'Qui: The Fall of Ottawa' Combined Parts 1-10 (Patreon)

I've compiled the previous 10 parts together here for ease of reading!

[Please note this is not an official World of Darkness licensed product. All chapters within this setting will be available free of charge and will never be behind a paywall.]

Prologue

Qui could murder someone for a coffee. He'd murdered for less, and he probably would again. He felt desire aching in his veins, not unlike the immortal lust for that sweet, red trickle of life that drove his kind to perpetual distraction. Fortunately for the newly-arrived Nosferatu assassin and the mortals around him, he wasn't prone to fits of spontaneous violence or he'd have already painted the walls red with the blood of the caffeinated. 

It wasn't that the Ottawa police station was lacking in the beverage department, it was that he was incapable of ingesting the gloriously bitter brew and the smell was driving him mad. True, he could choose not to simulate breathing and remove the scent from his mind entirely, but the Nosferatu curse was already clearing out the room around him as officers shifted unconsciously to make way. Transforming from a man with an uncomfortable aura of evil into a truly terrifying walking corpse that never breathed wasn't the way he wanted to make his first impression. 

People didn't mind their own business anymore in the twentieth century. The sixties had been particularly bad for mortals butting into his affairs, but today's modern world of 1977 seemed to be starting to trend back ever-so-slightly in the other direction and he thanked whatever passed as a mortal deity for that change of pace. The first nights in a new city were always the worst for social interaction—the moon had barely risen and he was already yearning to return to his new apartment and shut out the rest of the world behind heavy blackout curtains. 

If only he could pull one of the officers aside for a quick taste…savoring the effects of a stimulant through the blood of mortals was the only option he had left for experiencing such passing pleasures in his unlife. He shook his head and continued his slow walk toward the rear office. These people were skittish around him and likely always would be, but on the positive side, he was far from the hideous monsters that populated the ranks of his bloodline—of the thirteen vampire clans, the Nosferatu lineage was historically the worst for blending in with the herd.

While Qui's appearance resembled that of an ashen-faced mortal who rarely, if ever, saw the light of the sun, he had a distinct advantage over the rest of his monstrous clanmates—he could move about in the open without causing a panic. This quality was so unusual for the clan that his sponsor, the Nosferatu Primogen, Eleanor Cranston, had required convincing of his authenticity upon arrival. She'd heard the gossip about him, of course, but there were rumors and then there was coming face-to-face with reality. He wasn't really offended—he'd spent most of his unlife being mistaken for others.

He navigated his way through the busy police station, weaving between poorly-placed cubicles and stacked boxes of paper records. He was new to Ottawa, but even he knew that this place was in need of a serious overhaul. His eyes flicked upward when he heard a voice calling out to him. There was a woman standing behind the rear counter; she was waving, trying to get his attention.

"Hey! Over here!" she said. "You're the new guy, right? I'm Sam."

Qui nodded as he stepped up. "New guy. That would be me." He offered his hand and she reached out to take it. Halfway there, her arm wavered and locked in place as tremors ran through her fingers and her skin went prickly with gooseflesh. She pulled back with a rough jerk. He wasn't offended—she'd got closer than almost any mortal had in well over a year.

"Sorry," Sam said. "Not sure what's wrong with me. I must be coming down with something." She forced a nervous laugh. "Love the look."

Qui's long, raven-black hair was covering most of his face again, so he brushed it back over his shoulders. He offered Sam a smile—thin bloodless lips pulled upward in a way he hoped she'd find satisfactory. He imagined that from her point of view it wasn't all that unlike a predator grinning seconds before snapping its jaws closed on her neck. If that's what she was thinking, then she didn't react as a prey animal would. This one was strong. He liked that in an assistant.

"Commissioner Cranston wanted me to get you set up in the main office," she said after returning his smile. Hers was warmer and more genuine than his, but he'd set a low bar. "Would you like me to take you to your desk?"

"Yes, thank you," he said. "Ms…?"

"Lyle. Samantha Lyle. I'm afraid I haven't been told your name, though. An oversight, I'm sure."

She was fighting her body's natural reaction to the Nosferatu curse quite admirably—a consummate professional, and one of the few mortals in the bullpen who didn't smell of coffee and donuts. He liked her. "Associates call me Mr. Qui," he said. "But you can call me James, if you'd like." 

"All right, James." She smiled again. Honestly this time, he was sure. 

"A pleasure, Ms. Lyle," he said as she led him through the hallway toward the room that would serve as his base of operations. 

"Sam," she said. "If you're James then I'm Sam."

Qui nodded and opened the door to his new office. "Of course. Sam, it is. I'll be sure to let Commissioner Cranston know that you've been very helpful."

She stepped away and left him alone in the room. He'd almost enjoyed that interaction; it had been months since a mortal carried on a proper conversation with him without desperately searching for a means of escape after ten seconds or so. It was the first pleasant surprise he'd found so far in this ice box the Canadian government had the gall to call a capital city.

He pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket and thumbed through the first few pages of hand-written notes. Officially, he had arrived to oversee a restructuring of the Ottawa police department and its management personnel. At least that's what the mortals had been told. His true reason for coming here was to assassinate an ineffectual leader—a 'Prince' of the city as his traditional brethren called the man—and make certain that his victim was replaced by Qui's sponsor, Eleanor Cranston. 

Cranston was of the Nosferatu clan as well, but unlike Qui, she was not blessed with the ability to blend in with the mortal herd. All of her work with the police was done through her devoted minions, themselves gifted the taste of her vitae. 'Ghouls' like them made excellent servants, mortals altered into something greater, loyalty ensured by their addiction to a Kindred's Blood. He'd need one of those mortals to help him with his work, sooner or later, but for now there was only him.

He pulled the heavy wooden chair away from his new desk, took a seat, and leaned back, taking it all in. The office was serviceable, not extravagant. Utilitarian while offering far more space than the proverbial broom closets he'd worked out of in the past. Yes, he thought. This would do very nicely.

All in all, it was an excellent place to plan the beginnings of an insurrection.

Chapter 1

Eleanor Cranston's haven was an expansive basement beneath a four-star hotel currently used as a stopover for Ottawa's visiting Kindred. In Qui's estimation, it was a step above the sewer hovels the average Nosferatu used to conduct their business, but not by any significant measure. Cranston intended to move up in the world—quite literally—into the heart of Kindred politics, and she meant to do so through the fine art of assassination. Qui was a tool to that end, and he was under no illusions otherwise. Sometimes he preferred it that way, actually; it made the whole business less personal and more like a transaction. Sometimes Kindred overstepped their bounds and pissed off the wrong person, other times they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Qui wouldn't take just any job, of course. He preferred to target those vampires who in some way deserved to meet final death. Hapless innocents didn't fit his standards, though like all vampires, he had a sliding scale of morality most often landing somewhere in the gray spaces between saint and sinner. If he could justify the job to himself, he did so. Otherwise he moved on.

This particular job had fascinated Qui since he first received the invitation. It seemed Cranston had come into possession of a particularly fine blade—a falchion many believed to possess supernatural properties. A scholar of clan Tremere whom he worked with over a decade ago had been searching for the blade for most of his unlife. If the rumors were true, his obsession with the thing led to his final death by the vicious Sabbat hordes of Montreal. If this artifact of Cranston's was the same blade, it was worth a hundred assassinations to lay claim to. How could it be real? The Sabbat vampires were merciless creatures—Qui knew that reality quite well through personal experience—and Montreal was one of their strongest domains these nights.

"Where did you find it?" Qui asked. He leaned in to admire the sword through the glass that Cranston was using to protect the falchion for display. Both the blade and its gaudy case felt out of place in the comparatively dingy basement lair. "It's…beautiful."

Cranston smiled; the expression was particularly ghastly on her pock-marked face. It seemed she liked it when visitors admired her war trophies. "I captured it from a Sabbat Priest during the October Crisis, seven years ago," she said. "The animal was using it in one of their disgusting rituals to collect Blood from his own pack."

"October Crisis?" Qui asked, bewildered.

