by James Moore
He came back a moment later, a wooden cask like a small wine barrel in his hands, the whole of it carved and gilded. Westphal held it in one arm, the razor quivering. “It seems to think...” He allowed the feeding razor to have its will, whereupon it buried itself in the waxen seal at the end of the cask. Convinced, he pried off the seal, and the scent of rich vitae wafted up, strong as that of elder blood. Westphal raised the cask to his lips, tasting once before he drank, tilting it back one-handed.
He stopped a moment later, blood running down his chin, and laughed. “This is rare blood, Fraulein Decameron! Drink and be well!”
He dropped the cask into her lap and spun around, singing, “Frau Rauscher auf die Klappergass, die hatte Beul am Ei...”
Use had seen Ventrue drunk on power before, but never quite so literally. Then she took a sip of the blood and understood why. It was giant’s blood, the ancient vitae Crowley had spoken of, and it rushed through her veins, invigorating her, filling her with power and strength until she positively laughed aloud.
“Fraulein, hush,” Westphal warned, but Use could only giggle at his serious expression. It was half a moment more until the buzz wore off and she remembered the danger they were in.
Westphal slit his wrist with the razor and had Jackie’s head propped up, holding the cut to her lips and allowing her to drink of his vitae. Life still flowed within her, but weakly, so he did not give her the Embrace, only healed her as she nursed from his arm. As she watched, Use felt a new hand bud forth from her stump and new fangs slide into her mouth as well. She raised the cask and took another sip of the giant’s blood, which was indeed a mighty and magical thing, then set it aside, the stuff too potent to be partaken lightly.
The Beast’s tongue lolled out and licked the top of the cask. Then he took it from her and broke it open in his huge jaws, cracking it like a marrow bone and lapping up the spilled blood from the floor.
The air was pierced by a scream. Jackie stared at the Beast, her face a mask of dread. “Keep it away from me! Keep it away!"
“Jackie, Liebchen, hush," Westphal attempted to soothe her, but the woman was having none of it. She grabbed up the razor and leveled it at him. “And you. You corpse! You just lay there and watched, while that thing—”
She broke off in another scream of abject terror. Westphal looked at her desperately, then stared into her eyes, fangs bared. “Jackie — Hush!"
The cry died on her lips, and her eyes went glassy. Dressed in Dana’s dress and hat, she looked as posed and lifeless as a china doll.
Bloody tears ran down Westphal’s face as he took the razor from her hand. “Jackie, mein Schatz..."
The Beast put his head up then and turned towards the door on the far side of the chamber. Ilse knew what that meant — Company.
The door opened, and Ozmo stood there, a lantern in his hand. He took in the whole scene in a second. “Bleedin’ ’ell!” he exclaimed. “If this doesn’t send Mistah C. 'round the twist, I don’t know wot will!”
The Beast lunged forward, and Ozmo threw the lantern down to shatter, then suddenly vanished from the mind's eye as if he’d never been. The Beast only stood there, whining, a pool of flames lying in the open doorway.
Ilse grabbed her purse and gestured to Westphal. “Quickly, we need to get out of here." She tugged on the fur of the Beast's flank, getting him to lie down, then climbed atop him with strength she hadn’t realized she had. Westphal mounted up behind, Jackie propped between them. Ilse stroked the
Beast’s mane, twining her fingers in it, then leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Take us out of here. You remember the way out. I know you do."
The Beast bounded through the flames, ducking low even for the huge double doors, and loped along through the cavernous underground halls of the spice company, going up a flight of stairs and coming to another gigantic portal, ripping the doors away from their hinges.
They entered a larger chamber. A group of young boys in blue choir robes ran screaming or stared in terror at the appearance of the Beast. He snarled in reply, then loped across the room, pulling on a long, looped chain and opening the paneled door at the side of the warehouse, the lock snapping with the force. The Beast then bounded out into the night air, his red eyes illuminating the docks and the mud flats of the Thames at low tide, and loped down the pier, past a nightclub in a fashionably converted warehouse. Patrons on the upper balcony pointed and stared, some screaming, others making speculative comments.
“We need to get to Parliament," Ilse said. “Dee and the Brujah both are going to be blowing it up, if they haven’t already.”
