He turned and asked of her, “Do you read the hieroglyphs?”
“No.”
“Vegel left notes of the script in use at the period,” he said, opening a small drawer built into the table. He offered her a sheaf of hand-made sketches. “Also, the tweezers…” He held up a bizarre-looking pair of tongs. “To keep the dust and the air currents from playing havoc with the shards, we had to cover the whole piece with glass. These slip into the gaps at the edges.” He demonstrated, setting two halves of a glyph closer together. Gingerly, he tilted the tweezers up and away from the scraps, and slowly drew the tool back out of the danger zone. “You might want to practice with the sections at the top of the scroll first. The damage is less extensive, and the pieces are easier to read.”
He whisked her away from the long table, and continued. “Vegel’s particular hobby horse—” he led her to an area carpeted in canvas. An unfinished wooden frame ten feet square and one foot high hemmed in the dusty white cloth. On low shelves on three sides, fragments of jars and bowls freed from the matrix reposed in little trays; one half-reconstructed amphora-like vessel stood above the detritus. In the midst of it, a small boulder of dried clay lay at a resentful tilt. Edges of pottery shards stuck out of it from every angle.
“What is it?” asked Elizabeth.
“We—I’m not sure. Vegel collected it from someone; no provenance available.” Hesha thought of the haven the thing had originally occupied. They’d never found out why the Malkavian had treasured the boulder, or where it had come from. But Vegel insisted that it hid something unusual, and the elder Setite had agreed—after certain tests and precautions—to let the archaeologist bring the boulder home. “I don’t know whether Erich expected to find anything particularly interesting in it. He had been an archaeologist earlier in his career, and I think he simply liked to keep in practice.”
Hesha stepped back, regretfully. “That’s all for now. If I’m going to sleep in tomorrow, I have to work tonight, and I’m sure you’ll want to finish settling yourself. I can spare the time to show you our finished pieces Monday, perhaps.”
“Thank you.”
He shook his head. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
She laughed. “Thank you for rescuing me from Aunt Agnes.” Her eyes sought out his. Hesha felt the glance coming, avoided it so deftly that she never knew he’d shunned her, and began the walk back to his office. Behind him, her footsteps tapped a trail across the floor—not toward Vegel’s room, but to the long table.
“You’re not thinking of starting on that tonight, are you?” he asked without looking.
“I thought I’d just go over it to see what’s been done so far.”
“Well,” he said, nodding to himself. “Try not to stay up too late. If you get hungry, there are all kinds of things in the kitchen…just be careful not to wake the cook.”
Hesha left his new protégée hard at work, and joined his other servants in the crypt. Even the Asp was shocked to see the smile on their master’s face.
Saturday, 3 July 1999, 11:42 AM
Laurel Ridge Farm
Columbia, Maryland
Feeling late and guilty, Elizabeth trundled up the stairs to the kitchen and found herself confronted by a small, unexpected man in an apron, washing dishes. His hair was very dark, and slightly curly. His skin was a shade or two deeper than her own—a clean, tanned, Mediterranean olive color. His rolled-up shirt sleeves exposed arms thick with wiry black hair. He reached for another bowl, and smiled at her.
“Good morning. I’m sorry I’m up so late,” Liz said.
“Why are you sorry? It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry for missing breakfast,” she began, then hesitated. “Aren’t you the cook?”
“Oh. That’s just Ron and the Man being polite. I can cook, but mostly I just buy the groceries. Are you hungry? Of course you’re hungry. You just woke up, right? Want an omelet?” He gave her no chance to protest. “I was only washing up from breakfast so I could start lunch. We’ll call it brunch. I make the best Italian-American French cooking you’ve ever had.” His twinkling black eyes gave her the once-over. “A big omelet. You’re too skinny, as my Mamma would’ve said.” He dried a hand on the dishcloth and extended it. They shook vigorously. “I’m Angelo Mercurio. But just call me the Asp; everybody does.”
“Elizabeth Dimitros. Liz,” she said back. Then, “The Asp?”
