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Count Santiago Cavallero was having a bad day. It got worse when his private phone rang.
"I do not recognize your voice. Who is this? How did you get this number?"
"Nicodemus Archleone, Count. I request a meeting."
His spitting tirade stopped dead.
No one refused Archleone without a very, very good reason. Even then, you were still more likely to end up dead, or worse. He cleared his throat.
"Very well. When and where?"
"I am actually in the area. Tomorrow, at Bird 's Isle, for a late lunch at 1pm?"
"Agreed."
The Count slammed the phone down and started wondering how he had possibly gotten Archleone's attention. He knew Archleone was well above his pay grade. He'd said he was already in the area. What else had drawn him here, far away from his usual haunts?
He ordered two research teams to stand up, one for recent events in the area, and one for current details on Archleone himself. His usual people had missed something and he was going to kill the idiots who had failed him, once he figured things out.
Two people who were not human met in a quiet sunny breezy cafe for lunch. Very civilized, you would think. You would be wrong.
"Why did you want this meeting, Archleone?"
Straight to business? Tsk.
"I wish to set a trap, for the Fellowship cell that has been giving you so many problems."
"Give them to me now." the Count hissed.
"No. On my terms, or you get nothing."
The Count fumed, but ... He wanted that pestiferous group squashed, bleeding, dead, and worse than dead at his minions' hands and teeth and claws. "I agree."
Nicodemus handed him a burner phone. "Someone will call your team lead on that. Take them out. Will half an hour suffice to show your displeasure with their activities? It must be quicker than we would both prefer."
"Yes." Half an hour to torture those peasants and rip them to shreds? Half an hour would be enough. One at a time. Slowly.
"Tell your people to be creative. I want shock and horror, not just the usual gore."
"We can do that."
"My only requirement is that the last one alive, their leader, must die exactly on time. Exactly. Can you guarantee that?"
"Yes."
"Then we have a deal."
"We do."
"My people will be in touch."
The Count stood up abruptly and left. He had no interest in food or social amenities. Leave that to humans and those who aped them.
Nicodemus shook his head. The vampire was such a boor. He would have a good meal, in spite of him. Calamari or -- ah -- ceviche with sea bass. Ceviche was popular everywhere south of the US. Something local ... Chimole, conch soup, first. And some beer, on tap.
Nicodemus smiled to himself. It had been a very profitable trip. He had gotten the artifacts he wanted, and he had found Lasciel. He had recognized her the instant they touched, even though her host had not reacted.
He knew who had picked up her Coin that winter day. Molly Carpenter. Now Catherine Lenhardt. He had a dossier compiled by some of his Fellowship spies. Terrorist. Mercenary. Maker of magic-fueled bombs, which meant she had to believe they were good and needed. A Sensitive who had twisted herself into knots, to become a very skilled and feared interrogator.
On some level, she must enjoy the fear and pain she inflicts. If not, she has either become a raging masochist, or a fanatic, willing to endure the fear and pain her empathy shoves into her own mind.
Lasciel had done wonders.
Her cell was not truly hiding. They relied on anonymity. Stupid. They wouldn't live to learn the lesson. It took his local agent only two weeks to get the leader's phone records, set up a wiretap, and wait for a propitious time. Unfortunately, they appeared to have taken a vacation of sorts. No activity.
Finally, there was a call to a local cafe. A second phone call confirmed they had a reservation for a Sunday evening meal on the water. Then a phone call to move Catherine out of town for four hours, with a munitions order she simply could not refuse. And someone watching and waiting to trigger the Reds just as she drove back into town.
Now, ... Now, he was going to change her war with the Red Court into a veritable Crusade, a Holy War. Bereft of friends and family, her second life in ruins, she would turn to him. She would have nothing left, and nothing left to lose.
Except what remained of her already well-blackened soul.