The Bureau Of Loopholes

Sirius Black sprinted up the stairs as though chased with an axe. The railings were optional. Walls were annoyances. People in his way were obstacles, and were stiff-armed to the side accordingly. He dismissed the pounding aftereffects of a hangover as just another thing that was trying to prevent him from getting to work on time.

Sirius worked with the Committee for Experimental Charms and Curses. Unless you fancied having your legs switched with your arms, punctuality was mandatory.

He stumbled out of the stairwell, regained his balance in a few lunging steps, and tore past the closed doors of the upper hallway. His watch's second hand ticked inexorably toward the twelve, and Sirius threw his last ounce of speed into a dive through room 521's doorway . . .

. . . and into his seat.

Mackenzie Callahan, head of this branch of the Committee, frowned at the disheveled, panting man, but deigned a comment unnecessary. Sirius was, inexplicably, almost three seconds early.

"If we're through with bouncing into doors, I'll read out your assignments for the day," he droned, somehow contriving to flatten his Irish lilt into a paradigm of dullness. "McFadden, you will be perfecting the follicle-modifying charm. Let Mr. Kantes' state be an, ahem, example." The eyes of every witch and wizard turned toward Johan Kantes, whose head was bald and sporting a mass of iridescent scales. The scales hadn't been part of the original plan. "Rabedeau, you are to help Kantes in finding a descaling charm that has an effect on human heads. Clouden, Pär, and Black, you will continue your work on a more convenient form of a long-distance communication spell." Sirius flashed a thumbs-up at Yariv Pär, who grinned back. Mr. Callahan rolled his eyes and, by strength of condescension, the rest of his head as well. "Leonhart, you will alter the aroma of your perfume charm."

"But sir, it has eliminated the bad odors of my test subject," she argued. Natasha Stanislav, the unfortunate victim of her charm, glared.

"It has also eliminated every other odor of the test subject!" Natasha hissed, and pulled a small crystal bottle of perfume from her purse. She removed the cap and sprayed a mist of the stuff at her face. Sirius caught a brief whiff of something overpoweringly sweet before it disappeared into a black hole of smell.

"We all know, Mrs. Stanislav. Miss Leonhart will also work on a countercharm. Stanislav, you will be devising an eyeliner charm. And Ingenborg . . .." He paused. "Where is Miss Olga Ingenborg?"

Yariv Pär tried unsuccessfully to hide a snigger. Olga was late. Chances were high that Olga would be leaving work with a bald head, or only audible if you stood twenty feet away, or reeking of roses. Mackenzie Callahan saw no point in wasting a perfectly good chance to make an example.

"When Miss Ingenborg chooses to grace us with her presence, we will find some suitable task for her. Until then, I suggest you all go to your labs." With a particularly dull glare from his particularly dull, hooded eyes, he indicated that they were already a nanosecond later than he'd like them to be.

Yariv slid out of his seat and hurried over to Sirius' side. "I've had this fascinating idea! Perhaps we could bewitch some objects . . . blocks of wood, maybe . . . so that we could talk into them, and the sound could carry over into another block of wood that someone else was holding!"

Sirius frowned. "Blocks of wood?" Yariv possibly suffered from some northern form of psychosis. "How would the sound carry between the blocks of wood, exactly?"

Waldenius Clouden limped over to the conference room's door (where he'd leaned his walking stick) and followed his partners out and down the hall. "Maybe some bits of string? Dead easy, bewitching string. I once had a rope that I'd coil around me shoulders, and it'd move like a snake when me mum came into the room."

"What happened to the string?" Yariv asked. He stopped at their lab's door, took out a keyring, and got the door unlocked. He then opened it for the older man and kicked a cardboard box out of the way; its contents, which were mainly canned drinks from the vending machine downstairs, clanked and rolled across the floor.

"It tried to choke me one day, and I beat it to death with me stick," Waldenius declared proudly. "Might we have some blocks of wood and string lying about?"

Sirius swept a clutter of notes off of their counter and opened the lab's main cabinet. It contained a few more notes, a broken quill pen, two pots of ink, a broken wand that was oozing green liquids across the shelf, five bottles, a ruler, a book, scissors, a knut, and . . . "We've got acres of string, but no blocks of wood to speak of."

