by James Moore
The elder vampire released the mage and smiled, gesturing to the door. Carl glanced back for a moment, as if afraid that Master Harry was going to pull another trick, then slowly reached for the old brass knob.
They emerged into a completely different chamber, decorated in gold and crystal, with cabinets filled with demitasse cups and goldsmithing of baroque splendor, drinking vessels made from nautilus shells in the shape of hippocampi, and ostrich shell chalices fashioned to look like ostriches with real plumes attached.
In an ornate leather folding chair, some noble’s hunting throne from the Dark Ages, sat a young Spaniard dressed in wine velvet, his long hair clasped to one side with a gold band. He lounged back, languidly smoking a cigarette, but looked up as they entered the room.
“Merrill!" Ilse cried out, glad for a familiar face. “I didn't know you were here.”
He stubbed out his cigarette in the gold-edged ashtray beside his empty coffee cup and stood up. “Nice to see you again, Ilse." He opened the gold cigarette case on the chain around his neck and slipped the remaining half inside. “Everyone comes to Vienna sooner or later. Now do you make the introductions or do I?”
“Weren't you told of our coming?”
“Well, yes, but there’s always the sake of appearances. Merrill Molitor,” he said, extending his hand to Carl beside her, “and I’d be guessing you’d be Carl Magnuson?”
“You’d guess right,” Carl said, taking Merrill’s hand and shaking it. “You two...?” He cocked his head in Ilse’s direction.
Merrill smiled. “Long past, I’m afraid. But watch her, my friend — she has a wicked bite.”
Carl took his hand back and rubbed his neck. “I’ve already found that out for myself.”
Ilse looked away as Master Harry said, “No greetings for me, you blackguard?”
Ilse knew Merrill was smiling with that Andalusian charm that had first drawn her to him. “Hello, Master Harry,” Merrill replied, laughing. “I haven’t seen you since what? Last week? No matter. Councilor Etrius wants to see everyone, or really Use and Carl, but he won’t care if you tag along.” He paused. “I’m glad you’re already in formal wear, even if I know it’s just your conjurer’s trappings. We now only need find you a top hat —*
There was a popping sound, and Ilse looked back to see Master Harry flourishing a high silk hat and putting it atop his head. “Done." He reached behind Carl’s head and produced a second, popping it out as well.
Carl snatched it and put it on for himself, murmuring, “I’d always heard hatters were mad..."
Merrill laughed, turning to Ilse and studying at the deep crimson crushed-velvet gown Lady Sarah had chosen for her to wear to the audience. “Oh, come now, Use.” He stood back, hands on hips, his gaze lingering on her neckline. “Pearls were never your style, and we know you’re not that innocent. Allow me...
He raised his hands to his mouth, nicking each of his thumbs with his fangs, then put his hands to either side of her head, touching the earrings Lady Sarah had made her and looking deep into her eyes. Slowly and sensually, he then let
his hands slide down, tracing the line of her neck from both sides and the string of pearls, ending with his fingers atop her breasts, blood dripping down into her cleavage like a kiss.
Ilse glanced down, seeing where the pearls had been transmuted to a heavy scapular of garnets. In the hollow between her breasts, the blood pooled and formed a pigeon’s blood star ruby.
She looked up at Merrill, and he smiled, taking his hands to her wrists and adding heavy bracelets in place of the pearl watch Lady Sarah had crafted for her. “A woman looks best in jewels, if she is to be dressed at all.”
Carl took her arm, retrieving her hand from Merrill. “Let’s just skip the tiara, shall we?”
Master Harry laughed, and Ilse forced herself to give one too, but she knew it didn’t sound right.
Unflappable, Merrill turned to the door at the end of the chamber and opened it. “Let me get someone to take your bags to your rooms, then we’ll get along to Councilor Etrius. He’s already at the Opera, but if we move quickly, we should be able to make the second act.” He leaned out into the hall. “Frick! Frack! They’re here! See to the bags, then follow us."
Two huge white-haired men entered the room, one in a white tux, the other in a black tux, both twice as rich and twice as plain as either tail coat Carl or Master Harry was wearing. The chantry’s ghoul retainers were otherwise perfect mirrors, silent as monoliths. They took the bags from Master Harry and ducked out of the room.
