by James Moore
The Doctor’s eyes then turned to Use. “Directly after sunset tomorrow evening, you will take a cab to Bexborough Manor, where you will introduce yourself to Lady Anne and warn her that if you do not return to us safely before the end of the night, we will blow up Parliament. You will then return by magical means, as we do not wish this location compromised. Before and after that time, we will leave you to your own recognizance and judgment, deciding how best to assist the mage here and thereby House Tremere. Are there any questions?”
“Well, yes," Carl said. “What was that you meant earlier by me having ‘the look’? And things being complicated by a sub-line? So far as I know, the only other bloke who’s got eyes like mine is David Bowie, and I don't think we’re related.” “Not in any significant manner, leastways," Dr. Dee replied. “We already investigated the Bowie possibility, but his eye came from an accident in childhood. Hardly the same thing. Your eyes, however, indicate something far deeper. The rites we must enact require a direct descendent of one of the Circle of Eight. Precisely who should become clear relatively soon, and the troublesome aspects of your ancestry will become inconsequential provided we take the right steps.” “What?" Carl asked.
Dr. Dee gazed upon him blandly. “You are better off not knowing, Carl Magnuson. Walls have ears, and you may better present our case to the Order of Hermes without being troubled by inconsequential details.”
“Inconsequential? I like that! Here you go, dropping hints about bloodlines and family secrets, like something out of an Agatha Christie book, then add cryptic remarks about time and space. Next thing you know, I’m going to find I’m caught in some sort of remake of ‘The Five Doctors’!”
Dr. Dee stood, murmuring to Sarah, “Ring for Winthrop,” then to Carl said, “There are seven Doctors. Not counting myself.”
Mr. Winthrop appeared in the door, Dr. Dee’s black and gold cloak over his arm. The Doctor took it from him and threw it over his shoulders with a flourish. “Arrange for a cab to pick up the woman at a distance no less than five blocks away just after sunset tomorrow evening, assuming she’s sober. Leave the man to his own devices. Sarah, come. We have much to discuss.”
Sarah released the brocaded bell pull and followed, her Day-Glo hair, fencing foil and rumpled leather boots making a sharp contrast to the Doctor’s elegant attire.
Mr. Winthrop nodded to Use and Carl, “You have but to ring if you have need of anything,” then followed the master and lady of the house.
“My,” Carl remarked, “the Doctor goes through companions quickly, but I’d never thought he’d take up with a punk vampire." He picked up his knife and fork and proceeded to cut another piece of pork medallion. “Especially after that silly episode with the giant space bat and the rocket ship.”
He chewed for a moment, his odd eyes contemplative, then at last he swallowed. “Ah, well,” Carl sighed. “I suppose it's part and parcel of being the seventh son of a seventh son. I should probably be thankful for not leading a boring life.” Use reached down and retrieved the brandy snifter, bringing it up to her nose and inhaling deeply. She suddenly felt a need to get very, very drunk.
Sunday, April 25, London — To Visit The Queen
Bexborough Manor was on the outskirts of London, but beyond that Use hadn’t the faintest idea where she was going. That was probably all for the better; Use hadn’t ever thought she’d be quite so glad to have the Iron Key as now.
The cab dropped her off, and Use gave the driver a handful of pound notes Sarah had given her, tipping heavily. Some Ventrue would no doubt intercept the cabbie and Dominate him into telling where he’d picked her up (at a club blocks from Malmsey House) but the last thing she wanted them to get was the impression that the Tremere were cheap. And anyone who had to deal with the Ventrue deserved something extra for his trouble. Fair was fair.
The manor house was one of those stately homes they kept renting out for BBC costume dramas, and it looked like the sort of place they’d give school tours during the day. For all Use knew, they did — it wasn’t as if Lady Anne had any use for it then — and who knew, maybe one of her staff had a predilection for schoolboys or tourists. The Ventrue were like that, with their petty foibles about which blood they’d drink and which they wouldn’t.
Use paused to adjust her gray silk dress and check her earrings before starting up the steps, evening bag clutched in one hand. Mr. Winthrop had located them all in one of the numerous closets of Malmsey House, and after a touch of the iron and a spritz of Chanel, they were ready to wear, for all that they dated to the Thirties. Everything fit perfectly, except the shoes, and Ilse felt the tissue paper she'd stuffed in for padding scrunch annoyingly against the toes of her stockings.
