Billows of steam fled before him when he opened the door into the bedroom. He grabbed one of the plush towels from the bathroom and dried himself, slowly, luxuriously. The air conditioner was on high, and the sharp chill made his skin draw tight after the steam from the shower. He banished all extraneous thought. His mind and body were too tired. Wandering thoughts were a waste of time and symptomatic of a lack of discipline. Methodically he inspected each inch of his body, noted each bullet wound and estimated how much blood would be required to heal it. He tested his weight on his ankle, only briefly, before deciding that substantial repair would have to wait for another night. But he would not continue in this weakened state. Not even for another hour.
A great lethargy pulled at him, above and beyond the weariness brought on by his injuries. Outside, the sun would soon rise. Heavy shields were drawn across all the windows in the suite, but still Jan knew. He forced himself to disregard the lullaby of dawn and, with deliberate motions, dressed in loose, gray satin garments that would shortly serve as pajamas. He moved barefoot into the living room, where a disheveled man—his nametag read Jeffrey Taylor—sat with his face in his hands.
Jan moved closer, stood over the man whose inn uniform seemed an out-of-place prop. The assistant night manager—any employee of this inn, for that matter—normally displayed a sunny disposition for guests, but this man sobbed and dug the tips of his fingers into his face and scalp. Jan noticed again the thick comfort of the elegant carpet against the skin of his ever-cold feet. His senses had jumped into the hyper-aware state that accompanied the expectation of feeding.
“Jeffrey,” said Jan quietly. The man looked up only reluctantly. His eyes, bloodshot pools, reflected the anguish that wracked his body and soul. Jan’s voice, though, soothed the man slightly. “Jeffrey, what is her name?”
He opened his mouth, but a new spasm of sobbing took him before he could speak. Jan waited patiently, allowing his comforting presence to tame the man’s hysteria.
“Jeffrey?”
“Her name is…Estelle,” he managed to choke out.
Estelle. Jan held the name in his mind. It would make his task easier, though knowing her name caused him unease as well. Estelle. She was now that much more of a person. Her name was one more facet to the generic desk attendant. Estelle.
“Jeffrey,” Jan placed his hand on the man’s forehead, “Estelle is working a double shift. She will not be going home. Call whomever needs to know.” Jan paused, waited for the instructions to take hold, but did not release the assistant night manager.
“You do not feel well, Jeffrey. Go home. Remember none of this. Do you understand?”
Jeffrey nodded weakly. He took a deep breath and stood. “Is… is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Pieterzoon?”
“No. Thank you, Jeffrey.” Jan placed his hand on Jeffrey’s cheek. “Take care of yourself.”
“Yes. I…I will.” He took another deep breath and moved to the door, a thick fog clearing only slowly from his mind. “Thank you, Mr. Pieterzoon.” Jan allowed thoughts of the mortal to drift away. Jeffrey Taylor would make the phone call and then go home. He would be fine by tomorrow night, except never again would he be comfortable in the presence of a certain front-desk attendant. Around her, he would experience an unsettling sense of guilt—for what, he’d have no idea. He would avoid her, and when he couldn’t avoid her, he’d deal with the discomfort. But he would live.
Jan turned and strode slowly, purposefully, to the double doors he’d attempted, less than an hour ago, to pretend did not exist. He turned the knob and stepped into the bedroom.
Estelle.
She lay crumpled on the bed, her small body dwarfed by the king-sized expanse. The silk necktie, a makeshift gag, was wet with her saliva and tears. Her hands were tied behind her, her clothes torn aside. She cried quietly into the bedspread.
Estelle.
Jan forced himself to look at her, not to avert his eyes. You are the cause of this, he told himself. Make no mistake. He was speaking to her before he reached the bed, before he knelt gently at her side. “Estelle...”
He untied her wrists, noticed the abrasions from her struggle against the drapery cords. “Estelle,” he shushed her sobs, as he removed the tie from her mouth. She sucked in air, pressed her face against Jan’s knee. He was her protector, her salvation. His voice was a salve to her injury. “Estelle, it’s not your fault.”
