“I apologize for my tardiness this evening,” Jan said, ignoring the protestations of the Toreador. “I was speaking with Prince Michaela of New York. She reports that the situation there is stable, or as stable as it ever is. The effort that has gained our enemies so much in the South is seemingly not replicated in the northern climes. Similar news from Hartford and Buffalo. I spoke with those princes upon my arrival last night.”
“But the Sabbat army is before us in Washington,” said Gainesmil, taking up the argument on Victoria’s behalf. He seemed to have at least one foot firmly in the camp of his fellow Toreador—a detail Prince Garlotte had not mentioned to Jan during the course of their short conversation. “Why would there be any trouble in the North?” An approving ripple of comments spread through the auditorium.
“The army to the south facing us is formidable,” Jan conceded, “but we would be gravely mistaken to believe that it consisted of every Sabbat on the continent. My sources indicate that some individuals from New York City took part in the attacks, but that otherwise there was practically no involvement from Montreal, Detroit, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Portland—”
As he listed the various Sabbat strongholds, many of the Kindred who had assumed they would gather an army and then drive the Sabbat back to the Gulf of Mexico fell into an awed silence as the truly desperate nature of their situation dawned on them.
“We may not yet have seen the worst,” Jan said ominously.
“And yet your masters,” said Victoria, still unwilling to relinquish the floor, “provide us no additional support.”
“We must find support more close by,” Jan said. “We must find it where we are able. I have made other inquiries toward that end…but I feel it would be imprudent to go into more detail in such a public forum.” The way he spoke the words and looked around the assembly was not an accusation that spies lurked in their midst, but rather an appeal to Camarilla loyalty. Certainly no one would demand details of plans that might then find their way to the enemy.
Victoria’s facade of calm was beginning to crack as Jan took her agenda and twisted it to his own ends. Her face, usually full of healthy (and mortal-like) color, was more brightly flushed than earlier. Jan could see the wheels turning, as she reassessed her position in light of the shifting sentiment of the masses. Before she formulated a response, however, Prince Garlotte again stepped forward.
“Yes, there are many preparations still to be made,” he said, “and so that we may attend to them promptly, I suggest we adjourn this conference. I would remind all guests in the city that hunting in the Inner Harbor area is strictly controlled—and that goes doubly for feeding on employees of this establishment. I direct your needs to certain neighborhoods, of which you have been made aware—Cherry Hill, McElderry Park, Broadway East…”
The assembly began to break up as small knots of Kindred formed to discuss what they’d just heard, or to complain about their lodgings, the hunting restrictions, or any other number of difficulties faced by a refugee in the city of Baltimore, which was now grossly overpopulated with undead. Jan watched them wander away discussing their situations, but one conversation more than the others attracted his attention. He had been watching the larger audience, not Victoria, when the prince had stepped in, but she seemed to have quickly recovered from her general disgruntlement as she glided through the confusion toward Aisling Sturbridge. The Tremere regent and Victoria exchanged civil greetings—Victoria with a relaxed, pleasant expression on her face; Sturbridge, for all intents and purposes, expressionless—then both turned away just enough that Jan couldn’t make out what they were saying. Though the childe of Hardestadt had no fondness for English, that was not to say that he wasn’t thoroughly versed in the language to the point that he could read lips—an ability that, along with reading text upside down across a desk, had proven invaluable on numerous occasions. Kindred, so caught up in their supernatural world of the undead, often overlooked such simple ploys that were within the capabilities of many mortals.
There was little point in speculating as to exactly what passed between Victoria and Sturbridge, but Jan was nevertheless curious. At the very least, the conversation, as well as the possibility of a new alliance among the ever-shifting politics of the Kindred, was worth noting.
“Mr. Pieterzoon…”
Jan turned from the ongoing conversation across the way. Robert Gainesmil stood at his side.
“The prince would speak with you,” said Gainesmil, “if you can spare a few minutes, of course.”
Jan shook hands with Gainesmil, the Toreador who apparently harbored ties, if not loyalty, to both the prince and Victoria. “Please, call me Jan.” With his other hand, he clasped Gainesmil by the shoulder, as he might an old acquaintance. “My time, as well as my services, are always at the disposal of the prince.”
