Clan Novel Toreador: Book 1 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Stewart Wieck

  But Victoria summoned his thoughts back to the moment. A petulant lip pouting at Vegel’s back, the Toreador was quick with a parting quip: “Mortals do not interest me, Vegel, and neither do ordinary snakes.”

  Looking back to catch these words, Vegel imagined Victoria as a day-dreaming schoolgirl as she delicately curled a bobbing ringlet around a sleek finger, and then with a deft toss of her neck flicked a kiss at Vegel’s receding back.

  Vegel wondered what magic she had wrought when he felt the kiss’s sensual warmth melt on his neck. How could she have guessed that her sophomoric humor and innuendo would be effective on one as seemingly cultured and intellectual as himself? More than anything else—with the definite exception of the mimicked smile that still haunted Vegel with its aftershocks—that was what Vegel found most frightening.

  Such fear be damned, though, for Vegel was hastening to meet his Nosferatu contact—the only reason he had accepted the invitation to this party on Hesha’s behalf in the first place.

  Monday, 21 June 1999, 11:38 PM

  The High Museum of Art

  Atlanta, Georgia

  The proliferation of corpses of Abel on this top floor of the High Museum of Art disturbed Vegel. He was too superstitious to chuckle along with the majority of the Kindred in attendance at the vulgar indecency of the displays.

  After Vegel left Victoria Ash at Antonio Canova’s Mourning the Dead Abel, he was passing an apparently freshly carved sculpture when he realized it was another death scene of Abel. And this was yet prior to his planned rendezvous with the Nosferatu Rolph at the side of Dupre’s The Dead Abel, so Vegel knew at least one other sculpted corpse awaited him.

  Just as much as the mass grave of Abels was disturbing, Vegel was realizing more fully the great danger of Victoria Ash. She was clearly, and more importantly, easily, seducing him. Not since his long-gone days as a mortal had his lust been so out of his control. The curse of her effect on him was that, even while he understood intellectually that she was clawing her way to his heart, the sensation was too delicious to resist. Few were the dangers to the Kindred greater than nostalgia and reliving so vividly the forgotten tangibles of desire was invigorating and irresistible.

  Slackening his pace before he passed the newly carved Abel, Vegel warily rubbed his neck where the Toreador’s kiss had massaged him. Was it magic, or merely the flush of lust that warmed his flesh?

  The new Abel was monstrous for reasons entirely opposite to the verismo of Dupre’s work which Vegel would soon behold again (for he’d first viewed it years earlier when it had first been moved to the Louvre). Where Dupre’s Abel was horrifically rendered in absolutely realistic detail, the carving before him now was a shocking caricature.

  Vegel normally preferred to view new works with an unfettered access, but he found himself slowly absorbing the details of this strange piece despite the presence of another viewer. Fortunately, the slender Kindred was quiet. In any event, Vegel paid but passing attention to him, instead focusing his concentration on the sculpture before him.

  His analysis was annoyingly interrupted when the stranger said, “A piece of garbage, don’t you think?”

  Curtly, Vegel said, “I’m yet undecided. I’ll draw my own conclusions after ample viewing.”

  Vegel caught a glimpse of the other Kindred sneering, glaring down the length of his too-long nose as Vegel turned his back to him and continued his observation. The Setite sensed the other shuffling back a handful of paces, but the gesture was clearly one of irritation meant to draw attention to himself, instead of one of courtesy to allow the clearer access Vegel preferred.

  The most startling aspect of this death scene was the anatomy of the two figures. The limbs of both Caine and Abel were soft and fleshy, and the torsos possessed little definition. Also, the heads were overly large—much too ponderous for the frames of the figures’ bodies. As the sculpture was carved from a textureless black stone, this purposeful disproportionment was enhanced.

  The implement of death was a knotted rope of sorts, and the means strangulation, so this felling of Abel was a bloodless one—presumably not the sort that in reality had occurred.

