Clan Novel Gangrel: Book 3 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Gherbod Fleming

  The silence that had come with Blackfeather when he first appeared was thicker now, heavier. Though the quiet was not so heavy as the sky and stars, Ramona didn’t know if she could speak if she tried. So she merely sat and watched.

  Blackfeather, wearing a slight smile beneath his sagging felt hat, produced from his sack a silver Zippo lighter. In one motion, his long thumb flicked open the cover and spun the tiny wheel. His thumb traced a white line through the darkness, and the whirring of the metal wheel slowed to one hundred individual clicks. A six-inch flame leapt to life and pounced almost instantly on the teepee. The crackling of the dry sticks filled Ramona’s ears.

  The world beyond the circle was black against the dancing fire. Ramona vaguely remembered the others there—Ratface, Edmonson, Stalker-in-the- Woods—but maybe they weren’t there any longer. She and Blackfeather were as alone as if they sat on the surface of the moon or at the bottom of the ocean.

  Ramona tried to look at the old man’s laughing eyes, at his white teeth, but her gaze was drawn to the flames that danced so close to her. She knew deep inside that she should fear the fire, just as she feared the sun. No one had ever told her as much, but she had naturally shied from fire since the change. Now it was very close. She should slide back, not sit so close, but her fear was numb and weak. She was so tired, her body, her mind…so tired.

  Then she realized that Blackfeather was speaking to her. She strained to see his face through the flames and the rising smoke. Though he spoke in a low voice—he did little more than mumble under his breath—the sound carried to Ramona, but for some reason beyond her grasp, she couldn’t untangle the words. They reached her ears but didn’t proceed to her brain. She thought at first that he spoke a foreign tongue, maybe the language of the Cherokee, but she could fix in her mind not a single sound that he uttered. The words dissipated as soon as they touched her awareness, like smoke upon the breeze. Ramona heard, but she didn’t hear.

  So intent was Ramona on deciphering Blackfeather’s mutterings, she didn’t notice at first that he had fallen silent—the words seemed to continue with their own life, swirling upon the smoke that now clung close to the stone rather than rising skyward—or that he was calmly scooting around the fire toward her and dragging his canvas sack behind him.

  The smoke, hanging low, grew thick, and shortly Ramona couldn’t see much beyond the chalk circle. She tried to remember exactly what or who she expected to see beyond the smoke, but her thoughts were as elusive as Blackfeather’s chant. Details of the outside world were less substantial than the gently churning smoke that almost formed a wall around Table Rock.

  Blackfeather was at her side now. Reflected in his eyes, she could see the white handprints on her face glowing in the firelight. He turned his sack upside down, and one after another several small items trickled out onto the stone between them. It was an odd collection: a plastic egg, like from a child’s Easter basket; a bent and rusted butter knife; a snakeskin; a small, mostly empty plastic bottle of Visine; and two sticks of chewing gum in blank, white wrappers. Blackfeather stopped the egg from rolling away, then regarded silently the former contents of his sack. He rested his chin in his hand and didn’t move for several minutes.

  Ramona tried to pay attention, but her mind was wrestling with the chant, which seemed still to echo from the stone, and with the smoke that obscured all beyond Table Rock.

  Finally, Blackfeather shifted from his contemplative pose. He reached down and took in his hand the two pieces of gum. One he offered to Ramona. She took it and watched as he, with focused, deliberate motions, unwrapped his piece. Then, bending the gum in half, he placed it in his mouth and began to chew. The wrapper he crumpled and tossed into the fire. That done, he returned his enigmatic gaze to Ramona.

  She could only guess his wishes. Slowly, she began to unwrap her piece of gum. Neither seeing nor hearing any objection from Blackfeather, she placed the gum in her mouth with the same reverence she’d once witnessed in people eating communion wafers at a Catholic mass. Ramona folded the stick exactly as Blackfeather had, and chewed. The gum was sickly sweet. Ramona grimaced. She’d grown used to the more bitter sweetness of human blood.

