Clan Novel Giovanni: Book 10 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Justin Achilli

  Chas blushed inadvertently and felt a quick flash of red anger.

  “The death of your attendant Victor also matches the modus operandi of these new hunters. A team of them has made its home in Las Vegas. We think they believed he was a vampire—you were sleeping in the bathroom to avoid the sun, and it didn’t even occur to them to check there. Uncertain of the best way to destroy a ‘vampire,’ they experimented and poisoned him. That was the almond smell you remember—don’t look so shocked; you know I can perceive your thoughts. Cyanide.”

  “Okay,” Chas found his way back into the conversation, “then how does that relate to the other two things we’ve been chasing around? What does it have to do with the ‘old clan’ or whatever, and how does Benito fit into the picture?”

  “Well, Chas, to be honest, Benito doesn’t directly-fit into the immediate crisis. His disappearance those four months ago just coincidentally took place at the same time that we found out about the problem in the Underworld. Now, I’m sure Benito knew about what was going on, at least in some capacity, because he practices the black art himself, but he’s not an instrumental player in that particular chapter of the Giovanni drama,” Isabel confided. “I’m the first to admit that I’ve not pursued his disappearance with my full attentions because one missing Giovanni isn’t as important to the wellbeing of the entire clan as is the return of the clan we thought we’d exterminated in the past.”

  Ambrogino interjected, “Which leads us to the second part of your question: the old clan itself. When the Giovanni first claimed the mantle of clanship, we had to make sure that no threat to our claim would surface. The Kindred who Embraced us had become an obstacle to us, rather than a benefactor. We destroyed his brood to the best of our abilities. I myself hunted what we thought to be the last surviving member of that bloodline to a castle in Eastern Europe, where I discussed the ethics of the matter with the legendary Dracula.

  “It would seem, however, that our efforts were incomplete. We underestimated our progenitors— they had learned much from the necromancy we taught them. Several of the more potent childer of Ashur managed to escape into the Underworld, where they could easily hide from us as they had not become true ghosts—we had no power over them while they cowered in the lands of the dead. We could not compel them to heed our call; we could not force them to serve us as they were still Kindred, albeit Kindred trapped in the world of spirits.

  “After centuries, we became overconfident. We hadn’t heard anything from these Kindred for a very long time, and we just assumed that the Underworld had overwhelmed them, as it is an inhospitable place for any Kindred who stays there for a protracted period.

  “We were wrong. The truth of the matter is that the old clan Kindred who escaped thrived in that hellish realm. They practiced their nigromancy unimpeded by the boundary between the worlds. The same veil that trapped them on the far side of the spirit world no longer separated them from the place where their mystic powers originated. Although the Giovanni created the magic that became the Kindred practice of necromancy, the old clan mastered it in the hundreds of years they spent beyond the Shroud.

  “Finally, when the spirit storm withered the veil, the old clan took the chance to burst back through to the realm of the living—this world. Now, there aren’t many of these Kindred. I estimate perhaps twenty of them in all. But the old clan who managed to escape and grow are very powerful. The childe of the Kindred who Embraced Augustus Giovanni may even be among them. Only the most skilled at the time of our purge could have managed to flee to the Underworld, and they have since grown tremendously stronger.”

  “So, just kicking their asses is out of the question,” Chas commented.

  “Well, yes, to put it bluntly,” Ambrogino replied. “With creatures of that age and wile, the only hope one has is trickery. Something so old might be cunning indeed, but a physical confrontation is suicide. Some magical recourse must exist—such are the ends to which the foremost Giovanni necromancers have been researching.”

  “Um, can I ask a question, then?” Chas ventured.

  “Of course.”

  “If we can’t beat this thing, and it’s far more powerful than us magically, why the fuck is Isabel chasing it? No offense, Isabel, I know you’re good at what you do, but you’re not as old as these things are and they’re probably a damn sight better with the death magic, too. I mean, I know I don’t have to go along with you, but I’m choosing to, at this point, but if it’s just going to get me killed, I’d like to know so I can seek some other opportunities, you know?”

