1739 - Justice

Versailles.

Two men enter a room.  One is old, one is older.  One is fair, the other dark.  One is furious, one is calm.  Both are dead.

"Did you see what he did?" the angry one exclaimed, barely in check, coming dangerously close to raising his voice.  He pointed a finger at a servant in the corner, the young ghoul cowering in fear of him behind her maid's  uniform.  "Bring me a drink, now."  She nodded quickly and fled the room to fulfill his wish.

Slowly, almost delicately but for the power in him, the even older man sat down in one of the chairs of the salon.  Gingerly, finger by finger, he began to remove his gloves.  Ponderously, he turned to look at the ancilla before him.

They earn a few centuries and they think they know everything.

Pacing slightly, the younger had removed his own gloves and discarded them on the table.  The ghoul returned with the requested goblet, filled with something warm, rich, and red, on a silver tray.  As soon as he had taken it she scurried from the room once more before he had a chance to berate her somehow for whatever had apparently befallen him.

"In the Salon d'Hercule, no less," he said, shaking his head with incredulity.  "At the inauguration of the new Elysium he had the audacity to disgrace us all in the King's own palace.  What he could've done if he'd been seen..."

The elder, his face like marble, raised an eyebrow.  Perhaps all was not lost.  "So you do understand the larger implications, then?"

That stopped the younger in his tracks, at least.

"You understand that there is a bigger problem here?  Something more potentially damaging than just what was done to your pride?"

The younger stiffened at that.  "He used his powers on me!  Made me flee from him!  Right in front of everyone!"

The elder shook his head and gave a weary sigh.  "You're looking at this all wrong."

The younger took another drink from his glass and set it down.  Exasperated, he collapsed into a nearby chaise.  "I'll have his head for this.  Or at least his lands.  Something."

"Do you want his head?"

Finally that gave him real pause.  Uncertain what to say, suddenly wary of looking foolish (yes, only just now), he considered his words.  "No..." he said, "...Obviously not that."

The elder nodded.  "I should think not.  But do you see the crime here?"

"He made them laugh at me.  He embarrassed a member of the First Estate in open court."

"And as any harpy will tell you, that is no crime.  If you scheme and study him for a hundred years the most you will achieve is some smattering of prestation or territory, and only then if you manage to sway those arbiters of social order to your side.  All that work, and for what?  A pittance of a settlement?"

This time the younger held his tongue (finally).  What had started as a peevish rant had become a lesson, and he was determined to learn.

"You spend your nights in the gathering of information, which is a worthy pursuit, but that information is worthless if you cannot put it in the larger context.  Yes, he made you look foolish.  But there is a bigger issue here.  In the palace of the King of France, in an Elysium, with mortals only just down the hall, he broke the Masquerade."

The younger man perked up, the lesson beginning to come clear.

"To pursue a personal vendetta," the elder continued, picking up a book to make it clear that he planned to end soon, "Is an act of ego.  It is an act of revenge.  You are Invictus, Unconquered, of the First Estate.  Revenge is secondary to the Traditions, first and foremost the Masquerade.  We are its defenders and keepers in all things.  When such a crime has been committed, we must seek justice.  Not revenge."

275 years later, in a very different place, those words sounded once more through Lord Quinn's ears.  Only this time, he heard them come from his own lips.  So strange.

1899 - The Sweetest Sin

"Stop right there!"

Not panting for lack of breath, forehead shiny but somehow ruddy-looking, she ignored the policeman's order and kept right on running.  Rounding a corner, Emily saw a mostly open sidewalk in front of her so she opened into a sprint.  Turning up her hearing a notch, she knew without looking that the idiot was following her.  A burst of speed could get her out of this, but there were too many people watching...and that would get her into the kind of trouble she couldn't just run away from.  So she put her faith in being faster than some dumb cop.

Everything had been going according to plan.  She had gotten into the city quite easily, though Chicago hadn't yet shown her much of interest.  Lots of pretty lights, the kinds of things that a certain class of vampire liked to see, but nothing significant.  If they even patrolled their own territory she'd not seen any sign.  They were plump.  Decadent.

