“I am not at all satisfied, I am afraid,” he murmured. “But it will have to serve, at least for now.” And with that, he rose and walked out. Behind him a tendril of shadow darted out and turned out the conference room’s lights.
The cat, abandoned by its master, gave its first and last sound, a plaintive yowl. Seconds later, it dissolved into the darkness of the room, as thoroughly as if it had never existed.
Sunday, 18 July 1999, 2:28 AM
Hyatt Regency Capitol Hill
Washington, D.C.
The elevator moved downward at a brisk pace, its progress marked by a steady hum. Someone had torn out the ceiling speaker about five minutes after the war council had moved into the hotel. Now there was only the whirr of the machinery and the hiss of the air conditioning.
Five monsters and one manila folder were its only contents. One, the Lasombra named Sonny (Santiago, actually, but no one wanted to give him that much respect), did his level best to drown out the elevator noise by cursing a blue streak.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Blaine, what the hell did you just get us into? If half the ‘When I was a Cub Scout in the Camarilla’ stories you keep telling us to keep us in line are true, this guy Pieterzoon’s going to be harder to nail than any of the dickweeds upstairs, and that includes Miss Freaky Leaky Tzimisce.”
“Shimishay,” said Terrence, who was tall and lanky and wore John Lennon granny glasses that he never quite managed to get the blood off. “It’s pronounced ‘Shimishay’.”
Sonny turned on him with the fury possessed only by the very short and self-conscious. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s pronounced Tzimisce, Goldfarb, or Your Mother, she’s a fucking fruitcake, and you, Blaine, are a fucking stupid fruitcake for getting us put on this suicide mission, though the more I think about it the more I’d prefer suicide to another night spent listening to the assholes from New York and Miami snipe at each other and occasionally turn one of the little guys into a fucking blood-on-a-Trisket kind of snack—”
“Sonny,” Blaine said pleasantly, “shut the fuck up.”
“But Blaine—”
“Say nothing. That way, you’re insured against saying something else that pisses me off. This operation is going to be hard enough without my having to stuff you into a mailbox before we start.”
Sonny lapsed into sulky silence. No one spoke for a minute, and the doors suddenly opened on floor twelve. An elderly woman stood there, impatiently pushing the “Down” button. She took a step forward as the doors opened, then her eyes widened in fear. The towering war ghoul Jammer, his single horn sweeping up until it nearly scraped the ceiling, grinned out at her. She took a step backward, gasped something that could have been “Oh my sweet Jesus,” and fell heavily against the far wall. A shriek of “Oh my God! Grandma!” could be heard from down the hallway as the doors whispered shut.
The Lasombra doubled over laughing. “Shit, that was beautiful.” The others joined in the hysterics, and even Blaine found himself grinning. “Did you see the way her eyes got big when she saw Jammer? ‘Oh Lawd Jeezus, preserve me from an elevator full of eeeevil!’” He completely lost it, wheezing with laughter as the elevator spilled them out into the lower level of the hotel parking garage.
The pack’s van, a heavily modified Dodge with some fascinating innovations that weren’t street-legal in most states of the Union, squatted ominously by the far stairwell. It was black, with fat black tires made from solid rubber, and heavily tinted windows. Blaine had thought about getting rid of it, because staties had developed a profile on serial-killer vehicles that made them zero in on suspicious-looking vans. The situation wasn’t dangerous yet, but it was a pain in the ass, and Blaine had a soft spot in his heart for avoiding pains in the ass.
Except, of course, the ones he worked with.
“So do we have a chance in hell, Blaine?” That was Terrence again. Sonny was still too busy imitating the new cadaver on floor twelve, and the others were laughing along with him.
“Honestly? Yeah, we can pull this one off. I have met Pieterzoon. He’s scary. Cold. Sneaky like you would not believe. But he’s also a sissy bastard, and he hates fighting his own battles. That means he’s going to be looking for a way out when he should be tackling us head-on, and that, in turn, gives us a small window of opportunity. Which,” he said as he reached the van and opened the driver’s door, “is a better chance than we stand with the assholes upstairs.” They climbed in, Terrence taking shotgun and the rest piling into the back. Sonny cursed at Jammer for sitting on his gun, and then the usual squabbling ensued. Blaine handed Terrence the packet he’d received from Vykos’s ghoul upstairs. “There should be a map in there,” he said.
