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The dying didn't mind.
Some of them thought it was marvelous - the revelation of a final secret before everything went pleasantly grey, like a grand cosmic joke. *Vampires*, they would think as Sheila McNelley gently guided them to their deaths, *imagine that*.
Journey House Hospice was packed to the rafters with the dying. There was a waiting list to get in, which struck Sheila as slightly perverse on several levels. Every night she arrived shortly after sunset, spent the serene stillness of the night shift cleaning and chatting with insomniacs and, not infrequently, feeding her own hunger.
There was no medical machinery at Journey House, and no doctors. There was a large supply of painkillers and a smaller stash of illicit pharmaceuticals ranging from dilaudid to LSD. The residents - no patients - were generally cheerful, intelligent, and full of great stories. They died not like unwanted parcels in some sterile medical post office but like men and women - surrounded by loved ones often, but sometimes alone with Sheila. Their blood was often attenuated with disease; occasionally it was intoxicatingly potent.
It had been the night she threw away her tin of Bob Kelley lampblack makeup that had concealed her regrowing teeth. She had been listening to music at the duty station when a room call light winked to life. The card beneath it read AVRAM BLAND. Sheila knew Avram - a willow of a man in his sixties, bedridden now with fast moving pancreatic cancer. She found him sitting up, propped against his bed's backboard, staring at the murky garden beyond his window.
"Sheila," he said, smiling faintly.
"Avram," she said, "what's up?"
He turned laboriously to look at her. "Got your teeth back," he said.
She nodded. "Yes, just today. The oral surgeon had to replace the..."
"Grew back," he croaked, calmly dismissing her with a wave of his hand. "Fuck the oral surgeon, and fuck you too - you're a vampire."
Sheila blinked. A number of responses played themselves out in her mind. Avram Bland waited for her to choose one. After a disconcerting moment, she looked down at herself, then back at him, then shrugged.
"You know, you're right," she said, smiling, eyes locked on his. He turned away with a scowl.
"How long?" he muttered.
"Months," she said. "Seems like years."
"I'll bet. Plush job for you here at the hospice."
She nodded. Bland faced her again. "I knew when I saw you. I know all about you and I pity you." His eyes narrowed into weathered slits and his features darkened. "You're just a thing now. Not even human. A monster, maybe."
Sheila took it in and nodded again.
"Twenty years ago I would have destroyed you."
Avram Bland slid weakly down the backboard, until only his head was propped up, absurdly, on a cadaverous neck.
"Twenty years from now you'll wish I had the strength tonight," he said.
She turned and left, choking back a sob, slamming his door behind her. In the morning Bland was dead, his eyes fixed on the doorway.
"This is one for the books," Rita said, closing the door and sliding the deadbolt home, "what the hell are you doing?"
"What's it look like I'm doing," Sheila mumbled.
"It looks like you are rubbing garlic on yourself, but I know that can't really be happening. I must be drunk or high."
Sheila looked up gravely. A silver crucifix dangled from her neck. "This is all shit," she said, picking up a mirror and holding it at arms length. "Look. What do you see?"
"You?"
"Precisely."
Rita tried to suppress a grin and failed. "Have you tried pounding a stake through your heart yet?"
Sheila did not smile. "I was waiting for you to come home for that."
"And the dreaded silver bullet?"
"I think that's werewolves, but I'm not taking any chances." Sheila's eyes drifted to the kitchen table. Rita followed her gaze and saw a long cardboard box labelled REMINGTON 870.
Rita dropped her grocery bags and sunk to the floor after them, shaking her head.
"I'm not going to test those two," Sheila said calmly, examining her garlic-covered forearm. "The rest of this a total old wive's tale. But daylight" - she shuddered - "that one's right on. I have to know my limitations."
"Well, fire," Rita said matter-of-factly. Sheila nodded. *Temper*, her room-mate added to herself.
They sat for a moment, listening to the plastic bags slowly expand in an atonal symphony of crackles.
"I'm not alone," Sheila said finally, pushing herself off the couch, "somebody *made* me." She headed into the kitchen, opened the box, and returned with a blued steel pump shotgun. "A guy told me, just before he died, that he knew about me, about *us*. He said it like he'd known vampires all his fucking life, Rita."
