— and, though they may not fully realize it themselves as yet, the Kindred of this domain are under siege.”
Gosh, Dan thought sardonically, and I didn’t even know anything was wrong. Maybe there were advantages to being an outcast, if it kept you out of the line of fire. “You know," he said, “just because somebody’s calling you out, that doesn’t mean you have to go out in the alley and fight. You could just keep lying low.”
“No,” Melpomene said grimly, “my opponent knows how to compel me. Even if I could bear to abandon those of my own lineage, the art must not be lost! It’s my legacy to the world!” Her voice grew softer. “Perhaps it’s my atonement for all the evil I’ve done.”
“So what are you going to do?” asked Dan. Sand crunched beneath his sneakers. “March into Prince Roger’s stronghold and take charge?” ,
“No,” the ancient vampire said. “That’s what the enemy would like, to flush me into the open.”
In other words, Dan thought, the art is precious, but not precious enough for you actually to risk your own neck. To his surprise, he felt a little disappointed in her.
“By and large,” Melpomene continued, “I’ll have to trust my Toreador to direct the defense themselves. What I am going to do is plant a spy in the enemy camp.”
Cocking his head, Dan gave her an incredulous smile. “Me?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’ve been out of touch too long. 1 have no idea which of my peers is assailing me, nor even who his principal minions are. Some occult force is shielding them from my psychic abilities. However, I have managed to sense one small contingent, no doubt the most ignorant and least significant, of my enemy’s forces. But it’s a place to begin. A clever agent could infiltrate them and begin working his way up the ladder of command, amassing intelligence as he went.”
“Swell, but why me?” Dan said.
“I saw you in my dreams, too,” she said, “before I even realized what bond would bring us together. Despite your youth, you’re strong. You’ve proved it many times in the course of your wanderings. And you’re a Caitiff, with no ties to Prince Roger, the Toreador of Sarasota, those elders kindly disposed toward them, or anyone else I might be thought to control. Indeed, in the wake of your altercation tonight, the Kindred of the domain should soon be crying for your head. That should keep anyone from suspecting you when you join the other side.”
A pang of self-pity stabbed through his chest. Struggling to quash the feeling, he said, “I wouldn’t count on them letting me join, even so. If your dreams showed you very much of my life, you know that I’m not exactly good at winning friends and influencing people, not when the people in question are vampires.”
“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “The enemy will encounter you in circumstances that will make your acceptance inevitable.”
“If you say so,” he said dubiously. “Now for the big question: Considering that Prince Roger and his gang are no friends of mine, why should I risk my neck to help you? What’s in it for me?”
“Power,” she said. “If you agree to help me, I’ll enhance your abilities.”
His eyes narrowed in consideration. Many vampires aspired to improve their existing supernatural talents or to master the exotic arts practiced by Kindred of other bloodlines, and he was no exception. “It’s a tempting offer,” he said slowly. “I just don’t know if it’s tempting enough for me to take on what could turn out to be a suicide mission. After all, you’re asking me to snoop into the secrets of a bad-ass just as powerful as you.”
“But you haven’t heard my complete offer,” she said. 1 lie cool breeze gusted, pasting her thin dress to her slender body. Even in the darkness he could see her nipples through the gauze. “After the war is over, I’ll exert whatever influence is required to gain you the acceptance of your fellow Kindred. You’ll finally have a place in the world. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”
“Yes,” he admitted, pondering the deal. He supposed that a lot of people would think he was crazy even to consider jumping into a deadly feud that was really none of his business. But Melpomene was right, he was tough: in the perilous years since he’d submitted to his unknown sire’s Embrace, delirious on the hallucinogen someone had slipped into his drink, he’d learned to trust in both his strength and his ingenuity. And if they proved inadequate to the challenge this time, well, he didn’t have to be as old as Melpomene and her rivals to feel that his current existence was becoming wearisome. “Okay, what the hell. I’ll do it.”
“Excellent,” the ancient vampire said, her dark eyes shining.
“What do we do first?” Dan asked.
