Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Richard E. Dansky

  Lucita walked out of the shadows like Venus rising from the waves at Cyprus. The darkness flowed off her, leaving her facing her prey alone. She wore her usual working clothes, and her hair was tied back with a simple black leather cord. There was a broad-bladed knife in her left hand, but her right hand was free. “I’m disappointed in you, Munro. The briefing my client provided said you’d be difficult to deal with, yet here I find you, waiting for me. Tired of existence?”

  Munro chuckled for precisely two seconds, then cut himself off. “Hardly. Though I do confess to waiting for you. Have you been looking for me long?” His voice bore traces of a Scots burr, long since washed away by years away from his homeland.

  “Not terribly, no. In most things, my employer is quite accurate. In this case, he told me where I’d likely find you and when, what defenses I’d encounter, what the floor plan looked like and the likelihood that you’d be wearing that jacket. It has been,” and she nodded primly, “a most satisfactory professional arrangement.” The man in the chair blinked. “For a satisfactory professional arrangement, you’re going to destroy me? That hardly seems fair.”

  Lucita waggled a finger. “Of course not. I am going to destroy you because I’ve been paid a great deal of money, as well as certain other considerations, to do so. The fact that I think you’re ridiculous, and that my employer is wasting his money by having me do this, is entirely beside the point. You never should have strayed, antitribu. The Sabbat doesn’t suit you.” Munro deliberately crossed his legs but made no other motion. “Until tonight, I was happy with the choice.” He tugged at the creaky leather of his sleeve. “The wardrobe is a small sacrifice.”

  “A poor one to make. You look like a clown, Munro.” Lucita began tossing the knife in the air and catching it with her off hand. The fifth time she did this, the knife never came down. She didn’t seem to notice. “It matters not, though. Your story ends here. I will let you pray for a minute, if you wish. You were wee kirk, yes? My sire has spoken highly of your devotion.” Munro gave a tight smile. “Not necessary, I think. Besides, Lucita, I’m not quite ready to die yet. Are you?” He clapped his hands once.

  Nothing happened, save that Lucita finally decided to look up after her knife. It hung, suspended in midair, with its blade reflecting the moonlight into a diamond shape on the wooden floor. “Hmm?” she said. “Were you expecting someone?”

  Clearly angry, Munro clapped again. There was again no answer but silence. He leapt to his feet, knocking the chair over backwards with a loud clatter, and screamed, “God damn it, where are you? Get in here! She’s in here with me!”

  Lucita turned to him, her eyes wide with mock innocence. “Oh, don’t tell me. You are calling for those twenty men you had waiting outside, yes? The ones who were supposed to charge in here when I approached you and then overwhelm me by weight of numbers, yes?” Munro turned to her, his mouth hanging open in shock. “I’m terribly sorry, Munro. They had a little accident.” She paused and appeared to reconsider. “I must correct myself. The ten through that door,” and she pointed to her left, “had a terrible accident. The ten through that door,” and she swung her arm around to the right, “I killed. Now, does that clear everything up? I think the next step is for you to attack me in a blind rage, and for me to kill you. Then I leave, collect my payment and take a few nights off before preparing for my next target. Yes?”

  Munro glared at her with pure hatred for a moment, then turned and dove for the window. Lucita, surprised, was frozen for a full half second. Then she simply pointed at the fleeing vampire. The tendril of shadow that held the knife darted out and, with whiplike speed, slashed the back of Munro’s calves. He collapsed as the knife dropped to the floor. Lucita gave a cluck of disapproval, then walked over to where her prey writhed on the floor, still struggling to reach the window.

  “You disappoint me, Munro,” she said. “Showing your back to the enemy? A poor tactic, even for a fool like you.” She stooped to pick up the knife and, after considering her options, drove it through the man’s hand and into the floor underneath. “Now, what to do with you?”