She was positive someone was watching, despite the fact that the lights were turned out, but it was just like the Ventrue to keep someone waiting just for the pleasure of hearing the sound of their own door knocker. The knocker of Bexborough Manor was in the shape of a harpy, and with what Use had heard of Lady Anne, she wasn’t sure if this was a conscious choice or just unintentional humor.
She toyed with her quizzing glass while she waited for the door to be opened. It might be an unusual necklace for a lady, more appropriate to a man’s costume of the Regency period, but first and foremost it was a lens, the crystal a perfect mate in size and shape to the Monocle of Clarity attached to the camera in her purse. By crossing the Eye Spy charm with the discipline of Eagle’s Sight, they were now linked by sympathetic resonance, and she could take pictures of whatever thirty-six items she pleased without having to change film or doing anything aside from fidgeting with her jewelry.
The door finally opened, and Ilse got to see the silhouette of a tall man, the light of the manor blinding behind him. The voice was so impeccably upper-crust British that she wouldn't have been able to understand it if she hadn’t been expecting some words to the effect: “You must be the woman from the Tremere.”
He said the clan’s name as though it were some filthy social disease, and Ilse thought, And you must be the obligatory snobbish Ventrue pig, but only extended her hand in a ladylike fashion and said, “Why, yes. Ilse Decameron, at your service.”
She half-expected him to say something like, “The servants’ entrance is around the back," but he only avoided taking her hand and kissing it (for which Use was grateful) by opening the door wider and gesturing for her to come inside. “Please, come in. Lady Anne is expecting you. Courtland Leighton, Lady Anne’s personal secretary.”
Use slipped in, feeling the tissue paper shift inside the toe of her right shoe, and turned to take in Lady Anne’s personal secretary as he shut the door.
Courtland Leighton appeared to be in his early thirties, dressed in an impeccably tailored blue suit, with skin pale as skim milk and hair gone shock white. His eyes were as gray as slate and just about as charming. She didn't even have to look at his aura to tell that he was Kindred, and he definitely didn't look the type to prey on tourists, so Ilse decided it was probably the schoolboys who were his preference. She twiddled her quizzing glass flirtatiously, snapping his picture, and felt the camera in her purse vibrate as it advanced a frame.
The Ventrue gave an expression of abject disdain and shuddered. “Let us not keep Lady Anne waiting,” he said and proceeded down the hall. Use nearly had to jog to keep up. She felt the tissue paper trying to work its way out her shoes. Bastard.
The hall was long and grand, with suits of armor and pole arms and interesting curios in cases and a great many things that Use would rather have looked at than rush off to her appointment with Lady Anne. Then again, there were a great many things she’d have rather done than meet with the selfstyled Queen of London. Visit the Nosferatu, for one. They might be ugly and smell bad, but at least they weren't condescending for no good reason, and besides that, they had information she actually wanted to know. For example, the identity of the Kindred in L.A. who’d been so intent on getting her camera before she’d flashed him and dumped a bowl of chowd
er on his head. She had a couple eight by ten color glossies of him in her purse, both with and without the chowder, and they were going to the first Nosferatu she found. If that didn't work, she’d just have to stick pins in them and have done with it.
Court land Leighton unlocked an elaborate great door with more gold leaf on it than the entirety of Dr. Dee’s drawing room. He stepped inside, barring her entrance with one arm, and announced, “Lady Anne, if it would please you, I have Miss Ilse Decameron of Clan Tremere. Shall I send her in?"
He still said the clan’s name as if it were a social disease, and he’d badly mangled her own name too, but then with his thick accent it was probably impossible for him to pronounce anything apart from “Darjeeling” and “crumpet."
A pleasant female voice responded, “By all means, Courtland. Send her in."
Lady Anne’s secretary put down his arm, and Ilse was able to enter the room and see the Queen of London herself.