Yariv picked up a can of root beer from the floor, checked it carefully for signs of tamper, and then wiggled the tab back and forth. "There's got to be something else we can use." He finally succeeded in breaking it open and gulped down about half of the can. "Here, have a root beer--it's sort of flat and warm, but they never expire."

Sirius stooped to pick up two cans, then passed one to Waldenius. "Got to be careful about your back, old man."

"Old? I'm seventy-three!" He reached over and whacked Sirius with his cane. "What else could we speak into?" Thoughtfully, the man seated himself on a cardboard box and sipped at the root beer.

Sloshing the dregs of the drink around, Sirius frowned. "Have you ever stood under a metal bridge and talked? Or in a really big pipe?"

Yariv nodded, regarding his can with considerably more interest. "It echoed a lot."

"And see, there's this convenient tab, and it has a hole right here . . .." Sirius threaded the string through the tab with utmost care, and tied it in a neat, tight knot. Yariv cut the string about twelve meters down and began tying the end of it to his tab.

Waldenius, having grasped the idea, cut off another six meters of string and tied one end to his own empty can. He then tied the other end of the string to the center of Yariv and Sirius' string.

"Dead easy, bewitching string. We want the sound to carry down it . . . Sonoritwinus!" called the old man, pointing his wand at the string as he shouted the patently improvised spell. "And now you get to the hall, and I'll stand in here . . . shut the door behind you, boys . . .."

Sirius and Yariv stepped outside, moving as far apart as the string and the constraints of the hallway would allow. Soon, Yariv heard Waldenius' voice through the can.

"D'you hear me?"

"I do! I do! Sirius, we've done it!" Yariv cried, throwing his can in the air. It clinked on the ceiling. Sirius felt like screaming as well. "And maybe we can . . . trap a fairy in the can, and it'd start shrilling when someone was trying to talk through the can with you . . .."

A door opened, and Hildegard Leonhart poked her head out. "What's the shouting about?"

"We've done it! Long-distance communication, without the fireplace!" Sirius waved the can at her, and she sighed theatrically.

"Congratulations, boys. You've succeeded in reinventing the tin-can phone."

 

Lucius Malfoy was the kind of man who made you sit up very straight when he passed. He exuded menace, not by any manner of dress or bearing but simply by virtue of existing. It was not at all a shock that he lived in a mansion with imposing gothic architecture. His wealth was obvious. Even his nearly-Aryan appearance hinted at an opulence gained by not entirely moral means. Taking all of this into consideration, it was not surprising that he was meeting the henchmen of a man known as 'The Dark Lord'. Though it might have been more according to protocol if they had been meeting somewhere a bit more atmospheric.

"Welcome to Mario's Italian Eatery, spaghetti with a smile. May I take your order?" The waitress' voice meandered between abject boredom, complete disinterest, and gum-chewing monotony. She had an American accent that made Avery wince, and her chewing put Lucius in mind of a cow.

Severus Snape raised a hand. "Just iced tea," he volunteered, and picked at his uncomfortable Muggle suit. It had been Lucius' idea to meet here, and so there was probably some kind of rationale for the decision, but that didn't make him feel any more charitable toward the tweed trousers and coat.

"Coffee. Black. Caffeine. And the Fettuccini Alfredo," Malfoy added. Snape noticed with annoyance that he was wearing a silk shirt and loose cotton trousers--probably much more comfortable, and certainly less bloody embarrassing than tweed.

"What's your soup of the day?" Avery asked, shifting in the seat. His orange polyester suit was an eyesore in the dim restaurant. The waitress chewed lazily for a moment, then looked at her order pad.

"Minestrone." Chew, chew.

"I'll have that, then . . . and some red wine, please."

"Any kind you want?" She shifted her gum to the other side of her mouth.

"Merlot."

"We don't got it."

Avery paused, looking at the others. "Um, Chianti, then." Scribbling on the order pad ensued.

"I got you as an iced tea for you's in the tweed, black caff and Fettuccini Alfredo for you's in black, and minestrone and a Chianti for you's in orange."

