnowing
  ing established a productive rhythm, he was loath
  to abandon the moment. Better to finish up
  quickly.
  But quickly, Nen found, was a perception not
  completely correlating to reality. As he trium-
  phantly printed the final copy of his report, he was
  horrified to realize it was 8:15. As the laser printer
  hummed in the background, he dialed home. “Can
  I meet you there?”
  “I canceled the reservation,” Leigh said.
  Nen tried to read her mood, a trick at which he
  had never been overly skilled. “Tomorrow. I’ll make
  it up to you tomorrow.”
  “Fine.” And she hung up.
  Fine. William knew that word had been used in
  a way diametrically opposed to its actual meaning.
  Once, long ago, when they were first married, he
  had believed that Leigh, being a psychologist,
  would be more straightforward and open in telling
  him what she was thinking. He had since come to
  realize that her background merely made her per-
  fectly aware of the wild goose chases she led him
  on through the labyrinth of female thought.
  The printer had resumed its stoic silence. Nen
  removed the report, made thick by the attached
  data files. Just thumbing through, he spotted for-
  matting changes he would need to make. Maybe
  he would read through his work tonight and mark
  changes for tomorrow morning. Leigh wouldn’t
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  306
  begrudge him the morning, or so he hoped. He
  tucked the report into a manila folder and that into
  his briefcase.
  Outside, the air was crisp. The marginal warmth
  of the afternoon was hours past. Nen buttoned the
  top button on his overcoat. Atlanta had its winter
  days, but chances were that next week it would be
  in the sixties again. The parking lot at CDC was
  relatively bare, but still Nen did not notice, at first,
  the man approaching him.
  “Dr. Nen?”
  Nen looked quizzically at the smartly dressed
  young African-American. His tweed jacket
  couldn’t be enough protection from the cold, but
  the man did not appear uncomfortable. Nen won-
  dered if this were someone he should remember
  having met before—it would not be the first time—
  but he could not place the face.
  “Dr. William Nen?”
  “Yes?” Nen was sure he had never met this per-
  son.
  “It’s a great honor to meet you, Dr. Nen. My
  name is Thelonious. I’ve read about your work in
  Zaire.” He held out his hand.
  Nen felt relieved, his suspicion confirmed that
  he had not, in fact, met this man before. And never
  before, that he could remember, had he been
  stopped on the street to be praised for his work. It
  was a situation to which Nen had no experience
  
  307
  The Winnowing
  responding. “Why…thank you,” he stuttered, the
  mist of his breath hanging between them as they
  shook hands.
  Thelonious smiled warmly. “I would greatly ap-
  preciate the chance to look over the report you’ve been
  working on.”
  Nen cocked his head for a moment, then reached
  into his briefcase. “Of course. That would be no
  problem at all. It’s not quite finished, mind you. A
  few formatting problems I need to neaten up, but
  the content is complete.”
  Thelonious took the offered report, slid it under
  his jacket. “I’m sure your sterling analysis makes
  up for any cosmetic lack, Dr. Nen.”
  Nen beamed at the unexpected compliments.
  Such a knowledgeable and well-mannered young man,
  thought Nen.
  “And one other thing, Dr. Nen,” added
  Thelonious, “you decided to take the rest of the night
  off, and tomorrow. Your wife would like to spend some
  time with you.”
  “Of course,” Nen agreed. “I expect I should be
  going.”
  “Yes.” Thelonious nodded. “And thank you
  again, Dr. Nen. You’ve been a great help.”
  “Think nothing of it.” Nen continued on to his
  car, looking forward to spending the rest of the
  weekend with his wife.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  308
  Owain threw open the front door of the small
  house of El Greco’s, determined to have his an-
  swers. Startled by his violent entrance, Maria fled
  the front room. Just as quickly, Miguel rushed in, a
  snub-nosed pistol aimed and ready. A second armed
  Cainite, short and squat, followed Miguel. Seeing
  that the intruder was Owain, Miguel put up his
  hand. “Hold your fire, Javier.” But Miguel’s anger
  was kindled. “Owain! What in God’s name…?”
  Owain let loose with a backhand blow that
  caught Miguel squarely across the side of the face
  and sent him stumbling into the wall. Three pow-
  erful strides carried Owain past Miguel and the
  surprised Javier and up the stairs. A moment later
  he was before the door to El Greco’s study. With-
  out pausing, Owain kicked open the door. The top
  hinge ripped from the wall. Splintered wood flew
  across the room.
  Owain stepped into the unoccupied chamber.
  The desk that held the letter he had not really writ-
  ten stood before him. He bellowed, “Where are
  you, El Greco? Damn you!”
  Only a few steps behind Owain, Miguel stepped
  through the remains of the door, his weapon again
  leveled at Owain.
  “Where are you?” Owain yelled again. He scoffed
  at Miguel and his gun. “I’ve been shot by little girls
  
  309
  The Winnowing
  with bigger pistols. Don’t hurt yourself. Where’s El
  Greco?”
  Miguel did not lower the gun. “What is the
  meaning of this? Are you insane?”
  “I’m sorry,” Owain mocked him. “Was I supposed
  to go by the bread shop to ask for you?”
  “Pottery shop,” Miguel tersely corrected him.
  “Damn you and your worthless store, Miguel.
  Where’s El Greco?”
  “You idiot!” Miguel spat in Owain’s direction.
  “How many of our enemies have you led to our
  doorstep?”
  “Do you think they don’t know where you are?
  Do you think they care?” Owain asked. “There’s
  no one in Toledo except your enemies. They would
  have killed you already if you were worth the
  trouble.” Owain kicked the chair. It slammed into
  the rolltop desk. “Come talk to me, El Greco, you
  lying, insane bastard!” he shouted.
  “You must go,” Miguel hissed. “Now! And stop
  your yelling,” he added. “Otherwise, half the
  city…”
  Miguel stopped short as both he and Owain saw
  the seam appear in the ceiling. As they watched, a
  trapdoor that had been completely concealed be-
  fore lowered, revealing steps to a hidden attic, and
  coming slowly down those steps was El Greco. First
  his booted feet and then his legs came into view.
  His dark cloak clung tightly about him. He stepped
  
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  from the stairs, and the trap door closed silently
  behind him. “Hello, Owain. I wasn’t expecting to
  see you so soon.”
  Miguel began stammering at once: “He com-
  pletely disregarded my instructions to…” but
  stopped as El Greco raised a finger for silence.
  “Leave us,” said the old Toreador, altogether calm
  in the face of his servant’s consternation and
  Owain’s fury.
  Miguel self-consciously lowered the gun that he
  had still pointed at Owain, and slinked out of the
  room. Ever so slowly, El Greco righted the chair
  that Owain had kicked over, then sat. He indicated
  for Owain to do the same, but Owain refused.
  “What has happened to you?” Owain asked, his
  voice full of disgust.
  “Nothing that has not happened to you, Owain.”
  El Greco scratched his pointy chin.
  This was not what Owain wanted to hear. He
  was nothing like the pathetic creature sitting be-
  fore him. “You rave,” he accused. “You are a
  doddering, insane fool. You sent me on this chase
  after Carlos as if he were your rival, as if you were
  equals. But you are nothing! You gave me none of
  the information that might have helped me. You
  were willing to risk my destruction because you
  couldn’t bear to face the truth.”
  “What truth would that be?” El Greco asked qui-
  etly.
  
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  The Winnowing
  Owain began pacing the room. “That truth
  would be that Toledo is no longer your city, hasn’t
  been for years, as far as I can tell. That truth would
  be not that Carlos is invading your territory, but
  that he is the master here.” As Owain spoke, he
  could see El Greco’s color rising quickly, as well as
  the tension in his gnarled fists. “Why did Monçada
  really summon you to Madrid? Not to demand
  peace between you and Carlos, because the war has
  already been fought, and you lost. Did he ask Carlos
  to suffer your presence? Was that his way of repay-
  ing old debts to you, his faithful lackey from
  centuries ago?”
  With a terrible scream, El Greco shot to his feet
  and took his chair in his hands. He smashed it
  down upon his desk. The chair disintegrated into
  countless pieces, and the blow crushed inward a
  portion of the rolltop. “This is my city!”
  The two old friends stood facing one another. A
  wildness, a desperation had crept into El Greco’s
  eyes. As withered as his body had grown, there was
  still strength there. He still held the back of the
  destroyed chair in his grasp. Owain noticed the
  sharp ends of the wood.
  How far El Greco had fallen, Owain realized. The
  Toreador had indeed been the most influential
  Cainite in the city once. While the mortal reins
  of power had changed hands time and again, El
  Greco had survived by accepting each new occu-
  
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  pying force, by drinking in whatever it was of
  beauty they had to offer. It was perhaps his great-
  est legacy—that he had befriended the human
  artist most widely associated with Toledo,
  Domenicos Theotocoulos. The painter, who coin-
  cidentally enough hailed from near the Toreador’s
  own homeland, had affectionately taken on his
  mentor’s nom de guerre, El Greco.
  That legacy would live on, but it meant very
  little to the famed artist’s vampiric namesake at
  present. Owain could see the despair in El Greco’s
  eyes as he was confronted with the truth of the situ-
  ation, and all of Owain’s questions were answered
  by that one sight.
  “Yes,” said Owain quietly. “This is your city.” El
  Greco had not kept anything from Owain out of
  sheer perversity, as Owain had suspected. El Greco
  could not face the truth, couldn’t grasp it. There
  was no way he could convey it to another. He was
  a relic of bygone days, just as Owain could easily
  have become had not the siren jolted him back to
  the present by reacquainting him with his feelings
  from the past. What had happened to El Greco?
  Nothing that hasn’t happened to you, Owain.
  “The dreams, Owain,” said El Greco, his eyes sad
  and worried. Owain wanted to believe that he
  could see a hint of lucidity breaking through. “The
  dreams are the worst. I see how it was.” He dropped
  the remnant of the chair to the floor, then stared
  
