There exists no greater crime in Camarilla society than Diablerie.  Seeking the power of your elders is strictly verboten.  Those found guilty of such were made subject to a death sentence – a Blood Hunt that called for mob justice.  Ironically, the only time the Camarilla sanctioned Diablerie was this – a Blood Hunt also meant the chance for an aspiring fledgling to drink deep of elder blood and bring oneself closer to Caine.  I suppose eternal life must breed an appreciation for poetic justice.

Some part of me had hoped that whatever it was of Michael I had lost in my Embrace I would regain in Darine’s Diablerie, but Fate had no such mercy for me.  I was now thrice damned – damned by the Curse of Caine, damned by the loss of my Humanity, and now damned by Camarilla society.  As soon as my crime came known to the Primogen, they would call for my head; for all her vices and failings, Darine had nevertheless managed to retain the reins of power, and the need for recompense would rule the day.

Gorged on Darine’s life-blood, I was perhaps the single most powerful vampire in the city, but even the most powerful of elders might fall to a ravenous mob.  Several of the Primogen still resented the time they had to answer to a Ghoul and would not hesitate at the chance for revenge.  I would not give them the satisfaction of a trial, nor would my Beast allow me to passively accept my fate – its instinct for survival was too strong.

Though finally free, for the first time, I was also without a haven.  Despite the work I did as her Voice, Darine was the true master of Toronto, and I had few allies that were not hers, and those few lacked the power or resolve to shelter me.  I fled the city before a Blood Hunt could be formerly called, making my way to the only place I had ever truly felt at home.  I returned to Chicago.

Much had changed in the long decades since I fled the ghost of Michael, but now he haunted me no more.  While it took time to adjust to the new city,  soon it was home again.  Old haunts became familiar once more, and within a year it was as if I had never left.  True, the last time I dwelt in Chicago I was a living, breathing woman whose heart beat and whose love lived, while now I was an unliving predator of the night, but other than that minor detail it was the same.  Or so I told myself.

I was allowed the fantasy for three years.  I stalked the night, punished the wicked and preserved the innocent.  I eluded my pursuers from Toronto, even came to grow complacent in my security.  I dwelt too long in the same haven, forgetting the lesson of constant movement, and the Blood Hunt tracked me down.  I had just fed when two fledglings cornered me, taking me by surprise.  They move in, assured of their victory.

I suppose no one had ever told them my history, or they may have been more wary.  I may have lost the initiative, but my blood was much stronger than theirs, and I had honed my hunting instincts over six decades.  Without a chance for escape, my Beast slipped its leash and took over; instinct is its province, and it was able to use every bit of experience to destroy my pursuers.  The poor Childer never stood a chance.

I managed to rechain my Beast before it drove me to drain them as I had Darine, and instead I took their heads to ensure they would pursue me no more.  After that, both I and my hunters would be more wary.  The illusion of home had weakened me, and if I were to survive, I could not remain in Chicago.  Once more, I left my home, driven away by spectres of my past.

And so ends my tale.  I live now on the run, staying never long in one place.  Of the twelve that stalked me, four remain.  One other has fallen to my Beast, facing Final Death as the price for my sin, while the others have simply been convinced their prey far too dangerous to pursue.   My blood – of the eighth generation, only seven removed from Caine himself – is too tempting a prize for the rest to give up, and so the hunt goes on.

I have been granted a brief reprise, as the latest two to retreat from the hunt have taken their leave (one has an arm to regrow, a task we Kindred are capable of, given time and blood.)  It was time enough to complete this confession, but I have already lingered too long.  While I expect those two shall not return, I harbour no illusion that my location will not be revealed to the others, and I must not linger long.

I hear a noise outside.  It is probably them.  The traps I have laid should afford me some time to prepare; they, too, must learn that I am dangerous prey.   Let this stand, then, as my last testament.  The hunters come.

My Beast roars, and hungers for blood.