by Eric Griffin
The interior of the house was as dilapidated as the exterior and smelled of mold and urine. Don Carlos walked past the hired toughs, ignored the more obvious stairs leading to the upper floor of the rickety structure—he’d been upstairs before; the rancid quarters where the ghouls rested were unpleasant to contemplate, much less to see first-hand—and opened the door to the cellar. This door, he noticed, was reinforced and remarkably sturdy compared to the rest of the building. He descended into the dank basement, harshly illuminated by one naked bulb hanging on a wire, and was greeted by Terrence Hill, personal assistant to the prince. A ghoul, of course.
“Don Carlos, the prince is expecting you.” Noticeably well-kempt among the squalor, Hill tweaked the curled ends of his moustache as he spoke. The mannerism irritated Don Carlos to no end, but he nodded deferentially. This ghoul, after all, was older than Don Carlos and many of the other Kindred in Richmond. Apparently, Prince Thatchet valued Hill’s abilities so much that he would not Embrace him for risk of losing the service of a most loyal servant.
How demeaning to be a servant throughout eternity, thought Don Carlos, even as he waited patiently for the ghoul to announce him.
Hill slipped through another heavily reinforced door, his fleet manner belying the speed of his movements. Don Carlos’s keen ears caught the muffled introduction: “My prince, Don Carlos of Clan Toreador to see you.” And then the door was open again, and Terrence was ushering Don Carlos through into another dimly lit room.
“My prince.” Don Carlos bowed deeply with a flourish—so low that he could clearly see the layers of black and gray mildew covering the hard-packed, earthen floor—and maintained that position. The door clicked shut as Terrence let himself out.
“Rise, Don Carlos.” The prince’s words were a throaty, nearly inaudible whisper.
The ghouls in the prince’s employ, to the untrained eye, were indistinguishable from normal, unadulterated mortals. The prince himself, however, could certainly be mistaken for a ghoul, in the classic sense of the word. Don Carlos, as soon as he rose, averted his eyes, as was the custom insisted upon by the prince. But even the most cursory glance at the seated figure was more than enough to refresh Don Carlos’s memory of that sickly, yellowed skin, so pale as to seem translucent. Thatchet’s sparse, patchy head of hair was somewhat reminiscent of the spines of a Venus flytrap, and despite the impression that the years—decades, or centuries, according to some—had not been kind to the prince, Don Carlos had heard many stories confirming that the prince was as deadly to Kindred as that plant he slightly resembled was to insects.
“Don Carlos,” said the prince in that whisper that his petitioner had to strain to hear.
Does he speak like that on purpose? Don Carlos wondered. Is he trying to intimidate me? Well, it won’t work.
“What news could be so important?” asked the prince. “Why do you trouble me?”
If Thatchet’s voice had failed to unnerve Don Carlos, the words the prince spoke sent a chill down his subject’s spine. Don Carlos had expected a warmer reception from the prince, perhaps interest if not enthusiasm. Instead, the Toreador now felt that he was the fly noticing only belatedly the ring of spikes and the rapidly closing exit behind him. Don Carlos cleared his throat, measured his words carefully.
“I bring news of the most vital importance to the welfare of the city,” he said.
“So I have heard.”
A drawn-out creak of wood indicated that the prince had shifted his weight in his chair, but was he settling back to listen, or rising from his seat to strike down the impudent childe? Don Carlos, straining the limits of peripheral vision, could not tell, and the prince said nothing else.
Or did he? Did he say something, and I missed the damned whisper? Don Carlos wondered. Just then he heard footsteps from upstairs, someone moving above. Maybe that was also the sound of a moment ago—footsteps, not the telltale shifting of the prince. The possibility did not, however, ease Don Carlos’s mind overly much.
“I have received word from reliable sources,” he said at last, unable to stand the weight of silence, “that the Sabbat has plans to overrun the city.”
