Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.
— Matthew 7:15
Standing in a shadowy doorway, Dan peered up and down the ruined street. Nothing moved, nor did he hear any bipedal footsteps, just vermin scurrying and the dilapidated buildings creaking and groaning their way toward collapse. He waited another moment and then, sacrificing the invisibility his immobility had afforded him, stalked on down the cracked and broken sidewalk.
Dan had discovered that Wyatt and the other anarchs had laid claim to an entire deserted block near the Port of Tampa. Despite overcrowding and the hordes of the homeless that increasingly choked their streets, many cities had such vacant sections: blighted areas where memories of ghastly tragedies, sinister rumors or merely an ominous vibe in the air served to drive the kine away. Sometimes indigenous vampires were the cause of the problem. Sometimes they weren’t, but settled in such places after the humans had cleared out, availing themselves of the privacy the isolation afforded.
The anarchs spent much of their time together in the abandoned auto repair shop. Frequently they even slept there. But each one also had a private retreat. By keeping his eyes open, Dan had discovered which crumbling, gargoyle-encrusted, yellow-brick building housed Wyatt's personal refuge, and he meant to search the place tonight while his new friends were supposedly out hunting.
Abruptly, sensing a presence peering down at him from above, he tensed. Reminding himself that he hadn’t done anything indisputably illicit yet, though his stealthy advance down the block might well have roused an observer’s suspicions, he looked up. A mangy calico cat with a ragged ear and a scabbed-over gash on its shoulder held his gaze for a moment, then spat, wheeled, and vanished through the shattered fourth-floor window of what had once been an office building. Smiling crookedly with relief, the vampire silently wished the other nocturnal predator good hunting, then continued on his way.
Dan still didn’t feel right about betraying the anarchs, but after much soul-searching, he’d decided that he was even more disturbed about the pogrom being launched against the Toreador’s pet humans. He didn’t feel much of an emotional tie to mortals anymore; indeed, he’d drunk a few of them dry and managed to face himself in the mirror afterward. But he still had scruples of a sort, and the thought of such a calculated massacre, in the service of conquest rather than to assuage anyone’s Hunger, sickened him. As far as he was concerned, if Kindred wanted a war, they should fight each other and leave defenseless kine alone.
Moreover, he was worried that Wyatt wasn’t what he seemed. Dan didn’t want to suspect the vampire with the mohawk. The guy had saved his life. But the more he’d thought about it, the more convinced he’d become that Wyatt hadn’t just happened to possess a key that fit the Haitian painter’s door. He’d manufactured one out of thin air. And while it was true that a given vampire’s supernatural abilities were sometimes unique and unpredictable, neither the creation of useful objects by sheer force of will nor the ability to boil an enemy’s blood with a touch were characteristic talents of the Ventrue.
If Wyatt had lied about his bloodline, what else might he have lied about? It was conceivable that the anarch captain had a secret agenda, something that would appall Laurie, Felipe and Jimmy Ray if they knew about it.
But Dan actually hoped not. He hoped that Wyatt was the friendly, trustworthy idealist he seemed. That he could search the rebel leader’s haven and find the name of his contacts in the Movement without anyone ever realizing what he’d done. And that when he relayed his discoveries to Melpomene, who would presumably pass them along to Prince Roger’s people, the Kindred of Sarasota would be content to strike at the generals commanding the offensive against them and leave small-fry like his new friends alone.
Dan took a final look around. As far as he could tell, no one was watching him. Pulling on the yellow work gloves he’d purchased in a hardware store, he strode to the front door of a derelict five-story building. Three floors up, a huge pair of spectacles — an optician’s sign projecting from the sooty brick wall at a right angle — groaned as it swung in the almost nonexistent breeze. Above that the owl carved on the cornice, which the sculptor had chosen to depict with talons outstretched and wings slightly furled as if it were diving, glared down at its seeming prey on the ground.
Dan twisted the doorknob and found that the entrance was locked. He wasn’t surprised. Had he possessed the power to materialize keys at will, he himself would have kept the door to any haven in which he happened to be squatting secured.
Stalking around the building, he checked the windows, whitewashed like cataract-afflicted eyes, and the side and back doors. They were locked, too.
He supposed that somewhere along the line he should have taken the trouble to learn to pick locks, it would be easy enough to break a window, but that would mean abandoning any realistic hope of keeping his intrusion a secret.
Fortunately, a rusty wrought-iron fire escape snaked down the back wall of the building, terminating about ten feet above the alley. He could have jumped that high even before Melpomene permitted him to drink her vitae. He flexed his knees, leaped, and grabbed the guard rail.
The sudden addition of his weight made the fire escape squeal and shudder. For a moment he was afraid that it would tear away from its moorings, dumping him back on the ground and crashing down on top of him, but it didn’t. He swarmed over the rail and began to move along the walkways, testing the upper-story doors and windows.
They were all locked, too. Finally, impatient, knowing that he needed to finish his work before Wyatt returned, and reasoning that the rebel captain would be less likely to notice signs of forcible entry above the ground floor, he drew back his fist and punched a window.
The glass shattered. In the midst of all this stillness, the crash was loud enough to make him wince. He hastily swept the remaining shards out of the window frame and clambered through.
He found himself in what had once been a dentist’s office. Most of the fixtures and fittings were gone, but the chair with its chipped and discolored attached sink remained. Pale rectangles on the dingy walls indicated the spots where the doctor’s diplomas and professional credentials had probably hung.
Dan had always hated going to the dentist, hated the whine and the hot smell of the drilling, the spitting out of the grit, and the Novocain-induced numbness in his mouth hours afterwards.. Reflecting wryly that whatever else he disliked about being a vampire, at least his regenerative powers spared him any more of that particular ordeal, he skulked deeper into the building.
Once he moved a few paces away from the painted windows, there was hardly any light. Even his newly sharpened vision was barely sufficient to allow him to grope his way along. The darkness smelled of rats, rot and dampness. Somewhere in the building, the rain had been leaking in.
He’d already thought about where to begin his search. His intuition, and his sense of Wyatt’s personality, suggested that the vampire with the mohawk would have chosen to reside on the top floor. Prowling down a corridor, he spotted a pair of elevators which, even if Wyatt had bothered to restore power to the building, might well be unsafe. Across from them was a set of stairs. As he set his foot on the flight leading upward, he thought he heard a faint, indefinable stirring in the gloom above him.
Drawing his new pistol, a Herculean Firearms .38 Paladin —- he reflected fleetingly that, since beginning his mission, he’d been running through guns like a kid gobbling M&Ms
— he peered up the staircase. He didn’t see anything lurking in the shadows, not between his position and the landing. Of course, it was possible that someone had just now slipped around the bend in the ascent.
Dan dashed up the risers, turned, and pointed his automatic up the next flight of steps. There was nothing to shoot; the space was empty.
He supposed that he’d probably heard a rat, or that his nerves were playing tricks on him. He hoped not the latter; after the inexplicable fascination he’d felt for the Haitian painter’s pictures, he was already a little worried that he might be cracking up. Scowling, his senses still probing the darkness, he climbed on.
For an instant, just as he emerged onto the top floor, he caught an aromatic whiff of vampire vitae. Startled, gun leveled, he swivelled back and forth.
Once again, there was nothing to see. He supposed that he’d merely smelled a lingering trace of Wyatt’s blood, left behind when, his bullet wounds still not completely healed, the anarch had returned here after the trip to Miami. Commanding himself to get over his jitters, he began to examine the various chambers and suites.
Fortunately, the internal doors weren’t locked. And behind the sixth one he tried, he found the former office that must now be Wyatt’s haven. An air mattress and a sleeping bag sat on a section of floor no sunlight leaking through the painted windows could reach. Ivory-colored candles, glued down with their own wax, lined the built-in bookshelves like a row of severed fingers. Among them reposed an assortment of the anarch’s personal belongings, while a white leather backpack and shotgun case leaned in the corner.
As Dan began to enter the room, he heard a tiny, stealthy pattering. This time the noise was coming from behind him. He spun around and peered down the tenebrous corridor.
He didn’t see anything.
A rat, he told himself, it’s just a damn rat. But he wasn’t quite sure that he believed it. Since Melpomene’s vitae had honed his senses, he’d heard his share of rodents scuttling through walls and heaps of trash, and it seemed to him that the noise he’d just caught had been slightly different. But perhaps that was only his imagination.
