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  Edited By Joseph Nassise 
   
   
  DARKENED  
  STREETS  
   
   
   
  
   
   
   
  Credits  
  Written By: Brandon Steward, Aaron Rosen-
  berg, Russel Zimmerman, R.R. Callaway Rea, Bill 
  Bodden, C.T. Phipps, T.L. Webb, and David Niall 
  Wilson. 
   
  Special Thanks 
  To all the fans of the World of Darkness, past, 
  present and future 
   
  Edited By: Joseph Nassise 
  Developed By: Joseph Nassise  
   
  © 
   2019 White Wolf Entertainment AB. All rights reserved. 
  Vampire: The Masquerade®, World of Darkness®, Story-
  telling System™, and Storytellers Vault™ are trademarks 
  and/or registered trademarks of White Wolf Entertain-
  ment AB. All rights reserved. 
  For additional information on White Wolf and the World 
  of 
  Darkness, 
  please, 
  visit: 
  www.white-wolf.com, 
  www.worldofdarkness.com and www.storytellersvault.com. 
  
   
   
  4 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
   
  Table of Contents 
  Watch the Roads by Brandon Steward 5 
   
  Wrong Exit by Aaron Rosenberg 
  21 
   
  Takers by Russell Zimmerman 
  28 
   
  Both Ways Bob and the Dead Dead End 
  by R.R. Callaway Rea 
  43 
   
  Toward the Setting Sun by Bill Bodden 55 
   
  The Waukegan Way by C.T. Phipps 
  62 
   
  Fireball Run by T.L. Webb 
  70 
   
  Detour by David Niall Wilson 
  84 
   
   
   
   
  DARKENED STREETS  
  A YEAR OF THE ROAD  
  ANTHOLOGY 
   
  
   
   
  5 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
   
   
  6 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  Sunday, September 29, 1:25 a.m.  
  Agent Tyrone steadied himself against the old 
  black LTD with his left hand, careful to avoid the 
  shards of fallen glass peppering the hood. He al-
  lowed himself a few moments to catch his breath, to 
  give his vision time to steady and his ears to stop 
  ringing, and to let the oncoming curtains of rain 
  pour down a welcome cool against the back of his 
  aching head.  
  At his side, the handle gripped tightly in his 
  swollen and partially numb right hand, hung a large 
  metal case: The Package, their objective, or rather, 
  its housing. Tyrone didn't know what was inside — 
  not because of the current fog in his brain or any 
  state of shock — but because he was never told. All 
  he knew was that it was being kept inside of a lock-
  box made of solid primium: the metal used for coun-
  teracting, negating, or otherwise containing the man-
  ifestations of reality deviants. Which meant that 
  whatever was inside was important and, he thought 
  to himself as he placed it into the car and paid one 
  last look at the scene, hopefully worth dying for.  
  He hadn't felt shaken when they stormed the 
  motel for The Package and found themselves in a 
  firefight with two reality deviants. When nearly 
  every electronic within half-a-mile got fried, he did-
  n't notice himself flinch. The sigils written on the 
  walls in blood didn't seem to give him pause, neither 
  did those things that came out of them. Even as the 
  bodies started to pile up and he watched that deviant 
  burn from the inside out while screaming horribly 
  and nearly taking the entire building with him, he 
  was sure he held it together.  
  It wasn't until he caught himself forgetting 
  which key started his car and being puzzled at the 
  sight of his own drenched tie hanging down from his 
  neck and gliding across the vehicle's chassis that it 
  occurred to him that he might be just a bit rattled.  
  Tyrone shakily climbed into the driver's seat and 
  wiped some dust from his eyes. His ears were still 
  ringing, but he recognized the sound of his partner's 
  voice from the other side.  
  "You're in bad shape, Boss. Be careful. Watch 
  the road." She looked at Tyrone with concern as she 
  got into her seat and shut the passenger door.  
  "Yeah, sure Kid." Tyrone's response was a mix-
  ture of distraction and shock, and he spent the next 
  several seconds staring out the window at the phos-
  phorus glow of distant red and blue emergency 
  lights before his hand blindly located the ignition. 
  What the hell just happened?  
   
  Tuesday, September 24, 2:32 p.m. 
  "This tea is cold." Damurah declared, staring deri-
  sively into his plastic cup. He had yet to make eye 
  contact with the confused waitress.  
  WATCH THE R0ADS  
  BRANDON STEWARD 
   
  
   
   
  7 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  "Um..." the young woman blinked, looking as 
  though she'd just been presented with a riddle. "Yes 
  sir. That's, uh, how iced tea comes."  
  Damurah eyed her without lifting his head. "It's 
  cold," he reiterated, hoping the frigidity of his tone 
  might accentuate his lost point.  
  She glanced over her shoulder and then back, 
  looking increasingly hopeless. "I'm...sorry. Do you 
  want me to, um," she paused, "microwave it for 
  you?"  
  Damurah, nearly expressionless, slowly looked 
  down at his cup and then back to the woman. "Well, 
  that wouldn't be very good, would it?" he asked.  
  "Um, no..." she conceded with an uncomfortable 
  shrug. "No sir, it would not."  
  They stared at each other in long, awkward si-
  lence, enough to allow nearly a full chorus of the es-
  tablishment's personal take on a happy birthday song 
  to be asynchronously belted out by the staff at a 
  nearby table.  
  Damurah slid the cup to her in defeat. "Water, 
  please."  
  "On it!" the woman chirped elatedly before Da-
  murah could scarcely punctuate his sentence. He 
  noted her half-skipping in visible relief upon her de-
  parture. Had he been so unreasonable? He chose not 
  to reflect on it.  
  "What sort of place is this," he implored the 
  empty space on the other side of the table, "that the 
  tea is weak and cold?"  
  Seated across the booth, unseen by all but his 
  master, the djinni Shalms laughed and shook his 
  head. "Ask the prancing young lady. No doubt she is 
  smitten with your charms."  
  Damurah caught himself scowling at the jab, but 
  otherwise offered his companion a customarily si-
  lent response. He shrugged his leather jacket off of 
  his shoulders, pulling his arms from the sleeves and 
  folding it up neatly in the seat beside him. He then 
  checked his watch and stared out into the sea of pa-
  trons.  
  "They should've been here thirty minutes ago. I 
  need to know the location of our quarry, and I did 
  not travel all this way to be kept waiting."  
  Shalms noted Damurah's survey of the crowd 
  and opted to do the same. This did not mean he 
  couldn't multitask, however, so he continued to 
  speak. "This is a family place, Master. It's on the 
  sign. Perhaps you could embrace the spirit and will 
  yourself to do something besides brood while we 
  wait? Actually eat, perhaps?"  
  Damurah remained silent just long enough to re-
  ceive his water from the returning waitress with a 
  polite nod. He sipped once, slid the cup out of his 
  way and resumed his vigil. "To hell with their sign. I 
  have been to Ireland. Their tea is hot and strong. 
  This is a place of plastic and lies. Nothing more."  
  Shalms grinned. "The restaurant or the coun-
  try?"  
  Damurah scoffed, sitting up slightly for a better 
  view of the front door. "This is not a restaurant. This 
  is a prison."  
  "Well, yeah," a smooth, unexpected voice sud-
  denly piped in from around the corner. "But the fries 
  are great."  
  Damurah and his djinni both sprung to their feet 
  just in time to come face to face with five men, all 
  nearly identical, wearing pressed gray suits, ties, and 
  sunglasses.  
  The tallest of the five flashed a porcelain smile. 
  "Damurah Meghwal, yes? Pleased to meet you. 
  Welcome to New Jersey."  
  The back of Damurah's neck grew warm with 
  tension, and he fell utterly still. Technocrats. Fol-
  lowers of Lies. Dregvanti. How had he not seen 
  them approach? He felt the tips of his fingers begin 
  to tingle and his muscles tense. Clenching his jaw, 
  his eyes darted almost imperceptibly in the direction 
  of his as-yet unmanifested companion, and he regis-
  tered the nod of understanding from Shalms. They 
  counted in silent accord: 3...2...  
  Before he could finish the count, the room be-
  gan to spin. Damurah felt his knees weaken and his 
  mind start to cloud. As he struggled to center his 
  thoughts, the restaurant and its patrons became an 
  incoherent kaleidoscope of colors and shapes.  
  In perfect unison, the four gray-suited men in 
  the rear each reached a hand into his coat. The man 
  in the lead glanced back to them nonchalantly and 
  spoke. "As soon as the EDE even thinks about mov-
  ing, take him down." He punctuated this with a nod 
  and an angled, two fingered wave toward the djinni 
  before smiling back to Damurah.  
  "The Sindhi will go for his pockets or his jew-
  elry. You know what to do."  
  Both Shalms and his master looked to one an-
  other in disbelief. The entire scene seemed to be 
  playing out in a bubble, as though the rest of the res-
  taurant were oblivious. Damurah felt his stomach 
  churn as his vision continued to blur.  
  The lead man continued, "Now, it looks like 
  you're waiting on someone, and you're going to 
  
   
   
  8 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  notice some dizziness setting in from that water 
  soon. So in the interest of everybody's health," he 
  made a small sweeping gesture toward the booth, 
  "why don't you have a seat?"  
  He didn't remember sitting back down or how 
  much time passed, only the rage he felt as he strug-
  gled to process each and every humiliating aspect of 
  his situation. Directly across from him, the lead man 
  — at least, he was fairly certain it was given their 
  near uniform appearance and his impaired vision — 
  had taken a seat as well.  
  There was no sign of Shalms or the other four 
  agents, but Damurah currently felt oddly little incli-
  nation to look anywhere other than directly into the 
  man's shades.  
  "Shal...Shal..." he sputtered. 
  Damurah watched the agent shake his head and be-
  come a mess of blurry after-images.  
  "Don't you remember, Mr. Meghwal?" The 
  agent smiled. "You ordered him away. He had to 
  go." His voice was friendly. Almost soothing. "That 
  was a while ago. Please, continue with what you 
  were saying. You were looking for The Package?"  
  Damurah blinked, struggling to make sense of 
  the dreg... of the man's words. Why would he have 
  sent — what was his name — away? He must have 
  had a good reason. He always did.  
  "The...Package?" Damurah hesitated, trying to 
  center himself.  
  "Yes. You've been looking for it for some time, 
  very noisily I might add. And you've been asking 
  questions of certain interested parties, haven't you?" 
  The agent began to nod slowly as he awaited confir-
  mation.  
  "Y-yes." Damurah felt himself beginning to nod 
  along.  
  The agent's voice was warm and friendly, and he 
  spoke with a calming cadence, as if to a child. "And 
  you were here to meet someone, weren't you? To 
  help find it?"  
  Damurah continued to nod in agreement. It was 
  true, of course, and what was more pure than Truth?  
  "I really am sorry for all this, Mr. Meghwal, but 
  please understand there are a lot of bad men looking 
  for The Package. Now then," the man brought his el-
  bows to the table and pressed his hands together, 
  forming a triangle with his fingertips, "why don't 
  you tell me who you—"  
  "I will...not suffer this..." Damurah interjected, 
  staring at the reflection of his own hate-filled gaze in 
  the operative's glasses. It was a struggle to speak, 
  and he practically spat out the last word, "... indig-
  nity."  
  The gray-suited man raised an eyebrow and 
  shook his head, careful never to break eye contact. 
  "I understand how this must look, Mr. Meghwal, 
  and you have every right to be angry. But these were 
  necessary precautions given the circumstances. 
  Please believe me when I tell you that we are not 
  here to ruin your day. We're here to talk. That's the 
  truth."  
  Damurah sneered at the use of that word and let 
  his teeth grind painfully against each other. The dis-
  comfort seemed to bring a spark of lucidity. The 
  world around the agent was an incoherent gaussian 
  fuzz, and the man's rehearsed platitudes and check-
  list of trite power plays made the mage every bit as 
  sick to his stomach as whatever they'd managed to 
  drug him with. This meant that, even in a diminished 
  state, Damurah was able to convey a remarkable 
  amount of hatred to his sole point of focus. "I am 
  Truth. And I would not believe you if you told me 
  the sky was blue."  
  The agent nodded, and offered Damurah the 
  type of smile that was prepared to sell him a car. 
  "It's not," he retorted, taking a sip of the water which 
  had somehow found its way over to his side. "Ahhh. 
  Would've preferred iced tea, but at least it's cold."  
  He slid the cup over to Damurah before offering 
  a coy aside, "Now you get to wonder if I'm immune 
  somehow, or if I just convinced you that your drink 
  was spiked."  
  The agent's words came true immediately. Even 
  Damurah was surprised at how much hatred he now 
  saw in his reflection's eyes.  
  "The point that I hope you'll take away, Mr. 
  Megwhal," the agent continued, "is that, believe it or 
  not — and forgive me if I expect your people to lean 
  toward the former where belief is concerned — we 
  actually have quite a bit of respect for you."  
  Damurah, continuing to focus on his own rage-
  filled expression, offered no reply to the agent's 
  mocking or flattery.  
  The agent continued, "We've done our home-
  work. My people don't normally come loaded for 
  Extra Dimensional Entities like your friend, and if 
  you'll pardon a little inside info... " he leaned part-
  way across the table, bringing one hand up to the 
  side of his mouth to whisper,"...These suits aren't 
  even normally waterproof these days, much less fire
  proof." The man smiled again and leaned back to his 
  side of the table.  
  
   
   
  9 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  "We're not stupid, Mr. Megwhal. But we be-
  lieved it in all our best interests to attempt a sit down 
  and, well, Damurah Megwhal doesn't just sit down 
  with the enemy..." he paused long enough to reach 
  down into his seat below the table and produce Da-
  murah's still-neatly-folded jacket from where it had 
  been left minutes ago, taking just a moment to ad-
  mire the various multicolored designs adorning it 
  before sliding it across the table to its furious owner, 
  "...unless he's off-balance."  
  Damurah saw his reflected eyes widen and his 
  nostrils flare. This man's every gesture; the plati-
  tudes, the body language, the deconstruction, even 
  switching their seats — was a calculated taunt: a 
  power play designed to make him feel helpless, an-
  gry, and disoriented. But even knowing that, the 
  methods were not wholly ineffective. Damurah was 
  at a disadvantage, and he could literally see it in the 
  face of his enemy. He worked to clear his mind and 
  watched himself take a breath. Slowly, he began to 
  speak with a deliberate, forced calm. "Balanced or 
  not, why would I speak with you?  
  "Because, Mr. Meghwal, you're on a mission. 
  You're practical. And you're one piece of infor-
  mation away from going free." The operative's face 
  seemed to stretch and distort. "Let's be upfront. Your 
  little cross-country jumps with your friend here 
  haven't exactly been subtle. I'm frankly surprised 
  you're not sporting some statistically inevitable glow 
  by now. You've left quite a trail, and it seems to 
  match the chatter of some, well, let's call them 'dis-
  ruptive elements'. I don't think that's a coincidence."  
  "And what...do you think, dregvanti?" Damurah 
  snarled impatiently.  
  "I don't think you're directly involved with the 
  would-be thieves we're after, Mr. Meghwal. They're 
  too — mmm — understated for you. But I also think 
  you're a resourceful man who's willing to talk to 
  people he might not like to get what he wants." The 
  man smiled warmly, watching Damurah's glazed 
  eyes flicker. "Now, don't you want to tell me who 
  you came here to meet and be on your way?"  
  "...Yes." As Damurah spoke, he saw the flicker 
  in his own eyes as well. Now it was his turn to lean 
  forward, though not without difficulty and the use of 
  the table for balance. He pushed himself as far as he 
  could toward the visibly eager agent, until they were 
  nearly nose-to-nose. "You, dregvanti," he declared. 
  As he watched himself utter the words in the startled 
  Technocrat's glasses, he felt some of the fog lift.  
  The man seemed visibly taken aback, but forced 
  a bemused chuckle, "I'm sorry, me?"  
  Damurah continued to focus on his own re-
  flected face, which grew more steady and defiant by 
  the second. "I saw myself meeting you. Here." He 
  paused long enough to get his breath and moisten his 
  lips. His voice was nearly monotone. "It is where I 
  tear the location of Al-Eajib from your soul." At 
  these words, Damurah could see the other agents 
  standing behind the booth starting to come into fo-
  cus.  
  The agent's expression went cold. He shifted in 
  his booth, and leaned forward to meet his jousting 
  partner's face. "We're surrounded by sleepers, Mr. 
  Meghwal. And I know how your kind feel about 
  subtlety." He leaned in even farther, nearly whisper-
  ing in Damurah's ear. "Is this really where you want 
  to die, deviant?"  
  Damurah smiled as the reflected sight of his 
  own steadying visage drew closer to him. As he 
  spoke to it, he seemed to forget about the Techno-
  crat, and in doing so melted the remaining fog. It 
  was an affirmation of will to himself, from himself. 
  "In the vision, there were two birthdays. They 
  started clapping their second song just before my 
  will was made manifest and you began to scream."  
  The agent drew in a sharp breath and started to 
  pull away. As his face passed Damurah's, he caught 
  sight of a gathering of servers, just over the mage's 
  shoulder, presenting a small chocolate cake to a 
  young boy. The agent's mouth fell open.  
  At the same time, just over the Technocrat's 
  shoulder, Damurah could see the overhead lights be-
  ginning to intensify above the four agents as they 
  moved for their weapons, and he could hear the 
  sound of the water in his glass start to boil and hiss. 
  Damurah opened his mouth as well, uttering a single 
  invocation, "Shalms."  
  And then they clapped.  
   
  Sunday, September 29, 1:28 a.m.  
  "So what exactly happened to that one back 
  there?" The Kid whispered with some reservation 
  while fastening her seatbelt and glancing back over 
  her shoulder through the rear window of the car. 
  There was little visibility left in the absence of any 
  functioning street lights, but she still managed to fol-
  low the rising cascades of smoke and steam a few 
  feet back, now illuminated red like flares in their 
  taillights, to the still-smoldering scorch marks in the 
  rain-battered parking lot.  
  
   
   
  10 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  Tyrone, still feeling fuzzy from the recent con-
  flict but doing his best to focus, offered a matter-of-
  fact reply as he turned on the windshield wipers and 
  slowly and carefully pulled back onto the highway. 
  "Statistical inevitability, Kid. Had to happen sooner 
  or later."  
  The Kid blinked twice in mild embarrassment 
  and fought the urge to tilt her head like she was 
  prone to do when utterly lost. She felt the heat rise 
  on the back of her neck and desperately hoped the 
  steady drum of rain against the roof would mask her 
  confused silence long enough for some sort of 
  recognition to finally set in. To her relief, she only 
  needed a couple of seconds, "Oh! You mean par-
  ado—"  
  "I mean," Tyrone interrupted without even con-
  sidering a glance toward his young associate, his 
  distinctive baritone growing even deeper as he 
  reemphasized, "sta-tistical inevita-bility. Was bound 
  to happen."  
  The Kid's face betrayed her frustration immedi-
  ately, though her new riding partner, apart from his 
  periodic wincing, never seemed to take his focus off 
  the highway. "Oh, give me a break. It's just us. What 
  happened?"  
  Tyrone shook his head, stifling another grunt of 
  discomfort he hoped she didn't see as he began to 
  slow down ahead of the next exit. "You saw it. SHC, 
  Kid. Spontaneous human combustion."  
  The Kid stared at him in disbelief, simultane-
  ously grateful and furious that he wouldn't return her 
  glare. "Spontaneous. Human. Combustion. Right. 
  Don't hand me the sleeper line," she insisted, "Go 
  on."  
  Tyrone offered no answer. As he calmly took 
  the exit, the Kid caught a glimpse of his newly-illu-
  minated face amidst the cascades of working street 
  lights as they passed. Damn, she thought. They had 
  done a number on him, and he was playing it off like 
  a soldier. She looked down at her fried cellphone 
  and sighed.  
  Several miles later, Tyrone, eyes practically un-
  blinking, peered ahead at a forthcoming road sign 
  before speaking up again. "It's called the wick effect, 
  Kid. They've tested it. On pigs."  
  The Kid jumped frantically at Tyrone's sudden 
  unceremonious re-emergence into the conversation, 
  startling herself even further as the leather of the 
  seat beneath her squeaked. She had been lost in 
  thought about the events of the past few hours, most 
  specifically her current state relative to that of her 
  partner.  
  "Wait, do what?" she inquired with some exas-
  peration while steadying herself. "'Wick effect'?"  
  Tyrone nodded, still looking ahead with a squint 
  at the road sign and reaching to activate the car's 
  brights. "Yeah. Like a candle. Wound exposes sub-
  cutaneous fat. Fat gets exposed to flame. Fat heats 
  up, soaks into clothing, clothing acts like a wick. 
  Body burns from the inside out. Happens." It 
  sounded as though he had been waiting to share that, 
  or had already recited it a dozen times.  
  The Kid glared for a moment before turning her 
  attention to the road marker. 
       Tyrone continued, "All that fire? Wounds like 
  that? Bound to happen. Statistical inevitability."  
   
  Thursday, September 26, 2:30 p.m.  
  The whites of Damurah's eyes blazed with deep, 
  orange flame as they rolled back into his head. He 
  surrendered himself fully to his trance, flecks of 
  blood flying from his mouth as he repeated his 
  chant, "Glory be to Me! I am Truth!"  
  His words were met with a flurry of wooden 
  shards from what had once been a painstakingly 
  crafted jandi chair, now reduced to splinters by the 
  angry spirit. Damurah's outstretched hands quivered 
  as the wood dug into his limbs and tore across his 
  face, but still he continued, "Glory be to me! I am 
  Truth!"  
  The spirit thrashed once more, its gaseous form 
  bending at the words as though struck by a whip. It 
  began to spill out into the room, filling the small 
  chamber with a noxious, black fog.  
  "Glory...be to... me!" Even in his ecstatic state, 
  Damurah felt himself choking out that last word as 
  his mouth and lungs began to burn.  
  The fog began to ripple and spark as it pushed 
  against the wards holding it captive, and tiny orbs of 
  burning light started to flicker in and out of the 
  blackness, as though it were alive with a thousand 
  fireflies. Damurah's long, pleated sleeves started to 
  sizzle away in dozens of small circles like cigarette 
  burns as the lights in the fog made contact with his 
  body. He felt his throat begin to tighten as he 
  screamed out the rest, "I! Am! Truth!"  
  Upon that last cacophonous syllable, the blaze in 
  Damurah's eyes spilled forth from his splinter-perfo-
  rated face, briefly igniting some of the larger pieces 
  like matchsticks as it arched and swirled around his 
  body in an ever-widening twister of flames. The 
  
   
   
  11 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  spirit's black fog undulated and writhed on contact, 
  slowly being pushed into the corner of the room. 
  Damurah's bruised body drifted into the air as if held 
  on strings, and his voice boomed, "By my name of 
  Al-iirada, I lash you! By my name of Al-iirada, I 
  bind you! By my na—"  
  "Wait. No more." the spirit pleaded suddenly, 
  its voice emanating from everywhere in the room. "
  We offer you a boon. For our freedom."  
  Simultaneously, the spirit's lights flickered away 
  as quickly as they had come, and Damurah's flames 
  began to fizzle and subside. Within seconds, the rit-
  ual space was eerily silent, save for the shifting and 
  sizzling of furniture debris. The negotiations were 
  finished.  
  "You," the battered spirit whispered as it began 
  to coalesce. "We know you, Al-iirada. You are a 
  Taftani. A subjugator."  
  Damurah dropped to the ground, feeling a surge 
  of pain pulsing through his body as the adrenaline 
  began to leave his system. He addressed his subser-
  vient adversary coldly, abandoning Arabic in favor 
  of his native Sindhi tongue. "I am. And I require a 
  task of you."  
  The spirit was now a shadowy, rippling human-
  oid shape with multiple long, spindly arms which 
  seemed to flow in and out of its body, and six verti-
  cally set, glowing eyes, all of which lit up in curios-
  ity. "And what does 'The Will' want of us?"  
  Damurah stepped over some debris and wiped 
  his mouth on the back of his hand, managing to hide 
  his surprise at the sheer amount of blood. "My djinni 
  and I have been tracking an object of great im-
  portance for several months. It has the potential to 
  awaken thousands to Truth, yet does not wish to be 
  held. In just the past three weeks, it has passed 
  through no less than four owners."  
  The spirit seemed to perk up, its eyes now 
  beaming like flashlights. "It has seen much of the 
  world. Your mentor called it Al-Eajib. He 
  searched for it years ago in Haiti. It is why you 
  came to New York."  
  Damurah smiled slightly, looking rather im-
  pressed. "You know of that?"  
  The spirit nodded. "What you seek is known 
  on both sides of the gauntlet..." It paused briefly to 
  consider its words, "...and many of your thoughts 
  were laid bare to us when we tried to eat them."  
  Damurah blinked, unsure of how to respond to 
  that. After a few seconds, he opted to continue, "It is 
  in the possession of the dregvanti here, and I have 
  foreseen where they will lose Al-Eajib. You shall be 
  the 'how'. You will bring their stolen quarry to me."  
  The spirit nodded and clasped four of its hands 
  together. Damurah interjected before it could speak.  
  "Loudly." the Taftani clarified emphatically, 
  briefly recalling the New Jersey agent's screaming 
  face. "Fuck the Technocracy."  
  Hours later, the ancient djinni, Shalms, shook 
  his head in disappointment. "Master, you are neither 
  a novice nor a complete fool. Why would you fill a 
  ritual space with so much furniture?!"  
  Damurah offered the beleaguered djinni a single 
  glance over his shoulder from the couch, largely to 
  verify that he was still pushing the broom despite his 
  protests. "Was it not all made by my will and my 
  hands? What better to fill such a space? For a crea-
  ture that powerful, it was important that we both be 
  reminded whose home he entered."  
  Shalms kicked another piece of ornate lacquered 
  wood into the pile and glared into the next room at 
  his master. "This apartment is a rental, and you 
  could've died. You should have waited on me in-
  stead of cluttering up what is supposed to be a pure 
  space with crafts you no longer wanted."  
  Damurah glanced back over his shoulder and 
  answered matter-of-factly. "We must travel light. 
  Regardless, they were not unwanted. They were 
  beautiful, practical expressions of truth and will, and 
  they had a purpose to serve. As did you."  
  "You had me out getting tea!" the djinni bel-
  lowed in frustration, wishing he could throw down 
  his broom, if only to throw up his hands.  
  "It is important that you rest after consuming so 
  much paradox if you are to remain useful, devil. 
  And besides," Damurah paused and offered an inno-
  cent shrug before bringing his cup into view over the 
  couch and taking another sip, "it's very good tea." 
       Shalms shook his head and returned to his 
  maintenance, but not before he paused to count the 
  slashes now covering his master's face. "Six..." he 
  whispered to himself indignantly.  
  Damurah started to respond, but instead placed 
  his tea back onto the table and stood up to welcome 
  the return of the spirit as it suddenly rematerialized.  
  "Give it to me," Damurah demanded. 
  Several seconds passed, and then the spirit's eyes 
  dimmed. "We cannot."  
  Damurah's usual stoic expression began to 
  break. "You are in my service. You would deny our 
  pact?"  
  
   
   
  12 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  The spirit's form rippled as it shook its head, 
  "You misunderstand. They no longer have it. 
  One has taken Al-Eajib and managed to hide it 
  from us."  
  Damurah slammed both hands into the table, 
  nearly knocking over his tea. "What?! Speak plainly, 
  spirit! How is this possible?!"  
  The spirit flickered, "There was an ambush set 
  by another. Wards. Flames. And odd blood mag-
  ick. It reduces our sight to impressions. Frag-
  ments."  
  The Taftani's brow furrowed hard, sending lines 
  of blood from his unbandaged splinter wounds trick-
  ling down his forehead. Damurah stroked his beard 
  ponderfully, took a breath, then spoke through grit-
  ted teeth. "So you would you give up a chance at 
  freedom so quickly?"  
  Four of the spirit's eyes began to glow. "Hold. 
  You would not have called us were our 
  knowledge not substantial. We cannot tell you 
  where the object is..."  
  "Then what good is your 'knowledge' to me?!" 
  Damurah yelled, causing Shalms to peek out of the 
  adjacent room.  
  The spirit continued with a deliberate, spiteful 
  calm. "But we can show you the face of individual 
  who took it. Will that satisfy our accord?"  
  Damurah's eyes widened and, after a moment, 
  he slowly began to nod. "One man? Very well, 
  spirit. We have an accord. Tell me, truly, who is this 
  warrior who has managed to impose his will on the 
  dregvanti all alone?"  
  The spirit had no visible mouth to speak of, but 
  Damurah could swear he saw it smiling.  
   
  Saturday, September 28, 5:33 p.m.  
  It was just after 3 p.m. outside of the Bronx 
  when Janice first shouted "Fuck!" to herself in what 
  would prove to be a near-hourly situational assess-
  ment from then on. This pattern would be broken up 
  only by the rare bout of sleep which was, itself, to 
  become increasingly broken. Now, just two days 
  later, barreling through Mississippi, little had 
  changed.  
  Recent complications — a kind descriptor for no 
  small amount of vulgar magic — had led to her sud-
  denly speeding down I-59 toward Port Fourchon, 
  Louisiana with a deep, profusely bleeding gash in 
  her left palm and half-a-dozen smoldering, molten 
  imps roughly the size of house cats clawing and bit-
  ing at the hood and windows of The Royal We, her 
  van and intermittent residence. Janice spun the steer-
  ing wheel with her remaining good hand, narrowly 
  missing an oncoming truck.  
  Though one wouldn't know it to look at the 
  young lady now, in another life Janice Milliano had 
  been a drug abuse counselor operating out of the 
  Midwest. She'd had her share of excitement and 
  close calls since her Awakening, but despite it all, 
  she'd still had a home, a good family, a girlfriend, 
  and a sterling reputation for helping people, all bol-
  stered by her gifts.  
  Though she had sometimes felt distant from the 
  so-called sleepers, she had never thought of her new 
  awareness as anything but a blessing. "The Kid's one 
  of the lucky ones" seemed to be the running assess-
  ment amongst her senior practitioner friends. She 
  used to laugh at that.  
  But that was all before she had tried to use her 
  practice to help others Awaken; a decision that she 
  considered a natural extension of both her talents 
  and her desire to help people, if not an ethical obli-
  gation. Others cautioned her about the risks, but she 
  dismissed their warnings more and more with every 
  promising encounter. Surely, she reasoned, she was 
  beneath the notice of all that Tradition-Technocrat 
  political crap. But within two months, there were 
  multiple false claims of inappropriate conduct, a 
  doctored video, and a pound of cocaine in her trunk, 
  and it didn't take a degree to know who was respon-
  sible.  
  Now? Her world was a combination of constant 
  running, vulgar hit-and-runs against the Technoc-
  racy, half-finished Enochian translations, obfusca-
  tion runes, perpetual fatigue from bloodletting, mor-
  ally dubious mind wipes, gas station energy shots, 
  and most recently, a stolen primium box which had 
  just slid itself somewhere to the back of her van 
  alongside a fumbled ritual dagger, a depressing 
  amount of empty Vienna sausage cans, and a much-
  needed roll of bandages.  
  Janice had assumed she'd found some of her old 
  luck by even getting the box after all the stories 
  she'd heard. The chatter in the Digital Web had 
  made it sound too good to be true. The perfect thing 
  for getting one's stolen life back, sure, but not the 
  sort of thing she imagined she would ever get a real 
  shot at. But over the past few weeks, her contacts' 
  intel had made it seem more and more viable, espe-
  cially if one was willing to bend the rules.  
  Janice was always paradox-prone — it's what 
  had kept her an Orphan among mages. In another 
  
   
   
  13 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  life, she would never have taken the risk. But then 
  again, she reminded herself, in another life, she 
  wouldn't have needed to.  
  For the first several hours, she figured she'd got-
  ten off the hook for her little vulgar fireworks dis-
  play with just a few weird pains and some nausea. 
  The presence of the six flaming paradox spirits who 
  were now melting holes in her windshield, however, 
  said otherwise.  
  Initially, Janice had opted for the much more 
  conservative plan of flooring it to shake the little 
  bastards off. Failing that, and observing The Royal 
  We's exterior paint, along with the embedded obfus-
  cation runes beginning to burn away, she had opted 
  for the slightly less conservative option of super-
  charging the vehicle's reawakened spirit and flooring 
  it in the hope that it might afford her the extra 
  mmmph and maneuverability necessary to shake her 
  unwanted passengers loose.  
  Normally, this process took place over a few 
  hours and involved something like a nice wash, a 
  new coat of wax, some sweet words, and finally 
  springing for super unleaded, but Janice had learned 
  long ago that there were quite a few things one 
  could do in a pinch if they were willing to bleed for 
  it and worry later.  
  She wasn't entirely sure how fast she was going 
  at this point. The Royal We's speedometer had long 
  since laid over with no sign of the engine shutting 
  off. Still terrified and driven back hard into her seat 
  like an astronaut at launch, she managed to jerk the 
  van back into the proper lane just in time to avoid 
  oncoming traffic. She wasn't sure in the moment if 
  the squeal she heard belonged to her tires or to the 
  wide-swung imp that found its dangling lower half 
  directly in the path of a passing motorist's rear view 
  mirror. Either way, the sight of the first devil losing 
  its claw hold and being sent careening into the street 
  was a welcome one.  
  "Comeoncomeoncomeon, sweetheart. You can 
  dooo thiiiis..." Janice choked with as near an air of 
  confidence as she could muster amidst the vehicle's 
  continued banging and shaking.  
  As the van continued to pick up speed, there was 
  the stomach-tightening sound of shredding metal 
  and fiberglass as a second imp was tossed from its 
  perch and desperately raked its white-hot claws 
  along the right-side sliding door. Janice swerved 
  left-to-right and was gifted with the satisfying thump 
  of her persistent hitchhiker disappearing under the 
  wheels. She knew none of her highway theatrics 
  could actually kill these things — she wasn't even 
  sure if they could be killed — but damned if she 
  wouldn't let herself enjoy each and every second of 
  consigning these toothy little fucks to the 'Later' cat-
  egory in her list of concerns.  
  It wasn't until she'd managed to swing and 
  weave enough to shake another three loose, leaving 
  only a single imp hanging on to the rear of her van 
  by a single smoking claw, its body whipping back 
  and forth almost comedically, that Janice could 
  comfortably breathe again. She glanced down to the 
  center floor boards just long enough to check the in-
  tegrity of the awakening configuration that she'd ra-
  ther haphazardly managed to paint with the blood 
  from her pulsing right hand. It was a miracle it had 
  worked. "You just stay right there," she coaxed, 
  wiping her hand on her pant leg and offering a 
  mock-pat to the air above the symbols.  
   
  Saturday, September 28, 6:30 p.m.  
  At the end of the day, Tyrone considered him-
  self an old Crescent City beat cop. A peacekeeper. 
  Sure, he had been given the same talks as a thousand 
  other operatives about being a soldier, reality's first 
  and last line of defense, a bulwark against the tide, a 
  light in the darkness, etc. but Tyrone had never 
  served in the Army like his father and was never 
  comfortable thinking of himself in such terms, and 
  all that light in the darkness type rhetoric just struck 
  him as too grandiose for a guy who liked his meals 
  simple and his coffee black.  
  He understood the purpose of that kind of talk, 
  of course — it was his job to understand its applica-
  tion better than most — and there was a certain de-
  monstrable value in buying in, but in Tyrone's mind 
  he was a guy with a patrol route who did his best to 
  keep it safe for honest people, regardless of the suit 
  he wore or the toys he got to use. He told himself 
  this sort of thing a lot when he was out doing his 
  job.  
  In fact, in but a few short hours he would be tell-
  ing himself just this sort of thing as he stood over 
  the bleeding, rain-soaked body of a reality deviant 
  and squeezed the trigger.  
  For now, Agent Tyrone leaned forward in his 
  seat and lowered his sunglasses. "What exactly are 
  we looking at, ma'am?"  
  The senior operative, an impressively wrinkled, 
  almost gaunt old woman, clicked a button on her re-
  mote, and the projector image switched to a different 
  angle of the massive sinkhole which, earlier, had 
  
   
   
  14 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  appeared in the Bronx. In the background, amidst a 
  cloud of dust and debris, laid the flipped, smoldering 
  remains of the New York agents' SUV.  
  She gestured toward the footage as she spoke, 
  "New York City. Aftermath of vulgar reality deviant 
  activity two days ago. Reports have the catalyst 
  linked to a series of complex hemoglobin patterns 
  covering the intersection of Walton Avenue and East 
  Clarke Place. Someone knew our route and sprung a 
  trap. Explosion and subsequent cave-in damaged 
  every one of our vehicles on scene. We're down a 
  HIT Mark and there're three agents in intensive care. 
  The Package is believed to be in the hands of the as-
  sailant."  
  Tyrone's new partner, chiefly known as "Kid" 
  amongst her elder agents, chimed in. "Sleeper casu-
  alties, ma'am?"  
  Tyrone's new partner was not nearly so jaded as 
  him, nor could she imagine ever being so. It was 
  only a short time ago that she had officially become 
  a field operative and, for all of her training, she was 
  as in awe of the reality of the world as she was mor-
  tified by the threats to its very fabric that seemed to 
  lurk around every corner. Though she knew better 
  than to speak of it publicly, she often wondered 
  about her old friends up north in Cape May, back 
  home in the old life. What could they possibly be 
  doing? Going to college? Working in their father's 
  businesses? Raising babies? Had any of them even 
  left town? None of them had any idea what was re-
  ally out there or how much danger they were all in. 
  Or how small they really were. Not like she did. 
  They couldn't possibly sleep otherwise.  
  The senior operative continued, "One in hospital 
  for lacerations from a blown out window. No fatali-
  ties. Multiple damaged vehicles. Sound went out 
  four blocks. Attributing it to a ruptured gas line. 
  Narrative is already in play in the news. Our imme-
  diate concern is the missing Package."  
  She clicked another button and a still image of a 
  large metal case appeared, followed by an image of 
  the SUV. "Vehicle One was our carrier. It went air-
  borne on impact. Testimony has The Package miss-
  ing within a thirty second window after the vehicle 
  flipped."  
  Agent Tyrone stroked his chin. It was rough and 
  stubble-laden. He had hardly had the chance to sleep 
  over the past twenty-four hours, let alone shave. He 
  took another swig of coffee and spoke up again. 
  "Says here our boys don't remember anyone on-
  scene, and all the security footage from the 
  intersection and due south is corrupted. Possible re-
  prisal from the Hermetics up in Fargo?"  
  The senior operative turned to him. "Not ruling 
  it out. M.O. matches a few known deviants, but 
  we're still cross-referencing the Digital Web chatter 
  about The Package with the hemoglobin samples. 
  Hopefully the lab'll get something out of the HIT 
  Mark, but all the footage is too scrambled so far."  
  Tyrone's new partner looked up from the dos-
  sier. "So wait, if we've got a transport on the run 
  that's scrambling security cameras...are we looking 
  at a trail of scrambled security cameras?"  
  The senior operative seemed visibly impressed. 
  She clicked again, and the projector shifted to a map 
  of the eastern United States marked by scattered 
  dots trending south. "Quite possibly. That's why 
  we're alerting you, Louisiana. It's not a solid trail, 
  but there's a statistically significant trend of both de-
  viant energy and corresponding security failures that 
  matches the timetable following the attack."  
  Tyrone spoke up again, doing his best to hide 
  the exhaustion in his voice. "I'll start going through 
  our communications records. See who's lit up since 
  the incident. Far as The Package, I've got the specs 
  on the casing, but what about its contents? What is 
  this thing?"  
  The senior operative continued to look at the 
  projector. "Need-to-know, Louisiana. Your concern 
  is that the last potential uptick was near your neck of 
  the woods. Priority is retrieval. You've got the code 
  for the tracker in the housing, but it's gone dark, so I 
  need eyes and ears open. Eyewitness reports, suspi-
  cious chatter or transactions, Digital Web activity, 
  anything that leads us to The Package."  
  At that, she reached into her breast pocket and 
  proceeded to, without ceremony, light up an abnor-
  mally long cigarette before continuing. "Its return is 
  top priority. You are to consider it a potential Upsi-
  lon-level hazard and handle it as such. Dossiers will 
  be updated as soon as the lab boys finish their anal-
  yses. Any further questions?" She filled the follow-
  ing moments of silence with a long drag. "Good. Get 
  it done."  
   
  Saturday, September 28, 7:05 p.m.  
  As Janice peered with bloodshot eyes out her 
  windshield toward another sign for New Orleans, 
  she felt a vibration in her pocket.  That had better be 
  them, she thought. She wiped her hand on her pant 
  leg one more time for good measure and reached for 
  her phone with her fingertips.  
  
   
   
  15 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  "It's about goddamn time!" she yelled. "Line se-
  cure? Yeah. Coming into Louisiana. You on sched-
  ule?" She took a breath and did her best to sound 
  calm, suddenly becoming very aware of everything 
  that had happened over the past day. "Yeah, I'm 
  good. Caught up to The Package just where you said 
  it would b— shit. Really? I'm not on film, am I? 
  ...Yeeeah. Things got a bit crazy, but everything's 
  okay." She felt the urge to twitch as she said this and 
  checked her rearview mirror, relieved when there 
  was no sign of the last paradox spirit or anyone else.  
  She continued, "Nah. Been headed straight 
  through the big cities. They'll only see enough not to 
  drive through me. 'Sides, it's faster. Sooner you get 
  this, sooner you can help me use it, right?"  
  She tilted her head to the left and took a hard 
  turn, speeding past two cops who never even seemed 
  to notice. "Few hours, depending. Gas is an issue, so 
  I could really use — do what? " Janice blinked and 
  glanced over the back of her console toward her ill-
  gotten mystery box nestled against the rear doors 
  and beneath some empty chip bags. "Uh, yeah. The 
  box's safe. But listen, gas is low, can you get me 
  some mo—"  
  Before she could finish, Janice heard a series of 
  thuds and thumps echo from the back of her van, 
  followed by the sight of her bandage roll tumbling 
  out from under the seat. Thank God, she thought to 
  herself, her eyes shifting to the wads of blood-
  drenched napkins on the console.  
  "One second." Janice tucked the phone between 
  her shoulder and ear and reached down for the roll-
  ing bandages, nearly capturing them before hearing 
  the scraping sound of the large primium box as it 
  came sliding to the front of the cab at high speed. It 
  bounced directly into the half-coagulated blood con-
  figuration she'd used to awaken the spirit of The 
  Royal We.  
  "Fuck," she caught herself saying aloud. She 
  could already see the smudge trail and feel the vehi-
  cle starting to slow.  
  As she looked up toward the windshield, she 
  saw a familiar diminutive sight perched on all fours 
  atop the hood in the center of a broken rune, grin-
  ning maliciously with a mouth full of fire.  
  "Hey, uh..." she whispered, "Lemme call you 
  back."  
   
  Saturday, September 28, 8:15 p.m.  
  Tyrone placed a fresh cup of coffee in front of 
  his partner. "Good news. The lab boys salvaged 
  some footage from the HIT Mark's head. It ain't pris-
  tine, but we've got a blue Ford Econoline leaving the 
  scene with a partial plate. I'm running it and pulling 
  the tire tread analysis."  
  She nodded without looking up from the data 
  map on her phone. "That's great, sir."  
  Tyrone's smile wilted at his partner's distracted 
  response "Somethin' on your mind, Kid?"  
  She nodded. There was a notable confusion in 
  her voice. "What are these dots here?"  
  Tyrone squinted and leaned over. "Extra dimen-
  sional energy spikes. Why?"  
  She looked nervous. "Well, I mean, it seems like 
  a lot here."  
  Tyrone took another sip of his coffee. "Nah. 
  They're within standard measures, Kid. It's the 
  whole damn coast. Worry about that security cam 
  trail and leave this kinda stuff to the Void Engi-
  neers."  
  She shook her head, tracing a finger along the 
  dots. "But look at the time stamps. Doesn't it look 
  like some of these line up with the security cam 
  trail? Like it's following them?"  
  Tyrone shot her a quizzical look. "Heh. What, 
  you think there's an EDE following our target? Kid, 
  I know you're smart, but we're not even sure if these 
  camera blackouts are a pattern yet, and you want to 
  correlate them with Extra Dimensional Entity trails? 
  You're reaching pretty far."  
  He noticed her trying to hide the anger in her 
  eyes as she nodded reluctantly, and almost instantly 
  he regretted the condescension in his tone. The Kid 
  may have been green, but she was damn-near an an-
  alytics prodigy.  
  Tyrone drew out his next swig while he came to 
  a decision. "Okay, Kid, it's not like we've got much 
  to work with. Let's say I make a call. Exactly what 
  do I say is tailing The Package?"  
   
  Saturday, September 28, 9:05 p.m.  
  The djinni sighed as he continued to repack their 
  belongings for what seemed like the dozenth time. 
  "Your mentor would not approve, you know." 
  Shalms mused with a smile, clearly curious for a re-
  action from his master. "Has he not said time and 
  again that a Taftani should focus on more..." he 
  paused long enough to throw another bag over to the 
  doorway, "practical craft?"  
  Damurah, perspiring and hunched in front of his 
  canvas in an increasingly uncomfortable looking po-
  sition, offered no immediate recognition of the 
  
   
   
  16 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  looming djinni's obvious needling. The air within 
  their latest motel was increasingly hot, soupy, and 
  unpleasant compared to their apartment, and it left 
  the already hot-natured Taftani's bandaids hanging 
  loose while his paint-stained shalwar kameez was 
  soaked with sweat and clinging to his thin frame 
  from top to bottom.  
  He's still neglecting to eat, Shalms noted silently 
  to himself with some visible concern. When it came 
  to his master, he could never be sure whether he was 
  witnessing a purposeful ritual fast or neglect born of 
  single-mindedness and obsession.  
  After applying a few more strokes of white with 
  a deliberate, but only somewhat spiteful slowness, 
  Damurah bit the tip of his brush handle with his 
  back teeth and nodded in appreciation. "More red," 
  he whispered almost inaudibly to himself, the only 
  listener he currently valued, before reaching for the 
  rest of his paints.  
  It wasn't until he had finally cleaned his brush 
  and set back to work, secure that his message had 
  been sent, — and perhaps willfully oblivious to the 
  djinni's fluctuating expressions throughout — that 
  he offered a response. "If he truly believes that a 
  painting is any less capable of bringing understand-
  ing than a song or a poem, then tradition has blinded 
  him to Truth."  
  Shalms snapped back into character and feigned 
  shock with an exaggerated craning of his neck so as 
  to better peer over his master's shoulder at the nas-
  cent working of crimsons, oranges, and pinks. "But 
  this is a cultural tradition of yours, is it not? Can you 
  be so sure that you are not the one who is blind?"  
  In response, Damurah leaned farther into the 
  canvas as if trying to stare his creation down or per-
  haps probing it for answers to an inaudible question. 
  He held this position for several arduous seconds, 
  nearly touching it with his nose and contorting his 
  spine forward in a way that gave even Shalms pause 
  before flicking the bottom edge of his several-day 
  mustache with his tongue and suddenly springing 
  back into a more comfortable posture. "Go as far 
  into the world or thread yourself as deep into the 
  tapestry as you like, my friend, you will never find 
  expression more true than Sindhi art."  
  "Oh?" The ancient djinni made no effort to hide 
  his anticipation. He relished dances of all sorts, 
  practical or not.  
  "It is as true as your binding to me," Damurah 
  continued. His tone was quite deliberate, if not a lit-
  tle venomous on that line, before settling back into 
  his flat, preoccupied cadence. "And it ultimately 
  conveys my will. What else matters?"  
  Shalms nodded with a raised eyebrow as the 
  painting's warm, cascading sunset continued to take 
  shape against the gold-drenched figure below. "And 
  you're certain this art gives your spirit strength and 
  not just nostalgia for home?" he quipped with faux 
  curiosity and his own slightly more playful venom, 
  "I recall the seyal dabroti in Hala is particularly deli-
  cious."  
  Damurah's answer was stoic, but immediate this 
  time; he even paused from cleaning his brush. "You 
  live in the handle of my knife, devil. Answer your-
  self."  
  Shalms glared at him with pursed lips as his 
  thoughts turned to the bejeweled vessel he now 
  called home, and for a moment the room began to 
  grow ever-so-slightly-warmer until the djinni settled 
  into a dry, throaty chuckle. "Are you truly so arro-
  gant as to think yourself wiser than both your es-
  teemed mentor and the entire history of your Taftani 
  lineage, Master?  
  "Yes," Damurah replied matter-of-factly while 
  searching for the perfect shade of brown to complete 
  the likeness' eyes. The resemblance to this Janice 
  woman was coming together, and, with every refine-
  ment, his will continued to build the bridge across 
  which Shalms would carry him to her. Damurah 
  would offer no more words until then. They would 
  be traveling again soon, and he had no time to waste 
  on impractical conversations.  
   