The prince, indeed, had exited the chamber, and Gainesmil indicated the nearby door. “After you, Jan.”
Jan inconspicuously glanced once more at Victoria and Sturbridge. The Toreador laughed at something that was said, then the two parted. Jan, ahead of Gainesmil, made his exit as well. This will be a long night, he thought. It was not the first, nor, he knew, would it be the last.
Saturday, 17 July 1999, 1:40 AM
Cherry Hill
Baltimore, Maryland
Fin always felt like he stuck out in this neighborhood. Probably because he did. Among the boarded-up stores and abandoned houses, he looked like a drug dealer. Riches among squalor. His new leather jacket was just too shiny, his black hair too perfect. He hated to park his Camaro on the street. Not that he wouldn’t be able to track down and settle with anybody who was stupid enough to mess with his car, because he would, but then he’d have the hassle of fixing whatever damage they’d done.
I don’t know why I come here anyway, he thought. Some nights he just felt restless, and the next thing he knew, he was walking up the crumbling sidewalk to the shack that looked like it was held together by nothing more than its last coat of paint—and that was chipping and peeling away in a hurry. Nights like these, it didn’t do him any good to go see Morena. He loved her, but there were some things that a mortal just couldn’t understand. Not that he was likely to get much sympathy here.
Jazz opened the door. “Well, if it ain’t our own Boy Hollywood. Is that a new jacket? I hope you Scotch-garded it. You know how messy it gets in here.” She called back into the house, “Yo, Katrina! Your fancy brother’s here!”
She stepped aside and Fin went in. “I’m not her brother.”
“I forget how these things work,” said Jazz. “I ain’t as high and mighty as some folks.” She showed him a wide, hissing grin, revealing the fangs that marked her for what she was.
Tarika lounged on an old, lopsided couch that was literally on its last leg. Her skin matched almost exactly the dark Naugahyde. “Looking spiffy, Fin. Mind if I take your wheels for a spin?” She and Jazz each wore loose tanktops and tight jeans.
Fin tried to ignore the two women, tried not to let on how uncomfortable they made him. They were brash and streetsmart and from a part of the mortal world—the bottom end of the spectrum—that he’d never been familiar with. He didn’t really want to be familiar with it now either, but this was where Katrina was. She sauntered into the room barefoot, wearing only a too-tight, white T-shirt and painted-on jeans.
“What d’you want?”
Fin hesitated. He didn’t know why he’d hoped for something different. This was how it always went. The way Katrina saw it, he had to be there for a reason. There seemed to be no chance he could ever just hang out.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Same as I’m always doing.” Katrina just stood there, waiting for him to say whatever it was he’d come to say.
“How’s that little pincushion of yours in the suburbs?” Jazz whispered in his ear. “Why don’t you ever bring her by?”
“She better for biting or licking?” Tarika asked with an evil grin that showe
d her fangs to best effect. She rubbed the tip of her tongue slowly over her teeth.
Fin refused to be baited. “What do you think about all the…stuff going on? In the city, I mean. And Washington.”
The question was meant for Katrina, but Tarika didn’t hesitate to answer. “Shit. They have a sale on fangs at K-Mart or something? Can’t throw a brick in this neighborhood without hitting a damn vampire.”
“Day-time folks gonna get nervous if people keep disappearing,” Jazz chimed in. “Now us, we don’t kill people. We always let ’em live and let ’em go. Need as many fish in the pond as we can get. Ain’t that right?”
“Mm-hm,” Tarika agreed.
They were irritating, but in a way, Fin was almost glad that Jazz and Tarika were there. At least they talked to him. Katrina just stood and glared. “What do you think about it?” he asked her.
“I don’t think nothing,” she said, and leveled her glare at the other two women, so they’d know they were talking more than she approved. “Those losers will move on soon enough, or maybe I’ll start offing them myself, if they get in our way.”
“Yeah. We got dibs on this neighborhood,” Jazz said.
