03 May 1999, 6:48 PM

Saint Anne’s Church and Shrine

Santa Monica, California (map)

 

            Lee Rossdale’s feet fell softly over the dry sand. Overhead, the sinking sun sent reddish-orange rays over the walls and into the courtyard, the shadows falling before her. When Cortland had told her that he would be at Church, this was not what she had imagined. Lee had pictured tall spires, stain-glassed windows, and a three-story ceiling. What she found was refreshingly mundane. The outdoor space appeared not only to be a shrine for personal reflection, but from the pews set up in tight rows, a place where outdoor masses were held.

            Not wanting to disturb her friend, the young Pendragon waited on the periphery of the opening. Cortland was kneeling on a small wooden bench, with dark brown padding on the lower board and a plain board above, to rest one’s elbows on. Cortland O’Connell was a mage also, but a bit older and wiser than Lee. He was a member of the Celestial Chorus, a Tradition mage who tied his faith in magick to his spiritual belief of the One. Lee was not big on religion herself, but she needed the Chorister's help.

            Almost subconsciously, Lee looked down at her apparel: she was wearing beige shorts and a light blue tank-top; even her long blonde hair was pulled up in a ponytail to keep as cool as possible. She looked over at Cortland, who was adorned in loose grey leather pants and a matching, but lighter-grey, collared shirt, which from the rear, she could only assume was a button up shirt. Lee could not help but think that he had to be hot.

            Still she waited and Cortland did not move. His gaze remained fixed on the white stone statue of the Virgin Mary, which sat in a small alcove, arched by a similar, if more beige stone. The alcove was set into a wall, which was covered with vines; a tree grew from the ground to the right of the alcove and arched up, over, and above the shrine. Assorted potted green plants lined the ledge in front of the wall. Lee finally moved towards her kneeling friend. Her footfalls were soft, yet loud in the quiet of the Shrine.

            Lee put her hands on Cortland’s shoulders, letting him know she was there. Lee smiled softly at the touch. It was not like touching any other man; to her, Cortland was like a father. Indeed, her hands seemed so small on Cortland’s back, that it made her feel childlike. Cortland was not what people thought of when they heard about him. With a tall, thick body like that of a professional football player, he resembled a medieval crusader more than a minister or door-to-door Bible salesman. Lee did not say anything, she just waited for Cortland to finish.

            “The Secret of God,” Cortland whispered.

            Lee almost had not heard him. “What?” she asked, leaning over his bowed head.

            “I don’t know,” Cortland said a little louder, turning his head over his shoulder to look at her. He shrugged. “The Secret of God.”

            “What are you talking about?” Lee asked, leaning down, moving her smiling face close to his.

            “I don’t know,” Cortland said again. “It’s just a message I heard.”

            “From who?” Lee asked.

            Cortland shook his head. “From God,” he said.

            Lee rubbed Cortland’s nearly-shaven head. “Sorry. It’s not my instinct.”

            “Don’t remind me,” Cortland said, chuckling, and turning his head back to stare at the statue of the Virgin. “You Pendragons are not exactly following in his footsteps.”

            “We’re fighting a war, Cortland,” Lee whispered.

            “Yes, but the ends do not always justify the means,” Cortland said, still looking straight ahead.

            Lee looked down at the back of Cortland's head. They both knew the truth: they were fighting a war. A war more nebulous than most people could realize: a war for reality. In a world where belief controlled that reality, the object of that war was no less than to win the belief of the masses, of controlling or guiding the “sleepers,” as mages referred to normal humans. Lee and Cortland were both considered Tradition mages, wizards of the old order of magick, rooted in the history of the world. Their enemies were the Technocratic Union, a shadow organization behind nearly every facet of the modern world’s structure, purporting that magick was heresy and technology was the truth: accessible to all, the path to perfection. Lee was not a member of one of the Nine Mystickal Traditions, but of a smaller craft of mages, called the Pendragons: named after their leaders, Chip Zelinsky and Sebastian Duvalier, who carried within them the avatars of King Arthur and Merlin.

Yes, they were at war. And that was when they could stay focused. The Ascension War, as it was called, was not one of open warfare, but of subtle maneuvers and paradigm shifts, of propaganda and education, as much as back alley combat. The world never saw the conflict, yet played the most pivotal role of all: for it was they, not the mages, who controlled reality. But again, that was only one facet of being a supernatural power in a world of darkness. Going to the wrong places of the wild, one might stumble upon a werewolf; stray down the wrong city street at night and one might run into a vampire. And one could only hope never to run into ghosts or fae, even more mercurial and confusing creatures than the other two, if not as immediately deadly.

            Lee was one such mage that believed the ends did justify the means, because winning the war was everything. But she loved Cortland right through their differences. Lee leaned over and kissed the top of his head. “I’m not here for a lecture,” she said softly.

            Cortland stood up slowly, making the sign of the cross as he did so, and turned to face Lee. “But you are exceedingly friendly for a Pendragon.”

            "Very funny," Lee said, rolling her eyes.

            “What do you need?” Cortland asked, still looking at the Virgin.

            Lee ran her hands over Cortland’s button-up shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles, not looking directly at him. “You know how Sebastian asked me to try and speak to Orphans and recruit them if possible? To try and educate them to what we’re doing and as to what stake they have in the War?”

            Cortland nodded. He was familiar with her quest to speak to those mages who had come into power on their own, a part of no faction.

            “Well I can’t get a hold of any of them,” Lee said.

            Cortland raised an eyebrow. “How many?” he asked softly.

            “Three. I’ve visited each of their homes and each place looks fine. No sign of a struggle or anything. Not only that, but each of their landlords says that they haven’t missed a single rent check. And the police haven’t had any missing persons reports on any of them.”

            “What do you want to do?” Cortland asked, cocking his head to try and catch her eyes.

            Lee looked down at the Chorister. “Well, I know that none of you get along well with other Tradition mages, except for maybe Carr, but maybe we could go see some of them. See if they have heard about anything weird.”

            “Who did you want to start with?” Cortland asked.

            “There’s this Virtual Adept that lives downtown.”

            “Why not ask Carr to go with you then?” Cortland asked.

            “I couldn’t get a hold of him,” Lee said, cocking her head to meet the angle of Cortland's.

            Cortland pushed himself up to his feet and turned to face Lee. "Okay," he said, as he crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “When did you want to do this?”

            “What are you doing now?” Lee asked with a crooked smile.

            Cortland nodded, smiling slightly. He looked back over his shoulder, past the shrine, up into the tree leaning over it. “David,” he called.

            Lee followed his gaze upward and saw a large falcon leap out of the branches of the tree. It extended its wings and glided down to Cortland, landing gently on his shoulder.

            “Wouldn’t go anywhere without my familiar,” Cortland said, referring to the highly intelligent animal, with whom he shared a magickal, telepathic bond.

            “Even church?” Lee asked.

            Cortland smiled. “Especially Church.”

            “Right,” Lee said. “City of Angels.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

30 April 1999, 2:48 AM

Jeremy MacNeil’s Demesne

Downtown Los Angeles, California (map)

 

            Jeremy MacNeil’s dead eyes glazed over. Since December 1944, he and his fellow Anarch Vampires had ruled Los Angeles, overthrowing their decadent Camarilla masters, and declaring the area the Anarch Free State. The idea was to make it an ideological victory, home of freedom and independence, affirming devotion to the goals of Kindred (as Camarilla vampires liked to be called) liberty. Not everything had gone according to plan.

            MacNeil’s eyes suddenly flared red; he jumped to his feet and knocked over the mug in front of him, sloshing a thick reddish liquid over the stone table. “Status Perfectus?” MacNeil spat. “What a fucking joke. What did we really expect? Utopia?”

            The two Kindred on the other side of the table exchanged glances. One, a bald black man, raised his hand to his mouth, and licked the spilled liquid which had made its way to him, off of his hand. “That’s a waste of good juice,” he said.

            “Fuck that, Reggie,” MacNeil said to the black Kindred.

            The three vampires were all of the Brujah clan. As such, anger was as much a part of their blood as was the need to feed. While Reggie and the other Brujah—a white man with long reddish-blonde hair, held back in a red rolled-up bandana—exchanged looks, both were calm in the face of their leader’s rage.

            “I’m just sick of it,” MacNeil said. “I thought we had accomplished something."

            “We did,” the white kindred, Axel, said. “We won our freedom.”

            “Did we?” MacNeil asked.

            “Yeah,” Reggie said, rubbing his bald head. “We don’t have to answer to the Elders, dog. That’s totally different ball game. Come on.”

            “Rege is right,” Axel said, leaning forward over the spilt blood. “We may not have the Utopia we were looking for back then, but we're free, man.”

            “Free.” MacNeil sat back down, his eyes returning to their natural green hue.

            “Yeah,” Axel said.

            “Totally,” Reggie added.

            “Downtown, our turf is safe. That’s it,” MacNeil said. “Gangrels and Brujah war all over the rest of the city, fighting each other and themselves for their own turf, all wanting to be their own elders. The Ventrue runs the Russian mafia and would be all over our own turf, if he wasn’t tied up with the Chinese gangs. The Toreador don’t even listen to us any more and the Nosferatu never did. As for the Malkavians? Fuck. Who knows? No one works together. No one gets along. It’s all just one big fight.”

            “What did you expect, son?” Reggie asked. “Did you expect that all these niggas was just gonna follow our lead, just like you were the Prince or some shit? We fought the war to put down that kind of fucking authority, man. Not to get chained to a new one.”

            “But while we’re fighting each other, the Sabbat takes our lands. While we struggle to maintain each city, instead of working with the Anarchs in the North, the Camarilla takes back lands.”

            “Come on, Jeremy. We can’t be responsible for all these fucking Anarchs,” Reggie said.

            “I know,” MacNeil said. “But new Kindred can’t even survive a night here. They get fed on by these fucks. We wanted to start a revolution with this thing, but now we’re a joke. Have you heard the Anarchs outside of California? Even they think we’re a fucking joke, and they're the ones living under the Princes' rule. Motherfuckers. What do they know? They may not like the elders , but I doubt they could deal with this type of chaos.”

            “But that’s what we wanted, man” Axel said.

            “Maybe if it was just us, yes,” MacNeil said. “But it’s not. There are the technomages that hunt us during the day and hunt out too far from civilization and a wolf’s got you.”

            “Those pit bulls don’t fuck with us,” Reggie said, waving his hand dismissively, talking about the the werewolves, or Garou, as they preferred to be called.

            “Oh really?” MacNeil said. "One of my girls said some Gangrel ghouls got waxed the other day.”

            “Fuck,” Axel said. “Serves them dogs right.”

He and Reggie laughed. They stopped when they saw that MacNeil was not laughing.

"Perhaps you forget, they are still Kindred. They are still anarchs," MacNeil said.

Neither Reggie or Axel said something. Both knew it better to bite their tongues.

“And then there are these Chinese Kindred,” MacNeil said. The Kuei-Jin. If it wasn’t for the Czar, I think we’d all be buried in them.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Reggie said. “Those Triads an’ shit? This is our turf, nigga. No one comes here an’ fucks with us.”

“I wish it were that easy,” MacNeil said.

“I thought the Czar had them pinned down,” Axel said, reclining in his chair.

MacNeil shook his head. “He had them down. He was using a wizard to spy on them. That is what gave him an edge. Apparently the wizard disappeared.”

“Wait, I thought you said they was no good,” Reggie said.

“They have different factions, just like us,” MacNeil said. “This was one of the good ones.”

“So now what’s up with that front?” Axel asked MacNeil.

MacNeil looked at each of his clanmates. “The Czar’s afraid he might get overrun.”

Axel adjusted his red bandana.“Do we let him?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” MacNeil said.

“That’s the Kindred way,” Reggie said. “Everyone for themselves.”

“That’s the Elder way,” MacNeil said.

“Czar’s an old Ventrue,” Axel said. “He’s our biggest threat.”

“Wrong,” MacNeil said, running a hand through his hair. “The Toreador are making a push for control of LA. They think their entertainment and political contacts are more important than our street tough.”

“Now who’s acting like elders?” Axel said.

MacNeil looked at his two friends, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

03 May 1999, 8:39 PM

Oliver Mirer’s Apartment

Downtown Los Angeles, California (map)

 

            “What the fuck?” Lee said. She shot a look over her shoulder at Cortland. Oliver Mirer, the Virtual Adept that they had come to see was apparently not home. Yellow police tape was strewn across the door of his apartment.

            Cortland looked nervously back and forth to make sure no one else was in the corridor.

            “Lucky thirteen,” Lee mumbled.

            “What’s that?” Cortland asked.

            “He lived on the thirteenth floor. Guess it wasn’t good luck for him.”

            Cortland frowned.

            “Let’s take a look,” Lee said, reaching for the door.

            “Wait,” Cortland said.

            “What?” Lee said.

            Cortland reached into the pockets of his grey leather pants. “We don’t want to leave prints anywhere.”

            “You carry latex around with you? How un-Catholic,” Lee quipped.

            Cortland lowered his eyebrows. “Ha, ha.”

            “Kleenex?” Lee asked, looking into Cortland’s hands.

            “Not for long,” Cortland said. “Listen, just keep your Correspondence senses up and warn me if anyone’s coming. I don’t want them to see this.”

            “Ok,” Lee said.

The Pendragon closed her eyes and began to open her magickal senses to the entire corridor and beyond. If anyone was going to walk out of their apartment, come out of the stairwell, or exit the elevator, she wanted to know. Magick was hard enough to work in general; in one sense, it was no more than the belief that one had the ability to alter reality. However, when one tried to do magick that four billion people did not believe in, no matter how passively, it was exceedingly difficult. The worst possible thing, therefore, that a mage could do, was to cast spells directly in front of a non-believer. More often than not, this resulted in a what was called a Paradox backlash. Paradox was a reactionary force of energy which created a balance between the accepted consensual reality and any extreme departures from it. Most mages tried to pull a Copperfield more often than not, convincing sleepers that something magickal was anything but. No, I didn’t change those Kleenexes into latex gloves. That was slight of hand, neat hunh?

            Lee was snapped out of her magickal trance by Cortland. She looked down at her hands. She was wearing a pair of latex gloves. As was Cortland. “God, I love you,” she said.

            “I know,” Cortland said, smiling. “How do you want to go in?” he asked.

            “Well, I could teleport in, but that wouldn’t do you much good. Or you could turn the wall into gas and we could just walk in.”