  Saturday, September 28, 9:30 p.m.  
  Agent Tyrone was visibly excited as he peered 
  over his sunglasses and nodded to his partner from 
  the driver's seat. "Sighting's confirmed. The blood 
  and van plates're a match, Kid. Belongs to a sus-
  pected deviant terrorist — Janice Milliano. And our 
  VE says we've got a fifty-four percent likelihood of 
  an EDE tail on the same route. Resonance signature 
  matches an incident at an O'Tolleys in Jersey." He 
  waited for a moment before whispering apprecia-
  tively, "Good hunch, Kid." Even when speaking 
  softly, Tyrone's distinctive baritone had a tendency 
  to boom and fill whatever room he was in, to say 
  nothing of an old Ford with decent acoustics.  
  "Intel's got the target going southwest down 
  thirty-two thirty-five in Cut Off, most likely headed 
  toward Port Fourchon." He took one last swig of 
  lukewarm coffee before putting the car in gear. "I'll 
  get on the horn with the VE's and coordinate. You 
  
   
   
  17 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  verify that we've got enlightened citizenry at the 
  docks, but call our blues down in the speed trap first; 
  let's buy ourselves time."  
  The young woman nodded with familiarity. 
  She'd had some personal experience with the "trap" 
  in question on her first trip to Louisiana prior to her 
  Enlightenment.  
  Tyrone checked his mirrors and continued, "I 
  want sleepers on scene for the reality deviant. This 
  Milliano kid got out of NY loud, so let's keep her 
  quiet. We keep this contained. Calm and easy."  
  His partner flicked her cigarette out the window 
  and reached for her phone. She hoped Tyrone's mis-
  sion statement of "Calm and easy" would prove pro-
  phetic. No, accurate — she had to get the nomencla-
  ture right, she reminded herself — but what little she 
  was privy to about this Package they were chasing 
  had her spooked. She tried to push it out of her mind 
  and set about making the calls.  
  "You think it's real, boss?" she finally asked af-
  ter a few miles of quietly mulling it over and fidget-
  ing with an unlit cigarette. "The rumors about The 
  Package? I've heard some deviant chatter..."  
  Tyrone let a deliberate silence fill the car for 
  several seconds, which he knew would feel much 
  longer to his nascent partner. When the next traffic 
  light turned green, he eyed her from behind his 
  shades and offered a cool response, "It doesn't mat-
  ter what's real, Kid."  
  "It matters what's true," she recited. She may 
  have been young, but she knew when the training 
  was being used on her. Not that that made it ineffec-
  tive. "And that's up to us."  
  Tyrone smiled. "Bingo. Let's go."  
   
  Saturday, September 28, 9:47 p.m.  
  "Fuck!" As the flash of red and blue police 
  lights filled her rear view, Janice frustratedly ham-
  mered her good hand against the top of the steering 
  wheel. She was already dehydrated and sleep de-
  prived, not to mention she now had a throbbing burn 
  mark running down the left side of her pallid face 
  and neck as a result of her unwanted passenger, so it 
  hadn't taken much for her to talk herself out of ex-
  pending any more blood for concealment rituals 
  when The Royal We's empty gas tank had necessi-
  tated a visit to the plasma center back in Raceland.  
  She recalled the sudden drop off from 65 to 50 
  mph that she had neglected to obey, and dejectedly 
  pulled her sputtering van over onto the shoulder of 
  the road. Janice fumbled around in her glove box 
  filled with empty packs of Circinus Menthol 100s on 
  top of crumpled pages of Latin script and wadded 
  napkins scrawled with runic configurations until fi-
  nally retrieving her driver's license from under the 
  pile. She regarded her years-old smiling photo with 
  a scowl which only deepened upon her raising up 
  and catching sight of the friendly, bird-emblazoned 
  city limits sign in the distance which read, Golden 
  Meadow Welcomes You.  
  Janice grumbled and quickly flipped down her 
  mirror to practice pouting and to tousle her hair. 
  Giving cops memory loss had proven effective what 
  few times she'd done it, but she really didn't want to 
  test her luck anymore today. Hopefully she could 
  just hit him with the 'young and sad' routine. It was 
  technically true, at least. 
    
  Sunday, September 29, 1:45 a.m.  
  "Boss," the Kid tried to choose her words care-
  fully, "between us, we've really got to stick to that 
  line here? In the field? After what just happened? 
  There was nothing left."  
  Tyrone shook his head, making an abrupt turn 
  before answering, "Kid, unless you wanna get sent 
  to Lex-Ed — or worse — better get your terms 
  straight and keep 'em current ASAP. Trust me; it's 
  only trouble for you if you don't."  
  As the sound of screeching tires filled her ears 
  following Tyrone's sudden change in direction, The 
  Kid scrambled for the overhead grab handle. She 
  looked over her shoulder toward the road sign Ty-
  rone had been trying to read as it disappeared from 
  view and sighed inaudibly. This was still fairly new 
  to her, and it hadn't exactly been the sort of evening 
  that held one's hand. She made sure that Tyrone was 
  focused on the road and stole another glance toward 
  the box in the back seat.  
  Tyrone hazily recalled his first trip to Lexicon 
  Re-Education years earlier for deviant nomenclature 
  following a comment about some fellow agent's re-
  semblance to a vampire for wearing shades at night. 
  He held in a smirk. The top brass had changed be-
  tween then and now, but proper vernacular was still 
  a sticking point in most places. Best the Kid had that 
  drilled in early, he told himself.  
  The LTD's left tire caught the edge of a pothole, 
  snapping Tyrone out of his memory. He reflexively 
  moved to adjust his sunglasses, his bruised forehead 
  creasing into previously undiscovered lines when he 
  found the eyewear uncharacteristically absent. He 
  quietly struggled to remember the events of the past 
  
   
   
  18 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  half-hour and soberly imagined his glasses shattered 
  back on the side of the highway alongside the shards 
  of exploded street lights. He made note of the time 
  on the radio, as it now looked considerably brighter 
  than usual. 1:50 a.m.  
  Granted, it was far too late for sunglasses under 
  normal circumstances, but the practical benefits of 
  his particular shades aside, he wasn't one to be 
  caught out of uniform. Without looking, Tyrone ad-
  justed his tie with one hand, largely to confirm its 
  presence. There it was. Single windsor. Thank God.  
  The two continued in silence for several miles. 
  There was traffic again, and Tyrone seemed to be 
  wincing and swerving slightly almost every time an-
  other set of lights would dart across his face.  
  "Hey, Kid." Tyrone was still fixated on the high-
  way but was fumbling around near his hip with his 
  right hand.  
  The Kid, who had been stealing glances at a par-
  ticular car behind them, shifted uncomfortably, not 
  that anyone was looking at her to notice. "What are 
  you doing?"  
  Tyrone eyed that same vehicle through his mir-
  ror. His expression grew increasingly worried, and 
  his voice was softer than usual, "What happened to 
  my gun?"  
   
  Saturday, September 28, 11:20 p.m.  
  After nearly an hour stuck on the roadside, 
  Janice, soaked with rain and loaded down with arm-
  fuls of precariously balanced, overstuffed bags and 
  one primium box, came tumbling in through the mo-
  tel door. She let out a sigh that was half-exaspera-
  tion and half-relief as she let her drenched belong-
  ings collapse onto the floor with a noticeable THUD 
  before permitting herself to do the same on her bed.  
  Janice grimaced on impact as a surge of pain 
  shot through her face. "Little fucker..." she muttered 
  carefully, lightly dabbing at her cheek with the tip of 
  her middle finger. After applying yet another round 
  of aloe vera, she then spent the next several minutes 
  navigating the setup for the motel Wi-Fi while she 
  waited with growing impatience for a call from her 
  people.  
  Upon success, she opted to reward herself with a 
  cigarette, and was able to locate her lighter in only 
  three pats this time. Sure, the room was technically 
  non-smoking, but she'd had a shit day, and that was 
  the kind of rigid, inside-the-box sleeper thinking that 
  she'd been fighting for years now.  
  Any room can be a smoking room, if only you 
  believe, she rationalized with a right-sided smirk 
  while continuing to flick her thumb fruitlessly across 
  the striker to no avail. Janice moaned defeatedly, 
  "Fuuuuck..."  
  She glanced around her room and muttered fur-
  ther to herself, though this time in something far 
  more ancient than her native language, and with one 
  last strike of the wheel, her lighter gifted her a small 
  jet of flame — just enough for her oft-rationalized 
  'cigarette of success'.  
  Several menthol successes later, Janice's phone 
  rang. She answered with a 100 still in her lips while 
  she fumbled with more bandages. "Hey. Just now hit 
  the marina. Yeah. Got held up. Had to ju-ju a cop." 
  She twitched at the sudden nervous yelling on the 
  other end and pulled the phone away. "I know, god-
  dammit. That's why I need you guys here quick." 
  She took another drag. "Mmhmm. At the motel. 
  Yeah. One sec." She paused to poke her head out the 
  door and verify the room number.  
  "Yeah. That's right." She squinted as she spied 
  multiple figures exiting vehicles out front. "I see you 
  guys."  
  "Wait. Do what?" Janice felt her stomach turn at 
  the reply. "Raceland? Then who's...Fuck!" Janice's 
  eyes went wide like the headlights of her van. She 
  never even processed her cigarette falling to the 
  ground. Immediately, she shut the door and stared 
  dumbfounded at the primium box for several sec-
  onds as the gravity of the situation set in. Her next 
  words were breathless and urgent, "Compromised. 
  Meet at the fallback spot."  
  Throwing down her phone and racing over to 
  her bags, she began to pull out everything she could 
  think of; bags of ashes, rune sketches, angelic trans-
  lations, scrawled formulae, and finally her ritual 
  knife. Janice bit her tongue as she drew the blade 
  hard across her palm.  
  Roughly two minutes later, gasping and bleed-
  ing, Janice finished her slapdash scrawling and shut 
  herself in the bathroom. As she fought unconscious-
  ness and scrambled to put something else together, 
  the lights began to flicker. Placing the box in the 
  tub, she looked up and caught a glimpse of her di-
  sheveled face in the mirror, only to gaze in horror as 
  it slowly began to contort and ripple like water.  
  Within seconds her reflection was replaced with 
  the visage of a bearded man in a turban who pro-
  ceeded to unceremoniously step through the glass, 
  over her sink, and into the room with her. The man 
  
   
   
  19 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  was dark-skinned, covered in small, glowing cuts, 
  and both his clothes and his hair flowed as if he 
  were swimming underwater. He took a moment to 
  look around before settling his gaze first on her, and 
  then, finally, the box.  
  Damurah moved to speak, but his voice was in-
  terrupted by the sound of a door being kicked in, fol-
  lowed by several footsteps. The lights flickered and 
  the Taftani nodded to an empty corner, reaching for 
  the bejeweled knife on his hip.  
  Just beyond the bathroom door, Agent Tyrone 
  peered down the barrel of his gun at the bloody pat-
  terns haphazardly smeared on the walls. He mo-
  tioned to his partner and their fellow agents who be-
  gan to take their positions.  
  Running her bleeding hand along the tub, Janice 
  held in a scream and reached for the lighter in her 
  pocket. She swallowed hard and muttered something 
  in Enochian. The flickering lights throughout the 
  motel began to hum violently, and the crude runes 
  started to sizzle and smoke.  
  In the final moment of stillness, Tyrone saw his 
  partner, flanked by unenlightened personnel, prayer-
  fully mouthing the words, "Calm and easy."  
   
  Sunday, September 29, 2:10 p.m.  
  "What are you talking about?" The Kid asked 
  with some concern.  
  "It's gone." Tyrone's voice was deflated. "And 
  we're being followed. Red Pontiac. Two lengths 
  back."  
  The Kid nodded. "I see it. You sure?"  
  "Yeah. Past few miles. Not ours. Could be devi-
  ant, but I've got no shades to check. Yours work-
  ing?"  
  She shook her head, "Nah. Fried in the blast, 
  seems like. Shit."  
  Tyrone clenched both hands on the wheel "...No 
  problem. Get The Package into your lap for me. 
  Don't want it sliding around in case I need to get 
  fancy."  
  The Kid slowly turned around in her seat and 
  reached for the box. Unable to get a grip on it from 
  her current position, she unfastened her seatbelt and 
  leaned farther into the back until she could get a 
  grip. As she started to pull the box toward her, there 
  was a sudden tap on the back window. She looked 
  up to see a small, smoldering humanoid creature, 
  waving at her and smiling sadistically.  
  "FUCK!" she screamed, and let the box drop to 
  the floor. Upon impact, the spirit offered her a wink 
  and vanished in a puff of smoke.  
  Tyrone jumped as he heard the noises, and he 
  instantly spun around in his seat to check on her. 
  "Kid, are you —" he stopped mid-sentence and 
  stared in disbelief; his partner was nowhere to be 
  found, but there, in the seat next to him, staring in 
  equally bloody and bruised disbelief, was Janice 
  Milliano.  
  Tyrone felt his heart pounding in his chest. His 
  legs tingled, and a sudden nausea came upon him. It 
  was only then that the veil started to lift. He saw 
  flashes of the chaos at the motel. The smoke. The 
  flames. The Void Engineers getting thrown around 
  by that thing. He remembered the lights starting to 
  explode and his partner, covered in glass, shooting 
  at the man with the knife while those little creatures 
  cackled and started to bring down the roof.  
  He remembered the sleepers screaming and the 
  explosions ripping through the walls. And he re-
  called being dazed, bruised and burned, stepping 
  over the bodies, and chasing The Package — chas-
  ing her — out of the crumbling inferno. He remem-
  bered standing over her and squeezing the trigger of 
  his gun. And he remembered her throwing some-
  thing in his eyes and commanding, "Wait."  
  "Keep," Janice gasped for air and steadied the 
  gun in her hand, "driving."  
  Tyrone silently obliged.  
  The next few minutes were filled with little 
  other than road noise as the two continued down the 
  highway, alternately eyeing one another and the car 
  following behind.  
  "Here," Janice ordered, motioning for Tyrone to 
  turn.  
  Tyrone complied, quietly wondering where the 
  hell they were. This wasn't the road back to New Or-
  leans. And then it dawned on him.  
  Their conversation came flooding back: Brake. 
  Here. Slow down. Left. Right. She had been giving 
  him embedded instructions. He glanced over to her. 
  She was good. Sure, she looked half-dead, burned, 
  and sickly pale. But then again, he reasoned, he 
  probably did, too.  
  He turned his face back to the road and spoke. 
  "Is my partner still alive?"  
  Janice blinked and tightened her grip on the gun. 
  "D-do what?"  
  
   
   
  20 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  Tyrone's voice was low and wistful. "Woman. 
  Suit. Around your age. You tried to throw a fireball 
  at her."  
  She took a long breath before answering, doing 
  her best to hide the look of surprise on her face. "I 
  don't know. It was such a mess." As Tyrone looked 
  at her, Janice found that she had to force herself to 
  keep eye contact. "Figured emergency services were 
  probably your people, so I didn't wait around. I'm 
  sorry."  
  Tyrone forced an exhausted smile and turned 
  back to the road. "Well, at least you're sorry."  
  The silence over the next minute made Janice 
  miss the noise of the paradox spirits. "So, what 
  now?" she asked abruptly.  
  Tyrone nonchalantly flipped on his left turn sig-
  nal and changed lanes. His demeanor was calm, but 
  his voice sounded utterly broken. "You tell me. I'm 
  guessing that's your friends back there. You leading 
  me somewhere safe so you can kill me and take The 
  Package?"  
  Janice stole a glance toward the mirror. "That's 
  the plan. Getting that box to my friends is the only 
  way I get my life back. But honestly?" She caught 
  herself letting out a small, exhausted laugh, "I don't 
  even know if that's them or not."  
  Tyrone felt a pain in his ribs as he held in a 
  laugh of his own. "Yeah, guess this thing is kinda 
  popular lately."  
  "Yeah..." Janice trailed off.  
  After another long thirty seconds, the Pontiac 
  edged closer, and Janice caught Tyrone eyeing her. 
  "You're going to try something, aren't you?"  
  Tyrone shrugged. "Don't really have a lot of op-
  tions."  
  She tightened her finger against the trigger and 
  did her best to steady her quivering, half-numb arm. 
  "You really shouldn't. I promise I'll get the shot off 
  first. Your reaction time isn't shit right now." She 
  took a deep breath. "And I tend to get pretty lucky."  
  Tyrone tightened his grip on the steering wheel. 
  "I don't." He trailed off for a moment, squinting at 
  the bright headlights of a large diesel on the other 
  side of the road. "It's why I can't afford to un-
  buckle."  
  Janice's eyes went wide with realization as Ty-
  rone cut the wheel hard to the right, directly into the 
  path of the oncoming semi. The sound of the gun-
  shot was only slightly louder than the truck's blaring 
  horn.  
   
  EPILOGUE  
  October 1, 12:33 p.m.  
   
  Damurah awoke feeling as though his body was 
  on fire. He gasped in confusion through singed lungs 
  and was answered with shooting pain all over his 
  skin and on both sides of his ribcage. Covered in 
  bandages and unable to sit up, he struggled to take in 
  his surroundings.  
  The air around him smelled of burnt hair and 
  some sort of ointment. His left eye was swollen 
  completely shut, but he was able to make out the 
  blurred, milky outline of an overhead ceiling fan and 
  hear its steady hum. He took another painful breath 
  and noticed the faint smell of chai wafting in from 
  somewhere. "Shalms?" he coughed.  
  "Ah!" Shalms' voice replied. "You're awake, 
  Master! Try not to move!"  
  Damurah heard not a single footstep, but within 
  moments he was greeted with the familiar sight of 
  his djinni companion's face looking down on him. 
  "Wh-where...?" he sputtered weakly.  
       "The apartment, Master. You've been asleep 
  for some time."       
       "What... what hap..." Damurah broke into a 
  series of painful coughs.  
  "There was a backlash, Master," Shalms forced 
  a reassuring smile. "I did the best I could to mitigate 
  it, but —".  
  Damurah interrupted with a gravelly wheeze. 
  "Al-Eajib? D-did you follow?"  
  "Only once you were secured, Master. There 
  was a massive wreck. A dozen car pile up." Shalms 
  hesitated, and his bedside smile fell into a frown. 
  "There was no sign of it. I am sorry."  
  The Taftani fell silent.  
  "Master?" 
  Damurah's mind was ablaze, racing and grap-
  pling with possibilities and their implications. Once 
  again, Al-Eajib was lost to him, and he had nothing 
  to show for it but a host of unknowns.  
  Who had robbed him of his prize? The Technoc-
  racy? The woman? Or any one of the Traditionalists 
  they'd all used to lead them to this point? Perhaps 
  even a sleeper? As confusion mixed with anger, 
  irony, and exhaustion, the Taftani could find only 
  one answer.  
  He laughed. "Who, Shalms?" he whispered in 
  between painful chortles, "Who could have a 
  stronger will than me to ever hold on to such a 
  thing?"  
  
   
   
  21 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  The beleaguered djinni stared in bafflement, 
  only for a smile to creep back into view as he placed 
  a cup on Damurah's bedside table.  
  "Who's to say anyone does, Master? Now please 
  be careful; the tea is very hot."  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
   
   
  22 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  I walk into the truck-stop diner, sniff at the biggest 
  guy there, and say, "Eighteen to two and you'd still 
  never keep up." 
  The big man glares down at me—taking in the 
  worn riding leathers, the midnight-blue hair falling 
  almost to one eye, the tattoo radiating round the other. 
  Then he laughs, steps out from behind the counter, 
  and wraps me in a hug that could swallow an indus-
  trial freezer whole. Smells like butter, flour, sugar, 
  coffee, and bacon grease. "Griff, how the hell are 
  you?" 
  “Good, Puff, how ’bout you?” I pound him on the 
  back, best I can with my air cut off, and he lets up 
  enough for me to breathe again. Whew! 
  One of the diners, stocky type all ginger bristles 
  and flannel, scents of cigarettes and Mountain Dew 
  lingering despite the grits and coffee he’s got now, 
  glares at me from under his cap. Guess he doesn’t like 
  the nickname. But Puff doesn’t mind, he laughs, 
  showing a maw you could shove a whole turkey in. 
  Did the same first time I called him that, hasn’t 
  changed any. 
  “What brings you out this way?” he asks instead, 
  moving back behind the counter while tugging a rag 
  from his apron and wiping the counter as he talks. 
  Same as always, can’t be idle long. Me, I’m more fits 
  and spurts—total stillness, then sudden motion. Just 
  one of the ways we differ, lot more than we match, 
  but we still get along, Gaia knows why. 
  I nod, acknowledging the subtle dig. It’s true, I 
  don’t venture out of the city much. I know my place 
  and it’s there, surrounded by glass and steel and brick 
  and stone. Highway’s too open for me, no place to 
  perch, no place to hide. Still, Flight likes it when I 
  open her up, and I’ve owed Puff a visit for a long 
  time. Just took a good reason to get me out here. 
  “Looking for a guy,” I explain. “Thought maybe 
  you could help. Average height, maybe six feet,” I 
  hold a hand up to my nose, “skinny, scruff beard, 
  wears an old jean jacket and a bright red cap. Know 
  him?” 
  “He drive a rig?” the big man asks, though he al-
  ready knows the answer to that, else why’d I be here? 
  “Doesn’t sound familiar,” he admits, frowning. “An-
  ybody here seen him?” That last is to the room, voice 
  raised, and heads pop up. Listening already, course, 
  but now they can own up to it. 
  Bristles scowls. “Even if we did, why should we 
  tell him?” he asks, poking his spoon toward me. 
  “He’s not one of us, and we don’t rat on our own.” 
  Statement’s got layers, and I step over, then squat 
  to eye level. “Take a whiff, pard,” I tell him, low. 
  “We’re alike more’n you think.” 
  WRONG EXIT  
  AARON ROSENBERG 
   
  
   
   
  23 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  He does, and squinty eyes go wide as my scent 
  hits. “Got it now,” I say, clapping him on the back. 
  “But trust me, this guy? Definitely not our kind.” 
  Scowl’s back, but not aimed at me this time. 
  “Yeah, I’ve seen a guy matches that,” he admits 
  slowly. “Pass him at a stop every now and then.” The 
  glance he shoots Puff looks almost guilty, like he 
  feels bad visiting other truck stops. But that’s the 
  long-haul game, not like you can just hold off on cof-
  fee and a piss break til you’re near home. 
  “Got a name, license plate, anything I can use to 
  find him?” I ask. Grasping at straws, maybe, but it’s 
  all I’ve got right now. 
  Bristles starts to shake his head, then stops. “His 
  hat,” he says slowly, gaze somewhere else. “It’s from 
  a bar. I see the sign for it every time I head west. The 
  Devil’s Own, off Exit 13.” 
  “Perfect.” I give him a nod. “Thanks.” Then, to 
  Puff, “Catch you on the way back.” 
  He grins at me and hands me a brown paper bag 
  I didn’t see him get. I can already smell the fresh pas-
  try dough and cinnamon and icing inside. “For the 
  road,” he tells me, and I dip my head. Bearclaw 
  earned his name, right enough, and his pastries are 
  like Gaia Herself came down and blessed them. 
  Cindy’s got a to-go cup of coffee to hand off, too, and 
  I leave there loaded for bear, or least by one. 
  This day’s already looking up. 
   
  *** 
   
  Not my normal beat, for sure. Not how I do 
  things, either. Patrol the city, right enough, put out 
  fires here ’n there, foil Wyrm plans whenever I get 
  the chance, help people where I can. Chasing some 
  guy outside city limits? That ain’t me. 
  This guy, though, he rubbed the wrong way. Got 
  my hackles up on first sight. Down by the underpass, 
  not the nicest place, lots of people there with nowhere 
  else to go. I swing by time to time, drop off some 
  food, a few blankets. Wish I could do more. Spotted 
  him last night, as he stuck out like a sore thumb. Too 
  well-dressed—even with his worn clothes—too well 
  fed, even his wiry frame. And way too nervous. Folks 
  there, they’re run down, beat—lots of despair but no 
  energy left for fear. Fear’s for those that got some-
  thing left to lose. This guy, he was sweating up a 
  storm, smelled of cheap pizza and cheaper beer, some 
  subpar pot. Nothing stronger, though—not an addict. 
  In his right mind, meant he was there with a purpose. 
       But any purpose besides helping those folks was 
  bad news. 
  “Hey!” I called, pulling Flight up alongside the 
  chain-links separating us. “Help you with some-
  thing?” 
  Dude took off like a rabbit. Like waving a flag 
  saying, “I’m up to no good.” His scent hit me as he 
  fled, close enough now to get undertones, like after-
  shave, deodorant, breath mints—and something a 
  whole lot more wrong, a sourness that had nothing to 
  do with body odor. 
  Taint. 
  Not strong enough to be Wyrm himself, but con-
  tact, and plenty of it. Pentex employs loads that aren’t 
  actually corrupted, lots of ’em have no idea what their 
  bosses get up to. Others know, even go in for it. 
  I had a feeling he was one of the latter. 
  Took off after him, course, but by the time I cir-
  cled around he was gone. Only caught sight of his rig 
  thundering off, too far to read the plate. Gave chase 
  but he hit the onramp and was out of there. No sign 
  of him in town since, but I just can’t let go. 
  Bearclaw’s not the closest truck stop to the city 
  but it’s not far, and it’s people I know and trust. 
  Seemed a decent place to start. Turns out I was right, 
  and now I’ve got a solid lead.  
  The fresh pastry and coffee don’t hurt none, nei-
  ther. 
   
  *** 
   
  The Devil’s Own ain’t my kinda place. For one, 
  it’s too far out of anything I’d even remotely call a 
  town, let alone a city—sitting by itself just off the 
  highway, way too much open land around it, nearest 
  building a gas station a mile or so away, and past that 
  a few fast food joints. Place has a huge parking lot, 
  though. Needs it, what with all the rigs already here 
  middle of the day. 
  Second thing is, it’s a trucker bar. Or pretends to 
  be. Really just means the owner went for “shabby 
  chic” but wasn’t sure what the last part meant. Place’s 
  a wide, one-story wood structure, flat tin roof over-
  hanging an open front porch. Pair of dark glass doors 
  for an entrance, and you step into a manmade cave, 
  dark and low. Air’s stale, not enough circulation, 
  years of beer and cigarettes layered one over the 
  other, mixed with old fryer grease, sweat, dirt, and 
  metal. Windows all shuttered, only thin slivers of 
  light sneaking through the cracks. Long bar against 
  one side, half the stools full with customers so 
  
   
   
  24 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  slumped into habitual poses they’ve gotta be regulars, 
  swinging half doors on the back to the kitchen—the 
  light from there’s about the only way to see any-
  thing—and tables scattered around the rest, mostly 
  empty. Everyone at the bar turns to stare at me, keeps 
  on staring when they realize I ain’t one of their own. 
  This oughta get interesting. 
  “What can I get you?” the barkeep asks. Average 
  height, doughy, red face under short dark hair, cal-
  lused hands say he works hard, narrowed eyes say he 
  don’t like strangers. 
  “Beer,” I tell him, slapping a bill on the counter. 
  “Whatever’s on tap.”  
  He pulls something, sets it in front of me. Glass’s 
  clean, at least. Beer’s so pale might as well be lemon-
  ade. That’s fine, though. I didn’t come here to drink. 
  “Maybe you can help me,” I tell him, settling cau-
  tiously onto the stool. With my weight, can’t be too 
  careful. “I’m looking for a guy, think he’s a regular 
  here—leastways, he’s got one of your caps. Skinny, 
  maybe six feet, scruffy beard, dark hair? Wears a jean 
  jacket?” 
  Barkeep’s shaking his head before I’ve even fin-
  ished. “Doesn’t sound familiar,” he claims, but I can 
  hear his heartbeat race and smell his sweat. Like I 
  didn’t know he was lying. “Glad to hear he’s repre-
  senting us, though. Maybe somebody gave him the 
  hat as a gift.” He nods toward a rack holding several 
  more. “Only twenty bucks and you can walk away 
  with one, too.” 
  “Thanks, but I’ll pass. Red’s not my color.” I sip 
  at the beer. “Too bad, though. He’s got some money 
  coming to him, I promised I’d track him down.” I 
  squint down at him. “Sure you don’t know him?” 
  I hear the stools scrape as they’re pushed back, 
  the floorboards creak as boots hit the ground. Swivel 
  to take in the three guys glaring at me, two of ’em 
  clutching beer bottles by the neck, the third armed 
  with just fists and drunken courage. I raise my hands 
  slowly. “Not looking for any trouble here,” I warn. 
  “Just asking after someone is all.” 
  Another scrape to the side and I twist about, but 
  too slow. Just means I see the butt of the shotgun right 
  before the barkeep slams it into my head. Impact 
  knocks me off the stool. His backup singers are on me 
  before I hit the ground, pummeling me with those 
  bottles. Then the drunk one rears back, kicks me in 
  the face with a steel-toed boot. The others join in. 
  Normally, four yahoos wouldn’t be much of a threat 
  but I left my guns back on Flight—to avoid 
  problems—and these guys hit me so fast and frequent 
  I can’t catch breath. 
  Next thing I know, barkeep’s standing over me, 
  shotgun raised like a club. He does his best Sammy 
  Sosa, my head for the ball and him swinging for the 
  bleachers, and I’m down for the count. Last thing I 
  hear is him saying, “Sammy, go open up the back 
  room.” 
  That can’t be good. 
   
  *** 
   
   
  Good news—“back room” meant “office,” not 
  “freezer.” ’Cause of the two, I know where I’d rather 
  wake up. 
  When I do come to, I’m on the floor, bound to a 
  radiator by heavy-duty chains wrapped around my 
  chest. Guess they figured ropes wouldn’t do the trick. 
  Good call. 
  I’m alone, not counting the smells of bourbon and 
  cheap cigars and old sex. Heavy wood desk just past 
  my feet, scarred but still sturdy, matching desk chair 
  behind it, old-school with a high slatted back and real 
  metal wheels. Big old leather couch against the oppo-
  site wall, sagging but functional. Filing cabinets in 
  the far corner, door between them, back out to the hall 
  and then the bar from the faint sounds I get. Seems 
  the barkeep’s trying to decide what to do with me 
  now he’s got me. 
  Probably best I don’t wait to see what he decides. 
  I doubt I’ll like any of the choices. 
  They left me alone, must have figured I’d take a 
  lot longer to wake up. Most people would’ve. That’s 
  good, ’cause this isn’t something I want an audience 
  for. 
  I close my eyes and concentrate. Then I shift—
  not up, like most. Down. 
  And grit my teeth to keep from screaming as flesh 
  and bone compress into a smaller frame. 
  Gaia, that hurts! Always does, why I don’t do it 
  much. Still, handy when you need to squeeze through 
  a tight spot—or slip some chains. 
  I feel them slide down—and think to grab just be-
  fore they can clank.  Definitely don’t need company 
  right now! Lift them over my head and duck out of 
  the way, draping them back down again. Right. 
  Standing takes a second—I’m dizzy from the 
  change, and the shift in perspective. Everything al-
  ways seems so damn tall when I do this! Doesn’t help 
  I’m swimming in my leathers, jacket hanging on me 
  
   
   
  25 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  like a little kid playing dress-up in Daddy’s clothes, 
  feet sliding in my boots. But at least I’m free.  
  Now to get out of here. Might be back later—
  score to settle—but for now best to clear out, rethink. 
  No other door but the one, and that just leads to trou-
  ble, but there’s windows along the back wall covered 
  in shades instead of shutters. I ease one open quiet as 
  I can, punch out the screen, and squeeze through. 
  Good thing I haven’t shifted back yet, else I’d never 
  fit. Then, for good measure, I slide the window shut 
  again. Let them figure that one out. Regular leather 
  Houdini, I am. 
  I shift back up at last and try not to sigh in relief. 
  Much better! Main reason, though, was ’cause sneak-
  ing away with my boots knocking and my pants fall-
  ing down would’ve been too big a risk. ’Sides, they 
  catch up to me again, better I’m dressed for a fight. 
  Good news is, they don’t. Better news, they 
  didn’t find Flight, tucked away atop an empty rig’s 
  back tires, just behind the cab. I lift her down, retrieve 
  pistols from my saddlebags, and then slide in the key 
  and start her up.  
  Temptation’s real strong to roar back in there, 
  bust open those doors and then a few heads til I get 
  the answers I need. I’m on unfamiliar turf, though, 
  and I don’t want to put my foot into something I 
  shouldn’t. So, after a second, I rev the engine, point 
  Flight toward the exit, and hit the road. 
  I’ll be back, though. 
   
  *** 
   
  Eleonora of the Keys is an old friend. Maybe 
  overstating it—an old acquaintance. We get along 
  fine, long as we don’t spend too much time together. 
  Still, when I need to know what the computers say, 
  she’s my go-to. 
  I find her in the usual spot, corner of Roast Beans, 
  oversized mug steaming just past her hand, laptop 
  glare lighting her narrow face. Slightly glazed blue 
  eyes flick up on my approach, smile almost deigns to 
  brush narrow lips. “Gryphon.” No real warmth but no 
  bite either. I take it for an invite and sit opposite, chair 
  creaking beneath me. “What can I do for you?” Slen-
  der fingers haven’t stopped tapping at the keys, eyes 
  go back to darting across the screen, but I don’t mind. 
  Just the way she is. 
  “Need a favor,” I tell her. “Place out by Exit 13, 
  The Devil’s Own. What can you tell me about it?” I 
  flick the upper edge of the screen with one finger, 
  makes her eyes dart to the point of contact. “What 
  does the magic box say?” 
  “Not magic,” is the reply, same as always. “Tech-
  nology. Information. Data and code.” But now her 
  eyes are alight with more’n the screen’s reflection. 
  Her interest’s piqued. “Think it’s Pentex?” 
  I shrug. “One of its customers, definitely. Place 
  itself? Not sure. Why I’m asking.” I bought a coffee 
  when I came in, and I take a sip now. Strong stuff, 
  fresh-brewed, sharp and almost bitter. Nice. The 
  warmth fills me, making my blood sing. That’s good 
  stuff! 
  No answer for a minute, but I leave her to it. 
  Then, no warning, she starts talking. 
  “The Devil’s Own, founded 2005, owner one 
  Gary Paneer. Sold 2014, Michael Paneer, relation-
  ship, nephew.” Family business, then. And individu-
  ally owned, not a Pentex front—they tend to use shell 
  companies, makes it harder to trace back. “No obvi-
  ous Pentex connection,” she confirms, eyes leaving 
  the screen for half a second to gauge my response. 
  “Bills paid on time, taxes show a moderate profit, 
  mostly because they own the land.” Sure, makes 
  sense—no rent or mortgage means you don’t need to 
  make as much to cover costs. “Anything else?” 
  “Just one.” I lean in a little. “This Michael 
  Paneer—you got an address?” 
  When I leave a minute later I’m one favor 
  down—she’ll text she needs something, usually it’s 
  fetching or strong-arming or transport, saves her hav-
  ing to leave her precious corner—but one address 
  richer. 
  Michael Paneer, here I come. 
   
  *** 
   
  Paneer’s got a house in the town nearest his bar, 
  another ten minutes past those fast food places I saw 
  before. Small two-story, patchy front yard, rusting 
  fence, sagging porch—guess he’s not big on home re-
  pair. Pickup out front is one I saw in the lot of the 
  Devil's Own, big and shiny, gleaming like new. 
  Guess I know his priorities. Front room has a light on 
  but that goes off while I watch from down the block. 
  No other lights, so bedroom must be in back. I wheel 
  Flight behind a clump of bushes at a neighbor’s 
  house, then hoof it on over and circle around. 
  Postage-stamp yard and an old, leaning shed 
  complete the picture. Light from the upper back win-
  dow, single silhouette shifting about before it clicks 
  off. Gotcha. 
  
   
   
  26 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  I jump the back fence without a sound. That’s the 
  easy part. Next question is, best way in—straight up 
  or through? I can reach the window, no worries, but 
  shattering the glass is a lot of noise, and it’s quiet out 
  here—sound’ll carry. Better to go through. 
  There’s a back door, screen and then storm door 
  past that. Screen isn’t locked, storm is but it gives 
  when I apply pressure. Can barely make out the 
  whine of the lock breaking. 
  I ease it open, take a quick sniff. Good—no pets. 
  Floor creaks under my boots but hopefully not 
  enough to be noticed. Shut both doors behind me—
  careful not to let the screen bang the frame—and then 
  ease across the room. It’s the kitchen, just smells of 
  dust, guess Mikey eats at the bar. No sign of anyone 
  else here, which is also good. No worry about wit-
  nesses. 
  Ease my way down the narrow hall to the stairs. 
  Dark up there, and I stop to listen. I can hear his 
  breathing. It’s steady and slowing. Falling asleep. 
  Good. The stairway’s barely wide enough for me to 
  fit, and the steps are old enough to creak, so I opt for 
  speed over stealth, charge up it full tilt, down the up-
  stairs hall, into the bedroom.  
  He’s sitting up, groggy and confused by the sud-
  den racket, blinking, as I cover the space to the bed 
  and crash down on him, one hand over his mouth. Just 
  like I thought, it’s the barkeep, the one who clubbed 
  me. “Remember me?” I tell him. His wide eyes and 
  racing pulse say yes. “Good. So tell me about the guy, 
  the one you lied about earlier.” Tries to shake his head 
  but I’ve got his jaw in a vise grip. “Don’t,” I warn. “I 
  ain’t in the mood.” 
  I grin at him then, letting the teeth show, and 
  watch him pale. Skin’s growing slick with sweat, 
  odor’s sour but all human. 
  “All I need’s the name, and where to find him,” I 
  promise. “Then I’m gone. But till I get it”—I squeeze 
  a little, feel his wince—“I stay. Understood?” He 
  nods, best he can. “Good. I’m gonna let go now. You 
  scream or try anything, though”—I pat his cheek, my 
  nails pricking his skin—“it gets ugly.” 
  I remove my hand and he gulps a little but doesn’t 
  move otherwise. First smart thing he’s done all day. 
  “Tim,” he gasps after a second, voice shaky. “Tim 
  Beck. Stops by for lunch every other Thursday, like 
  clockwork. Likes the chili, extra crackers, a pale ale 
  with it. Drives long hauls, coast to coast I think. 
  That’s all I know.” 
  I frown, but his heartbeat’s steady—racing, but 
  steady. Truth. 
  “Fine,” I tell him, getting to my feet. “Now, this 
  is our little secret, dig? Say a word to anyone—most 
  of all Tim—and I’ll be back. Be good, never see me 
  again. Fair?” He nods frantically. 
  He’s still sitting there, wide awake, sweaty and 
  nervous, when I let myself out. 
   
  *** 
   
  It’s Tuesday now. I don’t know if this week’s off 
  or on for Tim Beck, but it’s worth finding out, so I 
  stake out The Devil’s Own two days later. Not in the 
  lot itself, course—I find a spot between there and the 
  gas station, makes me just a dark speck from either 
  but I can see well enough. ’Sides, rigs are easy to 
  spot. 
  Gaia’s smiling on me, ’cause noon-thirty hits and 
  there’s the rig I want, pulling in. Scrawny Tim hops 
  down and strolls to the door like he owns the place. 
  That’s fine. I let him go—for now. 
  Thought about storming in and dragging him out 
  by his hair, but not sure how many I’d face. Had a far 
  better idea. “Control the conflict,” my mentor always 
  said. “Pick the time and place that work to your best 
  advantage, not theirs.” 
  Would rather get him all the way back to the city, 
  my home turf, but can’t be sure he’s going that far. If 
  he shacks up outside city limits, I might play into his 
  hand instead. So I settled on somewhere in between. 
  Give him twenty minutes, then I drive over to the 
  lot. Park on the outer edge behind Paneer’s truck—he 
  won’t mind—and walk up to Tim’s rig. Squat next it, 
  just ahead of the rear tires, right beside the gas tank. 
  Pull out my knife—could use a claw but safer to go 
  with steel. Reach under and stab through, opening a 
  nice V-shaped hole in the tank where you can’t see. 
  Wipe the blade on a cloth, sheath it, and straighten, 
  then head back to Flight. Hope that’s enough to do it, 
  otherwise I’ll have to go with Plan B. More fun, hon-
  estly, but more risky, too. 
  Another hour goes by. When Tim finally comes 
  sauntering back out and climbs into his rig, I’m ready. 
  He leaves a puddle behind when he pulls out, and a 
  steady flow of droplets after. I follow him from a 
  short ways back, far enough he won’t notice, close 
  enough to keep tabs. He’s heading in the right direc-
  tion, at least, so that’s one in my favor. Now we see 
  how I did with the rest. 
   
  *** 
   
  
   
   
  27 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  Guess I’m running low on luck, ’cause we near 
  Exit 3 and he’s showing no sign of slowing. Damn. 
  Plan B it is. 
  Enough traffic on the road that I ease around one 
  car, then a van, and accelerate, closing the distance. 
  Nearly level to his rig I cut across so I’m right along-
  side, up near the cab. From his elevation I should be 
  out of sight—dangerous to be in a rig’s blind spot, but 
  right now I need that. 
  Now for the tricky part. Take my right hand off 
  the handlebars and draw that pistol, rest it almost in 
  my lap. Enough wind out here, and engine noise, pop 
  shouldn’t be too audible. 
  The thunderous roar of the tire blowing out defi-
  nitely is, though. 
  Second I took the shot I holstered the gun and 
  slapped my hand back on the handlebar, revving and 
  pulling ahead and away. Good thing, too—as the tire 
  parts a huge slab of steel-belted rubber comes whip-
  ping away, nearly takes my head off. Wouldn’t that 
  be a sad way to go! I can just make out Tim’s cursing 
  from inside. Rig’s got spares, of course, but it throws 
  him off, makes the whole truck wobble. He’s gonna 
  need to check that out, make sure nothing’s broken. 
  Good thing we’re almost up on Exit 3 now. And 
  there’s a sign saying “truck stop,” like a gift from 
  Heaven. 
  Tim’s gotta cut across two lanes to get there, 
  plenty of honking from angry motorists, but he makes 
  the exit and barrels toward the Promised Land. 
  I’m ahead of him, and pull around to the side as 
  he brakes and clambers down. By the time he’s 
  straightening from checking that tire, I’m almost on 
  him. 
  “Yo.” He turns, glaring from under that cap. 
  “Everything okay?” 
  “Fine, fine.” He waves me off, barely even regis-
  tering. “Just a blown tire. Thanks.” 
  “You sure? Maybe I should take a look. Cargo 
  could’ve got jostled loose.” 
  Now he does eyeball me, and I can see the recog-
  nition click in. I’m not easy to forget. Still plays it 
  cool, just muttering, “I’m good, thanks.” Hand’s 
  starting to reach behind him, though, toward his 
  waistband. 
  “I wouldn’t,” I warn, sweeping my jacket back so 
  he can see the pistols there. “Promise I’m faster. Be-
  sides, I just want to chat. No harm in that, right?” 
  He starts to answer but a sound cuts him off, the 
  roar of a big engine. Another rig sails past, accelerat-
  ing toward the exit and the highway. 
  Got to give Tim credit. Snap decision, he turns 
  and bolts for the rig, throws himself at its back, latch-
  ing onto the mudflap and trying to haul himself up 
  onto the empty platform. Not something you’d expect 
  from any but the bravest—or the most terrified. 
  I’m after him in a flash, though. Grab him by the 
  back of that jean jacket, yank him back to the ground. 
  Not gentle, neither—knocks the wind outa him, just 
  lays there a second. Another rig comes cruising past, 
  this one heading for the diner just behind us, and Tim 
  takes advantage of the distraction, leaps to his feet 
  and bolts after it. Spry little guy, I think as I turn and 
  trudge after him. No need to hurry, he ain’t going an-
  ywhere. 
  When I enter, he’s in there babbling about the 
  mugger and how he needs to call the cops. The owner 
  takes one look at me, frowns, then nods to two fellas 
  in the booth nearest the exit. They both stand, move 
  either side of me—and scoot past to lock the door. 
  “Now,” Bearclaw—Puff—says, “what’s this all 
  about, hm?” 
  “He’s trying to kill me!” Tim shouts, pointing my 
  way. “Look at him! He’s got a gun, too! Call the 
  cops!” 
  “That true?” Puff asks, those massive arms fold-
  ing across his chest. “You trying to kill this little guy? 
  What’s he ever done to you?” 
  “Don’t know yet,” I answer. Truth, that. “But 
  something ain’t right with him. I aim to find out 
  what.” I glance over my shoulder, out the window. 
  “Bet it’s his cargo.” 
  “Yeah? What’re you hauling, anyhow?” Puff 
  asks Tim, who’s starting to realize this ain’t the shel-
  ter he was hoping for. 
  “None of your business,” he spits out. “Private 
  contract, and not somebody you want to mess with.” 
  He’s looking all around, realizing he’s the center of 
  attention—and not a friendly face in sight. “Look, 
  forget it, okay. I’ll just be on my way, no harm done.” 
  He turns to go and there’s an arm the size of a log 
  barring his way. 
  “Answer the question, please,” Puff says, his 
  voice that soft rumble like a big cat about to pounce. 
  “Easy enough, right?” 
  Gotta hand it to Tim, he’s got guts. Most folks’d 
  shrivel up, faced with someone Puff’s size. Or mine. 
  He just straightens, juts out his chin. “My clients pay 
  for privacy,” he insists. “I ain’t breaking their trust.” 
  His hand dives into his jacket, comes out with a 
  phone. “You want to know, ask ’em yourself.” 
  