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  The Winnowing
  in horror at his own hands, turning them over and
  over to inspect every bone, every vein. “It’s the
  curse. It brings the dreams. It takes me back.” Now
  he looked at Owain with a pleading gaze but un-
  spoken words.
  Owain looked at his own hands. The curse brings
  dreams. Owain had been suffering his own dreams.
  He’d wondered if the curse had anything to do with
  them, but he had put the thought out of his mind
  whenever it had arisen. The curse brings dreams. It
  could very well be so. Was the insanity anything
  more than a waking dream? Owain could not dis-
  count the insight of the pathetic creature standing
  before him. El Greco had too often proven the
  strength of his intuition.
  The dreams.
  The curse.
  Project Angharad.
  Whether they were connected or not, Owain
  would undoubtedly discover. Or he would perish.
  “I will find a way to stop the curse,” Owain said,
  and a small degree of comfort shone in El Greco’s
  expression. “But know this,” Owain added defi-
  antly. “I do it out of no sense of obligation or duty
  to you. I do it for my own reasons.” For Angharad,
  he almost said. And for the old friendship of a pitiable
  wreck. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch
  El Greco, to place a hand on his arm. It was a ges-
  ture Owain could not bring himself to make, a
  
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  gesture somehow too…human. Owain gladly let his
  sentimentality wash away. He knew he could de-
  stroy this creature if need be. There was no need
  to worry overly much about anything El Greco
  tried to hold over him.
  “You do have obligations to me,” El Greco pro-
  tested weakly. He motioned toward the chess board
  on the table by the desk, the game pieces still ar-
  ranged as Owain had seen them several nights
  before. “Yes, you have bested me on that field of
  battle, Owain.”
  Owain did not completely understand. The To-
  reador seemed to think that was the game they had
  been playing, that Owain had proven victorious.
  More raving, Owain thought. The dementia runs
  deep.
  Painfully, El Greco reached over and took the
  nearly defenseless white king in his gnarled fingers.
  He clenched the piece tightly in his fist, and as he
  squeezed, the cheap plastic melted and dripped be-
  tween his fingers—into his lap, onto the floor.
  “That is but a game,” said El Greco. “You, how-
  ever, have sworn oaths to me, to the Sabbat.”
  “My oaths are centuries old,” Owain replied.
  “Words only. No promise is meant to live so long,
  on into eternity.”
  El Greco frowned. “Every oath should live
  through eternity. Otherwise, it is only words.”
  Owain turned and left his old friend. Downstairs,
  
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  The Winnowing
  Miguel was in the sitting room with Javier. Owain
  stepped into the room. Miguel and Javier both
  looked up. “Miguel,” said Owain, “cross me again,
  and I will kill you.” He left the house.
  Kli Kodesh loosed his grip upon the writhing
  strand of prophecy. It tore free of him, the friction
  burning a weal of raw pink across his marble-white
  palm. A single drop of rich red pooled in the cup
  of his hand, like holy water in a font.
  The tail end of the prophecy flicked once, dis-
  dainfully. Then, cracking like a whip, it snaked
  from view.
  Kli Kodesh stared after it impassively. He let his
  hand fall to his side and clenched his fist. When
  he opened it again, the hand was bloodless and
  unblemished. It might have been a work of sculp-
  ture rather than a thing of flesh and blood.
  If Kli Kodesh noted this miraculous change, he
  gave no outward sign. His attention was fixed on
  the slowly resolving cityscape. With growing an-
  ticipation, he watched the city draw into focus.
  Something within him stirred at the first hint of
  the Moorish architecture. As the tangled sprawl of
  the Old Town unraveled before him, he found him-
  self racing ahead, tracing half-remembered routes
  through the unfolding labyrinth of docks, alley-
  ways, marketplaces.
  
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  The city struck him like a blow. Certainly much
  had changed since his last sojourn here, but that
  was perhaps inevitable. He must have been away
  for…well, far too long.
  The entire city spread out below him now. He
  drank deeply of it. It bore the reminders of its
  bloody history openly, in plain view.
  Toledo, the City of the Sword.
  The city itself was a peninsula, besieged by wa-
  ter on three sides. The unique property of Toledo,
  however, Kli Kodesh reflected, was not that it
  formed a peninsula in space, but rather that it com-
  prised a peninsula in time. Throughout its
  turbulent history, Toledo had been surrounded by
  three cultures in conflict, changing hands repeat-
  edly throughout the Middle Ages as Moors,
  Crusaders and Jews vied for dominance. Kli Kodesh
  had found himself returning to the familiar con-
  fines of this place time and time again.
  The trained eye could still pick out the pattern
  of the city-that-was lurking just beneath the ve-
  neer of the modern city. To Kli Kodesh, it felt
  almost like a homecoming.
  He had not expected the prophecy to carry him
  so far so fast. It had seemed mere nights ago that
  he had walked dripping from the sea into the neon
  blare of the City of Angels. It was there that he
  had apprehended the first subtle hint of what was
  surely the Final Pattern.
  
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  The Winnowing
  From that time forward, he could not escape the
  growing sense that his actions were somehow pre-
  scribed by some greater force, almost
  predetermined. He had tracked the evolving pat-
  tern further, of course, back to the tangled black
  web of omen that was the City of the Scar.
  At the heart of that web, deep beneath the
  streets of that city, he could feel a dark presence
  brooding. An alien power lurked there—a black
  widow tickling the delicate strands of prophecy. Kli
  Kodesh could feel the thrumming message she sent
  out. She was calling home her own.
  It was not difficult to follow the course of that
  vibrating strand. It had released him here—in the
  City of the Sword. Somewhere within this ancient
  labyrinth, between the press of the three besieging
  beliefs, he knew he would find the one for whom
  this message, this omen, was intended.
  He knew little of the one he sought. His only
  advantage was an ancient name, a title that had
  survived the passing of centuries sealed in the words
  of ancient prophecies, like a moldering scroll sealed
  in a bone tube.
  Undeterred, Kli Kodesh descended upon the city
  to find the one the ancient songs called the
  Kinslayer.
  
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  CHAPTER ELEVEN
  J. Benison Hodge, prince of Atlanta, sat motion-
  less at the conference table in Rhodes Hall. His
  officer’s saber stood embedded deeply into the
  table, neatly slicing the thick Sunday newspaper
  in half. Each tick of the clock’s pendulum behind
  him roared like thunder in his ears. Benison’s ev-
  ery ounce of energy was fueling his restraint. It was
  a supreme effort of will that kept him from com-
  pletely destroying the room, from rampaging
  through the house and smashing everything in
  sight—a supreme effort of will, and the thought of
  Eleanor’s extreme displeasure should he further mar
  the furniture.
  A prince must be moderate of temper, he told him-
  
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  The Winnowing
  self over and over again. I must prove myself worthy
  to lead the shining city of Primus, and this is one of my
  tests. His hand quivered as he struggled to keep
  from tearing the sword free from the table so that
  he could hack the bookshelves to bits. He wanted
  to pull down the very foundations of the building.
  A prince must be moderate of temper.
  A prince must be moderate of temper.
  Unable to resist, like picking at a scab that should
  be left to heal, he looked again at the headline that
  had greeted him when he rose this evening: CDC
  FEARS WORLDWIDE EPIDEMIC. His hand
  quivered more forcefully. The prince closed his
  eyes, drew in a deep, calming breath.
  For weeks since the outbreak of the blood curse,
  Benison had been working nonstop to preserve the
  Masquerade, to ensure that the death and chaos of
  the Kindred world remained hidden from the eyes
  of mortals. The story was the same across the na-
  tion, across the world. Cainites were being struck
  down by an angry God, and as existing vampiric
  power structures were destabilized, the survivors
  contested viciously for preeminence. The mortals
  had felt the tremors, but they were used to the rule
  of fear and uncertainty. They would look the other
  way as long as they could.
  Benison opened his eyes and glared at the head-
  line again. This would not allow them to look the
  other way. From the sound of the reported facts,
  
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  the blood taint had even spread among the kine
  somewhat, claiming victims among the old and the
  infirm. What the papers mentioned only in pass-
  ing, the enigma of fresh blood found in apparently
  weeks-dead corpses, was the greatest danger to the
  Kindred. If investigators should pursue this mat-
  ter…
  The news in the papers—and they were all
  largely the same—was a catastrophe, but equally
  disturbing was the fact that the reports had begun
  with the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and spread to
  the other news services. Not only might Cainites
  the world over be found out and hunted to extinc-
  tion, but it would appear to be Benison’s fault! The
  final blow to the Masquerade had come from
  within the city that was his charge. And Benison
  had no doubt as to how it had happened.
  Thelonious.
  A knock at the door interrupted the prince’s dark
  thoughts.
  “Enter.”
  Vermeil opened the door and ushered in Xavier
  Kline, the giant Brujah. As Benison’s ghoul closed
  the door, Kline stepped forward somewhat sheep-
  ishly, a rather amusing display if Benison had been
  in a mood to be amused.
  “Well?” asked Benison, already knowing the an-
  swer.
  “’Scuse me?” Kline turned his head to the side.
  
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  The Winnowing
  His hearing had never come back completely after
  his attack on the cursed Daughter of Cacophony.
  “What happened?” Benison asked more loudly.
  “No sign of Thelonious at his law office or his
  known haven,” Kline reported. “Looks like he
  packed in a hurry.”
  Benison nodded. He was not surprised. As soon
  as he had seen the paper this evening, he had sent
  Vermeil for Kline with instructions to find his
  Brujah elder and bring him to the prince regard-
  less of Thelonious’s wishes in the matter. Benison
  had not expected that Kline would find the Brujah
  primogen. He had undoubtedly acquired the CDC
  reports, set the story in motion, and then fled the
  city or gone into hiding. Kline was nowhere near
  smart enough to find Thelonious if Thelonious
  didn’t want to be found.
  “This mean I’m Brujah primogen?” Kline asked.
  Benison looked up at the Brujah of towering stat-
  ure and ambition. “This means,” said the prince,
  “that the Brujah no longer have any seat among
  the primogen. Thelonious has proven your clan
  unworthy. You have shown yourself loyal to your
  prince, but any other of your clan who does not
  personally swear fealty will be exiled or destroyed.
  Let it be known.”
  Kline took a step back as if struck a blow by this
  pronouncement against his clan.
  “But I will tell you this, Xavier,” added the
  
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  prince. “Find Thelonious. Bring him to me, and
  his former seat in the council of primogen is yours.”
  Kline’s eyes brightened at this, as Benison had
  expected. I might as well be training a two-hundred-
  pound pigeon, thought the prince. Kline excused
  himself and backed out of the room. Benison, still
  only half-decided on the next steps he would take,
  returned to contemplating his sword buried in the
  table.
  Eleanor poked her head out of the living room
  when she heard Xavier Kline tromping down the
  hall and out the front door. Perhaps this was the
  time to present her findings to Benison. Earlier in
  the evening, Vermeil had hinted that the prince
  might not be in the most receptive of moods, but
  that was hours ago, and she had heard no yelling
  while Benison conferred with Kline. If J. Benison
  can speak with that hired killer, then he can certainly
  speak with his wife, she decided.
  Eleanor turned back to Hannah and Aunt
  Bedelia, who had consumed all but the last of the
  blood crumpets. No one would ever take the last
  of anything. “It is time, ladies.” Eleanor and
  Hannah had spent their bridge time last night ex-
  plaining their plan to Bedelia. It had been a lengthy
  and rather disconnected conversation, consisting
  of much redundancy to ensure that the old dear
  
