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[i]“The Prince will see you now.” [/i]

Violetta strode between a pair of double doors, trying to exude the confidence of a fearless boss bitch, even though she felt a sharp stab of unease in the pit of her stomach. 

“Miss Kyborowski. Thank you for your swiftness.” 

Vannevar’s voice shifted between calm authority and quivering anger, as if his inflection were a coin, flipping from side to side, whilst it tumbled through the air. 

“My prince,” Vi bowed her head to the lithe figure, “I understand that Isaac Abrams has met his final death.” 

A long glass table stretched between them both. Vannevar sat in a baroque chair, before a backdrop of walls which were adorned with ornate paintings, and dazzling works of art, that would likely have caused the dead heart of a Toreador to start beating madly once again. 

“Not by the hand of the Ivory Tower,” Prince Thomas murmured, “although I scarcely think the anarchs will believe that.” 

Vannevar Thomas wore an expression of grim gravitas, etched across his sharply chiseled features. A pair of beady brown eyes gazed out of a gaunt face, which boasted a neatly-trimmed goatee, and exuded an aura of archaic regality. 

He was Ventrue, through-and-through. No other clan could blend arrogance and affluence with such sleek ease. 

Everything about the prince emanated monarchical esteem, from his kingly posture, to the precise fit of his resplendent suit, which undoubtedly cost more than some poor sod’s yearly wage.

“This does not bode well for us,” Violetta agreed, “particularly when enemies surround us, on all sides.” 

“Very astute of you, Miss Kyborowski.” Prince Vannevar shifted in his seat, bristling with obvious irritation. 

Vannevar reminded Vi of a caged animal, seething behind the tight confines of its suffocating enclosure. She knew that he could feel the walls closing in around him. 

“What do you want from me, my prince?” she asked Vannevar, with a respectful bow of her head. 

The best way to survive a pompous predator like the prince was to appeal to his hazardously over-inflated ego. 

In the mind of Vannevar Thomas, he was still some lofty aristocrat, from an age when the United States was a virgin territory, not an empire in all but name. 

“Work with Sheriff Teach,” the prince instructed her, his tone softening slightly, as his pride was soothed, “find out who was responsible for Abrams’ true death, before we find ourselves in the middle of an all-out war with the unbound.” 

Violetta gave Vannevar another gesture of unconditional obedience, as though she were a courtier, groveling before some feudal king. 

[i]This is what it means to be Camarilla. We are all serfs, scrabbling for our meagre scrap of wealth, and power. Much like the golden glow of the sun, true freedom will never be ours. 

Even the most mighty of kindred are slaves to some higher, terrible monster. The pyramid just rises and rises, higher and higher, past the heavens themselves, and into the darkest depths of the void. 

The price of knowledge is knowing that none of us will ever be free.[/i]

“Where would you like me to start, my prince?” Violetta asked Prince Thomas. 

“Teach will take you to the scene of the murder,” Vannevar told her ,”although I imagine the anarchs have already scrubbed away anything useful.” 

“I’ll head over there at once.” Vi replied, dutifully. 

“Good girl,” Vannevar grinned, flashing his pointed eye teeth, “don’t do anything stupid.” 

“I won’t.” Violletta assured him, her voice firm and decisive.

A musical chuckle eased itself out of the prince’s lips.

“There are fates worse than death, Miss Kyborowski,” Vaennvar promised her, “if you fail me, you’ll find out just how inadequate your perception of hell really is.”