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02
September 1998, 5:57 AM
Outside A Small Hut Beyond the City Limits
Surat Thani, Thailand
Standing before an open field, Chip Zelinsky watched the sun rise above the horizon. Almost unconsciously, he lifted one hand and traced the pattern of a mystickal sigil with his forefinger, then folding the hand into the other over his chest, as if he had never moved; as if the act of casting the magickal spell was no more than the rise and fall of his chest, catching its next breath. The magick ward cast instantly dampened the intensity of the light that struck the receptor cells of his retinas, allowing the mage to literally watch the sun rise, with no need to squint, or shade his vision with the back of his hand, or to avert his eyes and force his gaze to linger along a tangential path from the blazing orb—no, he looked right at it. And almost as if he had never moved or acted, Chip took his next breath and continued to ponder the path his life had taken: what some would call fate.
Before Chip had been awakened by a trio of Tradition mages, he could never have imagined the life he now lived. Like most mundanes, he had never even begun to imagine the supernatural undercurrent that ran along almost every facet of reality. How could they? The Technocracy—rival mages—had made sure the world no longer believed in the supernatural, and then had done their best to rid the world of such beings. Yet the legends were almost all true in some part. Vampires? Werewolves? Ghosts? Fairies? They all existed. Maybe not the same as they did in those legends, but nonetheless they all were extant. Yet each of these supernaturals was forced into hiding because of a fear of humankind.
There was always a tendency for those new to their powers, to scoff at the idea. Did not a werewolf have the power to tear through a small village alone? Why fear the humans? Because there were billions of them. And united by fear, they were powerful. For better or worse, the mass of humanity had an enduring fear of the unknown. A fear of those more powerful than them, of those that threatened to take control of their own lives away from them.
Long ago supernaturals had lived openly among the humans. Yet, too often they came to abuse that power. And then came the dark times. The burning times. Modern history casts the Inquisition as a “witch hunt,” that is, an empty danger perpetuated by paranoid religious fanatics, recklessly and erroneously seeking servants of the devil at every turn. Supernaturals know differently. Many know that this was the time when humanity began to cull magick from the world, when it lashed out to destroy that which they did not understand, to burn it at the stake not until it repented, but only when it went to god or the devil, because one could not repent from what one was, and they knew this. They knew it then. Too few knew it today. Of course, how much one knew about this history, depended upon who instructed one in the ways of the supernatural. Some were blissfully ignorant, buying into the lies perpetuated by the Technocracy. Others knew better.
Yet even supernaturals in the know often kept secrets from each other. And it was rare, that one breed of supernatural, say a mage, knew much about, say, vampire culture. Many crossed those lines in their daily affairs, but few understood the implications of their actions in an entirely different context, that which each race of supernatural beings lived by. Those few that could successfully cross those cultural lines were few indeed, but with that awareness came power. And for a mage—whose awakened mind had the ability to transmute reality according to their very whim—more than any other supernatural, knowledge was power. Chip was fortunate to be a brand of mage that had seen and done much, and believed in sharing knowledge, so that each member of their craft grew stronger from the knowledge of others. Thus, few of those like Chip, even those very enlightened, knew what he knew or had seen what he had.
The sun was warm on Chip’s face. He liked the feeling. Chip would have been lucky to have even seen the sun in Detroit (where he had grown up) during September, let alone with such warmth. He could already feel the sweat leaking out of his pores. Most persons noticed sweat by the liquid feel on their skin. Yet as an adept of Life magick, Chip understood the make-up of living tissues far better than most, giving him an awareness beyond that of mundanes. Also, Chip had wanted to become a doctor back before he knew what he could not unlearn. He thought then that that had been knowledge. He thought he had been smart. Chip realized now that even had he finished medical school, he would have known next to nothing. Still staring past the fields and miasma of near-tangible thought, Chip chuckled. It was an ironic kind of snort, which was more incredulous than amused. Truth be told, even after years of magickal initiation, Chip thought he knew a lot. After all those years, after founding his own magickal craft, after uncounted battles, seekings, and quests, he thought he knew enough. Yet standing where he was now, Chip realized that that was untrue. For the first time, perhaps, he begun to appreciate how little he did know. But he was okay with that. Because it was still the beginning of his story.
For the first time, Chip was beginning to truly accept his destiny: to accept who he was and what he had to do. Chip had just not known it until the very last moment. Unconsciously, he looked down at a watch he wasn’t wearing, knowing the time that fact notwithstanding, due to his magickal sense of Time. He nodded to himself, taking in the sight of the sun one last time. It was time.
02
September 1998, 6:03 AM
A Small Hut Beyond the City Limits
Surat Thani, Thailand
Sebastian Duvalier sat cross-legged on the dirt floor of the hut, his clothes folded carefully off to his left. His hands rested on his knees, his back erect, and his eyes closed. Sebastian’s body was still in meditation, except for the slow rise and fall of his chest; he did not speak or make any noise whatsoever. For once, the mage was not focusing on the intricate mysteries of magick, nor pondering his next political machination; neither were his disparate sensory abilities fractured across time, space, and spirit, sensing lines of probability, mental harmonies, or magickal wavelengths. Rather, Sebastian was endeavoring to clear his mind of all thought: attempting to sublimate even the subconscious to balance: achieving a state of perfect nothingness.
Sebastian’s breathing patterns were akin to those of one asleep; yet the mage’s actions were done in lieu of such rest. He had been in such a state for almost ten hours. Hints of light had begun to leak into the dark hut, beginning to illumine the mage’s naturally dark skin, which seemed all the darker for the black hair covering his body. He exhaled.
A smile slowly crept over Sebastian’s face. Though his eyes remained shut, the rest of his face followed his lips: his sharp features softening, as if laughing at a private joke. Sebastian’s eyes only opened as he turned his head to look behind him. Another person was pulling aside the tarp covering the entrance of the hut. Standing there was a fair-skinned, shirtless colossus, whose rippling muscles were evident, even at leisure. The man’s other hand was demurely tucked into the front pocket of his shorts. Even early in the morning, sweat was already glistening across his body; standing over his shorter, more compactly muscled companion, he was a stark contrast in both skin tone and size.
“It is time,” Chip Zelinsky told Sebastian.
Sebastian nodded as his head turned back around to look straight ahead. “Ha,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Can’t fool Time mages like us wit sut simple t’ings as knowing when da right time is, eh?”
“You were done with your meditation, weren’t you?” Chip asked. Behind him, he let the tarp fall back over the entrance.
“Of course. Seconds ago. But you knew dat,” Sebastian said, his raspy Cajun accent thick.
“Yeah,” Chip said, nodding. Zelinsky looked down at his best friend. “Are you sure you wanna do this?” he asked.
Sebastian nodded, still staring straight ahead. “I’s necessary,” he said. “De only way da Pendragons can continue ta rise if it’s behind your crest, mah friend. Mah time has begun to wane. Now, Sebastian Duvalier can only be a distraction. Da King must take his rightful place at da head of da table.”
“There is no head of our table, Sebastian. You know that,” Chip said with a laugh.
“You know what Ah mean,” Sebastian said.
“I never wanted the throne,” Chip said. He put his other hand in his other front pocket. He kicked the dirt absently.
The mage did not move his head, nor avert his gaze from the far wall of the hut, but he snapped open his Correspondence senses, letting him clairvoyantly see the entire hut just as naturally as a mundane person might open their eyes. “Ah will always be dere ta help you, Chip. But Ah don’t have de avatar of King Arthur. I cannot build the Round Table. Only you can.”
Chip looked at the back of his friend’s head. “You’re Merlin,” he muttered.
“Not enough,” Sebastian said, closing his eyes. He continued to face forward. “Not enough ta lead.”
Chip grunted.
“Unfortunately, Ah’m also too high profile ta stick around. Ah would be a distraction. Dat’s why Sebastian Duvalier has ta disappear inta de Southeast Asian jungles. Tell people Ah’m workin’ on constructing an umbral chantry, or some shit, dat’ll get deir heads spinnin’.
Chip laughed as he pulled his hands out of his pockets and put them on his friend and mentor’s shoulders. The mage below laughed with him.
21
March 1996, 7:24 AM
Katherine Omega’s Apartment
Detroit, Michigan
“Charles Zelinsky, I will never understand you.”
Zelinsky’s lips perked up into an uncontrollably wide grin. The large man was surprisingly gentle with the thin woman in his arms, lying back against him. With one hand, he gently stroked her long, black hair, the other rested atop her bare stomach. “Why do you say that?” he asked.
Katherine Omega twisted her lithe body around so that she lay on her stomach, propping herself on her elbows, resting them on Zelinsky’s muscular chest. Her brows were furrowed, her cold blue eyes squinting. “You could be out with Tennessee, running through the rain, praying to some damn pagan god and dripping blood across yourself.”
Chip’s smiled began to fade. They had had this conversation too many times. “I’m not one of the Verbena,” he said softly.
“Or,” Omega continued, “you could be across town studying with Mortimer. Cooking up some damn new magickal formula.”
