by Eric Griffin
“It’ll be a while before police or fire crews get here,” said the albino, guessing Parmenides-Ravenna’s thoughts. “They’ve got plenty to keep them busy.”
As these words were spoken, it became apparent to Parmenides that there were other fires, many other fires, some burning nearby and probably others spread across the city. The smoke formed an ever-shifting shroud across the sky. He could taste the ash that coated the ground like a fine dusting of snow.
Prince Vitel.
One of his havens.
“Very good,” Vykos said. “Finish up here and move along.” Still looking at the albino, she handed the bloody bag to Parmenides—“Come, Ravenna”—then turned back to the limousine.
Vykos barely glanced at the head in the sack.
“They’re just like little kittens bringing me a trophy mouse,” she said of the albino and his companion. If she’d made the same comparison of Parmenides upon their first meeting, she did not mention it now.
Since the sanctuary of the limousine had been broken, Parmenides could no longer block out what seemed to him a world of violence that faced him from just beyond the reflected visage in the window. He was accustomed to violence, of course, and death—at least he had been—but the fires, the billowing smoke, the sound of gunfire, the bodies in the street, all served to disturb him. Perhaps it was the faint but incomprehensible voice in the back of his mind, droning endlessly, that unsteadied him. Or perhaps Ravenna was not so immune to such atrocities as had been Parmenides. The miles and minutes fused hopelessly together.
Vykos sensed his unease. “It is only the second night of Sabbat rule,” she pointed out with a dismissive flourish, as if to imply that her benevolent reign would soon restore peace and order.
When the limousine again stopped, they were back near the Mall. Vykos gazed admiringly at the Washington Monument for a moment. “I doubt I could have done better myself,” she said. “Who but the Americans would erect a giant phallus in honor of the father of their country?” She shrugged and opened the door.
The street before the Presidential Hotel was a scene more normal than most of those Parmenides had seen this long night—normal at first glance. A uniformed doorman stood before the main entrance of the hotel. There was an unusual amount of activity, as every few minutes a police car or ambulance raced past, lights flashing and siren wailing. Parmenides’s practiced and preternatural vision, however, picked out details that any mortal and many Cainites would have missed: a heavy shadow clung to the sides of the hotel, a coat of black in addition to the regular darkness; and near where the limousine had stopped stood another uniformed man—not the uniform of the hotel doorman, or a D.C. police officer, but the dark, battle panoply of a legionnaire of Cardinal Ambrosio Luis Monçada of Madrid.
The legionnaire bowed slightly. “Councilor Vykos.” Like the others, he paid no attention to the ghoul Ravenna. “We have him trapped inside.” His words were grim and tinged with but a hint of professional pride.
“Trapped?” said Vykos with raised eyebrow. “I think not, Commander Vallejo.”
Vallejo seemed taken aback by her casual dismissal of the situation as he knew it but didn’t let this sidetrack him. “We’ve had him cornered for just over an hour but have not closed in—as per your orders.”
“I see.”
“He has requested a parley, Councilor Vykos.”
Both eyebrows raised this time. “Has he now? That devil.”
Vallejo clearly objected to her flippant manner. He even deigned to glance at Ravenna briefly, perhaps seeking reinforcement of the seriousness of the situation.
“Shall I give the order to terminate, Councilor?” Vykos ran her tongue over her upper lip. “I think not yet.” Then, “A parley…”
“Councilor Vykos,” Vallejo said quickly, suddenly very concerned, “you can’t be considering—” He stopped in response to Vykos’s pointed stare; he knew better than to tell her what she could or could not consider.
“Pull your men back, Commander. I shall face the Prince of Washington.” She held up a hand to forestall Vallejo’s protestations. “He has nothing to gain by killing me.”
“And nothing to lose,” Vallejo added, but beyond that, he did not try to dissuade her. “What do we have to gain?” he asked.
“We,” Vykos said, “might gain a captive—perhaps even a cooperative—Camarilla prince, rather than another corpse, of which I believe we already have a sufficient supply.”
