Probably.
Winding down just might take a little while. After all, the assassination itself had happened four nights ago. At the time, Garlotte had received the news calmly—always a bad sign. He’d spent every hour of each night and each day since then, no doubt, building up a head of steam.
Could be worse, Isaac decided. The prince was quite capable of building up a head of steam for years instead of nights. The mid-1980s had been that way.
Realizing suddenly that the prince had grown disturbingly quiet, Isaac hazarded a glance at his sire. To the uninitiated, Garlotte would have seemed to have regained his composure—his face was a healthier shade of pale; he was no longer trembling behind his dark beard—but Isaac knew better than to be fooled.
Maybe, he decided, he could soothe the prince with hard-nosed professionalism. Isaac was, after all, the sheriff: “We suspect it was an Assamite.”
“Why?” Garlotte scoffed. “Because there’s a permanently dead body, and no one saw the killer? So it must be an Assamite?”
“Uh…yes.”
“Hmph. You do know there happens to be a Sabbat army just down the road? Might they have an interest in murdering Tremere? I suspect so.” Garlotte paused, but not for long. “All we know is that at least one of them had two hands. Aside from some of the Sabbat war ghouls, that doesn’t narrow the bloody field very much.”
Isaac was guardedly hopeful that his sire’s temper might be starting to subside. Maybe keeping him talking was the right strategy. Isaac decided to try something non-controversial, something fairly innocuous: “You don’t even like the Tremere.”
The trembling started slowly. The telltale color returned to Garlotte’s face. Isaac instinctively put his hands behind his back.
“My God!” Garlotte exploded. “I don’t like the Tremere. I despise them! But that doesn’t mean I want one decapitated in my elevator!”
Then the prince uttered the words Isaac had been waiting—hoping, praying—to hear: “Get out! Get out of my sight! Before I—”
“Yes, my prince.”
And Isaac, ever the dutiful and obedient childe, hastened to obey.
Sunday, 18 July 1999, 12:22 AM
Seventh floor, Lord Baltimore Inn
Baltimore, Maryland
Victoria strode purposefully down the hallway. As far as she knew, she and Jan were the only Kindred whom Garlotte had afforded lodgings in the Lord Baltimore Inn itself. The prince normally frequented the establishment, but with the large number of guests in town had taken to staying on his little boat docked elsewhere. Vitel, too, had sought less central lodgings, though aside from the evenings of the conferences, the premises were rather dull. Theo Bell was constantly off doing whatever it was that kept Brujah amused, while Aisling Sturbridge had demonstrated little desire to stay in Baltimore any longer than absolutely necessary. The Tremere had pled urgent business at her chantry and returned to New York, but Victoria suspected the witch was motivated at least partially from fear, after what had happened to Sturbridge’s predecessor at the conference.
Such a shame, Victoria thought, if a little thing like an assassination makes the Tremere less enthusiastic about taking part in Camarilla affairs. She marched on around the two quick turns near the middle of the building and on along the corridor.
Otherwise, there were no Kindred of sufficient standing to warrant a suite at the Lord Baltimore Inn. Just her at one end in the Governor’s Suite, and Jan at the other in what more often served as Prince Garlotte’s personal suite.
Victoria was pleased that her movements came with less stiffness and pain now. She had just come from a singularly satisfying hunt. As one of the prince’s more privileged guests, she was not banned from hunting in the Inner Harbor area, and with the several touristy pubs, as well as the convention center not far away, prey was easy to come by. Tonight, with just a brief visit to an upscale bar, she’d attracted the company of three middle-aged business types. With very little encouragement, they had alternated, two keeping watch in a back alley while Victoria “pleasured” the third. She had sent them on their way with closed wounds and vague memories of some drunken encounter with a mysterious woman.
The blood, tonight and over the past few weeks, had done Victoria good. She felt physically repaired and, more importantly, nearly all the blemishes from her time among the Tzimisce were healed. The two that remained, she supposed, would simply require a bit more blood. Soon there would be no more reminders of the outrages committed upon her. As she approached Jan’s door, her hand absently rose to the locket hanging from her neck.
