by James Moore
Masika stared harshly at Anvil, pausing briefly to glare at Crusher. Kurt decided that more than was immediately obvious was conveyed in his words. “I also wish to change my vote from a ‘Yes’ to a ‘No.’”
Anvil looked ready to fly into a fit of rage, but held himself back with obvious effort. No one spoke for several seconds, and the tension in the room continued to mount. Finally, his voice heavy with threat, Anvil looked to the Justicar. “And do you have proof of this accusation?”
Sheldon chuckled, the bubbling sound emanating again from his lungs. “My dear boy, one has but to look with eyes that can see to notice the black stains in your associate’s aura." Masika and Lazarus murmured their agreement. “This brings up the question of whether either of you are fit to occupy your seats as primogen of this fine city, Anvil.” Sheldon’s voice dropped several octaves as he spoke this last.
Anvil fairly leaped from his seat, trembling with barely restrained fury. “Who the hell do you think you are, you bloated sack of shit?!"
Sheldon was utterly unfazed by the outcry. “I believe I am the Justicar of Clan Nosferatu. I believe I am a man capable of ruining you. Do I make myself clear?”
Kurt stood up and walked away from the couch, casually placing himself between Anvil and the Lord of the Clog. The Brujah elder had taken three steps forward, his teeth bared and his hands balled into fists. Kurt stared hard at him for a dozen human heartbeats before he finally turned and stalked back over to his own seat. Kurt was relieved, as he wasn't quite certain if he could take the brute in a fair fight. Not that he'd intended to play fair. From the corner of his eye, he’d seen Basilia, Masika and Lazarus all preparing to intervene. He had no doubt at all that they’d have been on his side in the argument. Masika’s voice rang with suppressed outrage, “Do I need to remind you that this is Elysium?"
Anvil glared in return.
Finally Sheldon spoke again, and this time there was a certain amount of satisfaction in his voice. “In light of the investigation, I have spoken with Don Cruez, Justicar of Clan Brujah. He is in agreement that all aspects of this investigation should be handled carefully and that, as a temporary measure, another member of the Brujah clan should be placed in the position of clan elder in the city." As he spoke, Sheldon stood and walked over to the main door of the large meeting room. “Ladies and gentleman, may I present Tura Vaughn of Clan Brujah, your new associate during these troubled times."
The woman who stood in the doorway was dressed outrageously in leathers that barely concealed her impressive figure. The smile she presented to Anvil was far from congenial.
Once the formalities were finished, the various elders started breaking from the meeting to go their own ways. Outside the meeting hall, Sheldon spoke briefly with Kurt and the other Ventrue who had been present at the meeting. There was some talk of the current situation and then Kurt offered a round of hearty thanks. Sheldon waved away the gratitude and pointed out that they were now even for what had occurred three years earlier in Cleveland.
Anvil slipped close to the Archon as the conversations continued, hissing in his ear, “This was your doing, wasn’t it, Westphal?” Kurt merely smiled in response and allowed Anvil to pull him a small distance from the others. “You want to watch yourself, Ventrue. You’re making dangerous enemies pulling these little stunts of yours.”
“You wouldn’t be threatening me, would you, Anvil?"
“I don’t need to make threats. I’m just letting you know. You’re causing more trouble than you're worth.” The greasy-looking man sneered, peeling his upper lip back to reveal heavy fangs and pale pink gums. “I’ll be seeing you later.” Kurt remembered the muzzle-fire and blood from his last encounter with Anvil. If it hadn’t been for Jackie showing up when she did and bringing reinforcements.... He let the thought go, but he remembered the lesson he’d learned that night. The ousted Brujah elder did not take well to losing, and he had no doubt there would be unpleasantness before the night was over. He thought briefly about his discussions the night before with Uriah Winter. If the man decided to betray him a second time, there was no guarantee that he would survive the night. Hired help was always a gamble, but twice the gamble when dealing with a cut-throat like Winter.
