Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Richard E. Dansky

  Theo sighed theatrically. He was good for one more round of Mr. Nice Vampire, and then Lladislas was getting hauled out of here like the half-full sack of shit he was. “Prince Lladislas. For the last time, the Camarilla knows and values your service, and thinks very highly of the job you have done. That is why we are evacuating you and your subjects, instead of leaving you here for the Sabbat to use as a fucking piñata. Now, if you want to stay, you’re more than welcome to, and when we come back and liberate the place I’ll be sure to put up a nice little stone monument right over the greasy spot on the goddamned floor that would be all that we could find of you. Do I make myself clear? When the Sabbat shows up, you do not stand a chance against the sort of force that got brought to bear on Atlanta. Now you get your people together, you move them out, and you do it quietly.”

  Okay, Theo thought to himself. Maybe he wasn’t feeling that nice after all.

  Lladislas just sat there, wide-eyed. He opened and closed his mouth several times without saying anything. Clearly the man was on the verge of some sort of episode.

  “No argument?” said Bell. “I like that in a prince. I’m going to scout around and get a good lay of the land. When I get back, we can talk about how we’re going to handle logistics and what defenses you will leave behind. Oh, and for the love of God, get a better suit.”

  Lladislas was still gaping when Theo walked away into the night.

  Some hours later, Bell found Lladislas at church, of all places. Specifically, the prince was outside St. Paul’s Episcopal Cathedral, looking up at the edifice with a sad smile. Inside, a single light shone; a janitor making early-morning rounds, no doubt.

  “I’m going to miss this place, Bell,” Lladislas said without turning. “They built it while I was a boy. I remember everyone being so excited, one way or another. It meant work for a lot of men. It meant a lot of things. That was a hell of a long time ago, though. Wish it still meant anything at all.”

  “Saying goodbyes?” Bell was always vaguely uncomfortable with moments of sentimentality like this; he figured that once you were dead, you shouldn’t care quite so much. On the other hand, Lladislas’s wistfulness over a church was positively petty compared to some of the manias he’d seen in Europe. It balanced out, he decided. It all balanced out.

  The prince gave a laugh that had no humor in it. “More or less. It’s either that or get my dander up, call you a prick, and let my temper paint me into a corner so that I have to stay and get myself killed all over again. Oh, you’re right. We do need to leave. But don’t expect me to be happy about it.”

  Bell walked down to the corner of Church and watched the evening’s light mist make a halo around the streetlights. Cars zipped past intermittently, few even slowing down because of the slick streets. “No one expects you to be happy, Lladislas, except for a couple of the real thumbdicks on the council who no doubt will want you to kiss their boots because they noticed your little problem and sent me to fix it.” Lladislas grinned a crooked grin and looked over at the archon, who stood silhouetted by the light behind him. “They can be a bunch of right bastards, can’t they?” Bell nodded assent. “But they’re right this time. I’ve got eight, maybe nine Kindred who amount to anything here, plus about forty ghouls. We’d make a fight of it, but we just don’t have numbers. Hell, there wouldn’t even be anyone left to let the next city know we’d made a last stand.” He spat blood into a sewer grate. “We have to go.”

  Bell stretched, the occasional popping noise from his back evidence that he’d been on his feet far too long. “I know. Believe it or not, I’m sorry. You did a good job here.”

  “Not good enough.”

  Theo rolled his eyes. “Stop with the self-pity bullshit—you sound like one of the clove-and-cape neonates. Let’s talk about how we’re going to get your people out of here.”

  “Already taken care of.” The prince’s tone was noticeably flat. “Like you suggested, we’re going to have a couple of our youngest Kindred Embracing a small flock of gullible idiots who will fight to hold the city as a screen against our departure. The valuable ghouls are going to be evacuated. We’ve already started arranging transfers, job offers in other cities, relocations, visiting positions and the like. One of my bodyguards insists on staying behind. His name’s Haraszty, and he’s going to be coordinating the defenses, such as they are.”

