Clan Novel Giovanni: Book 10 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Justin Achilli

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “One more thing, Chas,” Frankie added, trying to seem off-the-cuff.

  “What’s that?”

  “You watch out.”

  It was like the kiss of death. One simple statement, delivered with such finality and such strained irreverence. Chas knew, like as not, he wouldn’t be coming home from this. Easy as pie had suddenly turned into something altogether different.

  Wednesday, 30 June 1999, 1:12 AM

  Caesar’s Palace, Room 2604

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang.

  Victor had wandered down to the casino, wanting to avoid going stir crazy, and taken out a twelve-thousand-dollar marker on the room, which made Chas a bit suspicious. After his conversation with Frankie he wasn’t very interested in trusting his own family, let alone a cokehead ghoul who was probably fucking cocktail waitresses at the blackjack table right this very moment.

  Second ring.

  Chas got up quickly and went to the window, looking down from the guest tower to the parking lot. No sirens, no Crown Vics or government Chevys, no ambulances, and only one white limousine, which he was sure he’d seen earlier. No telltale shadows just under the doorjamb. Just some Bruce Willis movie on TV, in which everything was blowing up or getting punched.

  Third ring.

  Chas sniffed at the air. A faint whiff of—almonds?—but nothing otherwise. Not that he could be poisoned, at least not by conventional means. He had gone through these paranoid drills a million times before, finally convincing himself, perhaps fatalistically, that if someone really wanted him dead—finally dead—he’d be dead, and there was nothing he could do about it. Whether they were subtle enough to use one of the Kindred contract killers, traditional enough to riddle him with bullets in the street, or brazen enough to set his hotel room on fire, they’d get him. No, the true secret to immortality, or even long mortal life, was to evade attention. Prince Benedic of Las Vegas did it—he kept a quiet, tasteful estate outside the city limit. Frankie Gee did it, hiding behind ranks of capos and caporegimes, looking every bit the part of a low-class thug and not one bit like a hundred-and-twenty-year-old don who had sailed into Ellis Island half a century ago. Sometimes the invisible people got hurt, but nobody ever set out to do it. Just keep quiet and let someone else take the bullet.

  Fourth ring.

  Enough with the paranoid bullshit, Chas reasoned, and picked up the phone.

  “This is Chas.”

  “Good evening, Chas. This is your Aunt Isabel. Do you have time to come down for a quick cup of coffee with your favorite aunt?”

  Once again, Chas’s mind shifted into high gear. She relied on him to know her by name, which means she probably figured Frankie (or someone else) had tipped him off that something was going down. She’d asked him to meet her, however, and in a public place, which was either to cover herself because she’d dealt with Frankie’s boys before, or to reassure him. He flattered himself and decided upon the former, even though he knew otherwise. She didn’t ask about Victor, though, so he’d keep that part quiet and see what played out.

  “Sure. I’ll be right down.”

  “Marvelous. I’ll be waiting.”

  She sounded sweet, Aunt Isabel did. So sweet, Chas decided to play it safe. He checked the clip and chamber of his big automatic—hopefully it would at least buy him some time if conversation became too tense—and left the room, closing the door deliberately behind him.

  Yeah, the room had smelled like almonds.

  Wednesday, 30 June 1999, 1:19 AM

  Caesar’s Palace, Nero’s Restaurant

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Isabel had been waiting for only a few minutes when Chas arrived. He looked pleasant enough, in that sort of big-boned, rough-hewn American way. He wore a simple, clean-lined black suit, but no tie, and his collar was open. How mortal! And didn’t these coarse gangster-types ever get over their black suits? When someone sees a man in a black suit, thought Isabel, they know he’s either with the government or quite against it.

  No matter, Isabel figured. Las Vegas was lousy with high-rollers and their would-be emulators, and nothing about Chas aroused immediate suspicion. In the end he was just a resource, and once she was done, she would probably never see him again.