“I think you should leave now, before I’m forced to call Tura over and have her give you a spanking.” He looked at the woman standing a few feet away, the play of her muscles as she shifted, the way what little she wore clung to her, accenting rather than hiding her statuesque body. “Not,” he added, “that being disciplined by the likes of Tura would have to be a bad thing." He paused again, calculating how far he could push the Brujah before the conversation ended in conflict. “You lost this little round, Anvil. Take it like a man for a change." He turned away from the angry Kindred, heard his ineffectual sputtering sounds, and walked towards the group he’d been led away from.
Gilbert Duane was on his way out the door, but mouthed the words I'll see you later in Kurt’s direction as he left.
Crusher and Anvil slipped away into the storm that finally erupted outside, just as Kurt knew they would. Later, after the Justicar had left the area and the other members of the primogen had vacated the premises, Kurt thanked Masika for his hospitality and escaped in the comfort of his limousine. By the time the sun rose in the sky, he intended to be well away from Miami. The thought was pleasing.
It came as no surprise when Anvil, Crusher and several other members of the Brujah decided to attempt an attack. They showed up on motorcycles, preferring the speed and efficiency of the powerful bikes to the security and comfort of armored cars. It would be impossible to fend them off without stopping the limousine or exposing himself to the firearms they waved like swords over their heads. The Malkavians were called insane, but the Brujah were all but suicidal in their maneuvers. Time and again, they’d completely surround the limo, slowing down until Jackie had to either risk bumping into them or literally running them down. She never slowed, fully prepared to crush one or more of them. Kurt watched as she calmly reached into the glove compartment and removed a decidedly illegal machine gun. She also threw three boxes of ammunition on the seat next to her, pausing once to steer the limo towards the right, where Anvil was trying to drive his Harley Davidson and fire a sawed-off shotgun simultaneously.
The Brujah swerved to avoid the collision, narrowly missing one of his clan-mates in the process. Both of them screamed obscenities that Kurt could barely hear through the bullet-proof glass. The slick roads were more of a hindrance to the cycles than they were to the limo, and even Anvil seemed to realize the potential problems that he and his group of thugs could get themselves into.
Jackie opened a box of ammo with the word “glasers” scrawled across its front and pulled out a fully loaded ammunition clip. She was nothing if not prepared for combat. She let go of the wheel for a brief moment as she locked the clip in place. “Betcha I can blow him off the seat without hitting the gas tank, Kurt.” Her tone suggested she was thoroughly enjoying herself, and as if to prove the point, she gunned the engine and struck the back wheel of Crusher’s hawg. Bike and driver wobbled dangerously and then fell in a sliding, sparking mess. As wreckage faded into the distance, Kurt saw Crusher standing up, wounded but not seriously.
“I never place bets that I won’t win, dear."
“You spoil all my fun.”
From one of the on-ramps, another group of motorcycles roared onto the interstate, bearing a group that Kurt had never seen before. All of them wore T-shirts with the legend “Slashers” printed across the fronts, and as one of the gang gunned the engine on her bike, Kurt could see that their matching jackets bore the same caption across the back. His guess was that they weren’t there to help him. Whoever they were, they were with Anvil. The muffled cheers from the gang that already surrounded the car was all he needed to prove the point. Jackie’s smile faded, and she reached into the glove compartment again. Kurt doubted anyone could have been more shocked than he was when she pulled a hand-gre
nade from the compartment. “Jackie, you cannot be serious.”
“Hey, it’s my job to protect you. Sometimes you manage to get some tough enemies.”
“No reason to be defensive, dear. I trust your judgment. Still, one would think those hard to come by.”
“Are you kidding? This is America! If you’ve got the cash, you can get the weapon.”
“Stay away from the nuclear arms, won’t you, dear?” “Well, okay. There are a few weapons that are inaccessible...”
A loud series of thuds slammed into the side of the limousine, and Jackie cursed under her breath as she yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. The Slasher doing the firing dropped her weapon as she and her bike were lifted from the ground and tossed through the air. “I think they’re serious about tearing you up, boss. Maybe you should get under the seat."