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  The Winnowing
  could anchor basic facts in her sieve-like mind. It
  was always a matter of speculation exactly what
  Bedelia would say, but Eleanor was as sure as she
  could be that the prince’s sire agreed with her. And
  Benison would never go against Bedelia’s wishes.
  Hannah rose and wheeled Bedelia into the hall.
  Eleanor took up a parcel from its resting place on
  the couch. She held, wrapped in a cloth of crushed
  velvet, a gilded dagger. With her husband’s help,
  she would have her Benjamin back, and Owain
  Evans would have his due.
  It should have worked, damn it! Dieter is an idiot, a
  buffoon. Even after two full weeks, Gustav was still
  incensed that the riot he had helped to bring about
  had not claimed its intended victim. Wilhelm still
  walked the streets of Berlin. I take Dieter’s pathetic
  little Final Reich and give them direction and force, and
  still they are incompetent! The mob was indirect
  enough a phenomenon that Wilhelm could not
  have foreseen it nor prepared against it. By all ac-
  counts, the western prince, his childe, and his
  bodyguard Kleist had all been overwhelmed and
  immobilized by a veritable legion of skinheads. Yet
  the three Kindred had escaped.
  Foul play! had been Gustav’s first thought. How
  else could such an exquisite plan have gone awry?
  He had spent much of the past two weeks ques-
  
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  tioning many of the participants, trying to discover
  who was to blame, trying to uncover the turncoat.
  All for naught. He had found no signs of treach-
  ery, merely incompetence. But still, the suspicion
  lingered. It gnawed at him constantly. His mind
  had a way of latching on to such disturbing possi-
  bilities, of turning them over and over, all through
  the night. Gustav had lived too long to think that
  paranoia did not have its proper place. He did not
  casually dismiss the prospect that he might have
  been betrayed, and as he made his way down
  through the lowest sub-basement of the Berlin Pal-
  ace, he knew that this night he would learn the
  truth.
  The basement was a maze of ladders and tunnels,
  of pipes venting steam or leaking from their de-
  cades-old seals. The sound of dripping water and
  the vague odor of sewage were inescapable. At least
  one of the pipes running through the palace proper
  above was empty, Gustav knew, because whenever
  he needed to meet with a certain individual, he
  would place a message in the pipe. Then it was only
  a matter of time.
  I will know who betrayed me, and they will pay!
  Gustav promised himself as he stepped off another
  ladder. Whatever ancient lightbulb was installed
  nearby flickered erratically, its scant light shrouded
  by the thick steam.
  “Gustav.”
  
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  The Winnowing
  The eastern prince heard the near-whisper and
  turned to see an obscured form in the shadows.
  “You have news for me?”
  “As you have requested.” Ellison stepped forward,
  but rather than coming into the light, the shad-
  ows seemed to move forward with him. Gustav
  could just make out the crippled shape of the
  Nosferatu. “You seek those who turned on you,
  those who sabotaged your plan to rid Berlin of
  Wilhelm.”
  “Yes,” Gustav answered tersely. He hated this
  overblown sense of secrecy and drama that Ellison
  always employed—Just tell me what I want to know,
  you walking birth defect!—but the accuracy of the
  Nosferatu’s information was beyond question.
  “You were betrayed,” said Ellison.
  “I knew it.” Gustav smashed his fist into his palm,
  imagining as he did so the way he would crush
  whomever had crossed him.
  “You were betrayed by the ineptitude of those you
  chose to do your bidding,” Ellison explained. The
  words were spoken softly, almost inaudibly, yet they
  rang in Gustav’s ears like a hammer striking the
  steam pipes. “There was not a traitor, no one who
  willfully blocked your plans.”
  Gustav could not believe what he was hearing,
  did not want to believe. He wanted very much the
  name of someone he could pound into submission,
  someone he could personally draw and quarter and
  
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  leave staked out for the sun. But Ellison was tell-
  ing him that he was to be denied this rightful
  satisfaction. “Are you sure of this?” Ellison re-
  sponded only with affronted silence, until Gustav
  realized what he had asked. “What am I saying? Of
  course you’re sure. You ‘provide information…’”
  Gustav mocked the Nosferatu’s stock answer for
  whenever he was questioned, then laughed. “You
  tell me what you know rather than what I want to
  hear. You are not like the others.”
  But Gustav realized suddenly that he was speak-
  ing to the empty darkness and the steam. Ellison
  had slipped away. One day you will push me too far,
  you palsied simpleton, and I will crush you and drive
  your entire tainted bloodline out of my city. One day.
  Before Gustav even realized that he was gone,
  Ellison was slipping out of the bottom-most level
  of the Berlin Palace and into the storm sewers that
  crisscrossed beneath the whole of Berlin, the pas-
  sageways that blurred the distinctions of east and
  west for the Nosferatu more so than for any other
  clan.
  It was perhaps unwise, Ellison realized, to anger
  Gustav by slipping away so, but the eastern prince
  in particular needed constant reminding that the
  Nosferatu would not stand by to have abuse or
  doubts heaped upon them. Ellison provided a ser-
  
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  The Winnowing
  vice. He was not duty-bound to provide informa-
  tion to any prince, and as long as the hostilities
  continued between Gustav and Wilhelm, they both
  needed the Nosferatu more than he needed them.
  As long as the hostilities continued. If one prince
  should prove victorious, or should one find out that
  Ellison was less than exclusive in offering his ser-
  vices, the Nosferatu position would suddenly
  become considerably more precarious.
  Ellison moved through the sewers more sure-
  footedly and more rapidly than other Kindred
  would have imagined. His physical deformities
  served to disarm the concerns of others far more
  than they inconvenienced Ellison in any meaning-
  ful way. He might lack the particular grace to which
  surface dwellers were accustomed, but his shriveled
  arm and misaligned legs did not actually hinder his
  movement.
  As he made his way more and more deeply into
  the tunnels that were his refuge, he clutched to his
  chest the locket that hung on a string around his
  neck. The locket was crafted of beautiful gold.
  Ellison polished it each night without fail, and was
  never without it, pressed against his chest beneath
  his filthy clothes. If need be, he would trade the
  favor of both princes to safeguard this, his greatest
  treasure.
  Finally, he crawled into a small compartment,
  little bigger than a casket, that was one of several
  
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  scattered throughout the sewers he’d made his ha-
  vens. Nestled in among the rags and crumpled
  paper, he opened the locket, oh so carefully, so as
  not to dislodge the picture within, though it had
  never come loose during the many years he had
  possessed it. The picture was a simple line draw-
  ing in black ink, but it somehow managed to
  capture the very essence of its subject—Ellison’s
  lost love, Melitta. Lost only for now, he reminded
  himself. During the final days of World War II as
  the Allied forces had moved to occupy the city, a
  bomb had detonated and one of the sewer tunnels
  had collapsed upon her. Melitta had crawled out
  of the rubble, but then had slipped into the torpor
  from which she still had not awakened.
  Ellison held the locket to his breast, to his heart,
  and as he did so, he could feel her presence. He
  knew that the blood of unlife, the smallest trace,
  still flowed in her slumbering veins. Warmth
  flooded his body, as if he had just fed upon three
  mortals. She would return to him. All he had to
  do was remain patient. Her body was entombed far
  beneath the city, far beneath where he now lay. He
  had seen to her safety and would allow himself only
  one visit to her body each year. Though incred-
  ibly remote, there was the slightest chance that
  someone could follow him to her, and that was not
  a chance he was willing to take merely to satisfy
  his own personal longings.
  
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  The Winnowing
  So he would wait. He would hold the locket to
  his body; he would pray to the picture like some
  icon from the east, and he would thank the gods
  that Isabella had given it to him. The price she had
  asked had been so small. He would gladly have
  given so much more. He had thought at first that
  the locket was a mere trinket, that the drawing was
  just some sentimental rendering of her image. But
  he had quickly learned how much more they re-
  ally were.
  Closing his eyes, Ellison could imagine that his
  beloved Melitta was lying there next to him, that
  she was reaching out to stroke his cheek…but it
  was his own hand that touched his face. Still, he
  could touch her mind, could almost make out her
  thoughts. The locket brought him so close to her.
  It was almost unbearable.
  A few more minutes. He would allow himself just
  a little more time with his beloved, and then back
  to other matters. Come back to me, love. It was these
  brief respites that gave meaning to Ellison’s nights.
  Otherwise, he was completely alone in the world.
  Other Nosferatu were like distant cousins perhaps,
  but it was for Melitta that he tried to carve out a
  secure home. Come back.
  Owain stepped out of El Greco’s house and the
  world closed in upon him. What had begun as a
  
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  clear evening was now dark. Churning clouds had
  rolled in from the west and hung so low in the sky
  that they threatened to swoop down and swallow
  the entire city. The faceless buildings of Toledo
  loomed, crowding together, leaning forward, ready
  to crash to the ground and crush Owain should the
  blustering wind but change direction. Crevices
  opened in the street to sabotage his footing, or cer-
  tain cobbles rose to cause him to stumble.
  Again, certainty had fled Owain. Mere hours ago,
  he had been secure in his hatred of El Greco, a ha-
  tred that he had been cultivating since setting foot
  in Spain. How dare his onetime friend summon
  him from across the Atlantic and try to assert con-
  trol over Owain? There could be no worse crime.
  Owain had spent nearly a thousand years ensuring
  that no one controlled him, striving to become the
  master of his own destiny. El Greco had breached
  the wall of isolation that contained the fury within
  Owain’s soul and Owain, seeing tyrannical designs
  behind El Greco’s demands, had been ready to de-
  stroy the old Toreador. What had slowed the
  progress of Owain’s advancing hatred had been sur-
  prise—surprise that none of the vampires he’d
  accosted had acknowledged El Greco’s existence.
  Even when Owain had stepped into El Greco’s
  abode this very evening, the Ventrue had been ready
  to decide upon a death sentence for his old friend.
  Nothing so rash as a personal assault, but Owain had
  