  The expressions were intriguing and were well executed; so much so that Vegel was surprised he did not recognize the piece or even the artist. Abel’s face was lit with a cheery bliss without even a hint of resignation. Clearly, he anticipated the journey to heaven. Vegel wondered if there wasn’t something to that. Yes, this was the first murder, but was it not also the first death? Abel was the first of God’s likenesses to stand beside Him in heaven. Or was this prior to mankind’s admittance to heaven? Vegel was unsure of this specific of Christianity.

  This intriguing premise made Caine’s face even more decipherable, for the murderer’s expression was one of resolution and determination but with an upper lip that was slightly wrinkled to denote some amount of distaste. The sculpture told Vegel a story of Caine slaying Abel at the latter’s request.

  Pacing back to the front of the piece, so the other Kindred was behind him again, Vegel noted the bronze plaque with the imprinted title of Abel Condemns Caine, which potentially confirmed the Setite’s interpretation of the piece. From this vantage, Vegel could also see that the “rope” was in fact an umbilical cord still attached to Caine’s belly. That revelation made it ridiculously clear that the brothers were not misshapen at all but were actually infants.

  Vegel wrestled with how this discovery affected his interpretation of the piece.

  From behind, he heard, “I shouldn’t have made them children, should I?”

  Vegel groaned inwardly and lied, “I admit that aspect of the work was initially confusing, but in light of the title I find it entirely appropriate, and more than that, a very novel approach.”

  Rarely did he enjoy discussing a piece with its creator, especially one so clearly stalking those who approached his work and fishing for comments. Even in the rare cases when Vegel’s appreciation for a piece was not immediately soured by the personality of the creator, though the piece itself might be extraordinary, he preferred to be on equal ground when discussing a work with another. When that conversation was with the creator, Vegel’s interpretation could only be accurate or even reasonable if it had much in common with the creator’s own interpretation of his work. It was difficult to argue with a self-proclaimed expert. Artists could not be experts on their work for everyone, for much of art was in the eye of the beholder.

  The Setite turned toward the artist as he continued, hoping his lie would extinguish the other’s need to discuss the sculpture, “You must be the artist. I am Vegel, a collector of antiquities.”

  “Not interested in new work, then,” said the thin man, his tentative smile dripping away to a frown. “My name is Leopold, and yes, the work is mine.”

  Face to face with him now, Vegel took a moment to examine the artist. Though a Kindred, and presumably a Toreador, or else Victoria Ash would not allow his piece admittance here (for though flawed, the work was too good to make a mockery of him in the event Ash allowed the showing with the intent to embarrass him), Leopold had the look of a starving artist. He was thin, drooping, haggard and unkempt as only a person who generally cares little for his appearance but who tries to tidy himself prior to an evening like this, could be. Vegel noted a gleam in the artist’s eyes, though, that told him this Toreador was an authentic creator. The gleam could be madness, but often that light was the same as the one that guided inspired artistic work.

  Vegel was tempted to reveal his lie to the artist, but there was much more pressing business tonight than even a remarkable potential talent. So, eliminating any tone of engagement or interest from his voice, Vegel said, “It is a fine piece. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  Leopold seemed barely attentive to what Vegel was saying, and staring at the piece, he muttered, “These harder substances still don’t respond well for me. Perhaps I should try something more malleable, like wood. Can you imagine this in wood? The umbilical cou
ld be so much more dynamic! I just couldn’t impart any energy…through…the…stone….”

  But Vegel was gone. He didn’t turn even as the artist’s words trailed indelicately into silence. The Setite did not wish to meet the Toreador’s sad eyes.

  Monday, 21 June 1999, 11:47 PM

  The High Museum of Art

  Atlanta, Georgia

  The scene seemed one from an early Hollywood monster movie: a dark-clad and hooded figure crouched beside the nearly naked form of a man. Monstrous facial features were not readily discernible because of the hood, but backlighting silhouetted a knotted and crooked nose and a much too sharp and long chin from within the hood as the head pivoted slowly about.

  Vegel imagined the copse of elegant white birch trees that would complete the eerie scene. Their slender white trunks could be giant, bleached bones jutting skyward, visible at night with even the barest hint of moonlight.

