Dan’s intuition warned him to shut his eyes, but when he tried, he couldn’t. The luminous structure materializing above him was already too beautiful. Too captivating.
“You won’t be able to stop looking,” Tithonys said. “No Toreador could. The spectacle is simply too exotic.” He added another stroke, and a bolt of agony stabbed through Dan’s skull, a pain that was as much psychic as physical.
Tithonys was right. Dan still couldn’t look away. If anything, the glowing matrix was even lovelier, more fascinating, than before. And yet there was something wrong with it, something that tortured the eyes and ripped at the foundations of the mind.
“The design is a hyperspatial construct,” Tithonys said. He added another curve of azure sheen, and Dan screamed. “It exists in five dimensions. Unfortunately, the average psyche, kine or Kindred, is only equipped to see in three. If one forces the psyche to exceed that limitation, the result is anguish.” He added a final scarlet loop. “That should do it.”
“All right,” Dan croaked frantically. “I’ll help you. Just take the lights away!”
“You don’t mean that,” said Tithonys. “Even if you believe you do, you’d change your tune if I released you so soon. But by the time I return from conducting the sacrifice, you will mean it. You won’t care about anything except ending the pain.”
The Methuselah turned and strode toward an opening in the wall, his bare, filthy feet leaving tracks in the muck. Dan’s head throbbed, and he shrieked again.
THIRTYjTHE warning
Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom. It is the argument of tyrants; it is the creed of slaves.
— William Pitt the Younger, in a speech before the House of Commons
Restless, Durrell prowled through the shadows in the new, uncompleted addition to the theme park. Lattices of girders rose around him, slicing the night sky into squares. To his hypersensitive nose, the balmy air held the smell of freshly poured concrete. Off to the south, in the portion of Camelot that was open to the public, colored lights glowed, rides groaned and clattered, and competing strains of modern pop and medieval music sounded from various pavilions.
Unlike many of his fellow Tremere, Durrell wasn’t truly psychic. His great talent was casting spells. But he sometimes suspected that he had a vestige of second sight, because he occasionally got edgy shortly before something went wrong. That was how he felt tonight.
Shaking his head as if to clear it, he reminded himself that his formless premonitions had proved wrong as often as they’d been correct. Perhaps he was simply out of sorts because the campaign against Sarasota was advancing so slowly, or perhaps because he and his associates had had such a close call last night. The mysterious Dan Murdock might easily have gotten away, and God — and presumably Timothy, by now — knew how much the Caitiff had learned sneaking around the chantry, or what he might ultimately have done with the information.
Despite his usual reluctance to visit Timothy’s warren, Durrell decided to go and learn the results of the interrogation. Perhaps the intelligence would soothe his jangled nerves. He turned, glancing around for the nearest entrance to the service tunnels, and then a hand tapped him on the shoulder.
Badly startled, the Tremere jerked around to see that somehow Timothy had crept up behind him. “Good evening,” said the ancient Kindred. “Can you spare a cigarette?”
His hands shaking slightly as he struggled as usual to conceal the mixture of artificial devotion and largely genuine fear that Timothy inspired in him, Durrell removed a gilt silver cigarette case and matchbox, both gifts from Aleister Crowley, from his pocket. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you outside your cave,” he said.
“I have rather urgent news,” said Timothy. Maddeningly, instead of going ahead and relating it he paused to take one of the custom-made Turkish cigarettes. He waved away the matches, however, and when he placed the cigarette between his lips, the tip began to burn of its own accord. “I’m afraid Murdock was working for Elliott Sinclair. During his reconnaissance, he learned your identity and exactly what we’re up to. And he managed to relay the information before your people captured him.”
For a moment Durrell could only gape in horror. “What are you telling me? I thought you said you were certain that we captured him before he could do any real damage!”
Timothy shrugged. “I didn’t see how he could have, considering that the phone in his rental car didn’t work. The circuits were fused. And my instincts told me no harm had been done. Apparently even I can err occasionally. I’ve since learned that Sinclair, his subordinates and certain allies are assembling in Orlando even now to raid Camelot as soon as it closes.”
