by Eric Griffin
Acid, or something like it.
Marcus dug his fingernails into his face and ripped away some of the surface flesh around his eyes. That helped only a little. He tried to force open his eyes, squinting and blinking in the harsh light of the nearby street lamp.
He was still closer to the fight than he’d realized in his blindness. The Setite had struck again. Only a few steps away, Jorge was down, the little knife impaling his hand. His movements were jerky, twitchy, as if control of his limbs had left him, and he wailed piteously, like a dying cat. The Setite, his back turned to Marcus and Jorge, was squared off against Delona and Delora.
Marcus lashed out with a sledgehammer fist and caught the unsuspecting Setite solidly between the shoulder blades, propelling him into the air. He landed hard on the pavement several yards away. No cushioning roll this time.
Delona and Delora were on him at once, raining blows on his head and shoulders, knocking his legs and arms from beneath him as he tried to regain his feet. Marcus brushed them aside and lifted the Setite by the collar, then spun him around so the two were face to face.
And Marcus smiled.
Despite his burning and watering eyes, despite the blurred vision, Marcus smiled as he wrapped his arms around the Setite and squeezed. Ribs snapped. Such a beautiful sound—almost as pleasing as the anguished scream that now came from the Setite.
Die, little man. Die! Marcus’s smile broadened at the sound of his helpless victim choking on the blood that welled up in his throat as broken ribs punctured and sliced through his innards. The hulking Tzimisce even took pleasure from the blood the Setite coughed into his face. It was the blood of victory.
Marcus roared with triumph as the last resistance of the Setite’s body gave way before the incontestable vise of his bulging arms. Joints popped. The Setite’s carcass was crushed almost beyond existence, no doubt liquefied by the nearly geologic force Marcus exerted. Marcus hugged the remains to his chest. He could smell the rich blood soiling the once-exquisite evening wear. Then Marcus held at arm’s length the remains—
Except there were no remains. At least no body. There was blood, yes, but not enough. No ruptured entrails, no liquefied flesh dripping to the pavement. The last strains of Marcus’s triumphant roar curdled in his throat and were reborn as a cry of frustration.
Delona and Delora seemed to realize what had happened—the Setite had somehow slipped out of Marcus’s grasp, leaving behind only clothing like shed skin. But the blackened twins had no more idea where the Setite had gotten to than did Marcus. They hurried about in different directions—up the street, down the street, around the corner, into the parking garage—but clearly the Setite had escaped.
“Gone,” said Delona, as if explanation were necessary.
“Gone,” echoed Delora.
Marcus let the empty clothing drop. After hours of waiting and having his orders ignored, the one intruder his patrol had spotted had eluded them. Jorge lay convulsing on the ground, and Marcus himself was half blinded by what must have been some type of poison on that puny little knife. It was all more than he could bear. Marcus’s already blurred vision clouded red with rage. Without warning, he opened his powerful jaws and struck at the surprised Delora. He caught her on the neck, which snapped. In fact, her head remained attached to her torso by only a few cords of tendon or muscle or something. Denied his proper feast on the Setite, Marcus sucked what vitae there was in her tiny frame, then discarded the desiccated husk onto the street like so much garbage.
“Get rid of that,” he said to Delona, indicating her former mate, “then carry Jorge back upstairs. Now!”
Delona, he noticed, rushed to obey him this time. While she carried out his orders, and Marcus blinked repeatedly and rubbed at his eyes, the tiny radio in his pocket began to beep at him. The device looked like a child’s toy in his colossal hand. He labored briefly to press the correct button.
“Patrol five,” he said.
“Tighten perimeter,” said the voice that sounded much farther away than it really was. “Close to fifty yards.”
The voice was not Caldwell’s, Marcus noticed.
It was one of his aides’, the skittery one. But that of itself was not unusual.
“Gotcha,” said Marcus, then remembered that there was something more formal he was supposed to say, but with all the waiting and the ruckus and the frustration, the specific wording escaped him. “Moving in,” he said, and stuffed the radio back into his pocket.
