Clan Novel Toreador: Book 1 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Stewart Wieck

  Leopold said, “I can agree to all that.”

  “Finally,” Hannah added, almost running her words over Leopold’s as if unaware that he’d spoken, “it must be from memory. I will not model for the sculpture.”

  To Leopold, the Tremere’s “will not” almost sounded like “cannot,” but he couldn’t say why he gained that impression.

  Leopold pressed himself back in the large chair, for Hannah was practically standing on top of him now. He could tell that the robe she wore was very thick, for part of it draped across his knee.

  He said, “That’s a bit more difficult, and some life-like details are bound to be lost, but I’m sure I can execute that work with reasonable success.” Hannah stepped even closer, so that her left leg pressed into the seat of the chair between Leopold’s spread legs. “Then I will model now, to guarantee more than a ‘reasonable’ success.”

  Like a snake shedding its skin, Hannah rolled her shoulders and her thick robe slid off her torso and splashed down to her knees, where it hung only because the chair cushion would not let it sink to the floor.

  Beneath the robe, she was naked, and beyond the surprise of this sudden and presumably utterly uncharacteristic gesture of Hannah’s, Leopold was startled by the fine features of her body. She was almost painfully thin, but such emaciation was considered beautiful by modem standards. Her skin, like that of many Kindred, was perfect and unmarred, but more than that her narrow waist was wonderfully fashioned and its lines tapered upward toward a stomach that gave way to precious, gem-like breasts, and downward widened slightly at her pelvis before sloping delicately along the length of her legs.

  “Touch me,” Hannah commanded.

  Leopold, suddenly aware that as he drank in her body he had yet to look her in the face again, glanced upward. Some of the magic of her beauty was dispelled by her plain and unemotional face, but Leopold didn’t need the suggestion again. He reached the fingertips of both hands toward the Tremere and traced them along the slight curves of her sides.

  “No,” she corrected, and Leopold quickly flinched in retreat. “More. You must memorize me not only with your eyes, but with your hands as well. Explore me, young Toreador, and think on this promise you’ve given. Commit my body to memory.”

  Her words offered that same ground between coercion and force suggested earlier, and Leopold wondered if the puritanical and rigid Hannah didn’t offer something more than what met the eye. Perhaps as a mortal she had had secrets of more than a thaumaturgical nature.

  Hannah took one of his hands in hers and splayed the fingers wide. Then she pressed his open hand on her naked thigh.

  Leopold did as instructed, softly cupping his other hand as well as he did when smoothing over a nearly complete work in clay for the final time. He closed his eyes, rubbing, and exploring.

  He was amazed that she was so soft. He’d heard that the skin of many elders became hard in order to protect the Kindred. And though he could feel the bones very close to Hannah’s skin, her flesh nevertheless possessed a sensual sheen that was a pleasure to investigate.

  He closed his eyes and transported his consciousness into his hands.

  “Enough.”

  Though softly spoken, the word jolted Leopold back to the corporate office in which he sat. He rubbed his eyes and imagined he’d been sleeping, though he clearly recalled the prior moments when he saw Hannah, still exotic and naked before him. The Tremere dipped to retrieve her robe and secure it over her shoulders again.

  She turned her back to the Toreador as she stepped toward her leather chair on the far side of the large desk. She smoothed the robe and sat facing Leopold, her face still as motionless and unanimated as deerskin stretched on a drying rack.

  Leopold was in something akin to shock and found himself slow to recover. Hannah’s unveiling of herself was so entirely alien to what he expected of her that he didn’t know exactly how to react. Nor did he know what to say to her next. Professionally, as a sculptor, he was extremely impressed with her physique. When a mortal, and even until now as a Kindred, he had never had the opportunity to work with such a model. Anyone with a body like that was doing fashion work, not standing for arduous hours while an artist worked over clay or stone.

