Clan Novel Nosferatu: Book 13 of the Clan Novel Saga

by Gherbod Fleming

  In all of this, the young sculptor was not overlooked. Not by Nickolai, and not for long by Benito. When the Giovanni’s assassins arrived to erase their own elder’s trail, Pennington was already gone. How better to ensure the kine’s loyalty than to bring him into the blood, when even death might not put him beyond the clutches of the Giovanni?

  The boy had not taken to the change, alas. He’d longed for his old life, the life that would have been taken from him no matter what, and he certainly showed no affinity for the mystical arts, not back then. Still, he’d had his uses. Scourge his mind of the reality he rejected; instill a new identity with foggy memories of an unremarkable past; send him to a new city.

  Benito had heard of him, of course. Talent could not be hidden among the claustrophobic little world of the Kindred. But after the first assassin had failed to return, and the second and the third—for Nickolai had watched over his castoff childe—Benito had understood that the mysterious patron was out there somewhere, and that each move the Giovanni made threatened to uncover the trail that led to him. Better to bide his time.

  There matters had stood until Benito had been foolish enough to accept the invitation to Atlanta. He should have known better. Nickolai never should have had to warn him away. But the keepers of secrets had been onto poor Benito by that point anyway, Nickolai supposed. They’d followed the spoor that led from Petrodon to him, and now they’d discovered the trail from him to Nickolai.

  Let them come, Nickolai thought. He watched Leopold in the mirror and pulled the brazier closer. The warlock placed a kiln-hardened earthen bowl on the warm metal rim and dipped a golden knife into the bowl. When he removed the knife, a trail of the juices he’d removed from the Eye stretched along behind the blade. He crossed the coals, north to south, east to west, dripping. The coals sputtered and red smoke billowed up, partially obscuring the mirror before him.

  Nickolai held the sanctified blade above the smoking coals until he felt the heat coursing through the leather handle, and the skin of his palm beginning to crisp. He raised the knife to his own eye, watching unflinchingly the shapes in the mirror through the billowing smoke. When the first drop of blood struck the coals, the image in the mirror rippled, as if the vitae had landed in the midst of a calm lake of quicksilver. Ripple after ripple after ripple flowed clear and true. And the Eye glowed more fiercely red.

  Saturday, 13 November 1999, 1:30 AM

  Pine Street, the Financial District, Manhattan

  New York City, New York

  Emmett listened to what Umberto had to say, then clicked off the phone and tucked it back into his pocket. He was comfortably situated on a second-story limestone ledge of the skyscraper that towered above him. Sneeze sat nearby expectantly. The boy had done well so far—that meaning that he hadn’t gotten lost running messages back and forth between Emmett and Archon diPadua several blocks away at the Camarilla temporary headquarters.

  Federico had sent his last note just over an hour ago. Seemed Polonia had been spotted in the Bronx, and the Nosferatu archon was running over to Throgs Neck to pull Prince Michaela’s bacon out of the fire. That wasn’t exactly how Federico had stated it, but Emmett was used to reading between the lines.

  At the moment, he was considering what Umberto had just told him: that Hesha had checked in with the news that the Eye was on the prowl again tonight, third night in a row. The only reason Umberto has passed that tidbit along to Emmett was that Calebros was out hunting with Cock Robin, everybody’s favorite justicar.

  Emmett was well aware of Calebros’s deal with Hesha to find the Eye and then turn it over to the Setite, but in Emmett’s opinion, Ruhadze could do with a little more backbone. While the snake was stalking Leopold and the damn Eye, the thing was taking out Kindred left and right. It had appeared on the Lower East Side two nights ago and wiped out at least a couple of sorry-ass Brujah. No great loss there. But then last night the thing had gone underground and waxed two Nosferatu and a few more Brujah to boot, including kicking Theo Bell’s ass. Pug had come blabbering back to the warren half hysterical.

  Emmett had heard enough. He was going to see that something was done about this Leopold freak, and if Hesha didn’t like it, that was his tough luck.

  In the East Village, Umberto had said. Little Ukraine. Emmett scribbled a brief note, folded it, and handed it to Sneeze.

