by adam-koebel@home.com

Alexander sat on the blue carpet floor, playing with the dinosaurs. The plastic figures clenched in his pale hands stalked the building-block mountains in search of each other, and as it was every morning, a battle ensued. Soon, as it was every morning, Alexander grew tired of his plastic combat, and looked for some other means of consuming his five-year-old attention.

Something was wrong today, something poor Alexander couldn’t put his finger on. Mrs. Whitby was there, watching over the children as they began their first playtime of the day. The children were there as well; Alice, the spoiled girl who pulled Alexander’s hair, Julian, the angry boy who Alexander was afraid to talk to, Lucien, the quiet boy. All of the familiar faces, red cheeks and yelping voices in the colorful room Alexander was so accustomed to.

The day was the same as well, Mommy had taken Alexander to the school, and Daddy had kissed him goodbye. He fell asleep on the way, and then he was here. Sometimes, the way seemed so long, with the morning sun through the window so warm on his face and his blonde hair, he couldn’t help but fall asleep. Once, he woke up very afraid, as Mommy carried him to the class. But this morning, he only remembered being here, with his toys, and the ride before. He was a bit tired, though.

In fact, Alexander noticed, all the boys and girls in the classroom seemed tired today. Alice’s big brown eyes, always looking for adult attention, seemed somehow, not so brown, and not so big, Alexander thought. Julian sat quietly, something that was very much unusual. Lucien seemed sad, and looked sick, his skin was grey, not like it’s usual almost-brown. Alexander wondered what was wrong, but being shy as he was, Alexander simply put down the dinosaurs and looked for more toys to play with.

Just as Alexander’s bright green eyes locked on the abandoned set of finger-paints, a tiny tinkling sound filled the room. Recognizing it, Alexander dashed to his desk, sitting down, crossing pudgy fingers and staring straight ahead. The other children had done the same. Mrs.Whitby set her little silver bell down on her desk. Alexander’s eyes drifted, just slightly, away from the smiling face of Mrs.Whitby to the bell. The sunlight came through the window, just like every morning, and hit the bell like every morning. But this time, the bell seemed to have lost its shine. It’s once-glittering surface seemed so dull, like a worn-away nickel. Alexander snapped his eyes upward again when he heard Mrs.Whitby’s pretty voice.

"Hello children." a chorus of replies responded, Alexander’s quiet voice included in it. "How are you this morning?" Everyone replied with "fine" or "very well". Alexander beamed with delight. His morning was progressing just the same as it always had.

"Mrs.Whitby?" a girl’s voice echoed from the back of the room "I bought a new puppy dog yesterday." It was Alice, spoiled Alice. She always started the class with a story to brag about all the lovely things she owned. Alexander looked over his shoulder at the girl, her face a prim picture. Alexander sighed.

She doesn’t like you Alexander.
Alexander gasped and turned around at the very loud voice behind him. He put a finger over his lips and shushed whoever it was. Even though he didn’t like Alice, he knew it was against the rules to interrupt.

Mrs.Whitby seemed not to notice, and after listening patiently to Alice’s story of her new puppy, returned her attention to the class.

"One of our students will not be present today." she began. Alexander watched her face while she spoke. He never realized how many tiny lines made up a face before. Like a spider had crawled over it and left little webs. Mrs.Whitby seemed very old to Alexander. "He may not be present for a while." Alexander craned his neck, eyes darting from desk to desk. Each in turn was filled with a little body. Alexander couldn’t understand. He held his arm up, fingers stretched towards the fan that turned slowly above. He waited. Mrs. Whitby looked past him, around him, through him he thought. His arm began to ache.

"Mrs.Whitby…" he whispered, almost afraid to break the perfect morning with the sound of his voice. "I have a question." Mrs.Whitby sat at her desk.
"Mrs.Whitby, please?" She sighed and opened a book.

"Everyone take out your English books. I am going to read you a story."
Mrs.Whitby opened her book, and Alexander slowly lowered his hand. His cheeks burned. Embarrassment flooded him. Mrs.Whitby didn’t even say a word. Seeking to avoid further trouble, Alexander reached down, fingertips grasping at the edge of his desk. He tugged the desk up, trying to open it. The wood stuck. The desk did not open, and so Alexander furrowed his forehead and pulled, hard. The desk did not budge. Alexander began to panic. He was still too embarrassed to ask for Mrs.Whitby’s help, but he could not possibly continue the class without his English book. Alex sank in his seat, trying ever so hard to become invisible as the other children lifted their books and placed them on their desks.

"Mrs.Whitby?" the voice came loud from the box over the door. The intercom, the way the adults talked to each other when a child was in trouble. Alex sank deeper. Was he in trouble? Did the Principal want to talk to him because he wanted to ask a question about the student who was sick? Was he in trouble for breaking his desk? "We need to see you. It’s about the Bellemore boy." Alexander gasped and clamped a hand over his mouth. Bellemore was his last name.

"I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry." Alexander began to whisper through white-knuckled clenched fingers. His panicked breath warmed his palm.
It’s too late Alexander. Mrs.Whitby is going to tell the Principal what a bad boy you are.

Alexander’s eyes clamped shut, tears beginning to stream down his bright red cheeks as he pushed himself deeper into his seat. He hid, with all his might. From Mrs.Whitby, from Julian (who would certainly taunt him with cries of "cry baby! cry baby!"), from all the world. His vision, clouded by tears, never registered Mrs.Whitby leaving the room, holding a handkerchief over her mouth, her shoulders moving up and down in tiny, hiccoughing sobs.

The other children quietly read their English books while Mrs.Whitby was gone. Alexander hid under his desk, the top of his head pressed against the underside of the cold metal. The room was silent, save the tiny gasps as Alexander tried to hide his sobbing. Everything seemed to close in right then, like when Mommy tucked him into his covers at night. But instead of warmth, it was like cold was cuddling him up in its arms. Alexander began to shiver, and cry, and gasp, and shiver again. He looked around at all the feet, some swinging, some still, some sandaled, others with shiny plastic shoes and velcro straps. He thought if only he could’ve opened his desk, or kept his hand down, Mrs.Whitby would still like him, and call him "Little Alex" like she always used to. And now everyone hated him.

I’m sorry Alexander, but that’s just how it has to be. You’re in very deep trouble for being such a terrible little boy.

Alexander shook his head, the voice coming so loud, like one of the other boys in the room was screaming right in his ear. "No! It isn’t true, it isn’t! I didn’t mean to be such a bad boy!" Alex whispered, as loudly as he could. None of the other children saw him, huddled there under his desk. Alexander’s eyes, full of tears, darted back and forth across the room. Then, suddenly, there were four extra feet in the room. Two pairs, one a man, the other a lady. The man wore grey pants, and the woman had a pleated grey skirt. Their shoes were very shiny. The new sets of feet walked their way down the aisle, as Alexander prayed to be invisible. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry" he whispered through his sobs. The grey pants and grey skirt and shiny shoes stopped beside Alexander’s desk.

"Hello little one." a man’s voice, ever so gentle. "Are you alright?" Alexander pulled his arms tight around himself, eyes clenched, tears dripping from his round chin onto his shirt. Mommy would notice and know he was crying. "Little one?" the voice came again, and the man with the shiny shoes and the grey pants knelt down beside the desk, and looked at Alexander. Alexander slowly opened his eyes, shaking from fear and from the cold.

"Are you …" Alexander whimpered "the Principal?" He blinked the tears from his eyes and looked at the man, who smiled at Alex, a bright, friendly smile. He had black hair, like Daddy’s friend John, and a pair of the funniest glasses Alex had ever seen. They were great square things, lenses nearly the size of Alex’s whole hand. The man had eyes to match them too, quite big and a rather lovely color of green, like the slide in the playground. Alexander looked at the man and couldn’t help but smile a little, despite his fear.

"Oh no, little one, I’m not the principal at all." the man chuckled a little,but not the kind of chuckle that Alexander learned meant you’d asked a silly question, but the kind of chuckle that perhaps Santa Claus might chuckle if you’d asked for a rather large present this Christmas. "Perhaps you’d like to come out and talk with us. Don’t be afraid." The man with the enormous glasses held out his hand. His fingers looked soft to Alexander, and the little golden buttons on his cuff shone like tiny coins.

No Alexander! Don’t go with him! The Principal will come and take you away, and Daddy will yell at you!

Alexander froze, his hand, half outstretched, and trembled. "I can’t." he whispered.

"Why not, little one?" the man asked, retracting his hand very slowly, placing his palm on the blue carpet below. "What’s wrong?" Alexander didn’t know what to do. The boy who kept saying such terrible things was right, the Principal could come and take him away, and he certainly wouldn’t want to make Daddy mad. "Please little one, just for a moment?" Alexander, not wanting to be rude, desperately sought an excuse.

"My, my, my" he sobbed out, his tears slowly degenerating into a pattern of wet gasps "Mommy said that I shouldn’t talk to strangers." The man looked up to the woman in the grey skirt, standing beside him. He nodded and turned back to Alexander.

"Well then, we mustn’t stay strangers." He grinned, he had big white teeth, and they were nearly as shiny as the gold buttons on his cuffs. Alexander couldn’t hide the smile again, the man looked ever so silly. "My name is Mr.Greene." Mr.Greene reached his hand out again, turned sideways this time. Alexander reached out and took his hand. Mr.Greene pumped it once, squeezing just a little, like Daddy did with his businessmen friends.

"My name is Alexander Jeremy Bellemore," Alexander began, reciting what his Mommy had taught him to say "and I live at 122 Applebee avenue." Mr.Greene chuckled and smiled at Alexander.

"Well Mr.Alexander Jeremy Bellemore, perhaps you would like to come and meet my friend?" He smiled again, and winked one of his enormous green eyes at Alexander. Mr.Greene stood up, and Alexander crawled after him on his hands and knees, one hand wiping away tears from his cheeks. He stood, slowly, staying close to Mr.Greene’s grey pant-clad leg. His eyes, still stinging from tears, scanned the room. The children were still reading, and no-one, not even mean little Julian was staring at Mr.Greene or the lady who’d come with him.

Alexander looked past Mr.Greene’s skinny shoulders to the woman he was with. She was very pretty, with curly red hair and shiny skin and red cheeks and lovely blue eyes. She wore a white blouse and had a pin on her collar, shaped just like a television. She smiled, just like Mr.Greene, a very friendly smile.

"Hello there Alexander." she curtsied, lifting her skirt and nodding her head a little. Alexander giggled. "My name is Mrs.Greene." Alexander looked at Mr.Greene, who winked an emerald eye. "We’ve come to meet you Alexander." Alexander’s interest began to corrode his fear.

"Why?" he whispered. Alexander stepped a little closer, and he could smell flowers. Mrs.Greene was very pretty.

"Because we’ve come to take you on a trip Alexander." she smiled, and Alexander shook his head.

"Oh no, Mrs.Greene, I mustn’t. I must stay and read my English book. I really must be good." His eyes were wide, and he looked suddenly at the door, worrying again about when Mrs.Whitby would come back, and whether the Principal was coming. "I’m ever so sorry I’ve been bad." He sat down in his desk, and tried to ignore Mr and Mrs.Greene. He felt a hand on his shoulder, a soft touch, and looked down to see the daintily-painted fingernails of Mrs.Greene.

"It’s alright Alexander. We’ve got permission from your teacher, and from the Principal." she smiled again, and Alexander couldn’t help but smile, try as he might. Mr.Greene leaned over.

"Would you like to see a magic trick, Alexander?" Alexander nodded and turned his head to Mr.Greene, who reached out and plucked something from behind Alex’s ear. In his hand was a small, round piece of odd green metal. A coin of sorts. He handed it to Alexander. "It’s an Oboli Alexander. A special sort of coin. You’ll need it to board the train." Alexander immediately perked up.

"The train?" He said, quietly, excitement evident in his voice. He had only ever ridden a train once before, when he was younger, Daddy and Mommy took him to visit his Aunty in the country, and they rode a train. Alexander remembered it very well. "We’re going to take a train?"

"Yes Alexander, a very special train." Mr.Greene looked at Alexander as he pulled himself from his desk and stood between the Greenes. "Are you ready now?"

