Reyner focused on the bouncers, filtering out all else as much as he could, listening to the words that passed between them and the customers, and then on the tinny voices transmitted through their earpieces until he heard their names. A side door was manned too from the inside, and he removed himself to that location, dimming his magnified senses completely and rapping on the glass, dripping with condensation from the swelter of the gyrating crowd inside. He spoke the names to the heavyset man inside whose lack of interest was evident from the faint hue that shimmered around him, visible when Reyner squinted and let his vision blur just so. A moment later he was inside, the door closing behind him and the cloying swamp of body heat, moisture, seething flesh, stinging alcohol, and maddening sound enveloped him so completely that he required a few seconds to orient himself physically and mentally before he could decide his next action. Somewhere in this place he would find the person or thing that had tugged at his curiosity and he would not depart until that itch had been fully scratched. If Reyner had an Achilles heel, this was it.

So occupied was he with quenching his thirst for answers that he had actually succeeded for a time in suppressing his own baser needs. As he moved away from the whirling throng and found a spot closer to the long bar, but from where he was still able to command an enviable view of the dance floor, pushing through the mass of hot-blooded bodies to do so, he realized just how hungry he was. It had been two nights — no, three! — since he had addressed the demands of his ghastly appetite and now, pressed in on all sides by such a blatant display of ripe flesh, the full measure of that renewed hunger came roaring back with such force that for a moment he feared he might be overcome and fall headlong into the throes of a bloodthirsty frenzy. Yet the moment passed as the rote words of the Dragon came to him and reminded him of what he was, so that with a considerable but quite familiar effort of will he was able to swiftly chastise the surging Beast and lash it into once more into quiescent submission before its tirade posed any mentionable threat to himself and the blissfully ignorant kine around him.

This danger past, Reyner still recognized that he must sate his hunger before the night was ended, and so he began a methodical search for the source of the irritation that continued to gnaw at him, even stronger now that he was here. His senses swelled as he allowed his eyes to rove from one corner of the place to the next, casting his net as wide as possible, but being sure to miss nothing in doing so. He was quite skilled at this and with almost scientific precision he examined each and every thing that might suggest the source of the distracting sensation.

It was her legs that first captured his attention: long, flawlessly toned and shod in red heels that seemed to be a natural part of her anatomy so certain was she of her movements. Every step she took was perfectly in time with the complicated rhythm of the blaring Salsa as she spun, kicked her feet, and performed a mesmerizing combination of fast-moving patterns that affected him so much that he forgot his purpose and he let his sight quicken to match her footwork so that he was able to see the play of her lithe leg muscles almost in slow motion and would not miss the subtlest of magic of her feet. Her skirt was short and loose and teased his imagination, serving as a mere decorative accent to her sublime figure. Her bare stomach was flat and supple and the diamond there gleamed seductively, while her lean back and graceful chest had drenched through the olive tank-top that completed her outfit, aside from a leather necklace from which depended a large crescent of beaten silver and which matched the tribal bracelet on her right wrist. Her thick auburn mane fell halfway down her back when it was not whipping around her in syncopation to her gyrations and her lips were ruby red to match the shoes and narrow, perfectly suited to her classical Mediterranean features. But it was her eyes, her smoldering earthen eyes that struck him like a hammer blow and caused him to literally gasp in sudden, tumultuous comprehension: despite their beauty and depth there was a darkness in her eyes that was not found in the eyes of the living. She was, like him, a vampire.

Later he castigated himself for his blindness. His own world had become so small and his own petty concerns and intellectual masturbations had seemed so large that he hadn’t even considered that the nagging feeling that had brought him to the Pavillion had been the presence of another Kindred, one that he had never yet encountered. So unaccustomed was he, after so many long years of mastering the secrets of the Coils, to the lashing howl of the Beast that now, when the telltale scent of another predator filled his senses the Beast was too cowed to do more than grumble its displeasure. This, of course, as well as his routine masking of his own taint, saved both of them from a very ugly situation, but the fact that he had so numbed his own innate instincts that he had not even considered the obvious cause of his unsettling feeling sorely upset him. It was something that would drive him to new investigations in the nights to come, investigations that he hoped might one night lead him to a significant discovery that would serve the Great Work of the Order.

Her gaze met his almost immediately and her expression froze as she instinctually prepared for the accursed urge to flee or fight to seize her. When it did not, when she realized that her own darker half was not roused by the sight of the strange Kindred in her club, her domain, her features became almost comical in their confusion. She was not moving now and her partner, a handsome young man now trying to get her attention to understand what was happening with words and gestures, was forgotten, as she was unable to take her eyes off Reyner. It was as if she had stepped out of time: the Salsa music played out, dancers swirled around her, and the kine continued their flirtations and foolishness oblivious to the danger so narrowly averted in their midst. Only her partner had any inkling, but to her he was now little more than a distant echo. All her attention was on the dark-clad vampire near the bar and as she stared she heard his voice in her head telling her that he meant no slight, that he was not aware this place was hers, and that he would withdraw if she wished. He said this only after first opening himself to her own most urgent thoughts, learning quickly the basics of the situation so that he could deal with it in the best way possible. She relaxed a bit, though she remained alert, and she abandoned the helpless mortal that now cursed her in frustrated Spanish in order to make her way to Reyner.