“Come on, you turd,” Marcus called to Delona. Jorge wouldn’t be ready to move yet, if ever—who knew what Setite poison might do to a little fellow like him?—so Marcus’s patrol now consisted of himself and Delona. At least she wasn’t giggling any more.
Tuesday, 22 June 1999, 12:50 AM
Peachtree Street
Atlanta, Georgia
Thankfully, Caldwell’s body had been removed. Not that Vallejo couldn’t stomach proximity to a mangled corpse—in fact, his job generally involved actions that produced mangled corpses, often in large numbers—but he needed to concentrate on the attack he was about to launch without being distracted by that grim reminder of what Councilor Vykos had done to the former commander.
That obstacle quite removed, the patrols were pulled in forming a tight perimeter around the museum, and official-looking roadblocks were set up all around to discourage casual passersby, though midweek downtown Atlanta was fairly deserted at this hour. The possibility of a few civilian casualties didn’t worry Vallejo, but there was the danger that the police might take an interest in the roadblocks or the museum itself. In an effort to ward off that eventuality, a series of drive-by shootings were taking place many miles north of downtown. Vykos had ordered that at least two dozen mortals be killed. An attack of that magnitude in a sleeping city, she believed, would keep emergency crews and police busy for hours.
Vallejo did not expect to need that long.
Silently, he gave the signal for the attack to commence. A casual observer might have wondered at the lack of response to Vallejo’s signal, but that observer would have overlooked the sprawling swath of blackness that crept from near where Vallejo stood and spread slowly across the street. The streetlamps seemed to flicker as the light they shed was sucked into the blackness. The shadow kept advancing, until the entire street was shrouded in darkness and the streetlamps were little more than distant beacons, miles and miles away. The three-quarter moon was conspicuously obscured.
Vallejo was filled with pride at the skillful advance of his squadron of legionnaires. The inky blackness crept forward, wrapped tightly around the base of the museum, then oozed up the long ramp and stairs to the main entrance. The other exits were being secured as well, Vallejo knew, most notably the parking area attached to the museum where intelligence reported at least a half dozen drivers and servants—ghouls fed on Camarilla blood, most likely—awaited their masters.
As if in response to Vallejo’s thoughts, a figure of pure shadow took shape beside him where before there’d been nothing. It rose from the pavement and took on human form, but it was darkness through and through. Then the darkness coalesced, taking on more identifiable hues and substance, and Vallejo stood next to Legionnaire Alcaraz.
Alcaraz nodded curtly in way of salute. “Parking area secure, sir.”
“Ghouls?” Vallejo asked.
“Si.”
“And the other exits?”
“Secure, sir.”
“All of them?”
“Si.”
“Very well,” said Vallejo, confident of Alcaraz’s ability and judgment. “Take up your position.”
Alcaraz nodded again. His expression froze, as if the image visible of him were actually several seconds old. Then, indeed, he darkened, from the edges inward, and became again a form of pure shadow, which in turn surrendered its shape, a giant droplet of ink flowing into an inscrutable pond of black.
Vallejo raised his radio to his mouth. “Commander Bolon.”
“Bolon he
re,” crackled the response almost immediately.
“Exterior secure,” Vallejo reported. “Phase two complete.”
“Phase three commencing.”
“Confirmed.” Vallejo reattached the radio to his belt.
Now everywhere Vallejo looked, the shadows were alive with slow, methodical movement. Not figures emerging from the substance of the shadow itself, as had the commander’s lieutenant, but larger shapes, vaguely humanoid—some more so than others—moved in ranks toward the museum. The shapes varied in outline, as well as number and configuration of limbs, but the figures shared an immenseness of stature. They towered over Vallejo, and he stood well over six feet tall. The impression given by this new advance was almost that the buildings of the city themselves were closing in on the High Museum.
It might just as well be so, thought Vallejo, so sure was he of the plans he followed. He had served Cardinal Monçada long enough to know that his benefactor did not lend support—much less a full squadron of legionnaires—to affairs that were chancy.
