University of Hartford campus
West Hartford, Connecticut
Lucita stood on a corner in West Hartford, looking across at the entrance to the University of Hartford campus. The lawn was brown, the sign was ugly, and beyond it stretched what could only be described as acres’ worth of parking lots. This meant that there was no cover anywhere in the vicinity, which was how Lucita liked it. She pulled out her phone and dialed a pager number that had been given to her, long ago when this escapade began. No doubt she’d need to abandon yet another cell-phone number when this call was complete, but Schreck seemed to be perfectly happy to supply her with all she needed to avoid being traced.
Besides, Schreck’s lackey had told Lucita to stick around Hartford. That had been over a week ago, and there was no sign of her target yet. Maybe her other employer would have better information.
The call connected and there was a series of clicks. After the requisite number of beeps and whirring sounds, a guarded “Hello?” came over the line.
“Good evening.”
“Ah. Dona Lucita. It is pleasant to hear from you.” The voice of the vampire on the other end of the line was smoothly polite. “May I be of assistance?”
“A trifling matter, really. I am wondering if you might be able to spare me the barest hint as to where my target might be roaming in the upcoming nights?”
There was a pause. “How would I know that, Dona Lucita?”
“Because whoever pulls your strings knows, yes? I’m not too blind to see what is in front of me. Who is it? Polonia? Vykos? One of the fat fools down in Mexico City?”
Another pause. “I am afraid I have no idea what you are talking about, Dona. I am truly sorry.”
“You are a truly sorry liar, and that is all. So tell me: Where will he be?”
“Within two weeks, you may find Hartford a profitable place to hunt. I trust that is sufficient information?”
“I will not lie to you: No, it is not, but it will have to do. Very well. I thank you for all of your courtesies.”
“The pleasure is mine.” There was a click, and the line went dead.
Lucita folded up the phone and put it away, then jogged across the street onto the campus. It was always good to know the ground one might fight on, and besides, she was hungry.
Tuesday, 21 September, 1999, 12:27 AM
University of Connecticut Law School
Hartford, Connecticut
Hartford was dying in bits and pieces, but the symptoms were mostly well-disguised. There was a fire at the Civic Center, and another outside the CBS station downtown. The city library’s exquisitely carved wooden doors had been smashed by a moving truck whose driver had lost control of his vehicle, but there didn’t seem to be any injuries. Police who could be spared from the other crises overwhelming the city were on the lookout for the driver, who had apparently fled the scene on foot. There was gunfire in the Mt. Zion Cemetery, and a four-car pileup that blocked the Charter Oaks Bridge eastbound. A hit-and-run accident with fatalities tied up I-91 just north of the I-84 interchange. The ritzy mall at Corbin’s Corners, just west of the city, had a rash of looting and vandalism, perpetrated by a gang of teenage boys that security claimed they’d never seen before. A party on the University of Hartford campus degenerated into a riot, and a bus broke down in front of the Asylum Avenue station so that no one could get in or out.
Somewhere, in the middle of this carefully contrived chaos, Talley had been allowed to become the Hound again.
The initial plan had called for the commanders of the operation—Borges, Vykos and Talley himself—to hang well back from the action, directing troops and staying out of the line of fire. Furthermore, by insisting that Vykos and Borges remain in close proximity, Talley had both reduced each’s ability to act against the other (if that was what was planned), and increased his own chances of protecting either. In theory, Talley’s presence would be enough to make both archbishops behave, though it was hardly an ironclad guarantee.
The problems began with a lucky shot. Some Camarilla partisan left to screen the retreat somehow sussed out the location of the Sabbat’s command center and started sniping at the trio of behemoth war ghouls Vykos had brought with her as a precaution. One’s head exploded with the second shot.
Her two remaining ghouls in tow, Vykos started off to sweep around and flank their assailant. When Talley objected in no uncertain terms, archbishop and templar nearly came to blows over the matter, their argument punctuated by the rat-tat-tat of the sniper’s rifle. Over Talley’s strong protests, Vykos insisted on going.
