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 Devil's Advocate
  ©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 October 1997.
  
  Prologue
  4
  One
  42
  Two
  62
  Three
  68
  Four
  88
  Five
  103
  Six
  139
  Seven
  167
  Eight
  188
  Nine
  218
  Ten
  248
  Eleven
  269
  Twelve
  286
  Thirteen
  312
  Fourteen
  327
  Fifteen
  362
  CONTENTS
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  4
  PROLOGUE
  Anno Domini 1093
  The creature paused on the moonlit hillside,
  clawed fingers and toes kneading at the exposed
  rockface. Wolfish nose twitched, revealing canines
  too long for the once-human form. There was a
  scent on the winter breeze, a new scent, not far
  away. Distracted by an itch, the beast scratched
  behind an ear with its foot, then picked a louse
  from the toenail with its teeth. More sniffing the
  night air. Definitely a new scent. Not sheep or boar
  or the blood-rich stench of peasant. Something
  else.
  Owain stepped from behind a boulder and with
  the momentum of three powerful strides thrust his
  spear into the back of the crouching Gangrel, rais-
  
  5
  The Devil's Advocate
  ing the creature to its feet by the force of the blow.
  For a brief moment the skewered beast grasped at
  the spear protruding from its chest, then the last
  strength fled from its body. With a snarl of pain
  and rage, it dropped to its knees and then collapsed
  to its side.
  “Forty years since I’ve hunted these hills, and still
  I’m able to track you three nights running before
  you notice my presence.” Owain fairly spat the
  words as he stood above the impaled, convulsing
  figure. “And you Gangrel! What elder would choose
  you as progeny?” He noticed blood splattered on
  his dark cloak; the stain would not show, but still
  he raised the cloth to his lips and licked the damp
  patch. “Was your sire’s mind fouled with tainted
  blood, or maybe the years have caught up with
  him? More animal than man by now?”
  The Gangrel struggled to speak, but could only
  gasp as blood gurgled in its throat.
  “Where is your sire?” Owain asked leaning down
  close to the Gangrel’s face. “The deep cave a league
  to the west by the birch stand?” The surprise and
  the fear—the elder Gangrel was not an understand-
  ing master, then—in the Gangrel’s eyes told Owain
  that he was right. “Yes, you led me there last night.”
  Owain smiled and patted his prey roughly on the
  cheek. “I’ll mention you to him.”
  Finally the Gangrel forced out stuttered words:
  “B-Bl-aidd…will t-tear…”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  6
  Owain stood and placed a booted foot firmly
  against the Gangrel’s face, pinning its head to the
  ground. “Blaidd. Wolf. How quaint. What the peas-
  ants call him, no doubt. And he’s going to tear me
  apart? Limb from limb? Perhaps.” Owain drew his
  sword and with one fierce blow rent the Gangrel’s
  head from its body.
  “And so it begins,” Owain said solemnly to the
  night. I’ve been away from Wales for far too long, he
  thought as clouds obscured the moon and a mist
  of rain began to fall. Far too long.
  Morgan ap Rhys strode briskly into the great hall,
  all but deserted at this late hour of the morning,
  and found red-haired Iorwerth. Morgan called to
  his older brother, the lone occupant of the hall,
  who hardly looked up from where he sat oiling his
  boots. “He’s dead, Iorwerth! Robert of Rhuddlan
  is dead!”
  At this, Iorwerth did stop his oiling. “According
  to whom?” he asked, eyes narrowed.
  Morgan ignored his brother’s skepticism. “Rid-
  ers from the north. It was Gruffudd that killed
  him—raiding at Degannwy and Robert tried to stop
  three shiploads of Welshmen with only one man,
  and Gruffudd took his head!”
  “Answer my question,” Iorwerth pressed impa-
  tiently. “What riders?”
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  Morgan scoffed. “He’s dead, I tell you.”
  Iorwerth threw his boot and oiled rag to the floor.
  “What riders?”
  Morgan stared back into the hard eyes of the man
  who would be lord of Dinas Mynyddig, king of
  Rhufoniog, when their father died—if their father
  ever died. Morgan took a deep breath and replied
  more calmly. “Cynwrig. And others.”
  “Did they see it?”
  “They heard.”
  “Hearing doesn’t make it so.”
  Morgan bristled, slammed his fist down on a
  table. “Do you have to be so damnably thick-
  skulled?”
  Iorwerth stood. He clenched his fists by his sides
  and looked down at Morgan. “Until I talk to some-
  one who was there, someone who has touched his
  swollen tongue, he’s not dead.”
  It was more than Morgan could take. House
  Rhufoniog had supported Robert and his overlord
  cousin Hugh the Fat, earl of Chester, because it had
  been the practical move. Morgan had never liked
  it. He hadn’t liked losing the northern lands near
  Rhos, and moreover he hadn’t liked his family
  swearing fealty to a Norman. And now that the
  situation was changing, his brother was too damned
  slow-witted to see it! Morgan grabbed Iorwerth by
  powerful shoulders. “Robert is dead, and Gruffudd
  is on the move! They can’t hold Degannwy; they
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  8
  can’t hold Rhuddlan. The Normans will be run-
  ning back to Chester.”
  “Gruffudd has been on the move,” Rhys ap Ieuan,
  their father, corrected Morgan. The old man had
  shuffled into the room unnoticed among the shout-
  ing.
  Morgan released Iorwerth. The two brothers
  stood only a foot apart, the tension between them
  palpable. They watched in silence as their father
  came closer. He was older than a man had a right
  to be, especially a Welsh lord whose sons waited
  for their inheritances.
  Rhys placed a hand on either son’s shoulder. He
  spoke through one side of his mouth, a concession
  to the rotting teeth that pained him. “Didn’t I tell
  you when news arrived of Gruffudd’s escape that
  either he or Robert would soon be dead? I knew
  it.” Rhys patted Iorwerth on the cheek. “Gruffudd
  ap Cynan is not a patient man, not a man to let
  twelve years of imprisonment go unavenged.”
  Morgan had always felt that both sons were re-
  duced somehow in the presence of their father,
  much as Morgan sometimes felt lessened in com-
  parison to his brother, who had once killed three
  cattle thieves single-handedly. Did greatness recede
  so much with each birth?
  Rhys patted Morgan’s cheek also; Morgan pulled
  away from the gesture meant for a child. “No,”
  Rhys continued, “Gruffudd is not a patient man.
  
  9
  The Devil's Advocate
  Neither is he a man on whose behalf one should
  act rashly. Robert may be dead.” Iorwerth, vindi-
  cated, smiled. “But there is no cause, just yet, to
  act.”
  Morgan could feel his color rising. Their father
  was taking Iorwerth’s side. “But this is our chance
  to push the Normans out of Wales!”
  Rhys grunted contemptuously, as if disgusted that
  a son of his could be so dense. “And then what?
  Fight the Normans? So that instead of paying a rea-
  sonable tribute to Robert, or to the earl of Chester,
  we are under Gruffudd’s yoke? Think, my boy.”
  Morgan had no response to this. At least Gruffudd
  is a Welshman, he thought, but that would carry
  no weight with his father. Besides, it would be
  Iorwerth who would someday rule House
  Rhufoniog. Morgan was resigned to his fate of hold-
  ing a cantref or two to the south, guarding against
  incursions from Powys. He would own land, but the
  real decisions would be made by his father, and by
  Iorwerth.
  “Even if Robert is dead, the Normans aren’t turn-
  ing tail for Chester just yet, I’d wager,” Rhys
  crooned through the stench of decay. “Hugh will
  come, or he’ll send someone else. Before Hugh,
  William the Bastard sent Gherbod the Fleming.
  There will always be someone. The trick is to be
  ready for him. Not to throw in our lot before we
  know which way the wind blows.” He jabbed a
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  10
  gnarled finger at Morgan’s chest. “You’re not the
  risen Rhodri Mawr here to unite all of Wales.”
  Neither are you, thought Morgan. Neither are you.
  “When the time comes,” said Rhys, “we will act.”
  Owain stood in the rain and the darkness just
  beyond the earthworks that had been maintained
  and expanded over the years. Would the young
  noble—young compared to Owain’s true age, at
  least—respond to the message delivered by his
  ghoul Gwilym? Owain thought so. He had watched
  the noble, as well as all the other members of House
  Rhufoniog, for many nights. Owain could pick out
  the sounds of their differing heartbeats—calm and
  regular, angry and pounding, fluttering with the
  flush of sex—and he fancied he could fairly read
  their thoughts.
  And Gwilym was dependable. He had led the
  loaded mules to the empty summer hunting lodge
  that was exactly where Owain had said it would
  be. Surely the ghoul could deliver a simple mes-
  sage.
  Owain’s prediction was borne out as Morgan ap
  Rhys, wrapped in hides and furs against the cold
  and wet of the night, cautiously picked his way
  through the muddy defensive works of Dinas
  Mynyddig. Owain did not feel the cold.
  At length the vampire moved, allowing himself
  
  11
  The Devil's Advocate
  to be seen by the mortal, who had been peering
  ineffectually into the dark. Morgan seemed faintly
  surprised to see someone where a moment before
  he’d seen no one, but if he found this disconcert-
  ing, he hid it well as he sauntered over to Owain.
  “Your man said you’d be here.”
  “He did, and I am.” Owain kept his wide-
  brimmed hat pulled low. No need to reveal too
  much too soon. Morgan eyed him suspiciously. As
  well he should, Owain thought.
  “And that you had news of Robert of Rhuddlan,”
  Morgan continued.
  “I can only confirm what you have already
  heard,” said Owain. “He has died the death from
  which none may return.” Even through the gloom,
  Owain could see Morgan’s eyes narrow as he
  weighed the value of information from an unknown
  source. “No. You have no reason to trust me,”
  Owain answered the unvoiced question, “but I
  would earn your trust if you will allow me. I bring
  a token of my good intent.”
  Morgan’s hand instinctively shifted to the hilt
  of his sword. “Yes?”
  Owain smiled at the haughty attempt at intimi-
  dation. Time enough for that later, my boy. The
  vampire, with exaggerated caution, handed over a
  small bundle. Morgan gingerly unfolded the rag to
  find a fang half the size of his middle finger and
  coated in still-moist blood.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  12
  As Morgan held the rag, the rain began to wash
  away the blood from the tooth. “Who are you and
  what do you want?” Morgan asked sharply. “Your
  man called you arglwydd. Are you a lord? What’s
  the meaning of…” he vacantly waved the bloody
  rag and tooth, “all this?”
  “All this,” Owain imitated Morgan’s gesture, “is
  my way of proving how I can aid your people, this
  land, you.” All hint of facetiousness left Owain’s
  voice. “There is a beast that prowls your land.
  Blaidd, the villagers call it—wolf. This tooth is
  from its spawn which is dead, but if you do not kill
  this Blaidd, there will be more, and your people
  will die.”
  Morgan considered this for a moment. “But there
  have always been tales of the wolf.”
  “And you have believed them while others have
  not. ‘Tales of dodderers, and of mothers to frighten
  their unruly babes,’ your father calls them.”
  Morgan tried unsuccessfully to hide his surprise
  at hearing his father’s words parrotted now. Owain
  had eavesdropped on Morgan teasing a serving girl
  he bedded about her fears of the wolf. Later the
  vampire had also listened as the young noble had
  mentioned the peasants’ fears to his father and had
  been admonished. Owain wondered for a moment
  if he had given away too much, set the younger
  man too keenly on guard, but then realized that it
  didn’t matter. The moment Morgan had ventured
  
  13
  The Devil's Advocate
  out into the cold night, into the rain-soaked un-
  known to meet with a complete stranger, at that
  moment the hook had taken hold, and now was
  the time to pull it true.
  “Listen carefully,” Owain said with great urgency.
  After giving terse instructions, he slipped away be-
  fore a protesting Morgan, merely feet away, knew
  the vampire was gone.
  The clouds gave way to stars and moon during
  the night, and the morning dawned bright and
  chill. As Morgan gnawed a cold biscuit and waited,
  as he had been instructed, at the edge of the forest
  for Gwilym, the second son of Rhys ap Ieuan
  couldn’t help but wonder what manner of man was
  the stranger, who had vanished so quickly and com-
  pletely into the night. The man’s audacity had
  angered Morgan, especially since, as far as Morgan
  could tell in the deep shadows and with that hat,
  the stranger had looked so young. But his words
  had not been those of a young man; they were spo-
  ken with an inherent authority, with the
  expectation that they would be obeyed, much
  like…Morgan’s father.
  Morgan had been prepared to disregard the ar-
  rogant words, to ignore the stranger’s instructions,
  but had changed his mind for two reasons. The
  stranger had quoted, word for word, Rhys’s rebuke
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  14
  of Morgan for his concerns about the wolf. How
  was that possible? The stranger didn’t seem the sort
  of man with whom Morgan’s father would consort.
  And there was the tooth.
  “Dry it off and expose it to the sunlight,” the
  stranger had said, and when Morgan had done so
  early this morning, the tooth had crumbled to dust
  in his hand. Mere trickery? Perhaps. But worth in-
  vestigating, and if Morgan could rid his family lands
  of the beast…
  So he waited with spear and torch as instructed.
  “It fears fire,” the stranger had said. “Also, the beast
  will be sluggish during the day, even in its cave.
  Attack it at noon and you will have a chance.
  Drive your spear through its heart—it must be the
  heart—and then wait for me to join you at night-
  fall.”
  What manner of man, indeed? Morgan wondered.
  Eventually Gwilym arrived. He was a short, stolid
  man, probably from southern Wales, Morgan
  guessed from the accent of the few words the ser-
  vant uttered. He led Morgan to the east, away from
  Dinas Mynyddig, out of the forest, up into the un-
  forgiving mountains. For several hours they kept
  up a brutal pace without speaking, sweating even
  in the cold, steam rising off their bodies. Just be-
  fore noon, they stopped.
  “My arglwydd commanded me to go no farther,”
  said Gwilym. His breath hung in the air before him.
  
  15
  The Devil's Advocate
  “There is the cave.” He pointed up the hill to a
  small opening near a stand of weather-beaten birch
  trees.
  Morgan doubted he would ever have noticed the
  entrance on his own. He proceeded alone, stop-
  ping before he reached the mouth of the cave to
  light the sap-soaked head of the torch. Flame sput-
  tering, spear lowered, he entered the cave.
  Morgan was a born hunter. He had brought down
  all types of game and, on necessary occasions, had
  tracked human prey. But this was different—he
  sought a beast he’d heard stories of since his child-
  hood. Morgan adjusted his grip on the spear. The
  torch cast dancing shadows on the cave walls. Once
  beyond the entry and the whistling breeze, he could
  feel that the air in the cave was slightly warmer
  than that outside. The cave’s damp, musty smell
  was familiar to Morgan, but there was something
  else as well—an odor similar to the kennels at
  Dinas Mynyddig, except with a fouler edge, less
  aired-out, and the farther Morgan advanced into
  the tunnel, the stronger the smell.
  A stillness descended around Morgan. The only
  sounds were those of his measured footsteps, the
  distant dripping of water, and the pounding of his
  heart. It wasn’t fear that caused sweat to trickle
  down his back, but rather the intense alertness that
  he’d only ever experienced when death was at
  hand. Morgan was thinking that he must be close,
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  16
  as overwhelming as the odor had become, when
  he heard it—growling from around the next turn.
  His mouth went dry.
  There was no way to surprise the beast; the torch
  had certainly given him away already, but there was
  no getting around that. Spear levelled before him,
  Morgan stepped around the corner and came face
  to face with the beast—Blaidd, wolf, the monster
  of his childhood, the bane of the peasants of
  Rhufoniog.
  For a moment they regarded one another. The
  beast looked much like a wolf—pointed snout,
  bared fangs, ears laid back, hackles raised—yet it
  stood on two legs against the back wall of the cave.
  Its glaring eyes were thick with sleep, but it looked
  anything but sluggish.
  One heartbeat passed, and the creature pounced.
  Morgan thrust the torch at the wolf and it veered
  away from him with an angry snarl.
  He attacked immediately, but the beast coun-
  tered with inhuman speed and strength, almost
  tearing the weapon from Morgan’s hold.
  Again the wolf charged and Morgan warded it
  off with the flame, and again his counterattack was
  easily turned aside. Each time the creature struck
  the spear, the force of the blow sent jolts of pain
  up Morgan’s arm. His hand tingled.
  Morgan thrust with his spear and the beast’s
  downward slash almost ripped the shaft from his
  
  17
  The Devil's Advocate
  hand, this time wrenching his smallest finger to the
  side with a loud pop. He howled with pain and
  dodged to the side as the wolf’s jaws snapped shut
  inches from his face.
  Morgan lurched off balance. The ancient beast
  swiped sideways at the torch and connected, burn-
  ing its own hand but knocking the firebrand from
  Morgan’s grasp.
  Morgan lunged for the torch—more potent than
  any shield—but the wolf had expected that. Its
  claws dug into Morgan’s flesh just below the neck
  and tore down across his chest and belly.
  He felt shock more than pain as he stumbled
  backward and fell.
  Now it was Morgan’s turn to anticipate his
  opponent’s next move, and his ability to do so
  saved his life.
  As the beast surged forward with a roar of tri-
  umph, Morgan hastily braced his spear under his
  arm against the stone floor, jerking the point up-
  ward in line with the charging creature’s chest
  instead of its stomach. With the terrible, bone-shat-
  tering force of its killing lunge, the beast crashed
  onto the spear, imbedding itself well down onto the
  oaken shaft.
  As the dead weight of the wolf yanked the spear
  from Morgan’s quivering hands and blood welled
  up in his wounds, the torch on the floor sputtered
  and there was darkness.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  18
  Owain arrived shortly after sunset to find Gwilym
  caring for the half-dead Morgan just inside the cave
  entrance. “The Gangrel?” Owain asked.
  “Staked.” Gwilym nodded toward the inner cave.
  “In its lair.”
  “And young Morgan?”
  Gwilym’s expression remained neutral. “Got
  himself cut pretty badly. Lost a lot of blood. If the
  claws had gone much deeper, he wouldn’t have
  made it this long.” Owain saw that it was true; the
  heap of blood-soaked hides and rags with which
  Gwilym had been able to stop most of the bleed-
  ing attested to the fact. Gwilym looked up with an
  unusually intent expression. “Was it this way with
  me, arglwydd?”
  It was the only time Owain could remember
  Gwilym asking about his transformation into a
  ghoul. “You were worse, I think.” Gwilym nodded,
  apparently satisfied.
  Owain knelt down beside Morgan. The vampire
  forced himself to ignore the enticing scent of so
  much blood. He drew his dagger and with a force-
  ful jab pierced his own right palm. Blood flowed
  freely. “From the stigmata the fallen are given eter-
  nal life. Eh, Gwilym?” Gwilym frowned. Owain
  smiled, still amused that his ghoul had not yet shed
  the ingrained piety of his former life. “I shouldn’t
  blaspheme, should I? Who knows what torments
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  the powers of heaven might devise for us?”
  He lowered his bleeding palm and after a mo-
  ment of blood dripping into Morgan’s slack mouth,
  the unconscious noble began sucking at the wound,
  weakly at first, then more forcefully, greedily.
  Gwilym pulled back the bloody rags and watched
  with Owain as the torn flesh of Morgan’s chest and
  abdomen miraculously knitted itself back together,
  closing over the exposed bone and muscle below.
  Satisfied that Morgan would survive, Owain
  pulled his hand away. It, too, was already healing.
  Owain chuckled, “Physician, heal thyself,” again
  to Gwilym’s obvious discomfort.
  Owain headed deeper into the cave. As he ad-
  vanced, the smell of wet, dirty beast that dominated
  the cave became atrocious. How far from humanity
  some Cainites have fallen, Owain thought. This was
  no occasion for compassion. Having been defeated
  by a mortal, the beast had earned its fate.
  When Owain emerged from the depths of the
  cave, he was ruddy-cheeked with the blood and
  power of a vampire of elder generation. Morgan was
  awake now, sitting up against the cave wall. Owain
  dropped the head of Blaidd at the noble’s feet. “You
  did well.”
  Morgan blinked, dumbfounded. “I should be
  dead.”
  “You’re a quick healer,” said Owain dryly.
  Morgan was in no mood for trifling. “Who are
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  20
  you? What are you?”
  “All in good time, dear Morgan. All in good
  time.” Owain raised a finger for silence as Morgan
  began to protest. “For now, the night is young and
  you are a hero. You must return to Dinas Mynyddig
  and present your father with this trophy.” He indi-
  cated the severed head and waved away Morgan’s
  question. “You’re too weak still to journey alone,
  so Gwilym will aid you. Do not mention me. I want
  none of the glory. We will speak again.” And for
  the second time, Owain stepped away from Mor-
  gan and disappeared into the night.
  Owain, too, would return to Dinas Mynyddig, but
  not yet. Instead, he turned east and passed over
  mountain and through forest with the speed and
  grace of a stag, the strength of a bear. None saw
  his passage as leagues fell away behind him. He
  travelled until he reached a hilltop above the ab-
  bey of Holywell. From above, he could see within
  the outer walls—the spring, the shrine—and he
  knew that she was there, but he went no closer that
  night.
  After covering the distance back from Holywell,
  it was no great task to slip past mortals into the
  manor house at Dinas Mynyddig. Owain was but a
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  shadow in the night to them. He could hear the
  celebration in the great hall. Morgan had staggered
  in and pulled from a sack the head of the beast.
  He was met first with confused silence, then with
  whispers of awe, and finally with cheers of triumph
  at his heroic deed. This night would be remem-
  bered for many years to come. Oh, yes. It will be
  remembered, thought Owain.
  The revelry continued without sign of abate-
  ment, but not all would drink and cheer and sing
  until dawn. Owain entered a particular bedroom
  and waited.
  When Rhys ap Ieuan returned to his room,
  Owain was on him before the door had completely
  closed. With preternatural speed and iron grip, the
  vampire clutched the old man from behind,
  wrenching his head to the side so his ear was within
  inches of Owain’s lips. “Do you remember my
  voice, Rhys?” Owain hissed. “Has it haunted your
  dreams for these forty years, or have you slept
  peacefully at night?”
  Owain could see Rhys’s eyes bulging.
  “Do you still have a tongue, old man?” Owain
  twisted Rhys’s head a bit farther, so that the king
  of Rhufoniog cried out, then threw the old man to
  the floor.
  Rhys, confused and in pain, held his strained
  neck and licked his dry, cracked lips. “Owain?” He
  stared unbelieving at the impossible sight.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  22
  “But…you’re alive? Young?”
  Owain laughed. He had looked forward to this
  moment for decades. “Greetings, brother.”
  Rhys struggled to speak. “How…?”
  Owain lifted Rhys to his feet by the shoulders.
  “Don’t worry. Your assassin didn’t botch the job.
  I’m dead.” Rhys’s mouth hung open; his eyes
  blinked rapidly, vacantly. “It was Angharad, wasn’t
  it?” Owain’s knuckles were white with rage. “You
  married her, but I loved her.”
  “No, no, no…” Rhys stared ahead, mouth agape;
  reason was quickly fleeing him.
  “What size galanas, do you think? How large an
  honor-price do you owe me for forty years of un-
  ending death? Hundred head of cattle? Five
  hundred?” Owain snarled and bared his fangs. Rhys
  moaned; his eyes fluttered, began to roll back in
  his head. “I think there aren’t enough cattle in all
  of Wales, dear brother.” Owain held the king’s face
  in his cold hands. “You’ve lived too many years,
  old man. Your body stinks of rot.” The vampire
  moved his face closer to Rhys’s. “And your son
  Morgan, he has become a great man tonight,”
  Owain whispered, “and he is mine.”
  Rhys began to let out a doleful wail; pus and
  frothy drool ran down his chin. Owain snapped the
  old man’s head violently to the left—crack!—then
  let the body crumple to the floor.
  With singing from the great hall echoing in
  
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  Owain’s ears, he waited in vain for the relief he
  had always dreamed would come at this moment.
  Morgan was in bed, taken with sudden illness,
  when he received his brother’s summons. Three
  days ago Morgan had felt the chill grip of death.
  As he had lain on the cave floor next to the im-
  paled beast, he had prayed to the risen Christ to
  intercede on behalf of his soul.
  Someone else had interceded.
  Morgan had awakened to find what should have
  been an open, mortal wound healed as if it had
  happened weeks before—the stranger’s doing,
  somehow.
  Just as peculiar, as Gwilym the Tight-Lipped had
  helped Morgan back to Dinas Mynyddig, instead
  of collapsing from fatigue and physical strain, Mor-
  gan had grown stronger and increasingly energetic.
  Throughout the impromptu feast honoring the
  death of the beast, he had felt flushed with vigor
  and praise. Even Iorwerth had embraced Morgan
  while their father looked on admiringly—enviously
  in all probability, considering the old king had no
  such heroic deed to his own credit.
  Don’t think ill of the dead, Morgan chided him-
  self. Early that next morning, a servant had found
  Rhys ap Ieuan’s body at the bottom of a staircase,
  his neck broken by a fall.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  24
  The next evening, last night, there had been a
  mass and then a feast in honor of the late king of
  Rhufoniog—and in honor of the new king,
  Iorwerth ap Rhys. By the end of the mass, how-
  ever, Morgan had been beset by spells of dizziness
  and had almost fainted. The feast barely begun, he
  had been forced to excuse himself and had retreated
  to his bed, where he had remained throughout the
  past day, wracked by vertigo if he so much as sat
  up to relieve himself in the chamber pot.
  Presently, his head was clearing somewhat, and,
  with the aid of an attendant, he was able to make
  his way to the study that doubled as an audience
  chamber on informal occasions.
  “Uncle Morgan!” Iorwerth’s six-year-old daugh-
  ter Branwen hugged Morgan; so enthusiastically,
  in fact, that she nearly upset his fragile balance.
  “Hello, Branwen. Easy, child.” The room began
  to swim slightly before Morgan.
  Iorwerth sat in a padded armchair by the fire, his
  glittering hair seemingly an extension of the blaze.
  Beside him sat delicate Blodwen, cradling their in-
  fant son Iago in her arms. Morgan’s other two
  nieces, Elen and Siaun, red-haired like their father,
  sat at a table nearby practicing their letters on a
  piece of slate with chalk.
  “Morgan,” Iorwerth greeted him.
  Morgan, trailing behind Branwen, her tiny hand
  gripping his finger, approached the royal couple.
  
  25
  The Devil's Advocate
  He felt surrounded by the comforting warmth of
  family, but distinctly separate from it, an outsider
  glimpsing that which was denied him.
  Against the wall to the king’s right stood
  Brochwel, penteulu, captain of the household guard,
  listening, watching with his fierce eyes.
  “Morgan, you’ve not been well,” said Blodwen,
  the beautiful new queen of Rhufoniog. Her eyes
  sparkled blue in the light of the fire; her small nose
  and strong chin framed the smile that induced for-
  bidden stirrings in Morgan. She still radiated
  strength and vitality, even after giving birth to four
  children. “You should settle down. Stop your ca-
  rousing and find a woman to care for you.”
  “How can I, when my brother has already taken
  the most lovely woman in Wales for himself?” The
  words were offered as flattering jest, but struck
  closer to truth than Morgan would have cared to
  admit.
  “I must speak with Morgan,” Iorwerth said gen-
  tly to his wife.
  Blodwen nodded, then gracefully stood. “Come,
  children.” As she ushered them from the room, she
  turned one last time to Morgan. “Guard your health
  well, Morgan,” she said, and then closed the door
  behind her.
  Morgan saw the way that Iorwerth’s eyes followed
  Blodwen’s progress across the room. Whatever dif-
  ferences lay between the brothers, Morgan freely
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  26
  acknowledged that Iorwerth was easily ten times
  the husband and father that their father had been,
  and, though Morgan was not a man of great senti-
  mentality, Blodwen and the children held a place
  close to his heart.
  “You have been ill, brother.” The eyes which had
  shown such affection toward Blodwen were more
  guarded with Morgan.
  “I have, but I will survive.”
  “I will not keep you long,” said Iorwerth. “As was
  Father’s wish, you are granted Penllyn and Dyffryn
  Clwyd. I imagine you will want to take up residence
  at your new holdings as soon as possible.”
  The news itself was not a surprise to Morgan. He
  had expected to receive one or two of the south-
  ern cantrefi while Iorwerth retained the more
  central lands of Rhufoniog, but the abruptness with
  which the grant was presented and the haste in
  which he was apparently expected to leave Dinas
  Mynyddig caught Morgan up short. He scrutinized
  the closed expression of his brother, and then
  looked over to the more openly challenging gaze
  of the man-at-arms Brochwel. There was a new
  facet in how they regarded him, Morgan realized.
  Now that Iorwerth was king, now that Morgan was
  a hero, the slayer of the beast, they no longer saw
  him merely as a younger brother, but as a rival, a
  possible claimant to the kingship of Rhufoniog; the
  sooner he was safely tucked away in the isolated
  
  27
  The Devil's Advocate
  lands south of the Hiraethog Range, the better.
  Morgan’s blood rose at the thought of no longer
  being welcome in the ancestral lands where he had
  spent all the days since his birth, at the thought of
  being hustled off beyond the mountains. “I am loyal
  to you, brother,” he said more tersely than he’d in-
  tended.
  “I do not doubt that you are.”
  The two brothers regarded one another for sev-
  eral moments, neither’s gaze wavering. Morgan saw
  in Iorwerth’s eyes no hope of reconciliation, no
  possibility of cooperation. Their father had torn the
  two brothers apart more completely in death even
  than in life. Morgan turned and, fighting the ver-
  tigo that once again assailed him, made his way to
  the door.
  “There is news from the north,” Iorwerth said fi-
  nally. Morgan stopped but did not turn. “Robert
  of Rhuddlan is dead, and Gruffudd ap Cynan has
  driven away Hervé, the Norman bishop of Bangor.”
  “Then we must throw in with Gruffudd,” said
  Morgan quietly, still facing the door.
  “We must do whatever I decide we must do,”
  Iorwerth responded.
  Morgan left without further comment. So, there
  it is, he thought as he closed the door behind him.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  28
  Climbing up the outer wall and easing through
  the shutter that a moment before had been latched,
  Owain found Morgan sick in bed, feverish and fu-
  rious. “So, you’ve been ordered to the south.” The
  mortal started at the sound of the icy voice. “This
  is your moment of destiny, Morgan.”
  Morgan raised himself on his elbows. “Who in
  damnation are you, and why don’t you leave me in
  peace?” he snapped.
  “Your question nearly answers itself,” said Owain
  with a wry smile. The vampire, now by the bed,
  looked down intently at his pale nephew. Though
  Owain was more than thirty years older, he ap-
  peared to be at least ten years Morgan’s junior. “But
  all things in their time. Do you plan to tuck tail
  and slink off to the southlands like an obedient
  little brother?”
  Morgan opened his mouth to issue a sharp re-
  tort, but Owain’s glare snatched the words from the
  young noble’s mind. “I…I am loyal to my brother,”
  Morgan forced out.
  “As he is loyal to you?” Owain asked with raised
  eyebrow. “Tell me, Morgan. Does he treat you like
  a brother? Does he seek your counsel, confer with
  you as a trusted advisor?” A harsh strain crept into
  Owain’s voice. “Or does he treat you more like a
  leper, ordering you far away from your home?”
  Owain held Morgan’s gaze; the mortal’s eyes
  blinked and began to water, but he could not look
  
  29
  The Devil's Advocate
  away. “I…am loyal.…” he repeated weakly.
  “Do you know why he treats you so, Morgan?”
  Owain leaned very close now. “Because he fears
  you—you who destroyed the beast. Your name is
  whispered in awe throughout Rhufoniog. People
  will follow you, and he knows it. He harbors ill feel-
  ings against you. He sees that he is slighted by your
  leaving the feast in his honor. He jealously parades
  his wife and children before you. He fears you.”
  Morgan opened his mouth but was unable to
  speak.
  “You have proved yourself worthy. Unlike your
  brother, unlike your father, you are a man ap-
  proaching greatness.” Owain towered over the
  mortal, knowing that Morgan was incapable of
  looking away from the mesmerizing vampire eyes,
  black as death. “You asked who I am, Morgan. I
  am Owain ap Ieuan, your father’s brother.”
  Morgan lay on his bed, breathing shallowly, hear-
  ing the words but robbed, in his stuporous state, of
  the profound shock that would otherwise have ac-
  companied them.
  “Three nights ago you asked what I am. I am ac-
  cursed by God,” said Owain, “but that is just as
  well, for God has failed me. I am the devil’s spawn.”
  Owain turned away, began pacing methodically
  around the sparsely furnished room. “Forty years
  ago,” he continued, “my brother was to be anointed
  subregnum, king of Rhufoniog, by Edward the Con-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  30
  fessor, but Rhys was taken ill and sent me in his
  stead to Westminster. Looking back over the years,
  I have no doubt it was an illness of convenience,
  for Rhys hired an assassin to kill me in
  Westminster. It was to appear a common robbery,
  a visiting Welshman caught unawares in the city.”
  The rage of decades washed over Owain; he
  flexed his fingers, all lengthy claws now. “What my
  dear brother could not know was that the assassin
  he chose was no mortal. He was a vampire of royal
  blood, and he did more than kill me; he took me
  beyond death, into the world of the Kindred.”
  Morgan stirred as the haze began to clear from
  his mind.
   “You see, your father and I had argued about…”
  Owain paused. “About many things. But it was his
  fear of me, his fear and jealousy, that condemned
  me to be what I am.”
  Owain raised a clawed finger and with one slow
  motion slashed his own forearm. For the first time—
  too late—Morgan looked with fear upon the creature
  leaning over him. A second time, Owain’s deep, black
  eyes took control of the mortal, holding both muscle
  and will immobile as Owain presented his bleeding
  arm. Morgan drank. Owain smiled as his cursed blood
  flowed into his nephew. Shortly, the vampire pulled
  his arm away and stood. Morgan, seized by a spasm of
  coughing, fell back onto his pillows.
  “Do you feel it?” Owain asked. “Do you feel the
  
  31
  The Devil's Advocate
  power of the blood?”
  Morgan struggled to prop himself against the
  headboard, took a deep breath. “The power of the
  blood or the curse of God?”
  “They go hand in hand.”
  “Then I, too, am cursed?”
  Owain laughed derisively at the question. “Ide-
  alism is the luxury of the young and the foolish,
  Morgan. Loyalty to your brother, loyalty to God—
  they do not exist, not in this world or the next.”
  Two powerful strides and Owain was again by the
  bed, lifting Morgan into the air by his collar. “I
  have given you what you want, what you all but
  asked for.” Owain bared his fangs; he had no stom-
  ach for self-pity, not from a mortal whose suffering
  could never match his own. “Or would you rather
  pad away quietly to Penllyn or Dyffryn Clwyd? Is
  that what you want? To give up all you’ve ever
  known? To never again walk the paths or hunt the
  forests that have always been yours? To bow be-
  fore your brother?”
  Morgan stared deep into the animal eyes. “No,”
  he finally answered in a subdued voice. “That is
  not what I want.”
  Owain lowered his freshly fed ghoul back to the
  bed. “Somehow, I thought not.” The vampire
  smoothed the wrinkles from his cloak as the rest
  of the trap fell into place. “You have no great love
  for the Normans?”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  32
  “No.”
  “Good. I am of the vampire clan Ventrue, but
  with the Conqueror from Normandy have come a
  new breed of Ventrue wishing to drive before them
  or rule over those of us already here.” Owain
  gnawed at a speck of blood beneath his now-re-
  ceded fingernail. “Needless to say, London is no
  longer so hospitable as it once was. I have returned
  home, and I never again wish to see a Norman on
  my soil.”
  All the old wrongs will be redressed, thought Owain.
  Morgan, overwhelmed by all that he had been
  subjected to, sat quietly.
  “By morning,” the vampire continued, “your
  strength will return, more strength than you’ve ever
  felt. This is my next gift to you, Morgan. You need
  not submit to your brother’s designs for your fate.
  Challenge him. Challenge him, and after you de-
  feat him, declare the allegiance of House
  Rhufoniog to Gruffudd ap Cynan. You will be lord
  of Dinas Mynyddig. You will rule Rhufoniog. All
  of Wales could be at your feet.”
  Morgan did not protest.
  Good, thought Owain. He will do it. So easy when
  you give them what they want. “One matter remains
  to decide—your brother’s family. You must take his
  wife and children as your own.”
  At this, Morgan balked. “I will not.”
  Owain could see the struggle within Morgan,
  
  33
  The Devil's Advocate
  could remember what it felt like, the struggle to
  separate family from politics, power from blood.
  “Blodwen is not an unattractive woman,” the vam-
  pire pointed out, “and wouldn’t you like young Iago
  to grow with love and respect for his uncle rather
  than with vengeance in his heart?”
  A bit of Morgan’s fire had returned now. “I will
  not take my brother’s wife as my own.”
  The vampire sighed. “So, you’ll kill your brother
  but not bed his wife, eh? How noble of you, Mor-
  gan.” Owain smiled, only partially amused. “Very
  well, then. That is your decision to make.” He re-
  turned to the open window. “I have taken shelter
  in the hunting lodge on the ridge three days to the
  south. You know which one?” Morgan nodded.
  “Good. Come to me there as soon as you can. Even-
  tually you will not need to feed so often, but for
  now we must keep up your strength.”
  And then the window was again latched, as if
  Morgan had been without a visitor that night.
  All singing and merriment died away as Morgan
  entered the great hall with a naked blade. The
  crowd parted before him, all except Brochwel and
  his second in command, Cynwrig, who stepped for-
  ward to block Morgan’s way. “What is the meaning
  of this?” barked Brochwel.
  Behind the penteulu sat Iorwerth, king of Rhu-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  34
  foniog, at the high table, Blodwen’s seat empty be-
  side him. “Yes, brother,” said Iorwerth, “what is the
  meaning of this? Treason?” He did not look sur-
  prised, nor particularly worried.
  The ties of blood weighed heavily on Morgan—
  on one side, the undeniable bond with a brother,
  regardless of any rivalries that persisted over the
  years; on the other side, the strength and ambition
  that, magnified by vampiric power, flowed through
  his veins. Such thoughts had plagued Morgan all
  night and all day. He had neither slept nor eaten.
  When he spoke amidst the confusion of the great
  hall, he heard the words as if from a distance, as if
  they were spoken by someone else. “I challenge
  you, Iorwerth. I claim the kingship of Rhufoniog.”
  Brochwel drew his sword; Cynwrig stood ready
  with hand on hilt. A worried murmur rippled
  through the hall.
  “Hold, Brochwel,” called Iorwerth.
  “Such traitorous dogs should be put down,” re-
  sponded the penteulu.
  Iorwerth ignored his retainer’s ire. “Morgan,” said
  the king calmly. “Put down your sword, ride south
  tonight, and this is forgotten.”
  “Do you fear me, brother?”
  “I fear for you.”
  Morgan bristled at such condescension. “I chal-
  lenge you, Iorwerth. I claim the kingship of
  Rhufoniog.”
  
  35
  The Devil's Advocate
  Iorwerth sighed deeply. “Very well, then.” He
  reached out his hand and an attendant brought him
  his sword. Iorwerth drew blade from sheath with
  the grace and power of one well versed in the arts
  of war. He stepped forward around the table.
  “Brochwel, go make sure that Blodwen and the
  children remain in their chambers.”
  “But, arglwydd…”
  “Do as you’re told,” said Iorwerth evenly. “And
  let all know that Iorwerth ap Rhys accepts the chal-
  lenge of his brother. House Rhufoniog will be led
  by who survives here.”
  Morgan had been sure that Iorwerth would ac-
  cept the challenge. Whether it was arrogance or
  nobility that forced the king’s hand, Morgan could
  not decide. Either way, the result would be the
  same. Brochwel stormed out of the room, and
  Cynwrig, also, stepped aside.
  Challenged and challenger circled each other for
  only a moment, as tables were pulled back and gob-
  lets overturned, before Morgan attacked. Iorwerth
  parried and swiped at his brother’s knee, but Mor-
  gan easily sidestepped the stroke.
  Neither man gave ground as they traded blows.
  The sound of steel on steel echoed from the rafters
  of the great hall. They offered no witty banter, only
  grunts and gasps of exertion as they swung and par-
  ried and dodged.
  Twice Iorwerth’s blade struck glancing blows and
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  36
  bit into Morgan’s flesh—once on the calf, once the
  forearm—but Morgan felt nary a prick. He pressed
  his brother relentlessly, attacking at every turn, and
  as Iorwerth’s breathing became labored, Morgan
  still moved strong and fresh. Iorwerth was clearly
  the more adept swordsman, but Morgan was skilled
  enough to hold his own, and his ceaseless aggres-
  sion was taking its toll. It was soon apparent that
  fatigue would tell the tale.
  As Morgan pressed his increasing advantage, he
  saw, for the first time he could remember, fear—
  real fear—creep into his brother’s eyes. Is he thinking
  of his lost kingdom? Morgan wondered. Or of the wife
  and children he will never again hold?
  It was time now for Morgan’s blade to strike true.
  He caught Iorwerth’s left side, and then his wrist,
  and then his bicep. None of the blows were crip-
  pling, but they added to Iorwerth’s mounting
  exhaustion, and Morgan was not yet winded.
  The king fought on, his jerkin stained with
  spreading blood. His attacks came less and less fre-
  quently, and Morgan brushed them aside with ease.
  Iorwerth backed away, but Morgan gave him no
  quarter.
  When the final blow fell, a thrust that dug deeply
  into Iorwerth’s belly and left him with blood on
  his lips, the king seemed surprised. He staggered,
  then slumped to the floor.
  Morgan, standing above his brother as the last
  
  37
  The Devil's Advocate
  of his life fled, felt none of the exultation he had
  expected. All he had wanted, all he had dreamed
  of, was in his grasp now. Dinas Mynyddig was his.
  House Rhufoniog would stand by Gruffudd ap
  Cynan, the Welshman, and drive the Normans
  from Wales.
  Blood pooled around Morgan’s feet.
  He heard his own voice, again from far away,
  “Cynwrig, fetch Brochwel.”
  Morgan was only vaguely aware of the
  murmurings around him of the household and of
  the few guests remaining after the feast in honor
  of Rhys ap Ieuan. The victor, the new king of
  Rhufoniog, could not turn away from his brother’s
  lifeless body, from the eyes that someone should
  close. He must have stood there for some time, be-
  cause now Cynwrig was back, speaking quietly in
  Morgan’s ear: “Morgan, come with me.”
  Morgan, the lord of Dinas Mynyddig, allowed
  himself to be led from the great hall, away from
  the shocked silence, to the family chambers of
  Iorwerth ap Rhys. The king stepped from the cor-
  ridor into a room of madness.
  Littered among Blodwen’s modest decor were the
  sprawled bodies of Iorwerth’s loved ones. Elen and
  Siaun, tangled young limbs, on the floor. Little
  Branwen crumpled on the bed. Blodwen was
  propped in a chair, her head tilted back, while Iago,
  barely a year old, lay limp across her lap. Blodwen’s
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  38
  gown was torn, and two red punctures stood out at
  the top of her left breast.
  Off to the side lay Brochwel, his head at an im-
  possible angle to his body. Of all the carnage, there
  was no blood—not on the floor, not on the clothes,
  and not, Morgan was sure, in the bodies.
  Very well, then. That is your decision to make.
  Morgan had not wanted this. But hadn’t he
  known? Hadn’t his ambitions set this in motion?
  Had he actually thought that he would be able to
  shield Blodwen and innocent Branwen from the
  fury set loose by his unsheathed sword? Morgan
  wanted to throw down his bloodied blade, to run
  far away from the evidence of his crime.
  “Is this your doing?” Cynwrig stood behind Mor-
  gan, horrified at the thought, wanting to be told
  otherwise.
  Morgan did not turn, did not weep. “Yes,” he
  said. “This is my doing.” As surely as if I slit their
  throats myself. “I am king.”
  Owain had been vaguely unsettled for the past
  four nights since his brother’s death. Not since the
  first weeks after his embrace had he felt so. Forty
  years thirsting for revenge, and now I have drunk of it
  fully. Yet still he thirsted.
  He had tried to kindle his rage in dispatching
  Blodwen and the children—It had to be done. Mor-
  
  39
  The Devil's Advocate
  gan will see that in time. Send a message of ruthless-
  ness to the other petty nobles that they’ll not soon forget,
  and no rival claimants to the kingship—but of all the
  lives taken, only Brochwel’s had been at all satis-
  fying, an amusement.
  As rain fell again from the dark skies of Wales,
  Owain, flushed with the family blood that ran in
  his veins, passed across the countryside more swiftly
  than an eagle, more silently than a shadow. He
  sought the one loose thread that still tied him to
  the past.
  Stolen warmth radiated from his body as he stood
  atop the hill above the abbey of Holywell. He
  paused not long, what might have been a heart-
  beat for the living. The outer wall was low, not
  meant particularly for defense. Within, the power
  of faith hummed about the spring, so Owain took
  a wide route around. He had no use for faith.
  He found her by scent. She was kneeling in
  prayer by the bed in her cell. Even as quietly as
  Owain entered, she heard. She looked in his di-
  rection.
  “Angharad,” he whispered, the ability to speak
  almost escaping him.
  She cocked her head slightly; a bemused smile
  played across her features. “They said you were dead
  these many years.” Angharad’s voice was still mu-
  sical, though huskier, richer. Like Owain’s brother
  had been, she was old now, nearly sixty, and the
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  40
  years had not passed her by as they had Owain. Her
  skin was leathery where once it had been supple,
  though it did not droop overly much. The once-
  bright eyes were obscured by cataracts. She was
  blind. “I must finish my prayers,” she said.
  Owain waited silently while she prayed.
  Finally she stood, then sat on the bed.
  “You look well,” Owain said quietly.
  “I may look well,” she smiled as she spoke to him,
  “but I no longer see well. It is good to hear your
  voice, Owain.” She did not see his smooth, young
  skin, his still-dark hair.
  They remained in silence for many minutes. For
  perhaps the first time in his long life and unlife,
  words deserted Owain. He had thought to snuff this
  last smoldering ember of his past, but he no longer
  knew if he could. After some while, he again found
  his tongue. “I never wanted Rhys to send you
  away.”
  “I know,” she nodded quietly. “He needed chil-
  dren.”
  Again there was silence.
  “I always…” Owain faltered. “I always cared for
  you, Angharad.” He realized as he spoke the words
  that, though the memories lived, the passions were
  long dead. “But I was loyal to my brother. How the
  years have changed me.” Loyalty dead, love dead;
  Owain was an empty husk, consumed by insatiable
  hate.
  
  41
  The Devil's Advocate
  “Owain?”
  For a brief moment, he had deluded himself that
  redemption might lie with this woman and her in-
  finite capacity for tenderness. Redemption, he
  thought as he looked at the crucified Christ on the
  wall. Humanity.
  Owain left her on the bed and slipped from the
  candlelit cell back into the infinite night.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  42
  ONE
  The skyscrapers towered on every side, enormous
  walls to a cell—or coffin—from which Grimsdale
  might never emerge. He jerked about, the hun-
  dredth glance over his shoulder that hour.
  Nothing.
  But they had to be close. He could feel their
  predatory gazes boring through him like a stake.
  Grimsdale harbored no illusions. If they caught him
  there would be no trial, no appeal to the arch-
  bishop.
  There!
  He whirled around at the sound of a deep, raspy
  cough just down the street. Street person or assas-
  sin? No way to know. Keep moving, Grimsdale told
  
  43
  The Devil's Advocate
  himself. He dashed across the intersection and hur-
  ried down the sidestreet. Keep moving. He hadn’t
  come this far to die now.
  Downtown Atlanta was mostly deserted this time
  of night—no crowds for cover, but always plenty
  of shadows to hide killers. Grimsdale’s hearing was
  sharp, but would that be enough for him to slip out
  of the city, to get to Chicago? He had avoided New
  York, Washington, Detroit, but even here they had
  found him. How much longer could he elude them?
  How many hours until his luck ran out?
  Headlights up the street, coming his way.
  Grimsdale ducked into an alley until the police
  cruiser passed. Probably the local authorities were
  under Camarilla control, but that would be bad
  enough. Slow him down until his former allies
  caught up with him. That’s all it would take.
  Footsteps! Or…no, he was wrong. But he was sure
  he’d heard them. Almost sure.
  Grimsdale felt panic rising, fought it back down.
  Stay calm. Think straight. Keep moving. He had to
  lose his pursuers and get back to the airport. The
  Giovanni hangar. Neutral ground.
  After a full minute of standing perfectly still and
  hearing no signs of pursuit, he eased back onto the
  street. Coughing in the distance. Grimsdale had to
  fight his nerves to keep from breaking into a mad
  dash.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  44
  The hounds strained against their leads. It was
  all Mike could do to hold them back when they
  were on a scent like this. He hopped a fallen tree
  at the bottom of the small ravine and then allowed
  the dogs to half-pull him up the opposite incline.
  As the hill levelled off, he saw what he was look-
  ing for and covered the earpiece of his headset
  against the howling of the dogs.
  “Arden, I found it—G-7.”
  The motion sensor lay crushed on the ground,
  next to it a dead branch, not heavy enough to have
  merely fallen and damaged the equipment. The
  dogs sniffed at the branch and erupted in a new
  frenzy of barking and jerking ahead. Mike, busy
  scanning the area for an intruder with the light
  mounted on his Ingram Mac-10 and at the same
  time struggling to hold back the dogs, missed the
  staccato transmission over his headset. “Repeat?”
  “Report. Over,” snapped Arden, his voice taking
  on an electronic edge.
  “G-7,” Mike repeated, “disabled. Intruder defi-
  nite. Dogs on the scent. Over.”
  “Pursue. Report new development for 02:45. Over.”
  Mike held his watch to the light. 02:40. Five
  minutes. “Copy. Over.” He let the dogs choose their
  path and wove along behind them through the
  trees toward the perimeter of the estate.
  The canine howls grew more distant but never
  far away. Otherwise, the moonlight wound its way
  
  45
  The Devil's Advocate
  peacefully through the bare winter branches cast-
  ing shadows on the fallen leaves. Then one patch
  of leaves next to the battered sensor began to
  quiver, then to churn, as did the earth beneath.
  Within seconds dirt and debris fell away as a fig-
  ure rose from the very ground of which a moment
  before it had been a part.
  Nicholas crouched warily. The dogs still barked
  in the distance—he had left a false trail to keep
  them busy—but Nicholas was more concerned
  with the electronic monitors. He held the gadget
  he had crushed in his hand. “Hmph.” Now that
  he knew what he was looking for, Nicholas had
  little trouble sniffing out the contraptions and
  avoiding their areas of effect.
  He quickly made his way through the remainder
  of the wooded area to the cleared space surround-
  ing the main house itself. This last ten yards were
  undoubtedly criss-crossed with detection devices,
  probably beneath the thick manicured lawn. He
  could leap the span of grass and sink claws into the
  side of the house, but why bother?
  Nicholas stepped out of concealment and headed
  up the main walk. As he approached, the front door
  opened. A well-dressed red-haired gentleman
  stepped forward to greet him. “Good evening, sir.
  Mr. Evans has been expecting you.” Everything
  about the servant was formal—speech, black vest,
  starched white shirt, polished shoes—the complete
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  46
  opposite of Nicholas’ tattered jeans and jacket,
  flannel shirt, his hiking boots and long hair. “Please
  follow me.”
  The servant led Nicholas through tiled foyer and
  immaculate entrance hall. The polished mahogany
  and crystal chandelier, the fine velvet tapestries and
  sparkling brass fixtures all bespoke quiet luxury, but
  even among the spacious elegance, Nicholas felt
  as if the house were closing in on him. He longed
  for the nearby woods, or better yet the North Geor-
  gia mountains, even the endless plains of the
  Midwest, somewhere he could run with the moon-
  light on his back. Soon enough, he thought.
  Nicholas followed the servant through lavish
  dining and sitting rooms to a large wooden door.
  The servant knocked lightly.
  “Yes, Randal,” came the voice from inside.
  The servant opened the door and deferentially
  ushered Nicholas into the study. A rather young
  man faced him from behind the large ornate desk.
  Young looking, anyway, Nicholas thought as the
  door closed behind him.
  “Hello, my friend,” said Owain Evans. “What
  brings you to my home? I have too few visitors these
  days…unannounced, at any rate.”
  Evans didn’t appear to be troubled that his es-
  tate security had just been breached, that an
  intruder had walked up to his front door in the
  middle of the night. He seemed attentive yet re-
  
  47
  The Devil's Advocate
  laxed. Nicholas was impressed. Before he could re-
  spond, Evans casually cut him short. “Oh. Excuse
  me just a moment, please.” Evans pressed a inter-
  com button set into his desk. “Randal.”
  “Yes, sir,” crackled the servant’s response.
  “Do tell Arden that our guest has arrived. He can
  rest the dogs.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  Evans returned his attention to Nicholas. “I’m
  sorry. You were saying…?”
  Nicholas smiled—the games these city dwellers
  played, holed up in their fancy houses, so insulated
  from the instincts that connected them to the
  night. He reached inside his jacket and removed a
  thin ivory cylinder, which he placed on the desk.
  Evans, Nicholas noticed, seemed interested but not
  especially concerned as his guest reached into his
  jacket. Here was a man who, whether through con-
  fidence or foolishness, had little reason to fear a
  stranger. Nicholas suspected the former.
  Evans regarded the bone case but made no move
  toward it. Instead, he rose and occupied himself
  with a decanter nestled within a silver ice bucket
  nearby, half filling a delicate crystal wine glass with
  dark liquid. “May I offer you refreshment, my
  friend?” Evans held the glass forward. “An excel-
  lent vintage, if I do say so myself—only the finest
  Atlanta high society vitæ.”
  “Many thanks, but no.” Nicholas had fulfilled his
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  48
  obligation, delivered the parcel. He didn’t feel like
  observing all the niceties, kowtowing to some “high
  society” city Kindred.
  Evans sat easily upon the edge of his desk, sa-
  vored a sip from the glass he had poured. “You are
  from eastern Europe…not the Balkans, to the
  north…” He took another small sip, concentrated.
  “Minsk?”
  A smile crept across Nicholas’ features. He had
  underestimated this elder of the city. “Kiev.”
  “Kiev.” Evans nodded. “Of course. Accents are
  tricky things, and yours is quite faint. You’ve not
  been home for quite some time, I’d wager.”
  Nicholas snorted good-naturedly. Four words,
  and the young-looking vampire had guessed his
  home within a few hundred miles. Nicholas’ preda-
  tory instincts were again as alert as they had been
  in the forest. He wouldn’t let his guard down again,
  not around this wily Kindred with his disarming
  manner and sharp mind. Nicholas didn’t know
  much about Owain Evans other than that he was
  a prominent but unobtrusive member of Atlanta’s
  Kindred community. Obviously he was well-off fi-
  nancially, and he would bear close watching while
  Nicholas was in town.
  But Nicholas preferred to do his watching from
  a distance. He fidgeted in his chair. The air in the
  room felt heavy, as thick perhaps as the blood in
  Evans’ glass, and the plush drapes and large furni-
  
  49
  The Devil's Advocate
  ture seemed to be creeping slowly toward Nicho-
  las, taking up all available space. He wanted to be
  out of the house, immediately, but he forced him-
  self to keep his attention on his host—the hand
  raising the wine glass; the long dark hair pulled
  back, not a strand out of place; the strong straight
  nose; the inquisitive but black black eyes.
  Evans chatted on politely about something.
  Nicholas inwardly cursed his own weakness. He
  had completed his task. How much longer would
  this maddening formality go on? Nicholas did not
  feel he could risk offending this elder by dashing
  out of his home.
  “Well, my talkative friend,” Evans continued,
  “let me ask you one final question.”
  Final question. That phrase muscled through
  Nicholas’ distress and grabbed his attention.
  “I’m curious.” Evans sat behind his desk once
  again and gestured toward the bone case. “You did
  not bring this message all the way from Berlin
  purely out of good will. What was your payment?”
  The question was like cold water thrown in
  Nicholas’ face. Even though Evans must have
  known the message was coming and where it came
  from, how did the cursed Ventrue know to ask
  about the one thing Nicholas couldn’t divulge?
  “A favor from a friend’s friend,” he mumbled. He
  could feel those black eyes watching him, and
  wasn’t sure if he could meet the probing gaze with-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  50
  out losing control, without falling into frenzy. Sud-
  denly the urge to shred the expensive drapes, to
  rake his claws across the perfectly stained hardwood
  floor was quite strong. The thought of such sav-
  agery in this all too proper room was so appealing
  that Nicholas couldn’t help laughing at the di-
  chotomy.
  This seemed to catch Evans off guard. For the
  first time this evening, the Ventrue looked per-
  plexed, and his obvious puzzlement made Nicholas
  laugh even harder. The violent nature of his
  thoughts intensified proportionately, which struck
  him as increasingly hilarious. Soon Evans joined
  in the laughing, almost nervously at first, then more
  forcefully, still not comprehending but not caring,
  for laughter, like hatred, is contagious.
  “What, exactly,” Evans forced out between
  mirthful convulsions, “are you laughing at?”
  “I was thinking…a-hem…of ripping your throat
  out,” Nicholas explained gleefully.
  Rather quickly, Evans stopped laughing. Shortly
  Nicholas, too, had regained his composure, and
  both men looked about slightly embarrassed, not
  exactly sure what had just transpired.
  Nicholas decided prudence called for taking his
  leave before the room again began to close in on
  him. “With all due respect, Mr. Evans, I must go.”
  
