Leeks kept the envelope close, close as he could in the multiple layers he wore even in hot August nights like this. His stack of clothing helped to disguise him as one of the city’s many homeless, hiding his particular Sewer Rat afflictions. Amazing what a ratty pair of sweatpants and three or four hoodies could do to for inconspicuousness. Most would notice someone as hideous as he was, but few would go out of their way to pay any attention to one of the underclass. As he approached the Botanical Gardens’s entrance he noticed Carvel and swore. Leeks couldn’t recall whose ghoul he was, but Carvel had the physique of a bull and about the same level of smarts. “Sorry, private event tonight,” Carvel said in a tone that indicated he wasn’t sorry at all. “Check the guest list,” Leeks replied, pulling back two of his hoods to show his gray ashy skin and large eyes that practically bulged out of his head. Carvel took a step back and looked startled . “Ah yeah, you,” he said. “I still don’t think you’re on the list actually. Sorry.” “No worries, Carvel,” Leeks said. “You’re just doing your job.” Just like he was doing his. That was how you made if from one night to the next, making yourself useful enough but not so useful you appeared like you craved power. He fidgeted with the envelope a little more, hoping he wouldn’t crumple what was inside as he wandered over to the just behind a lamppost, and when he was sure he’d broken the view with the ghoul bouncer he willed the world to ignore him, even more than it usually did. Even after a decade of undeath he still couldn’t fully get used to walking around totally invisible. He took an extra five minutes to step very carefully past Carvel and opening and closing the door as cautiously as he could, and tiptoeing past the reception. It was only when the hot moist air hit his face that he let his guard down just a bit. Which was exactly when he felt a cold hand on his shoulder. * Yorke had spotted the Nosferatu as soon as he’d come in the room. He’d have to give Carvel a thorough talking to, but it couldn’t be helped. He was Jordan’s ghoul, or possibly Vander’s? Neither of them had the gifts of the second sight to pass onto those they shared their blood with. Or the manipulations of the blood which let him place a alarm just past the entrance to let only him know whenever anyone passed through. He reached out and placed his hand on the creature’s shoulder, and held back a smile when Leeks nearly jumped out of his skin. “You don’t belong here,” Yorke whispered. Though he didn’t share the power of hiding he knew it all the same, and knew that so long as one whispered they could still maintain their particular invisibility. He hoped he conveyed both a threat and an opportunity by not raising his voice. “Just what exactly has brought you to an Elysium you weren’t invited to?”Yorke asked. Leeks turned to face him, overlarge brow ridge and a jaw that seemed to want to go two places at once. For a Nosferatu he wasn’t the ugliest he’d seen. “I have a uhhh, got a package that needs to be delivered,” Leeks said. He looked back and forth, past the ferns to where Yorke knew most of the rest of the Kindred convened. “A regular HPS,” Yorke said. “Huh?” “Hive Postal Service,” he said and smiled. “Oh yeah, haha.” Leeks gave his own weak smile. “That’s a good one. But really, I should —“ “You should give the package to me,” Yorke said. “I’ve a good idea who it is for and will make sure it’s delivered.” “You don’t have to do that,” Leeks said. “I don’t wanna be trouble I just gotta —“ “Consider it rendering even the debt between us,” Yorke said. He’d helped to set up wards in an old abandoned service tunnel node the Nosferatu had said was his haven. Yorke was fairly certain it was a false haven to throw people off the scent, but he’d happily collected the boon. “That’s generous but I really gotta —” “Of course if you’re worried I will still retain such a minor boon over your head I can call a Herald over to witness the —“ “No no that’s okay,” Leeks said, almost loud enough to drop his mantle of concealment. He pulled a still rather pristine envelope from one of his many hoodies and placed it inYorke’s outstretched hand. “Just make sure it gets delivered to —“ “I will certainly,” Yorke said. “You should run along now. It’s unlikely but others may be keen enough to see you and report your presence here to the Prince.” Leeks was already heading out the door before he had time to finish his sentence. What had so sparked the Prince’s enmity toward that particular Hive that he was so afraid of her? Perhaps he’d find out soon enough. He placed the letter inside the inner pocket of his coat. He took a few moments to admire the finely tailored black suit and pants in his reflection of the glass pane. He’d forgone the cape when one of his younger colleagues said it made him look too ‘stage magician-y’. His clan had suffered no share of unearned humiliations in these nights. He was just entering the main atrium to join with the rest of the revelers when he bumped into a rather lovely in a low cut dress, and didn’t notice the all too quick movement her hand made toward his shirt pocket. * Belleflower didn’t catch