“So you think I should confront him?” Fin was saying. “In front of the entire council?”
“I think he would respect to no end such a public display of confidence.”
Colchester sighed. This one was a lost cause. But then a smile came to the half of the Nosferatu’s lip that wasn’t pierced by his over-sized, upward-pointing tusk. There was no urgent reason, really, for him to tell Garlotte about this little meeting. After all, there was no way the prince could expect him to keep up with every single conversation that Victoria had. And if Fin was so stupidly determined to go down in flames, there might as well be some entertainment value in it for the rest of them.
The truly difficult part came several hours after Fin’s departure. Victoria spent the rest of night quietly in her rooms. She sat for much of the time with a coffee-table book about Baltimore architecture in her lap. She turned a page occasionally but did not seem to read the words or see the pictures; her gaze was distant, her mind on other things.
Colchester had little to occupy him—little except his own thoughts, and those he had trouble corralling. The perverse quips rang hollow when there was no one present for him to enrage or abuse. There was only the object of his desire. He could have left. It seemed increasingly unlikely as the night progressed that Victoria would go out or receive another visitor. She didn’t seem to be expecting any news in the immediate future. She had wound up poor, dense Fin and sent him on his way, and now there was nothing to do but wait for him to collect his reward from the prince.
Victoria stared at the book in her lap—in the direction of the book in her lap. She said nothing. Colchester could not read her thoughts; he couldn’t tell what memories or plans caused the hard, almost pained expression that crossed her beautiful features. There was nothing for him to learn, yet he was unable to tear himself away. He didn’t want to tear himself away—he did, but he didn’t. He could only watch and keep watching.
She wore a loose-fitting satin blouse, off-white, and pearls. Her knees were tucked beneath her in a long, clinging skirt. Sheer stockings covered her feet and ankles.
As the night wore on, Colchester began to creep around the edge of the room. Inch by inch, he drew closer to Victoria, closer to her physical perfection. He positioned himself to her left. Her blouse pouched out slightly between buttons. Colchester stared at the downward curve of her white breast, imagining his finger tracing that line, down to the edge of her bra. He struggled with his thoughts, making sure not to slip too far into fantasy. He was still concealed from Victoria’s notice. He was skilled with the gifts of the blood, yet even with his expertise, the trick required a certain amount of concentration. A younger, less-practiced Nosferatu would never have pulled it off, but Colchester remained hidden.
He caressed her a thousand times as the hours passed, and all the while, a great ache was growing within him. Not hunger. Not even lust exactly—Colchester was well acquainted with that, his most frequent of emotions—though lust was certainly the seed of this deeper, more profound distress. He wanted almost desperately to reach out and touch Victoria, to stroke the satin of her blouse, the silk of her skin. He wanted to undo one of the smooth buttons, and then another, and another—
“Is there anything I may do for you, Ms. Ash?”
Colchester’s every muscle tensed. Blast his infatuation! He had not heard the butler’s approach, the door to the suite opening—the door directly behind him. The Nosferatu’s black eyes grew wide with alarm, but he held his position. He was crouched exactly between the door, to his rear, and Victoria, to his front. The butler obviously did not perceive him—his voice and question were too casual, too routine—but now Victoria was turning to respond to the butler.
She looked directly at Colchester—looked through him.
“Nothing, Langford,” she said.
Colchester held his tense pose. He heard Langford withdrawing from the room, gently closing the door behind him. For the longest of moments, Victoria stared after Langford and through Colchester. For those drawn-out seconds, the Nosferatu allowed himself to believe that her green eyes—they were flecked with gold, he could see now—saw him and loved him. She did not flee in revulsion or attack him. She looked upon him, saw him for what he was, loved him.
It couldn’t happen. Colchester couldn’t allow it. He couldn’t allow her to see him. If she had, she would have responded with shock, anger, fear, some combination thereof. She could never see him for anything other than a deformed freak. She or anyone else. But for those seconds, he could imagine—
And then she looked away. The illusion faded, and Colchester, hidden as ever, felt more keenly the ache.
