Captain Blood was high in the rigging, bellowing his defiance, when he was felled by a consecrated musket ball. Sinjon watched as his lover's body plummeted into the water below, where it was savaged by the sharks that churned the sea foam to crimson froth.
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) Sinjon saved himself that night by tossing overboard one of the waterproofed coffins in the hold and climbing in, closing the lid tight behind him. Two days later he made landfall on the coast of France. For two years he wandered the great cities of Europe, drifting in and out of Kindred and human society alike, until he received news of the Virgin Queen's demise. Sinjon then returned to England and murdered the brother who had sent him off to Roanoke nearly twenty years before. His brother's heirs met equally quick and mysterious ends, which enabled Sinjon, posing as a distant cousin, to claim the ancestral title and lands for himself. Thus camouflaged, he emerged once more into high society, where he became well known as a nobleman who favored London's nightlife.
Over the next century Sinjon orchestrated a series of identities for himself, being careful to drop out of various social circles before his perpetual youthfulness could draw undue attention. Often he would have his human servants pretend to be him as an older man, while accompanying them in public as his own look-alike son or grandson. Occasionally, as during Cromwell's rule, he was forced to leave England for the Continent for years on end, only to return as his own offspring.
It was a time of great change, both political and social, what with the Counter-Reformation and the Enlightenment. Religion's chokehold on the minds of humanity started to weaken, and the centuries-old superstitions gradually began to give way to science. As rational thinking began its rise in popularity, more and more people stopped believing in such creatures as vampires and werewolves, making it easy for Sinjon to mingle in human social circles without fear of discovery.
Although the dogma that had given birth to the Inquisition was fading away, human society was still unprepared to stride naked into the cold, stark light of the Rational Universe. During this time there was a growth in "secret societies," unprecedented since the days of the mystery cults that infested Rome during the time of the Caesars.
Sinjon, and many other fellow Kindred, saw the emergence of the Rosicrucians, Freemasons and other quasi-mystic fraternities as a unique opportunity to do what they had always done with human society—run it from behind the scenes, but this time using the complicity and subterfuge of other humans as their cover.
In 1717 Sinjon joined the Grand Lodge of London, whose Master was Desaguliers, the founding father of modern Freemasonry. Not long after, he became a member of the notorious Hell Fire Club, a secret society composed largely of free-thinkers, libertines and philosophers, who played at Satanism and enjoyed the occasional orgy. It was through these two organizations that he became familiar with the American inventor and diplomat, Benjamin Franklin.
Franklin was fifty and Sinjon nearing his second century when they met in 1757. The printer was representing the Pennsylvania legislature in London, petitioning for the right to tax the lands of the Penn family in order to raise revenue for the colony, which had suffered financial setbacks following the French and Indian War. Six years earlier he had published Experiments and Observations on Electricity, where he detailed his adventure of flying a kite in a thunderstorm, and won international fame for being one of the world's leading scientific thinkers.
Normally Sinjon considered American colonials bumpkins of the worst sort—upstarts fancying themselves cosmopolitan. But Franklin possessed a quick wit and quiet dignity and genius that affected the vampire unlike any other human before him. He found himself enjoying the American's company and relishing their conversations. One thing Franklin enjoyed talking about most was his home, Philadelphia.
The more he spoke of the colonies and the activities going on there, the more Sinjon came to realize that America was on the verge of becoming a brand-new nation—one in which the potential for advancement and success for those brave enough to realize their dreams was boundless.
The more Sinjon thought about it, the more he liked it. Europe was old. Not as old as Africa, where the Antediluvians were rumored to lie, but there were still plenty of Kindred wandering about the Continent who could date their origins back to Troy or beyond. Competition among these older, more powerful Kindred was keen, as they jockeyed for positions of prince or duke or margrave. There was little opportunity for a vampire as relatively young as himself to make his mark in Kindred society. Unless he went someplace where the competition had yet to establish a foothold.