The Queen was a slightly built woman, with curly, mouse-brown hair immaculately coifed and held in place with a diamond pin, matched by the brooch on her azure wool jacket. She sat in a grand throne at the end of the reception hall, the type of thing that probably had a tour guide during the day telling how it had been constructed by Duke something-or-other for Henry the VIII, for those times when the king wanted to take a relaxing day in the country, but still finish it off by kicking back in a throne and eating turkey drumsticks. King Henry had probably never made it out here, and the throne had never been used by any ruler of England, at least any mortal one.
Lady Anne sat back in it as if it had been made for her, but aside from her almost palpable regality, the most immediately apparent thing about the Queen of London was her eyes, which were blue as sapphires and piercing in their intensity.
Ilse lowered her own eyes and picked up the sides of her
skirt, dropping a low curtsy. The Red Queen’s advice from Through the Looking-Glass came back to her: “Curtsy while you’re thinking what to say. It saves time.” Unfortunately, not much, for a moment later she was back up and locking eyes with the Queen of London.
Lady Anne smiled graciously. “Please, come closer, my dear. Let us see you. And allow us to offer you refreshments. After your long flight, you must be famished.”
Ilse looked over to where Courtland stood by a high table with a full carafe of blood warming in a chafing dish.
She took the Red Queen’s advice again and curtsied a second time. “Thank you, Your Majesty, but I've just eaten.”
Lady Anne raised her eyebrows. “You’ve already hunted in our fair city?”
Ilse curtsied a third time. “No, Your Majesty. I was greeted by Dr. Dee upon my arrival, and he offered me refreshments from his own supplies, preparatory to sending me here to meet with you.”
Lady Anne nodded, running her fingers across the arm of her throne. “I see. Did the learned Doctor entrust you with any greetings for us?”
“After a fashion.”
“Yes?” said Lady Anne, her blue eyes burning like sapphire flames.
Ilse dropped yet another curtsy. “Beg — Begging your pardon, Lady Anne, but there is no way to put this delicately."
Lady Anne smiled. “The good Doctor's sentiments are seldom delicate. You may convey them nonetheless."
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Ilse said. “The Doctor told me to inform you that if I do not return unharmed this evening, he will consider it a declaration of war. And he will respond by blowing up Parliament.”
Ilse heard Courtland Leighton gasp, but Lady Anne only continued to gaze at her mildly, then inquired, “In session or out of session?"
Use stared at the floor. “I’m sorry, he didn’t specify.”
“How very like the Doctor.” Use heard the sound of the great lady rising from her throne, then the tap of her heels down the marble steps. “You may look up, dear. There’s no need to scrutinize the masonry, and I seldom kill the messenger, at least not when that is the message.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Think nothing of it.” Lady Anne paced across the floor, her steps echoing in the great reception hall. “I do, however, have some other questions. Or, perhaps I should say, a representative of Clan Ventrue has some questions. Courtland, if you would be so kind as to bring in Mr. Westphal?”
Lady Anne’s secretary nodded and went to the side door of the reception hall, opening it and ushering in a tall, handsome man with brush-cut brown hair and an impeccable black suit. Use blinked in amazement. When last she saw him, he’d been wearing a Polo shirt and a bowl of chowder, but there was no mistaking — it was the same Kindred from Malibu.
He smiled like a shark with porcelain-white teeth.
Lady Anne smiled as well. “I believe you two already know each other?"
The European Kindred by way of Malibu replied, “We've never been formally introduced.”
Lady Anne continued to smile pleasantly. “Then give us the pleasure of introductions. Herr Westphal, this is Use Decameron, of Clan Tremere. Use, this is Kurt Westphal, Archon of Clan Ventrue, and childe of our Justicar, Democritus."
Use tried her best to smile and was surprised her teeth didn’t break with the effort. “What an unexpected surprise."
“I’m certain it is." Kurt Westphal snapped. “Lady Anne, upon our last meeting, this Kindred violently attacked my person, causing me grievous bodily harm and loss of dignity. I demand satisfaction."
The Queen of London inclined her head. “This we may be able to grant, within reason.”
“I'm certain I don’t know what you're talking about,” Ilse said and clutched her purse closer.
“You most certainly do, you witch!” Westphal's blue eyes blazed. “Only two nights ago in Malibu you seared my eyes and boiled my skin!"