It’s my fault, he knew, but he smothered the guilt in pity. He straightened her clothing while she clung whimpering to his arm—eased her skirt back into place, hooked her brassiere, buttoned what buttons had not been ripped from her shirt. He pretended that he was her rescuer—as she believed—rather than the inhuman beast that had set all this in motion. He held her head against his chest, stroked her hair. He wished that her tears plastering his shirt against his skin were, instead, a knife that could carve out his black heart. In a way, they were.
Jan preferred to come along after the fact—long after the fact. Then the lion’s share of the harm was already done, and he merely took advantage in his own, lesser way. But circumstances could be cruel. There was not always the luxury of finding a Marja or a Roel. The shelters, many of which Jan supported financially, were not always convenient. Sometimes he had to start from scratch, and he could not hide from himself the monster he’d become.
“Estelle,” he whispered again, soothing her even as he pierced the flesh of her neck. No, he told himself, as he thought of the rapists, I am no better. In the best of cases, he took advantage of the victim; in the worst of cases, such as tonight, he created the victim.
I am no better.
Estelle pressed against him like a frightened child and slept. Her racing heart, a ceaseless accusation, hammered in his ears. Jan could feel the pull of the sun beyond the light-sealed walls, but it was many hours before he surrendered to the day.
Monday, 19 July 1999, 10:16 PM
Governor’s Suite, Lord Baltimore Inn
Baltimore, Maryland
“Really, Alexander, I can’t see why you refuse me this!” Victoria was well beyond pouting and footstomping, and was working herself into a full-fledged rage. A single lock of her perfect, dark-brown hair fell out of place across her forehead. She brushed it aside irritably.
Prince Garlotte stood and watched her tantrum brewing. His childe, Isaac, likewise stood—Victoria had not offered them a seat, though, in the larger sense, she was the guest. The young sheriff looked on and tried not to squirm as the Toreador insulted his sire. For what else could it be but an insult to give the prince an ultimatum, and then spurn his hospitality when he refused to comply? Two of Gainesmil’s underlings scurried about packing Victoria’s belongings—belongings that, almost to the last gown, were gifts from the prince. Added insult.
“You know,” said Garlotte, “how it pains me to refuse you anything, my love.”
“Then don’t refuse me,” she snapped.
“Ah, Victoria.” The prince reached out to lay a hand on her arm, but she withdrew, gracefully yet pointedly, from his reach. He watched her brush the lock of hair away from her face again. How perfectly you’ve choreographed it all, Victoria, he thought, down to the last curl. My God, she’s lovely with that fire in her eyes! As she turned her back to him, Garlotte noticed Isaac cringing at the slight, but the prince was too captivated by the curve of Victoria’s spine, the perfect flare of her hips, to be insulted.
She faced the prince again and began to speak, but paused and looked at Isaac, as she had earlier.
“I assure you,” said Garlotte, “you may speak freely before Isaac. He is the model of discretion.” The prince noted with pride as his childe very nearly succeeded in disguising a flinch. He’s learning. Give him a few more decades….
“My most earnest desire is to protect you, my prince,” she said at last, a forced calm blunting her rage.
“Of course it is, my dear.”
Victoria planted her fists on her hips. “So I tell y
ou again: You must send Jan away.”
“And I ask you again,” said the prince. “Why?” Victoria’s brief show of patience came to an abrupt end. She flashed a glare at Garlotte and Isaac that would have brought a mortal to his knees. As it was, Isaac took a step back.
“He plots to take your city.”
Garlotte let her accusation linger between them…before he dismissed it. “But Isaac and I have just come from inspecting some of the city’s defenses—manned by Kindred newly arrived from Chicago, as a favor to Jan.”
“Not as a favor to Jan,” Victoria corrected the prince. “As a favor to his bloodthirsty sire.”
“Who among us is not bloodthirsty?” Garlotte asked in feigned innocence.
Victoria, exasperated, turned toward the open French doors and the balcony. “Don’t be dense, Alexander. Certainly he protects the physical security of the city. Another Sabbat pit is of no value to him. He will maneuver you from power.”
