by James Moore
Ilse backed away from the vulgarity of Hollywood vultures. Tourists could be such morbid creatures, and there was laughter from those who she guessed had only seen such scenes in movies and hadn't yet realized that a man might be seriously injured by such an accident. If, in fact, he were still mortal, but that was beside the point. She hoped the German would be able to conquer the Beast before he got the chowder off his face, and she wondered briefly what clan he might be to display such fierce power. Toreador? Brujah? Ventrue? Anything was possible, even Setite, for she’d heard that the Sand Snakes had made a nest in the canyons of Southern California, and she knew they could display the same overwhelming Presence that the better clans did. And their terror of the light was legendary.
Ilse hadn't time to speculate and made her way into the restaurant, hoping she could find the man she sought before the Kindred outside could recover and follow.
The asphalt floor was strewn with rice hulls and peanut shells, the wood dark and dimly lit, beamed and timbered like a medieval inn. A crowd milled about before the bar, chatting and laughing over the raucous music.
And there he was.
“Paul,” Ilse breathed.
It had to be him. He wore a stranger’s face, but the eyes were the same. Paul’s odd, unmistakable, magical eyes. The right was as blue as the ocean water she remembered from her living days, the left as green as leaves in springtime, both flecked with sparks of gold and magic. A magician's eyes, the things that had drawn her to Paul in the first place and the feature that had endeared him the most — those beautiful, mismatched eyes that could change expression in a moment, laugh and sparkle at a chance remark or blaze with anger as fearsome as a vampire’s. In her long death and short life, she’d only seen eyes like that once, and now here they were again, in a stranger's face.
Right now, the look in those eyes was faintly disconcerted, troubled by something, but the man who wore them scanned each person as they came in. He locked eyes with her for a moment, a brief flash of interest in those so familiar eyes, but then he looked away, showing no sign of recognition.
It was the second time that night a mere look had wounded her, but this knife was in her heart. It was Paul, it had to be, alive and well as he’d always been. Paul, who as far as she knew, had died but once.
Ilse paused, her hand coming halfway up to her mouth as she took in the stranger who seemed so familiar. Paul’s odd eyes were deep-set beneath brows so fine as to be invisible, separated by a nose that came straight down from the man's forehead like the guard of a medieval helm, lending character to a long, blandly handsome face framed by fine, moon-pale hair, straight and neatly combed where Paul’s dirty blond locks had never gone the same way twice. Where Paul had been small and almost endearingly scruffy, this man was tall and well-dressed, a London Fog overcoat folded over one arm of a fine quality charcoal gray suit set off by a silk tie subtly brocaded in blues and golds. The colors matched those of his aura, softly patterned gold and blue, the blue a brilliant azure of ingenuity and cleverness, the gold a holy glow of kindness and honor. Not Paul’s aura, not exactly the same, but similar in color and weave and texture, as if they were two swatches cut from the same tapestry, two souls fashioned from the same
cloth. And as with Paul's, the man’s aura was mage-bright, as vivid in its life and intensity as a vampire’s was pale and faded.
It was a mage she'd been sent to find, but Use had never thought...
She looked back to the man’s eyes, Paul's eyes, and fell back to when she'd seen them last, over sixty years before... the day Paul had died, first, last, and final death. 1929, the beach and the pier. “I love you, Ilse. I always will," he murmured. “No, don’t.” He grabbed her hand, staying her from cutting her wrist and giving him drops of life-giving vitae. “Let me go. I’ll be back, I promise."
Then the last of his precious blood ran out of him. The light in his eyes became twice as bright, flaring for a brief moment like the last burst of a candle flame hovers over the wick in a final mote of brilliance before vanishing into soot. And then the light was gone, leaving his beautiful, mismatched eyes as clear and lifeless as a pair of crystal pebbles. “Paul..."
Her vision blurred, and she suddenly swam back to the present, eye contact breaking as the man before her shook his head and smiled. “I’m sorry, I believe you have me mistaken for someone else." The voice was British, cultured, friendly, the voice lighter than Paul's, more melodious, but still holding the basic underlying tone. Yet there was no sign of recognition, not in voice or smile or in either mismatched eye.
