We spoke, once, in another time, as other people. Like you said, people change.

I remember the conversation. We spoke of forest fires – of how sometimes the only way to save the forest is to burn it down, of rebirth from the ashes. Did he plant the seed back then? Or have I not changed as much as I think? Even then, when I was idealistic and wide-eyed and wanted to heal everyone, I knew he had a point. Sometimes you can't build until you destroy. I wonder now if the years between then and now have been the fire burning me down. If all my confusion, all my anguish, all my horror has been the death that comes before rebirth. Maybe I am someone else now – someone I was already beginning to become back then.

But who? Is the fracturing of my mind the result of that confusion? I've always fought against being defined. Maybe I fought so hard this time that I cracked under the pressure. Instead of being reborn by the fire, I let it burn away my core, and all that is left is chaos.

I tried for years to find someone else to serve, another master. I found many, none have any truth to their actions, only the same boring routine.

I then realized that it wasn't the people I served or their silly pedantic games, or even the nauseating courts night after night. It was me. I was the problem. I was the only one who could change.

So I did.

The games, the routine. He isn't wrong. I've run from all of that for so long, existing on the fringes, looking in from the outside and pounding my fists against the windows in frustration. I've dabbled in the trappings of society but never committed. I've hidden. I've played along. Nothing satisfied me. Is it because I never decided? For all my obstinance, I've never really chosen whether to exist in this world or to withdraw from it. I dance on the fence and malign my discontent.

But which is the better path? To dive in and drown in pettiness and politics, or to reject it all and be alone?

Or is there a third path...?

I realized that the only thing worse than caging a Lion and letting it grow complacent (or rabid) was doing so when there was no cage at all.

We aren't human anymore, and the whole game about fighting off the inevitable is a paper cage. One that can be abandoned.

You of all vampires can see the cage. If you can walk away from it, you might even hear The Call.

His words chill me. But I wonder if what disquiets is the inhumanity with which he speaks, or the fact that I can't say that he is wrong. I know the feeling of being caged. I've played so many roles and worn so many ill-fitted skins and told myself they were means to an end. But what end? Where did it get me? I'm not free – just the opposite, in fact; I am a prisoner of my own mind. I drown myself in any distraction I can find to hide from... what? Her? Me? Or the decision I've spent centuries refusing to make?

I can see the cage now. I put myself inside it.

The garden is lush and abundant with new growth. Vines cover the walls and the roses bloom in every color imaginable, their fragrance mixing with that of the apples on the tree and permeating the air. The tree, in the center of the room, is magnificent. Enormous and black, its branches reaching up and then outward where they crawl across the ceiling like fingers. Against the blackened wood, the apples shine a brilliant shade of red, like rubies surrounded by emerald leaves.

It would be beautiful if it weren't so terrifying.

She isn't here. I listen for her and strain my senses looking, but she doesn't come. The garden is silent as I walk toward the tree (rose blooms turning to face me as I pass), waiting. I call her name and receive no answer.

"She isn't here."

The voice behind me is soft and warm. I turn to face my visitor and she smiles, stepping toward me.

"It's alright," she says, her words gliding across the room like a warm breeze. "I'm not here to hurt you. Quite the opposite, in fact."

Her eyes sparkle the blue of the sea; her cheeks are flushed and pink. Her golden hair is tied in an artfully tousled chignon. She continues toward me. The roses turn away from her as she passes and the leaves on the tree close with her approach. When she is close I can feel her warmth reach out and envelop me. In spite of myself, I am comforted.

"You poor thing! Just look at you. She's got you terrified, hasn't she? Well don't you worry. I won't let her hurt you. You're safe now."

"I don't understand..." My voice sounds slurred and dumb, not like hers, which rings clear.

"You need rest," she says, taking my hands in hers. "That Isabel, she's been tormenting you so badly that you can't even think anymore. But that's all over now. I'll hold her at bay and you can rest."

