Chapter 21 -- An Act of Public Expiation - Houston (Spring of 2032) -- B.E.Z

Lord Blake's Personal Journal

>> Hand printed via the discipline technique Shadow Script in crisp Gothic lettering, but in the colloquial English of the middle 21st Century. <<

1st, 2032 -- London

Prologue: Explanations are in order. Three months have passed since the Camarilla retook London, the capital of England and vampiric Avalon, from the Sabbat. I have already discussed the details of that fateful battle and its terrifying consequences for the Undead of London and all England. I feel no need to touch upon those events again except to say that with the fall of the Sabbat in London to the Camarilla, that the next four months were frenzied ones.

First upon the agenda for the undead of London was the restoration of the sacred Masquerade, any and all mortals who might have seen or heard the events of our supernatural struggles with the Sabbat had to be found and adjusted. Most were dominated into forgetting what they knew, a few had to be killed and a few truly unlucky bastards were handed over to the tender mercies of the Malkavians and locked away in mental institutions for safekeeping.

Simultaneously, those Kindred of a martial character including me, were given the dubious job of uprooting and eliminating the final remnants of the Sabbat in the Great Smoke. Frankly, I much prefer the risks of potential combat to the mind-numbing tedium of Masquerade repair. However, to quote a favorite movie memory, "the sons of bitches were dug in like Alabama ticks". I will remember that November and December for the rest of my theoretically immortal life. We spent an entire month crawling, literally, through the London Underground hunting the Sword of Caine. Still, the London underground was nothing compared to the unmapped labyrinth that is the greater London sewer system. Some of those tunnels date back to Roman Londinium, and I spent my share of nights down on my belly in the medieval portion of those sewers chasing the Nosferatu antitribu and a brood of Tzimisce who felt the need to re-enact the "Alien" movie franchise on their Camarilla pursuers. As such, I may well be cured forevermore of watching alien-horror films.

The new year began well with celebrations throughout the collective Elysium of London. I must say, Mithras' regents threw a rousing jubilee, feted in medieval fashion with blood-feasts, jousting and lavish entertainment. The highlight of the new-years' celebration was the handing out of honors, titles and most importantly to me, the assignment of domains...

{I chosen not to finish the above entry until after we game again and there is some kind of resolution to certain questions.}

March 1st, 2032 -- Nystor's Lair on Sicily

April 1st, 2032 -- My Arrival in Houston

May 1st, 2032 -- The Midway of Galveston Island Historic Pleasure Pier -- 47 miles South-East of downtown Houston

Epilogue: As I look out towards the Gulf of Mexico from where I lean against a railing at the end of the Historic Pleasure Pier of Galveston, I finally know what it is like to be one of the "Lost Boys", no - not the dirty urchins of J. M. Barrie's book "Peter Pan", but rather the vampires of the 1987 horror film by the same name. Galveston would make an excellent "Santa Carla" the fictional setting of the teen vampire film and the Pleasure Pier reminds me of that fictional city's boardwalk perfectly.

The darkness of the sea calls to me and the salt laden breeze is refreshing as it blow into my face, driving away the ever-present smells of popcorn, cotton-candy and of course human blood. So many mortals, so many choices of potential prey to feed from and while the prince of Houston claims Galveston, he and everyone in his court knows that his authority here is a polite fiction. Which means I can feed until my cold, dark heart is utterly satisfied and while I contemplate my first course, a part of my mind is going over all that happened over the last month. I know its foolish to spend my ill-gotten time on reminiscence, and its dangerous to not be one hundred percent in the present, as even now there could be Sabbat vampires in this quaint little town. Still, as I settle on a pair of delicious and delicate teen flowers and fall into step fifty feet behind them, I reflect on how things turned out and I smile a secret smile to myself that has nothing to do with the sea or the prospect of a fine meal.

Despite what I would call a shaky beginning and a nearly disastrous end, the Giovanni's quest to hunt their prodigal son Enzo Giovanni came to a positive end despite nearly everyone's attempt to screw it up intentionally or otherwise. Germano Giovanni is a hero to his clan as he brings back the corpse of Enzo to Boston and the Giovanni Clan has a trillion reasons to love him as he just returned a staggering sum of lost Giovanni wealth to the family financial vault. For myself, I absolved the debt the Giovanni purchased from Anatol Gorski and gained a couple of potent boons from the necromancers to boot, putting their new favorite son squarely in my debt.

