On a Darkling Plain

by Unknown Author

  When you first peered at the hole, Angus asked, what did you see beyond it on the other side of the window? You must have noticed something.

  For a moment the manatees regarded him blankly, and he decided that, in fact, they couldn’t help him. Then the same female who’d recalled the bullet hole projected the image of a woman crouching over two motionless bodies. The picture was murky and distorted, but Angus could make out a tall, slender form, a pale, oval face, short raven hair capped with a sort of beret, and a long black coat with the collar turned up.

  He was somewhat surprised. He realized that, though he’d encountered plenty of depraved and dangerous female Kindred in the course of his long existence, he’d been unconsciously assuming that Dracula was male. He supposed it was a carryover from his youth, when, by and large, the men had done the raiding, feuding and killing while the women stayed home to bury them and teach the bairns to hate the enemies of their clan.

  Pleased if not jubilant — it would have taken a clear view of Dracula’s face to make him truly rejoice — he thanked the manatees for their help, bade them good-bye, and retraced .his steps.

  Once outside he moved away from the building and back into the palms. Then he tilted back his head and began to call with an inhuman, ultrasonic cry.

  A shape like a ragged scrap of shadow swooped out of the night and wheeled around his head. Then another. Before long, he was standing at the center of a whirling, squealing cloud of bats. Smiling, he hailed them, introduced himself, and then began to give them their instructions.

  TWELVES HE NEXT MOVE

  All wars are planned by old men In council rooms apart.

  — Grantland Rice, “Two Sides of War”

  Elliott prowled restlessly around Roger’s cramped little study, which he’d decided to usurp as his own office for the duration of the crisis. Though twenty-four hours had passed, the feeling of unreality that had overwhelmed him at the conclusion of his combat with Gunter had yet to release its grip. He wondered morosely just what course of action the unofficial warlord of Sarasota ought to be pursuing, what cunning strategies ought to be springing to his mind. He felt as if he’d been forced to perform an utterly unfamiliar play, one in which he didn’t even know the story, let alone any of his lines.

  He contemplated the model of the Globe Theatre, wondering if he and all his associates wouldn’t have been better off if he’d never been Embraced. If he’d lived a normal mortal lifespan in good Queen Bess’ London, then died when his allotted years were through.

  Someone tapped on the door. Inhaling, he caught Lazio’s clean but slightly musty scent — he smell of a human who attended to his personal hygiene, but whose body had begun to deteriorate with age. “Come in,” the vampire said.

  Lazio shuffled into the room. His aura, more vividly colored than any undead’s, was shot through with orange and gray, hues suggestive of worry and sadness respectively. “Judy said you wanted to see me,” the mortal remarked.

  Elliott nodded. “Please sit down,” he said, waving his hand at one of the antique green leather chairs. He, however, remained on his feet to tower ominously over his companion.

  The Toreador also kept silent for a few seconds, hoping the tactic would rattle Lazio’s nerves. Finally the mortal said, “Well? What is it? What’s happened this time?”

  “Nothing,” Elliott said. Drawing on his charismatic abilities, he tried to project a subtle vibe of menace. “I just need some information.”

  Lazio’s eyes narrowed in seeming puzzlement — or suspicion. “All right. Ask away.”

  “Does Roger have a master inventory of all the Toreador art?”

  “Well, not as such,” Lazio replied. “But if somebody went through his journals and other papers, he could identify a lot of it.”

  “Who knows about those documents?” Elliott demanded. Lazio shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think their existence is any big secret.”

  “But it might be difficult for most people to get at them,” Elliott said. “I imagine it would help considerably if one lived here in the house and could move around by daylight, when Roger was certain to be asleep.”

  Lazio gaped at him. “What are you saying?”

  “It also occurs to me,” Elliott continued remorselessly, “that Roger may have been rendered ill by some exotic, undetectable poison placed in his clothing or on his intimate effects. If so, who would have as good an opportunity to commit the act as his mortal secretary and valet?”

  “That’s insane!” Lazio cried. “There are other ways that the enemy could have found the art. And anybody could have crept up behind Roger and brushed poison on his clothes, assuming that’s even what happened in the first place. And — and — damn it, I’m loyal, and everybody knows it!”