  Wednesday, 30 June 1999, 1:19 AM

  Caesar’s Palace, Nero’s Restaurant

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Chas figured he’d play the part of the flustered underling for pathos. He had left his shirt open and his hair somewhat tousled. After taking the elevator downstairs, he thought he’d make a quick pass through the casino before joining Isabel in the steak house. Better see what Victor was up to with twelve large riding on the boss’s name.

  But Victor was nowhere in sight. Worry about that later, Chas told himself.

  And so, somewhat preoccupied, he wandered into Nero’s, telling the host he’d come to meet his aunt, who was to be waiting for him.

  “Aunt?” the host had asked.

  “By marriage,” Chas replied. What the fuck did that mean?

  He soon found out. Isabel looked far too young to be his aunt in any conventional sense, in her late twenties or perhaps early thirties. She looked very continental, with faintly olive skin (so that’s what undead Europeans look like), brown hair almost black, and lithesome arms crossed before her. She hadn’t noticed him yet, and her head was turned in repose, giving him a plain view of her classical beauty made all the more interesting by minor curiosities of feature that only generations of quiet inbreeding could bestow. Slightly weak chin, he observed, and dangerously high cheekbones. He also noticed the youthful curve of her small breasts and the arch of her shoulders, from which a silk dress hung in a manner best described as salaciously. A green bottle of Pellegrino sat in front of her, on the table, open but unsampled.

  Shit, thought, Chas, almost aloud. I want my aunt.

  He sat down, her head turning at his arrival, and she favored him with a slight smile.

  “Don’t gentlemen ask before they take a lady’s company?”

  “Erm…” Chas relied wittily. “They told me that you were waiting.” Oaf.

  “Well it is a pleasure to meet so handsome a cousin. Or nephew. Or whatever you might be. I can’t keep the relationships straight, myself,” she said through a laugh.

  Chas noticed her scent.

  “House of Givenchy,” she spoke.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Givenchy. My perfume.”

  “I’m familiar with Givenchy, but I didn’t know—”

  “Your nose moved. I saw it. I notice the little things.”

  “You must think I’m a clown. I’m not usually so taken aback, but tonight’s been full of revelations.”

  “I’m sure it has.” Good, thought Isabel. Get right down to business. A wise choice, and one that allow you an early lead. My move. “And what revelations were those?”

  “Well, I got a call from my boss who said you might be on your way out here, and that I should be aware that hospitality might be in order.” Chas smiled. “It would seem that we’re both looking for a mutual acquaintance.”

  “So, your boss knows you’re out here?”

  “I’m sorry?” Chas repeated. Damn, she’s ahead of me by too many steps. What’s she talking about?

  “I wasn’t told that your branch of the family had anyone here.”

  “Well, then, why did you know you could find me?”

  “Because, Chas, our family is full of liars. Omission is no less a lie than any other alteration of the truth.”

  “I suppose you can look at it that way. But Frankie’s got me mobile looking for Benito. I figured this was a good place to start. Vegas pretty much springs to mind when you think of the Ma—my family’s business, and Benito didn’t strike me as the super-creative, I’ll-break-the-mold type. At least from what I’d been told.”

  “I see. Mmm. Yes, well, ‘acquaintance’ is a bit of a strong
way of describing him. Benito is a commodity to those above him. He and his type are common enough among our ranks.”

  Chas found himself put off by this. He didn’t know what to make of Isabel’s statement. Apparently, she occupied some other position in the family than Benito did, but she was simultaneously more and less than he? Her words indicated that she was not “above him,” but that he was somehow less valuable than she.

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, my dear aunt.” Chas hoped she took that in the spirit with which it was intended. “Could you maybe give me a bit more to go on? I can’t help you unless I know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “Oh, that’s quite the contrary, Charles.” My full name, Chas reasoned, turnabout is fair play. “If you simply do what you’re told, you’re far more efficient and valuable. The world has two types of people: those who lead and those who should follow. It’s all right—there’s no shame in being one of the followers. It’s simply the role to which you’re best suited. I myself am a follower, having long since lost my special gift of insight. It’s part of the family curse, if you know what I mean.”

