CLAN NOVEL
GANGREL
By Gherbod Fleming
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Clan Novel Gangrel is a product of White Wolf Publishing.
White Wolf is a subsidiary of Paradox Interactive.
Copyright © 1999 by White Wolf Publishing.
First Printing May 1999
Crossroad Press Edition published in Agreement with Paradox Interactive
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Table of Contents
part one: stone
part two: bone
part three: ash
part one:
stone
Wednesday, 7 July 1999, 12:34 AM
A tenement in Harlem
New York City, New York
Quiet. Or as close to quiet as Zhavon was ever likely to hear. True silence was something she wouldn’t have recognized. Even in the middle of the night, there were cars in the distance. And maybe gunshots, but they didn’t bother her unless they were really close. She could even block out the sounds from the street below: a drunk, or a prostitute, sometimes one and the same—a faceless, skanky woman who might once have been beautiful (it was hard to imagine), but the drugs and the never-ending game of musical pricks had worn her out, until she was not much more than a skinny collection of gaudy colors and harsh angles—tits and elbows, lipstick and high heels.
Those noises were background, the undercurrent of life. Zhavon would’ve missed them if they were gone.
She almost didn’t hear anymore the stomping and screaming of the Hernandez children downstairs. They were in bed now, and the late-night almost-calm had reluctantly settled over the apartment building.
The particular sounds that Zhavon strained to hear were not in evidence. The next room was quiet. Mama had gone to bed. Half an hour later, just like every night, she’d gotten up for a glass of water and then gone back to bed. That had been an hour ago. If this were going to be one of the sleepless nights, the TV would have come on by now. Not loud, because Mama wouldn’t want to wake Zhavon, but with walls thin enough that she could hear someone on the other side scratch an itch, each commercial came through clear as day. But not tonight. Mama was asleep. She had to get up early in the morning and catch the subway to work.
Zhavon dressed silently. Mama might be willing to sleep her nights away, but her little girl wasn’t.
Little girl, hell, Zhavon thought.
She was fifteen, a grown woman. She had friends who already had little babies. But that wasn’t the life for her. No how. No way. She’d seen what her friends went through, lugging around screaming children or dumping them off with an aunt or cousin just to get away once in a while. Nothing wrong with babies, but they were a lot of work and a lot of money.
At least Mama had a job. She wasn’t about to sit back and rot on welfare, and neither was Zhavon. She was going to finish school. Someday she’d have a job and a baby, but not yet.
Of course, that didn’t mean boys were off limits.
The window was open and beckoning. The beat-up air conditioner they’d had didn’t work anymore. Sure, it rattled and dripped, but that was about it. Didn’t condition much air. Next paycheck, Mama was going to buy a fan, but for now, Zhavon slipped easily enough through the window, after checking the fire escape to make sure that Mr. Hernandez wasn’t sitting out below.
Some nights, especially when it was really hot, he would sit out there and drink beer. When he did, Zhavon could smell the cigarette smoke and hear the clink of bottle caps as they bounced through the iron ladders down to the street. He wasn’t there tonight, but blue TV light flickered from inside his apartment.
Zhavon cautiously climbed down to the Hernandezes’ window and peeked between the worn curtains that hung lifelessly in the still air. Mr. Hernandez was asleep on the couch. His wife sat next to him and stared at the TV. Mrs. Hernandez, like Mama, was pretty, but it was a tired pretty. Four babies had taken it out of the Puerto Rican woman, had drained the life from her, but despite the sunken eyes, her face was still attractive and thin—small nose, high cheekbones. She was lucky not to have any scars from the times that Mr. Hernandez drank too much and hit her. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, Zhavon and Mama heard it like they were right there.
Hell, the whole block hears it, Zhavon thought.
Last time had been the worst. So loud Zhavon had thought she could feel his fist. Mama’d had enough. Zhavon tried to stop her, but Mama went down there and said if he was going to hit his wife again, he’d have to hit Mama first. All the yelling back and forth, Zhavon had been afraid he’d do it, but after a while, he stomped out cursing and slammed the door. Pretty quiet since then.
Squatting there on the fire escape outside the window, Zhavon noticed the almost-empty beer bottles by her feet. She picked one up. There was no cigarette butt inside, so she took a swig. She tried not to grimace—Tastes like piss!—but couldn’t help it. Her friends always teased her about that whenever Alvina stole a six-pack from her daddy.
Still wondering how anybody could like the stuff, Zhavon put the bottle back down, but the glass knocked against the metal fire escape. The hollow clink, as it echoed through the still night, sounded to Zhavon as loud as the garbage truck rumbling down the alley at 6:00 in the morning. She jerked back from the window and held her breath. Her heart pounded furiously. Zhavon waited for what seemed like forever, holding so still that she thought she’d pee her pants.
