Clan Novel Gangrel: Book 3 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Gherbod Fleming

  “No one knows for sure—if they are, or where their resting places are,” Ratface added.

  Ramona repressed a shudder. He just won’t shut up about them Antediluvians, she thought, and she’d heard more than enough about them already. Ramona turned away from him again and sat silently. She wanted him to go away, and he’d already proven that the simplest question would just keep him talking— and probably about the damned Antediluvians. But he just stood there, pawing at the dirt and making her uncomfortable.

  “Don’t touch the fuckin’ grave,” Ramona said, without turning to see if that’s what he was actually pawing at.

  “There’s Emil,” Ratface said at last. “He must’ve just arrived.”

  Ramona heard Ratface scuttle away. She was glad to be alone again, but she felt a little guilty about driving him off like that. Of all the Gangrel she’d met, he more than any other had tried to be helpful to her. He probably deserved better treatment. But then again, Ramona deserved a hell of a lot better than what she’d gotten. Besides, she didn’t want to hear any more about the damned Antediluvians.

  When’s Tanner gonna get back? she wondered.

  She was tired of waiting. He’d said he was going to get others—a lot of others were here. Ramona could see more new arrivals whom she hadn’t met or heard introduced—the two with Snodgrass, a handful of others, and those were only the ones she could see from where she sat. Probably Ratface could have filled her in on the identities of everyone gathered, if she hadn’t run him off.

  As Ramona looked around, she noticed that none of the other Gangrel met her gaze. Edmonson and his group looked away and pretended that they hadn’t been watching her. Their conversation suddenly lagged.

  They were talkin’ about me, she realized.

  Renée Lightning looked away as well, and others. They looked at her differently, thought of her differently, after Blackfeather’s visit. They had no idea what had happened either, but they regarded Ramona with suspicion and a little fear now. She could see it in their eyes, in the way each held him or herself.

  Fuck ’em, she decided. Ratface was the only one of them that had any guts. She hoped he got some brownie points for talking to her.

  Ramona hugged her knees to her chest. She wished Tanner would hurry up and get back. Then they would go kick the Toreador’s ass. Maybe we can save Darnell, she thought, but she didn’t hold any real hope. She’d seen what the Toreador had done to Zhavon, and what had happened to Jen—stone that hadn’t been there shooting up through her body and taking her head off. Ramona didn’t see how Darnell could’ve held on this long. She felt guilty about that too—that she didn’t know for sure that he was dead. But it wouldn’t have done any good for her to go back alone, she reminded herself. She just would’ve gotten killed too.

  She remembered the fear in Tanner’s eyes. He knew that the kidnapper, the thing with the eye, was something beyond even them, and Tanner would know that a hell of a lot better than she did. She had to trust his judgment on that point.

  Thinking of the kidnapper, Ramona couldn’t help but picture the grotesque bulging eye. She had stared into it and almost lost herself, would’ve lost herself if Tanner hadn’t showed up and snapped her out of it. And that was after the damn thing had sprayed her with…what, acid? She could feel the burned-out gouge on her face that hadn’t healed— even with all of Zhavon’s blood—and her T-shirt was falling apart and full of holes where that crap had burned through.

  They’re like gods, Ratface had said about the Antediluvians. You don’t just kick their ass.

  Ramona’s memories tugged at the churning in her stomach like the moon pulls at the oceans. Could the Toreador be one of the Antediluvians? she wondered. She hadn’t thought that anything would scare Tanner, but that thing with the eye had. But if it was one, could even all these Gangrel hope to kill it? Not according to what Ratface said. But probably others knew more than Ratface, Ramona told herself. Surely Tanner knew more than Ratface did. Her sire was just more closed-mouthed about it.

  She sat by herself as the night passed and tried to get a handle on the disturbing mix of guilt and fear. Her chest began to ache like her stomach had, and not from having had a wooden stake jabbed through it—although Ramona couldn’t imagine that had helped very much. The physical wound was healed completely. No sign remained.

