Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Richard E. Dansky

  “You will enjoy this, I think. It’s a bit of a change of pace. You don’t have to hunt down and kill anyone, nor will you be walking to and fro in the earth, and up and down in it.”

  “I don’t have to kill anyone?” Talley’s tone became one of mock indignation. “Then why call for me?”

  “Because I’ve decided it’s time to broaden your repertoire, among other reasons. How do you feel about protecting some of my servants against assassination?”

  “Bored, actually. Why do you want me to do it?

  I have my reasons.” It was said with an air of finality.

  Talley frowned. “I don’t like this. Whom am I supposed to be bodyguarding?”

  “An archbishop in our little escapade over in America. Shall I tell you the whole story?”

  Talley’s eyebrows shot up. “Please.”

  Monçada shook his head, slowly. “There is not much to tell, alas. The American plan is proceeding well, though the leadership of the operation is divided. Schismatic, one might say. There are three archbishops in place, now that Vykos has been elevated, and I’m sure Boukephos has educated you as to what happens to power-sharing arrangements of that sort. One or more of the three tends to fall by the wayside with a dagger in his ribs.”

  “Or back,” Talley added mirthlessly.

  “Or back.” Monçada nodded. “And in this case, it would seem that the wheels are already in motion. Someone has decided to remove one of my archbishops. Someone has decided to be very certain that this archbishop is removed. Someone has gone to very great expense to hire an assassin to do away with one of those who are doing my will. Naturally, I do not approve of this sort of thing.”

  “What happened to Vallejo? The last time I met with Les Amies Noir I was told he’d gone abroad to watch Vykos. Why not just expand his assignment?”

  “My dear Talley,” Monçada said wearily, “your lack of faith in my judgment is disappointing, extremely disappointing. I know the difficulties inherent in this matter intimately; they are why I sent for my Hound, whose heart and skill are sufficient to overcome them.

  “Now hush, and listen. An archbishop is the target of an assassin, yes. Do I know which one? No; it is enough that I know that the hunt has begun. Do I care which one? No; though I would be most distressed to lose any of my three able and talented servants. Preventing the assassination would the preferable outcome, of course, but even that is not the most important thing.”

  Talley drummed his fingers on the table, careful not to disturb the chessboard. “Ah. I see. So I am to insert myself into this little game, protect whichever of the archbishops seems most likely to be removed, and hand you the assassin’s head on a silver platter? Christ’s wounds, Cardinal, it’s a joke! Defend three potential targets, all arrogant as Hades and no doubt bound and determined to prove they don’t need me? And it’s not as if I’m any sort of—of bodyguard. Get someone whose business it is to tend others.”

  The cardinal closed his eyes for a moment and drew in a deep breath. Rustling noises echoed from the shadows in the corners of the vast chamber, and the very stones of the floor were suddenly cold as fear. For a second, Talley feared he’d gone too far, but if he had, it was too late to call back the words he’d spoken. It would also be too late to escape with his life; the cathedral was a deathtrap to any who did not enjoy the cardinal’s favor.

  “What I want from you is simple. I want you to tell me who is plotting this foolishness; Vallejo has been there too long and may be compromised. Tell me who feels he is above my commands and the necessity to prosecute the war with the Camarilla, above the demands of the sect and of God. I find such arrogance intolerable, and I will know the author of it, if it costs the lives of a hundred archbishops. I will sire armies, if it comes to that, to uncover this traitor. And you,” he said, leaning in close, “you will be my instrument, my Hound on the scent of those who betray me. Go to America, Talley. Watch the archbishops, and watch them watch one another. See who makes the first misstep. See who falls.” Monçada’s eyes were open now, black as the shadows he commanded, and Talley found himself unable to look away. “Use the ruses you must—I do not care if you tell them you’re there to watch over the lowliest pack priest or the operation as a whole. I have already sent word to Archbishop Polonia of your incipient arrival. They will wonder why I have told Polonia and not Vykos, who is perceived as my catspaw in all this. We shall see what they make of that; no doubt some enterprising souls will see it as me withdrawing my favor from Vykos; instead, it is a wedge driven between the two, to see if they react to trifles.

