Clan Novel Nosferatu: Book 13 of the Clan Novel Saga

by Gherbod Fleming

  There may have been a fourth, Calebros did not say. He did not have sufficient proof yet, even though Victoria was Leopold’s sire, and to mention her to Cock Robin in this context would be tantamount to a sentence of Final Death.

  “Pet-ro-girik-gk-don…revenge.” The justicar placed a hand on Calebros’s forearm and squeezed, hardly able to contain his anticipation. The final word, revenge, was so clearly spoken and with such intense satisfaction that a chill ran down Calebros’s crooked spine. He prayed that the occasion never arose in which he might incite his justicar’s displeasure.

  Wednesday, 10 November 1999, 8:45 PM

  Aqueduct Racetrack, Ozone Park, Queens

  New York City, New York

  Federico diPadua, the Right Hand of the Camarilla and archon of Clan Nosferatu, sat quietly among his fellow Kindred. Plans were laid, the time for talking had passed—at least for him.

  For most of the others as well, but not for Justicar Pascek. The Brujah fancied himself an orator, an inspiring leader of men. Demagogue was closer to the truth. Pascek dominated any gathering to which he was a party; such overbearing and boorish behavior validated his innate sense of omnipotence. Not that the man was unable—far from it. Much of his high regard for himself was justified, yet his shortcomings were glaring. Not that anyone would ever say as much. He operated amidst a veil of secrecy, not because deception was at times necessary, but because he enjoyed knowing what others did not, and he enjoyed even more using that advantage to entangle those around him within his vile, paranoid fantasies.

  Federico knew the value of secrets; he recognized their utility, but they held no titillation for him. As the evening unfolded and Pascek spoke of what had passed and what was to come, the Nosferatu grew increasingly appalled at the misuse of secrecy. Some had been necessary, of course, but, he wondered, how much?

  Michaela, prince of New York, and no darling of the justicars or, Federico gathered, the Inner Circle, obviously had had no previous idea of the scope of the storm descending upon her. Yes, she had agreed to allow the ragtag refugees from the South to flee to her city, and she would use them to press her claim and bolster her title. Unbeknownst to her, this agreement had been but a plan within a plan.

  She, along with Pieterzoon and Bell, architects of the northern exodus, had been unaware of the preparations undertaken by Pascek, Lucinde, Cock Robin, and Lady Anne of London, among others. For over a year, detailed information had been gathered concerning hundreds of Sabbat in the New York area, and agents loyal to the Camarilla—Kindred, ghoul, and kine—had been surreptitiously introduced into the city. The Pieterzoon-Bell plan, purely a result of Sabbat aggression, dove-tailed nicely—and in Federico’s mind, too coincidentally—with the pre-existing arrangements, and so Pascek and the others had co-opted Archon Bell and the scion of Hardestadt the Elder.

  Pieterzoon had not known the full story until quite recently, and later in the evening, when Theo Bell had arrived, he had been fairly disgruntled as well. Although in all fairness, with Bell it was not often possible to discern the source of his disgruntlement; that disposition seemed his natural bent.

  As Pascek orated, presenting details and assignments like Prometheus bestowing fire upon humankind, and the extent of the deception became increasingly clear, Pieterzoon’s unease grew, as did Bell’s irritation. To their credit, each held his peace. A public forum would be the absolute worst place to cross Pascek, especially for his own archon.

  Lucinde held her peace as well, though she was in on the entirety of the scheme from the start. Pascek’s demagoguery was nor her style; hers was to appear meek and inoffensive, to allow others to underestimate her. Like Federico, she did her best work away from the spectacle of public attention.

  And so Pascek commanded, and Federico watched and waited. He had high expectations—for the battle that was now unfolding, and for the other, more personal drama that was playing out beneath the streets. For it was Federico’s own early investigation into the destruction of Petrodon, an investigation handed over to Calebros over a year ago, that was now bearing fruit. The plan within a plan within a plan.