Merrill smiled and gestured to the door. “The Opera House is not far, if you don't mind the walk, and I can fill you in on the first act while we do."
“Yes, please," Ilse found herself saying. “That would be lovely.”
Merrill led the way down the hall and up the stairs, to the mansion’s fourteenth century foyer where Frick and Frack waited to either side of the grand doors like sentinels. Frack
of course referred to the formal frock coat and white-tie ensemble that the second ghoul wore, though Ilse’s German was rusty and she couldn’t remember what Frick would mean. As far as she recalled, the black tie and tails worn by the left-hand ghoul (and by Master Harry and Carl, for that matter) was properly referred to as esmoquin, though she could probably call the two chessmen Max and Moritz and it would make as much difference.
They exited the Tremere High Chantry, just across from the University of Vienna, and uncomfortably equidistant between the spires of the Votivkirche and the Cathedral of St. Stefan. Merrill led them down the Herrengasse towards the Opera House, Frick and Frack walking silently to either side of them, a ghoul escort against any possible troubles.
Somehow, by unspoken consent, everyone had switched to German, Merrill’s Andalusian accent almost undetectable underneath the aristocratic Viennese dialect he’d affected. Use was left with halting Hochdeutsch, as was Carl, though his was much better, while Master Harry started up the same dialect as Merrill, laughing in a magician’s patter as they went through the various jokes and plot twists of the first act of Die Fledermaus.
Somehow, Use was having trouble paying attention, probably because meeting with Councilor Etrius, the leader of the Council of Seven and one of the most powerful Kindred in the world, seemed to overshadow whether or not Herr Doktor Professor Franke had woken up with a hangover at the base of a statue amid the morning commute while still dressed in a bat suit. If she were a Toreador, the intricacies of the first act of Die Fledermaus would have probably been fascinating, but she wasn’t, and even though her stomach was as dead as her heart, the butterflies seemed to be defying death quite nicely.
“That Merrill’s slicker than Blackheath Pond in midwinter, isn’t he?” Carl remarked, patting her arm with one warm hand.
“He’s not that bad.” Ilse watched as the Spaniard laughed and waved his cigarette in the air, tracing patterns for Master Harry. She desperately wanted a smoke herself, but knew if she took one out, Merrill would be back offering her his lighter before she had a chance to blink. “I was very fond of him once.”
Carl looked askance. “In love?”
“No, passion.” She made herself sigh, but it wasn’t hard. “He was young and alive, and he made me feel alive. But I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me.”
“You mean...?" Carl tapped his neck with two fingers.
“Yes.” Ilse felt Carl’s skin grow colder. Some further explanation was needed. “I — I didn’t want to, but the Council gave me my orders.”
Carl looked at her wryly. “Do you do everything the Council tells you to do?”
Ilse didn’t answer, and that, she knew, was answer in and of itself.
They continued in silence, except for Merrill and Master Harry joking about musical pocketwatches and high-voiced Russian princes, until at last they came to the Vienna Opera House.
It was prettier than she remembered it, with mounted riders on the cornices and robed gods or statesmen on the second level,
but then the last time Use had seen it was 1940, and she knew it had been bombed during the war. The rebuilding had surpassed its former splendor, or at least her memory of it. She hardly had a moment to gaze up at the grand facade before they were up the steps and the footmen already in position opened the doors, Frick and Frack escorting them inside.
Merrill dropped his cigarette in one of the ashtrays, the sand in the top pressed into the shape of the Austrian eagle, then pointed to the grand stairway, green plush carpeting held down with brass rails over white marble, gilded lanterns and pediments with Grecian statuary to either side. “Our box is on the top floor.”
Use followed, along with Master Harry and Carl, Frick and Frack keeping silent pace to either side of them. From behind the sealed doors, Ilse heard the strains of an aria and a woman’s voice, beautiful and compelling in its power, with a strange, almost mystical quality to it.