"You sound paranoid."
Sheila opened her handbag and dumped a box of shells onto the couch. She sat down and began methodically loading eight of them into the tubular magazine.
"I guess I am," she said, working, "I don't know anything. I mean, what am I? He called me a monster." She forcefully pumped a round into the chamber. "Am I a monster?"
Rita smiled thinly. "Not while you're pissed off and holding a loaded shotgun," she said. Sheila put the gun down and sighed heavily.
"They'll come for me," she said, "either more like him that just want me dead..."
She wiped her hand across her eye and it came away streaked with red.
"...Or my own kind."
Money, power and influence could sometimes be a very good thing. Especially when applied correctly. Jobs, apartments, credit purchases, all added up to leave a very clear trail that could be picked up and followed to the source.
This source just happened to be a very confused and potentially frightened Brujah.
Brina smiled as she looked over the printouts. Only four hours, not bad. She had done better, but still, not bad. She still had a few things about the American way of doing things that tripped her up here and there.
Now, how to deal with the Childe. She had to do things gently. With no formal training, there was no telling just what ideas the poor girl had entertained. Nor was there any way of knowing how she was caring forherself. Was she feeding to keep from losing control? Did she have a safe Haven to rest in?
A twinge of sympathy shot through her as she remembered being in almost the same position. Alone, with very little knowledge of her full potential. Hiding from the sun where ever she could. Wondering if she'd be there to see the next day.
Brina looked at the clock. Four in the morning. She should still be awake. Brina picked up the phone on her desk, dialed the number, and leaned back in her leather office chair.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
On the fourth a young woman picked up, her voice tinged with sleep. "Hello?"
"May I speak with Ms. McNelley, please?" She kept her voice calm, soothing.
There was a rustle, the phone on the other end was set down on something, perhaps a bed side table, and the padding of bare feet could be hear as the woman went to summon Sheila. A few minutes later another phone picked up.
"Hello?"
"Ms. McNelly?"
"Who wants to know? Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"I know precisely what time it is. And I know that creatures such as you and I are not resting at this hour." She fell silent, letting the Childe digest this.
"Who is this?"
"My name is Brina, and I am a vampire, like yourself." She let her voice sound calm, with just a tinge of sweetness, inviting. "I thought you might like to meet someone who can clarify a few things. Perhaps answer your questions?"
Silence.
"If you would care to, I can be found tomorrow eve at the Black Squirrel. Perhaps you can join me for a drink? I would be more than happy to tell you anything you may need to know."
There was no "yes" or "no", just an odd silence and a strange grunt that could be an affirmative or negative. Brina said her good bye and hung up the phone, deciding to trust in the Childe's curiosity and confusion to bring her to the tavern the next eve.
The woman got up and made her rounds, ensuring that the Haven was locked up tight. A Brujah. That meant less control of her Beast and a greater tendency to Frenzy. Not a good choice to have running around loss with no concept of what she is.
The Toreador took an unneeded breath and let it out with a sigh.
She had her work cut out for her.
Sheila paced behind windows covered with tin foil and duct tape. She was wearing a flannel nightgown and talking to herself. Rita, in her mini-mart uniform, was engrossed in the metro section of the Examiner.
"Okay, okay, it *could* be a setup," Sheila said, rubbing her hands, "or it could be for real. How do I know?"
Rita grunted and continued reading.
"I mean, it could be Avram Bland's little brother with a flamethrower."
"Could be," Rita agreed. "Do you still have a sex drive?"
Sheila stopped pacing. "Of course I do," she hissed, "What the hell kind of question is that at a time like this?"
Rita shrugged. "There's an ad here for a singles grocery shopping night at Kroger's. It got me thinking." Her head sunk back between the pages.
"Rita," Sheila growled, "I may die tonight."
"Too late; dead already."
She snatched the newspaper from Rita and furiously compressed it into a ball. "Listen to me!" She shouted, "Damn it Rita, listen!" Rita stood up and purposefully walked into the kitchen. It was funny, she thought, but she could almost feel the ground shaking from the force of Sheila's rage behind her. Like a Tex Avery cartoon. She carefully drew a glass of water and waited.
