by James Moore
“This was small comfort to the poor little Mandrake, for what could it ever have to offer Man? Yet time passed, and the Mandrake grew in power. For unlike Adam and Eve, it never tasted the fruit of the Tree and therefore was not cast out of the Garden, and so did not suffer from the Fall of Man, and was not cursed with mortality, though its children may have been. Did I mention the Mandrake’s children or his wife? No, I don’t believe I did. There are variants on the tale, of course — that is why they call the stories fragments, for none are complete, and it is never certain which are true — but there is also a tale of the Mandragora, the Mandrake’s wife, who may have been created at the same time as the Mandrake as a study for Lilith, or, with a cutting taken from the Mandrake by God, allowed to grow into a female as Eve was made from Adam’s rib.
“However it happened, the next fragment of the tale tells of a great number of little Mandrakes. And, at the spot where Caine killed Abel, the little Mandrakes sprouted up in the spilt blood, though the legend does not say whether Abel agreed to let any one of them have his soul now that he was finished with it. But the Mandrake has grown around gallows’ trees ever since, especially in the spots where the ground has been watered with the blood of an innocent.
“Never cast out of the Garden, the Mandrake thus had no need to reach God and thus did not impiously build the Tower of Babel, and neither was it condemned to the Curse of Babel and thus could still speak the language of all men and animals, plants and spirits.” Kleist tilted his head, his expression not changing, his eyes still focused on something beyond her. “By God’s new design, the little Mandrake and his children now had something to offer Man, and those who avoided death by its shriek — For who could stand to hear all the knowledge of the world at once? — struck bargains with God's study, which now knew more than the masterwork, and magicians down through the ages kept mandrakes in exchange for their souls — or portions of them.”
Dieter’s eyes focused back on her. “Before Etrius became one of our kind, he and the others of his coven explored the legends of the Damned. Etrius followed them back to their very beginning, finding the spot where Caine slew Abel. And at that spot he found the Mandrake root. Not a mandrake root, but the Mandrake root, the first truly thinking creation of God, a creature older than Man — and without a soul, for Abel had not made that bargain with it.
“Etrius kept it, feeding it his blood and nurturing it so that it became a creature of flesh instead of wood, a homunculus. After he had joined the Kindred, he continued to feed his companion, and it grew strong on the blood of the Damned, the master using other magics and Disciplines to give it what he could.”
Kleist set down his book then and reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a bundle of skin that Use first took to be a sleeping squirrel, but once Kleist folded back the rabbit pelt, she saw that it was Etrius. Etrius, no bigger than a doll, dressed in tiny pants and a sweater lovingly crocheted from the finest embroidery silk.
“Oh, my goodness,” Use breathed, seeing the bright and beautiful aura of the tiny creature, the quintessential spark of the souls of the men she had loved.
The tiny man snored, warm with life, and she reached out to touch him. He yawned and squirmed, reaching about as if looking for the rabbit pelt, then found her finger instead. He pulled it to himself, still sleepy, and started sucking on the end, like a baby would its bottle. Finding it dry, he smacked his lips sleepily, yawned, and opened his eyes.
“Lisle!” he cried, his voice as tiny and high-pitched as a cartoon mouse’s. “You’re back! Oh, Lisle!”
The colors of his aura flushed with love, brilliant rose, without the faded shades of Etrius’ own or the tints of feeling for Astrid. Passionately he kissed her finger and hugged her hand. On instinct, Ilse picked him up and cradled him to her cheek like the dove in the dream-memory.
“Oh, my God,” Ilse said, tears beginning to run down her face.
The tiny creature only hugged her, licking the tears of blood from her cheek, and Kleist already had his damnable sketchbook open, fingers slashed and dabbling blood across the page. Ilse didn’t know whether to tear it from him or to thank him.
“Etrie has been helping Dieter with my memoirs,” said Etrius’ voice, and Ilse turned. Etrius stood at the far end of the table, Astrid on his arm, her eyes blazing like a wildcat’s. “I’m sorry I didn't tell you all this earlier, but there’s so much to tell."
