He would approach, and stutter before he whispered his introduction. For this dark shadow is known by so many names. To the scarce few, and fortunate, vampires he trusts, he is Book. To the gamers at Neutral Ground here in New York City, he is Samuel. To the restless one reading over your shoulder right now, he is Whisper Din. And in closed halls, bearing silent witness to a dark court, he is Alexi of the 13 Toes; Sluagh of the noble house of Scathach.

But for now, he shuns both the lanterns and the inviting looks. He has a letter to deliver, and he was paid well for his services. (Every tidbit about the night-folk is worth accumulating... and every opportunity to do so is worth just as much.) Tonight, he simply hands this letter to the presiding vampire at the dance, and he is granted permission to stay and listen. It will be a night well spent...

A quick scan of the room (or more accurately - of the deepest shadows the room allowed) revealed the particular Nosferatu that Book was looking for.

The disfigured old man recognized Book immediately. 'Ah, my young rumormonger. How did I ever doubt that you'd make an appearance at our little gathering?' The velvet baritone flowed from his wrinkled, pocked lips. 'Wherever Vampires gather, one can expect the walls - and even the scum of the gutters - to listen in, no?'

Book simply nodded an acknowledgement. 'Why such harsh words, Martine?' Book's whisper was the faintest breath of a sound compared to Martine's commanding voice, but the old Nos' had no trouble hearing it. 'Did you not enjoy my little treat for you in Houston? Did you honestly think I didn't know exactly why you wanted to know the location of that particular Freehold? And really Martine, I was more than a little disappointed that on your way out, you chose to take poor Ellanor's life.' Book had let the questions flow faster than he intended, but the memories of the beautiful house in flames by his own hand were too much to ignore.

Martine raised a scarred eyebrow at the young man's brashness. 'Well then my friend, shall we let bygones be bygones and get to the issue of you explaining your presence? For I can't recall you ever lacking a seemingly legitimate excuse for most everything you do.' At that, even stoic Book had to smile at himself. 'Before you speak though, you will answer this: why were you given leave to enter these premises?' Book had seen this look in Martine's eye, and felt the familiar tingle in the back of his mind often enough to know that if he did not tell the truth, Martine would know. Fortunately, Book had planned for that.

'I was paid, by a contact that wishes to remain anonymous, a considerable wage to bring a letter to Oscar Brundai, the Ventrue noble. And no, before you ask, I did not hire myself. I was honestly contracted by an outside source.' Book was proud of his truthfulness. After all, Martine didn't need to know that Book anonymously hired a random Boston lawyer to hire a Sluagh runner three weeks before the ball. 'Does that satisfy your curiosity?' Book declined to mention that he was the only Sluagh runner the poor lawyer man knew of.

'Not in the least. But I respect the fact that you didn't lie. Now then, which one of us owes the other this time...?'

'You know very well that on this meeting, you owe me.' It was a not unexpected occurrence when Book silently cursed his inability to speak above a whisper even when trying to be intimidating. 'This time around, my fine flatulent friend, you most definitely owe me.' Again, the memories of the house in flames...

In mimic of Book's earlier gesture, Martine nodded an acknowledgment. 'Then ask away.'

'I have come across a word. It is unknown to me. That is unacceptable.'

'Then enough of your stalling, and ask your question.'

'Marsil. To what does this refer? And why can I not find answers?'
Martine's face took on a more appropriately vampiric pallor. 'The only clue I've found thus far is a name. Antionette.' The Nosferatu's expression slowly turned from one of shock, to one of wist - for even the most loathsome beast can know true beauty... if only from the deepest shadows.

'All I can, and ever would, tell you is that you may find more of the answers you seek in Los Angeles, but I truly hope that you do not.'

Book had no time for Martine's overly romantic speech, and bolted for a shadow. All the while whispering even quieter than usual...

Jack be nimble
Jack be slick
Through a shadow
Nice and thick
O'er rivers
And some plains
And a mons-
'trous mountain range
To L. A.
Where can be found
An-swers to questions
That abound.

Book finished his impromptu poem just in time, and in the moment before he would have crashed into the wall of the New York ballroom, he stepped from a shadow in the City of Angels...