The prince of Houston, Alejandro Kaufer probably owes us a debt for flushing a serious Sabbat pack out from hiding in the heart of his city. Its a shame that it cost the life of the Giovanni known as Eric Milliner, despite a rough beginning, I was beginning to like the Giovanni Americano, but in war there are losses and while I do deeply regret his probable fate - diablerie at the hands of Dallas Sabbat, better him than me. While I suspect the prince is going to claim that flushing the Sabbat pack out only balances the mess we created among Houston's mortal gang-bangers, I think pursuing the debt is worth the while and could be useful later when Germano and the Milliners decide they want justice for their fallen clan member and go after that Sabbat pack. So, despite my better judgement, I will seek an audience with his eminence for that very purpose, despite my youth I am fairly adept at the game of prestation and I should be able to wrangle something positive out of the deal.

Towards the end, another of the Giovanni, a screw-up called Antonio died the final death from the fangs and claws of the werewolf tribe called the Black-spiral Dancers for shooting one of their children during our assault on Enzo's underground base. In reality, I suspect that Enzo took shelter with the Dancers and probably paid quite a premium to do so. But then again, I could be wrong, for during our invasion of the werewolves' lair one of them spoke to me in English, suggesting that I should join them as we were on the same side. Perhaps the Dancer's saw something dark in Enzo, dark enough that they could identify with it and they welcomed him among them as one of their own. It is impossible to say for certain at this point, but I have learned a great deal about the Black-spiral Dancers in those few minutes of contact. They claimed to have some kind of relationship to the Abyss or at least implied as much, which suggest those ancient Lasombra legends that Nystor recited, might actually have some basis in truth. What I do know for certain is this, that during my battle with the three Dancers, two of them stepped through the shadows as I have seen my sire Don Alonzo do. It is a rare power of Obtenebration and only someone of potent blood could utilize it, which begs the question of how a couple of deranged and inbred werewolves could have accomplished it. But one thing is for certain, I will never again underestimate the werewolves of the tribe of Black-spiral Dancers or any other werewolf for that matter.

Its not much evidence, either for or against the premise of those ancient legends about a Roman era Lasombra traveling to Scotland to seek a legendary gate to the Abyss. But it does suggest that the Tribe of Black-spiral Dancers may look upon vampires in a very different light than the other tribes of werewolves. While I think its likely that particular werewolf was just trying to lull me into a false sense of security, it is a possibility that the Dancers see vampires as somehow akin to their own tribe, given the differences in culture between this tribe and the few others I have encountered, it could mean that those Lasombra, who over the centuries followed in the foot-steps of the Phoenician Abyss Mystic named Ahumm, are in fact still undead. Of course, this is just a theory with no supporting evidence, but is nonetheless a fascinating look into the culture of another supernatural species and presents a credible reason to continue my investigation of the tribe of Black-spiral Dancers.

I continue to follow the two teenage girls down the length of the Pleasure Pier, the irony of the pier's name is not lost on me, and up to a restaurant called "Big Top Bites" - how charming. One of the girls with waist length hair as dark as the Abyss orders a taco combination while her little red headed friend orders a sandwich combo so greasy it reminds me of my mortal youth. I wait until they have stepped back into the crowd to continue my pursuit. The crowds are thick tonight, it must be a weekend, and mortals brush against me from all directions. Unfortunately for one of them, a youth with sticky fingers, probably literally, tries to lift my wallet and gets a broken wrist for his trouble, the last I see of him, he is kneeling in pain as the crowd closes in around him. The girls never notice, nor does the security guard who is ogling another young girl in a tank-top. I love the mortal tendency towards inattention, it almost makes you feel sorry for them, almost. While I cannot filter the girl's conversation from the general babble of the crowd, I see them pointing towards the one hundred foot tall Ferris wheel and see my opportunity; I have never fed on a Ferris wheel before. The two teens get in line for tickets to the "Galaxy Wheel". Really, who came up with that name? I work my way through the crowd and neatly push my way in front of a pretty surfer boy and his friends, his response is a loud and vulgar declaration; I think I just found my next meal. Just as the girls are reaching the ticket booth, I glance over my shoulder to silence the kid with but a cold smile.

My thoughts glitter like reflections of Ferris wheel lights on midnight dark water as I consider another strange twist of fate. During my sojourn to Houston, I have met another doppelganger, another one of my twins who calls himself Edwardo Putanesca. A Giovanni ghoul, turned vampire sometime in the last thirty years. He presents himself as a body-guard and chauffeur to the elite of Clan Giovanni, but from what he said during our invasion of the Dancer hive, he is also a skilled necromancer with some sort of specialty in reanimation. In our first meeting in a dingy little hotel in Baton Rouge, it was impossible for us to hide our resemblance from one another. I wonder how many of the Giovanni noticed and what they will make of our close resemblance. During the mission, there just wasn't an opportunity to talk privately, so I didn't try. But now that the mission is over, its time for the doppelgangers to have a long discussion; I look forward to hearing his story and I suspect he will want to hear mine. With the death of Blagoy Zhivkov, I thought I had destroyed my doppelganger, but now I wonder just how many of us there are and how we came to be in the first place. Edwardo holds at least one of the keys to figuring that mystery out and on a personal level I wonder what he is like. Is he another me or is he a madman like Blagoy. In either case, I will be ready for whatever bizarre corpse-bothering magics he might throw at me should our conversation go sideways. A violent confrontation is the last thing that I want, but I have learned the hard way not to enter any situation with a specific expectation unless I wish to be disappointed or worse.

