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With Capricorn as its ruling sign, this is a card about ambitions; it is also synonymous with temptation and addiction. On the flip side, however, the card can be a warning to someone who is too restrained, someone who never allows themselves to get passionate or messy or wild - or ambitious. This, too, is a form of enslavement. As a person, the Devil can stand for a man of money or erotic power, aggressive, controlling, or just persuasive. This is not to say a bad man, but certainly a powerful man who is hard to resist. The important thing is to remind the Querent that any chain is freely worn. In most cases, you are enslaved only because you allow it.




She screamed and Ambrose drank in the utter fear and pain that was in it.


What had begun as a slow, torturing break of her mind had transformed into a break of her body; the scent of tears, blood, and fear that hung in the air warmed him from the inside. He almost felt alive again.


Almost.


The woman, frail and pale hung from his chandelier by her neck, alive but utterly spent all at once. She didn't care about Chaus anymore, she didn't care about her past, her love, or anything. If she could have spoke, she would have been cursing Ambrose's name, would have begged that it all meant nothing -- Diabholtz's siring of her, and her own siring of Chaus -- but she could do nothing except struggle against the wires used to tie her hands. She was much too weak to loose them, her eyes rolling into the back of her skull from the noose around her neck. Nymph was ready to die; it was only Ambrose that wasn't ready to let her yet.


Ambrose crossed his blood-splattered living room, a hand lifting to caress the bare curve of her calf and downward. "It is a shame, really. How pitiful he made you. Diabholtz broke you when he sired you; I can see it in your eyes. You loved him, didn't you? Yes, you did. You loved him, as much as he hurt you. And now look at the mess you made, and he made." He crossed to the corner of the room where an antique steel blade rested against the wall. "You could have corrected it yourself. You wouldn't have to die." But now she did. He picked up that blade and removed the sheath, letting it glint in the dull light from the fireplace, flickering.


The ropes eased for just a moment, long enough for her to sputter a few choked words as she swung there. "Correct-- what?" She didn't understand; no one did. How had she sinned more then any other of her kind had, or more then Ambrose himself? Surely Ambrose had more death on his shoulders than herself or Diabholtz -- surely the dead cried out for vengeance on his name.


His footsteps echoed across the room, thick and wet with the sound of blood underneath. The blade was lifted high in the air, cutting through the thick space between them. There was an elegance in her ending, but there was no answer and no dramatic flair. It was simple and clean. The steel cut quickly through muscle and flesh, slowing only at the spinal chord, but tearing through that as well, all the way across her neck in a thin, perfectly horizontal line.


Her head separated from her body, leaving her hair swinging in the air, dripping her dark blood across the ground. Her body hit the floor with an almost dainty sound, soft and weightless -- yet the blood pouring from her severed neck was thick and black.


Satisfied, he shoved the sword tip-first into her chest, and moved under the rain of blood dripping from her head. And he smiled.

By the time Ambrose arrived in Newport, his clothes were devoid of ash, blood, and the scent of kerosene. His eternal perfection in appearance had resumed, only flawed by the scar on the back of his right hand, a too-pale curve of white. The events at the now destroyed Victorian seemed wiped from his mind, much like Diabholtz; a name that if repeated to him seemed only vaguely familiar. He returned to the rich seaport as John Winthrop, a local and well respected historian who was greeted with a round of brandy and the tour of the historical society's new achievement --the restoration of the old courthouse where the ‘witches' of Newport were tried and condemned.

The short, balding man who smiled nervously at Ambrose could be recognized as the President of the historical society. "Ah, John, it's good to have you back. How was your trip? Heard you were restoring some old homes in the south, eh?"

Ambrose's smile was perfectly serene, gloved hands folded behind his back. "Quite well. There were some beautiful mansions there from the early 1800's that were in desperate need of repair. I see you've been keeping the society busy, sir."

The stocky man waved his hand. "Please, John, I've told you again and again, call me Daniel. And yes, we did quite a fine job with the courthouse if I do say so myself. I heard you were interested in seeing the place, yes? Perhaps I could give you a tour?"

