Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Richard E. Dansky

  “No change. It’s just a matter of time.” Vykos made a throwaway gesture and stretched languidly. The effect was entirely lost on Polonia, who’d bent down to scritch his shadowy cat between the ears.

  “I suppose that makes some sort of sense. Please do keep me informed when there is progress.”

  “Of course.”

  Polonia straightened back up. “I appreciate your courtesy. As for the other matters at hand, I am curious as to why you went to such lengths to irritate MacEllen. I’m really not in the mood to play at tutor with a naughty child, Vykos, and I would hate to think you were putting me in that situation deliberately.”

  “Tsk tsk, my dear Archbishop. You wound me. The call was important, you know.”

  “I’m quite aware of its importance, and of who Pieterzoon is, and how much any number of my acquaintances in the councils of my clan—”

  “Les Amies Noir?” Vykos threw the name out carelessly, knowing that no one not given the blood of the Lasombra should know of Les Amies’ existence.

  If she was hoping for a rise out of Polonia, the ploy failed. The man ignored her interjection completely. “Any number would dearly love to take the man apart sinew by sinew. I’m also aware you received a letter from an unknown source before the war council began, and had the knowledge of Pieterzoon’s arrival in Baltimore all along.” His voice was gentle, almost scolding. “Are you deliberately trying to make this difficult for me?”

  “Not at all. MacEllen just needed a bit more prodding to get to a point where you’d feel compelled to reaffirm his place in the—how shall I put this?—pecking order.”

  “I’d really rather prefer not to have to kill the lot of them, Vykos. I know the Little Tailor is working quite hard to recoup our losses from Atlanta, but you and I both know that whatever he comes up with won’t be nearly as effective as what we lost. If we lose all of our seasoned irregulars as well, that’s going to push the timetable on the entire project back, and somehow I don’t see that prospect pleasing the esteemed cardinal.”

  “Perhaps. Though you and I both know you won’t have to kill MacEllen. The reason he’s alive and Averros is not is that MacEllen will back down when he’s outclassed. And you, Don de Polonia, outshine MacEllen as clearly as the sun outshines, mmm, the lesser of Mars’s two moons.”

  Polonia laughed in spite of himself. “I’m disappointed in you, my dear. I’d heard you were a better flatterer than that.” He coughed, once. “Actually, I think I’ve simply made him angry enough to loathe me in silence rather than disrupt the council any longer. He’ll be looking for an opportunity to take his anger out on one of his own followers, just to salve his ego. Still, either way, it’s an annoyance or two less at the meeting.”

  Vykos nodded. “Indeed. An annoyance or two less. I’m so glad I could be of assistance in the matter.”

  Polonia smiled, humorlessly. “Your assistance is, as always, appreciated. If you will excuse me?” Vykos made no protest, and Polonia walked to the door. The cat followed a few leisurely steps behind. The archbishop placed his hand on the doorknob, then paused and turned. “Oh, I almost forgot. I thought I should warn you. The Camarilla’s not the only one getting a bit more company from the Old Country.

  Oh?” The word contained rather more surprise than Vykos would have liked to have let slip.

  Polonia nodded. “Yes. Apparently someone’s gotten concerned about the safety of our finest generals, or some such. There have been rumors of assassination attempts and similar foolishness. As a result, we’ll be receiving a bodyguard. The man has rather impressive credentials, and a most fascinating lineage.”

  “Really.” Vykos’s self-assurance was back in place, seamlessly. “And when does this paragon arrive?” The archbishop made a great show of consulting his watch. “In about half an hour, if traffic is good. Which will give me plenty of time to introduce you to him before the war council resumes.” And with that, he turned and walked out. The cat, arrogant as its master, followed.

  Sunday, 18 July 1999, 1:07 AM

  Hyatt Regency Capitol Hill

  Washington, D.C.