She smiles again and I want to throw myself into her arms. Instead I am frozen in place, but she pulls me to her and I collapse into her embrace. She smells of clean salt breezes and fresh linen. My body convulses as I choke and sob while she coos gently, comforting me. I'm tired, and scared, but somehow she feels safe. A lighthouse marking the way home in a storm.

When I open my eyes we're out on the starboard deck. The boat rocks gently with the calm winds that carry across the water. A full moon shines brightly and illuminates the world in chades of blue and violet. It takes a moment to recognize the feelings of calm and safety – they haven't visited me in so long. She squeezes my hand and turns to walk away.

"Wait – I don't understand..."

Her smile warms me when she turns. "You can call me Claire."

And she's gone, carried away on the mist.

•••

Awake drips slowly down from above, sounds and sensations coming into dreary focus as though I'm swimming through honey. I open my eyes, expecting to be outside, but find myself in bed. The weight on my mind tells me that the sun isn't yet down, but I fight back sleep and scan the room. I'm alone.

It's alright, I'm here. Rest now.

This can't be real.

I must be dreaming. Or drunk maybe, though I don't remember drinking anything... I close my eyes and tell myself it isn't real. That when I open them again, all of this will be gone. I wait.

( Read more... )

The door is locked.

It's always locked.

I tell myself that there's nothing on the other side – that behind this door is just machinery. I've walked by it a thousand times and always heard the sound of motors and gears coming from inside. But I don't hear anything now.
( Read more... )

I missed the boat. More specifically, I missed the water. I've come to take my living arrangements for granted in recent years, but months inland have made me appreciate my home on the sea all the more. I step out onto the deck and inhale deeply. The first chill of autumn is beginning to make the air crisp with just the slightest bite of the coming cold, and the breeze coming off the water hits the skin like tiny needles late at night. It's what I imagine being alive must have felt like, if I could really remember the millions of little feelings associated with being alive. But that horizon seems farther away all the time.

Then the mist swirling around the deck begins to change. It moves as if of its own volition, building upon itself into a dense cloud that begins to take the shape of a man. I feel my body tense into a defensive stance as my mind curses the blade left behind on the nightstand inside. Victor's within calling distance... maybe. I wait, focusing my vision as acutely as blood will allow, and finally begin to recognize the form thickening before me.

"Benny... nice to see you. I think."

He's caked in blood and ash, fangs and claws extended and coated with similar grime, eyes glowing the color of burning blood. His aura is boiling. Before he even speaks – which he does in curt and predatory tones unlike his usual vernacular – it's clear some piece of him has slipped out of place.

"I heard you were... at the gathering here in New York, a few nights back?"

Close, puppy. But no biscuit.

"That's what they tell me."

A hint of self-awareness as he looks down at himself, muttering an apology for missing me at a party I don't remember attending anyway. Benny's still in there, then. Somewhere beneath this... whatever this is. It's a start.

"I've been... thinking is all, Becky. I've just been thinking..."

"Thinking doesn't leave you covered in blood and ashes, Benny."

"Oh, that? Eh. Unfortunate trappings of getting shit done sometimes. Problems that needed to be dealt with - so I did. Problem people. Problem Vampires. Problem... other things. Nothin' I couldn't handle, though."

"So am I a problem you've come to deal with?"

"Yes, Rebecca. Yes you are, I'm afraid."

He's laughing. But he isn't lying.

"The problem being that I've missed you. The solution being that we spend more time together. And I'm dead-set on solving this here problem, girl... feel me?"

Something still not quite right. A square peg whose corners have been filed off to fit the round hole. Like his skin no longer hangs right over his soul. Like he's something else wearing Benny Martinez as a costume and thinks it's ridiculous.

But that happens to everyone eventually.

He's tired. Bending beneath the weight of his own confusion – mortal family, Kindred society, animal, man, monster. Once he finally relaxes it's easy to see the slump in his posture. He's a hundred different creatures trapped in the body of a boy who can't make sense of any of it. I remember the feeling: the fear, the crippling melancholy, the rage that burns crimson behind the eyes. I miss it sometimes.

"Being around us all the time tends to change you."

"Yeah... yeah it does, doe'n't it?"