She happened to walk past an unconscious man lying in an alleyway.  The moonlight caught his features in a way that made his nose stick out, giving him a hawkish quality that she found endearing.  There's always time for a little top-up, her sire had taught her, so she knelt down to do that thing that vampires do.  Which was when the cop showed up.

He'd told her to let go of him, and she had done so.  He looked at the blood dribbling from her mouth, and she gave an impish shrug.  He looked away to call a fellow officer to assist him, and she disappeared from sight.  When he looked back into the alley his brow furrowed in surprise.  She broadened her grin and waggled her fingers at him in a schoolgirl wave.

His face turned sharp and he said, "I don't know what you think is so funny, Miss."  And that was when she knew she was in real trouble.

All of which culminated in the here-and-now.  He had to look for her to find her, so if she could just get into another alleyway...

Emily turned another corner and then quickly turned again, becoming invisible as she did so, and this time it stuck.  The fool ran right past her and she had to suppress a chuckle.  She didn't feel until the last moment that a sharpened shaft of wood slipped discreetly through her back and into her heart, like a sharp knife into a sack of grain.

"Never try the same trick twice..." were the last words she heard.

--

Simply, slowly, fairly mechanically, he knelt down to her crumpled body and began to drink.  It's about time I got something I can use, he thought to himself as he drank pint after pint after pint.

It was that thought that sobered him.

Scuttling like an insect he backed away from her, quickly, harshly.  The moonlight raked across her face, turning her nose into something like a hawk's beak, and he found it endearing.

Endearing.

Composing himself, Lord Quinn stood up and straightened his red cravat just as Officer Connelly arrived on the scene.  Breathless from the chase, the young man saw that his master had brought down their mutual prey and smiled.  "What do you want done with her?" he asked.

He ordered her interred in the cement foundations of a nearby building "along with all the others," and stepped back into his carriage.  Ordering the driver home, he began writing out instructions on a sheet of paper in the cab.

It has to be soon, he thought, I must tell her that it has to be soon.  It has been too long.

I almost did something...regrettable.

1646 - Heel, Boy

Infuriating!

Beside himself with rage the young Mekhet paced the hallway with short, brisk steps.  The new heels on his shoes clacked on the marble floors as he did so, echoing through the silent gallery with occasional unintentional bursts of preternatural speed.  With his hands behind him one fist smacked rhythmically against an open palm.  In his anger he lashed out and only just stopped himself from destroying a vase on a nearby pedestal.

His patron was an idiot.  He had great personal power, obviously, but he was blind to the assets their relationship could provide.  His was the club, and a heavy club, thus the scalpel that the Shadow wielded so expertly went unappreciated.

His trained ears, sharper than any human’s, heard the patron’s footsteps much earlier than the elder Invictus would’ve preferred but it couldn’t be helped.  He could not apologize for what he was, nor would he.  It was unacceptable to continue this way, to be treated so -

“Stare fermi,” the patron said, and the supernatural power of the oath that bound them brought the Mekhet’s feet to a stop.  “Inginocchiati,” he said, and the same power brought the younger Invictus to his knees.

“Sembra che ancora una volta dobbiamo discutere questioni di rispetto e di protocollo...” the elder began, but the younger tuned him out.  This elder was deserving of respect; his many years and experiences had earned him that.  But the man was still a fool.  To be so self-righteous, so self-aggrandizing, these were mere minor character flaws.  But to treat a fellow Unconquered as lesser, regardless of difference in age or standing, was...unseemly at best.

Vaguely listening to the old fool’s babble, he who would one day become Lord Quinn of House Quinn swore that when he was the ancient things would be different.

1823 - Cut the Thread

Unto the Most Honorable Second Marquis Desmarais,

We were most disheartened to receive word of the death of your sire, the First Marquis Desmarais.  Our memories of that great Lord, and the respect we bear both him and his line, will live forever even though he is sadly lost.