“Fine!” Talley spat after the Tzimisce archbishop. “If you want to get yourself killed, I’ll watch over Borges.” Talley turned to caution Borges to stay exactly where he was, or else.
Borges was gone.
Perhaps the freshly spilled blood from the ghouls had combined with the excitement of battle to drive him into frenzy, or maybe he was just in a mood to glory-hound it. It didn’t matter. Either way, the man was gone.
Talley cursed, briefly but with heartfelt passion. He had two choices: Go after Vykos, who had spurned his advice and was accompanied by two war ghouls; or try to find and protect Borges, who had also ignored Talley’s warnings, but who was alone and had been thrust into command, all too conveniently, by Polonia and Vykos. The Tzimisce had demonstrated an ability for centuries to take care of herself; Borges, to be charitable, had not done quite so well.
In the end, it was no choice at all.
And so, Talley plunged off into the fire-lit night to find Borges. Killing everything that got in his way would simply be a bonus.
Tuesday, 21 September 1999, 1:36 AM
Park Terrace
Hartford, Connecticut
Talley was not the only hunter on the streets that night. Quietly, effortlessly, Lucita slipped from shadow to shadow, observing. She watched, dispassionate, as a roaring war ghoul smashed a ghoul wearing a policeman’s uniform into a bloody pulp, then overturned the man’s car for good measure. Flames licked the underside of the vehicle, lighting the entire scene in lurid yellow and red. She watched, wordlessly, as a pack of howling antitribu ran amuck in Pope Park, shooting at everything that moved and, almost coincidentally, annihilating the squad of freshly created Brujah who leapt out of the trees at them. She watched, frowning, as Vykos took a man who got in her way to pieces, simply for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Neither of her sources had said anything about Vykos being here.
Nowhere, however, did she see Borges. She knew he was there; she heard his name called often enough. Not once, though, did the archbishop present himself. Evidence of his handiwork was everywhere—torn corpses, mostly, mixed with Talley’s neater handiwork—but the archbishop himself was as elusive as smoke.
Fortunately, Talley wasn’t. For lack of anything better to do—the defense of the city was not her problem, after all, at least not above and beyond the removal of the Cainite leading the assault—she began following the Hound as he moved from scene of carnage to scene of carnage. Occasionally he’d stop and examine what Borges had left behind, but generally he was on the move, swift and angry and deadly. Every so often Lucita caught him causing surprising amounts of peripheral damage as he loped along, and slowly she realized that she wasn’t the only one looking for Borges. He’d slipped his leash and was on the loose in the city, God alone knew where.
She would have laughed if she dared, but that would have revealed her presence to Talley. Lucita knew she was lucky the Hound was preoccupied, otherwise he might well have noticed her. She had no doubts that Talley would consider stopping her infinitely preferable to rounding up the errant archbishop before he got hurt. After all, if she were occupied, who else in the city could so much as harm Borges, let alone kill him?
She knew the answer to that question, of course, but didn’t waste time speculating on whether it was a valid concern.
In the meantime, however, it was increasingly clear that Talley himself
was looking for Borges in the flame and the chaos. Lucita, as she saw it, had three choices. She could follow Talley back to Borges and hope she could strike down the archbishop before Talley could interfere; she could strike out on her own and hope she found Borges before Talley did; or she could abandon the entire exercise and wait for another window of opportunity.
It took a split second for her to decide that following Talley was her best course of action. She was sated and well rested. Talley occasionally had to deal with the various messes Borges had not quite finished off in his haste or his frenzy, and he was moving too fast on the archbishop’s trail to stop and feed in order to replenish himself. Borges himself was leaving an impressive path of gore behind him, meaning that no doubt he was drawing heavily on the blood within him. Judging from the amount of vitae leaking into the gutters and splashed on the walls, the Archbishop of Miami wasn’t stopping to feed, either. When Talley finally caught up to his charge, and Lucita caught up to both of them, the two men would be weak. Hungry. Unable to fend off a sustained assault. With luck, she might be able to deal with Talley permanently. Her dear sire would be unhappy if she broke one of his favorite toys, but Talley was too much the wild card to be allowed to wander around freely. If the chance for her to eliminate him presented itself, she would take it, and send Monçada a condolence card later.