  It struck him as hugely inappropriate to compliment her, though, so he simply said, “I sometimes enter a trance when I do my best sculpting. I believe I must have done the same just now in order to memorize the contour of your body as you requested.”

  “You were quite thorough, indeed,” Hannah said, her impassive face not registering any innuendo or pleasure or distaste, or really anything at all.

  All Leopold could say was, “The result will be better for it.”

  Hannah returned her to her silent staring, so Leopold took the initiative again. “So what exactly does that vial contain?”

  Hannah glanced at the crimson-filled glass tube and said, “You may imagine it to be synthetic Vitas. It has not been drawn directly from Kindred or Kine, but it would fuel the former and transfuse into any of the latter without rejection.”

  “And I—”

  Hannah interrupted, acting as if she had never paused, “You will drink it tonight.”

  Leopold didn’t like the sound of that. There was so much power in blood, and the Tremere were the supposed masters of tapping it for unthinkable uses. One such use might benefit Leopold if it addressed his question, but he also knew there was risk in imbibing blood. For instance, he’d been told that if a Kindred ever partook of another Kindred’s blood on a half dozen occasions, then the latter Kindred would gain control over the former with a sort of unshakable mind control.

  Of course, he’d also heard it said that this happened after two such feedings. Or four. Or, the more times, the stronger the control. Lots of permutations, but it all came down to the basic fact that it was unwise to drink Vitae—blood—offered by another Kindred, especially a Tremere whose Kindred existence was built on a foundation of shared blood.

  “And afterwards?”

  “It must remain in your system for a full day, so do not burn it through activity tonight. After that time, a simple ritual I can perform in but a moment at this coming night’s party will provide some information that will put me on the track of some helpful information.”

  Leopold asked, “It will reveal the identity of my sire?”

  “Perhaps.” Hannah’s lack of motion, and hence absence of any sort of body language, did not help Leopold guess whether this “perhaps” was a likely or remote possibility. He had little choice but to accept it either way, though, so he didn’t press any further.

  “Very well, then, I’d best proceed as it seems that dawn is but an hour or so away, and I must yet return to my haven.”

  Hannah pinched the vial between a thumb and forefinger and extended it over the plane of her desk. Leopold stood and accepted it.

  He weighed it as he returned to his seat. The vial was heavy, so it must have been fashioned from lead glass, and the cap that stoppered it was a very dense cork that instantly reshaped itself after he pressed a fingernail along its edge.

  He looked up at Hannah, expecting to find her as she was before, simply waiting patiently. Instead, she stared off into space to Leopold’s left. As the Toreador watched, the Tremere’s nose wriggled as if she was searching for a scent. Then her eyes briefly narrowed in that serpentine manner and she returned her attention to Leopold.

  She snapped, “Proceed.” There was no mistaking this for anything but a command. It seemed the patience of his hostess was at an end.

  So he drank. Leopold squeezed the cork and carefully pulled it out. With the pop of a champagne bottle, the cork slipped free. A single drop of the thick blood within spattered out as well, landing on Leopold’s wrist. It puckered up with impressive surface tension instead of running down his forearm, despite being a sizable drop.

  A pleasing rich and earthy odor wafted from the vial, and Leopold found himself desiring the blood regardless of any future bene
fits that might accrue. Without looking again at Hannah, the Toreador quaffed the viscous liquid. He opened his throat as he had learned to do in order to catch every bit of the spray of blood from a mortal’s punctured artery.

  The blood slipped satisfyingly down his throat and it was as flavorful as he’d imagined. Leopold felt a brief rush of hypersensitivity, as if his hearing and sight were suddenly more acute, but this faded almost instantly.

  He looked at Hannah now as he replaced the empty vial atop the desk.

  He asked, “So, there’s nothing else that needs be done tonight?”

  “That completes our business for now, Toreador. We each have more services to perform for the other, but you understand that your price must be paid regardless of my ritual’s success or failure.”

