or an instant the forked, blue-white bolt of lightning illuminated the decrepit estate like a frozen picture in time. The cobblestone path was overrun with weeds, and shoots of grass and lonely clovers held ground in larger, broken gaps. The large columns on the front porch were choked with ivy and once vibrant white paint had grown scaly and cracked. Partially hinged dull gray shutters creaked as they blew in the fierce wind of the coming storm. Then the thunder growled like an angry god and the moment passed, leaving all in shadows and darkness once again.
The smell of the surrounding fields rose up, musky and dense, as if praying for the clouds to burst. Sonja felt the first drops of rain upon her face, heavy and slightly warm. She began to move more quickly up the path, trying to make it to the porch before the books she clutched to her chest got soaked and parchment over two-hundred years old dissolved beneath the onslaught to the elements.
The lightning split through the sky once more and the flash of the house appeared again, but this time a figure leaned against a column at the top of the stairs to the porch. If she still breathed Sonja would have gasped. As it was, she couldn't help but look disconcerted as she stepped back a pace and had to steady herself.
The dark haired, pale figure stepped away from the shadows of the porch. Button by button he began to open his white shirt, his already un-slung suspenders rested at his sides against a pair of deep gray suit pants. His face bore the roguish smile that seemed to fit it best.
Sonja regained her composure, staring disdainfully at the figure that approached her, "You did that on purpose, you bastard."
"Not at all, sweetheart," he replied softly "You just have bad timing. Now get inside, our friend and Prince awaits you."
He moved closer to her, uncomfortably close. Memories of bloody kisses and silken sheets flooded back to Sonja, as unwelcome as they were infuriating. There was also the slightest feeling of loss, the yearning of something deep within. Were she human, she might have felt a chill up her spine or a sinking in the pit of her stomach, perhaps even a warm blush would have come to her face.
"Cyro," she began, "If he needs us, what are you doing out here?"
He smiled, purposely revealing the slightest bit of the fangs that were the staple of the vampiric race, their race, "You never did understand, my love. This slight drizzle is about to become a torrent and this howling wind, a gale. To stand in it, to feel it, with my elevated senses…it's intoxicating."
Sonja just shook her head as she walked up the stairs to the creaking screen door of the estate. If even the slightest part of her wanted to join him, she hushed it with duty and purpose. Yet she couldn't help but look back as she opened the door to step inside, watching as Cyro raised his hands to the heavens and laughed like a madman as the onslaught of rain began.
Stepping into the voluminous foyer, Sonja quickly made her way up to the dilapidated crescent staircase that lead up to her destination. The slight glow of firelight poured out from the doorway to the study at the top. Voices echoed out from inside like so many whispers on the wind.
Sonja turned into the room just in time to see hand sculpted marble crack like glass beneath a puissant fist, shattering the entirety of a circular table she had sat at many times. Sensing her presence, the man behind the fist turned to look at her, the dull embers of a barely quenched frenzy in his eyes. Solomon Hodge, her Prince, fought hard with his composure as he quickly motioned her in. His Seneschal observed the table with calm resolve and then looked up at her coolly.
It was Dutch Kincaid, the Seneschal, who spoke first, "I hope you bring better news than Thomas or Cyro, Sonja."
She hadn't even noticed the Malkavian standing in the shadows at a nearby bookshelf, pouring over a copy of some loosely bound leather book. Thomas Pentecost looked up from over the book, as if sensing her eyes, and nodded in acknowledgement to her presence from beneath a large black fedora hat. He closed the book with a snap and put it back in its place on the shelf.
Sonja walked closer to Solomon, who sat in a chair once placed at the annihilated table, "I'm afraid I don't, Dutch. My clan has joined the Brujah in their rebellion."
"This is one for the books," came the bemused voice of Thomas from over at the shelf, "Tremere and Brujah are working together. It's especially odd considering their Prince is Brujah and you, Sonja…well…you're one of the Warlocks. What was that word I've heard them whisper about you? Ah, yes, you're their…regent."
Solomon glared at Thomas, the look on his face making it apparent that he didn't see even the slightest amusement the Malkavian felt in this. He leaned back in his cushioned chair and threaded his fingers together in his lap. The Prince closed his eyes, very apparently centering himself.
"Why are they doing this to us, Sonja?" he asked calmly with a voice so wont to boom.
"I can't say why your clan wants to depose you, my lord," she stated, finding a seat in a high backed chair to one side of the room, "As for my clan…the day I feared has arrived. They know that I am not bound to the clan and that I have shared certain secrets with you and the others here."
