Seaside, Rhydin. August 1, 2015

Feeding gifted her with the clarity she needed, and she would have apologized to the Beast for her lapse in judgment if the bastard ever listened. True to his word, another packaged arrived a few days later (just how it had made it from Portugal to Rhydin, Mona was afraid to ask), and beneath its plain brown wrapping was yet another phone. She plucked it up, and in her dash to make it to her bedroom, she nearly plowed into Bart. As she spun around to avoid him, her steps carrying her backwards to her room door, she placed her hands together and dipped her upper body into an apologetic bow "Me desculpe, Bartolomeo! Beep beep!" and then she was gone.

The gearhead stared for a moment, shrugged, and then muttered "Whose got the keys to the jeep.." to which the mouthier parrot, resting nearby on his stained perch replied, "Crackspackle!"

Inside of her room, Mona stared at the phone in anticipation. She made sure it was on, unseated and reseated the battery. Her wait was not a long one, and when she answered she was greeted with a raspy voice "Ola, Boner."

Isidoro. Of course. Her bloodbrother. "Isidoro. Como ? Cosimiro?"

The Nosferatu made a grunting noise, and there was a whistle as air escaped from the slitter ruin of his nose. "He is no longer with us."

Mona's heart sank, but she and her bloodbrothers had communicated in code for centuries, and there was much to be found in what Isidoro told her, if one knew to look between the lines. Still, she had to play the heartbroken servant card. "...when did it happen, Isidoro?"

"Eh. He has been gone for three nights. Let me..call you right back, Boner."

And he did, minutes later. Mona could hear the steady drip of water around him and the echo that followed. He was in a sewer, no doubt, or beneath the Bone Chapel. "What happened to him?" she asked, her voice soft out of habit.

"He left. He had no choice. Cosimiro, his mind has been breaking for awhile. You get old and these things happen, even to us. I do not know how the Regent found out, but she did, and that was it. So far as anyone knows, Aamir and me, we killed him."

Mona's lips parted in disbelief. "Did you kill him?"

There was a laugh, raspy and sharp, followed quickly by a snort. "And be a traidor? No, Boner, we did not kill him. He got the hell out of Dodge, and can you blame him? So many idiotas looking to chew him up."

Her eyes crossed in confusion. "...but would they not think you a traitor anyway, meu irm?o?"

She listened as he sucked air through his teeth. "That is a pickle, sim, but let them think what they want. The lousy bunch of pig ."

Mona couldn't help laugh at that. She had missed the Nosferatu so much, even the stench of him, and a frown chased her mirth. "Who has taken over?"

"No one yet. I hope it will be Dona Emilia. Either way, Dom Cosimiro's rule is as dead as disco," and he made sure to emphasis the words that follows, "even if he is not."

She found her gaze moving, once more, to the suitcases. "Should I come? Will you need help?"

And the Nosferatu barked at her. "No! Stay where you are. If what I think is going to go down goes down then you are better off keeping that lovely ass of yours where it is." Mona frowned and hung her head down. Isidoro's laughter
welled up from the phone. "...one of us still has to be the good one."

It was all that Isidoro could do to still Aamir's hand and keep him from charging down the stairs. Attacking Pavio now would have meant death or worse. He looked into his comrades eyes, his own expression one of steeled sorrow. Not you too, Irm?o, not when our world grows smaller every day. He did not loosen his grip on Aamir's wrist, but the Assamite's handle on his sword's hilt relaxed and he dipped his head slightly to one side, regarding the Nosferatu with a thoughtful, far off look.

Pavio watched them from below, as impassive as a tree stump. But when he smiled he showed his teeth, and when he spoke the corners of his eyes crinkled. "You two! You two are the Minist?rio, yes? Come down. I want to look at you!"

Aamir's lips tightened together and he stiffened. Isidoro, feeling the warning growls of a storm stirring anew within his comrade, gave his bloodbrother's wrist a reassuring squeeze and stood up. As he did, Aamir arose with him. But they paused at the top of the stairs, causing Pavio to throw his great fist of a head back and laugh. It was an oddly jolly, oddly paternal noise, and that made it all the more horrible to hear. "Come and meet your new Cardinal!"

The two men slowly scaled the steps like sleepwalkers. Feeling with the stares of a dozen or so ghouls, the duo stepped before a still laughing Pavio, but Isidoro dared not say a word. Not for the first time, he found himself grateful that Aamir had no tongue. If he spoke then their game would end. That was the way of the game. They could fight Pavio for his claim- a battle that even they would lose- but if they somehow emerged victorious then the next power hungry beasty would come forward, ad infinitum.

"I commend you both for not leaving when you could. Very brave, very brave." And he clasped his large, knobby fingers together. "I tell you, I will keep the archbishops, the bishops, down to the boy who cleans the stables, but.." Isidoro flinched. Aamir glowered. Both men watched as Pavio's expression transformed from jovial to threatening. "..but I do not know what to do with you."