"You'll find the irony is that everyone who told you that you need to 'grow up' and 'stop being naive' will now scorn you for losing your youthful innocence."

"Or just stay away. Avoid you and treat you like a potential threat 24/7. It's annoying."

My goddess, he's delightful. Almost as much fun as Jason.

Gradually, he calms. The beast retreats and lets Benny slip back into place for the moment. He isn't who he was, but he's as close as he's likely to get. What boiled under his surface now only simmers. Still, I tense as he slips an arm around my waist, and shiver as he lays gentle kisses on my neck. Something still too unfamiliar to be entirely comfortable.

"Look. it was really good t' see you, girl. But it's obvious I still ain't 100% and i don't wanna stick around just t' upset you, a'ight? So. I'm comin'a see you again, Rebecca. When I'm a lil more myself. 's 'at cool?"

You aren't upsetting me."

"...Yet."

"What makes you think you will?"

"The Animal inside me's closer to the surface than it ought to be. Makes me act... different. And if we're to stay friends... or... however close to that a pair of blood suckers can be... then cave-man Martinez needs to step it back again, feel me?"

"I've seen worse. Anyway, no one's really themselves anymore. But sure. I get it."

"Yeah... I suppose y'do, huh?"

His expression darkens and I find myself willing him not to say the words I know are coming next:

"We still have to talk, though. About Connecticut."

Suddenly he feels much too close and the whole city and the ocean feel much too small, and all I want is to run. Fortunately Benny runs first.

"I'd kiss you, but you're like a cat in bath. Shame really. I really did miss that pretty face o' yours somethin' fierce."

"A cat in a bath?"

"Skittish..."

The word barely echoes as he collapses back into mist. I wait, watching it curl away over the side of the deck and blend with the fog coming off the water before turning to get a bottle from the bar.

The box is wrapped in cheerful silver paper that glitters in even the faintest light. No return address on the outer package. I am careful before opening it – shake it gently, listen, smell, see. Nothing appears out of order. I gently separate the edges of the paper, anticipation crawling over me as the paper crinkles between my fingers.

Red tissue paper, cradling a pillow in the matching shade, itself cradling a bottle. Glenlivet, 1987.

And a card, typewritten: For My Darling Becky

Poetry. About... motherhood. And a typewritten note:

Wishing you well on this special occasion – Want to go out for a drink?

No signature.

I find myself looking over my shoulder and I'm not sure why. I think. Check the date. Check it again. No occasion springs to mind.

I concentrate on the note still clutched in my hand – feel my fingers pass over the grooves made by the typewriter keys and inhale the smell of the ink. Who are you...?

The answers come slow... amusement, a kind of prodding humor, like a child playing a prank. Beneath it... excitement. Determination. Anticipation. Invitation. It's something akin to a child shouting, "Look ma, no hands!" The desire to share something.

But what? And who? Kato would sign his name; this is unlike him. And the others... I don't think the others will be inviting me to celebration anytime soon.

Want to go out for a drink?

My eyes make their way back to the bottle. A twenty two year-old scotch. Is that a clue? 1987. I was... nowhere. Off the grid. Wandering the world aimlessly. I don't recall anything I would call an "occasion," or very much in particular about the year at all save the terrible fashion trends of the era, now seemingly determined to revisit themselves upon society. But somehow I doubt my anonymous admirer is interested in fashion. No, this is... the feeling... is somehow... familial.

Want to go out for a drink?

Something about that phrase... something familiar, itching at a corner of my brain I can't seem to reach.

It's maddening.

I've made a life out of readin peoples faces,
And knowin what their cards were by the way they held their eyes.
So if you dont mind my sayin, I can see youre out of aces.

I hated Kansas. I could never understand how anyone could live in a land-locked state where the dust whips around like snow and the air is dry. But it was there that I learned poker – a game as much about observation as it is about the cards in your hand. The trick – the one that so many never learn – is knowing when to walk away from the table.

I've survived as long as I have by knowing when to leave. Some would call it running, but I've never been the type to stand for an unfair fight just to maintain an appearance of strength. That's a foolish game better left to men who don't know better. I prefer to live another day and let those who underestimate me realize their mistake too late.