From the living room, there came a stifled roar and basso profundo crack followed by breaking glass. Drywall dust floated into the kitchen and settled on the linoleum. Rita sipped her water.
Sheila's voice radiated misery. "I'm getting dressed now," she said quietly. "I'm going to meet this fucking vampire."
Rita stepped back into the living room over shards of mirror glass. Sheila had splintered a stud behind the drywall; she was cradling her broken hand and looked absolutely lost. "Let's get you dressed and wrap your hand and do this right."
"You're not coming."
Rita didn't reply. She dug out some casual clothes and laid them out on the bed. While Sheila dressed, she swept up the glass. After they'd wrapped the hand in a tight cocoon of gauze, Rita fished the car keys out of her uniform and they left together.
All it had taken was a touch - a single *touch* from that woman - and she had been rendered humiliatingly helpless. Sheila was so enraged that, when movement slowly returned to her aching body, she slept for twenty hours.
Rita spent the time reading a newspaper that had appeared, like magic, at some point. She slept a little, curling up in a corner of the vast feather bed, out of place in her mini-mart uniform. The tiny "guest" facility had a delicious array of fresh fruit and a juicer, and she made exotic combinations and drank them until she felt queasy. The place was very comfortable. The doors were locked.
When Sheila started growling and thrashing her way back into consciousness, Rita warmed a glass container of what the label assured her was a liter of bovine blood. Sheila took it from her and drained it greedily, wiping her mouth with her sleeve and looking around for more.
"Morning, sleepyhead," Rita said, pulling another liter out of the refrigerator. "Where are we?"
Rita shrugged. "Don't know. She drove fast. It was dark"
"What time is it?"
Rita looked at a clock on the wall. "Midnight."
"What *day*?"
"Monday."
Sheila collapsed wearily back into the bed.
"Did you shoot her? I thought I heard you shoot her."
Rita nodded. "You shouldn't have let that salesman talk you into buying a .38. Turns out she's a thousand years old. She drives a Mercedes."
"Forget heating the damn thing up, just bring it here."
She chugged down another liter, set the container down, and rubbed her temples. "I assume she's not too pissed, since we're alive. Well, you're alive and I'm...you know."
"She's not upset, really. But I guess we're stuck here for a while." Rita flopped down on the bed. "You made the front page of the Examiner today."
"No kidding?"
"Arson squad wants a word with you. I clipped the article out."
"Well, damn."
"Yeah, damn. This Brina lady is in the process of saving our collective butt, sister. We got out just in time."
Sheila rolled over to look at her, pale face lined with unspoken worry.
"I saved your air rifle trophies," Rita said with the ghost of a smile.
The Prince leaned back in her chair and cracked a rare smile, the long permanent fangs dripping from her mouth in an image of feral contentment. The look lingered long enough and was a profound enough thing that Timkin stopped at the door to marvel before coming fully into the room with the brewery plans. She looked at him with her whiteless eyes, bemused by a private thought and nodded to the plans in the old ghoul's hands.
"Problems?" she said quietly in German to him as he walked over to her and laid the roll of papers on the small table next to her. She watched him, the eldest and most industrious of her retainers as he moved with the grace and dignity that she had long come to take as a given.
He looked at her thoughtfully before saying a simple "Nien, Dame. Nothing to be vorried overmuch about." he sat down in the offered seat by the table and made some notations on the plans, looking over at the vampire curiously. "Could I ask vhat amuses you so?" he looked away and to the papers. making a couple more notes before showing the page to Fursa.
The smile faded to a look of satisfaction as she took a look at the sheet in her hands, looking up with the strange green eyes, she took a mail and pointed to a place of question in the plans and said quietly "Within one week, I have had the Childe located, she and her companion are now in protective custody, and the matter of the potential Masq break may very well be settled in short order." she mused lightly "Almost too good to be true." Her eyes drifted over the document before her and then back to Timkin, taking a pen and putting some notations in the margin "Turn the vats 90 degrees and divert the flow to the settling vats through the wall here...better use of space and a shorter distance for the pipe to travel."
Timkin looked at the drawing on the page and smiled "but, Dame, if I may be the first to say, the difficulty is in the routing of the pipe."
