Johnston briefly contemplated ending his current exploration, retreating again within himself; he’d accomplished a great deal, and certainly there would be further experimentation with the gem. But a nagging question still puzzled him.
Twice while taking measure of the insanity before him, Johnston had felt something odd—that an additional presence was at hand, that he and the consciousness were not alone. Someone else, or something else, was touching the mind of the other. In both instances, Johnston had traced the strand of awareness in question, the mystic fiber of mental reality, only to follow it into a tangled thicket of tortured personality. He’d resisted entering too deeply, but still he’d had the impression that another consciousness— or perhaps the shadow of another consciousness—was present. The impression could have been caused by the echo of multiple personae within the insanity itself, Johnston knew, but he decided to poke one last time into one of the tangled masses he’d found before. Then he would emerge from the trance.
To his amazement, he not only discovered the foreign presence almost immediately, he recognized it at once. The patterns were disturbingly familiar. How could he have not seen them before? Not one of his clanmates would have failed to identify the source—the source that should not have been there, that should not have been anywhere!
Johnston’s surprise, the tensing of his muscles, jolted his concentration. For the first time in many years, he faltered in his ritual. His mouth did not form the next words, which should have been automatic. Almost instantly, he regained his composure, took control of the ritual that had nearly gone astray. Rather unceremoniously, he dropped the minor incantation, the ritual of revelation he’d begun within the larger, more significant ritual, but that was no great loss.
At once, Johnston’s fingers went to work with the quill. The sound of the feather’s tip scratching rapidly across the parchment entered his awareness. Ink flowed without visible effect. With renewed patience and calm, he depicted that which he’d discovered. It would not take long. Then he would emerge from the trance and go straight to Sturbridge with this startling news, potentially dangerous news, that could not wait.
But something was wrong.
Johnston was slowly surfacing, but the scratching of quill against parchment no longer sounded in his ears, nor did his steady chanting. His lips still moved, he formed the arcane words of power, but no sound disturbed the air.
That was when he felt the impact of the blade. With one precise, forceful jab, it severed his spinal cord. He felt his face crash against the surface of the table. The collapse of the ritual pained him far more than the physical attack. The mystical energies he’d controlled turned on him, bore into his soul none too gently, exacting a stiff price for his having bent them to his will. The psychic anguish almost masked from him the draining of his lifeblood.
Almost. So quickly it went…quickly….
Then nothing.
Sunday, 25 July 1999, 12:47 AM
Chantry of the Five Boroughs
New York City, New York
The warlock, deep in trance, had no opportunity to save himself. Anwar’s ferocious thrust-wrench with the katar was one fluid motion, and the kafir struck the table like a fallen timber. Anwar was on his victim and drinking deeply before the eyelids ceased their fluttering.
Sustaining, fragrant vitae.
Hadd. Vengeance.
For five centuries, the children of Haqim had languished under the curse of the Tremere, had been unable to partake fully of the Path of Blood as prescribed by the elders’ elder. But now the second fortress, Tajdid, was reclaimed; there would be payment in full for each hour of each century. Anwar had struck but a single blow, had taken but a single step along the road of the hijra.
But how sweet the blood.
There was little time to bask in the deed. New strength flowing through his veins, Anwar glanced at Aaron. The Tremere, his discomfort apparent, gawked at the body of his clansman.
Have you no stomach for blood? Anwar wondered. Or perhaps it was the focused brutality of the act that unnerved the Tremere. But surely he had known.
Aaron had led Anwar through the labyrinthine corridors of the chantry beneath the college, pausing only occasionally to mutter an incantation or to stare intently into the air at something Anwar could not see. Anwar loathed the traitor’s weakness, but he still needed him to provide safe passage out of this place. They had worn the robes that Aaron had provided, but they had passed no one else. Anwar had not removed his robe until Aaron removed the protective wards on the last door that had led to these chambers and the cramped laboratory.
Anwar had cloaked himself only in silence, as he had been taught to do. His silence had been potent, even to the point of interrupting his victim’s barely audible chanting. Anwar hadn’t anticipated that, but it pleased him. He knew! Yes, he knew! At the end, the entranced Tremere had known that his blood was forfeit. Anwar was sure of it. Else there would be no justice.
Even before the blood had flowed completely down the back of his throat, Anwar reached for the gem. He had no need of the chest, and though certainly there were other items of power in the warlock den, his directions were explicit. He wrapped the red and black stone in a cloth and tucked it within his sash. Then he pulled on the robe again and, with another nod to the skittish Aaron, they were on their way.
They retraced their steps. Of that, Anwar was sure. But Aaron stopped at points not necessarily identical to those where they’d paused on the way in. The impression made on Anwar was one of an elaborate system of mystical defenses, varying perhaps in the response each required depending on the direction from which an individual passed. There were other possibilities. Anwar didn’t know if the cloak he wore contained sorcerous properties, if it was merely a ruse to deflect visual detection, or if some other variable came into play. He was at a loss to deduce the inner workings of the Tremere defenses. That being the case, and escape otherwise impossible, he remained close on the heels of the warlock Aaron.
