by James Moore
From the driver's seat, Jackie called out with a total disregard for formalities, “Where to, boss?”
“Back to the hotel and quickly. I’m supposed to meet with Natasha Volfchek. She does not like to be kept waiting.” “Since when do you care what any of the primogen of any given city think? Especially when she’s one of your own clan?"
Kurt chuckled at that, shaking his head and smiling at Jackie’s reflection. “I only care when the difference is between winning and losing, or when the individual in question has the right connections. In this case, both factors are worthy of consideration. Natasha and I did not part on the best of terms, I’m afraid. She took offense to my opposing her at the last regional vote. You may disregard your enemies from time to time, Jackie, but never ignore the wounded feelings of a dear friend.” He paused for a moment, making certain that he looked appropriate for the meeting less than two hours away. He didn’t have time to change into a more formal outfit, but what he had on would have to do. “Especially when the friend in question is on very good terms with your sire.”
“Okay, I’ll trust your opinion on that one.”
“Besides, she’d be furious if she showed up before me. She is supposed to keep me waiting, not the other way around.” They pulled up to the hotel only a few minutes ahead of
Natasha Volfchek and were in place so that she could still feel she had the upper-hand. They met her and her entourage in front of the Hilton; there was no need to get comfortable inside, not when they’d be leaving almost immediately. Natasha was a lovely woman, aristocratic and regal, but not to the point of appearing too pompous. Her hair was coifed just so, and the blue evening gown she wore was understated. With her were four men, three humans breaking a light sweat in the humidity and one additional Kindred. Kurt had never seen the humans before. The vampire was Robert "Jazz" Wentworth, a power broker with slightly less money than God. Jazz smiled broadly as Jackie opened the door for Westphal. Natasha’s face was completely impassive.
“Natasha, you look as lovely as ever.” Kurt kissed her cold check. “Democritus sends his regards, dear. He also asked I invite you to a little to-do at his place in Atlanta. Just a gathering of good friends, nothing too formal."
The frost melted slightly, and Natasha even managed a slight smile, almost as broad and flamboyant as the one on the Mona Lisa’s face. “It’s very nice to see you again, Kurt. How have you been?"
“Better, now that I’ve seen you. I really must apologize for staying away so long. I've been in Berlin for the better part of the last year. What with the mess going on over there, it's all but impossible to find any free time these nights." He mentally breathed a sigh of relief. If she was holding any grudges, they were against his sire and not him.
He turned to Wentworth and flashed a brilliant smile. “Jazz, you old bastard! Good to see you again.”
“Likewise, Kurt. How’s the grand life back in the Old Country?" Kurt gripped the hand Jazz offered and pumped three times sharply before releasing it. “Old Gustav and Wilhelm still arguing?"
“Naturally. I don't think those two will ever sec eye to eye about anything. Jazz, you are still the only man I know that can wear a bow tie and not look like an elderly schoolmaster. How do you do it?”
“It’s not what you wear, old boy, it’s how you wear it.” He smiled charmingly and shot a quick wink to Natasha. “Or in the case of dear Natasha, how best to show off your natural attributes."
Natasha actually smiled at that one, and Kurt hastened to agree with Jazz in his assessment of her natural charms. Had the compliment come from anyone less cultured than Jazz, it would have sounded dirty instead of flattering. “Listen, we have a little time before the festivities begin. Perhaps we should take the scenic route and discuss how best to handle Anvil and his little friend, Crusher?"
When both agreed, Kurt ushered Natasha towards the limousine’s door, careful to maintain just the proper distance and to stay half a step behind her the entire way. The humans with them, apparently bodyguards to Natasha and Jazz, climbed into a dark sedan and followed close behind the limo. By the time the three reached the office building where the primogen was planning to have their meeting, all had smiles of agreement on their faces. Throughout the entire trip, Jackie never said a word.