We recall the years of your youth and your introduction to the Invictus and it was our honor to stand beside your sire at your time of manumission.  Though we have not been to Versailles, and Paris, in seventy-four years, we are gratified to know that you have continued to flourish there.  In your letter, sent earlier this year by courier, you wrote of assets at the palace and some measure of control over the Chamberlain of the King.  We know it can be difficult to stand tall in the shadow of an elder and you are to be congratulated for achieving so much.

It had not been our intention to respond to your request for political assistance at all.  However, our great respect for your sire, and for you, has led us to reply.  Furthermore, your sire died while still in a state of trivial prestation with us.  Despite our inability to provide the assistance you require,we hope this letter will resolve our obligation adequately.

There exists, in this country right now, an animus against enhanced interaction with other sovereign nations.  Its ruler, the President James Monroe, has recently offered a personal doctrine to the nation which has been readily accepted by its citizens.  He has promised them that there will be no attempts at colonization, nor any peaceful acceptance of related actions by outsiders.  We of House Quinn have supported this most vocally; we feel it is in keeping with the finest principles of the Invictus.  The first and greatest respect is self-respect, and we feel that this American Experiment, the desire to create a country from sand and determination, embodies that ideal.

Regrettably, however, this has earned us many enemies abroad.

We would be pleased to offer you our assistance, but we have little left in the way of political capital with Versailles.  Against our will, our ties there have been severed.  In earnest, we were surprised to learn that you and the Desmarais line were still willing to correspond with us.  We take it as a sign of friendship, and a welcome one.  If there is anything else we can do to be of assistance please feel invited to petition.  If you ever travel to the wilds of America, to the frontier we currently call home, we will be glad to offer hospitality.  But as for your request we are simply unable to comply.

Lord Quinn
House Quinn

1871/2014 - I Consign Thee to the Flames

In 2014, Lord Quinn stands and looks up at the flames engulfing the building.

In 1871, Lord Quinn stands and looks up at the flames engulfing the building.

No one sees him, but he sees all.  He sees the brave one, dashing up the stairs.  He will learn much.

No one sees him, but he sees only the burning building.  He sees the coward, running into the building against his will at the urging of his master.  He will die.

He sees the cautious one, and wrinkles his nose with disdain.  He takes a moment to consider the trespasser and watches him fly away.

He sees his other self through his mind’s eye and feels genuine fear for the first time in centuries.  He realizes what is coming and unconsciously begins to shake his head ‘no.’

Something deep within him insists he draw no closer to the flames, but he swats that fear away.  He is impervious to harm.

Something deep within him insists he draw no closer to the flames, and that fear almost consumes him.  The flames will destroy him like dry paper.

The raging blaze quiets, and he moves inside.  Someone has attacked his home and he will know who.

The raging blaze will not quiet for days, and the cost will be terrible.  Something has done him irreparable harm and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

Inside, he sees and feels much.  He obtains the valuable clues he needs.  He goes back to report.

Outside, he sees and feels too much.  He feels the horrible, unimaginable thing happen.  He goes back to report.

1992 – Why I Miss All The Best Parties

Standing over her body, he has no doubts that she was exsanguinated.  He’s seen it too many times.  He’s done it too many times.

There are no marks on her neck, but that’s common.  At least her assailant had that much decency.

A few interrogative touches later and the scene replays itself before him.  Images of a tall, unidentified man in a leather jacket.  Hunger while convincing her to open the door, traces of desire to flee the city on the doorknob from his escape.  A hint of regret, but not enough.  Impressions of fear on the item she used to defend herself.  A spent canister of pepper spray, useless for that purpose.  That would have to be destroyed.

When you want the job done right…

***

The pepper spray and a few similar incriminating items are all in a heavy duty trash bag now and ready for incineration.  All traces of blood wiped away, all signs of struggle removed.  Now came the closest thing to a hard part.