“We can’t ride this thing all the way there!" Westphal hissed. “What of the Masquerade?”
Obviously the Ventrue fell back on tried and true points of order when things got overly confused. “Oh, please," Ilse retorted. “Do you see any vampires here? Let the Lupines deal with it if there’s a problem."
They dashed down the street, past cars and taxis, Gypsies reading tarot cards, gangs of Goths in black leather and lace, and second'generation Punks selling pictures of their mohawks to tourists. Chaos, confusion, and outright wonder flowed in their wake, the Beast loping along until they came to an open area with trees and grass.
“This isn’t Parliament!” Westphal snarled, his arms tightening around Ilse’s waist, fingers locked in the Beast’s fur.
Ilse gritted her teeth. “Pardon me, but this is my first time in the city."
“Evidently so," said a voice from the shadows, then one of the shadows separated itself from the rest and bounced out onto the path, taking the form of Charnas the Imp.
“See, Daddy? See, I found them. I’ve been a good boy. Do I get an ice cream cone?” There was no answer from the other shadows he looked back towards. The demon jigged up and down on the balls of his feet. “Look what we found in the park, in the dark. We’ll take him home. We’ll call him Clark.” Charnas yammered gleefully. “Will our mother like —”
“Charnas!” snapped the first voice. “Stop your infernal chatter!”
“But, massa, infernal chatter is the only type of chatter I can make!” Charnas protested
“I know,” said the voice, and then the owner stepped out from under the trees.
He was tall, with long, gray-streaked dark brown hair falling in fine waves from sun and wind, the same elements that had etched his face with deep lines. He looked to be just over forty, in a dark, nondescript green trenchcoat, a patch over his left eye stitched with an inverted pentacle. The right eye, however, was blue, the same blue as Carl and Paul, and the man’s aura was mage-bright, blue and gold, but streaked with black and sullied by darkness, and painfully familiar.
Ilse caught her breath for the third time since she’d died, having seen the second ghost in as many days. The ghost of the man she loved...
Charnas flashed her an unsettling fanged grin and winked, and Ilse knew that he knew. “Master," the imp then said to the mage, “you know the man, and you've seen the dress-up doll, but may I have the pleasure of introducing Miss Ilse Decameron?" The creature smirked. “Of course, her real name is Leslie Dicks, but that isn't very poetic, is it? A rose is a rose is a rose, by any other name, and it still has the same old thorns.” Charnas leered. “No matter what the name."
The mage looked stricken, gazing at her with his one, Paul-blue eye, then shook his head, regaining his composure. “Thadius Zho, at your service.” He nodded.
“Zho!” Westphal barked. “We’ll have time for pleasantries later. For now, where’s Parliament?”
“Where it always has been,” Zho (Paul? Carl?) said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it, fingers trembling slightly. “If you want my help getting there, though, you’d best keep a civil tongue in your head, or I’ll cut it out. There are uses for vampire tongues, you know."
The imp started to open its mouth, but Zho interrupted the unspoken comment. “Go to Hell, Charnas. Now." He added, more softly, “I’ll call you again if I have need of you.” C
harnas pouted like a child who’s been sent to his room and disappeared in a gout of violet flame, leaving behind the stench of brimstone and lavender. “My apologies for my familiar,” said Zho.
Westphal clutched the fur of the Beast tighter. “Thadius, you will have my gratitude if you help us and my enmity if you don’t, but we can’t afford to waste any more time. We need to get to Parliament.”
“Agreed,” said Zho. “It's not far, but allow me to work a Seeming if you intend...Clark...to accompany you." and Use was struck by how much (and how little) he sounded like Paul. As if he were Paul, but without the wit or soul.
Still he had a shred, just a shred of Paul’s wit and humor, a soul that was similar yet different. But when she looked with her sight, she again saw the dark stain of evil, different from the diablerie marks of Smudge or Crowley, but no less tainted, overlying faded colors like those of the soul of the man she loved.