   
   
  28 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  I let him call up the number before slapping the 
  phone out of his hand. Catch it mid-air, glance at the 
  screen. “Black Rock Consulting,” I read out, and 
  every face here darkens. Known Pentex front, that. 
  Suspicion confirmed. 
  “Hand over the keys,” Puff says, holding out a 
  palm big as a Christmas ham. “Not your fault—you 
  can say we forced you to.” 
  Tim gulps—and now he goes for the gun. Points 
  it straight at Puff. Damn. “Back off!” he says. “I mean 
  it! Anybody moves, I shoot!”  
  Everybody freezes. Everybody but me. I glance 
  around, then back at my friend, eyebrow up in a ques-
  tion. He gives me a nod, barely a tic but I catch it. 
  Good enough. 
  “Tim,” I call. He stiffens. He didn’t know I knew 
  his name. “Look at me.” 
  Most can’t help it, and he’s one. He shifts, gun 
  still aimed at Puff but head swiveling around. 
  When he’s looking right at me, I shift. Not down 
  this time, either. Up. 
  The ceiling seems to race toward me as I shoot 
  up, passing Puff by a foot or more. My vision goes 
  red but sharp, every hair on Tim’s head distinct, every 
  drop of sweat standing out. I see his eyes go wide, 
  pupils dilating till the color around them’s all but 
  gone, mouth open, gun falling to the floor as his limbs 
  go slack. I growl, the sound filling the little diner, and 
  those same eyes roll up. A little sigh slips from his 
  lips as he passes out, lands on the floor with a dull 
  thud. 
  Back down and I look around. “All okay?” 
  Everyone nods. Ginger Bristles—I saw him there 
  but didn’t say anything—looks impressed. “Never 
  seen one your shade before,” he admits. “Cool.” He 
  holds up his fist, and we bump. Dude’s all right. 
  “Nice move,” Puff tells me, gathering up Tim’s 
  gun and tossing it behind the counter. “Smart.” 
  “Thanks.” Still a risk, even with his nod—what if 
  he’d missed someone, a random customer? But I 
  trusted him, and he was right. I knew he and Cindy’d 
  be fine, ’course, and Bristles, and the others I’d 
  scented. 
  Advantage of being Kinfolk—seeing the change 
  doesn’t mess with your head. Not like it did for Tim. 
  And a diner run by Kinfolk, for Kinfolk and Garou? 
  Safest place for me to change, outside an actual cairn. 
  Somebody checks Tim’s pockets, tosses me the 
  keys. Cindy unlocks the door. Bristles and Puff fol-
  low me out to Tim’s rig. I unlock the back, yank the 
  door up. Smells hit me the second it starts to rise—
  sweat, feces, dirt, fear. 
  The truck’s full of people. 
  A few I recognize from the streets. Most I don’t. 
  All of ’em scared, tired, hungry, dehydrated. Some 
  injured, some drugged, most just defeated. I feel the 
  rage building the longer I look. People like this, they 
  ain’t being collected for slaves—no money in dam-
  aged goods. 
  Their only use is as lab rats. People no one misses 
  when they’re nabbed—or when they’re disposed of, 
  after. 
  A big hand lands on my shoulder. “We’ll take 
  care of them,” Puff promises. “Feed ’em, get ’em 
  somewhere safe.” 
  I nod. “The truck?” 
  “I got it,” Bristles offers, holds out a hand for the 
  keys. He grins. “I know a place, they’ll have it 
  stripped in under an hour. Nobody’ll ever find the 
  pieces.” 
  “Good.” I glare toward the diner, the man within. 
  “Same’ll be true of Tim.” Not just yet, though. I’ve 
  got some questions for him still. 
  Twenty minutes later, I’m headed home, the city 
  beckoning with her lights and her skyline. Tim’s 
  trussed up behind me, looking like he’s just sacked 
  out but tied tighter ’n any hog. I’ll bring him to the 
  cairn, the pack can question him, find out just how 
  much he knows. With any luck, it’ll be another chink 
  in Pentex’s armor, something we can exploit. 
  And nestled in front of me, a to-go bag with an-
  other of Bearclaw’s signature pastries, my travel mug 
  full of piping-hot coffee. 
  I should get out of the city a little more often. 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
   
   
  29 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  The Atlantic Ocean 
  1725 
   
  The pair sat together in the oil-lantern-lit quarters 
  of a privateer captain; an office, meeting room, and 
  home all efficiently combined with a half-educated 
  man’s library and a mapmaker’s asylum cell.  The 
  two men shared between them companionable si-
  lences when that was what the night called for, and 
  passed between them a clear mantle of leadership that 
  kept either of them from dominating their nightly, 
  night-long, conversations;  both of them were charis-
  matic, affable or cruel as command required, but one 
  of them born to it and with an unmistakable aura of 
  authority, the other a man who had clawed for and 
  hard-earned every lesson of leadership the ugly way, 
  who perhaps bore less innate allure but who was the 
  master in this place, in this cabin, in these quarters.  
  The ship’s captain was of inestimably lower birth 
  than his passenger, but his rank was supreme aboard 
  this vessel…for so long as he held it. 
  The captain had long straw-yellow hair and a 
  four-week beard over a perpetual sunburn that turned 
  his face golden even in the oil lantern’s dimness. The 
  passenger's hair was black as sin but he had English-
  man-pale skin that matched his accent.  Both of them 
  were broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, 
  powerfully-built men but still athletic and quick de-
  spite their bulk, and they moved with an easy grace.  
  The captain was more accustomed to the rolling deck 
  upon which he lived his life, but the passenger moved 
  with a feline smoothness that simply refused to let 
  any wave-tossed awkwardness shine through. 
  Night after night, week after week, the two of 
  them forged a friendship together as the ship sailed 
  them west to the New World.  They laughed together, 
  lied to one another, spun fanciful stories and madcap 
  jokes, talked of plunder and war and leadership in 
  quiet voices.  The captain smoked tobacco and drank 
  rum that came from the colonies, occasionally used 
  Scottish whiskey to wash down his cook’s best ef-
  forts.  The passenger politely declined time and again, 
  begging off, blaming the sea for his lack of appetite. 
  As all friends do when days turn to weeks, and 
  especially when a voyage nears its end, eventually 
  they stopped lying and boasting and joking at one an-
  other, and turned their words thoughtfully inwards.  
  They spoke only truths.  They explained themselves 
  to one another as best, and as earnestly, as they could.  
  They spoke of who they were and what they did, 
  simply.   
  “We are just…takers,” the captain waved with his 
  pipe, taking in himself, his crew, the sleek, piratical 
  warship of which he was lord and master.  Virginia’s 
  TAKERS  
  RUSSELL ZIMMERMAN 
   
  
   
   
  30 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  lights were in sight; they would make landfall before 
  he and his passenger had another night to spend to-
  gether.  “Black or white, Jew or gentile, Muslim, it 
  matters not.  We’re all the same." 
  “My lads and I...” He spoke of men his age and 
  more than a few who were older, but it didn’t matter.  
  They were his lads.  They always would be.  “We are 
  what we are.  We do what we do.  We truck in no 
  slaves, nor call friend those who do.  We serve no 
  masters but those we choose.  We obey no orders but 
  those from leaders we’ve voted in, meself included.  
  They’re loyal to me only so long as I’m loyal to them, 
  and we all know it.  Takers like us, we bow to no god 
  nor man, and spit in the eye of any what tries to make 
  us kneel.  We’re rowdy, mad bastards, and not a one 
  of us isn’t likely to die for it sooner instead of later. 
  Until then, we’re free.” 
  The captain nodded, rolled the word around in his 
  mouth like his favorite Scotch. 
  “Free.  Free, and strong, and takers.  We know 
  it’s in our blood, to steal.  To scare and hurt those that 
  would try to stop us.  We take, it’s in our natures, 
  now, because we all – every one of my lads – got a 
  taste for it and decided to keep at it until we couldn’t 
  stop.  We’ve got some letter, now, makes us priva-
  teers instead of pirates, but it’s just paper.  It’s just 
  ink.  It’s just words.  We’re the same, no matter what 
  some letter says.  We’ll take, my lads and me, we’ll 
  take.  From whoever we can, whatever we want, how-
  ever we need to.” 
  He sighed out rich Virginian tobacco smoke. 
  “We’re takers.  And we’ll sail oceans of blood to 
  do that taking.  Mark my words.” 
  He was drunk enough, bare-souled enough, to tell 
  his passenger nothing but the darkest of his truths. 
  “It’s a funny thing, being a taker,” his passenger 
  smiled, teeth flashing white and sharp in the lantern-
  light.  He was sober enough to only share his darkest 
  truths, too.   
  “I know, because I am the very, very same.” 
  The vampire lunged, and drank, and fed.  Captain 
  Nathaniel Shaw died. 
  Then Captain Nathaniel Shaw came back a dead 
  and hungry thing, thirsting for lifesblood to fill a hole 
  in him that it never, ever would.  
   
   
   
   
   
  The Atlantic  
  Hotel & Spa, Parking Garage 
  Fort Lauderdale, Florida 
  2000 
   
  They stood in a ring, most of the city’s Kindred, 
  watching a duel.   
  It had been a short one. 
  “And that,” I spat out a mouthful of vitae, had it 
  dripping down my chin, my neck, the half-torn front 
  of my once-white tee, felt the warm life of it soaking 
  into my jeans. Overhead, effortlessly, I held a bat-
  tered, broken, vampire; the source of the sweet red 
  mess I was covered with.  A Malkavian.  We’d wres-
  tled.  I was a better wrestler. 
  “Is that.” 
  I flicked my wrists and gave the crumpled crea-
  ture a toss.  Bones shattered as the wet, red ruin of a 
  Kindred smashed against a concrete pillar; another 
  splatter for the Prince’s harried cleaning crews to 
  scrub up, another mess to be swept under the rug be-
  fore the construction signs went down and the garage 
  reopened as suddenly and mysteriously as it had 
  closed. 
  The Malkavian loser groaned and everyone pre-
  sent could hear bones grinding against one another as 
  he tried to stand.  I’d left a bit of blood in him.  I’d 
  pulled up short, not let myself feed the Beast enough 
  to get anywhere near draining him, heart and soul.  I’d 
  leashed myself, even as I’d feasted.  I’d wanted to 
  keep going – I always wanted to keep going – but I’d 
  pushed back the dark thirst, bitten it down, swallowed 
  it like bitter bile.  I’d been thirsty since that first night.  
  I’d lusted after vampire blood most of all. 
  But I’d won.  I’d stopped myself.  Maybe I 
  shouldn’t have.  Had I left a little too much gas in the 
  tank?  Was this aristo pain in the ass wanting to go 
  another round?  We, unliving though we were, held 
  our breaths to watch him try. 
  He held himself up on broken arms for a few long 
  seconds, then shuddered and fell and lay still.   
  A handful of Anarchs cheered. 
  Everyone else groaned. 
  I smirked and sucked the blood off my teeth. 
  “I believe the matter of honor is settled, my 
  Prince,” I flashed a smile at the sun-baked city’s 
  moron-in-chief.  He was a Nosferatu.  That’s part of 
  why I’d picked a fight with someone else. 
  “Or, well, their Prince,” I gestured airily to the 
  city’s assembled killers, thieves, and blood-draining 
  monsters of the night.  I was one of them, too, mind 
  
   
   
  31 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  – a vampire, I mean – but not one of them, not one of 
  this particular city’s.   
  Me, I wasn’t any city’s.  I was a monster of the 
  world. 
  “It 
  is 
  done,” 
  the 
  Prince 
  conceded.  
  “Our…guest…Mr. Shaw has, we can clearly see, set-
  tled the matter." 
  “With the duel finished, the insult answered, and 
  the trespass paid for, let the matter be done.  Final 
  Death is not needed, the Don is clearly beaten, and 
  with him the charges of Clan Nosferatu brought to 
  bear against the Caitiff, Mary Jo.”   
  Say what you will about the ugly bastards, but 
  some Nossie’s sure can muster up gravitas when they 
  need it.  This particular Sewer Rat’s supernatural de-
  formity expressed itself by way of monstrous sun-
  burn, and his skin flaked and peeled and wept tiny 
  droplets of red even as he spoke…but his eyes were 
  as dark and sharp and as cold and cruel as those of 
  any Prince I’d ever met. 
  “And she’ll be released from your cells, put over 
  into the care of the city’s Brujah, and will be re-
  stored and maintained to the, ahem, ‘full entitlement 
  to all rights and privileges belonging to all Camarilla 
  Kindred?’”  I arched one brow, doing my piratical 
  best to look dignified while I quoted the only docu-
  ment in the world I gave a single bloody shit about, 
  the Treaty of the Convention of Thorns.  “Also, 
  she’ll be given, I believe the phrase is, ‘the freedom 
  to act as she pleases, short of breaching the Mas-
  querade imposed for the protection of all Kindred.” 
  “She shall.” The Nosferatu gave me a look that 
  could curdle milk.   
  “Then my work here is done.”  
  I gave the Prince a sardonic bow, my very favor-
  ite kind, and as I straightened the city’s starving hand-
  ful of Anarchs whooped and hollered.  They were a 
  rowdy, frat-boy bunch, but in their defense Mary Jo 
  was the only one of them not to have been an actual 
  rowdy frat-boy in life.  Fort Lauderale.  What could 
  you do? 
  I let them cheer me and slap me on the back, re-
  turned their high-fives and fist bumps before striding 
  to my aide-de-camp, the lovely ghoul, Miss Elizabeth 
  Lafayette.  She was taller than me, and, not that it’s 
  hard, far prettier.  When we’d first met, she’d’ve been 
  called a mulatto.  These days, smart folks just called 
  her gorgeous and went about their day.   
  “That does it for the FLL, boss.” She kept a nice, 
  leatherbound, notebook in-hand everywhere we 
  went, wore a nice, cropped leather jacket, and kept a 
  .454 wheelgun in a leather holster.  She was a com-
  plicated gal, my Lizzie.  She kept her Anarch style 
  just this side of professional - classed the joint up a 
  little - and still carried a fuck-off big handcannon for 
  when trouble hit.  “Sovvie’s gassed up and we’re 
  good to go.” 
  My bloody right hand, a Mexican Gangrel so 
  scruffy he made my decades-old rockerboy-biker 
  look clean-cut and professional in contrast, was there, 
  too.  Alejandro and I had ridden together for a blood-
  soaked century before Elizabeth came along.  He’d 
  upgraded his firepower, and mine, from the Winches-
  ters and Colts we’d played with in those heady days 
  of the bloody Southwest, but his own claws and fangs 
  were, hands-down, the deadliest weapons he carried. 
  He tossed me my jacket – moose leather with in-
  ternal pockets for ballistic trauma plates, a savvy An-
  arch can’t be too careful in these dark nights – and I 
  shrugged it on.  The jacket felt like home.  Black 
  leather, silver studs and zippers, so many patches, 
  pins, and buttons it almost didn’t need the armor. 
  It was our uniform.  We kept it simple, like An-
  archs should, and rode the stereotype into the ground.  
  Black leather, denim, and the open road were the con-
  stants in our lives; everything else was secondary and 
  open to interpretation and added flair.  We all rotated 
  through a half-assed mess of gas-station and gift shop 
  tee-shirts, but the jackets were our real treats.  Happy 
  face buttons with fangs, Batman symbols for the man-
  bat, Black Power fists, Mexican flags, peace signs, 
  Anarchy A’s, anti-war bumper stickers, a row of sto-
  len 1% biker patches, a knotted boot lace with appro-
  priated fangs; we kept a motley assortment of deco-
  rations coming and going on our scuffed black leather 
  skins, trophies and ranks, prizes from hard-fought 
  battles and bloody, debauched nights off. 
  Which reminded me… 
  I pulled a scratched-up Leatherman from a coat 
  pocket and flicked it open, striding back over towards 
  the twisted, shattered, blood-drained form of Don 
  Agapetus. In life he'd at one point been the wealthiest 
  Marquis in New Spain. In undeath, he was an obses-
  sive Malkavian Primogen who’d flirted with joining 
  the Sabbat in dusty decades past but who had, in the 
  meantime, contented himself with sating his razor-
  sharp proclivities against wayward Anarchs.  He’d 
  been the sort of bastard I preyed upon centuries ago, 
  and it was unfortunate to see he was still the sort of 
  bastard I had to fight against, now, in these modern 
  nights. 
  
   
   
  32 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  The assembled Kindred of this silly, sun-
  drenched, city backed away from me as I opened and 
  closed the pliers at them a few times. 
  I pulled the Don up by his hair and gave him a 
  shake until the eye that wasn’t swollen shut could 
  open up and look at me. 
  “You leave Caitiff be.  You’re no Scourge.  
  You’re no Sheriff.” 
  I closed the pliers on one of his fangs. 
  “If they’re not breaking the Masquerade, you 
  don’t get them.  You don’t lock them up for wander-
  ing into your bullshit domain.  You don’t starve them.  
  You don’t peel them.  You don’t fucking touch them, 
  mate.  They are officially accorded the full protec-
  tions of the Convention of Thorns.” 
  I leaned in close, let him smell his own blood on 
  my breath. 
  “And of me.” 
  I wrenched and twisted and tugged, tossing the 
  broken mess of him in one direction, pulling his left 
  fang in the other.  I quirked an eyebrow at the assem-
  bled Kindred – their sunburnt Prince and his burly, 
  sell-out Brujah Sheriff included – as I tossed the fang 
  into my mouth to suck it clean, then jauntily spat it 
  into my hand. 
  “I have taken all Anarchs as my province,” I an-
  nounced, wishing I still had a good cloak to twirl as I 
  spun and strode away. 
  There was nothing like a good cloak twirl. 
  My right boot and Alejandro’s left jangled as we 
  walked, a set of ancient 7th Cavalry spurs shared be-
  tween us, stolen fair and square.  Elizabeth led the 
  way, chattering on about destinations before sun-up, 
  about Google Maps, about mileage and fuel ranges 
  and estimated times of arrival.  Alejandro and I han-
  dled the night-to-night violence of our chose unlife-
  style.  Elizabeth took care of basically everything 
  else, but especially the mundanity of the Sovvie’s 
  thirsts. 
  The Sovereign State was our headquarters, ha-
  ven, and heaven, but deep down inside she was a 
  class-A Winnebago that chugged diesel as hungrily 
  as I drank blood.  She wasn’t the frigate I’d had be-
  fore Edward, the Black Prince, had fanged his way 
  into my life, no.  She didn’t have dozens of cannons 
  on her side and all the Atlantic to claim as her own.  
  But she was mine.  She was home.  She was freedom.  
  She was a statement of domain, everywhere we 
  parked her, and wise vampires knew it, Kindred and 
  Cainite alike.  She flew our skull-and-crossbones, she 
  kept the sunlight off our faces as we slept, she carried 
  an open-topped trailer full of chrome-gleaming mo-
  torcycles…and I did still have myself a bloodthirsty 
  crew of ruthless takers, albeit a smaller one. 
  We eagerly hit the road, leaving Fort Lauder-
  dale’s bloody mess behind us.  We had another city 
  to go to, because we always had another, just as I used 
  to always have another fat galleon - low in the water, 
  pregnant with gold - to chase after.  Now I’ve always 
  got another Prince or Primogen, like a bloated tick, 
  fat with blood, to chastise and another neonate, thin-
  blood, or free-fanged loser to defend.    
  In life, I had been Captain Nathaniel Shaw, The 
  Black Shaw, one of the Atlantic’s piratical scourges. 
  Now, simmering almost to legitimacy in my old age, 
  I’m the ‘Anarch Archon.’ 
  We followed, in our red-soaked way, the letter of 
  Camarilla law.  We made Princes and Primogen fol-
  low their own rules.  We spoke up for Kindred who 
  were promised protection in exchange for honoring 
  the Masquerade, and we made sure they got it.  We 
  got emails from young Kindred in need, we looked 
  through them for the ones we could help, and we 
  helped them.   
  Everybody needs to make a living.  This was 
  mine.  It kept me feeling free and young. It kept me 
  active; kept me from turning into a hoary old monster, 
  all paranoia and hunger, stale-blooded and black-
  hearted.  I still got to travel.  I still got to move. 
  I still got to take, and to choose who I took from. 
  And this is the story of my trip to Elysium in Bal-
  timore, Maryland. 
  Pfft.  Elysium.  Vampires are a proud and prickly 
  lot, and nobody knows that utter truth better than we 
  do.  Just ask us and we’ll tell you; we’re dangerously 
  stupid.  We claim neighborhoods and our Beasts 
  within bare fangs at one-another for daring to draw 
  too near to our marked territory, but then we all force 
  ourselves to go a-mingling at some pretentious twat’s 
  art gallery or insufferable boor’s museum kept open 
  after-hours.  We make ourselves chit-chat – chit-chat! 
  – with other apex predators, all preening and strutting 
  like peacocks, to show off how we ape mortal culture 
  and taste, how we all cling to mortal wealth. 
  Bollocks, all of it.   
  ‘Elysium’ had meant paradise to the Greeks.  
  These nights, though?  To us, to them, to the stuffed-
  shirt Camarilla in their crooked, bloodstained ivory 
  tower, Elysium just meant predatory posturing 
  draped in inanity and a thin veneer of gossip. 
  When it all turns bloody – and it eventually al-
  ways does, we’re fucking vampires – and it’s the little 
  
   
   
  33 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  guy getting preyed upon, I hear about it.  Then 
  Alejandro, Elizabeth, and I saddle up in Sovvie, and 
  we hit the road to try and put a thumb on the scales of 
  justice. 
  So.  Onwards to Baltimore!   
  It’s a bloody town, and I don’t just mean to curse 
  it.  They had Sabbat inroads from time to time, just 
  like all the East Coast.  There was all sorts of fucked-
  up human swill - racism and poverty and the like - 
  that kept guns in scared hands and blood in the gut-
  ters.  But we’d gotten an email, and we had nowhere 
  better to go;  so off we went.  It took us a few nights 
  driving up through my old stomping grounds, hug-
  ging the coast, but we made it there.  We always did.  
  The three of us could drive the Sovereign State any-
  where, at any time.  The night’s roads held no fear for 
  us. 
  “Bodymore, Murderland,” the graffiti glowed be-
  neath the Sovvie’s headlights at long last.  Alejandro 
  rode as outrider on his chrome-and-black monster of 
  a bike, Elizabeth was on shotgun and reading over our 
  notes, with me at the helm in the comfort-laden, ab-
  surdly padded, faintly oversized driver’s seat. 
  “So, I suppose I’ve put this off long enough.  
  Who’s our Prince?”  I drawled out around a tooth-
  pick. 
  “Ventrue,” Elizabeth didn’t quite roll her eyes.  I 
  did.  Some nights, they all felt like Ventrue.  “One 
  Alexander Gladwell, sounds to be roughly two hun-
  dred years old, childer of the original Prince of Balti-
  more.  He’s been Prince for roughly a century now, 
  but he had just one childer himself, and lost her to 
  Final Death in a Sabbat incursion ten years ago.  He’s 
  started to crack down since, harsher and harsher 
  rules.” 
  “I knew him,” I piped up helpfully.  Elizabeth 
  didn’t rise to my conversational bait, but I didn’t let 
  that stop me.  “The former Prince.  We lent him some 
  muscle when Sabbat attacked back in, oh, hell, I don’t 
  recall.  Just after the Revolution, I suppose.  Martin, 
  his name was.  Stuffy London fellow, a banker in life, 
  I think.  I called him ‘Marty’ once, then I left for a 
  few decades.” 
  She didn’t seem to care about my impromptu his-
  tory lesson much.  Fine.  Her loss.  I’m a national 
  treasure.  She flipped a page. 
  “I did some asking around with local contacts. 
  The city’s been a real mess under Gladwell’s rule.  
  High turnover, several elders and ancilla slain even, 
  and then a few more when they didn’t take Gladwell’s 
  new rules and safety protocols seriously enough.” 
  “Is that why our ‘caller’ is in trouble?”  I’d stolen 
  the term from radio shows.  “Some new Primogen un-
  happy with how the iron-fisted Prince is cracking 
  down?” 
  “No, it’s a secondhand report.  Let’s stick with 
  ‘defendant,’ sir?  But no.  He is a Caitiff,” Elizabeth 
  turned a page.  She wasn’t being very chatty.  “Bray-
  den, just Brayden.  Midwestern kid on vacation, truck 
  stop Embracee somewhere in Delaware, took to the 
  roads…six months ago.  Sire left him our email ad-
  dress on a receipt after the bite, and not much else.  
  She told him to use it in an emergency, he said.” 
  “That’s nice.” 
  “Is it, sir?” 
  “Word of mouth.  Best advertisin’ there is, I 
  hear.” 
  Elizabeth sighed.  No doubt about it; she was in a 
  mood. 
  “Cammies got on him for wandering into a local 
  Toreador’s domain.  She’s the one that charged him 
  before Prince and Council.  Brayden says he was 
  searching for Elysium and broke into the wrong art 
  gallery, panicked and made a fuss when he got con-
  fronted.” 
  “The Torrie?”  I swung the Sovvie around in a 
  long turn, leaned into the Winnebago’s tilt like I’d 
  once braced on the deck of my ship. 
  “Toreador Primogen of the city, one Isabella 
  LeRoy, sir.  Only recently elevated from Whip, after 
  the last Primogen, her Sire, fell afoul of the Sheriff.  
  She also claims to be roughly two centuries of age, 
  but spent most of that overseas.  A duelist.” 
  “Oh?”  I quirked an eyebrow.  It had been all the 
  rage to Embrace swordsmen, back in the day.  It was 
  nice to see a few of them still hanging around. 
  “Mm-hmm,” Elizabeth just shrugged away my 
  curiosity.  “She argues that our baby, Brayden, vio-
  lated the Masquerade when he flashed fangs at the se-
  curity guard who caught him and it was only dumb 
  luck that the guard was a ghoul.” 
  “So we’ve got a not-quite Masquerade breach 
  perpetrated by a baby-fanged thinblood, the com-
  plainant’s a Toreador with a penchant for swordplay 
  and a need to be taken seriously by her city, and our 
  Prince is a stuffy Ventrue getting harsher about the 
  rules…which is how said Toreador found herself 
  with a new job?” 
  “Mm-hmm.” 
  “And what’s our complaint say happened next?” 
  “They threatened a stake-and-bake on the fang-
  crazy little bugger but settled for a lashing and a 
  
   
   
  34 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  branding. For now, they say.  The Primogen council 
  is still discussing the matter. The Prince is drawing 
  things out to curry favor from the new Primogen – 
  after that high turnover rate in recent years – and it’s 
  currently the Brujah standing strongest in dissent 
  against Permanent Death for the boy.” 
  “Who’s our buddy?” 
  “Hmm?”  She arched a brow at me, playing coy. 
  “Our Primogen, who’ve we got?” 
  “’Our?’” she lifted both eyebrows my way.  
  “’We?’” 
  “C’mon, Lizzie, you know what I mean.” 
  “Oh, your Clan, the Brujah?  Mm-hmm.  Out to 
  save our fair Caitiff is one Catherine Washington, 
  ‘Catherine the Greater.’  Or maybe ‘Grater.’  Street-
  type, came up bloody and stayed that way, has the fi-
  nancial pull to keep her voice thanks to drug money, 
  mostly.  So I doubt it’s the kindness of her heart that 
  has her helping our precious Brayden, sir.”  
  The Sovvie trundled to a stop at a red light.  I 
  swiveled my captain’s-chair/driver’s seat around 
  enough to give Elizabeth a long, pointed look. 
  “You don’t particularly like this Brayden, do 
  you?  Normally we save that for the Primogen, 
  Princes, and that sort of scum.  Why are you disliking 
  this dumb kid?” 
  “It’s not my job to like or dislike anyone, sir." 
  “Nate, not sir.” 
  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”  She 
  gave me a long look, tasted the word before she let it 
  slip out.  “Sir.” 
  The light turned green.  I stayed put at the inter-
  section, drawing in a breath just so I could sigh it out 
  gustily; nobody does drama like a vampire. 
  “Liz, I know you’re not a big fan of strays, or 
  their Sires.  I know you’re mad at Brujah, sometimes.  
  I know why.  We’ve talked about it, though, and I’m 
  in no mood for you to take this out on me again right 
  now.  You feel you deserve it.  I know.  I agree.  But 
  I can’t tell Alejandro to do it, it’s not right, telling an-
  other that they have to procreate.  The Embrace, it 
  carries a terrible weight with it, and a responsibility, 
  and makin’ a new vampire, Kindred, Cainite, what-
  ever th’hell you want to call us, it has to come from a 
  place of—“ 
  “How would you know?”  She slid her eyes away 
  from me, looked forward, pointedly at the green light. 
  That one stung, I won’t lie.  I loved Elizabeth, but 
  for just a blink-flicker in my mind’s eyes, I imagined 
  myself tearing her throat open for the insult.  The 
  steering wheel groaned a little as I tightened my grip 
  too much.  The light glared yellow, then red.  I slowly 
  turned away from her. 
  “That’s not fair.” I put my foot on the gas; it was 
  two am, the red light could go fuck itself.  The Sovvie 
  rolled forward. 
  In my first frenzy ever, when the moonlight had 
  touched my dead skin and fangs grew in my mouth 
  and all I heard in the whole world was the pounding 
  of terrified prey-hearts and the roaring of blood 
  through the veins of my lads, my takers, my killers, 
  my murderous crew;  when the howling rage of Bru-
  jah and Beast, together, had first been planted in my 
  breast by Edward, Prince of Wales, and when the 
  Black Shaw had gorged himself on his crew, I had 
  learned a terrible thing. 
  One of them, as the red veil fell away and the 
  night turned clear and cold, the last of them, I had re-
  gretted.  Edward, my Sire, had whispered to me how 
  to save him, how to save anyone.   
  “It’s in the blood, and it only takes a drop,” the 
  monster-father had told me.  “Share it and play a trick 
  on death himself.” 
  I had tried.  It hadn’t worked. 
  The next night, Sire and Childer tried it again, 
  studious as young boys, serious about solving a prob-
  lem.  Other lessons came – sunlight and fire and other 
  threats were warned about – but the tricky knots of 
  the blood had to be untangled.  We found a cruel man, 
  some Virginian slaver, and methodically opened his 
  throat; to give him the blood and kill him anew if it 
  ‘took,’ try to determine why not if it didn’t.   
  It didn’t. 
  Neither did my blood stay with the next slaver, or 
  the next, or the next.  We tried larger amounts of 
  blood. We tried healthier prey. We tried at different 
  times of the night, with me more sated, less sated, and 
  even on the edge of frenzy from hunger.  We tried.   
  We gave up after a few months of preying on 
  predators.  Edward lectured to me, I argued philoso-
  phy and morality with him, we wandered the bloody 
  American South dressed in turns like princes and pau-
  pers, living high off the hog with slaver’s booty and 
  slaver’s blood. 
  After a few years, my Sire drifted north and set-
  tled somewhere colder than I liked.  I stayed on the 
  move, stayed an outlaw, stayed away from him and 
  the rage the sight of him began to stir in my belly.  I 
  went every which way but home.  I spent decade atop 
  decade running with my fellow Brujah and burnt 
  down whole neighborhoods that deserved it. Hunted 
  through woods alongside Gangrel and traded blood 
  
   
   
  35 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  with them after we feasted on Lupines. Fought with 
  everything that walked, swam, or crawled.  I never 
  settled down except in various incarnations of ships 
  and saddles over the years; always on the move, al-
  ways bringing trouble with me, always with a handful 
  of friends but never any family. 
  I couldn’t Embrace. 
  And I had, over time, grown scared to try.  Who 
  would want to kill someone you thought deserved 
  eternity beside you while only gambling that your un-
  holy vitae would bring them back? 
  I had learned long ago that I was only fit to take.  
  It was all I could do.  Steal.  Loot.  Pillage.  I couldn’t 
  ever really hold anything, or protect anyone, or build 
  anything that would last forever.  All I could do was 
  take blood from others, just take.   
  Only, ever, take. 
  We drove in the dark and the quiet.  She sighed 
  and shuffled papers in her leatherbound notebook.  I 
  brooded and chewed on the Baltimore information we 
  had like a dog chews on a bone. 
  We pulled up to Alejandro’s bike in a nightclub 
  parking lot, kickstand and leather boots on the 
  ground, his Gangrel eyes glowing soft and red above 
  the cherry of a lit cigarette.  The Sovereign State 
  purred from idle to dead, and when Elizabeth moved 
  to leave my arm flickered out snake-quick and held 
  her hand; as gently as I could, but as strongly as a 
  vice.   
  My accent fell away, the Scottish burr from my 
  days in the sun, the Virginian drawl I’d kept for so 
  long, the Southwestern mannerisms Alejandro and I 
  had shared with six-guns in our hands, the cinematic, 
  piratical, gibberish I’d taken to in recent years.  I 
  wasn’t play-acting with her.  Not for a minute or two. 
  She paused and gave me the chance to talk.  I’ll 
  give her that much. 
  “I’m sorry.”  My eyes held hers, but no blood 
  fueled my voice, no vampiric tricks held her atten-
  tion.  “I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want, what 
  I want to give you, what you deserve to have.  I know 
  you’re tired of being…just…what you are.  You de-
  serve better than being my ghoul – you do – but I 
  can’t fix it myself, and I can’t tell Alejandro, or any-
  body else, to do it.  It ain’t right, Lizzie.  You can’t 
  force someone to share that, or at least I can’t." 
  I shook my head and relaxed my grip.  She 
  squeezed my hand back. 
  “It’s fine,” she lied.  “I understand, Nate.” 
  Not ‘sir,’ at least. 
  “Let’s just do the job.”  She slipped free and 
  stepped down out of Sovvie, stretching as she did so, 
  then checking the wheelgun in its holster.  She was 
  every bit as smart as she looked. 
  “Elysium?”  I hopped down and stretched, my-
  self, but made a big show of not checking any guns in 
  any holsters.  Anyone who was spying on us had to 
  know it wasn’t a gun that made me dangerous. 
  Alejandro breathed out a lungful of smoke and 
  disgust in equal measure, then flicked his cigarette 
  halfway across the parking lot. “That’s the rumor.  
  ‘Midnight,’ is all the place is called.”   
   “At least it’s not a fucking art gallery.”  
  I led the way, one of them on each flank, and we 
  strode into the nominally-closed club.  The windows 
  were tinted enough so no light escaped, no garish 
  neon sign promised openness, no music dropped a 
  skull-throbbing bass beat at us; but the door opened, 
  all the same, and in we walked. 
  A pair of men – ghouls, really – flanked the door.  
  Sport coats over black tees and jeans.  Broad shoul-
  ders.  No necks to speak of.  They were the same eve-
  rywhere.  Bouncers in the early evening, something 
  more serious late at night.  
  “Gentlemen!”  I raised my hands with a flourish.  
  My swagger was back, my silly accent, the wildness 
  about the eyes that kept me young and vital.  “Nathan 
  Shaw, Brujah visitor to your fair city, at your service.  
  Take me to Prince, Sheriff, or Scourge, as you please.  
  Dawn’s not far off, and we’re a law-and-order bunch, 
  we are!” 
  It didn’t take long.  An empty, half-dark night-
  club is a pathetic beast and the stony-faced ghouls 
  performed admirably.  One led us where we needed 
  to be; the other adjusted an earbud, spoke into his 
  wrist, and dutifully manned the door. 
  Baltimore is a bigger ‘burb than many, so I knew 
  the small crowd we walked in on couldn’t be every 
  Kindred, but it was enough.  Pale skin, dark hair, hun-
  gry eyes.  Some in tailored Italian affairs, some in off-
  the-rack suits, some in blue jeans torn just so and 
  black leather jackets that reminded me of my own lit-
  tle dog pack.  A few sniffed of sewers and secrets and 
  lurked in the shadows, others would no doubt be dev-
  astatingly beautiful if you gave them the second look 
  their so dearly wanted. A very few did their skittish, 
  Neonate best to be overlooked. 
  The Prince, seated in a high-backed leather chair 
  while everyone else stood and posed and postured 
  around him, took the wind right out of me, or, well, 
  he would have if I’d had any in me.  Every inch the 
  
   
   
  36 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  Mafioso, this one, the up-and-comer, the lean wolf in 
  a mobster flick; slicked-back hair as black as a bas-
  tard’s heart, dark and dangerous eyes to match, subtle 
  pin-stripes on a dark suit, the shadows broken up only 
  by a silken splash of red thanks to a pocket square.   
  I knew him.  From a long time ago. 
  Alejandro, as a peer, filled in the wide-eyed si-
  lence I left in my surprise. 
  “Hola.  I am Alejandro Murrieta, ‘El Lobo Rojo,’ 
  the Red Wolf of the Hills.” He growled it out like it 
  was a challenge as much as a greeting, and like any-
  one, anywhere, still gave a fuck about his outlaw band 
  formed in the wreckage of the Mexican Empire of 
  Iturbide.   “I am of Clan Gangrel and the seventh gen-
  eration, childer of The Dutchman Janszoon.” 
  He was all stubble and wild hair, scars and denim 
  and leather waiting to cat-scratch anybody who held 
  his gaze for too long.  That was Allie being friendly.  
  We’d waded through blood together for a long time.  
  Hearing him introduce himself – challenge – a whole 
  damned room of Baltimore’s gathered predators put 
  some wind back in my sails. 
  “And I’m Nathan Shaw, the Anarch Archon.  
  Clan Brujah, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, title, title, ti-
  tle, if you’re looking for my Sire ask for Edward up 
  Milwaukee-way.”  I gave it half a tick, to let the gath-
  ered Ivory Tower types wrinkle their collective noses 
  at my lack of decorum.  Then I lacked it a little harder.  
  “But don’t tell him where to find me ‘cause I owe him 
  twenty bucks.” 
  That got a few titters here and there, because they 
  didn’t know what else to say. 
  The Prince lifted two fingers for silence, and got 
  it.  His dark eyes bored holes in Allie an’ me.  I waited 
  for his finger to turn into a point, an accusation, a sen-
  tence of murder.  I forced my Beast not to howl in 
  rage and denial.  I balled it up and kept the monster 
  inside me hungry, at least until I could get Liz out; if 
  they broke Elysium’s peace and half Baltimore’s Kin-
  dred opted to murder us, it’d be no place for a ghoul, 
  a smart, loyal, strong one or not. 
  “Who was it that summoned you here?” their 
  Prince asked, softly, in the silence his negligent ges-
  ture had earned him. 
  “Yo.” A black woman stepped up, half-pale from 
  Vampire blood, chin high, dreads bouncing as she 
  tossed her head.  “My boy, Brayden, asked me to 
  reach out and get them up in here, to help us get to 
  the bottom o—“ 
  “There is no bottom to get to.” 
  The correction came quickly, and not from the 
  Prince.  Razor-sharp.  Epee-fast.  A woman with the 
  poise and accent of a highborn French lady – an old 
  one – stepped into the half-light of the dance floor.  
  She moved with a grace I hadn’t seen in a long time.  
  My Beast stirred at the sight of the elegant, slen-
  der sword at her hip.  The embossed leather belt 
  didn’t clash with her outfit, the silvered pommel and 
  crossguard were easy for her to accessorize with 
  without violating traditional Cammie-goth mores. 
   “The idiot thinblood violated Domain and Hos-
  pitality alike, and sank his fangs into the Masquerade 
  so soundly that only dumb luck kept it, too, from be-
  ing totally broken.  My accusations are not only my 
  word, but clear evidence, audio and video both, the 
  word of my servant, and an admission by the fool 
  himself.  He broke the Second and the Third, and pun-
  ishment was meted out. I only know argue that the 
  punishment be finished, and he meet the sun for his 
  threat to the First.” 
  Prince who called himself Alexander Gladwell; 
  Brujah Primogen, Catherine the Greater; and Torea-
  dor Primogen, Isabella LeRoy.  One, two, three.  All 
  our players were gathered, Kings and Queens and 
  Knights aplenty, everyone was here except the idiot 
  pawn.   
  I was only terrified and enraged by one of them. 
  “Yeah, but what I’m sayin’ is Brayden don’t 
  gotta die for it.”  The Frenchwoman’s tone didn’t 
  back Catherine down, I’ll give her that much.  She 
  postured up, instead, keeping her head high, stance 
  aggressive, arms moving.  The aristocratic stillness of 
  Isabella, the Toreador, was a stark contrast, as was the 
  utter, clearly inhuman, patience of their Prince.   
  The two of them continued an old argument, 
  whatever other business they had planned for the 
  evening was being thoroughly ignored.  The Prince 
  tapped his finger against the armrest of his red-leath-
  ered chair, keeping time…until he lifted two fingers 
  again. 
  “You know who I am.” He spoke only to me, 
  those eyes boring into mine.  I held his gaze.  I’d 
  learned a lot on my centuries on the road, and rule one 
  was that yes you could avoid Dominate if you never 
  looked a Ventrue, Lasombra, or Malkavian in the eye, 
  but doing so showed fear.  Fuck fear.  I’d rather let 
  them try their tricks and win. 
  “I hear you’re the Prince.” I didn’t blink, didn’t 
  flinch, didn’t look away. 
  “Why are you here?” 
  “Yo, I told you, we got him a messa—“ 
  
   
   
  37 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  “Silence.” 
  The Prince’s whisper rang out like a gunshot.  
  Catherine had matched his gaze, too, and his Domi-
  nated command had shut her right up. 
  “I was asking our guest.” He gestured to me with 
  an open hand, a friendly gesture, an invitation to 
  speak, a harmless flick of his hand. 
  I tensed up, waiting for the other shoe to fall 
  every time his black gaze was on me.  It never hap-
  pened. 
  “The Brujah Primogen’s not wrong.” I didn’t let 
  my tension show, didn’t let the bastard see me sweat. 
  “She reached out with an email, we answered.  Her 
  message reached me by way of my aide-de-camp, and 
  here we are.” 
  I liked to mix it up, sometimes calling Elizabeth 
  my ensign, other times my adjutant, a few times my 
  squire, sidekick, or – only once – secretary.   
  I interrupted the gathered Kindred’s murmurs – 
  “Oh, imagine that, the Brujah is speaking up for the 
  other Brujah, and, I say, Jeeves, whatever is an ‘elec-
  tronic-mail’ again? – by barreling ahead. 
  “But since I’m here, and I have the conch, I just 
  thought I’d let you know that everything the French-
  woman said is wrong.  Brayden didn’t violate the 
  Fifth.  ‘When thou comest to a foreign city, thou shall 
  present thyself to the one who ruleth there.’  He was 
  trying to do that, he just stumbled into the wrong 
  trendy nightspot to do it.” 
  Murmur, murmur, murmur went the assembled 
  Harpies and goodly Kindred. “Look, dear, the An-
  arch can quote the laws at us!  I wonder if he does 
  any other tricks?” 
  I let myself pause just long enough that Isabella 
  would want to speak up after a polite silence, then cut 
  her off to keep my momentum.  Nothing throws a so-
  cial busybody off-guard like almost stepping on their 
  toes. 
  “Brayden didn’t violate the Second, either. ‘All 
  others owe thee respect while in it,’ it says, and ‘None 
  may challenge thy word while in thy domain.’ Bray-
  den didn’t disrespect you – or anyone – when he got 
  lost and was too embarrassed to ask for directions. He 
  didn’t challenge your word, either. Even you said he 
  admitted to the mix-up, right?” 
  Whisper, whisper, muffled gasp. “Ho ho ho, look 
  at that Primogen get mildly taken aback, I say, did 
  her eyes widen ever so slightly?  Such a scandal! She 
  almost showed emotion, it’s like it’s the roaring twen-
  ties all over again!” 
  “And while he might have fucked up the First by 
  snarling and going fangs-out at your boy, the truth is 
  he didn’t.  It was just a ghoul that saw him, and even 
  if it hadn’t been trying to scare a guard away by mak-
  ing a funny face is way better than fanging him up for 
  real, and, as far as I can tell, the only reason anybody 
  but your ghoul even saw him trying to look all toothy 
  and scary is that you’re hanging onto a security tape 
  and showing it off to whoever asks to see it, right?” 
  “I say, Jeeves, this scruffy little mongrel’s onto 
  something, eh?  Why, I remember Isabella showing 
  that video to me, to try and sway me against that dirty 
  little Caitiff, quite right!” 
  I kept my foot on the gas.  Smaller pauses. I let a 
  little Presence slip out, too, just to make sure every 
  eye on the place was on me.  It was anyways, but it 
  felt good to let the Beast mark its territory a little, and 
  dabble in my abilities. 
  “If anyone’s breaking Traditions tonight, ma’am, 
  it’s you.  I’m sure you’re familiar with the Sixth, ei-
  ther reading of it, aye?  We are, all of us, forbidden 
  to destroy another of our kind.  ‘The right of destruc-
  tion belongeth only to thine Elder,’ the rest of it says, 
  and ‘Only the Eldest among thee shall call the Blood 
  Hunt.’  I know you’ve got a belly full of Old World 
  blood, Miss LeRoy – can I call you Isabella? – but I 
  doubt you’re the eldest among all Baltimore’s Kin-
  dred, are you?  Cammie scholars tend to only offer up 
  three interpretations there, meaning actually the old-
  est, or the city’s Prince...” 
  I looked up at the monster on the throne again.  
  He was listening to me, which means he didn’t know 
  what I knew.   I kept talking. 
  “…or a tie to the Fourth Tradition, that of Ac-
  counting.  ‘Thine Elder,’ it says, after all, not just ‘the 
  Eldest.’  So which is, Izzy?  Are you the oldest vam-
  pire in town, calling the Prince a liar?  Are you the 
  Prince of the city, so we’re all suckers?  Or are you 
  the one who traveled to some gas stop after a big 
  show at the Dover International Speedway and 
  sucked off this kid in the bathroom, and you’re now 
  claiming responsibility for him as your childer?” 
  That got a few giggles and gasps again.  Isabella’s 
  hand slid towards her sword hilt.  I was winning.  I 
  flashed my teeth to show that I knew it. 
  “I’m a simple Kindred, Your Grace, dusty from 
  the road and tired from a long night’s drive.  But 
  sometimes simple is enough; here, in the case of this 
  Caitiff and this Primogen, we face a simple truth.” 
  I gestured with both hands, taking in the whole 
  whispering crowd of scandalized blood-drinkers who 
  
   
   
  38 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  were rocked by blunt rudeness.  The Prince’s dark 
  eyes stayed on me, as calculating as a crow. Or a vul-
  ture. 
  “Brayden’s probably a fucking idiot.” 
  I let them titter again. 
  “But he was trying to find you to present himself.  
  He was trying to find all of you, because maybe he 
  heard Baltimore would treat him fair.  Maybe he 
  heard the Traditions were respected here, the laws of 
  all Kindred, those protections that the Convention of 
  Thorns swore would cover even the humblest An-
  arch, which Brayden surely, surely, is.  He got bad 
  directions.  He went to the wrong place.  He got 
  spooked when he got caught, but even then he tried 
  to scare a guard off, instead of hurting anybody.  Hell, 
  maybe the kid thought he was shooting off a flare, 
  sending up a smoke signal; maybe he knew the Prince 
  of this great city could smooth over a little wrinkle 
  like that and he thought it was a safe way to draw your 
  attention so he could follow through on Hospitality.” 
  I shrugged.   
  “I really don’t know.” 
  My hands went to my hips, my chin lifted, my 
  feet spread.  Just enough defiance to look sincere. 
  “What I do know is he didn’t violate half the 
  stinkin’ Traditions like this dame says. What I do 
  know is he got whipped and burned for it already, an-
  yways. What I do know is that – unless Isabella does 
  want to claim she, ah, ‘met’ him at some truck stop in 
  Delaware – from all that I’ve heard, I’m the closest 
  thing to a Sire this kid has.” 
  It felt strange to say it, knowing that I wasn’t an-
  yone’s Sire, and never would be, but it was winning 
  me the argument, so I ran with it. 
  “The irresponsible Lick that did drain and feed 
  him in a gas station bathroom, they gave him my con-
  tact information and precious little else.  They told 
  him how to reach me in an emergency.  They, who-
  ever they are, told him I’d look after him if he needed 
  me.  And he needs me now.” 
  I kept my head up in a challenge, turned it to look 
  at the Toreador and away from the raven-dark mon-
  ster on his throne. 
  “So if you want to see that idiot kid dead, you’ve 
  got to go through me.  Trial by combat.  Right here.  
  Right now.  I’ll wager a lady like you doesn’t leave 
  home with only one good sword in her retinue.  Lend 
  me some steel and we’ll finish it right now.” 
  I sent out a surge of confidence through my Bru-
  jah blood and the Presence it lent me.  My Beast 
  growled happily inside my black heart.  I knew she 
  had one, too.  Maybe not the same type of blood-
  soaked wolf that howled away at my insides some-
  times, but even the prettiest Toreador poodle still had 
  teeth and hunger. 
  “My Prince?”  Her French lilt lifted, along with 
  one graceful eyebrow, as a polite question.  She 
  wanted this chance to prove herself.  Wanted to show 
  she was ready to spill blood for the Camarilla, despite 
  her Sire’s death.  Wanted to be taken seriously. 
  Murmurs abounded.  I’d planted enough seeds of 
  doubt – hell, I was actually right, unless Washington 
  and the kid had lied their asses off to me – for uncer-
  tainty to set in.  As was often the case with old, hun-
  gry, mean-spirited monsters like us, once you left a 
  matter of life and death in doubt, a good, confident 
  challenge to personal combat could settle matters. 
  Truth be told, I’d been flirting with the idea as 
  soon as I’d heard she was good with a sword.  It had 
  been positively ages since my last good sword fight.  
  Alejandro’d had me settling lethal affairs with claws, 
  fangs, or guns for so long, it sounded absolutely thrill-
  ing. 
  Even before I saw the Prince squatting on his 
  dark throne, I’d wanted to stab someone pretty good.  
  This might just be a two birds, one stone, type of deal 
  for me. 
  The Prince let her request hang in the air.   
  “Madame Keeper,” the Prince’s voice rose like 
  the moon, the loudest I’d heard him speak.  His dark 
  eyes swept the room until he found her, “There you 
  are, Miss Combs.  Are we quite certain that Elysium 
  is free, and will remain so, of mortal eyes for the 
  evening?” 
  I bloody well hope so, mate, we’ve all been jaw-
  ing on like it’s pretty secret.  I dug my phone out of 
  my pocket, making a big show of Anarch impatience 
  while the locals talked, and I started to thumb at it, 
  sending out a text. 
  A gorgeous blonde woman in a curve-hugging 
  red silk dress nodded her head.  Her lips were as red 
  as blood or rubies, and an obsessive madness lurked 
  behind her eyes; she reminded me of Don Agapetus.  
  A Prince could do worse than a Malkavian for seeing 
  to his Elysium. 
  “We are, my Prince.” 
  “Thank you, Odia.  Sheriff!” the Prince’s voice 
  was loud and clear again.  “See to it no others inter-
  fere.” 
  A lantern-jawed fellow in a tragic Men’s Wear-
  house Big And Tall suit gave a nod, all cop mustache 
  