He decided he’d better finish his snooping and get out of here before he wigged out completely. He strode on into Wyatt’s refuge and over to the shelves. For a moment he was tempted to light some of the candles, but then realized that Wyatt might smell the smoke when he returned. Better to risk a little eyestrain and poke around in the gloom.
Among the tapers lay a disposable plastic lighter, a handful of pennies, nickels and dimes, and Wyatt’s battery-powered razor. There was also a dainty single-shot pistol covered with ornate scroll work — the kind of weapon ladies had once concealed in their muffs — the kit to oil and clean it, and two hullets. Dan wondered what the rebel, who carried a combat shotgun everywhere and wielded it onehanded, wanted with such a tiny, antiquated weapon. Perhaps it was a memento from his exploits in the previous century.
Beside the gun sat a long, thin, bone-handled knife, a box of colored sidewalk chalk, several rags and a plastic spray bottle of green all-purpose household cleaner. To Dan, the presence of the chalk seemed even stranger than that of the muff pistol. What the heck did Wyatt need with that? He peered about, but couldn’t see any chalk marks anywhere in the room.
Prompted by a sudden hunch, he spritzed a bit of the cleanser into the air. He noted the sharp, astringent smell of the mist, then prowled around, sniffing, searching for another trace of the same odor.
His nose led him to a patch of floor less dirty than the grubby linoleum surrounding it. It was conceivable that Wyatt had been writing or drawing there, then washing away his work when he was through.
For a moment Dan felt a thrill of accomplishment, but the sensation faded when he realized that this particular stab at playing detective had taken him about as far as it could. It was intriguing to know that Wyatt had been writing on the floor, and that he’d been scrupulously careful to erase his handiwork afterward, but it wasn’t useful, not unless one also knew what he’d been writing. And Dan couldn’t see any way to discover that.
Smiling ruefully, he turned toward the leather pack, a handsome article studded with the same cryptic patterns of rivets that decorated Wyatt’s coat. He reached for it, then faltered, his skin crawling. Suddenly he was certain that he felt eyes glaring malevolently at his back.
He whirled. And saw nothing. He almost heard a peal of nasty, mocking laughter, but he knew that that, at least, really was only his imagination.
Even prior to his brush with the Samedi, Dan had had some experience with invisible Kindred. Heck, he was learning how to be invisible himself. But he hadn’t seen any indication that any of the anarchs possessed such powers, and he couldn’t imagine who else would be lurking in Wyatt’s haven. Furthermore, given his superhuman senses of hearing and smell, it was hard to believe that even an invisible man could remain entirely undetectable in the cramped confines of the office. Besides, if an enemy was present, what was he waiting for? Why hadn’t he attacked Dan when his back was turned?
You’re alone, fool, the vampire told himself firmly. But just in case he wasn’t, he meant to finish his search and get out of the building as rapidly as possible.
Reluctantly reholstering the .38 to free up both hands, his fingers trembling slightly, Dan fumbled open the knapsack. It occurred to him that it, the shotgun case, and Wyatt’s coat might be custom-made, and that the label might provide a clue to the revolutionary’s secrets. But it only bore the name of the manufacturer, Podolak, a name that meant nothing to Dan.
Scowling, he reached into the pack and pulled out four items: a plastic pack of felt-tipped pens, each filled with a different color of ink; an ancient-looking and -smelling leather-bound tome with tarnished brass hinges and ragged-edged parchment pages; a three-ring notebook; and a neatly folded map.
When Dan carefully opened the crackling antique book, half expecting it to fall apart in his hands, he caught a second scent, mingled with the musty odor of the paper. Time had nearly effaced the aroma, but unless he were mistaken, the flaking brown ink on the pages was human vitae.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t decipher the crabbed handwriting. He had a hunch that he was looking at some archaic form of Latin, as incomprehensible as Martian to him. But from the complex geometric forms — they were called pentagrams, weren’t they? — and the drawings of hideous, demonic creatures, he suspected that he was looking at a sorcerer’s journal. For a moment one of the pictures, a portrait of a voluptuous nude woman with eyes where her nipples should have been and a crown made of entwined serpents, threatened to entrance him the way the immigrant’s paintings had. Dismayed, snarling, he wrenched his gaze away.
Even edgier now, he closed the ancient volume, then opened the notebook. It was more of the same, except that the text and sketches were in various shades of ordinary ink. They looked like the notes of a modern wizard attempting to build on the secret wisdom of his predecessor, one who probably used the sidewalk chalk to draw pentagrams on the floor.
Unfolding the remaining item, Dan saw that it was a map of Sarasota, spotted with mysterious symbols written in black and red. Some of the icons marked locations that the anarchs had visited just before Judy Morgan’s Brujah attacked them.
Behind him, something softly clicked.
Even as he pivoted, Dan thought, This’ll be just like the other times; there won’t be anything there. And at first it didn’t appear that there was. Half-disgusted at his own jumpiness and half-relieved at the absence of any threat, he began to return to his inspection of the map. But then he glimpsed a white flicker of motion on one of the shelves where Wyatt’s belongings lay.
He squinted and then felt an impulse to blink his eyes in disbelief. A pale creature, no larger than a rat but shaped more like a monkey, had cocked the muff pistol and was endeavoring to point it at him. Except for the disproportionately large eyes and the twin fangs that extended all the way to the bottom of its chin, its face was a dead ringer for Wyatt’s. A stray bit of dried blood encrusted the left corner of its mouth. Dan surmised that the creature had been tailing him since he’d entered the building and that he’d missed spotting it because of its tiny stature.
In any case he had no desire to let it take a potshot at him. Dropping the other objects in his hands, he skimmed the ancient book of magic at it.
Fast and nimble as the monkey it somewhat resembled, the diminutive monster abandoned the gun, leaped to the floor and scurried toward the door. The grimoire thumped against the shelf and broke apart, scattering a blizzard of brittle pages, jarred loose from their moorings, candles toppled.
Dan dived after the fleeing creature, but his clutching fingers missed it by an inch. It raced into the hall, and, lurching up into a crouch, he scrambled after it.
He faltered when he saw Wyatt. The vampire with the mohawk was standing a few paces down the hall, his boyish face grim and his new shotgun leveled. Though he’d tried hard to clean his long white coat, the garment still had a few faint bloodstains around the bullet holes.
The little creature darted to Wyatt, hugged his ankle and then, clutching at his clothing, climbed up his body to his shoulder. Without taking his eyes off Dan the anarch captain used his free hand to tickle the little creature behind the ear. “It’s okay,” he said soothingly. “The wicked man won’t hurt you now.”
“How did it call you back?” asked Dan. “Dial a beeper number?”
“He didn’t have to do anything,” Wyatt replied. “We’re linked mind to mind. He’s my homunculus, blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh.” Toying with the hairs of the anarch’s goatee — grooming him, Dan decided — the creature chittered in seeming agreement.
“I did notice the family resemblance,” said Dan. He wondered if he could ease his hand toward his automatic without Wyatt shooting him instantly. He decided not to chance it, at least not yet. Maybe he could talk his way out of this. “I wasn’t going to hurt him, even though he tried to put a bullet in me. I was just curious. I wanted a closer look at him.”
“Uh'huh,” said Wyatt skeptically. “And what’s the idea of going through my stuff?”
“I was curious about you, too,” said Dan, trying to sound sheepish. “Something about you didn’t add up, and I’m the kind of guy that looks in other people’s closets and medicine cabinets. I always have been, and I guess I always will be. For what it’s worth, I apologize.”
To Dan’s surprise, the anarch smiled. “Apology accepted. I’ve been known to do the same thing. And what do you think you’ve found out about me?”
“Obviously, that you lied about your lineage,” Dan answered. “You’re not Ventrue, you’re Tremere. Not just an ordinary vampire, but a member of the wizard clan. I wondered what you actually expected to find on your ‘scouting mission’ into Sarasota. Until I saw your map, the whole thing seemed pretty pointless. You were doing something occult, weren’t you?”
