Clan Novel Tzimisce: Book 2 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Eric Griffin

  Saturday, 26 June 1999, 2:13 AM

  Near the waterfront

  Washington, D.C.

  The Big Enchilada.

  Hardin wasn’t too impressed with D.C., not yet anyway. It was too quiet, too tranquil, for his tastes. There were sirens blaring in the distance, at least every ten or fifteen minutes it seemed, and though he was twenty yards from the squat little bar across the street, the bass line of some old Sammy Hagar song reverberated in his chest. Still, something was missing.

  Hardin had heard that everything in Washington was either squalor or splendor, that there was no middle ground. This was a rough, working-class neighborhood, the kind that clung to the fringes around places of power. The low buildings were mostly cinderblock or old brick, and all sported either bars or metal doors to cover any glass. He suspected he’d like the splendor even less.

  The handful of bystanders outside the bar didn’t take much notice of Hardin as he crossed the street. With every two steps, the neon sign in the window flashed on and off:

  Purgatory

  Purgatory

  Purgatory

  How fucking cute, he thought. Isn’t that just like a Camarilla crowd? They huddled behind their little Masquerade for protection from mortals—Mortals! Fucking ATM machines for a blood bank—then couldn’t resist leaving nudge-nudge-wink-wink clues for those in the know.

  Purgatory

  Purgatory

  With each step, with each flash of the sign, Hardin grew more pissed off. They’re just too stupid—too fucking cute—to live.

  There were enough motorcycles parked out front that Hardin would’ve pegged the place as a Brujah hangout even without the “Vampires ‘R’ Us” flashing sign. At least you know what you’re getting with Brujah, he thought. Somebody that wants to kick your ass. Maybe he’s got a reason, maybe he doesn’t. Doesn’t really matter.

  At least the Brujah had guts. And the Anarchs, some of them had guts, the ones that weren’t whiny little pissants. In fact, Hardin preferred some of the rough-and-tumble Camarilla types to his own Lasombra elders, who tended toward the high-falutin’ end of the scale. The Brujah might have a chance—in general; not the ones inside the bar tonight.

  Purgatory

  Purgatory

  “Purgatory, my hairy ass,” Hardin muttered as he stepped into the crowded bar.

  He stopped just inside the door. The music, loud when he was across the street, drowned out all but shouted conversations, and the smoke in the room served nearly as well as any shadows Hardin might summon. He didn’t attempt to shove his way farther in. Instead, he relaxed and let his vision unfocus—distinct forms became less so, lines blurred, and the many figures before him took on quite different aspects. The scene was not completely unlike a twisting kaleidoscope; the thick smoke seemed to take on different colors and patterns, further confusing the already chaotic atmosphere, but through this clouded filter, Hardin saw what was hidden from normal sight—who was mortal, or ghoul, or Cainite. The distinctions were not always clear or precise, some requiring more interpretation than others. The colors and patterns shifted, one into another into another, and many of the patrons in the bar were moving about as well.

  But Hardin didn’t need exact information, just a broad impression.

  The front of the bar was filled mostly with mortals, maybe a ghoul or two thrown in. Toward the rear of the establishment, amidst the densest of the smoke and shadows, were vampires. At least six or seven, maybe a couple more.

  Hardin let his eyes refocus, then turned with a tight smile to one of the patrons closest to him, who might’ve been a ghoul, a watchdog for the Cainites toward the back, or not. Hardin wasn’t sure that she was, this woman in cut-offs and half-shirt, but there was a chance. With a deft flick of his wrist, a now-open butterfly knife appeared in his hand. He placed his other hand on her shoulder, then plunged the blade into her abdomen just below the navel. Her face registered surprise at first, and above the noise and confusion, no one else in the bar seemed to realize what he had done. Even when he sliced upward with inhuman strength and speed through her belly, bra, and throat, and she collapsed to the floor, there was only confusion from other patrons, not alarm—another drunk puking or passed out. If some noticed the blood, their warnings were drowned out by the music.

