by James Moore
“What of the photographs?” Westphal asked. “I take exception to the Tremere having anything of mine.”
“And well you should,” said Lady Anne. “However, we’re certain Miss Decameron has secreted the negatives in the Tremere's damnable chantry, so you shan’t be getting them unless you negotiate.” She looked to Ilse. “Is there anything you might do to assuage Mr. Westphal’s worries?"
Use smiled as graciously as she could. “I will promise to take no actions against Mr. Westphal so long as he takes no actions against me.” She turned to the German. “Why were you spying on me?"
He glanced about the room, apparently not wanting to meet her gaze, but then finally did. “You are under suspicion by Clan Ventrue, and I have been assigned to ascertain your actions as regards the well-being of my clan.”
Lady Anne turned to Ilse. “And you, Miss Decameron? What business brings you to our fair city? Because, truth to tell, while we must respect Dr. Dee’s vile threats, we have not yet decided whether we will allow you to remain in our fief. We have quite enough Tremere as it is." She grinned like a tigress. “So, what business do you have in London?"
Ilse tried to look as demure as possible. “Respectfully, Your Majesty, I cannot say, except insomuch that it concerns no clan but my own, and does not violate the Masquerade in any way.”
Lady Anne pursed her lips. “We would like to believe that, but we must let Herr Westphal be the judge. You may remain in London, but so long as you do, Herr Westphal has our permission to observe you.” She smiled and inclined her head. “And, Miss Decameron, you may convey this back to Dr. Dee: If, while you are staying here, anything untoward happens to Herr Westphal, We will consider that an act of war... and we will decide the appropriate response at our leisure."
The Ventrue bestowed picture-perfect smiles on her. Ilse closed her purse and tugged on her quizzing glass, snapping their picture. She was going to need all the ammo she could get.
“Thank you, Your Majesty, for your gracious audience. If you have nothing further to say, then I must beg my leave of you."
Lady Anne continued to smile. “Courtland will show you to the door."
Unholy rage fairly described Kurt Westphal’s attitude as he watched Ilse Decameron leaving the room, escorted by Courtland Leighton. Once again, he forced himself to remain calm; the woman was absolutely infuriating! He turned back to Lady Anne with a smile on his face that felt false even to him. “I really could learn to hate her.”
Lady Anne returned the smile. “Now, Kurt, that is no way to talk about one of the clans of the Camarilla." Her wit was dry, typically British, but appreciated just the same.
“At least this time she is wearing civilized clothes.”
“I should say so. That dress is as elegant today as it was when I last saw it on one of the Tremere back in the Thirties,” she said. A devilish little grin turned up the comer of her mouth, making her look a decade younger that she normally appeared.
Kurt smiled in response and bowed gracefully from the waist. “Touche, Lady Anne. I’m afraid I must excuse myself. I have some unfinished business with the wretch brought into my custody last night."
“Be careful of Ozmo," she warned. “He can be very useful for gathering information, but he can also be a nuisance if you offend him too heavily.”
“Rest assured, dear lady, he hasn’t the least chance of causing me trouble.”
He turned sharply on one heel and left the room, heading down to where his guest had spent the night. Long before he reached the reinforced steel door that barred the Malkavian’s exit, he could hear the madman screaming.
“You bloody, fucking bastards better let me out of 'ere soon, dammit! I’ve got places to go and people to see! I’m a bloody important man in this city!”
Jackie was standing outside of the room, along with one of Lady Anne’s bodyguards. They both looked amused by the raving on the other side of the door. “Hello, Mr. Westphal. I’m afraid your visitor is getting a touch upset about his accommodations. One might think he was suffering from P.M.S. the way he’s going on."
“I ’eard that you snotty little tart! I’ll bleed you like a damned juicin’ machine if you don’t let me out o’ 'ere! I’ll...”
“Oh, do shut up, Ozmo,” Kurt called. I want to ask you some questions. Afterwards, you’re free to go.”
“‘Oo the fuck do you think you are, you soddin’ bastard! Oi've got friends, y’know! I can make your life shit if you don’t ease this ‘ere door open and leave me t’ my business!”