Wyatt nodded. “I was doing geomancy. Finding pressure points in the web of forces that girdle the earth. I need to know where they are in order to lay a curse on all of Prince Roger’s flunkies at once.” He hesitated. “Can you understand why I lied? The Tremere have a terrible reputation for deceit and intrigue, and they’ve always been at the forefront of any effort to crush the Movement. I was afraid that if I claimed to have defected from a chantry, no one would trust me.” Dan made a wry face. “Believe me, I do understand. I know what it’s like to be on the outside looking in. To be rejected by people you care about. I promise that your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thank you,” said Wyatt. “In that case, I guess everything’s all right.” The two vampires looked one another in the eye for a moment, and then both smiled ruefully.
“Well, so much for that little tap dance,” Dan said. “I don’t believe a word you’re saying, and I can tell that you don’t believe me.”
“The problem is that we’re two of a kind,” said Wyatt. The homunculus began picking at his mohawk. “Both too damn smart for our own good. What gave me away? I’d hate to think that I was losing my talent for lying.”
“I don’t know anything about magic,” Dan replied. “But heck, you make keys out of nothing. You boil the Samedi’s blood. You create a living creature, like Baron Frankenstein. It’s obvious even to me that you’ve learned too many Tremere secrets to be a dropout. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were some kind of junior vice-president. And I wonder if even a hot-shot magician —”
“Magus,” Wyatt interjected.
“Excuse me, magus, could put a spell on a whole domain all by himself. I’m guessing that you plan to team up with a bunch of other Warlocks for that particular piece of voodoo.” Wyatt sighed. “Too damn smart,” he repeated. “Look, before you hooked up with us, you didn’t care about the Movement. What if I tell you that I truly do like Laurie, Felipe and Jimmy Ray? Even though I’m tricking them, using them for my own purposes, convincing them that they’re fighting for the anarchs when they’re really serving a different cause altogether, I mean to look out for them as well. When the battle’s won, they’ll be rewarded for their efforts. You can be, too, if you’ll play along.”
Dan no longer trusted Wyatt enough to be tempted even momentarily by such an offer, but he figured that he had nothing to lose by trying one more lie. “Maybe we can work something out. Rewarded how?”
Wyatt sighed. “Sorry, I can still see through you. What is it they say? ‘Never kid a kidder?’ You know, I truly like you. Hell, you’ve saved my life twice. This whole situation stinks.”
The Tremere sounded sincere, and to his dismay, Dan felt a keen, reciprocal pang of friendship. “I know what you mean.”
“I wonder if you really just wandered up here out of curiosity, or if someone told you to infiltrate our little group. Would you care to enlighten me?”
“It was just curiosity,” said Dan.
“Then it was rotten luck for both of us,” said Wyatt. “Good-bye.”
Dan made a grab for his automatic. Just as it cleared the holster, Wyatt fired. The boom was deafening in the cramped confines of the hall. .33-caliber pellets tore into Dan’s belly, staggering him. The pistol tumbled from his suddenly spasming fingers.
Wyatt could blow him apart if he paused to pick up the automatic. Struggling to ignore the pain blazing in his midsection, the wounded vampire lunged at the Tremere, intent on grabbing the scatter-gun and tearing it from his grasp.
Wyatt’s eyes bored into his. “Stop!” the magus cried.
Dan felt his muscles seizing up like an overheated engine. He managed to keep lurching forward, but now his progress was as slow and clumsy as a paralytic’s. Stepping casually back to avoid the injured Kindred’s outthrust hands, Wyatt pumped another shell into the breech and shot Dan in the knees.
Dan collapsed on his side. Staring down at his face, Wyatt repeated, “Stop.” Dan’s treacherous muscles strained, obeying the command, clenching themselves as hard and useless as chunks of stone.
Wyatt shot Dan in the chest. This time the burst of agony was so intense that, for an instant, the spy blacked out. When the world swam back into partial focus, Wyatt, his fangs now extruded, was staring down at him as if trying to
off
determine whether he was truly helpless. Whether he needed any more holes in him to allow precious vitae to run out and go to waste. The homunculus bobbed and chattered in excitement.
Dan didn’t know if he was defenseless or not. Between the torment of his wounds and the rigidity in his limbs, it sure felt like it. But he was certain that his only chance of surviving this battle was to make Wyatt believe that he was already incapacitated. He tried to make it look as if he were still stunned, staring glassy-eyed and expressionless at nothing.
And Wyatt dropped to his knees beside him, set his smoking, blue-finished weapon on the floor, and bent over his intended prey.
Dan tried to seize the other Kindred. For an instant nothing happened, and then mobility surged back into his body with a sharp, rippling pain that-reminded him of a piece of paper tearing in two. Evidently the hypnotically induced paralysis could only freeze a victim for a little while. Grabbing Wyatt by the throat, he scrambled on top of him and started to pound his head against the floor. The homunculus emitted an earsplitting shriek, bounded off its master’s shoulder and raced away back toward Wyatt’s room.
His wounds notwithstanding, Dan was far stronger than Wyatt. He was certain that he could pound the magus insensible in a matter of seconds, or even tear him limb from limb. And then the bogus anarch’s fingers feebly clutched his wrist.
Fiery agony screamed through Dan’s flesh. The pain of a gunshot wound was a mere pinprick by comparison. His blood was boiling like the Samedi’s, scalding and cooking him from the inside out.
Wyatt broke Dan’s grip on his neck and started to squirm out from underneath him. Screaming, forcing his burning arms to move despite the anguish, Dan grabbed the Tremere again and smashed his head down on the linoleum. Wyatt’s skull crunched, and he went limp.
Unfortunately, victory in itself did nothing to relieve Dan’s pain. His flesh was still ablaze and the Hunger had him in its grip. He felt as if every drop of vitae in his system had changed into blistering steam. He threw himself down on Wyatt and ripped open his throat.
He guzzled frantically, and the Tremere’s rich, coppery vitae gradually extinguished the searing torment. The relief was a kind of ecstasy, nearly as sublime in its way as the joy of sucking Melpomene’s potent blood. Once lost in its embrace, he kept drinking long past the point of satiety, until Wyatt’s lifeless body began to stink and decay in his arms.
Still dazed with the savage pleasure of his gluttony, Dan lifted his head just,in time to see the homunculus laboriously dragging the muff gun into the hall. The tiny monster looked at the tableau before it. Its huge eyes widened as it evidently recognized that it had returned to the fray too late, that its creator was already dead. It screamed, abandoned the weapon, and ran in the opposite direction. In a moment it vanished into the shadows.
Now that the Beast, his inner demon, was back in its cage, Dan regretted killing Wyatt. And not merely because, despite everything that had happened, he still liked the Tremere, although that was part of it. Since the anarchs didn’t actually know anything about the conspiracy against the Kindred of Sarasota, and since their captain was now unavailable for interrogation, it was quite possible that Dan had just bungled his mission beyond any hope of recovery.
Once again he was tempted simply to abandon his errand. Maybe if he explained to Laurie, Felipe and Jimmy Ray that Wyatt hadn’t been what he seemed — but no, that was a bad idea. Though the anarchs had welcomed him into their midst, he’d been rebuffed, told there was something foul and untrustworthy about him, too many times to assume that he could convince them he’d had a valid reason for killing their beloved leader. But he could deny he was the person who’d destroyed the magus. Heck, if he could spirit the rotting corpse away, his new friends wouldn’t know that anyone had. They wouldn’t know what had happened to Wyatt.
And with their link to the shadow army assailling Sarasota broken, they’d be free, no longer a part of the ongoing struggle. Perhaps Dan could convince them to go away with him to some other part of the country where neither Wyatt’s colleagues nor Melpomene could find them. Maybe they could settle in California, where the real Anarch Movement was in power.
Dan sighed. It ail made for a pleasant fantasy, but he realized that he wasn’t going to abandon his mission. He still wanted to save the innocent humans targeted for destruction. And, though it might be a perverse way to think, he couldn’t see quitting now that he’d come this far. That would mean he’d killed Wyatt for nothing.
He went through the magus’ pockets. He found an eelskin wallet, a book of matches, a pack of Camels and an unfamiliar key — probably the one that opened the door to this building. He didn’t locate the key to the Haitian artist’s loft. He wondered if Wyatt had thrown it away, or if it had evaporated when its work was done.
The wallet contained seven hundred dollars, several credit cards, including Diner’s Club and an American Express Platinum, a driver’s license with an Orlando address, and a blood-red key card bearing an embossed drawing of a plumed and visored helmet with the similarly elevated word Camelot in Gothic script on one side and a magnetic stripe on the other.