And he stepped forward and slowly began to circle them. "You two are traitors, are you not? Or are you heroes? You killed the man you were tasked with protecting, but that man, he was not fit to continue serving the Sabbat, eh? It leaves me with my head aching." He paused in front of Aamir and looked him dead in the eye. "To do. What to do." He studied Aamir, tipping his head from one side to the other. When he finally stepped back, that good natured smile returned, he shook a finger at them. "I know, I know. You two, I feel like I know you. But we do not call you the Minist?rio, we call you Seus C?es Miser?veis. I know I am wrong. You are not wretched, but you are good hounds. Good hounds I may need. Yet I do not trust you not to bite me as you bit your mestre."

Aamir sucked a bit of nothing from between his teeth. Isidoro flinched. Pavio seemed far too pleased with his own words. "You swear your loyalty to me, right here and right now, and I promise not to kill you yet. You would no longer be paladinos, you would be stripped of that, but you would stay on as my advisers."

Isidoro did not speak, and with a pained expression cast Aamir's way, he slowly got down on one knee and bowed his head. It made him feel as rotten and as slimy as an eel. Aamir stared hard at the bearded man, his jaw muscles so tense that they were throbbing. He did not move. The man before them clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as if to make them aware of how quickly time was passing, Isidoro reached up and gripped Aamir's belt. His tugs were met with resistance, but eventually Aamir joined his blood brother in genuflection.

Pavio laughed once again and clapped his hands. "As smart as you are strong, Senhor Aamir. Very good. Now rise and go pack your things. I will not have you both running about in my home unless you are told to do so."

Isidoro rose a mere second after Aamir. "But this is our home."

"No longer. You have a villa now, well guarded," well watched "but do not mistake my hospitality for weakness. This is a test. I suggest you do not fail."

Mona hated to hear Isidoro so downtrodden, but it was nice to hear from him nonetheless. He was neither loud nor boisterous, and his exhaustion saturated his words. "The Wick has declared himself the new Cardinal."

She thought it a stupid name, but history had taught her that stupid names were often worn by powerful people. "The Wick? I do not know of this Wick."

"You wouldn't, Boner. The guy had already torched enough of Portugal's dead guy population before you were a tickle in your daddy's pants. By the time you fell into the Sabbat, he was showcasing his talents in other parts of Europe."

"Does Dona Emilia know?"

"Know what? That there's a new Cardinal down here? I hear he's already introduced himself to her."

Silence and then, "well at least he is polite."

She could almost feel Isidoro rolling his eyes. It made Mona smile despite herself. Any communication with her bloodbrother was welcome, even if his revelations left her nervous and forlorn; they were the only lines, frayed but still thick, that tied her to her old life.

"He says we can't be knights anymore. We've been naughty. But we get to be his yes men, and that is so fantastic, let me tell you."

The sarcasm warmed her heart. "He doesn't trust you."

"You think, Boner? Would you trust us? I'm talking to the member of our trio who is supposed be dead and everyone thinks we killed our Cardinal. Apparently they frown upon ending the life of the person you've vowed to protect. I think it might be taboo."

"But Cosimiro is alive."

"Uh huh. I know this. Aamir knows this. You know this. Emilia probably has a hunch since we brought her ashes from a barbecue grill. Know who doesn't know this? Know who will never know this? Everyone else."

"Did you call me just to make me hate you?"

She heard a sigh. "No, Bo...eh, Mona. I did not. I can't even be that worked up over it because I have to keep a clear head to stop Aamir from committing suicide by Cardinal."

"Aamir is smart..."

"..er than us? He's intelligent, sim, but so are parrots. That doesn't mean he is taking all of this well."

Mona had never heard the Nosferatu sound so tired. Her heart ached, but she could do little more than listen and hope for the best while expecting the worst. He had told her not to come home, after all, and she was doing her damnedest to stay where she was. She sighed softly and twirled a hank of dark hair around her finger. "Have you heard from Dona Emilia?"

"No, so that is why I'm heading to Coimbra as soon as I can."

Pride swelled within her heart and she held the phone against her left breast, her eyes wide with wonder. Isidoro had always been bold, but no one would have called him brave. Going head to head with the Cardinal of Northern Portugal, and alone at that, took some brass balls. Dona Emilia made Dom Cosimiro seem like a kitten.

"Mona? Mona?"

She blinked herself from her reverie and brought the phone back to her ear. "Keep your head about you, Isidoro, and keep it to the ground. I will contact Dona Emilia for you, tell her you are coming."

His gravel rough voice cracked. "I could not ask that of you."

"You didn't. Tchau, Isidoro. At? o pr?ximo falamos."

"Tchau, minha irm? doce."

She hung up and Isidoro tried to remember when he had ever felt so alone. He hung his pox ridden head down and studied the already scuffed toes of his new boots. Later after he had destroyed the phone and buried the evidence, he left his little slice of solitude with his hands in his pockets and his mind full of warring thoughts, unaware of the shadow that followed him.

Aamir returned just as the sky outside began to lighten, and he was surprised to find Isidoro in the attic of the little villa. He threw back the door and climbed the ladder to join the Nosferatu. His stare was still chilly, made all the more frightening by the lack of concern in his eyes. Isidoro knew that the mysterious woman was gone, but still he spoke in a whisper. "..we had a visitor," his eyes darted cautiously from side to side, as if he feared that Llora Castell would appear at any moment. "She wishes to be Cardinal. I'm afraid she's already aware that the position has been taken."