He pulls out his disposable Nokia, considers it briefly, and decides not to use it.  Whether he distrusts the new technology or simply prefers the old methods is unknown, possibly unknowable.  He puts it back in the pocket of his jumpsuit and extracts a small white handkerchief from a selection of colors.

He hefts her body in his arms, light from blood loss, and props it up in front of his by the picture window.  He waves the white handkerchief and ducks down.

The bullet rips through her head, splattering brains and what little blood is left.  By practice, by instinct, he lets go of the body a moment before the bullet hits.  The bullet passes through his right shoulder and embeds itself in the wall behind him.  The wound is an unfortunate necessity, but ballistics shouldn’t be able to tell.

He surveys the scene one last time.  Everything looks perfect except for the lack of blood splatter.  The head wound is ideal, but there should be blood everywhere.

I’m going to have to hit the hospital.

***

New Year Is Off To A Deadly Start

Chicago Tribune

January 02, 1993

The New Year was only minutes old when Joyce Foster made the sad discovery that a person is not safe from random gunfire even in her own living room.

The 28-year-old was killed as she stood near a window in a ninth floor apartment in a CHA high-rise building. The bullet, which ripped into her head, apparently was fired from the street, detectives said.

1962 - Do Me a Favor

Quickly, smartly, he moves through the city street.  The dead of night is never dead enough for some.  Even at this hour, Wacker is always alive.  He wears a dark, modern tux and a black overcoat.  A shadow in the shadow of the great Sears.

He reaches the ticket-taker.  He gives her his ticket.  She looks up from her book to chide him that he's too late for the performance, but somehow he senses her objection and folds a $100 bill in with the ticket.  She smiles and points him toward an usher but he is already moving.

He takes the marble steps two at a time.  He brushes past a plaque bearing many donors' names.  One of them was once his.

At the landing he approaches the door of a private box and enters.  Act III is just starting.  Perfect timing; Sparafucile's house.

If his target hears him coming, she doesn't show it.  He sits down just behind her and to her right.  "Your 20 scudi," he whispers, handing her an envelope.

She opens it just enough.  $10,000 and a photograph of Walter Kranz.  She smiles a morbid half-smile.

"It has to look like natural causes," he reminds her.

"No problem," she says.  "He's 80 years old and has leukemia.  I would think you could just leave well enough alone and time would do my job for you."

He makes no reply.

"Any last message for him?" she asks.

He pauses a moment, considering, and finally replies, "No psychics in my streets."

"I don't understand," she says and turns to question further but he is already opening the box curtain to leave.

1674 - History Repeats Itself

In a large yellow sitting room, two monsters are reading.  Both are uncomfortable.  One is put off by the scent of the hardwood floors, still new from installation, though he acknowledges that his reading companion wouldn't even notice it.  The other finds the openness of the room stifling, the bright colors off-putting.  Delicate white floral accents on the walls around them, matched with an elegantly scrolled fireplace and ornate couches, add to the formality and the beauty of the space, but do not put her at ease.

She looks up.  The one opposite her is rifling through a sheaf of papers, looking for a specific parchment he seems to have mislaid.  Curious and wary, she speaks her mind as ever.  "Pensez-vous que le Prince n'est pas intéressé par ce que vous avez à dire? Ou a son laquais fait cela sur son propre?"

Her companion looks up from his work.  "Quoi?"

She remains patient with him.  "Vous avez enfin un emploi du prince, et maintenant son serviteur vient le long. Je soupçonne que c'est une insulte contre vous."  Why he cannot see the potential danger is beyond her.

He puts the papers down on the table, and she relinquishes her copy of Exercitatio Anatomica de Motu Cordis et Sanguinis in Animalibus.  He raises an eyebrow and lifts a hand casually.  "Honnêtement, je crois que le chambellan agit de son propre chef."

"En outre," he presses on, "Ce que le prince veut de moi, c'est différent. Il connaît ma valeur."

She shakes her head, wishing he could see it the way she does.  "Vous ne savez pas comme je le fais. Il ya des roues dans roues ici."