  51
  The Devil's Advocate
  Owain had Randal show the visitor out. “To the
  front gate, perhaps,” Owain had suggested. “No
  need to upset the dogs further.”
  What an odd courier, Owain thought as he sat star-
  ing at nothing in particular and drained the last
  vitæ from his glass. Just as he finished, his distracted
  gaze fell upon the ivory cylinder on his desk, the
  message nearly forgotten amidst the strangeness of
  the visit. He picked up the tube and inspected the
  intact seal of his long-time opponent. A pity al-
  most to open it. Often times the anticipation was
  more titillating than the actual revelation, espe-
  cially when, like this time, Owain felt sure he knew
  what the message contained.
  He crossed to the small alcove in the study where
  he kept his Battle of Hastings chess set. It was
  carved by a wood worker who had seen with his
  own eyes both Harold Godwin and William the
  Bastard on the field that black day in 1066. Owain,
  as always, played the dark Anglo-Saxon defenders
  so that he might rework history and spare his
  homeland the indignity and the horror of Norman
  overlordship.
  And this time, the Bastard was getting what he
  deserved!
  This particular game had been going on for about
  three centuries now, moves sent by courier every
  decade or two. The previous game had bogged
  down a bit, as Owain had spent most of the Re-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  52
  naissance in torpor, but not so this time. Owain
  congratulated himself as he surveyed the board.
  The end-game was nearly played out, his black
  forces relentlessly pressing the attack. The white
  king was backed near a corner along with a woe-
  fully misplayed bishop. A lone rook, a sorely pressed
  knight, and a smattering of ineffectual pawns clut-
  tered the center of the board.
  Owain’s pieces were in a far superior situation,
  even lacking both of his knights. Otherwise, one
  bishop and one rook were the only casualties of any
  significance. Owain’s queen whisked around the
  board mercilessly crushing every semblance of re-
  sistance from the damnable Normans. Perhaps
  Harold should have taken his wife into battle, Owain
  mused.
  Surely the end was near. This correspondence
  might just as well contain a final concession as a
  move. Unlikely. Owain’s opponent, he knew, would
  probably struggle on to the end. Futile. And not par-
  ticularly graceful. Owain grinned as he conjured the
  image of driving the Normans, mauled and blood-
  ied, back into the English Channel.
  It would be a shame, really, to end the game. It
  was one of the few diversions that held much in-
  terest for Owain any more. He was fairly ensconced
  within Kindred society, and his financial empire
  more or less ran itself. Occasionally a bit of black-
  mail, corporate espionage, or murder was required,
  
  53
  The Devil's Advocate
  but nothing overly taxing. Generally, one night was
  like the next was like the next.
  That very fear, of anticipation giving way to bore-
  dom, stayed Owain’s hand, kept him from opening
  the cylinder. Even the messenger, that odd Gangrel,
  had proved entertaining. When could Owain again
  expect such an intriguing break from routine? A
  blackness gnawed at him from within. Blacker than
  the pieces on the chess board, blacker than the
  night outside his window. Perhaps it is the call of tor-
  por I hear once again.
  The knock at the study door interrupted Owain’s
  darkening spiral of thought. “Yes, Randal.”
  Owain’s most trusted ghoul stepped into the
  room. “Sir, our…ah…guest, as he were, has de-
  parted, and Ms. Jackson has brought the car
  around.”
  “The car? For…?” Owain was still concentrat-
  ing on the chess board.
  “The art exhibit,” Randal finished his master’s
  sentence.
  “Oh, yes. That,” Owain said absently, again ex-
  amining the ivory case in his hand. “Is that tonight?
  You’re sure?”
  “Yes, sir.”
  “Of course you are. I knew it was tonight. I sup-
  pose a man is due a lapse of memory every century
  or two.”
  “Indeed, sir.”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  54
  “And our dear Prince Benison wouldn’t take
  kindly to being ignored, now would he?” Owain
  sighed and set the tube on the table by the board.
  Now that he was required elsewhere, his curiosity
  about the message was piqued. “Oh, bloody hell.”
  He rose in frustration and started across the room.
  He would need a fresh suit, but first he should shave
  the stubble that began every night as two day’s
  growth and never grew longer.
  Halfway to the door he stopped and turned back
  to the table. “Wouldn’t do to be unfashionably
  early, now would it?” It would be a rare day when
  impatience didn’t win out over duty. Owain settled
  into the seat by the chess board. “Well, Randal,
  let’s see what pitiable defense my esteemed adver-
  sary has put forward.”
  A suddenly claw-like fingernail made short work
  of the seal, and Owain was unrolling the yellowed
  parchment he slid from the tube. As always, there
  was no preamble or greeting; the black script flowed
  smoothly limning the five essential words:
  Rook to King’s Knight five
  and then a sixth:
  Check
  Even close to a millenium of undeath had not
  prepared Owain for that instant. But he recovered
  quickly; only for a moment did his mouth drop
  open before he assumed a more directed response.
  “There must be a mistake.” The words rasped forth
  
  55
  The Devil's Advocate
  from his suddenly parched mouth and throat, but
  there was no mistake.
  Owain had pinned White’s pesky remaining
  knight and within two or three moves would most
  likely have maneuvered the king into checkmate.
  But now this! Not only did the rook place Owain’s
  king into check, the piece’s movement revealed a
  discovered attack from White’s king’s bishop which
  also produced check.
  “But…how?” Owain weakly whispered. There
  was a pawn blocking that diagonal. A white pawn, but
  I don’t remember it moving…. He lowered his face
  into his hand. Owain’s opponent had not, in fact,
  moved that pawn. Harold Godwin’s omnipotent
  queen had whisked it away to Norman hell. That
  was several turns back. Probably…1930.
  The queasiness in Owain’s stomach intensified
  as he studied the board more closely. Not only was
  Owain’s king in check from two attackers, he was
  trapped. He could escape for one turn, but then
  rook to king’s knight eight, protected by the bishop,
  every black piece at least two moves away—check-
  mate.
  “Ahhhhhh!” Owain’s fangs slipped down and his
  claws took shape, so incensed was he.
  “Sir?” Randal, who had quietly eased forward to
  look over his master’s shoulder, jumped backwards,
  nearly knocking a bust of Oliver Cromwell from
  its marble pedestal. As Randal watched from a rela-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  56
  tively safe distance, Owain, his hand quivering with
  rage, moved the white rook from its former posi-
  tion to king’s knight five with a resounding thump
  that threatened to upend the other pieces. Randal,
  an accomplished gamer himself, examined the
  board for a brief moment. “Oh.”
  Owain restrained his urge to take each chess
  piece, one at a time, and rend its head from its body,
  before grinding its disjointed form into bits too
  minute to be recognized. With a supreme act of
  will, he calmly rose from his chair and left the
  room. “I believe I have somewhere to be,” he mut-
  tered through clenched teeth. Randal quietly
  followed behind.
  Grimsdale thought he had lost them when he cut
  back east and then turned south. For close to an
  hour he’d neither seen nor heard any indication
  of pursuit. If he could only make it to the airport,
  to the neutral ground of the Giovanni hangar, and
  then on to Chicago to bargain with Ballard, or
  maybe Capone, whoever offered the best deal.
  But it was becoming sickeningly apparent to
  Grimsdale that, even if he had lost them at some
  point, it hadn’t been for long. Now they were toy-
  ing with him, like cats with an injured bird. The
  coughing street person had reappeared too many
  times for coincidence, and once, as Grimsdale had
  
  57
  The Devil's Advocate
  crouched in the shadows, an inky blackness, colder
  and more dense than the darkest night, had snaked
  toward him. He had not been able to control his
  terror that time and had screamed as he’d fled.
  As he leaned against the back wall of the pawn
  shop, he smoothed down his shirt, more trying to
  still his trembling hands than straighten any
  wrinkle. Grimsdale needed to feed, and badly. This
  night had dragged on and on, a horrible surreal
  dream, never ending or allowing rest.
  He was away from downtown proper now. The
  immense office buildings and highrises had given
  way to smaller shops, restaurants, and convenience
  stores with a liberal mix of boarded up storefronts.
  There were a few more people about in this part of
  the city, but Grimsdale couldn’t concentrate on
  hunting while being so relentlessly hunted himself.
  He closed his eyes for a moment and laughed qui-
  etly, desperation taking firm hold. At one point
  earlier, he had tried to convince himself that he
  was imagining it all, that there was no one after
  him, and he had almost believed it until that all
  too familiar rattling cough had shattered his piti-
  ful little fantasy.
  Grimsdale took a deep breath—to calm himself;
  his body no longer required oxygen. Only blood. I’ll
  loop around, he decided. West, then north and east,
  then a hard dash south. If I have to, I’ll find shelter and
  ride out the day. Make it to the airport tomorrow night.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  58
  He couldn’t let himself give in to panic. Not when
  there was still a chance. All I have to do is make it to
  Chicago, and I’m a made man for the rest of eternity.
  Grimsdale smiled despite the cold that he only felt
  when he had a severe need for blood.
  But this was more than a chill.
  He tried to leave his hiding place, only to find
  that his legs would not obey his wishes. Too late
  he saw the inky blackness, the unnaturally dark
  shadow that was wrapped around his legs and work-
  ing its way up his body. Grimsdale cried out, terror
  again gripping his soul.
  “Don’t go makin’ such a fuss, honey.” An Afri-
  can-American woman, not ten feet away, smiled
  up at him from where she crouched in the shad-
  ows.
  Grimsdale struggled frantically, but the blackness
  held fast, pinning his arms to his torso, constrict-
  ing his chest. From around the edge of the building,
  another figure emmerged, this one wearing a long
  bulky overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat pulled low.
  “Ain’t no use in screamin’ now,” said the black
  woman as the second figure moved closer to
  Grimsdale. His mind raced. Chicago. I’ve got to get
  to Chicago! This can’t happen!
  A thickly accented voice hissed out from be-
  neath the hat, “Can have no screaming,” at the
  same time that a gnarled hand grasped Grimsdale’s
  throat.
  
  59
  The Devil's Advocate
  There was nothing Grimsdale could do as he felt
  his larynx not crushed, but completely reshaped,
  molded into a useless mass of flesh and cartilage
  that protruded from his neck. The pain was of an
  intensity that he had experienced neither in life
  nor in unlife. As he gasped, air whistled through
  the gaping holes in his throat. Indeed, there would
  be no screaming.
  The woman giggled, and the second figure flicked
  off its hat, revealing a monstrously contorted vis-
  age—spikes of flesh and exposed bone protruding
  along a central ridge on its skull; long spear-like
  chin that twisted to the left; lower fangs jutting
  upward piercing jowly skin.
  Grimsdale, now even his head immobilized by
  the cold shadow, closed his eyes, trying to wish
  himself away from this horror. But he was not to
  have that luxury. He felt pressure against his eyes,
  and then his eyelids melted away like hot wax at
  the monster’s touch.
  His lungs nearly burst as, again, he tried to
  scream, but a sick gurgling sound was all he could
  hear. Gurgling…and laughter. The cruel twitter-
  ing of the woman, and from the monster, a raspy
  laughter that could almost be mistaken for cough-
  ing.
  Muscles strained and tore, but Grimsdale was
  unable to force the least bit of movement within
  the confines of the evil black vise. He was com-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  60
  pletely helpless as the monster set to work on his
  face, a mad chortling potter crafting living clay.
  Beneath the consuming agony, Grimsdale wished
  for the end. He was faintly thankful when the
  woman fell upon him, biting deeply into his neck.
  The monster, too, fed at last, sinking its grotesque
  fangs into Grimsdale’s face, ripping away freshly
  deformed chunks of flesh.
  There was a new voice, but Grimsdale could not
  hear it.
  “Save some for your lover, Dietrich.” Francesca’s
  words rolled off her tongue, the very sound of her
  voice enough to drive Dietrich to distraction. He
  stepped away from his current masterpiece and
  pushed away Liza as well. The African-American
  woman hissed, droplets of fresh vitæ spraying from
  her mouth as Grimsdale collapsed to the ground.
  “I don’t believe he’ll be going anywhere now,”
  Francesca observed.
  Dietrich laughed at her words, unable to contain
  himself. He began bouncing where he stood. Liza
  licked her lips and wiped her face with her sleeve,
  watching begrudgingly as Francesca lifted
  Grimsdale and drained the rest of his blood. Even
  Liza had to admit there was a certain style, an in-
  nate sensuality, about this Hispanic woman.
  Watching her lick the mangled body gave Liza
  
  61
  The Devil's Advocate
  goosebumps and set her to fantasizing.
  “Your shadow it hold him good,” said Dietrich.
  “Of course it did,” Francesca responded. Dietrich
  edged closer and guffawed idiotically at her
  acknowledgement of his complement.
  Liza had had enough. “I’d love to stay so we could
  all kiss each others’ asses, but I got places to go.”
  Francesca nodded in her direction. “Your aid was
  invaluable. It will not go unnoticed, I assure you.”
  “Yeah?” It was difficult for Liza to mouth off at
  this woman. “Okay.” As Liza turned to leave, she
  noticed Dietrich’s reptillian tongue stretching out
  and wrapping itself around Francesca’s forearm.
  Walking away, Liza tried to ignore the maniacal
  cackling spilling out from behind the building.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  62
  TWO
  The song called.
  Antwuan made his excuses to his friends and left.
  They weren’t going anywhere. Nobody Antwuan
  knew was going anywhere. Nobody but Antwuan.
  His friends had always ragged on him. Except for
  Little Johnnie, Antwuan was the only one who’d
  stayed out of trouble, “kept his nose clean,” like
  his mama put it. Soon he would be old enough to
  work for his uncle Maurice driving a cab. He was
  going to save some money, buy his own place. The
  ladies would like that. He wasn’t going to spend
  his whole life in Reynoldstown. I seen too many folks
  get shot down, or go crazy on drugs. None of
  Antwuan’s friends really thought they’d live much
  
  63
  The Devil's Advocate
  past thirty, anyhow. None except Little Johnnie,
  and he was just too scared to get himself killed.
  Antwuan liked hanging out with his friends, but
  he didn’t need them every night.
   And it wasn’t every night that the song called.
  The first time Antwuan had gone had been for
  other reasons. Taquanna had hinted that he should
  come, so he’d figured, play his cards right, he might
  get down her pants. Seemed worth a shot. Since
  then, though, there was no question. The song
  called, he was there.
  The old church had always been a part of the
  scenery for Antwuan. It was there, he just didn’t
  mess with it. Nobody messed with it. The place had
  that feel to it, and people stayed away. Not even
  the up and coming gangstas congregated there.
  Hell, Antwuan reasoned, plenty other boarded up
  buildings to trash.
  As he actually went all the way to the church
  itself for only the fourth time in his life, he no-
  ticed that the building was not in that bad a shape,
  all things considered. The little dingy white paint
  that was left was peeling from the bowed, gray
  wooden planks. The steeple, mostly collapsed,
  stood precariously above partially intact, soot-cov-
  ered stained glass that peeked out between the
  boards over the windows. Could have been worse.
  Again as he approached, Antwuan heard the
  notes that floated through the night and sum-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  64
  moned him. He had never heard the song before
  that first time, but now he heard it every time, no
  matter where he was. This past summer he’d been
  down at a Braves’ game, and even over the miles,
  the traffic, and the crowds he’d heard it and hopped
  on MARTA and gotten back as quickly as he could.
  There was no one else around as he walked up
  the cracked sidewalk into the shadows surround-
  ing the church. But there would be others, he knew.
  The song would reach out to those who were aware,
  and many would come. Antwuan was glad he lived
  so close and could almost always make it. He
  reached for the door, the lofty, lilting notes pull-
  ing him more forcefully now. It was a prelude, as
  his mama called it when she made him go to their
  church, only this music was far more alluring than
  any church prelude, and the service was nothing
  he would expect from Preacher Rutherford.
  Antwuan chuckled at the thought, but immedi-
  ately fell silent as he entered.
  She stood at the front of the sanctuary before the
  toppled, graffiti-carven pulpit—the pale angel. Her
  skin was white as ivory, made more noticeably so
  by the dark black hair and straight bangs that
  framed her thin face, now lifted toward the heav-
  ens, eyes closed, lips slightly parted to allow forth
  the most enticing sound heard to man.
  Antwuan walked slowly past broken pews, each
  step on the faded and torn, moldy red carpet tak-
  
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  ing him closer to paradise. Others were already
  there: two older black men, a short middle-aged
  Korean woman who was always present, and a
  younger white woman who looked a bit too well-
  off to live nearby. Antwuan kneeled with the others
  at the pale bare feet of the angel, only a few feet
  from the hem of her layered white gown.
  Her voice brought them to her, held them there,
  not that they would want to tear themselves away.
  Antwuan closed his eyes, let the music ease his
  mind, carrying away thoughts of trouble, of his
  mama pestering him to get a job now instead of
  waiting till he was old enough to work for his uncle,
  of the long empty days since he’d dropped out of
  school, of wondering if the gunshots he heard at
  night would kill a member of his family or one of
  his friends. The daily concerns were washed away,
  replaced by soothing music, the closest thing to
  true contentment that he’d ever experienced.
  But even this contentment was not complete. At
  its heart was a tiny ache, the seed of desire, a ris-
  ing need. The music did not erase this need, did
  not carry it away, but rather caressed it, cared for
  it.
  Now the music changed, shifted indescribably.
  Antwuan knew that if he opened his eyes he would
  see the others around him, ten or fifteen of them.
  He felt the familiar presence of Taquanna beside
  him, her shoulder inches from his. The angel still
  
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  sang above them; her music reminded Antwuan of
  a song his grandmother used to sing to him as a
  little boy, but he couldn’t quite fully summon the
  tune to memory. Besides, that would only distract
  him from the pleasure at hand.
  Slowly the song began to intensify. The easy
  soothing timbre grew stronger as, parallel, the faint-
  est undertone of urgency was introduced. The ache
  within Antwuan intensified as well, the seed put-
  ting down roots, sprouting, budding, flowering. His
  desire rose with the song, every need—love, accep-
  tance, security—combined in one irrepressible
  exigency to be fulfilled here without fail.
  God’s merciful angel. Tears were running down
  Antwuan’s cheeks, joyful tears for a revelation he
  could never hope to find elsewhere. He was danc-
  ing. They all danced, whirling around, drunk
  amidst the euphoria, absorbing salvation. Partner
  to partner, man, woman, black, white, old, young.
  He touched in friendship those he would never
  even acknowledge on the street in everyday life.
  Still the music rose. In strength, in pitch, in vol-
  ume. The urgency tore at his chest, a longing not
  to be denied. A rhythm took hold of him, dragged
  him to see his innermost self, stripped naked, vul-
  nerable. The angel’s sweet vibrato called to him to
  be true to himself, his desire, his needs.
  The pounding in his ears was deafening. His
  heart raced to keep time with the song. Always
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  there was the song, calling, pounding, spinning.
  Taquanna’s breast rubbed against his shoulder.
  His need found direction in her nakedness, her rich
  brown skin. They touched, caressed, the interlaced
  harmonies of the song pulling them together.
  They lay in the grass. Taquanna’s delicious scent
  surrounded him. All over, she held him. Hands.
  Loving. Needing. Desiring. He buried himself be-
  tween her breasts, drank her in, felt her taut arched
  body, wanting him. She grasped him. Hands all
  over. The sun warmed him, almost burning, but the
  pain only heightened their desire, strengthened
  their need.
  He felt her beneath him. Above him. Arms and
  hands erupted from the moist earth all about, strok-
  ing, caressing. She cried out, or was he crying out?
  The music.
  Song.
  Swirling ecstacy.
  Crescendo.
  Consuming bliss.
  Antwuan, warm, near joyous tears, stumbled out
  of the old church near dawn. His legs nearly failed
  him as he stepped off the curb. At home, he col-
  lapsed into bed and slept very late into the day.
  
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  THREE
  Liza took a detour through Piedmont Park. She
  loved the freedom of walking the city at night by
  herself, something she couldn’t do as a mortal. Not
  only did she revel in her newfound powers, she al-
  ways looked for a chance to show them off, to
  convince herself they were real more than to im-
  press anyone else. Liza don’t need nobody else, she
  told herself quite often. She hoped somebody would
  give her trouble, wished that some thinks-he’s-
  tough asshole would try to mug her, or better yet,
  to rape her. She’d leave him with his dick stuffed
  down his throat.
  I bet ol’ Dietrich give Francesca a big hard one, Liza
  mused. Probably got spikes just like on his head.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  Strangely enough, it was Francesca that intrigued
  Liza more. The way she rrrolls her rrrrs. The very
  thought gave Liza shivers. Maybe the two women
  would meet again, without Dietrich. The freak.
  Who knew when another Sabbat mission might
  bring them together again? The team had worked
  well enough: Liza, the Atlanta native, guiding;
  Dietrich helping herd their prey; Francesca giving
  the orders and immobilizing old what’s-his-name
  at the end.
  To Liza’s disappointment, it was a slow night in
  Piedmont Park. After about forty-five minutes
  completely unmolested—not even a nibble—she
  headed toward the High Museum of Art and Prince
  Benison’s exhibit.
  The prince’s ghouls, Byron and Vermeil, one
  white, one black, both silent as the grave, guarded
  the door at the top of the long ramp. This was ob-
  viously a private show at which mortals were not
  welcome. The Camarilla, the vampire sect that
  controlled Atlanta, claimed every vampire as a
  member. So Liza, as an Atlanta Kindred, was au-
  tomatically invited, even if Benison didn’t really
  want her there. Technically, she was an anarch, a
  rebel who didn’t acknowledge the strictures of the
  Camarilla, at least not all of them. But since the
  Camarilla claimed her, there was plenty of gray area
  to use as she saw fit. Liza liked gray area. Gray area
  meant freedom. Although if Benison, or any of the
  
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  other Atlanta Kindred for that matter, found out
  about her Sabbat connections, that would be the
  end of freedom, not to mention her life. She’d be
  staked, or beheaded, or left out for the sun, or all
  three.
  Liza strode past the ghouls who held the door for
  her. “Hey, Vermeil,” she said, “how you like bein’
  Benison’s boy? He that good to you?” The ghouls
  ingnored her. They locked the door and resumed
  their watch. “You boys let me know you get tired
  of his shit. I show you a good time.”
  Another woman, probably a ghoul as well,
  showed Liza across the lobby—open to a dizzying
  height, ringed by a descending ramp—to the el-
  evator. Like I couldn’t find the elevator myself.
  When the elevator stopped, the doors opened
  revealing a world that Liza despised—the prince’s
  court, prim and proper Kindred acting oh-so-so-
  phisticated, sipping vitæ, and attempting to
  comment insightfully on the artwork. The only rea-
  son worth coming was to remind herself how much
  she hated them, to laugh at them in their hollow
  arrogance.
  Occasionally, Benison had midnight prayer
  breakfasts at Rhodes Hall, his mansion just a bit
  down Peachtree Street. Liza avoided those like the
  plague. No way was she going to go listen to the
  crazy Malkavian prince spout scripture, pretending
  that God still cared about the Damned. Liza the
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  anarch had that freedom. She could skip out on
  any gathering she felt like. Not so for these other
  Kindred. Stupid bastards. Prince Benison frowned
  on subjects missing his courtly functions. That was
  another reason to attend this relatively painless
  exhibit: to rub it in the others’ faces that she didn’t
  have to be there.
  And they were all there all right, Liza noticed:
  Eleanor, the prince’s snobby bitch wife wearing her
  poofy Gone With the Wind dress; Benjamin and
  Thelonious, resident legal eagle and Mr. Civil
  Rights, brothers who bought into the white folks’
  world; Owain Evans, the youthful and good-look-
  ing but boring-ass businessman; Hannah, the local
  Tremere grand wizard or whatever; Marlene, artist
  wannabe, porn queen more likely.
  There were others too, but Liza was distracted
  by the sight of Alex Horndiller, Benison’s right-
  hand ghoul, leading two young men, mortals,
  toward the center of the gallery. She strutted over
  to them, her black tights drawing quite a few stares
  amidst the formal evening wear crowd. She slapped
  the ghoul on the shoulder, hard enough that he al-
  most stumbled. “Corndicker, what you got for me?”
  Without another word, Liza took the forearm of
  the first young man, tall, blond, maybe in his early
  twenties, and sank her teeth in.
  He flinched only slightly; the collective gasp that
  arose was from the onlookers. Liza tried not to
  
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  laugh—she hated when blood ran out her nose—
  but it was so like the courtly Kindred to be
  shocked…like she knew they would be. The two
  men were the refreshments for the evening, com-
  mon vessels, but of course the prince should have
  enjoyed the ceremonious first sip.
  Liza wasn’t hungry, not after feeding on that vam-
  pire sap with Francesca and the Elephant Man, but
  this was almost as much fun as ripping apart mug-
  gers in the park would have been. She let go of
  the first man and grinned at the irate Horndiller,
  red splotches forming on his face. “Not bad,” she
  said as she winked and pinched the blond vessel’s
  ass. “And I like the Dixie cup.”
  Before Horndiller could form his indignant
  sputterings into words, Liza sank her teeth into the
  second man, stockier and more darkly complected
  than his counterpart. She had drunk only a little
  when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Corndicker’s
  got more balls than I…but before she could finish
  the thought, she was spun roughly around, and to
  her shock, it was not Horndiller who held her. In-
  stead, it was J. Benison Hodge, prince of Atlanta.
  Liza stumbled backward in surprise, but the
  prince’s iron grip held her upright, his fingers press-
  ing down to the bone of her shoulder. He towered
  above her, his massive dark red beard inches from
  her face, his green eyes ablaze with more anger than
  Liza had ever seen in them. She tried to speak but
  
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  could only wince at the pain as he squeezed her
  shoulder more tightly.
  The prince spoke in a low, throaty growl. “I of-
  fer hospitality, and you mock it.” The words were
  meant for her, but Hodge’s forceful baritone easily
  carried across the chamber to the onlooking Kin-
  dred, about whom Liza had very nearly forgotten.
  The prince released her shoulder and quickly
  drew back his hand to strike her backhanded across
  the face…but he stopped, spotless white glove
  raised, arm trembling with rage. His stiffened jaw
  forced his beard forward. “I will not tolerate this.”
  Liza could do nothing but cringe at this awesome
  display of barely controlled ferocity. One swipe of
  his gloved fist would likely crush every bone in her
  face. She suddenly felt very young and weak and
  small confronted with this force of nature that was
  the prince.
  Benison took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.
  Just as slowly, he lowered his arm. Not for one mo-
  ment did his severe gaze release Liza from scrutiny.
  “For one year and one night, I do not want to see
  you, I do not want to so much as hear report of
  your name.” A savage, psychotic glint flashed across
  the prince’s fiery green eyes, as if he wanted to end
  it now, as if he wanted nothing more than to strike
  her down this instant for her affront to his honor,
  but the brief wavering passed, and though his wrath
  was undiminished, restraint held the day. “If I do,
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  you will find final death.” The prince turned his
  back to her. “Begone.”
  It took Liza a second to realize that she had not
  been struck down, that he had not snapped her
  neck as surely he could have. She swallowed her
  wounded pride and slunk away.
  Owain probably had never been to a courtly
  function in a fouler mood. Three hundred years of
  strategy and planning abruptly catapulted to hell, he
  kept telling himself. It was not a misfortune he
  could lightly set aside and forget. How? How could
  it happen? Overconfidence? Carelessness?
  The art exhibit was hardly a sufficient distrac-
  tion. At least it’s not one of those damnable prayer
  breakfasts. Prince Benison, through his contacts on
  the board of the High Museum, had commandeered
  this gallery to show the artwork of one of the At-
  lanta Kindred, Marlene. Marlene fancied herself
  something of a sculptor, and though she was To-
  reador, Owain did not feel that the term “art”
  accurately described her accomplishments. Appar-
  ently ceramics or clay were too subtle media;
  Marlene had taken to welding together various
  shapes and sizes of scrap metal and then attaching
  somewhat grandiose titles to the resulting mon-
  strosities. What her work lacked in vision it
  certainly made up in magnitude. No mantlepiece
  
  75
  The Devil's Advocate
  collectibles in this portfolio.
  As usual at these functions, Owain attempted to
  stay out of the way. There was much more to be
  learned from watching and listening than from tak-
  ing a lead in most endeavors, a fact that Owain
  had learned well over his centuries of vampiric ex-
  istence. And one that anarch rabble would do well to
  learn, Owain thought as Liza was shown the door.
  Her little outburst had been entertaining. Owain
  had to admit that, although he had been quite
  guarded in not displaying his amusement at the
  spectacle. She won’t live long confronting a prince that
  way. Owain was surprised by her brazen reckless-
  ness, her stupidity. There are more efficient ways to
  undermine a princes’ position, subtler ways, safer ways.
  Owain could only wonder if the prince’s treatment
  of her might have been more irreversibly detrimen-
  tal had she had time to actually insult the
  “artwork.”
  At the time of Liza’s little scene, Owain had been
  standing to a side of the room, near the Tremere
  chantry leader, reclusive Hannah. He was close
  enough that most passersby, assuming that he and
  Hannah were merely pausing in conversation, con-
  tinued on without disturbing him, but not so close
  that he actually had to speak to the Tremere.
  Owain suspected that Hannah appreciated the ar-
  rangement as well, she not being one of the more
  socially ambitious Kindred in the city. For the most
  
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  part, the only people who expressed more than the
  most passing of interests in speaking to Hannah
  were her Tremere lessers from the chantry. Several
  attempted to toady but quickly retreated having
  received nothing but coldly polite and formal re-
  sponses.
  Owain also noticed that Chantry Mistress
  Hannah’s reaction to the anarch-prince confronta-
  tion was as muted as his own, only a slight wrinkling
  of her nose indicating her distaste. Owain himself
  was not a stickler for manners. Over the years he
  had come to see their value as a stabilizing factor in
  both mortal and Kindred affairs. He was not of-
  fended by the “affront to the prince’s honor.” Rather
  he was dismayed by the anarch’s idiocy.
  Owain shook his head thinking of her misguided
  actions. She wanted to embarrass him, to damage his
  reputation. But Hodge came out looking stronger than
  ever, and now she’s banished for a year and a night.
  Owain laughed to himself. A nice touch that—a year
  and a night. Hodge does have a flair for the dramatic.
  The duration of the punishment was a clear echo
  of the length of Arthurian quests—a year and a day.
  Owain was particularly enamored with the legends,
  as many of the earliest were of Welsh origin. It was
  clear to Owain that the prince saw himself as some
  type of crusading knight, protector of moral forti-
  tude. It fit all too perfectly with the prince’s other
  derangements.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  No, Owain was not offended by Liza’s little show,
  unlike many of the other gathered Kindred who
  bought so completely into the aura of southern gen-
  tility that Hodge, his wife Eleanor, and his sire
  Aunt Bedelia so convincingly affected. To Owain
  etiquette was a means, not an end unto itself. It
  was sometimes the only keeper of civility between
  enemies, and more importantly it was a veil behind
  which to work deceit.
  That line of thought reminded Owain that there
  was business to be conducted this evening. Mostly
  he was biding his time, making sure to stay long
  enough not to insult the prince, but not so long as
  to seem to be attempting to ingratiate himself. Al-
  most no vampire, Owain felt, was worth the time
  of a social engagement, and very few mortals or
  ghouls. But if he had to be here, he might as well
  get something accomplished. He scanned the room
  until he saw Benjamin, a fellow Ventrue but hardly
  a friend. As he moved to leave his safe haven near
  Hannah, however, Owain nearly stumbled over
  Aunt Bedelia in her antique wheelchair being ush-
  ered around the gallery by her childe the prince.
  “Goodness, J. Benison. Someone has stepped on
  me,” Aunt Bedelia chittered shrilly. “Who is that?”
  She squinted up through her half-moon spectacles
  in Owain’s general direction. Her heavy wool dress
  swallowed her frail form.
  “My apologies, Mother,” muttered the prince,
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  78
  gracious and mild-mannered now that civility was
  restored to the gathering. “This is Owain Evans.”
  Owain smiled dutifully.
  “Never heard of him.”
  “Of course you have, Mother,” Benison patiently
  reminded her. “He came from Europe during the
  Great War. He’s from Wales originally. He…”
  “Never heard of him,” Bedelia snapped, testily
  this time.
  The prince lowered his head and sighed. “Of
  course you haven’t, mother. Mother, I present to
  you Owain Evans, Ventrue of King Road, Atlanta.
  Mr. Evans, my sire Aunt Bedelia.”
  Bedelia held her left hand before her. Owain,
  standing to her right, glanced at the prince who
  was watching him expectantly, so he stepped
  around her, delicately took her hand, and kissed
  it. “The pleasure is all mine, Aunt Bedelia.”
  “Charmed, I’m sure.” Bedelia smiled sweetly,
  quite content now that she had been paid the
  proper respect; so content, in fact, that she had
  apparently fallen instantly asleep, her eyes closed
  now instead of squinted. She began to snore qui-
  etly.
  Benison was smiling broadly. “Always good to see
  you, Owain. Mother and I couldn’t be happier that
  you made it this evening. Enjoying the artwork?”
  Before Owain could answer, the prince glanced off
  to his left. “No, I don’t think we need to send any-
  
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  one to follow her,” he said, answering a question
  that no one had asked. Then, without missing a
  beat, he was smiling at Owain again.
  Owain hesitated. This peculiar behavior was
  nothing new for Benison.
  The prince waited a moment. “The artwork?” he
  asked again.
  “Oh yes,” Owain assured him. “I’ve seen noth-
  ing like it elsewhere.”
  Benison cuffed Owain on the shoulder and
  laughed heartily. “Good, good. Of course you
  haven’t. Our little Marlene is quite the artist.”
  “She is something,” Owain agreed. He wondered
  what else Marlene was to the prince that she should
  merit such patronage. Owain had it on good au-
  thority that the prince’s wife was no paragon of
  fidelity. Perhaps the indiscretion was reciprocated.
  Though few vampires retained any type of sexual
  desire, there were always other…displays of affec-
  tion that a spouse might guard jealously.
  “Well, Mother and I must attend the other
  guests,” said the prince. “Always good to see you,
  Owain. Enjoy the exhibit.” At this, Bedelia perked
  up. Her gentle snoring ceased abruptly as she
  blinked herself awake. She squinted up at Owain
  as if she had just asked him a question and was ex-
  pecting an answer.
  Owain, nodding respectfully at the prince, saw
  that Bedelia was still watching him expectantly. “A
  
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  80
  pleasure to see you, madame,” he offered.
  She continued staring at him, as if oblivious to
  his statement. “Have we met, young man?”
  Benison broke in quickly, “Well, Mother, here’s
  your favorite bridge partner, Hannah,” as he
  wheeled her away.
  “J. Benison, why didn’t you introduce us?”
  Bedelia was asking, but the prince continued on
  their way, greeting Hannah with great enthusiasm
  and seeming not to hear the protestations of his
  sire.
  Owain gratefully slipped away. He always had
  gotten on fairly well with the prince. Both were
  warriors and, even though their wars were of dif-
  ferent eras, there was a certain camaraderie in that.
  Aunt Bedelia was a different matter. Owain was
  sure her “forgetfulness” was merely an intended
  slight, a game meant to lessen him somehow. He
  shrugged off the encounter. Let the old hag pretend
  she doesn’t know me. I’d rather continue advising the
  prince than have her approval. Now where has Ben-
  jamin gotten to? Must have slipped into a side gallery.
  Owain cut across the center of the main gallery.
  He nodded politely to the younger Kindred whose
  actions he took pains to keep abreast of through
  his network of spies, but to whom he did not deign
  to speak socially. He also skirted the main work of
  the exhibit, a behemoth of a piece consisting of
  three major chunks of curved and twisted metal
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  with numerous smaller additions, suspended in its
  entirity from the ceiling by chains. It was a work
  Marlene had crafted several years ago titled
  “Benison’s Ride,” in honor of the prince’s purging
  of the Atlanta area of those anarchs and caitiffs
  who had not paid him the respect of announcing
  their presence to the court. Benison was quite fond
  of the piece and arranged for public viewings peri-
  odically for the edification of the Kindred in his
  domain.
  A vociferous Brujah had surmised that the sculp-
  ture was actually a representation of a whale
  spewing forth a Volkswagon. The prince felt oth-
  erwise. That particular Brujah no longer resided in
  Atlanta. Other colorful yet more discreet specula-
  tions had included but not been limited to: a
  severely disfigured head wearing a propeller hat,
  three falcons fornicating, and a ballet dancer en-
  gaged in projectile vomiting. At the original
  unveiling, Owain had limited his response to po-
  lite applause.
  The thought of Benison’s intolerance of visitors
  failing to present themselves to the court reminded
  Owain of his guest earlier that evening. Owain
  seemed vaguely to recall that the Gangrel had been
  in the city before, and if so he would certainly be
  aware of the prince’s proclivities.
  Thinking of the messenger unfortunately dredged
  up the painfully fresh sting of the message. Owain
  
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  dug his involuntarily formed claws into the flesh
  of his palms. If he finished with business, he could
  return home and examine the board in more depth.
  Perhaps all is not lost, he told himself, not really be-
  lieving it.
  The gallery was quite crowded now as even the
  latest arrivals made their appearances. Owain edged
  into one of the side galleries and found the man
  with whom he needed to speak. Benjamin, an Af-
  rican-American dandy with his impeccable Brooks
  Brothers suit, tidy short-cropped hair, and wire-
  rimmed glasses, was relatively young in his undeath
  but there was power in his blood. Next to the
  prince’s wife Eleanor, he was ostensibly the most
  influential Ventrue in Atlanta. Owain tended to
  keep his distance from clan politics; he’d been there
  too many times before. The fewer everyday en-
  tanglements the better, he felt. Both Benjamin and
  Eleanor, however, held this detachment against
  Owain and regarded him with suspicion. If they
  only knew how much older and more powerful he
  was than they, they would fear him as well.
  “Benjamin, we must speak,” Owain said as he
  approached. A young female, whose name escaped
  Owain at the moment, edged away from Benjamin
  with only a glare at Owain, a grudging display of
  deference to the elder.
  Benjamin frowned, the expression causing his
  glasses to slide down his nose. “Yes, Owain, how
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  may I be of service?” he asked in a cool formal tone.
  Benjamin’s slight but noticable English accent al-
  ways amused Owain. True, the young lawyer had
  studied for several years at Oxford, but after more
  than fifteen years back in the States such an ac-
  quired accent would normally have faded. Unless,
  of course, the bearer consciously chose to maintain
  it as an affectation, a vanity. Owain, after living in
  Wales, London, France, Spain, and now Atlanta,
  had studied language and made a concerted effort
  to acquire an almost accentless English that raised
  no eyebrows. Speech patterns could give all too
  much away about a person. Even his current name,
  “Owain Evans,” was a concession to the need to
  remain unobtrusive and seemed choppy and harsh
  in comparison to his original “Owain ap Ieuan.”
  “Owain?” Benjamin’s voice snapped Owain out
  of his woolgathering, a bad habit and one he’d been
  succumbing to increasingly of late. “How may I
  help you?”
  Owain edged closer to his fellow Ventrue and
  spoke in a low voice that would not be overheard
  by the other Kindred milling about. “I need a fa-
  vor, a simple thing really.” Benjamin regarded
  Owain skeptically but said nothing. “There is a cer-
  tain case,” Owain continued, “that will be heard
  this week by Justice Chamberlain of the Superior
  Court. You know Justice Chamberlain?”
  Benjamin shrugged noncommittally as he pushed
  
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  his glasses back up. “He’s an acquaintance.”
  “Ah. How fortunate. You see, this particular case
  involves a zoning dispute. Mercator Manufactur-
  ing has bought property near downtown with the
  intention of constructing a regional distribution
  center. Unfortunately, certain rather reactionary
  individuals, most notably the Citizens Empower-
  ment Union, have taken it into their heads that
  such a project would not be a desirable addition to
  the area. Never mind the jobs it would bring. Never
  mind the investment in surrounding neighbor-
  hoods….”
  “Never mind,” Benjamin interrupted, unable to
  hold his tongue any longer, “that the jobs would
  be non-union minimum wage, or that the people
  would be working for an international corporation
  with a history of closing shop when standards of
  living rise to a point where workers demand raises,
  then relocating to centers of cheap foreign labor.”
  “Regardless…” Owain waved away Benjamin’s
  protestations. “I’m not here to debate business phi-
  losophy. When the virtuous Fulton County
  Commission approved the rezoning proposal to al-
  low Mercator to build, CEU filed suit to invalidate
  the changes. Now, remember your acquaintance Jus-
  tice Chamberlain? This week when Chamberlain
  hears the case, he needs to approve the rezoning.
  Isn’t that simple?”
  Benjamin looked at Owain incredulously. “You
  
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  must be joking.” He laughed. “Mercator is a slash
  and burn company. They don’t care anything about
  those neighborhoods except for profit margin.”
  Benjamin set down his drink as he gained momen-
  tum, animated gestures punctuating his points.
  “What the people of southwest Atlanta need is fi-
  nancing to begin their own businesses. They need
  ownership, not indentured servitude. We’ve come
  too far to crawl back into slavery, economic or oth-
  erwise.”
  The two men faced each other in silence for a
  moment. Around them, the crowd was beginning
  to thin a bit, but still Kindred hobnobbed, paid re-
  spects to Prince Benison, and refreshed themselves
  sipping from the two vessels that Alex Horndiller
  escorted as they became less stable on their feet
  from loss of blood.
  Owain smiled contemptuously. He wearied of
  these games. “I’m not asking for your opinion on
  the subject, Benjamin.”
  Benjamin was taken aback by this, half offended,
  half bemused. “Then why in hell would I help you?”
  Owain leaned even closer until he was virtually
  whispering in his rival’s ear. “Because I know what
  there is between you and Eleanor, and we both
  know how the prince would be liable to respond if
  he were to find out somehow. He loves Eleanor too
  deeply to harm her, but you…? I don’t think he
  would exercise such restraint in dealing with you.”
  
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  86
  A polite smile masked the venom of Owain’s words
  to any who might be watching.
  Owain stepped back. Benjamin could not hide
  his dismay, his shock, his fear. His every muscle was
  taut; his glasses slid down his nose again.
  “Now that I think of it,” Owain went on, “not
  only will Chamberlain uphold the rezoning, but the
  Georgia Supreme Court will refuse to hear the ap-
  peal.” He winked at the still speechless Benjamin.
  “I’ll be in touch.”
  Owain turned and left the side gallery laughing
  to himself at the expression on young Benjamin’s
  face. That should teach him some respect for his el-
  ders. Just as Owain entered the main gallery, a
  cacophony of gasps, exclamations, and laughter
  errupted. Owain saw why instantly.
  Atop “Benison’s Ride” perched Albert, the wiry,
  bearded Malkavian known to all Kindred in At-
  lanta. Completely naked. “On, Dasher! On,
  Dancer!” He rocked back and forth, in his own way
  reenacting the prince’s heroic ride as the massive
  metal sculpture wobbled precariously beneath him.
  Marlene, the self-proclaimed artist, had fainted
  dead away. The prince, doting over Aunt Bedelia
  at the other end of the gallery, his back turned, was
  quite oblivious to the evening’s second spectacle
  behind him.
  That was as much as Owain cared to see. He
  nonchalantly eased around the room—the oppo-
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  site end from the prince—toward the elevator. Sev-
  eral Kindred were ordering Albert to dismount, but
  they were unwilling to risk breaking the sculpture
  by pulling him from his seat.
  As the elevator doors closed behind Owain, he
  could hear Albert singing, “Rollin’ rollin’ rollin,
  keep them dogs a-rollin’!” at the top of his lungs,
  the sculpted representation of the prince towering
  upward between his hairy legs like a giant scrap
  metal phallus.
  And then dead silence. Owain could picture the
  prince turning around.
  “Albert!”
  
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  88
  FOUR
  Nicholas leaned against the tree. He squeezed his
  eyes shut tightly, trying to clear his vision. Some-
  thing was wrong.
  Earlier, he had lost track of time. He had been
  so relieved to get out of Evans’ mansion that he
  had given into his instincts to roam and explore.
  Atlanta was a very green city. Even with such a
  stifling concentration of kine, much vegetation had
  been spared, and not just obscenely manicured
  lawns that stank of fertilizer to Nicholas. There
  were numerous pockets of growth—copses of wild
  bushes, brambles, and the ever-present kudzu. Freed
  from enclosed spaces, Nicholas had run and sniffed
  and gloried in his freedom. Before long, he had be-
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  gun to feel better, to relax. But even in this city,
  with its merciful abundance of trees, he didn’t un-
  derstand how Kindred could stand it, how they
  could remain cooped up with the kine and the cars
  and the airplanes and the buildings and the con-
  crete and the asphalt and the wires…
  Eventually, Nicholas had remembered that he
  needed to present himself to Prince Benison. It was
  not the Gangrel’s first time in Atlanta, and he
  knew the prince to be touchy regarding such for-
  malities. Nicholas had made his way through the
  earliest hours of the morning to Rhodes Hall, the
  prince’s main residence, only to be directed by a
  servant to the museum.
  At least if Nicholas had to be indoors again, the
  museum was open and airy. He had opted to walk
  up the spiral ramp rather than trap himself within
  the tiny box-like elevator, only to arrive at the
  worst possible time. Some Malkavian, who had
  taken leave of his clothes as well as his senses and
  run amok throughout the exhibit, was being
  dragged away as Nicholas arrived. Prince Benison
  had not been in a pleasant mood and had barely
  acknowledged Nicholas before stomping off, driv-
  ing his protesting sire’s wheelchair roughly before
  him.
  At least Nicholas had not had to stay long. A
  brief draught of refreshment, observing the proper
  forms, and he had been on his way. But just when
  
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  90
  Nicholas had fulfilled his responsibilities and was
  free to explore more adequately, his present prob-
  lem had begun.
  Sudden violent attacks of vertigo had left him
  disoriented and wandering blindly throughout the
  city. Twice, he had barely escaped being run down
  by kine in their automobiles in such a bloody hurry
  to get somewhere.
  The dizziness was not only continuing, but grow-
  ing more severe. For the first time in his unlife,
  Nicholas felt nauseated, though if he were sick, it
  would be blood that splattered all over the ground.
  He had stumbled to one of the several parks in the
  city, but could go no farther. The tree that sup-
  ported him—red oak, he could tell through his
  fingertips, though his eyes were still closed—was
  small comfort. He felt as if his blood were boiling
  within him; blood, the only fluid available for
  sweat, ran down his side.
  The tree trunk was gone. He was staring at the
  sky and the stars through the upper branches. He
  didn’t remember opening his eyes, or falling to the
  ground.
  More vertigo.
  Dislocation.
  And Nicholas was no longer in his own body.
  Nicholas was not Nicholas. He was Jebediah
  Roney, childe of Pierre Beauvais. Sire of Nicholas.
  The stars did indeed shine brightly. Pockets of
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  snow were visible among the gray boulders of the
  night-time mountains. He was well above the tree-
  line of firs and aspen.
  The brief spell of dizziness receded. Almost im-
  mediately, Jebediah forgot it. More pressing
  concerns demanded his attention. He was in wolf
  form. The mountain lion he had tracked from the
  pass was in sight. A mountain lion was not nor-
  mal prey for a wolf, but Jebediah loved a challenge.
  Downwind, he crept forward. Slowly. Silently. He
  was about to revert to his more human form, bet-
  ter suited for springing upon his prey—wolves, after
  all, were more efficient as pack hunters—when the
  mountain lion cocked its head. It had heard or
  smelled something, something other than Jebediah.
  Mountain lions didn’t easily spook, but this one was
  gone in a flash, winding around boulders and
  through crevices. It might as well have never stood
  on that hillside.
  Jebediah did not pursue. He was more intrigued
  by whatever had scared the animal. But when he
  heard the first howl, his curiosity turned cold in
  his breast.
  Lupines.
  Answering howls followed: four, five, maybe more.
  Sometimes the Garou shapechangers were willing
  to talk rather than kill, but Jebediah wasn’t about
  to bet his life on the possibility. He quickly followed
  a route similar to that of the mountain lion.
  