“You do what you’ve been wanting to do,” she answered softly, releasing his hand and raising her own. He hadn’t seen her cut herself, but blood began to flow from a gash in the fleshy base of her palm. “You quench your thirst.”
A feeling of awe came over him again. Hesitantly, half-suspecting that this was a test of his respect and good judgment and that she’d strike him down for his temerity, he took hold of her wrist and pressed his mouth against the cut.
At his first taste of her vitae, a lightning bolt of pleasure blazed through his body. Drinking blood had never filled him with such euphoria, not even when he’d been starving or berserk. The sensation transcended the ecstasy he normally felt when feeding as far as that exhilaration surpassed human orgasm. He lifted his becrimsoned face and howled with delight, then frantically kissed the cut again.
The rapture of guzzling her life so possessed him that he was nearly incapable of sensing anything else. Yet, dimly, his eyes closed, he felt a cool fingertip tracing a design on his forehead. The touch left a tingling trail on his skin. Then Melpomene laid her free hand on his brow and shoved him suddenly and hard, like a faith healer thrusting the power of God into one of his flock.
Another blast of energy crashed through Dan’s body. This one was painful, but he was so lost in the bliss of consuming Melpomene’s vitae that the hurt didn’t matter. The world began to spin, and his knees buckled. Still clinging to the ancient’s arm, he collapsed onto the sand. She flowed down to the ground with him and covered his shuddering form with her own.
FOIIRi DELIBERATIONS
You may take the most gallant sailor, the most intrepid airman, or the most audacious soldier, put them at a table together — what do you get?
The sum of their fears.
— Winston Churchill, The Blast of War
Elliott paused at the foot of the stairs to run a comb through his hair, straighten his tie and vest, adjust his cuffs and make sure his handkerchief was protruding from his breast pocket properly. At the same time, he reflected again on Henry V, Shakespeare’s most heroic and charismatic king, trying to cloak his own despondent apathy in the role’s dynamism. Gradually his back straightened, and his jaw set in bogus resolution. When he felt as ready as he imagined he could be for the ordeal to come, he strode on into the room that Roger humorously referred to as the arena.
With its vast expanse of gleaming hardwood floor, its high ceiling and its glittering crystal chandelier, the arena would have made a satisfactory ballroom. Indeed, on occasion Roger had moved the furniture out and used it for precisely that purpose. Currently, however, the chamber was full of comfortable antique sofas and easy chairs grouped into conversation pits in a manner that reminded Elliott of a posh hotel lobby or a gentlemen’s private club. Holbein’s portrait of Roger hung above the ornately carved fireplace where someone, heedless of the warmth of the evening, had kindled a crackling yellow blaze.
Many of the Kindred of Sarasota had assembled in the room. Some were lounging with an enviable display of poise, but others were sitting on the edges of their seats or nervously prowling about. A pungent blue haze of tobacco smoke hung in the air.
To better assess the mood of the crowd, Elliott invoked a perceptual power he hadn’t bothered to use in a long time. The pale auras of his fellow vampires shimmered into view. As he’d suspected, most of the envelop
es of light were tinged with orange, the color of fear.
Judith Morgan, a Brujah elder, was sitting on a maroon leather sofa talking to the rest of the primogen. Judy was as tall and thin as a fashion model, with skin the color of cafe au lait. She was dressed in ragged jeans, a black leather halter, a choke-chain necklace and a blue Union infantry soldier’s cap. Long scars crisscrossed her naked shoulders and back. When breathing, Judy had been a slave. She’d been transformed into a vampire in the early 1830s and released from her sire’s supervision in 1861, just in time to help the North win the Civil War. Sensing Elliott’s presence, she turned and beckoned to him urgently.
As Elliott started toward her, his remaining peers twisted in their seats to look at him. Schuyller Madison, a fellow Toreador, gave him a welcoming smile. Sky was a poet and a patron of human poets whose delicate-looking frame, soulful, wounded eyes and languid, abstracted demeanor made him a caricature of the dreamy, oh-so-sensitive aesthete. Even Elliott, who’d grappled with more than one crisis at the versifier’s side, had difficulty remembering just how misleading this appearance could sometimes be.