He wasn’t prepared when Victoria shifted in the chair, set down the book, and got up. Had she turned toward him, she would have tripped over Colchester. He was lucky she went the other way, and he knew it. He cursed himself, not for the first time, for nearly making a complete muddle of this job.
That’s what it is, a job, he reminded himself. There was too much going on in and around the city for him to turn the job into a voyeur’s wet dream. There’d be plenty of time for that later. All the time in the world, he thought, and the notion made his chest seize up, the ache growing unbearable for an instant. He tried to climb to his feet but staggered; he caught himself just before he crashed into an end table and lamp. He feared for a moment that his distraction had unmasked him, wasn’t completely sure that it had not, but Victoria was walking the other way, into the bathroom. She clicked on the light.
Colchester stared after her, the open door calling him, inviting him.
There’s nothing else to learn here, he told himself. His legs felt weak. He knew he should go. He had more than pressed his luck already. Both Garlotte and Pieterzoon had asked him to watch Victoria, to report back to them. A twisted smile came to Colchester’s lips. Both of the Ventrue envied him. He knew, he could tell. Each of them wished, in this one instance, that he could switch places with Colchester and watch. Only watch. Not have to put up with or avoid Victoria’s schemes. Only watch.
If they only knew! Colchester thought. He was doomed for eternity only to watch. Garlotte showered gifts upon her, and Pieterzoon—Pieterzoon! She had thrown herself at him! He could have had her, and for such a small price.
Idiot! Colchester wasn’t sure whether he meant Pieterzoon or himself, as he took awkward steps toward the bathroom door. There’s nothing else to learn here. But he kept moving forward. He paused at the threshold, took another step, and another.
Victoria’s clothes were draped over the edge of a counter. She sat before a vanity mirror, a plush, white, terry-cloth robe belted tightly at her waist, and with a wash cloth and cold cream was removing her makeup. She rubbed small circles on her face, gradually exposing more and more of her skin. The skin of one of the kine doing the same thing would have turned rosy from the rubbing, but Victoria’s face, a portion at a time, changed from the pale tone of her makeup to the blue-white complexion of a corpse. Colchester thought the change made her only more beautiful. Her emerald eyes shone more brightly in the mirror, and her fine auburn hair was more strikingly rich in contrast to the pallor of her skin. She took on the beauty and perfection of death, leaving behind the pretensions of the living.
Colchester felt that he was seeing her for the first time, that he was seeing her as perhaps few others ever had. She cleaned her nose, cheeks, and upper lip, then her chin, the rest of the right side of her face, and then up and around her forehead, the left side of her face. Colchester watched the transformation as it unfolded; he watched this woman who would retain her place among the kine as she shed the mortal coil and became a queen of ice and pure snow, a goddess of elemental beauty.
But then a scowl chased away the serenity of her features. She was still rubbing the wash cloth in small circles, but now with more pressure and speed. Her motions grew more fierce, as did her expression. She scoured the left side of her jaw, hard enough that it seemed, if she continued with such ferocity, he
r skin would begin to peel away. She stabbed the wash cloth violently into the cold cream and attacked her jaw again. Colchester watched with growing curiosity.
Only when she finally threw down the rag in frustration could he see the tiny blemish that so enraged her. It was a strange shape…was it a curled snake? He leaned closer…no…not a snake, but…a dragon, twisted round in a circle, swallowing its own tail.
Victoria was leaning close to the mirror looking at the mark herself. Colchester drew back as an animalistic growl sounded from deep within her throat. As the growl grew louder, Victoria reached out. The mirror had perhaps three dozen light bulbs set into its frame. She grasped a bulb in each hand and squeezed. The bulbs exploded with a loud pop!
She did it again and again. Shards of thin glass showered down on the makeup table, and all the while her throaty growl rose, grew louder, more intense, until it was a deafening, bestial screech. With the crescendo of the primal scream, she smashed a fist into the mirror.
All was silent.