“Ravenna,” she said abruptly, “get the phones and the…trophy…from the car.”
Parmenides-Ravenna hurried to do her bidding, though each step was agony, and the support of the cane did nothing to relieve the stiffness of every muscle from his feet to his hips. There were, in fact, two cell phones in the limo, and the trophy he was quite familiar with already.
“Now,” said Vykos, sliding one phone into a deep pocket, “I will parley with the prince. I suspect he will want to see his childe,” she gestured toward the bloody sack, “one of his daughters, as I believe he refers to them. Hm. How quaint.”
She paused and thought for a moment, then continued. “I will call down shortly. If I have ascertained certain weaknesses, I will ask for Vallejo to bring up the prince’s daughter. In that case, Commander, give your legionnaires the order to advance, and we will capture him.”
“Yes, Councilor.”
“Otherwise,” said Vykos, “if I wish to speak with him further, I will call for Ravenna to bring up the prince’s daughter. Then, when we leave, you may attack and destroy him.”
Vallejo nodded again.
Parmenides took a step back, a strange, rubbery feeling taking hold of his legs. Only the cane kept him from toppling over in the street. Neither Vykos nor Vallejo seemed to notice his sudden infirmity. The pounding was at his temples again, from nowhere, suddenly more painful than it had ever been.
“Do you understand?”
The words echoed in his mind. Or had Vykos just spoken them? Parmenides couldn’t tell. He stared at the sidewalk, fearful that if he looked up, it would shift beneath his unsteady feet.
“Do you understand?”
He nodded his head, still not sure whether he responded to sound or memory.
“Good.”
Vykos was no longer by his side. She walked past the doorman, who didn’t acknowledge her, who actually looked the other way as if he hadn’t seen her at all. Quite possible, Parmenides knew. Not such an extraordinary trick of the undead.
Vallejo, too, had stepped away. How far, Parmenides didn’t know. The world was spinning. He was doing his best merely to remain upright. And always the words, always they were telling him, calling him….
I will call for Ravenna.
Vitel. Prince Marcus Vitel.
The voice in his mind was speaking to him, was moving to the fore. It was a familiar voice, a soothing voice.
I will call for Ravenna, and you will kill Vitel. Prince Marcus Vitel.
Vykos. She had told him all this before, what seemed so long ago. And still the words were with him.
You will kill Vitel.
Parmenides reeled. The cane. If he could just hold the cane tightly enough, he might not fall. His fingers gripped the brass head, brushed over the unobtrusive latch that, if he pressed it, would spring the spike from the ferrule. The cane would become a three-foot oaken stake with a brass tip and, at the far end, a brass handle to aid in driving home a blow. He had known but not known.
You will kill him, my philosophe. She had touched his face. You will kill him for me.
A police car rushed past. The lights shone through Parmenides’s eyelids. He didn’t remember closing his eyes. The siren’s wail pierced his fog of recollection, rattled in his ears, but could not drive away the voice that was closer than his innermost desire.
You will kill him for me.
Where was Vallejo? Parmenides wondered. Could the Lasombra tell that something was wrong? Could he tell that Parmenides was going mad? Would the legionnai
re catch Ravenna if the ghoul collapsed to the sidewalk? Why not him? For a moment, Parmenides was afraid that he had shouted the question into the night. He couldn’t be completely sure that he hadn’t. Why not the legionnaire? He could kill Vitel. Vykos’s playful laughter struck him like a blow—or was it another siren, an ambulance racing by, or a fire engine?
Yes, Vallejo could kill him, she agreed, but he is the cardinal’s man. The glory would go to the cardinal. If I am to reap the rewards of the city, then the telling blow must be struck by my hand—or by my assassin. My philosophe.
Parmenides had raged against her then. Again, he’d torn his bonds, though they were crafted of his own flesh. How dare she have treated him so, and for so petty an end!
Oh, that is not the end, my young romantic. That is merely the beginning.
His heart burned. He would tear it from his breast and cast it into the fires of hell before he laid it in her hand.
But I’ve already held it in my hand. Hush, my Ravenna. You have tired yourself. Rest, my Ravenna.
