Character Sheet: Quinn Thompson
Appearance
Prelude

Journal Entries

Thursday, June 1st, 1995
Friday, June 2nd, 1995
Saturday, June 3rd, 1995
Sunday, June 4th, 1995
Tuesday, June 6th, 1995
Sunday, June 11th, 1995
Monday, June 12th, 1995
Friday, June 23rd, 1995
Saturday, June 24th, 1995
Monday, June 26th, 1995
Wednesday, June 28th, 1995

Name: Quinn Thompson
Player: John McGraw
Status: Removed for Inaction
Chronicle: Santa Cruz/Immortal
Nature: Cavalier
Demeanor: Caregiver
Residence: Apartment above shop
Age: ?
Sex: Male
Concept: Occult Investigator

ATTRIBUTES:
Physical: Strength-3, Dexterity-3, Stamina-4
Social: Charisma-3, Manipulation-2, Appearance-3
Mental: Perception-3, Intelligence-3, Wits-3

ABILITIES:
Talents: Alertness-3, Athletics-2, Brawl-3, Dodge-2, Empathy-1, Intimidation-2, Leadership-1, Streetwise-2, Subterfuge-2
Skills: Etiquette-1, Melee-5, Music-1, Stealth-3, Survival-1
Knowledge: Investigation-3, Linguistics (English/French/Russian)-2, Occult-4, Politics-1

ADVANTAGES:
Other: Quickening-4
Backgrounds: Allies-3, Arcane-1, Contacts-2, Resources-4
Merits & Flaws: Enemy (Giovanni) (-), Intolerance (Vampires) (-), Jack of All Trades (+), Nightmares (-), Occult Library (+), Ward

Faith-0
Humanity-?
Willpower-8

VIRTUES:
Conscience-1
Self-Control-1
Courage-1

Appearance: Quinn is a tall (6'2") athletic man with broad shoulders. Usually clean-shaven, Quinn's wavy brown hair is cut in a short conservative style, although the occasional rebellious cowlick rests on the forehead. His blue eyes can be warm and friendly one minute, and icily determined the next.
Quinn tends to dress in casual but clean "preppy" wear in everyday situtations and when he expects to be seeing clients. In situations where he expects danger, Quinn wears a black t-shirt with relaxed black jeans and doc martens boots. A faded brown trenchcoat completes the ensemble, which helps to conceal his katana.

Prelude:

Somewhere in time...

The sun's warmth washed over his body as he stepped out of the building into the light. Children played in the expanse of green field while their parents watched from picnic blankets in serene silence. Young lovers took full advantage of the peacefulness to further tender intimacies.
Quinn Thompson breathed in a lungful of clean air as he stood at the steps of the small church, the only building to be seen on the plain. A gentle breeze played with the diaphrinous robes encircling his tall, athletic frame, renewing him with a joyful sense of peace. Humankind was safe; surely it would be no crime to bask in the serenity of the moment.
Quinn's reverie was shattered by a deafening roll of thunder which shook the ground with its force. The people were knocked to the ground by the shockwave. Quinn could only watch in horror as a wave of jet black overtook the sky, crushing the spirit of those below.
Another roll of dark thunder erupted, tearing the earth asunder. The people fell into the abyss, their final screams obscured by the carnage around them. Soon only a precarious spindle of rock was left to support the church above the bottomless maw.
As Quinn caught his footing on the steps, a pair of blood-red eyes the
size of suns appeared in the sky.
YOU THOUGHT THEY WERE SAFE, the scathing voice of hell issued, BUT YOUR ASSUMPTION WAS THEIR UNDOING. SEE WHAT YOUR ARROGANCE HAS WROUGHT.
A final eruption of thunder sent the church into the abyss, drowning out Quinn's scream.

Thursday, June 1st, 1995. 4:53 a.m. Quinn's loft apartment. Santa Cruz.

Quinn awoke with a start, sweat dripping from his face and down his chest. It took a few seconds for his mind to register that he was in his new apartment, on the balcony which overlooked the main living space. The sun was just beginning to creep through the picture window, confirming the accuracy of the time displayed on the alarm clock's red LED display.
Quinn slicked a sweat-drenched cowlick back from his forehead as he threw the bedsheets aside and rose from the bed. There seemed little point in going back to sleep now; the same nightmare which had plagued him for the past six decades still had the power to unnerve him. Quinn strode over to an opened cardboard moving box and pulled out a pair of boxer shorts, which he proceeded to slide into. He then travelled over to the circular staircase connecting the balcony to the main floor and made his descent.
Quinn crossed the main floor over to the hallway and silently opened the first door on the right, looking in on Angela. The faint light of morning peeking through the single window illuminated her as she slept peacefully in her bed. A black Sisters of Mercy t-shirt clung to her young blossoming form, which Quinn took care not to linger upon for too long.
It had only been a year since Quinn had rescued Angela from her abusive father, who had been possessed by a minor demon. With the assistance of Father Lonnigan from Los Angeles they had managed to drive the demon away, but Angela's father had not survived the ordeal. Angela had no other family members, and so with the help of Father Lonnigan and some pull in the judicial system Quinn was given custody of Angela. Quinn was aware that the demon might come back some day, and someone had to be ready to protect her.
Satisfied that Angela was safe for the moment, Quinn closed her bedroon door and passed through the main living area, making his way to the far closet. He opened the closet door, reached inside and pulled out a finely crafted katana. Stepping over to an area unobstructed by packing boxes, Quinn unsheathed the blade in one lightning-fast motion, holding the scabbard in one hand.
*Time to get some practice in,* Quinn reflected, *No point in wasting the rest of the morning.*

April 16, 1928. 1:27 a.m. The Waterfront. New York City.

"I don't feel like wastin' the rest of the morning," remarked the thin-faced man as he lit a cigarette. Thin-face waved the match in the air to extinguish it, then tossed it over his shoulder into a dark corner of the warehouse. The tip of the cigarette glowed a hot amber as thin-face inhaled, the light playing strange tricks with the shadows on his face.
Detective John O'Shea did his best to concentrate his vision on the mobster's face and not the cigarette. His newly-blinded left eye still burned from the pain of thin-face's previous ministrations with a tobacco stick.
The rest of John's body had not fared well in the three hour ordeal either. Burns and cuts covered his face and torso, and his wrists bled from gouges made by the wire binding him to the wooden chair.
Thin-face drew the cigarette from his mouth, blowing smoke out of his nostrils.
"The only reason we came and got you outta your apartment was so I could ask a few simple questions." Thin-face accentuated his matter-of-fact tone with a slight shrug. "All you gotta do is answer 'em and everybody can go home. Just tell me who else you told about Mr. Scatucci's business interests."
John glared at thin-face with his one good eye. After putting him through the kind of torture he had been suffering through, he knew that the mob goon would never let him out alive.
John silently cursed himself for not leaking what he knew about the Scatucci family's illegal practices in controlling the city's construction unions to the press. The problem was, he knew that he didn't have enough damning evidence to send Umberto "Big 'Berto" Scatucci up the river even if he did tell the press. He had to do more digging to shut down the Scatuccis for good.
Unfortunately, someone in the police department must have leaked information about John's investigation to the Scatuccis. His reputation as a "crusading cop" must have made them forego the usual route of bribery and go straight to kidnapping. He didn't stand a chance when he was jumped by the trio of mob muscle outside of his brownstone apartment.
John's train of thought was interrupted by a long sigh emanating from thin-face.
"You don't want me to use you like an ashtray again, do ya cop?"
John spit out a stream of crimson saliva at thin-face, spattering the lapel of his suit.
"Why don't you run back to the big man, little fish," John managed to
hiss. "I have nothing to say to you."
Thin-face stared down at his lapel, then turned a burning glare towards John. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a revolver, cocking back the hammer with his thumb. John felt the cold circle of the revolver's barrel as it was placed against his forehead.
"Suit yourself, cop. Have fun in hell."
John's world exploded in a ball of blinding fury.

April 16, 1928. 4:27 a.m. The bottom of New York Harbor.

John floated into consciousness and found himself inside a world of
darkness. John swished his arms around, trying to find a place of purchase, something solid to orient himself to. His legs were bound, and he found that he was submerged in a large body of liquid. Instinctively he gasped for air, flooding his mouth and lungs with water. Frantically he tried to swim up using his arms as his chest constricted, but he was held fast by whatever was binding his legs. After what seemed like and eternity of struggling, John let his tired arms float uselessly beside him.
It was then that he realized he wasn't drowning.
John drifted for a few seconds, unsure of what to do. Tenatively, he took a small gulp of water, inhaling it into his lungs. The sensation was somewhat bloating, but other than that he was perfectly fine. Soon, he began breathing in a regular pattern. Whatever vestiges of panic he had left washed away with his amazing discovery. John reached down to feel around his ankles, finding that they were bound with chain to a lump of concrete. Working slowly and diligently in the dark water, John freed his legs and swam straight up. After about a minute of swimming, John burst through the surface of the water. He looked around and saw the lights of the city some distance off, a beacon in the watery night.
It was then that the full memories of the night's experiences came back to him. He raised a hand to his forehead, half expecting to find a bullethole there. He was amazed and relieved to find out that his skull was in perfect condition. He also realized that he had sight in both of his eyes as well.
*Either this is the afterlife,* John mused, *or God has some reason for keeping me alive and well.* If the latter was true, then going back to the precinct was definitely out of the question. He didn't know who the leak was, and showing up at work when the mob thought you were on the bottom of New York Harbor would not be a good thing to do.
John swam back to shore as he considered his situation. God probably hadn't kept him around because he was a saint - he wasn't that devout a Catholic, despite his good church attendance. If God had a purpose for a police detective with knowledge of the seamy underside of life, it was probably something that wasn't entirely "pure" in method, even if the end was good. After all, even the Almighty had dirty work to take care of once in a while.
One thing that John did know was that the Scatuccis thought he was dead. All he would have to do was to take on a new identity and strike at the criminal element as he saw fit. He could fight the Scatuccis on his own terms, without the restraint of law to protect them from justice. It would only be a matter of time before "Big 'Berto" and his empire were crushed for good.

January 3, 1929. 11:37 p.m. A street in Brooklyn.

Jimmy Conlon, small-time criminal and occasional "runner" for the Scatucci numbers racket, walked home at a brisk pace, the snow crunching under his shoes. Despite his heightnened state of alertness that night, Jimmy was startled by a pair of strong, gloved hands that grabbed the front of his workjacket and pulled him into a dark alleyway. The wind was knocked out of his lungs as he was slammed backward into the alley wall.
"Happy New Year, Jimmy." Jimmy recognized the muffled voice with the texture of gravel, even before he could see the trenchcoated silhouette.
"Oh Jesus..." Jimmy managed in a hoarse whisper. "Shroud? Not now, man, not now..."
A face, covered by a black gas mask and fedora, leaned forward out of the night.
"There's been some rumbling about a new man in town," the Shroud
continued. "Talk."
"Okay, okay," Jimmy squeaked, sweat forming under his winter hat. "There's supposed to be some guy from the old country making some policy changes in the Scatuccis."
"Name."
"I don't remember... Geo-something-or-other. They said they were gonna take care of you, Shroud..."
A low, rumbling chuckle emanated from beneath the mask.
"The Scatucci family has tried to kill me before. Every time, I have come back to make sure they do penance for their crimes."
"Yeah, but... they say they know how to take care of you permanently." Jimmy gave the Shroud a pleading look. "You gotta let me go. I think they guessed I'm a source of info for you. If they see me with you I'm dead..."
The Shroud snapped his head to the mouth of the alleyway, alerted by the sound of crunching snow. Unfortunately, the warning came too late.
The cold night air was broken by the harsh stacatto of automatic gunfire. Jimmy and the Shroud writhed as their bodies were lanced with dozens of bullets. Jimmy's limp body slid down the wall of the alley, leaving a crimson trail in its wake. The Shroud fell to the alley floor, his trenchcoat peppered with bloodstained holes.
John cursed himself for a fool as he tried to lift himself up. His immortality and the mystique he generated as the Shroud had gotten to his head and made him careless. He had been severely wounded in attempts on his life before, but he had never been so injured that he couldn't escape and heal up in a few hours. Now he had lost his main source of information and he had nowhere to run.
A pair of men dressed in fedoras and trenchcoats stepped from the mouth of the alleyway, their tommyguns shining a dull grey in the moonlight. They both stepped over to John's prone form.
"Not so tough now, are you masked man?" The first man chuckled at his own comment as the second nervously scratched at the stubble on his chin.
The first man reached into his trenchcoat and pulled out a sharpened wooden stake. Heaving it over his head with both hands, he plunged the stake into John's back. John's chest screamed with pain as his heart was pierced by the deadly implement. It was too painful for him to even move.
"Okay Aldo, let's go," the stubble-faced man uttered with a nervous twinge in his voice.
"Jesus, Vince. Don't you know nothing about taking care of these guys?" Aldo reached into his jacket again, this time pulling out an unimpressive booklet of matches. "You got the bottle?"
Vince patted down his trenchcoat, reached in and surreptitiously pulled out a small container of kerosene. Aldo snatched away the container.
"Sometimes, Vince," Aldo quipped as he opened the container, "I wonder what the hell Mr. Scatucci was thinking when he promised to make you a 'made man' for helping me out."
John stifled a scream as the kerosene washed over him and creeped into the numerous holes in his body. The pouring stopped, and he could do nothing as Aldo lit the match and threw it on him. The alley echoed with John's terrible howling as he experienced being burned alive.

January 4, 1929. 1:57 a.m. The Scatucci "stronghold." New York City.

Anastasio Giovanni sipped the last drops of blood from the goblet. With a slight, tight-lipped grin, he placed the goblet on the finely carved oak desk and reclined in his leather chair.
"As always, Umberto," Anastasio commented, "You provide a good meal."
Umberto "Big 'Berto" Scatucci nodded quickly, peeling his eyes away from the pair of withered corpses on Anastasio's left. Aldo and Vince's glassy stares seemed to be aimed right at him. Unfortunately for them, they knew too much about the Kindred and they were too low on the ladder to be allowed to live. Well, better that their throats were slit rather than his own, Umberto thought. Anastasio had a reputation for drinking mortal blood as if it were cheap wine - voraciously and often.
"Your direction was a great help, Mr. Giovanni," Umberto noted, trying to switch the subject. "The Shroud has... was a thorn in our side for months."
Anastasio lifted his left hand to his face, gazed at his long fingernails, then turned a cold stare to Umberto.
"You really shouldn't have required my assistance, Umberto. A costumed mystery man shouldn't be a problem, even if he is a lunatic Malkavian or meddling caitiff." Umberto shrunk his well-fed body into his chair at Anastasio's harsh punctuation on "caitiff." Anastasio continued.
"You should have realized what he was after he came back from all of your attempts to destroy him. Bullets won't keep one of the Kindred down forever."
Umberto tried to steel himself under Anastasio's withering gaze.
"But Mr. Giovanni, we thought he might be a ghoul, like..."
"Like you, Umberto?" Anastasio let out a cold, humorless laugh. "My blood may make you stronger than any mortal and keep you from aging, but you can die by violence just like anyone else. The same is true for anyone who drinks the vitae of our kind. If this Shroud was a ghoul, your attempts would have snuffed the life from him long ago."
Anastasio grabbed the goblet with a pale, bony hand, playing with it as he fascinated over its inlaid gold patterns.
"In any case, consider yourself a very fortunate man, Umberto. The Shroud will trouble the Scatuccis no longer."
The double doors to the office were rudely slammed open, drawing the attention of both mortal and vampire. An apparition dressed in a black trenchcoat, gas mask and fedora stood in the doorway.
"I have come to purge your evil from this place, Scatucci. Prepare to face the judgement of God."
From the folds of his trenchcoat, the Shroud pulled out a pair of
automatic pistols. Umberto didn't even have time to beg for mercy before the bullets slammed into his body, snatching the life from him in a brutal instant.
John turned his gaze to the tall, thin man behind the desk, smoking automatic pistols at the ready. The man stared back with eyes as cold and grey as his silvery hair.
"I should have suspected that Umberto's henchmen would have blundered. No matter - I will destroy you myself."
Anastasio's eyes seemed to glow with power; for a second, John was almost seduced by their hypnotic quality before he instinctively pulled his eyes away from the monster's gaze.
John heard a rush of air, and without warning he was knocked off his feet by a powerful blow to his jaw. He slammed back into a bookcase, knocking most of its contents on top of him. Before he could orient himself, he was lifted off the floor by a powerful pair of hands.
"Obviously you have not taken the time to master any of your disciplines," Anastasio remarked. "You are a poor excuse for one of your kind." Anastasio brought John's masked face closer to his own. "Tell me, were you sired by a Brujah whore in a back alley somewhere?"
John caught his breath just as he was thrown across the room into the oak desk, shattering it to pieces. He felt his left forearm break under his weight and momentum; the pain was nothing compared to what he suffered through last night, but nonetheless he was forced to stifle a whimper.
Anastasio stared at John's prone form, a look of astonishment appearing in his eyes.
"My senses tell me that you are not of the Kindred, but a mere Kine. Either you are a great trickster, or Umberto was truly a fool to think that he had killed you several times before."
John slowly regained his feet, his left arm hanging limp.
"I'm on a mission from God, monster," John growled, "Ultimately, you're going to lose."
Anastasio laughed coldly, looking down his nose at the vigilante.
"If my hundred years of damned existence has taught me anything, it is that God is a weak fool. You shall see that when I send you to him personally."
Anastasio became a blur of motion, just as John pulled out a large shard of the desk's oak from behind him. He plunged the shard into the onrushing vampire's chest, and a large spurt of blood covered his forearm.
Anastasio's face was frozen in a mask of agony as he fell backward, crashing to the ground. John watched the vampire for a minute to confirm his immobility, then sat back down in Anastasio's chair.
"Your henchmen had loose lips," John commented, looking over at Aldo and Vince's corpses. "With their words and what they did to me, I suspected that there was a vampire or someone posing as a vampire involved. When you've been dealt fatal wounds that you survive time after time, a gothic monster isn't all that hard to believe in."
John raised himself from the chair and walked over to the cabinet by the shattered desk. Opening it, he found a bottle of whiskey with a decent alcoholic percentage. He took it away with his operable hand.
"The Scatucci mob is through. The guards were easy to take out one by one with a bit of stealth and liberal application of chloroform - no one expects the Shroud when he's supposed to have been destroyed. I suspect that I'll have all the evidence I need to put the rest of the family behind bars."
John smashed the neck of the bottle on the edge of the cabinet, breaking off the top.
"First things first, however - time to take care of you."
John walked back over to Anastasio, whose eyes were now filled with immortal terror.
"When I destroyed the Scatucci mob, I thought that my purpose on earth would be fulfilled." John poured the bottle's contents over the immobile vampire. "But your very existence has showed that there is evil out there even greater than the mob bosses."
John tossed the empty bottle aside, then reached inside his coat and pulled out a book of matches. He gingerly pried a match out with his good hand.
"I expect that I will continue to live until I have destroyed all the Kindred and whatever other evil exists out there. But I won't do it as the Shroud anymore - that method attracts far too much attention."
John struck the match on the wall, sparking it to fiery life.
"Rest assured you will be only the first of many evils I will send back to hell."
John dropped the match on Angelo's alcohol-soaked form and stepped back to witness the vampire's funeral pyre.

October 23, 1937. 12:24 a.m. New Orleans. The French Quarter.

The man now known as Dennis Carr made his way through the crowds in the sweaty French Quarter, the sounds of reverie wafting down Bourbon Street. Jazz music poured out of the clubs lining the street, and "working girls" slowly girated to the music in the entranceway of the occasional house of ill-repute. The scent of alcohol was prevalent on virtually everyone that passed by.
Dennis Carr had changed a fair bit since he was known as John O'Shea. He had grown his brown hair past his shoulders and tied it back into a ponytail. He also sported a full beard and mustache which concealed his features rather well. However, he still looked like a man in his late twenties, despite being thirty-eight and having spent over a fifth of that lifetime combatting the supernatural.
Dennis had learned much about the hidden world in his years of wandering across North America. Werewolves existed in the wilderness which man thought it had conquered centuries ago. Manipulators of magic walked among unawakened men. A number of encounters had taught him that not all of these creatures were intent on evil - indeed, most of the werewolves he met apparently fought against such evil, which they referred to as "the Wyrm." He realized that these shapeshifters could be potential allies if he were able to learn more about them.
But now was not the time to slip into reverie; he had a purpose for being in New Orleans. According to a local contact, a form of ritual killing had taken place in St. Louis cemetery; a man was found decapitated by the local police. No identification was found on the man, but a sword dated back to the Civil War was found in his grasp. This, however, was apparently not the murder weapon, according to forensic tests.
What was of particular interest to Dennis was the testimony of several local witnesses, who claimed that a sudden lightning storm broke out around the same time that the murder was estimated to have taken place. There were no clouds in the sky during that time, but the witnesses swore by their statements. Interestingly enough, there was considerable damage surrounding the body that could have been caused by an electrical storm...
A sudden jolt of heightened awareness washed over Dennis, instantly snapping him out of his train of thought. He had experienced this feeling only a few times before - it had allowed him to solve a difficult mystery or gain advanced warning of an ambush. The intensity of those "jolts", however, paled in comparison to this one.
Dennis looked over the crowd to the entrance of a cathouse. A man who had been holding a conversation with one of the residents a moment before was now unmistakably looking directly at him. His red hair was cut short, but he sported a thick beard. His large frame was covered with a dark trenchcoat. His eyes seemed to pierce through Dennis' soul... Dennis knew that this was the killer.
As Dennis began to make his way through the mass of revelers, the man turned around and went inside the building. Dennis managed to push his way through the crowd and reached the doorway, brushing past the prostitute standing there.
The doorway opened onto a staircase, the only entrance into the building from Bourbon street. He could hear the man's footsteps stomping up the steps at a rapid pace, so he followed in hot pursuit. After passing two floors, Dennis reached an open doorway that led out onto the roof of the building. The killer was standing several feet away from him, a sword of oriental make held in a two-handed grip. The man spoke in a deep, baritone voice with a hint of a Russian accent.
"I believe in a fair fight, you who were once known as John O'Shea. Draw your sword."
Dennis stared back at the man, unsurprised by the revelation of the Russian's knowledge.
"If you know who I am, then you know you can't kill me."
The Russian stared back at Dennis in disbelief, then let out a hearty laugh.
"One who has not tasted another's quickening! Rest assured, man, whatever you have survived in the past, you'll lose your life if I lop off your head."
Dennis warily began to circle the man, sensing the truth in his words and suddenly wishing he had a sharp implement of his own.
"Who are you?" Dennis asked, hoping to bide for some time.
"I was once a Captain in the Russian Navy. Thirty years ago my ship was sunk in a fierce battle with the Japanese. All the crew were lost except for myself - I managed to survive the incident, despite being near the center of an explosion on deck. Like you, I am immortal." The Captain, sensing Dennis' movement, began circling as well.
"Are there others of our kind?" Dennis grabbed a loose pipe lying on the ground. Any weapon would be of some use to block a sword blow.
"Yes, there are. I ran into one in Japan shortly after washing on shore there. He was hundreds of years old... he taught me all about our kind, we who fight for the Prize. This is the time of the Gathering, and we will fight until there is only one left." The Captain sliced the air with a few practice blows, trying to unnerve Dennis.
"What is 'the Prize?'" Dennis eyed the Captain's sword warily. Evidently, he had a certain degree of expertise with it.
"None of us know... no one will ever know until there is only one left." The Captain broke into a charge, his sword extended in front of him. Dennis was forced to leap to the side to avoid being impaled on the blade. He rolled on the ground, coming up in a battle-ready stance facing the Captain. The Captain whirled about, ready to strike another blow.
The Captain advanced once again, lashing out with a series of lightning-fast strikes. Dennis blocked the majority of them with the pipe, sparks leaping from each contact of metal on metal. One blow got through, and Dennis suffered a wicked slash across his right forearm. Fortunately the blow was a glancing one; the cut drew blood and sang with pain but it was still operable.
The Captain swung in a wide arc aimed straight for Dennis' neck. Dennis managed to duck the blow with less than one inch to spare. The Captain's attempted decapitation made him overextend, giving Dennis the opening he needed. Jumping back up to a standing position, Dennis slammed the pipe down on the Captain's grip, knocking the blade out of his hands. The sword clattered on the ground.
The Captain attempted to reach for his blade, but Dennis lashed out with a swift blow to the head, crushing the man's nose in a fountain of blood. The stunned Captain staggered back, and Dennis kicked the inside of his knee, breaking his kneecap and dropping him to the ground. The Captain howled in rage and pain as he rolled about.
Dennis grabbed the Captain's sword and slashed downward with a powerful stroke. The Captain's head rolled away from the body towards the edge of the roof.
As Dennis stood, sword in hand, he heard a gentle breeze go by. Gradually, the breeze began to grow in intensity, and Dennis noticed that the Captain's body was glowing. As the wind built up to a compact hurricane, the Captain's body levitated into the air, bolts of energy leaping from it in all directions.
That was when the power rushed through him. The intensity was indescribable... a sense of limitless power overtook him. The sword clattered heedlessly to the ground as Dennis lost himself in the quickening, his eyes closed in ecstacy.
The energy rushed to encompass Dennis' body. Below, the patrons began screaming as neon signs exploded and the wind tore at them ferociously. A storm of frightening intensity broke out, with Dennis and the Captain at the nexus.
All of a sudden, it ended. Dennis collapsed to his knees, newfound knowledge rushing through his head. He found himself thinking in Russian, even though he had never been exposed to the tongue. He also felt stronger, in some way which he could not describe but which he was fully aware of nonetheless. He noticed that the cut on his arm was gone, even though it would normally have taken a wound like that several minutes to heal in the past.
Dennis rested a moment to allow the knowledge he had gained to sink in. He now knew that he was not unique - hard as it was to believe, it seemed that he was not a tool of God. His destiny was not to protect man from supernatural evil, but rather to fight others of his kind for 'the Prize,'and he didn't even know what it was. This went against all that he had believed in for the past eight years.
But what if he chose to make his own destiny?
He could simply choose to continue to combat the evil that threatened to crush mankind and ignore the Gathering. If other immortals sought him out, he could fight them and use their quickening to expand his abilities in combatting the supernatural. If he ended up winning "the Prize," then perhaps he could use it to protect mortals.
Renewed with a newfound sense of hope, Dennis picked up the Captain's sword. He then searched through the Captain's trenchcoat and found a scabbard inside. Dennis sheathed the blade and, desiring to remain inconspicuous, wrapped the trenchcoat around the weapon. He then made his way down the staircase, walking past the shellshocked people on Bourbon Street.

