Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 5 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Gherbod Fleming

  Winder, Wells, Barney, Heath.

  Swing west, he reminded himself. He mustn’t pass too closely to Federal Hill, the limousine, the bodies. Police would be there by now.

  Charles, Olive, Hanover, Clarkston.

  Jan thought he’d changed directions, more or less, but he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t picture in his mind the layout of the city or the relation of street to street. There was water not too far ahead, but being on a peninsula, that didn’t much narrow down where he might be. The larger warehouses by the docks had given way to more modest storage buildings, one very much like the next, cinderblock or siding, blank walls, gray in the morning darkness. Or maybe Jan’s mind couldn’t grasp the details that distinguished one structure from another.

  He heard a car in the distance, not very close, but Jan felt the sudden, illogical fear that someone would find him. He hobbled as quickly as the pain and his crutch would allow between two of the buildings, then leaned heavily against a metal wall.

  Rest, he told himself. Just for a few minutes. Though he knew rest without blood was pointless. He let his fingers relax. The crutch slid away from him along the metal wall, clattered to the ground. Slowly, Jan slid down until he sat on the gravel.

  Just a few minutes.

  Jan’s mind began to wander.

  The Sabbat are delinquent malcontents. Have been from the beginning. Hardestadt’s words were as clear as if he stood over Jan that very moment. Return them to their place. And try not to be too long about it.

  “Return them yourself, you hoary old bastard,” Jan muttered. Any minute now, he was going to get up again, to continue on his way north and around the Inner Harbor to the Lord Baltimore Inn. There was no time to waste. Hardestadt was waiting. But sitting on the ground, leaning against the building, was such a relief. Jan’s ankle throbbed with only a dull ache, instead of the lightning strikes of sharp pain. And his head was swimming. He didn’t know if he could go on. But he had to. Any minute now.

  “You should’ve stayed in Europe,” said Hardestadt. Jan nodded weakly in agreement. “Where the vampires are old and tired and slow.”

  Old and tired and slow. The words prodded Jan from his fog of pain and exhaustion. That doesn’t sound like Hardestadt. And vampire. Jan’s sire never used that vulgarism; always Kindred or Cainite.

  Jan looked up. His immediate surroundings again asserted their reality. He was in Baltimore, near the docks, and with too little blood in his injured body. He’d just defeated, or at least eluded, a Sabbat pack. Or had he?

  “Any final words, Mr. Jan Pieterzoon?”

  The voice was familiar and, as Jan’s eyes focused, so was the face and form. “Blaine.”

  “You remember. How touching.” The assassin would have towered over Jan even if the smaller Ventrue weren’t on the ground.

  “I never forget a clanmate,” Jan said.

  “Clanmate, hmph. Fuck you, clanmate.”

  And, figuratively speaking, that’s exactly what Blaine was about to do. He held a crossbow leveled at Jan’s chest. A wooden bolt, like the one that had claimed Herman, would serve as a stake. Jan tried to think, but his mind was sluggish. His only chance was to dodge at just the right second and hope to take the bolt in the shoulder instead of the heart. But Blaine was so close. There would only be the smallest fraction of a second. And if Jan succeeded, then what? He lacked the strength to escape or to overpower his adversary.

  “It’s not too late to redeem yourself,” Jan said. “You’d be valuable to the Camarilla, with your knowledge of the Sabbat.”

  Blaine laughed out loud. “I may be a rat, but I’m not dumb enough to jump onto a sinking ship.”

  “Your masters will want to find out what I know.” Jan was grasping at straws. He didn’t relish the idea of Tzimisce torture, but short-term survival was the immediate concern. As long as he wasn’t destroyed, he might still escape.

  “Don’t worry,” said Blaine. “They know what you know. Besides, it’s not like we need any help wiping—”

  He never finished the sentence. Before Jan’s eyes, a dark blur knocked the end of the crossbow downward. The bolt fired and sprayed gravel at Jan’s feet. In the same instant, the dark figure struck Blaine in the head. The renegade Ventrue slammed into the wall behind him and collapsed to the ground.