Now every gambler knows that the secret to survivin
Is knowin what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
cause evry hands a winner and evry hands a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.

When it was time to die, I died. When it was time to go out on my own, I left. When it was time to sleep away the sins of Europe, I rested. The acute mind knows when to play the cards on the table and when to leave the game.

There's no game here. I've spent my chips on bad bets that yielded nothing, and I have no allies at this table. It's time to go.

You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when youre sittin at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin when the dealins done.

"I wish I had known this was a formal occasion. I would have presented myself as a better guest."

There's a warmth to his smile I haven't seen in a long time. I can't help but laugh at his comment in contrast to the sight of him in a neatly-pressed suit. Something different about him... a lightness of step as he follows me up the stairs. For a moment I doubt what I'm about to do – maybe it's not necessary. Maybe it would be best to let him have his "baby steps."

But restraint has never been a virtue of mine, less so where he's concerned. He knew what it meant to ask me what he did. No turning back now.

( Anyway, he deserves it. )

It's quiet.

It hasn't been this quiet here in days. Not since she came.

I can remember the sight of her as clear as if she was standing here now – blonde hair whipping around in the wind, framing a pretty young face twisted in a spiteful scowl. She'd left him for good this time, she said. He'd pushed her too far.

Has she gone out? Perhaps trotted off after the other brother since his vain attempt at pretending to give a shit in order to wrangle himself a visit fell through? Yes, probably. Enjoy the quiet while it lasts.

I didn't believe her even then – partly because I've heard it before and partly because I wouldn't put it past him to send his little Stepford Wife to keep an eye on me. It wasn't long ago he had Thomas babysit me while he was still in the room. Sending a spy into my home wouldn't be such a stretch for him. And it's better than him following me around with the god damned camera, I suppose.

She was a pleasant enough distraction, anyway. Her presence coaxed Brogan into a visit, and though it's been taxing having to hide my activities within my own home and having to make sure my things are locked safely away from her nosy little eyes and her eager little fingers, it has filled the time. Though if she's going to pick up smoking to impress him, she would do well to learn to buy her own cigarettes.

How can she care so much what he thinks about her every move? How can she swear to be through with him out of one corner of her mouth while plotting her next ruse to earn his attention out of the other? Can't she see the weakness in that? The naiveté?

"Because you luuuuuv him."

Her words, echoing back at me like a clanging bell. Her childish, teasing, impish little smirks and drunken school girl giggles. Her blatant scheming, completely lacking in subtlety. She's no spy. She could never keep the secret long enough. What was I thinking?

"Maybe one day you'll be able to admit it to yourself."

Silly child. She doesn't understand anything. Where the hell is she anyway? It's much too quiet.

I finally venture out of my room and up into the sitting room, listening for any hint of sound the whole way. Perry's quiet mewing from the chair; otherwise just the wind outside and the gentle lapping of water against the hull.

Finally, an answer: a note. Whiskey, cigarettes and flowers by way of a thank you, and a polite and curt good-bye.

That certainly didn't take very long.

I'm gonna post someday, I promise. Because I'm all like, actually playing again and have actual shit going on, and it's fun and stuff. Except I'm always too sleepy or too braindead to write up any of that stuff that's going on, which sucks because I need to be like, writing shit, even if it's just silly old game stories.

So yeah. Soon. Or something. When I'm done mentally hibernating.

We're not supposed to come to the Rack these days. Contaminate in the system. You can almost feel it in the air as you walk the streets – the Kine pulse with an extra energy that isn't natural. I'm close now. It shouldn't be too hard to find a source.

But I stand out in a crowd, and I don't want to be remembered. Not here. I duck into a dark spot and slip a mask into place – let them see what they want to, as long as its non-descript.