            “True, but either one tempts Paradox,” Cortland said. “And reality seems to have been tightening up lately. I don’t think that either would be a good idea.”

            “Then what do you suggest?” Lee asked.

            Cortland pulled something small from his pocket.

            “What’s that?” Lee asked.

            “A key,” Cortland said.

            Lee looked closer. “It’s blank. There’s no ridges on it. What good is that?”

            Cortland looked around again before inserting it into the deadbolt. “Do you know how to pick a lock?” he asked.

            “No,” she said, shaking her head.

            “A key turns a lock because it matches the tumblers exactly. The points at which a key juts out is just right to make that particular lock align its internal components and allow you to turn the bolt and unlock it.”

            “Okay,” Lee said. She watched as Cortland closed his eyes, seemingly concentrating. He also seemed to be humming a tune each time he stopped talking.

            “When you pick a lock, generally, you use one ridged pick to try and catch the tumblers, and another to push in and turn the lock. If you inserted a blank key – “

            “And had the ability to change its molecular shape to match the tumblers, you’d have a working key,” Lee finished for him.

            “Exactly,” Cortland said, retrieving the key from the lock, and opening the door. “Careful of the tape. We don’t want to move it.”

            Lee could only shake her head. She was consistently amazed at Cortland. As well as she knew him, he was never quite what she expected.

            The two mages entered the apartment. Everything seemed in order. While the apartment seemed disheveled, it did not seem wrong. That is, it looked as if the police had been through his things, but not like there had been a struggle.

            Lee moved off to her left, examining the bedroom and the bathroom. Both had the same look to them. There was no evidence of a crime that she could see: nothing broken, no blood.

            “Lee,” Cortland’s voice called out.

            The Pendragon walked back through the kitchen area into the living room. Half on the hardwood floor and half on the sofa, someone had drawn a chalkline. Someone had died there.

            “What’s wrong here?” Cortland asked.

            Lee shook her head. “No sign of a struggle.”

            “And no blood,” Cortland said.

            “Do you think it was him?” Lee asked, referring to the Adept.

            Cortland shrugged.

            “Okay,” Lee said, still fixated on the chalkline. "You go ask some of the neighbors if they know anything. “I’m going to contact the others.”

            Cortland nodded.

            Lee sat down on the floor cross-legged and closed her eyes. She touched her fingers to her temples and concentrated. Focusing her Correspondence, she moved her vision out of Los Angeles westward, moving towards the Pacific, towards Santa Monica, where she hoped to find her teammates. Lee and Cortland were part of a rogue mercenary team of mages, known as the A-Team. Their leader was Nathaniel Dane, a Verbena. She could see him walking on the beach near their apartment with Damon Nevard, an Ecstatic. For some reason, she couldn’t sense Carr Stanton, their own Virtual Adept. She shrugged it off and moved towards her other two teammates, moving in closer until she touched their minds; subconsciously, her hands traced arcane lines through the air of the apartment.

            Nathan. Damon, she thought.

            Both men stopped walking, suddenly rigid where they stood on the beach. Lee? they both thought.

            Yes, she thought. I need help.

            With what? Nathan replied.

            Lee paused for a moment, then could feel Cortland’s mind. She got the answer she needed. Oliver Mirer is dead, she thought.

            The Adept? Damon thought back.

            Yes. I need you two to check on the Akashic in Manhattan Beach. I need to know if he’s okay. And if he is, if he knows anything about mages disappearing or dying.

            Okay, Nathan said. Is Cortland with you?

            Yes, Lee thought. Do you know where Carr is?

            No, Nathan thought. Why?

            I can’t find him, Lee thought.

            What are you two going to do? Damon thought.

            We’re going to check on that Hermetic that teaches at UCLA.

            Be careful, Nathan thought.

            You too, Lee replied.

            Lee opened her eyes. Cortland was waiting patiently for her. He offered her a hand. She took it. Cortland easily pulled her up. “You okay?” she asked, moving past the large Chorister.

            “Yeah. I just had the weirdest feeling when I was talking to the neighbors, that’s all.”

            “What do you mean?” Lee asked.

            “Almost like I was being watched.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

03 May 1999, 9:57 PM

House of Barry Tenenbaum

Westwood Village, California (map)

 

            No one answered Lee’s knocks on the door. She rang the doorbell. Cortland looked overhead, seeing through the darkness with his Forces senses, able to see along the infrared spectrum; above, his familiar, David, circled. The streets were empty and quiet. Lights were on in neighboring houses, but most people in the affluent area, just southwest of Beverly Hills, were probably getting ready for bed.

            “We can’t stand out here forever,” Cortland said. “We’re boiuond to draw unwanted attention.”

            “I know,” Lee said. “Fuck it. Hold on.” Lee closed her eyes. She put one hand on Cortland’s shoulder for balance and the other on her temple. Cortland waited patiently for her to look inside the home with her Correspondence sight. Cortland looked around the empty street again. It was too quiet.

            Suddenly Lee snapped out of her reverie, her eyes wide, pushing against Cortland. “No,” she said. “No!”

            “What is it?” Cortland asked, catching her hand, even as it pulled away.

            “Open the door,” Lee said, her eyes wild.

            “What is it?”

            “Open the door!” Lee snapped, pulling her hand away. “The key thing,” she added, waving her hand towards the doorknob.

            Cortland frowned. He was worried about Lee. However, he decided that in this case, doing what she asked was probably the best thing. He pulled the gloves back out of his pockets, humming, and handed one pair to Lee. “Put these on,” he said. He then quickly used Matter magick to warp the key again and opened the door. They both walked in.

            They walked into a pristine foyer. Beyond where they stood was a winding staircase, leading to an upstairs balcony, which looked down on where they stood. The house was dark, but there was enough light shining through the windows from the streetlamps to see, which worked out just fine, as they did not want anyone to know that they were there. Lee took Cortland’s hand and led him left around the staircase, past a living room and an office, towards what they presumed would be a family room; bookshelves bracketed a connected entertainment center, and fine paintings hung from the walls. Strewn across the couch, pale and lifeless, was the Hermetic Mage, Barry Tenenbaum. Lee ran over and knelt by his side.

            “He’s cold,” she said.

            “Cortland instictively looked around the room, before looking back at the body. Again, the room was in complete order and there was no blood.

            “There are no marks on the body,” Lee said, gingerly examining the limbs and even going so far as to roll the body over. “No needle marks, nothing. No chemical burns. Nothing.”

            “Poison, perhaps?”

            Lee shrugged in frustration. “Wait, “ she said, snapping her fingers. “I have an idea. If you blend your Matter sense with my Correspondence sense, we should be able to search the corpse for any foreign matter in his bloodstream: poisons, drugs, or whatever.”

            “Okay,” Cortland said, kneeling by her side.

            “I’m going to sense inside of his body and bring you into that vision. I just want you to filter that vision with your Matter.”

            “Okay,” Cortland said.

            Lee closed her eyes again, putting one hand to her temple and another to Cortland’s. As her vision flooded into his consciousness, he held his hands out, as if examining the body directly. Softly, he hummed a hymnal to focus his Matter sense. This process took them a few minutes.

            It was Lee who opened her eyes first and drew her hand away from Cortland. She turned and waited for her friend’s eyes to catch hers. He shook his head at her sadly. “Nothing,” he said.

            “How can he just die?” Lee asked.

            “Heart attack?” Cortland suggested.

            Lee stood up. She looked at the glass table in front of the sofa. Before it sat a single drink on a coaster. “One drink. It looks like he was alone.”

            “And whatever killed him was not even violent enough to spill it,” Cortland said.

            “Could it have been magick? Done from a distance.”

            Cortland shook his head. “I don’t sense anything like that.”

            Lee crouched next to the table, and sifted through the papers strewn along the surface.

            “Anything?” Cortland asked.

            “A brochure for the art museum, a notebook,” Lee droned, “University memos, literary magazines, newspapers, TV Guide. Nothing.”

            “Well,” Cortland said. “The TV Guide was buried.”

            “Guess he didn’t watch much,” Lee said.

            “See that pen? The red one?” Cortland said, pointing.

            “Yeah,” Lee said.

            “Look at the notebook.”

            “What about it?”

            Cortland stared at it, humming. After a moment, he looked up at Lee. “It’s not completely dry,” he said.

            “The ink isn’t dry but the body is cold?” Lee asked. “How the hell does that happen?”

            “Good question,” Cortland said. “But he must have been working on it before he died.

            “Okay,” Lee said.

            “But then why was the art brochure on top of the notebook?” Cortland mused aloud.

            Lee shrugged.

            “Look at it,” Cortland said, pointing again. It’s upside down. It’s not like he was reading it, it’s like someone threw it down.”

            “You think the killer might have?”

            “Maybe it’s something we should look into,” Cortland began to say, but then started, his head snapping up towards the entrance.

            “What is it?” Lee asked.

            “David,” Cortland whispered. “Cops.”

            Both mages jumped to their feet as two LAPD officers entered the living room, weapons drawn. “Don’t move!” one of the officers yelled.

            “Move away from the body!” the other barked.

            Lee and Cortland raised their hands slowly, looking at each other with dread.

            The room was dark, even though streetlights cascaded in through the windows.

            One of the police officers looked over each shoulder before finding the light switch. “Keep those hands up,” he said as he moved towards the switch.

            “God grant us your holy light,” Cortland whispered, his eyes roaming upward.

            “Shut it,” the other officer barked, still covering them both with his pistol.

            Lee followed Cortland’s gaze to the overhead chandelier and understood. She squeezed her eyelids shut.

            As soon as the officer turned on the light switch, both he and the other officer were blinded by an explosion of bright light. Cortland had used his Forces magick to amplify the intensity of the generated light. He was willing to figure out later if that would attract paradox or not.

            Both officers threw their hands over their faces, trying to shield their eyes from the blinding flash.

            Cortland tapped Lee’s shoulder and they did not hesitate another second. Cortland leapt at one officer and threw a heavy punch into his side, right at his kidney; this forced the lawman to drop his arms in pain. With a second blow, Cortland hit the officer on the side of his head, and knocked him out.

            Just as fast, Lee leapt over the glass table; as she did so, she wiggled her fingers, feeling the metal on her rings to better focus. As she landed, her Entropic senses pointed out the spot on the officer’s head that if struck would most likely render him unconscious. With a lightning strike, she thrust her hand out, fingers extended, utilizing Do, a mage-specific martial art that Sebastian had taught her, and knocked out the police officer with one blow.

            Lee stared downward at the officer.

            “I don’t like doing this,” Cortland said.

            “Sure didn’t stop you from acting,” Lee retorted.

            “I didn’t say it wasn’t necessary,” Cortland said.

            Lee closed her eyes and made a few simple motions towards the man, almost as if tracing specific symbols into the air.

            “Well at least they never got a good look at us,” Cortland said.

            “Yeah,” Lee replied. “But they were specifically ordered to come here.”

            “By whom?” Cortland asked.

            “Their superiors. I don’t know. It’s not like everyone out there has Technocrat stamped on their forehead.”

            “So you think they were behind this?” Cortland asked.

            “I don’t know,” Lee said. “But I wanna find out.”

            The two mages quickly left the house. They were thankful that the police car’s lights weren’t on. It would help them escape notice.

            Cortland caught Lee’s hand as they moved towards her car. “Turn on your Correspondence, ten o’clock,” he snapped.

            Trained to work as part of a team, Lee did not ask any questions. She fast-casted a Correspondence rote and extended her senses to where Cortland directed her. The two mages held hands, combining their supernatural senses.

            “Did you sense it?” Cortland asked. “I knew we were being watched. Could you tell who it was?”

            “I’m not sure,” Lee said, her eyes closed. “Whoever it was, they took off fast. Faster than he should have been able to.”

            “Where is he?” Cortland asked.

            “I think he went into the sewer,” Lee said.

            “Odd,” Cortland said. “Do you still have him?”

            “Barely,” Lee replied.

            Cortland reached into Lee’s front shorts pocket and pulled out her car keys, then guided her to the passenger door. “Keep a lock on him. I want to find out who it is and see if they’re related to this whole thing. I’ll drive. You just tell me where to go.”

            “Okay,” Lee said, as she sat and Cortland closed the door behind her. He ran around to the other side of her black Mitsubishi Eclipse and started the car’s engine, squealing the tires as the car lurched backwards, then jolted forward.

            “Which direction?” Cortland asked.

            “Towards downtown,” Lee said.

            “Okay,” Cortland replied. “Keep on him.”

            Lee nodded, her eyes still closed, her hands on her temples: softly massaging.

Twenty minutes later, Lee and Cortland looked around an empty parking lot.

“You’re sure he’s here?” Cortland asked.

“Yeah, but I can’t lock onto him,” Lee said. “He’s elusive.”

“Countermagick?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Perhaps.” She looked over at the bulky Chorister. “This is Kindred turf, Cortland. I’m not sure this is safe.”

“I thought Pendragons liked vampires,” Cortland smiled.

“This is the Anarch Free State. Sebastian and those guys are friends with Camarilla vampires: Kindred versions of Traditions mages. Civilized vampires. I don’t know what to expect from these guys. I’ve always stayed away from them.”

“Seems like Kindred of all kind do whatever helps themselves most. If we don’t mess with their property or people, they shouldn’t mess with us.”

“Logical,” Lee said, glaring at her companion. “For Camarilla Kindred.”

“I want to know who’s been following us.”

“Why do you need to know so bad?” Lee asked.

Cortland shook his head. “I don’t know.” He glanced over at Lee, his eyes soft. “My avatar is whispering to me. It’s telling me to follow this lead.”

“Okay,” Lee said, sighing. “I just hope your avatar doesn’t get us killed.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

02 May 1999, 11:20 PM

Barnsdall Art Park Exhibitions

Hollywood, California (map)

 

“An excellent collection,” Melissa said, nodding her head with approval.

“Thank you,” Kendra replied. “I’m glad you like it.”

Melissa smiled at the decadent lick. The Toreador was dressed in an elegant red gown, with diamonds across her neck and in her ears. It was amazing to Melissa that such an ancient and powerful creature would waste time with such trifles.

Kendra caught Melissa’s look and smiled: at once appearing dangerous and seductive—typical for a Kindred. “Do you like?” Kendra asked, running her hands down the sides of the smooth dress. “It was hand made. Just for me.”

“It’s exquisite,” Melissa smiled.

“So charming,” Kendra said, her eyes narrowing. “But you’re so Spartan, certainly not here to discuss fashion. What really brings you here?”