Don’t go Alexander. You’ll regret it. Mommy and Daddy will be very cross with you.

"Please be quiet." Alexander said, politely, to the voice, whomever it came from. "I would like to ride the train." Mr. and Mrs. Greene looked at each other. Mr.Greene wrinkled his forehead the way Alexander’s Daddy did when it came time to pay the bills. Mrs.Greene just sighed and took Alexander’s hand.

"That’s the way Alexander, you’re a very good boy." the three of them walked away, out of the classroom. Alexander took a moment, looking over his shoulder into the class. The children were still sitting, reading, and hadn’t even noticed him leave. He thought he saw a spiderweb in the corner near his desk as Mrs.Greene led him from the room.

As Alexander, Mrs.Greene and Mr.Greene walked along the street by the school, Alexander watched the leaves on the great big oak trees that lined the sidewalk in the quiet neighborhood. He knew it would be autumn soon, the leaves were yellow and red, and many of the trees were bare altogether. Though it seemed awfully early in the year. The sun dappled light through the black-barked limbs of the trees, casting patterns on the cracked cement. Alexander puzzled. It wasn’t nearly late enough to be Autumn yet, he thought. The sun was warm, he remembered wearing his new blue shorts just the day before. It was cold today, even though the sun was very bright. His attention was suddenly distracted, when he noticed Mrs.Greene was humming.

It was a very pretty song, just like Mrs.Greene was very pretty. Mr.Greene was walking in time, and as Alexander was between them, holding their hands, he walked in time as well. He felt very happy, despite the worry of the morning. As his red cheeks split in a grin, a voice came whispering, like smoke from a guttering fire, across his ears.

Alexander. Alexander, please listen. They mean you nothing but harm. You’re only safe alone Alexander. Run away Alexander. Into the dark corners where they won’t find you. And then you can be home again.

Alexander stopped, was pulled a half-step forward, and stumbled to his knees, his sweaty hands slipping. His knees hit the sidewalk. He stayed there, trembling, the last echoes of the sickly-sweet voice passing away with the sound of the passing cars.

"Alexander! Are you alright?!" Mr. and Mrs.Greene stopped, both turned. Mr.Greene’s eyes were wider than Alexander thought possible. He knelt on the cold cement, lips closed, eyes open, tears burning in his throat. He looked up, a tear slipping down his cheek, warm in the cold air.

"Mr.Greene, I would like to see my Mommy." he said, trying ever so hard to be a good, strong boy, like Daddy always said he should be. Mrs.Greene’s beautiful face wrinkled with worry as she knelt on the pavement beside Alexander.

"What’s wrong Alexander?" sincerity clung to her features like a beautiful ceramic mask.

"I heard something I didn’t like." Alexander said, his voice half-whimper, half-whisper of fear. "A voice, like if a snake or a beetle could talk, I think that is what it would sound like" he paused, then added;

"Mrs.Greene". Mrs.Greene shook her head slowly, red ringlets dancing on her cheeks. She stood again, and took Mr.Greene by the arm, leading him a step away. As they talked, Alexander stood up, and rubbed his eyes, wiping away the tears from his cheeks. He looked around, at the dark shapes of the cars flying by, and the cracked cement, and the shadows the trees cast on the ground. He felt his eyes drawn across the road.

A house sat there, amid a clump of angry-looking trees with knotted and gnarled limbs. It was old, it’s windows broken or boarded over, it’s door hanging open like a toothless mouth. Darkness dwelt inside, bits of it falling through the windows and the open door onto the wooden slats of the shattered porch.

I’m sorry I scared you Alexander. I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Then a pause, and harsher;
Look at them Alexander.

Alexander shook a little, the voice felt thick, like oil. He looked over at Mr. and Mrs.Greene. They were still talking.

"Yes?" Alexander whispered, "I don’t see anything." He stared as hard as he could, and scrunched his eyes until they hurt. Then, slowly, like a mirage that bled over into reality, he saw them. Hanging over Mr. and Mrs.Greene, two black shapes, made of arms, and legs, and a head, but all black, and frightening, somehow. They held strings in their hands, tendrils of darkness that fell from their fingertip to Mr. and Mrs.Greene’s arms and legs and mouth. The darkness pulled the strings and the Greenes moved their limbs in shuffling little movements, whispered in conspiratorial voices.

Do you see now Alexander? They’re just puppets.

"I don’t believe it!" Alexander screamed, holding his hands over his eyes. He stood there, on the edge of the street, feeling the dark-filled house watching him. He stayed that way until he felt gentle hands on his wrists and smelled a pleasant smell, like raspberries. He moved his hands slowly and looked up to see Mrs.Greene, a look of concern in her eyes.

"Are you alright Alexander?" she knelt down, closer to Alexander, and wiped a tear off his cheek. He looked at her through teary eyes, and saw none of the dark puppeteers from before. "You said you heard something?" Alexander nodded, sniffling. "Was it a voice Alexander? A voice in your head?" Alexander nodded again. "Don’t you worry Alexander. When we get to where we’re going, you’ll be able to get rid of that dreadful voice. For a little while anyway." Alexander sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"Well chap, are you ready to go?" asked Mr.Greene, his great wide eyes wrinkled at the corners as he smiled happily. Alexander, still wary, only took a few steps forward. "We don’t want to miss the train, and we’ve still got a long way to walk, little one." He held out his hand. Alexander stood between the dark house and Mr.Greene and wondered. What had he seen? What was the voice? When would he see his Mommy and Daddy again? He stood, transfixed by the decision of forward or back.

Go ahead Alexander. You’ll see in the end.

Alexander steeled himself and stepped forward, taking Mr.Greene’s hand.
"Let’s go then." He said, quietly, trying desperately to ignore the oil-slick voice slithering in his ears.

As the day passed, Mr. and Mrs.Greene told Alexander all about themselves, and about the train, and where they were going. They told him about the Emerald Legion, the club that they belonged to. They taught him songs and sayings of the Legion, like "Cogs Turn Wheels" (one Alexander was particularly fond of, and found himself repeating in his head). They told him of the wonderful city of Stygia. Stygia was, Alexander learned, where the Greene’s had come from. It was a great big city on an island, full of interesting people and interesting things to see. Alexander was very excited to go there. The Greene’s asked him about himself. They asked what he loved most, and what were his favorite things. What did he want to do and what made him angry. So many questions that Alexander became very tired. The last thing he remembered as he fell asleep, carried on Mr.Greene’s back, was that dreadful house, so full of oily darkness, and the voice that matched it, whispering doom into his head while he slumbered.

Alexander awoke much later, when the moon was full in the sky, higher above than he had ever remembered it to be. He was laying on a metal bench that was once covered in green plasticky paint, but now rotted and rusting. He was at a train station downtown, he almost recognized it. Daddy had driven him past here on the way to the zoo once or twice, but Alexander remembered it to be much brighter and more colorful. But here, the lights were broken and sparking, and the great big clock was broken and it’s arms twisted.

Alexander stirred and sat up, looking around and rubbing his eyes. He saw Mr. and Mrs.Greene sitting on a bench nearby, talking in quiet tones. The dim light made the darkness seem to close in with every spark of the broken bulbs. Alexander stood and walked with shuffling steps to where Mr. and Mrs.Greene were speaking.

"Could I use the telephone please?" he asked, quietly.
"I’d like to call Mommy and ask what we’re having for dinner." Mr.Greene turned his head, his wide, white eyes reflecting the dull yellow light of the train station.

"I don’t think there is a phone here Alexander" he said, with a sigh. "Perhaps you can wait until we get to Stygia?" Alexander thought a moment, and resigned to sit down on the bench next to Mrs.Greene. He swung his feet absently, and his hand reached into his pocket. His fingers found the oboli, cold and round. He took it out and examined it under the light. It was thicker than any coin Alexander had seen. It was a sort of funny green color too. Alexander flipped it a few times, then became bored.

"When will the train come?" Alexander asked, "I can’t wait to see Stygia!" He stood and walked to the edge of the platform, looking down the rotten-wood tracks.

"Soon Alexander, very soon." replied Mr.Greene, with a glance at Mrs.Greene.

"Will it be nighttime there? Will we stay in a hotel? Are Mommy and Daddy coming too?" Alexander’s barrage of questions broke the placid silence of the abandoned station.

"So many questions Alexander." Mrs.Greene chuckled.
"Just be patient." She said, then, after a moment, pointed down the tracks.
"Do you see it?"

Alexander looked, following her finger. At the very edge of his vision, buried in the inky blackness, Alexander spotted a light, faint and nearly invisible. Aspot of white like the kind that would appear if you rubbed your eyes at night. Then it grew, slowly, until it took form. A light, then soon, a heavy cast-iron tube, then a train! Alexander stepped back as Mr. and Mrs.Greene stood up.

"Still have the coin, Alexander?" Mr.Greene asked. Alexander presented it proudly as the cold night air filled with the whoosh of train wheels on the steel line. As the massive engine arrived, Alexanders eyes grew wide. It was a colossal thing, like some metal dragon or coal munching monster. Alexander marveled as the mighty beast crawled on round arms and legs to lay it’s iron bulk against the station’s crumbling wooden platform. The train belched a gout of steam and lay silent. Behind the engine lay a hundred or more large wooden boxes, with foggy glass windows and old-looking wooden trim. Tattooed on the head of the beast were two towering numbers, almost as big as Alexander himself. "13" it said. Engine 13. Alexander was shaken out of his awe by Mr.Greene urging him along the platform.

"Don’t dawdle Alexander, we must get on board." he said, taking Alexanders hand. Mr.Greene led Alexander to a door, which opened when they approached. Mrs.Greene stopped, and looked down at Alexander.

"When we’re riding the train Alexander, we mustn’t be separated.
Promise you won’t leave?" She looked Alexander in the eyes, her pretty face creased with worry-lines.

"I promise." said Alexander. Though secretly, his fingers were crossed in his pocket. Alexander was never one to make promises he couldn’t keep, and this was just too exciting to stay in one place. He felt bad lying to Mrs.Greene. As she smiled and looked up again, Alexander thought he heard an oily-sounding chuckle, but shook it from his thoughts.

"Three please." Mr.Greene said to a man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a conductors outfit, all blue and white stripes, and a proud-looking cap with a silver button. Mr.Greene handed him an oboli, as did Mrs.Greene. When it came Alexander’s turn, he proudly placed his coin in the conductors hand. The conductor looked down at him and smiled with crooked yellow teeth. Alexander tried to hide his sudden fear as he stepped back and bumped into a woman standing behind him. She spun around and snapped at Alexander in a sharp language Alexander didn’t understand. Her face was sunken and grey and very frightening. Mr.Greene took Alexander by the shoulder and led him to the safety of a large, red, pillowed seat.

"It’ll be alright in here Alexander. Just stay close by." Alexander barely noticed Mrs.Greene as he looked around the car. It was full of people, some very strange. There was a man with a grey suit, like Daddy’s, who carried a briefcase and wore sunglasses. Beside him was a man with brown skin, who was carrying a long stick with little white bones hanging from it. He wasn’t wearing any regular clothes, but had a cloak made of spiny-looking fur. Next to him was a man who looked like he was in charge of the whole train. He wore the kind of armor that Alexander had seen in the movies when Daddy had taken him to see Ben-Hur. It was shiny and bright, and the man had a very squareface and looked quite proud of himself. Alexander wondered if they were going to a costume party.

Mr. and Mrs.Greene sat, watching out the window, their faces reflected in the foggy glass. Alexander saw shadows dance in the darkness outside, and remembered what the oily voice had said. About looking closer. He turned his eyes back to the crowded room and squinted hard, his eyes aching. Then he saw them.

Just as it was with the Greene’s, each man and woman in the car had a black shape. Some were men, others were less tangible shapes. One was a skull, grinning with black teeth. Alexander choked out a yelp and clapped his hand over his mouth, opening his eyes wide. The shadowy things passed away.

Do you see it now Alexander? You’re in grave danger. I am the only one who can help you Alexander. Will you let me?

Alexander froze, the voices words burning in his head like acid. He looked over at Mr. and Mrs.Greene. They stared into the darkness as the train shook, a blast of steam and a keening whistle, a lurch and the beast in whose belly they rode crawled into the darkness. Alexander nodded slowly. He could not hear the call as it went out from his mind, into the darkness. A voice startled Alexander.

