Lucita crushed herself against Fatima, and Fatima responded in kind. Blood rose with passion. Tongues slid across canines. They nipped at each other—lips, tongues—and then their own blood mingled in their mouths. The heady aroma of elder blood filled Fatima’s senses. Her body was quivering. Or was it Lucita shaking? Fatima couldn’t tell, didn’t care. She forced them toward the exquisite, bloodstained bedding. As they toppled over, both tensed for a moment—but all hands were accounted for; no weapons, no attack disguised as titillation.
With blood came heat. Fatima pulled her mouth away long enough to strip off her overshirt. Lucita’s hands, seeking flesh, tugged at the long-sleeved tights beneath. A rivulet of blood ran down Lucita’s face. Fatima followed the trail with her tongue down cheek, neck. She tore at Lucita’s collar. The cloth gave way. Fatima found a speckle of rich blood in the hollow of Lucita’s breasts, drank it in, then licked at the small rose tattoo just to the left. For a moment Fatima listened, as if for a beating heart, but even the silence could not hide the presence of Cainite blood.
At the same instant that Fatima drank and felt her mouth filled with the blood of her lover, she felt too the ecstatic pain in her arm, Lucita entering where once the poison had entered, the scar that would not heal. There was no retreat, had been no retreat for so long, it seemed. They rushed headlong down the road of destruction.
Fatima felt the draw of her own blood, flowing from her body. But she could not tear herself from the wound at Lucita’s breast. Again after so many years, so many centuries, the circle was complete, and Fatima had never known such hunger, such fullness.
For a moment, the hunger rushed forth. The Beast roared to claim that which belonged to it—all of that which was its own—and Fatima tore into the wound, ripped aside flesh so that she might have more blood. Lucita winced, and bit more deeply into Fatima’s arm. The pain strengthened Fatima, hardened her against the Beast. She had long ago mastered it, but now with each taste of the blood that had so long been denied her, her mastery slipped. The strength was still hers, however. To give in would mean destruction—destruction of Lucita, destruction of the very discipline that was Fatima’s essence. And if Lucita had anything to say about it, destruction of Fatima herself.
Fatima forced the Beast back down, and she and Lucita continued their enraptured dance, two entwined vipers, all fangs and blood and venom. The blood of one was the blood of the other. Fatima feasted on Lucita’s defiance, on her own defiance, until finally, exultation gave way to exhaustion. They withdrew as they had entered, as one. Fatima left a lingering kiss, and the flesh of Lucita’s breast joined together again, leaving only the renewed dark rose. Lucita’s warm, moist sigh healed Fatima’s arm, though the scar remained.
“I must go,” Fatima said. She traced with her finger the path that blood had run. Chin, neck, breast. “Your sire awaits,” she said softly, a harsh reminder to herself, to both of them, that no matter the comfort they found in each other’s arms, this could not last.
Lucita tensed, but only for a moment. She returned to stroking Fatima’s hair. “It’s day outside.”
As soon as the words were spoken, Fatima realized it was true. The hours of pleasure, unlike those of pain and guilt and despair, came far too seldom and passed far too quickly. “Then we have failed to destroy each other again,” Fatima said morbidly, wistfully.
“For the time being,” Lucita said. “For a few more hours.”
And then the day took them.
part three:
the cleaving
Tuesday, 5 October 1999, 7:38 PM
Calle Luis Garcia
Madrid, Spain
For several minutes, Fatima sat testing the sharpness of her jambia against her fingers, watching the unmoving form of Lucita. The Dark Rose’s breasts did not rise and fall with breath; her face was set in a peacefulness that, in waking, she never knew; the retreated sun held her still in thrall.
The night was not yet old for Fatima, but already she felt awash with failure. She knew that she should take her blade to Lucita but knew also that she would not. Fatima should have been performing the salah but, guiltily, she felt there was not time enough. Nor was there water at hand for her ablutions, and tonight she had need of absolution from defilements great and small, of thought and of deed.
