Clan Novel Nosferatu: Book 13 of the Clan Novel Saga

by Gherbod Fleming

  Friday, 19 November 1999, 11:00 PM

  Office 7210-A, Empire State Building

  New York City, New York

  Lucinde’s Ventrue ghoul below had pressed the button for the elevator and then gestured for Calebros to enter when the doors opened. As if I didn’t know how the blasted thing worked, the Nosferatu thought. That alone might have perturbed him had he not been of a foul temper already. He was not in an all-fired hurry to pay his respects to Prince Victoria Ash of New York City.

  She sat across the table from him, all splendor and makeup and pearls. It was not official yet. She was not actually prince, not yet. But Calebros had heard the rumblings; he’d received word of the maneuverings and machinations, the unsavory deals. This Council of Twelve, as Lucinde so grandiosely referred to it, was but a perfunctory show for the masses. The fix was on. Otherwise, Pascek would have stayed in town.

  The six clans were each represented around the table. That’s what they were calling the Camarilla already, the six clans. Never mind that no one seemed to know for sure if Xaviar had followed through with his threat, if Clan Gangrel was truly no longer part of the sect. Certain individuals would remain loyal, no doubt. The outlanders had never been a model of top-down leadership. But for the time being, Lucinde and her ilk had sufficient cause to exclude the Gangrel from decision-making. One less wildcard with which the Ventrue and Brujah intelligentsia would be forced to deal.

  Calebros himself would have skipped this charade had not Cock Robin insisted that they attend. That alone had been worth the trip—seeing the reaction of the others in the room, most of whom had not even known that the Nosferatu justicar was in the city. Lucinde, who jointly with Pascek had called the meeting and remained to act as chairperson, represented Clan Ventrue along with Jan Pieterzoon, who had served so well over the past months. With Pascek’s absence, Theo Bell, seemingly fully recovered from his exploits, and Lladislas accounted for the Brujah, the latter looking decidedly disgruntled. Victoria had Gainesmil beside her for the Toreador. Regent Sturbridge had brought a Tremere underling along, and two brothers, Eric and Jonathan Chen represented the Malkavians. They appeared disturbingly normal.

  “Greetings and welcome,” Lucinde addressed them once the gathering was complete. She seemed deceivingly young and vulnerable among the hoary old Kindred at the table. “The city is ours,” she announced. “Fate has smiled upon us.”

  Calebros thought he noticed Victoria flinch at the words. No doubt she, too, felt the assumption of victory to be premature. It was true that the Sabbat’s organized resistance had been broken at what was becoming known as the Battle of Throgs Neck, and Cardinal Polonia forced to retreat from the city, across the Hudson into New Jersey. A humiliating defeat for the newly ascendant cardinal, but that only made him more dangerous. Sabbat packs still roamed portions of the city, and many attempted to return home each night, now that the war to the south was over and the grand alliance forged by the late Cardinal Mongada was defunct.

  The Camarilla organization had largely collapsed as well, now that the majority of Sabbat had been scourged from the city. Polonia might have lost his battle, but he had struck down Prince Michaela and her last known childe. The lack of mourning among the survivors was fairly conspicuous. Once the generals and justicars moved on, a proxy would be left as prince, and the struggle for the soul of New York would begin in earnest. Every night would be a war, and Calebros had little optimism for Victoria’s skill to lead in that capacity. She would attend the festivities, the balls and the galas and exhibits, much as Michaela had frequented Wall Street and Broadway, but the street was as much a player in New York as were the boardrooms and theatres. So few of them realized that. Bell did, and maybe Pieterzoon after the past weeks.

  “We pay tribute tonight,” Lucinde was saying, “to our heroes both standing and fallen. To Archon diPadua, the Right Hand of the Camarilla, and the Hero of Throgs Neck.” She nodded solemnly toward the representatives of Clan Nosferatu.

  Oh, please. Calebros fought his urge to gag audibly. Yes, Federico had taken a saber to the head and slipped into torpor for God knew how long, but did anyone in this room actually believe that Lucinde felt bad about that?

