Vampire: Murder in the Emerald City

October 1, 2012

“Fuck…FUCK!!”
A lone figure runs through the shadows on a rainy night in Seattle. Desperation saturates his every move, goaded by the memories running over and over in his mind; the blood, the blade, the babe. A stumble sends him falling to the wet concrete, adding another gash to the collection across his hands and knees. A few scrapes and a couple drops of blood weren’t enough to stop him. The supreme instinct of self-preservation had kicked in and nothing was going to deter this man from getting the shit out of Dodge or die trying. So he fumbles and rolls back onto his feet, catching his second wind just in time to vanish through the trees and down the rain slicked roads of the Emerald City.

Shadows gather; hooded figures bent with purpose beneath the light of a full moon discuss the unfolding series of events transpiring below. The first of many cars arrived at the scene, bathing the mutilated corpse in a cascade of blue and red. Yellow tape was already beginning to encapsulate the area in some vain hope to keep it sterile from outside influence. Curious eyes found their way to the edge of public domain to see the blue tarps rise up, protecting the victim’s corpse from the rain and flash photography.
“How much did he see?”
“Enough.”
“Hm.”

It was going to be a long night.

---

Murder wasn’t exactly uncommon in Seattle, especially not amongst its nocturnal denizens, but this was different. This was fucked up. Somebody found the corpse of a woman, or at least most of it, tied to the rusty husk of industrial scrap center stage at the Gas Works Park. Her blood had been drained and there was evidence of claw marks across the body; two limbs were missing in their entirety and the heart had been ritualistically removed. This was the kind of shit that got people’s attention and set the rulers of the night on edge.

A call was sent out to all Kindred in the Emerald City. Those of importance or expendability, generally referred to as the former in most cases, were to make arrangements to arrive at Elysium at midnight the following evening. It would be a rare thing to see so many gathered for such mysterious cause, a chance to rub elbows with the upper echelons of the damned and perhaps get into someone’s good graces with a little initiative.

For those of the Invictus and Lancea Sanctum preparations were made for Elysium within the walls of 13 Coins at 125 Boren Avenue North, a five-star restaurant owned and run behind the scenes by its Keeper; Emanuel Montes. They are to arrive at 12 o’clock sharp and are advised to have fed beforehand, although there will be beverages made available should the meeting run long.

For those of the Carthian Movement and Ordo Dracul preparations were made for Elysium at the Seattle Asian Art Museum (Volunteer Park, 1400 East Prospect Street). Kozu Asami, the curator of the museum and Keeper of Elysium, will be giving the normal staff a night off so that the Kindred may enjoy a little Eastern culture whilst discussing the latest events to rock the underworld. There will be no refreshments offered and all guests are encouraged to dine beforehand; hours will be limited from 11 to 3.

•9:37pm. Inside the The Triad Nightclub.•

You could smell the money on him. She’d been watching him ever since he’d loudly insulted the employee that was attempting to clear his table. The asshole had then distracted himself by dancing with a very intoxicated tramp. The floozy mustn’t have been very good company. Without a word he abandoned his entourage and ducked out to the alley behind the club, Inez calmly followed him. The alleyway was dimly lit, but one could still appreciate the chaotic art splattered on the walls. He paid no mind to the petite girl that was walking his way; his attention was completely focused on lighting a spliff. Club rats never changed, they always felt safe when they thought the turf was theirs.

The first kick caught him completely unaware; he collapsed on his knees clutching his groin, seemingly stunned at the sudden turn of events. Inez didn’t waste any time, the second kick painfully connected to the underside of his jaw, knocking his head against the hard wall. The rich prick crumpled on the filthy alley floor like a sack of potatoes, a painful moan escaping his lips. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight. These bourgeoisie idiots always thought themselves above the rest. Thankfully she was there to remind them of a simple truth; in the end they were just like everyone else, a bag of flesh, bones and blood.

After having her fill from the unconscious and probably concussed man, Inez quickly dragged his limp body behind a dumpster. A quick search through his pockets revealed a fat wallet stuffed with exactly $357.42. Tonight’s spoils had been very good.

----

Three blocks east from the nightclub, a very conspicuous car lay parked on the street. Inside the lime-green Plymouth Barracuda, Steve Jones passed the time by listening to 1964’s Tainted Love. This wasn’t his usual scene but a friend had asked for a ride. A sharp tap at the passenger window snapped him back to reality.

“Hey! Thanks for waiting.” Inez unceremoniously took her seat, resting her heavy boots on the dashboard. It was time to feed Steve the usual bullshit. “Bah! Couldn’t find any of my friends in that joint. Looks like they switched places and didn’t tell me anything. Thanks for giving me a lift though!”

Steve simply smiled and started the car up.“Nah, Shorty. It’s all good! I told you I was heading out here anyway. Been feeling like having some Wendy’s all day. You wanna grab a bite with m-”

BING BING BEEP BEEP BOOP! BING BING BEEP BEEP BOOP! BING BING BEEP BEEP BOOP! BING BING-

“Ah! Que fucking mierda…” Startled she fumbled around her small satchel trying to grab the bothersome thing. The pre-paid cellphone was both a wonder and a nuisance; had been one of the conditions imposed on her by Carthian brethren; In exchange for setting her up in the city, she was to carry it around on her person constantly and always answer when they called. Inez had been initially amazed by the tiny phones that required no wiring, but soon all she felt was resentment. The phone had turned into a constant reminder that she was somebody’s bitch. “Hello?”

“Hallo, mein petit fräulein!” An obnoxiously cheerful voice boomed on the other side.

“Bauer.” Inez only knew one German man. This Daeva, was the Carthian who found her the modest apartment she now resided in. She hadn’t spoken with him after their little incident in Cal Anderson Park.

“Ah, still upset with me I see! Not to worry! You’ll come around, fräulein." He quickly continued. “Alas, this is not a social call. Your dearest friend Kazakov has something he wants you to do…”

----

•10:51pm, one block away from the Seattle Asian Art Museum•

After having fed Steve another bullshit story and sending a text message to a "friend", Inez ditched the young man and made her way towards her new destination. It was really incredible how he never questioned anything she said or inquired for more information; such was the way of the lackadaisical slacker. At least he never objected to driving her anywhere, which was mainly what she used him for anyway. He was ideal.

As she neared the museum, Inez slowed down and tried to focus on her surroundings instead of all the questions that plagued her mind.

What was this meeting about? Why had Kazakov asked her, instead of going himself? Why was the meeting in the damned Asian Art Museum? Why did Brauer always insist in greeting her in German if he spoke perfect English? Why the hell do I always forget to carry an umbrella!?

It was drizzling enough that her clothing and hair were visibly wet, hopefully this wasn't one of those fancy get-togethers. Brauer has been incredibly vague about the whole affair; the only thing she knew is that Kazakov expected her to take part in some sort of meeting in the Asian Art Museum. She was never a “social gathering” kind of gal; not unless the gathering involved plenty of protest signs and a few torched cars. Inez would have mulled about it more, but before she knew it, she was standing on the sidewalk in front of the museum.

10:30pm, at [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]
-----------
Stacey had only been in town for a month and didn't really know much about the place. She was rooming with another Gangrel, Inez, but this night they were not together. She wasn't allowed to hunt in Capital Hill without a Carthian with her, and since Inez was already out for the night, she had to find somewhere else. A quick search on google and she'd found the club, liking the sound of it, and made her way to it. It wasn't far, but it was outside Carthian territory so she was allowed to do as she please there, so long as she followed the laws of the city. Stacey didn't know them by heart, but they were the same everywhere. Uphold the masquerade, don't embrace, don't kill each other. She wasn't worried about breaking the law.

She parked her truck at a [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.] a few minutes down the road, figuring it would be a good place to use later, and walked the short walk down to the club. The place was already booming, and she had to wait a bit to get inside, but she was young and she was hot and it wasn't that hard. Happy hour ended at nine, which was good, because it meant that everyone inside would be good and drunk. Normally Stacey didn't hunt in such places, but being new, she didn't know the territories well and didn't want to risk hunting at a park or some other place where she could get a bit more wild. The club would do.

Stacey was no master of seduction, but it didn't usually take much. Blonde hair and a pair of boobs were usually more than enough to attract a guy, and it wasn't long before some slease offered to buy her a drink. Stacey accepted, but never took a sip. She didn't really feel like throwing up all over him, though it might make her look drunk and make things easier for her. It didn't matter though, it wasn't long before he made his move.

"So.. you wanna get out of here?"

Stacey smiled, "Sure, lets go."

The man led her out the door, he couldn't keep his hands off her as they walked. Stacey suggested getting a room at the motel down the street, and he didn't refuse. She made him pay, of course, and it wasn't long before they had the key and she was on the bed watching him unzip his pants. She smirked as he pulled on a condom, knowing it wasn't necessary, but she wasn't going to say anything. A few moments later and the room was filled with the sound of their exertions and the squeaking of the bed.

About five minutes into it her phone started vibrating. Stacey blindly reached for her discarded pants, finding it all the more difficult as the man whose name she didn't care to know pounded away at her. Eventually she got hold of the phone, it was a text from Inez. She needed to meet her somewhere, as soon as possible.

Fuck, she thought to herself, and this one wasn't half bad.

"Be right there," she texted back, then turned her attentions back to the man on top of her.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing, I gotta go. Can we wrap this up?"

"Aw, cmon, babe. I was just getting started."

"Sorry, hon. Make it quick."

And so they continued, and Stacey pulled him close to her to kiss and bite at his neck. The sensations only worked him up even more and he pumped harder. Then she bit him, and though she would have preferred to draw the night out longer, they were both filled with pleasure as she had her fill of him, and he filled her in another way. She didn't take more than she needed, she wasn't starving, but the man wouldn't have noticed anyway. Such was the benefit of the kiss. When he collapsed on top of her she licked his wound, upholding the Masquerade as always, and then pushed him off.

"You sure you don't wanna stay for round two?"

