Dan ripped another hole in the fence. As the vampires surged into the street their driver, a fleshy, middle-aged black ghoul who looked like a linebacker gone to seed, opened the sliding door in the rear of the panel truck. Dan could tell he was a ghoul because, to his newly sensitized nose, he smelled different from an ordinary human. “What’s wrong?” the servant asked.
“Get behind the wheel!” snapped the Kindred in white. “We have to disappear!”
As the ghoul obeyed, the foreign vampires scrambled into the back of the van. The guy in white and the woman with the Grateful Dead shirt peered out at Dan.
And here’s the kiss-off, Dan thought suddenly. Melpomene was wrong. Even though I saved them they want to leave me behind, just like all the other bastards always have. A wave of fury crashed through his mind.
“What are you waiting for?” said the vampire in white. “Get in!”
Dan blinked in surprise. His anger evaporating, he jumped into the van. The interior was carpeted, with a number of pillows and boxes of ammunition strewn about the floor, a small refrigerator and'microwave oven on a shelf, and sundry rifles, pistols, swords and knives hanging from mounts on the walls. Rain rattled on the roof. As the Kindred in white slammed the door, the motor roared to life. The van shot forward, then turned left.
In the next three minutes the driver changed direction several times. The vampires peered out the windows until they were sure that the Brujah had lost their trail. Then one of them, a muscular Hispanic guy with a thin black mustache and several gold chains around his neck, grinned and opened the refrigerator. Taking out a bottle of blood, he put it in the microwave. “Miller time,” he said, winking at Dan. “At least I think the guy said his name was Miller. When the stuff warms up, we’ll pass it around.”
“Uh, thanks,” said Dan. With the excitement of the chase and the savage exhilaration produced by the giants’ blood fading, he felt absurdly awkward and shy. He wasn’t used to other vamps being friendly.
The Kindred in white peeled off his right glove and held out his hand. “I’m Wyatt Vandercar,” he said. “Welcome to the Anarch Movement.”
EIGHT;THE HUNTER
Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god.
— Francis Bacon, “Of Friendship”
Cloaked in the form of a huge gray wolf, his eyes glowing crimson, Angus stalked silently through the snow, sniffing the odors — gasoline, smoke, the blood of seals — that drifted on the freezing wind. At the base of the hill, lights glowed in the windows of the tiny village; beyond that, ice floes drifted in the water.
The vampire skulked closer. As far as he could tell, none of the Eskimos was out of doors. In fact, he got the impression that the settlement was locked up tight. Perhaps the mortals had even set a trap for him.
He bared his fangs in a bestial grin. This was the way he liked it. In a huge modern city full of lonely, displaced souls about whom no one cared, where mortals were always running around outdoors at any hour of the night and people didn’t even credit the existence of the Kindred, seizing prey was so easy any fool could do it. But the village below him was a close-knit community of humans hardened by the daily battle for survival. And despite the evidence of technological advance — the chugging generators, the aluminum boats with outboard motors, the prefabricated buildings scattered among the traditional turf-covered log cabins, and the satellite dish — they still remembered the lore of their ancestors. Now that Angus’ previous incursions had put them on their guard, stealing their blood should provide a modicum of sport even to an elder of his talents.
Already plotting tonight’s raid, he began to glide down the slope; then a silvery shimmer flowered in front of him. Thinking that some unseen sentry had picked him out with a searchlight, he leaped to one side, but even as his paws touched down he realized that he’d been mistaken. No human device was projecting the glow; to all appearances it had no source of any kind. It was just a streak of phosphorescence, about as tall and as wide as a human being, seething in the air.
Now that Angus had had a better look at it, he recognized it for what it was. Regretting that he’d compromised his dignity by revealing how badly it had startled him, he glumly waited for it to finish materializing.
It was like watching an image on a movie screen swim into focus. Over the next few seconds it developed a recognizable head, then a face, clearly discernible limbs, hands and feet. Before long he was looking at Melpomene, floating three inches above the snow. She looked as solid as he was, but he knew that was an illusion. In reality, only a psychic projection hung before him.
