Fatima quickly reached the location on the law-school campus that Parmenides had informed her would serve as the Sabbat command center. The Sabbat leadership was formidable indeed: Borges, Lasombra archbishop of Miami commanding; Vykos, newly coronated archbishop of Washington acting as advisor; Talley, the Hound, assassin turned bodyguard, there supposedly to protect both Borges and Vykos.
None of the Sabbat worthies were where they should have been. The lawn between buildings was empty except for a noxious pile of unidentifiable decaying matter—the remains of a Tzimisce war ghoul, perhaps. There seemed to be little of humanity in those mammoth creatures to bind their remains to the mortal world once will had fled, although the decomposition was not quite so dramatic as with an aged Cainite or child of Haqim, whose body would crumble away to dust upon Final Death.
The reality of the absent Sabbat command was not so surprising—plans changed, especially in times of war—nor was it too great a setback for Fatima. The archbishops and their protector were, for her, a means, not an end. She sought them out only because of the one who would also be seeking them out.
Lucita.
Fatima scoured the area for signs of what had transpired there. The wear on the well-manicured lawn suggested the predominant direction of flight. A brief, blood-enhanced listen confirmed that considerable conflict raged that way—gunfire, screams, breaking of bones—and if Lucita were to turn up anywhere, it would be in the midst of conflict. Whether the beautiful Lasombra killer caused or followed strife, it was her constant companion.
For perhaps twenty minutes, Fatima crisscrossed numerous blocks of the city, all the while moving generally southward. None were aware of her passing. She was less than a shadow in the carnage of that night. She was constantly in motion until, finally, she paused to listen more carefully to a sound she thought she recognized. Could it be…? Yes. There, to the left. Maybe a few blocks still. Far enough to be faint, but it was the vibrant female voice she knew well:
“…No doubt be remembered…having won a great…”
The buildings were lower here than in the heart of downtown. Fatima fought down the stirrings of emotion as she deftly climbed to the top of a small restaurant and continued quickly along the rooftops toward the voice and the struggle that (of course) accompanied it. There was no point risking whoever or whatever might be on street level, but the same thought could have occurred to others. She still kept close watch on her surroundings.
She had to go a bit farther than she’d expected—either she’d misjudged the voice, or more likely the combatants were fighting on the run. If they had been, they weren’t anymore. Fatima looked down upon Lucita, who stood not far from a battered Archbishop Borges. Tendrils of shadow snaked after the archbishop to rip or crush the unlife from his body, but another tentacle of darkness batted Lucita’s aside, then pulled her to the ground when she began to close on Borges.
That would be Talley, Fatima knew. Sure enough, the templar emerged from the shadows and waited as the darkness itself pulled Lucita toward him. Both the Lasombra killers appeared fatigued as well as scraped and bruised. Talley also sported a bloody shoulder wound. Neither could spare blood for healing, not while constantly bending the night to his or her will.
Fatima caught herself preparing to jump down to the street, to deal Talley a fatal blow from above, and stopped. It was not her place to interfere. Lucita would not receive help kindly, even if it were to save her from Final Death. And if Talley managed to destroy Lucita… Well, the tasks awaiting Fatima would be greatly simplified.
So she held back as Lucita and Talley sent deadly ribbons of shadow, each to eviscerate the other. Fatima watched as two hulking war ghouls clambered onto the scene. They went for Lucita, who ripped them to pieces and used their interference to evade Talley for just a few seconds. It was all the time the Dark Rose needed to catch up with Borges and slice him open, to extract his piteous death wail.
The Hound was right behind Lucita, but now his charge was destroyed, and all that remained to fight for was pride. Perhaps that was actually a stronger motivator for Talley; he tore into Lucita with a fury that he had lacked in Borges’s defense. They struggled, claw to claw, with Talley striking the truer blows until Lucita, apparently deciding her job was complete without a drawn-out contest against the Hound, found an opening and made good her escape.
