Indescribable, O queen, is the grief you bid me to renew.
— Virgil, Aeneid
As Elliott turned to peer out into the audience, a huge Kindred, whose bushy brown beard, wild mane of hair and barbaric gold earring contrasted oddly with his conservative suit and tie, rose from his seat and headed down the aisle.
“Do you know1 who that is?” Judy whispered excitedly, shrugging off Elliott’s grip.
“Of course,” murmured the Toreador, half-dazed with astonishment. “Angus, the Gangrel Justicar.”
“What’s he doing here? Is he on our side?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll tell you one thing. Now that I’ve heard him speak, I’m all but certain that it was him giving me Dracula’s description on the phone the other night.” The audience murmured. Looking as surprised as Elliott felt, Guice stared at the giant approaching the stage. “This is, ah, unexpected,” the Ventrue Justicar said. “I had no idea you’d even returned to your duties, let alone that you were present tonight.”
Angus bounded lightly onto the stage. “But I have and I am,” he rumbled. “And I dispute your ruling. As far as I’m concerned, the government of Sarasota should stay the way it is.”
Much of the crowd cheered. Scowding, Guice pounded with his gavel until the din subsided. The exertion caused his curly white wig to slip slightly askew. “May I point out,” the Ventrue magistrate said, “that I called this Conclave.”
Angus shrugged his immense shoulders. “You may, if I can point out that it doesn’t matter. According to the letter of the law, I still wield as much authority as you.”
“If you two can’t agree,” called Otis McNamara, light glinting on the gray iron ring in his septum, “then there’s no decision. If there’s no decision, then things stay the way they are.”
Guice’s mouth twisted. “Rest assured, we will come to a judgment,” he said.
“Considering your deep respect for the opinions of the Assembly,” said Malachi Jones dryly, the air in his box now hazy with rum-scented tobacco smoke, “why not let the vote you just conducted break the deadlock?”
“Because I don’t consider that appropriate in this situation,” Guice replied.
Ang;us smiled unpleasantly. “Shall we fight it out then, you and I? Provide the gory spectacle so many of them” — he nodded at the audience — “crave?” Though struggling to retain his composure, Guice looked somewhat taken aback. .
“Surely,” said a male vampire, rising from his seat, “we ought to try to resolve this matter in a more rational manner than that.” Elliott recognized the speaker as Sebastian Durrell. Durrell was a Tremere elder from Louisville, a tall, well-dressed, fortyish and somewhat prim-looking vampire with a high, bony forehead, deep-set eyes, and a pronounced widow’s peak.
Arching a shaggy eyebrow, Angus said, “I’m guessing that you have a suggestion.”
“Not to minimize Ms. Morgan’s or Mr. Schmidt’s importance to their city,” said Durrell, giving the vampires in question an apologetic smile, “but on the basis of what I’ve heard here tonight, it seems that the heart of this matter is Mr. Sinclair’s fitness to lead. His mental stability, that is. Well, matters deadlocked in Conclave are occasionally decided by an ordeal, are they not? As it happens, using my magic, I can subject him to high levels of psychological stress.”
“How?” Judy demanded.
“You’ll see,” the Warlock replied. “Rest assured, it does no physical harm, and it will work. If he doesn’t crack under the strain, then perhaps we can trust him to serve as Roger Phillips’ steward."
“Ordinarily,” said Angus slowly, “we use ordeal to determine an alleged criminal’s guilt or innocence, not to decide questions of praxis.”
“What about the invasion of my domain?” said Gilbert Duane. “If breaking the Fifth Tradition isn’t a crime, what is?”
Elliott drew a breath to say that he’d submit to the ordeal. Evidently sensing his intent, Judy gripped his forearm with crushing force. “Don’t do it,” she whispered. “You don’t know what Durrell’s really talking about. He could be one of our enemies. Maybe the whole point of the Conclave was to set you up for this. To do the same thing to you that they did to Roger!”
“It doesn’t matter,” the Toreador murmured in reply. “Durrell’s right. One way or another, this has all turned out to be about me. Perhaps if I prove myself, Guice will feel obliged to let us alone.” He raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be happy to let Mr. Durrell read to me from the complete works of Bulwer-Lytton, subject me to easy-listening music” — the audience laughed — “or whatever he intends.” He gave Guice a level stare. “Provided, of course, that you first guarantee that my performance will settle the issue before the Assembly.”
Guice gazed out at Durrell for a moment, then looked back at Elliott. “Agreed.”
Angus shrugged. “It’s your sanity and your position on the line, Toreador. If you’re willing, I won’t object. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
Elliott grinned at him. “That would be preferable, wouldn’t it?”
Durrell hastened toward the stage. Lacking Angus’ inhuman strength and grace, he had to clamber up out of the orchestra pit. Elliott derived a bit of pleasure from seeing his would-be torturer’s dignity compromised, even if only for a moment.
Rising to his feet, the Warlock looked at the bench. “If I may proceed?” Guice nodded curtly. “Then could we have some room, please?” Angus and Judy stepped back, the latter with manifest reluctance, abandoning center stage to Durrell and his subject.
Elliott felt a twinge of apprehension, which he did his best to mask. “If I remember my vaudeville days,” he said to the Tremere, “you’re supposed to ask the audience for absolute silence, too.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Durrell said, smiling thinly. He plucked a silver stickpin, its circular head embossed with a cryptic hieroglyph, from his lapel. “However, I will require a drop of your vitae.”
Elliott offered his index finger. Durrell pricked the tip, squeezed out a blob of fragrant blood, and smeared it in the palm of his own white hand. The Toreador noticed that the other Kindred had been correct. Even if he did want quiet, it hadn’t been necessary to ask for it. The onlookers, most of whom had never had the opportunity to witness any of the legendary Tremere sorcery, were watching in fascinated silence.
Durrell lifted his hand to his face, causing Elliott to wonder if he intended to lick the vitae off. But the Warlock simply inhaled deeply, filling his head with the coppery scent. Then, lowering his arm again, he used his finger to draw a symbol in the crimson liquid. “Please close your eyes and open your mind,” he said.
Elliott obeyed. For a moment nothing happened, and then a terrible vertigo seized him. He felt the world spin, and he staggered to stay on his feet.