“Hello, old friend,” she said.
Angus stared at her.
The Methuselah heaved a sigh. “Is it still like that, then? I’d hoped that time would wi ther away your resentment. We need to talk. Please, put on your true form.”
As he reluctantly did as she’d requested, Angus wondered fleetingly why Cainites who couldn’t change shape as his clan did never understood that all of a Gangrel’s bodies were his “true forms.” Perhaps if they could, they’d discover the same gift in themselves. Not that that would be a good thing.
In a world where Kindred of different bloodlines often battled ruthlessly for supremacy, his people needed every edge they could get.
Angus’ body took on additional mass. His bones and muscles rearranged themselves. In a moment it felt more natural to stand erect than to remain on all fours, and he surged to his feet. His muzzle shrank back into his skull and some of his fur melted away, though he remained an exceptionally hairy man. Centuries of shapechanging had left their mark on him.
When the transformation was complete, he was an ivoryskinned giant with deep-set eyes, bushy brows and a beak of a nose, whom various people had likened to a Cro-Magnon warrior, a Viking, or a mountain man. He wTas dressed in jeans, hiking boots, a red flannel shirt and a parka, worn open with the hood thrown back. A gold ring gleamed in his left ear and his brown beard and shaggy mane of hair blew in the frigid wind.
Melpomene smiled. “You haven’t changed,” she said. Angus shrugged. “We don’t change. That’s the point of it all, isn’t it? The point of being what we are.”
“I hope not,” the Methuselah said, turning her head this way and that. “I don’t sense any other vampires. Did you come up here alone?”
“There isn’t enough game for more than one,” Angus said.
Melpomene gave him a sympathetic smile. “It all becomes tiresome eventually, doesn’t it? Even your own progeny. Especially your own progeny.”
Angus didn’t want to share his feelings with her. She was right: he still held a grudge against her. And yet, simultaneously, he did want to talk. Their relationship had always been like that. She was one of the few creatures in the world old enough truly to understand his perspective, and he supposed that she had that damn Toreador charisma, that sweet, melancholy smile and those soulful, compelling eyes, prying away at his reserve. He understood the nature of her power, but it was so insidious that it was difficult to resist.
“Sometimes I do want to get away by myself,” he admitted, scowling. “So what?”
“Are you tempted to go down into the ground?” she asked. “Sleep a few decades or a century away, see how the world looks when you wake up?”
He hesitated, then repeated, “Sometimes.”
“When you rise from the earth,” Melpomene said, “you’ll be more like me.” Her somber tone implied that that would be his misfortune.
The tenor of the conversation was making Angus uncomfortable. “What do you want?” he demanded. “Why have you sought me out?”
“I’m at war,” the Methuselah said.
Though the statement was exactly what he’d been expecting, Angus grimaced. “Well, of course you are,” he said sardonically.
Absurdly enough, given their bloody history together, she winced as if he’d wounded her feelings. “I didn’t want to be,” she said. “After our final struggle in England, Castile and Normandy, I tried t
o get out of the game, but it hasn’t worked. Someone’s attacking me.”
“And I’m supposed to drop everything and rally to the cause,” the Gangrel said. The icy wind moaned and, out over the water, the yellow-green arcs of the aurora borealis wavered across the sky. “Even though there’s no sane reason for me to care who wins. Even though I’ve seen you send good people on suicide missions.”
“Never you,” she said.
“You mean, never yet,” Angus replied. “Don’t try to convince me that I’m not as expendable as the next puppet if that’s what it takes for you to win.”
She grimaced. “All right, 1 won’t. You’ve been a warlord yourself. You know that one does what one has to.”
“Well, do it to someone else.”
“I need you, Angus. I don’t have as many agents as I used to. I don’t have any other Justicars, and this conflict is likely to be addressed in a Conclave before it’s through.”
“If anyone found out that I was working for a Methuselah,” he said sourly, “and not just the Inner Circle of the Camarilla, you wouldn’t have any judges in your pocket. The princes would gleefully burn me alive.”