"That's right. Now, if you would be so kind . . .?" It would have been expected for 'if you would be so kind' to sound similar to 'if you'd prefer not to be dismembered', but there was only polite sincerity in Lucius' voice. He folded his menu and handed it to her, gesturing for the others to follow suit.

"Gotcha." The waitress meandered toward the kitchen, and they watched her until she was out of earshot.

Snape was the first to speak. "Why a Muggle restaurant?"

Lucius' disdainful glance toured the room, taking in the plastic booths and uncleared tables, the dim lights and the garish paintings on the walls, and above all the lack of patronage. "Do you want someone to overhear us and understand what we're talking about?"

"Why not your study, then?" Avery asked, leaning over the table with his hands clasped under his chin.

"Because we're meeting someone else, Avery. Someone who might help you with your . . . situation."

"My situation?"

"With Lord Voldemort, of course." Avery twitched at the mention of the name. Even Death Eaters used euphemisms whenever possible. "Or don't you remember the fallout after you--"

"I remember!" Avery carefully laid his napkin on his lap and arranged his silverware around his plate. "Don't remind me. How . . . how can this man help me?" And then a thought struck him. "Why are you helping me? What will you get out of this?"

Lucius and Severus exchanged a glance. This had been a spur-of-the-moment meeting with a hasty plan behind it; it wouldn't work at all if their contact in the DMLE were wrong or lying. They hadn't thought to come up with a motive for helping Avery. "We're helping you because we'd like a favor in return. We may need it at some later time."

Avery nodded and ran a hand through his receding hair. He was vain, and fretted over the scalp that was appearing like sand at low tide. "I hope you can help me. If you get me back in our Lord's good graces, you can have almost any favor you want."

The waitress returned with their drinks, tossing some packets of sugar and a straw down in front of Snape. He stared at the jaunty lemon slice that lounged on the edge of the glass with distaste, then picked up a packet of sugar, tearing the top off and sprinkling it in his tea. The ice in the glass might have melted under his glare.

The bell over the door tinkled, and a man stalked in. He wore his anger like a sandwich board. After a quick survey of the mostly empty room, his eyes flashed to the three men in their booth. "Malfoy? Which man is Malfoy?" Lucius lifted his coffee in a mock-salute. "Why did you send for me? I need to talk to Mr. Claret. I must hurry."

Lucius turned to Avery. "This man is a werewolf. He is part of a movement for werewolf . . . and vampire . . . rights, and they have graciously invited our, hmm, club to a banquet in the near future." He noticed the man's broken nose. "However did you do that?"

Carlos Leone's upper lip lifted, baring his teeth. His eyes were cruel with hatred. "Your DMLE hurt me for trying to tell others what was done to us. There are other bruises and scars as well. Blood and tears shed! Mataron a mi gente!" He growled as he spoke, and his strong Spanish accent made the words almost unintelligible, but his fury carried. Even as his last word barked into the silence of the room, he seethed in the pure language of the trapped beast.

Snape mixed the sugar into his tea with his straw. "We can help you. We in the, er, D.E. Club have money and influence." He glanced at Avery and then back at Carlos, hoping that the other man would see what he had seen in the Leaky Cauldron last night.

And he could see it. He could see the lean muscles on the gaunt man, the violence, the hatred of the government. The raw potential. "Are there many of you who feel this way? It's an outrage that you and your kin should be so mistreated!" Avery tried an indignant expression in hopes that it would elicit a response.

"Many of us! Diego and I know more than fifty in Britain. More than that in Spain!" He grinned, but the hatred was still in his eyes. "We are peaceful, for now. But we could be strong if we chose." The smile was suddenly canny. "Why you want me? For a cause? For a charity? You English feel guilty. You saw how your men killed us. You want to make me your charity?"

"No, not at all. We want to help you. You have good reason to be angry at our government--look at what it's done to you!--and we want you to be able to gain those civil rights you want. You could go far toward achieving your goals, and our leader can help all of you. We'll have a representative from the D.E. Club at the banquet to talk to you and anyone else who feels the same way. Be sure to bring your supporters--we'd like to help as many as we can." If Carlos was a wolf at bay, Lucius was the calm, unblinking, expressionless snake.

