Monday, 28 June 1999, 2:47 AM
Hesha’s townhouse
Baltimore, Maryland

The townhouse was everything Hesha hoped outsiders would expect of him. It was expensive. It was in a good, traditionally black neighborhood in an historic district of Baltimore. It blended perfectly with the houses on either side, except in the little details. There were dark, shining eyes set behind the colonial-style shutters–camera lenses and other useful things. The door knocker was a coiled brass snake.

Cainites who cared to (and many did) could find that the deeds to all four houses in the row belonged to him. That was expected, as well.

The front door was always opened by a small, dark, lisping servant who seemed to speak little English. Guests were always shown into the old drawing-room parlor, furnished in traditional American style, but accented with genuine Egyptian antiquities. With special care, Hesha had selected papyri illustrated with savage battles, slavery, wild festivals and naked dancing girls. In gilt frames they adorned the walls. On the tables and shelves here he placed the instruments of mummification, the corroded hilts of weapons, fragments of the dead themselves, and–of course–snakes from every dynasty and sect in the Old Kingdom.

Hesha sat in a large, comfortable armchair beneath the most alarming scroll, and listened with apparent boredom as one of his guests tried to bargain for her lodgings.

She wore antebellum costume, soiled by her escape. Her hair was long, and Hesha remembered that she had always affected the complex coiffure of a plantation ‘lady’–the kind of style achievable only when one has another’s hands in service and hours free to spend beneath them. She’d shoved a few combs into the tangled mess, but in Hesha’s opinion would have done better to hack it off completely at dawn and hope for better luck at sunset.

"While I appreciate your hospitality, sir," she said, in the deepest of Southern drawls, "I would not wish to leave myself beholden to you. My family has never been one to take charity; may I offer you some of these as tokens of my gratitude in exchange for your gracious service?"

She held out a velvet box. Hesha opened it and found her jewelry to be as tangled as her hair. There were quantities of gold, precious stones, pearls, and silver–even the necklace he knew to be her trademark, a present from her sire. He held it up to the light: Huge pigeon’s-blood rubies set in platinum the color of her skin, arranged to drip down the side of her neck like drops of blood. He saw her fingers tighten their grip on her chair, but she said nothing. If that were the price of safety, she was willing to pay it.

"No, thank you. I have gems enough in my possession, madam," and he let the esses hiss just enough to disgust her.

"Perhaps, if I may be so crass as to mention it, you would allow me to gift you with some of my worldly goods?" She named a sum, quite high.

Hesha looked at her, and then looked around the richly decorated room.

"Again, I’m afraid I have a ssuficiency of what you offer."

She bit her lip, and some of her elegant veneer dropped away. "I have shares in a company, sir, that might intrigue you–controlling interest, of course…"

"No, madam."

Her jaws clamped together, and he watched her attempt to control herself. The fabric of the chair’s arms tore, and Hesha thought he could hear wood crack under the padding.

In an ice-cold, wrath’s edge voice, she spat out, "What in Caine’s name do you want from me?"

Hesha studied her. His calculating gaze brought blood to her face, and the other arm of the chair met with destiny.

"Nothing," he said.

Her eyes opened wide in fear.

"You will need all that you have, madam, and more, to set up your new establishment. Your choice of cities has been radically…reduced of late, and I believe that you will find your precious princes–those that retain their thrones, of course–too busy to hold court and admit you to their domain. That is, if they admit you at all. Fleeing survivors are frequently…mistaken for turncoats."

"You would blacklist me? You would lie to the Camarilla–betray me to my only allies–dishonor my name and my line–"

Hesha cut through her mounting hysteria. "You’re not listening.

"Stay here as long as you like. Set yourself up again wherever you choose. Survive, madam. Prosper. When you find that you can do me a suitable favor, do so."

"And you will hold my debt over me until then, I suppose," said the Ventrue, bitterly.

"No, madam. You will. I am quite sure that you won’t have a good day’s rest until you have found an appropriate service you can do me." He gazed into her gaunt eyes. "It’s your nature. Knowing that you owe a Setite–a ‘niggrah’ Setite, Abigail–such a favor will bore into you like a maggot into a corpse, my dear."

She stood, white as a sheet, and staggered to the door. The little man hurried to open it for her, but Abigail Woodruff cuffed him aside and fled.

Hesha picked his servant up off the floor. The Asp smirked as the clicking heels of the vampiress faded away into the night. When they were sure that she was out of earshot, the two men laughed quietly together.

"Good one, Boss."

