42

Lettow watches you closely as you answer, tongue against his teeth, concentrating. He thinks you know something. But you've never seen this Tremere.

Dove gasps.

Knowles has stepped away from the webcam, revealing a dingy cinder-block room with faded orange stripes on the walls and a Nosferatu chained to an iron spike in the floor.

That Nosferatu almost killed you the other night.

"Sire," Dove whispers.

Prince Lettow's illusion of good cheer falters for a moment; both he and the eagle glare at Dove. You're here so he can get a read on you, not so his underling can give you information.

"This experiment has gone on for as long as it can," Knowles says in the video. "Science sometimes ends in failure, my dear, and so does our version of it. No intelligence remains in this specimen, and it has become increasingly dangerous and aggressive. Once it's destroyed, I'll send what's left to you. I'm also going to wrap up my daytime business. I know that we are still allowed to communicate via email as, er, flesh and blood citizens, but my mortal identity is almost eighty years old, and soon people will wonder—"

Something off-screen draws Knowles's attention. He turns the knife, ready to insert it into his wrist—perhaps to use blood magic? Unfortunately for Knowles, he's looking the wrong way; as he stares past the webcam, a figure detaches itself from the shadows of the wall, walks almost casually up to the chained-up Nosferatu, and removes its shackles.

The rest of the video is chaos. The wight hurls itself at Knowles. The Tremere screams and stumbles into the webcam, which falls. Sorcerous fire blackens the ceiling. Dirty fists rise and fall, again and again; unlike most Tremere, Knowles has mastered the vampiric art of inhuman resilience. But that only makes his destruction longer and more horrible.

Then the video suddenly ends.