Anyone who knew these Kindred’s secrets, however, would have found it utterly incongruous—a pair of Cainites, each at least a century old, dressed in fashions that the mortal world had adopted just years ago.
Almost ironically, they looked stunning, and a seemingly ceaseless train of libidos wandered up to them and threatened to buy them drinks.
“Tell me why we’re here again?” Marcia half-kidded.
“Because no one we know would come here, and because none of these people will care what we’re doing, or remember us if they do,” Isabel smiled.
They climbed a set of stairs, leading them to a lounge just beyond the bathrooms, but away from the dance floor below and the stadium seats one floor above. The crowd in front of the stage surged energetically, some in states of natural exultation, others in states of drug-induced frenzy. The performer on the stage mixed a strange version of one of his signature songs, the surf-punk dance samples of the tune laid over the melody and harmony of an old Rolling Stones classic. Isabel and Marcia were simply two more guests at the raucous party.
Marcia took off her stylish-yet-functional backpack, which was all the rage among the accessory crowd currently. From it she produced the journal she had received just the night before in New Orleans. The two sat on a battered leather couch, further withdrawing from the crowd.
“Is this it?” Isabel asked.
“The whole thing. It looks like that thing you’re after stayed on one of the plantations within the past hundred years. That’s the most current sighting I’ve found. If it’s as old as you think it is, it’s probably fallen back into torpor since then, as no one else seems to have seen it afterward. I’ve checked everywhere sensible within two states around Louisiana and even with some of the offshore oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. Nothing. I can’t imagine why a Methuselah would go to Mississippi or East Texas unless it was trying to hide, which, if it’s hunting us like you say, isn’t what it’s trying to do.”
“You’re probably right—I don’t think it’s even considered that we’re wanting to find it. Then again, that’s moot. I’m not even going to pretend to be able to outguess it. If it’s as old as we think it is, it’s got to be very cunning to leave no trace of its passing.”
“You really think it’s one of the old clan?” Marcia asked.
“I don’t know. It’s impossible to say now, but it certainly seems to hate Giovanni enough to kill us specifically. Frankie Gee’s only the most recent one, and when he disappeared in New Orleans, I knew it wasn’t over the Milo Rothstein affair. It probably smelled him the moment he set foot in the city.” Isabel was concentrating on the document before her, looking for any clue that might make certain that the monster below the journalist’s home was indeed a vengeful Kindred. The journal seemed strange—a much more poetic account of the event than one might think would show up in a diary. Still, not only did she have no clue about the monster’s identity, she had no idea as to the personality of the author. Still, it wasn’t written in Enochian, Sanskrit or Egyptian hieroglyphics, so she hoped she could rule out being set up by the creature itself. “Did you go by the house itself?”
“No,” Marcia said, “I didn’t think it would be wise. If the thing was still there, I’d stand no chance against it, and the only thing you’d have to go on would be my disappearance.” She shuddered a bit in spite of the intense heat of the concert hall, which was warmed beyond the normal Georgia heat by the mortals dancing around them. “I hope these pages help out. I had to promise a favor to get them.”
Isabel looked up, a thin smile on her lips. “To Jake Almerson? Next time you talk to him, tell him you don’t owe him any favors. And tell him he doesn’t owe me one, either.”
Marcia nodded whimsically and turned her own attention to the journal.
“Is there a test in the morning?” Distracted by the journal and the overwhelming music, neither Marcia nor Isabel saw the approach of the young man in the tennis visor.
“Fuck off,” Marcia shot back, almost automatically, while looking up to meet his gaze. She stopped short of her attempt to chase him away verbally, though, when she felt Isabel’s cold hand on her arm.
“No, wait,” Isabel said. “This one’s okay.” Marcia turned to look at her and saw her wink; Isabel hoped the suitor saw the wink, too.
Pushing them apart with his ass, the newcomer dropped himself on the couch between them. “I’m Scott. Either of you want something to drink?”
Isabel shifted into full flirtation mode. She looked meaningfully at Marcia. “Oh, I don’t know. But I guess I am kind of thirsty.”