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  been ready to make the decision that El Greco would
  have to be removed from the picture once and for
  all. Owain would have killed Miguel first and en-
  joyed the act, then found out what other supporters
  remained, if more than those he had seen, and taken
  care of them. El Greco, Owain would have saved
  for last. There would have been no more loose ends.
  Still, Owain would have pursued his charade with
  Carlos, for Owain had to find out what improbable
  coincidence was behind the reemergence of
  Angharad’s name. But at least he would have been
  acting unquestionably of his own volition.
  But there are always complications, he thought, as
  freakish winter thunder rumbled in the distance.
  The clouds appeared even closer now, if that was
  possible, close enough, almost, to touch the upper
  towers of the nearby Alcazar. There were unusual
  numbers of people on the street. Perhaps the kine,
  too, sensed the barely restrained force of the stormy
  heavens. Owain would have preferred empty
  streets. He was distracted by his recent encounter,
  and with so many mortals about, concealment
  would be plentiful for any spy or lurking Sabbat. It
  was quite possible that word had not trickled com-
  pletely down through the ranks that Owain and
  Carlos were in the midst of negotiations, and some
  Sabbat flunky might want to vent a grudge against
  the uninvited guest to the city. There was the
  Gangrel Nicholas, as well, who might be stalking
  
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  the streets. Owain had forgotten to ask Carlos what
  had happened to the beast back at the plaza, but
  then again, what reason would Carlos have had to
  tell him? Better that Owain had not brought up
  the subject, rather than admitting something else
  that he did not know.
  Complications indeed. It would have been much
  simpler to have written off El Greco, to have made
  plans and then destroyed him at some point. But
  just as the very heavens and the city itself now con-
  spired against Owain, his emotions had conspired
  against him. He had seen his old friend left by the
  years withered and irrelevant, and Owain had been
  surprised by his own pity. It was very nearly a first
  for Owain, as kine or Kindred. He felt sure that he
  could influence El Greco easily enough. After see-
  ing just how far the Toreador had fallen, and just
  how fleeting was his grasp of reality, Owain did not
  feel threatened, and where normally he would have
  felt revulsion for this Cainite, a weak specter of El
  Greco’s former self, Owain felt pity.
  Lightning played among the black clouds. A far-
  off tower clock chimed midnight, but even at this
  late hour, mortals thronged the streets. Some curi-
  ously admired the sky. As Owain looked more
  closely at the people, however, he noticed that
  many were carrying loads of clothes and household
  goods—old pots, a mirror, a chicken. These same
  people wore not modern attire, but the frocks and
  
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  knee-pants that Owain had seen five hundred years
  before…when he had previously resided in Toledo,
  when the Jews had been expelled from Spain.
  He continued on his way, already late for his ap-
  pointment with Carlos, and saw more and more of
  the dark-haired denizens of the past. They were
  somber, carrying what they could of their lives on
  their backs, and they were oblivious to the dynamic
  rumbling of the storm above. Owain stopped and
  looked around him. For a moment he could not
  tell who was out of place—the fifteenth-century
  Jews fleeing their homes, or the twentieth-century
  young people with their good looks and bottles of
  wine. As the rain began to fall and the storm hit
  in earnest, the streets were left to the somber ones
  who cringed as the raindrops struck. The more
  modern inhabitants scattered, seeking the shelter
  that, then and now, was denied their counterparts.
  Owain walked as if in a dream. He could feel the
  onset of the vision, was fully aware that, already,
  he was stepping into it, but he resisted. There is no
  time, he told himself. Just as there was no time to
  pity his old friend, there was no time to investi-
  gate these unfortunate sojourners, be they
  apparitions of his mind or of the city itself.
  He approached the Iglesia de San Miguel and the
  concealed tunnel from which he had been led the
  night before. There, Owain was greeted by one
  most definitely not an apparition. Santiago stepped
  
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  forward out of the shadows, and behind him the
  female Cainite, also of dark Spanish complexion.
  Owain, his mind awhirl with what he had seen and
  felt the past hour, offered no witty banter, and
  Santiago did not seem to grieve overly much. He
  turned and led Owain into the depths of the earth,
  the woman following behind.
  The tunnel, lit by occasional torches on the wall
  but dark for long stretches, was even more famil-
  iar to Owain this time. For many of his years in
  Toledo, he had more or less stayed with El Greco
  here. Owain knew, before he and his escort turned
  the corner, that there would be a passage leading
  down on the left, and another on the right several
  feet further along. Only twice did he misremember
  a turn or incorrectly predict the lay of the next pas-
  sage. The apparitions did not follow him beneath
  the surface of the earth. No beings from the past
  greeted him. Unexpected from the darkness, how-
  ever, appeared Carlos. The silver rings through his
  eyebrows and nose shone in the torchlight.
  “You’re late, Owain Evans,” said Carlos. “I was
  afraid you had rescinded your offer.” He spoke al-
  most playfully, belying the fact that he would have
  had Owain hunted down had the Ventrue not re-
  turned tonight. “Come. Walk with me.” Carlos
  wrapped his arm around Owain’s shoulder and led
  him deeper along the tunnel. Santiago and the
  woman remained behind.
  
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  “You are an intriguing individual,” said Carlos.
  “You make your residence in Atlanta in the United
  States, have for just over seventy-five years. Never
  have caused a stir there, a very well-behaved
  Camarilla elder. And now suddenly you are in To-
  ledo attempting to blackmail a bishop of the
  Sabbat.” Carlos cheerfully squeezed Owain’s shoul-
  der.
  “‘Blackmail’ is such an ugly word,” Owain com-
  mented. “I prefer to think we are reaching a
  mutually beneficial agreement.”
  “Call it what you like. Whatever eases your con-
  science.”
  They walked in silence that way, Carlos embrac-
  ing Owain, through the tunnels for some time.
  Carlos neither spoke nor indicated that he ex-
  pected Owain to offer any information. Owain tried
  to record their path in his mind, but they were very
  deep now, in corridors that had been mostly the
  province of El Greco when Owain had been here,
  and still descending.
  “It was very foolish of you contacting me like you
  did,” Carlos said at last. “Every tender young re-
  cruit in the city knows that you were demanding
  an audience. They see it as an affront to my au-
  thority. Besides,” he squeezed Owain’s shoulder
  again, “a Camarilla elder meeting with a Sabbat
  bishop. What will people say?”
  Owain could not argue. He had not been par-
  
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  ticularly discreet. Perhaps it was a reaction to the
  extreme precautions Miguel had taken in smug-
  gling him into Toledo. Owain had gone about his
  assignment with all the subtlety of a bull racing
  through the streets of Pamplona. Or perhaps, as
  with the clumsy threat he had cast toward his fel-
  low Ventrue Benjamin several months ago, Owain
  was just getting careless, sloppy. It could happen
  quite easily after nine hundred or a thousand
  years—an elder Cainite grown weary of the elabo-
  rate precautions and wiles that had enabled him
  to reach such a ripe old age, or just not caring about
  the consequences of missteps, either out of a sense
  of invulnerability or ennui.
  “Ah, but you do not care,” said Carlos, slapping
  Owain on the shoulder and letting go of him at
  last. “You do what you want regardless, and if you
  die in the process…that is the end. You fear the
  curse that much?” Carlos’s words followed Owain’s
  thoughts, but diverged to arrive at a different con-
  clusion. “You decide, if the curse will snatch me
  away like a giant eagle swooping down from the
  sky, then why fear death otherwise. Why fuck
  around, eh?”
  As Carlos led Owain around one final corner, a
  sudden shock of recognition flashed through
  Owain’s mind. He knew exactly where he was in
  the labyrinthine tunnels beneath El Alcazar, and
  trepidation followed closely upon the heels of the
  
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  The Winnowing
  realization. They descended a long straight corri-
  dor, the floor leading down as the ceiling leveled
  off, forming a hallway that was easily twice as tall
  as the other portions of the cramped tunnels
  through which they had traveled. The passage
  ended at a massive stone door, its surface carved
  with wards older than El Alcazar, older than the
  Sabbat itself. Owain had felt the energy of those
  wards once, though he was not privy to the arcane
  rites by which the symbols were empowered.
  Carlos touched the door lightly and it swung
  open surprisingly smoothly on some unseen pivot.
  “These passages are very old,” said Carlos, his tone
  of reverence unusual for a member of the Sabbat,
  most of whom thrived on violence and destruction.
  “Older than the nation of Spain. Perhaps as old as
  the world.”
  A fine sand of ancient days covered the floor of
  the small room beyond the door. The walls were
  covered with more runes, as was the stone sar-
  cophagus that occupied most of the space in the
  room. Owain’s knees buckled as he again was as-
  saulted by the disjointed sense of time that he had
  felt upon the street. The visions were reaching for
  him, but he could not submit. Not here, not now,
  in the presence of Carlos. Owain saw the carved
  wards shimmering with light and power, as they had
  been when activated by a Tremere—Tanzani, that
  was the name—who had served El Greco. The lid
  
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  of the ornate sarcophagus was slid down, open, but
  Owain could not force himself to look inside. He
  was suddenly fearful that he was in that distant
  time, that he would look into the ornate coffin and
  see himself, for he had crawled into it late one
  night and not emerged for over two hundred years.
  “Don’t you think so?” Carlos was asking some-
  thing. Owain couldn’t catch all the words, but he
  and Carlos were in the here and now, the present.
  He latched onto Carlos’s presence, forced himself
  to nod. Cautiously he gazed over the edge of the
  sarcophagus and saw that it was empty. The visions
  again receded. The wards were a dull gray, lifeless,
  devoid of power.
  Owain looked up at Carlos. The Sabbat bishop’s
  expression gave away very little. He appeared
  slightly amused, almost as he had from the first
  moment Owain had seen him. Why had Carlos
  brought Owain here? Had the bishop learned of
  Owain’s relation to the former master of these halls?
  Did Carlos know that Owain had spent centuries
  of torpor in this very room?
  Carlos smiled. “I like this place.” He edged
  around the sarcophagus, caressing the cold stone,
  running the tips of his fingers through the inden-
  tations of the runes. “I like it because it is as silent
  as death.” He paused, raised his head to listen to
  the emptiness. “Many of my followers, they know
  nothing of quiet, Owain. This tomblike silence…”
  
