Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Richard E. Dansky

  “Miss?” he said as he prepared to make a grab for the keys. “Could I beg some change from you?” Lucita turned around, her eyes fixing on Tolliver’s. “I don’t think so. Get in.”

  “Oh, shit,” he said weakly, and climbed into the passenger seat. His brain screamed at him to flee, but he couldn’t. Lucita’s will animated his limbs and forced him to sit meekly. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he tried to resist, but it was useless.

  Lucita took the driver’s seat, slammed the door and started the car. Beside her, Tolliver literally shook with hatred and the effort of resistance, but made no other movement. With a sniff of disdain, Lucita hit the accelerator and the car eased out toward the exit ramp and the highway.

  There was silence in the car for a few minutes, then Lucita said casually, “What are you doing here?” Tolliver sat, silent. “You have another tenth of a mile in which to answer,” she said mildly. “Otherwise, I’ll be annoyed.” Still, Tolliver said nothing. Unlamented, a highway marker whizzed by. “Fine. If you insist. Open the door.”

  Slowly, inexorably, Tolliver’s hand reached the handle and pulled it. The door swung open for a second, then swung back toward closing. Helplessly, Tolliver struggled to hold it open. His eyes met Lucita’s as he glared hatred at her, and too late he realized the mistake.

  “Keep the door open. Take your right foot, and place it against the surface of the road. Hold it there no matter what. You may lift it when you decide that you’re willing to talk to me.”

  Relentlessly, Tolliver watched his right leg swing out and his foot drop toward the highway. He was a brave man, and he had no fear of pain, but watching what was slowly, inevitably happening to him came near to breaking his nerve.

  Then his foot started scraping asphalt at ninety miles per hour, and there was no more time for fear. There was, however, enough time to scream.

  Wednesday, 11 August 1999, 2:20 AM

  The Sanctuary Club

  Buffalo, New York

  Phoebe hated the music they played at the clubs these days. It had no elegance, no style—just pounding beats that reminded her of men at hard labor, chained at the ankle and turning big rocks into small ones. By extension, then, she hated the beautiful people who came out every night to dance to that piledriver beat. They still had their beauty, the beauty that had been taken away from Phoebe because she’d laughed at the wrong man one night. They could still look in the mirror and not weep for what might have been, for the admiring glances lost and the hearts that Phoebe would never get a chance to break.

  Small wonder, then, that she enjoyed hunting on the club scene almost to exclusion, and that she was a bit more brutal in feeding than many. But tonight, that hatred served everyone’s purposes—Phoebe’s, Lladislas’s and Theo Bell’s.

  “Phoebe,” the prince had said, all smiles and gentility, “I need a favor of you.” Behind him had stood the giant of an archon, saying nothing and almost frowning, clearly there to play bad cop if Lladislas’s attempts at persuasion went awry. Bell scared her the way big cats used to scare her, all muscle and grace that could uncoil with deadly speed. With an effort, she turned her attention back to what Lladislas was saying.

  “So you see, there’s absolutely no time to waste. I—we need you to start on this immediately.”

  “So let me see if I have this straight,” she drawled. “I’m supposed to go out on the town and bring a half-dozen—”

  “Ten,” said Bell.

  “—ten nice young men home and turn them into…into what I am, and then walk out the door and never see them again?”

  “Exactly.” Lladislas nodded with the urgency of a man who wants to get the damn meeting over with so he can get to either the golf course or the men’s room. “Your pick. Don’t worry about cover-up for the disappearance; I’ve got Haraszty already on it. We have a safe site in Lancaster picked out for the Embraces so you don’t have to worry about that. The only pressure is time, which we have precious little of.”

  Phoebe crossed her hands in her lap demurely. “I’m certainly open to discussing the matter, sugar, but there’s a little voice in my head askin’ what I get out of this arrangement.”

  “The gratitude of some very important people,” rumbled Bell. “Which is worth a lot more than you might think.”

  The Nosferatu smiled winningly. “Of course, but I was wondering if I could have a small token of more concrete appreciation?”

  Bell shot Lladislas a glance, who returned it with a look approaching resignation. He sighed. “What do you want?”