  But there were no trees. Nor was there a corpse. However, there was a monster: Rolph of clan Nosferatu, the Kindred whom Vegel had expressly journeyed to Atlanta to meet.

  Rolph indeed crouched as if poised over a corpse—another one of Abel. This was Giovanni Dupre’s Abel, The Dead Abel. It was not a romantic interpretation of the dead man. His arms were akimbo, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his mouth gaping open. Some missing fingers and fingertips were not to the design of the sculptor—those losses had occurred in the century and a half since the piece was completed.

  As for Rolph, there was little to see because of the robe, though Vegel knew him immediately from past acquaintanceship. There was no mistaking the bulbous nose crooked hard to the left, or the chin so long and pointed it seemed a horn grew beneath the Nosferatu’s thin lower lip. These were features no hood could hide.

  Rolph was average height, perhaps a couple of inches shorter than VegePs six feet, though he remained crouched even after he noted Vegel approaching. The voluminous brown robe draped the floor around the Nosferatu, so Vegel could not determine how he was dressed beneath.

  Rolph spoke first. “Greetings, Vegel. I’ve watched you make the rounds and wondered when you would settle down to the real business of your trip.”

  Vegel replied, “Hello, Rolph.” Then, after a few more paces that brought him to a comfortable distance as the Nosferatu finally stood up, Vegel defended himself, “My instructions were to meet at The Dead Abel as midnight approached but before it neared. If armed with more precise instructions, I would have happily satisfied you more fully.”

  “No matter,” Rolph said. “You are here in plenty of time. I wondered if perhaps you were addled by the confusing quantity of Abels strewn about this chamber, though I saw, in fact, that you were distracted earlier by living, or at least nearly living, concerns in the form of our redoubtable hostess.”

  Vegel was embarrassed by this accusation, but there was little he could do to refute it, so he lied while at the same time stabbing back at Rolph. “Yes, we conversed for some time. I feel she may of immense help locating important artifacts which Hesha seeks.”

  “I see,” Rolph said. “Perhaps it’s time then that we got down to business.”

  “Of course,” replied Vegel, pleased to be past pleasantries, for he disliked small talk, and small talk with Nosferatu least of all. He didn’t trust members of this clan, though they, in general, and Rolph in particular, had provided assistance in his endeavors. The defining ugliness of the clan tricked one into believing that everything about a Nosferatu was just as visible. They often exaggerated this with a rudeness of the sort Rolph had displayed when he mentioned Victoria Ash.

  They also pretended to be transparent in their schemes. Vegel knew from experience that they could be the wiliest of Camarilla vampires. The Ventrue might claim to be masters of deceit, as their arena was anything political, but this claim was one the Nosferatu granted the Camarilla’s leaders in a move that even further obfuscated the achievements of the Nosferatu clan.

  Rolph said contritely, “I’m sorry to drag you into this den of thieves, but it was honestly my only means of providing some material that Hesha has long sought.”

  Vegel did not inquire about the privacy of their conversation even though it unfolded in plain view in the gallery. This was a detail Rolph had surely covered, and if the Nosferatu had not—that is, if Rolph wanted this conversation to be overheard—then there was nothing Vegel could do about it. He could speak to some other Setites in a hissing whisper that no one outside the clan could translate even if they could hear it, but he doubted the secret of that tongue was known even by the prowling Nosferatu.

  Rolph continued, “However, I know your risk will be worth it, for tonight, Clan Nosferatu would like to repay an old debt to Hesha. What I give you should even matters regarding the Bombay affair some centuries ago. This incident was before either of our times, but I guarantee that your master will know of what I speak.”

  Vegel said, “Very well. I will relay notice of the debt repayment and whatever information or material you hereafter provide to my master. If he deems the matter unfair or unsettled, then I am certain he will contact your masters. But if no direct payment is demanded of me, then I will gladly entertain whatever you reveal next.”

  “Understood,” Rolph said. The Nosferatu then took a few steps to the side so that Dupre’s sculpture was no longer behind him. The move afforded Vegel an unimpeded view of the piece.