  Isabel smiled. “Ah, Chas; always able to add a sense of levity. What Ambrogino’s talking about is just conjecture. No one from our clan has verifiably seen one of these creatures and survived. Even Martino in Hong Kong saw only the briefest blur, which could have been anything, before fleeing his sire’s demise. We need to see this, to know it exists and to take from it what we can. If it doesn’t perceive me as a threat, I might be able to report back on the matter. Intelligence is a valuable resource.

  “But if it’s killing Giovanni…” Chas trailed off, unable to reason through the thought.

  “Not all Giovanni—the old clan seem to be starting with the ones personally responsible for their decimation, and then moving down the bloodlines,” Isabel added.

  “So then why haven’t any of them come after you, Ambrogino?”

  Ambrogino looked at Isabel, then back at Chas. “I’m not sure. My own abilities are quite potent, and perhaps they want to remove the lesser threats before focusing on a greater one such as myself.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Chas spoke to the world in general.

  “No one does, except the old clan,” Isabel confided in him. “Until we find out exactly what they want to do, all we can do is cover ourselves.”

  “And I have a Kindred who can help you do just that,” Ambrogino added.

  Thursday, 28 October 1999, 1:17 AM

  The French Quarter

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present to you…Natasia!”

  The dull but heavy roar of the partygoers’ conversations briefly turned into a cheer before once again becoming a monotonous din. Not many people here even knew Natasia, but they had come to the dilapidated house just off the main drag because the party had been underway nonstop for the better part of a day. The abandoned townhouse was filled to capacity with party guests. People of all stripes had come, having heard through the grapevine that Jake Almerson was adopting a child or something, and, hey, why not help this Jake character celebrate. Of course, some people knew Jake—knew that he was indeed celebrating with his childe, but that the word had a terribly different meaning from the homonym that most of the guests assumed was intended.

  Indeed, Jake Almerson had thrown quite a party to commemorate the release of his childe, a Kindred Embraced just over a year ago. Natasia’s Brujah sire had let every carouser in town hear about the impending bash—even at this very moment, some of Jake’s contacts were prowling Bourbon Street, directing drunken tourists and smarmy locals to the epic debauch taking place only a few blocks away.

  Six hours ago, a pair of police cruisers had arrived. Two officers walked up the sidewalk to the house, shaking their heads and smiling at one another. After a cursory effort at finding someone—anyone—who was at all related to the organization of this thing, they gave up. Better to let the neighbors make a few complaints about the noise and let the party die down by itself than to turn this thing into a police riot. Besides, a few ambulances had already been called to cart away exhausted or intoxicated celebrants. The sight of one of those always served to briefly turn the excess down by a few notches. With a shrug, the police returned to their cars, with to-go cups, and went on their way.

  Upstairs, someone had fallen through the floor of what was once a small library, but he was all right, having broken his fall on a pair of E-rolling teenagers groping each other in the rudely converted laundry room. The
toilet resided as a transplanted throne in the middle of the living room, occupied currently by “King Bacchus,” a drunken Hell’s Angel of unknown origin. A fight had broken out briefly, but the winner had put down his foe by crashing his victim’s head through a window and raking the shattered glass across his forehead. For the most part, though, the party was just that—a celebration.

  Chas escorted Isabel up the cracked pathway and stepped over the unconscious body of a visiting baseball player from the University of Texas.

  “Nice place, but I wouldn’t think it was your sort of crowd,” Chas smirked at Isabel.

  “I’ve known Jake for a long time,” Isabel replied lamely. “Everyone has their hobby. His is throwing parties.”

  “You said he wasn’t the most amiable person in the world.”

  “Look around. Does he need to be?”

  As they entered the house, a small group seemed to be hopping up and down in the corner. Chas grabbed an addled partygoer who just happened to be walking by.

  “The fuck happened over there?”

