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Lettow watches you closely as you answer, tongue against his teeth, concentrating. He thinks you know something. But you've never seen this Tremere.

Dove gasps.

Knowles has stepped away from the webcam, revealing a dingy cinder-block room with faded orange stripes on the walls and a Nosferatu chained to an iron spike in the floor.

That Nosferatu almost killed you the other night.

"Sire," Dove whispers.

Prince Lettow's illusion of good cheer falters for a moment; both he and the eagle glare at Dove. You're here so he can get a read on you, not so his underling can give you information.

"This experiment has gone on for as long as it can," Knowles says in the video. "Science sometimes ends in failure, my dear, and so does our version of it. No intelligence remains in this specimen, and it has become increasingly dangerous and aggressive. Once it's destroyed, I'll send what's left to you. I'm also going to wrap up my daytime business. I know that we are still allowed to communicate via email as, er, flesh and blood citizens, but my mortal identity is almost eighty years old, and soon people will wonder—"

Something off-screen draws Knowles's attention. He turns the knife, ready to insert it into his wrist—perhaps to use blood magic? Unfortunately for Knowles, he's looking the wrong way; as he stares past the webcam, a figure detaches itself from the shadows of the wall, walks almost casually up to the chained-up Nosferatu, and removes its shackles.

The rest of the video is chaos. The wight hurls itself at Knowles. The Tremere screams and stumbles into the webcam, which falls. Sorcerous fire blackens the ceiling. Dirty fists rise and fall, again and again; unlike most Tremere, Knowles has mastered the vampiric art of inhuman resilience. But that only makes his destruction longer and more horrible.

Then the video suddenly ends.

"You've never seen Knowles before," Lettow says. He sounds frustrated. "Dove, go back. Who was that shadow?"

You watch it again, but the shadow is just a blur of formless motion.

"An impressive disguise," Lettow says thoughtfully, freeze-framing on the blur. The assassin doesn't even move fast at first—there's just nothing there but a smear. "Almost as impressive as this rooftop. And what happened to the Nosferatu? Did he escape?" He rolls the video back and forth, trying to get a better view of the wight. Then he seems to remember you. He reaches into a bag at his feet and hands you a manila envelope, then goes back to scrolling around.

A thousand dollars in twenties. Your job is done.

You know the answer to Lettow's question, of course. The Eagle Prince's gaze wanders again. He looks east, over the skyline of Tucson.

After a moment of troubled silence, Dove says, "He's still out there, somewhere. I'll find him, my Prince. And destroy him."

"See that you do," Lettow says. "It would reflect poorly on your clan to have a monster like him shambling around." His voice goes cold. "You have seven nights, Dove."

You have too many questions. The most obvious is, why did Prince Lettow let you watch the video? Princes are secretive and paranoid creatures, and even in these nights, when the true elders have sunken into torpor or fled to the Old World, even a "young" Prince like Lettow has survived centuries of betrayal and revolution. Princes don't tolerate risk. That means either Lettow or his situation here are unstable, or—worse—he already knows a great deal about you and has accounted for you.

"Krarr, I have more work for you," the Prince of Tucson says. "You will remain here tonight. My man, Alexander, will provide you with shelter and suitable clothing. And hose you down, obviously. I apologize if he treats you like a horse, but he misses horses."

Alexander is a small and sallow man with a gleaming bald head. He wears an oversize gray suit, like a refugee from some twentieth-century war. He does not smile, which is for the best, since you see that his teeth are gray.

"Follow me," Alexander says. His accent is thick and his breath is acidic, like bile.

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