The glass towers of the Waterford Building were impressive, especially up close. The heavy glass reflected light from every part of the city and sent it dancing across the night sky. The architectural design was but one of many by a young new star of the design world, Carlos Rodriguez, better known to the Kindred of Miami as Masika, the Toreador elder of the city. Unlike most of the buildings he had designed and built, this one was also his property. He’d been offered a king’s ransom for the building on several occasions, but always refused the bids. More than just an office plaza, it was also a museum of modern art and part of the Elysium, neutral territory for the vampires that ruled in the area.
Masika was dressed fashionably, but with less formality than the Ventrue. Nonetheless, he was as proper as any of Kurt’s own clan in how he handled his affairs and even brought a collection of his own blood dolls for everyone to enjoy. There were limitations to being Ventrue, the most annoying of which was the need to feed on the blood of only one particular type of person. Some could only feed on the wealthy, some could only feed on the blood of children. Kurt felt he could live with his limitation, so long as the world had attractive young women in ready supply. Kurt had always preferred dealing with the humans willing to offer their blood than to hunt down his own prey, so he appreciated the gesture.
The second basement below ground was furnished impeccably and had every possible modern convenience — plush office couches, heavy marble coffee tables and a state-of-the-art stereo system all surrounded by oak-paneled walls and resting on a set of priceless Persian rugs. The most powerful Kindred in the city gathered together in the office space and chatted amongst themselves casually. No retainers were present, and even the blood dolls would be asked to leave before the business of the night got started.
Kurt spent a good portion of the time before the meeting of the primogen talking with Gilbert Duane, once again having to remind himself that the man was supposed to be insane. Duane's pleasant African accent was almost musical, and Kurt found himself listening to every word the man said as if it were of great import. The faint accent reminded Kurt that Gilbert Duane was originally from Africa, but had been in the States since he’d been brought over in a slave ship. It was a mark of the Malkavian's insatiable curiosity that he'd allowed himself to be captured and hauled in an overcrowded ship to the Colonies that later became the U.S. He remembered the one time they’d discussed the matter: Duane had explained the methods the slavers used to transport their goods — literally stacking their bounty like cord-wood and hoping that a decent percentage survived the long journey — and had pointed out that feeding in such a situation was remarkably easy.
While both of them knew that Duane’s political career was on the line, neither mentioned the matter even once. Duane was dressed in ratty blue jeans and a flannel shirt, tennis shoes that had seen their best days a few years back, and a scarf wrapped around his shaven scalp. He looked for all the world like a rap musician, and there was nothing about him to indicate that he had been manipulating Kindred and kine alike for the last forty years. In honor of the formal occasion, he’d purchased a new silk tic which he carefully placed around his neck. His dark brown eyes were expressive, and Kurt could tell he was not happy about the situation, despite the jovial attitude and boisterous jokes.
Almost two hours passed in pleasantries and carefully worded insults before the primogen of Miami prepared to get down to business. Despite the unexpected visitors, there was room enough for everyone. In addition to Kurt’s own surprise appearance, there was an as yet unidentified Nosferatu sitting beside Chester DuBois. Both looked human, but their shadows were out of sync with their forms and water stains covered the couch where they sat. Simply put, no o
ther clan wallowed in the sewers. Kurt had no doubt they were Nosferatu.
Masika sat by himself, perched at the edge of the full-length bar that covered one wall of the room. On the couch closest to the door, the two Nosferatu sat, both wearing false faces and dressed in formal clothing. Sylvester Simms, the elder of the Malkavians, sat on the next couch, apparently having a completely lucid conversation with his shadow. Beside him, a stunning woman with red hair and slightly vulpine features sat with her arms crossed, obviously impatient for the meeting to begin and be over. Basilia was the primogen of the small Gangrel contingent, but that did not make her much more civilized than the others of her ilk who loved nothing better than creeping through the woods. Anvil sat with another Kindred, a heavy-set man with a short shag of brown hair growing from the top of his head. He was massive and brutal-looking. There was no indication that he was anywhere near as intelligent or friendly as the slave who once ruled the city. So this was Crusher, the would be prince. The two wore matching cocky sneers to go with their ratty street clothes. Anvil tossed his long brown hair away from his forehead and pulled at one side of his mustache, obviously deep in thought despite the grin he affected for everyone present. Natasha, Jazz and Kurt sat close by, but just far enough away to make it clear that they were not chumming around with the riff-raff. Lastly, alone in the comer with his chin resting on the balled fist of his right hand, Lazarus of the Clan Tremere sat in a plush chair. He made no noise and stared intently at the two Nosferatu.