The teenager who stepped from a dark corner that no one could remember seeing him enter looked out of place for this part of L. A. Dusty top hat, faded Victorian long-coat, a brass-fist-topped cane all drew interested eyes away from the odder and more subtle details; frightfully pale skin, a frame a bit too tall for the ease with which he moved, and cobwebs in his dark hair. Book looked around for an acquaintance of his. 'Come on Johnathan, I know you're here.' He whispered. He smiled his toothless smile when he saw what he was looking for.

A short man was walking down the middle of the road - unseen and driven through by every motorist that passed. Book decided to wait for his friend rather than go out to meet him. 'They'll hit me, you show-off. I'm still alive.'

A short conversation later and Book began his search for a place to stay for the next few days. His message would be delivered by then. He smiled again as he imagined how it would occur, and wished he could be there for it.

Eventually, he knew, a letter would be seen gently floating along through the air as if carried by an unseen man who even now favored a leg broken a century ago. It would find its recipient, for the dead have far more knowledge in the finding of people than even he. The letter would progress its way to a residence, or a business, or a hotel - wherever she was - and the doorbell would ring. The letter would hang there in air until it was grasped, and then Johnathan would return to inform him. Book could see the letter being read, he was so sure it would be received... If only he could see who would read it.

** My most humble greetings, Miss Antionette. I greatly desire audience to discuss a riddle I seem to have come across - to which you may hold clues. The secret of the Marsil. Simply request my presence to the darkest shadow you can find in your chamber, at the hour of midnight, and I will know how to find you.
Respectfully,
Aleksei of the 13 Toes**

'There,' thought Book who was Alexi, 'that should do it. Now to wait for a response'

-----

By the end of his first week in the City of Angels, Book was neither entirely impressed nor altogether comfortable with the place. True, it held an air of creativity. True, it prided itself on being a font of spontaneity. But there was something wrong. Book imagined that he was trying in vain to look through a beautiful stained-glass window to find the pile of shit he knew he could smell. Perhaps that was a bit harsh, but there was something decidedly unsettling in Los Angeles.

'Well,' he mused, 'since my courier has yet to report back, I might as well have a little fun.' So he set out to find the source of his discomfort. And with luck, scare the crap out of it.

Book had known the moment he arrived that he would need to know the layout of the city as soon as possible. To that end, he had bought piles of maps detailing the entire region. Throwing papers left and right, Book found the map he was looking for - a street map of downtown L.A. bought for five bucks from a tour guide.

He stood looking at the map, knowing he could divine where he should go. But nothing came of it. The room he had rented simply had too much of a banal nature to allow his magick to function. He rolled up the map, grabbed his hat, coat, and cane, and ventured out into the streets.

Book didn't know where he was going, but he knew what it would look like. And he wandered for nearly two hours before he saw it. Nestled in between a bowling alley and a grocery store, Book found the most degenerate bar he had ever laid eyes on. It even had the standard wino slumped across the sludge of the gutter. It was perfect. Book took a brief moment outside to prepare himself, then pushed wide the smog-blackened door. A rather crude example of a doorman held up a hand to block Book's passage.

'Scuse me son.' The man's voice reminded Book of a time when a prankster friend slipped a handful of gravel into the engine of his moped. 'Aren't you a little young for this... establishment?' Book was prepared for this. He quickly took the man's hand in a firm handshake as an enormous grin spread across his face.

'I'm Sam. I'm a regular here. You'd merely forgotten.' Book held the man's eyes tighter than he held his hand. 'Yeah, you remember now.' The doorman's eyes seemed to glaze over momentarily. He quickly regained his composure as a smile that matched Book's lit up his scarred face.

'Sam! How the hell have you been buddy? It's been a while, I almost didn't recognize you. Hey Carl!' The doorman turned, leading Book into the room as he flagged the barkeep. 'Carl! Pour one for my friend here.' The burly man sidled up next to Book at the bar. Apparently this was going to be easier than he had predicted, Book noticed to himself.

