Clan Novel Assamite - Book 7 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Gherbod Fleming

  “Cocky bitch.”

  But Lucita couldn’t deny with curses her more tender feelings for Fatima—not after last night, and not after she’d feigned sleep while Fatima carved deep gashes into her arm. Lucita had stolen surreptitious glances. She’d felt the impulse to go to Fatima, to take the dagger and lay it aside, to lick the wounds until they healed. But there were, Lucita knew, more and deeper wounds than she could tend. Still, at times she felt she could try. She could comfort Fatima and be comforted in return….

  But, luckily, Lucita always came to her senses.

  Dependency. She spat on the floor, smeared with her foot the droplets of Fatima’s blood on the floor.

  Lucita was tired of pacing. She was tired of this game that she and Fatima played throughout eternity. Whatever it was that drew them together, Fatima was still just a tool for her raghead masters in Iran or wherever the hell they were.

  Lucita grabbed her sword. She looked around for a sheath—she had one somewhere, though she didn’t really wear the sword anymore; it just wasn’t the same kind of fashion statement in the late twentieth century that it used to be—but couldn’t track it down.

  “Hell with it.”

  Moving toward the door, she ran a hand through her tangled hair. That was another thing Fatima had to answer for. Monçada's ghoul or not, Lucita had gotten accustomed to Consuela brushing her hair in the evenings. Lucita had found the woman downstairs earlier that evening, throat slit. She wouldn’t have felt much pain, but Lucita was less concerned with the ghoul’s final minutes than with the inconvenience her death caused.

  Not until she reached the courtyard did Lucita hesitate. How was Monçada going to react if she warned him? He was liable to think she’d gone soft. Then he’d get all touchy-feely. She’d say something completely justified but likely rude, and he would beat the crap out of her, or lock her in a closet for three years, or something like that. Thinking of it in those terms, she wondered if maybe Fatima wasn’t welcome to him. But then how could Lucita ever face the Assamite again? How much more smug and superior could Fatima get? Maybe Monçada could handle Fatima on his own.

  Lucita wasn’t sure.

  While she pondered these revolving questions, Lucita couldn’t help thinking back to a few nights ago, to the male prostitute she’d killed on almost the exact spot she was now standing. That business had been slow going at first, but she’d found that blood—his blood—was as good a lubricant as any.

  In the end, it was that thought that tipped the scales and sent her on toward the Iglesia de San Nicolás. She hadn’t decided if she wanted to warn Monçada about Fatima, now that the threat was more imminent. As angry as she was at Fatima, she wasn’t even sure that she wanted the Assamite to fail. But Lucita hadn’t seen her sire since she’d fucked the prostitute and left him sprawled in the street like the mortal garbage he was.

  That was reason enough to visit him.

  Tuesday, 5 October 1999, 11:27 PM

  Catacombs, Iglesia de San Nicolás de las Servitas

  Madrid, Spain

  The darkness in the tunnels was more than an absence of light. It was a fog of inky moisture that seemed to coat Fatima, the stone walls, the floor, the air itself. The darkness clung to Fatima’s body, seeped into her spirit, leaching away her strength of will. With each step, the darkness grew deeper ahead and behind. She could see just enough to keep moving forward. There were no side tunnels, no alternative paths.

  She wondered how Lucita could ever have entered this oppressive place without going instantly mad. Even Fatima, not completely averse to dour solitude, felt the weight of the earth pressing down upon her, crushing her. And what did it say about Monçada, that he would choose this black labyrinth in which to spend eternity?

  The darkness was a creche of doubts, and as Fatima continued along the passageway, uncertainties assailed her and gained force. She questioned the veracity of the sources that had brought her to this place. Who could read the alien mind of a foul Tzimisce? And perhaps it was not Thetmes and the children of Haqim who manipulated the Black Hand but the other way around. Perhaps Monçada had been warned, and had sent Ibrahim forth as a sacrifice, a decoy, to lure Fatima to this place devoid of hope.