  Elliott scrutinized the human’s aura anew. The envelope of light blazed the fiery red of outrage, without a hint of the shifting patterns of orange and sienna which might have indicated guilt and the fear of discovery. Nodding, the Toreador said, “Yes, I do know it, but I had to be sure. Please forgive me.”

  Not entirely mollified, Lazio scowled. “How could you even imagine that I was a spy?” he grumbled.

  “Well, given the security leak, I have to look into the possibility that somebody is,” Elliott replied reasonably. He’d also arranged for Roger’s house to be swept for bugs.

  “Yes, but how could you think it was me?” Lazio persisted. “What possible motive could I have?”

  “Speaking hypothetically, how about your age?” Elliott said.

  Lazio blinked. “I’m not following you.”

  “You’ve served Roger long and faithfully,” Elliott said, moving behind the desk and dropping into the comfortable, high-backed executive chair behind it, the only piece of furniture in the room that wasn’t an antique. The notes he’d scribbled pertaining to the defense of the domain lay strewn across the blotter. “And yet, for whatever reason, he hasn’t made you immortal, hasn’t given you the Embrace or even made you a ghoul. In your position, many people would resent that.”

  Lazio snorted. “It’s a cute theory, except for one thing. Roger did offer me the Embrace. Many times. I always turned it down.”

  Intrigued, Elliott cocked his head. “Why?”

  “I grew up around here,” Lazio said, “only out in the country, in a subdivision where a lot of circus people and carnies spend the winter. D. L. Hicks, the lion and tiger trainer, owned the property next to my family’s. He let me come over and watch him rehearse the act, and I got to know him pretty well. And you know what? The big cats fascinated him. I think he even loved them. But I’m damn sure that he never wanted to be one. He understood them too well for that.”

  Elliott laughed. The sensation felt odd, and he wondered fleetingly just how long it had been since he’d given vent to mirth. “Is that how you see us?” he asked. “As your own personal menagerie, performing stunts for your entertainment?” The concept was so at variance with the lofty opinion most Kindred held of themselves that, for a moment, it seemed irresistibly comic.

  “Obviously not in the sense that I control you,” Lazio said.

  You’ve done a pretty good job of pulling my strings, Elliott thought wryly.

  “But in the sense that you’re beautiful and captivating, dangerous and alien, yes,” the mortal continued. “I’ve never regretted that I fell in with Roger. I can’t imagine a more interesting life than to exist in your world. But as myself, not a Kindred. If I thought that one of you were going to force me to accept the Embrace, I’d run screaming into the night and never look back, because I see you more clearly than you can see yourselves. I can tell how the Hunger and the long years of preying on men and women corrode the soul. 1 see which human qualities even you Toreador, the gentlest vampires, inevitably lose.”

  Elliott felt uneasy, because Lazio’s words had the ring of truth. The vampire wondered in what respects he himself had changed without even realizing it, yet, if the process was inexorable, perhaps he was better o
ff not knowing. Suddenly eager to change the subject, he said, “Be that as it may, I’m glad you’re not a traitor. Because that would have meant that you only pushed me to take charge because you expected me to make some catastrophic error.”

  Lazio gestured irritably, flicking the notion away as if it were a gnat. “I assume that you’ve been interrogating other people too,” the dresser said. “Otherwise, I’m really going to feel offended. Have you found any good suspects?”

  Elliott sighed. “Except for you and some of our other mortal associates, I’ve scarcely found anything else. I’d give odds that every Kindred I’ve spoken to, even the brashest, youngest member of Judy Morgan’s brood, is hiding some sort of secret. Not necessarily one that pertains to the present situation, but something. I suppose the Masquerade is to blame. It turns us all into inveterate deceivers. And it isn’t easy to pick one particular liar out from all the others.” “My money’s on Gunter,” Lazio said. “He wants to be prince, so he stirs up a crisis that will let him take Roger’s place. If you hadn’t stopped him, he’d already have done it, more or less.”