"No, I gotta go. Maybe I'll catch you again next week," she replied as she pulled her pants back on and went out the door.

OOC: Took two points of blood, bumping me from 5 to 7
-----------
It wasn't a long drive, about ten minutes, to the art museum. Stacey didn't know why Inez wanted her to go there, something about a meeting of some sort. Stacey really didn't feel like getting pulled in to city politics, but Inez had given her a place to stay and she couldn't really say no.

The young vampire parked her truck alongside the road, right behind a really nice BMW, and chuckled at the offense the wealthier driver would probably take to having such an old hunk of junk parked right behind him. She wondered if Inez was already there, Steve might have given her a ride, although she might not want him seeing where she was going. The man wasn't worth much, but he was nice enough and always willing to give Inez a ride.

She wasn't exactly dressed for Elysium, she sold all her nice clothes a long time ago to pay her way while she was on the road, but then again even when she was alive she had never really tried to dress up too much. Dresses and high heels didn't really suit her lifestyle, so she had never really owned many. Walking into the museum reminded her of being back in Houston with Noel, a feelng she didn't like remembering. Once inside she started looking around for Inez, hoping the meeting would be a short one.

-----------

Health - 9/9
Willpower - 6/6
Vitae - 7/11
[You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]

Sorrowful strains of violin music floated through the air, each note flowing into the next, distinct but part of a continuing chain of sound. The sweet music spun out, growing, then seeming to shrink, decreasing in volume even as the notes went higher. The last note hung in the air for a long moment after her hands stilled, finally falling silent a moment later.

A slow clap drew Lillian from her reverie, and she lowered her violin, not bothering to wipe the tear from her cheek. A tall, dark, handsome man stepped towards her and cupped her cheek, wiping it away with his thumb.

“Lillian, my darling, why do you insist on playing these sad songs? You know what they do to you. Why not play something cheerful,” he asked in a deep, resonant baritone. Even after all their decades together, David's voice still sent a thrill of desire through her. She rested her cheek against his hand.

“Everything that is sad is also beautiful, my love,” she replied, her voice almost as sweet and musical as her violin. “Perhaps it is even the sorrow that makes it beautiful. When we lay eyes on the rose, do we enjoy it for the pleasure it gives our senses, or because we know that this perfection is fleeting? After all, sunshine of my heart, everything fades...”

“Not you. With every night, you become more beautiful, more vibrant. And neither does our love. With every touch, my heart swells, as though it may burst from my chest. The feel of your lips on mine is ecstasy, and I thank every god that exists when I lay you down...” His arms wrapped around her slim figure, pulling her to him.

Lillian laid her violin aside before twining her arms around his neck, their mouths meeting...

Lillian blinked, shaking her head to return herself to the present. That had been the night before her sire and lover, David Roske, had vanished without a trace. Oh it had not all been like that, sweet words and passionate kisses. “Sunshine of my heart” had been an apt nickname for him. That which she had loved and yearned for most dearly, and which hurt her more than anything. There had been cracks forming in their relationship for the past couple decades, though neither of them had spoken of it, as though they could put it off, keep themselves from realizing it... keep the end from coming.

The woman had reviewed that night countless times in the couple months since he had vanished, mentally going over each and every detail. Had he known that he would be leaving? Had he given her that last night of joy because it -would- be their last night together? She shook her head. Whatever state their relationship had been in, she could not believe that he would leave her without a word like that.

And she'd changed her mind. Perhaps her sorrow would be beautiful to some, but for herself, it cut too sharply for her to ever derive joy from.

But that was not the issue that was drawing her early from her party. Word had raced through the Kindred of the horrifying murder the night before. And it -was- horrifying. Lillian protested the murder of any mortal on principle, but to be killed in such a gruesome way... Unfortunately, names and fortunes were built on the gruesome and macabre. Events are forgotten when they are cleared up, but those who helped, who were willing to serve, were not. This was how she'd come to understand the Danse: favors given were repaid with favors owed, and she needed all that she could get if she was ever going to find David.

So, instead of charming her way through the society party after the opera, as she normally would, Lillian allowed a handsome gentleman to separate her from the group. These men, well-dressed, handsome, charming... were just no fun. They were after one thing and made that thing very clear. She preferred to entice and seduce, not be chased. That she, -SHE- was expected to dance at the attentions of any man, rather than the other way around... But she needed to feed quickly. No time to play with her food. She allowed him to guide her into closet, smirking slightly as he closed the door.

A half hour later she emerged, licking her lips. Her elegant evening gown was a bit ruffled, her lipstick smeared, and her hair mussed, but it was just a moment's work to fix. Don Juan was dazed, pantsless, and utterly sated in the closet, her bite mark carefully closed. Perhaps she had taken a bit more from him than she really needed, but he had tasted so very... rich. With any luck, he would learn a lesson from this when the host found him. If nothing else, she was thoroughly amused.

She made her farewells at the party and the host, pulled on her coat, picked up her violin case and left. Her car and driver were waiting downstairs, and opened the door for her as she got in. “The Seattle Asian Art museum, Leo, and step on it. I'm running late as it is.”

A short time later, her car pulled up in front of the museum. Leo hopped out to open her door and offered her a hand out, his other holding an umbrella. She checked the expensive watch on her wrist. 10:55. “I may be late, Leo. I'll call,” she promised before swaying her way towards the museum on her four-inch heels. In her strapless, low-cut, backless evening gown that sheathed her full curves like a red velvet glove before slitting high up on her right thigh, she was likely a bit overdressed, but it was always better to wow than to disappoint. Not for the first time in her afterlife, she regretted the loss of her reflection, but her sleek french twist felt fine, and she wore little enough makeup that she didn't worry too much about it.

“Such a pity that I cannot admire such perfection, though,” she sighed, then paused in front of the museum. Well, -there- was a girl who wasn't in any danger of being overdressed. A soft laugh spilled from her lips. Tiny little thing, though with her high heels, Lillian herself was just over six feet tall. And they did such amazing things to her ass...

“Lovely, your hair is going to frizz in this rain,” she lightly chided her, offering to let the tiny, dark-haired woman share her umbrella. “Going in?” she asked. “Don't be shy,” she teased as she took a step towards the museum to see if the other would follow.

“We thank you Father for our daily bread and wine. Amen.”

After the benediction, Aurel left his meal alone beneath the arch. The poor soul was a destitute unfortunate, left on the streets in tattered clothing. Aurel opted not to take more blood than he needed. This man was hardly deserving of a such a terrible end as a vampire in an alley, but . He prayed that the Lord would be with this man for his endeavors. Realistically though, he predicted this man would die on the streets. Such was life. The Lord moved in mysterious ways, after all, though it took Aurel a while to see it that way.

He stepped out onto Boren Avenue and went down the street. He was called by his superiors in the Sanctum

“If you got the money, father, I can make you sing alleluia.”
Aurel looked the young lady of the night over. She was actually quite fair, with dark crimson hair and an hourglass figure. However, there was naïve air about her. Beneath that promiscuous smile she wore, he could even a bit of sadness in her eyes.

“My daughter, why do you sell yourself on the streets?” The question was not one of reprimand. It was one of sadness.
This question surprised her and she was silent for a moment. Then, reluctantly, she let loose a confession. “I… I can’t any work elsewhere. This is one of the only things I know how to do right…”

Without a moments hesitation, he clapped his hands onto her shoulder. “Be strong my daughter. Have faith in yourself and the Lord, and you’re already on the path to success.”

Releasing her for a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Taking a hundred dollar bill, he gave it to her. “I do not require your services, but you may take this payment. Think of it as a gift, and a helping hand.”

Her eyes widened at the sight of Benjamin Franklin, and she gently took it. A smile crept up on her face, and then she looked at Aurel. “Thank you, father! Just… thank you!”

After that, she departed. Aurel couldn’t help but feel his spirit lift as she sprinted along. Hopefully she would raise herself out of these gutters, but at the very least it would keep her off the streets for a bit, and keep her safe from the culprits of the paper’s murder. However, he then heard a snorting laughter. “What a fucking pansy… You pay her a big one and don’t even have the sense to bone her?”

He turned and beheld a drunken slob. The man wore a t-shirt stained with beer and food, and had a beer bottle in hand. He wasn’t sure if it was the uncouth nature of this man that irked him more than the expletives spewing from his mouth like cockroaches. Aurel decided not even to give him a response. But as he passed, the man moved closer and shoved him.

“You gonna answer me, fucker? Come on asshole, fart some words of wisdom and encouragement at me!”

Finally, Aurel obliged. Gripping the man’s arm, he twisted it around his back in a hold. It happened faster than the drunk could comprehend. Now he thrashed to get free from the Nosferatu’s grip, but Aurel hardly needed to struggle to keep him in place. Outwardly, he was completely calm… but inwardly was another story. Without any alteration to his voice, Aurel said, “May God go with you, my son. The road to Hell is a long and arduous one all by one’s self.”

With a final twist, the man’s arm snapped, but Aurel was quick to cover his mouth and muffle the cry of pain. By now he had already moved into another alley to avoid a scene. When the man fainted from the pain and lack of oxygen, Aurel let him fall. “I should have held off my thirst… You are a much more deserving meal.”

Aurel pulled out his pocket watch from his coat’s inner pocket and clicked it open. It was 11:34 PM, and he needed to get to 13 Coins. He’d rather not delay any further. The restaurant was only a few more buildings up the street. And soon everyone would learn the meaning of the grisly murder. Aurel looked forward to this matter intensely.

Tonight was the night, but Avery had been busy all day and had not made the time for preparations as he’d promised himself. On the night of the murder, he’d been out on business, and that business had failed to conclude in the timely fashion Avery had been counting on. So Avery returned to the port district to attend to the matter and see it through as quickly as possible, so that he may arrive at the meeting on time and in good spirits.

“Go fuck yourself.”