'I appreciate it, but could you give me a couple of minutes to collect my thoughts alone?' The entrancement had worked so well that Book didn't even need to pretend that he had been speaking any louder than an inaudible whisper this whole time. The now congenial doorman just grinned wider, clapped Book on the back and walked back to his post. Book needed to concentrate for this one. He had situated himself directly in front of the barkeep, and locked eyes with him as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

'What's on tap?' He asked. The barkeep's eyes had already taken on the encouraging gloss. He simply pointed to the appropriate nozzle behind the bar. Book took an extra few seconds to make sure he thought this was going to be a good idea. He was satisfied that it was as good as he was going to get on short notice. From beneath the folds of his long-coat, Book pulled a small vial containing a luminescent powder.

'In that case I want you to put this in it.' He held the powder out to the barkeep. Book breathed a sigh of relief as the man barely hesitated before taking the vial and dumping the contents into the keg. Book quickly turned and stood on his stool. 'This round's on me!'

An hour later Book sat quietly in a corner of the bar watching the progress of his preparations. He still had misgivings about using that much Dream Stuff on one cantrip, but he was fairly confident it would be worth it. All around the room he could see the effects the Stuff was having on the drunkards. 'Yes,' he thought to himself, 'its working. They're enchanted. They can see me for what I am. And they're that much easier to play with.' Book realized that the circumstances were as good as they'd ever be, so he grabbed the rolled-up street map from under his coat and strode towards the dartboard.

'Gentlemen!' It was still the faintest of sounds, but they could all hear him now. 'We're going to play a game, and you all get one free play each!' He continued talking, only now and then glancing at the men around the bar as he began tacking the map onto the dartboard. 'The game is called, 'what the hell do I do now?' and the rules are simple.' He stepped away from the board and began passing out as many darts as he could find. 'Each one of you will step up to the line and throw a dart at what you believe the goal to be here on this map.' He looked out across the room, and saw only a room full of the faces of enchanted mortals; content, trusting, oblivious.

One by one the men stepped up to the line and threw their darts. All the while Book sat by himself repeating a short phrase:

Now I'm here
Got no fear
But don't know
Where to go
Use the dart
For your part
And I'll see
What will be

Gradually, a pattern began emerging in the darts. It appeared to be a large circle encasing a square with a triangle like a hat on top of the circle tilted to one side. Both the center of the square and the point of the triangle-hat fell directly on major intersections. Book quickly scribbled the addresses down on a napkin, and dashed from the bar. He just hoped the divination spell was giving him the answer to the right question.

Fifteen minutes later, Book was standing on the corner of First and Hope Streets. The uneasiness he had felt all along was particularly strong here. 'There's magick here. I can feel it.' He looked around the block, trying to decide which building to approach. He saw it. Just off of the intersection stood a monolithic structure of stone. The only word still legible on the plaque above the door was 'library.' It had a heavy padlock securing a chain across the doors, and boards over all of the windows on the first floor.

'Yep, that's the place.' Book suddenly noticed another aura to the place. 'Vampires. Aww, shit.' He immediately pulled his Zippo from his pocket, and made a mental check that he still had three road-flares tucked somewhere inside the coat. He tapped the head of his cane nervously as he walked.

As Book approached the building he noticed that the lock looked almost brand new. But closer inspection showed burn marks around where the last lock probably sat. Recently too. Book could see the colors of the magick used here quite recently. And violently. Book could see the death. He quickly glanced around the street, making sure to look with his Fae senses, and not his human ones. Confident that he was alone, Book opted for the side entrance to attract less attention and ensure that he stayed alone. 'Wishful thinking.' A voice in the back of his mind said.

The side entrance was as uninviting as the front had been. Heavy locks secured chains barring entry to the building. Book looked around and saw a first floor window not completely boarded. He looked at the gaps in the boards, and concentrated as he felt his body beginning to contort and bend. He winced as he felt his shoulders dislocate. He nearly vomited when he felt the same from both of his hips. But as unpleasant as it was, within a minute or two Book had reworked his body to fit through the four-square-inch hole. His boots, unfortunately, were simply not going to fit. 'Oh well,' he thought, 'I prefer being barefoot anyway.' Once inside, Book slowly put his joints back in their proper arrangement, even taking a moment to stretch his now unconfined feet, remembering his 'other name.'