"Alexander." it was Mommy. He turned quickly, but saw nothing but the crowd of people in the car. "This way Alexander". Alexander cast a nervous look back at Mr and Mrs.Greene, who seemed to have forgotten him altogether, sitting whispering together. Alexander turned again, and began to push his way through the crowded car. The voice was quiet, but insistent, his mother calling him through the throng.

You see Alexander? If you had only trusted me from the beginning. We’ll be home soon enough.

Alexander, too panicked to find his Mommy, never stopped to wonder why the voice seemed to think it was his home too. He pushed between a massive man in a long and tattered toga and a woman in a turtleneck, and came to a door. He reached for the handle, and as he turned it, he thought he heard a hiss of pleasure from somewhere. He would not be distracted. Alexander turned the cold steel handle, and the door slid aside with a long rasping sound.

Outside, between the cars, was a set of small balconies with a little ladder between them. Alexander expected to see the countryside whizzing by beside the train, lit up by the moon. He turned his head a moment, as was paralyzed by the vision. A terrible sea of red, a boiling soup of blood and bits of thick gore. Occasionally, a shape, almost human, would surface under the gruesome mass, claw it’s way to the surface and break it like a boil, spewing ooze across the swirling red sea. It’s skinless form would thrash, seeming to drown in the air then fall back under the gooey crimson waves. Alexander clenched white-knuckled, round little hands on the bars of the balconies, staring out between them, prisonlike.

Terrible, isn’t it?
The voice burned in his ears, the words taking on a tone of mocking praise. Onward Alexander. Onward.

He heard Mommy again, calling from above. A ladder up onto the top of one of the cars. Alexander set his tiny hands to climb it. Shutting his eyes against the dreadful sea on which the train sped. Like the jungle-gym at home, the bars of the ladder felt cold and huge in his five year-old hands. "Alexander." she called to him. "Alexander" he climbed another rung. "Alexander" he clenched his teeth, climbing to the top, finally, pulling himself onto the metal roof. There she was, waiting for him. Wearing the pretty dress she wore to church on Sunday. Alexander smiled, and lifted himself to his feet.

His vision was filled with a field of red, the struggling figures thrashing and weeping in the sea all around him. Mommy stepped forward, and knelt down. "Hello Alexander." She said, her face wrinkled by a half-smile. "Where have you been?"

Alexander told her the story of the day, of how the teacher had ignored him, and how everything looked dead at home, and how Mr. and Mrs.Greene had promised to take him to Stygia. The voice, that sounded just like him, but was ever so helpful in finding his way. He told Mommy about the great dying house, all full of blackness. He told her about the black shapes that played with everyone like puppets. Then he had a thought, and as though answering;

Go ahead, look at her Alexander.

Alexander looked with the same squinty eyes at his Mommy. There was nothing at first, the horrid black shapes that had been hovering over everyone else he’d seen today was not there. Instead, a little white light seemed to dwell inside her, pushing against her skin like it was desperate to escape. Alexander did not know what this meant, but it was Mommy.

"Come here Alexander." she suddenly seemed very cross.
"You’ve been a very bad boy. Daddy and I were so worried when you didn’t come home. Daddy spent all night looking for you, and he was so tired he couldn’t go to work the next day. And do you know what happened Alexander?" Her face was wrinkled and angry. Alexander shook his head, afraid and at the edge of tears. "He lost his job, and now we can’t live at home, or have nice things like the television anymore Alexander. And it’s all because you ran away from us."

Alexander shook his head, tears burning hot streams down his cheeks.
"No Mommy! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!" He came closer, to be held, to be accepted again, but Mommy stood and turned away. "Please Mommy! I didn’t mean to be bad." Alexanders eyes grew blurry with tears, his heart throbbed in his chest, his throat closed up.

Mommy walked a few steps away. "I’m sorry Alexander. You’ll just have to go back down and tell Mr. and Mrs.Greene that they’ll have to be your new Mommy and Daddy. We just don’t love you anymore Alexander."

Alexander froze, tears falling onto the cold metal roof. His vision was a terrible blur of red, only Mommy, clear in her white dress stood out ahead of him. There was movement, slithery and dark at the edge of his vision. "I love you Mommy."

Time slowed, and Alexander felt as though he was falling. Not down to the metal roof, or away, but inside. Falling away from his vision, into a dark place. He felt the voice swell up inside him, fill his head and his arms and legs, the places he rightfully belonged. He still felt the tears on his cheeks and the rumbling of the beastly train below, still saw his Mommy, but it was like gazing through a black curtain.

Yesssss… the voice hissed. Mommy turned, smiling, and stepped forward. Her features twisted, the dress fell away like rotting rags. Mommy’s skin crawled, and her hair fell out in clumps. Alexander screamed, but it was like screaming into a pillow. He tried to shut his eyes, but the voice wouldn’t let him. They were his eyes now. Alexander watched the naked ghoul walk forward, skin sagging and grey, eyes sunken, and glowing with a sickly green light. The thing held Alexanders face with taloned hands, and the voice turned Alexander’s head out, so he could see the crawling sea.

The sea itself had changed, become a massive field of white sand, swirling like it was swept by a powerful wind. Maggots crawled under it’s surface. And near the train was a great hole, a black pit in the sand. It was so dark, like the door of that black house when Alexander was still near home. He felt the hag hold tight his shoulders, and felt the voice move his feet, one step at a time, to the edge of the train.

"No!" Alexander screamed, but he knew he had taken the voice’s place, no-one could hear him but it.

Oh yes Alexander … time to go home.
Alexander felt the hand shove him forward, and felt the voice move his legs to leap as hard as he could, out, away from the train, and down, into the seething sand below. The pit loomed in slow motion as he tumbled towards it. The voice screamed in primal joy, but Alexander screamed in terror. As he fell past the train, he saw Mr. and Mrs.Greene stand and watch him fall, their faces full of the same fear Alexander felt. They saw his body hit the sand, then the train leaped away into the distance.

He felt the sand swirling around him, almost alive as it filled his mouth, seeped into his lungs, tore at his clothes and burned his skin raw. The pit surrounded him as he fell into it. Darkness filled his eyes, and the voice seemed enraptured by the whole event.
Goodnight Alexander.

Alexander gasped hard, amazed that it was his lungs that filled, his lips over which cool air passed, his eyes blinked in the bright light. He was back again. The voice was gone. Alexander looked around, and saw his room, and his house. He looked down, and saw none of the burning red skin where the sand had wrapped itself around him. He felt his shoulders, his face, his head. He seemed to be fine. Alexander lay back on his bed, breathing hard.

"Alexander!" a voice, his Mommy, came from downstairs. The smell of pancakes accompanied it. A little wary, Alexander responded.

"Coming!" he stood, walking down the short staircase into the kitchen. Inside, Daddy was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and eating his grape-fruit with a little spoon, just like every morning, and Mommy was making pancakes, and there was his plate, and his Mickey Mouse spoon and his juice cup and everything that awaited him every morning. Just like always.

Alexander smiled and sat at the table. Mommy brought him pancakes, and they ate breakfast and Daddy read him the comics and Mommy smiled and kissed Daddy’s cheek and Daddy went to work. Everything was just like Alexander had remembered. When the house was quiet, and Mommy was cleaning the kitchen, Alexander told her about what had happened, about all the things in his head, just as he remembered them.

"That’s terrible Alexander" Mommy replied, after some reflection. "That must have been a very frightening dream you had." Alexander nodded. "But it’s over now, and you’re safe at home." She smiled, and patted Alexander on the head.

"When am I going to school Mommy?" Alexander asked, looking at the clock that hung over the table.

"Not today, Alexander, I have something else I need you to do." Mommy stood up. "I have lots of things for you to do today, in fact, so we’d better get started." Alexander looked up happily at his Mommy.

"What are we going to do today Mommy?" Alexander followed his Mommy from the kitchen into the living room and to the front door.

"Plenty of wonderful things, my little child." Mommy smiled, and knelt down, holding her arms out. Alexander stepped forward and wrapped his round arms around his Mommy. He smiled, feeling safe again. His family kept him safe.

"I love you Mommy" Alexander whispered.

"We love you too, little one." Mommy whispered back, her face in a haunting smile. Alexander and Mommy left the house together, hand in hand, and as they stepped outside, into the cold air, Alexander felt himself drifting away. It was like falling into a blissful sleep, warm and comfortable. Comatose. As he did, he heard a cascade of slithery voices, his Mommy and Daddy among them, and the voice in his head from his dream. They all told him what a good boy he was, and how proud he would make them. He smiled happily, though it felt as though someone else were pulling his lips. This time, it didn’t bother him. Everything was fine.

If Alexander had looked behind him, he would have not seen his home, but the wicked and decaying manor he had seen in his dream; it’s mouth-like-door, spewing darkness into the streets beyond. If he were truly looking, he would not have seen his street, or the sky, or anything but the pulsating walls of the Labyrinth. He was content for now, however, to let him Mommy guide him and listen to the echoes of the praising voices in his head.

by Anarch

And so ended another exhausting night…

It isn’t an easy existence, being a ghoul. Despite the stories that you heard, despite the tales of Kindred who fell in love with mortals and took them under wing to love and to cherish, it is not an existence of ease.

Being a ghoul does not mean you are loved and cherished. It means that you are a servant. No. Even less than that~ you are a slave. You are there to be commanded. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not raise eyes or voice. Do not disobey.

You are a constant food supply, kept on hand. Blood on the hoof. Be prepared to tilt your head aside and offer yourself willingly. Be prepared to be ignored, abused and degraded. Be prepared to be the brunt of their jokes and the subject of their whims. Be prepared to be neglected or cast aside or even killed, should the mood fit your domitor.

Do it for fear. Do it for obedience. Do it for this sick, perverse, twisted love that makes your heart beat faster and faster when you see them at a distance; this illness that makes you tremble when you feel their gaze upon you, this loss of hope and degradation that makes your insides whisper and quiver as you pray that they will look favorably upon your non-existent self. Oh god, please let them see me. Let them know me. Let these evil, dark creatures desire me.

No task is too menial for a ghoul. A ghoul is a food source, a concubine, a gopher and a bodyguard. To know that they rely upon you is some small gratification until you realize how easily you can be replaced. The world is seething with blinded fools who want to love these creatures. These dark Gods of the night. These Kindred.

I know these things because I long. I love and I linger and I long for that which slips through my fingers like tiny grains of sand. Respect. Adoration. Acknowledgement… and yet I am formless and faceless to them. I am without substance and without meaning. With every night that passes, I learn more and more that I am no longer myself. I am no longer Christian Delaney.

I am a ghoul. Nothing more.

~from the journal of Christian S. Delaney, Camarilla ghoul

by milliecat@msn.com

The Tremere Anastasia Novykh drives up to the Elysium for the first time in nearly a year, having recently regained her privileges to attend from her clan. Her banishment was a bit brief, she mused, considering her outburst. Though her work had been dutiful and diligent, her behavior exemplary,Anastasia was somewhat inclined to believe her reprieve was more of a test than a show of regained favor. Or perhaps it was part of some plot to see how well a disfavored Tremere would be received by the ravenous harpies, the taunting Malkavians and Brujah, or the smirking, amused Ventrue. She muchpreferred the latter to a test of her decorum, for in such an experiment she would at least be doing a useful service to the clan, whether or not she understood it.

With a soft beep, she locks her car and walks with graceful confidence to the Church entrance. The huge doorman gives the small, frail looking kindred a respectful nod, allowing her to pass behind him through the doors.

As Anastasia tops the stairs, she sweepingly notices some few whispers at her arrival. It seems nothing more than the usual notice any kindred receives, but one can never know past the subtleties of immortal gossips. She makes her way to the couch of her Primogen giving respectful nods to those who look up at her, for almost all here have more status than she at this point. Some give this deference to their betters for the want of its return in some future time, but to her, a well-indoctrinated Tremere, she knows of the strength of the base of such hierarchies. She takes her place at the foundation of kindred society just as she does within her clan, with the knowledge that it is all a part of the larger picture, the Great Plan, the reason for her existence and that of countless others.

Vim Pyramidis in saxibus quadratis

*The strength of the Pyramid is in the stones.