The man’s face was covered in blood, and one of his eyes was swollen shut, but despite this, he barred his teeth and leered defiantly. Flecks of blood dropped onto the man’s uniform as he invoked the command to Avery. Avery’s response was a nod to the large bruiser who had the bloodied man by his hair, to which the bruiser’s response was to slam the man’s face against the nearby drainpipes, which were already splotched with the man’s blood. One of the pipes rung hollowly for several moments after the man’s head was battered against it.

“Your masters can’t help you, anymore,” said Avery, as the man struggled to keep from blacking out from the assault. “This establishment is no longer under their control. In fact, they don’t even own the building, anymore. You are free from your previous responsibilities.”

The man spat a wad of blood and spittle, then laughed harshly. “Pretty words. I’m still fucked though. And you can’t save. Probably wouldn’t, either.”

Avery smiled thinly. “You’re right. I can’t protect you. But I can protect others.”

The man leered up at Avery again. “Stay away from my family.”

“I’m not a threat to them. You are doomed, but they are not. If you help me, I will send them away. Give them a fresh start. None of this will follow them,” said Avery.

The man thought to himself silently. “The word of a vampire,” he mocked. “But it’s more than I’ve gotten yet. And you’re right, I’m doomed. Fine. My wife—”

“No names. I’ve already taken steps,” interrupted Avery. “They are sequestered, and will remain so until I follow up on the information you give me. If it’s good, I will send them out of harm’s way. If not…”

“Yeah, yeah, the information’s good,” groaned the man. “Jerry Melberg, Heritage Accounting. He’s got what you’re looking for.”

Avery nodded to the bruiser, who relinquished the bloodied man’s head. Avery turned to leave, and the bruiser followed.

“That’s it? You’re just going to leave me here?”

Avery turned and gave the man a stern look. “I said I cannot protect you. It would almost assuredly bring death on you. By some miracle, if you escape the wrath of your masters, you may have a chance of living.”

The man opened his mouth to protest, but might have been too tired or frustrated to say anything. He slumped against the pipes and swore.

---

Avery’s preparations for the meeting were reduced to a few small matters. First, he made sure to feed, a task that was not so appealing when his only option was something within the port district. Between streetwalkers and dock workers, the former was more interesting. He’d arrived in a town car, and on the way out, it was not difficult to attract attention from numerous candidates. Avery was short on time, so he settled on a tall, tan vixen with ample hips and tall cheekbones, because the South Americans had a fiery edge in their blood that, for Avery, improved the mood considerably.

After feeding, Avery and his driver made their way across town to the Circa Building, an office high-rise where Avery had secured one of a few safe-houses in Seattle. There, he freshened up and changed into a new three-piece. Afterward he returned to his town car and set off for Cascade. On the ride over, he took a shortened version of the task he’d wanted to devote the whole evening to: updating and reviewing his notes. But the ride was barely a half hour, so Avery only had time to write down the name Jerry Melberg and the firm Heritage Accounting, and review his previous notes for any recurrence of the two.

Avery arrived at 13 Coins just after eleven. Avery got off on the street in front and spent a few moments lingering outside. The outdoor patio had a few patrons, none of which he recognized, so he surmised they were late-night revelers. But he did recognize the expensive suit standing next to the door. His name was Walden Pile, a vampire of regal age, and Avery’s Invictus liaison.

“Evening, Avery,” said Walden. His voice was soft and smooth, which could have been the result of several centuries on his vocal chords, or his ego.

“Evening, Walden,” returned Avery. “Starting the party early?”

“Maintaining the ambiance,” corrected Walden. “Tables aren’t ready yet, let’s go to the bar.”

Inside, 13 Coins was busy, but the crowd was thinning and on its way out. Most of the remaining patrons were sitting at tables. The bar was relatively empty. Two young females watched Walden and Avery as they entered, first looking at their faces, and then at their expensive attire. Avery, still alight from his South American meal, nostalgically recalled similar moments during the golden years of his mortality, and smiled at the girls, for old time’s sake.

“Keeping busy?” asked Avery.

Walden tilted his head and waved his hand slightly. “There are always matters to attend to. Seattle runs efficiently. What of your personal endeavors, Avery? I understand you were busy this week.”

“I was,” answered Avery. “I have new information. And thus far, my interests are still running parallel with the Invictus’.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Walden. “We won’t speak about this here. There are ears. You have my number. For now, a face to meet the faces.”

Avery nodded, looking past Walden at the two women again. He exchanged a short stare with one of them, then turned his head to look around the restaurant, all the while maintaining a clear view of the entrance.

Alan had never liked the dark, even before he was turned. So many of his comrades found the concept appealing, however, that he had begrudgingly grown accustomed to its embrace. The relationship he shared with the shadow was not a cordial one. It was like an unknowable friend, with whom a man might share a superficial relationship.

Like so many of my kind.

Yes, thought Alan, that is what makes the darkness frightening. It concealed whatever it pleased, lied without a second thought, and did so in a mindless, unfamiliar, and unpredictable way. The darkness could not be understood or manipulated to one's own ends - it was simply there, ceaselessly obscuring reality as if it were a conscious force being paid for its efforts. If his fear of the dark made him xenophobic, then Alan was perfectly content with being a bigot.

The back-alley was a narrow, lightless passage, in contrast to the wide Parisian streets Alan had come to know over the past few years.

And the streets in Paris were built that way to help suppress mobs in times of unrest. Perhaps these lanes were created with the opposite purpose in mind.

It had been several years since he had set foot on American soil, and decades since he had last visited the western coast of the country. The city of Seattle was alarmingly unfamiliar, but its overall ambiance was no different than that of Portland or some of the smaller metropolises along the shores of California. It didn't matter - he was here on business, he told himself, and before the end of the week he would be back in Paris with some more familiar faces.

His footsteps were all but silent, yet the gravelike noiselessness of his surroundings made the sounds of movement noticeable to one who paid attention. The particular stretch Alan had chose to walk was free of vagrants and robbers who might try to waylay him in a dark corner - at least, it appeared this way. If anyone stepped out of the shadows with malicious intent, the trigger of Alan's Walther was seconds away. His lack of a concealed firearm license did not concern him - after all, the death of an urban peasant would go all but unnoticed for several days, and by that time, Alan would be on his way. Prosecution, or even being suspect of criminal activity in the United States, was an eventuality that Alan never anticipated facing.

He plodded along, his eyes following a narrow arc on the concrete before him.

13 Coins. Is it a Chinese restaurant? No, no, that doesn't sound right...

"Drop it, man."

Alan turned to see a gangly youth emerge from the shadows. His skin was a pasty worm-white shade, and his hair, concealed beneath a cheap beanie hat, was greasy with days of unwashed. The expression of false bravado on his face was all too noticeable, and his arms quivered in fear as he tightly gripped the handle of an aged hunting knife. Typical rabble, Alan thought. Perhaps even atypical - most of them at least have the means to bring a more reliable weapon.

He almost felt guilty knowing that the boy would have to die.

"I'm not gonna ask again," he said, nearly shouting. "Take everything out of your coat and your pockets and put it on the ground"

Alan did not flinch. His hands remained in his pockets, poised to go for his gun at the slightest hint of movement from his adversary. Several seconds of quiet eye-contact were enough to break the boy's will.

"FUCKING DROP IT!"

The boy was sweating profusely, and his hands were openly shaking. At this point, it became obvious to Alan that the rabble before him was not poised to act. His knife was for show, and the quality of his courage was no greater than that of his ragged, torn clothing. What began as an attempted mugging had turned into a staring contest. Alan adjusted his glasses, a thin and subtle smile slowly moving its way across his lips. The boy - if he could even be called such - was now quaking in sheer terror. The knife looked as though it might drop from his hands at any moment.

"It's been a few hours since I've fed," Alan began, withdrawing his wallet from his left pocket. "And the invitation I received to the party suggested that no refreshments would be available. What rude hosts."

Alan opened the wallet and withdrew a crisp sheaf of paper - 100 Euros. Following his initial expression of puzzlement at the foreign currency, the boy's stress seemed to subside for a few moments. Then, his face morphed again, this time returning to his original expression of feigned courage. He gripped his blade tighter, pointing it at Alan.

"Drop it on the ground."
"I thought you wanted all of it. I assure you, I have far more than this."

The boy's reaction was nothing less than humorous. Alan could not help but grin as he stared in confusion, unsure of how to respond to his victim's apparent generosity.

Alan took a step forward, note in hand.

"Tell me, what's your name, boy?" he said, stroking the paper with his thumb. He gave the boy the most intimidating leer he could muster.
"Why the fuck would I tell you that? Put that shit on the ground and go. My boys are right around the corner, and Shawn has a glock on him."

It was a lie, and Alan knew it. Nobody was around save for the two of them - a prince and a pauper. Except that this time, the story would work in reverse, as it usually did.

He took another step forward, dropping the bill. The boy raised his knife, but did not expect Alan to lunge for his wrist in the interim. Alan wrestled the blade from his hand and threw it to the ground. It hit the stone below with an echoing, metallic clang.

The boy was paralyzed in fear, making the process all the more easy. Alan released his wrist and moved for his neck, raising him in the air and pressing him against a rusted blue dumpster.

"Surely you agree that a man should not be deprived of his sustenance."

The odor of rotten filth Alan's mouth and nostrils as his lips parted to reveal a pair of savagely sharp incisors. He put his left hand over the sweating boy's mouth, muffling him, as he let loose a cry of horror in realization of his fate. As he parted his jaws, Alan moved in for the kill.

He arrived at 13 Coins that night having gorged on a most delicious feast.

Of all the vibes Jasper was getting from his current case, his “drama” meters were through the roof. One look at the downtrodden, half-abandoned apartment complex set off a thousand alarms in his head. A little bit of melodrama came with each case. It was a natural part of the job as it was, so he enjoyed a cheesy line here and there and layers of minute details that, in the end, really amounted to nothing. After all, who didn’t associate private investigators and detectives with the legendary Sherlock Holmes? Hell, it was partly why he took up the goddamn job in the first place. Anybody that turned to one for help had either been seriously scorned by the police, or they just wanted to add a little extra ‘oomph’ to what could have been a rather boring case, shoved under piles of police reports.