Melissa ignored the comment regarding her 'plain' garb–she was wearing an expensive beige business suit, harldy poor fashion– and moved onto business. “I found another playmate for you,” she said.

“Really?” Kendra said, her eyebrows rising.

“Yes,” Melissa said.

“She’s a tough one to get to. But for you that shouldn’t be hard.”

            “What do you mean?” Kendra said, turning back to the art hanging from the wall, as if she did not care.

            “She’s active in the entertainment community. She considers herself a muse.”

            “How quaint,” Kendra mused, faux absentmindedly.

            “Her name is Cleopatra,” Melissa said.

            “Now that I like,” Kendra said, turning and smiling at Melissa, as her eyes flashed. “That I like. Very novel, yet classic. When can I meet her?”

            “As soon as you locate her,” Melissa said, putting her hands into her pants’ pockets.

            “You don’t know where she is?” Kendra said, turning back to the art.

            “It’s enough that we found her at all,” Melissa replied. “She’s very elusive. From all accounts, though, she’s very tough. Possibly a powerful one.”

            “Well now, we shall see,” Kendra said. “I always love a good challenge.” She looked over her visitor again, before smiling, her teeth bared. “How rude of me. I didn’t offer you anything to drink.”

            Melissa frowned. “No thank you.”

            Kendra shrugged, a glint in her eye. “Well, just don’t ever say I wasn’t a good host.”

            Without saying anything else, Melissa turned her back on the Toreador and walked away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

03 May 1999, 10:36 PM

An Empty Parking Lot

East Los Angeles, California (map)

 

            Humming, Cortland pulled what appeared to be a small toy gun out of his pockets. Waving one hand over his other, the gun in his hand was suddenly a full-sized weapon, and looked like anything but a toy.

            “God, I love how you do that,” Lee said. “If I could shrink everything that went into my pockets . . . “

            “You might need it,” Cortland said, pulling out what looked like a sword hilt. “A beautiful woman like you, in this part of LA, at this time of night . . . “

Lee turned one of the corners of her lips upward, mock-smiling. “Ha. Lucky me, to have a big strong man around to protect me. Pig.”

Cortland smiled. But, then he caught a sudden change in her expression. “What?” he asked.

Lee looked across the parking lot, her blonde ponytail following her back and forth, her eyes intently wide. “I’m not sure,” she said. Lee started walking across the parking lot, her gun arm limp at her side. Her eyes were closed now, the other hand resting on the top of her head, softly stroking the thin fibers of her hair.

Cortland followed her, the sword hilt in his hand, looking from side to side. Whispering soft prayers, his eyes again began to see the infrared spectrum. Above, his familiar soared on ahead of them. “I’m still lost on the sewer part of the chase," he said. "I don’t know many technocrats that would use that kind of an exit.”

Lee did not respond.

“Genetically warped spy, perhaps. Some creation of the Progenitors,” Cortland suggested, referring to one of the Technocratic Conventions— their equivalents to the several Traditions.

“Whatever it was, it seemed, humanoid, no monster. But still not human,” Lee said.

“An Iteration X surveillance drone,” Cortland suggested, referring to another Technocratic Convention.

“No,” Lee said. “That doesn’t feel right either.”

The two mages moved past the lot across the street into what was another lot, this one leading to an abandoned factory.

“Do you sense something over here?” Cortland asked, still looking around them carefully.

Lee turned to Cortland, smiling, her eyes still closed. “Nah. Just following the whispers of my avatar.”

Cortland shook his head.

“There,” Lee hissed. "Entering that side door. It’s him.”

“Are you sure?” Cortland asked.

“Yes,” Lee said, taking off into a sprint.

Cortland followed, staying close behind her. As he ran he held up the sword hilt. Humming a soft hymnal, the sound focusing his faith, he reached out and pulled the blade out of the hilt, creating the illusion of a telescoping blade, when in reality, it had been literally buried and shrunk inside of the hilt. Continuing his humming, he focused on his shirt and pants, turning the grey outfit into a modern version of a suit of armor, magickally strengthening the material strength so it would protect him like Kevlar clothing would. “God give us strength,” he whispered.

Lee threw open the door, running in, gun out, her senses snapping outward. Cortland entered behind her, his eyes wide, seeing something most humans never would, yet along the infrared he saw nothing but empty space and themselves.

Lee did not see the same thing. Slowly she lowered her gun and dropped her Correspondence sense. As she did, she saw pairs of red eyes start to light up around the large room.

She tapped Cortland on the shoulder. “Get out of infrared,” she hissed.

Cortland complied and went back to his regular vision. He was very surprised to see the sets of glowing eyes. “But they gave off no heat,” he whispered.

“Kindred,” Lee said. “Walking corpses. No heat. We’ve been led into a trap.”

Cortland held out his sword still. “But by who?” he whispered.

Lee did not answer. What was more important, was figuring out who were before them. The Kindred were either Sabbat or Anarchs. Their lives most likely depended on which.

Lee held up the gun and deliberately uncocked it for them all to see. “We're not looking for bloodshed,” she said. “We were following someone out of the sewers who has been following us. We simply wanted to know who it was.” Fighting the urge to draw any of the sigils that she knew as aids to her mind magick, she tried to impart on them calm, empathically trying to project peace.

“We don’t know anything about any sewer,” a voice said from the darkness. “We ain’t no rats.”

Knowing that they were obviously not regular humans, Lee decided to be honest with them. “We’re investigating the deaths of several mages. And not the Technomages,” she said quickly. “Not the ones that hunt your kind. We’re rebels. Insurgents,” she said, playing on the fact that both the Sabbat and the Anarchs considered themselves rebels.

“What is that to us?” the same voice asked, as the eyes seemed to move closer.

“Probably nothing,” Lee said. “That’s why we desire no conflict with you. You’re obviously not who we were after.”

“And you just want to walk away?” the voice said, as the eyes drifted closer yet.

Cortland could feel the magick that Lee was trying to enact on them: the calming influence. He figured that if he spoke, maybe she could concentrate more on her spell. “I’m sure you also know that the blood of mages is dangerous for a Kindred to drink?” he said.

“Perhaps we won’t drink it, but only spill it, homes” the voice said.

“Perhaps,” Cortland said. “But what would that solve? Many of our kind have already disappeared or been murdered recently. Two more murders in such a close proximity of time will draw the kind of attention I'm sure you don’t want.”

One of the kindred stepped forward so they could see more of him. He was wearing gang colors. He appeared to be a young Hispanic male. They doubted, though, that he was nearly as young as he looked. “You’re on our turf," he said. "We can’t just let you walk, mano.” His eyes flared and the others closed in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

03 May 1999, 11:02 PM

Jeremy MacNeil’s Demesne

Downtown Los Angeles, California (map)

 

            Jeremy MacNeil looked up from his sofa, where he was lounging with two female ghouls. Both wore ripped jean-shorts and t-shirts. His gaze followed his lieutenants, Axel and Reggie, as they escorted in a group of Barrio Brujah, thugs from East LA. They had two strangers with them. The female looked like a casually dressed movie star–because of her face he would have said a model, only she looked like she was in too good of shape to be one: not waify enough. The other looked like a professional wrestler: loose leather pants and a loose button-up shirt over a thick body, topped by a shaved head.

            “Who are our guests?” MacNeil asked.

            “We’re making them presents, jefe,” the lead Barrio Brujah said. “From us, to you: our fearless leader.”

            MacNeil scowled.

            “They claim they’re wizards,” the long-haired Axel said, adjusting the red bandana on his head.

            MacNeil stood, looking over the two guests. They were quiet. They looked unharmed. They did not seem to be looking for trouble; they just stood calmly, watching the proceedings around them. But one could never tell with their kind.

            MacNeil looked at the Brujah, whom he knew only as Hernandez. “What do you want for them?” he asked.

            “There’s this Tremere over in Huntington Park that’s been fucking wit some of our crowd, man. Now we don’t need him offed or nothin’, but we just want a reminder sent to him to mind his own fuckin’ business.”

            MacNeil looked at Hernandez. “And you’re not crowding his turf?”

            “We clashed some in Commerce, but that’s natural. And only through our ghouls. But tell him to stay out of the Barrio, eh, jefe?”

            MacNeil looked over Hernandez. “You just want him to stay out of East LA?”

            “That’s it,” Hernandez said, with a smile that showed his sharp teeth. “Leave the rest to us.”

            MacNeil turned his gaze to Reggie. “Go arrange that message. Tonight,” he said.

            Reggie nodded his bald head. “You got it, boss.”

            “Free States,” Hernandez said. “Gotta love it. “Status Perfectus, homes. Adios.”

            “Later,” MacNeil said as the Barrio Brujah departed.

            MacNeil sat back into the sofa, but thenleaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. Behind him, the two brunettes rubbed his back and shoulders. Looking out of the tops of his eyes, he looked at the mages, but spoke to his lieutenant. “What do you see, Axel?”

            “Two juicebags with extra sauce,” Axel said, smirking.

            MacNeil chuckled. “I guess you ended up at the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said to the mages. “Doesn’t your kind know better?”

            “We were investigating the disappearance and death of several of our kind,” Lee Rossdale said.

            “I see,” MacNeil nodded. “Bad timing, though.”

            “Leaving a police cordoned off area where one of our kind died, we went to visit another, where we found yet another dead body. That’s when we discovered we were being watched. We tracked whoever it was to East Los Angeles. That’s when we ran into your friends,” Lee said.

            “You’re lucky you ran into the Barrio Brujah. This week we happen to be on good terms,” MacNeil said. “How’d you track this spy?” he asked.

            “I used my magick to track him through the sewers,” Lee said. “He surfaced in a bad place, I guess. Led us right into a trap.”

            MacNeil sat up abruptly; his ghouls pulled their hands away equally as fast. Lee and Cortland had to shake their heads. All three had moved so fast that the mages could barely register the movement; it was as if they were in one place one moment and not there the next: suddenly each in a different spot.

            “Sewer?” MacNeil asked.

            “Yeah, why?” Lee asked.

            The Brujah would never go into the sewers. Only a Nosferatu would go there.” His eyes narrowed, thinking, glancing over at Axel, who shrugged.

            “Nosferatu,” Lee said. “That’s another clan, right?”

            “You know your lore,” MacNeil said absently.

            “I try,” Lee said with a smile.

            “And what faction are you a part of?” MacNeil asked.

            “We’re Tradition mages,” Lee responded.

            “Better than the Technocrats,” MacNeil said, a glint in his eye.

            “I see you also know your lore,” Lee said.

            MacNeil only smiled.

            “What are we going to do with them, boss?” Axel asked.

            MacNeil did not look at his friend, but only continued to stare at the mages. Absently, he ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. We could trade them to the Czar.”

            “Listen,” Lee said, “If you know a little about us, you know we have the equivalents of different clans within our factions. I’m from a small craft called the Pendragons. One of our core philosophies is that we should work together with other supernaturals. We believe that Kindred and mages–and sometimes even– “ Cortland elbowed her. She had been about to say Garou, but considering that they were mortal enemies of the Kindred, she realized that this might not be the ideal situation to bring that up.

            “—sometimes, they should work together,” Lee finished. “We all have enemies that cross over lines to attack us. That makes them common threats. But they rarely work together. If we team up against them, you’d be surprised how efficacious it can be.”

            “First of all, I’m at least fifty years older than you and I have no idea what the word efficacious means. Second of all, you left out something.”

            “What do you mean?” Lee asked.

            “I’m not stupid. After ‘Kindred and mages and sometimes even,’ you were about to say something else when Kurt Angle elbowed you.”

            “Who?” Lee asked.

            “Never mind,” MacNeil said, waving his hand. “What were you going to say?”

            Lee looked over at Cortland. He still seemed against it. But her craft wasn’t about lying, not at a point like this. Perhaps during war lying was a necessary deception, but not when one was trying to make allies. That was the time for honesty. “I was going to say Garou,” she said looking right at MacNeil.

            MacNeil’s eyes flared.

            “But we don’t ally with them against your kind,” Lee said. “That would be just as bad as not working together. Worse, really. In Detroit, all three kinds have come together. There is a truce.”

            “I find that hard to believe,” MacNeil snorted, his eyes still flaring.

            “Then use your senses,” Lee snapped. “Tell me if I ‘m lying. You can do that, right?”

            MacNeil smiled. "You Pendragons do have spunk. I’ll give you that.”

            “It’s their trademark,” Cortland mumbled.

            “The Golem speaks,” MacNeil laughed. “You are not one, though, are you?”

            “No,” Cortland said.

            “Yes," MacNeil said slowly. "Your kind is usually silent around mine. But I think that is because you know that we have long memories.”

            Cortland and Lee followed the Kindred’s gaze to Cortland’s gold necklace with a cross pendant; in the shuffle it had fallen out of his shirt. They both knew that the vampire was talking about the Celestial Chorus’ prominent role in the inquisition of the 1300s, where among others, the vampires were persecuted by the church with disastrous consequences for Kindred.

            “That was a long time ago,” Cortland said softly. “And I’m only mortal. You know that I had no role in that.”

            “Not directly,” MacNeil mused. “Not directly.” The Anarch Lord looked at Axel, who only shrugged again. He apparently was not as amused by their guests. MacNeil looked back to the pair of mages. “So you want to help us?” He laughed a short laugh. “Do you really know what you’re getting into?”

            “What can we do?” Lee asked.

            “Well let’s see. You could try and find out what the Sabbat around here are up to, or what the Camarilla is doing. If you want something more specific, the Toreador are getting uppity, roving packs of Brujah and Gangrel threaten us all with their violence, I have a crazy Ventrue breathing down my back, an influx of Chinese Kindred, not to mention the Technocrats. And that’s just for starters. Have any favorites?”

            “When they say Anarch state, they’re not kidding are they?” Cortland said.

            MacNeil glared at Cortland. Boring his eyes into the mage, he reached to the side and pulled the finger of one of his ghouls toward his mouth. Baring his teeth, he bit into her with a soft crunch and drank from her. The woman’s head arced back, almost as if she was in ecstasy.

            Cortland shifted his feet uncomfortably.

            Good going, Lee thought, closing her eyes. Antagonize him.

            I didn’t—never mind, he thought back.

            Opening her eyes, Lee could sense the Brujah’s anger. That had really upset him. Maybe that was something they could use.

            “Your . . . associate,” Lee said, lacking a better word. “Said you could trade us to the Czar. Who’s that? And why would you want to do that?”

