“Not very far,” Angus’ bass voice replied. In human form again, or nearly so, he shot up behind the junior magus and grabbed his throat in his taloned hands.
The Tremere dropped his gun and frantically groped over his shoulder. Durrell understood what his clan brother was attempting. If he could grab his attacker, he could blast him with magic. Evidently understanding the same thing, Angus kept knocking away and otherwise avoiding his arm.
Durrell fired. The other Tremere was pretty much shielding Angus, but it would be worth hurting or even destroying the younger magus if he could cripple the attacker. Bullets hammered into the gray-haired vampire’s chest, and then the Uzi clicked, its magazine empty.
Angus’ claws ripped the younger Tremere’s head off. The corpse fell, pungent vitae flowing from the raw stump between its shoulders. Its slayer was bleeding, too, from the bullets that had driven through the magus’ body to strike his own, but he didn’t seem to feel the wounds. Pulling a stake out of his belt, leering at Durrell, he said, “You, Warlock, I’m taking alive. Sinclair and his people want to talk to you.”
For some reason, the smug self-assurance in Angus’ tone reminded Durrell of Tithonys. It roused the Beast and swept the fear out of his mind. By God, he was a sorcerer, a master of the unseen forces governing the universe. He’d earned his powers through centuries of study and perilous experimentation. In contrast, the Gangrel, however much brute strength he commanded, had received his abilities automatically, simply as a result of his transformation. Like most Kindred, he was little better than the undisciplined savage, the animal, he so resembled.
Durrell realized he didn’t have time to reload the Uzi. With his supernatural speed, Angus would be on top of him before he could ram a new clip into the gun. But that was all right. He wanted to humble the arrogant Gangrel with his wizardry. He should have relied on it from the start. “Come on then,” he said, tossing aside the firearm. “Take me if you can!”
Angus hurtled forward. Striving to exert every ounce of psychic might at his disposal, Durrell cast another spell. A statue of a pointy-eared gnome playing an accordion wrenched itself loose from its base, streaked through the air and slammed into the Gangrel’s shins, tripping him. Angus fell, but instantly leapt back to his feet.
Still straining, feeling the vitae in his system burn to fuel his magic, Durrell levitated an entire miniature cottage and slammed it down on Angus’ head. The Justicar sprawled back onto the path. With a murmured phrase and a flick of his fingers, the Tremere drained another portion of the other vampire’s vitae.
He expected that the'second theft, combined with the purely physical punishment Angus had taken, would put the giant down for good. It didn’t. His gashed scalp streaming blood, the Justicar scrambled to his feet and lunged into striking range. He poised the stake for a thrust at Durrell’s heart.
Staring into his opponent’s fiery eyes, Durrell said, “Stop!” The command didn’t stop Angus, but he faltered for a split second, affording the magus enough time to sidestep the attack, grab the Gangrel’s forearm, and work yet another charm.
Angus stumbled as his blood began to boil. Releasing him, Durrell stepped nimbly backward, certain that this final injury would finish the shapeshifter off. He was looking forward to watching the meddler die.
Recovering his balance, his ivory skin blistering and crisping, Angus whirled. His empty hand shot out and grabbed Durrell’s forearm, the talons tearing agonizingly into the Tremere’s flesh. Then he yanked the magus forward. Onto the stake.
Durrell felt a terrible stab of pain, and then a wave of weakness flowed through his muscles. He slumped in Angus’ arms, utterly paralyzed. The fire raging inside the Gangrel’s flesh seared his own body.
Angus swayed, nearly dumping both of them on the ground, “I need blood,” the huge man croaked. “In all these centuries I’ve always shunned diablerie, until tonight. Another offense I lay at your door, you Warlock son of a bitch.” He buried his fangs in Durrell’s throat.
U y MMi
No more tears now; I will think upon revenge — Mary Queen of Scots
His forearm throbbing, Dan prowled through the shadows. Fortunately the last gunman’s bullet had only creased him, and after a few more steps, the wound closed and the pain faded. Somewhere in the darkness automatic weapons rattled, and a woman screamed.