Jan had expected to see Victoria at some point in the not-too-distant future and, as he opened the door, he was filled with a mix of dread and anticipation. Framed in the doorway, she appeared to him a life-size portrait. The long sleeves of the scarlet, off-the-shoulder gown accentuated the lustrous skin above, while the hue of the material brought out the auburn highlights of her hair. She wore no gloves tonight, and carried a small, beaded purse. The locket hanging from her neck caught the light, as did her emerald eyes.
“This would be where you invite me in,” Victoria suggested playfully.
“Forgive me,” said Jan. “You are the picture of loveliness.”
Victoria lowered her eyes demurely as she stepped past him. He followed her into the spacious living area. Even among the precious works of art that Garlotte had collected—classical busts, paintings by Caillebotte, Cezanne, Renoir—Victoria stood out as an astoundingly perfect object of beauty.
“The prince does have stunning taste,” she said. “But I suspect your choice of decor would differ slightly?”
Jan paused at this unexpected question. “I hadn’t really given any thought to the matter.”
“Oh, but surely your propensities don’t match the prince’s exactly,” Victoria said, as she made her way from painting to painting. Jan hesitated. “Come now,” she pressed him. “There’s no insult to the prince in sharing your own…preferences.”
The issue was moot to Jan. He was not about to redecorate the prince’s chambers. Yet Jan felt the desire to humor Victoria, to play along in this small thing. “I’d have more…books, I suppose.”
“Books, ah. Now we find out something fascinating about Mr. Jan Pieterzoon,” she said. “What sort of books?”
“Corporate ledgers, or the like, I’m afraid.” He waved away her question, suddenly embarrassed by his own stodginess. “Perhaps a few histories.”
“No classics?” Victoria asked. She pouted out her lip a bit. “No romances?”
For several moments, Jan was able only to stare at her and blink. Finally, he managed to turn away.
“I’m afraid my assistants have retired for the evening, and I have nothing on hand to offer you….”
“I require nothing more than wit, charm, and scintillating conversation,” Victoria said.
“Then I’m afraid you may have called upon the wrong person.”
“You’re too modest, Mr. Corporate Ledger Pieterzoon.” She moved closer to him, came to within a few feet.
“Please, ‘Jan’ is fine.”
“Well then, Jan, you would prefer that I get on to the business that brings me here?”
Jan casually turned and moved away from her. He couldn’t quite think clearly when she was that close. He exaggerated his gestures as he spoke, lending another reason for him to seek unencumbered space. “I’m afraid that with all that is going on, and all that is on my mind, I am not fit company these nights, Ms. Ash.”
“Come now,” she said from right behind him. She’d kept pace, step for step. “If you are ‘Jan’, then I must insist on being ‘Victoria’.”
“Very well…Victoria.” He sat in a chair, intentionally avoiding the love seat that would allow her room next to him. “What may I do for you this evening?”
“I do so wish we’d had a chance to talk before the conference last night,” Victoria said somewhat over-earnestly. “I’m afraid that we may have had an unfortunate
misunderstanding. After all, both of us want nothing more than to turn back the ravagers of the Sabbat.” When she said the word Sabbat, an intensity otherwise absent crept into her voice. It was the sound of cold and deep-seated hatred, but it passed as suddenly as it had arisen. “How unseemly for allies to spat among themselves.”
“I want nothing more than to turn back the Sabbat,” Jan agreed with part of her statement.
“And wouldn’t it be so much more profitable,” she asked, leaning forward and brushing his knee with her fingertips, “for us to work in concert, side by side?”