“You—Use stammered, coming closer, searching his face. “I’m sorry. Your eyes — I knew someone who had eyes like yours.”
He grinned. “Well, then, they have my condolences. I wouldn’t wish the David Bowie look on anyone.”
Just the same sort of thing Paul used to say, the same humor. “He’s dead now.”
The grin turned into a grimace, and the mismatched eyes became sympathetic. “Well, he still has my condolences, for
what it’s worth." There was an uncomfortable silence, then the man set down his glass of sapphire gin and put out his hand. “I’m Carl, Carl Magnuson.”
Use shook her head to clear it and remembered her manners. “Use,” she stammered, accepting the handshake, “Use Decameron.” She stopped then as the mismatched eyes broke away from hers sharply, and she followed the look back over her shoulder.
The German vampire stood in the doorway of the restaurant, seafood chowder covering his face but for his snarl and his glaring eyes. “My goodness," said Carl’s voice behind her. “I’ve heard of chowderheads, but this is ridiculous.”
Use turned back around, and locked eyes with...Carl. Carl Magnuson. “Please," she said quickly, “we’re in danger. You must trust me. I’m Jing Wei’s blood-sister, and we must leave.” Carl continued to gape at the chowderheaded vampire. “You’ve got that bloody well right. Please, lead on." With one hand he grabbed his drink and with the other absently flipped a bill onto the bar.
The other vampire took a step forward, and Carl touched his spare hand to the signet ring on his hand with the glass, the blue liquid tossing like the waves of the ocean. “Ignis magnificus, veni y illuminatum occulos mios," he murmured In shock at the appearance of the Undead Chowderhead of Party Beach, one man dropped his drink at the same moment an ember fell from a woman’s cigarette. There came a shattering sound from the floor, and a moment later a ball of sapphire flame roiled up, mixed with the scent of one-fifty-one rum.
Use turned her head in time, avoiding the Rotshreck the German was no doubt suffering again, but then she had been warned by the mortal mage's words: Magnificent fire, come and illuminate my eyes.
She grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him into the depths of the restaurant, mazelike in its complex of pillars and booths. “Have you been here before?"
“Bloody unlikely. First time in L.A.”
“Good. I’ve never been here either. With luck, that will be enough."
Carl didn’t question the remark. With her free hand, Use reached into her turtleneck and pulled forth the Iron Key, pressing her thumb into the ornamented head until blood ran down the shaft.
Round one pillar, then another, Use led the mage, searching for a forgotten, shadowy corner. The route was different each time, and the path always had to be come upon by lost ways. “Dark. We need dark.”
“Allow me,” said Carl, followed by, “Fiat Noctem.”
Let there be night, the charm spoke, and its magic took hold. The lights winked out on the cigarette machine, plunging the far end of the hallway into darkness.
“I have a way to get us out, but it might not take you. Can you manage on your own?” she asked.
“Trust me, I’ll find something," she heard him mutter in reply.
Use took the lead, thrusting the Key into shadow and feeling its bloody teeth take hold in the nonexistent lock. “House of Secrets, House of Shadow, House of Fear, open your door to me. Open
the doorway to the forgotten, and allow those of your blood to enter."
The lock clicked open, and Use stepped through the door into mystery, pulling Carl after her.
And he passed. He had passed the test.
Only a warlock of the blood of House Tremere could pass by that ritual through the doorway of their ancestral chantry. And here he was, a mortal mage of House Tremere, a living man of the bloodline that had sold itself, its magic and its heirs to the darkness in exchange for power and the immortality of the Damned. She had found that pearl beyond price — a man who was at once a mortal of the blood of the House and a mage psychically aware of the possibilities of the universe. One who was as they were before Tremere’s circle had drunk from the Unholy Grail of innocent blood and taken for themselves the Mark of Caine.