   
   
  39 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  and cop haircut.  Elizabeth’s notes said he was a Bru-
  jah, but I didn’t know him or his sire. 
  “Scourge,” the Prince’s voice had a razor’s edge 
  to it, the word itself was dangerous.  “Assist your 
  Sheriff.  Should any bare steel, raise a hand, or wield 
  Kindred powers to influence this contest, end them 
  swiftly and surely.” 
  A grunge-rocker kid, all hollow eyes and layers 
  of flannel hiding old bloodstains, nodded in return.  
  Rumor was he was Gangrel, but Alejandro’d never 
  heard of him or his Sire, either.  We were clueless 
  about just how gnarly the Prince’s hired muscle was. 
  It wouldn’t matter for this swordfight, though.  I 
  glanced from pillar of the community to pillar of the 
  community, half-interested, thumbs jabbing my 
  phone.  Alejandro wasn’t paying much attention to 
  them, either.  Elizabeth scowled into her leather note-
  book. 
  “Keeper of Elysium, I charge you to formally 
  suspend the peace, for just this one contest, just until 
  I say otherwise.  Anyone who interferes and spills 
  Kindred blood this night will face The Final Death.  
  At mine own two hands, if they must.” 
  I wondered how many of the city’s vampires he’d 
  killed with those two hands.  Or through other means. 
  Odia Combs, the devil in a red dress, gave him a 
  white-toothed smile and a nod. 
  “Let it be so.  Elysium’s peace is on hold.  Just 
  this special once.  Just this lucky night.” 
  I put my phone away and gave a cocky grin to 
  Isabella LeRoy, the Toreador so fine with a blade it 
  was an art form who’d earned her immortality. 
  “Shall we dance, m’lady?”   
  She licked her lips, stepped into the light more 
  fully, barefoot for practicality and dance-quickness in 
  our fight…and lifted a pair of stakes. 
  Oh. 
  Aww. 
  One of the wooden instruments – no crude af-
  fairs, these, but finely honed, fire hardened, with 
  leather-wrapped handles and silver butt-caps for flair 
  and balance – sailed through the air towards me in a 
  graceful arc.  I caught it, disappointed there wouldn’t 
  be flashing swords, but working up a new battle plan, 
  adjusted for these new weapons. 
  She lifted hers in a salute, perhaps only half-sar-
  castic.  I returned it, just as sincerely. 
  Oh, wait, I should quip! 
  “I must say, m’lady, it will be a shame to ruin 
  such a fine boso—" 
  She came at me, fast and hard, stake a jabbing 
  blur.  I deserved it.  My quip was going to be garbage. 
  Alejandro sulked away from the fight like a good 
  lad, Elizabeth crossed her arms, angry with me but 
  backing away, as well.   
  Sticks clacked against one another as I parried, 
  riposted, slid into a proper stance and the dance began 
  in earnest.   
  First off, to be absolutely clear, let the record 
  show that Isabella LeRoy is really, really, quite good.  
  I’m not taking away from her ability, at all, when I 
  say that my heart wasn’t really in it and I didn’t feel 
  very scared. Her strikes were accurate, measured, and 
  precise.  Her balance was phenomenal, her footwork 
  everything you would expect.  Her slender limbs hid 
  more strength than you would expect – a common 
  vampiric trick – even if it wasn’t much compared to 
  my particular vintage of artisanal Brujah blend.  
  There was power in her attacks, in her parries, in her 
  stakeplay.  She was fluidity given martial form, every 
  inch of her. 
  And as we both leaned on our speed – that special 
  speed, the Celerity that Brujah and Toreador have in 
  common, that we usually use in very different ways – 
  our combat turned to a blur. I prayed that she was 
  leaning on another Discipline, as well.  The preternat-
  ural perceptive abilities of Auspex come easily to the 
  Toreador, and I’m not certain I’ve ever met a single 
  one that didn’t at least dabble in that power of their 
  blood. 
  Me?  I had picked up the rudiments of Auspex 
  from Alejandro decades prior. He had learned it from 
  a Malkavian bandit, internalized it and used it to es-
  cape the Sabbat and Camarilla both for long years, 
  and had shared it with me, alongside the Protean and 
  Fortitude native to his Gangrel blood.  Alejandro and 
  I were partners and lovers alike, and shared every-
  thing.  He had all my fierce strength and speed, and I 
  all of his tricks. 
  So I knew a thing or two about Auspex.  The low-
  est tiers of it.  I was, in fact, using it myself during the 
  duel; Isabella and I were moving so quickly that the 
  uncannily heightened senses made it easier to keep 
  up, easier to offset the darkness of the half-dead 
  nightclub, easier to pierce the shadows that lurked, 
  liquid and murky, all ‘round the edges of our duelist 
  field.  I could see in the dark well enough to see 
  Alejandro sharking through the Kindred-filled wa-
  ters, could hear well enough to hear Elizabeth’s exas-
  perated sigh and see her go pale against the harsh 
  white light of her phone, could hear every slap of 
  
   
   
  40 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  Isabella’s bare feet on the dance floor and every whis-
  per and hiss as her hair and the cloth of her dress 
  snapped and whipped during our duel. 
  She had to be doing the same.  For me to survive 
  the night, she had to. 
  “I hope you can hear me,” I spoke quickly, be-
  cause just right then I was doing everything quickly, 
  clack-clack-clacking my stake against hers in a swift 
  trio of parries as I backpedaled from her lunging at 
  my heart. 
  “Are you serious?” she hissed at me, pressing her 
  attack. 
  “Deadly,” I slapped my stick against her, back-
  handed hers melodramatically off-line, and lunged at 
  her like a, well, like a sword-fighting movie pirate. 
  “Play along, I beg you, on behalf of your city and 
  all those who fight the Sabbat.” 
  She stabbed me in the leg, instead, then the ribs, 
  then the shoulder.  One-two-three, quick as you 
  please, then spun away like a, well, like a bullfighter. 
  “Damn it, woman, listen to me!” I lunged after 
  her – stabbing didn’t really cause muscle tissue dam-
  age or slow me down, not like it had when I was alive 
  – and tried to draw her back into the fight.  I tele-
  graphed every attack, exaggerated every parry.  She 
  had to see it.  She had to know I was up to something. 
  “Your Prince is not your Prince,” I said, another 
  parry, three steps back, parry, block, counter.  “I 
  know him.  I saw him.  I knew his Sire, my word on 
  my life and that of my friends.” 
  I hissed at her aloud, melodramatically, as she 
  sank her stake low in my belly.  She pressed her body 
  close to mine as she did so, though, and hissed back 
  at me; another whisper, an unintelligible message to 
  anyone not operating at our speeds, with our senses. 
  “You’re mad,” she said. 
  But she didn’t mean it. 
  One learns the difference between insults and sin-
  cere observations, after more than a dozen decades 
  spent causing trouble everywhere you go. 
  No, hers was a half-hearted denial, a knee-jerk re-
  sponse.  She knew something was wrong with her 
  Prince, deep down.  Maybe she’d suspected for a 
  while.  Maybe – and here, my black heart nudged me 
  into guessing – maybe her Sire had suspected some-
  thing, as well, and that was why Isabella was the Pri-
  mogen now. 
  In the argument, I was pretty sure I had her. 
  “You know I’m right.  I trust you.”  God, I was 
  stupid.  “You’ll do what’s right.” 
  I had to trust my gut.  Undeath would be boring 
  if we only made good choices, right? 
  And besides, Allie and Liz were still in the 
  crowd.  As aces up your sleeve went, they were a 
  solid pair. 
  I shifted my feet, cast my arms wide, twisted this 
  way and that, overdid it with a lunge and-thrust.  She 
  twisted away from it, masterful, elegant, perfect.  The 
  tip raked against her ribs, drew blood, ruined her 
  dress with a red, ragged, tear. 
  She let out a triumphant yell, gave her stake a 
  flourish-spin, and began a thrust.   
  My too-sharp senses and enhanced speed felt it 
  happen with grotesque precision.  The fire-hardened 
  tip pierced long-dead skin, parted my ribs, slid 
  through the red mess of my dead organs, and angled 
  up, up, up.  I stared her in the eyes.  I felt the tip prod 
  against my roaring, rushing, beating, heart.  I forced 
  my eyes to widen before I seized up. 
  “Oh, you fool,” she cursed me as she felt the stake 
  hit home, too. 
  I stiffened and fell, every inch of me frozen solid 
  except for my eyes, free to roll in my sockets.  I 
  thumped to the floor, helpless, and heard a gasp from 
  Elizabeth and a low growl from Alejandro. 
  “Cur!”  Isabella LeRoy snarled at me and lashed 
  out with one bare foot, jostling me around.  It was a 
  scream, a roar, a jet plane taking off against my 
  heightened hearing.  It wasn’t for my benefit.  Was 
  the kick?  It had angled me a bit better to see the 
  Prince – black suit, black throne, a shadow against 
  shadows – stand and stride towards us. 
  “Oaf!”  She kicked me again. 
  “How dare you!”  Another kick.  I wasn’t entirely 
  sure she was still on my side. 
  “My dress!”  She was really letting me have it. 
  “Hold.  Let the matter be settled,” the Prince’s 
  voice was satin-smooth but another lion’s roar to my 
  hyper-acute ears.  “The Anarch made his arguments, 
  said his words, and swayed our sense of justice 
  enough to allow this challenge.  His guilt has been 
  proven by losing this brutish challenge of his.  I al-
  lowed him the opportunity, trusting – as do you all – 
  in the wisdom and competence of my Primogen.  I 
  knew you would defeat him, my dear, and I knew that 
  you would be right to do so.  This…Anarch…” 
  From my perspective, I saw the shadows twist 
  around his face and his lip curl as he spat the word 
  Anarch. 
  Just like a Ventrue. 
  But I knew he wasn’t. 
  
   
   
  41 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  Another step closer.  Another. 
  “This Anarch…”  He made a big show of strok-
  ing his chin, deep in thought.  “Yes, this Anarch can 
  join the Caitiff in Final Death, I think.  As must all 
  who threaten our city.  I will brook no threats to my 
  city, as well you all know.” 
  I wanted to spin my stake in my hand for balance, 
  adjust my grip on the leather-wrapped hilt, tense up 
  my muscles and make ready to defend myself.  I 
  couldn’t do any of it. My body – my greatest weapon, 
  my oldest ally – had abandoned me over a stake in 
  my heart and an awful idea in my head. 
  Prince Gladwell nodded, and his beefy, broad-
  shouldered Sheriff repeated the gesture.  One of his 
  no-necked ghouls came from someplace I couldn’t 
  see, toting a fire axe.  The Prince gave a rueful smile 
  and handed the Sheriff his coat before methodically 
  beginning to roll up his sleeves. 
  “Let there be no doubt among Baltimore’s Kin-
  dred,” he said, reaching for the axe and hefting it, pos-
  ing over me like he expected news cameras at any 
  moment.  “That their Prince will get even his own 
  hands dirty, should the need arise.  No threat will be 
  allowed to stand.  Whether vile Sabbat, reckless Cai-
  tiff, or vicious Anarch, Baltimore will stand.” 
  “It might.  But you won’t.” Elizabeth couldn’t 
  take it any longer.  Her big matte wheelgun came up, 
  a monstrous Taurus popular in Alaskan bear country. 
  Baltimore’s top cop and scruffy killer were fast, 
  and so were plenty of other Kindred, but all my ghoul 
  had to do was squeeze her trigger finger.  The re-
  volver roared like thunder, spat a grotesque fireball, 
  and a huge, powerful round shattered Gladwell’s axe 
  handle, blew through it like it wasn’t there, and tore a 
  fist-sized hole in his dead gut.   
  Vampires are tenacious once granted undeath 
  though, and every ghoul is taught to shoot for the 
  head.  Bullets to the torso do precious little to those 
  who need only a heart to fight on.  Elizabeth knew 
  that.  She was only the distraction. 
  Alejandro’s claws raked into Gladwell from 
  shoulders to small of his back, shredding his fancy 
  shirt and gouging him to the bone, I saw, as he spun 
  and fell to one knee. 
  A bullet’s one thing; the black talons of a Gangrel 
  are another story altogether.  Only those Clans 
  blessed with Fortitude stand any chance against such 
  tremendous, supernatural sharpness. Only those with 
  the gift of the blood, or those who have shared and 
  learned it.  The Gangrel are one such Clan. The 
  Ventrue another. 
  And Gladwell was no Ventrue. 
  He howled insensate rage as his vitae poured 
  from his ravaged back and he lashed out against this 
  fresh indignity the only way he truly wanted to, the 
  precise way I’d prayed he would, the most dangerous 
  way he possibly could. 
  I knew him.  I’d fought him centuries before.  I 
  just remembered my opponents better than he did.  
  We Anarchs are easy to dismiss as rabble, easy to 
  confuse for one another, easy to write off as mongrels 
  and troublemakers. 
  The Lasombra-Prince roared and the shadows all 
  ‘round the room leapt to obey his dark will.  Tendrils 
  of pure night impaled the crew of the Sovereign State; 
  sick wet sounds tore through the nightclub as sick, 
  wet tendrils tore through my best friends.  Alejandro 
  would survive it, I knew.  Gangrel, as I’ve mentioned, 
  take a lot of killing.  He kicked and spat and howled 
  and fought the nightmares entangling him, fought the 
  dark-eyed Gangrel Scourge and the brush-cut Sheriff;  
  antitribu, both, I was certain.  Sabbat.  
  Only a single inky-black sliver of night had tar-
  geted Elizabeth, though.  I saw it wriggle, slick and 
  coated in red, at the edge of my vision.  I saw it flicker 
  away and let her tumble to the floor like a cut-string 
  puppet.  I smelled my blood mingled with hers as eve-
  rything she ever was poured out of her impaled body. 
  All around us Kindred shrieked and ran and 
  hissed and snarled, a few of them sleepers finally re-
  vealing themselves, more of them wrestling with 
  shadows or tainted ghouls, others fear-frenzying and 
  rabbiting away, perhaps one or two using the chaos to 
  settle old grudges.  Catherine Washington, the red-
  dressed Odia Combs, and Isabella LeRoy, though, 
  struck; the stake was pulled from my heart and the 
  Toreador duelist pressed the attack against her city’s 
  bloated parasite, the false Prince, the Sabbat corpse 
  wrapped in indignity and shadow in equal measure. 
  A wall of shadows rippled into her path as she 
  began to stab him, and ribbons of vile darkness en-
  tangled her as she roared and struck – his heart ob-
  scured by shadows just enough for her to miss again, 
  and again, and again, turning his chest to a red ruin 
  but never quite landing a flawless shot – over and 
  over.  The tendrils lifted her off her feet.  She was low 
  on blood from our fight, from exerting herself against 
  me so hard, for so long. 
  I wasn’t exactly full, either. 
  But, by all the gods of salt and storm and blood, 
  I was free, so I could sate that hunger. 
  
   
   
  42 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  I rode the Beast up off the floor and into a howl-
  ing leap, tore my way through his wall of shadows 
  with inky-blank Protean claws and latched onto the 
  spinning, roaring Lasombra, the Prince of darkness 
  who’d turned Baltimore against itself for a hundred 
  years. 
  I dug my fingers into him to grab him with im-
  possible hooks, then I sank in my fangs and he almost 
  broke his neck to do the same;  mouth to throat, both 
  of us, and it turned into a race, a feast, a pair of mon-
  sters gorging themselves until one of them died. 
  I gave in. 
  I loosed my Beast, the wild wolf of my soul, the 
  pure, thirsting, taking murderer at my core, the blood-
  drunk Brujah monster always hiding just behind my 
  smile.  The one I always fought down, the one I 
  hardly ever let loose, the one wise men feared and that 
  made wild dogs run from me when I passed on the 
  street.  The raw, red spirit of me consumed him. 
  I drank, and I drank, and I drank.   
  The shadows raged around us like no storm I’d 
  ever seen aship. The darkness howled and savaged 
  me. Ghouls and Sabbat tried to tear me from my prey 
  until Alejandro and Isabella and Baltimore’s good, 
  clean monsters killed them.  Odia Combs, the sweet 
  southern belle, hissed and raged against the Sabbat 
  invaders. 
  Finally, Alexander Gladwell himself – his pow-
  erful Lasombra body, his ancient Lasombra soul, his 
  raging Lasombra beast – tried to push me off of him, 
  to no avail.  I tasted his heart stop.  I swallowed red 
  gallons of his ancient blood, then kept drinking.  I 
  filled my mouth with his vitae, then pulled harder for 
  more; amaranth.  Diablerie.  His soul itself.  My Beast 
  would not be denied.  I would not deny it.   
  The storm of shadows fell away and the dead 
  meat sloughed from his bones in my arms, as the un-
  life left him.   
  My eyes were half-shut from the pleasure of it all, 
  the pure sport, the thrill of taking and of winning and 
  of surviving, and the power-mad euphoria of the ulti-
  mate theft. In that moment, drunk on that slick, dark 
  blood, I would have gladly throated Catherine Wash-
  ington, Isabella LeRoy, or Odia Combs.   
  I began to swallow the last mouthful of blood, 
  that I might bare my fangs in challenge to any of Bal-
  timore’s stunned, shell-shocked, Camarilla; that per-
  haps one among them would dare stand against me, 
  now, and that, were I lucky, I might feed again on that 
  sweetest of honey.   
  I began to. 
  Then I remembered her. 
  “Oh, no,” Alejandro heaved out a sad, dusty, sigh 
  kneeling over the ruin of her.  
  “Oh, Elizabeth.” 
  He was red up to his elbows from Baltimore’s ru-
  ined Sheriff and Scourge, but all he cared about was 
  her blood pouring out, now in barely a trickle.  Eliza-
  beth had been run through, lengthwise, impaled on 
  shadows that tore as their pierced her, bleeding out 
  too hard and too fast. 
  I leapt and lunged and crawled to her on all fours, 
  my mouth closed, my claws leaving marks on the 
  floor in my haste. 
  She looked up at me with terrified brown deer 
  eyes that turned dull and lifeless just as I got to her.  
  Cold.  Dead and gone.   
  No. 
  I bent down and I kissed her.  I gave it to her. 
  Not my blood, my half-cursed vitae that could 
  strengthen a loyal, beloved, ghoul but could never 
  create life, no.   
  Not that.   
  Not mine. 
  His. 
  The rich, powerful, vitae of a wise, old Lasombra 
  would make her a powerful creature.   
  She would live.  A vampire at last.  Loved by nei-
  ther Sabbat nor Camarilla, never even remotely ac-
  cepted by her Clan, doomed to never see the sun again 
  and without a chance to say goodbye to it.  She might 
  hate me.  The Sovereign State would still be her 
  home.  Alejandro and I would still be her friends and 
  lovers, but now her peers.  She would have strong, 
  dangerous blood.  We would find her teachers.  We 
  three, we would crew the ship, and sail the night’s 
  highways again. 
  I had only kept a mouthful of his blood. But it 
  only takes a drop. 
  I could do more than just take.   
  Sometimes. 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
   
   
  43 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
   “The roads like Bob.  He looks both ways. 
  He’ll help you out.  Without a doubt. 
  And do the job, where’er he strays.” 
   
  Waking up is always a challenge because I 
  never know where I am at first.  That’s a part of this 
  wandering life that I’m still not entirely accustomed 
  to.  This morning, I have a few clues:  air-condition-
  ing, dark, bed.  So…a motel? A bleary assessment 
  indicates a decent, down on its luck, old, mom-and-
  pop kinda place.  Right in my price range.  Cheap.   
  But that’s not really the “where” I’m looking 
  for.  I’ve also got the stuffed-in-the-head feeling I 
  get whenever there are walls between me and the 
  Road.  A symptom of the other thing  I’m still get-
  ting used to.  The magic part.  With some groggy 
  flailing around, I snag the map I left nearby, ready 
  for just this.  Last night, I bent it back on itself 
  against the folds in a particular way and drew a sym-
  bol from The Code on it.  A diamond in a circle, 
  “You Are Here.”  Brushing my finger across it, I 
  cast a spell to fill me in… 
  Technical answer: Latitude 37° 29′ 37″ North, 
  Longitude 94° 16′ 20" West. 
  Meaningful answer:  I’m fifteen yards south of 
  State Highway 160.  My thumb traces its line on the 
  map.  It feels like it’s in Braille to me, a ridge under 
  in the map’s smooth surface, but it’s really still just 
  flat paper.  And its presence is like a noise, but 
  deeper than any sound.  Like a vibration somewhere 
  between static and a cat purring. 
   The rest tumbles into place as I fully wake up.  
  I’ve got a job and it’s not just one the magical jobs I 
  always get saddled with.  It’s also a normal-world 
  kind of job doing long distance survey work for the 
  state highway department.   Real world paying em-
  ployment can be hard to get sometimes, considering 
  my history.   So, I need to get my ass to work.  I 
  heave myself out of the bed and indulge in the luxu-
  ries I can afford knowing I’m going to get paid – a 
  toilet that flushes, a shower with decent water pres-
  sure, and a sink to brush my teeth in.      
  Another extravagance, a mirror.  My start of 
  summer buzz cut is growing out, so my hair’s be-
  come a mess.  I need to buy a comb.  And a new ra-
  zor.  The old one’s dull.  I ditch it and go with itchy 
  neck beard for now.  Other than being scruffy, I’m 
  still the ordinary guy I’ve been looking at since be-
  fore I Woke Up and started with this mage business.  
  Brown hair.  Brown eyes.  Glasses.  A bit short.  
  Dressed for hiking – Carhartts and a long-sleeved 
  shirt, worn hiking boots, etc.   All that’s missing is 
  the bright orange high visibility vest.  
  Next, I sort through my gear for today’s hike.  I 
  always want to take too much, so I have to scale it 
  BOTH WAYS BOB AND 
  THE DEAD DEAD END  
  R.R. CALLAWAY REA 
   
  
   
   
  44 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  back from “might need” to “will need.”  Do I need 
  full on camping gear when it’s a day hike?  I guess 
  not.  Everything to build a campfire from scratch?  I 
  just take the flashlight instead.  After doing this little 
  dance for ten or so minutes, I go out front and stow 
  my selections in the back of my truck.   
  I am checked out of the comfy motel by a clerk 
  who is unusually cheery for this early hour, and who 
  calls me by the name I was born with, “Mitchell 
  Roberts.”  Something I barely ever hear anymore.  I 
  stop in at the diner next door and plow my way 
  through as large a breakfast that I can afford to stuff 
  in.   
  Time to take to the road.    
   
  * * * 
   
  Once I’m on my way, I cast another spell.  The 
  one I know best.  I listen to the sound of my truck’s 
  engine and its wheels on the asphalt, and I fall into 
  the kind mental autopilot that can end a trucker’s 
  life.   My own type of meditation.  The vibration I 
  felt with the map comes up from the road, through 
  the turning wheels, into the truck and through me, 
  spreading from my balls to the back of my eyes.  
  Route 160 begins to whisper to me about itself.  I 
  get to know it, and, in its own sleepy way, it knows 
  me, too.    
  Route 160 is not too long, but not short either.  
  It starts at the state border, a bit less than eighty 
  miles as the crow flies from where I am but has al-
  ready stretched for one and a half times that, bend-
  ing north and south.  From here, it swoops northeast, 
  ending in small city tangled with its brothers and sis-
  ters.   On the way, it goes through about a dozen 
  towns, some of them big, most of them tiny.  It 
  crosses and recrosses other roads like vines, but also 
  like dancers changing partners.  Sometimes 160 
  swallows a smaller road.  That road becomes a part 
  of it until they part ways.  It’s older than the big 
  freeways, but not old, old.   No pioneer or Native 
  trails under it.  
  I shift down mentally and focus in on just the 
  part of the road closest to me now:  most of it re-
  cently improved – from a standard two lane to what 
  they call a “super two,” meaning it has a third lane 
  down the middle, for turns and passing.  Resurfaced 
  with new lines that makes it feel like it’s wearing a 
  new suit; a nice one, but still a little stiff.  Up ahead, 
  it’s back to its older self, winding down and around 
  in some river bottoms, crossing over a few bridges 
  that ache with the need for repair or replacement.  
  It’s more comfortable in its “skin” there, but truth be 
  told, a little itchy where the asphalt is patched.   
  I wonder how it’s going to feel about being a 
  parent... 
  “BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.” 
  My watch alarm goes off.   The spell ends.  
  Back to reality.  Eyes on the mundane road.  I timed 
  it about right.  I’m close to the project start.  I pick 
  out a place to park and put on the flashers.  Before I 
  get out, I grab my big metal clipboard holding all the 
  project docs.  It’s already hot and humid outside.  
  This job’s pretty much going to be one long hike af-
  ter another, out as far as I can and back to the truck 
  each day, until I’m done.   And the job won’t pay 
  enough to afford motels every night, so, from here 
  on out, I’m camping.  Sweaty hikes and sweltering 
  nights.     
  I cast a spell to make sense of what I’ll be doing 
  today.  A kind of off-kilter tarot reading, I guess.   
  No wind, so I spread out the papers and maps on the 
  hood of my truck.  I follow my instincts as I lay 
  them down.  In my mind, I start to see where the 
  “baby road” is going to go, how it’s going to lay on 
  the land, and which way I’ll need to walk to set it in 
  place.  The arrangement takes on the shape of a cir-
  cle, crossed with an arrow.  The sigil for “Go” in 
  both the old hobo marks and their magical counter-
  part, the Vagabond Code, created in overnight 
  camps on long trips. 
  I take out the last slip and lay it down.  It ends 
  up in the wrong place.   In the Code for “Go,” the ar-
  row’s end stops at the edge of the circle.   That last 
  paper makes the arrow go all the way through.  
  That’s “Don’t Go.”  That’s not right.  I can feel the 
  road-to-be forking off Route 160 right here.  My feet 
  are on where it’s going to be.  Key words, “going to 
  be.”  I know in my gut that this new road is going to 
  happen.   
  I pick up that last paper and look it over, giving 
  a sigh of relief.  It’s not part of the official docs.  It’s 
  all scrawled symbols.  Looks like Many Maps Meg 
  is giving me another lesson in The Code. I don’t 
  even recognize the symbols that catch my eye – a di-
  amond and a line, a circle crossed with two triangles 
  and a foreshortened “X.”  I put it back in the clip-
  board for later.  I’ll look at it when I’m stuck camp-
  ing in the backwoods.  Who knows?  It might go 
  better that way.   
  Now that everything’s right with the world, I 
  file the rest of the docs back into the storage 
  
   
   
  45 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  compartment in the clipboard, ready the gear I 
  prepped earlier and put on my shiny orange vest.  A 
  last check, reminding myself it’s just for today, and I 
  take off a few things and put them back.  Finally, I 
  lock the truck up, then check the locks.  I get a lot of 
  flak from the others for over prepping.    
  As I set out I give Meg the call I promised her.  
  Among the many other things I owe her, she got me 
  this job, and I won’t have reception later.  Meg’s a 
  Vagabond like me, and maps are her thing.  “Many 
  Maps Meg knows where you are. She walks no 
  more but travels far.”  Something bad happened to 
  her that she doesn’t talk about.  It makes it hard for 
  her to walk, much less go walkabout like the rest of 
  us wandering road mages.   But that doesn’t mean 
  she can’t do miracles with maps.  I mean it.  Actual 
  miracles.    
  I hit her contact and the phone only rings once 
  before I hear her scratchy voice, “Is that you, 
  Looker?” 
  I know she’s trying to be nice.  Since my Road 
  Name is “Both Ways Bob,” the standard Vagabond 
  joke is to call me “Swinger.”    
  I try to put a smile into my voice for her, “Yes, 
  ma’am.  I’ve set out for day one.   I got everything 
  you sent me.  Anything else I need?” 
  “Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me again.  You should 
  have everything you need.  Have you looked over it 
  all?”   
   “Yeah.  Just tried a little something out using 
  them and The Code together and got a read on the 
  new road.  Looks like a beaut’.” 
  “A new highway, ready to be born.  That’s a 
  rare thing anymore, what with all funding crunches.”  
  I pause.  Meg can be…cantankerous at times.  
  “Hey Meg, what’s with that extra thing you put in?” 
  “You mean my doodle?” 
  “Looks like another Code lesson.” 
  “If it was, it wouldn’t be like you couldn’t use 
  one, Kiddo.  The Code is just about half of who we 
  are.  You need to pay attention.  The more you 
  know, the more it will show you.” 
  “Alright, alright.  But what’s this one for?” 
  She gets a little testy, “Figure it out for yourself.  
  I said you had everything you need.  You'll need 
  that, too.” 
  Meg’s got more experience than me.  If she 
  thinks I need it, I guess I do.    
  “Okay.  I’ll see what I can do.  Tonight, maybe, 
  when I camp.  I’ve got a ways to go today.” 
  There’s a short pause.  “Yeah, Bob, you surely 
  do.  You get out there and make sure this new road 
  is gonna happen.  Remember, you’re the first one in 
  on this, and sometimes that can be dangerous.   Be 
  careful.  And try not to get lost.” 
  Get lost?  I can see why she’s worried about me 
  being the first one who tells people that the govern-
  ment is going to take their land.  Many don’t take 
  too kindly to that.  Sometimes there’s threats…and 
  shotguns.  But since the Road called me, I don’t get 
  lost.   Much.  One thing I’m really good at is know-
  ing where I am.    
  “All right, Meg.  I’ll give you a holler when I’m 
  back at my truck tonight.” 
  “Tally that.” And she hangs up.  That’s an old 
  hobo phrase that pretty much means the same thing 
  as “ten-four.”  It also works for “Goodbye.” 
   
  * * * 
   
  I hike, starting from where Route 160’s going to 
  divide and the new road’s going to set out across the 
  landscape.  I go up and down.  Through patchy 
  woods and empty fields.  Across old rickety, danger-
  ous barbed wire fences and mostly dry creek beds. 
  No one troubles me.  I don’t seem to be troubling 
  anyone.  I was right about the day.  It’s hot already 
  and getting hotter.  My get-up doesn’t make it any 
  nicer.  But other clothing options are even less desir-
  able with the scratches and the sunburn and the 
  bugs, particularly the ticks.   
  As I hike, I keep up a version of the same spell I 
  used earlier for Route 160.  It’s my own.  I came up 
  with how to do it.  Not every Vagabond does magic 
  the same way.  Hell, some of them couldn’t do squat 
  out here, without their feet on an actual road.  Some 
  things can be common.  Me and Meg both use maps, 
  and so do others.   But I’m one of only two I know 
  who uses surveying.  And I can’t tell stories, whis-
  tle, or share a drink to cast a spell like some I’ve 
  met.  We can’t all do the same things with our 
  spells, either.  I can’t use a stone to brew soup or the 
  names of the roads to start on one and end up on an-
  other.  But, because I can “look both ways,” I’m 
  good with following roads. Where they go in space, 
  but also where they’ve been and what their future 
  might hold, too.  For the road-to-be I’m on now, it’s 
  mostly that last one.  As I follow down its future 
  centerline, I get this amazing feeling.  Pure potential.  
  Like it’s almost singing to me about what it’s going 
  to be as I’m hiking along where it will be. 
  
   
   
  46 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  But all that’s just part of this particular job.  I 
  also have readings to take and measurements to 
  make, so I can substantiate the report that will get 
  me paid.  So, I’ve set my watch to half-an-hour in-
  tervals to jolt me out of the spell, like I did in the 
  truck on the way here.  It only takes a couple of 
  stops before my cell phone is getting zero bars.  As 
  expected.  After the fourth or fifth stop, while I’m 
  hiking under the spell, I feel a kind of echo up 
  ahead.  Like there’s an old, derelict road the new 
  one will cross.  I check Meg’s many maps.  Like I 
  thought, there isn’t anything marked.   Every aban-
  doned, old right of way hasn’t ended up in the ar-
  chives.  But if there had been a record, I can guaran-
  tee Meg would’ve found it.  I smile a little, thinking 
  I might have something special to give Meg when 
  I’m done.  A road that’s not on her maps. 
  A few beeps later, I notice more.  The possibili-
  ties for the new road are starting to…fray apart 
  some.   And they don’t feel the same.  Like the pulse 
  is changing to a lower tone.   Not a tone I really like, 
  though I can’t put my finger on why just yet.  I can’t 
  sense much else about the old road ahead, only 
  where it will cross the new one.     
  I’m not even halfway into the day I planned, but 
  I decide to slow things up a bit.  I throw together a 
  new version of my spell, hoping to get more useful 
  info.  Frequent references to maps, compasses, and 
  whatever, but I don’t get much more.  After that, I 
  use my utility knife to scratch some Code onto the 
  bottom of my compass, the sideways eight for 
  “Don’t Give Up” and the circle with the short line 
  going up for “Straight Ahead.”    
  That seems to work.  It reveals a path like a 
  game trail though the brush as the land rises ahead 
  of me.  It’s going right along the route I’ve been fol-
  lowing, heading towards the old road.  As I go up-
  hill, there’s more trees, which makes this path even 
  clearer.  It’s still following the centerline of the new 
  road.  The ground levels out, the woods thin as the 
  undergrowth gets thicker.  I follow the trail to an ab-
  rupt clearing of the vegetation.  I’m looking right 
  where the old crosses the new.  But it’s not a road, 
  really.  It’s an old railroad bed, stretching out east-
  northeast and west-southwest as far as I can see.   
  That makes some sense. The Oldtimers call the 
  railroads, “The Steel Road,” the original heart and 
  soul of both hobo and Vagabond culture.   But 
  they’re not the kinds of roads I’ve known.  That’s 
  probably why this one foxed my senses.  I use my 
  watch as a sundial for a spell to get a feel on the age 
  of this one.  It’s at the far edge of how old a railroad 
  could possibly be in this part of the country.  But, 
  for all that, it looks pretty clear.  You can see the 
  gravel under the rails and ties and out across the 
  shoulder.  That’s surprising, but you never know 
  how roads will mark the landscape even long after 
  they’re no longer used.  Even when one is dead, it’s 
  not really “dead dead,” because anyone who travels 
  it gives it back a bit of life.   From the skeleton of a 
  possum, it looks like this one has been used by at 
  least the local wildlife.  Across from me, I can see 
  that the path I’ve been following continues, still 
  right where the new road’s supposed to go.    
  This is worth some attention.  And not just for 
  Meg’s sake, but because it messed with my read on 
  the future road.   I figure I can spare some time to 
  check it out.  So, I step off the trail and onto the rail-
  road right-of-way… 
   
  * * * 
   
   
  …And something goes really, really wrong.  
  That may have started as a stride, but it ended as a 
  stagger.  Like when you miss the height of the next 
  step on a staircase and lose your balance.  But add in 
  a twist in the insides like you’re going to vomit.   I 
  keep enough composure to keep from falling onto 
  my hands and knees.  Or face.   
   
  When I get back my footing back, I notice 
  some changes.  Before, it was just after noon on a 
  sticky, hot summer day.  The light is more “near 
  dusk.”  And the temperature is more, somewhere 
  north of the middle of fall.  Hot and sweaty, meet 
  cool air.  Add a full body shiver to the mix.   
  And the trail is gone.  Both sides.  Just under-
  brush along the edge, both sides, both directions. 
  Not good. 
  I figure lost in the woods is probably better than 
  staying here, so I try to make my own path through 
  the underbrush.  I get far enough that bushes snap 
  back behind me to block my view of the tracks.  I 
  plow forward.  A few scratches on my face and 
  hands seem a decent price to pay.    
  And…I step out of the brush and right smack 
  back onto the gravel of the tracks.  On the opposite 
  side of where I went in.  I’d already gotten the idea 
  that this was serious business and, truth be told, I 
  was already scared.   But that moment was when I 
  knew I could be well and truly fucked, but I don’t 
  panic.  Seriously.  I don’t.  That’s my story and I’m 
  sticking to it.  But, I need to get out of here.  This is 
  
   
   
  47 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  way above my pay grade.  There are others out there 
  who could deal with this better.   
   
  I know there’s zero chance it’s going to 
  work, but I’m going to try Meg.  I lost signal a long 
  time ago but…consider the situation.  I tell myself 
  that since I went uphill to get here, there could be 
  line of sight to any nearby towers.  It’s times like 
  this when I miss travelling with Bess Builds ‘Em 
  High, the other surveyor-Vagabond.  She could 
  whistle up a signal pretty much anywhere.  But Bess 
  is off building cell towers or windmills, or some-
  thing else where you have to look up.  And I mostly 
  travel alone anyways.  
  I fish my phone out of my backpack and call 
  Meg.  My phone dies.  I don’t mean it loses power.  
  I mean it dies.  There’s a popping noise, smoke 
  comes out of it and the screen actually cracks.   I 
  drop it because it’s hot and say a few choice and not 
  so nice words.  The fall onto gravel doesn’t help.   
  Not much even Bess could do with it now. I pick up 
  what’s left, wrap it in a fairly sweaty handkerchief 
  and tuck it back in my pack.   
  When I pick my pack up to sling it back on, I 
  notice something under it that I’m pretty sure wasn’t 
  there before.  A signpost.  An old one.  The sign part 
  is covered with a layer of fine mud or dust, but my 
  backpack has smudged some of that away and I see 
  some chalk marks on it.   They look like Code.  I try 
  to carefully clean it off, using my other sweaty 
  handkerchief.   The symbols haven’t lasted all that 
  well, but two are clear enough: five diagonal hash 
  marks across two parallel lines, like a Tic-Tac-Toe 
  board with three extra verticals.  That’s “Unsafe 
  Place.”  What could be a circle with two arrows 
  crossing, both pointing right.  “Get Out Fast.”  There 
  are bits and pieces of more, but they crisscross and 
  interlock in ways that would make them hard to un-
  derstand even if they weren’t in crap shape.   I can 
  make out something like a box.  That could be 
  “Danger” or part of “Afraid” but might just as easily 
  be part of the sign for “Trolley” or “Boxcar.”   My 
  last couple of tentative swipes across the bottom un-
  cover one clear symbol nestled in a lot I don’t know. 
  That one symbol is a diamond with a short line com-
  ing out of the top point.  “Be Ready to Defend Your-
  self.”   
   All very disheartening, really.  And not at all 
  helpful. 
  The way the symbols are jumbled together 
  makes me think there might be something more go-
  ing on here.  I’m a so-so student of The Code.  
  Other, older Vagabonds can do a lot more with it 
  than me.  Linking the sigils together is one of the 
  ways to do that.   Maybe I can work up a spell to 
  show what’s worn away?  I get out my compass and 
  clipboard, open that and take out a Sharpie and…a 
  folding yardstick.  The Code I scratched on the com-
  pass before I got here might even help.  I look at 
  what’s left of the marks and try to let the compass 
  and some contortionist unfolding of the ruler guide 
  my hand in trying to put it back together as the com-
  pass spins, telling me when to stop and start.      
  While doing this, I get a sense of the Vagabond 
  who made these marks.  It’s not someone I know.  I 
  also get a feeling of when the sign was made.  I’m 
  not surprised that it’s the same as the tracks.  Most 
  importantly, I think I know what this is or was 
  meant to be… a warning.  And more than just a 
  warning.  It’s…a lock, of sorts.  Locking the world 
  out?   
  I can’t get anything more from the signpost, and 
  it’s too big and unwieldy to carry with, so, reluc-
  tantly, I put it down where I found it.  Across the 
  rails, like a thin bridge from nowhere to nowhere.   
  If I can’t find my way out, I guess I should take a 
  look around and try to figure out what’s going on.   I 
  stow my gear and do what I do best and start walk-
  ing. 
   
  * * * 
   
  I don’t have to go very far to notice that there 
  are more dead animals than just the possum.   Kinda 
  like punctuation marks.  Mostly skeletons.  Some 
  look very old.  Some are not so old and not so skele-
  tal.  But there isn’t much in the way of smell in the 
  chilly air.  Like there’s a problem with normal decay 
  here.   
  There’s also some random junk scattered around 
  as well.  The kind of stuff you’d expect to see along 
  long abandoned railroad tracks in the middle of no-
  where – broken glass, including a few old looking 
  bottles.  Black rocks that turn out to be coal and 
  clinkers.  Some rusted barbed wire.  The remains of 
  a few old tools, like a shovel and pick with corroded 
  heads and splintered handles.   Even a busted old 
  box in the midst of a scatter of cut metal nails.  The 
  best of the lot is a pretty much intact old lantern.  I 
  leave it all exactly where it lies and keep going.    
  There’s this growing feeling I’m getting.   Like 
  there is something fundamental missing here.  I real-
  ize I don’t even know what direction I’m going.  I 
  
   
   
  48 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  pull the compass out again. It agrees.  The needle 
  listlessly spins around, never settling on anything.  I 
  know how it feels.   But I shake that shit off.  I’m a 
  mage.  I’ve got abilities.   
  I fall back on old reliable and start walking with 
  more purpose and less focus, until the spell takes 
  hold and I understand where that sick feeling came 
  from when I stepped on the tracks.  It feels like these 
  tracks road doesn’t have a soul.  Or…more 
  like…there’s an empty place like the void where a 
  tooth was knocked out and the wound never healed, 
  leaving a gap that hurts in the past tense… But 
  somewhere back in there, there’s almost a kind of 
  hunger, too.   Honestly, all these sensations just 
  plain feel like death, or, really, maybe something 
  even worse.  I might have to revise what I said be-
  fore.  These tracks might just be dead dead.  Gone in 
  some kind of way that no travel will ever offset.  If 
  the new road and this…this thing should cross… 
  Well, honestly, I don’t know what would happen, 
  but it’s not going to be good.   
  But what’s just as bad as all that is what I’m not 
  getting.  Like any idea of how far these tracks go, or 
  where they’re headed.  Or how it fits in with the out-
  side world.  It’s like there aren’t any reference 
  points.  These tracks are just…these tracks.  Alone.  
  Bereft.  Disconnected. 
  That’s not enough.  I need to know more.  Walk-
  ing harder, sweating in the cool air.   I put the appar-
  ently useless compass away and stop to get the clip-
  board back out of my pack.  And there’s this lurch.  
  Like when I first stepped onto the tracks.  But it’s 
  not inside me, it’s all around me.  Like the whole 
  world just staggered.  Accompanied by a faint noise; 
  a very distant creaking, metallic sound.   I kneel 
  down and touch the rail.  There’s the slightest vibra-
  tion.  Something just started moving.  Not at all omi-
  nous.   
   Not knowing what else to do, I change tactics 
  and cast something else.  Taking drawing materials 
  out of the clipboard, I look for a blank side on one of 
  the project docs.  Meg’s puzzle-doodle falls out.  I 
  pick it up and file it back in.  Not that one.  I’d never 
  hear the end of it.  The map that doesn’t show this 
  railroad is one-sided.  Perfect.  I use that and try to 
  get some idea of what’s going on with these tracks.  
  The result is more like an engineer would make than 
  an artist.  Clean lines of the underlying planning, not 
  the plants and trees and whatever has cropped up 
  since.  My artist mother was always disappointed I 
  liked drafting like this more than "real" drawing.   
  And I finally get it when I finish the picture.  
  The whole track is bent back on itself, one continu-
  ous closed piece.  That’s why I couldn’t get a sense 
  of how long it is.  Add that to how going into the 
  bushes to the right ends up in coming out of the 
  bushes to the left.  Magic did this.  From the feel of 
  whatever was used, it was probably the same person 
  who made that old sign, meaning it was one of us.  
  A Vagabond.  Who ripped a piece of the Road away 
  from the world and twisted it up like an insane pret-
  zel.  And from what I’ve sensed of the soul of this 
  place, they effectively murdered it, too.  Making the 
  ultimate dead end.  This isn’t out of my league.  This 
  is beyond the boundaries of what I had imagined 
  was possible, and I have been on the Roads Behind 
  the Roads twice so far.   This needs one of the big 
  guns.  An Oldtimer.  Maybe even Walk-Away Joe.   
  Like that’s going to happen.  I’m here.  This job 
  is mine.  
  I did learn something else, too.  I get a sense of 
  the length of the tracks.  Not the actual length in feet 
  or meters or miles.  More the relative length, be-
  cause, whatever it was before, it’s shorter now.    
  That’s when I notice it’s started getting dark.  
  Way too soon.  It was barely after noon when I 
  found this place.  Along with the light fading, the 
  temperature is dropping.   The fake fall of the fake 
  afternoon is starting to dwindle into an even more 
  fake early winter evening.  
   
  * * * 
   
  I stay stopped for a bit.  Taking all that in.  But, 
  do nothing and you’ll accomplish nothing.  Not see-
  ing any other options, I figure if I’m at my own 
  dead-end looking across space, maybe time has bet-
  ter answers. At the very least, I will probably figure 
  out how long I have before this noose of rails and 
  ties pulls itself shut around my neck.   I start walk-
  ing again.  I time my steps as my feet hit the ground 
  to send the echoes up and down my path from where 
  I’ve been to where I’m going.   
  Turns out, time isn’t tied up into contortions like 
  distance is here.  It’s tied up differently.  There is a 
  sense of now and back then and later on, like usual, 
  but they are blurred together in uncomfortable ways.   
  There is a line from past to future, but both are so 
  similar, it’s hard to pick them apart.  Not really help-
  ful.  I pivot.  My casting, not my feet.  And try the 
  spell in reverse.  I focus on the ground hitting my 
  feet, sending the echo back up into me to get a sense 
  
   
   
  49 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  of my own timeline, instead of the one around me.  
  Before you think this is wonderfully creative of me, 
  full disclosure - I’ve done this before.   What I usu-
  ally get is a sense of where I am in time, where I’m 
  going, and where I’ve been.   Tracing the route of 
  my own personal Road, as it were.   
  Not a big surprise, the results here are disheart-
  ening.  Troubling even.  The only part of my past I 
  can sense is the part on these tracks.  My now is this 
  now, walking along the tracks, thinking about time.  
  And the future?  It’s pretty much the same as the 
  past, but it gets murkier and murkier, until all that’s 
  left is shadow.  And, like the length of the tracks, 
  my time on the tracks here isn’t all that long.  Proba-
  bly shortening, too.  
  Nothing I’m learning is getting me any actiona-
  ble info, but, maybe, like the plans and docs when I 
  arranged them this morning, it’s not the parts that 
  matter, it’s what they make when you put them to-
  gether.   I have an idea for yet another spell.   
  I stop walking. 
  The whole world lurches again.   It seems worse 
  than last time.  I feel like when I cast the spell to try 
  to get to know these tracks.  But now the vibration is 
  like a thin, shrill moaning full of abandonment.  
  Like something left in a quietly agonizing sort of 
  limbo, where it can’t do anything or be anything an-
  ymore.   And that thread of hunger.  It seems 
  stronger. 
   The sensation passes.  I try to put it to one side 
  and continue casting.  I pull out my flashlight, set it 
  upright on the most level of the railroad ties and turn 
  in on.  It’s not that dark yet, but a little more light 
  doesn’t hurt anything.  I pull out the docs again.  
  Meg’s damn puzzle floats to the ground. Again.  I 
  stick it back in the bin and find another empty page, 
  tear it off and put the rest back.  I set out my com-
  pass and try to use what I know to plot the tracks as 
  a whole with all attendant weirdness, open to what-
  ever message comes. 
  As I carefully lay down each line, I get the feel-
  ing that something about this place has changed…  I 
  drill down on the sensation with fast jabs of my pen, 
  making short lines to give my drawing some texture 
  and dimension.  I raise up the marker.  My hand 
  hovers back and forth over the lines for the tracks, 
  hunting for a particular spot.  The compass needle 
  spins.  When I find the spot, I trace out a simple rec-
  tangle, two small circles and a short segment off the 
  opposite side.  The Code symbol for “Boxcar.”  A 
  stab down right in the middle.  A rectangle with a 
  dot?  That’s “Danger.”   I move the pen back until it 
  rests where I am now and draw “You Are Here.”  
  Then the spell ends as my flashlight goes out.   
  Actually, the bulb explodes, smoke leaks out, 
  and there’s a chemical smell as something bad hap-
  pens to the batteries.  Shades of my phone.  I look 
  over at the compass.  The needle has settled.  It says 
  the track is going straight east-west.   I’m facing 
  west, and the “Danger Trolley” is ahead of me along 
  the tracks.   
  For hobos, even now, “catching the westbound” 
  is what you say about someone who’s dead.  Or go-
  ing to die.  
  I stand, turn and start walking eastwards.   
   