The Prince looked up from the page and her eyes danced. "Precisely, Timkin. Could you be sure to call Norn Industries and explain the situation and that we need a discreet solution?"
Timkin understood the dual nature of the conversation completely and nodded quietly. "I will place the call as soon as you approve these changes in design."
She smiled again, glancing through the stack and signing off on a half million dollars in construction.
Brina returned home, her mind churning. She had the girls secured inside the Haven, and comfortable, but even she knew that isolation would be hell even in a palace.
She entered her home, finding Rita and Sheila on the couch watching T.V. The girls turned her way. Her face must have given her away, because Rita asked what was wrong.
"There have been some changes in the Social Structure. Clan Brujah has a new Elder, and he is raising hell about you two being with me instead of with another Brujah." She smiled. "I am to place you in his care so that you can learn from your own clan, Sheila."
She approached the girls and knelt down in front of the couch, facing the both of them. "Now, listen closely. Molotov is a nice guy for the most part, but he can be a bit gruff, and I doubt he has any more experience with new Kindred than I do. If he ever gets on your nerves too much or you need someone to talk to when he just doesn't understand what's on your mind, I'm only a phone call away. I can't interfere with Brujah politics, but I can be there if you need a friend." She smiled. "Or and answer he doesn't know."
She stood, feeling somewhat saddened that she was losing the girls, but in another way, relieved. "I'll take you to the Squirrel. Call me paranoid, but I would rather keep the location of my Haven a secret. Too many dangers involved with letting people know where you sleep."
She turned to go, then stopped in mid stride. "Oh, one more thing. You asked what I got out of helping you. Only this. Tell no one of how I healed your hand or how I paralyzed you. These are things they do not need to know. Do this, and my aid in keeping you from being apprehended will be returned in full."
((Whelp, I dunno if you wanna RP the handover or just write it out. Up to you guys.))
Molotov clomped his way along th' poorly lit street, head bobbing in time with his stride.
'Freakin' Pan....off n' runnin' on her Harley. Damn, th' more things change th' more they friggin' stagnate. She must be shootin' fer th' Tommy Steel hall-o'-fame'
*That* made Mol shiver.
'F'in' Cainedamned Tommy Steel an' *knows* I don't need *him* in this neck o' th' woods. Guy always did give me th' creeps, n' fer a *kid* too....'
A shake o' his mangy brown mop.
'So f'in' *thanks* Pandora, fer f'in' up n' leavin' *me* in charge o' this mess."
The toe o' his gatorskin combat boots teach a rock a lesson.
'Makes z-ro sense ta' me...Pan didn't care fer th' way I *raised* Star...o' helped with Tat...o' Nichessa, Caine's sake Mol did ya' jess say *raise*...n' then offin' Darke wuzn't x-actly a smart move....Caine, I didn't know he wuz her childe...'
A swift glance up.
'Ok...so I didn't really *care*...'
Clomp.
'...n Kyrie....ya' plain x-cuted her....'
Clomp.
'Bloody f'in' lucky she wuz a traitor too...'
An eyebrow raised, a sniff at th' air.
'Five years gone n' back to teachin' kids how to be be Brujah..."
He stops n' looks 'round. A smirk breaks out slowly, almost afraid to spread.
'Heh....make that, 'how ta' be a long-lastin' Brujah....'
A chuckle that grows into husky laughter as he clomps into th' alley.
"That's rite....long-lastin'....guarantee-d 100 per-cent died n' th' wool pain in th' ass Brujah...."
The chuckling subsides against th' echoes of bootheels an' splashes.
"....n wha' a great place to do it in....New England...."
Clomp.
"...home...."
Clomp.
Splash.
Clomp.
"Shit...I hope th' old man ain't still 'round here."
A shiver.
"Hmmm....wonder what BaddKarmma's up to these dayz....."
Fade.
"What the hell is this?"
Brina Holland's 'friend' was a very intense old man with fat, strong hands and a thin German accent. His touch was icy cold. "Surgical epoxy. Hold still."
"Epoxy?" Sheila growled.
"Glue. Hold still." He was doing something to her eyes, something vaguely painful involving his chubby fingers and a brush covered with the clear glue. "I give you epicanthic folds."
"What?"
