by Eric Griffin
“In a desperate attempt to halt the wildfire spread of the curse, the city’s ruler, Prince Benison, laid down strict decrees aimed at quarantining these high-risk groups. Naturally, those who were subjected to the harsh dictates were resentful of being stripped of their liberties. The exact course of events and reprisals that followed from this point is a bit difficult to reconstruct.
“We know that, incited by the meddling Brujah, the Anarchs revoked. Soon open conflict raged in the streets of Atlanta. It is further said that the Brujah made an attempt on the life of the Prince himself, an unfortunate occurrence which only hastened their exile from the city.”
Polonia waited patiently for this news to sink in. Borges and his faction were, no doubt, already appraised of the situation. They had had forces on the ground in the city for months now—running reconnaissance, rousing the Anarchs, picking at the seam of the Camarilla’s cherished Masquerade.
For the others present, however, the fact that the Brujah had been ousted from the city would be welcome news indeed. Polonia was pleased at the effect his words had produced. The assembly seemed in high spirits and there was much side discussion.
“The Brujah,” Caldwell could be heard to snort dismissively.
“They are a hard-fighting clan,” Vallejo admitted, in animate discussion with the delegate from Detroit. “Always the toughest knot of resistance in the Camarilla battle lines.”
“Nah, it’s those damned Gangrel that you have to watch for. Maybe you don’t have them so bad in Madrid, but up on the border, you can’t swing a dead cat without startling up a whole nest of them.”
“Certainly, we have Gangrel in Madrid. Well, not in Madrid, but in España, yes? In open terrain, I grant you, there is no fiercer opponent that the bestial Gangrel. But in the close fighting of city combat? No, here the Brujah are the more dangerous opponents.”
“The Gangrel?” Hardin chimed in from across the table. “You’re not from around here are you? Where you gonna find Gangrel around here? Sure there’s bound to be a few scattered packs holed up in the north Georgia mountains or something. But there’s just no way a bunch of Gangrel are going to rush down here to Atlanta to defend the city. Believe me, there is no love lost between Atlanta and the rest of this state. And the Gangrel are going to be especially unsociable about the state’s primary source of pollution and industrial ravages.”
“Well, fewer Gangrel are fine by me.” There were scattered words of assent from around the room. “That only leaves the Tremere.”
This bombshell brought the conversation crashing to a halt. It was an overstatement of course. There were actually seven clans that made up the Camarilla. Whenever discussion turned toward pure firepower, however, the three major threats in the Camarilla arsenal were almost universally acknowledged to be the Brujah, the Gangrel, and the Tremere.
The Tremere weren’t a militant faction. Not in the same way as the Brujah and Gangrel were anyway. They were however, feared for their prowess and the threat they represented. The Tremere were masters of Thaumaturgy. Their powerful enchantments had been the downfall of many Sabbat offensives.
“How strong is the Atlanta chantry?” Madame Paula, the Koldun sorceress, had perked up at the mention of the dread Tremere.
“Strong enough,” replied one of the Nomads, who boasted an especially chalky complexion (even for one of the damned) and unsettlingly pink eyes. Such beautiful pink eyes, Madame Paula thought. She could not recall ever seeing such a perfect hue in a Cainite before, but perhaps this was another New World novelty. She resolved to try it out herself at her earliest opportunity.
She emerged from her reverie as the albino explained further. “It’s old—well, old by American standards—over a century. That means we can expect some pretty complex arcane defenses. And it houses at least a dozen warlocks.”
“I think that estimate may be a bit inflated,” interrupted Sebastian authoritatively.
“Okay then, say a half dozen, although I think it’s pretty foolish not to expect worse. Does that make it any better? We’re looking at some serious casualties here.”
“And a siege does little to weaken the resolve of a well-established chantry,” Madame Paula mused. “You can’t starve them out, you know. And while you’re occupied with slowly squeezing the city into submission, they will be picking away at the besiegers. Oh yes, every night. One here, a few there. It all adds up. Quite disheartening.”
