Lazio slapped him.
Snarling, his fangs extending, Elliott grabbed the human and slammed him back against one of the bookcases. He was acutely conscious of the warmth of Lazio’s flesh, the enticing scent of the blood coursing through his body, the pounding of his heart, the carotid artery pulsing in his throat.
“Do it!” Lazio gasped. “At least you’ll be doing something!"
Elliott opened his jaws and leaned forward. Lazio cringed. Then, for some reason, the vampire thought of the stricken Roger and realized that Lazio had lashed out at him only because he was so desperately worried about the prince. Abruptly ashamed of his rage, closing his eyes to shut out the sight of the human, wishing that he could seal his other senses as well, Elliott released him and stepped back.
“I’m going to the arena,” the Toreador said. “Stay away from me for the rest of the night.” He turned and strode out of the room.
As he marched through the house toward the clamor of agitated voices, he tried to calm down; attempted, in essence, to exchange his anger for his familiar bleak depression. The sadness wouldn’t feel any better, but it was how he ought to feel. How he deserved to feel.
But he was only partially successful. Lazio’s insults had roused his Beast, and once awakened, it wasn’t easily quelled. Elliott could virtually feel his personal demon pacing back and forth inside him. .
When he reached the arena he saw that the spacious, lofty-ceilinged hall was still arranged as it had been on his previous visit: all the seats faced the harpsichord and the setup for the string quartet, the portion of the room his fellow elders were currently occupying. Sky, looking morose, was slouched on what had probably been the cellist’s straight-backed chair; Judy was sitting Indian-fashion atop the gleaming antique keyboard instrument; and Gunter, predictably, was on his feet haranguing the assembled Kindred of Roger Phillips’ domain.
Elliott tried to slink into the room unobtrusively, but it didn’t work. Pivoting dramatically in his direction, Gunter cried, “So! Back at last! What do you have to say for yourself?”
Elliott bristled at the other elder’s belligerent tone. Reminding himself that his fellow undead, even the overbearing Malkavian, had a right to reproach him, he tried to answer calmly. “I understand that several of us died last night, following the course I advocated. I regret that.”
“You regret it,” Gunter mocked. “Well, isn’t that a comfort.” •
The sarcasm was too much. Despite his resolve to bear any chastisement meekly, Elliott gave Gunter a level stare. “I don’t appreciate your tone, and I suspect that my fellow Toreador don’t either. Perhaps you wouldn’t be so flippant if it had been some of your clan who’d come to grief.”
“But there was no chance of that, wras there?” Judy Morgan said sourly. “I still don’t understand why no Kooks showed up at the Gardens until after the invaders got away. I know Lazio phoned you as soon as I left here.”
The ruddy-faced Malkavian glowered at her. “We’ve already been over this. We got there as soon as we could; your skirmish just didn’t take very long.”
Grateful that Judy had changed the subject, Elliott headed for a vacant seat in the back. When they saw he didn’t intend to join the rest of the primogen at the front of the room, some of his fellow Toreador frowned and muttered back and forth. Sky gazed at him beseechingly, Judy gave him an inscrutable, narrow-eyed stare, and Gunter leered in malevolent satisfaction.
As Elliott dropped into a chair, the Malkavian chieftain swept his eyes across the room, reestablishing contact with the audience at large. “We need to talk about one of the most important problems facing us,” he said. “What we do about it will affect our ability to resolve all our other difficulties. Roger Phillips was a great prince.” Elliott winced at Gunter’s use of the past tense. “When we had him, a single elder, in charge, we could handle any crisis with aplomb. Now, facing a challenge, we’re bereft of such leadership, and floundering.”
“I do believe I see where this is going,” said Judy, interrupting again. “You think we need a new prince. Even though Roger isn’t dead.”
“Of course not,” said Gunter, scowling. “What I’m proposing is an acting prince, call him a warlord or a marshal, someone to command until Roger recovers.”
Judy uncrossed her legs and hopped off the harpsichord.
“This is just a shot in the dark here, but are you nominating yourself?”