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  92
  He soon realized that the lupines were not in-
  terested in the lion. The howls were closer. There
  were at least five. He was sure of that. There were
  stories of Gangrel in wolf form mixing with lupines
  unnoticed, but, again, Jebediah was unwilling to
  risk discovery. The battle calls of lupines were too
  insistent, too impassioned. This was no ordinary
  hunt.
  They were practically on him now. Growls and
  snarls mixed with the howls. Jebediah ducked into
  a cave. He would have preferred something smaller
  but didn’t have time to pick and choose.
  As he melded with the earth, becoming one with
  the cave floor, large shapes at the entrance blotted
  out the moonlight. Howling echoed around him.
  Nicholas burned. He wasn’t sure where he was,
  but the pain was a certainty. He was half-melded
  into the earth, a large oak standing above him, and
  the sun poking above the horizon. A thin film of blood
  covered Nicholas. It oozed from his every pore and
  sizzled in the morning light.
  Quickly he sunk completely down into the soil,
  and as the saving comfort of the earth took him
  in, he imagined howls of rage above him.
  The grimy smokestacks of the Pankow district
  always brought out the metaphoric bent in Gisela.
  The thick billowing smoke and acrid fumes con-
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  tinuously belching forth and the greasy film of soot
  left unprejudicially covering all within miles made
  her smile. She was such an all-pervasive force, a fac-
  tor that held sway over all within her reach. Or at
  least she would be, and soon. Himmler had as much
  as promised her.
  Hunting had been good. She had come across a
  fat strudel of a man who had smiled at her bulging
  chest and blonde hair. With a brutal kiss, she had
  ripped the smile from his face and spit his lips to
  the ground. The bloated ox.
  Even after draining him and stuffing his carcass
  down the sewer, Gisela had still hungered. She was
  a healthy girl, not one of those delicate western
  flowers whom she could break like…she reached
  over and effortlessly snapped the antenna from a
  nearby parked car.
  Gisela’s companion for the latter part of the
  evening, Frank Litzpar, needed no encouragement
  to join her seemingly random act of vandalism.
  “Ja!” He set to stomping the front fender with his
  jackboots, and when that was mauled to his satis-
  faction, he began tearing at a hubcap.
  Gisela sighed. He was in fine form, her little
  übermensch, as opposed to the rather grotesque vis-
  age he held when he didn’t feel like hiding it. Frank
  had found Gisela tonight shortly after she had rid
  the world of the strudel man, and they had relaxed
  by hunting down a puny anarch who had foolishly
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  94
  been cool to Frank’s overtures to join the Sabbat
  several nights ago. She and Frank had drunk to-
  gether of the anarch after she had twisted his head
  most of the way around.
  Frank, ripping off his third hubcap, used it to
  smash the windshield.
  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Gisela clicked. “I hope he is in-
  sured.”
  Frank turned toward the nearby housing com-
  plex. Some tenants peeked from behind shades;
  most were more careful, knew better than to get
  involved. “Let the Turk-loving bastard call the po-
  lice!” he roared. “Let him tell me he is angry! I
  would like to see some pig Pakistani stand up to a
  real German!”
  Gisela contentedly drew in a breath and smelled
  deeply the factory fumes. Let the Westerners try to
  tidy up Pankow, she thought. It will take them gen-
  erations, and by then I will be tired of it anyway. Or
  maybe she would stop the high and mighty West-
  erners. Herr Himmler had said she held boundless
  potential. A girl of her talents could go far in the
  Sabbat.
  But that was for another day, although certainly
  not too distant in the future. Other matters loomed
  now. “Frank, dearest, you must come meet my
  houseguest.”
  “What houseguest is that?” Frank stepped away
  from the car; there was not enough left to hold his
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  interest. “You do not tell me you have another fa-
  vorite, just to drive me crazy?”
  Gisela smiled at his flattery. “Of course I have
  no other favorite. And if I did, no, I would not tell
  you.”
  They returned through the wonderfully smoky
  Berlin night to Gisela’s basement haven beneath
  a fire-gutted apartment building. Her houseguest
  huddled on the floor in the corner, swaddled in
  darkness. There was no electricity in the remains
  of the building. What a strange one, Gisela thought.
  True, he couldn’t exactly wander the streets like
  she and Frank did, unless he were disguised, but
  he hadn’t left that room once since he’d arrived
  two nights before. Gisela had been kind enough
  last night to bring him a small child she’d snatched
  away from a careless mother.
  “And how are we tonight, Dietrich?” Gisela
  asked as she lit the oil lamp on the table. As al-
  ways, striking the wooden match and then
  touching it to the oiled wick sent chills of exhila-
  ration down Gisela’s spine. Such casual wielding
  of fire, the deadliest of elements to her kind, never
  failed to reinforce her sense of invulnerability.
  Gisela’s words startled Dietrich, yanked him back
  from whatever twisted Tzimisce thoughts held his
  interest. As the flame in the lamp danced to life,
  Gisela couldn’t help noticing the changes her guest
  had wrought upon himself since last she’d seen him,
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  96
  mere hours before. His head leaned at an odd angle,
  a large bone spur sticking out from the right side
  of his neck. His fingers were elongated and fused
  together. As a clan, the Tzimisce prided themselves
  on their ability to maintain complete control—
  over their surroundings, over others, even over
  their own bodies. To Gisela, however, this seemed
  madness. Crushing those weaker than one’s self was
  demonstration of control, hearing their bones snap
  and their piteous cries die away, not twisting one’s
  own body like some sick fairy tale.
  Still Dietrich didn’t quite seem to know where
  he was; it took a moment for his eyes to focus on
  Gisela and Frank. He held his knees to his chest
  and slowly rocked back and forth in the corner.
  Grisela pretended to ignore this behavior, which
  was peculiar even for Dietrich. “Dietrich, this is
  Frank. He is my friend, our friend…our comrade.”
  Obviously she would not bring anyone who was not
  Sabbat to see Dietrich—he was not someone who
  could pass for being other than what he was:
  Tzimisce, and, in most cases, by extension Sabbat.
  Whatever Dietrich’s problem, he was coming
  around now. “Gisela. Frank.” He nodded, finally
  acknowledging their presence. The motion caused
  a bloody rivulet of sweat to run down his forehead.
  He wiped the blood away.
  “Dietrich,” Gisela asked, “can you provide a chal-
  ice?”
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  Dietrich did not answer. He was staring at Gisela
  but clearly did not see or hear her.
  “Dietrich.” Gisela was growing irritated with his
  distracted manner. She fought the impulse to slap
  him across to face, to shake him violently by the
  shoulders. “I said, can you provide a chalice?”
  Frank was watching this all rather warily. He
  didn’t know what to make of this monstrosity be-
  fore him, though physical deformity was nothing
  new to Frank. Good thing, Gisela thought, that
  Dietrich is German, and not East European Tzimisce.
  Otherwise, Frank with his Final Reich thinking
  would probably go crazy, and then Gisela would be
  forced to discipline him. Petty ethnic prejudices
  could not be allowed to stand in the way of the
  unity of the Sabbat, as Herr Himmler had pointed
  out. Though Gisela found it unlikely that Himmler
  would share blood with a Jew. All part of the al-
  lowances that must be made for individuals of great
  destiny, like herself.
  After a brief moment of incomprehension,
  Dietrich raised his fused fingers and began to mold
  one hand with the other. As Gisela and Frank
  watched, Dietrich sculpted flesh and reshaped
  bone. The center of his palm became a small ba-
  sin, while his fingers, thumb, and what had been
  the heel of his palm were styled into the sides of
  the cup. Practicing his art seemed to revive
  Dietrich somewhat from his inexplicable stupor.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  98
  Grinning maniacally, he twisted his hand entirely
  around three times, forming a decorative spiral pat-
  tern along his wrist and forearm, now become the
  stem of the chalice. A few stylistic flourishes, and
  he was done.
  The artistic display did little to put Frank at ease,
  but a stern glance from Gisela was enough to keep
  him quiet. As she placed her hands on the chal-
  ice, Dietrich shivered with delight.
  “From our earliest days,” Gisela intoned, “the blood
  has assured our freedom; the blood has kept us strong.
  Thus we pledge our blood to one another.” Savagely,
  she slashed her own forearm so that blood welled
  up, and she squeezed a small stream of it into the
  chalice. “To freedom.”
  Frank, perhaps a bit less enthusiastically, gashed
  his hand and added to the cup. “To loyalty.”
  Dietrich raised his free hand. The index finger
  was now a long, thin spike. He jabbed it into the
  inner edge of the chalice, causing his blood to gush
  forth and join the mixture. “To death everlasting.”
  The ceremonial invitation spoken, they each
  drank, and the Vaulderie was complete.
  Liza, hungry and doing her best not to think
  about her unfortunate run-in with the prince two
  nights before, was not in the best of moods. She’d
  finished off a junkie behind the Majestic Diner just
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  a few hours ago, and now she was strung-out and,
  unbelievably, hungry again. Must be them drugs, she
  decided. Chances were she needed something to
  take her mind off the second-hand chemicals run-
  ning through her system more than she needed
  another meal. But why not take care of both prob-
  lems together? It hadn’t taken long to convince a
  few of her friends to join in the fun.
  It was almost too easy. Liza was a couple of blocks
  off Ponce de Leon Avenue, not far from the Cler-
  mont Lounge. The cars drove by slowly—young
  studs hanging out the windows and hooting,
  middle-aged businessmen trying to look incon-
  spicuous, life-long losers tired of their sticky
  magazines. Didn’t matter. They were all interested
  in the same thing. Liza took a deep breath and
  pulled the already low neckline of her half-shirt
  even lower. Damned if I wouldn’t have starved if I
  wasn’t a sister with big boobs. Sure enough, within
  twenty minutes a Lincoln was pulling up slow be-
  side her.
  “Hey there, honey,” Liza called. “Sure looks warm
  in there.”
  The guy, a little heavy-set, maybe thirty-five, was
  leaning over to look out the passenger side win-
  dow. He nervously licked his lips and straightened
  his hair, which was combed across the top of his
  head to try to cover the large bald area. “You sure
  look hot out there.”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  100
  Liza sneered. No need to hide her contempt with
  this type. They liked the abuse. “I be hotter with
  you. Make you real warm. Or you like little boys?”
  He grinned. “No. I like girls…women.”
  Liza ran her tongue along her teeth seductively.
  “I’m hungry for you, baby.” It was true. She was
  ravenously hungry. “You gonna keep me waitin’?”
  His smile faltered a bit now that the moment of
  decision was at hand, but then he pulled the handle
  and pushed the door open. “Come on.”
  Liza slid into the seat. Aside from the man’s b.o.,
  she could smell his blood, could almost taste it as
  it pumped through his body. “Hey there, big boy.”
  She reached over and grabbed his crotch, gave him
  a little squeeze. “Feels like you ready.”
  “There’s a hotel around the corner.” His mouth
  was dry. He consciously had to swallow.
  Liza took his chin firmly in her hand and made
  him look at her face. Their gazes locked. “Listen
  up, Mr. White-Man-Wants-Some-Nigga-Ass.” It
  only took a second for Liza to grasp his mind more
  firmly than she had his crotch. He stared back at
  her, not in control of himself enough to be puzzled
  or scared. “We ain’t goin’ to no hotel. You drive
  your big-ass car a block and a half that way and
  turn when I tell you.”
  They pulled into the alley, and almost before the
  car stopped moving, two more people were in the
  back seat and a third standing by the driver’s door.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  “That didn’t take too long,” said Aaron from the
  back. He was a thrift-store hippie, unassuming and
  devious. Liza had been sizing him up for possible
  Sabbat membership. In the back with Aaron was
  Emigesh. Middle eastern, he didn’t speak much
  English yet. He just smiled.
  From outside the car, Jolanda stuck her head in
  and examined the driver from an inch or two away.
  He didn’t pull away or blink or anything. “Leave
  it to you to get us a ugly-ass white man,” Jolanda
  complained. She was dressed similarly to Liza, ex-
  cept showing more skin, and that was tricky.
  Liza didn’t feel like putting up with Jolanda’s
  bitching. They’d been friends, more or less, back
  since mortal days, but every so often Liza wanted
  to smack the girl. Jolanda would never make
  Sabbat. She’d get killed the first time she opened
  her fat mouth. Without waiting for anyone else,
  Liza grabbed her john’s hand from the steering
  wheel and chomped down into his wrist.
  “Hey!” Aaron didn’t want to get left out. He
  leaned up and bit into the driver’s neck. Emigesh,
  still smiling, did likewise on the other side.
  “Well, God daaaamn,” Jolanda griped. There
  wasn’t much she could do but grab the mortal’s
  other arm, rip his shirt, and try to get a bead on
  his brachial artery through all that flab. “Shit if this
  boy don’t need a bath.”
  With all four of them feeding, it didn’t take long
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  102
  to drain the unfortunate john dry. Liza was the last
  to give up trying to get those last few drops. It was
  her second feeding of the night, but she felt like
  she hadn’t had a thing.
  “Somebody run over to the Majestic and get this
  sista a straw, “ said Jolanda. “She’s still slurpin’
  away.”
  Liza shot Jolanda a look, and Jolanda knew bet-
  ter than to keep sassing. Liza licked around her
  mouth, not wanting to miss anything. “It ain’t too
  late,” she said. “I bet we could find another.”
  Aaron shrugged. He was always ready and will-
  ing. Emigesh just smiled. “We got time,” said
  Jolanda with her hands on her hips, “but this time
  I do the lookin’. I ain’t biting no more ugly, smelly-
  ass white men.”
  That was fine with Liza, and the fun continued.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  FIVE
  Rook to King’s Knight five.
  Owain stared at the board, as he had stared at it
  for the past hour, as he had stared at it last night
  without moving from dusk until dawn. He recon-
  structed the moves of the last century in his mind,
  thought through alternate strategies that undoubt-
  edly would have left his opponent helpless and
  hopeless. But always he was assaulted by the un-
  wavering reality of the board and the pieces that
  lay before him.
  I am doubly cursed, he lamented. Mocked by the
  failures of the past as well as the futility of the future.
  There was no salvaging the situation, no dramatic
  move to reclaim the advantage. Two turns were all
  he had left.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  104
  Rook to King’s Knight five.
  Owain sat and seethed, and, as he seethed, the
  blackness in his soul, the hollow bitterness that had
  dogged him all his years called out to him. Worm-
  wood and gall! Every so often, his studies of the Bible
  came back to him, always at the most painful of
  times, always in the voice of a mocking archangel,
  always salt upon an open wound.
  The thought of my affliction and my homelessness is
  wormwood and gall! My soul continually thinks of it
  and is bowed down within me. The words seemed to
  have been written for Owain. His affliction was the
  determining factor of his existence, but the empti-
  ness, the anger and the hatred, had always been
  there, even before he joined the legions of the
  unliving. And as for homelessness…how many
  homes had he abandoned for one reason or an-
  other, fleeing either untenable circumstances or
  outright destruction?
  But not even in Jeremiah’s lament could Owain
  take comfort, not unless he could force himself to
  forget the next lines. But this I call to mind, and
  therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord
  never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they
  are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
  Owain dug his nails into his palms until tiny
  beads of blood appeared. How could the scriptures
  mock him more directly? In life, the Lord had aban-
  doned Owain. And then…then, He had denied
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  Owain the escape of death, had allowed him to be
  Embraced into this world of the undead so that he
  might stumble through the centuries, his thirst for
  vengeance never fully sated.
  The love of the Lord…Owain laughed aloud. His
  love of a cruel joke, perhaps. The irony. The cruel,
  mocking irony. Hope. Mercy. Ultimately, they were
  words without meaning for Owain. And the only
  thing every morning brought was the necessity to
  slink away and hide from the sun.
  Hope and mercy. Owain turned from the chess
  board long enough to spit the bitter taste from his
  mouth. He had no use for God. Wormwood and gall.
  Fire and brimstone. Hell and damnation.
  “Sir?”
  Owain did not turn to face Randal. “Yes?”
  Randal was on edge. Owain could hear it in his
  voice. The ghoul-servant was familiar with Owain’s
  black moods. “Sir, Señora Rodriguez has finished
  preparing the sitting room for the gentlemen’s visit.
  They should be arriving within the quarter hour.
  Your menu choice for the evening?”
  Owain smiled despite himself. Randal’s utter pro-
  fessionalism in the face of a temperamental
  employer who, at a moment’s whim, could end the
  butler’s existence amused Owain. Randal was
  canny, and efficient, but not the friend that
  Gwilym had been.
  In fact, Owain had forgotten about his engage-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  106
  ment this evening, the gathering of the King Road
  Club, as they referred to themselves. “Prepare the
  trophy room. We’ll meet there, I think.” Randal
  did not flinch at the sudden change of venue.
  Owain didn’t particularly care for the trophy room,
  but he was feeling contrary, and it was only right
  that Randal and Señora Rodriguez should pay the
  price. “Whatever hors d’oeuvres the señora has at
  hand should be sufficient, and…”
  There was something that Owain wanted his
  guests to imbibe, but he couldn’t quite put his fin-
  ger on what it was. Damn my memory. He rose and
  went to the bookshelf behind his desk and laid his
  hand on the book he wanted without even look-
  ing. The leather cover, smooth and comfortable to
  Owain’s touch, had replaced the original embroi-
  dered cover that, even well-maintained, had finally
  fallen apart under the weight of time. Eyes closed,
  Owain caressed the book for a moment before
  opening it.
  There was no table of contents. This was a com-
  monplace book, a handwritten collection of wisdom
  and information, normally handed down through
  generations like a family Bible. There were passages
  of scripture, legal contracts, bits of obscure pro-
  phetic nonsense—A dragoun with a rede rose that is
  of grete fame / A bastard in wedloc boryn schall he be—
  pithy sayings, recipes, pressed leaves, just about
  anything that might be saved for practical, senti-
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  mental, or forgotten reasons. The book was, per-
  haps, Owain’s only solace, given to him by his one
  true love, hundreds of years ago.
  It was difficult not to lose himself in reverie as
  Owain gently passed over the pages written in that
  graceful, curving script that he had gazed at for
  countless hours, memorizing every ascending
  stroke, every falling line. He read more closely, but
  less nostalgically, when he reached the section
  penned in his own scrawling handwriting. Even
  centuries of practice had produced only limited re-
  turns for his penmanship.
  Shortly, he found the reminder for which he’d
  been searching: “For a touch of the sweet amidst all
  too bitter life—absinthe.”
  “Ah!” That was the connection. It all made sense
  now. “Absinthe, Randal. We do have some on
  hand, yes?”
  Randal thought for a moment. This was not a
  normal request. “I believe so, sir.”
  “Good. That is what my guests will drink tonight.
  See to it.”
  “Certainly, sir.” Randal retreated from the study
  to carry out Owain’s orders.
  Absinthe. That was what had been tugging at
  Owain’s circumspect memory. The liqueur was
  made from wine and wormwood. Owain glanced
  at his notation again. Sweet amidst bitter. He’d cer-
  tainly had his share of bitter. He didn’t remember
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  108
  when he’d written the advice in the commonplace
  book; some time after his Embrace, of course, as
  the advice was not meant for the mortal palate but
  for Owain’s more refined tastes.
  As Owain felt the smooth leather in his hands
  and smelled the musty, yellowed parchment, he was
  amazed at how the mere physical presence of the
  book soothed him. Though relieved slightly of his
  rage at the chess game and at the world, he wor-
  ried that the book might be too much of an
  emotional crutch. Better not to depend on any-
  thing—or anyone—external. This continual lack
  of recall also was beginning to concern Owain. It
  happened sometimes to immortals—so many days
  and nights, so many acquaintances, friends, and
  loved ones returned to dust, so much loss. Easier
  to block it all out, or to let it fade away.
  Owain wasn’t sure if that was what was happen-
  ing to him, but he did know that his lack of passion,
  the spiritual lethargy that had been mounting over
  the past decades, was causing him to make care-
  less mistakes, mistakes that could lead to his
  destruction.
  Two nights ago at the exhibit, for instance, he
  had blatantly threatened Benjamin. Not even in
  his reckless days of youth had Owain operated in
  such a clumsy, heavy-handed manner. The zoning
  dispute was not so important that he should have
  acted so rashly, further magnifying the distrust be-
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  tween Benjamin and himself. Yes, Owain did have
  some financial interest in Mercator Manufacturing,
  and he had, through various third parties, bought
  up property around the acreage in question, prop-
  erty that would increase substantially in value with
  the construction of the distribution center, but
  there was no reason he couldn’t have had incrimi-
  nating evidence of some sort tied to Justice
  Chamberlain, or couldn’t have discredited the citi-
  zens group, or couldn’t have intervened at some
  other point in the appeals process. There were
  countless, more subtle alternatives to bullying and
  alienating an influential rival. Of course, the subtle
  alternatives wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfy-
  ing as seeing the shock and fear on Benjamin’s
  face….
  Ah, well, Owain sighed. Water under the bridge.
  He returned the commonplace book to its spot on
  the shelf, tracing his finger lightly along the spine
  of the gift given him by a woman long dead. “Am
  I a sentimental fool, Randal?”
  Randal, standing in the doorway, was no longer
  surprised by his master’s uncanny ability to detect
  his approach despite not seeming to pay the least
  attention. “Your guests are beginning to arrive, sir.
  And there is another visitor. Mr. Giovanni.”
  Owain’s eyebrows raised at this. “Really? I can’t
  remember the last time we had so many unan-
  nounced guests in one week. First the Gangrel, now
  
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  110
  Giovanni.” Randal, the keeper of Owain’s calen-
  dar, was looking concerned. “It’s all right, Randal,”
  Owain reassured him. “I know what this is about.
  Show Mr. Giovanni in and see that the other guests
  are cared for while I speak with him. It shouldn’t
  take long.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  “Oh, and see to it that the gentlemen have ci-
  gars while they wait…some of the Cubans.”
  Owain sat back. He had expected to see Lorenzo
  Giovanni a week or two ago. Like others of his fam-
  ily and clan—one and the same for the
  Giovanni—Lorenzo was extremely businesslike and
  efficient in most ways. He made a practice, how-
  ever, of not sticking to hard and fast schedules—too
  easy for assassins or, worse yet, financial spies to
  zero in on him. That problem was exacerbated,
  Owain supposed, by the fact that Atlanta was not
  the friendliest of territories for the Giovanni.
  Though the clan had maintained significant busi-
  ness interests in the city for over twenty years now,
  Prince Benison did not often allow direct repre-
  sentatives of the family to remain in town.
  Owain heard Randal draw back his hand but
  waited for the actual knock before responding. No
  need to flaunt one’s capabilities before a rival, and
  though Lorenzo Giovanni was not an enemy, ev-
  eryone was a rival.
  Randal ushered in Lorenzo. His angular face was
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  dominated by a prominent nose, while his bushy
  eyebrows and pencil-thin mustache, both dark
  black and waxed to points, accentuated the sharp-
  ness of his features. Accompanying him was his
  bodyguard, a balding hulk of a man named Alfonzo,
  also dark-complected and of Italian descent. Both
  wore immaculately tailored suits.
  “Lorenzo, how good to see you.” Owain did not
  stand to greet his guests. Ironically enough, even
  though Lorenzo was the only individual in Atlanta
  that Owain knew of whose age rivaled his own, the
  representative of the Giovanni clan was not a vam-
  pire. He was a ghoul, fed on the cursed blood of
  his family but still human, more or less. It was an
  audition of sorts—serve la familia faithfully enough
  and Lorenzo might be Embraced into true immor-
  tality. According to Owain’s sources, Lorenzo had
  already been a ghoul for over eight hundred years.
  Such patience. But, then again, the ghoul prob-
  ably had little choice in the matter. If he were to
  become a vampire, it would not be until his elders
  decided the time was right.
  “I trust all is well with you, Owain.” Lorenzo’s
  smile was surprisingly warm, genuine.
  All part of the job, Owain reminded himself. As a
  ghoul, Lorenzo was expert at ingratiating himself
  to vampires—to his masters, and to those whom
  he dealt with on his masters’ behalf. “Do sit down.”
  Lorenzo, flanked as always by Alfonzo, ap-
  
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  112
  proached Owain’s desk but did not sit. “I’m afraid
  I’ve come at a bad time. There were other cars in
  the drive.”
  “Nothing that can’t wait,” Owain assured him.
  Lorenzo nodded his appreciation. His dark black
  hair shone as he sat and Alfonzo took up position
  close behind. “You’re too kind.” Lorenzo smiled like
  a man who could not be surprised; he exuded a
  quiet confidence, a professionalism, that most of
  the Kindred in Atlanta lacked.
  As much as Owain knew about Lorenzo
  Giovanni, he expected that Lorenzo knew just as
  much about him. Most of Owain’s past was not a
  deep dark secret, but it was obscured by the mists
  of time. He knew though, as Lorenzo surely did,
  that a small amount of determination combined
  with a large amount of money could uncover al-
  most any secret. It was a lesson that Owain doubted
  other Atlanta Kindred had learned. They were ei-
  ther too young and inexperienced in the
  machinations of real power, like Benjamin, or they
  were simply too arrogant to go to the trouble, like
  Eleanor and Benison. Perhaps it was this compla-
  cency born of overconfidence, Owain pondered, to
  which he had fallen victim. What was it about the
  Kindred in this sleepy southern city?
  “Owain?”
  Owain realized that Lorenzo had asked him a
  question. Probably some inconsequential pleas-
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  antry, but still Owain cursed himself for again let-
  ting his mind wander, and this time in the presence
  of a potential ally, but one that could just as easily
  turn on Owain like a ravenous beast if weakness
  were apparent.
  Lorenzo looked on inquisitively but politely, not
  making an issue of Owain’s lapse. Again Owain
  appreciated the ghoul’s professionalism; a working
  business relationship was obviously more important
  to him than pettily exploiting a potential embar-
  rassment. This was a man with whom, in different
  circumstances, Owain could have been a friend—
  if Owain were still capable of friendship after years
  of atrophying emotions, and if Lorenzo could be
  trusted to serve anything other than a ruthless loy-
  alty to his clan veiled by a thin veneer of
  amicability.
  As if there had not been a gaping chasm in the
  conversation, as if he had not been caught in a bla-
  tant lapse of concentration, Owain opened his desk
  drawer and removed an envelope. He placed it ca-
  sually before Lorenzo. “I could have sent Randal
  with this…”
  Lorenzo opened the envelope but did not remove
  the check written for a considerable sum, drafted
  against the account of a large company which
  Owain controlled. “Nonsense. My family prefers to
  maintain personal, yet discreet, relationships with
  our supporters.”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  114
  The money, though a substantial amount, was
  inconsequential to Owain. He was not purchasing
  anything in particular; the check was a gift, a guar-
  antee of cordial relations. While Owain was a de
  facto advisor to the prince, and Benison was toler-
  ant at best of the Giovanni, it didn’t hurt to have
  a foot in more than one camp. And as long as the
  Giovanni made no overt moves against Benison,
  then Owain really faced no dangerous conflict of
  interests, although Prince Benison might not see
  it that way if he were to become aware of Owain’s
  friendly terms with the Giovanni. It was a chance
  Owain was willing to take. He had tried his hand
  at ruling directly centuries ago. Now he preferred
  to remain farther back in the shadows, prepared to
  react to any eventuality. As the Nosferatu maxim
  stated: Knowledge is power.
  “Your gesture of goodwill is greatly appreciated,”
  Lorenzo continued, “and I would like to extend my
  family’s sincerest regards….” With this, he slowly
  slid the envelope back across the desk to Owain.
  The two men observed one another for a moment.
  Alfonzo stood motionless, stone-like since the be-
  ginning of the conversation, behind his master.
  Owain knew what was coming next before Lorenzo
  spoke the words. “I accept the honor you proffer
  upon myself and upon my family, but this,” Lorenzo
  indicated the envelope, “I return to you.” He
  paused for a moment, as if to allow the solemnity
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  of the moment its full effect, not that he needed
  to. Owain was quite aware that the Giovanni clan
  did not, on a regular basis, return monetary offer-
  ings. “There is no need for such gifts between
  friends.”
  Friends. Owain, recognizing the euphemism for
  what it was, restrained a grim smile. You mean al-
  lies, Lorenzo. Allies, perhaps. Friends, never.
  “Indeed,” said Owain, neither giving voice to
  assumptions nor insulting Lorenzo’s intelligence by
  feigning ignorance of what the ghoul was about to
  suggest. Both men were treading carefully, aware
  that an unavoidable aspect of forging alliances was
  the gradual exposure of vulnerabilities to one’s ally.
  Neither was willing to move too quickly, to risk a
  misstep, for betrayal could bring the wrath of the
  prince down upon them. Again they regarded one
  another.
  Finally, Lorenzo spoke. His tone was casual, but
  he chose his words carefully. “You are certainly
  closer to the prince’s ear than am I,” Lorenzo stated.
  “Eleanor is officially Ventrue primogen, but the
  prince often seeks you out for counsel.”
  Owain nodded, allowing Lorenzo small steps
  along the slippery slope.
  Not even the ghoul’s off-hand manner could be-
  little the weightiness of his words. “Ofttimes issues
  that involve the Giovanni, for better or for ill,
  might arise….” Lorenzo let the thought dangle for
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  116
  a brief moment. “Issues that one friend might men-
  tion to another friend.”
  Owain nodded thoughtfully. Lorenzo certainly
  was proceeding with all due caution—not making
  a move against Benison, not overtly asking Owain
  to spy or even to betray a confidence, merely to
  mention to another friend anything of interest. “What
  friend would do less?” Owain asked.
  Another brief silence hung between vampire and
  ghoul. Then Lorenzo smiled, a reserved display of
  relief. Owain waited for the polite excuse to leave
  he knew would come next.
  “Well,” Lorenzo sat back, more relaxed now, “I’ve
  kept you from your guests long enough.” Quickly
  but gracefully, he was at the door, Alfonzo ever-
  present at his side. “As always, Owain, it has been
  a pleasure.”
  “Indeed.”
  The Giovanni ghoul and his bodyguard departed.
  That matter resolved for the time being, Owain
  was tempted to return to his study of the chess
  board, but his responsibilities as a host prevailed.
  The mere thought of the game, however, served
  to raise his ire. This, when nothing else these days
  seemed to evoke any significant emotional response
  in him—not politics, certainly not socializing, not
  even feeding. All of his hungers, his desires, had
  ebbed away over the years.
  Owain met his guests, five men all in their six-
  
  117
  The Devil's Advocate
  ties or seventies from oldmoney Atlanta families
  established in the city since at least the Civil War,
  in the trophy room. As he entered, he felt their
  thoughts turn toward him. With the tiniest flex of
  his mental powers, Owain shifted those thoughts
  just enough so his guests would take no notice that
  he appeared at least forty years younger than they.
  He had been associating with these particular mor-
  tals for so long now that they were conditioned to
  such cognitive proddings from him.
  His youthful features were one reason Owain
  only mingled with mortals in very small groups. A
  Brujah rousing rabble or a Toreador dancing with
  the goths could afford to look young, but among
  the financial crème de la crème of Atlanta, youth
  was a fairly inexplicable disadvantage. So Owain
  helped his mortal friends simply overlook anything
  about his appearance that might set him apart.
  “There you are, Owain. We were starting to won-
  der,” said Manny Gormann, sounding anything but
  concerned. Like the others, he was savoring a Cu-
  ban cigar. “How do you get these through customs?”
  Owain shrugged. “Just knowing the right people.”
  “And this,” Price Haynes, a retired investment
  banker, chimed in, indicating his glass of absinthe.
  “Franklin was saying that this isn’t legal in the U.S.
  either?”
  “Another case of knowing the right people,”
  Owain explained modestly.
  
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  118
  “Why in the world is it illegal, Franklin?” Manny
  asked.
  Franklin, approaching eighty and the oldest of
  the mortals present, leisurely exhaled a long plume
  of fragrant cigar smoke. “Not sure exactly. Some-
  thing to do with how they make it.”
  “Wormwood,” Owain explained. “It’s flavored
  with wormwood, like vermouth, except more
  heavily. Acts as a narcotic.”
  “Hm.”
  Aside from Owain, Manny, Price, and Franklin
  West, the King Road Club was comprised of Parker
  Goodwin and James Kirkwood. Owain, Manny and
  Franklin lived on King Road, and thus their semi-
  regular gathering had taken on its sobriquet. The
  governor, a nearby neighbor, attended on occasion.
  “How many of these beasts did you kill yourself,
  Owain?” asked James, looking around at the vari-
  ous trophies mounted on the walls: grizzly, polar
  bear, lion, rhino, caribou, among others.
  “I must confess,” said Owain, “they came with
  the house, and I haven’t gotten around to redeco-
  rating.” This ellicited a general guffaw from the
  assemblage.
  Owain’s attention wavered as the conversation
  carried on from the decor to city and state politics
  to the golden days of presidents Eisenhower and
  Kennedy, all yesterday’s headlines but hardly an-
  cient history to Owain. The whole affair was tired
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  old ritual. Owain listened disinterestedly to the
  talk, concentrating on the aroma of the cigars, a
  smell which over the years he had come to associ-
  ate with feeding. Certainly there was financial
  information being discussed that could be useful to
  him, but how much money did one individual
  need? Owain could never hope to rival the world-
  wide monetary influence possessed by the
  Giovanni, and he had long ago amassed more
  wealth than he, in his role of waiting and watch-
  ing, could ever imagine spending even on the most
  outlandish of bribes.
  So Owain sat, and he watched, and he listened.
  He wondered why these men, every one of them,
  each wore a necktie to such a casual gathering? He
  knew the answer: that no gathering was devoid of
  social significance. Even an informal gettogether
  fulfilled the twin needs to see and to be seen. And
  by being here, these men were setting themselves
  above everyone else, in the great pecking order,
  who was not.
  All this, Owain knew. And he knew that once
  he had been just as enslaved by the petty power
  games as were these kine. In his day, he had gloated
  over being seated at the high table, had lusted af-
  ter his brother’s position of prominence. But
  knowing this did not answer the fundamental ques-
  tion: why?
  Owain’s concentration was broken as he noticed
  
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  120
  James Kirkwood, the overweight banker, lifting a
  sword from its place mounted on the wall where
  he had been examining it.
  No one noticed, but suddenly Owain was at
  James’ side. “I would appreciate your leaving that
  on the wall.”
  “Jesus!” James jumped, bobbling and almost drop-
  ping the sword, surprised as he was by Owain’s
  voice, out of nowhere, at his shoulder. James care-
  fully placed the sword on its mounting as he caught
  his breath. He chuckled at his own discomfort.
  “Buy this with the house too?”
  “No,” said Owain humorlessly. “That sword has
  been in my family for just over nine hundred and
  fifty years.”
  “Oh. I see.”
  Owain did not mention that the sword had been
  his for just over nine hundred and fifty years. He wasn’t
  afraid that any harm would come to the sword—the
  steel was as flexible and strong as the day it was
  made—but, even today, he could not tolerate a guest
  in his home to go armed if he was not. Too many
  Welsh uncles had been struck down by ruthless neph-
  ews. Not that Owain had anything against being
  ruthless. He had killed numerous relatives. Nor did
  he fear James Kirkwood. The bloated pencil-pusher
  probably couldn’t swing the sword, much less mount
  a credible threat. But survival instincts, even those
  from the dark ages, needed to be obeyed. It was one
  
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  way, Owain mused, that he could be certain his mind
  had not completely atrophied. Long after emotion had
  wasted away, instinct survived.
  Having stomached as much sociability as he
  could, Owain caught Franklin’s eye. “Can I speak
  with you for a moment?” He led the old man to
  the study and closed the door behind them. “Do
  you play chess, Franklin?”
  “Yes, I do.”
  “Take a look at this.” Owain took Franklin over
  to the board. “What would you say about this
  game?” Owain knew there was no use, but he
  couldn’t help entertaining the fanciful idea that a
  mere mortal might see something that he had not.
  Franklin studied the board for a minute. “What
  would I say?” He looked a little longer. “I’d say
  White’s game.”
  Owain smiled a tight, grim smile. “Indeed.” He
  tried, unsuccessfully, to put the game out of his
  mind as he pulled a chair over for Franklin. “Take
  off your jacket and sit,” he intoned in a voice that a
  mortal could not resist.
  Franklin sat, his eyes glazing as volition and in-
  dependent thought were displaced by Owain’s will.
  “Roll up your sleeve.” Owain watched woodenly
  as Franklin did as he was told. Owain felt no sense
  of anticipation, no hunger. He fed because he knew
  he must. When did this begin? he wondered. He
  remembered his early years as a vampire, the al-
  
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  122
  most drunken euphoria that accompanied feeding,
  back before the idea of sex had completely lost its
  allure for him and draining a noble’s beautiful
  daughter had been an erotic escapade. Somewhere
  along the line, he had lost all of that.
  Franklin sat staring straight ahead with his right
  sleeve rolled up above his elbow. Veins bulged
  prominently on his gaunt, elderly arm. Slowly
  Owain knelt beside the chair and took Franklin’s
  arm in his hand. The vampire felt no remorse for
  what he did. He was what he was. The devil’s spawn.
  Owain was of two minds concerning feeding on
  mortals, but neither rationale placed undue guilt
  upon him for his dietary needs. First, as Darwin
  might have put it, vampires had reached the apex
  of the food chain. Mortals, lower on the chain,
  were like cattle to be harvested. Owain tried to
  adhere to this rationalistic approach, but he did not
  truly believe it.
  Second, the view that he had spent most of his
  years subscribing to: that he had inherited the curse
  of Caine and was therefore cursed himself. God had
  turned his back on Owain, so now Owain was an
  instrument of vengeance. What had he done to be
  tortured so? And what mortal was free from sin that
  he or she should not suffer? Owain raised Franklin’s
  arm to his mouth. Had this old man led a guiltless
  life? Had he never transgressed against God? Doubt-
  ful, was Owain’s verdict.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  A pained yet ecstatic moan escaped Franklin’s
  lips as Owain bit into flesh and drank deeply. God
  had had his agent on earth. Certainly Satan de-
  served no less. It was this spirit of anger and
  vengeance that satisfied Owain more than the ac-
  tual blood, but never fully. Though he did not truly
  hunger for blood—he couldn’t remember the last
  time he’d been driven by such pains—his spiritual
  emptiness never completely receded.
  Blood from the elderly tended to lose some of
  its richness. Owain thought of it as watered down.
  Some of the absinthe, however, had made its way
  into Franklin’s blood stream, and the mix of sweet
  and bitter augmented the taste quite pleasantly.
  Franklin’s aged heart raced, urged on by adrena-
  line and the need to make up for less blood. Owain
  could feel the pounding. He made sure not to take
  too much blood from these older men lest he bring
  on a heart attack. Then he would have to deal with
  medical treatment or perhaps disposing of the body
  and covering his tracks. The number of people who
  knew where Franklin and the others were this
  evening was most likely more than Owain could
  reasonably expect to help forget. Unlife had been
  so much simpler before the Camarilla, before the
  Masquerade.
  Done, and not wanting to push Franklin’s heart
  beyond its limit, Owain licked the wound on the
  old man’s forearm. The leathery skin closed back
  
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  124
  over, leaving no trace of the feeding, no scar.
  Owain stood and slowly passed a hand before
  Franklin’s vacant eyes. “Franklin.”
  The mortal blinked for several seconds, then,
  slightly disoriented, looked up at Owain. “No, I’m
  all right. Just a little dizzy for a moment,” he an-
  swered the nonexistent question.
  “Let me help you back to the others,” Owain gen-
  erously offered. As they made their way back to the
  trophy room, Franklin, shaky on his feet, leaned
  heavily on Owain. Franklin was in good shape for
  his age—tennis twice a week, appropriate medica-
  tion for his high blood pressure—but, still, Owain
  knew he wouldn’t last too much longer. Ten, maybe
  fifteen years, then he would pass like the rest of
  the mortals over the years. Franklin was one of the
  few whose company Owain had come close to en-
  joying, unlike boorish James and overbearing
  Manny. Franklin would have to be replaced soon.
  Back in the trophy room, Owain helped Franklin
  into one of the over-stuffed leather arm-chairs. To
  the others, Franklin pleaded a bit too much ab-
  sinthe, and perhaps the strong cigar hadn’t helped
  either.
  “Gentlemen,” Owain said, attracting their atten-
  tion. “Sit.”
  The other four men, without question, took seats
  around the room, their eyes taking on the same
  glassy look that Franklin’s had again assumed.
  
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  “Randal,” Owain called. The servant glided into
  the room pushing a cart with tidy compartments
  for plastic tubes, bags, needles, and with refriger-
  ated compartments beneath. “I’ll be in the study.
  Call me when you’re done.”
  Storing the blood was so much easier than fre-
  quent hunting. Because Owain could only tolerate
  blood from certain individuals—patricians, nobles,
  gentry, the elite, whatever the title of the era—and
  since class distinctions were so blurred in modern
  society, he preferred feeding from an established
  herd rather than risking a mistake and striking
  upon sickeningly unpalatable blood.
  In an hour or so, Owain would lick their needle
  marks and send them home full of memories of a
  pleasant evening and stimulating conversation. For
  now, Owain returned to his chess board.
  Listen and learn.
  Smile and nod.
  Emigesh’s sire Marla had been full of pithy
  soundbite homilies. But if she were so smart, why
  was Emigesh still walking around while she had
  crossed the wrong people and met her last sunrise?
  Knowing is half the battle.
  Which battle would that be? Emigesh wondered.
  But if she had known that, she might still be alive.
  Emigesh had thought he was rid of her, but the
  
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  last few nights she had been haunting him from
  beyond final death. Not that her spirit was visit-
  ing him exactly. It was more like Emigesh was
  visiting her, revisiting events from her life, seeing
  them through her eyes. At times Emigesh felt that
  he had become her, experiencing a warped version
  of his reality from Marla’s perspective, bringing her
  complete arsenal of wisdom fully to bear on his
  unlife.
  An ounce of prevention…
  Tonight, though, as Emigesh wandered through
  the streets with Aaron, Liza, and Jolanda, the
  haunting was different. Marla was gone. She mer-
  cifully had passed back to her final rest. But
  Emigesh’s mind was still not his own. Marla’s sire
  Antony was making his presence known; Antony
  the silent, who had paused from his brooding long
  enough to Embrace Marla and her littermate Paula
  and then given into despair and greeted the sun.
  Emigesh walked the streets seeing the city as he
  never had before, through cold and cynical eyes.
  At times he was hard pressed to remember whether
  the two women sniping at one another were Liza
  and Jolanda bitching and taking jabs, or Marla and
  Paula with their incessant bickering that made
  greeting the sun seem more and more an attrac-
  tive alternative. He was tempted to snap them both
  in two, to undo the error of his progeny…but no,
  they were not his childer.
  
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  As the night dragged on, Emigesh watched and
  he listened, always understanding more than they
  gave him credit for, smiling for their benefit. And
  beneath it all the hunger was growing.
  Always growing.
  The two hoodlums were perfect gentlemen. They
  didn’t open the car door for Francesca or say
  “please,” but neither did they threaten her, leer or
  curse at her, and for the likes of these, that was as
  refined as it got. Francesca sneered at them. Amaz-
  ing how ever since that one gang banger had
  grabbed her ass and she had strangled him with his
  own intestines, they had all been perfect gentle-
  men.
  Rico and Johnny picked her up at Los Angeles
  International Airport. They didn’t speak to her, just
  nodded and led her back to the car. They got in
  the front, she in the back, and drove in silence.
  Even the vulgarities of the rap station on the ra-
  dio were toned down to an unusually reasonable
  level.
  At this early hour of the morning, traffic was not
  a problem. In only a short while the trio was driv-
  ing into the heart of Watts. Stripped cars and
  burned-out shells of buildings decorated most ev-
  ery block, and even at four-thirty in the morning,
  numerous young men dotted every corner—pro-
  
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  tecting turf, selling drugs, pimping. There was as
  much activity as other parts of the city would see
  at midday.
  They came to a stop in front of a small, nonde-
  script stucco house in front of which, in the yard
  and on the porch, lounged at least a dozen young
  men and boys wearing ripped jeans, T-shirts with
  or without sleeves, boots or high-tops, and all with
  blue bandanas tied around a leg, arm, or neck. As
  Nico and Johnny got out of the car, their friends
  began to hoot and catcall…until they realized who
  the passenger stepping out was. No one spoke a
  word as Francesca walked down the sidewalk and
  in the front door.
  Mohammed al-Muthlim was conferring with two
  bandana-bearing kine lieutenants. He looked up
  briefly at Francesca’s entrance. “Be right with you.”
  The two mortals made sure not to look at Francesca
  for too long. After a few minutes, Mohammed fin-
  ished giving instructions about a certain house in
  Inglewood that needed to be “cleaned out” and sent
  the mortals on their way. He turned his full atten-
  tion to Francesca. “Welcome, sister. Any
  problems?”
  “None.”
  Mohammed’s wide, African-American face was
  as handsome as any Francesca had seen. Seeing him
  again, she wanted to feel him against her; she
  wanted his blood. Aside from the natural attrac-
  
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  tion she felt for her sire, she had been constantly
  hungry the past few nights despite several feedings.
  Francesca sidled up to Mohammed.
  “Good,” he was saying. “I’m glad that went well.
  Our friend in Spain owes me a favor.” Some day
  Mohammed would rule Los Angeles, as soon as the
  Sabbat finished with the idealistic Kindred experi-
  ment known as the Anarch Free States. But for
  now, while he played the role of powerful ganglord,
  Francesca was his link to the outside world. Her
  skills as an assassin were held in high regard across
  North America and Europe, and every assignment
  produced another favor owed to Mohammed by
  Sabbat who were potential allies or rivals. “Did the
  boys treat you well?” Mohammed smiled at
  Francesca, who was now pressing her leg against
  his thigh.
  Francesca thought of Nico and Johnny and
  laughed. “They always do.” She leaned into
  Mohammed, her taut breasts behind thin silk
  against his arm. The smell of his blood was mad-
  dening. A ravenous hunger, intense even for a
  woman of her insatiable appetites, tore at her from
  within. She wrapped her arms around his waist and
  bit down, through his grimy shirt, into his left
  shoulder. She sucked greedily, wishing she could
  drain every drop of his blood. An ecstatic spasm
  shook his body.
  Mohammed ripped the silk from her left shoul-
  
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  der. Buttons popped and bounced to the floor.
  Francesca groaned at the pleasurable pain that shot
  through her body and sucked harder at the blood
  flowing from her sire.
  The next thing she knew, they were lying on the
  floor amidst the remnants of her shirt, Mohammed
  cradling her head against his chest. Even lying
  down, her head was swimming, just as it had with
  every feeding the past few nights.
  “To freedom,” Mohammed whispered.
  “To loyalty,” she responded.
  And then the blood on their tongues was mix-
  ing again as Mohammed pulled her to him.
  Usually in the late fall and winter Liza wore at
  least a heavy shirt or a light jacket so she wouldn’t
  stand out too much in a crowd. If the mortals’ teeth
  were chattering from the cold, a vampire walking
  down the street at night in short sleeves attracted
  unnecessary attention. Tonight, though, she was
  bundled up for a different reason. Every few min-
  utes, she could feel bloody sweat dribbling across
  her ribs or down her back. Her black T-shirt was
  already saturated, and now her black jacket was
  soaking up the moisture. Liza hadn’t really sweated
  since she was a mortal, and now that it had been
  going on several nights nearly nonstop, she was
  pissed off. At first, she’d been puzzled, then wor-
  
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  ried, but her concern had long since given way to
  irritation and ever-present anger. She wasn’t fit
  company for human or Cainite, which was bad
  news for her friends.
  Aaron and Emigesh were in the back seat of the
  car, not saying or doing much of anything. They
  didn’t seem to mind an occasional slow evening.
  Jolanda, on the other hand, was bored out of her
  skull. She sat in the front passenger seat with the
  door open, legs splayed wide, quite unladylike in
  her short skirt, and time after time took the red-
  hot cigarette lighter and pressed it into the BMW
  dashboard, filling the car with smoke and the pu-
  trid odor of melting plastic.
  The downtown parking garage was empty except
  for a handful of cars, including the white BMW
  which someone had unwisely left parked overnight
  and which Liza and company had comandeered.
  No one seemed very motivated toward any particu-
  lar end tonight, so after wandering aimlessly
  through various neighborhoods for a couple of
  hours, the four had drifted just as purposelessly into
  the echoing confines of the garage, and there they
  were still.
  Just like she had been for over a week, Liza was
  starving. She had fed last night on a corner drug
  dealer who was a frequent meal for her, but Liza’s
  hunger had taken hold, and she had been unable
  to pull herself away. Instead of licking the wound
  
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  and saving her mortal for another night, she had
  drunk long and desperately until there was no more
  blood to be had. In her unsatiated hunger and frus-
  tration, Liza had left the body on the street and
  run off into the darkness. She didn’t have a prob-
  lem with killing mortals. They were a dime a dozen.
  But just like having been faced down by Prince
  Benison last week, the memory of losing control
  didn’t sit well. There were many times, for sure,
  that Liza gave into her primal urges. That was what
  was so fulfilling about her introduction into the
  Sabbat—the power of the unrestrained Beast and
  its mastery over mere mortals. Recently, however,
  as she’d struggled to ease the burning hunger that
  constantly gripped her, she had not given in to her
  predatory instincts. She had been overwhelmed by
  them, helpless in the face of her need.
  All these thoughts were swirling around in Liza’s
  mind, sometimes asserting themselves, more often
  sublimated by the unrelenting hunger which still
  gnawed at her. The only distraction tugging at her
  attention was the tang of burning plastic as Jolanda
  again held the cigarette lighter to the dash. Liza
  hated that smell. She hated it with a passion. And
  together with the unceasing ache that was her hun-
  ger, it was making her queasy, another unpleasant
  throwback to mortality that had been plaguing her
  in recent days, especially after she fed. Last night
  after killing the drug dealer and fleeing, Liza had
  
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  grown so dizzy that she had fallen to the sidewalk
  and heaved back up some of the blood. It was all
  so strange, and unpleasant, and infuriating.
  Jolanda, always stifled by a lack of creativity, was
  making a large smiley face out of burn marks on
  the dashboard. She disinterestedly placed the last
  dot of the mouth. The smoke and the stink drifted
  to Liza. She was forcing herself not to slap Jolanda
  when a thump from the rear of the car distracted
  them both. All four vampires looked back over
  their shoulders.
  In the back seat, Aaron let out a bored sigh.
  Emigesh just smiled. “Your turn, Aaron,” Liza
  grumbled.
  Aaron sighed again, then opened his door and
  hauled himself up out of the seat. His ponytail
  swayed back and forth as he ambled around to the
  trunk and opened it from where the locking mecha-
  nism was torn away. Staring up terrified was the
  bound and gagged security guard for the parking
  deck.
  Aaron lifted him by his collar. “What?” Aaron
  asked.
  The guard’s eyes were wide open. After a mo-
  ment, he swallowed hard and then tried to speak
  through the gag without success. Aaron impatiently
  slid the gag down so the man’s mouth was clear.
  The guard took frantic shallow breaths. Aaron
  looked on expectantly, still waiting for his ques-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  tion to be answered. Finally, the guard managed
  to speak. “I…I can’t breathe…in there.”
  “Fine,” said Aaron. “Now you’ve breathed.” He
  slid the gag back down and roughly shoved the
  guard back into the trunk, slamming it down even
  though it no longer latched. Aaron leaned down
  close to the car. “So shut the hell up, or you won’t
  need to breathe any more!” He retook his seat and
  slammed the door. “Some people.”
  That seemed to be the excitement for the
  evening, until Jolanda resumed her lighter art. She
  pressed the lighter for the right eyeball of the smiley
  face. Without warning, Liza smacked Jolanda’s
  hand hard. The lighter popped out and landed on
  Jolanda’s leg. She screamed and jumped, knocking
  the heating element out the open door. Lack of cre-
  ativity aside, Jolanda let out a long, descriptive
  string of expletives directed at Liza and various
  members of her family.
  Liza pointed a long claw at Jolanda’s face. “I don’t
  want to hear it, bitch! One more word, and your
  ass is mine!”
  This was enough to stymie Jolanda’s outflow of
  adjectives as she pondered the danger of mouth-
  ing off one more time. Neither woman moved.
  Their faces were less than a foot apart. Liza, want-
  ing badly to take out her frustrations on someone
  more durable than a mortal, hoped Jolanda would
  say something else.
  
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  Each woman’s attention was riveted on the other
  when Emigesh lunged forward from the back seat
  with a mad cackle. Before anyone could react, he
  grabbed Jolanda by the head and wrenched with a
  sudden fury. Liza was knocked back against the
  steering wheel. The horn blast didn’t quite cover
  the loud crack inside the car.
  Emigesh was scrambling for Liza. She caught a
  glimpse of his bulging bloodshot eyes vivid against
  his tan skin. His fangs were bared, and he was still
  cackling madly, desperately.
  Liza pushed him away, and in doing so forced
  herself back against the door. Her knee was caught
  under the steering wheel. She couldn’t get any le-
  verage against Emigesh as he pulled himself on top
  of her, scraping at her eyes. Emigesh’s laughter
  turned to frantic maniacal grunts. Whatever had
  possessed him, he wanted nothing more than to
  rip her throat out.
  Finally, Liza was able to smash her elbow into
  Emigesh’s nose. It made a satisfying crunch and
  blood spurted readily. As her attacker wailed, Liza
  used the brief respite to open the door and tumble
  out of the car. Back on her feet, her rage took over.
  She reached into the car, ignoring Emigesh’s re-
  newed swipes, and dragged him out by the hair. He
  lunged at her again, but Liza blocked him. She let
  loose her fury and gouged at his eyes, one claw strik-
  ing true down through an eyelid. The violence of
  
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  136
  the blow wrenched the eyeball out of the socket
  with an audible pop.
  Emigesh screamed and stumbled backward,
  bumping into the car. He cupped his hands over
  his face, cradling the dangling eye.
  Liza stood ready to pounce, to finish the job.
  Aaron, dumbfounded, was climbing out of the back
  seat. Liza eyed him warily. She flexed her claws in
  anticipation, her reflexive instincts primed.
  The brief distraction gave Emigesh the room he
  needed, but he had no more stomach for the fight.
  He slipped around the front end of the car and was
  off across the parking garage.
  Liza wanted to take after him, to drag him down
  and finish shredding his face until there was noth-
  ing left but bone and strips of flesh, but she wasn’t
  about to turn her back on Aaron. Where did he
  stand?
  As Emigesh’s echoing footsteps vanished into the
  night, Aaron looked back wide-eyed at Liza. He
  held his hands up in the air. “Don’t look at me!”
  he cried in alarm.
  They stood there for maybe a full minute facing
  one another, Liza slowly growing calmer. Aaron
  lowered his hands. “What the hell was that?” he
  wondered.
  Liza didn’t answer. She was still controlling her
  temper, forcing herself not to rip Aaron apart,
  whether he had anything to do with Emigesh’s at-
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  tack or not. Then, at the same instant, they both
  remembered Jolanda.
  She was leaning against the door, her head hang-
  ing limply out the open window. Her eyes were
  open, and though her neck was obviously broken,
  she was conscious. This was hell for a vampire. She
  made a thick gurgling sound as she tried to swal-
  low the blood in her mouth, and her left arm
  twitched spasmodically.
  She would heal. But it would take time and
  blood. Lots of blood. And this, Liza realized glanc-
  ing around the garage after the noise of the fight,
  was not the place. As Sabbat, she revelled in a good
  gory fight, and the anarchs didn’t mind pushing the
  Masquerade to the edge, but there was no point
  attracting too much mortal attention, and if the
  police got involved, it could get ugly.
  She got in the car. They had already ripped off
  the cover of the steering column and it would only
  take a minute to hotwire the beamer. “You comin’?”
  she asked Aaron as she worked. For an answer, he
  hopped into the back seat.
  For the moment, thankfully, Liza’s hunger was
  forgotten. The car roared to life, but she was too
  busy planning her next move to be gratified. She
  would take Jolanda to a safe place. They had sev-
  eral abandoned houses they holed up in at different
  times. And there was blood in the trunk—the se-
  curity guard, who was again banging around,
  
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  138
  alarmed that the car was running.
  As they pulled away and Jolanda’s head bobbed
  up and down on the door frame, the face burned
  into the dash smiled happily at her. Liza hoped to
  catch sight of Emigesh. Her head was full of the
  unpleasant things she would do to him. Aaron sat
  hunched in the back, wondering what was going
  on, trying to stay out of the way.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  SIX
  Nothing changed.
  No matter how many hours, how many nights,
  Owain stared at the chess board, no messianic flash
  of inspiration came to him. There was no spectacu-
  lar move to resurrect the game. There was no hope.
  He awoke in the evening cursing Harold Godwin
  and his queen. At least, Owain mused, after all
  these years there was someone new to curse. He
  thought of how his opponent must be gloating and
  tried to steel himself to go ahead and concede
  rather prolonging the humiliation. Owain could
  take decades for his next turn, of course, but what
  would be the point? He could end it all with a brief
  message and start fresh. But the thought of con-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  140
  ceding galled him almost as much as the idea of
  being beaten. He’d been beaten too many times
  over the centuries—in love, in politics—yet he
  survived, a claim most of those who had bested him
  could not make. Is survival worth losing? Owain
  wondered, not sure of the answer, considering what
  his nightly existence had become.
  He felt trapped in his own home but could not
  muster the energy to leave, to hunt, to plot. What
  is a Kindred worth who does not hunt or scheme?
  Owain should have exacted some sense of satisfac-
  tion from the news that Justice Chamberlain had
  approved the zoning ordinance that Owain had
  spoken to Benjamin about, but he felt nothing. He
  thought of defeated Benjamin and then asked him-
  self the question from the vantage point as victor.
  Is survival worth losing? What would Benjamin say
  to this? How would he respond to such injury and
  insult, to the threat Owain had carelessly thrown
  at him? Would the younger vampire nurse his ha-
  tred or come after Owain? The young often acted
  rashly—witness the anarch’s display at the exhibit
  last week. That, Owain thought, is why they do not
  survive to be old. Again, it was pride versus survival.
  The sound of a car entering the half-mile drive-
  way caught Owain’s attention. No need to tell
  Randal; Arden would have alerted him by now.
  Owain’s gaze wandered back to the chess board. He
  was sick of the sight of it. Not bored—he knew he
  
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  might relive this ritual night after night for the next
  several years—but filled with a masochistic fasci-
  nation, like prodding an open sore over and over
  that would long ago have scabbed over left to it-
  self.
  As Owain brooded, the minutes ran together
  until Randal was knocking at the study door.
  “Sir, Mr. Bowman to see you.”
  Mr. Bowman. Owain sighed. Albert Bowman.
  Acquaintance of many years. Madman. What
  could have possessed the Malkavian, Owain won-
  dered, to have climbed atop the prince’s sculpture,
  naked, no less? Might as well ask birds why they
  sing, or lovers why they care. Yet Albert lived from
  one catastrophic stunt to the next. That, Owain
  noted, was a display of power and influence in its
  own right. There was at least one fool the prince
  would suffer.
  Randal opened the door and ushered in Albert.
  An improbable number of chains dangled from his
  leather jacket and clinked together—an interest-
  ing contrast to the red, white, and blue plaid slacks
  he wore. His bushy beard, just long enough to tuck
  into his pants when he wanted to, was tangled in
  the chains, but Albert didn’t seem to mind. He was
  more concerned with the bundle he held under his
  arm as he stood bow-legged just inside the room,
  watching Randal suspiciously until the servant
  closed the door.
  