"Ah, yes," Cranston said with a theatrical sigh. "At times I forget that you Americans don't find much interest in Canadian politics unless they directly affect you."

Great. He was being lectured on culture by a Canadian Nosferatu whose haven was in a hotel basement. But if humility would get that sword in his hands… "I suppose we'll need to remedy my lack of historical knowledge, then," he said. 

She gave him a look. Had he come on too strong? "I'll give you the basics so you know what's at stake," she said. "The mortal version of the story is that a group of Québécois separatists calling themselves 'Front de libération du Québec,' kidnapped and murdered the Labour Minister after years of bombing campaigns. You've heard of the FLQ at least?"

Qui shook his head.

"Americans." Cranston snorted. "Slightly longer version, then. Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau cracked down on the separatists and invoked the War Measures Act. It's damn near what you US folks would call martial law. What the mortal news won't tell you is that our glorious Prince Jonah manipulated these events and puppetted the Prime Minister in an excuse to militarize the police and burn the Sabbat out of Montreal."

Realization dawned on Qui. He had heard about this, though the US news networks downplayed the attempted revolution and didn't give it nearly as much coverage as it deserved. "That sounds like a smart move," Qui said. "I thought you said Prince Jonah was a failure?"

"I'm not finished," Cranston snapped, waving a hand in the air. Her fingers had been blackened and left crooked by the clan's curse. "Unfortunately for Jonah, the FLQ was almost entirely made up of mortals—whipped up by the Sabbat, yes—but mortal, nonetheless. So while Jonah's ghouls rounded up the separatists thinking they were supernaturals, they left themselves wide open to counterattack by the forces led by the Sabbat Archbishop, Véronique La Cruelle. She slaughtered them."

"And you were there?" Qui asked.

Cranston nodded. "I was, but not with the Prince's footsoldiers. My methods were different. Unlike Jonah and yourself, I'm forced to work from the shadows. I made contacts with traitorous Sabbat within the Montreal packs and learned the truth about the FLQ. My reports to the Prince were ignored and discarded. For his hubris, dozens of ghouls and several Kindred met final death. We've been seen as weak ever since, and the Sabbat have made a sport of raiding Ottawa. Jonah's mishandling of the Crisis turned our city and its Primogen into laughingstocks for the last six years and he's shown no sign of turning it around. That is why he no longer deserves to rule." 

"Because he made you look like fools?"

"Weak fools."

Qui nodded. "Perception is currency in Kindred circles. I understand. And the sword?" He gestured to the display case. 

"While Jonah's forces floundered in the chaff their enemies threw at them, I led a surgical strike and destroyed one of their Priests. The sword is a trophy I brought back with me. Unfortunately for Ottawa, Montreal hosts a great many Sabbat Priests. I was able to hurt them, but in the end it matters little to their kind. They spawn like rodents with no care for who they Embrace into undeath."

The falchion glimmered in the dim light and Qui could swear he heard it whispering to him. He didn't realize he'd been staring at it until Cranston cleared her throat for a second time.

"It speaks to you, too?" she asked.

"Not in words," Qui admitted. "Nothing I can understand."

She walked over to the display and took a small, golden key from her front pocket. "You are the first Kindred other than myself to hear the call of the blade," she said as she unlocked the case. As the glass door opened, Qui could swear that the whispers got louder, if not easier to interpret. What language was it speaking?

"How many of our kind have seen the sword since it came into your possession?" Qui asked. 

"Nine," Cranston replied. She reached down, wrapping one scarred hand around the hilt while the other supported the flat of the blade as she drew it from its resting place. She held it reverently before Qui as one would pass on a holy artifact.

Qui hesitated. "May I hold it?"

"Please do."

He took the sword from her hands and its voice cut off when he touched it. "What happened?" he asked. "Why—"

"Wait for a moment," Cranston said with a crooked smile.

Then the vision came. Prince Jonah begging on his knees, seconds away from suffering final death. The hand gripping the blade in the vision was unmistakably his own as he swung in a controlled arc, his spirit joined as one with the Executioner's blade. He could feel its Hunger burning through him as Jonah's head was severed in one clean stroke and rolled to the ground. Within seconds, the Prince's body fell to dust and brittle bone. 

Chapter 2

Qui recoiled and nearly dropped the enchanted falchion. The vision was slowly receding, but he could still feel the artifact's unholy Hunger pulsing through the metal into his exposed palms with a phantom heat. It felt like he'd seen the execution with his own eyes. 

"Was it real?" he asked.

"The blade shows you its desire," Cranston replied. "It wants to be used. To kill. I don't know if this willfulness was intentionally imbued when the weapon was forged or if the Sabbat rituals twisted it in some way unfathomable to the Camarilla, but the origin of its Hunger matters little at this point. What does matter is if you have the will to use it."

Qui eyed the blade warily. It would be a useful tool in the right hands, but did he dare use a weapon with a will of its own? Was he strong enough? There were precious few who could attest to his quality in combat—most Kindred who witnessed him at his most proficient were no longer available for consultation. The nature of his profession left very few witnesses, which in and of itself was an indication of success. He should take comfort in that. But this blade…

"It showed me destroying Prince Jonah," Qui said. "Is it attuned to your desire or has it projected its own bloodlust onto you?"

That gave Cranston pause. She thought for a moment before answering. "A troubling question, assassin, but one easily answered. My opinion on Jonah's leadership was made up when he failed to heed my warning about the FLQ and led his men into a trap. These events were set in motion several nights before I first laid eyes on the sword so I very much doubt the blade could be the origin of my enmity for our current Prince."

The logic was hard to argue with, but Qui felt uneasy all the same. "Have you killed with it?" he asked.

"Mortals only. It didn't suit me, which is why I'm reluctantly offering it to you in exchange for services rendered."

Qui watched his reflection in the blade. He looked stronger when he was holding it. More confident. "And if it disrupts my business with these visions?" he asked. "I can see that being a liability if I fall into a trance mid-battle."

"The blade seems to possess a certain level of intelligence," Cranston said. "It makes its desire known and then it fades while the mystical properties remain intact."

"I wasn't aware that you were a scholar of mysticism."

Cranston shook her head. "I am not. I consulted my Tremere contact in the Quebec City Chantry. His name is Henrik Lang. He's ferociously devoted to his studies and in the decades we've worked together, he's never been wrong in matters of the arcane."

Qui nodded. That would have to do. He didn't come all this way for nothing, and the sword was of exquisite make. It felt light in his hands, perfectly balanced in a way single-edged swords like falchions rarely were in his experience. If the Warlocks he'd spoken to before accepting the job were to be believed, the blade was supernaturally sharp which would make it far easier to dispatch vampiric foes in one or two blows before they knew to raise their defenses.

"So you'll take the job?" Cranston asked.

"The blade will come with me," Qui said.

"When Prince Jonah is destroyed."

Qui gave her a look. "Now."

Cranston hesitated. It made her look weak and Qui bet that she knew it. Still, he was pushing his luck and she likely knew that, too. They were at an impasse and someone would have to give ground.

"Fine," she said after a lengthy silence. "But only because the blade itself showed you how it desired to be used." She reached down beside the display case, lifted a thick leather scabbard, and handed it to him. It looked ancient but when he touched it there was no sign of brittleness or aging. 

He shifted the falchion to his right hand and took the sheath in the other. The blade whispered something to him again in a language he didn't understand before he slid it home, housing it until the time was right. He'd need to find a Warlock he could trust to examine it as soon as the job was done. If the enchantment was beyond his ability to fully control, he could just as easily sell it off to a Chantry for enough money to set him up with a new identity for the next decade or more. Either way, he came out on top and Cranston got what she wanted. Win-win.

Now that the matter of price was out of the way, Qui decided it was time to get down to the finer details. "The time frame you proposed—you'll be sticking to it?"

"Yes," Cranston said. "It was impossible to bring you here and get you set up into a privileged position without alerting the Primogen Council. Therefore, I am responsible for your behavior for the duration of your stay. Jonah, himself, will be welcoming you to the city tomorrow night."