As she approached and for the entire duration they shared one another’s company, Reyer was keenly aware of the effect she has on the gaggle of kine around them. Few were able to avert their attention from her for more than few minutes; many were too awestruck to do so for any duration. He too felt this entrancing pull, but so uncomfortable was he with the limelight that he braced himself against her magnetism and maintained a composure that was aloof by comparison to the gawking stares of her admirers. She wore a wicked smile while at his side and her eyes burned with eagerness to learn about him, now that the threat of real danger lay in their past. Formal introductions were made – her name was Ayla; he had heard of her name before, a minor harpy or something — and the minute hand on the Modelo Negro clock above the bar completed nearly two full sweeps before he finally excused himself and sliped unnoticed from the club. During that span they talked of many things: of her possessive sire; of his wayward childe; of her place in the social stratum; and of his transcendent discoveries about their condition. They learned of their shared admiration for certain artists and surprised themselves when they began confiding in each other their preferences for prey and even the manner of their feeding, preferences they seemed to also share in common. In short, from their conversation their Requiems seemed like two complimentary orchestrations, each different and yet capable of being played simultaneously so that the resultant melody might surpass each on its own.

There is no hurry among the Damned — all eternity awaits them – and more than two years passed before the pair meets again. Despite this, perhaps because of this, neither has forgotten the other. Often, Reyner would find himself standing in a forsaken building or on a bleak rooftop within his neighborhood stretching out his perceptions in the hopes of finding some trace of her carried on the night air. A few times he thought he might have detected her fragrance, but like a whisper it is always gone before he could be sure. Although he devoted a considerable time to his academic pursuits, he laid claim to the upper story of a shuttered storefront and it became a makeshift art studio for him. Her passion for art had ignited something in him that he had thought long dead, and for the first time since his Embrace he threw himself into charcoals and oils and canvases and whatever media he could scrounge up. Some nights he nearly starved himself and he would unleash the Beast just enough in the hopes that it would help drive his creative spirit; other times he did all he could to suppress his restless nature so that he could throw himself open to every miniscule stimulus his heightened senses could identify in order to inform and drive his artistic efforts. But more than anything it was his memory of her, of that one night, that he poured into his work, not of how she looked to others, but as he saw her, as a dark goddess as haunted by damnation as she is insatiably drawn to the vibrancy of life. The studio filled with the produce of the hours he spent there, but it existed only for him. It was his secret.

The second encounter is in a vast dwelling; it is her sire’s haven, on the outskirts of the city, an area utterly foreign to him and for this reason an uncomfortable place to be. He is not invited and he is unaware that she or any of the celebrants even imagined his presence. The primogen’s home is testament to his power as well as his hedonistic nature. His perverse ghouls shepherd fawning kine into prepared areas of the manse to serve the deviant pleasures of the Kindred who gather in the far more luxurious chambers above. The decorations speak volumes about the master of the house: erotic statuary that would cause the most rehearsed harlots to blush; armories brimming with priceless collections of the cruel weaponry of countless barbaric cultures; obscenely vain carpets, draperies and upholstery; and vast paintings and blatant architectural flourishes that would better suit the Doge’s palace in Venice. All this might distract others, but Reyner had a singular purpose. Since he met Ayla, the bleak loneliness that had filled him since his Beatrice had spurned him and given herself over to the Longinian zealouts had come to torment him in a way that all his knowledge of the Damned was helpless against. It ate at his accursed soul and through art he hoped to escape it; to no avail. He finally consigned himself to this, to tonight, to seeing her again and baring to her his agony. It might come to nothing, but unless something changed his Requiem would become a dirge.

Impelled by the power of his Vitae, his movements are too quick for the watcher’s eyes to catch and so he is inside the cavernous structure and fast at work making his preparations without any noting his arrival. He finds a handsome library, almost an afterthought given its size in comparison to most of the property’s rooms, and quickly sets to work. He removes a Romantic oil of a storm-tossed battle scene from over the darkened fireplace and in its place he hangs his own framed picture: a heavy charcoal portrait of Ayla that took more than a month to complete to his satisfaction. It is a disturbing rendering that would be unfit for most walls, for it expresses a depth of loneliness that he believes she too feels, as well as a sinister suggestion of doom; yet still it retains a sense of beauty that does her justice. It is a work that literally demanded the sacrifice of blood to speed his deft fingers, to amplify his perceptions, and to push himself to his limits in order to wring from his unliving heart the passions he had to put into the picture. After looking one last time at what he had wrought, the guerilla artist summoned his blood and called the shadows to obfuscate his masterpiece, to cloud it from others and to only reveal it to her eyes.