“Nonsense. Here comes the cavalry.”
From the on-ramp they had just passed, a small battalion of cars ranging from rusty Cadillacs to battered Mustangs came thundering onto the road. The driver in each car was seated and wearing a seat belt. All the passengers were sitting on the edge of their windows, exposed to the wind and rain. The faces varied from clean-cut and serious to wild-maned and grinning, but every single person perched on the seven cars was aiming a firearm at the motorcycles that surrounded the limousine.
What could easily have become a massacre was brought to a complete standstill by the arrival of Uriah Winter, Sylvester Simms, Gilbert Duane and a dozen heavily armed people. Anvil was a fighter, but he wasn’t, to the best of Kurt's knowledge, suicidal. He and his pack of rowdies fled into the night with no more damage done save to their collective pride. After the entire herd of cars had pulled over, Gilbert Duane offered his thanks for everything that Kurt had arranged, and Kurt in turn said that all of the thanks due belonged to Natasha Volfchek. The prince of the city smiled in response, a wistful look coming over his features. Kurt continued for several minutes about the potential threat that Anvil presented. He strongly suggested making certain that Tura Vaughn felt welcome in Miami.
Morning was only a few hours away when Kurt handed a fully loaded briefcase to Winter. The Caitiff smiled thinly and took the money. He didn’t bother counting the bills, but Kurt knew he would before the sun was up. The amount paid was excessive, especially when Kurt considered how little the Caitiff had actually done, but he was certain Winter would think twice before setting him up for a fall in the future. Money, not fear, seemed the only route to securing the mercenary’s loyalty.
There was one final meeting before the night could be called finished and that one took place at the hotel, even as Jackie was loading the limo with all of their supplies.
Jazz Wentworth talked in urgent whispers and handed a heavy sheaf of papers over to the Archon. “This one’s big, Kurt." Jazz sounded mildly worried, which was extremely rare in Kurt’s experience. “Democritus would rather it be handled quickly and discreetly.”
“What’s so important about this one?" Kurt examined the photo of the young woman pinned to the dossier. He could not imagine why she would be overly important. She was attractive enough, true, but she was not recognizable to him, and that normally meant she stayed out of the heaviest levels of politics. “I know all the Archons and most of the hit men. Who is she?”
“If our sources are accurate, she is very important to Etrius.”
The name almost made Kurt flinch. Etrius, one of the most powerful Kindred of Clan Tremere, the number one threat to the Ventrue’s consolidated power in the Camarilla. “Is she his childe?” Kurt looked to Jazz and waited for an answer.
Jazz finally shrugged, “I don’t know, Kurt. I don’t look over the files I'm to give you. You should know that by now.” “Well, then,” Kurt was rapidly growing annoyed by the lack of solid answers, “what the hell am I supposed to do when I meet her?”
“Democritus didn’t say. He said you should call him when you get to Los Angeles.”
“Well, this is wonderful. I’m following a woman who might be important to Etrius. And to make the matter even more unusual, I’m following her into the Anarch Free-States.” He shook his head and grimaced in disgust. “Do you know what they do to members of the Camarilla they find spying in the Free-States, Jazz?”
“No, but I imagine it’s unpleasant.”
“Neither do I, but I suspect you are right.”
Kurt silently folded the papers and slipped them into his overcoat. By the time he'd said his good-byes and slipped into the luxury vehicle, Jackie had finished securing his possessions.
“Where to this time, boss?”
Kurt sighed and slipped his shoes off. The dawn was coming soon, and he hated resting with anything heavier than socks on his feet. “We’re off to Los Angeles. Driving this time, thank God. It seems there’s a little trouble brewing for the Ventrue in the Anarch Free States."
He reached into the pocket of his overcoat to retrieve his pipe and tobacco pouch. True, dawn was approaching, but sweetened leaves smelled wonderful, a reward to himself for finishing his assignment. He filled the pipe bowl, and Jackie passed him the limo’s cigarette lighter, already glowing. He lit his pipe and returned the lighter, inhaling the sweet fumes with the satisfaction of a job well-done. You could hardly be Prussian and not smoke something.
