Fascinating.
Even when Nickolai had reached Leopold’s troubled mind, when the artist had collapsed from his supernal exertions in the cave and had been robbed of his ‘Sight’, Leopold had seemed to know where the Eye was. Nickolai had merely transported the enraged victim of treachery to the city, and Leopold had done the rest. And now he had the Eye once again. Nickolai had nursed him back to health—physical health, at least. He feared that Leopold’s mind, however, had been stretched beyond its limits.
The Eye, blinking, oozing, watching, did little to dispel that impression. Yet there was much to learn; there was much power here. And the gods knew that Nickolai would be in need of it. Leopold might, perchance, prove a fine tool indeed, a fine weapon. For Nickolai’s enemies were searching for him. His secret was revealed—or would be in time.
Nickolai turned away from Leopold. The Eye watched, as always, but the right eye still saw some specter projected by a broken mind. The warlock stepped into the next room. He took up a vial filled with blood. He’d collected just a drop of blood—not the blood of his enemy, but of his ally—on the night of that fateful attack, but the sorcerous arts were nothing if not practical. One drop had become two, and two four, and so on until the vial was full.
Standing before an ornate quicksilver mirror, Nickolai unstopped the vial and poured a small amount of the blood onto a cloth of pure silk, the death shroud of a long-dead king. The warlock wiped the cloth across the face of the mirror, and where the fabric passed, the reflection of the hotel room was replaced by another scene—cinderblock and bars; a hideous beast leaned over poor Benito and whispered lies in his ear.
Nickolai did not need to watch for long. The truth was clear enough to see. Benito had betrayed him, and soon the hoarders of secrets would possess his own secret. Damn them!
He went back to the other room and stood over Leopold. An unexpected boon, this Eye, Nickolai thought. There was much to prepare, and who was to say how soon his enemies would fall upon him.
Saturday, 7 August 1999, 10:10 PM
A subterranean grotto
New York City, New York
Curiouser and curiouser. Calebros pondered the strange new twists that the perversity of the gods had seen fit to toss his way. Not only was there no single member of Clan Nosferatu who was able to tell him the whereabouts of one Hesha Ruhadze, Setite, Esquire—and the snake was last reported seen here in the city, in New York! Infuriating!—but now there was some strange little Ravnos, with a Gangrel girlfriend of all things, who was also trying to find Hesha and who was making demands of the sewer rats.
This Ravnos, by the name of Khalil, was not a savory sort of fellow. His demands, some of them at least, were a bit on the extreme side, and he was apparently subject to some type of seizures. Odd. All very odd.
It was possible, of course, that this Khalil might be able to deliver on his promises of payment. The fact remained, however, that, even were Calebros resigned to bargaining with the youth, the Nosferatu didn’t know the answer to what Khalil was asking. Galling, that. Had Calebros known Hesha’s whereabouts, he still might have turned away the Ravnos on principle, but the inability to fulfill a potential bargain struck a nerve.
That was the course of Calebros’s thoughts when Umberto scurried into the room, his mouth all screwed up in apparent distaste at the message he brought—although Calebros had learned long not to rush to judgment based on the facial expressions of a man with no lips.
“Um…news in,” Umberto said, brandishing a printout unenthusiastically.
Calebros feared his first impression was correct. ‘News’ would be bad news. “Yes?” He steeled himself to receive it.
“Report in that…um, Anatole has been spotted.”
“Oh?” That was not so bad. After his tête-à-tête with Donatello, the Prophet of Gehenna had disappeared. Without a trace. The Nosferatu, masters of hiding and of uncovering the hidden, didn’t seem to be able to find anyone these nights. This sighting, however, was doubly fortuitous, for Calebros had decided to accept Jeremiah’s urging that the clan make use of Anatole’s presence. But not in the way Jeremiah had so vehemently suggested. Teach him to hold my reports hostage, Calebros thought. No, he wouldn’t waste Anatole’s talents on Jeremiah’s superstitions, hungry rats or no. The news that Emmett had forwarded, however, that was worthy of Anatole’s insight. If Jeremiah was right, and he was indeed able to lend guidance to the Prophet’s peculiar skills, then a great service to Clan Nosferatu might soon be fulfilled. The first step would simply be having Jeremiah catch up with Anatole.