  The bubbling noises coming from the floor might have been curses, or they might have been pleas. Lucita ignored them in either case, pondering. Finally, after a long minute, she leaned down close to Munro’s ear, and whispered. “Peter,” she said, “I want you to know something. It does not matter to me at all that you die now, save as a contract fulfilled with a minimum of fuss. I have been told that your death is necessary to limit the Sabbat’s ability to obtain certain firearms and other toys, but honestly, I do not care. What I do care about, little man, is this: You have wasted my evening with your posturing. You make a terrible villain. The role never suited you and you would have done better to stay where you were.” She dropped to her haunches. “You are also naive, and a coward, and I dislike both of those things intensely. That is why I am taking this moment to speak to you, rather than putting you out of your misery immediately.”

  With a snarl, Munro tore his hand free from the floor and clawed for her throat. Lucita danced out of the way, easily avoiding the strike. The knife clanked to the hardwood and Munro reached for it, but she kicked it away and it skittered to the far end of the room. He flipped himself and got to his knees, but as he did so she struck his nose with an open-fist punch. The man gurgled and nearly fell over backwards, fear in his eyes as Lucita took a step toward him. She raised her hand for another strike, and he toppled as it caught him in the throat.

  She stared down at him, disgusted by the ruin of his face. Blood ran everywhere, but it didn’t interest her in the least. Munro’s vitae, she was sure, would be as thin and distasteful as he himself was. “Good-bye, Peter,” she said softly. “I won’t play with you anymore.” Munro’s eyes, wild with terror and hatred, stared up at her as his ruined legs flopped desperately. He threw up an arm to defend himself, but she slapped it out of the way. Then, with slow deliberation, she cupped her hand below her mouth and blew him a kiss.

  Munro gaped. Nothing happened for a moment, and then she exhaled as if she were blowing out a candle.

  Munro’s face, for all intents and purposes, exploded. Lucita failed to blink as bits of it spattered on her legs, but she made a mental note to have these togs burned as soon as she could. Munro was precisely the sort of whiny soul who tended to linger as a ghost, and she intended to give him as few anchors for bothering her as possible. Without a second glance for what was left of her target, she walked to the door to her left and unbarred it. The carnage outside was, if possible, even more brutal than what she’d inflicted on Munro. Bits and pieces of hired thug and low-grade vampire were scattered across the room, from the curiously immaculate piano to the gore-spattered sofa. She ignored it all and kept walking, right to the kitchen and out. The stove was a massive cast-iron antique, squat and ominous. More importantly, however, it had four gas burners. Lucita turned each on in turn, then snuffed the pilot light with a breath. It was a pity to destroy such a lovely old house, she felt, but more of a pity to leave Munro’s corpse around to pollute the night.

  Two minutes later she was on the road to Hartford, dialing the contact number for her client to let the mysterious Mr. Schreck know that three of the four targets were dead, and that the last one’s nights were numbered.

  Sunday, 29 August 1999, 3:55 AM

  Hyatt Regency Capitol Hill

  Washington, D.C.

  “So what do you think?”

  “I think that if Lucita is after you,” said Talley carefully, “I am your only chance of getting out of this intact, Your Excellency. Mind you, I will bow to your expert analysis of the situation if you disagree, because you are an archbishop and I’m but a lowly templar. Never mind, of course, the fact that I’ve been doing this sort of thing for approximately six centuries and have acquired a certain familiarity with the ground rules of operations, while you were a by-blow of that ridiculous treaty signed in 18—”

  Archbishop Borges held up a meaty hand. “En
ough. Thank you. Yes, I trust your analysis. I’ve been given your services by the cardinal, and it seems prudent to make use of them. Now, what do you suggest I do about it?” he asked, levering himself out of his black leather desk chair and rising to his feet. Behind him, a screen saver busied itself in drawing pictures of plumbing across a monitor.

  “You know, of course,” said Talley as he began taking slow steps forward, “that the assassin I’m supposed to be guarding you from is Lucita.” Borges visibly paled at the mere mention of her name, and Talley’s grin bared his fangs for the first time since he’d arrived in America. “Ah. I see you’ve heard of her. She’s a lovely woman, extremely talented and one of the most skillful killers I’ve run across. Oh, did I mention that she’s the cardinal’s childe, and that he’s very, very fond of her? Yes, that’s right, Archbishop. Changes your assessment of the situation, doesn’t it?”