“It will be my masterwork,” Kleist said, still sketching. “The first of many, I’m sure, Dieter.” Etrius nicked his ring finger on one fang, holding it out over the table despite what Cassandra said about drinking in the library. “Here, Etrie — I have a treat for you.”
The little homunculus pushed away from Ilse’s face, looking towards Etrius, then back to her, a pained expression over his tiny features. He continued to clutch Ilse lovingly, but giving yearning glances to the rich vitae on the Councilor’s finger.
Ilse understood and just gave a sad smile and set him on the table. “Go ahead. I’ll still be here.”
With a last happy smile and a look that promised he would be back, Etrie ran down the length of the table, joyful as a small child, grabbed Etrius’ finger and began to nurse.
Etrius smiled fondly. “Etrie contains my youthful innocence and a certain measure of my exhilaration and exuberance. They were portions of my soul I was sure I would lose anyway, so it seemed better to give them to one who needed them so much.”
Astrid smiled with malice behind him. “We’ve located Carl Magnuson. Or really, Etrius has, though it took a great deal of magic. He’s in Berlin, a captive of the Ventrue.”
She disengaged Etrie from Etrius’ finger, and Ilse saw the power she held over both of them. “That’s enough, Etrie. Now take this to Ilse.” She handed the little homunculus a folded sheet of notepaper, and it ran with it down the table towards ilse, whether to get away from Astrid or back to her or some mixture of both, Ilse wasn’t sure.
ilse received the paper and an enthusiastic hug from the tiny man, but before she could open it, Astrid smiled again. “Your Carl is being held by Kurt Westphal, whom you already dealt with in London — his address is on that paper. It would be so very nice if you could fetch Carl back and bring him to the Brocken, where Etrius has the rites planned for Walpurgisnacht."
Etrie seemed to forget that Astrid had been the one to say this, or perhaps had a short attention span for things unpleasant, for he hugged Use again, crumpling the notepaper in his exuberance. “Oh, Lisle, it will be wonderful!” he piped. “When we have Carl back, then Etrius will have what he needs to do the spell, and we shall all be one — me, Carl, Etrius! We shall all be a living man, and you shall be alive as well!"
Use looked at the Councilor and his tiny homunculus. “You’ll become one with Carl ?”
Etrius nodded. “Etrie has an immortality surpassing Caine’s, but he has no soul. I have a soul, but if I return to life, I shall no longer be immortal. And there are other complications. One of my descendants, the man who now calls himself Thadius Zho — and I now know you know of him and of your history with his soul — sold the souls of his descendants to the Dark Lord, Chamas." Etrius made the same gesture against evil. “Only the fact of my existence has kept the demon from collecting those souls, for I was, and am, Zho’s elder, but the longer I have existed, the more children and grandchildren each of his heirs has had. I could have returned to life many times since and restored the life of the House by finding any mage of my bloodline and getting him to agree to the merging of our souls and magic in his mortal body. But to do so would be to give up my immortal body and the claim it held by blood over the children of Zho. They would have been damned the minute my vampiric body suffered the Final Death.”
The Councilor’s face turned even more grave. “The one hope was to find a mortal mage of Zho’s tainted line and join with him at the same time he joined with Etrie. I — we — would become an immortal creature that would not ever die, at least not until the nex
t world, when God has promised immortality for all. The chain of ownership of souls would go into a loop — Etrie owning me, I owning the tainted heir, the heir owning Etrie — the three of us joined in a trinity. Zho’s compact with the Dark Lord would thus become null and void, every part of it shattering as impossible and unenforceable, and the souls would be free of the demon's claim, at the same time as those others of my immortal bloodline were freed from the Mark of Caine.
“Carl Magnuson is that man, the outcast mage, the tainted heir. We can all save each other from death and damnation." Etrius smiled at ilse, his mismatched eyes glowing with hope. “Winter will end, and the spring of magic will return."
“And I shall draw its sunrise,” said Kleist behind her.
Use turned, and the Toreador paused in his sketch, his eyes seeing a scene not in the present. “I have bound myself to Councilor Etrius and will thus share in his masterwork. I had done it so that I might more fully understand my subject, but to be a participant in the man's great work is an honor beyond measure.”