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  142
  “Good evening, Albert.”
  Slowly and carefully, Albert began a circuit of
  the room, checking behind each piece of furniture,
  behind the drapes, all the while clutching his
  roughly basketballsized package wrapped in brown
  grocery bag and masking tape. Without a word, he
  made his way around the study, looking for…what-
  ever it was that he was looking for. Owain watched
  patiently until Albert was satisfied. Finally, the
  Malkavian nodded greeting. “Owain.”
  Albert was the Kindred in Atlanta whom Owain
  had known longer than any other. They had met
  in the eighteenth century in Spain and spent vary-
  ing amounts of time together since then, a fact that,
  at Owain’s suggestion, they had decided to keep
  secret when Albert came to the States in the for-
  ties. In that three hundred or so year period, Owain
  had grown somewhat accustomed to the
  Malkavian’s antics, but still the specifics, like
  “Albert’s Ride” at the exhibit, and the fact that
  Albert managed to survive his own mischief, never
  ceased to amaze.
  Albert continued to warily survey the room, as
  if he expected some undiscovered danger to leap
  out at him at any moment. “And how are you to-
  night?” Owain asked.
  Albert ignored the question and, craning his
  neck to see all about, quickly shuffled over to
  Owain. “I can’t stay long,” he whispered urgently.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  “Do you have some place safe that you can keep…”
  he paused and looked around again, “this?” He pat-
  ted the bundle under his arm.
  The size of the package and its rather hasty wrap-
  ping gave very little clue as to what it might be,
  and Owain knew from experience that, with Albert
  involved, the possibilities stretched well beyond
  the likely or the rational. “What is that, Albert?”
  Owain asked, as a master might ask a pet that had
  offered a small creature, gnawed upon and uniden-
  tifiable, as a gift.
  The question caught Albert off guard somehow.
  “It’s…it’s…” he struggled for the right word, “se-
  cret.” Obviously he couldn’t tell Owain, or it would
  cease to be secret.
  “Ah. Indeed.” Owain held his chin in his hand.
  “Is it…dangerous?”
  Again Albert ignored Owain’s question. “Can
  you keep it? Can you keep it safe?” he hissed.
  Owain wished he knew what was in the bundle,
  what exactly was so important to Albert. Probably
  it was completely innocent. But then again, Albert
  had a way of perpetrating acts, the consequences
  of which tended to pass him by but then envel-
  oped whomever was unlucky enough to be left in
  his wake. Owain remembered one time in Spain
  when Albert had become infatuated with a young
  shepherd, and to gain the young man’s attention
  had disguised himself as…
  
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  144
  “Owain, will you keep it?” Albert stood there, all
  solemnity, like a small child who desperately
  needed to be excused to the bathroom.
  Owain covered his eyes. “Yes, Albert.” He
  couldn’t believe he was saying it. “I will keep it.”
  Owain could only tell that Albert was smiling
  under that massive beard by noticing that the deep
  wrinkles on the Malkavian’s forehead had changed
  directions. For the first time since arriving, Albert
  spoke in a normal tone of voice. “Well, that’s cer-
  tainly a load off my mind.” He was quite cheerful
  and unconcerned now as he winked at Owain and
  then thrust the package forward at him. Owain
  hastily accepted the bundle, almost in self-defense.
  He felt there was something else he should ask
  Albert, but the Malkavian was already halfway out
  the door and calling back over his shoulder, “I must
  go. I must go. Places to see; people to be.” He
  stopped for just a second, cocked his head and
  scratched his beard, realizing that something he’d
  said wasn’t quite right, but then he shrugged and
  continued on.
  Though the room was in perfect order, Owain,
  standing by his desk holding a sloppily wrapped
  mysterious package, couldn’t help feeling a bit as
  if a whirlwind had just blown through. He looked
  down at the whatever it was he held in his hands.
  Sometimes he wondered if it was worth it, dealing
  with Albert. The Malkavian kept company with
  
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  the prince’s childe Roger, and Benison himself
  seemed to exercise a strange tolerance for Albert,
  his clansman. Perhaps having another Malkavian
  around, and one that was obviously insane, lent an
  extra air of stability to the prince. It was only an
  air of stability, Owain knew. The prince’s temper
  was ever cocked with a hair trigger, and that didn’t
  even begin to address his frequent conversations
  with nonexistent partners, conversations that other
  Atlanta Kindred wisely never seemed to notice.
  At any rate, with his regular proximity to Roger
  and Benison, Albert was a good source of informa-
  tion, facts that the prince would not otherwise have
  revealed, even to a trusted advisor.
  Owain looked down at the package again. Albert
  hadn’t said anything about not unwrapping it, so
  there was no way opening it could be construed as
  a violation of their agreement. Owain had said only
  that he would “keep it,” with the implied qualifi-
  cation that he would keep it safe. And knowing
  what was in the bundle could very well enable him
  to more effectively keep it safe. Hell, Owain
  thought, it might need to go in the refrigerator. He
  tested its weight. Not too heavy for its size. Hmm.
  Too large to be a human head, he thought, unless
  there’s a lot of padding around it.
  Owain began to pick carefully at the masking
  tape and brown grocery bag wrapping. He thought
  briefly about summoning Randal and having him
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  146
  open the package, but why risk an efficient ghoul?
  So much bother to break in another.
  As Owain peeled the paper away, he found a sec-
  ond layer of wrapping, this one of torn rags, old
  T-shirts, and what seemed to be at least three rolls
  of tape. Neither Owain, nor anyone else, could ever
  take this all apart and put it back together the same
  way. Perhaps there was a method to Albert’s mad-
  ness. Perhaps, but Owain was doubtful.
  Finally, the last rags fell away and the mystery
  object sat exposed on Owain’s desk. Owain took a
  step back, not sure at first if maybe his eyes were
  playing tricks on him. It was nothing he would
  have guessed or even remotely considered. Against
  his better judgment, Owain slowly reached out and
  touched the white ceramic armadillo. It was prob-
  ably about actual size and, as far as Owain knew,
  seemed to be a reasonable likeness—pointed snout,
  small ears, ridged shell. Owain shook his head. He
  tapped the armadillo. Only a hollow clink. He
  shook it. Nothing.
  Owain stepped back again and massaged the
  bridge of his nose. “Randal,” he called.
  The dutiful servant appeared in less than a
  minute. “Sir?”
  “Will that,” Owain lifted a finger to point at the
  armadillo, “fit in the safe?”
  Randal looked at the armadillo, then back at
  Owain. “That, sir?”
  
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  “Yes. That.”
  Randal looked at the armadillo again and at
  Owain again. “In the safe?”
  “Yes. In the safe.”
  Randal looked at the armadillo for a long mo-
  ment. “I…believe so.”
  “Good.” Owain returned to his chess board. “See
  to it.”
  For another long moment, Randal stood in the
  doorway staring at the armadillo. Eventually he
  resigned himself to following the instructions. “Yes,
  sir. In the safe.” He picked up the armadillo and,
  keeping it at arm’s length, inspected it all over.
  Then, still keeping it at arm’s length, he took it
  away.
  “Do you have to slam the door?” Roger asked ir-
  ritably. Albert never closed any door without
  slamming it. But Roger’s Pacer couldn’t take too
  much rough treatment if he wanted it to last. Then
  again, he could always steal another car. Albert had
  not yet slammed the car door, but there was no
  question in Roger’s mind that his friend would slam
  it, as soon as he came out of Evans’ house. His freak-
  ing mansion. Roger was practicing. He wanted to
  convey the proper degree of indignation without
  sounding pissy. Albert needed to know that Roger
  didn’t appreciate having his car door slammed.
  
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  Albert needed to learn some respect for other
  people’s property. Just because he was a vampire
  didn’t mean he could go around tearing up other
  people’s stuff and slamming people’s car doors
  whenever he wanted.
  But, Roger worried, how much anger was too
  much? What if Albert got angry right back and told
  Roger to piss off? What if Albert flew into a vio-
  lent rage and slammed the door even harder, and
  broke off the antenna, and kicked out the head-
  lights? What if Albert never spoke to him again?
  It could happen.
  Roger felt another panic attack coming on. His
  heart started beating. It wasn’t supposed to do that.
  He’d never heard of another vampire’s heart beat-
  ing, but then again, he’d never had the nerve to
  ask anyone about it. He’d been too afraid that
  whomever he asked would think something was
  wrong with him. Maybe something was wrong with
  him. It wasn’t like he could go see a vampire doc-
  tor and ask why his heart was beating. Roger took
  a deep breath, concentrated on stopping his heart
  from beating. An alarming thought shot through
  his mind. What if I’m not really a vampire? What if
  I’m still mortal and just think I’m a vampire? Of
  course, it would be difficult to account for the fact
  that the majority of the time his heart was not beat-
  ing, and that for the past twenty-five years he’d had
  no nourishment except for human blood.
  
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  Caught unaware, Roger jumped and shrieked as
  Albert jerked open the passenger door. Somehow,
  Roger managed to smash his finger between his
  knee and the steering column of the little Pacer
  and yelled again. Albert dropped into the seat so
  hard that the entire car bounced up and down.
  Then he reached over and pulled the door shut
  forcefully enough to rattle the windows. The rear-
  view mirror crashed to the dashboard.
  Roger’s heart started beating more quickly. His
  hand was trembling with rage as he picked up the
  cracked mirror.
  Albert looked at the mirror. “Damn. Another
  seven years in the shit.”
  Roger wanted to scream, wanted to rattle off ev-
  erything he’d been practicing mere moments
  before. But he couldn’t. What if he offended
  Albert?
  Albert stuffed both hands into his bush of a beard
  and began scratching his chin. “One down, one to
  go. Let’s hit the road!”
  Roger turned the key and cringed at the horrible
  screeching sound. In his agitation, he’d forgotten
  the car was already idling. He only stalled once
  starting down the driveway. “Damned clutch needs
  work.”
  As the car jerked and shuddered along, Albert
  was struggling to get a map that was jammed into
  his pocket. The map was a wadded-up collection
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  150
  of wrinkles and tears. “Turn left!” Albert yelled sud-
  denly as they reached the street. Roger was so
  startled that he obeyed immediately, cutting across
  the oncoming line of early evening traffic. Horns
  blared. Tires screeched. Unheard curses were ut-
  tered. “Left again!” Albert shouted. Again, another
  ill-advised turn across traffic.
  “Stop that, you crazy bastard!” Roger shouted
  back, so rattled that he almost swerved over the
  center line and created a head-on collision with-
  out any extra help from Albert.
  Albert looked saddened all of a sudden. “You
  called me…crazy.”
  Roger was speechless. He had called Albert crazy,
  and though it was true, some Malkavians were sen-
  sitive about that kind of thing. “I…I…”
  Albert buried his face in the map and sobbed,
  loud, spastic moans that wracked his body.
  Roger was mortified. He had finally done it. His
  temper had caused him to step over that fine line,
  and he had alienated his only true friend. Albert
  was the one comfort in Roger’s unlife as the prince’s
  childe. But all that would end now. Roger kept
  worriedly glancing over at his distraught, possibly
  emotionally scarred, passenger. Such a fragile soul
  under that rugged beard, Roger thought.
  “Albert…Albert, I don’t know what to say.”
  Albert, red-eyed, looked up from his increasingly
  rumpled map, snot running from his nose into his
  
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  beard. “Say? Say!” he bellowed. Then, instantly, his
  expression transformed and became completely
  neutral. “Say,” he asked mildly, “did you know that
  three out of four dentists surveyed think that that
  fourth dentist is a stupid son of a bitch?”
  Roger stared dumbfounded, his guilt and his an-
  ger mingling in a jumbled hodge-podge of emotion.
  Albert nonchalantly reached over and jerked the
  steering wheel, averting another potential collision.
  “Are you sure you’ve driven one of these before?”
  he asked.
  Roger felt numb. He had exhausted his capacity
  for being upset over the past half hour, and merely
  stared ahead and drove. He couldn’t deal with
  Albert any more at the moment. Other things were
  more important. “Are we about there?”
  “Oh, yes,” Albert assured him, rustling through
  the remains of his tattered map. He found the spot
  he needed. “Only about forty-five minutes to go.”
  “What? Forty-five minutes?” Roger thought he
  must have heard wrong. “We were only fifteen min-
  utes away when we were at Evans’ house. How can
  it be forty-five minutes?”
  “Short cut.” Albert grinned. “Forty-five minutes
  and we’ll be in Salisbury.”
  “What?” Roger snatched the map out of Albert’s
  hands and tried to make some kind of sense of it
  without straying into the other lane yet again.
  “This is a map of England!”
  
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  “Nobody else could get you to Salisbury in forty-
  five minutes. Betcha.”
  Roger took a deep calming breath. “Albert?”
  “Uh-huh?”
  “Do you ever feel like your heart starts beating?”
  Albert, head cocked, glanced over at Roger.
  “Never mind.” Roger turned the car around and
  retraced their route, all the while berating himself
  for thinking that Albert might know where he was
  going. They passed the driveway to Owain Evans’
  estate and continued back toward downtown.
  Roger tried to ignore Albert, who was playing with
  the radio, changing stations and trying to knit the
  snippets of songs into one cohesive tune. Shortly,
  the skyline loomed ahead. Atlanta was not the
  huge conglomerate of construction and infinite
  high-rises that some cities were, but it seemed eerily
  large to Roger. Most of the skyscrapers had popped
  up in the past ten to fifteen years, but he still knew
  his way around, as long as he didn’t listen to Albert.
  There were plenty of parking spaces across the
  street from Peachtree Gardens. Most visitors to the
  nursing home came a good deal earlier in the day.
  Roger turned to Albert. “Okay. Give me an hour.”
  He almost added, And don’t get in trouble, but there
  was no point.
   Roger placed his card key on the metal plate and
  the front doors of Peachtree Gardens slid open.
  Mostly, being the childe of the prince was a head-
  
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  ache, but it did have a way of smoothing over some
  difficulties. Visitors were not allowed at this late
  hour, but Benison had his influence in the mortal
  world and had arranged certain accomodations for
  Roger.
  Roger strode past the night attendant who had
  standing orders never to mention these late-night
  visits. Roger had no idea what the explanation
  given to the attendant was—perhaps that the resi-
  dent was part of the federal witness relocation
  program—but undoubtedly it was a fabrication.
  Roger made a point of staying out of sight of the
  other employees. No sense in making more people
  curious. He reached room 256 and paused outside
  the door. This could be the night. Roger eased the
  door open.
  Tabatha Greene was resting quietly. She was al-
  ways resting quietly. Every night Roger came to her
  bedside hoping that she might have regained full
  consciousness, and every night she was resting qui-
  etly. Her skin hung loosely on her body, the only
  movement the rise and fall of her steady breath-
  ing. Roger pulled a chair to the bed and took her
  small gaunt hand in his.
  “Hello, Mama.” He should have gotten used to
  seeing her like this by now, Roger always told him-
  self. After nearly twenty-five years, he shouldn’t
  have felt that lump in his throat, shouldn’t have
  had to force the words out. “I hope you’re doing
  
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  well tonight. There’s not too much going on with
  me. Prince Benison is still angry at my friend
  Albert, so we’re trying to stay out of trouble. At
  least I’m trying to stay out of trouble.” Roger sat
  for some time stroking her hand, telling himself
  that she could open her eyes any second, that she
  had heard every word he’d spoken to her over the
  years, that she would be proud of him.
  That last was the most difficult to believe. Roger
  had never been able to hide anything from his
  mother. He’d come home from Vietnam a hero, at
  least as much of a hero as anyone could be from
  that conflict, and it had been that combat prow-
  ess that had attracted Benison to him. After Roger
  had been Embraced and become a vampire, it had
  been another secret that he couldn’t keep from her.
  And it had been too much for her. Though she was
  only forty years old, his mother’s stroke had been
  brought on by the realization of what her son had
  become. Roger was determined to make it up to
  her. The determination that had made him a hero
  was now directed toward seeing that his mother
  recovered, that she regained the life he had caused
  her to miss.
  It’s only a matter of time, Roger told himself, low-
  ering his head to the sheets, trying to hold back
  the tears of blood. “I will make it up to you, Mama.”
  Roger couldn’t imagine existence without her. If
  she regained consciousness…when she regained
  
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  consciousness, even for a second, he would take her
  frail body in his arms and Embrace her, and then
  she would be with him forever. Nothing would
  stand in the way of that plan—not the Third Tra-
  dition prohibiting creation of progeny without
  permission of one’s elder, not the blood bond which
  held Roger to Benison’s will. This, Roger knew, was
  too powerful a need. Certainly Benison of all Kin-
  dred, with his notorious doting on Aunt Bedelia,
  would understand and acquiesce. Roger was will-
  ing to take that chance. He was willing to take any
  chance for his mother.
  But for now, she was not conscious. The situa-
  tion of twenty-five years had not changed, so Roger
  must ensure, at the least, that it did not change
  for the worse. As he had so many other nights,
  Roger dug into his right index finger with his
  thumbnail until a bead of blood welled up. Slowly,
  carefully, so as not to stain her bed clothes with a
  drop of crimson, he raised his finger to his mother’s
  lips. The vampiric blood dribbled in between dry,
  cracked lips and she swallowed.
  “I will make it up to you, Mama,” Roger whis-
  pered. He gently caressed her face, then washed the
  bloody tears from his own face before rejoining
  Albert.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  156
  The bouncer at the door waved Liza through. She
  was a regular face at Nine Tails. No need for her to
  show ID or pay the cover. The bouncer was so used
  to seeing her that he didn’t notice how ashen her
  complexion was, or the bloody rag she carried and
  frequently used to wipe sweat from her face. Liza
  stumbled through the front door, unable to avoid
  jostling several people and spilling their drinks. She
  usually liked it here at Nine Tails with the techno
  music blaring and the smell of blood in the air. The
  mortal S&M crowd was laughable—their chains
  and piercings and tough looks. Over the past couple
  of years, Liza had shown several of them what real
  sadism was, and in the end, none of them had been
  able to take it. None of them really lived for it like
  she did. Poseurs, every one, they had begged for
  mercy. Begged and received none.
  There were also the beautiful people—the grungy
  frat boys and shiny daddy’s girls who came to watch
  their twisted counterparts and, if they were really
  daring, to pay five dollars to be whipped by one of
  the dominatrices on the Nine Tails payroll.
  They were all background for Liza, background
  and meat. She came because Nine Tails was a ma-
  jor anarch hangout, stomping ground for the
  vampires who took orders from no one, who ac-
  knowledged the influence but not the authority of
  the Camarilla. The Camarilla, Prince Benison and
  all his ilk, ignored the insolence of the anarchs be-
  
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  cause centuries ago there had been a war with the
  anarchs, and now the Camarilla had no other
  choice. A population of young rebellious vampires
  full of animosity toward the Camarilla was a breed-
  ing ground for the Sabbat, and Liza had enlisted a
  couple of recruits over the past year.
  Tonight, however, Liza had come to Nine Tails
  because she needed help. She had nowhere else to
  turn. The crowd parted before her as more and
  more people realized that she was having trouble
  standing. She stumbled past the bar and out onto
  the dance floor, squinting, blinking, trying to clear
  her blurred vision. All around her, young drunken
  mortals danced. The swirling bodies and the
  pounding music closed in. Liza could smell blood
  as it coursed through each of the vibrant mortals,
  and the hunger was tearing away at her from
  within. She latched onto a muscled young man
  who’d taken off his shirt, gave up trying to hold
  herself up as her face drooped toward the veins that
  bulged in his forearm. The Beast was rising, the
  hunger overpowering. It was all she could do to
  summon the strength to open her mouth. Her fangs
  slid down into place….
  Someone was pulling Liza away from the luscious
  veins, denying her the nourishment she so desper-
  ately required. She couldn’t lift her head, couldn’t
  summon the energy to curse at whomever had hold
  of her.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  A door opened and closed. Fresh air. The music
  was farther away now, though Liza could still feel
  the pounding of the bass through the wall. The
  wall. She was leaning against it. She was outside
  the club, her vision clearing somewhat, enough
  that she could see Aaron standing before her, help-
  ing hold her upright.
  “Liza, are you okay?” Aaron, shorter than Liza,
  was looking up at her, his long ponytail tucked over
  his right shoulder. “Liza?”
  Her head was clearing. They were in the alley
  beside the club. The smell of so much mortal blood
  was distant, but Liza could not put it out of her
  mind. She focused her gaze on Aaron. Vampiric
  vitæ was more potent, more satisfying than mortal
  blood. Surely he could spare a little. If he only knew
  how hungry she was.
  “Did you hear about Emigesh?” Aaron asked, not
  aware of the growing danger he was in. “He showed
  up Wednesday night down at Little Five Points.
  He attacked a group of mortals!” Aaron paused to
  allow the immensity of what he was saying to sink
  in, but Liza was only half listening. She was too
  busy fighting the hunger, trying to keep the Beast
  at bay. “Of course, the prince was furious,” Aaron
  continued. “He called in Xavier Kline. Last night,
  Emigesh was staked out and left for the sun.”
  Slowly, the words began to sink in. Emigesh was
  destroyed. Liza didn’t have the energy to feel satis-
  
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  fied or angry or sad or anything. She would’ve
  killed him if she’d caught him, but the prince’s one-
  man brute squad had taken care of that. And then
  there was Jolanda. Normally, vampires could re-
  cover from most injuries. For some reason, though,
  even fed the blood of five mortals over the course
  of three nights, Jolanda had wasted away. Her neck
  had not healed, and she had moaned horribly from
  hunger, which had made Liza even hungrier, if that
  was possible. Finally, the moaning had stopped.
  Liza hadn’t done anything with the body. In the
  five intervening nights and days it had probably
  deteriorated beyond recognition. Liza didn’t know.
  She’d had to get away. Her hunger had grown so
  acute that she’d had to leave or else fall upon the
  stagnant blood seeping from Jolanda’s broken body.
  That same hunger had grown more intense and
  more painful until now Liza felt as if her insides
  were on fire.
   “Can you believe it?” Aaron asked. “Emigesh
  just snapped.”
  From growing desperation and all-consuming
  hunger, Liza found the strength that had been
  draining away for the past few weeks. In one sud-
  den motion, she pulled Aaron to her and wrenched
  his head back to the side. He called out in surprise
  and pain, but Liza was already tearing into his ex-
  posed neck.
  Muscles and tendons ripped. Blood flowed into
  
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  Liza’s mouth. She swallowed greedily, sucked
  harder, needed more. In her need, she was over-
  powering. Aaron could not free his arms from
  where she had them pinned at his sides. Gradu-
  ally, he let go of the shock and the pain as he
  became lost in the rapture of the kiss. His rhyth-
  mic moans kept time with each mouthful of blood
  that Liza drew.
  She could not stop. As the blood flowed and she
  felt it course into her body, Liza wanted more. And
  more. She let go of his neck and tore into his shoul-
  der. Blood splattered down her front. She gulped
  down chunks of flesh in her frenzy.
  Aaron’s moans died away. He was wracked by
  muscular spasms, but then these too ceased. His
  body was hanging limply in Liza’s iron girp. Still
  she could not help herself. She bit into other parts
  of his body—arms, legs, chest—searching for any
  pocket of blood that might have eluded her. Fran-
  tically, she tore at his clothes, sinking her fangs in
  again and again.
  There was no more blood, but still Liza hungered!
  Kneeling by his corpse, driven by frustration, she
  raised her face to the sky and screamed. Never had
  the hunger affected her this way. She was aware
  again of the music pounding on the other side of
  the wall behind her. Nine Tails. She could feed
  more inside. Damn the Masquerade! The Masquer-
  ade didn’t account for pain like this.
  
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  But as suddenly as it had come, the strength of
  frenzy was gone. Liza was powerless to rise to her
  feet. Frantic but too weak to do otherwise, she
  slumped atop the mangled body.
  Liza whimpered. She struggled to raise a hand
  to her face. Her nose was bleeding. And so were
  her eyes. She could see only red darkness. As she
  felt blood seeping from all parts of her body, the
  last sensation Liza knew was hunger.
  Eleanor was always frustrated trying to lay a
  proper spread for the weekly bridge nights. There
  were only so many blood jams, blood pralines, and
  blood teas that one could prepare. But, ever the
  dutiful hostess, she persevered. And regardless of
  the lack of creativity of the refreshments, Rhodes
  Hall itself was always immaculate. Never a single
  cobweb in any corner, not a speck of dust on the
  lace draperies or any window sill. Not that Bedelia,
  Marlene, or Hannah had ever complained—or of-
  fered to provide refreshments, for that matter. Not
  once.
  “I bid four spades,” crowed Aunt Bedelia.
  Eleanor smiled to hide a sigh. To make the
  evening a complete waste, it was her turn to be
  Bedelia’s partner. The old prune of a woman was
  such an erratic player, and so often asleep, that the
  game was pointless as often as not. Hannah at least
  
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  knew her cards, even if she was totally asocial and
  tight-mouthed to the point of catatonia. But even
  that was preferable to Marlene. The idiot. She
  prattled on about God only knew what and God
  only cared. And she was a better conversationalist
  than bridge partner.
  Even so, it only took Marlene and Hannah a few
  minutes to run away with that hand. Bedelia hadn’t
  even played spades. Eleanor despaired of what Kin-
  dred high society had become. She would have
  preferred to spend the evening with Benison and
  debate politics. Anything would have been more
  engaging than this. But appearances needed to be
  maintained, and as the prince’s wife, she unfortu-
  nately was the one to maintain them.
  Marlene paused from her mindless chatter long
  enough to bid. “Two diamonds. Bedelia, dear, are
  you with us?” The prince’s decrepit sire was qui-
  etly snoring. Again. Eleanor disguised another sigh.
  It would be rude to go out of their way to wake
  Bedelia, so there was little recourse except to lis-
  ten to Marlene’s drivel. “And you know,” Marlene
  continued, “even after the prince went to all that
  trouble to exhibit my art at the museum, there were
  a few folks who didn’t bother to show up. Can you
  believe it?”
  Eleanor almost envied Bedelia her age and ec-
  centricity which allowed her to drift off whenever
  she pleased and completely ignore Marlene.
  
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  “I don’t recall,” Marlene ticked off on her fin-
  gers, “seeing Xavier Kline or Owain Evans.”
  “Evans was there,” Hannah stated curtly.
  “Yes. Hannah is right,” Eleanor agreed. “I’m not
  surprised that Xavier doesn’t have time to appre-
  ciate…art.” She managed to smile sweetly at
  Marlene while calling those metal monstrosities
  art. “He probably had some children to frighten or
  kittens to dismember.” Marlene tittered approv-
  ingly at Eleanor’s sarcasm. “But Hannah is right
  that Evans was there.” Eleanor was all too aware
  that Owain Evans was there. He was always skulk-
  ing around in the background, watching everything
  like a vulture over a battlefield. And Benjamin had
  told Eleanor about the threat. Her face reddened
  at the very thought. Surely Owain realized that
  such a threat would anger her. Perhaps the upstart
  Ventrue needed to be put back in his place, advi-
  sor to Benison or not. Eleanor was the prince’s wife.
  “He was there.”
  “Oh?” Marlene looked puzzled. Not an uncom-
  mon achievement, Eleanor noted.
  “Probably,” Hannah added in her same matter-
  of-fact tone, “you were distracted by Bowman’s
  romp on your sculpture.”
  At the mention of the incident, Marlene’s cheeks
  flushed visibly, even beneath the over-done makeup
  she habitually wore. She tried to speak but was so
  flustered she couldn’t achieve more than a stutter.
  
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  164
  Aunt Bedelia chose this moment to return to lu-
  cidity and piped in as well. “Albert Bowman? Little
  Albert with the big beard? What a nice boy, and
  dear Roger’s friend.”
  Marlene was dumbfounded at this. Already em-
  barrassed that the entire affair was a topic of
  discussion, Marlene was now unable even to criti-
  cize Albert who had brought her such grief. All of
  these ladies, the harpies of Kindred society in At-
  lanta, knew that although Bedelia was something
  of the free spirit, to put it delicately, she was the
  prince’s sire and the voice he listened to most
  closely. No one directly contradicted her. So if she
  said Albert Bowman was a nice boy, Albert was,
  at least within the confines of the bridge game, the
  nicest of boys.
  Not wishing to weep in front of the other ladies,
  Marlene quickly excused herself. As suddenly as
  Bedelia had tuned in, she seemed to have nodded
  off once again. Eleanor looked across the table at
  stodgy Hannah, the Tremere chantry leader who
  seldom spoke. When she did, however, the words
  struck to the heart like a poisoned dagger, and for
  the first time that evening, Eleanor’s smile was
  genuine.
  “I have heard,” offered Hannah, unusually con-
  versational, “that Xavier Kline has been busy in
  recent days as well.” Eleanor raised her eyebrows
  inquisitively, although she knew exactly what the
  
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  Tremere regent was talking about. “There has been
  a noticeable increase in the…” Hannah paused as
  if searching for the correct word, but Eleanor was
  certain this conversation had been scripted well in
  advance. “…in the lawlessness of Kindred in the
  city these past few weeks.”
  Eleanor shrugged noncommittally and sipped her
  tea. “Anarchs and neonates,” she tsked. “They do
  cause so much trouble.”
  Hannah smiled politely. This was a night for rari-
  ties, Eleanor noted. “We have even had trouble
  within the chantry,” Hannah added. “Several neo-
  nates were…disciplined.” Now it was Eleanor’s turn
  to smile sympathetically. Hannah fidgeted some-
  what, not comfortable with such extended social
  interaction. “Perhaps I should check on Marlene.”
  The tall, slender Tremere excused herself, termi-
  nating the conversation as gracefully as she was
  able.
  Eleanor, left only with the dozing Bedelia,
  laughed to herself. That was as much talk in one
  evening as she had heard from Hannah in a whole
  month previously. What led the regent to such gre-
  gariousness? And to volunteer information about
  problems within the chantry to an outsider—that
  was not typical of any Tremere, not even the most
  talkative, among whom Hannah did not number.
  There had been an increase in more than just
  lawlessness, as Hannah put it, among the Cainites
  
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  in the past few weeks. There were vampires going
  insane, attacking mortals in public, attacking one
  another without provocation, breaking the Mas-
  querade in ways that left Benison little choice in
  how to deal with them. That’s why he’d sent Xavier
  Kline after that maniac anarch. Neonates had been
  disciplined, Hannah had said. Destroyed, more likely,
  Eleanor was sure. It was too bizare for coincidence.
  There was some connecting thread running
  through it all. Sabbat plot? Was an invasion im-
  minent?
  Or did these goings on smell more of Tremere
  treachery, Eleanor wondered. But then that must
  be why Hannah had broached the subject. She
  knew that Eleanor, and by extension Benison even-
  tually, would suspect the Tremere and so she hinted
  that the Tremere too were suffering from…what-
  ever affliction was causing Kindred to heedlessly
  violate the most sacred of the Traditions. Of course
  there was an ulterior motive behind Hannah’s
  seemingly off-hand comments. She was Tremere,
  after all.
  Eleanor sat back and sipped her tea. Bension had
  been strangely distant since this trouble had started.
  It wasn’t like him. She decided, as Bedelia snored
  daintily, to speak to her husband the prince about
  this matter.
  
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  SEVEN
  Owain could see the castle ahead through the
  branches. The whitewashed walls sparkled in the
  moonlight. The prince would be pleased that
  Owain had responded so promptly to the summons.
  How long had it been, Owain tried to remember,
  since he had seen Prince…Prince Benison.
  The wind shifted slightly. Owain stopped and
  took a hard look around. What’s going on? he won-
  dered. He was in Atlanta, in Grant Park, not in
  the hills of France. And the rounded white struc-
  ture ahead was the Cyclorama, not a medieval
  castle. Owain shook his head trying to clear his
  thoughts. What had come over him? It had been
  at least seventy-five years since he’d even set foot
  
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  in Europe. But why was he in the park?
  The summons—that much was real. The passen-
  ger pigeon had arrived at his house only hours ago.
  Most of the world believed passenger pigeons ex-
  tinct, which was true of the variety mortals were
  aware of, but the prince had kept and bred his own
  since the American Civil War, or the “War Be-
  tween the States,” as he called it in his generous
  moods. If he was brooding or angry, it was the “War
  of Northern Aggression,” or the “Second Ameri-
  can Revolution.” At any rate, he fed his pigeons
  on his own vampiric vitæ, creating a reliable breed
  of ghoul messengers. Benison often bragged that
  they never failed to deliver his correspondences.
  It was true tonight, at least. The bird had deliv-
  ered the prince’s summons, so Owain had roused
  himself from his miasma of apathy, and after hasty
  preparations, he was here.
  His head clear, Owain scanned the surrounding
  area as he climbed the sweeping staircase to the
  entrance. No signs of anyone else in the park. He
  was met at the door by Vermeil, one of the prince’s
  ghouls. Like Benison, Owain favored ghoul ser-
  vants rather than creating a brood of lesser
  vampires to serve him. While an Embraced childe
  would eventually grow in power and rival his sire,
  a ghoul remained forever dependent, forever sub-
  servient. Owain looked around for Byron, Vermeil’s
  partner, but saw no sign of him, and Vermeil of-
  
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  fered no explanation. Seeing one ghoul without the
  other was like a puppet show of Punch with no
  Judy.
  “The prince is waiting inside,” Vermeil informed
  Owain in his rumbling baritone. Owain nodded.
  Apparently, just as he had secure access to the High
  Museum, the prince had arranged a means of en-
  trance at the Cyclorama as well. Not surprising.
  Owain’s own network of contacts and spies was
  perhaps more subtly placed than Benison’s, but cer-
  tainly the prince’s was more extensive.
  Owain strode through the main gallery and into
  the Cyclorama proper. He stepped up onto the seat-
  ing platform, which was making its slow rotation
  around the circular chamber. The exhibit’s sound
  was off, but the shifting illumination of the scene
  was functioning. The ceiling-high painted canvas
  was displayed in conjucntion with plaster figures
  of soldiers, wagons, bodies, scenery, and the like
  in the foreground. The various media were com-
  bined so skillfully that it was difficult at first glance,
  and sometimes at second or third, to discern where
  the painting began and the actual three-dimen-
  sional props ended. The auditorium seats, mounted
  on a large hydraulic-powered platform, rotated,
  showing the various scenes on the canvas in se-
  quence, recreating the Battle of Atlanta, the direct
  precursor to the city’s fall and subsequent burning
  in 1864.
  
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  Seated in the center of the rows of seats was
  Prince Benison, elbows propped on the seat in front
  of him, chin and auburn beard resting on his
  clasped hands. He did not avert his attention from
  the canvas. Seeing no sign of the prince’s ghoul
  assistant Horndiller, Owain approached carefully,
  slowly enough to show proper respect, yet not so
  silently that he might startle the prince if he were
  completely engrossed in the replicated carnage be-
  fore him. Benison was probably the most physically
  intimidating vampire in the city, with the possible
  exception of Xavier Kline; and though Owain was
  older and not powerless, he had no desire to sur-
  prise the prince or test his reflexes.
  Owain approached to within four seats of the
  prince and stopped. Benison, still staring straight
  ahead, spoke: “Do you ever think back to battles
  long past, Owain? Not the victories, not the glory,
  but the defeats. Wondering if you did everything
  you could have? Wondering how many men died
  because of your mistakes?”
  Owain nodded, confident the prince could sense
  his response.
  Finally Benison turned toward him. There was a
  heaviness about him, defeat weighing upon him
  like Owain had never seen before. “Do you hear
  the voices, Owain? Do they cry and scream at you
  through the day as you slumber, accusing you, call-
  ing you to account for every failure?”
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  Again, Owain nodded. “Sometimes.” The prince
  had never allowed Owain to see this side of him,
  the self-doubt, the second-guessing. Owain was not
  so naive as to interpret this as weakness the way
  many Kindred would. He knew such doubt him-
  self, but had managed to survive for hundreds of
  years. Perhaps the prince respected Owain enough
  to know that he would not make such a mistake.
  “John Hood was a good man,” said Benison, in-
  dicating the painting. “He was missing an arm and
  a leg by ‘64, but he never shirked his duty, never
  backed down in the face of adversity. There wasn’t
  a man alive, not even Bobby Lee, could have saved
  the city, not after Joe Johnston gave up the line all
  the way from Chattanooga.” Owain listened pa-
  tiently. Since the prince had not bade him sit, he
  remained standing. “At least Hood knew what he
  was up against.”
  In the prince’s emerald eyes, Owain could see the
  earlier despair washing away, replaced by smolder-
  ing rage. This was more how Owain was used to
  seeing Benison, charging headlong over any ob-
  stacle, trampling danger underfoot. Only this time
  it wasn’t so simple.
  “There’s something eating away at my city,” the
  prince almost snarled the words. “At first I thought
  it was just unrest. I have to deal with that every
  decade or two. Kindred forget which side their
  bread is buttered on. Need to be shown who’s in
  
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  charge. Especially the younger ones, mostly the
  anarchs. If it weren’t for the Justicar and the Coun-
  cil I’d clean out all the riff-raff. To some extent my
  hands are tied, but I do what I’m able.” Wildness
  was flowering in Benison’s eyes. Owain inched
  backward imperceptibly. He had seen the prince
  fly unpredictably into deadly rages. “I’m not sure
  what I’m fighting, Owain. You’ve heard about
  what’s going on, I’m sure.”
  “Somewhat.” Owain had heard about some of the
  trouble—outbursts of Kindred violence reported by
  the media as gang warfare or freakish violent crime.
  Gangs had never been a severe problem in rela-
  tively peaceful Atlanta, and from anything short
  of a bombing, the populace was slow to panic. But
  still, such behavior was unacceptable under the
  strictures of the Masquerade. Owain remembered
  days before the Masquerade, before the Camarilla
  or the Sabbat, back when in many places vampire
  lords held sway over the countryside and peasants
  huddled in their huts after sunset. Owain had been
  one of those vampire lords.
  “Seemed like just the anarchs at first,” Benison
  continued, “so I looked the other way. There were
  some fights, but nothing outside the areas I allow
  them—southside, Little Five Points, Reynolds-
  town. Then there were blatant attacks on mortals,”
  the account was stoking his anger, “and violence
  against kine and Kindred alike beyond the anarch
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  territories!” The prince slammed his fist on the seat
  he had been leaning on earlier. The hard plastic
  split from top to bottom.
  Owain inched back a a bit farther.
  “So I sent Xavier after the worst of the offend-
  ers. But it’s not just the anarchs. My respectable
  subjects have snapped as well!” Benison ripped the
  damaged chair from its base and began crushing it
  in his powerful hands.
  Owain was growing increasingly anxious over
  where this outburst might lead. When agitated, the
  prince was not known to deal with matters in the
  most…rational of manners.
  “Ebenezer’s childe Langley killed a mortal police
  officer!” Benison crumpled the seat until it cracked
  into jagged plastic fragments. He threw the remain-
  der to the floor with disgust and then tossed his
  hands up in exasperation. “Ripped his arm off and
  then smashed him beneath his own cruiser. That
  is difficult to explain away. Luckily the media took
  it for some bizare hit and run, thought he lost his
  arm in the accident.” Mauling the chair seemed to
  provide release for at least some of the prince’s fury,
  but Owain remained watchful. “Four other Kindred
  have turned up dead, shrivelled up like they’d
  starved, even though the bodies were full of blood;
  at least the bodies had been full of blood before it
  all drained out—eyes, ears, mouth, nose, anus.
  Blood everywhere. Even my ghouls, Horndiller and
  
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  Byron went delirious. Byron even tried to attack
  me, for God’s sake!”
  Owain hated to think what must have happened
  to Byron. The prince was not a cruel man, but in
  defending himself he would have dispatched Byron
  in no uncertain terms. And besides, Owain noted,
  like a dog that turns on its master, a ghoul that bites
  the hand that feeds it must be put down.
  The prince seemed to have regained his compo-
  sure to the point that Owain felt comfortable
  addressing him. “Those are more than I had heard.
  Do you have any suspicions?”
  Benison guffawed. “Suspicions I have aplenty.
  What I need are answers.” He brushed the remain-
  ing bits of plastic from his hands. “Sabbat? Some
  diabolical plan?”
  Owain considered this for a moment. His sources
  hadn’t revealed anything on that front, but all
  things considered, they might not necessarily. “Al-
  ways a possibility, but with trouble still brewing in
  Miami, it seems odd that the Sabbat would divide
  its attention.”
  “True,” the prince agreed grimly. The Sabbat, at
  least, was something he could root out. It was com-
  posed of individuals he could discover, confront
  directly, and rend limb from limb.
  Owain tried to make connections. How could
  such a madness have taken hold of vampires within
  every strata of Kindred society? “Tremere magic?”
  
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  Benison shook his head and began gnawing on
  his lower lip. “Hannah mentioned to Eleanor just
  the other evening that she’d had problems with
  some neonates as well. She wasn’t very specific, so
  I checked into it a bit, and two of the lesser chantry
  members have gone missing. I’m certain Hannah
  had them put down.”
  Put down. The same words that had run through
  Owain’s mind moments before. Kindred were, for
  some mysterious reason, going wild, like dogs. The
  Beast was taking control, and in the Camarilla
  world of the Masquerade, where vampires prided
  themselves on retaining a certain amount of their
  humanity—whether that was actually the case or
  not—such dominance of the primal Beast could
  not be tolerated. Perhaps, Owain thought, there is
  something of the smell of the Sabbat clinging to this af-
  ter all. Then a strange incongruity struck Owain.
  “How did Eleanor learn this?”
  “A passing comment from Hannah at their
  bridge game, but Eleanor suspects it was more than
  a passing comment,” Benison elaborated. “She
  thinks Hannah wanted word passed along to me
  that the Tremere were having their own problems,
  so I’d know they’re not responsible for whatever it
  is that’s happening.”
  Owain nodded agreement. “She’s most likely
  right in that.”
  The prince, seeming to notice that Owain was
  
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  still standing, and several feet away at that, mo-
  tioned to the seat next to him. “Please, sit.”
  Owain did so, leaving a seat between the prince
  and himself and hoping Benison wouldn’t notice.
  “Hannah is not one for small talk.” As Owain pon-
  dered Eleanor’s news, something bothered him
  about his fellow Ventrue’s assumption. “She cer-
  tainly didn’t let that comment slip accidentally.
  Hannah, that is. She wanted you to know the
  Tremere were having problems as well.” Owain
  gathered his thoughts. “And that may be all there
  is to it. She may be trying to clear herself of suspi-
  cion, as Eleanor suggested, because Hannah knows
  other Kindred are naturally suspicious of the
  Tremere.”
  “And with good reason,” Benison added.
  “And with good reason. Yes.” It had been so long
  since Owain had taken an active interest in local
  politics, since anything other than his own bore-
  dom and sense of loss had occupied his thoughts.
  This was not chess. He was sluggish in connecting
  his converging trains of thought. “And that might
  be all there was to it.” Benison waited for Owain’s
  point. “But why wouldn’t Hannah, as regent of the
  Tremere chantry, tell you that herself formally, so
  there was no room for misunderstanding? Why risk
  Eleanor not coming to that conclusion and you not
  getting the message?”
  Benison pondered this briefly. “I suspect she had
  
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  no doubt that Eleanor was astute enough to regis-
  ter the comment and report it to me.”
  “But why wouldn’t Hannah tell you directly?”
  “It would be a public admission that the Tremere
  had no more an idea than the rest of us of what is
  going on,” said the prince. “It would be an embar-
  rassment.”
  “Yes,” Owain agreed, “and if the Tremere did
  know what was going on, they would keep quiet
  and use that information against everyone else.”
  The prince nodded. “Officially,” Owain added.
  The light of realization began to shine in the
  prince’s eyes. “So publicly the Tremere have made
  no statement regarding the crisis…”
  “While privately they have allayed your suspi-
  cions,” Owain completed the statement.
  “But what of the disciplined neonates?”
  “Hidden, or destroyed,” Owain shrugged, “or
  some lesser punishment. It hardly matters. Prob-
  ably Hannah was vague intentionally, so that you
  might jump to the wrong conclusion. As did
  Eleanor.”
  The prince shot Owain a hard glance at that
  comment. One could only go so far in criticizing
  the prince’s wife. Probably one reason that Benison
  did seek out Owain’s opinion was that he was, to
  some extent, a rival of Eleanor’s, though she, the
  former archon, held the Ventrue seat on the
  primogen and took the fore in political matters.
  
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  Owain was more a neutral voice, or so the prince
  undoubtedly thought. At any rate, Owain knew
  better than to push too far on that front.
  “So,” the prince concluded, “the Tremere are
  most likely behind my problems.” The familiar light
  of vengeance shone in his eyes.
  “Possibly, but not necessarily likely,” Owain cau-
  tioned.
  Benison’s gaze turned questioning.
  “Hannah may, like you suggested, only have been
  assuaging your concerns,” Owain pointed out.
  The prince’s brow furrowed and he clenched his
  fists. With a roar of rage, he ripped another chair
  from its base and hurled it across the room. Even
  in his fury, however, the prince was careful not to
  hit the painting or the models and possibly mar the
  tribute to the defining days of his mortal existence.
  “Damnation!” he bellowed, language he never
  would have used had ladies been present. “I want
  to take action, and you give me ‘maybes’ and ‘pos-
  sibilities.’”
  Owain remained respectfully silent as Benison
  gradually calmed once again. “One thing is certain,”
  Owain eventually continued. “Hannah would not
  have revealed the internal goings on of the chantry
  without direction from higher up. Either her com-
  ment was a decoy to falsely ease your suspicions, or
  she was instructed by her superiors, possibly her lord
  or pontifex, to divulge that information.”
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  The prince, his passions in check for the mo-
  ment, still fumed. “Then we have nothing to go
  on.”
  “No answers, but much to go on,” Owain politely
  contested. “Watch the Tremere closely. Perhaps
  inquire discreetly with other princes as to whether
  they are experiencing similar difficulties. This mad-
  ness seems too imprecise a weapon only to be
  levelled at Atlanta.”
  “There are even whispers,” the prince growled,
  “of the Dark Times, of the approach of Gehenna,
  and of a curse upon us Cainites.”
  “Every age has its religious fanatics,” Owain as-
  sured the prince. “The approach of the millenium,
  and any catastrophe, makes them more active, but
  no more accurate.”
  “And there is still the Sabbat,” Benison reminded
  Owain. “I believe it is time to call in several
  younger Kindred whom I have heard rumored to
  have Sabbat sympathies, and question them rather
  vigorously.” The prince seemed to derive satisfac-
  tion from the idea. “That should also serve to keep
  the anarchs in check.”
  Owain waited deferentially. Even if they didn’t
  know what they were dealing with, they had de-
  cided whom to check up on. That much, having
  established at least a vague plan of action, seemed
  to comfort the prince.
  “Come.” Benison rose and Owain followed him
  
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  180
  from the auditorium. Vermeil, absent Byron, waited
  at the door. “Clean up inside, lock up, and meet
  me at the car,” Benison instructed.
  “Yes, sir.”
  Owain’s Rolls was in the lot beside the prince’s
  limousine. It was odd, Owain thought, that he had
  become so disoriented, just an hour earlier, between
  the car and the Cyclorama. Could it be related to
  his other maladies, to the absentmindedness and
  ennui that had so plagued him of late? Then another
  thought struck him. Poor deceased Byron had be-
  come delirious. All over the city vampires were going
  insane. Was there a curse? Was he under its sway?
  Owain shook his head and chastised himself for
  even thinking such nonsense. But at the same time,
  a familiar wave of exhaustion swept over him. Did
  he really care, he wondered, what the problem was,
  with him or with the city? It would be so much
  easier to return home and study his chess board,
  to leave the problems to the prince, and Eleanor,
  and Hannah. Even descending the stairs at the
  prince’s side, such ideas sounded ever so attractive.
  These thoughts were interrupted by the sound
  of gunfire.
  The first shots strayed high, the bullets zinging
  over Owain’s and the prince’s heads. Automatic
  weapons of some type. Owain knew that much
  from the sound of the shots, though he’d never
  bothered to learn much about modern weapons. As
  
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  Owain crouched to make a smaller target, he real-
  ized that Benison was charging off to their left—the
  direction the shots were coming from! Instinctively,
  Owain glanced to his right. Two figures were charg-
  ing in ambush from that side, raising guns to fire.
  More quickly than he could even think, Owain
  whipped off his overcoat and tossed it billowing
  into the air. With the merest of psychic prods from
  Owain, the two attackers opened fire on the gar-
  ment as it fell to the ground. In that brief instant
  of mental contact, Owain knew that the attackers
  were vampires as well, but younger, and not trained
  in the older arts.
  The two men, both armed with semi-automatic
  machine guns, stopped to examine the lifeless over-
  coat. Perplexed, they kicked at it in the dirt. From
  behind them, Owain advanced from the shadows
  where he had so easily blended. Again instinctively,
  he reached for his sword—the sword he had not
  worn into battle in centuries and even now was
  hanging on the wall of his trophy room. He real-
  ized his error instantly, and snapped down the
  stiletto from the forearm sheath he had strapped
  on earlier that evening, but the delay cost him.
  The two vampires turned just as Owain attacked.
  The first stumbled backward firing into the air, his
  throat slit by Owain’s lightning swipe. The second,
  however, fired a burst that caught Owain in the
  left shoulder.
  
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  He was knocked backward by the force of the
  blast and hit the ground rolling. The next burst of
  bullets chewed up the ground where Owain would
  have been, but already he was around and on his
  assailant. A jab through the eye into the brain, and
  the contest was decided.
  Owain quickly checked his first victim. The slit
  throat was severe enough that not even a vampire
  could recover quickly enough to aid his compatri-
  ots. Owain, slowed but not incapacitated by the
  slugs in his shoulder, rushed on to help the prince.
  Benison was in the midst of a scene of pure car-
  nage. Three bodies, vampires, Owain assumed, lay
  broken and bleeding on the ground. Benison,
  bleeding from dozens of bullet wounds, wrestled on
  the ground with two more attackers. Two addi-
  tional enemies stood nearby with weapons levelled,
  waiting only for a clear shot at the prince.
  Owain, with centuries of practice to his credit,
  let fly his knife, catching one of the bystanders
  square in the throat. He staggered and fell.
  The second man turned and fired.
  At the same instant, a cannon went off by
  Owain’s ear. It sounded like a cannon to Owain,
  at any rate. Actually it was a .45 magnum fired right
  behind him, and fortunately for Owain, it was
  wielded by his driver Kendall Jackson. Her shot
  slammed through her target’s forehead and contin-
  ued on its way with most of the back of his head.
  