The dizziness was matched by a comparable feeling inside his brain. His thoughts were whirling too, disintegrating into a maelstrom of confusion.
The surface under his shoes abruptly stopped rotating, throwing him off-balance once more. Reeling, he opened his eyes. He had a vague sense that he shouldn’t, that he’d told someone that he’d keep them closed, but he longer remembered to whom he’d said it, or why.
He found he was standing in the foyer of his own home. For a moment everything looked strange. The soft lights burning beyond the doorways. The high corners of the hall. The sweet-smelling yellow roses in the delicate white porcelain vase, and the green marble-topped stand on which they sat.
He shook his head, perplexed at his own reaction. Nothing was strange. The house looked the way it usually did. He didn’t understand why he was picturing it as it had never been — neglected, shrouded in shadow with veils of cobweb hanging in the corners, the vase full of long-withered blooms, dust coating every surface and hanging in the air.
He couldn’t remember when, or from whom, he’d last drunk. He wondered if he’d imbibed vitae laced with alcohol or drugs. He supposed it didn’t matter; his disorientation was fading. Noticing the sheaf of neatly typed pages in his hand, he remembered that he’d gone away alone to finish his new comedy without distractions. Well, the piece was done now, and it had a wonderfully funny part for Mary. Eager to see her, kiss her and show her the script, he called her name.
His shout echoed through the building. No one replied.
Puzzled — he’d phoned and told her to expect him this evening, hadn’t he? — he ranged through the lavishly furnished ground floor of the house. Neither she nor anyone else was there, so he headed for the second story.
Halfway up the staircase the odor hit him, the rich scent of Kindred vitae mingled with a sickening stench of decay. Suddenly terrified, moving with every iota of his superhuman speed, he charged up the steps.
He found his wife, both pieces of her, lying on the bedroom floor, her yellow hair as luxuriant as ever but the flesh already black and rotten on her bones. She was still wearing the gorgeous sky-blue silk kimono she used for a dressing gown, and several of the gold and crystal vials on her vanity — the cosmetics he’d never been able to convince her she didn’t need — were open. Evidently the killers had surprised her shortly after sunset, while she was still busy with her toilet.
Elliott couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Mary was both the most wonderful, important person in the world and a powerful immortal, a queen of the night. Someone like that couldn’t simply be butchered like a beast in her own boudoir. It wouldn’t make any sense.
And yet, simultaneously, he did believe it. He understood instantly, instinctively, that the center of his life, the fountainhead of all his joys, was gone forever, and that all the best parts of himself had perished with her. He threw back his head and howled like an animal.
The room spun, whirling him into darkness.
When the light returned, he was climbing the stairs, looking for Mary and shaking with fear, though he didn’t understand why. Just because she hadn’t answered his call and he hadn’t found her on the first floor, that didn’t mean anything was wrong. Then he smelled blood and decay, and his dread turned to outright horror. He bolted up the steps, into the bedroom, beheld the carnage and shrieked
The world went dark, then light, like a great eye blinking.
His nose full of the smells of rot and vitae, Elliott raced across the landing, burst into the bedroom and saw his wife’s decapitated body. He screamed in anguish.
The universe lurched, and now he’d just this instant blundered into the bedroom doorway. Spying Mary’s lifeless and desecrated body, he cried out. Then the moment repeated, over and over again, the bursts of agonizing grief and despair pounding his mind like a hammer.
He couldn’t tell how many times he’d relived the instant of discovery. Oblivious to everything but his pain, he didn’t know that each time wasn’t the first. But finally, wailing, his hands upraised as if he were King Lear raging on the heath, he noticed the red streak of blood on his finger.
Time skipped backward, repeating that one second like a scratched record, scrambling his thoughts. He nearly forgot about his wounded hand.
Nearly, but not quite. Because he couldn’t recall how he’d hurt himself, and somehow the blood wasn’t right. He had a sense that it didn’t belong in this ghastly place and time.
That suspicion did not halt the agony associated with Mary’s destruction; nor did it enable him to grasp that he was trapped in a single recurring moment, or otherwise restore his capacity for rational thought. Yet murkily, instinctively, he fumbled after the meaning of the tiny injury, groping in his own head like a drowning man struggling to reach a life line.
A series of images tumbled through his mind. He was standing on stage. But not for a performance, because he had a sense that he was in danger. And then a Kindred with a pinched, sober-looking face that reminded him of Cromwell and his Roundheads climbed up on the platform and stuck his finger with a silver pin. The other vampire’s name was Durrell, and he was one of the Tremere!
Though Elliott’s thoughts were still fragmented, he now seemed to remember that Durrell had cast a spell on him. And if that were so, perhaps this hideous experience was only a dream. He strained to wake himself up, just as, when mortal, he’d often managed to rouse himself from a nightmare.
It didn’t work. The sight of Mary’s severed head, with its skeletal grin and eyes dissolving into slime, smashed at him again and again and again, until he began to doubt that his recollection of Durrell was real. Perhaps it was merely a delusion manufactured by his mind in a last-ditch effort to deny the truth of his wife’s murder. Certainly, he felt himself going mad.
And perhaps it was that very disintegration of reason, or his Toreador powers of perception, that at last enabled him to grasp intuitively the nature of his situation. This moment, this experience was true. Mary was dead, and he couldn’t escape by hysterically insisting otherwise. Yet the moment was a lie, as well, because she was long dead, her murder savagely avenged and her bones laid reverently to rest. If there was any justice in the universe, her spirit had found bliss in some paradise for joyous, loving souls. Elliott felt a surge of rage at the cruelty that would force anyone to relive such excruciating grief when the pain should have faded long ago.
Fighting the pull of the spectacle before him and the overwhelming anguish it inspired, he struggled once again to free himself from the illusion. Abruptly, Mary’s corpse, and the bedroom around it, evaporated.
Better it is that thou shouldest not voui, than that thou shouldest vow and not pay.
— Ecclesiastes 5:5
Elliott saw that he was back in the theater. His body jerked involuntarily: his kinesthetic sense was addled since, although he’d believed he was standing in a doorway, clutching at the jamb, he now perceived that at some point during his torment he’d fallen to his knees. His eyes stung and his cheeks, chin, lapels, shirt collar and the top of his tie were wet with blood. Indeed, he’d wept away so much vitae that he could feel the Hunger stirring. His throat ached severely. Evidently he’d shrieked it raw.
