HEY were all there, and that may have been the reason it ended as it did; get enough kooks in a room and something's bound to get outta hand.  Trevor, cryptic and pompous as always, had Stephen hovering like a mayfly, and the two masons in tow. Laurent brought his now-annoying air of effete sorrow as well as his retainers: Philip Michaels (the shoot- first- and- who- cares- about- questions psychotic), Tamer (the Setite-trained aberrant), and Jo (the babe in the woods ever-watchful of the wolves). 

And then there was the aspiring Mad Prince of Las Vegas (and, incidentally, my employer) - Sean Sinclair. His lieutenants, Sal, Gwen and Sonny, vampires all of them, each had their respective crews; all in all, more than thirty monsters of one kind or another had gathered at Sean's behest. The air was thick with animosity and tension so tight you could pluck harmonics on its seething tendrils. And with good reason; there were enemies of the prince in the midst. 

See, there had been this gangrel - Snake - that was gonna leave for parts unknown to rat on my boss; Sean needed said vamp to stay put. So, we found him eventually (about twelve bodies later) and cornered him. This is the point where my involvement ends, being as Snake saw fit to rip my face near-off with his claws. But, even in my grievously wounded and unconscious state, I firmly believed that, even without my help, Snake was probably ash in the noonday wind right about now. 
So, when I opened the door to the Grimaldi Room (the princes Sanctum Sanctorum, as it were), who do I see but that undead bastard gangrel - right next to my boss, my friend, my prince. I did the only thing that was thinkable: I leapt at Snake's wretched throat. 

When I came to my better senses, I was lying on the floor at Mr. Sinclair's bidding, no, at his command. I had no choice, I knew I should obey; but I couldn't resist one last threat at Snake:  "I will kill you, bastard; I promise."  And then the world went black. 

AWOKE in a chair; how I got there, I cannot say; how the handcuffs got there, however, was easily deduced. Someone, most likely one of Mr. Sinclair's own, had propped my battered and bandaged body up and bound me to the hardwood arms. And through my one good eye, I could see that Snake was indeed still there, silent and steady at my Prince's side. Now my mind had the time to process all of the information my eyes were gathering; perhaps I was a tad hasty in my actions ... had Sinclair put the Gangrel under a spell of some sort? I saw now that the threat was not immediate. But it had far from vanished. 

The Prince was now berating us, saying how sloppy our work had been, how we had been careless - careless? But how, when we worked so hard? What had gone wrong? We had done all within our power to find and kill that traitorous maggot; had we failed so horribly? And how, then, did Mr. Sinclair still have Snake docile at his side? My questions whirled alongside the roiling black hate I fought to master. 
I was soon to get my answer. 

"...and only then, when the Bankers men came to your aid, did you..." 
The words stung like salted leather. That damned Banker. He and his men had shown up days ago, mercenary ghouls paid in vampire blood, and suddenly they were all but signing our checks; I mean, yeah, they were good, and damn good, but this had gone too far. I could see them eyeing my boss like a bottle of good Chianti. If only I could get him to see how they were plotting... 

I had missed some of my employer's finer points; he was now talking about Snake. No, talking TO him. Like an old friend. My breath came in ragged, raspy gasps and my vision, what wasn't obscured by bandages, wavered and shimmered with the heat of my fury. Mr. Sinclair must have noticed, 'cause he looked right at me. 
"Vincent, you have a problem?" 

"Yeah, Mr. Sinclair," I clipped my words, "I seem to be handcuffed to this chair." 

"In light of your recent outburst, I think you can understand why. Hmm?"  I bathed in cold hell of my anger, and let it turn my tortured voice to ice. Control was to be mine; I would not humiliate myself again in my Don's eyes. 

"Mr. Sinclair, let me ask you just one question then." I looked into his eyes and tried to bore my words through them. "If a man did..." Then I bent my head down to my bound hands to remove the bulk of my dressings from my face and neck, and looked back up. "this to you ... would you let him live?" 

The room gazed at the ruin that was my face. The claws had rent my flesh to the bone, and my left eye was non-existent. Blood ran down in small rivulets from the edges of the tears. Some faces paled, some gasped, some smiled in twisted delight, and some did nothing. But I noticed none of them. My eyes were fixed on Sinclair. 

"No, Vinny. I wouldn't. But you know what?" He smirked jadedly at me. "You don't get that luxury. Now can you control yourself? Can I trust you if I let you free?" 

Norman was vocal in his doubts, but the Prince let me go. I stood woodenly and tried to excuse myself from the meeting, but Sean wouldn't have it. He bid me sit and listen to the rest of it, and I did. I had no choice, ya know? 

I wonder, sometimes, what forces were at work in the room that made Sean keep me there. Because I had no idea I was going to prove myself to Sean in a way no eye could doubt. 

"WHAT ABOUT our cars," Stephen brought up, "they were destroyed in the chase. Can we expect the corporation to foot the bill for repairs?" 
Mr. Sinclair seemed to consider this when Laurent spoke up; " I don't think, what with all the expenditures the Casino has incurred, that would be a wise course of action." 