Gunter Schmidt, the remaining elder, gave Elliott a hostile glower. The actor had never understood why the burly, piggy-eyed Malkavian, whose face was always as strangely ruddy as if he were constantly sipping blood to replenish the glow, disliked him so. Perhaps it was a part of his insanity. Supposedly all members of the Malkavian clan were mad in one way or another, although Gunter never displayed any obvious signs of derangement.
“How kind of you to honor us with your presence,” Gunter said snidely. “How fortunate that the petty problems of the domain have finally kindled your interest.”
Elliott supposed that, since he was here to urge everyone to stay calm and work together, he ought to adopt a conciliatory tone. “1 have been dilatory,” he admitted. “I apologize.” Gunter’s beady, bright-blue eyes blinked in surprise. “What have the three of you decided?”
“Nothing yet,” said Sky with a fluttering, helpless gesture of his long-fingered hand. “We’re just going back and forth.” In the midst of the youngsters, Elliott thought sourly, allowing them to eavesdrop on your uncertainty. Feeding their fear. It was the worst possible way for the elders to palaver. Judy, Sky and Gunter must be far more shaken than they appeared; otherwise, they would never have forgotten such an elementary principle of leadership.
“Then let’s turn this into a proper meeting,” Elliott said briskly, “and include everyone in the discussion.” He nodded toward the rest of the Kindred in the room.
Gunter’s mouth twisted. “What insights can these childer offer us?” he demanded.
“Conceivably some very useful ones,” Elliott replied. “That they can’t match our level of power doesn’t mean they aren’t bright. I would hope that their sires chose them to Embrace partly because they are intelligent. And in any case, they’re in a funk. If we talk with them, perhaps we can calm them down.”
“A true elder doesn’t care how his brood feels,” said Gunter contemptuously, “only that they obey.” He looked to Judy and Sky for support and then, discerning from their faces that they agreed with Elliott, made a spitting sound.
“But all right. Invite them all to jabber if you think it will do any good.”
“Thank you,” Elliott said, hoping he didn’t sound sarcastic.
He walked to the midpoint of one of the walls — one of the natural visual focal points of the parlor — where a semicircle of four straight-backed chairs and music stands, set up, perhaps, for some string quartet, sat beside a harpsichord that had once belonged to Bach. He clapped his hands together.
The drone of conversation ebbed. Everyone turned to peer at him. For an instant his stomach felt queasy, just as it always did when he first confronted an audience, even after all these centuries.
Drawing on his charismatic powers, reminding himself to be the magnificent King Henry and not a useless, disconsolate widower, he said, “May I have your attention, please? We all know the domain is facing a crisis. I think we should discuss the situation and decide on the appropriate measures to set things right. Make yourselves comfortable and we’ll begin.”
Wood squealed on wood as the vampires shifted their seats around to face him.
“Thank you,” Elliott said. “As I see it, we have four problems.” He raised his hand to count them off on his fingers. “One: Our prince has mysteriously fallen ill. Two: our financial holdings are under attack. Suddenly people are launching hostile takeovers against our companies, filing suits and seeking injunctions against them, and manipulating stock and bond markets to our detriment. Three: we have a rogue Kindred stalking our territory, feeding wantonly and jeopardizing the Masquerade. And four: someone is roaming the world systematically vandalizing works of art which we created, or which were created by mortals under our patronage.”
Judy raised her hand. Elliott acknowledged her with a nod. “It can’t be a coincidence that all these things are happening at once,” she said. “Somebody’s pursuing a comprehensive strategy to destroy us.”
“I agree,” said Elliott. Many of the onlookers began to babble. The actor raised his hand and the noise subsided. “Does anyone have any idea who the enemy might be?” The assembled Kindred looked at each other uncertainly. Apparently no one had any specific candidate. In point of fact it could be anyone, any powerful vampire seeking to extend his power, to settle an old score that the offending party had forgotten all about, or torelieve the boredom of centuries by playing a vicious game. Insulated in their pleasant little kingdom, some of the undead of Sarasota had probably forgotten the ruthless machinations in which many of their fellows delighted; but they were remembering how.