Then there were those that took those prospectively novel-like proportions a little too far. The Dresden and Lovecraft readers, the Supernatural watchers, the kind of guys that felt they knew everything about the world and just had to get everyone else to ‘see,’ the dumbasses that saw flickers of light in the night and made the giant leap to secret government experiments. Cases like this one made him feel like he was auditioning for a role in an episode of Law and Order. A little playful immersion was fine, but when a client refused to give their name, demanded to pay in cash, wished to meet in a dank basement rather than a perfectly suitable coffee shop, and ended their nearly illegible handwritten and bloodstained notes with “FOR THE BETTERMENT OF ALL KINDRED”, he expected nothing short of solving John F. Kennedy’s murder, again. The overdramatic human clients were bad enough, yet the vampire ones were even worse. Make a man immortal and he sought to live out every moment of his life like they were Jonathan Harker in the flesh, with the potential for no tomorrow around every corner. Sadly, they had innumerable amounts of those.

Jasper sighed as he opened the complex’s door and strode inside, adjusting his hat, his boots thumping against the creaking wooden steps. As his mystery client had instructed, he descended into the leaking, humid basement, where darkness rather predictably obscured his vision. “Next you’ll be following a voice in the shadows,” he muttered to himself, reaching for his flashlight until he saw a faint slit of light emanating from a doorway just ahead of him. He casually entered the room.

“You may leave your coat and hat by the door, señor,” a low, drawling voice said, in the absolute thickest Hispanic accent Jasper had ever heard in his life. It bordered on being comedic.

After shaking off his initial confusion, the detective glanced around the room. Had he been a victim of claustrophobia, the area likely would have induced a panic attack. Other than the tiny flickering lamp on his client’s cluttered mahogany desk, there were no sources of light in the stuffy little office. Two windows sat above enormous, dented filing cabinets, but the blinds held back what little sunlight reached them. Beyond that, it was a secretary’s nightmare. More of those overstuffed black filing cabinets lined the room alongside toolboxes, a fridge, a safe, and even random stacks of paper and bottles of… something. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it, at least by Jasper’s reasoning.

From what Jasper could discern in the dim light, his client was bulky, even hulking, perhaps six feet tall and coiled with muscle, sweat glistening on his hairy, exposed forearms. His jeans and sleeveless jacket were tattered and torn in several places. The rest of his form was concealed in shadow, and in smoke from the giant cigar he was puffing on, though Jasper had a good impression of his face.

“Listen, uh, not to break the atmosphere or anything, but could we let a little light in here?” he started, looking around the room in vain. “Maybe you have another lamp…?”

“Your accent,” the client said without acknowledging the request. “Are you Dutch?”

Good read, Jasper thought, seating himself across from the shadowed man. “That I am.” He drew out his notebook and began a quick, rough sketch of the man’s face. “Listen, Mr-“

“I prefer to be called Señor José Martinez.”

“Okay, Señor Martinez-

“Señor José Martinez. Remember my name, Señor Vandale, for I will not speak of it outside this room.”

Jasper blinked, then sighed a little. “Señor José Martinez, could you lean into the light a little? I prefer to attach a face to a voice when speaking to someone, it helps when evaluating data.”

Jasper frowned at the overly thoughtful, ponderous delay to the man’s response.

“Very well, Señor Vandale, but no cameras,” he snapped, gesturing sharply with his fuming cigar. The thing was enormous, practically the size of a TV remote. “It is imperative that my face is not photographed.”

José drew back on his cigar before slowly inching his way into the flickering lamplight, revealing a dirtied square face, large brown eyes, greasy hair, and a mustache reminiscent of a giant caterpillar. His expression was a strange blend, caught somewhere between the uncomfortable ‘I really need to take a shit right now’ and a forced visage of seriousness, every muscle in his tanned face drawn tight and unyielding. Jasper finished his crude drawing, but stopped himself from scrawling any finer details once he realized that it would have turned the entire portrait into an exquisite depiction of the man’s mustache.

“Alright, Señor, so you’re here on a case of…” Jasper trailed off, glancing at something resting on one of the cabinets behind José, illuminated in a wayward strand of sunlight from the windows. “Is… is that a bag of coke?”

Almost falling out of his chair, José jerked around, head darting from the drugs to Jasper and back again, an incredulous look to his eyes.

Jasper opened his mouth to protest, wisely shut it, and began again with the most amicable tone he could muster up. “Forget it. So, you’re here on a case of fraud?”

“I am here because a man has lied and stolen from me and my family. One of the Kindred,” José said heatedly. He had composed himself with surprising speed. Then, looking at the windows behind him in a paranoid fashion, he lowered his voice to whisper, “the man I speak of is one of the Invictus, a Lord by the name of Alan Stackeford.”

Jasper blinked at how absurdly quiet the man’s voice was. “You realize we’re in a basement, right? Unless someone stood right outside this door, I don’t think we’re in any danger of being-“

Apparently, José wasn’t listening to him, because his next action consisted of reaching into one of the drawers on his desk, drawing out a handful of peach-colored folders and throwing them before Jasper, sending photos and documents splattering everywhere. As though it were premeditated, José plucked a single photo from the pile and handed it to Jasper, continuing immediately.

“This is the man, Alan, head of Lofgren Central,” he stated, anger registering in his voice.

Why does he remind me of Patrick Bateman? Jasper wondered as he mulled over the photograph. Of all the words that came to mind, ‘pristine’ was among the foremost. From the crisp, well-ironed pinstripe suit to the immaculately trimmed hair, not a single piece of the businessman seemed out of place, and the photo looked unofficial. Everything aligned perfectly with Stackeford’s upright posture, even his glasses and the packed suitcase at his side. For all that perfection in his thin frame, though, he certainly was a sordid-looking fellow, a strangely gaunt countenance to the tiny blue eyes resting within those sharp features.

Jasper returned to his notebook. “So, how did Mr. Stackeford cheat you and your family?”

“I come from Guatemala. Me and my family deal in, er… minerals. Over the summer we traveled to France to meet with a business partner in Paris. Lofgren Central converted our Guatemalan quetzals to Euros. Over forty-five thousands of your American dollars.” His voice grew taut with the last sentence, his hand clenching around his cigar.

“And Mr. Stackeford failed to meet the amount correctly?”

“No, he taxed us for the transaction! Over ten thousand dollars stolen from my account, and there is no mention of any ‘charge’ in the contract. Here, here!” José shoved several papers aside to reveal a crumpled set of mauve-colored pages. “Read as I have.”

“I’ll take your word for it, señor. Did you confront Stackeford about it?”

José ran a hand through his hair. “I spoke to his underlings first, but they waved me away. Told me that I had missed a clause, showed me it for himself, but I swear to you, it was a different contract altogether. I met with the man himself, then, but he said the same. He even named me as a Gangrel.” Just as Jasper was about to interject, the ‘mineral’ dealer plowed on ahead. “But that is not all! Others complain of the same, members of the Carthian Movement! I have their cases there as well. He cheats other vampires, clear as the moon! I have tracked him here, to Seattle.”

Though still skeptical, Jasper perused the documents nonetheless, and could find no fault in them. Everything came across as legitimate, which actually shocked him. Perhaps he had stumbled onto something worthwhile. He gathered up the folders, picking up a few papers that had fallen onto the floor, and turned for the door.

“Alright, Señor Martinez, now if we could head back to my apartment, I can have an agreement ready for you in no time.”

He paused, hearing a click and a screech behind him. Hooded against sunlight flooding in from one of the windows, José was crawling out the open space, his bag in hand.

“I will pay you in cash once the case is over. Remember our agreement, Vandale. We did not have this conversation.”

---

Later, that night…

“There’s truly nothing more foreboding than rain.”

Staring out the drenched window of their taxicab, Jasper grunted at Irene’s comment. “More like, nothing’s more foreboding than murder.”

“But which came first, Jasper? The rain or the murder?” his companion countered melodiously, smooth as the rivulets of water running down the glass. He didn’t need to turn around to envision her victorious smile.

He had one point left. “Maybe it was planned.”

If they’d had more time before arriving at their destination, Irene would have gone back and forth with him on that, as they had all day, but that was, after all, why they were here. The driver drew back the slit and announced that they had arrived at the Elysium, a looming beacon of foreign culture, a slice of the east brought to the west. Jasper and Irene paid their fee and stepped out into the torrential night, the detective leading the way with his umbrella. As if it helped much; rain like this got everywhere no matter what one did.

“Have you fed?” Irene asked, bright green eyes on a couple just ahead of them. A small, petite woman walked next to a gorgeous, light beauty dressed for the occasion. The meeting was attracting all sorts.

“Earlier this evening, University District. Poor drunk in the bathroom never saw it coming,” he said, looking at his mentor. Most people assumed she was in her early twenties, maybe even as young as nineteen, even with her enchantingly mature voice, but that could not be farther from the truth. Ebony and ivory collided together in her visage, her pale, flawless skin accentuated by a tourmaline necklace and a plain black dress that wrapped around her slender form. Her brown hair was neatly combed, drawn short and encircling her oval face.

“Good, that will be very easily explained.” Her voice radiated with approval.

“Let’s hope that murder will turn out the same.”

In an unadorned room beneath the streets of Seattle a figure knelt over a bowl of water. The Kindred known as the Journeyman slid a blade across his open palm, parting the flesh and allowing blood to fall freely into the bowl. The Journeyman was careful. Too much blood and the water would be too cloudy and the portents would remain unseen. Too little and the sacrifice would be insufficient.

Many other Acolytes conducted their rituals with much more pomp and circumstance than the Journeyman. It always amused him how his sire put so much emphasis on the right incantations to be muttered or the proper arrangement of ceremonial runes. Really all that was needed was a sacrifice of living Vitae and a certain strength of conviction. Though others preferred grand ceremonies to venerate their deities of choice the Journeyman knew true power was in sacrifice. Anything else was just a waste of time.

