A Dozen Black Roses (22 page)
That very evening Esher killed the wretched father and took Black Nan as his bride-to-be. But he made the mistake of attempting to make her his equal. In the six years she spent with him, traveling the world, he taught her the mysteries of the Tremere, as Caul had once instructed him. It proved a near-fatal mistake, as Bakil—decades later—attempted to turn her magics against him. She'd become enamored of a human male and wished to make him hers, but Esher had forbidden it. She remained adamant, so he killed the human. Enraged, she challenged him. So he destroyed her, in much the same way he'd rid himself of Caul the night before.
That was 1910. It was sixty years before he dared try his hand at creating another offspring—the result of which was Decima. But he'd learned his lesson. Decima was reborn into the eternal world of the Kindred ignorant of the crimson mysteries that gave the Tremere their power. Decima had been a grubby little hippie chick when he first met her, a troubled young girl from a middle-class suburban family, on the run from—or to—something she could not describe. Under his ministrations she'd blossomed from a flower child into a moon child, and for a few years he was satisfied.
Until he saw Nikola.
Something about the way she moved when she danced triggered a possessive madness in him unknown since the night he first heard Bakil sing. Perhaps by Embracing those touched by the muse, he was Embracing that which was lost to him. But no. That would imply weakness. Regret. And a prince of the Kindred may never know such things. Or so he told himself.
Which is why he disliked thinking of Bakil.
Create PDF
files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (
http://www.novapdf.com
) Better to busy his mind with other, more pressing business. Such as how to repair the damage done by last night's misadventures. His original plan was to act as a mercenary for the Borges Brothers—thereby avoiding the proscriptions against jyhad. He had intended to present the druglords with the stolen narcotics tonight as a gesture of good faith, but with the Borgeses dead that no longer mattered. Still, four kilos of cocaine was not without its uses. He could easily convert it to pay for more weapons and ammunition. After all, incendiary bullets did not come cheap, even in volume.
He caressed the lid of the antique black lacquer Chinese box. The sides of the box were decorated by what at first looked to be red orchids, but on closer inspection proved to be ornately stylized bats—the Chinese symbol for luck and fruitfulness. Gripping the golden handle shaped like a grinning luck dragon atop the lid, Esher opened the box, and found himself looking into its empty interior. Empty, that is, except for a lavender lace hanky.
Esher's rage was so immense it exhibited itself as the utmost calm as he reached inside the box and removed the fragile handkerchief. He did not need to sniff its scent to guess the identity of its owner. The Masonic symbol embroidered in lieu of a monogram told him to whom it belonged. There was a knock on his door and Decima entered, the wound dealt her by the brat's crucifix still pulsing a raw, angry red.
Esher quickly closed his hand about the handkerchief.
"Milord, the Batmobile's been repaired, as you commanded."
"Excellent. Go and escort Lady Nikola back here. I would like the enclave to assemble before me tonight!"
Decima raised an eyebrow in surprise. "So soon?"
"Do not question me!" he snapped. "Just do it! Put out the word!"
"As you wish, milord," she muttered, withdrawing.
Esher opened his fist and glowered at the hanky. He stuffed it inside his pocket as he strode through the contorted halls in the direction of the audience chamber. As he entered, a thin, nondescript vampire with lank hair and the clothes of an office worker awaited him, fidgeting nervously.
"Yes, what is it—?" he growled.
"Wilfred."
"Very well, what is it, Wilford?"
"We, uh, we found Torgo, milord."
"Indeed," he sighed as he dropped into his chair of office. "And what is his excuse for being gone these last few days?"
"H-he's dead, milord."
"Of course he's dead! He's one of us!"
Wilfred grimaced and trembled even harder than before. "No, milord— Final Death. We found him—or what was left of him—stuffed under one of the sofas in the barracks. He was pretty, uh, ripe before anyone discovered him."
"Torgo—dead? How?"
"We're not sure, milord. Like I said, there wasn't much left. But it looks like either Gangrel claws or some kind of enchantment."
Esher leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed in thought. What was it Caul had told him before death claimed him one final time? "You nurse a serpent at your bosom, Esher."
"Milord!" The doors to the audience chamber flew open and Decima ran in, looking highly agitated. In her free hand she held a bouquet of black roses, tied with a purple satin ribbon. "Milord! Sinjon has taken the Lady Nikola!"
"What!?!"
"I went to pick up Nikola, as you requested—but when the car pulled up to the curb I saw bodies. The Pointers assigned to guard the stairway were sprawled along the sidewalk and in the gutter! Judging from the flies, I'd say they'd been lying there all day. Inside the building I found Obeah dead as well—the back of his head blown off. The Lady Nikola was missing— and these were left on her bed!"
"So—it is to be jyhad, after all?" Esher said, taking the dozen black roses from her. "At least the old reptile has saved me the embarrassment of having to proclaim it myself! You see this, don't you?" He waved the bouquet at Decima. "He is the one who hurled down the gauntlet—not I! He is the aggressor—I am merely protecting myself!"
"Of course, milord."
Create PDF
files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (
http://www.novapdf.com
)
"Was there anything else—a note of any kind?"
"There was no letter—but I did find something. They were under Obeah's body." Decima reached inside her leather jacket and retrieved a pair of neatly severed fingers—a left pinkie and half of a ring finger.
She held them out to Esher, who took the pinkie and sniffed it like a cigar. He then licked the bloody stump and frowned.
"My blood runs through the veins of the owner. Whoever did this is Kindred."
"I could have told you it was an inside job," Decima sneered. "The door to the apartment wasn't forced.
Obeah opened it of his own free will. Which means he recognized whoever was on the other side. Those fingers came from a woman—and I'm betting it's that mirror-eyed bitch you're so fond of."