  The tone of the war council changed completely when Polonia reconvened it. For one thing, MacEllen had fewer supporters, but those who did stick by him were united in a sullen hatred they directed down the length of the table to where the author of his humiliation sat. Borges seemed agitated, but didn’t speak, instead drumming his fingers incessantly against the dark wood. Past him, Vallejo, who’d been absent earlier, sat ramrod straight and radiating obvious disdain for the rabble to his right. Vykos was, as ever, unreadable and cool, though Polonia thought he detected some pleasure at Borges’s discomfort. And to his own immediate right was the thin, supremely bored-looking Talley. The man had clearly endured an uncomfortable journey, and was looking forward to the remainder of the meeting with all of the joy of a nun faced with a Tarantino film. Ay me, thought Polonia. The sooner I begin, the sooner it ends and I can bid good night to this walking ghost.

  “My friends,” he said, flowing to his feet. “I have a profound honor; namely that of introducing a most illustrious addition to our efforts here. Cardinal Monçada”—and Vykos’s iron control wavered visibly for a moment—“has seen fit to grace us with the presence of another guest, the most esteemed Senor Talley, who holds the exalted rank of templar among the cardinal’s servants. He is here to ensure the success of our work by protecting those of us who are most at risk of cowardly assassination.”

  Vykos frowned at that. Polonia noted it, but decided to plunge onward. “We’ve already had one such attempt, on our beloved Vykos. None of us want to risk a loss of that magnitude again, nor do we wish to see anyone else become a secondary target. Would you not agree, Archbishop Borges?”

  The Archbishop of Miami nodded sharply, with the look of a man being told that his son is not his own. “Of course. We should take every step to protect Vykos from another such attack.”

  Polonia smiled blandly. The trap was about to close.

  “Oh, I have communicated back to the cardinal that Vykos needs no further protection,” said Vallejo. “Talley is here to protect all of us, my dear Archbishop.”

  Borges, Polonia noted with some satisfaction, now had the expression of a man who’d discovered that none of his children were his own, and that his wife had trouble remembering his name. Not only had he been told that he was going to be watched very closely by an extremely powerful vampire who looked like death warmed over and who brooked no nonsense whatsoever, he’d been maneuvered into a position whereby his refusal to accept that surveillance would be seen as disloyal.

  And if he refused, and an accident occurred that deprived the operation of his services, well, que sera, sera, or however the damnable song went.

  Borges stammered something or other that was perfectly incomprehensible, while at the end of the table, MacEllen’s supporters whooped their amusement at seeing one of the high and mighty taking it on the chin for a change.

  “Enough.” Talley had a low voice, a whispery one that undercut all other voices it came in contact with. “Archbishop Borges, I have been assigned by my cardinal, as a token of his esteem for all of the assembled commanders, to serve as protection for certain among you. It has come to the cardinal’s attention that there may be an attempt on at least one of the archbishops assembled here, as a method of derailing our operations while the Camarilla buys time to consolidate its defenses. I am here to make sure those attempts fail.

  “Just because you draw my attentions does not mean that you in particular have been specifically targeted for anything other than my presence for an evening. If my conversation displeases, rest assured, I’ll soon move along to someone else. Otherwise, don’t read anything more into it than you absolutely must, and remember that I did not achieve my current title by being less than effective at my chosen tasks.” He surveyed the room for a moment. “Now. Everything I have heard tells me that this operation has been proceeding exceptionally smoothly, and I trust
the planning meetings have been just as smooth. My Lord Polonia, I look forward to observing. You must forgive me, however, if I abandon this seat of honor and instead take up my duties. The cardinal was most insistent that I begin immediately.” And he stood and walked over behind where Borges sat, flushed and angry. “Please, Your Excellency. Pretend I’m not even here.”

  The meeting, Polonia thought, was proceeding in a most satisfactory fashion. Talley’s presence was sufficient to unnerve Borges, which kept him from making too much noise. Vykos still didn’t seem overjoyed at the templar’s presence, but Polonia chalked that up to the notion that she was displeased that the news had come to him first. And Talley himself? The man might as well have been a piece of furniture, or a sculpture.