Rest, my Ravenna.
Rest. Ravenna.
Ravenna.
“Ravenna!”
Vallejo gripped his shoulder, dug his nails into Ravenna’s skin. “The phone.” The Lasombra spoke firmly. There was no cruelty in his voice, in his face; he merely could not abide weakness. Neither could Parmenides…before.
“The phone, Ravenna.”
The phone, indeed, was ringing. Ravenna held it before him as if revealing a murder weapon for all to see. Vallejo stared at him, waited.
Damn you. You don’t know, Parmenides thought. Then strangely enough, standing there before the hotel, buzzing phone in hand, an unfamiliar sentiment rose within him, one he had not known in centuries—compassion. You don’t know…may you never know.
He looked into Vallejo’s face hoping to find pity in return for his unspoken compassion but was greeted by the hard expectation that duty be fulfilled. The will drained from Parmenides-Ravenna. The phone moved closer to his face. It was his own hand raising it. He pressed the “talk” button, but did not, could not, himself speak.
“Ravenna, the prince would like to see his daughter. Do bring her up.”
The phone was gone. Vallejo took it from him. Ravenna bent toward the sidewalk, his weight fully upon the cane, and retrieved the sack. He’d set it down at some point. It left a bloody mark on the sidewalk.
The doorman took no more notice of him than of Vykos before. Parmenides, even in his early nights, could have affected the mortal similarly, but tonight there was no strength left in the Assamite-ghoul. He moved stiffly past, each step confirming the imperfect alignment of ligament and bone. The hotel lobby was deserted save for the attendant behind the front desk, and she paid him no heed. Ravenna followed a trail that Vykos had laid down for him, and mortal eyes could see neither trail nor the traveler upon it.
He followed the trail past the darkened gift shop, past the elevators of the masses, and came to a private corridor and an elevator set apart from the rest. The doors stood open, awaiting him. Ravenna turned the key protruding from the console and began his ascent.
I will call for Ravenna, and you will kill Vitel.
Time stretched out before Ravenna. The hotel was not particularly tall—the sixth floor served as the penthouse—yet the light above the door seemed only grudgingly to move from G to 1 to 2. As the numbers slowly increased, so too did Ravenna’s agitation. He thought of Vallejo. The Spaniard would not hesitate to kill the prince if Vykos but asked. But for the games of power, Ravenna had been bred to this task. He gripped the cane as if it were his salvation. The tiny latch was at his fingertip. He was on his way to kill—it was the art he had studied for years upon years, an act he had performed countless times. Yet that which was natural to him, that which was his purpose and passion, now filled him with dread. He recoiled from the task set before him.
Because she wants it of me, he realized.
You will kill him for me.
Vykos wanted him to do this thing, and Parmenides-Ravenna was loath to serve her whim. For what she had done to him, for what his masters had let her do, he should slit her throat, burn her black heart. His hate for her burned fiercely, almost as fiercely as his hate for himself—for he knew he would do what she asked.
You will kill him for me.
“Be strong, young Assamite.”
The voice didn’t startle him, didn’t alarm him. It floated down, surrounded him like whispering moonlight.
“Be strong, your masters have not forgotten you.”
For the second time this night, Parmenides-Ravenna was unable to speak.
The small light, so labored in its advance, moved from 4 to 5.
“I will come to you, I or my brothers.”
Parmenides-Ravenna gazed toward the ceiling of the elevator. What creature lay on the other side, calling to him, speaking of his masters? Parmenides would have smashed through the hatch, demanded to face whomever accosted him so—but Ravenna’s body was broken, his legs barely suitable for the simplest movement.
“Do you have news for me to give your masters?”
Parmenides-Ravenna stared blankly; he gazed at the light.
5 to 6.
“Speak, young Assamite.”
The chime sounded. The doors began to open.
His lips parted but were drier than the most punishing desert of his early nights. “I am…strong,” he whispered at last.
The doors stood open. With faltering step, Ravenna entered the sumptuous haven of Marcus Vitel, Prince of Washington, D.C. Vykos’s deceiving smile greeted him.