“I bite,” said Mercurio with a conspiratorial wink, thoroughly enjoying himself in the role of colorful, harmless houseboy. “Anyway. Noon is fine. Ron Thompson’s the only early riser I know, and he cheats. Naps from about five to eight. Hesha—Mr. Ruhadze—well, the boss just comes and goes as he pleases. Jetlagged half the time, working himself to a frazzle the other. I can’t remember the last time he had anything like a good night’s sleep,” said the Asp, in total honesty.
“How many other people live here?” asked Liz, watching as the Asp cracked eight eggs into a bowl one-handed.
“Just Ron and the boss and me, since Vegel’s gone. House guests, of course. And occasionally the boss will have some of his assistants in for a working party. We’re not precisely ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’ here.”
“What happened to Mr. Vegel?”
The Asp’s bright eyes dimmed for a moment. “Heart attack. Very sudden. Just a few weeks ago…and he was a young man, too. Mid-thirties.” He picked up a spatula and began to do clever things to the cholesterol-laden omelet. “Maybe we’ll have salad for lunch tomorrow, huh?”
Hesha came down the stairs from the kitchen holding a briefcase and a Wall Street Journal. He passed the papyrus table on the way to his own study and broke his slightly weary stride to look over Elizabeth’s shoulder as he went by. It was only a moment’s pause; long enough for the woman to expect comment, short enough that the lack thereof would not seem dismissive or curt. In his study, he laid down the props. In his apartment, he shed the suit and shoes, pulling on khakis and a worn-looking linen shirt. Quick change complete, he stepped back into the basement hall.
“Nice work,” he said over his guest’s shoulder.
Elizabeth nearly dropped the tweezers into the papyrus. “Lord. You’d think you’d make some noise, walking across a wooden floor, Hesha.”
“Sorry.”
“Can you take a look at the text near the topmost illustration? I’m sure the painted parts go together, but I can’t tell a faded ibis from a faded owl from a faded vulture.”
He pulled a chair up the table’s edge, and fixed a monocle into his left eye. “Tweezers?” Elizabeth handed him hers and fetched another pair from the drawer. They worked quietly for some time. “It’s a falcon,” he said eventually.
“That would explain the confusion.”
Silence reigned once more, though Hesha could feel that the woman’s attention strayed to his face quite often. He kept his eyes on the text, and his conversation on the work. At length, Hesha peered into the scraps directly beneath him. “I think there’s another illustration coming here. See if you can fill that in.” He stood up. “But don’t wear yourself out. I hear you were up past four last night.” Elizabeth smiled, shrugged, and nodded. “Well, do as you choose. But if you find yourself keeping owl’s hours, don’t blame me.” He started to leave.
Reminded, Liz looked up and asked, “Is there an alarm clock I could borrow?”
“You might talk to the Asp or Thompson,” said Hesha, watching her. “I don’t use one.” He added, “Have a nice night,” and was pleased to see her distress as she realized he was going for good.
Sunday, 4 July 1999, 7:56 PM
Laurel Ridge Farm
Columbia, Maryland
“Thompson? Report.”
“The Asp has two new refugees. Three of the originals have found havens with closer kin under Prince Garlotte. Miss Dimitros took a walk earlier and tripped the perimeter alarm, but otherwise not so much as a raccoon.”
“How did she spend her day
?”
“She began on one of those modern things…the bluish one…did some more work on the painting she’d already started; some reading in her room; dinner with the Asp and me. I believe she’s on the papyrus at the moment.”
“Did she get her alarm clock?”
“I lent her mine. It ‘mysteriously’ shorted out when we plugged it into the socket.”
“Good.” Hesha thought for a few moments. “Have my car ready.”
“Your car, sir?”
“Yes. Follow if you like, but I think Miss Dimitros needs a night away from work. Today is a holiday, you know.” The old cop looked at him blankly, and he went on. “Independence Day, Thompson. In fact, take the night off. Tell the Asp the same thing.”
“Both of them, sir?” Hesha’s man’s voice was incredulous.
“Yes.”