“Where was he spotted?”
Umberto hesitated. “Um…on a…uh, that is…getting on a…a bus.”
“A bus,” Calebros said coldly. “For where, pray tell?” Say, ‘Crosstown’, Calebros pleaded silently.
“Chicago. Red eye.”
Calebros blinked. “Red eye. Then that would have been—”
“Several hours ago. Yes, sir.”
Unbelievable. “And why that long? Who—?”
“Uncle Smelly.”
“Oh. I see.” Uncle Smelly was well respected among the Nosferatu, but he did tend to operate on his own schedule, and nothing Calebros or anyone else said was going to change that in the slightest.
But all was not lost. Not yet. Calebros raked his talons along his lumpy scalp as he thought. Considering the information that Emmett had uncovered from Benito, Chicago, of all places, was one of the prime locations that Calebros had intended for Jeremiah to take Anatole. Coincidence? In dealing with the Prophet, Calebros did not believe there was such a thing as coincidence. Still, he was undecided as to whether this revelation bode well or ill. One thing, however, was certain.
“Track down Jeremiah at once,” Calebros ordered. “Give him the information about the bus number, destination, etc., then get him to Jaffer at LaGuardia on the double. I want him waiting at the station when that bus rolls in. I’ll have a packet ready in fifteen minutes for someone to take to him at the airport. See to it.”
“Gotcha.” Umberto scurried out of the room, undoubtedly pleased that the situation required immediate action and there wasn’t time for Calebros to be angry.
Calebros himself wasn’t completely sure whether he should be angry, mystified, or frightened.
A few hours later, a courier sent by Colchester arrived from Baltimore. The news he bore was grave indeed, whatever level it was taken on—collapse of the Camarilla, or onset of the Final Nights?
Jeremiah had wanted his time with Anatole to revolve around superstition. Well, here was something else to keep him busy during his vigil with the Prophet of Gehenna.
Friday, 12 November 1999, 11:47 PM
The International, Ltd., Water Street
New York City, New York
Although he was standing in the command center of the Camarilla reconquest of New York, few noticed Federico diPadua. The Nosferatu archon was simply one ruggedly handsome, well-dressed Kindred among many. As was his wont, he watched and waited as others received and made calls, directed couriers, and scoured countless maps of the city. He had bloodied his hands last night while Justicar Pascek had held himself in reserve should significant trouble arise. Tonight Pascek was venting his bloodlust while Federico played the role of backup. Lucinde, the second justicar in the city, was elsewhere and not so keenly interested in taking a direct part in the battle. The presence of the third justicar was unknown to any Kindred outside of Clan Nosferatu.
Here, in the American offices of the Dutch-based Jan Pieterzoon, that Kindred was directing the Camarilla efforts. “Are these the latest lists?” he asked his ghoul assistant, van Pel, who handed him a sheaf of papers, names and last reported locations of squads that were overdue.
“Current as of 11:30.”
Pieterzoon began poring through the pages. “Still no word from Archon Bell?” he asked after a moment.
“None, sir.”
The command center had been moved to the heart of the Financial D
istrict in Manhattan after two nights of operating in Queens, among the offices at the Aqueduct Racetrack. Despite significant losses, those first two nights had gone well and had seen the destruction of Armando Mendes, Cardinal Polonia’s chief lieutenant. Much of the Sabbat presence, which would normally have made the city virtually impregnable, was away to the south, sacking Baltimore—just as Pieterzoon and Archon Bell had hoped they would. That was not to say that the City That Never Sleeps had been empty of Cainites. The invaders had met fairly organized resistance in Queens, but that had crumbled beneath the two-pronged onslaught from the staging areas at La Guardia and JFK. Brooklyn, where Federico himself had spent much of last night, had been more chaotic, and there were still isolated skirmishes breaking out at intervals. Otherwise, however, the Camarilla had succeeded in breaking the Sabbat power in those two boroughs, driving the enemy survivors north and west as far as the East River.