“He has told you this?” Garlotte asked her.
Victoria ignored the prince’s preposterous suggestion and turned her wrath instead upon the two skulking Toreador who carted load after load of her finery out of the inn. “Leave us! I came to this city penniless. I can do without whatever is left. Wait for me at the truck.”
As the two lesser Toreador scampered away, Garlotte could not deny two implications of their presence, one for each underling. First, Gainesmil had chosen sides in this matter, or at the very least he’d ingratiated himself to Victoria. But can I begrudge him the desire to be close to her? Garlotte wondered. He pondered the question for a few seconds before reaching a conclusion: Absolutely. Gainesmil would be brought to heel. Garlotte would make sure that the architect came to see the error of his ways.
Second, considering that the movers had arrived almost simultaneously with Garlotte and Isaac, Victoria must have held out little or no hope that she would sway the prince. But why create an open break? Garlotte wondered as he stroked his dark beard. Is she playing to my sense of chivalry? Does she expect I’ll try to win her back? He had no conclusive evidence, but of one thing the prince was certain: Even Victoria’s most capricious whim was driven by devious, inscrutable purpose. And tonight that purpose pulled her away from him.
“I cannot remain your guest and watch you destroyed,” Victoria said.
Garlotte said nothing. He merely gazed at her—at the strong and gracious lines of her face, the weave of the white sweater as it lay upon her breasts, the golden locket that he had given her.
I can let her go, the prince told himself, and though it was true, the fact that he could did not mean that he wanted, to do so.
“The conference won’t stand for his heavy-handed ways,” Victoria continued. “With time for a little reflection before the next meeting, they’ll see him for the usurper he is.”
With a little reflection and a hit of persuasion… Garlotte interpreted her comment, but he had not overlooked the potential threat of the displaced masses. “There is no more conference.”
Victoria glared at him, the challenge obvious in her eyes.
Did she really think I’d allow the rabble to influence policy once some semblance of stability was restored? Garlotte wondered. Had he overestimated Victoria, or was her apparent outrage merely another feint?
“The majority of refugees have been assigned duties upholding the city’s defenses,” he explained. “There is no longer any need to consult them in matters of planning. They, Victoria, realize that a strong city, shelter against the Sabbat, is the most they should hope for. They did not enjoy free rein in their old cities. Nor should they expect it here.”
“I see.” Victoria’s hand rose slowly to the locket. Her gaze shifted and came to rest on Isaac. For a long moment she studied him, but then her interest in him seemed to dissipate instantly.
“But there’s no need for you to leave,” Garlotte suggested.
Victoria turned back to Garlotte. She tugged at the locket with just enough force that the thin chain tore apart behind her neck. As if to punctuate her rejection of Garlotte, she set locket and chain on the table before him, then left without another word.
Prince Garlotte closed his eyes and savored the last traces of her lingering scent. He wanted to imprint the memory of her on his mind’s eye, so that she would ever be there beside him. For a fleeting moment, the world receded, and there was only she and he, until…
“Should I follow her?” Isaac’s voice shattered the illusion.
Garlotte fought down the deep growl that began in his belly. “Follow her? To Gainesmil’s haven? I believe I know where to find it.” The prince’s tone precluded further questions.
He took his late wife’s locket, that piece of jewelry that had until moments ago rested against Victoria’s chest, from the table. The chain could be repaired easily enough. Garlotte’s eyebrow rose with interest, however, when he opened the locket and found the shriveled tongue resting within.
I determine my own destiny, Victoria reassured herself. The limousine that Gainesmil had sent carried her gently over the city streets and followed behind the truck full of her possessions. Her hand strayed to her throat, to the space where the chain no longer rested. She’d given it back to Garlotte, and along with it the memento of her time with the fiend Elford in Atlanta.
They don’t think I mean business. Alexander, Jan, Theo Bell, Vitel, the new Tremere witch—none of them took Victoria seriously. Elford had made that same mistake. His gnarled tongue was a warning. Let Garlotte understand, if he has eyes to see, she thought, then, He won’t understand. Not until it’s too late.
