On a Darkling Plain

PROLOGUE: CALAMITIES

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

But in battalions.

— William Shakespeare,
Hamlet

The marble facade of the Sarasota Performing Arts Center shone ghostly white in the starlight. Above the main entrance, sixty-foot composite columns rose to an entablature carved with scenes from American history, where a knowledgeable vampire could pick out the portraits of the undead lords who had steered the course of the republic. The structure’s attic story was a fantastic wedding cake of lanterns, pediments and balustrades.

As he climbed out of his vintage Jaguar into the balmy night air, Elliott Sinclair remembered how, arriving on other nights, he’d been transfixed by the building’s beauty. Or amused by its pretentiousness. And in either case, eager to sample the evening’s entertainment. Now he vaguely dreaded walking into it. But he had nowhere else he’d rather be, nothing to do that would please him better, so he glumly supposed he might as well honor his social obligations.

Elliott surrendered the car to a liveried mortal valet, then set to work on his appearance. He no longer truly cared how he looked, but a habit cultivated over centuries died hard. He combed his long gray hair and smoothed down his eyebrows. Wiped his mouth to remove any lingering trace of blood. Made sure his elegant black tuxedo draped his tall, gaunt frame properly and that his patent-leather shoes still gleamed. When satisfied, he composed his aquiline features into an amiable smile and sauntered into the foyer.

No one was there but a pair of servants. No doubt the prince’s guests, Kindred elders from all over the South, were gossiping and sipping blood from crystal glasses in the grand saloon. Elliott gave the attendants an affable nod, then climbed the stairs to join his peers. He passed one gorgeous Impressionist painting after another without sparing any of them a glance.

Upon entering the grand saloon, he saw that nearly everyone on the guest list had chosen to attend. He wasn’t surprised. Kindred of Clan Toreador, his bloodline, were the unchallenged arbiters of taste and style in vampire society, and thus their soirees were the high points of the social calendar. Even undead too gauche to appreciate the entertainment turned out to hear news, conspire in shadowy corners, and demonstrate that they were of sufficient consequence to receive an invitation.

Working his way around the edge of the room toward the polished ebony bar, Elliott passed an exquisite Chinese porcelain vase full of lavender orchids. Like many Toreador, he possessed preternaturally keen senses, and to him the flowers’ fragrance was almost unpleasantly heady.

Emerging from the cloud of scent, he brushed past two elders with whom he was acquainted. One was Catherine Cobb, a blond, Junoesque Ventrue. Like many members of her backward'looking clan she wore antique clothing: in her case an elaborate powdered wig and a rose-colored gown appropriate for the court of Louis XIV. The other vampire was Otis McNamara, a short Brujah with a coppery handlebar mustache and an iron ring in his septum. Kindred

of Otis’ bloodline revelled in their reputation as the rebels of the Camarilla, the sect that united and governed, however haphazardly, the seven principal vampire clans; Elliott wasn’t surprised to see that the redhead had eschewed formal wear for scuffed, steel-toed boots, torn jeans and a motorcycle jacket.

For some reason Elliott had never fathomed, Catherine and Otis were deadly enemies. Had they met in another setting, they probably would have tried to destroy one another. But the Performing Arts Center was an Elysium, a sanctum where violence between Kindred was forbidden, and here the two rivals stood chatting with every appearance of amiability. The display of suavity was no doubt winning high marks from their peers, for whom poise was virtually a religion.

Though Elliott had felt obliged to put in an appearance at the soiree, he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He tried to slip past Catherine and Otis quickly, before they noticed him. But the Brujah turned, grinned, and gripped his forearm.

“El!” Otis boomed. “How ya doin’?” The vitae in his half-empty glass smelled rich and appetizing.

Sighing inwardly, Elliott gave his fellow undead a cordial smile. “I’m well, old friend. How are both of you?”

