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Only one person in the room was alive. 

Well, truly alive. 

That haughty, arrogant cowboy, with his stupid, twangy voice.

Gracie Goulbourne watched the smug prick strut about like some pompous peacock, as everyone took their seats. 

He was still warm. Still had kine blood pumping in his living veins. 

“Thank you for coming, brothers and sisters,” Calantha, the one who had called the gathering, addressed the room, her slender arms spread wide, “I know that you all have important matters to attend to, so I’ll try not to keep you too long.”

Gracie’s one good eye danced about in its burnt socket, surveying the room. The nosferatu bore the flames of Liverpool’s blitz upon her gnarled form. The archetypal deformity of her bloodline had manifested itself in scorching, sweltering burns, which covered every inch of her body. 

Besides Calantha, whom today had long tendrils of flesh and bone in the place of hair, there were three others in the room, not including Gracie. 

There was Tate, an enormous, dark-skinned Brujah-Antitribu, whose quest for freedom and liberty, above all else, had driven him into the clutches of the Sword of Caine. 

Then there was Johnny C, a slick, suave Ventrue-Antitribu, who moved with the kind of finesse and elegance that would have made a Toreador go purple with jealousy. He wore a crisp white suit, and apparently worked “in the movies”. Gracie had known most Sabbat to have a precarious relationship with the Masquerade, at the best of times, so she wasn’t sure exactly how involved Johnny was “in the movies”, or even what movies he was involved with. 

And finally, there was the stupid cowboy. 

“I’m still something of a newcomer to these lands, and so I have turned to you, my friends, to aid me in my endeavours,” Calantha continued, her voice graceful and refined, “I am set to be reunited with an [i]old falme[/i], and I would like to do something [i]special[/i] to mark the occasion.” 

“I didn’t know that you types had [i]old flames[/i],” the stupid cowboy, Harry Jones, chuckled, running his fingers down the fringes of his daft jacket, “guess you learn somethin’ new every day. Or, every night.” 

Gracie watched a plump vein in the cowboy’s neck bulge, calling to the untameable beast within her. 

Calantha had made it explicitly clear to Gracie that Jones was not to be touched. 

At least not without her say-so. 

Gracie knew how particular Calantha was when it came to manners and etiquette. She took her little rituals very seriously.

“What is it that you want from us, sister?” Tate asked, his voice a deep, booming grumble. 

“Your resources, brother,” Calantha replied, “whatever you can offer me. The favours which you have garnered in these rolling hills. The secret whispers which you hear twittering in the shadows, and quiet corners. I need your knowledge, and your know-how. I am on the cusp of understanding this land of adventure and opportunity, but the mysteries of the new world are known to you all. Help me, and I shall help you.” 

“Speakin’ of helpin’,” Jones pipped up, “I delivered my club to you, just like you asked. You got the good stuff for me?” 

Calantha nodded to Johnny C. 

Wordlessly, the Venture reached into the pocket of his spruce jacket, and pulled out a bag of white powder, which he tossed over to the cowboy. 

Jones grinned. 

“You mind if I rack up here?” he asked. 

Calantha shook her head. 

“By all means.” 

Beaming like a giddy child, Jones pulled out a rolled-up dollar bill, poured a fat line of powder out onto the tabletop, and began greedily snorting the dust up into his nostrils. 

There was a look of cold displeasure on Johnny C’s pale face, but he said nothing. 

“Why do we need the Kine’s club?” Tate asked. 

“All will become clear, in time, brother.” Calantha explained. 

Suddenly, Jones let out a sharp, pained, gasp. 

The cowboy shrieked in agony, as twin trails of clotted blood began to ooze out of his nose. His face turned a sickly shade of violet, and he started to cough, fiercely. 

Jones tried to speak, but all that escaped his mouth was a shrill, earsplitting wail. 

Johnny C grabbed hold of Jones by the scruff of his stupid jacket, and slammed him down on the table, with inhuman force. 

“But before we get to business,” Calantha smirked, “what sort of a host would I be if I didn’t offer my guests a little snack?” 

They fell upon the cowboy, ripping, and biting, and tearing.