“If I may be allowed?” Vallejo’s voice tuned to the pitch of command by a lifetime of military service—many lifetimes in fact—cut through the room. “On this very point I have been instructed to deliver a message from my liege.”
Polonia was suddenly wary. He glanced briefly to the opposite end of the table to where Borges sat, but his counterpart’s face was as inscrutable as ever behind its omnipresent cowl of shadow.
The eyes of the assembly were on Polonia and he had no choice but to acknowledge the self-proclaimed messenger. “Yes, yes,” he waved dismissively. “Hand it here.”
“My cardinal thought it unwise to commit the message to paper. I can, however, recite it verbatim. It is only this: ‘The council need have no anxiety over the Tremere. The cardinal’s ambassador, the Lady Sascha Vykos, will neutralize the Tremere threat.’”
There were coarse barks of derisive laughter from the Nomads. Color rose in Vallejo’s face.
“Desist at once,” he ordered. “These are the words of His Eminence the Cardinal Monçada. You mock them at your peril.”
His tone quieted the worst of the offenders, but from beside the Archbishop Borges, Sebastian rose to his feet to confront the Spaniard.
“Perhaps then you could illuminate us as to how this Vykos will singlehandedly defeat the assembled might of the Tremere chantry. You must admit, on the surface of it, it seems quite…ridiculous.”
“I am not given to know my lord’s instructions to his legate,” Vallejo replied coolly. “Nor would I be likely to reveal them if I did. I know only that it will be done. Monçada has given his pledge. It will be done.”
“And where, exactly, is this ambassador? The council has been in session for two full nights now and has she even appeared to present her credentials? No. We are well aware of your master’s ‘interest’ in this affair and I am of the opinion that we would be far better off without his meddling and yours.”
“Why, you ungrateful lapdog,” Vallejo began, his hand straying to his side where a sword might well have once hung, centuries ago. “I have warned you once and shall not do so again. If you persist in these ludicrous pronouncements, you must be prepared to defend them with your honor.”
“Ungrateful?” Sebastian parroted in disbelief. “Do you think that we should be grateful for this intrusion? Your cardinal is a ruthless and cunning man. This is not an insult, it is merely a statement of fact. There is no denying it. I am familiar with his type. For him, a ‘personal interest’ is just of a polite way of saying that he has drawn up a deed of ownership, but the ink on the contract is not quite dry yet.”
Sebastian knew that there were others, of course, who would do everything within their power to see that the Cardinal Maledictus Sanguine—the Cardinal of the Blood Curse, as Monçada was known by his detractors—did not extend his hand out over Atlanta. Perhaps the foremost among those who opposed Monçada’s intervention in Atlanta was Borges himself who, as it was said in the parlance of the Lasombra powerbrokers, remained ‘deeply concerned’ over the present state of affairs in the city. By ‘deep concern’ it was understood to mean that he had moved his forces into position to exert leverage directly upon the city.
Such concern, of course, was paramount to throwing down the gauntlet. Monçada had countered in turn by ‘extending his sympathies’ to the people of Atlanta. Which was to say, he’d escalated the conflict further by committing forces of his own—in particular, his elite legion of household troops, the unsavory war-ghoulist from Prague, a Koldun sorceress, and his personal representative, this Vykos.
It was an unorthodox and ragtag army, no doubt cobbled together on short notice. But as Sebastian systematically tested the mettle of each finger of the cardinal’s four-clawed reach, each was proving a power to be reckoned with. Collectively, they would be formidable indeed. But surely, not even Monçada could effectively wield this strange and unpredictable weapon across intervening oceans.
Sebastian heard his name mentioned and turned to his master. “I believe Sebastian was only expressing his admiration and perhaps envy of the cardinal’s ruthlessness and cunning. It would be very thin-skinned of you to take mortal offense at such innocuous comments. It was my impression that you were made of sterner stuff.” Borges flashed his mastiff grin at Vallejo.