“In time of war,” Gunter said, “I think it would be logical for it to be either you or me, rather than a Toreador.” He gave Sky a condescending smile. “No offense, my friend. It’s just that everyone knows your people lack the killer instinct. In a way I suppose that does you credit, but perhaps if you were as fierce as the rest of us, your art thieves wouldn’t have taken such a beating last night.”
Despite his long and thorny acquaintance with Gunter, Elliott could scarcely believe that the Malkavian was exploiting the Toreador tragedy in the service of a naked grab for power. The actor’s muscles tensed with resentment. His fangs slid reflexively from his gums.
Sky gave Gunter a reproachful stare. “We were ambushed,” he said. “I doubt that your progeny would have fared any better.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Gunter soothingly. Then he gazed into the audience. “But also conceivably not. Sarasota has some magnificent fighters to call on in time of need. I can’t help wondering how the battles might have gone if those had been on the front line instead of you.” Many of the Malkavian and particularly the Brujah onlookers murmured and nodded in agreement.
Sky pouted but didn’t say anything more. He’s going to take it, Elliott thought. He’s going to let Gunter remove him from contention. He remembered a time when the poet’s effete appearance had cloaked a personality that could be decisive and even ruthless when circumstances demanded. Now EUiott wondered if the burden of the passing centuries or some private sorrow had sapped his clanmate’s inner strength, turning him into a useless shell of a Kindred like — Like, Elliott realized, himself. He felt another throb of guilt, but this one differed subtly from those he’d experienced earlier. Rather than causing him to slump in despair, it made him shift restlessly in his seat.
“If the boss is going to be you or me,” said Judy to Gunter, “how about me?” Some of the boisterous Brujah whistled and cheered.
“We could do a lot worse,” Gunter said, smiling cordially, “But may I speak frankly?”
“Could I stop you?” she asked dryly.
Gunter’s smile widened. To Elliott’s annoyance, at that moment an innocent onlooker might have mistaken the Brujah and the Malkavian for friends, even though she didn’t like her burly, flaxen-haired fellow lieutenant much better than Elliott did. “No one could fault the skill with which you fight and lead your own brood,” Gunter said. “But the domain is being attacked on a number of levels. I think our leader needs to be able to preside over every aspect of the defense, and I’m not quite as certain of your ability as an attorney or a financier. Whereas I’m quite confident of my own acumen. In the forty-eight hours since I assumed tacit, interim command of the economic front of our little war, I’ve slowed the precipitous decline in the value of our portfolio, averted a hostile takeover of our Pacific Rim conglomerate, and squelched a potentially ruinous lawsuit.” Judy frowned. For one of the few times in the century that Elliott had known her, she looked uncertain, and it was scarcely any wonder. She truly did lack any interest or expertise in the fields of law or business. She was wealthy, but only because she’d blindly followed the investment advice of Roger, Gunter and himself. “I think I could manage,” she said.
“But would you even want to?” the Malkavian asked, gazing into Judy’s eyes. Elliott wondered if Gunter was trying to control her mind. Since she possessed the same talent, Judy should be able to detect and resist such an attempt, and yet, if the Malkavian was wielding his power with sufficient finesse, it was possible that she wouldn’t. “Wouldn’t you rather leave the bean-counting and
the paperwork to somebody with the knowledge and the patience to deal with it, just as you always have?”
The ex-slave shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. But here’s the thing. The Brujah are a free people.” Some of her progeny began to cheer again. She silenced them with an irritable wave of her slender hand. “We don’t owe anybody our allegiance. We chose to give it to Roger Phillips, and we would have yanked it away in a second if he’d ever abused our trust.”
“I understand that,” Gunter said, “and if you give me any authority, I’ll do my best to use it as wisely and respectfully as he did.” He grinned. “What do you think, I want you people wearing uniforms and goose-stepping? Come on, Judith, this is me! A Malkavian! A lunatic, according to common prejudice! How could my clan walk the path we tread without cherishing freedom and nonconformity as much as those of your blood do?”