who Yorke had been talking to, her keen senses didn’t extend in that sight beyond sight, thank Caine, but only an idiot could’ve missed that the Warlock was talking to someone and had taken something from them. And now she’d take it from him. Her fingers felt the familiar twitch, present since even her mortal days lifting purses and other valuables while on the Mississippi River steamboats while masquerading as a plantation belle. Undeath and the unnatural swiftness of her clan’s gifts had only refined her talents for purloining. The only impediment to her plans were, as always, the Kindred around her. Carlisle tried to pin her down in some loathsome conversation about art trafficking, trying to pry out information about the trade he insisted she possessed. But it proved useful to allow him to project his fantasies onto her, even if they weren’t of the usual depraved nature. She saw Allyana, or whatever name the Kook was sporting these nights, talking just loud enough to any unfortunate to be in earshot of the hidden symbolism of flowers using the plants nearby as examples. She wouldn’t be surprised if it were all hokum. And then there was Vander, and the cold dead way he stared at anything that displeased him, which was most things these nights. She held back a sigh. She couldn’t really blame them, not given where they were after all. Kindred were solitary predators stuck inside of the shells of social beings. Yorke was returning to them again, over to the clique that her own faction at court was deliberately trying to snub this evening for some reason she couldn’t recall. Going over to the clique once he’d joined them would only appear to be breaking ranks and thus showing her own weren’t a monolith, a sin so abhorrent it would land her the reputation as the ultimate betrayal for at least the next week. “You know, if you’re really serious about this,” she whispered, leaning closer to Carlisle and hopefully showing a bit too much down the length of her split cut dress, “I should really ask our own Primogen about this sort of thing. He has it on the most authority.” Carlisle’s eyes went wide and he began to sputter, knowing surely that whatever profit to be made from art trafficking would be given an enormous cut from the Primogen’s involvement, which she took advantage of to extricate herself and rush headlong toward, timing it exactly so that she bumped into Yorke. “My dear Yorke, I’m so sorry to have done that,” she said, smiling and hoping that the Warlock’s usual awkwardness around her held true this night. “It-it’s quite alright,” Yorke said, trying to avoid looking directly at her, “No matter our age and power, mistakes are bound to happen?” Was that an attempt at a dig at her? Oh she would have to punish him later she was sure. But for now she smiled, gave a small bow, and tried to not let the glee she felt show on her face as she turned away from him, her fingers tracing the paper contours of the envelope. The euphoria she felt at a heist well accomplished was all too short-lived, as the whole world about her grew silent, save for only a terrible voice that she wished with all her unbeating heart could’ve avoided for the rest of his unnatural existence. * Amira had noticed the letter’s arrival. Of course she had, the whole point of a Prince was to stay abreast of all within their domain and decide whether it was worth the effort to allow it or not. Most princes ruled through fear or love. Machiavelli, the little Florentine, practically wrote the handbook for sociopathic princes everywhere. But Amira always considered it a shallow comprehension. Fear or love were two emotions that faded with time, as all emotions did. Love was easily lost, and fear bred a resentment that pressed even the lowliest into striking back at their perceived oppressors eventually. Instead being Prince was about exercising balance. Justice as some in the western courts of the Camarilla saw it. So long as the totals added and evened and no outside agitators interfered, balance would keep the get of Caine in line. Which was why she couldn’t allow a hedonist like Belleflower to gain even a modicum of power through the envelope now in her possession. The Toreador was a manifestation of pure id, consumed with desires above her station. Amira would have had her executed already were it not for the fact that so many of Belleflower’s actions ended up appearing as the consequences others bore the burden of. Not tonight though. This part of scales would be set to right before they had a chance to throw her domain into chaos. Her clan had long favored powers of the blood that flooded a small area with silence. Many had used it to become peerless assassins. She found other uses for it though, especially paired with other disciplines that allowed her to still communicate with her chosen target. “Belleflower, how are we this evening?” she asked. The Diva’s eyes went wide as she looked about, unsure what had drawn her prince’s ire. “Fine, your grace. Perfectly fine.” “And yet we would be even finer if you were to give us what you possess,” Amira said. “Are you suggesting that I — Prince Amira, surely you’re joking,” Belleflower said. “You know in our