Drawing on his inhuman speed, he scrambled up into a crouch, hurled himself at Durrell and carried him down with a flying tackle. Straddling the Tremere, he raised his fist to pummel him.
But then he remembered why the other Kindred had bewitched him in the first place. It had been an ordeal, sanctioned by the Conclave, and the point had been to see whether he’d emerge from it with his sanity intact. It might give Guice and Angus the wrong impression if he tore Durrell limb from limb. It took willpower, but he managed to lower his arm.
“My apologies,” he rasped to the Tremere. “I’m in control now.” He blinked as an insight struck him. “And I don’t suppose I have any right to be angry with you. All you did to me was what I’ve been doing to myself for years on end.”
Powerful hands gripped him and hauled him off Durrell. Turning his head, he saw that Judy and Angus had taken hold of him. “I really am all right,” he said, beginning to hate the froggy croak of his voice. The Brujah and the Gangrel exchanged glances, then released him. “How long was I in the trance?”
“About fifteen minutes,” Judy said.
M31 god, Elliott thought with a kind of awe. If time skipped back every second or two, that means I relived the discovery of Mary’s body at least — He cringed even from doing the arithmetic.
“What did you think was happening to you?” Judy asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” Elliott said. Knowing that the effort was futile, he quickly tried to mend his appearance, wiping his face with a handkerchief and straightening his ruined tie and lapels. He reflected ironically that he hoped the audience had enjoyed the geek show he’d provided. Then he turned to Guice and Angus. “Gentlemen, though both my voice and my appearance are rather the worse for wear, I’m as sane as I was at the start of the Conclave. I’ve passed your test.”
“I agree,” Angus rumbled. Elliott thought he heard a note of respect in the Gangrel’s voice that hadn’t been there before.
Frowning, Guice hesitated as if he were unwilling to grant the judgment to Roger Phillips’ primogen even now'. A hostile murmur ran through the theater. “All right,” the
Ventrue said, a little petulantly. “With the understanding that the Toreador will respect the Fifth Tradition, even when taking back their art” — Elliott inclined his head in acquiescence — “I’ll permit the present situation to stand. For the moment.”
Angus stared at him coldly. “For the moment?”
“My esteemed colleague!” said Guice, smiling, some of his accustomed joviality oozing back into his voice. “What a suspicious glare and tone! Whatever do you take me for? I assure you, I would never seek to reverse a judgment unilaterally that we two had reached together. But I do feel a responsibility to monitor the situation in this domain. And, if it doesn’t stabilize in the near future, to communicate my concerns to our masters of the Inner Circle.”
“Fine. But it will stabilize. Do you think I came to Sarasota just to dabble in politics?” he asked contemptuously. “I came to address the one local problem of true concern to the Camarilla as a whole. To hunt down Dracula. And I promise to catch her in seventy-two hours.” The Assembly babbled in excitement. “Will that ease your anxieties?” Guice blinked. “Ah, yes, I suppose so. If you truly can.” “Then let’s ring down the curtain on this circus.” The giant Kindred wheeled and strode toward the wings.
Caught by surprise again, Guice stared after his departing colleague for a moment, then hastily rapped with his gavel. “The Conclave is adjourned,” he said. “Thanks to one and all for your participation.”
The remaining vampires began to exit the stage. Elliott was eager to catch up with Angus, but when he made it into the shadowy wings and saw Gunter trudging along dispiritedly just a few feet away, he decided to confront the Malkavian without delay, while he was still demoralized. Employing his supernatural speed and agility, the actor suddenly whirled, rushed the ruddy-cheeked Kindred and grabbed him by the throat, thrusting him against the wall.
“All right,” Elliott said, “you’ve played your little game and discovered how it can blow up in your face. This maneuver tonight was your final ploy. From now on, you’re going to forget all about seizing praxis and devote yourself to helping Judy and me defend the domain. Otherwise, I’ll destroy you. Is that clear?”
Gunter glared. His fangs began to lengthen, and his muscles bunched. For a moment Elliott thought he was going to have to fight him again. But then the Malkavian lowered his eyes. “All right,” he grumbled, “you win. For now. But in a year or two, when the threat is past and if Roger is no better....
Elliott inspected Gunter’s aura. The pale envelope of light glowed dull orange and gray, a mix suggestive of anxiety, dejection and resignation, which seemed to indicate that the Malkavian was sincere. The actor released him and then, seized by an impulse he never would have anticipated, grinned and clasped his shoulder. “I understand. Better luck next time. Let’s just hope that there’s something left for us to wrangle over. Excuse me, please.” As he strode away he could sense Gunter’s gaze on his back, but it felt more surprised and speculative than hostile.
As the Toreador exited the backstage area, he was suddenly concerned that Angus might have departed as mysteriously as he’d come. When he reached the gleaming, high-ceilinged white marble lobby, however, he saw that he needn’t have worried. Most of the vampires who’d attended the Conclave were milling around chattering, and, frowning, the towering Gangrel was standing in the midst of a circle of elders, many of whom were no doubt eager to curry favor with a Justicar.
Elliott made his way forward against a steady stream of well-wishers, all intent on congratulating him on the Conclave’s verdict. He gave everyone a cordial smile, some gracious reply and a firm handshake — God knew, he couldn’t afford to alienate anyone who was kindly disposed toward the domain — but he didn’t allow anyone to detain him for more than a moment. With his Toreador charm, it was easy to extricate himself from conversations without the other party feeling slighted.
Slipping between a stocky, scar-faced Kindred in a hideous lime-green tuxedo and matching eye patch, and a heavily perfumed female Nosferatu cursed with the snout, ears and tusks of a wild boar, Elliott finally arrived at Angus’ side. “I’d like to talk to you privately,” he said.
The hirsute giant nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I thought you would.” He nodded to his circle of sycophants. “Pardon us.” Elliott started to lead him toward one of the offices adjoining the foyer. “No,” Angus said. “If you don’t mind, let’s get outdoors into the clean air.”