He stares back at her, patient but defiant.  "Et si il ya? De prendre du recul et de voir les roues est de conduire l'entraîneur. Et j'ai une meilleure vue que quiconque."

He has a point.  "Roues dans roues créer des frictions ... Je n'aimerais pas voir que vous brûlez..." she protests half-heartedly.

He sees that he has won her over and he smiles.  The bright warm smile that marks a neonate.  "Ceux qui causent trop de friction se retrouvent bientôt sur ​​le feu."

She laughs despite herself.  "En effet, ils le font.  En effet, ils le font."

She picks up her book again, and he his parchments.

2013 - Rituals in the Dark

In a bare, white room, he sits gathering his thoughts and discarding them like loose trash cluttering an otherwise clean space.  As ancient and pure as meditation can be, he empties his mind through patient, singular focus.

He is dressed in white, loose-fitting, disposable clothes.  Paper shirt, pants, nothing more.  When the exercise is done they will be burned.  His eyes are closed, lost in lack-of-thought, luxuriating in the nonbeing.

The walls are white with no adornment; no pictures hang and no color is visible.  The room is small, a cynic might call it a cell.  There is a light antiseptic smell but otherwise no scent.  He sits cross-legged on the floor before a low table.  There are three items on the table before him.  A sheaf of papers with writing on them.  A sheaf of papers which are blank.  A fountain pen.

It is dark in the room, no light can enter it.  One might wonder how a room can be both white and dark, if the absence of light means an absence of color.  One might further wonder just how far the absence goes.  To a creature such as this, does even time itself exist in this room?  If the time has no immediately measurable effect on him (as it does not) and cannot be measured at all in this space (as it cannot), who is to say it is even there?

One might wonder, but he does not wonder such things now.  Such thoughts do interest him from time to time, but now is not that time.  Only the blessed blankness for him now, the total now, the total nothing.  Darkness in the white.

In this time which is not time, in a place which might not be a place, Lord Quinn reaches out his hand.  He picks up the pen.  He begins to transcribe words from the papers on his left to the papers on his right.  He sits in total darkness, eyes dispassionately drifting from one paper to the other as he writes, accuracy his only goal.  He drafted his letter earlier, but this is the copy that will go out.  The copy he will allow out of his control, that may end up in the hands of...who knows who.  It pays to be cautious.

His thoughts briefly drift back to a time before, when he was not so cautious.  When a letter he had written fell into the hands of an enemy and was traced back to him.  He sighs over all that it had cost him back then; it was long, long ago so there was no sense being emotional, but at the time it had been disappointing.

As quickly as it happens, Lord Quinn realizes that he has allowed himself thoughts.  When he looks down at the page before him now it is rank; it smells like rotting garbage, disappointment and regret, and a burning villa outside Paris.

He crumples the paper up and tosses it aside.  Then he closes his eyes and starts again.

1578 - Cominciando giovane

As night settled on the town and the moon came out over the palazzo, the woman in black stepped out of her carriage.

She was tall and pale, her long black hair pouring down her back where it commingled with the black brocade of her gown.  A single strand of pearls formed the headband above her hair, and other small pearls accented her dress to form tasteful patterns on the rich fabric.  She smiled, feigning never having seen the place before.  The Duke need never know that her unseen wanderings had brought here many times indeed.

The servant came fumbling down the steps, wringing his hands as much as his brow on his approach.  "Mi dispiace, signora, se avessi saputo che venivi sarei stato qui a salutarvi."

She nodded kindly, accepting his words with charm.  "No, è stato scortese da parte mia di venire così tardi," she replied, and he smiled back.  She raised an eyebrow of inquiry and gestured torward the front door with her delicate hand, asking "È il vostro padrone di casa?"

The piddling little man, balding early in life, appeared concerned at fulfilling her request.  "Egli è, ma di solito non riceve chiamate così tardi ..."

