“Does she know why the Caitiff killed Wyatt?”
“No. She speculated that he was an ‘enemy agent.’” “And perhaps she was right. Bring her here. Her comrades too, if they’re equally trusting. They can keep watch for the assassin, just in case he finds his way to the park.”
Durrell blinked. “Do you think that’s wise? Won’t they catch on to the fact that this is a Tremere enclave?”
Timothy shrugged. “I don’t see why they should, if you and your people manage them properly. Have someone with the appropriate talent charm them, the way Wyatt evidently did. If they do tumble to the fact that you’re all magi, you might try selling them on the lie that, in reality, the Tremere support the Anarch Movement. All the tales suggesting otherwise are merely a smoke screen.”
Durrell shook his head. “They’d never believe that.” “Then bring them down to me. 1 do have to feed, and it will save me the trouble of hunting.”
Durrell felt a chill ooze up his spine, well aware that Kindred of his companion’s age could only survive by diablerie. It was one reason among many why he strove to treat Timothy with respect. “I just wonder if this Caitiff is important enough to risk bringing outsiders into the base.” “He could become so,” Timothy said. “I can sense it.” Sighing, Durrell gave up the argument. “Then we’ll bring them. You realize that Wyatt left the geomantic survey uncompleted. I suppose I can send other scouts into Sarasota —” Timothy shook his head. “No. The Toreador and their allies are on their guard now. I doubt that we’d achieve anything but the loss of valuable troops.”
“You could go. Sinclair’s people couldn’t stop you.”
The Methuselah grinned. “Whence comes this egalitarian spirit? Neither of us is going to go. We’re too valuable. It’s our role to conceive the strategies and our underlings’ roles to carry them out. Ultimately it doesn’t matter if we can’t lay a curse on all of Sarasota. If we don’t destroy the Toreador that way, we’ll annihilate them through one of our other schemes.”
Durrell grimaced. “I hope so.”
Timothy lifted an eyebrow. “You sound unconvinced.” “Sinclair was supposed to turn out to be an inept leader, or even to refuse to lead at all. Instead, he’s coping rather well. We thought that the Toreador would be thoroughly demoralized by now, yet that hasn’t happened either. Perhaps nothing will work out as we planned. Perhaps you should have picked an easier target.”
“1 chose the only possible target,” Timothy replied.
Durrell wished he understood what the older vampire meant by that, but he knew from past experience that Timothy wouldn’t explain his goals and motives any further. “I do have faith in you, and in my own people as well. I suppose 1 worry because 1 launched this dirty, unprovoked war without my Lord’s knowledge or permission. She thinks I’m sitting home in Kentucky — if she finds out otherwise, she’ll haul me up in front of a tribunal. And then what will I say, that I turned my back on the policies and chain of command of my clan at the behest of an outsider and a Methuselah? 1 might as well cut off my own head and be done with it.”
“But Lady Wetherill won’t find out,” said Timothy with such utter conviction that, even understanding the nature of the Methuselah’s charismatic powers, Durrell couldn’t help feeling a shade less anxious. “Soon, one way or another, long before she misses you, Sarasota will fall. All of our servants, witting or not, will share in the plunder, and I’ll instruct you in the mysteries of Al Azif ■ ”
Durrell nodded somberly. Al Azif. That was the carrot Timothy had dangled in front of his nose at their first meeting, to lure him into committing himself and his subordinates to a desperate and illicit venture. In spite of the fact that the conquest of Roger Phillips’ domain had begun to look like a protracted and deadly dangerous business, the bribe still seemed just as enticing today.
The volume in question, a legendary grimoire penned by a mad medieval visionary known as Abd al-Azrad, was allegedly the key to a magic more potent than even the greatest secrets of Clan Tremere. Durrell had stumbled on a badly damaged copy nearly a hundred years ago and had been obsessed with it ever since. At times, his mind reeling after hours of intensive study of the paradoxical syllogisms, cryptic ramblings, and apocalyptic prophecies that made up the surviving text, he could feel the power blazing from every tattered, worm-eaten vellum page, but he’d never discovered how to command it.
