The Wolf and the Unicorn

"Over time, there came to be too many of the Cainites,
And then there was war once again.
The elders were already deep in hiding,
For they had learned caution.
But their childer had founded their own cities and broods,
And it is they who were killed in the great wave of war.
There was war so total, that there are none of that generation
To speak of themselves any longer..."


Beckett turned the tattered, ancient page with utmost care, entranced.


"Waves of mortal flesh were sent across continents
In order to crush and burn the cities of the Cainites.
Mortals thought they were fighting their own wars,
But it is for us they spilt their blood..."


This was new; a section from the Book of Nod that he'd not encountered before! Licking his lips, he leaned forward and studied the arcane symbols adorning the margins. Were they Assyrian? So absorbed was he in the text cradled on his lap that he failed to notice the lengthening shadows until the candlelight was eclipsed, interfering with further perusal of the page.


His gaze snapped upwards just in time to see the blow coming. It sent him sprawling backwards, ass-over-head, and his vision blurred from the impact. With a snarl, he righted himself and came up swinging, bestial claws sprouting from his hands. The book landed somewhere to his far right, with a thud that pained his scholar's sensibilities every bit as much as his aching head.


"Ah, good. I do so love it when they put up a fight." His attacker stood off to the left, smiling like a demented angel, holding the shovel that had so recently connected with Beckett's temple. "I believe you have something that belongs to us."


"I don't think so," Beckett growled. Now that he was no longer engrossed with the tome, his heightened senses told him that there were more in the catacombs than just the two of them. Friends of his, or someone else? His eyes were dazzled both from the blow and the sudden change from light to darkness. Keep talking, stall for time until your vision clears, he thought. "And besides, you could have simply asked. It's far from polite to smack a man over the head when a straightforward question would have sufficed."


His assailant laughed, shaking his head. "The children of Ba'al ask for nothing. We take what we want." Two more figures emerged from the darkness behind him.


Children of Ba'al? Ba'ali? This was rapidly going from bad to worse. "So you're here for the book. Take it, then."


"Book? No, no; that's not it. I'd give you two more guesses, but I doubt you'd figure it out." No sooner were the words spoken than the two newcomers moved, flowing like darkness towards Beckett. He launched himself at the closer of the two, and his claws met flesh, rending the arm that sought to grasp him. He shifted his balance for a roundhouse kick, but found himself frozen in place as the shovel-wielding Ba'ali turned the tool around in his grip and launched it handle-first at him. The wooden shaft ripped into his chest, effectively staking him.


The Ba'ali he'd wounded glared at him and spat into his face. "I won't forget that, dog-boy," he hissed, holding his ruined arm close to his body. "What you're up for isn't pleasant by anyone's stretch of the imagination, but I'll make sure to find something special just for you."


His body was paralyzed by the stake, but Beckett's mind raced, trying to work out what the Hell the Ba'ali might have planned, and even more importantly, how to escape with his Unlife intact. No one knew where he was; that was par for the course, he knew, and no one would think twice about him going missing for a prolonged time. I'll find out what I can about whatever they've got going on here, and the moment this fucking shovel is out of me, I'll run like Hell . Not much of a plan, he acknowledged ruefully, but just about the only one he had available.


Unfortunately, it was a plan that didn't hold much chance of success.


The one who'd staked him seemed to be in charge. At his command, one of the newcomers reached over and grasped the shovel handle, snapping the wood in half. The piece that impaled the Gangrel's heart shifted, causing a spasm of pain that he could not react to counter. The two Ba'ali hoisted him and carried him down the passage and through a series of turn-offs and doorways; he tried to memorize the route, but was soon hopelessly disoriented. Finally, they entered a torch-lit room and he was dumped unceremoniously onto a large piece of stone.


Beckett couldn't turn his head to examine it closer, but had the distinctly unpleasant thought that it could very well be an altar of some sort. Knowing the Ba'ali's reputation, he didn't really want to think of what sort in particular.


His assailant moved into his field of view with a grin that would have made a Malkavian jealous. "So, I bet you're wondering why I've called us all together," he quipped, and laughed at his own bon mot. He ran a hand through his thick brown curls and winked. "Well. You may or may not have heard the rumors about how the Tremere created gargoyles. They experimented on dogs like you, with the occasional Tzimisce and Brujah thrown in for good measure." He reached off to the side, and when his hand came back into Beckett's vision, it was holding a scalpel. "We're going to outdo the Sorcerers' wildest dreams."


He slashed down towards the Gangrel's chest, and cut open his shirt in one fluid movement, the tip of the scalpel slicing through fabric and somehow only grazing the skin. The Ba'ali smiled again, and muttered something under his breath that sounded disturbingly like an incantation. He raised the knife again, the metal glimmering in the torchlight, and brought it down with deliberate precision.


The blade bit into Beckett's flesh; he could not move to avoid it, nor could he scream in agony when his tormentor produced a small, smoking flask of some vile neon-green liquid and poured it over the incisions. It burned worse than acid, worse than sunlight, and he was powerless to do a god damned thing about it. Another line was traced with the scalpel, and was followed again by the excruciating fire of the Ba'ali's potion; he howled mutely within the confines of his mind. Another, and another;some remote corner of Beckett's mind realized there was a pattern being carved into his flesh, something alarmingly like a sigil. Two of the lines met with another cut of the knife, and when they joined, the pain seared into his soul. He hadn't thought things could get worse, but he'd evidently, and rather unfortunately, been wrong.


How long does it take for a man to go insane from torture?


The Ba'ali raised the scalpel again, this time leaning towards Beckett's face.


God damn it, MOVE! His body refused to cooperate, despite his mind's fervent orders.


An unholy glee lit the Ba'ali's eyes as he lowered the blade slowly and deliberately, savoring his captive's pain. "Oh yes, we will outdo the Tremere quite splendidly, my friend."


Beckett braced himself as best he could for the bite of steel into his flesh once more, but it never came. Instead, the Ba'ali's head appeared to part company with his shoulders, and the headless body fell forward onto him, dark blood pumping from the severed vessels of the neck for several pulses before the corpse dissolved into ash.


"Damn you, Yeqon. I got you that time, you bastard." Another visage appeared in his field of vision; a grim-faced woman, spattered in gore. "Hang on, this is gonna hurt," she warned him as she grasped the remains of the shovel-handle with both hands and pulled hard.


A spasm of pain racked his body as the stake pulled free, and he doubled over, clutching his chest. She grasped his chin and turned his face to hers. "I need you to stay here. He wasn't alone, and I'll be damned if any of these bastards get away." At her touch, a blissful numbness spread throughout Beckett's body along with a sudden inability to move. Despite the paralysis, he was not about to complain; given what he'd endured, he was in no hurry to meet the Ba'ali again anytime soon.


She picked up the curved sword she'd set aside to free him and stalked off into the darkness, leaving Beckett alone.