Thursday, June 1st, 1995. 6:12 a.m. Quinn's loft apartment. Santa Cruz.

Quinn's kata was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. He noted that he had been practicing for well over an hour without realizing it - it was amazing what nearly sixty years of training could do for you. Quinn sheathed the blade and made his way to the door. Peering through the peephole, he saw that Madame Kuska had come to pay a visit. Quinn opened the door for his friend.
"Hello, Madame." Quinn exclaimed. "It is good to see you once again."
"Hello yourself, Quinn." The older woman glanced appreciably at his boxer-clad form. "I think I have some clothes to wash - mind if I borrow your stomach?"
Quinn came to the sudden realization about his current state of dress. He decided to get out of the situation as gracefully as possible.
"If you will make yourself comfortable, I'll run upstairs and make myself more presentable, Madame."
"Don't worry about it," Madame Kuska remarked. "I just came to let you know that I let myself in the shop early to take inventory."
Quinn nodded at the tidbit of information. After decades of wandering around the country fighting the hidden powers of evil under several names, Quinn had decided to settle in Santa Cruz. He wasn't sure of the exact reason why, but he had been hit with another "jolt" of intuition when he passed by Santa Cruz while driving home to Los Angeles. That was reason enough to spend a decade or two in the city.
He had only been in town for a few days, and as fortune would have it he found a large loft apartment over an empty storefront. Using the considerable resources he had accumulated in his lifetime, Quinn leased both spaces and decided to open an occult shop below. Due to his profession, the occult was one of his areas of expertise and he had
accumulated a vast library devoted to various subjects in the field.
Of course, he planned to take great care with what he sold. Most of the materials were purely theoretical in nature or dealt in very mundane magick. However, he would allow access to rarer materials for those who sought them. This would allow him to keep a tab on those who sought to access rare power, especially those who might use it for evil.
Madame Kuska happened to be a local fortune-teller whom he ran into about a week ago on the beach. She had the perfect flair to work as the "front man" for The Hidden World shop. In addition, Quinn could run a private "occult investigation" agency for those who might need it. That last bit of business would be advertised through word of mouth only.
"All right, Madame. I'll see you downstairs in about an hour."
Madame Kuska smiled as she descended the staircase. Quinn closed the door and made his way over to the bathroom to take a shower. One thing about being immortal was that sweat from exercise and bad dreams still made you smell.

Thursday, June 1st, 1995 12:22 p.m.

Quinn bustled to unpack the new shipment and get it on the shelves. Looking over the packets of grave dust, brought in from his haunts in New Orleans, Quinn had to chuckle. Though he didn't really want to stock such superfluous stupidity, he had already decided that he should offer something different from the other two occult shops in town. The main competitor, if you could call it that, was Anubis Warpus, which was run by some a Polish immigrant, who called himself Dr. Zinovyev. Since A & W offered tattoos and body piercing also, it tended to draw a decidedly downscale crowd of goths, bikers and punks and it was well situated on the downside of the Mall, right across the street from the Taco Bell. On the upper end was Jack's Fix-It Shop. It was a synthesis of antique appliance store and occult shop, a combination that could survive only in Santa Cruz. Despite its quirky name, Jack's offered books and paraphernalia that rivalled both Anubis Warpus and Quinn's own The Hidden World Shop. Fortunately, Jack's preoccupation with art deco appliances took up enough floor space that there wasn't much left over for the occult. And as for Anubis Warpus, it's stock took a decidedly darker turn than what Quinn liked to stock, grave dust aside. He had rejected the supplier of many of the books on poisons, ritual sacrifice and suicide and such that drew so many young people to Anubis Warpus. From the short time he had been open, he could see that the more mature as well as conservative and better dressed summer stay overs from U.C.S.C. tended to investigate his wares. Jack in turn was plagued by New Agers looking for more sources of healing or energy crystals.
Quinn heard the bell on the front door ring and Madame Kuska greet a new visitor. A young voice was heard to inquire whether they had any grave dust. Quinn had to smile.

Thursday June 1st 8:21 p.m.

The bell rang and Quinn realized that Madame Kuska had forgotten to lock the door when she had left.
Quinn called up from the stairway, "I'm sorry, we're closed." Obviously whoever it was hadn't bothered to read the closed at seven-thirty sign either. Quinn listened, but did not hear the bell or any sound of a opening and closing door. Warily, he kept his sword and pistol nearby as he walked up from the basement storage area. He stopped when he registered the tingling sensation that told him that another of his kind was near. Unsheathing the katana, Quinn danced catlike up the steps, ready for any thrust coming from unseen quarters. Nothing happened as he neared the top, so he breathed steady, meditating on the coming battle. Just before he was going to leap out ready to attack, he heard a voice calling out,
"Hello? Where are you?" It was a woman's voice. She sounded like she was near the front counter.
Jack peeked out from the basement door. He could see her over the counter. She was tall, and had blonde hair covered by a black beret that didn't seem to go with her flower print summer dress and rattan handbag. She was looking around as if expecting to see him.
"Hello?" she called out again.
"How can I help you," Quinn's voice startled the young woman and she jumped. Quinn kept his distance, wary at her appearance and he watched her keenly for any sign of subterfuge or the sudden appearance of a hidden weapon. Despite his careful scrutiny, the young woman seemed very much alone and unarmed.
"Oh, Christ!" The woman put her hand over chest, trying to calm the beating of her hear. "You scared me," she accused him.
Quinn stared hard at the woman. If she was an Immortal, what was she doing in his shop? And what was she doing unarmed? Didn't she know that he could take her Quickening from her. She was practically begging him to do so.
She smiled. She was rather attractive Quinn noted, though that fact seemed to make him more wary for some reason. "I'm sorry. I know you're closed, but I just had the queerest desire to come in here for some reason. I can't explain it," she offered it almost as an apology. "I've just got this feeling in my head and it won't go away."
"I'm sorry, but we're closed," he reiterated, keeping up his semblance of a shop owner.
But she ignored him, going on, "It's like a buzzing and it seems to get stronger when I got near to your shop. I don't know what it means, but it's like I was meant to come here."
Quinn took a deep breath. It seemed Fate was offering him a young apprentice, but he still was wary of her. How many times had he ever heard that Quickening had manifested in a non-warriour? Never, he thought. He had never heard of Quickening becoming apparent in a, he used "civilian" for lack of a better term, and certainly women Immortals were rare. Was this a sign of later times now that Connor MacLeod had won the Prize and set off the second cycle?
"Do you know what I'm talking about?" the woman asked him. She looked at him for a response but since he just stood there staring at her, she paused as if to try and scope Quinn out. After a while she offered her hand. "I'm Jenny Hirschorn," she told him. "I'm from Colorado and I'll be studying up at U.C.S.C. next fall."
He shook her hand weakly, still not saying anything.
Finally, Jenny just gave up trying and shook her head. "I'm sorry, I think I made a mistake. I'll be leaving now." Incredulous, she turned and started to walk for the door. Her neck was long and pale white, bad traits for an Immortal.
"Wait," he called after her. "Would you like to go for some coffee?"

Thursday, June 1st 10:10 p.m.

"I'm a what?" Jenny's mouth opened and her eyes just about bugged out as Quinn finished telling her what she was. He really hadn't wanted to, but with the recent killings and findings of headless bodies, he felt that she had to know what she was if she was to have any chance to survive. Others, having had the chance he had, wouldn't have hesitated at the offer of easy Quickening.
"I'm sorry, Quinn, but I don't buy your Occult, uh, well let me just say it - bullshit." Summing this up, she nodded her head and looked around, obviously embarrassed and not wanting to make eye contact with him.
In his turn, Quinn felt backed into a corner. How could he convince her what he said was true?
"I'd better go." Jenny told him, getting up from her chair. "Thanks for the coffee. It's beeninteresting."
"Look, maybe we can get together later," he offered.
"Don't bother," she told him brusquely. "Next time, I'm paying attention to signs in windows."
He struggled, trying to think of what to say next. By that time she had left the Jahva House altogether and had disappeared down Center Street.

Friday, June 2nd, 1995 12:13 a.m.

Jennifer Kenora Hirschorn turned off her T.V. Her room continued to vibrate with the sounds of the party in the condo below her. No doubt some of the other residents on Beach Hill would soon be calling the cops and the party would shut down. It was a summertime ritual all over Santa Cruz and she had gotten used to it. Last week, it had been her party, so she couldn't complain.
The tingling hit her again while she was washing her face. She didn't know if it was what that weirdo Quinn had told her or just blind instinct, but she took out her can of pepper spray from her purse and held it ready.
But no one could be ready when the Shroud came upon them. Feeling a little theatric for resurrecting aspects of his old persona, Quinn had scaled the condo wall and settled down into the balcony, blending into the grey stained siding. He hoped his Arcane would be enough to masque his movements. Looking over his shoulder, he noted a young blond man dressed in fancy clothes, cummerbund included, emptying trash into a dumpster in the yellow Victorian next to Jenny's condo complex. Jenny's balcony looked right down on the Victorian's backyard. Quinn ducked down but the man seemed oblivious and soon disappeared back into the back of the house. One of the dogs in the house though continued to bark at him. Arcane would only go so far it seemed.
The tingling was strong, so Quinn knew that Jenny was nearby. In fact, she even obliged him by unlocking the sliding glass door on the patio and coming out onto it, looking about and carrying some small spray cannister in her hand. Before she knew what hit her, Quinn was upon her. He grabbed her mouth before she could scream and pushed her down onto futon bed, open on the floor. Pulling off his masque, he saw the look of surprise on her face as she recognized him. Then, he pulled out his sword, the katana's mirrourlike blade reflecting stabbing light into Jenny's eyes. She tried to scream and kick free, but Quinn held her tight, taking several well placed kicks to his midsection. Jenny might have broken free, but Quinn got down to business. He stabbed her right through the heart. She screamed through his hand as the blood spurted out of her riven chest cavity. Not content, Quinn stabbed her a few more times, noting the pained terrour in Jenny's eyes. Then, taking his hand from her mouth, he heard her try to speak, blood gurgling in her throat. Then he hacked off her arms in two well placed strokes.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to her as she lay dying on her bed, "but it was the only way. I'll be waiting." He locked her bedroom door and closed the curtains to give her privacy.
He left quickly the way he had come. The bloody wreckage of her room a testament to the violence of his attack. He headed back to his own place. He knew she would come in time. Her time for learning had only just begun. With him as a teacher, maybe one more Immortal would walk the path toward the light.

*Her blonde hair floated around her slender pale shoulders as she stood before him. She was clad in a white translucent robe that barely concealed her form. Her eyes, the shade of emeralds, gazed innocently at him.*
*"What is your name, friend?" she asked, unaware of her impending doom.*
*"Turn around!" Quinn yelled. "Look out behind you!"*
*The woman laughed, her mirth the sound of wind chimes. She remained blissfully unaware of the encroaching darkness behind her.*
*"Don't be silly; There is nothing to fear. Why don't you come to the field with me?" She extended a hand out to him as a blade suddenly appeared from the shadows. Hovering in the air, it shined with a cold, hard brilliance.*
*Quinn continued to plead with the woman, but she ignored his warnings. The blade swung through the air, slicing through her neck in one swift motion. Her head bounced and rolled forward as her body crumpled to the ground, coming to a rest at his feet. Her eyes peered straight up at him, a silent cry for help forever etched on her face.*
*A deep, rumbling laughter pulled Quinn's gaze from the horrifying sight of her remains. Before him stood the Russian Captain he bested in New Orleans. His hair was made of fire that danced about his face.*
*"You cannot help her, John O'Shea. She will feed another as I fed you." The Captain's laughter suddenly shifted, taking on an icy, mirthless tone. The Captain himself began to change, becoming taller and losing bulk. His beard receded and his fiery hair died down, changing into a cold grey.
Anastasio Giovanni bored through Quinn's soul with blood-red eyes.*
*"And then we will come for your soul," Anastasio hissed.*

Friday, June 2nd, 1995. 5:13 a.m.

Quinn snapped up from his bed, eyes wide open and sweat pouring down his face. Angela jumped back from the edge of the bed, letting out a tiny yelp of surprise.
Quinn, becoming aware of his surroundings, relaxed his muscles while Angela brushed her long brown hair aside from her face, her hands still shaking from the rush of adrenalin.
"Damn it Quinn, you scared me!" Angela clenched her hands at her sides, trying to keep them from shaking. Quinn wiped the sweat from his face with one hand while he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
"I'm sorry, Angela. I was having a bad dream."
"Tell me about it!" Angela sat down on the foot of the bed, her body turned towards Quinn. "I heard you mumbling down the hall in my room. I thought you were maybe talking to someone on the phone, but then you got louder and you didn't sound like you were making sense. I came up here to see if you were okay."
Quinn suddenly remembered that he was naked underneath the sheet covering his bed.
"I'll be okay." Quinn checked around himself with his hands, making sure the lower half of his body was amply covered. "You might as well go back to sleep."
"Well, if you think you'll be okay, I guess." Angela rose from the bed and walked over to the spiral staircase. "Good night, Quinn."
"Good night, Angela."
Quinn listened to Angela walk down the staircase, travel down the hall and close the door. Carefully, he rose from the bed and pulled a pair of boxer shorts from the cardboard box containing most of his clothes. He would have to make sure he wore a pair to bed in the future.

Friday, June 2nd, 1995. 9:33 a.m.

Quinn sorted through the box of Wiccan books in the storage room, making sure that they had not been damaged during shipping. He performed the task in a mechanical fashion; he hadn't fallen to sleep until around 3 a.m.,and after the interruption in sleep he woke up only two hours ago. He had slept for a total of eight hours over the past two days. Quinn's thoughts wandered to the events of last night. He worried that he might have been overzealous in severing Jenny's arms, but he had to make sure that she didn't call the police or an ambulance before her firstdeath.
Quinn had considered using less brutal methods to convince her, but ultimately they all would have placed one or both of them in danger of being discovered. Attacking her in her apartment had been the safest way, even if it left a bad taste in his mouth.
A knock at the front door to the shop interrupted Quinn's thoughts. Quinn heard Madame Kuska inform the person that the store would be open in half an hour. Quinn got up and moved towards the storage door, and he felt the familiar buzzing that signalled the presence of another immortal. Jenny had arrived.
Quinn entered the front of the shop and saw Madame Kuska reiterating her message to Jenny on the other side. Jenny was wearing a plaid shirt with a pair of cutoffs, and her hair was tucked under a baseball cap. She looked as if she had dressed in a hurry.
"It's all right, Madame Kuska," Quinn said as he walked over to the front door. "I've been expecting her."
Madame Kuska looked at Quinn and back to Jenny. A smile began to creep across her face.
"If you insist. I'll be sorting through the counter items if you need me." Madame Kuska left Quinn with a sly wink.
Quinn opened the door, and Jenny walked in carefully. He noticed the bags under her eyes, circles of grey which made her look rather weak when combined with her naturally pale complexion.
"I need to talk to you," she said in a lowered tone.
Quinn nodded. "I have an apartment above here. Follow me."
Quinn turned and headed towards the back of the shop. Jenny hesitated for a second, but then she followed him. They both went up the stairs to the apartment above.
The Sisters of Mercy's "Vision Thing" assaulted their eardrums as they walked into the apartment. Quinn walked to the main living area, and saw Angela dancing in the slow, flowing style that was popular with goths these days. It reminded Quinn more of improvised tai chi, but he supposed it was better than "moshing."
Angela turned and saw Quinn and Jenny watching her. She stopped dancing, and self-consciously turned off the small stereo she had set up in the living area.
"Sorry... I didn't know you were up here."
Quinn shook his head, discouraging her apology.
"It's okay, Angela. This is Jenny Hirschorn." He gestured to Jenny with an open hand.
Jenny stepped over to the girl, a smile on her tired face.
"It's nice to meet you, Angela." She placed a hand out to Angela.
"Same here." Angela took Jenny's hand and shook it.
"Jenny and I have some business we need to discuss," Quinn explained. "Do you think you could help out Madame Kuska downstairs?"
"Not a problem," Angela remarked. She glanced at Jenny and gave Quinn a quick, knowing wink, much to his chagrin. She then stepped out of the room into the hallway.
"She seems like a nice kid," Jenny commented as they heard the door to the apartment close. "Is she your daughter?"
"I'm her legal guardian," Quinn explained as he stepped over to the easy chair. "Please, have a seat," he encouraged, gesturing to the couch. Jenny stepped over to the couch and sat down on the edge, leaning forward with her knees turned toward Quinn. Quinn lowered himself into the easy chair and sat attentively.
Jenny looked off to the side, focusing her attention on a watercolor painting of New Orleans' French Quarter on the wall. She crossed her
arms, lightly rubbing her triceps in a slow, subconscious manner. After a long pause, she began to speak.

Friday, June 2nd, 1995. 9:51 a.m.

"...And after I calmed down and I was thinking straight, I just had a feeling that if I could lean my shoulder against one arm, it would reattach itself." Jenny looked directly into Quinn's eyes. "I don't know how I knew, but I did and after a while it worked."
"That's the power of the Last," Quinn explained, leaning forward in his seat. "Sometimes it lets you know about things... it's an intermittent sixth sense."
Jenny nodded, reflecting on his words.
"I held my left arm to my other shoulder, and it reconnected too." Jenny sat up, nervously rubbing her hands on the outside of her thighs. "I changed out of my clothes and threw them and the sheets into a garbage bag. After I cleaned myself up, I wasn't sure what to do." Jenny took a deep breath and stared directly at Quinn.
"I was afraid to come here after what you did to me last night, but after a while I realized that I had no choice. So here I am."
Quinn stood up and paced over to the front window, watching the sun rise over Pacific Avenue and Live Oak in the distance. He let out an almost inaudible sigh before he spoke.
"You might not believe me, but I am truly sorry for what I did to you. You have to understand that I had no choice."
"You could have left me alone," Jenny retorted, her gaze boring into his back. "I don't care about being an immortal."
"Jenny, there are others out there who would kill you for your Quickening in a heartbeat." Quinn turned away from the window to face her. "They can sense you just like you can sense me... they'll come after you and take your head whether you like it or not."
"So let them!" Jenny rose to her feet in a fit of rage, eyes blazing with
emerald anger. "Damn you, Quinn! I am a nineteen year old soon-to-be Theatre major in college, not some she-woman running around with a sword cutting off people's heads! What gives you the right to hack me to pieces and drag me into your twisted world?"
Quinn's burning stare threatened to melt away his icy blue eyes. The corners of his mouth pulled back in a snarl.
"So you'd rather be found dead on the Boardwalk with your head cut off?" Quinn attempted to keep an even tone, but he couldn't keep the edge out of his voice. "I'm sure your parents would be thrilled to hear that their daughter fell victim to a serial killer."
Jenny began a retort, but then kept her tongue in check, simply staring with hate in her eyes.
"I'm going back to my apartment. If you even *think* of sneaking up on me again, I'll kick your butt to the moon." With that, she pivoted on her heels and stormed out of the apartment. Quinn considered blocking her exit, but he decided that he didn't need to make the situation any worse.
"Don't think too long," Quinn called out in frustration, "it would be a shame to see your head in a trophy case." A slam of the door was the only reply he received.
Quinn, almost shaking from anger, decided to release his tension with a few sword katas.

Friday, June 2nd, 1995. 11:24 a.m.

Quinn heard the door to the apartment open. Not sensing a "buzz," he finished his kata and sheathed the katana. Angela walked in from the hallway.
"The phone's for you downstairs, Quinn."
"Thanks, Ange." Quinn placed the sword back in the closet and followed Angela out of the apartment and into the shop.
Madame Kuska stood behind the counter, informing a potential customer about the protective powers of the pentagram jewelry in the display case. The phone rested beside her, the receiver out of the cradle.
"I think it's your friend, Quinn," Madame Kuska noted as he entered the front area.
"Got it," Quinn replied as he picked up the receiver. Madame Kuska
focused her attention once again on the clientele.
"Hello?" Quinn spoke into the receiver.
"Quinn. It's Jenny," the voice on the other end replied. "Listen, I'm sorry about blowing up earlier... it's all pretty hard to deal with
right now. Can we talk?"
"Sure. Why don't I meet you by the carousel at the Boardwalk in..." Quinn glanced at his watch, "Half an hour?"
"I'll see you there. Goodbye, Quinn."
"Bye, Jenny." Quinn hanged up the receiver.
"Are you sure it will work?" the customer asked Madame Kuska, wiping the sweat from his balding scalp as he fondled the pentagram around his neck. "There's all those wierd killings going on in town... I don't want to lose my head too."
"I assure you, sir, the pentagram has been a sign of protection for ages." Madame Kuska smiled with a look of ancient wisdom.
Quinn frowned a little, then picked up the receiver again, dialing a long distance number. The phone rang several times before it was picked up on the other end.
"Hello?" a gruff voice inquired.
"Derek," Quinn responded, "it's Quinn."
"Quinn? Long time no see, buddy. How's L.A. treating you?"
"Actually, Derek, I've moved to Santa Cruz. I hate to cut to the chase, but I'm in kind of a hurry."
"Shoot."
"I need you to come down here and keep an eye on a few things," Quinn explained. "There's been a lot of activity of our kind out here, but I'm watching over a new one. I don't think I can take care of both."
Derek Miles was a bounty hunter from Chicago who also happened to be related to a Garou tribe known as the Glass Walkers. Although he was only Kinfolk, Derek was one of the best masters of surveillance Quinn had ever met. He proved his mettle when they tracked down a fomori three years ago.
"Can you front for a ticket?" Derek inquired.
"Not a problem, Derek. I'll send it out to you A.S.A.P. with car rental
money and an address."
"Then I'll see you tomorrow, Quinn."
"Until then, Derek." Quinn hung up the phone and turned to Madame Kuska, who had finished selling the pentagram to her customer.
"I have some business to take care of in town, but I should be back in a few hours. Can you hold down the fort here?"
"Don't worry your head over it, handsome." Madame Kuska smiled as Quinn rushed up the stairs to the apartment.
Grabbing a long duffle bag from one of the many cardboard boxes, Quinn placed the katana inside along with his faded brown trenchcoat. He then went back downstairs and took the back door into the alleyway where his red '57 Chevy was parked.

Friday, June 2nd, 12:08 p.m.

Quinn waited patiently by the carousel, watching the comings and goings of the crowd as they filed past him in review. It was one of those rare moments when a man is allowed to step outside himself and watch the world pass by, examining all of humanities and foibles in a microcosm. He saw parents with children arguing, and the children watching the parents with studied intensity, much as he was watching them. Young couples passed by, the men engaging in antics obviously designed to show off or elicit laughter from their partners. They looked nothing so much like courting birds, Quinn thought. He wondered how many times he had acted so obviously flirtatious. People, he decided, must never give much thought, even to their own actions, otherwise they would never do half the things they ended up doing.
Quinn saw several teenage girls obviously checking him out. Some weren't much older than Angela and it made Quinn greatly uncomfortable to see them examining him like he was so much meat. It wasn't behavior that would've been approved of in his early days coming from young girls, but then the world had changed so much in values and mores that he had to make a conscious effort to change with the times, or risk becoming an anachronism in time. In his occult reading, he knew that vampires often failed to change with time's passing. It was one of the ways they stood out and being an Immortal, Quinn had no desire to stand out himself. And he was a child by either Immortal or vampire standards. Pretending he didn't notice the young girls looking him over, Quinn glanced away and it was then that he felt Jenny. Looking, he saw that she was standing by the Pirate Ship ride. She just stood there, examining him. Her look had that inconsolable gaze that Quinn had once seen at a wedding in which a Jewish bride was entering into an arranged marriage. There were many similarities in the situations of both women. Both of their words demanded that they conform to their rules, or suffer punishing consequences. And their lives, once entered into, could never be abandoned again.
Jenny, seeing she had been noticed her, came over.
"Hello Jenny," Quinn offered his hand.
She didn't take it. "Quinn," she nodded, acknowledging him.
"Did you want to go for a walk on the beach?" he asked her, hoping to steer her somewhere where they could have more privacy.
She shook her head. "No, what I have to say is very short. I've decided I want out of this life. I'm buying a gun to protect myself"
"That won't be enough," Quinn told her. "And you know it."
"I don't care. I have a life," she told him. "I have plans, I even have a fiance. I'll bet you never knew about him - or cared. Well I care, and I'm not giving him or anything else up because I was born into this crazy world of yours."
Quinn breathed deeply but said nothing, so she went on.
"All I want is a normal life, career, marriage, vacation, retirement. After that, the devil can take me for all I care."
"He will," Quinn vowed. "And probably your fiance. Have you thought about what dragging him into this would do?"
"I'm not going to listen to you, Quinn. You don't understand," she accused.
Quinn merely shook his head. "You're wrong Jenny. Dead wrong in fact. But you'll have to come by that your own way. I just wish you'd give me the chance, and some time."
"No way," Jenny shook her head. "I've decided I'll be going to U.C.L.A. instead of here, so I'll be moving soon. That way, you won't have to worry about me and I won't ever have to see your murdering face again, for the rest of my life. Damn!"
Jenny held her hand up to her head. "I am sick and tired of this tingling shit! What did you do to make it feel like that?"
Quinn shook his head. "It wasn't me." In fact, he had felt it also. They weren't alone. Another Immortal was nearby.
"I think you'd better come with me," Quinn tried to grab her by the arm but she shook him off.
"Leave me alone!" she screamed at him, catching the attention of two security guards patrolling the boardwalk.
"You all right, maam?" one of them asked, while the other interjected himself between Quinn and Jenny.
"It's alright," Quinn told them. "She's just upset."
Jenny was still holding her head. Quinn could feel it also. The tingling was growing stronger.
"Keep away from me!" she screamed at him, running off.
Quinn tried to follow but was held back by the guards.
"Hold on, buddy!" one of them said, grabbing Quinn by the arm. "Let's let her have some space."
Quinn started to argue, but out of the corner of his eye, he could already see Jenny disappearing. The tingling lessened altogether.

Friday, June 2nd, 7:28 p.m.

