Archive of Our Own

Tucson, Arizona.

Night of November 3.

Sunrise: 6:29 a.m.

He caught her scent before she stepped into the Viper. The grime of sun-beaten, oil-slick asphalt. The dust of the Arizona desert mingling with the chill November rain. All carried by a body that seemed to have no fragrance, no presence of its own. It confirmed that she was indeed Lasombra. Where a person should stand, there was only empty white noise and shifting silhouettes.

And yet, Prince Lettow's senses did pick up something. He glimpsed it like a dying ember in pitch-black night, so faint that it might've been a mirage. It was but a single drop in an abyssal ocean, but it swirled a color of turquoise that Lettow could never forget. It was the smell of the Sahara, of jet engine fumes, of burning starlight. He could not mistake it, for it was more than familiar.

It was a part of him.

And now, it was a part of this courier. When she looked at the Prince, wary dark eyes filled with distrust, Lettow found himself back in those Sahara dunes minutes from sunrise, debating if he should destroy her or take her in his arms.

Aila. Welcome home.

Kindred and mortal retainer alike cast dirty, disgusted glances at the new arrival. She reeked of roadkill rotted twice over. Didn't even apologize for smearing mud on a resident Blueblood's suede Armanis as she dragged herself in.

Normally, Dove wouldn't think twice about taking a mangy stray by the collar and hauling them out. But this wasn't some rogue Anarch who got past security looking to start trouble. They had been expecting this one.

Not that Dove expected some ex-shovelhead Magister to show some decorum in Elysium. Vane, that was her name. Like the weather vane, showing where the wind was blowing. An "ancient and noble" child of Lasombra running errands for a Gangrel Prince certainly was a sign of the changing winds if there ever was one.

Vane's satchel was at least cleaner than the rest of her—proof enough of where her priorities were. She had come highly recommended as a courier and was known to have a single-minded focus when it came to her work. Unfortunately, that also meant the neonate didn't mind whose patent designer shoes she stepped on to get the job done.

The Prince's famulus perched by his side and cawed, as if announcing her entrance.

"Welcome to Tucson," the Prince greeted. "I am Prince Lettow. This is Dove."

Dove scowled seeing the Magister drip all over the flagstones. That's gonna be a bitch to clean.

Lettow, on the other hand, didn't appear to mind. The old young man liked to present a friendly face for PR, but it was always tinged with the professional courtesy expected of a Camarilla Prince. This was a nest of vipers, after all, and you can't get too friendly with any of these animals.

But he seemed warmer in greeting this courier. In fact, he was… smiling?

He must be really glad to get those USBs, huh? At least that's what Dove thought until Lettow kept talking.

"And you are Vane." The Prince paused, almost uncertain. "The courier. It looks like you had a difficult journey."

If Dove hadn't known Lettow for decades, she never would have noticed that slow, unsure cadence. Did he suspect that this person was an imposter? A spy? She did seem suspicious. Relaxed and unbothered as she outwardly appeared, Dove noticed Vane's eyes glancing back and forth, taking account of every exit. This was a creature ready to make a quick escape if she had to.

Dove took this as a sign to double down on her hostility. "Now give us the data before I find a shovel for your head," ordered the Seneschal.

Instead of being cowed like the other day-old fledglings, Vane only seemed amused by Dove's threats. Knowing the ruthlessness of her clan, the Lasombra might have even seen it as a form of affection.

"Money first, Sewer Rat," Vane said plainly. No hard feelings, just business.

Despite mouthing back, Dove was almost flattered that Vane was negotiating with her instead of the Prince. Usually it was the other way around. Dove was the threatening, hideous piece of furniture they tried not to make eye contact with as they made dealings with the real man in charge. Vane looking her in the eye almost earned the lick some respect from the Nosferatu. Almost.

Eventually, Vane set the USBs down in front of Lettow. Good. Dove can only glare at a single person for so long. She couldn't wait for Lettow to dismiss her and—

"Feel free to watch, Vane," Lettow invited, making Dove raise an eyebrow she didn't have. "I don't think this interests you directly, but I try not to keep secrets here in Tucson."

Dove didn't know what Lettow was playing at, but a Camarilla Prince saying he didn't keep secrets? Did Lettow also expect the sheep to believe the butcher when he says he tries not to slaughter animals? It was the Court's job to keep secrets, not show classified video to random couriers off the streets.

Unless, of course, Vane was no random courier. But then… who exactly was she?

May 2018.

"Aila's gone, Lettow."

Knowles had found her tomb, broken into and empty.