Taken all in all, it didn’t seem like Dan had discovered very much. But at least he now had some excuse for a lead. Pocketing the wallet, he rose, located his .38 — and then an idea struck him.
The muff gun barely seemed capable of inconveniencing a mortal. Against a Kindred, such a weapon ought to be a joke. And yet Wyatt had considered it worth leaving with the homunculus, and even though the shot would reveal its presence, the tiny creature had been hell-bent on firing the pistol at Dan. Was it possible that the firearm, or its ammunition, was magical?
Dan decided that he had nothing to lose by taking them with him. He grabbed them and then, his heart heavy, wondering if he’d ever see Laurie, Jimmy Ray and Felipe again, and whether they’d try to kill him if he did, he trudged toward the stairs.
l will have this done, so I order it done; let my will replace reasoned judgment.
— Juvenal, Satires
Now dressed in the new, unperforated, unbloodied jeans, T-shirt and denim jacket he’d burgled from a second-hand shop — he hadn’t wanted to return to the cache of clothes in the auto repair shop and risk running into any of the anarchs — Dan found a pay phone outside a grubby little bar on the fringes of Ybor City, Tampa’s historic Latin quarter. Living in Sarasota, he’d heard vaguely that the area was undergoing a revitalization, filling up with trendy nightclubs, restaurants, boutiques and art galleries; but if so, the process of renewal hadn’t reached this shadowy corner of the district yet. Most of the streetlights were broken, and many of the shops were boarded up. Discarded paper cups, beer cans and the stinking body of a dachshund, its legs stiff with rigor mortis and its flanks pocked with stab wounds, filled the gutters. Through the wall of the tavern sounded a dirgelike death-metal anthem: “Kill, kill, kill the children, generation last-—”
Glumly reflecting that the tone, if not the lyrics, of the song suited his mood, Dan dropped a quarter in the public phone’s coin slot and punched in the digits Melpomene had bade him memorize. The phone whirred and clicked repeatedly, and he imagined his call being routed from one dummy number to the next, making it more difficult to trace.
The phone went dead. Frowning in puzzlement and annoyance, Dan wondered if he should hold on or hang up and dial again. Then a soft white light flowered behind him.
Startled, his hand jerking reflexively toward his .38, he spun around. Melpomene was standing on the cracked, uneven sidewalk behind him. Something about her looked strange, and after a moment he realized what it was. Though the air was still, strands of her dark hair were stirring as if a breeze were blowing, leading him to suspect that she was only present in spirit.
“You didn’t tell me you were going to appear to me,” he growled, hoping that she hadn’t noticed how he’d jumped. “I thought we were just going to talk on the phone.”
“So did I,” Melpomene said. “But I like to see a person’s face when I converse with him. And I can discern that no other Kindred are nearby. So why shouldn’t I come to you, particularly when I can sense that you’re in distress?” She gave him a sympathetic smile.
Even if she weren’t physically present, her charm was no less potent than it had been during their previous encounter. Abruptly he felt grateful for her show of concern, and ashamed that he’d greeted her rudely. Struggling to suppress those responses, he said, “Yeah, I am upset. I’m not cut out for this spy stuff.”
She caressed his cheek with her slim white fingers. He couldn’t feel the touch, but, remembering the silky smoothness of her skin, he imagined it, and that was enough to wring another outpouring of affection from his soul. “Why do you say that?” she asked gently.
“I just killed someone,” he replied heavily. “The guy was a liar, a con artist, but hell, so am I. Maybe all vamps are.
Anyway, even though he wanted to trick me and use me, he was my friend, too. And now I’m turning my back on three other people that I liked.” He smiled grimly. “Oh, yeah, and I’m worried that working for you is driving me crazy. After all the hard times I’ve been through over the past thirty years, I would’ve thought that I was too tough to go nuts. But something’s happening to me.”
“Tell me everything,” Melpomene said.
Dan did tell her most of it. Midway through his recital, a dilapidated, exhaust-belching, zebra-striped Cadillac full of black teenagers roared down the street. He wondered what they’d make of the pale, beautiful woman clad only in a gauzy gown, but they didn’t even slow down to ogle her. Maybe they couldn’t see her.
When he finished describing his clash with Wyatt, Melpomene said, “The long and the short of it is, you killed in self-defense. The magus was trying to murder you.”
Dan smiled crookedly. “When you put it that way, the guilt and the sadness I’m feeling don’t make a lot of sense, do they? But I feel them anyway.”
“Oh, they make perfect sense to me,” Melpomene said. “I remember when my fellow Methuselahs and I were young and still cherished one another. Do you think that our hearts didn’t ache when the wills of our sires and our own ambitions and grievances turned us against one another?” “Evidently they didn’t ache enough to keep you from fighting,” Dan observed.
The ancient vampire sighed. “No. No, they didn’t. Perhaps the greatest devotion a Kindred can experience is a debased and tainted thing compared to the love of mortals. 1 don’t know; after all these centuries, I’m not certain that I remember how it felt to be human. In any event, love is scarcely the force that makes our benighted world go around. The thirsts for blood and power do that.”
“Some of us just want to get by and have somebody to hang around with.”
“Some of you are very young,” Melpomene said, “and must either harden or perish as the centuries creep by. Still, I’m sorry that it grieves you to part from the anarchs. But after I reward you, you won’t lack for companionship.” Considering the way that his fellow undead had always shunned him, Dan wondered if even Melpomene could convince other vampires to befriend him the way Wyatt, Laurie and the others had. He guessed that at this point he could only hope so. “I’ll hold you to that. Now, what’s the deal with the art? Why did it hypnotize me?”
Melpomene hesitated, then said, “I assure you, you aren’t going mad. I could tell from your aura if you were.”
“Good,” Dan said, “but what is happening? I can’t see your aura, but I’m pretty sure you know.”
Melpomene’s exquisite lips twisted. “I imagine that my vitae is responsible. You know that I belong to the same bloodline as Roger Phillips’ Toreador. All those who share that heritage are enthralled by beauty, a fascination that occasionally freezes us dead in our tracks. When I allowed you to drink from me, I only meant to share some of my powers, not one of my weaknesses. I apologize.”
After a moment’s consideration, Dan shrugged. “Well, I guess the trade-off is worth it. Heck, what I saw in those paintings was pretty wonderful. If I’m going to keep seeing it, it could brighten up my life.” He snorted. “If it doesn’t get me killed. Anyway, it’s nice to know that I’m not any crazier now than I was before I met you.”
“I’m glad I could ease your mind,” Melpomene said. “Then we’re still friends?”
With her unnatural charm tugging at his affections, he wanted to say yes, of course; but he knew that he couldn’t fully trust the emotions she inspired in him, and he hadn’t completely forgiven her for leading him to betray Wyatt and the anarchs. “I’ll keep working for you,” he said. “Let’s leave it at that.”
She smiled sadly, as if he’d wounded her feelings. “If only for the sake of the poor kine destined for slaughter,” she said, a hint of irony in her musical contralto voice. “In that case, we’ll talk about the war. Let’s think: what do we actually know’ now that we didn’t before?”
“That the Tremere are behind the attack on Sarasota,” Dan replied. Somewhere far to the north, someone fired three shots and a child began to wail. “By sending out agents posing as honchos of the Anarch Movement, they’ve recruited a bunch of stooges to do their dirty work for them.” “I wouldn’t assume that all of their front-line troops are would-be anarchs,” Melpomene said. “Elliott Sinclair clashed with a band of Nosferatu, and Kindred of that lineage join Garcia’s Movement about as infrequently as the Tremere themselves. But you’ve articulated the basic principle. I imagine that many members of their army were recruited under one pretext or another, and have no notion for whom they’re actually fighting. A precaution to keep the architects of the assault from being called to account for their actions if the scheme goes awry.”
Dan frowned as an idea struck him. “What if the Tremere aren’t at the top of the ladder?” he said. “What if we have another bunch of enemies positioned above them, pulling their strings? And, as long as we’re speculating, why not even another gang, controlling the Warlocks’ bosses? For all we know, there could be a hundred levels of plotters between people like Laurie and the enemy Methuselah.”