Aamir sat in front of his comrade, his legs bent Indian style. He seemed nonplussed by the information. His mind still wandered while Isidoro's wondered. This is rare to you?

Isidoro was staring down at his hands, marveling at how cracked his yellowed nails were. "No, but this woman came out of nowhere. She is bad news, meu amigo. We have to warn O Pavio."

Once upon a time he could have relied upon Aamir to do the right thing, but he wondered if the Assamite even shared his view of what that was anymore. Cosimiro's absence had broken something within the dark giant, something that perhaps even time would never heal. The shadow colored man lowered his dark eyes to Isidoro's, his face a book written in a language that Isidoro could not understand. I had a family once, Isidoro thought, though he could not recall their faces, just empty places that had once been occupied by people. I had a family. A wife. A little girl. Aamir had chains and a blade. This is all that he has ever known.

Aamir's answer shattered his thoughts. No.

Isidoro jerked his head up, his eyes wide with surprise."No? No!? Aamir, this woman is rotten. I would rather be his adviser than this woman's paladin!"

At that something flickered behind Aamir's eyes. She wants us for her paladins?

Isidoro hesitated. He wanted to tell Aamir that about his imminent trip to see Emilia. Mona, aware or not, had always been the bridge that connected them. His faith in Isidoro may have been a flimsy thing at best, but Aamir respected Mona. Or he had. There were so many things going on that he almost told his bloodbrother of his conversation with their sister, but he caught himself and he remained alive, unknowingly, for that very reason. Eventually he served up a reluctant nod.

I have never liked this Wick.

The Nosferatu's bottom jaw fell in disbelief. "I do not either, but do not tell me that you are willing to follow some woman, who you have never met, because she will give you a sword! Have you hit your head, Aamir!?" He held his hands out in front of him, his head shaking from side to side with such fervor that the loose flaps of skin upon his neck waddled. "No, no, let me guess, let me guess. The real Aamir has gone and you are his Malkavian twin brother!"

Aamir grumbled low in his throat and lowered his head just slightly, eyes still pinned upon Isidoro's face, yet the Nosferatu was not finished. "Because what you are hinting at? That's bleeping madness."

We are traitors. Who would be surprised?

"We're not.." Isidoro realized that he was shouting and lowered his voice. "We're not traitors, but we will be if we follow that woman. Am I getting through to you at all?"

Aamir rose to his feet, his height hiding his head in the shadows above. You are getting through to me, and I will heed your advise.

Isidoro sighed in relief and drew one hand down his face. "So you will place nice for awhile longer?"

No. But I will take a more active role in the Sabbat. They believe I am a traitor, I will give them a traitor.

He ignored the stairs and simply dropped through the entrance, leaving a shaken, speechless Isidoro to wonder what had happened to his friend.

Aamir's prized possession was his sword, which he gathered up as tenderly as if it had been a newborn baby. Isidoro watched him with a quizzical tilt of his head, the book he was reading left to fall open upon his lap. "Are we going somewhere?"

Aamir did not even spare him a look. I am. You stay here with The Wick.

"I'm not following.."

The Assamite sheathed his blade, his heavy stride towards Isidoro every bit as threatening as the murderous look in his eyes. I am following Dona Llora. You stay here and be O Pavio's whipping boy.

Amusement filled Isidoro's eyes, but he dared not let it drain into the rest of his face. "It is Dona Llora now? Did she already defeat The Wick and I missed it?"

Aamir growled, his teeth made whiter by the coal black coloring of the flesh around it. Make jokes. It is the only thing you are useful for.

That hurt more than Aamir would ever know, but Isidoro at least knew how to hide his wounded pride. "It is not too late to turn back. Just trust me, please, just for awhile longer. What if he is a good Cardinal? His crusades.."

Mean nothing to me! Aamir's voice boomed inside of Isidor's skull, and the Nosferatu could feel blood trickling from his nose. You are ignorant if you think a good solider is the same thing as a good leader!

Isidoro could barely keep his head up, the pain in his skull brilliantly bright. But he could not show Aamir how afraid he was. Fear would only feed his anger. "You suddenly know everything about being a leader?" His voice was frailer than he would have liked, but he blamed it on his pounding head.

I know everything about being a soldier, Sapo. I have fought alongside countless Wicks, and in the end they would gladly feed their loyal men to the dogs for glory.

It was the most that Isidoro had ever heard the man say about himself. Aamir The Silent, whose face spoke volumes to make up for his lack of a tongue. In that moment he understood that he had never known Aamir, not really. And in that moment he found that he did not care. "You are my brother," he keened sadly, more to convince himself than Aamir. "You are my brother."

He reached out to touch Aamir's arm, only for the Assamite to jerk it away and lift it up as if to strike him. A sign of rejection, and now he understood why Mona had been so hurt when Cosimiro had pushed her away. How awful that must have been. How cruel.

I am not your brother. Not anymore. Tell your master of Dona Llora and I will make sure he knows of your talk with Mona.

Isidoro stared at him. He had no fear in regards to the threat, or anything else for that matter. He knew that Llora Castell had told him of the call, and even that held no weight. He remembered what Mona had told him years before, and without thinking he repeated it. "Every year my world grows smaller." He had been saying it more and more those last few weeks.

