Clan Novel Toreador: Book 1 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Stewart Wieck

  Vegel briefly nodded, then asked, “Will the Eye be detectable once removed from the sculpture?

  Not for some time. Certainly enough time for you to make your escape. So long as it resides in an inanimate object it may not be detected, even by its progenitor. Actually, especially by its progenitor, but presumably others who use the same methods as well.” Slowly dredging up memories of the legends of the Eye, Vegel asked, “And if placed within an animate being?”

  “It will come to life in the empty socket of an animate being.”

  Hoping to glean some information he did not possess but the Nosferatu might, Vegel ventured, “For this purpose, is a vampire considered an ‘animate’ being?”

  “Most certainly. The Eye comes from one of our kind, after all. Quickly now, last question.”

  Vegel thought for a moment. He didn’t like the idea of others providing an escape route for him. Frankly, he was even nervous when that task was left to Hesha. There had been no trouble, of course—who would dare cross swords with his master?—but leaving such serious business as his existence and a precious artifact in the hands of Rolph, even if he was a sometimes ally apparently repaying an ancient debt, made him nervous.

  Brandishing a cell phone he withdrew from his dress coat’s breast pocket, Vegel asked, “Why your escape route? Why should I not accept the Eye and then summon my chauffeur to depart as I arrived? After all, if the Eye will remain undetectable—”

  Rolph’s face discolored with impatience, then it flushed with what Vegel could only interpret as confusion. Rolph recomposed himself, glanced at the clock, looked at Vegel earnestly and said, “Listen and listen closely, for after I answer I will hand you the Eye and direct you to leave immediately via the emergency door nearest us on the wall—an instruction I strongly advise you to heed. Please do call your chauffeur, but let him arrive and depart again as a decoy. I promise that you will not see him again.”

  Rolph looked intently into Vegel’s eyes for a moment after these pronouncements. Vegel understood the gesture held no intent to subjugate his will, as some Kindred were capable of doing, but was instead merely a check to see if the sincerity of this message was impressed upon the Setite. With a slow nod, Vegel indicated his understanding.

  “Good,” said Rolph.

  Moving quickly, Rolph threw his hands skyward, and with his fingers spread so it seemed his hand might split as if quartered by horses, he drew back the large hood to reveal a face as disgusting as Vegel recalled. The Nosferatu cared little about Vegel’s reaction, and in fact did not notice it at all. He seemed as unconcerned with everyone else in the galleries as well.

  Indeed, as Vegel looked around, briefly taking his attention off Rolph, he saw that Rolph’s sudden and exaggerated movements had drawn absolutely no attention. In fact, everyone seemed to be pointedly looking away from the two of them.

  Vegel took great pleasure in being at the epicenter of the Nosferatu’s power. The abilities of various Kindred never ceased to amaze him. He might be able to find a jade earring in China’s Great Wall, but Rolph could effectively make himself, and apparently others too, vanish.

  The Setite’s enjoyment was cut short as he watched in awe as Rolph retrieved the Eye of Hazimel. Bending down over the sculpture of Abel, the Nosferatu vigorously rubbed together the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He used his left hand to steady his weight against Abel’s chest, and then stabbed his fingers toward Abel’s left eye. Vegel instinctively flinched in expectation of plaster debris raining from the point of impact, but instead Rolph’s fingers plunged and disappeared into the pupilless orb as if it were deep, inky water.

  Rolph squirmed and turned about, his wrist spinning back and forth in wild gyrations as if the Nosferatu were attempting to grasp something elusive within the sculpture’s eye or head. Rolph’s hand and arm were suddenly seized with an almost violent rigidity, and he looked up to smile a pained grin at Vegel.

  Vegel then followed the Nosferatu’s gaze back to the bronze clock, and though Vegel turned back to watch Abel’s head and the Kindred fingers extended within it, Rolph’s attention remained focused on the clock. It was counting down toward 11:59 PM. As the seconds ticked away, Rolph remained frozen. Until he looked back up at Vegel.

  “Ready?” asked the Nosferatu.

  “Ready.”