  Wednesday, 10 November 1999, 11:10 PM

  Crown Plaza Hotel, Midtown Manhattan

  New York City, New York

  Nickolai could feel them coming for him. Something about the air, even here in the air-conditioned hotel suite, was different. Before the first commercial break of the late local news, his worst fears were confirmed. Gas mains had burst. There was an industrial accident by the East River; bridges and riverside parkways were closed. The Busey Building in the Bronx was scheduled for demolition tonight, so streets were closed. The charges had not been set precisely, and a huge dust cloud had billowed forth, obscuring visibility and creating a public health hazard; citizens within half a mile were ordered to stay inside.

  They know, Nickolai thought grimly. Tonight it will end, or tomorrow night, or the night after. But soon.

  “Is she here?” the voice asked expectantly from the next room.

  It was not what Nickolai expected from Leopold these nights. The warlock expected nothing, in fact, other than catatonic stupor. That was what the boy was reduced to. Never much of a conversationalist since the Eye had burrowed into his skull, Leopold had left Nickolai completely to himself—and to his daytime dreams of the Children.

  Nickolai poked his head into the bedroom. Leopold was staring at him, eye and Eye. The boy sat at the table, as always, and it, like much of the room, was almost totally encased by the thickening, murky vitriol that oozed constantly from the Eye.

  “Is she here?” he asked again. “You said soon.”

  Nickolai had told him often that she would be back soon, the Muse for whom the boy longed. The lie had been required less often recently, as Leopold slipped further and further from reality. But what had roused the boy from his silent vigil tonight?

  “She is not…” Nickolai began, but paused. “She is not here with us, but she is in the city.”

  “Of course.” Leopold smiled. Clear ichor dribbled from the Eye down his cheek, a few drops into his mouth. “Soon…”

  The time had come, the warlock decided. “I am afraid, Leopold, that there are those who would harm her. If they find her, they will destroy her, and we will see her no more.”

  The words had instant effect on Leopold. Eye and eye grew wide, a disturbing sight, and a pained expression contorted his features. He tilted his head, as if the Eye were suddenly too heavy to bear upright. “They…they mustn’t…” he stammered. “They look…I find…”

  “I think you are right,” Nickolai said. He had long considered this option, but had not been able to bring himself to accept it. Not until this moment. There was so much, he was positive, that he could learn of the Eye, so much he could still do. But his experiments thus far had been productive, and if he did not act, he risked losing that knowledge, never using it. And it was possible, he told himself, that Leopold had exhausted his usefulness. His deterioration was rapidly accelerating. Best to use what I know for the greater good—for my greater good.

  Leopold stretched and writhed in his chair. Veins both above and beneath the surface of the Eye bulged, and the discharge grew heavier and increasingly frothy, churned by the boy’s agitation.

  “I think you are right,” Nickolai said again. “They crawl beneath the streets, these people that would harm her. You must protect her. Give me just a few minutes so that I can aid you.”

  Leopold seemed disinclined toward patience, but Nickolai turned away confident that he would be obeyed. Blood listened to blood. The ritual did not take overly long to prepare. Nickolai had sent Leopold before and had also, the warlock hoped, perfected the additional rituals he required. The others would sense him, of course, in time. But that, too, might play into his hands. He had died to the world once, twice really, and that would have been sufficient had he not run afoul of the hideous justicar. Perhaps one more death would suffice.

  Thursday, 11 November 1999, 4:17 AM


  Eldridge Street, Lower East Side

  New York City, New York

  “Ramona!” Hesha hissed.

  She was furious, pulling against him. Her clawed feet dug into the pavement as she tried to push off. She was growling, snarling at him, but she couldn’t get her arm free of his iron grip. Finally she turned to strike him. His firm gaze caught hers, held hers. He wouldn’t let her look away.

  “Ramona!” he whispered harshly. “If you do not stop, you will fail your elders. Their blood will remain on your hands.”

  She felt her own hand raised, claws extended, ready to slash into him, to take off his head…but he was calm. He didn’t flinch or back away. Gradually, she regained control. She lowered her hand. Hesha let go of her other arm.

  “That was him,” he said.

