by James Moore
Use heard the sound of a chain clank beside her and froze, but the drop of blood continued on its course, and Westphal began to rise from his torpor, his nostrils flaring like a stallion’s that scents a mare on the wind. “Fraulein,” he breathed, coming upright, eyes still glazed, like some vampire from a B-movie.
Unfortunately, the B-movie producers had captured the expression of a rousing Kindred all too well, but then Westphal’s expression changed, going from a look of dazed, undead Hunger to a human expression of shock and horror as he somehow recognized the woman he loved lying prone in his lap, possibly scenting the blood from her bandaged wounds.
He leaned forward to her, whether to kiss her or to Kiss her or to sob, Use could not be sure. “Don’t,” she said quickly. “Her lifeforce is almost gone. If she suffers even the slightest injury, she’ll die."
Westphal turned to Use, staring at the trickle of blood running down the back of her hand, the pupils of his eyes dilated into sightless black voids. He leaned towards her, but then his expression became stricken. He realized that she was just beyond his reach, and he would never gain the life-giving drops of vitae before he fell into a torpor from which he would never return.
He had a minute, tops, and Ilse tried to work more at the
cuff, twisting and sliding her bones, but she’d never make it. With an act of will, Use pulled her hand straight down. The pain was intense, bones dislocating, wrist slashing itself on the sharp edge, but Ilse had felt pain already, and she ripped her hand through the manacle, the skin of the back catching and peeling up in a raw flap.
Use thrust her bloody hand out towards Westphal. “Here! Take it!"
She need not even have spoken. At once he grabbed it, nearly stuffing it in his mouth, drinking desperately of the precious blood. Use felt the joy of the Kiss and the wave of his pleasure cresting over her, almost overpowering in its intensity. She was unsure whether this came from his Hunger or that she was possibly just the thing to suit his peculiar Ventrue tastes.
“Enough,” she said at last, attempting to pull her hand back. He clung, continuing to nurse, then suddenly seemed to realize she was struggling against him and let go.
“Danke schon, Fraulein,” he gasped out.
“De nada,” Ilse responded, the Spanish expressing the thought best: It's nothing. She felt weak and drained and knew that Westphal could hardly feel any stronger than she did.
He sobbed once then, a sharp sound of loss, and cradled Jackie’s unconscious body, showing a face so stricken with grief that Use felt her own dead heart contract in sympathy. “Jackie...”
“Hush,” Use said. “She's still alive.”
Westphal took his wrist to his mouth, but then discovered he’d somehow lost his fangs while he was unconscious. He looked towards Use. “Give her some of your blood. Please."
Use sighed. “I can’t spare any more, and neither can you. What she needs is a hospital, but first we have to get free ourselves.” She turned her mind to the shackle on her other wrist and the one about her waist, but they didn’t respond, some lesser charm of Crowley’s preventing her from rotating the mechanisms. “Can you pick locks?"
The Ventrue looked about, as if afraid that someone would hear him admitting to such a de clase skill, then whispered, “Yes, if I have the proper tools."
“I have them." Ilse reached out with her mind and took her camera out of her purse. “Guard your eyes.” With a flick of her mind, she turned on the high intensity lamp, slipping the heaviest of the lock picks out of the camera strap.
The manacles on Westphal were old and primitive, with large, rusty keyholes and locking mechanisms. But they were painted with charms in blood, and the lock pick dropped from the air once it got within an inch of the manacle. He retrieved the twist of wire without comment and went about picking the lock by hand in a businesslike, if amateurish, fashion as she continued to hold the lamp. One by one he removed the shackles, then gently placed Jackie on the floor beside him and stood up, rubbing his wrists.
Silently, Westphal then knelt down beside Ilse, taking the lock pick and camera and working on the manacle on the other side of her. He removed a bit of red sealing wax stamped with an intricate sigil, then remarked, “This lock appears to be more complicated than mine." He poked about a bit more with the wire. “Do you have anything finer?”
Ilse removed the entire set from the strap and let him choose among them. “Crowley considered me more of a threat.”