  Blackfeather, apparently satisfied, returned his attention to the remaining items. He picked up the snakeskin, tore it in two, and handed one of the foot-and-a-half lengths to Ramona. The thin veil of brown and gray scales was rough against her skin, not slimy as she had always expected a reptile should be. Blackfeather placed his half in the flames, still licking vigorously at the teepee. Ramona did the same with her portion and the skin was quickly consumed.

  Next, Blackfeather took the tiny bottle of Visine. He held it in front of his face and squeezed so that a single drop fell to the ground before him. When he handed it to Ramona, she mimicked his actions, except when she squeezed the bottle, several drops shot out and splattered the stone. She turned the bottle upright so quickly that she fumbled with it and nearly dropped it.

  Aghast at her own clumsiness, she looked warily to Blackfeather. She had no idea what kind of ceremony or spell he was performing, but she was sure she’d just ruined it. She half expected the flames from the fire to leap up and consume her, or the smoke to close in and suffocate her—never mind that she didn’t breathe anymore.

  But Blackfeather only shrugged and nodded toward the fire. Hesitantly, Ramona tossed the bottle into the glowing coals. The last of the liquid hissed away amidst the pungent odor of melting plastic.

  Blackfeather picked up the egg next, but then he stopped and a strange expression crossed his face. Before Ramona could translate the odd pursing of his lips, he turned his head and spat his wrinkled ball of gum into the fire.

  Ramona turned and did the same with hers.

  “The flavor never lasts very long, does it?” said Blackfeather.

  Ramona stared blankly at him and blinked. They were the first words he’d spoken since arriving, and amidst all this strangeness that he’d set in motion, he was worried about old chewing gum. Ramona opened her mouth, which despite the gum was dry and tasted of smoke, but had no idea what to say.

  The old man took no notice of her befuddlement. He opened the plastic egg and took out a hard, gray mass that looked a bit like a larger version of the chewed gum. The two halves of the egg he tossed into the fire, and again the smell of melting plastic was apparent. The mass from inside the egg he handed to Ramona.

  She recognized instantly the consistency and texture, even the faint smell, of the malleable object. She squeezed and kneaded it. Silly Putty.

  “You got a Slinky in that bag too?” she asked with a wry smile.

  Blackfeather cocked his head and stared at her in complete and silent puzzlement.

  “You know….” Ramona tried to explain, her smile fading. “It’s fun for a girl and a boy…?”

  But Blackfeather’s puzzlement, if anything, grew deeper.

  “Uh…sorry.” Ramona held up the age-hardened mass of Silly Putty and pointed to the fire. Blackfeather nodded, so in it went.

  All that remained was the rusted butter knife. Blackfeather took it and, using the crook of the bent utensil, scraped a pile of coals and ashes from the diminishing fire. Ramona instinctively cringed as he did this. She could handle sitting relatively near the fire, but reaching a hand in among the flames was a different matter altogether.

  With the knife, he crushed the few coals he’d gathered that were still red. Soon, the pile consisted purely of black and gray ash. Blackfeather continued to stir the ash for some time. Finally, he raised his face and met Ramona’s gaze, but where before she’d seen laughter in his eyes, now she saw only sadness.

  “The Final Nights are at hand,” said Blackfeather, holding Ramona’s gaze despite her sudden desire to turn away, “and your road will be a difficult one.”

  Ramona tensed. His words spread terror through her, not because she understood them, because she did not. But she felt the truth of what he said.

  Blackfeather set the knife a
side and scooped two handfuls of ash. He leaned toward Ramona, raised the ash toward her face. She wanted to pull away, to run screaming from this prison of chalk and smoke. She wanted to run back to her mortal life, to the way life had been before. But none of those things were possible.

  Ramona couldn’t even close her eyes as Blackfeather pressed the handfuls of ash into them.

  The ash, though still warm, did not burn. Ramona could see nothing, but she could feel the Beast, like a volcano beneath the surface, rising up within her. She could feel how it filled her, how it destroyed every shred of anything else inside her. She could feel, too, that it was loose in the world as well. The hunger that dwelt within her, that dwelt within her sire, and her sire’s sire, all the way back to the first spilling of human blood, that hunger was no longer contained within them. It was risen. It roamed free. And it would consume them all.

  The Final Nights are at hand.

  The warmth of the fire was gone. A fierce chill gripped Ramona’s soul. Her very core was cold and dead.