I pick a club and step inside. Immediately I'm hit by the wall of sound and the heat of a hundred humans drunk with liquor and excitement. Music pumps from every corner and colored lights swirl and flash. It'll be impossible to use my senses to see if there are enemies about, but that's not what I'm looking for anyway. The bass thumps in my brain and I feel myself calmed by it – it quiets her some. I want to dive in, to dive into the sea of vice, but I focus. I'm looking for something else.

And it isn't hard to find. He sticks out like a sore thumb, the boy in the corner. Cleanly-pressed khankis and a neatly-buttoned shirt in a crowd of low-slung jeans and high heels – for a moment I mistake him for Thomas. His drug comes packaged one pill at a time, a cartoonish flame emblazoned on the foil that holds it. He's indiscreet but no one seems to mind.

No good swallowing a pill I'll only spit up, so I find a recent customer instead. It's almost too easy to find a willing victim in a place like this. Hot blood, familiar taste – too metallic. I've had this before. I take more to be sure; he'll have what he thinks is a powerful hangover tomorrow.

It kicks in fast. The feeling is different than anything to which I'm accustomed. Like flying and falling all at once, exhilarated by the breeze as it blows by. Before I know what's happened the dance floor has swallowed me and I'm a part of the mass of bodies undulating to the beat. Color and sound blend; it's hard to tell where anything ends or begins. Like being on a merry-go-round going 400 miles an hour. I feel... free. It's a feeling I'd forgotten.

But nothing lasts forever.

Hard to fight the feeling of my flesh being seared off the bone as I run for somwhere to hide myself so they won't see me. Blurred faces as I run at top speed – forget the car; I can't drive like this anyway. Instead I push myself harder to run faster as my blood boils. It takes every ounce of restraint not to scream.

I hit the water hard and push for the bottom, ripping the clothes from my body as I go. Still it burns and I notice for the first time the black network of veins that pulses under my skin. The sea muffles the scream I can't hold in anymore.

I have no idea how long it's been or how soon the sun will be up. I can't bring myself to care. The pain is finally beginning to subside; I'll stay here until I'm sure it's passed.

Cold water shocks my skin as I hit the surface; I push myself to the bottom and try to lose myself in the heavy silence. The water here is different – murkier, darker with pollution. But it's cold and quiet, which is all I require. It's the only place I can hide.

The last glimmer of light from the city above fades to a dim glow and the world finally goes mute. I linger for a moment, enjoying the silence and the dark, content to wallow here in my abyss before I force myself to try to remember what it was that let her in again.

Was it Thomas? I hadn't expected him to do what he did – the memory of it causes my spine to shiver – but wasn't it what I had wanted? Or had I only demanded because I expected him to resist?

He was cold even in relenting. Unsurprising. But why give in at all?

"Because I know that even though you enjoy making my life hell, you would never actually hurt me. I can trust you."

His words, the last thing I remember before the incredible pain. Before the blinding rage. Before the regret in his eyes as the sharpened wood finally found purchase in my heart.

"How long was I gone?"
"A little under two hours."

Two hours. Gone, just like that. She's never broken through for so long before. She's getting much too strong. Maybe it was a mistake coming back like this – maybe it would have been better to go back to wandering the world outside of this broken society of ours. A frivolous life, but one far less taxing. Maybe it's time to run again. This city hardly looks the same anyway. Gideon is gone, Julian has been called away again, and even the faces of the adversaries are new. Hartford has crumbled as has what once passed for family and my mind seems quick to follow. What point is there in staying to watch the world burn?

And yet... isn't that what I wanted? Augustine used to say that a forest sometimes needs to burn to live again. I've sown the seeds of destruction – whether it was she or I matters little now – and am now in the eye of my own storm.

I've spent centuries running from my problems. But wherever I go, she'll follow, bent on punishing me for what I did to her. I could run. But there seems little point now.

I barely remember sinking. It happened slowly, so slowly in fact that I barely noticed until it was too late. I never felt her pushing me beneath the waves; never noticed how much control I was yielding. Until it was too late.

Now I can't get back.

I'm trapped down here, darkness on every side except for the muted light above me, my every movement slowed and clumsy in the water. Cold. I try to scream but produce no sound. My every sense is stilled or slowed by my wet prison – every sense except one.

