And she might even be going home to give her sire a piece of her mind.
Wednesday, 22 September 1999, 7:45 PM
Iglesia de San Nicolás de los Servitas
Madrid, Spain
It was very dark in the confessional. Rumor had it that Cardinal Monçada had crushed any number of Cainites to death in the booth with his fearsome mastery of shadows, but Talley discounted the stories. Monçada was strong enough to have no need for trickery. He heard the cardinal’s huge bulk sliding into the booth on the far side of the partition. There was a click as the shutter between the two chambers went up, and the cardinal said, “Yes?
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he murmured. “It has been four hundred twelve years, three months and six days since my last confession.”
Monçada clucked disapproval. “That is a very long time, my son. You had time for a great many sins. Still, it is good you have come back to the Church. Speak to me, then. Tell me with what sins four centuries have stained you.”
“I have killed, Father. I have lied, I have coveted, I have stolen. And I have failed my cardinal.” Talley bowed his head. The shadows somehow seemed to press in more closely, though the templar told himself that was just a trick of the imagination.
There was a rustling of cloth. “Tell me more.”
“Archbishop Borges is dead. At the hand of your childe.”
“Tsk. That is grievous news indeed, my son. How did such a thing come to pass?” Around Talley, the shadows pressed in more closely.
Talley sketched out the details of the past nights.
It took a surprisingly long time, and he found himself silently hoping he wasn’t boring Monçada.
When the templar finally wound down, the cardinal’s voice rumbled from the confessional. “Fascinating. And most understandable, perhaps, considering the circumstances. Much about this is odd, especially the end game.” The shadows pulled away from Talley, and he let out a breath he did not know he’d taken. “Still, murder, theft, the others—these are serious sins. Waiting four centuries to confess them has given them time to stain the soul deeply, my son. Your penance will not be light, I think, nor will it end soon.”
Talley bowed his head. “Whatever you prescribe, Father.”
Monçada chuckled. “I shall have to think on it. In the meantime, do five novenas each morning, five Hail Marys every night, for the next fifty years. Do them without fail. You have many sins to wash away, Talley. In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti, ego te absolvo. You may go.”
“Thank you, Father,” Talley said, and made to duck out of the booth. He paused, though, and returned. “Your Eminence?”
“Yes?” The cardinal’s voice was a barely audible rasp.
“I believe I know why Borges died, and who was responsible.”
“Of course you do. I was startled that you did not include it in your confession.”
Talley shrugged silently. “The sin was not mine, save perhaps one of pride.”
Monçada chuckled. “You sound like a Jesuit, all trickery and sophism. Speak.”
“Polonia should have been the one to die, but he is too strong. Even the Courts of Blood would fear to move against him. Borges, on the other hand, was not strong alone. Standing at Polonia’s side, however, bound by shared lineage or hatred of others, promised glory and power and blood, he could have been formidable indeed. Polonia did not seem inclined to take Borges as an ally, but still, the possibility was there.”
“Fascinating.”
Talley nodded. “Wisdom would have dictated having him killed in battle, or maneuvered into being destroyed for some infraction or other, but wisdom is in short supply. Vykos wanted suspicion as far from her as possible, to sow discord and cover her role. Who would dare assume that she, your servant in these matters, would tempt your wrath by hurling your childe against your other servitors? It is a madman’s plan, or a genius’s—but there is no wisdom in it.
“Vykos? A pity.”
“Vykos. It was she who created the diversion that drove Borges into frenzy and forced me to pursue him. Had I stayed longer in that miserable excuse for a city, no doubt I would have found evidence that the shooter who assaulted our command post was in Vykos’s service in some fashion. It was Vykos who distracted me at the critical moment. Polonia’s opportunism didn’t help matters; but as for the traitor, all roads lead to your Tzimisce, Your Eminence.” Monçada let loose a heavy sigh. “I feared as much. You have done well, my faithful Hound. Well indeed.”
“Not that well. Borges destroyed under my watch, and Lucita escaped. I suspect there was more than just Vykos at work, as well. The other killings did not carry her scent. A bluff, or perhaps something entirely unrelated. I do not know, though I suspect that your childe and I will never share civil conversation again.”
“A pity, that.” Monçada shifted his massive bulk within the confessional and coughed once, softly. “I am very glad you are well, Talley. And I am well pleased with you. Go, now. Hunt what prey you choose. I will not need you for a very long time, I think. Go, and take my thanks with you.”
Talley blinked, once. “Of course, Your Eminence. Thank you.” He stumbled out of the booth. Cristobal Garcia, a ghoul who’d been in Monçada’s service for at least a hundred years, was waiting for him, and with suitable grace and humility conducted Talley to his quarters. In the evening, he’d depart with tangible evidence of the cardinal’s gratitude, but for now, all he wanted was a day of slumber without dreams.
Still within the comfortable walls of the confessional, Cardinal Ambrosio Luis Monçada wrapped a cloak of shadows around himself tightly, and then another one. The darkness, he found, gave him comfort, and he found precious little of that in the world these nights. Crooning a tuneless song to himself, he closed his eyes. Here God and the darkness would preserve him, as they always had.
“Amen,” he murmured, and gave himself to slumber and the embrace of the night.
Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 22