The actor shrugged and conducted his companion to one of the exits. The night was cool and humid; traffic moaned on the nearby highway. The two vampires walked about fifty feet into the darkness, halting beside a royal palm. “Is this all right?” Elliott asked.
“It’s fine,” Angus said. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of the plants around them.
“Thank you for your help,” Elliott said. “But why are you giving it?”
Angus chuckled. “I’m a Justicar. Wouldn’t you expect me to have a keen commitment to truth, goodness and the welfare of my Kindred brothers?”
Elliott smiled. “Based on my previous experience with the breed, not necessarily.”
“Very astute of you,” the shapeshifter said. “To be blunt, I’m not going to tell you how I learned of your problems, or why I took an interest. I’m here, and I’m on your side. That will have to be enough.”
“Before my friend Sky died,” Elliott persisted, “he hinted that the war we’re fighting has aspects we haven’t even perceived. He implied that my friends and I are being manipulated like pieces on a chessboard, and that the leader of our enemies is some horrible demon the like of which we’ve never imagined. At the time, I thought he’d gone mad from the strain of resisting the Blood Bond, but his words have been preying on my mind ever since. I don’t suppose you could shed any light on them?”
“If you suspect that you’re a chessman,” Angus said somberly, “rejoice that you don’t know for sure. Perhaps pieces that understand their situation are more useful to the player. Perhaps they’re deployed in the most hazardous positions in one game after another.”
“You’re talking about yourself,” Elliott said.
Angus snorted. “Of course not. I was merely responding to your bit of whimsy. I’m oath-bound to the Inner Circle and loyal to them alone, and I’d gut any slanderer who insisted otherwise.”
Elliott perceived that Angus had said everything on this particular topic that he was going to. Ergo, despite his own frustrated curiosity, it was time to turn the discussion to more immediate concerns. “Why did you phone me anonymously?” the actor asked in his now-laryngitic whisper. “Why didn’t you reveal yourself before?”
“I figured that if you Toreador didn’t know I was around,” Angus replied, “it was a reasonable bet that Dracula and your other enemies wouldn’t either. I wouldn’t have spoken out tonight if you hadn’t needed me, and I certainly wouldn’t have put my reputation on the line by promising to catch the rogue in three days. But the way we thwarted Guice and make him look foolish — and deprived him of a bribe, for all 1 know — I had to say something bold and dramatic to deter him from running to the Inner Circle as soon as he left the Elysium. Trust me, you don’t want those seven ancient ogres overseeing your business, not even the overlord of your own clan. They’d begin by destroying Roger Phillips, just to simplify the political situation here.”
Elliott felt a pang of trepidation. “But it wasn’t an empty promise, was it? You obtained Dracula’s description, so you must know how to apprehend her, mustn’t you?”
Angus grinned, a white flash of teeth in the gloom. “So far,” he admitted, “I haven’t got a clue.”
Perish the Universe, provided I have my revenge.
-— Cyrano de Bergerac, “La Mort d’Agrippine”
Malagigi skulked through the shadowy corridors of the derelict office building, trembling with fear and weakness, jumping at shadows, his belly cramping with hunger. His mind was a jumble of rage and despair, and stupidity.
Muddled though his thinking was, the pallid homunculus remembered that he hadn’t always been in such a wretched, degraded condition. Only a few days ago he’d been strong and well-nourished, the capacity of his tiny brain augmented by its psychic link to a larger one. He’d been confident of his ability to outfight or outwit any threat the crumbling building could throw at him, and even more certain that Wyatt, his beloved father and master, would always be there to succor him should his own capabilities prove wanting.
But then the unimaginable had happened. The Wicked Man, as Malagigi’s creator had called him, had killed Wyatt, leaving the homunculus to starve and to fend off the rats which, seeming to sense his feebleness, grew ever more aggressive.
Something rustled in the gloom ahead. Malagigi flattened himself against the baseboard. For a moment his mind was
full of terror — and then he felt a surge of desire. Because he knew the rodent he’d heard was full of blood.
He also vaguely sensed that that fact didn’t matter, that the animal’s vitae wouldn’t do him any good. But he couldn’t remember why he suspected that, and he was far too famished to wrack his brain for the answer. His throat dry and raw and his stomach aching, his thirst an irresistible compulsion, he stalked forward.
He smelled the rank odor of the rat and then glimpsed its hunched form and long, skinny tail. He broke into a charge and tried to hurl himself on top of it.
Squealing, its beady eyes flaming, the rodent spun around and flung itself at him. They slammed together. Malagigi grabbed hold of it, and then they were rolling across the grimy linoleum, the rat winding up on top of him. Its yellow, chisel-like front teeth gouged at his head. Its clawed feet scrabbled at him, slashing long cuts down his torso.
Desperately, clutching at the animal’s matted, flea-infested fur, the homunculus grappled with it, trying to drag himself into position to deliver an effective attack. At last he managed to sink his long, curved fangs — sabertooth-tiger teeth, Wyatt had called them — into his opponent’s throat.
Blood gushed out from a punctured artery. The rat went into convulsions and then collapsed to lie twitching on the floor. Its bow'els and bladder released, filling the air with the reek of urine and excrement, and its fleas began to hop away from it.
Malagigi guzzled vitae from the wound he’d inflicted. The liquid tasted foul, yet for a moment it eased the fire in his gullet and the hollow ache in his midsection. Then a surge of nausea overwhelmed him, and he vomited the blood back up again. The sickness didn’t abate until he’d purged himself of every drop.
Clasping his belly, his wounds ablaze w’ith pain, kneeling in the pool of filth he’d created, he remembered why it had been futile to attack the rat. A homunculus could only feed on his master’s blood. Which, since Wyatt was dead, meant that Malagigi was doomed.
Whimpering, the homunculus rose and staggered away from the scene of the battle. His system was too depleted for his wounds to close completely, and he left a trail of blood spatters behind. It would have been easier to stay put, but a recurring compulsion kept drawing him back to the scene of his master’s demise.
There wasn’t much left there to grieve over. Three Kindred, the other ones Wyatt had thought of as both friends and dupes, to the perpetual bewilderment of Malagigi’s straightforward mind, had come and carried the Tremere’s bones and treasures away while the homunculus hid in fear. Nothing remained but a sticky stain and the faint smells of gun smoke, vitae and rot, still lingering in the air.