There. He’d said it. Don Carlos had planned all along to use that bit of information as a gambit to gain access to the prince. It was an incredible exaggeration of the truth that Don Carlos had deduced, but Thatchet would thank him, perhaps even ask him to look into the matter further, which would provide cover for Don Carlos in future interactions he might undertake with the Sabbat. Also, the albino, listening in on the wire tonight and in future meetings, could gather information about the prince and his defenses, information that Don Carlos could confirm or clarify after the fact.
Ah, he congratulated himself, playing one side against the other, while I am the true master of both—as it should be.
“And you believe that you have access to spies beyond my reach?” asked the prince.
Hearing the words, the veiled challenge and scorn they conveyed, Don Carlos suddenly felt his confidence sucked dry until it remained little more than a desiccated corpse. The prince’s icy voice soaked down into the cracks of Don Carlos’s courage. Thatchet, the Toreador realized, was a master in what he left unsaid as well as what he said, and the unsaid was poised like an axe above Don Carlos’s neck.
The prince’s brief, whispered question hovered in the air, daring Don Carlos to respond. The Toreador felt his knees trembling; he prayed that his nervousness—his fear, fear of this aged Kindred whose mere words unnerved him—was not completely obvious. How could this interview have gone so wrong from the start? he wondered.
Perhaps there was a reason this sickly, palsied creature had been Prince of Richmond for so long. Don Carlos had seen the awed reaction of mortals faced with his own undead magnificence. All reason fled; they were prisoners of their own trepidation. Now he began to recognize the same strange power that his prince held over him. But even recognizing it, he was no more able to combat it.
Frantically, Don Carlos struggled to divine some way to salvage his plans. Then his racing mind seized upon the answer. I will tell him everything! Don Carlos decided. Instead of warning him of some potential future attack, which is undoubtedly the case, I’ll tell him about the albino, about the other Sabbat monsters with him. The prince will know what to do.
But then he realized the illogic of this plan—the wire beneath his shirt; the albino would flee, and Don Carlos would look the fool. The fearful trembling that had taken hold of his knees now spread throughout his body, or so it felt to him. He closed his eyes tightly, fought for self-control.
Calm yourself, he thought, and reminded himself that only seconds—not the hours that it felt like—had passed since the prince had asked his question.
Delay…but be bold about it, he chastised himself. Answer, but give yourself time to disable the microphone.
Don Carlos bowed his head, trying to take advantage of the fact that his eyes were already closed, in a solemn display of deference. “My prince, certainly your reach and your knowledge extend further than mine. In this case, however…” Don Carlos faltered. He was seized by the sudden fear that he’d brazenly contradicted his prince, that he was signing his own death warrant.
Spit it out, man! he thought. You’ve crossed the line. Go the full mile!
“Yes, my prince.” Don Carlos swallowed hard. He hoped the gulp was not audible except in his own ears. “I believe I have access to sources that would be…”—beyond your reach, he almost said, but the impertinence of the words choked his throat shut. “That would be hidden from one of your station.”
Don Carlos sighed inwardly, congratulated himself on that tortured turn of phrase, implying as it did treachery on the part of others rather than imperfection on the prince’s.
A moment passed, then stretched longer, but the prince did not respond. Don Carlos opened his eyes but did not raise his face. From that position, he saw only the prince’s foot, firmly upon the floor.
Why doesn’t he
say something? Damn him! The trembling was resuming, growing more pronounced. Don Carlos was sure he would be unable to control it, to hide it from his liege. The silence gnawed at the Toreador’s nerves, drained the last of his patience.
I will tell him everything! he resolved. I will throw myself on his mercy.
Don Carlos forced open his mouth to speak, but the words he heard were not from him, nor were they from the prince.
Instead, the voice was that of a man, a large man, deep rumbling baritone, but trying to mimic a small child: “Can I play too?”
For the moment, forgetting himself and all protocol, Don Carlos whirled to see Terrence Hill’s head protruding from behind the door, which was only slightly ajar. But the voice was not the ghoul’s, and his expression was wrong: his eyes bulged; his mouth, hanging agape, bobbed up and down, but not in time with the words.