  * * * 
   
  It’s colder and darker.  I can faintly see my 
  breath.  I’m glad I’m not a shorts and t-shirt kinda 
  guy on a job, because this is not great even with 
  what I am wearing.   The evening light has shaded 
  into the gloom of an early winter night under heavy 
  clouds.  The kind that makes every shadow into a 
  deception.  The kind that leads to tripping, falling 
  and broken ankles.  I don’t have a flashlight any-
  more, so I use my lighter a few seconds at a time, to 
  get an idea of what lies ahead.  It’s all the light I’ve 
  got left.   
  Even with the way distance is screwed up here, 
  the “Danger Trolley” was a ways away, and I’ve 
  been walking in the opposite direction.  But any dis-
  tance I’ve created is being erased if the danger is 
  coming towards me.  And the noises and vibration in 
  the rails indicates that is the case.    
  I can’t address a problem if I don’t know what it 
  actually is.  And to live through this, I have to fix 
  this.  Do the job.  I’m not just rescuing myself.  I’m 
  saving that new road.  And that’s my real job.  The 
  one in my verse of The Rhyme.  The one the Vaga-
  bond Captains gave me.  The one that I know in my 
  heart comes straight from the Road itself.  I’m sup-
  posed to “do the job”.  Sure seems like this is a job 
  that needs doing.   But to do it, I need to be able to 
  see what I’m up against.  Before it comes to see me.   
  I know this one is a bad, bad idea, but I start an-
  other spell.   
  I take out some surveyor tape and stop to kneel 
  down. 
  Another one of those lurches.  Not that much 
  different from last time.  I think the noise of the 
  Boxcar moving might be a smidge louder.  
  
   
   
  50 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  Hunkering down, I mark out a triangle on the gravel, 
  “Tramps Here.”  Namely, this tramp.  Then, I put 
  the compass face down in my right hand and 
  grasped so tightly I can almost feel the needle mov-
  ing against my palm.  I put a knee on one of the rails 
  and wait until I can feel the cold seep through and 
  the thrum of its motion on the tracks.  Finally, I hold 
  my left hand up and flick the lighter, fuel turned up 
  high, spearing the night with a sudden flare.  I feel 
  the rail start creaking more against my knee and the 
  compass needle spins and stops in my hand, aligned 
  to the tracks as I look down the rails… 
  And I see it.  Just for a split second.  I see 
  what’s at the other end of the track, up close and 
  personal.  Like I was kneeling right next to it.   No 
  big surprise, it’s a boxcar.  A black one, of course.  
  A rotten sort of black.  Black in the way only the 
  most menacing things are black.  I can tell it’s the 
  source of that faint hunger I felt before.  Not so faint 
  now.  And I could actually see the hunger and mal-
  ice.  Like they were colors.  Or shades of blackness.  
  That’s what made me turn.   I don’t want to see that.  
  I don’t want to know that.  But that wasn’t the worst 
  part.  Whatever it is, I know it saw me, too.  
  Turning away, however, doesn’t mean I stop 
  seeing things.  The lighter is still going, after all.  
  My vision continues, glances off the curvature, mix-
  ing left and right, going up, around, and spiraling 
  back.  I look past the Black Boxcar and I see…my-
  self.  Because this track is one big loop.   Ultimately 
  being farther and moving away seems better than 
  turning and facing it down for now.  So…“east-
  wards” it will stay.   I start walking again.    
  A consoling thought is that, just maybe, if, I 
  make it through this alive, they’ll change my Road 
  Name to “One-Way Bob.”    
  Oh, and I can tell the total length of tracks has 
  diminished again as well.   
   
  * * * 
   
  It takes some near hopeless trudging before my 
  brain kicks back to the sign. One of those half-
  erased symbols has to be the same “Danger Trolley” 
  I drew. If I know that, what else could I make out?   
  Wait.  I had to have walked back past it.  But, no 
  sign.  Is it like the trail?  Is the Black Boxcar hiding 
  it?  Moving it?   
  What if I can still find the sign?  I’ve looked for 
  the trail and couldn’t find it, but I didn’t look specif-
  ically for the sign.  I can even use the same spell that 
  showed me the Boxcar.  That spell probably won’t 
  work for me to closely examine the sign for long 
  enough.  But…I’ve heard of a trick that I’ve never 
  tried.  Other Vagabonds can find something on the 
  side of the road and grab it, even if it’s miles away.   
  I’ve never really tried it, but I know when I cast a 
  spell to look for something far away, it’s like I’m 
  right there.  Maybe, just maybe, if I can find the 
  sign, I can try to grab it and bring it from wherever 
  its current “there” is to my “here.”   
  Downside is that this could mean seeing at the 
  Black Boxcar again.   I have to be honest.   Having 
  done that once, the thought terrifies me.  But, if this 
  track is all one loop, then the sign has to be between 
  me and the Boxcar.  There’s no other place it can be.    
  However, I don’t want to stop moving again.  
  Every time I stop, things get worse.   So, a few 
  changes are in order to cast while still in motion.  I 
  get the tape from where I shoved in my pocket last 
  time and make the triangle across my chest this 
  time.  Instead of kneeling on the rail, I jump up on 
  top of it and start walking heel-to-toe, though it 
  seems a little whimsical, considering my circum-
  stances.  Once I’m up there, I can feel the metal 
  quivering through the soles of my boots as the 
  damned thing grinds its way towards me.  Last bit’s 
  the same.  I light the lighter and I look east first, 
  along the tracks.  They spool out in front of 
  me…and I almost miss the sign laying across the 
  rails, just like I left it.  Definitely not where I left it, 
  though.  It has to have been moved.  The Black Box-
  car moved it.  It can move things.  But at least it’s 
  not anywhere around the sign.    
  I keep the lighter lit and my focus on that sign.  
  This here’s the hard bit.  I have to figure out how to 
  reach out and grab what I’m seeing.  While I try to 
  keep my balance, my forward momentum and my 
  eye on the prize, I do a quick mental inventory of 
  the tricks I’ve used to see if any options leap out.  
  All for naught.  The Boxcar must know I’m try-
  ing something, like it knows when I stop, because 
  there’s another one of those damn lurches.  All of a 
  sudden, that oblong bastard assemblage of dry rot, 
  rust and what I hope is just black paint is between 
  me and the sign.  My concentration wavers.  So does 
  my balance.   And what happens when you lose your 
  balance while walking fast heel-to-toe on the top of 
  a rail?  You take a header.    
  I am not going to screw this up.  With the way 
  space is warped here and the spell I have going, I 
  can still see the sign clearly, even though it’s on the 
  
   
   
  51 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  other side of the Boxcar now and I’m falling flat on 
  my face.  Still, since I can see it, it stands to a pecu-
  liar sort of reason, that I can still reach it, right?  
  Fine then.  As I take my tumble onto the rough 
  gravel and split and splintered ties, I use the tumble 
  to grab for the sign, fingers reaching for the edges to 
  pull it in towards me… because falling is motion, 
  like walking. 
  And I get it.  But there’s another lurch and the 
  Boxcar goes smashing right over the post while I’m 
  still part there and part here, both at the same time.  
  There’s a sort of explosion as the whole signpost 
  breaks apart.  Meanwhile, I’m trying to tuck and 
  roll, almost managing to land half on my back, half 
  on my ass.  But some kind of force from the “blast” 
  kicks me down the tracks like a stone skipped across 
  a rough pond.  Lucky me, my big backpack cushions 
  some of the bounces.  But not all of them.  I get to 
  see the stars that probably never shine here.  And 
  there’s a shrill ringing in my ears to go with it.    
  But I’m okay.  A little winded.  A little beat-up.  
  Maybe a little concussed.  But I got the sign.  I un-
  fold my arms to check on my prize.  To be honest, 
  it’s not exactly what I hoped for.  More than a little 
  damage happened during the retrieval process.  
  Which, I have to admit, I’m pretty stoked I was able 
  to pull off.  If I make it through this, I’m not sure 
  how I’ll manage it again without all the falling, the 
  bruising, the ringing ears and the blurred vision, but 
  I will.     
  What I end up with is about three quarters of the 
  signboard, with about a third of that about to split 
  off, and a useless section of post, which breaks off 
  and I drop it.  I take a look at the remaining sign, 
  but, through the new scratches and old dirt, I can’t 
  make out much of the original Code or even my 
  marks.  But… I’m stopped again… and nothing hap-
  pens.  
  I should feel another sickening lurch and hear it 
  picking up speed, but I don’t.  Maybe that jump took 
  something out of it.  And put it a little farther away, 
  too. 
  But still, time moved forward again.  It’s black 
  night now and it’s gotten even colder.  Full winter 
  with no coat now.  I’m starting to shiver.   
  Back to the matter at hand.  To be able to do an-
  ything with this, I’m going to need some light.  To 
  be able to keep doing anything, I’m going to have to 
  have some heat.   
  I’ll have to build a fire.    
  So, I look around to see if there’s anything I can 
  use.   Because, despite the fact I’d predicted I 
  needed it, I second-guessed myself and left what I 
  need back in my truck.   I have to work with what 
  I’ve got.  Flammable materials? There’s the now-
  not-so-useless piece of post I retrieved.  Splintered 
  wood from the ties might work. There’s still creo-
  sote left there, I’m sure.  I pry up what I can with my 
  rapidly numbing fingers, adding random bits of 
  burnable junk, and, yes, even a few stray bones.  
  They’ll burn.  The problem’s going to be tinder.  
  Something that will catch really fast and easy.   
  If I get up, get some dried plants from the verge, 
  that’s adding more stops.  Magic and stopping bring 
  the Boxcar closer.  So I need to conserve the number 
  I do of both.  However, there’s another option.  One 
  I’m not happy about.  The storage compartment of 
  my metal clipboard is filled with paper that would 
  make great tinder.  But which also happens to be the 
  docs for this job.   And maps that Meg sent me.  If I 
  burn the docs, I won't be able to explain it.  Particu-
  larly considering my reputation.  And Meg won’t 
  like me burning her maps.  But if I don’t, I can’t 
  look at the sign. Which also means I won’t be get-
  ting paid for the job or have to face her.  Because I’ll 
  be dead.  I can deal with both consequences.  The 
  first will suck.  The second…  I can live with having 
  to face Meg when both me and the new road are on 
  the line.    
  I sigh, get out the now dented clipboard, crum-
  ple up the papers in its storage compartment bin, and 
  lay out the other fuel to make this as proper a fire as 
  I can.   The docs light easily.  There really must 
  have been some creosote in the ties, because they 
  catch quickly.  Light, now, I have.  And heat, too.  
  But at a cost.  I hear the creaking as the Boxcar 
  wheels begin to roll.  And I didn’t stop or cast a 
  spell yet.  Unfair!  And, as it moves, I can feel the 
  tension in my stomach that I’m thinking means that 
  the track is getting shorter.  This fire is probably not 
  going to last all that long, but it may last longer than 
  I will.   
  I make the most of it and hold the pieces of the 
  sign together while I take another look.  Maybe it’s 
  the firelight.  Maybe I’ve figured out enough context 
  to get more from it.  Maybe it’s just desperation. 
  Whatever the reason, it makes more sense.  I see 
  everything from before… “Unsafe Place,” “Get Out 
  Fast,” and the now obvious combination of “Trol-
  ley” and “Danger.”    But now I can make out an up-
  side-down “Y” for “Keep Away” in the jumble. That 
  
   
   
  52 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  “Defend Yourself” is balanced with the circle and 
  line that means “Straight Ahead.”  I mistook that for 
  part of the “Trolley” symbol.  It’s not, but it points 
  at a tilted “X” I don’t know from The Code I’ve 
  learned but looks damn familiar. And that X is 
  over…what is that?   
  That last symbol is on Meg’s doodle.  Which is 
  burning up, right now.  I drop the sign and it cracks 
  in two.  I poke the bin to stir the contents.  Is it still 
  in there?  It’s still there.  Right near the heart of the 
  fire, but, fuck it, I reach in, burning my damn hand 
  as I grab it out and pat out the flames.  It’s scorched, 
  but when I unfold it, enough remains to see I was 
  right.  There are symbols in common.  With Meg’s 
  still smoldering drawing in hand, I match things up.  
  Comparing both, some of the other symbols on both 
  start making sense.  That tilted “X” is the tracks.  
  The circle there is “Go This Way,” connected to a 
  schematic train engine for “Catch Out,” hobo for 
  taking a ride or going somewhere.   
  So…to defend myself I need get off the tracks 
  by catching out using…the circle with two triangles?   
  But that’s not exactly the same on both.  On 
  Meg’s there is a sort of half-circle loop coming off 
  the top of the upper triangle. It’s a lantern.  And 
  those lines coming out of it?  Gotta be light.   
  I think I’ve got my way out.   
  Because, though I don’t have a lantern, I’ve seen 
  one.   
  A plan starts to come together.  Doing what I 
  need to won’t be easy or neat.  Or safe.  But I’ve got 
  all the bits and pieces.  I only need to put them to-
  gether just exactly right, with the right timing and I 
  can make it out of here.    
  Maybe.   
  Hopefully. 
   
  * * * 
   
  I have as long as this fire lasts to plan.  I could 
  look both ways through time to try to plan this out, 
  but you end up spinning your wheels doing that.  
  Going back over and over your plans trying to find 
  that one, best way to do it.  A way that never really 
  exists.  All actions have consequences, and some are 
  going to be negative ones.  So, I plan this the normal 
  way.  Meaning, much of this is going to be pulled 
  right out of my ass as it goes down.  When the fire 
  starts to dim and gutter, I feed it Meg’s puzzle and 
  put both parts of the sign in for good measure.  The 
  fires crackles merrily consuming them but dies 
  down again rapidly.  Par for the course here.  I rub 
  my hands one last time in the warmth over what 
  glowing coals there are and take a mental inventory 
  of the things I think I’ll need.   
  More as a mission statement than any actual 
  magic, I roll up my sleeves and, using ashes from 
  the fire, I draw three symbols from The Code along 
  the inside of both of my forearms: Circle crossed 
  with a short line, a capital “T” tipped most of the 
  way over and the sideways “8” – “At the Cross-
  roads, Go This Way,” “Get Out Fast,” and “Don’t 
  Give Up.”    
  Okay.  Ready. 
  First part I’ve done plenty.  Not time for caution 
  or care, instead of walking, hiking, trudging or any 
  other kind of hoofing it, I get up, turn east and run 
  like Hell is following close.  Which it is or will be.  
  Doing so, I send my sight corkscrewing along the 
  twisted angles of this broken place.  All to find…  
  The lantern.  Got it.   
  Problem is, something else is near there.  The 
  Black Boxcar.  And, because of what has to come 
  next, I can’t just look away this time.  I try to keep 
  my gaze as superficial as possible, but, even as I try 
  hard to make the lantern my focus, I can’t help but 
  see the Boxcar’s backside door has some carvings 
  on it as my vision skates past.  Right under some an-
  imal skull nailed dead center, like a doorknocker, 
  there’s Code.  But it’s wrong Code.  I’ve heard of 
  this.  Yegg Code.  Yeggs are the flipside of every-
  thing it means to be a Vagabond.  The wanderers 
  who’ve lost the Road and damned themselves.  The 
  contaminated symbol is black on black, but I can 
  still see it – some kind of up and down cross-hatch-
  ing, like “Unsafe Place,” but bigger and bent 
  straight. I don’t know what it is saying, and I don’t 
  want to.  I see more Yegg Code there, but, luckily, I 
  can’t make it out.  I’ve got better things to look for.     
  But now the Boxcar knows I’m up to something.  
  What I feel is like the lurches from before, but 
  stretched out, time and space both shrieking like fin-
  gernails on a chalkboard.  That plus the remaining 
  ringing in my ears is…really awful.   
  Time to get the lantern.  I know I said I’d do a 
  better job when I cast spell next time, but there’s no 
  time for innovation.  So, I leap for the lantern, reach-
  ing out to “there” to bring it to me “here.”  When I 
  feel my fingers touch the rough and rusty metal, I 
  grab, trying to bring it in close to my chest, while 
  going for a controlled fall.   Pretty sure I yelped as I 
  hit the rails and rolled across the ties.  This time 
  
   
   
  53 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  though, no tumbling ass over elbows like I was just 
  hit by an oncoming car.  The fall or the spell or the 
  combination of both only added a notch to my head-
  ache.  Still, there’s gotta be a better way to do this. 
  But I’ve come to a stop again.  That’s two cues, 
  stopping and magic, together.  There’s a squeal and 
  the tracks start to shake as the Boxcar increases 
  speed, adding to the ongoing earsplitting jangle from 
  the extended lurch.     
  Now, however, I have the lantern.  Next part is 
  nothing but manual dexterity and speed.   No tricks 
  up my sleeves on this one.   
  Besides, my sleeves are rolled up anyways.    
  I’m still lying half on my side on the railroad 
  tracks, with the backpack propping me up like a 
  kickstand.   Carefully, but quickly, I set the lantern 
  upright on a tie and fumble around in its innards, to 
  find where the fuel is supposed to go.   I reach into 
  my right front pants pocket and fumble out my 
  lighter.  Unscrewing the top, I pour most of the scant 
  remaining fluid into what better be the right place in 
  the lantern.  But not all of it.  I leave enough for 
  what comes next.   
  Vertigo sweeps me up like a rogue wave and 
  tries to drag me under.  I can hear the wheels howl-
  ing on the rails, which are convulsing like there's an 
  earthquake.  I’m a little surprised I don’t feel the 
  edge of the bow shock from the air piling up in front 
  of the Boxcar as it bears down on me.   That’s how 
  fast it feels like it’s coming.   
  But I’m not looking up.  Not yet.  I will, though. 
  Right after I do this…   
  I hold my lighter up to the lantern and give it a 
  very heartfelt flick, offering up a silent prayer 
  to…well, I guess, to the Road, really.  There’s a 
  sputter.  I have a split second of doubts.  The lan-
  tern’s too old and corroded for this to work.  There’s 
  not enough fluid left in the lighter.  That wind I ex-
  pected just arrived and there’s no way that little, fee-
  ble flame is going to stay lit… 
  The lighter, the lantern, and the flame join to-
  gether to ignore me.   The lantern lights up.  And I 
  mean lights up.  Like a lighthouse.  So…not an ordi-
  nary lantern, I guess.  I don’t have time to register 
  any surprise, because now is the moment of truth.  
  Did I solve Meg’s puzzle correctly? 
  I look up.  
  And, really, I have to admit I’m just as much 
  confused as terrified.  My brain isn’t processing 
  what I’m seeing.  The Boxcar is only yards away, 
  bearing down on me.  That’s not the surprising part.  
  It’s that it’s bearing down on me from both ways,  
  profane spatial distortion from the combination of its 
  forward motion and the length of the track being 
  subtracted from existence simultaneously.   Leaving 
  me square between the front and back of the Boxcar, 
  with both ends hurtling towards me at body-crunch-
  ing speed. 
  But the Light… Oh, the Light…  It shows eve-
  rything so clearly.   I ignore the Black Boxcar and 
  what it’s doing to the mutilated space of this twisted 
  track.  The light clearly reveals the opening to the 
  trail.  I can even see how the Boxcar was hiding the 
  trail, tied up in a knot of distance.  But it’s not hid-
  ing it anymore.  Not in that light. 
  The way the Black Boxcar’s ending this hunt-
  ing…or haunting…  It’s actually a mistake.   
  There’s so little track left now that there the trail 
  can’t be that far from me.  This whole universe is 
  about two boxcars long.    
  I’m not catching this westbound train… east-
  bound train…train bound for nowhere…I’m catch-
  ing the train out of here. 
  I jump over the rails and half-sprint, half-dive 
  for the gap in the undergrowth.   
  There’s an interval where the Boxcar could still 
  end me, but it would have to derail and end itself, 
  too.   But it would win.  I would die.  It would get 
  that, but just that.  I can feel that it wants me with a 
  naked hunger, but, apparently, not that much.  It 
  goes careening past as I sprawl forward onto the 
  path.   
  I made it.  Followed by a crunching, crashing, 
  wailing wall of noise… 
   
  * * * 
   
  I landed on top of the lantern.  A quick roll, and 
  I’m looking up at a high, blue sky.   
  I’m back. 
  I sit up.  The lantern is fine.  It’s out, but it’s 
  fine.  I’m fine, too.  Even though I’m beat up, 
  bruised and burned, I’m not feeling that bad.  I 
  breathe in and out.   The air is thick and hot.  It 
  sluices the cold out of me.   
  I can’t help myself.  I do an inventory.  I lost my 
  lighter.  Flashlight gone.   I still have my phone, but 
  it doesn't work.  When I was rolling around, my rain 
  hat must have come out of my pocket.   Going to be 
  hard to replace all that when I probably won’t get 
  paid for the surveying job.   Really, overall, not un-
  happy with the outcome.   
  
   
   
  54 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  I also lost the clipboard and burned all the pro-
  ject docs, my notes, and Meg’s maps.  As I said, 
  there will be hell to pay for that.   But…she can see 
  further than me.  If she saw all this and gave me 
  puzzles and half-assed warned me…maybe…just 
  maybe, I’ll get a pass.   
  Yeah right.  She’s my best guide so far and 
  serves the Road just like as I do, but those were her 
  maps.  
  Luckily, I ended up on the trail on the right side 
  of the tracks.  Pretty sure I can find the way back to 
  the road without too much trouble, even without the 
  maps.  Even without magic if it came down to it.  
  And, if there’s any trouble with me getting lost, Meg 
  knows where I am. That’s in the Rhyme.  It’s who 
  she is.    
  Finally, I do the thing I want to least.  I look at 
  the trail for where it crosses where the tracks were.  
  There’s no trace of them visible to the naked eye, 
  and this trail is barely enough of a road for me to 
  cast the spell…but I get…almost nothing.   Maybe 
  an echo of that final din?    
  Which leaves me with questions I don’t have an-
  swers for.   
  At the end, was it a roar of rage at the one that 
  got away or did the Black Boxcar break space so 
  badly that it ended up colliding with itself?   Or, so 
  badly that the whole damn place crashed in on it-
  self?  
   Who made that dead dead-end?  I know the 
  Boxcar was awful, but how is anything bad enough 
  to be worth slaughtering a road like that?    
  And what does the lantern have to do with it?  
  Because I’ve still got that lantern and it seems like 
  it’s something unwise to leave laying around, but 
  something that might be dangerous to carry with 
  you.    
  Anyways, I have some hiking to do.  Back to the 
  truck.  Not ahead.   Not today.  I might not even 
  make it back before real nightfall.  If not…bringing 
  the camping gear would have been really, really 
  handy…   
  I’ll check on the road-to-be as I go, but I’m bet-
  ting that all that back there?  Its problems have gone 
  away.    
  I sure as hell hope so.   
  Tally that.  
   
  “Mind the path.  Keep your eyes keen. 
  When the track twists back, beware the Black 
  Or feel its wrath, ‘Cause you’ve been seen." 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
   
   
  55 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  “Nobody move - this is a hold-up!” 
  The train rocked gently as the three men entered 
  the car. I kept my eyes shut - well, almost shut. They 
  were open just enough that I could see the shouting 
  man and he wasn’t a pretty sight. He was tall - taller 
  than most - and his skin was turning a kind of purple 
  color. His left eye was starting to bulge from its 
  socket, and his fingers were big enough that he’d 
  had to remove the trigger guard on his revolver to be 
  able to fire it. 
  Clearly he wasn’t right. 
  As they emerged from the previous car into my 
  own, I’d let my hand drop to my side. Now I took 
  the liberty of drawing my own pistol from its hol-
  ster; I was gonna need it. 
  “Hands in the air everyone!” 
  This man was a bane-infected monster or my 
  name was John Brown. Everyone I could see had 
  their hands up, except me. I continued to feign sleep, 
  my hat slouched low over my face making it tough 
  for them to see my eyes. One of the two normal ones 
  turned and locked the door behind him. Three of 
  them, one bane-infected: five shots in my Colt Navy 
  revolver.  
  This was gonna be close. 
  I'd come out west to get away from this sort of 
  thing but, like a bad penny, it kept following me 
  around.  I’d spent five long years fighting against 
  the Rebs, only to discover near the end that agents of 
  the Wyrm had been playing both sides against the 
  middle. Took my mustering out pay and everything 
  I’d saved, bought some gear and supplies and got on 
  a train heading west.   Just getting to this point was a 
  tough journey, and it looked to be getting tougher 
  still before the day was over. Don’t know how long 
  the wilderness would stay wild with so many people 
  flooding the Plains and California, but I figured it 
  couldn’t be worse than things back east. 
  Now I wasn't so sure. 
  “We want your money and anything of value. 
  Watches. Jewelry. Hand it over and you won’t get 
  killed.”  
  This from one of the two normal looking fellers. 
  The third one had a sack and was walking down the 
  aisle, holding the bag open to make it easy for the 
  good folk to drop their valuables inside. My right 
  hand was on the seat, my colt hanging down in my 
  hand and just out of sight. I quietly pulled back the 
  hammer. I doubted the man’s promise about nobody 
  getting killed; his bane-infected friend looked hun-
  gry, a rope of drool hanging from his lip. 
  Sure enough somebody was gonna get killed 
  here just now. Maybe me. 
  He was holding the sack with both hands, which 
  meant his gun hand was busy. The gun was pointing 
  toward the floor, which gave me an advantage - at 
  TOWARD THE  
  SETTING SUN  
  BILL BODDEN 
   
  
   
   
  56 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  least with him. Mr. Bane had taken a step or two for-
  ward and was eyeing a little one in front of him - a 
  boy - with the kind of greed in his eyes that a starv-
  ing man has looking at a banquet.  
  Time slowed down as the man with the sack 
  came to the seat in front of me. Any second now 
  he’d see my revolver, and it would be time to pay 
  the piper for one of us. I slid my arm closer to my 
  side to buy me a few more seconds.  He stepped for-
  ward, grabbed my shoulder, and shook me hard. 
  My gun came up. 
  Lifting my head, I looked past the bane-infected 
  monstrosity in the aisle to the door separating this 
  car from the next, where the conductor's ashen face 
  was framed in the window. I heard the click, click as 
  he tried in vain to open the locked door. As if in 
  slow-motion, the bane turned toward him at the 
  sound. 
  I fired. 
  Bag-man went down without a peep, a hole in 
  his chest big enough to ride a horse through. Second 
  man turned at the sound of my gun, and I raised my 
  arm as I pulled the hammer back again. My pistol 
  barked once more, and the second man lost his face 
  and crumpled to the floor. Two down, three bullets 
  left. So far, so good. 
  Mr. Bane turned around, and I could see the hor-
  rified conductor reeling back from the sight of the 
  creature’s face. At least he’d stopped trying to open 
  the door, so that would be one less potential victim. 
  Maybe. 
  My first shot hit the bane square in his forearm, 
  forcing him to drop the gun. I didn’t like wasting the 
  shot but it couldn’t be helped. I had to get that gun 
  away from him to have a chance at surviving. My 
  left hand slipped behind my back, drawing my to-
  tem-knife from its sheath, even as I pulled the trig-
  ger again. My second shot caught the bane square in 
  the chest, but he was moving now, and coming fast. 
  I stepped into the aisle, backpedaling as the huge 
  beast-man bore down on me. I knew more body 
  shots wouldn’t do much good, so I aimed my pistol 
  straight up and waited. As soon as his chest barreled 
  into my hand, my left hand swung forward, plunging 
  my knife into his body at an upward angle just under 
  his ribs even as I fired with my right.  
  The top of his head exploded in shower of 
  greasy, purple sludge.  
  Lord, what a mess! 
  Things had happened so fast that folks were 
  only just now taking cover and those closest to us 
  got showered with the foulest-smelling stuff they 
  ever come across, but those farther away were 
  spared. He was still moving though, his momentum 
  carrying me right along with him, slamming both of 
  us into the door at the far end of the car, cracking the 
  glass and the wood from our impact. Despite his ter-
  rible injuries he still managed to lift me up, both of 
  his hands knotted inside the front of my shirt.  
  If I was gonna change, it would have to be now 
  or I wouldn’t get the chance.  
  I was a half-second away from doing so when 
  his grip loosened, his bulging eye rolled back into 
  his head, and his mouth opened. If the green goo 
  smelled bad, his breath was worse; I nearly passed 
  out from the stench.  
  Suddenly, my feet were on the floor again, and 
  Mr. Bane’s arms dropped to his sides. I could just 
  make out a smoky, thin black cloud spewing out of 
  his mouth, rising into the air and disappearing. 
  Doubt anyone watching would’ve seen it unless they 
  were as close as I. Then the bane tipped over back-
  wards, falling to the floor like a mighty oak. 
  I pulled my kerchief out of my back pocket and 
  wiped the mess from my face and hands. I felt itchy 
  all over, but the sensation was fading; I’d pulled this 
  off without changing in front of all these folks.  
  Lucky. 
  The clean-up took much longer than the fight.  
  I made up a story about leprosy - none of these 
  folks knew any different, so convincing them to de-
  stroy anything touched by the bane’s goo was sim-
  ple. On my advice, they burned every rag, broom, 
  and mop that touched the stuff. The Pinkerton man, 
  who took the worst of it from where he cowered in 
  his seat, looked uncomfortable standing around in 
  his just his union suit after burning the rest of his 
  clothes, but even he seemed grateful for my efforts. 
  The conductor refunded my ticket, handing me my 
  coins back with a smile. 
  “That was mighty good shooting, Mr.…?” 
  “Johnson. Jake Johnson.” 
  “Well, thanks again, Mr. Johnson. Much 
  obliged. You can take compartment 6 in the next 
  car, courtesy of the Union Pacific Railroad.” 
  I nodded, reaching up to tip my hat before belat-
  edly recalling that I burned it along with the other 
  bane-polluted things. Instead, I gave him weak sa-
  lute, and found a seat in the first-class car as di-
  rected. 
  It had gone from day to night while I was en-
  gaged in dealing with these things. As I passed the 
  
   
   
  57 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  windows in the Pullman car compartment I looked 
  out at the stars, remembering what my mother told 
  me - that the stars were a part of my legacy, and I 
  should always find time to admire them. My father 
  wasn’t in on the joke, and Ma always reminded me 
  to keep this heritage a secret, lest there be trouble of 
  the worst sort. I hadn’t known any other of my kind 
  except my mother: hadn’t looked, either, truth be 
  told. The war had been over for five years now and I 
  was free to roam. I was headed west, running away 
  from the future I couldn’t help but see. This was an 
  age of the Wyrm and despair was its calling card. I 
  would do what I could along the way to help in the 
  fight, but once I hit the Rockies, I would build a 
  place for myself far from other people and enjoy the 
  rest of my days while I still had some left. 
  We pulled into Cheyenne the next morning, and 
  my crate was carefully unloaded onto the platform. I 
  had no horse - no hat, either - and I needed to ar-
  range a few things before I could make my way into 
  the wilderness. My intention was to head north-
  northwest to Fort Casper, then north from there - 
  maybe as far as Canada. Carve out a small home-
  stead and find a way to be happy. That was my plan. 
  I was able to find a hat to my liking in Chey-
  enne; also found a horse that would tolerate me. 
  Most horses get spooked around us - we are big, 
  scary predators after all. But this one seemed almost 
  resigned to me. Since it was the only horse that 
  would let me near it, I bought him. I rode him back 
  to the rail yard where my crate had been unloaded, 
  waiting for me.  
  Prying it open, I pulled out the saddlebags and 
  rucksack, filling them with the bags of hardtack and 
  jerky that I'd purchased, along with the fresh food I'd 
  gotten at the general store on my way back to the 
  rail yard. Apples mostly, but also a couple ears of 
  corn for me and a bag of oats for my new best 
  friend, Sampson. I managed to get everything loaded 
  – including the small barrel of nails I'd brought with 
  me from back east where they were cheaper - with 
  room to spare. Just before noon, I got directions to 
  the land office and rode there to find a piece of 
  ground to call my own.  
  I was greeted by a clerk whose crisp white shirt 
  seemed to light up the dim office. He wore tiny, 
  round glasses perched on the end of his nose, and 
  black half sleeves from wrist to elbow to protect his 
  shirt from ink stains. 
  “Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?” 
  “I’m looking’ to buy some land to homestead. 
  What’s available?” 
  I hefted a bag of coins onto the counter between 
  us. I’d heard that, out here, folks preferred coin to 
  paper money, so I’d converted all the cash I had into 
  coin at a bank before I left Chicago. 
  “Well, sir, I can’t really do anything for you un-
  til you’ve staked your claim to the land. What I can 
  do is show you on a map the sections that no one 
  else has a claim to and point you out that way. If you 
  build some kind of house on it — even just a shack 
  will do — that will help seal your claim to the land. 
  Then all you have to do is come back here, pay the 
  fee, and purchase as much land around your shack 
  as you like.” 
  He did as he suggested and I thanked him and 
  then headed out. Once I got off the main trails I 
  found what I wanted pretty quickly. The parcels he'd 
  showed me were clear enough, and I found a nice 
  patch just outside of Indian territory. I pitched a tent, 
  got out my axe, and over the next two days I felled a 
  few pines to build my cabin.  
  The location was perfect: far enough from town 
  not be bothered, but close enough that heading in for 
  supplies wouldn’t take all day. Sampson helped me 
  drag the logs closer to the site, and I rewarded him 
  with some fresh oats from the bag. I even hollowed 
  out a log to make a water trough for him.  
  So far, so good. 
  That night, dreams came to me; dreams of the 
  Wyrm. I saw a deep pit full of hideous Wyrm-
  tainted servants, digging and blasting and trying to 
  get at something deep in the earth. As they were 
  lighting the fuse on a stick of dynamite, I woke up. 
  The explosion followed me from my dream and 
  I nearly jumped out of my skin at the thunderous 
  sound. Sampson was an inch away from blind panic. 
  I patted his flank to help calm him. The campfire 
  had burned low, so I threw another log on, and gath-
  ered my gear quickly.  
  I'd bought a rifle before I got on the train; it was 
  from a new manufacturer — the Winchester Repeat-
  ing Arms Company — and came highly recom-
  mended. I made sure it was loaded, chambered a 
  round and then headed upslope to find the source of 
  the explosion. When I got to the top of the hill, I 
  could see a sickly glow coming from another hill 
  over. Shadows were passing back and forth through 
  the glow, and a sick feeling came over me. The 
  moon was only half-full, but it shed enough light on 
  the thinly-wooded slope that I could see once my 
  
   
   
  58 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  eyes adjusted away from my campfire. I crept to the 
  top of the next ridge and peeked over. 
  There was a large pit below me, recently dug, 
  and a couple dozen men were moving back and 
  forth, carrying barrels of something from a pair of 
  wagons to the edge of the pit, dumping the contents 
  in, and moving the empty barrels away again. What 
  they were dumping was the source of the sickly 
  glow: it was a thick goo, bright green, and poured 
  out like spoiled milk. The smell of the Wyrm was 
  everywhere in this little valley, and a fresh whiff 
  came with each new barrelful that they poured into 
  the hole. Every so often there was muffled sound, 
  like a scream, maybe, coming from deep in the 
  earth. It didn’t sound like a human being and it was 
  more sensed than heard. 
  I pulled back from the hill top and rubbed at my 
  week’s-worth of beard, scratchy and stiff and 
  prickly under my fingers. I left the east to get away 
  from this sort of thing, and here I was smack in the 
  middle of something awful again. I doubt any of the 
  Wyrm-slingers knew I was here, and even if they 
  did, would they set such an elaborate trap just to 
  catch one Garou?  
  New sounds came from below. I poked my head 
  over the top again to see what was happening now.  
  The men had apparently finished pouring out the 
  barrels and were now staring into the pit. One of 
  them was clearly the leader: he was pointing and 
  barking some kind of orders, and the rest went off to 
  get something else.  
  Another scream: this time, I could sense more 
  about it. It definitely came from the pit, and there 
  was a strong smell to it, like burnt metal, that put me 
  in mind of the earth and spirits. It was clear that they 
  were trying to corrupt whatever was in there, either 
  kill it or turn it to their side by drowning it with this 
  Wyrm-tainted goo. I sure as hell couldn’t stand by 
  and watch them corrupt something so pure as an 
  earth spirit.  
  My skin began itching, and before I knew it, the 
  change was coming over me. I fumbled at my shirt, 
  my fingers almost changing faster than I could undo 
  the buttons. I grew huge, monstrous, and the pain of 
  the change made me shudder. A howl escaped my 
  snarling lips as I pushed out to speed the change, de-
  ciding I was all in.  
  When my transformation was complete, I dove 
  over the crest of the hill and rushed down toward the 
  pit. With that howl, all pretense of stealth was gone 
  and I didn't worry about them seeing me coming. I 
  was going to battle now, and win or lose, it felt 
  good. 
  They began firing as soon as they saw me com-
  ing. A few shots came close, but I was lucky and 
  didn’t take a single hit until I reached the clearing. 
  As I did, I took in the destruction wrought by these 
  animals to get at the thing in the pit: trees hacked 
  down and shoved to one side. The smell of death 
  was everywhere, but it was mostly small death; little 
  forest creatures killed to make a clearing and path 
  for the wagons. I smelled a dead man: old and 
  frightened, but dead for more than a day. Must’ve 
  been some prospector, or a recluse trying to escape 
  the horrors of the world, in the wrong place at the 
  wrong time. 
  Just like me. 
  That was the tipping point; my rage exploded 
  from me like a dam bursting under the strain of a 
  too-flooded river. I covered the open ground like 
  some kind of demon. No shots rang out as I closed 
  with these men who gaped open-mouthed and terror 
  struck, their eyes wide with fear. I tore into them 
  like a tornado, limbs and heads and scraps of life 
  flying in all directions.  I had killed ten before I even 
  slowed down; by then, the rest were running for the 
  cover of the wagons. 
  I took my first hit as I turned toward them, my 
  rage already waning. The survivors had rallied, pass-
  ing out rifles they’d left there while they worked. 
  The bullet stung, burying itself deep in my shoulder. 
  It was not silver, thank Gaia: I’d never had a wound 
  from silver, but I’d seen what it could do. When my 
  mother died, she was showing me about the change, 
  changing herself to help me understand. It wasn’t 
  the full-blown, monstrous Crinos form, but some-
  thing in-between that and normal human. She called 
  it her Glabro form, and while her body grew more 
  massive and a little frightening, her eyes never 
  changed, and I could still see her love for me in 
  them. Shots rang out just then; some hunters had 
  seen her cradling me, and assumed the worst - that 
  some monster was trying to tear my head off. They 
  rained bullets down on her, dozens in only a few 
  seconds, and one of them used silver rounds. She 
  pushed me behind her, shielding me from the attack. 
  After what seemed like forever, though it had only 
  been a few seconds, she crumpled to the ground 
  bleeding her last. Unable to speak, she handed me 
  her totem-knife, her eyes filled with sorrow and re-
  gret. I’ve kept the knife ever since, and it has served 
  me well. 
  
   
   
  59 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  The lanterns were near them, so I still had a 
  small advantage once I got away from the circle of 
  torches. I dodged my way back to the trees and be-
  gan to circle - quietly. Every now and then one 
  would shout that he saw something and point, but 
  they were only right once and their aim was high. I 
  waited until most seemed to be reloading, and I 
  charged. I made straight for the nearest wagon and, 
  slamming my shoulder into it, I drove it eight feet 
  into the other wagon, spilling most of the men from 
  both out onto the ground. The second wagon tipped 
  completely over trapping several men underneath. 
  Some of those that fell out had dropped their rifles 
  from the shock of impact; I ignored them and went 
  after the still-armed ones first. I clawed one across 
  the throat, the fountain of blood telling me I need 
  waste no more time on him. I pounded another with 
  my closed fist, a backhand blow that caught his 
  body between my hand and a wagon, and crushed 
  his ribs. He collapsed,  his heart smashed by the im-
  pact. 
  Fire was leaping up now, lighting the entire 
  clearing as the wagon burned. The tipped over 
  wagon had crushed one of the lit lanterns, and the 
  spilled oil caught fire from the still burning wick, 
  spreading to the wagon itself. It would have to wait: 
  there was still shooting, and I’d taken two more hits. 
  One was just a graze across my ribs, but the other 
  buried itself in the meat of my thigh. That one hurt a 
  lot, and now I was limping. 
  The end was in sight: only a very few were left 
  alive, and some of those were trapped beneath the 
  burning wagon. Two ran off into the woods, and 
  with my new limp I couldn’t keep up to chase them. 
  I flipped over the burning wagon, only to see two of 
  the three men trapped there had died from the fire. 
  The last was gasping and sobbing heavily, his legs 
  little more than burnt-out matchsticks. He would die 
  soon, but the pain would linger. A quick swipe of 
  my claws put him out of his misery: even animals 
  like these deserved a quick death. 
  I looked around the clearing; there was fire, 
  there was death, but no more living men could be 
  seen. I raised my muzzle to the moon and gave deep, 
  long howl of victory. Aches and pains I had, true, 
  but I put a stop to the Wyrm here - at least for now. 
  As the echoes of my victory howl died away, 
  new sounds rose above the trees, and a chill ran up 
  my spine as I heard them: battle howls - three of 
  them. I swiveled my ears and head, trying to gauge 
  where they were coming from, but they were all 
  around. I had heard of the Black Spiral Dancers, the 
  werewolves corrupted by the Wyrm. If my end was 
  to come at their claws, so be it: I wouldn’t go down 
  without a fight, injured though I may be. If my fate 
  was to be devoured and end up in their bellies, I 
  hope I gave them indigestion. 
  A black wolf trotted into the clearing, big yel-
  low eyes staring straight at me. Hearing rustling be-
  hind me, I turned my head just enough to glimpse a 
  Crinos-form werewolf dragging a dead man — one 
  of those that ran away from me — into the clearing. 
  The Crinos was a huge beast, much taller than I 
  was,  and had dappled grey fur and one milky-white 
  eye. From up the slope — back the way I had come 
  — another Crinos lumbered into sight, this one with 
  reddish fur and a bloody muzzle, dragging the sec-
  ond of the two escaped men by one half severed leg. 
  Behind it came a fourth individual, a woman, 
  and from her dress and appearance she looked to be 
  a native. Cheyenne, maybe, though I couldn't say for 
  sure. 
  “A strong victory, brother," she said. "All 
  praises go to you for this hunt. What is your name?” 
  I looked from her to the wolf - who hadn’t 
  moved - and then to the two Crinos. One of them 
  had flung its victim onto the burning wagon with a 
  crash and shower of sparks. The lighter sparks 
  drifted upwards until they winked out: the heavier 
  ones dropped to the ground and tumbled, smoldering 
  where they fell. All four were looking at me now. 
  They didn’t seem ready to fight, just wary. 
  “I’m Jake Johnson. My clan is the Stargazers. 
  Sorry if I intruded on your territory. I’m more than 
  happy to make amends for any trespass.” 
  As I spoke, I could feel myself shrinking, my 
  rage subsiding and my Crinos-form retreating back 
  from where it came. I was naked, but no one seemed 
  to mind. The other two Crinos werewolves began to 
  shrink as well: the one with the cloudy eye looked to 
  be an old man, but still muscular and strong despite 
  his age.  A fringe of gray-white hair stood out 
  around the sides of his head, waving in the air with 
  each movement or head bob. The second was an-
  other woman, tall and lean, with bright red hair. She 
  daintily dabbed at her bloody mouth with one hand. 
  The wolf shifted then, changing into a shorter 
  native-looking man with bright eyes and a big smile 
  - and fewer teeth than he should have had. His thick 
  black hair hung in waves over his shoulders. 
  They began to approach, warily, hands raised in 
  a gesture of peace. They went around me to gather 
  
   
   
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  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  by the native woman, who pulled off a rucksack and 
  started to hand out clothes to the other three. 
  “Don’t worry, Jake; as soon as I get my pants 
  on, I’ll help you find your clothes,” drawled the old 
  man. “No sense leaving ‘em out here for the squir-
  rels to live in.”  
  “Thanks.” 
  “I’m Ezekiel, but most people call me Zeke. 
  This here," he said, pointing to the tall redhead, "is 
  Amanda. That wolf feller there is Few Teeth. The 
  woman’s Kimimela, of the Lakota Sioux.” 
  True to his word, Zeke stomped off and returned 
  shortly with my discarded clothes. “Saw ‘em when I 
  caught that runner over there. Figured they was 
  yours.”  
  I noticed as he handed my clothes to me that 
  they had been neatly folded. I nodded my thanks and 
  began to dress. 
  “So what brings you to the lands of the Chey-
  enne, Jake Johnson?” This was Kimimela, re-shoul-
  dering her nearly empty pack. 
  “I saw a lot of killing back east in the war - even 
  did some of that killing myself. Had enough of it. I 
  came out here to start a new life, away from all of 
  that.” 
  “Looks like you didn’t ferget how to do it,” 
  chuckled Zeke, picking something dark from his 
  teeth. 
  “Many of your people are making this same trip, 
  now that the war is done and the railroad has come,” 
  said Kimimela. "We will soon be overrun by your 
  people, and the Wyrm that some bring with them.” 
  “Look,” I began. “If it’s about the cabin, I can 
  go someplace else.” 
  “It’s not about the cabin,” said Amanda, sud-
  denly, and with great vehemence. “You were drawn 
  here, same as we, to answer this threat. Kimimela, 
  ask the spirit what we can do to help it heal.” 
  Kimimela dropped her pack and went to the 
  pit’s edge. She knelt down and began to trace pat-
  terns in the loose dirt next to the hole. Then she be-
  gan to sing. I didn’t know the language, but it was 
  beautiful. My heart soared with each word, each 
  line, and after she stopped singing I realized I was 
  still swaying in time to her song. I felt my face flush 
  but Few Teeth was looking at me and smiling. 
  “C’mon, Jake: let’s you an’ me take a walk 
  while Kimi and Few Teeth talk with the spirit. Some 
  of these spirits are shy.” Zeke laid a gentle hand on 
  my shoulder, and I followed him away. 
  “So how long have you been a Were?” he asked 
  once we were out of earshot of the others. 
  “Since my sixteenth year, I guess. Ma tried to 
  help me through it, ’till she died.” 
  “And your Pa?” 
  “He didn’t know. He left us when he found out. 
  Why?” 
  Zeke scrunched up his face. “Your Ma must’ve 
  been a fighter, raising you all alone like that. Bet she 
  was a tough one, too. That explains why you’re so 
  fierce; besides the skills you learned in the war, your 
  mother gave you everything you needed to survive.” 
  I nodded. Ma was often gone for hours at night - 
  sometimes until dawn. She came back with grisly-
  looking injuries that healed almost miraculously. I’d 
  had to be careful in the army: my own healing pow-
  ers made people nervous, so I learned to hide small 
  wounds, and trivialize the larger ones. 
  Zeke looked up at the moon, and sighed. “We 
  can’t stay here for long - and that includes you, Star-
  gazer. The Wyrm knows about you now, and it’ll 
  send fresh forces to deal with this. The Wyrm 
  doesn’t like to be denied. U.S. cavalry will be here 
  in a week at most, and they’ll want to know why so 
  many white men got killed here. Agents of the 
  Wyrm will be among them,” 
  “Wait - I can’t stay here either?” 
  “Nope. Not unless you want to meet a pack of 
  Black Spiral Dancers. You know what those are, 
  right?” 
  I nodded. “What about my cabin?” I wasn’t too 
  far along in building it, but it would be nice to have 
  something to come back to. Maybe I could get it far 
  enough along to file a claim. 
  “We can stick around for a few days to help fin-
  ish it, but it’d be best if you weren’t in it for a 
  while.” 
  Amanda called out from behind us. We turned 
  and went back to the pit. 
  Few Teeth and Kimimela were already hard at 
  work, refilling the barrels with all the green goo they 
  could scoop out of the hole. Amanda, smiling, 
  handed us both shovels. As I looked down into the 
  pit, my hat tumbled off, falling into the pool of 
  green poison, where it bubbled and sizzled. Guess 
  I’d need another new hat. 
   
