Somehow, Julian puts himself between the massive Frank Beato, and Karl Bauer without having to physically impose himself. It's the Dragon's turn to rest a hand on Karl's shoulder, though he is turned to Beato. There is a cold, dangerous look in the man's eyes, but his words are flat and emotionless. "Very good," he says coolly, "then it is settled. Let's get moving. Karl, you will be with me and Anna." There is a moment where it seems Julian is about to curl his lips back and expose his fangs, show his fangs and snarl and possibly even go wild on Beato, but the moment passes.

Julian turns and begins to lead the way back towards Gorman's haven, not waiting for anyone to follow. He flourishes the saber too as he makes his way to the door, and suddenly, the rest of the gathered vampires are falling in behind him. The entrance into the haven is unobstructed. The march down the stairs is not noteworthy, even though they seem uncharacteristically long, uncharacteristically narrow, and completely unlit.

At the bottom of the stairs, Julian, Karl, Anna and Lillith find themselves in a dark narrow hallway that splits in two directions. Only the predatory preternatural vision of the Kindred allows them to see any details in this blackness. The walls are made of concrete bricks, and a thin layer of yellowish grime has seemed to collect there. A look at the floor shows that it is smeared with blood; old blood that collected and coagulated on the floor over a long time, staining the dirty brown carpeting with black puddles and smears like a long narrow rorschach test. The hallways isn't too long, moving in one direction towards what looks like a laundry room, filled with a pile of filled and closed black plastic trash bags. In the other direction, the hallways leads to a door. But piled up in front of the door are three dead bodies. Unlike the animated corpses, these appear to be at least years old; deteriorated rotted corpses that have been arranged like furniture. The three bodies form what appears to be a family, a headless father tall and thin in his dark and dirty suit, a headless mother in a fifties era blouse and white kitchen apron stained maroon at the neck, and a child. The boy's face is rot and bone, its clothes nothing more than cheese cloth and spider webs. But the hair is pristine blonde curls, a perfect collection of locks that that could belong to a wig.

The bodies sit rested on the ground before the door, skeletal arms locked around each other, inanimate and eyeless.