Use looked back to Etrius, and he smiled at her again. “It is a gift we can offer to everyone. Once House Tremere has risen and magic has returned, Caine’s curse can be washed from the brow of all who wish to return to the light.”
Astrid looked at ilse, smiling slightly. “You can see now why it is so important that you recover Carl Magnuson.” The Councilor’s consort put a hand on his shoulder, light but possessive as a claw, and ilse understood; Astrid did not so much fear her return to mortality, as she feared losing Etrius. Ilse could see the shadings of it in the woman's aura, but they were complex and confused. She could not be certain whether they signified love of power or love for the man himself. Or whether, for Astrid, there was any difference. But whichever passion it was that drove her, Ilse could tell that Astrid would fight fiercely to protect whatever she considered hers — and if that meant sending a rival into danger, all the better.
“Best wishes, Ilse,” Astrid added, still smiling. “After all, so much depends on it.”
The rest of the night was spent in transit on the way to Berlin, where Kurt kept his primary base of operations. Kurt dialed the numbers he needed to reach before sunrise on the portable phone in the car, glad as always for the modern methods of communication. He left messages for several Kindred in the United States and called personally to both Gustav Breidenstein in East Berlin and Wilhelm Waldburg in West Berlin, explaining the situation to each of them as best he could. He was once again locked in the paralyzing sleep brought on by the sun’s rise fully an hour before they reached his haven at the Europa Center complex.
Long before he faded into sleep, plans were already being solidified in Berlin. While it was rare for the two princes to work together, they could do so when they had to. For the first time in a week, Kurt drifted into slumber with a feeling that he had accomplished something.
Thursday, April 29, Berlin — The Knights of Europa
When the sun had set once again, Kurt stepped from his private suite and into the main living room of his apartment. Zho and Carl Magnuson were involved in heavy debate when he walked in. Both were arguing their cases in Latin, a language Kurt could barely remember studying. Rather than interrupt them, he stepped to the windows and opened the curtains, allowing him to view the city in all its glory. He smiled, happy to once again be in familiar territory. In the distance he could see the Kaiser Willhelm Memorial Church and not far away, the home of Wilhelm Waldburg in the Charlottenburg Palace. From his penthouse in the Europa Center complex, he could see almost all of West Berlin from one window or another.
Jackie came into the room, and Kurt watched her reflection as it approached him, her face set with unfamiliar lines and her red hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was dressed in blue jeans and a dress shirt. He knew what she was going to say before she even spoke. He held up one hand and murmured. “Not here, mein Leibchen. In my office, please."
Her reflection nodded and turned away. Kurt followed soon after, heading into the wood-paneled room where he took care of all his business. The hairs on his nape were standing on end, and his stomach felt tight with a flood of butterflies. He felt his face grow stony and willed his features to soften. Here, with this one person, he would not be an Archon, nor would he allow himself the comfort of falling back on his vampiric nature. Here he would be simply a man.
“Kurt, I —"
“You are leaving me.” There was no question in his mind. He knew her too well.
“Yes.” Her voice was heavy with emotion, and he reached automatically into his jacket pocket, offering her a handkerchief. She accepted gratefully.
The silence stretched on for several moments, neither speaking, simply staring at each other. For Kurt, the time was spent memorizing every aspect of Jackie. What went through her mind was a complete mystery. He could not see past the fact that she was leaving. Finally he broke the silence, no longer able to hold his tongue. “Will you ever be back?” He hated the pleading sound in his voice, but could not hold his emotions in check.
“I don’t know, Kurt. I just don’t know." She looked away from him, clutching her arms to her sides and moving a distance away. “I’ve tried to understand that your job makes demands. I’ve tried to —" She started trembling then and Kurt moved towards her, wanting nothing more than to stop her suffering, to offer whatever comfort he could. She stepped back again, shaking her head. One tear slipped from her eye, running down her cheek and dangling like a gem at the edge of her chin before falling to the ground. “No. Don’t touch me. The thought of you, or any of your kind, touching me is enough to make me sick. And I don’t ever want to feel that way when I think of you, Kurt. I just can’t stand to be a part of your world anymore.”