  “Take this to Federico,” Emmett said. “I know he’s not there. Don’t interrupt me. Go like you’re supposed to give it to him, then give it to Pieterzoon. Or better yet, to Bell.” Federico’s last note had said that the Brujah archon had returned in bad shape from his run-in with the Eye. I bet he’s pissed as all get-out, Emmett thought. Good.

  Saturday, 13 November 1999, 2:00 AM

  East 4th Street, the East Village, Little Ukraine

  New York City, New York

  “You want me to what?” Ramona asked incredulously, barely remembering to keep her voice down. “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?”

  Hesha did not seem surprised by her reaction. He was decked out in what Ramona thought of as his city safari suit: black turtleneck, reinforced leather pants and jacket, holster. He was holding his backpack open between them.

  “I know it sounds odd,” he said in a perfectly calm and reasonable tone.

  “No,” she said raising a finger at him. “Living in the sewers, that’s odd. This…this is just fuckin’ stupid. You want me to attack that Eye with a leaf. Have I got it straight?”

  “Not the Eye, the nerve. It will work,” he insisted.

  Ramona peered down into the backpack. “What—you got the demon-possessed-fucking-eyeball instruction book in there?”

  “My research—”

  “I got a better idea, Mr. Research. How ’bout you attack that thing with a palm leaf? How’s that sound?”

  “I can’t see the nerve. You can. I’ll be diverting its attention. I’ll be in more danger than you.”

  “Who’s gonna be closer?” Ramona asked.

  “I’ll be close—”

  “Who’s gonna be close-er?” They stood silently. Ramona peeked back around the corner. She could see a shambling figure about two blocks away. She recognized his irregular gait. She turned to Hesha. “I don’t believe this. You say we’ll get the Eye. I go along with it. I help you out. And now you want me to wave broccoli at it. You know, you need me a lot more than I need you.”

  “It is a palm leaf,” Hesha said curtly, his patience thinning. “And we need each other, unless of course you’d like to go out there on your own and end up like your clanmates.”

  Ramona glared at him. Hesha’s gaze was just as cold. She held out her hand, not quite believing that she was really doing it. “Give me the leaf.” She paused before she slipped around the corner. “If this doesn’t work, I’m gonna stuff the biggest chunk of flaming turmeric root you ever seen right up your ass.”

  “If this doesn’t work,” Hesha growled, “that will be the least of my worries.”

  “Hey,” Ramona said, pausing at the corner again and peering around, “Leopold must be a popular guy. Looks like we got company.”

  Saturday, 13 November 1999, 2:12 AM

  The International, Ltd., Water Street

  New York City, New York

  The fog of war. Jan found it maddening. He had marshaled his forces, dispatched them where he thought they were most needed, and now there was only waiting. Battle was raging in the Bronx. House-to-house fighting. It was impossible to keep the police away completely. Even if the Camarilla carried the night, the Masquerade would be at best frayed. And there was no guarantee that they would triumph. As word trickled back, it was becoming evident that Cardinal Polonia was fighting as a Kindred possessed.

  Justicar Pascek was engaged to the south as well. There was no way to shift reinforcements from Staten Island. Also, unless Theo Bell could accomplish what had proved beyond an army of Gangrel, the Brujah archon could be fighting his last battle. Jan had hoped, but never expected, to get them t
his far, but Hardestadt would care little for preliminary successes if tonight turned against them.

  “Jan,” said a familiar but out-of-place voice, intruding upon his dark thoughts.

  He turned to see Victoria Ash for the first time in over two months, since she had left for Atlanta and disappeared. Robert Gainesmil stood behind her. As usual, Jan’s first thoughts upon seeing her were of her perfect beauty; but his second thoughts were his suspicions of her time among the Sabbat.

  She must have read his face or guessed his thoughts. “Jan, I know you don’t trust me, and I don’t care,” she said sharply. “You can have your Camarilla and your damned war. But Leopold is here, in the city.”

  Jan nodded. He was unaccustomed to her directness. “In the East Village,” he said. “Theo has gone after him.”

  That was all Victoria wanted to know. She turned on her heels to leave the office, then stopped and turned back to Gainesmil. “Give me the keys.”

  He did so, somewhat befuddled. “I can drive you,” he said.