  Chas did, indeed. She was talking about the Embrace. While becoming a vampire offered many gifts, it more than made up for them in drawbacks. For someone like Chas, many of them didn’t matter: He didn’t care if he never saw the sun again. Of late, he’d even become somewhat enamored of the idea of the Giovanni Kiss—Kindred of his clan caused great pain when they fed from vessels, as opposed to other Kindred, whose bite caused ecstasy once the vessel yielded to it. In the end, however, no matter how any individual looked at it, the Embrace was damnation, plain and simple. Even if the Kindred was able to take some small solace in the potency of his undead, immortal form, that was nothing more than God’s ironic and spiteful sense of humor. As the legends told it, the Curse of Caine was levied upon the first vampire, slayer of his brother Abel, during the days of Adam, Eve, and a garden full of snakes. As far as Chas was concerned, that meant only one thing—the God of the Old Testament created vampires, back when He was one angry, badass motherfucker. The Old Testament was full of demonstrations of God’s wrath. He was always smiting or cursing some group of people for the licentiousness or greed of some other group of people. It was only after the advent of the New Testament that God calmed down a little. You wouldn’t find any great Biblical curses like vampires or rains of blood or turning people into pillars of salt in the modern nights, no sir. And that’s probably why the world was going to hell in a handbasket. God didn’t care anymore. Go ahead and fuck it up all you want, He seemed to have said. I have given you creation and you want to use it to destroy yourselves. Well, have a good time, Chas imagined Him saying before He turned his back and went away to work on something worthwhile.

  Chas shook his head. Where had all that come from?

  He looked across the table to see Isabel smiling at him.

  “Did you do that?” he asked.

  “Do what?” came her coy response.

  “That thing that just happened. Did you fill my head will all those weird thoughts? I mean, I’ve never considered myself a religious man, but I just had a very…um…righteous stream of consciousness pour through my mind. Of course, now that I think about it, they were pretty much in the same vein as most of my thoughts, but why would I all of a sudden start thinking about God?”

  “Chas, you heathen, I have no idea. Maybe it would do you some good to think about God once in a while. I know it’s helped me.”

  “That’s bullshit, Isabel. I mean, I guess I still believe in God—kinda stupid to believe in Kindred without Him—but it’s not a big part of my…um…life.”

  “No one said it had to be, Chas. But do you honestly believe that the maverick act you and your part of the family put on is the be-all and end-all of life and unlife?” Isabel looked around, making sure to lower her voice so that if anyone was listening, they wouldn’t hear her say such curious things. Unlife, indeed. “Do you think a curse so great as the one that our family has taken upon its shoulders exists so that you can play The Godfather and shoot other vampires in the face for eternity? Are you so vain? Or so simple?”

  “Hey, calm down, Isabel. Jesus Christ, this shit’s getting strange. I came down here to talk to you about the Benito thing and the next thing I know I’ve got fucking Genesis 3:16 running though my head. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Isabel made a grand show of sighing. “My boy, if I wanted to agitate you, I’d do it in some way that helped me. Sending you into a fervent rapture of self-indulgence doesn’t really work for me, you know? If you simply must know, I can tell you what happened to you, but it’s probably not going to make you very happy.”

  Chas stared expectantly.

  “Ghosts.”

  “Ghosts,” repeated Chas sardonically.

  “That’s right. Ghosts.”

  “Flip answer, Isabel. Very funny. Ghosts. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Chas stood halfway before meeting Isabel’s gaze. He stopped. “You’re fucking serious.

  Watch your mouth, and yes, I’m serious.”

  At that moment, the table’s waiter stopped by. “Have you decided what you would like for dinner? Or perhaps a cocktail to begin? Another Pellegrino?” Chas looked as if he was about to drive the waiter away, but Isabel put her hand on his. No sense in upsetting the staff and having them know you’re up to something.