Sunday, 4 July 1999, 10:00 PM
Aboard the sailboat Lotus, Baltimore Harbor
Baltimore, Maryland
Over the water, the last strains of “The Star-Spangled Banner” could be heard—confusingly mixed with the orchestral finish that came, a second and a half sooner, over the radio. The diva’s voice gave way to the master of ceremonies, and Hesha switched off the channel.
In total silence, the first fireworks went up…and by the time the second round had risen, the popping, crackling noises of the bright red, white, and blue rockets came to Elizabeth’s waiting ears. She slid a little deeper into the deck chair, happier at that moment than she could remember being for years…since her father died. Dad had taken her to Atlantic City once, to see the fireworks fly off a decrepit old pier. Her eyes filled with the shooting stars and she forgot her troubles.
Hesha closed his eyes to slits, and enjoyed the flashing colors through the shield of long lashes. But eventually, as at his age, he supposed was inevitable, the charms of the celebration faded. He let his dark eyes roll toward the woman beside him. Elizabeth, still entranced by the spectacle, didn’t notice his attention, and he took full advantage of the opportunity to see her in this secret way. The colors above them reflected off of the water around the boat, off the night-pale skin of his guest, in the spheres of her eyes, and from a tear on her cheek, which he didn’t understand. Red and gold burst above them, and the water, the girl, and her eyes turned to flame…blue and white and yellow together, and they were tarnished silver… in green and blue, she’d risen from the ocean, and the streaking tears were only seawater falling from the naiad….
The Beast began to stir. Hesha shook himself mentally, and retreated in his mind to the icy core of his nature. This was the opportunity he had looked for to analyze the weakness that had touched him in her loft.
She was not beautiful. That might have tempted what few urges of the flesh remained to him, but in the circles with which the millionaire Ruhadze mingled, beauty—of kine or Cainite or his own kin—was common enough, and had not bothered him in such a way for centuries.
She was not brilliant. Intelligent, yes. Perceptive in an unusual manner, perhaps. But again, he surrounded himself with geniuses of one kind or another—Thompson and the Asp both in their way, Janet a wizard in hers, and Yasmine Oxenti…who was beautiful, though he had never considered the fact before except as an asset to her utility…. Vegel had been brilliant. Kettridge was brilliant.
She was not devious. He had a deep admiration for that twist of mind in others, of course.
Was it because he had placed her off limits to the Beast? In the sheer perversity of the thing’s instincts, the forbidden nature of the girl—too valuable to be swallowed whole, not yet controlled enough to be kept for food, too unknown to be Embraced—could be enough to drive the creature to frenzy. But again, Doctor Oxenti should be the more tempting. Beautiful, brilliant, devious, and so valuable a retainer that he could never hope to bring her to Set until an equal pawn arose to replace her…if he sought a childe, a victim, a companion, or a—he laughed to himself—a mate, Yasmine should be the kine that took the Beast’s attentions.
Elizabeth stirred in her chair, and curled her bare legs beneath her. Her gaze was still on the sparks and the stars, but one hand moved toward her cheeks.
Hesha reached out and wiped the tears away for her. The woman’s grateful, troubled face turned to meet his. From within the ice, he directed his face to show a little kindness. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his trouser pocket and handed it to her silently, as though there were genuine sympathy behind the act.
“I’m sorry,” she began, but he shook his head. Elizabeth persevered. “No, I really have been enjoying myself. Thank you for bringing me here. It’s just…” she started to sob, quite quietly and without losing control.
And Hesha pulled her closer to him, held the shaking girl in his arms—warm arms, in the Baltimore summer—and let her tell him about her father, about everything he’d learned from reading her papers. He listened, and he contemplated cold-bloodedly how best to repair her wounds, and what weaknesses he would leave to control her by, and how soon she could be the equal of the Mercurio twins and Janet Lindbergh and Yasmine Oxenti and Ronald Thompson.
