Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 5 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Gherbod Fleming

  “It sounds far too…organized for the Sabbat,” Gainesmil said.

  “I agree,” Vitel said. “I suspect Benison in Atlanta would agree, and Purrel in Charleston….”

  “Yes, yes,” Gainesmil, in his excitement and apprehension, forgot himself and waved away the prince’s litany. Vitel, seemingly deflated, appeared to take no offense, but Garlotte noted the infraction so that he might bring it to Gainesmil’s attention later. “There’s something else at work here,” the Toreador continued. “How could they…?” He considered the coordination that would have been required, the logistics, the strategy. He shook his head sternly. “Impossible. Who could have gathered so much support? Borges? Not bloody likely.”

  “He would be closest to Atlanta, but I agree. Perhaps Polonia,” Garlotte suggested.

  “I spoke with the leader,” said Vitel. The host and advisor fell silent, waited expectantly. “Sarah Vykos.”

  “Vykos?” Garlotte repeated. Something wasn’t right. “Sascha Vykos?”

  Vitel cocked his head, then nodded. “That may be right. I had assumed her a Jewess.”

  “Sascha Vykos? I thought Vykos was a he.” Gainesmil said.

  “Depends on the night,” Vitel replied sardonically.

  “I didn’t think she circulated beyond Europe,” Garlotte added to the general confusion.

  “She does now,” said Vitel.

  “Regardless of who heads the vanguard,” Gainesmil announced, “there’s a Sabbat army not fifty miles from here! We must send word to the other princes, to—”

  Garlotte raised a hand and quieted his advisor. “Yes, there are further preparations that must be attended to, Robert, but our guest has not had an easy sojourn, and here we’ve been grilling him before he’s rested. Prince Vitel, I invite you to stay on board today, and I promise to arrange more suitable accommodations for you on the morrow.”

  After Vitel’s respectful acceptance, Garlotte snapped at Dennis. “See that Prince Vitel is comfortable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gainesmil, come with me,” Garlotte said finally. “I must ask Isaac two more questions before I retire.”

  Wednesday, 30 June 1999, 1:10 AM

  Spring Street

  Laurel, Maryland

  Fin parked three blocks away and made his way silently through the suburban neighborhood. Normally, he was careful—how embarrassing to be spotted by some half-assed, mortal neighborhood watch—but tonight he was even more so. The Sabbat was in Washington. No Kindred could have failed to have heard the stories. The monsters could be heading north any night. All of Baltimore was in a panic—all the undead, anyway. Even some of the mortals seemed to sense the unrest, although their nervousness was probably in response to the overt bloodshed in the capital, rather than to the jitters of the covert bloodsuckers in their midst. But Fin still wondered if the mortals picked up the scent of fear, through osmosis or whatever. Just like a jumpy cowboy might cause his herd to scatter….

  The prince had told Fin not to come here at all, not to go south of Baltimore. If the Sabbat did come north, this would be the main corridor of attack. But that was why Fin had to come.

  A greater danger to the young Ventrue was probably the roaming bands of Brujah who’d taken up patrolling between the two cities—the Kindred version of a half-assed neighborhood watch.

  But this neighborhood seemed genuinely quiet, and Fin continued unhindered to his destination. He slipped past the house without setting off the motion-sensor light—he’d discovered that little gem on his first visit—and stealthily scaled the outside of the garage to the open window of the apartment above. He slipped inside without so much as disturbing the lace curtain, and noted with satisfaction that he had not scuffed his shiny leather jacket.

  The young woman sat with her back to him, a book open on the table before her, headphones pumping out music loud enough that Fin could hear it across the room. He had no worry of his light tread giving him away. He moved closer, reached out a hand to her delicate neck.

  The instant his icy finger touched her skin, she jumped and whirled with a piercing shriek. Her book flew into the kitchenette. The cord of the headphones somehow got wrapped around her wrist, so that the headset slung around and smacked her in the face.

  Fin cringed and tried to shush her: “Morena…Morena…”

  The flurry of motion ended. She stood wide-eyed and panting; she clutched a hand to her chest. “Jimminy creepers!”