That part hadn't surprised Qui. There were two ways to kill a Prince in his experience—quickly, from the shadows, or by earning their trust before the inevitable betrayal. The former was typically the most efficient when it could be pulled off, but Princes were often well protected against knives in the night. The latter was preferred by clients who wanted their target to suffer humiliation, a fate many Kindred considered to be worse than final death.

Cranston not only wanted Jonah to suffer—she wanted to usurp him and take praxis for herself. It was ambition enough to get her killed in other domains, but Ottawa had been circling the drain for so many years that more powerful Kindred couldn't be bothered with it. Even the supposedly all-knowing Camarilla Archons had left it to rot as a temporary bulwark against Montreal's Sabbat hordes. If the packs' bloodlust was satisfied by raiding within Canada, it kept them from turning their gaze toward the Camarilla's more fragile projects to the south, in Manhattan.

"We'll change the tides of this domain," Cranston said as if she could sense what he was thinking. "And then we'll show our strength by scouring Montreal and taking it as our own."

Qui shook his head. "I'm not here for your politics," he said as respectfully as he could. "I'm here to get a job done."

Cranston waved her hand. "Of course, of course. Perhaps I've gotten overeager. We'll stick to the time frame we originally discussed. Jonah will require a heavy police presence during the conclave. That's when you'll move our ghouls and allies into the most advantageous positions without raising suspicion." 

"You're not concerned that the Council and visiting dignitaries will disrupt your plans?"

"The coup will take place before the visitors arrive," Cranston said. "To them, it will merely be yet another of Jonah's failures—the one that finally put him into the ground. The most emotional response I'm expecting from his contemporaries is that of amusement." 

Qui frowned. Kindred politics were rarely so simple, and they would get exponentially more complex the moment his employer attempted to seize leadership for herself. Then again, that wasn't really his problem—all he had to do was set the stage; what she did with it afterward was up to her. "I'll want to familiarize myself with the other players," he said. "Just in case things go sideways."

"You'll have three months to prepare before the conclave," Cranston said. "I'm sure you'll make the most of them." She looked him over closely. "That remarkable face of yours, blemish-free…that's why they'll believe I brought you in to manage law enforcement. An enigmatic right hand among the mortals who I can direct as I will. Most Nosferatu here are rather insular—other than myself, we don't like to delegate power outside the clan if we can help it. My counterpart, Michel Bouchard, wouldn't tolerate me assigning Kindred of another clan to this position. No one will question your presence in the court as long as you keep your head down and don't make too many waves before the big night."

Qui had met Bouchard upon his arrival to Ottawa and that had been enough contact to last him several lifetimes. The man was a rancorous old Sewer Rat—he'd taken one look at Qui and bore his hideous fangs with fury, accusing him of deception. He hadn't believed Qui was a Nosferatu at all until he had a good and proper look. Qui suffered the indignity quietly, disrobing and sweeping his long hair aside so Bouchard could examine the long, weeping scar that traced its way from the base of his neck all the way down his spine. 

He had only been a fledgeling when the Sabbat experimented on him with both Tremere sorcery and the unholy discipline of Vicissitude, leaving his deformities inexplicably bound into a wound that constantly pulsed with pain and an uncomfortable warmth. It was both an impossibility and his personal truth simultaneously. He couldn't explain it any better than the Camarilla scholars and sorcerers who had examined him year after year could. The vampires who did this to him were destroyed over a century ago, leaving him with more questions than answers.

"You said I'll be meeting with the Prince tomorrow night," he said. "Do you have any specific instructions?"

Cranston smiled. "You'll be escorted into Elysium by an associate of mine named Arundel. Behave and be humble—your typical charming self."

"Arundel?" Qui asked. "The Ventrue Primogen? Is he part of this?"

"He is who he needs to be," Cranston replied with infuriating vagueness. "Let's just say I trust him more than I trust you."

"Quite a recommendation."

Cranston snorted. "You're certainly confident, assassin. Just make sure my faith in you is well placed and we can all walk out of this more—" The ceiling creaked directly above Qui's head and she put a finger to her disfigured lips.

Qui looked up and listened intently for another sound. When he looked back down again, Cranston was gone. Vanished. For the briefest of moments panic gripped him. It was never surprising to see another Nosferatu disappear from sight, but that look on the woman's face…she'd seemed genuinely concerned. He wasn't used to seeing fear on the face of an elder. He took a step back and then another, slowly creeping away from the center of the room. When dealing with the potential for invisible foes, it was always best to get out of the open and cover your back. Cold cinderblocks caressed his shoulders and he allowed himself to relax a little, opening his senses to attune to the world around him. He closed his eyes and listened. Whoever had been lurking upstairs shifted again, hoping to escape. They had no idea that Cranston was almost within striking distance.

The near silence was shattered by an explosion of snapping wood and bone as the intruder crashed through the ceiling and tumbled downward, propelled into free-fall by the force of Cranston's supernatural attack. The spy landed on the floor directly in front of Qui, rolled away from the falling debris, and came up into a crouch, ignoring obviously broken legs and torn skin as half the ceiling came down behind her. The spy's face was a mess of oozing boils and lacerations—Qui wasn't sure where the damage from the fall ended and where the Nosferatu curse began. What he did know was that he'd seen her before, during his introduction to Bouchard. 

The old Sewer Rat must have sent her to listen in, then. Bad move on his part.

The spy looked right at Qui, blinked, then turned away. Relief flooded through him—he must have instinctively triggered his cloak of shadows when his back hit the wall. He'd be invisible until he moved. 

Above, he caught sight of Cranston perched on the wall like a spider. She was descending to the lower floor headfirst on all fours—just watching her made him feel mildly nauseous with vertigo. It was interesting to see what his patron was capable of. Collecting information on the client hiring you for an assassination was almost always as important as investigating the target themselves. In his experience, almost a quarter of his employers turned on him after the job was done in an attempt to 'tie up loose ends.' Alliances in the Kindred world were always temporary.

A portion of the wall to Qui's left crumbled, revealing a horde of feral rats, chittering and gnashing long fangs as they raced up the wall toward Cranston. At first, Qui thought his patron must have summoned them to aid her, but that notion was quickly subverted when the first rat sank its teeth into Cranston's face. She screamed with fury and shook the rat off. A second and third took its place, clawing and biting at her until she had no choice but to let go of the wall and tear them off with her hands. She used her powerful legs to propel herself further up toward the ceiling where the rats could no longer reach her. She clung there for a moment, eyeing the spy and planning her next move.

Qui had seen just about enough. It was time to end this farce and get back to business. He reached into his reserve of inner calm, steadying his nerves as he spoke. When the words escaped his lips, they were no longer his own, nor were they coming from his direction.

"They're in here!" a booming voice shouted from the stairwell leading into the basement. "Bring the torches!" Qui allowed himself a smile. He was getting very, very good at throwing his altered voice. The technique took years to perfect, but his mastery had saved his unlife on more than one occasion.

The spy shot a confused glance toward the stairwell and stood in place, wracked with indecision. So far, the fight had been going far better for her than she could have hoped. But to stand against a Primogen and her militarized backup? Foot soldiers likely wielding fire? Her face fell with dismay as she saw her chances for survival drop from slim to zero. Her rats scattered as her concentration wavered and she focused on how to escape rather than attack.

As Qui expected, that brief moment of indecision was the only opening Cranston needed. 

"Yeeeaaaaarrrrgh!" A savage, rage-fueled war cry rang out from above as Cranston coiled her legs and propelled herself downward from the ceiling. She smashed into the spy like a wrecking ball, cracking the concrete floor beneath the weight of her onslaught. The spy tried to roll away, but her arm had been pinned and nearly torn out of its socket. Sluggish vitae oozed from the gaping wound as Cranston clasped both hands together and brought them hammering down on the spy's chest, caving in her ribs with a sickening crack.

"You'd spy on me in my own home?" Cranston snarled. Her face had been torn open by the rats and stringy, dead flesh peeled from her cheek as she ranted. "I'll have you flayed before I end you!" She slammed her fist down on the spy's jaw, snapping it like dead wood. "Bouchard sent you, didn't he!"