“I’m not a Hermetic,” Zelinsky said. He reached forward and cupped the woman’s small face with his large hands, already knowing what would come next.
“Or you could do more than join me in bed,” Omega said, her blue eyes pleading: almost looking sad.
Zelinsky leaned forward, and kissed the top of her head. “I’m not a Euthantoi either,” he said.
Omega propelled herself into Zelinsky’s arms, throwing her arms over his broad shoulders, and forcing him back. “Why?”
“It doesn’t feel right,” Zelinsky said, shaking his head. “Every time one of you has tried to convince me to join your Tradition, my avatar whispers no.”
Zelinsky diverted his gaze absently to the far wall. Unlike other Mages of the Nine Mystickal Traditions, he had no affiliation. He was what most considered an Orphan Mage. Nonetheless, he was affiliated with the Tradition Mages in a war for reality known as the Ascension War. Their enemy in this war was the Technocratic Order. They believed magick worked through technology, not arcane superstition. And they were winning that war. They were winning because they had convinced the populace of the world that magick was dead, and technology was the new god to be worshipped. It was a war which they not only took to Tradition Mages, but to all supernatural forces; it was a war the Technocracy would not believe one until all the other supernaturals were dead. Yet none could find a way to beat them. Not yet. Sadly, more often, the Tradition mages simply fought amongst themselves. No leader had catalyzed a cohesive war effort in centuries. Zelinsky looked back at his girlfriend. Her sad blue eyes still pleaded.
“If not join a Tradition, what would you rather do,” Omega said, snorting. “Join the Hollow Ones?” Omega was referring to a particularly powerful craft, a group also outside the Nine Traditions, but affiliated with them in the Ascension War.
Zelinsky wrapped his arms tight around Omega’s naked body, pulling her into him. He lowered his face to meet hers, tipping his forehead against hers. He could feel her breath fall against his chin. “I’m with you now,” he said. “Isn’t that good enough?”
“No,” Omega breathed.
“I’m sorry,” Zelinsky said, still close. Still feeling her breath. “It’s all I can give, Princess.”
Omega pulled Zelinsky’s lips to hers, their lips touching, wetly pushing against each other. “I’ll guess I’ll have to make do with what I have,” Omega said, between kisses. She kissed off of his lips, and around the side of his cheek, continuing to kiss up and down his neck, while slowly sliding her legs over his, and pulling herself up to a sitting position in his lap. She lulled her head backward, and stared at his with glassy eyes. “Give me that extra tingle with your Life magick. I love it when you electrify every part of my body while we do it.”
Zelinsky’s
dour expression disappeared and he grinned widely. He moved both of his hands
to his silver chain and closed his eyes. After a moment, he pulled her forward
and kissed her lips. Omega pulled her body tight to his, returning the kiss
with open passion, even as she felt her body begin to tingle all over.
02 September 1998, 6:07 AM
A Small Hut Beyond the City Limits
Surat Thani, Thailand
“What was dat?” Sebastian asked Chip.
Chip’s eyes opened. He kept his hands on Sebastian’s nearly bald head, however. “I’m trying to concentrate,” he said.
“Strong feelings,” Sebastian mused, still sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Like not’ing I’ve ever felt from you before.”
Chip pulled his hands away from Sebastian. “What, a mage with your experiance is automatically a telepath?”
“No.” Sebastian’s eyes were still closed, but as before, he snapped open is Correspondence senses.
“Ah jus’ have a strong magickal sense,” he said. An’ as you well know, our avatars are linked. We can sense t’ings from each other dat no one else could.”
Chip Zelinsky closed his eyes again. Instead of responding to his friend, he put his hands on the silver chain around his neck. Again he felt the Life magick abuzz in the room, refining his senses until he again made the connection with Sebastian that he wanted to. Methodically, he began to cast his spell again.
“Tell me while you work,” Sebastian said. “Y’all able to multi-task with Mind magick. Dere’s no use in fightin’ it. You already knew you would be tellin’ me dis story. I’s why you was t’inking ‘bout her.”
“I know,” Chip said softly. “I haven’t not told you because I don’t trust you, Sebastian, or because I didn’t want you to know. I just—I just don’t like to bring it up, because it hurts to think about. Not only that, but it brought out parts of me that I didn’t like.”
“Mah opinion o’ you will never change,” Sebastian said. “You are a brother ta me. Not’ing can change dat. You know dat.”
“I know,” Chip said.
“So tell me,” Sebastian said, dropping his Correspondence sense and listening.
02
September 1998, 6:18 AM
The Fields Outside A Small Hut Beyond the City Limits
Surat Thani, Thailand
The Pendragon Bail Braddock glanced over at his cabalmate, the Ecstatic, Rasputin. “Miss your razor?” he asked.
Rasputin ran a hand through his increasingly wild and nappy hair. “Nah,” he said. “Not really. I mean, I know Chip could fix it with his Life magick, but I kind of like it goin’ all wild an’ shit.”
“I hear you,” Bail said, rubbing his thick beard. “I’m a mess too. I feel like Val Kilmer in that Doors movie, when he had that beard?” He shook his head. “Crazy, man.”
“Have you ever had a beard before?” Rasputin asked. He hadn’t grown so much of a beard himself, as much as he just looked scruffy. He looked back at the Pendragon. “Doesn’t seem to fit you, Bail. You’re normally so GQ.”
“I know!” Bail said, stroking his beard. “I guess I’m in the same boat, man. You know, just trying something different. Besides, I’m normally so pale. Helps me not stand out as much.”
Rasputin sat on a large rock underneath the morning sun. He set his pistol down on the rock and began to clean it. “Do you know how long they are going to be?” he asked.
“No,” Bail said, turning also into the morning sun. “But I can feel something going on.”
“What do you mean?” Rasputin asked.
“There’s a powerful surge from the spirit world,” Bail said, eyes closed, face angled up toward the sun. “I think they may have gone on some kind of seeking, in addition to the spell Chip is cooking up.”
“And why again does Sebastian want Chip to remove all the hair from his body?” Rasputin asked.
“Something about wanting to move aside. He said too many people know him, so he’s going to adopt a new identity. Try and blend into his Merlin role, more than what he has.”
Rasputin continued to clean his gun. “And he thinks losing all his hair is going to help?” he asked.
“Don’t forget, Sebastian has powerful Arcane. Most people forget what he looks like after he leaves them,” Bail said. He continued to look up at the sun, his eyes closed. “Even supernaturals, they’ll forget.”
Rasputin looked up from cleaning his gun. “You Pendragons are straight fucked up,” he said.
“Hey,” Bail snapped, opening his eyes and looking at his junior partner in the Cabal.
Rasputin laughed.
Bail could not help chuckling as well.
Rasputin shook his head, turning back to his pistol. “We are on a fucked up trip, though. I never would have imagined this. Even as a Tradition mage. And all I’d already seen. Now? Chasing across the world for the Holy Grail? Seeing all kinds of crazy shit?”
“I know,” Bail said. “It’s all so unbelievable.”
“And we’ve managed to capture so much and add it to this new digital Pendragon library that you and I have been building, so that we can share what we’ve seen with others.”
“Totally,” Bail said.
Neither said anything for a moment.
“I’m glad we’re doing this,” Rasputin said after a moment. He continued to clean his gun. “I’m glad I’m rolling with Chip and Sebastian.”
“Yeah,” Bail said. “Me too.”
“It does make you wonder though.”
Bail crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?” he asked.
Rasputin put the last pieces of his newly cleaned weapon together with a loud clack. He glanced up at
Bail. “What drove them to be the mages they are?”
Bail shrugged.
21 March 1996, 5:09 PM
Outside City Hall
Detroit, Michigan
The Suit looked worried. He should have been. The thin man in glasses and a khaki jumpsuit before him did not look that intimidating. Nor did the wispy man with long blonde hair, blue jeans, and a green ski jacket. They stood inches away form the Suit, trying to intimidate him, but they weren’t what worried him. It was the woman in black hair behind them, anxiously fondling a long silver pendant. Her and the large brute of a man behind her. Though he glanced among them each, taking their measure, his gaze lingered on the two in the rear.
The Suit did not know the man, but he looked as if he wanted to kill the Suit. The woman, however, he did know. Omega was her name. She was an enforcer for some of the wizards that his Liege worked with from time to time. He was pretty sure that they were a part of some wayward faction, however. Something they were making all too clear.
“We can’t have you working with the Technocrats,” Mortimer, the one wearing the glasses said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Suit said.
“Sure you don’t,” Tennessee, the wispy man in the ski jacket said. He leaned in close to the Suit. “And you don’t work for a nasty Vampire Lord. And he didn’t send you as a courier to pals on the City Council.”
“So I have political connections,” the Suit said. “Nothing to get upset about.”
“It is when you use those connections against us,” Mortimer said.
“I—“
Omega leaned forward, pushing her extended forefinger and middle finger against the Suit’s chest. “I say we kill the Ghoul,” she said, cutting the Suit off. “That will send a clear enough message to his masters.”