Aamir snorted and stared down at Isidoro in disgust. Our sister is not here. She has grown soft and docile elsewhere. Involve her in it and I will make sure to remind her as I have you that she no longer has a place here.

Isidoro did not try to stop him when he left. The change in Aamir, as sudden as a spring shower, rattled him to his core. He knew that he could not turn to The Wick, not right now, but there was someone who would believe him, and that someone was waiting for his call all the way in Coimbra.

Caramulo, Portugal. August 12, 2015

Isidoro remembered when a trip to Coimbra could take months, and it still boggled his mind that he could get there by plane in less that two hours. Progress was a hell of a thing. It felt strange not to be making the journey with Aamir, but at least the Assamite had left him with a lesson in being alone; one that he had learned quickly. He was adaptable, and that surprised him. He listened to the faint rumble of the engines and the frantic barking of a group of travel kennel kept dogs from where he hid in a large, black trunk; the sort meant to carry a musician's speakers. It was not as rough as if he had thought, the padding helped a lot, but he could not hear the captain's voice and that worried him. He only knew that they had landed when the trunk began to move, expertly separated from the rest of the luggage by two uniform attired thralls. Emilia's men.

They loaded him into the backseat of a long, black limo and slammed the door unceremoniously, each one drifting back into the airport while everyone else remained none the wiser. Everyone but Emilia. He could hear her tapping her fingers against the box's lid, though she dared not open it until the limo was parked safely behind her isolated haven. He dared not make a sound until she did. He heard her tap upon the glass partition separating them from the driver. "Senhor, please release my guest from his box. I will not have him cramping up in my company."

A man's voice answered. Sim, Senhora Emilia.

A door opened. There were footfalls, the dull thud of hands against the sides of the box, and suddenly the trunk was shifting until his weight pushed the lid free. Once the driver had dumped him into the spacious, black leather bench seat, he passed the trunk to two other attendants. Emilia nodded her approval. "Obrigado, Bol?var."

The driver clicked is heels together and bowed. "Meu prazer, Senhora Emilia." And then he and the other two servants left them alone.

Emilia's little slice of the world was breathtaking, and Isidoro wondered how he had never noticed. Her manse was neither too large or too small, neither opulent nor plain, and age had colored it to nearly match the hue of the mountain behind it. Mountain. The Nosferatu blinked. "When did you leave Coimbra, Dona Emilia?"

She peered out of the window at the stunning landscape with something like pride in her eyes. "We are not so far from Coimbra. Have you never been this far north, Senhor Isidoro?"

He shook his head. "I cannot say that I have, Dona Emilia."

"We are in Caramulo, at the foot of Caramulinho. I was born in these mountains, a long long time ago. Long before the Sabbat and Camarilla. My village is gone, but these mountains remain. Mountains and memories." She turned to face him, and though the chill in her eyes had not melted, it had become snow where once there was ice. "I grew up with Cosimiro there, did you know? Though he was not called that no more than I was Emilia."

Isidoro did not know what to make of this information, but he found himself curious all the same and he sat there awestruck. "..I did not know, no."

"We were children, and I do not think we had seen seven years then. He gave me flowers," the sadness in her voice could not be hidden, and it danced hand in hand with a yearning that he knew all too well, "and I promised to marry him. We did not even know what that meant, but the invaders did it in their makeshift churches, and we wanted to be grown so badly."

"Senhora, I don't..."

She raised a dark auburn brow, but her eyes were focused on the past. "Understand? It is a contagious affliction, isn't it? Being unable to understand. I have seen terrible things, committed terrible things, and yet I will never truly understand why the Gods would give you something to love so much and then take it away."

He blinked in surprise and wondered, briefly, if he was on some sort of hidden camera show. "...you loved Cosimiro?"

Far from making him uncomfortable, this vulnerability endeared him to The Northern Cardinal. She released his hand, the napkin balled up in her fist. "He was my little brother, Senhor Isidoro. I raised him when our family was killed. I watched him grow, and when he was taken by the Beast, I swore that I too would find a way to become what he was. I wanted to protect him."

Her brother. Her actual brother. His eyes went wide. "..well I guess it is a good thing that you found out what marriage was. That would have been very awkward."

She laughed. At him. At something he had said. Had everyone been replaced with pod people? "Sim, sim."

Revelation after revelation plowed through Isidoro's mind. "...that's why you never tried to take Southern Portugal."

She nodded, and her expression turned grim, the way he remembered Dona Emilia. "...maybe if I had then this would not have happened. Maybe it was too much for him. I am a good Cardinal, but I am a shite sister."

Isidoro shook his head but he didn't dare touch her without her consent. A rattlesnake still lurked beneath the grief stricken woman's skin. "You did not fail him, Senhora, just as Aamir and I did not fail him. Things change, and it was time that made him crack, not anything that you did or could have done."

She turned completely around so that she could face him. "I wish I knew where he was."

So she does know that we didn't killed him. That is good.

He rustled up a smile for her. "He is following the path he needs to follow, that is all that I know, Senhora. Your brother believed in this sect's cause as much as yourself, and he knew he could serve it better elsewhere."

She seemed to find comfort in that, for whatever such a thing was worth. "How are you and Aamir adapting to The Wick?"