“I’ve been thinking,” Fin said, “about…about maybe trying to, you know, take a more active role. I mean, our sire is the prince, and if there’s stuff that needs to change…”
“Why you telling me this?” Katrina asked. “You do whatever you want.”
“I thought I might be able to help,” Fin tried to explain. “I mean, if there are too many Kindred around here, it could endanger the Mas—”
“Kindred.” Katrina spat the word mockingly. “What the hell is that supposed to mean anyway? Garlotte isn’t my daddy, and you aren’t my brother. You do whatever you want, tell them whatever you want. I don’t care. We don’t care.”
“That’s right,” Jazz said, as she stepped by Fin and to Katrina’s side. “We don’t need none of them.”
Katrina took hold of Jazz, ran a finger along her bare throat. Jazz raised her chin. “We don’t need none of you,” Katrina said. She ran her tongue along Jazz’s neck, up over her chin. They ended with a long, lingering kiss.
Fin turned and walked out of the house. They’d made themselves clear enough. He’d been stupid to think that Katrina might ever accept him. That was what he seemed to come away thinking every time he came. Maybe a trip to Morena’s would make him feel better after all.
Saturday, 17 July 1999, 1:48 AM
Lord Baltimore Inn
Baltimore, Maryland
“You take quite a few liberties in arranging for the defense of my city,” said Prince Garlotte. This directly on the heels of a few perfunctory questions as to the suitability of Jan’s lodgings.
The prince’s straight-backed, wooden chair was elevated slightly above Jan’s, giving the vague impression of a king on his throne. The two were alone. Gainesmil, much to his chagrin, had been dismissed after escorting Jan to the modest sitting room. Jan gathered his thoughts as he regarded Garlotte carefully. The prince’s words did not actually convey anger, but the statement was most definitely a challenge.
“My hope,” Jan said, “is that we will be able to defend all of the territory remaining to the Camarilla. Baltimore is, at present, in the foremost danger. I have endeavored to make use of contacts external to the city, as I imagined your efforts to be directed at keeping order within the city. Maintaining the Masquerade in the face of such an influx of Kindred can be no simple affair. If I have overstepped, my prince, I ask only your forgiveness and the opportunity to set matters aright.”
Jan spoke casually yet respectfully. The ease of his manner belied the great importance of what came next. Though preferable, it was not necessary that he secure the complete and total cooperation of the prince. If, however, Garlotte stood squarely against Jan, there would be little room for maneuver. The situation would quickly become very complicated. And perhaps bloody. Jan would be compelled to seek support in other quarters—Victoria, Gainesmil, Sturbridge?—possibly in an attempt to oust the prince, so that Jan could carry his plans forward. And even then, there would still be the necessity of dealing with Garlotte’s successor, whoever that turned out to be. So Jan watched Garlotte closely, indeed, as the prince mulled over these comments.
“You contacted the princes of New York, of Buffalo, and of Hartford,” Garlotte said at last. “With whom else did you communicate?”
Jan hesitated not at all in answering. There were risks in being candid with the prince, but potentially much more danger in mincing words. “I spoke with Xaviar, justicar of Clan Gangrel,” Jan said. He paused to gauge Garlotte’s response. If the prince wished to allow matters of decorum to hinder their dealings, then this breach could become a major point of contention.
Jan volunteered information that might answer the prince’s next question. “I spoke with him here, in the city, last night. In the interests of speed and secrecy, the justicar chose not to announce his presence.”
Garlotte stiffened slightly at this. His nostrils flared, almost imperceptibly. “Does the justicar doubt my capacity for discretion?”
Jan cast his gaze downward somewhat. “I would never presume to speak for the justicar, my prince.” He waited in silence.
“Nor would I presume,” Garlotte said curtly, “to question the justicar’s…ethics. Tell me, Ambassador Pieterzoon, does Xaviar gather an army of Gangrel to come rescue my city?”
“No, my prince.” Jan met Garlotte’s eyes again. “Xaviar gathers an army, but they go to defend Buffalo.”
“Buffalo.” The prince seemed genuinely surprised at this news, and less than pleased. His willingness to overlook Xaviar’s slight to him—a small enough sacrifice if it gained a number of Gangrel to defend his city—began to fade. “And pray tell why?”