  Desmond and Rojo pushed past Hardin, as did Jake, Greasy, and Amber, forming a wall across the width of the bar. As one, they pulled out their sawed-off shotguns and opened fire.

  The first blasts cut a huge swath through the clientele. Bodies, glass, tables exploded. The second volley had much the same effect. Hardin marveled at how quickly the front half of the establishment had emptied without anyone getting out the front door. Those customers who weren’t dead were lying wounded or diving for cover.

  For the first time, screams rose above the music, which had moved on to the crooning of the Righteous Brothers.

  “And there’s no tenderness, like before, in your finger-tips.”

  Two howling Brujah launched themselves like missiles from the shadows in the back, but the gunmen had missed not a beat in reloading, and the concerted blast of five shotguns stopped the two Kindred and sent them hurtling in the opposite direction.

  “You’re trying hard not to show it, ba-by “

  Hardin’s men concentrated their fire on the rear of the bar, but with the spray and rapidity of the shots, not an inch was free of the devastating fire—only behind the bar. And Hardin was ready when the bartender rose with a shotgun of his own.

  “You’ve lost that loving feeling, whoa-oa, that loving fee-ee-ling “

  Hardin’s falchion split the bartender’s Adam’s apple before he could pull the trigger.

  “You’ve lost—”

  Amber blew through the bar with her next three blasts, just in case, and the music stopped. From out back, more gunfire erupted. Hardin smiled. Lonnie and the others were doing their job, blocking the rear exits from outside.

  A few more rounds finished it. Even those, Kindred or kine, who’d been cowering behind overturned tables were shredded. Rojo and Desmond pumped round after round in the prone bodies—no sense giving a vampire a chance. None of the Camarilla sots present, assuming they were armed, had even gotten off a shot.

  A noticeable silence settled over Purgatory.

  “Two minutes, boys,” said Hardin. “Get what blood you can, then we’re gone.” He thought for a moment about collecting a few more heads, but he didn’t want to stick around and fight the police. Besides, there were plenty more Kindred in D.C., and the fun was just beginning.

  Sunday, 27 June 1999, 12:05 AM

  The Arcanum Chapter House, Georgetown

  Washington, D.C.

  Chancellor Abrahm Yrul made sure that the front gate clicked securely closed, then he turned toward his car parked on the street. The security of the chapter house was no small matter. That was an issue he harped upon with some regularity with the other Arcanists.

  “What about our personal security?” Geoffrey Truesdell had asked earlier that very night. “We should build a below-ground parking garage, so we don’t have to walk along the street late at night.”

  It was true that the Arcanists tended to come and go at all hours of the day and night. Research, even lacking an all-too-rare breakthrough, could so easily displace one’s sense of time, as Abrahm well knew. This had been a long day—three long days, in fact, since he’d left the chapter house. Some associates swore that he lived in the chapter house, and Abrahm wondered himself sometimes if they weren’t correct.

  But an underground parking garage was most certainly not the answer.

  “Do you know how many byzantine zoning ordinances and bureaucratic offices we would have to negotiate to do something like that?” Abrahm had asked. “In addition to which, we would have to relocate the vaults, expose the chapter house to outside contractors, devise security for a larger access….” He’d counted off his reasons on the fingers of one hand and moved onto the second.


  Of course, they were all aware of and concerned about the violence that had broken out in the southern portions of the city last night—no, that wasn’t true, he realized; there were several Arcanists who were completely immersed in their studies, who had been for a number of days, and had absolutely no idea whatsoever about happenings in the wider world beyond the chapter house walls. But the majority of the Arcanists had heard about the apparently drug-related violence that had broken out down toward the waterfront and then spread like wildfire. Furthermore, there were reports that more bloodshed had erupted tonight.

  Abrahm scanned the empty street. The situation was certainly one to keep abreast of, but this was Georgetown, and none of the incidents had been within five miles of the chapter house. Abrahm felt better, nonetheless, when he was safely within his Jaguar and the electric locks sank down, securing the vehicle.