Patterns of blood diffusing in the water that seem utterly mundane to the untrained eye carried special meaning to the Journeyman. For the briefest moment he saw the message his god had for him. He had a museum to get to.

------

The ritual had left the Journeyman drained. His Beast was beginning to demand feeding and he couldn't resist for long. He decided to take the subway rather than travel above ground. At this time of night he could probably catch a meal without too many witnesses if he took public transportation.

As he expected the terminal was all but empty. At this time of night people were either safely in their homes or just plain smart enough not to travel underground at ten in the evening. Fortunately for the Journeyman there was a single vagrant sleeping in the station, likely just trying to spend the night out of the elements.

The Journeyman had to act quickly. He didn't want to miss his train because he was busy feeding. Fortunately the sleeping man reeked of alcohol and would likely not wake up any time soon. He descended on the man and took more than enough to replace what he had lost in the ritual. The man would survive, but wake up in the morning with the hangover of his life. Satisfied, the Journeyman sat and waited for his train to arrive.

------

The Journeyman arrived at the Seattle Asian Art Museum with no contacts and no direction, just a message. All he knew was that his intended audience was here. As much as it pained him to do so he let down the veil he usually hid his Beast behind. Though it carried a risk now his Beast would call out to the Beasts of other Kindred, giving him some chance of finding a liaison.

13 Coins.
Bit of a pretentious name. Hang out long enough and somebody will ask where it got the name and save you the embarrassment. Something about a Peruvian love story; a young man and a young woman, a judgmental father figure, thirteen coins in the man’s pocket and a promise to love her unconditionally regardless of their fortunes. For the most part the story gets cut off halfway through before somebody loses interest or gets interrupted with something more important, but occasionally some romantic with a remarkably high pain tolerance sits through the whole thing to the misfortune of those around them.

The place has a distinct retro-60’s vibe to it. Most of the furniture is rich chocolate brown, with hard wood tables and a bar just beyond reception. The main attraction, so to speak, is the exhibition kitchen planted right behind the bar where patrons can sit and eat whilst watching the chefs cook all the five star meals. Hal, the face owner, could usually be seen flicking in and out with a smile on his face at all hours of the night making sure customers were happy and employees were handling the hours. Fine food and coffee 24 hours a day was what the 13 Coins was famous for.

It also kept potential food coming in, serving the needs of Elysium by providing all hour sanctuary and dining for the Kindred of Seattle. As midnight drew closer one pale man with slicked back hair glanced at his fine silver pocket watch before raising a hand to clear his throat. A simple enough gesture, but one ensured to grab the attention of anyone anxiously awaiting a signal of some sort.

He gives a cordial smile to the room, “Calling the reservation for Room Thirteen! Please make your way to the back. No one will be admitted beyond five past twelve.” This got a few confused looks by regular patrons before they returned to their idle banter or food fixations. In uncanny unison rose at least a dozen patrons from their seats, notably better dressed and without much in the way of food or drink before them than the rest. These dozen or so, nodding to one another in silent recognition, filed their way to the back where they were greeted with Room 13.

Resembling something between a board room and a dining hall, it wasn’t hard to venture a guess as to why this was one of the favorite meeting place for the Invictus when they felt the need to mingle with the lower ranks of Kindred Society. Emanuel waited at the door with his pocket watch in hand, guiding people to their appropriate table with a simple gesture of the hand; those paying close enough attention were sure to notice that the ghouls were being guided to the side into a side room. It seems even in Elysium the Invictus have a knack for keeping everybody in their proper place…

The room itself had been emptied save a single massive wooden and glass table that dominated the center of the room, leaving only a few aesthetically pleasing support beams and a screen in the back for a projector. To the side was a smaller room where the extra furniture had been stashed away for the time being for the ghouls to chill out and order some grub while they chitchatted. To the back was a staircase of all things leading down into what was presumably the basement, the red scarlet of the floor looking all too suspicious when the door was actually open like that…
Five minutes pass and Emanuel gives a slight glance to see if anybody is approaching the door, the only courtesy he dares acknowledge, and promptly shuts the twin hardwood doors. With the press of a button the latch fastens and he turns to address the room proper. “Friends and family, welcome to Room Thirteen. To those who have not had the pleasure, I am Emanuel Montes the owner and Keeper of this Elysium. Worry not about secrecy, this room is sound proof. Those who wish to leave early must step out through the back; it will take you underground; the closest entrance to the streets is half a block to the east. With that I will give the floor to my liege~”

Taking a short, if all too formal, bow to his literally captive audience, Emanuel steps to the side to allow a well cut black vampire wearing the deceptively simple fineries of a clergyman to gracefully capture the audience’s attention. This man rose from his seat to address the room, eyes alight and brow furrowed. This man, chiseled as if from stone, rises from his seat to address the room in a tone that clearly intones his lack of shits for who they thought they were.

“I can presume everyone here heard the news last night, but for those of you who still live under a rock or in your own delusional dreamscapes: there was a murder. One Lamb of God by the name of Tammy Hillsbrooke was shed her mortal coil, cut down in the prime of her life by the darkness. Oh yes, my brothers and sisters, I knew her. She was an innocent in the most literal of senses, in mind and body…”

Bishop Holmes’ speech trailed off for a moment too long, inviting chatter and hearsay to sublimate from those present, half whispered and unwilling to interrupt. Discerning who was saying what was difficult, but they fell silent within moments. The good Bishop regained his composure and straightened his shoulders, revealing a physique beneath those fineries that any stallion would be proud to put on display. “…I mourn for her loss, but I cannot put my personal affections before my duties. The death of a single mortal is hardly something of note, but recently it has come to our attention that an agent of our distinguished Unconquered brethren has gone missing as well. I know the Lord’s work where I see it…”

And it’s about at that point that the good Bishop starts to derail his speech into something of a sermon about vigilance and the purpose of the Sanctified within kindred society. The chatter resumes, quiet as ever but far less concerned with interrupting the good Bishop than before.

A woman in a red dress and black hat glances to a well-dressed businessman with pointy ears and a smile far too wide for his face, “Wasn’t the girl mutilated?”

To which he replied without hesitation, “Mauled, dismembered, half eaten, drained of blood. Heart cut out, never found. Might be Crones…”

A young man, no older than sixteen presses his hand to the amulet dangling about his neck, a stylized dagger beneath a crescent moon. The Circle’s ambassador suddenly looked quite uneasy with this turn of conversation.

Amid the recycled rumors and facts came new tidbits here and there.

A man with impeccable black hair gestured to his companion, “Who was the missing agent again? It wasn’t Thomas was it?”

Two women, twins, were holding an entire conversation between themselves about those other deaths they heard about. The ones that didn’t make the news.

A glassy eyed wafer of a man was already going on a short tirade bordering on paranoid conspiracy about how this was all just the Carthians trying to draw out a conflict again. One of his cohorts, a woman in a black skirt cut far, far too high gently reminded him that it was the Ordo who had a beef with the good Bishop.

So many conversations, so little time…

[You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]

The rain was really starting to pour down by the time the last Kindred was arriving. It looked beautiful the way it slapped into the park’s reflection pool just on the other side of the parking lot. Asami made a private promise to go skinny dipping in there one night, but not tonight. Tonight she had guests! The sign outside denoted a rather private affair and her ghoul security guards were posted at both entry and exit. She wasn’t expecting much in the way of trouble, but occasionally hobos would try to bunk up under the benches outside the door and the last thing she wanted to do was get an eavesdropper into her Elysium.

The little North Korean vampire swayed into her haven and home, a veritable jewel of foreign culture in the Emerald City. The displays that were out in their splendor from all corners of the East, draped across the dozen or so exhibition rooms and halls on both first and second floor. The Crow Screen sat on fine display up against a wall featured prominently on either side by bronze vessels and a massive clay warrior in ancient Chinese armor. Scroll paintings could be found in every room. To drift from one side of the museum to the other required special passage into through a recreation piece by Do Ho Suh simply called Gate often overlapped with a projection, metamorphosing the whole piece from educational piece to scenery to moving art on a whim. She even reopened the exhibit called Shu: Reinventing Books in Contemporary Chinese Art for just this occasion, letting the beautiful displays of calligraphy form a veritable fortress of culture in the eastern wing’s exhibition hall.

For those actually interested in learning a bit about Asian culture there were few better places to start than here. Unfortunately for Asami’s pride, very few of her guests tonight actually gave one flying toss about the far east. Oh they marveled at the colors and the elegance, but like most visitors the concepts flitted in one ear and out the other as soon as they turned a corner. It didn’t help that there was a hot topic tonight. Little pamplets had been handed out at the entrance to those interested in current events; a little diagram of the museum and its exhibits with a bit of exposition talking about the recent murder. Not enough to break the masquerade should a human get ahold of one but enough to raise some eyebrows.

It got the conversations flowing if nothing else. Soon everybody was remarking about the murder in one way or another. There seemed to be a consensus that it might be the Crones, but many members of the Ordo seemed dubious of this for some reason. Not out right doubtful, but skeptic. They seemed to be more interested in how it had effected the local leylines than anything else, something that got their Carthian comrades into a mood for quiet art appreciation.

In the Gate exhibit there was a young woman in glasses discussing the change in resonances near the park, whatever that implied. Clearly it was something her companion seemed willing to put up with if only for the company.

Three Carthians standing in the Revolutionary China exhibit marveled at the collection of materials on display; everything from a rug made of tiny plastic figures with their hands raised in the air to a brilliant fan composed entirely of metal dogtags of deceased Chinese soldiers. Disappointment was the common theme; disappointment about the failed experiment and where it went wrong.

Two women, one a red headed girl with a dragon tattoo and the other a woman of Indian descent were in a heated discussion about the murder itself. It seems that that portion of the Park happened to fall within the territory of a werewolf pack if the rumors were true…

Looming, as always, was the Grand Wyrm in the eastern exhibition hall. Six and a half feet tall, portly, and carrying an inquisitive gleam in his soft features, Professor Kent was perhaps the single most enthralled member of Kindred society attending this Elysium. He seemed enthralled by the calligraphy, going so far as to pull out a pad of paper to jot down many that he did not recognize.