  The bloodshot eyes of the other guest briefly focused. “They put out the goddamn fire. It’s Natasia’s birthday, you know. Hey, do you know who Natasia is?”

  “No.” Chas let the poor guy go. “Fire, huh? Sounds like one hell of a party!”

  Isabel made no comment, instead taking Chas by the hand and beginning the arduous process of climbing the stairs, which entailed shoving a score of people out of the way.

  The reek of marijuana hung over the hallway at the top of the stairs, as did a less prevalent but powerful chemical tang of cocaine smoke. The scents of mortal sweat and dry rot also clashed, flavored with the slightest hint of vomit.

  Isabel pressed on, but Chas shook himself free from her grasp. The crowd had more than begun to get on his nerves. It was one thing to throw a party, but it was another altogether to corral a circus of freaks like this. Chas sucked in an unnecessary breath, hulking his body up and looking for any excuse to hammer one of these drunks in the face. To his surprise, the crowd seemed to swell around him, rolling over and off him as he passed, almost as if they felt the presence of his hostility on some subconscious level and equally subconsciously moved to avoid him.

  A few hands brushed against him, the advances of women too drunk to feel his tangible menace, looking for a quick amorous relation with, well, anyone, but Chas ignored them. If he was going to get into a fight here, it wasn’t going to be with some drunk slut he could break in half by slapping her. Still, maybe one of these skanks had a boyfriend who’d be up for some freelance dental work….

  The sight of Isabel in the hallway shook him from his violent fantasy. She closed one door, turned around, and saw him before opening the other door in front of her. She waved him forward.

  “You wanna fuckin’ drink, man?” The guy Chas had stopped downstairs stood before him, having just climbed the stairs himself and seen a familiar face. “You don’ hafta go back downstairs. I think there’s some booze in the…I know there’s beers in the bathtub.”

  “No, thanks.” Chas reined in the urge to snap this punk like a twig. Isabel was waving for him, which probably meant she’d found Jake and they could get the fuck out of here. “I, uh, I don’t like beer.”

  “Suit yourself, brother. You looking for something more serious? I know a guy here’s got tabs, some rolls….”

  “No, man, I’m just going over there to see my…” Chas walked past his new acquaintance and let the conversation drop. He didn’t know how he would have finished the sentence anyway.

  He joined Isabel, who shook her head in mock disapproval and opened the door.

  “Goddammit, that fucking door’s closed for a reason,” boomed a voice from within the darkness of the room, a solid baritone, with more than a hint that someone had interrupted its owner before. A heavy musk hung in the air.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting, Jake, but we really should talk.”

  Reclining bodies populated the room, perhaps a dozen in number. Some leaned haphazardly over the sides of broken chairs; others lay on the floor or on the tattered couch propped up against the wall. The room itself had its windows blocked, papered over with duct tape and stained sheets of corrugated cardboard. None of the light from the street made it into the room; only the tired glow of a single candle illuminated the place. The air was heavy with haze.

  “Well, who’s fucking asking?” One of the forms, the darkest, moved, like a shadow becoming a solid man. “Oh. I fucking should have figured.”

  “Such rude talk.” Isabel noticed that all of the other occupants in the room were women. “What is it this time? I don’t smell any dope in here. Are they drunk?”

  “They’re fucked on absinthe. Make it myself.”

  “Is that your idea of a joke?”

  “Hey, pretty Isabel, this is New Orleans. It’s what Lestat would do,” Jake smiled. Isabel saw his eyes had become bloodshot—she hoped he was still sensible enough to help her.

  “That’s lovely, Jake. Are any of them dead? I don’t want someone to remember me in the house when the police turn up a room full of dead hookers.”

  “They’re not hookers. They’re Zetas from Georgia State, I think. Or maybe it was Sam Houston State. I don’t remember. Who the fuck cares?”

  “That wasn’t the important part. I asked if they were dead.”

  “This one’s dead,” Chas interjected, lifting one of the smaller girls, who hung like a broken doll from his arm.