Malagigi slumped down beside the discolored patch of floor. This is where I’ll die, he thought bleakly. He hesitantly, reverently, touched the tacky edge of the discoloration on the floor.
Gradually, so slowly that at first he wasn’t truly conscious of it, he began to feel a sense of presence, a sort of muted echo of the psychic bond that he and his master had once shared. When he noticed what was happening, he peered wildly up and down the hallway, but there was nothing to see.
Malagigi... Wyatt moaned, so faintly that the sound was nearly inaudible. Malagigi looked around again, with the same lack of result. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. With mingled awe and grief, he decided that Wyatt hadn’t miraculously resurrected himself from the layer of scum on the linoleum. Rather, the homunculus was hearing the voice of a spirit.
“Oh, Wyatt,” he said in the staccato chitter that only his master could understand. “Ob, father.” Crimson tears dripped from his enormous eyes, mingling with the steady flow of vitae from his wounds.
Avenge us, Wyatt said. Before you join me in death, you have to kill our murderer.
Malagigi sobbed. “1 want to,” he said. “1 hate the Wicked Man! But I don’t know how to hurt him. He stole the gun, and 1 don’t know where he went. 1 don’t even know his name!”
Yes, you do, the phantasmal voice replied. You know everything that I know, even if you don’t understand the meaning of it. It’s all there, packed away in your skull. Dredge the information out and then give it to Laurie, Felip, and Jimmy Ray.
As Wyatt spoke the names, the anarchs’ faces flickered through Malagigi’s mind, and he realized whom his creator was talking about. “No,” the homunculus said, “1 don’t want to. They’re the same as the Wicked Man!”
No, they’re not, Wyatt answered firmly, and they’re our only chance to get even. Please, if you love me, go to them. Do what I can’t.
“All right,” Malagigi promised miserably, and then his sense of Wyatt’s presence dwindled away to nothing.
Another type of being might have questioned whether he had actually communicated with his master’s ghost at all, might have speculated that pain and the imminence of death had both sharpened his ability to reason and transformed some of his thoughts into hallucinations. But even at his most lucid, the homunculus would have been incapable of that kind of abstract speculation. As far as he was concerned, Wyatt had spoken to him, and he had no choice, or indeed no real desire, but to obey. He dragged himself to his feet and stumbled, zigzagging, down the shadowy hall.
For a minute or two he was afraid that, in his enervated condition, he wouldn’t be able to get out of the building. But as he neared the stairs he remembered that the Wicked
Man had broken a window to get in. He should be able to use the same breach to get out.
Unfortunately, when he reached the abandoned dentist’s office, he realized the flaw in his plan. The windowsill was about two-and-a-half feet above the floor. At his physical peak Malagigi could have leaped that high easily, or pushed some object under the window to use as a makeshift ladder; but now he wasn’t at all certain that he had the strength.
He w'ondered if he should descend to the ground floor. Perhaps Laurie, Felipe and, and — he realized that the anarchs’ names were already fading from his memory — and the Kindred with the sunglasses had broken down a door to gain entrance. But what if they hadn’t? What if there was no way out below? Malagigi doubted that he’d have the strength to clamber back up the stairs, either.
He picked his way through the dully gleaming shards of glass on the floor, flexed his knees, and leaped. The convulsive effort ripped a fresh burst of pain through his wounds. His fingers missed the sill by several inches, and he fell heavily back onto the linoleum.
He tried again. This time, to his own surprise, he jumped just high enough to grab a precarious hold with his fingertips. Clutching desperately, shaking with pain and effort, he slowly dragged himself up onto the windowsill. Then, dizzy, he immediately tumbled off the other side.
He fell onto the fire escape with a dull clank. Halfstunned, he lay on the cool, rough, rusty iron surface for a time, gazing blearily up at the stars. His blood seeped through the gaps in the grillwork beneath him. He could hear it plopping on the earth below.
Finally, less because he’d recovered much of his strength than because he felt that if he didn’t move soon he never would, he struggled to his feet and blundered down the steps. In a minute he reached the end of them: the point where a human’s weight would make a ladder drop on down to the ground.
Malagigi peered over the edge. He was still ten feet up. He knew that ordinarily it wouldn’t have been much of a fall for a creature as light and nimble as himself, but in his weakened condition it terrified him. Still, there wras no other way. Shuddering, reminding himself that he was doing this for his beloved master, he closed his eyes and, with one lurching motion, hurled himself into space.
The world seemed to vanish for a moment. He supposed it was his awareness that had really disappeared, that the shock of the fall had knocked him unconscious. He felt grateful: better temporary oblivion than another burst of agony. Sprawled in a patch of crabgrass and sand spurs, he tested his limbs and was somewhat surprised to find that they still worked. He stood up, then realized that he couldn’t recall where he was supposed to go next.
Fighting panic, he closed his eyes and concentrated as hard as he could. Eventually the image of a derelict garage formed inside his mind. Of course, the anarchs’ communal haven! It was just down the street!
Its proximity infused him with a final bit of febrile energy. Panting reflexively though he had no need for air, tripping repeatedly over the bumps and declivities in the ground, he tottered out to the desolate street, then onward toward his goal.
Until something hissed at him.
Nearly losing his balance, Malagigi jerked around to see a crouching calico tomcat with a ragged ear and a stinking, pustulant gash on its shoulder regarding him from the shadows. Its tail twitched, then it slunk forward.
The homunculus knew he couldn’t defeat it in a fight. He couldn’t have bested a second rodent. But he also knew that the animal could run him down effortlessly. So he shrieked and lunged at it, gnashing his oversized fangs and waving his gore-encrusted hands.
The cat halted in its advance, backed up a step, then wheeled and raced away. No doubt the fact that it had never seen a creature like Malagigi before had served to make his aggressive display more intimidating. Perhaps the feline had even belatedly sensed that it was facing a supernatural entity.
In too much distress to feel even a momentary flush of triumph, Malagigi staggered on. Blessedly, the door to one of the garage’s service bays hung a few inches above the concrete floor: perhaps someone had left it open for ventilation. When the homunculus slipped under it and skulked on past Wyatt’s green van, he saw that the door leading into the office area was ajar as well. Voices murmured from the dimly lit hallway beyond.