  Fin gave her a few moments to collect her wits, and tried not to laugh at what, with her, passed as harsh language. Laughing would only rile her further.

  “You know” Morena said, as she extracted herself from the headphones and cord, “there is a door.”

  “Your parents might see me.”

  “So?” She retrieved her book and hunted for her place. “I’m twenty-four years old. They don’t keep me under lock and key.” She stuck a bookmark in the book then set it roughly on the table. “Of course, I haven’t mentioned to them that my boyfriend is a carnivorous spawn of Satan.”

  “Not carnivorous.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re on a liquid diet. Mom, Dad—Fin is coming over for dinner. Just wring out that raw steak and he’ll be fine.”

  He was on her before she knew he’d moved. Fin drove her backward and onto the bed, landed on top of her, held down her outstretched arms. Morena finally managed a surprised squeak, but her giggles died in her throat as she saw the look in his eyes—burning, glowing red, hungry.

  “It isn’t all fun and games,” he said.

  She took a deep breath, found herself unable to look away from him. “I didn’t think any of it was fun and games.”

  “Let me make you like I am. You can be with me forever.” His words were a low growl, menacing, but she could hear the entreaty just beneath the surface.

  “I can’t…. I can’t just leave all…I have responsibilities…my parents…my job…my gerbils.”

  “Your gerbils? Holy shit! You’re going to give eternal life a pass so you can be with your fucking gerbils!”

  “I need more time.”

  Fin lowered himself onto her, buried his face in the crook of her neck and lay there for a long, silent moment. “I can’t stay long,” he said at last. He ran his tongue along the path of her jugular. “I can do it, you know. Whether you want it or not.”

  Morena pushed him off—he let her—and sat up. “You can. But you won’t.”

  Fin rolled over onto his back and lay next to her. Nearby, her gerbils scuttled around in their plastic cage. “You don’t want to be with me,” he said. Morena stared at her feet but didn’t answer him. “What do you have to lose?”

  “My whole life?”

  He sighed. She was right. Just like she was right that he wouldn’t drag her into the unlife of Kindred existence against her will. Not yet. But his resolve was growing weaker.

  “You’d have all eternity…with me,” Fin said.

  “Then there’ll be plenty of time for that later, if I decide.”

  Or if I decide, he thought.

  “I think you’d better leave,” Morena said.

  Fin ran his finger across her back, traced the vertical path of her bra strap to her shoulder. He gently pulled her back down to him. Her head lolled back as he again nuzzled her tender, bare neck.

  “Soon,” he said, as she gave herself to him. “Soon.”

  Saturday, 3 July 1999, 10:34 PM

  A private office, the Harrison Building

  Baltimore, Maryland

  To Prince Garlotte’s way of thinking, Marcus Vitel was a worthy beneficiary. The two Ventrue, rulers of cities in such proximity, had been rivals for just over thirty years, since Vitel had come to power upon the demise of Washington’s previous prince, Marissa of Clan Tremere. Over those decades, Vitel had enjoyed the greater prestige, global geopolitics being what they were. He had woefully neglected clan affairs and kept largely to himself, yet still others constantly had fawned over him: What wou
ld wise and powerful Prince Vitel think of this; what of that?

  Not that Garlotte was bitter.

  However little he trusted Vitel, or however much the prince of Baltimore was galled by the unseemly, sycophantic behavior of those within Clan Ventrue and beyond, Garlotte rested more easily knowing that a fellow clanmate, rather than a Tremere witch, held the reins of power in the District of Columbia.

  And now, after thirty years of rivalry, Vitel was almost completely dependent upon the obviously superior stewardship of Garlotte. Ah, perhaps there is justice in this lifetime, Garlotte thought. As long as the lifetime in question spanned several centuries.

  None of these thoughts broke through Garlotte’s studied demeanor of interest and concern, but surely Vitel, seated just across the desk in this quiet office of Garlotte’s, knew. Surely Vitel knew that, despite the Ventrue custom of extending succor to a clanmate in need, his host was compiling a long list of favors granted—a list of which Garlotte, in a hundred polite and unassuming ways, would never tire of reminding Vitel.