Conversation was kept to a minimum as they approached the building. Too much had happened to all of them, excepting only Zho, and he was not one for idle chit-chat. Jackie came back to herself, or at least to consciousness, as they traveled. She remained quiet and withdrawn, and Kurt could not blame her. She tore the feathered hat away from her hair, tossing the hat-pin in one direction and the preposterous headpiece in the other. The dress she left alone, except for ripping away most of the skirts, thus freeing her legs for any actions she might need to take.
The only topic discussed was whether or not to let the Brujah survive the night. Despite an almost universal wish that it could be otherwise, the final decision was to try capturing the group. Let Lady Anne decide the Brujah’s fates if they were successful. What they needed more than the satisfaction of obliterating at least one enemy was evidence of the plot that Appolonius and his clan members were attempting to unleash on the unsuspecting Kindred of London.
Kurt’s patience was at an all-time low. After what seemed like a hundred hours, they finally reached the Houses of Parliament, a massive, hulking building that stood as a testament to Britain’s golden era, both proud and heart-wrenchingly pathetic as it brooded in the light fog coming ashore from the Thames. Kurt knew the sort of building all too well, another reminder of times when the world seemed simpler. Even a few decades ago, before the Second World War and his Embrace, the world had still retained some shreds of its innocence.
Kurt stared at the building, his heart aching for simpler times and peace such as he’d not known since the days of his youth. Beside him, Jackie still held her arms around herself, chilled by the torments she’d suffered at the paws of the mindless brute the Tremere woman now petted and crooned to. Twice he’d tried to offer comfort in his own awkward fashion. Twice he’d been rejected with a look or gesture. He knew in the cold, lifeless thing that passed for his heart that she would never be the same again. Damn Crowley and his Malkavian hordes! Kurt swore to himself that vengeance and justice would be served. If not tonight, then in the very near future.
Zho walked over to him, an odd look of concern on his haggard face. Kurt suspected the man was unused to feeling the least worry for anyone save himself. “Are you all right, Kurt?"
“Yes, Thadius, I’m well enough, but I must apologize for my earlier threats against you. I'm afraid this night has taken its toll on both my manners and my emotional state."
Zho smiled briefly, an honest smile that was entirely different from every look Kurt had seen in the past. “Nothing to apologize for. Between Crowley, his creature and Charnas, you’ve every reason to be in a foul mood.”
Jackie looked over from where she was standing, away from Kurt and the mage and well away from Decameron and her Beast. “Let’s get this done. I need rest."
“Of course, my dear. Apologies for...for my lack of consideration.” Kurt’s words caught in his throat at her chilly tone.
Zho stepped forward and gazed at the Parliament building, his eyes seemingly unfocused, but his posture indicating that he was concentrating closely on something that Kurt could not see. “They’re around the other side of the building; I can sense them. I believe they’ve come here by way of the river. There’s no feeling that they’ve been on this side of the building."
Jackie strode ahead, anger and frustration apparent in every move she made. Kurt could feel a measure of her pain through the bond they shared, the bond almost broken by the damnable monster that now walked next to Use Decameron, sheathed in a wall of illusion created by Zho. Looking at the young man beside the Tremere, Kurt could almost believe that vile thing was truly human. The mage did his magicks well.
Jackie increased her pace, and the rest of them were obligated to run in order to match her. Kurt tried to catch up with her, but her anger gave her extra strength, despite her injuries.
Zho whispered as he jogged along, and Kurt heard the words from Wagner's “Call to the Mists" carried away from the mage by the wind. The fog on the Thames grew denser, spreading out across the shore and reaching with heavy tendrils Cowards the Houses of Parliament. In a matter of seconds, the mist had enshrouded the massive building.
Jackie finally slowed, unable to see even the structure ahead as the vapor continued to thicken. She came to a complete stop, and Kurt moved towards her, only to be stopped by the mage. “Kurt, allow me to speak with her a moment, won't you?”
“I—” Kurt almost said no, fully prepared to handle his woman in his own fashion, but reconsidered when he took a second to think of his own state of mind. In all the time he’d known Jackie, he’d done his best to avoid forcing a conflict between them. Now was not the time to make her do his bidding as a pawn; pawns could be stolen away. Besides which, his fondness for Jackie was one of the few things left that helped him remain stable. She was, for him, a humanizing factor. “Very well, Thadius."