The Prince of Tucson ran his hand over the cold stone slab. He had always known Aila had sank into torpor, like so many Elders who had grown weary of unlife. She was homesick, removed from her community and way of life when they fled from the wars of Europe and the Jyhad of its ancient Kindred. Lettow thought that they would build something new, something better in the Americas.

To Aila, it was all the same. Whatever they build would fade too in time. Even for a vampire, there were only so many times you could lose your home. She said there was no place for her in this world.

And so Lettow made one. He deposed the old Prince. He shaped Tucson to be a place where Aila would be proud to call home—bustling, welcoming, and warm like her memories of Constantinople. An Elysium blanketed by the stars and the sands. When the east began beckoning, Lettow forced himself to stay, still tending to their city.

He had hoped to find her. He had hoped to give her a reason to continue existing. He had hoped that they would meet again and this time, choose to stay. Choose him.

Instead, he found nothing but a cold, dusty tomb.

"Her sanctuary had been intruded upon," said the Warlock. "The Blood Sigils were broken from the looks of it. Not a perfect dispelling, but a competent one."

"Kindred?" asked Lettow.

"Or a hunter of Kindred."

The trail had long gone cold, but the Tremere assured him he could track whoever tampered with the sigils given time and resources.

"And Aila?" said the Prince. "What will you need to find her? Tell me and we'll spare no expense."

Knowles knit his already wrinkled brow. "Aila's gone, Lettow," he said once again, but this time there was something else in the tone of the old man's voice.

Sadness. Worse, pity.

"There's no manner of ritual that can find someone no longer on this earth."

"Aila is six centuries our elder," scoffed Prince Lettow. "She cannot be simply destroyed."

He could not imagine her going so easily, without so much as a word. Without even a farewell. She can't be gone. Because if that was so, what had this all been for?

"Age alone doesn't confer power, Lettow," said Knowles. "Time erodes us as much as everything else. If not ennui, those of the Blood succumb to the Beast. Aila was in torpor. She was already weak of will and body. Any intruder would have taken advantage. We all knew—"

"You know NOTHING!"

Lettow's roar reverberated through the cavern, shattering its stillness. Stones rattled on the dirt floor as the Gangrel grabbed the sorcerer by the throat and slammed his body against the wall. Gone was the genial Prince. It was the animal on the surface now—fangs bared and eyes alight in frenzy.

"You…" Lettow snarled, his black talons digging into the Warlock's neck.

In between gasps, the old man could only splutter. "I'm, hngh, sorry… my boy…"

My boy. Knowles hadn't called Lettow that in years, not since the young man claimed his own city. He was Prince, but before that he was just a boy, a wandering Gangrel whelp who the old man once vouched for.

Remembering himself, Lettow closed his feral eyes and fought against the instinct to maul this man. Whatever Knowles was, he had crossed the ocean with them. He had provided Lettow and Aila succor after their arduous journey through the Sahara. Jasper had known her.

But he didn't know her like I did.

Finally, Lettow's grip loosened. The Warlock dropped onto the floor with thud, coughing for air.

The Prince's stared at his bestial hand. His talons did not retract as they should have. They curled, black and sharp, piercing his own palm. His features would revert to their human form eventually, but this would trouble him for the next few nights.

For now, he extended a monstrous hand to help Knowles to his feet.

"My apologies," said Lettow. "You shouldn't have seen that."

"On the contrary, I'm glad I did."

The old man seemed too calm for someone who might have been seconds away from Final Death. But Lettow already knew Knowles to have more than a passing fascination with their bestial nature.

"I can't make any promises about Aila, "said Knowles, dusting himself off. "Even if she survives, a daughter of Haqim like her will only be found when she wishes to be. But the intruders?"

He scratched a fingernail on a barely visible sigil. Flecks of dried blood flaking off the stone. The Warlock grinned.

"They'll be seeing me soon no doubt."

"That's Jasper Knowles, Tremere magus," Lettow said conversationally. "Do you know him?"

The Prince had studied Vane carefully as the they watched the video, looking for any sign of recognition. He didn't have the gifts of the court's Malkavian oracle, but the years had made him an expert on reading the smallest change of expression.

But Vane's expressions were by no means small. Those pursed lips and knit brow could be read from across the room. What the fuck am I looking at?

"I've never seen him before in my life," she answered.

From behind them, Dove gasped, recognizing Modian, her sire turned wight. And yet, Aila herself had no reaction seeing her old friend be destroyed by him.

No, not Aila. Vane.