  “I know how to drive,” she said. “And what good would you be anyway?” She strode from the office, leaving Gainesmil and Jan in her wake.

  Saturday, 13 November 1999, 2:15 AM

  East 4th Street, the East Village, Little Ukraine

  New York City, New York

  Theo walked down the center of the street. He didn’t see much point in playing coy, nor did he want to be in an enclosed area with the thing he was after. This was not a lively section of town after dark, even less so after the chaos of the past few nights. Sure, some kine were going to see whatever happened, but what were they going to do—call the cops and say they saw some big, black vampire fighting with some ugly, nearsighted motherfucker?

  The street was dark despite the streetlamps. Theo made a note to watch out for the damn lightposts. He wiped a leather sleeve across his face. The burns still hurt. A lot. That was one thing that this Leopold had to answer for. Frankie was another. Lydia and Christoph too. Christoph’s head, arm and shoulder were torn up pretty good. Lydia was in worse shape, though. Her face and chest and hands were burned all to hell, and none of the blood Theo had given her had done any good, just like with his own burns.

  He felt stronger walking down the street than he had hiding out in that office with Jan. It was the anger, the fire in his belly, that kept the Brujah going. If that wasn’t enough, he figured, he was fucked.

  As he continued on, he thought about the note that the kid had brought for diPadua. Somebody had been keeping track of Leopold and keeping the Nosferatu informed. Was the note from Hesha himself? Didn’t seem quite like his style, Theo thought. Did Lucinde have more to do with this? Jan had said that she’d agreed to let Ruhadze have the Eye. He’s welcome to pick up the pieces, Theo thought.

  When Theo saw the other solitary figure a few blocks ahead, he knew it was Leopold. The way that the bastard carried himself was familiar even at that distance. Theo’s burns began to sting and itch more than they had, or maybe he just noticed them more. He quickened his pace and strode purposefully toward his prey. Leopold didn’t seem to notice him. Eye or no Eye, Theo would be damned if he was going to sneak up on a fucking Toreador. Last night the bastard had caught him off guard. Tonight it was going to be straight up. When Theo got within a block and the figure was still lumbering the other way, the Brujah stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

  The creature stopped, and slowly Leopold turned around. His bulging left Eye seemed to cast a faint light on the street.

  “Hey, motherfucker,” Theo said, cocking his shotgun. “Remember me?” He kept walking closer. Leopold’s right hand was a bloody stump, wrapped in rags but not healed.

  Apparently Leopold did remember, and remembered what had worked so well last night. Theo heard the moan of metal twisting. He ducked as a streetlight swung just over him. He dropped and rolled and was back on his feet in seconds—just soon enough to leap over the metal post as it swatted at him on the backswing.

  “Will—not—harm—her!”Leopold growled

  “What the hell are you talking—” but Theo was dodging again from the metal post aimed at his head. He dove closer to the center of the street, out of the reach of streetlights from either side, if they didn’t uproot themselves and come charging after him. They were all swinging now, on both sides of the block, like the legs of some giant, overturned beetle.

  Theo rolled to his feet again, but before he could get off a shot, the ground was falling away beneath his feet. He leapt at the last second, his feet pushing off pavement that was crumbling to nothing, and landed hard. He squeezed off a quick round from his SPAS 12—and a flash of white phosphorous exploded against a parked car behind Leopold.

  Shit! Theo was diving again, dodging, always moving. More fissures opened, in his path, under his feet. It was everything he could do to avoid being trapped by the earth itself. His lunges kept taking him back into the reach of the flailing streetlights. Every dodge ended in another and another after that. His speed was an advantage, but he could feel his strength draining away. Sure, he needed to avoid Leopold’s attacks, but fighting to stay alive wasn’t the same as making ground.

  He was not going to his Final Death fighting a Toreador. He needed to get closer. Close enough to get his hands around that scrawny neck and snap it in two. And he knew, as one of the metal posts struck a glancing blow off his shoulder, that he needed to do it soon.

