“Sir, is there anything else?”
Jan waved away his assistant. “Inform Baas that I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the night, unless the prince or Archon Bell call.”
With that, Hans van Pel, efficient to a fault, was gone. The full weight of ominous responsibility was upon Jan again, and he had no desire to discuss more details unless absolutely necessary. Baas, the head of security now that Herman and Ton were dead, would see to Jan’s privacy. The replacement entourage had been in place for over a week. In addition to van Pel, there were four clerks; all five satisfied Jan’s dietary needs. And, of course, there was Anton Baas and the fifteen members of his security team. Prince Garlotte had not gone so far as to say anything about the additional armed presence. How could he, after Jan briefed him in detail regarding the assassination attempt? But the number of the prince’s guards on the premises of the inn had conspicuously increased as well—response to the attack on Jan, or to Jan’s additional personnel?
Surely Garlotte can’t believe that I present a threat to him, or that I want to take his city, Jan thought. Although, the more he thought about it, the more wistful he grew. The trials of a prince, of ruling over a single city, would be child’s play compared to the burden Hardestadt had laid on Jan’s shoulders: dealing with various princes, each habitually consumed by his own needs and desires; trying to keep abreast of the secretive activities of Clan Tremere, which had seemed strangely passive through the crisis thus far; puzzling out the motives driving certain loose cannons, like Theo Bell and Victoria.
The mere thought of Victoria made Jan’s chest involuntarily constrict. He couldn’t help but picture his hands on her slim waist. He saw the pain and fear in her eyes when he’d noticed the mark on her jaw.
She is marked by the Tzimisce, he thought. Is she their pawn? He couldn’t be sure—Colchester had watched her for a few nights, but there was too much to be done elsewhere—but the mere suspicion was excuse enough for him to stay away from her, to keep sufficient distance between them so that he didn’t have to contend with urges he hadn’t felt since…since many years ago and his turbulent relationship with Lucita.
Lucita. There was a name Jan had long since hardened his heart against. Victoria was infinitely more vulnerable than Lucita. Besides wanting Victoria, he wanted to protect her, to watch over her. These emotions that Victoria evoked were different from what he’d felt for Lucita, but similar in that Jan didn’t want to feel any of them. Eternal existence was fraught with enough pain and disappointment without the additional inconvenience of such sentimental weaknesses, which were more the hallmark of mortals.
Jan’s suspicion of Victoria, the fact that she might somehow, with or without her knowledge, be under the sway of the Sabbat, was justification for avoiding her altogether. Victoria’s having moved out of the inn a week and a half ago made the task of avoiding her that much easier. Since the attack, Jan had kept to the inn and under the close eye of Baas and his security brigade. Jan hated to think how difficult that confinement could have been, how disconcerting to have known that Victoria was just at the other end of a long corridor. But, thankfully, she had left. She and Gariotte had argued about something, and she had stormed out to set up house with Robert Gainesmil. Jan wasn’t sure whether to be grateful to or envious of the Toreador architect who had inherited Victoria’s proximity.
More consequential, however, were the implications of her departure’s timing. She had left the night after the assassination attempt on Jan. Is there a connection? he wondered. His suspicions rose to fill every crevice of doubt, but was this justified, or merely his own attempt to crowd out any other feelings he harbored for Victoria? He couldn’t be sure. He seemed incapable of purely rational thought where this woman was concerned.
Better not to think of her at all.
Jan rose to his feet and was relieved in a way when the stiffness and ragged pain of his ankle suddenly consumed his thoughts. He’d fed repeatedly since his new entourage had arrived from Amsterdam, but it was simply not feasible for him to consume the amount of blood required to make him whole. Besides, there was no time for the surgery required—that would still be required at some point—to align properly his broken bones. So for now, he hobbled. The first few steps were always the worst, or if he remained on his feet for very long at a stretch the pain became disagreeable. At times like this, however, when certain thoughts dogged him, thoughts he didn’t want to face, Jan found the distraction useful.