At this last remark, Marcia shook her head and smiled. “Girl, you have no shame.” Then she turned to Scott. “I’m Patrice. Nice to meet you, Scott. Sorry about cutting you off like that, but your pick-up line blows.”
A sheepish smirk overtook Scott’s face. “Yeah, well, I didn’t really expect to see anyone looking over a notebook at this show.” He looked over at Isabel. “I’m sorry, beautiful; what was your name?”
“Chloe.”
“That’s a really cool name. And you know what else? You have beautiful—”
“Eyes,” interrupted Isabel.
“How did you know I was going to say that?” Scott said through a broadening smile.
Marcia interjected. “’Cause that’s what every motherfucker says when he’s trying to take home a prime piece of pussy.” She made a grotesque face at Isabel, playing the part of the vapid club girl, but letting Isabel know just how stupid she though it was.
Isabel, though, was thoroughly enjoying herself by this point. She knew it wasn’t any stupider than their mark. It was amazing just how often a vessel would fall into a Kindred’s lap, never knowing what was in store for him. “Shut up, Patrice. You’re going to ruin my chances with this dashing Southern gentleman.”
Oh, so it’s a game, now, is it, Isabel? Marcia though to herself. Well, I’m better at this than you are. See if your old ass can keep up with someone who’s young and still got it. Isabel fought back a smile, as if reading Marcia’s mind. The hunt was on.
Scott, of course, loved every minute of it. Little had he known when he selected the two women to be the recipients of his dazzling attentions that they would be so responsive to him. He didn’t even have to turn on too much of his boundless charm—chalk it up to the power of natural charisma. In fact, the most difficulty these ladies gave him was in the decision between them. What the hell, Scott reasoned, deciding to attempt to take them both to bed. After all, life is boring without a little risk. The way things were going, the worst he’d do was to get only one of them.
The innuendo proceeded, Isabel and Marcia baiting Scott and each other and Scott responding, leaving no question at all as to his singular goal.
“Patrice” wrapped her arm around their suitor’s shoulder; “Chloe” crossed her legs so that one rested over his. Scott grinned and stretched backward, making himself comfortable and allowing the women to battle over the field of his body. Marcia leaned in to kiss his ear; Isabel pulled his head away from her and rested it on her shoulder. Scott bowed his legs away, allowing both of them greater and equal access to his libidinous bounty. Marcia tugged at his shirt and slunk one leg over his, dry-humping his thigh. Isabel locked her mouth around his, chasing his lazy tongue with hers. Certain of his impending carnal victory, Scott grew bold and slid his hand under Isabel’s shirt, his hand inexpertly kneading the flesh of her small breast—which he didn’t seem to mind was uncommonly cool—in half-tempo to the thundering music from the ground floor. Isabel had to fight back a spasm of laughter at his clumsy lotharian ineptitude—but blood was blood, so she persevered, shooting a grin at Marcia after breaking off her kiss.
“Why don’t we take this back to the hotel?” Isabel suggested. “We’re just right up the road.”
Bleary-eyed, Scott acquiesced. Marcia pulled him up from the couch by his hand. Apparently, it didn’t matter to him that his paramours weren’t local. In fact, all that m
attered to him was the recurring I can’t believe this running through his mind.
The amorous trio stalked the five blocks to the Westin Peachtree in short order, stopping briefly in the hotel bar for a round of largely untouched vodka martinis and earning the derisive looks of the more staid guests. The drinks deterred their course only temporarily, however, and within ten minutes, they had settled their tab, taken an elevator, and stood outside Isabel’s room.
“Patrice” made a grand show of fumbling with the key, though she knew it was probably unnecessary—Scott hadn’t been paying attention to details since he weaseled his way onto the couch back at the Tabernacle. She pushed open the door, staggered inside and collapsed supine on the vast bed.
That was all the encouragement Scott needed. He walked deliberately over to her in a drunken attempt at sultriness and forced his knees between her legs, which Marcia had bent at the knee and left somewhat apart.
