Thursday, 9 September 1999, 10:12 PM
New York Avenue
Washington, D.C.
Futile. Futile but unavoidable. That was what Parmenides considered the strategy that necessitated his current duties—keeping watch on the Tremere chantry, sole remaining bastion of Camarilla power in the American capital. Or at least the sole remaining bastion that the Sabbat knew about. Surely there were mortals in the city who remained under the sway of Ventrue masters—senators and congressmen calling in favors, ghouled bureaucrats who, as circumstances dictated, either greased or clogged the wheels of the governmental machinery.
Take, for example, last month’s city-wide curfew, which had forced the Sabbat to tread more carefully in removing hidden cells of Camarilla resistance. How else could that be explained? And the fact that the crackdown had been enforced not by federal troops, as should have been the case, but by Maryland National Guard units?
A mere courtesy, the powers-that-be assured their citizens. With the armed forces spread thin with peacekeeping assignments in Bosnia, Kosovo, and elsewhere, it seemed perfectly reasonable to utilize a force at the ready and in such close proximity to the recent civil unrest. Besides, the arrangement was not expressly unconstitutional…and so forth and so on. The assurances of propriety droned on from various quarters.
Of course, Parmenides and his type had the advantage of certain insights to which the general (that would be mortal) public was not privy. Few citizens would believe, for instance, that the unrest in question, like the disturbances that preceded it along the East Coast, was primarily the result of a mighty struggle between warring sects of creatures of the night. Factor in, also, that the munafiqun Prince Vitel of Washington had fled north and taken refuge with Prince Garlotte of Baltimore, and the calling in of favors that had resulted in the capital’s curfew seemed readily apparent.
And that was but one example. The Sabbat may have won control of the streets in Washington, but the halls of power were not so easily breached, and therein lay the essence of Ventrue influence.
If that proud and devious clan was the backbone of the Camarilla, and the upstart Brujah the muscle, then the cursed Tremere would be the teeth and fangs; and it was that clan that currently occupied Parmenides’s attention.
He lay secreted among hedges across the street from the Octagon House, a quaint “historical” relic in this nation too young to truly understand or have history. The historical significance of the location paled considerably compared to its strategic value to the warring sects, for beneath the structure lay the lair of the Tremere.
So Parmenides waited and watched.
The warlocks themselves might come and go by sorcerous means—who was to tell?—but already the Sabbat vigil had been rewarded. In the ten weeks since the sect’s forces had rolled into the city, several human and ghoul lackeys to the Tremere had been captured and eliminated. There were also two formerly secret entrances to the chantry that had been discovered in the blocks surrounding the Octagon House and sealed. The warlocks would not be defeated by such paltry losses, but the constant pressure might eventually bring about more significant opportunities.
Destruction of the Tremere. That was a prospect Parmenides could warm to, though he would have preferred a more proactive strategy, or at least a more direct role for himself. After spending several weeks in close contact with Lady Sascha Vykos, he was now seemingly banished to the hinterlands of sentry duty, although there was no lack of Sabbat ruffians who could man this portion of the perimeter. Surely Vykos must have something more in keeping with his particular skills, but she’d given him few added responsibilities since the successful Chin assignment in Baltimore. Perhaps she was reluctant to have too practiced a killer in her employ, Parmenides mused. Even as the thought crossed his mind, however, he grudgingly recognized it for the false bravado that fled so quickly when he was in Vykos’s presence. Damn her.
Breaking the monotony of the evening, a vibration within one of the many pockets of Parmenides’s loose-fitting jacket caught his attention—and reminded him of another duty Vykos had relegated to him. Silently, Parmenides crawled backward out of the hedges—there were other sentries keeping watch; he would not be missed—and moved quickly out of earshot of the Octagon House. Only then did he remove the cellular phone from his pocket, flip the device open, and press the “talk” button.
He waited another moment for the scrambling technology to kick in, then: “Hello?”
