On his long trek from the far eastern steppe, Qarakh had faced the man-wolves on several occasions. These Lupines—men cursed to assume the shape of wolves under the right conditions—were ferocious warriors who held their own territories in the deep woods. They could hunt by day or night and had little love for Cainites, even Gangrel who could take wolf shapes as well as they. There were packs of these werewolves in Livonia, and Qarakh had sought them out, primarily to determine where the man-wolves drew the boundaries of their territory, and to learn if they might be amenable to an alliance with his tribe—once it was established. The most restrained response he’d received to his inquiries was a set of fangs buried in his shoulder, while the most violent response had come close to delivering him unto the Final Death.
No potential alliances among the Lupines then, to put it mildly, but he discovered that if he remained out of their territory deep within the thickest part of the forests, they took no notice of him. The Lupines would never be friends to his tribe, but at least it appeared they wouldn’t be enemies. There were other powers in Livonia, however. The land practically reeked of magic, but these other creatures—fey folk and spirits that neither man nor Cainite had names for—all took the Lupines’ attitude of separation from night-walkers.
But Qarakh wasn’t so sure of the beings that inhabited the stone structure he now approached at a loping run.
Several nights ago when he had first passed by this place—high wall, courtyard, a main building of simple construction and design, no ornamentation to the stonework, plain wooden shutters covering the windows—he’d experienced a strange sensation. A feeling that someone was watching him, but not from any specific vantage. It was as if whoever (or whatever) was observing him from every direction at once. But as disturbing as that had been, there was more.
It was subtle at first, an almost unnoticeable itching or tingling on his skin, thousands of phantom insects crawling all over his body on tiny invisible legs. The feeling became more intense the closer he rode to the stone building until it felt as if the ghostly insects were now digging their pincers into his flesh and tearing off small hunks by the hundreds… no, by the thousands. Before long, the pain had become so unbearable that Qarakh, no stranger to pain, hadn’t been able to stand it any longer. He’d turned the horse—which hadn’t noticed anything wrong save for her master’s sudden and atypical clumsiness with the reins—away from the building and kicked her into a gallop. The pain had instantly begun to lessen, and it continued to abate with every yard they put between themselves and the cursed place.
But now Qarakh had returned, coming swiftly and silently on foot, hoping this time to approach unnoticed. Whatever the nature of the power that was associated with the building, Qarakh needed to know precisely what it was—and whether it would prove friend or (more likely) foe.
He was within a dozen yards of the outer wall now, and it appeared his attempt at stealth had been successful. He didn’t feel he was being watched, and he experienced no sensation of pain. Perhaps the attention of whatever lay behind the wall was elsewhere this night.
“Or perhaps you have been allowed to approach.”
Qarakh stopped running and whirled to face the owner of the voice. The stranger was male and garbed in a black robe. His aspect was that of a man in his middle years—brown hair gray at the temples, cheeks verging on being jowls, eyes beginning to recede into the sockets, the flesh beneath them puffy and dark—but his eyes glittered as if made of ice, their glassy surfaces catching the light from the stars above them and casting it back as tiny pinpricks of cold fire. For an instant, Qarakh had the impression that the light wasn’t a reflection but instead emanated from somewhere behind those eyes. But he dismissed it as nothing more than a trick of the nocturnal light.
“It’s a cold evening to be abroad, even for creatures such as we.” The man smiled, almost deliberately, revealing long sharp incisors, as if to confirm that he was indeed a Cainite. “But then you’re a stubborn one, Qarakh the Untamed, else you would not have returned after the warning I gave you the other night.”
Qarakh was surprised that the man knew his name, but he fought to keep his expression neutral. “Who are you and what is this place?”
The man cocked his head slightly and looked at Qarakh for a moment, as if he were not only seeing the Mongol’s physical aspect but looking beyond that, into whatever remained of his once mortal soul.
“This is a simple monastery, and I am naught but a humble brother.” The man’s tone contained the merest trace of amused mockery, as if he were an adult speaking to a naughty but precocious child.
Normally Qarakh would have responded to such treatment with rage, but the Beast inside him remained silent, almost as if it had retreated to a far corner of his mind and huddled there, shivering in fear. Qarakh realized that his Beast was hiding because it had for the first time encountered a predator far greater than itself.
Still, Qarakh was a warrior, and warriors did not run unless there was no other choice, and even then they only did so if it might lead to a later victory. Instead, he nodded, accepting the man’s nonanswers.
The stranger went on. “I know why you have come here, my son, and while I cannot offer