The spy forced her oozing mouth open with an audible crack. Half of her teeth were missing or snapped off into jagged splinters. "M-made me to do it, mistress…" she groaned. Her voice was wheezy; both withered lungs had been ruptured and her windpipe was probably in just as bad condition. Kindred didn't need to breathe in order to survive, but the sound of their voice had to come out somehow. "Forgive me! Please!"

Cranston stood up, placing her foot on the spy's neck. "Why did he send you?"

"He's nervous…thinks you're replacing him with that smooth-skin fraud…"

"He sent you to die because he's nervous?" Cranston asked. "He'd burn our alliance over, what, a feeling in his gut?"

"I was above…doors were closed…I didn't hear anything!"

Cranston put more pressure on the spy's neck. "You backed the wrong master."

Qui stepped out from the shadows and put a hand on Cranston's arm. "Don't do this," he said.

"The childe brought it upon herself," Cranston spat. "Why would you vouch for her?"

"I'm not vouching for her," Qui said. "But destroying a member of the local court without the Prince's permission will bring attention that neither of us wants, right now. If we're going to work together, I need to know that you're stable enough to handle your end of the job."

Cranston ground her teeth. "This creature attacked me in my own home. We don't know what she heard. Bouchard knew what he was doing when he sent her; he'd never expose himself by reporting an unsanctioned destruction to the Prince."

"Unless that was his goal in the first place," Qui said. "Send this one to spy, hoping that you'll kill her. Then he has leverage to use against you—a convenient means to get you out of the way whenever he wants."

Cranston's closed fists shuddered with the power of her anger. "You're right," she said, finally. "All this talk of conspiracy has made me lose sight of the other players. What are your recommendations?"

"We have several other options," Qui said. "But first…" He stepped over to the smashed remains of the Primogen's drafting table and tore one of the legs free. The wood cracked, leaving a sharp, jagged edge. He threw it to Cranston. "Will this do?"

She grabbed the makeshift stake out of the air and looked it over. "Yes."

Qui nodded. Staking wouldn't destroy a vampire like common mortal myths suggested—it merely immobilized them, slowly starving them until they fell into torpor.

"No…" the spy begged. "Please don't!"

"Consider this a mercy, childe," Cranston said. She raised the stake into the air and plunged it as hard as she could into her victim's heart with supernatural strength. The spy's mouth twisted wordlessly and then she was still. "Stay put," Cranston told her. "Not that you have much of a choice." She gestured for Qui to meet with her in the adjoining room.

"That was well done," he said. "The fight, I mean. I've never seen someone cling to a ceiling like that, before." He made a mental note of the ability. The last thing he wanted was to fall victim to it, himself.

"A gift of knowledge from an old ally," Cranston said. "It seemed appropriate at the moment, since you didn't appear keen on coming to my aid."

"You had it handled," Qui said. "And I provided the distraction you needed."

Cranston sniffed. "As long as you're willing to get your hands dirty when you need to."

"You know my reputation or you wouldn't have summoned me."

"You'd better live up to it, assassin." 

Cranston was growing angry again, so Qui decided to back off and move on to the more important topic. "We have options, here," he said. "Destroying Bouchard's agent would draw too much scrutiny. Your plan for Jonah is solid, but it would fall apart if the wrong Kindred were watching us."

She crossed her arms and bit her lip before nodding. "What would you suggest we do with the spy, then?"

"You said that the Ventrue Primogen would be escorting me tomorrow night, right?"

"Yes," Cranston said. "Arundel will pick you up from your haven."

Qui tapped his foot as he considered his options. "He has a reputation. They say he's particularly talented when it comes to forging suggestion and memory."

"He could do it in seconds," Cranston said. "Make the girl forget all about what she heard us say. But it would mean bringing Arundel on board with our plan."

"I thought you said you trusted him more than me," Qui said.

"I do. But he's a supporter, not a collaborator. I don't know the limits of his power and if he gets inside that girl's mind I'll have to assume he knows whatever she knows. I've underestimated him in the past and it nearly cost me everything."

"Do you know anyone else who could do the job?"

Cranston shook her head. "No one half as good as Arundel."

"Then I suppose you have no choice." Qui stepped back toward the wall where he'd left the sword leaning. He wasn't familiar enough with it to use it in battle, and he'd learned from experience that taking a new weapon into a fight without training first could be more of a liability than anything else. The blade might be powerful, but that wouldn't do him any good if he couldn't cut anyone with it. 

"What should I expect from my meeting with the Prince?" he asked.

Cranston gave it some thought. "I was hoping for a simple meet and greet, but after this mess, there are bound to be questions, including from your escort. Arundel knows how to worm secrets out of a person. Keep any answers short and to the point or else he'll know more about you than you know about yourself within the first hour you spend with him. As for Jonah, the man is a witless fool. He'll ruffle his feathers in an attempt to appear strong and dramatic, but it's all for show. Typical Malkavian. Tell him you're here to work with me on internal law enforcement concerns and leave it at that."

The sword barely fit beneath Qui's long, gray trenchcoat, but he managed to make it work after a moment of awkward positioning. He couldn't be seen walking the city streets with the thing. "That part about Arundel sounds ominous," he said. 

"It's just the way he is," Cranston replied. "Don't take offense from it. In fact, I can almost guarantee you'll enjoy the attention."

Qui very much doubted that, but he kept his thoughts to himself. "You have matters under control here?"

"While I appreciate your assistance, assassin," Cranston said. "You should not presume too much or overstep your station. I'll handle my affairs and you manage your own. There's work to be done in exchange for that blade."

"I'll take my leave, then." He walked toward the stairs, picking his way through broken pieces of wood and plaster from the ceiling's collapse. He wondered if his patron intended to clean it up herself, or summon a host of servants as soon as he left. Best not to ask.

"Oh, and Qui?" Cranston called after him. "Try to flee with that sword before the job is done and I'll have my people hunt you to the ends of the Earth."

Chapter 3

Oh, God! Samantha thought. Why am I here? I should have stayed at the station!

It took every bit of self control and training Sam had to keep from shrieking with fear as the floor exploded downward less than a foot away from her hiding spot. Cranston had launched herself from the stairwell, smashing through wood and plaster as though it were made of paper, sending a shadowy woman she'd only just noticed tumbling into the basement. Most of Sam's cover had splintered apart with the power of the impact, but fortunately for her, Cranston only had eyes for the spy. 

As if the Nosferatu weren't already terrifying enough, it was now stuck to the wall on all fours, slowly descending like an insect stalking its prey. Her boss was some kind of…spider-creature! It was hardly the revelation she'd been expecting when she set out on her ill-fated adventure earlier in the evening.

Sam knew that Qui was somewhere below—she'd overheard some of their discussion—but it looked like he managed to disappear just in time. She found herself thankful that he'd been able to make a quick exit, saving himself from this monstrosity that claimed to be Eleanor Cranston. 

How long had she worked for the police commissioner without knowing what she truly was, always wondering why they'd never met in person? Her curiosity had been burning long before the magnificently tall, raven-haired man appeared in her office, but his arrival had finally spurred her to action. Qui's agenda suggested that he planned on meeting Cranston tonight. In person! So she tailed him through the city in her unmarked cruiser, always a block or two behind until he reached the Spectra Hotel. She almost lost her nerve before following him in, but she'd come this far and she didn't want to back down. That, she decided, was one of those life decisions that she'd do just about anything to take back. 

The wall behind her trembled, and somewhere below a part of it caved in, revealing a horde of angry rats. The vicious creatures swarmed toward Cranston, leaping and pulling themselves up with terrifying agility. The Nosferatu skittered up to the ceiling, clinging to the walls with a talon-like grip, fingers wedged in between the wooden beams and stone of the foundation.

"They're in here!" a booming voice shouted from the stairwell leading into the basement. "Bring the torches!" 

Sam nearly swore. Who was that? For the love of God, how many people were down here?

Cranston made good on the confusion and rocketed downward with a gurgling cry, crashing into the stranger hard enough that it should have mashed her into a fine pulp. Amazingly, both were still alive. 