  “Stubborn. Not a good quality in a ghoul.” Lladislas nodded. “Nearly a fanatic. Channels it into sports, most of the time—I’ve caught him on TV during Bills games. He’s one of the idiots who likes to paint himself blue. But he’s a hell of a shot.” The prince started strolling up Pearl Street. After a moment, the archon followed him. They made an odd pair, the prince preternaturally pale and formally garbed, while his companion was as dark-skinned as the Kindred condition allowed, dressed in a loose-fitting jacket over a red T-shirt and jeans. The archon had a massive pistol in a shoulder holster and a smaller one strapped to his leg, and both occasionally caught the light from the sickly globes atop the lampposts. The guns didn’t do much against Kindred, but they did make meaty chunks out of most ghouls, even Tzimisce war ghouls.

  Lladislas was unarmed. He was still prince here, after all.

  “Any idea of when they’ll get here?” he asked.

  Bell nodded, though in truth he had no idea. Hopefully never, but ‘hopefully’ had a way of turning ugly real fast, so Theo figured it was just as well to get things set up as quickly as possible. “A week at most. We’ve drawn the line at the Beltway, more or less, so they’re stuck there. That means they’ve started swinging around to the west—through Wheeling, up past Pittsburgh and then on to here.”

  “And how much territory are we going to give them?”

  They passed street lamps, mailboxes, parked cars. Nothing disturbed them. In the distance, an overachieving songbird let loose with the first frail notes of the day. Bell hesitated before answering. “That’s up to the council. It’s the usual backstabbing bullshit in there. That’s why I like being in the field. It’s cleaner.” He suddenly grinned. “I’d give my right nut to have Parma over here, or one of the real heavy hitters from Europe. Or maybe my boss could just get off his ass and get out here before the roof caves in.” The two shared a laugh at that. They walked on past the district courthouse, the run-down convention center looming on their right.

  “Is it such a good idea to keep giving ground?”

  Bell thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. Look at it this way: As things stand, we have a lot of territory to cover. That means we get spread thin on the ground. Say we’ve got a hundred Kindred over a thousand square miles, and ten cities in it we have to defend. That’s ten Kindred per city, right? So let’s say the Sabbat rolls in with fifty Kindred. Now, if we had all of our guys in one place, we could take them, right? We’d outnumber them two to one, and that would be that. But instead, we’ve got this ten-ten-ten thing going, which means that instead we have a whole lot of fifty-on-ten rumbles. And, since we’re so badly outnumbered in each fight, they don’t take diddly in the way of casualties. So we lose all hundred of our people, all ten cities and all of the territory.

  “Now, instead, what we’re doing is taking all our guys, pulling them back to the far border of that thousand-mile box, and planting them in two cities. Sure, we lose some turf, but now the Sabbat’s got a choice of fair fights. Even better, if they hit one city with everything they’ve got—which at that point becomes the only chance they have—we can pull half the Kindred out of the other city and put a shiv right into their collective kidney.”

  Lladislas nodded. “Solid.”

  “It had better be solid, damnit. It’s the only plan we’ve got, and if it goes belly-up, ain’t nobody worrying about being prince of nowhere. There won’t be anyplace left to be prince of. Not on the East Coast.” Lladislas gave a bark of laughter. “Hell, Theo, there’s going to be no place for me to be prince of when this shakes down anyway. You think they’re going to let me come back? Fi
ve will get you ten they hand over my city to some snot-nosed brat of a Ventrue ‘as a reward for services rendered,’ and I’m out on my ass.”

  “I can’t promise anything, Lladislas, but I’ll put in my word for you. But that’s tomorrow, if ever. We’ve got more important things to handle, like the evac.

  True. Any thoughts?”

  “A few. When you start bringing neonates over to soak up bullets, make sure they’re fourteenth generation, thirteenth at best. I know it’s tempting to do the job yourself, but you leave your childe behind, some Sabbat asshole’s going to turn him into his personal six-pack and we’ve given aid and comfort to the enemy. No sense letting them have more to munch on than they catch themselves. Hmm. Another point. Keep the cannon fodder Brujah or Nossie. Anyone else, and someone’s going to scream like babies with a load on about unfair representation, too many Tremere and shit like that. I hear it out of New York all the time, where the prince has them ass-deep in baby Ventrue. But our kind, they make the best fighters right out of the box and you don’t have to deal with Gangrel noble-loner bullshit to produce them. And Nossies, well, no one cares how many Nosferatu you make; they don’t play politics where the lights shine, so the Elysium crowd can pretend they ain’t real.”

