One did stray too close, and Julius’s sword bit into it, but the creature was so full of the terror it fed upon in lieu of blood that the blow might have given it courage, not dampened its resolve to feast upon its prey.
All the Kindred Victoria knew—Benjamin, Eleanor, Thelonious, Javic, Cyndy, Leopold and more—immediately forgot their individual plots and grievances and banded together for survival. Victoria saw the defining moment of this more important bond when Julius and Benison locked eyes, and the Brujah whipped the second sword from his back and extended it pommel first toward the Prince, who was supposedly a superior swordsman as well.
Shattering windows sounded above the cacophony of terror. Fist-sized orbs the color of flesh hurtled into the midst of the Camarilla, and as if the panic and disorientation had not been enough before, hell truly broke loose when the flesh grenades burst and spread a film of bloody ichor across the assembled host.
Then the demons pounced upon them. A big-shouldered but pinheaded monstrosity raced toward Victoria. Its arms were as shriveled as its head, so, despite the monster’s size, Victoria was able to fend off the groping attacks. Then a bloated and pendulous organ that marked the beast as once having been a man rose like a third arm to club the Toreador. With such a weapon bearing down upon her, Victoria finally screamed. It struck her in the right thigh, and the force of the blow lifted her completely off the floor and deposited her in an unruly heap at the feet of the beast.
Suddenly, a sword flashed in front of Victoria and lopped the throbbing extremity from the monster. Its keening wail was so high-pitched that it sounded above the other ruckus and shattered some of the glass panes nearest Victoria. A large, taloned hand whistled over Victoria’s prone body and so Julius, the Toreador’s momentary benefactor, was drawn into a different fray.
The beast whose legs straddled Victoria continued its wail as blood and other juices gushed from the grievous wound. The flood of liquid did not allow Victoria to gain purchase on the floor, so she slipped and writhed about without escaping until the monster, its face still twisted in agony, recovered enough to seek revenge. Its arms and head were frail, but its torso and legs were mammoth, and when it leapt onto the prone Toreador, the great weight of its body crushed her hard to the floor.
She thought she heard her leg crack, but there was pain throughout her entire body, so there was no way she could localize any individual injury. The creature’s thin arms began to beat her head and Victoria did what she could to fend off the blows, but they rained upon her so quickly the battering began to cloud and disorganize her thoughts.
So few of her powers were of any use now. In a final, desperate move, she called out for aid. Not with her voice, but her vampiric powers. And in an instant, Leopold was there. The young Toreador was not the strongest or most competent of fighters—and in her dimly lit thoughts Victoria wondered why she would call him when she might have summoned anyone—but he did the job.
A booted foot kicked at the head of the Sabbat obscenity once and twice and then, as the beast attempted to right its massive bulk with its tiny arms, a third time. The source of the crack Victoria heard this time was clearly discernible—Leopold’s kick broke the fiend’s slender neck. The Sabbat’s body, at least temporarily denied life, slumped back onto Victoria, its weight crushing her again.
Leopold dropped to his knees beside Victoria and before saying or doing anything more he froze, looking deeply into her eyes. She was surprised, for there was no fear in the eyes, only questions.
Suddenly his eyes bulged in pain, and he was gone.
Covered as she was in slimy goo, Victoria managed to wriggle free of the wrecked heap upon her. She spared a glance only to see what had become of Leopold. A tenebrous tendril as thick as his leg was knotted about the sculptor’s waist and it spun about like a bucking stallion, smashing Leopold time after time after time into the tiled floor of the museum.
Victoria felt a fleeting sense of pity, but she stood and ran. Her leg must have indeed been cracked or broken, for she immediately fell back to the floor, awash in pain. So she called upon the power of the blood within her to quickly knit that wound, and she called upon the lessons of her teachers to imbue her body with the potential for great speed. She stood and bolted without surveying the battlefield further.