Ambrose's smile widened just so, but never exceeded to be anything but polite. "It's rather late, sir, I don't wish to keep you --however, I am very intrigued. I think I shall take a brief appraisal myself, if it is not too much trouble."

Again, he waved his hand. "Of course not, John, of course not. I am rather tired, to tell you the truth. Here, here --this is the key, there's no alarm system yet so you don't have to worry about setting anything off. I'll expect to see you tomorrow then?"

Ambrose took the key with a gracious bow of his head. "Have a good evening, sir."

"It's Daniel, John. Ah.. goodnight."

Ambrose smiled until the old man left and he found himself palming the key in his hand. Standing from his seat at the elk's lodge bar, he walked onto the porch and down the stairs. The courthouse, a tall building just to the left of the same park where fives witches and one vampire were hung, was painted a pale yellowish color, dark windows giving no hints at the interior. By the time he reached the threshold, the old church down the road was chiming its bell --he found witching hour to be an appropriate time to visit. The key fit into the lock and gave a dull click before he pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The air reeked of history. It had been an era of the puritan fist which reigned over all with fear and conviction. It smelled of god --and yes, it was a tangible thing, though faint with such sins that had been commited. The door clicked shut behind him and there was a voice which echoed with distasteful accents. "There is unrest here. In this whole town as well."

Ambrose recognized the voice but his expression did not budge, only his feet as he walked toward the wooden podium before him. "The dead never rest. They roam the earth like fatherless children, hands raised toward the heavens."

The shadows curled and the figure that was undeniably Sin to most else became the specter of Diabholtz. Ambrose froze in place, cobalt eyes narrowed to thin circles. "Go back to your corpse, sleeper."

The Spaniard moved and the illusion was broken. The low, torn fringe of his trench coat brought dust up from the floor below him. "This is where he was tried, wasn't it? Diabholtz. I met him once, a long time ago." Sin looked at Ambrose, a thoughtful expression taking over his features.

Ambrose rose and stood on the platform, allowing the unrest to soak into his bones. "Yes. I took pity on him. I had not sired anyone before, but the amount of kindred had increased into somewhat of a disease in Europe and I had no desire to foster it. Here, it was a fresh start. There were only two of us to claim the colonies as we saw fit. She had died sometime before I decided to sire Diabholtz."

Sin leaned against the wall, ever watchful as if he was waiting for something all too expectantly. "It was Mercy Brown, right? The other vampire."

Ambrose only nodded. Sin pushed off of the wall and walked toward the older vampire. "Eventually, Sigma and Ghost will follow you here."

He laughed, and it was the rich laughter of a completely insane man. "You came all the way to Newport to tell me that?"

The Spaniard looked up at him. "They're your children, Ambrose. They need you. Without a father, they're just dead. Sigma isn't Diabholtz."

He chuckled; Sin shivered at the sound. "Oh, but he is. If he has the arrogance to betray his sire then let him die here and give Diabholtz some company."

Sin was quiet. Outside, there was the sound of a car rolling slowly down the cobblestone road. When Sin spoke again, his tone was flat with conviction. "You're just like Diabholtz. Without thought or forgiveness." His tone rose in gravity. "I can see it now. I can see. You've forgotten. You don't remember how to be a person anymore, Ambrose. The person comes before the vampire. But you've forgotten."

Ambrose's tones became unstable. "Leave this town, Sinjin. This is my town. You may have Rhydin, but Newport is mine and your blood is too thin to claim it. Will you fight me again, sinner?"

"No. I don't have the strength anymore. But for the sake of your children, Ambrose.. remember who you are. Not what you are." The Spaniard cast him a finally glance before he disappeared from sight, but not from mind.

Ambrose's cool cobalt eyes remained on the spot where he had stood. Outside, the church chimed once and embraced moved, embracing the darkness. He would wait for Sigma to find him. He would sit on the same park bench he had sat before. He would watch Sigma take three steps back against the oak that smelled faintly of blood. There would be no conflict, no memory. Only resolution.