  She reached out for comfort. She fled from the cold, from the hunger. Thankfully, she found warmth, surrounded herself with it.

  But still she could not completely shake the cold that gripped her.

  Sunday, 25 July 1999, 12:14 AM

  Barnard College

  New York City, New York

  On this, his fourth night of observation, the particular side door on the academic building opened for the first time that Anwar had seen. Instantly, he was totally alert, transcending even his normally high level of vigilance and entering the hypersensitive state where duty and faith merged and were one.

  The individual who emerged from the side door was unimpressive. He was tall, blond, thin, and dressed casually, as any other kafir might be. Anwar suspected that this was his contact but held his place. The sign he’d been told to expect was unreceived.

  The thin man surveyed his surroundings: the trees that could give cover; the small, well-lit mall area between buildings; the building by which Anwar stood, cloaked in shadows both common and preternatural.

  He is looking for me, Anwar thought. But if he is the one, why doesn’t he give the sign? Anwar was aware of no onlookers or obstacles that might delay contact. He, however, had the advantage of having been secreted in that spot for several hours. Perhaps the thin man was merely being cautious.

  Then the man’s scanning gaze stopped on Anwar—stopped on and saw! Anwar was sure of it, though the man gave no other indication that he had seen the lurker in the shadows. Anwar instinctively drew more deeply into the dark as a chill ran the length of his spine.

  At the same time, the thin man held his right hand before him, palm upward, and in the blink of an eye, a low flame burned atop the man’s hand. He’d struck no match, raised no lighter, yet a flame danced upon his open palm. Then, as quickly as the flame had appeared, it was gone, and his hand was empty again. Anwar knew that anyone else observing the brief glint of flame would doubt what he’d seen, would convince himself that he was mistaken in his impression. Anwar himself would have doubted his own eyes…had the flame not been the sign he was awaiting.

  Now that the time had arrived, Anwar hesitated momentarily. His impulse was to cling to the shadows and skirt the mall area between the buildings as much as possible, yet if the contact had not made proper arrangements to ensure the success of the mission, there was little Anwar could do at this late date—little except meet his end with dignity. Though uncomfortable relying on a kafir, he placed his faith in his elders. Deciding against an indirect approach that could consume vital seconds, Anwar strode slowly but purposefully across the open ground. He watched for any sign of danger, of betrayal—it was not yet too late to escape should the mission fall apart or the kafir prove untrustworthy—but no disruption greeted him.

  “I am Aaron,” spoke the thin man. He did not try to hide the fact that he was of the get of Khayyin. Aaron’s skin appeared delicate and pale. His fingers and face were tight and frail-looking, too much so for his apparent youth.

  Anwar nodded. In the cloudy blue eyes, he saw a disturbing mix of pain and resignation. He had no knowledge of how it was that his own elders had come to hold power over this warlock, or how one of the hated Tremere would have become indebted to the children of Haqim—rumor abounded regarding the unbreakable bonds of blood among the warlocks—for Anwar had no reason beyond idle curiosity to possess such information. His earlier concern, however, remained with him—his unease over relying upon a kafir, especially one who had obviously given himself to despair and undertaken a foul betrayal of his clan, a deed he could not hope to survive. How could one such as that be trusted?

  May Haqim smile upon me, Anwar besought the blessing of the elders’ elder.

  “Follow me,” said the kafir. “Stay close.”

  Anwar did so. They entered through the side door and proceeded down a narrow corridor that would be out of the way for any student or faculty member of the college. Anwar suspected there might be black magics that would deflect the intentions of any mortal who wandered this way. What other Tremere spells protected this chantry? he wondered.

  The corridor led to a heavy oak door with frosted glass and the painted words: ASSOCIATE DEAN OF INTERDEPARTMENTAL ACADEMIC DISCIPLINARY REVIEW. Anwar imagined that the title was vague, bureaucratic, and ominous enough that any student or professor accidentally stumbling past the Tremere defenses would be stymied by the conviction that she either had no business with this office, or earnestly desired to have no business there.