  “There’s no doubt that Gunter wants to exploit the present situation,” Elliott replied. “That doesn’t necessarily mean that he helped create it. Have our other enemies promised him Roger’s throne in payment for his treachery'? If so, then what do they stand to gain from their victory? From their perspective, what makes the war worthwhile?” Lazio frowned, pondering Elliott’s point. “Just off the top of my head,” the mortal said, “maybe Gunter is paying the outsiders. Maybe they have a grudge against Roger and the rest of you, though I can’t imagine what it could be. Or perhaps they want a Prince of Sarasota who’ll back their proposals in the councils of the Camarilla.”

  “Those are all possibilities,” Elliott conceded. “But it’s also possible that Gunter is innocent. We know too little to assume anyth—”

  The green phone on the desk chimed softly.

  Inwardly wincing at the prospect of more bad news, Elliott picked the receiver up. “Elliott Sinclair,” he said.

  “I’ve seen Dracula,” said a deep, gravelly voice.

  Elliott felt a pang of excitement. “Who is this?” he asked. “She’s tall, thin, young-looking and long-legged, with a white, oval face,” the caller continued, ignoring the question. “She has black hair cut in what people used to call a pageboy. On the night she visited the aquarium, she was wearing a long black coat and a beret.”

  “Who are you?” Elliott said.

  The line went dead.

  Elliott punched the intercom button on the phone and dialed a two-digit number. As soon as the ghoul assigned to trace calls picked up the receiver, the Toreador said, “Did you get that?”

  “Yes,” the servant replied in a reedy tenor voice. Elliott felt a thrill of hope, which the other man instantly dashed. “He called from a pay phone near the planetarium,”

  “Dispatch somebody to investigate right away,” Elliott said. “Whoever’s out there patrolling the area. Thanks.” Breaking the connection, he turned back toward Lazio. “But they won’t find anything. Damn it!”

  “Was that the woman who spoke to Judy and me?” the dresser asked.

  “No,” Elliott said, “that was a man, calling to provide a description of Dracula.”

  “Did he say who he was, or how he knew to call here?” Elliott grimaced. “Of course not,” he said ironically, “You wouldn’t want anyone to tell us the complete and unembellished truth, would you? What fun would that be?” “I wish we did know who you were talking to,” Lazio said, “but still, if he told you what Dracula looks like, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Assuming that we can believe him,” Elliott said, “I suppose so.” Suddenly edgy, he rose and began to stalk around the study, past the bookshelves and some of Roger’s mementos: a poster from Man and Superman, a program from Mother Courage, a prop dagger from Julius Caesar and a crystal unicorn from The Glass Menagerie. “Still, you have to wonder how many players are involved in this game, how' many sides, how many agendas. How can I make decisions when I don’t understand a fraction of what’s going on? I don’t know if even Roger could have coped with a mess like this.”

  “Our people are recovering some of the art,” Lazio said, “without getting attacked. You’re looking for the leak. All the other defensive operations are proceeding as planned. I’d say that you’re on top of the situation.”

  Elliott shook his head. “When the enemy does something, we react. You can’t win a war that way. You have to anticipate at least your foe’s next move, and preferably his next several moves.” He sighed. “I used to be reasonably good at it, but I feel as if that part of my mental machinery has rusted solid.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Lazio said.

  “Let me tell you how I see the situation,” Elliott said, continuing to pace. “Maybe you can point out something I’m missing. The enemy poisons or otherwise incapacitates our prince. He sends a rogue Kindred into our domain, forcing us to divert manpower and resources to the defense of the Masquerade. He assails our financial holdings. He vandalizes our art, and when we send out troops to protect it, he ambushes them.

  “Evidently his strategy is to attack us on all levels, in every way he can, and I have a hunch that he hasn’t run out of ideas yet. That being the case, where’s the next blow going to fall?”

  “Maybe the next assault is a full-scale invasion of the city,” Lazio said.