You will kill him for me.
Vitel was a striking figure. The fine quality of his suit was not lost on Parmenides, nor the strong lines of his face, the wisps of gray in his hair. Parmenides looked into the prince’s dark blue eyes. A confident assassin could do that—look into the eyes of even an aged Kindred elder and not give anything away—but Parmenides’s confidence in the most basic foundations of his previous existence had been shaken. He froze. In the face of this Camarilla prince, this creature accustomed to commanding awe, Parmenides could not go forward. His joints gripped and would not move. It was all he could do to from dropping the sack he carried. The mere contemplation of such a faux pas was mortifying.
“Now look what you’ve done, my prince,” said Vykos in the most singsong, conversational of tones. “You’ve frightened my poor ghoul. What if he were to drop from fear on the spot? You have no idea the lengths to which I’ve gone to secure good help.
Come, Ravenna,” she said, stretching out a hand to entice him closer.
Vitel watched in silence as Parmenides forced his body to move forward. Indeed, the prince’s gaze locked on the sack Parmenides carried, and did not waver.
He didn’t have far to go to where they stood—they had not proceeded into the penthouse proper to converse in comfort, as decorum might normally dictate—but with each step, under the prince’s unrelenting gaze, the bag seemed to grow heavier, as if the unfortunate head had sprouted a body, and the full weight of the prince’s childe now rested within.
With movement, however tortured, Parmenides thought less of the head slipping from his grasp and the sickening thud it would make against the floor. His mind raced with possibilities; his finger rested by the latch on the cane. The prince, whether he wished to acknowledge the fact or not, undoubtedly knew what was in the bloody sack. Parmenides could toss it to Vitel. Certainly the prince would instinctively catch the head of his childe, and in his moment of distraction, Parmenides could strike. Yet that scenario lacked a certain dignity. He could strike as he handed over the bag—
“Come, Ravenna,” Vykos said again as he reached them.
I will call for Ravenna, and you will kill Vitel.
Her words shook him, revealed to him how easily he’d fallen into the accustomed pattern of thought when faced with the prospect of the kill. A sudden wave of doubt washed over him, and at its heart was defiance. He felt
the urge, the need, to plunge the cane, not through the prince, but through Vykos.
She watched Vitel, observed with thinly veiled pleasure the sorrow rising in his eyes, which were rimmed with tears of blood. The bag was close enough for him to touch; he had but to reach out.
You will kill him for me.
Parmenides could not hear for the pounding at his temples. He saw in his mind Vykos smiling, staring down at her impaled breast. His heart leapt, but his hand upon the cane was stayed, as surely as had been his legs when their sinews and bones were fused one to another.
You will kill him for me.
The prince, grappling with his sorrow, sighed deeply. Parmenides pressed the latch—the spike sprung into place—and he struck. But a moment too late. Vykos howled with outrage as the prince knocked aside the blow aimed at his heart. The cane pierced his shoulder.
The back of Vitel’s hand caught Parmenides across the face. The assassin-ghoul, hobbled by his infirmity, lost his footing to the powerful blow and crashed to the floor.
Vykos screeched and flung a clawed hand at the prince, but already he’d turned and thrown himself from his attackers. His body, impaled by the cane, shattered one of the large picture windows overlooking the Mall. Before Parmenides could struggle to his knees, Vitel was gone. Deathly silence reigned.
A great trembling overtook Parmenides. The weakness in his legs prevented him from standing. Vykos turned from where she’d followed the prince to the broken window and rejoined her charge. Bloody tears flowed down his cheeks, dripped, and soaked into the luxurious carpet.
I am strong, he had said to the messenger of his masters. So strong that he could not free himself; so strong that he could not defy his new mistress; so strong that his pitiful defiance had led only to utter failure in that which was his calling.
Vykos placed a gentle hand to his face. There was no ire or recrimination in her touch. She could not know the treachery that burned in his heart still, his hatred of her…and his love.
She pulled him toward her, pressed his fevered skin to her cool belly.