#I’d probably wager a bit of it was recovered muscle though.

[byakuyasdarling]

S/I gets a little tummy now because I recovered and I deserve it.

[missn11]

And we’re back with chapter one of The Devil’s Advocate and this time I’m not going to unnecessary fill up your dash! 😅 This chapter was pretty short compared to the prologue and not too much happen as from catching with Owain in the modern age and glimpsing at the villains of the book, maybe.

Anyway, we cut from 1093, Wales to the present time (assuming 1997) America, Atlanta, to a Kindred named Grimsdale, whose on the run from his former allies to get to Chicago for safety.

The skyscrapers towered on every side, enormous walls to a cell—or coffin—from which Grimsdale might never emerge. He jerked about, the hundredth glance over his shoulder that hour. Nothing. But they had to be close. He could feel their predatory gazes boring through him like a stake. Grimsdale harbored no illusions. If they caught him there would be no trial, no appeal to the archbishop. There! He whirled around at the sound of a deep, raspy cough just down the street. Street person or assassin? No way to know. Keep moving, Grimsdale told The Devil's Advocate 43 himself. He dashed across the intersection and hurried down the sidestreet. Keep moving. He hadn’t come this far to die now. Downtown Atlanta was mostly deserted this time of night—no crowds for cover, but always plenty of shadows to hide killers. Grimsdale’s hearing was sharp, but would that be enough for him to slip out of the city, to get to Chicago? He had avoided New York, Washington, Detroit, but even here they had found him. How much longer could he elude them? How many hours until his luck ran out?

Then we cut to a courier, Nicholas who has been sent to Owain’s estate to deliver a message.

Evans sat easily upon the edge of his desk, savored a sip from the glass he had poured. “You are from eastern Europe…not the Balkans, to the north…” He took another small sip, concentrated. “Minsk?” A smile crept across Nicholas’ features. He had underestimated this elder of the city. “Kiev.” “Kiev.” Evans nodded. “Of course. Accents are tricky things, and yours is quite faint. You’ve not been home for quite some time, I’d wager.” Nicholas snorted good-naturedly. Four words, and the young-looking vampire had guessed his home within a few hundred miles. Nicholas’ predatory instincts were again as alert as they had been in the forest. He wouldn’t let his guard down again, not around this wily Kindred with his disarming manner and sharp mind. Nicholas didn’t know much about Owain Evans other than that he was a prominent but unobtrusive member of Atlanta’s Kindred community. Obviously he was well-off financially, and he would bear close watching while Nicholas was in town  

Evans chatted on politely about something. Nicholas inwardly cursed his own weakness. He had completed his task. How much longer would this maddening formality go on? Nicholas did not feel he could risk offending this elder by dashing out of his home. “Well, my talkative friend,” Evans continued, “let me ask you one final question.” Final question. That phrase muscled through Nicholas’ distress and grabbed his attention. “I’m curious.” Evans sat behind his desk once again and gestured toward the bone case. “You did not bring this message all the way from Berlin purely out of good will. What was your payment?” The question was like cold water thrown in Nicholas’ face. Even though Evans must have known the message was coming and where it came from, how did the cursed Ventrue know to ask about the one thing Nicholas couldn’t divulge? “A favor from a friend’s friend,” he mumbled. 

He could feel those black eyes watching him, and wasn’t sure if he could meet the probing gaze with- 50 Gherbod Fleming out losing control, without falling into frenzy. Suddenly the urge to shred the expensive drapes, to rake his claws across the perfectly stained hardwood floor was quite strong. The thought of such savagery in this all too proper room was so appealing that Nicholas couldn’t help laughing at the dichotomy. This seemed to catch Evans off guard. For the first time this evening, the Ventrue looked perplexed, and his obvious puzzlement made Nicholas laugh even harder. The violent nature of his thoughts intensified proportionately, which struck him as increasingly hilarious. Soon Evans joined in the laughing, almost nervously at first, then more forcefully, still not comprehending but not caring, for laughter, like hatred, is contagious. “What, exactly,” Evans forced out between mirthful convulsions, “are you laughing at?” “I was thinking…a-hem…of ripping your throat out,” Nicholas explained gleefully. Rather quickly, Evans stopped laughing. Shortly Nicholas, too, had regained his composure, and both men looked about slightly embarrassed, not exactly sure what had just transpired. Nicholas decided prudence called for taking his leave before the room again began to close in on him. “With all due respect, Mr. Evans, I must go.”

