18

You were desperate then, and you knew you had to obey. They paired you with another desperate young Cainite, a charming young man named Julian Sim who talked too much. He was something that other Kindred called an Assamite, and back then you didn't know if that was another clan like the Ravnos or another sect like the Camarilla. No one ever bothered to tell you.

Julian had the eager energy of a congressional page and the glittering, patient eyes of a reptile. He was out for himself, and so were you, and that gave you something in common.

You remember Julian's lime green Geo Tracker crunching to a halt over gravel. You jumped out and felt the sand beneath your feet, still hot hours after sunset, though the night air felt cool. Julian was well dressed despite the rough work, but back then you always wore the same thing when out in the desert: coveralls with the name you used sewn on a patch.

Not your real name, of course. That person died in the bathroom of a coffee shop.

You still call yourself—