The Ventrue only grunted, choosing not to dispute this, but he was good to his word and far quicker than Use would have expected. The right manacle popped away from her wrist, and Westphal pushed it back against the wall, allowing her to take down her arm. He then proceeded about picking the lock that held the larger iron band around her waist and the twin shackles around her ankles.
“Bravo!” cheered a voice. “What an amazing escape! I’m sure Houdini would be greatly impressed. Only one hand mangled, but then, I guess it would have been difficult for you to chew it off at the wrist.”
Use looked wildly about, shuddering with fear-frozen blood as she searched for the source of the mocking voice. Then a shadow slipped out of the deeper shadows, a small, elfin shape, fulgent against the darkness, lightless black, but the blackness that composed it was the dark of sin, a silhouette cut from pure evil.
It capered about, striking attitudes and clapping its shadowy hands in delight. “My goodness, Master Therion has the whole vaudeville show. Beautiful women, escape artists, transvestites — Why, he even has performing beasts upstairs! I must recommend this to my friends."
“Chamas!” Westphal snarled. “Where are you, you damned gadfly?"
“Oh,” said the silhouette. “A riddle he’s set me, but in reverse. Let’s see, where’s Chamas?” The shadow ran about, avoiding the spot of Use’s camera which Westphal shone everywhere, trying to catch the demon. “Can you find Chamas in this picture? We can make it a children’s book — Where's Chamas?"
The shadow raced around, bouncing and capering over bales and boxes, swinging from hooks and chains without a sound, light as a soap bubble. It was a long time before it came to rest where Westphal could get the spot on it.
When revealed in the light of reality, the demon had violet skin, pointed elfin ears, puckish features and a mop of curly black hair offset by biker leathers and the lack of a shirt. Any portions outside of the light were pure black evil. It was also kneeling next to Jackie's unconscious form, chest puffed out, head thrown back in a heroic pose, one hand twined in her hair. “So, whatcha think?” the creature asked. “Do I look like Fabio or what?”
“Unhand her, fiend!” Westphal snarled.
“Unhand her?" Chamas repeated. “Well, okay, since you asked. I'm sure Crowley has a butcher knife around here somewhere....”
The demon began to look about as Westphal snarled and lunged, and Use somehow managed to save her camera and trip him all at once, but then, telekinesis was often useful.
Chamas squealed with laughter, bouncing out of the way. “And funny clowns! Oh, my! Mr. Crowley’s show has it all!” Westphal got to his knees, teeth grinding, and spoke after a long moment. “Do not be alarmed, Fraulein Use. I know this...creature. Chamas!” the German snarled then. “Where are we?"
“Somewhere where they don’t know how to put on makeup.” Chamas struck an attitude of shock, one hand on his cheek, the other pointing to Jackie. “Would you just look at that! All that foundation, and that heavy eye shadow... My goodness, if you didn’t know better, you’d think she'd been made-up by a transvestite!"
Westphal growled, “I meant here, in London."
“Oh, that,” the imp said, coming out of his pose and striking an attitude of nonchalance. “Well...assuming you’re in London, you’re in the basement of Masters Kensington, Pope and Kelly, spice merchants. The smell is from the spice that’s been stored here for decades, and Master Therion has done a wonderful job of converting it into a secret temple. No need to drench everything w
ith rare oils and precious spice around here — it’s already been done.”
It seemed the creature couldn’t keep still for long, for the next moment it spun about, bobbing in a low bow towards Use. “Chamas the Imp, at your service." He came up like a jumping-jack, striking another off-hand pose. “Well, really, I’m in Thadius Zho’s service, but he asked me to keep an eye on you, so here I am.”
Ilse naturally distrusted all demons, but the Ventrue seemed to know this one, so she ventured to speak to it. “You’re here to rescue us?”
Chamas made a face. “Oh, Heavens, no! and Hell, no! and all the layers in between! Rescue you? You must be crazier than Crowley!” He giggled wildly. “My service only extends to being a spy and a gadfly, and that only for Thadius Zho. If you want me to do anything different, you’ll have to negotiate with my greater half, Charnas, the Lord of Misrule.” He held up a sheaf of papers in one hand and a handful of pens in the other, fanning both. “Deals with the Devil?”
“We don’t want a contract,” Ilse said. “All we want is to get out of here. If you won’t help us, you can leave.”