  Jan’s mind took a few seconds to catch up. Standing above him instead of Blaine was a large black man in mirrored sunglasses. His heavy leather jacket seemed to swallow what little light there was. Jan knew the large man, recognized the face.

  Theo Bell.

  It finally sank in. Bell held a sawed-off shotgun, the reinforced stock dirtied by fresh blood. Jan glanced over at Blaine’s inert body, noted the corresponding crater in his forehead.

  “You gonna make it?” Bell asked.

  Jan couldn’t answer. He was still reconstructing how Bell had knocked the crossbow off target and then crushed Blaine’s skull before either of the Ventrue had realized the Brujah warrior was there.

  Jan stared at Blaine’s crumpled and bloody face. The assassin, like his clanmate Jan, could no doubt withstand tremendous physical damage, yet Bell’s blow had crushed the front of his head like a rotten walnut. Jan looked again at the looming Brujah.

  “What about the others?” Bell asked.

  “On the ship,” Jan tried to explain. “Sealed in the engine room, or they were, at least. The captain’s taking them out to sea.” They might escape, or free themselves and take over the ship, but they were out of the way for the moment. “Another crushed on the docks. Another…” Jan started to point but was completely disoriented. His finger stabbed weakly at the air. “Was with my car. Shot. But might’ve recovered.”

  “I took care of that one,” Bell said without elaboration. “Any others that you know of?” Jan shook his head. “Okay,” said Bell. “That’s all I saw too.”

  Then Bell stuck the barrel of his shotgun in Blaine’s slack mouth and pulled the trigger. The explosion jolted Jan back to his senses.

  “Let’s go,” said Bell. “Here.” He retrieved Jan’s crutch and handed it to him, then stalked back toward the street and left Jan to hobble along behind.

  Jan knew that he should follow. The gunshot might very well attract attention, and in his current condition he wouldn’t be a match for mortal police, much less for any other Sabbat that might be lurking about. But the smell of blood was strong, almost overpowering in the tight area. And it wasn’t mortal blood, which Jan had to be so careful about. This was vampiric blood. Kindred vitae. Transformed by the curse of Caine into the most tempting, and the most damning, of nectars.

  Jan’s hunger overcame his exhaustion and pain.

  He crawled the few feet to the headless mess that had been Blaine. Lines of blood trickled down the wall behind the body. Such a waste, Jan thought, but he was more intent on what had not been wasted. He took hold of a limp arm and gave in to the hunger.

  When Jan reached the street, he moved a bit more steadily. He’d not completely drained the body but instead had torn himself away from the rich libation as soon as he’d been able. His ankle still pained him. The healing vitae had repaired the injury to the point that he could more readily support his own weight, but Jan had feared there was time for little else. The street was completely empty, but for how long? Someone could easily have heard the gunshot. The blast still echoed in Jan’s ears. The shotgun had been so close, it might as well have been a cannon in the narrow space between the buildings. So Jan had marshaled his will and made do with maddeningly few gulps. Even now, it was all he could do to deny his inner demon, which rebelled at the abandonment of vitae. With each step and the increased distance it brought from the broken vessel that was Blaine, Jan’s mastery over the ravenous Beast grew stronger.

  Bell was nowhere to be seen. While Jan was trying to regain his bearings so he could begin limping back to the inn, the roar of an engine was growing dangerously close. He edged back into the shadows again, but the motorcycle screeched aro
und the corner. Jan froze—he had not recouped enough strength to fight or even to flee—then saw that the rider, thankfully, was Bell. The Brujah came to an abrupt stop next to Jan.

  “Get on.”

  Painfully, Jan climbed onto the motorcycle. “I have to see the prince,” he started to explain. “The police—”

  “Already taken care of,” Bell said. He gunned the engine and they were off.

  Monday, 19 July 1999, 4:36 AM

  Presidential Suite, Lord Baltimore Inn

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Jan closed the double doors lightly, as if concerned that the soft click of the latch could somehow interrupt the muffled screams on the far side. He tried to forget that the bedroom, one of three off the main living area, existed at all. Certain unpleasantries could not be delayed, and currently he had no time for personal infirmities, physical or moral.

