At last he was finished, and he gazed upon his work—a failure as complete and utter as that which had come before it.
The muse’s laughter sounded throughout the meandering copse of trees. Every leaf danced with the weight of her disdainful mirth. The vaguely human figure carved into the trunk of the oak seemed to laugh at Leopold as well. He laid his hands upon its face and dug his fingers deep into the wood, which crumbled beneath his touch. Splinters pierced his flesh, shot beneath his fingernails, but Leopold had no room for mercy, neither for himself nor for the tree-figure. He ripped and clawed and shredded until the laughter died away.
Suddenly overcome by exhaustion—how many nights had it been since he had fed?—Leopold fell to the ground. His most valiant efforts had been for naught. He clasped his hands, gory with sap, over his face. As he lay and mourned his incessant failure, his gaze fell upon the Eye, and as surely as Saul was blinded on the road to Damascus so that he might become Paul and truly see, an epiphany was visited upon Leopold. Firm in the conviction that his entire existence, both kine and Kindred, had been spent in preparation for this moment, he reached out.
For the three nights since then, epiphanies had followed one after another. Scarcely two or three hours had passed when Leopold hadn’t caught sight of the muse. She led him toward the eternal, the undeniable aesthetic, and with his newfound vision, he followed.
Leopold crawled to his current project, but the studio turned upward like a crazed gyroscope. He lurched to the side, grasped for a table leg, but was closer than he had realized and smashed his face into it. Paralyzing fear shot through him.
Gone for the moment was any thought of his glimpse of the muse’s ankle and the well-toned curve that led upward to fleshy thigh. Leopold closed tightly his eyes, his left eyelid stretching taut and unable to protect its new charge completely. Fingers quivering with trepidation, he inspected by touch his face and breathed a sigh of relief to discover no damage. He hadn’t hit the table so hard. The Eye was safe. The Sight was still his.
Leopold turned again to his project. Behind him, the muse’s high-pitched giggling tempted him, but he did not turn. He would not be distracted until he had performed the proper stroke, until he had been true to his vision. Then he would be free to pursue the muse further.
He crawled through the gelatinous ichor that seeped from the Eye and dripped to the floor before him. Finally, the feet loomed close. Leopold did not look up at the full figure, at the young man tied naked to the post, his raised hands swollen and blue above the rope. The sculptor was too intent on that which must follow. He reached around blindly, never taking his gaze from the ankle mere inches from his face, and pulled toward him the chisel and hammer that were never far away.
Imprinted on Leopold’s soul was each glimpse of the muse—the perfection of line and form that he would have been forever blind to, were it not for the Sight.
He raised the chisel to the upper curve of the bone and with a delicate stroke, despite the fact that this was not his medium of training and experience, he carved away that which did not fit his vision. He was not daunted by the sliding of flesh over bone. Each tap of the hammer was precision incarnate, the pressure of his grip upon the chisel steadfast. He worked with the diligence of a master sculptor spurred to ever greater heights by the compelling force and beauty of his vision.
A tiny flow of stale blood dribbled from the incision. Though Leopold had feasted the first night of his transformation, almost each cut managed to draw forth a tiny reserve of blood hidden in the tissue. He caressed the wound, brought his fingers to his lips, tasted the gritty mixture of marble dust and blood.
How resilient is the human body, Leopold thought, how full of potential.
Just then, he noticed the heavy silence that had enveloped the studio. The air did not stir, no sound from outside intruded, and most telling, the laughter of the muse was not to be heard.
Have I done it? Leopold wondered hopefully as he gazed at his work, though he did not feel that he could be finished. Surely he would know when the momentous occasion arrived.
Ever so slowly, so as not to imbalance the precarious world, he turned from the naked, carved form. He squinted shut his right eye to eliminate the overlapping perspectives of Sight and unSight. The studio walls grew faint, pale, as if they were half-finished set pieces on a minimalist stage. Columns took on a translucent sheen. Everywhere Leopold looked, the periphery of his vision was a dancing swirl of colors, a swarm of multi-hued locusts. He continued carefully to turn, and his restraint was rewarded.
