82

"I cannot grant you the release of death just yet," you say carefully. "But I can offer you a temporary release from your pain."

A single fat tear drips from the old man's right eye. "Go ahead, then. Whatever malady you wish to afflict upon me will only bring me one step closer to her. I accept your judgment." He leans his head down, staring at the ground as you approach.

You pull his head slightly to the side, exposing his neck. He lets out a weak cry when your fangs slip in gently, but in the moments after you feel his muscles relax as he falls into the trance of the Kiss. When you're finished, his heart is still beating strongly—there's much life left in him yet. You wonder how many more years it will be until he's reunited with his wife.

Your appetite largely sated for the moment, you decide to move on, always aware that there's a Hunger for more that you can never fully extinguish.

Next

Alisha Grey's exhibition hall has been newly rebuilt, restructured from the ground-up as a monument to artistic extravagance. Its exterior wall is masterfully crafted with layered strata of subtly varied, roughly hewn stone bricks framing glass display windows that hint at the wonders to be found within. The effect is rather lessened by a nearly twenty-foot tall banner proclaiming "This Week Only! Canada's Finest Modern Art!" Though you suppose you can't fault Alisha for the gaudy advertising—the Masquerade must be upheld, especially in these days of a Second Inquisition. Massive expenditures such as this without a steady stream of income could attract the SI right to her doorstep. Or worse—the tax man.

The grounds are swarming with high-society mortals, eager to get a sneak peek at the new exhibits so they can brag to their friends that they were among the chosen few to view it first. Wealthy mortals are much like the Kindred of the Camarilla in some ways—when money becomes an afterthought, there are only two currencies worth caring about: prestige and raw power. Kindred generally covet the latter, but kine…they care more for what others think of them than what they think of themselves.

"This way, ma'am," a sharply dressed steward says, waving you to a door reserved for elite VIPs. You recognize him as one of Alisha's many ghouls.

"Thank you, Jonathan," you say as the mortals watch you enviously. "I seem to be catching a few unpleasant glances."

The ghoul nods. "That is why the Mistress suggests her close associates arrive early. But it can't be helped now. This way."