  *** 
   
  We dug as much of the Wyrm-taint out of the pit 
  as we could, and the spirit told Kimimela that it was 
  
   
   
  61 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  enough; it could now heal on its own. We burned the 
  barrels, and that gooey green stuff gave off oily 
  clouds of smoke that, had it not still been dark, 
  could surely be seen for miles. 
  In the days that followed, I fell in with the oth-
  ers and became a part of their pack. The decision 
  was made to head south to escape the harsh winter - 
  and to not be around when the soldiers arrived. 
  Amanda had heard about a Wyrm Hive in New 
  Mexico Territory that was built over a former cairn 
  of our people; we’d hook up with a few others along 
  the road and find a way to turn things for the bet-
  ter.  As we rode away from the sight of my still-un-
  finished cabin, I could hear the spirit’s voice on the 
  wind, singing the song of healing and wishing us 
  good hunting on our journey. I realized then that I 
  could learn things I needed to know from these folks 
  - things my Ma never had the chance to tell me.  
  I wasn’t alone any more. 
  The road south was a long one, and there would 
  be hardships aplenty, but meeting these folk and 
  fighting against the Wyrm here in the wilderness 
  made me realize that running away from the fight 
  only helps the Wyrm to win. There were no happy 
  endings, Zeke told me: just new battles. I had high 
  hopes now that I’d accepted the invitation to join 
  this little pack. We couldn’t save the whole world, 
  but we could save a part of it, and hope that others 
  would pitch in when they could. 
  In the end, hope was all we had. 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
   
   
  62 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  "Why the hell would you want to want to hear 
  my story?" Lancelot asked as he leaned back in the 
  booth of the dingy bar. 
  The Cave was an institution for Chicago's 
  Kindred, particularly its Anarchs, but the place had 
  seen better days. It was poorly lit, the beer was 
  cheap, and the entertainment performed behind a 
  steel cage. Mind you, some found that appealing; 
  only the poorest and most desperate Kine frequented 
  the club. That made them easy prey, and few people 
  missed even regulars when they stopped showing 
  up. Bauhaus' "Bela Lugosi's Dead" was being 
  murdered onstage by a heroin-addicted female 
  singer who looked ready to collapse. 
  Lancelot was a big Kindred who wore a baseball 
  cap backward, a heavy trench coat, and Motley 
  Crew t-shirt that had been through the wash enough 
  times it was starting to disintegrate. He was a 
  Malkavian and wore a pair of sunglasses to hide 
  how his eyes constantly darted back and forth as if 
  seeing things just out of view. Lancelot wasn't his 
  name, obviously, and the interviewer had figured out 
  his identity but decided not to press the issue. 
  "I collect stories," Linda said. She was biracial 
  with long stringy hair, cat-like eyes she disguised 
  with contacts, and a loose-fitting dress that was 
  distinctly out of place in the Cave. The Gangrel had 
  Embraced her but she was most at home doing 
  research, rarely leaving her apartment save to feed. 
  The exception was when she managed to finagle 
  (weird how she'd picked up that word—her sire used 
  it all the time) an interview with one of her fellow 
  undead. "My current project is about the Waukegan 
  Way. You know, something to share just between 
  fellow Kindred.” 
  "Pfft. Now I know you're crazy. No one wants to 
  hear about that," Lancelot said, sipping his beer then 
  spitting it out on the table. He either still liked the 
  taste or he was just being an asshole.  
  "You don't think it's an interesting topic?" Linda 
  asked, fishing for information. "That's what you 
  Goblin Drivers are famous for, right? Making the 
  trip?" 
  Lancelot stared at her. "Someone has been 
  talking. Is it Bunches?" 
  Linda looked down. "I don't reveal my sources." 
  "It's Bunches," Lancelot said. "Party Girl will 
  tell anything for a fix." 
  In truth, it had been Bunches. Linda hadn't been 
  able to get her to shut up after she'd handed her a 
  Kine hopped up on a mix of ecstasy and other drugs. 
  Linda preferred her vitae clean and chemical free, 
  which was increasingly hard to come by in this city. 
  It was why she preferred to hang around the vegan 
  THE WAUKEGAN WAY  
  C.T. PHIPPS 
   
  
   
   
  63 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  university crowd. 
  "Maybe," Linda said, confessing. "She told me 
  that the two-hour drive from Chicago to Milwaukee 
  was full of perils. That the Waukegan Way killed 
  virtually every Kindred who tried to make it and the 
  only way to get there safely was either by airplane, 
  boat, or taking a Goblin Driver." 
  "Bunches is telling stories," Lancelot said. 
  "She's not wrong, though. Two hundred Kindred 
  have tried to enter or exit Milwaukee via car in the 
  past ten years. Like it was any other city that could 
  just be entered, rather than the Wisconsin Mordor."  
  "The Wisconsin Mordor?" Linda asked, raising 
  an eyebrow. 
  "Yeah, you don't simply drive into it," Lancelot 
  said, putting his arms on the table. "They go there to 
  fight the werewolves, to fight the Sabbat, to flee 
  from the Primogen's wrath, or just because they 
  want to catch a Panthers game. Just as many flee the 
  city for all those reasons. Of those vampires who 
  tried to get in or get out, I’d say about forty didn't 
  make it. The rest either had Goblin Drivers or were 
  lucky." 
  Linda blinked. "Forty vampires. You're saying 
  the population of a major American city's worth of 
  Kindred have died driving to Wisconsin." 
  "Milwaukee is a place where the war between 
  Kindred and Lupines has never ebbed," Lancelot 
  said. "The war here in Chicago killed as many in a 
  single month, but it's just business as usual there." 
  "And what?" Linda asked, confused. 
  "Werewolves just know which cars contain Kindred 
  and ambush them in the middle of the highway?" 
  Lancelot rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You're 
  not getting it." 
  "Explain it to me," Linda said, lifting her 
  recorder.  
  "You still use tape?" Lancelot asked, surprised. 
  Linda shrugged. “I like it.” 
  Lancelot nodded. "Alright, I'll tell you a story. 
  It's why you should never go on the Waukegan Way 
  without a juju bag and a Goblin Driver." 
   
  *** 
   
  "I hate nature," Lancelot said, trudging through 
  the woods in his hiking boots. "I hated nature while 
  I was alive, I hate nature while I’m dead." 
  Lancelot was trailing behind a group of four 
  Kindred walking through the woods behind 
  Thompson. Thompson was the eldest, though still a 
  Neonate as the Camarilla measured things, and 
  looked a bit like David Duchovny if he'd spent the 
  last decade on various drugs and a few days dead. 
  He wore a long trench coat over a stained dress shirt 
  and dirty slacks. Dude had a few animal features 
  like extra-sharp teeth, long nails, and bat-like 
  patagia to his ears. The Gangrel kept them well 
  hidden, though, and they barely impacted his looks. 
  They were a sign Thompson frenzied often, though. 
  Few Gangrel lasted long unless they developed a lot 
  of self-control quickly and Thompson didn’t seem 
  the type. Thompson was supposedly a former cop 
  and Lancelot believed it. There was something about 
  the guy's casual assumption of authority that 
  offended Lancelot's Anarch spirit.  
  The other three Kindred were Bunches, 
  Crawdad, and Renault. Bunches was a fellow Kook 
  with long blonde hair tied into two high pigtails so 
  that she looked like the Joker's girlfriend. She was 
  dressed like she was going to a rave in hot pants and 
  a tank top and her mouth had a little blood on it. A 
  machete was slung across her back, though, so 
  Lancelot didn't worry about her too much.  
  Crawdad was a Sewer Rat with a pair of glasses, 
  knit beanie, and thick winter-wear despite it being 
  the middle of July. His face looked like someone 
  had dragged him back and forth over a gravel road a 
  few hundred times. In sharp contrast, Renault was a 
  too handsome Toreador with long flowing white 
  blond hair and a perfect physique. Oddly, he was the 
  only one dressed practically for travel in the woods 
  aside from Lancelot. 
  "Quit your whining," Thompson said, having 
  been stone cold silent since we'd abandoned our cars 
  off the highway a mile back. 
  "I don't even know why we're here," Bunches 
  said. "How is going out into the middle of the woods 
  supposed to help the Movement?" 
  "You said you wanted to be Goblin Drivers," 
  Thompson said, not looking at the Neonates. "The 
  Movement in Milwaukee needs support: weapons, 
  explosives, cash, and reinforcements. Moving that to 
  and from the city is hard." 
  "Because werewolves magically find every 
  shipment," Lancelot said, suspicious. "No one 
  knows how.” 
  "I do. The Lupines know the ways between 
  worlds," Thompson said, looking up into the night 
  sky. "They talk to the Land and the Land talks back. 
  The spirits, the birds, and road itself give up the 
  location of our kind. It goes beyond information too. 
  
   
   
  64 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  Stoplights, detours, and even the paths redirect those 
  of Caine's blood to their awaiting claws." 
  "And I thought we were the Kooks," Lancelot 
  said, looking at Bunches. 
  She shrugged. 
  "I don't give a shit about any of that," Crawdad 
  said, his voice raspy and deep. "I’m here because I 
  heard there was a lot of money to be made by being 
  a Goblin Driver. I also don't see how that relates to 
  walking through the woods in the middle of the 
  night." 
  "We all have debts to pay, Nosferatu," Renault 
  said, speaking with a French-Canadian accent. "I’m 
  sure that we'll have our answers soon." 
  "You have a lot more faith than I do, Fabio," 
  Crawdad said. "I ain't buying this whole Movement 
  crap from Thompson either. I know the Goblin 
  Drivers serve Cammies too. It just so happens I don't 
  care. I’m here for the money.” 
  "What does a Nosferatu need with money?" 
  Renault asked. 
  "High speed Internet access," Crawdad said, 
  sticking out a deformed forked tongue. Some people 
  said Crawdad knew Followers of Set, and that 
  answer was as good a piece of evidence as any. 
  Lancelot moved his hand under his coat and felt 
  the stock of the sawed-off shotgun tucked into a 
  holster on his belt. Lancelot didn't entirely trust 
  Thompson and wasn't too fond of the other Goblin 
  Driver candidates either. The only one Lancelot 
  knew well was Bunches and she wasn't exactly a 
  friend. They'd hunted together but she could turn on 
  her partners on a moment's notice, depending on her 
  mood. 
  "There's ways of fooling the Lupine's magic," 
  Thompson said, turning and showing his eyes 
  glowing a bright red. The Gangrel's night vision was 
  far sharper than even the Kooks’ and Toreador's 
  tonight. It was also deeply unsettling.  
  "Fool it how?" Lancelot asked, feeling like the 
  rat about to enter a trap. 
  "With other magic," Thompson replied. 
  "I don't deal with Tremere," Lancelot said, 
  stopping. "Even when they're Anarch, the Warlocks 
  are untrustworthy sonsofbitches." 
  "What vampire isn't?" Bunches asked, looking 
  back at him. 
  "It’s not Tremere," Thompson replied. 
  "Assamite?" Lancelot asked, confused. Lancelot 
  heard they had blood magic as well, though only 
  second-hand. The only time Lancelot ever dealt with 
  Kindred outside of the main seven was the time he’d 
  hooked up with a Lasombra antitribu from D.C. A 
  real uptown girl. 
  "They prefer to be called Banu Haqim," Renault 
  said, sniffing the air. 
  "Shut the hell up," Lancelot said, already 
  irritated with the Degenerate. "No one cares." 
  "You'll care if they take your arm off for it," 
  Renault said, raising his right hand. "That happened 
  to me." 
  Lancelot sincerely doubted that. 
  "The Followers of Set were casting spells 
  thousands of years before the Warlocks even 
  conceived of sorcery," Crawdad said. 
  "It's not vampires," Thompson said, his voice 
  dry.  
  That silenced everyone and opened even more 
  questions among the undead group. Before they 
  could respond, Thompson entered a clearing and 
  turned around to stretch out his arms. The moonlight 
  shone down upon him and everyone got the sense 
  that something was deeply wrong.  
  Lancelot sucked in a thoroughly unnecessary 
  breath and was the first one to follow. "Okay, you 
  need to stop dancing around and tell us what the hell 
  is going on. If this is a test, then I want to know. 
  Otherwise, get with the stuff we need to do in order 
  to become Goblin Drivers or I am done.” 
  The interior of the clearing looked like it had 
  once been an idyllic clearing. Instead, all the grass 
  was dead. Animal skeletons hung from tree branches 
  like charms. There were human skulls, real ones not 
  the Halloween kind, sitting on logs. Metal drums 
  marked ENDRON, cracked and leaking, lay in a 
  nearby creek. The place smelled awful even to his 
  long-desensitized nose. It was like someone had 
  spread out heavy metals for a Satanic mass then 
  forgot to clean up. That was when Lancelot heard 
  wolves howl. 
  "Fuck it, I’m outta here," Crawdad said, 
  showing perhaps more foresight than the rest of the 
  group. 
  "Stay," Thompson said, his voice commanding 
  in a way that only an Elder Ventrue's should be. 
  Crawdad froze in place. 
  "Oh hell, this is a trap, isn't it?" Bunches 
  muttered, pulling out her machete. 
  "Yeah, because that's going to do you any 
  good," Renault said. "Maybe if it was silver." 
  Bunches stuck out her tongue. 
  "You had better explain fast," Lancelot said, 
  
   
   
  65 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  going for his shotgun again. 
  Thompson just laughed, like he was a 
  goddamned supervillain. Then again, that was what 
  happened with some undead. They got drunk on the 
  power of feeding on humans and started acting like, 
  well, vampires. Usually, the Prince ended up putting 
  them down, or the Anarchs as a whole. The rest 
  ended up trying to join the Sabbat with varying 
  degrees of success. 
  "Try it, Lance," Thompson said, grabbing a 
  small leather bag out of his trench coat and shaking 
  it. "The only reason you're alive now is this. A juju 
  bag full of medicine." 
  Lancelot was saner than most Kooks. Perhaps it 
  was a bit of a humble brag that he only suffered 
  minor fits of forgetfulness, a split personality, and 
  the occasional hallucination. Compared to some of 
  the Malkavians he knew, Lancelot was the picture of 
  mental health. Nevertheless, there was something 
  about the leather bag that called out to him. It was 
  an unclean, sickly, and unpleasant voice that 
  reminded Lancelot of his asshole father. It reminded 
  Lancelot of the Beast and he wondered if he was 
  about to have an episode in the worst place possible. 
  "I don't need your pills," Crawdad said. 
  "Medicine is also a word for magic among 
  Native Americans," Renault said, showing how a 
  little knowledge is a dangerous thing. 
  "What, we're meeting Odawa wizards?" 
  Bunches asked. "Isn't that a bit racist?" 
  "No," Lancelot said. "We're meeting Lupines. 
  Bad ones." 
  As if that wasn't a redundant statement. The 
  attack on Chicago had been before Lancelot’s time 
  and even if he’d been around, the Malkavian would 
  have been one of the sensible Kindred to take refuge 
  in Gary. Still, Lancelot had heard all manner of 
  horrible stories of Kindred being attacked in their 
  havens during the daytime, herds being massacred in 
  the hope of drawing vampires out, and flagrant 
  violations of the Masquerade by beings that people 
  just forgot about hours later. In many ways, they 
  were simultaneously more hidden and more terrible 
  than the Kindred themselves. 
  Somehow, the creatures that came through the 
  woods around us were even worse than Lancelot 
  could conjure from those stories. Lancelot had never 
  seen a Lupine up close before—the fact he was still 
  alive was testament to that—but he’d heard them 
  described as terrifying, yet noble creatures. These 
  were deformed Peter Jackson orc-looking versions 
  of werewolves.  
  They had mangy bald spot littered coats, tumors, 
  burns, and deformities that suggested their human 
  forms were probably every bit as hideous. Each was 
  about eight feet in height with arms twice the size of 
  a normal man’s and claws with an extra-joint. There 
  were four of them and in that moment, Lancelot 
  believed he was going to die. 
  "These are my patrons," Thompson said, 
  smiling. "They are the enemies of the Lupines in 
  Milwaukee." 
  "Lupines have factions?" Lancelot asked, trying 
  to substitute curiosity for fear. It didn't work. 
  "Who doesn't?" Thompson asked. "But they 
  very much want to keep the Milwaukee Lupines and 
  Kindred fighting." 
  Everyone was silent. 
  "Good?" Lancelot said, slowly. 
  The thought that the war between Kindred and 
  Lupines in Milwaukee was being fed by outside 
  factions to kill both disgusted him. It meant 
  Crawdad was right and this wasn't going to help the 
  Movement in any way; quite the opposite. The 
  Anarchs fighting in Milwaukee for turf were just 
  cannon fodder for a war that wasn't their own. 
  Lancelot clamped down on his next words before he 
  accused Thompson of some Darth Sidious bullshit. 
  Thompson probably wouldn't get the reference 
  anyway. 
  "The juju bags hide whatever vampires hold 
  them from the prying eyes of the Lupines and their 
  spirit allies," Thompson. "Well, most of them at 
  least. It's why Goblin Drivers can get in and out of 
  Milwaukee at will. The problem is, they're only 
  looking for one additional driver." 
  "I don't like the sound of that," Bunches said. 
  "No shit," Crawdad said. "Where did you hook 
  up with these people, Thompson? I thought the 
  Gangrel-Lupine Special Relationship was bullshit." 
  Thompson just smiled. "Let's just say some of 
  us had family ties before our Embrace." 
  "What do they want? Money? Drugs?" Renault 
  asked. "Blood?" 
  Renault's High Clan status was showing. The 
  Toreador was thinking in terms of profit, pleasure, 
  and gain. These things were something else. 
  Something vile. Call it the Cobweb speaking to 
  Lancelot, but the Lupines struck Lancelot as an evil 
  only the worst of our kind matched. Lancelot never 
  thought he’d be in the presence of something that 
  made him feel like the good guy but those things 
  
   
   
  66 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  made him feel less like the wolf and more like the 
  lamb. Which was obvious in hindsight. What else 
  could Lupines make you feel like? 
  "Yes, blood," Thompson said. "But not the kind 
  that makes ghouls." 
  "You will be hunted," one of the disgusting 
  tumorous werewolves spoke in surprisingly good 
  English. Lancelot thought they had to be 
  unintelligent or at least unable to speak properly 
  given their feral appearance. 
  "Hunted," Lancelot repeated. 
  "This is bullshit," Bunches said, holding her 
  machete out in front of her. 
  "From here back to the cars," Thompson said. 
  "If you manage to make it then you will be blessed 
  with a juju bag and a hundred thousand dollars 
  cash." 
  "You're paying us to be sport," Crawdad said. 
  "Man, and I thought the Ventrue were fucked up." 
  "Where do these things even get money?" 
  Renault asked possibly the stupidest question he 
  could in this situation. 
  "Friends," the eloquent Lupine said before he 
  and his associates started giggling like hyenas. 
  "And if we choose not to?" Lancelot asked, 
  knowing the answer. 
  "Then you'll not be hunted," Thompson said. 
  "Just killed." 
  "The Prince won't like this," Renault said, 
  puffing up his chest. 
  "Which prince?" Thompson said. "The one of 
  Milwaukee or the one of Chicago? Either way, who 
  will care about a bunch of Anarchs going missing?" 
  Lancelot made a mental vow to kill Thompson 
  after all this was over. Lancelot doubted any of the 
  others would follow through, especially if the 
  money for being a Goblin Driver was as good as it 
  supposedly was. Then again, that presumed that any 
  of us survived and Thompson chose to fulfill his 
  side of the deal. This wasn't Westeros and a promise 
  was only as good as your ability to scare someone 
  into fulfilling their end of it. 
  Crawdad accepted that we were screwed faster 
  than anyone else. "So, what are the rules?" 
  "Outrun the others," Thompson said, chuckling. 
  "Toreador run very fast," Crawdad said. "He 
  should get a handicap." 
  "You bastard!" Renault hissed at the Nosferatu. 
  Crawdad shrugged. "It's every vamp for 
  themselves here tonight." 
  The Lupines laughed again, apparently finding 
  the entire situation hilarious. 
  "I’m sure you'll figure something out," 
  Thompson said, tossing the juju bag on the ground 
  and pulling out a Glock 28 semi-automatic pistol. 
  "You have until the second shot to run without being 
  chased." 
  He fired in the air. 
  Crawdad immediately turned invisible, Bunches 
  retreated into the darkness with a weaker version of 
  the same power, and Renault sped out of the grove 
  like a bat out of hell. Lancelot wasn't a weak 
  Kindred for his age but wasn't exactly strong either. 
  Instead, almost all his skill was in affecting the 
  minds of others. Lacking any other options, Lancelot 
  spun and ran as fast as he could. His only advantage 
  was that he wasn't going to get winded.  
  Lancelot let his overweight body carry him over 
  roots and through puddles. Not for the first time, 
  Lancelot wished he’d been in better shape before his 
  Embrace. His sire hadn't cared about that, and 
  Lancelot’s strength came from the blood anyway. 
  Pushing the vitae in his stomach into his limbs, 
  Lancelot felt his strength grow and his grace as well. 
  Another advantage Lancelot had over the others was 
  Caine's relative closeness in terms of lineage. 
  Lancelot was of the 9th generation and compared to 
  most Anarchs, he might as well have been an Elder.  
  Lancelot had also fed on a group of Neo-Nazis 
  earlier that evening, picking a fight and draining 
  them close to death before calling an ambulance. 
  Lancelot didn't care whether any of them lived or 
  died, but at that moment Lancelot he was glad he’d 
  met them. His life was going to depend on their 
  blood. Lancelot had to be careful not to spend so 
  much that the Beast overwhelmed him. The Beast 
  might be smart enough to avoid things like fire and 
  sunlight on its own, but Lancelot didn't think it was 
  intelligent enough to avoid picking a fight with a 
  Lupine. Those things were the bulldozers of the 
  supernatural world and the Kindred who claimed 
  they regularly fought Lupines, like the Anubi in 
  Milwaukee, were liars—every one of them. 
  Lancelot was feeling good about his progress, 
  having made it halfway to the cars that he wasn’t 
  sure would even still be there, when he heard the 
  second shot.  
  "Son of a bitch," Lancelot muttered, picking up 
  his pace slightly. 
  Lancelot couldn't see any of the others but 
  extended his hearing and his vision. He was 
  assaulted by all the sounds of a forest at night, from 
  
   
   
  67 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  cicadas and crickets to the rustle of squirrels in the 
  trees. They sensed the predator in him and ran, but 
  Lancelot sensed a much greater set of monsters 
  nearby. Lancelot turned and saw two enormous 
  wolves flash from the trees and tear into a fleeing 
  figure a dozen yards away. Crawdad's screams filled 
  the air, then fell silent, signaling his Final Death. 
  Apparently, invisibility wasn't going to do anyone 
  any good with these creatures. They could smell, 
  hear, or otherwise sense Kindred despite their 
  powers. 
  Lancelot didn't get a chance to think more about 
  his circumstances because he heard an enormous 
  thundering thing behind him. Lancelot was already 
  moving at his top speed. He didn't have the kind of 
  supernatural speed that Brujah or Toreador 
  possessed, something Lancelot vowed to correct if 
  he survived this. Unfortunately, the thing moved like 
  greased lightning. The Malkavian was vaguely 
  aware that every living thing within half a mile was 
  fleeing in terror, and then he felt it slam into his 
  back, sending him flying. 
  "Dammit!" Lancelot shouted, bouncing across 
  the ground and slamming against an overturned tree. 
  His eyes widened as Lancelot saw the thing 
  approaching him. It was no longer the eight-foot-tall 
  humanoid monster of the grove. Instead, it was a 
  giant wolf the size of a small car. The thing was 
  every bit as hideous and ugly, but there was 
  something even more unnatural about it. Its eyes 
  were a sickly green that trailed fire into the air. Its 
  breath was putrid, like rotting flesh. Even his undead 
  senses could barely stomach it. 
  Lancelot had seen a lot of weird, awful shit 
  since becoming a vampire. Hell, he’d done a lot of 
  weird awful shit since becoming a vampire. 
  Lancelot had away people's free will so he could 
  feed on them, murdered others to protect himself, or 
  the Masquerade, and even lost control when angry. 
  There was innocent blood on his hands, and 
  Lancelot was comfortable admitting he was an evil 
  sonofabitch who probably deserved the Final Death. 
  In that moment, Lancelot felt like a soon-to-be-
  martyred saint. 
  The only thing Lancelot could compare this 
  thing to was the wight he’d encountered in Gary one 
  summer night five years before. Juggler had 
  declared a Blood Hunt, acting more like a Cammie 
  Prince than an Anarch Baron, and it had been wild 
  trying to track it through the ruins of the old factory 
  town. What Lancelot faced that night gave off such 
  a profound sense of wrong that it couldn't be put into 
  words.  
  Some of the neo-hippie Buddhist types preach 
  that the only way to achieve Golconda, Nirvana, or 
  whatever is to reach an accord with the Beast. To 
  find a way to merge the man and the monster. 
  Seeing the Lupine before him, Lancelot called 
  bullshit on that. The Beast was a thing that held 
  nothing good— it was just a monster you fought 
  until you couldn't fight it anymore. 
  Lancelot pulled out his shotgun, but the giant 
  wolf just batted it away with one paw before putting 
  another on his chest and pinning him to the ground. 
  The creature leaned into Lancelot’s face and stared 
  into the Malkavian’s eyes, letting its drool fall on his 
  chest. The fetid smell of death, decay, corruption, 
  and rotting meat blasted into his face. Like so many 
  vampires Lancelot had met over the years, it enjoyed 
  toying with its prey. 
  Lancelot met its gaze and then did something 
  stupid. Desperate, really. Despite all the terrible 
  things Lancelot had done, he still wanted to live. 
  Lancelot wanted to continue to drink the blood of 
  beautiful Kine, share blood with his Toreador lover, 
  and watch the last Star Wars sequel even though 
  he’d been underwhelmed by the previous two. 
  Lancelot took all that desperate need and used it as 
  fuel to shove a command into the brain of the 
  monster on top of him. 
  "You want to kill your fellow werewolves more 
  than me," Lancelot said, pushing harder and deeper 
  into another being’s mind than he’d ever pushed 
  before. 
  It shouldn't have worked, really. The thing was 
  so close to the Beast, it was more animal than man. 
  You couldn't Dominate people into turning on their 
  fellows violently, either. Well, not unless you were 
  an Elder vampire with centuries of experience. 
  Lancelot was good at wiping memories and bending 
  wills primarily because he always phrased the 
  commands in ways that people wanted to obey. 
  Mostly, when Kine encountered him over a dead 
  body or surrounded by gore, they preferred to 
  forget. 
  The best Lancelot hoped for was the Lupine 
  would hesitate, and the Malkavian might get another 
  chance to run. Instead, the Lupine stared at him for a 
  long second then bolted to the left like it was on fire. 
  Lancelot heard in the distance, not nearly distant 
  enough for his taste, the sounds of screams and 
  battle.  
  
   
   
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  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  Lancelot had only a second or two to speculate 
  before instinct took over. Lancelot ran for his 
  shotgun, picked it up, and took off. His only guess to 
  why it might have worked was that he was either 
  profoundly lucky or Lupines hated each other as 
  much as some vampire coteries Lancelot had 
  known. Even your so-called friends among the 
  Damned were often simmering piles of resentments 
  just waiting for the match to be lit, one that would 
  turn it into an inferno of rage. Or maybe that was 
  just his coterie. 
  Either way, Lancelot went back to running and 
  somehow managed to increase his speed. Maybe it 
  was possible to spontaneously learn Celerity under 
  the right circumstances or perhaps it was just terror 
  making him think he was moving faster. Whatever 
  the case, Lancelot managed to hop over the guard 
  rail to the highway and saw our cars. He’d made it. 
  Of course, it couldn't be that simple. 
  "Lancelot!" Bunches' voice cried out behind him 
  and Lancelot turned to see a one-armed, blood-
  soaked kindred stumbling out of the woods using 
  her remaining arm to keep her guts from spilling out 
  from where something had slashed her. She looked 
  like something from the Walking Dead and Lancelot 
  half-wondered how bad of a Masquerade breach we 
  were making if anyone saw her right now. 
  The smart bet would have been to just get into 
  his Jeep Liberty and drive off, leaving her behind. 
  Honestly, Lancelot cursed himself for not doing that. 
  Maybe it was because there was a time he’d been 
  sweet on Bunches or maybe it was because the 
  Lupines were such disgusting abominations that he 
  would have rescued the Sheriff from their jaws.  
  "Get in!" Lancelot shouted, opening the 
  backdoor of his jeep. She was in no condition to 
  drive. It was probably the first time she had ever 
  been grateful for the fact vampires couldn't suffer 
  shock and didn't need most of the organs she was 
  holding onto.  
  "T-thank you," Bunches said, climbing into the 
  backseat and splattering herself against the 
  upholstery. 
  "What happened to Renault?" Lancelot asked, 
  tossing his shotgun on top of her. 
  "He didn't make it." 
  "Yeah," Lancelot said, for lack of anything 
  better to say as he shut the door. "I bet there's not a 
  $100,000 in my front seat either." 
  "You're right," Thompson spoke behind him. 
  "Oh shi—" Lancelot started to say before he 
  found himself held by the throat with ten tiny little 
  claws piercing his throat. Each of them burned like 
  fire as Thompson pressed Lancelot up against the 
  back of his jeep.  Thompson had somehow managed 
  to cross the entirety of the forest as well, perhaps 
  turning into a bat or a wolf to catch up.  
  "H-how?" Lancelot managed to rasp out. His 
  voice wouldn't recover for months after the event. 
  Thompson stared at him with his glowing red 
  eyes. "The Worm provides." 
  Lancelot had no idea what the fuck the worm 
  was. Was it the nickname for the Lupines' leader? 
  Was it a Nosferatu? Thompson’s penis? Lancelot 
  didn't particularly care either way. Instead, Lancelot 
  just kicked Thompson’s stomach as hard as he 
  could. It felt like hitting a stone wall despite how 
  much the Malkavian had increased his strength. 
  Thompson wasn't that much older than Lancelot, 
  supposedly a vampire from the Seventies. But 
  everything Thompson had done tonight showed him 
  to be far more powerful than someone that age 
  should be. Some vampires were just naturally strong 
  like that, but Lancelot believed it was something 
  more. Lancelot’s theory, concocted in that moment, 
  was the guy had used his Lupine friends to help him 
  hunt Elders and drain them of their blood. Either 
  that or he'd sold his soul for power. Either way, 
  Thompson started sinking his claws deeper into 
  Lancelot’s throat while opening his mouth wide. It 
  would be, under any other circumstances, the end 
  but sometimes doing “good” paid dividends—or at 
  least doing another Kindred a favor. 
  "Move," Bunches said. 
  Lancelot threw his weight to one side and 
  Bunches fired his shotgun through the backseat 
  window, right into Thompson's face. The Gangrel 
  screamed and fell to his knees, most of his face 
  missing as a result. Thompson dropped Lancelot and 
  the Malkavian couldn't say anything to thank 
  Bunches because his voice box was a mass of 
  bloody ribbons. Lancelot did see something sticking 
  out of the right pocket of Thompson’s coat, though. 
  It was the juju bag that supposedly protected him 
  from being found out by the other werewolves.  
  Reaching down, Lancelot grabbed the juju bag 
  and felt it slither in his hands like he was holding a 
  live eel. Still, Lancelot took it and ran to the driver's 
  seat before tossing it in and peeling out. Lancelot 
  saw Thompson grab hold of the back window like 
  he was a serial killer in a slasher movie, but Bunches 
  shot him again in the chest. Behind us, Lancelot 
  
   
   
  69 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  heard cars honking and swerving before there was 
  the sounds of vehicles crashing.  
  In his rearview mirror, the Malkavian saw three 
  deformed werewolves coming after him. One of 
  them was heavily wounded, missing its right arm 
  like Bunches. One of them, the one Lancelot 
  Dominated, was missing and was hopefully roasting 
  now in the fiery pits of hell. If that was where 
  werewolves went when they died. They gave chase 
  for a little while, but Lancelot was doing eighty 
  within a few seconds and didn't stop until he was in 
  the Anubis Bar in downtown Milwaukee. 
  They brought him a Kings Beer girl to feed on 
  for killing a Lupine. 
   
  *** 
   
  "Bullshit," Linda said, reaching over and turning 
  off the recorder. 
  "Which part?" Lancelot said, leaning back into 
  the booth and staring at her. 
  "All of it," Linda said. "Bunches’ story was 
  completely different." 
  "Well, she is a Malkavian," Lancelot said. 
  "They're all crazy." 
  "So, which is true?" Linda asked, frowning. 
  "Maybe both are or neither," Lancelot shrugged. 
  "Whatever the case, Lancelot never saw Thompson 
  again." 
  "You think he died?" Linda asked. 
  "Either his werewolf buddies got him or their 
  enemies," Lancelot replied. "Maybe he also decided 
  to get out of town once he realized there were two 
  witnesses, semi-credible, that said he was doing The 
  Most Dangerous Game in the local Princes’ 
  backyard." 
  "Do you still have the bag?" Linda asked. 
  "Yep," Lancelot said, reaching in and pulling 
  out before putting it on the table between them. 
  "Lancelot made ten runs with it and didn't hear a 
  peep from the Lupines. Lots of money and guns. 
  Bunches did the same. We shared it until we tried to 
  pawn it off on the other. Both of us are getting out of 
  the game. Being a Goblin Driver isn't worth the 
  nightmares. It whispers to you." 
  Linda looked sick just looking at it. Also, 
  entranced. "What?" 
  Lancelot got up and left it behind. "If you want 
  to know the Waukegan Way, you have to experience 
  it. There are other things out there. Believe me when 
  Lancelot tell you that vampires are meant to stay in 
  one place." 
  Linda took the bag in hand and put it in her 
  purse. 
  Lancelot shook his head and departed. 
  "Time to do some field reporting," Linda said, 
  eager. "How bad could it be?" 
  Lancelot never saw her again. 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
   
   
  70 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  The West Texas heat had baked the little town of 
  Opacus all summer long, and the only green to be 
  found at this point was on the Mulligan's diner sign 
  by the side of the interstate. It was just after noon, and 
  the sun was doing its worst, but the cab of the ap-
  proaching eighteen-wheel transport was so cold that 
  Dwight Cogmeister was running the defroster on the 
  windows and wearing a winter coat and hat over his 
  three-piece suit. 
  The freezing temperature was due to the glass 
  tube fixed above the air conditioner. A single cube 
  of ice, lit from below, hovered in the center of the 
  tube. Motes of frost drifted off and filtered into the 
  AC system. The device wasn't something you could 
  buy at Star Mart. 
  Dwight was a black man of thirty, tall, and 
  broad of shoulder. He wore his hair short. Like the 
  device atop the air conditioner, his sunglasses 
  wouldn't be found in a store. Their frames were 
  lined with wires and diodes. Small flashes on the 
  lenses fed him information from a complex AR sys-
  tem of his own design. 
  Following an indicator from the glasses, he 
  pulled the truck into the parking area beside the 
  diner and parked. He removed his winter gear before 
  climbing out. Inside Mulligan’s were a handful of 
  customers. Most of them were probably locals, judg-
  ing from appearances, but one man sitting at the bar 
  was out of place. He was a round bearded fellow 
  wearing a three-piece tweed suit and eating a 
  chopped steak sandwich with a knife and fork. His 
  use of eating utensils was drawing more attention 
  than his outfit. 
  Once he noticed Dwight standing near the en-
  trance, he quickly finished the last few bites of his 
  sandwich. He tidied up his face and hands, checked 
  his watch, and signaled the waitress. 
  “I would like to reserve that table at the back" 
  Dwight heard him say, "Some associates of mine 
  will be arriving and we will need at least seven 
  chairs.” 
  “Honey, the table's empty. It's all yours. We 
  don't usually need to reserve nobody's table.” 
  “I usually find it good policy to ask.” 
  “Okay hun, just holler when you're ready to or-
  der.” 
  “As you say,” he smiled and took up a briefcase 
  from beside his chair. Waving Dwight over to the ta-
  ble, he set the case down, snapped the latches and 
  opened it. He took out several folders full of 
  printouts and began sorting them into even stacks. 
  "Welcome,” he said “I assume by your vehicle 
  that you are here for the Opacus Cactus Rally?" 
  "That's right," Dwight replied. 
  "Wonderful. I am Doctor Edward Desoto, the 
  organizer of the race." 
  FIREBALL RUN  
  T.L. WEBB 
   
  
   
   
  71 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  "Dwight Cogmeister. I guess I'm the first to ar-
  rive?" 
  "Yes, but only just." 
   As Desoto finished arranging the last of the 
  stacks, the door opened and two more people walked 
  in. One was a middle-aged Caucasian man with a 
  shaved head. He had what might be called a beard, 
  unless one compared it to Desoto' trimmed and oiled 
  facial hair, whereupon it would need to be reclassi-
  fied as wild facial growth. He wore faded overalls, 
  work boots, and a green shirt. 
  The other arrival was a woman in her thirties. 
  Her brown hair was in a bun. Her dress was plain of-
  fice attire in grey and cream. She had the air of 
  someone who was there against their better judge-
  ment. 
  “No,” she was saying to the other man, as they 
  walked toward the table. “I'm afraid I've never been 
  to a Pink Floyd laser spectacular, so I don't have any 
  frame of reference for 
  this experiment of yours.” 
  "It's a great way to move quintessential energies 
  in low volumes with minimal risk. The theory holds 
  that sound made with intent acts as a conductive me-
  dium for these energies.” 
  “I don't understand how progressive rock has 
  any part in this.” 
  “The more the audience infers meaning from the 
  material, the more potent the conduction can be.” 
  Desoto cleared his throat, interrupting the pair. 
  Dwight was a touch disappointed. He did love to 
  hear other Scientists talk shop but knew that this sort 
  of thing could go on for some 
  time. 
  “Albert T. Edison,” the bald man said brightly. 
  "I take it you are Doctor Desoto?" 
  “Indeed, I am. And your companion?” 
  “We are not a couple,” the other said quickly. 
  “My name is Doctor Minerva Featherstone. We only 
  just met at a gas station down the interstate.” 
  “Fascinating. Welcome to the Opacus Cactus 
  Rally. I have some forms for you to fill out if you 
  would be so good,” Desoto said, handing them each 
  a packet. 
  “What's this, an insurance form?” Albert asked 
  as he shifted through the stack of paperwork. 
  “Not really insurance. More of an agreement not 
  to press charges should you suffer any mishap in the 
  race. This is supposed to be a test of combat ready 
  vehicles, but accidents may occur. The last three 
  pages will probably be of far more interest to you as 
  they are the application for the grant we shall pre-
  sent to the winner. Do review the paperwork. I trust 
  you will find it all in order." 
  As they began going over the documents, more 
  participants arrived. Food was ordered. Introduc-
  tions were made. 
  The Gagnon Twins were Canadian and seemed 
  to be telepathic, at least with each other. They were 
  identical save for their hair, which they wore in dif-
  ferent styles and with opposing color streaks, one 
  blue, the other orange, dyed in.  They were dressed 
  in matching racing wear. 
  Philip Chandler was from New York. He offered 
  this information as if it was meant to explain his en-
  tire life. He was a slightly built man with close 
  cropped black hair. He wore a red button-down shirt 
  and slacks. 
  They all took some time to go over the paper-
  work. There was a map of the track, two separate 
  contracts, and a tourist pamphlet of the nearby town. 
  Dwight was examining the latter when he noticed 
  Albert staring at him, or rather, at his tie 
  “Son,” Albert inquired, “why is there a cog-
  wheel on your tie?” 
  “It's my tie tack,” Dwight replied, a little irri-
  tated at a man half his size calling him son. 
  “Your tie tack. So it's just your cogwheel tie 
  tack. Does it have a function,” Al drawled, “or is it 
  some kinda cosplay thing?” 
  “I guess you could call it that. I mean, I’m really 
  into the whole steampunk thing.” 
  “Don't much care for the whole cogwheel as 
  costume stuff myself,” Albert replied, his attention 
  shifting to the parking lot. 
  “That’s...nice for you.” 
  “Fella shows up in public wearing a wacky cos-
  tume, you gotta wonder if he's a big deal or just try-
  ing to grift everybody into thinking he is.” 
  The door opened just then and a man in a leather 
  trench coat trimmed with stylized fire strode in, 
  pocketing a pair of obscenely expensive-looking 
  sunglasses. His boots were many- buckled and came 
  up to the knee. He wore huge motorcycle gloves 
  with the same stylized flame design over the sleeves 
  of his coat. His hair was long, curly and black and 
  he was tall enough that he needed to duck slightly as 
  he came through the doorway. 
   “Or maybe I'm getting too worked up over a tie 
  tack,” Albert finished as he locked down his facial 
  expression at the sight of the newcomer. 
  
   
   
  72 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
   The man in the coat, sweating from the drive, 
  strode up to their table. He took a look around their 
  group and then approached Dr. Desoto. 
  “Is this the group for the race?” he demanded. 
  “It is," said Desoto, politely. "And who might 
  you be?” 
  “They call me,” the young man paused for obvi-
  ous effect, “Professor Asphalt.” 
  Dwight noticed that Albert was turning slightly 
  red as he fought back laughter. Dwight smiled and 
  locked eyes with him, savoring the way the older 
  man struggled to contain his snark. 
  “Glad to meet you, Professor.” Desoto said 
  pleasantly, either oblivious to the humor he might 
  have found in the man's name or just far better at 
  hiding it than Albert was. “We were just introducing 
  ourselves before going over the rules of the race.” 
  “That's fine. Let's hear them,” Asphalt said, 
  waving dismissively. 
  “Very well. The race shall be composed of three 
  laps of the track, a map of which is included in the 
  paperwork. These laps shall be transversed without 
  the use of flight technology, time manipulation, or 
  forward leaping teleportation." 
  “Excuse me,” Minerva interrupted, “are you 
  saying that teleportation is banned in this race?” 
  “Not entirely. You may transverse space in any 
  number of directions. Simply not forwards along the 
  course.” 
  “Why a complete ban on time manipulation?” 
  asked one of the twins. 
  “Because it interferes with the result matrix. We 
  need to know how these vehicles perform under 
  heightened conditions and how they traverse rugged 
  terrain. Time dilation - both of the self and of the 
  opposition - is not a test of the vehicle's capabili-
  ties.” 
  “I disagree,” Asphalt declared. “There are plenty 
  of combat applications for time manipulation.” 
  “Indeed, but it still undermines the purpose of 
  this test." 
  Asphalt rolled his eyes. 
  “Are there any other questions concerning the 
  rules?" Desoto asked. 
  "I have one." Dwight replied. "This track is all 
  off road. Why is that? Why aren't we doing this on a 
  real track with pavement and inclines?" 
  "Simply put, we feel that staying on the road 
  during pursuit is too linear and plays into the hands 
  of potential opposition. Many police chases end with 
  exits blocked and the road ahead spiked. We wish to 
  pursue more abstract means of egress." 
  This seemed to satisfy not only Dwight but the 
  rest of the drivers, and so they turned their attention 
  to dinner. It was hot, greasy, and filling. 
  The silence lasted until Minerva asked about 
  Asphalt's title. 
  “What are you a professor of?” 
  Asphalt faltered a moment, eyes searching the 
  room for inspiration before saying, “The Road.” 
  “You are a professor of highway construction?” 
  If she was teasing the man, her tone and expression 
  did not betray it. She seemed genuinely interested. 
  “No!” He was clearly uncomfortable but trying 
  to hide it. “Like, a professor of driving.” 
  “The society doesn’t offer a professorship for 
  driving cars. Neither does any university I am aware 
  of," Minerva responded, puzzled. 
  Albert laughed, “Hun, I think it's more of a self-
  appointed title.” 
  “You can't do that," Minerva said, with a slight 
  frown. “Titles are serious business. They denote 
  one's accomplishments and establish rank within the 
  Society.” 
  “I can call myself whatever I want,” Asphalt 
  growled. 
  “Not during official Society functions.” Minerva 
  said, “and this is an official Society of Ether func-
  tion.” 
  “Honestly I don't think it's going to be an issue,” 
  Desoto said, trying to keep the peace. His efforts 
  melted as Asphalt's rage boiled over. 
  “Of course it won't, as long as this stupid bitch 
  apologizes to me.” 
  The table went silent, shocked at the raw anger 
  on display. Etherites aspired towards elegentarian 
  behavior and this sort of rudeness was almost un-
  heard of. 
  Desoto cleared his throat, “Now, hold on just 
  one moment, young man.” 
  “I'm not going to take this kind of crap from 
  you, from her, or from the council of fucking nine!” 
  Asphalt shouted, turning back to Minerva. “Now, 
  apologize for your god damn attitude problem, you 
  sloppy thot.” 
  This comment drew gasps from most of the 
  diner. Asphalt seemed proud of the response. 
  “My good man, she is not the one displaying an 
  attitude problem right now,“ Desoto said coldly. “I 
  recommend you cease the profanity and personal at-
  tacks before I am forced to 
  
   
   
  73 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  reprimand you.” 
  “You going to call my mommy and daddy to 
  punish me?” Asphalt sneered. 
  “As organizer of the Opacus Cactus Rally, I 
  have full authority to eject you from the race for vio-
  lating the code of ethics laid out in the agreement 
  you signed not five minutes ago." 
  A couple of the other drivers suddenly began 
  pouring through the paperwork for this passage. 
  “You can't do that to me!” 
  “I assure you that I can.” 
  “Old man, you need to step off or I am going to 
  have to absolutely wreck your shit.” 
  “Well, you will not be doing it as part of this 
  event,” Desoto said, pulling a rubber stamp from his 
  briefcase. He slammed it onto an attached ink pad 
  and then onto Asphalt’s paperwork. “I hereby eject 
  you from the rally. You may see yourself out.” 
  Asphalt stared in surprise at the rejection stamp 
  on his paperwork and then at Desoto and Minerva. 
  His face clouded with rage and he literally trembled 
  in anger. 
  "You don't have the slightest idea who you're 
  fucking 
  with," he growled, "not the slightest idea." 
  "Son," Albert sighed, "you're, like, twenty-two? 
  Maybe you should grow a few more short hairs be-
  fore you start in with that kind of gruff.” 
  “That will be enough from you as well, Albert,” 
  Desoto said. “Mister Professor Asphalt, I suggest 
  you depart peacefully and immediately. Perhaps 
  next year your temperament will be more grounded 
  and suitable for public discourse.” 
  Asphalt glared and seemed about to unload an-
  other burst of profane insults at the group but then 
  stopped himself. His expression smoothed and he 
  adjusted his coat before turning, trying to whirl it 
  dramatically in the process. It would have been more 
  impressive if it were not caught on the chair. He 
  shook his coat free, knocking the chair onto the floor 
  in the process. Ignoring this, he stormed out of the 
  diner. The cook, the waitress, and the trucker who 
  had just come out of the restroom stared on, con-
  fused, but glad to see the tension leave with him. 
  “Can I ask that we have no dramatic sarcasm 
  about what just transpired?” Desoto suggested. “The 
  boy provided quite enough and has managed to spoil 
  my appetite for dessert.” 
   