  “And I don’t expect you to ‘get’ the killer, Talley. One or both of you would end up rather badly smashed if you tried, and I’d rather you didn’t run the risk until after I’ve seen to the state of your soul, and that of my childe. If worst comes to worst, just make a statement to my dear Lucita that she can’t simply decide to knock over the pieces on my little chessboard after all.”

  Talley blinked. Twice. “Lucita?”

  Monçada nodded. “Lucita. Now you see why I don’t want you to ‘get’ her. I am,” he sighed ruefully, “entirely too fond of you both.” The cardinal turned his attention to the chessboard, a frown on his face. “All that you need is waiting for you with Hidalgo, in the blue chamber. You remember the way?” Talley nodded somberly.

  “Good. You are dismissed.” The templar stood silently, turned silently, strode silently toward the door.

  “Talley?” The cardinal’s voice was calm and measured. “Talley, if you see Don Ibrahim on your way out, you may wish to repeat your advice on his game position. I don’t think he’ll take it, though. I don’t think so at all.”

  Saturday, 17 July 1999, 11:15 PM

  Hyatt Regency Capitol Hill

  Washington, D.C.

  Cell phones were the sort of technological marvel that the elders of the Sabbat distrusted. Mind you, the elders of the Camarilla distrusted the blasted things in precisely the same way, but mentioning that to a four-century-old Tzimisce with a variable number of arms was a surefire way to get oneself turned into the vampiric equivalent of saltwater taffy. Accordingly, younger members of the sect politely didn’t use the things around those of their superiors who were likely to take offense, and made sure not to mock the old farts for being fossils until they were safely out in the field.

  That was why it was such a shock when an audible chirp came from within the folds of Vykos’s jacket. The war council had been proceeding in its usual fashion, (which is to say that two minor “dignitaries” had already been killed, and a third staked and put into storage because there was still some argument between Polonia and Vykos as to the man’s ultimate usefulness), with much chest-pounding and little in the way of actual strategy, when the cell phone went off.

  Instantly, the room went deathly silent. Vykos looked left, looked right, and slipped a pale hand inside the jacket of her conservatively cut blue suit to remove the anxiously bleating cell phone.

  Every eye in the place was on her. She acknowledged such with an airy wave, flipped open the phone, and put it to her ear.

  “Yes?” Her fluting tones wafted over the room as every vampire in attendance suddenly did his level best to look elsewhere, pretend disinterest, and eavesdrop for all he was worth. “You say he’s arrived? Fascinating, yet not entirely unexpected.” There came a pause, to which Vykos responded by nodding twice. “Excellent. I expect regular updates on his whereabouts, contacts and the like.” There was another pause, and some agitated squawking that those sitting nearest to Vykos (“near” being a relative term in this instance) could almost make out a few tantalizing words. Vykos listened, frowned, and drummed a single slender, sharp-nailed finger on the tabletop. Finally, she interrupted. “No. That is not your mission. Do I make myself clear? Wonderful. I expect to hear from you tomorrow.”

  And with that, Vykos folded the phone up neatly and put it away. She looked around the room, aware of how intently the other Cainites in attendance were watchi
ng her, and let slip a small smile.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry for the interruption, Archbishop.” She bowed her head, as if in contrition, in the vague direction of Polonia. The archbishop made a small gesture, as if to dismiss the interruption, and almost succumbed to the temptation to roll his eyes. Around him, the others fidgeted, shifted in their seats or audibly grumbled. No one dared meet Vykos’s gaze, however, or had the courage to voice a complaint. The Tzimisce elder almost tittered, but restrained herself. It was priceless, the way the lot of them were on tenterhooks over the phone call. They were all so anxious to salvage any scrap of information, the better to obtain the slightest of advantages on their rivals, that they’d do anything to learn what she had heard.

  Indeed, she suspected most would gladly kill to have the knowledge of what the party on the other end of the line had been saying. After all, knowing that little tidbit would surely unlock the enigma that was Vykos, enabling one to learn the secrets of the ages, the truth about all of Vykos s plots, and probably the color of Cardinal Monçada’s favorite cassock as well. It was astonishing, the importance the young and ambitious attached to every bit of trivia dangled before them. It was also amusing to be able to manipulate them into a veritable frenzy so easily. Here were easily two dozen of the finest war leaders the American Sabbat had to offer, hardened murderers and tacticians who’d ravaged their way up the eastern seaboard with admirable, shark like efficiency. Yet here they were, anxious as schoolboys trying to read a note over a classmate’s shoulder.