He hobbled to the door of the smallest of the bedrooms attached to the suite. “Estelle,” he said quietly as he entered.
She didn’t lift her head, but he knew that she heard him. Her dark, shoulder-length hair was lustrous in the sparse light. Jan had washed her hair, had washed her, with warm soapy water and a soft washcloth, just last night. He had caressed her body with expensive lotions. Their subtle fragrances still lingered in the room. And though his attentions had soothed her, Hans reported that she’d done no more than lie on the bed and sob throughout the day. Again.
“My Estelle,” said Jan. He brushed the hair from before her face, gently removing the strands that stuck to the tracks of her tears. This was an intimacy he’d never allowed himself with Marja. “I will protect you,” he whispered to her. His lips were mere inches above her ear, above her delicate neck, her increasingly pale skin.
Why do I do this? he asked himself. Hans and the others were more than sufficient to feed upon, yet Jan came back to this poor, frightened girl time and again. Prince Garlotte had been less than pleased; an elaborate story of a prize vacation, an in-house lottery, had been devised for her family. But the prince had humored Jan. It’s a small thing, Jan knew, but one that Garlotte can hold over me.
Why do I do this?
Instead of answering the question, Jan buried his face in her silky hair. He could smell the salt of her tears and hear, louder than thunder, the beating of her heart.
Sunday, 1 August 1999, 1:21 AM
Pendulum Avenue
Baltimore, Maryland
Gainesmil had mentioned it so casually: “My houseguest, Ms. Ash, asked me to invite you over. She hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting you.”
“Victoria Ash wants to meet me?” Fin had asked.
Gainesmil had assured him that it was true, and so here Fin was at the mansion. No Kindred in the city other than Gainesmil or Prince Garlotte, Fin’s sire, would dare be so ostentatious, but the architect’s loyalty to the prince over the years wasn’t without its perks. For once, Fin felt scruffy in his shiny leather jacket and black boots. He followed a formally attired servant into the atrium as the valet pulled away in Fin’s Camaro.
“Right this way, sir.” The butler or manservant or whatever the hell he was led Fin up a massive, curving staircase and along a spacious hall adorned with portraits and wall-sized mirrors. A few brass fixtures provided plenty of illumination, reflecting in the infinite regression of the mirrors. Fin was uncomfortably aware of his boots squeaking with each step along the highly polished tile floor.
Finally the man opened a door into a relatively small, intimate parlor, and there sat Victoria Ash. As the servant let himself out, she rose to greet Fin and took him by the hands. “Come. Sit with me.” She led him across the room to a comfortable pair of chairs. “It’s so good of you to come visit me,” she said, as she settled back into her seat.
“I guess you’ve been pretty busy since you got into town,” Fin offered. He wasn’t sure exactly what to say. After all, she was the one who’d asked him to stop by. Victoria’s relaxed manner was disarming, yet there was something Fin couldn’t quite put his finger on, a certain tension, just from sitting this close to her. She wore a loose-fitting satin blouse, and a long skirt that lay draped along her legs down to her ankles. Her lips, Fin couldn’t help notice, were full and red, the envy of any model. They reminded him a bit of Morena, but he found himself unable to bring the image of his love to mind.
“Alexander speaks fondly of you,” Victori
a said. It took a moment to sink in. Alexander. Prince Garlotte. His sire. “He did? Of me?” Fin found that hard to believe, and he’d never heard anyone refer to the prince as Alexander.
“He most certainly does,” said Victoria, and the reassuring sincerity of her words was undeniable. “As for my being busy,” she continued, “there’s actually very little for me to do here. You know how men are—all wanting to protect me from the grueling and dangerous work of defending a city.”
“Well, the Sabbat’s nothing to mess around with,” Fin said. “Have you ever—”
“So it was very thoughtful of you to come see me,” Victoria cut him off and nudged the conversation in a different direction. “You know,” she said, placing a finger to her inviting lips, “Alexander hasn’t said as much, but I do believe that you are the one he’s grooming to succeed him as prince some night.”