Monday, 5 July 1999, 8:06 PM
Laurel Ridge Farm
Columbia, Maryland
Hesha emerged from his resting place to find Thompson already waiting for him. “Good evening, sir,” said the retainer, obviously nervous. “I’ve…I’ve made up my mind, sir. About the ‘living will’ we were discussing.” Hesha sat down on the edge of the stone bench. “I would like to become one of the Family, sir.”
Hesha nodded, and in his least human tones, asked, “You have decided to become accursed, damned, forbidden the sun, forbidden a heart, bound to the service of Set and through him bound to the service of Apep?”
Thompson faltered. “Sir?”
“You have a purpose in your mind that will fill centuries and drive you forth every night without despair?”
Thompson said nothing. Hesha stood, and advanced on his servant. They stood face to face, within inches of each other, and the mortal could feel the chill of the other’s robes—the temperature of the rocks around them—cave-cold.
“You accept the risk that you may lose your mind, like the Cainite we destroyed in Mexico?” Hesha took his man by the jaw. The Setite lifted until the feet no longer touched the ground, and stared golden-irised and slit-pupiled into Thompson’s blue-gray eyes. They remained locked together for nearly two minutes…and then Hesha set his servant gently down.
“You have thought about what you know,” he said. “Tonight I have told you things you did not know. Think about them. Ask me questions. Consider that your education has begun, and start looking through your men for a replacement for your position. If, after you have learned a little more of the consequences, you still desire Set’s blessings, we will need a security man as good as you yourself.
Hesha threw a glance back at the mortal. “And do relax, Thompson. You passed a test just now. There will be others, but if you change your mind at any time, you may turn off the path. There is no necessity to ‘graduate.’”
“Now,” he resumed, in his accustomed tones, “Report, please.”
Half an hour later, Hesha and Thompson sat at a horseshoe-shaped console, watching the records of the day. In black and white, color, and heat-register, the various views from the farmhouse’s security system surrounded the main display. Outside, a stiff wind created a confusion of swaying trees and bracken. The interior shots were calmer. The Asp moved from one screen to the next—leaving the kitchen for the main staircase and his upstairs room. Elizabeth sat in the center of another, motionless except for one hand and arm and the long tweezers they held. Her precise movements went on without hurry or hesitation, but she might have been a statue otherwise.
“Elizabeth Dimitros,” murmured Hesha, “is, for all practical purposes, an orphan. You’ve read her dossier?”
“Of course.”
“Good. She needs a family, Thompson. We are going to provide one.” He paused, and
met the eye of his prospective heir. “It is my intention that she come to see me as a father figure. I would like you to use what talents you possess to put yourself in the role of an older brother or an uncle, whichever you prefer. Consider this your first assignment on your new path. Don’t act, but bring the parts of your personality that will be more useful into play. Tell no direct lies, if you can help it. Imply what you will. Less is more, Thompson. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. Get the car ready. I’ll make a token appearance to our guest and join you in the garage in twenty minutes.”
Tuesday, 6 July 1999, 3:41 PM
Laurel Ridge Farm
Columbia, Maryland
Ron Thompson loped easily in through the workshop’s open door and called out. “Liz? Liz?” He rounded a corner, and found her dabbing slowly at the surface of a painting. “There you are,” he said unnecessarily. “Wait—is that the little square thing you started on last week?”
Elizabeth nodded, and carefully brought the cleanser away from the canvas. “The genre painting.”
“Genre?” Thompson put a friendly, interested spin on the single word, and was pleased to see her reaction; she smiled and turned the picture to him, explained it in a manner neither patronizing nor dry.
“Norman Rockwell circa 1630. Life as lived by the simple folk in the Benelux.”
“Wow.” He stepped up to see it better, carefully not looming over her. “That looked just like mud before you came. What are they doing?”
“Farm chores. There’ll be more detail tomorrow.” She dabbed at it again.
Thompson watched for a while longer, waiting. “I was wondering if you wanted to run some errands with me. I need to do a hardware run for the house and some shopping for myself—I don’t know if you need anything, but if you want to give me a list or come along yourself, there’s a mall and an art-supply store Vegel used to go to.”
Clan Novel Setite: Book 4 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 9