He cleared his throat and wiggled in his seat. The time for sentimentality had passed. It was time to get down to brass tacks. "Aamir is no longer with us, Senhora. He..might have.." Went 'round the twist, lost his marbles, become a big fizzy can o' crazy, "..not seen The Wick as a suitable leader. And maybe he's decided he's found a better Cardinal in a woman named Llora Castell."

Emilia's face had fallen to stoicism. That was the Emilia he had known and feared. "Llora Castell. No one has heard from her in ages. The last I knew, the Camarilla had called a Blood Hunt upon her for defecting."

"Simply for that?"

"No, not just for that. She was an Archon gone wrong from what I understand. She destroyed everyone, from the Prince down to the ghouls that served her."

Isidoro shifted uncomfortably. This was the same woman that Aamir had given his vows to. "..could we not inform the Camarilla?"

"Be that it were so easy. They would think such a thing a trap, if her accusers were still able to think. They died long ago, when the Sabbat stormed the Balearic Islands." She turned her head sharply in the direction of her house. "You say Aamir is with her?"

A nod came from Isidoro, his mind too full of thoughts for him to speak. Emilia gained the attention of a ghoul just wandering through the doors of the manse with a simple snap of her fingers. How the man had heard it, Isidoro would never know. The boy opened the door and stepped to the side to allow his mistress to shuffle out. "Anxo, I need you to get a message to Senhor Pavio. Tell him that Llora Castell has designs for his position and to send one of his archbishops to me." While the boy processed the information, Emilia clapped her hands sharply. "As soon as possible, Anxo! Go, go go!"

The boy hurried off as if the Devil Himself had lit a fire beneath his feet. Slowly Isidoro poured himself from the car and peered over its roof to Emilia. "If The Wick does not do as you say?"

"Then he will not have to worry about the Ancients getting to him, Senhor Isidoro. She will burn Evora to the ground before she gives up."

Caramulo, Portugal. August 13, 2015

He hadn't had the heart to tell Mona that Aamir had become a turncoat. He would not put the burden of that knowledge on her shoulders. He handed the phone back to the girl at his side and took a seat across from her at the small table. He had been sent out of Emilia's chambers while she readied them for the archbishop's impending arrival...which should have been, from what he understood, four hours ago. But he was simply glad that The Wick had heeded Emilia's message.

His companion was a young woman, sweet faced if not a little plain, with a spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She watched him with almond shaped hazel eyes, no hint of disgust or fear to be seen. If anything she appeared curious. "You are not the ugliest Nosferatu I've ever seen."

By the sounds of her, she had not been in Portugal long enough to pick up even the barest traces of an accent; an American. He snickered and watched her from the corners of his eyes. "You're rude, you know that?"

She giggled and rolled her eyes. "If I had a dime. You're Isidoro, right? I hear you can be pretty rude too."

"I like to think that I am charming."

She bobbed her head in agreement. "I think you're right."

This confused Isidoro, but he was charmed by the lanky girl, and he wanted to see how long it would last. "Why have I never seen you before?"

"I don't really come here THAT often. Weird. I really like Portugal though. The accents, the weather." She rested her head in her hands and looked dreamily off into the distance. "I'm glad I'm here. Back home its rush, rush, rush. Here you can just..think. You don't have to rush into anything unless it's an emergency."

Isidoro leaned back in his chair, his grin almost painful. "Where do you live?"

She seemed as if she was about to answer when a ghoul strolled from Emilia's room, his black mustache waxed and cut in the style of a silent movie villain. He looked about the room, obviously unsure of just what- or whom- he was looking for. "Senhora Kelsey," the name sounded strange coming from him, "The Cardinal, Dona Emilia, will see you now, and she apologizes for the delay."

As Isidoro looked around for the subject of the man's call, his companion rose her feet and slipped her hand into the one the ghoul offered to her. "Obrigado, Mister." She turned just before she was lead through the door and smiled brightly at Isidoro. "We'll continue our conversation later. Just so you know, my room is the last door on the right upstairs. Keep that in mind." The Archbishop winked at him before the door closed behind her.

Shoulders slumped and head lowered, he stared at the ghoul's stupid mustache. Archbishop Kelsey? Suddenly he was struck with how horrifying she must be, despite the sweetness and the good humor. Then he decided, after the week he had had, that he couldn't give a rat's ass, and he did as he was told. He followed the marble floor up the stairs and onward to the last room on the right.

Isidoro was nothing if not obedient.

Evora, Portugal. August 16 2015

Isidoro understood why The Wick had needed advisers the moment he dragged his sorry hide through the haven's door. It seemed that advisers had been the only ones he had not added to his collection. Vampires mingled with The Wick's ghouls and one another, more vampires than Isidoro had seen in centuries. He did not recognize the newly minted faces recruited simply to hold the front lines, but there was familiarity to be found elsewhere.