“We’ve been over this,” Tennessee said. He did not turn to face Omega. “There’s no need to leave a trail of bodies every time we disagree with someone.”
“I just think that this particular time someone needs to die,” Omega said, glaring at the one in the ski jacket, and retracting her arm.
Behind them all, Zelinsky frowned. Even as he listened to his Tradition comrades argue again, he softly chanted a mantra, focusing his magick around the word “walk,” repeating it over and over, as he continued an Entropic rote, bending lines of probability around them all, decreasing the likelihood that anyone would notice anything amiss, and would simply keep walking.
“Right here?” Tennessee shot a look at Omega. “In rush hour traffic?”
Omega’s cold blue eyes flashed. “He’s human still. Ever heard of a heart attack? Seems very natural. Happens all the time.”
“Whoa, whoa,” the Suit said, his hands rising slightly in protest. “I can give my bosses whatever message you want. There’s no need to get violent.”
“He’s got the point,” Tennessee said, nervously adjusting his ski jacket. “Let’s let him go before someone notices us here.”
Omega bit her lip before speaking again. Something caught her eye. She looked back and forth between the Suit and Tennessee. “Weak-minded Verbena,” she spat. “Avert your eyes,” she swore as she reached up and slapped the Suit. “He’s using mind tricks on you, Tennessee. Don’t look him in the eye.”
“Hurry,” Zelinsky said from behind the trio of Tradition mages.
All three turned to look at the Orphan mage. Chip paused from repeating his mantra gain. “His Liege’s Ventrue childe will be down here in fifty-seven seconds. None of you will be able to resist his mind tricks.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Mortimer said.
“I don’t know it,” Zelinsky said. “He’s going to tell us that in seventy-four seconds. And he will be right.” “Let’s kill him and be done with it,” Omega hissed.
“No,” Tennessee said again.
“Finish him,” Zelinsky said, nervously looking up toward the stone stair to his left.
“No,” Mortimer said. Having made up his mind, he looked the Suit in the eye. “Go. Tell your master to stay out of Mage business.”
“I will,” the Suit said, shaking his head vigorously. “You have my word.”
“Get out of here,” Mortimer said, backing away. He folded his arms over his chest as the Ghoul ran down the street.
Tennessee scratched his head.
Omega punched the air.
“Why did you let him go?” Zelinsky asked.
“Because murder is wrong?” Tennessee said.
Zelinsky did not appreciate his comrade’s sarcasm. He waved at them all, dismissively. “We’ve had problems before letting enemies go,” Zelinsky said. “You know that. Came back to bite us in the ass.”
“We’ll be fine,” Mortimer said. He adjusted his glasses. “He got the message.”
02
September 1998, 6:12 AM
A Small Hut Beyond the City Limits
Surat Thani, Thailand
Chip put his hands on Sebastian’s chest. He continued to form the magick flowing through him: gently controlling it, manipulating it: burning into Sebastian’s body, and destroying all of his hair follicles. “Why Marat?” Chip asked.
“He was a French revolutionary. Helped cull out anti-revolutionaries. Powerful historical figure.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Chip said, “but wasn’t he also the one known for leading the “Reign of Terror? Hardly seems like an appropriate choice.”
“Better den mah real name,” Sebastian said quietly.
“What do you mean?” Chip asked.
Sebastian lay still, his back resting on the dirt floor of the hut. “Never mind. History is representation. Take from it what you will.“
“Rather cavalier attitude,” Chip said.
“Perhaps,” Sebastian mused. “But believe it or not, it is a step up. Besides, it might also sound jus’ like da kin’ of man dat would be hidin’ in da jungles o’ Thailand for da last few decades.”
“And that’ll be your cover story?” Chip asked.
“Dat’s right,” Sebastian said.
“Better lose the Cajun accent then,” Chip laughed.
“I try,” Sebastian said. “Might have to teach y’all French, dough.”
“And what happens to Sebastian?” Chip asked.
“He stays in da jungles of da East ta meditate. Jus’ as many wise men have done.”
“And you think you’re one of them?” Chip chuckled.
“Ah am Merlin, after all,” Sebastian laughed.
“Fair enough,” Chip said.
Sebastian paused. “Ah wish Ah could stay,” he said after a moment.
“Why?” Chip asked.
“Ah don’t know,” Sebastian said. “Mah avatar keeps whisperin’ a word; the kin’ o’ word dat one knows wit’out knowin’, almost as if it was a breath, or somet’in’ else ephemeral, some sort o’ misfire of a neuron dat you don’ understand, as if you were confronted wit somet’ing bigger dan you can stand; the name one breathes when dey speak of deir god.”
“Sounds like your avatar might be trying to tell you your destiny,” Chip said. “What is word?”
“Saulot.”
“What does that mean?” Chip asked.
“Ah have no idea,” Sebastian said. For some reason he thought back to the beautiful Kindred of the Black Hand that he had met in Turkey. He shook it off. That wasn't it. “But Ah can’ stop ta figure it out either. Ah told Bail ta put de name into da compendium he and Rasputin are buildin’, but other dan dat, we have too much ta do. We have ta find both our kids. An’ we have ta find out why mah daughter is considered da Grail.”
22
March 1996, 3:45 PM
Tennessee Cantor’s Home
Detroit, Michigan
Omega and Zelinsky stood in the doorway to Tennessee’s kitchen in mute horror. The large man, so imposing normally, stood frozen, terrified, unable to know what to do or how to react. Omega, more used to death, walked forward, calm, but somber. She exhaled noticeably as she took in the scene before her. Sunlight streamed in from a window opposite the mages. At its natural angle of entry the light fell directly on the kitchen table. Tennessee lay on that table. His arms and legs were spread out, held at stiff angles by rigor mortis, making an X-shape. From Tennessee’s neck to his groin, his flesh was rent asunder, peeled off and away like someone had been peeling an orange. More than just his skin, his entire musculature and skeletal structure were peeled away as well; ribs still stuck up straight, unnaturally, broken at odd angles. What would have been his organs, were pulled out and long gone. It made his body seem eerily like a vacant shell, as if it had never been more than a mere container for his soul.
The stench of death was overwhelming. As the shock of the scene began to wear off, the odor become even more obvious. Zelinsky put a hand over his nose to ward it off, but soon had it over his mouth as he tried to breathe carefully. It was too much for him. He ran to the kitchen sink and vomited.
Katherine Omega looked at her boyfriend with concern, but left him to his own. She surveyed the scene. Even to her seasoned sensibility, this was horrific. As an Euthanatoi, she was used to death; used to dealing with the beginnings and endings of existence: balancing all on the wheel of life that her kind believed in, fought for, and lived and died by. But this was different. This was more than death. This was torture. She was no doctor, and could not tell kidney from liver or heart. But she could tell that they had pulled Tennessee open and ripped out his organs, throwing them against the various walls of the kitchen. One such lump of organ-flesh had hit and streaked down the wall into the sink. Zelinsky seemed to notice it at the same time. He vomited again. Another organ looked to have exploded against the refrigerator, the remains dripping down onto the floor. Another might not have been thrown, but directly ripped out of him and smashed onto the adjacent wall, by the bloody fingerprints next to the stain. There was more, but even she couldn’t bear to see it.
“He was alive when they did it,” Zelinsky said.
“What?” Omega asked. She turned back to the sink.
Zelinsky wiped his mouth with one hand, while holding onto the counter for support with the other. “I can see into the past with Time magick,” the Orphan said, his eyes tearing. “Two peeled him open while two held him down. He wasn’t even hurt until they did it. Until they just tore him open and started pulling his organs out while he screamed. And then they sunk their teeth into him and feasted on his blood as he took his last breaths.”
“They sound more like Sabbat than Camarilla Kindred,” Omega said, referring to the different factions of vampires, or kindred, as many chose to call themselves.
“No,” Zelinsky said. He shook his head. “They mentioned something about their Prince. They were Camarilla.”
Omega looked at Zelinsky’s face. He was noticeably pale. His lips quivered as he spoke. A lone tear ran from his left eye. “Charles,” she said softly.
“He screamed,” Zelinsky said, as he slid against the counter, gently falling down to the kitchen floor. “He couldn’t move. They were too strong. He tried to fight it with his Life magick. But they could tell. That’s when they started throwing out his organs. That’s when they killed him. And that’s when they told him not to mess with Kindred affairs or make threats to the Prince’s loyal subjects.”
Omega walked over and crouched next to Zelinsky. She ran a hand through his short hair. She knew the Orphan was younger and less experienced. “It’s okay,” she said. “We’ll take care of this.”
Zelinsky looked up from the floor. “It’s our fault,” he said, his eyes wet.
“How do you figure?” Omega asked.
“Because we let the Suit go,” Zelinsky said, wiping the tears angrily from his cheek.
02
September 1998, 6:19 AM
A Small Hut Beyond the City Limits
Surat Thani, Thailand
Sebastian cleared his throat.
Chip moved his hands to Sebastian’s thighs.