“Oh, that," Use said, then turned to Lady Anne. “Your Majesty, the incident to which he refers occurred in Baron Fortier’s demesne, both outside of your realm and the bounds of the Camarilla. But even so, I acted with regard to the laws of both, for the spot where this took place is one contested by the Lupines, and therefore most perilous for any breach of the Masquerade, and it was there I encountered Mr. Westphal. I must confess that I am shocked to find that he is a member of your clan, for I presumed he was some Malkavian or perhaps some foolish Kindred who had decided to let his hair down, as it were, heedless of the danger. But now that I am aware of his clan, I must assume that he was unaware of the peril of his location, and the fact that it is de facto Elysium, and had then partook of the wrong vessel and succumbed to a drug-induccd frenzy. See, here is a picture taken while he was under the influence of whatever drugs were in his system."
Use undid the catch of her evening bag and took out the topmost of the two eight by ten color glossies. It was a lovely photograph showing Kurt Westphal with a crazed expression, arms raised and fangs bared, while in the background were a couple of shocked-looking women holding margaritas, part of a Cinzano umbrella and the neon fish from the end of the Gladstone’s sign.
Ilse handed the photograph to Lady Anne and let the picture do the talking. The Queen of London surveyed it for a good minute, then passed it on to her clan’s Archon. “Herr Westphal?”
He took it, and Ilse played her trump card. “After
witnessing that shocking spectacle, I wished of course to immediately preserve the Masquerade and so used the first thing that came to hand and a bit of magic. Unfortunately, while it worked to trip the waiter, the easiest thing with which to cover up Mr. Westphal's fangs was a loaf of bread which, as it turned out, was filled with hot chowder, in which case I must apologize for the burns he suffered, but I’m sure he will agree that any sacrifice is necessary when it comes to preserving the Masquerade."
Use took out the second photograph, showing him lying amid the spilled drinks and salads, the bread bowl and chowder obscuring his face.
Lady Anne surveyed it, then handed it on to the German. “Herr Westphal, do you agree with Miss Decameron’s appraisal
of the situation?"
“I do not!" he snarled, crushing the photographs with one hand. “The truth is that she flashed her camera at close range, causing me to frenzy momentarily from the light, and then she poured a bowl of hot soup over my face, causing me yet further pain and indignity.”
Use did her best to look shocked. “But, sir, I’d never met you before. What reason could I have to so baselessly attack a fellow Kindred, and in such a perilous spot?”
Westphal seemed to realize she had him stymied. “You photographed me. I told you I objected.”
“Yes,” Use said, allowing the truth to finally come out, “and I offered to send you a copy of the picture and the frame from the negative."
Westphal grimaced, fangs showing. “You then represented yourself as a member of Clan Toreador.”
Ilse smiled demurely. “I did nothing of the sort. I asked you what possible objection you might have to your picture being shown by Clan Toreador.”
He continued to grimace, saying nothing, causing Lady Anne to look to him and prompt, “And then?"
“And then,” Westphal ground out past his fangs, “I told her I objected to my photo being held by Clan Tremere, and when I attempted to take her camera, she flashed me in the eyes, causing my momentary lapse of reason.”
Lady Anne glanced to Use, eyebrows raised. Use spoke in her own defense, “He attempted to steal my camera, and he so much as admitted to spying on me. I consider my reaction mild under the circumstances." She paused, still meeting Lady Anne’s sapphire eyes. “As for the soup, I did do that to preserve the Masquerade, and Mr. Westphal’s unlife. If I hadn’t, he might have enjoyed sunrise in Malibu."
Westphal stared at her with murder in his eyes, then turned to Lady Anne. “Your judgment, Queen of our clan?"
Lady Anne looked very put out. “Our judgment is that we don’t care to waste our time any further over petty bickering. You can take it up yourselves outside our chambers, and we’ve no doubt you will, but we consider the matter at a close. The Masquerade has been preserved, and that’s all that matters. And you, Archon Westphal, we will caution to keep a tighter rein on your emotions, and you, Miss Decameron, we will advise to be less possessive of your toys and more forthright when dealing with the rulers of those cities you visit.”