Much of the southern half of Manhattan was already a Camarilla stronghold. That line had been pressed north beyond Central Park. That left Staten Island, where Pascek was attempting to establish a beachhead, and the Bronx, with Harlem and Washington Heights as something of a no-man’s land to the west. That was the area that Theo Bell had been prowling with great success, and also where he was last heard from early last night.
Pieterzoon seemed more at ease tonight than he had the past nights, though the absence of word regarding Bell obviously concerned him. Perhaps Jan’s confidence was restored because the attack was well underway, and to all accounts largely successful thus far, or perhaps because Pascek was in the field tonight and not watching the Ventrue’s every move like a hopeful vulture.
“Edwin,” Pieterzoon said, handing the pages to a Kindred who appeared right at home in the fast-paced world of corporate America.
Edwin Mitchell straightened his tie and adjusted the headset he wore, then began to examine the MIA reports himself. He was the youngest of Prince Michaela’s three remaining childer—the three that remained prior to the attack, at any rate. The eldest was a confirmed casualty, and the second was listed among the missing from last night. Michaela herself was leading the squadrons in the Bronx, the territory most firmly held by the Sabbat. That her assignment to the most treacherous portion of the city by Pascek was a clear rebuke, possibly handed down from as high as the Inner Circle, was lost on none.
“You can mark me off that list,” said Theo Bell from the doorway, but his reappearance was a relief for only a brief moment—until those in the offices took a good look at him. His face was badly scarred and streaked with what appeared to be patches of melted skin. A wet cloth he dabbed against his jaw came away bloody. His bulky leather jacket, which looked lived-in at the best of times, was torn and speckled with burn marks. The buzz of conversations and phone calls that pervaded the command post fell away to nothing.
“What happened?” Pieterzoon asked quietly, but his words carried in the silence.
“Fuckin’ Eye thing,” Theo said. “I never seen anything like it.”
“Did you…?”
Theo shook his head. “It got away. Or hell, maybe I was the one that got away. I don’t know. But it cost me a good man, and two other laid up for I don’t know how long.”
“In Harlem?” Jan asked.
“Yeah. It was last night, but I couldn’t get back before now. I was too wiped out.”
Jan took that in and began to synthesize the information into the mosaic of reports and updates coming in from all over the city. While the uncomfortable silence lingered, Mitchell pressed a finger to the earpiece of his headset. His brow furrowed deeply.
“Heavy fighting from the Bronx,” he relayed to Jan. “The prince’s forces are engaged…being pressed. Identified among the Sabbat are…Lambach Ruthven…” He pressed the headset more firmly against his ear. “Repeat, please.” He nodded gravely, then looked up at Pieterzoon. “And Polonia.”
Federico stepped forward without hesitation. “I am ready,” he said to Pieterzoon.
The Ventrue nodded acknowledgement, then asked Mitchell, “What is her position?”
“Current position?” Mitchell asked. He paused. “Just north of Whitestone Bridge.”
“Federico,” Pieterzoon said, “the reserves are yours. Use Throgs Neck. We’ll send the Manhattan units from the west and encircle them.”
“That would be my territory,” Theo Bell said.
Pieterzoon gave him a long look, sized up the archon’s injuries and fatigue as much as possible. “I don’t think so. I need you here…in case anything else comes up.”
“I can do it,” Mitchell said. He might not have experienced field command before, but his prince, his sire, was out there, and all present could see the intensity burning in his eyes.
“Very well,” Pieterzoon said. “Get to it.”
Federico was already slipping out the door.
Tuesday, 31 August 1999, 12:19 AM
An outlying burrow
New York City, New York
Calebros and Hesha sat silently. Waiting.
The Nosferatu was still chagrined, a month after the fact, that he’d had the infamous Setite, the melted man, under his nose, at times quite literally, at the same time the intense worldwide search had been going on. How much time and energy had been wasted, Calebros could only imagine. He’d been wracking his brain trying to find Hesha and the Eye as well, while both were in his backyard, practically over his head, and one the victim of the other. It would have been impossible, Calebros kept telling himself, to have recognized Ruhadze when Mouse had found him in the gardens at St. John’s. It was still difficult. The Setite was a collection of raw scabs and weeping sores. He looked more the part of ragged beggar than influential Cainite. He was far from recovered, but compared to his earlier state, he was wondrously spry. Whether the oversight was avoidable or no, Calebros still had not forgiven himself, and recent events had done little to improve his mood.