  Currently, less pleasant matters demanded Garlotte’s attention. “The governor wisely agrees with me,” Garlotte continued with what he and Vitel were discussing, “that it is only fitting that he offer the use of Maryland’s National Guard, considering the scope of lawlessness in Washington.”

  Vitel considered this for a long while. The expatriate prince had largely kept to himself since arriving in Baltimore. Though Garlotte had to concede that six nights, for a Kindred, was a paltry amount of time to grieve for childer lost, he nonetheless felt that prudence demanded he make use of any resources still available to Vitel that could bolster Baltimore’s resistance to the Sabbat.

  “Why not encourage the introduction of federal troops?” Vitel asked finally. “They would be more reliable.”

  “More disciplined,” Garlotte, raising a finger, corrected him, “but for our purposes also more difficult to influence. Unless you have more connections within the Pentagon than one might reasonably expect…?”

  Vitel shook his head almost imperceptibly. He appeared somewhat recovered since his arrival in the city, thanks mostly to the replacement of his torn garments with a new tailored suit. But still he retained some of the stunned or shell-shocked bearing that had accompanied his displacement, as if it were a struggle for him to remain fully engaged with those around him.

  He seems so…defeated, Garlotte thought. Of course, no one had enough highly placed moles within the federal military to reliably influence large-scale troop deployments for any length of time. Garlotte would have been shocked if Vitel did—almost as shocked as if Vitel had admitted as much.

  “So you see,” Garlotte continued, “the state troops will best suit our needs. The governor is ready to deploy them. All that remains is for the mayor in Washington to accept the offer.”

  “The mayor or the Congressional oversight committee,” said Vitel, still seeming to pay only half attention. “May I…?” He gestured toward the phone on Garlotte’s desk.

  “Please do.”

  “Secure line? Good.” Vitel punched in a number, and did not have to wait long. “Good evening, Senator. Forgive me for disturbing you at home…. Yes, Senator. I’m acutely aware of what’s happening….”

  As Vitel spoke, Garlotte could see the fire creeping back into his rival’s eyes. The sight was at the same time heartening and alarming—heartening because Vitel in his right mind, resourceful and insightful, was much more valuable in defending Baltimore; alarming because Vitel in his right mind, devious and cunning, might seek to remedy the loss of an old city with the acquisition of a new one.

  “If I remember correctly,” Vitel was saying into the phone, “your friends on the District oversight committee owe you several favors? And I believe they are already on the verge of declaring a state of emergency and relieving the city officials of control…. Yes, yes. I would appreciate your encouraging them in that direction. Best for everyone, don’t you think?”

  Garlotte noticed that Vitel was careful not to mention names, not the senator’s, not the “friends” on the oversight committee. Probably Vitel had dialed through an intermediary exchange or phone bank as well, though Garlotte would certainly examine the records later.

  “Yes, that’s correct,” said Vitel. “The governor is going to offer the Maryland National Guard. It’s imperative that the oversight committee accept this offer. And a city-wide curfew is advisable also. How long can we reasonably expect these measures to be authorized for?” Vitel listened, nodded. “Yes. I understand. I know you’ll do your best…. Pardon me…. Yes. I’ve heard your name mentioned as a vice-presidential candidate…. What do I think? I think your services are far too valuable in the Senate. Goodnight, Senator.”

  Vitel hung up the phone. Already the fire was beginning to fade from his eyes as the thrill of the deal receded and grief and loss reasserted themselves. “Thirty days. The troops will go in. State of emergency, curfew. But unlikely the oversight committee will authorize beyond thirty days.” He tossed up his hands.

  Garlotte leaned back in his executive’s chair. “It’s thirty days more than we had.” Grudgingly, he started a new mental list—favors he owed Vitel. Thankfully, it was a much shorter list at present.

  “Everything has been so hectic since your arrival, Marcus,” said Garlotte, feeling that a change of subject might be to his advantage. “Tell me of your childer.” He was sympathy incarnate, wanting nothing more than to ease the pain of his rival.