  Business had proceeded with remarkable alacrity, and now only two items remained on the agenda: the presence of the accursed Pieterzoon, which he’d decided to hold off on until now, at the end of the council; and another matter that would require a certain amount of delicacy. The former was going to be profoundly unpleasant, so he decided to open with it and get it out of the way. Ghouls brought in refreshments and removed debris. Polonia’s dislike of the creatures was far less pronounced than most of his clanmates’; he just cordially loathed them and everything they stood for. The head of the unfortunate Seamus had left some time ago, leaving only a bloody smear on the table, but Polonia preferred a relatively clean work area for council. After all, fewer body parts strewn about meant fewer distractions for the hungry-

  “We’re nearly done with the night’s planning, I am most pleased to say. I know many of you are feeling restless, and I’ll be as happy as you are when we finish. Now, I believe the matter of Herr Pieterzoon is next. Vykos?”

  Vykos stood, graceful as always. Certain of the Tzimisce at the table chanted her name, but it was a half-hearted effort; in truth, everyone was too damn tired. In one of Vallejo’s rare lighter moments, the man had claimed that he found the war councils three times the effort of actual fighting, and that he was sure he’d be bored to death long before the Camarilla found a way to put him down.

  “As I was saying earlier, I would suggest to the council that we deal with Herr Pieterzoon immediately. As we can all see,” she let a graceful finger pick out Talley from the crowd, “the stakes have just gotten higher. We simply cannot afford to wait any longer to deal with him, lest he rally the Camarilla forces effectively against us.”

  Borges grumbled discontentedly. “You said that already, Vykos. I don’t think things have changed that much,” he glanced up at the impassive Talley, “in the last few hours. So explain why and how we need to get this bastard. Do a good job, and I’m with you.”

  “Why, Archbishop, thank you for your words of support.” Vykos’s voice dropped to a dangerous purr. “Now, consider why Talley has been sent here. He is here because Europe has entered the fray, and because assassination has become a permissible weapon. Clearly, one of our great advantages thus far, besides the sheer will and ferocity you, the soldiers of the Sabbat, have brought to bear, is the small contribution made by myself, Commander Vallejo, the Little Tailor and others. We are here. We are settled. We are part and parcel of all that will be done. By permitting Pieterzoon to survive, we allow him to whittle away our advantage. And if he establishes himself here, how much longer before he brings in allies? Before the tide of our advance slows? No, we must maintain our advantage—any general in any age would tell you that. Narses, were he here, would laugh at our indecision.”

  She spun, then, and locked eyes with Talley. “As for the other reason…they think they can resort to the dagger because the sword has failed them. If we turn the dagger back on them, they will abandon it. If the architect of their assassination campaign—and make no mistake, this has Pieterzoon’s stink on it—then their own efforts will crumble. And I am sure that is a sentiment everyone in this room who just might be targeted by the Ventrue’s assassins can share.

  “So, shall we do this thing? Shall we eliminate Pieterzoon before he becomes more of a menace— for he is one already, and becomes a greater one with each passing hour—or shall we allow our enemy to gain strength while we sit idly by and wait for the knife in the dark? What shall it be?”

  The roar of approval that burst forth came from dozens of throats. Vykos bathed in it, drank in the adulation, gloried in it. Even Borges appeared convinced. Only Polonia, Vallejo and Talley seemed unmoved. Polonia shook his head. The die was cast.

  It took ten minutes for the roaring to die down, as Vykos seemed to be in no hurry to let things settle. Finally, Polonia interrupted. “Well, the motion seems to have carried, Vykos. Now, how shall we go about implementing the will of the,” he waved his hand to take in the room, “people?”

  Vykos smiled poisonously. “For shame, my dear Archbishop. That’s your responsibility. You’re in command; I merely host this arrangement by virtue of being archbishop of the city. I wouldn’t dare to usurp your authority. I leave the entire affair in your capable hands.”

  Polonia glowered at Vykos for a long moment, until the uncomfortable silence was broke by a heretofore silent member of the war council:

  “I’ll take it. Me and my boys—we’ll take it.”

