Gainesmil lost himself in her sorrowful green eyes. He couldn’t quite follow her train of thought but didn’t want to admit as much. “I…yes, I…suppose he was sad.”
“He lost a childe in the attack on Washington,” Victoria explained with barely suppressed emotion. She closed the French doors. “He doesn’t know the fate of his other childe. Have you ever Embraced, Robert?” Again her eyes held him.
Gainesmil wetted his lips. “No, I…no.”
“The prince has childer, no?”
“Prince Garlotte? Oh, yes.” Gainesmil emerged from his confusion as the conversation returned to familiar ground. “You’ve met Isaac….” He faltered slightly as the image of the bloody, truncated fingers assaulted him again.
“The sheriff.”
“Yes,” Gainesmil nodded, “the sheriff. The prince has two other childer. Neither show much interest in Kindred affairs. Katrina is a beautiful girl, though she has a bit of a mouth. He dotes on her so.” Gainesmil shook his head disapprovingly. “Anyone else who defied him the way she does, he’d have put down long ago.”
Victoria slowly crossed to the fireplace and turned off the gas. The flames died away. “Defied him? How so?”
“Oh, however she can think to.” Gainesmil rolled his eyes. “Not too long ago she Embraced two mortals without his permission—not one, mind you, but two.”
“And he took no action?” Victoria sounded unconvinced.
“Brushed it under the rug,” Gainesmil explained. “Never has come up as an official matter, though everyone knows.
“Now, Fin, the third, is quite another story, but just as disappointing,” he continued. “Can’t seem to leave the mortals behind. Has some little wench…er, girl…whom he’s mad about.”
Victoria took a seat on the end of the couch closest to Gainesmil. She placed a finger on his knee. “Vitel told me something very interesting,” she said, abruptly changing subject.
“What was that?” Gainesmil tried to keep up with her, but there were her eyes so close, and her finger tracing circles on his knee.
“He said that the Tremere didn’t raise a finger to save Washington.”
Gainesmil nodded agreement. “Yes, we’ve confirmed that from several sources. No thanks to Ms. Chin. It seems that Dorfman, Peter Dorfman, the Pontifex, was out of town, out of the country, in fact, and his underlings felt it more important to protect the chantry than to protect the city.”
“And now the Tremere chantry is the only vestige of Camarilla power in Washington,” said Victoria. “They should be castigated for such cowardice.”
“Or praised,” Gainesmil offered, and was satisfied by Victoria’s apparent confusion. “Oh yes, that’s how they’ll play it. How much worse off we’d be without a toehold of any sort from which to retake the city.”
“But the city might never have been lost!” Victoria protested.
“Ah, but who among us can testify that the strength within the chantry, if scattered, would have been sufficient to reverse the Sabbat onslaught?” Gainesmil asked, playing devil’s advocate.
Victoria understood and continued his line of reasoning: “And the chantry is more valuable as a defensive post, and as a hindrance to the Sabbat’s lines of supply and communication should they continue to advance.” Victoria nodded. She squeezed Gainesmil’s leg and rose from her seat. “Those devils. I will have to speak with Ms. Chin. How long before the next conference?”
Gainesmil glanced at his watch. “Tonight is the eighth. We gather again on the sixteenth, or rather midnight the seventeenth.”
Victoria stood above him and placed a long, thin finger over her lips. “And the news from the justicars…?”
Gainesmil shook his head. “Nothing, as far as I know. Prince Garlotte petitioned Justicar Lucinde, but we’ve heard nothing in way of reply. Those European elders—time is different for many of them.”
“Well, I suppose,” said Victoria, “they’re not in danger of watching their own domains disappear before their wizened old eyes.”
“Speaking of disappearing,” Gainesmil remembered one of the reasons for his visit tonight, “there’s the matter of a certain employee of the inn—a bellboy?”
Victoria cringed and smiled sheepishly. Gainesmil thought he might even have seen a hint of blush. “They do call it room service….”