  The tap on his window startled him. There’d been no one else on the street, but here was a strange man patiently tapping his index finger on Abraham’s window. The man’s finger was stark white, as was his face. His pink eyes loomed just beyond the glass.

  How did I miss seeing him? the chancellor wondered. How indeed? The man, obviously an albino, practically glowed in the dark. Regardless, Abrahm had no desire to lower his window and speak to the man; conversely, he didn’t want to appear rude. In way of compromise, Abrahm nodded politely, but then continued to insert his key in the ignition.

  The white hand smashed through the window in a spray of glass and latched onto Abrahm Yrul’s throat. The Jaguar’s horn sounded briefly as the chancellor’s knee pressed against the steering wheel.

  Silence quickly returned to the empty car, the keys still in the ignition.

  Sunday, 27 June 1999, 12:49 AM

  Reagan National Airport

  Washington, D.C.

  Barely had the plane come to rest on the tarmac than Parmenides-Ravenna and Vykos were whisked away in the waiting limousine. “A lovely evening for a tour of the monuments, don’t you think?” Vykos asked, tracing a finger along the inner edge of Parmenides’s knee.

  She was quite proud of that knee, having constructed and reconstructed it numerous times over the past few nights. He could walk now, with some difficulty and the aid of a brass-crowned cane. Even so, the degree of his recovery had been remarkable.

  “I know it’s dreadfully uncomfortable, but it is your own fault,” she had reminded him time and again. “I had planned for you to be completely recovered, up and about, your old self again—so to speak—by this time.” His lengthy and vehement resistance to her affections, she pointed out, had “needlessly complicated matters, and caused unnecessary pain.” This last she had said with a certain beatific smile playing across her features.

  Parmenides had ignored those comments, and he ignored her question now about the monuments. He was well aware that it would be a lovely evening for whatever Vykos wanted it to be a lovely evening to do.

  “Oh, no sulking, now.” She touched his chin. “I can put a smile on your face,” she said slyly.

  It was true, of course. She could—and would—do anything to his physical form that she pleased. He imagined a smile would be only a slight matter but assumed she would not take the time at present, though more than one of her passing fancies had proven (to her) worth the investment of several hours over the past nights.

  Despite her playful threat, Parmenides busied himself staring out the window, ignoring not only his hostess but also the reflection in the glass, the image that was, but was not, his own. He had taken to silence, to whatever solace he could find there, since his transformation. Vykos be damned. But of course, it was Parmenides who was damned more completely, handed over to the fiend by his own. His mind was still unable, perhaps increasingly unable, to fathom the situation. There was no firm purchase, not even his own reflection, around which to construct a reasonable version of reality. And so he stared silently, silence being his only fortress, his only defiance—knowing full well that if his new master wished, she could with little difficulty pull down those walls as well.

  They passed the Washington Monument, “a lovely mortal trinket,” he heard Vykos call it. She seemed able and more than willing to carry the conversation on her own. Her voice trailed in and out of Parmenides’s awareness, much as it had since that moment when he had felt her teeth at his throat. Was that really only a handful of nights ago? It seemed to him longer than the arduous years of his training, longer than the span of his mortal and undead years together. He no longer knew if the sounds he heard were words actually spoken or the echo of her voice filling the gaps of his addled mind. He tried to retreat further within but was drawn back to her by firm pressure on his miraculous and semi-functional knee.

  “There is a true monument,” she said.

  The limousine had slowed to a near crawl. Parmenides looked beyond the glass, beyond that other face, but saw only a large house gutted by fire. Vykos’s admiration of the rubble puzzled him, but less so than had she been anyone else in the world. As intimate as their contact had been, he could no more unravel her thoughts than return to his mortal life.

  They continued on their way, the limousine winding through narrow streets tight with parked cars on either side. Parmenides had not noticed when they’d left behind the part of the city crowded with monuments and museums—sometime before the burned building—but they were well away from it now.