“I’m very well,” said Catherine. She offered her beringed, satin-gloved hand and Elliott bowed over it and kissed it. “Despite a certain unfulfilled longing for intelligent conversation.” She gave Otis a malicious smile. “When I arrived and didn’t see you, Elliott darling, I hoped it was because you were preparing to perform.”

“Alas, tonight’s play didn’t have an appropriate part for me,” Elliott lied.

“Fiddlesticks,” said Catherine, pouting. “No part for an actor who can play
any
role superbly?”

“You’re too kind,” said Elliott. “But I’m sure that with Prince Roger playing the lead, you won’t miss me.”

“I was hoping it would turn out that you’d written the damn show,” Otis said.
“Your
stuff doesn’t put me to sleep. But I guess you didn’t, did you, or you’d be backstage.”

“No,” Elliott said. “One of Roger’s mortal proteges did the honors. It’s a wonderful piece.” At least Elliott assumed it was. Despite Roger’s urging, he hadn’t read it.

Otis grimaced. A fleeting, unaccustomed gentleness came into his jade-green eyes. “Do you think you’ll ever act or write anything again?” he asked.

“Of course,” Elliott said, annoyed at the Brujah’s prying but holding his smile in place. “I’m just taking some time off. Recharging my batteries.”

Clearly undeceived, Catherine said, “Do you intend to mourn
forever,
cheri? I can’t believe that Mary would have wanted that.”

For some reason the mention of his late wife’s name infuriated Elliott. Who the devil was Catherine to tell him how to grieve? He opened his mouth to say as much, then heard the rapid thump of a heartbeat, and pattering footsteps scurrying up behind him.

Kindred hearts didn’t beat; obviously, one of the mortal servants was approaching. Grateful for the interruption which had prevented him from indulging in a shamefully unseemly outburst, Elliott turned and saw Lazio, Roger’s personal dresser and valet. “Did you want me?” the Toreador asked.

Lazio was a stooped, balding man with horn-rimmed glasses. As usual, he had a sewing kit clipped to his belt. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said breathlessly, “but Mr. Sinclair, can you come? There’s” — he hesitated — “a little problem.”

Thank God,
Elliott thought. Here was his chance to extricate himself from his fellow vampires’ clutches. “Of course,” he said. “If I’m needed.” He smiled at Catherine and Otis. “Please excuse me.”

Lazio led Elliott out of the grand saloon, then shut the ornate art deco door. “I’m so glad you’re here,” the dresser half-whispered. “The prince didn’t think you were going to come.”

“Well, I did,” Elliott said, unconsciously adjusting his cuffs. “But frankly, that doesn’t mean I want to sort out whatever opening-night snafu may have arisen backstage. Where’s the stage manager? Go tell him.”

“You don’t understand,” Lazio said, his voice still lowered. He glanced around as if worried that someone might be lurking at his elbow, eavesdropping. “It’s not the show. Something’s wrong with the prince himself!”

Elliott frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to say,” Lazio replied. “Not here.” Elliott supposed that, considering the hyperacute hearing of some vampires and the powers of invisibility possessed by others, the dresser’s caution was appropriate. “Just come and see.” “All right,” Elliott agreed reluctantly.

Lazio ushered him back to the ground floor and then through the maze of rooms and twisting corridors beneath the stage. Elliott, who possessed the vampire power of superhuman speed, kept drawing ahead of his scurrying human companion. He guessed that he’d caught Lazio’s sense of urgency, the weariness and ennui that had dogged him these last few years notwithstanding. As they neared the dressing rooms, the Toreador heard voices murmuring back and forth.

As befitted his status as Prince of Sarasota and star of the production, Roger occupied a well-appointed suite consisting of a dressing room and a sitting room. Entering, Elliott found his lord and sire sprawled on a red leather couch in the latter chamber, with fully fifteen of his lean, pallid, bright-eyed followers hovering anxiously around him. Relying on a constant influx of tourists to replenish the blood supply, and on the Kindred of his domain to hunt unobtrusively, Roger had permitted his vassals to beget more childer than were generally found in cities of comparable size.