The prince was not wrong to be suspicious of Victoria, but if he trusted Jan, he was a fool. And he would suffer the consequences. Either Jan would depose Garlotte, or Victoria might be driven to it herself. But that would be many weeks or months down the road. Tonight, she had set a more immediate gambit in motion. Garlotte might think that he could do without her company, but let him try. Then add to that another factor: Without Victoria actively opposing Jan, Garlotte would have much less reason to support his clanmate. She had planted the seed in the prince’s mind that Jan was a threat. Garlotte would also likely blame Jan’s presence for the estrangement between herself and the prince.
We’ll see how long before cracks form in the Ventrue good-old-boys network, she thought.
But it wasn’t Garlotte, or even Jan, that Victoria feared. She still could not shake the feeling that she was merely playing an assigned role in this drama. That was her greatest and constant fear, and she’d taken steps, again, to see that it was not borne out.
He brought his childe. The prince had responded to Victoria’s summons—her invitation, rather—but he had brought Isaac with him. So Victoria had left. She had aligned herself, to a certain degree at least, against the prince. Had he come alone, she would have allowed herself to be talked into staying. She would have sent Gainesmil’s underlings away without her in the end. She would have abandoned this latest plan. She was determined, above all else, that no elder being would out-guess her. Not every time.
Yet the feeling that she sleepwalked through someone else’s dream clung to her like a fever, as it had increasingly since Atlanta. As it had since her time in the clutches of the vile Tzimisce. Now Victoria’s fingers brushed the tiny imperfection on her jaw—the image of a serpent swallowing its own tail—that her makeup seemed capable of hiding for only so long.
I determine my own destiny, she told herself, over and over again, as the limousine passed farther into the night.
Prince Garlotte already had sent Isaac away to inspect more of the city’s defenses. Now the prince reclined on the couch and pretended that Victoria was still there. It was much easier without his childe babbling on about nothing. Garlotte imagined that the impression of her body was still warm—the way her body had been warm that night on the ship—on the cushions beneath him, or on the bed in the other room. He tried to convince himself that he could still catch a hint of her fragrance
. He considered keeping the belongings she’d left behind—aside from the decomposing tongue on the coffee table, of course—and going on as if she resided permanently in his inn. He could seal the suite, so no one would ever disturb the space she had inhabited.
My God, he sighed. He had not anticipated the ache that had gripped him after not even a full hour of her absence. It wasn’t that he had to be with her every moment. Over the past few weeks, in fact, he’d spent relatively little time in her actual presence. To know that he could be with her, that she was at his beck and call, was enough; to know that he could not see her, that she would turn him away…that might well drive him to distraction.
Ah, well, he tried to resign himself, I might need a bit of distraction.
“What do you think?” Garlotte said to the empty room.
“I was waiting for her to flash some titty,” came the reply. “I figure she’s enough woman for you and junior—and me, I’m okay with watching.”
Garlotte sat up and faced the Nosferatu. Colchester rubbed his hands together and stared into the distance, as if replaying in his mind what hadn’t happened. “I would think,” the prince admonished him, “that you’d have tired of playing peeping tom by now.”
Colchester wheezed and…grinned? It was hard to tell with the fangs jutting through his lip. “Mostly, yeah. But she’s enough to put starch back in your collar.”
Garlotte frowned. He did not care to hear Victoria spoken of in so coarse a manner. Colchester apparently realized his mistake; his manner sobered rather abruptly.
Garlotte pressed on. “And she and Pieterzoon have not…encountered one another again since what you reported two nights ago?”
“That’s right.”
Colchester’s perverse glee having faded, Garlotte could read nothing at all in the solid black eyes, the cratered face. I would have done better not to have put him on his guard, the prince thought, but the Nosferatu’s lechery grated so, to an irrational extent. Some matters, Garlotte decided, reaffirming his own actions, aren’t meant to be rational.
Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 5 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 13