When they ascended the steps to the drab office, Anwar was still operating on heightened guard. It was not too late for some devious trap to be sprung, for a gaggle of warlocks to swoop down upon him and carry him back into the depths of their chantry.
Walking down the corridor toward the building’s side door, Anwar’s heart lightened slightly—he was past the point where the kafir had warned him not to speak—but still he was vigilant. They stepped out of the building at long last. The summer night air, humid and carrying the stench of the city, was refreshing nonetheless.
“Your superiors will be displeased,” said Anwar, speaking to the Tremere for the first time.
“Yes,” nodded Aaron glumly. “I suppose they—”
With one graceful step, Anwar maneuvered and looped his garrote over the Tremere’s head. The wire dug into the warlock’s neck, sliced through trachea and jugular. A sharp increase and change of direction in pressure and the head and body fell separately to the brick sidewalk.
This is likely a mercy compared to what your clansmen would have devised for you, Anwar thought. But more than mercy, it was justice.
Hadd.
Anwar slipped away into the night with the gem for which he’d been sent, and another step along the road of the hijra was taken.
Monday, 26 July 1999, 12:00 AM
Upstate New York
Never come from the ground without knowing who— or what—is there. That was what Tanner had told her.
Fuckin’ bastard, Ramona thought. But she remembered.
Table Rock was unmistakable, and several people were nearby, most of them familiar to Ramona. She wasn’t concerned. As she rose out of the ground, she remembered other things that Tanner had told her:
Know that you are Gangrel. And that I am your sire. I made you what you are.
The night air, even on the outskirts of the Adirondacks, was cool. As always, Ramona felt for a moment a distinct sense of loss, of vulnerability, as she emerged from the comforting embrace o
f the earth. She saw right away that she was on top of Zhavon’s grave. She had been in Zhavon’s grave. Not really in it, Ramona corrected herself, but a part of it. She felt eerily calm. It was a feeling she wasn’t used to experiencing—not for years now.
Brant Edmonson was standing with Mutabo and Joshua Bloodhound. They were less than ten yards away at the edge of the woods. Ramona saw Snodgrass—she thought that was his name—approaching the group with two new faces. They must have arrived since she’d gone to ground. She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see that she hadn’t risen until midnight, several hours after she was usually up and about.
Other shapes moved among the trees farther out from Table Rock. Ramona wondered about Stalker-in-the-Woods. She hadn’t seen him since Edmonson had bested him. Stalker, she imagined, would be one to hold a grudge. At least it wouldn’t be against her—unless he resented her witnessing his embarrassment.
He shouldn’t be embarrassed about gettin’ beat in a fair fight, she thought, but she had her doubts as to whether Stalker-in-the-Woods would see it that way.
Ratface was not far away. In fact, he was coming toward her. He’d been less communicative since the others started showing up. Not that he was being unfriendly. Ramona didn’t feel like he was snubbing her, but he’d dutifully made the rounds and greeted each new arrival, and that hadn’t left much time for him to talk with her. She supposed that for someone at the bottom of the pecking order, which as far as she could tell Ratface seemed to be, it was beneficial or maybe even expected for him to ingratiate himself to as many elder Gangrel as possible.
Ramona didn’t yet have a clear idea of how all the interactions among the Gangrel worked. She did know, however, that she wasn’t about to lick anybody’s boots. If that’s what they wanted from her, they could kiss her ass.
But then she remembered the uneasy feeling she’d gotten from being too close to Stalker-in-the-Woods, and the way Tanner had struck her before she’d even seen him move. She might not always have a choice, she realized, about how or to whom she paid respect. And she’d probably already pissed off a whole bunch of people by arguing with Edmonson.
“Ramona,” said Ratface as he approached, “you are with us.” He seemed relieved to see her.
Ramona just nodded. Of course she was with them. He looked at her expectantly but said nothing else. Ramona quickly grew irritated with his staring.
“What?” she asked him at last.
Curiosity instantly overwhelmed Ratface’s obvious hesitancy to pry. “What happened? What did he say?” he asked, rubbing his grubby little hands together. “Everybody wants to know. You didn’t surface last night. We didn’t know if you were coming back.”
“What?” she asked again, but this time out of genuine confusion rather than aggravation.
And it all came home to Ramona. Blackfeather. The fire.
She quickly looked around, but there was no sign of the old man—only scattered ashes and the remnants of a few charred sticks on Table Rock.
“He’s gone,” said Ratface. “He left right after you went into the ground. Didn’t say a word to anybody… anybody else, that is. Only to you. That was night before last.” Ratface was looking sideways at her, like he suddenly didn’t know if he should trust her completely. Ramona wasn’t sure if she could trust herself.
Until Ratface had asked her about it, the entire ritual, Blackfeather’s very presence, had been like nothing to her, like they’d never happened. But she knew that they had. Ramona falteringly raised her fingers to her face. She touched her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids. Her fingers came away caked with hardened ashes. Ratface, still unsure how to respond to her behavior, watched intently as she brushed the ashes, and the underlayer of chalk, from her face.