  “To Archon Bell, the Scourge of Harlem; to Jan Pieterzoon, our able field commander…” The bestowal of honors and sobriquets seemed to take hours. Calebros shifted in his seat periodically, setting off chains of popping vertebrae that everyone else at the table did their best to ignore.

  “But we must also look to the future,” Lucinde said at last. “The routines of the night have been disrupted, and already there is strife among our own.” Calebros wondered when there hadn’t been strife among their own. “Hunting grounds must be established in the territories we’ve gained, or re-established where Kindred have fallen. New Kindred enter the city in great numbers, some having fought by our sides, others seeking their destinies. Justice must be administered. Boundaries must be secured—”

  “What you’re saying,” Theo Bell broke in at last, “is that the city needs a prince. Right?”

  “I am,” Lucinde said, slightly flummoxed. “But—”

  “Pascek left a letter for the council about that.” Bell produced a folded paper from his new leather jacket, waited long enough that everyone could see Pascek’s personal wax seal, and then opened the letter. “The justicar instructed me to read the whole thing…” his eyes ran down the page, “but Lucinde here seems to have hit the hot spots already. Important part’s at the end.” He slid the letter across the table to the Ventrue justicar.

  Lucinde retrieved it and her eyes took in Pascek’s words a bit more carefully than Theo’s had. When she came to the bottom of the page, she folded it and placed it back on the table. “To fulfill the duties of prince of New York, Justicar Pascek nominates Victoria Ash.”

  Nods and murmurs betrayed the lack of surprise. Calebros, like Cock Robin beside him, responded not at all. The city could not function without the Nosferatu. It mattered little who was prince. Calebros would advise the new prince as faithfully as he had the old. But what would the others think if they knew Victoria was the sire of that thing that wreaked such havoc? Would they be in such a hurry to make her prince? What would Bell say? Dear God—what would Xaviar do if he found out? Calebros darted a glance at the seat beside him. What would Cock Robin do?

  “And I,” Lucinde added, “am honored to second the justicar’s nomination. Let the clans speak.”

  One after another they gave their blessings: Sturbridge, then Eric, elder of the Chens. When Theo mumbled his assent, Lladislas, formerly prince of Buffalo, cursed, slammed his pen to the table. He stood and stormed from the room. “He agrees too,” Theo said.

  As junior member of his delegation, Calebros had no vote—but he could stop the proceeding in an instant, merely by revealing Victoria’s secret. Those who’d already spoken would reconsider. So tempting…yet what purpose would it serve? Victoria would be spited—no small accomplishment that, and satisfying. But the city would wallow in chaos, and the Sabbat would be that much more likely to reverse its losses. Cock Robin’s bloodlust would be stoked by the revelation. Calebros knew that. Then Victoria might not only be passed over for prince, but might suffer some horrible ‘accident’ as well, and then Calebros might never find the answers to the questions he still had about Nickolai, about Benito, answers he thought Victoria must have. Cock Robin would care only for the blood.

  And so in the end, Calebros remained silent. She’s in my debt, and she doesn’t even know it, he thought. Not yet she doesn’t.

  Cock Robin nodded his approval, and it was done. Victoria had been the perfect compromise candidate. Neither Lucinde or Pascek would allow a member of the other’s clan to gain the position, especially after the mess Michaela had made of things. Nor would the Ventrue or Brujah have considered a Tremere, not after the warlocks had guarded their precious citadels rather than supporting the string of Camarilla princes that had fallen from Atlanta to Washington. The Nosferatu
were seen as but servants to the ‘worthier’ clans, the Gangrel were gone, and no one was going to consider a Malkavian except as a last resort.

  But someone had to rule. Otherwise the elders and neonates flooding into the city would tear themselves apart fighting for territory and influence. They might do that anyway, Calebros thought.

  So it was that Lucinde, justicar of Clan Ventrue, conveying the decree of the Council of Twelve, turned to Victoria Ash. “The mantle is passed to you, Victoria. Do you accept it?”

  Victoria had met no one’s gaze since the beginning of the proceedings. She had sat uncharacteristically quiet while Lucinde and Theo had spoken; she had not seemed to notice as Lladislas left, or as the votes were tallied. Now, she looked around the table, from one of them to another. She removed her hands from her lap and placed them flat on the table before her.