For a split second, she stood revealed to him in her glory, yet even though he could now, with the Eye, see her, her ineffable visage was beyond his ability to comprehend. The Eye saw, but the Sight could not encompass. Again the world shifted. Leopold fell to his knees. The studio shimmered and swam before him.
But he could see the displeasure on her face. The disappointment.
So fragile, she said as she gently shook her head.
Leopold, his reality gyrating wildly, turned back to his work. The carved nude hung as if from the ceiling, but his hands were tied below him. Leopold fell to his elbows with a jolt, and the studio righted itself somewhat, though its bearing continued to fluctuate like the needle of a scale swinging from heavy to light to heavy, on and on, and only slowly closing in on the true weight.
The nude hung lifeless, its posture stiff, while at the same time its limbs were limp. Here and there, chunks of flesh and bone were gouged away—the brow, shoulder, belly, hip, knees, ankle. Only now did Leopold perceive the flies that amassed around the sweet smell of carrion.
So fragile.
Leopold threw the hammer away from him. It sailed into the distance, miles and miles to the other end of the studio.
Lying whore! he wanted to shout at her.
But, again and inevitably, she was right. He could look upon his folly no longer. With an anguished roar, Leopold slammed the chisel into the body. Ribs snapped as he embedded the tool in the chest cavity. The nude recoiled with all the emotion of a sack of flour. Neither did it object as Leopold wept on its bruised and bloodied feet.
“Why?” he cried. So much work, and for no purpose. Leopold strove to convey the perfection he perceived, but again he’d failed. He would go mad with failure. He must succeed.
Away from here, she teased, her playful nature having quickly returned. Away from here.
Away? Her words latched onto Leopold. He slowly cast his hybrid gaze around the studio.
Away from here. Away from this place, his thoughts echoed her words.
The hard concrete, the plain, wooden interior—they were unremarkable to his Sight, almost immaterial. How could he hope to express truth among such drab environs? His spirits rose at the implication that the failing had not been completely of his skills. Of course he would succeed. Why else would the muse have chosen him?
Patience, he chided himself. Patience. But he wanted this so badly!
Mmmm, she purred very close to him. She breathed deeply of his confidence. The tools, Leopold… I will take you to them.
Yes, the tools. The hammer in some dark, far-off corner, the chisel embedded in the abomination— these were the primitive tools of his failure, and like this studio, this city, they were contaminated by his unenlightened hands of yesterday.
I will take you to them.
To the proper instruments. To a place of enlightenment. She would entrust to him the relics of perfection, and he would wield them in a shrine to beauty. She was his muse, his goddess, and with the Eye he would learn her mysteries and become high priest of the hidden truth. The unenlightened masses would beg to drink from his hands.
Come.
“Yes, dearest.” The world swirled sickeningly with his every step, but still Leopold followed.
Saturday, 17 July 1999, 3:00 AM
George Washington Bridge
New York City, New York
More than a hundred feet below, the river passed beneath Ramona,
but the motion was difficult to detect except in the scattered patches of illumination. There the surface of the water shimmered and appeared to move quickly through the light from one black nothingness to another black nothingness. This was the nightface of the river—the only face that Ramona would ever see. She clung to the underside of the George Washington Bridge as she shimmied along one girder to another. Above her, every few moments, a car rumbled across.
She could be the troll under the bridge, she thought, and make out a hell of a lot better than three ornery goats. Hunting, she decided, was governed by the same three golden rules as real estate, which her shuckster uncle, Kenny, had so often recited: location, location, and location. Thanks to Ramona, Kenny didn’t sell much real estate anymore.
