'Qui: The Fall of Ottawa' Part 2, Chapter 16

Qui gestured at the chair opposite his desk. "Sit. We have a few things to go over before your shift begins. I'm not sure if I'll be available later tonight."

Sam's smile faltered for a moment, but she managed to keep a tight grip on her enthusiasm. "Called away? It's not because of that phone call I got, is it? Am I in danger?"

"Not at the moment," he said. "I'd tread lightly for a few nights, either way. There's quite a bit I need to teach you, but Cranston believes we're spending too much time together. I don't think she was the one paying your homeless friend to watch you, but she's definitely got a few eyes and ears here in the department reporting back to her."

"That's actually one of the things I came in here to talk about," Sam said. "I think I know who the note is from–the one you found in the guy's pocket. I would have told you when I got up, but you were already halfway out the door. I barely got to tell you about the call."

Qui felt somewhat guilty for running out on her like that, but he hadn't had the time to wait through her morning routine. He'd hoped to get the bodies taken care of before the wrong person found out about them. Cranston he could deal with, but if Prince Jonah caught wind of him taking local mortals under his wing and fighting with the Sabbat, he'd suddenly find himself under a magnifying glass that he very much wished to avoid. There would be no repercussions for slaying the Tzimisce, but drawing attention generally wasn't a wise decision for an assassin mere weeks out from the date of the kill. The creature's mere presence on the city outskirts already begged questions best left unasked. His job was simple and quite specific–if the Sabbat were making a move on Ottawa, that would be Cranston's problem to deal with. Qui wasn't interested in fighting a holy way between quarrelsome factions of Kindred. Some things were above his pay grade and he'd made peace with that decades ago.

"You remembered where you saw the handwriting?" he asked. "Any lead is a good one. We already have Cranston keeping tabs on us; we don't need others breathing down our necks if I'm going to be able to spend time training you to use your new gifts."

Sam nodded. "There's been a few notes like that at the station over the years delivered to the commissioner. They really stood out, you know? Written in pencil with big angular letters. Aside from that, they were always cryptic and they made no sense."

"And you saw who wrote them?"

"No," she said, "but they were all signed 'Michel.' No last name. Does that help narrow it down? Anyone you know?"

"Damn it all," Qui muttered. "Bouchard. It has to be." Suddenly it all clicked into place. Of course Michel Bouchard's rivalry with Cranston would put him and Sam in the crosshairs. Qui hadn't personally heard from the odious Nosferatu since his arrival in the city, but the spy he sent to watch over the meeting with Cranston had left a rather vivid impression after the commissioner's spider-ish form cut the observer down to size. "He probably has an entire network of vagrants monitoring anyone allied with his rivals." Qui's hope that the old Sewer Rat would stay lurking in his hole had been wishful thinking. This job had far too many variables for him to be comfortable with–if it weren't for the sword, he'd never have let it go this far. The weapon called to him, even now. In a strange way, he could still feel its presence, tucked away in his haven. The sword had missed him when he hadn't come home. He knew that should disturb him, but for whatever reason it didn't. The blade was his now–of course it should desire his presence…

"So you do know him," Sam said. Her hand had a slight tremble that nearly caused her to spill her coffee. Qui supposed that from her perspective, anything that worried him would be far more deadly to her. She was certainly right about that. Someone like Michel Bouchard could tear her into bloody strips in a matter of seconds on a whim and there was nothing she could do to stop it, not even with her newly enhanced strength. Qui was fairly sure that in a hand-to-hand brawl, even he wouldn't be able to stand his ground against that monster. Luckily, he still had a few tricks up his sleeve if it came to that.

Qui drummed his fingers on the desk as his mind raced, processing these new details from every angle. "Michel is the man who sent the spy," he said. "The spy that you saw on the night you tagged after me and Cranston." There wasn't much reason to hide that information from her–she'd already witnessed the fight in question, after all.

Sam lowered her voice. "So the guy who wrote the note is a vampire, too?"

"If it's who I think it is, then yes. He is."

"How many of you are there?"

"Not many at all," he replied. "But finding yourself in the path of one of them often brings you to the attention of the others, even if it's only for them to use you as a pawn. Everything becomes connected–it's why I don't stick around in one place for long. Putting down roots always ends up placing you at odds with another Kindred, and death rarely lurks far behind."

"But this guy has been watching me since even before you…um…took me on."

Qui nodded. "That's probably a good thing. It means that they didn't start watching you because you've acquired a taste for vitae; they think you're just a harmless person of interest. You'll be able to defend yourself if it comes to that, though I wouldn't recommend standing your ground. You can take any mortal in a one-on-one fight right now, but without training you won't last long if you're faced with a more experienced supernatural opponent."

"Speaking of…vitae…" Sam said. "I was wondering…" She looked back at the door and listened for a moment to make sure they were alone. "That's what you call your blood, right?" She was nervously scratching at her arm, seemingly unaware of it. "When do I get some more?"

"The craving is natural," Qui said, choosing his words carefully, "though I was hoping it would take a bit longer to set in." He leaned forward and watched her closely. "I'm sure you've seen mortals dealing with the effects of withdrawal and addiction, right?"

Sam grimaced. "I get it. You warned me that the stuff was addictive; I just didn't expect it to hit me so quickly. I'm not going to start throwing up and freaking out, am I?"

"No. At least not nearly this quickly."

"That's a relief," she replied. "You had me worried for a second, there."

"We'll manage it together," Qui said. "But the control needs to come from you. Between feedings, you'll need to be able to put the Blood out of your mind. There are legendary retainers who have lived for centuries by managing their addiction to vitae–I believe you'll be able to handle it, but if I was wrong we'll work on the recovery process. You don't need to be worried about me abandoning you to a fate like that."

Sam breathed out. "Thanks for being honest with me." She paused. "So you're not going to give me an idea of when I can have more?"

"I know it's difficult, Sam," Qui said. "It's a new craving–you've never felt it before in the back of your mind. It's not entirely unlike my own Hunger, an itch that you can't scratch on your own. We all have to develop coping habits. You'll find yours, I promise."

"I'll distract myself for now," Sam replied. "I'll prove to you that I can handle it."

"Focus on yourself, first," Qui said. "Then worry about what I think." A knock on the door interrupted him. "Yes?" he called out.

"Ah," a familiar voice replied. "The correct office at last! Your desk sergeant was quite helpful, but this precinct is rather labyrinthine. You should really invest in an engraving for your office door, Mr. Who."