Isabel, no longer under the pretense, closed the door quietly and slid the lever over the post. She killed the light, which she had left on before leaving for the concert hall.
Meanwhile, Scott had gracelessly removed Marcia’s backpack and left it by the side of the bed. He tugged her T-shirt over her head and dropped it over the pack. Marcia giggled. Jesus, he licked his lips.
Isabel took the opportunity to relieve Scott of his shirt in her own fashion—she tore it at the neck and split it downward, pulling it off his body like a jacket that had been donned backward. He turned around for a moment, eyes flashing in preparation for the lusty fornication that was no doubt about to ensue, only to see her appreciating his body. Scott had well-defined muscles, but not enough bulk to make him too big. A frisson of vain pleasure surged through him: Yeah, I know I look good. But Marcia distracted him back to her with a tug at the front of his pants, and her fingers quickly found their way over the top and into his waistband. Isabel took to running her hands over his back and pectorals. Not wanting to deny his lovers access to his greatest prize for a moment longer, Scott undid the button and zipper of his pants himself while Isabel threw his visor-cap aside. Marcia grabbed the elastic of his exposed boxer shorts and jerked them down, exposing his engorged sex.
He does have a reason to be so smug, after all, Marcia thought to herself before taking his girth into her mouth. And waited on the physical cue…
Marcia felt Scott’s body go rigid all of a sudden. She looked up just as his hellish scream choked off, silenced by Isabel’s powerful hand, which had clamped over his mouth—and broken his jaw. Isabel herself peered down at Marcia, biting down between his shoulder and neck, her eyes glazed over as the gluttonous Beast grew fatted with the young man’s vitae. Marcia then distended her fangs, piercing Scott’s tumescent penis and gulping in the rich blood that had traveled there in his arousal.
Scott twitched violently, held in place by Isabel, who pinned his arms in place and silenced him, and Marcia, who held his legs, preventing him from buckling or collapsing. He felt as if his body had been doused in acid—his blood turned to fire as it flowed out of his body and into the mouths of the witches who had tricked him. He kicked, shook, neither to any avail. Even as he grew tired, his blood no longer able to carry oxygen to his extremities, his exhaustion was one of anguish. This is what it must feel like to burn to death, Scott thought. Tears rolled down his cheeks, his nose bled and he could taste the coppery metal of blood in his mouth from where Chloe had shattered his mandible with her bare hand. This is how it feels to die of poison in your lungs. And these monsters are real.
The Kindred took their time drawing Scott’s precious vitae from him, prolonging his agony. Weakened by the loss of blood, Scott could no longer resist them as they broke off their kiss and moved their mouths to other parts of his body. They opened his wrists and inside his thighs, drank from his tongue and from the rippled flesh just below his left breast. For half an hour, Marcia and Isabel fed from their wretched vessel, carrying out the act as though it were mortal sex—tempting, prurient, orgasmic, base and cathartic all at once.
When the two women were done, Isabel rose and brushed stands of hair out of her eyes. “I didn’t intend to finish him.”
“Me, neither,” said Marcia as she pulled her top back on. “But I couldn’t stop once it got going.
Help me put his clothes back on. We’ll walk him out of here like he’s passed out drunk and leave the body somewhere.”
“He’s turning blue!”
“Yeah, that happens when there’s no blood in your veins. Quick—I’ve got makeup in the bathroom. Dust him with base and rouge while I call a cab.” Marcia did as she was told. Twenty minutes later, the Kindred and their dead companion took a taxi to the neighborhood around Fort McPherson, in the southern part of Atlanta. They broke into an abandoned box factory, surrounded the corpse with corrugated cardboard, doused it with lighter fluid, and set flame to the whole mess.
“This is fucked up,” Marcia commented to no one in particular.
“Well, it’s more inconvenient than anything else. Think of the time investment like you were cooking dinner as a mortal. Except as a Kindred, you get to eat before you prepare the meal.” Isabel shrugged.
“No, I’ve done this before. It just never gets any easier,” Marcia said.