            “Because he was using a mage to spy on the Chinese. I thought maybe you two could fill in.”

            “Fill in?” Cortland asked.

            “His mage up and disappeared.”

            Lee shot a look at Cortland.

            “Do you know the mage’s name?” Lee asked.

            MacNeil let his ghoul’s finger go. She collapsed into the sofa. He looked at Axel expectantly.

            Axel closed his eyes and snapped his fingers repeatedly as he thought. “Damn, what was her name? Uh, China, Crina, Rena, Christina, I think. Yeah, Christina.”

            “Christina Faldor?” Lee asked, turning to look at Axel.

            “Yeah,” Axel said, shaking a finger at Lee. “That it.”

            “She’s one of the people whose disappearance we’re looking into,” Lee said.

            MacNeil looked back and forth between his lieutenant and Lee. He sat back into the sofa, rubbing his chin. Something seemed a bit odd about all of this.

            “Do you know of any other mages?” Lee asked.

            MacNeil shook his head.

            “What about art museums?” Cortland asked.

            “What?” MacNeil asked.

            “I believe your Toreador are into that kind of thing," Corltand said. "Any associated with art museums?”

            MacNeil shot Axel a look, but said nothing to him. Looking back at the mages, he asked, “Why?”

            “We found a brochure for an art museum at the home of one the dead mages,” Lee said.

            MacNeil shot Axel another look. Axel shrugged. “Most of the Toreador here are involved in television, music, or politics," the lieutenant said. "You know how it is. But there is one who bankrolls an art museum.”

            “Who?” Lee asked.

            “Her name is Kendra,” MacNeil said, his eyes narrowing again. “But she knows better than to leave corpses littering my city, let alone to leave dead mages lying around.”

            Cortland and Lee looked at each other. At the very least, they had two possible leads to follow.

            “I’ve given you plenty of information,” MacNeil said. “So what do I get from you?”

            “Well,” Lee said. “If this Toreador is involved, that would be a considerable scandal wouldn’t it?”

            MacNeil looked at Axel, shrugging, as if asking if it was.

            “For a Toreador,” Lee said, rolling her eyes.

            “I suppose,” MacNeil said, looking back to Lee, nodding.

            Axel nodded also. “Yeah, for them.”

            “Well if we caught her, wouldn’t that knock them down a notch? Or maybe you could just hold the scandal over their heads to intimidate them?”

            MacNeil laughed. “Axel, we’ve been fooled by the Barrio Brujah. Hernandez brought us an Elder, not a mage. Listen to her scheme.”

            Axel chuckled. “Yeah,” he said.

            Lee flashed a tight-lipped smile.

            “I like you,” MacNeil said, his stare boring into the young Pendragon. “I like you.”

            Lee watched with curiosity, as the vampire’s smile slowly disintegrated and he turned his head to his right. He was seemingly staring off into nothingness. “Come on out,” he said. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

            Cortland and Lee exchanged confused glances.

            “Yes I am,” the wall seemed to say.

            “No you’re not,” MacNeil said slowly.

            Seemingly out of nowhere, a ragged looking man stood. He wore beige cargo shorts and a flannel with the sleeves ripped out. His face had thick stubble and wild, dark hair.

            “What do you want?” MacNeil asked.

            The Kindred ignored MacNeil and approached the Mages.

            “I’m Muddy Waters,” he said, his eyes wide. He took Lee’s hand and shook it. “I’m one of the crazy ones!” he said, shaking his head enough to distort the sound.

            “Whatta you want?” Axel asked.

            “I’ve come to help,” he said, shooting a glance towards the Brujah.

            “Help whom?” MacNeil asked.

            Muddy Water spun on MacNeil. “Why your new allies.”

            “They’re hardly our allies,” MacNeil said.

            “No, but they will be,” the Kindred said.

            “Meet our resident Malkavian,” MacNeil said to the magi.

            “I’m a seer,” the Malkavian said.

            “Named Muddy Waters?” Cortland asked.

            “Yeah,” the Malkavian replied, nodding enthusiastically.

            “What can you do for us?” Lee asked.

            “Not all of your friends are dead. Well they are. But I know where they are. They’re not dead. Kind of.”

            “What do you mean?” Cortland asked.

            “I can take you to them. Well one of them,” he amended.

            “Where?” Lee asked.

            “Del Amo Hospital,” Muddy Waters said.

            “The Psychiatric hospital? In Torrance?” Cortland asked.

            Muddy Waters nodded.

            “Figures,” Axel mumbled.

            Lee glanced over at MacNeil.

            MacNeil looked to Axel, who again, could only shrug.

“Go,” MacNeil said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

03 May 1999, 11:44 PM

Del Amo Hospital.

Torrance, California (map)

 

            Cortland and Lee sat in Lee’s Eclipse, outside of the Mental Hospital. Cortland had his senses on alert. This time, instead of infrared, Cortland was simply using his Forces sense to amplify the ambient light–just in case they ran into any Kindred, who apparently did not give off enough body heat to be distinguishable in the infrared spectrum. Lee’s eyes were closed, her hands on her head in concentration. The plan was for Lee to reach out and make the persons waiting at the night desk fall asleep. Something that they hoped would not be too extraordinary. For the clerks it would be no more than giving into the sudden silent voices of dreams, slipping from one reality to the next, not magick.

            Lee’s eyes opened. “It’s done.”

            Cortland merely nodded and got out of the car. As he waited for Lee, he walked backwards towards the building, scanning the layout for any sign of movement or life. He saw nothing. Overhead, a falcon cried out. Lee quickly jogged up to where Cortland was, having jumped out of the car first. Cortland turned back around and walked forwards, the two moving quickly into the building. The front doors were open. As they walked through, they immediately encountered a desk with an attendant, all in white, asleep, his head on the desk, snoring softly.

            Lee winked at Cortland. “Told you,” she said.

            “Never doubted you,” Cortland whispered. He moved behind the desk until he found a button which released the lock on the security door beyond the desk. “This should open the next door.”

“Hold on,” Lee said, moving next to Cortland and jumping onto the man’s computer.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“I’m going to try and find where Christina is. Or did you just want to walk around aimlessly?” she said, glaring at Cortland.

            Cortland held up his hands in mute surrender.

            “There’s no Christina here,” Lee mused. “No Faldor. What the fuck?”

            Cortland frowned. “Try Jane Doe,” he said.

            Lee typed in the name Jane Doe and one match came up. “Got it,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Cortland pushed the button for the security door as Lee moved towards it. The lock buzzed open and Lee pulled the door, holding it open for Cortland. The corridor they were moving through was surrounded by two security doors adjacent to a small security room, where another guard was asleep.

“Now what?” Cortland asked.

“There’s the button,” Lee said. “We can’t reach it.”

“That’s because we’re not supposed to be able to. It’s a security measure. That’s why there’s another attendant.”

Lee glared at Cortland again. “Are you getting tired?”

“No,” Cortland said.

“Can’t you use Forces on it? Move it telekinetically?”

“Just a moment,” Cortland said. He stared at the button, reaching his hand out to it, symbolically moving himself beyond his own reach. “Through the Miracle of Christ,” he whispered, “grant me your invisible hand so that I might go forwad to help another of our sisters.”

Lee watched, trying to choke back her virulent atheism; she knew that no matter what paradigm Cortland practiced, it was effective. She watched as the button depressed. The door buzzed and the lock snapped open. She grabbed the door handle and pulled it open, again holding it for the Chorister.

The two quickly made their way through the corridors, using the signs on the walls, meant to help the attendants find their way, to find the room for Jane Doe. During their trip, they had once had to duck into an alcove to avoid a roving security officer, but other than that, they found the room with little trouble.

When they arrived, Lee looked into the small window on the locked door. She did not believe what she saw. She just stood there. Sensing something wrong, Cortland pushed her aside. When he looked in the window, he too saw Christina Faldor suspended from something, hanged, and quite dead.

“What the fuck is going on?” Lee asked, a fierce, but pained expression on her face.

“I don’t know,” Cortland said. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“As far as I knew, she shouldn’t have even been here. And then why kill herself?”

“Maybe it’s the Tech – “Cortland stopped in mid-sentence.

“What is it?” Lee asked, looking over her shoulder. “A guard?”

“No,” Cortland said, still looking around. “I thought I saw something again.

“Dammit, what the hell is going on here?” Lee said, a little too loud.

“Keep it together,” Cortland hissed.

“It could be the Nosferatu or the Malvakian, or God knows who. Want to chase them again?”

“Calm down,” Cortland said, putting his hand on Lee's shoulder..

Lee shook off Cortland’s hand.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “We could both use some rest. It’s been a long day.”

Lee nodded.

“Let’s go,” Cortland said.

This time, she let him lead her away from Christina’s room and the hanged body.

 

 

 

 

 

 

04 May 1999, 7:13 AM

Lee Rossdale’s Apartment

Santa Monica, California (map)

 

            Lee Rossdale awoke feeling good. She could hear the ocean breaking outside her window and the sun filtered in, warming her skin. Then she remembered Christina Faldor’s hanging body and snapped awake. She shook her head, suddenly not feeling so well. A sadness ached in her heart. She knew there was a war going on, but sometimes she just wanted to be left alone; to be able to live her life without worrying that her friends or acquaintances might end up dead or having to wonder why. On the flip side, she was one of the few people who could do something about it.

            Lee could smell coffee. She slipped out of the covers and pulled on some shorts that were on the floor, wiggling them on, then picked up a tight tank and pulled it over her head. She walked out of her bedroom into the living room. She was pretty sure the coffee was hazelnut from the aroma. She walked past the living room and into the kitchen, smiling at the coolness of the white tile underneath her. She smiled again as she saw a mug had been left out for her. She took the pot from underneath the brewer and poured coffee into the mug. She took the milk from the refrigerator and added a bit, stirring it with a spoon, which had also been left out. She moved back across the living room, shuffling her feet against the white carpet and towards the glass sliding door. She opened it and closed it behind her, moving out onto the balcony. In one of the two seats, Cortland sat, reading a newspaper, his coffee sitting on a small table between the two chairs.

            “Good morning,” Cortland said.

            “You’re up early,” Lee said.

            Cortland shrugged.

            Lee sat down next to Cortland and sipped on her coffee, holding the mug with both hands, looking out at the ocean and the bright morning rays. It was bright, but not blinding, since the sun rose in the east, on the other side of the building. She simply looked out at the crashing waves as the tide came in.

            “It’s a nice view,” Cortland said. “Being twelve stories up gives a different perspective. I like it.”

            Lee didn’t answer.

            Cortland looked at the paper again for a moment, allowing her her silence before setting it down, adding it to thepile of papers at his side. He carefully lifted a hardcover book which he had been using as a paperweight and replaced it as he added the last paper. He retrieved his coffee and took a sip.

            “You’re still thinking about her,” Cortland said.

            “How can I not?” Lee said, staring out at the ocean. “I woke up just like it was any other morning. Smiling at the tide crashing and warm under the sun. Then I saw her. How can I not think about her?”

            Cortland set his coffee down. “I know what you mean. I have been too.”

            Lee turned and looked at the Chorister with an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

            “Luckily you hadn’t recycled yet. I found about a week and a half worth of papers. I'm guessing your forgot last week.”

            “So sue me,” Lee said, turning back at the waves.

            “No it was good,” Cortland said. “I scoured every page for any disappearances or deaths that were reported. I even read all the obituaries. None of our people were mentioned anywhere. Not once.”

            Lee looked away from the waves, towards Cortland, as she sipped her coffee.

            “Plus, I used your computer to check my email,” Cortland continued. “Nate and Damon found that Akashic. Or at least they talked to his neighbors. He’s dead too. Yet that wasn’t mentioned in the paper either.”

            Lee shook her head.

            “I think once you get dressed and motivated, we should check out this museum. It’s over in Hollywood.”

            Lee simply sipped her coffee.

            “What do you think?”

            Lee nodded slightly, still staring at the ocean.

 

 

 

 

 

 

04 May 1999, 12:05 PM

Barnsdall Art Park Exhibitions

Hollywood, California (map)

 

Lee and Cortland sat waiting in the anteroom before the Museum curator’s office. Both were dressed in navy blue dress suits. Lee’s long hair was pulled up into a bun behind her and she wore thin, rectangular glasses, of which the lenses were plain glass. Cortland folded his arms over his chest uncomfortably.

“This isn’t going to work,” he whispered, leaning into Lee.

“Shut up,” she said. “Of course it is.”

Both quieted as the secretary set down her phone, stood up, and walked around her desk toward them. “Ms. Keller will see you now,” she told them.

Both Lee and Cortland stood. Lee led the way as Cortland smoothed his suit, running his hands down the jacket. The secretary held open the door to the curator’s office and then closed it behind them.

A small, mousy-looking woman with dark hair looked up from her desk and removed a gray pair of horn-rimmed glasses. “What can I do for you?” she asked.

“I’m Special Agent Winters and this is Agent Williams,” Lee said as both mages held out false FBI identification badges that Cortland had devised earlier in the day.

“I don’t usually get this kind of attention,” Ms. Keller said. “What exactly is it that you need from me?”

“We’re looking for someone associated with this museum,” Lee said.

“Did they steal something?” Keller asked.

“No ma’am,” Cortland said. “We just want to ask them a few questions.”

“I see,” Keller said.

“We’re looking for a someone who goes by the name of Kendra. She’s taller, with dark hair, thin . . . middle-aged, but a bit young for middle age. Probably only stops by at night time?” Lee said.

“Ah,” Keller said, smiling. “One of our benefactresses. Kendra Stone. Marvelous woman. I hope she isn’t associated with anything . . . untoward ?“

“No, I assure you not,” Lee said. “We’re actually hoping she can help us with our investigation.”

“Hmmm,” Keller said, not completely buying Lee’s story.

“Do you know where we might find her?” Cortland asked.

“She may be in tonight,” Keller offered.

“We were hoping you might be able to give us an address of residence,” Lee pushed.

“That’s confidential information,” Keller said, her eyes narrowing.

Lee shot a quick look at Cortland. She inhaled deeply. “I could come back with a subpoena for the information,” Lee said. “But I’d rather not have it come to something so nasty. I think you can let us know what we need.” As she said the last sentence, she took a step forward and waved her hands expressively: covering the most minute of arcane movements with a deceptively assuaging gesture.

Cortland bit his lip to not say anything. He did not like their deception in the first place. Breaking into a crime scene just to look around was one thing. But piling lie upon lie and then using magick to push another person’s mind and change their willful decision were not things he was comfortable with.