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  An echoing, spine-shattering crack from
  Benison’s direction indicated the fight had con-
  cluded. He tossed aside the final of the two more
  recent corpses and staggered toward Owain. The
  prince’s surcoat was shredded and bloody. He must
  have taken countless rounds at close range and was
  bleeding profusely from wounds in his chest, arms,
  belly, and head.
  “Jackson,” Owain instructed tersely, “stake one,
  then bring a fire axe from inside and decapitate the
  rest.” She relayed the information to Vermeil who,
  alerted by the gunfire, had rushed out of the build-
  ing. He turned back and went for the axe.
  “A fine show, Owain,” the prince bellowed.
  “They didn’t have cavalry. Infantry with no sup-
  port. What were they thinking?”
  Owain ignored the prince’s anachronistic tacti-
  cal analysis. Benison was still functioning somehow.
  How could he sustain so much damage and walk?
  Owain was feeling slightly weak at the knees from
  loss of blood, and he’d taken significantly fewer hits
  than the prince. “Jackson, let Vermeil handle the
  axe. Help the prince to the Rolls and take him back
  to Rhodes Hall.” Owain noticed that Jackson had
  been hit in the leg by that last burst of machine
  gun fire, but she did not hesitate to carry out his
  orders. Surprisingly, the prince leaned on her shoul-
  der and allowed himself to be aided.
  “After them, Owain! We’ll take the attack to
  
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  them!” Benison called back over his shoulder. A
  moment later, Jackson roared away.
  The prince taken care of, Owain retrieved his
  stiletto and staked the vampire in whose neck it
  had been embedded. Then he took the axe from
  Vermeil, who had just returned, and with a single
  stroke apiece, beheaded the defeated aggressors
  while Vermeil dragged the staked vampire to the
  prince’s car.
  There was no time to dispose of the bodies prop-
  erly. The police would be arriving any second, as
  much gunplay as had gone on. Surely someone in
  the houses ringing Grant Park had called 911. The
  prince would have to rely upon his pawns within
  the police force and the coroner’s office to safeguard
  the Masquerade.
  These gun-wielding vampires were no mad or
  cursed Kindred, and they were no regular inhabit-
  ants of the city. They were Sabbat. And this was
  no coincidence.
  As Owain joined Vermeil at the limousine, the
  wounded Ventrue heard something above the wail
  of approaching police sirens. It was a soft tune float-
  ing on the evening breeze, but somehow it made
  itself known to Owain over the blaring sirens. The
  music caught hold of Owain’s attention and would
  not let go, not even when Vermeil urged him into
  the car so they could escape. The chaos swirling
  around Owain was immaterial. Suddenly the song
  
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  was all that mattered, all that was real, more than
  the carnage on the lawn, more than the throbbing
  in his shoulder.
  “Go without me,” he told Vermeil, and the ghoul
  didn’t wait to be told twice. His tires screeched as
  he whipped out of the parking lot, not anxious to
  be stopped with a staked vampire in the back seat.
  The song continued. It was familiar somehow,
  similar to a tune Owain couldn’t quite recall.
  The police lights were visible now, coming south
  on Boulevard at high speed. And another squad
  car from the other direction, lights flashing. They
  converged at the Cyclorama parking lot. Spotlights
  scanned the area, and officers with flashlights and
  revolvers drawn moved among the lifeless bodies
  on the lawn.
  But Owain was long gone.
  Terror gripped Gisela by the shoulder. Death
  stared at her from inches away. Smiling. Laughing
  at her. Mocking her with its skeletal grin. She
  wanted to pummel its bony visage, to reach out and
  crush its infernal skull in her vise-like fingers. She
  wanted to make it pay!
  But the hunger would not let her. It kept her
  arms wrapped around her body trying to keep the
  pain at bay. It kept her doubled over in agony.
  Somehow she would crush it. She would grind the
  
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  bones to dust and spit upon the remains. Her
  wrathful scream tore through the night. She would
  not die like Dietrich, whimpering, crying like a
  little baby. She would rule Berlin one day! Herr
  Himmler had as much as promised. She would not
  die like a pitiful mewing kitten. She mustn’t!
  “AAAARRR!”
  “Gisela? Gisela! What is the matter? Where is
  Dietrich?”
  Death was speaking to her. So a tongue did
  waggle behind his white teeth. Well then, she
  would just have to rip it out after she kicked
  through those teeth.
  “Gisela, calm down!”
  How dare Death try to console her, to ease her
  toward him. She would not be comforted. She
  would not go quietly.
  Then Death’s mask fell away and Frank was look-
  ing down at her. They were in her basement lair,
  the place that stunk of rot, the place where
  Dietrich, the leprous scheisskopf, had wasted away
  in his insanity until finally he’d virtually exploded,
  his very skin rupturing and spraying blood all over
  like the pipes from the factories used to spew their
  chemicals into the river in the good old days.
  The blood. Gisela could still smell the liters that
  foul demented Dietrich had bled. And him claim-
  ing hunger. He knew nothing of the hunger that
  tore at Gisela.
  
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  “Gisela, calm down.” Death’s voice was gentler
  now, closer.
  Yes, come closer. Who else was there? Gisela tried
  to recall, but another wave of hunger swept over her,
  consumed her, ravaged her. Death. Death only. Ever
  so slowly she reached up, her hands inching upward,
  trembling with rage. Rage and hunger. She could
  feel his face—his mouth, his nose, his ears.
  “Gisela, I am here.”
  Yes. You are come for me. But I will not go!
  “AAAARRR!”
  “No! Let go!”
  You are so soft, Death. I will crush you!
  “Ah! No! Gisela!”
  But Death was slippery as well as soft and man-
  aged to pull away. Gisela was slipping beneath the
  waves of her hunger. She held in her hand…an ear?
  But Death’s head is a skull, she thought, perplexed.
  Then she smelled more blood. Death’s blood. As
  Death ran screaming away. Gisela licked the ear.
  Sweet blood. Death’s gift. But it did not ease her
  pain.
  The Beast rose within in her, and she chewed at
  gristly flesh. First the ear, but that was no comfort.
  Then a finger. And another. Palm. Muscles. Ten-
  don. Knuckle bones crunching. She tore at her own
  flesh and wept pained tears of blood.
  In the end, another wave of hunger rose above
  her and carried her away.
  
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  EIGHT
  “Why?” It was a question Roger should have
  known better than to ask Albert by now. As usual,
  Albert’s pleas were impassioned, if not rational.
  “Can’t you hear it? Listen.” Albert turned his face
  to the sky and closed his eyes. A blissful expres-
  sion came over him.
  “I hear traffic.”
  Albert frowned, looked over at Roger. “That’s
  why I’m taking you. Once you hear…” His words
  were interrupted by what might have been gunfire
  in the distance.
  “I can’t leave my car here,” Roger protested, but
  Albert pulled him along.
  “Nobody’s going to mess with your car.”
  
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  Roger was doubtful. He hadn’t grown up in
  Reynoldstown, but he’d grown up in a neighbor-
  hood not too different from it. Albert was insistent,
  though, and against his better judgment, Roger ac-
  quiesced.
  Albert led him through the run-down low-in-
  come residential area. When they saw other people,
  mostly young African-American men, they re-
  routed so as not to attract undue attention. Albert
  was in a hurry and, for once, didn’t want to be
  slowed by distractions.
  They came shortly to an old Baptist church, long
  since abandoned and left to the depravities of ur-
  ban squalor. The little remaining paint peeled from
  bowed planks. Windows were broken, the steeple
  partially collapsed.
  “Why are you bringing me here?” Roger whispered,
  then wondered why he was whispering. Albert
  shushed him nonetheless.
  They waited in the shadows as a young black
  man entered the building. Roger noticed for the
  first time that a dim light flickered from within the
  building. Again, Albert was lost in his blissful rev-
  erie, eyes closed, face upturned. Until Roger
  smacked him on the arm. “What?” Roger pestered
  him.
  Albert sighed. “You still don’t hear?”
  What? The voices in your head? Roger wanted to
  ask, but he knew that might hurt his friend’s feel-
  
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  ings. “Hear what?” Roger whispered instead.
  Albert sighed again and threw his hands up into
  the air. “Fine. Have it your way.” With this, he took
  Roger by the sleeve and pulled him toward the
  front door of the church.
  Roger held back. “But there’s somebody in
  there.”
  “Exactly.” Albert’s sudden grin unnerved Roger,
  but he followed.
  As the door creaked open and they crossed the
  threshold, Roger did hear, and he felt foolish for
  having questioned his friend. Without meaning to,
  Roger stopped and stood in the open doorway. The
  sweetest sound he had ever heard wafted over him.
  It was a song, a song he almost recognized, and as
  it passed through him and over him, it carried away
  his worries, all the nightly concerns that weighed
  so heavily upon him.
  In his mind’s eye, Roger could see the prince
  smiling proudly at his childe, not ashamed of the
  timidity that had taken hold of Roger since his
  Embrace. For in this vision, Roger was not timid.
  He was the tall powerful hero that he had been
  during the war, an African-American fighting for
  a country that despised him, but fighting valiantly
  regardless, because it was the right thing to do.
  And he saw his mother. Her eyes were open, and
  she was rising from her sickbed of so many years.
  She smiled at Roger. She loved him. She didn’t
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  hate him for what he’d become. She put her arms
  around him. Tugged at his shirt.
  No. That was Albert. Pulling him forward. To-
  ward the front of the dilapidated sanctuary. Toward
  the slim, pale woman who sang, whose song took
  Roger where he had wanted to go every night of
  his unlife. Roger let himself be led.
  There were mortals already present—African-
  American, Korean, young, old, male, female—and
  with Albert, Roger knelt down beside them. He’d
  been hungry earlier in the evening, but now
  thoughts of mortal blood were far from his mind
  as he closed his eyes and willingly let the song take
  him.
  His mother smiled….
  Owain easily eluded the police. There was no
  mortal born who could see him if he wished other-
  wise. As squad car after squad car rushed to the
  Cyclorama and then shortly began combing the
  surrounding areas, Owain quickly wove his way
  among the houses of the neighborhoods bordering
  Grant Park. To his keen senses, some of the build-
  ings still smelled of fresh paint, the fruits of
  gentrification. Many of the other structures had
  seen better days. Everywhere shadows obligingly
  reached out to envelop Owain, hiding him from
  unfriendly eyes as he followed the music that had
  
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  caught his interest so suddenly and so intensely.
  In the back of his mind, he still worried about
  the bodies left behind. A few would no doubt
  crumble to dust before the police knew what was
  happening. Sabbat vampires, however, because of
  the incredible attrition rate within the sect, tended
  to be relatively young, and so several of the decapi-
  tated corpses would most likely be recovered by the
  authorities. Ah, well, Owain thought. Nothing to be
  done about it now. The prince would have to deal
  with that little difficulty. He would know the nec-
  essary strings to pull.
  Such thoughts vanished instantly as Owain was
  once again captivated by the lilting tune that called
  to him through the night. There were only a few
  bare notes, but their simplicity and elegance re-
  minded him of…and then the melody shifted
  again, blurring the association, pushing it just be-
  yond Owain’s grasp. The song was maddeningly
  familiar and deceptively vague. The powerful in-
  fatuation it induced overpowered all other
  concerns—his painful shoulder, the bodies, the
  prince’s health.
  Where was it coming from? Owain wondered.
  Following the music, he travelled north, crossing
  the downtown interstate connector. The large
  houses of the Grant Park area gave way to slightly
  smaller frame buildings in dire need of upkeep.
  Scrawny trees full of kudzu shared cramped
  
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  yardspace with waist-high weeds and junked cars.
  Small brick stores were dark, windows and doors
  barred against the night.
  More mortals loitered about here plying their
  goods, whether drugs or their own bodies. They
  don’t hear it, Owain realized. Otherwise, they would
  be streaming in the same direction he was. There
  is magic about this song. Owain, in his days and
  nights, had experienced powers that modern men
  would scoff at rather than believe existed. Even
  some Cainites, never mind the proof provided by
  their own existence, refused to believe in other su-
  pernatural powers. Owain knew better.
  As he continued on, he revealed his presence to
  none of the mortals who were so unsuspecting—
  unsuspecting of the magic in their midst,
  unsuspecting of the predator passing so closely, to
  whom it would be a mere trifle to reach out and
  snuff their lives like a candle flame between his fin-
  gers.
  Vermeil did not hear it either, Owain remembered.
  Were ghouls as imcapable of perceiving the song
  as mortals seemed to be? No way to know. And what
  of other vampires? Was Owain going to find all the
  Kindred of Atlanta converged at the source of the
  mysterious music?
  Still the song drew him onward. Owain had cov-
  ered several miles, leaping fences with ease, passing
  chained dogs before they’d even noticed his scent,
  
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  proceeding swiftly and silently through the night.
  Even so, the music did not grow louder. The
  melody and the tune constantly shifted, frustrat-
  ing Owain’s efforts to place what he was sure he
  almost recognized, but the volume never increased
  or decreased. Owain could not tell if he was draw-
  ing closer, or if perhaps he had inadvertently turned
  away and was heading off in the wrong direction.
  The notes maintained their delicacy, as if they were
  being sung in a tender whisper for him alone from
  only feet away.
  But just as that realization crossed Owain’s mind,
  he turned the corner and knew that he was there.
  He stopped. Litter blew down the street before
  him as the wind picked up to a steady gust. Large
  raindrops began to splatter loudly to the ground,
  speckling the broken sidewalk dark. Still, the mu-
  sic called, inviting Owain to the old church ahead,
  battered by time more harshly than it was now bat-
  tered by the increasingly strong rain that slapped
  against weathered planks and crumbling ceiling.
  Owain wasn’t sure how he knew the music was
  coming from the church, but there was no doubt
  in his mind.
  Slowly, deliberately, his measured paces carried
  him down the center of the street toward the ob-
  ject of his quest. The mortal denizens of the night
  had all run for cover from the storm, but Owain
  was oblivious to the stinging rain and biting wind
  
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  that whipped his hair and overcoat behind him.
  The church was obviously abandoned, at least
  by the mortal worshippers of the God who had so
  cruelly taunted Owain over the centuries. Try as
  he had on occasion, Owain had never been able
  to achieve the rewarding detachment of atheism.
  He couldn’t quite come to accept that some im-
  personal force or blind chance had visited such an
  abundance of injustices upon him, from watching
  his fool brother ascend the throne of beloved
  Rhufoniog nearly a thousand years before, to the
  most recent inexplicable collapse of Owain’s battle
  strategy on the chess board. Owain was only too
  aware of God’s existence, and of his mocking laugh-
  ter at insults grand and small.
  For that reason, it was with mixed feelings that
  Owain approached the dilapidated church, and it
  was this cynicism born of centuries of experience
  that allowed Owain to hear the song more clearly.
  It still beckoned, but Owain was no longer enrap-
  tured by its lure. Its beauty did not cease to tug at
  him, but now it did so gently, and Owain’s will was
  his own.
  Anger was kindled within him at the thought of
  having been entranced, of having traipsed across
  half the city like a lustful mortal drooling after a
  plunging neckline. Anger, and then not a little
  curiosity. Not since his days among the illfated
  Templars in France had Owain sensed preternatu-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  ral power so keenly. Perhaps there were wonders
  hidden in Atlanta to rival the forgotten mystical
  practices of the Knights of the Temple.
  The otherworldly spell of the music broken by
  very worldly yet potent cynicism, Owain found
  himself still standing in the middle of the street,
  water running down his face, hair plastered against
  his neck and shoulders by the rain which had
  moved well beyond spattering speckles and was rap-
  idly progressing to torrential downpour. Blood, still
  trickling from his wounds, mixed with the water.
  He moved over the crumbling sidewalk and
  through the tall weeds into the shadows around the
  church.
  The building had not been cared for in years, and
  Owain suspected that normally kine and Kindred
  alike would pass it by without a second thought.
  He didn’t believe he had been down this street be-
  fore, but even walking past, he wouldn’t have
  spared a glance for the sagging church were it not
  for the music. Owain was not the only one to have
  taken notice this night, however. He could hear
  heartbeats from within—seven, maybe eight mor-
  tals. So vampirically enhanced senses were not
  required to detect the song. But then why weren’t
  more mortals streaming to the church? And why,
  Owain wondered, hadn’t he heard the song before?
  Was this the first time it had been sung? Many
  questions puzzled him, and still there was the
  
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  sweetly enticing music, though now he could lis-
  ten to it with more detached appreciation rather
  than being drawn in completely as he had been
  before. There was much here to discover, and
  Owain felt strangely intrigued.
  Stepping through overgrown shrubs, willing his
  fingers to claws, and fighting the increasing stiff-
  ness in his shoulder, he began to scale the side of
  the building. Silently, Owain made his way toward
  the half-collapsed steeple, testing each claw hold
  lest one of the rotting boards rip loose in his grasp.
  A fall would hurt nothing more than his pride, but
  until he answered at least a few of his questions,
  Owain did not want his presence discovered.
  The footing became more treacherous near the
  top, but he found an opening easily enough and
  managed to squeeze through without dislodging any
  of the precariously attached boards. If the steeple
  had ever been more than ornamental, all traces of
  the bell or bells were long gone. Across from
  Owain, the ceiling had caved in and what re-
  mained sagged dangerously, so he had to squat to
  move even slightly into the small chamber in or-
  der to reach the trap door set in the center of the
  floor. With the patience of a diamond cutter, he
  opened the door.
  The softly lilting voice, which had remained at
  much the same level all the way from Grant Park
  to this point, flooded in around Owain. It wasn’t
  
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  that the volume increased as much as that the very
  sound—and Owain could tell it was a woman’s
  voice now—seemed almost to take on a tangible
  substance. The sound surrounded Owain, caressed
  him, gently called him onward. He began to lower
  himself through the trap door, then caught him-
  self and stopped. He fought the impulse to climb
  down through the chamber below him and down
  further into the sanctuary with the others, an im-
  pulse which felt so natural, so reasonable.
  Another moment of steeling his will, and Owain
  was fully in control of himself once again. The
  momentary struggle, an actual contest of wills, was
  something he had not experienced in decades. It
  was hardly an effort at all to shield his mind from
  the Kindred of Atlanta, but whoever was singing
  below…this was something different. The internal
  conflict was made more difficult by Owain’s inju-
  ries as well. Not only was the pain distracting from
  his concentration, much of his energy had been
  diverted over the past hour to the healing process
  which his vampiric vitæ had already begun.
  The room Owain was staring down into was little
  more than a closet, the one door blocked by rubble
  consisting in part of what were probably pieces of
  the old ladder once used to reach the belfry. Closer
  to Owain was a portion of collapsed floor through
  which he could see a corner of the sanctuary and
  flickering light from an unseen flame. The delicate
  
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  vibrato of the alluring song wafted through the hole
  to him, but he could find no angle that afforded a
  view of anyone in the sanctuary beneath.
  With graceful ease, Owain lowered himself
  through the trap door into the belfry antecham-
  ber. He had no way to be sure the floor below would
  support his weight. Staying back from the edge of
  the hole, squatting low, and keeping his weight
  spread as much as possible, he maneuvered to a
  better vantage point and hoped the slight creak-
  ing of the boards would be masked by the rain and
  wind outside.
  The mortals knelt in a small cluster near the
  front of the sanctuary, their heads bowed as if in
  worship. Behind them, broken pews were shoved
  in disarray against the walls. Owain strained his
  neck to see a bit farther back and was quite sur-
  prised by what he saw. Kneeling a few feet behind
  the mortals were two figures he recognized and
  knew rather well—Albert and the prince’s son
  Roger. Roger blended in well enough; aside from
  two women, one Korean, one caucasian, the other
  five mortals were African-American. Albert, how-
  ever, stood out almost anywhere he went.
  Something about his wiry figure and unruly beard,
  even when he was quietly kneeling like now,
  seemed to separate him from whatever crowd of
  which he might be a part.
  So I’m not the only Kindred to hear the song, Owain
  
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  realized. But why these two and no one else? Are oth-
  ers on the way? Owain supposed he was hidden well
  enough if any one else arrived. He preferred to re-
  main out of sight and learn more about what others
  were doing than what they learned about him.
  Since he had opened the trap door and briefly
  been overcome by the attraction of the song,
  Owain had been blocking out the music, refusing
  to allow it a foothold by which it could take con-
  trol of him. The longer he held it at bay, the less
  concentration was required to do so. Owain sus-
  pected that Albert was capable of the same control,
  but Roger, from the looks of him a much younger
  vampire, maybe fifty years undead, seemed to be
  as entranced by the music as the mortals. What-
  ever magic was at work, it was potent enough to
  snare the unwary vampire no matter how old.
  Owain had not forgotten the sensation that had
  brought him across town before he’d been able to
  regain his senses.
  The most significant question remained: who was
  singing? Owain could not see the very front of the
  sanctuary, the direction the mortals and Kindred
  alike faced and seemed to direct their reverence
  toward. Carefully, quietly, he began to edge around
  the hole for a better view. Outside, the storm was
  increasing in its intensity. Rain and wind lashed
  against the old church. Trying to see the front of
  the sanctuary and at the same time not to crash
  
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  through the crumbling floor, Owain was half
  stretched out on his belly, as much as he could be
  in the cramped space without getting so close to
  the edge as to be visible.
  It may just have been his imagination or perhaps
  a trick of the acoustics, but as Owain inched to
  where he could see the figure before the toppled
  pulpit, her song, incredible already, became even
  more crisp, her voice more clear and sharp. A
  shiver ran down Owain’s spine, and he dug his fin-
  gernails into his palms, forcing himself not to give
  in to the beautiful sound, not to let himself be car-
  ried away by the soothing tones as he wanted to
  be. Luckily, Owain had never allowed himself, in
  life or unlife, the luxury of solace, whether from
  sources human or divine, and this case was no ex-
  ception.
  Owain maintained his hardened will as he looked
  upon the vision of pale beauty who stood before
  the assembled congregation. Narrow face tilted
  upward, eyes closed, her barely parted lips moved
  with a grace and ease that betrayed none of the
  consequence of her song. He listened more care-
  fully, trying to determine wherein lay the power of
  the music, so that he could more effectively defend
  himself against it, and realized that, even though
  the song was not composed of words, certain im-
  ages were conveyed. The melody was a living and
  breathing thing unto itself, rising and swelling,
  
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  then gently flowing away, leaving only serenity and
  peace in its wake. Owain watched the hem of her
  lace gown as it rippled in the draft, and he was re-
  minded of the salty foam on the cold Irish Sea. He
  could hear the waves rolling in to the rocky shore
  and squinted against the windborne spray. Amidst
  the chill, the melodious and comforting warmth
  tenderly wrapped itself around him. The cold was
  held at bay, the rumbling of thunder far away.
  There were ships at sea that would shatter against
  the rocks in the coming storm, sailors who would
  be dragged to the bottom like so many before, but
  Owain was safe and warm upon the shore. The
  flickering fire beckoned….
  Owain shook his head, returning himself to the
  church. Thunder did rumble in the distance, but
  the wind was blowing through holes in the belfry,
  not in from a coastal sea, and the fire that beck-
  oned was from some fisherman’s shack but rather
  from the candles in the sanctuary. The power of
  the song was more potent than Owain had sus-
  pected. Perhaps it would be better, for now at least,
  not to concentrated too intently on the music it-
  self, he decided.
  Just as Owain thought this, the tempo of the
  music began to shift subtly. The beautiful pale si-
  ren was still the picture of serenity, but her song
  slowly grew in intensity. At the edge of his con-
  sciousness, Owain could just feel the pull that he
  
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  continued to block, the desire to join the others,
  to become one with the group below. As the song
  evolved, an urgency was added to that desire, and
  slowly as Owain listened, that urgency took root
  and continued to grow, entwining itself around ev-
  ery strand of the music.
  Owain was well in control of himself now, but
  as he watched the mortals and even Albert and
  Roger, their expressions changed from content to
  yearning. Probably, Owain imagined, the music did
  not evoke images of the Welsh coast and the Irish
  Sea for them. Whatever opiate they were experi-
  encing, though, was no longer enough as the song
  took hold of their needs and made them dominant
  over all else. Just as years before Owain had seen
  the reassurance others found in God or in family
  but had been had been unable to derive such com-
  fort himself, now he could feel where the music was
  taking this group but refused to be taken himself.
  As his thoughts began to wander, movement be-
  low caught Owain’s eye. The siren and her
  congregation still held their same places, but new
  players had entered the stage. First one, then a sec-
  ond, and then a third woman drifted into the
  sanctuary from where Owain could not see. They
  seemed almost to float on the notes of the song,
  their bare feet hardly touching the worn and moldy
  carpet. Two of the three were pale, like the siren,
  the third a rich, dark brown. All were beautiful and
  
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  young, girls really, maybe seventeen. Owain had
  not noticed the youth of the siren before, caught
  up as he was by the ancient texture of her song.
  Unlike the siren’s short and simple hair, the new-
  comers possessed wild manes with bits of ivy and
  honeysuckle braided throughout the tangles. They
  danced to the rising song, and their movements
  bespoke barely harnessed savagery. They reminded
  Owain of the wild maenads of Greek mythology.
  While the siren sang, the sound issuing from an
  unfathomable well of loss and pain and need, and
  the gathered mortals and Kindred swayed and shiv-
  ered, the newest three arrivals circled. As the song
  gathered intensity, so did their dance. They too
  were riding an escalating wave of primal desire.
  Owain clenched his fists against the song, and
  the power of his blood, the potency of his curse,
  enabled him to hold his own, to watch and listen
  but not be carried away.
  Slowly, the siren raised her hands above her, and
  her song gathered force. The maenads twirled and
  spun, the energy of their desire whipped to a frenzy.
  The mortals, too, moaned and twitched. Some
  whipped their heads from side to side, eyes held
  tightly shut, need and ecstacy hopelessly entwined.
  Roger whimpered. Tears of blood dribbled down his
  cheeks. Of all those congregated, only Albert
  kneeled and listened placidly.
  The dance of the maenads grew more ragged and
  
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  furious. Their white chiffon gowns alternately bil-
  lowed and clung to the slender forms as the women
  whirled. For brief instants, the sheer fabric revealed
  the curve of hip and thigh and breast. One after
  another, the dancers threw back their heads, lash-
  ing about their ivy-laced hair like cruel whips.
  Fangs glimmered in the candle light.
  The draw of the hunger was overwhelming. Even
  Owain felt it.
  The maenads tore at their gowns, rending bloody
  gashes down taut, quivering chests. As one, they
  howled madly at the vaulted ceiling and then fell
  upon the mortals.
  The Korean woman’s body jerked with the re-
  coil of the blow as one maenad bit into her with
  the force of a rattlesnake lunging at a victim. Some
  of the mortals were knocked over sideways as the
  dancers pounced and drank deeply but briefly. Even
  Roger and Albert were fed upon, but no one, mor-
  tal or vampire, was roused from the trance. Each
  attack seemed to be the culmination of the victim’s
  vision of ecstacy. Pain and rapture mingled and
  were one.
  Owain could feel the power of the song, but he
  had no way of knowing what each individual be-
  low was experiencing. He was too busy maintaining
  his own self control. Otherwise, he might have
  leapt down into the sanctuary and fed as well.
  The climax of the song and the feeding lasted
  
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  less than a minute. With an abrupt shift in cadence,
  the music dropped away to a calmer level. The
  strain of desire and urgency that a moment before
  had seemed its entirety began to fade. The sooth-
  ing undertones began to reassert themselves.
  The maenads reacted as if they had been struck
  a physical blow. They reluctantly withdrew from
  their final victims, obviously wanting desperately
  to continue feeding. But they obeyed the song.
  Their bodies shuddered momentarily as the frenzy
  gave way to the increasingly soothing melody.
  For the first time, the siren spoke, weaving one
  word into her retreating song: “Adref.”
  Owain’s mouth fell open. His heart almost broke
  at the sound of the word.
  The maenads responded also. Slowly, they
  backed away from the kneeling and sprawled con-
  gregation and withdrew beyond Owain’s line of
  sight.
  As they recessed, the siren, stately in her beauty,
  slowly moved forward. Her song died away to a
  faint whisper but carried just as clearly to every hid-
  den corner of the church. She approached a young
  black man who was unconscious, bent down to
  him, and gently licked the wounds the maenads
  had inflicted on him. Not even then, with her
  tongue upon his neck, did her song cease. It con-
  tinued as if a living being of its own.
  One after another, she licked the wounds of her
  
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  flock, and as she did so, the torn flesh was healed,
  and each person smiled in their slumber.
  Owain edged back from the hole and leaned
  against the wall, a profound exhaustion sweeping
  over him. The flickering melody still carried to
  him, but it was the one word the siren had uttered
  that echoed in his ears.
  Adref.
  Spoken in his native Welsh that he had not
  heard for so long.
  Adref. Homeward.
  For an instant, he thought he smelled the sea air
  again, and it was more than he could stand. Bat-
  tling the stiffness of his momentarily forgotten
  wounds, Owain slipped out through the trap door
  and down the outer wall of the church.
  Adref. Homeward.
  He left the church, rushing through the night
  more swifly and silently than a shadow. More so
  than miles, time and his own actions separated
  Owain from his true home, and since there was no
  way to run there, he ran away into the accepting
  darkness of the night.
  It was not often that Prince Benison called upon
  Hannah at the chantry. Luckily, her neonates al-
  ways maintained the facilities properly, so no
  additional preparations were required before receiv-
  
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  ing him. Though with only two apprentices on
  hand instead of four, they were hard pressed to
  molify Hannah’s fastidiousness and perform their
  other duties. But the nights of an apprentice were
  not meant to be filled with leisure.
  Hannah personally greeted the prince at the door
  of her sprawling mansion, most of which was given
  over to the chantry’s needs.
  “Good evening, Hannah.” The prince was gra-
  cious, as he always was unless particularly riled. He
  seemed to have healed with no ill effects from the
  injuries Hannah gathered he had sustained two
  nights before. “What news do you have?”
  Hannah frowned. She had less to report than she
  would have liked, and though Benison was physi-
  cally well, the tension coiled within his massive
  form and burning intensely in his eyes was unmis-
  takable. There had been so little time, and all her
  regular studies placed on hold…but the prince
  would not care for excuses. “The prisoner that
  Eleanor had Vermeil deliver…”
  “Yes?” The prince was hungry for any informa-
  tion.
  “He is definitely Sabbat. Or was Sabbat, at any
  rate.”
  Benison slammed his fist into his palm. “Just as
  I suspected. And…?”
  Again Hannah frowned. She fidgeted slightly
  where she stood, realizing suddenly that she had
  
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  neither shown the prince in beyond the foyer or
  offered him a seat. She did not have a mind for
  niceties, and the prince had more urgent matters
  on his mind. Therein lay the problem. “The Sabbat
  conditioning is so complete, and the bestial nature
  of his mind…”
  “What did you find out?” Benison interrupted
  her.
  Hannah choked off the elaborate explanation
  she had been rehearsing in her mind. “Only that
  his pack was instructed to wait outside the Cyclo-
  rama and attack whomever left. I did not discover
  the identity of his superior who issued the order, if
  he even knew. And my impression was that he was
  not aware that you were the target of the attack.”
  Now it was Benison’s turn to scowl. “Your ‘im-
  pression?’” This was obviously not the news the
  prince had hoped to hear. “Eleanor entrusts you
  with this interrogation on my behalf while I’m con-
  valescing, and that is all you can tell me?” The
  prince’s severe tone betrayed the pressures under
  which he labored. “I expect I can do better myself.
  Take me to him.”
  “He was questioned quite…thoroughly, I assure
  you.”
  “Still,” the prince insisted, “I will try my hand…”
  A sudden realization swept over him. “Questioned
  ‘quite thoroughly,’ you say? He did not survive the
  interrogation?”
  
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  “The magics required to bypass Sabbat condi-
  tioning are not gentle,” Hannah pointed out.
  For an instant, Benison clenched his teeth and
  tensed every muscle in his body. But then, remark-
  ably, he closed his eyes and sighed deeply out of
  frustration. “I see.”
  They stood in silence for a moment, but Hannah
  could not stomach the disdain she imagined radi-
  ating from the prince. Somewhat awkwardly she
  began to ask, “May I show you in…to a seat, or
  get…?”
  “I’m afraid I don’t have time to dawdle,” said
  Benison, implying perhaps, Hannah wondered,
  that she could have used her time more efficiently?
  “What can you tell me of this…” he fumbled for
  the right word, “…this affliction that is destroying
  my city?” He nearly spit the words out, his bitter-
  ness and frustration getting the best of him
  momentarily.
  “There has been so little time, Prince Benison.”
  She could see him bristle, and so hurried on. “My
  experiments are under way. I have determined that
  magics of some sort are at work, though of a type
  with which I am not familiar. I have begun con-
  sultation with my superiors both in this country and
  in Vienna, for as you know, this ‘affliction’ is not a
  localized matter.” Though she glossed over certain
  technical details, Hannah held nothing back from
  the prince. She could sense that he would brook
  
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  no duplicity in this matter, and she was not will-
  ing to risk his wrath.
  “The affliction,” she explained, slightly more
  comfortable engaged in professional discourse,
  “does seem to be blood related. The magic is trig-
  gering a transformation of some sort within the
  vitæ itself, but as I said, I am not familiar with the
  particular forces involved.”
  Benison had listened silently, never shifting his
  gaze from the chantry regent until she was finished.
  “A curse,” he muttered, almost to himself. “It has
  been called down upon us, and now we are doubly
  cursed—once for the sins of Caine, once for our
  own.” The prince seemed to have forgotten
  Hannah for a moment, but now he returned his
  focus to her. “Time is what we may not have,” he
  reminded her. “I suggest you become familiar with
  whatever forces are at work.”
  Without another word, the prince turned and
  stalked out of the chantry. Hannah watched him
  go. Having enjoyed his stated and implied reproach
  not at all, she resolved that she would just have to
  work harder…if that were possible. It would have
  to be.
  It was all Benison could do to keep himself from
  smashing his fist through the window of the lim-
  ousine. He wanted—needed—to throttle someone.
  
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  As Vermeil drove him along Ponce De Leon Av-
  enue away from the Tremere chantry, he fumed at
  the thought that there was nothing he could do.
  There must be something! But what? If Hannah and
  her sorcerous ilk were helpless against the curse,
  how could he save his city?
  And there were other complications. The Sabbat
  attack might signal that those hellspawn thought
  he was weak enough to overwhelm. He would have
  to watch for signs of a gathering assault. He would
  almost welcome such an opoprtunity to release his
  pent up fury in battle.
  But he must not allow himself to be distracted—
  the curse. That had to be his main focus. If the
  Cainites of his city and the world had brought di-
  vine retribution down upon themselves, then he
  would have to counteract that somehow.
  His city would not be destroyed. He would not
  allow it.
  Mohammed’s pacing was interrupted by the
  knock at the door. It was not a welcome intrusion.
  “What?” he barked.
  “Hey, man,” came Marvin’s voice from the other
  side of the door. “Pancho headin’ to the store. You
  want anything?”
  Mohammed couldn’t believe his ears. He yanked
  the door open. “You’re bothering me to see if I want
  
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  something from the store?” he snarled.
  Marvin took a step back but said nothing.
  “What’d I tell you before?”
  Marvin still didn’t say anything.
  “What’d I tell you?” Mohammed asked again, his
  voice full of venom.
  Marvin cringed. He was staring at the tops of his
  shoes and not about to look up. “Said not to bother
  you less it was damn important,” Marvin mumbled.
  “Is going to the store damn important?”
  “Guess not.” Marvin glanced up for a second
  then decided to check out his shoes some more.
  “Sorry, man.”
  “You’re gonna be a lot more than sorry, you don’t
  get your head out your ass.” Mohammed slammed
  the door. He couldn’t believe he’d ever seen any-
  thing in Marvin. The vampire leader of Crypt’s
  Sons, arguably the most powerful gang in L.A., re-
  sumed his pacing. Still thinking about Marvin,
  Mohammed had to admit that even if the mortal
  wasn’t too bright—not too bright? hell, he’s ‘bout stu-
  pid as they get—he was awfully good in a fight, and
  that went a long way.
  And unlike most of Mohammed’s undead lieu-
  tenants, Marvin was here.
  The past two weeks had been pure hell. It was
  always a tight line between Mohammed’s public
  persona as L.A. baron and anarch on the one hand,
  and his covert identity as Sabbat leader on the
  
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  other. He controlled dozens of vampires and hun-
  dreds of kine through the gang, and a sometimes
  overlapping smaller group of vampires through his
  Sabbat coven. The last thing expected, or needed,
  was for his vampire underlings to start randomly
  freaking out and attacking one another for no
  discernable reason.
  One or two cases had been weird, but then most
  everybody had gotten in on the act. His top undead
  gang leaders had attacked each other, but not out
  of jealousy or anger or something Mohammed
  could have settled. It had seemed more like hun-
  ger. The guys had just flipped out. He would have
  suspected crack if it had been the mortals.
  And as if all that weren’t bad enough, after the
  bastards started freaking out, then they just keeled
  over. First they go all maniac and freak out and feed,
  then they fall over dead, blood oozing out all over the
  place like they couldn’t hold it.
  Despite Mohammed’s best efforts, the violence
  and chaos had spread all the way down both orga-
  nizations. The Crypt’s Sons’ top guys were
  fried—dead or freaked out or hiding. So some of
  the small fries, mostly mortals, had decided it was
  time to move up and started taking care of some
  personal grudges within the gang. Mohammed had
  put a stop to that quickly enough, but still all of
  his right hand men were missing or down for the
  count. Mohammed could only do so much by him-
  
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  self. Without proper guidance, the Crypt’s Sons
  were like hundreds of lone piranha swimming off
  in different directions.
  It was worse within the Sabbat coven. Of the ten
  members, not including Mohammed, six were
  shrivelled up and dead, one had gotten his head
  ripped off, and two were missing for several nights
  now. That only left one.
  Mohammed heard moaning from the back room.
  He turned his pacing in that direction and stuck
  his head in to check on Francesca.
  It had taken the chains and the straps together
  to hold her down. Twice before, she had ripped her
  way loose and carved up a total of three of
  Mohammed’s gang mortals. Both times,
  Mohammed had subdued her. For some reason, no
  matter the desperation of her frenzy and the sever-
  ity of her delusions, she had been unwilling or
  unable to turn the full force of her fury against her
  sire. Now the chains and straps seemed to be do-
  ing the job.
  The bed where she lay was soaked red. Bloody
  sweat dribbled from all over her body. Mohammed
  had removed her saturated clothes and covered her
  with a sheet, but now it too was drenched.
  Mohammed moved closer and knelt beside his
  whimpering childe.
  “So hungry…so hungry…” she kept muttering
  when she could manage speech. At times she licked
  
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  216
  around her lips, ingesting again the blood that pe-
  riodically ran from her nose. No matter how much
  she had fed the past few days, it had not helped.
  In fact, the pain and delusions seemed to worsen
  after she’d fed.
  Mohammed dabbed her forehead with a blood-
  stained towel that had once been white. Unlike
  with the others, he felt more than the regret of a
  general deprived of the services of a fierce warrior
  when he looked at Francesca like this. She had
  been much more than a top-notch assassin and a
  sultry diversion. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have cared
  so much. A killer or a great piece of ass were not
  difficult to come by. Francesca had started out as
  merely the spoils of war, snatched out from beneath
  Salvador’s nose, but she had come to mean much
  more to Mohammed.
  Salvador.
  He was something else Mohammed had to think
  about.
  Before all hell had broken loose, Mohammed had
  been about ready to make his move against El
  Hermandad. Now the Crypt’s Sons were decimated,
  and there were even rumors that Salvador was back
  in town from Central America or Africa or wherever
  he’d been stroking his ego by spreading revolution of
  the underprivileged. If Salvador was in fact back, then
  the attack would have to wait. Of course, it was de-
  layed indefinitely at this point anyway.
  
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  Francesca arched her back, moaning and con-
  vulsing violently, her face contorted in agony.
  Mohammed looked on helplessly as her life’s blood
  dripped from every pore of her body.
  There had to be someone behind all this, he just
  knew. Someone out to get him. The madness and
  slow, painful death was too subtle for Salvador, he
  of propaganda and grenade. But the Camarilla el-
  ders—they were devious enough to set loose
  something like this, whatever it was. They wouldn’t
  care how many Cainites were dragged under by this
  infernal curse, and with the Tremere on their side,
  they might very well have the means. If so, the
  Sabbat and the anarchs could soon be seeing their
  final days. Or perhaps something this drastic might
  finally push the anarchs into the Sabbat camp.
  Otherwise, it would take Mohammed years to re-
  build his coterie.
  Yes, the Camarilla elders were godless killers, and
  Mohammed hated them with every ounce of his
  being. Of course, he knew, if he could have un-
  leashed a merciless curse of death upon his enemies,
  he would have done the exact same thing.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  218
  NINE
  “Quel fromage?” Pierre could not believe the stu-
  pidity. “This is the only cheese I have, idiot.”
  “That is fine,” René stammered apologetically.
  “If you do not like it, I will eat it all,” threat-
  ened Pierre. He’d had the foresight to bring extra
  cheese on the patrol, and he did not have to be so
  gracious as to share with the imbecile René.
  The year was 1758. The patrol had been sent out
  in response to sightings of Iroquois, allies to the
  English cochon. One farmhouse had been burned,
  the farmer and his family mutilated. So now Pierre
  and the others were banished from Montreal for
  days at least, spending their nights in the rain and
  the cold, on the hard ground, instead of Pierre with
  
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  warm and soft Danielle. All because some farmer
  had been stupid enough to get himself killed.
  “No, no,” René pleaded, “I said it was fine.”
  “Fine.” Pierre cut a hunk of cheese and handed
  it to René the half-wit.
  “Merci.”
  The two chewed their cheese and hard bread in
  silence. The pile of sticks and leaves sputtered and
  smoked, but there was very little in the way of fire
  to warm or illuminate the night. Everything was
  too wet—the wood, the ground, the dripping trees,
  the soldiers’ clothes and bedrolls, the powder….
  Probably the muskets would not fire even if we did
  see Iroquois, Pierre mused. “How is your cheese?”
  he asked with an edge to his voice.
  “Trés bien.”
  A very good answer, Pierre thought. He snorted
  at René. And for this I left Paris.
  Shuffling by in the rain came François, on his
  way to relieve Yves on watch.
  “Iroquois in the woods,” Pierre teased him, “n’est-
  ce pas?”
  “Je crois que non.”
  The dour soldier continued on his way, and
  Pierre and René crunched their bread and cheese.
  Pierre was contemplating crawling into his soggy
  bedroll and trying to go to sleep. The sooner I sleep,
  he thought, the sooner this miserable excuse of a day
  is over. That brought only a momentary smile to
  
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  220
  his face. Ah, but the sooner today is over, the sooner
  the miserable excuse for tomorrow begins. There was
  no winning.
  Pierre’s quandary was interrupted a moment later
  by a musket shot in the distance and a panicked
  scream from the same direction.
  Pierre and René jumped to their feet, as did the
  other soldiers at their various smoldering faux-
  campfires.
  “Yves!” René cried.
  Pierre grabbed his musket and rushed ahead, but
  had to stop and wait until Arnaud managed to light
  a torch and caught up. “Hurry, idiot!” Pierre
  shouted. “Yves will be scalped because of you!”
  They ran, stumbling, through the forest. The
  cloud-covered sky lent no light. The woods were
  dark as pitch. Men were calling all around, yelling
  for Yves and François. They pounded through the
  underbrush, spraying standing water and mud in
  every direction. When at last they reached the sen-
  try post, Pierre wished he had not.
  In the flickering torchlight, they saw Yves lying
  in the mud, his throat ripped wide open. Next to
  him lay François, and a foot or two away, much of
  his face.
  Suddenly out of the trees above, something large
  dropped onto Arnaud. He screamed in Pierre’s ear.
  The torch, knocked from Arnaud’s grasp, fizzled in
  the mud and was out.
  
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  More screams echoed through the forest. Pierre
  was caught in a jumble of limbs and fell to the
  ground, landing hard atop his musket. He franti-
  cally tried to get loose from the other bodies. Who
  was it? René? Jean-Paul? Everyone had been rush-
  ing this way after the first screams.
  Finally Pierre was free. He rolled through the
  muck, scrambling away from the blind melee. He
  couldn’t be sure that his bearings were correct in
  the dark, but Pierre ran the direction he hoped the
  camp lay. They would regroup there. They couldn’t
  fight Iroquois in the complete dark of the forest…if
  these were Iroquois.
  The mud and darkness and Pierre’s rising terror
  made for rough going. He had the sick feeling that
  whatever had attacked and done that to Yves and
  François, it wasn’t a native war party. Finally, he
  reached the camp and tried to calm himself enough
  to load his musket.
  The others will be here in a moment, and we will
  stand ready for the attack.
  As he finished loading and rammed the shot
  home, however, Pierre noticed that none of his
  compatriots had joined him. Of the twelve, he
  stood alone in the camp. He noticed, also, that
  there were no longer sounds of combat emanating
  from the forest—no shouts or gun shots or tromp
  of musket-laden men crashing through the under-
  brush.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  222
  Only silence.
  And then a snarl. Or…was it perhaps laughter?
  From the deepest shadows strode a golden form,
  wolf-like with bared fangs but walking upright like
  a man, a very large man.
  Without hesitation, Pierre raised his musket. He
  pulled back the hammer, quickly aimed, and pulled
  the trigger. The hammer clanked down…and noth-
  ing. The powder did not ignite. The musket did
  not roar defiance and send the creature back to
  hell.
  The beast was on Pierre, pressing him on his back
  into the muck. Claws ripped at his face. The fangs
  came closer….
  Nicholas was awake all at once. He reached for
  his throat, but nothing was attacking him. The
  darkness around him was broken by passing lights
  in the distance. Before he could place the strange
  sights and smells all about, another spell of dizzi-
  ness took hold of him. He braced his arms against
  metal walls and tried to resist the nausea that as-
  saulted him as well.
  Mercifully, it passed. Nicholas forced himself to
  swallow the blood that had risen in his throat and
  instantly was reminded of the hunger that tore at
  him, the burning emptiness that had grown steadily
  worse for…how long had it been? More weeks than
  
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  he cared to remember. Two full moons had come
  and gone since he had entered this accursed city.
  He lay back, giving in to the weakness that
  gripped him after the spells, and tried to overcome
  the disorientation that the visions brought. He was
  lying in the shell of a burned-out car under an in-
  terstate. The Canadian wilderness, the gunfire, the
  screaming—they weren’t real, at least not in this
  time and place. Though the vision was far from ran-
  dom.
  Nicholas knew the story well, how Pierre
  Beauvais and his unit had gone out on Indian pa-
  trol near Montreal and were slaughtered to a man.
  That’s what the French Canadians had thought,
  at any rate, since Pierre’s body had never been re-
  covered. The soldiers had not met any Iroquois that
  night. They had been decimated by a Gangrel el-
  der, the Golden, and Pierre had not joined his
  comrades in final death. That night in the stink of
  cold mud, he had been Embraced as Kindred, some
  fifty years later to Embrace another in turn,
  Jebediah Romey, Nicholas’ sire.
  These were the stories that Gangrel passed from
  generation to generation, from clanmate to
  clanmate as they travelled the broad expanses of
  the world and came across one another. Only now
  Nicholas was living the stories through the eyes of
  his ancestors, as if he were they, as if the pain and
  the terror were his that very first time. Sometimes
  
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  224
  when the spells came, Nicholas was thrown back
  into these memories of blood. First Jebediah, now
  Pierre. When would it end? When would the hun-
  ger and the visions leave him?
  The entire city was gripped by this madness. For
  weeks it had been growing worse—anarchs going
  berserk in the streets, attacking large groups of
  mortals, or one another; seemingly respectable
  Camarilla Kindred suddenly pouncing on their
  sires, trying to drain the rest of the vitæ that had
  given them unlife. Nicholas had watched it all from
  a distance, not wanting to involve himself in these
  strange city ways, not realizing until later that it
  was all part and parcel of this deadly sickness of
  body and soul, this curse which had been brought
  down upon them all.
  The mortals, too, were confounded by the sud-
  den surge of violence and chaos, but the kine were
  so short-sighted. They never did see the lurkers in
  the shadows.
  And now the city had grown deathly quiet.
  Those Kindred still unscathed hid like cubs in their
  havens. Only the brave and the foolish still roamed
  the streets. The brave, the foolish, and Nicholas.
  Several times he had set out to leave the city, to
  escape the foul air, the ever-pressing swell of kine,
  but each time he had been brought down by the
  curse, to regain his senses later knowing neither
  where he had gone or what he had done. Certainly
  
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  he had violated others’ hunting grounds, for the
  hunger always took him powerfully at those times,
  but none had challenged him. Dead or in hiding
  were the timid city Kindred.
  How had it started? Nicholas gripped his head,
  extended claws digging into scalp. He tried to hold
  at bay the hunger twisting his innards, the pound-
  ing that wracked his skull. That first night, he
  thought back. That first night in the city. The hun-
  ger had started then. The pain. The visions. What
  had he done that night? It was difficult to think
  clearly through the rising tide of dizziness, the nau-
  sea that only made the hunger worse when he fed.
  Evans. Evans’ house. The package. Did the package
  Nicholas had carried from Germany have some-
  thing to do with it? Or was Owain Evans some
  black sorcerer cursing all those around him, bring-
  ing the city to ruin?
  Nicholas crawled out of the blackened car. He
  would find out, and he would make the hunger
  stop.
  “Going out again, sir? So soon? And on Christ-
  mas Eve?”
  Owain stopped by the front door. He methodi-
  cally pulled on his overcoat, adjusted his scarf, even
  tucked his new sunglasses into his breast pocket.
  Only then did he turn and acknowledge Randal’s
  
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  226
  comment. Owain patted the ghoul on his cheek.
  “Do you know, Randal, why Señor and Señora
  Rodriguez have been with me for so long?”
  “Why is that, sir?” Randal looked puzzled by the
  seeming non sequitur.
  “Because they keep to themselves.”
  Randal heard the ominous tone in Owain’s voice
  and, wisely, did not reply. Owain closed the door
  behind him and got into the waiting Rolls. “Oak-
  land Cemetery, Ms. Jackson.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  Kendall Jackson possessed the ideal demeanor for
  a ghoul servant—she listened attentively, asked
  only necessary questions, and carried out orders
  impeccably. She often reminded Owain of Gwilym.
  How many years had it been since…since that un-
  fortunate business that had deprived Owain of
  Gwilym’s services? Five hundred? Six hundred?
  That had been near Christmas as well. And in all
  that time Owain had gone through ghouls like so
  many pairs of shoes. Some had shown promise, but
  none had combined that rare blend of savvy, pru-
  dence, and competence that had made Gwilym so
  invaluable.
  None, except perhaps for Ms. Jackson. Maybe,
  Owain reflected, he was being too harsh on his ser-
  vants. The fact that Gwilym was his first ghoul and
  had served the longest might have skewed Owain’s
  objectivity. Jackson was a better driver than
  
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  Gwilym had been a horseman, and although the
  short Welshman had been good in a fight, Jackson
  was absolutely deadly, as she had proven again in
  helping save the prince at the Cyclorama several
  weeks before.
  That fight had been a miscalculation on Owain’s
  part. He was lucky that both he and the prince had
  walked away. Ms. Jackson had stepped in and per-
  formed admirably, and with a few extra feedings,
  her wounded leg had healed quite nicely. Time and
  blood had served to effect Owain’s recovery as well.
  His thoughts from one ghoul to the other. Randal
  served various administrative duties quite capably,
  but he retained a certain smugness that, in earlier
  centuries, Owain would have squelched in an in-
  stant. For the past few decades, though, he just
  hadn’t had the energy or the interest. Perhaps it
  was time for a change in personnel, should a suit-
  able replacement come to Owain’s attention.
  Owain’s attention recently had been occupied by
  something other than chess, though this new di-
  version was just as maddening in some ways. With
  chess, Owain stared at the board for hours upon
  hours, night after night, torturing himself to find
  what he could have done differently, what he might
  still do to salvage a patently hopeless situation.
  His new passion was the siren. Now that he had
  heard her song, he realized that he would always
  hear it, no matter how far across the city he was.
  
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  His estate was at least a half hour away from the
  broken-down church, but still the night breeze car-
  ried the sweet notes to his ear. It seemed to happen
  every week or two; Owain had discerned no set
  pattern as of yet. Did the rites commence when-
  ever the siren and her brood grew hungry, perhaps?
  Owain had hunted through his library for refer-
  ences he vaguely remembered to rare vampires with
  voices capable of driving mad kine and Kindred
  alike. Daughters of Cacophony, they were called by
  some, but that exquisite song was the farthest thing
  from cacophony that Owain had ever heard.
  Twice again in the intervening month since the
  first visit, he had secreted himself in the tiny room
  beneath the belfry and observed the proceedings,
  which had always followed the same pattern. The
  congregation gathered as the siren stood alone at
  the head of the sanctuary. A few of the mortals
  seemed to be there every time. Others missed once
  but were back the next time. Roger had been
  present each time, while Albert had only been that
  first night.
  How could Albert stay away, Owain wondered,
  if he heard the music? And what of the other Kin-
  dred in the city? Did the siren choose, somehow,
  who heard her song? But she couldn’t know that
  Owain was spying on the proceedings.
  There were five more questions for each that
  Owain thought he might have answered. That was
  
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  the real reason he traipsed across town each time
  he heard the song drifting through the night air,
  Owain reminded himself. Not because he was com-
  pelled to do so; not because, even holding himself
  apart from the full experience of those congregated,
  he found visions of his faraway home in the mu-
  sic; not because each time she spoke that one word,
  adref, for him and him alone.
  None of those things were the reason.
  “Oakland Cemetery, sir.”
  Owain looked out the window and saw that they
  had, in fact, reached their destination. The old
  cemetery, full of stone crosses and mausoleums,
  loomed behind the boundary wall. Several years
  ago, Prince Benison had issued an edict that no
  Kindred, upon pain of final death, should enter
  Oakland Cemetery. He offered no explanation, and
  those few rash enough to inquire were punished
  harshly as a sign of the prince’s seriousness on the
  matter. Owain had always assumed facetiously that
  the edict was handed down by the little voices with
  whom the prince had a habbit of conversing. Un-
  like some Kindred, Owain held no macabre interest
  in the trappings of the dead. He had no problem
  staying out of the cemetery.
  Across the street stood the gloomy Fulton Bag
  Factory, the brick shell of an abandoned plant that
  supposedly was to be renovated and turned into
  luxury apartments. Owain doubted the project
  
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  would ever be completed. The building was too
  close to the cemetery which, for whatever reason,
  Benison felt so strongly should not be disturbed.
  Surely the prince would pull strings in city hall to
  prevent such an intrusion.
  Owain didn’t need to tell Jackson to wait there.
  That was what she had done the last two times the
  mood had struck Owain to go for a drive. If she
  wondered where he went after he left the car, or if
  she minded spending her Christmas Eve in such a
  manner, she kept her feelings to herself, as it should
  be.
  Ostensibly, Owain left her near the cemetery
  because a Rolls Royce closer to downtown attracted
  less attention than one parked in low-income
  Reynoldstown. As he made his way east following
  the siren’s lilting song toward the church this night,
  however, he realized to his surprise his ulterior
  motive: he wanted the siren to himself. The truth
  staring him in the face, Owain laughed. In addi-
  tion to his curiosity, his petty jealousy had been
  reawakened by this otherworldly performer.
  But were these human emotions that had de-
  serted him for countless years so petty after all?
  Owain’s philosophizing was interrupted by a clat-
  ter off to his left. More quickly than a mortal could
  have comprehended, he whirled, at the same time
  assuming a defensive crouch and drawing a dagger
  from its sheath behind him on his belt.
  