Then he thought about what he’d just said and snorted in derision at his own paranoia. “Or maybe not. It’s a complicated situation, but it couldn’t very well be that complicated, Could it?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Melpomene dryly. “But in this case, you’re probably right. I believe that, except for my personal rival, a cabal of Tremere is at the top of the chain.” She frowned. “I’d prefer that that weren’t so, but my wishes won’t change the reality.”
Curious, Dan cocked his head. “Why would you prefer it?” he asked, “just because you know how powerful they are?”
“No,” Melpomene said. “They are powerful, of course, but every clan has its own extraordinary resources. It’s just that —” She faltered momentarily, as if uncertain that she truly wished to confide in him. He wondered fleetingly if simple loneliness didn’t sometimes loosen her tongue as effectively as her preternatural charisma did his. Then she pressed on. “Do you know that of all the bloodlines, the Tremere are the only ones who don’t trace their lineage back to Caine?”
“I’ve heard stories to that effect. Supposedly the founders of the clan were Transylvanian sorcerers who turned themselves into Kindred, using magic, about a thousand years ago.”
“The stories are true,” Melpomene replied. “And because their bloodhne was newly come into the world, because no Methuselah could claim them as his descendants or had done the work necessary to bring them under his influence, for a time they played only a minimal role in the Jyhad.”
Lucky them, thought Dan. Two skinheads reeking of cheap gin and greasy onion rings emerged from the bar. One, a pudgy kid with a swastika tattooed on his forehead, sneered in Dan and Melpomene’s general direction, and the vampire wondered if he was going to have to beat them up. But then the other guy, pasty-faced and sweaty, swallowing repeatedly as if he were on the brink of throwing up, tugged at his companion’s arm, urging him to come away. The flabby teenager grimaced and nodded. Weaving, the two blundered off in the opposite direction.
“Many of us didn’t realize just what valuable agents the Tremere could make,” Melpomene continued, seemingly oblivious to the skinheads. Maybe, Dan thought, she hadn’t been able to see them. “We were accustomed to thinking of age and lineage as power, and since the magi possessed neither.... But there was one Methuselah who had himself explored the powers of dark sorcery available to Cainites, losing all his humanitas in the process. He did recognize the Tremere’s potential, and he was the first member of my generation to take control of any of their covens. His name was Tithonys, and it was my misfortune that, of all his peers, he hated me the most profoundly.”
“Why?” asked Dan.
“Because once upon a time, in the days of Agamemnon and Achilles, we were lovers,” Melpomene said, turning slightly, hiding her face behind a veil of raven hair. “And then later, after he threw me over, I murdered his new mortal leman.” She laughed sadly. “The fiery passion of my bloodline isn’t always as wonderful as it’s made out to be. Of all my sins, I’ve had cause to regret that one the most.” She sounded so mournful that Dan raised his hand to squeeze her bare white forearm. Then he remembered that his fingers would pass right through her.
Melpomene stood up straighter and shifted her shoulders as if shrugging off her ancient sorrows. “Needless to say, Tithonys used the Tremere against me,” she said, her tone now brisk and matter-of-fact. “My minions had never faced anything like that assault. I feared that each and every one would perish before they learned to cope.”
“Are you afraid that Tithonys has come after you again now?”
“No,” Melpomene said, so firmly that Dan wondered if her insistence wasn’t for her own benefit as well his own. “Because I won a total victory in that conflict. I cremated Tithonys’ decapitated corpse with my own hands, in a tumble-down little farmhouse in Normandy. Someone else, someone — unless I’m extraordinarily unlucky — less cunning and powerful, is attacking me this time. It’s just that his use of the Tremere stirs unpleasant memories.”
“I understand. Are you going to warn Prince Roger’s brood that the Warlocks are behind the attacks on Sarasota?”
The ancient vampire shook her head. “Not yet, because we don’t know which Tremere are to blame.”
“Does that matter?” Dan asked. According to rumor, the Warlocks were far more organized and homogeneous than the other six principal clans of the Camarilla. That was one of the reasons other vampires feared them, and it implied that, on some level, the entire bloodline was involved in the present conflict.
“Yes, it does matter. Your notions about the Tremere aren’t entirely accurate.” The observation gave Dan the creepy feeling that Melpomene had just read his mind. “There are rivalries and conspiracies within the clan; you just don’t hear about them because the magi take care to ensure you won’t. It’s entirely possible that some regent, lord, or pontifex has undertaken this campaign without the knowledge of his peers, or even of the Inner Council of Seven in Vienna. I don’t want my descendants picking fights with innocent Tremere, or flinging wild, unprovable accusations around in Conclave. That could make the present crisis worse than it is already."
“What Conclave are we talking about?” Dan asked. “The struggle has taken on an overtly political dimension,” said Melpomene vaguely. “You don’t have to worry about that. Your task is to continue your investigation.”
Dan grimaced. “Yeah. I was hoping that I’d already uncovered enough to satisfy you, but I actually knew better.” “Do you have an idea of how to proceed?”
“Uh-huh. I went through Wyatt’s wallet and found his address. And this.” He showed her the scarlet key card.
'“Camelot,”’ Melpomene read. “Do you know what that means?”
A little pleased that he knew something she didn’t, Dan nodded. “I recognize the logo. Camelot’s one of the big new theme parks in Orlando. And you’ll notice that this isn’t just some kind of season pass or discount card. The park wouldn’t give a customer a key that would open anything. This looks like something an employee would have.” He grinned. “I’m going to search Wyatt’s home, and then I’m going to Disneyland!”
Laws are like cobwebs, which may catch small flies, but let wasps and hornets break through.
— Jonathan Swift, “A Tribical Essay upon the Faculties of the Mind”
Standing in the shadowy wings of the theater of the Performing Arts Center, awaiting his cue as if the present situation were a play, Elliott fingered the Windsor knot of his favorite red silk tie, making sure it was tight and centered between the points of his well-starched collar. “Stop fidgeting!” Judy Morgan said. “You’re making me nuts!” Elliott turned toward her. Her black leather halter was even skimpier than usual, and her skin-tight jeans were tattered and oil-stained. He suspected that her appearance was an expression of her rebel’s disdain for the whole idea of a Conclave. “You could have done with a little more fidgeting yourself,” he said dryly.
“Bull,” she replied. “Everybody expects me to look like a rough, tough Brujah, just as they expect you to look like a sissified Toreador. If 1 walked out there in a power suit, that really would make a shitty impression. Speaking of which, don’t you think we might as well schlep our butts out on stage?”
“Absolutely not,” Elliott said. Surreptitiously, to avoid annoying Judy anew, he inspected his charcoal-gray trousers for lint. “No one looks more foolish and ineffectual than a person passively waiting in front of an audience for someone else to appear and commence the festivities. Witness Gunter.” He nodded at the ruddy-faced Malkavian elder, who’d already taken one of the seats arrayed before the tall, massive teak desk on stage; a spasm of loathing passed through him. “I should have staked the wretch when I had the chance.”
“I take it you still think he put Palmer Guice up to convening the Conclave.”
“Him, or one of our phantom enemies. Even if he isn’t responsible, you can rest assured that everything Gunter says now will be directed to one end: convincing the Assembly that he ought to be proclaimed acting regent of Sarasota, or even prince outright.”
“I imagine that’s true,” said Judy, frowning and massaging one of the old scars on her shoulder. “But... look, I know I haven’t done as much of this political crap as you have — I never had the patience for it — but I don’t quite understand why you’re acting like we’re on trial. We haven’t done anything wrong. Someone else is doing things to us.”
“That’s exactly the point,” Elliott replied. “Our enemy has made us look vulnerable, and — though you won’t find the principle stated in the Six Traditions — weakness is the gravest crime of all among our predatory breed. It arouses people’s avarice. If someone can exploit the law to satisfy his rapacity at our expense, you can rest assured he will.”
A footfall sounded behind them. They turned to see Palmer Guice bustling toward them, followed by a pair of his black-suited deputies — or Archons, by their proper title. Guice was a long-nosed, lantern-jawed vampire with webs of wrinkles surrounding his steel-gray eyes. He affected an old-time English magistrate’s black robe and curled white wig, wearing the outfit with a self-assurance that made it seem appropriate. His pale aura was a confusing smear of constantly shifting colors; Elliott couldn’t draw any inferences about his mood.
