Vitel seemed lost in his own thoughts. Jan did not disturb him, but slipped from the study and showed himself out.
Monday, 2 August 1999, 10:47 PM
Spring Street
Laurel, Maryland
Morena caught sight of something in her peripheral vision, but she still wasn’t expecting a person to be there when she turned toward the window.
“Ah!”
Her scream cut the night like a gunshot. She started so severely that she almost stumbled over a chair.
“Fin! You stupid jerk! Why do you always have to do that?”
“I don’t always.”
“Almost always. Close enough…” Morena struggled for an adequate expression of her displeasure, “damn it. And stop that! Don’t you dare laugh at me.”
Fin gave her that innocent look that he was so good at, the one that was supposed to say either I’m not laughing, or I can’t help it. Two sides of the same lie. He was still crouching in the window sill like some big, sneaky, blood-sucking monkey.
“You know what I think?” she said at last. “I think you’re just too impressed with yourself. Sure you can climb up the garage, and you can move around without normal people hearing you, so you sneak up on them. Because you can. It’s a power thing.”
Fin’s expression grew mockingly serious. “Does it have anything to do with the patriarchic hegemony?”
“That too. And don’t think I don’t know you’re making fun of me.”
“I think you read too much.”
Morena crossed her arms, then walked over to him at the window. “You told me that somebody could shoot you and it wouldn’t really hurt you, that you’re practically indestructible. Was that the truth?”
“Yes.” Fin cocked his head and looked at her funny.
“Good.” Morena gave him a quick shove, and suddenly the window was empty. She walked back to the table and sat with a sigh.
After just a minute, Fin was in the window again. This time, he didn’t try to hide his grin. “That was pretty good.”
“You knew I was going to do that. Didn’t you?” she almost accused him. Despite her little show of defiance, she was feeling defeated. She strongly suspected that whatever paltry amount of control she exercised in this relationship, it was only because Fin let her. Fin humored her.
“No. I didn’t, actually.” He climbed into her tiny garage apartment, took the other chair, and sat across the table from her.
“But even if I surprised you, you could have caught yourself, or grabbed my hands before I was able to push you. Right?”
He seemed sobered by the seriousness of her tone. “Yes,” he said. “I could’ve done either of those, or moved out of the way before you touched me.”
Morena nodded but said nothing for a long while. She felt like she was on the cusp of some new understanding. Many of the vague feelings and incompletely formed thoughts that assailed her whenever Fin was around, whenever she wondered about him and his existence, were beginning to come together in some sort of form. Like Fin crouched in her window, she was between two worlds: one brightly illuminated and familiar; the other dark and dangerous, a step into oblivion.
Fin wanted her to take that step, to leave the bright, familiar world behind and follow him to the place where he knew all, and she nothing. Where he’d have complete control, Morena thought.
“You need to come with me,” he said.
Morena looked at him quizzically. Can you read my thoughts too? she wondered, but his expression was not so knowing. His words mimicked her thoughts, but he was talking about something else.
“Not…for good,” he explained. “This place isn’t safe. This whole area between Washington and Baltimore. I’ve told you about some of the others…like me.”
Morena nodded. He’d mentioned that there were others, but that’s all he’d ever said.
Fin seemed uncomfortable talking about…whatever he was talking about. He pressed his palms flat on the table, fidgeted in his chair, ran his fingers through his dark hair, put his hands on the table again. “There’s a war among my kind. It might come through here. Probably will come right through here.”
“And I need to go with you,” Morena said. “What about my parents?”
“I can try to work out a place for them too. It doesn’t have to be for good, or that far away. Although a vacation might be a good idea. Where have you and your parents always wanted to go? I can get the money.” He paused, then managed a nervous smile. “I’ll even take care of your gerbils.”
For a moment, Morena was ready to agree. He seemed different tonight. She wasn’t sure exactly how. She felt that maybe this time he was sincere about what he thought was best for her, not necessarily just what he wanted. But she couldn’t trust her feelings. Was what she felt for him real, or was it part of some hold he had over her? She could never be sure.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Her words sparked hours of debate, argument, tears and accusations. But Morena was decided.