Talley was not one to give up easily. He was on Lucita’s heels as she raced toward the river. Fatima again fought the temptation to pounce on him. Worn down by Lucita and low on blood, he would be a quick and simple mark. Instead, Fatima turned away from the two Lasombra and headed back through the city to the vehicle she’d left parked in a secure garage.
Her American contacts had provided the vehicle—a gray SUV of the type so popular in the states: dark tinted windows, the body dirty enough not to look new but not so dirty as to attract attention.
Fatima pulled onto Interstate 91 South—only the northbound lanes were blocked by the Sabbat-contrived accidents at this point—and drove along the west bank of the Connecticut River. She imagined Lucita swimming south with the current. Fatima found it hard to believe that Lucita wouldn’t have made it to the river before thin, blond Talley and escaped. Still, there was a chance that he’d caught Lucita, destroyed her, and that the millstone was removed from round Fatima’s neck.
She continued along the interstate, then pulled off at the small village of Rocky Hill. That’s what the road signs said, at any rate. Fatima didn’t see much of village or town. She parked across the street from a deserted ice-cream drive-in. The only car at the back edge of the ice-cream place’s lot was Lucita’s BMW convertible.
Fatima had found the car earlier that night—the Nosferatu were so helpful in that way; apparently Lucita had destroyed one of their own—before heading into Hartford. Now she raised a tiny pair of binoculars and waited.
Not for long. The clock on the dash read 4:15 when Lucita strode into the parking lot from the direction of the river. She was carrying a bag over her shoulder and walking briskly. Dawn was drawing close. Her clothes, different from those she’d been wearing during the fight with Talley, were dry but her hair wet. Fatima, safe behind tinted glass a hundred yards away, saw Lucita’s eyes grow wide for an instant as she discovered the gift Fatima had left her earlier. Just as the light of recognition illuminated Lucita’s face, one of the parking-lot lights flickered and died. Lucita quickly cut the orange scarf from the wiper blade and let the silk cloth drift to the ground. She gave her car a cursory inspection—not a bad idea, Fatima mused—then, as the discarded scarf, caught by the wind, tumbled along the pavement, Lucita pulled away.
Tuesday, 21 September 1999, 4:32 AM
Interstate 91 southbound
Near East Berlin, Connecticut
About ten miles down the interstate, Lucita realized that someone was following her. The BMW jumped from 90 to 135 and sped on ahead. Fatima slowed the SUV to 85. She’d trained herself well in the use of modern automobiles, but she didn’t feel the need for a high-speed chase.
Just a few miles farther, she pulled off a lonely exit and eased into the parking lot of a boarded-up gas station. The BMW was there, Lucita leaning against the passenger’s side with her arms crossed.
Fatima came to a stop a dozen yards away and pulled the parking brake even though the lot was level. She opened the door and stepped out. Gravel grated beneath her boots. She and Lucita faced one another as the occasional car passed on the interstate.
“I thought it might be you,” said Lucita. Her hair, dry now after the ride in the convertible, was hopelessly knotted and tangled.
Let her talk, Fatima decided. Lucita had always been a talker. The Lasombra’s frown cracked the scab where Talley had scratched her face.
“I mean, shit,” Lucita said. “Somebody’s following me. Probably have the car bugged. Not that long till morning. I can’t just stop for the day and not know who’s going to come ignore my ’do not disturb’ sign, can I? If it’s a lick,
I’m okay, because he has to stop too. But a ghoul, or some mortal flunky looking to make it big…?”
Lucita opened her hand and held up a small electronic bug for Fatima to see. “This yours?” Lucita asked. “Or does it belong to Schreck?”
“That one’s mine,” said Fatima impassively. “Schreck has the car bugged too. Somewhere in the body. You’d never find it without tearing the whole thing apart.”
Lucita grimaced as she ground the bug to metal dust between her thumb and finger. “So, you’re working for the Nossies? They that upset about their bumbling messenger back in Hartford? Or do they just want their car back? Never figured you for repo work.”
“Not working for them,” said Fatima. She wouldn’t allow herself joy or anger or pain. She couldn’t, lest they all flood out. “Just happen to cross paths every so often.”
