Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Richard E. Dansky

  The room itself was pitch black. She’d dealt with this Nosferatu before, however, and was reasonably confident in his sincere interest in keeping her alive. Still, it was always worth being cautious. She stepped forward.

  “Schreck?”

  The voice that answered her was rough and low, but unmistakably that of a woman. “Mr. Schreck was unavoidably detained, and sends his regrets. He does, however, want you to know that a quarter of your fee has already been wired to your account in the Caymans, per your standard instructions, as an earnest of his good will. If necessary, I can provide proof of that.”

  “I trust Mr. Schreck, though I must say I am disappointed in him.”

  There was a pause. “Mr. Schreck is a busy man. However, I have his full confidence and authority.”

  Lucita laughed. “So did the bellhop. Mr. Schreck is quite free with that.”

  The reply was a trifle strained, and Lucita knew she’d won a point. “Mr. Schreck trusts his valued subordinates. Now, business?”

  “Business. Of course. So your Mr. Schreck wants an archbishop? It’s quite a task.”

  “Yes, we want a particular archbishop, though if you decide to get greedy and take down multiples we won’t be too terribly upset.”

  “You don’t aim small, do you?”

  “We aim for the necessary targets, regardless of size. Is the price acceptable?”

  “For all four? Barely.”

  “It’s more than you were paid for the last six combined, Lucita. Plus, I believe at least one of the four is someone you were considering putting out of his misery gratis.”

  “True enough. Excellent dossiers, incidentally.

  Thank you. We take pride in that sort of thing. Rumor has it we’re good at it, you know.”

  “Rumor does indeed. Anything else?”

  “A few. We’ve arranged transportation that we hope will be to your liking, and it’s waiting for you outside the entrance you came in. The paperwork has, of course, been taken care of. It’s yours now. Your guide is waiting outside this chamber, and will lead you there with due speed. When we receive more information on your targets’ whereabouts and circumstances, you can rest assured that we will pass it along to you.

  Time frame on the first kill?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Lucita frowned. “That’s rather vague, and a bit sudden.”

  Her opposite number laughed bitterly. “Believe me, we would rather have given you more lead time ourselves, but circumstances have changed very suddenly. Great things are afoot; every Sabbat war leader who’s gone tonight is an offensive we don’t have to counter tomorrow. And every pack priest who’s looking into the shadows for you isn’t keeping his mind on his job. That buys us time. Buy us enough, and you will find our appreciation made tangible.”

  “With this kind of time frame, I can make no promises.” Somewhere off in the dark, a rat splashed through shallow water.

  “Godspeed and good hunting, Lucita.”

  “You sound like my sire when you say that. It doesn’t inspire confidence.”

  There was a quiet chuckle from the far side of the room. “We all make mistakes.” Then came the sound of receding footfalls on wet concrete, and Lucita was alone in the dark once again.

  She waited until the room was absolutely silent, and then retraced her steps. True to Schreck’s representative’s words, her erstwhile guide was waiting outside the door to the chamber, and graciously conducted her through a maze of tunnels and pitch-black corridors. Lucita felt that she probably could find her way back unaided, but accepted the assistance in the spirit in which it was offered.

  After an interminable half hour of travel, the pair emerged at a fire door. The Nosferatu opened it for Lucita, then vanished back into the darkness. Outside on the city street sat a car that was clearly intended for her; there was no other reason she could conceive of for a BMW 325i to be parked there in particular. The keys were inside and the doors were locked, but that was no difficulty. She merely exercised her will on a patch of shadow in the coupe’s interior. It snaked up and unlocked the door, then unlatched it and pushed it open. Lucita slid in and shut the door behind her. On the passenger seat was another folder, with a legend written in black Magic Marker. She ignored it; it would be her bedtime reading. A quick check of the glove compartment revealed a thick wad of bills labeled “For expenses.”

  Lucita took a second to reflect on the situation. It was not what she would have chosen, but it was what she had to work with. The pay was certainly good enough, and the client sounded desperate enough that she could no doubt extract additional concessions. All in all, it was far from unworkable.