“Ooh...” Charnas said, squinting his eyes and pursing his lips. “lcy...l think the temperature just dropped a good fifty degrees in here.” He exhaled, his breath condensing like frost, and he rubbed his hands for warmth, then turned and looked at her over the top of the black Ray Bans which had suddenly taken the place of the contracts and pens. “I can see why you’re not gettin’ any, sister. What they say about Tremere girls is true — colder than a witch’s tit. Or was that witches with cold tits? I get confused, but I think both work.” He grinned. “You know, if you wore the brass bra that’s supposed to go with those, you wouldn’t get staked and it would give you the bonus of extra support. Not that you need it with those little things."
“Don't let him bait you,” Westphal cautioned her. “Now, Charnas, where are we? Besides the planet Earth and the basement of a spice company.”
“Former spice company,” Charnas corrected. “It’s the Undead Vampire Temple of the Damned now, remember? Or the Temple of Aiwass — call him ‘Eyewash’ and you’ll really piss off Crowley, not to mention Aiwass himself. But anyway, if you find your way up and out, and avoid the guards, and the cultists, and Crowley’s little vampire cronies — not to mention his big, big, beastie boy, since that’s who you’ll run into first — why, then, I think you’ll find you’re at the Canary Docks, on the Thames, on the East End of London. I wouldn’t usually answer riddles so easily, but Thadius wanted me to help, so here I am. And I have helped you — never forget that."
He grinned and bowed then, coming back up with an Elizabethan mask of Comedy, a long-nosed goblin-face with ivy and ribbons down the sides. “But please, if this shadow has offended, think but this and all is mended: You may have had a nasty surprise, but I know someone who’s gonna get a worse one!” He sing-songed the last, laughing like a malicious child, then roared like a Baptist preacher, “Can’t escape your sins — they always come back to haunt ya!”
The imp leered at Ilse as he said the last, and she knew that he knew something she didn’t. He winked conspiratorially and went up in a gout of violet flame, like a piece of magician’s flashpaper, leaving behind the stench of brimstone and lavender.
Use actually took a deep breath, not for the air, but to calm her nerves, then shone the spotlamp about, hoping the Pentax's batteries would last. “Get Jackie, then let’s get up the stairs.”
“Do you have a plan, Fraulein?”
Use picked up her purse, checking through it. It appeared that Crowley had left her everything, including the Razor and the Key. “Do you have a gun?”
He search his jacket. “No, but they did leave me this.” He held up his right hand, displaying a silver ring, apparently Art Nouveau. “It is the Rowan Ring. It can form a wooden stake for but a drop of blood.”
Well, that sounded vaguely useful. Use rested her finger on the Iron Key, considering, but unfortunately, the imp had told them precisely where they were, and there were other complications. “I don’t suppose you’d accept a Blood Bond to Clan Tremere?"
The German did not even deign to answer, and Ilse scratched the thought. No point in even explaining the rites and rituals by which it might be done, even if it would allow him access to the House of Secrets.
“Let's go," she said, starting up the stairs. “We’ll deal with things as we come to them. It's better than waiting here and letting Crowley have his way.”
“We’re in perfect agreement on that, Fraulein Decameron.” Ilse paused at the door at the top of the stairs, switching the lamp off once she was certain that Westphal was not too close to the edge of the stone steps. She then placed her hands against the door and listened, straining her senses, and heard the sound of low panting. Focusing upon a mantra of calming: Om Mani Padme Hum, she stilled even the slightest flow of her blood, disciplining herself until her soul slipped free of her body in a psychic projection.
She passed through the door, ready for any horror Crowley might have devised, and was not disappointed. Amid the psychic wreckage, she saw a soul, a white one, mixed with gold, green and red, the colors of purity, kindness, compassion and rage. Wrapped around that soul, shackling it, were chains of crimson and black, Crowley’s unclean lust, dark rites and the power of the Blood Bond. There was power here, magical power aplenty, but fettered and subservient to Crowley's crazed will. She looked with the eyes of her soul and was met by the bound soul in turn, unquestionably male, his aura flushing pale yellow for a moment, a plea for help.