Lacking water, there was still blood. Fatima, seeking the pain that purified, pressed the tip of her jambia into her right arm below the elbow. Allahu akbar. All praise be to Allah, Lord of all the worlds…. She did not utter the words aloud nor assume the prescribed postures; she relied upon the grace and mercy of Allah. Most beneficent, ever-merciful, king of the day of judgment.
Mimicking the slashes in the chair beneath her, Fatima drew the blade along her arm, from elbow to wrist.
You alone we worship, and to You alone turn for help. Guide us to the path that is straight, the path of those You have blessed, not of those who have gone astray.
Somewhere along the line, she had surely gone astray. Was it in following Haqim? For it was he who forced her to choose that which she could not. Yet the blood that made her what she was, was his, and it was his bidding that she did tonight. It was as well his bidding that she neglected.
Fatima closed her eyes so that her gaze would not be drawn to the beauty of her lover. Where were the peace and concentration that prayer normally brought?
La ilaha ilia ’LLah. There is no god but God.
Wa Muhammadan rasula ’l-Lah. And Muhammad is the messenger of God.
The words did not calm Fatima. Even the pain, as she drew the blade along her arm again and again and again, did not bring discipline of thought. The only certainty that remained to Fatima was that of her own fraudulence. She did not serve Haqim fully but denied him that which he demanded. She did not love Lucita wholeheartedly but plotted her destruction. Could Fatima trust herself to keep faith with God after cheating her other bonds?
Sal-a-’l-Lahu ’ala sayyidina Muhammad. May Allah cause His prayers to descend on our lord Muhammad.
Al-salamu ’alaykum wa rahmatu ’l-Lah. May peace and the mercy of God be with you.
God only knew.
Fatima dug more deeply with the blade. The metal tip scraped against bone. But even her penance was futile. She didn’t dare sever hand or arm, or carve out her eye, lest she endanger her mission—a mission she’d be as happy as not to fail. And just as her flesh would heal and again be whole, the doubts she hoped to purge would return to dog her to the end of her nights.
At last, still not looking at Lucita, Fatima forced herself from the chair and, leaving only a trail of dripping blood, ventured into the night.
Tuesday, 5 October 1999, 8:49 PM
Calle de la Redondilla
Madrid, Spain
The basement of the rug vendor’s shop was silent except for the solid metallic click of Anwar reattaching the final piece of the M-4 Spectre submachine gun firmly in place. The firearm—not his weapon of choice—was cleaned, reassembled, and ready for use, if such became necessary. As the state of transcendent calm that accompanied the beginning of a mission took hold, Anwar, his mind completely focused and his fingers moving with the speed of the blood, began disassembling and reassembling the gun again. For practice. The task required nearly twenty seconds.
Mahmud was out finalizing the deployment of the teams. Even little, wrinkled Pilar was taking the field tonight. Only Anwar remained behind, waiting for…
There. Fatima’s footsteps coming down the basement steps. She was not concerned with masking her approach, else he would not have heard her.
“Salaam,” Anwar bowed respectfully when she joined him.
“Salaam. All is in place?” Fatima’s countenance was neutral, almost guarded.
Anwar had thought perhaps to sense her enthusiasm at the prospect of an approaching kill, to feel the intensity and pride that he had known when she squeezed his shoulder the night before. But she was too long-practiced for that, he realized, suddenly embarrassed at his own
expectation.
“All is in place,” he said.
Fatima walked past him to a stack of crates against the wall. She ignored a convenient crowbar leaning nearby and pried open one of the crates with her hands. Scraping aside the packing material, she removed two hinged wooden boxes, one roughly the size of a shoe box, the other slightly wider and several feet longer. The first box contained a pistol as well as a silencer and laser sight, the latter two which she left. She opened the larger box to reveal a fine damascene scimitar, the curved blade blackened to keep it from reflecting the light. Fatima placed the gun in a specially crafted pocket within her pullover and secured the scimitar to her belt.
“There is one change to the plans,” she said when that was done. “You must go to the villa where Lucita is staying and watch for her.”
