Clan Novel Toreador: Book 1 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Stewart Wieck

  The ghoul was engaged in some secretive mission there for the family that Benito did not grasp—nor did he wish to if the family deemed he was not one who needed to know—but as one of the few permanent Giovanni in that sole bastion of civilization in the South, the ghoul still had time to fulfill the special requests of other family members. He was only a ghoul, but he was a formidable one, so Benito felt no qualms about sending him to spy on the festivities at the High Museum.

  Spying was necessary, as there was no way Lorenzo might be invited, or even accept Benito’s invitation in his place. The affair was for Kindred only, and while Benito could have made a stink if the Toreador bitch in charge, Victoria Ash, denied permission to Lorenzo, Benito also realized this would bring disfavor upon his family by his having pressed the matter at all.

  And now Lorenzo was late—very late—reporting back to Benito. He wanted fresh information, not something as stale as the night after, for that might be too late to take actions if the damned neonate who held Benito’s life in his hands was in fact spotted at the scene.

  He tapped his finger impatiently on the phone that had rung so often two nights before. Still nothing. Benito clenched his fingers and smashed his fist onto the desk. He almost cried out in rage as well, but he reined in his emotions. He was under tremendous stress, and this was not a time to give the Beast an opening.

  He slowly returned his attention to the financial documents on his desk. At first, the numbers swirled and didn’t make any logical sense, but with concentration, Benito devoured the information they held.

  He quickly lifted his head and looked to the right, toward the door to his office. Something, just a flash of shadow perhaps, had passed. Without hesitation, Benito hovered his finger a millimeter above an alarm button under his desk. Meanwhile, he watched carefully for any other sign of movement.

  Even though there was none, he remained poised.

  Benito spoke toward the empty spaces of the room. “Randall?”

  And again, “Randall?”

  The inhuman whisper that replied was barely audible, but a fractured, almost demonic echo, repeated the word. “Yes,” came the secondary voice.

  Benito demanded, “Was that you moving just now?”

  The same dark echo replied, “Yes.”

  “For what purpose? I am not in a state to tolerate such activity.”

  “The shadows were speaking to me. So I conversed.”

  Benito remained irritated, but the wraith was bound here to provide protection, so it was best to heed it in times like this.

  Benito said, not without a hint of sarcasm however, “And what do the shadows tell you?”

  “Not much,” the formless wraith said. Then added, “Yet.”

  Benito sighed, then said, “Well, heed whatever signs you must, but do so without disturbing me. I am wary, but I still have work to complete.”

  There was no reply, and Benito expected none. He resumed his work immediately upon completing his command.

  More time passed, and Benito suddenly interrupted his work to knock the central cellular phone, the one connected to the Giovanni network, onto the floor. “Call, dammit!” he shouted at the facedown phone where it had landed on the plush rug covering a portion of the hardwood floor.

  Benito stared at the phone for a moment, and then stood to retrieve it. He reached it in two strides, and as he bent to grasp it, Randall’s inaudible whisper precursed a deep amplification sounding a warning. “The shadows are speaking!”

  Startled as much by Randall’s voice as the note of alarm it sounded, Benito squatted on the floor, balancing and preparing himself for whatever might come next.

  “What does the shadow say?” he demanded. Randall said, “It says it is too late. They are here.” Benito’s eyes flared in fright, but he quickly gauged the distance to both the desk with the alarm button and to the nearest stand of samurai swords. The nearest stand held the blades supposedly wielded by the so-called Tiger Warrior, a samurai who had hunted and exterminated ninja more than a half century in the past. How appropriate, he thought to himself, as he saw ninja-like figures, four of them, step from the shadows of the room.

  The nearest seemed to peel off the wall behind Benito’s desk and stood crouched between the Giovanni and the alarm button. Two others welled up like black blood oozing from weeping welts. One was by the couch, and the other by the door out of the office. The last one seemed to sprout from a rug near the center of the office like a vine viewed through time-lapse photography.

