"Wait, so it's like..."
"Like that movie Wanted, yes." Nathaniel explained as the torpor-stricken body of Ben Grayson was laid into the pool of wax and vitae. "I hate how that somehow managed to get into a film."
"It was a graphic novel first." Samuel interjected.
"Nobody reads anymore." Hugo quipped.
"Jokes aside, this is a privileged thing you are learning here." Nathaniel said. "If this leaks, I will know who did it."
"Noted." Sybil said. She looked over to Angelica, who was kneeling down next to the pool of wax where Ben was recuperating. "Are you alright, Angel?"
"Not really." Angel said, shaking her head as her eyes never left Ben's head, only just above the surface of the wax that was beginning to solidify.
"Is there anything I can do?" Sybil asked.
"Not really." The redhead said quietly. "But thank you."
"Sure." Sybil nodded. It was then that Sybil and Anthony's phones went off and they pulled them out to read a text message. "Bestie... with an address."
"And a red alert." Anthony said.
"Alright, then we need to get moving, and quickly." Sybil said, putting the address into her phone's GPS. "Anthony, Hope, you guys are with me."
"What?" Hugo asked.
"What about me?" Samuel asked.
"You're staying here." Sybil said to her brother, then turned to Hugo. "What what?"
"I don't work for you!" Hugo snorted. "And I have my own things I have to do, you know."
"Okay, fine... go do your things." Sybil said. "The rest of us can go gate crashing."
"Except me, apparently." Samuel said.
"Except you, yes." Sybil said. She looked back to see that Hugo had already disappeared. "Alright, let's go."
The party was, to most eyes, over. Grace looked around as all bedlam was breaking loose. With the Final Death of their host, other Toreador were reacting poorly to this sudden, macabre display... most of them were, at the very least. Others had started taking positions around the doors, their ghouls blocking the exits.
"He had plants in the Clan!" Grace hissed. "He had plants in the Clan! How? How could he have done this?"
"I don't know." Isaac said. "But I know we aren't going to stay in here..." He was reaching into his suit pocket, his hand grasping around something.
"I texted the rest of the group. Hopefully they got the address and the red alert." Grace said, then fear flashed in her eyes as she realized. "He knows me... he knows me! If he sees me..."
"Quiet. Not a word now." Isaac said. On the stage, Anton was still acting like a complete ham.
"Bring the first of their ilk here." The Kindred dressed as a priest spoke. "Let us take of them their life's blood!" A large, stone chalice had been wheeled onto the stage upon some sort of raised platform. No, not stone... as Grace looked at it, it seemed to be... moving? Shifting? Like flesh? It sickened her to look at it, just appearing... wrong...
As Anton turned to see a Toreador brought up by two of her fellows, a mist seemed to swirl around behind him. The dust that Renée had crumbled into had risen up, forming some sort of strange vortex. Anton turned just in time to see that dust forming into a humanoid shape, the very shape that had been that of his victim... although a dusty, macabre facsimile of the Kindred she had once been. Anton barely had time to react before the specter lunged at him.
"Do you have it?"
"Of course. Your men were very thorough. But what is it?"
"That is none of your concern, Mr. Combs." Wren Blanchard looked less than pleased as the Nosferatu holding the cooler. "Hand it over and you may leave. Your payment will be forthcoming."
Hugo stood frozen for a moment, his beady black eyes regarding the Prince before he set the box down on the table top. With that, he moved to leave the room. Wren watched him leave, then turned to Michael Jenkins, her Seneschal. The younger Ventrue had a nervous look about him as he often did.
"Has Proxy Walker sent over his man?" Wren asked.
"He is to be here shortly, your Grace." Jenkins said. Satisfied with that, Wren opened up the box and found exactly what she had expected to find in it - a vial of blood. Her small entry into that strange group that had come to Seattle was paying off... slowly, at least. It would be some time before the Prince could contact them again, yet so far they had done well indeed. In time, she would unravel that particular ball of yarn. For now, she had another entirely to contend with. "He's here."
"Bring him in." Wren said, looking across the table to see the door open, an elderly man entering the room holding a silver chalice in a wrinkly hand.
"Prince Blanchard! I am honored to-"
"You may dispense with the pleasantries, Mister..." Wren started.
"Maxwell, my liege. Maxwell Gaunt. Proxy Walker sent me at your behest to perform a task for you." The old man said, setting the chalice down on the table top.
"Yes. Truth of the blood." Wren nodded, holding out the vial to him. "What can you tell me about this?" The old man took the vial into his hand, examining it.
"Ah... let us begin..." Gaunt said, taking the vial and pouring it into the chalice. From his wrist, he produced a stirring stick. As the blood began to bubble and smoke as if it had been put over a roaring fire. "...Eighth Generation...but young. Young vitae... this is not from an old vampire..."
"Go on." Wren said. Nothing she didn't already know, although the blood being of such a low generation was a bit of a surprise.
"It..." Gaunt started, but the bubbling and smoking began to grow more intense. The sweet, hot smell of the vitae was suddenly changed as the scent of rotting flesh wafted through the room from within the cup. Jenkins cupped a hand over his mouth as if to prevent himself from gagging. "This... cannot be!" The cup began to violently shake, the rising steam obscuring it as all that could be heard from within the cloud was the round of wrenching metal being torn apart. When it cleared, they saw the shattered, twisted remains of the cup and a sticky, black ichor dripping out from it and onto the table.
"What... what is this?" Jenkins asked.
"I... I do not believe..." Gaunt looked terrified as he placed a hand over his mouth. "Prince Blanchard... you have... you have found the blood of... of a Baali..." The last word was in a hushed tone almost like a curse that hoped to scoot by unheard. Wren frowned, looking at the man and then to the twisted, shattered goblet on the table.
Her course of action was more than clear...
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