Use felt the blade twist in her cold heart, for she had led him into the lair of the Damned, and she was certain that Carl Magnuson, whatever his name now, was in truth a man she thought she had lost and whom she had never ceased to love.
The unlit chandeliers sparkled darkly, late nineteenth century elegance, and the parquet floors were inlaid with elaborate voudoun never patterns, ebony in maple. Cold blue flames cast long shadows from the fireplace, mixing across the patterned floors with the moonlight from the night garden. Ivory angel’s trumpet and blood-red bougainvillea twined their way round the glasswork of the open French doors, moonlight seeping through the vines and angled panes.
Carl walked behind her, the parquetry creaking with each step, breaking the silence of the blue flames and pale moonlight. “What place is this?”
Use looked about. “I believe we’re in one of Mammy Pleasant's parlors. That or Lady Sarah’s. They work together a good deal now and have refurbished most of the newer wings. And the style’s different from what Houdini would do.”
“Well, yes, the room isn’t filled with water, for one, but that’s beside the point. Where are we?" Carl gave her a sharp look, one that demanded an answer.
“The House of Mystery,” Use said. “The Tremere ancestral chantry. It exists neither here nor there, but in the places between, the forgotten comers and the lost ways. There are permanent doorways in a few spots in the mortal world, but most exist only for a second, in the places of darkness and shadow.”
“A pretty speech," Carl said. “Did you rehearse it?”
Use would have blushed if it still came naturally, but only felt the knife twist in her heart again. “Well, yes. Initiates expect it, and it’s nicer to have something prepared, since they always ask questions anyway.”
“I’m not planning on becoming an initiate. I’ve had my fill of that rot already,” the mage said, taking a step in and examining the Yoruba spirit figures Mammy had left out on the mantel. “I made that much clear to Jing Wei."
Use paced around behind him. He reminded her so much of Paul — the way he moved, the tilt of his head, the timbre of his voice. And, of course, his eyes. “I... hope you don’t mind me bringing you here.”
“So long as it isn't like the Hotel California or the Home by the Sea, I don't really much care.” He reached out and touched his finger to the surface of the mirror behind the bone carvings, with an expression of wonder so like Paul’s that Use felt her dead heart flutter once, like a moth trapped inside a clenched palm. She clutched her hands to her breast, catching her breath as she had only once since she’d died, when Paul had died, over sixty years before.
“Fascinating...I knew the Tremere had preserved much of their magic when they left mortality, but I didn’t know they’d managed to keep hold of one of the Shade Realms as well.” He paused and grinned at her via his reflection. Use put down her hands and attempted to act as if nothing were wrong. “Sorry, Magick Newspeak there. I mean the Shadowlands, Betwixt and Between, the Out Of, the Dreamworlds, Looking Glass Country, Dimension X, all the rest of that rubbish. Which is it that you call them?”
“I — I’m sorry. I only know of one, this one, the House of Mystery.”
“I’m sure it goes by other names." He turned, leaning back against the mantel. “I’ve already heard you mention a couple."
Use nodded. “The House in the Shadows, the House of Secrets, das Schreckenschldss, Rambledown, the Dark Manse, the Midnight Palace, the Castle of Ten Thousand Rooms, the Labyrinthine Hall. But we don't tend to advertise. It doesn’t like that much."
He smiled, eyebrows bouncing once. “Has a personality, does it? Don’t worry, most of them do.” He wandered off towards the night garden, pausing at the threshold and looking out into the moonlight. “The better ones, at least. I fancy you didn’t so much build this place as find it?”
Use came over next to him and placed a hand on the branch of the angel’s trumpet, the gray bark cool beneath her hand. “Yes. It’s far older than House Tremere, at least to judge by some of the rooms. Lady Sarah thinks she’s found part of the Palace of Cnossus."
“The original Labyrinth, eh? Any minotaurs?"
“Not so far as I’ve seen," Use touched one of the tree’s delicate white bells, “but there are a lot of rooms, and no one has ever explored them all, not even Lady Sarah."