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  The dog rummaging through trashcans took no
  notice of Owain. It was more interested in its
  Christmas Eve dinner. Christmas Eve. Owain had
  even forgotten the holiday was at hand until
  Randal, in his impetuousness, had mentioned it.
  Normally, Owain would not have had the luxury
  of forgetting. The prince and all his bloody Bible
  readings would have made sure of that. But this
  year, with the “curse,” as some were calling it, loose
  in the city, most Kindred were too frightened to
  gather, and Benison in his frustration had stopped
  trying to make them.
  Owain relaxed and resheathed the dagger. He
  had taken to wearing it again after many years—
  in addition to the stiletto in his forearm
  sheath—almost out of nostalgia. Another ripple
  caused by the siren. The dagger’s pommel and hilt
  were embossed with gold gilding, and it had once
  been a gift to Owain’s nephew in honor of his king-
  ship, a kingship Owain had ruthlessly guided the
  boy toward.
  Owain hurried on his way. The siren’s mesmer-
  izing song seemed to follow a pattern. First was the
  lingering prelude as the congregation gathered.
  Perhaps this first part of the song was more accu-
  rately described as an introit, or better yet, the call
  to worship. For that was what happened. Those
  gathered came to fulfill their inner longings. They
  came out of desperation. How better, Owain won-
  
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  dered, could worship be defined? And what greater
  irony—and sacrilege?—than to transform a house
  of worship into a place of fulfillment, that which
  had always been denied Owain.
  During none of his visits had the bloody rites pro-
  gressed beyond this point before Owain had
  arrived. Was his timing that good, or could the si-
  ren be waiting for him? Nonsense. Owain rejected
  the possibility. There was no way she could be
  aware of his presence.
  Eventually, without fail, the music would grow
  and build, the serene melody taking on more pri-
  mal life. The maenads would join the ritual, the
  song and their dance growing fierce and tribal. And
  then a frenzied crescendo of feeding as the wild
  women gave into their bestial impulses. The mor-
  tals, as well, achieved some sort of spiritual or
  physical release at this point. Perhaps through their
  victimization, they achieved fulfillment, need per-
  petuating need, and insuring that the siren and her
  brood would never hunger.
  Owain would liked to have revealed his presence
  to Albert, or maybe to Roger, to have discussed
  with them what exactly they experienced by let-
  ting themselves be dragged along on that emotional
  journey, letting themselves be fed upon. Or did they
  even remember it afterward? The mortals didn’t
  seem to remember what had happened after the
  fact. They weren’t ghouls returning to serve a mas-
  
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  ter, rather they were cattle ambling toward the
  butcher. Owain suspected whatever happened in
  their minds, however the music manipulated them,
  that it was similar to the King Road Club where
  he fed on his social equals and then sent them away
  with the memory of thoroughly pleasant evening.
  With what memories were these mortals leaving?
  Arriving at the church, Owain clung to the shad-
  ows, scaling the wall and taking his now familiar
  position. He felt a momentary lapse of dignity. Here
  he was, a Ventrue elder, hiding like an embarrassed
  voyuer. But there were questions to be answered,
  he hastily reminded himself. This was an exercise
  in intellectual curiosity for him, unlike the others
  for whom it was a matter of emotional weakness.
  Most of those kneeling in the church were fa-
  miliar faces—the two young African-Americans
  who might be a couple, the ever-present Korean
  woman with her thick glasses, an older black man,
  a middle-aged white woman, and two or three
  other mortals. Albert and Roger were both present
  as well. And, of course, the siren stood motionless
  before them all, her physical beauty overshadowed
  by the perfection of her voice.
  Owain couldn’t help wondering if Albert or
  Roger had mentioned these excursions to anyone
  else. If not, the three of them might be the only
  Atlanta Kindred who knew of the siren’s presence.
  Owain had not seen any other vampires present at
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  any of the rites, and surely if others had heard the
  song, they would have come. Owain cared because
  this was not the type of affair that Prince Benison
  would condone. The Ventrue doubted that Benison
  knew of the siren’s presence in the city. Normally,
  the prince made a formal show of allocating hunt-
  ing grounds. The more public the pronouncement
  among the Kindred, the less chance of confusion
  and territorial struggles down the road. Order and,
  perhaps even more so, observation of the proper
  forms were high priorities with Benison. With the
  curse, order was rapidly breaking down. The prince
  would not tolerate the insult upon injury of an in-
  terloper in his city, especially not at this point. So
  it seemed unlikely, aside from the fact that Albert
  was still keeping away from Benison and that the
  prince could barely stand the sight of his childe
  Roger, that they or anyone else had revealed the
  existence of these rites to the prince.
  As the song began to rise, the tempo gradually
  increasing in intensity and emphasis, Owain settled
  back against the wall. This time he thought he
  would listen more than watch. After the past ritu-
  als, he felt he had mastered himself to the point
  that he could more completely immerse himself in
  the song without risking joining the group invol-
  untarily as had nearly happened the first evening.
  Owain fished around in his breast pocket and then
  put on his sunglasses, the first pair of shaded spec-
  
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  tacles he’d ever owned. By the time they had come
  into vogue, Owain had been long past worrying
  about the sun. Or rather, if the sun were an issue,
  it was much more of a worry than sunglasses could
  have helped. In this case, however, they blocked a
  bit of the flickering candlelight from below and
  helped Owain keep to his own thoughts.
  From the beginning, the siren’s song had prod-
  ded a buried memory in Owain, something just
  beyond his reach. It was a feeling he’d nearly grown
  used to, almost but not quite remembering some-
  thing, as he’d grown less and less connected to the
  milestones of life over the years. His mind had
  played tricks on him fairly often, obscuring that
  which should have been readily apparent to him.
  One strain of the music in particular, variations
  of which she revisited throughout the ritual, had
  caught Owain’s notice. It had taken the second and
  third nights for him to be able to pick it out. The
  strength of his blood allowed Owain to maintain
  more mental control than the other listeners, but
  now, as he tried to pull apart the music to find that
  familiar motif, he realized that it was that very con-
  trol he was going to have to relinquish, at least in
  part, if he were to delve beneath the surface of the
  music. And so he clung to the familiar strain of
  the song and, against his better judgment, let it take
  him where it would….
  The tune was that of the ocean breeze, the cold
  
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  Irish Sea again. Gazing out over the sea from the
  western coast of Wales, Owain realized something
  else about the word, adref, which the siren had spo-
  ken: though she pronounced the word in nearly
  flawless Welsh from Owain’s youth, her tongue
  imparted the slightest of accents to the sound, the
  most musical of imperfections which he recognized
  even from mortal days as Irish.
  The telltale accent, the lapping waves of the Irish
  Sea—she had come from, or at least passed
  through, the Emerald Isle. With this thought,
  countless nuances of the magical song unfolded
  before Owain like a rich tapestry unfurled to the
  light. He could see now that each listener would
  hear that word, homeward, in the tongue of his or
  her homeland. In that way, the siren’s song was
  made whole to each lost soul it reached. It became
  truly that person’s, yet never lost the siren’s story.
  With the realization, the other strands of the song
  crowded in upon Owain, flooded in upon him, a
  warmer, calmer version of that harsh sea.
  But Owain held steady. He did not relinquish
  that strand which was the siren, the impetus of the
  song that had initially attracted him. Her song was
  a lament, an outpouring of sorrow for love lost, for
  a homeland stolen from her. She beseeched the
  ancient gods who had walked her land in the ear-
  liest of days. Take me back, she pleaded. Take me
  back to meaning and to love. Take from me these mean-
  
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  ingless years, the burden of time, the burden of fail-
  ure.
  The notes struck true with Owain. He could find
  not the first seed of pride or hatred in them. Only
  loss and suffering. He could not imagine such pain
  without bitterness, such tragedy without recrimi-
  nation. It was that elusive touch of purity that so
  mystified him, that was so close to what he knew,
  yet far, far beyond him.
  The true emotion of her song took hold of
  Owain. Such catharsis he’d never felt—not
  through vengeance or victory or hatred. Even in
  loss, Owain had always found only bitterness, never
  nobility.
  Swept away by the searing truth of her song,
  Owain could not hold at bay the other swelling
  strands of the music. Again they poured over him,
  like the sea, not to be denied. They carried him
  away from the shore, each wanting to pull him a
  different direction, every strand wanting to impart
  its vision of loss and need, of discovered comfort
  and warmth.
  One strand in particular beguiled Owain, draw-
  ing him after it. Somehow these notes seemed most
  similar to the siren’s own song. The tune, first light
  and playful, then restful and soothing, carried
  Owain with it, away from the coast, away from the
  siren’s sorrow, over Snowdonia, on to the the far
  fringes of the mountains. Rhufoniog, Owain’s an-
  
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  cestral lands, lay before him, and not marred by
  modern roads and bridges. This was the land of his
  childhood. Filling his vision were the wood and
  stone walls of Dinas Mynyddig, his birthplace, the
  earthen defensive works of his family’s seat of
  power. He’d known the scene as a boy, and later as
  a lord of the night.
  The song carried Owain’s awareness over the
  walls to one open window. Adref. Homeward. For
  this was home for this part of the song. Through
  the window, he could see a woman with child,
  rocking, and singing. The words were faint, for she
  sang quietly for her unborn, but the tune was that
  of a lullaby, its notes caressing the babe in her
  womb. Her face was familiar to Owain. Often he
  had seen portraits of her, but never did he remem-
  ber her face in life, for his mother had died shortly
  after his birth.
  She was more lovely than he’d ever imagined.
  He wanted to reach out and stroke her cheek, but
  this vision was not a thing of substance, only of
  sight and sound. Anything more, the feel of sea
  spray on his face, was merely a trick of the mind.
  But still…
  Like holding sea water in his hand, Owain could
  not keep the vision. The scene grew blurry, shifted,
  and the collection of notes gained strength, grew
  richer. Still a lone woman rocked and sang, the
  same window but a different woman, busy with
  
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  knitting and no child, an absence that would shape
  her life. She sang the same song, wistfully, to none
  other than the night. It was the song Owain, as a
  young man, had stood in the chill night to hear.
  She was his one love. His one brother’s wife.
  “Angharad.”
  Her name spoken, the vision disappeared, a tide
  pulled back to sea, and Owain knew then that the
  strand of the song he had followed was his own.
  The siren’s sorrow had dipped into his soul and
  joined his story to the song, and only now did he
  truly hear it—his loss devoid of bitterness, his sor-
  row untainted by anger.
  Owain opened his eyes. His spectacles were
  smeared with tears of blood.
  Dear God! When did I last cry? He muffled his
  sobs, more from embarrassment than from fear of
  discovery. But that too was a concern. Had he
  alerted those below to his presence? Had he actu-
  ally spoken aloud, or was the name part of the song,
  now forever entwined with the siren’s sorrow?
  Owain leaned forward from his perch to see
  through the hole into the sanctuary. The maenads
  had just finished feeding. They were backing away
  from the sprawled mortals. Already, the siren was
  moving among the prone bodies, gently licking
  their blood-stained wounds, healing their injuries.
  She approached Albert, who was still kneeling de-
  spite having been fed upon, and as she licked the
  
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  torn flesh of his neck, his eyes fluttered open. He
  had an odd smile on his face; odd for Albert be-
  cause normally, even when he smiled, maybe
  especially when he smiled, he had a rather crazed
  gleam in his eyes. This time, though, he was the
  picture of perfect contentment, head lolled back
  in the siren’s arms, eyes staring lazily up at…at
  Owain.
  Owain jerked back from the edge of the hole.
  He’d grown careless after the strange trauma of the
  visions. Had Albert seen him in the shadows?
  There was no way to be sure. Not all Kindred had
  vision as acute as Owain’s, but he couldn’t assume
  that was the case with Albert. Surely Albert
  wouldn’t go to the prince. He and Roger were vio-
  lating Benison’s wishes just as surely as was Owain.
  Of course, Roger was the prince’s childe, if not his
  favorite person, and Albert was a fellow Malkavian,
  even if not in the best of graces currently. One
  thing Owain had learned long ago: he couldn’t out-
  guess a Malkavian. Benison had proven surprising
  on occasion, and Albert had never been anything
  but, as long as Owain had known him.
  There were too many possibilities, too much to
  think about, and Owain was feeling somewhat
  shaky after his experience. He tried to wipe clean
  his glasses, but his hands were trembling—damna-
  tion!—so he stuffed the spectacles into his pocket.
  The other nights he had sat here, Owain had
  
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  rushed away before those gathered below had re-
  covered from the rites, but tonight Owain, too, felt
  the need to recuperate. He didn’t trust his body to
  get him silently away from the church, so Owain
  took a deep calming breath, and he waited. There
  was much to think about, but for now he was try-
  ing to think of absolutely nothing.
  The night he had found himself in the burned-
  out car, Nicholas had paid a visit to Owain Evans’
  estate. He had leapt the outer wall and, knowing
  better what to watch for this time, had avoided
  detection. He’d alerted neither human nor dog nor
  ghoul. He had perched in the branches outside the
  mansion and waited. As the sun peeked over the
  eastern horizon, Evans had neither left nor entered,
  so Nicholas had sunk into the ground to wait out
  the day.
  The next evening, he had risen from the earth
  prepared to exercise patience honed over genera-
  tions and generations of hunting. He had not had
  to wait that long. Evans had left in his car, and
  Nicholas had followed.
  Pursuing an automobile through the city was not
  a task at which Nicholas had much practice. Keep-
  ing out of sight as much as possible, he had run
  like a Kindred possessed of demons, or one attempt-
  ing to outrun the sunrise. Several surprised mortals
  
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  had doubtless seen him, but to their poor eyes he
  would have been less than a blur in the night.
  The greatest challenge had come when Evans’
  car had turned onto the interstate and taken that
  barren road through the heart of the city. A par-
  tially wolven form streaking down such a highway
  would have stretched the Masquerade beyond its
  breaking point, but still Nicholas had not been
  daunted. He had kept pace on other roads and
  through neighborhoods lining the highway, rush-
  ing ahead at some points and waiting to make sure
  he had not lost his prey. He had leapt from roof to
  tree, over cars and fences, constantly shifting forms
  to gain the surest footing and quickest route.
  Thankfully, the car had pulled off the interstate
  and come to a halt near a large graveyard. When
  Evans had continued on foot, Nicholas had been
  forced to fight his instinct to pounce. The Ventrue
  had to know something about this curse. From
  within his fever, Nicholas had grown sure of this,
  but ripping Evans’ throat out, the Gangrel had de-
  cided, might not be the most productive way to find
  out what. So he had followed farther.
  Evans had led him to a falling-down church, into
  the steeple of which the Ventrue had climbed,
  strange since there were people in the sanctuary.
  So Nicholas had waited longer.
  And while he’d waited, the sound of soft music
  had made him prick up his ears. It had been a lone
  
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  voice, as clear and crisp as the breeze over the open
  prairie. No songbird had ever sung so sweetly. The
  very sound eased Nicholas’ hunger, for he had again
  grown weak and pained after his long run.
  Suddenly, the very buildings around him seemed
  to be closing in on Nicholas. Why had he tarried
  so long in this city? Nicholas longed for the wide
  open spaces that the music suggested to him. Not
  even the outdoors was enough room in this madly
  thronged place of humanity. He longed for the
  howl of the coyote, the snarl of the mountain lion.
  Nicholas turned and fled the city. Forgetting his
  hunger, he ran and ran until the buildings gave way
  to hills, and the hills to mountains, and not until
  the Christmas morning sun was searing his flesh
  did he give into exhaustion and once again sink
  beneath the earth.
  When Roger awoke in the church, the others
  were gone—the mortals, the beautiful pale singer,
  Albert—all gone. There were still two or three
  hours of darkness, so he had no worry on that ac-
  count. Slowly, he rose to his feet. His footsteps
  echoed as he left the empty building.
  Roger didn’t know how to thank Albert enough
  for leading him to this miracle, this soothing balm
  in an unlife of misery. Each night that they came
  and Roger gave himself to the music, he was vis-
  
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  ited by the loveliest of visions. He could see him-
  self strong and stalwart. He saw the prince greeting
  him with pride, sometimes bowing down before
  him. But more electrifying than any of that, Roger
  saw his mother rise from her bed. She hugged and
  kissed him. He twirled her small body in his arms.
  While the music lasted, the visions were real.
  Roger wanted nothing more than to stay there with
  his mother, embracing her. The beautiful pale
  singer was showing him heaven, the way it would
  always be after his mother awoke and he Embraced
  her into eternity. Knowing it could happen, know-
  ing it would happen, Roger could face the
  challenges of mundane reality.
  He arrived at the car to find it up on blocks, the
  tires, the battery, even the AM radio gone.
  A surge of rage shot through Roger. How could
  people show so little respect for the property of oth-
  ers? He forgot his moralizing the next instant as
  pain ripped through his abdomen and he doubled
  over in agony. The cramps again, and he could feel
  the bloody sweat beading up all over his body. How
  he wanted to be back in the church listening to
  the music, spending time with his mother in that
  most perfect of worlds.
  Roger stumbled over to another car, a beaten-
  down Escort, and ripped open the door. Despite his
  pain, he had the car hotwired within a minute. It
  was Christmas Eve. He needed to see his mother,
  
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  and that was too far to walk.
  Roger tried to dab all the blood from his face be-
  fore going into the Peachtree Gardens. If the night
  attendant noticed anything out of the ordinary, he
  didn’t let on. Twice more before Roger reached his
  mother’s room, he was almost brought to his knees
  by the pain. His insides were seizing up. He wanted
  to feed, but even that had only made things worse
  the past few days.
  Room 256. He was inside and at his mother’s
  side.
  She looked so small and weak here, not like he’d
  just seen her. Maybe, Roger wondered, he should
  take her to the church. The music might work its
  magic on her. But if he moved her and something
  went wrong, he would never forgive himself.
  “Hello, Mama,” Roger said softly. “I just came
  from the church again. The one I told you about
  that Albert and I have been going to.” She would
  like that he’d been going to church. “I’m going to
  make you better, Mama. There’s a faith healer at
  the church, and we’re gonna make you better.”
  Tabatha Greene lay still, barely breathing, as
  Roger told her all about the beautiful music—she
  had always loved music, he knew—and about how
  it was going to make her better, and about every-
  thing he had seen.
  Roger noticed that just talking about the music
  had made his pain and hunger lessen. He could feel
  
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  the faith healing at work. Next time he heard the
  song, he would rush here and take his mother to
  the church. They had waited long enough, endured
  enough. The music could bring him heaven on
  earth. Roger told his mother all of his plans.
  “So for now,” he smiled at her, “we’ve just gotta
  keep you strong.” As he did during every visit,
  Roger pricked his own finger and carefully let a
  drop or two of his vampiric vitæ trickle into her
  mouth. He waited for her to swallow as she always
  did. When she took longer than usual, Roger
  leaned over her and peered down at her face.
  His mother coughed in his face. Roger was close
  enough to feel the spray, but when he wiped it off,
  his hand came away smeared red. Roger stared at
  her, uncomprehending.
  She coughed again, this time more forcefully, and
  again blood sprayed over him. She began shaking
  all over, and gagging sounds filled her throat. Be-
  fore Roger could lift her up to clear her airways,
  the sounds stopped, as did her shaking.
  She released a prolonged sigh, air leaving her
  body not to be replaced. As Roger looked on, fro-
  zen by terror, blood ran from her nose and her ears
  and the corners of her eyes.
  Finally, she was completely still. Roger stared in
  shock. He opened his mouth but was robbed of
  speech. All of his dreams, all of his plans for the
  future, for heaven on earth…
  
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  Roger buried his face in his mother’s nightgown
  and sobbed.
  
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  TEN
  Frank raised a hand to scratch his ear, which was
  still very tender. After four weeks, it had finally
  healed over and grown back, itching all the while.
  As it had grown, so had grown the hunger within
  him—nagging at first, never quite sated; then
  stronger, constantly pricking his body and mind.
  Now it tormented him without pause. Just last
  night he had fed upon an entire Pakistani family,
  and it helped not a bit. In fact, he had grown so ill
  afterward that he had vomited most of the blood
  into the sewer. Pakis aren’t even any good for food
  anymore! he thought, disgusted, spitting at the
  memory.
  His leaving the underground tunnels last night
  had been a rare thing. Since Gisela had died, he
  
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  had laid low, waiting and watching from here in
  the sewers. Frank rubbed his ear again.
  Gisela had tried to kill him, to rip his head off,
  and she would have if he hadn’t gotten away. Two
  nights later when he’d warily ventured back, the
  basement floor had been a bog of sticky congeal-
  ing blood with what was left of Gisela lying in the
  middle of it.
  Frank had spit on her body. Try tearing my head
  off, whore.
  But the whole city was that way—vampires fall-
  ing upon one another to feed. Crazy! Diablerie was
  one thing, but mindless bestial frenzy…
  There were many others beside Gisela who had
  fallen prey to the curse. The Endtimes, the dark-
  ness before the final light—Gehenna. The
  antediluvians would rise up to claim their childer.
  But Frank would be ready. He and his Sabbat breth-
  ren would stand their ground…those Sabbat
  brethren who hadn’t already fallen victim to the
  curse.
  It had to be a Camarilla plot to weaken the
  Sabbat before the coming and the final battle. It
  was so obvious!
  That was why Frank was waiting here tonight.
  He had expressed his suspicions to Herr Himmler,
  and the Fuehrer had been rightfully impressed.
  “Find out what you can,” he had charged Frank.
  So Frank had asked around, put out subtle feel-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  ers, hinted at what he might know to see how oth-
  ers responded. Ellison and those Camarilla Nosferatu
  aren’t the only ones with contacts in this city! Frank’s
  probing had paid off far better than he could have
  hoped. And so he waited.
  Footsteps. Distant. Deliberate.
  Frank squeezed back into the shadows. This ren-
  dezvous was not without its risks.
  The echoing footsteps grew closer slowly, me-
  thodically, confidently. There was no sound of
  hesitation in them, no pauses or missteps in the
  slime and filth of the sewer. Gradually, a figure be-
  came visible through the murky darkness.
  Frank gasped in astonishment. “Wilhelm.”
  Approaching Frank was the prince of Berlin. The
  most accepted of two rival claimants to the title of
  prince, at any rate, but such trivialities seemed far
  less important when face to face with greatness.
  Wilhem’s bright blue eyes almost shone in the
  darkness. His slightly round Prussian face was re-
  laxed. A warm smile came easily to his lips now
  that Frank was revealed. The prince offered a hand
  in friendship. “Frank?”
  Frank stared dumbstruck for a moment before
  reaching out. The prince grasped his hand firmly
  and shook. Frank, again, was tardy to respond, and
  then did so a bit too vigorously. Wilhelm seemed
  not to notice Frank’s thick blue hide. The
  Nosferatu antitribu had been unable to maintain
  
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  his less…peculiar visage while the hunger gnawed
  at him and left him weak.
  “You are Frank,” the prince clarified.
  “I…yes, yes…” How else, Frank wondered, could
  he muck this up? “Of course I am,” he said a bit
  too abruptly.
  The prince didn’t seem to mind as he continued
  smiling warmly and nodded greetings. His finely
  tailored suit should have looked out of place in the
  sewers, but the man looked completely at ease.
  Instead it was Frank, who lived in and nightly
  traversed these tunnels, who was uncomfortable.
  “I…I was expecting Kleist,” he stammered,
  “or…someone else. Not…” Frank was growing flus-
  tered as well as muddled.
  “…Not me?” Wilhelm suggested.
  “Yes. I mean, no. Not you.”
  “I heard you had important news to discuss,” the
  prince, all charm and grace, explained, “so I came
  myself. Times are bad, and I owe it to the Kindred
  of Berlin to do what I can.”
  Frank rubbed his scaly hands together. Offer some
  tidbit of information, then find out what he knows, he
  told himself. Herr Himmler will reward me well for
  raising the curse!
  The prince was waiting patiently.
  “I have heard,” Frank proffered in hushed tones,
  “that there is a curse upon our city.” He paused for
  a moment, waiting for the prince to present his
  
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  view of events, but Wilhelm was still smiling and
  listening. “I have heard,” Frank continued, “that
  it is only the first of great plagues sent to weaken
  us Kindred before…” He paused again, in case the
  prince wanted to contribute, but to no avail. “Be-
  fore the Endtimes, the days of darkness when the
  eldest of the elders will rise to consume their
  young.” Still the prince waited. “Before…” Frank
  looked around meaningfully, “Gehenna.”
  Wilhelm was still watching Frank. The prince be-
  gan to nod gravely. “I have heard of this curse as well.”
  Frank expected more in the way of response, but
  that was all the prince said. So Frank expounded
  upon his views. “It is our own fault,” he pointed
  out. “Mixing races, allowing foreigners free run of
  our lands. Certainly our forefathers are displeased
  in their resting places.”
  “Certainly.” Wilhelm, almost imperceptibly,
  glanced at his watch as he shifted his weight from
  one foot to the other.
  A dull ache stirred in Frank’s belly. Hunger or
  anxiety, he wasn’t sure which. “The curse—I know
  how it started.”
  Wilhelm’s eyebrows rose at this.
  Frank was gratified to see he had the prince’s in-
  terest, except that Frank had no idea how the curse
  had started. “I spoke with a vampire…a woman…a
  Tremere, very high up, very high. I cannot tell you
  her name…”
  
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  “I understand,” the prince graciously conceded.
  “She said a Tremere elder cast the curse upon us,”
  Frank went on. “On our city…to get at you, so the
  Tremere could take over.”
  “I see.”
  “This woman…my friend, she helped perform
  the ritual.” Still the prince listened attentively. “I
  might be able to find out how to remove it.”
  Wilhelm was clearly impressed by this. “That
  would be a great service to all loyal Kindred. Ob-
  viously this woman…your friend, she does not take
  to such treachery.”
  “No. She does not. You are exactly right,” Frank
  agreed. “That is why she told me.”
  “Of course,” the prince nodded. “Then things are
  bad in the east of the city as well?”
  “Oh, yes,” Frank acceded. “Kindred grow sick.
  They go mad, attack one another.” Frank absent-
  mindedly rubbed his ear. “Some kine have been
  struck down by the curse. Some fear our curse may
  draw too much attention from the mortals if they
  are affected in large numbers.”
  “I see.” The prince stared directly at Frank for a
  moment, then raised his arm to better see his watch
  beneath his sleeve. “I am afraid I must go, Frank.”
  Again, the prince reached out and shook the
  Nosferatu’s hand. “You have been quite helpful. If
  you discover more news, my man Kleist is not dif-
  ficult to contact. Again, many thanks.” With that,
  
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  Wilhelm turned and strode away into the darkness
  leaving Frank to decide what he had learned
  through his interrogation of the prince.
  Idiot! Wilhelm could not believe that he had
  wasted his time on such a cretin. Kleist had been
  right. Another dead end. Another crazy speaking
  of curses and Tremere plots. Did the fool think that I
  hadn’t already conferred with Etrius in Vienna, the
  most highly placed of Tremere? Of course everyone had
  suspected the Tremere. Which didn’t mean that they
  weren’t the cause of this madness. For that reason,
  Wilhelm had summoned Maxwell Ldescu, Tremere
  regent in Berlin. The prince had been surprised
  when Ldescu had arrived accompanied by Karl
  Schrekt, the Tremere Justicar.
  The problem, this curse, was more widespread
  than just in Berlin. Similar outbreaks of madness
  and violence were being reported all over Europe
  and in the Americas as well. Ldescu and Schrekt
  had had little choice but to be quite frank concern-
  ing their ignorance in the matter.
  Their Tremere underlings across the globe had
  had no luck in discerning the cause of the malady,
  or exactly how it spread. There was no consistent
  pattern of who was at risk. In tests on “volunteers”
  where identical subjects were exposed to the same
  degree to victims already afflicted, one subject was
  
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  affected, the other was not. Possibly Kindred of el-
  der generation were more resistant, but even this
  trend was not inviolate.
  One fact, and one fact only, the Tremere had dis-
  covered for certain: this was no mere contagion or
  vampiric mutation of a mortal disease. Clinging to
  each victim, living and dead, was the aura of foul
  magic, a vile twisting of nature with which the
  Tremere were unfamiliar, a supernatureal tainting
  of the blood that ate away at both mind and body.
  Truly the entire race of vampires was cursed.
  Ldescu and Schrekt hadn’t said as much, but
  Wilhelm could tell they were worried—no, more
  than worried. Scared. That was why he believed
  them.
  Wilhelm could see moonlight ahead and smell
  fresh air as he approached the ladder that had let
  him down into the sewers. Frank Litzpar had been
  an utter waste of time, but one couldn’t pass up
  even unlikely possibilities in such a crisis as this.
  When the strange attacks had started, Wilhelm
  had suspected some trickery from Gustav. The old
  bastard would stop at nothing to reclaim what he
  erroneously thought of as “his city.” Kindred had
  inexplicably withered away, starving though their
  bodies were full of fresh blood. Wilhelm had re-
  ports that the curse had struck even more severely
  among the Sabbat. No, this was all too indirect for
  anything from Gustav. The goat was less subtle
  
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  than the blitzkrieg. Too indirect, and too massive.
  Vampires all over the world were falling victim.
  Already, almost one in five Kindred in Berlin had
  been stricken, and those were only the instances
  of which Wilhelm was aware. From the sounds of
  what the idiot Litzpar had said, the former East
  Berlin where Gustav still managed to hold sway was
  just as bad, if not worse. At least that would keep
  the elder Ventrue off Wilhelm’s back—for the time
  being.
  On Christmas Day as families across the city of
  Atlanta awoke to presents under trees, as they wor-
  shipped the holiday’s patron deities Christ and St.
  Nick, as they seriously attempted to treat others as
  lovingly for one day as they might each day of the
  year, Owain tossed fitfully in his slumber.
  In these days of electric interior lighting, now
  that windowless rooms were no longer an incon-
  venience, many Kindred chose to sleep in beds, just
  as they had in their mortal days. Others clung to
  the old ways, out of habit or out of the mistaken
  belief begotten from legend and feature film that
  they must.
  Owain fell somewhere between these two ex-
  tremes on the spectrum. His resting place was too
  small to be mistaken for a proper bed. Centuries
  ago there had been a certain security in utilizing a
  
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  coffin during the daylight hours. The practicality
  of being relatively easy to hide, somewhat mobile
  if one employed trustworthy retainers, as well as
  the advantage of keeping away superstitious mor-
  tals who were loathe to disturb a corpse, especially
  if its demise had resulted from the plague or some
  infectious disease—these factors had all been more
  integral to Owain’s thought than any tradition of
  the undead.
  But neither did he while away his days in a pine
  box. His “bed,” for lack of a better word, was en-
  closed to provide the sense of security to which he
  had become accustomed, but easily three times the
  width of even a luxurious coffin, with plentiful
  head room and padded satin interior. Owain oc-
  cupied his daily berth with a satisfaction many
  mortals reserved for their automobiles. He knew
  that he had cheated death. That was the flip side
  of the coin that was the vampiric curse of Caine.
  Owain had no interest in affecting the trappings
  of death. Leave that to the children of the mod-
  ern city, so desperately needing to manufacture
  tragedy to provide a veneer of meaning to their in-
  sular little lives.
  Owain had no need to seek out tragedy. It had
  sought him out time and again over the years.
  A vampire’s daily rest was not completely analo-
  gous to true sleep. In some ways, the hours were
  spent restfully. Physically, the body might heal.
  
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  Otherwise there were no demands or functions us-
  ing precious blood. For Owain, however, there was
  no spiritual rejuvenation, no feeling of daily re-
  newal, no recouping of emotional energy. Over the
  centuries, the uncompensated outflow of vigor had
  left Owain drained and listless. Even so, he had
  come to find a certain nihilistic reassurance in the
  hours of slumber. If God wished to exasperate
  Owain every night of his existence, at least the
  daylight hours were free of aggravation, if not ac-
  tively pleasant.
  And then sometimes came the visions.
  They were not dreams, for to dream would im-
  ply hopes and fears for the future. Nightmares
  perhaps, dreams never. Owain had long since aban-
  doned active longing. He had grown used to the
  dull ache of having that which he cared for torn
  away. Even his successes—for he had certainly
  achieved wealth and influence and longevity, the
  last of which in particular for vampires equalled
  power—even these rang hollow.
  Now even his hours of blissful negation were in-
  terrupted.
  First there was only mist, a cold and forboding
  fog that lay stagnant, unmoving. It possessed a
  timeless quality, as might the mists of nothingness
  before creation, or the mists that hugged a barren
  rock long after man and his hidden masters had
  destroyed their only world.
  
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  Ever so slowly, movement, a parting of the mist
  revealing a hillside rising from the surrounding
  clouds. And on the hillside, a lone wooden staff,
  tall and straight, carved so that a human hand
  might grasp it and find support. A feeling of sta-
  bility hung about the staff. It was embedded in the
  earth as firmly and as surely as had been the sword
  anchored in the stone.
  Around the staff the mists began to swirl. Join-
  ing the primal dance, the staff slowly twisted and
  bent. At its crown, wooden strands pulled away
  from one another, stretching in different directions,
  and as the branches reached meanderingly toward
  the sky, parting the mist further, tender green buds
  sprang forth along the length of each bough.
  Sprang forth and opened into small rounded leaves.
  Following the lines of the branches, the mists
  continued to separate until rays of glowing sunshine
  bathed the tree on the hillside. As the tiny leaves
  spread wide in the warm light, blossoms sprouted
  and luxuriously unfolded into delicate flowers,
  white with traces of pink, shining in the rays of
  the sun.
  All this Owain saw as if he were standing on the
  hill, yet the sun did not dazzle his eyes nor burn
  his flesh.
  But a shadow fell across the hillside. A tall
  mound rose out of the surrounding mists to blot
  out the light of the sun, its slopes grown green over
  
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  ancient terraces, dark and foreboding. Darker and
  darker the shadow grew, until the tree was only
  memory.
  Atop the mound stood a stone tower, a shrine
  circled by ravens. The clouds lay heavy and thick
  around the tower. Lightning slashed through the
  churning vapor. Thunder shook the ground.
  Owain stood within the tower without ever hav-
  ing taken a step from the first hill. The stone cross
  on the altar rocked on its base. Dust rained down
  from the highest reaches of the tower. Pigeons took
  flight.
  Again thunder shook the earth, and then the
  earth was moving of its own accord, rumbling and
  quaking. The cross crashed from the altar, smash-
  ing to pieces against the stone floor. Rock and
  mortar began to crack and tumble from above, but
  Owain stood immobile, unable to move, to flee.
  From below, as well, the world closed in as the
  ground buckled and rose, knocking Owain from his
  feet. The cobblestones split and peeled away be-
  fore the heaving earth. Above, the tower shuddered
  and came thundering down.
  It had not been the most pleasant Christmas that
  Eleanor could remember. There had been abso-
  lutely no gathering of Kindred. She had mentioned
  the lack of festivities to Benison several times, but
  
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  that had only sent him stomping off in a huff. It
  was not the best of timing, all this trouble during
  the Christmas season.
  Eleanor had seen her share of troubles. Before
  she had married Benison, when she had served as
  archon to Justicar Baylor, her sire, she had settled
  clan disputes, quelled civil unrest among Kindred
  and kine, and even tracked down a renegade mage
  and the demon that had possessed him. But this,
  this curse was far worse than anything else she
  could remember.
  She had received a message from Baylor. He was
  in Chicago trying to sort out the mess there. Just
  when some semblance of a balance of power had
  been achieved among the contenders to become
  prince, every faction was riddled with sudden va-
  cancies as Kindred either succumbed to the curse
  or went into hiding. Stability crumbled to dust.
  Anarchy reigned. And still lupines and Sabbat
  loomed in the shadows.
  The trouble, Baylor had confirmed, was not just
  in Atlanta, or in Chicago. Riots had broken out
  in the Sabbat northeast, in Miami. Gang warfare
  was escalating in Los Angeles as anarch barons
  jockeyed for position. Even in normally staid Eu-
  rope, the casualties were appalling.
  But that was no reason to cancel all the festivi-
  ties.
  Eleanor had argued that in times of crisis, the
  
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  observance of ritual and ceremonial gatherings was
  all the more important, but Benison had not been
  swayed.
  Eleanor’s train of thought was interrupted as the
  prince stalked through the living room. He took
  one look at the gilded magnolia and holly boughs
  on the mantlepiece, then snatched them up and
  crumpled them to bits. “I thought I said to remove
  this trash from my home!”
  “Our home, dear,” Eleanor said calmly. She could
  appreciate the fact that her dear Benison was wor-
  rying himself sick. He was watching the city that
  he’d built fall apart around him, and there seemed
  to be nothing he could do. A Sabbat attack or an
  anarch revolt he could crush. Lupines he could
  battle to the death. A usurper of his title he could
  tear limb from limb. But a mysterious curse that
  could strike anyone next…that drove the prince to
  distraction. But, Eleanor reminded herself, it was
  not her fault that Benison had not seen that holly
  bough before he had sat down, and she would not
  be robbed of the remainder of her holiday season,
  or whatever she could salvage of it. “I will remove
  the Christmas decorations on New Year’s, just like
  every year, and not a day before.”
  The prince glared. He raised a finger, but then
  clenched it into a fist and stomped out of the room.
  Marriage had done him some good, Eleanor noted.
  No broken furniture, no smashed windows. She
  
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  wondered sometimes how he had managed this city
  before she had come along.
  A rather loud knock sounded at the front door
  of Rhodes Hall. A few moments passed before
  Eleanor remembered that all three household
  ghouls had wasted away quite dramatically, not to
  mention poor Alex Horndiller, and good help so
  hard to find. Certainly Benison wasn’t fit to receive
  visitors this evening, so it seemed to be left to
  Eleanor.
  As she turned the knob, the door came crashing
  open. Hopping lithely out of the way, she still
  barely missed being smashed by the large oaken
  door. Into the foyer stumbled Roger carrying in his
  arms—Dear God!—Eleanor realized, a body.
  “Eleanor, you’re here,” Roger boomed in a deep
  baritone. “Good.” His face was lined with the dried
  tracks of bloody tears. The side of his head was cov-
  ered in blood as well, fresh, not dried. From his ear?
  Eleanor couldn’t tell. Despite his distressing appear-
  ance, Roger spoke with a forcefulness and
  confidence that Eleanor had never seen in him
  before. “Lock the doors and bring me my rifle. The
  Yanks have broken through, and it won’t be long
  before they’re here.” Eleanor had no chance to stop
  him before he had pushed past her with the limp
  burden in his arms into the living room. “This poor
  lad’s taken a belly wound. Fetch some towels. And
  whiskey. Might as well make him comfortable.”
  
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  Eleanor had no idea what Roger thought he was
  doing, but worse than that, he had just tracked mud
  and blood all over her foyer and living room, and
  now he was laying the body of his “poor lad” on
  the cream and mullberry couch.
  Roger turned and saw Eleanor standing dumb-
  founded in the doorway. “Woman!” he bellowed.
  “Are you hard of hearing? Fetch my rifle, the tow-
  els and whiskey.”
  The violent gleam in Roger’s eyes was quite for-
  eign to him, Eleanor was sure.
  “I’ll teach those damn Yanks to charge into my
  city,” Roger exclaimed. “I won’t stand for it! Not
  one minute!” Still lacking towels, he tore a strip
  from the draperies and began dabbing the forehead
  of his wounded charge. “What good is a wife,”
  Roger wondered aloud, “if she can’t follow orders?”
  A wife?
  The words shocked Eleanor almost as much as
  seeing her French draperies tattered for bandages.
  Something was wrong with Roger. He wasn’t rav-
  ing exactly, but his manner, his attitude toward
  Eleanor, the righteous indignation burning in his
  eyes—it was almost like watching…
  At that moment, Benison came stomping down
  the stairs, his footsteps rattling the chandelier in
  the hall. “What in the name of Matthew, Mark,
  Luke, and John is going on down here? Who makes
  such a ruckus in my home?” Roger’s rather dra-
  
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  matic, and loud, entrance had done little to im-
  prove the prince’s mood. “Roger? Have you taken
  leave of your senses?” The prince, most often, didn’t
  care to see his childe under the most favorable of
  circumstances, which these were not. Benison had
  Embraced a mortal war hero, a fearless combatant,
  and had ended up with a spineless vampiric recre-
  ant.
  After just having ordered Eleanor about, Roger
  paused, slightly puzzled, when he saw Benison. The
  prince did not pause.
  Eleanor tried to restrain her husband. “Benison,
  I wouldn’t…” but the prince had already brushed
  past her.
  “What is the meaning of this?” Benison de-
  manded, face to face with Roger.
  Roger glanced at the body behind him on the
  couch, not a “lad” at all, but a small gray-haired
  woman as dark of skin as Roger. Again Roger
  seemed confused.
  Benison seemed suddenly to notice the mess—
  the mud, the blood—and then he noticed the
  woman’s body. Though the body itself was scrubbed
  clean, she was adorned in bedclothes encrusted
  with stale dried blood. The smell of death hung
  about her motionless form. The prince’s meager
  patience was at its end.
  He pushed Roger out of the way and reached for
  the corpse. “How dare you bring…”
  
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  The instant Benison set a hand on the body, pure
  rage twisted Roger’s face. Eleanor saw the change
  and tried to warn her husband, but Roger struck
  too quickly. He landed a powerful fist against
  Benison’s jaw, knocking the prince to one knee.
  “How dare I?” Roger roared. “How dare you? In-
  vading my home!”
  Benison remained on one knee for a moment,
  more shocked than hurt. Slowly, he stood, draw-
  ing himself up to his full height.
  “Benison,” said Eleanor urgently, having moved
  into the room, “he thinks he’s you.”
  The prince may or may not have heard his wife.
  With one lightning-quick motion, he backhanded
  Roger, propelling the younger Malkavian back over
  an end table. The ornate lamp that had been on
  the table shattered against the floor as Roger
  crashed against the far wall, tearing a large hole
  through the wallpaper, plaster and sheetrock. Two
  pictures fell from the walls, frames and glass explod-
  ing into hundreds of fractured bits.
  Benison stepped toward his childe. The prince
  was spoiling for a fight and ready to finish this one.
  Roger leaned, stunned and blinking, against the
  wall. After a dazed moment, he looked around the
  room, slowly, as if seeing it for the first time. “Prince
  Benison?” he asked in an unsure voice. “Sire?”
  Eleanor advanced into the room to the prince.
  She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Benison…”
  
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  Her presence, her touch, had a soothing effect
  on the prince. He held his ground, but did not
  unclench his fists nor shift his glare from Roger.
  Suddenly, Roger groaned and doubled over in
  pain. He dropped to his knees, then fell prone to
  the floor, crying out in distress.
  Eleanor started forward but Benison held her
  back. “It may be a trick,” he cautioned.
  Eleanor looked on as Benison edged toward
  Roger, ready for an attack should Roger’s collapse
  merely be a feint.
  “Make it stop! Make it stop!” Roger cried, then,
  “Save her, sire. It’s not too late. Save her.”
  Benison knelt down over his childe. The prince
  had seen too much of this in the past weeks not to
  recognize it for what it was. The agony might end
  any moment, or it might go on for days. Benison
  was visibly forcing himself to remain calm, a diffi-
  cult task so soon after his temper was sparked.
  “Roger. Childe. Can you hear me?”
  “Save her,” Roger pleaded. His eyes, squeezed
  shut a moment before, were open now, full of ur-
  gency and pain. “Save her.”
  Benison looked back at the body which Eleanor
  was examining. He was no stranger to death. The
  old woman had been dead for several days already.
  No one was going to save her. “Who is she?”
  Benison asked, somewhat uncomfortable with a
  personal question.
  
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  “Mother,” Roger muttered half under his breath.
  “Save her. Take her to the church. Listen for the
  music.”
  For the next half hour, Benison and Eleanor lis-
  tened as Roger, between debilitating waves of pain,
  rambled on about his mother and faith healing,
  about a pale young woman and an old church in
  Reynoldstown, about the most beautiful song that
  would cure all ills.
  Eleanor was touched by the emotional display.
  Even as Roger lapsed completely beyond lucidity,
  he was trying to ensure that his mother would be
  cared for. Even when he’d been in the grip of the
  curse-induced dementia, he’d been trying to save
  her. But it was far too late. Too late for her. Too
  late for Roger. There was nothing to be done.
  Like so many of the others, Roger succumbed in
  the end. His head lolled back, and blood seeped
  from his body as if from a sieve. As he was taken
  in by final death and his body began to decompose,
  Eleanor saw Benison’s face hardened in a scowl, his
  brow creased with deep furrows. Again, Eleanor
  placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder. He
  turned to face her.
  “He was weak,” said Benison gravely. “He was
  weak, and his blood is reclaimed by the earth. God
  spare us from this curse.” He rose, and without an-
  other word, walked out of the room.
  
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  ELEVEN
  Mohammed was ready for trouble, almost look-
  ing forward to it, really. He’d gotten word less than
  an hour ago that a couple El Hermandad were
  messing with the museum, the California Afro-
  American Museum that he had worked long and
  hard to see built. That he did not tolerate. Bravo,
  the Crypt’s Son who had called, said the rival gang
  members were harassing people around the museum
  and had gone as far as to engage in minor vandal-
  ism. They had seemed in no hurry to move on, and
  the police had not bothered to show up.
  That was something Mohammed would have to
  check into. The cops in his barony had certain ar-
  eas that, at his insistence, were high priorities—the
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  270
  museum, Exposition Park as a whole, the USC
  campus across the street. Mohammed was going to
  have an explanation, and someone was going to
  pay for this lapse.
  Bravo, a mortal himself but educated in the ways
  of the Kindred and in line to become a ghoul, had
  also said that the two vandals were vampires. He
  was laying low and keeping an eye on things until
  help arrived.
  And here was the help. Mohammed had decided
  it would do the Crypt’s Sons’ morale good amidst
  all the paranoia and hysteria for him to make a
  public appearance and deal with this little prob-
  lem personally. El Hermandad needed to know that
  they couldn’t take him for granted. So he, along
  with two other vampires, two ghouls, and eight
  mortal gang members, had jumped into four cars
  and torn along Harbor Freeway. Presently they were
  double-parked—Just let the cops hassle us!—and
  walking briskly through the park toward the mu-
  seum. Mohammed might not have had his best
  men with him, but what he lacked in quality, he
  made up for in quantity.
  Organization, Mohammed thought. You can’t keep
  order without organization. And he couldn’t main-
  tain his organization with every other vampire and
  ghoul under his command dead or in hiding from
  this so-called curse.
  Maybe it is a curse.
  
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  At first Mohammed had suspected some disease,
  the way it seemed to be spreading, the way so many
  underlings had shown a similar progression of
  symptoms. He hadn’t yet been Embraced in the ‘50s
  when two mysterious plagues had swept through
  the Sabbat, wiping out over a third of their num-
  ber.
  Mohammed’s organizations surpassed those
  losses. Among his clandestine Sabbat followers,
  casualties were roughly eighty percent, worse at-
  trition than even many suicidal war parties. His
  ghoul and Kindred gang losses had been closer to
  half. Still devastating.
  Mohammed had tried to take precautions. He
  had friends on staff at USC’s medical school, and
  he’d had one of the desiccated victims examined.
  Battery after battery of tests had turned up noth-
  ing. And if it were a disease, the doctor had pointed
  out, mortals would surely be falling victim as well.
  Mohammed was still just as much in the dark.
  After Francesca had lost her prolonged struggle
  against the curse, Mohammed had burned the
  house in Watts. Nobody would make much of a fuss
  about one more fire-bombed building in that riot-
  scarred neighborhood. Whatever that curse was, let
  it die with Francesca. Mohammed had moved back
  to his crypt in Inglewood Park Cemetery—the
  source of the Crypt’s Sons’ name, shortened among
  most mortals. To some extent he had been laying
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  272
  low too, trying to regroup, conferring with his
  newly promoted lieutenants, like Kenny and Mar-
  quis who were with him tonight. So that was
  another reason this little demonstration was called
  for, to let everyone know that Mohammed al-
  Muthlim was still master of his barony. These two
  interlopers were going to wish they’d never heard
  that name, and they on the far side of Mohammed’s
  territory from their own turf.
  As he and his crew descended into the huge ex-
  panse of sunken rose garden in Exposition Park,
  Mohammed pressed his hand against the breast of
  the light jacket he wore. It was more than warm
  enough in L.A. for just shirt sleeves, even three
  days before New Year’s, but some things a T-shirt
  didn’t quite conceal, like the two wooden stakes
  that Mohammed could feel against his chest. No
  mercy tonight. Salvador’s boys were going down,
  and going down hard.
  Even close to midnight, the rose gardens were
  far from deserted. Ahead, a handful of Hispanic
  businessmen in suits laughed loudly, probably tak-
  ing a walk after the Clippers game. Nearby a young
  couple were out for a romantic stroll, and on a par-
  allel path through the garden to the right a group
  of students with backpacks made their way…to
  class? Not this late at night. The hair on the back
  of Mohammed’s neck pricked up.
  “Down!” he yelled as he dropped to the ground.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  Some of his entourage followed his lead unques-
  tioningly. Those who did not were cut down as a
  hail of bullets ripped through them from the right
  side. The “students” had dropped their backpacks
  and opened up with formerly concealed automatic
  weapons.
  For the moment, the rose bushes and shrubber-
  ies were providing a modicum of cover. They
  wouldn’t, though, be any help against the business
  suits directly ahead on the path who, Mohammed
  now saw, were reaching into their jackets.
  At least four of Mohammed’s mortals had gone
  down in the initial blast. Those remaining were try-
  ing to return fire but were sorely pinned down.
  Not waiting to be strafed by the suits,
  Mohammed leapt to his left to take care of the
  “young couple” who would undoubtedly be draw-
  ing a bead on the distracted Crypt’s Sons. In midair
  he took a slug in the back, but still managed to
  land next to the couple ten yards away.
  The two, college-aged, were cowering in terror
  from the gunfire. Mohammed doubted that they
  were El Hermandad after all, but there was no way
  to be sure. He struck the male an upward blow that
  must have separated his skull from the top of his
  spine. The boy landed in the bushes several feet
  away.
  The girl he grabbed just as several bullets ripped
  into her torso. The force of the shots knocked her
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  274
  backward out of his grip. She might not be dead,
  but she wouldn’t be causing any trouble.
  The shots had come from the business types
  wielding semi-automatic pistols. Mohammed’s
  other two vampires, Kenny and Marquis, were lead-
  ing a charge against the students, some of whom
  were busy reloading. Mohammed decided he would
  take care of the suits.
  Again, he launched himself into the air, daring
  the Hispanic mafiosos to gun him down. They took
  him up on his dare. Bullet after bullet tore into his
  airborne body. Worse yet was the sawed-off shot-
  gun one of the suits had lumbered out from under
  his jacket at the same moment. The gun roared to
  life, but not with the usual explosion of lead.
  The foot-long wooden stake fired from the shot-
  gun at point-blank range slammed into his chest.
  Mohammed’s lunge carried him into the four
  gunmen, knocking the first two to the ground. He
  landed hard on top of them. For a split second he
  expected to be paralyzed by the stake embedded
  in his chest, but the aim had been rushed and the
  deadly stake had not struck true into his heart.
  When he tried to jump to his feet, though, his
  left arm failed him, some vital muscle or tendon
  shredded by the stake slanting into his shoulder.
  Mohammed only clumsily managed to roll over.
  The two suits still standing hesitated, not able to
  get a clear shot. It was enough time for Mohammed
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  to rip the pistol away from one of the attackers be-
  neath him and spray deadly fire at the two standing
  over him. They staggered backward and collapsed
  to the ground.
  One of the men Mohammed had knocked down
  grabbed the stake protruding from the vampire and
  jerked it to the side. Searing pain shot up and down
  Mohammed’s entire left side. Colored spots danced
  before his eyes.
  Losing an incredible amount of blood from his
  many wounds, he fired blindly until the pistol’s clip
  was empty. The kaleidoscope spots grew brighter,
  swelling until their edges met….
  Mohammed was staring at the bright stars in the
  sky. Stars? This is L.A. The only stars he or anyone
  was likely to see in this town were on Sunset Bou-
  levard. He blinked hard and the bright stars began
  to shimmer and dance around. It took a moment
  for him to realize that he’d blacked out. The am-
  bush…
  He reached up to the stake in his chest, and it
  all came rushing back to him, a bit too vividly. How
  long had he been out? The firefight seemed to be
  over.
  Then there was a single shot not far away. And
  another.
  If El Hermandad had won, they would be look-
  ing for him, and they would find him any second.
  Mohammed tried to crawl quietly toward one of
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  276
  the pistols on the ground nearby. If he were lucky,
  it might still have a few rounds left in it.
  Every inch flashed excruciating tremors along his
  left side. The brick sidewalk was slick with blood,
  his mixing with that of the mafiosos.
  The spots began their dance again. He had to
  stop. And the gun seemed so far away.
  “Mohammed!”
  They had spotted him. Another gun shot nearby.
  Through the pain, he made one last effort to
  reach the weapon. He collapsed just shy. Too much
  blood loss. He was too weak. Desperately he licked
  at the sidewalk. If he could just get enough blood…
  Hands grabbed him roughly and turned him over
  on the sidewalk. “Mohammed!” Marvin, now a
  ghoul, thanks only to the manpower shortage,
  seemed very relieved and lifted his domitor to his
  feet. “There you are.”
  Each movement was pure agony. Mohammed
  nearly blacked out again. After steadying himself,
  he quickly surveyed the scene. Very few of his men
  were standing “The others?” he forced out through
  teeth clenched against the pain.
  “Rodney’s shot up pretty bad. So are Kenny and
  Marquis, but they’re alive, like you. All the other
  boys but Johnny and Pancho are dead. Rico’s dead.
  Tickler’s dead. Hey, do you know why they called
  him Tickler?” Marvin laughed, but quickly fell si-
  lent under Mohammed’s withering glare.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  Marvin turned to look behind him and managed
  to bump the embedded stake. Mohammed winced
  and cursed. “Marvin,” he said, too weak to fly into
  a rage, “do you see this stake?”
  “Yeah. You want me to get that for you?” He
  reached toward it.
  “Touch it again, and you die.”
  Marvin’s hand stopped mid-motion. He decided
  to use it to rub his chin.
  Mohammed pulled away from his oafish ghoul,
  a painful act of will, and managed to stand on his
  own. “Find Bravo,” he instructed Marvin. “One
  way or another, bring him to the house on Comrie
  Road in Inglewood. You know the one?” Marvin
  nodded. “I want to know if he set me up or if he
  was tricked.”
  Marvin nodded again and left to carry out his
  orders. Mohammed hobbled over to the others.
  These wounds were going to heal slowly, he knew.
  He had lost a lot of blood.
  Pancho and Johnny were trying to help away
  Rodney and Kenny and Marquis. The ground was
  littered with bodies and spent shell casings. The
  rose bushes and shrubs caught in the fight could
  not have been more devastated by a plague of lo-
  custs. Flowers and leaves were stuck to bloody
  corpses, the bushes themselves stripped bare, in
  some places shorn down to the ground.
  “Look at this, jefe.” Pancho pointed at one of the
  
