On a Darkling Plain (31 page)

As the Toreador exited the backstage area, he was suddenly concerned that Angus might have departed as mysteriously as he’d come. When he reached the gleaming, high-ceilinged white marble lobby, however, he saw that he needn’t have worried. Most of the vampires who’d attended the Conclave were milling around chattering, and, frowning, the towering Gangrel was standing in the midst of a circle of elders, many of whom were no doubt eager to curry favor with a Justicar.

Elliott made his way forward against a steady stream of well-wishers, all intent on congratulating him on the Conclave’s verdict. He gave everyone a cordial smile, some gracious reply and a firm handshake — God knew, he couldn’t afford to alienate anyone who was kindly disposed toward the domain — but he didn’t allow anyone to detain him for more than a moment. With his Toreador charm, it was easy to extricate himself from conversations without the other party feeling slighted.

Slipping between a stocky, scar-faced Kindred in a hideous lime-green tuxedo and matching eye patch, and a heavily perfumed female Nosferatu cursed with the snout, ears and tusks of a wild boar, Elliott finally arrived at Angus’ side. “I’d like to talk to you privately,” he said.

The hirsute giant nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I thought you would.” He nodded to his circle of sycophants. “Pardon us.” Elliott started to lead him toward one of the offices adjoining the foyer. “No,” Angus said. “If you don’t mind, let’s get outdoors into the clean air.”

The actor shrugged and conducted his companion to one of the exits. The night was cool and humid; traffic moaned on the nearby highway. The two vampires walked about fifty feet into the darkness, halting beside a royal palm. “Is this all right?” Elliott asked.

“It’s fine,” Angus said. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of the plants around them.

“Thank you for your help,” Elliott said. “But why are you giving it?”

Angus chuckled. “I’m a Justicar. Wouldn’t you expect me to have a keen commitment to truth, goodness and the welfare of my Kindred brothers?”

Elliott smiled. “Based on my previous experience with the breed, not necessarily.”

“Very astute of you,” the shapeshifter said. “To be blunt, I’m not going to tell you how I learned of your problems, or why I took an interest. I’m here, and I’m on your side. That will have to be enough.”

“Before my friend Sky died,” Elliott persisted, “he hinted that the war we’re fighting has aspects we haven’t even perceived. He implied that my friends and I are being manipulated like pieces on a chessboard, and that the leader of our enemies is some horrible demon the like of which we’ve never imagined. At the time, I thought he’d gone mad from the strain of resisting the Blood Bond, but his words have been preying on my mind ever since. I don’t suppose you could shed any light on them?”

“If you suspect that you’re a chessman,” Angus said somberly, “rejoice that you don’t know for sure. Perhaps pieces that understand their situation are more useful to the player. Perhaps they’re deployed in the most hazardous positions in one game after another.”

“You’re talking about yourself,” Elliott said.

Angus snorted. “Of course not. I was merely responding to your bit of whimsy. I’m oath-bound to the Inner Circle and loyal to them alone, and I’d gut any slanderer who insisted otherwise.”

Elliott perceived that Angus had said everything on this particular topic that he was going to. Ergo, despite his own frustrated curiosity, it was time to turn the discussion to more immediate concerns. “Why did you phone me anonymously?” the actor asked in his now-laryngitic whisper. “Why didn’t you reveal yourself before?”

“I figured that if you Toreador didn’t know I was around,” Angus replied, “it was a reasonable bet that Dracula and your other enemies wouldn’t either. I wouldn’t have spoken out tonight if you hadn’t needed me, and I certainly wouldn’t have put my reputation on the line by promising to catch the rogue in three days. But the way we thwarted Guice and make him look foolish — and deprived him of a bribe, for all 1 know — I had to say something bold and dramatic to deter him from running to the Inner Circle as soon as he left the Elysium. Trust me, you don’t want those seven ancient ogres overseeing your business, not even the overlord of your own clan. They’d begin by destroying Roger Phillips, just to simplify the political situation here.”

Elliott felt a pang of trepidation. “But it wasn’t an empty promise, was it? You obtained Dracula’s description, so you must know how to apprehend her, mustn’t you?”

Angus grinned, a white flash of teeth in the gloom. “So far,” he admitted, “I haven’t got a clue.”

TWENTY-ONE; THE AVENGER

Perish the Universe, provided I have my revenge.

-— Cyrano de Bergerac, “La Mort d’Agrippine”

Malagigi skulked through the shadowy corridors of the derelict office building, trembling with fear and weakness, jumping at shadows, his belly cramping with hunger. His mind was a jumble of rage and despair, and stupidity.

Muddled though his thinking was, the pallid homunculus remembered that he hadn’t always been in such a wretched, degraded condition. Only a few days ago he’d been strong and well-nourished, the capacity of his tiny brain augmented by its psychic link to a larger one. He’d been confident of his ability to outfight or outwit any threat the crumbling building could throw at him, and even more certain that Wyatt, his beloved father and master, would always be there to succor him should his own capabilities prove wanting.