“Dat was fun,” Sebastian said.
“Hey, you said you wanted all your hair removed,” Chip said.
“Ah know,” Sebastian said. “Ah didn’t know it’d be so tingly dough.”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Chip said. “I understand.”
“Hunh,” Sebastian grunted. “I have got to teach you Correspondence.”
Chip did not reply.
“So that’s it?” Sebastian asked after a moment.
“What?” Chip asked.
“Why you don’t like to leave survivors?” Sebastian said. “In battle.”
“At least I have an excuse. What’s your reason for being a cold-blooded killer?”
Sebastian smirked. “You forget. Ah spent a lotta my formative years wit Kindred. Dey have a rather unique disdain for human life.”
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t find that funny right now,” Chip said.
Sebastian grimaced. “Sorry ‘bout dat. Continue.”
22
March 1996, 12:11 AM
The Prince’s Demesne
Detroit, Michigan
The Kindred Prince of Detroit, and head of the Clan Ventrue in that city, leaned forward at his desk, resting on his elbows. Though not normally friendly with those of the Clan Brujah, he recognized that they did have their uses. They were wild, unruly, and unpredictable. Yet, given the right incentive, they were manipulable.
The four Brujah before him were skeptical. Predictably adorned in ripped jeans and black leather biker jackets, all four equally wore the pretense of inviolable rebelliousness. They each fidgeted just enough to let the Prince know they were not as comfortable as they would let on.
“Why should we do anything to help you?” one of the Brujah asked.
“Because, if you take care of these mages who threatened me through my ghoul, then I give you permission to drink their mage blood. It is very intoxicating. Completely different than normal kine blood. Something for you each to brag about at your next rant.”
The Brujah looked at each other.
02
September 1998, 6:23 AM
The Fields Outside A Small Hut Beyond the City Limits
Surat Thani, Thailand
Rasputin and Bail both hovered over Matrix, their newest comrade. Matrix was a cyborg, who also happened to know friends in the States who were mages. She had joined them after the last leg of their quest. Whether she became one of the enlightened like them remained to be seen. As it was, her cybernetics still needed repair, damaged in their most recent battles in the Ascension War. Rasputin checked the information on his laptop. He knelt over the computer and checked the connection of the cables connected to Matrix again.
“Problem?” Bail asked, looking up from his work.
“No, just a loose cable,” Rasputin said.
“Cool,” Bail replied. The Pendragon turned back to Matrix’s arm, unscrewing a pseudo-flesh panel to get at the components underneath.
For Tradition mages, both Rasputin and Bail were technically proficient. It had come in handy for the Pendragon craft as a whole. Although magickally powerful, few Tradition mages understood technology well, outside of the two which had defected from the Technocracy. Most of these mages’ combined knowledge was stored in their libraries: a quite literal term. However, Rasputin and Bail had digitized the entire Pendragon Library, scanning all of the books and scrolls, typing up instructions and lessons: enabling them to share the entire bank of knowledge with all members instantly. Their database also allowed them to add other multi-media items, such as film from Bail’s spirit camera: a magickally enhanced digitial camera that could see the true selves of all captured by it.
The two continued their work on Matrix, happy to have the time to make the repairs while they waited for their friends to finish what they had to do.
22
March 1996, 10:29 PM
The Shake Club
Detroit, Michigan
The three mages ducked into the strip club, each out of breath and at their wits end. The crowd was thick and the music was loud. It seemed like the perfect place to hide. Unfortunately, they were also the only three white persons in the club. All heads turned to face them. The fact that two out of the four Brujah that strolled in the door after them were black did not help matters. They could all feel the racial tension from the get-go.
Mortimer was about to say something when someone streaked at him faster than they could see and knocked him over. By the time that Omega and Zelinsky looked down, one of the black Brujah was sitting on Mortimer’s chest. And by the time the two had backpedaled to the bar, the other black Brujah had moved with equally blinding speed, and was holding Mortimer’s head in his hands. The crowd erupted in screams.
“Silence,” a third Brujah said. “Quieto,” he repeated in Spanish. He looked around the crowd wildly, his eyes wide. “Do not move,” he commanded. “No se muevan.” Though the club’s patrons all had terror in their eyes, they found themselves unable to move. Their eyes darted nervously back and forth, trying to look and see if they were all frozen, or perhaps if what was happening was real.
Omega slowly pulled away from Zelinsky. The Orphan mage watched in amazement as she folded into the last Brujah. One of the two black Brujahs stood up off of Mortimer’s body and stepped toward Zelinsky; the other circled and advanced from the other side, flanking him. The Hispanic followed them, falling into the center of their line. The lone Caucasian Brujah pulled Omega into his arms.
Zelinsky continued to backpedal, confused.
“I’m sorry,” Omega said, tears falling down her cheeks. “I told them to kill the Suit.”
“What’s going on?” Zelinsky asked.
The Caucasian Brujah held up his arm. Slowly, he put his other hand to his wrist. Exposing a long pinky nail, he raked that nail downward, cutting his arm from his wrist to his elbow, leaving a trail of blood. As if invited to do so, Omega leaned forward and licked the dripping blood from his arm.
Zelinsky watched in rapt horror.
“You see,” the Brujah said, “she’s blood bound. That means she can’t resist me. It means she can’t help herself. It means she’s my slave. And it certainly means that you are going to die, because she told us how and when to find you all.”
Zelinsky bumped into the stage behind him. He could feel all the eyes of the club patrons on him. He felt just as confused as they must have been, knowing nothing at all. He back through a large archway running over the stage, pulling himself up onto the stage.
“Of course,” the Caucasian Brujah continued. “That also means, with you all dead, my little slave has outlived her usefulness.”
Faster than the humans in the room could see, but just slow enough that Zelinsky, who could see through Time would know what happened, the Brujah tore into Omega’s chest with his clawed fist and pulled out her heart. He then bit into the heart, sucking it dry of blood.
A look of pure shock crossed Omega’s face as her reactions came slower than the Brujah could move. She tried to reach her chest, but her arms were already too weak. Her legs buckled and she fell forward. The Brujah descended on her, teeth bared.
Zelinsky roared in rage, throwing himself forward, through the archway over the stage, meaning to launch over the Hispanic Brujah toward the Caucasian, only to find himself landing in the dust of a dirt field.
Lost in the sudden darkness, Zelinsky carved a sigil through the air and his senses snapped outward, his perception swiching instantly to the infrared spectrum. Able to see his surroundings by distinguishing differences in heat, he could tell he was in a park. He seemed to be on a baseball diamond. His adrenaline was still blistering. He spun over and looked around. It was City Park. How had he gotten there?
Zelinsky recoiled as he saw the heat of another body right next to him. Instinctively, he scrambled backward on his hands, kicking himself away.
“Don’t,” a female voice cooed.
“Who are you?” Zelinsky demanded to know.
“Charles,” the female said. She began moving toward him, crawling on her hands and knees. Something about her seemed wrong.
“Don’t call me that,” Zelinsky snapped.
“Because it’s what she called you?” the female asked.
Zelinsky pulled himself to a seated position. He looked around to make sure no one else was around. How could she know that? Who was she?
“I’m right aren’t I?” the female asked.
“Yes.”
The young orphan was still in shock. He had just watched two more of his cabalmates murdered, and worse yet, one had been his girlfriend. Zelinsky’s brain was still trying to wrap itself around the fact that the person he had loved had been the one to betray them all. Inexperienced as he was, he had no idea how to react; perhaps no one would under such execrable circumstances: he had just lost all three of his mentors, his only guides in a World of Darkness, without whom he had no idea how to navigate the intrigue that plagued the supernatural, leaving only chaos and events beyond his comprehension. He was near catatonic, overwhelmed by the rushing collapse of fear as he realized for some reason he was safe and so the adrenaline faded, replaced only by a gavage-like submission, the calm malaise that accompanied inevitability, of knowing that you will die and the events that will lead to that consequence and its wherewithal were totally out of your control—proceeded by the complete abnegation of the will to any longer endure.
“Back to Chip?” the female asked. “Is that the name you’ll prefer?”
“It’s what everyone else called me,” Zelinsky said. He stared at the ground.
The woman continued to advance on her hands and knees. “I call you my King,” the female said. Something nagged Chip in the back of his brain. Something was still wrong.