  “I doubt it,” Elliott said. “Many of his opening moves were intended to frazzle and humiliate us, and, considering that none of our people has fled the domain for greener pastures, I don’t think we’re demoralized and disorganized enough to suit him yet. I imagine he’ll keep trying to soften us up. I just wish I knew —” The vampire’s gaze fell on a framed photo of Roger with one of Hollywood’s hottest new directors and he froze, his words catching in his throat.

  “What is it?” Lazio asked.

  “God help us all, I do know,” Elliott replied. He turned and lunged for the phone.

  THIRTEEN? COMRADES

  Only solitary men know the full joys of friendship.

  — Willa Cather, Shadows on the Rock.

  The narrow streets of the Little Havana district of Miami were crowded, even at two in the morning. Groups of teenagers, many wearing gang colors, strutted along the sidewalks while others, packed into cars whose stereos blared heavy metal or Latin music, cruised slowly up and down. Drug dealers and heavily made-up hookers in miniskirts loitered in shadowy doorways. Open-air stalls and push carts sold crab rolls, hot dogs, paper plates of black beans and rice, beer, Cuban coffee and shoddy plastic toys and trinkets. The warm night air smelled of exhaust, tobacco, alcohol, marijuana and human sweat. Surveying the scene though one of the windows in the rear of the van, Dan said, “This place reminds me of Saigon.”

  “You were in Vietnam?” Laurie asked. He nodded. “Were you in combat?”

  Dan nodded. In fact, he’d seen a lot of action. Looking back, it was strange to remember just how much it had bothered him to watch people die.

  “Of course he was,” said Wyatt, tucking his battery-powered electric razor, with which he’d just removed the stubble sprouting around his mohawk, back in the pocket of his white leather coat. Given the peculiarities of vampire physiology, he probably had to shave the sides of his head at least once a night. “Where do you think he learned to fight like Superman?” He gave Dan a friendly wink.

  Dan hadn’t explained to the anarchs that when he’d saved them from the Brujah he’d had an infusion of giants’ blood enhancing his strength. Hoping they wouldn’t expect him to toss around any cars in the future, he turned toward the driver. “Hey, Cassius,” he said, “how are we doing?” “The traffic is hell,” the heavyset black ghoul replied. “Most of the streets keep twisting or dead-ending, or else they’re one-way going the wrong way, and a lot of the signs are either missing or in Spanish. But don’t worry, I ivill find the place.”

  “You’re having
trouble with the Spanish?” said Felipe, the Hispanic vampire with the weight-lifter physique and a liking for gold chains. “You should have said something before.” He rose from the floor of the van and squirmed into the bucket seat beside the Blood-Bound servant.

  “Was Vietnam as terrible and as stupid as people say?” Laurie asked, pushing her rose-colored granny glasses back up to the bridge of her nose. “My friends and I protested it.” She blinked. “Oh, jeez, I hope that isn’t going to be a problem between you and me.”

  “Of course not,” said Dan. It still felt odd to chat with his own kind companionably, to perceive that another vampire cared whether he liked her. Odd, but nice. “It’s ancient history now. Looking back, I guess the whole thing was stupid. It sure didn’t accomplish anything, did it?” “No,” Wyatt said. “It was just another Camarilla fiasco.” Dan cocked his head. “How do you mean?”

  “Why do you think you were sent over there?” replied the vampire in white. “The elders of the West have been fighting a slow-motion war with the clans of the Orient for a long time, and you poor bastards were the foot soldiers.

  I’m no great bleeding-heart protector of the kine — I’ll worry about my species and let them worry about theirs — but my God, what a pointless waste of human life! It illustrates why the old order has to go.”

  Laurie nodded solemnly, the way she §o;,often did when Wyatt preached the anarch gospel.

  “So how old are you, Wyatt?” Dan asked curiously. “What was going on in the world when you were human?”

  “The Revolutionary War,” said the anarch chieftain, a spark of pride glowing in his eyes. “I was one of Francis Marion’s guerrillas. Did you ever hear of him?”

  Dan nodded. “The Swamp Fox.”

  “Right,” Wyatt said. “I really believed in the ideals: of the Revolution. I had the Declaration of Independence and Common Sense down by heart. I thought that after we ran off the redcoats and the Hessians we could turn the colonies into a utopia.