Kurt gestured for the guard to open the door. The guard nodded and flipped the dead-bolt, stepping aside as Ozmo threw the door wide. The Malkavian stepped out of the cell, his pale face breaking into a vicious grin, and started rooster-strutting out into the hallway. Jackie and her new acquaintance both leveled automatic weapons in his direction. Ozmo’s smile grew even more savage. “Well, look a’ that. You’ve got yourself some little friends to help wif keepin’ me stowed away."
Kurt increased the wattage on his own smile by a few thousand volts and stepped forward, one hand blocking the Malkavian’s attempts at slipping past. “Calm yourself.”
Ozmo spit in Kurt’s face from less than a foot distant. The guard looked ready to step forward, but Jackie placed a hand on his arm and shook her head. Her face was set like stone as she took a step back.
Kurt calmly removed the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the bloody phlegm from his cheek. “That was stupid of you.” He took a long step forward at the same time that he lifted Ozmo off the ground and hurled him back into the room he’d just vacated. Ozmo slammed hard against the far wall, and the sound of something breaking inside of him was like a pistol shot in the sudden silence.
“Christ! ’Ave you lost your bloody mind?” Ozmo started standing again, and Kurt walked into the cell.
“Not at all. But we are going to have a discussion now, and you are going to answer my questions.”
“An’ wot if I don’t feel like it, mate? Wot then?"
“This can end one of two ways, Ozmo. You can tell me what I want to know and leave here a wealthier man, or you can continue acting like a damned Brujah and I can leave you staked for the morning’s light."
Ozmo never missed a beat. “Just ’ow wealthy a man would I be if I cooperated then?"
“That depends on how well you answer my questions. If you are a good boy, I could arrange ten thousand pounds for you.”
“Cor, mate! Why din’t ya just say so from the beginning?”
“You never gave me the opportunity to say much of anything."
Ozmo frowned. “Yeah, there is that, I s’pose." Then he grinned again, a much more cordial smile. “What is it you want to know about ?
“Who in this town wants to hurt me?”
“Well, I did, until about three seconds ago. But other than me, I don’t know of anyone.” The Malkavian sat back on the hard bed that was the only furniture in the small room. “Nope. That’s it, mate. Cept maybe for the little bimbo coming in to see the Tremere."
“Ilse Decameron?”
“Yeah. That’s ’er. Nice little number from wot I’ve ’eard.”
“How did you know she was coming into town?”
“Oi’ve got me ways.”
“Is there someone after her?”
“After the witchy-girl? I dunno. Maybe.” The lunatic wasn’t very good at hiding his feelings, and Kurt stared at him for a second longer before he started growing impatient.
“Who’s after her?”
“‘Old on, old boy. Incoming fax, as it were.” With that, the man slumped back in his seat, a grin on his face and his eyes closed as if in deep contemplation.
“What are you—?"
“Shut up a minute then! I told you I was receiving somefing now didn’t I?" Ozmo waved frantically for him to he silent and then leaned back on the bed for a moment. Kurt resisted the urge to jump up and land on the man's chest only through a serious effort. “Yeah, I got y
our information, ifn you really want it.”
“I want it. Talk to me."
“Well, I just had a nice little conversation wif me sire. 'Ee’s got a lot on the ball, our Mistah Crowley does. 'Ee says the bully boys want to have a little party wif the little tight-ass."
“Why? What's she done to them?” Kurt leaned forward, hoping for the news that the chowder-throwing little miscreant was about to be revealed for crimes against the Camarilla. Petty, yes, but he wanted to watch her squirm after the last two times they’d met.
Ozmo started laughing at him as if he’d overlooked the obvious. “’Ss’not what she's done, boo-bah-lah. It's what Dr. Dee said earlier, ennit?"
Kurt reached forward and grabbed the man by his collar, lifting him half off the bed and lowering his voice. The Malkavian seemed to be rethinking his strategy in consideration of Kurt’s new impatience. “Talk. Now. Or die.” “'S’all right now. Calm yerself down, mate.” Ozmo’s voice was shaking, but otherwise there wasn’t much to show that he was afraid. Kurt was grateful for his ability to inspire fear or friendship in others. “Lady Annie said it a while ago, and I just now ‘eard of it. If the bimbo don’t show up intact, Parliament goes up in a beautiful ball o’ fire.” Kurt knew enough of Dr. Dee's history to believe the man would do it too, if only to save face. Whatever truce existed at the present time would be over, and the Ventrue and Tremere would be at war on a grand scale. Kurt didn’t think the fiefdom could remain in Lady Anne’s hands in such a situation; her grip on the city was too shaky for that.