She laughed, lightly and practiced.  "Sono sicuro che non mente, siamo vecchi amici," she said, reassuring him, and confidently brushed past him toward the door.  The little man looked at her footman, who glowered back, and he was left with no choice but to follow her into the house.

Once inside, she sat down on a receiving couch and prepared herself to wait.  "Digli che sono qui e che doveva vedermi subito," she said, reclining slightly while dismissing him with a smile and a wave.  Flustered, the little man scuttled off in search of his master.

After a few minutes a young boy of 13, dressed in servant's silks, entered with a tray bearing wine, fruit, and an empty cup.  He set the tray down on the table by the guest, and asked "Sarebbe la signora come qualche ristoro, mentre si attende?"

Her smile grew sly; here at last was the real opportunity she sought.  Conspiratorially, she gestured with one finger until the boy came over.  Reaching into the folds of her dress, the woman in black pulled out a florin.  The boy's eyes grew wide at the sight of more money than he made in a month.  She pressed it into his hand.

"Il tuo padrone, il duca, egli è un uomo buono?" she asked.

The boy nodded slowly, but the colors dancing around him said he was lying.  He was uncertain what she wanted, why she would question his loyalty, and he feared a trap.  Her smile grew warmer, and somehow so did her skin.

She nodded.  "Ho un lavoro per te," she said.  "Riesci a tenere gli occhi aperti? Riesci a vedere le cose e non dirlo? Se io vengo a voi di tanto in tanto, mi vuoi dire che cosa succede in questa casa?"

On realizing what she was asking of him, the boy's eyes betrayed his fear.  To his credit, he thought a minute before answering.  But eventually he nodded again, as she already knew he would.

The sound was too far away for the boy to hear, but with her well-trained ears she could hear the little man returning.  The woman in black sat up abruptly, causing the boy to stumble back from her.  "Bravo," she said.  "Ricordate sempre la prima regola: vedere tutto, non dire niente."  The boy nodded one more time, and hurried off back into the house.  The woman in black smoothed out her dress and her smile, but her inner grin could not be stifled.  Whatever the results of her meeting, her visit had been a success.  She had her spy.

2013 - Bread and Water

What's the connection.  There must be a connection.  Simply find the connection.

Quinn started over.  With bandaged fingers he gently pulled the pieces of newsprint down from the wall.  Placing them on the floor before him he shuffled them and spread them out.

"Cafe Ba-Ba-Reeba closed by health department."

Letters lit up before him, jumping out of the headlines, but refusing to arrange themselves into words.

"Water contamination at Kingston Mines."

He turned to his left, from the articles to the large map of Chicago that occupied one wall of the small, dark room.  A dozen red pins stuck out of it, marking each location.  The sites were clustered into a small part of Chicago, but nothing tied them together.

"Customers outraged at Mia Francesca."

Photos were no help either.  Looking over the articles spread before him there was no pattern of connection.  Just the same shot over and over of whatever little eatery had suffered that night.

"Chilam Balam Closed by Police."

Turning to his right, he read the police reports and others from his own people.  Each one told the same story in frustratingly different words.  "Bad food" here and "contaminated water" there.

The spots on the map are all clustered in that one area.  If it was someone's intentional attack, it was also surgical.  The reports moved North as the evening progressed, against the river, which supports the theory that it was intentional.  But what motive?  Poisoning the Daeva's food supply would be the obvious answer, but what the hell is the point of poisoning the Daeva's food supply?  And where do the Nosferatu come in?  Why was DiParma discussing it so urgently with Augustus?

The whole thing made no sense, and where there's no sense we fall back on the basics of the trade.  He reached out, staring at the map but fumbling for the spool of twine, and began to wind a cord around the first red pin where the first report was made.  As he pulled the white thread through his fingers it caught, roughly, making paper-thin tears and cuts through the bandages on his fingertips.  The thread came off the spool white, but was a dark, rusty maroon by the time it reached the map.  He tied the end off around the pin, and moved to the next one.

There has to be a connection.