Nothing happened. The chatter from the TV continued unabated. The blue light still flickered from inside. There was no sign that anyone had heard the bottle, but Zhavon still wasn’t sure. She edged toward the window again and peeked in.
Mr. Hernandez hadn’t budged. He was still dead to the world with his head lolled back against the couch. Mrs. Hernandez, however, seemed more alert than before. She’d tilted her head to the side and was listening more closely.
She heard! Zhavon realized. She went completely rigid—afraid to move, afraid to breathe.
Eventually Mrs. Hernandez, probably satisfied that whatever she might’ve heard was not one of her children, returned her attention to the quietly droning TV. Mr. Hernandez stirred in his sleep, and she lovingly stroked a curl
on his forehead.
Zhavon breathed a long, silent sigh. Just to be safe, she waited a few more minutes—it seemed like hours—then snuck one more look in the window to satisfy herself that Mrs. Hernandez wasn’t on to her. The older woman sat oblivious as before.
Four babies in a one-bedroom apartment, thought Zhavon, shaking her head in disbelief. The same size apartment was small for just her and Mama, and that with Mama giving Zhavon the bedroom and sleeping on a pullout sofa. Zhavon shook her head again. But that was Mrs. Hernandez’s life, and Zhavon had her own to lead.
The last two turns of the fire escape passed only blank wall and ended ten or twelve feet above the alley. Lowering the last length of ladder would make too much noise, so Zhavon instead dangled from the bottom step and dropped. Later, she would climb the drain pipe to get back to the steps. She was fairly athletic and coordinated, but this time she landed hard and had to catch herself to keep from falling on her butt. A sharp, stinging pain shot through her right hand.
“Ow! Shit!” she half whispered, half blurted out.
She raised her hand to find a beer-bottle cap stuck into her palm. It must have been lying on the ground with the jagged edge pointed up. Zhavon plucked it from her hand and blood welled up from the tiny but deep ring of holes. She was more angry than hurt as she threw the bottle cap against the wall and glared up at the Hernandezes’ window.
Stinkin’ Rican drunk.
There was nobody in the alley. No one to have seen her or to have heard her call out when she hurt her hand. Even so, Zhavon remained crouching low and looked carefully around. Sometimes, even when she was alone in her own room, she had the feeling that someone was watching her. For a moment just then, she’d felt that way again. But, she knew now, there was no one there.
Zhavon turned her thoughts to what had brought her out tonight:
Adrien.
Just thinking about him sent shivers down her spine. He was tall and fine, and he didn’t wear his pants falling down off his ass. Sure, she’d smacked him the other day when he felt her up, but that was because she wanted respect from the man. Not because she didn’t want him. Zhavon wasn’t about to let him crawl down her pants that easy, not yet. She knew the ratty club where he hung out. He wasn’t old enough to get in either, but his brother worked the door, and as long as no cops were around and nobody was starting fights, who really cared anyway?
Zhavon turned right, away from the main street, and headed deeper down the alley. She had about twenty blocks to go, and she didn’t want to draw the attention of anybody that would be driving around at this hour—policeman or pimp. There were plenty of alleys criss-crossing the middles of the blocks, and she was quiet enough and fast enough to scoot by anybody that might be trouble. She’d be gone—past or doubled back the way she came—before they even knew she was there.
She tried to think of what she was going to say to Adrien when she saw him. She didn’t want him to get big-headed and think that she was desperate for him, because she wasn’t. But why was she tracking across half the city to see him? No way he was going to believe that she just happened to be out and stopped in to get her under-aged ass a beer. She had to think of something. She could see him laughing, and the way his eyes shone. Zhavon had seen the way he looked at other girls. She wanted him to look at her that way, but she didn’t want him to be a man who was on her, off her, and then out of her life. That’s what had happened to her friends. The boys swarmed around like a bitch was in heat, but once they got what they wanted, they were gone until the next time they got an itch to scratch. Zhavon didn’t want it that way.
She paused and hugged the wall as the alley opened into a larger street. An old, beat-up car was cruising along. Zhavon could make out the silhouettes of two people and the glowing ash of a cigarette hanging from the mouth of one. They didn’t seem to take any notice of her as they drove by. She looked again, then ran across the street and partway down the block to the next alley. Seven or eight blocks down. Almost halfway.
One time a few weeks ago, Zhavon had mentioned Adrien to Mama, and Mama had gone off on the “car-stealin’, dope-smokin’ gangsta wannabe.” Mama said that she knew his mama, and that he might as well be growing up in a crackhouse. She said not even the good Lord could make that apple fall far from the tree.
“But you don’t even know him!” Zhavon had insisted. “You’re always saying we should act charitable to people.”
“I know him,” Mama’d snapped. “I know his type. Why you think your daddy ain’t ’round anymore? I’ll be charitable to Adrien, all right. I’ll be charitable when he brings hisself to church instead of sellin’ drugs and chasin’ girls.”