This struck Anwar as odd. He’d assumed last night when the watch, on Fatima’s orders, had returned from the villa, that she had decided to deal with Lucita once and for all. Perhaps Fatima had gone merely for information, or to clarify something from the notes, such as the Leviathan business. But surely Lucita would not have been suffered to survive such an encounter. Unless some bargain had been struck—perhaps Lucita was spared in exchange for divulging information and swearing not to leave the villa. The elders did often work in mysterious ways.
“Destroy her if she ventures out?” Anwar asked.
He was surprised how quickly Fatima spun to face him and grab his shoulder, even more forcefully this time. “No.” Fatima stared at Anwar’s face, but he could tell that it was not he who occupied her thoughts.
“She will not leave,” Fatima said after a moment, then paused again.
From Fatima’s certainty, Anwar thought that perhaps Lucita was destroyed after all.
“If she does…” Fatima said after a few seconds, proving Anwar wrong, “if she does, then you must follow her. She must not see you or feel that you are there. She knows such things.” Fatima increased the pressure on his shoulder. “If she leaves the city, fine. If she goes to Monçada’s haven…”
“Yes?”
“If she goes to Monçada’s haven, wait five minutes after she enters, signal me, and begin the diversions.” As she said this, Fatima took a direct-signal pager from a work table and made sure the device was set to vibrate rather than beep. “Under no circumstances are you to approach her,” Fatima added. “You understand.”
Anwar nodded. He understood the instructions, if not the sentiment behind them. Surely they would deal with Lucita at some point. Why not now? Fatima could not believe that a hedonistic Lasombra childe of privilege was more than a match for him.
“That is all,” Fatima said.
“May the Eldest smile upon you,” Anwar intoned.
“And may your back be strong,” Fatima answered.
Then the basement was empty.
Tuesday, 5 October 1999, 9:51 PM
Calle de Paja
Madrid, Spain
Fatima watched the vegetable seller’s stall and the street from the shadows. The city was still very active with mortals, and the scimitar hanging from her belt was not the easiest weapon to conceal. She would wait. Calle de Paja was not a street of bars and clubs. The stalls were already closed and boarded for the night. With patience, the proper moment would present itself.
Waiting in the darkness, Fatima could still hear Anwar’s voice in her mind, his question about Lucita: Destroy her if she ventures out? He was a zealot, much as she had been, and for whatever reason, he craved Lucita’s blood. He was right to believe that such an accomplishment would bring him to the notice of the elders. A few nights ago, Fatima had distracted him with praise. She had revealed to him the identity of her target, and his pride and self-satisfaction had driven thoughts of Lucita from his mind—for a while. But he was ever ambitious. As Fatima had been. He had nothing and no one to pull him in different directions.
As mortal passersby continued to move about on the street, Fatima could not help but think of Lucita, of the strength and allure of her blood. Fatima had wakened before Lucita, had stood above her half-naked body with the perfect opportunity to destroy her. Yet Fatima had slipped silently from the room. She had left the villa hoping that they might never need meet again. At the very least, Lucita could survive this trip to Madrid. If she stayed put tonight, Fatima and the others would be fairly rushed to leave the city after completing their mission. Or if Lucita left the city, Fatima would be able to delay the inevitable, to coast along on her achievement tonight. Or, if she failed…
Fatima tried to crowd such useless thoughts from her mind by concentrating on the information gained from Don Ibrahim—the Leviathan—and corroborated by Vykos. Either one of those sources by him- or itself would have been suspect. It was still possible that Vykos was wrong about the location of the entrance, or that she and Anwar had misconstrued the fiend’s meaning, but an assassin seldom enjoyed the luxury of surety. Fatima was accustomed to relying on instinct and intuition, and tonight they pointed her toward the unassuming vegetable stall. She felt confident, also, that in the most disastrous of instances, she could avoid capture. The worst she would face was an honorable Final Death—and in a way, she even hoped for that end. It would save her from other decisions that were being forced upon her, other decisions that she could not make. She would no longer need to face her own hypocrisy. And so she approached her mission unprepared, as good as blind. She knew less than her brethren assumed of defeating the Leviathan. She courted Final Death, and it was not a discriminating suitor.
