Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Richard E. Dansky

  The Archbishop of Washington waited a solid three minutes after Talley had left, then turned on every light in her suite. She carefully gathered the first few chunks of Ilse’s body and brought them into the bathroom. Singing tunelessly, she worked the cold clay of the ghoul’s flesh into a clotted liquid that fell into the toilet, then turned and repeated the procedure. Within a few minutes, the bowl was nearly full. Dispassionately, Vykos flushed it, then went back for another load.

  Sometimes, she mused, mindless work was the best thing for a stressful evening. Besides, she might need the table later.

  Talley shook his head as he made his way back to the Hyatt. He was a hunter, a tracker, a killer. His stock in trade was ending existences, not preserving them. And now he was faced with the prospect of Archbishop Borges leading a war party to Hartford. Talley didn’t approve of Borges going outside, much less to Connecticut. But the archbishops weren’t about to make their plans to suit a mere templar. This assignment was giving him a bad feeling in his gut. He was not being told everything, of that he was sure, and it would be impossible to do this right without knowing as much as he could. Damn all of them and their secrets. Damn Borges for being a fool and a blusterer, but not being enough of one to be controllable. Damn Lucita for being good. Damn Polonia for his arrogance that contributed to this madness. Damn Vykos for her games and her airs, and for causing problems with “Lucius” at exactly the wrong time.

  “And damn you, Cardinal,” he muttered under his breath. “Damn you for not disciplining your childe, damn you for sending me into this, and damn you most sincerely for giving me no way out.”

  Washington had slipped into a deceptive nighttime calm, but Talley felt as if he would explode.

  “Damn them,” he said to the darkness. “Damn them all.”

  Monday, 30 August 1999, 2:32 AM

  Main Street

  Hartford, Connecticut

  Hartford was not a kind city to its resident Kindred. The city itself was relatively small, with a confused welter of streets making the downtown area an inescapable labyrinth for any first-time visitors. Proximate but distinct, East Hartford and West Hartford stubbornly refused to amalgamate into a single city, presumably for fear of lowering their property values. I-91 and I-84 trundled through the city, more or less, making for an eternal traffic bottleneck from construction, as well as a steady stream of accidents from improperly constructed interchanges. The Charter Oak Bridge arched across the Connecticut River from the city, hurrying traffic over to I-84 and the Massachusetts border, but most of the façade the city presented to the river was dingy, gray, and architecturally confused. In short, Hartford was hard to get around in, not well designed for feeding and generally confusing even if one had a map.

  Lucita, there on her third visit, considered it entirely appropriate that one of the main traffic arteries was called “Asylum Avenue.”

  She’d spent the evening studying her final target. Lucita had long since digested the provided material on the archbishop’s habits, favorite stomping grounds, abilities and resources, and had stepped out into the night to clear her head before planning the operation. Thus, she found herself strolling through the core of the city well past midnight, watching the occasional late-night reveler stagger off to his car. Under other circumstances, she might have indulged herself, but she needed a clear head tonight, and a second-hand drunkenness would hinder her thinking later. There was still an edge to her hunger, but a discreet encounter earlier in the evening had taken care of the worst of it, and she’d find someone else after the night’s labor was done.

  In the meantime, however, any number of insurance executives, ad-copy writers and other denizens of central Connecticut passed under the shadow of death and moved on, never knowing how close each had come to destruction. Lucita prided herself on being able to move among mortals without them noticing anything untoward about her. Most young Kindred were in a tremendous hurry to acquire an aura of danger that would set them apart from the herd, while most older ones acquired that same air unconsciously. As soon as one stepped into a room, the kine knew that there was a wolf in the flock, and reacted accordingly. For that reason, humans always made excellent early warning systems against incursions by other Kindred. They were canaries in the mine, a superb if perhaps wasteful means of detecting the approach of invisible peril.

  Lucita could blend into the crowd, however, and it made her that much more dangerous. She could still be detected for what she was, of course, but only if someone knew to look for her. The warning sign many Kindred used when deciding when and how to search, though, was the reaction of the mortals around them. It made Lucita’s job that much easier.