Anastasia Novykh, Apprentice of the Second Circle of Mysteries, House and Clan Tremere.

by wishing@mail.tele.dk

The night of downtown Dallas was dark, but the lands of the dead were even darker. A disheveled soldier was walking through those lands in silence, side by side with the living children of the city, who never knew who he was, or why he had died in a field hospital 55 years ago. But this soul, Joe Serrin, didn’t care. The Citadel of the Necropolis loomed ahead, and tonight was a working night.

Joe entered the Citadel with only a quiet word to the gatekeeper, a squat, butcher-like figure, with a worried expression on his face beneath his rubberish gas mask. The massive Shadowlands structure was silent as always, but even more so that night. Half walking, half drifting, he made his way from the entry hall through the hallway beneath the massive stone stairs towards his room of office. It had been only a few months ago he had been appointed it, as he had proven his worth at the arts of subduing the shadow -always a valuable skill, especially so within the Hierarchy. As he walked, he tried to dismiss the thoughts of the external threats being dead entailed, and to focus on the internal. The thought that met him made him stop in his tracks,and walk quietly back to the gatekeeper.

"Listen,"he explained to the guardian wraith,"if a girl calling herself Melody comes here, she probably wants to see me, Serrin. I can be found in the sixth room of the left hallway under the stairs." The wraith stared at him briefly with empty eyes, and Joe turned around and resumed his way down the hall.

The office he came into was not big, walls covered in white tiles like a bathroom, with a single barred window filling up a good part of the furthest wall. A relic chair was placed in the middle of the room facing directly towards the window. Joe walked silently over to a bench along one wall, nearly touching the central chair, and sat down to gaze out the window at the street outside. From this location the living world was hard to see, the relic walls and window distorting his vision so that the Skin lands street was blurred and ran together with the Shadowlands like runny gray paint when viewed through the bars. Joe took off his mask in silence and stared out with dead unshielded eyes for a while. He only put on the mask again when his inner clock told him his customer was due to arrive.

"Hey," said Melody as she walked in. The young girl had been passed through by the gatekeeper with no troubles, and now she looked at him expectantly. It was a look he’d seen on so many of the strange faces of the waking dead. Save me from myself, it said to him. Joe’s mask covered his own expressions flawlessly. He himself did not even know what they were.

He could feel the angst she’d built up, and her shadow seemed to peer out at him from behind her eyes. She pulled out her knife and handed it to him, handle first. "Here. Use this. She hates that," Melody told him, smiling mirthlessly.

"Have a seat," he told her,gesturing to the relic chair. She sat, twisting her neck around to watch him as he circled her, holding the knife as though it were an athame and he an old fashioned sorcerer.

Melody started bouncing one leg as she had when, before her death, she’d taken stimulants, or had a full bladder. It wasn’t a full bladder now, just impatience, she thought. Wouldn’t he just get on with it, get it over with.

"Please, try to relax." Joe wanted to ask her if she had done this before, if she had had trouble getting in, just chitchat to ease the tension. But her boiling Angst made him more uncomfortable than usual,the way she seemed to mock him with every twitch, the way her eyes tore bloody plasmic chunks out of him with their black radiance.

He was behind her as he always were when castigation began. He judged the strength of her shadow easily, and steeled himself for the fight. Letting his own emotions loose was the hardest part, making them work for him in order to break through her defenses and into direct contact with her dark side. It was impossible not to feel pity for those who had to go through it, baring the deepest recesses of themselves for the sake of their sanity, and it was with remorse he pulled back her head and slit her throat.

Joe caught a glimpse of himself, his fingers digging into Melody’s shoulders,just as his vision disappeared and he found himself somewhere else entirely, a place created by his own conscious will and the malice of the customer in his hands.

What he could perceive around him was a room built up of granite rocks, piles of skulls and books lining the walls, and torches burning with blue-green fire on the walls. Arcane symbols were carved into the stone floor, and invisible incense and essences flooded the air with an ethereal scent. Everything was an illusion, but so were the Shadowlands outside, the line between reality and dream was non-existent for the waking dead. These trances always reminded Joe of that subtle truth.

When he looked up, a figure was standing before him in the twilight. This not-quite Melody… The first thing that struck him was her beauty, the next thing her hatred. She had Melody’s indigo skin and pale hair, but her ears sharply pointed like a faerie’s. In her slender hand she held a heavy silver chain, which wrapped around her waist and terminated in shackles around the wrists and neck of a very young girl. The girl seemed not to notice the bindings; her expression was calm and introverted, as though nothing could disturb her tranquility.

The shadow of Melody smiled. "Another fly caught in my web… well met,brave warrior." She looked over his khaki jacket and gas mask with disdain. "I think it’s time for me to show you that who you’ve found is*not* the childish coward sitting in your little chair…" With a sneer,the Shadow raised her right hand and black-blue fire enveloped it like the striking of a match. Her left hand pulled forth another set of manacles on a chain - this one of blackened metal - and with the hand holding them, she beckoned the Pardoner to come forward and face her. Her eyes burned white as well, and a thin, greenish tongue appeared to loll from her grinning, fanged mouth.

Joe closed his eyes and sighed, and felt the dungeon setting around him go numb as he dictated. When the smell of brimstone and the crackle of flame had faded away, he set his mind to pick apart the anger and shame that was the cause of all this, slicing through the near-solid emotion with his own logic and compassion. Though it was never routine, a job was a job and he had to keep himself from being caught up in whatever illusions the sick and virulent side of the client’s soul could conjure up. It was all Angst - hate, self-loathing,jealousy of the living. That he could wade through the deepest recesses of her instinctive emotional universe untouched was a miracle in itself - but so, some would say, was life after death.

Jonathan could feel Melody’s outward soul turning and whimpering around him, barriers collapsing and pillars snapping and falling apart within her.Everything was a world within a world within a world.

When he opened his eyes again, there were no walls or scrolls or manacles, only the image of Melody’s shadow lying curled up on the ground. Her ears were pointed and her robes black, but her realm was replaced with a gentle calm of non-existence - in her inner world only herself and the man in the mask remained.

Joe broke off the link, and slowly opened his mind outward. His eyes could see,and the thing they saw was the iron frame of the barred window.

His attention was snapped back to his client when she shifted in the chair.Melody sighed a long sigh, and a wispy white cloud floated out of her mouth,dissipating as it left.

"Well, that was fun," she said with an attempt at a smile, and opened her eyes slowly. She held out her hand, wanting her knife back, and he set it in her palm carefully. The wound on her throat had healed, the plasma solidified once more, and she crawled out of the chair. Joe nodded to her when they against stood face to face, and they conducted the exchange of payment in silence. As the girl skipped out of the office and down the hall, her ethereal footsteps sounding like shifting dust, Joe sat down on the bench and considered taking off his mask, to breathe freely a little, before the next client would arrive.

Ad Infinitum
by Millie Cat

The air, heavy with incense and smoke, coats the Malkavian’s body like a separate skin as she looks to the narrow closet door before her. More than darkness lies beyond, things more tangible than unknown fear was just inside that makeshift chamber of horrors.

How had it come to this? Millie’s control had turned inside out, like a rat in a vacuum. Ah, the best laid plans…

Even the air did not move with her entry, even dust was not disturbed with her passage. Disturbation was of her entry itself. Perhaps ‘they’ were right. Perhaps to be Malkavian was to be Mad. What more than madness could compel her to endure this deprivation box, night after night? Her own perversion was the surest proof of derangement she had ever encountered.

She shuddered inside. Tremere were not known to be so quiet, or was he not here? In answer she received a quick silent hand about her throat, and a cold, loathsome whisper in the ear as she was jerked close to his lips.

"Right on time," Joseph, the Tremere Primogen’s unseen smile is heard clearly in his lecherous whisper, his fangs caressing Millie’s earlobe, gouging slightly against her willfully stilled neck.

Seemingly angered at her control in this frightful situation, Joseph drags his fangs down to her shoulder, gouging skin and ripping her cotton shirt, not drinking as the smell of her blood saturates the closet. Millie shakes and flails at the pain and humiliation. His grip around her neck tightens, his other arm snapping around her waist, locking her close to him.

"Yes.. yes… so sweet," the Tremere finally whispers. "Very nice. I cannot even tell whether your fear is genuine or not. But, I suppose it is. You know that if you do not please me, I will hurt those you care about; hurt them far more than you endure right now." Moving his lips over to the other ear, he proceeds to mutilate Millie’s skin and shirt as with the other side, arms locking her in with ancient, unbreakable strength.

The fear, the pain, becomes too much. She knows she must come here, to protect kindred friends and innocent kine alike, though her Beast says differently. It matters not. Joseph revels consuming her frenzied spasms, holding her close as she rages, the aftermath leaving her a deformed wreck, as usual.

Barely able to speak from the depredations, she manages to force out, "You never lose control. You never anger…"

"Where do you think this pain I give you comes from? " His fingers sink deep into her sides, breaking skin and cracking ribs, "I give it to you, little one. Wouldn’t it be horrible if I had to find someone else to take this out on? "

Millie’s mind screams the horror of a thousand pains, begging for yet more, more, more… No fiend is more deserving of this punishment. No sinner ismore in need of this absolution…

Ad Infinitum

by Sinclair and Millie

Sinclair takes a look at himself in the mirror, gathering a few things. He then sharpens his knife before putting it in its sheath and glances around, whistling to himself as he starts out of Joseph’s house.

Millie hides in a shadow outside the Tudor residence, watching Sinclair emerge.

Sinclair walks down the driveway and into the street, still whistling. The stir in the back of his mind is no longer ignorable. Time for a little amusement… He straightens his tie as he walks, watching everything around him: A predator in his prime. He stops by a corner, watching the cars go by. He then pauses at a house, seeing the lights on, debating… then walks past, not wanting to get embroiled in a family affair tonight.

Millie slips behind him, stalking him, probing his thoughts. She blinks, the ghoul’s mind seeming more unreadable than many kindred’s, and so slinks closer, surveying his demeanor, his movements, his expression.

Sinclair continues his stride with a purposeful, almost thoughtful expression on his face, watching those he sees speculatively. Millie glances at those the ghoul surveys. He watches a woman carrying an infant with interest as she enters a convenience mart and stands just to one side of the building, waiting for her to emerge again, making note of the vehicle she was driving. He takes a quick surveillance of the parking area, looking for security cameras. He then starts to walk over to her car, pulling out his knife.

Growing agitated her lack of ability to probe his thoughts, she moves several yards behind him and makes herself seen, though still remaining unobtrusive. "Psst… Sinclair."

Sinclair pauses when he hears a voice calling his name and looks around for the source. His eyes narrow, wondering who is following him. Millie nods to him slightly from the shadows. He makes a quick mental check to see if he can recognize the girl, and then walks to where she is standing, slipping his knife under his jacket again. He watches her impassively, composed, and non-threatening.

Millie watches his movements carefully then smirks, eyes gleaming. "Got a new boss, I see."

"I remember you. Yeah. New boss."

"Too bad about Bastain. He was real cool." Millie looks up at the ghoul towering
over her.

Sinclair smiles, folding his arms across his chest. "Bad news for Mr. Thorne, good news for Mr. Tudor."

"Tudor must trust you, letting you out like this." Millie smirks slightly.

Sinclair shrugs. "I like going for walks."

Millie replies with a gleam, "Me too."

Sinclair glances at the Malkavian curiously. "You were following me? Why?"

"You were around. Seemed like the thing to do," she smiles slightly.

"Mr. Thorne liked you. Guess that means I like you too. He was smart."

"I am glad you like me. Maybe we should walk some more…" Millie looks around at the crowd.

Sinclair glances around at the people walking in and out of the convenience store taking note of the fact the woman’s car is no longer in the parking lot. He dismisses her from his thoughts. "Sure. Where you want to go?"

"I am not sure. Maybe someplace we can talk, catch up on old times." Millie grins subtly.

Sinclair thinks this over carefully, wondering if she is leading him into a trap of some kind. Bastain warned him about Malks. He shrugs. His former Boss had liked this Malk. "Name the place."

"We can just walk." She indicates a direction down the street.