As usual, Guice sounded cordial to the nth degree. “Elliott! Judith! I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, but our flight was delayed. Damned airplanes! Can’t abide ‘err.. The kine should have stuck with steamships and railroads.” “Welcome to Sarasota,” Elliott said with all the warmth he could muster. He extended his hand and the Justicar shook it. “I don’t think your visit was necessary, but we’re honored to have you, and we’ll try to make your stay as pleasant as possible. Before we begin, may I ask you a question?”
“You can certainly ask,” the Justicar said, clearly implying that he might not feel inclined to answer.
“Why did you think you needed to come here?” Elliott asked. “Who’s been talking to you?”
Guice chuckled. “Why, Elliott! That actually sounds a little paranoid. Poor Roger’s illness is common knowledge, and the ‘Dracula’ murders have made the national news. Moreover, speaking strictly hypothetically, if anyone had been carrying tales, I’m sure you understand that a Justicar can’t afford to reveal his sources. Otherwise they’ll dry up on him.” He gestured toward the stage. “Shall we?” He beamed at Judy. “After you.”
Looking sourly bemused that anyone would defer to her on the basis of her gender, the Brujah walked out from behind the curtain, and the other Kindred followed. The drone of conversation filling the hall grew louder. The house lights were burning, and Elliott was surprised to see that the majority of the seats in the spacious auditorium were occupied, by patrician Ventrue in outdated clothes; gorgeous Toreador;hideously deformed Nosferatu; Gangrel marked with the pointed ears, flattened, snout-like noses and other stigmata associated with their shape-changing powers; and other undead whose lineage was less readily apparent. It was one of the largest Assemblies he’d ever attended. No doubt some of the mysterious enemies of Sarasota were in attendance as well. He wondered how many of the vampires in the chamber were present to support Roger Phillips’ people — precious few, he suspected — how many in hopes of seeing them come to grief, and how many simply to enjoy the spectacle of the deliberations.
As Elliott sauntered to his chair, he picked out certain faces in the audience, including those of Otis McNamara and Catherine Cobb. The Toreador dared to hope that at least these two old friends were on his side. Perhaps Malachi Jones, the newly crowned Ventrue prince of Tampa Bay, peering alertly from one of the nearest boxes, was also. A thin man with bushy muttonchop whiskers and pince-nez glasses, Malachi was renowned for his sagacity, even temper, and general benevolence; he’d always gotten along well with his Manatee County neighbors. But there were others whose presence was more ominous. Like Gilbert Duane, the Malkavian prince of Miami, a bald, muscular black man with a beard and a perpetual scowl. And Pablo Velasquez, a member of the Tampa Bay primogen, a handsome Latino also of Malkavian blood who was dressed as elegantly as Elliott himself, with a gold tack in the shape of the Moon trump from the Tarot gleaming midway down his tie. Both Duane and Velasquez seemed likely bets to support Gunter, their clanmate, in any bid that he might make for power.
As Judy and Elliott sat down, Gunter glowered at them. Meanwhile Guice climbed onto the high seat behind the lofty bench. Standing at parade rest, the poker-faced Archons took up positions on either side of the massive piece of furniture. The Justicar picked up his gavel and rapped once for order.
To his surprise, despite his apprehensions, Elliott experienced a thrill of anticipation. As he gazed out at the crowd, he felt a desire to perform. And though the business of the Conclave was deadly serious, it was a public entertainment as well — a person had only to notice some of the gawking faces in the seats to appreciate that — and one in which he had a stellar role.
It took a few seconds, but the Assembly finally quieted down. Smiling out at the audience, Guice said, “Thank you. I’m Palmer Guice, Justicar of Clan Ventrue and the Camarilla, and this Conclave is convened on my authority to discuss certain recent events in the domain of Sarasota deemed to be of general concern. As at any Conclave, anyone is welcome to speak his mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of seating certain individuals on stage because I imagine they’ll need to speak frequently. They’re Prince Roger Phillips’ primogen: Judith Morgan of Clan Brujah”
— some of Judy’s rowdy progeny whistled and clapped — “Gunter Schmidt of Clan Malkavian, and Elliott Sinclair of Clan Toreador.” Trying to look confident and competent, invoking his supernatural charisma, the actor nodded to the crowd. With luck, the power would influence some of the spectators, even if the more powerful and the more hostile ones proved resistant.
“As many of you are aware,” Guice continued, still addressing the house, “this domain has been experiencing a number of problems. I believe I can say without fear of contradiction that the trouble began when Prince Roger went insane.” Elliott stood up. “Yes, Elliott?”
“I take exception to the term ‘insane,’” the Toreador said. “It sounds so permanent. Roger has fallen ill, as even Kindred sometimes do, but we anticipate a full recovery.” “Speak for yourself,” Gunter growled. “I think as highly of the man as you do—”
Liar, Elliott thought.
“—but there’s no point in closing our eyes to reality.” “Careful,” Elliott said. “Keep talking like that and they’ll throw you out of the Malkavians.” He was pleased when the
quip got a laugh. The more he entertained the crowd, the more likely they were to come down on his side.
Gunter grimaced. “Roger’s no better, even though we brought in Lionel Potter to take care of him.” He pointed toward the back of the hall. “The doctor’s sitting right there. We can ask him.”
Guice smiled out at the crowd. “Dr. Potter. Perhaps it would be helpful if you could enlighten us as to the prince’s current condition.”
Looking reluctant, the physician rose. Elliott surmised that the Caitiff was torn between the desire to sustain his reputation as a miracle worker and a wary unwillingness to make promises he might not be able to keep. “There isn’t any improvement as yet,” Potter admitted. “But neither is there any deterioration. I certainly remain hopeful.”
“Can you tell us precisely what ails the prince?” Guice asked.
Potter hesitated. “Not as yet.”
The Justicar frowned, not angrily, but in what Elliott assumed to be a bogus display of concern. “Or when we might expect him to return to his duties?”
“No,” Potter said.
“Thank you for your candor,” said Guice. Potter quickly sat down, and the Ventrue resumed speaking to the Assembly at large. “Inasmuch as we can’t assume that Prince Roger will make a speedy recovery, I’m afraid that we need to consider how Sarasota is likely to fare in his absence. Which is to say, how well it’s being led.”
“It isn’t being led at all,” Gunter said. He glowered at Elliott. “This... popinjay wants to run things by committee. It violates the Second and the Fifth Traditions.”
Elliott guessed that he should have officially proclaimed himself acting governor despite his concern about offending the pride of the Brujah and the Malkavians, but he hadn’t anticipated Gunter advancing this particular argument in
Conclave. It was too late to declare himself sole commander now; the maneuver would only make him look desperate.
“Actually, the situation doesn’t violate anything,” said Malachi Jones mildly. Everyone looked up at the prince’s box. Malachi struck a match with his thumbnail and lit a cheroot. Elliott admired the other Kindred’s oratorical technique. By making the audience wait for the rest of his observations, he was influencing them to weigh his words more seriously. “The Traditions merely direct us to respect those in authority. They don’t mandate that a single lord be in control. That’s the most common situation, but I can think of several cities governed by council, and I haven’t noticed anyone hauling their elders up in front of a tribunal.”
“Right on!” Otis shouted. It might well have been the first time that the free-spirited, copper-haired Brujah had ever endorsed a political position espoused by a conservative Ventrue prince. Evidently appreciating the incongruity, Malachi arched an eyebrow. Catherine and certain other members of the audience nodded in a more decorous show of support.
Pablo Velasquez stottd up. His slicked-back raven hair gleamed. “It seems to me,” the handsome Malkavian said, “that the question is, how well is this particular council holding things together? How well are they protecting the childer and obeying the laws of the Kindred?”
“They aren’t!” Gunter said. “I’ve been trying, but Sinclair invariably opposes me; and for some reason, probably his miserable Toreador charm, Judy always backs him up. Surely you’ve all heard about Dracula. The kine are starting to believe in vampires. The whole Masquerade is in jeopardy!”
Playing to the crowd, Elliott smiled and shook his head, conveying amused pity at Gunter’s hysteria. “That’s an exaggeration,” the actor said. “We have one rogue feeding indiscreetly. It’s happened before, in many other domains. We’ll trap the criminal and then, in a week or a month, the humans will forget there was ever anything amiss.”