Perfect clarity of sound as she toys with him, as he plays along to analyze her. He knows. He can see. But he won't let me out.

Monster. Bastard. Leave me trapped here so you can collect some data for your damned experiments. Is this what you came here for?

I force myself upward, pushing against the tide she's created to fight toward the surface. She's fighting, keeping me down, and it seems to take forever to push against her. I can feel her getting stronger every second. The surface is like thick glass. I pound away, but I can't build any momentum with the water resisting my movements. The waves laugh at me as they throw me around like a ragdoll in the storm she's made. I can't break through.

Above, she grins and ridicules and beguiles. She tells him lies. I wonder if he can hear me trying to scream. If he can feel the choked sobs that won't release themselves from my chest, or see me bloodying my hands and face trying to escape and regain control. I wonder if he even cares.

She pushes back. My strength is waning. She's going to win. But then...

"Asriyah... I believe that perhaps that is our place together then?"

The tiniest crack breaks the surface at the sound of his voice speaking the name.

"Remember when we'd spend hours on either side of the bar in Vermillion. When I taught you to cheat at poker?"

I push. The crack grows wider.

"I never forget... I can still remember the red dress you wore in Maine when I offered to dance with you. You never did give me the chance to do so you know."

The surface breaks, and the maelstrom sends winds and waves in every direction. Every corner of my mind is filled with her screaming and the rattling panic as I fight to put her down again. The effort exhausts me; I have nothing left with which to face the questions I know are coming. It's bad enough he's seen what he has. Bad enough he's here, in my home, watching me fall to pieces. I won't let him pick me apart while I'm too weak to stop him.

So I do what I always do. I prepare to run.

"I think we should get you settled in your room. It's late."

"Get away from my car."

"Fine. But recognize that I am not alone in my stubborness. You - and Victor - share that with me."

Thomas steps away and I gun the gas before the door is even closed. I almost wish I hadn't warned him – a few broken bones would do him good. Or at least it would make me feel better.

The arrogant little bastard still doesn't get it. I don't know which makes me angrier – that he refuses to take Victor's threat seriously, or that he refuses to understand what he did wrong. He still insists it was for the good of the Movement; he still defends his selfish lies. He's still a traitor.

But so am I. Except I did what I did for him. He has only ever done anything for himself.

I hate him for that. Or I would... if I could. Even now as I push for more speed to calm the screaming in my head, I can feel the few drops of him in my cold veins pushing me to try and save him. Would I still try if not for that? Or would I leave him to be murdered by his own hubris? I don't know. And that's worse than anything else.

I want to hate him. I deserve to hate him. I know that Victor is right about him. He's just another hypocrite, and the Movement's indulgence of him only makes us all a joke all over again. He feels no remorse for his treachery. He feels no remorse for what he did to me. It's questionable whether he's capable of feeling anything at all. He deserves what he gets. I know he does.

But I can't let it happen. And I don't know anymore if that's because of anything genuine, or just a few drops of blood.

I do know that Audra has it wrong – I'll never be able to love him again. The Thomas I loved died a long time ago.

The engine protests, pushed beyond its limit. I want to push it harder, crank the engine until it explodes. I want to tear the world in half and destroy anyone who gets in my way. But I don't know if those thoughts are mine either.

Too much. Too many things I can't control. I need out.

Justin looks nervous. He should; a room filled with predators there to kill him after the opening of his alleged masterpiece. That thing still hangs over him. But his family isn't here. I don't see how they could possibly be unaware of the performance... but even my most acute senses pick up no sign of them. Maybe they're keeping a low profile.

His hand is shaking when he places it in mine. Something in his eyes reminds me of Jason – they're only a few years apart. I am unable to linger on this thought thanks to Gwyneth's escort.

What the hell is she doing here with Abigail's husband?

A closer look reveals that it isn't him. Some stranger, wearing his face. This does not ease Abigail's temper.

But the lights dim. Time to start the show.