  The carpet in Prince Garlotte’s suite seemed unusually thick. Jan feared he might sink into it and be lost forever. Or perhaps it was merely his legs that threatened to give way with each step. Not since the night of his Embrace could he remember ever having felt so weak, so bone weary. He’d stumbled getting off Theo Bell’s motorcycle. I shouldn’t have thrown away the crutch, Jan had thought. He’d discarded it during the ride to the inn. His senses reeling with the heady taste of vitae lingering in his mouth, he’d misjudged the extent of his recovery. Kindred blood was powerful, but he’d taken in relatively little. He would need more blood for his wounds to heal completely, and if his ankle did not mend properly, it would require surgery at some point several months or years down the road, when time allowed. That possibility was more an inconvenience than a danger. Jan had access to some of the best doctors in western Europe. He would be whole eventually.

  At the moment, however, he was having difficulty navigating among the exquisite furniture in the living room. Similarly, less than an hour ago as he’d staggered in a rear entrance of the inn, he’d had difficulty concentrating even enough to convince the mortal night manager—assistant night manager—to do what Jan needed him to do.

  But now the deed was done. Or at least it was being done. As it had been countless times before, albeit Jan’s current arrangements were rather clumsy and heavy-handed. He’d had little choice. He’d made the necessary call to Amsterdam as soon as he’d entered the suite, but he didn’t dare delay rejuvenation until his new staff arrived that night. Odds were that he would have been fine, that no new danger would have threatened him in the meantime. But Jan was determined to make sure, rather than to trust the odds. He’d seen odds defied too many times. He’d done it himself.

  The thought of his new staff brought to mind those who would no longer serve him—Herman, Ton, Roel. Their services would be missed. But only the loss of Marja stirred in him the faintest hint of remorse—which he quickly smothered. He’d witnessed the passing of too many years to dwell overly long on the death of any mortal.

  An end table seemingly interposed itself where Jan was trying to step. He cracked his knee and cursed under his breath. He staggered onward. Between the various bullet wounds and his ankle, Jan was far from comfortable, but neither was he incapacitated. Or destroyed outright. He’d come out of the ambush by the Sabbat pack in better shape—that was, to say, with his head still attached to his torso—than he’d had a right to, considering his blunders.

  I was so damned stupid!

  As Jan limped across the living room and toward his own bedroom, shedding his bullet-riddled clothes and leaving them where they fell, he channeled his remaining energy away from invective and self-recrimination and to analysis of his mistakes. He’d made two. First, he’d failed to consider Baltimore itself a war zone. The city was his base of operations, but it was not a command center tucked far away from the hostilities. There was no such place left on the East Coast. The Sabbat, with the inroads they’d made, had seen to that. All that remained were a few scattered enclaves of Camarilla resistance: Baltimore, Buffalo, parts of New York City, the Tremere chantry in the District of Columbia, Hartford.

  My God, Jan thought. How far we’ve fallen when Hartford is one of our places of power!

  The immensity of the task assigned him began, not for the first time, to overwhelm Jan. He was to wield the fractious elements of the Camarilla in the New World and prevent the Sabbat from gaining complete control of the East Coast, an undertaking that was already four-fifths accomplished.

  Impossible.

  Jan felt his resolve crumbling like an earthen damn eroded away over the years and pressed by the irresistible force of the ocean. He might plug a hole or two, or three, but did he possess enough fingers to make any real difference? Could he, or anyone, hold back the sea for long?

  I must, he thought. There is no alternative. Hardestadt would allow no alternative.

  Stripped naked, Jan made his way to the spacious lavatory. Ignoring the immense whirlpool tub, he climbed instead into the shower and turned the knob until the spray was scalding. The pinpricks of burning water stung the many bullet wounds, even partially healed over as they were. Jan welcomed the minor pain. It helped him focus his thoughts, enabled him to shunt aside the morbid defeatism that would be his doom, and concentrate again on his errors—errors he would be sure not to repeat.