After Nicholas, Owain, who had been playing a chess game for years now, rolls open the message to find that he had lost. 

Just as he finished, his distracted gaze fell upon the ivory cylinder on his desk, the message nearly forgotten amidst the strangeness of the visit. He picked up the tube and inspected the intact seal of his long-time opponent. A pity almost to open it. Often times the anticipation was more titillating than the actual revelation, especially when, like this time, Owain felt sure he knew what the message contained. He crossed to the small alcove in the study where he kept his Battle of Hastings chess set. It was carved by a wood worker who had seen with his own eyes both Harold Godwin and William the Bastard on the field that black day in 1066. Owain, as always, played the dark Anglo-Saxon defenders so that he might rework history and spare his homeland the indignity and the horror of Norman overlordship. And this time, the Bastard was getting what he deserved!

 This particular game had been going on for about three centuries now, moves sent by courier every decade or two. The previous game had bogged down a bit, as Owain had spent most of the Re- 52 Gherbod Fleming naissance in torpor, but not so this time. Owain congratulated himself as he surveyed the board. The end-game was nearly played out, his black forces relentlessly pressing the attack. The white king was backed near a corner along with a woefully misplayed bishop. A lone rook, a sorely pressed knight, and a smattering of ineffectual pawns cluttered the center of the board. Owain’s pieces were in a far superior situation, even lacking both of his knights. Otherwise, one bishop and one rook were the only casualties of any significance. Owain’s queen whisked around the board mercilessly crushing every semblance of resistance from the damnable Normans. Perhaps Harold should have taken his wife into battle, Owain mused. Surely the end was near. This correspondence might just as well contain a final concession as a move. Unlikely. Owain’s opponent, he knew, would probably struggle on to the end. Futile. And not particularly graceful. Owain grinned as he conjured the image of driving the Normans, mauled and bloodied, back into the English Channel. It would be a shame, really, to end the game. It was one of the few diversions that held much interest for Owain any more.

He was fairly ensconced within Kindred society, and his financial empire more or less ran itself. Occasionally a bit of blackmail, corporate espionage, or murder was required, The Devil's Advocate 53 but nothing overly taxing. Generally, one night was like the next was like the next. That very fear, of anticipation giving way to boredom, stayed Owain’s hand, kept him from opening the cylinder. Even the messenger, that odd Gangrel, had proved entertaining. When could Owain again expect such an intriguing break from routine? A blackness gnawed at him from within. Blacker than the pieces on the chess board, blacker than the night outside his window. Perhaps it is the call of torpor I hear once again.

The knock at the study door interrupted Owain’s darkening spiral of thought. “Yes, Randal.” Owain’s most trusted ghoul stepped into the room. “Sir, our…ah…guest, as he were, has departed, and Ms. Jackson has brought the car around.” “The car? For…?” Owain was still concentrating on the chess board. “The art exhibit,” Randal finished his master’s sentence. “Oh, yes. That,” Owain said absently, again examining the ivory case in his hand. “Is that tonight? You’re sure?” “Yes, sir.” “Of course you are. I knew it was tonight. I suppose a man is due a lapse of memory every century or two.” “Indeed, sir.” 54 Gherbod Fleming “And our dear Prince Benison wouldn’t take kindly to being ignored, now would he?” Owain sighed and set the tube on the table by the board. 