"You ask too many questions," he said quietly, still working, "adjusting the flesh around your eye to give it a more Asian appearance."
"Asian?"
"Ja. The epoxy takes twelve hours to cure so I do it first. Also we cut and dye the hair, adjust eye color, skin color, give you new hands, and decay your teeth. Very busy afternoon."
Sheila bit her lip.
"I gather you are receiving your new SSN tomorrow, along with a state ID and birth certificate." His mouth melted into a sort of smile. "I don't think you are allowed a driver's license." He stepped back to appraise his work. "There," he said, setting down the tiny brush and clapping his hands sharply, "prima, very nice indeed, Miss Hsieu. Get used to that name. Tonight, Sheila McNelley dies, I think. Now we do the hair."
Una walked up the sidewalk to her dormitory room slowly, her neck craned out so far she nearly tripped on the cracks in the sidewalk several times. What had her rubber-necking was the burnt ruins of the dormitory/fraternity Delta Lambda Epsilon.
She stopped finally and set her luggage down, abandoning all pretenses in her mind of traveling straight to her room. A voice at her side made a remark that she didn't hear well at first, so she turned to see who it was. All Una saw was someone she didn't know....could've been any sophomore or freshman.
"It's a shame, really...did you know anyone who lived there?", the girl asked with genuine curiosity. "Say, did you know Art Stephenson?", the stranger continued, wide-eyed.
"No, I don't think so," Una replied half-absently. Then she recalled something. "Oh gee...Toby...Toby knew him. He was on the football team with him.."
Una snapped out of the reverie and picked up her suitcases with such alacrity she startled the poor girl. She ran up the stairs to her room and fumbled with her keys. She was about to unlock it when Dana opened it, hair a mess and eyes red.
"Oh no...not you too, Dana? Did you know Art?", Una said with a sinking heart. Dana nodded once. "Just a little. We shared a class together, although we didn't speak much." she said, wiping an eye. "Your new boyfriend Toby knew him better than I did, though. You ought to go see him, he isn't doing that well."
With her back to Dana since she was busying herself with unpacking, Dana couldn't see Una's eyes narrow as she snapped irritatedly,"I knew that already, and I was planning to do so anyway." Una sighed and straightened up, turning back to her. "I'm sorry, it has been a long trip, and seeing this first off has not been the highlight of my day. Does anyone know how it happened? The fire, I mean...I am assuming it was a fire, of course."
Dana wordlessly handed Una the day's copy of the Manchester Examiner, already "earmarked" at the article "It Was A Total Jekyll and Hyde Situation!". Una scanned it for the pertinent details, setting it down when she was finished. There was a furrow between her eyebrows as she sat down on her bed, apparently thinking. Dana glanced at her curiously but said nothing as she sat down on her own bed and clutched a box of tissues. "She looks like she's lost or something," Una thought to herself as she observed Dana from the corner of her view.
Abruptly Una stood up. "I'm going to go talk to Toby, then I'm going to the Black Squirrel Tavern. Don't wait up for me," she said, grabbing her keys and wallet and walking swiftly towards the door.
"Wait! Una, aren't you going to tell me about your trip in South America? You never told me about it....Una! UNA! What about your Mom and Dad? How was your visit to see them?!", Dana called out to her.
Una stopped just outside the door and stared back at Dana for a moment before replying.
"South America was great. I'll show you the photos sometime. My Mom and Dad....are fine, as well. I will see you later, Dana," she said, and turned back around to continue down the hallway without a backward glance.
Molotov read th' paper, then crumbled it up n' tossed it away. He only kept clippin's o' his *own* torchin's, after all.
"So much fer Vasily's *cover up* n' frame. Ahhh...not his fault, I guess. Tha' Fire Inspector got things together too fast. Soon, I'll hafta see jess' how good tha' guy iz at his job."
A shuffle as his booted feet hit th' ground.
"Time to hit th' bricks n' make this shit happen. Like I been sayin', *she* jess' needs to drop out o' sight. M'be know th' *Prince*'ll get m' point on this. Droppin' x-tra evidence on this case would *scream* a cover up. But an unanswered APB....feh..."
Molotov "I could jess' drop th' lighter...but where's the fun in that?"
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