  Others were still arriving at Table Rock. How many, she didn’t know. She didn’t really try to keep track anymore. She vaguely heard more ritual introductions, but she didn’t catch any names, and no one came to greet her. Either she was too new a Gangrel to bother with, or the paranoia of those who’d seen her with Blackfeather was contagious. Ramona didn’t care. She was just as happy to be left to her worries. She sat silently beside the grave that had been her resting place the night before.

  Occasionally, Ramona heard a scuffle and snarls from the woods nearby. After the first time or two, she didn’t even bother to turn and look. As more Gangrel arrived, some wanted to find where they stood in the pecking order, or to challenge someone that had bested them at a previous meeting. The commotion never lasted long, and Ramona doubted any serious injuries resulted. It seemed more sensible than the gang fighting in L.A. that she’d seen, where the losers, as often as not, ended up dead.

  She didn’t see Stalker-in-the-Woods out there, but she could imagine him trying to kick the ass of every newcomer he couldn’t stare down. And she wouldn’t have been half surprised to find out he’d done it.

  But neither Stalker-in-the-Woods nor any of the others Ramona had met nor any of the newcomers messed with her.

  Monday, 26 July 1999, 2:18 AM

  Upstate New York

  Ramona was thinking about Blackfeather when she noticed that Table Rock had grown completely quiet. She was thinking about the few words the old man had spoken, and of the strange ritual he’d performed—at least she thought it was a ritual of some sort. It had seemed that way; it had felt that way. In fact, everything connected to Blackfeather, including Ramona’s reactions to him, was grounded in feeling. Ramona didn’t know anything about him, except the little Ratface had said. She didn’t know anything about what the old Cherokee had done. Lord knows, Blackfeather hadn’t explained anything. He’d just done whatever it was he was doing, and she had been drawn along by the sparkle in his eyes, or maybe it was something about the smoke or the old man’s mysterious chanting that had prodded Ramona to follow his vague lead. Everything she’d done had been based on what she’d felt, not what she’d known. And now he was gone, and she was left with her feelings but didn’t know anything more than when he’d arrived.

  She thought of the casual perfection with which he’d ground and spread the chalk—not a granule falling out of place, a perfectly round circle with the fire exactly in the center. And the fire itself, the small teepee, had burned just as long as necessary without needing to be fed or tended to even once.

  She thought of Blackfeather’s canvas sack, of the haphazard assortment of items he’d dumped onto the stone between them. The objects looked like they’d been scooped up out of the gutter: a discarded bottle of Visine, a snakeskin, a dull, rusted knife. Silly Putty and chewin’ gum, for God’s sake! Ramona shook her head. Was it supposed to make sense?

  That question was the focus of her thoughts when she vaguely realized that something was wrong. She drifted back from her remembrances to the sound of…nothing. Again, the Gangrel present—and there must’ve been fifteen or twenty by now—had fallen silent, as when Blackfeather had arrived. Had the old man returned? Ramona looked up hoping to see him, hoping that he might answer some of her questions.

  Instead, stepping onto Table Rock were two figures, one of whom she recognized immediately—Tanner. She knew from what the gathered Gangrel had said that her sire had traversed a goodly portion of the state—many of them had come from near Buffalo—but Ramona never would’ve guessed that from looking at him. He didn’t look tired. He stood with the same confidence and poise that Ramona remembered
. Maybe he was slightly more disheveled from his significant travels; maybe his dark sweater was picked a bit more than it had been, but there was no great change in his bearing. In his left hand he held a dangling rabbit. Maybe it was a hare; Ramona didn’t know the difference. It was long and, unlike the rabbits Ramona had seen in pet stores, not very furry. Tanner held the creature by the ears. The head was twisted almost completely around, and blood dripped from claw wounds in its chest.

  Tanner stood a step behind another Gangrel. Ramona had never seen him before, but for some reason she connected him to a name she’d heard some of the other Gangrel whisper in near-awe—Xaviar. They had speculated that he might come, that the action would get started in earnest once he was with them.

  Ramona could see that Tanner regarded Xaviar with that same reverence, and it was an attitude she was as surprised to read in her sire’s posture as she had been his fear in the cave. It was jarring to see that he was afraid of anything, and almost as much of a jolt to see him pay respect to anyone. She wondered how he would react to Brant Edmonson—as an equal? And what about Stalker-in-the-Woods?