“I don’t know,” Keller said. The way she said her words was odd, as if they belied a struggle within where with she had to fight just to utter words that were not yes.

Lee didn’t hesitate. She was prepared for the fact that the curator might have been more than human, but a Kindred thrall: a ghoul. There was no proof, but she didn’t think a normal human could resist her charms, weak as that one may have been. For a flickering second she just wished the curator was a man; seducing men had never been a problem for her, magick or no magick. She stepped forward again, waving her hands, but this time only to move them from her side to lean on the edge of the curator’s desk.

“Ms. Keller. You will tell us the information. We can get it now or later. But I’d prefer now.” As she said each deliberate word, her pupils honed in not just on Keller’s eyes, but on her very fiber, as if moving closer was not an act of intimidation but a method of seeing her very brain closer, as if to examine and find the one spot of resistance so that she could destroy it.

Ms. Keller sighed loudly, almost as if she had forgotten to breathe for a moment. “She has a place in Glendale. It’s 1543 Park Ave.”

“You know it by heart?” Lee asked softly.

“I’ve been there several times,” Keller said, returning Lee’s continued stare.

“We appreciate your help, Ms. Keller,” Cortland said.

Lee straightened slowly. “Hopefully, we won’t need to return,” she said.

“Good luck,” Keller said, watching the two 'FBI agents' depart. She reached for the phone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

04 May 1999, 5:20 AM

Outside Kevin Bale’s Apartment

Redondo Beach, California (map)

 

            Two men in black suits and dark sunglasses walked to the back passenger side of the black GMC Yukon. One looked around carefully, making sure no one else was about in the very early morning, while the other helped a third man out of the SUV. The third man wore only a white undershirt, blue jeans, and sneakers; he looked as if he was drugged: his eyelids half shut and his limbs weak, his head rolling on his shoulders.

            Quickly the two men in black helped the third man into the duplex. One of them put a key into the lock on the door to the right and opened it, letting the other man in black carry the third man into the apartment. He swiftly deposited the man on a sofa and strode back out of the building. The one who had opened the door nodded at the other, affirming that no one had seen them.

            Both men walked back to the Yukon and climbed back in, taking off steadily, but quietly, and without any drama.

 

 

 

 

 

 

04 May 1999, 3:11 PM

House of Kendra Stone

Glendale, California (map)

 

Though still daytime, Lee had switched to a more comfortable black outfit of tight shorts and a tight top with short-short sleeves. Cortland had adorned black leather pants and a tight black top. Kendra was not at her posh Glendale home. They had hoped to catch the Kindred sleeping and have a great advantage over the nocturnal creature. No such luck.

“Should’ve known better than to think she’d tell her ghoul her real haven,” Lee said, looking through papers on a desk.

“You don’t know she was a ghoul,” Cortland said.

“I could feel her fighting my empathic push to give in,” Lee said, still ruffling through papers.

Cortland moved into another room. “Could’ve been a technocrat.”

“Don’t even joke,” Lee said.

“Me joke?” Cortland said.

“Hey,” Lee said. “Get back here. I found something.”

Cortland strode back into the office, looking over his shoulder as he did so, as if he was looking for something or someone. “What is it?” he asked.

“Daily planner. How very chic. Fuckin’ Toreadors.”

Cortland sat down on one of the brown leather seats in front of the desk. “Anything?”

“Unfucking real,” Lee said.

“Lee,” Cortland said, exasperated.

“Yeah, I’ll stop swearing, shut up,” she snapped. She looked down slowly at Cortland. Look at this,” she said. She pushed the small book over to him.

Cortland examined the page she had opened, then turned it, reading more. He flipped the next page . He said something softly to himself and made the sign of the cross. “They’re all here,” he said.

“That’s right,” Lee said. “She had ‘dates’ with each of the Tradition mages that have shown up dead.”

“And tonight she’s meeting someone called Cleopatra,” Cortland said, a desperate look in his eyes. “We have to save her.”

“I hope so,” Lee said, nodding.

“Any idea who she might be?”

“Well, I’d guess she’s a mage,” Lee said.

“I agree,” Cortland said.

“But how do we find her?” Lee asked.

“I don’t know,” Cortland said.

“Well you go call Damon and Nate on your mobile,” Lee said. “I’m gonna go check her answering machine.”

“Why?” Cortland asked, as Lee walked past him.

“Because that Keller bitch probably called to warn her boss about us.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

04 May 1999, 5:01 AM

Jeremy MacNeil’s Demesne

Downtown Los Angeles, California (map)

 

The bald black Brujah strutted towards Jeremy MacNeil. MacNeil was still engaged on his sofa with his two ghouls.

“Mission’s accomplished, yo,” Reggie said. “The Tremere knows his place.”

“Did you have to rough him up?” MacNeil asked, not looking up from his company.

“A little,” Reggie smiled, baring his teeth.

“Good,” MacNeil said, a glint in his eye, as he turned his head toward the other Brujah. MacNeil paused before speaking again. “So what do you think of the Barrio Brujah’s presents?”

“Yo, I don’t know,” Reggie said. “The reason our kind’s always stayed away from them is that we’re patient, constant, and eternal. They’re flighty, chaotic, and unpredictable, ya heard? A nigga never knows what they’re gonna do from one second to the next.”

“I know,” MacNeil said, as the ghoul on his right laid her head in his lap. “But it’s kinda fun isn’t it?” he said, stroking the hair of that ghoul and grinning.

“I guess,” Reggie said.

“Sometimes, an Anarch’s gotta take risks, right?” MacNeil asked.

“Yeah,” Reggie said, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah,” MacNeil said, grinning ear-to-ear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

04 May 1999, 4:52 PM

Starbucks

Downtown Los Angeles, California (map)

 

“Any more ideas?” Lee asked.

Cortland sipped on a latte. He shook his head.

Lee looked out past the terrace with frustration. “How are we supposed to save someone we can’t find?” she said.

“I don’t know,” Cortland said.

“I was hoping a break would help clear our minds, but I can’t really break. I just keep seeing Christina and that Tenenbaum guy. Dead. I can’t take another one, Cort. Shit, soon they’ll be coming for us.”

“You have to let the others go,” Cortland said. “They’ve gone to a better, more peaceful place.”

“Do you really believe that?” Lee said, skeptical.

“I do. With all my heart.”

Lee looked at Cortland.

“But we’re not there yet. We can’t despair. We have to keep fighting.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

04 May 1999, 6:52 PM

Kendra Stone’s Haven

West Hollywood, California (map)

 

Kendra usually was a slow riser. She liked to crawl out of her basement slowly, to savor the feel of the cold cement under her naked feet; she liked to shower as humans did, though she gave off no perspiration and rarely dirtied herself. It helped her think, to focus. She liked to enjoy each day of eternity. Such was the life of a Toreador, she figured. Even an Anarch Toreador. However, that night, she had a date. All Kindred had to drink the blood of humans. Of that there was no dispute. Yet most modern Kindred rarely killed. One did not need to. A Kindred could take plenty of sustenance from a few cautious sips each night. Leaving bodies scattered across modern cities caused too much of an upheaval. In order to protect the Masquerade, or their transparency to humans, something even Anarchs enforced with deadly precision, they did not want to draw that kind of attention. The masses were too easily riled, as her kind knew far too well.

For most of her lifetimes of existence, Kendra had been a quiet Kindred, an admirer of art. Rebellious only out of the chic of it, mostly. She was considered a conservative Anarch, which if she had been a Brujah or Gangrel would have been an insult. But for her, their disdain was a badge of honor. Toreador were better than those mongrels. And that was something her clan was about to prove. They were soon to make a move on the Brujah and MacNeil. First, they needed to eliminate their pawns: the mages. They were unpredictable little gnats. Plus they had powerful blood. She had not meant to at first, when they had suggested she turn some of them. She had not even known whom she was speaking to. But then she had tasted a mage’s blood and had to have more. Before long, she was addicted. She had drained mortals’ blood for over a century and had never had a true preference. Now it was all different. She needed the blood of the mages. And that night, she planned on getting more. So there was no wasting time getting ready–no more than she needed to look her best, that is. She would be able to savor a different form of eternity soon enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

04 May 1999, 6:48 PM

Outside the County Office Building

Downtown Los Angeles, California (map)

 

Cortland’s mobile phone rang. He stood to answer it, leaving Lee sitting on the stone steps alone.

“Hello?” he said.

“Cort, it’s Carr.”

“Carr,” Cortland said. “Where have you been?”

“In the Digital Web. Big Adept conference. I’ll tell you about it later. But right now I think your friend is in trouble.”

“What do you mean?” Cortland asked.

“You think a lick is going for this Cleopatra tonight, right?”

“Right,” Cortland said, watching the traffic go by.

“I think I’ve located her.”

“Where?” Cortland asked.

“Burbank,” Carr said on his end of the phone.

“Burbank?”

“Yeah. Where are you?”

“Downtown,” Cortland said.

“That’s a problem. Sun sets in . . . about twenty minutes.”

“It’ll take us at least forty to get there in this traffic,” Cortland said.

“Well, you better hope your vamp is really primping herself tonight.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

04 May 1999, 8:02 PM

Cleopatra’s Residence

Burbank, California (map)

 

Kendra smiled at the young woman who called herself Cleopatra. She certainly looked the part. Cleopatra was returning from the kitchen with two drinks, both Pinot Grigios; Kendra had refused, but Cleopatra would have none of it. The immortal predator looked her over as she walked slowly, a thin, tight-lipped smile on her face as she set the glasses down.

Cleopatra had long straight black hair that ran half of the way down her back–a length Kendra rarely saw any more. Admiringly, the Toreador reached up and ran her hand through the young mage’s dark hair. Cleopatra tilted her head towards the Kindred and smiled.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“I adore it,” the Toreador drawled. Kendra's eyes continued to feast on Cleopatra. A body-hugging, sleeveless beige dress fell nearly to the human's ankles, where an anklet sparkled over her left foot. The Kindredran her eyes back up the young girl’s body; the coup de grace for the outfit was the thin silver band that spiraled around her right arm.

“Looking for inspiration?” Cleopatra asked, sipping on her wine, looking keenly over the top of the crystal.

“Always,” Kendra breathed.

Kendra could smell her mage blood; she could smell the swirling chaotica it would bring: already feeling the effervescent shots it would send through her blood. Her arms twitched.

“Are you cool enough?” Cleopatra asked, watching Kendra as intently as she did the mage–only, perhaps caught up in her own addictive lust, the immortal did not realize it. “I abhor air conditioning. It’s so unnatural.” She sipped from her wine again.

“I’m perfect,” Kendra said.

“So agreeable,” Cleopatra mused.

Kendra inched closer on the sofa. This one smelled fresher than the others, more vibrant.

Cleopatra watched with amused silence as Kendra made her way closer. “So what exactly can I do for you?” she asked.

“Just sit right there,” Kendra commanded.

Cleopatra set down her wine and turned to face Kendra.

“That’s it,” Kendra whispered.

“I don’t usually go too far on the first date,” Cleopatra whispered.

“Don’t move,” Kendra barked, her eyes flaring red, the command laced with supernatural Presence, a power that no mortal could resist.

Cleopatra smiled. “I know what you are,” she whispered.

Kendra paused, just as her teeth had begun to protrude, her bloodlust nearly unbearable. “Silence,” she commanded.

“No,” Cleopatra said.

Kendra grabbed Cleopatra’s arms, gripping them tighter than a woman of her stature should have been able to.

Suddenly the doorbell rang.

“Don’t move,” Kendra said again, this time moving in closer. Moving towards Cleopatra’s neck.

The young mage could never have broken the Kindred’s grip had it been tighter. However, Kendra Stone did not believe that the girl could continue to resist her mental powers and had not been paying enough attention to that grip.

“I wouldn’t want to be impolite to important guests,” Cleopatra said. “But if you want to try and kiss me later, we’ll see.” Cleopatra suddenly pulled away from Kendra and stood, walking backwards and smiling at Kendra–whose jaw could do nothing but hang impotently, shocked–a glint in her eye and a smile of polite innocence which was belied by the biting undertone of her words.

Cleopatra opened the door to find a young blonde woman and a very large man with a nearly shaven head, both dressed in black. “Yes?” she said politely.

“Are you Cleopatra?” the woman asked.

“Why I usually only work through referrals,” Cleopatra said coyly, leaning on the side of the doorframe. Cleopatra noticed that the man and woman looked frantic. Suddenly the man pulled her out of the doorway and into the front lawn. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

As Cortland pulled her, Lee asked, half-turning: “and is that woman Kendra Stone?”

“Yes,” Cleopatra said. “Let me go!”

“That woman is here to kill you!” Lee hissed.

Cleopatra stopped struggling.

“That’s right,” Lee said.

“Cortland had one hand around the woman’s waist; the other was dropping from the gold cross around his neck. He bent his head around Cleopatra’s to look at Lee. “It’s confirmed. She has an active avatar. “ He was referring to the awakened magickal soul that all mages had.

“Why don’t you scream it out?” Cleopatra said.

“Do you know who that woman was?” Lee asked.

“A vampire,” Cleopatra said, a naive grin on her face.

Cortland let her go, but looked towards the door. When Cleopatra turned around, she noticed a large sword in his hand. She quickly looked up and down the nighttime street. “What the hell?”

Cortland tossed a pistol towards Lee.

“Hold on,” Lee said to the young mage, catching the weapon with her right hand and placing her left on Cleopatra’s shoulder.

Cortland walked to the door and looked back at Lee.

“I’ve got you on mindlink,” Lee said softly, opening her eyes back up. “Go.”

Cortland moved slowly into the house.

“What do you two think you’re doing? I was just having a nice time with a new client.”

“A client?” Lee said. “I don’t care what you think you were doing. She was going to kill you.”

“It looked like she was going to kiss me,” Cleopatra said coyly.

Lee nodded knowingly. “Got it. Feed on you. Not kill. Feed. That’s how there’s no marks.”

“What do you mean?” Cleopatra asked.

“At least three other mages have turned up dead with no wounds on their bodies. She must have drained them and then licked the wounds to cover the puncture marks.”

“Wait,” Cleopatra said. “I thought that they weren’t supposed to kill when they feed. Just drink.”

“Usually that’s true," Lee said. But something’s very wrong about that one.”

Cortland came out of the house, holding only a sword hilt. “Nothing,” he said.

“Where’d the sword go?” Cleopatra asked.