Gainesmil sighed. “Please try to control your impulses, Victoria. The staff are only to be used in dire emergencies. Otherwise, with the number of guests in town, we’ll be waiting on ourselves.”
“Now, we can’t have that, can we? I’ll control my impulses, Robert,” she said, running her fingers through his hair, “if you control yours.”
Gainesmil’s mouth went dry. Victoria walked past him and opened the double doors to the bedroom. The flick of a switch extinguished all the lights, except for those outside around the harbor. She turned another switch, which began the closing of the specially installed blinds that would block out any exterior light.
“Why doesn’t the prince come visit, Robert? I’ve barely seen him this past week. Has he grown tired of me?” Victoria leaned with her back against the doorway.
As the blinds gradually closed out the last of the light, Gainesmil’s eyes adjusted to the increasing darkness. His tongue felt thick as a brick. “I…certainly not…uh, the prince, that is…he’s been incredibly busy with the defense of the city, the…uh, stream of refugees has not abated, despite the Sabbat’s seeming inertia….”
“I see,” Victoria said wistfully. “I’m just not that high among his priorities.”
Gainesmil was unable to turn away as she sauntered through the darkness to the bed in the adjacent room. With barely any motion at all, she slipped out of her gown and, naked, beneath the sheets.
“I miss him so,” Victoria sighed. “And Robert, do let yourself out.”
As if in a stupor, Gainesmil rose and went to the door—the other door, the exit. Not until it was closed behind him did he manage to swallow the lump in his throat.
Monday, 12 July 1999, 12:01 AM (local time)
Executive suite, The International, Ltd.
Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Jan Pieterzoon leaned far back in the overstuffed chair and massaged away the tiny red marks on his nose from the wire-rimmed glasses that now rested on his desk. He craved whiskey. Needed whiskey. But it never settled well these nights. He suspected that his stomach had atrophied and shrunken to nothing from the years of disuse. There were, of course, many such stories among the Kindred, but who knew which were mere flights of fancy and which to believe? And to ask an older, more knowledgeable Cainite would be too great an admission of ignorance. For ignorance was weakness, and the weak seldom survived. Not for long.
“Are you all right, Mr. Pieterzoon?”
Jan nodded but neither spoke nor opened his eyes. Marja would still be concerned. She would ask him what she could do for him, and at this moment, the question itself would be enough. Hearing her speak Dutch soothed his nerves. So many of his business contacts were in French, or German, or—God help him—English.
“Can I do anything for you, sir?”
“No thank you, Ms. van Havermaete.”
Mr. Pieterzoon. Ms. van Havermaete. Jan allowed the pained smile slowly to spread across his lips. How long have you served me, Marja? Still, the formality. And so it would remain. Jan could not allow himself familiarity between them, and as long as he could not, she would not.
He ran his fingers through his short, blond hair, and then rubbed the muscles of his ever-smooth jaw. Each muscle in his entire body seemed to be a reservoir of tension, and unfortunately he had no time to seek out his acupuncturist.
“We leave for the United States very soon,” Jan said, opening his eyes.
This was news to Marja. “The States? How soon?”
“As soon as possible. Within a few nights.”
He watched as she digested the information, made lists of the necessary arrangements in her mind. “Business?
” she asked.
“Not technically speaking, no.”
She nodded. That would impose another set of criteria on her preparations. A trip to meet investors or deal with labor representatives would have been entirely within her realm of operation. If the trip were related, however, to the shadowy dealings of the Kindred, of which she knew only and exactly what she needed to know, other considerations took precedence.
“Security?”
Jan thought for a moment. “Ton and Herman.”
“Assistants for yourself?”
“Yourself and Roel.” Roel was capable, personable, a good companion for Marja. Jan chose him for that reason. Neither had the slightest idea of the underlying commonality that tied them to Jan.
“That should do. We can augment personnel later, if necessary,” Jan explained briefly. “I don’t want to waltz in with a full-fledged entourage. Matters may be…sensitive enough without the perception of presumption.”
Marja made her mental notes. “Destination?”