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  The Winnowing
  he paused again. “It is the sound of victory after
  your foes are vanquished, as they lie staked at your
  feet, their blood on your lips, before the sun burns
  away their flesh. Can you hear it?” He raised his
  head again. “Skin, muscle, fat—sizzling as surely
  as if they were on a gridiron.”
  Carlos lapsed into silence, and Owain could feel
  the weight of the quiet, heavier than all the tons
  of earth that separated them from the storm above.
  Owain had wished for death here once, but he had
  been too much the coward but to hide away from
  the world. Perhaps his desire would be fulfilled be-
  latedly. Perhaps Carlos planned for Owain never
  to leave this tomb. In the age of swords, steel upon
  steel, Owain would have had little concern for his
  escape. It was quite possible for one superior swords-
  man, especially a Cainite, to hold his own against
  impossible odds. But firearms evened the score in
  the favor of the unskilled masses. One shot from
  afar, one burst of a machine gun, could shatter the
  skull of the most adept swordsman.
  “You have spoken,” said Carlos, breaking the si-
  lence, leaning forward, both arms braced atop the
  sarcophagus, “of things that no one should know.
  You have spoken of secrets and threatened to bring
  them to the light of day. You also speak of mutu-
  ally beneficial agreements. I offer you an
  agreement.”
  Owain listened carefully. Apparently Carlos did
  
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  not know the relevance of this room to Owain.
  Instead, they were meeting here for purely symbolic
  reasons. In a strange way, Owain found himself lik-
  ing this predator who leaned over Owain’s former
  resting place. Like a snake sunning itself, Carlos
  appeared disarming, yet he could be coiled and
  deadly in an instant, Owain was sure.
  “As you mentioned before,” said Carlos, “‘black-
  mail’ is an ugly word. I like to think of this as an
  opportunity for us to trade favors, and possibly to
  build the foundation for a mutually beneficial re-
  lationship. Do you object to this approach to
  our…our situation?”
  Owain shook his head. He was trying to mea-
  sure Carlos’s words, to read beneath them. Could
  this proposal be serious, or was it merely a ploy to
  find out what Owain knew and then destroy him?
  “Good.” Carlos clapped his hands together. “This
  is my offer: First, I will not kill you; second, I will
  extend my protection over you, as you asked, when
  the Sabbat rules supreme. In return, I ask two fa-
  vors of you: First, you turn over to me the vial of
  blood you claim to have. You still have a series of
  individuals whom you have told what you know.
  It is easier for me to buy your silence and theirs
  than to torture you and find out who they are and
  then kill you all. You must see that this is true. Your
  safety ensures their silence, for with your death,
  they would spread their secret. Second, you will
  
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  remain amenable to providing certain information
  to me on occasion when I request.”
  The agreement sounded surprisingly even-
  handed, though two facts jumped out at Owain.
  Regardless of what he said, Carlos would undoubt-
  edly try to discover the identity of those in whom
  Owain had allegedly entrusted the secret of the
  curse’s origin. It would be a slow, arduous process,
  but Carlos would certainly make every attempt to
  find out, with an eye toward killing the entire lot
  once he knew, including Owain, his erstwhile ally.
  More importantly, even were Owain inclined to
  make the deal, he did not have the vial of blood
  that Carlos wanted. Owain’s mind raced. He
  needed access to the magical laboratories, he
  needed to find out about Project Angharad, but he
  couldn’t turn over the blood.
  “That sounds very charitable,” said Owain, “and
  I could agree to your terms, except I should keep
  the vial.”
  Carlos laughed aloud. “Ah, you do not feel safe.”
  The amicable tone which he had maintained rap-
  idly faded. “You come here,” he gestured around
  them, “into my lair because you think possession
  of the vial protects you.” Carlos stepped back
  around the sarcophagus to Owain, who had not
  ventured far from the single door to the room. “Do
  not overestimate the power of your shield. Yes, it
  would be…inconvenient for me to be linked di-
  
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  rectly with the curse, and even some proof of my
  culpability would be problematic. I would choose
  to avoid that situation. It would be
  troublesome…but not insurmountable.
  “The vial does not render you impervious. I could
  have killed you last night…as easily as I could kill
  you tonight. I will bend only so far for expediency.
  That I allowed you to leave last night should show
  that I am willing to be more than reasonable. The
  anonymity of your confidants will protect you as
  well as any vial. For me,” his jovial manner re-
  turned, “it is a loose end I will not leave untended.
  It is not a point of negotiation.”
  Owain nodded thoughtfully. His translation:
  Turn over the vial or die. This left him in a rather
  precarious position. Owain smiled in turn. “You are
  quite persuasive.” Carlos seemed pleased with him-
  self. “I agree to your terms,” said Owain, “with one
  added stipulation.”
  Carlos’s smile turned skeptical. “That being…?”
  “I will turn over the vial, but first I must see the
  laboratory from whence it came. I must speak with
  the sorcerers who unleashed this curse upon us.” It
  was a weak gambit, Owain knew, but he needed to
  find the laboratory if he was to discover anything.
  He would worry later about how to circumvent the
  tiny detail that he didn’t have the vial.
  “That would serve no purpose whatsoever,”
  Carlos dismissed the idea out of hand.
  
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  The Winnowing
  “I am bargaining that your followers will unravel
  the mysteries of the curse,” Owain pointed out. “I
  deserve to have first-hand knowledge of them, to
  speak with them.”
  “You deserve?” Carlos repeated incredulously. He
  took a deep breath; his hands balled into fists.
  “Please choose your words with care, for you de-
  serve nothing! And you could quickly find yourself
  with no bargain at all.”
  Carlos’s patience had run out with little warn-
  ing. Owain could feel the negotiations slipping
  away from him, but without this one concession,
  the dangers he had survived would be for naught.
  He quickly tried a different tack, shrugging disarm-
  ingly. “What harm could it do? It would ease my
  mind…and you would have your vial.”
  “You think yourself knowledgeable enough to
  judge them and their work?” Carlos asked mockingly.
  “You would be surprised what I know,” Owain
  answered.
  Carlos took a step back at this comment. The
  smile crept back across his features. “I have been,
  at that.” He reached over and brushed the dust
  from Owain’s shoulder. “I like your audacity, Owain
  Evans. It speaks of forthrightness—either that, or
  you are the greatest fool I have ever met.” Carlos
  took Owain’s lapels in his fingers and leaned close
  until their faces were mere inches apart. “I will
  grant this final request.”
  
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  Final request. Owain didn’t care for that particu-
  lar turn of phrase.
  “But do not mistake my graciousness for weak-
  ness,” added Carlos. “There will be no more favors.
  Deny me what I ask, suggest a new limitation on
  our bargain—any of that, and you will die. Vial or
  no vial. I will deal with the consequences.” He
  stepped back and straightened Owain’s jacket. “Our
  deal, then, is struck.”
  Owain nodded, but any comment he might have
  made was superseded by the sound of many foot-
  steps in the hallway beyond the door. Carlos, an
  eyebrow raised, glanced in that direction. “We have
  guests.”
  Santiago stepped halfway into the room. “Many
  pardons,” he said to Carlos, “but there is impor-
  tant news.”
  “I see.” Carlos turned to Owain. “You will ex-
  cuse me for a moment.” Without waiting for any
  response from Owain, Carlos followed Santiago,
  who paused only to direct a brief glare at Owain.
  After a moment, Owain could hear whispered
  comments down the corridor. He had no way of
  knowing that the conversation was about him, only
  the inborn paranoia that had helped him to this
  ripe old age. Owain glanced at the door. He was
  relieved to note that it had not been modified over
  the years. He could not be locked in this room. The
  solid wooden beam and iron latches were designed
  
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  to keep others out, as he well remembered. If the
  wards were activated, then the chamber was im-
  penetrable, but that availed Owain nothing, for he
  lacked the knowledge to empower them.
  Easily suspecting sinister intent from Santiago,
  Owain stepped closer to the door. It was half open
  still, and he could see Carlos, Santiago, and a third
  Cainite some yards down the way. They were
  speaking in low tones, and the acoustics of the
  stone tunnels further served to render their speech
  incomprehensible. As the stranger spoke, Santiago
  looked on malevolently while Carlos listened with
  interest.
  It was the third Cainite who captured Owain’s
  interest. His face was familiar. Owain had seen him
  before…not one of the Sabbat that he had con-
  tacted trying to reach Carlos…
  And then Owain knew.
  Just as he remembered where he had seen the
  third Cainite, Javier looked up. His eyes met
  Owain’s, and he smiled. Javier pointed to Owain
  at the half-open door and said loudly enough for
  Owain to hear: “Yes, that is him.”
  Suddenly the door slammed open into Owain.
  The woman who had been with Santiago earlier
  shoved the barrel of a large revolver into Owain’s
  face. Over her shoulder, Owain could see the oth-
  ers rushing down the corridor.
  With preternatural speed, he grabbed the
  
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  woman’s wrist and twisted the gun away from his
  face. Her only other choice having her forearm
  snapped in two, she spun, turning her back to
  Owain who now held her wrist and revolver
  pointed at the charging Sabbat trio.
  The woman struggled, but the blood was not
  strong in her, not as old and rich as in Owain. He
  shifted his finger over hers on the trigger, still hold-
  ing her before him as a shield against the weapon
  that Santiago had drawn. Owain fired two deafen-
  ing, thunderous shots down the corridor. Carlos,
  Santiago, and Javier dove for cover.
  The Spanish woman tried to twist away from
  Owain, but his left arm was tight around her throat.
  He pulled her back into the room and gave the
  door a shove. But already, Santiago was back on
  his feet and lunging forward. He smashed into the
  door before it could shut completely, before Owain
  could slam the wooden beam down and into place.
  It was all Owain could do to hold on to the
  woman and lean with his back against the door that
  Santiago was pushing furiously against. In a mo-
  ment, Carlos and Javier would lend their strength
  and the door would swing open. The stone door
  weighed several tons but was balanced well on its
  pivot. Once it began to swing with any force, there
  would be no stopping it. Time was running out.
  