Now that he was required elsewhere, his curiosity about the message was piqued. “Oh, bloody hell.” He rose in frustration and started across the room. He would need a fresh suit, but first he should shave the stubble that began every night as two day’s growth and never grew longer. Halfway to the door he stopped and turned back to the table. “Wouldn’t do to be unfashionably early, now would it?” It would be a rare day when impatience didn’t win out over duty. Owain settled into the seat by the chess board. “Well, Randal, let’s see what pitiable defense my esteemed adversary has put forward.” A suddenly claw-like fingernail made short work of the seal, and Owain was unrolling the yellowed parchment he slid from the tube. 

As always, there was no preamble or greeting; the black script flowed smoothly limning the five essential words: Rook to King’s Knight five and then a sixth: Check Even close to a millenium of undeath had not prepared Owain for that instant. But he recovered quickly; only for a moment did his mouth drop open before he assumed a more directed response. “There must be a mistake.” The words rasped forth The Devil's Advocate 55 from his suddenly parched mouth and throat, but there was no mistake.

Of course Owain doesn’t take this lost very well...

Owain had pinned White’s pesky remaining knight and within two or three moves would most likely have maneuvered the king into checkmate. But now this! Not only did the rook place Owain’s king into check, the piece’s movement revealed a discovered attack from White’s king’s bishop which also produced check. “But…how?” Owain weakly whispered. There was a pawn blocking that diagonal. A white pawn, but I don’t remember it moving…. 

He lowered his face into his hand. Owain’s opponent had not, in fact, moved that pawn. Harold Godwin’s omnipotent queen had whisked it away to Norman hell. That was several turns back. Probably…1930. The queasiness in Owain’s stomach intensified as he studied the board more closely. Not only was Owain’s king in check from two attackers, he was trapped. He could escape for one turn, but then rook to king’s knight eight, protected by the bishop, every black piece at least two moves away—checkmate. “Ahhhhhh!” Owain’s fangs slipped down and his claws took shape, so incensed was he.

 “Sir?” Randal, who had quietly eased forward to look over his master’s shoulder, jumped backwards, nearly knocking a bust of Oliver Cromwell from its marble pedestal. As Randal watched from a rela- 56 Gherbod Fleming tively safe distance, Owain, his hand quivering with rage, moved the white rook from its former position to king’s knight five with a resounding thump that threatened to upend the other pieces. Randal, an accomplished gamer himself, examined the board for a brief moment. “Oh.” Owain restrained his urge to take each chess piece, one at a time, and rend its head from its body, before grinding its disjointed form into bits too minute to be recognized. With a supreme act of will, he calmly rose from his chair and left the room. “I believe I have somewhere to be,” he muttered through clenched teeth. Randal quietly followed behind. 

We then cut back to Grimsdale, who is caught by I guess some Sabbat and they start eating him before a Lasombra, Francesca finishs him up. 

“Save some for your lover, Dietrich.” Francesca’s words rolled off her tongue, the very sound of her voice enough to drive Dietrich to distraction. He stepped away from his current masterpiece and pushed away Liza as well. The African-American woman hissed, droplets of fresh vitæ spraying from her mouth as Grimsdale collapsed to the ground. “I don’t believe he’ll be going anywhere now,” Francesca observed. Dietrich laughed at her words, unable to contain himself. He began bouncing where he stood. Liza licked her lips and wiped her face with her sleeve, watching begrudgingly as Francesca lifted Grimsdale and drained the rest of his blood. Even Liza had to admit there was a certain style, an innate sensuality, about this Hispanic woman. Watching her lick the mangled body gave Liza The Devil's Advocate 61 goosebumps and set her to fantasizing. “Your shadow it hold him good,” said Dietrich. “Of course it did,” Francesca responded. Dietrich edged closer and guffawed idiotically at her acknowledgement of his complement. Liza had had enough. “I’d love to stay so we could all kiss each others’ asses, but I got places to go.” Francesca nodded in her direction. “Your aid was invaluable. It will not go unnoticed, I assure you.” “Yeah?” It was difficult for Liza to mouth off at this woman. “Okay.” As Liza turned to leave, she noticed Dietrich’s reptillian tongue stretching out and wrapping itself around Francesca’s forearm. Walking away, Liza tried to ignore the maniacal cackling spilling out from behind the building.