Her skin tasted like sweat, shit, and some flowery perfume. Roses, maybe. Cade suppressed the urge to gag and kept sinking his fangs into her wrist, gulping down the hot blood until the blonde woman he'd picked up on the street went limp on one of the remaining church pews. Blood was blood - thick, hunger-quenching, but he couldn't help thinking that this wasn't it.

The Chantry always had either supplies of really delicious blood or pampered walking blood bags sprawled out on cushions in the "waiting" room, where you could stop by for a midnight snack without reeking of desperation and catalog perfume. Cade pulled away from Blondie's arm, glancing at her unconscious form with annoyance.

He scooped her up by the waist and dragged her out of the church. After walking a few blocks, he propped her unconscious body up in front of a 24-hour clinic, hit the call button for the nurse a few times, and left - the used-up dinner would be taken care of.

Brushing off his hands, he strode back towards the church, absently fiddling with the too-long sleeves of his white sweater. One mistake. One damn, fucking mistake had redrawn his entire bright future. The thought made him want to scream, and Cade clenched his fingers tighter.

Never before had he felt so shitty. In his living and undead life, everything had always gone strictly according to his direction. His sire - that damn Tremere bitch who'd seen the French revolutions - had been proud of him to the point of turning blue, showering him with praise and ritual ingredients. The younger Tremere at the Chantry hung on his every word. Then came the failure that cost him everything.

The "It Steals Your Whispers" ritual was supposed to identify a Sabbat spy in a weapons warehouse. Instead, everything went wrong - the warehouse burned, weapons were stolen, and Camarilla vampires died. Cade became the scapegoat. Now he resided in an abandoned Catholic church, plotting his return to power.

Chicago had been discussing something that might help him - a newly Embraced vampiress circling between Tate and Alan. "Nice choice in friends, little bitch. The Prince's psycho attack dog and the bleeding heart Anarch," he muttered, twirling a bone in his hands.

But what was this if not an opportunity? So obvious that it would be simply unseemly not to grab it. Who Embraced her? A mystery. If it's an illegal Sire, he'll drag her to the Prince gift-wrapped. If Tate had Embraced her? Even better. Her connection to the Anarchs? It was as if fate had dropped her into his hands.

The church door creaked, and Cade put on a half-mysterious, half-friendly smile. "Wow, if it isn't the newest star of the Chicago horror show herself! Come in, have a seat. Glad you came to see me. I'm Cade, and I'm very, very happy to see you. Want to get to know each other, hang out a bit? I could really use the company right now."