58

You find the unlikely pair seated in the corner of the meeting room, Kashif nursing his wine glass, savoring the blood as he sips it through parched lips. He's wearing the same long robe as the last time you saw him in Corliss's office, only now it's slightly stained on the right arm—blood long-dried and scrubbed—its nature hidden from mortal senses, but not your own. He looks tired. Drained. Like he's in the middle of the longest night of his un-life.

Ophelia looks up at you, piercing eyes staring through long, blond hair. "I hope your sire enjoys her conversation with the good Sheriff as much as I did," she says, witheringly. "Qui may mean well, but he asks more questions than most Kindred will be comfortable with."

Kashif places his empty glass on a nearby side-table before replacing it with a full one. "What is it that we can do for you Ms. .?"

Kashif runs a long index finger around the edge of his glass. "If you've long been interested in our secrets, you would know better than to ask such a foolish question." He places the finger to his chapped lips. "In public, at any rate. You are lucky that I encourage curious minds. Many other Children of Haqim would not react so pleasantly, but I find your inquiring nature most welcoming."

Ophelia cuts the conversation off coolly. "Kashif has more important things to worry about than your prying questions, Mekuztli. I've known him for weeks and I've had the courtesy to not intrude into his personal affairs. If you want to be helpful, you'd pressure Corliss to do what must be done."

"Phi," Kashif says. "I shouldn't concern Mekuztli with my personal troubles."

Ophelia shakes off his hand. "It should be said, Kashif."

"What needs to be said?" you ask.

"That the Prince's will must still be done until his return," Ophelia says. "Kashif needs Arundel's help—he's been threatened for weeks and now he's been assaulted."

Kashif's eyes flick to Corliss on the other side of the room. "It's gotten worse since I last spoke to your sire. I've been attacked in my own home during the daylight. The mortals knew when I would be awake to pray. If they'd come for me in my sleep…but perhaps their master wished to send a message. They did not expect God to protect me—they have learned otherwise. Fortunately, the attackers did not kill my guards, they only knocked them unconscious." He gestures to an empty chair beside him and you sit. The news is disturbing; maybe Corliss should be told.