"Thank you. Replace her chair, if you would."

"Sure," said the Asp, but before he even touched the now-sagging antique, the knocker rapped sharply. He flew to the hallway, opened a panel in the wall, and watched the waiting visitor on a monitor set inside. "Mahmoud, I believe, sir."

Hesha slid open a tiny screen of his own, and confirmed the identification.

"Let him in."

Mahmoud was tall, olive-skinned and black-haired. His features were hawkishly attractive, yet saturninely unsavory. He looked to be in his early twenties. His Embrace was hardly fifteen years past, and by Setite standards he was younger even than his appearance.

"Hesha," he said, respectfully standing just within the parlor door.

"Welcome, my cousin. Please come in and sit down."

Mahmoud hesitated a moment longer. "I hope that you remember me; it’s some years now since Diamondback and I visited Baltimore…"

"I know you." Hesha filled his voice with reassurance. "Please, cousin, relax."

The younger man perched himself on the edge of a straight chair, and looked back at the door. He smiled. "Was that the late, great, Abigail Woodruff running away from here just now?"

"Indeed," said Hesha, smiling back as warmly as he could.

The neonate took the smile, leaned back in his chair, and seemed finally to settle down. "My congratulations, sir. She looked terrible. Dear old ‘Chahlstahn’ will never be the same again. Tell me, what gives?"

"She came to pay me for room and board."

"Oh, my sleeping Lord. What in hell did you ask her for to make her look like that?"

"Nothing." Hesha smiled. "Now she’s not only exiled and poor, but paranoid. And–I do believe she’s beginning to starve…"

"Isn’t little Miss Abigail getting room service with the rest of us?"

"Mahmoud, my friend, you have a great deal to learn about the bluebloods."

"So clue me in, cousin."

"In a moment. First, I’d appreciate any news you can give me of the battle in Atlanta."

"Shit, I didn’t see a whole hell of a lot of it. I was running a little crackhouse near North–really sweet setup I’m fuckin’ sorry to see wasted, let me tell you–and we monitored the police bands from there. Well, first their sweet stinkin’ Elysium got trashed. I was ready to jump any direction, with the big boys on the hop. When the calls started coming in Tuesday night, I read between the lines and drove straight out to Clarkston. I sold my car and my stash for folding money, threw an oil drum onto a boxcar, and climbed in under it. Figured wherever the hell? Anywhere’s better than a warzone, you know? Woke up in your neck of the woods and thought I’d stop by, for old Diamondback’s sake.

"But your boy Vegel was in the thick of it. I talked to him the night before, he said he was in on this party. Can’t you get the dope from him?"

"Vegel never reported back."

"Shit, man…shit." Mahmoud shook his head. "He was the goods. Shit! I’m fuckin’ sorry, sir."

"He didn’t make any kind of contact with you Monday?"

"No, man. I never heard from him after Sunday night. We went out drinking together. Buckhead. Damn easy pickings."

"I see." Hesha leaned his head on his hand. "Can you tell me anything else–even the slightest bits of gossip–about the situation in Atlanta before the crash?"

"I can try," said Mahmoud, and did so for a badly rambling hour and ten minutes. Hesha frequently had to stop him and ask for more detail, or clearer words, or better identification of the principle actors in the soap opera that was Kindred politics. At the end, still not sure he had everything that he wanted, he let the boy run down.

"Mahmoud, your education has been seriously neglected."

"Yeah."

Hesha looked up sharply. There was a note of resignation in the neonate’s voice, and genuine regret.

"What, hadn’t you heard, Hesha? Diamondback got himself assnecked in Vegas. He’s stored away safe enough, but out for the count. It was during the epidemic, so I guess it wasn’t exactly headline news…"

"I see." Hesha thought ahead. "I would offer to instruct you myself, but I fear my current project would entail more danger than education. Tomorrow night, if you like, I can fill in the greater gaps. In a year’s time, perhaps, if Diamondback is still sleeping, I will teach you the finer points of Ventrue weaknesses and Tremere treacheries. Agreed?"

"Yes, sir. I gotta say, Diamondback always said you were high class. Had a lot of respect for you."

"Do you need anything at the moment?"

"Uh. I’m all right for cash, and I’ve got connections…after my lessons, could you get me a safe route into California? I’d like to set up with the cartel trade first hand this time, and maybe put a little capital into one of those basement chemists. Crystal meth is on the way out…"

"Of course. How far south?"

"Diego?" Mahmoud’s face lit up.

"Consider it done."