  “Fuck yes, that was him!”

  Hesha had paged her hours ago. She’d gotten on the phone, quickly, and called the number he’d given her. Some woman named Janet had answered. “Mr. Ruhadze requests your presence right away.” That was the code they’d agreed on, so they wouldn’t have to mention anything over the phone. At first Hesha had told her it would be demands your presence, but she’d told him to piss off. So requests it had been. Janet had given her the address and directions.

  “The Eye?” Ramona had said as soon as she saw him.

  “Yes. The gem, it came to life again.” Hesha never seemed excited, but he’d been speaking very quickly, walking quickly. “It points us in the right direction, but we still have to find him.” He was decked out in black, reinforced leather pants and jacket over a turtleneck, complete with binoculars, hip holster, and whatever else he had in that little backpack of his.

  Found Leopold they had—and they’d watched him annihilate two Kindred. Watched and done nothing. The setting was completely different this time, but what Ramona saw was eerily familiar. She felt the onset of the ghostsight that Edward Blackfeather had imparted to her, what seemed so long ago. She saw Leopold pull the Eye from its socket and hold it aloft. She saw, too, a writhing, serpent-like nerve stretch and grow down from the Eye, until it touched the ground and bored a hole into the pavement. Ramona knew this sight was for her alone—Hesha could not see it, the two Kindred could not see it. Both Eye and nerve pulsed red as blood.

  And then the sidewalk fell away beneath the two doomed Kindred. They fell, and there was the sickening hiss of molten rock claiming more victims.

  “Ramona!” Hesha had hissed in her ear, holding her arm.

  She hadn’t thought about attacking, she’d just set out to do it. She could do nothing else. She couldn’t stand by and watch that thing destroy more of her kind. In the back of her mind, she heard the accusing whispers of her dead. But Hesha had kept her from it.

  “You must be patient,” he said. “Or you’ll end up like…”

  “I know, I know.” She wanted to feel Leopold’s flesh and the meat of the Eye shredded between her claws. “But we just let him go…”

  Hesha tried to console her. He was so damned practical and reasonable it made her want to scream. He asked her questions about what she’d seen. She told him. But her mind was playing what should have happened: her spilling Leopold’s guts on the street, her claws shredding the fucking Eye.

  “Come on,” Hesha said. She let him lead her away. “We’ll find him again. You’ll have your chance.” Neither one of them spoke for several blocks. Ramona was lost amidst her revenge fantasies, and Hesha was making his plans. “Besides,” he said at last, “there’s a different way we have to go about it.”

  Thursday, 11 November 1999, 4:20 AM

  Chantry of the Five Boroughs

  New York City, New York

  There. The blood ran thick and speckled with dark corruption.

  Aisling Sturbridge reached out a hand and touched Johanus. He must see, must taste. They all must. For ten nights now they had searched, since the Nosferatu had brought to them the words and the pictures.

  Last words spoken by a lunatic, words describing Sturbridge’s own dreams: The last of the light…it fades…high above, far, far away… The Final Night. Walls too slick…can’t climb…surrounded by bulging eyes, blank, bloated faces.

  Words of prophecy, spurred by Malkav’s childer, a fortress impregnable until the gates are lowered from within: The Children down the Well…they point the way… The Children fear their shadow, but the shadow fades with the last of the light… The Final Night.

  The lifeblood of the city flowed in the streets and rivers. The veins were laid open to Sturbridge, to her adepts and acolytes. Johanus, her Pillar of Fire, saw and understood. He would not let his regent forge ahead too recklessly. They could ill afford to lose her, not with the chantry depleted through treachery and through duty. The traitors were but ash, but they had weakened the body. Sturbridge had sent away, too, Helena and her jackals to answer the pleas of the Camarilla. But more insidious enemies lurked amidst the blood. Blood of her blood.

  Sturbridge had long ago suspected that the city’s heart had blackened, yet the lifeblood flowed. For she who knew where to look, the signs were evident, the arteries dripping corruption, hardening, calcifying like so many of the pock-marked edifices of the cityscape. The capering insects feasted upon the blood, scuttled along the arteries, beaten back only to return in force, preyers upon carrion. Sturbridge swatted them away; they did not concern her at the moment.