  Even if her scant knowledge proved accurate, ahead in the darkness a guardian lay in wait. The Leviathan. With every mission, of course, there was the risk of failure, of Final Death. Tonight was no different in that sense. She would destroy Monçada, or she would not. She would survive, or she would not. Only once before, however, had she felt that perhaps failure was the best outcome for a mission, that defeat and Final Death were what she deserved. That time, risking disloyalty, she had made sure that word of her target’s identity preceded her—and Lucita, completely prepared, had defeated her.

  Times had changed.

  The herald is among us. The Eldest of our blood is not long behind. The children of Haqim, ever dutiful, ever uncompromising, were being drawn toward a narrow path indeed.

  Prove yourself, Thetmes had said. Prove herself worthy. By destroying Monçada. And then Lucita. If that were what worthiness entailed, Fatima thought she might be able do it. She might be able to cut out her own heart, if that were what Haqim required. Though she had failed before, she would destroy Lucita, sacrifice the bond between them.

  But even that would not be enough. She could do all that, but still the dreams would come eventually. Still the herald would call her to task for her faith—for that she could not and would not discard. Jamal and Elijah Ahmed had not proven worthy. How could she hope to do so?

  There was a wrongness here. A wrongness as palpable as the darkness that surrounded her.

  But who, Fatima wondered, was she to judge Haqim? The blood was his blood. If he reclaimed it for whatever reason, just or unjust, such was his right. Just as Musa never stepped into the promised land, perhaps Fatima would conclude her years of service before the Final Nights had passed, all told.

  She would not abandon Allah.

  She would not abandon Haqim, though he abandon her. For justice or injustice did not change one fact—that the get of Khayyin were a blight upon the earth. Of this she was certain, even amidst the stifling darkness. Even more so amidst the stifling darkness, where Monçada’s foul corruption was given release.

  Ahead through the gloom, Fatima’s eyes could make out bars across the tunnel, a different shade of black upon black. The impenetrable portcullis of which Ibrahim had spoken. But before she could approach the grate, she felt the wind from a side tunnel. It was not a wind of air currents, but of shadow. And the shadow, which was everywhere, enveloped her, took hold of her. It was as solid, one hundredfold, as the black air through which she had already waded.

  Fatima’s arms were pinned at her side, her hands unable to reach a single weapon, as she was drawn into the maw of the Leviathan.

  Wednesday, 6 October 1999, 12:03 AM

  Iglesia de San Nicolás de las Servitas

  Madrid, Spain

  She will not leave. That’s what Fatima had said about Monçada’s obscene childe. Even at the time, the words had sounded to Anwar less prediction than wishful thinking. None of this, he pondered as he stood before the stone church, would have been a problem if Fatima had allowed him to destroy Lucita. Fatima must have her reasons, although Anwar could not see how Lucita’s destruction at this point would endanger the mission against Monçada any more than letting her return to his lair.

  At any rate, Lucita had left the villa. She had walked boldly through the streets, even carrying a sword. The mortals she passed assumed it was one of the many blades made for sale to tourists. Anwar knew better. He had followed Fatima’s instructions and followed Lucita from a very safe distance as she’d returned to her sire’s lair, walking in the front doors of the church among a crowd of unsuspecting mortals just as the midnight mass was about to begin. There would be quite a diversion, indeed.

  Anwar did not waste time. He adjusted his grip on the submachine gun beneath his jacket, made
sure the weapon was set for bursts, clicked off the safety. Then he pressed the button on the device that would alert Fatima, Mahmud, and the others that he was beginning. Without further hesitation, he strode up the steps and through the doors that Lucita had passed just a few minutes before. Music from the venerable pipe organ swelled to greet him.

  The sanctuary was relatively full. Anwar went unnoticed among the stragglers who crossed themselves as they crossed the threshold, perhaps seeking divine forbearance for their belated arrival. Most of the worshippers were darkly complected. Anwar was merely a few shades darker still. He could pass for a laborer from the fields, his skin baked by the sun, hour after hour through countless days, though it was not the sun but the blood that had affected him.