Provided our conversation remains civil, my goal is to try and establish good relations with Edwardo; perhaps we can become allies if not friends and confidants. The Giovanni are so insular that I wonder if its really possible, but find myself wanting to try regardless. When that conversation is done, we will both have to reassess our situations; for him that probably means returning to Boston, though as I recall, he has considerable criminal connections here in Houston, so perhaps not. For me, its time to go home to Denver and see my sire Don Alonzo De Vargas; its been seventeen years since I last visited Denver in the company of Madame Mina. I miss my sire, despite our differences and there are many differences, he gave me immortality and I believe that were I not blood-bound to him, I would still revere the old Spanish nobleman. After all, he gave me this dark unlife rather than letting me die a pointless death in Fairmount Cemetery all those years ago. Its 879 miles from Houston to Denver, between the two cities are significant Sabbat forces, and a new set of would be nations that used to be part of the former United States of America. The Camarilla rumor mill suggests that Denver has become an outpost of this upstart League of the Night, not that I personally bear them any ill will, its just a political risk for me as a diehard Camarilla member. Provided that there are no serious hiccups, I will spend a few nights with my sire and the siblings who will no doubt take the opportunity to harp on all my failings in front of our dark father. Sadly, I am still not strong enough to trounce any of them and being Lasombra I would lose points with our sire for using force instead of guile to solve the problem anyway. But the fantasy of thoroughly thrashing them for all their smug sarcasm would feel good, though I wonder why it bothers me so, when in any other situation I would just shrug it off like water from the back of a duck.

The girls have purchased their tickets and passed through the gates to the Ferris wheel, so I step up an purchase mine. In doing so, I make eye contact with the ticket seller and suggest that the young men behind me are too rowdy for the Ferris wheel and that he should call security, funny thing, he does. I don't bother to look back as I can hear the argument begin when the salesman declines to let the group of young men buy tickets, instead I follow the two girls to the wheel as it slows to take on passengers.

For the first time, as I step directly behind them, they sense something is out of place and one of them glances back at me; when our eyes meet, I suggest that we should all ride the next car together. Her pupils dilate almost immediately and she begins to nod in an involuntary way. The little red-head becomes nervous when her friend suggest the three of us ride the next car in almost perfect mimicry of my Dominate. She starts to pull away as my hand settles on her shoulder and she turns to scream something at me, of course that is when our eyes meet. I suggest that she relax and that everything is fine, I sense that she has a strong will, but not quite strong enough to throw off my suggestion and when the car comes to a stop, and we all get on board. The wheel operator is a pimply-faced twenty-something who is listening to his music and only occasionally paying attention to his job or he would likely have seen and heard the little exchange, but he wasn't and he didn't and the wheel begins to rise.

When my family business is finished in Denver, I have decided to take a trip to Quebec City; its time to talk to Madame Mina and return her magic mirror. And perhaps lay the groundwork for a more lasting relationship; her thaumaturgic help was invaluable in Houston and though it didn't guarantee our success by any stretch of imagination, it did make a distinct difference. I still have reservations about working with Mina, but its time I put aside my childish emotional reaction to her flights of fancy and flamboyant behavior, she is a Ravnos and its in her blood, though I seem to remember the young girl I gamed with in Denver was pretty much the same way, but then a Deceiver is a Deceiver. Like the fable of the Dog and the Scorpion, I must be aware that deception and betrayal are part of her nature and treat her accordingly. After that bit of business is finished, I think I will take a nice relaxing cruise across the Atlantic and catch up on my reading. I wonder if its true what they say about those of our blood finding solace in the sea, I guess I will find out.

As the Ferris wheel completes its circuit, I get out of the car and stroll towards the wheel operator. When I reach him, I languidly pluck the headphones from his ears and as he starts to object vocally he looks at me, too late he senses I'm not 'normal' and our eyes meet. With but a few words, I alter his memory and then suggest that the unmoving girls were drunk when they came in, perhaps he should call an ambulance. His will isn't so great and he nods mechanically, with the Ferris wheel music blaring and all the people talking, no one notices our exchange and I exit through the appropriate gate. I savor the taste of the girls' blood on my tongue and then I begin to look about for the surfer boy and his friends, for it seems, I hunger still.

After all, the "Lost Boys" film had it right. "Sleep all day. Party all night. Never grow old. Never die. It’s fun to be a vampire."