“Kent.”

“Hm?”

“It’s about time to call this to order don’t you think?”

“Oh, Lokhande, let an old man enjoy his guilty pleasures just a bit longer?”

Srihith raised a finger to his temple before finally snapping, bringing his hand down in a hollow but aggressive move, “Fine, I’ll start without you.”

“Huí tóu jiàn.” Professor Kent said to his cohort’s back as he left, returning to his cerebral revelry in peace with the soft symphony of violin music as his only companion.

Lillian checked her coat and umbrella at the entrance, though she kept her violin case on her. Elysium or not, she did not like being too far from her rapier. Carthians and the Ordo Dracul may be playing buddy now, but she didn't believe that such things truly made a great deal of difference. She wouldn't even trust most Carthians any further than she could throw them (though with vampire strength, that could be a decent distance...). At the end of the night, vampires, each and every one of them, were out for themselves, and not a single one would think twice about driving a dagger in her back if it benefited them.

After leaving the adorable little short woman at the door, Lily glided into the crowd, party face firmly in place. Once upon a time, she would have a man on her arm and a glass of wine in her hand. But now her man was gone and wine made her vomit violently. She snorted softly before listening to the conversations around her. Plenty of talk about Crones. They -were- the obvious choice, really. But perhaps a bit too much so. But who knew what those maniacs were truly up to? She let herself be pulled into a discussion about it with a dark-haired man and a small, mousey woman.

“But lovely, don't you think that the Crones have far too much to lose by making such an obvious move?” the gorgeous blonde argued, her brilliant green eyes looking between the two.

The man laughed. “To have anything to lose, they would have to have anything in the first place. Clearly they're desperate and trying anything.”

The mousey woman shook her head. “I've never known Crones to behave rashly. If this was a move of theirs, then it's only the first of many. Time will tell.”

Lillian shuddered delicately. “Well, hopefully it's not part of something more. Such a horrifying thing to happen to anyone, let alone a poor human.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Are you in the habit of weeping over kine, Miss Voss?” His voice was subtly mocking.

She waved a hand around at the museum. “Look at everything here, Mr. Davine. This was all made by those 'kine' of which you speak so contemptuously. We can admire art and beauty, but it is their hands that craft it.”

The other woman nodded thoughtfully. “Besides, the death of our food supply benefits no one. Save the perpetrators of the crime, of course.”

Lily tried her very hardest not to roll her eyes, and managed to succeed. Mostly. Damn, she missed that glass of wine. She excused herself from the pair and drifted off, stopping in front of a large, elegantly-painted screen, lost in her own thoughts.

More and more she seemed to be developing a distaste for her own kind. Oh they were only as they could be, but she enjoyed the company of mortals so much more. They -lived-, wells of emotions, genuine and perfect and rare. Vampires were... echoes, repeating what they once were and getting fainter each time. But when she was with a mortal, she could almost remember being alive. Almost... so close. Mortals created art, and music, and beauty that could wring honest emotion from someone. Her kind could not. But they were such fragile, delicate things, their lives so easily cut brutally short. They were to be protected.

She snorted, leaning over the railing. David never understood it either.

In the vampire community, murder was certainly not unusual. But something about this particular act of foul play had led to a particularly heightened sense of paranoia among the night-walkers of Seattle. Was it the gory fashion in which the woman had been killed? Was it the ritualistic removal of her heart? Or was it the mysterious claw marks on her both? Perhaps it didn’t concern him - but Alan Stackeford intended to find out what.

The clock had already struck twelve when he arrived at his destination, the 13 Coins. It was an unassuming establishment, a thick gray block that lay nestled humbly between two taller white office buildings. A pair of silent cars sat dead in the building’s small parking lot. Obviously, the hosts of this little soiree had made sure to clear out the normally crowded restaurant to make way for some irregular guests. Near the entrance hung a neon-green sign that read “Twenty-Four Dining.” Having recently fed, Alan was made uncomfortable simply seeing the word “dining.”
Now was not the time to grow weak-kneed, however. Although he dreaded the thought of being trapped in a tiny eatery with dozens of possibly hostile individuals he had never met, Alan knew that the consequences of skipping such an important meeting would be greater than the benefits. Indeed, although he planned to leave Seattle before the week was out, the rest of his fellows back in Paris would surely expect a report on what he had observed during his time in the United States. Emile would not be pleased to hear that he not contacted a single vampire during his entire stay.

Drowsily, Alan made his way to the darkened door and knocked several times. No answer. He knocked again, this time more noticeably. Still no answer. He considered pressing his face to the glass to make sure that there was anyone inside at all, but the sudden clinking of a plate made him realize the truth: he was simply being given the cold shoulder.

Alan raised his watch. A small smear of coagulated blood obscured the numbers. He wasn’t sure how he had managed to stain such an obscure spot, but it was no matter. He lifted his index finger to his mouth, coated it in saliva, and wiped away the sticky fluid. 12:09 A.M. Wonderful.

He turned his head to the night sky. The rain was beginning to pick up. Earlier, it had not been a bother; but if he stayed outside for much longer, his favorite suit would be soaked.

Picking up his pace, Alan strode around to the back of the building, in hopes of meandering his way in via the back door. The gloomy and smoky area was entirely typical of an urban restaurant. An overflowing dumpster gave off anunbearable scent that was strengthened by the ever-intensifying downpour. A rusted blue pickup truck was parked at its side. The most obvious way into the building was a set of double doors obviously used by the staff on a regular basis. A large padlock prevented entrance.

Alan sighed in frustration. Although he was hardly surprised at his less than courteous treatment, it did not make him any less upset by it. To these local princes and poobahs, he was nothing but a foppish and foolish foreigner, not worthy of respect or serious treatment.

Listen to me. I sound like a Frenchman.

Sooner or later, however, one of them was bound to come out back to smoke a cigar or dump a bag of refuse. Alan found a spot nestled beneath an awning that was protected from the continuing storm. He leaned up against the wall and waited, staring off into the urban cityscape.

It was not long before someone indeed emerged from the service entrance. He was a young man, early twenties at the most; from his grease-stained apron, Alan discerned that he was an employee of the restaurant. Perhaps he had been working at the grill. He stumbled along with a nondescript bin, unaware of Alan’s presence.

“You there,” said Alan, raising a pale finger to point at the newcomer.
Initially, the man seemed startled, but quickly regained his composure. He set the bin he was carrying next to the dumpster before turning to face Alan.

“Didn’t expect to see anyone out here at this time of night. Something I can do for you, sir?”
Alan shook his head. Was this fellow really so daft as to not realize his identity?

“Your name, please.”

“George. I work here.” He smiled nervously and tapped his fingernail on the plastic nametag pinned to his uniform. Sure enough, it read “G. Summers.”

“I’m a friend of Montes. Emanuel Montes. He is the manager here, yes?” Alan tried to give voice a more friendly inflection. This youth was clearly not a denizen of the night, which explained his ignorance of Alan’s identity. He would have to find another way into the building.

“Yeah, Mr. Montes is our manager. I don’t know him too well, though, only been here a few months,” George replied, looking at least a bit reassured. “That still doesn’t tell me what you’re doing out here, though.”

“As I said,” Alan continued, beginning to lose his patience. “I am a friend of your boss. Perhaps you can tell him I’m here? I arrived a bit too late for a certain function, and I was oh-so-rudely locked out. I’m sure he’d appreciate knowing that I’m here.”
Sure enough, Alan’s hint worked like a charm. “Yeah.” The scullion picked up his bin once more and headed back inside. “I’ll tell him you’re out here, Mister… ah…”

“Alan Stackeford.”

“Right. Mr. Stackeford.” He re-entered the 13 Coins, leaving the doors swinging behind him.

A few moments later, a second man emerged from the same doors. Unlike George, he was a well-dressed, middle-aged fellow. In what seemed to be an attempt to look more casual, the collar of his suit was left undone, and his sleeves were partially open.

“Good evening, Mr. Stackeford. You can just call me Hal.” His voice was unnaturally energetic, especially for a man who appeared to be in his mid-forties. Alan found it to be very grating. “You’re here about Room 13, yeah? Arrived late, I gather?” Hal gestured to the service entrance, apparently beckoning Alan inside.

“Unfortunately.” Alan slicked back his damp hair, attempting to gussy up before he met with Montes - if it were Montes he was meeting with, of course. “May I come inside?”

“I’m afraid that our protocol is quite strict, sir. I’ve orders not to let anyone in past midnight. I’d be more than happy to answer any questions you may have myself, however.” Hal smiled a sickeningly sweet grin.

“I assure you,” Alan stared his target dead in the eyes. “Mr. Montes is expecting me.”

For a moment, the man appeared to struggle with the suggestion Alan attempted to insert into his psyche. Then, as if something in him suddenly clicked, his demeanor changed entirely. “Silly me.” Hal slapped himself in the forehead with a light gesture. “I’m so sorry for making you wait, sir. Right this way.”

Alan proceeded into the building after his host. Hal fiddled with his keys in the dark, apparently searching for a specific one. When he finally found it, he inserted it into a nearby doorhandle and unlocked it.

After at last turning on the lights, Hal proceeded around the corner with a rather mindless walk. Alan followed, a bit confused. Where was he being led? Had something in the process of his domination gone awry, or was the meeting room really this isolated?

Before them were two sets of stairways, one leading up, and one leading down. After standing with corpselike stillness for nearly ten seconds, Hal resumed his walk, turning to the upward flight of stairs and beckoning Alan to follow. At the top, he stopped outside an unremarkable entryway blocked by a rotted door. The faint din of voices could be heard from within, and rays of red light emerged from cracks in the wood.