Book crouched near the floor of a side hallway in the library, Zippo in hand, absent-mindedly rubbing it between his fingers. He knew better than to simply walk in and say hi to a potentially violent group of vampires. He decided to take the scenic route through the library. As he walked/crawled between the rows of shelves, Book noticed that the vast majority of the books of this library had been removed some time ago. There were, however, quite a number of them still strewn around the rooms. Most of these had pages missing, and had been subjected to what looked like the scissors of someone with a great deal of time on their hands.

Hundreds upon hundreds of individual letters had been cut from the various books and littered the ground like confetti. Book couldn't decide whether it was hilarious or utterly tragic. But suddenly Book noticed an underlying twisted aspect to this vandalism. In many of the books lying open, he could see that the letters that were removed were done so in a way that changed the meaning of the sentences. Whole pages like that. He also noticed that there seemed to be far fewer cut letters on the ground in this part of the library.

Turning a corner, Book finally realized the grand purpose of the letters. He could see them glued to the walls - ransom letter style - to form short phrases. He walked over to where he could read one of them. 'Burn the Tremere! Long live the Caitiff!' it read. Book looked at it with amusement. 'If you say so...' he said to no one in particular.

'Oh we most certainly do.' a whisper to match his own said back...

The whisper from behind made Book jump, but he was prepared and was already in action by the time the sentence was finished. He threw himself into the air laterally towards the nearest wall, pirouetting in flight to land in a crouched position halfway up the wall, now facing the source of the voice behind him. He noted that the reaction was prudent as he saw a blur finish passing through the space he previously occupied. The blur turned to follow, slamming into a bookshelf and sending it cascading to the floor.

Book heard a growl of rage as the shape of a pale young man became visible from the wreckage of the bookshelf and then blurred again. Book was moving too fast to plan his own next movements, moving purely on instinct, as the blur followed him in his retreat. He danced and leapt from surface to surface, utterly ignoring gravity's opinion of these events. Each time he willed himself onward, he could feel the disruption behind as his prior perches were being torn apart as soon as he left them. 'Time to end this.' he thought.

Book could make out the sounds of several firearms being readied from the blur as it stayed right on his heels. He began whispering as loud as he could. 'Whether the weather is warm,' he said. 'Or whether the weather is hot,' he went on. 'We'll be together whatever the weather, whether we like it or not.' As soon as he finished he began again. Faster. 'Whether the weather is warm, or whether the weather is hot, we'll be together whatever the weather, whether we like it or not.' Again. Faster. 'Whethertheweatheriswarm,orwhethertheweatherishot,
we'llbetogetherwhatevertheweather,whetherwelikeitornot!'

Over and over, Book recited the old rhyme. And as he spoke faster, he could feel the bunk working and the cantrip taking effect. Before even a few seconds had passed, Book began to see the blur of the man slowing down to a more manageable speed... relatively, of course.

The vampire could tell that Book was gaining on him. Or at least that he was now keeping up with him. Time to play hard ball. The vampire drew two of the sub-machine guns he had been readying and opened fire. The rain of bullets began pouring down around Book as he tried to stay one step ahead of his assailant. Finally he found what he was looking for in his coat. Wheeling full around, Book clutched at the ceiling with all thirteen of his toes. He flipped back downward as he shook free the scabbard from his sword cane, and pulled one of the flares from the recesses of the coat.

The maneuver was just enough to catch the vampiric gunslinger off guard. Book came down full force on top of the vampire, driving him to the ground as he drove the sword through his chest, nailing him to the wooden floor. The vampire screamed in pain and anger, and then was silent. He was looking straight up into the face of Book who was holding the sword in one hand, a road flare in his own mouth, and a lit Zippo lighter in the other hand less than an inch from the flare. Book was smiling.

Panicking, the inexperienced vampire dropped the guns and held his arms as wide as he could, to illustrate surrender since he didn't dare open his mouth to speak. Book slowly stood up, leaving the sword impaling the vampire. He took the flare from between his teeth, still keeping the lighter right next to it.

'Are we going to play nice now?' Book hoped that the vampire didn't mistake the whisper for fatigue. He quickly extinguished the lighter and pocketed both it and the flare. 'Now. You and I are going to have a little chat...'