Lettow inwardly corrected himself. He mustn't let his hopes make him jump to hasty conclusions.

"You've never seen Knowles before," repeated the Prince.

Lettow didn't bother to hide his frustration. He was aware of the answer he so desperately wanted, but he was not so naïve as to believe it without evidence. Still, there was nothing that would please him more than confirmation that Aila had somehow returned.

But from how Vane regarded him, it didn't seem like she was all that interested in pleasing the Prince. She looked at Lettow like he was less than a stranger. He was the Eagle Prince of Tucson. And to her, that meant that he was barely a person; he was a contractual obligation.

And with that particular obligation fulfilled, she turned to leave.

"Vane, I have more work for you," said Lettow, calm and composed. "You will remain here tonight."

As Prince, Lettow had absolute authority in his domain. And yet, this was all he could do to stop Vane from leaving. She could decide to board a Greyhound bus to Kansas, and he would have to let her or risk never having a courier deliver to his domain again. He would take that risk of course if it came down to it, but he preferred to maintain a court where everyone was here of their own volition. After all, he was no Ventrue.

The Prince attempted to make the offer more enticing. "My man, Alexander, will provide you with shelter, sustenance, and suitable clothing. And hose you down, obviously. I apologize if he treats you like a horse, but he misses horses."

Vane glanced at ghoul and then back to the Prince. Clearly, she distrusted whatever motives he had for being so generous with her. Perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned treating her like a horse… Already, Lettow's mind was racing with other contingencies to get her to stay: additional bribes, intimidation, and if worse comes to worst, he might even say please.

Fortunately, it never came to that. Vane nodded and allowed Alexander to lead her away.

As soon as Vane left to get cleaned up (finally), Dove wasted no time questioning her boss. It didn't take a genius to see that he was trying to get a read on her.

"Why show her the video?" asked Dove.

Lettow, occupied with examining the files they received on Knowles, only replied with, "Hm?"

"You're old, not deaf," said Dove. "You thought the kid knew Knowles, but you didn't just interrogate her. Instead, you shoved a snuff film in her face and expect… what, exactly? For her to have a revelation? An epiphany?"

"I was looking to jog her memory," Lettow told Dove.

Lettow closed the old ASUS laptop and handed it to one of his retainers for disposal. He leaned against the backrest of his wicker chair and closed his eyes, contemplating what to do in the next few nights.

Before Dove could pull on that thread any further, work distracted her. Some cologne-drenched leech was spotted poaching in the parking lot. Kindred business, so she had to go down herself and pull his fangs out personally.

By the time Dove came back to their rooftop Elysium, Vane returned to the Viper upper floor finally looking somewhat decent. Alexander was briefing her on where to hunt, and she'll need to get hooked up with a new ride too.

The Seneschal gave the girl a discreet once-over as she made her way through the room. The Magister turned a few heads, but thankfully not because of the smell this time.

Vane had the face of one those college girls whose idea of punk was chic dark circles around the eyes and a messy high ponytail. All that was missing was a pack of smokes and a dog-eared copy of Paulo Friere. The outfit, though, was pragmatic to a fault. A stiff black leather jacket, engineer boots that weren't even dated enough to be vintage, and driving gloves tucked into the pockets of the most boring denim she could find. No upside-down crosses at least, thought Dove. Though the girl did carry herself like a middle-aged truck driver stuck in the body of some poor schmuck's unrequited goth girl crush.

Lettow had his eyes on Vane since she re-entered, watching her from his Prince's perch. Either he was some poor schmuck himself or, more likely, he had serious plans for her.

Dove sighed as she surveyed the parking lot below. Even in the noise-insulated upper floor, the beat of the music pounded against her soles. Lively as it was, it was a sparser crowd than she would have liked for a Friday night.

"Do we really need another runner on our books?" she asked. "We got plenty of our own people to make trips. Hell, let me drive. I—"

"I don't need to remind you what happened in the Marriott," Lettow chided, never once looking away from Vane. "Besides, I need you here, Dove, not on the road."

Lettow sympathized with Dove's restlessness, though. There were nights when he had that itch to pack up his whole court and go somewhere else, anywhere else. He often wondered if his wanderlust meant he was never truly cut out to be Prince. He satisfied his yearning to fly by seeing through Riga's eyes, but with the call beckoning him east…

Lettow refocused, bringing himself back to Tucson and his court.

"You're not wrong about our books," the Prince admitted to his Seneschal. "Fortunately, Knowles' destruction may have just given us an opportunity for some… restructuring. We'll need a courier to deliver the notices. Pattermuster and Olivecrona's operations could do with a house check. And we'll have to let Dr. Caul know that we're cutting her off."