But Mama was wrong. Zhavon winced at the thought of them yelling at each other. They’d never fought much. Never used to, anyway. Lately there seemed to be more to fight about every day. But that was only because Mama was as stubborn as she was wrong.
“If you’re so smart, how come you work yourself to death and we’re poor and live here in this stinkin’ place?” That’s what Zhavon had said, and she’d wished she hadn’t the second the words were out of her mouth.
Mama had exploded. “You get your poor self to bed right now! Not another word! Not another word, or so help me…!” But that night Zhavon had heard Mama crying, even over the sound of the TV.
But she’s wrong! Zhavon still held onto that. Mama couldn’t always know what was right for Zhavon. She knew what she was doing. That’s what she was thinking as she turned the corner and bumped right into a scraggly man out of nowhere.
Zhavon yelped in surprise. The man, she realized as he grabbed her, wasn’t surprised at all. His dirty hand clamped down over her mouth flat and hard enough that she couldn’t bite him. He lifted her almost off the ground—only the tips of her shoes brushed the pavement—and dragged her farther back into the dark alley. With the hand that wasn’t over her mouth, he was grabbing at her chest, pressing and squeezing her breasts. She tried to bite again. Too tight against him to grab his balls, she reached up with her free hand, the arm that wasn’t pinned, to scratch at his eyes.
Then she heard another noise—the sound of a switchblade clicking open. But the man pawing at her wasn’t holding a knife. She saw movement in the shadows to her right. There was someone else.
For an instant, Zhavon thought that maybe someone was going to help her, to jab that knife into the dirty-handed bastard who had hold of her, but then she saw the twisted grin of the squint-eyed man who stepped out of the shadows. “Well, well, well. Whatcha got here, Reggie?” Light glinted on the blade of his knife.
Reggie didn’t answer but guffawed and groped even harder as Zhavon stopped struggling. She could feel his hard-on pressed up against her ass.
“That’s more like it,” said squint-eye. “Don’t want no trouble, do we?”
He moved the knife to her face and with the tip of the blade lightly traced a line from her chin down her neck. Zhavon’s heart pounded until she thought it was going to explode out her ears. The stink and taste of Reggie’s filthy hand overwhelmed her senses. As Reggie reached under her shirt and squint-eye fumbled with her belt, she began to feel sick to her stomach. Maybe that would make him let go of her mouth—if she threw up. Or maybe he wouldn’t, and she’d choke on her own puke.
The knife pricked her skin at the collarbone. Squint-eye was getting excited, careless. His hand was down her pants, probing, but her knees were squeezed together. Frustrated by her resistance, he punched her in the eye. Lights danced in the darkness, and the strength drained out of Zhavon’s legs. As squint-eye tugged at her pants, the knife dug more deeply into her shoulder.
The lights cleared and Zhavon twisted. The sudden move caught them off guard, but not so much so that Reggie lost his grip. Squint-eye cursed and hit her again in the face. The darkness closed in. She only faintly realized that he had her pants down to her knees. Reggie had ripped apart her bra and was bruising her nipple between his fingers. His stale breath and dripping spit were h
ot on her neck.
Don’t kill me, she prayed as the lights danced for her. Don’t kill me. But why should they rape her and leave her alive to call the cops?
“Mama…” Zhavon heard her own voice. Reggie had let go of her mouth and was grabbing at her crotch as squint-eye worked at his own fly.
Suddenly, in a snarling flash of motion, squint-eye was gone. The knife fell to the ground. Squint-eye cried out in pain and fear.
“What the…?” Reggie loosened his grip just enough that Zhavon was able to squirm out of his grasp. She spun as she dropped to her knees and, as hard as she could, swung her fist up into his crotch.
Reggie doubled over and crashed to the ground, where he lay wheezing. Zhavon fell back away from him. Her vision flickered as again the dancing lights smothered her.
Dear God…dear God…dear God…
The pavement was rough beneath her bare hip. She lay in a ball and clutched her ripped shirt to her chest. A few feet away, squint-eye no longer struggled. The night was full of savage growling and the sound of tearing—clothes? Skin? A rabid dog. Zhavon thought she saw the flash of canines. It pounced on Reggie. He started to scream, but the sound was cut off, lost to the snarling and rending.
Zhavon knew that she should get up and run. The dog would be on her any second. But she couldn’t move. Her will had retreated deep within her. She could do nothing but hug her knees and rock back and forth and call for Mama. The alley was spinning. The taste of Reggie’s hand was in her mouth, on her tongue. She flinched as his blood splattered across her face from several feet away. Lingering moans… The seconds and minutes ran together. She felt hands on her. Squint-eye was tugging at her pants. Reggie was grabbing at her chest, lifting her off the ground. But weren’t they gone?
Clan Novel Gangrel: Book 3 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 1