Quinn watched as Jenny left the front door of her apartment. A dog was with her, a large Rotweiler. He didn't know where she had gotten the dog, but its purpose was obvious. Wishing Derek had arrived, Quinn shadowed Jenny far behind. He didn't want anyone seeing that she was followed and took special care to cross the street and remain back as far as possible. Jenny, like any amateur, though scanning the street, seemed oblivious to his presence.
Quinn felt it. Looking ahead, he saw that Jenny did too. She was holding her head, looking around. Quinn ducked into a yard and raced ahead, leaping over hedges and picket fences as he ran up to where Jenny was, still masqued by a large front hedge.
"Quinn?" he heard her call out.
Quinn ducked behind the corner of the hedge, drawing his sword. There was the clicking sound of someone's footsteps.
"Hello," he heard a deep voice say. "That's a nice dog you have there."
"Thank you," Jenny's voice replied. Her voice was wooden and barely audible. She was badly frightened.
A car drove by and then disappeared while the dog, sensing something, began to whine softly.
"You're very young, aren't you?" the man asked. Jenny didn't answer.
"It seems a pity, but then if I don't, someone else will, I suppose."
Quinn ran back to a break in the hedge and then entered into view, behind Jenny. He startled the dog, which began to whine and cringe, obviously a failure as a guard dog. Confronting Jenny was a tall young man, slightly blond, with a handlebar moustache, wearing the favoured trenchcoat garb of the Immortal.
"Well, greetings sir," the man nodded. "I was sure I had a strong sense of this young lady. I figured you might be nearby and that she would draw you out for me."
Quinn had been duped. The Immortal hadn't been after Jenny after all, not as yet. Quinn had been his intended target all along.
"Edward W. Batchelder, sir, at your service," the man nodded slightly, his clear blue eyes keenly watching Quinn's every move. He didn't seem at all alarmed that Quinn held his sword ready.
"I'm Quinn Thompson," Quinn replied politely. "Sir, we wish no trouble here. This one is a neophyte. I ask that if you intend me harm, you let her stand clear of this."
"I've never made it a point in my life to prey upon ladies," Batchelder replied. Winking at Quinn, "except as decoys." He bowed slightly to Jenny. "Please excuse us, my dear, for we have important business to attend to."
Quinn was more abrupt. "Get out of here!" he barked at her.
Jenny glanced between the two men and then, dragging the dog, ran back to her apartment.
Batchelder motioned back behind the hedge. "I believe the people who live here are obligingly not at home," he commented, offering Quinn the chance to return back to his hiding space behind the hedge.
"Certainly it's more private for our affairs," Batchelder went on to comment.
"Certainly is," Quinn replied dryly. "I don't suppose I could talk you out of this?," he asked.
"Sir," Batchelder replied, "I think you know the answer to that well enough."
"Even if I tell you I'm a young Immortal myself?," Quinn asked, hoping to stall until Jenny had called the police. Batchelder's confidence was unnerving. Quinn was certain he was out of his water in this contest.
"Consider it a kindness to save you from the lonely ravages of time, sir," Batchelder commented.
Quinn watched as Batchelder pulled aside his coat to ease out his weapon. And, chivalry be damned, that was when Quinn slashed, hoping to end this contest in one stroke. He didn't even see Batchelder's arm move, but the glaring flash of light as their swords struck let him know that Batchelder was indeed as deadly as he seemed.
"And I thought, judging by the way you came to that young woman's rescue, that you were a gentlemen," Batchelder chided, sliding his infantry sabre out and swinging around in a counterstroke so fast, that Quinn just managed to catch it on the tip of his own katana.
"I think you've met your match and more, sir," Batchelder smiled.
"Look," Quinn panted. "If you're going to kill me, just get on with it. I can do without this commentary drivel!"
Batchelder smiled. "Anything to oblige."
Batchelder's attack whipped past Quinn's defences. Quinn fell back gasping, attempting to parry. Though his parry went wild, so did Batchelder's blow, which failed to connect.
Quinn countered with an attack of his own, which just bruised his opponent as it landed with the flat of his blade rather than the edge (-1).
Batchelder, undeterred, returned with what seemed an obvious attempt to disarm. He doesn't give me much credit, Quinn thought, turning the attempt aside. Then Quinn realized it had been a feint but not a feint, as Batchelder's sword thrust forward, scouring Quinn's arm, and with an upward thrust, Batchelder tore Quinn's Katana from his grasp. Quinn watched helplessly as the Katana sailed into the air, landing somewhere beyond the hedge border, on the property of the house on the other side.
Quinn looked at Batchelder, who regarded Quinn with his cold blue eyes. There seemed a softening in those eyes as Batchelder's sword, held up with frightening quickness, was brought down to bear.
There was a sound that Quinn didn't have time to make out, but instead of being on the receiving end of Batchelder's blow, Quinn saw him instead staring down at the arrow protruding from his chest. Jenny crashed through the hedge, stumbling as her bow caught in its woody branches. Letting go of the bow, she rushed at Batchelder and holding up a cannister, sprayed its contents into his face.
"Achhtch!" Batchelder, still holding his sword, retreated, the arrow still stuck inside him. Quinn, taking advantage of the situation, leapt at Batchelder with a kick, that landed squarely in the man's solar plexus and sent him tumbling off a bank of ivy down onto the hill above the hairpin turn off of Main Street.
Jenny, breathless with her adrenalin rush, watched as Quinn raced back to the yard on the other side of the fence, returning in short order with his sword. Not even glancing at her, he crashed down through the Ivy.
Regarding Batchelder, Quinn paused, regarding him as he stood there, near blinded and with the arrow still sticking out of his chest.
"What are you waiting for?" Batchelder rasped. "Do it!"
Quinn nodded, surprised at how reluctant he was to perform the act. Concentrating his blow, it was a simple matter to cut off Batchelder's head. Quinn saw a quick flash of blue eyes as the head rolled down to the street below. Then the Quickening hit him.
Power burned him while fleeting images raced past his mind. There were shouts, fear, anger while the smell of burned gunpowder flavored the very air. Rebel musket balls were so thick overhead, that they cut down the peach blossoms from the very trees, raining pink gossamer down onto the dead and dying. Captain Batchelder of the 15th Iowa Volunteers tried to rally his men to press forward, but most of them were hugging the ground, giving back when they could. Stepping up had been a bad choice as Quinn felt himself struck square in the chest and head, the bullets exiting out the rear of both, leaving gaping holes of blood and brains. But he would survive and see his wife, May, again. They would start a family when this terrible business of blood and fratricide were over, and the world had come to its senses once again. He wondered how his Pa and May were doing, managing the farm by themselves. But it had to be done. On for the Union!
There was a terrible roar and rushing of wind as lightening flared from the sky and the yard was illuminated with a strange luminescence. A moment later, Jenny saw Quinn stagger up the hillock, crunching Ivy underneath his foot. Like a drunk man, he lurched, unsure and unsettled just as the first sirens could be heard.
"Cmon," Jenny told him. "Let's hide at my place. It's closer. Supporting him at first, the two of them ran back to her condo."

Friday, June 2nd, 10:08 p.m.

Jenny and Angela slept in the beds while Quinn contented himself with the couch. Having walked back after things calmed down, he and Jenny had brazenly walked by the scene, though at a distance, looking with as much curiosity as would anyone at the murder scene. It had only been a few blocks back to the store. Strangely, he had been ravenously hungry.
Though the others slept, Quinn couldn't possibly have done so. But neither did he feel tired either. Pure power flowed in him, taking its time to dissipate inside his body. Besides, he could smell Peach blossoms everywhere and their haunting scent kept him from his dreams. (Gain 16 Quickening Experience)

Saturday, June 3rd, 1995. 6:13 a.m.

"Feeling better today?" Jenny leaned over the edge of the balcony, her sleep-tangled blonde hair hanging in her face. Quinn finished his blade kata in the middle of the main apartment floor, sheathing his weapon in one smooth motion. Sweat glistened in his hair and on his brow as his chest heaved with the effort of taking in oxygen. He turned his gaze upward to face Jenny, vigor sparkling in his blue eyes.
"The best I have in years." Quinn smiled broadly.
"Well, at least that makes one of us," Jenny yawned, as she attempted to brush her hair out of her face. Faint circles rested beneath her emerald eyes, but she appeared in better condition than she had yesterday morning.
"Mind if I use your shower?"
"Not at all. It's the first door on your left in the hallway." Quinn
showed the way with an open palm.
"Thanks." Jenny disappeared from the edge of the balcony and travelled down the spiral staircase leading to the main floor. She closed the bathroom door behind her as Quinn strode over to the closet, placing his katana inside and grabbing the small towel resting on the doorknob. Wiping his face with the towel, Quinn walked over to the picture window and basked in the rays of the morning sun, already over an hour old in the morning sky. Mon Dieu, but the sun was warm! Quinn's thoughts floated to his walks with Rachel in his father's fields; it was on one of those walks when he proposed to her. No matter what happened, he always knew Rachel was waiting for him back home. As soon as the rebellious Southerners were put in their place, he could return home and marry her...
"...feeling all right?" Quinn snapped out of his reverie as the buzz filled his head. He turned from the window, suddenly aware of Jenny standing behind him. A towel was wrapped around her head, keeping her damp hair out of the way. She was already finished showering. How long had he been lost in thought? Quinn rubbed his right temple to try and clear his head.
"I'm fine. Just a little disoriented, that's all."
Jenny stared at him with a look of total uncomprehension.
"What?" Quinn forced out, focusing his gaze on her. "What's wrong?" The scent of peach blossoms played in the air.
"You don't know?" Jenny's stare changed to a look of apprehension. "Quinn, you just said something in French, or at least it sounded like French." A chill travelled down his spine. Quinn slicked back his hair as he tried to focus on reality, the sweat holding it back in place.
"It's taking some time to assimilate Batchelder's memories. There was so much Quickening, I've never had to deal with so much..."
"What? Quinn, maybe you'd better sit down and give yourself some time to straighten out..." Jenny stepped over to him and grabbed him by the arm.
"No!" Quinn pulled away, then centered himself to keep his balance as the world spun around him. Jenny recoiled as if she had been slapped.
"Fine, if you want to be an asshole." Jenny ripped the towel from her head, her wet hair cascading over her shoulders. "See how you do on your own."
Jenny turned towards the hallway and headed for the door.
"No, Jenny, I'm sorry, I..." Jenny continued to walk towards the door,
ignoring Quinn's pleas. "Damn you, Jenny, wait!"
Jenny stopped, then turned around, anger flashing in her eyes.
"Just remember if I hadn't come back to help, it would have been your head on the ground instead of Batchelder's."
"I know, and I'm sorry for snapping at you." Quinn sank back into the couch in the living area. "I'm just not used to depending on others, especially not..." Quinn's gaze turned to a point above Jenny's shoulder.
"Well, especially not women. I guess I'm still old-fashioned about that."
"Well, it's time to catch up with the present." Jenny crossed her arms in front of her chest, giving Quinn a stern look. "The damsel-in-distress routine went out with the fifties."
"I know, it's just when you see things change so much around you, I guess... well, I get what you might call 'chrono-centric,' for lack of a better term." Quinn focused back on Jenny's face. "But it's no excuse, and I apologize." He breathed a faint sigh of relief as Jenny relaxed her stance a little, and her gaze slowly softened. "By the way, where did you learn to use a bow like that?"
Jenny focused her sight on Quinn's painting of Bourbon Street.
"My dad used to go on a lot of hunting trips. He taught me how to use one. I stopped going on trips with him a long time ago, but I still practice archery. I've even won a few tropies here and there." Jenny's speech seemed distant, as if she wasn't particularly proud of her accomplishments. Quinn found himself noting the musculature of her arms; her strength wasn't readily apparent unless one took the time to study her thin but wiry frame. She was fairly remarkable for a "civilian" as he had termed her before.
"Well, you certainly saved my neck last night. Not many people would have done what you did."
"Yeah, well, I couldn't just let him kill you. Even if you deserve it for screwing up my life." A faint, crooked smile creeped onto her face. Quinn couldn't help but grin himself.
"Tell you what," Quinn said as he raised himself from the couch, "I'm feeling better now, so why don't I make us breakfast? How does a Western Omelette grab you?" Jenny's eyebrows flickered in surprise.
"A modern-day swashbuckler who cooks?" Jenny's smile grew broader as she shook her head in disbelief. "What more could a girl ask for?"
"When you've been a bachelor for as long as I have," Quinn remarked as he strode over to the kitchen, "you have to pick up a few tricks besides opening a box of Kraft Dinner."

Saturday, June 3rd, 1995. 10:37 a.m.

A loud crack accompanied the burst of pain before her hands went numb, forcing her to release her grip on the bokken.
"Shit!" Jenny rubbed her palms to try and get the circulation going again.
A wooden implement was held lightly against her throat.
"Give?" Quinn's tone implied that it was more of a command than a
question.
"Give," Jenny replied with a slight hiss in her voice. Quinn removed the bokken from her throat, and Jenny crouched down to retrieve her wooden practice blade. "I hope you're getting a real kick out of this. Pummeling on someone who's never used a sword before, I mean."
"Don't sell yourself short," Quinn replied, ignoring the edge in Jenny's voice. "You've picked up very quickly on what I've shown you in the past three hours, but your temper keeps getting you into trouble. Remember that strong nerves and a bit of trickery are just as important as accuracy; if your opponent unnerves you with feints, he's won half the battle."
Jenny leaned on a nearby tree, taking full advantage of its shade. The sun was beating hard on this part of Bonny Doon, where they had come to practice without the worry of interruptions. She was glad that she had the foresight to apply a waterproof sunscreen she had back at her apartment before they travelled out here in Quinn's Chevy. The sweat pouring off her body would have certainly cleaned off a regular screen. Quinn seemed to be taking the heat a great deal better than her; he was sweating, but other than that he hadn't seemed to have slowed down at all.
"How can you stand to work that hard in this weather?" Jenny asked as she pulled out a water bottle from her backpack resting on the ground.
"I've been in worse heat," Quinn replied, twirling his bokken expertly
with one hand. "Ready to go again?"
Jenny let out an exasperated sigh as she put the bottle back in the bag and prepared to face Quinn again.

Saturday, June 3rd, 1995. 1:24 p.m.

A gentle breeze tousled Quinn's short hair as he turned his Chevy onto Cedar Street and headed for The Hidden World shop. He listened absently to the adult contemporary song playing on the radio, having grown a little tired of hearing his favorite Louis Armstrong tape. He and Jenny had finished practising around 11:30, after which Jenny looked like she was about to collapse. He would never drive a mortal as hard as he did Jenny; such an effort under those conditions could result in sunstroke, possibly even death. As it was, Jenny had to lie under the shade for close to half an hour before she felt good enough to move around, and she was an immortal. Jenny certainly had a great deal of tenacity; she had complained about the heat once or twice, but she never threw in the towel during the session. Quinn was confident that she had the makings of a good warrior.
After the session, they had travelled in the Chevy to look for an appropriate sword for Jenny in the pawnshops lining Pacific Avenue. The first shop they went to had been blocked off by police tape; some inquiries directed to the officer guarding the scene revealed that an employee had been shot last night, probably in the course of a robbery. Quinn made a mental note of pushing the importance of locking the shop after hours to Madame Kuska, who seemed to have a bad memory for small details. Eventually, they had found a katana at a pawnshop named Pacific Gold & Silver Exchange; it was a modern knock-off that wasn't as good quality as Quinn's weapon, but it was certainly functional enough. Afterwards, Quinn dropped Jenny off at her apartment, which occured just a few minutes ago.
The song finished and the DJ proceeded to throw his two cents' worth in about the latest twist in the ongoing O.J. case.
"...but at least they were able to find the bodies there," the DJ continued.
"Heck, what about the mysterious 'headless body' that was supposed to be around where that lightning hit in Beach Hill last night? The cops found that poor guy who got hit by the lightning, but no body without a head like some so-called 'witnesses' said. Maybe God was trying to tell them to cut down on the glue?"
Quinn blinked in surprise. What had happened to Batchelder's body? Were the police simply covering up the gruesome discovery of another body in the so-called "Hacker" killings? But that wouldn't make any sense... six bodies had already been found, and the police had made no attempt to hide their discovery. Something was terribly wrong, and it made Quinn's skin crawl.
Eventually, Quinn arrived at the shop and pulled into the driveway leading to the parking area in the back. He was surprised to find another car parked there; as far as he knew, he was the only one who actually made use of the area. Quinn warily pulled in to the lot and parked the Chevy, stepping out to look over the other vehicle. It was a mid-size, and the license plate attached indicated that it was a rental vehicle. Quinn let out a small sigh of relief as he remembered that Derek was due to arrive today.
Quinn walked down the driveway around to the front of the building and entered the shop, brushing past a broad-shouldered youth clad in leather who was on his way out.
"Well hello there, stranger," Madame Kuska playfully chided as Quinn walked in, "Angela and I are so glad you could make it." Angela simply stared wistfully through the doorway, and Quinn realized her eyes were following the youth who had left the store. He supposed it was natural that she was interested in him, although he was a few years older than her. Quinn decided if he saw the young man in the store again, he would have to keep an eye on him.
"Grave dust?" a familar voice uttered in disbelief. "Who'd have figured you could make money selling this stuff?" Quinn turned to face the corner of the shop where the voice had originated from. Derek was standing by a back shelf, turning a small bag of grave dust over in his hand. His black hair was tied back in a long ponytail, and he sported a full, well-trimmed beard. As always, he sported a pair of cowboy boots with his usual denim-and-leather look he wore to blend into the seedier crowds he tended to deal with. His dark eyes were full of mirth.
"Good to see you, Derek." Quinn and Derek met halfway in the shop, clasped their right hands together and briefly embraced each other. Quinn turned towards Madame Kuska and Angela. "Madame Kuska and Angela, this is Derek."
"We've already met," Madame Kuska replied. "Derek tells me that you two go a long way back, and he's promised to tell me a few interesting stories."
She flashed a characteristically dangerous wink at Derek, who returned a sly smile.
"Believe me, Madame Kuska, Mr. Thompson here isn't as white-bread as he likes everyone to believe. "Derek punched playfully at Quinn's shoulder.

Saturday, June 3rd, 1995. 2:45 p.m.

"Well, this is definitely some serious shit you have gotten yourself into, my friend." Derek placed his beer down on the coffee table. "No trace of the body, huh?"
"Apparently not." Quinn was resting in his chair, shaking his head. "I have a bad feeling about this whole situation. I can't figure out why anyone would want Batchelder's body."
"That guy who's shacked up in the hospital might know something. You say he's in Dominican?"
"So Madame Kuska tells me. She heard the early morning broadcast." Derek scratched at his beard absently, focusing his attention on a point behind Quinn while he thought.
"I have a favor to call on back in Chicago. I might be able to get a hacker through him and have him dig around in the Santa Cruz cops' files to see what they've found. Otherwise I'll have to find some way to talk to this guy myself, assuming he's conscious by now."
"I appreciate anything you can do, Derek."
"Don't worry about it, man." Derek dismissed Quinn's thanks with a wave of his hand. "You saved my ass back in the Windy City; this is just what friends do. While I'm in town though, I'll need a room, someplace other than here... your place is great, but I don't like having everyone stacked together in one place. Know any good motels?"
"You'd have to check the Yellow Pages for that. I haven't been in town for very long."
"No problem, but if this turns out to be a long engagement I'll have to ask you to help out with the motel bill."
"As long as you don't plan on staying at the Hilton with room service, that shouldn't be a problem." Quinn smiled.
"Don't worry, my tastes aren't that expensive. As long as the cockroaches don't steal the bed, I'm copacetic." Derek rose from the couch. "Anyway, I better go take care of that stuff now. What are you doing in the meantime?"
"Actually, I thought I'd try and catch up on a few hours of sleep." Quinn stretched his shoulders back and let out a yawn as he stood up.
"Batchelder's Quickening gave me a boost, but this lack of sleep is catching up to me."
"I hear you, man. Take care of yourself." Derek and Quinn slapped their palms together and clasped them together in a show of male bonding.
"You take care of yourself too, Derek." Quinn watched Derek as he left the apartment, then went upstairs to his bed.

Saturday June 3rd, 1995 5:39 p.m.

Quinn and Derek headed downstairs. Quinn thought he would use the evening to show Derek around and maybe grab a quick bite to eat.
Quinn caught sight of Madame Kuska, dressed in her sequined black turban and black ostrich feather, giving the sale's pitch to some star ridden customer no doubt. He had to laugh, seeing her turn over her tarot cards for effect as she said, "The books are in the back corner, but" Then she paused. "The answer to what you seek is not there."
"Where then?" he heard a voice ask, caught in anticipation.
Quinn wondered what particular novelty Kuska was steering the customer toward.
Quinn walked downstairs and then stopped as if stuck.
The customer had Quickening. Derek nearly bumped into Quinn from behind. Quinn stared at the customer, whose eyes were already looking back and forth between Quinn and Derek.
The man was older looking, like in his late fifties and though tall, was not of undue height. Quinn had never seen an "old" immortal before so he didn't know what to make of the man before him, dressed in suspenders and jeans, with a plaid shirt. Though he registered, Quinn could sense no hint of a weapon about the man. Still, his own hand strayed to his sword beside him. The stranger caught the action and Quinn stopped.
Derek, as if sensing the danger asked, What's up Quinn? You want me to take care of this?"
Quinn decided that Derek had better go up and see to Jenny, just in case this was a feint. "No, Derek. You go upstairs. I'll be right up and then we can go out."
Quinn walked down the stairs, Madame Kuska eyeing the two of them anxiously.
The tall, broad-shouldered man walked nonchalantly over to the elderly stranger sitting in the chair.
"Are you sure you don't already know the answer to that question?" the broad-shouldered man inquired of the stranger in a casual tone. A slight but tight-lipped grin played across his face.
The elderly man grinned gleefully. "Admittedly, I have to admit that I don't know that I don't know. But I can tell you honestly that I don't know whether I know or not."
He glanced at the woman, then back at the big man, and his mood was more somber. "Am I intruding? I'm trying to learn something. My business is urgent but should not take long."
His smile was charming. He seemed unintimidated by the larger man but there was nothing aggressive about his posture.
The larger man's smile broadened, and the glint in his blue eyes relaxed slightly.
"Please forgive me, sir. The intrusion is mine." Quinn extended a hand to the elderly stranger. His hand was calloused but not overly thick, seeming to possess a considerable degree of dexterity.
"Quinn Thompson, owner and chief stockboy of this shop." Quinn's hand hung in the air.
The older man grinned at Quinn's witticism, and immediately stood to grasp his hand.
"Jack Edar."
The man's hands seemed to be somewhat less aged than the rest of him, but were otherwise unexceptional.
"I own a fix-it place a few blocks that way," and he gestured vaguely. "If you ever have anything in need of repair..." He grinned, amused at his own attempt at salesmanship. He fit the part; it was almost too easy to visualize him with a toolbelt, screwdriver in hand, tinkering with something.
"But I don't mean to take you away from your affairs."
Quinn smiled, his eyes glinting with energy.
"No worries, I should apologize for distracting you from yours. I'll allow you to get back to your business with Madame Kuska." He nodded to the older woman, who had a faintly confused look on her face. "I'll be certain to look you up if I need any repairs, Mr. Edar."
Quinn turned to walk to the back of the shop, but hesitated in mid-turn. He pivoted to face Jack again, a small smirk of embarassment on his face.
"I'm sorry, my head is definitely in the clouds today." He shook his head slightly as if to emphasize his statement. "I don't even know the name of your shop or where it is."
Jack grinned. "I know that feeling. And call me Jack." Despite his first statement, Jack projected the sense that he was being polite, that he was a man who missed little and forgot less. "Jack's Fix-It Shop," he continued. "Just head up the mall. It's the little blue building near the counseling center."
"Until next time, Jack," Quinn responded, "which may be sooner than we both think." He smiled to Jack and gave him a sly wink, giving the impression he was in on some sort of private joke. He then turned to head to the back of theshop, his trenchcoat whirling about his broad, athletic form.
After leaving Jack to his business, Quinn headed to the back of the
shop and picked up the telephone behind the counter, calling upstairs to Derek and Jenny. He pretended to be talking to a business, while discreetly observing Jack while he was in the shop. Quinn's main priority was to listen in on what Jack and Madame Kuska were discussing. Calling Derek and Jenny served two purposes: to serve as an excuse to stay in an area where he could observe Jack and, if anything happened, Quinn could warn both Derek and Jenny.
But nothing did happen. Jack nodded to Madame Kuska and left the shop, no less enigmatic than when he had entered.

Saturday, June 3rd, 1995. 11: 07 p.m.