  “If I’m never gonna see these childer again, I want one I can keep. When this, whatever this is, is all over, I want to make one I don’t have to leave.” Without even looking at Bell, Lladislas said, “Done. There’s a car waiting for you downstairs. Tell Trietsch where you want to go, and he’ll handle all of the transportation. Dinner’s waiting for you out in Lancaster. I’ll see you tomorrow night to hear your estimation of how it went.”

  “I’m going to need to go home and get ready. You can’t expect me to go out looking like this, can you?”

  “Fine. Whatever.” Bell clearly sounded annoyed. “Tell the driver where you’ll meet him. Just don’t take too long.”

  And just like that, they’d dismissed her. The fact that Lladislas had given in so easily on her demand made her think she should have asked for more. Either that, or the prince had no intention of honoring his boon, but she tried to put that worrisome possibility out of her head. So here she was walking into Ash’s (she supposed the title was a play on words; she despised that sort of thing), the latest in a long line of nightclubs to spring up, draw the crowds for a season, and then wither away. She had to be careful now; she’d already hit five other sites for recruits (she just couldn’t call them anything but that) and didn’t think she’d be recognized here, but you never could tell. Some nights the crowd along the rack was restless, and flowed from club to club like water. If someone had seen her at Gabriel’s Gate, and then at Zoobar, and had seen her leave each club with someone…

  She panicked briefly, and considered changing the face she wore to a new one—say, that of the McClemens girl she’d met on that trip to Savannah—but it was too late. She was already inside, and if she went into the bathroom to change faces without changing outfits, it might have been noticed, and, oh, damnation and hellfire. Too late now, girl, she told herself. But after this one, I am definitely going home for a change of outfit and a change of face. Squaring her shoulders and adding a little bit of sway to her walk, she plunged into the crowd.

  It didn’t take too long to find a likely recruit. He was tall and thin, with hands that constantly fluttered as he talked, and a thin mustache. His hair was close-cropped, and he wore a red vest over a white shirt and gray slacks. Phoebe thought he looked like a waiter at an Italian restaurant, to be honest, and wouldn’t have given him a second thought if he hadn’t attached himself to her as she walked on by.

  Not that she could blame him, Phoebe noted. She’d outdone herself tonight, giving herself perfect alabaster skin, an aggressively cut blonde bob, and a face with the sort of high cheekbones, piercing blue eyes and elfin features that would drive certain unsavory sorts of men to certain unsavory thoughts. The black outfit was perhaps a touch too severe, but it hadn’t affected her success rate any. And now she had her touch on a string, and was slowly but surely leading him away from his friends and off into the night. At the moment, he was busy telling her all about himself, no doubts in hopes of exciting her admiration and desire. She found the whole thing laughable, of course—having seen five-century-old vampires crooning lullabies to tens of thousands of rats, she didn’t find marketing executives for sports bars too terribly impressive.

  Phoebe let him natter on as she drifted toward the door. When he paused for breath, she interjected, “Isaiah, sugar, that is absolutely fascinating, but I am afraid I cannot hear half of what you are saying in this,” she made a gesture that took in the whole club, from the e
nclosed DJ booth upstairs to the crowded dance floor to the smoky haze of tables screening the bar at the back, “this dreadfully noisy place. But I’d so hate to end the evening so early. Would you mind…?” She let the statement trail off, and hooked a finger in her mouth coyly. “No, no, I couldn’t ask that of you. It would be much too forward. You’d think terribly of me, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, no, no, no. Not at all. Ask anything.” Isaiah leaned forward with almost feverish eagerness. Phoebe had noticed that when she’d made her little shrug, the boy had most certainly not been making eye contact. That, and the slight but noticeable pale band on his finger where a wedding band ought to have been made doing this a bit easier.

  “I was thinking, mind you, that we don’t have to end the evening now. If, of course, you ain’t tired of my company?”

  Isaiah licked his lips nervously. “Umm, sure. I mean, where would you like to go? I’d offer my place, but it’s a terrible mess at the moment, I’m an awful housekeeper, I have to admit….”