Sam had had just about enough of this; if she lingered any longer, she was a dead woman for sure. Years of training and police experience hadn't prepared her to fight off monsters intent on smashing each other like comic book villains. If the two of them ended up demolishing the building, she didn't intend to be in it when the situation went nuclear. 

There was a second stairwell close enough that she could leap over the broken gap in the floor. All she'd have to do was catch the railing and she could pull herself up. 

Don't look down, she thought. For God's sake, don't look down!

She leaped over the gap, sobbing with relief when her fingers managed to grip the wooden rail and it didn't tear free with her added weight. She pulled herself up, clinging to the thing for dear life until her feet were well and firmly on solid ground.

Below, she heard Cranston shouting about flaying her foe alive. She didn't wait around to hear what happened next. 

Sam took the stairs three at a time, leaping upward like her life depended on it. There were three landings between her and the ground floor and even though they flew by, her flight still seemed like an eternity of slow motion. By the time she reached the metal door leading out to the lobby's managerial area, she could no longer hear the rumbling of battle below. She stopped to catch her breath, thought better of it, and then fled out the door to her parked car, leaving a stunned desk attendant scratching his head and wondering what all the commotion was about.

***

"Jesus…" Sam muttered to herself as she held the steering wheel in a death-grip. A shiver ran through her body and she closed her eyes. The events from the hotel basement played out on the backs of her eyelids. She'd been too busy avoiding detection and ducking exploding debris at the time to truly register the Nosferatu's otherworldly appearance. Now that she had a moment to breathe, it all came back to her with crystal clarity.

The boils and pockmarks. Skin dripping like a melted candle. Monsters were real, and she worked for one of them! 

But what about Qui? James, he'd told her to call him. He'd made her uneasy when they first met, but the feeling had quickly passed once she steeled her nerves. It was perfectly normal to be jittery when first meeting a new superior on the job. He certainly didn't look anything like Cranston, that was for sure.

The man had a manner about him—charming in a 'fish out of water' kind of way—and the long hair was to die for. Sure, she'd tailed him tonight in order to finally get a look at her boss, but she'd be lying if she told herself that James had nothing to do with her impulsive bit of detective work. Her mother always told her that she had terrible taste in men, but then again, her mom had married her dad and he'd left her for a woman half her age. Who was she to call Sam out for who she fell for? If she thought her new boss was handsome it was none of her mom's business.

Sam shook her head and opened her eyes again before starting the car. What was she thinking? Idiot! The human mind wasn't equipped to deal with what she'd seen tonight; focusing on more mundane concerns like her dating life must have been a self-defense mechanism to keep her from going insane. 

She'd once had to deliver news to an elderly mother about her son's death in a car accident. The poor woman's eyes had gone glassy as she hyper-focused on brewing a pot of tea. It took her over ten minutes before the reality hit her and she broke down in tears. That must be what was happening to her, Sam realized. Well, when the truth hit her, she'd be better prepared, and she'd be safe at home where she could deal with it on her own terms, not in her car, babbling like a madwoman for anyone to see.

When she flipped on the headlights, she half expected them to illuminate some skinless monstrosity seconds away from pouncing and devouring her whole. Nothing but empty pavement greeted her when the lights cut through the darkness; the road was empty at this hour. For the first time since she sat down she noticed the blue-glowing clock on her dashboard. 3:14 AM. No wonder she was having trouble putting thoughts together—she hadn't stayed up this late since she was in the academy. 

The car lurched as she pulled away from the curb with all the delicacy of a teenager's first time behind the wheel. 

Get yourself together! she thought.

Home was a lonely one-bedroom apartment on the other side of the city. If she was lucky, she'd be able to get there with just enough time left to sleep for a few hours before she had to be up and back in for work. Work! She'd have to face James! He couldn't know that she'd been there, right? That she'd heard him talking about a sword?

She was almost grateful that she hadn't been able to hear very well through the stairwell to the lower floor. She could have sworn that he'd been talking about 'destroying' someone. Who talked like that? She must have mis-heard him. Not that it mattered. Not really. James was working for a monster! Hell, she was working for a monster so how could she possibly blame him? If she didn't wake up in her bed in a moment, gasping, heart racing from the nightmare, then what she'd seen was very real and potentially deadly. She'd have to be cool about it. Calm and collected. 

Of course, that was easier said than done when her entire body was covered in a mass of gooseflesh and she felt like she was going to throw up at any second.

Keep it together, she repeated in her head like a mantra. Just keep it together. 

Twenty minutes later, when she was finally alone in her apartment, she screamed into her pillow until her voice was raw. 

Sleep never came.

Chapter 4

"Good evening, James! How's the new apartment treating you?" 

Sam held out a piping hot cup of coffee and her new boss took it gratefully. She was surprised that she was able to come off so chipper considering last night. She felt a wave of fear grip her as he came close, but after a few seconds she was able to ignore it.

Qui offered her a smile as he joined her behind the partition at the back of the bullpen. He was wearing a long coat today which largely covered up a sharp official's uniform. His long black hair was tied loosely behind his neck. She wondered if he ever put it up in a proper ponytail but quickly dismissed the idea. That just wouldn't fit him. Together, they watched the desk jockeys shuffling paperwork and answering phones for over a minute before he spoke. 

"How long have you worked here, Sam?" he asked.

"Almost five years, now," she replied. "Ottawa, born and raised!" She silently swore at herself. Was she being too forward? Too cheerful? Or had he sensed her fear?

"I spent most of my youth in New England," Qui said. "This is my first assignment in Canada."

Sam nodded. She'd been briefed on his origins the day before his arrival, but there were still so many questions. "Do you know why you were brought so far to work up here in Ottawa?" she asked. "Some of the detectives are talking. They don't understand it."

"I have a reputation across the border for getting things done in tough political situations," he replied. "Cutting out the fat from upper management and sniffing out corruption. That kind of thing."

He took a long, lingering whiff of his coffee but didn't take a sip. Maybe he was one of those guys who didn't like burning their throats with the stuff. She'd seen several coworkers over the years chug down scalding hot coffee as if their mouths were lined with steel. The practice utterly baffled her. James could probably use a good hot cup, though. Get a flush going through those cheeks. He was looking quite pale—night shift could do that to a person.

"Do you know why Mrs. Cranston assigned you to work with me?" he asked, turning to her.

Just thinking about the woman—no, the creature—made Sam shudder. She hoped James didn't notice. "She knows that I like working late and don't mind putting in overtime," she said. "It's hard to say why she does things the way she does. Mrs. Cranston only sends orders down through her agents. She spends most of her time working for the RCMP Security Service so she doesn't really spend time here with the rank and file." She noticed his puzzled look and added, "The Security Service is like your FBI. All very cloak and dagger stuff. Hush, hush." He understood that reference well enough.

"I've heard of them," he said. "But she never told me that she worked with them."

Sam shook her head. "I wouldn't worry about it too much. This place pretty much runs itself through local management."

"Would you say it runs itself well?"

Sam hesitated. She'd planned for this conversation, but after last night all of her careful preparation work had flown out the window, leaving her feeling empty and off-balance. It was all slowly coming back to her, but she needed a moment to sort it out in her head before she could verbalize it.

"We should talk about this in your office," she said, waving him back into the hallway beyond the main room. She tried to open the door, only to find it locked. She looked up at him, face flush with embarrassment. He was holding a key. 

"I had maintenance fix it," he said. "A little security goes a long way." He unlocked the door and held it open for her. She stepped in and took a seat in front of his desk while he took off his coat and settled in. God, he was almost her full height even when he was sitting! 

"I know why you're here," she said. He was watching her with those intense eyes and she could sense that they could see through the mask she wore—the pleasant face she exhibited when dealing with her coworkers. He could see to the real her, and she wasn't sure if that excited or terrified her. "You're here to restructure the department."

James nodded. "And I take it you have suggestions for me," he said. "Without direct supervision, this place has been a bit of a free-for-all. I need someone close to the ground to tell me how things are run. I've already been given a good idea who to watch out for, but I'd value your opinion. For the time being, all major operations will be run by my desk first before they're signed off on."