Fin couldn’t help but laugh at that. “You must have me mixed up with Isaac.”
Victoria patted his knee to forestall his protest.
“No. Isaac is an able sheriff, but I think Alexander has grander designs for you.”
Her words, so absurd just a moment ago, seemed to gather merit upon reflection. Fin compared Victoria’s impression with his own recent determination to take a more active role in the affairs of Baltimore’s Kindred population.
“I mean no slight to your blood kin,” said Victoria. She reached over and brushed back a lock of Fin’s hair. “But there are depths to you that I don’t see in Isaac.”
Fin faltered momentarily. It wasn’t that he disagreed with Victoria. Quite the contrary. He just had never before heard anyone else articulate thoughts so similar to his own. “I…I’ve been meaning…for a while now, to take a more…to be more assertive. I’ve…I’ve tried to talk to Katrina about it…”
“Katrina. Hmph.” A frown darkened Victoria’s countenance. Fin suddenly wanted to massage the furrow from her brow.
“You’ve met Katrina.”
Victoria’s scowl deepened. “I have. We spoke, but the conversation was…brief. And not particularly rewarding.”
“She can be like that.”
“I suspect she’s too absorbed with her childer.” Again Fin missed a beat, then he realized what Victoria must have meant. “She stays with Jazz and Tarika, but they’re not…” he shook his head, “Prince Garlotte never gave us permission to Embrace anyone.”
“Oh, of course they’re her childer,” Victoria explained patiently. She was smiling sweetly again, and that made Fin feel better. “Alexander may not have given you permission publicly. You know—favoritism and all that.”-
Slowly it dawned on Fin that Victoria could be right. He’d kind of wondered in the past, but he’d never gone so far as to ask anyone. He’d just assumed that Katrina’s companions were…well, just that—companions, not childer. Fin thought of Morena, of how his heart ached for her to join him throughout eternity, but still he couldn’t manage to picture her face. There was only Victoria, sitting so near, leaning close and so concerned for him.
“Katrina,” Fin said with crumbling disbelief. “She Embraced them. You really think so?”
“I do. I think that stubborn streak is what endears her to Alexander. He prefers assertive childer.” Victoria’s words flowed like honey. They lifted Fin up and helped him see the heights he could hope to achieve. “And let me tell you what else I think….”
Sunday, 1 August 1999, 10:15 PM
Hemperhill Road
Baltimore, Maryland
Jan sat patiently. There was little else he could do. He couldn’t force Prince Vitel to speak. Many minutes had passed since Jan had asked his question, but still Vitel pondered. Still he did not answer.
A huge gold-framed mirror dominated the study. The piece covered most of an entire wall, from chair rail to ceiling, and reflected the two Kindred who sat before it. Both were attired in modem business suits—Jan’s cut to the latest European fashion, befitting his more frequent contact with the mortal world; Vitel’s reflecting more classic lines, timeless in style and craftsmanship.
Jan had spoken with Marcus Vitel numerous times over the past two weeks, but this was Jan’s first visit to the deposed prince’s “home away from home,” his sanctuary in a strange city.
One sanctuary of many, I suspect, Jan thought, despite the fact that his assistants had been unable to link any property deeds to Vitel, including that of this townhouse. Kindred of Vitel’s standing—he was certainly one of the most influential Ventrue on the continent, though he had seldom involved himself in matters beyond his own city—generally maintained multiple havens spread throughout a handful of cities. Baltimore being so close to Washington, Jan imagined that Vitel kept several places of refuge at the ready.
A prince faced many challenges: unruly Anarchs, vindictive childer, ambitious primogen, roving packs of Sabbat, to name a few. The wise prince was not above resorting to forced exile when circumstances dictated. For an exiled prince, there was always the chance, no matter the passing of countless years, that he would return and reclaim his city.