  …and your wife probably won’t take too kindly to you bringing some blond thing home, sugar, she mentally finished the sentence. “Oh that’s quite all right. I was thinking, perhaps, my place?”

  Isaiah nodded. “Of course. And you have no need to worry, I don’t think I could ever get tired of your company.”

  Across the street, Trietsch was waiting, silent and efficient, in the Town Car Lladislas had loaned Phoebe for the evening’s work. The ghoul got out of the car and opened the door. “Good evening, Miss Phoebe.” He glanced at Isaiah. “Sir.

  “Shall I take you home, ma’am?”

  “Why, that would be just lovely,” Phoebe said. “Absolutely lovely.”

  Wednesday, 11 August 1999, 3:08 AM

  Interstate 270 Northbound

  South of Frederick, Maryland

  Upon reflection, Lucita conceded that she probably could have simply forced the answers to her questions from Tolliver by the power of her mind, instead of resorting to torturing him, but Tolliver was the sort of vampire who invited that sort of thing. He’d been casually brutal and tiresomely vicious, and she’d lost patience with him upon their first meeting, years ago. Tormenting him was like tormenting a slug or a toad. One had no sensation that one was playing with anything even remotely human.

  Oh, he’d broken after a couple of miles, babbling everything he knew. He’d mentioned whom he’d been traveling with, where they were going, whom they’d gotten their marching orders from and more. Apparently MacEllen and the rest had a haven set up for them thirty miles outside of Buffalo, a rendezvous point where Einar’s second pack would meet up with them. Then they would trash the city, which apparently was only lightly defended. That was news to Lucita. She had quizzed Tolliver about other troop movements and so on, but the vampire had sworn he knew nothing. As he’d been worn down past the ankle by this point, Lucita tended towards believing him.

  All in all, bumping into Tolliver at the rest area like that was quite the stroke of luck. Lucita hated to depend solely on intelligence supplied by the Nosferatu, so she’d been heading into D.C. to ferret out some information about her targets on her own.

  After all, if she were going after Sabbat, it was going to be hard to avoid Sabbat territory. And then Tolliver had so kindly presented himself to her.

  When he had spilled everything he was privy to, she’d slowed the car and shoved him out into the weeds along the shoulder. The sun would be up in a few hours and he’d fry. Or not. It didn’t really matter anymore.

  Lucita’s car was pointed north as she pressed on into the night.

  Tolliver hadn’t moved much when Talley found him two hours later. A Sabbat lookout—they were stationed extensively along the northern arc of the Beltway—had sworn up and down that he’d spotted Lucita zipping past in a convertible, so Talley, after making sure the three archbishops were in secure locations, had gone to investigate.

  After a bit of driving around, Talley came upon what a mortal would mistake for the results of roadkill dragged along beneath a car. The keen nose of the Hound, however, recognized Cainite vitae, even when it was spread in a bloody streak along a couple of miles of highway. Not too far beyond the end of the streak, Talley found Tolliver. The rotund and rather mangled fellow still survived, more or less.

  Talley sliced his hand with the jagged edge of a muffler that lay discarded nearby. A few drops of blood revived Tolliver enough to mumble in answer to Talley’s questions about Lucita. “Buffalo…and MacEllen’s crew,” he moaned during brief episodes of near-lucidity. “She wanted to know….Buffalo…MacEllen’s crew.”

  Talley wasted only a few seconds phoning for someone to pick up the poor bloody bastard he’d found. The Hound himself was headed north. He knew an opportunity when he saw one. Lucita was going to Buffalo, for whatever reason. This was his chance, without the damnable, arrogant, impossible archbishops underfoot, to let her know that she needn’t bother going after any of them; that he, the Hound, would not allow it. It was his chance, in accordance with Monçada’s wishes, to warn her off.

  It was her chance as well. If she didn’t take advantage of it, Talley knew, he might very well have to kill her.