Ushers opened doors for Merrill at a single glance from him, and they were at last at a door just to the left of one marked with the imperial arms of the House of Hapsburg. A lesser coat of arms decorated this portal, but worked into the detail was the seal of House Tremere. Merrill brought out a key and quietly unlocked the door, holding it open for them with a finger to his lips. First Frick, then Master Harry, then Carl went inside, followed by herself, with Merrill and Frack bringing up the rear.
The first thing that struck her was the sound, for what had been haunting and beautiful in the hall outside had taken on a supernatural quality when she stepped through the door. On the stage, far below, was a raven-haired woman dressed in a long, iridescent, peacock-colored gown, moving in the heavy skirts with a sensual grace that belied their weight and the distance. Her voice, a rich, pure soprano, trilled the aria like a nightingale.
Ilse picked up a snatch of the words after a long while and translated them for herself. She claimed to be a Hungarian countess, but was very, very mysterious. What she had done and who she was must remain a secret, but behind her peacock-feathered mask, it was intimated that she was a woman of great fame, even infamy, possibly even the celebrated Countess Bathory, the fabled beauty whom men both feared and lusted after and who had kept herself forever young and beautiful by bathing in the blood of virgins.
With her black hair, pale face and the aching beauty of her voice, Use did not need to look at her aura to tell that she was Kindred, let alone Toreador. Her voice had an enchanting quality that told the story by itself, and it wasn't until Merrill placed a hand on Ilse’s shoulder that the spell was broken and she was able to find her seat and take in the rest of her surroundings.
Besides herself and the others she had come with, the first who caught her eye was a small, dark young man, leaning on the edge of the balcony and peering with a preternatural intensity through a pair of opera glasses at the woman below. Across his knees and the edge of the box he had a black sketchbook open, and as he watched, his fountain pen flew across the page, tracing the woman and writing down snatches of verse and poetry with a speed and precision that would have seemed inhuman if the drawings with which he covered the page were not so very beautiful.
Another Toreador, Use was certain, and at the bottom of the left-hand page was the caption:
Adrianne
als
Rosalinda von Eisenstein als
Die Ungarische Grafin
“Dieter Kleist," Merrill whispered in her ear, altogether too close. “Councilor Etrius’ chronicler."
Kleist sketched an ornamented border around his poetry, not even glancing at it, then flipped the page and began a new drawing.
Merrill nodded to one side until Use followed him. “Councilor Etrius,” he said, then, “and Astrid Thomas.”
Use didn’t even glance at the woman, her eyes only for Etrius. He was to the right of her, and she could only see his right eye, but it was the same blue as Paul's, or Carl’s, or Zho’s for that matter, with the same expression of intent curiosity. Otherwise, the ancient vampire appeared young and pleasantfaced, smooth and clean-shaven, scarcely over twenty to judge
by physical age, with longish sandy-brown hair. He was neither short like Paul nor tall like Carl, only just above middling height, which, Ilse considered, would have been quite tall for the middle ages.
Etrius was dressed in white Frack, but very old-fashioned, something an imperial officer would have worn at the end of the Austrian Empire. In place of the usual ambassadorial sash or military medals, around his neck he had a great golden chain of office, the type of ornament only seen in portraits of medieval chancellors or burghers, square diamond studs framed in gold with a Burmese ruby of the first water set as the central pendant. Under the chain, on a simple black silk cord, was an ornate iron key, the key of a chamberlain or steward.
Ilse refocused her sight, and around the chain and gem, and cord and key, as she might have expected, she saw the blazing lights of much warding and spellcraft. Beneath that, Etrius’ aura had the faded quality of the vampire, though otherwise displayed the same soft patterns of blue and gold as did the auras of Carl Magnuson and Thadius Zho, though without Carl's life or Zho's black sin. And Etrius’ aura had shadings of color which she had only seen once before, on the soul of Paul Carroll.
At least in this life and deathtime.
She became dimly aware of heat on her cheek and at last turned and met the smoldering eyes of the woman who sat next to Etrius. She was as beautiful as the woman on stage, with lily white skin and long, softly curled, dark hair, but the look in her eyes was murderous, her face a mask of jealousy and hate.
Mine! The thought stabbed into Use’s mind like a knife, and Ilse turned away, blinking back tears of pain. The blood dripped down onto her breasts, mixing with the ruby, garnets and crimson velvet.