"Sergeant Ferris isn't going to like that," Sam said. She paused for a moment and gave it some thought. "But maybe that's the idea."

"Cranston's given me Inspector status," James said. "The sergeant's opinion doesn't concern me all that much." He leaned forward, hands clasped and resting on the desk. "I'd like you to tell me everything you know about the corruption that's rotting this place out from beneath us."

"I…um…" 

"I understand that you're worried about retribution," James said. "But the Commissioner, herself, has authorized this. You're in for a promotion if our relationship turns out to be fruitful."

Sam thought about it. For the last few years she'd been looking the other way whenever police corruption reared its ugly head. Bribes, evidence tampering…everyone claimed it was just something that happened. Institutional. To say that it had been a disappointment after her years in the academy would have been an understatement. If she could finally do her part to clean up the department and get a promotion out of the deal? This might be the chance she was waiting for!

"I'll do the best I can, sir," she said, trying not to appear overeager. For a brief moment, she managed to forget about the monster she'd seen last night. It was easy to dismiss something like that while she was here at work. It seemed like something from a different world—it couldn't possibly have been real. Like remembering a dream.

"That's good to hear," James said. He smiled, and for the first time it seemed genuinely warm on that drawn, pale face.

Sam spent the better part of an hour detailing what she knew about the department's secrets while James wrote everything down in a small pad. He paid close attention when she spoke and wasn't shy about digging deeper into her statements. When they were finally done, she felt drained, but satisfied. 

"This is good work, Sam," he said. "I'm grateful, I truly am."

"Glad to be of help."

He stood up and offered her his hand. She took it and smiled. His grip was cold; she made a mental note to get the custodian to turn the air conditioning down. He looked up at the clock on the wall to the right of his desk. "I have to head out for a meeting," he said. "And you look exhausted. You should probably go home and get some rest, soon." 

She nodded without thinking about it. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, she could barely keep her eyes open. How long had she been in the office, today? At least fourteen hours. "I just have to finish up some paperwork before I leave."

"I'm sure it will keep," he said. "I won't take up quite as much of your time, tomorrow night."

"Yeah," she said. "You're probably right." She got up to leave while James put on his coat. Before she closed the door behind her, she noticed something odd. James's cup of coffee still sat on his desk, cool and untouched.

***

Qui was surprised to find that Cranston was right about Arundel—the man was the definition of a charmer. And that wasn't the only thing she was right about, either. Qui enjoyed his company. Genuinely enjoyed it, just as she suggested. Not because of his casually charming personality, good looks, or surprisingly humble attitude. No. What did it for Qui was the compliment on his car. 

"That's a '77 Toyota Celica, right?" Arundel asked, looking over Qui's ride. He spoke with a posh British accent, the kind that could somehow make even the most vulgar language sound sophisticated if he were so inclined. "I've heard of these. One of my investors swears by them—calls them the 'Japanese Mustang.'" He ran the tips of his fingers along the top of the sporty coupe's open passenger door. "I was never much for foreign cars, myself, but the style fits you." 

His expensive-looking suit fit him tightly, which was unusual in this modern era of more casual business attire and relaxed-fit men's clothing. Qui wasn't terribly fashion-oriented, but he had to admit that the man looked sharp.

Nine times out of ten when another Kindred saw Qui's choice of car they turned their nose up at it and insisted on alternate transportation. He was unusual among his peers in that he didn't enjoy having mortals drive for him and had no interest in top-of-the-line vehicles that singled him out to the public as what one of his old retainers had lovingly called 'Mr. Money Bags.' He actually considered this Celica an indulgence. It was nicer than the average car he drove, but he'd fallen in love with the coupe the moment he saw it on the dealer room floor. The burnt orange paint job felt modern and the interior of the same color was to die for. Maybe the seventies weren't all that bad, after all. 

He wondered what Sam might think about it. He'd expected the early evening's activities to be slow and tedious as maintaining a mortal cover typically was, but the woman was quite engaging and genuinely pleasant to be around. Of course, all that would probably change if she knew what he really was.

For now, this car was all that he needed, and the vehicle didn't care whether he was technically alive or dead. Plus, it didn't hurt that the liftback and foldable rear seat were excellent for transporting bodies without the need for a conspicuous van. That was quite a cherry on top and he'd made liberal use of the newfangled features since the purchase.

"I have to be honest with you, Arundel," Qui said. "When you asked if I could drive us to Elysium, I assumed you'd hold your nose when you got in the car. Most Kindred consider my tastes to be eccentric at best. The last time a Primogen rode shotgun with me, she asked if I was 'slumming it.' That took a lot of joy out of the operation."

"You expected me to be a cliché stuck-up businessman," Arundel said as he got into the passenger seat. "We Ventrue have that reputation, I fear. To be fair, you wouldn't be entirely wrong. There are many masks that I wear; the ability to adapt and change is imperative to upholding the Masquerade. You'll see the businessman mask once we arrive at our destination. For now, I'm more interested in learning about the man I'm working with. To put it bluntly—it's difficult to get to know a fellow conspirator when he dislikes you so thoroughly that his face looks like it's been carved from a frowning rock."

Qui chuckled. "We've all met that type." 

His tone seemed to please Arundel and whatever tension remained between the two of them evaporated. "I found Cranston's description of you…lacking in the finer details," Arundel said. "The woman is results-oriented to a fault. She doesn't see people; she sees faceless pawns."

Qui started the engine and the car roared to life, echoing off the walls of the underground parking garage. "That's not exactly uncommon," he said. "Most Kindred make pawns of each other. It's the way of things."

Arundel cranked the window open and rested his arm along the edge. "I like my chess pieces to have faces," he said with a smile. "Although I generally prefer them with their teeth intact and fewer broken bones."

It took Qui a moment to realize whom the man was talking about. To his credit, he was busy navigating his way into an unfamiliar city at the moment, so deciphering the man's meaning took a little extra effort. "Cranston's already had you over?" he asked.

"Yes," Arundel said. "She called me right after you left and had me deal with the spy. I can't blame her for not wanting that business hanging over her head." He pointed out a turn that Qui was about to miss before lounging back comfortably in the half-reclined passenger seat. "Considering the damage done to her haven, I'm surprised she didn't destroy the poor girl as soon as she was defeated. I assume you have something to do with the spy's unlikely brush with good fortune?"

Qui nodded.

"I thought as much," Arundel said. "That was well done. If I know Michel Bouchard, he intended for the girl to be killed. He wants leverage to keep Cranston from getting overly ambitious."

That was curious. "I assumed he just wanted power," Qui said. "Why would he care about Cranston's ambition if it wasn't aimed in his direction? Most Kindred I've known would be happy to see their rivals pick each other off one by one."

"Bouchard epitomizes the title of 'Sewer Rat,'" Arundel said. "Where most Nosferatu see the title as insulting, he's chosen to embrace it. He's more than content ruling the underground and he sees outward expansion as a threat to the sanctity of his domain." 

"An elder wanting to rule without expansion?" Qui asked. "That's downright strange."

Arundel chuckled. "Indeed. Michel Bouchard spent years trying to hold the city's Nosferatu under his thumb, but eventually Cranston rose to the top, no longer containable. Rather than start a war he couldn't win, Michel decided to exile her from his sewer domain. That's why her havens are in a network of hotel basements."

"I was wondering about that," Qui said. "The separation seemed…personal."

Arundel nodded. "To those on the outside it seems like they have little to no contact with each other, but they've been fighting a proxy war for at least a decade now." He shrugged and looked out the window toward Parliament Hill. "A pointless exercise as far as I'm concerned. I was pleased to hear that Cranston has finally moved on to set her ambitions against greater targets more worthy of her attention."

Qui tried to hide a frown. He still wasn't quite sure what his escort knew about the assassination plot. Cranston had warned him that Arundel was able to sniff out secrets. The man hadn't been asking pointed questions, but he'd been speaking the entire time as though he were in on the plan from the beginning. Cranston may have on-boarded him when he fixed her spy problem, but until Qui knew for sure, he knew he should keep the details of the operation to himself.