“Matter trick,” Cortland said tersely.

“Ah,” Cleopatra said, raising her eyebrows.

Cortland folded his arms over his chest. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, jerking his head towards Lee’s car.

Lee tossed her gun at him and nodded in agreement. “Right.”

“Wait, what’s going on?” Cleopatra asked.

“We should go somewhere else to talk,” Lee said.

“Well our clothes don’t match at all,” Cleopatra said. “At least let me go change.”

Cortland and Lee looked at each other disbelievingly. The big man just smiled and shrugged, as if to accuse Lee of complicity in the crime of taking too much time by her very gender.

Lee flicked him off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

04 May 1999, 9:27 PM

The Roxy

West Hollywood, California (map)

 

Cortland looked around the loud rock club with skepticism. Not only did he doubt that this was the best place to talk, but somehow, he had been talked into bringing them a round of drinks. He carefully made his way through the throngs of people packed into the club. To his left, the bulk of the crowd was gathered in front of the stage, where a live band was playing. He finally made his way to a back booth and handed Cleopatra–now adorned in a tight black skirt and a tight grey top (but with the same metal spiraling arm band)–a white wine.

“Pinot Grigio , just like you wanted,” he said loudly. Cleopatra simply nodded and smiled. The Chorister then set a Heineken bottle in front of Lee and sat down himself with a Michael Shea’s.

“Both beer drinkers, eh?” Cleopatra said, eyeing their drinks.

“Tonight anyway,” Lee said. “Usually I like Tequila.”

“Ah,” Cleopatra said. “I love Margueritas.”

Lee, resting her elbows on the table, nervously ran the nail of her thumb along her bottom lip. “Right,” she said.

On the drive to West Hollywood from Burbank, Lee had informed Cleopatra of the very real danger to her and had covered what they knew, as circumstantial as most of it was so far. However, the two Tradition mages knew little or nothing as of yet about Cleopatra.

“So how is it that we’ve never heard of you?” Cortland asked, folding his arms over his chest.

“Well,” Cleopatra said. “I keep very exclusive company.”

“What do you do?” Lee asked, still rubbing her lip.

“I’m a muse.”

Cortland and Lee looked at each other.

“A muse, you know?”

“What do you mean?” Cortland finally asked.

“I inspire people,” Cleopatra said.

“Are you serious?” Lee asked.

“Well it’s not like I have your looks, honey,” Cleopatra said.

Lee shrugged.

“Not that I’m hurting, I know,” Cleopatra said. She paused to sip from her wine. “But I do inspire.”

“Anything in particular?” Cortland said.

“Yes,” Cleopatra said, almost hissing the ‘S’ sound, sitting forward. “I inspire revolution. I inspire free thought. I think that thirst to break from the bullshit that you read in papers and hear on CNN just made me so sick I awakened spontaneously. Or something like that.” She waved her hand dismissively as if it all meant nothing.

Lee pursed her lips, raising her eyebrows at Cortland. He only shrugged, sipping on his beer.

“What kind of stuff?” Lee asked nonchalantly.

“Well, what’s a good example?” Cleopatra said, looking upward. “Oh, I know,” she said, pointing at Lee suddenly. “That Matrix movie. That was all me.”

“You wrote it?” Cortland asked.

“No,” Cleopatra said. “Don't you listen? I inspired it.”

“How?” Lee asked.

“Oh, a bit of this,” Cleopatra said, pointing to her smile, “a bit of hips, and then BAM a bit of magick and a few sudden intelligent words from the pretty plaything and their poor minds just spin.”

“Fascinating,” Lee said, nodding over her beer.

“Is Cleopatra your given name?” Cortland asked.

Cleopatra laughed. “Please. No parent is that cruel. Or prophetic. It’s my stage name. My nom de plume. Call it what you will. I like to think of it as my awakened name. With the Technocracy tracing credit cards and leases and rental agreements etcetera, etcetera, I would be mad to use my real name.”

Cortland and Lee exchanged nervous looks.

“So you know all about the Technocracy?” Lee asked, leaning back in the booth.

“Just a bit. Enough to be scared,” Cleopatra said.

They all sipped their drinks and were quiet for a moment.

“My real name is Alisha Jones,” Cleopatra finally said. “I don’t even want you to repeat it. I just wanted you to know. I sense I can trust you.”

“Why?” Cortland asked.

“I can sense things like that. Spirit sense. I can see your true insides. You,” she said to Cortland. “Are a very good man. Holy. Celestial Chorus?”

Cortland nodded. “Thank you. Hey,” he said. “In all the confusion I didn’t even give you my name. It’s Cortland. Cortland O’Connell.”

“Charmed,” Cleopatra said, offering him her hand and shaking. “That must make you Raziel?” Cleopatra said to Lee.

“What?” Lee asked, sitting forward.

“I had a dream I’d be saved by two holy creatures, Raziel and the Sword. That’s all I remember. He had the sword,” she thumbed at Cortland.

Cortland held up his forefinger at Cleopatra, then at Lee, mutely, as if he was thinking of something but just couldn’t say it.

“Lee Rossdale,” Lee told a confused Cleopatra, who just shrugged.

Cortland was about to speak when a wild-looking man flailed against their table. “I found you!” he said.

It was Muddy Waters, the Malkavian they had met the previous night.

Cortland looked frustrated, as if he still had something he wanted to say, but Lee cut him off, standing up and grabbing Muddy by his raggedy flannel.

“She was dead when we got there!” she said.

“Too bad,” Muddy Waters said, his eyes rolling indiscriminately and independently in his head. “Guess they all were pretty sad.”

“What do you mean?” Lee said, pushing him back, andletting go of the Kindred.

“All three killed themselves.”

“Who?” Cortland asked.

“All three of your little orphans.”

“Some help you were,” Lee said.

“I told you they were dead,” Muddy protested, holding his arms up.

            “But you said they were alive,” Cortland said.

            “Well that too,” Muddy said, dropping his arms back to his side.

            “Which is it?” Lee asked, annoyed.

            “Alive again,” he said.

            “What?” Lee asked.

            “Go to Redondo Beach. You’ll find one back now.”

            Cortland, Lee, and Cleopatra all looked at each other. None of them were exactly sure what he was talking about.

            “What do–“ Lee began, but her voice trailed off inaudibly under the noise of the club. The Malkavian was gone.

            “Hmmm,” Cleopatra said. “Neat trick.”

            “Dammit,” Lee said.

            “Lee,” Cortland chastised.

            “Not now,” Lee snapped.

            “Aren’t we going to go?” Cleopatra asked, shrugging.

            Cortland and Lee shared surprised looks before Cortland smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go.”

            “This is fucked up,” Lee said under her breath, before chugging her beer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

04 May 1999, 10:48 PM

Outside Kevin Bale’s Apartment

Redondo Beach, California (map)

 

            Lee and Cleopatra followed Cortland up the dimly lit sidewalk to Kevin Bale’s Duplex. They could see that there was a light on; it appeared as if someone was home. Lee and Cortland exchanged nervous looks; neither was sure what they would find, nor prepared for the answer to come. Behind them, Cleopatra waited with rapt anxiousness, somewhat thrilled at the change of pace this afforded her from her everyday routine.

            Cortland knocked on the door and waited. After a moment, a young white man answered the door. “Yes?” he said.

            “Kevin Bale?” Cortland asked.

            “Yes,” he answered slowly, a blank look on his face.

            Lee pushed past Cortland. “Do you know who I am?” she asked.

            Bale looked at her, then at Cleopatra over her shoulder, then at Cortland. He looked at Lee again, shaking his head. “No, should I?”

            Lee looked away in frustration, rolling her eyes and attempting to avert the onrush of anger that she could feel inside of her. This man knew her well and was an orphan mage. What the hell was going on? Had he too died at an asylum? Or not? Lee looked back at him with near despair evident on her face.

            “I’m sorry,” Bale said. “Is there something wrong? Who are you people?”

            “No,” Cortland said,” I’m sorry. “We have the wrong Kevin Bale. Our mistake.”

            The young man looked confused, but shrugged acceptingly. “No sweat.”

            “Have a good night,” Cortland said.

            “But,” Lee began.

            “Take care,” Cortland said, over Lee’s protests. He grabbed her arm forcefully and led her back towards the car. Cleopatra moved aside to let him guide her there, watching them with confused passivity.

            “What’s going on?” Lee whispered. “Why did we just leave? That’s him! Someone must have tampered with his memory. Shit, it could’ve been that fucking Malkvian for all we know. That sick fuck!”

            Cortland shook his head softly, his head tilted gently downward.

            Instinctively, Lee’s anger faded as she sensed the profound loss inside of Cortland, as she sensed a truth greater than her own impotent rage–an anger stifled precisely because her own avatar had already whispered to her subconscious what Cortland had thought to check for personally. She already knew anger was useless.

            “He had no avatar,” Cortland said softly.

            Lee went through the motions any way, her voice answering even while her conscious mind reeled at the truth she did not have to be told.

            “He was no mage. Either his avatar has been destroyed or that’s not the Kevin Bale that you and I knew,” Cortland said.

            “What does that mean?” Cleopatra asked.

            “I don’t know,” Cortland said.

            Lee spun away from the other two, swinging punches into the air at invisible, untouchable foes. “Dammit,” she swore.

            “What’s going on?” Cleopatra asked.

            “Bad things,” Cortland said softly.

            “We’re so stupid,” Lee said. She turned back to her companions, a bitter smile on her face, chuckling. “Christine was checked into the psych ward as Jane Doe. Then she died. Another nameless crazy dead. Who cares, right? I bet she had an avatar.”

            “What are you getting at?” Cortland asked.

            “Meanwhile, across town, the Progenitors have worked up an adult clone from her DNA, given it to the NWO for processing– “

            “NWO?” Cleopatra asked.

            “New World Order,” Cortland hissed without looking at her. “Technocrats.”

            “Ah,” the orphan said.

            “Then,” Lee continued, waving her hands wildly as she talked, “they reprogram the clone to not only be Kevin Bale, but to be a responsible, obedient citizen. And I bet the same thing’s happened to Christine and Alvin.”

            “That’s all speculation,” Cortland said.

            “Right, but not far-fetched,” Lee said, stepping closer to Cortland again.

            “No,” Cortland said, shaking his head.

            “And these are orphans. Someone the MIBs could take in and out with no big deal. Insert them drugged up as John and Jane Does, keep them off balance so they can’t escape, and then clone and train their replacement and make them kill themselves,” Lee laughed bitterly. “And then replace them. No one’s the wiser. They might even give them a new job to get off their feet. We could go ask.”

            Cortland shook his head.

            “But, they couldn’t just make Tradition mages disappear like that. They’d be noticed. They’d be missed. Moreover, our defenses are geared towards detecting intrusions by Technocrats. But a seemingly friendly, beautiful vampire?”

            “So you think they put her up to it?” Cortland asked.

            “They must have. But how did they get her addicted to mage bloo?. That’s the question.”

            Cleopatra was wide-eyed. She knew of magick and was instinctively capable of much. Yet she had only tangently known of the players involved and the lengths to which each faction went to participate. She had heard the term Ascension War before. What mage had not? But only now was she fully beginning to understand the import of that term.

            “MIB?” Cleopatra asked, the term just sinking in.

            “Men in Black,” Cortland explained. “NWO operatives.”

            “Are you serious?” Cleopatra asked.

            “Yeah, guess whose Muse was behind that hit movie?” Lee asked.

            “Do you think they’d still be watching these clones?” Cleopatra asked.

            “Possibly,” Lee said, shrugging.

            Wordlessly, Cleopatra pointed across the street and down a ways. There, a boxy black car sat immobile. As they all squinted, they could make out two men in the car. Both were wearing sunglasses and white shirts under jackets.

            “Son of a bitch,” Lee cursed.

            The car down the street roared into motion, its lights turning on even as it sped past.

            “In the car!” Lee yelled.

            Immediately, Cortland and even Cleopatra swung into action, quickly climbing into the black Eclipse. Lee dove into the driver’s seat through the window, not even bothering to open the door, and had the car started and almost gone before Cortland could pull the door closed.

            “Hang on,” Cortland said over his shoulder to Cleopatra.

            Lee was the A-Team’s driver. All the things that racecar drivers could do, she could do. The things that police officers and Secret Service agents were trained to do, she could do. Her key function on the team was a telepath and seductress. Her secondary function was getaway driver. She figured she’d be damned before she was outdriven by Men in Black.

 

 

 

 

 

 

04 May 1999, 11:01 PM

Intersection of Carter and Robinson

Gardena, California (map)

 

            The black Eclipse slid through thered light, its back end sliding as Lee cranked the wheel to the right. She downshifted and caught the tires again and sped towards the MIB’s car. They had long reckoned that it had to be charged up more than it seemed to be. It had led them further than they would have thought it could have. Lee’s car should have been much faster.

            Getting through traffic was one thing, she had swerved between cars and pedestrians and oncoming traffic most of the way. But Lee’s eyes were focused on those things and the MIBs. Not telephone poles. It was Cortland who saw the telephone pole start to fall.

            “Watch out!” he yelled, bracing himself for a bad collision.

            Lee managed to slam on the breaks and slide the car away from the huge pole, but the car’s slowing was enough to give them the opportunity they needed. Suddenly Lee's windshield was smashed by a thick chain. All three mages put their hands up to ward off the shattering glass.

            Hands reached through the rear windshield and grabbed Cleopatra, pulling her roughly out of the vehicle.

            “What the?” Lee said, jumping out of the car and heading back towards Cleopatra and her attacker, but was met by a fist right in her face: the force of which knocked her off of her feet and sent her reeling backwards.

            Cortland roared out of his door with a loud bellow, leading with his sword. That was enough to keep his attacker at bay. Swords scared vampires; decapitation could end an eternity. The Chorister saw a biker-punk staring him down from a few feet away. He could see another by Lee’s door, one behind the car, dragging Cleopatra, and a fourth behind that one, firing an automatic rifle into the air, scaring off any onlookers.

            Cortland held off the one in front of him with the sword, while swiveling his head back and forth. The one that had been by Lee jumped on top of the car, and was ready to pounce on him. The one in front of him had not been scared of him. He had been waiting for back up.

            “Is that gasoline I smell?” Cortland asked as he reached into the pocket of his black leather pants and produced a Zippo. The vampire in front of him looked confused, then smiled at what he figured was supposed to be scary. The biker-punk looked up to the car roof at the dark-skinned gang-banger.