  She strolled along past what had been a G. Fox department store, then in front of a raucous restaurant that advertised fresh beer brewed on site. Around the corner, cars began to line up anxiously as the Hartford Stage opened its doors after another performance. Beyond that, an overpass conducted 84 from West Hartford to the river. She could see that there wasn’t much beyond that save construction, and so she made a smart turn on her heel, sniffed the air, and started back the way she had come.

  Presumably, that would give the man who was following her time to catch his breath.

  He’d been following her for several blocks, and doing a reasonable job of it for a human. He didn’t get too close, used the terrain to his advantage, and was remarkably adept at finding shadows to hide in.

  Unfortunately for him, using shadows was not the best way to get a leg up on a Lasombra.

  Lucita resisted the urge to smile. Her sudden turn-around had panicked the man, and he’d scrambled for cover. At the moment he was crouched down in an alley that ran along the side of the brew pub, trying hard to blend in with the darkness next to an overflowing dumpster. Presumably he was waiting for Lucita to go past, and for the last of the theater traffic to turn off so that he’d have a clear field to operate. If he were smart, he’d try to drag her into the alley and go to work there.

  No doubt that sort of thing would work extremely well against a mortal woman. Alas for the spirit of street-level free enterprise in Hartford, Lucita was hardly an ordinary woman. A tinge of hunger reminded her that she hadn’t fed terribly well that evening, and with slow, deliberate steps, she sauntered back past where her would-be assailant waited.

  Down the block, traffic cleared. A light changed from green to red, solely for the benefit of the night. Lucita paused, and bent down ostensibly to adjust the buckle on her left shoe.

  The mugger, surprisingly, failed to pounce. Lucita held her position a moment longer, then turned and stared into the alley. Faintly, she could hear sounds of a scuffle, followed by a metallic clanging that could only be a human head being repeatedly bounced off a dumpster lid.

  “Son of a bitch,” she breathed quietly, and stepped into the alley. Ahead of her, she could see two figures. One was moving, one was not. The one who was turned to her and hissed. Its visage was a horrific mass of scars and boils, and its eyes shone red. It dropped the body of the mugger on the alley floor and took a step toward where Lucita stood. Long, wicked claws curved out from the fingers and caught reflected light from the red neon sign out front.

  “I’m not impressed,” said Lucita. “You’re sloppy and slow.”

  “What the hell?” said the Nosferatu, dropping his aggressive pose. “Crap. You’re Kindred. Who the hell are you? I haven’t seen you present yourself… wait. Lucita?”

  Lucita counted to ten, first in Spanish and then in Latin. “You will explain how you know my name, yes? Then you will explain what you are doing here, and why I should not do to you what you have done to my supper.”

  “Him?” The hideous little vampire looked down at the broken wreck that had been the mugger. “He was yours? Damn. Should have figured that out, I guess. Saw him following a pretty lady, and prince’s orders are to keep downtown neat because he’s been trying to attract investment, and…” His voice trailed off lamely as he caught the expression of
pure disdain on Lucita’s face. “Right. Whatever. I’ll get you another one. Over by the bus station is prime feeding ground.”

  Her annoyance palpable, Lucita began tapping her fingers on the brick wall of the alley. “You are still not answering the questions I have asked you. You have ten seconds to do so. Nine. Eight. Seven.

  I know your name because I work for Schreck. Well, I work with people who work for Schreck, at least at the moment—all right, all right! I’ve got a message for you from Schreck. I was supposed to deliver it to your hotel but I was going to wait until later. Then I saw this guy out here, and—urrrkk!” The last came as Lucita simply grabbed the vampire by his throat, squeezed, and lifted him against the wall with impressive force. His feet kicked wildly, two feet off the ground, but to no effect. With desperate strength, he clawed at Lucita’s hands, but her grip was unyielding.