  With the slimy, sucking sound of a wet plunger releasing its vacuum, Rolph slowly withdrew his hand from the sculpture. Luminosity as if from a 1000-watt darklight blinded Vegel, but he was still able to see the shadow of something oblong and pulsating clamped between the Nosferatu’s thumb and forefinger.

  As if he held something dangerous or hot or precious—or perhaps all three—Rolph carefully extended the object toward Vegel and slowly lowered it onto the Setite’s outstretched palm. Dollops of coagulated goo dripped off the object and onto Vegel’s palm before the cold, moist object itself settled into his hand.

  Vegel closed his hand and felt the spongy but smooth and surprisingly heavy object, and that blocked some of the flooding light, though his hand was not large enough to surround the Eye completely. His vision partially restored, Vegel looked anxiously about, but he found that none of these astounding events had yet drawn the attention of others. While he stood bathed in the unearthly light of an ancient Kindred’s eyeball, the other Kindred continued their debates of petty politics. It made Vegel laugh.

  This mirth was short-lived, for Rolph tugged Vegel by the sleeve and then pushed him toward red emergency-exit door. “Go, and don’t worry about the alarm,” said the Nosferatu, whose skin gained an even less appealing pallor in the purplish light.

  Vegel didn’t hesitate. He did not run headlong toward the door, though, for he wasn’t certain if the cloaking Rolph provided extended beyond the Nosferatu’s immediate proximity. Still, the door was but a half moment away, and Vegel achieved it without drawing any attention to himself or the potent orb within his grasp.

  As the heavy emergency door crept shut behind him and sealed to a sturdy close, Vegel did hear the clanging of an alarm erupt. Before him were alternating flights of stairs going down only. He did not delay. The rataplan of his feet skipping down the metal steps could surely draw no more attention than the fire alarm.

  Vegel was relatively athletic and he had the unnatural vigor of all Kindred, so his progress down the stairs was very rapid. He still clutched the Eye in his right hand, and several paces into his descent, the purplish light faded. At the same time, the Eye briefly throbbed more rapidly than before, but then that subsided as well.

  After descending four flights of stairs, two floors of the museum, Vegel came to a landing where the yellow tape used to mark police lines was stretched across the frame of what appeared to be an old service access door. More flights of stairs toward ground level beckoned Vegel, but he suspected the Nosferatu’s escape route continued through this door. Otherwise Rolph would have removed the tape to avoid just this kind of confusion.

  The door was severely rusted and a worn padlock bound it to an old wooden frame. Even if the door resisted efforts to force it open, Vegel felt certain the frame would splinter and allow access. That tactic, of course, would reveal his route if he was being followed, so he decided there must be a less forceful approach to the problem.

  And there was. Upon closer examination, Vegel realized that the disintegrating wooden frame was in fact cracked along its entire length. Vegel applied careful and diligent pressure and discovered that the entire structure—door, frame and everything—could swing open as a unit.

  It opened just enough to allow the Kindred to squeeze through, though his effort was rewarded with a handful of splinters, a couple of which penetrated his clothes. They might have cut his flesh as well, but Vegel’s skin was tougher than any mortal’s and it turned aside the toothpick shafts.

  Only emergency lights illuminated the area behind the access door. Vegel first made sure there was no immediate danger, then he turned to press the wooden frame back into place. W
ith a quiet pop it settled back into position, and from the other side it must have appeared as unused as Vegel had first imagined it moments ago.

  The small area he was within consisted of a catwalk surrounding what was presumably an old elevator shaft. The odor of old grease told Vegel this was not any shaft presently in use.

  At one point on the catwalks, ladders offered access to levels both higher and lower that Vegel’s present one. The Setite assumed he should continue downward. He quickly secured the Eye alongside his phone inside the breast pocket of his dress coat, and then he swung off the catwalk and slid down the ladder with his feet and hands pressed hard against the outside of the vertical bars.

  He dropped the last couple of feet to another catwalk—the ground floor, he guessed—and then performed the same maneuver to reach the basement-level catwalk. The shaft continued down, but the retired elevator was parked in that recess, so Vegel moved toward an access door behind him.