By a tapestry depicting three lavishly dressed women eating grapes stood Archbishop Kelsey and the Lasombra Archbishop Guilherme Gon?alves. She winked at Isidoro when she spotted him and then continued to feign interest in Guilherme's dusty droll ramblings. Across the room and standing by the side of a bound woman drunk from blood loss was an ancient Nosferatu mockingly called Adonis. Of all of the Nosferatu that Isidoro had ever met, it was Adonis who appeared most like Max Schreck's infamous count. Against the wall behind him stood the stunning and stunningly solemn Salubri Bishop, Leliel Segovia de la C?mara. While her proper eyes scanned the crowd, the one centered in the middle of her forehead watched Adonis intently. A trio of nightmarish Tzimicse nearly bowled Isidoro over as they drifted by, and what horrors they were. Their clan's penchant for flesh crafting was apparent in the long, nightmarish horse faces that each tripler wore, and their eyes peered out of stalks jutting from the sides of their skulls. A single band of flesh joined each together at the waist. Isidoro gave them a wide berth for fear that they would think of him as a plaything. Others drifted in and out, and it didn't matter what they looked like, what clan they were from or where they came from.

He still had little love for The Wick, but the solidarity filled Isidoro's heart with a warmth that he wished would last forever...until Kelsey swooped in and kill his delusion. She startled him with a smack to the shoulder, and for a moment they both looked up at the stars. "It's amazing," she muttered, starry eyed, and Isidoro found her beautiful.

"Sim, "he whispered. "I thought there were no more surprises in this life."

They were both smiling. Kelsey sighed- a performance that should have earned an award- and looked thoughtfully at the moon. "I guess it's true what they say, people put aside their bull*** when they want to kill the same thing."

She left Isidoro alone then, with a pat on the back.. When he turned, he found her standing in front of the door, watching him with a grin, her eyes filled with mischief. "Did I say something wrong? Having one of those 'Faith and Stuff' moments?"

"I was, Senhora," he muttered good naturedly, " before you came to remind me that God is really and truly dead."

"Better to learn that from me than someone on the streets." She smiled impishly before turning and disappearing back into the crowd.

The Cardinal had taken his place at the head of fracas by the time Isidoro strolled back inside. Behind him stood a young woman and man, almost identical but for the girl's breasts. They were fresh faced but hard eyed. They looked to be teenagers, and the unreadable, indifferent expressions they wore, each one different but both baring the same message, had Isidoro wondering if the taciturn Senhora Leliel and her three eyes looked upon them with envy.

The Nosferatu had just taken a lean against a column when The Wick's voice boomed like a lion's roar through the room. Most of the guests grew quiet, be it out of respect or otherwise, and the few remaining Chatty Cathy's were treated with snarls and threats from the Fiend triplets until they quieted down.

"I am not Senhor Cosimiro, and I do not claim to be. Some of you may know me as O Pavio, and honestly I cannot remember my real name, so it is as good as any." He smiled a jolly smile when a few of the attendees laughed. "But we are not here to talk about me, or Cosimiro, or anyone else but Llora Castell."

A sharper silence befell the guests. Some of the younger vampires appeared bored, others confused, but there were elders in attendance who, hearing the name, took a special interest in what the Cardinal was going to say.

"Isn't she the one who killed that Camarilla trash way back when?" Asked the English Malkavian expat, Sir Frederick Goff.

"Sim, Senhor Goff."

Then someone cried out "Give the girl a medal!" laughter filled the room. The Wick did not seem pleased, but he continued again, his voice growing louder as to geld any other attempts at pointless humor. "You would applaud a traidor to her own sect?"

The Wick looked to a duo of nearby paladinos and signaled something to them. Isidoro did not see the face of the person who had made the joke, but he caught a glimpse of the man's backside as the two templars lead him out. The Nosferatu shuddered. He had a feeling the fellow wouldn't be returning.

"This woman wishes to overthrow me, and I know the nature of this sect, but I am not a weak man. The tales of my crusades are not unfounded." He looked over the sea of heads and stared straight at Isidoro with his mismatched eyes. "The man you served, I am honored to take over for him, because he was not a weak man. You and Senhora Oliveira rest assured of that."

Isidoro swallowed the lump in his throat. He knows. He was incredibly aware of the crapshoot The Wick's admission had turned his existence into. Isidoro had a fifty percent chance of keeping his head. He wanted to believe that Aamir had been wrong about O Pavio, but hope was no friend to the undead.

As O Pavio continued to give his speech, his voice a roar of authority and his words surprisingly eloquent, Isidoro slipped through the door. He already knew the plan. He had helped with it. Gather the troops. Close rank. Bash heads.

It may as well have been his lullaby.

When Isidoro finally emerged from the room, he found the two youths that had flanked The Wick during the entirety of his meeting. He eyed them warily as he passed them by, and they in turn acknowledged him with matching, grave expressions. They did not follow him, nor did they speak, but their combined presence had infected Isidoro's thoughts nonetheless. What were they still doing there? The others had left, gone back to their respective homes. Had The Wick enlisted them to watch him? The thought filled the Nosferatu with anger and disgust. Paranoia in vampires was reasonable, albeit healthy in the right doses, and obviously The Wick had been testing him. Had he failed?

He flipped the collar of his coat up and kept his head down on his way to his empty villa; his doghouse. The looks he received from passersby had more to do with the trench coat than what may have lurked beneath. It was hot and their curious stares were not invalid. He flirted briefly with the idea of pulling the collar down and revealing the horror of his real face to them. He quickly decided against it.