Judy stared at him. “I just want it understood that my people and I expect to participate in any decision-making that affects us.”
“And you would be,” Gunter said. He turned to face the audience. “You all would be. It’s just that we need to have someone empowered to break ties, set priorities and keep things organized.”
Elliott glanced around the room at the tense, frightened faces of the other Kindred and thought, The bastard’s going to get away with it. In their currently distressed and demoralized condition, the undead of Sarasota yearned for the same kind of effective leadership that Roger Phillips had provided; Gunter had convinced them that he could deliver it. Even the normally independent Judy, perhaps rattled by her failure to capture Murdock and the intruders last night, seemed ready to go along.
An irresistible impulse carried Elliott to his feet. He wanted to charge Gunter, attack him, batter him into submission — that was the influence of the Beast, still seething inside him — but he knew that that tactic couldn’t win this particular conflict. Regretting fleetingly that he wasn’t wearing his own handsome clothing, he drew upon his charismatic powers and composed his face into an ironic smile.
Gunter swung around to face him. The ruddy-cheeked Malkavian looked surprised that his seemingly humbled rival would dare to rejoin the discussion. “Yes?” he said, an edge in his deep, faintly accented voice.
“Before this gathering grants you your field marshal’s baton,” Elliott drawled, “perhaps you’d like to tell us what plans you’ve pondered for the common defense. After all, I believe you did just promise us an open government.”
It seemed an obvious question to the Toreador, but, his piggy blue eyes narrowing, Gunter hesitated as if he were uncertain how to answer. Elliott had noticed that the Malkavian, while cunning, occasionally failed to plan for contingencies that any sensible person should have been able to anticipate. Perhaps it was a manifestation of his underlying madness.
“Redouble our efforts to patrol and fortify the domain, catch the Dracula murderer, determine our enemies’ identities, and protect our holdings,” said Gunter at last.
“That’s brilliant,” said Elliott, and was gratified when a few of the audience laughed. Gunter’s heavy jaw clenched in anger. “With all due respect, my worthy colleague, we scarcely need a deputy prince to exhort us to pursue plans we’ve already initiated.”
“I suppose you have some more ‘brilliant’ ideas of your own,” Gunter replied, his voice dripping scorn.
“I’m not running for warlord,” Elliott replied. In a sense, that was a lie. He was fairly certain that either he or Gunter would emerge from his meeting as de facto if not official commander of the defense. “So I didn’t prepare a formal platform. Fortunately, given the, shall we say, lack of progression in your own thinking, that doesn’t place me at any sort of disadvantage.” Once again some of the assembled Kindred laughed. “As it happens, I do have an idea or two.” In point of fact, he didn’t have a clue what he was going to say next, but he felt what had become an unfamiliar confidence that he could improvise something appropriate.
The actor strode toward the front of the room, establishing eye contact with the audience in the process, trying to cast the spell of his personality over them. “First off, it should be obvious to anyone with good sense” — he shot Gunter a mocking glance — “that we have a security leak. The enemy intercepted too many Toreador; they knew where we were going.” The crowd babbled. Elliott quirked the corners of his mouth down in the hint of a frown, and the assembled Kindred obediently fell silent again. “Until we find out how they knew, I’m afraid that we need the opposite of an open government. Our leaders, whoever they are, should weave certain plans in secret, only informing those agents responsible for carrying them out.”
Elliott reached the front of the arena. “The recovery of the art,” he said, “will continue.”
The audience clamored again. Gunter guffawed. “And people call the Malkavians mad!” he said. “Didn’t you kill enough of us last night?”
“1 regret that the first sortie came to grief,” Elliott said. “For what it’s worth, I accept the responsibility for not organizing it properly. But one tragedy doesn’t alter the fact that our creations must be protected. There are ways to reduce the risk. The secrecy I just mentioned should do it. And we’ll go after them in force. If our enemies somehow intercept us again, we’ll make them sorry.”
“You just don’t understand, do you?” Gunter said. “Nobody else thinks the damn art is important anymore, not even your owrn kind.”