The Toreador was a blur broken only by hesitations to circumvent an enemy or navigate a body-strewn wasteland in which she nearly stumbled over a black man’s shattered body. It could have been either Thelonious or Benjamin.
In the space of a few heartbeats, Victoria was safely ensconced in the cubicle of glass from which she’d spied earlier. She fumbled at her pocket and withdrew the opera glasses, but she couldn’t bring herself to look out. Not yet.
Tuesday, 22 June 1999, 1:07 AM
The High Museum of Art
Atlanta, Georgia
There was a single moment of clarity amidst the chaos of darkness, blood and ruin. It was refreshed in Leopold’s mind during each split-second interval of the thunderous pounding his body sustained.
Victoria’s eyes.
Left side smashed against the floor.
She had needed him.
Head battered another body, and a cry of pain issued from the other.
She had called him.
Left arm dangled by threads of flesh after he was smeared along the floor.
He knew it had been a sort of magic she used to call him. Was it magic available only to a sire? A calling that only went to a childe?
Legs jammed straight onto the floor, and both limbs buckled under the pressure and twisted in unintended directions.
He knew he had saved her. He knew he hadn’t needed to respond to the call, but she had wanted him and he couldn’t refuse.
Ribs crushed when a tremendous pressure constricted his chest and back.
Let not his last moment on this earth have been spent denying his mother. His love. He had saved her.
Limp body set free, floating through the air. Glass shattering, shards imbedding in his skin or spinning free. A four-story flight down toward a terrible impact on flagstones and concrete.
Tuesday, 22 June 1999, 1:18 AM
Ansel’s Parking Garage
Atlanta, Georgia
The Eye!
Vegel woke with a start. He’d left it behind when he slipped from his clothing. He chided himself for a fool, but then calmed, realizing he would likely be dead, truly dead, if he’d not used that trick to escape.
Damn those Nosferatu! What game were they playing? Using a Setite deliveryman to carry the Eye of Hazimel from a Camarilla party to a Sabbat ambush. Even on the surface the plan was so convoluted that only a Kindred could conceive it and probably only a Nosferatu could execute it.
As he sat silently for a moment, though, Vegel remembered the big Sabbat’s last words before the Setite blacked out. He’d said to clean up the corpse and get the third Sabbat, the long-fingered one, back upstairs. Nothing about the Eye. No “search these tattered clothes for the Eye.” No “the Eye is not here, so find the Setite.” Nothing about the Eye.
Vegel was thoroughly confused now, but he admitted he was hardly himself. Probably delirious from lack of blood and nearly dead from his injuries, Vegel couldn’t expect the best from himself right now.
The only way to learn more was to crawl back to the street and see what he could discover. And he’d better start crawling soon, for he might have escaped the Sabbat, but there was no escaping the sun. Vegel hoped he could find how to reopen that Nosferatu trapdoor. He didn’t relish returning to his enemy’s abode, but it was only the light-proof place within the limits of his meager strength.
There was no time like the present. Vegel crawled from the cover of the BMW toward the street. Moving caused him to take better heed of the damage he’d suffered. His rib cage was shattered. His left arm and shoulder were completely crushed. His right thigh was probably broken and the left nearly so. Countless other smaller injuries and bruises covered him, but thes
e other wounds were the ones that would kill him unless he could very soon make it to safety.
He managed to attain the exit of the parking lot. Fortunately, there was still no one on duty. From this vantage he could clearly see the area where the struggle had taken place. His shredded clothes were still strewn about the street, and Vegel’s eyes managed to focus just enough to spot the garment that was most likely his dress jacket.
The street was also clear, so Vegel inched his way toward his jacket. The drop off the curb was painful, and various puddles covered him with water and mud, but he eventually made it to the jacket.
Rolling onto his demolished left side so he could use his right hand, Vegel sorted through the fragments of the coat until he felt the silky fabric of the inside liner. He pulled that piece from the pile and found that both inside pockets were still intact. He patted the left pocket and was astounded to discover the Eye was still there.