Durrell ran his fingers through his hair. His mind felt frozen, paralyzed by the shock of his secret partner’s tidings, and he struggled to goad it into motion. “Then we have just enough time to evacuate.”
Timothy grimaced as if he were disappointed in the Tremere. “That would be foolish as well as cowardly.”
With the force of the Methuselah’s supernatural charisma behind it, the insult stung. Exerting his willpower, Durrell tried not to let it influence him. “The plan was to snipe at the Toreador from all sides, wear them down and then, if we had to, finish them off with one lightning stroke. We never figured on permitting them to attack us."
“Strategies change to fit changing circumstances,” the ancient Kindred said. “That’s the nature of war, or at least it had better be if one wants to win. My astral sources tell me that thus far, desiring a personal vengeance, Sinclair and his associates haven’t revealed your identity to anyone but their troops. Destroy them tonight, win the victory for which we’ve been striving, and they never will. Disappear, however, and they’ll denounce you to the Camarilla.”
“It would be my word against theirs.”
Timothy snorted, puffing out a burst of pungent smoke. “Do you think they won’t be able to find proof to back up their allegations, now that they know where to look? If you flee, 1 imagine they’ll find damning evidence in the very chantry beneath our feet. And once they’ve made their case against you, the pleasant existence you’ve known for the past few centuries will end abruptly. You won’t be Sebastian Durrell the respected elder and magus anymore, but a
wretched fugitive. Neither the Kindred of Sarasota, your prince, your clan, nor, indeed, the Camarilla as a whole, will rest until they’ve hunted you down. Remember, you willfully threatened the Masquerade.”
Durrell swallowed. “I have Guice to protect me.”
“Guice is an amoral opportunist who’ll abandon you at the first indication that supporting you might undermine his own position. And your enemies have their own Justicar.” The Tremere grimaced. “Very well, we’ll stand our ground. I suppose it is the only way. We have troops billeted in the general area. I can summon them to act as reinforcements. The only problem is that many of them — the anarchs, for example — don’t know for whom they’re actually working.”
“You can delude them for an hour or two. After the battle begins it won’t matter if they realize they’ve been duped. With Prince Roger’s raging childer at their throats, they’ll have to keep fighting or die.”
Durrell nodded. “1 imagine Sinclair will still have us outnumbered,” he said grimly. Many of the Tremere’s minions were scattered around the world, destroying art. Others were stationed in the Sarasota area, too far away to reach Orlando in time, because he hadn’t anticipated that he might need them to defend his base.
“But you and your people know the battleground,” Timothy said encouragingly. “You have your thaumaturgy. And you have me.”
Durrell peered at his companion in surprise. Timothy’s words inspired a glow of optimism, and yet the ancient vampire had always been so concerned with concealing his existence that the wary part of the Tremere, the part that habitually resisted the Methuselah’s charismatic spell, found the promise difficult to credit. “Are you saying that you’re going to fight alongside us?
”
“Absolutely,” said Timothy, gripping the magus’ shoulder. Despite his doubts, Durrell felt a surge of affection and gratitude. “Now that we’ve reached the endgame, it’s time for me to emerge from the shadows. So you see, our victory is assured. At least it will be if you get moving. You have preparations to make.”
Durrell glanced at his platinum Rolex, then felt a jolt of alarm. It was later than he’d imagined. He’d assumed he’d be able to map out a cunning defensive strategy, identify and fortify key positions, place his troops where they could do the most damage and be least vulnerable to harm. But there simply wasn’t time. Camelot would close in about eighty minutes, and no doubt the Kindred of Sarasota would storm the place immediately thereafter. “My god,” he exclaimed, “when did you figure all this out?”
“Just a few minutes ago,” Timothy replied. “Interrogations and divinations take time.”