“Just like us, huh?” Lucita smiled sarcastically. She made a show of glancing at her watch and then at the lightening eastern sky. “I guess you’ve got a comfy little compartment in the back of the Land Cruiser, but I don’t fancy spending all day balled up in my trunk. So why are you here?”
Fatima took a moment in answering. There was no simple response, not that would make sense. And there was so little time. It was better that way. “I wanted to see you.”
“Why? You supposed to kill me…again?”
“Not you. Yet. Your sire.”
Lucita’s jaw clenched slightly. She didn’t have a witty comeback for that right away. She wrapped her arms a little more tightly around her body as if she were cold, which she wasn’t. She shifted her weight against the car. Then she started around to the driver’s side. “Listen, I just cacked Borges…but you know that, don’t you. And you probably know Talley’s around too, and that Hartford is crawling with Sabbat. So I wouldn’t stick too close.” She lowered herself into the driver’s seat and the engine roared to life.
“I’m going to destroy your sire,” Fatima said. Lucita’s face went blank for a second before she could manage a sneer.
“I heard you the first time. Just don’t let me beat you to it.”
The BMW spewed gravel as it sped away and left Fatima standing in a cloud of dust. Fair warning, Fatima thought as she climbed back into the SUV to find a secluded spot to park and spend the day.
part two:
wall between heaven and hell
Wednesday, 22 September 1999, 4:11 AM
Spanish Harlem
New York City, New York
Anwar had not expected to be called back to New York, especially to the same safe house, so soon after a strike against the Tremere. Passing within just a few miles of the warlock chantry made him wary—from prudence, not fear, of course. Perhaps this wariness was for the best. It kept him on his toes, as the Americans would say. In this, as in all things, Anwar trusted the elders.
In the intervening months since his last activities in this city, he had traveled to Chicago and fulfilled a contract there. Nothing so spectacular as the Foley affair, but respectable work, and Anwar had drunk his fill. Then, several nights ago, had come the summons back to New York. He had arrived tonight and parked his automobile across the river near Fort Lee by an abandoned garage, its bay doors ripped from their tracks. He’d be less likely to be noticed approaching the safe house on foot.
He reached the particular block of West 119th Street unmolested and again approached the basement entrance. He pressed the button five times, holding it down only briefly each time, as per his latest instructions. This time when the fire door and iron gate opened, he was ushered inside by “Walter James” himself. There was no sign of the dowdy woman who’d jabbed him with the hypodermic last time.
“May the Eldest smile upon you,” James said, once the doors were closed and secured. He clasped Anwar by the shoulders and then shook his hand in that rough, overly enthusiastic American way.
“And may your back be strong.”
“This way,” James said with a hearty smile. “We don’t often have repeat visitors. How have you been these last four months?” He led Anwar past the interior fire door and down a narrow hallway to another heavy, locked door.
“Closer to two months,” Anwar corrected him, knowing that his host erred intentionally, just as an added precaution. “I’ve been well.”
“Good, good.”
They climbed a cramped, brick-walled stairway—it would be impossible for a group of intruders to come this way except single file. The door at the top of the stairs was opened by a sensor against which James pressed his right palm.
Beyond that door, the decor of a perfectly neutral business office replaced the spartan furnishings of the lower level. Anyone entering through the street entrance would have no reason to suspect he had entered anything other than a modest yet respectable legal or financial concern of the type that tended to spring up in disaffected minority enclaves.
James led Anwar along a tastefully wallpapered corridor and stopped at an unremarkable door. With a slight nod, the American turned the knob and held the door open. Anwar stepped into the room and found himself speechless. Sitting on the far side of a dark cherry conference table was Fatima al-Faqadi. He bowed and then remained standing until Fatima indicated that he should sit. Perhaps it was a fault of the chair. The padding was old and flattened, or the springs had grown weak. Whatever the cause, Anwar felt that he sank very low in the seat, that he was suddenly diminished. Fatima watched him impassively. In the solemnity of meeting such a notable of the clan, he did not even notice the click of the door as James pulled it closed.