  Ramona had been expecting this Theo Bell guy to get his head handed to him, although Hesha had made it sound like the Brujah was a real hardass. Maybe so. He hadn’t even tried to sneak up on Leopold. Just walked up, intentionally got Leopold’s attention, and then started fighting for his life. He was hanging in there so far, barely getting out of the way of whatever Leopold threw at him, keeping a step ahead, but Ramona could see him starting to slow down, starting to wear out.

  That wasn’t all she could see.

  She would have known that he was Kindred even if Hesha hadn’t told her, even if the ghostsight hadn’t shown her. Bell was too fast to be kine, his movements a blur. He jumped and landed and rolled and got up and jumped again, all so quickly that Ramona had trouble keeping up with him. He got off a second shot that missed. That first shot had almost hit Ramona, who decided to keep behind cover for the moment.

  From her hiding place, Ramona saw what no one else could. As she looked on and Theo raced around the street trying to get closer, Leopold plucked the horrid Eye from its socket. He held the orb aloft, not in his hand this time, but atop the bloody stump where his right hand once was. The Eye twitched and throbbed like a living thing. It shone like a blood-red moon. Fizzling ichor welled up upon its surface and dripped hissing to the ground.

  Ramona could not tell where her normal sight ended and the ghostsight began. They were seamless. She couldn’t distinguish between what was real and what wasn’t. But she knew from Hesha that others did not see the orb held high; they saw it still part of Leopold’s face. She knew, too, that others didn’t see the writhing, snake-like nerve that, even now, was stretching from the back of the Eye, reaching toward the ground and burrowing, pulsating, drawing strength from the earth. She had seen the fibrous nerve in the meadow before the cave as well, when the Eye had destroyed her kinsmen. But now there was no army of Gangrel. There was only her, cowering, and one foolhardy man trying to survive against the Eye. Ramona knew she must strike soon. She had come this far and felt she could force her body no farther. But she must! The man standing against the Eye didn’t have much longer. That, too, she could see.

  Slowly, painfully, Bell was working his way closer to Leopold, but for every two feet he advanced, he ended up giving back one through his evasions. Every so often, one of the malevolent streetlights caught him, just glancing blows, nothing solid, not yet. But they were starting to hit him more often, and the craters opening in the street were beginning to spread and connect one to another. Footing was rocky and treacherous.

  Where’s Hesha? Ramona w
ondered. It didn’t matter. She had to strike without him. She had to take advantage of Theo’s battle, for soon he would fall.

  It happened the moment she thought it. A sheet of pavement rose above Bell like a tidal wave. It blocked the sickly light of the Eye and drowned him in shadow. The black wave rushed toward him. He fired his shotgun and the flowing wall of asphalt exploded, fragments flying everywhere. He dove, but not quickly enough this time. The remnants of the wave slammed into his legs and sent him spinning. He landed hard, and before he could dodge again, the closest lamp post pummeled him from behind. He slumped to the ground, and the post, instead of rearing back for another blow, wrapped around him, a constrictor engulfing a hard-won meal.

  Ramona started to rise from her crouch. She looked at her weapon, the palm leaf in her hand, and was again gripped by misgiving and terror. This is crazy! she thought. But she could wait no longer, or Theo, like her clansmen, would be lost. She had hesitated on that field of battle, and they had died.

  “Leopold!” came the cry, but it was not Ramona’s voice. Her head whipped up and she saw Hesha, pistol in hand, out in the street. He fired, and the bullet struck Leopold square in the chest. The bearer of the Eye staggered a step but did not fall. The Eye cast its blood-red gaze upon Hesha.

  Saturday, 13 November 1999, 2:37 AM

  Chantry of the Five Boroughs

  New York City, New York

  When the corruption revealed itself this, the third night running, Aisling Sturbridge knew that she would discover the fortress of her enemy. Discovering the fortress and breaching the walls, however, were very different tasks.

  She followed the lifeblood of the city flowing through the streets; she tasted the corruption of her own blood and, recognizing it as her own, she could not lose her way. To the heart of the city she led her adepts and acolytes, loyal Johanus ever a step away. Only a little way from their own sanctuary did they travel. South beyond the lupine refuge, not so far as the tallest and thickest of the bones and headstones of the dragon’s graveyard. The river of blood twisted through avenue and artery until it reached the fortress, and there it formed a fiery moat.