  Aaron harbored no such reservations. He inserted a normal enough looking key into the lock and led Anwar inside. Anwar expected to step from the drab, collegiate environment into a stronghold of splendor and debauchery befitting the sinister genius for which Clan Tremere was known—the children of Haqim hated the vile warlocks, but did not underestimate them. Instead, the office beyond the forbidding door was as drab and nondescript as the preceding corridor. A desk, filing cabinets, and a few chairs were the only furnishings.

  Aaron remained silent. Perhaps he did so for reasons of safety, or perhaps, overwhelmed by his personal despair of mysterious origin, he simply had nothing left to say. Two gray robes lay draped across the desk. Aaron took one and indicated that Anwar should don the other.

  “Speak not a word beyond this point,” Aaron said to Anwar when they both were robed.

  Anwar nodded. He had not spoken yet. He supposed he could survive without conversation a bit longer. He took in every detail of his surroundings, but whatever Tremere defenses he might have passed through so far, they were of such a subtle nature that he could not detect them. Perhaps his elders in their wisdom, hearing his exacting description of what he saw, would unravel mysteries that were hidden to him.

  But no sooner had that thought crossed his mind than he saw the first evidence of sorcery since the flame had sprung from nothingness in Aaron’s hand. The warlock placed his hand upon the only other door in the tiny office and muttered a few words beneath his breath.

  Anwar felt his skin tingle momentarily as the words were spoken, but he couldn’t be sure if the tingle was actual or merely the power of suggestion. Aaron opened the door and revealed stairs leading downward and plain, concrete walls. Would the door, Anwar wondered, have led to a closet or another room had the warlock not exercised some spell, or was the display merely deception, completely for Anwar’s benefit?

  But why, Anwar wondered further, should he guard the warlock secrets…if he truly betrays them?

  It was a question Anwar could not answer. Not yet. He kept close to Aaron as they began down the steps.

  Sunday, 25 July 1999, 12:31 AM

  Chantry of the Five Boroughs

  New York City, New York

  Johnston was unsure of the passage of time in the outer world. From deep within the trance, he experienced the alternating sensations that barely an instant had passed and that several mortal lifetimes had swept by. He was at the same time fascinated and appalle
d by this consciousness—the other—to which the gem had taken him. For however long he’d been occupied with the task, he’d explored that psyche and mapped it out in his own mind. When again he surfaced, he would possess a wealth of information, and as of yet he had barely scratched the relationship between the gem and the fractious, hopelessly insane mind. There were many other questions to be answered. Foremost among them: Why? Why had the gem led him to this being?

  As Johnston had contemplated the inner workings of the discovered consciousness, his physical body had not remained idle. His fingers had taken quill and ink and rendered on parchment the physical likeness to which the consciousness was attached, a likeness that not even Johnston, himself submerged within the landscape of the mind, had beheld. But the impressions from such a thorough investigation could not be mistaken, even with the muscles directing the quill directed themselves by Johnston’s subconscious mind in absentia. Flawlessly, he’d sketched the face of the other.

  His endeavor, however, would be of little use to any except himself, would not be visible to anyone else, in fact. Such was the nature of the quill Johnston’s fingers worked and the enchantments he had laid upon it. To an onlooker, his scratchings upon the parchment would appear merely that, as if the ink were nothing more than water and left no mark. It was one of the few tiny vanities Johnston afforded himself, this right of first perusal in order to modify possibly substandard results. He would present to his superiors nothing less than finished, polished work. There was no cause for his precaution this time, though. The presence of the other was so palpable, so strong—nearly overwhelming—that Johnston knew the ink would flow unerringly from the quill. His rendering of the other would be perfect.

  Secure in this knowledge and still enmeshed within trance, Johnston did something that normally he would not do. While maintaining the continuous chant that, in a sense, fueled this exploration of the other, he introduced the strains of a lesser incantation, which he skillfully intertwined with the ongoing chant. The maneuver was not overly complicated; it was not so difficult that a warlock of Johnston’s expertise would have trouble. And indeed, he did not. Though he did not yet see it, he knew that his handiwork was at that very moment taking visible form on the parchment beneath his hands and quill. When the ritual was over, when he withdrew from the psyche of the other, the sketch would be waiting for him. He would not need to perform the minor ritual separately later.