The shock was almost enough to cause him to black out again.
He went rigid with fear when he heard something above him. It came from the second level of the parking deck—the spot from which the Sabbat had launched their ambush. Vegel couldn’t make out the words, but he was certain he’d heard a deep, resonant voice like the one belonging to the brutish Sabbat.
He quickly clamped the strip of jacket containing the Eye in his mouth and crawled back toward the parking garage. His progress was tediously slow. Vegel knew his strength was ebbing.
The Setite heard more voices above him, but either they were muffled or he was too weak to hear clearly. Concentrating hard, Vegel did finally make out the words “time to go.” Nothing in the tone of the voices told him he’d been spotted again, but the Sabbat were bound to see him as they left.
A few more inches and Vegel reached the curb, where he propped his head up on this concrete pillow.
He knew his choices were very limited. Die by Sabbat or die by exposure. Even if he could reach cover, Vegel doubted he would survive until the next night, especially if his cover was the Nosferatu tunnel. And if he opted to retrieve his beeper, who knew who or what might arrive to retrieve him.
My god, he thought, what Hesha would do to claim this Eye. He only wished he knew how to summon power from it. Perhaps with its help he could survive. But that was a fruitless avenue of thinking.
Then he realized the only thing he could do. The only thing he should do. He would be a loyal servant to the end, and that loyalty would be rewarded with Hesha’s vengeance on these Sabbat, as well as upon Rolph and his Nosferatu masters.
Vegel pulled the bloody cloth from his mouth and reached into the pocket for the Eye. The Eye began to throb again as he pulled it out. And now he was finally able to have a look at it.
It was a grotesque, black and fibrous thing. Slightly larger than an eye should be and covered with a film of perpetually moist ichor, it also appeared to be covered with a casing of skin. Apparently, the eye had its own eyelid, and the fleshy black lids would not part, at least not for Vegel’s one-handed efforts.
Feeling the last vestiges of energy and life leaking from his body, Vegel did not hesitate. He set the Eye of Hazimel carefully down on the strip of jacket, and with his good right hand he gouged into his own eye socket, squeezed the fragile orb within and tore it loose. He tossed it aside and with his remaining eye watched the little mass roll away, picking up dirt and debris as it skittered across the pavement.
He then retrieved the Eye of Hazimel. He laughed, for even if the Sabbat found him now they would never find the Eye.
Rotating the Eye so the lid was oriented outward, Vegel slid it into his skull. With a soft squish it seemed to settle into place, and with a surprise that jolted his dying frame, Vegel felt something boring back into his head. Suddenly, he could feel the Eye, its heavy lid and reverberations of power from within.
Vegel opened his Eye, and his strength began to fade forever.
Tuesday, 22 June 1999, 1:37 AM EST
The bowels of the earth
His laughter shook the stone walls of the tomb, so that in his delight he caused mild tremors on the lighted surface of the world. It was no matter. No one suspected he was here. In fact, no one had reason to believe he still existed at all.
But now he was whole.
What pleasure it would give him to play childish games again….
Tuesday, 22 June 1999, 1:40 AM
The High Museum of Art
Atlanta, Georgia
A thousand million billion thoughts raced through Victoria’s mind. She could be wrong, but she guessed herself not so much in shock as completely and utterly baffled.
She struggled to find a means to put the pieces together. Were the Nosferatu involved? Rolph had left early. The only other early departure was Vegel, but she’d seen the Setite’s chauffeur when she returned to the garage with Samuel. If that was supposed to be a distraction, then why one that called attention to Vegel’s absence?
Additionally, if forced to guess, she would say that Hesha was surprised by his henchman’s absence too. Victoria couldn’t read people nearly as well over the phone as in person, and Setites in general were slippery liars, so it was very possible that Hesha was part of the deception. If it even was Hesha that had been on the other end of that line. The Toreador knew to take nothing for granted, especially on a night when a Sabbat attack had decimated the Kindred of her city.
