From the private journal of Joseph Anthony DiStefano, Prince of Philadelphia:
I’m beyond sick of Atherton and his Court of Failures. It seems like every few months another one of their fuck-ups rears its head and either tries to murder me or lay claim to my Praxis, saying that the City really belongs to them – and then I have to come heavy and do some .357 negotiating to show them just how wrong that assumption is. The other night, I find out that seven elders walked out of the Founder’s Night Massacre and that they think they DESERVE Praxis. They even sent some little asshat out to kill Quincy – in front of me. Now, I’m going to shoot Quincy right in his pretty face, but I’ll be good goddamned if I let anyone else put a bullet in him – he’s one of MY Citizens. That means that beating the snot out of him comes down to ME.
*
He’d shattered the coffee table with a single supernaturally strong punch, grabbing a suitable chunk of wood and hurling it at the renegade priest’s heart – a clear sign that negotiations were over and diplomacy was out the door. A moment after wood pierced flesh, the priest’s blood spouted, then erupted into ghostly flames, covering Joseph’s arms and chest, bringing a scream of pain hissing through his fangs as his skin started to bubble and burn. Next to him, the Beast flashed across Molly’s jade eyes, and the shotgun in her hands roared, buckshot pounding a wide pattern of holes in the priest’s torso – and again, the ghostly flames erupted, covering the voluptuous redhead. Joseph’s Beast ROARED as the flames burned his lover, but he forced down the red tide of frenzy, dark blue eyes flashing almost black in his fury. The priest blurred, disappearing into Celerity, running for the door; Molly and Joseph followed, a step behind each other, while Quincy ran, panicked, for the back door, trying to escape the elders that were hunting him. For Joseph, the moment he heard Molly’s cry of pain it had become personal, and he had no intention of retreating until her attacker was ashes brightening a sunrise. The new Lance, Wagner, who was doing well in his audition to be Sheriff, lashed out with whips made from his own blood, showing loyalty to Prince and City that would carry him far; his own speed matched Joseph’s as he moved with the two Princes and their assailant, the four crashing, brawling, out onto the lawn. The renegade priest, badly wounded, slipped into the safety of the soil, escaping his pursuers, and Joseph, mentally willing the olive skin of his arms and chest to reform, turned to Rainmond, the Ventrue Crone that had followed them outside.
“Find him, Raimond. I want him answering our questions tonight, before I stake him out for the sun.”
The Acolyte simply nodded, his eyes rolling back in his head until only the whites showed, his body going limp. Joseph turned to the rest of the Kindred, his mind working furiously as he snapped out orders. “Jeremy, find Quincy. Charles, check on Wagner. Frank-“ Joseph paused as Raimond’s usually calm voice cut in, tight with effort, his eyes still showing all white.
“Christian has him.”
Joseph blew out a hard breath, indulging in the habit of his breathing days. Christian. Sire, how do you find a way into everything? No wonder you drove Lydia half-mad. For everyone else, the Daeva put on a chilling smile.
“Excellent. Then my Sire and I will deal with him privately.”
Sire, I need to know how to fortify my soul against the things I must do for the Greater Good. I need to be a better student, regardless of how you feel about me. I’ll prove to you that I’m not a waste of your Blood.
Joseph’s moment of introspection was shattered by a thick-soled shoe smashing through the already battered front door, a loud, authoritative voice coming on the tail end of it as the door slammed against the wall.
“POLICE! EVERYONE DOWN ON THE FUCKING FLOOR! GET YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!”
You have got to be fucking kidding.
Three of Philadelphia’s finest burst into the room with guns drawn, and Joseph couldn’t suppress a smirk as Frank, the old Carthian boxer, hit the ground on his knees, hands behind his head. Molly disappeared around a corner while Jeremy and Charles played up their wounds, laying still and looking dead. Joseph stayed standing, facing down the drawn guns and the nervous, wide-eyed police behind them. I’m the apex predator of Philadelphia. I kneel to NO ONE. His Beast snarled in the cage of his mind, and he allowed himself a low growl before erupting into motion, his body moving too fast for mortal eyes to see as he grappled the closest cop. Jeremy and Charlie jumped into the fray as well, their wounds ignored, and the police were subdued in moments, unconscious on the floor – but still breathing.
“Raimond. Wake them up, scrub their minds, and then get them out of here. They probably called for backup, so we’ll need a wild goose chase. Lady Prince Maxwell, Mr. Huntington, you’re with me. One of you please grab Wagner’s body. The rest of you? The Republic thanks you for your service. Now get gone. I want this place empty in the next ten minutes.”
*
From the private journal of Joseph Anthony DiStefano, Prince of Philadelphia:
I knew that I’d see them together one night. I didn’t know it would be this soon, and I didn’t know how deep it would cut – but I knew it would have to be like this. Shirley Maye Tucker, when you’re with me, I’ll fuck everyone else out of your heart and mind. You’re MINE, just like I’m yours. MINE. Not his, not Courtney’s, no one else’s – whether you know it or not, your heart belongs to me, the way mine belongs to you: without the Bond. Two hearts, as one, with no sweet slavery to tie them together.
Joseph had made sure the gathering evacuated before joining Molly and her childe in the car; a few blocks away they’d pulled over, the redhead’s eyes tight with the strain of forcing down her Hunger, and he’d shared a glance with her before she turned, looking her childe in the eye. “You didn’t see this.” He turned away, discreet to a fault, as Joseph had offered Molly his wrist, then moaned softly at the exquisite agony of her fangs sinking into his flesh, her greedy, hungry mouth sucking the crimson from his dead veins. He’d finally pulled his wrist away, losing skin in the process, then given her the address that Christian had texted him a few minutes beforehand – a rundown basement apartment, part of the network of Havens maintained by the Philadelphia Carthian Movement.
Christian’s blood had woken Wagner from his torpor, and Joseph was turning to thank his Sire when he saw Molly in murmured conversation with Christian, her old lover. A few seconds later her fangs were in his throat, drinking intimately from the Carthian elder, and Joseph turned away, smiling pleasantly for Charles, making small talk as his Sire fed from Joseph’s; inside his mind the Beast was screaming, raging against the bars, and it felt like a white-hot knife was being slowly twisted widdershins in his heart, but he wouldn’t show the pain.
I always knew this would happen one day. I always knew it would hurt. Shirley Maye Tucker, I will make you mine. I will remind you of the vows we made, that our hearts are exchanged, equal, each to the other. YOU BELONG TO ME.
Joseph’s cold smile made Charlie’s eyebrows raise, but the Daeva Prince simply waved it off. This City is mine, and I am hers. Your Sire is mine, and I am hers. I give back for what I take – quid pro quo. For those that hurt us? I will give back fire, and blood, and sorrow. And I’ll do it on my terms.
Quid pro quo.
Joseph reached for his cell phone. There was a lot to be done.