Other than the seats he and Hesha occupied, one other empty chair, a few exposed pipes close overhead, and an electric lantern that blazed in the corner, the dank stone-walled chamber they were in was bare. Occasionally Calebros drummed his talons on the yellow legal pad in his lap. He stopped when he realized that, in his agitation, he had punctured the top sheet. He tucked the page under and began scribbling notes on the next.
“No harm was done,” Hesha said softly, his voice still the slightest bit scratchy from the ordeal he’d undergone.
“As you say,” said Calebros, not looking up and continuing to write furiously.
“You concede without agreeing.” Hesha laughed quietly. Calebros’s head whipped up. Angry words were ready on his lips, but the Egyptian’s smile was not mocking. The Setite obviously realized the weakness of his position, physically and strategically, as well as the fragility of their alliance. “Candor is important between friends,” Hesha said. “Otherwise, perceived insults take hold and fester.”
“I am quite accustomed to festering,” Calebros said curtly.
“I fear that I’m growing so as well,” Hesha said, squeezing one of the boils that stood raised about one of his many open wounds until the canker popped, and frothy pus ran down his arm. He laughed quietly again.
Calebros punctuated a written sentence with a particularly violent period. “Your woman willfully disobeyed her instructions.”
“She exercised discretion,” Hesha countered.
“She blatantly disregarded the safety of my people.”
“If anything had gone wrong,” Hesha said, “it would be Pauline lying torn on the ground. Your people would have faded into the night, none the worse for wear.”
Calebros fumed. Probably Hesha was correct—but the Nosferatu was not about to admit as much.
“I will speak with her,” Hesha said reasonably. “She has not encountered those of your clan before. She’s not aware of how strongly your predilection for…”
“Cowardice?” Calebros suggested accusingly.
“Prudence, I w
as going to say. She’s not aware of how strongly your predilection for prudence runs.”
Good choice of words, Calebros thought. But, then, Hesha always chose his words carefully, always seemed to know just the right thing to say. It was discomforting in a way, how easily the Setite could alleviate tension with just a few words. Go ahead, Eve. Take a bite of the apple. Adam might like some too. But it seemed that they needed one another—and that outweighed their natural and mutual tendencies to distrust one another. Just barely.
It seems we each have our story, Calebros had said a few nights ago. We each also have no way to prove our own or to disprove the other’s. Hesha had agreed. Calebros knew for a fact that he had not acted in bad faith toward the Setite; Hesha claimed that he had not betrayed the confidence of Clan Nosferatu. It would also seem, Calebros had said, that it is in my clan’s best interest for the Eye to pass to less…shall we say, conspicuous ownership than that of the present time. Fewer questions about how it got out and about. You remain interested in possessing it? Hesha was. And thus they had entered into a marriage of convenience, of common cause.
It was true that Ruhadze had treated honorably with the Nosferatu in the past, but the past was no guarantee of the future. Especially with a Setite.
Calebros had been left to act on instinct. No amount of scribbling or note-taking or arranging of facts could give him a definitive answer. And so he had acted. To cement the deal, he had gone so far as to entrust to Hesha the secret that Calebros wished he could reclaim from his own clansmen: that he had known an attack of some sort was to fall on Atlanta. Hesha would have pieced as much together on his own, given what he already knew. So there was little real damage, and hopefully the Setite would take the admission as a sign of good faith on the part of the Nosferatu. Although still the disclosure grated.
Just as the indiscreet use of discretion on the part of Hesha’s underling grated. The bargain with Ruhadze had seemed safer somehow when the Setite had had barely enough strength to sit up in his sickbed, when Calebros and Cass had just figured out that the blistered corpse they had in their possession was actually Hesha Ruhadze. Each night, as the patient’s strength had slowly returned, Calebros’s control of the situation ebbed that much more, as did his comfort with his decision. Hesha was still covered with bleeding wounds, injuries caused by the Eye, that would not heal. Can I be certain, Calebros wondered, that, when he is again whole of body, his loyalty will continue?
Clan Novel Nosferatu: Book 13 of the Clan Novel Saga Page 10