“How close are you to catching the outlaw?” asked Guice. “My brood and I patrol the city every night,” Judy said. “But do you have any leads?” the Justicar persisted.
“We have a description of the killer,” Judy said. “Someone phoned it to us anonymously.”
Guice shook his head doubtfully. “‘Anonymously.’ I’m afraid that doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence.”
Glaring at him, her aura flaring red with anger, Judy took a deep breath. Afraid that she was about to explode, and that her outburst would prejudice their case, Elliott directed his charismatic powers at her. With a look, he implored her to hold on to her temper. Through gritted teeth, she merely said, “I promise, we will nail her.”
“Well, everyone certainly wishes you well in the endeavor,” Guice said unctuously. He turned back toward Gunter. “Are there other matters troubling you?”
“You’re damn right there are,” the flaxen-haired Malkavian said. “Since Roger went mad, Sinclair here has sent several of his clanmates to their deaths.” The spectators babbled excitedly. They’d already known about Roger and Dracula, but now they were hearing something that was new to them.
Guice frowned. “That’s extremely disturbing.”
“No doubt,” said Elliott, “you’re all aware that recently, around the world but primarily in North America, various works of art have been mysteriously destroyed. Each of those treasures was created by a Toreador of this domain, or by one of our human clients. Some enemy is vandalizing them to injure us.” The audience jabbered some more. “When we moved to protect the art, we clashed with our foes and suffered casualties. Unfortunate, but inevitable in war. I can assure you that every one of my clanmates felt the goal was worth the risk—”
“Only after you bewitched them with that voice of yours!” Gunter interjected.
“—and that we’ve taken measures to ensure our safety in the future.”
“With whom are you at war?” asked Guice.
Elliott positioned himself so that he was looking at the bench without turning his back on the audience. “We don’t know yet,” he said steadily, “but we’re going to find out, and God help them when we do.”
“That sounds very macho,” Gunter sneered, “but so far you’re only managing to kill your ou>n people, like poor old Schuyller Madison.”
The audience babbled even louder. Guice craned forward, peering at Elliott like a vulture on a perch. “You killed Sky?”
As if you don’t already know, the Toreador thought. “No. When I confronted him, he committed suicide to avoid capture and interrogation. He was a traitor, though it wasn’t his fault. One of our enemies forced him to accept a Blood Bond.”
“How do we know any of that is true?” Gunter demanded. “No one else was present when he burned to death. No one’s seen any kind of evidence of his guilt.” The Malkavian’s progeny yelled their agreement.
Elliott gave the ruddy-faced vampire what he hoped was an intimidating stare. “You know it because I told you so," he said.
Uncowed, his fangs peeking out from beneath his upper lip, Gunter said, “And why would I take your word for anything1 You’ve been crazy with grief since your wife died, and everybody knows it. You’ve got no business trying to run anything!”
Elliott nearly smiled. Despite the seriousness of his situation, the inherent irony of being accused of lunacy by a Malkavian wasn’t lost on him.
“Elliott was together enough to kick your sorry ass,” Judy said. Her Brujah cheered, and other spectators laughed.
“Let them fight it out!” someone cried. Many vampires shouted in agreement.
Guice pounded with his gavel. When the clamor subsided, he said, “I’m not convinced that it would solve anything to have them fight. As I understand it, Elliott has already demonstrated that he can best Gunter in hand-to-hand combat, but the issue here is one of sound judgment and fitness to command, not physical prowess.”
“Clearly,” said Elliott, exerting his superhuman powers of persuasion once more, “the weight of the evidence is on my side.” Inwardly, considering the failure of his agents and himself to capture Dracula, or even to identify the enemies conspiring against Sarasota, he considered this a dubious proposition at best; but he wasn’t about to admit it. “It’s true that I went through a period of debilitating grief after Mary’s murder, but I’ve recovered. I believe that Judy, her progeny and the Toreador will vouch for me. That makes it our word against that of Gunter and his offspring, and there are considerably more of us than there are of them.”
Gilbert Duane rose from his seat. “But this matter isn’t just between you people,” the muscular black prince said. His deep voice was mellow and reasonable, a virtually schizophrenic contrast to his menacing glower. “Should you fail to preserve the Masquerade, our entire race will suffer. And as the master of my own domain, I object to your flagrant violations of the Fifth Tradition.” The Tradition in question, that of Hospitality, required a vampire visiting another city to present himself to the reigning monarch.
Elliott was glumly certain he knew what Duane was talking about, but he decided to play dumb and thus gain a few more seconds to consider a defense. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“I’ll let my vassal Francois explain,” Duane replied. “He and his progeny actually witnessed the crime.”
A cadaverous figure dressed in a top hat, a clawhammer coat and a necklace of human finger bones rose from its seat by the left-hand wall. The seats around it were vacant, and when Elliott caught a whiff of its nauseating reek, he understood why. The ghastly apparition smelled as dead as it looked
Even in his self-imposed exile from the affairs of his people, Elliott had heard that a handful of Samedi, undead of Caribbean origin as physically repulsive as the Nosferatu, had sworn homage to Duane. Evidently Francois was one of them.
“Many Toreador came to Little Haiti,” said Francois in a heavy Creole accent. “They did not see me, but, watching from the shadows, I saw them. I heard them talk about Sarasota and the crazy prince. I see them here again tonight.” Turning, stabbing with a finger that was as much bare bone as flesh, it pointed out several of Roger’s offspring. “You, and you, and you."
“I’m not following this,” Elliott said. “Unlike many of the rest of you, we Toreador travel frequently, and we make treaties with the princes of various cities for the right to pass through unhindered. And Gilbert, unless I’m as demented as Gunter has alleged, Roger long ago forged such a pact with you.”
“These men weren’t just visitors,” Francois said. “They were a war party, carrying many big guns. They fought a battle with their enemies in my streets!”
Elliott realized that, in essence, the agitated Samedi had just claimed right of domain over Little Haiti. He suspected that such presumption, particularly in a public forum, might well anger Duane. But if it had, the Malkavian didn’t allow it to divert him from the main issue. “And the treaty doesn’t allow you to send heavily armed troops into Miami, or to conduct hostilities there,” said the prince. “Just as it does require you at least to phone my people and notify us of your presence within our boundaries. Otherwise, you are trespassing.” .
Trying to look a little contrite, Elliott spread his hands. “You have a point, and I apologize. But the situation was an emergency. We had to move quickly in an effort to protect one of our human clients and his paintings.”
Gunter snorted. “You broke a Tradition for the sake of a kine and his pretty pictures. If that doesn’t prove what I’ve been saying about your judgment, 1 don’t know what would.” Certain members of the audience nodded grimly in agreement.
“I don’t give a damn why your people were shooting up my city,” said Duane. “No excuse is good enough. I’m sitting on the Sabbat down there, trying to keep them from marching north and destroying the rest of you—”
“My hero,” said Catherine dryly. Though the blond, statuesque Ventrue only seemed to murmur, her own charismatic powers allowed her voice to carry through the hall and trigger a ripple of mirth.
Duane shot her a glare as he continued. “—And the last thing I need is anyone else importing his personal problems onto my turf.” He looked around the auditorium. “Don’t you people feel the same way? Do you doubt that you’ve had gangs of heavily armed Sarasota Toreador sneaking in and out of your cities to steal back their precious art, ready to blast the shit out of anyone who got in their way, no matter how that jeopardizes the Masquerade?”
An angry muttering ran through the theater. Guice rapped for order. When the ugly sound subsided, he said, “It seems to me that this matter boils down to a question of confidence. Do we feel that events here in Sarasota are out of control, or not? And given that what happens here has implications for us all, would we prefer to see Mr. Sinclair, Miss Morgan and Mr. Schmidt continue to govern on Prince Roger’s behalf, or would we be more comfortable with a different arrangement? I’d like to determine the will of the majority.”
“In other words,” said Duane, “you want a vote. The present system versus... somebody. One acting monarch, the usual setup, and certainly the most effective in an emergency. I nominate” — he made a show of looking around the hall as, smirking, Gunter preened — “Pablo Velasquez.”
“I accept,” the Hispanic vampire said.