She paused, releasing the blossom and glancing up at Carl, his hair twice as pale in the moonlight. “It’s easy to get lost in the passageways. Some Tremere..."
His odd eyes twinkled. “Have never been heard from again?”
Use nodded.
Carl grimaced. “Let me guess — They were the ones who were always sticking their noses where they weren’t wanted, right? Poking and nosing about and breaking things?”
Use nodded again. “How did you know?”
Carl shrugged. “Stands to reason. Can’t have a House of Secrets without allowing it a little bit of privacy, and anyway, I’ve heard stories about this place. If a door’s open, feel free to go in, but if it’s locked, it’s locked for good reason, and you’d do better not trying to force your way in, right?”
“Just that. How..."
“Please, you allow the House its secrets, leave me a couple. Us mages need them.” He grinned. “All I’ll say is that I always thought Bluebeard’s wife was a prize idiot.” He cocked his head, still grinning, poised on the threshold of the night garden. “But anything else you think I should know?”
Ilse looked out towards the garden and the dark hedgerows. “It’s always midnight here.”
“Cinderella time. Hollowers must just love it, eh wot, love?" He smiled and started down the tiled steps, and Use had to catch herself on the rough branch of the angels’ trumpet. Love. It was just an expression to him, just another word to an Englishman, nothing more, no significance beyond a bit of comfortable informality. But from a man with Paul's eyes...
Her fingers slipped, and she stumbled down the steps. “Steady, love," the mage said, catching her. “Steps are slick, and there’s no end of poky, spiky things 'round here to stick yourself on. And that would be a nasty way for one of you Tremere girls to tie it off, skewered on a garden gnome.” He laughed, but without malice, and his voice had fallen into a more lilting pattern, some regional accent Ilse didn't quite recognize, but she could tell that it meant that he was becoming more comfortable with her. Grateful for small favors, Ilse took his arm and allowed him to escort her down the garden path.
It was truly lovely midnight, full moon overhead casting lacy shadows through the branches of willow and cypress and their trailing veils of Spanish moss, moonwort and asters in the open patches, fluttering with white moths and pale butterflies, all glowing in the moonlight. From the trees to the right came the call of the nightjar, deep and throaty, while from the left came the lovely trilling song of the nightingale, point and counterpoint, a duet of opposites.
They turned a comer of the path, and the human mage laughed. “Eh, now I like that. Someone’s got a sense of humor, they do.” Carl pointed to the knoll in the center of the garden where two low pillars stood, one with a Victorian gazing globe, the other with one of Lady Sarah’s sundials. They came over next
to it, and Carl traced the legend with a finger and laughed again — I KEEP ONLY SUNNY HOURS.
He turned to face her, and Ilse had to let go of his arm. She stumbled a step back, but recovered nicely, attempting to disguise it as coyness, making her way round the gazing globe and placing her fingertips on either side. The glass was cold as night, as chill as her own heart. She looked across at him, standing there, one hand on the sundial, the bronze glinting feebly in the pale light. Sun and moon, man and woman, sundial and gazing globe, living and dead, the two halves of the whole. It must have struck him as well, for he asked, “Always midnight then? Never noon?"
“Never,” Ilse said. “Thankfully for us, but the moon and seasons still go through their changcs, or half of them, anyway — summer to winter, full moon to dark. The waning cycle.”
“So this is where it got to...” Carl mused, not explaining himself.
Ilse glanced down and saw her own shocked expression reflected in the silvered glass, green eyes wide beneath blonde hair, white skin even paler than normal.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist," Carl said, and Ilse looked up to see him contemplating one of the white butterflies which had come to rest on his finger, its pale wings as spent and tattered as a Froud faery’s. It was dying, as was everything in the garden, the flowers full blown and fading, the nightjar and nightingale near their last days despite the dishes of her own blood Mammy fed them. “There’s supposed to be a land of perpetual springtime somewhere, where the sun never sets and no flower ever fades. But then I suppose you wouldn’t have much use for a place like that.”