"This is Wellington St., right?" Qui asked, changing the direction of conversation. He pointed through the windshield. "That's Parliament Hill."

Arundel nodded. "Elysium's on the other side of the road. The gorgeous old Victorian. Park outside the front door and the valet will take your car to the parking area."

"It's facing Parliament," Qui said. It was impossible to keep how impressed he was out of his voice. "It's not a concern to the Masquerade, being this close?"

"There's been a rather ferocious debate on that very topic," Arundel said as Qui pulled in by the side of the road. "Local Kindred purchased the building back in 1875 and we have a rather grand tradition, here. The Rideau Club is seen as sacred among our eldest. I, myself, have been attending for almost a century."

Qui stepped out and handed his keys to an overdressed valet. "I've never been a big fan of tradition when it stands in the way of my survival." He stepped up onto the curb while Arundel smoothed out his suit and adjusted his tie.

"My thoughts exactly," Arundel replied. "Which is why I'm one of the few members of the Court who spoke in favor of relocating when last we convened. Unfortunately, my voice was overruled."

"By Prince Jonah, I suspect," Qui said.

"None other."

Two attendants held the doors open as Qui accompanied Arundel inside. The 'club' was magnificently opulent by North American standards. Most Kindred Qui had worked for enjoyed a lower profile, and even the exceptions who lived in the lap of luxury rarely had this almost…old European level of decadence. Of course he had to admit that his experience was selective—his role as an assassin tended to put him in contact with fewer high-society types than he might otherwise have found himself rubbing shoulders with. 

He felt distinctly uncomfortable, but did his best not to show it. 

"Try to relax," Arundel whispered as he led Qui up a winding set of stairs to the second level. "The Prince will be expecting someone nervous and easy to manipulate. He's prepared for it and he'll do his best to throw you off your game. Project confidence and don't let him know that you're intimidated."

Qui ground his teeth as they walked on through the seemingly endless corridors. The building hadn't seemed this big from the outside. "I'm not intimidated," he said. "More appalled. Ottawa has been under nearly constant attacks by the Sabbat and this is how Jonah spends his time? Hiding behind riches while the hordes pick off his foot soldiers one by one?"

"Now you understand why Cranston needs to act," Arundel said.

"Yes," Qui found himself saying. It was so easy to talk to this man. Almost too easy. He wanted to tell him everything. "I…" He shook his head and stopped dead in the middle of the hallway as realization dawned. "Is this how you treat your allies?" he snapped. If he were mortal, his face would have been flush with fury. "I hoped for better from you!"

Arundel held his hands up. "A simple probe for truth, nothing more," he said. "It's the standard for new arrivals before speaking with the Prince. You're right about the Sabbat assaults—they've left Jonah paranoid. By his edict, I am required to search for ulterior motives whenever I escort Kindred into his presence."

"That doesn't excuse the invasion of my mind!" Qui considered leaving on the spot.

Arundel took a quick look around and lowered his voice. "If I wasn't on your side, I would have turned you away the second you suggested that Jonah should be replaced. I have no intention of spreading that information. I was required to perform a cursory examination and I did so. If I am questioned in relation to this, I now have plausible deniability."

He cut short as a trio of servants rounded the corner ahead, gossiping together until they realized who they were about to walk into. Each of them went pale and they gave Arundel a wide berth. Qui wondered if they knew what manner of creatures they were serving. Is that how Samantha would react to him if she knew the truth? 

"So who do you report your findings to?" Qui asked. He'd already picked out three separate methods of escape, although two of the three would be considered major Masquerade breaches. He didn't want to open that can of worms unless he absolutely had to. Existing in plain view of the mortals was one thing, but flaunting vampiric powers would bring supernatural Hunters down on the Court, and the penalty for doing so was final death.

The look Arundel gave him said he knew exactly what Qui was planning. "I'm under no obligation to inform the Prince of what I found," he said. "The purpose is to discover if you are fit for an audience." He grinned and spread his arms. "Congratulations. You passed the test."

"Trust is hard to win back," Qui said as he reluctantly allowed Arundel to lead him toward the main ballroom where he would meet with the Prince.

"Understandable," Arundel said. "I'd beg your forgiveness if I believed it would be forthcoming, but I recognize you as a man not easily won over. Believe it or not, I admire that trait considerably."

"Let's just get this over with," Qui said. His mood was thoroughly ruined and he couldn't help wondering how much of Arundel's friendship routine had been an act. It was impossible to trust another Kindred, of course, but an alliance wasn't always out of the question. He'd hoped that he'd found someone who he could rely on in the city—a co-conspirator to help him navigate this den of snakes. Then again, Arundel might still be telling the truth. If he was questioned about whether or not he had scanned Qui, he was now in the clear and able to answer the Malkavian Prince honestly. He'd performed his due diligence to the letter—he merely neglected to follow up on his findings.

Arundel beckoned him onward. "You're ready?" he asked.

"As I'll ever be," Qui said. He'd already decided to give Arundel a second chance. A part of him wondered if that was a bad sign, but he brushed the thought away. Like it or not, he needed allies. Making more enemies than strictly necessary was rarely the best move in unfamiliar territory.

The ballroom doors opened on their own, drifting on mystical tethers to reveal a brightly-lit cascade of finery. The space beyond was one of the gaudiest rooms Qui had ever seen. Hand-painted banisters framed a small staircase leading onto the ballroom floor; they were gilded, glittering in a warm light that showed from every angle. The floor itself was a dark-stained hardwood, polished to a mirror-like sheen. He felt like he was desecrating the place simply by walking through it as four towering alabaster statues positioned in the corners regarded him with haughty stares. A single chair was centered along the back wall, nestled between hanging banners of fine purple silk. It was all Qui could do to keep from rolling his eyes when he realized that the chair was a throne. An actual throne, upon which sat the Prince of Ottawa.

Jonah may have been several hundred years old, but he stared down at Qui with the eyes of a man in his twenties. His blond hair was slicked back and his legs were crossed at a severe angle, showing off exquisitely embroidered pants that probably cost more than any of the servants in his club made in a year.

"Greetings, James Coyle," Jonah said. His voice was deep and booming, supernaturally enhanced for effect. "Your reputation precedes you."

Chapter 5

Qui tried his best to stave off panic. If the Prince knew who he was, then he knew his reputation—an assassin walking brazenly into the spider's web. He shot Arundel a look, but his escort seemed as surprised as he was.

"Yes, I know who you are," Jonah said as he leaned forward in the throne, resting his chiseled jaw on his fist like he was posing for a sculptor as he watched Qui's reaction. "I must say that I rather enjoy your choice of moniker. What better assumed name in a largely French-speaking nation than 'Qui?' It's cheeky enough to grab my attention—I love it when a vampire embraces the absurd." He spread his hands in greeting. "Welcome to Ottawa, Mr. Who."

There was no point in denying the truth; the Prince had done his homework if he knew the name James Coyle. "Thank you, Prince Jonah," Qui said. "You're most gracious." His mind was racing, analyzing his situation. The Prince was sharper than Cranston had let on. He'd expected to find a defeated man hiding in his castle, petrified of the Sabbat hordes. Instead, he'd found…this. Not that it was a game-changing revelation—he'd ended several vampires who believed themselves to be untouchable. Cocky men were often the easiest to dispatch, their confidence woefully misplaced. Now all he had to do was watch for a weakness. Everybody had one, mortal and Kindred alike.

         The Prince waved his hand. "We can dispense with the formalities," he said. "Call me Jonah. Feel free to speak your mind as you would address any other Kindred."

         "I will," Qui said. "Thank you, Jonah. I'm curious. Where did you hear that name?"

         "James?" Jonah asked. "Contrary to popular opinion, I still have my wits about me and my influence is considerable. When you arrived, I did what any good host would do—I researched my guest so that I might best entertain him for the duration of his stay." He waved his hand. "But your name and your past do not matter in my Court as long as you follow the Traditions. Tell me—why have you come to Ottawa?"