A few blocks away, someone bellowed with rage. A scream of terror matched it, spiraling up with it through the night. Talley didn’t even bother to stop and look up. Instead, he simply sprinted in the direction of the noise with an inhuman burst of speed. Lucita grinned wolfishly and, without a sound, followed.
Tuesday, 21 September 1999, 1:38 AM
Park Terrace
Hartford, Connecticut
Talley had been cursing under his breath for nearly an hour non-stop, ever since that idiot Borges had gone bounding off into the fray. Under normal circumstances he would have caught the fool in a matter of minutes, but these were not normal circumstances. Borges was a one-vampire wrecking crew all right, but that wasn’t what the situation needed. Behind him, his troops floundered, lacking direction. Each time a pack overwhelmed the slightest opposition, they felt the need to celebrate, noisily, and set whatever was at hand on fire. This served no good purpose except obscuring Borges’s trail and cutting off major traffic arteries, not to mention crisping a few Sabbat vampires who got too close or too wildly enthused. The resultant detours and roadblocks cost Talley precious seconds that stretched into minutes as he navigated chaotic city streets in an effort to relocate Borges’s trail. Only the scent of blood on the air served to guide him, but fortunately, where the Hound was concerned, that was enough.
The other complication was the fact that not everyone whom Borges ripped through was quite dead. Some demonstrated a surprising amount of fight as Talley pounded past them in an effort to follow the itinerant archbishop. One played dead until Talley was nearly upon him, then put two bullets into the templar’s left arm. Talley rolled to cover and sent a shadow tentacle out from under a mailbox to crush the man (Talley didn’t have time to see if the was Cainite, ghoul, or gun-toting innocent bystander) to an unrecognizable pulp. Other victims simply moaned, and Talley took a second to dispatch each with a single blow. One never could tell who was faking, after all, and after that first surprise Talley wanted to make sure that there were no more. The last thing he needed was some would-be hero coming up behind him at a sensitive moment. Even the feeblest ghoul could distract him at precisely the wrong moment with a bullet or bull rush, and distractions were precisely what he didn’t need if he were going up against Lucita.
More screaming and hoarse shouts of rage came from up ahead. Talley concentrated for a moment to knit the wounds the bullets had torn in his shoulder, then redoubled his speed in hopes catching up with Borges and hauling him bodily out of the fray. Hopefully the archbishop would resist, and that would give Talley an excuse to beat him senseless.
Talley considered bending Borges’s will to summon the archbishop, but if Borges were caught in a serious fight, say if Lucita had found him, the psychic itch of a summons could be the difference between avoiding a blow and almost avoiding it. Talley didn’t dare distract the man until he was safely in hand again. Even if Borges were not Lucita’s target—still a possibility—the man had jeopardized the entire operation by flying off half-cocked, and might yet managed to get himself killed. Talley was certain that the Camarilla would gladly trade Hartford for an archbishop.
Even as he sprinted forward, the Hound made a little promise to himself. Once Borges was safely off the field of battle, Talley was going to beat the unliving shit out of that idiot. Borges was going to survive this battle, at least if Talley had anything to say about it, but he was going to wish he hadn’t.
The shouting in the near distance died down, and Talley put his head down for a final sprint. With any luck, that was the sound of Borges coming down off his blood-inspired frenzy. If not, it meant that Lucita had just found him. Either way, Talley wanted to be there. Like a madman, he ran.
Tuesday, 21 September 1999, 1:43 AM
Putnam Street
Hartford, Connecticut
Archbishop Borges looked around with a satisfied smile on his face. There were at least three dead vampires sprawled out before him. All three were in various states of disrepair, and one was entirely without limbs. They’d fought well, with a desperate, unreasoning ferocity, but they had never had a chance. One might as well ask toddlers to fight a grizzly bear as to ask untrained, unskilled vampires fresh from the Embrace to tackle an archbishop at the height of his power.