Kurt backed away from her, acknowledging her wishes and feeling rather ill himself. The one person he could count on was abandoning him, and try though he might, he could not make himself forgive the slight. “I did not want this, Jackie. I have never wished you harm. You must know that."
“Of course I know that!” Her voice was halfway filled with laughter, halfway broken by tears. “I’ve been with you for fifteen years, Kurt. I didn’t stay only because your blood keeps me young. Damn it, I love you!” She walked over to the door, looking back only once with an expression that hurt him more than ever the sunlight could. “I — I don’t know if I'll be back. Good-bye, Kurt."
Kurt watched her leave, watched the door close behind her, and sat perfectly still. A thousand different feelings lashed though the very center of his being, and he felt paralyzed. When the tears started falling, he stopped his breathing with a concentrated effort. If he allowed himself to breathe, he would make sounds unbecoming of a Ventrue in his position.
Feeling a flood of hot, human emotion unlike any he’d experienced in a long time, he pushed back his chair, prepared to go after Jackie and beg for forgiveness, beg her to stay with him. He’d offer to quit his position, do anything he could to have her by his side. She was, he realized, the very reason he existed, the center of his being. He pushed open the door, prepared to call out her name.
The words would not come, his mouth defied him. His will slipped away, and from deep inside a growing numbness, he cried out in utter silence, trying his best to defy the alien presence that filled him.
NO. WHAT MUST BE DONE IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR WOMAN. LEAVE HER BE. YOU CAN ALWAYS GET HER BACK LATER. He felt the passions that fueled him fade along with the echoes of the command that consumed him. In seconds, he was once again in complete control, just as he liked it. He ignored the butterflies in his stomach and forced his body to relax. There was work to be done. Jackie Therman was only a human, after all. She would come back after him when he willed it. But that was for later. Right now he had to concentrate on the present danger. The Tremere had to be stopped.
Kurt stepped back into his living room, where Zho and Magnuson looked at him quizzically. Whatever they had been arguing was apparently settled. Kurt smiled politely. “Sh
all we get on with the business at hand, gentlemen? I believe we have much to discuss."
“Certainly, Kurt." Zho looked at him with a deep regret obvious on his face. “Let's get to it.”
“Right, mate. First thing to discuss is why you sucker-punched me last night.” Magnuson’s face was set and determined. Kurt doubted he could Dominate the man's will at this point, not that he had intentions of doing any such thing.
“I really am sorry for that, Herr Magnuson, but I could see no other alternative. If I’d approached you under normal circumstances, without knowing what the Tremere have said about me, there was the very real threat of you calling out an alarm, or worse still, turning me into something of questionable origin.” Kurt gave his best smile, shrugged apologetically, and offered his hand. “For formal introductions, my name is Kurt Westphal. You may call me Kurt, if you like.”
“Well. I have to say I’ve seldom been apologized to as eloquently, Kurt. You may call me Carl.” The man smiled and acccpted Kurt’s hand. He was taken aback to how similar and simultaneously different Carl was to Zho. The smile was as bright and friendly as Zho’s (when the mage was employing what Kurt tended to think of as his “real” smile), but there were less lines on his face and fewer years. Kurt believed he understood where at least a little of Ilse Decameron’s volatile emotions a few nights before had come from.
“Thadius? Have you discussed the situation with Carl?"
Zho stood and walked over to where Kurt was standing. “Yes, we’ve been discussing little else. By the best calculations
either of us can come up with, Etrius plans on attempting his ritual on Walpurgis Night."
“Walpurgisnachtl April thirtieth? But that’s tomorrow. Why would he pick a night when demons are supposed to cavort with the witches?”
“Actually, Walpurgis Night is also known as Walburga's Night, after St. Walburga of Heidenheim. The Church chose the last night in April as one of her special days for feasting, and in so doing followed along with the Catholic tradition of the times. Long before it was known as Walpurgis Night, April thirtieth was known as Waldborg's Eve, a pagan celebration in honor of Waldborg, the fertility goddess. What better time to bring his plans to fruition?”
