Kindred get used to moonlight, after a while. It’s something that human beings always have held in a certain reverence; they say that in India women can “taste the moon” in something that was cooked outdoors under the moonglow. But for Kindred, to remark on the beauty of the moon over Lake Michigan would be a little, well, peculiar. Especially for the pragmatic Carthians. But ah, there it was.
Costas Petrakis strolled in that moonlight, and since beauty begets beauty (of a sort), he was softly singing to himself. It was out of key, but tuneful enough.
“The In-ter-na-tion-a-leeee, you-niiites the Kindred race…“
He made it to the Art Museum and took a seat on a bench to think things over. How long, now, since that night in St. Stan’s? A few months? Five or six, anyway. And now two new punks on the scene…
“The ‘stallis kid was… well, okay, there’s no two ways about it. He’s fucked up. He just took to the whole “feed on people” thing a little too easily, come to think about it. He just jumped on that guy I dropped. But he’s angry, and anger gets you far. He’s not felt the Beast in him proper, not yet, but there’s time for that. Diamonds in the rough. Or Semtex, anyway.
That other motherfucker, though… Jesus Christ! What the flying, pig-fuck was Georgia thinking?! You’d be hard-put to find a better example of the idle rich, dumb-as-fuck bourgeoisie and we let him into the fucking Movement? And his dad is a Goddamn senator! This is trouble, man, this is bad news. He’s too fucking dumb to figure out yet what being one of the Damned really means but when he does… shit! Fuck! He’ll go run to his dad to fix it, and then we’re all proper fucked.”
Costas clenched his hands on the bench railings. They left fingermarks in the metal… But it calmed him down. If he still breathed, he’d be breathing normally again.
“Okay. Okay. Maybe the kid’s got his uses. Maybe Alain’s right and his money is what we need to get things rolling properly. And if daddy sends his fucking running dogs around, well, we all know what happens to dogs that get sent after wolves. That’s what I’m around for, I guess. Resident wolf. Well, heh, resident wolf and bomb-maker.”
Costas’ anger had subsided for the moment. “We’ll see how things play out”, he told himself. He walked towards Prospect and “home”, leaving nothing behind but the slightly damaged bench and the last few strains of “The Internationale”, both soon swallowed up by the dark.
And the moon remained.