  Shortly, the car slowed again and then stopped. The reflection of dancing lights drew Parmenides’s attention. He turned from his window to see another scene of destruction, this time, however, still ongoing. At the end of the next block, a row of brownstones burned uncontrollably. Fire engines blocked the street; sparkling arcs of water erupted into the night and fell with little effect amidst the flames. Sweating men in helmets and thick jackets busied themselves. Perhaps they would be able to contain the blaze to that block. Perhaps not.

  Vykos’s breast rose and fell with a deep sigh.

  “The destruction of mortal architecture is a trivial thing,” said Parmenides. His words, less biting than he intended, sounded vaguely pathetic. Their strength seemed blunted by the confines of the limousine, the insulated nature of the compartment that muted the sounds of the nearby inferno almost completely.

  Vykos turned to him with an endearing smile.

  “You do live, my philosophe.” She gently cupped a hand to his cheek. “And your mind quite intact. I knew you were made of sterner stuff.” Sterner than what, she did not say.

  She returned her attention to the blazing building. “You are absolutely correct, of course. So insightful.” She turned from the fire long enough to pinch his cheek. “One of the reasons you’re so dear to me.

  “Mortal constructs are so fleeting,” she added. “But this…” she tapped the window for emphasis, “this is a true monument—a monument to the Ventrue prince of this city.”

  Her words plunged Parmenides into chaos. He had the feeling again that Vykos’s words had danced through his mind without first crossing the space between them. The fire and smoke gave way to a swirling mass of colors.

  Vitel.

  The name rose of its own accord, as if from the hidden flames.

  Vitel.

  “Yes,” Vykos said gently. “Marcus Vitel.” Parmenides didn’t realize that he’d spoken the name aloud, but she had answered. And now he found himself with his head in her lap, a childe seeking comfort. She stroked his hair.

  “This was his haven,” Vykos said. “One of his havens.”

  “And the other building…”

  “Yes, dearest. But don’t worry yourself yet.”

  Her fingers massaged his temples, soothed the pounding that he’d come to accept as a part of consciousness.

  Vitel. Marcus Vitel. Prince.

  Parmenides opened his eyes. He was sitting upright beside Vykos. The limousine was again moving. They traveled mile after mile; residences gave way to professional buildings gave way to strip malls gave way to pawn shop
s and liquor stores….

  Alongside the shifting external scenery, Parmenides shifted through the mileposts of his mind, trying to pin down the thoughts that had exerted themselves.

  Vitel. Prince Vitel.

  But there was more. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, there was more. Of this he was certain—as certain as he could be of anything anymore. The car pulled to a halt. Before Parmenides could completely separate himself from his internal landscape, Vykos opened the door, and the world beyond assaulted all his senses at once.

  The limousine had been so calm, quiet, a tranquil world of its own. Beyond those confines, chaos raged. The smell of smoke demanded his notice at the same instant as did the sound of distant sirens. They had stopped at yet another burning building. Another haven—Prince Vitel. How many hidden lairs might the prince of such an important city have? Possibly dozens, Parmenides knew. This building, or what was left of it, appeared to be some relic of the quaint history the Americans prized so highly.

  Climbing out of the limousine was neither easy nor painless, but Parmenides felt compelled to follow Vykos. There were others on the scene—all Sabbat, most notably an expressionless albino and a shorter Cainite absently twirling a knife between his fingers. They paid no attention to Parmenides, a slight at which he began to take umbrage before realizing that he was no longer a representative of Clan Assamite in their eyes—perhaps even in his own. He was Ravenna, ghoul and servant to Lady Sascha Vykos. Unacknowledged, he hobbled to her side.

  “This was the stiffest resistance yet,” said the albino. He handed Vykos a large sack, which was conspicuously blood-soaked. “One of the prince’s bitch childer. Now you’re only one up,” he said to his companion with the knife.

  No one seemed to be worried about witnesses. Parmenides spotted several figures darting in and out of the shadows up and down the block. Apparently, potential witnesses were being taken care of. Parmenides noted, too, that the sirens he had heard were actually receding into the distance.