Victoria stared into the ruin of the mirror, triangular shards of glass in a web pattern emanating outward from the point of impact. Colchester, never taking his eyes from his winter goddess, stepped carefully toward the door. He had seen enough and the night was growing late. As he did so, Victoria abruptly stood and whipped around from the mirror. The Nosferatu’s blood froze, but she did not see him. Her scowl was hardened like a ceramic mask, but not directed at him. She crossed the small room, hands clenched into fists, and ignored the fragments of lightbulbs on the floor that sliced into her feet and peeled the skin from her soles.
Colchester, ready to take his exit, found himself suddenly unable to move as Victoria turned on the hot water to draw a bath. The ache, subsumed momentarily by his curiosity about the mark on Victoria’s jaw, claimed him again. He could not overcome his urgent desire. There were plenty of mortal women he could watch, he tried to tell himself. He could watch them as long as he wanted, and then have them—in a way; he could claim their blood. But that, he knew, would not satisfy his longing.
As he debated, Victoria untied the terry-cloth belt around her waist. Colchester clapped a hand over his open mouth lest he moan aloud. She pulled the robe off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Colchester blinked. And blinked twice more.
She stood before him for merely seconds, but for Colchester, it was as if eternity were revealed to him—an eternity of that which he would be denied. He might see Victoria, he might watch her, naked, climbing into her bath, but he would never have her. Her, or any other woman. Even were he to force blood to the dead, dangling flesh between his legs, even were he to force himself upon Victoria, he would never know intimacy, only violence. Touching her would be no more than feeding from a kine, than taking that which was not given freely. His lust was a cruel mockery of love, but it was all he had. All he would ever have. And thus the desperate ache took hold and ruled him.
Colchester, as desperately as he wanted to touch Victoria, wanted just as desperately to flee into the night. She was reclining in the tub now as it filled with steaming water. The mirror, a mosaic of jagged shapes, was covered with a thin film of fog. More steam billowed out the open door.
He stepped closer to her. Another step. And another, until he stood over her mostly submerged naked body. Her eyes were closed. The scalding water returned a semblance of rosy color to her, drawing blood closer to the surface of the dead flesh.
With trembling hand, Colchester reached for her. He stopped as she moved, turning off the water and then stretching luxuriously. She lay back again in the water, closing her eyes.
The ache was too much to bear. He knew it would do no good, he courted disaster, but he could not help himself as he reached for her. His fingertips, quivering, were inches from her perfectly rounded breast.
And he saw the mirror. And himself in the mirror. Fragmented and disjointed to be sure, but the dark, looming figure reflected beneath the layer of steam was him, a grotesque, colossal monster. And as he looked on his own horrified image, a single, triangular shard of glass teetered and fell.
Victoria’s eyes sprang open at the sound of the glass striking the table. She sat up with a start, setting off waves that lapped over the edge of the bathtub. It was only a piece falling from the wall-mounted mirror that she had smashed. All was as it should be.
She started to sink back into the steaming water, but heard a sound from the outer room. The door closing, it sounded like.
“Langford?” she called, then, “Robert?” But again there was no response. She waited for several seconds, listening, but heard nothing else. Perhaps she was mistaken. She reclined again in the bath and took solace in her isolation.
Wednesday, 4 August 1999, 12:15 AM
A subterranean grotto
New York City, New York
“Tell me again,” Calebros said, “how it was that you came to be at the cathedral four nights ago.”
Mouse’s hair was falling out in clumps. His coat didn’t have a beautiful sheen at the best of times; as it was, he could very well be totally bald by morning. And he couldn’t stand still. He itched all over. He kept fidgeting and scratching. It was all he could do not to fall to the floor and writhe on his back to get some relief. Meanwhile, Mr. C. was sitting behind his big wooden desk and asking the same questions again and again. Mouse could barely see his elder over all the clutter, stacks of papers and boxes. Mouse was sweating all over too. A thin bloody film that made him itch all the more, and so he scratched, and more of his hair fell out, and that made him itch more…
“It’s all right, Mouse. I’m not angry with you. I just need to know.”