Elliott regarded the other Toreador, some strikingly beautiful, others makers of beauty as he himself had once been, assembled in the room. They peered back at him uncertainly. In some of their faces he saw doubt, in some fear, and in some a glimmer of hope, but in few the loathing and bitter reproach his guilt had led him to expect.
“I wonder if he’s right,” said Elliott, gesturing to Gunter without taking his eyes off the crowd. He summoned all his powers of persuasion, the natural ones honed through centuries of acting and the inhuman ones derived from his undead nature. “Perhaps he is, and perhaps the rest of you are wiser than I am. After all, you’re immortal. Why should you risk your lives for any cause when you can be young and strong forever? And let’s be honest. If our mysterious foe knows where all the art is, and if he continues to attack it as aggressively as he has hitherto, we can only hope to save a fraction of it, no matter how zealously and fearlessly we proceed. So why bother?
“Well, here’s one reason. How do you feel every time you read a newspaper or turn on CNN and learn that a work has been vandalized? It’s like a piece of your soul has been ripped to pieces, isn’t it?” Once again, Elliott was briefly conscious of the irony that he himself could no longer experience the emotion he was describing, but he was less aware of the discrepancy than he’d been two nights previously. He’d been a method actor for hundreds of years before the term was coined, and, now thoroughly immersed in the role of an exemplar of the Toreador ethos, he did feel an essentially bogus but convincing counterfeit of his clanmates’ grief, just as he’d once felt the infatuation of Romeo and the jealousy of Othello.
Toby, a grizzled Toreador seated just in front of the harpsichord, a glassblower whose exquisite creations had been smashed in the first wave of destruction, began to sob.
“I want you to imagine,” Elliott continued, “how we’ll feel if the destruction goes on night after night and we don’t lift a finger to stop it. When our heritage, the justification for our very existence, is lost forever. 1 believe we’ll find that we’ve died inside. That our powers of creation have deserted us. And that our endless existence has become an intolerable burden!”
“Tell it,” Judy murmured.
“We Toreador have heard our bloodline disparaged here tonight,” Elliott continued. “I won’t respond in kind. I admire the Brujah and the Malkavians.” He glanced at Gunter. “Most of them, anyway.” This time, his quip got a bigger laugh, a sign that more of the audience had fallen under his spell. “But I don’t esteem any clan more than my own. History from the Greece of Homer on down t
o the present day demonstrates than no bloodline is worthier, or, if challenged, braver and deadlier than ours. Some of you youngsters have hitherto lived in peace. Fate has never afforded you the opportunity to discover just how formidable you are. I promise you that the talents which are our birthright make us a match for any opponent. Let’s use them to save our heritage and lay our enemy low!”
For a moment the room was silent, and Elliott wondered if his eloquence had failed him. Then someone began to applaud enthusiastically, and a woman cried, “I’m with you! Save the art!” Other hands joined in the clapping —
A crash resounded through the arena. Startled, Elliott whirled to see that Gunter had interrupted the Toreador’s demonstration of support by lifting a chair and dashing it to the floor.
“I don’t blame you for getting sucked in by his nonsense,” the Malkavian said to the crowd. “It’s that voice of his. It bewitches even Kindred who possess the same power. But for your own sakes, think! Everyone here knows that Elliott Sinclair has been useless for years. He’s done his level best to avoid being saddled with even the simplest responsibilities. Now, suddenly, some feckless whim has prompted him to want to lead us. But do you really want to trust him with your lives?”
“You’re essentially right about me,” Elliott said. Gunter’s beady blue eyes narrowed in wary confusion. “Everyone knows the flaws in my character and the stains on my record. But if indeed someone else must lead while Roger lies stricken, perhaps the domain would be better off with a reluctant caretaker like me than an ambitious schemer like you. 1 doubt that I’m the only one who would fear for the prince’s safety if you ever managed to ensconce yourself as his logical successor.”
Gunter’s fangs slid over his lower lip. Articulating with difficulty, he said, “There’s only one answer to that. You claimed that the Toreador are mighty fighters. Here’s your chance to prove it.”
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