“I trust your business in Chicago is completed,” Fatima said.
“It is.” Anwar had reported as much, and Fatima certainly knew that already. Anwar watched her closely. To avoid facing her would be a sign of weakness, and he was no fida’i to stare demurely at her feet—or in this case, at the table. Fatima’s large, dark eyes, rather than being windows to her soul, were screens that betrayed nothing. Perhaps a soul lurked somewhere beneath the smooth skin, darkened from its original Moroccan hues, and the thin, rounded features that did little to soften her brusque manner. Her seemingly delicate hands rested flat on the table on either side of an unlabeled dossier.
“You are familiar with Madrid,” she said.
“I have been in the city five times, only once a stay of significant duration. I know my way around.”
“You know the Iglesia de San Nicolás de las Servitas.” The Spanish words flowed from her tongue like honey.
“I do.”
Fatima pushed the dossier toward him. The motion of her arm was smooth, effortless, yet the folder slid easily and stopped exactly before Anwar. He did not need to straighten the folder to open it and begin reading. Not a single sheet of paper was misaligned.
“Beneath the church,” Fatima said, “are the ruins of a mosque. Beneath the ruins of the mosque is the lair of Ambrosio Luis Monçada.”
Anwar nodded. “Archbishop of the Sabbat.
Elevated to cardinal within the past year.” Anwar cocked his head. He had not known that, but then the politics of the Sabbat were as unpredictable and tumultuous as a woman’s heart, and he’d had no need to keep abreast of the inner workings of that sect’s highest echelons. Until now. “I see.
Monçada’s lair has numerous entrances and exits,” Fatima continued. “The information before you contains details about those we are aware of: locations, triggering mechanisms, defenses for some. There is also information about servants and associates.”
Anwar scanned the pages, making sure to listen closely to Fatima’s every word. Surely the fact that she was conferring with him personally in this matter meant that he had earned the notice of the elders, that his years of study and discipline, his impressive portfolio of kills and service to the clan, had not gone unnoticed. As he flipped through the pages detailing various of Monçada’s retainers, Anwar couldn’t help wondering against whom he was being sent. There were a few long-serving ghouls, but the assignment of such a paltry ta
rget would be tantamount to a sign of displeasure from the elders, which would seem to contradict Fatima’s personal attention. More likely he was being sent to destroy one of Monçada’s trusted defenders, Vallejo or his second-in-command, Alfonzo. Perhaps one of the lesser legionnaires.
Then Anwar turned the page and came to the picture of the cardinal’s childe, Lucita. The Lasombra assassin had survived long despite her flamboyance. The obvious conclusion to be drawn: She was very good at what she did. Unfortunately, she had been chosen by the manipulative keepers of Clan Lasombra, and thus despite her impressive list of credentials as an assassin, she was no better than a pretender. She was kafir, of the lesser blood that must be reclaimed. Anwar had heard stories that she had actually defeated Fatima once long ago, but surely those were just…stories.
“This one will need dealing with at some point,” Anwar said, tapping the picture of Lucita with his finger. He tried to temper his expectation that she might be the target, that he was being given such an important task.
“Your assignment,” Fatima said curtly, “is one of observation only.”
The words were more painful than a katar to the stomach. Observation only.
“There are undoubtedly other points of access to Monçada’s haven,” Fatima continued, “and the information we have needs to be confirmed. If you can determine defensive capabilities, that is acceptable, but above all you are not to let your presence be known.”
Anwar quickly swallowed his pride. He stared more intently at the pages before him. He would gather intelligence for whomever was awarded the honor of the kill, whoever the target might be. He would not make contact with any of Monçada’s retainers. He would do nothing that would reveal to them that they were being watched. In any case, he saw from the dossier that Lucita did not frequent Madrid. In fact, she stayed away from her sire the cardinal. Anwar would not likely come across her.
Clan Novel Assamite - Book 7 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 8