The situation could scarcely have been more serious. No new overlord was likely to desire Roger’s recovery, or to look after the interests of the Toreador as earnestly as Elliott had, A vampire from another clan probably wouldn’t allow them to defend their art or the human artists at all. It was even possible that Velasquez was one of their enemies and would use his new position to annihilate them.
Yet Elliott couldn’t help feeling a tingle of wicked amusement at the way Gunter’s mouth fell open and his eyes bugged out. The actor suspected that his fellow lieutenant had asked Duane to nominate him, and that the prince of Miami had agreed. But now that Gunter had denounced the present government of Sarasota as vehemently as possible, now that his usefulness was over, Duane had stabbed him in the back, passing him over for the candidate he truly favored.
“This — this isn’t right!” Gunter stammered. “I told you, I opposed Sinclair’s ideas, and I’ve lived in Sarasota for more than a century. I should be the new master!”
“I’m sorry,” Duane said. “But if you w'ere any great shakes as a leader, you’d already be in control. Your views would have prevailed over Sinclair’s. No, I think we’d be better off with someone altogether new.”
“If Sarasota is under siege,” drawled Malachi Jones, exhaling a blue plume of smoke, “perhaps I should point out that Pablo scarcely has an unblemished record as a military commander. He and his brood recently lost a battle to a band of Lupines led by a renegade Kindred, sustaining heavy casualties and ultimately losing their haven.” Elliott suspected that Malachi didn’t like the idea of one of his lieutenants trying to win his own domain without consulting him. Velasquez scowled up at him, and the Ventrue gave him a shrug and a crooked smile.
“That may be,” said Palmer Guice, “but I know Mr. Velasquez, and I’m satisfied that he’s qualified to lead. You must feel the same, or he wouldn’t be a member of your primogen.” Malachi waved a hand, tacitly conceding the point. “I realize that others are qualified as well, but considering the crisis facing Sarasota, I want to keep this simple, and not get bogged down in the long nights of politicking that would inevitably result from a large slate of candidates. Therefore, I’m closing the nominations.”
“May we each make a statement before you call the vote?” Elliott asked. Guice inclined his head, giving permission, whereupon the actor gestured to Velasquez, inviting him to go first.
“Whatever my prince has to say about me,” said Velasquez, shooting another venomous glance at Malachi’s box, “I’m a fighter and a seer. I can defend Sarasota and catch Dracula, without breaking the Traditions or bringing trouble down on my neighbors’ heads.”
“Succinctly put,” Elliott said. “Since there are three of us representing the current regime, we’ll try to be brief as well.” He gave Gunter a sunny smile. “You can go first, dear colleague. Would you care to defend our stewardship?”
Still trying to come to terms with Gilbert Duane’s betrayal, with the fact that the vote now threatened to diminish his authority, Gunter looked both furious and bewildered. His mouth worked, but no sounds emerged. The audience, many of whom comprehended the Malkavian’s situation as clearly as Elliott did, roared with laughter. When the swell of mirth subsided, Elliott said, “Judy?” The former slave said, “My progeny and I are Brujah. No one tells us where to give our loyalty.” Her fangs slightly extended, she sneered at the crowd. “If you’re smart, you won’t try to stuff a new boss down our throats.” She glared at Velasquez. “And if you’re smart, you’ll keep your ass off our turf, no matter how these bozos vote.”
Palmer Guice shook his head as if she were a naughty child. Elliott imagined a tsk, tsk, tsk. “I sympathize with your pique, my dear, but no matter what the outcome of this Conclave, I recommend that you abide by its decisions. The Camarilla has the will and the might to ‘stuff them down your throat’ if it needs to.”
“My turn to make a statement,” said Elliott, striving to project all the supernatural charisma at his disposal. “My fellow Kindred, you’ve already heard Judy and me describe and explain our recent actions. You’ve already had a chance to form an impression of our capabilities. I won’t speak to those issues anymore.
“But I will say this. All but the youngest and the most fortunate of our company have struggled to survive in desperate circumstances. We’ve fought Lupines, anarchs, the Sabbat and witch hunters, bending even the Traditions when necessity dictated. Some of us even remember the nightmare of the Inquisition, when the mortals rose against us en masse. Before I walked onto this stage tonight, I reflected that the worst thing about such a dark time is that, when trouble threatens to lay a Kindred low, he can always count on his fellow Cainites to rejoice or even to connive at his downfall, either because they hope to profit from it or out of sheer sadism.”
Certain members of the Assembly growled as if the Toreador had offended them. He kept talking, gazing at them steadily, willing them to fall silent. They did. “And yet, as I look at you now, marking the faces of a host of friends I’ve cherished over the years, 1 can’t believe that my grim perspective is true. Surely the Beast doesn’t rule in each and every one of our hearts. Surely we aren’t quite the devils the humans have always deemed us. Surely the existence of the Camarilla itself, with its covenants and accords to preserve the peace, proves that we’re capable of brotherhood, honor and charity, not just greed and blood lust. If so, then I dare to hope that you won’t turn against a community of your fellows in their hour of need. You won’t force them to accept a new master, an outsider they can’t support and behind whom they cannot rally. You’ll trust them to manage their affairs as best they can, as you’d wish to be trusted yourselves in the same situation. Even when the stakes are high, when they’ve carelessly given offense, and the fool Toreador” — he gave the crowd a self-deprecating smile — “giving orders is, as Gunter has attested, a man of distinctly impeachable character and judgment. You’ll do it because that’s the noble and the generous thing to do.”
For a moment the theater was silent. Then Malachi Jones said, “Hear, hear.” A number of the assembled vampires began to clap enthusiastically - but not all of them. Elliott had no way of telling whether he’d swayed enough of them for it to matter.
He supposed he’d know in a moment. Turning back toward Guice, he said, “All right, we’ve all spoken our pieces. Would you care to call the vote?”
“Yes, and I’d like to do it with a simple show of hands, unless someone has an objection,” the Justicar said. He looked out at the crowd, none of whom spoke out against the proposed procedure. “Very well, then. How many want to see Pablo Velasquez take over as regent of Sarasota?”
Elliott reflexively held his breath while he looked around the hall. Only about a third of the Assembly had raised their pallid hands. It was encouraging, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet. If a large number of those present abstained from the plebiscite, then he, Judy and Gunter might receive even fewer votes.
“And how many wish to see Prince Roger’s primogen remain in control?” asked Guice.
About half of the assembled vampires signaled their support.
The Toreador. Brujah, and even some of the Malkavians of Sarasota applauded and cheered. Bounding out of her chair, Judy whooped and threw her arms around Elliott. Lifting him up, she whirled him in a circle, hugging him so tightly that his ribs ached and he was glad that the undead didn’t need to breathe.
Guice gavelled insistently for order. Finally the noise subsided and Judy put Elliott down. The Justicar cleared his throat. “This is a little awkward,” he said.
Elliott felt a pang of apprehension. “And why is that?”
“I always try to determine the will of the Conclave,” said Guice, “and I almost always follow it. But I trust you all do understand that ultimately an Assembly is only an advisory body. It’s the Justicar who makes the decisions, and in this case, noting that the majority of our wise elders and princes supported the idea of change, I feel obliged to act on the basis of my own conscience and my own misgivings. I hereby declare Pablo Velasquez the acting sovereign of Sarasota.”
“You bastard!” Judy screamed. Faster than any mortal, she hurled herself forward. More agile still, Elliott lunged after her and grabbed her. Using her Herculean strength, she tore herself free instantly. The Archons flanking the bench hastily reached inside their coats.
“Calm down!” Elliott rapped, using his charismatic powers on the Brujah leader. “This isn’t helping!” He gripped her chill, bare forearm. Shuddering, fangs bared, Judy allowed him to drag her back a step.
Elliott looked up at the bench. When he beheld Guice’s smug, sanctimonious expression, he nearly went berserk himself. He was now certain that either the Ventrue was one of the enemies of Sarasota, or someone had bribed him. Either way, the outcome of the Conclave had been fixed from the start. And he didn’t know what to do about it. The Justicar, damn him, was right. Elliott and his friends couldn’t fight the entire Camarilla by themselves. “I request that you reconsider,” the actor said.
“As do I,” said Catherine. Many others shouted the same sentiment.
“I’m sorry,” said Guice. “I’ve made my decision, and no one here is empowered to gainsay me.”
“You’re wrong,” said a deep voice from the back of the auditorium.