  This, Vykos mused to herself, is the sort of moment that puts the whole thing in perspective. And the best part is, I’m going to upset the applecart and tell them all what they want to know anyway. They’ll all be so disappointed.

  “Oh, I should explain what that was about, shouldn’t I?” She favored the glowering Borges with a winning smile and was rewarded with a poorly disguised snort of disgust. Around the table, others leaned forward in their eagerness, or sat back, feigning disinterest with a profound lack of acting ability. Only Polonia seemed able to maintain a truly stoic demeanor; it was entirely possible that he didn’t care.

  On the other hand, it was also entirely possible that he already knew what Vykos was about to reveal.

  “It seems I have some news, information of importance. Jan Pieterzoon is in Baltimore.”

  The reactions to her announcement gave Vykos an excellent chance to gauge the level of the room, as it were. Borges and a few others showed varying degrees of alarm, interest and concern, though Borges’s hood of shifting shadows made it as hard as ever to read the man. Almost none of the Tzimisce present showed so much as a flicker of recognition. And the vast majority of those present who were younger than a century looked variously confused, bored or just plain irritated.

  “What the fuck is a Yawn Peckerzoom?” The voice came from the far end of the conference table, a section that Vykos had once heard Polonia refer to as “the children’s table,” and it belonged to a heavyset, perpetually disgruntled-looking vampire named MacEllen.

  By the time Vykos glanced over that way, the man had half-risen out of his chair and planted his knuckles on the table, giving him a particularly simian appearance which his full black beard and sunken eyes did nothing to dispel. He was the leader of some roving pack or other that had done yeoman work cleaning up Camarilla resistance in captured cities, and who felt that having done so entitled him to an opinion on overall strategy. While the man was loud, obnoxious and deliberately crude, he was also looked on as a leader by several other itinerant “commanders” up and down the mid-Atlantic region. He was also a rival to Bolon, commander of the Tzimisce war ghouls now off mopping up the last pockets of resistance in the Sabbat’s new Southern cities, for the succession to the late Averros as head of the Nomad Coalition. As such he was worth keeping alive as a way of controlling his putative followers—and as leverage on his competition.

  Otherwise, it would have been a race to see who at the table could first gut him like a fish.

  The man had stones, though. Even when Vykos turned an expectant stare on him, he barely flinched. “I’m serious. We’ve been sitting in here with our thumbs up our asses all night, Seamus gets his head turned into a fucking desk accessory when he interrupts someone else, and then what happens? Miss Manners gets a phone call, stops the whole thing dead, and announces that some Kraut ratfucker that no one’s ever heard of is in Baltimore. Big fucking deal. We’ll all drop by his place for crab cakes and then go see the aquarium. Fucking wonderful.” MacEllen jutted his jaw aggressively forward and glared. His face was flushed and a faint sheen of bloody sweat shone on his brow.

  Once again, Vykos had to resist the urge to laugh. Oh, MacEllen posed no threat to her or to anyone at the meeting who actually mattered, but if she failed to treat him with the utmost seriousness, the man was liable to do something foolish and the council would turn into a riot. That would mean lost nights while the casualties were straightened out, replacements were found and so on. It would be dreadfully inconvenient, and probably not worth the pleasure of liquefying the idiot’s neck.

  Fortunately, Polonia chose that moment to intercede. “Mister MacEllen,” he said, quietly, though the effect on the room was like that of a whipcrack. MacEllen’s supporters, who had been slapping him on the back and working themselves up to various antisocial behaviors, fell silent. A few surreptitiously moved their chairs away from where he sat.

  MacEllen himself made a small noise in the back of his throat as the blood visibly drained from the big man’s face. He’d wanted to score points off the bigwigs, not force a confrontation. Now he’d gotten more than he had bargained for, and the severed head that had belonged to the lamented Seamus and now served as a centerpiece was a mute reminder of what was likely to happen.