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  278
  bodies. Mohammed recognized it immediately.
  Jorge Ramirez, cousin and ghoul to Jesus Ramirez,
  Salvador’s second-in-command and de facto leader
  of El Hermandad while Salvador was off around the
  globe. Just as Mohammed suspected, and now he
  had all the proof he needed.
  Without further delay, the survivors proceeded
  back to the cars. As much gunplay as had gone
  down, bystanders would stay away a little longer,
  but Mohammed didn’t want to linger too long.
  There were barely enough able bodies to get the
  vehicles back.
  Mohammed, with Rodney moaning and semi-
  conscious in the back seat, was furious. He had
  been led by the hand into a trap. Whether Bravo
  had been turned or tricked, Mohammed should
  have seen it coming. But the park wasn’t even con-
  tested territory. It was firmly within the domain of
  the Crypt’s Sons, even on the far side from El
  Hermandad hunting grounds. What better place to
  stage an ambush? It had proven almost totally ef-
  fective. Almost, though Mohammed. And now I pay
  them back.
  But why stage such a daring, elaborate attack
  with only ten or so mortals and ghouls, not a single
  Kindred?
  Why…unless El Hermandad were that desper-
  ate? This was not Salvador’s work, Mohammed
  decided. He would never send others to confront his
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  rival directly. Not enough drama. No, Salvador is ei-
  ther still out of the country or…Mohammed perked
  up at the thought, or dead!
  Either way, Ramirez was desperate. Probably his
  men were dropping left and right as well.
  Mohammed hadn’t had time to count the bodies.
  If the cops were being paid off—and it would have
  to be an enormous amount of money to overcome
  their fear of Mohammed—he didn’t want to con-
  front them while seriously injured and with no real
  backup. But tonight would be a considerable drain
  of manpower on El Hermandad, probably more so
  than for Crypt’s Sons, because Salvador’s gang was
  smaller from the start.
  They took a desperate gamble, and it failed,
  Mohammed realized, momentarily forgetting about
  the dozens of bullets and the stake in his body. Now
  I must make them pay, no matter how much it hurts.
  This is war!
  Owain fairly threw open the lid to his luxurious
  coffin on New Year’s Eve. Sometimes he just lay
  there for hours, even after he’d awoken, lacking the
  energy and the will to rise and face another night.
  But not this night. The first notes of the siren’s song
  had coaxed him from his slumber.
  How is it, he wondered, that even in my resting place
  I can hear her? How does she do it? I must find out.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  280
  Even Owain’s remarkable hearing did not explain
  the fact. Chances that he would discover the an-
  swer tonight, however, were slim. Owain’s objective
  investigation of the siren had long since given over
  to total immersion in her song. Certainly he still
  possessed intellectual curiosity about what was hap-
  pening, as when he had first stumbled across the
  rites over a month ago, but once the music took
  hold, the visceral emotions it stirred were undeni-
  able. Emotions that Owain had not felt the twinge
  of in tens of years were making themselves known,
  and suddenly Atlanta, and unlife in general, was
  not such a dreadful place.
  No time for a shave. He would just have to live
  with stubble tonight. Owain grabbed a shirt and
  vest and slacks from his closet.
  He was amazed by the energy he felt. He had not
  exercised such vigor since…he couldn’t remember
  when. A vampire’s habits formed over tens and
  hundreds of years. Left sock, left shoe. Right sock,
  right shoe. Even minor changes in routine did not
  normally occur overnight, but Owain had felt so
  very different the past weeks. Last night, he had
  thought he’d felt a twinge of actual hunger. That
  hadn’t happened in…again, he couldn’t remember
  how long. Of course he had always fed regularly,
  because he knew he needed to, and that was the
  type of thing that a ghoul like Randal tended to
  keep track of like an overprotective mother. But
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  Owain had not been driven by a powerful appetite
  for blood in years. The sensation last night had
  caught him so off guard that he had even gone
  hunting, prowling the shadows outside a debutante
  ball until a luscious high-society snack had wan-
  dered his way.
  Owain quickly made his way downstairs.
  “Randal!” he called the ghoul. “Have Ms. Jackson
  bring the car!”
  “Good evening, sir.” Randal was always prepared
  when Owain came down—well-groomed, every red
  hair in place, white shirt starched and ironed, black
  tie and vest immaculate. “News from the State Su-
  preme Court today, sir. They have refused to hear
  the zoning appeal by the Citizens Empowerment
  Union.” Randal paused, his expression growing
  concerned. “Did you forget to shave, sir?”
  “No. I did not forget.”
  “But, sir…”
  “Randal, do not dote on me this evening. Or
  ever. Do you understand?”
  Randal paused again. He knew to steer clear of
  Owain in his black moods, but this was different.
  “Yes, sir.”
  “Have you called Ms. Jackson?”
  “Pardon me, sir?” Randal was still a sentence be-
  hind.
  “Have you called Ms. Jackson as I asked you to?”
  “Not yet, sir.”
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  282
  “And why, exactly, not?”
  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Randal turned with-
  out comment and left the room.
  Definitely time for a change, Owain decided. High
  time.
  There were a slew of details that needed taking
  care of. Lorenzo Giovanni had requested informa-
  tion on several Atlanta Kindred, and Owain
  supposed that he should thank Benjamin for see-
  ing to it that Justice Chamberlain and then the
  State Supreme Court had made such wise decisions.
  A dose of sweet wine to ease the burn of Benjamin’s
  wormwood was not uncalled for. But there would
  be time for all of that later. Legal affairs had a way
  of dragging out until Owain was glad he had the
  lifespan of a vampire to see them through. And
  Giovanni had not sounded as if he were in too
  much of a rush.
  Again, Owain caught a hint of the siren’s song.
  He was looking forward to glimpses of familiar
  lands. Adref. His thoughts turned homeward. But
  unlike those mortals, and perhaps Albert and
  Roger, Owain told himself, he was not compelled
  to attend the rites at the church. He could ignore
  the song if he chose to do so. He simply did not
  chose to do so.
  Owain needed a peaceful, relaxing evening, he
  reminded himself. The past several days, his rest
  had been dogged by visions. Always the mist and
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  the menacing tree taking shape from the staff, and
  all the rest.
  What better way to relax than to satisfy his in-
  tellectual curiosity?
  “Sir.” Randal came back into the study carrying
  a small piece of paper. “This message just arrived
  from Prince Benison. He is requesting your pres-
  ence at an emergency council meeting of the
  primogen tonight.”
  Owain’s first reaction was that he didn’t remem-
  ber having given Randal leave to open official
  correspondences. Then the content of the message
  registered. “Tonight.” Owain grimaced. The prince
  had been increasingly distraught for weeks now,
  and even though the epistle was worded as a re-
  quest, it was in effect a summons.
  The lilting notes of the siren’s song were grow-
  ing stronger, like the first light droplets of a spring
  shower belying the magnitude of the approaching
  stormclouds.
  Damnation! He couldn’t even claim he hadn’t
  received the message, for Benison’s ghoul passen-
  ger pigeons were as dependable as the sunrise.
  Although the letter had been left with Randal and
  not directly with Owain.
  There had to be some way. Owain thought. This
  conflict between duty and desire had constantly
  plagued him as a mortal, and through the early
  years after his Embrace. Shortly thereafter, how-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  284
  ever, he had decided that his duty was to fulfill his
  own desires. From that point on, he had mostly
  done what he wanted, though in recent history,
  there were very few instances that he had actually
  wanted anything. That was the difference this New
  Year’s Eve.
  Technically, Owain was not primogen. Eleanor
  represented the Ventrue, and she would be happy
  not to see Owain. It still amazed him that such a
  model of propriety should be indulging herself with
  Benjamin. How did the younger Ventrue excite
  her, by reading case studies from his law books?
  That decided it. Owing Benjamin a favor, Owain
  would put Eleanor in a better frame of mind by not
  attending the meeting. Maybe she would be in-
  spired to what Owain had always thought she really
  needed, Kindred or not—a good oldfashioned or-
  giastic screw.
  “Shouldn’t you shave before attending the coun-
  cil, sir?” Randal asked.
  Owain handed the paper back to his ghoul. “I
  won’t be going.”
  Randal couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
  “But, sir, the prince…”
  That was almost enough for Owain. “Would you
  like to approve my itinerary for the night, Randal?
  Should I submit a weekly schedule for your edifi-
  cation?”
  Randal knew when he had pressed too far. “No,
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  sir,” he said, the picture of deference.
  “I thought not.” Owain took his gilded dagger
  and placed it in his belt sheath. The stiletto was
  already in place. “Don’t wait up, Randal.” The
  Rolls was idling out front, and a moment later
  Owain and Ms. Jackson were speeding away toward
  Oakland Cemetery.
  
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  286
  TWELVE
  Benison stalked around the parlor. Where on
  God’s green earth is Evans? The primogen were all
  present and waiting in the conference room for the
  prince. Owain wasn’t even an actual member of the
  primogen. He held no voting privileges, but the
  prince had wanted him here as Benison instructed
  his followers how he was about to save his city from
  the curse which had almost destroyed it.
  A disturbing thought crossed Benison’s mind.
  Owain might have fallen victim to the curse. What
  other reason could there be for his absence? At any
  rate, Benison’s patience was at an end. He would
  find out about Owain later.
  
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  As the prince made his way to the conference
  room, he could not help hearing the noise of the
  workmen repairing the wall in the living room. The
  lamp, pictures, and oriental rug had been replaced,
  the couch reupholstered. Another hour or two and
  every trace that Roger had ever existed would be
  removed. Benison grimaced at the thought of his
  only childe. The entire episode had been one long
  mistake. If Benison Embraced again, he would
  crush the childe in his own hands at the first sign
  of trouble rather than allowing the vexation to drag
  on for years.
  Spare the rod, spoil the childe, he thought. It was
  another case of his leniency contradicting Divine
  will. It would not happen again.
  The primogen awaited, seated around the large
  mahogany table within the conference room.
  Benison joined them. Bedelia, resting comfortably
  in her ornate wheelchair, represented Clan
  Malkavian, since Benison was prince. His faithful
  wife Eleanor wielded the Ventrue vote. Thelonious,
  with whom Benison had engaged in so many spir-
  ited debates, represented the Brujah; Marlene and
  Hannah the Toreador and Tremere respectively.
  Even Aurelius, the slimy, warted Nosferatu, had
  crawled from under his rock in response to the
  prince’s summons. There was no Gangrel primogen
  in Atlanta, not that there weren’t several clan
  members among the anarchs.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  288
  The casual conversation that had been limping
  along ceased as Benison entered the room. Delib-
  erately, he walked around the table to his seat at
  the head, but did not sit. He leaned forward on his
  fists, looking up through his bushy auburn eyebrows
  at those assembled.
  Speaking calmly and quietly, he began without
  preamble. All present were well aware of the cri-
  sis. “We, the Kindred of Atlanta, have always
  endeavored to remain faithful to our Creator above.
  It was through the legacy of one of the earliest sins,
  the first murder, that we are what we are. Our duty,
  therefore, is to seek redemption, to bring ourselves
  again in line with the wishes of our heavenly Fa-
  ther.”
  Benison paused, surveying the faces around the
  table. He knew there were those among the
  primogen who did not share his view of the
  Cainite’s role and duties within the grand scheme
  of the universe, but he was determined that, even
  if they did not accept his rationale, they would en-
  dorse his measures. “Being more than mortal, yet
  less than divine, ever fallible, we have strayed from
  the path of redemption. Our Lord is displeased, and
  the Kindred of Atlanta suffer.”
  Eleanor and Marlene watched him closely.
  Thelonious stared at his own clasped hands,
  Hannah at the table, neither betraying any reac-
  tion to what was being said. This bothered the
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  prince. Bedelia snored softly, while Aurelius’ ex-
  pression was unreadable through those bulbous
  rheumy eyes. The primogen of Atlanta were a
  guarded, stoic lot. Benison was hesitant to predict
  their responses.
  “This curse laid upon us,” he continued, “is a tell-
  ing reflection of our transgressions. Because the
  young of our city flaunt our Father’s wishes so will-
  fully, because they take such pleasure in doing that
  which they are told not to, they suffer the greatest
  torment.
  “I offer them no pity.”
  There was stirring and shifting of weight among
  the primogen. Thelonious, studied but Brujah
  through and through, held definite sympathies to-
  ward the younger Kindred. It was possible he might
  have guessed where Benison’s thoughts were pro-
  gressing. Marlene, too, through the “centers of
  recreation” she controlled—strip joints and sex
  clubs—dealt extensively with the more restless
  Cainites. She stood to lose a great deal from a dis-
  gruntled clientele.
  They must see the greater danger! Benison thought.
  “The younger Kindred revel in bending to the
  point of breaking the Masquerade, that which
  keeps us all safe in this world of mortals. They ig-
  nore hunting boundaries and sow their chaos
  throughout the city without a thought for any other
  but themselves.” Recounting the indignities he suf-
  
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  fered infuriated the prince. He grew more animated
  as his agitation mounted. His voice grew thunder-
  ous. “They abuse the latitude which, graciously, I
  grant them!”
  Benison slammed his fist onto the table. “No
  more!”
  Marlene jumped in her seat. Bedelia blinked
  awake and smacked her lips noisily.
  “The Traditions that they ridicule,” the prince
  continued, his pique still rising, “are the cement
  of Kindred civilization, that which sets us above
  foul beasts, they are the bulwark of the order man-
  dated by our Creator at the beginning of time. And
  whereas I have tried to allow leeway so that each
  may follow his or her own conscience, I will no
  longer stand aside and watch the home which we
  have built, the society of which we are each irre-
  vocably a part, torn apart for the selfish enjoyment
  of a few!” He pounded the table again, punctuat-
  ing his point.
  Benison took a moment to calm himself. No one
  yet dared to interrupt him by offering comment.
  Again he spoke in a low voice. “From this point
  forward, the Traditions shall be enforced. To the
  letter of the law. The so-called anarchs may live
  in my city, but anarchy shall not reign. They will
  obey the Traditions and the pronouncements of
  this council. Otherwise, they will face exile…or fi-
  nal death.”
  
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  Thelonious could remain silent no longer.
  Benison was almost surprised that the Brujah had
  held his tongue to this point. “But our city flour-
  ishes because of our freedom, Prince Benison. The
  Kindred will not submit to a police state. You will
  have a second Anarch Revolt, and they will have
  many sympathizers.”
  Benison glared at Thelonious. Get behind me,
  Satan, the prince wanted to shout, but he restrained
  the impulse. Thelonious argued from conviction,
  not from maliciousness. But, still, Benison wished
  for a world without the misplaced loyalties of the
  Brujah clan.
  “Our city flourishes because of freedom?” the
  prince asked mockingly. “Is a Kindred who feeds
  and feeds but cannot satisfy his hunger, no matter
  how much blood he consumes, flourishing? Is a
  Kindred who follows the path of his blood back
  through the lives of his ancestors until insanity
  takes hold of his mind and body flourishing? Is a
  Kindred attacked by his own hunger-crazed childe
  flourishing?”
  Thelonious looked away. All knew of Roger’s
  demise, and none wished to press Benison on that
  point. His fits of rage were as legendary as they were
  deadly.
  “I…think…not!” The prince’s fist against the
  table underlined each word. “The Traditions and
  the Laws shall be obeyed!” His eyes, dancing em-
  
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  erald fire, challenged any to deny him. Silence
  hung over the table, Thelonious again staring at
  his hands.
  “That is my first decree of three,” Benison went
  on, “and the very fact that I must argue that the
  Traditions should be upheld,” he shot a fierce
  glance at Thelonious, “shows just how dark the
  nights have become.” Normally, the prince wel-
  comed, even encouraged, spirited debate among
  the primogen. Many were the dawns that he and
  Eleanor or Thelonious had paused in their conten-
  tion over politics or finance or civil rights only
  because of the emergence of the sun. Tonight, how-
  ever, his messianic fervor was stoked to a fever
  pitch, and there were only the righteous and the
  corrupt. The prince did not consider this gather-
  ing a deliberative forum, but rather an opportunity
  for the leaders of his community to sanction the
  course he had chosen.
  “My second decree,” Benison enumerated, “is
  this: that the Clanless among us, the Caitiff, shall
  choose their own clan to become a part of, or I will
  assign them to a clan, expecting them to fulfill all
  duties and responsibilities accorded a member.”
  There was shock around the table now. Not even
  Eleanor had seen this coming.
  But there was more. “If a Kindred should reject
  his or her incorporation into a clan, then he or she
  shall be banished from this city, and if he or she
  
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  should defy exile, the punishment shall be final
  death.”
  There were several gasps. “But Prince Benison,”
  said Eleanor, always careful to address her husband
  formally in public, “the anarchs will certainly never
  submit to such a law.”
  “I do not seek their consent,” he shot back, ob-
  viously irritated to be questioned from that quarter.
  “They reject our instruments of governance, there-
  fore I do not seek their advice on the laws we must
  live by.”
  “But this will mean war,” Thelonious insisted.
  “They will rebel before submitting to this.”
  “Then they will die!” Benison snapped.
  Thelonious refused to back down. “Do you want
  the Justicars to intervene? Because that is what will
  result of such arbitrary pronouncements. Do you
  want them here to govern because you cannot?”
  Benison’s face was reddening. Thelonious was
  pushing him very close to a violent rage, as all were
  aware. Both Marlene and Aurelius edged their
  chairs back from the table. Thelonius, sensing the
  precipice he approached, fell silent.
  Benison’s fingers were digging into the ma-
  hogany. A furious trembling took hold of him
  momentarily, but he struggled to maintain control.
  “These pronouncements are anything but arbitrary,
  Thelonious.” The prince forced himself to smile as
  he said the name of the Brujah, but the result was
  
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  more of a snarl. “For weeks, I have watched my city
  falling apart. I have watched as crazed Kindred
  ripped their brothers apart. I have watched as de-
  mentia led them to suicide. I have watched as the
  Masquerade verged on dissolution. Only because I
  have influence among the police, and because you,
  Thelonious, control the newspapers and other me-
  dia, only for those reasons is our Kindred society
  not completely destroyed.”
  There were none who could deny the catastro-
  phes which had befallen the city, none who had
  not witnessed the deterioration, the rot.
  “I have watched,” said Benison, “and as I have
  wrung my hands, I have studied. For there is not
  the first action among Kindred and kine that is not
  foretold. Though we act according to the free will
  our Creator endowed upon us, our every action,
  and every disaster that will befall us, is known.
  “‘This is the Endtime,’” he quoted. “This is the Fall-
  ing of the Blood. This is the Winnowing.’”
  Silence again held sway at the table. All had
  heard the prince, at his formerly weekly prayer
  meetings, recite or read from the fragments of the
  Book of Nod that he had acquired. Only, before,
  he had always shared the Law, the Traditions, the
  foundations of Camarilla society, never the darker
  prophecies which spelled out the doom of the Kin-
  dred.
  “The Time of Fallen Blood is at hand,” Benison
  
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  said. “There are the youngest of Kindred whose
  blood is too weak to create progeny.” He contin-
  ued:
  “‘And in the last days the Master will once again
  take up his Tools. The Firmament will tremble and the
  Earth itself will be split assunder. The secret places of
  the Earth will be cast up into the air and the creatures
  of darkness will shriek in the light of day. For it is writ-
  ten that Abel was a keeper of sheep but Caine a tiller
  of the ground.
  “‘The First-Born comes in fury. He harrows his chil-
  dren from their graves. His wrath is a hammer, an
  unhewn cudgel wet with the blood of the Kinslaying.
  He drives the lightning before him.’”
  Benison paused. The words he spoke carried the
  weight of ages, and none who heard them consid-
  ered them lightly, not even Brujah. “We have not
  only offended our God,” said Benison gravely, “we
  have angered the Dark Father.”
  “‘His voice is a dark wind scouring the plain. 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 hun-
  gers.’”
  None of the primogen met the prince’s gaze.
  Hearing the words, the declarations attributed to
  the scribe of the ancient First City, it was not so
  far-fetched that God or Caine had seen fit to
  
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  shower wrathful destruction upon the Kindred.
  “We have forgotten the ageless edicts, the or-
  dained forms that define our existence,” Benison
  insisted. “And the very blood that should give us
  life…” He raised his hand to his teeth and tore a
  gash in his palm, and as he clenched his fist, the
  blood ran down his arm and dripped onto the table.
  “…it is our curse.”
  The prince could see that there were still those
  who would oppose him, those who would lack his
  vision and courage. Thelonious, momentarily
  cowed but unpersuaded, glared at the table in front
  of his seat. Aurelius would never look beyond per-
  ceived slights of the past, regardless of the needs
  of the city. Marlene was frightened by such apoca-
  lyptic notions, while Hannah’s loyalties lay
  primarily with her masters within the Tremere.
  How, Benison wondered, can they be so blind?
  They must see the truth! He looked from face to face
  around the table. It was all so clear to him. “We
  are hastening the Endtime! We are calling destruc-
  tion down upon our own heads! These decisions
  are far from arbitrary,” he again assured the
  primogen. “If anything, they are preordained. I do
  not believe it is yet too late to return to the path
  of righteousness. We will lead the way for all Kin-
  dred. This city will be a beacon on the hill, leading
  them through the Dark Times.”
  There was silence.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  “The Clanless must be brought to heel; they must
  integrate themselves into a clan, or face the con-
  sequences. We must restore the rightful order, or
  face the Endtime. ‘Then shall Caine unyoke his red-
  eyed ox, whose name is called Gehenna, for none may
  abide its countenance.’”
  Eleanor watched her husband closely, moved by
  the intensity of his conviction. Marlene removed
  her hands from the table, trying to hide her trem-
  bling from the others.
  Finally it was Thelonious who spoke in a qui-
  etly defiant tone:
  “As primogen, we must vote on these matters.”
  Benison fumed. Full of pride and righteous in-
  dignation, he scowled at the Brujah. “We will vote
  on the decrees in toto. That is my right.”
  Benison looked around the table. He had deluded
  himself, he realized, into hoping for the unamimous
  backing of the primogen. In reality, he was not even
  assured the four votes required for victory.
  But there was still his third decree.
  “A holy place of worship has been defiled.”
  Benison continued, gazing slowly around the table
  at each of the primogen, searching for any flash of
  recognition. He saw none. Even foul, flat-nosed
  Aurelius looked perplexed. “This, of course, hap-
  pened without my knowledge but has recently
  come to my attention. Not far to the east of here,
  an unknown vampire of rare bloodline secretly took
  
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  haven in an abandoned church. There, on conse-
  crated ground, she not only fed without permission
  upon mortals of this city, but also performed hei-
  nous demonic rituals! She may even have created
  progeny without my consent or the consent of any
  elder.” Still the prince watched their faces. “I will
  ask this once of you as primogen. Only once.” He
  waited a moment to let them absorb the implica-
  tion of that statement, then asked, “Did any in this
  room know of this violation of Tradition, of Law,
  of holy will?”
  Not often was a prince able to put the entire
  primogen of his city to such scrutiny. Times were
  desperate, however, and none of the elders balked
  at the implicit accusation. To object to the prince’s
  audacity might be interpreted as guilt, and in his
  current state of mind, Benison was not likely to
  forgive or to forget any admission, real or imagined.
  The silence hung heavy over the table.
  “Very well,” said Benison finally. “I will tell you
  what I will tell all of the Kindred of Atlanta to-
  morrow night. Having been given one opportunity
  of confession, there will be no mercy.” Benison
  stared hard around the table. “I will take care of
  this Daughter of Cacophony. After tonight, her
  siren’s song will not curse this city, or any other.”
  Roger had not given the prince so much infor-
  mation. Benison wasn’t even sure from the final
  rantings if his departed childe had even realized
  
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  that his pale vocalist was a vampire. But Roger had
  let Benison know what was going on, and the
  prince had other sources of information.
  No mere eccentricity, Benison’s seemingly one-
  sided conversations were a powerful tool in his
  ruling the city. There were countless spirits roam-
  ing the streets and halls of Benison’s city. The
  restless dead of slavery, of the War Between the
  States, of the civil rights crusade all haunted At-
  lanta. From his sire Bedelia, Benison had learned
  the art—or perhaps curse—of seeing and convers-
  ing with those spirits.
  After Roger had passed beyond, Benison had spo-
  ken with one member of the Anacreon, the spirit
  counterpart to the Kindred primogen. It was at the
  request of the Anacreon that Benison had set Oak-
  land Cemetery off limits to all Kindred. The spirit
  had made inquiries among her kind and reported
  back to Benison. Between the facts provided by
  Roger and the spirits, Benison had figured out the
  rest. And armed with that knowledge, he was de-
  termined to rectify the situation.
  “Song? What’s wrong with a song?” All eyes
  turned toward Aunt Bedelia, who had suddenly
  become unusually animated, her eyes bright and
  curious. “I like a good song now and then. Quite a
  dancer I am,” she said, tapping her feet on the foot-
  rest of her wheelchair.
  Benison was taken aback by her outburst.
  
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  Bedelia’s word was law to him, and even her off-
  hand questioning of his decree eroded the prince’s
  certainty. Maybe he had overreacted. Perhaps the
  Daughter of Cacophony’s song was not a curse upon
  the city. Benison felt his knees buckling. Only his
  sire could have shaken him so.
  “Perhaps, then, we should go ahead and vote,”
  suggested Thelonious, emboldened by the prince’s
  distress, “while we’re all…attentive.” He glanced
  over at Bedelia, who had a wide grin on her face.
  Benison licked his dry lips. “Very well.” He
  looked nervously around the table. “We will vote
  on the decrees. Three as one.”
  Thelonious stood. “I vote against the decrees,”
  he announced defiantly, but then nodded deferen-
  tially to Benison. “Though I admire Prince
  Benison’s motives, I feel these measures will only
  worsen the situation, aggravating an already tenu-
  ous situation with the anarchs. As for the intruding
  vampire, I believe she can be dealt with in accor-
  dance with existing law regarding violation of the
  Traditions.” Thelonious sat.
  “I, too, vote against,” muttered Aurelius in a low
  gravelly voice that reminded Benison of a growl
  in the back of a wild dog’s throat. Unlike
  Thelonious, the Nosferatu offered no explanation
  for his decision.
  Eleanor stood. “I support the decrees,” she said
  with enough hesitation to betray less than utter
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  confidence. For an instant, she looked as if she were
  about to qualify her statement, but she said noth-
  ing else and retook her seat.
  “I vote for the decrees,” said Marlene, still
  clenching her hands together and smiling half-
  heartedly at the prince.
  Hannah stared at the table, not meeting anyone’s
  gaze, not yet saying anything.
  Benison looked toward Aunt Bedelia. She was
  still very interested in the proceedings around her.
  “Mother?” the prince prompted her expectantly.
  She smiled broadly at her childe. “What are we
  voting on?”
  Benison sighed in exasperation. Others restrained
  irritated mutterings. The prince rubbed his face then
  vigorously scratched his bearded chin. “We’re vot-
  ing on the decrees,” he patiently explained. “The
  decrees to hold Kindred accountable for violations
  of the Traditions; to compel marauding, looting Cai-
  tiff to adopt the customs of respectable clans; and
  to destroy a villainous wretch who has trespassed and
  brought the wrath of God down on our city.”
  Bedelia nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, that’s right.
  About the song. I like singing. I vote against the
  decrees.” She positively beamed at Benison, she was
  so proud of herself.
  The prince braced himself against the table and
  swallowed hard. “But, mother, do you under-
  stand…”
  
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  “That’s how I vote,” she snapped, her good hu-
  mor suddenly at an end. “Is it morning?” She
  looked around the room searching for a nonexist-
  ent window. “I’m tired. Could you brush my hair
  for me, J. Benison?”
  The prince did not hear his sire. He had sunk
  down into his chair. How, he wondered, could this
  be happening? His heartfelt convictions and deci-
  sive course of action all going terribly awry.
  Hopelessness took hold of him, squeezing his heart
  to the point of physical pain.
  “I vote for the decrees.”
  Benison’s head snapped up. “Pardon?”
  Hannah still looked only at the table, uncom-
  fortable that so many eyes were focused on her. “I
  vote for the decrees,” she repeated quietly and said
  no more.
  Thelonious, shocked, turned to Hannah, but no
  words escaped his open mouth.
  Benison felt the power of conviction flooding
  back into his body. He practically bounded out of
  his chair. “Of course you do. As do I. The New
  Year’s Writ of Three is approved by the primogen
  of Atlanta, to be carried out by myself, J. Benison
  Hodge, prince of Atlanta, on this…” he pulled out
  his gold pocket watch which showed twelve min-
  utes past midnight, “first day of January, the year
  of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-nine.”
  Benison triumphantly snapped his watch shut
  
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  and began around the table toward the door, his
  brief crisis of confidence utterly annihilated.
  “There’s little time to spare. You each have a task:
  to inform every member of your clan, and every
  anarch, every Kindred in the city—tomorrow night
  at midnight, we gather at the abandoned warehouse
  across from the Oakland Cemetery. No exceptions.
  Every Kindred is to be present.” Benison stopped
  for a brief moment at the door. “Eleanor, dearest,
  could you see the guests out. I have business to take
  care of.”
  And with that, the prince was gone.
  The quaint little village, the inhabitants doubt-
  lessly sleeping under their roofs of heavy thatch,
  had no warning of Ragnar Nordstrom’s approach-
  ing Viking longboat. The Norsemen were silent as
  the grave as their craft slowly ground to a halt near
  shore, sending rings of concentric ripples to distort
  the reflection of the full moon upon the water.
  The raiders had their orders. There was room on
  the boat for twelve slaves. They could take places
  at the oars, spelling the crew, until Ragnar grew
  hungry and summoned the captives, first one, then
  another, and another. The crucial calculation was
  not draining them so frequently as to run out of
  slaves before finding another suitable village.
  This place, Ice Land, strangely named with its
  
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  hot springs and greenery, was farther than most of
  Ragnar’s men had travelled before. The last few
  nights had been a close thing, with no land sighted
  in many days, and the last of the Irish slaves used
  up. The crew, fearing for their own lives, from star-
  vation and from Ragnar, could have mutinied
  during the day when he would have been helpless
  to stop them. They could have overpowered the
  three mates Ragnar had ghouled for just such day-
  light protection, and cast their vampire master into
  the sea.
  Possibly he could have dived deep into the murky
  depths away from the sunlight. Possibly he could
  even have caught up with the longboat that night
  and exacted his revenge. But most likely he would
  have languished in the cruel sea like the day’s catch
  in the stewpot.
  Even had the crew succeeded in destroying
  Ragnar, they would have had no chance of turn-
  ing back. They had come too far from familiar land.
  They still would have faced the same expanse of
  sea with diminishing supplies and no exquisite
  killer to aid them in battle should they find civili-
  zation.
  Ragnar would continue to the west. There were
  reports of a Green Land, and of a vast land of riv-
  ers and trees beyond that. The vampiric blood that
  flowed through Ragnar’s veins drove him ever on-
  ward. Even the shores of Ireland and the rugged
  
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  mountains of Wales were too crowded for him. The
  blood will change you, the beast that had taken him
  had growled. And so it had. The sea was all Ragnar
  had known, but already the confines of a ship were
  preying on his nerves. Maybe he would slip away
  from his crew at Green Land if it was half as lush
  as this Ice Land. If not, he would continue west-
  ward until he found a land large and wide enough
  for him, and then he would run and hunt beneath
  the moon and revel in the freedom of open spaces.
  For now, however, there was the village.
  A portion of Ragnar’s men moved stealthily to
  the far side of the village to cut off the most likely
  route of escape. The raiders had their orders.
  Twelve slaves. Everything else was ripe for plun-
  der.
  Ragnar had an epiphanous thought and turned
  to Sven, the closest ghoul. “Two extra slaves,
  Sven,” Ragnar whispered. He would sate himself
  before they set out to sea again, to make the twelve
  slaves last as long as possible. Sven nodded
  acknowledgement and passed word to those nearby.
  All was in place. The village slept peacefully.
  Ragnar lit and raised a torch—the signal. With
  a thunderous roar, the attack began.
  The inhabitants of the huts closest to the sea
  were caught unaware, sleeping. In just a few min-
  utes the requisite fourteen captives were bound and
  a hut set aflame—the signal that all booty was now
  
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  fair game. A lusty cheer arose from the Norsemen.
  Smoke and cinders filled the air as the thatch
  roofs of one hut after another were put to the torch.
  The fleeing villagers offered only token resistance.
  The Vikings were too well armed, and with the
  advantage of complete surprise were terrorizing and
  slaughtering the villagers before any real defense
  could be mounted. The men the Norsemen killed.
  The women and boys they sometimes stopped to
  rape, but otherwise dispatched just as brutally.
  There was little hard wealth to be had in this sleepy
  hamlet, so more often than not the wives and sis-
  ters of the village received the attentions of at least
  one of the raiders before a merciful death.
  The screams of his men’s victims rang in Ragnar’s
  ears, and he smiled. Only the strong and ruthless
  survived in this life, and only a chosen few, he had
  discovered, lived beyond the mortal veil, kings
  among men. Each scream, each vial of life’s blood
  spilled onto the rocky soil, was a tribute to Ragnar’s
  mastery over life…and over death.
  To his surprise, three villagers with swords had
  somehow managed to find one another and, fac-
  ing outward, were protecting one another’s backs.
  Several Norsemen circled, feinting or lunging with
  their weapons, but none had broken through.
  Ragnar frowned. What do they hope to accomplish?
  They cannot save their women, or their homes, or even
  their lives, but still they fight rather than flee. Futile.
  
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  But he knew it was exactly what he or any of his
  men would do in the same situation.
  Not particularly wanting to lose any of his men
  before the journey ahead, Ragnar strode over to the
  contested melee. He motioned for the Norsemen
  to back away, which they did.
  Two of the villagers shifted to face him. The
  third, facing the other way, guarded their backs.
  “Tell your friend to join us,” said Ragnar. “The
  others will not attack.”
  One of the duo facing Ragnar spat in his direc-
  tion and spoke in a strange, thick accent that
  Ragnar only understood as being defiant. They held
  their ground, swords poised, ready for attacks from
  any direction.
  All around, the last of the villagers who had been
  kept from fleeing were dying.
  Ragnar set his shield on the ground and stepped
  forward. He would face them with sword only. It
  was more than he expected he would need, but why
  take chances?
  Ragnar feinted with his sword, and as his two
  opponents reacted, with blinding speed he reached
  between their shoulders, digging with clawed fin-
  gers into the back of the head of the man guarding
  their backs. Ragnar jerked the man through, out
  of the reach of his friends, and crushed his skull as
  all looked on.
  The two remaining villagers stared at Ragnar and
  
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  their friend’s slumped body in disbelief. A disarm-
  ing flick of Ragnar’s sword and a claw through the
  hamstring, and the second man was down.
  The third lowered his sword, certain that he
  could not prevail. Ragnar tore out his throat, grant-
  ing a quick death.
  “Not bad,” came a voice from behind him. “But
  can you take an evergreen?”
  Slowly, Ragnar turned.
  The world shifted suddenly, spinning uncontrol-
  lably. Ragnar struggled to keep his feet. He was
  surrounded not by his Norsemen and the gratify-
  ing smell of burning thatch on the sea air, but by
  the blurry forms of trees and the babble of runnng
  water.
  “What is your name, oh ravager of trees?” asked
  the figure before him.
  Still the world rocked beneath his feet. Gradu-
  ally his vision cleared. “My name…my name is
  Nicholas.”
  The newcomer was Kindred, Gangrel as well,
  Nicholas could tell at first glance by his wolf-like
  features. That, and he did not smell enough to be
  lupine.
  “My name is Edward Blackfeather,” said the other
  Gangrel. “Will you try your hand against one less
  rooted to a single spot?”
  Nicholas glanced behind him. Huge gouges were
  ripped out of two trees, and another, a thin sap-
  
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  ling, was completely uprooted and lying at his feet.
  “Or do you only sully your claws with sap?” asked
  Blackfeather, squatting atop a boulder.
  Nicholas smiled, and launched himself at his new
  acquaintance.
  Blackfeather leapt into the tree branches above
  him as Nicholas sailed past. Nicholas landed and
  turned, ready for an attack from behind, but there
  was no sign of Blackfeather…until he tackled
  Nicholas from the other side.
  Nicholas tried to roll and scramble away, but
  Blackfeather’s incredibly strong grip was unbreak-
  able, and he quickly had Nicholas pinned beneath
  him. This close, Nicholas realized that much of
  Blackfeather’s body was covered with dark fur. His
  ears, partially hidden by his long black hair, were
  wolfen, and his fangs shone in the moonlight.
  Aside from barely managing to scratch his
  assailant’s wrists, Nicholas could accomplish noth-
  ing from his position.
  “I give up,” said Nicholas.
  “Probably not a bad call.” Blackfeather winked,
  then got off and allowed Nicholas up.
  Their mettle tested against one another and rela-
  tive prestige determined, this meeting between
  Gangrel proceeded on friendly terms. “I am of the
  Cherokee nation,” said Blackfeather. “The Blue
  Ridge Mountains are my province, from Georgia
  to Virginia. I am Garou-friend,” he proclaimed
  
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  proudly, then shrugged his shoulders, “except when
  I am Garou-enemy. They are an unpredictable lot.”
  “I am Gangrel of the wide open spaces,” Nicho-
  las responded. “From Russia as a mortal I fled after
  the Revolution, a Menshevik without a home.
  These nights, both the forests of Europe and the
  American plains call loudly to me.”
  Normally among the Gangrel, introductions
  would evolve into story after story, each spinner of
  tales attempting to outdo his companion until the
  tales reached epic and mythological proportions,
  and Nicholas in particular could have wound many
  a yarn of his ancestors feats—all too familiar to
  him—but this night other matters loomed.
  “Have you heard,” Blackfeather asked, “of the
  blood curse that strikes down the Kindred?”
  Nicholas stiffened. “I have heard.” He wanted
  to say, I have felt it! I hunger always! I spend as many
  nights not knowing who I am as knowing—if I am
  myself, or my sire, or his sire, or his sire before him!
  But he feared he would drive away the only real
  companionship he had found in months. “It is that
  curse in the city I am fleeing,” Nicholas explained.
  “Then you have seen the carnage?” Blackfeather
  was intrigued to have a first-hand account. He had
  heard stories from various quarters but avoided the
  cities himself, where the concentrations of Kindred
  were found, and where the curse had wrought the
  greatest destruction.
  
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  Nicholas told him what he could remember from
  the stupor-filled weeks he had spent in Atlanta—
  anarchs and others going mad with hunger,
  Cainites refusing out of fear to leave their havens
  except when they were forced to hunt. He did not
  mention the delusions, the ancestral regression
  which was becoming widespread. He did not want
  to remind Blackfeather of the earlier battle with
  the trees he had witnessed.
  For his part, Blackfeather related stories that he
  had heard of Cainite wars breaking out in city af-
  ter city as existing power structures were ripped
  asunder, and those ambitious or insane enough
  rushed in to fill the void.
  “Another reason to stay out of the cities, I say,”
  Blackfeather suggested.
  Nicholas nodded agreement. He was headed for
  the wide open spaces. He’d only been in the city
  for an errand, and now that, thankfully, was com-
  pleted.
  The two Gangrel talked until near sun-up, then
  sank into the ground to rest through the day and
  go their separate ways the next night.
  
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  THIRTEEN
  It was a clear crisp night, and Owain could see
  stars through the holes above him in the belfry. He
  was growing impatient. The prelude was continu-
  ing much longer tonight than it normally did.
  What was the siren waiting for? There were a hand-
  ful of mortals kneeling in the sanctuary already.
  How many did she and her brood need?
  Owain peered down through the hole. Even af-
  ter using his vampiric gifts to shield his presence,
  he remained leery of being too obvious. He was not
  worried about the mortals. He had years and years
  of experience walking before their eyes without
  beeing seen, but with other Cainites, one never
  knew the extent of their power. There were sup-
  
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  posedly ancient vampires in the world whose pow-
  ers would dwarf Owain’s, and there would be no
  way to know he was confronting one until it was
  too late.
  The siren below, the beautiful creature who had
  brought emotion back into Owain’s unlife, ap-
  peared to be a mere teenager, but Owain himself
  looked barely more than twenty years of age. He
  had felt at times that perhaps she did know he was
  lurking in the shadows, voyeuristically taking part
  in the ritual frenzies below. And it was possible that
  she did know. But why would she continue as if
  she didn’t? Maybe she didn’t care, as long as she
  and her brood were sufficiently nourished at the
  conclusion of the rites.
  There was no way for Owain to know, short of
  confronting her.
  Uncertainties abounded. There had been the one
  night that Albert had looked right at Owain. Had
  Albert seen Owain despite the Ventrue’s precau-
  tions? Could Owain guess with any hope of
  accuracy what went on in the Malkavian’s mind?
  Probably there was little for Albert to gain, if he
  even knew, in revealing Owain’s presence.
  There would be much greater risk for Owain in
  pursuing any of these questions, which would mean
  confronting those involved, than in hoping the
  questions would never attain relevance. As long
  as the siren continued to sing, Owain didn’t care
  
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  if she did know, somehow, that he was there. As
  long as the rites were not common knowledge, it
  did not matter if Albert thought he might have
  seen Owain in the church once.
  The uncertainty, Owain realized, exhilarated
  him. The danger made the nights intriguing. What
  had been the thrill of being shut away on his es-
  tate? Manipulating a stock deal for a few more
  dollars? Secretly buying another company?
  As long as he didn’t act too rashly, he cautioned
  himself. No sense throwing away nearly a thousand
  years of survival for a fleeting joy ride. Still, he ap-
  preciated his reacquaintance with the thrill of life.
  Below, the front door of the church opened, and
  Albert sauntered in. This was the only place that
  Owain had ever seen the Malkavian behave even
  semirespectfully. It was quite unusual to see Albert
  regard the reverence of any place or person, but
  the siren’s song apparently gave him pause as noth-
  ing else Owain had observed. He noticed, too, that
  Roger was not with Albert.
  Owain sat back in his hiding place. If the siren
  wished to draw out her invitation, there was noth-
  ing he could do about it, and he didn’t wish to
  parade himself before Albert. Instead, Owain let
  the siren’s music wash over him without resistance.
  She sang so easily, as if there were no other de-
  sire in her heart. With his eyes closed, Owain could
  picture her delicate face upturned, mouth open, jaw
  
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  and throat relaxed. Her nostrils flared just slightly
  as she drew in breath needed only for her song.
  Mirroring her soul, every breath she took existed
  wholly for her music.
  The lofty notes took hold of Owain, feeding in
  him the need for warmth, and acceptance, and
  comfort. With ease, Owain found the strain of the
  song that was hers, and that which was his, and he
  willingly followed where they took him.
  Antwuan hurried down the street. He had been
  at a movie with Little Johnnie when he heard the
  angel’s song. At least he hadn’t had to run out on
  a date. Didn’t really need a date when he was go-
  ing to come back here to Shaquanna at the church.
  Away from there, he and Shaquanna exchanged
  glances and smiles, neither mentioning those in-
  credible nights. But once the magical music began,
  Shaquanna was insatiable, wanting Antwuan again
  and again, until finally he stumbled home barely
  able to stand. Already he could feel her warm body
  against him, could smell her scent, could taste her
  neck, her shoulder, her breast. The angel had an-
  swered Antwuan’s prayers.
  At the church, Antwuan came up short, sur-
  prised by the large white man standing on the walk
  in front of the old building. The guy’s hair was
  spiked and dyed nearly fluorescent blond. It prac-
  
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  tically glowed in the dark. The man dwarfed
  Antwuan, and Antwuan wasn’t that scrawny. This
  wasn’t someone Antwuan had seen before, but no
  one had ever noticed the church who wasn’t there
  following the song. So it took all types.
  Antwuan walked up to the man ready to nod and
  keep going on in, but the huge stranger held out a
  hand for Antwuan to stop.
  “Are you going in here, friend?” the man asked
  in a deep throaty voice.
  “Yeah.” Antwuan was anxious to get inside.
  The man smiled as Antwuan stepped past, then
  grabbed him from behind and snapped his neck as
  casually as if he were swatting a fly.
  Xavier Kline stood before the abandoned church,
  a long axe strapped to his hulking back, a body at
  his feet.
  So this is it, he thought. This is what the prince is
  so upset about. Wants me to take care of some choir
  girls. He laughed aloud. What the prince wants, the
  prince gets.
  Kline waved for his friends. Jacko and Damion
  joined him out front. It was common knowledge
  that Prince Benison didn’t care for Brujah, but
  when he wanted dirty work done, he didn’t hesi-
  tate to come calling.
  “The others spread around, in case we need
  them?” He snorted at the thought that he would
  need help at all. Jacko and Damion nodded. Kline
  
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  had brought four other Brujah with him as well,
  two of whom were actually his childer, but the
  prince didn’t need to know about that. Kline had
  had another childe before the curse had struck, but
  only the strong survive.
  “All right. Let’s go.”
  Jacko and Damion flanked him up the walk to-
  ward the church.
  The song had taken a strange turn tonight. Or
  maybe it was Owain and not the song at all that
  had taken the turn.
  Owain had allowed himself to drift along with
  the siren’s strand of music, the main theme that
  wove in and out of all the other notes, binding
  them together, bringing the tunes into one heav-
  enly melody. Through the sounds, he could feel the
  depth of her loss, the poignancy with which that
  she had lost still moved her. She lamented that
  which had once made her whole, that which had
  fulfilled her and flooded her life with meaning, that
  which had been taken from her.
  Owain wanted to discover what it was of which
  she had been so cruelly robbed. What could en-
  gender such a touching melancholy to endure over
  so many years? For Owain could feel the age of the
  song. He could glimpse the years through which
  the loss had persisted and become richer and more
  
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  textured in its grief, yet still not lost a scintilla of
  the vitality from the first night it was voiced.
  He had spent centuries lamenting his own past,
  at least until his ability to lament had withered
  away, all the while hearing the sobs of others who
  couldn’t know what true suffering was. Now he was
  touched by this song, by the depth of loss it con-
  veyed, and he wished to know this suffering that
  rivalled his own. He wanted to learn the siren’s
  story, because he could feel a oneness in their loss,
  a bond that, once completely revealed, would never
  be severed.
  As the notes of the song pried open his dark soul,
  Owain saw in the distance of his mind a small vil-
  lage tucked among the green Irish hills. The sun
  shone brilliantly on the sparkling countryside, the
  afternoon rains having recently passed. Not far
  from the village, stood the remains of an old stone
  church, long since abandoned, much of its roof
  collapsed. Within the partial shelter of the church
  was the siren, slight and pale even then, but full of
  life and love. She was not alone. She and the young
  man she fancied, their afternoon courting inter-
  rupted by the storm, had taken refuge from the rain.
  It was the sudden inconvenience for which every
  young lover hopes. They lay entwined upon the
  grass that over the years had tenaciously battled
  its way through the cracked stone floor. He
  kneaded her youthful, bared breasts, as she fondled
  
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  him, engendering again his desire for her. Their
  world was that moment, spiritual fulfillment con-
  summated with a completeness only hinted at by
  their sexual appetites.
  So entranced by each other were they that nei-
  ther noticed the man who stood over them. Not
  until he physically ripped away her lover did she
  see her father and the rage burning within him. As
  she covered her nakedness, her father struck the
  boy. Her lover stumbled and fell, his head striking
  the stone floor. He lay still. And as she wailed and
  sobbed over his body, her father dragged her away,
  and sent her away, never to set eyes upon her again.
  While she knew only shame, Owain felt anger
  for her. Hatred grew within him, and he wished
  he could lay hands upon the dirty farmer, throttle
  him and watch his eyes bulge out, for what he had
  done. Owain felt anger, and for the first time in
  centuries, he felt pity. Ill-fated love creating a life
  of exile and regret.
  How different was Owain? Not very. His brother
  Rhys had sensed Owain’s love for Angharad—had
  sensed that love and sent Owain to die and later
  Angharad to waste away and grow old, as Owain’s
  hollow youth lived on and on. His exile had been
  as real as the siren’s. He’d struggled on for two hun-
  dred years, but the Norman Ventrue overrunning
  Britain had chased him out in the end. And though
  he had suffered for centuries, only now through the
  
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  siren did he feel the full tragedy of his loss, beyond
  the anger, beyond the thirst for vengeance.
  The healing catharsis was not to be prolonged,
  however. Though Owain clung to this bond of pain
  through the song, he was carried somewhere very
  different. He struggled to remain with the siren,
  but was helpless against the different images that
  assaulted him.
  As the music rose in intensity and the maenads
  began their dance, visions he had seen before, but
  that had nothing to do with the siren, formed in
  Owain’s mind.
  The mist. It chilled his body. Nothingness. Ne-
  gation. Only cold. The warmth of life nowhere to
  be found.
  The mists began to swirl, as he knew they would.
  First motion. That which must have come before
  all else.
  And as the hillside rose from the swirling mists,
  Owain stood upon it. He gazed upon the wooden
  staff which shone with the brilliance of life. Its
  warmth radiated over the hillside and kept the
  mists at bay. And as Owain stood by the staff, a
  voice spoke to him, a voice all around him but no-
  where, a voice neither near nor far, a voice familiar
  yet distant and strange, and it said:
  Hoard the nights that have fallen unto you.
  Owain faced the staff as if it had spoken, and as
  the staff’s warmth reached out for Owain, he
  
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  backed away, afraid to be burned by the touch of
  the living wood.
  And it was living. For as Owain backed away,
  the staff twisted, grains separating and forming
  branches that reached in every direction—to the
  east, to the west, to the north, to the south, to the
  sky, to the earth. They reached for Owain.
  The branches came for him, and Owain ran.
  He fled down the hillside, into the mists, away
  from the staff, away from the living tree. Again the
  voice spoke, from everywhere and from nowhere:
  Hoard the nights that have fallen unto you.
  I tell you, it avails you nothing.
  Owain fled blindly through the mists. From be-
  hind the branches grasped for him, snagged his
  cloak and his hair, caught his feet and knocked him
  to the ground. But time and again he climbed back
  to his feet and ran onward.
  The voice whispered in his ear:
  This is the Endtime.
  On and on through the mists he ran, the
  branches of the staff turned living tree ever-present,
  ever-reaching, ever-desirous.
  Soon a shadow fell over Owain, but still he ran.
  He ran onward, and then upward, the ground ris-
  ing to meet his feet like a lover whose sweet has
  long been absent.
  Steeper the ground became, terrace walls divid-
  ing the hillside. But still upward he clambered, the
  
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  living tree behind him, following, hungering.
  He ran and climbed until he was atop the high
  mound that had cast its shadow over him.
  This is the Endtime, spoke the voice.
  Atop the mound stood a stone tower, a shrine
  circled by ravens. The clouds lay heavy and thick
  around the tower. Lightning slashed through the
  churning vapor. Thunder shook the ground.
  Owain ran into the tower, but no doors stood to
  shield him. There was only altar and cross; and call
  on the grace of God he was loath to do.
  The branches of the tree snaked their way up the
  mound. They stretched to the tower threshhold,
  but did not enter. Slowly, they turned, gripping the
  side of the tower, wrapping ever ‘round, upwards
  to the stormy sky. The branches held tight to the
  stone and grew thick. Soon there were doors en-
  closing Owain, doors of living wood, leaves and
  blossoms bursting forth, filling his tomb with a
  sweet fragrance.
  This is the Endtime.
  This is the fading of the Blood.
  This is the Winnowing.
  The shadow of Time is not so long that you might
  shelter beneath it.
  Again thunder shook the earth, and then the
  earth was moving of its own accord, rumbling and
  quaking. The cross crashed from the altar, smash-
  ing…
  
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  The church doors crashed open, one tearing from
  its hinges and smashing to the floor.
  Xavier Kline marched in, flanked by Jacko and
  Damion.
  The maenads, three as one, turned and hissed
  like trapped animals at the intruders. The mortals,
  as well as Albert, looked around, dazed, unsure why
  the music had so suddenly stopped. Owain shook
  his head. Disoriented, dizzy, he tried to gain his
  bearings.
  Her face twisted in anger, the siren jerked open
  her mouth, emitting a single note of rage.
  Owain was knocked backward against the wall.
  The mortals were all thrown to the ground. But none
  of them were the target of the eruption. Kline and
  his henchmen were blasted backward out of the
  building, Jacko going through the wall by the door.
  Every pane of glass shattered with such force that
  most of the boards were ripped from the windows
  and clattered to the ground outside.
  Owain could see that many of the mortals were
  bleeding from their ears, and touching his own face
  he realized he was as well. Sharp, painful tinnitus
  wracked his skull.
  A moment later, two more Kindred came burst-
  ing through the empty windows on one side of the
  sanctuary, Uzis blazing. Another two leapt to
  perches in opposite window sills. They, too, opened
  fire on those below.
  
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  324
  The mortals and maenads were caught in a with-
  ering crossfire. The force of the bullets striking their
  bodies from different directions whipped them
  around like ragdolls in a tempest. The siren was
  struck by dozens of bullets and stumbled backward.
  All this, Owain watched from above as he slowly
  regained his senses after both the visions and the
  concussive force of the siren’s scream. His gilded
  dagger was in hand, but he stopped himself from
  leaping into the fray. What could he do but join
  those dying? One dagger would not make the dif-
  ference against so many guns.
  But as he saw his lovely siren riddled with bul-
  lets, her body torn and bloodied, such logic meant
  very little. He wanted more than anything to save
  her, to tear apart those who threatened her and
  then whisk her away to safety. He wanted to…but
  he did not.
  Fallen to one knee, blood pouring from wounds
  all over her body, including one where a bullet had
  passed through her cheeks, the siren turned to the
  two Kindred closest to her and again released a
  piercing wail.
  They were not far away, and when the sound hit
  them, heads snapped back, limbs separated from
  bodies, bullets exploded in chambers setting off
  more explosions. As the wall behind gave way in
  a maelstrom of sound and fire, the two Kindred
  ceased to be.
  