Despite himself, Jan suddenly pictured the two of them lying side by side, his limbs entwined with hers, and draped all around them the wreckage of bedclothes fervently cast aside. Then he found himself gazing into her eyes, and they truly were windows to her soul, beckoning him within, to share her deepest secrets, to share with her his innermost desires. He looked away. The room shifted dangerously. Jan felt the urge to take her hand in his, but resisted. He felt overwhelmed by a giddiness similar to that which had assailed him when he’d imbibed Hardestadt’s mixture of ancient vitae. Jan drew strength from the thought of his sire, who would not tolerate failure.
I have only one need, he reminded himself. Only one physical desire. Blood.
“I would prefer that we work together,” Jan said at last. He wasn’t sure how many seconds had passed since she asked the question, but Victoria did not take issue with his deliberate response.
“Then let us take control of this war,” she urged him. “No prince will be able to look beyond the needs of his own city. We must make the decisions.”
Jan found himself thinking that she sounded very reasonable, that he might be able to help her toward this goal, but he steeled himself against persuasion.
Think, man. Think! he commanded himself. She would create a council through which to rule, yet what could she offer the effort against the Sabbat? Would she hike up her skirt and hope to convince them to turn away from the gates of the city? He opened his mouth to hurl that very accusation at her, to accuse her of gross opportunism. But he looked into the deep green of her eyes, and his thoughts were forced along another route.
“The princes will see that cooperation is required, that the self-interest of each one is also the self-interest of the others. That is what will save us.”
Victoria sat back and crossed her arms. “You risk much on the reasonableness of princes. I have less faith in them than apparently you do. We must make sure they make the right choices.”
“This is no conclave,” Jan countered. “It is merely a gathering of Kindred, an unofficial conference.
We could call a damned conclave!” she insisted with sudden intensity. “It is custom for a justicar to call the conclave, but there are other ways. This is a time of crisis. If you and I, Sturbridge and maybe Bell called a conclave, with the number of Kindred in the city, Prince Garlotte would have little choice but to acknowledge the legitimacy of the endeavor.”
“And the war,” Jan extrapolated, “would be prosecuted according to votes of the conclave.”
“Exactly.”
“With each Kindred present enjoying an equal vote, from the lowliest Brujah neonate to Prince Garlotte himself.”
“Yes.”
Jan rose from his seat and began pacing around the room. “I don’t understand why it is that you Americans maintain such a passion for democracy,” he said with no little exasperation. “It is not a fascination that the elders in Europe share to any degree. I assure you that.”
“The Kindred gathered in this city will not be bullied,” Victoria said. “They won’t stand for it.”
At this, Jan stopped pacing and turned to face her. “Oh, won’t they? Will they defy the prince who granted them sanctuary? Who even now keeps the wolves at bay?”
Though she overstated her case—after all, the majority of Cainites, like the majority of mortals, were sheep to be led—Victoria had touched on a very real concern of the prince’s. With the flood of refugees, the city was overpopulated to the degree that popular unrest could prove dangerous. The rank and file Kindred, displaced from the princes and static power structures that normally maintained order, were a volatile mix. They were like a loaded gun, a poised stake, aimed directly at the prince’s heart. Jan and Garlotte had spent quite some time discussing that very matter last night, and had arrived at several decisions. None of which Jan felt inclined to reveal to Victoria, especially since she was obviously courting the favor of the masses.
“Won’t stand for it,” Jan repeated dismissively. “Hmph. They’ll stand for whatever the prince tells them to stand for. Unless, perhaps, they have an alternative.” He stared pointedly at Victoria. “Are you planning to replace Prince Garlotte?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be stupid, Jan.”
He shrugged and resumed his pacing. “Somehow, I suspect your passion for democracy goes only so far as objecting to a dictatorship in which you are not dictator.” Victoria looked away from him and did not respond. “Regardless, no Kindred that I know was ever Embraced by a democrat. If freedom is what you want, perhaps you should travel down the road to Washington. I hear personal freedom is all the rage with the Sabbat.”
As he concluded his diatribe, Jan was feeling rather pleased with himself for having resisted Victoria’s charms so completely, after getting over the first jolt of seeing her. When he looked back at her now, however, he saw something in her captivating eyes that he had not seen there before—total sincerity.
