'Qui: The Fall of Ottawa' Chapter 1

Ever since writing 'Vampire: the Masquerade - Parliament of Knives,' I've had trouble getting Sheriff Qui out of my head and I'm sure there's a few of you out there who feel the same. Thus began The Fall of Ottawa project, following Qui's story from his first steps into the great white north of Canada.  Interested in vampire spycraft, king-making, and a little good old fashioned vampire violence? Read on!

[Please note that these chapters are not an official World of Darkness licensed product and should not be construed as such. All chapters within this setting will be available free of charge and will never be behind a paywall.]

Chapter 1:

Qui could murder someone for a coffee. He'd murdered for less, and he probably would again. He felt desire aching in his veins, not unlike the immortal lust for that sweet, red trickle of life that drove his kind to perpetual distraction. Fortunately for the newly-arrived Nosferatu assassin and the mortals around him, he wasn't prone to fits of spontaneous violence or he'd have already painted the walls red with the blood of the caffeinated. 

It wasn't that the Ottawa police station was lacking in the beverage department, it was that he was incapable of ingesting the gloriously bitter brew and the smell was driving him mad. True, he could choose not to simulate breathing and remove the scent from his mind entirely, but the Nosferatu curse was already clearing out the room around him as officers shifted unconsciously to make way. Transforming from a man with an uncomfortable aura of evil into a truly terrifying walking corpse that never breathed wasn't the way he wanted to make his first impression. 

People didn't mind their own business anymore in the twentieth century. The sixties had been particularly bad for mortals butting into his affairs, but today's modern world of 1977 seemed to be starting to trend back ever-so-slightly in the other direction and he thanked whatever passed as a mortal deity for that change of pace. The first nights in a new city were always the worst for social interaction—the moon had barely risen and he was already yearning to return to his new apartment and shut out the rest of the world behind heavy blackout curtains. 

If only he could pull one of the officers aside for a quick taste…savoring the effects of a stimulant through the blood of mortals was the only option he had left for experiencing such passing pleasures in his unlife. He shook his head and continued his slow walk toward the rear office. These people were skittish around him and likely always would be, but on the positive side, he was far from the hideous monsters that populated the ranks of his bloodline—of the thirteen vampire clans, the Nosferatu lineage was historically the worst for blending in with the herd.

While Qui's appearance resembled that of an ashen-faced mortal who rarely, if ever, saw the light of the sun, he had a distinct advantage over the rest of his monstrous clanmates—he could move about in the open without causing a panic. This quality was so unusual for the clan that his sponsor, the Nosferatu Primogen, Eleanor Cranston, had required convincing of his authenticity upon arrival. She'd heard the gossip about him, of course, but there were rumors and then there was coming face-to-face with reality. He wasn't really offended—he'd spent most of his unlife being mistaken for others.

He navigated his way through the busy police station, weaving between poorly-placed cubicles and stacked boxes of paper records. He was new to Ottawa, but even he knew that this place was in need of a serious overhaul. His eyes flicked upward when he heard a voice calling out to him. There was a woman standing behind the rear counter; she was waving, trying to get his attention.

"Hey! Over here!" she said. "You're the new guy, right? I'm Sam."

Qui nodded as he stepped up. "New guy. That would be me." He offered his hand and she reached out to take it. Halfway there, her arm wavered and locked in place as tremors ran through her fingers and her skin went prickly with gooseflesh. She pulled back with a rough jerk. He wasn't offended—she'd got closer than almost any mortal had in well over a year.

"Sorry," Sam said. "Not sure what's wrong with me. I must be coming down with something." She forced a nervous laugh. "Love the look."

Qui's long, raven-black hair was covering most of his face again, so he brushed it back over his shoulders. He offered Sam a smile—thin bloodless lips pulled upward in a way he hoped she'd find satisfactory. He imagined that from her point of view it wasn't all that unlike a predator grinning seconds before snapping its jaws closed on her neck. If that's what she was thinking, then she didn't react as a prey animal would. This one was strong. He liked that in an assistant.

"Commissioner Cranston wanted me to get you set up in the main office," she said after returning his smile. Hers was warmer and more genuine than his, but he'd set a low bar. "Would you like me to take you to your desk?"

"Yes, thank you," he said. "Ms…?"

"Lyle. Samantha Lyle. I'm afraid I haven't been told your name, though. An oversight, I'm sure."

She was fighting her body's natural reaction to the Nosferatu curse quite admirably—a consummate professional, and one of the few mortals in the bullpen who didn't smell of coffee and donuts. He liked her. "Associates call me Mr. Qui," he said. "But you can call me James, if you'd like." 

"All right, James." She smiled again. Honestly this time, he was sure. 

"A pleasure, Ms. Lyle," he said as she led him through the hallway toward the room that would serve as his base of operations. 

"Sam," she said. "If you're James then I'm Sam."

Qui nodded and opened the door to his new office. "Of course. Sam, it is. I'll be sure to let Commissioner Cranston know that you've been very helpful."

She stepped away and left him alone in the room. He'd almost enjoyed that interaction; it had been months since a mortal carried on a proper conversation with him without desperately searching for a means of escape after ten seconds or so. It was the first pleasant surprise he'd found so far in this ice box the Canadian government had the gall to call a capital city.

He pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket and thumbed through the first few pages of hand-written notes. Officially, he had arrived to oversee a restructuring of the Ottawa police department and its management personnel. At least that's what the mortals had been told. His true reason for coming here was to assassinate an ineffectual leader—a 'Prince' of the city as his traditional brethren called the man—and make certain that his victim was replaced by Qui's sponsor, Eleanor Cranston. 

Cranston was of the Nosferatu clan as well, but unlike Qui, she was not blessed with the ability to blend in with the mortal herd. All of her work with the police was done through her devoted minions, themselves gifted the taste of her vitae. 'Ghouls' like them made excellent servants, mortals altered into something greater, loyalty ensured by their addiction to a Kindred's Blood. He'd need one of those mortals to help him with his work, sooner or later, but for now there was only him.

He pulled the heavy wooden chair away from his new desk, took a seat, and leaned back, taking it all in. The office was serviceable, not extravagant. Utilitarian while offering far more space than the proverbial broom closets he'd worked out of in the past. Yes, he thought. This would do very nicely.

All in all, it was an excellent place to plan the beginnings of an insurrection.