Merrill offered her his red silk handkerchief. “Astrid is the Councilor's consort."
He didn’t finish the thought; he didn't need to. The next look the woman shot her was eloquent enough, though Councilor Etrius only turned and smiled at Ilse, his left eye green, and squeezed Astrid’s hand before looking back to the opera.
Merrill nudged Ilse and gestured to the far seats. “Cassandra and Ulugh Beg.”
Ilse looked, dabbing at her eyes. Cassandra was a heavy-set woman, nearing middle age, but still beautiful, her purple silk gown low-cut and corseted up to display a generous bosom. Her black hair framed dark eyes and pink cheeks, the first intense but abstracted, the second still rosy with the colors of life. Around her neck she had two pendants, a silver crescent moon and a golden circle set with a square of green malachite. Matching neither, on her left wrist she wore a simple tennis bracelet of white gold and rubies, while on the middle finger of the same hand was a ring of ancient design set with a Chinese turquoise.
Some charm was woven between the stones, Ilse could see it in the etheric traces, but as to what, she couldn’t tell for certain. Whatever it was, she had no doubt it was potent. Cassandra was Magus Prime of the Vienna chantry and thereby second only to Etrius himself in matter of magic.
To the woman’s side was a dark-haired, swarthy Turkish gentleman, dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo and watching the Toreador diva with a dark intensity that marked him as Ulugh Beg, the Watcher, the new Justicar of House Tremere. His eyes noted every movement as thoroughly as Kleist did in his notebook.
It was not a time for speaking, and Ilse at last turned her attention back to the stage and took Carl’s hand for comfort, hoping to escape the looks of old lust from Merrill and undisguised malice from Astrid Thomas.
On the stage, the action had changed along with the aria, and a red-haired ingenue had replaced the black-haired diva. The girl, singing with a lilting alto, played the part of Adele,
Frau von Eisenstein's maid, wearing her mistress' gown while she went to the ball, masquerading as an aspiring actress. Though still lovely, the girl’s voice did not possess the same supernatural quality as had Adrianne's, but she had a sweet, almost disarming presence, and an air of innocence able to enchant
Kindred and Icine alike. Use saw the paleness of the girl’s aura at the same time as she noted the name in Kleist’s notebook: Felicia Mostrom. Kleist’s fingers flew over the page, smearing it with his blood from his slashed fingertips, painting her hair and lips a vivid red, and Use could tell from his absolute entrancement that the young Toreador was smitten.
Use pressed Carl’s hand for comfort, feeling his warmth and the close beat of his heart, watching the opera and taking note of the players. The Toreadors of Vienna had come out in force; besides Adrianne and Felicia, the part of Dr. Franke was wickedly and brilliantly sung by an elderly Toreador who Kleist noted as Elliot Sinclair, while the part of Herr von Eisenstein was played with a passionate intensity by another Kindred known as Ramiel Dupre.
The silly business with the chiming pocketwatch that Merrill and Master Harry had discussed earlier came to pass, but with such passion and intensity that Use felt herself gasping on reflex. Adrianne flirted dangerously with Ramiel, Herr von Eisenstein not recognizing his wife, despite the fact that all she wore different was a mask and a ballgown and a mysterious air. But the magic of midnight was enough, and Herr von Eisenstein was unable to guess that the enigmatic beauty was in fact his wife, blind but for his passion for the Hungarian Countess, even when she grabbed the pocketwatch and dropped it down her bosom. The audience laughed with great hilarity, the power of the vampires on stage a potent drug, but Use was chilled. To love another, but not be recognized...
The rest of the act passed by in a blur of dancing and arias, until another pale-auraed man came onstage, this one with a violin, taking the part of a visiting performer at Prince Orlofsky’s New Year’s Eve Ball. Dorian Struck, Kleist noted in his sketchbook, devoting two facing pages to the violinist.
Dorian announced that he had had a dream in which the Devil had appeared to him and challenged him to a fiddling contest. The prize would be his soul if he lost and his heart’s desire if he won. First he played the tune which he had played for the Devil, a beautiful, joyous song that brought tears to Ilse’s eyes and caused the air of the opera house to flush golden with the glow of joy from the auras of the audience.