Quinn snapped up from the bed, the smell of burning Peach blossoms carrying over from his nightmares. He found that he was drenched in sweat once again; a cold drop hung off the tip of his nose. Quinn was surprised to find himself in darkness; he looked over at the alarm clock and was shocked to discover the time. Could he have really slept for that long?
The ringing of the telephone interrupted his train of thought. Quinn jumped off the bed and rushed down the stairs, grabbing the phone on the fourth ring. He cursed himself as he saw the number of messages that had piled up on the answering machine.
"Hello?" Quinn answered the phone.
"Hi there." A masculine voice which Quinn didn't recognize responded.
"How's the decapitation business going?"
Quinn involuntarily tightened his stomach muscles.
"Who is this? Is this some sort of prank call?"
"You know, that was a real number you did on that civil war guy," the voice responded, ignoring Quinn's questions. "Pretty impressive, considering you don't look that tough up close. Oh, by the way, Angela and I are having a great time on the Boardwalk."
Quinn's grip on the telephone tightened, threatening to crush its plastic housing. He noticed a message on the board beside the phone, "Quinn, gone out with a friend to the Boardwalk. Be back before midnight. Angela."
"What have you done with her?" Quinn fought to keep himself under control.
"Nothing, she just went off to go buy some cotton candy. If you want to keep things cool, you'll listen very carefully. Are you willing to
listen?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now, you're going to take a little walk, but leave the sword at home. You'll see a guy standing outside the shop with a cell phone. He'll take you where you're supposed to go, but you're going to walk in front of him. You've got two minutes exactly to do this; if my boss doesn't hear from him and I don't get the word, little Angie will be a smear on the Boardwalk." Quinn heard a click followed by a dialtone. Not bothering to hang up the phone, he ran upstairs and threw on a t-shirt, jeans and a pair of loafers. He flew down the stairs as he rushed into the store.
Quinn saw a young tough with a shaved head and a number of piercings on his face standing outside. Shaved Head reached inside his leather jacket and pulled out a cellular phone, punched several buttons and spoke into the device. He motioned to Quinn to come outside as he placed the phone back inside his jacket. Quinn opened the door and stepped outside.
"Walk in front of me, buddy," Shaved Head ordered, "I'll tell you where to go. Don't dawdle, 'cause you don't have a lot of time."
Quinn walked briskly in front of Shaved Head, following the directions he ordered him to follow. Eventually, Quinn found himself on Front Street, in front of a bar named Klub Kulture. Distorted electronic sounds blared through its doorway as the pair made their way inside, through a throng of people clad in black. The patronage had a number of goths inside, emulating their romantic perceptions of vampires. Quinn wasn't entirely certain that there weren't one or two real vampires in the club. Quinn was brought to a table in the back. A stunningly attractive, pale woman with raven-black hair was already sitting at the table, dressed in a midnight black evening gown. Except for her obvious magnetism, she was indistinguishable from the other patrons in the bar. She looked up at Quinn, smiled, and pulled out a cellular phone from her purse, resting on the table. She dialed, spoke briefly into it, then placed it back inside her purse. She motioned for Quinn to sit down at the table; Quinn had little choice but to comply.
"So good of you to make it, Mister... Thompson, now, is it?" Her voice was as smooth and seductive as her appearance, and he could hear it clearly over the din of the club. "It must get confusing, changing identities so often."
"Cut the crap." Quinn snapped, clenching his fists beneath the table.
"What do you want?"
"Very well, if you insist." The woman never broke her facade of seductive gentility. "My name is Mirabella... Mirabella Giovanni, but you may call me Mira." She held out a gloved hand for Quinn to take and kiss. Quinn made no motion to do so. Eventually, Mira placed her hand on her lap.
"Sixty-six years ago, you killed my father Anastasio while he was conducting business in New York. He was not the perfect patriarch, but he was still my father. The grief I felt and certain internal power struggles resulting from his death forced me to go into torpor. I awoke only a few years ago, and I knew I had to destroy you. I only knew you as the Shroud at the time, but through great expense and a few unique means, I have tracked you down. You would be amazed at the tales dead men tell; the fine gentleman Mr. Batchelder was particularly helpful." "So now you're going to kill me," Quinn replied.
"A logical assumption, but no. Not yet, at least." Mira leaned forward, inches away from Quinn's face, venom dripping from her voice. "You are going to suffer as I did; everyone who is close to you will be butchered, just as you butchered my father. As their corpses are piled up, you will remember what you did to Anastasio Giovanni and regret your mistake for the rest of whatever life I decide to allow you to live." Mira leaned back in her chair. "Go now, and enjoy your child's company while you still can."
Quinn rose from his chair, his fists still clenched. "I'm going to send you to hell, monster. A quick death is the best you can hope for."
"Please, my dear, Angela's life is worth more than a few hollow threats. I might just decide not to call our friend Richard and then she will die that much sooner." She stroked her purse playfully, and Shaved Head motioned for Quinn to leave the club.
Eventually, Quinn arrived back at the shop with Shaved Head following closely behind. As he entered the shop, he saw Shaved Head pulling out the cellular phone once again. Quinn rushed up the stairs and burst into the apartment, running over to the closet and pulling out his katana. He threw on his trenchcoat and placed the weapon inside. When he went outside again, Shaved Head was nowhere to be seen. Quinn ran for the Chevy and noticed the all the tires were slit. Cursing loudly, Quinn ran down Cedar Street in the direction of the Boardwalk. Only seconds later, he almost slammed into a surprised Angela walking from the other direction.
"Angela, my God!" Quinn embraced her fiercely, fighting back the tears coming to his eyes.
"Quinn, what are you doing?" Angela tensed in Quinn's embrace, and he slowly released her. "I was just hanging out with Richard at the
Boardwalk. Didn't you see the message I left you?"
"Where is he?" Quinn barked out. Angela almost jumped with surprise.
"He dropped me off down the street a couple of minutes ago. What's wrong, Quinn?"
Quinn shuddered with a mixture of adrenalin and emotion.
"Come on, let's go home." Quinn curled an arm around Angela's shoulders as they walked back to the apartment.

Sunday, June 4th, 1995 6:31 a.m.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."
Father José Antonio Oliveira patiently waited for the parishioner to continue, glancing absently at his watch. Mass was scheduled to begin soon and early confessions hadn't yet finished. Antonio mentally noted that Father Murphy seemed to be overlong in his break. Father Antonio hoped that Murphy's "problem" hadn't reoccured. Father Sava had been covering for Murphy, but Antonio had relieved him himself as a long distance personal call had come in from Sava's family in Europe. If Murphy were indeed back into his cups, he would be very surprised to find his superior manning his post, instead of the meeker, older Croation priest who had been duped into covering instead. Father Antonio then realized he had allowed his thoughts to wander and that the confessioner in the booth hadn't said anything further.
"Are you alright my son?" he asked, prompting the man to continue. Again, his eyes strayed to his watch. He feared that Father Murphy and he would once again have to have one of their little "talks."
"I'm sorry, Father. It's been some time for me. I'm afraid I'm not used to this." The man's voice seemed nervous, unsure.
Father Antonio tried to focus on matters at hand. He would deal with Murphy later. "How long has it been since your last confession, my son?"
There was a long pause and Father Antonio heard a nervous shuffling. "It's been a long time father. Longer than I would care to say."
Antonio nodded. "Go on."
"It's beenyears, since my last confession. Since then, I've found that I have strayed from the Church."
Antonio let out a small silent sigh. This was going to be a long confession, he realized, as was often the case for those who had been outside the fold for some time. Regrettably, he needed to be away to see about Murphy, and then to get ready for Mass.
"Yes, I see," he told the young sounding man. "And, what has brought you back to God?"
"I need help. I'm in trouble and I need all the help I can get."
Antonio was already beginning to loose interest. Here was another one of those bland souls, whose devotion only came with need. Still, there was always hope, Antonio was forced to remind himself.
"Perhaps, you should confess your sins. That is a start."
"Yes, of course," the voice replied nervously. "Let me see, there are so many."
This, of course, came as no surprise to Father Antonio.
"I have strayed from the Church." The voice paused.
"Yes, my son, you have said that. Please continue," Antonio urged. He felt a pressing need to see what Father Murphy had gotten himself into, but he forced himself to listen to the confession.
"I have, uh, I've done very questionable things. Uh, I've" The voice stopped and Antonio thought he could hear chuckling.
"This is not a place for humour," Antonio reminded the man.
The chuckling at once stopped. "I'm sorry Father, I'm just nervous. I don't know how to go about this. If it were just me, I don't know that I would've come here. But I have a daughter now."
Ah, that was it, Antonio realized. Well, at least it was more to the man's credit that he cared for his girl. Of course, it would have been better if his coming were for his care for Christ instead.
Antonio stifled a yawn as he urged the man on. "Please continue."
"I've had impure thoughts about a woman I've met recently. It's nothing much. She's really too young for me, but I've caught myself thinking about possibilities sometimes."
"Are you married?" Antonio asked.
"No father. I've never been married. My daughter's adopted."
Antonio wasn't sure he approved of that, but for the moment, he needed this to be over so he could see about Father Murphy.
"Anyway," the man continued. "I've had those thoughts. I've committed acts of violence. Though, mostly I've done so only in defence."
"Anything else?"
"I've killed."
These last words hit Father Antonio like a block of ice. A chill crept into him, making his body go rigid and tense. He was instantly focused. Every second seemed to stretch out like minutes and the grain of the wood in the partition screen seemed vibrantly apparent. All thought of where Father Murphy had gone vanished. His voice when it finally spoke, seemed so soft and so weak, that Antonio thought for sure he would have to repeat himself.
"Who did you kill? - my son."
But the man had heard him after all. "I didn't know them, Father. They were just men."
Antonio tried to swallow. His throat didn't seem to work and the lump stayed in it. "How many have you killed?"
"Since my last confession, I don't know - over twenty."
Father Antonio couldn't hide his very audible gasp. The man was obviously insane. Maybe he had just made it all up. He was just pretending, taking some sick pleasure out of confessing crimes he hadn't committed. But Antonio doubted these thoughts even as they came to him. With horrour, he realized that this man, if he was indeed telling the truth, was a confessed serial killer. Maybe he was the Hacker, who had been stalking Santa Cruz for the past few years.
"Most were - years ago. But, the other night, this man - he, uh, attacked a friend. That woman I told you about."
"The one you were having these impure thoughts over?" Antonio pulled out his kerchief and swabbed the sweat glistening over his balding head.
"Yes, but that came later. Anyway, he attacked her and we fought, and I killed him. I didn't want to, but I knew if I didn't, this man would come back until he had killed me."
Antonio felt like he was going to be sick at his stomach. He didn't want to ask the next question, but he felt he was obliged. "How did you kill this man?"
There was a pause. "I don't see why that matters, Father. Excuse me, but I don't."
"It matters, my son. All things matter to Christ, our Saviour."
Again, there was pause, this time much longer. "I used a sword. I cut off his head."
That deep sinking in Antonio's stomach, the feeling that he didn't think could grow any worse, found a way to grow so much more terrible. Antonio glanced briefly at the shadowy form. A thickness of wood, hardly more than a popsicle stick, separated him from the "Hacker," a man who was a sadistic killer. Here was a sickness who had taken root in human form and who would go on to kill. Antonio knew it.
"You must stop this killing, my son. It is a blasphemy to God," was all that he could think to say.
The man ignored him; the power of his revelation carried him forward, as often happened when those who had carried sin with them for so long, finally let it out.
"I don't have much faith, Father. But I need someone who does. I'm facing something now you couldn't possibly conceive of."
"Of that I'm sure," Antonio himself confessed. "My son, you must stop this killing. You must go to the Police and turn yourself in. If you truly love God, if you truly love your daughter," Antonio paused to silently bless the unknown girl, "You must give yourself up."
"I see this was a mistake to come here," the man said. "I don't why I did. I guess I was just desperate."
"You came because God brought you here," Antonio told him.
"Maybe. Maybe you're right, Father. I have so little faith. And I need faith right now. You cannot know how much. Faith would be a shield to me. From all I've studied, I really believe that. The trouble is, the more I learn about the world, the less I'm able to truly believe. It's like you have to be blind to have faith, but that very blindness can protect you - in my world."
"It is not blindness, but truth and strength you seek. Remember your soul, my son. Satan has it in his thrall. Only God can save you. You must give yourself up."
"I can't do that, Father. I don't blame you for asking. I know you have to."
"Then you must stop this killing. Promise me that," Antonio pleaded, it taking all of his effort to keep his voice down to a whisper.
"I can't do that either," the man said sadly.
"I cannot accept that," Antonio hissed. "Do not toy with me in the House of God," he warned.
Again, the man paused before resuming. "Father, after all I've told you, can you forgive me?"
"Why do you seek forgiveness, if you do not repent?" Antonio asked him. "This isn't a mockery, you know. This isn't the Middle Ages, where false forgiveness can be bought with coin. Forgiveness comes from the heart. You must repent of what you have done or my words are just that, simply words."
"But I do repent, Father," the man insisted. "I do. Believe me, I do with all my heart. But I also know I couldn't have done otherwise, being what I am." As Antonio put his shaking hand to his face, to wipe away the sweat, the man asked him, "Can you give me forgiveness, Father?"
"I can" Antonio wrestled with the words. What he wanted to say, what he yearned to scream, was that he could not possibly give God's forgiveness to such a monster, knowing as he did, that his words would absolve this man of all sin, if he truly repented. And most murderers did, Antonio realized, repent, at one time at another. That still didn't make them anything but the monsters they were. But, by Christ's words, all men were capable of being forgiven - no matter what they had done.
"I canI bless and forgive you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen. Go with God." Tears streamed down Antonio's face. His hand shook with such anger as he made the sign of the cross that he had to hold it steady with his other hand.
On the other side of the screen, there was a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Father. No Hail Marys?"
"If I said, say a million, how could that be enough for what you have claimed to have done?"
"I see. I have God's forgiveness, but not yours. Father, I have to ask. Do you believe that the words we have spoken here are between just you and I? Is that your intent?"
"You have forgotten the most important witness of all," Antonio's voice quavered. "God himself. He shall be your judge, not I. As for what I think, that does not matter. I am bound by God not to reveal what you have said."
"Father, I know what you think. I am not the Hacker. I am guilty of much, but not those crimes. I wasn't even here when they were committed."
Antonio shook his head. "It does not matter what I think."
"Father?" The man held something up to the partition. "I'm so sorry. I sense that you are a true man of faith. You can help me, I think, protect my daughter. Can you bless this cross? Can you give it a blessing against evil?"
Antonio looked, his eyes like lead, barely lifting to see the rounded contours of a Celtic cross through the wooden partition. The man's hand was hairy and pinkish white.
"It's for my daughter," the man said with a desperate sounding voice. "As I said, she's my real reason for coming. I have to try everything."
"For your daughter, I would surely give a blessing from evil." Antonio said, thinking the evil was the man to whom he was speaking. There was a blessing he remembered from his homeland. There superstitions still held sway in the inland valleys where grapes fed off dust centuries old, intermingled with the toil and suffering of man over the years. Like a voice out of time, Father Antonio blessed the cross, not in Latin, but in old Portuguese. If ever there was a blessing to protect this man's poor child from her father, Antonio prayed this was it.
"Thank you, Father. For my daughter, I thank you." Antonio heard the door of the confessional close, just as Father Murphy opened the door to Antonio's side, his dull eyes growing wide with shock.
"Father Antonio! Ah, I left Father Sava here! I had a medical emergency," the man's voice lilted, still caught by the accent of his Irish home. "Breakfast didn't agree with me, I'm afraid, and I had the runs again."
"Later," Antonio waved Murphy away. "Save it for later, Father." With that, Antonio rushed away to his office.
Later, that morning, while he gave the mass, Father Antonio couldn't help but stare at his assembled parishioners, even moreso as they left, wondering which of those faces he greeted belonged to the monster who had begged forgiveness of him. Even later, when Father Murphy was called to Father Antonio's office, instead of being berated, Father Murphy was shocked to find that Father Antonio instead wanted to confess. The Archbishop, Antonio's normal confessor was away on business and with Sava on a plane for home, Father Murphy was all that was left. And Antonio's need seemed urgent.
Unable to believe his own eyes, Father Murphy saw Father Antonio kneel before him, saying, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

Sunday, June 4th 7:28 a.m.

"Where have you been?" Derek asked Quinn, concerned for the wild haggard look he saw in his friend's face.
"Where's Angela?" Quinn asked.
"Upstairs, asleep. It's Sunday morning."
Quinn vaulted up the stairway. He found Angela asleep, just as Derek had said. She had been up late, Saturday night, and like many teenagers, was sleeping her reveries off.
"Angela," Quinn jostled her awake.
"Wha?" Angela rubbed her eyes. "What?" She got up, concerned by the look in Quinn's face. Derek was standing behind Quinn.
"Here, put this on." Quinn didn't even bother to hand the cross over, draping it himself over her neck. "I want you to wear this always," he ordered.
Angela looked at it. It was silver - very old. Quinn's family had brought it from Ireland and it had come to him through his mother. Now it was Angela's.
"Quinn, it's beautiful," she told him, awed by it. "But it'll look like shit on me. And I can't go to school wearing this!"
"You keep that on! Wear it under your shirt if you have to. But I mean it!" Quinn looked right into her eyes. "I never, ever want to see you without that cross. Baby," Quinn took Angela's face into his hands. "I've never lied to you. Trust me. I need you to believe that this cross will protect you. You understand?"
"No," she shook her head, "But I believe you, Quinn. Of course I do. What's going on?"
"Nothing," he told her. "And get up. We're going to church."
"Church!" she screamed. "I don't even believe in God," she protested.
"Angela, get dressed. You're going."
"Oh, don't tell me you've become a religious freak!" she whined.
"Uh, can I interject a word here?" Derek asked.
"No," Quinn snapped at him. Turning to Angela, he said, "Baby, I've seen stuff that makes me believe in absolute evil - with a capitol `E'". Having seen that, I've got to believe there's something good to match it."
"Excuse me," Angela raised her hand. "Are you telling me that the Mighty Quinn believes in God?"
"I never said I didn't. Now get dressed and we can make it for the late morning service."
"But I haven't had breakfast!"
"Eat when you get back."
While Angela got dressed, Quinn ran downstairs to start the car, with Quinn fast in tow. Jenny walked in, just as they were heading out, dragging her dog, Sampson. The dog whined and cringed as he sniffed Derek.
"Where are you all off to?"
Quinn was scowling at his tires. He had forgotten to change them out. He would have to have the car towed to a garage on Monday.
"Did you drive?" he asked Jenny.
"Yea, my car's over there." She pointed to a grey primered Volkswagon Beetle, parked over on Cathcart Street.
"Cmon Jenny," Quinn said, shoving Sampson into the shop and locking the door behind him. "You're going to church."
"Church?"
"That's what I said," Angela told her.
"We're going to services at the Unity Temple. It's a non-demominational Church that believes that all aspects of spirituality are tied together. Their services incorporate Christian, Buddhist, Hindu and Islamic tenets."
"Sounds like fun," Derek said, without much conviction.
"Can I ask why?" Jenny looked around for an explanation.
"I'll tell you later," Quinn said, urging them all back to Jenny's car.
Soon, the four of them were crammed into Jenny's overstuffed volkswagen, chugging its way down Broadway.

Sunday, June 4th 1:22 p.m.

Later, three of them were sitting on cushions around Quinn's Japanese Table downstairs in his storage room while Madame Kuska was upstairs, placing wards around the shop inbetween customers.
"Well, that's quite a story," Jenny said, her voice suggesting that she still didn't quite believe it. "Vampires." She shook her head. "Why not."
"If you only knew," Derek gave her a toothsome smile.
"Know what? Jenny asked.
"Nevermind," Quinn said. "We'll take that as it comes. Now, I have to assume that Mirabella has had somebody watching the shop. She probably knows all of you and I'm pretty sure she knows you're associated with me. Which of course means, that you're now in danger."
"Great. This just gets more fun all the time," Jenny said.
"Stick around," Derek suggested.
"I don't think I have a choice," she retorted.
Quinn just nodded his head to say that he agreed with her.
"And that's why you left Angela at the Unity Temple?" Jenny asked.
"Right," Quinn nodded. "Madame Kuska recommended it. She says it's a place of high spiritual power. Angela should be well guarded there. The Reverend has agreed to watch over her."
"What about Madame Kuska?," Derek asked.
"She's heading over to Hollister, to spend some time with her people." Quinn told them, "For a while, I thought of packing the two of them off on the next plane to Switzerland, but then I thought that would be playing more into Mirabella's hand. She must have substantial contacts in Italy, and probably throughout Europe. I think I'd rather have them both closer to home, where I can protect them if I need to."
"Does the Madame know what's up?" Derek asked.
"I think she senses more than she lets on," Quinn said. "But she hasn't said anything and I don't want to jeopardize her by telling her more. But she volunteered that bit about Unity Temple and even arranged for Angela to stay there."
"So, what do we do now?" Jenny asked.
"We wait for their move. Meanwhile, Derek and I will be making inquiries. Mirabella has declared war. I want to see if I can take the battle back to her. The most important thing we need to do is find out where she sleeps during the day. That could take time. We also need to find out who she's working with, who her local people are. I doubt she has much of a base in Santa Cruz, so she must have brought her people with her. We can trace them that way. Hotel and Motel registers. Car rentals. However, she could have an ally who's providing her with information and local muscle. The trouble is, I haven't been in town long enough to shake down the local scene."
Quinn turned to Jenny. "Jenny, do you know anything?"
She shrugged. "Sorry, I just arrived here not that long ago myself. I'm just a lost Colorado girl. And this isn't, or wasn't exactly my lifestyle."
Quinn turned to Derek. "What about you, compadre? Have you been able to make contact with any of your local people?"
Derek gave Jenny a quick glance. "Uh, yea, and there's some things I'll have to tell you later. Anyway, there's plenty of muscle, but I don't think they'd be likely to lend any to you. They got problems and they couldn't give a rat's ass for what happens to some Store keeper and his family. They don't like leeches, but as long as the licks don't leave town, they won't bother with `em"
"Well, I met Mirabella at Klub Kulture." Quinn rubbed his chin, thinking. "We might inquire, discreetly of course, with someone down there. Maybe a little cash flow would be in order."
Derek shook his head. "Uh, I wouldn't advise it. Word's out that some heavy hitters hang out there. If Mirabella's in with that crowd, you don't want to go back in there without some serious backup. The guy that runs the place is someone called Bitchy. I haven't met him but my people say he's one evil dude."
"Hmm, maybe you're right." Quinn rubbed his chin some more. "Alright. What we need is information and Derek and I will see what we can find. Also, we'll see if we can find allies of our own. Maybe there's someone in town who wants a bite of Giovanni, or has a thing against vampires in general."
"What did you want me to do?" Jenny asked.
Quinn went back to rubbing his chin. The thought that he needed a shave went to the back of his mind. Jenny was a problem. She was an Immortal, and that was an asset. But with other Quick hungry Immortals running around, sending her out on an investigation was out of the question. She was hardly trained, and certainly she would be an easy target, whether it be from Immortal, Giovanni mortal thug or power hungry mage. However, he hoped that if Jenny was removed from the scene, that Mirabella wouldn't think it worth her while to go after. But Quinn would have to see that she was far away.
"Derek, get me a beer. Would you mind?"
Derek glanced quickly at Jenny. "Naw, sure hombre. Be right back. You want one Jenny?"
She nodded. "Thanks."
After Derek left, Quinn asked her. "Jenny, where's your fiancé going to school?"
"Golden, Colorado. School of Mines," she replied tersely, as if suspecting Quinn of something. "You want to get rid of me, don't you?"
"I'd spot you a plane ticket," he told her. "You and what's his name"
"Robert." When she said it, Quinn felt a twinge of something he would have denied in himself - jealousy. Robert wasn't a name that he was too fond of.
"I'll send you to go get him out of his lonely summer. Then you two can go and spend the season in Bermuda. How's that? I'll pay your bill."
"You can afford that?" she asked.
"Actually, there's a guy in Bermuda that owes me a favor. If you said Cancun, I would've been in trouble. But food and air fair, yes, I can afford that."
"Thank's Quinn, but I want to stay. If this is to be my life, I might as well start living it."
"This isn't the fight to start with," he told her. "You don't know what you're up against." He saw the blood drain from her face. He'd scared her with the tone of his voice. She wasn't stupid. He was damn scared himself and she had seen it. That shook her like nothing else.
"Excuse me, Quinn, but you got me into this life. Don't try to shove me off at your convenience."
"Jenny, you're not ready." It was the truth.
She shook her head. She was either brave or stubborn - probably both.
Quinn stared down at his hands. "Look, I didn't want to say this but I don't think I can think straight with you around. It's like with Angela. If I'm worried about her, it ties my hands. I don't want anything to happen to her, or you. I can't be worrying about where you are and what's happening to you. I need to be free to work."
"What about Derek?"
"He can take care of himself. You can't - not in this - not yet."
"What about you, when you first knew you were Immortal?"
"That's different."
"Why?"
"Because I was a cop. I was a street veteran. I already knew the ropes. You - you're greener than an unripe apple."
"I think we've had this conversation before. Remember?"
Quinn stopped, and nodded. He was right - but then, so was she. He would've been dead, if it wasn't for her.
"Alright," he nodded. "You can stay."
"Thanks, but I don't need your permission. I just want your promise not to hassle me about it anymore."
Quinn reluctantly nodded his head. The more he knew her, the more he felt he liked her. Looking at the ring on her finger, he shook his head. Well, he'd almost been down that road himself. Sadly, he knew they could only have a brief lifetime together - Robert's lifetime, before he withered and died in front of her. He had known other immortals and heard them talk about it. It was a curse of their kind. And taking an Immortal consort wasn't advised either. It was said that the lure of Quickening grew even as years and too much familiarity withered love until only the lust for power remained. Then, there came the stroke of the blade for one partner or the other.
"Why are you staring at my ring?"
Quinn came back from his thoughts. "Nothing," he told her.
"Tell me," she insisted.
"I was just thinking you're pretty young to be engaged."
"Are you sure you're not just jealous?"
Seeing Quinn blush, she mistook it for anger. "I'm kidding. It was just a joke," she laughed.
Derek came back with the beers.

Sunday, June 4th 7:41 p.m.