  The dashboard chronometer read 12:34-She had plenty of time to read the additional briefing material before the sun rose. Her employer had even been so kind as to provide two sorts of audio selections: briefings on all of her targets, and an extensive selection of classical music. She slid one of the former discs (home-burned and lettered in the same hand as the folder) into the player and started the car.

  Friday, 30 July 1999, 12:53 AM

  Sub-basement, the Wesleyan Building

  Baltimore, Maryland

  “A basement?” Banks of fluorescent lights flickered into life as the elevator shuddered to a halt and its doors opened. Jan Pieterzoon, scion of a noble Ventrue bloodline and survivor of a botched Sabbat assassination attempt almost two weeks prior, stepped out blinking in the sudden harsh light, and found himself squarely in the middle of a puddle of stagnant water. Beside him, his Nosferatu guide clucked concernedly.

  “Actually, a sub-basement, Herr Pieterzoon. It’s the sort of thing that’s expected of our business operations, I’m afraid.” The speaker was a short, squat Nosferatu whom Pieterzoon thought was a woman, though truth be told he couldn’t be sure. “The water on the floor adds the required touch of sewer chic that people seem to demand when dealing with our little consortium. Really, it’s a pity Monsieur Rafin isn’t here; he gives a wonderful performance.”

  “Yes, yes. Wonderful. But a sub-basement?”

  The Nosferatu shrugged. “It’s secure, it’s as defensible as your kid sister’s virtue and it helps us get the second party to relax because she’s dealing with ‘typical’ Nosferatu. They think they know what they’re working with, they relax. And they don’t think to look for toys like the swivel-mounted guns with overlapping fields of fire that Nigel controls. That’s the guy over there behind the one-way glass on the south wall; he’s a video game freak with fast-twitch like you would not believe. The slugs are birdshot suspended in Teflon with a steel jacket—same effect as opening the chest cavity up, pointing a shotgun full of #10 at the sternum, and pulling the trigger. Even your basic badass war ghoul tends to slow down when he’s got holes in him the size of hubcaps.

  Ah. Very clever.” Pieterzoon explored the confines of the mostly bare room, taking care not to step in the puddles. “Is that the only precaution?”

  Pieterzoon’s guide chuckled with a sound that Jan instinctively associated with the terminal stages of consumption. “Well, no. But I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.”

  The Ventrue closed his eyes and prayed for strength. He simply did not have time for this sort of thing, not with the Sabbat ravening up the coast like the plague given flesh. He had a great many things to attend to, and smart-alecky Nosferatu were nowhere on the list. “Wonderful,” he managed at last. “So did the meeting at least go well?”

  “Oh, perfect,” the Nosferatu said breezily. “She waltzed in, gave verbal agreement to the deal, admitted to having read the packets that Claude had left with her, and went off to do her thing. Apparently she found the information satisfactory, though she was a little cranky about the time frame.”

  “Ahem. Yes, well, can’t be helped. We simply don’t have enough forces in the field at the moment—where is Parma when you need him? It’s not like we couldn’t use another strategist here—to do things any other way.

  Whatever.”
The hideous creature shrugged, or did something approximate. “Don’t ask me; I’m scared of them all. But I can promise you this, Herr Pieterzoon: If they ever get down here, they’re not coming back out.” She (he was almost sure it was a “she”) smiled hideously and tapped the concrete wall with a misshapen finger. “We’re prepared.”

  Pieterzoon managed a wan smile. “Wonderful.”

  Saturday, 7 August 1999, 11:48 PM

  Lord Baltimore Inn

  Baltimore, Maryland

  It was a busy night for the vampires of the Camarilla, especially those privileged (or unlucky) enough to be in Baltimore, nerve center of the sect’s resistance to the Sabbat. Everywhere, Kindred and ghouls scurried about on tasks of greater or lesser importance. The threat from Gangrel Justicar Xaviar the previous evening that his clan would break with the sect was both a secret that could not be kept and a development that required no few adjustments to Camarilla strategy. Tucked away in his private suite, Jan Pieterzoon discussed new emergency tactics, as well as the other desperate plans already set in motion, with Marston Colchester, a Nosferatu ally.