  Sunday, 18 July 1999, 2:01 AM

  A subterranean grotto

  New York City, New York

  Something looked different. Calebros stared intently at the printout from SchreckNET that Umberto had handed him a few minutes before. The words on the paper—the actual physical manifestation of thought—were sharp and crisp. Calebros didn’t like it. He remembered Umberto saying something about replacing a daisy wheel with a laser jet—or some such nonsense; none of it mattered much to Calebros. He preferred the solid weight of his typewriter. Umberto could keep his space-age doo-dads. Maybe the world, Calebros pondered, would be a better place if people still used dip pens and ink wells. He shrugged. Maybe not.

  The form of the message, of course, was less significant than the content. The report from Courier included a few choice morsels of knowledge. If only he had access to the Sabbat war council chamber itself! Calebros sighed. It was not to be. Besides, extrapolation could reveal much that was hidden. Time would reveal the rest.

  Calebros spent several minutes integrating this new knowledge with that which he already knew, then reached for his trusty Smith Corona.

  Sunday, 18 July 1999, 2:11 AM

  Sheraton Inner Harbor Hotel

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Lucita sat, cross-legged, in her hotel room and spread the paperwork her client had provided out in front of her. The dossier on her target was depressingly complete, covering everything from observed manifestation of supernatural abilities, favored weapons, companions, wardrobe preferences and affiliated ghouls on down to taste in music, common turns of phrase and feeding preferences. Also included in the file was a series of photos, ranging from irritatingly blurry surveillance camera shots to up-close-and-personal images that by all rights should have gotten the photographer killed.

  She shook her head, long black hair swinging back and forth as she did so. Clad only in simple black pajamas, she looked pensively at the clock on the nightstand. Quite a few hours remained until dawn, so there was plenty of time to get familiar with the details of the target. She’d memorize all the material tonight and destroy the supporting evidence.

  The room had already been light-proofed, of course—the curtains taped down, the door secured against both intrusion and the cleaning staff and so on. She’d also covered up the lengthy mirror on the wall opposite the bed by hanging a spare bedsheet over it; the older she got, the less she wanted to see empty mirrors where her face should be. Lucita briefly considered sleeping in the tub, a tactic commonly used by younger vampires on the road, but dismissed the notion. After all, if trouble came for her, it wasn’t going to be stopped by the flimsy bathroom door. For that matter, the sheetrock of the walls wasn’t going to do much good against the sort of opposition she usually encountered. There c
ame a time where you just had to stop worrying, and get on with your nightly business. That was a lesson dear old papa had never learned, squirreling himself deeper and deeper into his poisonous tomb in Madrid.

  He’d tried to make it her tomb, too. He’d called her home and informed her of her duty as a loyal childe. Told her how he expected her to remain by his side through the centuries. Explained how she would help him, for the glory of God and the clan.

  And then he had told her how very, very much he loved her, his only childe.

  She’d lashed out at him then, with shadow and with steel. He’d laughingly subdued her, easily snapping the dagger she’d thought would prove the key to her freedom. Then he’d taken her hand and mockingly patted it as if to let her know what a clever girl she was.

  She’d nearly torn her arm out of its socket to escape. He hadn’t pursued her, hadn’t sent any of his servants or beasts of shadow to retrieve her. All that followed Lucita into the night was his laughter, and a cheery farewell.

  He was looking forward to seeing her again, he’d said.

  She’d sworn she’d never return, but every century or so something pulled her back to Madrid, to the dour stone building that the faithful and the damned alike flocked to. At one point she’d worried that it was a trap, that on one of her visits “home” the sect she’d spurned would be waiting for her. But it seemed that Monçada still loved his childe and protected her from the wrath of his flock.

  The last time she’d returned had been seventy years ago. To her surprise, her sire had not been alone. With him had been an old acquaintance and occasional enemy, the Tzimisce Sascha Vykos. Vykos had even been wearing his original skin, the one she remembered from their first, rather unpleasant meeting. She’d started to call the shadows to her then, but Monçada had intervened. Vykos was there at his invitation, the archbishop said, performing a special commission for him. Monçada, you see, wanted a chess set, a very special chess set.