Dan reflected sourly that in other circumstances he might have relished the carnage unfolding all around him. After three decades of slights, rebuffs and aching loneliness, he could have enjoyed trading shots with the arrogant Kindred of the Camarilla, or just sitting back and watching as they butchered each other.
But not now, not when he knew that Tithonys was preparing his death magic. Now the martial fervor of Dan’s fellow vampires, the rage that prompted them to start blasting away at him as soon as he made his presence known, that kept them from listening, filled him with anguished frustration.
Once again he felt the urge simply to run away and save himself, but he knew he wouldn’t heed it. He’d made his decision and he was going to stick to it, no matter what the cost.
His mother had always told him he was stubborn. He paused for a moment, wondering when he’d last thought of her, if she was even still alive, and then his hypersensitive hearing caught the sound of soft, stealthy footfalls coming around the next bend in the lane.
Dan stepped into a shadowy doorway between two display windows full of dolls that looked like Medieval Barbie and Ken. A moment later Elliott Sinclair glided around the corner, darting glances this way and that, fangs bared, all alone. Evidently the battle was so fierce and so chaotic that even a general could find himself separated from the rest of his army. Dan noted with a fleeting twinge of amusement that the foppish Toreador’s starched and ironed fatigues fit perfectly, as if he’d had them custom-tailored.
Dan was still wondering how best to approach Sinclair when the elder whirled with blinding speed. His senses, which were evidently at least as keen as Dan’s, had penetrated the outcast’s shield of invisibility. The muzzle of the silver-haired Toreador’s AR-18 swung into line.
Dan’s instincts screamed for him to lift his own rifle and defend himself — he couldn’t help anybody if he let Sinclair blow him apart! Instead he let the weapon fall from his hands.
Sinclair’s gun blazed. Two bullets slammed Dan back against the door behind him, rattling the glass. But then, as he’d hoped, Prince Roger’s lieutenant stopped firing.
“Don’t hurt me,” Dan rasped, his voice thick with pain. “I’m on your side.”
“The hell you say,” Sinclair replied. “Don’t you think I remember your face, Murdock? You diabolized one of Gunter Schmidt’s people. You fought against Judy and her Brujah by the Gardens. You killed one of them.”
“It wasn’t like you think,” Dan replied, struggling desperately to think of a way to convince the actor that he was telling the truth. His story was too damn complicated, to say nothing of unlikely. “I didn’t mean to kill the Brujah. When I worked against your people, it was an act to help me infiltrate Durrell’s conspiracy.”
Sinclair scowled. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not!” Dan said. A bullet slowly slid from his chest, then fell, as his clenching, regenerating flesh expelled it. But even though he was healing, he knew it would be a while longer before he’d have a snowball’s chance in hell against Sinclair, even if the older vampire were fool enough to turn his gun aside. “There are other people involved in this war, people you don’t know about! I was working for one of them!”
Sinclair frowned. Dan realized that his words had hit home. However he had come by the knowledge, the Toreador did know that there was more to the campaign against Sarasota than was apparent on the surface. “Keep talking,” the actor said.
“There are these two Methuselahs,” said Dan. “You and Roger Phillips are descended from one of them, named Melpomene, and she cares about you and your art. The other one, Tithonys, hates her, and he sicced
Durrell on you to hurt her.”
His brow furrowed, Sinclair hesitated, evidently mulling over what Dan had told him- After a moment he said, “That’s... interesting. 1 want to hear all about it. But first I have a battle to fight.”
“You don’t understand!” said Dan. His chest throbbed as the other bullet slid out of it. “Tithonys doesn’t care who wins your little war anymore, as long as it’s as bloody as possible. He’s a magician, like the Warlocks only better, and when enough Kindred have been destroyed, he’s going to tap into some kind of energy the deaths will create and use it to slaughter everyone for miles around as a sacrifice to the devil. So Satan will give him the power he needs to kill Melpomene.
“You’ve got to order your people to stop fighting. That’ll derail his ritual.”