            “Ooh, fire,” the biker-punk said. He thrust his hand towards the flame. “Real children of Caine don’t fear fire,” he hissed, his teeth protruding from his smile.

            “No but perhaps you should fear the wrath of God!” Cortland said loudly as he tossed the lighter at the vampire, invoking the word of God as a trigger to his Forces magick; suddenly the vampire was engulfed in flames.

            Even as the biker-punk screamed and writhed in pain, Cortland dove back into the car and avoided the descending gang-banger. Cortland jumped back out, sword tip first, but the vampire parried his thrust with his leather-clad arm and counter-attacked, punching Cortland with a force that he had never felt before. The Chorister immediately fell to the ground. The gang-banger reared his fist to strike again, when the Falcon flew into its face and started clawing. The vampire howled with rage. Soon enough, the gang-banger threw the bird violently away, sending it ricocheting off of the ground, but that was enough. Cortland was able to roll away and retrieve his sword just as the vampire drove his fist into the pavement. As the gang-banger pulled his fist out of the ground, Cortland brought the sword down over his neck, cleanly separating his head from his shoulders.

            Lee probably could have been killed by the blow she had suffered getting out of the car, but she seemed to have a knack for surviving, a luck her peers were envious of. Regardless, she was not as dazed as the gang-banger would have thought. She quickly recovered and moved back into the car and reached into the glove compartment. She could see Cortland tussling with the gang-banger and trusted that he would make out okay. Retrieving a pistol, she leaned out the broken back window and saw the vampire who had taken Cleopatra drop her in what looked like anger. He was pointing at the fourth attacker with the automatic weaponm and then back at Cleopatra. As the fourth advanced on Cleopatra, his intent was clear enough. Lee fired a shot from her gun. The weapon flared with exceptional brilliance and a shot burst into the Kindred with a shower of sparks. A look of absolute shock swept over his face, as he fell to his knees, a smoking wound in his chest, then fell on his face, finaly dead.

            The vampire who had taken Cleopatra out of the car, who was dressed in sleek black, saw Lee with her smoking gun in the car and Cortland with his sword advancing on the other side. He immediately chose to run. Lee collapsed onto her rear, sitting against the wall in the back seat of the car. Cortland ran to Cleopatra to make sure she was okay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

05 May 1999, 12:13 AM

Lee Rossdale’s Apartment

Santa Monica, California (map)

 

            None of them had said much on the way home. They all had a lot to absorb. They each had their cuts and bruises. They were all trying to think of how the latest turn of events fit into the puzzle. There was a lot going on in Los Angeles right then, and they all seemed to be at ground zero. Cortland was sure that the vampires were Sabbat, not Anarchs or Camrilla. Both of the latter groups would disdain such a public display of power. Only the Sabbat would move with such callous disregard to the Masquerade. They had all been lucky to escape before the police had arrived. But many questions were still abound. Why had the Sabbat attacked them? Why then? Had the MIBs led them there on purpose? Was it coincidence? What were they after? Random mayhem or more? There were too many questions.

            “Why didn’t that vamp finish you?” Lee asked Cleopatra as they collapsed into the soft furniture in Lee’s living room.

            “Well, a little Entropy spell told me that my skin was his weakness. I suddenly saw myself with darker skin. So I told him I was part black and he moved away. Beat me what that was all about,” she said.

            “Must have been a Ventrue,” Cortland said. “They have rarefied tastes. They can only feed on certain hosts.”

            “Hmmm,” Cleopatra shrugged. “Interesting. Well, hey. What was that gun you fired, Lee? How did that take out the vampire?”

            “Phosphorous rounds,” Lee said. “They work just like fire on Kindred. They cause wounds they can’t heal. Mine blew right through his chest. Too bad for him.”

            “Where’d you learn that?” Cortland asked.

            “Sebastian,” Lee said.

            Cortland nodded knowingly.

            “Sebastian?” Cleopatra asked.

            “He’s the leader of my craft, the Pendragons,” Lee said.

            “Craft?” Cleopatra asked.

            “It’s kind of like a smaller, unofficial Tradition,” Lee said.

            “Sounds interesting,” Cleopatra said.

            Lee stood up and walked into her office. She returned shortly with a laptop. She opened it on the glass table in front of Cleopatra. “I have a whole bunch of files on Sebastian, the Pendragons, and what they’re all about. Feel free to look through them tonight or tomorrow. I’m exhausted.”

            “Me too,” Cortland said.

            Lee looked back and forth between her two guests. “You want to share my bed Cort? Give the couch to Cleopatra?”

            Cortland nodded.

            Cleopatra raised her eyebrows.

            “Not like that,” Lee said, rubbing Cleopatra’s head as she walked by. “Come on,” she said to Cortland.

            “We were being watched again,” Cortland said as they walked to the bedroom.

            “The MIBs?”

            “No. The Nosferatu. I sensed him as we pulled away.”

            “Tomorrow,” Lee said. “Tomorrow.”

            Cleopatra watched the other two mages walk into the bedroom and then turned her attention to the computer before her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

05 May 1999, 6:56 PM

Sewer Alcove

Huntington Park, California (map)

 

            On opposite sides of the opening underneath the city, the twisted monstrosities known as Nosferatu were curled up in piles of trash. Although each member of that clan was twisted and deformed in their own unique way, each was something far less than human. Both men had rotting faces, spaced and jagged teeth, and rotting gaps where noses should have been. One had long strands of hair still poking out of his rotting skull. He wore the tatters of what was once a business suit: now a reeking cesspool of bacteria and dried blood. The other was bald and wore a green jogging suit over his thin near-decomposed body.

            The one with hair yet was Arvid, a Camarilla Nosferatu. The bald one was Owen, an Anarch information broker. Normally, members of the two factions did not get along well. However, the clan Nosferatu was known for being especially friendly, even to members of its antitribu–or those that were part of the Sabbat.

            Each awoke with the fall of the sun below the horizon. They sat up and looked at each other, stretching. Only then did they notice the intruders in their lair.

            “Good evening,” a blonde, all in black, said.

            Each Nosferatu stood slowly, as if ready to pounce.

            All three of the mages lifted pistols and aimed them. A dark-haired woman aimed hers at the Nosferatu with hair, while a huge hulking man lowered his at the bald Nosferatu. The other woman, the blonde, stepped forward: shifting her gun back and forth between the two Nosferatu. “No doubt you know who we are,” she said.

            The two Kindred exchanged menacing glares.

            “And no doubt your enhanced senses can smell the phosphorous residue on my weapon. It dusted a Sabbat last night,” she said. “So no sudden moves and neither of you will have permanent burn marks on your chests.”

            “What do you want?” the bald one, Owen, asked.

            “Information,” Lee said.

            “That doesn’t come free,” Owen hissed.

            “It does today,” Lee said. “MacNeil’s ghouls told me about you. You must be Owen.”

            “So you’re MacNeil’s lackeys now, eh?” Owen said.

            “Owen,” Lee said slowly, cocking the hammer on her pistol. "Yes or no?"

            “Yes,” Owen hissed between his jagged teeth.

            “But you,” Lee said, looking at the other. “I don’t know you.”

            “My name is Arvid,” the other Nosferatu said. “Sorry I didn’t have time to prepare,” he added, running his hand through his wispy hair.

            “It shows,” Lee said. “I think you forgot your face somewhere.”

            Arvid growled.

            “Arvid. Not a very tough name,” Lee said, rubbing her temple softly with one hand.

            “Sorry to disappoint,” Arvid said, spreading his arms wide.

            “Interesting,” Lee said. “That’s what you say. But your mind betrayed you. You had Camarilla all over your brain.”

            “You can read thoughts?” Owen asked.

            “That’s right,” Lee said. “Us mages are terribly resourceful.”

            “So why not just pick your information out of our brains?” Owen asked.

            “I don’t like to work that way,” Lee said. “Not if I can help it.”

            “Obviously,” Arvid said.

            “We’re not here to make enemies,” Cortland said. “But you do owe us one for leading us into that Brujah trap.”

            Owen laughed. “Good point. Didn’t think you’d make it through that.”

            “Cute,” Lee said. “Why’d you do that?”

            “Because your kind has been working with the Sabbat,” Owen said. “We needed to start taking action before you did too much damage.”

            “Wait,” Lee said. “You’ve seen our kind working with the Sabbat?”

            “Yes,” Owen hissed. “Tall men in Black suits. Sometimes a woman in beige.”

            Lee and Cortland shot each other quick looks.

            Lee chuckled. “I’ll be damned.”

            “You might not like it,” Owen said softly.

            “Maybe not,” Lee breathed. Slowly, she lowered her weapon. “Believe it or not, we are on the same side.”

            “Obviously,” Arvid said, sitting back down.

            “Seriously,” Lee said. “Just as you all have different factions, so do we. Just as Anarchs and Camarilla fight and as Anarchs and Sabbat fight, there are different factions of mages.”

            “No doubt,” Owen said. “But not easy to tell apart.”

            “No, I suppose not,” Lee said. “But you have to understand that those Men in Black have been hunting our kind too. And the only reason they’re working with the Sabbat is to get you all to kill each other.”

            “I know you were following us last night and saw us fight those Sabbat,” Cortland said. “So you should know that we were chasing those Men in Black before that.”

            “Or maybe just following them back to your base,” Owen said.

            “No,” Lee said. “Listen. If you show us the Sabbat base we’ll call things even between us. You led us into a trap to kill us. We’ll forgive that if you tell us how to find the Sabbat. There are some things we need to clear up with them.”

            “Clear up?” Owen hissed.

            “Permanently,” Cortland said.

            “Ah,” Owen said, looking over their weapons.

            “But no deals after that,” Arvid whispered. “No deals after that.”

            “Fine,” Lee said, looking between the two Nosferatu. “Fine.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

05 May 1999, 7:32 PM

City Park

Gardena, California (map)

 

            Cortland, Lee, and Cleopatra huddled in the bushes amongst the shadows at the City Park in Gardena. It was there that they had been instructed that the Sabbat would be gathering that night. They could make out four figures around one of the sandy volleyball pits. Dim park lights illuminated them enough. The four figures were huddled closely, talking excitedly.

            “Too good to be true,” Lee said.

            “What?” Cortland whispered.

            “Well, there’s the Ventrue there from the other night. And Kendra.”

            “The Toreador that came to me?” Cleopatra whispered.

            “That’s right,” Lee said.

            “Let’s follow through with the plan we came up with, only we’ll nab Kendra and take her to MacNeil. I have an idea about that.” Lee turned to Cleopatra. “Leave the Ventrue for last. He’ll probably run again. Okay?”

            “Okay,” Cleopatra said nervously, unconsciously fingering the pistol in her right hand.

            “Let’s do it quick,” Lee said, crouching.

            “God be with you,” Cortland whispered.

            “Just you be with me,” Lee said, pointing her index finger at Cortland.

            The Chorister only smiled.

            The two women moved around the bush carefully and started to move toward the group.

            Cortland moved to his knees and began to pray to God. He focused his faith in the Almighty to aid his own personal goals, invoking the power of God through the medium of himself. “Flicker, God. Flicker,” he said to himself.

            All four Sabbat looked upward as the park lights above them began to flicker.

            “What the fuck?” the Ventrue said.

            Kendra shrugged.

            The other two, pale businessmen in suits, looked coldly beyond the other two and looked at the two women who approached. With a few words to their packmates, Kendra and the Ventrue turned around.

            “You have attacked us,” Lee said loudly. “That was unwise. We are powerful magies And we know your weaknesses.”

            “We shall see,” one of the Sabbat in a suit hissed.

            “I shall bring down the sun to shine on you through the night’s dark. Open the rays of heaven dear God!” Lee said, her voice crescendoing as she spoke.

            None of the Sabbat took her seriously until they were suddenly blinded by a light from above, as the Park lamps exploded with brilliance; to them it was as if the very sun had lowered to five feet above their heads and shone on them. All of the vampires screamed, expecting death to follow: their immortality shriveling into cowering puddles of fear.

            Lee and Cleopatra, already linked by the Pendragon’s Correspondence sense, had their eyes closed and were never blinded. They could see just as well as if their eyes had been open and it was the middle of the day. Each raised a pistol loaded with phosphorous shells; only feet away by then, they each fired a round into the chest of the dour businessmen. Without hesitating as the two fell, they grabbed Kendra and began to move backwards. As the lights faded again, the Ventrue dared open his eyes, only to see two of his comrades with burning holes in their chests and the third being dragged away. He ran.

            Kendra would not stop squirming, panicked as she was. Cortland came over to help. “Undead aren’t alive but they’re not dead,” he said to Cleopatra. “Life Magick won’t work on them, but neither will matter.”

            “But combined?” Cleopatra guessed.

            “Focus,” Lee said to the young orphan. “You and Cort shut her down. We need her.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

05 May 1999, 8:07 PM

Jeremy MacNeil’s Demesne

Downtown Los Angeles, California (map)

 

            “I’ve got a present for you,” Lee said, shoving the straight-jacketed Kendra at MacNeil.

            “What the hell is this?” Axel asked, standing beside the Brujah Lord. He looked at the three mages, only two of whom he recognized.

            “Well, after we discovered she was addicted to mage’s blood—a deadly addiction, I might add, at least to her victims—we found out she was led into the addiction by the Sabbat, and then fed targets by our enemies and yours, the Technocracy. Earlier tonight we found her consorting with three other Sabbat, one of whom attacked us last night.”

            MacNeil ran a hand through his dark, wavy hair.

            “As another present, we killed three of the four that attacked us last night. And two of the three we met tonight. Only the Ventrue bitch that ran away twice survived.”

            “Impressive,” MacNeil said, smiling at Axel.

            “Oh,” Lee said. “So besides discrediting the Toreador clan with this fiasco and taking out five of your enemies, we found Owen working with a Camarilla Nosferatu, Arvid. I’m sure you’ll be able to use that against him somehow.

            MacNeil applauded loudly. “God, I love you guys,” he said standing.

            “Not bad,” even Axel had to admit.

            “Thank you,” MacNeil said, offering Lee his hand.

            “No problem,” Lee said, accepting it.

            “Was my information helpful for you?” he asked.

            “Very,” she said. “We’ve learned that the Technocracy has been mounting a major offensive against our people here.”

            “Is there anything else I can do?” MacNeil asked.

            Lee smiled. “Two things.”

            “Name it.”

            “First, a meeting with this guy, the Czar,” Lee said.