•••

The crowd dissipates, leaving only the predators and the voluntary prey. We waste time as the men ask their questions, unwilling to take the word of a child and a woman for any worth at all. Aidan pretends at continued relevance and pollutes the room with his pompous posturing. Justin, for his part, remains surprisingly calm and answers as best he can.

He doesn't like the fate he's embraced. But then how many of us ever do? What we plan and what happens are rarely coincident. Best not to plan at all...

Julian speaks up.

"Justin... if the scenerio... the future... which includes us does not fair well either... why bring it to us, enlist us as it were?"

The boy meets Julian's gaze – something not many of his age would do lightly, let alone given the knowledge of which he is possessed – before his eyes fall on me.

"Because of her.

"Out of the futures I have seen, yours seemed the most... reasonable. And the least bloody."

Oh my, Rebecca... such ideas in the heads of these boys. How do you do it?

I shake off her taunt and for the first time I see them... two of them, hidden at the back of the room.

We aren't alone.

Two spies hidden and one disguised as one of our own. Nothing good will come of this.

Good.

No. No, that's not what we came here for.

My dear, when will you learn? You cannot stop the tide. Best to embrace it.

Too late to warn them anyway; Felipe has already begun chanting and bleeding himself. I can see it almost before it happens – the mask of Malek falls away to reveal the enemy beneath; then men in the back come forward. We cannot stop the tide. Best to embrace it.

I reach for my knife as they come forward.

There is a short period of argument before the blood starts to flow – everyone's fingers twitching atop the triggers, hoping the adversaries will flinch and back away. The already righteous rage of the Derzhava is only fueled by Gwyneth's choice to remain in the arms of the enemy; it doesn't take long for the pretense of negotiations to fall apart.

They try to stop us, to kill Justin before he can reach the stage. They fail. And so another force intervenes.

"YOU KNOW NOT WHAT YOU DO! I AM CONQUEST! I CANNOT FAIL! I SHALL ENDURE BEYOND YOUR INSIGNIFICANT LIVES!"

The voice comes from Felipe's body, but it is not his own. Something older... darker. Something that carries with it a wind that burns like open flame. Something that needs to be stopped.

I'd forgotten how easily humans die. A few bullets and a swipe of Abigail's blade and Justin fades, bleeding his last on the ritual altar. He got what he wanted. Felipe collapses.

That should have been the end of it. But then Gwyneth...

I have been a traitor. I have died for my treachery. Maybe she believed in what she was doing. Maybe she thought it was the right thing. But then, no soliloquies are sung for traitors, especially by the Derzhava. I doubt that she will be remembered well.

•••

I exhale hot cigarette smoke into the cold air of the early spring and watch as it dissipates. The clean-up is bustling inside; everyone collecting their trophies before the area is wiped clean of all previous sins. But like the smoke, the fact that the threat is no longer visible doesn't mean it has ceased to exist. It has only changed form. Become invisible.

"Out of the futures I have seen, yours seemed the most... reasonable. And the least bloody."

Men. I don't know where they get these ideas.

My Requiem wiki needs some love: http://carthian.cam-wiki.org/Rebecca_Allen

I put up a newer picture. But I have no idea how to do all that cool shit to make the page less generic. Also, before today I had no idea there was a separate "whole venue" wiki. I thought it was just the Covenant wikis. WTF is that about?

And quotes & rumors are love. Or not. Whatever.

Soooooo... help me, wikimasters!

"Is there anything he could do to escape your wrath?"

Victor thinks. I don't expect him to say yes, but I have to ask. I have to ask because I know his target probably won't bother.

"He could publicly apologize to the Covenant for his failure and his hypocrisy."

My lips smile even as my heart sinks. Victor's right, of course. I said so even at the start. But it is unlikely that the target will comply with his wishes. Were he so inclined, he would have done so before now. I don't know if I can change his mind.

At least... not without having to have it broken.

That's not an option.

Isn't it?

I tell them too much. I know it, though the words still fall from my lips. Too much. But then, the arrogance of those too prideful to show weakness has always irked me. Maybe it's for the best. It is not We who need to be seen as strong. We are the sisters of War, not War itself.