Jenny had settled in upstairs, watching T.V. and monitoring the phone and information net on the computer. Quinn wasn't much with computers, but Derek had insisted on setting one up. Quinn felt like the odd man out as both the glasswalker and his protegee seemed incredibly well versed in the medium, leaving him feeling like some thawed out dinosaur. Go with the times, he kept reminding himself. Go with the times.
"What did you want to tell me?" he asked Derek, now that they were alone.
Derek glanced up the stairway. "Something big's happening up in these mountains," he told Quinn.
"Big? What? What did you get wind of?"
"I don't know for sure," Derek said. "These local garou are very suspicious of outsiders. And none of the mountain tribes seem to trust Glasswalkers very much, even the home grown ones. But, in asking around, I got the impression that they were up to something. Maybe a big raid against the Technos over the Hill."
"Technos?" Quinn asked, drawing a blank.
"Yea, you remember. I told you before," Derek insisted. "The Technocracy."
"Oh, yes, the technological magi, right?" Derek nodded. "And they want to take over the world?" Quinn though that it sounded like something out of a James Bond movie, but Derek seemed dead serious about it. As far as Quinn was concerned, all Magi were to be avoided. They lusted after his quickening as much as any immortal.
"I'm sorry," Quinn said. "It all seems beyond me. But maybe, when this is all over, you and I can help your friends out somehow. I wouldn't mind helping out old mother earth. She's been mighty good to me."
"It's not that simple," Derek said. "As a garou, they're putting pressure on me to join them. They're calling for a big moot - all the tribes."
"That sounds like a big deal," Quinn said. He realized with a panic that Derek was torn. His werewolf half yearned to join his kin in the hills.
"Hey, Derek, you do what you have to," Quinn told him. "I understand."
"No, not until this thing is settled with you," Derek told him. "I'm not from around here. Their songs aren't my songs - at least not yet anyway. But it's not easy being a garou, you know."
"What's a gah-roo?" Jenny asked, standing on the stairs. There was no telling how long she had been there or how much she had heard. Her Arcane talent was developing nicely. Quinn made a mental note that he would have to keep that in mind. "Sorry to interrupt your conversation," she said, "but Quinn, there's a phone call for you."
"I'll be right up," he told her.
She went back up the stairs. She had only just disappeared when Quinn and Derek heard a crash sounding like the roof had been torn off. Then Jenny's scream came tearing down the stairway followed by her dog's frantic barking and whining.
They were up in an instant.
Jenny had her sword in hand and was doing a fair job cutting deep slices into the sad limbs that reached out for her, trying to club her with awkward fists. The face was recognizable - but just barely so. It was Batchelder.
"I could use some help here," Jenny screamed at them.
Derek changed before Quinn's eyes, into the half wolf, half man form that was a transition into his large metamorphosis, the dreaded crinos. Not waiting for the change to complete itself, he launched himself at Batchelder, and tore off an arm. Batchelder ignored the missing limb and continued to moan, trying to club, kick or bite as well as he could.
Quinn noted the listless dead eyes and the stitching around the neck. Also, the flesh of the face was discoloured and looked as if it had been cooked. It was a poor use for the body that Rachel May once loved. In his time, Batchelder had been a good man. Growing angry, Quinn drew his own sword and helped put an end to this mockery. With the three of them, it wasn't even a fight.
As Derek changed back, Jenny just about dropped her sword.
"Well, now you know what a gah-roo is," he told her, laughing. "I guess it had to come out some time."
Jenny just looked back and forth from Batchelder's body, that had crashed through the back doorway and then back to Derek. "I think I'm going to be sick," was all she could say.
Just then, Quinn remembered the phone.
"Hello?" he yelled into the handset, to see if they were still there.
"Did you get my message?" the woman's voice was softly erotic. Perhaps for effect, she allowed some more of her accent to creep into her words then she would have otherwise done.
"Mirabella!" Quinn hissed. "Don't tell me this poor zombie is the best you can do," he chided, then immediately thought that provoking her was probably not a good thing.
"He was just a messenger. Had I desired him to be more effective, you would know it. I just had to get rid of some garbage and it seemed a good way to send you something. Oh, and Quinn?"
"Yes," Quinn answered dryly.
"She was sweet. The young ones always are."
"Quinn!" It was Derek. He had pried open one of Batchelder's hands. The one on the arm he had torn off. It was a cross. A blessed Celtic Cross, drenched in blood.
"Where is she?!!" he screamed into the phone. "If you want someone, you dead bitch! TAKE ME! TAKE ME!" Quinn's voice echoed across the room and out into the night.
On the other end, their was laughter, melodic and sweet like death. "Oh, I will, my darling Quinn, I will indeed." The phone clicked dead.

Sunday, June 4th, 7:59 p.m.

A quick call to Reverend Joy at Unity Temple confirmed the worst. Angela had left. A young man, fitting Robert's description, had called upon her and she had been assumed to have left with him. The acolytes at the temple had refused to let her go, but she had snuck out, disobeying out of overrun hormones. Angela had been too resourceful for her own good.
Rather than be apologetic or even upset, the Reverend's voice was irritatingly calm and soothing. Quinn remembered her icy eyes stabbing into him when they first met. She seemed very formidable, but there was something else about her that bothered him, though he couldn't say what it had been at the time. Later, after he'd left after the service, Quinn remembered what it was. She had the eyes of a fanatic.
"I'm sorry about what happened," the Reverend said. "But, we really are limited here. We can't keep someone forever who doesn't want to stay. This isn't a jail. We offered her refuge, but if she truly didn't want to stay,"
Quinn's pulse was pounding. This was wasting time. He would have to call around to find his daughter. He would have to make the rounds - the police, the hospital, Quinn swallowed, - the morgue.
As if sensing his thoughts, Reverend Joy paused in her conciliatory apology. "Perhaps I can do something to help you." Quinn didn't say anything, too deep in thought. He vaguely heard chimes on the other end and remembered the service with its gongs and burning incense.
"She's at the Emergency Ward at Dominican Hospital," Joy told him. "Severe blood loss. You'd better hurry."
Quinn didn't bother to even ask how the woman had known this and soon, Jenny and he were speeding down Highway 1, pushing the Volkswagon as fast as it could go.

Sunday, June 4th, 1995 8:11 p.m.

Quinn jumped out of the car even as Jenny was pulling into a parking spot.
"Quinn!" she yelled, but he was already gone, halfway to the emergency door.
"Angela Thompson! I'm her legal guardian," Quinn blurted to the on duty receptionist.
Dominican was a Catholic hospital. The nun simply stared at him. Jenny came rushing through the door.
Quinn pounded his fist onto the desk. "THOMPSON, ANGELA." Seeing the frightened look in the nun's eyes, he added, "Please, Sister. Have you had a young girl come in, medium length dark hair, fourteen years old.
The nun glanced at her computer screen.
"Yes," she said, eyeing Quinn strangely. "We have a young Jane Doe who was brought in by police just a few minutes ago. The doctor is examining her now."
"I need to see her," Quinn insisted. "Please, where is she?"
"She's in emergency, sir, but you'll have to wait. Now, assuming that this young girl is your daughter, I'll have to ask you some financial questions. Are you insured?"
"Yes, she's insured. I have a Blue Cross policy for her. Is this all necessary right now?"
There was a beep on the phone and the nun picked it up. "Oh, yes Mary, I have someone here claiming to be her father. What? Oh, alright. Oh, and is there anything to identify her? Oh? Hmm, well, go ahead and bring that out if that's all you have."
"Anyway," the nun resumed, "Do you have her insurance card with you?"
Quinn growled, but Jenny laid a reassuring hand on his arm.
Nodding, Quinn tried to control himself. As he fumbled through his wallet, looking for a copy of Angela's insurance, a nurse came out through a large door at the side of the lobby. In her hand she was carrying a torn and bloody rag. Looking closer at it, a chill feeling creeping down his back, Quinn saw that the rag had been a shirt. He could only make out part of what it said, but it was enough to fill in the blanks. He had seen the shirt often enough - "Sisters of Mercy" World Tour 94."
Quinn left the nun and rushed up to the nurse, who seemed startled and more than afraid of the look that must've been on his face.
"That's my daughter's shirt," he told her. "Tell me, how is she doing? Will she be alright?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but she's in surgery. You'll have to talk to the doctor," the nurse told him.
"Sir," the nun came out from behind her desk to stand alongside the nurse. "We haven't finished yet. Could you please take a seat at my desk." It wasn't a question, but an order.
Feeling he couldn't take any more, Quinn pushed through the two of them. Jenny ran after him, but by then, he was already through the door.
"Come back here!" the nun ordered behind him, her voice choked somewhat by surprise.
Entering what looked like an emergency reception room, Quinn noted the many beds lying in curtained cubicles. Some patients were sleeping, tubes poking out of their bodies, which were almost indecently bereft of privacy as left by hospital gowns.
The nun had followed him, "Sir, you'll have to come back before I call security," she insisted.
Quinn ignored her. He saw two people talking, one of whom was wearing street clothing, but who had a stethoscope around his neck. He was tall, though a few inches shorter than Quinn and seemed of a more slight build, with a rather pale complexion and blond hair. The person with him was a Santa Cruz policewoman, and she presented a much more striking figure, her red hair and obviously emerald green eyes contrasting strikingly with her pressed black uniform. But these things Quinn only noticed briefly. Other than nurses, these were the only two present who might have some information about Angela. He ran over to them, followed by Jenny and the nun receptionist, blurting out, "I was told my daughter, Angela Thompson is here. I'm Quinn Thompson, her legal guardian. I want to know how she is? Will she be alright?"
Doctor Lawrence raised a hand in a calming, I'll-take-care-of-this gesture to Sister Bernadette. "Thank you, Sister...Now, Mr...Thompson? Right, now your daughter's vital signs look good, though she needs blood urgently. We're having her X-rayed to check for internal injuries to be safe, but her condition is better than we'd expect if she does have such. I can't promise anything, we never can, but the prognosis is favorable. If you want to help her, the best thing you can do is go back to the Emergency Reception desk, tell them you're her guardian and fill out the paperwork...we need all the information on her medical history you can provide, if we want to help her."
Lawrence turned to Officer Morrison. "Now, I was asking you about the girl's condition when you found her. All the information we can get helps." He paused. "I'm particularly curious as to whether it's possible she was moved before you found her; the blood she lost has to have gone somewhere, after all. We had a vaguely similar case the other day, from your department, actually. Small-time crook who got cut up with a sword of all things."
Lawrence glanced over his shoulder towards the X-ray room. "I don't have too much time here. I need to be there to check up on her when they finish with this."
Officer Morrison said, "Very well Doctor, I'll tell you on the way." Moving through the swing doors they headed to the X-Ray Room.
"From what we know, she was in a scuffle with a man and appeared to faint, at which point her attacker was apprehended by a number of citizens. We arrived on the scene and I checked the girl as my partner cuffed the suspect. Her breathing was shallow at that time and she was obviously unconcious. The paramedic's came and checked on her condition. Then her attacker got free with a gun, picked her up off the gurney and backed down some stairs holding her in front of him as a hostage. We pursued" Was all that Quinn could hear before the sound of their voices grew too low for him to follow.

Sunday. June 4th, 1995. 8:11 p.m.

Quinn shuddered with anger as he listened to their fading words. He was so busy holding his rage in, he was barely able to respond to either the doctor or to the officer when they spoke to him. And they didn't even wait around for him to respond. His daughter could be dying, and all they were concerned with was their damn paperwork and waiting around for statements.
Growling with rage, Quinn hurled his fist through the window in the door leading to the x-ray room. He heard a satisfying crunch as the glass broke and felt the security wire slice into his fingers and knuckles.
"Quinn, what the hell are you doing?" Jenny clutched at his shoulder and arm as he pulled his fist back from the window. Blood was just starting to pour from the numerous cuts and scrapes, soaking his hand in crimson. He relished the pain, anxious to feel anything that would release his tension, and then let the Quickening flow through him to heal the wounds instantly.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" An orderly came from the emergency room, alerted by the commotion.
"I'm sorry," Quinn managed to scrape out, as he surreptitiously wiped the remaining blood on the inside of his trenchcoat and turned to face the orderly. "It's just my daughter... look, I'll pay for the window." He pulled his wallet out and gave the orderly a pair of crumpled $50 bills.
The orderly gave Quinn a surprised once-over; satsfied that he wasn't a drugged-out derelict, he accepted the bills.
Later, while Quinn and Jenny were waiting for word on Angela, Quinn noticed the policewoman, Morrison, looking at the window in the door he had smashed. He realized that in smashing the tempered glass of the door, he had cut himself and had bled onto the floor. He vaguely remembered the orderly calling for a nurse, but Quinn had refused any help, still caught up in the emotion of his anger and fear for Angela. Of course, he knew he would heal. But the door had been tempered glass and any normal man's hand would be broken and cut still. His wasn't. As he saw the police officer looking at him through the unsmashed door, he looked down at his hand, noting it's unblemished skin. How would he explain that? he wondered.
Quinn cursed himself for foolishly using his Quickening without thinking. His earlier words to Jenny echoed in his head, *I don't think I can think straight with you around. It's like with Angela. If I'm worried about her, it ties my hands.* Quinn moved over to Jenny, careful to keep his hand hidden in his trenchcoat pocket.
"I'll be back in a minute," he said to her.
"Quinn, wha..." Jenny replied in a low voice, just as the orderly came
back down the hallway.
"I talked to a nurse and she'll be coming in a minute. In the meantime, let me look at that hand."
Quinn winced and cursed his misfortune under his breath.
"Look, I just have to go to the rest room for a minute..."
"You're not going anywhere until you show me that hand," the orderly replied. "You must have turned your hand into jelly, mister."
Quinn involuntarily held his breath as he slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket. The orderly stared at his unblemished hand in amazement, and grabbed Quinn's wrist in order to get a better look. Quinn noticed Jenny bite her lip in concern, fully aware of the implications of the situation.
"Guess I was pretty lucky," Quinn managed to get out half-heartedly, too shaken up to think of a more elaborate lie. As the orderly continued to examine his hand, the officer finished her business at the reception desk and turned to Quinn.
Walking back down the corridor, Officer Morrison stopped at the Reception desk. Turning away from the desk she addressed the two
people waiting. " I'll be with you in a minute Mr Thompson".
After talking to the sister there she picked up the phone and spent a minute making two calls. Once finished, she turned back Mr Thompson. " Can I see that Identification now, Sir."
Quinn turned to face Officer Morrison while an orderly looked at his right hand. The tall blonde woman who followed him in looked concerned but under control as she focused her gaze away from the x-ray room door, whose window had recently been shattered. It was not hard to deduce that Quinn had just recently smashed his hand through the window.
"Yes, certainly officer." Quinn began to reach inside his trenchcoat, but the orderly held onto his wrist briefly, looking astounded. "Look, I told you it was fine," he insisted as he pulled his hand away.
The orderly simply shook his head.
"Man, you were lucky you didn't shred it to pieces on the security wire," he marvelled as he began walking down the hallway. "Just don't break anything again or I'll call security."
"Yes, yes," Quinn hissed. He seemed to have calmed down from his original frantic state, but only barely. He reached inside his trenchcoat and pulled out a wallet. In due order, he handed a California driver's license to Officer Morrison. (Quinn's license lists him to be 31 years of age. Just for the record, he's physically 28, but chronologically he's 95.)
"Nasty Cut. I'd have the Doctor have a look at that when he comes back. Also, I'd appreciate you keeping control of that temper." Looking over the licence, Morrison made a few notes and handed it back to him."
Quinn glanced at his hand, almost surprised to note the traces of blood on it. He turned his gaze back to Officer Morrison.
"Sorry, Officer..." Quinn replied. "It's just been... a shock. I assure you it won't happen again." Placing his wallet back inside his trenchcoat, his right hand brushed against its interior. A good portion of the blood rubbed off; he slipped his hand into an exterior coat pocket, but it seemed that first appearances were deceiving - it must have been a very small cut that bled heavily, because it looked as if there was no wound on the hand at all.
"Miss, can I have some ID from you as well?" I'll need to take a formal statement from both of you in the future, but for now I'd appreciate you answering my questions," Morrison told them.
"Sure," the Jenny said, mechanically pulling a driver's license out of her small handbag. The name on the license was Jennifer Kenora Hirschorn, and it was issued by the state of Colorado. The birthdate on the license placed her at 19 years of age.
"Thank you " Morrison said handing it back to her. " I take it your with Mr Thompson? Where are you staying within Santa Cruz? Can I have an address and phone number for you as well, sir?"
Jenny nodded. "I have an apartment in Beach Hill, at 309 3rd Street, apartment number 7."
"My apartment is right above my shop, The Hidden World, on Cedar Street," Quinn replied. "The number is 955 and my phone number is 426-9191."
"Thank you. We'll contact you if we need anything beyond what you've given me," Morrison said.
"Now, who did this to her?" Quinn's eyes bore into the officer, a pair of ice-blue missiles. His question had an imperative tone to it, as if he
expected an answer without delay.
Indicating towards the seats, Morrison headed across talking as she went. "We don't have a name yet, but our primary suspect was found dead at the scene of the crime. However, there are certain peculiarities that mean we need to gather as many facts as possible at this moment." Reaching the seats she sat down and quickly asked her first question. "Could you tell me where you thought your daughter was today and how you were informed of her assault? Can you give me any details of any of her friends and any enemies she or you might have that would want to hurt her? Does she have any medical conditions the doctors should know about?"
Quinn and Jenny sat down a pair of seats opposite Officer Morrison. Quinn scrubbed the stubble on his chin with his left hand; he had a tired, haggard appearance, as if he had been worrying about something for days.
"The last time we saw her was at Unity Temple; it's a non-denominational church, its services incorporate a number of religions, including eastern ones. Neither of us had been to a church in some time, but we went to the Temple this morning. After the service, we asked Reverend Joy to watch over Angela and left her at the Temple." Quinn sighed faintly as he stared into space, then leaned in toward Officer Morrison.
"You see, Angela had begun seeing a young man whom I had some reservations about. His name was Richard, I don't know his last name. Big kid, about six feet tall, broad-shouldered, dressed up like a punk. I had a bad feeling about him right from the start. " Quinn scratched at his stubble again as he continued. "I wanted to talk to her about it, but she's rebellious and I thought she wouldn't listen. So I thought the best thing would be to take her to the Temple, a place of spiritual power. I own an occult shop on Cedar Street; I don't believe every superstitious wives' tale I hear, but I do have some belief in a spiritual world, and I thought she might be safe there."
"As it turned out, it didn't protect Angela from her own impulses. I called to see how she was doing, and it turns out she left the Temple to go with someone who looked like Richard. I was terrified for her. I went down there to ask Reverend Joy more questions, and she..." Quinn paused briefly, blinked, and continued on. "She couldn't tell me any more, except that the Temple wasn't a prison and they couldn't hold Angela against her will. I was afraid. I thought she would wind up in the hospital or dead...I wasn't thinking straight. Jenny and I left right away, we just picked the first hospital we could think of and went to it. I didn't think of making telephone calls. I... I guess I just had to _do_ something, I couldn't just stay put and call every police station, hospital or...morgue."
Quinn's eyes began to water, but he held his head straight up and set his jaw determinedly. Jenny tried to soothe him, holding his arm and gently rubbing his shoulder. "She's a good kid, Officer Morrison. She pretends she doesn't care, but she's really a good kid, and very naive. She doesn't deserve this, damn it!"
"What made you worry about her boyfriend? Anything specific? Do you have any other details about him, like where he lives? If it's alright we'll need you to give us a better description in the near future. Do you have a picture of Angela on you? Does she have any other friends who might know more about what was going on? Also, can you give me an idea when you visited the temple and where you went after that? Did you come directly to this hospital, and how did you know that she was here?" Kate looked questioningly at the pair and jotted down a few more scribbled notes.
Quinn shook his head. "I've told you all I know about him. I only met him in passing yesterday, but I had a bad feeling all the same. I can give a more accurate description later, if you like."
"I would appreciate it, just in case our John Doe is this Richard guy. It's a bit difficult to say at the moment."
"As for a photo of Angela, I've got one right here." Quinn reached inside his trenchcoat and pulled out his wallet again. Flipping through a few cards, he pulled out a photograph of a young teenage girl, about thirteen, with long, dark hair. She had a beautiful, innocent smile which beamed from the small photograph. "That picture was taken about a year ago," Quinn noted. "Nowadays, she usually wears black lipstick and heavy eyeliner."
"We went to the Temple for 8:00 a.m., after that we went back to my apartment and organized a few things there. Angela and I only moved in there a few days ago, so there were a number of packages to organize. The shop also needed some organization done in the back room, so we were there all day."
"You've just moved in? Where from? How long have you been in the city, or have you just moved into the flat from within the city?"
"We moved in last week from Los Angeles last Wednesday."
"When did Angela go to the temple? Sorry I'm getting a little confused. Did you leave Angela at the temple at 8.00 a.m. or was she taken there later?"
"We went to the temple at eight; the service finished at nine and we left Angela there for the rest of the day. As for the hospital, I already told you we were frantic after talking to Reverend Joy. We just went to the first hospital we could think of; on reflection, we didn't even necessarily know she was here. We were just lucky - if you could call finding your daughter in the hospital after being attacked lucky."
"Fair enough. I can undertsand that," came Morrison's curt reply.
"Can you tell me how old Angela is? You said that Angela is a bit rebelious. Has she ever been in any trouble with the police?"
"Angela's 14, and no, she's never been in trouble with the police. She's just been in some trouble, that's all. As I understand it, her biological father was... very abusive. He died of a heart attack over a year ago; it was shortly after that when I adopted her. She needed someone to nurture her, and an orphanage is no kind of place to raise a kid."
"Ah, yeah. You're right there. That clears up some of my confusion."
"I apologise for this but I must ask it. Was Angela happy at home, considering that Miss Hirschorn is round about her age?"
Jenny gave a blink of surprise, as if startled by the Officer's question, then let out a small sigh. Quinn seemed to be more deeply affected by the officer's questions; the red in his cheeks began to spread across his face and in his ears, and his eyes had a dangerous glint to them as he leaned forward, almost to the point of standing.
"Look, I don't know what you're trying to imply, but..."
"Quinn, calm down," Jenny interjected, apparently surprised by Quinn's minor outburst. Quinn slowly collapsed back into his seat as his feaures drained back to their normal complexion. He focused his gaze off to the right on nothing in particular.
"Officer, you've got it all wrong." Jenny raised her left hand, showing the engagement ring on her third finger to Officer Morrison. "I have a fiancee back in Colorado, ma'am. Quinn and I are just friends. We met last Thursday in his shop."
"I apologise " Morrison said putting up her hands in an expression of contrition. "From you both coming in together and your mannerisms, I assumed you were connected. I guess I'm just getting too used to worst side of this city. I take it that it was just a coincidence that you were with Mr Thompson when he went to the Temple?"
"Can you give me any idea of where she might have been with this Richard in the last few weeks?"
Jenny turned to look at Quinn, who was still staring off to his right.
"Quinn?" Jenny placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Wha?" Quinn blinked in surprise as he turned to Jenny. His face turned red again, but it seemed he was more embarrased than angry. "Oh, sorry." He turned to face the Officer. "Um, I know she went to the Boardwalk with him last night, but that's it. Believe me, I wish I knew more."
"Thank you. I think that's enough questions for now. If we need to know any more I'll get back to you. I'll just go and find the Doctor and see how things are progressing." Saying this, Morrison got up and headed through the swing doors, accidently crunching a piece of glass under foot as she went.
" Oh fuck! " seemed to echo down the corridor as the doors closed behind her.

Sunday, June 4th, 1995. 8:30 p.m.

"Is there a Mr. Quinn Thompson here?" Quinn turned from the reception desk to see a nurse looking around the waiting room in a slightly confused fashion. The orderly who had checked his hand earlier was with her. Quinn turned back to the paperwork laid out before him and concentrated on his Arcane, hoping they wouldn't see him. Eventually, the orderly shrugged his shoulders and the pair left back down the corridor. Quinn sighed with relief as he finished filling out forms concerning Angela's medical history and handed them back to the receptionist. She eyed him oddly as he handed his papers in, but said nothing; after the show he had put on tonight, she would feel a lot more comfortable when he left the hospital. Quinn glanced over at Jenny, sitting in the waiting area. She was trying to lose herself in a copy of People magazine, but she didn't seem to be having much success. Her left leg, crossed over her right, swung rhythmically with nervous energy. She worried on a thumbnail as her eyes scanned each page. Quinn had to give her credit for keeping a cool head throughout the whole ordeal. God only knew what he might have done if she hadn't defused the situation when Officer Morrison questioned him about their relationship, and to think only yesterday he was the one cautioning her about short tempers. Quinn felt ashamed of his outburst; Morrison was only doing her job, and he reacted like a flustered child or a dishonest husband. Now was not the time to let his emotions get out of control.
Jenny looked up from her magazine, feeling the weight of Quinn's gaze. Her emerald eyes were full of questions; Quinn simply shook his head, indicating he knew nothing about Angela's condition. Jenny bit her lip in concern and tried to focus back on the magazine. Quinn began to scratch at his stubble again, then stopped himself, noting the action was becoming a nervous habit. Neither of them could sit around here for much longer; they had to do something to track down Mirabella and put an end to this. Hard as it was to admit, waiting at the hospital was not going to help Angela in the least.
Pulling a quarter out from the pocket of his jeans, Quinn stepped over to the payphone resting on the opposite wall and dropped it into the slot. He dialed up the shop and after a few rings, the line was answered by Derek.
"Shoot," was all of Derek's greeting.
"They're still operating on her," Quinn replied, not wasting any words. "The doctor says she should pull through, but it's not one hundred percent
certain. She was attacked by a male, but he was killed. What's the
situation there?"
"Pretty quiet. Cleaned up what I could in the front. I was going to dump Mira's present somewhere else but I decided to take it downstairs. Two kids thought they'd rob a compromised storefront. I convinced them to leave."
Quinn had a good idea how effective Derek's 'convincing' could be; he had witnessed the Garou scare away small gangs by revealing a hint of his Gaia-given rage. The thieves would not come back for some time, if ever.
"Hold the fort," Quinn replied. "We'll be back soon to discuss further
plans. Take care."
"Watch yourself." Derek hung up.
As Quinn replaced the receiver, the P.A. system in the reception area crackled to life.
"Quinn Thompson, please report to the reception desk. Quinn Thompson."
Momentarily startled by the announcement, Quinn quickly assimilated the information and went over to the desk, meeting Jenny was already standing at the counter, having left her seat in the waiting area.
"Oh, Mr. Thompson." The receptionist pointed to another man dressed in blue coveralls who was leaning against the counter. "This courier has a package for you." Quinn's breathing picked up in rhythm as he turned to the courier, who held a clipboard and a brown paper envelope. The courier shoved a clipboard and a pen into his face.
"Sign right here," the courier pointed out a line with an 'x' beside it on the clipboard sheet.
"Who mailed this?" Quinn asked, ignoring the clipboard.
The courier seemed mildly irritated by Quinn's refusal to take his offering. He scratched at his thinning blond scalp and shrugged his bony shoulders.
"I don't know, some lady... Ms. Anastasio, I think her name was." The
courier raised the clipboard to emphasize it. "Do you think you could
sign, please?"
Grasping the pen, Quinn hastily signed the sheet and shoved the clipboard back in the courier's face. The courier placed the envelope on the counter and gave Quinn an unimpressed scowl as he walked out of the reception area. Quinn gingerly lifted the envelope and measured its weight - very light, and it felt as if there was something soft inside it. Slowly, he
opened the envelope and peered inside.
"What is it?" Jenny asked in a hushed voice.
Quinn reached inside the envelope and pulled out a silk veil attached to a letter, written in crimson ink.
*I win round one,* the letter read. *If you want a chance to win round two, come to our favorite Klub. Ask for me at the bar. Sincerely, M. P.S. Bring a date, or the Madame will be upset.*
A whiff of patchouli oil wafted under his nose from the veil. Madame Kuska had a fondness for patchouli.
Quinn dashed over to the telephone and jammed another quarter in the slot, dialing Madame's number. The line was answered after three rings.
"Greetings," Madame's voice intoned, "you have reached 555-1769. Alas, no one is able to take your call at the moment..."
Quinn slowly replaced the receiver, feeling a terrible weight on his
shoulders. Jenny caught up with him and stared at the letter in his hand.
"Madame Kuska..." Jenny gasped as she stared at Quinn. Her lip trembled, but her voice found a new strength. "We have to do something."
Quinn stared up from the telephone. His eyes had a frightening, hard edge to them that she had never seen before.
"We are going to do something," Quinn replied calmly. "We're going to end this."