  Borges put a brave face on things. “Bah,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m aware of Lucita’s lineage—who is not? The childe does not always follow the sire’s path, else we’d still be skulking around Lasombra’s castle in Sicily waiting for Montano to fetch us peasants for dinner. Is there any particular reason you’re trying to scare me with old news, Templar?”

  Talley made a mocking bow from the neck. “Ah, I should have known that you’d be well informed. But don’t you think it’s curious, Your Excellency, that Archbishop Vykos came here as Cardinal Monçada’s envoy, yet it was Archbishop Polonia who received word from the cardinal that I—the cardinal’s gift to the three of you—would be arriving? Furthermore, for what purpose do I arrive? Why, to protect that illustrious trio from the cardinal’s own wayward daughter.” He stepped closer to Borges until he was right in the man’s face. Patches of shadow still masked Borges’s eyes, and Talley got the definite feeling that Borges was not so much seeing as sensing him. “Fascinating, isn’t it, that all of the surviving players in this little tableau are somehow connected to the esteemed cardinal—except for you?”

  Talley suddenly spun, and faster than the eye could follow he was seated in Borges’s just-vacated chair. “Does that make you feel…isolated? Nervous? Worried? Well, it should.” He leveled his gaze on his client, now pacing about the room. “You’re alone with me, Your Excellency, and I don’t think anyone other than Vykos and Polonia knows our whereabouts,” he said in a very quiet voice. “If this were all a plot by the cardinal, you’d be in a great deal of trouble.”

  Borges fixed him with a tired glare. “Sir Talley, I have no idea what you are attempting to accomplish here, but whatever it is, I resent it. If you have finished trying to frighten me and have nothing new to say, get out. If, however, you’ve decided to get serious about fulfilling your duties, then do so. Do I make myself clear?”

  Talley nodded. “Perfectly. I must say, it’s nice to see you deal with a stressor without immediately trying to throttle it. I was beginning to despair of you, but this gives me hope. If you continue in this vein, you have a chance. A slim one, but a chance.”

  With a snort, Borges settled himself on top of the marble surface of the table behind him. “You don’t exactly sound confident, Talley. I thought you were the famous Hound, who could do anything his master set him to?” The archbishop’s expression was rather sour, and for an instant it struck Talley as humorous.

  It was only an instant, however, and then the templar was all business once again. “Your Excellency,” he said wearily, “an unknown party has gone to great trouble and expense to set an extremely talented and professional assassin on what is most probably your trail.” Talley scrutinized Borges with a trained eye, watching for changes of expression, an unexplained tic, the slightest telltale sign of duplicity. Talley’s speculative scenario, after all, was designed specifically for effect. “Lucita’s been warming up with subordinates on this operation—at least, that’s how I read her exercises on MacEllen and Torres.”

  “Rey, dead?” said Borges with sudden interest. “That hasn’t been confirmed.”

  Talley was carefully noncommittal. “He’s missed the past three arranged call-times. Two bodies, the descriptions matching those of the two he took with him, were found in Waterbury, Connecticut. It’s one of the cities he’s supposed to be scouting.” He paused for a minute. “I saw the news footage of the bodies. It’s her work. You get to recognize styles after a while.”

  “You say there were only two bodies found. Rey could have gotten away.” There was an unexpected tinge of hope in Borges’s voice, one that quickly faded as Talley raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Torres might be remarkably talented for his age and lineage,” said the templar, “but on his best night and Lucita’s worst, all he could do would be to extend matters another few minutes. Without help—and I saw what happened to his help—he had no chance.” There was another moment of awkward silence. “I’m sorry. If I’d been there, I could have saved him—but there’s no guarantee that Lucita wouldn’t have moved on you instead in my absence.”