Then the door swung the rest of the way open, and Don Carlos saw the clenched fist around Hill’s neck, and the hulking figure to whom the fist belonged. The creature had to duck to enter the room and dragged Hill like a lifeless doll, which was more or less the case. Behind the behemoth stood the albino, a stern look on his face, and behind him, others still, darting back and forth to look over his shoulders.
The fact of Sabbat vampires standing in the prince’s lair was too much for Don Carlos to comprehend at first. A full three seconds passed before he thought to look to the prince. Surely the elder Kindred would strike down the intruders.
Another moment passed, however, and the prince did not move. Not when the albino pushed his way into the room, not when the behemoth threw Terrence’s body to the ground, revealing that the ghoul’s neck had been wrung much like an unruly gamecock’s—his head looked to have made two full rotations.
Only at second glance did Don Carlos notice that the shadows enveloping his prince were too dark; they intruded where the light of the one small lamp in the room should have fallen. And though the lamp was stationary, the shadows moved. They writhed in coils around the prince’s body, wriggled like snakes of pure darkness, constrictors holding Thatchet’s arms and legs to his chair. A flowing band of oily black covered the lower portion of his face, but his wide eyes and the faintest of gagging sounds from his throat suggested that the shadows given life delved internally as well. For the first time in his undead existence, a vague queasiness began to rise in Don Carlos’s gut.
The albino, a hacksaw in hand, stepped past him. The behemoth moved further into the room and the space, which had been quite adequate before, seemed suddenly very small. Two other Sabbat creatures followed the albino in: one, a spidery, bow-legged thing, emaciated to the point that it seemed every bone was visible, and with darkened skin, as if it had been burned to a crisp but then removed from the oven at the last second before total immolation; the other, hidden almost completely beneath a long-sleeved coat and brimmed hat pulled low, despite the summer heat.
“My prince,” droned the albino, mocking the conversation upon which he’d electronically eavesdropped, “forgive the intrusion, but your assistant said that we could see you.” He gestured toward Terrence’s blankly staring body, then raised an eyebrow at Thatchet’s nonexistent reply. “Perhaps he was mistaken,” he said in the same dry tone, completely devoid of emotion. “He does seem a bit wound up. Perhaps a vacation is in order.”
Don Carlos could only stand and blink, dumbfounded. The spidery creature tittered at the albino’s poor joke. The behemoth seemed unaware of the attempt at humor but laughed once because his companion did.
The ghouls? Don Carlos wondered. Where are all the guards?
“There will be no further intrusions,” said the albino to Don Carlos, as if telepathically aware of the question.
Don Carlos glanced again at Hill. All the guards, .and no sounds of struggle. The coup d’etat he had envisioned was not going to occur at some future date. It was happening now.
“You Camarilla types all have the same problem,” the albino said matter-of-factly. He stepped to within a foot of the captive prince. “You fear your elders too much.” He raised the hacksaw, briefly inspected the blade in the dim light, and then placed it against Thatchet’s left arm just below the elbow. The confining shadows, without freeing the prince’s arm, parted before the saw teeth.
The albino began to work the saw, forward and back, forward and back, and it sliced neatly through the flesh. Don Carlos looked away—he might feast on mortal blood, but that was a far cry from this raw butchery—but he could not hide from the nerve-wracking sound of the hacksaw blade as it grated against bone.
“Hmm,” said the albino to himself. “Radius or ulna? I can never remember. No matter. They’ll both have to go.”
The grating sound resumed, more forcefully this time. He finished the first bone and began the second. This time, however, the rhythmic sawing ended with a ragged snap.
“Damn. I’m afraid I’ve made a mess of this one,” the albino muttered. “But you know what they say: practice, practice, practice.”
A dull thud by Don Carlos’s feet attracted his attention. He looked down to see the prince’s left hand and forearm, a jagged splinter of bone protruding toward where the elbow should have been.
