One Week Later

Centre Hospitalier de Chêne Rouge, Saguenay - Québec, Canada

12:30 A.M.

Zoé Sauvage had seen many things throughout both her lives.

She had once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her oppressed loved ones, friends, and neighbors in shouting defiance to the skies and storming the immense, stone walls of the Bastille.

She had walked ruined, blood-drenched cobblestone streets piled with unrecognizable corpses- the nauseating smell of blood, feces, urine, and gunpowder hanging thick in the air.

It was the strangest thing, but the memories of those days only evoked guilt and frustration.

Not because she had been too weak, or too incompetent to save the lives of her loved ones. Not because she had hidden within the ruins of a smithy for two days and two nights, curled in the fetal position beneath an overhang of rubble. Incapable of anything besides silently weeping in ragged, soiled clothing as soldiers chaotically gunned down people in the streets and incoherent screams floated on the air like smoke from the raging flames.

No. There was no anger, remorse, or lingering fear associated with the memories of her youth. Instead, there was disappointment, and frustration- The Beast found her memories distasteful, berating her for wasting such a perfect opportunity to hunt and gorge herself in the wake of all that mayhem and confusion. Apparently, it did not care she was an ordinary mortal during those days. Because now, they were one and the same.

In fact, it was shortly thereafter, in the wake of revolutionary upheaval, that Zoé was Embraced.

The details of that night were a foggy blur.

And although she had never felt comfortable with that odd gap in her now nearly perfect memory, travelling with her Sire showed that there was more to unlife than asking, ‘How?’ or ‘Why?’.

It simply was. It happened. She was Kindred. She was a Cainite. Did it matter ‘why’? Would understanding ‘how’ change reality?

No. Survival and the strength to survive were all that mattered now- philosophy was a luxury.

Perhaps if she’d been a young, impressionable soul, then her Sire’s nightly lectures on Kindred, Traditions, and supernatural world history would have left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Or perhaps even evoked a profound sense of denial given her French romantic’s view of the world and human nature.

But Zoé was a young soul tempered in the crucible of war, suffering, and starvation. Her Sire’s lectures showed her the path to power- nothing lasted in this world, not even the immortals.

Every moment was sand seeping between your fingers, and you had to hold onto every moment, savor everything, live your unlife to the fullest, and annihilate anyone and everything that stood in your way of that goal.

Zoé dearly missed that woman- her Sire had been everything a Childer could want in a mentor. Zoé often wondered if her Sire had essentially spent every waking moment for nearly a decade passing on her legacy. And after Zoé was introduced to the political world of the Camarilla, Anarchs, and Sabbat, she quickly came to the realization that her Sire was something special.

Most Childer were simply abandoned. It did not matter whether it was due to negligence, rebellious natures, punishment, or even a mistake- the streets were rife with lost, starving Kindred whose only options were to band together in search for safety and blood. They would feed on the homeless, the destitute, or just some unlucky person leaving a 24/7 liquor store in the dead of night.

After the Sire and Childer were forever separated, Zoé’s true journey began when she decided to take the next ship bound across the Atlantic to the new world.

It was a grueling journey, to say the least: quietly feeding and safely sleeping in the ship's lower hold while simultaneously avoiding day duty on a roughly nine week trans-Atlantic voyage... disguised as a man. It had taken her years to recover from that experience- mortals were filthy, unmannered, smelly cretins only worth their weight in blood.

She couldn’t even begin to understand how she’d lived over thirty-two years as one.

There was also one particularly gruesome evening where she'd come within inches of violating the Masquerade and igniting a ship-wide witch hunt. She'd been forced to go without feeding for too long because the First Mate had suddenly conducted an inspection of the lower decks, and Zoé couldn't manage to restrain The Beast as it viciously clawed and tore at her mind- begging to free itself from the claustrophobic confines of the ship. It wanted to run free, to hunt, to kill every living thing on the ship and feed until it couldn’t move.

Zoé remembered waking to the exquisite taste of blood staining her lips. And the withered, pale corpse of a galley boy slumped against the wall. It was her first night since the Embrace that she lost control. She hated it, hated the Beast, hated that when push came to shove, she wasn't in control. Hated that there was something living inside her mind that actively rebelled against rational thought, fought critical thinking, and lived only to consume.

And yet, it was also her. They were one and the same.

It did not make her feel better.

She eventually settled on faking the galley boy's death, leaving evidence of loose and missing teeth to imply scurvy, and hoped the bite marks and torn skin on the throat would be blamed on rats. She couldn't do much about how pale the corpse was, though. Maybe they'd blame it on the boy working below decks day and night without sun exposure. Thankfully, deaths weren't unusual on such voyages, and she'd made it to the New World intact and without stirring any Inquisition hives.

