51

"This is unheard of, Corliss! Such a thing would never have happened under Arundel's watch!" Alisha Grey stalks a thin aisle between the seats of the council chamber's front row and a lectern behind which the Seneschal glowers at her silently. The Toreador Primogen was the last to arrive, and from her golden hair's perfect curls and immaculate makeup, it's evident even to the least observant Kindred that her tardiness was, as usual, an exercise in vanity. Her voice carries throughout the chamber, cutting like a knife as it rebounds with perfect acoustics to each and every ear present. There are thirty-two such ears in total, two for each powerful council member with the unusual addition of Jordan and yourself.

Bouchard gets to his feet, glaring at Alisha as he straightens a lifelike mask of a dignified middle-aged man to properly align to his true facial features hidden beneath. Only his eyes show through the delicately carved holes in the mask's too-perfect face, and they're bloodshot with what you can only imagine is fury. "This is not the time for self-promotion," the Nosferatu says with a barely suppressed growl. "It doesn't matter whose watch this happened under, only that we get to the bottom of it and execute the guilty. Imagine if this crime goes unpunished—if every neonate in the city believes that their Primogen are easy meat?" He doubles over as a gut-wrenching gurgle cuts off his speech.

"Take the mask off, Michel," Alisha says, her lips curled in a discrete smile. "It's hard enough for you to speak without it. We all know what you look like—there's no need to be shy."

"The same could be said of you, slag," Bouchard gurgles. "That painted face belongs in one of your disease-infested dollhouses, not a council of your peers."

"Cease this infantile bickering at once!" Corliss says without rising from her seat. Her voice is icy cold. "We're not here to posture."

Alisha sniffs. She knows better than most that facts often play second-fiddle to politics. Everyone in the room knows, even if they would never admit such a thing out loud.

Qui stands up by Corliss's right, face locked in a scowl. "Enough of this. For over a week our Prince has been missing, and now the last of us to see him has been attacked in her home. Staked. Driven to dementia. If this doesn't cause you to feel alarm then I suggest you pack your bags tonight and leave the city." The assembled Kindred murmur disapprovingly. "No one is above suspicion," Qui continues, undeterred. "I'll be speaking to each of you privately when this council is concluded."

"This is a farce, Sheriff," a deep voice calls out from the other side of the room. The speaker stands; he's dressed eccentrically in flowing blood-red ceremonial robes and his face is pinched like he just caught a whiff of a terrible smell.

Jordan leans close and whispers in your ear. "Someone likes to get dressed up. Leave it to the last Tremere in Ottawa to draw attention to himself for no good reason."

"A farce, Lang?" Qui raises an eyebrow. "Does something about this situation amuse you?"

"The fact that you'd suggest we blame members of our own esteemed council is the issue," Lang says. "Ottawa is newly besieged by a revived Anarch presence led by a renegade you know to have a history with our departed Prince, and yet you'd have us biting at each other's heels, fighting amongst ourselves while the clear enemy gathers strength from our weakness." His eyes wander the chamber, eventually lighting on you. "Mekuztli had a close encounter with the Brujah, Robert Ward. I am informed that the Anarch took particular interest in her. Tell me—as one so recently assaulted by that rabid dog, where do you believe our good Sheriff should turn his gaze?"

You swallow your nerves as fourteen powerful Kindred turn to watch you intently. You try not to dwell on how many collected centuries they have existed and how any one of them could destroy you with relative ease.