“Then I suggest that you be discreet,” Melpomene said. “But I don’t want you just for your political prestige. I need a master hunter and detective. A vampire in Florida is killing recklessly, flaunting his powers, jeopardizing the Masquerade. My descendants in the area have been trying to track the rogue down, to no avail. But I know you could do it.”
Angus had to admit to himself that he was intrigued. Though he wasn’t malevolent enough to do it simply for sport, tracking a powerful, cunning fellow undead was the grandest game of all; the mere prospect robbed his beleaguered Eskimos of their allure. Yet he was still reluctant to resume the role of a pawn in Melpomene’s game. “I’ve hunted down Cainites before,” he said. “That pastime has grown stale as well.”
The ancient vampire frowned. “I didn’t want to have to say this. It seems... gauche. But apparently I must remind you that I saved your life and the lives of three of your childer,” she said. “When everyone else betrayed you and left you to die, I extracted you from the torture chambers of the Inquisition.”
“To make me your servant,” Angus said. When one Kindred did another a kindness, the latter was honor-bound to reciprocate. Huge favors demanded heroic measures in return. “And I have served. I’ve risked the life you saved on your behalf.”
“I saved four lives,” Melpomene said. “I’ve called you to war on three previous occasions. You owe me one more.”
Angus sighed; unlike the breath of a warm-bodied mortal, his exhalation didn’t steam in the frigid air. He supposed that it had been a foregone conclusion that he would wind up fighting for Melpomene one last time, but the stubborn streak in his nature had compelled him to put up at least a token resistance. “Damn your bookkeeper’s soul,” he said. “All right, I’ll do it. Tell me everything,”
NINEtTHE ANARCHS
What is wrong with a revolution is that it is natural.
It is as natural as natural selection, as devastating as natural selection, and as horrible.
— William Golding, “Sayings of the Year”
Dan awoke on the floor of the van. For a moment, befuddled, he thought he was young and mortal again, travelling cross-country to some rock concert or ball game in his best friend Billy’s panel truck. Then he noticed how silent the interior of the vehicle was without the slightest hiss of respiration, how pale his slumbering companions were, the dried bloodstains around the holes in their garments. His memory came surging back.
Dawn had caught the fugitives still on the road and put them to sleep. Shortly thereafter the van had probably reached its ultimate destination — it certainly wasn’t moving now — but the ghoul driver had sensibly opted to let the Kindred rest where they lay. Matters of taste and style aside, a hard bed was no different from a soft one to a vampire. All that truly mattered was that the undead was shielded from the sun.
Dan slipped his fingers through the rents in his shirt and touched his chest and stomach. As he’d expected, his wounds had finished healing while he slept. All that remained were itchy crusts of scab. Except for the blood thirst parching his throat, he was as good as new.
Or was that an overstatement? He was okay physically, but he had to assume that he’d lost his home and all his possessions but the ruined clothes on his back. Prince Roger’s people wanted to kill him, and if his new companions discovered he was a spy, they would too. Hell, he didn’t even know what city he was in. Giddy with blood loss and jubilation over their escape, the anarchs hadn’t gotten around to telling him where they were headed, and he hadn’t asked. He’d been reluctant to do anything that might jeopardize his newfound rapport with them, even though he knew he’d have to start asking questions soon.
Smiling wryly at his situation, Dan sat up and peered out of one of the van’s one-way windows. The vehicle was sitting in what appeared to be one of the work bays of an abandoned auto-mechanic’s shop. No tools hung from the pegboards along the walls, gray sheets of cobweb shrouded the work benches, and the girlie calendar beside the time clock was from 1991. The garage doors were all closed, blocking any view of the outside world. Seated on a metal folding chair, the burly ghoul was eating a Cuban sandwich. With his newly heightened hearing, even through the side of the van Dan could hear the crisp bread crunch.
Behind him, something brushed along the carpeted floor. As he turned the brunette in the Deadhead shirt, whose name, he had learned the previous night, was Laurie Tipton, sat up, blinking. “Hi,” she said. “Welcome to our place.”