Sizing up the situation, Sebastian was quick to chime in, “Of course, of course. Do sit down, my excitable friend. I have only the utmost respect for your dear Cardinal Maledi… Did I ever tell you,” he recovered seamlessly, “what my master always says about him? No? Well, Borges has always maintained that there is not a Cainite in all of Europe with such an unjustifiable—”
“Humility about his person,” Borges finished with a sharp glance at his young protégé. “Now, if we might return to the subject of pushing forward our preparations for the siege?”
“But that is exactly what I have been attempting to relate to you, gentlemen.” It was Polonia’s voice raised in polite disagreement. “There is not going to be any siege.”
Monday, 21 June 1999, 2:41 AM
A subterranean grotto
A small, tarnished chain dangled from the desk lamp. Above it, the bulb flickered. A sharp blow to the lamp set the matter right, though the insular patch of light was considerably dimmed. Darkness crowded the seated figure. Taloned fingers turned a page, and then another. A raspy, discontented sigh accompanied the rattle of paper.
Silence. Stillness.
Then the gnarled talons reached for the red pen on the desk and, with surprising deftness, began to scribble notes on the page.
Monday, 21 June 1999, 4:43 AM
Thirteenth floor, Buckhead Ritz-Carlton Hotel
Atlanta, Georgia
Three sharp knocks. At the sound, Sascha Vykos checked her pacing and looked up with more than a slight hint of annoyance. She carefully refolded the letter. It vanished into an inside pocket of the immaculate Chanel suit.
The door opened just far enough to allow Ravenna to slip through. He did not shut the door behind him but put his back against it, as if to keep it from opening further.
“I am sorry, Vykos. There is a …gentleman here who insists he must see you without delay.” The ghoul managed to maintain just the proper tone of distaste, but his anxiety was obvious.
Vykos smiled at his discomfort. “And what is this gentleman’s name?”
A look close to terror flitted across the ghoul’s carefully controlled features. “My lady! I did not…one does not… What I mean to say is…”
It was apparent Vykos was not going to help him out of his predicament. Ravenna’s voice fell to a conspiratorial whisper.
“He is an Assa…”
There was a sharp crack and Ravenna fell to the floor.
“Assassin is such an uncouth word,” said the visitor, stepping over the inert body of the ghoul. “A thousand blessings upon you and your house. You may account this the first.”
Vykos held her ground and studied the stranger.
His motions were like dripping honey—fluid, tantalizing. His form was almost entirely concealed in a draping robe of unbleached linen. An unusual garment for an assassin. She had come to think that there must be some sort of unspoken dress code among those hired predators. All seemed to favor close-fitting garments that would not interfere with the necessities of combat or flight. She had already run through four or five ways her visitor’s flowing garment might be turned to his disadvantage should it come to close fighting. It was quite likely, however, that those folds concealed a number of lethal ranged weapons which might render such speculation moot.
It was also her understanding that dressing entirely in black was something of a badge of office among practitioners of the second-oldest profession. This garment would shine even in dim moonlight, frustrating all efforts at stealth. Surely, not even an amateur would make such a mistake. No, it stood to reason that her guest was utterly unconcerned with concealing his approach. His words, his actions, even his dress, spoke of a healthy confidence in his own prowess. Vykos found this slightly irritating.
“Was that strictly necessary?” Vykos’s tone betrayed only a businesslike displeasure—enough to make clear that she would not account the ghoul’s death a service rendered.
Her guest turned up the palms of his hands and bowed his head slightly. His hands were long and elegant—the hands of a pianist, an artist, a surgeon. Their languid grace spoke of a barely suppressed energy. They fluttered gently like the wings of a delicate bird.
Vykos’s eyes never left those hands.
“You might at least return him to the front room so that we will not have to look at him as we talk,” Vykos continued. “I find it hard to believe that you are always so casual about disposal of bodies and the like. And bring in another chair as you come. My servants have hardly had a chance to unpack yet.” An ice-white smile stole across the visitor’s chiseled ebony features. “I am not in the habit of concealing my handiwork. Unless, of course, you count the removal of witnesses. And you need not concern yourself for my comfort. I will stand. We are quite alone? You spoke of servants.”