“Good evening.” As usual, the caller’s voice had a cruel, mocking tone, as if somehow she were doing him a favor by deigning to call.
“Ah. Dona Lucita. It is pleasant to hear from you,” Parmenides politely and transparently lied. “May I be of assistance?”
“A trifling matter, really.” She maintained the hollow cordiality with ease. “I am wondering if you might be able to spare me the barest hint as to where my target might be roaming in the upcoming nights?” Parmenides hesitated. His instructions were to give Lucita what direction he could without revealing his own identity or that of her employer. To reveal too intimate a familiarity with Archbishop Borges’s itinerary could confirm suspicions she might already have.
“How would I know that, Dona Lucita?
Because whoever pulls your strings knows, yes? I’m not too blind to see what is in front of me. Who is it? Polonia? Vykos? One of the fat fools down in Mexico City?”
Parmenides paused again. He was less taken aback by Lucita’s bluntness than by her willingness to reveal to him how much she did and did not know. He’d expected more discretion from a Lasombra. Perhaps her comments were a screen, an attempt to make him think she knew less than she actually did, and she somehow had discovered full and well who her employer was. But if that were the case, why not deflect suspicion by ignoring the issue all together? Was this a double feint, or was she that brash?
“I am afraid I have no idea what you are talking about, Dona,” Parmenides said evenly. “1 am truly sorry.”
“You are a truly sorry liar, and that is all,” was her acerbic reply. “So tell me: Where will he be?” Parmenides smiled. She had answered his question at least—she was haughty enough to think that her insults would mean anything to him.
“Within two weeks, you may find Hartford a profitable place to hunt. 1 trust that is sufficient information?”
“I will not lie to you: No, it is not, but it will have to do. Very well. I thank you for all of your courtesies.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Parmenides lied again and clicked off the phone. “And may Borges eat your heart for breakfast.” Parmenides had more information that he could have given her, but he didn’t feel compelled to make her job any easier. Therein lay one of the perils of antagonizing a contact without reason; it was a simple lesson that any assassin should know, that any Assamite would know.
Tuesday, 21 September 1999, 12:29 AM
Observation Deck, the Albert Myor Building
Hartford, Connecticut
Fatima climbed over the railing and onto the glorified ledge that served as a lunch-time patio for the office building she’d just scaled. The retractable awning was rolled tightly against the outer wall; the glass partitions that would protect the absent diners from the most inclement weather were not yet in place for winter. Chairs and round, metal tables awaited their next occupants.
Her eye was fully healed, regrown within a few nights, and with new sight and calm heart, she looked out over the city.
For a brief moment, the lofty height and the pull of the wind reminded Fatima of the walls of Alamut, but only for a moment. It was difficult to ignore the chaos that dominated the panorama. Not far away, flames danced heavenward from a building in the heart of the city; several blocks west a larger building, the civic center, burned as well. Acrid smoke hung low and drifted down toward the river. Flashing lights and sirens seemed to be everywhere as emergency vehicles rushed about like multi-hued fireflies in some manic, frenzied dance. Their comings and goings on streets t
hat should have been virtually deserted at this time of night were hindered at every turn: A stalled bus clogged a main artery through downtown; a smoking pile of metal that had been several cars blocked a heavily used bridge; just to the north, interstate traffic was beginning to pile up behind an accident. The small pop of gunfire erupted intermittently on the streets and in the parks.
She struck the pose of a bored tourist, leaning against the railing and watching almost disinterestedly as the action unfolded beneath her. No, this was quite unlike Alamut after all; only a trick of altitude, the sensation of the world falling away before her, was similar. Instead of a vista of unforgiving yet strangely serene mountain gorges, Fatima looked over a scene of mounting carnage. The Sabbat was in town, and although this night, with its fires, looting, and riots, might horrify the mortal population of the city, it appeared that the Camarilla vampires of Hartford would fare much worse.