Carlos nodded slowly. He was a dangerous man, and perhaps he had picked up the thinly veiled subtext in Lucius' careful words. "I will tell them about your offer. Thank you. I must go now--I need to talk to Mr. Claret. But thank you." He walked away and out the door, more thoughtful than he had been upon entering.

As one, Lucius and Severus turned to Avery, who was grinning like an utter fool. "That's how we can help you. More than fifty recruits for the Dark Lord, strong, dangerous, and with nothing to lose. All yours. All of the credit can be yours. But there is a price." Lucius waited a moment for effect. "Seven hundred and fifty galleons, payable to Lemuel Claret's Gringotts account."

Avery looked back and forth between the men, but the glee was still there. "Would that count as my favor to you?"

Another glance exchanged. "Fine." Severus shook Avery's hand. "I hope you realize how grateful you should be."

The waitress moseyed out of the kitchen, carrying a food-laden tray. "Who was yelling in Spanish back there? Brought me right back to Florida for a second." There were palm trees and sunshine in her voice when she spoke again. "Who ordered minestrone?"

 

Todd and Sevigny Rental Offices was a four-story building in the center of Muggle London's least prosperous business district. The cement bricks were stained with soot from the heating furnace's chimney and rust from the metal window frames. Letters over the door stated that this was "odd and Sevy Retal fices"; the rest of the letters had been stolen at some point and never replaced. No respectable person would have been caught dead within forty meters of the place.

Fortunately, respectability wasn't important to Remus Lupin or Peter Pettigrew. They strode down the sidewalk, inconspicuous in Muggle short-sleeved shirts and denim trousers, headed to Todd and Sevigny, and opened the grey metal doors with little concern for their surroundings.

An "Out of order" sign was affixed with masking tape to the elevator doors; from the yellowed look of the tape and the paper, the elevator hadn't worked for years. Remus passed the elevator without a second glance and headed directly for a steel door labeled "Stairs". The spiral stairs were clanging iron and lacked a railing. Peter eyed the spray-painted graffiti on the stairwell's walls with distaste--though his office building was equally shabby, it was always clean. This place was contaminated. It was festering like a dirtied wound.

Other painters, armed with the same spray paint but perhaps better intentions, had scrawled numbers on the steel doors that opened to the various floors. The second-floor door was missing a handle, and had been propped open with a chip of wood so that it could be used without forcing anyone to waste the expense of a new handle.

At the third floor, Remus paused and opened the door. Peter stepped through first, peering around at the hospital ecru of the walls. The doors were numbered with wooden plaques, only one of which seemed to have been stolen. Some doors even had nameplates.

"Why is this floor nicer?" Peter asked as his friend headed down the hall to the right.

"It's the only one that still has offices. The owners started renting out the first-floor offices as apartments to cover expenses, and then the ones on the second floor went. The fourth floor suffered a fire, and no one bothered to repair the damages after they collected the insurance money." He stopped at room 337 and knocked.

"Who's there?" The question seemed to catch Remus off-guard, as if he'd never been asked that before.

"It's Remus Lupin," he ventured.

A different, more familiar voice called, "Come in." Muttering followed. Remus opened the door with care and stepped inside slowly, motioning for Peter to follow.

A rented office is a very predictable place. It invariably has nondescript, off-white walls with cracked and flaking paint, and generally has a permanent smell of cigarette smoke and old paper. If you search through the filing cabinets that line it, you'll always find a few papers that some previous tenant has left behind. There are coffee-rings on the wooden desk in the center, smoke-stains and water-stains on the ceiling, and ink-stains on the floor (which needs new finish). The lights will always flicker after you've flipped the switch, and erratically blink throughout the day. Sometimes, there will be a window; if so, it always opens onto the dingy and graffiti-streaked building across the street. In an attempt to add personality, the current tenant will usually hang cheery paintings or motivational slogans on the walls.

This was, for the most part, an accurate description of the place into which Peter stepped. The main difference was that the woman and two men hunched over the desk had not been mentioned.

One man was Lemuel Claret, who sat in the cracked-plastic swivel chair behind the desk. The other man was tall, thin, and had a mass of long, tawny hair. He also had a broken nose. The woman was short, plump, pale, and wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses.