He removed the folded papers from his coat and flipped a few pages through the pile before finding a second, clearer photograph. The pale blonde woman that stared back from the picture was lovely. He regretted that they would be enemies in the coming battle.
“So, you are important to Etrius, arc you, Miss Use Decameron?" He stared at her face, memorizing every aspect revealed in the photo. The written files revealed more than he would have expected. She was also allegedly one of the Tremere’s best undercover operatives, specializing in gathering information. “Well, we shall sec who learns the most about whom. Why are you important to Etrius, Miss Decameron? More importantly, why are you important to the Ventrue?” The black and white image did not answer, nor did Kurt expect it to. He tended to speak aloud when thinking about his next case, a habit that he had yet to break himself of. “Time will tell. Time will tell me everything I need to know.”
Friday, April 23, Hollywood — The Camera Eye
Night and Hollywood. The neon sparked and sizzled, granting the boulevard new life in the fading twilight, and Use Decameron stepped out of the shadows of the Egyptian Theater. With a directorial flourish, the floodlights came on one by one, banishing the shadows and illuminating the lotus columns, making the grime and chipped tiles vanish in the glory that was Hollywood. Only a bit of flash and dazzle, but that was all that was needed. It worked, and as far as Use was concerned, that was the test of true magic.
She placed the Iron Key back on the chain around her neck, a key that fit no lock in the mortal world as the charm required, and slipped it back inside her turtleneck to where it rested safely and comfortably between her breasts. Use paused to adjust the neck strap so that the camera outside the sweater did not press too hard, then reached into the bottom left pocket of her vest for her cigarettes. Wicked habit. She’d sworn she’d give it up the day she died. Well, that was a vow she'd broken for a good seventy years, almost to the day, but it wasn’t as if it were the only broken promise on her conscience. She thought about swearing to give up the habit upon her Final Death, but then she’d caught glimpses of wraiths in her camera eye, and some of them were smoking yet. Better not to tempt fate, and everyone knew what the gods thought of oathbreakers anyway.
She saw the glow of the lighter through closed eyelids. The fire was less frightening when you played with it blind, and much more dangerous. The thrill of danger, but safe in her hands. That had always been part of the allure. In death as in life, the more things changed the more they stayed the same. She let the warm smoke curl lazily over her tongue.
It was somewhat less than what humans thought of the Kindred, come to think of it, and she took another drag, letting the smoke nestl
e inside her lungs and warm her dead flesh. It helped to take the edge off the Hunger, and while it was becoming no longer socially acceptable to smoke, drinking blood had never been socially acceptable.
People were already queued up for tickets to whatever the latest film was, and Use smiled as she saw their auras, as pretty and varied as the lights of the boulevard. She took another puff and stepped back, raising her camera. “Smile!" she called. A flash and the image was captured. It might prove useful, and it was always pleasant to practice her Art.
The ancients believed that the third eye had the power to see things beyond the ordinary, and with lens, lid and iris, what else could the camera be considered? The Path of Imagery, and the associated thaumaturgic rites she’d developed, made it so that the myths were true, or at least possible, and the art of magic and the art of photography merged, like the doubled image of a stereoscopic card. Spirit photography — the art of capturing that which lay beyond the pale, fleeting images that vanished so quickly that even the most sensitive could scarcely catch a glimpse before they were snatched way. Even the heightened senses of the Damned could hardly hope to match a camera’s arcane arrangement of lenses and crystal, especially when it was infused with the power of vampiric Thaumaturgy and even more so when an artifact like the Monocle of Clarity was attached to the end.
The new Pentax was a joy to use, much better than the bulky apparatus she’d started with in the Silent Era, even before her fall into darkness, and it was good to return to the canyons and hills; she’d been away far too long. Hollywood magic on a Hollywood night for a Hollywood vampire. Nothing escaped Use’s notice, not once she got to the dark room. Slivers of souls caught in the camera eye... and every soul had its price.
