Time: Directly following the Conclave, Sunday evening, Oct. 27.
When he reached his private limousine, Ian Cameron halted to scowl at his second, who was acting peculiarly. "What?" he snapped, irritated. It was bad enough he was made the fool in the Conclave, first over the Tremere, then again about the aborted fire. Cam was seething already, his mind darkly turning over plans and schemes to handle the traitors within his own clan.
"Frank Kouhanek," Charlie Wing, the Brujah second, calmly reminded his primogen.
"What about him?" Cameron asked, waving at the driver to open the door for him. He looked back for Charlie's answer while the man hastened to get the door.
"He blew Jack Pearson out of his apartment window with a phosphorous gun," Charlie murmured, getting into the limo beside his boss. "Brujah will want to prevent him from becoming Gangrel. You know Luna will send him after us - reason for the Embrace."
[Fuck, he's right,] Cameron mused, nodding at his second. [This is an issue from Eddie Fiori's days, and I really despise taking care of someone else's old trash... but the clan will look to me to carry through on this.] "Call for Al Ringwald and his boys to meet us at Frank's apartment. But I will be going in myself. This needs my personal attention."
Smugly, Charlie grinned and pulled out his cell phone to make the call.
Two long, black, sleek limousines pulled up in front of the old Victorian house where Frank Kouhanek's apartment was on the third floor. Brujah poured forth from the cars, swarming into the house, led by the slim, cultured, primly tailored Cameron. When there was no answer to a strident knock upon the detective's apartment door, Cam himself broke down the door and entered, followed by his henchmen.
Kouhanek wasn't there. Moreover, closets and drawers were open as if someone had been there before them, doing a search, or else... someone left in a hurry. Cameron narrowed his eyes, gestured the boys back.
Ten minutes later, a smaller contingent entered the police department, and headed for the ninth floor, Homicide Division. Cameron looked around furtively, wary for Ventrue on the force, but there was only the normal mortal night shift personnel, who glanced in surprise at the suits but were mentally diverted quickly by the Brujah before leaving. No one would later report seeing anything amiss.
More searches ensued, on into the morning. Stops were made at the Haven, the Nighthawk's Diner where Frank had often been seen, even in Frank's childhood neighborhood in a rough part of town. But Frank Kouhanek had no more mortal ties left, it seemed, a loner cop driven by his work. If not at home, if not at work, then...? Checks had already been done on the detective roster, and no one was on stakeout, no one at that hour - pushing on near 3 A.M. now - out on a case.
There was only one conclusion. Julian Luna had Frank Kouhanek sequestered in his compound like a cloistered monk, hidden away from the evil world.
And the Camera della Luna was a fortress. Cam'd be mad to take on Luna's forces for a little revenge. No mortal was worth that.
Cameron did not share these thoughts with his minions. Brusquely he set guards on the apartment, a watch on the police station. The rest he dismissed, then ordered his driver to take him home, leaving Charlie off first.
Alone at last in his downtown condo, Cameron sank into a chair, tired in spirit and mind. The crushing defeat of the Conclave was allowed to sink in, and he bent over, his face in his hands, letting the weight bear down on him for a while.
All the trump cards were played, and the deck appeared heavily stacked against him. Lillie had double-crossed him. Tremere, his clan's most bitter enemies after the Gangrels, were infesting San Francisco. There were traitors in his own house, most likely Cyrus's plantings. He'd been treated with contempt and disdain in the Conclave. He didn't even have the prince's great-granddaughter, Sasha, also Brujah, to use against Julian Luna anymore; Sasha had left the state several weeks ago, it'd been reported. [I've already made mistakes, and I've been here less than a month,] he ruminated in misery. [Sorrel, if he were alive to see this, would be ashamed of me...]
Cameron launched himself from his chair, beginning to pace before the cold fireplace. [My rage knows no peace,] he thought bitterly. [I must appease it, give rein to it, yield to its cleansing power.] He stopped as suddenly as he'd started to pace, and held up his hands. Wounds like small crescent moons in his palm closed over where his fists were clenched tightly and his fingernails pressed to piercing. [But I am the only one suffering this ignominy,] Cameron admitted to himself. [This hurts only me.]
He had a brief, dark thought then - [Bring down the entire clan with me, take them all down, burn gloriously until there are no more of us to be tormented by Ventrue and the others...] It was a delicious thought for a moment, cleansing, purifying. Then his pain would end.
Then Sorrel's voice snapped in his ear from beyond the grave, still bound to his childe, [I did not make you for THAT!]
Cameron closed his eyes, cringing, concentrating on the voice. "You made me for death anyway, Sorrel," he murmured to his sire. "For if I do as you wish... if I take the city from Julian Luna - if I *could*, mind you - then I am marked for dead as soon after as was Eddie Fiori so marked. You ask me to die, sire."
There was no answer. There could be no answer to that. Cameron snorted, went back to pacing. [So, there's my options - continue on a fruitless course until my death, or purposely lead the clan to our mutual demise. Not much of a choice...]
Again he stopped. [Cam, old man, you didn't get to be primogen by being impatient,] he told himself wryly. [There could be another path to take...]
The phone rang. "Yes," he said into it when he picked up.
"My lord, it's been reported that the Gangrel primogen is still at the Luna compound," came the voice of one of his inner circle, an opportunistic mouthpiece named Sammy Lang. "There are isolated Gangrel on the streets... we could..."
Cameron had utterly no patience for this, however. "We could WHAT? Honestly, don't you have a brain to think with, man? What use is it to strike at one or two here or there? Are we Brujah no more than tin soldiers, playing children's games in the dirt? Tell me you have an extremely good reason for calling me at home, Lang."
There was no answer. "Thought so," Cameron snapped. "Do that again and I'll have your head."
"Yes, my lord," the man squeaked, abashed.
"You know, Lang... I'd be watching my back if I were you. Your brothers might start to wonder if you're trying to divert your primogen from his own agendas."
"Yes, my lord!"
Cameron hung up the phone, allowing a momentary smirk. He'd call Charlie tomorrow, tell him to have Lang watched, under possibly suspicion for involvement in the Haven fire fiasco. Lesson... learned.
Then he felt the weight again. The rage. His Brujah blood, so quick to boil, seething with indignation. [No!] he told himself sharply. [I cannot afford to be ruled by rage. Only reason... that's how I will survive. Reason... and patience...]
The End