  “Stop that,” she said curtly, “Or I let the shadows hold you instead. Would you prefer that?” The Nosferatu shook his head violently to the negative, at least as much as he could in his current position. “Good. Now at some point, I will have to sit down with Mr. Schreck and remind him not to employ idiots. If you have a message, you deliver it. Immediately. You do not speak about confidential matters anywhere but in confidence, and this alley does not qualify. You do not accept identification without proof—how did you know I was Lucita? Because I looked like a picture you saw? And what if I were a fleshcrafter, what then?” She dropped him. He collapsed in a pile near the mugger, reflexively gasping. Lucita made a short, sharp gesture and the shadows of the alley began closing in on him. “Tonight you are lucky. I am exactly who you think I am, and I will take that message from you now. What is it?”

  The Nosferatu looked at the encroaching shadows and gibbered, doing his best to curl himself into a small ball. “I’m supposed to tell you to stay in Hartford, that the target might be coming here! They’re folding the city the way they folded Buffalo, and they think that will lure him out for you.” One of the shadows, more daring than the rest, brushed against the withered flesh of his arm. “Oh God no, make them go away, I’ve told you what I was told!”

  Lucita considered for a moment. She had no desire to stay in this place any longer than she had to—even under normal circumstances, Hartford was not precisely her favorite sort of city. On the other hand, Schreck had suggested two nights ago that Lucita head toward Hartford; now he was urging patience. Thus far, the Nosferatu’s intelligence had proven reliable. If the prey were being lured to her, she could afford to sit tight.

  Besides, she had another source she could check to confirm her prey’s whereabouts, one that she was almost certain led back inside the Sabbat itself.

  Her mind made up, she turned back to the quivering little Kindred, now almost completely enveloped in shadows. “I see. Thank you for your courtesy in delivering the message. I’ll make sure Mr. Schreck learns that you carried out your assignment.” With that, she closed the fingers of her right hand into a fist. The shadows contracted as she did so. There was a brief, sickening crunch, and then the darkness melted back to where it had first come from. Lucita considered the cadavers, considered the overfull state of the dumpster, and then, with all due dignity, walked away.

  Tuesday, 31 August 1999, 1:31 AM

  Hyatt Regency Capitol Hill

  Washington, D.C.

  “Precisely how much information about the defenses did your informant on the council give you, Archbishop?” Borges’s voice betrayed an edge of irritability, but that was all. Talley glanced over at him and said a silent prayer that the man’s temper would fray no further, at least not tonight. There was too much work to be done.

  Vykos pushed a small sheath of papers across the table with a noncommittal expression on her face. Thankfully, the map of Hartford on the tabletop did not so much as wrinkle. “Everything I was sent is here, Archbishop Borges. We know as much as they do when it comes to their numbers and strength. Most of the city’s Cainites will be evacuated by tomorrow night, leaving only raw childer and suicidal ghouls to serve as a rudimentary defense.”

  Borges glanced over at Talley, who nodded once, then reached for the papers. For several minutes, there were no sounds but the rustling of pages, and various noises of approval or disapproval that Borges made, seemingly without knowing he did it.

  “Hmm. Twenty newly Embraced vampires, a dozen ghouls, and nothing else?” Borges finally said. “We could sweep the city with a single pack.” He looked smug as he put the papers down on the desk.

  “We could,” said Vykos, “and by doing so we’d confirm for them that, again, we knew exactly what we were going to be facing. It’s a short step from that to uncovering my source, and the loss of one of our most important assets.” Her face showed no trace of the disgust that colored her voice ever so slightly.

  “Indeed. And that is why we must strike with overwhelming force. We must wash them away in blood, drown them in foes!” Borges was on his feet, face flushed as he imagined a victory not yet won. “No losses, like we had in Buffalo. With strength and with numbers, we shall eradicate them!”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” added Polonia. “The attack must be overwhelming, and rather than entrust it to a lesser, an archbishop should take personal command. You,” he said directly to Borges, “are the perfect leader.”

  Borges, his thought processes apparently having caught up to his bravado, took pause at the suggestion. He retook his seat. “Personal command, in the field?”