Roger Phillips was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a strong, deeply cleft chin and a curly mane of lustrous chestnut hair. He was already in costume — an outfit incorporating a grimy, many-pocketed photojournalist’s vest with a press badge clipped to it — and a layer of makeup stained his alabaster face. Elliott was shocked to see that the prince was trembling and his wide, expressive mouth was twitching. His blue eyes were glazed.

Pushing through the crowd, Elliott made his way to Roger. Dropping to one knee so they could talk face to face, he said, “Sire! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Roger croaked. Elliott was horrified by the labored rasp of his sire’s voice. “I’m just a little under the weather.”

“Do you mean you’re ill?” Elliott asked, praying the answer was no. Kindred diseases, contracted by imbibing tainted blood, were always serious and frequently fatal.

“No,” Roger growled. He tried to stand up, lost his balance, and sprawled back on the couch.

“Just rest,” said Elliott. “We’ll help you.”

“No!” said Roger. He lurched up again, this time making it to his feet. “We have a performance. I’ve never missed one, and I’m not about to start now.”

“I don’t think you have a choice,” Elliott said. Roger swayed, and the younger vampire took his arm to support him. “It’s obvious something’s happening to you, something serious. For all we know, your life could be in danger.”

“Mr. Sinclair is right,” said Lazio firmly, edging through the mass of vampires. Amid a crowd of Toreador, many of whom had been inducted into the clan for their beauty and grace, the aging mortal looked homely, flabby and decrepit. “I think we should call your doc—”

“Damn you!” Roger screamed. He tore his arm BsJt of Elliott’s grasp, stumbling and nearly dumping himself feck on the sofa in the process. “I’m fine! Why do you keep insisting otherwise?” He peered at Elliott, squinting as if he were having trouble seeing him. “Are you trying to make me look weak? Undermine my authority?”

“No!” said Elliott, astonished.

“Sneaky little rat,” said Roger. His gleaming fangs lengthened, garbling his speech. “Creeping around behind my back, plotting and spreading rumors about me! Want to be prince yourself, don’t you?”

“No!” Elliott repeated. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could suspect he wanted to seize the throne, not when he’d spent the years since Mary’s death shirking his less-demanding duties as a member of the primogen, Roger’s council of lieutenants. Nor could he fathom how the man who’d made him a vampire could suspect him of
any
treachery. Through their four centuries of constant association, acting, sharing the joys and pains of vampire existence and guarding one another’s backs, Roger had always treated his childe like a favorite son, and Elliott had responded with uncompromising devotion. “I assure you—” Roger rounded drunkenly on the other Toreador. “How about the rest of you?” he said. Despite his manifest irrationality and the slurring of his speech, in his fury he began to radiate a palpable force of personality. Like many of his bloodline had a preternatural ability to influence an audience, and even though Elliott knew his sire was exerting the talent, even though he possessed the same power himself, he felt a wave of shame and fear wash through him, making his knees wobbly. “Do you want to pull me down? Would you rather see this gutless fop in my place?”

“No!” cried Amanda, a willowy young neonate only recently released from her maker’s care. “We love you, Roger!”

“Then take your damn places!” snarled the prince. The other members of the cast and crew exited the suite, some scuttling, anxious to get away from him, and others dragging their feet, looking helplessly at one another.

Exerting his will, Elliott managed to cast off the unnatural fear with which Roger’s voice had filled him. “Please,” he said to the prince, “don’t endanger yourself needlessly. You don’t have to go on. We’ll think of an excuse to cancel the performance, something that won’t alert our guests that anything’s wrong with you.” Kindred society was rife with both hypocrisy and murderous intrigue. Though every elder in the grand saloon professed to be Roger’s friend, it would be foolhardy to let them know he’d fallen ill. Someone might decide to strike at him in his hour of weakness.

Roger smiled and squeezed Elliott’s shoulder, just as if he hadn’t accused his offspring of treachery only a moment before. “Good old El, always looking out for me. But you worry too much.” He staggered out the door and vanished in the direction of the stage.