“Perhaps you should return to your duties, Hal,” said Alan, looking up at the over-enthusiastic man standing vapidly in front of the door. “I’m sure I can make my way from here.” There was no guarantee Alan would be able to influence him again, but having the fellow out of his hair would certainly be helpful.

This time, Hal broke a bit more easily, perhaps softened by his first command. He breathed a sigh of relief and began to make his way back downstairs. “Put in a good word for me.”
Alan turned the doorknob with a flourish and entered the room. The meeting - or party, more properly - was already in full swing. Nobody turned to look at the new arrival.

Just as Alan began to stride over to the glass table in the center of the room, a sudden feeling of dread came over him. Emile had prepared him for this; it was his “Beast,” a sort of demonic id that emerged when least expected, and least wanted. Now, however, was not the time for an outburst. Focusing intensely, Alan managed to beat the pressure in his mind into temporary submission. He was not sure if the brief incident had caused any change in his composure, but thankfully, nobody was looking in his direction.

Unfortunately, Alan’s tango with his Beast had prevented him from hearing the end of a rather interesting conversation. Bishop Holmes, who Alan recognized almost immediately, had only recently derailed his speech into a naysaying holy sermon; when Alan had initially entered the room, the topic of discussion was the now infamous murder. The name “Tammy Hillsbrooke” was the only specific Alan overheard that he was not already aware of.

A woman sat in a chair on the holy man’s left. Although she was not clearly visible from across the room, Alan could see that her black hat possessed a veil that obscured her features. She appeared, from her disinterested demeanor and haughty poise, to be a higher-up of some sort. A good place to start, it seemed.

Alan approached slowly, consciously trying to attract as little attention as possible. If anyone noticed his sudden arrival, he might be removed from the meeting; it was thus of utmost importance that he laid low as often as possible. By the time Alan had arrived at the woman’s side, the bishop was already gone. He took a seat, and initiated conversation on a rather grim note.

“Do you really think the Crones are responsible for that poor girl’s murder? Our dear bishop seems quite convinced.” He smirked in a smug and vaguely flirtatious fashion, hoping to gain the woman’s complete attention.
Instead, her lips curled at his words. “And who are you to approach me so callously?”

“I don’t believe we’ve met, have we?” Alan said, with forced politeness. “Daryl Green, at your service. I’m an apprentice priest with the Sanctum. And you are?”

“Your futile attempts at politics do not amuse me, fledgling. I lack the time or patience or deal with such… boyishness.” She wrinkled her nose and turned her head, obviously not interested in further conversation. Something about her voice, however, had grabbed Alan’s attention: a very faint French accent.

“I’m visiting from Paris, you see. Here on the business of a friend named Emile.” Alan could not be sure of her reaction, but dropping the name of an important Invictus official was worth the risk. If he could break the ice here, he would have no chance of getting anyone else important to talk.

The woman raised her eyebrow, seemingly modestly more interested. “I have not met the man you speak of personally… but I have heard of him, and his reputation.” She paused before continuing. “I personally doubt the Crones are behind this.”

“You must have some suspicions, though. Events like this, in cities like this, are nothing short of upheavals.” Alan grinned broadly. She appeared vaguely unnerved, but continued.

“Perhaps. It was most likely a loner, or some Carthian scum simply seeking a reaction from us.”

The brevity of her response told Alan everything he needed to know. Despite her looks, this woman had little to say but idle gossip: she was uninformed and apathetic on the topic, it seemed. She seemed unworried that the murder had occurred at all. A waste of time, unfortunately.

“If you’ll excuse me, miss. I’m feeling a bit thirsty.” Alan stood, made a small bow, and departed, not waiting for her response. It came several moments later, and was faint beneath the cacophony of noise from the rest of the room: “I will not forget you.”

By now, Alan had taken to making a mental list of the most important-looking persons in the room. The closest on this list was a fellow with deep black hair sitting not far from the central table. As Alan approached, he was already in conversation with another vampire: a shaggy fellow with a permanent five o’clock shadow, and predatory eyes.

“…and what about Thomas?” said the shaggy man, his eyes boring deep into his partner.

“He’ll be fine. Nobody is suspicious of him yet. His colleagues are blissfully ignorant. Now we can only lament the fact that he hasn’t done his job.” The black-haired man appeared distant as he responded.

As the shaggy man prepared to speak again, he noticed Alan standing nearby. He tapped the black-haired man on the shoulder and pointed, acutely aware of Alan’s apparent intentions.

The black-haired man, who was also read to resume his conversation, paused mid-word and turned to face Alan. He smiled.

“I apologize,” he said, with a civil air about him. “I did not know another wished to join our conversation. To add insult to injury, unfortunately, I do not seem to know your name…”

“Alan Stackeford, sir. I’m from the Invictus of Paris. And you might be?”

“Artemis. My friend is called Bartholomew.” At this, the shaggy man bit his lip and scowled. Artemis quickly corrected himself. “Of course. He prefers Bart.”

Much to Alan’s relief, both of them, from the way they way they spoke, looked, and carried themselves, were almost doubtlessly Invictus officials.
Artemis cleared his throat. “Bart and I were just discussing that rather grizzly affair involving Miss… Hillsborough, was it? Something to that effect. Do you know anything about it, Mr. Stackeford?”

“I’m afraid not.” Alan did his best to seem innocent, but even if he were being entirely honest, he would have had little more to say. “A local woman was murdered brutally, and her killer has not yet been apprehended. Might I ask you the same? And, if it is not too much to ask, could you explain why it has all of our friends here on edge?”

“What I know is barely more than what you know, it seems. What I do know is that our man on the force didn’t do his job.” Artemis spoke with a tone of loathing. Alan could only assume that the man he referred to was…

“Thomas needs to get his act together,” said Burt, clearly the more rash of the two men. He turned to face Alan. “This isn’t even the first one. Just the first one Thomas has fucked up on.”

At this, Artemis raised his eyebrows and spoke up immediately, his intent clearly being to cut Burt off before he said too much. He eyed Alan suspiciously as he continued.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Alan. So long as you promise to aid us, of course. I assure you, it is nothing beyond a man of your… capacity.”

“We are allies, are we not?” Alan adjusted his glasses. It seemed odd that this Artemis was so quick to place his trust in him, but his interest had been piqued. He listened intently. “Speak.”

Aurel confessed that some of the food the regular patrons were eating was quite tempting, but knew that he had long since left behind such cuisine. Only blood sated his hunger and thirst now. He couldn’t even remember the taste of it. His long sleep had seen to that. But there was no great sorrow he felt for this loss. As he saw it, one means of sustenance was traded for another. Upon the call for the reservation being received, Aurel stood slowly and made his way to Room 13.

13 Coins, and Room 13. How fitting, he noticed with a slight chuckle. He was one of the few that listened intently to the story of the restaurant’s naming. Tis a noble soul that proves his love with more than mere wealth. It was readily apparent that not everyone shared his interest. In fact, there were several groans and looks of pain and boredom around him and the storyteller, but he hardly paid them any mind.

Aurel regarded the news delivered by his lord grimly, but without flinching. As always, Aurel was humbled by the calmness Bishop Holmes exercised upon revealing that he knew the Hillsbrooke lady personally. As for him, he silently prayed for the peaceful rest of this Tammy Hillsbrooke, whose fate would not be as gruesome as those of her tormentors, if the nosferatu had a say in the matter. Nothing short of the Lord and the Devil would be capable of stopping his wrath if it were his sister in the mortal’s place.

The priest overheard ramblings of the Carthians and Ordo Dracul behind this foul deed, seeking a conflict to arise. Aurel immediately disregarded these tales of fancy. The Carthians were misguided idealists incapable of such a ritualistic murder, and the Ordo Dracul were far too scientific. The Circle of the Crones were undoubtedly the only suspect he could think of that fit the descriptions of the evisceration of this lamb of the Lord. What weighed more heavily on his mind was the fate of the missing agent.

“Lord Bishop,” Aurel humbly interjected. “If I may inquire, what was our missing brethren doing at the time of his disappearance? Perhaps there we will find the path to unlocking the mystery of our recent happenings?”

The Journeyman surveyed the museum in search of the Kindred with the strongest Beast. Surely whichever vampire was the most potent would be in charge. Or at least be able to get him to whoever IS in charge.
All over the museum vampires were held in conversations or staring at pottery or sculptures or paintings. Disgusting. The very idea of an entire building dedicated to meaningless trinkets people had spent time and effort on struck the Journeyman as impractical and decadent. Art held no real value. It was just something mortals used to distract themselves from their inevitable deaths. As such Kindred should have no use for it. All the vampires here in their flashy clothing and ‘refined’ tastes had only accomplished deluding themselves into thinking they were still kine.
Eventually the Journeyman found a woman with a relatively powerful Beast engaged in conversation with a man paying more attention to her body than her words. Unceremoniously, he approached the two and without waiting for a break in the conversation asked, “Who is in charge here?” His message was more important than whatever these two could have been talking about.
The woman retorted “Who -is- in charge?” Oh, perfect. A Kindred who cares more about proper manners than a message reaching her superiors.
“I have an important message that needs delivering. If you could direct me to your Prince I would very much appreciate it.”
The woman sneered derisively and rolled her eyes. “You’re looking for Sri then. He’s probably in the east wing with the Professor staring at some scrolls.”
The Journeyman didn’t waste any more time. He arrived at the east wing to find several Carthians caught up in an argument over a particular work of art. Unbelievable. The Masquerade had all but been breached recently and these Kindred had nothing better to do than squabble over the meaning of a painting. Journeyman sighed and approached them. Perhaps they could help him find the Prince.
“Can any of you direct me to Prince Sri?”
The vampires went quiet. A tall, bald man responded “Who the fuck’s asking?”
Oh, Carthians. Jumping at any chance to establish their street cred. “I have an important message for the Prince. I’m sure he would appreciate your assistance in directing me to him.”
One of the bald man’s acquaintances put his hand on the man’s shoulder and nodded the Journeyman to a flight of stairs. No sooner had the Journeyman reached the top of the stairs did he run into an eastern looking man with a powerful Beast. This must have been him.
"Prince Sri, I am an envoy of the Circle of the Crone. I have an important vision that I beleive may be relevant to the murder in recent nights."
The man looked hesitant. Perhaps he was not used to listening to the advice of prophets. "The Crone are...always welcome in my territory so long as they obey the Laws. Speak your piece."
"I have reason to believe there will be another murder. One mortals might witness. I'm sure you can see the danger in this."