And despite all of that. Despite experiencing war and starvation, cold-blooded murder, and country-wide uprisings- after all of that, everything she'd been through, both alive and dead, she couldn't believe she was convinced into coming back here.

She had been talked into it, of all things. And at his behest, no less.

'Fuck him, fuck them all. What is wrong with me?'

This was not the first time, nor probably the last, if she were honest with herself, where she had risked her life for that man.

And what did she get out of it?

An extremely nice high-rise back in the city? …Sure.

As many expensive, completely illegal cigars she could smoke? ...Yes.

Gorgeous sports cars, the latest clothes, as many blood dolls as she could handle, and exclusive hunting privileges in the city? …Yes, yes, mostly, and yes.

She inclined her head and pinched the bridge of her nose, a slight growl escaping her throat.

'Fine... pull it together.’

Her unlife was basically paradise. But it hadn't always been like that, had it? Absolutely not. She had earned every fucking ounce of that blood, and then some.

So why, in the name of Caine, did she feel indebted to that asshole!? All he did was smoke and drink blood-wine like the Camarilla was about to institute Prohibition.

And then there were those two blonde tramps- always hanging onto his shirt!

'As if the bastard needs protection at all times, give me a break,' She silently fumed.

He never sends those high-class skanks out on crucial Camarilla business... does that mean he trusts me more? She slightly deflated- then got angry again.

'This is the last time.'

Zoé's world-class temper simmered beneath her supermodel countenance- she was going hunting after this was over.

This whoever-the-fuck Montreal Prince and his hunting edicts could go fellatio a stake.

She looked around the site with fiery, golden-speckled green eyes for perhaps the dozenth time- the exchange was taking place in the middle of an open parking lot behind a semi-modern hospital on the edge of a populated city undergoing some renovations judging by the few parked heavy construction machinery and hastily stock-piled working tools. The hospital bordered a heavily-trafficked river to the north and was otherwise surrounded by businesses and residences in the other directions.

An absolute clusterfuck of an unmovable powder keg innocently waiting for a clumsy spark and fuse.

It also happened to be a particularly cold, windy night, punctuated with a steady sprinkling of snow. And although most Kindred were largely unaffected by extreme weather, it would garner someone’s passing attention if they saw a casually dressed, auburn-haired supermodel standing alone in the middle of a snow-covered parking lot outside of a building undergoing some exterior renovations.

Therefore, Zoé decided to go the full nine-yards with her winter wardrobe. Her goal was to not stand out, and the best way to not attract attention was to hide as much of her figure and hair as possible.

To that end, she had decided on a fashionable approach with a black, full-length, hooded sheepskin coat with a lush gray-black shearling trim and interior. On her hands were black, shearling sheepskin gloves with a decorative top-stitching detail, complete with a buckled tonal strap around the wrist where there was also some black-dyed shearling peeking out. Her shoes were calf-high, shearling-lined suede topping smooth, black leather boots on a beige, tread-patterned rubber sole that was just perfect for traction and insulation in snowy weather. The ensemble was completed by horn shaped glasses with upturned lenses, and a full-rim black frame.

Although the outfit was exorbitantly expensive, it was also elegant in its simplicity and wouldn’t attract any attention at a passing glance.

She suddenly felt three faint auras approaching- one of which stood out much more distinctly than the others.

‘Should be Sever’s Emissary.’

Three indistinct figures entered the parking lot opposite where Zoé stood.

Two tall, skinny, shadowy figures flanked the leading Emissary on either side and slightly behind, wearing black, long-sleeved winter hoodies and matching smooth-textured, insulated cargo pants. Their faces were concealed within the hoodies.

Zoé internally sneered at the attempt to intimidate.

The trio came to a halt at a respectful distance.

The Emissary himself stepped forward. He was a broad-shouldered, handsome Canadian man with a dark, full beard and wore a large, gray overcoat, black gloves, jeans, and boots.

Zoé at once had a foul taste in her mouth- this guy was an asshole. She could feel it in her dead, cynical heart. And he'd brought backup. Only slimy, evil assholes brought extra muscle to a pre-arranged, good-faith exchange.

'Fucking politics,' she absolutely abhorred getting caught in the middle of this nonsense. It was always a dick-measuring contest between Princes, and powerful Elders like herself became errand boys running their boss's measurements across state lines.

Zoé must've wrinkled her nose because the Emissary offered a warm, venomous smile and spread out his gloved hands.

"My apologies, Ms. Sauvage-" said the Emissary.

'And of course, he knows my name.' Zoé cursed herself.

"-but these two fine gentlemen," he motioned behind himself, "are only here to ensure my safety. Nothing more, nothing less. These are turbulent times, after all."

His confidant poise and wise, shrink-like tone irritated Zoé to no end. She made her displeasure plain.