Somehow recognizing the Tremere’s fascination with the old book, Timothy had claimed to understand its arcana, and, given the uncanny powers the Methuselah commanded, Durrell believed him. When Timothy had offered to share them in exchange for the younger vampire’s aid, Durrell had seized the opportunity with an uncharacteristic recklessness.
“Besides,” Timothy continued lightly, “I know you have more honor that to walk out on me now, after you’ve given me your word. I’d be quite upset with you if you did.”
Sighing, Durrell nodded. “Don’t worry, you can count on me.” If A! Azif was the carrot, here was the stick. Though the Tremere was more than a match for most foes, he was realistic enough to comprehend that , he’d have no chance at all against a Kindred as old as Timothy. And that his ally
— master, now, really, if the truth were told — wouldn’t think twice about slaying him if he ever broke their covenant.
The old proverb was true. Having elected to ride the tiger, he didn’t dare dismount.
TWENTY-THREE: DEDUCT10 N
Logic, n. The art of thinking and reasoning in strict accordance with the limitations and incapacities of the human understanding.
— Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary
Frowning, Gunter circled Roger’s desk, glaring down at Judy’s marked'up map of Sarasota and its environs. Seated in one of the shabby but comfortable leather chairs, Elliott thought that the Malkavian looked as if he were eager to find fault with the patrol routes and schedules the former slave had made. Judging by Judy’s pugnacious scowl, she suspected the same thing.
At last Gunter lifted his ruddy face. “I can’t see anything that I would have done any differently,” he said grudgingly. Judy’s dark eyes widened in momentary surprise. For an instant, the sound of Roger’s voice, screaming threats and obscenities, penetrated the study door. Elliott’s sire was enduring another bad night without the benefit of sedation. Lionel Potter had decided that the drugs might be doing more harm than good.
“1 couldn’t improve on the arrangements, either,” Elliott said, tugging the end of his shirt cuff beyond the sleeve of his jacket. “So why haven’t our people caught up with Dracula?”
“Because she can turn invisible,” Judy said, “like a Malkavian,”
Gunter glowered at her. “Or a Nosferatu,” he said. “Or like some others I’ve known, even one or two of you Rabble.”
Afraid that his fellow elders were about to begin a protracted argument, Elliott raised his hand. “Let’s not go down this road again,” he said. “We don’t have time. We all agreed that none of our people could be Dracula. Everyone has a solid alibi for one or more of the murders.”
“Right,” Angus rumbled. The Gangrel was sprawled on the couch beside the model of the Globe Theatre. His huge frame made the office seem cramped and fragile, as if he might knock down a wall simply by shifting his shoulders. Claiming that the release from confinement would help him think, he’d stripped off his suit coat and tie. Shoes and socks had also come off, to reveal a pair of large, callused and extraordinarily hairy feet. Photographs and computer printouts, copies of the pictures and documents that the police and now the FBI were using in their investigation, lay scattered all around him. “And maybe we shouldn’t get too caught up in the idea that we’re chasing an invisible Kindred, either.” .
Puzzled, Elliott cocked his head. “Why do you say that? Isn’t that the most plausible explanation for why we’ve never found her?”
“Not necessarily,” Angus replied. The door opened and Lazio stepped inside, carrying a silver tray loaded with fragrant Cuban ci
gars and a lighter. Elliott could tell from the human’s lack of expression and downcast eyes that he’d reverted to the role of unobtrusive, deferential servant, the face he generally presented to unfamiliar Kindred like the Justicar.
Angus waved Lazio over and selected a long, almost-black maduro Lonsdale. Nodding his thanks to the mortal, he lit the Havana and took a puff. “Not bad,” he said. “You know, smoking’s a dirty habit, but, aside from torture, it’s the only vice that we can enjoy in precisely the same manner as the kine. I suspect that’s w’hy even a lot of old-timers like me, undead centuries before tobacco was imported to the Old World, take up the practice. Of course, it also helps you to convince the mortals you’re breathing.”