“Baltimore. We’ll be staying at the Lord Baltimore Inn as guests of Alexander Garlotte. Please make the necessary arrangements,” he told her more from habit than from need.
Marja turned to leave the office. Her skirt, longer than was the current style, hung almost to her knees. Her simple yet attractive sweater gave Jan the impression of unintentional seductiveness—or would have if he’d gone in for that sort of thing anymore. Ironic, he thought. I sought a victim and found a trusted associate.
“Ms. Havermaete,” he called just before the door closed. She stepped back into the office. “The factory in Bonn—it will have to be closed. There won’t be time to deal with it properly now.”
“That’s sixteen hundred workers’ jobs, sir.”
“I’m quite aware of that,” Jan responded matter-of-factly. “There are also the financial interests of sixteen investors. The scales are hardly balanced. See that the paperwork goes out in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.” Then she left him.
Jan did not begrudge Marja her humanitarian impulses. Several of his corporations were ardent supporters of nonprofit organizations. That was how he’d found her in the first place. His own philanthropic tendencies might be more focused, but they were no less sincere for that. It was one of his few concessions to conscience.
As Marja’s footsteps receded beyond the door, Jan reluctantly turned his thoughts back to the events that had necessitated his upcoming journey.
“Our friends across the Atlantic seem unable to deal with their difficulties,” Hardestadt had said. Jan had made the trip down to Nantes, to one of Hardestadt’s countless havens, at the behest of the elder Ventrue. Such a personal audience was not typical. “You are aware of the Sabbat disruptions on the North American continent?” Hardestadt asked as he passed a silver goblet to Jan across the small space between their matching Louis Quinze chairs.
“Yes, my sire.” Jan felt so small next to the man. A backdrop of centuries lent additional stature to the elder’s strong chin and aristocratic features. The study in which they sat, despite the plush rug, the velvet curtains, and the inviting grain of the mahogany bookshelves, was cold. Sterile. Unchanging. As he raised the goblet to his lips, the mere bouquet of the vitae set Jan’s head swimming. Just a sip—the life’s blood of elders long ago sent to Final Death—burned his mouth and throat, but the burning danced maddeningly along the thin line between pain and pleasure. Warmth spread throughout Jan’s torso, his arms and legs. He felt color rising to his usually colorless face.
“You will have to go over there and straighten out this mess,” said Hardestadt.
Jan, dizzy after his second sip from the goblet, thought he must have heard incorrectly. There was much honor to be gained in such an affair, but certain niggling details demanded his increasingly fogged attention. “I am to accompany the military command?” he inquired.
“You are the command,” Hardestadt said bluntly. “Events elsewhere do not allow us to expend unlimited resources in assisting our cousins. The Sabbat are delinquent malcontents, have been from the beginning. Return them to their place. And try not to be too long about it.”
The significance of the words, the immensity of the task, slowly permeated Jan’s reeling mind. Open warfare raged in the streets of America. The Sabbat had somehow achieved a coordination of action at a level that had eluded them for the centuries since their inception. It was a situation worthy of the attentions of a justicar, of a whole band of justicars. And Jan was being sent to take care of the matter. By himself.
“Yes, my sire.”
Jan took a large draught from the goblet, as large as politely possible. The fire cleansed him from within.
“I know you will not fail me in this,” Hardestadt said.
I will not fail you, Jan silently nodded agreement. I will not fail you…and survive.
Monday, 12 July 1999, 11:05 PM
Exit 33, Interstate 95
Laurel, Maryland
“There have always been devotees to hedonism, people living only for the pleasure of the moment,” Christof said with his slight French accent, “but now there are so many.”
“Now as opposed to when?” Lydia asked.
“As opposed to…” Christof suddenly seemed almost to forget their conversation, to become lost in his own thoughts. His relaxed, easy manner shifted almost instantly to brooding melancholy. “…To before. Long ago.”