"What have you found about the legal matters?" Lemuel asked directly, leaning over the desk.

Remus smiled, regaining his composure. "It's legal for us, as citizens of the wizarding community, to congregate wherever we like as long as we have permission from the property-owner. A part of the inalienable rights."

"And," Peter added as the thought came to him, "I don't see how you could press charges for the massacre we suffered; we didn't have permission to be on the minister's lawn, and the police are allowed to be as brutal as they like if the people apprehended seem to pose a threat."

"Hijos de putas!" breathed the man with the broken nose. "They can do something like this and face no penalty?" His Spanish accent was very pronounced.

"No penalty whatsoever," the woman murmured, shaking her head. "They make me sick!"

Mr. Claret took a few notes in shorthand, using a Muggle ballpoint pen with red ink. "Do you think we could arrange for Mr. Librian to put something in his advertisements about the victims? To ask those who've lost loved ones to send me the names of the dead?"

"Yes. If only to let it needle anyone who sees the advertisements. To remind them what we've suffered, and make them feel guilty enough to help us." The woman took off her glasses and rubbed them clean on her mannish trousers. "Give them their own 'red collar' of guilt, eh, Carlos?"

The Spaniard smiled at her. "No one has worn a red collar for decades, Imiszke. But every time I try to get a wizard job . . ."

"Every time I try to even participate in wizard society . . ." she added, fingering her throat. "Every time, they know. Everyone has access to all of my personal information. They know my name, my age, my home, my jobs, my family and friends, my school records . . . we have no privacy! No right to keep even one detail of ourselves to ourselves!"

"Anyone can look through your files whenever they want. DMLE offices keep them all in a filing cabinet marked Werewolves . . ." Remus continued. "Anyone who cares to look me up would know that I got fifteen points taken from Gryffindor in my first year for deliberately transfiguring Professor McGonagall's hat. And I don't have to tell any of you what that means for my credibility whenever I try to get anything accomplished."

Peter looked around at Carlos, Imiszke, and finally his longtime friend, Remus. "I never knew any of this. I thought you had full confidentiality. I thought . . . aren't you allowed to keep anything private?"

Lemuel Claret shook his head as Carlos laughed shortly, and spoke in a slightly sarcastic monotone that suggested he had given this speech many times. "Werewolves are dangerous. They have no control over this, and so the British Ministry seems to believe that every other aspect of their lives has to be strictly regulated and observed to make up for it. Even their transformations aren't their own--they have to keep strict records of where they transform and have a respected member of society (meaning a non-werewolf) vouch for them."

Peter knew that part of the story. The letters that Remus wrote and got Dumbledore to sign (supposedly letters to his sick relatives) had later been revealed as records of his nightly transformation that contained the address of the Shrieking Shack, the times when the transformation began and ended, and whether any humans, animals, or property had been damaged. But Remus had not written everything . . . no one was interested in the damage he had caused himself during the first few years, and he didn't take note of his monthly adventures with his friends in later years.

"What is it like for vampires?" Peter asked. He wanted his files. He wanted to be looking through his manila folders in search of these regulations. Surrounded by papers, he could make sense of the laws that these people lived with day by day.

It would have been natural for Lemuel Claret to answer. But Carlos spoke instead. "In Spain, vampires are killed for trying to enter the country. Werewolves may be killers, but they are only deadly--" and these words had a scornful, terrifying bite "--during the full moon. Vampires are always killers. Vampires cannot be suffered to live."

With a delicate, conciliatory gesture, Mr. Claret took the discussion. "Every country has a different policy. I've lived in Japan since 1911, and at that time they were as barbaric toward vampires as Spain, Romania, the Philippines, and Italy are today. Since then, their image of vampires has changed, but only because vampire society has changed. We made the decision to live without giving in to the blood craving. We chose to act nonviolently. We agreed that any one vampire's transgression was the fault of the society for failing to educate its members, and agreed to accept humane punishment for our failings. There are now rehabilitation clinics for blood addicts in Tokyo and Osaka. Japan has a vampire's list of rights--no other country has one." He smiled. "I've accomplished this. It was . . . it was hard. Harder than you can imagine. But I think we can have the same success here." Again, though his words were passionate, they carried the fluidity of long-repeated syllables.