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  CHAPTER TWELVE
  It was all Owain could do to keep pressure against
  the stone door at his back and not lose hold of his
  prisoner. The female Sabbat would not release the
  revolver. She reached with her left hand back over
  her shoulder, her claws searching for Owain’s eyes,
  biting into the flesh of his face. Owain stretched
  his neck away from her. She turned her head to
  the side, hissed in his face.
  Owain heard as much as felt the impact of a body
  against the door behind him. Either Carlos or Javier
  had joined Santiago pushing, and no doubt the
  other was right behind.
  Again Owain twisted the woman’s wrist. She
  growled in pain and anger but could do little be-
  
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  yond slowing the movements that Owain forced
  upon her. But the heavy momentum of the door
  was already starting to shift against Owain. Extra
  seconds might be more than he could afford.
  Slowly, ever so slowly, he forced her hand around.
  Now the revolver pointed at her shoulder. Owain
  forced it farther. She screamed, full of rage as the
  last of her strength fled her. His face contorted with
  strain, Owain forced the muzzle of the gun into her
  mouth. He pressed his head to the side and
  squeezed her own finger on the trigger.
  Owain tried to ignore the roar that left his ears
  ringing. He tried to ignore the fragments of skull,
  bloody scalp, and brain that pelted his face. He
  needed all his energies focused on closing the door,
  which was beginning to swing against him. The
  woman’s body dropped to his feet.
  Freed from distraction, every muscle straining,
  making use of the ancient vampiric vitae in his
  veins, Owain began to make headway. The move-
  ment of the door stopped, and then reversed. It had
  never been open enough that Santiago or one of
  the others could stick an arm in to block it, and
  considering the mass of the door, that might only
  have been a recipe for amputation at any rate.
  Owain reached up with his right hand, tried to
  pull down the beam across the door, but the edge
  of the door was still in the way by an inch or two.
  Owain was already pressing against the door with
  
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  The Winnowing
  as much force as he could muster. He had nothing
  else to add.
  Then he felt his feet give way beneath him. He
  slipped on the blood pooling on the floor. As he
  fell, his full weight on the wooden beam was
  enough to jerk it down past the lip of the door. The
  bar slammed home as Owain landed in the blood
  on the floor.
  He could only faintly hear voices and pounding
  on the far side of the door. It was so solid that
  breaking through or forcing the beam would be
  quite an undertaking. But not impossible. And
  Owain didn’t know what unguessed resources
  Carlos and his Sabbat brethren had to draw upon.
  The black arts of one Tremere might suffice where
  the brawn of twenty other Cainites would fail.
  Owain did not know how much time he had.
  He quickly surveyed the room in which he had
  spent so much time in bygone years. Were it not
  for the body on the floor, he could have imagined
  himself again emerging from torpor. There were
  also those pounding on the other side of the door
  to remind him of his current predicament, and
  among them Javier, one of the few partisans of El
  Greco and Miguel, apparently a spy for Carlos. But
  Owain didn’t have time for those matters. He
  pushed them farther back in his mind.
  He quickly scanned the small room, his tomb.
  Aside from the sarcophagus, the barred door, and
  
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  the runes carved into the walls, there was noth-
  ing. The room was only a few feet larger on each
  side than the sarcophagus. Owain stepped around
  the ornate coffin and searched for a particular rune
  that he remembered. After just a few moments, he
  found it, and when he pressed his fingers into the
  deepest indentation and twisted, the sound of grat-
  ing stone filled the room. A portion of the wall slid
  open, revealing a passage leading up and away from
  the tomb.
  There were no torches along the exposed corri-
  dor. Owain hoped that this meant that Carlos and
  his followers had never discovered this passage—
  quite possible since they had usurped the catacombs
  from El Greco at some point, and there would have
  been no one to give them a guided tour.
  Before he began his ascent, Owain listened again
  for the sounds of industry and outrage at the main
  door, but this time he heard nothing. Probably the
  close blasts from the revolver had left his ears ring-
  ing sporadically, he decided, and the door was thick
  enough to screen the rest of the sounds.
  The revolver.
  He grabbed it from the floor by the Spanish
  Cainite’s body. He was no expert with modern fire-
  arms, but it could prove useful. He glanced once
  more around the room. It felt odd to be here again,
  and this time fleeing what before had been a safe
  haven.
  
  351
  The Winnowing
  As he closed the concealed door behind him, the
  light of the room was blocked and Owain found
  himself in darkness more complete than had he
  called upon it to hide him. Even his preternatural
  eyes strained, trying to make out any shape in the
  enveloping blackness. Only the feel of the rough
  stone wall against his fingertips betrayed the ex-
  istence of a world around him. Otherwise, he might
  have been floating in the nothingness of torpor that
  had claimed him once before.
  As he made his way up the unilluminated passage,
  he listened for sounds of pursuit. Not only did none
  materialize, but when he came to a halt, eliminat-
  ing even the sound of his own echoing footsteps,
  the encompassing silence was eerie. If I were ready
  to give up, he thought, I could lie down here and never
  be disturbed. He contemplated that route. After all,
  he had failed. Carlos had been prepared to show
  Owain the laboratories. What Owain would have
  done from that point, he had no idea; neither did
  he know how he could have faked the vial of tainted
  blood he had claimed to possess. But he was sure he
  would have thought of something. Now the path
  was blocked. How could he hope to learn anything
  further about how Angharad’s name had come to
  be connected with the curse?
  Carlos had been ready to deal, even to take Owain
  into his fold, it seemed. But Javier had put an end to
  that. The one Cainite in Toledo who had worked
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  for El Greco and Miguel—the one other than Owain,
  that was—was actually a spy for Carlos. How ironic.
  There was a certain completeness to the manner in
  which Carlos had superseded El Greco as master of
  Toledo. Only in El Greco’s mind was it not so.
  Damn Javier. But had not Owain himself dealt
  with Carlos under false pretenses? Owain did not
  curse the fact that Javier had lied, but that he had
  apparently lied so well. Perhaps Owain would have
  been more careful had El Greco and Miguel been
  more straightforward with him regarding the na-
  ture of the situation in the city. But they, too, were
  only playing their part. El Greco was, it seemed,
  incapable of viewing the situation as it was. Miguel
  either shared his master’s delusion or was follow-
  ing orders from which he dared not stray. It
  mattered little which was the case any longer.
  Keep moving, Owain told himself. Again, his
  footsteps clicked through the darkness, asserted his
  presence amidst the nothingness. Owain could only
  imagine that Carlos and his followers were not
  aware of this particular tunnel. Surely they had bro-
  ken into the tomb by now. It would make more
  sense that Carlos had chosen that room to meet
  in if he did not know of the secret escape route.
  Owain had not needed to escape when he had
  emerged from his two-hundred-fifty-year rest, but
  the earlier precautions, the secret tunnel in par-
  ticular, had proven serendipitously useful.
  
  353
  The Winnowing
  The secret path was less artfully hewn than the
  other tunnels beneath El Alcazar. The floor was
  not smooth or even clear in places; the walls and
  ceiling dipped and curved as if the long-dead min-
  ers had been attempting to maintain a certain
  bearing without boring directly through every ex-
  panse of solid rock that they encountered. Owain
  began to doubt his recollection of the route when
  he started happening upon side passageways. He
  did not remember tunnels leading off to either side.
  At first he passed them by, but when his count of
  the new tunnels reached half a dozen, he wondered
  if it were possible that the original route curved to
  follow one of these paths, while what continued
  straight ahead was actually a newer addition.
  In the midst of this quandary, he began to hear the
  voices. Had they been the noise of angry shouting
  and the braying of bloodhounds, he would merely
  have hurried the opposite direction, but what he
  heard was…he couldn’t decide at first, so out of place
  was the sound. But after a moment more, he was sure.
  He heard laughter, and mixed with it faint music.
  Owain stumbled on through the darkness, flee-
  ing the sounds that did not belong there, but the
  voices stayed with him, the chatty conversation
  and mirthful laughter of a social gathering, the
  smoothly plucked notes of a stringed instrument,
  perhaps a mandolin, an instrument which El Greco
  had favored when these halls were his.
  
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  An inexplicable terror began to rise within
  Owain. He feared this music more than he would
  the gunfire of pursuing Sabbat. The laughter and
  music could not be here. They were of a different
  time. Like the specters of Jews fleeing their homes,
  these sounds were real to Owain, but they could
  not be. The world of his memory was blending with
  the world of his senses, and in these sightless,
  soundless tunnels, memory was taking over.
  Owain hurried through the darkness, trying to
  fashion a route that took him away from the sounds
  that could not be, but still they were with him. He
  tripped over the uneven floors, slammed into walls
  when the passage suddenly changed directions. If
  anything, the laughter grew louder. He began to
  run blindly, smashing his body against stone, crash-
  ing into one invisible wall after another. The past
  was reaching out to capture him, to drag him back
  to torpor, and for the first time in many years, that
  thought panicked Owain. He could see dim con-
  nections between his past and the present,
  connections that he still needed to discover, con-
  nections that were hiding just beyond his reach.
  He could not abide the thought of remaining im-
  prisoned within these dark tunnels, not so soon
  after escaping his self-fashioned prison of ennui.
  The laughter grew louder, mocking his fear.
  The unevenly carved floor took advantage of
  Owain’s distraction as an unseen obstacle took hold
  
  355
  The Winnowing
  of his foot. Owain stumbled and fell. He crashed
  to the ground and was still. All around him, too,
  there was only dark stillness. Only after several
  moments of silence did he realize that the voices
  were gone; the laughter had stopped.
  Owain climbed back to his feet. Before him stood
  a figure of pure shadow holding before it a wooden
  chess board, pieces arranged in the later stages of a
  game. Owain absently wondered for a moment how
  it was that now he could see? But the shadow was
  moving its arm, reaching for a piece on the board.
  The dark hand and billowing sleeve were difficult
  to follow, but Owain saw the shadow grasp a knight,
  moving it one square to the side, then forward one
  square, and another. With the third tap of the piece
  to the board, the shadowy figure was gone, and in
  its stead stood an actual knight, an armored man
  in medieval garb, sword hanging at his side.
  Though he stood only a few feet from Owain, the
  knight’s face was hidden in shadow.
  Owain had heard no sound of this knight ap-
  proaching nor of the previous shadow coming or
  going. The knight was equipped as a figure from
  Owain’s early years of unlife would have been.
  Suddenly Owain noticed a book that he did not
  believe had been there a moment before in the
  hands of the knight. As the knight opened the
  tome and turned the stiff parchment leaves, Owain
  recognized his own commonplace book that was
  
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  so dear to his heart—except the cover was not the
  smooth, unadorned leather that Owain had added
  years ago. This book was bound in the original
  embroidered cover, complete with the crest of
  House Rhufoniog, Welsh grouse trussed, same as
  the day that Angharad had given it to him.
  The realization was a shock to Owain, but now
  the knight was speaking in a rough gravelly voice
  that emanated from unseen lips: “Hoard the nights
  that have fallen unto you. I tell you, it avails you noth-
  ing.”
  Owain staggered as the knight spoke. These were
  the words of his visions, the words that haunted
  him, and by now he knew them well.
  “This is the Endtime. This is the fading of the Blood.
  This is the Winnowing.”
  The words struck like a physical blow. Owain
  dropped to his knees. He wanted to snatch the
  book from the knight’s hands, to stop the words
  that the voice spoke, but Owain was powerless in
  the face of the prophecy. He could coerce neither
  speech nor movement from his body.
  “The shadow of Time is not so long that you might
  shelter beneath it.”
  As suddenly as the knight had held the book,
  he now held his sword before him, and as Owain
  watched in frozen terror, the knight drew back the
  blade to swing a mighty blow. “Let it be thus. Thy
  will be done.”
  