Use Decameron stopped beside him, her face a blend of impatience, worry and other less recognizable emotions. The Beast of Crowley’s torture chambers started moving forward as well, but stopped when its new master made a gesture. He suspected that something far beyond what had occurred was troubling the woman. She had not been the same since seeing Zho. Manners won over his curiosity, and Kurt left the matter alone.
“Is she going to be all right?" asked the witch, indicating Jackie with a tilt of her head.
Kurt stared at the Tremere through the continually thickening blanket created by Zho’s spell and shook his head. “I don’t know. I've never been...violated in the ways that she has just experienced. Jackie is a strong woman, set in her ways and often volatile, but the tortures she has been through...” Me shook his head, looking at the pale silhouettes of his woman and the mage as they argued. No sound came through the fog to his ears. He had no way of knowing what was said. Only the jerky, almost violent motions of Jackie as she responded gave any indication that the two argued at all. “I just don’t know. I hope so. She means so much to me—" He cut himself off, remembering that the woman he was speaking to was only an ally for the next few minutes. There was still much that had not been resolved between the two of them, and she was still his mission, though he'd begun to wonder why.
Ilse looked back at the pseudo-man lagging just behind her, her face now a clean slate. More than anything, Kurt wanted the creature dead.
“I hope so too, Herr Westphal.”
“Call me Kurt.”
“Call me Ilse.”
Kurt smiled, noticing that his face seemed unfamiliar with just how to make the expression that normally came easily. “Then it is done, Use.”
A moment later, Zho and Jackie came back over to where the two of them stood. Jackie seemed better in control of herself than before. Kurt shot a questioning look at the mage, but Zho simply shook his head in response.
“Let’s get this matter settled then, shall we? I don’t mind aiding you in this matter, but I’ve pressing business elsewhere that will not wait much longer.”
“Thank you again, Thadius.”
The mage nodded in response, leading the way through the cloud
ed air, apparently unhindered by the product of his own spell. Semi-shapes surrounded the troupe as they moved forward: a tree still leafy and full but barely recognizable in the dense fog, a well-manicured hedge that led to a wrought-iron gate which in turn led to a stairwell and the vague shape of a door beyond the final step. After several moments of silence, the mage held up one hand and gestured. Where he pointed, down in the depths of the stairwell, a figure could be seen, just barely visible in the deep, endless white that sheathed them all. He pointed again, and twice more, each time locating a figure that could be seen only after Zho had indicated their locations. When the mage spoke again, his words called out in their minds alone: There are your enemies. I will take the fog away and you will have your chance to attack. There was a pause and then the single spoken word: “Now."
In an instant the fog was gone, burned away as if it had never been. Four people stood, dressed in dark clothes. The cat Woman with the red hair was down at the bottom of the stairwell, crouched before a large, open suitcase. Inside the luggage, several bundles of gray clay-like putty could be seen — plastique. The Brujah was in the act of inserting primers in the explosives, a faint blood-sweat painting her flesh a healthy pink. Kurt was stunned by how close they came to being far too late.
Surrounding the stairwell were three others, but none he could recognize as easily. No, he amended, the man was familiar enough; the Ventrue Clan's dossier on him indicated that he was a serious threat and not to be taken lightly — Appolonius. The other three seemed surprised by the sudden appearance of interlopers; Appolonius simply snarled.
Jackie moved forward with her usual grace, reaching into the jacket Kurt had given her and pulling out a shaft of wood almost as long as her forearm. She glanced sidelong at her opponent from the previous night. The angle was wrong, and aiming from the top of the stairs to where the feline Kindred crouched, her best attempts would almost surely end in failure. Her decision was immediate. Jackie’s skill with melee weapons was phenomenal, and Kurt hardly had time to register her change in target before she heaved the stake directly at the left breast of the other woman present, a mere girl with flamboyant pink hair and an assortment of costume jewelry. Still surprised by the appearance of Kurt and his companions, the girl tried to dodge — too late — and could only cry out as the sharpened wooden blade rammed through her chest. She toppled over, as stiff and unyielding as a store mannequin. Jackie had managed to pierce her heart, and once it was penetrated, the vampire was immobilized.
