Chapter 2

So much has been turning the wheels at work recently. There’s still a lot of talk about the whole Los Alamos incident. It seems to be more of a rash really, break-ins, fires, nuclear secrets missing, the whole thing is enough to make someone paranoid.

The world does seem pretty primed right now. There’s a lot of tension, a pretty popular night club was looted and torched in New York City and between the Mexican Presidential Election results and the millennial Independence Day here, Washington D.C. has been a bustle. It does seem like a lot is building up, or maybe I’m just a bit paranoid. I’ve been feeling pretty odd since that late night run in at the Townsquare. I swear I’ve seen a few of those faces before. I’m actually starting to convince myself it was all a dream.

Besides all this stress is nothing that a few firecrackers won’t fix on the Fourth.

Old Sammy

July 4, 2000

Los Angeles

The plane had touched down a few hours ago into Los Angeles International Airport and spilled out in somewhat of a holiday rush. Her ever-cool mixture of mask and makeup in place, Susan White waded into the crowd, her human shadow in tow. New York itself had calmed down, but any business drawing the Siren away, even off to California, was good business. Good business despite that it was a party that under other circumstances she’d do her damnedest to avoid.

A dignified sigh escaped her lips as that human shadow, one Jason Brily, came to walk at her side. The crowds in the airport had faded away rather quickly. Being that the pair hadn’t brought any baggage they needn’t discover the hassle of the baggage carousel and found the exit and their waiting limousine that much faster.

Susan was vaguely aware of Jason opening the door to the slick back luxury statement on wheels. And had she not been the stone cold figure that she was a murmur of thanks might have been in order for the stretched Mercedes’ ample air-conditioned interior. The murmur in respect to the harsh pairing of July sun and Californian heat didn’t come though, an iron mask hid all but a prim smile and slight greeting towards the other passenger.

“Jules.”

“So good of you to make it Susan. Especially,” Jules tossed a glance towards the form of Jason entering and shutting the door behind him, “…considering the situation in New York.” That English charm that made him such a socialite was amplified by his appearance. He wasn’t a large man, with a rather intellectual, perhaps even a predatorial cut to his nose and jaw. His hair was parted smartly, a GQ-ish mixture of blonds and browns. His dress carried that semi-casual GQ quality in grays and white, they were, after all, this season’s colors.

“Its those conditions that won’t allow me to says its good to be here.” The car carried them forward and Susan let her eyes drift passed Jules and come to play through the richly tinted window and onto the rapidly passing city of Angels. “Will it be a typical party tonight?” The question came after a few seconds of silence that was nowhere close to serene.

“Oh, I do think I’ve outdone myself this time.”

July 4, 2000

New York City

It wasn’t uncommon to see someone like him, not in this kind of neighbourhood, hell, not in all of New York City. Nathan Wilde, outfitted in wrap around mirrored sunglasses, a bandana, a loose, dark and long sleeved shirt, and baggy overalls (hands thrust into the pockets of course) could easily have passed as a well off bum or perhaps a member of the college crowd’s darker side. Either or worked perfectly fine for him, besides a place to live he couldn’t really see much of a difference between the two.

This trip wasn’t a mission by the Golem Council, but as Nathan’s eyes feel on the police taped ruins of the Neon Haze he begun to wish it had been. They didn’t know he was here, right now he wasn’t sure if they knew where he was at all. A brief smirk passed his lips at the thought of himself, the Nathan Wilde, being considered a rogue right now.

It was all one big mistake though. And it was going to get bigger, much bigger. And how long would it all go on for? Would the Council ever see the light? Or would the Sirens? Or would the war between these two races spark a fire that would carry some very grave consequences. Inside his pockets those fists clenched a step tighter. Nathan had some work ahead of him.

The Golem turned away from the massacre scene and started his slow long gaited strides away from it. Mankind was all about him, but even with his minimal disguise they failed to put him as out of place. The three races were all so close, and it was all so dangerous. Sharply angled teeth gritted down behind clamped lips, mankind would find out about the Golems and the Sirens and the current ambassadors accompanying the Writ of the Dead would not be met with a good response.

Yes, Nathan Wilde had some work ahead of him.