He crept down the corridor and peeked through a doorway into what had once been a waiting room. Three glum-looking Kindred — one in sunglasses, one with a thin black mustache and gleaming gold chains around his neck, and a brunette girl in bellbottoms and a fringed buckskin jacket — were seated inside. For a moment, Malagigi knew their faces but not their names, and then those came back to him. Jimmy Ray, Felipe, and Laurie. Still intent on fulfilling Wyatt’s last wishes, yet, despite himself, wary of people whom his master had considered a potential threat as well as allies, the homunculus paused to study them.
“I’m not going to spend my whole life hanging around in this dump, waiting for some honcho from the Movement to contact us,” Jimmy Ray said. Irritation made the country twang in his voice more pronounced.
“Don’t you care about liberation anymore?” Laurie asked, glaring at him. “Don’t you care that Wyatt’s dead and Dan’s disappeared?”
Slumped in a chair in the corner, using a coffee table heaped with old magazines for a footstool, Felipe hefted the object that had been resting in his lap. It was Wyatt’s ancient grimoire; the pages that had broken free of the binding had been carelessly stuck back inside. “Wyatt was a Tremere,” the Hispanic vampire said.
“You don’t know that,” Laurie said. “You can’t read that book. You don’t know what it means.”
Felipe rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. Doesn’t it look like a book of magic to you?” He set it down and picked up Wyatt’s notebook. “And this is more of the same, in our fearless leader’s own handwriting.”
Laurie grimaced. “All right, maybe he was a Tremere. A Warlock could defect to the Movement, couldn’t he?”
Jimmy Ray shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. But I do know that he lied to us.”
“Because,” she replied, “he knew that if he told you the truth, you wouldn’t trust him.”
“And maybe that would have been pretty smart on my part,” said Jimmy Ray. “Look, don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to think bad stuff about Wyatt. I liked him. I care that he’s dead, and if Dan didn’t just run out on us, 1 care that something’s happened to him, too. But I’ll be damned if I know what to do about any of it.”
If, despite their suspicions, the anarchs still cared about Wyatt, then they were indeed his one hope for revenge. Malagigi tried to walk into the room.
Suddenly going numb, his leg gave way beneath him, dumping him on the floor. Though he was now sprawled in the doorway, the three Kindred talked on, oblivious to his presence. In the gloom, he was too small for them to notice.
He tried to drag himself to his feet, but discovered that he lacked the strength. His thoughts and memories were crumbling into confusion again. Black spots swam at the corners of his vision, and he could feel death sucking at him like a whirlpool, relentlessly striving to pull him down.
It mustn’t end this way! He had to fulfill his master’s last request, and that meant that somehow, he had to fend off annihilation for at least a few more minutes. He had to replenish his strength, and he could only think of one even remotely possible means of doing so.
He tried to chitter to attract the anarchs’ attention, but
found that pain and weakness had clogged his throat. And thus he had no recourse but to crawl, leaving a trail of vitae like the track of a snail.
He blacked out twice on his way across the waiting room, terrified each time that he’d never wake up. But he did, and finally he made it to Laurie’s foot. Clutching at her sneaker, he hauled his upper body high enough to bite her on the ankle.
As soon as his fangs pricked her, she squealed and kicked. The sudden motion hurled him two feet away. He slammed down on his back and lay inert, now too feeble to stir at all.
The vampires approached and knelt around him, peering down. “Damn,” said Felipe, curiosity and loathing mingled in his voice, “what is it?”
“I don’t know,” Jimmy Ray answered, “but it’s sure nasty-looking, and torn to shit to boot.”
Gingerly, as though afraid Malagigi might try to bite her again, Laurie nudged him with her fingertips. The homunculus’ head lolled in her direction, and she gasped. “It has Wyatt’s face!” she exclaimed.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Jimmy Ray.
“Just look at it,” she said. “It must have been his what-do-you-call'it, his familiar. And I think it needs vitae, just like we do.”
Felipe shrugged. “T. S. for it.”
“No,” said Laurie, “Wyatt.wouldn’t want us to let it die.” She extended her fangs and ripped a gash in the heel of her hand. Aromatic vampire blood welled out.
“I know that you loved Wyatt,” said Felipe, “but what you’re about to do is just plain nuts. You don’t know where that creature has been or what kind of magic cooties it’s carrying.” Ignoring him, she picked up Malagigi and pressed his face against her self-inflicted wound. Her companions cringed in disgust.
At first the homunculus was too weak even to suck the flowing blood, but a little trickled into his mouth anyway. And gradually, new strength began to seep into his tortured limbs.
It wasn’t like the vitality he’d derived from Wyatt’s vitae, nor was it accompanied by any sense of well-being. His flesh felt fiery hot, vibrant, as if he were shaking violently on the inside. Yet despite its toxic qualities, Laurie’s blood was far more akin to his master’s vitae than that of the rat had been. He was able to keep it down, and, like an overdose of amphetamines, it was giving him a final burst of energy before it killed him.
When he’d gulped his fill, he looked up at his benefactress, and a sudden wave of panic swept over him. Now that he was here, how was he supposed to communicate with her? For a moment he had no idea at all.
Then he recalled that Wyatt had said that everything he’d ever learned had left an echo somewhere in Malagigi’s brain. The homunculus just had to tap into it. He concentrated, straining, and after a few seconds the answer came to him.
Gazing beseechingly at Laurie, Malagigi pointed at the floor. She got the idea and set him down. Felipe and Jimmy Ray shifted their feet, evidently poising themselves to stamp on him if he did anything they didn’t like.
Malagigi stuck his finger into one of the open wounds on his chest. Ignoring the resultant jab of pain, he crouched and began to scrawl crude block capital letters on the floor with his own blood.
He prayed that he was writing coherently. He’d never tried before. It had never occurred to him that he could. When he finished and Laurie read, “Dan kill,” he felt a swell of joy.
“Somebody killed Dan?” asked Felipe, frowning. The homunculus impatiently shook his head.