“Everybody was watching,” said Ratface, “but nobody really saw what happened. The smoke got thick. It was like you weren’t there. It was…odd.”
Odd, thought Ramona. That was one way to put it. She was afraid she didn’t have a better explanation than Ratface did.
The oblivion of resting nestled in the earth seemed to cling to her still. She’d noticed before that she wasn’t always at her sharpest when she rose from the earth, that sometimes the details of whatever had happened immediately before her descent the previous morning were foggy at best.
But this seemed different somehow. Ramona wasn’t sure how, but it was. The whole experience with Blackfeather had been so weird. Odd, as Ratface put it. “That was last night,” Ramona said at last, correcting Ratface’s mistake.
“No,” he insisted. His rodent-like nose protruded so far that the tip moved a great distance when he shook his head only slightly. “Two nights ago.”
Ramona glanced down at her watch. Sure enough, the LED readout showed: 7/26 Mo. Ratface was right. She hadn’t just stayed submerged until unusually late in the night; she’d stayed submerged all through one night and then well into the next!
“What did he say?” Ratface asked nervously, prying against his better judgment, but prying nonetheless.
Ramona was stunned by how long she’d slumbered. Without thinking, she answered: “‘The Final Nights are at hand.’ That’s what he said.”
She had no idea what the old man had meant, but the words seemed to have an immediate effect on Ratface. His eyes grew wide, and he eased away from Ramona as if she’d pulled out a gun and was going to blow his head off.
“The Final Nights…” Ratface muttered.
“Hey…” Ramona was jolted back from her contemplation by Ratface’s alarmed reaction. She grabbed his arm and kept him from retreating any farther. “The Final Nights—what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Ratface stared at her, as uncomprehending as Ramona was, but his confusion was of a different manner and passed almost immediately. The light of realization softened his expression.
“I forget—it’s all new to you,” he said in way of explanation. “The Final Nights are when the eldest of our elders, the Antediluvians, will rise from their torpor and destroy all the rest of us, their childer.”
Ramona stared back at him. “What kind of answer is that? Ante-who?” she asked. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
Ratface grimaced at her impatience. “Antediluvians—they existed before the Great Flood. You have read the Bible?”
“Yes. Fuck you,” said Ramona, annoyed at his implication that she was stupid or illiterate. The truth was she personally had read next to none of the Bible, but she knew the stories well enough.
Ratface’s grimace deepened. “Do you want to learn, or do you want to argue?” he asked. “To learn, you have to listen.”
Ramona turned her back on him and sat by Zhavon’s grave. “You’re the one who came over here askin’ me what the old man said.” She thought about what else Blackfeather had said: she didn’t think the remark about the chewing gum was worth repeating, and the part about her road being difficult was none of Ratface’s damned business anyway. But something about what Ratface was trying to explain made her uncomfortable, tugged at the tightness in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t sure that she did want to learn. Maybe this was something better not to know.
The Final Nights are at hand.
Ratface misinterpreted her silence and continued: “The Antediluvians were the third generation of our kind from the Dark Father. There were thirteen of them. That’s what the legends say, anyhow.”
“And they gonna show up and kill the rest of us?” Ramona asked.
Ratface nodded. “That’s what the legends say.”
“If there’s only thirteen of ’em, why don’t we just kick their ass when they come around?”
Ratface’s mouth dropped open at the suggestion. “They’re…they’re like gods. They’re thousands of years old. You don’t just kick their ass…asses.”
“Hmph,” Ramona snorted. “Whatever.”
The contentment she’d felt upon rising from the earth was gone without a trace, shot to hell. Ratface was telling her thing
s that she probably needed to know, but that she felt she didn’t want to know. She was sitting beside Zhavon’s grave, and again the heavy weight of guilt was beginning to press down upon her. Add to all that, she’d just found out that she’d slept through an entire night—in itself not a great loss. To Ramona, some of these other Gangrel seemed way old, hundreds of years old, so she figured missing one night wasn’t that big of a deal. But she hadn’t meant to do it, hadn’t even known that she’d done it, and that left her uneasy.
And what about Darnell? she thought. Not one but two more nights had gone by, and Tanner didn’t look to be back yet. Ramona knew she should be upset that no one had done anything for Darnell, but she was so tired, too tired even to be angry. She wondered briefly if Darnell had outlived her hope for him, but mostly she was just tired. The pull of the grave, the attraction of not rising from the peaceful embrace of the earth, clung to her.
Ramona glanced back over her shoulder at Ratface, who was standing with his hands on his hips and watching her.
“Do you sleep through a whole night sometimes?” she asked, trying to sound casual, to keep the worry out of her voice.
Ratface shrugged. He seemed nonplussed by her sudden change of topic. “Sometimes. Not often. Some of the elder Kindred go into torpor—a deep sleep like that. It can last for nights, or months, or years. The Antediluvians are supposed to have been in torpor for millennia.”
“Supposed to have been…” Ramona muttered.
Clan Novel Gangrel: Book 3 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 17