Durrell had to admit that they did. For the average Kindred. But with his charismatic powers and command over the potent magic of Al Azif, shouldn’t Timothy have been able to cut the required time significantly? The Tremere’s instincts told him that the ancient vampire had been sitting on the information, but he couldn’t imagine why Timothy would do such a thing. Surely, if he’d decided to betray his partner, he wouldn’t have warned him of the forthcoming attack at all. The only reason for waiting until the last possible moment would seem to be to ensure a protracted, savage struggle, one in which neither side began with a clear-cut advantage and both would suffer heavy losses. But what could be the point of that?
None, Durrell supposed. Not unless, as he’d sometimes suspected, his enigmatic collaborator was profoundly sadistic or outright mad.
“You have the oddest expression,” the Methuselah said mildly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were having misgivings. You do trust me, don’t you, Sebastian?”
Prompted by Timothy’s charm, Durrell felt a twinge of guilt for doubting the Methuselah, but his suspicions lingered in the other, less susceptible part of his psyche. Yet there was no point in acknowledging them. Indeed, he was afraid to acknowledge them. “Of course I do,” he said.
The handsome Methuselah smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the gloom. It looked as if his fangs were protruding slightly, but perhaps that was only Durrell’s imagination. “Good. You can. You should. When the battle is won, your faith will be rewarded with safety, new wealth, enhanced status and all the deepest secrets of Abd al-Azrad.” For the first time, hearing the name of the grimoire Durrell felt not greed, but a pang of loathing. Because Al Azif was the lure that had drawn him into this mess.
“If I didn’t trust you,” the ancient vampire continued, his dark eyes shining, “if I suspected that you might consider running out on me, I’d feel obliged to ask you to consider who you were more afraid of, Sinclair and his minions, or me. I’m glad our friendship is firm enough to preclude the need for such threats.”
Durrell repressed a shiver. “I am, too,” he said.
THIRTY-ONEtTHE INVASION
It is well that war is so terrible; else we would grow too fond of it.
-— Robert E. Lee
Standing on the grass among his restless troops, waiting for the last few minutes to crawl by, Elliott looked at the night sky and thought of Mary.
When he’d confronted Gunter in front of the assembled Kindred in Roger’s house, and when he and Rosalita had traveled to Ohio to retrieve the Fouquet painting, he hadn’t known for a fact that he was going to wind up in mortal combat. This time he did. He could feel Death’s door standing open, inviting him to enter. Promising him surcease from loneliness, sorrow and guilt; and perhaps, if the universe was kinder than it seemed, even reunion with his love.
The prospect of perishing in battle tempted him, but not as much as he might have expected. He realized that, at bottom, he wanted to win this war, end the harassment of Sarasota and restore his sire to health. He wanted to stake Sebastian Durrell and his thugs through their treacherous hearts and leave them lying outdoors to burn in the sun. The recognition made him feel vaguely uncomfortable with himself. He supposed he’d grown accustomed to the old, wretched Elliott, sunk in misery and self-pity. He didn’t quite know what to make of the angry, iron-willed stranger who’d supplanted him. -■
Dressed in loose-fitting black, his Herculean chest crisscrossed with bandoliers and his eyes glowing an eerie red, Angus looked at his watch. “The park closed fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “The last tourists should be pulling out of the parking lot by now.”
“Indeed they should,” Elliott said, shifting his grip on his Armalite AR-18 assault rifle. Evoking his charismatic abilities, he turned and regarded his followers. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time. The enemy we’re about to engage poisoned our prince, murdered our friends, destroyed our treasures and tried to drive us from our domain. Let’s make the bastards pay!” He pivoted and sprinted into the darkness. Silent and fast as swooping hawks, his companions dashed after him.
Elliott supposed that his companions really hadn’t needed his little speech to hearten them. They were, after all, vampires, not mortals. The abuse they’d endured, and the Beast lurking in every one of their souls, would ensure that they were avid for the fight. But he’d felt an urge to address them, so he had.
The vampires crossed one service road after another. Eventually raw Florida scrub land, coarse saw grass and palmetto bushes gave way to landscaping: smooth, verdant lawns; artificial lakes with gushing fountains; flower beds; topiary figures of dragons, damsels in conical hats, and knights on horseback. Then Camelot itself appeared, first as a smudge of glow against the eastern sky, then as a fantastic collection of illuminated turrets and battlements. Perhaps amused by the phony medieval architecture, Angus snorted. As the Kindred approachea the outer wall a few of Gunter’s Malkavians, who’d moved up earlier, relying on their powers of concealment to avoid detection, slipped out of the shadows to join them.