The Tzimisce rummaged through the papers and extricated one. “Would you believe AAA?”
“At this point, I would believe anything,” Blaine grunted, and threw the van into gear. Something, possibly a quiver of crossbow bolts from the rattling, fell over as he did so. “Right now I just want to get us to Baltimore and settled in by sunrise. Then tomorrow night, we worry about taking out Jan Pieterzoon and the dozen or so yesmen who are going to try to stop us.”
“Any thoughts on strategy?” Terrence rolled down his window and licked his fingers so he could test the breeze. He did that before every trip, and Blaine found it oddly reassuring.
The antitribu nodded. “Jammer and Lox cause a ruckus and draw off his cover. You and I wade in and distract him for maybe ten seconds, and at some point during those ten seconds, Sonny pops up with his assault rifle he’s so proud of and blows the son of a bitch’s head off.” He said all of this very quietly, to avoid let ting Sonny overhear and get overexcited all over again.
The van roared out of the garage and turned north, heading for the entrance to I-495. Terrence blinked. “Got a better plan?”
“Honestly? Not yet. If that’s what I still want to do tomorrow, then you can start worrying.’”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to start now.” Blaine grinned. “Be my guest. By the way, we’re going to be stopping at, what is it, Chesapeake House, for gas and a janitor. Make sure you’re not too hungry before we get started tomorrow. We’re not going to have time to hunt, so this is the best I can do.” Terrence nodded. “And you claim rights to Pieterzoon’s blood?” he said, his voice nearly a whisper.
Of course I do, Blaine thought, You think I’m going to let you or laughing boy in the back get your claws on it! I’m the fucking pack ductus, after all. But all he said was, “We’ll let the survivors worry about it once we take the target down. No sense arguing until then.”
“Of course,” said Terrence. “No sense at all.”
part two:
troy
Thursday, 29 July 1999, 9:12 PM
Sheraton Inner Harbor Hotel
Baltimore, Maryland
The message at the front desk had been left by a Mister Schreck, which made Lucita roll her eyes. Schreck was German for “terror,” as well as being the name of the actor who played the original cinematic vampire in the 1922 version of Nosferatu. In short, the note was simply an over-cute sewer rat’s way of saying that he wanted to get in touch with her, and that he didn’t mind having her know that he was Nosferatu.
Lucita graciously accepted the slip of paper from the desk clerk, made a show of reading it—I’ll call later—and then tore it into shreds as she headed for the open elevator. She dropped the scraps into the ashtray as she entered the elevator car, which was blessedly empty apart from her.
The ride up to her floor was mercifully brief, which Lucita counted as a small favor. The fact that the Nosferatu had announced his presence meant business—well, either that or incredible arrogance, but that wasn’t a trait most long-lived Nosferatu possessed. While she was already engaged on a contract—which was looking more complicated each night, as the Sabbat offensive washed over old havens and safe houses that she had spent decades establishing—she was by no means averse to lining up additional commissions. On the other hand, i
t might be that her coy contact had information to sell, which might well make her current job simpler.
The elevator slowed and halted, and Lucita strolled out onto the fourteenth floor. Her room faced north, giving it the maximum protection from sunlight, and the “Do Not Disturb” tag still hung from the door handle. She unlocked the door and glided in. The room was immaculate, and she kicked off her shoes and lay down on the too-soft mattress to await the inevitable Nosferatu contact. She’d discounted the notion of a trap almost instantly. The Camarilla had bigger problems than her at the moment, and it simply didn’t make sense for them to expend the sort of resources it would take to neutralize her. Lucita had long ago matter-of-factly assessed the manpower necessary to eliminate her; taking that kind of power out of the front lines would cost the sect another city, minimum. By the same token, the Sabbat had larger concerns. She’d received information to the effect that her sire was taking a very personal interest in the entire American affair, and that was another surety of her safety from at least those vampires who reported to him. Cardinal Monçada would not look kindly on anyone who destroyed his childe.