But he was not done. There was one more thing. From his satchel he withdrew the knife, sheathed in its curved scabbard, and laid it on the mantle. It was more than a thousand years old, an Arab blade that had likely spilled the blood of more than a few Christians in its time. It’s blade was inscribed with an ancient curse on the foes of Allah and inlaid with gold and its edge he ensured was razor sharp. With it he placed a small scroll with a single instruction: do not use this blade…yet. On these two objects he similarly called upon his powers of obfuscation and then he left the room.

Ayla was languishing on a massive velvet couch with the rest of her coterie, smoking a narghile filled with blood instead of water, its smoke pungent and yet also magnificent; a present from her sire’s exotic companion from Istanbul. A half dozen kine were in the room to sate the lusts of the Kindred, submitting to their whims by offering up their blood or performing whatever perverse acts might be devised by the clutch of fiends in the room. The elder vampires hovered around the master of ceremonies, seeking to curry his favor by complimenting his childe and his haven, which suited him perfectly, his perfumed lover at his side basking in the glow of his majesty. The prince was not there, nor were the few Kindred likely to spoil Reyner’s plans, so he went ahead and completed his mission without further delay, whispering to her a mental message that he was here but would now be gone and for her not to try and find him. Instead, she was to find that library and look above the fireplace and she would find his gift to her.

From his vantage point in the shadows he saw her reaction, her eyes widening and the involuntary jerk of her head as she sought to locate him, but she just as quickly understood what his uninvited presence would mean and so she feigned a lack of recognition and returned her attentions to her numerous companions, reveling in the pleasures that eternity offered them. He quickly withdrew and left the premises as he had arrived, without alerting anyone to his visit. He did not wonder if she would do as he instructed. He had seen her eyes with a clarity that was far beyond human comprehension. And more, he had heard the things in her own mind, heard the passion in her silent words, and knew that she would find her gifts when a moment of privacy presented itself. And finally, he knew that upon seeing the portrait she would feel all the things that he had felt creating her likeness, and, knife in hand, know what it was he was truly giving her on her special night.

The Requiem may be an enduring song of damnation, but it does not have to be a damnation spent alone. Reyner was sure she would understand this and that she would accept his gift. His childe was lost to him, but even the Damned it seems are given second chances.

* * * * * * * *

If the time between their first encounter and their second was difficult for Reyner, the time that passed between the second and the third was maddening. He occasionally heard Ayla’s name from others, but he never pressed for details; he had no desire for his connection to her to be known. He was too familiar with the Danse Macabre that swept up only the most vigilant and determined holdouts – like himself – and knew that even the smallest confession could be used against him one night no matter how unlikely it seemed. He avoided the Pavillion also, not daring to risk a chance encounter with one of her many companions and, even more importantly, not wishing to see her. He had put things in motion – slow motion though it may be – and the only chance his plan had of working was if it was left to do so without interference. She knew his intent, she knew his reasons, and unless he was utterly mad, she would eventually answer his subtle summons.

Of course, being convinced of this did not make the wait any easier. His masterpiece completed, all his passions expended on that one portrait, he did not return to his studio, so he did not have art to take his mind off the crawling time. He tried to throw himself into his studies, to grasp the final tier of the Coil of the Beast, but it eluded him. His concentration was not what it once was. For a time he tried to battle the creeping angst by sampling the night as she did, turning up the volume and doubling the tempo of his own Requiem. He frequented establishments within the bounds of his territory that previously he had bypassed, but now he forced himself to wallow in the celebratory spirit of the short-lived kine and their frivolous ways in the hopes that it might somehow infect him and stave off the depression that threatened to further darken his already shadowy existence. He even went so far as to seek out Mitch and Audrine and even Gallo, his own coterie at one time, before he dedicated himself to the oaths of the Ordo Dracul. However, neither Mitch nor Audrine was very interested in reestablishing their old ties. Surprisingly, it was Gallo who enthusiastically welcomed Reyner back into his Requiem. The Old Haunt introduced him to his new coterie and pressed Reyner to throw in with this new bunch, but despite the satisfaction he got from spending time with Gallo again, he had changed too much to feel comfortable with these Kindred. He rarely saw Gallo much after that. Literature, exploring other parts of the city, and honing some of his own Disciplines filled his nights, but none could fully banish the pangs he felt whenever he thought of Ayla whirling like a dervish to the Salsa rhythm, reveling in her immortality so brazenly and so honestly. He envied this and it made him only want her that much more.