July 4, 2000

Los Angeles, California

Evening

They began to arrive shortly after dark. The trick with the gatherings of the social elite, the trick with the gatherings of the Sirens, is to be late enough to make an entrance but not late enough to appear late. The entrance was just the first of the calculated and cutthroat maneuvers of the ordeal. To the uneducated in its arts the party was a task akin to cutting yourself with a razor just short of the mortal range. Of course, for others it was as natural as breathing.

At first there was only a trickle of the unaware, those who felt privileged enough to arrive at the party on time, how trite. Then came the bulk of the fashionably faceless crowd in a veritable caravan of sports coupes and limousines, all decked out in summer tuxes and evening gowns whose price tags danced in the four and five digit range. The horde of society’s upper crust filtered about the lavishly Californicated estate. The place wasn’t too large, not Beverly Hills, but big enough and shrouded with bushes well groomed enough, to strike envy into the eyes of the beholder.

The foyer held a chandelier and sweeping stairway, a few doorways and a cluster of greetings, cheek-peckings, blacker than black Italian designs and plunging necklines. And if one was to look carefully, knew what to look for, or rather knew what to look through, there were the powdered faces, set hair, and contact shielded eyes of the beautifully damned.

Circles and cliques seemed to form instantly as the razor-born self mutilation moved from the opening entrance and the worn, tired first impressions to the acts of congregating and conversation. Bobbing and weaving through the labyrinth of expensive perfumes and personally designed wears, allowed one to trespass the hall where a small group had formed, cackling and crowing over champagne glasses that tipped at beautifully painted lips or rested in charmingly real hands.

That Crucible passed into the open and spacious living room. The room was dimly lit, the lights themselves hidden from view by the likes of modern art-deco moldings or shining from beneath the lip of the bar. The lighting was minimal so to say, and added to the black leather, bare and dark metal, and tanned, earth-toned fashion of the slightly Stucco walls that crept into a beige carpet, it all gave the room a soft dusk-like atmosphere. It also made the makeup that more convincing.

It was on the black leather furniture, furniture that boasted of a heavy price tag, that the movers and shakers sat. They were the real movers and shakers, more so than any human in the room, building, maybe even the world, could imagine, and they were engaging in a bit of harsh conversation. To the untrained, casual ears of all those clutching their razors it was nothing more than idle chatter; their tones were not clipped; the sarcasm was cleverly contained behind charmed smiles and eyebrows that arched wittily. But, these people weren’t clutching razors, the Sirens invented the game of social politics. Hyperbole, they didn’t invent it, but they did bring it to near mythical proportions.

And to the casual ear the conversation required a little bit of translation. The word “Siren” passed through none of those perfect and carnivorous smiles, instead it was “us”, “we”, and “our”. “Golems” and “mankind” were both “they” and “them” but everyone in the clique knew the difference, and everyone who didn’t wasn’t worth the time taken for an explanation.

“It is rather amazing how far she has gotten with fortune, and to think she began in country music.” It was a pawn in the verbal chess game, the lass with the bobbed dark hair and creamed English styling pushed it out with a casual cunning and followed up with a half-minded sip of her champagne.

“Yes, Miss Shania certainly has done us marvellously well in that area.” Brian Corbin, a Siren with the build of a professionally athlete met the draw of the pawn and sent a knight out in response.

“And to think years ago some of us said she’d never make it,” the English Vixen knocked his knight out from beneath him. Her bishop had been unexpected.

“I believe you said the same thing about our Latin friend, Ricky. I hear he’s quite the scourge of the Miami scene.” That bishop snatched from a wicked and mocking English smile the thick jawed Mr. Corbin looked to drag the conversation elsewhere.

“Better he’s the scourge of Miami than New York.” Jules put his first comment into the conversation as he turned his attention from where his hand rested on the thigh of the red headed model beside him. The model was new, she was human, she was even below the level of putty in his hands.

“A shame that was, the Neon Haze wasn’t a half bad club, especially considering that part of the country…” A West coast beauty, blond hair, blue eyes, long legs that peeked of out the dangerously high slit along her dress, and skin that even powdered, still shown with a healthy, tanned glow. Beth Meyers; she was a stone of a woman, caring little for people and far less for those who disagreed with her. She might have lost an acquaintance in the Neon Haze, but chances are she lost an enemy or three as well.

“Going to wait for it to happen out here?” Susan White, she’d turned briefly to the conversation, tossing in her own playful jab as her attention shifted from her human shadow and the two young “women” whose attentions and then some he occupied.