Zelinsky put a hand up to stop her lingering advance. She hovered over him. Shaking his head, Zelinsky again carved a sigil into the air between them, and altered his vision to again interpret normal light, but this time enhanced the levels of light refracting into his eyes. Suddenly he could see the woman with perfect clarity, as if it was midday. The female before him was beautiful. Her thin mochabrown eyebrows danced over child-like hazel eyes: possessed of a sparkling, wide-eyed optimism, and balanced symmetrically over a small nose and full lips, which seemed to call to Chip, almost as if inviting him to kiss her. The Orphan noticed a small tattoo of a character of some sort that he did not recognize, spiraling down from her left eye. Chip reached out and stroked her cheek, tracing the unknown character. She smiled a wide, toothy smile. Chip’s thumb gently played along her ear. He paused. Her ears. They were wrong. They were too long, pointed. His brow furrowed as his hand pushed away her hair. She was wearing a yellow headband that pulled back her long brown hair, but some had fallen over to cover the ears. His hand pushed through the hair, feeling then that the hair fell down to the small of her back. Even as his hand ran through her hair, his gaze was inexorably drawn back to her face. She was beautiful. But something else was wrong. He looked up at the headband again, as if he already knew what to look for and had simply denied the reality that his brain would not accept. His gaze traced along the headband, looking through her hair for what he knew he would not understand until he focused on and forced himself to accept. Just under the headband, almost buried in her thick mocha brown hair were two short horns.
“You see me as I really am,” she said softly.
“What are you?” Chip asked.
“My name is Selene.”
Chip looked at her again. Closer. But this time he forced himself to look past her face, past the laughing hazel eyes, and past her mesmerizing full lips, calling to him, pursed, then open, then her licking her lips, then all over again: taking a breath in and releasing it; and again; and again. Chip blinked hard, with a small shake of his head. Pulling back slightly from her, he noticed that despite the cold, she wore only a black bikini top. Yet there were no goose bumps on her arms; she did not shiver. His eyes lowered; there was no sign at all that she was cold. Her skin was pale, as if she was rarely out under the sun. Was she some form of Kindred perhaps? No, Chip thought, her body was too warm. The undead gave off no body heat. A tattoo similar to the one on her face ran along her left shoulder and onto her back, where Chip, leaning ot the side to get a better look, lost sight of it under her long hair. Yet as Chip’s gaze followed her mocha brown hair again, he realized that she wasn’t wearing pants. Instead, from the waist down her legs were furred, like an animal’s. Could she be one of the changing breeds? A were-creature of some sort? Examining her legs, Chip could finally noticed what it was that had nagged him as wrong before: past her knees, there was another joint in her legs, allowing them to bend backward, and instead of a foot at the end of the leg, there was a hoof. It almost looked like a goat’s leg. Chip looked back up at her face. Her wide eyes were watching him intently, patiently. He looked again at her well-toned body, fur and all. Somehow, even the inhuman legs made her no less beautiful. Perhaps Chip’s experience with the supernatural had opened him to new forms of beauty that mundanes could not possibly understand.
“I’m one of the Fae,” she said. She flashed him another toothy grin. “You don’t see us much any more.” She put her hand on Chip’s chest, softly assuring him that she meant no harm. “Centuries ago, things were very different. But so was the world. Just as your magick has faded from the beliefs of humans, so has my kind. My Kith are known as the Satyrs.”
“Your what?” Chip asked.
“My Kith. Similar to your different traditions, or the clans of the vampires.”
“How,” Chip began. He shook his head. “Why. I mean, you saved me. How did you know? Where–?” Selene pulled her hand off of Chip’s chest and put a finger to his lips. “It wasn’t your time,” she said. “There’s too much work for you still to do.”
Chip snatched her wrist, holding it tightly in his grip. “All of my friends are dead,” he said. “What am I supposed to do now?”
Selene was unfazed by Chip’s anger. “You must now move on,” she said. “You must find the others and begin your work.”
Chip rolled his eyes, looking away. “And fulfill my destiny?”
“Yes,” Selene said, her hazel eyes sparkling.
“I’m not sure I believe in destiny,” Chip said, closing his eyes.
Selene glanced at her wrist, still trapped in Chip’s grip. Her gaze returned to the mage’s face. She studied it while his eyes were closed. “But you have one,” she whispered.
Chip shook his head. Grimacing. The images in his mind were starting to catch up with him. Normally the most stoic of his comrades, the shock which had replaced the fear and adrenaline started to be replaced by the gravity of what had happened, gradually unbalancing the young Orphan.
Chip’s eyes snapped open. “Get off me,” he said, pushing her to the side. With Selene no longer hovering over him he stood up. Selene settled in a sitting position on the ground and watched him. She looked concerned, but said nothing. She just watched him with her wide child-like eyes. Chip began to pace back and forth. After a moment, he turned and glared at Selene, who still sat on the ground. “My cabal was just murdered before my eyes,” he said through gritted teeth.
Selene rolled onto her back and propped herself on her elbows. “Don’t take this the wrong way, King, but they were slowing you down,” she said.
Chip cocked his head. “What are you saying? Did you have something to do with this?”
“Of course not,” Selene snapped. Pausing, she pursed her full lips. After another moment, she kicked her legs and her body sprung up behind them, landing on her feet. “We would never work with the Leeches. They are the epitome of banality. Their very presence is lethal to us. Just like the Technomages that you war against. We are creatures of magick, of imagination, of change. Those others never change, and in so doing are locked in a stasis which to our very nature is like fire to a vampire or silver to a werewolf.” Selene stepped closer to Chip. “We too fight for a new dream. And like you, we are fighting a losing battle.”
Chip waved his hand dismissively. Selene reached up to caress his cheek. Chip slapped her hand away. “Aren’t you listening? My whole cabal just died in front of me. The woman I loved betrayed me and then was killed too. Damn Kindred. Why did they have to do this? It’s all because we let that fucking Ghoul go. I knew we should have killed him. Then this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Charles,” Selene said, holding her hands safely behind her back.
Chip stuck a finger in her face accusingly. “Don’t call me that!”
“Death is not the answer,” Selene said, walking around the large mage. “There is no act more selfish than taking another person’s life.”
Chip spun to follow her. “I can’t continue to stand on a moral high ground when the cost is so high. I’m going to do what I have to do and let the ends justify the means.”
“Now you sound like one of them,” Selene said, as she continued to circle around Chip. Her head was dipped, her voice soft.
Chip caught her by the arm. “I don’t care,” he said. “Take me back.”
Selene stopped walking. She looked at his hand on her arm, then looked up at the mage, wide-eyed.
“What will that solve?” she asked.
Chip had built himself into a near frenzy the more he thought about what had happened. About how his friends were betrayed and murdered. His eyes were ablaze, his rage almost like that of a Garou, rather than that of a Mage: mindless, all-consuming, and uncontrollable.
Selene put her opposite hand over Chip’s. “Let me calm you down,” she said.
Chip looked down at his watch. His eyes went glassy. He was so caught up in single-minded purpose, that he did not even realize his gaze through time and space would normally have been impossible, as he had never learned the Correspondence arts; yet somehow, unconsciously, his link with the Fae tapped through her powers, traveling through the gateway she had created and could still yet return through, and seeing the place he had just left mintues ago, ran forward in time to see what would or could happen. “There’s only one left,” Chip said shaking her arm. “Take me back now.”
Selene sighed deeply, giving Chip a sad look. “You make your own choices,” she said. “You choose your own destiny here, King, not the path that waits before you. Not your true destiny.”
The Orphan mage’s eyes flared again. “Take me back,” he said, shaking.
Selene turned and spun on the metal archway to the park. She said a few words in a language he did not understand, touched the gate, and closed and opened her eyes, knocking the archway three times. “Walk through,” she said, turning back to him with tears in her eyes. “If that is what you choose to do.”
Without a word, Chip walked through.
It was an odd sort of magick, Chip thought. One moment he was in City Park, the next he seemed to be stepping out of a parked car on the street outside the Shake Club. A flickering of light warned him of danger. The club was ablaze. Chip surveyed the scene. There was a man standing across the street from the blaze. No one else seemed to be about. But he already knew that.
Sirens blared in the distance. As Chip moved away from the car, he began to chant to himself, miss, miss, miss, reciting the mantra Katherine Omega had taught him to focus his Entropy magick: bending lines of probability around him, making the man down the street less likely to turn his direction. Concomitantly, he painted an invisible sigil in the air before him as he walked and his eyes flashed red as he again surveyed the infrared spectrum. Just as he had figured. The man watching the blaze gave off no body heat. That meant he was dead. Or as he was still standing, more likely undead. A Kindred.
Chip knew that either this one was brave or had drawn the short straw. Kindred hated fire. It was one of the few things that could end their otherwise immortal, unchanging lives. Chip’s jaw tightened as he picked up the pace of his stride. Carving another sigil in the air, the Orphan created a dead zone of sound around him: silenting his footsteps, his breaths, and even the beating of his heart. Chip started to trot, moving faster, still thinking to himself his mantra so that the man would not even think to turn around—miss, miss, miss—all the while rattling his wrist that wore his watch and checking possible futures as he did so, needing to make sure that the man never turned around and to his satisfaction he did not.
Chip ran right up to the Kindred and caught his arm. The mage then spun him around and tossed the man right toward the open doors of the burning club as he changed his mantra, now almost a scream, “in, in, in.” Chip’s own natural dexterity, aided by the one perfect trajectory that his Entropy had secured, ensured that the Kindred went right into the building and among the deadly flames. Without pause, Chip continued to advance on the building, raising his hands as he slowed to a jog. Drawing two quick sigils in the air, Chip connected to the fire with his Forces magick, and symbolically gestured, pulling two opposing flames together, merging them directly over the Kindred.