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  The entire building quaked from the blast, and
  one of the remaining two Kindred lost his footing
  and fell from his window perch. The siren turned
  toward the intact side of the church and her two
  attackers there.
  As she opened her mouth, a fire axe launched
  through the air from the front door thudded into
  her face and neck. The axe knocked her backward
  to the floor.
  Seeing the axe strike true, Owain slammed his
  dagger into the floor. He bit down into his lip to
  suppress a cry of horror. It couldn’t end like this
  for the siren, she who had brought feeling back into
  Owain’s existence. And how had he repaid her? By
  watching her slaughtered like a lamb and not lift-
  ing a finger to help.
  Below, Xavier Kline, weaving and struggling to
  remain upright, staggered through the sanctuary,
  which was now silent except for the moaning of
  one mortal. He made his way toward the siren. The
  axe protruding into the air from her head and neck,
  she feebly grabbed at the handle but lacked the
  strength to pull it free.
  There’s still time! Owain tried to convince him-
  self. Save her! But he couldn’t even hold himself
  upright. He was too dizzy from the blasts of sound.
  How Kline was even managing to stand, Owain
  could not imagine.
  Owain could not bring himself to the siren’s aid,
  
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  but neither could he look away as Kline stood
  above her, reeling, but with the upper hand. With
  a violent jerk of his arm, the Brujah ripped the axe
  from her body. Owain thought he heard his siren
  gasp in pain, but she was no longer capable of song.
  Take him! a voice within Owain screamed. There’s
  still time!
  Kline’s two accomplices were sifting through the
  mortals’ remains, finishing off the member of the
  congregation who had miraculously survived the
  deadly gunfire and the siren’s attack. They were
  distracted.
  But Owain was frozen. Fist quivering, he watched
  as Kline raised the axe high above him, where it
  seemed to pause for a horrific eternity, and then
  brought it crashing down onto the siren’s neck.
  Owain didn’t see the second blow which actually
  severed the head from the body, cutting through
  the last ragged adjoining tissue and digging deep
  into the floor.
  He was crawling away like a beaten whelp, sick
  with himself, his head full of pain and ringing,
  wishing for nothing more than that the sun would
  rise that instant and take them all, burning, to hell.
  Joining the pain, a voice echoed in his mind:
  This is the Endtime.
  
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  FOURTEEN
  The siren came to Owain. He heard her delicate
  footsteps as she slipped through the door to his
  room. She padded across the floor and gently lifted
  the lid to his resting place.
  Owain looked up as she leaned seductively over
  him in the dim light—skyblue eyes and alabaster
  skin, dark black hair, gown hanging loosely expos-
  ing the slight swell of breast and palest hint of
  areola. She opened her mouth to weave him a
  lovesong, a melodious catharsis through which they
  could both at last overcome the sadness and loss
  that had clung to them over sea and mountain and
  everpassing years.
  But no sound flowed from her mouth. No song
  
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  328
  of beauty, no enchanting lullaby. Her tongue ca-
  ressed the notes, yet sound eluded her.
  Then she turned her head, and Owain saw the
  wound, the gaping chasm in face and neck. Shat-
  tered bone and jagged sinew lay exposed. She tried
  to cover the opening with a narrow hand so the
  air might flow properly and again she might sing,
  but the space dwarfed her thin fingers.
  Owain raised his hand to help her. He craved
  the tender mercies of her song. But as he touched
  her flesh, blood began to seep from the wound and
  then to pour. Their hands together could not
  staunch the flow. It streamed into his coffin.
  He tried to call for help but evoked no sound. A
  mere touch revealed a wound marring his face and
  neck. His blood poured forth, joining the pool col-
  lected in his coffin. Still the blood of the siren flowed
  freely, and as Owain struggled to escape, only to slip
  and lose his grip, the vitæ rose around him.
  From the bottom of a deep well, Owain looked
  up at the siren, his entreaties as soundless as her
  song. And as the blood rose up and over him, she
  closed the lid and there was darkness.
  “The usurper wants to meet with me! Ha!”
  Gustav’s laugh was full of derision, not humor. His
  gray eyes betrayed no amusement. “Can you believe
  it, Edward?”
  
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  Edward Hyde adjusted his top hat, using the large
  silver head of his antique cane. “Meeting sounds
  good,” he said, as he adjusted his position in the
  exquisite leather chair in Gustav’s haven at the
  Berlin Palace. “If you don’t meet with him, you
  can’t kick in his teeth. He’s always so damned
  proper and friendly. ‘So good to see you. I do hope
  everything is well with you. I agree with everything
  you say. Goodness, look at the time. I must run.’”
  Hyde polished his cane on his flowing black opera
  cloak. “I hope I’m there when you kill him,
  Gustav.”
  Gustav rose from behind his desk and began
  stalking around the room, past the portrait of
  Frederick the Great, past the photograph of Ger-
  man troops marching through Paris. “Do not worry.
  All of Berlin…no, all of the world, will know when
  I destroy him,” Gustav promised. “And Berlin will
  be mine, solely mine, again.” He continued pac-
  ing back and forth behind his desk. “This is the
  height of arrogance, to ask for a meeting with me.”
  “You know what it means?” Hyde asked gruffly
  without looking up from his polishing.
  Gustav halted his pacing. “Of course I know what
  it means. It means he is desperate.”
  “Or,” Hyde pointed out, “it could be a trap for
  you.”
  “Ha!” Gustav resumed pacing, a sneer almost
  permanently creased on his jowly face. “Wilhelm?
  
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  Set a trap for me? Ha! He runs from me! His night
  is happy when he avoids me. He has more ‘impor-
  tant’ friends right now than do I. Otherwise, I crush
  him. But that will all change, and when the city is
  mine, those ‘important’ friends will beg for mercy,
  and I will crush them!” Gustav shook his fist, as if
  he held Wilhelm’s friends in his hand already. “He
  does not try to trap me. He is not so devious. He is
  sneaky. How else could he have taken my city from
  me? But he is not devious.”
  As he again sat behind his desk, he ran his fin-
  gers through his steely gray hair, nearly an identical
  shade to his eyes. “He is desperate because his
  friends who keep him in power shrivel away and
  die. He is nothing without them. Nothing! He will
  be as a naked child soon.”
  “But your friends die too,” said Hyde.
  “But I,” Gustav raised his finger triumphantly, “I
  rule by my power, not the power of my friends.
  Quite a different thing.” He waggled his finger at
  Hyde.
  “Hmph.” Hyde, a rough, burly man, was some-
  what obsessed with the intricate engravings on the
  head of his cane. The silver shone as brightly as
  the night he had taken the walking stick from the
  body outside the opera house, but still he polished.
  “He wants to meet. So you meet him and kill him.”
  Gustav dismissed the simplistic idea with a scorn-
  ful glance. “He will not meet me where I can crush
  
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  him,” the erstwhile prince explained. “It will all
  be very formal and very proper. He will be friendly,
  and there will be many other Kindred around.”
  “So kill them all,” Hyde grunted.
  “Kill them all! Ha!” This time Gustav was
  amused. He could barely speak for his hearty laugh-
  ter. “Edward…you say…kill them all…you say the
  most absurd…” But slowly Gustav’s laughter died
  away. The absurd, as he called it, seemed incred-
  ibly attractive. “Kill them all,” he said quietly.
  The feud between Gustav and Wilhelm had been
  raging for over eighty years. Recently, at least, they
  had both eschewed open violence for fear of drag-
  ging the Camarilla Inner Council into Berlin
  politics. The Council or its Justicars might support
  one prince claimant over the offender if too much
  violence and chaos occurred, or the Camarilla of-
  ficials might administer the city themselves or bring
  in a new prince, disenfranchising both Gustav and
  Wilhelm.
  But with chaos breaking out everywhere as es-
  tablished balances of power listed like small boats
  in a raging storm, Gustav realized, thanks to Hyde’s
  prompting, the Inner Council would have little
  time to spare for one city’s political contentions.
  By the time an inquiry might be mounted, Gustav
  would have cemented his hold on power, and the
  Council was unlikely to risk more instability by re-
  moving a de facto prince.
  
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  Gustav stood abruptly and slapped his palm
  against the desk. “Wilhelm is right. We should
  meet and speak like civilized Kindred. This curse
  of boiling blood endangers all our city.”
  Now Hyde, his head cocked quizzically, looked
  up from his cane. “What did you say?”
  Gustav, rubbing his chin, ignored the Malkavian
  primogen of East Berlin. “Then I should change
  my thinking about the messenger,” he said aloud
  to himself, then turned to Hyde. “Did you know,
  Edward, that he sent his own childe, Henriette, a
  slim delicate flower, as messenger? This as a sign
  of good will.”
  “You sent her back?” Hyde asked.
  “Oh, no,” said Gustav. “She is downstairs with a
  stake through her heart.” Hyde nodded. “I had
  planned to send her head back to her sire, perhaps
  with some western Kindred’s genitalia clenched
  between her teeth. But I suppose that would com-
  plicate this whole meeting business.”
  Again, Hyde nodded sympathetically. “Why
  not,” he asked, “keep her three nights, blood-bond
  her, and send her back with the message and have
  her kill Wilhelm?”
  Gustav opened his mouth to deride his visitor,
  but then closed his mouth without speaking.
  Wilhelm did not regularly bond his supporters or
  childer, so there would be no conditioning to over-
  come, and Gustav could always deny that he’d had
  
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  any hand in the matter at all if the girl failed. With
  a little Tremere magic to remove all traces of his
  handiwork, he could have the best of both
  worlds—an assassination attempt and a diplomatic
  meeting.
  “You are a true genius, Edward Hyde.”
  “I keep telling you this, Gustav.”
  “Come,” said the self-proclaimed once and fu-
  ture prince. “Let us attend to our messenger.”
  Owain ignored the knocking at his door. Dark-
  ness had fallen hours before, he knew, but he could
  not bring himself to face the night. Last night he
  had wanted nothing more than to greet the sun,
  to let it cook his flesh, to sear the cowardice from
  him until the relief of final death took his soul from
  the torment that was unlife.
  So complete was that cowardice, however, that
  he had sought the shelter of his haven even before
  the first rays of cleansing light had crested the ho-
  rizon and ravaged his cold flesh.
  Survival is not cowardice, he kept telling himself,
  but never quite believing.
  At least the insistent knocking distracted him
  from his dreams. All day he had been plagued by
  dreams—not visions of home or even of a venge-
  ful living tree that stretched after him for miles
  until finally it trapped him in a collapsing tower.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  334
  Nightmares. Shades from boyhood.
  He wanted none of the dreams. He wanted noth-
  ing to do with the visions. He wanted to lie in
  darkness, to not think, to not be. And before long,
  the knocking, which did not cease or even pause
  for any length of time, began to grate at his already
  ragged nerves.
  It was Randal at the door of Owain’s room.
  Owain knew the tenor of those particular knuck-
  les against wood. Then the ghoul was calling
  through the door, knowing his domitor could hear
  him, but Owain refused to listen. He heard the
  sounds, but he refused to allow them to form words
  in his mind. Randal’s voice was no more than the
  noise of his knocking. Sound without form.
  Like the song without sound of the siren as she
  had stared at Owain through mangled flesh. He
  might as well have hacked apart her face himself.
  He had sat and watched it all, not lifted a finger
  to save her. Her song had brought him in touch
  with humanity long vanquished, and he had sacri-
  ficed her for nothing more than that he might
  continue his hollow, meaningless existence.
  But what is there without existence? he wondered.
  “By God! What is there with it?”
  The sound of Owain’s voice lent renewed vigor
  to Randal’s knocking. “Sir? Sir? It’s quite impor-
  tant, sir.”
  No, Owain determined, I will not acknowledge the
  
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  world. I will not let myself be dragged into caring. At
  least the past few centuries of boredom had lacked
  that torment. It had been so long since Owain had
  truly cared about anything.
  Perhaps, he pondered, torpor was calling for him
  again. It had, after all, been almost three hundred
  years since his last extended rest. Randal could take
  care of the household details. Except there was no
  blood supply for him or for the other ghouls. With-
  out the periodic nourishment of Owain’s vitæ, they
  would age hours in but minutes and wither away
  to little more than dried husks, much as many of
  the Kindred of Atlanta had recently. Señor and
  Señora Rodriguez’s two hundred years would catch
  up with them quite rapidly. Randal would last little
  longer. Ms. Jackson would probably survive, as
  might the security team Arden and his nephew
  Mike, but the withdrawal effects of being cut off
  from vampiric blood would not be pretty.
  From the hallway beyond, a new sound caught
  Owain’s ear—the jingle of metal against metal, keys
  clinking against one another. In the back of his
  mind, Owain had known that it would come to
  this.
  The key turned in the antique brass lock and the
  mechanism clicked over. The door swung inward.
  For a moment there was silence, then Owain heard
  Randal take a deep breath and cross the room to
  the coffin. Owain could have locked himself in
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  336
  from the inside if he had wished to press the issue,
  but probably the ghoul still would have refused to
  let his master rest.
  Fingers made contact with the lid, and then it
  was opening.
  Owain’s hand shot up. His fingers latched onto
  Randal’s throat, nails digging into flesh. The lid,
  before Owain flung it completely open, crashed
  down on the ghoul’s head. Randal tried to call out,
  for whatever good it might have done him, but the
  crushing pressure on his larynx cut his air.
  Owain pulled his servant backward halfway into
  the coffin. “Did you ever have one of those days,
  Randal, when you just didn’t want to see anyone?”
  The vampire loosened his grip just enough that
  Randal could struggle to speak.
  He choked out a desperate whisper: “Forgive me,
  sir.”
  Owain loosened his grip a bit more. “There is
  no forgiveness, Randall. Not in this world nor the
  next.” Owain tore into his retainer’s throat, gnaw-
  ing through flesh until he hit upon the carotid
  artery.
  The fear and pain in Randal’s eyes were soon
  outweighed by the ecstacy of the kiss. He fell limp,
  and though he whimpered with sorrow as his life’s
  blood drained out of his body, he could force not a
  single muscle to resist.
  The blood was a richer vintage than that of a
  
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  mere mortal, as it had been mixed with Owain’s
  own blood for many years now, but it lacked the
  potency of the fragrant vitæ Owain had drunk from
  full vampires back in his days of naked ambition
  among the mortal world.
  Randal’s whimpers died away. Owain, feeding
  from anger rather than hunger, released the body,
  which slid down the side of the coffin to the floor.
  How, Owain wondered, had he abided such impu-
  dence for so long? Had his senses as well as his
  emotions been so dulled?
  Ms. Jackson’s duties would have to be expanded,
  at least until Owain could find a replacement to
  conduct his household affairs. It was not as simple
  a task, replacing one’s personal servant, as it
  sounded. There was no service to contact for ghouls
  in waiting. Luckily, Owain imagined Ms. Jackson
  would have little trouble filling Randal’s shoes.
  Perhaps an increase in staff would not even be nec-
  essary.
  Again contemplating the attractiveness of tor-
  por, Owain decided that, if he went that route, he
  would provide blood enough to maintain Ms. Jack-
  son, and let the others go. Of course, there would
  be many other details needing his attention. Since
  there was no way to gauge exactly how long tor-
  por might last, he would need a more secure and
  less ostentatious resting place than this estate, and
  there were so many business interests to be safe-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  338
  guarded or placed in escrow.
  Then there was always the chance that he would
  lapse into years of inactivity without actually mean-
  ing to do so. That would be the simplest way,
  drifting away from the conundrums of nightly
  unlife, and preparations be damned; but also the
  risks of eventual discovery and harm, if not final
  death, would be considerable.
  How much did Owain care? How strongly did the
  urge for release outweigh the survival instinct?
  It was that precarious balance he was contem-
  plating when he saw the small slip of paper on the
  floor not far from Randal’s body. The paper was a
  distinctive personalized stationary that Owain was
  sure had been delivered within the past few hours
  by a ghouled passenger pigeon that any mortal or-
  nithologist would be shocked to see. A voice of
  receding influence within Owain’s mind wanted
  him to leave the message be, to lie back in his cof-
  fin and pull the lid shut, closing out the world
  beyond. He could make excuses later if need be.
  Correspondences intercepted, a treacherous servant
  now chastened—that would most likely be his best
  excuse for failing to respond to last night’s sum-
  mons.
  Owain considered that course, but acted other-
  wise. His risen ire and the recent feeding had
  snapped him out of his nihilistic doldrums, for the
  time being at least. He leaned over the edge of the
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  coffin and snatched up the paper. As he knew it
  would be, the message was rendered in the prince’s
  practiced script:
  1 January
  Mr. Owain Evans:
  Your presence is required tonight at mid-
  night at the abandoned factory opposite Oakland
  Cemetery.
  This gathering is of utmost importance in
  ensuring the continued prosperity of all the
  Kindred of our fair city. I shall brook no
  failure to attend.
  Your obt. svt.
  J. Benison Hodge
  Prince of Atlanta
  Owain crumpled the paper and dropped it to the
  floor. Not much room for misinterpretation there, he
  noted.
  He could still ignore the summons and make ex-
  cuses later, but it sounded as if Benison might not
  be interested in hearing excuses, valid or otherwise.
  Besides, Owain decided, the prince had always
  treated him respectfully, and there was little sense
  in offending the ruler of the city without reason.
  There might also be a way to find out what had
  led Xavier Kline and his henchmen to the church.
  Certainly Thelonious, the Brujah primogen, had
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  340
  not ordered the attack. Had Kline acted of his own
  accord?
  The very thought of Kline and what the mind-
  less brute had done to the siren nearly drove Owain
  to violence. Could he face the Brujah if he were
  at the gathering? Could Owain trust himself not
  to fly into a rage and attack the destroyer of the
  peace and meaning that Owain had finally discov-
  ered? But what was the last official Kindred
  function Kline had attended? Owain could not
  think of one. Probably another meeting of the
  primogen and the prince wants a bit of extra advice.
  Strange, though to call them two nights running.
  Owain glanced at the grandfather clock in the
  corner. Eleven thirty-five! Less than half an hour to
  be there. Wouldn’t do to miss one meeting and be late
  for the next. Quickly, he stepped over Randal’s body
  and prepared to go, again not shaving—the stubble
  would never grow any longer than it already was.
  Within two minutes, he was hurrying down the
  steps and yelling for Ms. Jackson.
  Benison sat toward the back of the cavernous
  building. The Fulton Bag Factory, abandoned for
  years but now scheduled for renovation into loft
  apartments. The prince knew the Anacreons would
  never stand for that, not so close to the cemetery
  that they had demanded remain off-limits to Kin-
  
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  dred. The wraith leaders had already told him as
  much, but as of yet he had taken no action on these
  latest requests. It wouldn’t do for the prince of At-
  lanta to appear to be taking orders from the spirit
  world denizens. They needed to know that he was
  in command.
  Unless the haunting began again.
  Before agreeing to the Oakland Cemetery desig-
  nation, Benison had alternately fought the
  mindless shades with his sword throughout Rhodes
  Hall, and cowered from them, locked tightly in his
  coffin when the sensation of spirits pressing around
  him from every direction had become too much
  to bear. Once he had agreed to the Anacreons’ re-
  quest, the hauntings had ceased.
  So Benison would hold out long enough to as-
  sert his control, but not so long that the shadows
  might return to his home before derailing the con-
  struction plans as surely as Nathan Bedfor Forrest
  had disrupted Federal rail support.
  That business had been planned out for quite some
  time now, though. What bothered Benison tonight
  was the tardy arrival of numerous Kindred. He had
  planned to begin promptly at midnight, capturing
  the symbolic beginning of a new day just as his proc-
  lamations would deliver the city from its present
  panic and usher in a new era of abundance.
  Already, however, it was nearly half past, and his
  subjects were still straggling in, mostly the ancillae.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  342
  The primogen were all present. They knew the
  importance of the decrees to be handed down.
  Hannah was present with her two chantry neo-
  nates. Noticably absent were the two she had
  “disciplined.” Of course Eleanor was present, and
  Benjamin, and Owain had arrived a few minutes
  late. That accounted for the Ventrue—although
  Benison would have to remember to find out why
  Owain had missed the meeting last night. Foul
  Aurelius was lurking in the damp shadows, as was
  his younger Nosferatu whose name always escaped
  the prince’s mind. Bedelia, Thelonious, Marlene
  and her hangers-on were all at hand. Nearly a score
  of recognized Kindred all told.
  Even Xavier Kline, who occupied that gray area
  between fully recognized Kindred and anarch, was
  present, though he appeared a bit worse for wear
  from his encounter the night before. Wads of cot-
  ton were stuffed in his ears, and the once or twice
  he grew frustrated with them and removed them,
  he winced in pain at each sound above a whisper
  and was forced to put them back. It was a rare in-
  jury that didn’t heal quickly for a Kindred. Kline
  must have taken quite a beating, Benison noted. I
  must reward him for his faithful service.
  Maybe a half-dozen of the anarchs were present,
  some still wandering in. There must be more,
  Benison knew, but how many had perished from
  the curse? He shouldn’t be surprised they were late.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  Why should they show any more respect to the
  prince than they did the Traditions?
  Lorenzo Giovanni, the ghoul, with his bodyguard
  had arrived punctually at five ‘til midnight. Even
  the temporary guest in the city keeping account of
  his family-clan’s holdings paid Benison more re-
  spect than the anarchs who resided here.
  No longer, Benison promised himself, will I toler-
  ate such impertinence. No longer.
  The prince was almost ready to begin, and those
  not present be damned. But he and they were al-
  ready damned, Benison mused. Worse yet, though,
  they would feel his wrath.
  Eleanor was amazed at how many were present.
  There were very few Kindred she didn’t know well
  by sight in the city, but as far as she knew, never
  before had so many been gathered in one place. A
  quick count of heads totalled over thirty, and that
  after reportedly at least that number had suc-
  cumbed to the curse! How had they allowed the
  city to grow so overpopulated? Perhaps the plague
  had done them a favor. After all, to a remarkable
  degree the younger Kindred, recognized and
  anarch, were those stricken. Perhaps that, along
  with Benison’s upcoming fire and brimstone ser-
  mon, would restore a greater degree of order to the
  city.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  344
  She glanced over toward Benjamin. She would
  have to ask him about that concept of the curse as
  a necessary means of population control. Had it
  indeed been visited upon their city by God, as
  Benison contended? But it had affected more than
  just this city. Benison had been too concerned
  about appearing weak to communicate with other
  princes, but Eleanor had received reports from her
  sire Baylor of the widespread carnage. Was the
  overpopulation problem so widespread?
  Again she glanced at Benjamin. His mind was
  so refined, so perfect. He would undoubtedly pro-
  vide valuable insights on the subject. They had to
  take pains to show not even a passing interest in
  one another in public. She had not betrayed her
  husband in a sexual sense, not entirely, but still if
  he were to discover the emotional and intellectual
  bond between her and her secret childe…That
  damnable Owain Evans had somehow. Where was
  the scoundrel? Lying low, spying on all those
  around him, no doubt. The man is more Nosferatu
  than Ventrue, Eleanor was convinced. Before long,
  she needed to discover just how much he did know.
  If he had merely seen Benjamin and her together
  and connected the pieces, then he wouldn’t know
  that she was Benjamin’s sire as well as lover. Ei-
  ther way, he needed to be dealt with. She couldn’t
  allow him to manipulate Benjamin that way. She
  couldn’t take the chance that Benjamin would
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  grow to resent their relationship as a cause of dan-
  ger more than he resented Evans.
  And heaven forbid that Marlene, the tabloid in-
  carnate of Kindred society, should find out. It still
  stung Eleanor that Benison allowed the semi-re-
  formed harlot to remain in the city. Some pressure
  might just be required on that front as well.
  The factory was full of a quiet murmuring as Kin-
  dred milled about and speculated about what was
  to come. The sound was quiet to the enhanced
  senses of a Cainite, but would be virtually silent,
  Eleanor knew, to a passing mortal. Only the
  ancillae burst out in occasional laughter, calculat-
  edly brash to hide their unease. Each time the
  young upstarts forgot their place, the elders stared
  them down.
  Even the low murmurings died away, however,
  as the prince rose from his seat and approached the
  gathering. He paused for a moment, gazing over his
  assembled subjects. “Kindred of Atlanta,” he be-
  gan, “seldom have so many of us gathered together,
  and it saddens me that a great tragedy is the cause.
  But like the people of Israel who grew strong in
  their exile, from disaster is greatness often born.”
  Eleanor took pride in the majestic aura of her
  husband. His black suit was the height of 1890s
  fashion, as was her dark red gown. He stood tall
  and straight, a monolithic symbol of strength in
  the troubling times. There were those who dis-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  346
  agreed with him, some on principled grounds, such
  as Thelonious. Others schemed amongst the shad-
  ows. But none could stand against him once his
  mind was set, and tonight he was as determined in
  his course as ever she had seen him.
  His words inspired her. “We have all felt the
  hand of the curse in one way or another. We may
  try to hide the ways, for fear that others will as-
  cribe to us weakness in our loss, but we all have
  been touched. For me, I have lost my only childe.
  He found his final death before my eyes.”
  There was a great silence among the Kindred. It
  was unheard of for the prince to discuss so personal
  a tragedy in such a public forum. Even in the Bible
  classes he led, his sermonettes and diatribes were
  of a rather philosophical bent: detached, not per-
  sonal.
  “Just as painful for me has been to watch the
  community which I am entrusted to protect torn
  apart from within, none sure of what is happen-
  ing, all afraid to associate with another who might
  be cursed or demented with hunger.
  “Tonight I will reveal to you how it is that we
  have come to be cursed.” Whispers of surprise and
  disbelief broke through the Kindred at this news.
  “And I will tell you how we will set ourselves on
  the road to salvation. With the help of all gath-
  ered here, we will remove this curse.”
  The noise quickly died down as all listened care-
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  fully, some full of incredulous awe, others skepti-
  cal, still others sure that this was the Malkavian
  in the prince coming out, the mad priest-king.
  As for Benison, he had a narrow line to walk.
  He spoke with the conviction of his beliefs, but
  there were many he would need to convince that
  he spoke authoritatively, not in the sense of power
  but of knowledge. In that same vein, he could not
  reveal the source of much of his information.
  Many of the details he recited of how the curse
  had struck were too painfully common knowl-
  edge—the hunger that ate at the Cainites, turning
  their nightly requirements into obsessive and un-
  controllable urges; the madness that took them,
  creating sometimes raving lunatics, sometimes sla-
  vering killers.
  But the prince had discovered more. In his dis-
  cussion last night with his Anacreon allies, he had
  learned that the madness visited upon the accursed
  Kindred was no random insanity. The wraiths could
  feel the lure of the madness in the Shadowlands of
  the restless dead. There was a force of entropy at
  work, a regressive energy, they explained, and to
  their spirit eyes the source of the curse was evi-
  dent—blood.
  The Cainites’ blood was not weakened. It had
  lost none of its potency. Quite the contrary. It had
  increased in potency, so much so that the curse lit-
  erally transformed the blood to that of an earlier
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  348
  generation, and earlier, and earlier. For some, the
  regression involved becoming the vampire of ear-
  lier generation through whom the blood had
  flowed, reliving certain events, fighting certain
  dangers. Whether the accursed experienced ances-
  tral memories or not, the physical eventualities
  were the same. The body and mind of the Cainite
  could not adjust to the rapidly increasing potency
  of the blood. The mind broke down. The flesh
  broke down. And always there was the hunger. No
  amount of feeding could satisfy the shifting needs
  of the body.
  Madness. Starvation. Death.
  All this Benison had constructed through his
  conversation with the Anacreons. But he could not
  inform the Kindred of Atlanta of those discussions.
  Not only would the Anacreons themselves not
  want it so, the prince’s ability to learn that which
  no Cainite or mortal had seen was an important
  handhold for his grip on power.
  “The curse,” he explained to his subjects, “is the
  call back to our beginnings—to our sires, and our
  sires’ sires, and their sires before them. Back to the
  very beginning. Unless we can lift the curse, it is
  our call back to the most ancient of ancients. To
  the antediluvians. To Gehenna.”
  Eleanor winced at the word, and startled com-
  ments rang out all over. Officially, the Camarilla
  disavowed any belief that the antediluvians,
  
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  grandchilder of Caine, even existed, much less
  would return at the Endtime, Gehenna, to consume
  all those Cainites of more recent generations.
  There were cults and mystics and doom-mongers,
  even within the Camarilla, who said otherwise. But
  a prince making such a public pronouncement,
  Eleanor knew only too well, as a former archon,
  would normally bring the full fury of the Camarilla
  down on his city.
  But times were far from normal.
  The prince might have some room to maneuver,
  if situations elsewhere continued as chaotically as
  they seemed. Benison had not spoken lightly. He
  had determined a course of action, and he might
  just have time to implement it.
  “‘This is the Endtime,’” the prince again recited.
  “‘This is the Falling of the Blood. This is the Winnow-
  ing.’”
  Again, as with the primogen the night before,
  the reaction of the assembled Kindred to the pro-
  phetic passages from the Book of Nod was utter
  solemnity. The sacrosanct words carried a nearly
  tangible force; they lent credence and power to the
  unwavering convictions of the prince.
  “‘The First-Born comes in fury. He harrows his chil-
  dren from their graves. His wrath is a hammer, an
  unhewn cudgel wet with the blood of the Kinslaying.
  He drives the lightning before him.’”
  Despite the compelling nature of the prince’s ora-
  
  Gherbod Fleming
  350
  tory, several anarchs quickly grew restless. Aside
  from the initial shock value, they afforded little sig-
  nificance to the portentous words of the ancients.
  The younger Kindred fidgeted like so many chil-
  dren in church but, surrounded by their elders, did
  not interrupt. Thelonious observed and took note
  of the anarchs’ growing unease.
  “Even for the Cainite,” Benison continued,
  “there is a place and an order. Just as the kine are
  placed in dominion over the beasts, the Kindred
  are placed in dominion over the kine, and with
  dominion comes responsibility for the well-being
  of the lesser being. Among us, our Traditions en-
  sure that we are able to live with one another, so
  that our society may function harmoniously, and
  we may more efficiently shepherd our mortal
  charges.”
  As Benison enumerated the importance of the
  six Traditions and the ways that many Kindred had
  strayed from the natural order commissioned by
  God and consecrated by the Dark Father Caine on
  behalf of all those who bore his stain, a distinct
  division developed among the Cainites. Many of
  the older vampires, those more indoctrinated in the
  ways of the Camarilla, grew openly supportive of
  what the prince said. They could agree that they
  might have errored, and that, with only minor ad-
  justments, they could comply more fully with the
  authoritative prescriptions of which Benison spoke.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  On the other hand, some of the younger Kindred
  and many of the anarchs grew increasingly edgy.
  “I have decreed,” Benison announced, “and the
  primogen have approved the New Year’s Writ of
  Three. Measures by which we may remove from our
  city the curse which our divine Creator has justly
  visited upon us in retribution for our recalcitrance
  in observing the ordained ways. First, the Kindred
  of Atlanta will cease, from this point onward, their
  laxity in observing the Six Traditions and the proc-
  lamations of prince and primogen. Violations of the
  spirit, as well as the letter, of the Law will be dealt
  with in a vigorous and just manner.”
  None spoke out against the prince. Many
  weighed the implications of the his decree. The
  situation in the city had grown so desperate and
  the need for some drastic course of action was so
  apparent, that many skeptics were cowed into sub-
  mission. There were grumblers among the anarchs,
  but they assumed that once away from this gather-
  ing they could again pay lip service to the
  Traditions and do as they pleased. For the time be-
  ing, standing close to the elders of the city and
  listening to the prince, the ancillae opted for sub-
  version over confrontation. Not even Thelonious
  spoke out. Having said his piece among the
  primogen, he knew when he was beaten and
  planned for the future.
  “Second,” said the prince, “those of you without
  
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  clan will choose one to seek adoption into. And
  those of you who are of a clan but leave unfulfilled
  your duty as a clan member, you will take up your
  responsibilities. There will be order in this city
  again! The ordained association between ancilla
  and elder will not be blurred!”
  This decree shocked the assemblage to silence.
  Whether resigned or irritated, they had all seen the
  first coming, but this second decree…this verged
  on heresy against the accepted tenets of the
  Camarilla.
  Eleanor watched closely the assembled Kindred.
  It would be her responsibility to aide her husband
  in maintaining order, and while he was quite able
  to command through sheer force of will and intimi-
  dation, her eye was the more trained for less overt
  signs of trouble. Why crush a revolt if the leaders
  could be coopted before it even began?
  To some extent, Benison practiced intrigue in-
  stinctively. For a time now, he had been enlisting
  the help of Xavier Kline, the most potentially hos-
  tile of the anarchs and perhaps the most dangerous,
  in situations that allowed the neolithic churl to act
  upon his aggressive tendencies in a manner ben-
  eficial to the prince. Among the others, Eleanor
  could pinpoint no glaring dangers. The primogen
  would fall in line, and the other recognized Kin-
  dred would follow that lead. Hannah had voted for
  the decrees, so the Tremere should be nominal al-
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  lies—all the better to keep an eye on them. The
  anarchs would cause minor trouble. Surely Benison
  would be forced to have Kline put one or two of
  them down, but that would serve as a signal to the
  rest, and they would comply or move on to other
  cities. Bringing the anarchs to heel and controlling the
  population of his city. Perhaps her husband’s strat-
  egy was more insightful than she had originally
  given him credit for.
  It all hinged, however, on one condition: the
  blood curse. What would happen if the curse sud-
  denly abated somehow? The Camarilla would
  redirect its time and resources to respond to this
  radical decree. Benison must have thought of that and
  bulled ahead regardless, Eleanor suspected. That
  would be like him.
  The shocked silence shortly gave way to mutter-
  ing and debate. Some elders had no desire to
  associate with anarchs. Others, sensing that their
  clans might be invigorated by increased numbers,
  wished to make subtle connections with the
  Clanless most likely ripe for recruitment.
  Eleanor was impressed by the audacity of her
  husband’s actions, if not completely convinced of
  their inherent wisdom. The first decree, reassert-
  ing the relevance of the Traditions, was merely an
  ultraconservative interpretation of existing law.
  The second decree, however, basically disenfran-
  chised the Clanless, the most rapidly growing
  
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  portion of Kindred society. If that practice were suc-
  cessful and spread to other cities, it could inflame
  young Cainites to the point of a second Anarch
  Revolt. Thelonious had been correct on that count.
  And where would the anarchs turn? Either, ironi-
  cally enough, to the Camarilla itself for protection,
  or into the waiting arms of the Sabbat.
  Cloaked in bold action, it was a fragile hand the
  prince played.
  The problem with attending a large gathering of
  Kindred, Owain decided, was that at least half of
  those present wanted to hide in the shadows and
  skulk about. He certainly did, and he kept bump-
  ing into the two Nosferatu, Aurelius and that other
  one whose name escaped Owain’s memory. They
  were all so busy obfuscating within an inch of their
  unlives that they didn’t see one another. So far
  Owain had been stepped on and elbowed, and he
  had accidentally stuck his finger in someone’s eye.
  At least he hoped it was an eye and not one of
  Aurelius’ draining boils.
  In this place so close to the site of his lovely
  siren’s murder, Owain looked on as the prince de-
  livered his decrees with equal parts conviction,
  apocalyptic fervor, and drama. That must be what I
  missed last night, Owain realized, the primogen ap-
  proving Benison’s plans.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  The first of the decrees had been fairly unremark-
  able. The second was somewhat of a surprise.
  Owain had watched with interest the varying re-
  actions around the room. He was surprised that
  Thelonious, among others, had not offered at least
  a token protest, but perhaps that had all played out
  the night before.
  Most interesting, though, was Benison’s expla-
  nation of the curse. Aside from wondering how the
  prince had come to acquire such knowledge, Owain
  was intrigued by the idea of ancestral memories.
  Until now, as the city had plunged into chaos
  around him, Owain had been somewhat insulated
  from the crisis. He dealt directly with very few Kin-
  dred, which was how he liked to maintain his
  affairs, and none of his ghouls had suffered from
  the curse. In fact, he had spent more time enam-
  ored by the siren, and now the tragedy of her death,
  and had spared little thought for the malady that
  had claimed nearly half the Kindred of Atlanta.
  Hearing Benison, however, Owain wondered if
  there might not be some connection. The vision.
  The tree, the tower—could this be akin to the de-
  mentia brought on by the curse? He had found
  himself wandering among vague memories of the
  Middle Ages. He had fed more often than was the
  norm for him. Were these the beginnings of the
  curse? Would his blood visit upon him the final re-
  lease he lacked the courage to inflict upon himself?
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  The noise around Owain lessened as the prince
  moved on to his third decree.
  “…and I can only take responsibility for the sac-
  rilege which has transpired,” said Benison. “Less
  than two miles from here stands a church, long
  since deserted by its mortal parishioners.”
  Owain felt a knot in the pit of his stomach.
  “Unbeknownst to myself, a Cainite of foul de-
  sign occupied that place of worship.”
  Owain stared straight ahead, knowing what was
  coming, not wanting to hear it, not wanting to be-
  lieve it.
  “She performed rituals, invoking demons and
  paying homage to pagan gods, and in doing so in-
  tensified the divine wrath called down upon us,
  perhaps even was first in drawing the anger of our
  divine Creator!”
  Still reeling from the previous decree, the Kin-
  dred of Atlanta accepted this one without
  comment. With a supreme effort of will, Owain
  held himself steady, though he wanted to scream
  and rage, to throw himself at the prince.
  “The problem,” said Benison, “has been rectified.”
  Rectified.
  The word rang in Owain’s ears. The first beauty
  that had wound its way into his life in hundreds of
  years, like a ray of light through a maelstrom of
  stormclouds.
  Rectified.
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  She was butchered! he wanted to yell. Hacked apart
  with an axe by a conscienceless killer.
  Conscienceless killer. Owain had been called
  that before. He had been that. Had he not done
  worse in his day? The prince was still speaking.
  Owain forced himself to listen, to focus.
  “I ask of each of you a question. I will ask it only
  once, and within the quarter hour I must have your
  answers.” The prince turned to the side. “Kline,
  bring him.”
  Someone had to relay the message, as Kline had
  not heard, but slowly the crowd parted, making way
  for the Brujah behemoth. He led a figure covered
  by a black hood, hands tied. But despite the hood,
  Owain recognized him.
  When Kline reached the center, before Benison,
  the Brujah withdrew and the prince approached
  the prisoner.
  “This Cainite,” said Benison, “has consorted with
  infernalists. He has broken Kindred law and holy
  law. In part the curse that ravages our city is on
  his head.” The prince slowly surveyed the as-
  sembled Kindred, his green eyes imparting severe
  meaning. “My question to you all is this: Have any
  others taken part in these demonic rites? Do any
  others bear the stain?”
  Silence. The silence of the grave.
  “Think well,” said the prince, “for after tonight,
  there will be no mercy.”
  
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  Kindred shuffled their feet, looked at the floor,
  did anything they could to avoid making eye con-
  tact with anyone else. Owain stared at the hooded
  figure.
  “Speak now,” the prince urged, “and you will be
  treated leniently.”
  Leniently? Owain wondered. A quick death? But
  no, that was not like the prince. He was not an
  intentionally cruel man. He would hand down a
  just sentence. Like the just sentence he handed down
  to the siren? Owain gnashed his teeth behind lips
  pressed tightly closed.
  Still waiting for any response from his subjects,
  Benison reached over and removed the hood so
  that all might look upon the transgressor. Stand-
  ing bound among the Kindred was Albert. The
  prince did not look at his fellow Malkavian, at the
  once-long beard cut short and ragged, at the dried
  blood that had run from his ears, at the scrapes and
  contusions covering his face, no doubt from the
  hands of the Brujah enforcer. Albert’s head hung
  low, his jests beaten out of him.
  “Let this one be a lesson for all those who would
  deny the truth,” said Benison. “Are there any who
  seek leniency?” Again silence gripped the throng.
  Owain wanted to whisk Albert away. How long
  had he known the Malkavian, one hundred years,
  two hundred? Owain felt certain that Albert would
  not stand by while a friend was wrongfully pun-
  
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  ished. Owain could speak on his behalf, but to do
  so would be to mark himself, and how many se-
  crets would be unravelled then?
  Damn Benison. Owain clenched his fists at his
  sides. Damn him for Albert’s sake. Damn him for de-
  stroying…for destroying beauty.
  “Very well,” the prince concluded. “The time for
  mercy is past.”
  Benison held out his hand, and again Kline came
  forward, this time carrying a three-foot wooden
  stake. The prince took the stake but still did not
  look at Albert’s face, as if the condemned were not
  worthy to be gazed upon. “Do you have anything
  to say?” Benison asked.
  With effort, Albert raised his head. His eyes were
  swollen and bloodshot. A hint of smile upon his
  battered lips, he slowly turned his head, taking in
  all those around him. Many refused to meet his
  gaze. Some glared accusingly at him. Owain was
  squeezing back into the shadows again, but the
  Malkavian’s look came to rest briefly on him re-
  gardless. “What would Angharad say?” Albert
  whispered.
  “May God have mercy on your soul.” As Benison
  slammed the stake into Albert’s heart, Owain al-
  most stumbled, as if he himself had taken the blow.
  His knees buckled, and he felt himself stagger into
  someone.
  What would Angharad say?
  
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  From where he lay on the floor, Albert’s motion-
  less eyes stared blankly at Owain.
  What would Angharad say?
  Owain felt ill. He fought down bile and blood.
  Angharad. How had Albert known? There were a
  host of questions Owain needed answered, but no
  way to ask them.
  For an instant, Owain thought he heard a trace
  of the siren’s song. Or was it the lullaby that
  Angharad had sung so long ago? Or were they one
  and the same? But no. It was only a trick of his
  mind and the echoing acoustics of the empty fac-
  tory.
  The Kindred were shuffling about, anxious to
  leave. This was no victory over an enemy, no time
  to celebrate. Albert was one of their own, fallen
  and punished. None wished to dwell on the fact.
  Even Benison, firm in his duty, took no pleasure
  in the task. He stood with splattered blood on his
  hand, in his beard, on his suit. “This one will be
  left out for the sun. May our Lord claim his soul.”
  The last two nights had been too much for
  Owain. First the murder of the siren, now this.
  Angharad. He needed to be away from the crowd,
  but he forced himself to walk slowly. Thankfully
  there was no small talk after such an ordeal. He
  could not have stomached it.
  A cold hatred burned in Owain’s breast. Toward
  Xavier Kline, the killer, for the relish he took in
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  destruction. Toward Benison for not understand-
  ing, for handing down death sentences. Toward
  Albert for saying her name, for dying. Toward all
  Kindred for living such sadistic, perverted unlives.
  But mostly toward himself, for a list of sins more
  grievous by far than what could have been said of
  the siren and Albert combined.
  
  Gherbod Fleming
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  FIFTEEN
  If Kendall Jackson noticed Owain’s fists trem-
  bling with rage as he got into the car, she
  conscientiously ignored the fact. “Homeward,” he
  instructed her.
  Adref.
  There were hints and traces of the siren in ev-
  erything Owain saw and heard. He could not
  escape her. He lay down in the back seat of the
  Rolls and covered his eyes. His ears were ringing
  again, not as badly as Kline’s must be after the di-
  rect blast he had taken, but far from completely
  healed. Owain squeezed his temples, as if that could
  make the ringing, the pain, the memories go away.
  For the second time in as many nights, he had
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  stood by and watched as a Cainite deserving bet-
  ter had met final death. He had not fought on the
  siren’s behalf, he had not lobbied on Albert’s.
  Never mind that Kline and his goons would most
  likely have cut Owain down at the church. Never
  mind that Benison had already determined Albert’s
  fate and that not even Solomon the Wise could
  have swayed the prince from his plans. Still Owain
  was punished by waves of guilt.
  For so long he had felt…nothing. No joy, no re-
  morse, no pity, no guilt.
  Then for a few short weeks the siren’s song had
  touched him. It had reached out to him and drawn
  him in, reminding him of his mortal days, days
  when emotions had burned strong, for good and
  for ill. She recognized his loss and had shown him
  her own. But the seeds of loss are happiness, and
  that Owain had forgotten. Love, loss, longing. Hu-
  manity. Owain had searched for it once. The last
  time he had seen his love he had been searching
  for it, had given up that search.
  Angharad.
  What would Angharad say?
  Adref. Homeward.
  In a few short weeks the siren had torn down the
  walls of his secure castle. She had dragged him from
  the small safe chambers, the dull ache of existence,
  and thrown him to the chaos that is living with
  all its incumbent pain and grief. And again it was
  
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  the joy that was stolen from him.
  As sure as Rhys had stolen Owain’s one love, and
  a dark shadow in Westminster his life, as sure as
  the Norman Ventrue had stolen Wales and the In-
  quisition his one friend Gwilym, Benison and Kline
  had conspired to steal his newfound joy.
  To drive the point home as surely as any sharp-
  ened stake, they had sacrificed poor Albert, and
  so Owain was doubly guilty—traitor to his prince,
  traitor to his friend.
  Enough!
  Owain sat upright from where he was slumped
  in the back seat. He pounded the passenger seat
  before him, his claws raking through the leather
  and padding.
  Jackson glanced nervously over her shoulder, but
  continued to drive, saying nothing.
  Owain drew back a fist to smash through the
  window…but stopped himself. Anger, too, was a
  gift of the siren. Yes, he had raged at the chess
  board, but for years nothing else. And what he felt
  toward Benison and Kline was like the sun next to
  a candle compared to his frustration with the game.
  They were not far from home. Owain brushed
  the bits of cushion padding from his clothes. He
  smoothed back his hair.
  His emotions would serve him. They would pro-
  vide him with that crucial edge, that sense of
  purpose that he had lacked for decades upon de-
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  cades—as long as he did not subordinate his rea-
  son to his feelings. His anger could drive him, but
  he could not let it rule him.
  His mistake, Owain realized, was that he had
  cared. Had he not cared long ago, then his loss
  would not have haunted him so over the centu-
  ries. Had he not cared about the siren, then he
  would have missed the sensations she offered, as
  he would have any common harlot in life, but guilt
  for not tossing away his own life would not have
  tormented him.
  She had drawn him in, manipulated him as surely
  as she had manipulated the mortals who were her
  herd, as surely as she had manipulated Albert. What
  visions of rapture had he seen? What avenues of
  lost days had he traversed? It was she who had led
  the Malkavian to his doom. It was she who had be-
  guiled Owain into betraying his prince.
  And it was she who had paid the price.
  It all fit together perfectly, yet still Owain har-
  bored sharp resentment against Benison and his
  Brujah buffoon. Like all those before, they would
  lord over Owain. They would approve or condemn
  his every action, his every thought. No better than
  Rhys, no better than the Normans, no better than
  the Inquisition. Owain would throw off this yoke
  as well.
  “Sir, there’s someone by the front gate,” said Jack-
  son from the front.
  
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  Owain saw that it was true, and that the some-
  one was no random stranger. “Pull up beside him.”
  Jackson followed the instructions, and Owain
  pushed open the door.
  “Buenas noches, mi hermano,” said the visitor. He
  was short and dark-complected and wore a black
  suit with dark red shirt and black tie.
  “Get in,” Owain responded tersely.
  The man did so, but as he opened his mouth to
  speak, Owain gestured irritably for silence. The
  Spaniard busied himself with straightening his tie.
  They rode to the house without a word.
  After Jackson was dismissed for the evening,
  Owain led his guest to the trophy room, and the
  moment the door was closed turned on him. “What
  are you thinking, showing up unannounced and
  standing out on the street in front of my home?
  Have you grown reckless over the years, Miguel,
  or merely idiotic?”
  Miguel grinned a wide, sly smile. His teeth were
  dingy and crooked. “And there are those in this
  city who would recognize me, hermano?”
  “Whether there are or not…” Owain threw his
  hands into the air. There was no point trying to
  convince this kind.
  “And another thing, in case you had not heard,”
  Miguel’s smile vanished, “I am sacerdote now, priest,
  but you being a friend, you may call me Fray
  Miguel.”
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  Owain was running his finger along the edge of
  his sword that hung on the wall. He did not bother
  to face his guest when he addressed him. “I will
  call you no such thing. You have no authority over
  me, and furthermore, you endanger my position by
  even coming here!”
  “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” The wide smile was back. “We ask
  so much of you, don’t we hermano Owain?” No
  longer waiting for Owain’s invitation, Miguel took
  a seat in one of the large leather armchairs. “Is it
  not customary to offer your guest refreshment?”
  “What are you doing here? You didn’t come all
  the way from Spain just to catch up on old times.”
  Owain turned from his sword, sat across from
  Miguel.
  Taking his time, Miguel looked around the room.
  “Nice place you have here. You have not done
  poorly for yourself in America, but you never do
  poorly, do you, hermano?” He admired the pewter
  ashtray, ran his finger along the brass lamp, taking
  as much time as he could, baiting Owain.
  But Owain waited. He denied his urge to throttle
  the man across from him.
  Finally, deciding Owain wouldn’t be drawn out,
  Miguel answered. “El Greco would see you.”
  El Greco. It was a name that, except in reference
  to the mortal painter, Owain had not heard spo-
  ken in over eighty years. “Impossible. He would
  never ask that of me. Is this some trick of yours,
  
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  368
  Miguel?”
  Miguel chuckled. “He said you would resist, that
  you had grown lazy and soft in America.” The com-
  ment sounded much crueler, somehow, coming
  from Miguel than it would have from his master,
  Owain’s acquaintance but not quite friend. Miguel
  reached into his jacket and produced an envelope
  which he handed to Owain.
  The folded piece of parchment inside was famil-
  iar to Owain. Its yellowed edges were similar to the
  letter he had received just weeks ago from the same
  source, the letter that had contained only six words
  but still had managed to rouse Owain temporarily
  from his chronic ennui. This time, as well, the
  message was brief, and even more significant:
  Owain, I must speak with you.
  Come to Toledo with all possible haste.
  As always, the same flowing script. No signature.
  None was needed.
  Owain read the message once again. “Impossible.
  There is far too much going on here. I cannot be
  away.”
  Miguel was all smiles. He thoroughly enjoyed
  watching Owain squirm, luxuriated in turning the
  screws even tighter. “Mi hermano, it is not a re-
  quest.”
  “Damnation!” Owain slammed his fist on the arm
  
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  The Devil's Advocate
  of the chair. “Why is he doing this? Is he trying to
  destroy everything we have done?”
  Miguel was through playing. He hissed fiercely,
  fangs bared at Owain. “You forget what you are,
  Owain. You have been here alone for too many
  years. I tell El Greco we should watch you more
  closely. The information you send is not so valu-
  able that you may disregard your other
  responsibilities.” Miguel sat back again, straight-
  ened his tie. “You forget what you are, mi hermano.
  Once Sabbat, always Sabbat.”
  Owain held back a snarl. It had been years and
  years ago that he had joined El Greco, but there
  were actions that once committed could never be
  escaped, no matter how much time intervened. He
  didn’t want to deal with any of this at the moment.
  Even with his loyalty to Benison frayed to the point
  of severed, he wasn’t ready to be torn away from
  the trauma of the siren’s death, from his memories
  of Angharad.
  A third time Owain read the letter. The price
  for freedom was being called due, and there was
  no alternative but to answer.
  The wide open spaces helped. Somewhat, at
  least.
  Blackfeather had told Nicholas of Kindred all
  over suffering from the curse. They ripped out each
  
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  other’s throats questing for blood. They raved, be-
  lieving they were other people. Nicholas was afraid
  he had joined them.
  It had been worse in the city, with the kine and
  their cars, the buildings and the roads. Everywhere
  he had gone there had been someone, or some-
  thing.
  Now he could see as well as feel the gentle curve
  of the earth, the acres and acres of winter wheat
  spreading out in every direction from horizon to
  horizon. The sky was open, the stars brilliant in
  the darkness, true darkness, not the pale pink that
  pretended to be night in the city.
  And the visions.
  They had been worse in the city, one coming on
  the heels of the last, leaving Nicholas so disoriented
  and confused that he had barely had a chance to
  recover for weeks.
  Back in the wilds, the visions still visited him,
  but less often. Nicholas was better able to regroup
  and hold his own. Several times he had even fought
  off the waking dreams that he had felt coming on,
  just as he had held down the hunger. He drew
  strength from the outdoors, sustenance from the
  crisp air, vitality from the unspoiled earth.
  Be that as it may, he could not hold off the vi-
  sions this night. He had struggled for hours, but
  now he lay on the gentlest of slopes, staring up at
  the stars, surrounded by close horizons of wheat.
  
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  Exhausted by the fight, he could do no more.
  And the visions came.
  Darkness. Darkness and pain. Eyes slow to ad-
  just. Lying on side. Trying to roll over but pain all
  over. Change position…cannot.
  Cannot move at all.
  The spear. Eyes adjusting at last. See what already
  felt. Spear through body. Strong oak. Halfway in,
  halfway out.
  Day? Night? Dragging on in cave. Helpless. Pain.
  Hunger.
  Pain.
  Hunger.
  Darkness.
  Sight again. Cave. Sound. Footsteps coming
  closer.
  Hunter of the blood standing over. Speaking. “It
  is a pleasure to meet you at long last, Blaidd. The
  villagers speak highly of you. Well, they speak of-
  ten of you, at least.”
  Rip throat. Pain. Cannot move.
  Kneeling. Leaning closer. Biting. Drinking.
  The image faded to darkness, and Nicholas found
  himself looking again at the bright stars, not the
  wall of a cave. The visions were always difficult to
  grasp at first. Like water going down a drain, they
  fled. But after a few minutes of concentration—
  not a simple task with the hunger that gripped
  Nicholas after the visions—it came back.
  
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  372
  Blaidd. Nicholas’ great-great-grandsire. He had
  been little more than animal in mind, but Nicho-
  las had felt the power of his blood, held in check
  by the spear through his heart. Diablerized by a
  hunter of the blood. And the more Nicholas re-
  membered of the vision, the more clearly he saw
  the face of Blaidd’s killer. It was a familiar face, one
  that Nicholas had seen with his own eyes.
  Nicholas climbed groggily to his feet. The hun-
  ger tore at his body. He was weak, and dizzy…and
  enraged. The curse of the city had not only fol-
  lowed him. It had begun centuries before when a
  city-dweller had murdered Nicholas’ ancestor and
  stolen his blood.
  The hunger drove Nicholas this night. He could
  recapture the blood of his lineage. It was not far
  distant. There were still a few hours before sunrise,
  so he set off at once. Even the weakness could not
  stop him as he set a furious pace back to the city,
  back to Atlanta. There would be a reckoning. He
  swore on his ancestor’s memory that blood would
  pay back blood.
  Owain Evans, slayer of Gangrel, would answer
  for his crime.
  
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 1 - Devil's Advocate.pdf