Esher's frown deepened into a scowl. Decima was right. All the evidence fit. The stranger was the last one to see Torgo "alive"—she was the one trusted to watch over Nikola—she was the one left alone in the stronghold. He wondered how she could have pulled off the second abduction so close to sunrise, but apparently she was far more resourceful than even he had realized.
Esher took the fingers and wrapped them carefully in the lavender hanky, then tucked them in his pocket. He was calm and deliberate in his motions. Very calm. When he finished he looked up at Decima, who stood awaiting his orders like an eager hound.
"Bring the stranger to me," he said. His voice was very, very calm.
Decima licked her lips, displaying both her fangs and the surgical steel piercing in her tongue. "As you command, sire."
***
As much as she hated admitting it, a little fresh blood would help wake her up and give her back that all-important edge. She could either prey on one of the myriad Pointers or Black Spoons that wandered Deadtown, or she could avail herself of the feeders at Dance Macabre. She would draw less attention to herself that way—but she could not bring herself to consider it a viable option. She wasn't like those giggling monsters flocking to Esher's banner. At least, that's what she kept telling herself. But then—she had his blood inside her, now. That's probably where the idea about the feeders had come from, in the first place.
Since she'd given Nikola her gym bag, she now kept what few possessions she had with her in a crumpled paper sack. She picked through the jumble of dirty and clean clothes, finally yanking a Stooges T-shirt out of the confusion. She discarded the shirt she was wearing—it had both her and Obeah's blood splattered on it—and pulled on the cleaner one. By now Esher would know of Nikola's disappearance. The bouquet of black roses— the ritual signature of open warfare between princes—was all the proof needed to tie the abduction to Sinjon. She had no doubt that Esher would wipe out Sinjon—thus saving her the trouble of doing so.
That would leave Esher for her to deal with—without fear of distraction or importune alliances between the vampire lords. She could dispose of them as separate, squabbling entities—but not united. Reuniting Ryan with his mother had not been part of her original plan—and now it was costing her. Well, it was over and done with—there was no going back and changing things now. Besides, it was too easy the other way—and she didn't trust easy.
She left the attic and climbed out a window on the deserted third floor that overlooked the alley, creeping down the face of the building like a black leather lizard. Careful to remain in the deepest shadows, she hurried along until she came to The Street With No Name. It would be easy enough to lure one of the Pointers away on some pretense or another. Despite their much-vaunted macho, they were exceptionally submissive to any dominant Kindred that presented itself before them. Like most humans drawn to serve the darker powers, they wanted the flame for their own, yet did not wish to burn to claim it.
She spotted three Pointers halfway up the street and quickened her pace. One of the youths noticed her approach and nodded in her direction. The boy standing with his back directly to her tossed his cigarette aside and began to turn, reaching for something tucked down the front of his jeans.
Create PDF
files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (
http://www.novapdf.com
) The stranger was already lunging to the side, rolling as she hit the pavement, as the Pointer spun and fired his 9mm, the weapon held to the side so that the spent cartridges flew away from him. Even if she hadn't read his body language from a mile off, she doubted the gangbanger could hit her with the butt of a bass fiddle.
She came out of her roll crouched low, snarling like a cornered wildcat, her fangs bared. The Pointer who had fired at her looked at his empty gun, swallowed, and took a step backward. With an angry growl, she pounced on the boy, taking him down hard enough to snap his back. The remaining Pointers stared, too stunned to react, as she crouched atop their companion. After a long moment the closest reached for the gun butt jutting from his own waistband, but he was too slow. The stranger came up off the sidewalk like a jack-in-the-box, ramming her skull deep into his solar plexus and tossing him over her back like a bull would a bothersome dog. The Pointer behind her fired his gun, but the bullet caught his friend instead of her.
"Damn it! I told you to hold your fire!" Decima shrieked, emerging from the mouth of a nearby alley.
"She's needed for questioning! I don't want her dead!"
While she was far from fit enough to drop into overdrive, the stranger was fast enough to deliver a flying side kick that knocked the gun from the gangbanger's hand, followed by a forward snap kick that put the steel toe of her boot into his abdomen with enough force to rupture his grandmother's spleen. As she turned to face Decima, something slammed her against the wall. She tried to move, but a surge of pain nearly caused her to black out. She looked down and saw the last few inches of a crossbow bolt poking out of her right side, pinning her like a butterfly.
"Esher wants to see you," Decima said as she casually reloaded her weapon with another bolt from the quiver strapped to her back.
"Tough shit. I don't want to see him," the stranger grunted from between gritted teeth. She tugged on the arrow piercing her side, but the shaft was slippery with blood and less readily identifiable ichor, making it hard for her to get a secure grip. The pain was enough to make her swoon every time she pulled.
"Oh, you're going to see him, all right. Even if it's the last thing you do," Decima replied, leveling the crossbow directly at the stranger's head.
***
"Seems like our little traitor is coining around."
She was in a room with thick stone walls and no windows. Esher leaned against the metal door, arms folded, studying her with evident distaste, like a man who had found a roach in his breakfast cereal.
"Cozy little dungeon you got here," she grunted, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the dirt floor. "You ought to dress it up a bit with some skeletons, though."
Esher smiled thinly and nodded to someone she couldn't see, and there was an explosion of pain at the base of her spine. Decima circled around to join her master, swinging a piece of lead pipe in one hand.
"Do you recognize the pipe Decima's carrying?" Esher asked, his voice surprisingly pleasant. He could have been chatting about the weather or his favorite TV show. "It was cut from the length Obeah was using as a cane. I thought you'd appreciate the irony."