  357
  The Winnowing
  The knight’s stroke fell. Owain flattened him-
  self to the floor in a desperate attempt to dodge
  the blow, but he knew he was too close. He lay with
  his face and body pressed against the cool stone,
  but the sword did not strike him. Owain glanced
  up from that spot where he should have been cleft
  in twain. He was greeted by the all-encompassing
  darkness. No sign of knight or sword or book or
  shadowy chess master. Silence surrounded Owain.
  Whatever illumination had allowed him to see his
  visitors was now gone.
  This is the Endtime.
  This is the fading of the Blood.
  This is the Winnowing.
  Owain rose to his feet. The words of his visions
  rang in his ears. He shook his head. There would
  be time enough later to understand what had just
  happened to him. His legs less than stable beneath
  him, Owain continued forward, not knowing if he
  chose the right direction.
  No more sounds of voices or laughter came to
  Owain. No pursuit ever developed that he could
  tell. Twice more, he stumbled upon passages lead-
  ing off to the right, but he continued straight
  ahead, and before long, the tunnel took on a no-
  ticeably steeper grade. Owain leaned forward as he
  ascended, climbing with his hands as well as his
  feet. Soon the tunnel turned nearly vertical. In the
  darkness, Owain felt carved handholds, a crude lad-
  
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  der. He began to see light ahead. Though only the
  faint illumination that the night provided, after the
  complete and possibly unnatural darkness through
  which he had just come, the scant light seemed as
  bright as the noonday sun.
  Owain stepped from the ladder and slowly
  opened a door before him. He exited from the very
  wall of the Puerta del Sol, the Gate of the Sun.
  The threatening clouds of earlier had descended
  with full force. Owain could not remember seeing
  a storm so low before. The lightning streaking the
  sky seemed to be mere feet above the low build-
  ings. As the door to the tunnel swung shut behind
  him, Owain could see the outlines of the portal
  only because he knew exactly what he was look-
  ing for. How many years, he wondered, had that
  passageway and door escaped the notice of Carlos
  and his faction?
  Now that Owain had escaped immediate danger,
  he turned his thoughts toward what lay ahead. He
  had failed in his attempt to trace the origin of the
  curse through Carlos, to find out how Angharad’s
  name had anything to do with the curse. Thanks to
  Javier, Carlos now knew something of the relation-
  ship between Owain and El Greco. There seemed
  little else to be gained in Toledo. Owain’s ties to the
  Sabbat, for all practical purposes, seemed to be de-
  stroyed. El Greco was no longer an active player.
  Owain need not respond to summons in the future.
  
  359
  The Winnowing
  The only danger, Owain realized, would be if El
  Greco possessed any proof of Owain’s association
  with the Sabbat. The chance was slight. The few
  times that Owain had utilized his Sabbat connec-
  tions, such as when he had arranged for the war party
  to attack Prince Benison and himself outside the
  Cyclorama, that Owain might appear loyal in pro-
  tecting his prince, he had communicated
  anonymously. There could be letters from the early
  days, perhaps, that in his initial enthusiasm Owain
  had written to El Greco. Not likely, but possible.
  Owain pondered the matter for a few moments.
  Midnight was several hours past. If he was to leave
  the city tonight, make his way to Madrid, perhaps
  contact the Giovanni clan, he needed to leave
  soon. To completely erase the past, however, he
  needed to make sure that El Greco had nothing
  that could be used against Owain later. There was
  also Kendall Jackson. She obviously had left the
  prearranged rendezvous here at the gate hours ago.
  Owain made his decision and began to make his
  way south through the deserted streets as the storm
  winds pulled at his hair, at his clothes. He would
  fetch Ms. Jackson quickly and then leave Toledo,
  traveling as far as Madrid before sunrise. Attempt-
  ing to ascertain what evidence actually existed, if
  any, and then finding and destroying it would be
  quite involved, especially considering the unlike-
  lihood that El Greco would prove cooperative in
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  the matter. No, Owain would simply leave his old
  unstable friend to dodder off into obscurity, assum-
  ing that El Greco would not undertake coordinated
  action to gain revenge. And if Miguel again showed
  up on the doorstep in Atlanta, Owain would kill
  him.
  Owain continued south, keeping to the narrow-
  est byways, hugging the shadows in case Carlos had
  sent his men throughout the city in search of his
  escaped guest. The lightning constantly flashing
  above made more difficult this attempt to remain
  out of sight. The nature of Owain’s escape had been
  incredibly lucky, he knew. If his luck held, he would
  gather up Ms. Jackson without needing to confront
  Miguel or El Greco. Then Owain and his ghoul
  would appropriate a vehicle of some sort and leave
  this city, which Owain hoped never to see again.
  Luck, however, had never been a constant com-
  panion of Owain’s. Instead, he had grown to rely
  upon suspicion. He was quite close to El Greco’s
  now, which set him on edge. He was just emerging
  from the shelter of a darkened alley when a flash
  of lightning revealed a lone figure standing only
  feet away.
  Before the light had flickered away, Owain was
  back within the shadow of the alleyway and on his
  guard. His eyes were locked on the spot where, a
  moment before, he had seen the other. The figure
  had not moved.
  
  361
  The Winnowing
  Owain waited patiently, scanning the street
  ahead for signs of activity, but there were none. He
  did not have long to wait. The lightning soon re-
  turned, striking quite near.
  The figure did not stir. Owain was sure of it.
  In that brief moment of illumination, Owain
  could make out little of the statuesque figure. Its
  head was unbent beneath the downpour. Its fea-
  tures were pale and looked chiseled—although this
  may have been a trick of the light, throwing the
  lines of its face into sharp relief. The figure seemed
  to stare fixedly back at Owain.
  Minutes crawled past, but Owain could not dis-
  cern the slightest hint of movement. The figure
  could have been a statue in a plaza, but it stood in
  the center of the dark street, and between Owain
  and El Greco’s abode.
  “I would not go there,” said the stranger. “The
  others have already arrived.”
  His entire form seemed caught in the middle of
  flowing away to the pavement below. Water
  streamed freely over his unblinking eyes. Long
  white hair trailed off into runnels of dripping wa-
  ter. His robe clung heavily about him and dragged
  through the puddles underfoot.
  Owain’s initial surprise quickly gave way to an-
  ger. Again his plans were being altered by
  complications from an unexpected quarter. Each
  time he attempted to take control of a situation, it
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  362
  seemed his grasp was inevitably shaken by some
  such intrusion, and the pieces flowed away from
  him like rain through his fingers.
  “I keep my own counsel. I go where please,” said
  Owain.
  This brought a smile to the stranger’s lips. His
  thoughts, however, he kept more closely guarded.
  “There are those who think otherwise, Kinslayer.”
  Owain’s head jerked up at the word—the famil-
  iar reproach. He had heard this challenge spoken
  only nights before, on the plane trip from Atlanta.
  On that occasion, he had wavered on the brink of
  dream and the accuser had spoken with the voice
  of his brother. The stranger who came to him that
  night had also used that epithet. Kinslayer.
  Owain again felt control of the situation slipping
  from his grasp. “Who are you?” he asked aloud,
  echoing his unspoken question of that night on the
  plane. He could recall sitting across a chessboard
  from the same shadowy figure Owain had seen ear-
  lier tonight, trying to trick him into revealing the
  identity of his king.
  Before he had gotten his answer, however, a third
  party had intruded upon their game. The critical
  center squares of the chessboard were suddenly be-
  sieged by warring factions on three sides—forming
  a peninsula jutting precariously out into the un-
  known.
  “I only wanted to see for myself,” said the ala-
  
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  The Winnowing
  baster stranger. “To set eyes upon you before the
  appointed end. You cannot imagine how many
  years I have waited.”
   “Speak plainly,” Owain snapped. “Have you
  come only to mutter veiled threats? You may tell
  your master that I am not impressed.”
  The stranger smiled, indeed, at that. “You mis-
  understand me. It is not I who pose a threat. But
  you, your very existence, threatens all of our kind.
  This is the Endtime. This is the Fading of the Blood.”
  As the words were spoken, a violent gust of wind
  struck Owain across the face. The words of his vi-
  sions, the words the knight had spoken not an hour
  before—they were being repeated back to him by
  this stranger Owain had never seen before, neither
  in waking nor in dreaming sight. But the words
  were the same. “Who are you?” Owain pressed.
  The stranger raised his black eyes to the heav-
  ens churning above. “It is I who shall remain when
  the world falls down around our ears, Kinslayer. It
  is I who shall testify that the doom you bring down
  upon our people was the one foretold from the time
  before time. Who but I keeps alive the sacred
  words? Who but I traces the course of the ancient
  prophecies? This is the Winnowing, Kinslayer. The
  shadow of Time is not so long that you might shelter
  beneath it.”
  “You speak nonsense,” said Owain, but the quiver
  in his voice betrayed his uncertainty.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  364
  “You must live to fight another day,” said the
  stranger. “You must walk this uncertain road to its
  end, as damning as that end might reveal itself to
  be. The path ahead will take you to the center of
  the widow’s web. It will take you to the very foot
  of the holy thorn. It will take you into the hidden
  presence of the sacred vessel. It is there you must
  speak the words of undoing for the children of
  Caine. This is the task that has fallen to you. Let it
  be thus. Thy will be done.”
  “I will not—” Owain began to protest, but his
  words echoed across the empty street. The stranger
  and his infuriating smile were gone, vanished as
  completely as if they had never been. Had the
  lightning flashed? Had Owain blinked?
  Only the words remained. They flooded Owain’s
  mind.
  This is the Winnowing.
  Owain stood completely alone, oblivious to the
  torrential downpour. How many times had he him-
  self appeared so mysteriously to a mortal and then
  vanished without a trace? But he was a vampire,
  and one with many centuries of experience to his
  credit. He was not one to be taken in by such tricks.
  Yet the stranger was gone.
  The rain began to fall in earnest now. In but a
  few moments, Owain’s hair was heavy and wet.
  Water dripped from his nose, was caught by the
  gusting wind and whipped away into the night. I
  