Elliott had noticed that, while Angus might look and often behave like a taciturn barbarian warrior, when discussing the Dracula murders he sometimes slipped into a leisurely, expansive mode of discourse reminiscent of Nero Wolfe and certain other Great Detectives of fiction. The Toreador hadn’t been able to make up his mind whether the phenomenon merely reflected another facet of the Justicar’s personality or was a conscious affectation. Half-irked and half-amused by his mysterious new ally’s latest digression, he said, “You were talking about the killer being invisible.”
“So 1 was,” said Angus. Lazio finished passing out cigars and took up a position by the door. Evidently he meant to listen to the discussion. “A few of Judy’s Brujah have keen senses, and several of Gunter’s more psychic Malkavians have joined the patrols. The sentries I posted — bats, owls and rats — are similarly perceptive. You’d think that someone would have caught a glimpse of even an invisible Kindred.”
Judy grimaced around her cheroot. “Then what’s the answer?” she asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Angus replied.
Elliott realized that, his superhuman vitality notwithstanding, the long, fruitless examination of the evidence had left him feeling immensely weary. We’re not going to make it, he thought glumly. Everybody’s tried so har, and coped with so many problems, but this Dracula business is going to break us. Scowling, he tried to push the despairing notion away.
At the front of the room, Lazio stood studying the map. Gunter in turn regarded him with a slight sneer. “And what do you think, human?” he asked mockingly. “See anything that your masters have missed?”
“No,” the valet replied. “I was just thinking that it’s like Dracula has a hidden path through the city. A way of getting from place to place that our patrols never even check, because it hasn’t occurred to us that it exists. If Sarasota had subways, or Nosferatu tunnels, or a sewer system with pipes a person could walk through — but it doesn’t.”
“Actually,” rumbled Angus, “my rats have been checking the sewers just in case, though I can’t imagine Dracula crawling and swimming through miles of filth to get around. But I agree with you — what was your name?”
“Lazio,” the dresser said.
“I agree with you, Lazio. The rogue is evading us by using some secret highway, or, at any rate, one clever trick that we haven’t begun to figure out.” Abruptly Angus frowned, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. He grabbed a stack of computer printouts and started flipping through them. “What?” Judy demanded. “You have an idea. What is it?” Instead of explaining, the Gangrel tore loose a number of sheets and proffered them to his fellow Kindred. “Look at the estimated times of death,” he said.
Though he’d already pored over every page of the files the police had assembled, Elliott took some of the autopsy reports and began glancing through them again. Citing factors such as body temperature, skin discoloration, degree of rigor mortis, flattening of the eyes from loss of fluid, and the presence of green-fly eggs, each document specified a range of time, generally from four to six hours, during which the murder had occurred. Evidently, as the Toreador had always understood, forensic medicine couldn’t determine an exact time of death: too many factors influenced the rate at which postmortem changes occurred.
Try as he might, Elliott couldn’t see what Angus was driving at. “Dracula kills late at night,” he said at last. “We’d realized that already.”
“We assumed as much,” the Justicar replied. “Since the murdered policemen were in radio communication with their dispatcher, we know that the aquarium killings did indeed happen at night. That, of course, was before you started hunting Dracula, when it was safe for her to operate by dark. It was even useful, given that her purpose was to endanger the Masquerade. But more recently, if your local coroner knows his stuff, the killer could just as easily be striking in the wee small hours of the morning. ”
Perplexed, Elliott cocked his head. “Do you mean, after sunrise?”
Angus nodded. “That would explain why the patrols never run into her, wouldn’t it? By the time she ventures forth, your people are already asleep in their havens, and my nocturnal animals have retired to their lairs.”
“But that’s preposterous!” Gunter exploded. “Dracula needs to sleep during the day also.”
“1 agree,” Judy said. “I’ve known Kindred to stay awake for a single day, when they had a good enough reason. You can do it if you have a lot of willpower and stamina. But Dracula’s been killing steadily for weeks. Nobody could keep it up for that long.”
Angus smiled. “That’s the other assumption we made, without ever really examining it. That Dracula is a Kindred.” “But she must be!” Judy said. “The corpses of her victims are drained of blood. 1 made Potter look at some of the bite wounds, and he was sure they were made by vampire fangs. Hell, you said the same thing. And the way she can pick off any kine she wants, no matter how many locks or alarm systems are in her way, shows that she has supernatural powers.” She hesitated. “Doesn’t it?”