Ramona paused in her crossing and hung her head back to look at the river below. It really did look like a wide paved street at night. Maybe that was what gave so many jumpers second thoughts when they stepped over the railing and saw where they were about to go. Jumping into a river didn’t sound so bad, as far as suicide went. It was almost like being a kid again and going swimming, jumping into a pond or a pool. But when the jumper stood on the edge and saw what, with the force of impact, might as well be rock-hard pavement…
One then the other, Ramona eased her feet off the girder. The lower half of her body swung down and dangled beneath the bridge. She was neither large nor heavy and barely felt the added weight her arms were bearing.
What would happen to me? she wondered. What would happen to this thing that used to be my body?
She had thought herself invincible for a while after becoming what she was now, but as she and the others had traveled east across the country, they had been attacked by that…monster, for lack of a better name—a giant blur of teeth and claws and death. What happened to Eddie proved that Ramona’s kind were not invincible. Far from it. Just when she thought she had everything figured out, it seemed something new always came along to throw her off.
She let go of the bridge with her right hand and let that arm hang loose at her side.
What would happen to me?
Would that sudden impact be the end? Would she crawl from the water broken in body but only needing more blood to be good as new?
Hanging by one hand, Ramona gazed down at the patches of dancing light that broke up the black pavement of the river. Her world had become that black river, and she was a tiny patch of the familiar surrounded by darkness and unknown.
She hadn’t asked for this. Imperfect as her old life had been, she would’ve made her way. Never would she have chosen to enter this world where so much was deceptively familiar, but scratch the surface and nothing was the same.
She lifted one of the fingers of her left hand from bridge, and then a second finger. She raised a third finger, her thumb. One finger held her aloft. It was more than strong enough. The strength of her body, this collection of muscle and bone and tendon that she used to know, constantly amazed her. She felt a claw—where her fingernail used to be—dig into the steel girder.
What would happen to me?
What, she wondered, had already happened to her?
Reluctantly, Ramona raised her right hand and again took hold of the bridge. Like the patches of light on the river, she was not alone, and though whatever responsibilities she took on herself were of her own making, they served to keep her, like the water beneath the bridge, moving forward.
With uncanny ease, she lifted her feet back to the girder and continued her commando crawl across.
Closer to shore, she dropped to the bank, twenty, maybe thirty feet below. She landed on all fours in a cat-like crouch. Scrambling up the incline, she paused to tug at her shoe. The old sneaker felt odd, like the side had busted out, but there didn’t seem to be any damage. Probably the drop from the bridge had ripped the insole or something. Ramona hopped over the crest of the bank and tapped her foot to straighten whatever had gotten askew.
“Hey, sweetcakes. Nice acrobatics.”
Ramona dropped to a defensive crouch. The guy facing her, however, sat unconcerned on his motorcycle, hands clasped behind his head, feet propped up on the handlebars. He sneered out of one side of his mouth and took obvious pleasure that he’d surprised her.
“Good night for a swan dive?” He started a high-pitched whistle, the sound of a bomb falling to the earth, and ended with an imitation of a splash.
Ramona eyed him warily. Very few people got the jump on her anymore, and those who did very likely meant trouble. His short hair and sharp eyebrows were very dark, a striking contrast to his incredibly pale skin. Blue veins bulged from his biceps, his forearms, his neck.
Like me? Ramona wondered.
She had been more darkly complected before… before the change, and had paled considerably since. But nothing like this guy. His skin seemed to hug each and every muscle and collapsed to fill every hollow space. His tight features reminded Ramona of what she noticed when she looked in a mirror.
“Sooo…” He drew the word out, and his crooked smile vanished.
Before Ramona could even react to his movement, he was standing before her. From semi-reclined atop the bike to fully upright had taken him barely a second.
At least his display mostly confirmed Ramona’s suspicions. He had to be like her. Or worse.
“Are you ready to play with the big boys?” he asked.
Ramona surprised herself with the deep, menacing growl that erupted from within her. The biker inched back almost imperceptibly but immediately tried to shrug off his retreat.
