"I was starting to think we were the only ones left," the Sheriff says. "I'm glad the two of you made it out of that deathtrap." He gestures at a circle scorched deep into the floor. "One of the fugitives we followed stepped on this and disappeared. We'll head back and round up the ones who weren't destroyed for questioning." He cranes his neck to look behind you and Jordan. "Is Kashif back there? There's something I need to ask him."
"He's not with you?" Jordan asks.
Qui shakes his head. "Shit. Either he got himself destroyed or—" He cuts himself off. "We'll find out soon enough when we tally up the damage out there."
Daphne is sitting sullenly on a small metal chair in the opposite corner of the room. She's recovered some of her haughtiness since the interrogation—looking at her now, you have little doubt that she really is the privileged childe of the Prince of Quebec City, as she claims.
"We need to move before it's too late," a familiar voice says from the other end of the room. You step inside, and while you're not entirely surprised to find Henrik Lang was discovered among his fellow Tremere, the fact that he's stripped naked and shackled to the wall is rather shocking. Deep wounds score the Primogen's arms, chest, and legs, seeping sluggishly in twisting rivulets of vitae snaking downward, collecting into a small trough at his feet. An open box on the table beside him contains several vials filled with a dark red liquid. It doesn't take an active imagination to realize what's been going on. "You have to listen to what I'm saying, James," Lang insists, pulling at his restraints. "You're not seeing the bigger picture!"
"You know not to call me that, Henrik," Qui growls, palming a thick wooden stake. "Another word and this goes right through your heart."