42

Qui thumbs his chin thoughtfully. "I was going to suggest that you carry the news to your sire, but you might as well come along and get a look at the situation firsthand. At least then Eden will be kept up to date since she seems intent on blocking me out." He gestures at Jordan. "You're coming with us."

"Oh, okay," Jordan says, eyeing you. "Do you mind, Mekuztli?"

"You were the one who found her," you say. "It makes sense for you to come along."

One of Qui's attachés grunts something under his breath. The Sheriff nods. "And we can't have you running off to anyone else to spread the news. This needs to be handled carefully."

"I wasn't going to tell anyone else," Jordan protests. "Unless Mekuztli suggested it, anyway." She glances at you.

A sudden pang of Hunger stops you in your tracks as you're walking through the door. The past few days have been unusually trying. Before you do anything else, you need to feed.

"I know that look," Qui says. "You have someone waiting for you?"

You nod.

"Good. I'll meet you out front when you're done." Qui waves Jordan forward. "After you."

Next

Your dining room is nothing extravagant: a wooden table carved with a few artistic embellishments along with high-backed chairs sufficient to seat a small group of guests, should you wish to have company. The lighting is soft and the table's polished surface gleams softly under its attention. It smells appetizing; microscopic remnants of past feedings excite your sensibilities. A forensics team would have a field day with this place. Fortunately for you, Qui has influence over all such departments in Ottawa and the surrounding suburbs.

Uuntezazk nibbles and pulls on your pant-leg. "Returned!" he says. "Sheriff was angry before he came inside. Didn't want to wait. Others just stood there and listened. Good servants to their alpha. Like me!" he squeaks. "All I saw."

Not for the first time you find yourself wishing that Uuntezazk could be trained to understand spoken words. You can communicate through the bond almost normally, but he still can't comprehend the words of others any more than a normal rat can. You hand out another small piece of cheese and he takes it before skittering away.

There's an ache in your veins that you haven't experienced in quite some time. You've recovered from physical trauma with your mending abilities since your last feeding and your Hunger has grown noticeably. Long nights in the comfort of the Camarilla's protection have left you unaccustomed to going hungry for even a short period of time. You'll need to toughen up if events keep spiraling out of control.

You find your prey leaning back in one of the seats, eyes foggy and glazed as he stares up at the modern lighting fixtures. Gerard told you he was young; if you had to guess, he's in his early twenties, likely fresh out of his overbearing parents' house and quick to dive enthusiastically into the local bars. You've seen this type of kine before—suffocated by well-meaning mothers and strict fathers—and determined to live life to the fullest as soon as he moves on to university. He picks at the torn neckline of his expensive designer shirt and his fingers come away slightly damp with alcohol.

"Fuuuuckkk," he slurs. "Dad's gonna kill me when he finds out." Your mind flashes back to the two mortals you killed during the Blood Hunt. They weren't drunk—they were terrified of you. You were a monster to them. This man barely knows where he is, and he's all the better off for it. Isn't he?