  “They’re not dead. Least I don’t think so. I think she’s just cold. Absinthe turns on you, man. Don’t trust it. Don’t fucking drink that shit.” Jake smiled. “Hey, have you met Natasia? She’s around here somewhere. My pride and joy, baby—a childe of my own.”

  “Did she used to be a Zeta?” Isabel asked demurely, which came across as all the more grotesque as she pushed an unresisting girl aside to make room for herself on the ruined couch. Chas walked over to the door, putting his broad back against it.

  “No, shit, Isabel. I think she was a…she was some kind of flight attendant. No, wait, she was…fuck, I don’t remember. But she’s mine now.” He turned to look at Chas. “What, motherfucker, you think someone’s goin’ to try bustin’ out of here?”

  Chas looked down at Jake, who lay on his side on the floor, using one of the girls as a pillow, resting his head on her exposed belly. “No, I’m worried about someone else coming in. You I can take care of, but I don’t want to kill someone I don’t have to.”

  “Fuck, Isabel, what you bring this punk motherfucker here for? Is he your toy?”

  “He’s looking out for me, Jake. He’s helping me out with something. I need your help, too.”

  “Fuck that shit. I can’t leave. I’m the fucking host of this little get-to-motherfucking-gether. I don’t like your boy, anyway. We’d scrap.”

  Chas laughed. “You don’t think I could waste some stoned nigger? Let’s see, huh? What is it you spooks say to each other? Let’s throw down, yo.”

  Jake turned to Isabel. “Oh, you got a real winner here, baby.”

  “Chas, can’t you please keep a handle on it?” Isabel looked to Chas, shaking her head and holding her hand up, hoping that Chas would take the cue and let it rest.

  “Well, let’s hurry it up, Isabel. Get this fucking monkey to sing and let’s go.” Chas crossed his arms over his chest.

  Jake laughed aloud and raised his hand to rub his eyes. “What do you want, Isabel? What do you and Robert de Niro here want? Let me get back to my harem, huh?”

  “We need to find Oliver Prudhomme,” Chas said. No sense in letting Isabel turn this into something even more protracted than it already was.

  “Prudhomme? That motherfucker’s out of his mind. He don’t have nothing you need.”

  Indeed, Ambrogino had warned Isabel about Prudhomme’s precarious state of mind. Apparently, the weight of being a Kindred bore heavily upon him. Still, Ambrogino was a better necromancer than Isabel was, and she had never be
en led astray by his information before. If Ambrogino said Prudhomme was key, nothing Jake knew was likely to convince her otherwise. “Let us decide that for ourselves, Jake,” she said.

  “Well, fuck it anyway, because I don’t know where the motherfucker stays.”

  “Oh, now Jake, that can’t be true. Are you telling me there’s something the would-be prince of New Orleans doesn’t know?”

  “Fuck you, Isabel. I never claimed to be prince. And fuck you, too, bitch.” He waved a hand over his shoulder at Chas.

  “So, you don’t know then. You’re useless.” Isabel put her hands on the cushions at her side, as if to push herself up.

  “Useless? I’m not the motherfucker who comes to a party and fucking sweats a brother who’s just trying to have a good time. You want to find Oliver fucking Prudhomme, you try looking in the dumpsters behind Emeril’s or maybe in the parking lot over at the Hotel Inter-Continental. He got a few problems.”

  “That’s no good, Jake, and you know it. I guess you’ll have to pay me back that favor sometime when you’re actually capable of fulfilling it. I’m sure the Kindred of New Orleans will be able to sleep well during the day knowing that Jake Almerson can’t find them. They might even think it’s funny.”

  “Oh, it’s like that now, is it? That’s fine,” Jake rolled onto his back again. “I just wanted to hear you say it. That just about makes us even, right? I mean, I’d hate for you to think you can’t trust old Jake to keep his word.”

  Isabel shook her head. “That’s right, Jake. It’s all even.”