The undead creature screamed in pain, tearing out of the building faster than most mortals would have been able to see. Chip was not a mundane mortal. ‘Trip’ became Chip’s watchword as he again reached out with his magick, this time torqueing probability, finding that one random thread that would mean the Kindred tripped over his own feet, and then made it happen. Once the Kindred fell, he tried desperately to roll on the ground and smother the flames. Yet drawing the same dual sigils as before, Chip again reached out to the fire, this time, preventing it from going out, and intensifying the blaze.
Chip mercilessly ignored the Kindred’s hideous inhuman death throes and instead continued to intensify the fire on the undead until the thing’s body lit brighter than the burning building. Chip focused on the fire burning the Kindred and only that fire until there was no more on the ground before but a pile ash.
As Chip stood there, his blood boiling, his breath rapid, magick cascading through his very essence, someone tugged on his shirt. Chip looked down at what appeared to be a 12-year old girl. “Do you feel better?” she asked.
Even as he tried to catch his breath, Chip looked around. Where did she come from? What was this child doing all alone on the street at this time of night? How much had she seen?
The girl slipped her hand into Chip’s. Her hazel eyes watered. Her face drooped with an intense sadness. She bit her quivering lip. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, not so much as scared, as sad. “Are you wondering if you should kill me now, King?”
Chip looked down at the girl, focusing on her wide-eyed hazel stare. He shook his head. “Selene?” he asked.
“This is how mortals usually see me,” she said.
“But before, the Satyr, you were an adult. Beautiful,” Chip said, confused.
“That was my Fae self, but you’re in no condition to see that part of the Dreaming. Like all Fae I was put into a human host to survive. It’s why we are also now called Changelings. We are part human, part Fae. Much like your magickal avatars inhabit mundane bodies.”
Chip shook his head. “It’s too much,” he said.
Selene squeezed his hand.
“Let’s get out of here,” Chip said. He began to walk, pulling her with him. “Do you have a human family?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Will they be worried about you?” Chip asked.
“I told them I’d be sleeping over at a friend’s house tonight,” Selene looked up again at him, with a hesitant smile and wide eyes. “Can I stay with you?” she asked.
Chip shrugged. “I guess so,” he said.
“I can get us there,” Selene said.
The Changeling opened a random car door. “Get in,” she said.
04
June 1996, 9:52 PM
An underground parking garage
Detroit, Michigan
For several months after the affair with the Brujah, Chip’s life was a blur. At times he did not know who he was, what he was doing, or where he was going: spending his days lost in drink and sleepless nights trying to forget bad memories. Yet despite trying to forget some memories, it seemed as if he could never hold on long enough to the good moments. While at other times, his memory was fuzzy and he didn’t know why, as if there were holes in his memory, things that he didn’t remember for some reason.
Too often, even the whispers of his avatar went unanswered. Chip had just enough money and alcohol left by the others to make it through the summer before moving on. He was in no rush to get to that time any quicker than necessary.
As word of his battle prowess spread, he occasionally took a paid job at the behest of Tradition mages, who if they had looked down on his Orphan status before, did so even more after acting as a mercenary. Yet of course, they never minded that he took care of their dirty work.
In a seemingly random encounter, one of the mages Chip had run into in the last week, nonplussed by the Orphan’s degradation trip, had casually mentioned an underground fighting competition, perhaps thinking that more mindless mayhem would better his disposition. Yet even more perplexing, was that fact that Chip felt compelled to go to this event, when nothing had so moved him in the least in the last two and a half months.
As the Orphan mage stood alone amidst the crowd, watching the combatants tear at each other, he suddenly became bored. The fighters were talented, but they had no purpose. He waved a hand dismissively, as if he had been talking to someone, and turned to leave. Yet as did, someone caught his shoulder.
“Like da show?” a stranger asked him, blowing a puff of smoke politely away from him.
Chip turned toward the voice, finding a young, dark-skinned man whose race was hard to determine: adorned in a black leather jacket, wearing thin black sunglasses, with a short, black topknot rising above his head.
“Someone your size,” the man continued, his voice raspy, ”Ah bet y’all could do real well in a fight like dis.” He took another puff of his cigarette.
Chip sized up the man. There was something about him. Something almost familiar.
“Rode up from N’awlins,” recently,” the man said. He adjusted his sunglasses. Chip could not see through the lenses, but it seemed as if the other man was staring at him, as if sizing him up just as much.
The stranger flicked his cigarette to the ground and pulled off his sunglasses. His eyes were the sort of dark brown that almost looked black. He looked around conspiratorially. “I’m like you,” he said. “I’m a mage too.”
Chip stiffened. He certainly didn’t look like a Technomancer. Who even knew if he was what he said. Putting his hand nonchalantly to his chain, Chip stared at the man, blinking. He was more alive than a Kindred would register. “Cult of Ecstasy?” Chip asked, low enough not to be heard farther than the man’s ears.
The man smiled. “Nah. I’m an Orphan. You?”
“Yeah,” Chip nodded. “Me too.” Chip smiled. He liked this other mage already. “Chip Zelinsky,” he said, offering the stranger his hand.
The other mage’s hard features pulled into a smile as he accepted Chip’s proffered hand.
“Da name’s Sebastian Duvalier.”
23
March 1996, 3:11 PM
Outside Tennessee Cantor’s House
Detroit, Michigan
Because a mage had the ability to manipulate reality and craft it according to one’s desires, creative thought was akin to having extra firepower. The Kindred who had killed Tennessee were brutes. They were thugs. They were Brujah. And they weren’t used to dealing with mages. Chip Zelinsky did not yet have the ability to see through space. That is, his magickal senses could not extend beyond his physical location. But he could see through Time, both forward and backward. That meant that by returning to Tennessee’s home, he could track them backward from the moment they had killed his former cabalmate. A Mage assassin might have set up wards to protect against this technique. A Kindred would not, and perhaps could not have done so. Thus, once Chip had scrolled back in time to the moment when the four Brujah had arrived at Tennesee’s house, all he had to do was follow them backwards through Time until he found were they slept. Then vengeance would be his.
Chip pulled the black Dodge Durango onto the street, splitting his concentration between past and present. The sensation was roughly equivalent to drunk driving. It was dangerous, but doable. Besides, he was much too obsessed with single-minded purpose to deviate from his plan in the slightest. He foresaw what he must do, and feeling magickal energy course throughout him, he was supremely confident.
His gaze flickered over to the passenger seat. Entering battle against dangerous foes was also about preparation. Fortunately, Chip knew Kindred vulnerabilities. His shotgun was loaded with phosphorous shells. The intense burn they would deliver was just like sunlight or a fire to a Kindred. As he pulled into traffic, the Oprhan’s gaze lingered in the rear view mirror. In the backseat were two full cans of gasoline.
23
March 1996, 12:59 AM
Chip Zelinsky’s Apartment
Detroit, Michigan
Selene snuggled next to Chip with a smile. She was wearing a large t-shirt of his and what on her were well over-sized sweatpants. Her wide hazel eyes caught his, and Chip allowed himself a small tight-lipped smirk. “See,” she said, burying her head in his massive chest. “It’s not so impossible is it?”
Chip shrugged.
“Your anger is a darkness, Chip,” she said, the smile buried in his chest fading.
“I’m not ready for whatever it is you see in me,” Chip said. “I have business to finish with the Brujah.”
“You’re wrong,” she said, her frown deepening. Unseen to the mage, small tears welled up in her eyes.
“You are ready,” she said.
“Listen,” Chip said, gently stroking her long hair. “Some of my kind believe in destiny. In fate.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure yet if I do. But if there is such a thing, I think I need to wait for that destiny to play out naturally. You or I can’t force it.”
Selene pulled her head up and twisted in his arms to face him. Tears slowly slid down her cheeks. She looked too small lying on his large chest. “You are my King, no matter what. It is your destiny.”
“You keep saying that,” Chip said. “Why? What does it mean?”
“Your soul is that of a powerful king. Your avatar as you call it.”
“How can you know?”
“You don’t have to wait for him,” Selene said, thumping his chest with a fist.
Chip reached up and touched her cheeks, wiping the tears away with his large thumbs. “Who? What are you talking about?” he asked.
“The other,” Selene said. “You will meet him in time.” Selene pulled herself forward on Chip’s chest, putting her face right over Chip’s. She bit her lip, trying to hold back more tears.
“You are so – ah – I don’t know,” Chip said, unable to find the right word. “So mecurial. So fragile,” Chip said, his hands still gently cusping her face. “So unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”
“I am a Fae,” she said, shrugging, inches away from Chip. “It is our nature.”
Chip looked deep into her child-like hazel eyes. “I’m not ready for this either,” he whispered, his eyes darting up and down her body. “It’s too soon.”
“I know,” Selene said, just as softly.