Mouse wiped more bloodsweat from his face. Was it a hundred degrees in here or what? He felt as if he were ringed by bright hot spotlights, although in truth there was only the erratic lamp on Mr. C.’s desk.
“Come over here,” Calebros said. He motioned with his curved talons that Mouse should come closer.
Mouse did as he was told—always the best course of action with Mr. C. Old Crookback did not care to be defied, and, as often as not, disobedience brought with it a cuff to the head. Not that Mr. C. was cruel, he just expected to be listened to and obeyed. Period. Mouse edged around the old desk and, as Calebros indicated, settled down on the floor at the elder’s feet.
“There. That’s better,” Calebros said. “Now we can speak properly.”
Mouse smiled weakly. He sat slightly hunched in a perpetual half-cringe, awaiting a blow to the head should he misspeak.
“So, you were near the cathedral. You were hunting…”
“Yes,” Mouse nodded. “For treasure.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the shiny button he had found that night, and showed it to Calebros.
“Yes.” Calebros nodded and kindly patted Mouse on the head. “Very nice. So, you heard something—something loud, and not that far away. You went to investigate. What did you find?”
Mouse hesitated. He stared down at the button-treasure in his hand—the treasure that some of his brethren had told him was no treasure at all. Nothing more than a plastic button. Don’t be foolish! That’s what Mr. C. had said, and then he’d smacked Mouse on the back of the head. That was right at first, when Mr. C. had been pretty excited, and Mouse hadn’t said what his elder had wanted to hear.
“What did you find at the cathedral, Mouse?”
“The hand man, and the melted man.” Mouse had already said this before. Mr. C. had seen the melted man, because Mouse had dragged him away from the church, down the storm drain, and back to the warren. The melted man, beneath all the burned clothes and dripping skin and muscles and fat, was a vampire. Mouse had been able to smell that, and the sun had been about to come up, so he’d pulled the thing to cover. It was in the sick room now. Mouse watched over it.
“The hand man,” Calebros prodded gently, “the one with the funny eyes, he was leaving when you arrived?”
Mouse nodded. It was true in a way. The hand man was leaving when
Mouse arrived the second time, after he’d run away and come back. “He was carrying a statue hand, and it was moving. All the fingers were wiggling,” he said in a hushed voice. Statues weren’t supposed to move. Not like that. No one had believed him about that part of the story at first. That was why he hadn’t mentioned what else he’d seen. He was certain that no one would believe him, and Mr. C. might hit him.
“And that’s all you saw?” Calebros asked.
Mouse didn’t hesitate; he nodded again. If he changed his story now, Mr. C. would know that he hadn’t told everything before, and then Mr. C. would hit him…and maybe take him back to the kennels. Mouse couldn’t tell him about what he’d seen the first time he’d peeked into the garden at the church—the big metal statue moving and beating the melted man, only the melted man hadn’t been melted yet. Mouse hadn’t said anything about that before, so he couldn’t say anything about it now.
“I see,” Calebros said. He sat quietly for a few minutes. Absentmindedly, he gently scratched Mouse’s head with his talons. It felt good. But Mouse itched all over. He wished that Mr. C. would scratch his back, and his shoulder, and his leg…but Mouse was afraid to ask.
“Thank you, Mouse,” Mr. C. said at last. “You can go back to your patient.”
Relieved, Mouse crawled around the desk and then scurried out of Mr. C.’s office. Mouse felt important now that they were letting him take care of the melted man, although there wasn’t really much to do, except wipe up the bits that dripped off. Still, Mouse felt that he’d found two treasures, even if only one of them was bright and shiny.
Calebros watched the youngster scuttle away. That interview had not proven overly productive. He really shouldn’t have spent the time on it, he decided. The ‘melted man’, as Mouse called him, though enigmatic, was of little real concern, other than the fact that the mystery of what had happened to him had the entire warren abuzz with rumors and speculation. That was the main reason that Calebros was interested. If he could figure out what had happened, he could dampen the agitated atmosphere. Otherwise, the severely burned stranger was of little import.
Clan Novel Nosferatu: Book 13 of the Clan Novel Saga Page 8