Which undead faction controlled the city was of minimal concern to Fatima. She could pursue her missions whether Camarilla schemers remained sequestered in their plush drawing rooms or Sabbat packs terrorized mortals on the street. It was the conjunction of the two missions assigned her by the amr that brought her to this city under siege tonight.
“Parmenides may need to be destroyed,” al-Ashrad had said. “It was the caliph’s decision to place him in the care of the fiend, Vykos. A difficult position. We now have reason to believe that Vykos has…abused Parmenides. In ways he could not have prepared for. He may be damaged beyond salvage. That is for you to decide. At any rate, the caliph’s agreement with Vykos is null and void. There may be opportunity for the Greek to exact hadd.”
Hadd. Vengeance. If possible, Parmenides was to destroy Vykos, thus securing justice for the ignominy shown the children of Haqim. If such seemed unlikely, Fatima was to order his return to Alamut. If the Greek was, in her judgment, “damaged beyond salvage,” Fatima was to reclaim his blood for the clan.
The mission itself, compared to many of Fatima’s exploits over the centuries, was fairly straightforward. Although there was no joy in dispatching a member of the brotherhood, she had no qualms in doing so when circumstances necessitated. What most pricked her curiosity was not the situation itself or its soon-to-be resolution, but matters tangential to Parmenides’s plight.
It was the caliph’s decision, al-Ashrad had said, and it was the caliph, Fatima’s direct superior, who was not present when normally he would have been.
So she had picked at the question, respectfully but persistently. “The caliph is prepared then to see Vykos destroyed, despite the fiend’s fervent hatred of the warlocks?”
Al-Ashrad regarded her evenly, his blue-white gaze wavering not at all. By tradition, she could have been flogged for questioning a superior so, but there were few among the children of Haqim who had achieved the prominence that Fatima had, and allowances were sometimes made.
“Certain policies of the caliph,” al-Ashrad replied, “have been…reconsidered.”
There was a certain ponderous neutrality in al-Ashrad’s words, the same sense of permanence as before, that led Fatima to accept his response without further question. Allowances, even for one of her stature, went only so far.
And so it was that Fatima took up her missions. The journey to this continent had not been short. The Eagle’s Nest was remote, but the children of Haqim were experienced travelers, used to roaming the world in pursuit of prey. Over the course of the journey, Fatima felt as if she had accelerated forward through time; from the unchanging, ascetic cliffs and rugged footpaths of Alamut, to rutted tracks and rickety diesel trucks, to rail, and finally to an airplane that brought her to the modern land of Sodom, where the old ways were forgotten and modern contrivances ruled. It was no coincidence that so few initiates to the brotherhood were ever chosen from North America. Where modern secularism held sway, discipline and loyalty were generally absent.
It was not the modern world, however, but Parmenides that Fatima had been sent to judge; and it was not the judgment of Parmenides that had brought her to Hartford this night. He was not in the city. He’d sent her information, via the Nosferatu middlemen, regarding the Sabbat attack—information that might help her with her second mission. Armed with that knowledge and with a bird’s-eye perspective of the city, she began to climb back over the railing of the observation deck and to descend into the madness below.
Madness, however, had come looking for her.
Shattering glass. Fatima froze straddling the top rail as two figures stepped through what had been a locked, plate-glass door to the observation deck. One wore tattered fatigues, the other a flannel shirt, ripped jeans, and an obviously purloined security guard’s hat; both rather awkwardly carried MAC 10 submachine guns. With their inhuman, warped sneers, Fatima would have placed them for Sabbat even had the city not been under attack.
“Don’t do it, lady,” the first called out to Fatima, as if she were a mortal about to throw herself from the building and take her own life. “It can’t be that bad…yet.”
They both laughed at the little joke—were still laughing, in fact, when Fatima’s jambia, drawn and thrown with blurring speed, sliced through the wrist of the jokester and pinned his arm to the wall behind him. His laughter twisted into a howl of pain. His finger mashed down the trigger and .45 caliber slugs fired wildly into the air.