  “Unbelievable,” was all Benito could manage in the first instant. Then, he took the offensive, for these might indeed be mortal assassins, and if so, then his lack of response would be the only way they could defeat him.

  “Randall!” he shouted. “Duel!”

  Benito saw the figure near the door, the one with the best vantage, look quickly about the room. When the Tiger Warrior’s katana leapt from the stand at the near edge of the couch, the figure at the door shouted a warning to his comrades, or at least that’s what Benito imagined he did. No actual words could be heard; instead, darkness issued from the figure’s mouth and formed a sinister mockery of a comic book’s dialogue balloon, though one filled with the almost invisible pulsing of darkness.

  That darkness disseminated information, it was not in time. Appearing to float in mid-air, but actually brandished by an invisible spirit of the dead brought back to Earth by Benito from a hellish existence, the Tiger Warrior’s katana whistled through the air. The weapon’s blade was honed to a perfect edge, and the scores of folds of its metal executed by its creator made it strong. Strong and sharp enough at least to divide an assassin’s arm from his torso even though the wraith called Randall could barely summon enough strength to manipulate the blade, let alone drive it through a foe.

  The target of the attack was the assassin at the near edge of the leather couch. However, the assassins were evidently well-trained, for the apparent leader at the door was the only one to react to the attack. He reached into the tangle of darkness that stretched like old spider webs from the shadows around the door to wrap and obscure much of his body. Benito’s glance lingered long enough to glimpse a long-nailed hand as it emerged and flipped deftly in the direction of the Tiger Warrior’s katana. A flash of metal sped in that direction—presumably a knife or shuriken—as the commander must imagine an invisible yet nonetheless corporeal opponent wielding the blade.

  That split-second was all Benito could afford, though, because the other two assassins ignored their comrade’s plight and pressed the attack directly at Benito. This meant it might well be a suicide mission, or else the foe in the center of the room would have turned to assist his nearer and now one-armed ally.

  The Giovanni focused his attention on the assassin nearest him, the one behind the desk who posed a more immediate threat and who also blocked the route to the alarm. Michael and other members of the security force might well be dead and destroyed already, but no alarm was ringing, so Benito imagined his best hope was to activate it now.

  When Benito turned, he locked gazes with his foe for the barest portion of a second. The assassin aborted his attack in order to turn his head and stave off the powerful mind-control Benito could exercise.

  “So, you know I’m Kindred,” Benito shouted angrily. Their knowledge didn’t matter. That millisecond their eyes had met was enough.

  Benito succinctly commanded, “Retreat!”

  The defensive posture of the assassin was abandoned as he somersaulted to a dead stop before rolling backward without a pause. He did hesitate a moment near Benito’s chair, but the assassin seemed unable to resist the Giovanni’s command, and his flight carried him past the alarm button, which Benito promptly scrambled to reach.

  Meanwhile, the assassin set upon by Randall was too slow reacting to the threat, as he too assumed that he merely faced an opponent he could not see, not one he was also unable to touch. With his remaining arm he threw punches to every side and height around the f
loating weapon, looking to land a blow against his assailant. The efforts, of course, proved fruitless, and the assassin’s astonishment left him open to another sweep of the hardened and honed blade. This time, the arc of the katana carried it through the neck of its victim. The ligament, muscle and bone there gave way with the same ease as had the victim’s arm.

  Benito caught sight of the bloodless decapitation as he hustled toward his desk. The lack of blood was bad news, for it meant the assassins were likely Kindred, and Benito was not old enough or powerful enough to handle four Kindred even with the assistance of an intangible ghost. Although, it was now two on two if the effectiveness of Benito’s order to “retreat” persisted.

  As if driving that point home, the other assassin who had targeted Benito grasped him from behind as the Giovanni scurried toward his desk. Instead of resisting, as Benito assumed his opponent expected, he quickly turned to his assailant. He whirled and dropped, hoping his quick move would allow him an opportunity to gaze into this one’s eyes as well.