Isabel saw blood-tears trickling down her cheeks. She resisted the urge to tell her companion that, yes, indeed, it did become easier. Too easy, at times.
After an hour of burning the body and reigniting the portions that remained, they swept the ashes around the factory and gathered the bones. These they pounded into unrecognizable bits of detritus and scattered them around the factory, in the trash, around the weedy outside lawn and into the sewers. One thing was sure—no one was going to find Scott.
Marcia wiped her eyes, staining her forearm with a bloody smear. The two women caught a cab and returned to their hotel.
Thursday, 29 July 1999, 3:43 AM
Seasons Restaurant, Bostonian Hotel
Boston, Massachusetts
The night could end only in disaster. That much Chas knew. Isabel expected him to accompany Genevieve Pendleton in her discussion with the Camarilla’s diplomat, Jacques Gauthier. Pendleton was dead, Gauthier was pompous, Isabel hadn’t made the diplomat very welcome when they last met, and Chas wanted to tear the guy in half on principle.
In the interests of keeping things from becoming a complete cluster fuck, Chas had kept his involvement fairly low-key. Isabel hadn’t called him, which meant that the Milliners had assumed that she was taking care of things after they’d received Pendleton’s resignation, and hadn’t bothered her. The best thing for him to do was…
Well, was what? Buy time? Wing it? Tell Gauthier to fuck himself? Chas had to meet with the guy—he didn’t have Gauthier’s contact information to postpone the meeting—but he didn’t know what the Giovanni’s stance was going to be. Sure, he had an idea after speaking with Isabel, but he didn’t know any of the finer details, and “Screw you, we’re going to stay neutral” didn’t seem to be the best way to handle things.
Chas had decided that the best thing to do was meet with Gauthier and tell him that the Giovanni needed a bit more time to consider what they planned to do. After that, Isabel could handle it. With any luck, Chas would get off with only minor punishment for indirectly—well, all right, directly—fucking up the situation in the first place, by preventing it from becoming any worse.
But shit never went down like that, Chas knew. Something bad was bound to happen. He felt worry gnawing behind his hunger when he woke, shaved, and dressed for the evening. To be sure, he left his pistol and brass knuckles at the Milliners’ guest house where he stayed and didn’t bother to take the sawed-off Louisville Slugger from the trunk of the car. If he didn’t want a fight, it wouldn’t work to look like he did, after all.
Jacques arrived early, which was a good sign. It showed that he took the matter seriously and cared more for the content of the meeting than he did for his own status. Maybe this won
’t be such a problem after all, Chas thought to himself. Still, Jacques and Chas hadn’t exactly been pleasant to one another at their last meeting.
“Good evening, Mr. Gauthier,” Chas greeted the emissary.
“Good evening, Mr. Giovanni,” Gauthier replied in kind. “Where is the esteemed Miss Giovanni?”
“Something came up at the last minute and she was unable to reach you.”
“I’ve been available all night. Every night, in fact, for the past two weeks. I even left her with information on how to leave a message for me during the day, should something strange have come up.”
“I understand that, Mr. Gauthier, and I apologize.” Chas wanted to go back to the name calling that had suited him when dealing with this prick earlier, but that wouldn’t have made things run any smoother. “She had left another representative of the clan”—not too far from the truth—”to attend this meeting, but something came up that made her unable to attend, too.”
“I see. So, the original negotiator with whom I had spoken about our mutual concerns left, and put someone in charge who couldn’t attend our meeting, thereby leaving only the bodyguard who sat in on the first meeting to handle the follow-up. A very indelicate solution, to be sure.”
“Now, settle down; I’m not Isabel’s bodyguard.”
“Then what are you, Mr. Giovanni?”
“We’re working on something else together.”
“I beg your pardon?” Gauthier looked incredulous. He raised his eyebrows in a manner that suggested he’d be quite interested in hearing what could possibly be more important than a consultation with a Camarilla dignitary in the middle of a sect conflict.
Clan Novel Giovanni: Book 10 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 12