Saturday, 7 August 1999, 12:25 AM
McHenry Auditorium, Lord Baltimore Inn
Baltimore, Maryland
“And yes, Prince Vitel, the attacks along the Fort Meade line—they don’t really rise to the level of attacks—those raids have been the only direct challenge to our defenses. But of course, the state of emergency in Washington—the curfew, the National Guard troops—that’s over now.” Isaac’s briefing of the assembled Kindred was concise and informative. He showed no signs of being intimidated by speaking before two princes and an equal number of Camarilla officials, if Jan was considered such. His role was considerably less formal than that of Archon Theo Bell.
Isaac had shown some skill for organization, as had Robert Gainesmil, and the two were intimately familiar with Baltimore and the surrounding areas, but it was Jan’s hand that had guided the defensive strategy. He had subtly led the sheriff and the Toreador where he wanted them to go, and they had responded ably.
Since none of the information Isaac conveyed was new to Jan, the Dutchman withdrew somewhat from the discussion. He listened less to the actual words of the twelve Kindred present, and more to the tenor in which they were spoken. Like a lens changing focus from the detailed foreground to the broader landscape, Jan opened himself to broad impressions, most notable of which was the cathedral-like imbalance between the surrounding space of the auditorium and the number of persons in it. Instead of the riotous mob from the earlier conferences, there were only a dozen individuals present. They sat in office chairs around a stolid, square table, its corners themselves squared so that four equidistant places of honor existed. The five rows of amphitheater seats were empty. The sight of the vacant chairs prompted Jan to glance toward Victoria who, as if on cue, broke in on Isaac’s current explanation of force deployments.
“First of all,” she said, “I must take exception to the term refugee. It suggests unwashed Africans or Kosovars and simply is not acceptable. Now, you said that the majority of the displaced Kindred, among whom I count myself, thank you, have been placed along the third and fourth perimeters, those closest to the edge of the city itself.”
“That’s correct.” Isaac was prepared to clarify any detail for her. “Many of the…uh…guests to our city are not necessarily militarily inclined, so we’ve stationed them on the final lines of defenses. By the time it would be necessary for them to face Sabbat attackers, it would mean that the forces from the first two lines—the Brujah, along with the prince’s…Prince Garlotte’s, that is, security force, and the elements from Chicago—would have fallen back, so the line would be strong enough—”
“That’s very nice,” Victoria interrupted him. “Is it safe to say, then, that if these guests, as you put it, were needed, there would be some notice?”
Isaac didn’t answer right away.
“We would have warning?” she prompted him. “There would be a major attack. They would likely have several hours to take up their positions.”
&nb
sp; Isaac nodded slowly. “That seems likely. Yes.”
“Then why is it necessary for them to be in position tonight?”
Again, Isaac paused. Jan could see that the sheriff didn’t realize where Victoria was going with her question, though it should have been painfully obvious.
“Why,” Victoria pressed, “are they being denied the chance to have a voice in their own destiny?”
“An attack could come at any time,” Isaac tried to explain. “The Sabbat forces—”
“But you yourself just said that there would be several hours to prepare before any attack could reach the inner lines.”
“It would be possible to take up the defensive positions on short notice,” Isaac conceded, “but that doesn’t mean we want—”
Victoria slammed her fist on the table. “This is a deliberate attempt to manipulate these Kindred. There is no sound military reason—”
“Ms. Ash.” Jan had been about to come to young Isaac’s aid but, from the first of the four seats of honor, the sheriff’s sire spoke a moment sooner. Without raising his voice, his words abbreviated Victoria’s gathering rant. The auditorium suddenly seemed immensely large and silent.
Prince Garlotte spoke calm, joyless words. “My military planners,” he gestured to the individuals around the table, “the sheriff, Mr. Gainesmil, Mr. Bell, Mr. Pieterzoon—have made what arrangements they deemed necessary.”
