On a Darkling Plain (17 page)

“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 ow
^r
n 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 to 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.”

Despite his own anger, Elliott didn’t want to brawl. He was now fairly certain he could win a duel of words; he was far less sure of his ability to prevail in physical combat. Drawing on his charismatic powers, trying to strike awe and uncertainty into the Malkavian’s heart, he stared him coldly in the eye. “You forget yourself,” the actor said. “Violence is forbidden in a meeting such as this. Roger decreed as much long ago.”

This time his talent didn’t work. “I knew you were a coward,” Gunter said. Some of his brood laughed, shouted their agreement, or made clucking-chicken noises.

“It doesn’t matter what rules Roger laid down,” Judy murmured to Elliott. “Not now. The confrontation got too nasty; you guys threw too many insults back and forth. Now your honor’s on the line. You either have to fight the son of a bitch or step aside and let him be boss.”

“Then I’ll fight him,” Elliott said, his own fangs slipping from their sockets. Despite his reluctance, now that he’d committed himself to battle he couldn’t help sharing the Beast’s excitement at the prospect of spilling an enemy’s blood. Judy and Sky retreated a few paces down the back wall, giving the combatants a little more room to battle.

Gunter stuck his hand inside his tan safari jacket. When he pulled it out again, it was armored in brass knuckles with protruding spikes. His body faded from view like frost melting off a windowpane.

Drawing on his superhuman speed, Elliott leaped and thrust out his leg in a side kick. His heel brushed Gunter’s now'invisible body, but didn’t connect solidly. As the Toreador landed, he heard a blow whizzing at his head. He swept up his arm with a circular motion and barely managed to block the attack.

Elliott instantly counterattacked, snapping kicks and punches at the space where he judged Gunter had just been standing. But he didn’t connect. Somehow, despite the actor’s superior quickness, his opponent had slipped aside.

Elliott slowly turned, hands poised to strike or parry. His senses probed the space around him, seeking a flicker of aura or a blur of movement, the rustle of a canvas jacket or the creak of shoe leather, or the scent of the stolen vitae in Gunter’s system. It was no use; he couldn’t zero in on his opponent. The Malkavian elder’s powers of concealment seemed capable of thwarting even his own heightened perception, at least now that the excited members of the audience were shouting cheers, advice and catcalls.

The Toreador wondered if he could goad Gunter into revealing his whereabouts. Drawing once more on his charisma, he cried, “Now who’s the coward? Show yourself! Fight like a man!”

“But I’m not a man,” Gunter replied. His voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. Elliott couldn’t home in on it. “I’m a Cainite, a real one, not a spineless, whining mockery like you.”

Elliott sensed a blow streaking at his back. Raising his arm to block, he spun, a split second too slowly. Cold metal points tore into his shoulder. He stumbled, and the audience cried out.

Recovering his balance, the actor pounced, grabbing for his unseen opponent. His fingers only closed on air. Another blow slammed pain into his ribs and flung him staggering sideways. He almost fell on some of the spectators before he recovered his equilibrium.

“Give up,” Gunter said, “before I
really
hurt you. Go home and resume your sulking, and leave war to the warriors.”

Struggling to block out the pain of his wounds and the scent of his own blood, Elliott tried to sense the Malkavian’s location. It was still impossible.

The Toreador wondered if he should stand with his back against the wall to keep Gunter from creeping up behind him. After a second, he rejected the idea. Such a purely defensive posture would limit his ability to maneuver, partially cancelling out whatever advantage his supernatural agility gave him. It might also persuade the onlookers, whom this spectacle must ultimately impress, that he was afraid. Instead he edged toward the string quartet’s music stands and chairs.