Silence came. Peter's silence was awe. Imiszke and Carlos were strangers, and he could not understand their quiet. But he could see that Remus was searching for a reply, weighing the words he had heard and wondering what he could say to this pronouncement.

Imiszke shook off the silence more quickly than the rest. "It won't help your cause if I stand in your office all day. I must to get to work, but I promise to look at the Great Dome Diner right after. Matthias and I will have the first plans ready for you in no more than two days, all right?" She waited for Mr. Claret's nod before inclining in a slight, awkward bow and taking her leave.

"And I will tell my people what you have told me. That we should not fight each other . . . or take revenge for what they do to us." Carlos seemed to have trouble saying this. "We would follow you into battle, if you had the courage to lead us." He probed his broken nose, then bowed his head as well and stalked away, clearly unsatisfied.

Lemuel turned, looking up at Peter and Remus. His face was beginning to show age in the tugging wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead, but for all they knew he might have looked like this for fifty years. He exuded harmlessness and a desire to please, like a pit-bull puppy that kept itself in check for love of its master. "Can I do anything else I can do for you two?" he asked.

Remus paused, shaking his head as though still trying words for a reply. "I see Imiszke and the Tuomalas and others, and . . . they're helping people. They're actually doing something to make a difference. I want to do something real. Not just protesting or finding some listed law, but . . . I'll do whatever you think I should. Whatever will help others." He was still shaking his head, brown-grey eyes half closed, unsatisfied with how he had phrased his offer.

"Learn and teach." The werewolf looked up at the sudden, simple order. "Learn about our people. Learn why we are different, why we can or cannot control our conditions, how we came to be. Learn the laws under which we've lived, and how they've changed. We need that information . . . and there is too much that I have to do. I could not learn it in the time I have, and even if I made time, not as thoroughly as you could. I have seen the way you work at your studies and on our projects--with everything you have. Could you do this for us? Give everything you have to find this information for us?" For us--not for the man, not for the cause, but for the thousands who had to deal with their conditions for the rest of their lives. Remus might not have found the conviction to agree to this tall order for Lemuel Claret, and the cause was just hot air with hope behind it, but the people . . . he could not disappoint them.

"And . . . teach?" Peter asked, feeling a power that had nothing to do with wands or chanting funny words--the power of intent. Potential.

The sheepish smile that responded to his question dashed the intensity of the moment. "The children in programs like Cub Aid get food and shelter while their parents are forced to cope with lycanthropy or vampirism or other conditions, but they aren't being educated. Iva and Urho are saints already, and there's only so much they can do. The truth is--" He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a folder. "The truth is, only about thirty people in Britain are currently participating in some kind of aid program for our kind." Lemuel tapped the folder. "There are twelve organizations in all. Four are vampire counseling meetings; one of these takes hags as well. Two try to provide Wolfsbane potion for those who can't afford it or brew it themselves. Two are shelters for homeless H.W.A.I.P.C. The other four aid the children of H.W.A.I.P.C. These last six are full of impoverished men, women, and children. Most of them have never had a magical education; those who have went to Winston Hall." Wince. "They are unable to function in the Muggle world or the magical world. They will never move past this poverty unless they are educated."

"And I've had magical and Muggle education." Remus nodded. "How do I begin?"

"Could I help? I may not be much good at magic, but I could teach the adults how to use typewriters for Muggle jobs, or algebra," Peter added eagerly. "I'll bet that some of them are eligible for financial aid, too, and the workers should probably be getting compensation for their time and community service . . . maybe I should just focus on law. I'm good at wrestling money out of government hands."

"You can help us in that way, then--we need money to fund our protest. And Mr. Lupin, you can begin by visiting shelters and teaching as you see fit. But remember that these are homeless people. They don't need to know how to make colored sparks, they need solid vocational skills."

"I understand. Do you know the locations of any of the shelters?"

The vampire opened his folder, leafing through sheets of paper. Eventually, he found the one he was seeking. "Some of these shelters are connected to the Floo Network. Their call words are written by their names. The others have addresses listed."