  She wanted Atlanta and gets New York instead, Calebros thought. Not a bad deal.

  “The mantle is passed to you, Victoria. Do you accept it?”

  She had known this moment was coming, but still she felt blood welling deep in her throat. She feared she might vomit right there on the table. Her great ambition was within reach, was being placed into her hand—and she did not know if she could take it.

  Of course she desired to be prince. Atlanta would have been sufficient, but this…this!

  Yet she did not know. She could feel the itching of the mark on her jaw. The gods of Fate were cruel and capricious, but she had pledged herself to them. She had vowed never to defy them again. Once she had denied them and followed the road to Chicago. As her penance, she had watched her newfound childe destroyed before her eyes, her hand offered to him… What vengeance would they unleash, what pestilence would they inflict, were she to ignore them now?

  No, Fate must needs be consulted, and Victoria, though her desire in the matter held her heart in its crushing grasp, must abide by the decision. Pascek had set forth her name; his words would tell the tale. There was no time, and too many people watching her, to count his every word… The paragraphs, then. If their number was odd, like the five boroughs of the city, then she would assume her rightful place. If otherwise…no, she would not think of it. Fate could not continue to abuse her so.

  “May I see the letter?” Victoria asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

  Lucinde stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending. “Pardon?”

  “Justicar Pascek’s letter. May I see it?”

  Profoundly confused, Lucinde looked at the letter as if it were lethal poison, and then back at Victoria. “I assure you, the seal is authentic, and Archon Bell is—”

  “I doubt neither you, nor Archon Bell, nor the letter,” Victoria said icily. “But I would see it.”

  Lucinde passed her the letter, and Victoria opened it as if it might crumble to dust in her fingers. She took a long time reading it. Watching her eyes, Calebros saw her start over twice. The silence around the table deepened unbearably. Finally, Victoria was done with the letter. She set it down and placed her hands again flat on the table.

  “No,” she said quietly, jaw clenched. She stared daggers at her own hands. Calebros could see the tension there, skin taut over thin bones, knuckles white even for her pale complexion. “No,” she said, speaking more quickly and forcefully this time. “I do not accept the mantle.”

  “Ah…Victoria,” said Gainesmil beside her, “if you need time to—”

  But she had already pushed back her chair, and without explanation she stalked out the room much as Lladislas had minutes before. Ten shocked, gawking creatures of the night watched the door swing closed behind her.

  It was Lucinde who eventually broke the silence. “It’s not often that…really I don’t think I’ve ever…” She reached for Pascek’s letter and read it silently again, as if the answers she sought might be found within. But the letter provided no satisfaction and she dropped it back on the table. “We must delay this meeting…this decision until—”

  The pounding on the table startled them all. All except Cock Robin. He smashed his fist against the table just twice. And when he had their attention, he took Lladislas’s pen, and on the back of Pascek’s note the Nosferatu justicar began to scratch large, childlike block letters.

  Tuesday, 30 November 1999, 1:25 AM

  The Shaft

  New York City, New York

  It all seemed so odd. To hide from the dark in the dark. Jeremiah couldn’t decide if it made sense or not. Either way, he couldn’t bring himself to use a light of any sort. He’d broken his flashlight—stomped the bulb and thrown the batteries away—lest he turn to it in a moment of weakness. So like it or not, sensible or not, he would wait in the dark. He resolved not even to think of the light again…

  The worst part was that he knew that the light wouldn’t really have made a difference. Not to the things out there. Nictuku. He said it quietly to himself, feeling the different ways that his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. “Nic-tu-ku. Nic-tu-ku. Nic-tu-ku. Nictuk-u.” They didn’t need the light any more than he did. They would smell him. They would smell the blood.

  There was worse out there too, of course.

  Poor Colchester. Marston might have understood. I could rescue him, Jeremiah thought. But it would mean going…down there. He wasn’t sure what was down there, not exactly. Anatole wouldn’t tell him. Damn the Prophet! Jeremiah lunged at the ground, seized two rocks, and smashed them together in an explosion of shrapnel and dust.