  *** 
   
  The drivers were put up for the night at The 
  Panhandle Motel, a mom-and-pop operation that 
  looked about ready to fold and was happy for the 
  customers. Desoto was staying out at the track to 
  calibrate the observation network for the race. 
  Albert felt that after the unpleasantness at the 
  diner the drivers might need to reconnect. He went 
  around to their rooms, inviting them for drinks by 
  the pool. He was disappointed to find Philip wanted 
  to turn in early and the twins were removing some 
  prohibited equipment from their car. Dwight, how-
  ever, was up for some drinks, and so Al went to in-
  vite Minerva to join 
  them. 
  As she opened the door to his knock he could 
  hear another voice in the room. It sounded small and 
  high pitched. 
  "Didn't mean to intrude” he said, before extend-
  ing the invitation. 
  The other voice, emitting from the computer on 
  the desk called out, "Hey Al you sound like a bro- 
  what happened at the diner? I feel like I'm not get-
  ting the full story." 
  Minerva grumbled under her breath and turned 
  to Albert. "You promise that this is purely social and 
  not a trick to make me listen to hippy guitar solos?" 
  "Scouts honor," Al said, holding his fingers in 
  the scout salute. He had actually been a scout until 
  the incident with the catapult. 
  Minerva took her room key and brushed out the 
  door, ignoring the voice on the speaker. Albert con-
  sidered ignoring it, too, but whoever they were, they 
  knew his name. Only fair to inquire. 
  "Mind me askin' who that was?" 
  "My lab assistant and colleague, Watson. Please 
  don't encourage him." 
  "You didn't want him knowing about Professor 
  Vainglorious?" 
  "He worries. It's really just dependency express-
  ing as overprotectiveness." 
  “I see,” Albert said. He wasn't bothered by most 
  idiosyncrasies. There were far stranger personalities 
  in the Society. 
  They reached the empty pool where Dwight was 
  already removing the caps from the first round of 
  bottles. They talked for a while about their training 
  and studies. Albert told them about the salvage yard 
  he ran. Dwight operated an auto garage and made a 
  living doing eotic modifications and vintage restora-
  tions. It all seemed to be going well until somewhere 
  
   
   
  74 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  around their third Shiner when Dwight called him 
  out. 
  “I gotta know, Al, why were you on about my 
  cogwheels?” he asked. “Can a guy not enjoy a 
  hobby around you? Or did a cogwheel kill your par-
  ents?” 
  Albert laughed while taking a drink and beer 
  poured out of his nose. He took a moment to catch 
  his breath and towel off before responding. 
  “Your hobbies are fine. I'm just gettin' tired of 
  the new kids gluin' cogwheels on everything and 
  calling it Ethertech. That takes way more than 
  leather and brass.” 
  “Well, excuse me for having an aesthetic,” 
  Dwight said, with a slight belch. 
  “Albert, you are just as guilty of costume play as 
  Dwight,“ Minerva said. “I've read your papers in the 
  sub-paradigma forums and you sound nothing like 
  you do in real life. You have never once dropped a 
  G off the end of a word online or used y'all in a sen-
  tence and yet here you sit in your overalls talking as 
  if you were Lord Yokel, King of all Rednecks.” 
  Albert's drink stopped halfway to his mouth and 
  for a moment he felt mildly panicked - as if his un-
  derwear had just been run up a flagpole. But this 
  gathering was supposed to be about getting to know 
  one another. No fair getting mad about someone be-
  ing too good at it. He grinned and took a sip. 
  “Maybe it's camouflage,” he said, his drawl fad-
  ing slightly with his dialect. “Maybe I don't want 
  people to see what's in front of them. Maybe I'm try-
  ing to lull the lot of you into a false sense of security 
  before the race.” 
  “Maybe you are just full of manure?” Minerva 
  suggested. She was still on her first drink but she 
  seemed to have no head for it. That was fine, and so 
  was the jab. The important thing was to relax and re-
  member this was all for fun and sport. 
  “Perhaps I am,” Albert laughed, “maybe it's all 
  the above.” 
  “Camouflage is not such a bad thing,” Dwight 
  commented, taking another beer. “In the city most of 
  the gear I have on my rig gets me pulled over for 
  street violations. Most of it is perfectly street legal 
  but the police see a bunch of copper riveted to the 
  chassis and they pull me right over." 
  “Gotta know how to be subtle, my friend,” Al-
  bert said. “The Technocracy doesn't see road-warri-
  ors as a huge threat because there's about a billion 
  cops in the big city that can run you down just as 
  easy as they could. If they notice you. Take Mi-
  nerva’s all-pearl look.” 
  “I just like things to be clean and smooth,” she 
  said, objecting to being drawn in. 
  “Nothing wrong with it,” Albert said soothingly, 
  “point is your Jeep still looks like a Jeep. Nothin’ 
  about it says, 'I'm a mad scientist looking to test out 
  a death ray.'” 
  “Oh, I never bother with death rays.” Minerva 
  said. “Honestly, I don't even like the term.” 
  “See?” Albert said, “She doesn't even do death 
  rays. Totally not a mad scientist. Meanwhile, 
  Dwight, your gear fits what you could call a pro-
  file.” 
  “I assure you every cog on my vehicle serves a 
  purpose.” 
  “So sensitive. Look, Dallas cops will pull you 
  over for having LED lights on your undercarriage. 
  They see a bunch of spinning gears and inexplicable 
  thingummies they're going to want to know what 
  you’re up to. It draws attention. So, despite having 
  enough lights on my car to blind folks on the ISS, I 
  don't go around flashing them. Some folks don’t 
  seem to be able to grock restraint. Take that jackass, 
  Asphalt. Bet you ten bucks all that kid wants in life 
  is attention. Bet his car has more than one spoiler.” 
  “No bet,” Dwight replied, with a laugh.. 
  “I feel bad that he got kicked out.” Minerva 
  said, “All I wanted to know was where he studied.” 
  Albert smiled. “You are a generous soul, Mi-
  nerva. I'm still going to run you down tomorrow, 
  though.” 
  “If you are able, “Minerva matched his smile, 
  then took a drink. “Incidentally, what exactly is a 
  'thot'?” 
   
  *** 
   
  A cold front blew through overnight and left a 
  scattering of clouds and an almost tolerable tempera-
  ture as the convoy drove from the motel to the can-
  yon where the race was to be held. Several of the 
  drivers had their vehicles on trailers and it took a bit 
  of time to park and unload all the machinery. Nor 
  was it a simple matter to fuel them, as several did 
  not run on gasoline. 
  Minerva used a variant on zero-point energy to 
  power her Jeep. It was silent and produced no ambi-
  ent glow. In fact, the area immediately around the 
  car grew somewhat darker as she powered up. 
  
   
   
  75 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  Dwight’s car ran on electricity, which he gath-
  ered with a combination of solar cells and a compli-
  cated wire frame that drew in ambient charge from 
  the atmosphere. It was a long, heavy hearse chassis, 
  but the frame was custom. Rather than a cabin for a 
  corpse, the back held a cylindrical dome with a sec-
  ondary engine that was arcing electricity throughout 
  the sealed chamber. The rest of the car was black 
  save for the gold and brass gears that operated 
  valves and sliding parts. 
  Albert’s vehicle was a 1957 pickup truck. He 
  had driven it in rather than carry it on a trailer. It ran 
  on an ethanol and electrical hybrid motor of his own 
  design. There were flashes from the electrical por-
  tion of the engine coming from slits in the hood. The 
  vehicle was painted a faded maroon and trimmed in 
  chrome. Most notable were the oversized wheels 
  that had several small domes attached near each rim, 
  the modern and sleek toolbox, and the overcompli-
  cated rifle on his gun rack. 
  The Twins 1960s muscle car had the strangest 
  fuel need, the mineral hematite, which they ground 
  up and poured in through a tank on the back. The car 
  was red, with a swirling trim of blue and orange that 
  matched their hair. 
  Philip was the only one of the group whose car 
  ran on traditional gasoline, but that wasn't all that 
  unexpected since he was driving a Ford Edsel. He 
  approached Minerva as she uncoupled a hose from 
  her Jeep. She had adopted a white padded racing 
  uniform and a matching helmet sat on the hood of 
  the vehicle. 
  “I’m told you are the Dr. Featherstone who once 
  worked with Gerald Watson,” Philip said. 
  “That is mostly correct.” 
  “I trained with him during our time in Gerns-
  back. I just wanted to give my condolences.” 
  “Are you under the impression that Watson has 
  passed?” 
  “He’s alive? Word came down he perished in a 
  lab mishap.” 
  “Oh, there was a terrible accident and he is, in 
  his own words, not quite the man he used to be, but 
  he didn’t perish.” 
  “That's fantastic! Can you put us in contact? I’d 
  love to see him.” 
  Minerva reached into her Jeep and produced a 
  computer pad. The pad displayed a video feed from 
  another device. It showed a desk full of carefully 
  stacked papers and computer monitors, each running 
  different sequences and tests. In the midst of this sat 
  a guinea pig, who turned to look at the camera and 
  its mouth dropped open. 
  “My word is that Philp Chandler?” asked the ro-
  dent. 
  “Wait...what?” Philip sputtered, not understand-
  ing. 
  The guinea pig leaned in to fill the screen with 
  an adorable fuzzy and very inhuman face. "Phil! It is 
  you! It's so good to see you! I imagine this must 
  come as a shock. Believe me, it was a bit of a sur-
  prise to me as well.” 
  “What is this?” Phil asked Minerva weakly. 
  “Watson was trapped in a testing room when 
  someone sabotaged his experiment.” Minerva said, 
  “Fortunately, the experiment was one of quantum 
  entanglement on mental patterns. He sent his con-
  sciousness into this enhanced lab animal before the 
  explosion tore his body apart. We’ve been unable to 
  replicate the process safety as of yet and until we 
  can find a suitable donor, it's quite irreversible. He 
  has been residing in my lab where we can keep the 
  degradation of his identity at bay.” 
  “It's a bit of an embuggerance, isn't it?” Watson 
  said cheerfully. 
   “You mean a full body donor?” 
   “Even a half body donor would do!” Watson 
  laughed. It was a tiny chirping sound. 
  “Wow,” Philip said, backing slowly away, “I am 
  so glad you’re doing...that you’re doing. Good luck 
  on the track.” 
  “I think he took that very well.” Minerva said, 
  as they watched him shuffle back to his car. 
   
  *** 
   
  Dwight's sunglasses were monitoring the sec-
  ondary graviton engine in the back of his car when 
  they told him there was a motion from the building 
  between the cars and the steep hill leading to the 
  canyon. He looked to see Desoto emerge from the 
  ramshackle shack with a dozen football sized drones 
  following him. As the drones cleared the door, they 
  each flew off to their designated observation points 
  along the track. They would serve to help him judge 
  the race and also to provide markers so that the turns 
  were identifiable. He was still wearing his tweed but 
  had added a hat brimming with antenna and small 
  receivers. He took a few moments to inspect the cars 
  and handed each of the drivers a communication de-
  vice. 
  
   
   
  76 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
   “This is for emergency use,“ he told them. “I 
  expect you all to respect the bandwidth and not fill it 
  with idle chatter. Especially you, Albert.” 
   “I feel attacked” Al said, grinning. 
   “Excuse me,” Minerva asked, “will this inter-
  fere with my own communications? My support 
  team will want to stay in contact.” 
   “There is a privacy setting. I simply wish you 
  all to be safe.” 
   “Does the race stop if there is an incident?” 
  asked Philip. 
  “I struggled with that but have decided no,” 
  Desoto said. “I will provide extraction and medical 
  care should the need arise. Focus on the race and 
  leave the rest to me.” 
  This seemed to satisfy the six drivers and they 
  moved their cars to the starting line. With the excep-
  tion of the Edsel, none of the engines sounded stand-
  ard. Growls and whines and the howls of strange 
  matter being baked at unnatural temperatures filled 
  the air as each car was warmed up. Birds scattered 
  and small animals cleared out of the area. 
  Desoto stepped up onto a ridge and drew a small 
  pistol composed of copper coiled around a barrel 
  and a tube of orange liquid set into the grip. He 
  looked to the lineup of cars and raised the weapon, 
  firing off an enormous pillar of flame into the sky. 
  The cars roared to life. Dust flew and electri-
  cally roared through the miasma as the Etherites hit 
  the gas or their equivalent proponent. 
  Dwight’s long heavy car took an early lead as its 
  weight shifted under the force of his gravity engine. 
  Minerva’s Jeep was right behind him, with The 
  Twins and Albert following neck and neck. The Ed-
  sel was trailing behind at first but began to gain 
  ground as something in the engine housing switched 
  on and the car accelerated beyond the limits of mere 
  internal combustion. 
  The cars entered the canyon in a whirl of excite-
  ment and thunder, the drivers as eager to gain ad-
  vantage as they were concerned about the obstacles 
  they could see ahead. This area was washed out by 
  floods and strewn with rubble pulled from the sheer 
  cliffs. The drivers found that many of the boulders 
  strew about the path were twice as large as any car 
  present. They lost track of one another and their po-
  sitioning as a result. Beacons flashed ahead from the 
  monitoring drones, and while some of the cars had 
  internal navigation capabilities, it was just as im-
  portant to pay attention to the state of the terrain as it 
  was to the path. The ground beneath their tires were 
  uneven and Dwight found his heavy car was not so 
  advantageous when the road bounced him and threw 
  him about. Twice he nearly lost his grip on the 
  wheel. 
  The Twins were ahead of him now, as was Mi-
  nerva. He was actually glad of this because he might 
  not have seen the six- foot drop ahead of him had 
  the twins not nearly flipped their car going over it. 
  Minerva seemed to have no trouble with the drop, 
  her Jeep landing as if it had been inches rather than 
  feet. 
  It was when he initiated his graviton thrust and 
  drifted into space on a cloud of excited particles, 
  that he saw Albert taking advantage of the hangtime 
  his system created and watched as the other man 
  flew the Chevy past him with an audible “Yee- Ha!” 
  “Crazy redneck jackass,” Dwight laughed as he 
  dropped the graviton thrust and felt the weight re-
  turn to his vehicle. He hit the ground with slightly 
  more force than he was comfortable with and hit the 
  accelerator. 
  The path out of the canyon went through a tun-
  nel that led to an area the map called “The Dead-
  wood”. It was aptly named. The trees here had been 
  dried out for decades and their trunks reached for the 
  sky with broken, rotted limbs. Surrounded by dried 
  and cracked mud, the whole area had a desolate, for-
  bidding feel to it. The path laid out was narrow and 
  lined with roots and stone. The cars had to slow to 
  make the turns through the trees, and positions and 
  fortunes changed. The Edsel managed to overtake 
  the rest of the cars here, Philip laughing as he did so. 
  The Twins gave him a double bird as he passed 
  them. He returned the gesture and, distracted, nearly 
  hit a tree. 
  As they left the Deadwood behind and entered 
  the area of the map Desoto had labeled “The Bee-
  line”, Philip was in first, with the Twins and Albert 
  close behind and Minerva and Dwight bringing up 
  the rear. The Beeline was a stretch of desert hills 
  that ran from the woods to the road they had arrived 
  on. All the drivers opened up their vehicles to maxi-
  mum and the air screamed with sound. Dust rose 
  from the frontrunners and clouded the view of those 
  behind. 
  Rounding the hillside, they came into view of 
  the observation shack and the drones flashed with 
  green lights above them. They could see Desoto 
  standing on a platform atop the shack, staring in-
  tently at a handheld device as they passed him by. 
  Dwight was more prepared for the canyon now and 
  
   
   
  77 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  was pretty sure he knew a better path through the 
  stones than he had taken before. He kept his acceler-
  ation up as he entered and prepared for the rough 
  ride ahead. 
  The sudden fireball that rose as one of the cars 
  exploded unexpectedly caught him by surprise. 
   
  *** 
   
  “Holy shit, who was that?” Albert cried on the 
  public band, “Everyone OK? Desoto, you got 
  them?” 
  The only answer came in the form of a second 
  explosion from somewhere back near the canyon en-
  trance. 
  “That was The Twins!” Philip cried. “They just 
  exploded!” 
  “Did you get them out of there, Desoto?” Albert 
  cried, "Are they OK?” 
  Still no reply. 
  The drone marking the trail erupted in smoke 
  and fire. 
  "Gentlemen, I think we're under attack." Mi-
  nerva said on the public band. "The blast pattern in-
  dicates that the explosions are from munitions fire. 
  The estimated launch point is about a quarter mile 
  away.” 
  “It can't be the Technocracy.” Philip said. “They 
  have much larger issues to deal with than our little 
  race.” 
  “Agreed,” Minerva replied, “and the Union 
  would have used cloaked missiles to disguise their 
  launch point. This was someone with a much looser 
  grasp of enlightened combat doctrine.” 
  Albert snorted. "Well, let's show 'em a new trick 
  or two." 
  The cars slowed through the tunnel leading to 
  the Deadwood, no longer pushing for position. All 
  eyes scanned the exit, knowing it was an ideal spot 
  for an ambush. 
  It was Albert who took point, the Chevy rolling 
  out the tunnel and into the woods. The others slowed 
  down slightly, appreciative of his initiative. It only 
  took three seconds for him to come under attack. 
  A hybrid of at least six separate cars welded to-
  gether spat dirt as it sped from behind a dried mud 
  bank and accelerated towards him. Parts of the car 
  separated and unfolded, transforming to unleash me-
  chanical arms loaded with spinning blades and saws. 
  When these hit the vehicle, the holographic 
  projection of the Chevy vanished. The arms flailed, 
  some of them catching on a nearby tree trunk. 
  "Light em up!" Albert cried from his actual po-
  sition back in line with the others. 
  Dwight unleashed a bolt of green lightning from 
  the copper studded frame of his car. The amalgam-
  mobile went mad as the bolt struck. Limbs flailed 
  and sparks erupted as circuits fried and systems 
  overloaded. Smoke billowed and inside the chassis 
  the flailing figure of a man on fire could be seen. 
  "Yeah, we are definitely under attack." said 
  Dwight dryly. "Anyone got a plan?" 
  Albert spat out his window, "We drive like hell 
  to the road and get back to town. If you get attacked, 
  turn anyone in your way into roadkill and try not to 
  die. Everyone else keeps moving." 
  "Anyone got another plan?" begged Philip. 
  "Stay three lengths apart and well out of 
  Dwight's cone of fire," Minerva said, gunning her 
  Jeep. 
  "So that's a “no”, then." Philip grumbled as the 
  vehicles began to speed out of the tunnel. 
  They drove into The Deadwood at half the speed 
  they had done so earlier, everyone on the lookout for 
  an attack. 
  “I'm getting some strange sonic readings just 
  ahead,” Albert announced. “I think we should get 
  ready for-” 
  He didn't finish the sentence, because he found 
  himself at a rare loss of words. A huge shape had 
  decloaked in front of them, coming at high speed. It 
  was a monster truck, with tires as tall as a house and 
  a body painted in garish orange. Chrome pipes bil-
  lowed pitch into the sky. 
  There were stories out there of such a truck, Al-
  bert knew, and in those stories, people ended up in 
  tiny pieces in pools of gore. 
  His recollection broke as the truck barreled into 
  Minerva at full speed. He cringed at the loss to the 
  Society. However instead of a flattening crunch 
  there was a green flash from above and below the 
  Jeep’s wheels. 
  Minerva’s Jeep teleported straight up thirty feet, 
  still moving at forty miles an hour. It flashed twice 
  more, once reappearing just a foot lower and then 
  again on the ground just ahead of Dwight. The pair 
  went on ahead as Albert slowed to track Philip. 
  He located the man by his scream. After the 
  truck's appearance Philip had veered off into the 
  woods. Even as Al spotted him, he saw the giant 
  truck skidding to a halt and turning towards the 
  
   
   
  78 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  sound of fear. That was part of the story, Albert re-
  membered. It went after the fearful and weak. As its 
  sideways momentum ceased, the truck began rumble 
  after what it might now view as its legitimate prey. 
  Albert was paying way too much attention to the 
  chaos ahead, as it turned out. A rusty old Cadillac 
  had slipped in behind him despite his fishtailing all 
  over the place. A hirsute man in the driver's seat 
  flashed a toothy grin as saw Albert notice him. 
  Leaning out the window, the man threw some kind 
  of bent blade. It accelerated unnaturally, whirling in 
  a blur towards Albert’s Chevy. He tried to move out 
  of its path, but it veered after him and sawed an inch 
  wide line along the Chevy's cab. It missed him only 
  because he was reaching to detach the firearm from 
  his gun rack. 
  Looking back up Albert could see Philip had 
  changed his mind about escape, turned 180 degrees 
  in an impossible spin, reversed course, and was now 
  charging the monster truck. Twin blue tendrils of en-
  ergy erupted from the small domes attached to the 
  hood. They lifted up tree trunks, whirling them 
  around like batons as he charged the orange beast 
  machine in a raw and vulgar display of power, 
  Albert finally got his home-made Rail Rifle 
  loose and put his truck into a slide, bringing the rifle 
  up to his shoulder and letting loose a round. He had 
  little hope of hitting a target this way, but Vera had 
  some unusual properties and he was counting on 
  those to give his attacker second thoughts. 
  Vera shot out a steel bearing wrapped in rubber, 
  accelerated down the barrel by a relay of electro-
  magnets. He put every bit of juice the batteries had 
  into the shot, and by the time the round left the bar-
  rel, it was moving at speeds more common during 
  reentry into the atmosphere. His windows shattered 
  at the force of the shot. 
  Vera was meant to be a nonlethal deterrent, re-
  ally. The bearings were meant to be fired at subsonic 
  speeds, and he had only ever used her highest set-
  tings during tests. But, this grinning loony had just 
  torn part of his car off with some kind of stupid 
  metal boomerang that was even now scything 
  through the air for another strike, and he was really 
  angry that the race had been ruined. 
  The disturbance the shot made in the air was 
  visible to the naked eye. The air around the round 
  filled with a heat shimmer and a haze that hung for 
  just long enough to see before being ripped back by 
  the round’s wake. It always made things look as if 
  they were being pulled into a small localized black 
  hole from the point-of-view of the gunman. It wasn't 
  really possible to interview anyone witnessing it 
  from the other direction. It tended to pull debris into 
  its wake, too. 
  The custom cylindrical battery near the back of 
  the gun dissolved, its power and molecular structure 
  spent by the shot. The dust was blown free by a 
  small fan in the housing to drift around the cab. 
  As suspected he missed the Cadillac, but the 
  shot did have the intended effect of scaring the hell 
  out of its driver. There was a ripple around the ac-
  celerating Caddy and it seemed to slip out of exist-
  ence in every direction at once. Albert checked his 
  equipment. There hadn't been an entanglement event 
  and the heat in the air was dissipating, indicating the 
  target vehicle was indeed gone. Had it switched di-
  mensions? His gear wasn't designed to detect that. 
  He looked around suspiciously in all directions. 
  That was why he was watching when Philip 
  died. 
  The monster truck didn't get him for free. One 
  of the timbers that Philip’s energy tendrils were 
  flailing around went through the windshield and tore 
  off a significant portion of the passenger side of the 
  truck. The other made a spirited attempt at piercing 
  the right front tire. It shredded as if it had been put 
  through a chipper rather than impacted a tube of half 
  inflated rubber. 
  The truck moved on in spite of these injuries 
  and the wheels seemed to widen as they overran 
  Philip's car. It gave the act the energy of a pounce. 
  There was a sickening crunch over the public band 
  and then static. 
  Albert sat behind his wheel and gritted his teeth. 
  His beard bristled in his rage and he put the Chevy 
  into gear, centering the wheel on the orange mon-
  ster. He could just make out a shape under the bro-
  ken roof and webbed safety glass. It looked like a 
  figure in a cloak made out of wires and cords. There 
  were glints of light where eyes should be. 
  “Show no fear,” he murmured, “and take no 
  shit.” 
  He hit the gas, slamming back in the seat and 
  pressing a series of three switches attached by 
  clamps and zip ties to the steering wheel. The radio 
  roared out. Small speakers positioned all over the 
  truck sang out a thumping classic rock track as at-
  tached LED lights began harmonizing with the 
  sound waves, combining in ways modern science 
  would not only deny, but want to take him to the 
  woodshed for trying. 
  
   
   
  79 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  The monster truck answered with its screaming 
  engine and the splintering of a tree in its path as it 
  matched his course and bore down on him with 
  homicidal intent. 
  Albert kept his eyes locked on the truck’s sup-
  posed driver as he maintained direction and prayed 
  silently that the system had the time it needed to 
  reach maximum power before impact. 
  The music around him faded. It was still playing 
  but the system drained the platonic constructs within 
  of their meaning, leaving nothing but a hiss of white 
  noise surrounding him as the yards between him and 
  the monster truck gave way to feet. He watched as 
  the hood of the thing seemed to open and close like 
  a hungry mouth. He saw the tires reshape into 
  spiked horrors meant to tear metal and flesh into un-
  sortable confetti. He saw the gimlet glow of what 
  might or might not be eyes behind the wheel. He 
  saw a blast of accelerant flame from round the back 
  of the demonic thing. 
  And then he threw the red lever. 
  It had to be red or other Etherites would accuse 
  him of betraying convention. Besides, red was fun. 
  Red levers were always for the most dangerous and 
  explosive Society of Ether devices. 
  This one created what Albert called an “Inverted 
  Kinetic Wave Event”, which made a terrible acro-
  nym, but did make for an impressive battering ram. 
  Simply put, it generated a wave that took any kinetic 
  energy it encountered and reversed it upon itself. He 
  had intended it to be a bullet deflection system, but 
  had found that, like Vera, the applications were 
  much more dramatic the higher the energy output. It 
  also added the momentum generated from his own 
  vehicle and the quintessential energies he had drawn 
  from the power of Rock to its punch. 
  The wave hit the monster truck, and with a crack 
  of thunder and a discharge of strange unnatural light, 
  it threw the vehicle like a child's toy through the 
  woods. 
  Albert hit the brakes and slid to a halt, staring at 
  the line of destruction left in its wake that went on 
  further than he could see through the dust. 
  “Holy shit,” he whistled as he pulled out his 
  ether goggles and scanned to the limit of their range 
  for signs of return. There was only the sight and 
  sound of falling debris. He dared 
   to hope he had won. 
  His excitement dwindled when a cheerful tune 
  played out from a car horn. the sound seemed to 
  come from all around. Albert only just registered 
  that the song was Dixie when the Cadillac reap-
  peared in physical space and T-boned him at full 
  speed. 
   
  *** 
   
  Dwight followed Minerva through the woods, 
  avoiding the automotive melee. The sounds of im-
  pact and explosions followed them as they headed 
  for The Beeline. The open terrain would be a mixed 
  blessing. They would be able to open up and accel-
  erate but they would also lack any cover. 
  “We should call the police or something!” 
  Dwight radioed. There were three more inclines to 
  clear before the road leading back to town would be 
  in sight. 
  “And exactly what would that accomplish?” Mi-
  nerva countered. “Frankly the armed forces have a 
  much higher probability of arrival given the use of 
  RPGs. Destruction on this scale can be detected by 
  earthquake monitoring equipment. I was having 
  Watson keep an eye out for satellites shifting orbit to 
  track this area when we lost contact." 
  “When was that?” 
  “Shortly after we left the cave. I didn't know our 
  communications were intact until you said some-
  thing.” 
  “Why would they knock out long range comms 
  but leave us this dinky short-range band?” 
  “Because it's so much fun to hear you all 
  squawk as you die,” a new voice whispered in their 
  ears. 
  “God damn you, Asphalt, people are dead!” 
  Dwight shouted, recognizing the voice. 
  “Yes, that's what I just said. I can't believe you 
  survived this long with that slow of an uptake.” 
  “The board of ethics is going to eat you alive!” 
  “Screw them,” Asphalt laughed, “and screw you 
  for letting a bunch of clerks tell you how to live your 
  pathetic empty life. You want to be a quiet little lab 
  rat or the next best thing to a god?” 
  “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with current scien-
  tific thinking on the existence of deific beings,” Mi-
  nerva said calmly. They were approaching the road 
  now and she could see the dust of an approaching 
  vehicle. Asphalt was making his entrance. 
  “Oh my God, you make me regret leaving this 
  line open,” Asphalt groaned. “I’m so looking for-
  ward to this.” 
  Perhaps if Asphalt had resisted the urge to gloat, 
  his last missiles would have landed. There was a 
  
   
   
  80 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  blur behind them, a centipede-like chain of images 
  in space of a silver laced red glow.  Dwight’s sen-
  sors detected incoming fire even as they shifted into 
  normal spacetime behind his car. He had just enough 
  time to react, throwing the graviton manipulator’s 
  directional setting to the rear. The micro missiles hit 
  the field and their course veered wildly. Their sen-
  sors were unable to correctly identify up or down 
  within his field. One of them shot straight up, and 
  the other hit the ground five feet behind him, deto-
  nating and sending rock flying. Dwight’s windows 
  were blown out and damage reports flooded his 
  readouts. 
  But he was alive. 
  The attacking car passed them by, leaving ech-
  oes of itself ahead and behind. It looked like time di-
  lation but there was some other layered effect in 
  play. 
  Minerva didn't bother with conversation. A 
  beam of light much like what emitted from her tele-
  portation system shone from the headlights of the 
  Jeep. It hit the ground ahead of them and left a huge 
  square scar on the stone and rock. The line it had 
  drawn in the ground was spitting sand into the air, 
  and Dwight was still trying to determine what she 
  was doing, when the twenty foot cube of stone van-
  ished. It reappeared in mid-air and landed directly in 
  the path of the shimmering blur that was Asphalt’s 
  vehicle. It seemed to Dwight that some of the echoes 
  hit the stone and exploded. A couple clipped it and 
  tumbled off into the hills to explode in translucent 
  fireballs. Yet more simply maneuvered around the 
  block and these seemed to gain solidity. He now got 
  a clear look at the car that the so-called professor 
  had brought to the race. 
  It was a custom machine, built along the lines of 
  an oversized Formula One frame, only much larger 
  and with off road in mind. A metal lacework was 
  welded over the frame, spiked chrome forming an 
  exoskeleton and a ridge that ran the length of the 
  car. There were glowing lights along the red painted 
  metal beneath this lacework, giving the impression 
  of a skeleton that’s innards were aflame. 
  “That was a good try," Asphalt crowed, "but you 
  can't beat my baby like that.” 
  “Dude, it looks like a baby all right,” Dwight 
  laughed, “if Lord Zedd had one with the Bat-
  mobile.” 
  “I'm not even going to salvage the scrap I turn 
  you into,” Asphalt hissed. 
  Meanwhile, Minerva had changed course. In-
  stead of making for the road, she was heading back 
  towards the canyon and the starting line. 
  “Let me ask you something,” Dwight said, as he 
  saw the manyfold echoes of Asphalt turning to fol-
  low Minerva. “Who were all those Mad Max wanna-
  bes back there? You got a little cult to witness?” 
  “Love the idea,” Asphalt said, “but no. I just put 
  up a bounty on the Digital Web for anyone who 
  could make it and help me end you all. Cost a pretty 
  penny to do in under twenty-four hours but, I got to 
  say, the show’s been worth it.” 
  “Let me get this straight,” Dwight said, as he 
  charged his lightning bolt thrower. “You want to kill 
  all of us because Desoto wouldn't let you in the 
  race? That is the saddest, pettiest thing I've ever 
  heard.” 
  “I mostly just want to kill Miss Priss there. The 
  rest of you are dying because you disrespected me,” 
  Asphalt said. “You think you have the right to sneer 
  at me? You can't touch me! Go on, shoot me with 
  your little zap gun! I dare you!” 
  Dwight obliged the request, aiming for the cen-
  termost image. The bolt of lightning missed, passing 
  through the image. It struck a corner of the canyon 
  entrance up ahead, causing stone to tumble and nar-
  row the passage further. 
  Minerva accelerated through the debris as it fell, 
  weaving past larger stones and jolting as she hit 
  smaller ones. 
  Dwight spared a glance at the observation shed 
  but could only make out the scorch marks and scat-
  tered lumber strewn around. He feared that Desoto 
  had been inside. It cost him focus and he clipped one 
  of the larger stones as he followed Minerva and As-
  phalt into the canyon. 
  He had been giving some thought to the way 
  Asphalt’s car was flickering around. Clearly, from 
  its speed, there was some time manipulation going 
  on there, but also elements of spatial manipulation, 
  and perhaps even of probability. It struck him that 
  probability was the key to this. He recalled how 
  when Minerva shifted the cube some of the echoes 
  had hit. So maybe Asphalt was shifting his car out of 
  synch with time and space and choosing a probable 
  future more to his liking. 
  That theory fit the available data. But, what 
  could he do with this information? His weapon sys-
  tem was damaged at the canyon entrance and he re-
  ally hadn't built this car with offensive technology in 
  mind. It was really just an optional application of the 
  
   
   
  81 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  graviton engine. He didn't think it was very likely 
  that the graviton drive would be useful offensively 
  without the bolt thrower. 
  And then he thought again. 
    
  *** 
   
  Minerva was concerned for her life. 
  Asphalt, professor or not, was competent 
  enough to have foreseen many of her preferred 
  methods of escape. Whatever he was using to block 
  long range communications was preventing her from 
  teleporting out of the area. He was also countering 
  her attacks very effectively and she was having trou-
  ble detecting a weakness in his defense. Since he 
  confessed to wanting her dead, buying time for the 
  others to escape or catch up was the best plan she 
  had. Reaching over to the wheel of light hovering 
  over her center dashboard, she realigned her dis-
  placement array and fired it at a boulder in her path. 
  A green flash shot out and a cube vanished from the 
  stone, leaving her enough space to drive right 
  through. Behind her, the missing center fell from the 
  sky and struck the ground at a point she was certain 
  would be the most optimal area of impact upon As-
  phalt. 
  “Honestly you might as well stop and get out," 
  Asphalt laughed over the public band. “It’ll go eas-
  ier for you." 
  She didn't respond. She didn't see the point in 
  banter, but she worried about what he had said. Nar-
  cissists like Asphalt loved dangling information in 
  front of people that they wouldn't recognize outside 
  of context. They loved watching people miss critical 
  warnings. Fright poured its ice across her nervous 
  system as she entered the tunnel leading to The 
  Deadwood. 
  Asphalt was setting her up. 
  This thought was derailed when in the rear view 
  she saw Dwight's car driving on the side of the can-
  yon. Electricity crawled out from its undercarriage. 
  There was a pulse from beneath and Dwight's car 
  launched into the air. It fell directly at an image of 
  Asphalt's car. She marveled at the audacity of 
  Dwight's plan. His car struck an echo of Asphalt’s, 
  and both machines bent and folded under the force 
  of tons of metal in motion. Dwight had broken the 
  code of Asphalt’s defense, which she could now see 
  must have operated by shifting him through proba-
  ble locations to those that were under less of a likely 
  threat. 
  The cars separated and spun off, parts flying, 
  and she turned her attention back to her own peril, 
  remembering that she had recognized an impending 
  threat. She reached out for her displacement array 
  and threw settings as she hit the brakes. 
  The explosives that were hiding along the tunnel 
  exit went off as her hand pressed down on the tele-
  portation icon, still catching her car as it shifted in 
  space backwards by several yards. The Jeep spun as 
  it landed, thrown back from the part of the blast it 
  had absorbed. The wheels sank as rubber melted and 
  leaked their impact absorbent liquid. Smoke rose 
  from the engine and she undid her safety fastenings. 
  Smoke filled the tunnel, obscuring sight. A fig-
  ure was lurching towards her and she strained to 
  make out the silhouette. An orange light erupted 
  from the hand of the figure and she threw herself to 
  the side. It hit her car, spinning it again and leaving 
  it tilted wildly on a pile of rubble. 
  “Why won't you just die already?” Asphalt cried 
  out, as he staggered from the smoke. His coat was 
  torn and there was blood running down one side of 
  his face. His hair was matted and coated in muddy 
  dust. One eye was covered with it, pasting it shut. 
  “Because I do not wish to do so,” Minerva said, 
  raising her hands in the air. 
  “Whatever. You can joke all you want. I won't 
  miss this time.” 
  “I'm really not fond of telling jokes.” Minerva 
  said, “May I ask you something?” 
  “Sure, it’ll be funny when I shoot you and then 
  say NO!” 
  “Are you angry because I am a woman or be-
  cause I challenged your identity?” 
  He faltered at this. She wondered if perhaps he 
  hadn't actually considered it deeply. 
  “No. This is because you humiliated me in front 
  of all the others. Nobody does that to me. So now 
  they’re dead and you’re going to die, too.” 
  “I wasn't trying to embarrass you.” 
  This infuriated Asphalt, who took another step 
  towards her and aimed the device on his wrist more 
  accurately at her helmet. Her hands began to twitch 
  slightly, which Asphalt interpreted proudly as fear. 
  He was wrong, but he was too wrapped in wording 
  his dramatic speech to think about it. Indicator lights 
  on her knuckles, hidden from his sight, began to 
  light up. Several feet away Asphalt found his muse. 
  “When the books are written and history is laid 
  down, it will remember me as a god of science and a 
  master of the road. If it remembers you at all, it will 
  
   
   
  82 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  only be as a smear of blood in the sand here in this 
  nowhere town.” 
  “You do know I’m a published doctor of physics 
  and biology, right?” 
  She gently pushed her hand forward in midair. 
  Her glove indicator blinked at contact and a green 
  light shone from her car. It rippled and danced 
  across the ceiling of the tunnel. Asphalt flinched and 
  then laughed as the beam winked out. 
  “You missed,” Asphalt sneered, powering up the 
  weapon on his gauntlet. He then noticed the motes 
  of sand that were falling on his sleeve. His eyes wid-
  ened and he looked up, but too late. The cube of 
  stone fell from the ceiling of the tunnel and drove 
  him a foot into the earth with a reverberating thud. 
  Somewhere underneath his weapon discharged. The 
  stone shuddered, then sunk lower. 
  Minerva sighed and disengaged her controls 
  from the gloves. She removed her helmet, checking 
  her head for injuries in the reflective mask. After 
  confirming her car was immobile, she made her way 
  to Dwight's wreckage, and was surprised to find his 
  hand waving from within the crushed frame. He was 
  alive, and other than bruises and cuts, he was whole. 
  It took them a while to bend the frame enough to 
  get him out of the car. 
  “You figured out a weakness in his device be-
  fore I did.” Minerva said, “Very well done.” 
  “Thanks.”  
  He looked over at the pillar of rock that was As-
  phalt’s impromptu headstone. 
  “I thought you didn't use death rays," Dwight 
  commented 
  “That wasn't a death ray. The atomic displacer 
  was designed originally for archaeology. It doesn't 
  even work on biological organisms.” 
  “But you killed him with it,” Dwight protested. 
  “No, I killed him with a large rock. And, what I 
  actually said was that I don't like the term. Any ray 
  is a death ray if you deploy it creatively. The term is 
  redundant.” 
  “Hard to argue with that!” a voice called 
  through the smoke. They looked and saw Albert 
  stepping gingerly through the debris. He had a cut 
  on his bald head but seemed otherwise alive and 
  well. 
  “What happened to you?” 
  “A hairy maniac in a Cadillac knocked me ass 
  over tea- kettle. When I came to, he was all set to 
  cut my head right off with that boomerang of his. 
  Just before he gave me the chop, his phone beeped. 
  He said something about not getting paid and that I 
  was one lucky name breaker. Then he limped his car 
  back across the dimensional barrier. How about you 
  two?” 
  “Minerva squished Asphalt.” Dwight gestured to 
  the stone marking his final resting place. “If it was 
  right before your friend got that text, then I guess we 
  saved your life.” 
  “I’m sorry,” Minerva said. “What do you mean 
  by we?” 
  Dwight decided not to argue the point. The three 
  of them walked back through the canyon together. It 
  took them a half hour to reach the starting line, 
  whereupon an indicator light began to blink on Al-
  bert's Ether goggles. He scanned the ruined shack 
  and laughed in delight, running over to the crater at 
  ground zero of Asphalt's airstrike. 
  There, in a twelve-foot deep hole sitting at the 
  bottom of a broken ladder calmly trying to rewire 
  his equipment, was Doctor Desoto. 
  "How you doin’ there, Doc?" Albert called. 
  "You wouldn't happen to have a spare car in there 
  with you?” 
  "Tragically, no." Desoto sighed. "I’ve been try-
  ing to pinpoint the device that's jamming our long-
  range communications. It's quite devious. I also may 
  have broken my ankle in the fall." 
  "Yeah," Dwight said, as Albert brought over a 
  roll of cable from the ruined trailers. "We had some 
  trouble with it, too." 
  Desoto was retrieved and elected to stay and 
  wait for the others to go to town for a ride. It was 
  three miles to the motel, and he wasn't going to 
  make that on a broken ankle. They all promised to 
  retrieve the dead in the morning. 
  "You know what?" Dwight said, some ways 
  down the path. "I just realized something." 
  "What's that?” Albert asked. 
  "Nobody won the race." 
  "You only just realized that?" Al laughed, 
  "Don't feel bad. We've all got knocked around to-
  day." 
  "Yeah, but what about the grant?" 
  "I guess nobody gets it this year," Albert sighed. 
  "That's not necessarily true," Minerva said. "Ac-
  cording to the terms and conditions, in the event of 
  catastrophic vehicular failure, the organizer may 
  choose alternative standards for victory." 
  "You mean Desoto can pick another objective?" 
  Dwight laughed. "Like, who can still get their en-
  gine to turn? Or, who gets to town first?" 
  
   
   
  83 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  The last part was shouted as Albert doubled his 
  pace. Dwight sped up to match him even as Minerva 
  broke into a run and sped past both of them. Yelling, 
  cursing and alternately laughing, the three ran down 
  the road. Above them one of Desoto's last remaining 
  monitoring drones staggered through the air on three 
  functioning fans, observing their progress for the 
  record of the race and for the good of Science. 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
   
   
  84 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  In Northeastern North Carolina they say all roads 
  lead to highway 17. There are also an inordinate num-
  ber of roads with signs that simply say, “Dead End.”  
  For the most part, out-of-state travelers, truckers on 
  long hauls, and anyone “not from these parts,” as the 
  locals say, passed through quickly, barely glancing at 
  the endless fields, half-collapsed homes with pickup 
  trucks in the yard, and long stretches with so many 
  churches it seems impossible they could all be filled 
  on a Sunday. It’s a dead spot. Nothing of any im-
  portance happens there, and the locals, roaring around 
  in trucks with giant tires and glass-packed mufflers 
  with stickers depicting cartoon characters pissing on 
  anything and everything gracing their windows, were 
  happy to see the traffic pass them by and head back 
  out of town.  
  One stretch of 17, about forty miles north of 
  Elizabeth City, cuts into a small town and becomes 
  Business Route 17. There are a few scattered traffic 
  lights, evidence of civilization interspersed with 
  horse farms and corrugated metal buildings that are 
  nearly identical, identifiable only by the signs out 
  front proclaiming them to be auctions, or churches, 
  or the occasional “gentleman’s club.” 
  Set back about half a mile from that road, tucked 
  into a stand of trees that had somehow escaped the 
  local lumber companies for many decades, was a 
  different sort of place. The exterior, what you could 
  see of it from the ground, looked like a very large 
  mound of dirt and vines. From above, if you were to 
  fly over, you’d see a tangled mass of branches and 
  leaves and, if you looked closely enough, just the 
  hint of a road leading off from each end of the place. 
  There was no sign of cables, or lighting, but the 
  interior was fed by power siphoned from the solar 
  farm down the road, a well-concealed antenna pro-
  vided Internet access via satellite.  Shelves and pal-
  ates lined the walls of the interior, some loaded, but 
  most empty. Dark monitor screens lined benches at 
  one end. Cursors blinked softly, but there were no 
  images. Nothing moved. 
  Beyond the walls, the sun dropped slowly to-
  ward the horizon. The treetops turned from gold to 
  lavender and shades of purple, then melted the rest 
  of the way to grey. As darkness dropped over the 
  woods like a shroud, miles from the nearest home or 
  streetlight, a series of panels opened in the center of 
  the warehouse floor. Figures climbed from the 
  rooms below.  Some crossed to the benches by the 
  computers. Others began shifting crates and pallets 
  around to clear the center of the building. 
  They moved like a well-oiled machine, and the 
  world beyond their walls took no notice. 
   
  *** 
   
  DETOUR  
  DAVID NIALL WILSON 
   
  
   
   
  85 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  Jeb down shifted and cursed under his breath. 
  He had a schedule to keep, and it was about to take a 
  shit-sideways turn guaranteed to wreck his plans. He 
  had to be past Greenville before he could rest, or 
  he'd never get his cargo to the freight yard in Rocky 
  Mount on time. If he missed the train there would be 
  fines and a cut in his take. The bright beams of his 
  headlights illuminated a sign that read: "Road Work 
  Ahead," and he continued to slow.  
  The GPS unit might save him. They'd come a 
  long way since the old units that told you to take a 
  right turn a hundred feet into a two-hundred-foot 
  bridge, and he had the best on the market. The ser-
  vice monitored traffic, accidents, roadwork, and a 
  lot of other things, and it was very creative at find-
  ing alternate routes to save time. Very slowly, he 
  pulled over to the side of the road, being careful to 
  park beyond the line in case some drunken redneck 
  rolled up too fast behind him. 
  The GPS had a touchscreen, and he pressed the 
  menu button, then chose "refresh route."  A tinny fe-
  male voice crackled through the speaker. 
  "Recalculating.  Unexpected delay ahead. Alter-
  nate route selected." 
  Jeb waited, and a moment later the navigation 
  screen returned. 
  "Downloading detour." 
  He watched the screen. Then he smiled. It was-
  n't as bad as he'd expected. Highway 17 had a short 
  area of blockage ahead, but there was an almost 
  equally short detour that would take him around it. 
  There was no other traffic, so he wasn’t in danger of 
  being caught in an unexpected delay. It was going to 
  be fine.  
  He cranked up the radio, smiled as the new Brad 
  Paisley song rippled through the speakers, and 
  pulled back onto the road.  A quarter of a mile later 
  the GPS told him to make a left turn, and he did as 
  directed, rolling off down a bumpy dirt road be-
  tween two cornfields. 
  The navigation screen showed a straight stretch 
  for two miles, then a right turn, and a slow curve 
  back to Highway 17 on the far side of the delay. He 
  concentrated. It was a very narrow road for a truck, 
  even without traffic, and the last thing he wanted 
  was to have to explain how he ran off into a ditch in 
  the middle of a cornfield. 
  The farmland ended ahead and gave way to a 
  copse of trees. He rolled slowly and steadily for-
  ward, reached the turn, and navigated it cleanly. 
  Smiling, he continued a bit more confidently. Then, 
  as if dark fingers had reached out and lowered his 
  lids, everything faded. He had just enough aware-
  ness to reach out and turn the key, killing his engine. 
  Then everything went black. 
   