As Lydia guided the car to the exit lane, she glanced over at her passenger. It wasn’t just his accent and mane of blazing red hair that made him stand out from the typical Brujah, she decided. The majority of her clanmates were fratboy-biker-excon-rolled-into-one types. To them, revolution was code for tear up what’s there now, and we’ll figure out something better later. Christof was one of the few with a more philosophical bent. He seemed to have a better idea of where he wanted to be going.
Must have something to do with that chick he’s always talking about, Lydia thought; though to be fair, he wasn’t always talking about her. In fact, it had been like pulling fangs to get him to say anything about her, and still all Lydia knew was that the girl’s name was Anezka, or something goofy like that, and that Christof was looking for her. Lydia’s pondering was interrupted by a commotion from her other passengers in the back seat.
“Hey, why you gettin’ off here?” Frankie asked.
“Yeah,” chimed in Baldur. “We ain’t to D.C. yet.
You want to pee gas into the tank?” Lydia asked. “And we’re not going all the way into D.C.” Not with you assholes, she thought. And not without Theo.
Probably they wouldn’t go much past the Beltway. This was just a reconnaissance, not an assault. Besides, with the curfew in Washington proper, a lot of the restless Sabbat types had migrated northeast of the city. This stretch of road was dangerous enough without her trying to win the war backed up by only one philosopher, Tweedledumb, and Tweedledipshit.
“Hey Frankie,” said Baldur, apparently satisfied with Lydia’s answer and getting back to the important business of tormenting his companion, “wanna go to Hollywood?”
“Hey! At least I didn’t name myself after a damn computer game.”
“You can’t even spell computer. Not my fault if you peaked with Space Invaders. Or was it Pong?”
“How’d you like my foot up your gate?”
Lydia sighed. Christof didn’t seem inclined toward more conversation—sure, he was philosophical, but he was also fucking moody as a girl—so she turned up the radio in an effort to drown out the mindless drivel from the backseat. She turned off the exit ramp and into the first gas station, which was doing a brisk business. The others stayed in the car while she pumped. Freed for the moment from having to think about asshole drivers on the interstate, not to mention the assholes in the backseat of her own car, Lydia’s mind turned again to Theo Bell.
The archon, in many ways was her exact opposite—tall, dark, and massive to her small, pale, and skinny—but Lydia liked to t
hink that they thought similarly. That wasn’t to say that she didn’t have a lot to learn from him, because she did. About tactics, about patience, about getting people to do what she wanted them to do. Of course, Theo had an advantage in that last department, being a life-size Mt. Rushmore, but beyond sheer intimidation, he knew how to read people. And he knew that the more you ordered folks around, the less they listened.
That night at the conference, when the news had first broken that the Sabbat was in Washington, Lydia would have been tempted to collar the Anarch horde before they ran off for a slugfest in the streets. That wasn’t a game the Camarilla could win. But Theo had let them go. He’d sat and not said a word as the younger Brujah had hightailed it south. They’d gotten their butts kicked. A few of them never came back. But most of them did, and by then they’d gotten that big adrenaline rush out of their systems and were ready to listen to Theo.
Since then, things had gone relatively smoothly. Theo had set up reconnaissance patrols along with the occasional raid south to gauge the Sabbat’s strength and organization. The area between D.C. and Baltimore was still pretty much a no-man’s-land, but if the Sabbat was preparing to come north in force, Theo would know.
As the gas pump whirred off the dollars and gallons, Lydia turned and found herself staring at the guy on the other side of the island who was filling up an old, beat-up Buick. It took several seconds to sink in, what had caught her attention: his unnaturally pale complexion, his drawn skin and almost skeletal profile.
Vampire? she wondered. She couldn’t tell, but she did know that if he was Kindred, he wasn’t one of theirs.
Just then, he turned and saw Lydia. For a long moment, they both stood there, not fifteen feet apart, staring at one another as the same realization sank in on both sides of the pump. Then he hissed.
He reached under his shirt, but Lydia was already in the air. Her steel toe-capped boot caught him in the face, and they both landed hard on the cement. Lydia rolled clear and took cover behind another car. She thought she’d seen other people in the Buick, and they might come up shooting.
Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 5 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 5