The two supernaturals stared into each other’s eyes for long seconds, each one looking for something lost in the eyes of the other: through the windows of what one’s insides were more than organs and bones, of magick and god. His eyes darted to her full lips. They called still. She blinked. Chip looked into her eyes again.
After a moment, Selene spoke. “I’ll be gone when you awake.”
“Somehow I knew that,” Chip said. His eyes drifted toward the tattoo on her cheek, his eyes rolling upward, looking at her horns again. “I wish I had the chance to know you better,” he said.
Selene laughed, but such that it looked as if she was going to cry. “Me too,” she said. “You won’t remember me, either,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll only be in your dreams.”
“How is it that you are in the body of a child but I usually see and feel the body of an adult?” Chip asked.
“You of all people should know that reality is what you make of it. It’s malleable. It changes. You know my true self. So that’s what you see. And that’s what you feel.” She paused, pointedly placing her hands on his chest. “Any mundane who saw us would only see a 12-year old in your arms.”
Chip closed his eyes.
He took a deep breath.
Chip opened his eyes.
Selene the Satyr was still there. Her beauty was unchanged. The horns were there. Her hair still fell freely around them, draping over her back and onto his arms. Chip looked back at her wide, wet hazel eyes, so full of promise, of hope. She blinked.
As Chip went to speak, Selene put a finger to his lips. She leaned forward, slowly, until she hovered over his lips. Softly, she pushed her full lips onto his. For a moment, their lips pressed into each other; both of their breaths caught, their hearts halted, and time trickling to stop. And then consciousness gave, and there was no more.
23
March 1996, 7:32 PM
Detroit Public Art Museum
Detroit, Michigan
Chip halted before the back entrance to the museum. Two burly security guards looked at him warily. His eyes were closed tight. A bloody sword was in his hand. “Lucky you,” he said. “You fucking ghouls can use your master’s power to talk poisoned honey in the ears of mortals. Lucky me, I can sense your stained lives with my magickal senses. Oh, and I have a magickal sword that can cut through just about anything. What else can you do?”
The normally confident security guards, ghouls bolstered by the power of their Liege’s vampiric blood, looked back and forth at each other, unsure of what to do. As protectors of their Kindred master, they knew little about the supernatural, other than that which they needed to know: which included next to nothing about mages. Nonetheless, they both had a clear sense that they were outmatched. Unfortunately, the ghouls also knew that the blood bond to their Liege would not allow them to let a dangerous mage enter. This left them in a very nerve-wracking situation, where their very human instincts were in conflict with a completely overriding supernatural urge.
One of them put his hands to his ear. After a moment, he nodded.
“They, uh, they want to see you,” he said to Chip.
Chip lowered his sword and walked through the suddenly open door. He would have to be careful. The people inside would be much more dangerous. Yet he had not come to kill any more Kindred. Rather, he was there to end the conflict.
After perhaps thirty meters, the back corridor led to a large open room, with a grandiose fountain in the middle, of which water cascaded out of continuously from the top and showered through the light of distant spotlights and into a lower pool. The circular room was adorned with paintings; small plaques next to each told the name of the creator and the date it was completed. A velvet rope hung from several posts around the room, creating a ring a meter from the wall all around the room. Chip could sense several other corridors also leading into this room from elsewhere in the museum.
A lone man in a black suit stood admiring paintings on the far wall. As soon as Chip noticed the man, he closed his eyes again; his free hand touching his silver chain, using his connection to it to focus on the meager hints of life that a Kindred would give off. It would be enough. As Chip sidestepped around the fountain, he maneuvered the fingers clinging to his chain to craft Hermetic sigils, sliding across his neck and chest. As he did, he added his Forces senses to his Life sense, and was able to see the various dimensions of the room by the heat each thing gave off. As with earlier, with the ghouls, he did not want to make eye contact this Kindred and be left powerless against the its mental powers. Chip knew enough about Kindred to know that mental powers were the Clan Ventrue’s strength, not physicality. That was more the province of the Brujah clan. He had already taken care of them with his mind, just as he planned on beating the Venture mind with his brawn, if it came to that.
“Are you the Prince?” Chip asked. He approached cautiously. The Kindred Prince was the most dangerous of their kind. “The Liege of the politician?”
“Yes and no,” the Kindred said, turning to face Chip. His arms were folded, but one arm was angled upward, so that his hand rested on his chin. “Please open your eyes, mage. I am no threat to you.” The Kindred bared a toothy smile.
“No thanks,” Chip said. “I thought the politician was the Prince’s ghoul.”
“He was,” the Kindred said. The Kindred held up his hands as he shrugged. “However, there has been a slight realignment of power due to these tragic affairs of late.”
Chip stopped moving, only meters away. “So you’re the new Prince?”
“Yes, Mr. Zelinsky,” the Kindred said. He put his hands in his pants pockets. “Call me Krayvis.”
Chip put his second hand on his sword.
Krayvis eyed the sword, noting the blood dripping from it, with a raised eyebrow. Normally, the scent of blood was enough to distract a Kindred, especially if they had not fed recently: not so much when the blood was Kindred blood. Casually, the new Prince began to circle around the room. He appeared to be admiring the paintings again. “The old prince is moving to a new city,” he said. ”It is for the best really. The clan was very disappointed with his handling of this situation. Four Brujah and a Ventrue ghoul killed. Tragic.”
“And three mages,” Chip said, following Krayvis’ path through the room. To be sure, he extended his Life sense as far as he could reasonably see in every direction, making sure the Kindred was not just buying time until reinforcements arrived. Chip sensed no one else.
“Yes,” the new Prince said slowly. “And three mages. So unnecessary. Your kind are are always so wild and unpredictable. I feel it is best that Kindred do not get involved with you at all. It always seems to lead to bad results.” The Prince stopped walking. He turned and looked back at Chip over his shoulder.
“Ok,” Chip said.
Prince Kravyis turned to face Chip fully. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I have decreed that no retribution shall be taken on you, Mr. Zelinsky. This must be done to bring peace to my city.” The Prince waved his hand in front of his chest once. “Thus we wash ourselves of the whole situation.”
“And the Brujah?” Chip asked, his sword still ready.
“Bah,” Krayvis snorted. He put his hands back into his pockets and shrugged. “They rarely obey to the Prince’s decrees. You’re on your own with them.”
“I thought you said – “
A small dangerous smile crept across the Prince’s face. “Don’t confuse smart politics with kindness, Kine.”
“Right,” Chip said. Again he checked his other senses. Still no one else approaching. “Fine. So we’re done then?”
“Of course,” Krayvis said. He turned back to the paintings.
Chip dropped both of his hands to his side. The sword blade just touched on the ground, ringing softly in the large chamber. He kept his eyes shut, however.
“One thing you should know, before you go, however,” Krayvis said.
“What’s that?” Chip asked.
“A Kindred as powerful as a Prince need not make eye contact like the foot soldiers below him. That’s why you’re going to run away from me as fast as you can, and forget this conversation, other than that our little war is done, lest you believe you’ve done me a favor.” Kryavis’ head spun around, his eyes narrowed and glowing a dark red, a snarl on his face. He pointed toward the door. “Go!” he commanded.
Without a word, Chip turned and ran back down the corridor and out of the museum.
23
March 1996, 5:34 PM
The Ghetto
Detroit, Michigan
The sun was still up. It was slightly overcast and dropping along the horizon, but it was still up. That meant that when Chip rousted the three Brujahs out of their wanna-be ghetto crib their undead flesh would wither and die under the days’ last rays. The Kindred murderers probably did not even realize that their fourth comrade was already dead. Nor did Chip feel the need to tell them. The young Orphan was not the type of mage, nor the type of man, who felt the need to grandstand or boast.
The path Chip had chosen was not the path he wanted to be on, but rather was that which he felt compelled to follow, driven by a single-minded rage, rationalized in his essence that allowing his cabal’s murderers to go free would not allow the souls of the dead to rest in peace, but truth be told he wasn’t sure what the afterlife held for any of them. Had he taken the time to think about it, rather than rushing headlong in blind obedience to such choleric impulses, Chip would not have liked what he was going to do; but that did not mean he would not have chosen to do the same under the sway of thoughtful reason. The reason Chip had advocated killing the Ventrue ghoul to his cabalmates, was that he took the Ascension War to be a literal battle, whereas some of his more Traditional cabalmates had viewed it on a more abstract level. In some ways it was both and more. But at the end of the day, if Chip was going to fight a war, he planned on being quick and efficient, without any wittily quipped one-liners, letting the ends justify the means. And in this particular case, he would have his revenge.
Chip looked at himself in the rear-view mirror. His final preparation for this assault had been to turn his skin brown. A white man torching a house in this part of town was certain to draw all kinds of attention he did not want. Plus, when the police started looking for a perpetrator, they would start off on the entirely wrong foot. As it was, he was tempting paradox if he wasn’t careful; he did not feel the need to take any further risks.