"I'm afraid my plans aren't terribly interesting in the grand scheme of things," Qui said. "I came at the request of Primogen Cranston to act as her right hand until the local police are in order and the Masquerade is secure."

Jonah smirked. "Yes, you would do well as the right hand of a Nosferatu." He made a show of un-crossing his legs and standing up before sauntering over and examining Qui like a judge inspecting a prize-winning animal. "Absolutely stunning," he muttered as he reached out a hand to flick aside Qui's hair.

"Begging your pardon," Qui said, holding back his anger as best he could while he pulled away. "I have boundaries that I'd prefer remain uncrossed." 

Oh, how he was going to enjoy chopping this preening prick's head off.

"Of course," Jonah said, letting the hand fall to his side before returning to his throne. "I've heard the rumors, of course. But I was hoping to see your scar first-hand."

"You could have asked. Most guests prefer not to be touched without permission—you did just reference the desire to be a proper host, after all. "

Jonah shrugged. "I'm mercurial at best, Mr. Who. Your comfort does not interest me per se, not as much as discovering your true purpose in my domain."

Qui frowned. This was going to be a problem. The Prince not buying Cranston's excuse was one thing, but the fascination with his history and scar was another. There were some Kindred out there who would eagerly take him apart in an attempt to divine the truth behind his lack of deformities. They wouldn't succeed, nobody ever did, but that rarely seemed to stem the tide of fascination. He took a step away from the throne. If he had to run, he'd be ready.

"Come now," Jonah said, clicking his tongue. The Malkavian's ability to sense his emotions seemed quite keen, indeed. "I've extended you an invitation to my city. I don't harm my visitors as long as they play by the rules."

"Is that so?" Qui asked.

"It is."

"Do you eye all of your guests like a hungry shark?"

Jonah laughed. "Most of them, yes. You see, Mr. Who, everyone is useful in their own way, and they play their parts in this little drama of ours regardless of their personal desires." He wagged his finger at Qui. "I know change when I see it standing in front of me. I know death when it stares across my ballroom." 

He raised his voice until it thundered throughout the chamber. "I'd know your truth, assassin! Who is your target?" He loomed like a thunderhead, somehow managing to appear like he was staring down at Qui despite being at least a foot shorter in stature. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "It's all in the name, don't you see?" He barked a sudden laugh. "Who!"

Qui stood his ground. The Prince might think himself clever, but the man's childish display was giving him more than enough to work with. The Malkavian might know how to demand attention, but he couldn't command respect. That was why his reign had failed, it was clear. Cranston was right. 

Prince Jonah had to go.

"I have greeted you in peace," Qui said. "Announced my presence as the Traditions dictate."

"You have, indeed," Jonah said as he settled back into his throne. "That is why your corpse still ambles about my floor, free to spread its lies. But there is a threshold to my tolerance." He leaned forward, hands clasped in a pantomime of a beggar. "You will not harm one single hair on Michel Bouchard's bald head while you are here. Do you understand me?"

Qui was stunned speechless.

"Our new arrival has no untoward intentions regarding Bouchard," Arundel said from the room's entrance. It was the first time he'd spoken up since they arrived; Qui had almost forgotten he was there, given Jonah's relentless demand for attention. "I assure you, my Prince," he said. "Qui has only the best intentions for our city at heart."

Jonah's eyes shifted to Arundel and Qui could see him weighing the man. Despite his eccentric demeanor, there was little doubt that the Prince could detect a blatant lie if he chose to. Most vampires of his bloodline could. Luckily for Qui, Arundel clearly believed what he was saying. The rub was that his interpretation of 'best intentions' was the destruction of the Prince, himself.

"Very well," Jonah said. "Perhaps I misjudged you, James Coyle."

"Qui. My name is Qui."

Jonah rolled his eyes. "If you insist."

"Have we anything further to discuss?"

"No." Jonah leaned back in his throne. "Feel free to leave and play out your own personal drama far away from me." He paused for a moment as Qui turned to leave. "And send one of my girls in while you're on your way. Arundel knows my favorites."

***

Qui stormed through the Elysium hallways, mind racing as he committed Jonah's personal tics and paranoias to memory. "Neither of you prepared me for that," he said to Arundel when he was sure they were out of hearing range. "He knows my name. My reputation. This is going to make things much more difficult." He looked over the railing at the bustling Elysium. "I was led to believe that his influence was waning."

"It's all bluster," Arundel said. "Jonah's claims of influence are over-inflated. His successful inquest into your background was more likely a bit of luck, not skill. He was right when he said that your chosen name begs the question, though. Why ever did you choose it in the first place?"

Qui shook his head and stopped by the railing, leaning forward as he watched the servants and neonates congregate on the floor below. "It's the only word I ever heard my sire say," he said. "He was Embracing mortals into his army to take Boston back from the Ventrue. I was left in darkness for over a week with no understanding of what I was—a shock troop to be used and disposed of." 

"Sounds like Sabbat," Arundel said. He leaned on the railing beside Qui. "Was your sire antitribu?"

"Not that I'm aware," Qui replied. "The Camarilla wasn't the same in the New World as it was back in Europe at the time. They weren't so much an organization as they were warring tribes—and they didn't fight with politics. They left trails of death scattered in every direction their civilization spread. The Sabbat were able to hide in plain sight because, at the time, there was little difference between the factions."

Arundel raised an eyebrow. "Some might call those words treason."

"And others know their history."

"Touché."

Qui grinned. Even after the incident on the way in, he couldn't help liking this man. He decided to tell the rest of his story. "One night I awoke to find another vampire in the basement with me," he said. "I'd never met him before and he kept to himself. I barely knew what I was at the time and I was too afraid to ask questions. When my sire opened the door to finally let me out, he saw the stranger. That's when I heard him speak for the first time—a rumbling gurgle of a word."

"Qui?" Arundel prompted.

"Qui. A second later, my new cellmate blew my sire's head off with a pistol and fled out into the night. I never saw him again."

"A pistol took down a Nosferatu?"

Qui shook his head. "Some kind of incendiary charge. And he'd been at war—for all I knew, he was hurt already. Maybe that's why he came to get me, to replace him on the front lines."

"So you chose to immortalize that moment?" Arundel asked. "It's almost…romantic in a way. Finding your new name in the final question of a twice-dead man."

"I suppose you could see it that way." Qui pushed himself back off the banister and started walking again. They passed by a cluster of servingwomen; he thought they were the same ones he'd seen before.

Arundel stopped beside them and singled one out of the group. "Nadia, darling," he said. "You're needed in the ballroom."

The girl went off without a word. Qui made a note of the Prince's choice. Knowing a vampire's favored blood doll could be advantageous at times. Food was rarely just food to the upper crust of Kindred society. 

"I'm glad you accompanied me on this meeting," Qui said as they took the stairs down to the lobby. "Where can I drop you off?"

"Oh, no need." Arundel gestured toward one of the waiters. The man gave him a sharp nod and hustled away. "I'm famished and one of my favorite dolls works here tonight. The poor boy is the black sheep of his house, but he's born of very old money. Being cast out didn't change the way he tastes, but it did make him easier to obtain. I'm his patron now, and he's able to continue living in the style to which he'd become accustomed. All he needs to offer me in exchange is a regular taste."

Qui had heard of far worse fates for a Kindred's favored mortal than that. In fact, it sounded like a downright generous arrangement. He felt his Hunger gnawing at him; he'd been so preoccupied with the thought of meeting and deceiving the Prince that he'd neglected his personal needs. "Is there a system in place, here?" he asked. "Are the dolls open to visiting Kindred or are they all spoken for?"

"It's unfortunately very easy to step on toes here without knowing any better," Arundel said. "I'd be happy to make some arrangements at the front desk if you require nourishment. I can't allow my new associate to go hungry, now can I?"

"It would certainly get our business off to a poor start."

Arundel slipped into a gracious bow and beckoned Qui onward into the belly of the beast. There were always delights to be sampled at Elysium and Qui had to admit that he was curious what he might find. "Come, then," Arundel said. "I know a dinner companion who would be just perfect for you, my dear Mr. Who!"

Qui groaned. "Please don't call me that."