  It was true he had underestimated the danger in this city. He didn’t fault himself, however, for the small retinue that he’d brought to the States. As he’d suspected it would be, the situation here was ticklish. Jan felt that he’d gained the upper hand over Victoria, and the cooperation of Prince Garlotte—both for the time being, at least. Whether or not he could have accomplished those goals if he’d brought a small army of personal retainers, if he’d been perceived as some imperial figure come to accept his coronation, was arguable at best. The others might well have banded together against him, as they still might. But having now established himself as a leader of the Camarilla resistance, Jan would take that chance rather than skimp on security in the future.

  The actual mistake, he realized, was not in his choice of retinue but in the decision to venture out into the city. The desire to get away from the Lord Baltimore Inn, to get away more specifically from Victoria, had been so strong. And so I abandoned the one place in the city I knew to be safe haven—or relatively safe, he corrected himself, remembering the reports of the destruction of Maria Chin, the initial Tremere representative to the “conference.” Victoria had been involved in the attack on Chin as well, he recalled. The Tremere had been coming to meet Victoria. Jan filed away that thought for closer examination later.

  His own second mistake, which had greatly compounded the first, was that, consumed by the considerable political and martial necessities, he’d neglected personal necessities. In particular, he’d allowed his strength to wane. He’d waited too long between feedings. The lapse was understandable, but no more acceptable.

  What will Hardestadt say if he finds out? Jan wondered, but he didn’t really want to consider that possibility. His sire might feign indifference, but the inevitable off-hand yet skillfully barbed comments would begin, and a thinly veiled word of censure from Hardestadt would pain Jan more than a stake through the heart. And that would be only the beginning. Jan might never know for certain if, through incompetence, he’d forfeited the favor of his sire, and if that incompetence was compounded by failure…

  Jan had seen others of his brethren fallen from grace. They might linger for decades, wondering, not knowing how significantly they’d offended their sire, but at some point, the vitae—the gift and the curse—was reclaimed. The end, Jan suspected, was not as bad as the years of doubt preceding it. He did not intend to find out.

  There had been so much to do before and upon his arrival in Baltimore, so many individuals to be contacted in the space of a very few nights: Colchester, Xaviar the Gangrel justicar, the Giovanni in Boston, the various princes, agents in Chicago. All of those preparations, however, would go for naught if he, through carelessness or neglect, were destroyed. As
it was, he had almost been too weak to prevail over the Sabbat assassins.

  Not almost, he corrected himself. I was too weak. If it weren’t for Bell, I would be destroyed and Blaine would be walking about, instead of the other way around.

  Jan and Blaine had been acquaintances, if not friends, long ago. Jan didn’t know what had led to the antitribu’s decision to abandon his clan in favor of the Sabbat, and Jan didn’t particularly care. Blaine had always been of a coarser weave. He was a social inferior even before turning traitor, and now he was destroyed. Case closed.

  Theo Bell was a more pertinent enigma. He had rescued Jan, but that didn’t explain why the Brujah was there in the first place. Coincidence? Possible, Jan thought, but doubtful. Coincidence, Jan had come to realize over the years, was generally the least likely explanation for any occurrence. There were always hidden plans behind the obvious schemes, and often other forces behind the hidden plans. Jan was no stranger to the halls of Kindred power; his lineage had seen to that. But among his own machinations, he was often left ignorant of the designs of Hardestadt, he who was so close to the maneuverings of members of the Inner Circle. And at times, Jan had come to believe that other, more mysterious powers were pulling strings—strings that even venerable Hardestadt, though he might know of their existence, could not control.

  Old wives’ tales, Jan chided himself. Almost as fanciful as stones of the Antediluvians. The elders of the Camarilla had wisely pronounced such stories to be fiction, yet so many Kindred failed to appreciate the mythic nature of the legends. Adam and Eve, the Garden of Eden, Caine and Abel—such myths addressed certain metaphysical themes, but among the masses of the less erudite, many took the stories as history.

  Jan paused in his rumination. Something smooth pressed against his face. White tile. He was leaning forward against the wall of the tiled shower, much of his weight supported by his face as his mind wandered. Jan pushed himself upright, turned off the water. He’d neglected to close the shower door, and a pool of tepid water had spread across the floor. Steam hung thick and heavy in the air, obscuring the far side of the room. Jan stepped carefully as he walked across the water into nothingness.