  Throughout the rest of the city, the strengthening of defenses was proceeding even without the direct supervision of Theo Bell. The archon of Clan Brujah was on his way personally to attend to matters in Buffalo, the city most imperiled by the defection of the Gangrel. No Kindred was unaffected by the dire turn of events.

  In the midst of the frenzied preparations, one particular Kindred retired for the night, claiming a terrible headache. The others were very understanding, and allowed the Cainite to depart with only some more or less insincere wishes of good health trailing after.

  Once “home,” the vampire sat down and composed a brief letter on a remarkably expensive stationery, sketching out the entire Camarilla strategy for the defense of upstate New York, southern New England and so on. The sect’s strategists had decided after vociferous argument that there was no way that every city could be held. The best thing to do, they’d then agreed, would be to concentrate the remaining force available. That meant evacuating cities, most notably Buffalo, and leaving behind screens of newly Embraced Kindred and ghouls to give the appearance of a strong defense. With any luck (and a judicious sprinkling of public appearances by higher-ranking Kindred every once in a while), the bluff would hold long enough to delay the Sabbat offensive and tie up Sabbat resources. That would buy time for the Camarilla to retrench, rearm, and eventually, retake its lost territory.

  Beyond that, the letter contained some inconsequential details about Pieterzoon’s latest malapropism, and was signed “Lucius.” The Cainite folded it, slipped it into an envelope and sealed it, scribbling “Sascha” on the outside. Such careless informality would infuriate its intended recipient. That sort of thing carried entirely too much enjoyment these nights.

  All in all, the traitor reflected, the Camarilla had come up with a good plan. It might have done some of what it was supposed—if its details were not to be handed over to the enemy within hours of its conception. The vampire concentrated for a second, reaching out to summon a secure courier. The other would arrive in a matter of minutes, and would then take the letter off to Washington. There, it would no doubt have some very interesting effects on the Sabbat battle plan for Buffalo.

  The Kindred, fiddling absently with the outstretched wings of a lapel pin, sat back in the chair and pondered the upcoming carnage with some satisfaction.

  Sunday, 8 August 1999, 4:13 AM

  Hyatt Regency Capitol Hill

  Washington, D.C.

  Polonia hated parking garages. They were noisy, smelly, crowded, aesthetically displeasing and generally wet with noisome spills. On a more practical note, they were lit in a fashion that made it almost impossible to seize on useful shadows; they generated echoes that made judging distances by sound impossible; and they gave all sorts of idiots the notion that they’d make wonderful locations for ambushes. Polonia himself had been assaulted, not once, not twice, but three times in the past year alone by enterprising young Cainites. None of the attacks had come within shouting distance of success, but the affairs still left a bad taste in the archbishop’s mouth.

  Thus it was with some distaste, though no real trepidation, that Polonia stepped out of the elevator into the parking garage below the hotel. Thankfully, this level was mostly deserted. Only a few scattered cars were parked here and there, while across the way from the elevator doors was the van that MacEllen and his pack were engaged in loading. Cases, suspiciously bulging wrapped bundles, and various firearms were arranged in a semicircle around the van’s back doors, while MacEllen and a short, heavyset vampire with a bowl cut and arms like lead pipes loaded various items with surprising care.

  Briefly, Polonia considered walking over to where the others were, but he decided against it. MacEllen was just mad enough to risk doing something stupid, and in any case, it would be beneath his dignity. Let the man come to him.

  It didn’t take long for one of the other Cainites lounging around the van to spot Polonia as he stood, arms crossed, waiting by the elevator. A piercing whistle got all of his comrades’ attention, including MacEllen’s. The big man stared across the lot with undisguised hatred in his eyes, then began to lope across the expanse of concrete. A couple of the others drifted after him.

  Polonia permitted himself the luxury of a smile. “I have orders for you,” he said, when MacEllen had gotten close enough to hear. “Important ones.” MacEllen spat. “Fucking great. What, are we being ordered to ride behind the rest of the army with a broom and a shovel now? Is that it?”

  “On the contrary, the operation is yours. All of it.”