  Tuesday, 6 July 1999, 9:23 PM

  A subterranean grotto

  New York City, New York

  The lamp’s flickering light wasn’t enough for a mortal to read by comfortably, but Calebros didn’t notice. His wide, deep-set eyes were used to near- and total darkness. A good thing, that. Because he spent his nights poring over the reports. Some came electronically via SchreckNET; Umberto brought him the printouts if Calebros didn’t feel up to navigating the dank tunnels to the terminal. I could hook you up a terminal of your own if you got rid of that fossil of a typewriter and cleared off your desk, Umberto had offered. Calebros had boxed the youngster’s ears at the suggestion.

  Other messages came via messenger. The largest number of the reports, by far, were of Calebros’s own compilation. His sire, Augustin, had taught him the value of putting seemingly extraneous facts together on paper. Often the results were fruitless, but sometimes patterns emerged where none were thought to exist. The crumpled sheet of paper Calebros was currently studying, for example:

  Thursday, 8 July 1999, 3:02 AM

  Governor’s Suite, Lord Baltimore Inn

  Baltimore, Maryland

  The gas logs in the fireplace blazed. Victoria seemed to enjoy a sense of power from being able to command fire to spring forth by simply turning a knob, and all the while not having to get very close herself. She’d turned the air conditioner up to full, so the warmth of the fire was welcome, yet the French doors to the balcony stood open, allowing the breeze off the harbor to play with the floor-length draperies.

  “So you’ve spoken with Vitel?” asked Gainesmil. He brushed a speck of lint from his mint-green silk jabot.

  Victoria watched him fussing with the ruffle. “That shirt is hardly worth worrying about, Robert.” She stood and walked to the French doors. “Just because it’s expensive doesn’t mean you should wear it. But then again, some people’s taste is all in their mouths.”

  Gainesmil sat speechless in the face of her rebuke. Earlier, she had treated him quite graciously, even affectionately, but at times Victoria seemed to forget that he was Prince Garlotte’s closest advisor, and treated him as merely any other Toreador underling. Gainesmil decided to ignore her comment.

  “The prince was quite surprised when Vitel arrived, you know,” he said.

  Victoria turned her back to him and gazed out over the harbor. “Old news, my dear. That was a week and a half ago.”

  Gainesmil stuttered but could think of nothing to say. His color ros
e in consternation. This woman confounded him. Just when he thought their partnership was solidifying nicely, she turned cold and condescending. And if Gainesmil was going to stray from his rewarding loyalty to the prince, he had to be sure of his new ally. Otherwise—unless he was sure of Victoria and of the rewards of pursuing her cause—the risks were not worth his while. He remembered too clearly the tin cup, and how Malachi, at Garlotte’s direction, had clipped off Isaac’s last two fingertips. The very thought made Gainesmil blanch. He suppressed the images and concentrated instead on Victoria. In the breeze of the open doors, her white linen gown seemed one with the long, flowing curtains. Gainesmil could imagine that she stood naked among the billowing draperies, with the sea air caressing her pale body—he did imagine it, in fact, much to his annoyance.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he said crossly.

  But if she heard him, she gave no indication and continued merely to gaze over the harbor. Gainesmil resolved to wait her out. He refused to nip at her heels like some yapping dog. If she didn’t value his contributions, then he would leave her to her own devices soon enough, and the loss would be hers.

  As he waited, Gainesmil noticed a round locket on a chain lying on the coffee table before him. He remembered having seen Victoria wear the locket at the conference; he could picture how it had lain on her chest…he shook away that image as well. Gainesmil leaned forward in his seat. It’s large enough to have something inside, he thought, inspecting the sparkling piece of jewelry from the short distance. Victoria might have forgotten his presence, as little notice as she paid him. Slowly, Gainesmil reached toward the golden locket.

  “I saw Vitel this very evening,” Victoria said. Gainesmil jerked back his hand so quickly that he cracked his elbow on the end table at his side. Tingling pain shot up his arm, but he managed to steady the lamp, which had begun to totter dangerously.

  “Vitel seems very…” She turned away from the open doors but still didn’t look at Gainesmil. Her chin was raised, as she stared at some indeterminate midpoint and pondered the issue. “Sad. Very sad.” Now her gaze locked onto the other Toreador. “Did you feel his loss, Robert?”