Sinjon knew how slowly the elders acknowledged change. America had been on the map for over three hundred years, but he was certain they were just now noticing it. It might take them another fifty years to decide to attempt to make it part of their Hidden Empire. And though Sinjon had heard rumors that the Camarilla's rival sect, the Sabbat, had established a beachhead in America, he harbored little fear of those
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Utilizing his Masonic connections, Sinjon once again abandoned the gay nightlife of London for the New World. This time around he found the accommodations far more pleasant than those on Roanoke Island, even if he was surrounded by colonial bumpkins. Franklin was quite eager to introduce his well-born expatriate friend to his social circle, which included the likes of Washington, Jefferson, the Adams brothers, Hamilton and Revere. Jefferson eyed Sinjon far too sharply for his taste, but otherwise he found his way into America's power elite as easily as he had Europe's.
The upheaval of the Revolutionary War was a convenient excuse to kill his former identity yet again and emerge, phoenixlike, as his own heir. He left Philadelphia and went in search of a city where he would not be so easily recognized. He ended up in a seaport that sat at the head of an estuary, a stone's throw from the huge bay that had welcomed many of the original settlers who came to this strange new world. It was there that he came up with the idea of Deadtown.
Using different names and various dummy companies, Sinjon set about buying up property. It wasn't difficult. The neighborhood that would become Deadtown was seedy and rundown, even back then. Once again using his Freemason connections, combined with prodigious bribes, Sinjon arranged it so special provisions concerning the area were written into the city charter—provisions none but a handful of mayors and aldermen would ever lay eyes on. In the long decades since then, Sinjon's human agencies had made sure the proper amount of money got into the proper hands at the proper time, effectively keeping Deadtown "under radar" for over two centuries. It was this arrangement, sealed with Masonic handshakes, that kept the lights running and the water flowing in a part of the city that, officially, didn't exist.
Deadtown was Sinjon's finest achievement. He had been its lord and master for generations. Those who dared challenge his supremacy in the past tasted Death Everlasting. Now he was confronted by the upstart blood-wizard, Esher—and for the first time in his four hundred and thirty-five years, Sinjon was afraid.
Not that he would show it. If his human servants thought he was intimidated, they would abandon him in droves. Unlike the gypsies of old, who could be counted on for their tribal loyalty, the Black Spoons followed the bastard with the most power, the hardest heart, and the coldest blood. Any sign of weakness was cause for a vote of no confidence.
These were Sinjon's thoughts as he walked through the Black Lodge. He headed up the grand marble staircase to the second floor, where his favorite's boudoir was located. He thought about Esher's fragile little ballerina and shook his head. He had no desire for Esher's pet—he'd merely asked for her to embarrass the wizard and force him to show his true colors. He couldn't blame his rival for being so attached to a human lover. After all, it is in the nature of the Kindred to fall in love with the living.
Sinjon pushed open the boudoir door, tossing his tricorn onto the canopied bed's purple satin coverlet.
"Vere—Daddy's home! Where are you, my pet?"
There was a stirring from behind the Chinese screen in the corner of the room and a sixteen-year-old boy with the face of an overripe Cupid stepped out from behind it.
"There you are! What were you doing behind there, you silly boy?" Sinjon chuckled. "Were you hoping to surprise Daddy, eh?"
"No," replied a female voice. "But I was."
Vere took a second hesitant step, revealing the vampiress standing behind him, one hand clamping his arm while the other held an open switchblade to the back of his neck. Sinjon's eyes blazed and he advanced on the intruder, fangs bared, hissing like a basket of angry cobras.
"Keep back!" barked the stranger, twisting the boy's arm so he yelped. "Stay your distance or so help me, I'll take his head off where he stands!"
Sinjon drew back, glowering at the intruder. "Who are you, woman, and what are you doing in my lodge? Are you one of Esher's wretched thralls?"
"That's what he'd like to think—but no, I'm not one of his. I've come here to do you a favor."
"Somehow I doubt your sincerity."
"Maybe this will prove I mean you no ill-will, then," she snapped, shoving the frightened Vere at Sinjon.