Sunday, June 4th, 1995. 8:47 p.m.

The heavy industrial beat matched Quinn's tempo as he marched through the empty confines of Klub Kulture, focusing unerringly on the lone bartender behind the counter. Jenny followed swiftly behind him, carrying her katana inside a long duffel bag. They had only spent a minute at her apartment to retrieve her sword. Truth to tell, she was a little frightened of the prospect of having to use it again so soon, not to mention carrying it around in a public area. Her apprehension was only compounded by Quinn's intensity, but she bit back on her fear and soldiered on.
Reaching the bar, Quinn planted his hands on the counter and arched forward to grasp the bartender's attention. Jenny thought the image was similar to a jungle cat preparing to pounce on its prey. The imagery was not lost on the purple-haired bartender, who hesitated in his organizing of plastic cups to take in the appearance of the trenchcoat-clad stranger.
"I'm looking for Mirabella Giovanni." Quinn's even-toned voice seemed at odds with his primal demeanor.
"Gio..." the bartender began, then his eyes lit up in recognition. "Oh,
yeah, there was a lady by that name, she dropped off a note here. You're the guy she was..." his inquiry trailed off as Quinn's brow creased with anger. "Of course you are. Here." The bartender reached underneath the counter and handed an envelope to Quinn.
Ripping open the envelope and pulling out the letter inside, Quinn read the text by the dim light emanating from behind the counter.
*Behind the Klub, dear. Don't dally. M.*
Quinn crumpled the sheet and turned from the bar, almost bowling over Jenny as he headed for the door. Jenny held her tongue as she followed him outside.
The industrial music faded to a faint, heavy bass beat as they made their way through the alleyway leading behind the bar. Quinn noted with some dismay that visibility was extremely limited; the only light in the area was provided by the moon. As far as he could tell, there was no one else in the alleyway. Quinn knew that this was not a good sign.
Using his Arcane to its fullest, Quinn slowly drew his katana from inside his trenchcoat. Noting Quinn's action, Jenny opened her duffel bag and drew out her own blade, then crouched in a defensive stance. Quinn couldn't help but admire her prowess; only one day of training and already she had picked up an important basic as if it were second nature. He hoped it would be enough to keep her alive.
A sudden rush of air sliced through the night, followed by a sickening thud as a knife buried itself deeply into Jenny's chest. Her eyes went wide as she belched blood, staining her white shirt, and she collapsed face first onto the pavement. Quinn stifled a whimper of disbelief as a dark pool spread beneath her body.
Without thinking, Quinn rushed over to her and stood in a defensive stance over her body. He held his shining blade before him, preparing to block any further projectiles.
"Come on, God damn you," Quinn yelled in frustration, "come out and fight me, you fucking bitch!"
"I assume you mean the Giovanni woman," a slightly accented male voice replied out of the darkness. "She is not here now, so I will have to do."
A tall man of Middle Eastern descent appeared before Quinn's eyes, seemingly originating from the darkness itself. Quinn was not surprised by this sudden appearance, as he had experience with vampires who could cloud people's minds and hide themselves in plain sight. What startled him was the man's appearance. It was obvious that he was undead, but his skin was almost impossibly dark, close to obsidian in color; even in dark-skinned people, the Embrace noticeably paled them, to the point where a black man's skin would change to a greyer hue.
"I am known as Hasiq," the man continued, drawing a pair of short sword blades from behind his back as he slowly circled his prey, moving as smoothly as a snake. "The Giovanni woman hired me to destroy the immortal girl but to leave you alive. I fully intend to carry out her wishes, but there would be little honor in not giving you a chance to defend yourself."
"Honor?" Quinn replied, turning to keep Hasiq in view while he protected Jenny. "That's not exactly a career-oriented trait in a hired killer, is it?"
"Only if the killer in question has respect for his target," Hasiq replied, slowly extending his left arm out in front of him. He drew his right blade across the arm, drawing blood and smearing it over the weapon.
"I care little for the get of Khayyin or their games of manipulation, so I will kill any of them with impunity." Soon, the right blade was coated in crimson, and Quinn watched as the cut on Hasiq's arm healed instantly.
"You, on the other hand, are an unwitting outsider in their games. For that reason, and for rushing to protect the girl despite the potential danger to yourself, I will give you a chance to save her life. You have my word, on the Heartblood, that I will not kill the girl until after I defeat you."
"I suppose I should thank you for that," Quinn answered honestly. Despite his initial relief, he couldn't help but think that he would have preferred to face a more devious opponent. Warriors who had a highly developed sense of honor were usually deadly in personal combat. Quinn tried to drive out memories of Batchelder's impeccable etiquette and sense of fair play.
"Certainly," Hasiq answered. "Prepare to defend yourself."
Hasiq lashed out with his left blade toward Quinn's neck, which he parried successfully. At the last minute, Quinn realized his maneuver was a feint, and managed to turn his body aside as Hasiq's right blade thrust for his abdomen. Despite his dodge, the sword slashed across Quinn's abdomen; a bloody wound, but fortunately not too deep. He could heal the worst of it instantly, and his natural healing rate would do the rest quickly enough...
Quinn gnashed his teeth as the blood continued to flow. For some reason, he couldn't focus his Quickening to heal the wound. He watched as his blood mixed with Hasiq's on the vampire's right blade.
"My blood is deadly to other vampires," Hasiq noted. "I do not know if it can kill your kind, but it does make wounds notoriously difficult to heal."
Quinn focused his attention on Hasiq, driving out the pain searing through his abdomen. He channeled his Quickening into his katana and lashed out at Hasiq's head. The vampire raised his left blade to block the blow, but Quinn altered the path of his swing and felt his blade bite deeply into Hasiq's torso. The vampire hissed in pain as Quinn drew the katana from his body, the blade crackling with eldritch power.
"My Quickening can severely injure other immortals," Quinn replied. "I know from experience that it can kill your kind."
Hasiq's gaze grew deadly, and a growl rose in his throat. Quinn maintained his concentration as he felt his blood continue to flow. He realized he could take another wound of that severity, but two or three more and he would lapse into unconsciousness. Hasiq's skill with twin blades ensured that he would get in a few more hits before the fight was over, and Jenny's life would be forfeit. His only chance was to take a dangerous gamble.
If he could drive Hasiq into a vampire's killing frenzy, he might be able to defeat him through calculated, economical fighting. Hasiq could end up burning his blood reserves or leaving a fatal opening as he went to full offense. The risk was that Hasiq might overwhelm him with his ferocity. Quinn barely had time to fend off Hasiq's next blows; the vampire was moving faster than humanly possible, but he was also becoming sloppy with anger, and Quinn was able to parry his attacks. A flash of friction across his chest followed by searing pain almost made him lose his cool, but he realized that the cut was made with Hasiq's non-poisoned blade. Quinn healed the worst of the damage with a surge of Quickening, and kept himself on his feet. Quinn parried another of Hasiq's blows and swept around his defense, dealing the vampire a serious blow on his left shoulder that bit deeply into his dead flesh. Another hiss of pain escaped the assassin's lips.
"So you're supposed to be an assassin?" Quinn scoffed. "Maybe your precious Heartblood came from a Brujah whore in a back alley somewhere."
Hasiq's eyes flared with immense fury, and Quinn realized that he had achieved his objective just as he felt the vampire's boot slam into his bleeding gut. Quinn moaned in pain as he rolled with the blow to absorb the impact, tumbling to get as far away from the vampire as possible. He barely managed to regain his footing in time to parry Hasiq's ferocious overhead strike, the force of which almost knocked the katana out of his grip. However, the attack also left the vampire's right side wide open to attack. Not wasting a second, Quinn arced his katana in a forceful swing for Hasiq's neck, just as he felt the vampire's sword cut into his neck...

Sunday, June 4th, 1995. 8:59 p.m.

Richard Emerson stepped out of Klub Kulture with Ed and headed for the back alley. Mirabella had ordered him to head out exactly five minutes after he saw Quinn come in and get the note, but he had lost track of time as he was busy hitting on whatever women came into the club; he was bored, after all, as the bar was not very busy this early in the night. Besides, even though Mirabella was a vampire, how was she going to know he missed the time by a few minutes?
Ed guffawed in anticipation and flashed Richard a toothy grin. Ed had been the one who led Quinn from his shop to the Klub two nights ago, and he was just as eager to see the immortal beaten as Richard was. He knew Quinn was not slated to be killed yet, but he wanted to see him lying broken on the ground. Richard simply smirked back at his bald companion as they rounded the corner into the alleyway, then they both stopped to take in the scene there.
The Assamite Mirabella hired was standing there, dressed all in black and his head wrapped in black cloth. Even his eyes were concealed in shadow, adding to his eerie presence. Richard thought he looked like a ninja on an Arabian expedition. He was careful to keep this observation to himself.
The bodies of Quinn and the girl were huddled in a pile against the wall. Quinn's trenchcoat was thrown over them, and it was soaked through with blood. Richard couldn't figure out why the assassin would worry about covering up the bodies, since they were hidden from the view of the street. He thought that it might be part of some bizarre Arabian custom, but he didn't feel like asking.
"Whoah, nice job." Ed rubbed his shaved scalp and played with one of the many studs on his face. The Assamite simply stood and said nothing.
"Well, you won't mind if we check out your handiwork, right?" Richard moved toward the bodies, eager to see Quinn's bleeding body. He planned to taunt him a great deal about his helplessness when it was time to kill him. He planned to describe it in full detail to Angela when he visited her in the hospital one last time.
Richard threw the trenchcoat aside, and was shocked to find the Assamite's severed head staring back at him. It was resting on top of the vampire's chest, beside the relatively serene form of Jennifer.
Richard heard Ed scream behind him before his voice was cut off in a sickening gurgle, followed by a heavy thud. He turned to see the man dressed in black wielding a blood-drenched katana; the blood was being evaporated from the blade by the brilliant energy sparking along its length. Ed was lying in two pieces on the ground; he had been cut from shoulder to hip, diagonally through his torso.
Cursing loudly, Richard reached for his pistol inside his jacket as the man rushed toward him. He managed to squeeze off a shot and hit his attacker dead center in the chest. The man in black didn't even break stride as he slammed into Richard, crushing the youth against the alley wall and knock the wind out of him. The barely-conscious Richard felt a forearm press against his throat as the man in black reached up and pulled off the wrappings around his head while maintaining a grip on his sword. Quinn Thompson stared back at Richard, a bloody cut extending across his face from beneath the right side of his jaw through his milky-white, bisected left eye. Richard thought it was simply a cut across his face, but he noticed the deepness of the cut by the immortal's neck. His skull had nearly been cleaved in two; Richard realized with a chill that the weapon responsible must have travelled partway into his brain.
Quinn slurred some words which came out as hissing and gurgling noises from his severely damaged mouth. Richard watched with morbid fascination as the bisected remains of the immortal's tongue flopped around inside the split cavern, but he quickly focused back on the man himself as he felt the point of a blade press against his gut.
"Wheh... ithhh... Mihwah..." Quinn gargled out, his right eye boring intently into Richard's face as he pressed his katana into the youth's gut.
Richard tried to take a deep gulp of breath to clear away the black on the edge of his vision, and groaned with pain as he realized that several of his ribs were broken. He so dearly wanted to live, so dearly wanted to answer Quinn's question, but Mirabella's blood would not let him speak against her. Artificial though they were, his feelings of love and loyalty for her would not allow him to save his life. Tears welled in Richard's eyes as Quinn placed the Katana's tip beneath his chin, preparing to thrust the blade through his skull.
"WHEH... ITHHH... MIHWAH?"
The insistence of Quinn's voice reminded Richard of his father the day his older sister Madeline ran away, after she decided she could not live with the shame he had repeatedly inflicted upon both of them. His father had thrown him around their living room like a rag doll as he repeatedly demanded to know where she had gone, but he would not tell him because Madeline promised she would come back and rescue him. He never did tell his father, but Madeline never came back for him. He was left alone with his father in his own hell until he was fifteen, when he killed him.
Richard's mortal terror shattered any vestiges of his loyalty to Mirabella, and he found the strength to answer. As he began to speak, he suddenly felt his tongue swell, blocking off his throat. Richard desperately tried to breathe, but he felt the fleshy mass of his tongue slide further back in his throat. He dropped to the ground as Quinn released him, and his chest felt ready to burst as the black on the edges of his vision rushed to overtake him.
Quinn released his forearm when he realized that Richard was choking, but the youth continued to convulse on the ground. As he tried to think through the blur in his head, Richard spasmed once more and died.
Quinn stumbled and rested against the wall as he was hit with a wave of nausea. He vaguely remembered that he tried to turn his head aside to avoid decapitation during his fight with Hasiq, but this only served to drive the blade into his skull and partway through his brain. Only an instinctive burst of healing Quickening kept him conscious. Flashes of memories and sensory input had slammed through his skull, rendering him helpless, but Quinn's blow decapitated Hasiq in the same instant. The sword was drawn out of his skull by the weight of Hasiq's body, still connected to the blade by the vampire's death grip.
His very though process fragmented by the severe injury, Quinn had only managed to get through the next several minutes through a supreme concentration of will. He had crawled over to Jenny's body and pulled the throwing knife out of her chest, giving her a chance to heal the wound.
Vaguely thinking Mirabella might come for them, he ripped a fragment of cloth from Hasiq's clothing and wrapped it around his head, then took off his trenchcoat, leaving his black clothing on beneath. Over the next few minutes, he rolled Jenny's and Hasiq's body against the wall and threw his trenchcoat over them. He had just barely finished the final task before Richard and Shaved Head had made their appearance.
Fighting through the nausea, Quinn stumbled over to Jenny and lifted her up. His will was near the breaking point, and the only clear thought in his head now was to flee. His head swimming, he tried to walk back to Jenny's VW but stumbled at the mouth of the alleyway, just as a rental car pulled up in front of him.

Sunday, June 4th, 1995. 11:02 p.m.

"You doing okay now, buddy?"
Quinn drifted back into reality and focused back onto his surroundings. He was sitting in a worn chair in a dingy motel room. Derek was standing over him, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"Yeah... yeah I think so." Quinn traced the new scar across his face with a finger, starting under his now-seeing left eye and ending beneath his jaw. Within a few hours it would be gone, with the exception of the scar on his neck. It was the first time he had suffered a cut there, but he had known immortals who narrowly escaped decapitation that forever retained traces of their wound.
"You certainly seem more coherent, Quinn," a familiar voice spoke.
Quinn whirled around to see Madame Kuska kneeling by the single bed in the room. Jenny was propped up in the bed with a pair of thin pillows as the Madame tended to her. Her blood-soaked shirt had been replaced with a t-shirt, but she was still pale.
"Madame... you're okay?" Quinn was shocked to see the older woman here. "I thought..."
"Yes, dear. Miss Hirschorn explained what happened at the hospital," Madame Kuska replied. "A pair of ghouls tried to abduct me from my apartment. Let's just say that I was a little more resourceful than they expected." She gave Quinn one of her patented dangerous winks.
Quinn eyed the fortune-teller suspiciously.
"How much do you know about what's going on?"
"Enough to know what the three of you are, and what the Giovanni woman is." Madame Kuska answered in a steady tone. "I am fully aware of the danger we're in, so you don't have to be concerned about protecting me from the unknown."
"She knew where we were, Quinn," said Jenny in a quiet voice. "She told Derek where to find us."
Derek nodded in affirmation.
"She just showed up at the shop all of a sudden, told me you two were at Klub Kulture and that you were in trouble."
Quinn couldn't help but be concerned about Madame Kuska; finding out that someone whom he had been working with was aware of the supernatural, possibly supernatural herself, without his knowledge did not fill him with a sense of security.
"The main concern is that I am on your side, Quinn," Madame Kuska replied to his unspoken question. "There will be time for questions later, but now we have a vicious enemy to deal with."
Quinn let out a sigh and scratched his stubble before he could stop
himself.
"You're right. We have to stop Mirabella once and for all." He raised himself from the chair, satisfied that his equilibrium was reestablished.
"I'm assuming we're here because the shop is no longer safe?"
Derek nodded.
"If we holed up there with the two of you the way you were, there's no telling what she might have thrown at us. With a little cash and a little persuasion, I managed to get us this room with no questions asked." Derek smiled wryly as he raised his arms as if presenting a grand hall. "Pretty sweet, huh?"
"It's got four walls and a roof, and that's as good as it gets right now." Quinn stepped over to the front window and peered through the blinds. Except for a cloud of gnats flying around a single lamp in the parking lot, there was no activity outside. He could see the distant lights of the Boardwalk further down the coast. "The problem is we're back to square one. Richard choked to death before he was able to tell me anything; my guess is that it was some sort of magic or post-hypnotic suggestion that killed him. I seriously doubt that we're going to find anything at Klub Kulture, and we have no other leads."
"That's not exactly true," Derek replied. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a small vial of dark red liquid. "I found this lying in the
alleyway when we helped you two into the car. It was lying by that Richard guy, and it's got some definite Wyrm-taint on it." Derek held it up underneath the single bulb in the ceiling, then handed it over to Quinn.
"My guess is it's some of Mirabella's juice."
"Let me see that," Madame Kuska intoned, holding out her hand. Quinn was about to question her reason for wanting it, but thought better of it and handed the vial over to the fortune-teller.
A gasp arose from the Madame as she took hold of it, and she would have collapsed to the floor if Derek hadn't rushed to her side and supported her. Jenny sat up to help the older woman, then groaned with pain and slowly rested back down. Quinn was at Jenny's side in an instant, but she assured him with a wave of her hand that she was all right.
"Such hatred..." Madame Kuska spoke. Quinn and Derek stared at each other in surprise.
"Psychometry?" Quinn asked in amazement, looking at the Madame. He had read numerous texts on the psychic abilities some mortals manifest, and had even encountered a few sensitives in his lifetime, but they were few and far between.
"Yes," the Madame replied. "It's not my strongest ability, but it is useful when one has to compose a credible prediction for a customer." She gently released herself from Derek's arms, assuring him that she could stand on her own. "I can read emotions quite readily, but getting actual images takes a great deal of concentration. I will need privacy to divine anything of use."
Quinn simply stared at the older woman. He was not used to seeing the Madame so focused on an objective. Did she really have a problem forgetting about locking the shop up, or was that part of an elaborate act?

Sunday, June 4th, 1995. 11:13 p.m.

Quinn sat at the edge of the bed, concentrating on wiping down his Katana while waiting for Madame Kuska to finish her task. The Madame had gone into the bathroom to divine further information from Mirabella's blood, and Derek was absorbed in keeping watch out the window while Jenny tried to get some sleep, so Quinn decided to keep himself occupied by cleaning his weapon. There was no blood on the weapon due to the earlier Quickening spark, but he concentrated on finding one small imperfection or another to clean. It had only been several minutes since the Madame had closed the door, but she seemed to be taking much longer.
"If you keep that up long enough, you're going to end up slicing your fingers off," Jenny spoke in a hushed voice.
Quinn turned to her, rising from the chair and stepping over to the side of the bed.
"I thought you were going to rest while you healed."
"Between the pain and the tension, I think my chances of sleeping are slim to none. Besides, I don't see you bedding down for the night." She managed a small grin and a faint chuckle, a definite improvement even from ten minutes ago. Of course, that was to be expected since she was immortal, but he couldn't help but feel relieved all the same.
"I guess you're right." Quinn returned the smile. "How are you doing,
kid?"
"Not bad," Jenny replied. "Why is it that I keep getting stabbed through the heart, though? The first time I was scared, but now that I know I'm immortal it just hurts like hell and pisses me off."
"I know the feeling," Quinn replied. "I have a recurring problem with fire myself. I had a real doozy in Watts when..." He hesitated, noticing she was looking uneasy, as if there was something on her mind. "Well, that's a story for another time."
The silence lasted for only fifteen seconds, but time had an interesting way of stretching itself out that night.
"Angela's going to pull through all right, isn't she?" Jenny asked. Her tone indicated her inquiry was more of a lead-in to something else than an actual question.
"The doctor seemed to think her chances were fairly good," Quinn replied.
"She's been through hell before, and she'll pull through again." If Jenny sensed the note of uncertainty in his voice, she chose not to acknowledge it. She simply stared at her hands, then turned to him once again.
"Quinn, don't take this the wrong way, but... this isn't the first time someone close to you has been hurt like that... is it?"
Quinn stared wearily at her, then turned his gaze downward as he shook his head.
"I've lost a lot of friends, and two women who meant more to me than the world." He looked over his sword, his eyes following the finger he ran across the flat of the blade. "An immortal tends to make a lot of enemies no matter what he... or she does. Sooner or later, they come looking for you, and people who get close get caught in the middle."
Jenny looked at him, her emerald eyes wide with pain and frustration.
"How do you do it?" she asked. "How can you keep associating with people when being with them could put them in danger?"
Quinn bit his lip, then slowly placed his blade on the floor.
"I wish I had an answer that was noble and full of purpose," Quinn replied. "For the first several years after my First Death, I tried to be a solitary avenger, first protecting people from the criminal element, and then from the even greater darkness out there. I thought I was the fist of God, sent to smash all that was evil. The problem is that a fist of God doesn't have time for human contact."
Quinn turned to face Jenny, his hands held in earnest.
"I started to lose myself - turn into something I was afraid of. I thought my sole purpose for existence was to punish evil. I didn't have anyone to keep me from going over the edge. It wasn't until... someone special brought me back from the brink." Quinn looked past Jenny to the window, lost in another time. "Her name was Juliana... God, was she special. She reminded me what I was fighting for, all that's good in the world, the human spirit, everything."
"Was she... I mean, did someone..." Jenny was afraid to ask.
"No," Quinn replied to her unasked question. "Cancer. She had already been diagnosed with it when I first met her. One day it just ate her up, and she was gone." He kept staring away from her as he felt his eyes begin to water. He didn't want her to see him in a moment of weakness; he wanted to bottle it up, but so much had happened in the past day...
"What amazed me was how she could have so much joy inside of her," he continued, "despite the certainty that she was going to die. She could have just shut herself off from everything, but then she wouldn't have been able to affect me, to turn me around. Just the fact that she didn't give up her... her human spirit was amazing. If you lose that, you might as well be dead." He let out a sigh as his body shook involuntarily.
Jenny sat up and placed a hand of assurance on his shoulder, brushing his cheek with her fingertips. She laughed as the stubble pricked her fingers.
"Hey mister, has anyone ever told you your face feels like sandpaper?"
Quinn laughed and turned to Jenny, wiping a pair of tear-streaks from his face. Jenny grasped his hand and held it tightly, staring deeply into his eyes, and then embraced him. Quinn buried his face in her hair, comforting himself with her scent.
It was then that Madame Kuska's scream shattered the room.
Quinn was off the bed in an instant, retrieving his katana from the floor and holding it at the ready. Both he and Derek rushed for the bathroom door; Derek instinctively shifted to his man-ape "Glabro" form and smashed the door off its hinges with a shoulder block.
Madame Kuska was slowly raising herself up from the bathroom floor. The vial of Mirabella's blood had shattered, and its ichor slowly spread across the floor. Madame Kuska steadied herself on the sink, her face ashen.
"I think I know where Mirabella is," she answered.

Tuesday June 6th, 1995 7:44 a.m.