“After the fiasco in Los Alamos I’d be surprised if they venture west again.” Beth Meyer’s comment brought a small round of laughter from the group.

Los Alamos was nearly an open war between the two Hidden Races. Not much was known, or not much would be talked about (they were essentially the same thing with these types). It had taken a bit of pull by the Siren tops, spilling the story under their own spin to the press, a series of wildfires and nuclear breeches. The fires had happened, but the only thing wild about them was the evidence that they removed so adequately. Laughter drifted back into conversation, the politics of the Hidden had led into the politics of man.

“We should manage to keep control over Washington this year.” They didn’t much like to mention Clinton. He was their first, an attempt to move Siren control out of the massive, but fickle area of public opinion and into the official, into the Executive, into the Oval Office. It hadn’t been pretty, a clever someone or someones had come up with some rather clever and creative series of news leaks. It had led to official and undeniable proof of failure in huge, bold, one-word headlines; “Impeached!”

“I’m going to agree with you there. Bush is our man this year. Our man for the next eight hopefully.”

“Once he picks up Cheeny as his running mate it will be an avalanche election.”

“As if anyone could vote for Gore, the man hardly even blinks,” another short chorus of laughter and Jules turned back to that model and Susan noticed that Jason and his two lady companions had slipped off together.

July 21, 2000

Seattle, Washington

The four of them were packed into the slick black Lexus. They were young, they were rich, and they were intoxicated. Four Sirens out on the prowl through the streets of Seattle, four Sirens on the look out for those filthy, lower than Human, Golems bastards.

“There one of ‘em now! One of those fucking sewer rats!” A grab and a point, it made the driver jerk his attention and the wheel at first away from and then dead onto where the finger was directing. Devilishly perfect lips curved into hellish smiles and terminally harsh fits of laughter as the engine slid into a higher gear and the already speeding car kicked it up a notch.

The body was tossed against the windshield but the car had enough momentum behind it to allow it a complete path over the roof. The spoiler proved a nasty hang up, catching a hand, a human hand, but allowing the body to fall to the ground behind the vehicle. It didn’t kill him though, no, this bum had a worse time coming for him.

Out spilled the laughing, jesting foursome, and one of them, happened to hold in his hand, a nice, wooden, Louisville Slugger. They all walked to the back of the car, the one with the bat whistling a happy little tune as he spun it around in a circle similar to a majorette in a parade.

The first one came in with a kick to the ribs of the dangling homeless man, then the second and third, each breaking in with a tirade of profanity and a flurry of snapping, bone crunching blows. A voice of reason spoke out.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” The three turned to the fourth, turned with quizzically intoxicated eyes to the one with the bat. “Please, allow me.” He nudged a very accepting Siren to the side with the end of the bat and launched himself in with a double handed downward swing.

August 1, 2000

Washington, D.C.

George Pruent had been in capital of the world for nearly two weeks now, on a research mission. His contacts here hadn’t led him astray before, and for various reasons he hoped that they wouldn’t do so now. The Council of Elders was plotting the next movement for the Dead and he was their man now. Nathan had proved himself to be the weak link that George had always believed him to be, right down to his disappearance nearly a month ago.

But all that wasn’t George’s problem, what did seem to matter now was that his bench on the bank of the Potomac River was still only occupied by himself and that his contact person, a very willing recipient of money, or closer to the truth bribes was late. The scuff of a shoe sole on the stone path leading to the bench drew the attention of George. Up walked a woman of striking beauty; up walked his contact.

She slipped into the circle of light, dressed in closes that were quite conservative, especially considering her position as political aid in a city with this magnitude of power. The lady in a set of tan slacks, and a navy blue shell whose matching sweater would have completed the outfit nicely. Instead she looked like a woman who was more than wishing that the day was over. A Siren by the named of Joanna, that was all she would give George, and considering how much of a favor she’d been to him he didn’t really press for much more.

“Sunglasses at night? How 1980s.” It was something of her usual greeting, she knew about his eyes, just as he knew about her. So instead of offering up an equally biting eighties reference he simply smiled, those harsh, shark-like teeth up at her and put a cigarette between his lips. And as the glare from the lighter slipped from his face and the first drag of cigarette smoke blew the way of the Judas of her race George Pruent began on his work of information probing.