Such was the declared intent of Marcus Vitel.
It was a goal toward which Jan wished Vitel luck but could offer little aid or hope. The Camarilla would be lucky to hold on to Baltimore, lucky not to be muscled off the entire East Coast—much less take back Washington. But the more successful Jan was in pursuing his goals, the more likely that Vitel might some night achieve his own. The prince in exile had proven relatively helpful in the Camarilla’s desperate quest to stymie the Sabbat. Vitel had not, like a certain Toreador, attempted to co-opt the defense of Baltimore as a vehicle for personal aggrandizement. He’d set in motion the wheels that had led to the curfew in Washington, and then faded into the background. As is appropriate for a deposed prince, Jan thought. It was the matter of the curfew specifically that brought Jan here tonight.
“There is no way,” Vitel said.
The sound of the prince’s voice very nearly startled Jan, so accustomed to the silence had he become. The answer was not the one Jan had been waiting for.
“There must be a way that the curfew can be extended beyond thirty days?” Jan prodded.
Again, Vitel did not respond at once. He was not the type to banter about ideas, to work out details by thinking aloud or in conjunction with others. He considered. He pondered. He weighed options. And when he was ready, he would speak.
His thin angular face, haggard but frozen in time before it could be aged by many wrinkles, was difficult to read. The prince’s eyes, however, revealed the soul of a defeated man. Over the past weeks, Jan had observed as Vitel had withdrawn further and further from interaction with anyone. Perhaps the prince had grown increasingly aware of the stark odds against the Camarilla, against his ever returning to his city, except perhaps as a prisoner of war to be tortured by the Tzimisce fiends and then disposed of in some unthinkable way.
It was the eyes, Jan decided—the eyes along with the wisps of gray streaking Vitel’s hair—that made him seem old and tired.
“There is no way,” Vitel again said at last.
“The governor of Maryland is willing to keep the National Guard in the city—if the Congressional oversight committee asks.” Jan passed on that news from Garlotte. “I know the troops don’t do our work for us; they don’t fight or hunt the Sabbat. But they do make it more difficult for the Sabbat to carry out its plans.”
Vitel nodded his agreement, but not enthusiastically. “Yes. The troops and the curfew are extra obstacles for them—How can vampires get anything done when no one is supposed to be on the streets after dark?—but for the most part, order has been restored to Washington. The oversight committee will return authority to the mayor and the city council. There’d be too much public backlash otherwise. The crisis has passed. The troops will go home.
The crisis as they see it has passed,” said Jan. “Our crisis is just beginning.”
Vitel did not argue the point, and Jan knew enough to bow to the pri
nce’s superior knowledge of the inner workings of the American capital.
The two sat in silence for several minutes. Jan removed his glasses and slid them into his breast pocket. He vaguely wondered if Vitel might have any whiskey on the premises, but would have felt too foolish to ask.
Instead, Jan stared at the tiny pin that glimmered from the prince’s lapel. A golden eagle. Less-informed Kindred might assume the symbol to be that of the American people, but Jan knew that Vitel’s roots lay among the rubble of the Roman Empire, and that there was more conquering legionnaire than New World democrat in the prince.
Jan started to ask again, to press the point: Are you completely sure? Don’t give up on me just because you’ve lost your damned city. There’s more at stake here! But he knew better. Because of who his sire was, Jan was given great latitude among Kindred of the Camarilla, but he could overstep those bounds. To do so would only harm his cause. And the cause was everything. The mission assigned him by Hardestadt must come before all.
“Once martial law is no longer in effect in Washington,” Jan said, falling victim to the solemnity of his host, “the Sabbat will have that much more free a hand.”
Vitel nodded silently.
There will be nothing to stop them, Jan continued in his mind. They’ve had time to regroup after their victories. They’ll be able to bring their full strength to bear.
Jan stood. He gazed at the prince and himself in the huge mirror. At least we’ve had time to prepare as well, he thought, but he was not much comforted.
Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 5 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 15