For the vast majority of the meeting, very little happened that interested Kurt, and he simply watched the elders of Miami go through the motions of maintaining friendly order in a hostile city. There was little or no love lost between any of the participants, but most at least acknowledged each other civilly and maintained the illusion of working together and being sociable. Anvil spent a great deal of that time pointing out the flaws of the present prince and making certain that everyone knew how he felt about the man.
Finally, after listening to three hours of what basically came down to dealing with the anarch and Sabbat threats and balancing the budget, Jack “Anvil" Calloway said what everyone in the room knew would eventually be stated. “I think it's time to seriously consider losing Gilbert Duane and replacing him with someone more capable of handling the city.”
Gilbert Duane himself leaned against the wall nearest the main door to the room. He was silent, but the small smile on his face made it clear to Kurt that he did not expect Anvil’s vote to go through. Despite the street clothes he wore, it was obvious enough to Kurt that he was a man used to being in a position of authority. When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant. “Given that I am the one being questioned as to my ability to rule, I shall abstain from the vote at this time. I do, however, reserve the right to place my vote later."
Basilia was the next to respond, her voice filled with the threat of a growl. “Who would you have replace him, Anvil? And I hope you mean someone other than Crusher, because if that’s the best you can offer, I vote against.”
Crusher stood up and took a step her way before Anvil grabbed him by the arm and all but threw him back onto the couch. “Why is that, Basilia? Afraid he might do something to hurt your precious parks?”
“No," she snorted. “I’m afraid he’ll start trying to think for himself instead of working as your number one supporter.” Anvil glared, but knew better than to try something in a place of Elysium; violence in the places acknowledged by all Kindred as inviolate would certainly turn the vote against him. “He’s bad enough now. I’d hate to see what he might try to pull if he actually got an idea.” Next to her on the couch, Simms started cackling to himself and whispering urgently to his shadow.
Masika looked around the room, smiling politely and asked, “Does anyone else feel concern over whether or not Prince Gilbert can hold the city against the threats from other sources?” He paused while he waited for a response and finally shrugged. “I’ll second Anvil’s suggestion.” He waited a moment and finally continued. “I think the rising crime rate, the violence against foreign tourists, and the increasing population of indigents can all be traced back to when Gilbert Duane seized control from his predecessor. His control over the police forces and his ability to accurately assess a situation properly is questionable at best.”
“I’ll agree with that.” The voice came from behind almost every person in the room. Lazarus had spoken from deep in the shadows. The Tremere wizard stood up and walked slowly across the room, looking at Masika briefly and then moving his eyes over to Anvil and Crusher. “I believe we could do far worse than Crusher. He at least is strong-willed enough to make a decision without consulting a Ouija board — being dead does not mean being omniscient, a fact that still escapes the prince — or having to ask his reflection for feedback." He smiled then, and the Kindred in the room focused on him. “Meaning no offense to Gilbert Duane or his clan, he is perhaps too unstable to maintain the forces necessary to control the city. We have the Sabbat threats from Orlando to consider and from Cuba as well. We cannot possibly hope to hold this city against infiltrators with a madman on the proverbial throne.”
Lazarus stepped over to where Simms was apparently listening to noises that no one else could hear and stared down at the Malkavian elder. “How can we even hope to hold back the influx of Setites and Samedi from Haiti if we do not have a capable leader for the troops? Are we expected to do everything ourselves, Sylvester?"