  The Prince of Buffalo snorted in amusement. “Beautiful. And so true!”

  Bell grinned back at him. “Ain’t it? We’re fighting for our lives here, but the Ventrue and Tremere still have to piss on each others’ shoes every chance they get, and all the Toreador want to do is critique the color of the stream.”

  Lladislas abruptly sobered. “Pathetic, isn’t it?” Bell nodded. “Pathetic indeed.” He looked at his watch. “Damn. Getting early. Got a lot of work to do before the shit hits the fan. You have a ride?”

  Lladislas nodded as the sleek black limo which had been discreetly pacing them rolled up to the curb. “Always. Rank still hath its privileges.”

  The car stopped and the driver, a heavyset man with a thick, bristling mustache, came around to curbside to open the door. Lladislas waved him off. He opened the door himself, gestured Bell inside, and climbed in after. With a minimum of fuss, the car rolled off toward Lladislas’s favorite haven. In the east, the sky promised the first hints of dawn. To the west, there were clouds and a hint of thunder.

  Tuesday, 10 August 1999, 12:22 AM

  Interstate 270

  Near Garrett Park, Maryland

  MacEllen was not the sort of vampire who admitted to having any friends. That worked both ways, as not many vampires would have admitted to liking MacEllen. The ductus was feared, yes, and even grudgingly respected for his ability to win more fights than he lost, but even among the antisocial Cainites of the Sabbat he was regarded as a serious pain in the ass.

  MacEllen did, however, have a real and serious affection for one member of his current pack, a Brujah antitribu named Tolliver. Tolliver was about five and a half feet tall and nearly that wide, and was built like a concrete sea wall. He didn’t speak much, but when he did he got to the point as quickly as possible: Fully half his conversation was devoted to telling other pack members who were yammering to shut the hell up. In a fight, he was just as direct, dealing with whatever came at him with a combination of equanimity and brutality.

  The latter was why MacEllen liked him so much, truth be told. MacEllen’s temper was, to put it mildly, explosive, and he lost it on a regular basis. Indeed, “lack of self-discipline” was the reason given to him when he was passed over for admittance to the councils of Les Amies Noir; he was told that he simply couldn’t be relied upon to keep his calm at moments when control was necessary.

  He’d responded by doing his level best to wreck his sire’s study, and it was something of a miracle that he hadn’t been terminated on the spot. Still, MacEllen’s notorious temper haunted him and all his doings, and it especially tainted his dealings with other vampires who knew enough to take advantage of it.

  Tolliver, too, had the sort of temper that got talked about in whispers by those who didn’t want their arms ripped off and then snapped in half. This was the common element that brought the two vampires, the blustering Lasombra and the sullen Brujah antitribu, together as friends. On this level they understood one another in a way that even their packmates never could quite grasp. Each had talked— or held—the other down from ruinous frenzy; each had seen the other go berserk in battle, and viscerally understood what the other was feeling.

  And that was why MacEllen had decided to abandon Tolliver at a rest stop just north of Washington.

  On one level, MacEllen conceded as he steered the pack’s van along at what he considered a sedate pace, it was idiotic to weaken his force like this on the eve of battle. After all, the fighting was likely to be bloody and desperate, and Tolliver was the best that he had. On the other hand, if the gig was a trap—and MacEllen was damn sure it was—he didn’t want Tolliver going down with him. It was cutting his own throat, he knew, but something told him he had to do it.

  So, for the sake of his friend, MacEllen had spent the last night plotting ways to cold-cock the son of a bitch once he found a convenient place to leave him. He thought he had something good worked out, but the damn thing had better work or he’d have one pissed-off Tolliver coming after his ass, and God alone knew which way the rest of the pack would jump if that happened.

  A sign on the right announced gas, food, restrooms and hopefully someone to eat two miles ahead. MacEllen bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, then announced that he was going to be pulling over for gas. There was the expected chorus of groans and cheers from the back; MacEllen didn’t bother warning them not to be sloppy if they fed. It was pointless to do so.