  For a moment, MacEllen was speechless, then hard suspicion masked his features. “This has got to be a setup. Why the change?”

  “New information.” Polonia reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small bundle of neatly folded sheets of paper. “This is for you. It details the operation, your objectives and your resources. You’ll be getting another pack under your command, Einar’s, and you’ll be in charge of the assault on Buffalo.

  With two packs?” MacEllen was aghast. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “As I said,” responded Polonia coolly, “there is new information. Buffalo is your target; it will be only lightly defended. The Camarilla is withdrawing all but a token resistance force. All that you will encounter will be newly made vampires who have no notion of their potential, and the occasional ghoul. You should have no difficulty.”

  “Where did this information come from, Vykos’s mole?”

  “From the best of sources. The answers to all of your other questions,” and he proffered the packet of papers, “are in here.” Wordlessly, MacEllen took the bundle and tore it open. The others crowded around for over-the-shoulder glimpses. Polonia ignored them, and quietly reached behind himself to press the button to summon the elevator.

  “You will have total autonomy in the field, MacEllen. I expect a complete and rapid success, considering the caliber of opposition you will be facing. If you fail, don’t bother coming back. I’ll find you to discuss your performance.”

  Right on cue, the elevator doors opened. Polonia turned on his heel and stepped into the car; the closing doors obscured him within seconds.

  MacEllen watched him go with a mixture of hatred and fear. All around him, his pack members whooped and cheered as word spread from each to each that they’d be heading the Buffalo strike. But MacEllen wasn’t so sure this was a good thing.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, mostly to himself. “It’s a setup. It’s got to be.” In his mind’s eye he could see the arrangement: Forge new “intelligence,” pick out the pack ductus who’s getting a little too noisy and dangerous, hand him the news, and bundle him off to get chewed up by a meat grinder. The rest of his pack, and Einar’s, too, would be sacrificed just to get rid of him. Vykos probably didn’t even have a real spy.

  But the only way out of the trap, he realized, would be to go straight into it
and try to get out the other side. He couldn’t run, or he’d have both sects after his balls. Hell, half his pack would probably jump his ass if he suggested cutting out now, just for the chance to be his replacement. No, he’d have to dive into whatever was waiting and kick its ass. Jaw set with grim determination, he turned back to the business of loading the van, a bit more carefully than before.

  Monday, 9 August 1999, 1:34 AM

  Guaranty Building

  Buffalo, New York

  “So I have to abandon the city?” Lladislas, Prince of Buffalo, Niagara and the surrounding regions, was mildly displeased. “One hundred and sixteen years of keeping this place free from Sabbat, breaches of the Masquerade, lupine incursions and the Canadian dollar, and now I simply fold my tent and leave my home? Bell, you’re coming dangerously close to overstepping your bounds here.” Lladislas was a man of medium build, with short-cropped, sandy blonde hair that hadn’t made up its mind how it felt about a widow’s peak. He wore a suit that looked like it came off the rack at Marshall’s, and which clearly wasn’t big enough in the shoulders. Still, he was prince, and he had actually done a much better than average job of keeping his domain operating smoothly.

  And that, in a nutshell, was why Theo Bell hadn’t clocked him one yet. Besides, Lladislas was Brujah, and Brujah princes were rare enough that Theo didn’t particularly want to lose this one. Lladislas had come up from the meat-packing plants, a Civil War veteran and early labor organizer. He’d risen to the post of prince with meteoric swiftness, first as the compromise candidate of a hopelessly deadlocked primogen council, and then through his own strength.

  In short, Lladislas was a tough guy and a good soldier, and Bell really did hate to take his city away from him. That’s why he was being polite. It was up to him, Theo Bell, designated asshole and bearer of bad news for the whole goddamned Camarilla, to get Lladislas, his primogen, childer, hangers-on, and personal possessions out of the city. If all went according to plan, Buffalo would in fact remain undisturbed, and Lladislas’s forces would be used more effectively elsewhere. Of course, Lladislas was not about to leave quietly for an assault that “might” be coming, so Theo was prepared to fudge a bit, or more if necessary, in stressing the imminence of attack.