  But there seemed no impetus to establish dominance, to refine the pecking order, now that Xaviar was present. Everyone, it seemed to Ramona even in those first few instants of seeing Xaviar, knew where they stood in relation to him, and they wouldn’t risk displeasing him. He stood well over six feet, and was completely in black leather—vest, long pants, boots—a costume that Ramona would’ve thought presumptuous on most, but there was nothing phony about Xaviar. His hairline had fully receded, but long, red hair hung to the middle of his back. The same red lined his jaw as a prickly beard, and was sprinkled along his chest. Where his skin was visible—arms, chest, neck, face, forehead—it was tanned and leathery. He seemed to have taken to piercing: a ring in his nose, a half dozen studs and hoops in his left ear, a few less in the right. Ramona’s earlier resentment of Gangrel elders dribbled away weakly. She knew she wouldn’t cross this man.

  Tanner tossed the rabbit onto the rock, casually discarding the carcass. It landed amidst a cloud of ash from the remains of the fire. He had hunted the animal and killed it, probably without even breaking stride. It held no further interest for him.

  Now Xaviar stepped forward. The dead rabbit lay at his feet. He ignored it, and his gaze fell on Ramona. For an instant, he casually took note of the grave she sat next to, but his stare came to rest on her.

  Ramona slowly rose to her feet. She felt weak, awkward.

  Xaviar looked down at her from Table Rock. At his feet, the rabbit’s blood was mixing with ash. As Blackfeather had done the night before—two nights before—Xaviar acknowledged no one but her. Ramona wished that he would go talk to some of the others, or maybe kick Stalker’s ass. But Xaviar’s gaze bore down on her.

  How long has he been around? Ramona wondered. How many people has he killed? She felt suddenly protective of Zhavon’s grave next to her. Not that she expected Xaviar to root around and dig up the body like Ratface would have. Probably a dead mortal meant no more to Xaviar than did the rabbit at his feet.

  “You have seen the thing that Tanner has told me of,” Xaviar said to her. Though he didn’t raise his voice, his words were strong as thunder. He stood over Ramona like a storm that, at any moment, could unleash its fury.

  Ramona nodded. She could feel Tanner watching her, all the others watching her, but she couldn’t take her eyes from Xaviar.

  “Tell me what you saw,” he said.

  His gaze gripped Ramona, took hold of her as surely as if he’d reached out with his hands and grasped her by the shoulders.

  Tell me what you saw.

  Ramona felt the words pouring from her mouth. She heard herself, as if a bystander, tell him about the cave. She heard the revulsion in her voice as she described the horrid eye, how it had sprayed acid on her, how it had entranced her, and only Tanner’s intervention had saved her. She heard the heartbreak in her voice as she told of the injuries done to Zhavon, so great that the girl could not have survived. Ramona heard herself tell how the creature with the eye had twisted flesh and bone as if they were no more than hot wax, and how the very floor of the cave had attacked poor Jennifer, had mangled her body, ripped off her head.

  The words poured like water through a broken dam, and in the end they left Ramona empty and sickened. The full sorrow of two years rose to fill the emptiness. She dropped to her knees and retched blood onto the dirt. Her human life had been taken from her. Jen and probably Darnell had joined Eddie in death. Her few friends, those who had shared the horror of this new existence with her, were gone. And Zhavon was gone, though her blood flowed through Ramona’s veins. The mortal girl had been caught up by an unavoidable current that had swept her away, much like what Ramona had gone through.

  She faced those responsible—Tanner, and now Xaviar, who had bent her to his will. Ramona tried to spit the foul taste from her mouth. They would control her if she let them…if she couldn’t stop them.

  She could feel when Xaviar finally looked away, turned his gaze from her. He turned to Tanner and nodded, as if confirming something they had already discussed.

  Ramona wiped her mouth on her tattered sleeve and looked up at the two elders on Table Rock. “Is it an Antediluvian?” she asked weakly. The churning in her stomach had taken over while the words had flooded from her mouth. It was the same sensation, only stronger, as when Ratface had told her about the eldest of the elders, and it had driven her to that conclusion.