Dove let out a low whistle. "That's gonna be a rough phone call."

Prince Lettow's expression hardened. "No, no phone calls. No wires. These messages must be delivered in person."

"I'm not sending one of our guys to get their blood boiled by that witch. Not for something that could have been an email."

"Which is why I'm sending Vane," said Lettow, though he didn't seem fully convinced of the solution himself. "I trust someone of the Blood to be able to handle Dr. Caul."

"'Handle—'" Dove whispered, getting frustrated. "Just call her!"

All at once, Lettow dropped the mask of a genial host and turned threateningly somber. "They're listening, Dove."

Who "they" were was clear as daylight — and just as lethal to Kindred. Hunters, the Second Inquisition.

"When I said no phone calls," said Prince Lettow, low and commanding, "it wasn't a suggestion."

The SI was the reason why they bugged and tailed all the "independent contractors" that stepped into the Viper. Tucson was one of the few cities that still welcomed Anarchs into their Elysium, but it never hurt to do some digging to make sure they weren't going to be trouble down the road. Only stupidly suicidal and suicidally stupid bloodsuckers would actively spy for the SI, but some lick glued to their smartphone or blabbing on social media was enough to bring the fist of mass surveillance down on their court.

Lettow's voice was so quiet that even in a rooftop full of vampires, only Dove could hear. "Other Kindred may believe the Second Inquisition too splintered and weak to remain a threat, but it was our predecessors' complacency that gave them the opportunity to strike in the first place. We will not be making the same mistake."

Dove withered in the face of the Gangrel's authority. "I… I see your point."

They had to be especially on guard given what happened recently in Dallas and Flagstaff. Prince Lettow's open-door policy meant more chances of something slipping through the cracks, so the court had to be particularly stringent with security. The Prince had never trusted emails or phone calls, but now, he was fully eschewing them. In preparation, he had already enlisted a small fleet of couriers, though none of them were quite like Vane. For one, she was the only Kindred in the Camarilla willing and available for work the "respectable" clans found beneath them.

"Ah, Vane," Lettow called, reassuming the mien of the effortlessly charming Prince. "I told you I would have work for you. I need to send some emails, and that is not as easy as it once was. Come here."

Then came the familiar song and dance. Prince Lettow pulled them in with compliments and personal observations. He always knew your name and used it frequently in conversation. He recognized the talents of your clan, even those which Camarilla types usually considered "low." Sure enough, at the end of it all, the petitioner was compelled to serve, not through any supernatural means, but simply because Prince Lettow made serving him seem a privilege in and of itself. After, this was a pit of vipers, and Lettow was a natural snake-charmer.

"How much?" Vane asked.

Now that wasn't part of the usual snake-charming routine. In the Camarilla, neonates would be tripping over themselves to have the opportunity to earn his favor. Even Outsiders would be clawing at the chance to enter the Ivory Tower, to be in the proximity of such a well-connected and powerful figure as the Eagle Prince of Tucson. Money was never an issue for Lettow because vampires found a boon from an elder Prince to be more valuable than any amount of cash.

Yeah, something tells me she doesn't trade in boons. Dove thought to herself.

"Ah, an interesting question," Lettow mused.

"No, it's not, Lettow," said Dove. "Stop pretending you're older than money and pay the woman."

They gave Vane her assignments, with Prince Lettow offering carrots and Dove looming over with the stick. The Magister wasn't as mouthy as Dove's initial impression. Whatever Vane's opinions, she mostly kept them to herself. She had a mercenary sort of efficiency about her, every response civil but terse. Dove considered that a good thing.

Lettow briefed Vane on Dr. Caul, warning her that the Tremere will react poorly to the message. Vane didn't seem too surprised, just disappointed—probably not the first time someone used her to take the blow back.

"Sending me out to be destroyed is poor form, Prince," Vane said, taking Invidia Caul's file with a shrug.

"If you can't survive a grumpy witch," Dove said, crossing her strong arms over her chest, "you don't belong in this job."

Vane gave her a sardonic smile. "Or you can be honest and just say I'm expendable."

"You aren't," protested Lettow, perhaps a bit too forcefully.

Dove glanced at him quizzically, thinking: No, she pretty much is. There was buttering people up, and then there was just downright lying.

Prince Lettow didn't bother explaining himself and simply moved on to the next contact.

November 1918.

"Sending me out to be destroyed is poor form, Outlander."