The questions about the Sabbat themselves were limitless, and it only confused Victoria more to give them room to whirl in her conscious thought, so she kept them pushed back.
Some of her questions clearly had no importance any longer. Did Eleanor know Victoria was responsible for the tip to Benison about the missiles? Had she told Julius? Just as with everything regarding the last two years of Victoria’s life, those questions were now meaningless.
Because Victoria had no doubt that absolutely every Camarilla Kindred attending her Summer Solstice Ball had been destroyed by the Sabbat. Perhaps one or two more besides herself had escaped, but she couldn’t imagine it. She’d managed to escape only because of the trapdoor she’d installed in the floor of her cubicle of glass.
After she had gained the cover of that cubicle, it had taken her a moment to overcome the shock—there had been shock then—and begin to make life-saving decisions. The trapdoor led to a maintenance area between the third and fourth floor, and the less than four-foot height meant Victoria crawled to safety.
She heard the screams and threats and war cries above her, and more than once she crawled through a puddle of blood. She imagined she heard Julius’s taunts, and she stretched her fantasies to imagine him victorious, but the odds were too great. Besides, the sounds of struggle ended too quickly. Not even one with Julius’s speed could vanquish so many foes so quickly. Perhaps he and Benison together, but the Toreador knew such thoughts were mere fancy.
If she doubted the totality of the Sabbat victory at that moment, then any residual hopes were quashed when she reached the parking garage. She had hoped to find her ghouls unaware of the death above them. They would throw her into her Rolls Royce and race to one of her South Georgia havens—though maybe it would be better to go north—before the dawn arrived.
But they were decapitated and gutted. The same for the driver in the limo, which she now knew to be Vegel’s vehicle. Like her Rolls, the limo appeared to have a light-sealed compartment where a sleeping Kindred might hide, but Victoria didn’t dare remain so close to the Sabbat horde. The wheels on the cars were all slashed, but she suspected the perpetrators would return for whatever booty these cars might hold. She couldn’t imagine a band of that size staying together for longer than it took to annihilate the Camarilla, anyway. No doubt they would be fighting each other for whatever baubles might be found on their victims.
And that’s where Victoria was now. Looking inside Vegel’s limo for anything of use, she decided there would be one less item for the Sabbat to consider confiscating, because she took the cell phone. Her own phone was wired in
to the Rolls, so this portable one suited her present need. Besides, she knew the number the chauffeur dialed to reach Hesha, and she would use it if necessary. If it really was Hesha and he really didn’t know why Vegel was missing, then perhaps he would help her. For a price, of course, but any price was worth her life. Well, almost any price.
Then Victoria hurried out of the parking garage to the small street behind the museum. She wanted to find a covered position that allowed a view of the top floor of the building, but satisfying her curiosity wasn’t worth the risk of exposure.
The noise seemed to come from a long way off, but the echoing ding of the elevator doors sent shivers down Victoria’s spine. She immediately ducked behind a low concrete wall and looked back at the extreme interior of the garage. A gang of oddly shaped shadows emerged from the recesses of the elevator.
She forced herself to remain calm. Panicking now would only bring them upon her more quickly. But when a pair of dark red eyes seemed to flash from the darkness directly toward the spot where Victoria crouched, the Toreador lost her resolve. Summoning every bit of inhuman speed she could muster, the Toreador ran for her life.
Though her powers and her blood meant she rocketed along the street at a speed unknown to the greatest human sprinters, the pursuit seemed possessed of the same uncanny prowess, and Victoria numbered the moments of her life by the steps she took.
Tuesday, 22 June 1999, 2:09 AM
A dark street
Atlanta, Georgia
His tongue lapped at a thick, viscous liquid nearly dried on some hard, rough surface.
And that was all that was important.
Time passed and that solitary act, which had his survival at its core, remained the sole element of his environment even to nudge his conscious thought.
Clan Novel Toreador: Book 1 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 19