"So that's it," Derek commented, as if rather disappointed.
Quinn nodded. Bryce (not Bryn) House had been built in the 20's, in simplistic lines that left the house in a style sense somewhere between art deco and southwestern - or was it Italian? Yes, Italian, Quinn decided. That was more in keeping with what he thought might attract Mirabella's eye.
Bryce House was located on Capitola Avenue, on a large piece of land that kept the old house isolated from its neighbours. The stucco wall helped also, but it was falling apart. The only thing new was the lock and chain on the old iron gate and the entrance to the front drive. Quinn thought the chain might be there more to hold the wreck of iron up than to keep the gate locked. Trying his hand on it, he was surprised to find that it was surprisingly well anchored, nonetheless, despite its delapidated appearance. A residue of reddish rust covered his palm and the inside of his fingers. He tried brushing his hands, but some of the rust still remained.
"So, what did you find out about this place?" Quinn asked Jenny.
Jenny, who had been doing research for the last few days, reading newspapers, talking to real estate agents and local historians, began to sum up her findings:
"Well, the place was built by a fellow named Augustus Bryce. He was a motion picture director back in the teens and twenties and built this place in 1924. Some of the biggest names in movies came to visit here at one time or another, Arbuckle, Chaplin, Pickford & Fairbanks, Stroheim, Valentino, Keaton, etc, to rub shoulders with financiers and socialites down from San Francisco. It was a kind of good in between spot for those coming to and fro from Hearst's gigs at San Simeon.
Anyway, there were some real wild parties. Also, there were rumours that certain unsavory activities were going on in secret but since the Capitola police chief was a regular attendant, the affairs were kept pretty hushed up."
"Affairs such as?" Quinn asked, wanting more information.
"Well, a lot of sexual debauchery. Local girls, and young ladies brought in by lures of motion picture contracts, were obligated to perform in ways they hadn't intended. There were accusations of rape. There were also investigations of two disappearances of young women linked to parties at Bryce House, but the investigations were dead ends. I haven't been able to trace them but their are hints that out of court payments were made to hush up the rape charges, and as for the disappearances, they stink of coverup as far as I'm concerned. However, I was only able to get just so much information. A fire in the records room back in the 40's destroyed whatever hopes I had of getting any real information. All that I've done here was traced through news articles and talking to some local historians."
"How could this guys this get away with all this shit?" Derek shook his head. "He isn't still alive is he? I mean I seriously want a talk with such a dude for some serious attitude adjustment."
"No, he's dead," Jennifer said. "As for not being charged, women back then wouldn't have been likely to want prosecution carried too far, since back then, there were no innocent rape victims, as far as a male dominated society was concerned. They would have found hard times finding a normal life and men to marry, even though they had been the victims."
Derek just snorted. Quinn paused as if in thought. "Go on," was all he said.
"Anyway, there were also rumours of unusual ceremonies that went on here. You can read whatever you want into that one. Though there were rumours of diabolic rites, nothing came up that could cooberate such stories."
"Or refute them I take it?" Quinn asked. Jenny just nodded.
Going on, she told them, "Anyway, Bryce's career was cut short when one of his debaucheries finally made the papers. He made the mistake of raping the daughter of a prominent exporter from San Francisco, instead of a poor girl and a girl with no connections. This young lady's family saw that Bryce was put over a roaster and his career was ended, just like that. Though he still kept connections, no one would openly acknowledge him, preferring to deal with him in secret. He became a pariah, both in L.A. and in the City. He just shut himself up here until he died from a stomach ulcer. No one saw much of him in those days as the locals shunned him as well, considering him the devil incarnate. He didn't reappear until he dragged his diseased carcass over to Dominican in 1935, but he was too far gone to save. Afterwards, the house remained vacant for a number of years. Locals considered it haunted and it became a rite of initiation to spend the night in the place." Jennifer paused, looking over at the house, which could be just seen through the overgrown brush. "Three teenagers disappeared after one Halloween night in 1941. After that, the place was declared condemned. Whenever some local politician made a motion to have the property assumed and the place demolished, a law firm from the City would step in to stop them. Apparently, the house is held in trust by some company in Singapore. I couldn't find out which one. The property was then given an almost permanent lease to the Sisters of Saint Claire. That was back in 1949. They had the place fixed up as a nunnery and retreat, and stayed here for a number of years. Several tragic accidental deaths plagued the sisters, including one Reverend Mother who was found with her neck broken, floating in the front fountain. This culminated on another Halloween night in 1971 when three young novices were killed. The Reverend Mother of the Sister's new digs up in the mountains wouldn't give me any details when I talked with her by telephone. She did say that the resident priest over at Holy Cross, one Father Jack Lalo performed one of the Catholic Church's rare attempts at exorcism in modern times. When I asked her if it was successful, she wouldn't comment." Jenny paused, again looking at the house. "You know, there's something about that house that gives me the creeps. It's probably just all this research I've been doing."
"Do YOU think the exorcism was successful?" Derek asked Jenny.
She looked over at him. "Well, they moved out as soon as they found a new place the next year." It was answer enough. "And since then, it's just been sitting here, falling apart. The Sisters gave up their lease. The City's been negotiating, and there are plans on the books to turn it into a school, but so far, nothing's come of that."
"Well, from interviewing neighbours," Jenny added, "I found some that claimed to have seen cars drive up and people unlock the gate and enter inside, mostly at night. With the walls, it's hard to keep any closer eye on the place. The back part of the lot overlooks Soquel Creek, and I think there's a wall there too. When I try to look at it from that end, all I see is a steep bank with ivy and overgrown trees."
"I saw a quick look at the ground plans in the planning office. The interior plans are missing, destroyed in that fire. I heard though that the place supposedly has some interesting design features, including moving walls and secret passages."
"No shit!" Derek said, shaking his head. "Is that hokey or what?" He took a long look at the house. "Well hell, let's go in! What're we waiting for?"
Quinn grabbed Derek's arm, though Derek hadn't made any physical motion of entering just yet. "Wait. If this place really is haunted, then I think we should think about this first. I've heard the Giovanni family were famed Necromancers - sorcerers with powers over the spirits of the dead. If that's so"
"then going in there might just be what Mirabella wants us to do," Jenny finished. "But, do you believe the place is haunted? I mean ghosts?" Jenny then looked at Quinn and then at Derek and then, strangely, at her own two hands. "Forget I said that," she said dryly.
Quinn turned to Derek. "Well, I'm going to go pick up Angela at the hospital. I have to decide what I'm going to do with her first, before I think about this."
"I'll go with you," Jenny volunteered.
Quinn turned to Derek. "In the meanwhile, keep a discreet eye on this place. O.K."
"You got it," Derek nodded.
Quinn was about to leave, but he turned back. "No heroics," he warned. "When we go in there, if we go in there, we do it with a plan. O.K?"
"Oh, come on," Derek protested. "I'm the soul of caution."

Tuesday, June 6th, 1995. 6:13 p.m.

"She is sleeping well, Quinn," Madame Kuska whispered. "She will not wake up for some time now."
Quinn nodded and straightened out his new trenchcoat as they stood outside the motel. His old one had been soaked through with Hasiq's blood, and he had thrown it in a dumpster on the outskirts of town. Derek had thought quickly enough to grab it from the alley when he had retrieved Quinn and Jenny from Klub Kulture two nights ago. Having a possession of his at a murder scene, in which one of the victims was someone he had identified to the police as an enemy, would have made their situation even more difficult.
"She needs to get some rest," Quinn replied. "I had a long talk with her about our situation."
"You mean she knows..." Jenny asked.
"What we are?" Quinn finished. "No. But she does know something's up, especially since we're living in a motel and not back at the apartment. I had to tell her that an enemy of mine was after us. She knows I've made enemies in criminal circles, even if she doesn't know the exact details."
"How did she take it?" Jenny inquired.
"Quite well, all things considered. She's aware of who her biological father was, so I don't think it totally surprised her." Quinn turned to Madame Kuska. "Thank you for your help, Madame. I don't know what we would have..."
"I appreciate your sentiments, Quinn, but there is no need to thank me," the Madame replied. "Angela's safety is important to me as well."
"Well, thank you all the same." Quinn reached out with his hand, and the Madame took it in both of hers.
"We'd better get going," Jenny said, patting her duffel bag as she looked at the setting sun. "It's only a couple of hours until sunset."
"Right." Quinn gently pulled his hand away from Madame Kuska, and turned to go to Jenny's VW.

Tuesday, June 6th, 1995. 6:32 p.m.

Derek was still waiting in his rental car across the street from Bryce House when Jenny parked her bug further up the street. Derek noticed Quinn and Jenny walking up, and he motioned them to step inside the car.
"Anything new?" Quinn asked Derek as he closed the passenger door.
"Nothing," the Garou replied. "Our little leech must have told her friends to lie low after the scrap on Sunday. Maybe she can't afford to lose any more of them."
"That could be true," Quinn mused. "Of course, that would just mean there's more of them waiting inside." Quinn massaged his jaw in thought, taking slight solace in the smoothness of his face. He had taken the time to shave on Monday, and he felt a great deal better for doing it. His fondness for facial hair died back in the forties.
"All right. Derek, I want you to slip into the Umbra and open the lock at the front gate. Don't try and be a hero - if you run into any trouble I want you to slip back into the real world. We can't help you if you get stuck in there."
"Relax, buddy, I ain't planning on pulling Custer's last stand. If the
shit hits the fan, I'll bug out."
"Good. Once you've done that, come back and tell us how it went. Then, slide back into the Umbra and follow us."
"Hold on a minute," Jenny interrupted. "What the heck is the Umbra?"
"It's the spirit world that's next to ours," Derek answered. "You can get an idea of how much corruption there is in an area from the Umbra. If you think a toxic dump looks bad in the real world..."
"We'll have time for this later, Derek." Quinn turned to Jenny. "We'll go in through the front gate and use our Arcane to make sure no one pays attention to us. Remember, keep talking to a minimum and use the hand signals we went over this afternoon."
"Okay, I'm pretty sure I've got the hang of them." Jenny reviewed a few gestures for her own benefit. "How's that?"
"Great. We should be able to pass on any simple message." Quinn patted the side of his trenchcoat. "Make sure to keep your sword handy, and if we run into anything undead be sure to go for its limbs. Piercing its body won't do any good, but if it can't grab you or run after you it won't be much of a threat."
Quinn reached inside his coat and pulled out the Celtic cross from inside.
He handed the cross to Jenny.
"Keep this on you when we go in there. It won't do much good against ghouls, but if there are any spirits in there this should protect you."
Jenny delicately took the cross and marveled at its intricate beauty. She looked at Quinn, a confused look in her eyes.
"But Quinn, this is the cross you gave to Angela."
Quinn nodded.
"I know, but right now she's out of danger. You're going to need it more than she will."
Jenny looked at the cross again, then slowly lifted the chain over her head and let the cross rest against her chest. She let out a nervous breath as she lightly placed a hand upon the cross.
"Well, we'd better not waste any more time, had we?" Jenny reached for her duffel bag and clutched at the handles. Her knuckles were white with tension.
"Okay, let's get started." Quinn turned to Derek. "It's showtime."
Derek simply nodded and stared into the rear-view mirror. A few seconds later, he faded from existence, eliciting a gasp from Jenny. She then looked at Quinn and blushed in embarrassment.
"The Umbra, right?"
Quinn nodded, affording himself a slight grin as he stared intently at the gate. A few minutes later, Derek reappeared inside the car.
"Done," he said.
"All right," Quinn announced as he reached for the door handle, "let's do it."

Tuesday, June 6th, 1995. 6:46 p.m.

Quinn breathed deeply, preparing himself for any potential that might occur inside (ready to add Speed of the Stag and Empower Self). He took one quick look at the weed infested driveway, including the empty blue tiled bowl of the fountain before opening the the left side of the double door. It shouldn't have surprised him, but it did when he discovered it was locked. Quinn didn't even have time to register disappointment when Derek waltzed up and immediately began to jimmy the lock. Just like that, it was open.
They walked through, Quinn taking the lead, then Jenny, then Derek. Inside, their feet kicked up dust that had lain undisturbed for years. Thick clouds of it where kicked up by their very walking, choking the air and making it thick. A grand entrance hall lay before them, though the particular details of it were hidden underneath dirt and cobwebs, themselves dust encrusted. A rickety stairway, that Quinn hoped he wouldn't have to trust, wound its way ahead of him. Light came down from a glass dome overhead, illuminating nothing but themselves. It was the perfect place to pose as the lair of the undead.
"Quinn!" Derek nodded in the direction of a doorway to the left of the upward vaulting stairs.
At first Quinn perceived it to be just dust, a cloud of it that they'd kicked up that was caught in the dim shafts of light coming in at a sharp angle from above. Then it seemed to take shape until Quinn saw, or thought he saw a form in its pattern. The logical part of his mind tried to deny this, despite the fact that he could swear he was seeing a translucent female shape wearing the flowing robes of
"A nun!" Quinn said aloud.
Quinn readied his sword, as did Jenny, seeing him. Derek just stood, watching as if fascinated, his quick eyes darting to the left and right and up to the landing on top of the stairway. A great coldness came upon them, making their hair stand on end. It wasn't from the vague fairy like apparition before them - but from behind.
"Back to back, people," Quinn hissed urgently as he held his katana in a guard position. "Keep your eyes on the nun, Jenny. If she does anything threatening, holler."

Round 1
Initiative: Quinn, Derek & Apparition, Jenny & Apparition, Apparition
a. Quinn turns and holds.
b. Derek dodges.
c. Apparition #2 attacks Jenny. (2 successes - 2 soak = no damage). Jenny feels a biting cold and whirls around to confront a ghastly hellborn face leering at her.
d. Apparition #3 attacks Derek. (3 successes - dodge -2 soak = no hits).
e. Apparition #1 attacks Quinn from behind, taking him by surprise. (1 success - 1 soak = no damage).
4 more specters ooze up from the floor
Even as they watched, more of the things arose from cracks in the tiles. Besides the savage cold, there was a terrible smell, like that of rotting flesh.
Round 2
Initiative: Derek, then Quinn & Specter nos. 1, 2, & 4, Jenny & Specter nos. 3, 5, & 7, Specter #6, then Specter # 8.
a. Derek lashes out at one of the phantoms with a clawed arm, partially transformed. (4 hits) but the thing vanishes and Derek ends up clawing air.
b. Quinn empowers self, and assumes the Speed of the Stag (Bad rolls! Quinn neither gains any abilities from empower self, and also manages to BOTCH Speed of Stag. Quinn immediately looses initiative next round, fails to act this round and cannot try for Speed of Stag for duration of this scene.)
c. Specter 1 manifests in a semi-corporeal form and immediately shrieks - which has no effect on anyone present save to give them all a slight chill, hearing a voice from beyond the veil. Derek however seems quite unperturbed. At this point, 2 more specters ooze out from the walls, which appear to be bleeding.
d. Specter 2 also shrieks, which seems to have no effect.
e. Specter 4 attacks Jenny. (3 successes - 2 dodge - 1 soak = no effect.)
f. Jenny attacks Specter 4 (2 successes - 3 dodge = no effect).
g. Specter 3 materializes and attacks Derek (1 hit - 1 dodge = no effect).
h. Specter 5 materializes and shrieks in a terrible cacophanous noise that rends the ears of everyone present (2 successes) gripping them with fear. (Each present take 2 normal damage. Quinn soaks 2 of his to take no damage).
i. Specter 7 attacks Quinn. (no hits).
j. Specter 6 drifts INSIDE of Derek when he's not looking.
k. Specter 8 attacks Quinn from behind (4 successes). Quinn is hit from behind! All at once, a terrible cold comes over him and he feels his life force behind sucked out through a gaping bloody wound in his back, though nothing of his now blood soaked clothing is affected. (Quinn takes 5 aggravated hits - 2 soak and is now injured/-2).
Round 3
Initiative: Derek, Jenny, then all the Specters before Quinn.

Tuesday, June 6th, 1995. 6:49 p.m.

They were gone. Coughing from all the churned up dust, Quinn danced around to keep himself from becoming a target - helped by the clouds of dust that he was helping to create. His was the only sound made. The ghosts - things - whatever, they were all gone. Quinn returned to Jenny and Derek.
"How're you guys doing?" he whispered
There was no answer.
Quinn stared at Jenny. She stood still, as if frozen. Her sword was angled, as if ready to jab. Her face seemed frozen in a rictus grin, displaying her teeth in a maniac's smile. Sweat beads coating her face dropped like beads of glass, patting the dirt by her feet.
Derek was bowled over like he was in pain. His body had partly transformed into that of a wolf, but the transformation was incomplete. Half his face was human, an arm seemed caught halfway in transformation while his bottom half was like that of a wolf. He was convulsing and seemed oblivious to everything around him. Quinn tried to reach out to him, but Derek disappeared, fading into the Umbra - only to reappear just a second later, his features and body readjusted to different portions of wolf, man and in between. Quinn jostled Jenny, who was as stiff as a statue.
He didn't know what had happened to them, or if what had happened might happen to him as well. Dancing around the room, ready for another attack, he cut away curtains of dirty cobwebs, revealing more of the room's layout. A grand staircase rose up into an upper gallery masqued by more webs. On the lower floor, under the stairway and toward the back, Quinn discovered two open entrances that gave way to some unseen darkness. On either side of the room, once the webs had been torn away, two pairs of great oak doors set into simple but stout frames, offered other exits. The dark stain of all the doors was cracked but nowhere could Quinn make out any way to peer into what lay beyond except the keyhole and that offered only more darkness. A large painting underneath the stairway and between the two openings was cleared to reveal an seascape painted in oil, like those that had been popular among the nouveau riche of the fin du siecle. A dark stormy ocean threatened to animate itself and pour it's icy hostility at the viewer. It was a dark piece and it set the mood of the house to any visitor who happened upon it.
Derek groaned in pain and Quinn returned to his companions. Neither seemed capable of movement or further defense and Quinn was at a loss to explain what had happened to them. He paused, pondering what to do. Then beneath him, he sensed a faint regular vibration, as if a distant pounding was emanating from somewhere beneath him. Derek reacted by twitching but Jenny stood perfectly still, not even her eyes giving Quinn any clue to what had happened to her.
What to do, Quinn thought. What to do?

Tuesday, June 6th, 1995. 6:51 p.m.

Quinn moved in to Jenny so he could whisper into her ear.
"Don't worry," he encouraged softly, "I'll be back soon." Quinn realized that Jenny might not be able to hear him, and her frightening visage gave no indication of acknowledgement. He was reluctant to leave them alone, but he had no idea what else he could do for them. Casting doubt from his mind, Quinn concentrated on the pounding and set off to find a way downstairs.

Tuesday, June 6th, 1995 6:56 p.m.

Quinn carefully walked toward the two rear openings. Once again, he had to cut away curtains of dust drenched cobwebs, revealing that he was in some sort of alcove, which has disguised from his earlier gaze a set of carved teak double doors, whose copper fittings were long tarnished into a unwholesome green patina. Tapping softly on one of the doors, Quinn ascertained that they were indeed solid and each probably weighed a couple hundred pounds - easily. Fearing they were locked, as he had none of Derek's "talent" for forced entry, Quinn gingerly tried one of the latch style handles, keeping his sword held high in the other hand, ready to slash downward. There was a reluctant click and the door pushed open into the room beyond.
However, instead of darkness, a dim washed out glimmer of yellow light issued forth and a breath of stale dead air washed past Quinn's face. Looking inward, Quinn espied a long wooden table, with at least a dozen high-backed chairs arranged neatly around it. The light was from a number of candelabra, where yellow candles sputtered and spat, their flickering flames giving rise to wisps of sweet smelling smoke that marked the dead air of the room.
Despite the warm glow, their was a chill to the room, aided in part by the two decayed corpses mouldering each at opposite ends of the table. Thick dust lay undisturbed except for two distinct tracks of foot prints, both leading to and from the wall on the opposite side of the room. They seemed to disappear at different points on each side of the room. Except for two exits through double doorways to the left and right, the room was mostly empty, save for a few dull paintings of seascapes here and there.
Try as he might to look elsewhere, Quinn's eyes kept coming back to the candles, as if some quality of their strange yet growing more powerful illuminescence captured his attentions altogether.

Sunday, June 11th, 1995 10:20 a.m.

Quinn tossed from the sofa, landing in a dull thud. His normal fluidity and quickness seemed gone from him now and his limbs hung heavy like dead meat upon his body.
"Wha?" was all he managed to say.
"Keep still, Quinn," Madame Kuska told him. "You're still weak."
Quinn reached out for his sword, felt it's reassuring presence nearby. Satisfied, he sat up, taking the washcloth from Kuska's dry fingers and tossing it away. He ran his fingers through his thick hair, wet with either water from the cloth or his own sweat.
"What happened?"
Madame just looked at him.
Quinn glanced quickly at the clock. It read 10:22, and judging by the light coming through the window, it would have to be morning.
"Where's Derek? Jenny? What happened?"
"I do not know. Don't you know?" Kuska's eyes lowered, refusing to meet his.
"Know? Know what?" Quinn asked, a sinking feeling hitting him in his stomach. "We were in the Bryce Mansion. We were attacked by" Quinn stopped, trying to remember. Vague remembrances of shadowy nightmare forms, trying to rend him with ice-cold malice flooded his mind - but nothing else.
"You came back here last night," Kuska explained. "You'd been missing for four days. I have no idea where you've been. I assumed that Derek and Jenny were killed? - But I don't know. All you did is sleep and mumble."
Jenny and Derek. Quinn remembered a little more. He had come from the room to check on them and they were gone. Gone! He had run through that nightmare hell hole, searching for them and Mira Giovanni, but he had found nothing and had somehow lost four days of his memory. But somewhere, focused in his mind was the voice of Mira, speaking words she had said to him when they first met in person.
"You are going to suffer as I did; everyone who is close to you will be butcheredAs their corpses are piled up, you will remember what you did"

Sunday, June 11, 1995. 10:23 a.m.

Jumping to his feet, Quinn spat out an expletive as his blood rushed to his head. Madame Kuska grabbed at his outstretched arms to steady him. She was forced to twist aside to avoid being impaled on his katana. Quinn shook with repressed fury as he returned the grasp, gripping the older woman savagely by the wrist.
"Quinn..." Madame Kuska gasped in pain.
Quinn saw the hint of fear in her eyes, something which he had never seen there before. He relaxed the pressure on her wrist and wiped the sweat from his face with his swordarm. He maintained his grip on both his katana and the Madame.
"Where is Angela?" Quinn asked in a wavering voice.
"She is safe," Madame assured him. Before he could ask where, she pressed the withered fingers of her free hand against his lips.
"She is with MY people. And she is safe. No hand of darkness can touch her while she is in their care and they will guard her with their lives."
"And where is she?" Quinn asked, letting the Madame go.
"Near and far. Near and far. Other than that, I think it best that you do not know. Who knows what influence she has over you now."
Quinn bowed his head, the tears leaking from between his fingers.

(After establishing Angela's condition and reacting appropriately, Quinn will want to review the newspapers from the past four days to try and find something on Jenny, Derek and/or Mira.
If that leads to nowhere, he will want to find someone who can help him jog his memory - perhaps a hypnotist. He will ask Madame Kuska for help in finding someone.
His other option will be to contact the only other supernatural being he knows about - Jack Edar - and hope that he can somehow help him (maybe he knows something about the local vampires). Knowing that he is a fellow Immortal, he will cut to the chase as there seem to be very few options left to him)

Sunday, June 11, 1995. 11:37 p.m.

Quinn massaged his forehead as he pushed the stack of newspapers aside. The search through the library's media collection proved fruitless - he couldn't find a single clue as to what had happened to Derek and Jenny. They had to be somewhere in the mansion, assuming they were still alive...
He bit hard on that thought, driving it from his mind. Mira wouldn't resort to simple murder. She would want him to know that they were suffering, and that their predicament was his fault. She would not kill them, not yet. There had to be some hope.
Quinn grabbed the stack of newspapers and handed them back to the librarian, making sure to thank her for her assistance. He made his way out the exit and onto the street, stopping by a pay phone to look for Jack Edar's shop in the yellow pages.

(Quinn wants to ask Jack for whatever help he can give. Assuming it does not conflict with Jack's own storyline, I would like to contact him via email to play out the phone conversation. Quinn wants to set up a meeting with him in person at the church (he believes Jack is an immortal, and he wants to meet in a safe place.
I realize that Jack will probably have neither the time nor the desire to become deeply involved in Quinn's storyline. The only plan I have is to pick Jack's brain for information on the supernatural community of Santa Cruz. Of course, if he does want to become involved further I wouldn't have a problem with it.
Quinn wants to find out where he can hire people/supernatural beings to back him up when he goes back into the mansion. Preferably, he would like to hire people who have experience in dealing with vampires and/or spirits. If Jack can't give him any information in that area, the only option he will have will be to investigate in Klub Kulture.
In addition, Quinn will call Father Lonnigan in Los Angeles for help. If that is not an option, he will look for help at the local Catholic church - hopefully there is a priest who can help him.
By the way, I am assuming Quinn has established Angela's condition prior to this move - he would want to know how she was before he did anything else.
Please respond ASAP. I will talk to you later.)

Sunday, June 11th, 1995 11:42 p.m.

Quinn got no response from Jack Edar's number. Going by the shop, he noticed a "Closed" sign in the window, despite the fact that the shop should have been open judging by the sign posted in the window. A hastily scrawled note said that the shop wouldn't be open until noon on Monday. Other than spying some art deco appliances from the twenties and thirties, along with odd jukebox and bit of 19th century farm equipment, Quinn could make out little more by looking through the window. He made a mental note to try again on Monday, still sorting out what to do about rescuing his friends - and himself.

Sunday, June 11th, 1995 4:37 p.m.

Quinn's call to Father Lonnigan had little more luck. He'd been told that the Father was on sabbatical but would be back in a week. Despairing of finding help, Quinn resolved to talk to Edar once again. Perhaps at least, this other Immortal could at least give him what he needed almost as much as help - Information.

Monday, June 12th, 1995 11:49 a.m.

Quinn called early, hoping that Edar would answer before being distracted by business. The phone rang only a couple of times when a voice that Quinn recognized answered, seeming a little hesitant Quinn thought.
"Hello?" Quinn heard Jack Edar's voice saying.
"Jack?" a Quinn replied. His deep tone was strained. "It's Quinn Thompson, from The Hidden Earth. I need to talk to you."
"Hello, Quinn!" Jack sounded cheerful. "It's good to hear from you! How can I help you? Or, even better, why don't you come over? We could talk over lunch."
"Listen," Quinn fired back, "I appreciate the offer but right now I don't know who to trust. The only place I'll feel comfortable meeting is on holy ground. I know you have no obligation to me, but believe me when I say there are lives at stake and I need your help. That's all I can say over the phone. Will you meet with me?" Quinn's faint, nervous inhalations accented his tone.
There was a long pause.
Then, in a very serious tone, "If it were anyone but you, I'd have to say no. I'm in a bit of a tight spot at the moment myself. But if you say it's that serious then I'm sure it must be."
Jack sounded oddly serious and trusting toward someone with whom he'd had only one brief conversation.
"We should meet sometime this afternoon. I may not be available after that. But I'll need a bit of time before I can depart. When and where?"
Quinn breathed an audible sigh of relief before he continued.
"Can you meet at one o'clock," he inquired, at Holy Cross?"
"And Jack... thank you."
Jack paused again before answering.
"I'm sorry but at this very moment I can't leave the shop. I was hoping that you meant this evening. There are some rather immediate concerns that I have to deal with that preclude my leaving for a few hours. And I'm don't think that the phone lines are secure either. I'm pretty much certain we can count on anything said now to be overheard by other parties, so keep that in mind when speaking."
Quinn let out a hiss of frustration, then paused for a moment before continuing.
"All right, not much point in being coy. I'll meet you at your place A.S.A.P. Okay?"
"On reconsideration, I'm not sure that's a good idea either," Jack replied. "I've had some unwanted attention recently and I'm sure they're monitoring this phone call. Any visitors I had right now could be putting their lives in extreme danger." There was a pause. "Hold on, Mister Thompson. There's something I have to attend to."
Quinn heard Jack put the phone down. There was a strange sort of warbling sound followed by a bunch of screaming. Then, something that sounded like air hissing out of a hose several times followed by a dull thud.
"Hello? Hello?" Quinn cried into the phone.
The line went dead.

Monday, June 12th, 1995 11:52 a.m.

Quinn slowly placed the phone back into its cradle, feeling strangely numb. He should never have formed ties to anyone. Now they were all paying for what he had done... Quinn growled and dug his fingernails through the callous on his palms, focusing on the pain to clear his mind of distracting thoughts. Angst wouldn't help the situation at all.
It was obvious that Jack was in some sort of trouble. Unfortunately, he couldn't deduce what the threat was... he wasn't able to decipher the bizarre sounds on the other end, and he wasn't even sure if the screaming was coming from Jack or someone else.
Quinn walked over to the closet and retrieved his trenchcoat and katana. His eyes passed over the Shroud's fedora, gas mask and gloves, laying on top of the rest of the uniform. After some thought, he grabbed them, slid on the gloves and took his rarely-used 9mm pistol. With all that had been going wrong lately he had to be prepared for anything.

(Realizing that Jack's assailants could still be in the shop when he arrives, Quinn will park his car around the corner and out of view of the shop. He will search for a back way into the shop (such as through an alleyway). Once he is sure there are no witnesses, he will don the mask, and fedora and go in that way. If that means he has to climb up to the second floor and smash a window, so be it - he is tired of taking the front way in, since it has only led to trouble in the past.
As soon as Quinn is inside, he will draw his sword and, using his stealthy abilities and Arcane to full advantage, prowl the shop and the rest of the building until he finds Jack and/or his assailants.)