  As the last notes of the introit faded to silence, Anwar pulled back his jacket and opened fire.

  The bedlam was instantaneous. He fired high, shattering stained-glass windows, one after another. Screams and shards of leaded glass filled the air. Worshippers dove to the floor. Choir robes fluttered like an army of retreating angels.

  Anwar continued to fire high. Lights exploded with staccato pops of fire and glass. Candles and crucifixes flew into the air. Sparks rained down on the cowering parishioners as bullets ricocheted off stone. There was no need for Anwar to actually shoot mortals. They were merely a convenient source of chaos and did not deserve to suffer unduly. Terrified worshippers fled toward every exit away from Anwar. When he paused to slap a new clip into the Spectre, one brave though foolhardy young man tried to tackle Anwar. Anwar dissuaded him with a stiff-arm to the face that broke the man’s nose and sent him collapsing to the floor.

  Anwar spaced his bursts at longer intervals now. A few shots ever so often served to prolong the panic as well as constant fire could have. His time was almost up. He didn’t expect a strong show of force from Monçada’s defenders, not here in so public a forum. This display would not endanger the cardinal. The entrances here would be impossible to breach, so the legionnaires and ghouls could afford to stand back and wait.

  But they would be angered. They would not take this lightly. And that was the idea.

  With a few final bursts, Anwar rushed out through the doors and onto the streets of Madrid. None of the mortals from the church would be able to identify him. None would even be able to give an accurate description. He disappeared into the night as completely as if he’d never been there.

  Wednesday, 6 October 1999, 12:16 AM

  Catacombs, Iglesia de San Nicolás de las Servitas

  Madrid, Spain

  “The cardinal is in the bathing chamber,” Cristobal had said as he led Lucita through the series of locked doors and gates that made entering Monçada’s haven almost as laborious as navigating the Panama Canal.

  “Dusting off the old bullwhip?” Lucita asked. Cristobal was too gray and proper for her taste. Just watching him dutifully and methodically unlocking and relocking each of the numerous doors was enough to raise her ire. The somber ghoul also obviously disapproved that she had brought her sword along, though he would never be so rude as to say so. Lucita shook her head. It wasn’t like she’d cut off somebody’s head in the sanctuary up above. And she’d been discreet enough not to disappear into the confessional in front of the worshippers arriving for the midnight mass. She’d used the other entrance, off the nave, instead. Cristobal, she decided, was way too tight-assed for his own good.

  “By the way,” Lucita said, “Consuela is dead.”

  Consuela. In mortal life, Cristobal’s daughter.

  The ghoul paused for a moment at the stubborn bolt he was trying to work. But only for a moment. Then the bolt ceased resisting him and slammed home. As he turned and moved to the next door, his expression was maddeningly blank.

  Lucita grabbed him by the arm, stopped him. He regarded her with some curiosity—she was impeding his work—but no anger, no sadness, no resentment.

  Damn. Lucita knew that if she were him and had received such backhanded news, she would have kicked her ass. Cristobal waited until she let go of his arm and then attended to the next door.

  That was when the shooting began. She and the ghoul both started. The sound came from above them, from the sanctuary, she thought. Cristobal promptly returned to his task, this time working the locks a bit more speedily.

  Once in the haven proper, the ghoul took up a brisk pace through the shadowed corridors. The sound of gunfire grew fainter as he led Lucita down sloped hallways and steep, hewn staircases. The shooting must have something to do with Fatima, Lucita assumed, but unless the Assamites had brought a small army—or maybe a large army—she couldn’t imagine a threat resulting from a frontal assault. A diversion, then. But why? Why not try to get at Monçada while his guard was down?

  Lucita knew the answer almost before the question had formed in her mind: because she was there. Fatima assumed that Monçada would be warned. Lucita dug her fingernails into her palms. So, Fatima thought she knew her that well. That irritated Lucita enough that she suddenly decided she would warn her sire of exactly who was after his sorry, expansive hide. But just as suddenly, she was gripped by indecision. Fatima, with her arrogance and effrontery, deserved to be thwarted. But the thwarting would benefit Monçada, and that wasn’t something Lucita was anxious to do. On the other hand, the thought of someone else—especially if that someone was Fatima—destroying Monçada raised Lucita’s hackles….