“We aren’t the only creatures in the world with mystical abilities,” the Justicar replied. “And human ingenuity can accomplish amazing things, even when it only has natural tools to work with. I think that some non-Kindred ally of your principal enemies is doing a brilliant job of faking vampire attacks.”
Elliott pondered Angus’ ideas. They seemed plausible if not conclusive. He felt an odd mix of hope and frustration. He desperately wanted the bearded giant to figure out Dracula’s modus operandi. Somebody had to, before the Kindred of Sarasota ran out of time and Palmer Guice presented the domain’s failure to the Inner Circle. And yet, if Angus was right about the murderer, Elliott couldn’t imagine how he and his allies were going to stop her. To him, the daylight hours seemed scarcely more accessible or endurable than the surface of the planet Mercury. The mere thought of trying to remain active after dawn, of risking exposure to the sun’s lethal glare, filled him with an instinctive loathing. “If you’re right,” he said, “I guess our only chance is to send the ghouls out on patrol.”
Angus shook his head. “If the cops can’t catch Dracula, they couldn’t, either. I’ll catch her. I’ve stayed up past dawn a time or two myself. I can do it again. I’ll put the birds and beasts of the day on sentry duty, and when they find her, I’ll go get her.”
“How?” asked Gunter skeptically. “You’ll burn as soon as you stick your head out the door.”
“I hope not,” Angus said. “I’m tough. Tough enough even to bear the bite of the sun, if I take precautions. It’s a Gangrel trait.”
“It’s one of my traits, too,” Judy said. Her voice was as brash as usual, though Elliott thought he saw an uncharacteristic hint of disquiet in her eyes. “You won’t be anywhere near as powerful by day as you are by night. You’re going to need help, so I’ll sit up with you.”
Angus gave her an approving nod. “So be it. Even though it will mean the sun is brighter, let’s hope for blue skies. After centuries of black ones, the spectacle is worth the added discomfort.”
Elliott took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to dissolve the tension in his muscles. “I’ll help, too,” he said.
“No, you won’t,” Angus said. “You don’t have the kind of hardiness it takes to endur
e the sun.” Feeling a guilty relief at being let off the hook, Elliott wondered how the older vampire could be so sure about his limitations. “Besides, you and the Malkavian will be needed to direct all the other aspects of the defense. Remember, you’ve got plenty of other problems to keep you occupied.”
“I’m not as tough as a Gangrel or a Brujah, either,” Lazio said quietly. “But 1 can stand the sun, I know how to shoot, and I’ve been around the Kindred long enough not to lose my head when someone does something dangerous or uncanny. I’ll join the hunting party, if I may. I’d like a chance to strike back at the people who hurt Roger.”
Gunter snorted, manifestly contemptuous of the notion that the stooped, aging mortal had anything to contribute. But Angus studied Lazio for a moment, then said, “Very well.” He turned to Judy. “Keep the nighttime patrols operating, in case our theory is wrong. And go feed. Gorge yourself. You’re going to need the strength.”
TWENTY-FOUR; CAME LOT
I’m not frightened of the darkness outside. It’s the darkness inside houses I don’t like.
— Shelagh Delaney, A Taste of Honey
Even in the crowded, brightly illuminated theme park, one could find pockets of quiet and shadow: odd spaces between the rides, snack kiosks and gift shops where there was nothing to see or buy and mortals strode by without lingering. That was where the entrances to the service corridors were generally located. Trusting in his limited powers of invisibility to keep him hidden, Dan was lurking in one such area. A black wall, the rear of Mordred’s Haunted Castle, towered at his back, while an artificial lagoon, apparently supposed to be the Lady of the Lake’s lake, gleamed and rippled beyond a low brick wall just a few feet away. With his superhuman hearing, he could hear the squeals and laughter of the tourists inside the glorified spook house as clearly as the roar of the power boats participating in the stunt show on the water. At the moment, the balmy evening air smelled of hot dogs, buttered popcorn, exhaust and human sweat.
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