You were back in the States, dead broke and with a headache that never fully went away, staying at the house of a "friend" who pitied you more than liked you. That evening, you stood on the little wrought-iron balcony, watching the sun set over a city you didn't like, idly making plans to leave. Maybe you would reenlist. Maybe you'd take up that job offer. Maybe you'd kill yourself. You couldn't decide.
When your roommate shouted at you to carry a box of his old shit to Goodwill, you shrugged and went downstairs with it. Of course, Goodwill was closed. And when you came back it was night, the door was locked, and no one would answer their phone.
And then a shadow detached itself from the wall of the alley.
When you rose again, burning with Hunger and sticky with your own blood, your killer did not call you Kindred, or Cainite, or "vampire." First, you learned about your clan, your lineage—a bloodline that existed since before history, before all cities except one.
Your killer said you belonged to—