"Here, take your lapdog back! And by the way—Esher's set you up big-time!"
The boy stumbled but recovered his balance before he could fall, turning to give her the finger. "Fuck you, bitch! Kill her, Daddy!"
"Shut up and sit down, Vere," Sinjon replied. "I would talk to our visitor."
"But, Daddy—!"
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"Sit down and shut up!" the vampire hissed, flashing his fangs. "Now—as you were saying, milady?"
"Earlier this evening, about the time you were being invited to Esher's little club, I followed three of his goons out to the waterfront. Funny thing was, they were all wearing Black Spoon colors. Imagine that.
They were there to meet with a friend of yours called Borges. The goons smoked him and his bodyguards and made it look like the Spoons did it. It's a pretty sweet frame-job, dude. You should be hangin' in the Louvre."
Sinjon's face was perfectly still as he lowered himself into a nearby armchair. "I see," he muttered, his voice so quiet it was little more than a whisper. "What else do you know?"
The stranger moved to stand in front of the fireplace, leaning against the mantelpiece. "Very well: I know that Esher's men took Borges' stash when they whacked him—it comes to at least a half-mil, street.
Esher's sitting on it, for now. He's arranging a get-together with Borges' bereaved siblings. He figures they'll want to avenge their brother's death, but might be unwilling to go up against you without some Kindred muscle on their side. Once you're out of the picture, he'll give 'em back their rock candy, tell them he pried it from your cold dead fingers, and then he'll end up with both the arms and the hard drug business for the East Coast, and Deadtown will be his and his alone."
Vere leaned over and whispered into Sinjon's ear, keeping a cautious eye on the stranger. "How can we be sure she's not lying about all this?"
"Because I know she's not!" Sinjon growled. "You don't get to be as old as I am without learning to feel the truth when you hear it. And what she says—I feel the truth of it in my bones. It explains a lot of things—especially that ridiculous attempt at creating a truce! Esher is hardly the type to fear the censure of the Camarilla. But what I don't understand, my lovely, is what do you get out of all this?"
The stranger shrugged. "The pleasure of coming to the aid of my clan."
Sinjon frowned and tilted his head to one side, squinting at her as if trying to identify a peculiar breed of butterfly. "You are Ventrue?
"My sire was Morgan, Lord of the Morning Star."
"Morgan?" Sinjon's frown deepened. "Wasn't he slain recently? Rumor has it he was consumed by one of his own get. Diablerie most foul."
The stranger tried to look saddened. "It was horrible. I miss him greatly. That is why I have decided to help you, Prince Sinjon. We Ventrue must stick together in these uncertain times."
"Yes. How true."
"I will arrange to notify you as soon as I know when and where Esher plans to rendezvous with the Borges Brothers. My messenger will be a small boy named Ryan. I want it made clear to your followers, Kindred and human alike, that the boy is not to be harmed in any way. If they see any of Esher's minions trying to hurt the child, they're to intercede—is that clear?"
"Perfectly. But what is this child to you?"
"Nothing. He is the son of Esher's bride-to be. Esher wants the boy dead."
Sinjon grinned, exposing his fangs. "Say no more, my dear! If the child's existence is a thorn in Esher's side, then I shall see to it that he makes old bones! But what do you suggest we do?"
"I will attack Esher during his rendezvous with the Brothers. It will, by necessity, be outside of Deadtown, and therefore he will not be able to escape to the safety of his wizard's den quite so easily.
While you keep him and the Pointers busy, I will search the House for the stolen drugs. Only by returning the cocaine can you hope to clear your name with the Brothers. If anything, they are even less trusting than vampires when it comes to these situations."
Sinjon stood and joined the stranger at the fireplace. "When do you think Esher will rendezvous with the Borgeses?"
"Did you agree to the truce tonight?"
"No."
"Then it will be soon. Possibly as early as tomorrow evening. Esher is moving fast—as if he's fearful of detection."
Sinjon gave a humorless laugh. "Are you saying he's afraid of being found out? As I said, he's not one to fear the Camarilla!"