  “You’ve still got half a tank.” Tolliver peered in from his position riding shotgun, a quizzical look on his face. His weapon of choice, a military-style automatic shotgun, was cradled between his knees. “Why are we pulling in now?”

  MacEllen grunted in response and dropped the van over two lanes, nearly causing an accident in the process. “It’s a hell of a long way to the next one. If something goes bugshit, I’d rather have a full tank available for making a run with.” It was feeble, MacEllen knew, but rather than argue, Tolliver just made a noise that conveyed both disbelief and resignation, and looked out the window.

  At this hour of the night, the rest stop was thankfully nearly deserted. A few cars were scattered in the lot, while eighteen-wheelers snored noisily further out. A lone attendant sat, bored, in the booth at the center of the gas station, while the lights in the nearby office were out. With expert skill, the ductus wheeled the van in and coasted to a stop. “Right, everyone out. Stretch your legs and don’t make too much of a mess.” Doors slammed opened and vampires poured out, loping across the tarmac and fanning out in the search for prey. MacEllen got out himself and watched them go with a surprising jolt of satisfaction.

  Walking around to the other side of the van, he was pleased to see that Tolliver had not gone. Instead, the Brujah was squatting on his haunches outside the van, fingers laced behind his head.

  “So what’s this all about really? Just wanted them out for a minute?” Tolliver’s tone indicated that he didn’t believe a word of it. Head down, MacEllen began the laborious process of filling the van’s tank.

  “I wanted them away so we could talk. I don’t mind telling you, Victor, this whole thing stinks.”

  Tolliver nodded and stood. “So it does. Smells like a trap. What’s your plan?”

  “Figure out what the trap is. Figure out who it’s supposed to close on.” With a hiss and a click, the flow of gas ceased. MacEllen yanked the nozzle out and stared pointedly at the readout on the pump. “Fuck. Twenty-three dollars for a lousy half tank?”

  Tolliver ignored the digression. “And then what?”

  “And then I get your ass out of the line of fire.” With that, MacEllen brought the nozzle up with all the strength he could muster by channeling the power of his vitae, and cracked Tolliver underneath the jaw.
The impact was enough to shatter bone and lift the vampire entirely off his feet. Tolliver landed fifteen feet down the concrete, his skull hitting the ground with an audible thump that made even MacEllen wince.

  Cautiously, the ductus let the hose drop and stepped over to where Tolliver lay; if the Brujah were still conscious, everything would go to hell rapidly.

  A smear of blood marked the spot on the concrete where Tolliver had hit; he seemed to be out cold. MacEllen looked back over his shoulder and didn’t see the rest of the pack. Perfect.

  With a grunt, he hoisted the antitribu over his shoulder and trotted over to one of the massive dumpsters. Almost effortlessly, MacEllen heaved his friend inside. The accommodations would stink, but they’d provide protection from sunlight until Tolliver was in shape to take care of himself.

  Without so much as a good-bye, MacEllen jogged back over to the van. The others would have questions, of course, but he’d tell them that Tolliver was on special assignment or something. They’d bitch and moan and half-disbelieve, but they wouldn’t argue. Adele could take over Tolliver’s duties, and it would all work out. Somehow, it would all work out.

  Tuesday, 10 August 1999, 10:14 PM

  Guaranty Building

  Buffalo, New York

  “I can’t do this, Lladislas. There is no way, no way in hell I can do this.”

  The speaker had one of the all-time great cauliflower noses, and that was his best feature. His skin was the color of a wet paper bag, except for the warty protrusions on his bald pate. Those were an impossible shade of green. His eyes were piggish and small, tucked into deep sockets and hidden by wrinkled skin. On his chin was a scraggly tuft of something that might once have been a beard, but now just served to hide a scabby wound that never quite seemed to heal. He wore a wide-lapelled blue coat over the ruin of what had been a perfectly good set of overalls and work shirt. Only his boots, knee-high and polished black, looked new. His name was Tomasz; he was the Nosferatu representative on Lladislas’s primogen council; and he was profoundly displeased.