“Dan killed Wyatt?” asked Laurie. Malagigi nodded violently, and the petite brown-haired vampire looked stricken. “My God! He was our friend! Why would he do that?”
Even if the homunculus had been capable of explaining, a sudden paroxysm of agony alerted him that he didn’t have time. When the pain eased, he dipped his finger in his own blood once again and then wrote ten numbers.
As soon as he’d inscribed the final character, he collapsed beside his handiwork. Finally releasing his hold on his little life, he soared into the dark to seek his father.
Care
Sat on his faded cheek.
— John Milton, Paradise Lost
Sebastian Durrell peered up and down the length of nondescript concrete-block corridor and then, seeing no one, reached for the invisible door. As usual, he hesitated just before he touched it.
On occasion, he’d tried to find some humor in the security arrangements of his secret partner, Timothy Baxter. Durrell and his clanmates had a complex tunnel system underlying the amusement park, to which only they and their kine servants were granted access. Concealed in the middle of that was a Tremere communal haven, the chantry in which he was presently standing. And beneath that was the hidden lair of whose existence only he and its occupant were aware, a warren created in an instant by sorceries that Durrell didn’t pretend to understand. Secrets nested in secrets like a chain of Chinese boxes. It ought to have seemed absurd, a droll comment on the paranoia generated by the Kindred way of life.
Yet try as he might, Durrell couldn’t summon even a flicker of amusement. The shadows in the catacombs he was about to enter were too black even for a vampire’s liking, the dank air too vibrant with spells and forces that set even a Tremere’s teeth on edge, particularly now that the plan seemed to be going awry. And yet, for that very reason, he didn’t feel he could put his visit off. Grimacing, he pressed his palm against the surface before him.
What appeared to be and felt like a cold, solid, off-white wall crawled under his hand like the hide of a horse. According to Timothy, the entrance was tasting him and so confirming his identity. A thin outline of green light shone around the door, and the Tremere elder pushed it open.
Beyond the threshold, a splintery, rickety wooden staircase descended into a different world: a maze of tunnels so roughly excavated that they looked almost natural, smelling of loam and illuminated by a sourceless viridian phosphorescence. Somewhere in the midst of it water dripped, the echoing plink a reminder that the warren shouldn’t exist. The water table was too high in the Florida peninsula for anyone to carve out passages underground unless he had access to modern construction techniques or the ancient secrets of the Nosferatu. Durrell occasionally wondered if the place existed in a dream, or on another level of reality. It felt like it.
He hurried down the steps and onward. After ten strides his patent-leather loafers were encrusted with muck. A small creature, something he couldn’t see clearly despite his inhumanly keen vision, scuttled out of his path and squirmed through a narrow crevice in the wall.
After Durrell had made the first couple of turns, the nagging suspicion that he’d lost his way began to plague him. He firmly reminded himself that he had felt that way every time he ventured down here, and it had never turned out to be so.
The dripping sound grew louder, and now he could tell that the source was ahead of him. Suddenly he caught the rich scent of human vitae, and, though he’d fed only last night, for a moment he quivered and his fangs ached in their sockets. Perhaps he wasn’t hearing falling water after all.
Rounding a final corner, he beheld the cavernous chamber which, as near as he could make out, was the only part of the complex in which Timothy spent any time. Why the Methuselah had bothered to create the rest of it was only one of the many mysteries that surrounded him. In the exact center of the room floated the pudgy, sunburned corpse of a tourist clad in a garish Hawaiian shirt, tan Dockers, brown sandals and black socks, dangling head-down like a slaughtered hog. A few last drops of vitae were seeping from the gash in his throat. No doubt Timothy had seized the kine in the theme park. The manner in which he departed and returned to his catacombs without seeming to traverse the tunnel system above was also an enigma to Durrell.
Timothy was kneeling beside the drying pool of gore beneath his victim. His nude, muscular form looked as inhumanly perfect as ever, with golden skin utterly unlike the alabaster pallor of the average Kindred. Though ordinarily little affected by the glamors spun by his fellow vampires, Durrell had had to learn not to gaze directly at the Methuselah for too long, lest he start to tremble with adoration and terror
Timothy flowed to his feet. “A waste of time,” he grumbled, his bass voice musical despite his irritation.
“What was?” Durrell asked.
“The divination,” Timothy said. He nodded at the pool of blood, and Durrell realized he’d been using it to scry. “I didn’t learn anything that 1 really wanted to know.” He waved his hand and, behind him, both the vitae and the levitated cadaver vanished in a burst of azure flame. The ancient vampire was standing less than a yard away from the blast, but it didn’t appear to bother him, even though
Durrell could feel the flare of heat all the way across the chamber.
Durrell took a deep breath to steady himself. “The Conclave didn’t work out,” he said, walking nearer. “It wound up confirming Sinclair’s right to serve as Phillips’ regent, at least for the moment.”
Timothy sighed like a father whose child has brought home a bad report card. “I thought you assured me that Guice was in Duane’s debt, and that Duane wanted our friend Velasquez to assume the rule of Sarasota.”
“And I was right,” Durrell replied. The ambient green phosphorescence faded for a moment, then glowed brighter again. “But Angus, that Gangrel Justicar, showed up —” “Angus!” The Methuselah’s mouth curved upward in what an observer with perceptions less acute that Durrell’s might have mistaken for an affectionate smile. “Well of course he turned up! How is he?”
“All right, I suppose,” Durrell replied warily. He didn’t understand Timothy’s reaction, and as usual, that made him edgy. “I gather you know him?”
Timothy’s smile grew wider. “We had dealings, once upon a time. You were about to tell me that Guice and Angus deadlocked on a verdict.”
“Yes,” said Durrell, “so I used the alternate plan, the spell you taught me. But Sinclair came through the psychic assault with his mind intact.”
“Ah well,” said Timothy, waving a dismissive hand, “I’m sure you did your best. It’s only a temporary setback.” For an instant the smell of lilacs filled the air, and Durrell thought he felt ghostly fingers toying with the hair on the back of his head. Then the sensations ended as abruptly, and as randomly, as they’d begun.
“Guice did make noises about carrying the whole matter of the regency to the Inner Circle,” said Durrell, “and to put him off, Angus promised to catch Dracula in seventy-two hours.”