The second Sabbat’s fire was not so random. As soon as he saw what was happening, he let off several bursts—aimed where Fatima had been perched on the top rail just an instant earlier.
She was airborne, hurtling above the bullets toward her assailant. She cuffed him sharply on the temple. As he tumbled to the floor, she sailed past, landed and rolled, and immediately upended two of the metal patio tables. The security guard’s hat caught in gust of wind and scurried away into the chasm that was the city.
The unskewered Sabbat struggled to his feet, his movements an awkward dance accompanied by the raw-throated wails of his partner and the last of that unfortunate’s rounds fired into the air.
“Shut the fuck up, man!” Sabbat number two turned toward the overturned tables, each resting on its side like a large, round shield. “Okay, bitch.” He sprayed several bursts into one of the tables. The bullets ripped through the thin metal and the table skittered across the patio, revealing only empty space.
“Nowhere else to hide, baby.” He fired into the second table, whipping it around until it tipped over and landed on its top. The metal table spun thunderously on its outer edges, picking up speed as it lost altitude and sank lower and lower. No one hid behind the second table either. At last, its momentum spent, the table landed flat with a whump of finality.
“I believe that was thirty,” said Fatima in perfect English behind Sabbat number two.
He spun and pressed the trigger, but the Mac 10 was silent. His partner seemed engrossed by the pain of his pinned arm. His scream had died away to a low moan as he stared dumbfounded at his useless hand and weapon. Sabbat number two kept pulling the trigger to no effect.
“Thirty shots,” said Fatima. She hadn’t counted the casings, but she was fairly certain. “Should have been enough.”
Number two reached for a pocket, for another clip, but Fatima raised a hand and he came up short. She had touched him once, and now she called his blood. She felt it respond to her command. Number two felt it as well. The hand that had been reaching for a pocket clutched at his chest instead. He pulled at his shirt, as if it were tightening around him.
Slowly, Fatima closed her open hand into a fist. Number two’s eyes grew wide in fear and pain. His weapon clattered to the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice. Blood began to seep from his nose, his ears, the corners of his eyes. He fell to his knees and then, with arms wrapped around his sides, to the concrete.
Fatima opened her hand slowly and, in sequence, stretched her fingers. “Enough, I think.” Number two was not destroyed—not yet—but it was close enough.
He lay and writhed in a delirium of p
ain. Fatima turned again to number one, who still whimpered and clutched his right forearm below the protruding blade. She approached him with disgust. His vitae had begun to heal the wound around her jambia. Though granted the gift of potent blood, he lacked the moral strength to pull the knife from his arm and continue the fight. Not that doing so would have changed the outcome, but he could have met Final Death more honorably.
“You were a poor choice,” said Fatima, shaking her head. She moved toward him to remedy that mistake.
Tuesday, 21 September 1999, 1:37 AM
University of Connecticut Law School
Hartford, Connecticut
As Fatima moved through the city, the night was a surreal painting, darkness and smoke with flashes of harsh, violent color—orange-yellow flames, blue and red lights, all flickering in stop-motion. The fresh blood in her veins rendered all the backdrop but a still-life, with Fatima the only movement across the canvas. Each crack of a gunshot, each siren’s wail, seemed an interrupted flash of reality, a frozen moment, that could not keep up with her.
She passed unseen among the mortals who attempted to control the fires, among the roving packs of Sabbat—she’d already fed her fill; they were of no use to her. Still, she felt a gnawing inside, a craving if not actual hunger. So many years had passed with all her clan unable to feed upon the get of Khayyin, powerless to reclaim the blood wasted on that obscene, self-indulgent brood. But she held down the urge to reach out and swat the pathetic beasts created like countless insects by the Sabbat. She moved forward, gave release to the blood within her.
Clan Novel Assamite - Book 7 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 7