On a Darkling Plain (33 page)

Timothy sighed like a father whose child has brought home a bad report card. “I thought you assured me that Guice was in Duane’s debt, and that Duane wanted our friend Velasquez to assume the rule of Sarasota.”

“And I was right,” Durrell replied. The ambient green phosphorescence faded for a moment, then glowed brighter again. “But Angus, that Gangrel Justicar, showed up —” “Angus!” The Methuselah’s mouth curved upward in what an observer with perceptions less acute that Durrell’s might have mistaken for an affectionate smile. “Well of course he turned up! How is he?”

“All right, I suppose,” Durrell replied warily. He didn’t understand Timothy’s reaction, and as usual, that made him edgy. “I gather you know him?”

Timothy’s smile grew wider. “We had dealings, once upon a time. You were about to tell me that Guice and Angus deadlocked on a verdict.”

“Yes,” said Durrell, “so I used the alternate plan, the spell you taught me. But Sinclair came through the psychic assault with his mind intact.”

“Ah well,” said Timothy, waving a dismissive hand, “I’m sure you did your best. It’s only a temporary setback.” For an instant the smell of lilacs filled the air, and Durrell thought he felt ghostly fingers toying with the hair on the back of his head. Then the sensations ended as abruptly, and as randomly, as they’d begun.

“Guice did make noises about carrying the whole matter of the regency to the Inner Circle,” said Durrell, “and to put him off, Angus promised to catch Dracula in seventy-two hours.”

“And I think we both know how likely
that is,”
the Methuselah said. He reached out to clasp Durrell’s shoulder. The younger vampire simultaneously craved the contact and felt an impulse to cringe from it. “From your hangdog demeanor, I had thought the Conclave was an unmitigated disaster. But that isn’t so at all. The wolf and his allies will lose a great deal of credibility when he fails, and then we’ll oust them in the
next
Assembly.”

Durrell shook his head reflectively. “I hope so. Meanwhile, there’s more bad news. Wyatt Vandercar is dead. A Caitiff whom he recruited into his supposed circle of anarchs killed him and then disappeared. I know this because, bizarrely enough, Wyatt’s homunculus gave our phone number to one of his other pawns, and she called us.” “That is remarkable behavior for a familiar,” said Timothy. “It’s too bad the little creature is doomed, if it isn’t dead already. Dare I hope that whoever picked up the phone managed to preserve the fiction that Wyatt was a
rogue
Tremere, and this citadel is an enclave of his fellow rebels?” Durrell felt a twinge of anger at the condescension in the older vampire’s tone, but he was careful not to let his feelings show, “Yes. We kept up the pretense. Evidently she was quite fond of Wyatt. She very much wants to believe that he dealt with her honestly.”

“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: DEDUCT
10
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 cigars 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.