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  The Winnowing
  would not go there. The others have already arrived.
  What others did he speak of? Could the stranger
  somehow know where Owain was going? he won-
  dered. Impossible, Owain thought. As impossible as
  him speaking to me the words of my own visions.
  Owain set his stride and continued south. Damn
  him! Damn him and his words! Owain would not be
  dissuaded from his goal by some white-haired in-
  terloper who might just as likely be apparition as
  flesh and blood.
  As Owain approached El Greco’s house, the ca-
  thedral off to the west, El Alcazar rising to the east,
  he was determined to ignore what the stranger had
  said. Even so, he did decide to climb the row of
  cramped houses across the street to get a better
  view before barging in. Atop the buildings, Owain
  was amidst the full fury of the storm. Static elec-
  tricity crackled in the air all about him. Rain
  pummeled him mercilessly. The wind greedily took
  hold of him, tried to drag him to the edge of the
  roof, over the edge. Owain resisted the storm. He
  crawled forward, and mixed with the sounds of the
  raging heavens, he heard gunfire.
  Across the street, three black cars hastily parked
  at odd angles were in front of El Greco’s house.
  Gunfire again, and screams, met Owain. From the
  front door, he saw Santiago step out, pistol in hand.
  The Sabbat lieutenant glanced around the street
  but saw no one responding to the sounds of death
  
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  366
  and mayhem within the house. Those nearby ei-
  ther did not hear over the storm, or they were
  clinging to their ignorance like frightened children.
  Santiago’s gaze lingered as he glanced in Owain’s
  direction. Owain pressed his body against the roof.
  Apparently Santiago did not see him, for a moment
  later Carlos’s follower went back into the house.
  More gunshots followed. Owain could imagine El
  Greco and Miguel overwhelmed by the sheer num-
  ber of Sabbat that Carlos would have brought.
  They would be tortured and destroyed. The discov-
  ery of Owain’s ruse had erased whatever truce had
  existed. El Greco, interfering in Carlos’s affairs, was
  no longer protected; whether that protection had
  been accorded by Carlos’s good will or by fiat of
  Archbishop Monçada mattered little. The house-
  hold ghouls would suffer a similar, or worse, fate.
  And Kendall…Owain had left her to this.
  As he looked on, flickering light shone through
  the windows of El Greco’s house. Then tongues of
  flame began to lick up through the windows shat-
  tered by bullets. Owain found himself moved again
  by an unfamiliar emotion. He pitied his old friend,
  the end he was meeting. But such was the lot of a
  Cainite—warred upon and destroyed by his own
  kind. Owain hoped that El Greco would come to
  a quick end, less from any desire for mercy, but to
  keep Carlos from finding out any more of Owain’s
  past. Despite his stirrings of pity, Owain still nursed
  
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  The Winnowing
  his grudge against the Toreador. He had pushed
  Owain into involvement with Carlos, and even
  though El Greco was destroyed, it would not be
  hard for Carlos to track down Owain, not since that
  blasted Gangrel had given away Owain’s identity.
  El Greco deserved whatever he got, Owain de-
  cided. There was no kind and forgiving Providence.
  The powers of heaven had completely abandoned
  the Cainite race. Blood and death were their only
  birthrights and would find them all sooner or later.
  Even over the storm, Owain heard someone ap-
  proaching from behind. In an instant, he whipped
  the captured revolver from his belt and was point-
  ing it directly at the face of the prone Kendall
  Jackson. She froze at the sight of the barrel, until
  Owain, recognizing her, rain-drenched and dishev-
  eled as she was, lowered the weapon.
  She nodded toward the house across the street.
  “You’ve seen?”
  Owain nodded.
  Kendall crawled up beside Owain. She had to
  shout to make herself heard above the wind and
  heavy, punishing rain. “I barely got out when they
  stormed the house.”
  “El Greco?”
  Kendall nodded. “Inside. So was Miguel.”
  The fire was burning strong in the upstairs across
  the street. Various Sabbat lackeys were wandering
  out of the front door, standing in the street to watch
  
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  368
  the house burn. They seemed unconcerned about
  the mortal authorities. Perhaps this fire would be
  passed off as an accident or an attack by Basque
  separatists. Owain’s only hope was that El Greco
  and Miguel would die quickly, that they would not
  have the chance to give away any of his secrets.
  Beyond hoping, there was little left to be done.
  Owain was not about to wade in, revolver blazing,
  among the numerous and well-armed Sabbat. Prob-
  ably while they were still concentrating on El
  Greco would the best time for him to make good
  his escape.
  “I have a car,” said Kendall, as if reading his mind.
  Owain didn’t care where she had gotten it, from
  whom she had stolen it. It was enough that they
  should leave Toledo. Around them, the storm still
  raged, but despite the thick, black clouds, morn-
  ing would arrive deceptively soon. Owain looked
  once again at the burning dwelling across the
  street. The flames were spreading despite the rain.
  The attic portion of the house, where El Greco’s
  hidden resting place would be, was completely en-
  gulfed. Owain thought for a moment that he could
  hear his old friend’s moans of pain as flames con-
  sumed his body. But Owain had seen and heard so
  much over the course of the night. He was no
  longer certain what was real and what was bleed-
  ing through from his visions and dreams to haunt
  his waking hours.
  
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  The Winnowing
  For hours, Nicholas had huddled against the
  storm. It felt wrong to him. Not uncomfortable, but
  unnatural. The low-lying clouds had rolled in from
  the west, bringing with them the biting winds, the
  driving rains, the dangerous lightning that had al-
  ready struck several times within the old walls of
  the city. The storm, a force of chaos and destruc-
  tion, swept over the city.
  Last night, Nicholas had fed upon a young couple
  enjoying a romantic night beneath the stars. He
  left them alive but unconscious on their blanket,
  probably no worse for wear. The rest of the night
  he had rested, feeling the power of the blood as it
  sped the healing of his injuries. By the time he had
  sunk back down into the earth at daybreak, he was
  recovered from the knife and bullet wounds of the
  night before. Tonight, he had awakened to the ap-
  proaching storm and taken shelter in an abandoned
  building.
  Owain Evans was out there somewhere. But
  where? For so long, Nicholas had been guided by
  what he could describe only as the call of the blood.
  His ancestor’s vitae called out to him from the veins
  of a murderer, or rather, it had. His ancestors, too,
  had been quiet the past two nights, not battling
  for outlet, not forcing their memories upon Nicho-
  las. He supposed that he should feel grateful, but
  he had grown used to the guidance of Ragnar, of
  
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  Blaidd. He felt lost without them. Their anger fu-
  eled his own rage, drove him forward.
  As the wind battered his temporary shelter,
  Nicholas took comfort in the belief that his an-
  cestors would not abandon him. Ties to the past
  were strong among the Gangrel clan, and he could
  feel stirring within him forces older and more bes-
  tial even than Blaidd. It was on such a night that
  Blackfeather had found him, had tried to instruct
  him in the ways of the Veil and the land beyond.
  But Nicholas felt more than he understood. He was
  driven by instinct, and though he had lost Owain
  Evans for the time being, Nicholas would have his
  revenge. Perhaps it was the curse that wakened his
  ancestors within him; perhaps the curse ate away
  at his very soul and would claim him soon. That
  only served to increase the urgency of his hunt.
  Nicholas knew that he was not the hunter of things
  spiritual that Blackfeather was, but in this chase
  for a creature of flesh and stolen blood, Nicholas
  would not be denied.
  
  371
  The Winnowing
  CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  Kli Kodesh looked down upon the seven hills of
  the Accursed City.
  Rome, the Throne of the Caesars. The city was
  both the crown of Western Civilization and the
  miter of Christ’s Universal Church.
  Another visitor might have been struck by the
  tawdry incongruity of the unbroken urban sprawl,
  the unceasing press of bodies and buses, the Babel
  of concrete and glass clamoring skyward.
  To Kli Kodesh, however, these corruptions were
  only the most recent manifestations of the Un-
  changing City. He remembered vividly the angry
  mobs in the Forum trading insults, buffets, bribes,
  stealthy knife thrusts. He remembered the tramp
  
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  of the legions spreading the benefits of civilization
  and enforcing them at swordpoint, all in the name
  of the Republic.
  In Palestine, Kli Kodesh had learned to loathe
  the very sight of the golden eagle. He had been
  easily drawn into the intricate webs of conspiracy
  that roiled beneath the surface of the Roman oc-
  cupation. It was, perhaps, this rebellious nature that
  first had drawn him to the Master and his danger-
  ous teachings.
  With the passing of so many centuries, there was
  certainly no man now walking who had better
  cause to hate the Romans and what passed for Ro-
  man justice.
  Kli Kodesh wished he could look down into the
  heart of the Accursed City and see it for the fes-
  tering wound that it was. He tried in vain to
  summon up the image of a decaying corpse aban-
  doned at the crossroads of time. He wanted to force
  the city to wear its taint openly, to be revealed as
  an abomination in the sight of God and man.
  But he knew, had always known, that when he
  at last returned to the City of Inequities, he would
  be greeted by quite a different scene. Truly is it said
  that there is no justice within the walls of Rome.
  Kli Kodesh, however, would keep his promise. He
  had an important appointment here, in the crypts
  deep beneath the silent corridors of the Vatican.
  Something ancient awaited him in those crypts—
  
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  The Winnowing
  a certain crate, indistinguishable from its fellows
  and undisturbed since it was interred here at the
  height of the Church’s power. That something must
  be loosed so that the appointed end might come
  swiftly now.
  Reluctantly, Kli Kodesh braced himself and faced
  the city, the object of his enduring hatred.
  On each of the seven hills stood an angel, stern
  and terrible of countenance. The seven burned
  with the brightness of a furnace and each carried
  both a golden trumpet and a flaming sword.
  And as Kli Kodesh watched, the first angel raised
  his trumpet and blew upon it a mighty blast that
  shook the heavens and the earth. And there was
  the sound of a great company of men and angels
  crying, “Glory to God in the Highest. Let it be thus.
  Thy will be done.”
  Kli Kodesh hid his face and wept. After so many
  years, has it truly come?
  It was a long while before he could force himself
  to stumble forward out of the piercing light and
  burning and into the welcoming shadows of the
  City of Inequities.
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Storyteller [multi]/EXTRA/Fiction/Trilogy of the Blood Curse by Fleming Gherbod (z-lib.org)/Fleming, Gherbod - Trilogy of the Blood Curse/Fleming, Gherbod - Blood Curse, Bk 2 - The Winnowing.pdf