Monday, June 12th, 1995 12:02 p.m.

After having transformed back to the Shroud, Quinn ducked between shadows, torn between his desire to make speed and the equally importance of not being seen. Jack Edar's shop, like his own, had a back entrance and like his own it was on the second story. Regrettably, their was no stairway and the rear of the building was taken up by a candle shop which offered no egress to Jack's shop. It might as well have been in a different building so the Shroud raced up to the third flight of the new parking garage and was now looking down upon Jack's rooftop deck which was built both above both his own store and that of the candleshop. A single doorway with a blue trim stood between red framed paned windows, offering egress into one small room that existed between the deck and Pacific Avenue.
With only a quick glance to make sure he was alone, the Shroud took a running jump over the broad alleyway, trusting to Quinn's arcane to keep him from being seen.
A woman passing below in the alleyway looked up as a dark shadow fell over her. (Perception - 0 successes.) Looking up, she saw nothing and heard nothing beyond the distant chatter of street crews tearing up asphalt.
The Shroud paused, scoping both with his eyes and ears for any sound that his heavy landing had drawn the attention of those who might be in the building. At first, there was none, but then he saw a dark blur pass one of the windows so the Shroud ducked behind a potted plant, using the sound of a nearby fountain to masque the sound of his gun's hammer cocking back.
A tall man, well over six and a half feet, stepped out onto the patioway. Despite the burning sun overhead, the man was dressed head to toe in a black suit and overcoat, with a wide brimmed fedora on his head. Perhaps sensing the Shroud's presence, or perhaps just being cautious, the man had a gun held in his hand of a type that the Shroud had never seen before. The barrel seemed too short and had too large an opening for a real gun, making it seem more like a toy.
The man paused, scanning the deck area. Then, turning toward where the Shroud was hiding, he paused (Perception - 4 successes) and then lowered his gun as if preparing to fire.

Monday, June 12th, 1995 12:02 p.m.

Staring down the barrel of the man's gun, Quinn called upon his Quickening and sprang into action.
(Quinn will activate Speed of the Stag (Quickening - 4 dice), spending 1 Willpower to ensure one success. He will then leap from his position (Dexterity + Dodge - 5 dice) and use his remaining actions to fire at his attacker (Dexterity + Firearms - 5 dice).
(Shroud/Speed of the Stag - 1 success + one willpower = 2 successes).
(Initiative - Man wins/decides to fire his gun). (Shroud elects to dodge).
Even as the Shroud decided to leap from his position, hopefully overpowering his attacker, the man fired his strange gun (3 +1 = 4 successes). The Shroud, moving incredibly quickly, (Dodge/4 successes) moved away from the point he'd been standing in just as the plants disintegrated in a hail of silent shrapnel that shredded them into small bits, after which the shrapnel disappeared while seemingly suspended in mid-air.
The Shroud turned and blasted away at the man, who was still focused on the spot where the Shroud had been, only a moment before (3 successes). The man's chest collapsed as the impact of the Shroud's bullets tore into and through him (Damage 7 + 3 - 2 soak = 8).
Quinn looked down. The man was dead, his angry shocked expression still frozen on his face. His hat had fallen away, revealing his bald pale complexion, which was all Quinn could remark on before the man's body began to dissolve as if melting into invisible gasses. The man's gun had fallen to the ground and Quinn was giving it a quick look over when he heard several footfalls on the stairway inside. There was a popping sound and the floor beside the Shroud's left foot dissolved as if eaten away by acid.
The last thing the Shroud wanted was to engage in a gun battle with several foes on an open patio. Taking a deep breath inside his mask, he prepared to make a risky retreat from the situation.
(Assuming the floor is weakened by the acid, Quinn will attempt to kick his way through the floor (hoping that his boot will be strong enough to protect his foot) so he can fall into the building. He will take care to shield himself with his trenchcoat, and will be prepared to shed it if necessary.
If it's quite obvious that the acid is only doing surface damage, he will rush beside the door, preparing to take his opponents by surprise as they rush onto the patio.
In all cases, he will use his extra actions as efficiently as possible, whether it be to shed acid-covered clothing, find cover or attack his opponents.)
The Shroud stomped down with his foot, trying to escape through the weakened section of roof caused by the acid projectile. (Difficulty 9, 1 success). Just before two men looking like near twins to the one he'd killed appeared onto the roof, the Shroud was able to complete the work done by the acid and break through. He was rewarded when the section of roof under him collapsed and he fell to the floor of what must be the rear of Jack's shop. (2 hits from fall. Quinn is now hurt, -1). Noting that his coat was smoking from contact with the powerful acid, the Shroud discarded it and ducked away when the men above looked though the hole. The porcelin tile, lavatory and toilet told the Shroud which room he was in but there was only one exit and the Shroud didn't know what to expect on the other side.
(Initiative - Quinn)
Cocking back the hammer on his sidearm, the Shroud sprang to his feet and rushed toward the door.
(The Shroud will open the door and have his gun at the ready for whatever may be outside. If he is in no immediate danger, he will use the Heal Wounds power to heal the damage he has incurred. If there are foes outside, he will take one of two courses of action:
1) If there is only one opponent, he will gun him/her down.
2) If there is more than one opponent, he will dive for cover inside the room (Dodge). He will not go back into the bathroom unless it is his only chance to save himself.
If he still has an action left, he will use the Heal Wounds power to heal the damage from the fall.)
The Shroud opened the door. The men above must have had ears like that of an owl for no sooner had Quinn turned the handle than their faces appeared once again. They started to fire, but the Shroud had already disappeared, closing the door behind him.
He was in a narrow hallway opposite another door. Ahead of him, the hall opened up into the main area of Jack's store. These appeared to be the only two ways to go. Jack was lying face down, bleeding from several holes in his back while a woman knelt over him. She was dressed in a mostly navy pinstriped and skirted business suit and smoking a cigarette in a long holder. She was in the process of what looked to Quinn like taking samples of Jack's blood and putting them into vials when the Shroud's arrival startled her into stillness.
Seeing the gun held in the Shroud's hand, the woman cautiously put her hands up, her eyes wide with surprise and incredulous shock as she examined the Shroud.
"Who - and what the hell are you?" she asked him.
The Shroud carefully levelled his pistol at the woman. "Hands on
head." (Charisma + Intimidation = 5 or 6 dice, I believe)
(Assuming the woman does as she is told, he will order her to back away in the same minimal speech ("Back. Now.") which adds to the Shroud's apparent inhumanity. He will then use Heal Self, and move to check Jack's pulse (Intelligence + Medicine (from Jack of All Trades) = 4 dice) while keeping an eye on the woman.
If she doesn't cooperate during the procedure, he will fire one warning shot by her head and repeat his orders in the same fashion.)

"Back. Now."
The woman backed away, her lips barely able to keep a hold of her cigarette holder. The Shroud came forward, noting a stairway to his right once he cleared the hallway. The stairway probably went up to the apartment. The Shroud knelt down and checked on Jack Edar. He was breathing but only barely. It looked like he'd lost a lot of blood and was going into shock.
Jack's mouth was whispering something so the Shroud bent down to hear, keeping a close eye on the woman. The Shroud turned his ear so he could hear.
"Ozzzz. Oz"
Oz? Quinn tried to make sense of that. Jack, having said this brief piece, passed out or was dead. Quinn couldn't tell which. It was obvious that, if alive, he needed a doctor and there wasn't anything that Quinn could do to help him at the moment.
There was noise coming from somewhere up above. The goons that had run upstairs and seen him crash through the hole were returning.
"Maybe we could make a deal," the woman mumbled, looking rather comical as she tried to keep her cigarette in her mouth. "I don't know what your game is, but it's obvious you're no cop. I could see your well paid if you'd just back out of this."
When Quinn raised his gun, ready to deal with either her or the goons, she waved her hands.
"No! Alright, if he's a friend of yours, we can save him. We only came here to get something that rightfully belongs to us anyway. We offered to pay him for it but he refused. We're looking for a camera - that's it. You let us take it, and we'll leave and I'll see that your friend lives. How about it?"
"Very cold, put camera over man's life." The Shroud glanced around the room, carefully trying to keep his actions inobvious.

(Quinn is attempting to find two things with his quick search:
1) Anything to do with the Wizard of Oz, or Australia.
2) Something he can damage or activate to cause a big distraction (such as a light, a fire extinguisher, or an alarm system).
If he sees #2, he will fire at the object and, while the woman is distracted, take her out with a well-placed kick (assuming she is close enough; otherwise, he will find some quick cover in preparation to attack from a different angle).
If he does not see #2, he will order her to "Drop smoke, come here, hands up." He will then literally hold a gun to her head and use her as a hostage for leverage against the two goons.)

Monday, June 12th, 1995 12:05 p.m.

Quinn was trying to look for anything that said something to him about either the Wizard of Oz, or maybe a mumbled attempt at pronouncing Australia. Thinking that Jack might be trying to give him a hint, Quinn was going to fire at it. However, Quinn saw nothing that suggested either Oz or Australia.
The Shroud barked at the woman, "Drop smoke, come here, hands up."
The woman paused, obviously not wanting to approach him, but when the Shroud steadied his arm, obviously intending to shoot, he spat out her cigarette and walked over. The Shroud grabbed her and put his gun to her head. Two of the goons appeared on the stairway, so strangely looking like near twins to the one he'd killed. Moments later, another two appeared in the front of the shop. All had huge monstrous guns out, pointing them at both Quinn and the woman.
"Drop your guns!" the woman screamed.
All of them stood stone silent, not glancing away but continuing to hold their aims. Distantly, Quinn could hear the sound of a police siren.
"Didn't you hear me?!" The woman screamed. "I ordered you to drop your guns!"
"But the mission?" the one closest to Quinn on the stairway asked. "We have orders." His voice was passionless and dry.
"I'm superseding those orders," the woman calmly stated. "You'll accept this command. NOW - Drop your guns."
None of them dropped their guns. There was a moments pause. Then, without a confirming glance or questioning look, they all started firing in unison. Strangely, the only sound was from Quinn's gun as he started to fire back. The Shroud tried to use the woman's body as a shield. But she exploded into guts and bits of bloody meat. Her flesh was shredded in less than an instant and Quinn felt the shells enter his own body. The pain overwhelmed him as he was torn to shreds.

Friday, June 23rd, 1995 11:37 a.m.

With a choked gasp, Quinn tore loose from the moist newly churned dirt that had encased him. His ragged lungs tore at the air, while he coughed and spat out dirt. His mouth tasted foul and the air around him was putrid. Unstuffing the dirt from his ears, Quinn could hear the distant rumble of a vehicle. The stray dog that had dug him loosed yiped and whimpered nearby.
Quinn got up, noting that he was naked, except for blackened bits of his clothing. He had neither gun nor sword. Dropping to the ground and crawling up a mound of foul black earth, Quinn saw a bulldozer toppling mounds of trash into a pit. He was at the dump.
He tried to quiet the dog, but that only got it to barking even more. Giving up, Quinn crept up to a pile of junk that also conveniently screened him from the blue-clad city dump workers. Finding a stained mattress, he was able to rip a garment of sorts that could at least afford him some modesty. Finally attired, he set out, picking up a soiled blanket on the way. The stray, perhaps having nothing better to do, followed him for a time until it found a bit of garbage that it could digest. Quinn was grateful when his nose stopped working.
Looking back, Quinn's last sight of the dog was a disturbing one. It was scratching at some fleas when a gun shot was heard. The bullet missed the dog, breaking a bottle and the dog ran off. Quinn didn't realize that city workers took their territory so seriously, so he ducked and quietly made his way through the back country and finally to the pumpkin patch at the corner of Highway 1 and Dimeo Lane (The dump is at the end of Dimeo, within the confines of the Wilder Ranch area).
Attired like he was and smelling like he probably did, Quinn was unable to flag down a ride. Afraid of being picked up by police, Quinn kept to the back streets of the West Side until he got to the flats. Strangely, in the flats, he seemed to blend in, yet another sour smelling homeless person, perhaps a bit worse dressed. He was able to get to his motel room with no problem. Police seldom ventured into the flats, leaving the poor and outcast to settle their own problems.
"Qvinn!" Madame's accent was thicker. She must've been talking with her people recently, perhaps checking on Angela. "Vere have you bin? I tott you vere dead?"
Quinn pushed his way inside. "Could you find me some new clothing, Madame?"
Madame Kuska nodded and Quinn headed for the showers. When he got out, he found a new set of summer clothing, a bit bright and touristy, sunglasses and a hot meal waiting for him.
Getting dressed, Quinn asked the Madame, "Boardwalk?"
She nodded. "It vas da nearest place to buy da clothes." She waited a bit. "Angela is fine. My people take good care of her."
"Thank you," Quinn said, still grateful. "Madame, I'm heading out. I'll explain everything when I get back."
It was to Madame Kuska's credit that she didn't press him for more.
Quinn hurried down the Pacific Garden Mall (on Pacific Ave.). He went into Rader's Jewelry & Loan, the local pawnshop, to ask the proprietor about his sword. Quinn's heart sank a bit when the man said he hadn't seen such a sword, but the man promised to keep his eyes out for it. Spying a cheap World War II Japanese enlisted man's katana, Quinn paid out the two-hundred for the overpriced blade. He would need something. There were pistols there as well, but with the three day handgun wait, he would be better off buying it elsewhere, either on the street or maybe through a contact back east. Quinn left the pawnshop.

Friday, June 23rd, 1995 3:45 p.m.

Quinn entered "Jack's Fix It Shop." There were two other shoppers, but they were each engrossed in looking over the merchandise. Quinn's eye quickly darted to a katana hanging on the wall behind Jack, who was entering figures into a ledger. He was looking a damn sight better than the last time Quinn had seen him. Quinn stopped. Jack didn't "feel" the same. There wasn't that buzz that had greeted him the first time they had met.
"Can I help you?" Jack asked Quinn. There was no recognition in that voice.
"I was admiring your katana," Quinn said. "Is it for sale?"
Jack looked up at it, and seemed to see it for the first time. He took it down, rolling it in his hands. Quinn felt a feeling like jealousy seeing another touch it.. "An archaic weapon. Highly inefficient. But yes, I'll sell it to you."
"How much?" Quinn asked.
Jack shrugged. "Well, I think it's still a quality blade. It has a goodly amount of well tempered steel. I would say about ten-thousand would be about right."
Quinn didn't want to say it was a bargain.
"Well, I certainly don't have that much on me. I'll think about it."
Jack smiled and put the katana back on the wall.
"Is there anything else?"
"No, nothing else," Quinn replied. "I'll be back to talk about the
sword."
Quinn left Jack's shop and started making his way back to the motel through the throng of tourists. Under other circumstances he would have come back to investigate, but he no longer had the luxury of being the knight errant and battling evildoers. Mirabella Giovanni was still out there somewhere, and until she was neutralized, neither he nor Angela nor Madame Kuska would ever be truly safe.
Quinn's train of thought ground to a halt as Jenny brushed past him in the crowd. No, it wasn't Jenny, he realized with a sinking weight in his gut as he got a better look at the girl. She was blonde and wearing a summer dress like Jenny was when she first walked into his shop, but this girl was a bit too short and her skin had a deeper tan. She looked up at him and smiled, flattered by what she thought was admiration of her appearance. Quinn followed her with his eyes as she continued down the street.
*Just another mortal who can't see the horror around her,* Quinn thought bitterly. That could have been Jenny a few weeks ago, before he attacked her in the night and shattered everything she had ever believed in. And now she and Derek were gone, all because Mirabella wanted revenge.
*You could have kept it between us, but now I won't rest until you are burning in hell.*

(The only option Quinn has now is to find a way into the records of the Arcanum, to discover an effective means to ward off or combat spirits. I remember you mentioned something a while back about Quinn knowing where the local chapter of the Arcanum has its library.
If that isn't the case, he will try to find an alternate means of getting the information - perhaps by talking to Madame Kuska or looking for another medium through the local occult community.
Other than that, the only other things of significance he will do is buy some other clothes more appropriate for his after-hours activities (trenchcoat, boots etc.) and negotiate with "Jack" for his sword.)

{The following text addition written by Scott Couchman}
Saturday, June 24th, 1995 8:33 a.m.

Lacking any other leads to help Jenny and Derrik, Quinn tried to obtain information from the local chapter of the Arcanum. After an early morning bus ride north, Quinn found himself in the gardens of the Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum in San Jose.
Quinn took in the view wondering where the Arcanum would hide its library. The museum itself was a wonder of occult lore. If Quinn had more time, he would stay and study. As it was, he wandered around the grounds, assessing the area.
The museum grounds consisted of a number of large buildings, which helped to convey the grandeur of the theme they were suggesting. Almost all were built in an ancient Egyptian style. On one side, opposite a small college, was the museum itself. Past a central small pond and flanked by a short avenue of ram-head sphinxes, a flight of stairs went up to a set of three very tall double brass doorways, closed at that time.
To the left of the museum was a building built in a more Islamic style - housing the planetarium. Again, some small stairs led to the entrance of the building, less grand but still exotic. Behind the planetarium, and flanking the one side of the large museum building was a garden area, including a blue tiled fountain, obelisk, and statue of Augustus Caesar.
Going to the corner of the garden, towards the fountain, and facing back toward the same direction as the museum, Quinn saw the covered patio of another building. Above that was an impressive mural copying one in Egypt, showing Pharaoh Ramses II triumphant on his chariot.
Quinn admired the obelisk by the fountain, failing to decipher the hieroglyphics. He noticed the two "Members Only" buildings seemed to join by the fountain. Maybe his journey led there? His revere was broken by someone's approach.
"Can I help you?" a small balding man asked him. "I'm afraid the grounds aren't open yet. You can wait in the coffee shop until ten."
The man pointed toward a dark opening in the sloped wall of a monolithic building. Not waiting for a return comment, he went back to his gardening duties.
As if on a cue, when the old man pointed in the direction of the coffee shop, a breeze carried the smell of fresh brewed coffee to Quinn's nose. Feeling a pang of hunger, Quinn thought there were worse places to wait. He thanked the old man and headed to get some coffee and something to eat.

Saturday, June 24th, 1995 10:44 a.m.

Quinn killed time in the coffee shop until the museum opened, browsing through books about Egyptian history and mystic symbols. On touring the museum Quinn marveled at a number of impressive displays, including artifacts not only from ancient Egypt, but also from Hellenistic and Roman times; ancient Mesopotamia and Persia as well as a few odd bits here and there like a section with both modern art and Louis IVXth furniture. Quinn spent the time browsing past mummies, including one well preserved and unwrapped priest, canopic jars, papyrus scrolls, skillful models recreating sites in Egypt, jewelry, dioramas of past life, paintings recreating ancient life, tools, ceremonial objects, full size recreations of actual statues and important artifacts, like the Rosetta stone, etc. The display was vast and much too large to take in, in one viewing.
One rather interesting exhibit was a full size recreation of an actual tomb, which was open for tours at regular intervals. Quinn decided to take the tour and accompanied a group of huddled tourists and school children into the darkened granite entrance way led by a flashlight bearing guide. Once past the pillared inner chamber, the guide led Quinn's group into the actual tomb area. A large red-granite sarcophagus had been raised from its resting area, a pit below full of shards of broken potter and debris that the guide explained was used to hide the huge granite box. What it must have taken to raise the immense weight of the sarcophagus, Quinn could only guess at. While the guide explained some of the symbols on the sarcophagus and on the plaster paintings that adorn the tomb, Quinn was looking above him at the representation of the Egyptian goddess of night, whose starry body was painted as being draped across the entire ceiling of the tomb.
While Quinn was listening to a couple of children tease each other, he felt it. A wave of tingling electricity washed over his body. 'Immortal' he thought, his hand instinctively fingering the Sergeant's katana hidden in his trench coat. Silently he cursed not having his regular katana with him. Scanning the enclosed area, Quinn looked for another, doing the same. He found no one looking for him. As the guide ushered everyone out of the tomb through a rear exit, depositing the group in a chamber full of statuary. Quinn prepared for the Immortal to show himself when he left the tomb, but the rush of Quickening subsided. Whoever it was, awaited somewhere in the tomb area.
Quinn, actively searching for the other Immortal, pulled aside the tour guide, pressing his original purpose, "I had heard about an exclusive, private library somewhere on the museum grounds and was wondering if you could point me in its direction?"
The tour guide, maintaining his professional attitude, firmly replied, "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about, but I assure you, if such a library existed, it is definitely for members only and would never be open to the public. Without exception."
Quinn thanked the guide, who quickly left. Quinn wondered if the guide were hiding something. Maybe it was just his brush with the other Immortal. Quinn decided to take his leave of the museum. He would have to think of a different approach to find the Arcanum. And he was sure he didn't want to face the Immortal in the museum with a sword of questionable quality that he barely knew. He caught the one o'clock bus back to Santa Cruz.

Monday, June 26th, 1995 11:06 p.m.

Quinn sat across from Madame Kuska at the dark red velvet covered table in the motel room. Madame Kuska drew cards from her "personal" tarot deck. Quinn noticed the cards were well worn and rather fragile. He could have sworn they were hand painted.
"Madame Kuska, is there anything or anyone you know to help rescue Jenny and Derrik? I need knowledge," Quinn pleaded.
Madame Kuska sighed. Her withered hand trailed over a card, as if reluctant to reveal it. Turning it over, she revealed the mocking grin of a skeletal figure, reaping terrified souls that cower beneath it. "Death."
"I can give you knowledge, Qvinn. Maybe I can even help you, but I'm not sure you understand what you are asking." Madame had been away with her people, perhaps visiting Angela. Her accent had grown very thick.
Quinn recounted his time in the Bryce House, trying to make the story as complete as possible. His eyes grew wet as he told of Jenny's motionless, sweating body, and Derrick huddled, changing form. Quinn pushed back the anger of his failure, and again asked for Madame Kuska's help, believing he knew what he was asking for.
"I do not know much about dis place vere your friends are; but I know it is an evil place. The windows have eyes and this vas da case even bevor da shilmulo Giovanni had been dere.
"Dere is strong spirit who lives dere. The veil between dis world and the other is veak, meaning dat da strength of da spirits to effect, and even harm dose in dis world is strong when in dat place. Dis stronger spirit, I tink he imprisons others as slaves to do his bidding. I know it is a he, and I know he is evil. I sense his fear. He fears da hell that awaits him should he pass on. Vether dis is true or not, I do not know, but I know dat dis spirit is very afraid - and dangerous.
"Da shilmulo Giovanni, they are very strong with the dead. If your shilmulo has been able to bargain vit dis spirit, or even to control it as her kind is sometimes able to, den she has a powervul ally ven in dat place."
Quinn sighed, nodding. He couldn't doubt the probability that Mirabella could and would enlist the spirits of the house. "I understand. Please, continue."
"Dis place is a fortress ov damnation. Neither living nor dead have a place in being dere. Dere are dose that of my kind who have da power to leave dere bodies and go into da spirit world. Such a one could bring you over, but the spirits vould be even stronger den before in dat place. And Qvinn," Madame Kuska stares at Quinn, "you vould be helpless while your spirit is avay. I tink you understand me, yes?"
Quinn was beginning to understand her very well. Without some seriously heavy hitters, of which none he knew, the Bryce House was an almost impenetrable supernatural fortress. He didn't have the knowledge, skills or powers to run this kind of assault. The color drained from his face and a cold trickle of sweat crawled down his spine as he grasped that he may not be able to rescue his friends.
"Is there nothing I can do? Is there any kind of protection that may get me through these obstacles to rescue my friends?" he beseeched her.
"Yes, dere are amulets and talismans dat vill protect you, at least from da spirits. But, most of dese can only be used by someone of the Blood. Powerful talismans, ancient guarded things do exist, but such are rare and guarded - not only by those who wish to use them, but by dose who fear their use."
"Where can I find such a treasure?"
"I hev heard rumours dat der is one in da church on da hill above the city (Intelligence + Streetwise = 5 successes / Madame is referring to Holy Cross), but I don't know vat it is, only dat a powerful emblem vas brought by da first friars who came to bring dere faith to da Indians."
Quinn nodded, knowing what his next step would be. But first, "What can you tell me about Mira Giovanni?"
Kuska slowly pulled more cards from her deck, telling her their story as she uncovered each card's power.
"She hates you, yes. But her hatred is not what brings her here. She has another purpose, but hopes to bind her hatred to dat."
Confused, Quinn thought, then asked, "What is her true purpose?"
"I do not know, Qvinn. Da cards will only revead dat much. Wit dose like yourself - guarded ones - the cards have less power. She is such, and I cannot see always see into her blackness."
"Thank you Madame Kuska. You have helped clear up the jumble of thoughts in my mind. You have given me direction."

Wednesday, June 28th, 1995 2:27 p.m.

After practicing with the WWII Sergeant's sword for a few days, polishing and checking it for flaws, Quinn really missed his katana. This sword would do for backup, but it didn't have the soul of his real blade. He resolved to buy back his sword from Jack's. He entered Jack's Fix-it Shop scanning the place. His eyes darted above the counter. Letting out a silent sigh of relief, he saw the katana still displayed. No one had come to claim it yet. He needed to get it back before that happened.
He smiled to Jack, reaching out with his senses, trying to feel the Quickening he felt from the shop owner before. Still nothing.
"Hi, Jack. I see you still haven't sold the katana. I'd be willing to take it off your hands..."
Jack pulled down the blade. "I think I should keep this sword for a while. It might be worth more than I first thought."
Quinn lied, "I don't know about 'that,' Jack. When you brought it down before, I noticed it to be a bit tip heavy. Obviously, if you know your swords, a real samurai katana wasn't balanced like that. So this must be a forgery, albeit a brilliant forgery."
Jack looked at the blade trying to gauge Quinn's words.
"Really, a collector like myself would love to study the forgery. It will let me better gauge the real ones from the fakes. Like I said, this is very well done, you've said so yourself. I'd be willing to pay your asking price of $10,000."
Quinn held his breath, hoping his steamroller effect would work on Jack. After looking over the blade some for what, to Quinn, seemed like an eternity, Jack agreed.
"Alright, ten thousand dollars, and the sword is yours."
Quinn counted out one hundred hundred-dollar bills and collected his prize, quickly leaving before Jack could change his mind.

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