Sylvester Simms glanced up at the serpent-headed cane in Lazarus’ hand and then looked at the Tremere himself. “I should hope not. I have better things to do with my spare time." Kurt cringed inwardly, dreading what was rapidly becoming a full-scale battle instead of the minor difficulty he had actually expected. Still, the matter wasn't half solved yet.
Before Lazarus could continue, Chester DuBois spoke for the first time since the meeting had begun. “I don’t think Sylvester has been paying enough attention to fully understand what it is you're after, Lazarus." He turned to Sylvester and spoke clearly and slowly. “Sylvester, do you understand what Lazarus is asking you to agree with? He wants Crusher to become the prince, and he wants Gilbert to step down."
Sylvester Simms looked up at Lazarus with a wide, feral smile and boomed laughter across the room. “And you call me crazy? Please, if you want to remove Gilbert, at least replace him with a thinking animal. I’d sooner sec Elmer Fudd in the White House.”
“Do you have a better suggestion, you moron?" This last from Crusher, who cracked his knuckles audibly as he spoke.
“Yes. Elmer Fudd.”
“This is serious, Simms,” Anvil all but growled.
“So am I. Crusher is a nice young lad, but he hasn’t the common sense of a farm-bred turkey." He gestured wildly, narrowly missing Basilia with his left hand. “The boy would stand out in the open sunlight if someone didn’t remind him to come inside."
Basilia raised her voice before Anvil and Crusher could decide to start screaming. “That’s two against and three for. Let’s hear from the rest of the primogen.
Natasha Volfchek looked directly at Anvil and smiled icily. “I abstain."
Every single Kindred in the room turned to stare at Chester DuBois, who glanced at the Nosferatu beside him and shrugged. “I vote against the change.”
“That means a tie.” Anvil, Kurt noted, was very efficient at stating the obvious.
“Nonsense, Mr. Anvil.” The voice was very deep and sounded heavy with phlegm. “I believe I shall vote on this as well.” The heavy-set Kindred stood up. “I am Sheldon, justicar of Clan Nosferatu, and I also vote against this change of leadership.” He stared hard at the Brujah contingency, his bulbous eyes glowing with barely contained contempt. “I have heard rumors aplenty about the ways in which the Brujah of this city mistreat those of my clan. I do not see why any sensible Kindred would condone such behavior, nor do I see the mentality behind your clan’s actions as a solid reason to add any potential assistance to your cause.”
“Additionally, despite my preference to wait until I have all the facts before speaking of such matters, I will make it known to every member of the Camarilla in this room that I am pursuing a line of investigation into the hideous death of not one but two members of my clan who had made Miami their home. They were diablerized, their lives drained from them and their bodies left to burn in the sun’s light. I refer to none other than Heronimus Bloat and the childe he created, one Peanut McGinty. Their only known crimes being that they were Nosferatu, I feel a deep and passionate need to vindicate their deaths. Had the two not been found within minutes of the crime’s completion, we’d have never had any evidence at all. Their bodies were already well- decomposed when they were located.
“While I feel that the guilty parties are known to me — and there is more than one, I may assure you — this is neither the time nor the place to accuse all members of the group that committed the aforementioned atrocities.” Sheldon carefully sat himself back on the couch next to Chester DuBois, who gazed at him with an expression of raw adoration. “Just the same, in consideration of the attempted manipulations by Mr. Anvil. I should point out that ‘Crusher,’ as he prefers to be called, is one of the primary suspects in this investigation.”
Several cries of outrage, some genuine and many false, erupted about the room. Lazarus looked from the Justicar of Clan Nosferatu and the elder of Clan Brujah, pausing only once to stare intently at Crusher, who did his best not to be noticed. When the clamor had died down, he spoke softly but with authority that none in the room could ignore, “I hereby rescind my previous vote.”