“And I think we both know how likely that is,” the Methuselah said. He reached out to clasp Durrell’s shoulder. The younger vampire simultaneously craved the contact and felt an impulse to cringe from it. “From your hangdog demeanor, I had thought the Conclave was an unmitigated disaster. But that isn’t so at all. The wolf and his allies will lose a great deal of credibility when he fails, and then we’ll oust them in the next Assembly.”
Durrell shook his head reflectively. “I hope so. Meanwhile, there’s more bad news. Wyatt Vandercar is dead. A Caitiff whom he recruited into his supposed circle of anarchs killed him and then disappeared. I know this because, bizarrely enough, Wyatt’s homunculus gave our phone number to one of his other pawns, and she called us.” “That is remarkable behavior for a familiar,” said Timothy. “It’s too bad the little creature is doomed, if it isn’t dead already. Dare I hope that whoever picked up the phone managed to preserve the fiction that Wyatt was a rogue Tremere, and this citadel is an enclave of his fellow rebels?” Durrell felt a twinge of anger at the condescension in the older vampire’s tone, but he was careful not to let his feelings show, “Yes. We kept up the pretense. Evidently she was quite fond of Wyatt. She very much wants to believe that he dealt with her honestly.”
“Does she know why the Caitiff killed Wyatt?”
“No. She speculated that he was an ‘enemy agent.’” “And perhaps she was right. Bring her here. Her comrades too, if they’re equally trusting. They can keep watch for the assassin, just in case he finds his way to the park.”
Durrell blinked. “Do you think that’s wise? Won’t they catch on to the fact that this is a Tremere enclave?”
Timothy shrugged. “I don’t see why they should, if you and your people manage them properly. Have someone with the appropriate talent charm them, the way Wyatt evidently did. If they do tumble to the fact that you’re all magi, you might try selling them on the lie that, in reality, the Tremere support the Anarch Movement. All the tales suggesting otherwise are merely a smoke screen.”
Durrell shook his head. “They’d never believe that.” “Then bring them down to me. 1 do have to feed, and it will save me the trouble of hunting.”
Durrell felt a chill ooze up his spine, well aware that Kindred of his companion’s age could only survive by diablerie. It was one reason among many why he strove to treat Timothy with respect. “I just wonder if this Caitiff is important enough to risk bringing outsiders into the base.” “He could become so,” Timothy said. “I can sense it.” Sighing, Durrell gave up the argument. “Then we’ll bring them. You realize that Wyatt left the geomantic survey uncompleted. I suppose I can send other scouts into Sarasota —” Timothy shook his head. “No. The Toreador and their allies are on their guard now. I doubt that we’d achieve anything but the loss of valuable troops.”
“You could go. Sinclair’s people couldn’t stop you.”
The Methuselah grinned. “Whence comes this egalitarian spirit? Neither of us is going to go. We’re too valuable. It’s our role to conceive the strategies and our underlings’ roles to carry them out. Ultimately it doesn’t matter if we can’t lay a curse on all of Sarasota. If we don’t destroy the Toreador that way, we’ll annihilate them through one of our other schemes.”
Durrell grimaced. “I hope so.”
Timothy lifted an eyebrow. “You sound unconvinced.” “Sinclair was supposed to turn out to be an inept leader, or even to refuse to lead at all. Instead, he’s coping rather well. We thought that the Toreador would be thoroughly demoralized by now, yet that hasn’t happened either. Perhaps nothing will work out as we planned. Perhaps you should have picked an easier target.”
“1 chose the only possible target,” Timothy replied.
Durrell wished he understood what the older vampire meant by that, but he knew from past experience that Timothy wouldn’t explain his goals and motives any further. “I do have faith in you, and in my own people as well. I suppose 1 worry because 1 launched this dirty, unprovoked war without my Lord’s knowledge or permission. She thinks I’m sitting home in Kentucky — if she finds out otherwise, she’ll haul me up in front of a tribunal. And then what will I say, that I turned my back on the policies and chain of command of my clan at the behest of an outsider and a Methuselah? 1 might as well cut off my own head and be done with it.”
“But Lady Wetherill won’t find out,” said Timothy with such utter conviction that, even understanding the nature of the Methuselah’s charismatic powers, Durrell couldn’t help feeling a shade less anxious. “Soon, one way or another, long before she misses you, Sarasota will fall. All of our servants, witting or not, will share in the plunder, and I’ll instruct you in the mysteries of Al Azif ■ ”
Durrell nodded somberly. Al Azif. That was the carrot Timothy had dangled in front of his nose at their first meeting, to lure him into committing himself and his subordinates to a desperate and illicit venture. In spite of the fact that the conquest of Roger Phillips’ domain had begun to look like a protracted and deadly dangerous business, the bribe still seemed just as enticing today.
The volume in question, a legendary grimoire penned by a mad medieval visionary known as Abd al-Azrad, was allegedly the key to a magic more potent than even the greatest secrets of Clan Tremere. Durrell had stumbled on a badly damaged copy nearly a hundred years ago and had been obsessed with it ever since. At times, his mind reeling after hours of intensive study of the paradoxical syllogisms, cryptic ramblings, and apocalyptic prophecies that made up the surviving text, he could feel the power blazing from every tattered, worm-eaten vellum page, but he’d never discovered how to command it.
Somehow recognizing the Tremere’s fascination with the old book, Timothy had claimed to understand its arcana, and, given the uncanny powers the Methuselah commanded, Durrell believed him. When Timothy had offered to share them in exchange for the younger vampire’s aid, Durrell had seized the opportunity with an uncharacteristic recklessness.
“Besides,” Timothy continued lightly, “I know you have more honor that to walk out on me now, after you’ve given me your word. I’d be quite upset with you if you did.”
Sighing, Durrell nodded. “Don’t worry, you can count on me.” If A! Azif was the carrot, here was the stick. Though the Tremere was more than a match for most foes, he was realistic enough to comprehend that , he’d have no chance at all against a Kindred as old as Timothy. And that his ally
— master, now, really, if the truth were told — wouldn’t think twice about slaying him if he ever broke their covenant.
The old proverb was true. Having elected to ride the tiger, he didn’t dare dismount.