Bolon’s battle ghouls—Vykos’s ghouls really, just as the legionnaires’ ultimate loyalty was to Monçada, not to Vallejo—continued forward unopposed and converged upon the darkness-shrouded museum, at which point they separated into patrols. One patrol headed toward the parking-area elevator. Another prepared to force entry through the main doors. Others began to scale the walls of the museum. Vallejo was amazed to see the agility of these massive creatures, but he reminded himself that they’d been created specifically for missions such as this, perhaps for this exact mission. They were masterpieces—monolithic edifices of muscle and hardened bone armor beneath a thick layer of leathery skin. Whatever mental alacrity was sacrificed in their transformations, Vallejo was assured, was more than made up in single-mindedness of purpose.
Caldwell should have been so fortunate, thought Vallejo.
But his time for spectating was at an end. There was blood to be spilled. Rich blood. And he would have some of it for his own. One final time, he checked his sidearm and the specially crafted grenades attached to his bandolier. Then, with the ease born of his Lasombra heritage, he released his physical form to join with the blackness before him, and led that blackness upward along the outside of the museum, past the ascending battle ghouls, and on to the victims waiting inside.
Tuesday, 22 June 1999, 1:04 AM
Fourth floor, the High Museum of Art
Atlanta, Georgia
“Elysium be damned, I will punish your insufferable attitude.” J. Benison Hodge, Malkavian prince of Atlanta, had spoken.
Julius tested the reassuring weight and balance of the sword in his hand. He had a matching blade strapped to his back. Even though this museum was Elysium, as cried by the rightful prince, and violence here of any sort was anathema, Julius knew only too well of Benison’s erratic nature, proclivities toward uncontrollable rage and violence—rules, even his own, be damned. That’s what Julius had been counting on.
The gallery, a garden of statuary and black glass partitions, reminded Julius of a cemetery, only the monuments were a bit larger, and marble instead of granite. The Brujah archon was prepared—anxious, in fact—to necessitate a new headstone in the city. All he required was for the prince to try to carry through with his rash and public threat, and in the shadow of the mammoth, paneled doors, which dwarfed even the largest of the sculptures—Toreador pretension upon Toreador pretension—the prince seemed about to grant Julius’s wish.
As Kindred onlookers stumbled over themselves and each other trying to scurry out of the way, Benison stalked forward, murder in his eyes. They flashed green next to his expansive auburn beard. This towering, powerfully built Kindred was one of few who could press Julius in an even fight. But Julius, sword firmly yet comfortably in hand, facing the unarmed Malkavian prince, felt no need to subject himself to an even fight.
He will attack me, and I will destroy him, Julius thought calmly.
The dispute, which reached back many years, was predicated on the prince’s systematic mistreatment of members of Clan Brujah. None of whom were particularly near or dear to Julius, it was true, but appearances and the dignity of the clan must be maintained. Then, last year, a serious near-breach of the Masquerade—a leak to the press of details regarding the Blood Curse—followed by a festering revolt of the Anarchs in Atlanta, had provided Julius with sufficient cause in the eyes of his superiors in the Camarilla to apply intense scrutiny to Benison’s actions, which seemed to threaten the stability so desired by the powers that be. And after last night’s surface-to-air missile attack on police helicopters—a blatant violation of the Masquerade, if ever there were one!—Julius felt that any action he took against Benison would be upheld by his master, Justicar Pascek.
Mostly, however, Julius just wanted an excuse to carve up the crazed, ex-Confederate prince. Benison seemed determined to give him that excuse. Julius held his position, careful not to give away the direction of his first attack. The prince charged on, drew back one white-knuckled fist—
And darkness fell over the museum.
Julius’s other senses instantly grew hyper-alert, compensating for the sudden loss of sight. Someone nearby screamed—a primeval instinct in any crowd plunged into darkness, and one which didn’t die with the mortal soul—but Julius had not survived so many centuries by panicking.
