Prologue: Alan Sovereign could follow a paper trail like no other. Of course, his ability to obscure financial transactions was also unparalleled. Alan's new responsibilities in Rome pushed even his limits, however, and he struggled to secure the Camarilla's remaining financial resources and to fund the coming war.

As he reviewed the wire transfers that had wiped out Camarilla investment accounts around the world, Alan could trace most of the transactions back to specific turncoats—identifying by name each traitor and recording their transgressions on a legal pad. All of the names were at least familiar to him, but he was genuinely shocked by a few that made his list. Alan figured that at least a couple were not willful in their treachery, either brainwashed Manchurians carefully placed within the Camarilla's ranks or possibly even unwitting accomplices. In addition, Alan reasoned that at least a few others were probably not turncoats at all. Up until this point, everyone had assumed that anyone who went missing that night had defected. He realized that some could have been tortured for their information and killed afterward. At least he hoped this was true, since it would mean that the infernal infiltration was not as pervasive as had been initially feared.

Alan also suspected that a handful of traitors probably remained within their ranks. Whether or not this was actually the case, there was now so much latent suspicion and fear that few princes were cooperating outside their own ranks of trusted advisors. The infernalist threat would require a unified response from the Camarilla—a prospect that was becoming increasingly unlikely.

Alan rose from his high-backed leather chair and turned to face an ill-fitting area of brick that had once been a window when the building was first constructed.

A knock on the office door went unacknowledged, as one of Alan's new associates entered.

"Mister Sovereign?" Stephen said. "Sir?"

"Yes," Alan responded, paying only partial attention.

Stephen moved forward cautiously. The gravity of Alan's new responsibilities created a remarkable transformation in his demeanor and in the way others related to him. Nothing remained of the bookish accountant, and now even his former peers were reluctant to meet his gaze.

"Sir, we have a report that Barbaro has left Rome and has traveled to Amman. It would seem more than a coincidence considering the Vatican's reports of a break-in and theft of what they are calling 'documents of historical significance.'"

"Leave me," Alan said quietly without turning around. He still didn't completely trust his new staff, and even though Hardestadt had hand-picked them all, one just couldn't be careful enough these nights.

Once the office door closed, Alan moved back to his desk and retrieved a report that had once seemed unimportant yet now took on new meaning. The report described minor raids by infernalists in Damascus and Chorazin but it concluded that the targeted locations were merely symbolic and wouldn't provide any strategic advantages.

Alan quickly modified an order for 500 Austrian Steyrs, and redirected the weapons shipment to the port of Aqaba.

"I don't know what they're up to," Alan conceded, "but I'll be damned if we won't be there to meet them."


Beneath towering sheer cliffs Barbaro, Sela, and Helena walked through the narrow and twisting path that would lead to Petra. Working their way deeper into the heart of the mountain, they proceeded through the ravine and only occasionally glimpsed moonlight as it entered from between the tall peaks. The seemingly endless trek eventually opened into a view of magnificent buildings, carved directly into the red, pink, and orange cliffs. The ruins of Petra were still impressive and retained architectural traces of their Roman heritage. As their elevation increased, the three passed countless tombs cut directly into the mountain. While traversing a narrow path up the rocky face, Barbaro was awash in memories. He reflected on his role in the centuries of planning that were about to come to fruition.

Barbaro remembered with regret the exact moment the teachings of his mentor and fellow priest had taken an odd turn, and how his split-second decision to not end the lesson had paved the way into curiosity and eventually, interest in occult rituals. He recalled his own Embrace and rebirth within the walls of the Vatican and his struggle to reconcile his new nature with his old God. He would also never forget the night he realized that he too was just a tool—nothing more than a minor player on a grand stage. In a larger sense, he recognized that his story was not much different than that of Helena or Sela. All three had been sought out specifically for the task at hand. Helena's hatred of Menele and her willingness to pay any cost for even a weak and convoluted form of revenge made her an easy mark for Barbaro's manipulations, while Sela's naked ambition was even easier to mold. Barbaro wondered what his own flaw was that allowed him to be so easily manipulated those centuries ago, though that mattered little to him anymore. Warmed by the knowledge that he was about to earn his damnation rather than having it thrust upon him, Barbaro clutched the ancient text describing the Lasombra's ritual.

The flattened top of the peak revealed an ancient holy place. Centuries of wind and rain had served to smooth every sharp stone surface while deepening and refining every crevice. Barbaro was pleased to find the altar basically intact. In times past, death cultists, and the Nabateans before them, would slaughter their sacrifices upon the altar while the blood flowed through carved channels into smaller reservoirs. Additional canals would handle heavier run-off and distribute the blood to the furthest reaches of the plateau.

As the three stood near the altar, Barbaro produced the ancient text. He had rehearsed with Helena many times and was confident that she'd perform perfectly. Sela, however, would be able to play her part without rehearsal.

Helena stood silent and motionless for a moment, and a single black tentacle soon reached out from her hands and danced before them. While Barbaro's outstretched arms held the ancient text for Helena to read from, the moon's light transformed the scene around them—covering everything in an ever-deepening shade of purple. As Helena began to read aloud from the text, the tentacle leapt into her mouth and acted as a tongue while she mouthed the powerful words. Barbaro displayed an almost fatherly smile as he witnessed the power of Helena's potent blood.

Helena ceased speaking, and she and Barbaro turned toward Sela. As Sela began to speak, the tentacle retreated from Helena and jumped into Sela's mouth. The words she spoke were unintelligible, however, and seemed to be directed by the black tongue itself. Though her ears couldn't understand the words she spoke, Sela knew that she spoke of an Abyssal prison, and of doors… and keys… and sacrifice. Sela's eyes widened with understanding. Fear enveloped her as the ebony tongue rapidly sprouted offshoots that sprung forward and wrapped themselves completely around her. Sela let loose a garbled scream before her pitch-black body burst into a lightless flame that whirled around and displaced the moon's remaining light. Barbaro and Helena observed their sacrifice as the remnants of Sela formed a black pool upon the altar. The black sludge quickly filled the shallow reservoirs to capacity and the excess moved throughout the canals across the entire plateau.

The earth trembled as a sea of grey rats poured from an expanding pit in the center of the plateau. Helena advanced toward the opening and the fleeing rats parted for her. Helena's confidence grew with each step, and she descended the chasm without fear. In a flash of darkness, she stepped into the void.

Barbaro's warnings had been accurate, for the attacks came almost immediately. Helena steadied herself as she sensed the Abyssal creatures' attempts to possess her. She could feel their desire for such a powerful host, and she steeled her will against them. The gift of Lasombra flowed from her, and Helena repelled each attack with ease.

Helena moved with blinding speed within the Abyss and searched out the darkest places in creation. She peered into the physical world and witnessed a murder in a darkened alley and a secret conceived in a motel room. She sped past earthly prison cells, lightless caves and inner chambers, until she came to a place as dark as the sun is light—the blackness of an impossible midnight. From this place Helena called out, "Come forth Nergal, Prince of Hell. You have been freed from your shadow prison so that you may sate your thirst on the blood of Menele."