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"An old name and a past life," Qui says. "One best forgotten." He pulls out one of the vials of Blood and holds it up to the light of the room's single lamp. "Lang wouldn't be here unless he chose to be."

Jordan stares at Qui, aghast. "He's cuffed to the wall! It looks like he's been bled out for hours now! How could you say that he wanted this?"

"Of all the Warlocks I've ever met," Qui says, "Henrik is the most devoted to the study of Kindred vitae. He's experimented on his own for decades."

"Why the shackles, then?" Jordan asks. "This isn't okay; we can't just leave him like that!"

"Of course not," Qui says. "I'll be taking him in for questioning."

"We discussed this already," Lucca says, cutting into the conversation. "Corliss wanted any survivors to be brought directly to her. No exceptions."

"This hunt is my jurisdiction," the Sheriff growls. "Your sire may speak to my prisoners after they've been questioned."

Your sister shakes her head, unflappable. "Arundel has been gone for weeks. In the Prince's absence, the Seneschal governs his domain until such time as he returns or is formally replaced when someone declares praxis." Her words sound rehearsed—like she'd been expecting a situation like this to develop.

"There's no formal ruling to that effect," Qui says. "And I certainly wouldn't be the first of us to question Corliss's right to seize praxis this soon. Kindred history is littered with the corpses of ambitious vampires who thought to usurp their Princes' thrones."

You busy yourself looking anywhere but at the two arguing Kindred and eventually they seem to come to an agreement.

"Corliss will speak to the prisoners in good time," Qui says. "For now, they will remain in my custody."

Lucca looks like she's going to start arguing again, but then thinks better of it.

"This bickering is an infantile waste of time!" Lang yells. It looks like he's finally had enough. "I'll answer whatever questions need asking, but first you have to listen to me. Our followers in Elysium are under attack! The Anarchs waited for you to send all your forces down here before they moved in!"

"Wait, what?" Jordan asks. "What's he talking about?"

"We should listen to him…" a short Nosferatu woman in the corner mutters. She seems shaken and quiet, so hesitant to speak that you'd almost forgotten she was there. Qui glowers at her and she shrugs. "What would it hurt?"

"He wants to distract us so he can escape like the other one did," Qui says, stalking up to Lang and staring at him, eye-to-eye. "How would you even know what's going on top-side right now if you've been shackled down here to bleed? Your story has more holes in it than you do."

"I can't be sure of anything lately," Qui says. "But he claims that he's been down here for more than a full night. He's either lying about that or he's lying about the Anarchs. Either way, we can't trust a word he says."

"You're assuming that I have no way of communicating with the outside world while I'm down here," Lang says. "When have you known the Magi to rely on something as pedestrian as cell phones?"

"That's enough," Qui growls. He waves all but two of the remaining mercenaries back out into the sewers. "Lucca and Jordan, I need you to help my people collect any Kindred who haven't been destroyed. Mekuztli and Kashif will assist me with our friend, Henrik."

"There's a key next to the vials," Lang says.

Uuntezazk skitters out of your pocket and jumps to the dark-stained tabletop. The tiny silver key has been saturated in gore and stuck to the wood, but once Uuntezazk starts clawing, it pops free. Stepping carefully around the Blood trough, you reach up to slip the key into the iron shackle. It looks ancient and reminds you of one of Alisha Grey's exhibits on medieval torture devices. "Ah," Lang says when the device springs open. "Free again." He hobbles behind the table and retrieves what you presume to be his clothes, pulling a deep-black shirt over his head. When he's fully dressed he leans over the table and starts plucking vials of Blood from the collection and stuffing them into his pockets. "Can't let them go to waste," he mutters to himself.

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