Gainesmil, at Garlotte’s left hand, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Jan suspected that the architect was having second thoughts about information he’d passed along to his Toreador houseguest, information that might now cause a public confrontation with his prince.
“No guest in my city,” said Garlotte, “is compelled to stay.”
Victoria stiffened slightly. Though the prince spoke to the emptiness of the auditorium and, ostensibly, regarding the refugees manning the defenses, the implication of his statement for her was clear.
“As for the matter of various Kindred determining their own destiny,” continued the prince, “customs may have differed with Prince Benison in Atlanta before the attack, but in Baltimore, the prince consults with his council of primogen as he sees appropriate. Considering the unusual circumstances at present, this body,” he opened his hands to indicate all those around the table, “is serving in an advisory capacity as an ad hoc council of primogen. Should we choose to function by plebiscite, we become no better than the Sabbat, our enemies, who follow the loudest voice and the sharpest sword.” Garlotte, elbows on the table before him, clasped his hands together and then rested his lips upon his knuckles. “Would you not agree, Mr. Gainesmil?” The prince’s words, though his mouth was obstructed, seemed to echo throughout the chamber. He did not turn to face his lieutenant. There was no need.
Gainesmil’s face, already pale, blanched. “Certainly, my prince.”
Jan repressed a smile. Gainesmil might play games with his loyalty, but should he stray too far, he’d be called to task. Jan waited for Victoria’s response. The prince had scored rhetorical points, but she would still argue the specifics of the situation at hand. Or so Jan expected. Instead, Victoria remained silent. The prince was not so friendly toward her as he’d been. Her play for populist leadership was dashed, and her primary confederate was publicly cowed. Was all this enough to dissuade her from seeking further undue influence?
Doubtful, thought Jan.
Since arriving in Baltimore, he’d found her willing to play the weak gambit (and fail) rather than bide her time. There was a certain desperation about her actions—or perhaps it was merely the Toreador penchant for shortsightedness and instant gratification. The clan lacked patience. They were predisposed toward rashness, unlike the Ventrue, who thrived with methodical and measured plans.
Victoria did not remain silent—that would have been too much to hope for—but much to Jan’s surprise, she struck more of a conciliatory pose:
“I concede, of course, to your wishes, Prince Garlotte. Though I might suggest that the extraordinary circumstances call more for a conclave than a council of primogen, you have decided otherwise.” She bowed her head respectfully.
“Well then,” said Jan, hoping to move the discussion along. He was seated directly across from Prince Garlotte, in another of the four places of honor. Prince Vitel of Washington and Theo Bell occupied the other two “corner” seats, figuratively above Jan but beneath Garlotte. “Theo, your raids, have continued to—”
“Before we hear from the esteemed archon,” said Garlotte, unexpectedly interrupting Jan, “I must make one comment. Mr. Pieterzoon, make no mistake of my appreciation of the gentlemen from Chicago who are contributing to the defense of this city. My undying gratitude goes out to the several clans represented among them. However,” the prince, until now still staring into the emptiness of the auditorium, fixed his gaze upon Jan, “it has come to my attention that some of them are not limiting themselves to the hunting grounds I have set aside for them.”
Jan, caught off guard by this rebuke, began to respond, but even his most deferential assurances were preempted by the steel glare of the prince.
“If we hold off the enemy hordes,” said Garlotte, “only to succumb to internal chaos, then the Sabbat will have triumphed.”
Jan respectfully waited several moments until there was no doubt that Prince Garlotte had had his say. “I will see to it, my prince.”
Behind the mollifying words, Jan’s mind was racing. He had arranged the presence of the defenders from Chicago, nearly fifty of them, but he didn’t command them, per se. Garlotte, however, had seen fit to chastise Jan—publicly, no less. The expression of displeasure was more significant than the specific nature of the rebuke: It was a sign to all present that this Ventrue from Europe did not run the city, had not received carte blanche from the prince.
Another aspect of Garlotte’s words disturbed Jan. The prince complained of the Chicagoans ignoring hunting restrictions. Surely he knew of Jan’s transgression as well. Estelle. The initial feeding had qualified as an emergency, but in keeping the girl after the crisis had passed, instead of clouding her memory and releasing her, Jan had blatantly ignored Garlotte’s proscription. Did the prince’s rebuke contain a private as well as public warning?