            “Done,” MacNeil said.

            “Second, I need you to hold onto her for awhile,” Lee said, pointing at a terrified Kendra, whom Reggie, the bald, black Brujah now had a firm grip on.

            “Why?” MacNeil asked, his eyes narrowing.

            “It’s simple,” Lee began to explain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

05 May 1999, 9:45 PM

Cleopatra’s Residence

Burbank, California (map)

 

            Their newfound friends, the Brujah, had also fixed the windows on Lee’s car; as it turned out, Reggie owned a chop shop. Cleopatra waved as Lee and Cortland drove away. It had been a weird couple of days and she had a lot to think about. She also had some big decisions to make. Did she really want to get involved in this kind of world? It was dangerous. Potentially deadly. She had seen that from a multiplicity of angles. Yet it was exciting. She wanted to meet this A-Team, to learn more about Tradition mages. She wanted to meet other Pendragons and see what they were all about. She very much wanted to meet Chip and Sebastian, the founders.

            Cleopatra, more than anything, needed a bath. She had plenty to think about and plenty of relaxation due. Thus, she was thankful that her bath was uninterrupted. However, when she stepped out of the bathroom, in only a towel, two Men in Black were waiting for her.

            “You need to come with us ma’am,” one of them said. “We have a few questions for you.”

            “Go ahead and ask,” Cleopatra said, her insides twisting upside down.

            “You need to come with us,” the man said.

            “I don’t think so,” Cleopatra said.

            “I don’t think you understand.” The man pulled a small cylinder out of his jacket pocket and held it up to her with one hand, even as the other adjusted his sunglasses. “You need to forget the last few days ever happened.”

            The small cylinder emitted a small burst of light. The Man in Black put the device back into his pocket.

            “Now come with us,” he said, taking her by her wrist.

            “I don’t think so, she said, looking at his hand on hers.

            The Man grasping her looked at his partner, eyebrows raised above the tops of his sunglasses, confused as to how the procedure hadn’t made her docile.

            “Like I told the lick, my mind isn’t easily warped,” she said. With that, she grasped the man’s wrist with her free hand, driving her thumbnail into his flesh. He tried to pull away, but she resisted. A small trickle of blood came out of the wound and that was all she needed to activate her life magick; sensing his blood and the pattern that ran throughout his body, identical in each cell, she rended the cells she could see and pushed that distortion through his body like a violent and sudden cancer. The man screamed in pain, tearing his hand away too late.

            Faster than Cleopatra could follow, the second man raised an odd looking pistol, its barrel thicker, with a tube running along the side, working as some kind of an air duct. A small screen deployed from the dorsal side of the barrel, opening a targeting screen. Still in one smooth motion, he lined up his aim with Cleopatra and pressed the trigger: firing a dart right towards Cleopatra’s heart.

            Cleopatra’s eyes went wide as she knew that there was nothing she could do. Despite the fact that the one man was still holding his wrist in pain, The Men in Black would take her and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

05 May 1999, 10:29 PM

Cleopatra’s Residence

Burbank, California (map)

 

            Cortland and Lee moved through Cleopatra’s bedroom. It was empty. There were voices in the living room, though. They moved quickly, hoping that they were not too late. Cortland peered around the corner, his sword in hand. Lee was behind him, also leaning against the wall.

            Suddenly they heard a scream of pain and Cortland turned the corner. He looked out just in time to see the Man in Black lining his weapon up with Cleopatra’s chest. It fired. It was all Cortland could do to beg God for mercy.

            “Miss her, God!” Cortland breathed, holding his hand out desperately, as if his hand was a physical force through which God would manifest, only in the path of the dart and not where its normal spatial limitations lingered.

            Lee sidestepped into the living room as the dart sped past a closed-eyed Cleopatra. She raised her pistol–loaded with conventional ammo–as she continued to wheel into the room. The Men in Black were formidable enemies, but not invincible. And not as adaptable as they were. The MIB was still trying to compute how his targeting computer had erred when Lee emptied two rounds into his chest, sending him stumbling backwards.

            Cleopatra spun when she heard the gunshots, only then realizing that she was not dead or captive.

            Cortland advanced into the room and swung his sword, slicing the MIB who had been holding his hand in pain, cleaving the technocrat thoroughly through his chest.

            Lee quickly followed up on her initial attack and unloaded two more shots into the MIB's face.

            Cortland similarly thrust a second time downward into the felled MIB.

            All three mages watched as the bodies of the Men in Black slowly began to dissolve.

            “What the hell?” Cleopatra said.

            “They’re drones,” Cortland said. “Probably cloned by the Progenitors for use by the NWO.”

            “Oh,” Cleopatra said, still dazed. “Obviously.”

            “Sorry it took us so long to circle around,” Lee said. “We didn’t want them to know that we’d be around.

            “No problem,” Cleopatra said. Her gaze was still fixated on the dissolving bodies.

            “No mess, at least,” Lee said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

05 May 1999, 8:28 PM

NWO Construct

Downtown Los Angeles, California (map)

 

         Melissa Connor was what the Technocracy called a Grey Man, a management level operative above the Men in Black. She was responsible for all of the New World Order actions in Los Angeles. As she sat in her personal office, she was quite content with the progress made in the past few weeks. All of the loyal Tradition reality deviants had been eliminated. As had three of the four orphans in Los Angeles. Only the rogues, the five known as the A-Team remained. And one orphan. But she fully expected that the woman known as Cleopatra would be in a processing center before day’s end. All in all, her superiors were very pleased with the current state of affairs.

            After the mix-up in San Francisco, the so-called White Men (the regional directors of operations) wanted no problems in LA. From what she could gather, the only casualties had been the Kindred she had enlisted to help, but wasn’t that exactly the point? They were reality deviants also, all of whom were threats to humankind. Thus they all needed to be eliminated.

            Further, the Kindred of the East were now engaging in an all out war with the Western Kindred. The Westerns had had the upper hand, keeping things fairly stable. However, that advantage had disappeared along with Christina Faldor. She would be content for them to kill each other also. Especially since they were all so good at keeping their little Masquerade. She did not have to even worry about covering things up. Although, they probably did have a little clean up after the Sabbat’s attacks on the Pendragon and her associates–they weren’t as tidy as the others. But they were manipulable. She smiled. Things were looking good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

05 May 1999, 10:29 PM

The Cowboy Junkie

Los Angeles, California (map)

 

         The Cowboy Junkie was a Russian coke bar near ChinaTown. An extremely dangerous place for mages to be roaming in the night. Fortunately, Lee and the others had an invitation. They were allowed inside the bar on Jeremy MacNeil’s orders. He had talked to the Czar’s people ahead of time to set it up.

            Lee led the others in. Several men hooted at Lee and Cleopatra as they entered, but Cortland’s glares were enough to silence most of them. They were taken to a back room, where the Czar waited behind a desk, with a man at each side. From the glazed look in their eyes, they seemed to be ghouls. Yet the two that followed them in had a confidence that surely meant they were Kindred. The Czar may have agreed to see the three mages on MacNeil’s say so, but he wasn’t stupid.

            The Czar appeared to be in his mid-fifties. He was dressed in a suit; he had thick grey hair, with subtle streaks of black. There seemed to be a tattoo on the side of his neck, but if there was, his shirt collar hid it. The Czar seemed to be a big man, but from behind the desk they could not be sure.

            “Mr. MacNeil says you’ve been very helpful of late,” the Czar said in a thick Russian accent.

            “We’ve tried,” Lee said.

            “He also says that you need something,” the Czar said.

            “Yes,” we need you to use your police contacts to turn them onto Kendra Stone for the murder of Barry Tenenbaum.”

            “Who?” the Czar said. He looked confused.

            “Barry Tenenbaum. He was a mage.”

            “What is that to me?” the Czar asked, his dark eyes glinting. “And why would I pin it on a fellow Kindred?”

            “Because she has been killing mages at the behest of rival mages of ours.”

            “So?” the Czar asked Lee.

            “So, she was pointed to our friends by these rivals. But she was given her addiction to mage blood by the Sabbat.”

            “What?” the Czar said. “That Toreador bitch was working with the Sabbat?”

            “That’s right. And the rival mages she was also working with were the ones responsible for the death of Christina Faldor.”

            At this, the Czar sat forward, leaning on his elbows heavily. “Now that interests me.”

            “I thought it might,” Lee said, her arms akimbo. “Further, we’ve waxed five Sabbat in two days. We’re good for business,” Lee added.

            “So Mr. MacNeil says.” The Czar examined Lee.

            Lee rubbed her lip with the back of her thumbnail.

            “What is your name again?” he asked.

            Lee looked at Cortland. He nodded. She looked back at Cleopatra, who only smiled. “My name is Raziel,” Lee said.

            “Interesting,” he said, still leaning forward intently.

            “But if this woman is arrested, she will burn in her cell. That will break the Masquerade.”

            “It would,” Raziel/Lee said. “But that’s part of our plan. Actually, we don’t think it will break the Masquerade.”

            “Explain,” the Czar said.        

 

 

 

 

 

 

05 May 1999, 11:01 PM

NWO Construct

Downtown Los Angeles, California (map)

 

         As a Grey Man with the NWO, Melissa knew full well that most of television programming was just that. However, she did like to watch the daily news, if only to make sure it was all told right. What she didn’t expect, however, was to see Kendra Stone being arrested for the murder of Barry Tenenbaum.

            “No,” she breathed. “How could they know?” She slammed her fist on her endtable. “Who would or could turn her in? This will be a disaster. This has to be taken care of.”

            She picked up the phone and started making phone calls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

05 May 1999, 11:53 PM

NWO Construct

Downtown Los Angeles, California (map)

 

         Magick use leaves a clear trail. When one uses it, it leaves a residue. If a mage sends her magickal reality across time or space, it leaves a mark across time and space. It is a mark that can be detected and followed if one is not careful. And while certainly, Technocratic constructs have wards to protect them, magick use can be traced easily enough back to a dead zone of anti-magick if one knows when to look and where to begin the trace.

            Having prepared Kendra Stone’s quiet death, Melissa Connor finally was able to relax. However, one sip into an old whiskey, she was on edge again when her doorbell rang. There was no reason for that to happen at that time of night. Warily, she activated cameras to the front door. To her amazement, she saw Cleopatra: the very orphan she had been trying for days to eliminate. What was she doing on her doorstep? Immediately, she flicked another button activating all security measures. She didn’t trust this. From the start, she detected an attack.

            Nonetheless, Cleopatra was too big of a prize to discard. She headed for the door. Which was precisely when Cortland smashed through the window. As he did, electricity surged through him; the windowpanes were all electrified to protect against just that sort of intrusion. Unfortunately for Melissa, Cortland had already charged his leather pants and jacket to ward of all Forces, having cast a powerful rote onto them before their attack. He landed on his feet, the cable which he had swung in on following him and cascading into a solid weapon: a sword.

            Melissa drew a gyrojet pistol from the endtable and fired it at Cortland; this sent a small rocket flaring towards him, exploding right into his chest and sending him flying against the wall.

            The door kicked in backwards, cracking open, the bolt the only thing holding it up; Cleopatra knew full well the lock would be too well warded to use her Entropy magick on, but she had rightly guessed that the Technomancer hadn’t warded the hinges in the same way.

            Melissa went to fire the gyrojet pistol again, but was disrupted by a bird flying into her face, squawking and scratching. She stuck one of her fingernails into its side and it collapsed. The nail was a fake, with Entropic implants in it, which would disrupt the bird’s lifeforce. The falcon landed on the floor with a thud.

            “NO!” Cortland screamed, stumbling to his feet, lunging with his sword, but Melissa dodged backwards, tripping him as he fell past her.

            Cleopatra, having cut herself with a small knife, wove incantations with the blood, attempting to curse the Grey Man, and rending her biosignature, but Melissa diverted the attack to Cortland, reflecting the magickal attack toward him. She then pointed the pistol again at Cleopatra, and fired. The orphan mage managed to get out of the way of the missile, but the thing exploded against the wall behind her and the collateral damage knocked her forward, unconscious.

            Which is precisely when Raziel raked the blade hard across Melissa's neck.

            In utter shock, Melissa’s hands went to her neck. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t be taken down by deviants, by common criminals.

            Lee tackled Melissa, knocking her over and forcing her to keep her hands away from her neck so the wound could bleed freely.

            “How,” Melissa croaked.

            “Long enough spent preparing,” Lee/Raziel said. “You were too cocky. Your home wasn’t warded well enough. I was able to open a portal here while you were distracted with the other two. I knew your counter-magick would be more than I could get through directly, but I knew you wouldn’t be able to re-direct a knife you never saw coming.”

            Melissa’s breath came ragged, making an almost bubbling sound as blood wheezed out of her throat. Her eyes blinked desperately, but her strength was ebbing and Lee was holding her tight. There was nothing she could do other than count on the monolith of the Technocracy to ultimately succeed against such dangerous thugs.

            Lee waited until the woman was dead before she moved–even to help her friends. A Grey Man was too dangerous to do elsewise with. They were fighting a war. It wasn’t always pretty. Already they had lost more than they had won. But they had gotten something the Grey Man would never understand. A hopeless victory. A win against the unbeatable. Also, they had made a lot of friends they never should have had.

            Cortland and Cleopatra’s visions had tied it all together. Cortland had seen “the secret of God.” Cleopatra was told “Raziel” would save her. As it turned out, Raziel meant “the secret of God.” Somehow things were meant to happen this way. It seemed as if Cleopatra was serious about becoming a Pendragon too, which was great. They would need the help. They may have formed an alliance with MacNeil, but almost all the mages had been wiped out of Los Angeles.

            She knew that the Technocracy’s resources were near limitless. They’d send more troops out. Yet more often than not, it was a war of ideas. It was a war of words. And those were things Cleopatra would prove invaluable for. But at least for this one day, it had been a war of violence. And for once, they had won.

            Lee looked behind her. Cortland was slowly rousing, as was his falcon, David. Neither the Chorister nor the familiar looked good, but they would live. She looked to her other side. Cleopatra was also rising. She looked down at the chilling body she sat on, her hands and chest soaked in the enemies’ blood. War made horrible villains of everyone. One could only hope that in the end, if there ever was an end, a redemption might await the outcome or even the perpetuity of the conflict, and that in all that was corrupt and contemptible in violence, that through the destruction of something horrible something pure might emerge and fly to the heavens of the present-now, soar over reality, and lead others to the same brilliance, if only in showing them something different and giving them hope.