  “Damn the Prophet,” he said, defeated, despairing.

  “Not much use hiding if you’re going to smash rocks together,” said a voice.

  Jeremiah spun to face the intruder. He could make out a vague outline but no details in the gloom. The shape seemed familiar. “Calebros?”

  “No,” said the shape. “Not Calebros. Tell me, Jeremiah, why are you hiding?”

  “Why?” he said, laughing sarcastically. “Because the eldest of our clan are prowling the night, hunting. Except you say they are an old wives’ tale.”

  “Calebros says that,” the shape said. “I know better. But why else are you hiding?”

  Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed. He moved closer to the shape, peered back in the direction of the shaft, and then whispered, “Down there…in the darkest places. It’s there.”

  The shape moved closer also, and spoke in a quiet voice. “How do you know this?”

  Jeremiah rubbed his thumb and fingers together before his face. “Can’t you feel it…in the air? I can almost smell it too. It’s dark and cold and angry.”

  “Everyone should feel it, Jeremiah. But the kine, they don’t. And most of the Kindred ignore it. But you…you know.”

  “You never believed me before,” Jeremiah said, pleased by this turn of events.

  “I told you, I’m not Calebros. But he is of my blood. You still haven’t told me how you know, how you learned the smell. You spoke with the Prophet, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” said Jeremiah. He thought for a moment that he was angry at Anatole, but he wasn’t sure why that would be.

  “Come with me, friend,” said the shape. “You must tell me about your time with the Prophet.”

  Jeremiah was pleased to have a friend again. He’d been alone in the dark, fearing the dark, for so long now. He gathered up his few belongings in his canvas sack and left that place.

  Tuesday, 30 November 1999, 11:07 PM

  The underground lake

  New York City, New York

  Calebros did not crawl full into the water. Instead he sat naked on his haunches, waist-deep, on the shelf of rock near the shoreline. If previously he had been haggard and at a loss for time, now it was worse, a hundredfold. And the whispering earth would tell him nothing he needed to know at the moment. It would not tell him which middling heroes of the Sabbat war deserved which tunnels and neighborhoods to claim as their hunting-grounds. It would not tell him which disputes to settle in whose favor. It would not tell him how to be prince of such a sprawling and cha
otic city.

  He glanced over at the shore, at the crown that Emmett had fashioned him from a mangled hubcap, begemmed with cigarette butts and some kind of unidentifiable, molded fruit. “King of the Sewers,” Emmett had called him during those first heady minutes back at the warren, before the reality had settled in. The hubcap was not heavy, yet the crown had weighed heavily on Calebros when he’d tried it on to humor his broodmate.

  Cock Robin was gone. He’d drunk his fill of vengeance and then, though perhaps the least political of justicars, had managed to install his protégé as ruler of the city. After Victoria had walked out, Calebros had been as shocked as anyone to see his own name rendered in Cock Robin’s awkward scrawl. Theo Bell had seemed to like the idea that his justicar’s motion had failed, and was the first to voice support for the Nosferatu. Sturbridge had taken her time before agreeing, and then the Malkavians threw their support behind him. Lucinde and Gainesmil had acquiesced once the vote was carried—for the good of the city, so there would be no doubt of the new prince’s legitimacy. Unanimous selection.

  The nights since had been pure toil, and prospects for the future were not much brighter. Yet the feeling of dread within Calebros had nothing to do with territorial disputes or Sabbat raiders. He could not shake sense that something far more ominous hung over him and the city, his city.

  He tossed a single pebble toward the center of the lake and watched the ripples spread. Then he threw a handful of stones and tried to count the points of intersection among the concentric circles. But there were too many. Far too many. He looked down into the briny water and saw his own reflection, distorted and wavering. He looked into his own eyes.

  It was an eye that had begun so much of what had transpired, and now Hesha was gone with that Eye. Strange how circumstances had brought them together. Circumstances. Coincidence. Calebros thought of the Prophet and knew that those other words held no meaning, no truth. There was a reason for all that had happened. But what reason? And whose?