Sean seemed to smile in agreement. "Alright. From now on," and he looked at Laurent with a dry humorless smile, "all our endeavors shall be carried out on foot." 

If I had blinked, I woulda missed it.  Laurent went from placid, tragic little man to a raging, leaping psychotic maniac. I would've drawn the link between him and Philip Michaels, if I'd had the time. But sometimes you don't get that luxury. 

I was up and running before my conscious self knew it. My control was lost; my Don was in danger. Jo tried to block me; I leapt over her like an Olympic track star. All I knew, as I drew my pistol, was that I needed to be between the Don and Laurent. Blood is blood. Blood was the reason I was here. Blood cried out.  I listened. 

'M NOT sure exactly how it ended up ... I was still on the rampage, I think I had pulled Laurent off Don Sinclair, but Jo had dived onto me somewhere in there; I think she was behind me. There might have been gunshots, they might have been mine; I couldn't care now, all I knew was the Don was safe. My eye turned to Laurent; to the assassin, the traitor. Wade and Sal were restraining him - but he was still moving. He needed to be dealt with, and I wanted his blood spilt. I craved it. 
As I was about to fire my pistol, a voice screamed at me. It was my own, inside my head. It said what I wanted least to hear: If you kill this vampire, you forfeit your own life. You let down your Don. Do not do this. 
It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I still needed blood, something to placate the demon in my chest that screamed kill punish destroy. But I did it. I drew the gun off of Laurent, and movement caught my eye, a new threat to my Don; it was next to me. So I unloaded the pistol into this threat, and as the smoke and cordite wafted clear, I saw what I had accomplished, what I had bent my will to do, to bring my Don honor. 

Jo, little, innocent and wide eyed, lay with a blooming rose of red sprouting from between her breasts, where the bulled had tapped her chest. Her eyes seemed to draw all that was red and hot and needing in my soul away, leaving a void so empty it stunned me speechless. 
And as someone's retaliatory shot stole the life from my body, it was all I could do to say to Jo: "I'm sorry." 

I SPUTTERED to something that resembled, but was not, life. The hot, oily liquid in my throat was like no torture I'd thought possible; Hell was not this bad. My body wracked with spasmodic pain, and if I could have screamed through the drink in my throat, I would have.  It subsided; I was something ... what? What had happened? I had ... died ... hadn't I?... 

I looked at Mr. Sinclair with my one eye; and when I could speak, I rasped, "What did you do to me?" 

"Stand up, Vincent. Act elegant. Make me happy I did this." 
And then I knew.  I was one of them. 

Sean bid me feed, and Norman quickly jumped to assist me away, to find me some hapless man ... some mortal ... to feed on. We were not five minutes outside the Grimaldi Room when he struck me across the face. "C'mon, Vinny. Do it." 

I was confused. I should have known his intent; but I couldn't think right. 
"Norman, what the hell are you doing?"  He hit me again. That was all it took. 

When it was all done, I was running to the Grimaldi with poor, drained Norman in my arms. I burst in and sank to my knees. Sean looked up, stopping his conversation with the Banker. Neither seemed shocked. 
"Sean ... he ... he made me do it ... I couldn't stop..." 

Sean turned back to the banker with great non-chalance. "So, anyway, now..."  I looked on in shock. He was letting Norman die. No, he was already dead.  I had killed him. 

The Banker tilted his head towards me and spoke to Sean. "What about that one? Can we have him?" The hunger in his voice was all-too apparent. 

"No ... no." Sean looked at the mercenary and something passed between them. 

"Sean..." I was lost. I knew nothing about this, about what I had done, what I was. "Sean, what next? What do I do?" 

The annoyance on his face was hidden better than a thousand poker players. "Ask me questions when you need information. I will tell you anything you want." 

"Where do I sleep, now?" 

"Same place as always; the barracks in the basement." 

The barracks? "But ..." 

 "Yes, the barracks. Anything else?" 

 I was too tired to think. It was almost dawn. "No. I'm going to sleep ... tomorrow, maybe..." 

 "Yes, tomorrow. Sleep well."  I left the room, my mind a dull fog of confusion. 

SHOULD have known, in retrospect, that there was to be no sleep for me. I rounded the corner, almost to the barracks, and the world went dark. I could barely see the outline of a man in the artificial night ... and he had been quick to follow on my heels.  "You probably can't see me." 

The Banker. Well, well.   "Actually," I smirked with sad realization, "I can see you, Banker." 

He postured. I bet he smiled. "You know, don't you."   Yeah. I knew. 

"Yeah. No chance I could convince you to not to do this, eh?" I knew the answer. It came in the form of a blow to the back of my head, harder than a bullet and hot like hellfire. I dropped to my knees as the dark got so, so much darker. 

Let me know how heaven is, Jo. They don't let us have many visitors where I am.