Still feeling shy, as if the anarchs might turn on him if he said or did anything the least bit out of line, Dan said, “Thanks. Uh, what town are we in, anyway?”
“Tampa,” Laurie said. When Dan thought about it, it made sense. Vampires liked big cities, where prey was plentiful and they could lose themselves in the crowd. If a gang of undead wanted to conduct hostilities against the prince of Sarasota, it would be smart for them to base themselves in the nearest such community outside the borders of his domain.
Laurie looked Dan up and down. “You could use a wash and some fresh clothes,” she said, sliding open the door. “Come on.”
As they emerged from the van the ghoul began to stand up respectfully, but she gave him a dismissive wave and he slumped back down. Dan wondered fleetingly if the man had entered the vampires’ service willingly, grateful for the longevity his new condition would afford, perhaps aspiring to be undead himself one day; or if he’d been forced to drink the vitae of one of the anarchs. Not that it mattered. Either way, he was Blood Bound now, his will no longer his own.
Laurie led Dan out of the work area and into a small complex consisting of offices, storerooms, restrooms, a waiting room and a cashier’s station. Someone had painted all the windows black, but a chain of small yellow lightbulbs strung along the ceiling provided dim illumination.
One of the storerooms contained cartons and heaps of clothes. Laurie nodded to the items by the right-hand wall. “That stuff’s up for grabs,” she said. She moved to what must have been her own personal possessions. The collection included headbands, granny glasses, a fringed buckskin jacket, bellbottoms, and T-shirts decorated with pictures of marijuana leaves, psychedelic swirls of color and the logos of bands like the Jefferson Airplane, Country Joe and the Fish, and Big Brother and the Holding Company.
Dan inferred that she’d been young and mortal in the ’60s. So had he, but the hippie movement hadn’t attracted him as it obviously had her. Instead, he’d wound up in the service, and shortly thereafter in Nam. Maybe he was a conformist by temperament. Maybe that was why, after his transformation at the hands of his unknown sire, he’d tried so hard to find a place for himself inside the Camarilla. It was only after repeated rejections that he’d attempted to join what amounted to the Kindred counterculture, only to discover that, at least hitherto, its adherents hadn’t wanted him either.<
br />
With an utter lack of self-consciousness, Laurie peeled off her filthy, perforated clothing, revealing the trim, smallbreasted ivory body underneath. Even those vampires who still behaved modestly in the presence of mortals often had no qualms about stripping in front of other Kindred; they knew their fellow undead were incapable of a sexual response.
Raking through a jumbled mass of shirts, underwear, socks and jeans, Dan asked, “How long have you been an anarch?”
“Fifteen years,” Laurie replied. She selected a long muslin
dress, then walked to the restroom across the hall and started
filling the sink. The pipes groaned and the water hissed. “I
joined after I ran away from my sire. I always knew she w’as
crazy and mean, but eventually I found out that she’d
tortured and fed on a bunch of her other childer, for no
reason at all. I was sure my name was on the menu, too.
Other elders knew what kind of monster she was, but nobody
had ever done anything about it because she was too well-
connected. That’s the so-called justice of the Camarilla for » .
you.
Dan found a large blue T-shirt that looked as if it would fit him. “But do you really think you can bring the old vamps down?” he asked.
“Sure!” she said, sounding surprised, as if it had been a silly question. She picked up a bar of soap and started to wash herself, slopping water over the edge of the basin onto the grubby linoleum floor. “Wyatt says that the old ones are powerful but stagnant. They can’t adapt to modern ways of doing things, and that will give us the advantage in the end.”
Remembering some of the Ventrue he’d seen clad in powdered wigs and tricorn hats like tourist guides at Williamsburg, Dan suspected that she might be right. As he pulled off his old shirt, he said, “Is Wyatt the leader?” He’d certainly gotten that impression last night.
“Anarchs don’t have leaders,” the female Kindred said, reaching for a Holiday Inn bath towel draped over the back of a chair, “anymore than we have princes, Justicars, or any of that. We’re all equal. But he is the cell coordinator.”
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