"Thank you. I'll try to stop by tonight." Remus took the proffered paper, creasing it in half and then in half twice more and slipping it into his back pocket. He looked around the small office again. "Is there anything else I can do?"

A moment of intent flickered behind Mr. Claret's eyes, but he shook his head. "No. Nothing else that you can do. It was good to see you again, Mr. Lupin."

"Thank you. I hope we have success as you did in Japan. Goodbye." Remus patted his back pocket and moved toward the door. His friend Peter attempted a deep bow, overbalanced, caught himself, and smiled an apology as he waved in farewell and followed the werewolf outside.

The dark wooden door closed behind them with a slight creak of hinges. Lemuel blinked, then put his folder back into a desk drawer. He folded a hand over the smooth wood of the desk, feeling its uneven grain under his fingers as his other hand toyed with the pen. He closed his eyes.

Oh, there were successes in Japan. Japan was his triumph, his crowning glory, his one victory. If he failed everywhere else, they would always remember him for Japan. And he would always remember Japan. No one who had lived through those days could forget.

The country's defeat had been the catalyst. After the second World War, beaten Nippon had turned its efforts toward rebuilding and progress, with no time for persecution. Men once filled with a hunger for blood now knew the taste, had choked and retched and vomited with the taste of it. Vampires returned from war in China with minds so full of the sight of blood and cruelty that they could no longer stomach it. In the eyes of Japan's underground vampire population, it had seemed the perfect time for their own progress.

Anonymous letters to the Prime Minister of Nippon's magical community were the only protests made at first. Careful, polite words in calligraphy spilled down page after page and were disregarded. Thousands of sheets of paper, all painstakingly filled with black ink pleas, were read and discounted. Then the first red letter had been sent.

No one knew who had sent the first red letter, but many would have paid dearly to know. The Minister offered a bounty for his head. The leader of the black letters campaign wanted to reprimand him. And the secret, angry vampire youth of Nippon wanted to hold him high and name him savior. Freedom at any price. We will not leave. Accept the vampires, or we will conquer you. These words written in red ink like a child's blood.

The youth who had known no war to curb their bloodlust took up the cry of hatred. More red letters flooded in to Tokyo. And then they had turned to violence. An Angel of Light, a Japanese Auror, was found hanging from a tree outside of Tokyo. His wrists had been slashed before he had died, and the red letter message had been painted on the tree in his blood. Freedom at any price. We will not leave. Accept the vampires, or we will conquer you. In a month, the young vampires killed twenty Angels of Light throughout Japan. In Kobe, where Lemuel had lived at the time, these corpses became known as Angel Lanterns.

Even as his brethren murdered, Lemuel continued to follow the peace-seekers. He remembered everything that he had done in China and wanted no part in killing. A once-concerted movement had split into two factions, and each faction hated the other. Sometimes hated the other more than the government. Everyone should have known what was coming.

Bloody Kobe. The Kobe Massacre. The Kobe Thirst. He still didn't know how it had started, but he had been there to watch the end. He had watched his friends and allies kill each other, screaming threats as they shot or stabbed or flung hexes and curses. Muggles--that was their name in Britain--were brought down in the melee as vampires fought each other, and Angels of Light tried to intervene without success. Blood had run down the street in rivulets like fingers of destruction. And some of the vampires had put their faces to the ground and licked the gore from the street, smearing their faces and clothes and hands with carnage.

Lemuel remembered watching the few surviving men and women claw at each other before succumbing to their thirst and abandoning the fray. And he remembered walking down the bloody road, picking his way amid bloodless bodies and severed limbs and torn clothing.

The bodies had been burned, the blood scoured away, and the protest saved . . . but that bloody street in Kobe remained locked away in Lemuel's head. Whenever the urge to gulp at torn veins threatened to overpower him, the images of the Kobe Massacre kept him strong.

There had been success in Japan, but there had been failure beyond measure. He opened his eyes.

The ballpoint pen snapped in clenched fingers, its plastic splintering and the ink soaking into Lemuel's hands. He shuddered as the dark, thick red liquid oozed across his palm and onto the cheap lacquer of the desk.