Lillian was staring at the Crow Screen. It was beautiful. She'd always liked crows. They were different from other birds. Other birds won you over with pretty colors or sweet music. Crows had neither. They were big and croaked with their ugly voices and they didn't -need- your damn approval because they had intelligence. It shone in their quick, beady eyes. They were survivors. Lily could appreciate that.

She was drawn from her musing by a sudden break in the conversation around her. She hadn't been listening, but there was a rhythm to it, an ebb and flow that she noted in the back of her mind. The sudden voice breaking in was like nails on a chalkboard in the middle of a symphony. She looked up, studying the man. Most vampires at least PRETENDED to be civilized in these sorts of settings. Curiosity was always a failing of hers and when he left, she followed.

The strange man accosted another group of vampires and she watched with amusement. Clearly he lacked any sort of social skills at all. But there may be something to his methods, because he got the information that he was looking for and headed off again, and again she followed. But the stairs promised to be a problem. If she climbed them when he did, she risked getting caught by him. If she waited until he'd gone up, she would lose him. And taking her shoes off so she could walk silently would attract all sorts of other attention.

Thankfully, Lily was saved from her conundrum by the strange man running into his apparent target. While he was distracted, she inched up a couple steps, making certain not to stare, though her attention was firmly on the conversation between the two men. She did -fully- take in the handsome man that her quarry was talking to, however. Mortal habits died hard, especially when you had little interest in letting them go.

Her eyebrows drew together at the mention of another murder and she focused entirely on the conversation and not how Tall, Dark, and Handsome's hands would feel on her. After the rather stunning proclamation, he seemed far more interested in what the newcomer had to say, but before he spoke his eyes darted down the stairs. Lily panicked slightly, but when he spoke again, it was clear that he hadn't noticed her.

Lily noted a change in his voice and a quick glance up confirmed a practiced smile, much like her own, as the man held out his hand. "The Carthian Movement is always ready to uphold the Masquerade young Acolyte. I don't think I got your name however...?"

The strange man made no move to take the offered hand, stating only, “I am called Journeyman."

Lily rolled her eyes. Crones. They couldn't just be -normal-, could they? Even the other man seemed a bit more dubious than he was a moment ago. But he retained the composure of a Prince and withdrew his hand before replying. "Ah. Yes. Of course. I am Sri Lokhande, Primier of the Emerald City. Speak your prophecy child of the Crone and let us hear how it might serve the Kindred of this fine City."

Oh. Shit. That was her Prince. Boss of the Carthians here in Seattle. And she was ogling him like he was a server with a tight ass and a screenplay he wanted to show her. Even worse, she was -spying- on him. She should leave. But it was far too interesting for her to just leave like that... Journeyman spoke again before she could make a decision and made her mind up for her.

"I saw a woman. She was dead. I believe she may have been murdered by the same murderers who dismembered that woman in the park. Also there were witnesses. Several. I don't know if they were the murderers or perhaps others who had found the body. I apologize for the vagaries, the art of prophecy is not an exact science."

Sri looked genuinely concerned about that, lifting a hand up to rub his chin idly as he thought. Lily couldn't help but stare at those gorgeous baby blue eyes. Then they moved to her as he suddenly seemed to take notice of her. "You there, you're one of the fledglings new to Seattle aren't you?" he asked as he gestured for her to join them.

Shit. Fucking shit. Caught. By the fucking Primier. Empty night she was fucked. But still, Lily's only reaction was to blink in surprise, then paste her most winning smile on her lips before walking up the stairs and bobbing a curtsy. "Ah yes, Primier. Just in the past few months," she replied, brushing a stray lock of hair off her cheek, only to have it fall back. Her eyes darted curiously to this Journeyman before returning to Sri.

The Primier's gaze moved appreciatively over Lily's form, and a smile curved her lips as she subtly changed her stance to show herself off better for his gaze. His words, unfortunately, were all business. "You were listening in so I won't bother with reintroducing myself Miss...Voss I believe? How goes the search for your Sire?"

Lillian had the grace to look sheepish at getting caught, but surprise flicked over her face at the fact that he knew of her at all. "About as well as my attempts at stealth, Primier," she replied with a self-deprecating smile.

It was just a second, but Lily could have sworn that she saw a hint of smugness on his face before he put on his most disarming smile and offered her a gracious sweep of the arm, a silent enough gesture to put her at ease. "I have been too busy of late to look anymore into the matter, but I have a proposition I would like to make with you. Make yourself useful to the Movement and uncover the mystery of these murders that upset our comrades. In return, I shall set aside time to help you find your missing Sire."

Lillian's bright green eyes widened in surprise at the generous offer. To have the Primier himself with all of his contacts and the power of his position helping her... But before she could open her mouth to reply, she was distracted by a man in a black cowl grabbing the Journeyman by the shoulder as he tried to slip away. She had absolutely no idea where the man came from, but his raspy voice, even the one single word he spoke, sent a chill down her spine.

“Stay.”

Sri waved his personal guard off with casual dismissiveness, almost apologetic even, and the dark man released Journeman's shoulder. "Please Argyle, the Journeyman is our guest! I don't advise trying that again...oh, yes! So, Journeyman, what else can you tell me about these murders? It might be critical for Miss Voss's investigation."

Lillian turned her attention from Argyle and Sri to Journeyman, head tilted to the side as she studied him raptly. "Yes, I would love to bring these horrible murders to an end as soon as possible," she purred, lightly resting a hand on his arm.

Journeyman awkwardly stumbled back from her, recoiling violently from her light touch. Lily laughed softly at the motion and placed a finger to her lips, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Crones. So strange. He continued to prove his oddness by awkwardly standing there, completely silent even after Sri's question. This went on for a solid minute before Sri finally grew bored with the awkwardness, "I am curious, though, did Alianya send you? I left invitations for the Circle in the Professor's capable hands, but I hadn't heard word from them that they were attending..."

"Alianya did not send me. I received the vision and decided to take it to those who could use the information the best." Short and to the point. Lily could respect a man of few words, but it was so very... boring.

"So, your information is the murder of a woman in a park, either perpetrated by or witnessed by a group of men? You need a new crystal ball, handsome." Lily sighed and brushed the lock of hair back again, only to have it fall back over her cheek. Perhaps this wouldn't be the easy job that she was hoping... But she gave Sri a smile and inclined her head politely. What to do with the strange man was his decision.

Sri didn't look entirely pleased to hear Journeyman's reply, but couldn't seem to divine any falsehoods in his statement. He gave a little sigh and then a shrug, which drew a great deal of attention from Lily. Night but she loved a foreign man... "Very well, Journeyman. Unless you wish to volunteer to join Miss Voss on her investigation, then you have my permission to leave."

Journeyman shook his head, one swift motion before turning and striding away. Lillian laughed softly as she watched the man rapidly vanish into the crowd, then turned her gaze back to Sri and bobbed another curtsy, deeper than her first one. "I will not fail you, Primier," she murmured.

Sri clapped his hands enthusiastically. "See that you do not Miss Voss. I am counting on you." He turned to start heading back down the hall when he paused, a thought bubbling up from the web of intrigue in his mind. "Oh, you should probably assemble a few others to join you. There's another fledgling from Chicago who will need work to do and I'm sure the Professor can recommend someone."

"Of course, Primier. I will ask around." Lily followed him down into the hall, her mind working a mile a minute. Murder in the park. She would have to find a way to always have someone keeping watch. But first she would have to find this unnamed fledgling from Chicago and try and get an audience with the leader of the Ordo Dracul. Her shoulders slumped slightly. This was beginning to sound like a great deal of work.

Empty night, but she wanted that glass of wine...

The rain didn't really bother Stacey much as she made her way to the entrance of the museum. In life she might have been bothered by the cold water and sought to escape it quicker, though she had been in far worse, but in death it made no difference to her. She was soaking wet by the time she entered the museum, but it only served to amuse her. Stacey hated these sort of gatherings, and the only time she had ever gone to such things with Noel was when they were required of her. Such was the case again, she assumed, because Inez certainly didn't seem the sort to attend such parties either.

The museum had some interesting things to look at. Stacey wasn't so uncultured that she couldn't appreciate a good work of art, even if she didn't understand it. And Asian things were always interesting to look at. But Stacey had always preferred to do things herself, rather than look at the things others had done. She would much rather be the one painting a picture than gawking at it when it was done.. not that she could paint, but if she could, that would have been what she preferred.

She had heard about the murder, of course. Almost every body in the city, kine and kindred alike, had heard of the gruesome event, though Stacey had not given it much more thought than that. It was a terrible thing, true, and it wasn't that she did not care, but she had no interest in the political side of it. After flipping through the pamphlet she realized that the meeting was most likely just going to be an argument of casting blame over the murder, again something she had no interest in, and she wondered why Inez had invited her at all.

Speaking of which.. where was the little gangrel? It was her fault Stacey was stuck at the wretched party, and she damn sure wasn't going to suffer through it all by herself. Stacey spent the next several minutes looking around for the woman until eventually she found her, just as soaking wet as she was. Apparently neither Gangrel cared about such things, and Stacey couldn't help but chuckle as she approached.

"You been swimming without me, chica?"

Stacey walked up next to the soaked Gangrel, clapping a hand on her back before casually leaning against the wall next to her to survey their surroundings. She wondered when the real party would start, all the better to get it over with. She was still a little thirsty, and maybe if she was lucky she could catch a drink before the night was over if the meeting didn't draw on too long.

"So what's this all about, anyway?"