Lucita realized that such logic didn’t protect her from assaults launched by the foolish, the ignorant, or the suicidal, but she was confident in her ability to protect herself from any and all of the above.
And if she was wrong? She’d been wrong before, very rarely, and endured. She’d endure this as well.
Precisely three minutes later, there came a knock at the door. “Miss? Room service,” was the muffled call.
“Of course. I’ll be right there.” Lucita unwound from the bed and opened the door without looking through the peephole. She was eminently aware of who was waiting on the other side.
The young man with the dinner trolley looked distinctly uncomfortable in his uniform. “The dinner you ordered, miss,” was all he said as he rolled the cart into the room. Lucita smiled without amusement.
“Please take that ridiculous disguise off—Mister Schreck? I would prefer that you were comfortable if we are going to conduct business.”
The bellhop took a step back from the tray and bowed from the waist. When he stood back up, he was no longer a pleasant-faced young man, but a warty, bald man with a build like a linebacker’s. He still wore the hotelier’s uniform, which fit him about as well as one might expect, and the required cap sat jauntily on his bald and scarred pate. “Didn’t want to scare the guests quite yet, miss. And I’ll bet you say that to all the bellhops.”
“The ones I have to dispose of later, yes. Are you volunteering?” Lucita sat herself down in a large chair by the sliding door to the balcony, leaving her “guest” to scramble for someplace to sit. It occurred to Lucita too late that the creature might sit on her bed and befoul it, but it was inconsequential.
“No. Not at all. And I’m not Schreck. I just work for him.” The ersatz bellhop flopped down cross-legged on the floor. “I am, however, empowered to negotiate for him.”
“That’s good to know. So, how long were you waiting in the elevator for me?”
The Nosferatu was unabashed. “About an hour. Spent entirely too much time using the old heebie-jeebies to scare kine out of it to make sure I wouldn’t miss you.” He paused for a second and blinked. “Just to satisfy my professional curiosity, how did you know?
Elevators at rest for that long generally don’t have their doors wide open, for one thing. The muddy prints on the carpet were another clue. And then there’s the smell. You’re going to have to get better at this if you expect to survive.”
The other vampire rubbed his lumpy chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. Hadn’t thought of the door angle, and I stashed the cart up here to keep the cage clear. You’d be surprised how many times people ignore the other stuff, however. In any case,” and he cleared his throat, “I’m here to talk business. I just thought you might appreciate the courtesy of a personal elevator.” He grinned horrifically. “It’s the little things that help close a deal, after all.”
Lucita made a graceful gesture with her offhand. “Of course. But you’re not here to play cage operator for me. What does Mr. Schreck have to offer?”
“Six million American, a copy of two pages of the Sargon Fragment, all the resources you need, the best protection from reprisal he can offer, transportation in the form of both air transit at your convenience and a vehicle of your choosing, incidentals, expenses, equipment and other sundries that are on the balance sheet but aren’t worth mentioning here, and, if I read the fine print properly, a hundred free hours on AOL. The last is, of course, negotiable.”
The only sign that Lucita was even vaguely interested was a slight lift of her right eyebrow. “The Sargon Fragment? Interesting. Mr. Schreck is certainly emphatic about wanting me to take this assignment. What does he want me to do?”
The Nosferatu shrugged. “What you do best. Return a few people to the sort of state dead people should naturally be in.”
“People?”
“Our kind of people.”
“Ah. Of course. Still, Mr. Schreck seems to be willing to spare no expense. Dare I ask what the catch is?”
To his credit, the Nosferatu declined to be ingenuous and ask what Lucita could possibly mean. “Mr. Schreck felt that a sufficiently large offer would impress you as to his seriousness and eliminate so much of that, and I quote here, ‘troublesome haggling’ that he finds distasteful.”
Lucita stood up and began pacing. “A marvelous answer, and one that avoids the question completely. So what is the catch?”