Kurt grew cold, the implications of such an act reaching deep and freezing him solid. “The Brujah would do that?” “’Ell, yes! They don’t like neither of your clans, and Appolonius ain't liked Lady Anne since the first time they met. Calls 'er a ‘frigid little trollop,’ ’ee does.”
“Where is she?"
“’Ow the bloody ’ell should I know? I don’t go consortin’ wif witchy trash.”
“All right. One more question and you’re free to go.” “’Bout bloody damn time, too. I’ve got a date wif the Wilkershire triplets, don’t I? You can bloody bet I do.” “Where does Appolonius hang out?"
“Where else are you going ta find a whole bloody 'erd of arseholes wif bad attitudes in this town? Aside from Parliament, I mean. Soho. That’s the place you’ll be wanting ta scope out. Appolonius is quite fond o’ that little section o’ the city. ’Ee likes to ’ang wif the real serious punkers. Besides, I ’eard she’d be headin’ that way.”
“How could you have heard about any such thing?”
“Oi’ve got me ways, mate. Oi’ve got me ways.”
Kurt stormed away from the room, pausing only long enough to throw a large wad of cash at the maniac on the bed. He ignored Ozmo’s last comments as he and Jackie ran for the staircase. “Pleasure doing business wif the likes of you and all that shit. But next time call first, you arsehole!” Minutes later, the limousine pulled away from Bexborough Manor just as the Bentley Ilse Decameron had left in was returning. Jackie waved the vehicle over, pausing long enough to learn where the driver had dropped Ilse Decameron, and the fastest way to get there. Kurt looked at his watch and hoped they wouldn’t be too late.
Thirty minutes later, they finally reached the Soho district. Kurt had thought he understood just how seedy a town could get, but Soho made even the worst parts of Berlin seem tranquil. Here, the people walked through the center of the streets, crossing over to other locations with a total disregard for the traffic trying to move along. Worse yet, the stripped remains of several other vehicles blocked access to most of the parking spaces and even entered into the roads proper. Kurt had no doubt that Uriah Winter would feel completely at home in this stretch of London.
Jackie was constantly edging the too wide limo down the narrow street, often bumping the pedestrians who moved along the road in the process. Despite constant insults and hand'gestures thrown at them, no one ever took offense from her actions. Most of the people on the streets were too wasted on drugs, booze or lack of sleep to really care.
Jackie slammed her hand onto the horn for the twelfth time in five minutes and finally looked over at Kurt through the rear-view mirror. “We’ll never find her in time if we don’t just walk, Kurt. And we probably won’t be able to see her from the road anyway. Not if she’s in one of the clubs." She had the tone of voice that made it clear she was expecting an argument from him. He decided to listen to her, because she’d grown up in areas just like this one and he knew better than to think she’d lead him astray.
“Well, then, let’s start walking.” He opened his own door, standing up quickly and slamming it shut even as Jackie was climbing from the driver’s seat. “May as well lock the car, for all the good it will do us.”
“Hey, it’s a rental. We can afford the loss. I always buy insurance on these things."
“True. Just the same, it was a comfortable ride.”
Kurt stood and stared at the Soho’s barrage of bizarre denizens before Jackie tapped him on the arm to get him moving. He followed her, too stunned by the strange and often gender-confused people of Soho to worry about appearance. One look at his clothes had half the scavengers of the area wanting to try their luck, but again his ability to invoke emotions kept them away, and Kurt enjoyed watching predator and prey alike scurry away like an army of rats. He finally managed to catch up with Jackie just as she turned the comer at the end of the block. He knew in his heart that he’d never see the limousine intact again.
Half a block down the way, a line of humans waited to get into a trashy dive playing music so loud that it carried all the
way to where he was standing. Jackie had come to a complete stop and was gesturing for him to do the same. “What is it?" “You said Decameron was wearing a gray dress?”