Ilse slipped back into her body. Gathering from what Charnas and Crowley had said. She had seen the soul of Crowley’s Beast, the victim of the madman's unclean experiments.
Before even trying the lock, Ilse merely took hold of the doorknob. It turned, Crowley so mad and cocksure that no further obstacles had been set in their way...
Except, of course, what lay beyond the door. Ilse opened it and saw a room illuminated in red, the light coming from the eyes of the Beast chained by a silver collar to an iron staple set in the floor. And it was a great beast indeed, a gigantic, monstrous, red-furred Lupine thing that towered over them, and that was standing on all fours. The teeth were long as daggers, and the claws were sickled hooks that rasped across the stonework as it padded towards them.
“Ach, liebe Gott...," Westphal whispered in horror behind her.
Ilse reached into her purse for the enchanted razor. It was a desperate gamble, but she knew they’d never survive unless she tried it...and she’d never be able to forgive herself if she didn’t. Use unfolded the razor and cut herself down the vein so that vitae flowed down onto the pulpy mass of her hand. “I do not know your name, but I can break the bond that binds you, replacing it with one of my own. You must wish for this change, and all I can give you in exchange is my solemn promise that I will be a kinder master than he who currently holds you in thrall. If I am not, then my hold over you is broken, and either way you shall go free.” Use held up her bloody hand towards the Beast. “I offer you the Kiss of Fealty. By this Kiss you pass three nights in one and take the Bond now, becoming my Thrall as I become your Regnant."
She looked into the glowing red eyes of the Beast. “I cannot force this upon you, for it is a grave thing, and by charm and —"
The Beast lunged forward, biting down, crushing her hand between his teeth and sucking hard. Use screamed and pulled away, the bones of her wrist parting. Westphal caught her, before she could step back too far and fall from the stairs. He pulled her against himself and Jackie, grabbing her severed wrist and pressing his thumb against the pulse to stop the spurting blood. The evening bag dropped to the floor, and the razor slipped from her hand, chiming once as it hit the steps before it plummeted into darkness.
Wrestling against Westphal’s strength then, Ilse straightened her arm, pointing the gory stump at the red-eyed Beast at the end of his chain. “By this blood and this flesh, I bind you to myself! You are now vassal to Clan T
remere, and I am your liege. You now have no will but my own, or what I allow you, and all allegiances and loyalties you held before are hereby severed!”
She signaled for Westphal to let her go, and he did. Use held the pulse of her own stump and moved forward to the Beast. This was the test of the Bond, and if she’d failed, or Crowley’s magic proved too much, it would all be over. “And yet, my vassal, I promise to be a kinder master, and as the first act of that, allow me to free you from your chains."
The Beast lay down on all fours, his long, red tongue lolling out like a friendly dog’s. Relieved, Ilse willed the ragged stump of her wrist to seal over, leaving only bare skin and scars. She was nearly drained and weak with Hunger. It would take a great deal of blood before she could regenerate the hand, but the deed was done. Use looked into the glowing eyes of Crowley’s Beast — her Beast now — then examined the collar.
“Is — Is it safe now?" Westphal asked.
“It will be.” Use rested her head against the side of the Beast, too drained even to frenzy. “Get my bag and my razor, then help me pick this lock.”
Use examined the lock. It was a simple thing, and aura reading did not even reveal any additional charms or bindings. Exhausted, she slipped a mental skeleton key into the mechanism, and the huge silver hoop fell from the Beast’s neck.
Westphal returned a moment later, Aaron’s Feeding Razor in his hand, the blade quivering slightly. He stood over Jackie, where Use supposed he’d laid her down on the threshold, and the blade continued to vibrate. “Fraulein, this blade is magic? It seems to be telling me where I can find blood."
Use nodded. “It has that power."
The feeding razor seemed to be responding remarkably well to the Ventrue. It dipped slightly as he stepped over Jackie’s body, jerked towards Use, then led him straight across the room. There was a cabinet in an alcove, just out of the range of the Beast's former chain, inscribed with pentacles and other signs. Westphal pulled it open, pushing aside ritual paraphernalia, then using his undead strength to rip open a false back, not even searching for a hidden mechanism.