“Yes, we are now. I have, of course, sent my most valued associates away for the evening. Some of my guests have a reputation for being somewhat… excitable.”
The stranger’s voice became low and menacing, “And you do not fear for your safety? There are many in this city who would see you come to harm.”
“Tonight, I am the safest person in all of Atlanta.” Vykos purposefully turned her back to him and crossed to the cluttered desk. “Your masters are not so careless as to dispatch an agent to kill me when we still have unfulfilled business. Very unprofessional. Nor could they allow me to come to harm from a third party when suspicion would be sure to fall squarely upon themselves.”
Vykos turned upon him and pressed on before he could interrupt. “No, I do not fear you, although you bring death into my house. Tonight, you are my guardian angel, my knight-protector. You will fight and even die to prevent me from coming to harm before you can conclude our business. Is it not so?”
“Tonight,” again the Assamite flashed a predatory smile, “I am your insurance policy. But for tonight only, Lady.”
From beneath his robes, he produced a burlap sack. With a sweep of his free arm, he cleared the clutter from the center of the desk and deposited his parcel with a thud.
Dramatic bastards, thought Vykos. But there was no choice but to play along at this point. She couldn’t very well bring this business to completion otherwise. With a sigh of resignation, she opened the sack.
She recognized the familiar features immediately, from the reconnaissance photos. It was Hannah, the Tremere chantry leader. More precisely, it was her head. Hannah’s hands had also been severed and were folded neatly beneath her chin. Nice touch, Vykos thought. Just the right blend of superstition and tradition. She was well aware that the Assamites’ hatred of the warlocks was as ancient as that of her own clan.
Of course, she did not give him the satisfaction of expressing that admiration aloud.
“She’s dead all right.”
The Assamite tried his best not to look crestfallen at her matter-of-fact reaction.
Before he could respond however, she continued, with perhaps a hint of malice, “Are you certain it’s her?”
His pride pricked, he seemed about to make a retort. Then he checked visibly and composed himself. “Ah, now I see you are having a small jest at my expense. Surely, you are more than casually acquainted with…the deceased.” The Assamite’s tone was soft and formal, like that of a
funeral director couching an indelicate concept in the gentlest terms possible.
“I have never seen her before,” Vykos answered coolly, pronouncing each word separately and distinctly. “And if I understand you correctly, I did not even arrive in this country until after her death.”
“Have no concern on that account. All has been carried out in exactly the manner you have specified. As to the matter of the witch’s identity, there can be no doubt. If you will allow me…”
The Assamite absently knotted a fist in the hair of the severed head to steady it as he slid one of the lily-white hands from beneath its chin. He turned it over, palm up on the desk.
“The witch’s magic is still in her hands. The knife cannot sever it, the scythe cannot gather it in.” He recited the words with reverence, as if quoting some ancient scripture.
He caressed the hand gently, like a lover.
Under his touch, the network of delicate lines that crisscrossed the palm darkened, deepened. As he continued to brush the hand with his fingertips, the lines seemed to writhe and then curl up at the edges as if shrinking back from a flame.
As Vykos watched, the snaking lines knotted themselves into a series of complex and subtly unsettling sigils.
The Assamite drew back with a satisfied smile. The glyphs continued to twist and slide gratingly across one another. “Do you know these signs?”
Vykos said nothing, but her eyes never left the dance of arcane symbols.
“It is not given to me to interpret the sigils,” the Assamite continued. “But an adept could give them their proper names. Each sign is a unique magical signature—a lingering reminder of some foul enchantment that occupied the witch’s final days. Do you have need of such knowledge?”
Still staring at the hand, Vykos shook her head slowly. Then, as if coming back from a great distance, she replied, “No. No, it doesn’t matter now. With Hannah dead, the entire chantry will be…”
She changed gears suddenly, but without pause. “But where are my manners? I must not bore you with details of such trifling and personal difficulties. Really, you are much too indulgent of me. Now, what were you telling me about indisputable proof of Hannah’s identity?”