  She had almost come to the conclusion that she should just kill everyone and be done with all of it, when they turned the corner into the corridor leading to the bath chamber. The sound of gunfire, if it was still going on, did not penetrate this deeply, though there were signs of activity. Alfonzo, leader of Monçada’s legionnaires while Vallejo was off gallivanting in the New World, was just leaving the bath chamber. He nodded curtly as he passed. The door was still open. Cristobal led Lucita inside.

  Thankfully, Monçada had his priest’s robes on. He wasn’t naked in the pool, though he had been—the water was clouded red, and fresh blood glistened on the glass slivers of the whip hanging on the wall.

  “Ah, my daughter!” he said effusively, seemingly unconcerned that someone was shooting up the church a few hundred feet above his head. He opened his arms wide.

  Lucita did not rush to greet him. She stood just inside the door.

  “Thank you, Cristobal,” Monçada said to the ghoul who was waiting expectantly, still a bit nervous about the gunfire. “Everything is well in hand.”

  That evidently was enough for Cristobal, who bowed and backed from the room, closing the door as he went.

  “I am pleased that you’ve come back to me, my beautiful childe,” Monçada said. “The city may not be completely safe at present, but you needn’t worry yourself. Here, you are beyond harm.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried,” Lucita said. Her words were still full of fire, but her belly felt suddenly hollow. The sword in her hand, her badge of defiance, now seemed to her a child’s toy.

  “Good,” Monçada said, missing—intentionally or otherwise—the dire implication of her sarcasm.

  “Come,” he said, and led her to another room just down the corridor. For a man his size, his movements were surprisingly deft.

  Lucita followed reluctantly. This room, like most of the others, was sparsely furnished with a few sturdy wooden chairs and small tables. At the center of each wall was an icon, a large painted plaque depicting a Christian martyr: Saint Lawrence on the gridiron; Santa Lucia, her eyes displayed on a plate in her hand; Stephen beneath a pile of stones; Eustace being cooked within a hollow, bronze bull. Lucita had ah ways suspected that Monçada fancied himself a candidate for martyrdom, and looking again at the unpleasant ends the martyrs met, she would have been more than happy to help him along that road.

  But tonight, as always when she was in his presence, when opportunity presented itself to do him actual harm, she found that her will dwindled away to nothing, as if withering on the vine. She looked again at the sword that she
held in her hand. She pictured the blade lopping off her sire’s head and imagined him as Saint Denis, picking up his head and walking away. Standing before him, she could not smite him, not even in fantasy. Dejected, she leaned the sword against the wall.

  Monçada lowered his bulk into one of two chairs on either side of a table. Atop the table rested a chess set, pieces arranged for a game in progress. White was reduced to a few pawns and a bishop, while black retained a bishop, a knight, and its queen. He gestured toward the other chair. Lucita came closer but did not sit. Monçada ignored her feeble show of rebellion.

  “Don Ibrahim has not been by of late,” he said, “so I make do testing myself. Do not pity me. It is not such a hardship,” he fended off the protest she had not been about to offer. “I have finally found an opponent whom 1 will never overestimate,” he added smugly.

  “Fatima is here to kill you,” Lucita said. She had not meant to say it, had not yet decided to warn her sire. The words had simply…happened. And now it was too late to do anything else. She had squandered the power she had over him, had let slip through her fingers one of the last decisions left to her. Lucita burned with rage.

  Monçada’s eyebrows rose briefly, stretching taut the upper portion of his face. But even surprise, so foreign to those features, could not lift his sagging jowls. Then he smiled.

  “I would prefer that Vallejo were here,” he said matter-of-factly, “but Alfonzo will suffice. There is no danger.”

  Lucita, despite her death wish for him, could not help but believe him. She, with all her hatred, had never been able truly to threaten him. How could Fatima, cold and professional, hope for better?