We are the Sisters...

"Yeah, Xavier invited me out to see him. I'll probably go."

"And what is it you think you'll talk about?"

"Well, if I show up with the ashes of his childe, maybe we can start there."

Victor has always known how to quiet a room. I look around – Abigail and Simon barely seem to care, but Audra's eyes are wide. Maybe she thought only her family was like this. I try explaining to Victor that any useful conversation with Xavier would become highly unlikely should he open with that particular gift. But I know it's pointless. Victor fears nothing. I envy him that.

Audra speaks up, then. "But consider... were you to deliver such a crushing blow to someone like Xavier, think of the rippling effect it would have. Think of his contributions to society. What about that?"

"Well if he's that important maybe society will crumble around our ears and everything will fall apart."

Oh Rebecca, I like this one. He's one of us. He understands... and he can make it happen. He can help us teach them... with my mind, your tongue and his might, we could do our Goddess proud.

"That is not a good idea, Rebecca." Audra's voice brings me back and I realize that all eyes are on me. Did I say something? Did I do something...?

Blood in the air tonight. Victor and Simon are hungry for it, our neighbors from New Haven are on the hunt for fresh prey, little Justin showed up to offer himself up (as I suppose any good Roman should on this day), and even Mariella found herself a fight. Abigail is becoming frayed. And I'm torn between trying to hold it all together and wanting to tear it all apart. I don't know if the centre can hold much longer.

But somethings are only constructed to be destroyed, anyway.

"Becca, I want us to be close. I don't know how to say it. More than friends, less than lovers. Well, not less – just... not."

"You realize that doesn't make much sense, right?"

"Which part?"

"'Not less, just not?'"

"I've told you why and how the part of me that longs for romantic love simply didn't make it past my death into my Requiem. But you still hold a piece of my heart that no one ever touched before you, and that no one has touched since."

I've been dreading this conversation. We both have, I think. This is probably the worst possible time to have it, given that we're both drunk and spent most of the night screaming at one another. But it's keeping him from asking questions about her, so I guess it's the lesser of the two evils.

"I just don't really understand what you want from me."

"To say that I feel for you as a "friend" is to understate the matter. To say the connection I feel to you is "familial" is plain wrong."

So much like Xavier – over-analyzing every little thing, reducing everything to its most sterile. I could kill my brother for that. He ruined him. Took the intellectual rebel and pickled him in his own antiseptic arrogance. He murdered the Thomas I knew and replaced him with this... this shell.

"But that connection? It's not to someone that exists anymore."

"Nor is yours. You have yet to explain what you want from me, as well."

"You want the truth?"

"I do."

This is why I didn't want to do this now – we've both had enough drink and exhaustion that our filters are low. Normally I wouldn't dream of answering his question. But before I can stop them, the words are in the air.

"Control. Maybe to feel like the person I died for still exists somewhere and won't reject me like yesterday's trash. Maybe to punish him if I don't get that."

I wait for him to be hurt, angry. He isn't. Nothing but that same god damned rationality mixed with an overdeveloped sense of nostalgia.

"I want to be close to you, Becca. I want to know you're alright. I know it's silly, seeing as how you can take care of yourself, but I want to protect you, the way I wasn't able to in life."

He doesn't listen to me – I keep telling him it doesn't make sense anymore. We aren't the same people we were. Or we are, but not in any way that could ever hope to help us get along. We've both carried the baggage of our pain with us and left behind the parts of us that made our knowing one another make sense. If not for the history, we probably wouldn't bother with one another at all.

So why bother now? Nostalgia? Pointless. Just a long, painful route to more pain and disappointment. Neither of us wants anything the other can give, so what are we doing here?

"So, what happens tomorrow? Do we go back to sniping, or can we keep this up?"

"I think it's fair to say we still have some unresolved issues."

"Yes, that's fair to say... You want to control me, and I want to protect you."

Neither of us wants anything the other can give. But here we are anyway.

i'm gonna miss you
when you're gone
yeah i'm gonna be torn
just remember that i love you
just remember you were warned...