Chip stepped out of the black Durango. He looked around the streets. They were empty enough. He reached back into the SUV and clutched the shotgun. His fingers open and closed around the grip. He looked almost unconsciously at the Brujah haven. The anger inside of him building again as the adrenaline started to rush through his system, Chip slipped it into a harness on his back. The errant Mage then grabbed and strapped on a belt with extra ammo. All but ready, Chip half-stepped into the Durango and reached over the driver’s seat, retrieving the two gas cans from the middle seat. Chip set them down outside the vehicle and closed the SUV door. He took a final look around. It did seem that he yet attracted any attention. Nonetheless, the mage picked up the gas cans again and moved quickly.
As Chip approached the ordinary enough looking building, he turned on his Life senses; he had no free hands to reach his focus, to help him connect to that sphere of magick, but he nonetheless forced the simple rote. He needed his magick to alert him if anyone approached. Also, as he walked around the building and doused it in gasoline, he wanted to make sure that no humans were inside the building. Chip may have been subject to a single-minded purpose, but it was one which he saw with the utmost clarity; he had no intentions of incurring any innocent casualties in striking down those who had murdered innocents themselves.
Nervously looking over each shoulder back and forth, yet again, Chip set one can down. As he walked halfway around the house, he shook the gas out of the can, splattering it along the walls of the small house. He tossed the can on the ground when it was empty, and jogged back to the other one. As he bent over and reached for the second can of gasoline, his Life senses warned him. Two young men were approaching.
Chip whipped the shotgun out of the harness on his back and spun on the two men. Time was of the essence. “Back off!” Chip spat. The men paused. What were they considering, he wondered. Did they think he was bluffing? Were they packing? Chip pumped the shotgun, loading the first shell. “Don’t ruin my day and make me kill you,” he barked.
The two men put their hands up. “We don’t want no trouble,” one said.
“I’m going to call the police,” the other said. He turned and took off running.
Chip shooed the other man away too, stepping towards him and jerking his head to the side, the shotgun leveled directly at him. The Mage did not want to see what the phosphorous shell would do to a human. Chip looked down the barrel of his gun at the watch on his left wrist. His eyes glassed over by the time he turned his gaze back toward the retreating man. He had five minutes and twenty-three seconds until the police arrived.
Chip put the shotgun back in the harness and ran to the second gas can. Somewhat quicker than with the first, he spread the gas along the other side of the house. When done, he tossed the can down and pulled out the shotgun again. He raised it level, as if ready to shoot. His eyes went to his watch again. His mind moved from the time reading there on the face of the watch to the wider spectrum of time. His eyes went glassy. The first one would go out the back window. The second the front door. The third would never make it, pushed aside in the mad rush and ashed moments later. Chip would have only seconds to act.
The Orphan pulled out a lighter. This is the part that would require a little help. The type of help that he might have trouble making look coincidental. Chip sparked the lighter under a pool of gasoline. He did not have time to draw the sigils that he usually did with Forces magick, so instead he drew on quintessence (the magickal energy stored in a Mage’s avatar) to aid him. Chip reached outward with his mind, sensing the tapestry of energy inherent in all reality. He focused every last ounce of his desire on the fire that was quickly spreading around the house and in an instant amplified it: the magickal equivalent of jump-starting a car. The flames instantly tore through the house with an intensity that normal fire could never have produced so quickly.
Chip hoped it had not been a vulgar display of magick. The cardinal rule of all supernaturals was that no one could know their kind existed. In this case, it was worth the risk, however. Chip could only hope that no one watching would know how quickly, or how intensely a fire like that should have burn. Twelve seconds, Chip thought to himself. Twelve seconds. It had to be enough time.
Chip rotated around to the rear of the house. The screams began. Chip’s eyes glassed over again. He would need his Time senses to be able to hit his targets. Otherwise, the celerity of the Brujah would make them impossible to hit. Even as Chip focused on the exact correct moments in time and categorized them in his mind, he breathed deeply and tapped into his Entropy magick, focusing his will on increasing the probability that he would hit his target dead on. Again he felt a rush of quintessence.
Chip fired into the back window. Though it seemed as if he fired at nothing, the blur that tore through the breaking back window was there just in time to have the phosphorous shell erupt right into its chest. Ashes spewed all over the back yard even as the Mage turned and ran back to the front of the house, loading the next round as he did so. Chip began to count down in his head.
Ten.
He could just see one push the other in the window, caught in the madness of Rötschrek, willing to escape the flames and final death at any cost, even that of his clanmate. The other fell, screaming all the time. Desperate fools.
Nine.
Chip unleashed another phosphorous round from his shoutgun.
A second later the door broke open and the shell again exploded directly on the Brujah’s chest. The already half-dead creature, flames consuming it, was finished; even as its body was blown backward, it began to decompose into ash. Nonetheless, something still flew forward toward Chip. Listening to the whispers of his avatar, Chip let the shotgun fall to his side, so to free one of his hands to catch whatever it was. Yet even as he caught it, the future Pendragon realized his mistake. For some reason, instead of dropping the red-hot item, Chip gritted his teeth and held onto it. He knew what it was. As he continued to grit his teeth in pain, the Mage put his shotgun back into the harness with his other hand.
Despite the fact that the pendant was white hot from the fire, Chip held it, letting the chain swing freely below his gripped fist. It was Katherine Omega’s necklace. Chip had never known where she had gotten it from, but she had worn it every day when she was alive. The Brujah must have taken it from her after he killed her. Chip opened his palm. The pendant was an intricate sword. He brushed his other hand over it, drawing a small sigil in the air, and pulled the excess heat out of the item. Then, without thinking, he put it around his neck.
Chip’s five minutes were almost up. He needed to get away from the buring house as fast as he could. Yet, for some reason, he didn’t move. He just felt compelled to stare at his palm.
02
September 1998, 6:27 AM
A Small Hut Beyond the City Limits
Surat Thani, Thailand
Sebastian finished buttoning his khakis and took hold of Chip’s left hand. He turned it over, looking at Chip’s palm. The image of a small sword was still burnt into it. “You could fix dis,” Sebastian said softly, looking up at his friend.
“Of course,” Chip said.
“Why not?”
Chip handed Sebastian a white-button up shirt. “Memories.”
“Of her?”
“Of what brought me here,” Chip said.
“How long have you remembered these things?” Sebastian said as he pulled on his shirt.
“What to you mean?” Chip asked.
“Sebastian looked up at Chip. “You distinctly recounted to me two t’ings dat were wiped from your memory.”
Chip caught himself, air escaping his lips just before speaking, and he closed his mouth. He cocked his head, looking up. “I don’t know. It seems like I’ve always known.”
“But you didn’t,” Sebastian said, buttoning up the shirt.
Chip put one hand on his hip; he rubbed his chin with the other. “I know,” he said.
“Maybe ‘cause now you’re ready ta know,” Sebastian said.
Chip nodded slowly, looking off into the distance. He crossed his arms. “I think you’re right, Sebastian. I think you’re right.”
“Le’s get outta here,” Sebastian said.
“Sure thing, Seb—Marat,” Chip smiled.
Sebastian-Marat smiled back. “You are da King,” he said. He returned the smile and bowed slightly.
“I know,” Chip said as he straightened his back. “I know. I just haven’t been ready until now.”
“A mage who is King of da Fey, might marry a Garou, and is friends wit Kindred,” Marat said. “You are a special man, King Charles Zelinsky.”
Chip cocked his head and closed his eyes. For a moment, his eyes seemed to burn. He gritted his teeth, clenching and unclenching his jaw. He blinked it away. At last he looked at his friend. “I couldn’t have gotten this far without you,” he said.
“That’s why our avatars are bound together,” Marat said. “Remember what Bison told us? We’re the third incarnation of these avatars. They always come together for a reason.” The dark-skinned mage stepped forward and put his hands on Zelinsky’s shoulders. “But now i’s time ta leave me to my own darkness, while you step into da light. Your errant memories are your own. Your souls waxes as mine wanes. I’s always been like dat, from da first incarnation. To Merlin livin’ backwards t’rough time. Ta now.”
“I’m still not as strong as you,” Zelinsky said, shaking his head.
“Mah magick has always been stronger,” Marat said. “An’ always will be. But your heart has always been more pure. An’ in de end, you have always been a betta leader, no matter mah own capabilities. People trust you. People follow you. So step outta here as you know you should. As King Charles Zelinsky Pendragon, leader o’ de most noble city on earth, prepared to sacrifice everyt’ing ta wage war against an’ defeat da forces of evil.” Zelinsky could not hold back a tight-lipped smile. He pulled Marat in close and hugged him. “Thank
you,” he said.
Marat returned the hug.
After a moment Marat pulled away. He ran a hand over his newly bald head. “Le’s go,” he said. “The others are ready ta go.”
“So am I,” Chip said. “I’m ready.”
The large
mage pulled open the tarp over the entrace ot the hut and held it open for
Marat, who exited first. Then Chip Zelinsky walked out into the bright morning
sun, ready.
.
Original
Content © 1996-2005 Michael
Wawrzycki, Jesse
D. Edmond
World Setting © 2005 White
Wolf Publishing Inc.
All Rights Reserved