He noticed everything at once: the crowd still parting nervously, even in darkness, to get away from the prince and him; Benison aborting his charge, a rare display of prudence; no one taking advantage of the darkness to move closer to either of the two combatants—so this was not some ploy by the hostess, Victoria Ash, or someone else, to get an assassin near prince or archon. At any rate, Julius doubted Victoria would attempt something so brazen. She had obviously hoped to coddle Julius into a confrontation with the prince, but she’d been caught quite off-guard by Julius’s willingness, his evident intention, to pursue that course directly, without the benefit of her more subtle maneuvering and scheming. Her modus operandi was more a stiletto in the back, while Julius preferred to charge the lion.
After the first screams, a pregnant silence fell over the gallery. Judging by the uneasy shuffling of feet, Julius suspected that all present were surprised by the sudden blackout, but surely this was no accident….
Where are the emergency lights? he wondered, then, as he shifted his weight, he saw that there was some light from emergency units, that it was flickering—
No, the light wasn’t moving. The shadows were.
Moving a quick step or two, Julius discerned swirling in the shadows. Patterns formed as the unnatural blackness maneuvered to surround the Kindred present. The glass dividers, black and opaque, enhanced this effect. Did Victoria, he wondered, have something to do with this after all? But then the darkness caught up with him, closed around him, and blotted out again what little light there was. Alerted to the unnatural quality of the enveloping blackness, Julius now perceived that there was weight and substance to the shadow, and it pressed against him with increasing determination. Tentacles of blackness took form, grabbed at his arms, his legs, his sword. Julius suddenly knew what he was up against.
“Lasombra!” someone shouted.
The brief silence shattered as, one after another, the emergency lights exploded. Sparks streamed through the gallery like rockets, and as they died, true darkness descended to add its influence to the preternatural shadow.
Julius struck at the tentacles. He couldn’t afford to be immobilized. It was a strange sensation, his sword slicing through palpable darkness. The severed tentacles dissipated into nothingness, and the shadows drew back from him momentarily, but only to renew their assault from different directions.
Chaos took hold all around Julius. The shadows advanced and retreated menacingly; tentacles struck forceful blows that knocked Kindred to the ground. Other strands of black, proving only to be diversions, passed harmlessly through fist or sword set against them. Always, amidst it all, were the swirlin
g shadows, sweeping through the large chamber like churning stormclouds, so that one moment Julius was standing side-by-side with a fellow Kindred, and the next, after the darkness closed in, he felt alone among the placeless expanse of black.
Julius tried to be sure of his blows. He caught a glimpse of Benison striking at a shadow but instead smashing his fist into the face of some unlucky subject. The poor girl went down in a heap.
The prince, too, seemed to be holding his own against the Lasombra attack—for what else could it be? No other creature could wield such power over shadow. Beyond keeping the tentacles at bay, however, Julius was unsure how to deal with the problem. And not all the Kindred were faring as well as he and the prince. A dozen yards away, a mass of black writhed and jerked violently on the floor. An arm emerged, clothed in a formal jacket that Julius had seen on someone only a few minutes ago. Now the arm, and the Kindred to whom it was attached, struggled against the relentless shadow that pressed him to the floor.
Julius’s wild thoughts of what to do next—how to find the Lasombra controlling the darkness, how to stop the attack at the source—were interrupted by the discovery that his problems had just multiplied many times over.
The few remaining emergency lights produced a strobe effect through the dancing shadows and advancing through the disorienting scene were many more shapes—large, monstrous shapes. “Sabbat!” Julius shouted, hoping to get the attention of Benison or one of the few others who might make a difference.
Julius found himself staring up at the creatures that seemed to be coming from every direction. The smallest was well over seven feet. Shoulder to shoulder, they blotted out what little light passed through the shadows. One pressed ahead of the others, a whirling mass of clawed appendages—six or seven—atop two sequoia legs. Julius saw eyes, blazing red with hatred and hunger, within the blur of limbs, but no other signs of a face.