Again, she forced such thoughts away. She was aided in this, at last, by the pesky mortals, who had thinned out considerably. It was time. Fatima stepped from the shadows. She drew on the power of the blood. The few mortals scattered along the street did not see her, did not notice the blade hanging from her waist.
She approached the wooden stall, stood beneath the carving of Adam and Eve, the tree and the serpent, the apple, the sun that never set. A chain was looped through holes in the door and in the wall next to it. The lock was on the inside. Whoever had fastened the lock must be within as well.
The chain did not rattle as Fatima took a link in her fingers and snapped it. Nor was there a sound as the chain fell to the floor just inside the door. Fatima opened the door, stepped over the chain, pulled the door closed behind her.
The crowded stall was two rooms. The front room, which would be open to the street during the day, was almost completely filled with tables and boxes full of vegetables and fruit. The second, much smaller room was through an open doorway to the back. Fatima moved silently past a crate of apples. Fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil.
No footsteps sounded to wake the old man on the cot in the back room. Fatima slit his throat with her jambia, held his mouth until he stopped thrashing. He was mortal, or a ghoul of weak blood. The spreading blood did not entice Fatima. She let it soak into the aged bedding and the dusty rug on the floor. Then she cast the rug aside to reveal the trap door beneath.
She inspected the door visually for several minutes before deciding to touch it. Neither Ibrahim nor Vykos had mentioned traps, but Vykos, in Parmenides’s report, had been rather cryptic and sparse on details, while Ibrahim didn’t even know where the entrance was. Still, the way that both had spoken of the Leviathan led her to believe that only one memorable obstacle blocked this route. But caution was never wasted. For several minutes more, she laid her hands on the wooden door, moved her fingers only fractions of an inch at a time. She cleared her mind of all except the wood—its texture, the run of the grain, the granules of dirt and dust filling the crevices, the space between the fibers of the wood itself, the space beyond the door….
Finally, she pulled at the recessed latch. The door was not even locked. A shaft led straight down. Rough hand- and footholds were carved into the stone walls. No sound or light emerged from die opening. Fatima lowered herself in and began the descent into darkness.
Tuesday, 5 October 1999, 11:03 PM
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Calle Luis Garcia
Madrid, Spain
Tonight. It would happen tonight. Lucita was sure of that. Fatima was going after Monçada. Why else would she have shown up, except as a kind of cryptic warning to stay away?
Lucita continued her pacing. She’d been pacing for several hours now.
Not that Fatima had said as much. Oh, no. She wouldn’t come right out and fucking say much of anything. Ever. Instead, she hid behind her veil of quiet invincibility. Of course she would think that if she let Lucita know what was going on, then Lucita would obediently stay away.
Fat chance. A hell of a lot fatter than Lucita’s sire.
Lucita rubbed absently at an itch on her chest. It was the freshly healed skin around her rose tattoo. She’d pretended still to be under the spell of the sun when Fatima left. It had seemed easier that way. Now she wasn’t so sure.
She wanted to kick herself for not having said more last night—but they’d been so intent on killing one another, and then not killing one another, consuming each other. Lucita sucked in a deep breath and tried to pretend her lungs were still good for something. It always happened that way: a hundred years or more of stalking and anticipation, then a few heated hours, and then hard feelings.
It didn’t have to be that way. Not if Fatima wouldn’t be such a close-mouthed bitch (Lucita was not one to let emotions build up inside). Not if Fatima wasn’t trying to kill Lucita’s sire; Lucita had dibs on the loathsome bastard. She just hadn’t followed through yet. She was biding her time. Her big plans had a way of seeming very small once she was back in his company. Never mind that she’d be just as rid of him if Fatima cacked him. That wasn’t the point. The point was that Monçada, as he himself might put it, was Lucita’s cross to bear. How dare Fatima interfere with that? Not to mention that Fatima had made it very clear that after she was done with him, she was coming after Lucita.
Clan Novel Assamite - Book 7 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 17