Aila's figure was framed against the stars. In the distance, the smoke and flickering firelight signaled an encampment just beyond the dunes. Whether it was a Bedouin caravan or a roving war band, neither vampire could say. Either way, Lettow couldn't afford to be picky.

"I fully expect you to return in one piece, ma'am," said the Gangrel.

Lettow ran a shaky hand through his hair, a crackling receiver in the other. He was running on fumes. His fingers dug into the warm sand. His pilot's leathers may as well have been a straitjacket for how constricting they felt. It took every drop of willpower he had not to tear them off. If he succumbed to frenzy now, that would only give the Elder an excuse to destroy him. He needed to feed.

He made for a poor scout and even a worse envoy in his starved state. But Aila spoke Arabic; she could communicate with the people of this region. And she had arts that allowed her to easily slip away should things go awry.

"…And if I don't return at all?" asked Aila.

Yes, that was always a possibility, wasn't it? An Elder leaving him to fend for himself—wasn't that Lettow's introduction to this unlife? The harsh auspices of the Camarilla; before that, a sire throwing him to the wolves; and so far back that he can scarcely remember, a young soldier abandoned in the midst of wars waged by old men.

Surprisingly, it was Aila who answered her own question.

"I will come back," she decided. "You have my word."

Who would put stock in a promise made in a wasteland, with only the stars as witness?

Aila smirked, sensing his skepticism. "You doubt me?"

"Forgive me," said Lettow. His words came out slow; his thoughts were slipping. "In this world, vows are only as binding as one's ability to enforce them."

"Your world must be without honor then," she replied, half-joking.

Lettow chuckled wryly, crushing the malfunctioning receiver in his hand. It was worse than useless; it was a liability.

There's no point in keeping a liability, Lettow thought to himself.

Behind his eyes, the Beast snarled. He had spent his entire unlife so meticulous in taming his blood. An animal he was, no doubt, but always a civilized one. But now, surrounded only by sand and stars, his mind inched closer to forgetting he was ever a man.

But then Aila reminded him. She knelt beside him and stared at the Gangrel's starved expression, so close that he could see the stars reflected in her eyes.

"You could have left me as well," she whispered. "Watched me lashed by the dawn while you buried yourself in the sand. I don't know how your people make their dealings, but the children of Haqim honor our debts."

She drew blade across her wrist before bringing it to his lips. He did not have the self-control to refuse.

She did not have much vitae of her own to share, but it should be enough to bring the Outlander off the edge. Aila cradled his head, fingers grasping his hair.

She yanked him away before he could drain her. Lapping up her own forearm, she closed her wounds herself.

Lettow could only stare transfixed at the erotic sight of her tongue running down her skin. Maybe it was the taste of her lingering on his lips. Or perhaps the moonlight illuminating her face. Or maybe it was simply the stirrings of a mercenary blood bond.

Whatever the reason, Lettow was certain he fell in love with her that night.

"I think I love you."

Vane casually extricated herself from the man's embrace. He propped his shoulders against the marble counter-top to steady himself, too dazed to notice the mirrors reflected only one person instead of two. The mortal looked up at Vane, eyes wide and vision flickering—like he was seeing stars.

Vane pretended not to hear him and checked her watch. 2:16 a.m. Plenty of time until sunrise.

"I think I love you," he mumbled again, this time like a realization instead of a cheap pick-up line.

Perhaps he truly believed he met his one true love in the locked bathroom of a hard rock club, but Vane knew better.

Vane cupped his pallid cheek. "What's my name?"

"Val…? No, uh…"

"Yeah, I thought so," Vane replied as he slumped onto the floor, fully unconscious.

He wasn't her soulmate, just her victim.

March 2002.

Millicent, her old bag of a sire, had been quick to teach Vane that Kindred did not love. The closest they had to such a thing was the blood bond. And blood bonds were merely addiction. Obsession. Servitude.

"If you are going to drink from another Cainite," instructed Millicent, "be sure to drain them. Dry."

The old woman took a drag out of her cigarette and put the butt out on their chained captive. Embers buried into his skin, eating away at it like paper instead of flesh.

"Even thin-bloods such as this," said Millicent. "Most of them are too impotent, but not all. Imagine, being thrall to a thin-blood? Might as well marry a pig if you're so desperate to degrade yourself."

They were harvesting the thin-blood's vitae. For what, Vane couldn't say. All she knew was she had to make her cuts precise so she didn't waste a single drop. His eyes were gouged and his tongue had been cut out, but that didn't stop him from shaking and making the most pitiful sobs.