“I can’t think of a candidate either,” said Elliott wryly. “So we’ll have to maintain a defensive posture until we can ferret out more information. Now, why don’t we discuss the four aspects of our problem in turn and determine what to do about each one. First, of course, and very dear to all our hearts, is Roger.”
“How is he?” a male voice cried from the back of the room.
“Not good,” Elliott admitted. “But at least, though his reason is impaired, his body is still strong. It’s not as if he were dying. We’ve brought in Lionel Potter to attend him, so he’s getting the best care possible. We have every reason for hope, and we can do two things to help him: we can stand guard over this haven, so no enemy can attack him in his hour of weakness; and, much as I know you want to visit him, those of you who don’t belong to the primogen can stay away from him. Don’t give him a chance to trick you into releasing him from his restraints.”
Gunter rose from his couch. “At the moment, Roger can’t lead,” he said flatly. “Who will?”
Not you, Elliott thought, not if I have anything to say about it. Gunter was powerful enough to dominate most assemblages of Kindred, but in the Toreador’s opinion, the perpetually flushed, flaxen-haired Malkavian was neither concerned with anything beyond self-aggrandizement nor particularly bright.
“I trust that for the time being we can make decisions by consensus, with the primogen providing direction as needed,” Elliott replied smoothly.
Gunter stared into Elliott’s eyes. The Toreador felt he was receiving a message as clearly as if his fellow lieutenant were speaking it aloud: If anyone succeeds Prince Roger, it will be me. If you try to steal the throne, I’ll kill you.
“All right,” Gunter said. “We’ll do it that way for the time being.”
Elliott turned, reestablishing eye contact with the rest of the crowd, or at least giving them the impression that he’d done so. “Now, about our finances,” he said. “We employ some of the best executives, financial planners and lawyers in the world. I’m confident that with their assistance our little investment cartel will weather the present storm. As a matter of fact, I’m glad our enemy has made this move. By investigating his front men, his puppet investors and litigators, we may be able to determine his identity.”
“Oh, God,” moaned Karen, a pretty brunette vampire in amber-tinted glasses. “I can’t believe this. Every penny I have is in that fund.” Some of the other Kindred muttered similar sentiments.
“Fools!” Judy cried in a voice like the crack of a whip. Many of the audience flinched.
The Brujah sprang out of her seat and stalked to Elliott’s position center stage. “Do you think money is important?” she asked the crowd. “Money is nothing! You can wring it out of the kine whenever you choose. Strength and courage are what matter! If you’ve grown so soft that you’ve forgotten that, perhaps you deserve to be destroyed!”
“Damn straight!” one of her clanmates cried. Throughout the audience, people, shamed by her scorn, were visibly trying to conceal their trepidation. Judy quirked an eyebrow at Elliott and he gave her an infinitesimal nod, complimenting her on her performance.
“Are we agreed on the proper way to handle our financial difficulties?” Elliott asked. Members of the audience nodded or mumbled in affirmation. “Good. Then let’s talk about the killer. Does anyone have any idea who that might be?” “There are one or two Kindred in town who never swore allegiance to the prince,” Gunter said. “I always said they should be destroyed or driven out, but certain others” — he glowered at his fellow members of the primogen — “felt differently.”
“You may be on to something,” Elliott said, thinking
Dmitri, a handsome, muscular ballet dancer Roger had Embraced twenty-five years ago, raised his hand. “Yes?” “What does killer matter?” asked Dmitri in his faltering, heavily accented English. “No matter what he does, humans will not believe in us. They will think he is just crazy man who believes he is Count Dracula.”
“I hope you’re right,” Elliott said, “but we don’t dare depend on it. On occasion, in other domains, the Masquerade has been breached, and only reestablished by the most desperate, ruthless measures imaginable.”
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