  Wednesday, 11 August 1999, 3:13 AM

  Stone Hedge Commons

  Lancaster, New York

  The house was a new one, in a new housing development that was up against the fringe of wetlands by some creek or other. The house was vaguely colonial in an impressionistic sort of way, painted white with blue trim. The porch light was on, giving the whole thing a weirdly cheery look. The hedges were neatly trimmed and the lawn was putting-green short. It was utterly suburban, if a bit masculine for a creature as frail and feminine as Phoebe supposedly was. Needless to say, Isaiah took to the place immediately.

  Trietsch opened the door to the Lincoln and then vanished in the way good servants seem to have, leaving Phoebe and her victim alone on the walk. He’d tried to get frisky a few times on the way over, but Phoebe had playfully fended him off and pointed to the driver. “Soon,” she’d whispered to him. “We’ll be home soon.”

  And now they were “home”—someone’s home, at least, and it would all be over soon indeed. She led him to the door and fumbled in her purse for the keys; he took the opportunity to try to steal a kiss. Laughingly, she fended him off and said again, “Soon.”

  The door opened onto blackness. Phoebe stepped inside and reached to the left, where she knew the light switch was. Isaiah followed her in, shutting the door behind him. The floor of the hallways was hardwood, and the overhead light gleamed off it. Slightly to the left, a carpeted staircase rose to the second floor, while past it the elegantly decorated living room stood mostly in shadow. Down the front hall was the breakfast nook, and past it a curtain hiding a patio door. The walls were painted eggshell white, and a landscape by someone who had taken at least a few classes hung on the wall to the right. Phoebe thought it was the blandest, dullest, most jejune thing she’d ever seen.

  “Very nice,” said Isaiah. “Did you decorate it yourself?”

  “Why, no,” Phoebe said, overcoming the urge to grit her teeth. “I had some people do it for me. The upstairs is much nicer, though. May I show you?

  Of course,” he replied. “After you?” He made a gesture that might have been considered suave by a girl with a few drinks in her. Phoebe just thought it crass.

  “No, no, after you. I want you to be surprised when you get to the top of the stairs.”

  “If you insist.” Isaiah started up the staircase without bothering to look for a light, his mind clearly on what he thought was waiting for him. Phoebe, who had no need of light, followed. As she watched him stump up the staircase, she found herself suddenly very weary of him, of his poses and transparent expectations, of his thinly veiled contempt for her and his elevated sense of his own attractiveness and prowess. It was going to be, quite frankly, a relief to kill him.

  Isaiah reached the landing at the top of the stairs, his footfalls muffled
by the carpet. Phoebe joined him seconds later. “Interesting,” he said, “but a bit dim. So what did you want to show me?”

  “That door, sugar,” she said. “Leads to the bedroom, which I did decorate myself.”

  “Really?”

  “Why yes,” she said with a mischievous giggle. God almighty, she thought, I am doing this man’s wife a favor.

  “Step right through here, sugar.” She opened the door and held it for him. He stepped past her, and she followed, shutting the door as she did. “Close your eyes. I want this to be a surprise when I turn on the light.” Obediently, he did so, going so far as to cover his eyes with his hands. Phoebe slid out of her jacket, undid her blouse and dropped her disguise, smiling all the while. She walked over to him, the only light in the room dim moonlight through the Venetian blinds. Isaiah still had his eyes closed obediently, and his breathing had acquired a raspy edge. “Almost ready?” he said with a sort of pathetic hopefulness.

  “Almost,” she said, and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Now.”

  Isaiah opened his eyes and screamed. Phoebe just smiled. “How do you like me by moonlight, sugar?” she said, and forced him into a kiss. He struggled, but her hands on his shoulders drew him irresistibly forward. “How do you like me now?”

  Isaiah screamed again, once, before she finished with him and dragged him down to the basement with the others. Two of them were starting to stir, but that was Tomasz’s problem, not hers. She was just in human resources.

  “Six down, four to go,” she said to the air, and locked the front door behind her as she went out. Trietsch sat, waiting, at curbside. He opened the car door for her with impeccable courtesy, and then seated himself behind the wheel.

  “You look lovely tonight, Miss Phoebe,” he said as the Lincoln pulled away from the curb.

  “Why thank you, sugar,” she said, genuinely pleased. “But then again, I always do, at least in the right light. I always do.”