Sinclair looks her over a critical eye, his curiosity piqued. Looks didn’t mean nothing - he wondered what it would feel like to break her fingers - would there be more resistance than for the normals? He nods, starting to walk in the direction she pointed.

Millie follows him closely, whispering, "So, how long you been with…Joseph?"

Sinclair takes his cues from the volume of her voice and whispers as well. "Not long. Maybe a month."

She nods. "What do you do for him? If… you can say…"

"I fix things. I keep him safe."

"Same thing as for Bastian, then."

Sinclair nods once. Then asks her, "You’re Malkavian, right?"

"So they say," Millie grimaces.

Sinclair lets his thoughts wander, wondering if the brain of a Malkavian would look any different - since they are insane.

Still frowning, Millie asks him, "Why?"

"I get curious about stuff," he answers plainly.

Millie smiles a bit and answers softly, "Me too."

Sinclair glances at her, a thoughtful expression on his face. "What you wonder about?"

She gets softer and more intent, looking around then down, "Lots of stuff. what people keep, what makes things work, what is inside things…" Sinclair’s eyes light up at the mention of ‘what makes thing work… what’s inside things’ as she continues, "Maybe that’s why I followed you… just… wanted to know about you."

"I want to know what makes you work. What’s on the inside," Sinclair states.

Millie pauses for a moment in walking. "Been trying to figure that one out for a long time…" She shrugs, and starts walking again, deep in thought.

Sinclair continues watching her, a thoughtful expression on his face. He debates reaching out and dragging her off to get what he wants, but decides this is not the right night for that. Maybe he could get her to volunteer… he wonders. "I could help you figure it out."

"Oh?" she looks up at him.

Sinclair nods.

"How?" she asks with childlike inquisitiveness.

"I could take a look inside and show you what makes you work."

Millie puzzles at his words, her interest pulling her along, "Um… ok."

Sinclair smiles, quite pleased with his himself, "We have to go someplace quiet with no one around. Someplace where I can work."

The Malkavian ponders. "There is a closed store near here. I can get in. Will that do?"

Sinclair glances at her thoughtfully. "Yeah. Guess so." He smiles as he follows her into an alleyway.

The pair soon arrives at a back door of a building a few blocks away. Millie pulls out a small, straight piece of metal, works on the lock for a few minutes, then silently opens the door and slips inside.

Sinclair follows Millie carefully, stepping inside silently. He looks around, taking very quick, careful assessment of the area, scouts for exits and trap then nods, satisfied. He looks for a room with a mirror, remembering his promise to show Millie how she works. "This will work. Two things though…" Millie looks at the mirror with confusion as Sinclair turns to her calmly, continuing, "If you flip out, I’ll need to stake you. I won’t keep you staked - just until you calm down." He waits to see if this is acceptable.

Millie’s jaw drops for a moment. She closes it again and nods, her confusion growing.

Sinclair nods as well, pleased. "Second - if you damage me… I’ll need blood afterwards."

Millie gets a sick look, "Ew… well, sure. " She smirks, "I am sure Joseph would love to have you back pumped up on my blood." Millie grins mischievously.

Sinclair smiles, extremely pleased. "You want that I should bind you? Or do you think you can hold still? You can bite on me if you want. I don’t mind - but moving would be distracting."

Millie grows more concerned than confused, asking in a low voice, "What are you going to do?"

Sinclair looks around for something to tie Millie with, something to tie her to, as well, if she wants. He turns back as she speaks, a calm look on his face. "Show you what makes you work."

"Like…" Millie pauses in a moment of realization, "puppies," she closes her eyes. "No… don’t. Don’t tie me." She opens her eyes again.

"Okay. You gotta hold very still though."

"I can… I have… I mean, I can be still, mostly." She adds darkly, "I…. see why Joseph wanted you."

Sinclair nods, satisfied with her answer, and anxious to begin. He takes off his jacket and wipes the mirror off, so it’s not so dusty she cannot see herself reflected in it. He turns back to look at Millie. "Can you see?" She nods slowly. Sinclair stands, watching her thoughtfully for a moment, wondering where to begin. He thinks he’d like to begin with a few simple pain tests to see how high her thresh hold was - better to be safe than sorry. He steps closer to her. "You say stop; I stop. Okay?"

Millie steels her nerve as the large man looms over her. Sinclair pulls out his knife and presses it through her hand, watching her reactions carefully. "Does this hurt?"

She grinds her teeth and nods as her eyes focus intently on the knife through her hand. Sinclair waits to see if she is going to run, frenzy, or stand still like she promised. He twists the knife slowly in a circle, continuing to watch her reactions. Millie closes her eyes for a moment until the rims line with red then opens them, the whites covered in a bloody sheen.

Sinclair nods to himself, satisfied. He pulls the knife from her hand and sets it, point down, at the hollow of her throat. Using gentle, consistent pressure he presses the knife downward, into her skin as he makes a very clinical incision from neck to abdomen, parting flesh and clothing alike.

Millie grinds her teeth again until a crack is heard. She stares at the mirror through a haze of pain. Making sure he is out of her line of sight he makes a second incision, deeper than the first, across her midsection then makes a third incision, just below her shoulder blades, not as deep. He pauses in his work look up at Millie’s face. "Does this hurt, too?" She lets out a guttural creak to a nodding of her head, swallowing blood dripping from her mouth from cracked and broken gums.

Sinclair smiles, sticking the knife in his pants pocket. He runs his fingers over the parted skin carefully slipping his fingers underneath her flesh and peeling it slowly back from her ribcage, as one might remove a shirt. Whistling to himself, he opens the skin all the way down, being cautious to catch her intestines, should they slip out. Millie stares in horror and morose wonder at the mirror. He smiles at her almost lovingly. "You’re doing very well. Hold still now."

Millie looks down at her flayed skin, and at her blood glistened, withered insides. Sinclair wipes the blood off his hands, glancing at the inside of the vampire. Curious… her innards seemed to be shriveled… not engorgedwith life as the humans he’d seen. He reaches under her bottom most ribs,curling his fingers around them and tugs, one swift motion - breaking them off in his hands.

Millie convulses with the crack and bites down hard yet again, breaking more teeth. Sinclair watches her face, enjoying the reaction. A flush rises to his cheeks as he continues to reach underneath her ribs and snap them off. He removes them one at a time. She spits out bloody pieces of teeth between convulsions of pain, finally eeking out, "No… no more breaking." She blinks away the red in her eyes, concentrating again on the mirror.

Sinclair steps aside to let Millie look at herself in the mirror as reaches inside her, curious. He nods to her comment, watching her reflection for a moment, then bends closer, studying the treasures he finds as he lifts them carefully, reverently, examining each organ for the differences between kindred and kine.

Millie sickens and winces with his poking and prodding, but watches with eerie interest. Having sated his curiosity, he steps aside, pulling out a hankie to wipe his hands on and says matter-of-factly, "This is what makes you tick."

Millie steps closer to the mirror for a moment, shakily, looking for several minutes before slowly sealing the incisions. She wipes the blood from her mouth, and asks weakly, "Hey… I don’t suppose… turn about is fair… blood." She glances up at him.

Sinclair watches her, fascinated at kindred healing abilities, folding his arms as she heals. He shrugs, holding out his arm to her. "Go ahead."

She looks down and clenches her fists slightly, whispering raspily, "Could you… turn around…?" He turns without another word, his arm still extended. Millie gently lowers his arm then puts her hands up on his shoulders, pressing down lightly. He grunts, kneeling, his body turned away from her. The Malkavian keeps her hands on his shoulders, and lowers her lips behind his ear, sinking her fangs into the soft skin there and drinks slowly, holding him still and upright.

Sinclair shudders, the new, utterly alien sensation catching him by surprise. Confusion envelops him as he kneels, panting, trying to control the sensation unsuccessfully.

Millie soon pulls away, sealing the wound and withdraws further, watching him from behind. Sinclair grunts once as she stops her bite, resisting the urge to grab her, and force her to continue feeding on him. He shakes his head, trying to clear away the lightheadedness.

Sinclair glances up at Millie, a feral light in his eyes - one that passes quickly. He continues staring at her, awestruck for several moments. He then rises to his feet, reaching over and stroking the side of her face. He frowns in confusion, stepping away from her. "I never felt nothing like that before."

Millie ponders his statement. "I… understand. I am sorry… I just assumed… that…" she frowns a bit. "You know the way home?"

Sinclair nods, continuing to frown. He then looks around to make sure there is no incriminating evidence left behind and wipes up whatever blood may have fallen with the inside of his jacket, trying to distract himself. He slips his jacket back on, walking out. He keeps his eyes on Millie, his calm back in place. He’ll have to think about this later.

She forces a smile, and motions for him to follow. Sinclair thinks about returning to Joseph’s house to clear his thoughts and follows her.

Soon enough, Millie turns around and waves as they are within sight of Joseph’s house and then slips around the side of a car, not emerging from the other side.

Sinclair watches her until she disappears around the side of the car. He shrugs, wondering if he should continue on his hunt. He decides not, he’s had enough excitement for the evening. He whistles, returning to his room to pick up where he left off in his book, glancing often at the bloody knife on his dresser where he’d set it down.

A curious smile lights his face every time he does.

by Dark Mistress Amy

Her eyes were like liquid and they flowed over him with just as much ease, looking him over carefully. When they met his own eyes they narrowed slightly, causing him to fidget. Geoff wasn’t usually so nervous under such scrutiny. Then again, it wasn’t often that he was under such scrutiny by a four year old girl, either.

" If you sign here, then you can go, Mr. Taschereau." Even though she was standing next to him, Ms. Thompson’s voice sounded distant and hazy. He was drowning in a sea of lapis; he was drowning in those eyes.

Ms. Thompson jumped a little as he suddenly gasped and turned to her, his eyes somewhat wider and his throat bobbed a few times before he took another breath, a deep breath as if gasping for air.

The proprietress of the Jacksonville Regional Orphanage blinked at him in surprise and opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off.

" I’ll sign now, thank you." He grabbed the clipboard and the pen from her hands and quickly scribbled his signature on the bottom line. There was no questioning the feelings he’d just had — he knew he had to sign the paper. Not the reasons why, he just knew he had to sign it. It was as if he was possessed by a demon and for a fraction of a second he wondered if he was being influenced by the Wyrm.

How could such a sweet, innocent looking little girl be a creature of that hideous abomination, though? No… she didn’t smell of taint. But there was something about her that didn’t set well with him, either. Still, something told him that she was destined to go with him.

Destiny? He chuckled as he handed the clipboard back to Ms. Thompson, inciting another odd look from her direction. He didn’t believe in destiny… did he? Whatever happened in this world happened because the Mother deemed it to be so. It’s what he was always taught and what he’d always believe. If that was destiny, then yes… it was his destiny to take this child away from the orphanage.

Seraphim. That’s what they’d said her name was. It was a beautiful name that rolled off the tongue. But she’d never told him that herself. In fact, the orphanage had said that she never spoken before. They had been surprised when she had singled Geoff out and approached him herself.

" She’s never taken to anyone like that," Ms. Thompson had remarked.

So Geoff decided to fill out the papers and try to adopt her. Still, even the day that she’d approached him she hadn’t scrutinized him like she did that day he came to pick her up. Maybe she’d thought he had forgotten about her?

But the adoption process was no easy task. It took weeks, months even, sometimes, to process the paperwork. And for a single 23 year old to be adopting a young girl? Well, needless to say, he doubted very seriously they were going to approve him at all. But they did.

He was ecstatic about the whole affair and had been hoping that Sera (the nickname fit her perfectly) would be too. Yet when he arrived to pick her up she seemed more solemn than ever.

Ms. Thompson was droning on about how happy she was that Sera finally found a good, stable home, that she’d been in the orphanage since she was an infant, but Geoff wasn’t listening. He was watching the blonde haired girl out the front window as she stood in front of the orphanage, her small bag on the ground by her feet. She looked like she was waiting for a bus, only she wasn’t standing at a bus stop.

Slowly, her head turned, looking around at all the parked cars. Then she reached down and took her bag in hand again. To Geoff’s disbelief she walked over and sat on the curb in front of Geoff’s BMW. He was stupefied.

" –Mr. Taschereau? Are you listening to me?"

