The night passes in a series of stuttering flashbulb moments. The initial spark, the burning manor, is guttering into waterlogged silence when the young man in the slightly scorched tuxedo slides a tattered manila envelope across the back corner table at the Tavern Lafayette to a hatchet-faced man in biker leathers with iron-grey hair. The biker smiles broadly, his teeth a little too sharp, and passes the young man a length of bone carved with odd symbols and decorated with coloured string and glossy black feathers. He holds it carefully, nodding with deep respect to the older man, then leaves abruptly, his beer untouched. The biker shrugs and drinks it, then steps outside to make a few calls.
* * * * * * * *
"Omar."
"Alexander."
"Are you sure you want this? I mean, even with the new arrangement with the fuzziwuzzies, you're going to have a huge-ass 'Stake me' sign on your back for the next several years."
"Dear boy... there's nothing like the prospect of iminent death to give one a surge of youthful vigour. Besides, I think you overestimate the capabilites of the barbarians at our gates. They may have numbers but their tactics..."
He pulls out his fan, snaps it open, and flutters it dismissively.
"Well... guess this is it. Thanks for the lessons in realpolitik. Don't do anyone I wouldn't do, hey?"
Omar pouts.
"I say, don't you think you're being a bit unreasonable? Considering, as you say, I'll be facing the prospect of death nightly, I deserve a little indulgence, n'est-ce pas?"
"Omar... you seem to have me confused with someone with a sense of moderation. Salut, mon frere."
* * * * * * * *
Omar's 'Vette roars through the dead suburban streets of Kanata. The cheery cherry-red paint job sticks out like a moving bylaw violation against the pastel stucco condominiums. The pursuing Mercedes, on the other hand, resemble mechanical sharks, and they're closing in, mainly because Alex hasn't driven a stick in close to eight years. He curses at length in an eloquent mixture of Quebecois gutter French and English as the transmission jerks and shudders, thumps the dashboard, then thumps it again when the tape deck starts blasting Roxy Music unbidden.
She's sitting in the passenger seat, looking out the window with interest - she's never been in this part of town before. When Alex barely misses slamming into a fire hydrant, she turns to face him slowly.
This is unconcerning.
"Glad you think so," he mutters. There's a sharp bang and the driver's side mirror shatters, confirming Alex's suspicions that the fucking Tremere are packing heat.
She unfolds a map of the city and traces a path - not direct by any means - towards the highway. He feels her slide in easily behind his eyes, directing his movements. She's looking out the window, using his knowledge of the city to follow the map, but another portion of her attention is outside the car. One of the Mercs skitters sideways into the path of the other two, and there's a cacophony of squealing brakes and mangling metal behind them.
We may leave now.
* * * * * * * *
It's a few minutes before sunrise on a deserted stretch of highway north of Lake Superior. The young man gets out of a red Corvette with heavily tinted windows and walks around to the other side. He opens the door and helps out a young woman in a tattered wedding dress streaked with soot and browning blood. They embrace, and then he leads her around to the back of the car. He opens the trunk and helps her into it, tucking several heavy blankets around her and kissing her once more before closing it again. He throws the carved bone into the woods, gets back into the car, and drives away.