Isidoro noticed several freshly crafted mounds dotting his little square of property, and he knew immediately what they were for. The eyes that had watched him had been forever put out by Llora Castell, and she or one of her cronies, perhaps even Aamir, had planted those poor sods out there; a sticky situation for Isidoro if someone decided to investigate. He grabbed a shovel, went to the head of the first mound, and began to dig. He dug with the lunatic energy of a man trying to escape from prison. He gripped rotting cloth, had dead flesh slip through his hands and from the bone beneath it like putrid gelatin, and yet he did not stop until the sun was bruising the horizon and each of the dead stool pigeons were sharing a grave in a long forgotten kirkyard a few miles north of his villa. He burned his clothes while the quickly approaching morning uttered unvoiced threats to his old bones. He bathed for the first time in ages and locked all of the large locks lining his doors. That would have been enough had it not been for the gore streaked shovel propped up by the door.

Thinking quickly, he grabbed the garden tool and carried it into the attic with him. There, nestled on an old grain sack between stacks of moth eaten books, he hugged the shovel close, his feet enveloping the sides of its spade, and it was there that Isidoro allowed an inescapable slumber to take him.

Evora, Portugal, August 17-24, 2015

The following week was long and grueling. Isidoro was not summoned by the Cardinal again, but he had seen the strange boy and girl around town more often than he would have liked. Even when he cloaked himself, they still followed him with their eyes. They no longer scared him as they had, but they still unnerved him, as if they knew what his soul looked like. Aside from those brief, shudder inducing run ins, everything had gone quiet. Too quiet.

He busied himself by visiting abandoned buildings, and found he had a knack for catching rats. He was paid with bites and scratches, but eventually Isidoro could hold a rat between each knuckle, and once he had calmed them- his kind had another talent, one akin to ol? Doc Dolittle?s way with animals, a talent he had almost forgotten- they allowed him to place them in an empty five gallon bucket, and did not so much as utter a sound until they were released into the darker corners of his villa.

The first rat accompanied him everywhere, so long as he fed it from his wrist, and against his better judgement he gave it a name; Ramon. He wondered what Mona would think of that. By Friday of that week, he could go nowhere in his home without spying at least one of the creatures. He fed them seed mixed with his own blood. There were so many of them that it sounded like falling rain when they ate. Soon they grew larger than Ramon, and all Isidoro had to do was whistle, and with the exception of nursing mothers and squirming pink newborns, they would follow at his heels like puppies.

By Sunday he had brought them a treat, a neonate vampire with a stake through her heart. At first his little army seemed clueless as to what they were to do, but they learned quite quickly when Isidoro slashed the palm of the girl?s hand with a sharp fingernail. When they were finished, nothing was left but bits of bone, and even those were gone by the time Isidoro hid himself away for the morning.

Later that night, curled around one another like placated puppies and for no other reason than to feel close to another being, Isidoro drew his hands through Kelsey's hair and allowed his mind to wander. Outside, Ramon had been investigating a dead bird when a man with coal black skin approached the villa. Before the rat could scurry away, he was crushed beneath a large jackboot. The Assamite seemed nonplussed by the pitiful little murder that he had committed, his attention centered solely upon the little house.

Isidoro's slumber was deep but far from peaceful. He dreamed of fire bright and hot devouring everything and everyone around him. When he reached for the door, the entire building crumbled to ash. The Nosferatu awoke with a start, and it took him awhile to realize where he was, and even longer to figure out that Kelsey was not beside of him. Yet he knew he wasn?t alone. The shadows around him were cloyingly thick, as if they were hiding something. The air shifted in the usually stuffy attic, and Isidoro tried to focus his mind and his gaze upon the darkness. He saw particles of dust part as something passed through them, and he smelled blood, but his visitor was quick. ?Aamir??

Something splattered against Isidoro's left eye, turning half of his world red. Pain quickly devoured his confusion, the agony somehow easier to take than the feeling of his eyeball fizzing in its socket. Isidoro howled out like a wounded animal, half of his world going dark as what remained of his eye mingled with the dangerous blood now dripping down his cheek. Aamir's blood, an Assamite's blood; one of the few things that could inflict permanent wounds upon a vampire.

Blindly, he reached out for something, anything, to wipe away the poison. He plucked a dusty rag from a nearby box. The dust did nothing to soothe his wounds, but it soaked up Aamir?s blood before the damage it had done could spread. Then Isidoro's ears perked up, and he narrowly dodged another assault aimed at his throat. He fought threw his body's suffering, and tried to focus his mind and remaining eye on his attacker. The dim lamplight that filled the room bounced briefly off of something, but before he could react, a wound appeared upon his stomach, separating cotton and flesh alike. The next assault pierced deeper, popping something inside of him like a balloon. Frantic, Isidoro turned and turned, and to his horror the wounds continued to form; his torso, his legs, his face, nothing was left unscathed. "Aamir," he cried, "por favor pare! Please! Stop!"