“I escaped those fiends once,” Victoria intoned with such vehemence that Jan winced. “If I see them again, it will be to stand over their broken bodies.”
Though she had not told him, Jan recognized the brutalized victim’s thirst for revenge. The tone of her voice confirmed what he had heard from another source, but even had that source not existed, Jan would have guessed. Such was the venom contained in her words.
“I know you were captured,” he said.
This appeared to surprise her, but she didn’t deny his claim. Instead, she seemed suddenly weary; a great sadness came over her, pulled her shoulders downward like a great weight. “I cannot begin to tell you what…” She looked away from him. “I will not speak of it.”
Her pain, still tinged with defiance, called to Jan, drew him in. He moved to her side and sat beside her on the couch. She clutched her locket as if that could undo what had happened.
“I’m much recovered, but…” Her words were choked off. A shudder wracked her body. Jan placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Victoria turned so that her back was to him. Slowly, she reached for the zipper between her shoulder blades.
Jan’s mouth and throat were suddenly so dry he didn’t think he could speak if he tried. He watched as his own fingers grasped the zipper, slid it downward along its track. He moved slowly, unsure exactly of what Victoria wanted, but she didn’t stop him, so he continued, below the small of her back, down to the bottom of the track at the level of her hips. She took his hand and placed it there on her body, at the lowest curve of her spine. Jan felt the silky smoothness of her skin, but he was not prepared for the tiny spur of bone that protruded from her flesh. It was no larger than a fingertip, but the skin surrounding it was red and irritated. How? he wondered.
I escaped those fiends once, she had said.
Fiends. Tzimisce. Sculptors of flesh. And bone.
Jan tried to pull his hand away, but Victoria held him to her. She was still slouched forward, and her gown now slid from her shoulders to lie bunched around her waist. Jan gazed upon the gently curving span of her back. From nape to hips, only the one small imperfection marred her beauty, a knob of bone drawn forth by some demonic torturer.
What else did they do? Jan wondered, but he knew he couldn’t ask her, and there were no other visible signs of the torments she must have undergone. With the fingers of his other hand, he touched her just above the shoulders and traced the path of her spine. Sitting there before him,
she seemed less fierce in her nakedness. She’s no threat to me, he thought, as his hands slid to her hips, just beneath the folds of her dress. The visceral thrill he felt at touching her was a long-forgotten memory. How many decades had passed since he’d held a woman close, other than to feed? His problems seemed very distant—the Sabbat, Hardestadt, strong-willed princes, witches of the Tremere.
Toreador seductress? Part of Jan’s mind rejected the epithet. How terrible her ordeal must have been. Victoria was in pain and needed comfort. She needed him. Yet Jan’s mind was racing in many directions, and on many levels. Her emotional vulnerability allowed him to be close, but was not what attracted him. In his mind’s eye, his fingers edged upward across the gentle ripples of her ribs. Then she took his hands and placed them on her breasts. Jan pulled her close, held her firmly against his chest, as Victoria leaned her head back against his cheek and moaned at his caresses.
Reality again interposed itself. Jan was, indeed, slowly sliding his hands up her sides. Victoria turned her face partially toward him and sighed. Something about the tilt of her head caught his attention. His hands stopped as he saw the tiny mark just above the line of her jaw. It was a blemish on her who had no natural blemish. Jan raised a finger to the mark, touched it lightly, and saw that the spot was in the shape of a serpent swallowing its own tail.
“What is—?”
“No!”
Victoria was away from him in an instant and several steps across the room. She clutched her gown to her chest, at the same time frantically trying to get something from her purse. Jan watched in total befuddlement as she opened a compact and dabbed powder over the spot—the serpent devouring itself—that he had touched. Before he regained complete control of his senses, Victoria had attended to her makeup, and her dress was zipped and in good order. She pulled the locket from beneath the fabric and let it again rest free against her chest.
Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 5 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 9