At the sound of Ms. Thompson’s voice he jolted back to reality and turned to her, nodding. " Yes, um… thank you… thank you very much. It was a pleasure." He quickly shook the hand of the stunned woman and then hurried out of her office, tearing out the front door of the orphanage and down the front steps.

" Sera?" His voice quieted some as he approached her and the car. " Sera… how did you know this was my car?"

The girl looked up at him with her stormy blue eyes again and shrugged, not saying a word. Geoff frowned in confusion before fumbling with his keys to unlock the passenger side door for her.

She got up, bag in hand, and got in without another word. He was already on the other side of the car, unlocking his own door. When he got in and went to start the car she was seatbelted and sitting with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her bag on the floor at her feet. With no real reason at all, he reached back and pulled his own seat belt out, buckling it securely around himself. He’d never bothered with it before, but this time he did… for her sake, at least.

The ride home was quiet. She didn’t say a word and he wasn’t going to talk if the conversation was going to be one-sided. He didn’t even turn on the radio as he was oft to do if he was alone in the care. For some reason the silence was oddly comforting.

They pulled up in the driveway of his single-story house. It was painted a light tan color with white all along the eves and the window and door frames. A quaint little home in one of the better neighborhoods of Jacksonville, Florida.

Only it wasn’t so little to a single man, living on his own. The three bedroom house felt so spacious and empty. It made him feel that much more alone. He’d been hoping that a child would help fill that space in his life, in his soul, that felt hollow… like something was missing. He admitted to himself that it was a selfish reason, but he knew that he could provide for the child and, given time, come to love her like his own. So what harm would come of it?

Sera had gotten out of the car and was waiting for him at the front door when he finally joined her, keys in hand to unlock the portal to her new home. He pushed the door open and bade her enter with a sweep of his hand.

She walked inside and just stood by the doorway looking around at everything, at first.

Geoff followed after her, shutting the door behind them. " Is it up to your standards, m’lady?" He smiled and made a flourishing half-bow.

But she hadn’t noticed as she had already begun wandering through the living room, touching object after object, almost as a blind person would to familiarize themselves with their surroundings.

" I’ll be in the kitchen, cooking dinner, when you’re finished, okay?" He wasn’t sure if she’d heard him or not because she made no sign to lead him to that conclusion. He shrugged and wandered into the kitchen anyway, whether she’d heard him or not.

Eggs, bacon, toast… he pulled out all the ingredients for a complete breakfast. He didn’t feel like cooking something complicated, so he settled on making them breakfast for dinner.

Then, as he was laying four strips across the frying pan, he heard a voice behind him. As pure and clear as a crystal bell, the sort of voice he would’ve expected from an angel, should one have had the misfortune to fall to earth.

Thank you.

by Nick

As Ian Dorff and the rest of the Disease took their place on the stage of the Church, they melded with the ebony veil that blanketed the stage, which through the darkness seemed to become an virus, dark shadows oozing down on the dance floor to overtake the onlookers. A long drawn out silence was a knifes edge, gutting and cutting everyone’s patience. In the stillness the Goths waited, unsure if they liked the cessation of sound or the seeds of emotion in their stomach which expanded with the water of anticipation. Someone thought of screaming, but the noise was quenched by fear of rebuke, for the nothingness seemed to develop into an art that no one wanted to taint with screams or catcalls.

From the front of a stage, a light turned on, revealing crimson lips. "Evening," the lips said, emitting a voice that flowed over the crowd like a breeze of velvet. The crowd hung on the word, feeding off the small parcel tossed at them like ravaged dogs. Wasn’t there going to be music? Should they leave? The seconds that passed were longer than the first and the crowd was stared at the stage, wide eyed, waiting to be saved from the deafless spell cast upon them, helpless against it’s powers, their will to weak to break it.

Rain drops. All around the dancefloor, raindrops descended. The splattering of their crashing echoed throughout the large room, trickling down walls. When the rain stopped, no one was wet, however. Suddenly an angry note was played, and the serenity formed by the rainfall was like a bomb going off in the room. No one shouted, for they weren’t sure if they were released from their bondage to silence. Another angry note, this one deeper, puncturing the chains, but still, the crowd was silent. Like a whirlwind, the lead guitar let out a fast barrage of violent tunes; the speakers, lined up all around the Church spewed out the hostility onto the edgy crowd and all knew the disease was spread.

Flashing strobe lights lit the stage, revealing the shepherds with their instruments, but only for split seconds. Atop the Church, a spotlight seemingly bleached the dancefloor and those who writhed there for a second, and than, blinded, darkness fell upon them again. A low, organ sound conflicted with the Wa-wa sounds that escalated and intensified, but they worked well together to confuse.

"Glossy eyed desires staring up at you beneath the table," the lips sang in a deep voice, melodic "You can’t discard the memories and you can’t throw away your fragility." The lyrics erupted like a volcano, hot ash falling upon those who dared to come to watch.

When the first song neared it’s end, the stage seemed to coruscate, the song sinuous, a coil wrapping around the emotions of the dancers and choking them. Orgasmic, the end would not end, building and building; it raped the innocent of their naiveté and reinstated faith to the unbelievers. The lips, always lighted, sang the final lyrics to the song, the words dripping off like honey. "The patch to cover the jungle that dwells in these orbs. The match to set you afire once more. Burnt, charred… so slender in this grip. So tender, you slip on these dreams of Camelot."

The rainfall came again, a storm now, winds there but not. Strobe lights slashed through the crowd and on stage a half -face appeared, teasing all who watched as it hid in the darkness and drifted around the stage like a windup toy. A guitar solo, halting in it’s notes, seemed to dig a hole into the crowd, a fester growing off their hatred. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh……," the half-face screeched at them, the scream barbed with hatred, a whip lashing out at them in all their ignorance. The music came to a stop, the storm subsided. All the Goths watched as the half-face disappeared into the darkness…

Regretfully, the silence came alive again. Kine’s heads throbbed from the music that was injected into them from all sides; they shivered from the message that they were fed, the taste as cold as ice. For each one at the Church, the message was different, but everyone had a message…a secret that hurt more than life.

Usually, many would go to the bar for a drink, but none left the floor, for there, in that confined area, the message seemed to exist. Only there. Someone called out to the stage, beckoning the band to lead the sheep to their master. Manifesting itself on the middle of the stage the same slender half-face appeared. A hand, bleached white rose up to wave at the crowd before it. It rose higher, reaching up to the darkness above it, the half-face contorted with pain and lips seemingly praying. Suddenly the hand dropped and strummed the invisible guitar. Behind the half-face a bright light jostled the crowd and the instruments, in harmony played a sad tune, the lead guitar leading with it’s dispirited low key notes.

"Oh, I miss the faith a child sees in his fathers eyes. I regret the lies I could all of a sudden conceive." The voice and lyrics seemed to wane, the floor spilt with a hurt that stained the ground and crawled up the still legs of those who listened and those who did not.

"Oh, I can’t forget every wish I made and I can’t remember the silken morals," the half-face sang, and the Goths were confused as to whether they should dance or moan. "You can hang me with the noose of treachery, and grow the flowers of insecurity with water of doubt."

Lyrics led sadness, and sadness led lyrics. The depression caused an unstable feeling, a fragile psyche that would be easily broken. On a thin line the misery walked, and as each second passed, the line grew weaker and the hurt heavier, until the crowd snapped and on key, the mood, mercurial, collapsed and grew anew, fast paced and filled with anarchy. As the gloom was uplifted the half-face changed to a full face and it ran about on stage, appearing and disappearing, the voice harsh and condescending.

Changes so quick; no one could control themselves, releasing anything and everything; all hopes, all desires, all dreams gone as the song and lyrics wrapped them up in an escape. Everyone there knew it could not last forever … but for that song, it did.

The face that sang was agonized as it seemed to fight between being invisible and visible….

On stage the face hissed out degrading lyrics, it’s voice grating and filling the Church to the brim with fury. Carmine colored lights set the stage alight, revealing the band. The five of them seemed to illuminate like fallen seraphs, convulsing in the shimmering spotlight of sin. Ian Dorff stood center stage, guitar in hand, a cobalt ray painting him, gushing milky-white streams caressing his face as they fell from the cloud of smoke above him.

Rising and rising, the music came closer to a climax, the pace untamed and savage, fueling the strife that the masses below the stage fed from. From small boxes at the front of the stage, a fog clawed it’s way into the air, shading the lights upon the band and enveloping them in a misty smog. Abruptly, the music came to a halt. All stood still, exhausted, emotionally and physically spent after the fifteen minute song, but addicted and hungry for another round of pure emotion.

Bursting through the reddish film and silence, Ian ran to the edge of the stage and screamed the final lyrics down into the face of a stunned Goth. "Oohhh to violate you like I want…" and the words spread across the hushed gathering, the voice hanging on in vain to the last word, breaking, near cracking and vanishing after two long minutes. Quickly the darkness engulfed the platform, leaving only the malevolence to float about like a plague.

The striking of metal against metal rose quickly. Fast…faster… the clang clang clang churning the Goths into movement. At the end of every set of three clangs, the sound of gunshots went off, and the cadence was inescapable, those who sat before to listen finding themselves spiraling in the sounds.

"Those eyes, oh those eyes, I bet you sit and wonder what’s my agenda," a malleable voice sang, it’s voice changing, cycling through the emotions felt by the singer. "Cut this stomach open and watch my insides shiver and shake," the voice continued, the source of it hidden, but everywhere. "Poke holes in my face and watch this brain quake, eat me taste me, lick me from head to toe, I want you to know, rub this face in vain, shatter this hope with pain as you walk away eager to please, to put you at ease, make it difficult make it hard, we can always go back to the start," it went on, never stopping to take a breath, the emotions swirling like debris in a storm and being cast adrift. "Empty as faith and as full as desire I long for you to hold me inside those eyes, my tongue is frozen with awe and my mouth barely speaks, my chest tightens with anticipation."

Strobe lights, beating slowly into the crowd slowed down the pace of the dance, the lyrics torpid and slowing down the rasp of metal. In the same single sentence, the voice changed moods again, mixing feelings; sadness and joy colliding, wordly and holy wants tearing at each other…"your hold on me is so tight, infatuation, blinding lights, dance to the music to hypnotize and paralyze, submerge me in the velvet sea of green, bury this primal urge in those waters, to pray for tomorrow while I drown in stress to stay away from those orbs of mockery, eating, crawling on my flesh, tickle and tease, dumb memory like sand storms and sharp glass cutting dullness away, shining mysteries," the voice called out from all corners of the Church, "and nothing makes sense in those eyes…" The voice seemed to struggle ending the drawn out sentence.

Metal colliding, continued to whip about in the room, a bang bang thundering, signaling an end or beginning. Black as December’s midnight, the stage was quiet.

Waves washing upon a beach, crashing; thousands of droplets descending to the sands. The rhythm of want and hope and the scratchy lead of expectation. Soft as the clouds, a yellow light showers the stage, the band like a hazy day dream. The drums beating, a cudgel of peace upon the crowd.

For a long time the soothing music was played, it’s grasp on the mood gentle but firm. Like a helping hand, it pulled the many Goths there out of the delirium they were cast into by the songs before. Like a mother, it seemed to put them to sleep, to blanket their worries with love, their future with optimism.

A jaded-green light began to entwine itself with Ian, wrapping insubstantial hands around his body; his face was tranquil, the strife either buried deep within or cast away. His fingers working the electric guitar majestically, casting all into a state of bliss, a pure reverie. Opening his mouth to speak, a rasp, his voice was as brilliant as the one you could love. "Tonight I will say sweet dreams. This evening I can blow you a kiss good-bye. On an apathetic night like this I can have an undisturbed slumber, during this twilight I can walk away into the ebony nebula and never look back."

"With the grace of a tender pillow I can fantasize about the never ending fantasy of sleep. Never to wake again, I will not grow old, my face shaped with a heart like smile of perpetuity," Ian went on, the amiable, covering all with security and the ability to dream again. "In the void I will float on a cotton cloud towards nothing, for nothing is what I shall seek. Through the mouth of God I can be swallowed whole, for whole I was born, and whole I shall slip away into a measureless trance of nihility."