“Yes.”
“I think she just got herself in trouble.” She pointed down to an alley entrance just past the long lines of humans waiting to enter the club and indicated a large group of very angry-looking people. They were following a woman who moved too swiftly to be anything but a Kindred, rushing down the mouth of the alley with unnatural speed and grace. “There, she just went around the side of the building.”
Kurt smiled. “I would guess that you are right. I do not like the odds, however.”
“Should I get the heavy artillery?”
“Just the close-range specialty items.”
“You get the ring, I get the knife?”
“Of course, dear. You know I hate knives."
Jackie handed him a silvery ring from one of her jacket pockets and two extra clips of bullets for his .44 magnum as well. “All set?"
“Yes, but I think we should try to head them off at the pass, as your Westerns like to say.” Kurt pointed to a rusty and treacherous-looking fire escape that ran up the side of the club. The ladder was up a good ten feet, but he wasn’t exactly worried about so minor a detail. On a bad night he could clear twenty feet from a standing jump, and he knew Jackie could do the same. “There, the fire escape. Let’s go for the high ground.”
Courtland insisted on her taking the Bentley, which had smoked windows, leather seats, and, thoughtfully, a cellular phone and a chilled bag of blood. These last two items, Use was certain, were bugged and drugged, respectively. The chauffeur had of course asked her where she would like to go, and Ilse had told him to take her to the club district, Soho in particular, where she planned to be meeting someone.
Once the car stopped, she wished she’d known more about London and had picked somewhere a little more upscale to meet with her mythical contact. So far as she knew, Soho was just a place you could get lost, which was what she required for the Rite of the Iron Key. Now that she could see Soho firsthand, she knew it was a bad place to get lost and an easy place to disappear. Not that she hadn't been in places like it before, but if she’d known, she’d have worn the uniform and had leather and chains and more zippers than she knew what to do with. Looking out the window of the Bentley, Ilse knew she�
�d come to the birthplace of punk, and judging by the sneers on the young faces looking at the Ventrue’s ever so aristocratic, hoity-toity classic car, the residents were as uptight as only the orthodox heirs to the punk movement could be.
Gray silk tea dresses were right out.
About the only thing Ilse had that fit the mood of the place were her cigarettes, so when she got out of the car, she struck a pose, lighting one up and trying to look like an eccentric film noire groupie, instead of just a frightened vampire from out of town.
“Well lah-di-dah,” said a voice as Ilse lit her cigarette, closing her eyes against the glare. “Look oos dropped in to pay us a visit. I think h’it’s Lady Di.”
“Will there be anything else, Madame?” asked the chauffeur, who, in spite of being a hulking Blood Bound Ventrue ghoul, still showed a trace of anxiety at being in the middle of Soho after midnight on a Sunday night.
Yeah, I wish you’d get the hell out of here. You’re making me stick out like a sore thumb, Ilse thought, but only blew cigarette smoke in his direction and said, “No, thank you. That will be all."
The ghoul bowed quickly, respectfully, then got behind the wheel and drove off with little apparent concern for the Bentley. Ilse turned and moved towards the door of the club, stopping as someone blocked her way.
“Got any change, mum?" asked a boy in an army green stocking cap and five safety pins, accent almost incomprehensible.
“No.” Ilse took a puff of her cigarette, trying to play it cool and move past him.
“Spare a fag?”
After a moment Ilse realized he was looking at her cigarettes as he said it. Wordlessly she handed him the pack, and the girl who’d called her Lady Di moved in. “Cooh! They’s American. Give us one, Nickie.”
Nickie was involved in stuffing two in his mouth and lighting them both, cupping the match flame behind his fingerless gloves, as Ilse got into line for the club. “Sweeney Todd’s” the sign said, with a lurid (and faintly appetizing) underground cartoon logo of someone having their throat slashed with a straight razor, the spurting blood forming dripping red letters. The American cigarettes seemed an appropriate offering, since all of the punks who were too young to get in the club were divvying them up like Fagin’s kids in a mohawk-and-safety-pin version of Oliver Twist.