  Vykos, pleased that she didn’t have to dirty her hands dealing with the junior Lasombra, sat back and watched.

  Polonia was on his feet now, slowly circling the long table counterclockwise toward where MacEllen stood. “Let me see if I have your position correctly. You feel that, by taking a phone call that informed us that a potent and extremely competent enemy has entered our sphere of influence, the esteemed Archbishop Vykos has interrupted this meeting, to which your contribution thus far has been repeated shouts of ‘Kill the fuckers.’ Am I correct so far?”

  MacEllen looked up; by the time Polonia had finished his recitation, he was standing right next to him. The older Lasombra was actually shorter than his adversary, but Vykos could tell that the contest of wills was profoundly uneven. MacEllen didn’t stand a chance. Polonia had five hundred years’ experience of commanding men and vampires, while his opponent could bully some rabble. This evening, the archbishop had eschewed the formal garb of his office for a simple black suit and white-banded collar shirt, but he wore them with a military crispness. MacEllen, by contrast, wore a sloppy black leather jacket with a zipper that had apparently been chewed off, relatively clean jeans, and a Skynyrd T-shirt that had clearly seen a decade’s worth of better nights.

  Also, Polonia had the advantage of knowing exactly what he was doing, while MacEllen was just trying to make some noise. Vykos pondered for a second, and supposed that the description of the situation as “cat and mouse” would only be adequate if the cat in question were a jaguar and the mouse were very small indeed. A sudden noise brought her back to the tableau; apparently MacEllen was speaking.

  “…Not saying she’s not important, but goddamn it, a cell phone in the middle of a war council? Those things can get tapped easier than a keg. And—”

  Polonia cut him off. “I am quite certain that Archbishop Vykos has taken adequate precautions to ensure the security of both her communications and this council, MacEllen. Though I appreciate your concern for the well-being of everyone here,” there was a ripple of derisive laughter at that, “you may wish that you had chosen a different manner of expressing your concern.” He smiled, a friendly, open smile that a teacher might give a student who wasn�
�t irretrievably stupid.

  MacEllen warmed to it. “Well, yeah, I can see that, but you know, I was just trying, I mean—”

  “Because,” Polonia continued, dropping his left hand to rest on MacEllen’s clenched right fist, “if you were to make such an interruption again, or were once again to suggest that the hand-picked representative of our beloved cardinal were that stupid, I would be forced to demonstrate my displeasure.” Without changing expression in the slightest, Polonia began squeezing. MacEllen’s eyes bugged out of his skull at the sudden pressure, and he began to struggle to break the archbishop’s grip.

  Polonia’s voice remained steady, his tone measured. “Now I am quite certain that, were I to break every bone in your hand as an object lesson in courtesy to your elders and betters, you would eventually be able to heal the damage, provided I did not actually pulverize any of the bones. I have done so in the past, much to my dismay, you see. It’s a matter of control, and when I get… irritated, my control sometimes wavers.” His face took on a mock-doleful cast at that, prompting titters from around the room.

  MacEllen’s face turned red again, then purple, then blue. A vein bulged in his forehead as he tried to channel his blood into the strength he needed to break Polonia’s grip. It did no good, as neither the archbishop’s hand nor his tone budged.

  “Indeed, once your hand healed, I think you’d be an even more valuable part of this war council, MacEllen.” Audible popping sounds could be heard from beneath Polonia’s hand, and MacEllen whimpered. “At the moment, however, you are a rude, loud, uncouth child who no more deserves a seat at this table than he does a pony ride.” The pops became snaps, and MacEllen’s whimpers descended into a low whine. Bloody foam flecked his lips. “Know this for a fact, MacEllen. The reason it is your hand and not your head that I am crushing is that your stupidity has not yet outweighed your usefulness. The instant that changes, I will gladly turn your skull into a drinking cup and let Vykos draw out your eyes for baubles; I’m told she accessorizes quite well. Should any of your followers seek to interpose themselves,” and his gaze took in the room, “I will personally deal with them, and send whatever remains to Madrid in a small box with white ribbons on it as a present for His Eminence the Cardinal. Do I make myself clear?”