  “Yes,” said Leopold. “I understand, just as you surely likewise accept that I may be unable to execute the sculpture of another Kindred. I hope that I can do so, however, as I look forward to sculpting your likeness. Your exact likeness.”

  Hannah said, “My servant awaits outside the door. He will escort you out—a journey I believe you’ll find somewhat simpler than your entrance.” Leopold nodded, but as he turned to leave, the Toreador paused and looked squarely back at Hannah. He asked, “When you first visited me that night a year ago…?”

  “Yes?” she asked to answer his pause.

  “What did I do to the girl after you left?” Hannah smiled, and that made Leopold visibly shiver, for she had never done that before, and he wished she wouldn’t again because it was far, far more frightening than a thousand hours of her stoicism.

  Leopold said, “I don’t recall, but for some reason I’m certain you know.”

  “I do indeed possess that knowledge, young Cainite.” She leveled her gaze directly into his eyes. “You got down on your hands and knees and begged for her forgiveness.”

  Leopold stood still for a moment, surprised that Hannah told him so bluntly, or even told him at all. And he was partly shocked that Hannah would be privy to what he understood should have been a private display, and partly ashamed for begging thus at all.

  Leopold glanced at the floor and then back up at Hannah. “Did she grant it?” he asked.

  Hannah’s smiled slowly eased from her lips. She darted a look over her shoulder and then returned her gaze to the Toreador. “I’ll tell you that tomorrow night as well. Now begone.”

  Again her tone left no room for dissension, and Leopold turned quickly on his heel and left, closing the carved oak door gently behind him.

  part two:

  victoria

  Monday, 21 June 1999, 9:36 PM

  The High Museum of Art

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Victoria was delighted with herself. She savored the final few moments of her chauffeured ride by settling even more deeply into the downy-soft leather of the seats. It was high time she made an appropriate impression on the Kindred of the South, and she knew that tonight would be that time.

  She had filled the vacancy of Toreador primogen earlier this year after the Blood Curse killed the vapid and witless Marlene—along with the majority of the Kindred in Atlanta—in 1998, but she needed a coming-out party, and this summer solstice celebration would serve wonderfully. It had been a delightful suggestion, one she gladly embraced, and she was demonstrating her thanks by actually inviting the handful of Atlanta Nosferatu to this party. The hideous Kindred were not normally welcome at Toreador affairs because of their often gruesome appearance.

  There was difficulty planning the celebration on such short notice, but she appreciated that in such spontaneous implementation the event seemed stamped even more strongly as a Toreador affair. Her delight in this fact was not one of clan pride—though she would argue the merits of her clan against any other, and she expected she would be forced to do so this evening—but instead she was happy to take advantage of the Toreador stereotype. Victoria preferred “archetype,” but the result was the same: by making cunning use of others’ expectations of Toreador behavior, she was able to lull them regarding the ways in which she subtly strayed from such convention. If the spotlight of Toreador allowed the candlelight plots of Victoria Ash to flicker unnoticed, then Toreador conventions could be very valuable to her.

  After all, who would imagine that a Toreador taking pleasure in the sumptuousness of the evening would really have an ulterior motive regarding the Prince and the envoy of Jarislav Pascek, the Brujah Justicar, who would also attend? Victoria was not so dim as to fail to realize that there would be some who would suspect such underhanded play, but there was great difference in suspicions and proof. Victoria enjoyed providing room for plenty of the former, but opportunity for others to find little of the latter.

  She stretched an arm toward the central control panel, her slender limb covered from her shoulder to the tips of her fingers in a silken glove that accentuated the poise and flair of this beautiful woman. Pressing a speaker button on the enormous central armrest, she lazily commanded, “Go by the front first. Slowly.”

  Victoria kept the interior of the car dark as she observed the High Museum of Art on this final pass. The white structure rose four stories on a small rise in downtown Atlanta. The entire building appeared to be dark and empty for the night, but her party was well underway on the fourth floor.