But Isidoro's plea fell upon deaf ears. He had never been able to best Aamir in combat, and once the Assamite had thought himself so clever, letting Isidoro win one sparring match out of ten. This Aamir, the stranger, was not nearly so charitable. His flesh hanging in bloody ribbons and his grip on his beast loosening with every drop of his blood spilled, Isidoro released a cry so loud and shrill that for a moment his former comrade ceased his attack. Rats poured forth from every nook and cranny; a large, moving black blanket. Isidoro?s wounds were tempting, but they had been trained well, and the gash upon Aamir?s hand, the one he had used to burn away the Nosferatu?s left eye, proved a far greater temptation. The rats descended upon him, their teeth tearing eagerly into Aamir's cold flesh. For every two that were destroyed by the blood they ingested, another four happily took their places.

Isidoro could scarcely see the man beneath the writhing, dark furred tide. The Assamite?s knife fell to the floor amid the small bodies, both dying and dead and living. Aamir had no tongue, so his screams could not reach the horde?s ears, but they echoed inside of Isidoro?s skull nonetheless, and the Nosferatu, bleeding and weak and close to frenzy, but suddenly too aware of what he had done, opened his mouth to try and call them off, only for a growl to rumble forth. He hit the ground seconds before Aamir collapsed beneath the army of blood hungry rodents. The last thing Isidoro saw before The Beast took over was Aamir?s heels frantically tapping against the floor.

"You're no Archbishop." He spoke without realizing he had until the words left his mouth. Kelsey smiled brightly- she had dimples, how had Isidoro not noticed that before?- and slowly clapped her hands.

"Do you want to know what I am, Isidoro? Wanna know why I need you?"

Isidoro didn't, not really, but he nodded his head all the same, and Kelsey told him.

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The next night, Kelsey lead him to an alleyway where the strange boy and girl were waiting on them. Isidoro immediately thought that he had been had, but all the same he was struck with the morbid need to see how this meeting would play out. Though neither of them smiled at Kelsey, familiarity filled their eyes, and they did not balk when she gifted each cheek with a light kiss.

"Isidoro, this is Pedra and her brother Rocha."

Pedra. Rocha. The names fit. Each seemed about as personable as a rock. Isidoro greeted them with an tip of his head, but he stayed silent. He was getting good at playing the observer.

Pedra stepped forward, the first time Isidoro had witnessed her leaving her brother's side, and when she spoke her voice was void of any inflection. "We are sorry if we startled you, Senhor Isidoro, but we were given orders..."

"To watch you," Rocha chimed in.

Isidoro stewed and cut a glance towards Kelsey. "Sim. Watching me seems like everyone's favorite thing to do these days."

Kelsey pushed her lips into a half smile, and when the twins had returned to her sides, she took their hands in hers, one of each. "You're safe right now, Iz. I know that's hard for you to believe, but you are."

Isidoro snorted and instinctively reached up to finger the wound below his empty eye socket. Safety was a dish he had not tasted for nearly a month. "So where is Llora?"

The Twins looked to one another, and Rocha nodded though Pedra had voiced nothing. The boy then tipped his head to a tightly packed group of houses. Isidoro squinted and pondered, but he eventually saw what Rocha had meant for him to see. Not the houses but what could be seen over their roofs. He could barely see the church's top, but he knew it was there. When they were all dust, it seemed, the Capela dos Ossos would remain.

"I'd have put my money on the Capuchins for that one," Kelsey mused, poking her elbow into Isidoro's side to start him in that direction. She and The Twins followed. "But, ya know, Franciscans are just as weird. Not as weird as that mad carpenter in Prague, but pretty hinky. Or maybe it's just the Portuguese. You guys really love your death."

Kelsey subjected him to yet another history lesson, but Isidoro was too focused on his plan to think about taking his own life. They found a scrawny alley cat along the way, and Isidoro snapped its spine so that it would not suffer anymore than it had to.

At the entrance of the church they could hear the chaos caused by Rocha's frenzy. Bones clattered, the sound mingling with the half human, half animal screams coming from the rabble boy. Looking to one another, Isidoro counted silently to three before they moved inside.

Surprisingly, Rocha had actually done very little damage to the church itself, though the bones of at least four people lay scattered across the floor. He was pacing from one wall to the other, snapping his razor sharp teeth at the air with great jerks of his head and trailing the ashes of The Harbinger and his sister both in his wake. When the scent of copper reached his nose, Rocha lifted his head back and stole greedy drafts of the air.

Armed with the dead cat, its throat slit and fur matted with blood, Kelsey took off. She was by no means as graceful as Mona, but she was just as fast. She circled Rocha, drawing a circle around him with the feline's vitae, and then disappeared down a long hall, crimson flying in her wake.

Rocha followed quickly. He was so focused upon the blood that he didn't notice Isidoro trailing him. The further they went, the darker it became, the dim light having abandoned them. It smelled musty this far down, and Isidoro could barely make out a triumphant Kelsey in the distance, the cat lifted high above her head while her free hand gripped the ancient iron ring of an old wooden clap door.

She swayed the corpse through the air, raining blood down into the entrance, and Rocha's eyes followed its every move. Her lips forming around an unvoiced apology, she dropped the cat into the tunnel's entrance and watched as Rocha leaped down after it.

Kelsey let the door slam shut and frowned at Isidoro. "He'll serve his purpose one way or another."

Isidoro nodded, the faint sound of screams floating through his ears, and turned his eye to the ceiling. "We all do, Senhora. We all do."