“My prince,” Jan explained, “that city seems the most vulnerable—the most closely surrounded by Sabbat territory, and the most weakly defended. My concern is that if we do not garrison several cities in at least moderate strength, the enemy will prey on those scattered points—like wolves at a herd, bringing down the stragglers, the young and infirm—until we are completely isolated. Toward that end, I’ve spoken with the Giovanni in Boston, as well, trying to arrange mutual support for Hartford, though I’ve not met with complete success. The necromancers know of our predicament; they sense our weakness and feel no urgency to come to our aid, though they cannot afford to ignore our requests outright, lest we eventually prevail.”
Prince Garlotte nodded slowly, his face solemn. “What you say is true.”
“If I may be so bold,” Jan added, sensing the prince’s irritation ease, “I have contacted several of our brethren in Chicago, as well. As their city appears to be beyond the scope of these Sabbat activities, they’ve agreed to send a number of their underlings to help meet the threat here.”
Garlotte’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Jan, then a smile crept across the prince’s face. “You seem to have been rather thorough, Mr. Pieterzoon. I imagine you have other advice to offer?”
Jan was careful to maintain his respectful, neutral expression and tone of voice. “If it would please the prince, I do have a few suggestions regarding related matters….”
Saturday, 17 July 1999, 4:43 AM
Lord Baltimore Inn
Baltimore, Maryland
“My God!” Garlotte bellowed. “I don’t know how I was able to face them! Jan Pieterzoon is too coy to show it, but he’s snickering at me. All the others are too. I’m sure of it!
“Here I am—prince and master of this city, responsible for the safety of my guests. And assassins are running wild, murdering dignitaries—not on the edge of town, not in some out-of-the-way, shadowed comer of the slums, but in my bloody haven! How could this have happened? Tell me that. How?”
Isaac was reluctant to answer, not the least reason for which was that he didn’t have a good answer. And then there was Dennis. Dennis kept staring at him.
Rather,
Dennis’s head kept staring at him.
Dennis had been Prince Garlotte’s chief of security and right-hand ghoul for longer than Isaac had been Garlotte childe. Now, Dennis was just a head. An open-mouthed, wide-eyed, staring head, at that.
In his effort to avoid those astonished eyes, Isaac found himself reflexively stretching his fingers—closed, open; closed, open. He also found himself feeling grateful that vampiric vitae was potent enough to manage the relatively quick regeneration of certain body parts. Say, fingers.
Isaac felt fairly certain that heads were not prone to regeneration.
Prince Garlotte drummed his fingers on the arm of his wooden chair. His last question, unfortunately, had not been rhetorical.
“Assassin,” Isaac said meekly.
“What?” Garlotte squinted, cocked his head. “Of course it was an assassin. I know it was an assassin. Every Kindred from here to Buffalo knows it was an assassin. Why do I bother?” He tossed his hands in the air. “Why? Why do I bother?”
Isaac felt a lump in his throat. He imagined that was a problem Dennis didn’t have anymore. The sheriff licked his lips. The prince seemed completely to have missed the point Isaac was trying to make, and though the sheriff had mixed feelings about the wisdom of trying to expand upon his theory, he resented the prince’s assumption of his stupidity to the point that he decided to make the attempt. “We think there was only one. One assassin-. Not assassins.”
“How in bloody hell would anyone know if there were one or one thousand? No one saw them! No one but Victoria,” Garlotte added. “And what does she do? She runs screaming out of the elevator and through the whole inn. Brilliant! Brilliant, that. My God, if she weren’t the most exhilarating woman since Joan of Arc, I’d…I’d…”
Isaac felt very small. Much like a resident of Pompeii must have felt the day that Vesuvius decided to do its thing.
At least he’s yelling, Isaac thought. When the prince sounded the most violent, he was generally less likely to be violent. Probably, after he had finished his meeting with Pieterzoon, Garlotte had calmly summoned Dennis to the sitting room and then proceeded to rip the ghoul’s head off. Probably that had blunted the worst of Garlotte’s fury. All the rest—the ranting, the yelling, the raving—was just winding down.
Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 5 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 8