Ascending, as though he had not yet touched any, his voice trembled with urgency. "Say your adieu to me please, or join me in this eternal trip. Forever is the long night in the arms of a sleeping angel." Centering his joy on the strings of the guitar, he cleansed the room of it’s immorality, the solo creating foreign sounds and a foreign rest before Ian took a bow and the light died.

He had been listening to the disgustingly beautiful motif for a long time, staring at his gimlet-eyed piece of art, a malformation of love. Gregory shuddered, the disturbed relationship a glass pane of narcissism smeared with the vulgar desires of masochism and sadism which swelled like a blister in his cold, cold heart. Gregory was waiting for the addiction to finally burst, and then he would never crave to feel like he remember he once had.

All Vampires were degenerates, may it be their minds deteriorating like a clock’s music, it’s song slowly fading away until it’s tune is sick and feeble or their lust for consistency a crutch with many splinters, each sliver of order an infected, pussy sore hiding in the depths of their pits. Yes, each and every Vampire was cascading into a true death, like the blood that they drank cascaded upon the mouths that sang litanies to the greatness of sin and the truth you gained in drinking from its chalice of faith. Gregory would teach his masterpiece how the wear the thorned crown properly and he would fill it with all the love that years of eternity would bring.

"Wonderful, absolutely wonderful," Gregory said, walking across the plush carpet towards Ian who sat infront of a keyboard. "You’ve truly inspired me."

The Childe looked at his Sire and only saw a very sad lie that refused to die, even though it has been uncovered. "Thank you. I needs work though. The voices of the monks should be a bit lower; they shouldn’t distract the listener from the beat of the stick against the tree."

"So that is what that was!" Gregory’s voice was a glass of wine teeming with cheerfulness, and Ian was already drunk from last nights binge of praise. As Gregory approached Ian, he lifted his hand to caress the wild hair. "I think everyone will be enthralled. Cladious shall love this and be jealous of me." The Elder Toreador’s eyes became glassy as he lost himself in a fantasy, each stroke through Ian’s hair thickening the layers on his eyes until they shimmered against the light on the ceiling.

Turning off the power to the keyboard, Ian moved his head slightly so that Gregory’s hand slipped onto his shoulder. "I think I’m going to go to the Church." A stone shattered through the glass.

"Ahh.. but you promised we would be having dinner together tonight," Gregory pouted.

"I don’t remember that."

"I do!"

"Well, I’m breaking my promise." Looking into his Sire’s hurt eyes, Ian felt a slight burden on his heart called pity. "I"m sorry, maybe tomorrow night?" "You didn’t even come with me to the Church last night." Gregory was looking down, his handsome face of a man in his thirties mocked by this childish attitude.

"There were things I had to do. That place is … disturbing on Saturday nights."

Gregory seemed to go through a metamorphosis. "You have to get used to them, you do know that."

"No, I don’t." Picking up a well worn Bible, Ian turned his back to Gregory. A tense aura, as though filtered in suddenly through some imaginary vents from above began to fill up the small studio. "I’ll see you tomorrow night, Gregory." Turning, Ian looked at his Sire who stared at him. Like a painting.

Before the blister popped Ian left.

She touched the coolest of flesh and her finger tips tingled as she imagined the man’s creative pith deteriorating her stagnancy and replacing it with a new brilliant fire. Her eyelids fluttered like a flag in the wind, the long sought after merit finally caressing her body as hands molded to her every want. Drowning in the tarn, she could look through the rippled water at the mountain of ingeniousness. Attenuated, her lungs seemed to falter, lips resting upon her’s, as icy as the waters she was submerged in. Bursting, she spoke into his mouth, pleaded with him to release her as a fear of suffocation took hold of her. He would teach her though; she would see, and he would break her down like he had broken others and grind her into a husk of sensation.

Maryanne saw him first perform at an underground club called the Brothel. The show he put on with his band had inhaled her like righteous vacuum sucking up the wicked particles of dust on the carpets of the city. The lyrics he sang demanded her to stop faking. To stop faking what, Maryanne did not know, but she felt the command. Maryanne knew she had been touched, that it was a very special moment and she alone had been picked out from all the others in the crowd to be moved in the way she had been. The scene from the last show proved it.

It was when he looked into her eyes and she felt her knees explode under the gaze of his malice. It was when he seemed to leap into her soul, a farmer tillaging every wretched sense that possessed her and numbed her hope with a scythe of promise. Her mind seemed to become a whirlpool of engagements with greatness, and she was sinking along with them. He was the hand that would pull her from the depths. Driven to tears and the ground she writhed, finally finding the path she needed to walk after the overgrowth that hid it was removed. A path of not mere lust, but a true passion. A desire that surpassed the simple wants of love.

After the show she searched him out, but he seemed to have disappeared. That night Maryanne went home devastated, her whole life the very essence of nothing. It hurt so very much to be nothing. So she vowed to find him again and she had, lounging outside the Brothel by the walls diseased with graffiti.

"There you are," Maryanne said, her voice a murmur, and he could only hear the nervousness, not the words. He looked at her with his crude, intriguing face and she swooned. "I love you," she said stupidly. Oh, you’re so cruel there, she wanted to cry at him. So cruel the way you are looking at me.

The man observed her as though she were just another florescent design on the walls behind him. She was of a medium build with black lace flowing delicately over her curves. A black turtle neck, cut off at the belly covered her body and black jeans, ripped and shred seemed to squeeze the life out of her legs as they were so tight. A face sculptured into the perfect oval, so perfect it was flawed by it’s beauty. Her eyes were partially covered by the long, black dyed bangs, as though in submission.

"I love you too," he said to her.

Maryanne nodded.

"You are very delicate."

Again she just nodded.

"Feel like dropping this hole?"

She nodded thrice and followed him away. Oh please, lead me anywhere.

"You’d suffocate within me," he had said as she pressed herself against him in the alley.

"Oh, no! Please?" she begged and her whole body shuddered under the realization that she had him here. Oh, how she wanted him to split her open like a knife and how she wanted him to taste her, to tell her that she was a delicacy. If anything to just tell her she was worth the taste…

"Aren’t you a bit young?" he asked.

"Oh no, just obsessed." Holding onto the tears desperately, she looked up at him as strongly as she could, but it was just a revolting parody of the attitude she wished to portray. "Just change me, like you promised." You’re so cruel. Oh, so cruel.

She kissed him as a pauper, depraved, and in the need of something true. He kept his promise though and left her breathless in the alley.

Oh, please stop the sifting of dread; stop the current of crimson that mauls my face, breaking the bones of passion down with the fists of anger and anarchy. Persecuted, nailed to the cross, my body aching, bleeding as the lashes of words rupture my sides with vehemence. The damned. Eyes of the purest verdant, orbs bathed in the commitment to destruction, the downfall of morality. Soldiers of the depraved one rising up from their cavities of wretchedness, clothed in the mire of true death. Poxes of iniquity marking the ones they have diseased, trails of immoral acts and the stains of rage now hieroglyphics that few remember or understand. These forgotten acts are to go unforgiven for an eternity so that our Lazarous may feed, corrupt and kill again. Never again…

Judas is in the midst, silently stalking us in the fields. Born from lies, he searches the truths only we can offer. A gluttonous fiend though, plowing and raping the seeds we grow, but he is strapped down with disillusion of rainfall. I would hand him the knowledge but it would only decay at the touch of his intentions and crumble, to become just more sand in the deserts of crisis. Sadly unknowing. Sadly searching like all. Emerging, choking, blind, reaching, touching, feeling the wrong hand. Led astray into the darkness of pain, another malnourished soul lead to the table of Satan, and there to feast upon poisoned food of hate, our poor Judas.

Gather together the Apostles. Enlighten the populous before the evil one strikes again. Be wary, for the walls shall seethe the conversations you speak and transform them into plans of destruction. The faces now are a blur of the masks they were, all to masquerade and violate. The time coming, to bring justice to the unjustified. Through the lyrics of madness and the tunes of expectation, isolation and desire, an elixir of salvation. Sing the gospel, monster of your own incantations. Play your role as the metamorphasis.

by Brittany Adams

She was met outside of Moncada’s office by her appointed bodyguards, then led upstairs to her suite. She could barely suppress a small chuckle as the men took up positions on each side of her door. Surely, they weren’t crazy enough to think that she couldn’t escape if she really wanted to. She stepped into the sitting room of her opulent quarters and nodded with satisfaction as she looked around. This may well be her last night of existence, but she was still nobility, and Moncada made sure to provide her with all of the amenities befitting her station.

Alexis walked into the bedchamber and closed the door, then sat down on the bed and slipped into another meditative trance. More than anything, she wanted the Voice to either confirm or deny the path she had chosen to take with this trial. However, as it was earlier, her inner pleas were met with silence. She stayed in her trance for hours, waiting and hoping, but she was finally forced to give up as dawn stained the horizon.

The next night, Alexis entered the grand ballroom of the estate with her back straight and her head held high. The room was filled with rows of chairs, and at the front, the stage usually reserved for musical groups contained a row of seven chairs behind a long table, each of them filled with those who would be her judges. She recognized most of them by their faces, but knew only a few by name. She didn’t turn her head to look at the crowd that had gathered in the room, but she did notice that off to the side sat Archbishop Faddei of Austria, the one that had promoted her to Bishop so many years ago.

She stopped in the center of the cleared space in front of the platform and looked up at those before her. Her eyes and face were unreadable as she kept a tight grip on her emotions. Any slip up now could be fatal. Always the epitome of etiquette, she dipped a respectful curtsey to the panel and remained silent, for the accused in a blood court does not speak unless spoken to.

Archbishop Moncada opened a file in front of him and glanced over the papers contained within. He waited a few moments to create suspense then folded his hands on top of the file and looked at Alexis.

"Contessa Alexis Dread, childer of Lord Blackthorin Dread, a petition has been brought before us with accusations that you have failed at various duties and that you are no longer worthy of being Lasombra. What say you to these charges?"

Out of all the times she had attended these tribunals, she had only seen one other time when the accused was granted the right to face the judges, but she knew the expected response.

"The charges are false, Your Excellency."

The Archbishop nodded and continued, "You have been charged with failing to lead the pack, Res Divina Nigrum, the simplest of tasks for one of your abilities. What say you?"

Again, Alexis responded with the expected answer, "The charge is false, Your Excellency."

"Explain."

She chose her words very carefully as she took the first step down the road which she hoped would let her walk from this room at the end of the night.

"I was set up to fail by my sire and his former concubine. They subverted the pack members and pitted them against me. Lord Dread admitted to me after the pack was disbanded that it was impossible for me to lead them successfully under such circumstances."

She watched emotionlessly as the judges made notes of her explanation.

Moncada looked down at the file, frowning slightly as he took a pen and crossed items off of his list, items which were apparently too trivial for him to bring up. After a few minutes, he stopped and looked down at Alexis.

"You have also been accused of failing to perform the duties of an Archbishop and therefore, you were stripped of your title. What say you?"

This was the part of the trial that she knew would decide her fate. She mentally steeled herself as she made her reply.

"The charge is false, Your Excellency."

"Explain."

She allowed a bit of anger to creep into her voice as she recited the speech she had memorized as her answer to this charge.

"In a fit of insanity, the Cardinal stripped all title holding Sabbat in the area of Meridian of their titles. Immediately afterward, he disappeared so that none could challenge his decision. As a result, the city was retaken by the Camarilla, and our sect members there have been left in total disarray and confusion without proper leadership."

She noticed the stunned expressions on the faces of the judges as they conversed in whispers up on the stage. Behind her, she could hear the crowd mumbling to each other in disbelief at her pronouncement. However, Moncada remained calm. His only outward sign of surprise was a raised eyebrow as he spoke.

"That Cardinal is your sire, Alexis. You would betray him?"

Alexis nodded, "Former Cardinal. He forfeited his title when he vanished. I caught a glimpse of him in the arms of a known Camarilla woman as I was leaving to come here. It is my opinion that he has betrayed not only me, but our entire Clan and Sect." She paused for a moment then continued, "I feel that he has followed the same path as the traitor, Giangaleazzo." She added the last statement as a well-rehearsed afterthought, knowing Moncada’s towering fury at Giangaleazzo for his treason.