  The corruption amidst the blood—she could see it, taste it. Johanus understood; he would see that the others did. They were so tender of years, as guileless as any of the blood could be. Sturbridge must offer them guidance, while they lent her the vitality of their youth. The blood must boil.

  There. The blood ran thick and speckled with dark corruption. She would trace the black trickle and, in time, sever the leprous vein.

  Thursday, 11 November 1999, 4:58 AM

  The warren

  New York City, New York

  “Are you sure?” Emmett asked, not in the challenging way of a rival, but rather wanting to ensure that, in haste, mistakes were not made.

  There was little time for reflection, for weighing of options. The sounds of frenetic activity permeated the entire warren. Calebros had roused himself from his office to be more readily available to answer those questions that could not wait now that the reconquest of the city as well as the Nosferatu’s own hunt were both underway in earnest. He had never seen the warren so crowded and busy. Some hangers-on had arrived with the justicar. Other clanmates had come north with the Kindred from Baltimore; Colchester was about somewhere in the confusion. More Nosferatu, those who had not flown but opted to risk the drive or to follow the tunnels, would straggle in over the next few nights, and the numbers would swell further. On top of that, Calebros was constantly receiving and sending messengers to and from other warrens across the city. The war, the hunt—he found himself at the center of all of it.

  Calebros placed a reassuring hand on the shoulder of his broodmate. “You have done your part in this. I need you elsewhere now. Federico was hesitant to hand over the reins as well, but it has been for the best.”

  “I know the city,” Emmett protested.

  “Precisely. And Federico does not, not so well as you. We must devote enough of our people to the battle. The city cannot be lost because of our…distraction. I must attend to the justicar, to the hunt. You take up position near Federico—he will be with Pieterzoon and the others. They know him, they know his face.”

  “The face he shows them, at least,” Emmett said.

  “True enough. Keep in touch with him by messengers—take Pug, and Sneeze. They are quick and surefooted. You speak with my voice, Emmett. There is none other of whom I can say that.”

  “Will Umberto stay with you?” Emmett asked.

  “He will stay here,” Calebros said. “The justicar is hot for blood, and I must needs stay with him.”

  Emmett glanced over one shoulder and then the other. “I don’t envy you that. I know we’re not mu
ch to look at, but he…he gives me the creeps.”

  “He is our justicar, and I will serve him as I’m able. You could take Hilda…”

  “Up yours.”

  “I take it that you decline. Very well. Good luck.”

  Emmett muttered as he trundled away and became merely one among the constant swirl of bodies. “Fat fucking whore.”

  A few seconds later, Calebros reached into the swirl and stopped one of the bodies. He grabbed Sneeze by the arm. “Emmett just went that way. Go find him.” Sneeze nodded and was gone, back into the swirl.

  Mike Tundlight approached from the other direction. “Another message from Ruhadze.” He handed Calebros a folded sheet of paper and waited.

  Calebros scanned the words. “He’s lost him. The gem has gone dead. Nothing to do except try again tomorrow night…but he thinks he’ll be able to respond more quickly next time.”

  “If there is a next time,” Mike said. “The damned thing could disappear for months again.”

  Calebros nodded agreement. “Hesha is not one to act hastily. He has chased the Eye for years—but some of us are on a tighter schedule. Any word from Sturbridge?”

  “Cass took your message to the chantry,” Mike said, irritation evident on his maggot-white face and in his bloodshot eyes. “Seems the regent is too busy to be bothered. But the warlocks assure us that they are concentrating every possible resource on the problem, and they said this Nickolai is in the city.”

  Calebros let that soak in; it was the most hopeful news he had received in quite a while. “Good,” he said. “How did they know? What did they say?”

  “The one I spoke to wouldn’t go into much detail—no surprise there. It had something to do with Leopold reappearing tonight. That’s how they know Nickolai is near, but they didn’t seem to know specifically where.”