  However, the maneuver was only marginally successful. The assassin reacted well, so he did not stumble over Benito’s prone body, but he did not avert his gaze in time, and Benito widened his own orbs as if that would make his hypnotic compulsion do its work even more easily.

  But Benito was disoriented as he stared into the face of his foe. There was nothing familiar to grasp, no normal landmark of facial contour to guide his reflexive attempt to lock eyes. The assassin’s face was shrouded in an unnatural darkness, and though he desperately tried to stare through this haze from a mere handful of feet away, Benito was unable to penetrate it. This bewilderment cost him as it had cost the assassin who counterattacked Randall—it opened the Giovanni to an attack he could not defend in time.

  The assassin’s clenched fist caught Benito on the very tip of his chin, and the Giovanni reeled backward so awkwardly that he could not even respond to break his fall. His large chair did that job for him, the thick arm of it savaging a bloody welt in Benito’s back. Benito then flopped facedown onto the floor, and just as he tried to roll to right himself, the great weight of the assassin dropped onto his back, pushing him back into the thick shag of the rug.

  The attacker then grabbed at Benito’s arms, trying to secure them by the wrist or forearm so they could be immobilized behind his back. The first was gained quickly, and Benito writhed like a snake to keep his right arm free.

  From his vantage of the floor, Benito saw the decapitated head of the other assassin lying in front of the desk. Then there was a flash of metal and the Tiger Warrior’s sword fell to the ground beside the head. Either Randall had abandoned the weapon, or it had been taken from him. Benito lifted his head to scream a new command to the wraith, but he was then clutched by the hair on the back of his head, and a strong arm jammed his face into the floor. The rug softened the blow somewhat, but since the assassin maintained the pressure, Benito was effectively blinded.

  Benito’s right arm was still free because its capture had been abandoned in favor of his head, so the Giovanni reached toward his desk, groping blindly in hopes of reaching the alarm. His first random flailing connected with the edge of the desk, and he immediately realized he was too far away to reach the button.

  His only hope was the strength of the blood he held within him. With the briefest concentration, Benito sparked the conversion of some of his blood stores into the capacity for tremendous physical strength. His vision clouded with red and he felt a tingling in all his extremities. Then Benito bucked like a wild stallion.

  Despite the commanding grip he’d held, the assassin was thrown like an incapable cowboy. Benito did not pause for even an instant to survey the wreckage of his office. Instead, he immediately pressed the silent alarm button. Only then, with his augmented strength still coursing through his body, did he examine the scene of the battle as he stepped backwards to put distance between himself and the assassin he’d flung off.

  The leader was no longer near the door. Instead, he stood in the center of the office, straddling the headless corpse. His hands were thick with blood because he was using his own obviously prodigious strength to bend the wakizashi that was the companion to the Tiger Warrior’s katana. Not with all the blood his body might hold could Benito generate the kind of strength required to bend so formidable an object—a sword crafted by a master metalsmith. Only the other wakizashi still rested in its display stand, which meant its katana companion was probably already warped beyond use. Nevertheless, that blade soon animated as Randall seized the sole remaining weapon.

  The Kindred Benito had commanded to flee was nowhere in sight. He must have been a weak-minded fool to be affected so thoroughly. Perhaps these assassins were physically powerful but vulnerable to mental attacks.

  The assassin Benito had escaped moments ago stood his ground, facing Benito from about fifteen feet away. The Giovanni realized he was simply waiting for his commander to dispense with the invisible threat before they both advanced to take him. But Benito hoped Randall could hold out until Michael Giovanni arrived.

  The wraith’s weapon arced toward the commander, who still seemed to literally drip with darkness as with a physical thing. Indeed, when he side-stepped to avoid the strike, the sword left the puddle of darkness trailing an inky track like an octopus might leave in its wake. And before weak-armed Randall could regroup for another strike, the commander pounced and clapped his hands on opposite sides of the flat of the blade. With a quick and powerful turn of his hips, the assassin wrenched the blade from its invisible wielder, promptly grasped each end, and bent it.