  Special spy lenses that looked like ordinary opera glasses allowed Victoria to penetrate the seemingly opaque glass set inside the High’s standard windows on that top floor. That special glass hid the party from mortal eyes, but not from her own, though only when she used the special lens to pierce it. There was something technical regarding wavelengths of light and interference that she didn’t quite understand, but what she did completely understand was that the glass was opaque to her naked eyes even when she utilized her very heightened sensory capabilities.

  No doubt others possessed even greater abilities, but she was confident her spying method was foolproof. Her decision whether or not to utilize the glass had been decided by a simple coin toss, a far cruder means than she usually employed. Not everything could be put to an elaborate or elegant test. Not like the moves she might make tonight.

  The glasses revealed approximately a dozen Kindred already present, which pleased Victoria. The number wasn’t great, but considering how the Blood Curse had ravaged the ranks of local Kindred—Camarilla and Sabbat alike, thankfully—she was pleased nonetheless. In fact, if not for a number of out-of-town guests, despite the cancellation of some of the more interesting ones like Benito Giovanni, then this dozen or so might be all she could expect. Pathetic, yet that’s what made Atlanta perfect for her.

  She was the hostess of this party, but she damn well wasn’t going to be early to meet every low-life Kindred who might drag himself in for a cultural experience. No, she would arrive so the Kindred would see her according to her own plan. Then, she could seek out those who deserved or at least required her special and personal attention, though she had not yet decided who had earned her “special” attention for this evening. Perhaps it would be one of the out-of-town visitors. Or perhaps there would be no such games tonight, if her plans were executed and especially if they blossomed to fruition.

  As she tucked the lens away in an inconspicuous compartment, Victoria wondered if this little trick was technically against Kindred law. The High Museum was regarded as Elysium, and that meant no violence was allowed within the building, but the Toreador was unsure if this status meant her shenanigan was frowned upon as well. She suspected it was probably pushing matters too far, for while she perhaps did not break the letter of the law, the intent was certainly being subverted.

  She doubted anyone would ever know, however, so that was the same as its being acceptable. Besides, how else did Kindred get ahead in this world but by guile? The brute power many Kindred possessed was too dangerous and more often than not caused lasting harm and possibly death to its user as well as the adversary. Guile, cunning, and deception were expected, and so long as a Kindred cou
ld operate without undue attention, then she might proceed with her plans.

  That was the difficult part, of course. She would have to be careful, for instance, when she used her apparent opera glasses, but it was with them she could look through the dividers of glass that for others would provide an illusion of privacy.

  She pressed the button again. “To the elevator now.”

  The car turned right at the next cross street and then shortly turned again on an even smaller street that ran behind the museum.

  As the car slowed to navigate speed bumps at the entrance of an underground parking garage, Victoria checked herself in the mirror a final time. Her curled hair was perfect. For that matter, her face was too, but that part of her never changed. It was pleasingly rounded, with a narrow and interesting chin. Hers was not a noble face, but the face of the lovely servant girl whose beauty outshone her haughty, royal-blooded mistress.

  She batted her green eyes and overlooked the slightly Asian appearance that had once troubled her. In this more cosmopolitan world on the verge of the twenty-first century, a subtle cast like hers only enhanced her beauty. Then she directed a little blood to flow into the flesh of her cheeks. She preferred the color of mortal women. The red that all Kindred knew was blood made mortals appear vivacious, and that was especially inviting to Kindred males.

  Finally, she curled her fingertip through a ringlet of lustrous brown hair. Her own servant (this one not nearly as lovely as her haughty mistress) had succeeded in exactly reproducing the style of one of the statues displayed at her party. A statue of Helen, if the Toreador recalled correctly. Victoria grinned devilishly. Her hair seemed weightless in its curled suspension, for it hung above her shoulders but jostled down to kiss the silk of her faux-Grecian yet stylish dress when she moved. If Helen with this hair launched a thousand ships, then the vain Toreador suspected it would take a modern nation’s armada to do her proper justice.