“Time pressure, for one thing. The quality of the targets, for another.”
“The fee isn’t quite as impressive for multiple targets.”
“Mr. Schreck is aware of your usual rates, and also notes that the offer is not strictly limited to cash. He also thinks that you may enjoy one or two of these assignments.”
Lucita whirled and faced the Nosferatu. Part of her noted that he was clever; deliberately sitting cross-legged in an indefensible spot was about as good a job as a Kindred was likely to do of saying “I’m harmless.” He’d also chosen the floor, not the bed or anyplace else that she was likely to use, and hadn’t commented on the mirrors. All in all, he was well above the usual cut of messenger she dealt with, and as such, she found herself at least willing to listen to the meat of his pitch.
“Who?”
“Four targets. One archbishop, worth $3.4 million and the text. Another higher-up, whom I understand you may have met once. Two lesser warleaders who show some potential. They’re worth a half a million each. We just need them done fast.”
“For shame. You should never let your artists know that they have pressure on a deadline, little Nosferatu. You should also learn to use euphemisms better. Someone listening in, say, with a directional microphone might well pick all of this up and find a use for the information.”
The Nosferatu shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Actually, I have a friend on the roof keeping the pigeons stirred up right outside your window. Should give anyone on a directional fits, and mess with microwave eavesdropping as well. You’d be amazed at how effective a wall of feathers is for that sort of thing. But I will take your advice to heart, and I thank you for it. Now, are you interested?”
Lucita pursed her lips. “Of course I am. But I’m not going to commit immediately. I’d like a bit more information, so that I might make an informed decision.”
Inside, Lucita had already made her choice. The Sargon Fragment was something she’d been chasing for a very long time, and the opportunity to obtain even two more pages of it was not one she could lightly pass up. Besides, she was already contracted to deal with one archbishop; what was one more? And no prey short of an archbishop really concerned her. The fees for at least three of the four would be found money—but it never hurt to know more.
In response, the Nosferatu stood, his hands held palm outwards to emphasize the fact that he was no threat. He took two steps over to where the forgotten dinner trolley stood and
lifted the lid from the metal tray that normally would have housed whatever delicacy the kitchen had produced. Instead, underneath were a number of folders, bound together with thick rubber bands. He lifted the tray and placed it on the bed. “All that you’ll need is here, including terms for payment, what resources Mr. Schreck has placed at your disposal, and timetables on known enemy movements. Take a few hours. Read it over. If you decide you’re interested, come on down to the lobby and sit in the chair opposite the elevators. Someone will come along to guide you to a place where you can meet with my superiors. The identification sign is simple: My man will ask you if perchance you read the latest Blackwood’s. Seeing as the magazine’s been gone for decades, it’s not the sort of thing that’s liable to get stumbled into.”
Lucita frowned. “I would prefer another position. That chair faces some—decorations—that make my state rather obvious.”
The Nosferatu chuckled. “We need our bonafides as well, Miss Lucita. Don’t worry, we’ll collect you fast. Incidentally, there’s a decanter of lunch on the second level of the cart for you if you want it. Mr. Schreck likes to make people comfortable.” He put the container on the dresser, bowed, and said, “Now, if you will excuse me?”
“Certainly.” Lucita waved him out the door with the cart even as he shimmered back into his disguise. Her attention was already on the folders.
Suddenly, her so-called plate was very full indeed.
Thursday, 29 July 1999, 11:08 PM
Sub-basement, the Wesleyan Building
Baltimore, Maryland
Contrary to what one might expect, the meeting was not in a sewer. It was, however, in a sub-basement that contained a leaky pipe, so the concrete floor was liberally spattered in puddles. Lucita assumed that this was so that her hosts could keep track of her movements by the sounds she made. Either that, or they were aware of the tricks she’d picked up from Fatima and were just playing to their own stereotype. Her guide had led her down here, cautioned her to wait, and vanished. Lucita probably could have tracked the man, but decided to play by the client’s rules. To do otherwise would be rude.
Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 6