  “I’m, sorry. We’ve just been catching up. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. I think we’ll need another few minutes to decide on dinner. In the meantime, I’ll have a negroni.”

  Chas looked over at Isabel almost accusingly, as if thinking this is what happens when you meet at a restaurant. Then he looked to the waiter and quickly asked for a bourbon and water. The waiter smiled and nodded, taking his leave to fetch their drinks.

  Isabel looked impishly at Chas. “What are you having for dinner?” she teased.

  “I would never eat here,” Chas replied, calming a bit. “I’ve heard terrible things about their meat locker.”

  “Well, then we should probably leave pretty quickly after our drinks get here. I don’t know that they’ll want us taking up their tables if we’re not planning to eat.”

  “Yeah, because they’re slammed at one thirty in the morning.” Chas made a sweeping gesture with his arm, emphasizing the largely empty room.

  “You’re wasting time,” Isabel remarked, “and we should wrap up this conversation and get you on your way. You still have a lot to do tonight.”

  Eyeing her inquisitively, Chas wondered what Isabel was talking about.

  “But first,” she continued, “ghosts. I know I don’t need to preface this with too much, but if you’re prepared to believe in vampires, you should be prepared to believe in ghosts.”

  Chas smiled dryly, crookedly, as if the whole thing was a very clever trick.

  “I’m serious. I’m sure you’re the first to admit that there are things you just don’t know about the Giovanni. You like it that way—I can see it in you. As long as nothing bothers you individually, you’re more than content to let Clan Giovanni do whatever it wants. That’s how most Giovanni like it, Chas, and it’s why you’re still among the Kindred rather than a heap of ashes at the foot of some elder’s chair. You do your part and you don’t ask questions. But the truth of the matter is going to be unpleasant, even for a rough character like yourself.”

  Chas’s smile had slowly vanished from his face. Over the course of her few words, he had begun to watch her as a deer eyes a wolf, not as an enemy, but as a creature that knows it exists only at the whim of another. The wolf doesn’t kill deer for sport, but out of necessity. The deer had only to fear the hungry wolf. But was Isabel hungry in whatever context or metaphorical sense the word implied?

  “That’s okay. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But as far as those ghosts go, Chas, that’s something to which the Giovanni have inextricably tied themselves…ourselves. You know
very well that death goes hand-in-hand with much of our business and personal affairs. Well, I’m telling you that for many, death is not the end. The spirits—souls—of the dead continue to serve us even after they have left the physical world. It’s one of the family’s secrets from centuries ago. The Renaissance and even before. We make the dead do our bidding.

  “But something’s happened recently. Something that’s made our power over the restless dead…I don’t know what it is, actually. Our mastery of the spirits hasn’t begun to wane, but there seem to be fewer spirits around, and even these aren’t in the places we’ve come to associate with them.

  “Without boring you with all the petty details, I think that’s what just happened to you—a ghost was having his way with you, Chas. They can see into our world and they know things about us, which is why they’re so valuable to us. But that’s a double-bladed sword. They know, for instance, that you’re a Giovanni, and they hate you for it. It’s not necessarily anything you’ve said or done, though it might be the ghost of one of your victims or vessels. They resent the fact that you’re Giovanni because the Giovanni can use the restless souls whenever they choose.”

  Chas looked positively incredulous. “You’re telling me that ghosts are prejudiced against me. That’s what you’re telling me. That not only can the Giovanni family perform voodoo, but that the little demons don’t like us for it and so they sometimes pick on us.”

  “Well, Chas, that’s a bit of an irreverent way of saying it, but I suppose that’s correct in its own fashion. I understand that it’s a bit much to take at face value, but you’d do well to take it quite seriously. The dead do, after all.”

  Chas leaned back in his chair, his palms on the edge of the table and fingers atop it, as if he was about to push himself back in disgust. Their drinks arrived and Isabel begged another few minutes of the waiter, who was all too happy to return to the kitchen and resume gossiping with the other staff about the weird couple at table seventeen.