The intersection was nondescript, and he had no idea why these three vampires had died to defend it. Perhaps it held some emotional significance, or maybe they’d just gotten lost. Either way, they’d had the bad luck to have Archbishop Borges in his full madness come upon them. One had actually managed to rake the Archbishop’s face with rudimentary claws, but Borges had caught the boy’s arm mid-stroke and snapped it like kindling.
As the first attacker had fallen, Borges moved on to the second one with inhuman speed. Even as his opponent made a clumsy swing, Borges dropped to a knee and punched straight forward with all his strength. There was a muffled crack and the vampire screamed in pain as he folded in a way that the human torso had no business folding. As the man went down, Borges came up with a sledgehammer blow that connected with the underside of his chin and nearly tore his head from his shoulders.
Behind the archbishop, the first one came forward, clutching the ruin of his arm and howling. Borges turned and caught the boy’s head between his hands. As the vampire scrabbled impotently at his eyes, Borges turned the boy’s head hard to the left and was rewarded with the sound of splintering vertebrae. He twisted to the right, got more of the same, and dropped the spasmodic, twitching corpse at his feet.
The third vampire chose that moment to attack, forewarning Borges by screaming as he did so. The archbishop almost laughed as he saw his assailant, a middle-aged man in a hideous brown suit, his face twisted by hatred and frenzy into a monstrous mask. The vampire sprang for Borges, who ducked, turned, and caught the man’s ankle as he went past. The momentum of the neonate’s leap was such that Borges was able to take it and use it to his own ends, swinging the man by his foot into the unforgiving concrete. Without stopping, Borges flipped his opponent over by his ankle, and continued turning. The crunch that followed was not entirely dissimilar in tone from the one his friend’s neck had made, but it did allow the victim to give a thin scream. Borges roared in triumph and moved up to the man’s knee. That snapped, too, and then everything had been lost in a red haze of remembrance….
Borges blinked. Talley slapped him again, hard enough to shatter the jaw of a weaker man.
“You utter, worthless, pointless moron,” the templar said. “Why the hell did you run off like that— no, don’t tell me. You’ve already painted a bull’s eye on your back for Lucita, and I don’t want you out here any longer th
an necessary. We are leaving, Archbishop. We are leaving right now.” He grabbed Borges’s hand and pulled him as one would pull a poorly behaved child out of a store. “And when I get you out of this, I want you on your knees and thanking God for a solid hour that I found you before Lucita did. Come on.”
Borges broke his grasp, and Talley turned to face him in disgust. “You go too far, Templar,” the archbishop said thickly. “I have won this battle, and you are trying to steal my glory for Vykos by removing me from the field! I will not stand for it!”
Talley could take no more. “Fine,” he said. “You’re exactly right. I’ve got two bullets in my shoulder because I give a rat’s arse about which of you idiots gets credit for reducing a city that even the Camarilla didn’t care enough about to defend. Brilliant, Archbishop, absolutely brilliant. Now say precisely nothing. You’re coming with me.” Bands of shadow burst from every corner to bundle Borges tightly; before the man could even shout in protest he was tightly bound, and silently he toppled to the sidewalk. Swiftly, Talley stooped to where Borges lay and tucked him under one arm. It was time to get off the field, and the only way the archbishop was going to move quickly would be as luggage.
Talley was suddenly, virulently sick of the whole business. The last few minutes, Borges’s rant in particular, had strengthened a certain suspicion that the templar had harbored for some time now. He decided that he would safeguard Borges for the rest of the battle, find Vykos and wrap the affair up, then catch the next night flight back to Madrid. There he would tell Monçada himself what he’d learned, and that the cardinal should find another lapdog for this sort of assignment. Talley could go off into the Schwarzwald and hunt lupines for a month as a vacation, perhaps. Anything would be better than staying entangled in this poisonous web of jealousy and willful stupidity.
He continued on toward the pre-established rendezvous point, toting Borges as easily as a man might carry a folded-up newspaper. Lucita had not yet made her presence known, and Talley wondered, for the first time, if he’d been wrong and Polonia was the real target after all. Frowning, the Hound picked up his pace. Soon enough, none of this would matter. He could see the meetpoint up ahead and moved toward it. Soon enough, it would all be over.
Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 20