Don Carlos jumped back and, against his better judgment, glanced at the prince, not where the albino was beginning to saw on the other arm, but at Thatchet’s face. If he’d tried to scream, the sound had not penetrated the veil of shadow enclosing his mouth. His eyes were wide with pain, but that was not all. Don Carlos expected to see fear, and regret at the end of what might have been eternal existence. Instead, all that mingled with the pain in those straining eyes was hatred. Thatchet stared not at the albino, or the progressing ruin of his own right arm. He’d fixed his glare on Don Carlos, and the hatred in those eyes was as much, or more so, for the Toreador as for the beasts of the Sabbat.
“There.” The albino held up the prince’s right hand. “You see, my Camarilla friend. Your elders are nothing to fear once they’re properly disarmed.”
The spidery thing twittered again. Its laughter was like fingernails along a chalkboard. The behemoth guffawed like a giant idiot-childe, and all this time the Sabbat obscured by coat and hat stood in silence.
“Delona, fetch my toolbox, and an extension cord,” said the albino. His white skin was speckled with blood, though there was little enough on the floor, all things considered. Apparently the prince had not fed recently, for little blood ran from the stumps, which were already beginning to heal over thanks to the potency of vampiric vitae.
The spider-thing loped out of the room, but the albino abruptly changed his mind and called her back. “We don’t have that much time, I’m afraid.”
Just as abruptly, the albino’s attention and his disturbing, pink-eyed gaze shifted to Don Carlos.
Don Carlos was trying mightily to deny that which he’d seen. But the severed arms, the second of which the albino now dropped to the floor, would not go away, and the Sabbat monsters stood undeniably all about.
“You’re leaving, then,” Don Carlos asked, finally finding his voice, but trying not to sound too hopeful.
The albino nodded. “There’s little else to be done in Richmond. Within the hour, not one Camarilla elder will survive here.”
The bold statement took a moment to sink in. Not one Camarilla elder…
Again, Don Carlos realized his mistake. Just as this was no covert scouting mission in preparation for a future coup, neither was it a mere surgical strike to leave the Kindred of the city leaderless.
Not one Camarilla elder will survive here.
If what the albino said was true, if every elder were destroyed, such a purge would lead those of Don Carlos’s generation to take hold of the reins of leadership. He was willing to begin his ascent to power as a pawn of the Sabbat, for a pawn, in time, could be converted to a queen—or in this case, a prince.
“You will need someone to stay behind here, to keep tabs on the new leadership in the city,” suggested Don
Carlos. “They will be weak at first, but a contact on the inside will be invaluable in time.”
And in time, Don Carlos thought, I will squeeze you out.
The albino didn’t respond, but instead turned back to Prince Thatchet, still prisoner to the shadow incarnate. Grabbing one of the wisps of hair and pulling the prince’s head back, the albino placed the saw blade on the top ridge of his captive’s larynx—“I’m afraid the blade is a bit duller that it was”—and began to saw.
Slowly.
Each stroke, back and forth, sent tremors through the prince’s body. His eyes bulged until Don Carlos thought they would pop from their sockets. But still the shadow held the prince functionally immobile, helpless.
Don Carlos closed his eyes, and when he opened them the albino, a pale Perseus having vanquished the gorgon, held aloft the head of the prince, his face finally free from shadow.
“I need no contact on the inside,” said the triumphant albino, smiling for the first time that Don Carlos had seen. The sight struck cold into his undead heart. “For there will be no inside. We do not strike here and destroy the elders of your city, only to move on and allow you to continue, with only the names of the Camarilla weaklings in charge having changed.
“Tonight we stomp you out. All of you.”
Don Carlos began to protest, but there was a great pressure on his neck. He was being lifted off his feet by the behemoth’s hand around his throat. And already the albino had forgotten him, discarded like so much rubbish.
I can help you! Let me help you! Don Carlos wanted to say, but the voice was choked out of him.
“This should be enough to put me ahead of Hardin in our little wager,” said the albino as he stared at the prince’s head. Then he turned and looked thoughtfully at Don Carlos. “Maybe one more.”