“You practice that in the car ride over?”

“We walked, actually- I'm rather fond of this weather. Something about falling snow is...” he inhaled deeply while craning his head up with closed eyes, letting snow fall onto his face. He exhaled slowly and lowered his head. His eyes opened, momentarily flashing a deeper grey.

“-soothing, wouldn’t you agree?

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

Zoé frowned.

"No matter,” he waved it off, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his overcoat, “-I just couldn’t help but take a moment to appreciate the little things.”

“Afterall,” his eyes bored into hers, “where else can we find the meaning to eternal life?”

Zoé rolled her eyes, “Thanks doc, same time next week?” She scoffed.

The Emissary’s eyes narrowed- he clearly did not appreciate his ‘profound’ musings used as the butt-end of a joke.

“Onto business then- Hunter Whitaker, Emissary to the Baron Sever." He said, his amiable smile replaced with a sinister neutrality, and his soft, grey eyes took on a hard, sharp edge.

Zoé gave a curt nod, her expression lying somewhere between annoyed and cold.

"Allow me to be brief,” his voice less than diplomatic, “do you have it?"

"Depends.” Zoé crossed her arms beneath her ample cleavage, causing some of her porcelain bust to peek from between the sheepskin of her coat.

“On...?” his eyes briefly flicked down.

Zoé tsked.

“That.”

Silence.

"Ms. Sauvage-"

"You have five seconds.”

A frown briefly tugged at the corners of his mouth, but he otherwise didn't so much as bat an eye and instead snapped his fingers.

The shadowy figure to his right stepped forward and handed him something before stepping back. The Emissary held up a gray USB between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, while he kept the left behind his back.

"A list of known SI operatives working out of Montreal with suspected connections to the New York City blood trade."

"Included is also a list of their suspected contacts in your local law enforcement, media, and essential services." He emotionlessly explained.

Zoé cocked an eyebrow.

“Quite the spread.”

He shrugged.

"A show of goodwill, I was told."

"Apparently, you have-" The Emissary's phone rang. The generic ringtone was swallowed by the open air and snow.

‘Well shit.’

A direct line to an Emissary's burner phone? During a supposedly clandestine, high-stakes political exchange between two opposing factions? What could possibly go wrong?

She almost pre-emptively circulated her vitae but decided against it, opting to save her true strength and use the small arsenal on her person instead. She watched closely.

The Emissary visibly tensed, then pocketed the USB drive and pulled out an old flip phone without looking at Zoé, answering with: "Whit-"

His voice abruptly vanished.

Despite straining her extremely sensitive hearing, she couldn't hear the conversation. At all. In fact... her eyes imperceptibly widened.

'I can't hear the snow or the wind against his clothing. Or around him.' Her eyes flicked to the two bodyguards.

'Thought so... Obfuscation, with traces of Oblivion. Lasombra?'

With a Kindred's senses an object roughly thirty meters away may as well be right in front of their eyes. So, when Zoé found that the two bodyguards' slim figures were slightly distorted, as though shadowy mirages coruscated around their limbs, she knew they'd used vitae to control the surrounding darkness and to obscure the area around the Emissary.

These two ‘bruisers’ weren't Embraced yesterday.

'The one on the right looks more in control- fluid shadows and relaxed posture. Kill him first; two rounds to center mass should lock him down for a second, then go for the throat or head in two shots or less, recovery gives me five seconds to take out the other one... but switch targets no matter what, and... Same thing if he stays ten meters out, knife if closer. As for the Emissary... most likely Brujah- he leans into the philosopher king schtick, avoid close-quarters or igniting his blood rage with body shots, aim for the head or joints to limit mobility. Done and done.'

‘Tell God your plan, and Murphy laughs.’ A colleague's voice echoed in her mind.

Zoé’s expression turned grim.

She looked back to the silent phone call. The Emissary was pacing back and forth. Then, he suddenly stopped with his back turned and snapped the phone shut, stuffing it back into his coat. He stared at the scaffolding erected against one of the hospital's walls. Sound returned moments later as the bodyguards dropped the obfuscation bubble.

Zoé’s fists tightened into fists at her sides- the leather in her gloves audibly creaking beneath the strain.

“The deal is off," The Emissary said without elaboration.

He started walking toward the building’s employee back entrance.

The bodyguards remained unmoving- Zoé could feel their eyes, hidden within the shadows of their hoodies, boring into her.

The Emissary placed a hand on the door knob, and stopped. He looked back over his shoulder- his face carved of stone.

"A pleasure, Ms. Sauvage.” The door opened with squealing protest and shut with a metallic bang.

The icy wind whipped at Zoé’s clothes, strands of her auburn hair escaped the confines of her sheep-lined hoodie.

Snow. Wind. Darkness. Silence.