  He paused a moment, though, and turned off his cell phone. He couldn’t risk its ringer betraying his position. Then he tried the door.

  It was locked, so Vegel looked around again. As he did so, he patted his chest to make certain the Eye was still with him, though the gesture was really a doublecheck since the artifact seemed to be growing cold, and the almost painful icy freeze could be felt through his coat and shirt.

  It then seemed to Vegel that a hatch on top of the elevator shell was slightly propped open. He stepped to the edge of the catwalk and leapt down four or five feet to land near the hatch. Indeed, it was ajar, so Vegel folded it open.

  The emergency lighting in the shaft didn’t illuminate the interior of the old elevator very well, but Vegel thought he could see enough to believe the elevator was empty. Cursing this convoluted Nosferatu escape route, Vegel clambered and squeezed through the hatchway and dropped to the floor of the elevator.

  Pausing in the silence and darkness for a moment, Vegel couldn’t help but recall Rolph’s words: I promise that you will not see him again.

  What was going to happen to his driver? Was his death necessary for some reason, or was he going to be caught in some larger incident? This thought of danger above caused Vegel to worry suddenly about Victoria Ash. The brief impulse to return to her aid was startling in its clarity and strength, but Vegel resisted that calling, though he did strongly hope nothing untoward happened to her or affected even so much as one of her delicate ringlets.

  Vegel shook his head vigorously to clear it, startled by his lapse.

  There didn’t seem to be any way out of the elevator other than the hatch above him, but he quickly tried to pry apart the doors. They glided apart as if well-oiled and maintained, and Vegel suspected such was the case.

  Beyond the open doors, Vegel found a well-lit and more modem passageway. He was amazed the Nosferatu would share such a secret entrance to this Elysium with him, but the mere fact that he’d been shown this one meant there must be another, even better, egress elsewhere.

  Monday, 21 June 1999, 11:55 PM

  The High Museum of Art

  Atlanta, Georgia

  At least Stella sang the appropriate praises for his sculpture. Leopold respected her opinion, and he knew she had a discerning eye that had been trained through photography, but he didn’t trust compliments from someone he regarded as a friend. It was too easy for a friend to like his work, and too hard for a friend to criticize honestly. Leopold could never understand the usefulness of artist retreats or communes. The same person could not be a good critic and a good friend, so both of these endeavors were doomed to failure.

  He’d left her still examining his Abel Condemns Caine. Some distance away now, he leaned into one of the glass walls that crisscrossed and divided the gallery. He tapped it sharply a few times and ended up admitting to himself that he should accept Stella’s compliments. He was just upset about his exchange with the Setite, and that had fouled his mood.

  As if he wasn’t upset enough! He smacked his forehead against the glass in frustration. Then, in embarrassment, he looked around to see if anyone noticed his petulant display. At first he thought himself safe, but then he noticed a lone figure sitting beneath a large sculpture of a male figure as yet unexamined by Leopold.

  The Kindred at the foot of the sculpture had a feral look. His hair was long and matted, and his face wasn’t completely human. It was too pointy, like a dog’s head maybe. Leopold suspected this was a Gangrel, which meant he was probably either Javic or the one who lived north of Atlanta who was called Dusty. From the Kindred’s haggard appearance, Leopold suspected this was the latter.

  Whoever he was, he looked directly at Leopold but gave no indication of greeting or recognition as Leopold stared back. His gaze made Leopold uncomfortable, though, so the Toreador moved to a spot out of view from everyone.

  The delay had not stemmed his frustration, and he smacked his head on the glass again. This time he did it so forcefully that his ears rang.

  Still no Hannah! He cursed. Why wasn’t she here? Apparently he wasn’t the only one who had noticed or been surprised, for he’d overheard two other mentions of the Tremere. Surely, though, no one had such pressing business with her as he did.

  He wondered if he had misunderstood her, but he clearly recalled her saying the final step of the process would be some simple magic she would use to do something. Analyze the reaction of the blood in his body, he supposed.

  What if it had all been a trick? Leopold shivered at the thought. What if he was bound to her by blood now, and she didn’t need to be here because she was seeing through his eyes or maybe even controlling some of his actions from her mansion?