courts here we cannot just —“ “I’m well aware of what I can and cannot do,” Amira said. She ignored the insult at her own heritage. “Are you aware of the power the Traditions hold for those who are proclaimed prince? Do you hold no respect for your sovereign? And do you not know I’m aware of that letter’s origin?” Belleflower paused, a deer in the headlights, as those about them took notice that she and the diva were speaking though they couldn’t hear the words. “Is that an order, my prince?” Belleflower said. Amira paused, not only to let her sweat a bit but also to consider the ramifications. The Toreador as a clan were fragmented but still the most populous in the city. She could ill afford risking Belleflower making trouble for her, worse still alienating the entire clan and have them throw in with the Ventrue or even worse the Lasombra. She felt the balance shift to a knife’s edge, and any wrong step tonight would throw the city into chaos months from now. “You have a park near to your haven, do you not?”Amira asked. “Highland View? Why yes, my prince but what --” “If you were to give me that in your possession, as a gift, I would highly think of making it Elysium. Of course with you so close by it would be the best choice to have you as its Keeper.” It would also serve as an anchor to keep her in place. Belleflower’s eyes went even wider. “My prince — I do not know what to say.” “Then let your actions be words,”Amira said and held out her hand. A moment later Belleflower slipped the letter into her grasp. Amira felt the smoothness of the envelope, the rough texture and the barely noticeable bits of dirt that had accumulated on its journey here. She left the main atrium, passing from the artificial humidity of the jungle room to one more suited to the arboreal flora. She opened the envelope carefully, read the letter twice, and knew precisely what had to be done. * Vander found himself more and more craving privacy these nights, even during social occasions such as Elysia. He’d grown tired of the nigh endless games and found his own company much preferable. The door to the boreal room opened and he looked over to see Amira had entered the room. He stared at the Banu Haqim as she made her way to him. He’d opposed her initial ascent, of course. No self-respecting Blue Blood would simply allow power to be wielded by those outside the clan uncontested. Yet he had to admit in the years since Amira had become prince that he’d grown rather impressed by her reign. She made compromise that did not weaken her positions, never grasped more power than she needed, and found a way to keep most of the Kindred in her domain contented if not content. Of course the very fact that she’d allowed him to hear her approach at all meant she wished to speak with him. It was important to admire the subtle touches, especially in these modern nights. “My prince,” he said, bowing his head. "I believe this is meant for you,” she said, passing over a worn envelope. He swiftly opened and read through it, then again to be absolutely sure. It was just as damning as he’d feared. The sect wars between the Anarchs and Camarilla was nowhere near as vicious as had been those between the Ivory Tower and the Sabbat decades past, yet the sins remained just the same. He read as the letter described how a hunter was collaborating with others, forming into a cell of other hunters, reaching out to government entities believed to be associated with the Second Inquisition. A hunter Vander had cultivated to sniff out and set fire to Anarch havens, a hunter he’d meant to use as a tool yet who’d gotten away from him. A hunter who he’d said was already dispatched. “You read through it, I assume,” he said. “It was in the best interest of the city,” she said. It was as close to an apology for the invasion of privacy as he was to get. “You could have my head for this,” he said after what seemed like a millenia had passed. “And your childer, your brood siblings, and likely your sire as well if she’d not already succumbed to the Beckoning,” Amira said. He almost wanted to swallow. Such as mortal gesture, after all the years. He could have even sworn his heart was racing. He found he wasn’t so worried at his own impending Final Death but that the reputation of his bloodline would be irrevocably tarnished, that truly hurt. “That you hid this for so long,” Amira said. “I was trying to deal with it,” he said, knowing his words were paltry excuses. “You have sinned. And for that I offer one last chance at atonement,” she said. “You have a week to deal with this. Any longer and I will be forced to take action to balance your oversight.” Vander would handle it of course. One had to in his clan or risk a loss of dignitas. Part of him relished the struggle to come, his brain racing for the first time of months plotting all the ways to deal with this. He tried to hide a smile. “You will not make me regret this,” she said. He wasn’t sure if it was a question or a command. “Of course, my prince,” he said. Perhaps he wasn’t so tired of the nightly games after all, he thought. He tore the letter into pieces as Amira left and dropped what bits remained into the soil beneath a conifer.