  “Dammit, Talley, when did this become about you?” Borges slammed his fist down on the table. The famous temper was on display again. “My second-in-command is missing and presumed destroyed, two of my best soldiers are curiosities for the local coroner to poke at in his spare time, and you’re apologizing because you couldn’t be in two places at once? Good God, you arrogant son of a bitch, do you think that I was given the blood yesterday, that I would be helpless without you? That I am archbishop because I won a popularity contest? By all the saints, Talley, you have no sense of whom you are talking to!”

  Talley blinked, once, deliberately. “Your Excellency,” he said with cold formality, “whoever seeks your death has gone to tremendous lengths to ensure that you—if you are indeed the target—have no hope of survival. He has purchased the services of the one assassin that your ultimate patron in this affair cannot move against.”

  “He’s not my patron.”

  “Monçada is the patron of this entire affair, Borges, and you are just a small part of it. Be thankful he considers you worth preserving. My services are not assigned lightly, nor am I usually a watchdog. They call me the Hound for a reason. I hunt. If I am leashed to you, it is because the situation is most pressing indeed. Now listen to me; listen very closely. There is a pattern here, one you should fear. You are the one whom my instinct tells me most specifically to guard, and the one who has the least connection with the cardinal. Whoever has set this assassin on your trail—unless the whole thing is a ruse, and the cardinal has been fooled as thoroughly as I have—knows the cardinal well enough to know his weakness regarding Lucita, and has the resources necessary to make use of that knowledge. The implication, then, is that it is someone who knows Cardinal Monçada and knows how he works—but as yet, there is no telling who it might be.”

  Abruptly, he stood and began pacing. “I find it highly unlikely that your indirect assailant is of the Camarilla. Archbishop Vykos would be the obvious target in that case, seeing as the Camarilla seems to fixate on destroying Tzimisce; it must be the Tremere influence. On the other hand, Archbishop Polonia would be the sensible target, as he is the commander and chief tactician, and surely the enemy knows it.

  “But no, the target I feel the need to watch most carefully is you—the Lepidus in this little triumvirate.” Borges bristled at that, and Talley ignored him. “Furthermore, Lucita’s services are too expensive to acquire just for a feint, and she’d hardly consent to be a diversion. She has quite the sense of her own importance, you know.” He flashed a brief, humorless smile. “Still. It doesn’t add up. Nothing here says Camarilla, and yet the other options don’t make sense either. You simply don’t matter to the independents, except the snakes, and they have their own people to take care of matters without going to the expense of hiring Lucita. That leaves our own side, which would explain how the cardinal heard about it, but not who, or why. There’s been no notion put before Les Amies Noir for your destruction; and frankly, it would seem more
likely that you’d hire Lucita to eliminate Archbishop Polonia.”

  “I need no assassins!” blustered Borges, but Talley wondered about the thoughts behind the shadowy facade. One did not become archbishop of anything if one were a total fool, and Talley suspected that at least some of Borges’s worst behavior was just an act.

  “Indeed. I never said you did. What evidence could possibly point at you, Your Excellency? Now, Don Polonia might be another matter. If he was the one to send Torres on that recon—”

  “I insisted,” said Borges.

  “Ah,” Talley said. “No doubt wanting to garner some plaudits for you and yours. You played right into your enemy’s hands, you know. You sent your best man out where he could be isolated and destroyed efficiently. Someone wants to cut you off. Presumably, that someone also encouraged you to send Torres out. If not Polonia, then Vykos?”

  “No, no.” Borges shook his head. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Vykos wanted him for something different, another of her fool schemes. Polonia said something suitably condescending, what was it? Ah, ‘Good officers shouldn’t be wasted on foolish missions,’ or something of that ilk. You know how he is,” he added irritably.

  “I see,” said Talley softly. Inwardly, his frustration was mounting. He was having little success pruning his respective lists of targets and traitors: Each was still three names long. That being the case, he had little choice but to continue to prepare to protect all of the archbishops. “Fine,” he began again irritably. “You, Your Excellency, are going to keep your remaining people on a short tether. You will not let anyone get your goat and trick you into doing something rash, no matter what. I can prevent other people from killing you, but I can’t keep you from getting yourself killed. Furthermore, you are also going to follow my instructions any time we’re in a situation that I deem dangerous. Do you understand?”