  It sounded ridiculous to the Toreador, but he’d heard so many unbelievable things in the past couple of years that he was unwilling to throw out any idea, no matter how absurd.

  So, if there was to be no Hannah, Leopold thought about what to do next. Maybe he should go to the Tremere chantry and see for himself what delayed or kept her? He didn’t think that was a good idea. If she was avoiding him, or if she had other reasons to not be here, then she would probably think little of another visit.

  Or maybe he should just confront Victoria? Just ask her directly, “Are you my sire?” But that was stupid.

  On the other hand, maybe he could just speak to her. Even if she didn’t know anything about his past, Victoria was still his primogen. That hardly made her his senator—someone obligated to represent him and help him—but perhaps she would help. Maybe she knew secrets of Toreador blood that would allow her to guess his sire. The idea of sharing his blood with her was very appealing, though Leopold shook his head at his infantile infatuation with the woman.

  Regardless, he would speak to her. She was the hostess, after all, and he had yet to speak to her within the gallery itself.

  Tuesday, 22 June 1999, 12:04 AM

  The High Museum of Art

  Atlanta, Georgia

  There was no fanfare. No dramatic thundering-open of doors. No declarations or pronouncements. Nothing but the impressive specimen of a Kindred himself, and Victoria believed she was the only one who noticed him enter. It would have taken a commotion to draw any attention, because all the Kindred on the fourth floor of the High Museum had abandoned the entrance in favor of the recesses of the gallery where they formed into cliques.

  Victoria couldn’t say what brought her to the entrance. Just a nagging sense that something was about to happen. Maybe it was because Rolph had disappeared for a time, but then suddenly reappeared a moment ago to bid adieu for the evening. The Nosferatu offered no explanation, and the haste of his departure left her no chance to inquire.

  The Toreador took a deep breath, for the endgame of the plot she’d put in motion—and was keeping in motion by virtue of her entrance via Heaven—was about to begin. She watched the newcomer enter, and when he looked at her and smiled after briefly surveying the lay of the chamber, she extended her hands in greeting.

  He moved like a cat down the couple of
steps that descended from the platform where the doors stood. He was upon her in a heartbeat, quickly closing a remarkable distance without visibly rushing. The effect was almost vertiginous, and Victoria felt her head swim. He accepted her hands in his and made a token bow to her with the nod of his head.

  Julius was a brute of a man who helped the Brujah justicar administer Camarilla justice. Victoria liked the look of this archon. A large black man, Julius’s face was square cut and his hair was long and dreadlocked. His was a handsome and strong face, and Victoria had the odd desire to trace her fingers along its purplish scars. One lined his right cheek and stretched over his eye to his forehead. Another reached from above his left ear to almost the exact midpoint of his square chin.

  He was dressed in baggy red pants and a tight-fitting black turtleneck, across which draped an antique bandolier. The twelve small brass cases along the length of the leather belt evidently contained something, for they rattled as the large man walked. Strapped to Julius’s back in a cross-pattern were the broadswords for which he was so well known. They were surely not the swords he’d actually swung in the arenas of Rome when he’d fought there nearly two thousand years ago, but both were inscribed with Latin phrases that Victoria could not read.

  Even though Victoria severely doubted the veracity of the stories that told of Julius as a gladiator in Roman arenas, there was no doubting that he was clearly a dangerous man. Regardless, Victoria knew if the law of Elysium was to broken tonight, Julius would find his hands amply full in a conflict with Prince Benison.

  Victoria was disappointed the Brujah did not wear any symbols of the Black Panthers, an organization Julius supposedly helped in its infancy. It was apparently his work in Chicago in 1968 that had proved to the Brujah elite (of which Julius surely would have been one if he was two thousand years old, or even a thousand) that Julius was interested in taking an active hand in the business of the clan again.

  Nevertheless, Victoria licked her lips. A militant black Brujah. Ah, the fireworks tonight might be splendid if Julius did indeed take the opportunity of this evening to pressure the ex-Confederate Prince regarding his harsh actions against the Anarchs of the city.