She could barely suppress a grin as her statement had its desired effect. Moncada’s hands clenched into fists and he frowned darkly. He spoke with the other judges, and in a matter of minutes, a verdict was reached.

"Contessa Alexis Dread, in light of these revelations, it is our judgement that these allegations are false. You are free to go."

She nodded and started to turn to leave, but then she paused and turned back, "If I may ask, who brought the petition against me?"

Moncada glanced over to Archbishop Faddei, and his look told her all she needed to know. She frowned at the one she had once called ally and her eyes flashed angrily. Suddenly, she heard a long silent, yet familiar, voice in the back of her mind.
"Do it. Kill him. Do it."
Alexis didn’t even think, she just reacted. Before Faddei could make a move, she had taken the scarab brooch from her gown. She squeezed the head of the scarab and two wing-shaped blades shot out from the sides, then snapped together to form one semi-circular blade. In an instant, she crossed the few feet that seperated her from her enemy, and the blade was slammed into his chest, piercing his heart. She growled and jammed the blade in harder, then twisted it.

Faddei’s eyes widened as the poison on the blade spread throughout his body. Alexis used shadow tendrils to hold him in place as his unlife ended. She released him and pulled the blade from his chest, causing him to collapse onto the floor in a heap. She carefully cleaned the small dagger off on his shirt, then let go of the scarab’s head. The blades shot back into place and she pinned the brooch back onto her gown as she turned and faced Moncada. "He will no longer waste this court’s precious time, Your Excellency."

The Archbishop nodded approvingly and smiled, "Would you like the right of Amaranth on that one?"

Alexis shook her head, "No, thank you. The sting of the scarab is poison. However, I would take his title since he will be unable to perform his duties."

A couple of the judges laughed out loud while the rest simply smiled and grinned. Moncada controlled his laughter enough to answer her.

"Spoken like a true Lasombra. Yes, you may have his title, a title which should never have been taken from you in the first place."

"My thanks, Your Excellency. Now, I must take my leave and plan my return to the United States." She nodded to each of the judges, then turned and made her way back to her suite, her mind racing with plots and intrigues… now with the help of her Inner Voice.

by DeeLacy

Bryon walks through the rain as he often does, the cold winter rain, along the path he has walked so many times before. Deja vu…

Elizabeth is in her home, compulsively smoothing the furniture and setting pillows to just the right angle, as she waits for Bryon to arrive. There is black drapery over all her furniture, and black veils on the mirrors, mourning for Gregory Dorn. She can’t get his image out of her head. Gone, ash. And Spencer, too, but… Gregory….

The bell rings. "Come in," she calls.

Bryon knocks softly on the door. Elizabeth can hear him at the door, and see the door from where she stands… she estimates where his head is… and projects the thought…. I said, come in.

Bryon opens the door and steps in, not looking at his sire yet but carefully removing his jacket.

"Yes, take that off, you’re dripping," she says.

He hangs his coat on the coat rack and straightens himself. "Hello, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth smiles at him. "Good of you to come. Bryon darling." She smiles, but there is unmistakable tension at the corners of her mouth. She is deeply unhappy… not angry… sorrowful.

Bryon smirks uncomfortably. "Yes, thanks. It’s been a while."

"Come sit… tell me what you’ve been doing all this while," she invites. Bryon looks a bit suspicious, but drifts over to the sofa. He keeps his eyes firmly on her now, whereas before he wouldn’t look at her. Elizabeth sits down next to him and slips her hand into his, giving it a light squeeze. Her other hand rests against the black fabric she’s draped over the sofa, fingers brushing it softly.

"Well… I’ve been running around the city mostly… drinking. I have spoken to the ‘anarchs’ on a couple of occasions…" Bryon is nervous beyond the usual, as he looks down curiously at the black covering the furniture.

"What happened when you met with the anarchs?" Elizabeth asks, scanning Bryon’s surface thoughts as he answers. She sees blood-red rain, and two unfamiliar girls’ faces, one whose name is floating in his thoughts but she can’t quite hear it. She sees the handsome Anarch who has been blood hunted, and his Nosferatu ally.

"They talked a bit about what they had done. About makin’ a stand, the usual. But they did something, it seems." Bryon looks at Elizabeth, at her hair. "How are you?"

Elizabeth shakes her head slightly. "They did something? What do you mean? They’ve done… several things."

"They got Ms. Semingsworth." Bryon swallows once, thinking of the catatonic state the Ventrue primogen has been in ever since she and her ghoul were rescued from their anarch captors.

Elizabeth nods, a lock of hair falling in her eyes. She brushes it aside. "And they caused a havoc in a children’s rest home…." Bryon looked surprised. "You did not hear that? It was in the news… as an incident caused by PCP."

"I don’t think they took credit for that in front of me… I don’t remember at least."

"Ah. And then… they seem to have got… more serious. They captured and destroyed, on camera, two of our clan, and a Ventrue and a Tremere. Did they claim that in front of you?"

Bryon looks confused. "No…" He swallows again, in slow-motion. "No. I… haven’t heard of that."

Elizabeth looks away, feeling almost unable to control her sadness, as she speaks. "They killed Gregory." For a long moment she is lost in thought of her fellow Toreador elder, his deep brown eyes, his beauty, his depthless creative mind; of the love she held for him, unrequited for decades, the memory of their short time of mutual passion so long ago.

Bryon’s fingers twitch. Elizabeth holds perfectly still as red tears slide down her marble cheeks. Bryon blinks rapidly, then takes off his glasses. "I’m really… sorry. I… how?"

"The dawn," whispers Elizabeth.

Bryon sighs, and seems to not know what to do with himself. He looks around, at the floor. Elizabeth stays still… after a few moments her tears dry, leaving a faint red trail on each cheek. "Can I help somehow, maybe? I dunno what else to say." Bryon moves a little closer to her on the couch.

Elizabeth feels his movement, and squeezes his hand again, still held in hers. "You can… if you found out enough to help us against the anarchs?"

Bryon grits his teeth. "I told them what you wanted, what you said."

"And their answer, was clearly, no."

"They’re not going to give up. No."

"They have done too much for forgiveness, now," Elizabeth says. "Too much for amnesty. Too much even for banishment. They will be executed. Two have been already." Bryon nods. Elizabeth continues, "They could have ransomed their captives; they could have tried to use them to win their goals; that was not their desire, was it?"

"I don’t think they care that much. Casualties in the war."

"They were fooling you all along… using you, your idealism." Bryon looks at her as she speaks. "I know you, Bryon. This is not what you would choose. This… slaughter…."

Bryon is silent, staring at her a little. "No. It isn’t. But… there isn’t much of an alternative. The Gangrel want to live in the woods… I don’t want that." He paused. "I’m rambling. I can’t stop them."

"Do you prefer their war to our peace?" Elizabeth asks. Bryon looks up at the ceiling. She continues, "Is it the better alternative?"

"I could say the peace was tyranny and you could say the opposite. Discussion feels futile to me right now. And I say you’re right, so don’t bother. All I can do is try to understand. From one side or the other," Bryon sighs.

"Well, you are right. It is tyranny. The alternative is never-ending bloodshed… the choice is to be ruled, or to die. If one can continue to exist… one can find a space in that existence… goals, meaning… a sense of purpose."

"It’s fucking hard."

"Yes, it is very hard. The alternative is easy… mayhem… bloodshed… spray the streets with red, from kindred and kine alike," Elizabeth says darkly. "That is what these anarchs are doing. You can see that, you must. They are only spreading chaos. They wish freedom, and what do they do with it? Would you have all kindred so?"

"So what do you want me to do?" Bryon leans his head back against the wall. "That’s one of the things I’ve learned, you know, to like the color red."

Elizabeth hears this… thinks of the red rain, and the girl she saw in Bryon’s mind, the one whose name had echoed. "Yes. Who is she, the girl in your thoughts? Have you finally found a replacement for Aela?"

Bryon looks at her with one eye. "What the hell do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, Bryon." Elizabeth focuses her will on him and scans his thoughts again, listening for the name. Bryon does not answer, just stares at her for a few seconds. Elizabeth hears the name she seeks, echoing, this time she grasps the sound. "I should say… you know who I mean. Cynthia… pretty name."

Bryon twitches. "I dunno, they had found her somewhere and she didn’t have anywhere to go." He looks away from Elizabeth. "Yeah. Cynthia."

Elizabeth strokes the exposed side of Bryon’s neck with her thumb as he looks away. She smiles slightly. "So you took the little lost anarch girl under your protection?"

Bryon wants to tell her to shut up. Cynthia. They’d made him embrace her… it was that or let her become Nosferatu. Pretty Cynthia, he couldn’t do that to her…. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Why does talking about her make you so hostile, darling?" Elizabeth can always pick up on such things in his voice, in his posture.

"You sound accusing. Aren’t you?" Bryon ’s eyes flit back to her.

"Accusing of what? Do you feel guilty for finally getting over that Aela, then?"

Bryon ’s eyes glaze a little, then he shakes his head sadly. "Getting over Aela, sure. ‘Finally’? It’s only been three months." Ah, Aela… first vampire lover… he would never ‘get over’ her. He promised himself that silently.

"Why do you feel guilty over Cynthia?"

"Never mind." Bryon sighs.

"You don’t want to discuss her. Very well — on one condition. I wish to meet her.
Bring her here tomorrow night."

Bryon stares with open wide eyes at the table before him. "What?"

"You heard me."

He runs a hand over his face. "All right."

Elizabeth smiles slightly, and leans over, kissing his cheek. "Thank you."

Bryon looks at her sideways, shivering a little. He puts his hands on his knees, thinking, looking confused but serious. Elizabeth watches him, looking into his thoughts one more time. What am I gonna tell her… Cynthia. He shakes his head. "All right, all right. Tomorrow?"

Elizabeth touches his chin, turning his face to look into his eyes. Bryon looks into her dark, deep eyes. "Yes, tomorrow," she tells him. He nods. She releases his chin, pulling her hands onto her lap, withdrawing from him slightly. "I’m losing you…. It had to happen. Why so soon, though…? Why…?"

Bryon bites his lip. She looks at him longingly as he speaks. "I…. You know I care about you. But don’t do that. You know that as well."

"Don’t do… what?"

"Try to make me sorry for you. Because of that. I am sorry. I don’t pity you, but I’m sorry for what’s happened."

"Someday, Bryon… someday… when you sire a Childe… then you’ll know." Elizabeth paused. "I don’t want your pity. Of course."

Bryon shakes his head. "I’m tired of these games." He felt the bond pulling at him, tugging him toward her. He resisted with an effort.

"I’m just… tired. I loved Gregory… for so, so very long. It’s still hard to understand that he is gone, forever… but he is. And you don’t much care. I see that." Elizabeth stands up, off the sofa and walks to the edge of the room, looking into one of the black-mantled mirrors. She stands there, the black gauze making her unable to see her reflection except in the dimmest way… staring into the mirror. She whispers, "you should probably leave, now."

Trying to tell if she can see him approaching in the mirror, Bryon stands and follows her. Elizabeth senses his approach, but doesn’t move.

Bryon puts his hand on her shoulder. She still doesn’t move. Bryon can feel her trembling slightly even though she is very still. "Maybe I wish I did care. Maybe… I wish things were like they used to be."

Elizabeth speaks in a very low voice, the effort to keep her voice even gives her a slight vibrato. "They can always be. No matter how far you go, you can always change your mind and come back to me. It…. The hope gives me something to cherish… now that I’m alone…."

Bryon squeezes her shoulder gently. He looks around at the black surrounding them. "Maybe I should go."

Elizabeth stays still, looking into the darkened mirror. "A lot of maybe’s."

Bryon imagines her for a moment smiling wickedly into the unreflective surface — the longing for her, the love he does not want to feel, is overwhelming. It is so hard to leave. So hard to take his hand from her shoulder and walk away. He sighs, turns around, and walks over to the door to pick up his jacket, still wet. Elizabeth turns to watch him go, looking impassive.

As he touches the doorknob, Bryon says, "I do miss you, you know." He opens the door and steps outside.

"I miss you too," she says as he shuts the door behind him. Elizabeth walks to her bedroom, closes the door, and lies down on the bed, face down. She folds her arms above her head and just lies there, a position that would suffocate a human, face buried in the pillow, but of course she does not have to breathe.