Sinclair laughed. “Do you know, you actually had me going for a moment there. You’re good at managing your face and aura both; you should have gone on the stage. But no, I’m not going to pull back my troops on the basis of a lie as preposterous as that. I’m not sure, but I believe we’re winning. Apparently you think so, too. Goodbye, Mr. Murdock.” He shouldered his rifle and sighted down the barrel.
Dan’s arm shuddered with the desperate impulse to make a grab for the .38 hidden under his tattered, blood-encrusted jacket. Instead he cried, “Tithonys killed your wife!”
Sinclair gaped at him. “What?”
“The guy murdered your wife,” Dan repeated. “These Methuselahs set up schemes that take years to come together. Tithonys decided to make war on Sarasota a long time ago. Part of the idea was that if he drove Prince Roger nuts, and his second-in-command was crippled with grief, there wouldn’t be any effective leadership: the domain would fall apart in nothing flat. And so he had somebody whack her.”
“That would explain why the witch hunters picked on Mary,” Sinclair murmured, more to himself than to Dan. “I could never understand, why her, out of all the Kindred in the region?” His tone, and his gaze, hardened once again. “But 1 only have your word for this.”
“Do you think I’d try to sell you such a weird story if it weren’t true?” Dan replied. “Do you think it would even occur to me to mention your wife? Why would a social reject like me know anything about your personal problems? Look, if you don’t believe me, fine, gun me down and get on with your war. But you’ll be letting Mary’s real murderer walk away. You’ll be letting him kill you, too, and all your buddies. You’ll be letting him win!”
Sinclair glared at him for another moment, then turned the muzzle of his assault rifle to the side. “If you’ve lied to me, you’re going to suffer for a very long time before you meet the true death.”
“Whatever,” Dan said. “Just pull your people back.”
The Toreador shook his head. “I can’t. They’re scattered over the entire park. Most of them don’t have phones, some are no doubt in frenzy, and others would probably have difficulty disengaging themselves from their current situations even if they knew they should. Besides, for all we know, enough of us have already died to fuel Tithonys’ conjuration. He may be reciting it even as we speak. Our only hope is to find him and stop him.”
Dan felt a cold pang of terror even though, deep down, he’d known the situation would come to this. “You have no idea how tough this guy is.”
Sinclair shrugged. “Perhaps I do. I’ve heard stories about Methuselahs. But I don’t see that we have any option but to go after him.” He smiled savagely. “Not that I truly want another option, of course. We don’t have time to round up many reinforcements, but we’d be fools if we didn’t try to link up with Angus the Justicar. He’s almost certainly the most powerful fighter on my side.” The actor took out his cellular phone and punched in a number.
After a moment a deep voice rumbled out of the instrument. With his superhuman hearing, Dan could hear it clearly: “Yes?”
“It’s Elliott,” said the Toreador tersely. “We’ve—”
“Well, hello,” the Justicar boomed. “I just staked our friend Durrell. It looks to me as if we’re winning this—” “Listen to me!” Sinclair rapped, exerting his supernatural powers of influence. The effect rocked Dan back a step even though he wasn’t the target. “I’ve met someone who tells
me we’re in trouble. Supposedly Durrell was working for an ancient Kindred, who’s also in the park—”
“Oh, shit!” Angus exclaimed.
Sinclair grimaced. “1 take it that you knew all along that there were Methuselahs involved in this affair.”
“Where are you?” Angus said.
Sinclair looked around. “On Tennyson Lane. One of the streets of gift shops that run off—”
“I remember where it is from the map. I’m not far away. Stay put until I get there.” The phone clicked, then droned a dial tone.
Sinclair gave Dan a sour smile. “All right, now I believe you,” he said.
THIRTY-FIVE*EN D GAME
And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.
— Exodus 21:23-25
Elliott strode through the dark, his senses honed, peering for any sign of the Methuselah. Beside him his two companions, both clad in bloody, pungent, perforated clothing, were presumably doing the same. Angus’ eyes glowed crimson.
The Toreador kept thinking that he ought to be frightened if he was about to battle a primordial vampire powerful enough to snuff out thousands of lives at once. Yet he wasn’t. The sight and smell of Mary’s rotting body and severed head filled his mind. The knowledge that there was still something to be done about it, a retribution to be exacted, filled him with a kind of feverish joy.