“Who the hell are you?” Ramona demanded.
“The question,” he said, “is who the hell are you, and what the hell do you think you’re doing here? Last time I checked, this was Sabbat turf, and you ain’t part of the club.”
Sabbat.
It was a name Ramona had heard occasionally over the past two years, mostly before she and the others had left L.A., but what was it? Some kind of gang, but on the West Coast and the East Coast?
She held her ground and watched for any move the biker might make. Ramona had an idea of her own capabilities, but who was to say whether this guy was equally fast and strong, or faster and stronger?
“Not much of a talker, are you, sweetcakes?” he said and began to ease back toward his motorcycle. “I’ll tell you what. Since I’m such a nice guy…” he threw one leg over the bike and turned the key, “I’m gonna give you a chance. I’ll be back. You be ready to come with me. Otherwise, beat meat now.” He kickstarted the bike, revved the engine to a prolonged, deafening roar, and then with a snide wink screeched off down the street and over the bridge.
Ramona relaxed, but not much.
Sabbat.
She and the others had left L.A. because there were so many creatures like them roaming the streets at night. Was New York going to turn out to be the same way?
Cities are where the food is, she reminded herself.
Food. Blood.
How quickly she had grown accustomed to this new diet, so much so that she thought of cities in much the same way that she used to think about restaurants. Los Angeles or New York? McDonald’s or Burger King?
Satisfying herself that the biker was actually gone—the sound of his engine had faded across the river—Ramona made her way the last few blocks to a relatively small aluminum building. A chain was wrapped several times around the door handle and a bracket on the wall, but when she pulled the door open as far as it would go, there was enough room for her to squeeze through.
“Hey,” Ramona called as her eyes began to adjust to the darkness. A light illuminated the center of the open room, ruining her night vision.
“Ramona?” came a small voice from one of the large holes in the floor, also the source of the light.
“Yeah.”
Jenny’s head rose into view, then her shoulders, then torso, as she climbed the steps from one of the twin grease pits. She carried the type of light on a hook that a mechanic would hang above an engine he wa
s working on. A cord ran from the light back down the steps.
“Is Darnell with you?” asked Jenny.
“No.”
Jen was taller than Ramona, and blonde. She must’ve been a looker before, Ramona had always thought, but now she was a bit too gaunt and pale to be pretty. Like Ramona, Jenny wore ripped jeans— torn not to be stylish, but after months and months of wear and tear. But while Ramona sported a ratty T-shirt, Jen huddled beneath not one but two oversized sweatshirts, despite the summer heat.
“It’s cold in here,” said Jen. She crossed her arms and hugged them to her body. “Are you cold?”
“No.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Out.” Ramona glanced around the abandoned garage. Both bay doors were still chained from the inside. Other than that, she couldn’t really see much beyond the small area the light penetrated. Probably, she thought, they could both see better if Jenny just turned off the damned light. Potent night vision was another side effect Ramona had noticed since the change. But Jen clung to her old ways.
Like a jumper to that rail, thought Ramona, remembering the bridge. “Any trouble?” she asked. She didn’t see any sign of the biker, or anyone else, having bothered the place.
“No. You?”
“Not really.”
“What do you mean, ‘not really’?” Jenny was instantly agitated. It didn’t take much.
Ramona wished she hadn’t said anything. “I mean not really. Some biker acting tough. That’s all.”
They both jumped when the door banged against the chain. To their relief, Darnell slipped in. “Turn off the fuckin’ light.”
“Fuck you,” Jen snapped.
“Fuck you,” he shot back. “You can see the light outside through the cracks around the door. Keep it in the pit if you’re afraid of the dark.”
Ramona sighed. This was why she stayed away. She didn’t need the headache. She’d be better off without them. Or she might be dead without them. “Who cares if anybody sees it?”
Clan Novel Gangrel: Book 3 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 4