  Xaviar looked back at her again. He seemed slightly surprised, maybe amused, that she’d spoken to him of her own volition. “No, childe,” he said with his quiet-thunder voice. “And shortly it won’t matter what it is.” He turned back to Tanner and prepared to ask a question.

  “He called himself ‘Toreador,’” said Ramona. Her voice was stronger now. The churning was receding slightly.

  Surprised laughter erupted from around the clearing, but then the Gangrel seemed to remember themselves and in whose presence they stood. The laughter quickly died away. Ramona looked around blankly, too confused by the reaction to feel annoyance or ire.

  Xaviar tensed. He turned back to her and cocked his head. “He called himself…what?”

  Ramona’s blood turned to ice in her veins. Tanner’s eyes grew wide for an instant, then narrowed to a cold glare. Silence stretched across the clearing, into the forest.

  “Toreador,” she repeated. Ramona forced herself to hold Xaviar’s gaze, not to look away.

  “You are sure?”

  Ramona nodded. She didn’t understand the reason for Xaviar’s sudden vehemence. Having fought to hold his gaze, she now found that she wasn’t able to look away.

  “Tanner?” asked Xaviar, still not freeing Ramona from his increasingly perturbed glare.

  Tanner stared at the ground. “I…I hadn’t heard this,” he tried to explain. “It called the stone, and the stone answered. It twisted flesh like…like a Tzimisce fiend!” Then he turned angrily to Ramona. “You didn’t tell me this,” he accused her.

  “Did you give me a chance?” she shot back. “Did you give me a fuckin’ chance to tell you anything?” Instantly, she knew she shouldn’t have said it, that she wasn’t supposed to have said it. It wasn’t her place. In a way, she didn’t care. Tanner deserved a good tongue-lashing, or more. But she was afraid of what Xaviar might do.

  What he did was smile. But it wasn’t a warm smile, or jovial. “I might have expected this from a whelp, but not from you, Tanner—to bring me here with a small army of Gangrel to destroy a lone Toreador.”

  Tanner was staring at the ground again. He offered no defense.

  “No matter,” said Xaviar, watching Ramona as if he’d been speaking to her all along. “Do you know what Toreador is?” he asked her.

  She shook her head.

  “Of course not,” he sighed, not unsympathetically, but his expression changed rapidly, became fierce and bestial. “It is the weakest, the most pathetic clan of the
children of Caine.”

  If Xaviar’s enthusiasm for the hunt, or that of any of the other Gangrel, was at all diminished by Ramona’s revelation, he didn’t show it. He raised his fists into the air. Savage growls rose all around the clearing.

  “It begins!” he snarled, as he leapt from Table Rock and almost directly over the cowering Ramona.

  Tanner followed Xaviar’s lead without hesitation, and Ramona, caught up by the ferocious snarl, was on their heels in an instant. Xaviar began southward toward the cave, but he quickly veered to the east. His forceful strides took him in a wide loop around Table Rock, and the other Gangrel fell in behind him. The air boiled with their snarls. Among the howling chorus, Ramona heard her own voice, a single strand woven together with like strands of her brethren.

  They were on all fours and moving more quickly for the second loop. Ramona was not far behind Xaviar and Tanner. Brant Edmonson and Joshua Bloodhound pressed near her on either side. Their claws dug into the rocky soil, threw sparks when they struck stone. Among the pack, many Gangrel had shed their human forms altogether. Large wolves, some black as midnight, others gray as dusk’s last light, wove through the trees at dizzying speeds.

  During the third circuit around Table Rock, the landscape itself changed. The slopes of the foothills grew more rugged and steep, mountains in their own right. The trees became towering sculptures of gray bark and multi-hued lichen and mosses—green, blue, red, black. Ramona realized that the churning in her stomach had vanished. The rising fury of the hunt had crumbled and scattered the pain of loss that had assailed her for so long, the grief that she had not been without since her mortal days. Racing through the transformed landscape, she could not help but be transformed herself. She was a lone wolf, giant, ferocious and slavering. She was alone, yet the others were with her. They were of her, and she of them, united in their kinship—the same kinship she had seen in the sparkle of Blackfeather’s eyes.

  The Final Nights are at hand, and your road will be a difficult one.