  Benito wryly reminded himself to display much lighter weapons in the future—perhaps epees—so Randall might press an attack more effectively.

  The commander surveyed the room briefly and then spoke in another puff of black. The second assassin nodded his head slightly while keeping an unflinching watch over Benito.

  Benito said, “What do you want? My death will only guarantee the endless baying of hounds at your heels. The Giovanni family will not idly set aside my death.”

  The Giovanni hoped to gain some time, but the effort was in vain. The two assassins, presumably Kindred assassins, advanced. Benito cursed. Where was Michael? And did this attack have anything to do with Lorenzo, or Atlanta, or Chicago? Had other assassins gotten to Lorenzo and killed him too?

  Then the commander cocked his ear toward the door, and Benito exhaled in relief. He imagined the assassin must hear assistance drawing near.

  When the door caved in from the impact of a thunderous kick, Benito reacted immediately. He thought to use the distraction to rush past the commander and gain the safety of Michael and guards. But it was he who was surprised, for though he reacted first and seemed to gain an advantage for it, in mid-flight he realized the commander had simply decided to pay no heed to the disintegrating door and legions of guards behind him. Instead, he slyly waited and pounced on Benito as the Giovanni attempted to pass.

  The assassin commander grabbed Benito around the waist and neck, and both holds quickly tightened so that the Giovanni worried he would be crushed to death before Michael might extricate him from this restraint. The grip grew no tighter, though, than what was required to choke off Benito’s windpipe and gain absolute purchase around his midriff. Considering the strength of the commander, there was no hope that Benito might slip away.

  The remaining masked assassin was suddenly at the side of his commander, and once they turned to face the figures issuing through the doorway into the office, they stood perfectly still. The security guards efficiently lined the back wall of the office and trained their weapons on every available inch of the area. In addition to the rifles and pistols they brandished, they were outfitted with bullet-proof vests, visored helmets, and gas masks. Benito knew another member of the security force waited in the hall, ready to lob in gas grenades if such was required.

  Benito could not imagine what the assassins planned. They were severely outnumbered and outgunned.
Even a Kindred as powerful as the one who held Benito could be felled by enough bullets. If not permanently, then for long enough for other means of permanent disposal to be arranged. Killing Benito now—which the Giovanni supposed his captor could do in an instant—would only make their death certain. So perhaps they would use him as a hostage.

  As Benito’s thoughts spun and spun, he realized that time was passing and nothing more was happening. No dialogue. No fighting. No recognition. In shocked disbelief, Benito regarded the line of security officers that stood with weapons.

  They looked in every direction throughout the office. Some of them even seemed to make eye contact with Benito, but they looked right through him. With growing apprehension and then terror, Benito realized that none of the guards saw any of the three figures before them. Somehow, the assassins must have hidden themselves, and that was powerful magic indeed. It must have been by this same means that they circumvented the security measures in the first place.

  Benito kicked his legs and batted his arms and tried to scream despite the cinch on his throat. He managed only a sputtering whisper, and neither that nor his wild gyrations drew a single glance.

  Benito watched as the guards suddenly eyed the desk and trained their weapons upon it.

  “Mr. Giovanni?” one of them asked.

  The Giovanni ceased his struggling then, for he knew it was in vain. Through some means unknown to him, the assassins were cloaking themselves and him. But surely the security guards could see that the place was a wreck. That a struggle must have taken place. But if so, why did they delay to alert others?

  It was then that Michael stepped into the office. Benito’s cousin was a bit less distinctively Giovanni than himself, but the resemblance was undeniable. Michael was a bit too broad-shouldered, too rugged, too muscular. In short, he was a bit too quintessentially American, and that was because Michael’s grandmother had married outside the family, a mistake for which Michael’s father had spent his lifetime atoning so that his son might be welcomed back into the family and granted the greatest gifts the family could bestow. Michael’s father was punished by knowing what it was he could never attain, but he’d been a strong-willed man—more Giovanni than his treacherous mother—and he used that knowledge not to rail at his own misfortune but to goad himself toward redemption.