  “That is not a good idea,” said Talley at once. He’d been expecting the suggestion from Vykos, but from Polonia as well…?

  “There is no glory without risk,” Polonia pointed out. “And with you at his side, Don Talley, I’m sure Archbishop Borges will have nothing to fear. In any case, I must attend to matters in New York—I’ve been away far too long—and Vykos is busy with the Tremere here in Washington.”

  Talley scowled. Borges, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, seemed caught between conflicting thoughts of Lucita on one hand and crushing his enemies on the other.

  “Vallejo can oversee the Tremere siege as well as I can,” Vykos spoke up suddenly. “If it will ease everyone’s minds, I will accompany Archbishop Borges, merely as an observer to his command, of course. With two archbishops, who by their very presence define the word ‘overkill,’ and a sizeable force, we should allay the suspicion that the fix is in, especially if we delay the attack this time.” Vykos’s voice was mild, but amused.

  Borges turned to glare at his peer, then glanced at Talley’s dispassionate face. “Even so,” said Borges, “we shall bring numbers, and we shall make sure that you and I, Your Excellency, are prominently visible. I don’t expect the evening to be much of an exercise for either of us, but even so, as you say, it will do your informer good to have us seen on the field.” Borges inclined his head, bird-like, at his bodyguard. “And I trust that Don Talley will keep us safe as we do so.” Talley gave a quick frown. “I can if you don’t expose yourself too much, Your Excellency. I say that now so I am not forced to remind you of it later.” Borges nodded and fanned away the objection. “Yes, yes. I understand. Rest assured that I will take no unnecessary’ risks, and I trust Archbishop Vykos to do the same.”

  “Very well.” Talley sounded resigned, and not at all convinced. Borges ignored him.

  “Archbishop Vykos,” Borges continued, “would you like to involve any of your people in the operation? Perhaps the Little Tailor has some pets he wishes to field-test? Or surely some of your adherents are growing restless and would enjoy a night’s exercise in the field. I was thinking that perhaps three packs, plus our own presence, would be sufficient? Perhaps we could use the university, the capital building, and that intersection there,” he pointed at the civic center on the map, “as good places to start.”

  “We don’t know where the enemy will be deployed, Archbishop. Why don’t we wait until my contact tells us that?” Vykos’s voice was weary; she clearly regretted agreeing to be part
of this.

  “The foe is Camarilla. All we need to do is set a few fires and endanger their precious Masquerade, and they will come running to us.” Borges tapped his finger on the map, twice. “I like the notion, now that I think about it. If we make them assault our positions, they lose whatever benefit preparing defenses might have given them. It works well. Now, on to the timing of the affair….”

  Talley simply tuned Borges out, and considered ways in which he could hustle him or Vykos out of danger when things began to degenerate. The plan was passable but clumsy, failing to take into account any number of possibilities. The worries were endless: Lucita’s presence was studiously avoided in discussion—Talley tried to bring the point up several times, and Vykos and Borges had taken turns changing the subject; Lucius might have decided to teach Vykos another lesson by sending false information and letting the Sabbat offensive run straight into a Theo Bell-shaped buzz saw; Vykos’s involvement in affairs, as well as Polonia’s convenient absence, was still troubling. And so it went.

  But the archbishops, deafened by their own arrogance and sense of superiority, did not seem inclined to listen to Talley. No, the best thing to do, he decided, would be to wait until things looked dangerous and then remove the target from the scene if Lucita showed up—when Lucita showed up. The rest of the attack could succeed or fail on its own merits, but his job was what concerned Talley.

  “Don’t you agree, Don Talley?” The templar emerged from his reverie to find both archbishops looking at him quizzically, though perhaps for different reasons.

  “Of course, Don Borges. It is, in this case, as you say.”

  Vykos looked mildly surprised. Borges looked smug.

  And Talley just wished that the fighting would start already so he wouldn’t have to listen to this any longer.

  Thursday, 9 September 1999, 10:14 PM