Jan ticked off the score in his mind: Victoria, Gainesmil, me. With just a few sentences, Prince Garlotte had put each in his or her place. Though Jan was not above a bit of public humility, if it made the prince feel better, the implication that Garlotte, on some level, equated Jan with the two Toreador, that the prince considered Jan a threat, was a danger sign. Does he think I want his blasted city? Jan wondered. Perhaps the added security was a mistake. He could believe that I staged the assassination attempt as an excuse to strengthen my own hand.
Jan mulled over the seemingly unending string of possibilities as Theo described in sparse detail his latest raids around Washington. He was no longer probing far into the city; the Sabbat had grown too numerous and better organized. Jan thought at first that the Brujah seemed more relaxed than usual as he spoke, but then the chastened Ventrue corrected himself. Bell seemed exactly as he always seemed—grim, inscrutable—but he’d removed his cap and sunglasses. Probably that was as close to affable as he ever came. Bell’s companion Lydia, whom he sometimes left in charge when he was away from the city, was surprisingly attentive and well-behaved for a Brujah.
Again, Jan let himself grow slightly detached from the discussion at hand. He concentrated instead on what could be gleaned from the questions asked from different quarters. Marcus Vitel continued to ask insightful questions of Bell and Isaac regarding Baltimore’s defenses and Sabbat tactics. The Washington prince along with Victoria, who still questioned the others freely, were obviously the hawks among the crowd. Vitel ventured as far as to ask about a potential timetable for retaking Washington, and when assured that such a venture was patently impracticable, he grew sullen and silent.
The victims are always the most anxious to strike back, Jan thought. Vit
el had lost his city. Victoria had suffered—exactly how, Jan wasn’t sure—at the hands of the Sabbat. Then Jan’s thoughts shifted suddenly to other victims. Would Marja and Roel have struck back? Would Estelle, cowering upstairs even as he met with his fellow undead, strike back if she could? Or do I so completely destroy their will that they cannot?
Jan squeezed his eyes shut until he had pushed those thoughts far back in his mind. This was not the time—if there ever were a time. The discussion continued around him. When he opened his eyes, no one seemed to have noticed his lapse, except perhaps Roughneck who was staring at him. But the Malkavian, as was his friend the Quaker, was prone to fits of staring for no reason. Jan also thought, for a moment, that Colchester was watching him, but whenever Jan glanced his way, the Nosferatu seemed intent on what Bell or Isaac or Vitel was saying.
If that really is Colchester, Jan thought. The Nosferatu wore an image that was disturbingly …normal. It was not impossible—in fact, it was common—for a Nosferatu to be seen as other than he truly was. But this mild-mannered, well-kempt black man in a business suit was nothing like the obscene, shaggy monstrosity with whom Jan had dealings. At the outset of the meeting, Colchester had apologized for his absence from the earlier conferences—he disliked crowds, he’d said—though Jan knew the Nosferatu had been present.
The business of the council meeting—the term conference was no longer in vogue, now that the masses were, thankfully, excluded—was continuing when the double doors at the rear of the auditorium slammed open. Malachi, the Gangrel scourge and also the only one of the twelve Kindred present who was not seated at the table, was alert at his position guarding the door. His every muscle tensed, as if he were coiled to spring, but then a shock of recognition swept over his face. Suddenly Malachi dropped to one knee and lowered his head.
Into the room, past the kneeling sentry, strode an imposing figure—taller than any in the room save possibly Bell, red hair receded but hanging far down his back, muscled legs in black leather extending from a gray cloak held together at the chest by long, distinctly claw-like fingers. Most striking was the scowl of barely restrained fury that twisted the newcomer’s face. Jan had met Xaviar just three weeks ago, when the Gangrel justicar had agreed to gather a small army of his clansmen and guard Buffalo and upstate New York from Sabbat depredations.
Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 5 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 16