  “What I offer tonight, friend Vegel, is an artifact greatly desired and long sought by your master. I offer none other than the Eye of Hazimel.”

  Vegel couldn’t help but be caught by surprise. Whatever had happened in Bombay long ago must have placed some important elders among the Nosferatu in Hesha’s deep debt, for the Eye of Hazimel might be the Evil Eye, the artifact that served as the basis for all the silly posturing of gypsies and superstitious simpletons. That there was usually truth at the heart of such legends was something Vegel had learned early in his service to Hesha.

  “It is much too late to hide my surprise, Rolph, so I will admit my shock. If what you offer is truly the Eye of Hazimel, then I of course will take your information to Hesha so he may pursue the item wherever it rests.”

  “Pursuit is not necessary,” Rolph laughed. “The Eye is here in this statue of Abel.” Rolph waved his hand at the plaster corpse at their feet.

  Vegel said in surprise, “So it belongs to Victoria Ash?”

  Rolph explained, “Certainly not. At least not in any real sense, for it’s virtually certain that the lovely Ms. Ash does not even realize the Eye resides within her sculpture, if in fact she’s aware of the Eye’s existence at all.”

  Suddenly feeling odd about examining the sculpture too closely, for fear his gaze would be a tell-tale heart, Vegel nevertheless thoroughly examined the piece, though he did so without moving from his present location. He remained dubious. His best detection techniques—powers that had once located slightly enchanted jade earrings sealed somewhere in a five-mile expanse of the Great Wall of China, and then when they were embedded some forty feet above the ground—did not note the presence of the puniest magical bauble anywhere within the plaster Abel. And the Eye of Hazimel, especially if it was the Evil Eye, would probably have registered to Vegel so long as Vegel approached within several dozen paces even if the Setite weren’t actively searching for it.

  So Vegel asked, “Can you explain then why everyone seems oblivious to its presence?”

  “Certainly,” smiled Rolph. “In its present state, the Eye is undetectable.”

  Vegel inaudibly groaned. As if that explained anything. Though it did explain something. In its present state…

  Rolph continued, “That’s why it’s unlikely that Ms. Ash realizes she possesses this item. It’s also why it’s necessary to give you this gift at so public a locale where we have access to this sculpture, or for that matter, why we arranged for you to be invited to this celebration in the first place.”

  Nodding so Rolph knew he was listening, Vegel scanne
d the large open chamber. If he was to take possession of so potent an artifact, then it was crucial he know who was about. For the Eye might be undetectable in its present state, but what about when it was removed from the sculpture? At least Vegel hoped it could be removed. There was little chance of him slipping away from the party with a plaster corpse tucked under his arm, and that was assuming he had Hesha’s strength and could lift Dupre’s masterpiece at all.

  Vegel noted several details of importance as he examined his surroundings. First, he was pleased to confirm that this display of The Dead Abel was on the periphery of the chamber. No clusters of Kindred stood between him and a nearby emergency exit.

  Second, he was relieved to see that Hannah, the Tremere chantry leader, was still absent. If any of the Kindred of the city were capable of detecting the Eye, then it would be her. And the Setite knew that she would discard her own two eyes without a second thought in order to possess this single, ancient one.

  Third, he was disconcerted to catch Victoria Ash glancing at him so that their eyes locked briefly before he glanced past her—with difficulty.

  Finally, Vegel was alarmed to note that the huge bronze clock set over the windows looking down to Peachtree Street in front of the Museum was but a handful of ticktocks from midnight. While no midnight timetable had been absolutely set, Vegel’s impression was that midnight was something of a deadline for this exchange.

  “If I may, I have a number of questions,” Vegel said.

  Rolph glanced at the same clock Vegel had checked seconds before. “Certainly, but our time is short, so let’s be brief and relevant.”

  Without allowing much pause, Vegel said, “Why midnight?”

  “Because we have arranged an escape route for you. If the route is to serve its purpose, you must be passing through that emergency-exit door at precisely one minute before midnight.”