  *** 
   
  Inside the warehouse everything was a bustle of 
  activity. One end of the building swung open, re-
  vealing well-concealed doors.  Dark figures 
  swarmed out and down the road, moving low to the 
  ground, and very swiftly. They reached the truck 
  and stopped. 
  “Looks like he managed to shut her down,” a 
  tall, dark-haired Kindred with piercing eyes said. 
  “Saves us the trouble of dragging it out of a ditch 
  and cleaning up.” 
  To his left, a swarthy, bedraggled ghoul grunted 
  something unintelligible in return. He lifted an arm, 
  gesturing to those behind. 
  McAndrew watched as two groups moved for-
  ward. He was Lasombra, not terribly old, but not 
  new to the blood. Phipps, the ghoul, had worked for 
  him for decades; the two worked well together. One 
  team dragged the unconscious driver from the truck, 
  while another, a young Gangrel in cut-off denim 
  vests and dark t-shirts, climbed up into the cab and 
  started the engine. McAndrew and the others drew 
  to the side as they rolled forward slowly and disap-
  peared into the depths of the warehouse. 
  “Be careful with him,” McAndrew said. “Don’t 
  let him get all bruised up. The less he suspects, the 
  better, and we don’t want any sign he’s been 
  roughed up.” 
  Phipps nodded. He didn’t speak often, but he 
  was strong, and efficient. McAndrew thought—not 
  for the first time—that he’d need to turn him soon. 
  Loyalty was not an easy thing to find, and it needed 
  to be preserved. He even thought, perhaps, that loy-
  alty could grow into friendship over time. 
  The others back in the warehouse were a differ-
  ent story. The Nosferatu, Rainey, had his gnarly, 
  misshapen fingers locked into the heart of the 
  Shreknet and the Internet. He had worked out the 
  method for taking control of certain GPS devices, 
  bending the routes to his own end and directing se-
  lect targets to the warehouse. The Tremere, a 
  woman named Luanne Efird, had managed both to 
  assist with the glamour that prevented their discov-
  ery and the wiping of the driver’s memories. They 
  were an unlikely alliance, none of them particularly 
  
   
   
  86 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  connected to the greater schemes of the Camilla, or 
  the Anarchs—operating mostly off the grid and 
  profiting from whoever offered the most for what-
  ever came their way. 
  He turned and followed Phipps and the others 
  carrying the driver. There was a cot inside where the 
  man would be deposited and watched over while the 
  cargo was unloaded. A call would be out for the sec-
  ond truck, garaged in a barn about ten miles away, 
  to get moving. It was a smoothly oiled machine, and 
  very profitable. 
  He’d met Rainey in a dive in Raleigh, North 
  Carolina. Neither had been particularly tied to any-
  one, or anything. Rainey had mentioned the GPS 
  hack, not as a reality, but as a possibility. It was in-
  triguing. Using the kine’s technology against them 
  had been without purpose until McAndrew sug-
  gested the profit angle. It had taken several months 
  to locate a proper crew to pull it off, and even longer 
  to get the assets they needed to create the detour and 
  the warehouse. They had not wanted to call on clan 
  resources. It was their gig.  Efird had been a stroke 
  of luck, because the blood mage had blundered into 
  one of their early attempts at a scam. She’d nearly 
  killed them all, but McAndrew had managed to calm 
  her just in time to explain. When her temper had 
  cooled, she’d first called them idiots, and then of-
  fered to help.  Cooperation on this level was not 
  common, success rarer still. They had found both. 
  It was pretty slick. Rainey was able to hack into 
  shipping companies, locate valuable cargo, ascertain 
  schedules, and even lock it down to individual vehi-
  cles. They’d chosen Highway 17 because, despite 
  being a two-lane mess most of its length, it was still 
  a major route for shipping. There was little chance 
  of anyone noticing if a truck turned off at an odd 
  place or returned the same way. They spaced their 
  hits as widely as possible and varied the carriers. 
  They also varied the return and cut-off points, so it 
  was less likely anyone would pinpoint their location. 
  They rolled the trucks in, emptied the cargo, and 
  sent the drivers on their way, usually to be as far 
  down the road as the next weigh station before dis-
  covering their inexplicable loss. They were particu-
  lar about what they stole, and always made certain 
  they had an immediate buyer. As long as they were 
  able to control their greed, it was an operation that 
  could continue indefinitely. A perfect scam. 
  This truckload was medicinal. Crate after crate 
  of Oxy, and unlikely to be reported stolen. It was 
  black market, being moved double-crated and 
  marked as liquor. The top level of each crate was 
  lined with high-end whiskey. McAndrew intended to 
  keep that and pass on the main load in Raleigh. 
  Their truck would be loaded and on the road in a 
  couple of hours, and the minute it was unloaded the 
  payment would process; dollars to bitcoin and cy-
  bercurrency, filtered through several levels of secu-
  rity and then encrypted on blockchain servers that 
  could never be hacked. Rainey was the key, and the 
  Nossie seemed content, as they all did, to play a part 
  in a bigger whole without letting his greed get out of 
  hand. 
  “Hey, Mac!” Rainey called out. “I got some-
  thing you might want to see.” 
  McAndrew crossed the warehouse to where the 
  Nossie was bent over a keyboard like some sort of 
  pale-skinned spider. Rainey was bald, and never 
  wore anything but black. He sported a dark beanie 
  that helped obscure his sunken, deformed features. 
  For a Nosferatu, he wasn’t too bad, but he still made 
  McAndrew queasy at times. 
  “What is it?” he said. 
  “Not sure. Tracking a shipment of some kind, 
  but the security is next level. I latched onto their 
  GPS, but barely. No details in the account, not even 
  weight, or cargo. Not sure how they plan on passing 
  weigh stations, but this shipment is dark.” 
  ‘Dark’ was what Rainey called something under 
  the radar, or difficult to hack. Protected, in other 
  words. One thing was always true—the greater the 
  level of protection, the more valuable the cargo was 
  likely to be. They didn’t mess with jobs like this of-
  ten. The risk was considerably higher, but things had 
  been pretty tame of late, and some of the others were 
  growing restless. It was good to have a smooth, effi-
  cient operation but boredom could lead to careless-
  ness, so every now and then they pulled something 
  less routine. This sounded like that kind of oppor-
  tunity. 
  “Let me bring in Efird,” he said. “Might be time 
  to try something a little more challenging.” 
  “I want to know what it is,” Rainey said. 
  He never looked up from the monitor as his 
  nearly bone-white fingers flew over the keys.  
  McAndrew shook his head and turned away. He 
  could use a computer for e-mail or research but he’d 
  never seen anything like what Rainey could do. 
  Once that sewer rat was focused, it was nearly im-
  possible to distract him. It could be a problem, at 
  times, because if McAndrew and or Efrid decided to 
  let a job go, they often had a fight on their hands 
  
   
   
  87 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  pulling the Nossie off the keyboard. He was ob-
  sessed with secrets, and that would probably take 
  him down the path to Final Death one day. 
  Efrid was standing, hands on her hips, watching 
  the ghouls unload the truck. The liquor was being 
  staged on one low set of shelves, and there was quite 
  a bit of it. Two layers of bottles inside each crate be-
  fore a second, smaller crate was revealed beneath. 
  “Going to have to watch that stuff,” she said. 
  “You’re liable to end up with half the shipment in 
  the woods outside with the ghouls.” 
  “Half a shipment’s not such a bad deal, consid-
  ering they’re doing all the work,” he said. “We have 
  something over here, if you’ve got a minute. Rainey 
  found a 'dark' cargo inbound, tight security. Some-
  thing important, but no idea what it is.  He got into 
  the navigation, but it’s off-grid. No owner’s info, or 
  contract.” 
  Efrid frowned. “Sounds risky,” she said.  
  McAndrew was about to laugh at this, then he 
  caught her gaze and remembered how they’d met. 
  “Maybe,” he said, “but it’s been dead around 
  here, if you get my meaning. Might be a chance to 
  shake out of the rut. Any way we play it, Rainey’s in 
  deep, and it’ll be hell if we decide to pull him out.” 
  Efrid rolled her eyes. "Not a good reason to go 
  along," she said. "Still…" 
  "It beats sitting around worrying over whether 
  the ghouls are going to run off with the whiskey," 
  McAndrew said.  
  Efrid laughed. "Okay," she said. "I'm in. I'll 
  check the wards." 
  McAndrew watched her walk away toward the 
  door at one end of the building. The wards, as she'd 
  named them, were the culmination of a series of rit-
  uals she'd performed that somehow cut their small 
  square acre of North Carolina off from the world. 
  They were there, but no one would find them.  She 
  was also the one who hacked the driver's brains like 
  Rainey did the GPS.  One big team.  
  His own contributions were the ghouls, and ad-
  ditional concealment on the roads. He always wove 
  shadows around the entrance, and the exit, when the 
  trucks passed to prevent any unwanted discovery of 
  the side road. By day the glamour that Efrid cast 
  rendered the turns all but invisible. By night, when 
  they were allowing traffic, it was his job to be cer-
  tain it was only the traffic they anticipated. 
  These custom jobs were trickier. That was the 
  challenge, and the risk. They could go on taking 
  loads of pharmaceuticals, guns, and who knew what 
  else night after night, but it was dangerous to get 
  into a rut. It could breed carelessness, for one thing. 
  For another, they'd all go stir crazy. It was nearly 
  time for one of their quarterly shut-down periods, 
  where they all took off to wherever they wanted to 
  go to blow off steam.  One big, custom deal could 
  make that next break a good one. He turned and 
  walked back to Rainey's desk. 
  "It's a go," he said.  
  Rainey glanced up. "What?" 
  "Do it," McAndrew replied. 
  "I already did.  They are two hours out." 
  McAndrew closed his eyes and mouthed the 
  numbers from one to ten. He thought about remind-
  ing the Nossie he'd told him to wait until it was 
  okayed with Efrid but knew it would make no differ-
  ence. They were in, and it was happening. All that 
  remained was to make sure it didn't turn into some 
  sort of colossal fuck up. 
  Leaving Rainey to his work., McAndrew turned 
  and headed off at a trot. They had to get this load 
  complete and out and prepare for the new arrival. He 
  caught sight of Phipps by the shelves and the whis-
  key and flagged him down. Things were about to get 
  interesting. 
   
  *** 
   
  The truck cut through the moonlight and shad-
  ows at eighty plus miles per hour. Paulson barely 
  glanced into his rear view. He concentrated on the 
  road ahead, veering around any traffic he encoun-
  tered with casual indifference. He had a schedule, 
  and he intended to keep it. He had a clean slate from 
  local law enforcement, and the pay for the job was 
  top dollar. Not every night he got a month's pay for 
  a single drive, even working for the Camarilla. He 
  glanced down at the GPS and frowned.  
  About twenty miles ahead there was a detour. 
  He'd scanned this route well ahead of time, but 
  something must have happened. Some redneck 
  wrecking a truck, probably. He checked the details 
  and his frown shifted to a smile. The delay was mi-
  nor, only about ten minutes longer than the original 
  route. He'd be fine. He thought briefly of radioing in 
  and reporting, then decided against it.  The less con-
  tact he had with this particular client, the better, and 
  it wasn't a problem that he couldn't solve on his 
  own. 
  Paulson and several dozen other Brujah worked 
  ran long haul jobs on a regular schedule, mostly for 
  
   
   
  88 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  the Camarilla elders. These side jobs, still clan re-
  lated, fell only to a few trusted drivers. Trusted to 
  keep their wits about them and their mouths closed. 
  He had no illusions about this cargo. If he lost it, de-
  stroyed it, or anything at all went wrong with the 
  job, it would not end well for him. Weighing the risk 
  against the extra pay, it had still been a no-brainer. 
  He rolled through a small town, if you could 
  even call it a town, lined with more churches than 
  businesses, and cranked up the music. The Nossie 
  version of Satellite radio was playing a new album 
  from a Toreador band out of Louisiana. Not exactly 
  rock, and not exactly country, but with the perfec-
  tion of rhythm that only the Degenerates could pro-
  duce. 
   
  *** 
   
  "It's coming," Rainey said, swiveling in his chair 
  and calling out to McAndrew. "Maybe ten minutes 
  until it reaches the turn. No transmissions have gone 
  out, and the coordinates are set." 
  "So, no one knows he's taking the detour?" 
  "Not unless they are tracking him themselves, 
  and even if they are, Efrid's glamour should confuse 
  them. We won't have a lot of time. We need to get it 
  in, unloaded, and out. The driver will not be human, 
  but I suspect they will also not be powerful.  Power-
  ful Kindred don't drive trucks." 
  "Point taken," McAndrew said. "I'm going to the 
  road. On this one, I think we might want the 'A' 
  team out front. We have no idea what to expect, and 
  we want this to go quickly so that no one will no-
  tice." 
  "So," Rainey said, "you mean it will be like 
  every other op…" 
  McAndrew thought about smacking the Nossie 
  upside his homely head, but instead he smiled. 
  "Right," he said. "Let's get to it." 
   
  *** 
   
  Paulson squinted into the night. Even with the 
  bright headlights cutting the gloom, it was dark and 
  foggy. The road should have been one of those that 
  ran straight down the side of a field, then cut straight 
  across, working around the crops. He'd passed thou-
  sands of similar roads, but this one was somehow 
  different. It started with a long curve, and then 
  twisted right and left several times, as if it had been 
  designed to keep him moving as slowly as possible. 
  It set his nerves on edge. 
  The cargo was starting to bug him, too. He knew 
  it was the isolated road and the weird detour, but 
  rolling along as slowly as he was, strange thoughts 
  banged around in his mind like pinballs. He wasn't 
  supposed to wonder, or even care, what was in the 
  trailer. No delays, no mistakes, no questions. That 
  was the deal. It was a good deal. Out here, though, 
  away from the steady roar of tires on pavement, the 
  crackle of the radio seemed garish, and out-of-place, 
  and the pressure of being in charge of something too 
  important to pass through a regular weigh station, 
  and likely to cost him his life if anything went 
  wrong, weighed heavily.  
  "Fuck this," he said. He punched his boot down 
  on the gas and gained speed. There might be more 
  curves ahead, but he didn't care. It was time to get 
  off this shit-splat road and on to Raleigh. Hight time. 
   
  *** 
   
  "Here he comes," Phipps called out. 
  McAndrew paid no attention. He was concen-
  trating. It felt good to be out of the warehouse, in the 
  night. He felt more alive than he had in weeks. He 
  stretched his arms out and raised his face to the sky. 
  When he called to them, the shadows answered. 
  He sent them rippling down both sides of the road, 
  rolling like twin dark waves, parted in the center, 
  and rising, first to the height of a man, then higher, 
  until they curled over the road, meeting in the center 
  and creating a black tunnel. The truck ground 
  around the last corner and drove into that whirling 
  darkness. McAndrew let out a scream that echoed 
  into the night and slammed his arms down to his 
  sides. The shadows thickened, whirled faster, and 
  then tightened around the truck like a noose. There 
  was a screech of tires as the driver fought for con-
  trol, but he was moving too fast, and the only thing 
  that prevented the rig from tilting and toppling off 
  the road was McAndrew. He concentrated, thicken-
  ing the shadows, drawing them tighter. He felt the 
  truck within, felt it slowing, felt the diesel choking. 
  He closed his eyes and sent a burst of dark energy 
  that killed the engine and brought the truck to a sud-
  den halt. 
  All around him, Phipps' ghouls rushed forward. 
  Most were armed, but a few held back, just waiting 
  for whatever trouble the driver might cause to be 
  over and done so they could get the truck moving 
  
   
   
  89 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  again and into the warehouse. The shadows thinned, 
  withdrawing like eldritch tentacles and then dis-
  persed in the wind.  
  McAndrew opened his eyes and watched. This 
  was the tricky part. There was probably a single 
  driver, maybe a pair, at most, but there was no tell-
  ing who, or what they might be. These custom jobs 
  had far too many variables for his taste.  
  He almost laughed when the driver, a Brujah, 
  dropped to the ground, started to run forward, and 
  then stopped as he saw the wave of ghouls rushing 
  toward him. He made a move as if he might charge, 
  thought better of it and dropped to the ground, rais-
  ing his arms and glaring as McAndrew, deciding not 
  to trust the ghouls with this, strode forward.  
  When he was close enough to hear, the driver 
  spoke up. He was a surly, dark-haired guy with a 
  Dallas Cowboys ballcap. 
  "You're making a mistake," he said. "Already 
  made it, in fact. This load is Camarilla. Important 
  stuff. They aren't going to be happy." 
  "I suspect they won't be," McAndrew said, "but 
  then, the only one they associate it with is you, so 
  that doesn't sound like a 'me' problem. What's in 
  there?" 
  "You don't know?" the Gangrel said, incredu-
  lous. "You just hijacked a Camarilla truck in case it 
  might be important?" 
  "Oh, we know it's important," McAndrew said. 
  "The security gave that away. Knowing it's im-
  portant doesn't give me much to work with, though, 
  so, what's in the truck?" 
  "Go fuck yourself.  You can open it as well as I 
  can. I don't question my clients. It keeps me alive, 
  and in business." 
  "I guess it did," McAndrew said. "You want that 
  to stay true, maybe you lose the attitude and gain a 
  bit of curiosity." 
  The Brujah looked at McAndrew, not giving any 
  sign of compliance.  
  "Get him out of here," McAndrew said. "Get 
  him into the warehouse and contained. Phipps, let's 
  get this truck inside. We'll check it out once we have 
  it secured." 
  The ghouls swarmed over the truck, which, 
  though canted to one side near the ditch, had come 
  to a full stop. Moments later the engine ground back 
  to life. Very slowly, the big rig rolled up onto the 
  road and forward and disappeared into the ware-
  house. Shortly after that, the doors closed, and the 
  road, and the night, returned to silent darkness. 
   
  *** 
   
  They took every precaution once the rig was in-
  side. McAndrew lined the ghouls up, weapons 
  ready. Efrid stood ready behind them, and McAn-
  drew stood beside her. Rainey manned his comput-
  ers and seemed barely aware the rest of them were 
  there. 
  "It's locked," Phipps said. "Not a padlock, some 
  kind of…" 
  His words fell to silence as a series of sharp 
  clicks echoed through the warehouse, and the door 
  popped open with a snap. Rainey looked up from his 
  computer. 
  "Got it," he said. 
  Everyone turned to stare at him. He shrugged. 
  "It's part of the security system. I've been working 
  on it since we decided to bring it in." 
  "And never bothered to mention it to anyone," 
  Efrid said. She tried to frown, but it turned to a grin.  
  Phipps and two other girls approached the rear 
  of the truck slowly, weapons drawn. The driver 
  might not have been much of a threat, but he was 
  also not likely to be the only security. The question 
  wasn't if there was security. The question was what 
  it would be. How dangerous? 
  Phipps motioned one of the other ghouls for-
  ward, and the guy pulled the door slowly open. De-
  spite the lighting in the warehouse, the interior of 
  the truck was ink black. No lights came on inside, 
  and none of the exterior illumination penetrated. 
  McAndrew was not a stranger to shadows, and he 
  frowned. It was not normal darkness. He stood very 
  still, blocking out the motion and sound from the 
  ghouls, one by one, and concentrated. 
  There was a very, very light rustle from within. 
  He started to speak, started to call Phipps back, but 
  in the same second that he might have reacted, the 
  shadows erupted from the truck. The ghouls went 
  flying, as if struck by the impact of an explosion. 
  McAndrew saw Phipps spin off to the left. McAn-
  drew paid no attention, he was focused. He drew 
  shadow around him like a wall, and he waited.  He 
  heard shots and knew that the ghouls were firing 
  blindly. He willed them to stop. 
  Seconds later three figures spun out into the 
  warehouse, spreading, one to either side, and the 
  third driving straight at McAndrew. He ignored the 
  others. Efrid was going to have to take one, and he 
  hoped Rainey was out of his chair and moving. The 
  
   
   
  90 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  ghouls would help. There were a lot of them, and 
  sheer numbers would lend them strength, but these 
  were not normal opponents.  
  The Kindred coming straight at him, tall and 
  dark, dressed in a long flowing coat, was at the 
  truck, and then very suddenly in his face. McAn-
  drew cursed. The Degenerate had used his Toreador 
  speed, brandishing a pair of wicked silver knives 
  that glittered as he moved. It was close. A microsec-
  ond longer and he'd have been done before he 
  started, but McAndrew was no childe. He side-
  stepped at the last moment and swept a tendril of 
  shadow low to the ground, tangling it in his at-
  tacker's legs. The Toreador was rolling away before 
  he even struck the ground, but McAndrew had antic-
  ipated the move. Fast as he was, the Toreador was 
  not old, and he depended too much on surprise and 
  speed. He rolled right into a fold of shadow, and 
  McAndrew wrapped it tightly around his squirming 
  form. He tightened it further, stepped in, and pulled 
  the knife from his belt. He drove it straight down 
  into his attacker's face, dug in, twisted, and lifted to 
  cut a huge gouge across his attacker’s face. 
  He drove the blade back, again, a final time, and 
  then, already turning back toward the truck, he 
  stomped a heavy, steel-toed boot into what remained 
  of the Toreador's face. The neck snapped to the side. 
  It was possible the Degenerate would heal, if he was 
  allowed, but not any time soon. McAndrew spun to 
  see how the others fared. 
  Both of the remaining guards were Gangrel, but 
  whoever had hired them had either not believed 
  there was any danger to their cargo or had simply 
  not been able to get more powerful Kindred to take 
  on such a mundane task.  
  The Gangrel on the left had seen Efrid and rec-
  ognized the major threat. Despite this, he'd underes-
  timated her. She stood very still, one hand held out 
  before her.  Halfway to where she stood, even as the 
  beast flowed out from within him, the tall, swarthy 
  Gangrel slowed. He looked as if he were shifting, 
  and running, wrapped in molasses.  Phipps, who 
  must have survived the initial blast from within, and 
  two other ghouls closed on him and, as if he were 
  standing still, cut him to shreds with automatic fire.  
  By the time Efrid released her hold, nothing but 
  flayed flesh was left to fall into a puddle of blood on 
  the warehouse floor. 
  The third guard, though he'd erupted into the 
  warehouse with the first two, had reconsidered. 
  Rainey, for all his love of computers, was old. He 
  was older even than McAndrew, and the sewer rat 
  was strong. He drew to his full, six-foot seven 
  inches in height and his eyes glittered. If the Gangrel 
  had reached him, it would have been his last act of 
  defiance. Instead, he darted back into the truck. One 
  of the ghouls, mistaking this for weakness, or cow-
  ardice, dove in after him. There was sudden crack, 
  as if bones had shattered, and a scream, then silence.  
  McAndrew strode to the rear doors of the truck, 
  peered into the trailer, and frowned. The darkness 
  that had clouded it had dispersed. Some sort of pro-
  tection spell, or unfamiliar discipline had created it, 
  and then driven it out in a single burst.  What 
  McAndrew saw was a single crate, long and slender, 
  strapped into the center of the floor. There were 
  seats along the outer walls. The Gangrel had re-
  treated to a back corner, eyes wild. The ghoul who'd 
  followed him inside lay sprawled across the crate, 
  his throat ripped open cleanly, blood soaking the 
  wood and dripping to the floor. 
  "Come out of there," McAndrew said. "You 
  come out now, maybe you live another day. You 
  stay, and we have to come after you, and there won't 
  be enough left of you to form a coherent memory." 
  Very slowly, hands raised, the Gangrel did as he 
  was told. As he exited the trailer, Phipps stepped up 
  and cuffed him.  All the fight was gone, and McAn-
  drew knew he'd been right. Low-level, hired muscle. 
  Not ready to die for…what? A box? 
  "Get him out of here," he said. "Make sure he's 
  out. Get him far away and throw him in a ditch." 
  Phipps nodded. He and two others led the Gan-
  grel away.  Efrid stepped up beside McAndrew, and 
  Rainey slipped up on the other side. They stared at 
  the crate. 
  "For that?" Efrid said. "We went through all of 
  this, risked Camarilla detection and retaliation, for 
  what?" 
  "Whatever it is," McAndrew said, "they went to 
  a lot of trouble to move it. Not enough trouble, but 
  still…" 
  "Let's get a crew in there," Efrid said. "We'll 
  have to unstrap it and get this truck out of here. We 
  have to clean it up, too. Nothing to do about the 
  blood, but as long as the driver has no idea that he's 
  even lost the cargo, it shouldn't matter. From here 
  out it's just another job." 
  McAndrew nodded distractedly. He motioned 
  for the remaining ghouls to climb into the truck and 
  work on the crate, then he turned to Rainey. 
  
   
   
  91 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  "I have a strange feeling about this," he said. 
  "Something is…wrong." 
  Rainey nodded. "I feel it. But what?" 
  Efrid cut them off. "Don’t' be ridiculous. You 
  wanted some adventure, you got it. Now let's open 
  the magic box and see what we got for a prize. My 
  money says, we wasted our time and got at least one 
  ghoul killed." 
  "We'll see," Rainey said softly. "We'll see soon 
  enough." 
   
  *** 
   
  The darkness peeled away slowly. Blood 
  dripped languidly, tantalizingly, from somewhere 
  above him. It rolled over his lips and into his throat. 
  He felt it slide in, and down, but made no effort to 
  swallow, or to gulp. He felt as if his limbs were en-
  cased in stone, and his heart was a ball of ice 
  wrapped in barbed wire. But it was feeling, and sen-
  sation. What had been a slow emergence of memory 
  and thought became a rushing current. Faces and 
  names, Le Duc, Kli Kodesh, Owain, Nicolas.  
  That final memory snapped into place, and his 
  eyes opened fully. He was encased in a box…not a 
  coffin, exactly…but similar. The blood still dripped, 
  and he caught it as it fell. He sensed those working 
  to free him, sensed as well that they had no idea 
  what it was they were opening. There were so many 
  questions he had to banish them to the back of his 
  mind and concentrate to remain coherent.  
  For a moment, he thought of the chained crate, 
  how he’d been locked away—but that was eternities 
  in the past. He’d been freed, and chased the cursed 
  Owain, and the Grail.  Then he had been consumed 
  and now? 
  Suddenly impatient to be free of his confine-
  ment, he pressed his hands to the inside of the con-
  tainer above him and shoved. There was screech of 
  nails tearing from splintering wood, and he rose, 
  shrugging off the lid to what he now saw was a plain 
  wooden crate. It struck a pair of ghouls and drove 
  them back against the wall of some larger container.  
  Montrovant ignored all of it. He leapt from the 
  crate and strode forward.  There was a drop-off of 
  several feet, which he took in a second leap, whirl-
  ing to take in his surroundings.  
  He was in a place such as he’d never seen. The 
  walls were lined with shelves made of metal. Lights 
  glittered, but he did not catch the scent of oil, and he 
  frowned. He turned slowly. 
  There were several gathered around him and, 
  groping with his awakening senses, he sorted them. 
  A Nosferatu to his left, on his right a blood witch of 
  the Tremere, and closest of all...  He smiled. 
  “This is a strange welcome, cousin,” he said 
  softly. I do not recognize you, or this place. I be-
  lieve, in fact, that I will not recognize this time or 
  place, but you are Lasombra.” 
   
  *** 
   
  McAndrew held his ground and studied the 
  dark, oddly dressed Kindred. This one, he knew, 
  was old, and somehow familiar, though he knew 
  they’d never met. And what was an elder doing in 
  that box, and that truck? 
  “I am,” he said at last. “My name is McAndrew, 
  Alexander McAndrew.  And you are?” 
  “I’ve had many names. Most of them, I’m 
  afraid, were not flattering. But if I am remembered 
  in this time, you will know me as Montrovant.” 
  McAndrew had to fight to prevent his jaw drop-
  ping open. 
  “Montrovant,” he repeated… “The Dark One?” 
  “I am remembered, then,” Montrovant said. 
  “I’m afraid, though, that I have no idea how, or why 
  I am here. I should not be, and I do not know what 
  sorcery could have brought it about. I was consumed 
  in a great battle…” 
  “By Nicolas,” McAndrew finished.  “I know the 
  story… and the Grail…” 
  Montrovant laughed bitterly. 
  “Was it found, then?” he said softly. 
  McAndrew shook his head. “There are rumors, 
  of course. Many believe that the ancient, Kli Ko-
  desh, is, in fact, the Grail. He claims to have fed…” 
  “From the Christ,” Montrovant completed the 
  sentence. “And his name, in Hebrew, means ‘Holy 
  Vessel’.  Surely he does not still walk the night?” 
  “As far as I know, he does,” McAndrew said. 
  “He is either a prophet, or quite mad, or both, but I 
  have heard no stories of his final death.” 
  “Excuse me,” Efrid said, stepping closer. “Are 
  we hijacking a truck, or having a family reunion?” 
  “I’m not really sure,” McAndrew said.  He 
  turned to Rainey. 
  “Maybe you can find something on that 
  Shrek.net of yours about this…why, how, who…and 
  while you’re at it see if you can find out who was 
  expecting him, because I have the feeling we just 
  called down a shitstorm on our heads. Anyone 
  
   
   
  92 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  powerful enough to play around with history in such 
  a way is not going to be a pleasant enemy.” 
  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” 
  Montrovant said, “but I agree that if someone went 
  to the trouble to bring me back from what should 
  have been Final Death, there must be a reason. Even 
  if it was just to revive me and have the pleasure of 
  killing me once again.” 
  “No money in this,” Efrid growled. 
  “I wouldn’t say that,” McAndrew replied.  He 
  turned to where Phipps stood off to one side. “Get 
  that truck cleared out. Take one of those dead ghouls 
  and strap them back into the crate. Clean it all up as 
  well as you can.” 
  “What about, them?” Phipps said. He pointed at 
  the two Gangrel, one of whom seemed to be show-
  ing signs of consciousness, and the Nossie who’d at-
  tacked McAndrew. 
  “Second thought put them in the crate,” McAn-
  drew said. “See if you can seal it as it was before.” 
  “I may have caused some damage,” Montrovant 
  said.  
  McAndrew shrugged.  “It’s not like whoever re-
  ceives the package is going to be fooled for long.  “I 
  think, though, that it might be time to shut this place 
  down for a while. I’m going to have the rest of the 
  crew get our own trucks and clear it all out. We can 
  regroup and either set up somewhere else or move 
  on.  The Camarilla aren’t going to let this go, so 
  we’d better be scarce when they start sweeping the 
  area. 
  Rainey had already begun packing up his com-
  puter gear. He kept dark, slim cases beneath the desk 
  for just such a moment, and the equipment began 
  disappearing swiftly.  Efrid had very little to carry 
  and was ready first.  
  Montrovant stood off to one side, watching the 
  flurry of activity with interest. McAndrew knew it 
  was going to take the elder time to acclimate, but if 
  the stories were even half true, he was in the pres-
  ence of one of the most dangerous Kindred his clan 
  had ever produced. Rogue most of his undead life, 
  partial founder of the Knights Templar, and accom-
  plished in disciplines that his clan—their clan—
  rarely mastered.  He'd been locked away in a crate to 
  starve, only to be brought back in the 1990s and 
  continue his quest—all the way to final death. Or 
  not, it seemed. 
  When the warehouse had been stripped and 
  packed, McAndrew turned to Montrovant and raised 
  an eyebrow. "If you like, you may join me. I believe 
  we would all be better off—anywhere else. Also, if 
  there is any way to find out what this is all about, 
  that one," he pointed at Rainey, who still had a tablet 
  tucked under his arm, "will find it. They were taking 
  you to Raleigh. That would seem to leave two 
  choices. We take a different route entirely and try to 
  distance ourselves, or we track the driver, and the 
  truck, and prepare a surprise of our own." 
  "Running is not a thing I can stomach," Montro-
  vant said. "And I would very much like to meet my 
  'savior', though I doubt they will get the pleasure 
  they sought from that encounter." 
  "And I," McAndrew laughed, "would love to 
  share that moment.  How about it?" He turned first 
  to Efrid, and then to Rainey. "Up for another adven-
  ture?" 
  "In for a penny," Efrid said. "I'm still hoping to 
  find a way this pays us for our time." 
  Rainey only grinned. His homely face turned it 
  into a macabre parody of good humor.  
  "I confess," Montrovant said, shaking his head, 
  "that I find this odd partnership unsettling. In my 
  time—how long ago? —alliances were uncertain, 
  and treachery was not. When I was brought back, it 
  seemed the same, though the clans had shifted, and 
  the blood had thinned. Now—what year is this?" 
  "2019," McAndrew said. 
  "Ten years then.  The time I remember best lies 
  centuries in the past. Then, had I stood in a room 
  with a blood witch and a Nosferatu, we would all 
  have been plotting one another's end."  
  "Don't be too sure we're not," Efrid said. 
  "McAndrew here seems to know who you are, but 
  I'm not much of a history buff. We had a good thing 
  here, and now we're suddenly on the run. It occurs to 
  me that whoever lost you might pay to have you 
  back." 
  Montrovant smiled, but this time there was no 
  trace of humor. 
  "I have not fed on Tremere blood in centuries," 
  he said. "But I would be happy to break my fast…" 
  "Let's just get on the road," McAndrew said, 
  glaring at Efrid. "I think we'll find plenty of others 
  to take out our frustrations on in Raleigh." 
  The truck rolled out ahead of everyone. Efrid 
  followed along and, walking with the Brujah driver 
  and whispering in his ear, her nails sliding in intri-
  cate patterns over his throat, the side of his face, her 
  lips very, very close.  
  "He will be back on the road shortly," McAn-
  drew said. "He will remember nothing and will only 
  
   
   
  93 
  DARKENED STREETS 
  realize he is slightly late.  It will buy us some time—
  until he delivers the crate. We'll drive in one of the 
  SUVs." 
  Montrovant raised an eyebrow. 
  "An enclosed truck that is more like a puffed-up 
  car than a work vehicle. They hold a lot of things a 
  car would not and have plenty of comfortable seats. 
  Efrid will drive, and Rainey can get on with his 
  search. Hopefully by the time we roll into Raleigh 
  we'll know where we're headed." 
  Montrovant glanced around the warehouse a fi-
  nal time, and then nodded. "For now, our paths are 
  the same, I think," he said. "I will be interested to 
  see how the Nosferatu can search for information 
  while being driven down the road, and in learning 
  what a 'Shreknet' is." 
  McAndrew laughed, and turned away, heading 
  toward one of three black Cadillac Escalades idling 
  by the far door. He climbed into the back, followed 
  by Montrovant and Rainey. Efrid slid in behind the 
  wheel.  Phipps drove one of the others, and another 
  ghoul had the wheel of the third. They pulled out 
  into the darkness, and as they exited the warehouse, 
  Rainey closed the doors behind them, sealing the 
  place off from sight. The wards would remain in 
  place—until they were inevitably broken.  
  They rolled down the dirt road, turned onto 
  Highway 17, and disappeared into the darkness. 
   
  *** 
   
  The older sections of Raleigh, NC are filled with 
  grand mansions, painted ladies, and stark, stone-
  faced edifices with wrought iron fences and tall, 
  slender trees that grew by fighting the walls of the 
  buildings for the sunlight. An entire block of the old 
  homes backs up against the end of an industrial dis-
  trict that stopped expanding miles away and started 
  decaying near the city's heart. That block, both sides 
  of it, was Camarilla. Not many lived there, only the 
  leadership, but the homes surrounding the center 
  were filled with conference rooms, computer net-
  works, armories—it was the center of Kindred 
  power in Raleigh, a castle, and a fortress. In the fin-
  est of the old homes, the Ventrue Ambrose, Prince 
  of the city, waited impatiently for an update on his 
  latest treasure. 
  Ambrose ran a tight ship. The city was mostly in 
  line—they had plenty of Anarchs, but there was a 
  separation—Raleigh just wasn't important enough to 
  fight over. There were bigger prizes, and bigger 
  battles, so a strong Camarilla presence ruled the ma-
  jority of the city, and the rest they ignored, leaving 
  enough open space to appease the straggling gangs 
  and underlords who remained.  
  It was a simple arrangement, but simple arrange-
  ments grew boring over time. Ambrose did not like 
  to be bored, so he'd created his own side project. A 
  thing to amuse himself, and to entertain visiting dig-
  nitaries from larger cities. It passed the time. 
  He'd opened a museum, of sorts. It housed rel-
  ics. There were books so ancient that their pages 
  were accessible only to Ancients. He'd had some 
  translated—others he knew only by their titles. He 
  had Toreador sculpture. He had articles that had be-
  longed to famous Kindred through the ages. It was a 
  work in progress. 
  Recently, he'd run across a Tremere who 
  claimed to possess an odd bit of history. She'd 
  claimed to have recovered enough of the essence of 
  a famous elder, one devoured body and soul by a 
  true monster, to draw him back to this world. In Tor-
  por…safely silent and easily controlled with the 
  proper safeguards. She had promised Ambrose no 
  less than Montrovant, the Dark One himself, lost to 
  the folly of his endless questing for the Holy Grail. 
  Ambrose had gone to extra lengths for this. He'd 
  constructed a special coffin, so thick that no force 
  short of a very large bomb could break it. It had a 
  very, very thick lens through which he, and any visi-
  tors would be able to view the face. That was the 
  key. Even if Montrovant woke, he would be trapped, 
  and without the vitae, he would lack the strength to 
  free himself. Perhaps there could be a small kiosk 
  next to the coffin with a short history of the hunt for 
  the Grail. It pleased Ambrose to think what some of 
  the Lasombra elders might think of his exhibit—
  those pompous leftovers from times that should be 
  drying up and flaking away. 
  A light lit on his phone. There were six incom-
  ing lines, but this was the one he'd been waiting for. 
  He answered immediately. 
  "What is it?" 
  "The truck," a sibilant voice replied. "It's near-
  ing the city. Should be here in the next twenty 
  minutes." 
  Ambrose smiled. "Have them hold it in the 
  warehouse. I will be there personally." 
  He hung up without waiting for an answer. This 
  was going to be a moment of triumph, and he fully 
  intended to enjoy it in person. He rose and strode 
  
   
   
  94 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  from his office. He startled the young Gangrel 
  guard, who leaped to his feet. 
  "Brandon, you're with me," Ambrose said. "Get 
  Lisette and Daniel and meet me on the street. Our 
  prize is nearing the warehouse." 
  "Yes sir!" Brandon replied. He was a tall, 
  blonde-haired Kindred with broad shoulders and 
  wild, hairy eyebrows. He disappeared out the door 
  and Ambrose grabbed his suit coat from the tree 
  near the door, slipped it over his shoulders and but-
  toned it as he walked. His office was on the third 
  floor of the old home, and he descended the stairs 
  quickly. 
  By the time he reached the street, a car was al-
  ready pulling up. Brandon was behind the wheel, 
  and in the rear seats sat Lisette, another Gangrel, 
  dark skinned with bright eyes and as dangerous as a 
  wild animal, and Daniel, a bald, misshapen mess of 
  a Nossie with sunken eyes and a perpetual grimace 
  that sometimes made Ambrose's spine tingle, as if 
  something very dangerous was about to happen. He 
  was a computer prodigy. Ambrose could barely re-
  member the password to make his e-mail work and 
  would never have gone past that if it were not for the 
  need to search the Internet for the items he sought. It 
  was truly remarkable how open a seller could be 
  about things that no one believed in without drawing 
  the slightest attention. Daniel expanded it into 
  Shrek.net and was directly responsible for the acqui-
  sition of this latest treasure. This was a true rarity. 
  He had never heard of a museum displaying an infa-
  mous Kindred as an artifact. In his mind, he was al-
  ready planning the invitations to the grand opening 
  of the new exhibit. 
   
  *** 
   
  It hadn't taken Rainey long to lock onto the GPS 
  in the truck again. After syncing their own naviga-
  tion system to that signal, he'd gone to work, strik-
  ing keys with such rapidity that even Montrovant 
  seemed impressed. McAndrew passed the time by 
  filling Montrovant in on changes in the Camarilla, 
  the clans, and the world in general. He was just get-
  ting to Facebook when Rainey made an odd, barking 
  sound. It might have been a laugh, or an exclamation 
  of satisfaction. 
  "He bought you," the Nossie said. "There are 
  places you can buy almost anything. The darker side 
  of the Internet, and of course, Shrek.net, provide 
  outlets for transactions that are…peculiar. 
  Apparently a Tremere," he glanced at Efrid, then 
  back at the screen, "found a way to recover parts of 
  your essence. I'd have to do a lot more research to 
  find out how, but she had enough that, with small 
  amounts of blood and careful controls, she was able 
  to reconstitute your form. She did not allow enough 
  for you to rise from Torpor. She sold you to a 
  Ventrue in Raleigh, Prince of the city. His name is 
  Ambrose." 
  "I've heard of that guy," McAndrew cut in. 
  "Doesn't he have some sort of Kindred museum?" 
  Rainey nodded, not looking up from the screen. 
  "If what I'm reading is correct," he said, "his intent 
  was to display you in a sealed coffin—your face vis-
  ible to those who might want a glimpse into his-
  tory." 
  "A trophy," Montrovant said. "A prize to be 
  gloated over and shown off, like a painting, or some 
  decadent Toreador sculpture…  Is he old, this 
  prince? Is he powerful?" 
  "Not particularly," Efrid said. "He runs that city, 
  but mostly because it's slow—not currently consid-
  ered much of a prize. He's probably a few hundred 
  years old, maybe a little more. I've never heard any-
  thing remarkable about him. I know the Anarchs al-
  low him his territory because it's simpler than doing 
  battle and running him out. Also, as long as he is 
  there, the Camarilla pay no attention, and don't send 
  in anyone stronger." 
  Montrovant's frown turned to a scowl.  
  "You can track the truck?" he asked. 
  "It's just entered the city," Rainey said.  
  “How far behind are we?” 
  McAndrew pointed out the window to where the 
  lights of Raleigh illuminated the skyline. “Maybe 
  five minutes.” 
  “We should be there when he opens the truck,” 
  Montrovant said. “I should be there. I want to see 
  the last expression on his face…” 
  “I would kind of like to see that myself,” McAn-
  drew said. “In fact, I’d also like to see what else is in 
  the warehouse he thinks he’s delivering you to.” 
  “I do not know you,” Montrovant said. “Still, 
  when I emerged, you did not attack me, or challenge 
  me. I find myself, for the moment, short on allies. 
  “End this Prince Ambrose with me, and we may find 
  that our roads merge. I have been absent, but I am 
  certain that, once word of my return circulates, there 
  will be those interested in aiding me.” 
  “I’m in,” McAndrew said. “What we had back 
  there is blown now, and I don’t really have a plan 
  
   
   
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  DARKENED STREETS 
  for the future. We are both Lasombra.  I’ll come 
  along for the ride, just to see where it ends up.” 
  Rainey glanced up.  
  “I am not attached to anyone but our group. I am 
  not of your clan…” 
  “I sense those boundaries differ from those I re-
  member,” Montrovant said. “You have proven your-
  self a worthy ally in a very short time. This new 
  world revolves around technology. You have mas-
  tered it.” 
  Rainey didn’t reply, he turned back to his tablet 
  and his searches. 
  “What will you do?” Efrid asked. “Everything 
  you knew is gone. Most of those who opposed you, 
  or assisted you, have met the Final Death.” 
  “I will do what I have always done,” Montro-
  vant replied. “I once sought the Grail because I be-
  lieved it would benefit my clan. That clan aban-
  doned me, called me outcast and rogue. When I 
  died, they were nowhere to be found. So, I am clan-
  less, but I am focused. I will find what I have 
  sought—for so long—and then I will decide what 
  comes next. One thing a very long life, death, and 
  rebirth has taught me. Whatever I find, whatever I 
  discover…I will do it for myself, and for those who 
  stand beside me. I will not build my life around an-
  cient traditions or customs. I will not be ruled by el-
  ders in a failing hierarchy. I will carve my own path, 
  and, should I succeed in my quest, at long last, I will 
  laugh as I stride across all their graves.” 
  Efrid laughed. “You talk like a Gothic romance 
  novel, but I get it. I even agree. I think, if you will 
  have a “blood witch” on your side, that I will tag 
  along and see just how interesting this can get.” 
  “All of that is wonderful,” McAndrew said, “but 
  we are only a few minutes away from the warehouse 
  where that truck pulled in.  Before we pat ourselves 
  on the back and plan the future, we’d better concen-
  trate on the matter at hand.” 
  “Oh, I am looking forward to that,” Montrovant 
  said.  
   
  *** 
   
  Ambrose stood at the back of the truck, and he 
  frowned. He sensed that something was off, but he 
  could not place it. The truck was sealed, and the 
  Brujah driver they'd hired was climbing out of the 
  cab with a lopsided grin splitting his face. Ambrose 
  had received countless deliveries, some in person, 
  like this, and others that had been brought to him at 
  his office, or at the museum itself, if they were large.  
  Nothing was different. The truck had been a few 
  minutes late, but not a significant delay. 
  He turned to the others. "Brandon, get over there 
  with that driver and get the doors open. Lisette, stay 
  close."  
  He didn't bother to instruct Daniel. The Nossie 
  was already parked in a corner, logging onto his lap-
  top. Ambrose thought about saying something, and 
  then stopped. Maybe the sewer rat felt it, too. Maybe 
  he was dialing into his little magic box to figure out 
  what could be wrong. 
  Ambrose turned back to the truck.  The driver 
  had stepped up onto the running board and grabbled 
  the latch that secured the rear doors. Brandon stood 
  beside him, hands on his hips, waiting. He didn't 
  look concerned, and that eased Ambrose's mind a 
  little. Brandon had keen senses. He'd run point on a 
  lot of operations and had never failed. Lisette 
  seemed a little tense. 
  "What is it?" Ambrose said, turning. 
  "I don't know," she replied. "But it's not that 
  truck. Brandon would know. Might be nothing, It's 
  like a tingle. I've felt it before, and it meant noth-
  ing." 
  Ambrose frowned. The truck doors opened. He 
  could make out a long, dark object inside, as ex-
  pected. Brandon hopped up and in, moving forward 
  cautiously. A moment later, he returned to the 
  truck's doors. 
  "It's strapped down and sealed," he called out, 
  "But…I smell blood." 
  Ambrose frowned. He wondered if it could be 
  something lingering from whatever the truck had 
  last hauled. He hadn't gone to any special expense. 
  After all, his cargo was not likely to be hijacked. No 
  one knew about it, and it would have been of no 
  value to anyone else. The route had been short and 
  direct. The truck had picked up the cargo, and it was 
  here, but—blood? 
  "Get over there," he told Lisette. Go up with 
  him, unstrap the crate, and get it out of that truck. I 
  don't know why there would be blood there, but I do 
  know it's the last thing we want anywhere near 
  that…" 
  He fell silent as something caught his attention 
  off to the left. It had been lightning quick, and sub-
  tle, but something in the shadows had moved. Then 
  there was a rustle to the right, and he spun, angry 
  with himself for reacting like a scared child. There 
  was nothing. Nothing but a warehouse with shadow-
  
   
   
  96 
  DARKENED STREETS 
   
  lined walls and a bright, central light focused on his 
  prize.  
  Until the shadows began, very slowly, to move.  
  "Get out of there," he screamed. "Brandon, Li-
  sette!"  
  It was too late. Like a black wave the darkness 
  spilled over and around him, closing him off from 
  the truck and stifling sound. He whirled, reaching 
  out with his senses, seeking the source.  
  He completed a full three-hundred-and-sixty-de-
  gree turn, and McAndrew strode from the shadows, 
  smiling. The Lasombra hesitated, just for a moment, 
  offering a nod that might have been a mock bow. 
  "Good evening, Prince Ambrose," he said. "I am 
  very sorry to disappoint you about your cargo. It 
  seems that there was a detour along the way, hard to 
  avoid, really. There was quite the mess…and the 
  blood." 
  "Who are you?" Ambrose asked. He stood taller. 
  The Lasombra he faced was no childe, but neither 
  was he particularly powerful. Holding the intruder's 
  gaze, Ambrose flexed a little, testing the shadows. 
  He'd faced Lasombra before and he was familiar 
  with their shadowplay.  
  "I would be happy to explain it to you," McAn-
  drew said, but my identity is really not important." 
  There were shouts and screams off to the right, 
  where the truck was parked. Sounds of a battle rose 
  and fell away almost immediately. 
  "What do you want?" Ambrose said. "You know 
  this is my city. I have money, land, power…" 
  "Being a thief," McAndrew said, "I am a little 
  pained to say, nothing. I admit, we were curious, and 
  we wanted your cargo, but I believe I'll trade that in 
  for a front seat at the show." 
  The shadows between the two and the truck re-
  ceded. They pulled to either side like curtains, re-
  vealing the empty rear of the truck and its cargo, still 
  strapped in place. Dangling over the end of the 
  trailer, Brandon's body hung broken and bent. Li-
  sette was nowhere to be seen. Ambrose glanced over 
  to where Daniel had been sitting with his laptop. 
  There was nothing but a dark smear on the wall.  
  Ambrose spun back, but McAndrew was gone. 
  In his place, a taller, darker Kindred stood, regarding 
  him as if he was some sort of circus oddity. The 
  stranger's hair was very long, unfashionably so. He 
  actually wore a robe. His eyes were dark, and Am-
  brose felt the age, and the power, the way the shad-
  ows wrapped around his shoulders like a second 
  cloak. 
  "Let me introduce myself," the elder said. "My 
  name is Montrovant. I believe you had planned for 
  me to be an… exhibition. I am sorry to say that I 
  will only be here for one performance, and the audi-
  ence is small." 
  "I…" Ambrose could find no words. He turned 
  and tried to flee, but found himself wrapped in coils 
  of shadow like huge snakes, squeezing him so 
  tightly he felt his bones tremble. 
  Montrovant approached him slowly, circling 
  like a wild animal closing on its prey. Those dark 
  eyes never left him as the circles drew tighter.  Am-
  brose summoned every bit of will he possessed and 
  drove at the shadows. For just a moment, he felt a 
  loosening, and he thought he might break free. Then 
  strong hands gripped the side of his head, and 
  wrenched. He felt the bones in his neck snap, and 
  the sharp bite of fangs on his throat. 
  "You…were supposed to be dead." 
  There was no answer. 
   
  *** 
   
  Montrovant sat in the passenger seat of the Es-
  calade as they pulled away from the warehouse. 
  Rainey was tapping away at his keyboard, and Efrid 
  lounged beside him in back. McAndrew drove 
  steadily toward the edge of the city. 
  "Where to?" he asked. 
  Montrovant stared out into the darkness at the 
  glittering lights and tall buildings. He shook his 
  head.  
  "Let us go to a place where we can rest, and 
  plan," he said. "There are things that I must finish, 
  those that I must find and others I believe I would 
  enjoy sending to their final rest. For now? It is good 
  to be…here." 
  He turned to where Rainey was absorbed in 
  some search and cleared his throat. The Nossie 
  glanced up. "Do you think you could run a 
  search…on the location of the Grail? Old habits die 
  hard. I would dearly love to know if anything new 
  has turned up." 
  Rainey grinned, nodded, and returned to his 
  keyboard. 
  McAndrew nodded and turned north. They 
  needed to put miles behind them before anyone dis-
  covered that Raleigh was without its prince, and he 
  thought, just maybe, if they could keep their new 
  friend's existence a secret long enough, that things 
  were about to get very, very interesting. 
  
   
   
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SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Storyteller [multi]/EXTRA/Fiction/Storyteller Vault Fictiion/Darkened Streets - WoD - fiction  (with bookmarks) 11_12_2019.pdf