But he could tell that Angus and Murdock — or Dan, as the Caitiff had asked his comrades to call him — were afraid.
Their faces and voices concealed the fact well enough, but Elliott could see the telltale wisps of orange in their auras.
“I never heard of a Kindred rising from the true death,” the giant Gangrel rumbled to Dan, who’d just told him his story. “I’d like to think that the man you met is some other Methuselah who has assumed Tithonys’ identity to rattle Melpomene. The problem with that notion is that, as far as' we know, he never tried to tell her he was Tithonys; besides which, the description you give fits the vampire I knew. If he has come back, then God help us.”
Seeking to hearten his allies, allowing a touch of his preternatural charisma to enrich his voice, Elliott said, “If he is Tithonys, 1 find that encouraging. If you destroyed him once, we can kill him again.”
“When we fought him in Normandy,” Angus replied glumly, “he was starving and had just been maimed in a brawl with a pack of Lupines. There was one of him and seven of us, including Melpomene herself. Even so, our side lost two Kindred before the fight was over.” A shadowy figure with a rapid heartbeat and a shotgun in its hands scurried through the darkness ahead. The Gangrel lifted his assault rifle, but the ghoul strode on across the mouth of the lane and out of sight without so much as glancing in the vampires’ direction. Elliott wondered fleetingly which side this particular servant was on.
“Maybe Melpomene will show up to help us now,” the Toreador said, aware that it didn’t seem likely. He’d already tried to contact the female Methuselah using the phone number she’d given Dan, only to discover that it was no longer in service.
Dan laughed bitterly. “I told you how she abandoned me.
I guarantee you, she won’t risk her own neck.”
“I agree,” Angus said. “In France, with Tithonys crippled, her safety was all but assured. Even so she hung back until my friends and I wore him down, letting us bear the brunt of his attacks. No, we won’t see her here tonight.” He gave Elliott an ironic smile. “Sound pretty scared, don’t we? Well, we have a right to be, as you’ll find out soon enough. But don’t worry, we’ll stick. The three of us will nail the bastard somehow.” He squeezed Elliott’s shoulder with
one huge, taloned, blood-encrusted hand.
Elliott repressed a reflexive wince at the thought of what the claws and the filth could do to his shirt. He smiled back at Angus. “I know we will,” he said. “I just wish we knew' where to look for him. The park is too damn big.”
“I think he might be somewhere high and centrally located,” Angus replied thoughtfully, “where he can see what’s going on. That would help him judge when enough Kindred have died to power up his magic. And sometimes sorcerers like to perform their rituals under the open sky. You two keep searching down here, and I’ll hunt from the air.” He lifted his arms and they melted into dark, membranous wings. Transformed into a huge black bat, he soared up into the night, vanishing behind the gabled roof of a mock medieval tavern an instant later.
Elliott and Dan stalked on. Guns barked and rattled in the distance. After another minute, the Toreador glimpsed smears of green and silver light hanging in the sky above the flat roof of a white stone structure resembling the Tower of London.
The smudges of glow were so faint that Elliott had to squint for a moment to be certain he was actually seeing them. He doubted that any being with vision less keen than his own would perceive them at all. After a few seconds a twinge of pain, like the beginnings of the headaches from which he’d sometimes suffered when he was breathing, jabbed between his eyes. There was something indefinably wrong with the masses of phosphorescence, something that made it painful to look at them too closely.
Elliott pointed. “See that?” he asked.
Dan peered in the direction he was indicating. “No. What are you talking — wait. Yeah, I do see it, sort of. It’s more hyperdimensional stuff!”
“Does that mean you think Tithonys is on that rooftop?” Elliott asked.
“Yeah.”
“So do I. Let’s hope that Angus spots him, too. Come on!” Sprinting, they raced toward the lights. Elliott kept drawing ahead of Dan, then having to force himself to slow down and let the Caitiff catch up. Frantic as the actor was to come to grips with Tithonys, he realized that he couldn’t destroy the Methuselah by himself.
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