"Oh, hush," scolded Millicent. "The stupid thing has nothing to cry about. It would have spent its nights eking out a miserable existence. A waste of Caine's blood. Now, it is given purpose, a use. Cainites spend their whole unlives listlessly searching for 'greater purpose,' and here it is, just handed to you. We should all be so lucky.

"Many Cainites fail to grasp true purpose, Vane. So they chase after petty distractions. Cavorting with kine. Gorging on passing pleasures. Aimlessly wandering. And if all else fails, they find a regnant who will just tell them what to do. Like a dog. Sit, bark, beg. Oh well. Free will is wasted on the simple-minded anyway."

"Aren't you telling me what to do now?" asked Vane, still keeping focus on her grisly task.

"Am I compelling you, childe? Have I crushed your will? Forced you to have no thoughts save for how to please me?" Millicent laughed. "No, everything you do for me, you choose to do with your own free will. Remember that."

Vane frowned but said nothing.

"The Camarilla will have you believe there is no other choice." Millicent scoffed. "There is always a choice. But we choose wisely. Weigh the consequences. But your decision is your own. The moment you give up responsibility for your own actions is the moment you admit you're nothing but a tool."

Millicent gestured to the weeping, mutilated thin-blood. "You did this, Vane. Not me through you, but you yourself. You did well. Be proud of your work."

The old woman got to her feet. "The ghouls will gather the buckets. I have another job for you. Nothing too complicated. Another downtown raid, you've done enough of those to know what to do."

She handed Vane a hefty, well-used Redhawk revolver.

"Three rounds," specified Millicent. "Three targets. That's all you get. So make every shot count."

"And if I miss?"

"Well, fisticuffs was never your strong suit, you scrawny girl, so I suggest you don't. But if you get beaten black and blue, consider it a valuable lesson in resource management."

Vane sighed, checking the cartridge of her revolver. Only half filled, like she said. A testament, she supposed, to Millicent's faith in her marksmanship. Indeed, her childe had never missed a target yet.

She instinctively checked her barely functioning Casio watch. 3:29 a.m. Three hours to sunrise. Not a huge window, so she can't afford to dawdle.

The neonate tilted her head towards the strapped captive. "What about the…"

"The thin-blood?" Millicent waved her hand in dismissal. "The sun will clean it up for us."

The thin-blood groaned, barely audible. Just three more hours and the sun would claim him. Three more agonizing hours strung up like that…

A silenced shot sent a .357 Magnum bullet right between where his eyes should have been. His Final Death was instantaneous and clean.

"Like you said, sire," said Vane, "just taking responsibility."

5:00 a.m. The Viper's last call was two hours ago and the building was empty save for Lettow and his staff. He should be getting back to his haven. Instead, he sat in the security room, twirling the USBs he received that night between his fingers, as if that'll help him to process the information inside of them.

They contained so much more than video footage of Jasper Knowles' Final Death. There were files on his experiments, his finances, and most importantly, his investigation on Aila. He had someone under observation, a name and a company that kept coming up.

But how was Vane connected to any of it? She wasn't on Knowles files, nor did she seem to recognize him. Lettow was certain she was related to Aila somehow. But exactly in what way, it was hard to say. Was she her murderer? Her distant relative? Or was Vane just some girl who had the misfortune to remind an old man of his lost Lenore?

Whatever she was, they would find out eventually. There was no keeping secrets in Tucson after all.

It was protocol to monitor the new arrivals and Vane was no exception. They had bugged her car and haven, so the Camarilla could watch her activity from the security room.

Like what Lettow was doing now.

Though maybe "watch" was a generous term. Being what she was, all Lettow could see were shifting shapes, an amorphous patch of darkness where a person should have been. A mortal seeing this might have mistaken this for footage of a ghost, an imprint on film. Half of what she was and she could be doing could very well just be Lettow's mind filling in the blanks—spiraling into further and further pareidolia.

Still, sometimes he could make her out. When she entered her haven at 5:16 a.m., there was no mistaking how she immediately started checking for escape routes. Only afterwards did she take off her layers. He saw the satchel, the jacket, and the boots come off, but her figure remained shadowed even as she stripped barer and barer.

Lettow looked away. Strange to feel like a voyeur now when every Kindred who passed by his court was subjected to this. The Prince leaned his forehead against his hand. What am I doing?

"A new personal low." An ungarbled voice, definitely not Vane's.

More importantly, Lettow had seen this man before in Knowles' files.

Julian Sim.