11

You peer down through the metal slats of the catwalk and fix your gaze on a shooter directly below, still firing on the remaining members of the hunting party, some of whom are still bunkered in the old stairwell. Baring your fangs, you grip the guardrail tightly and leap over the edge, swinging down. You collide with the man, knocking him to the floor in a heap, unconscious.

You turn to check on your companions, relieved to find them safe and emerging from the shelter of the stairwell. You shift your gaze over to a small office room tucked away in the corner. Your briefing suggested that Ward would be staying inside, but there's no sign of him. As your haze of bloodlust wears off, you nearly trip over the bulky leg of a dead mortal and a memory from your past causes you to recoil. You used to be one of these creatures. Once, you had been drained of blood, dying in the dirt. But unlike these victims, you'd been pulled back from the brink of oblivion, granted an eternity of power at the cost of damnation.

A meaty hand closes around your neck and you're forcibly torn from your reverie as some unknown brute hoists you skyward, your feet dangling uselessly off the ground. You hear Qui shouting distantly, followed by a clatter of running footfalls as the others close in on you. Shifting in the monstrous grip, you struggle to catch a glimpse of your attacker and lock eyes with one of the largest Kindred you've ever seen, his craggy face and massive bulk fitting Corliss's description of Ward to a tee, but his well-worn jean overalls smudged with black grease and red-checked shirt hardly evoke the sense of fear or respect you'd anticipated. With your heightened awareness, you can feel each individual muscle in his fingers contracting as he lifts you from the floor.

"Corliss's childe?" Ward grunts, eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes your face. "You're being used, Mekuztli. This isn't how it has to end."