The hunt was his greatest escape from himself during this time. He took his time even more than he usually did, almost teasing himself in order to draw out the pleasure when he finally could resist no more. Like a monk he purposefully denied himself blood, not only because it would enlarge his understanding of the Coils that were so fundamental to his Order, but just as much to simply blot out the relentless expectation that ate away at his mind night after night. He worried that he might actually become deranged if it continued unabated for too much longer, and so he indulged in his bloodlust far more than he was accustomed to. Although he had murdered before, and though it did not become routine for him by any stretch, he grew less concerned with it when it did happen, examining the expiration of his prey from a very detached place, wondering if he might gain any further insight into the Great Work from the experiences. He also volunteered his time to certain Dragons that he knew would welcome the offer, regardless of whether they merely needed his assistance cataloguing old tomes or for something far more pressing, like discerning the location of a new Dragon’s Nest. His volunteerism provided him with small but very beneficial rewards, but none could make time go by any faster.

One particularly warm evening when the city seemed almost on fire and the moon was almost too bright and Reyner could feel his skin painfully crawl under its unreal illumination he made an excursion to the neighborhood in the suburbs where he had lived in his parents’ home before moving out for college and eventually his own apartment downtown. He hired a limousine, allowing him the privacy to watch the familiar landmarks pass by, speeding up his vision so that no detail escaped his reminiscing eyes. He expected to feel something – remorse, love, happiness, pain – when he pulled up in front of the house, but he had nothing left to feel. The people that lived there now had repainted it an ugly yellow and there was a basketball hoop in the driveway now, but otherwise it looked much as he remembered it. Still, it roused no emotion and, instead of getting out and maybe walking around his old neighborhood for a while as he had envisioned doing, he merely told the driver to continue on back to the city. There was no going back, not even in this small way; at least not for Reyner. Whoever he had been, whatever he had been, was no more. It was as alien to him now as anything could be.

She showed up unannounced shortly after midnight on an evening of no other importance. He didn’t ask her how she found his haven and he honestly didn’t care; at least not then. Reyner was occupied by a novel about the sea, about its depths and a man who discovers more about himself by his exploration of the sea, only a single candle illuminating his unimposing apartment. His distaste for light had caused him to remove all light bulbs long before and so gloom reigned here at all times. His furnishings were sparse, but handsome. His windows were wide so that the lush pollen scented air was allowed to fill his space. The knock surprised him and for a moment put him on high alert. Don never let anyone up on the sixth floor and so Reyner’s first thought was that something had happened to Don, or worse. Almost reflexively he cast open his senses to learn more and it was because of this that his nerves were calmed, though other thoughts and feelings suddenly raced through his still unprepared mind. He heard her voice, nothing more than a barely audible whisper, actually, slowly repeating “It’s me, Ayla,” which to him was as loud and clear as if she were announcing it on a loudspeaker. He hurriedly comported himself, put down his book, and answered the door.

Ayla stood there, patient, a faint smile on her face, radiant as ever, her pale flesh glowing in the stygian hallway; Persephone in Hades, he thought. Without too much awkwardness he welcomed her in, noting all too well that she held the sheathed knife in her right hand as if it were only a paperback or maybe sunglasses and not a thousand year-old Muslim dagger. She sat on his sofa without complaint, though it was likely less luxurious than she was used to, and looked him in the eye. There was no fear, no instability, only determination and, yes, excitement. He had been correct about everything. Without even realizing he was doing it he spoke this to her without words and he heard her psychic response: yes.

There was no need to ask for assurances or to patronize her with warnings or promises. No, she had come here because she knew what he was offering her and, while she had always wanted it before, no matter how forbidden or terrifying it might be, she had never dared to trust herself to anyone else the way she believed she could with him. He, of all the Kindred she knew – the entire gossiping, sniping, scheming, backstabbing, deceitful, malicious, and utterly self-serving lot of them – would keep their secret. More over, of all the Kindred she had met since her own Embrace, she felt he did understand her and that this thing they would share would be something that would bring a meaning to both their Requiems in a way that nothing else could.

Her eyes glowed like a cat about to eat the canary, her lips quivered and her nostrils flared in anticipation of what he was about to give her. Even as she sat her posture was that of an animal, a sleek, lethal panther waiting for the moment when it would be permitted to strike and take its bloody fill. Reyner felt his own Vitae churn with a similar anticipation. Tonight a bond would be formed between them, a secret bond that no one else need ever know about, one that would weave their Requiems together and heighten all their experiences going forward. Tonight they would dance their own private dance, a silent Danse Macabre that would change everything. Tonight they would both cross a line that neither had dared to cross before, a line that once crossed could not be undone, a line that was drawn in blood.

She unsheathed the knife.