Chapter 11 — Act III Opening on Chicago Chronicles

The Assignment — Tuesday, February 5, 1991, 5:08 PM

Tue, 05 Feb 1991 17:08:00 +0000

Lincoln Park / Succubus Club / Shared Haven, West Side

Chicago, Illinois

The woman on the bench had a field notebook open on her knee and a mechanical pencil working small circles on the page. Late twenties. Sensible coat, wool scarf doubled at the throat. She was sketching something in the trees — a bird, maybe, or the absence of one. Tomas closed on her from the south path, hands in his pockets, breath visible because he remembered to exhale.

The Sire's Territory — Monday, February 4, 1991, 5:09 PM

Mon, 04 Feb 1991 17:09:00 +0000

Kaspar & Sons (South Pilsen) / Chinatown (Old + New) / South Loop (Wabash near Congress)

Chicago, Illinois

The phone rang twice. A man answered in Vietnamese-accented English, two words flat as a dial tone: “Who’s calling.”

“Darius.”

Hand over the receiver. Muffled consultation. Thirty seconds. Then: “Hold.”

Darius stood in the basement of Kaspar & Sons with the receiver pressed to his ear and counted. Two minutes. Three. The recording came on — the number you have reached has been disconnected or is no longer in service — and he set the phone down.

The Survey — Sunday, February 3, 1991, 5:07 PM

Sun, 03 Feb 1991 17:07:00 +0000

Astor Street Chantry / Kinzie Street Tunnels / Kaspar & Sons

Chicago, Illinois

The camel-hair overcoat was on the stand when Tomas came downstairs at five-fifteen. Heavy, cut long, the kind of coat a man buys when he’s decided his appearance is a closing argument. The ebony walking stick leaned against the umbrella stand beside it. Silver cap catching the hall light.

He had not spoken directly to Abraham DuSable in his three weeks at the Astor Street chantry. He’d seen him. Crossing the second-floor landing with a book under his arm, reading glasses on a chain around his neck. Standing in the kitchen doorway watching Mrs. Marsh set out the Tuesday tamales, saying nothing, then turning away. Once, at 2 AM, coming up from the sub-basement with chalk dust on his fingers and the smell of something burnt clinging to his collar.

The Debrief — Friday, February 1, 1991, 5:05 PM

Fri, 01 Feb 1991 17:05:01 +0000

Tremere Chantry, Astor Street / Rush Street / Gold Coast

Chicago, Illinois

The third floor hummed. Not a sound you could locate. Not mechanical, not electrical. Something in the walls or behind them, a vibration that lived below the threshold of hearing and registered as pressure in the jaw. Tomas had noticed it his first night in the chantry and stopped noticing it by the third. Tonight it was back, or he was listening for it.

First Night Standing — Friday, February 1, 1991, 5:05 PM

Fri, 01 Feb 1991 17:05:00 +0000

The Succubus Club, Rush Street / Labyrinth / Tremere Chantry, Astor Street Chicago, Illinois

The cab let him out on Rush Street at half past eight. Twenty degrees and dropping. The line stretched thirty feet — college kids in leather jackets, a woman in fur arguing with her date. Tomas paid the driver, pocketed the receipt, and walked past the line to the side entrance Sir Henry had mentioned three nights ago.

The bouncer was Samoan, wide enough to fill the doorframe, hands folded over a clipboard he had not looked at once. He studied Tomas the way border agents study passports — not reading. Measuring.