Elliott raised his hand to halt his onrushing troops, then took out his cellular phone and began making contact with the leaders of the other three advance teams. When he’d verified that everyone had moved up on schedule, that Camelot was surrounded on all four sides, he gave the order to go in.
The Toreador elder and his companions slunk up to the eight-foot wall. It was concrete, but textured and painted to look as if it had been constructed of blocks of rough-hewn granite. Scrambling over it without difficulty, the Kindred found themselves in a lane of obnoxiously quaint wooden structures with shops, including an ice- cream stand and a salon where tourists could be photographed in mock medieval clothing, occupying the ground floors. Evidently the scene was supposed to resemble an English town of King Arthur’s mythic age. .
The cool air still smelled of sweat and sunscreen and all the greasy and sugary snacks the day’s visitors had consumed. Some of the street lights, fashioned to resemble flickering oil lanterns, were still burning, but the majority had been switched off. Elliott neither saw nor heard anything stirring in the shadows ahead.
“Let’s press on,” he said. “Remember, we’re looking for a way into the service tunnels. That’s where the Tremere base is.”
The vampires glided forward. The street of shops led them into an open square. A double Ferris wheel towered on their right and a row of oaks bordered by a low brick wall — the edge of the Enchanted Forest of Arden, according to a sign — rose before them. A few pieces of litter, Coca-Cola cups and shiny foil hot-dog wrappers, lay on the cobblestones.
Angus stiffened. Looking around, Elliott saw that the justicar was staring at the trash. “What’s wrong?” the Toreador asked.
“No clean-up crews,” Angus replied harshly. “After the tourists go home, workers should come out to get the park ready for the next day. We haven’t seen any.”
“That doesn’t necessarily prove anything.” Pausing, Elliott sharpened his hearing to the utmost. “But I don’t hear them, either. I think their bosses gave them all the nigh
t off. Which can only mean that somehow Durrell was expecting us.”
He turned, scanning the landscape anew for any sign of hostile activity. Even so, he almost missed it: it wasn’t his superhuman vision or hearing but sheer intuition that prompted him to look up at one of the gondolas hanging from the Ferris wheel. Just in time to see the man inside it aiming a rocket launcher in his direction.
Elliott jerked up his rifle and fired. The sniper lurched back against the side of the gondola. His long tube of a weapon flew from his hands and, tumbling end over end, plummeted toward the ground.
Long before it landed, Elliott was pivoting, looking for other attackers. He found them. Suddenly dark figures loomed in windows around the square. Fortunately, the actor’s comrades saw them too and were already starting to shoot at them.
Elliott ran. Leaping oyer the low wall encircling the stand of trees, he hunkered down behind the barrier and grabbed his phone. He had a second contingent of Kindred and ghouls waiting in reserve; those who, lacking both superhuman speed and powers of invisibility, might have had difficulty sneaking up on Camelot. Now that taking the enemy by surprise was no longer a consideration, it was time to call them in. As he dialed, stray bullets streaked over his head.
TH»RTY-TWO:THE REUNION
He travels fastest who travels alone.
— Proverb
For a long time, Dan couldn’t think. His head was too full of the terrible beauty floating before his eyes. Too full of pain. As the intolerable spectacle ripped at his mind, he thrashed, and his invisible bonds tightened repeatedly, so suddenly and powerfully that in other circumstances he might have worried about them cutting him or cracking his bones. Now, however, fascinated and tormented by the hyperspatial matrix, he was barely conscious of the coils.
Eventually, however, his anguished psyche groped its way back toward rational cognition. It wasn’t that the uncanny spectacle before him had become any easier to bear. Rather, he supposed, his brain was making a last-ditch effort to escape the torture through intellect and ingenuity before fleeing into howling dementia.
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