But then the unimaginable had happened. The Wicked Man, as Malagigi’s creator had called him, had
killed
Wyatt, leaving the homunculus to starve and to fend off the rats which, seeming to sense his feebleness, grew ever more aggressive.

Something rustled in the gloom ahead. Malagigi flattened himself against the baseboard. For a moment his mind was

full of terror — and then he felt a surge of desire. Because he knew the rodent he’d heard was full of blood.

He also vaguely sensed that that fact didn’t matter, that the animal’s vitae wouldn’t do him any good. But he couldn’t remember why he suspected that, and he was far too famished to wrack his brain for the answer. His throat dry and raw and his stomach aching, his thirst an irresistible compulsion, he stalked forward.

He smelled the rank odor of the rat and then glimpsed its hunched form and long, skinny tail. He broke into a charge and tried to hurl himself on top of it.

Squealing, its beady eyes flaming, the rodent spun around and flung itself at him. They slammed together. Malagigi grabbed hold of it, and then they were rolling across the grimy linoleum, the rat winding up on top of him. Its yellow, chisel-like front teeth gouged at his head. Its clawed feet scrabbled at him, slashing long cuts down his torso.

Desperately, clutching at the animal’s matted, flea-infested fur, the homunculus grappled with it, trying to drag himself into position to deliver an effective attack. At last he managed to sink his long, curved fangs — sabertooth-tiger teeth, Wyatt had called them — into his opponent’s throat.

Blood gushed out from a punctured artery. The rat went into convulsions and then collapsed to lie twitching on the floor. Its bow'els and bladder released, filling the air with the reek of urine and excrement, and its fleas began to hop away from it.

Malagigi guzzled vitae from the wound he’d inflicted. The liquid tasted foul, yet for a moment it eased the fire in his gullet and the hollow ache in his midsection. Then a surge of nausea overwhelmed him, and he vomited the blood back up again. The sickness didn’t abate until he’d purged himself of every drop.

Clasping his belly, his wounds ablaze w’ith pain, kneeling in the pool of filth he’d created, he remembered why it had been futile to attack the rat. A homunculus could only feed on his master’s blood. Which, since Wyatt was dead, meant that Malagigi was doomed.

Whimpering, the homunculus rose and staggered away from the scene of the battle. His system was too depleted for his wounds to close completely, and he left a trail of blood spatters behind. It would have been easier to stay put, but a recurring compulsion kept drawing him back to the scene of his master’s demise.

There wasn’t much left there to grieve over. Three Kindred, the other ones Wyatt had thought of as both friends and dupes, to the perpetual bewilderment of Malagigi’s straightforward mind, had come and carried the Tremere’s bones and treasures away while the homunculus hid in fear. Nothing remained but a sticky stain and the faint smells of gun smoke, vitae and rot, still lingering in the air.

Malagigi slumped down beside the discolored patch of floor. T
his is where I’ll die,
he thought bleakly. He hesitantly, reverently, touched the tacky edge of the discoloration on the floor.

Gradually, so slowly that at first he wasn’t truly conscious of it, he began to feel a sense of presence, a sort of muted echo of the psychic bond that he and his master had once shared. When he noticed what was happening, he peered wildly up and down the hallway, but there was nothing to see.

Malagigi...
Wyatt moaned, so faintly that the sound was nearly inaudible. Malagigi looked around again, with the same lack of result. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. With mingled awe and grief, he decided that Wyatt hadn’t miraculously resurrected himself from the layer of scum on the linoleum. Rather, the homunculus was hearing the voice of a spirit.

“Oh, Wyatt,” he said in the staccato chitter that only his master could understand. “Ob, father.” Crimson tears dripped from his enormous eyes, mingling with the steady flow of vitae from his wounds.

Avenge us, Wyatt said. Before
you join me in death, you have to kill our murderer.

Malagigi sobbed. “1 want to,” he said. “1 hate the Wicked Man! But I don’t know
how
to hurt him. He stole the gun, and 1 don’t know where he went. 1 don’t even know his
name!”

Yes, you do,
the phantasmal voice replied.
You know everything that I know, even if you don’t understand the meaning of it. It’s all there, packed away in your skull. Dredge the information out and then give it to Laurie, Felip, and Jimmy Ray.

As Wyatt spoke the names, the anarchs’ faces flickered through Malagigi’s mind, and he realized whom his creator was talking about. “No,” the homunculus said, “1 don’t want to. They’re the same as the Wicked Man!”

No,
they’re not,
Wyatt answered firmly,
and they’re our only chance to get even. Please, if you love me, go to them. Do what I can’t.

“All right,” Malagigi promised miserably, and then his sense of Wyatt’s presence dwindled away to nothing.

Another type of being might have questioned whether he had actually communicated with his master’s ghost at all, might have speculated that pain and the imminence of death had both sharpened his ability to reason and transformed some of his thoughts into hallucinations. But even at his most lucid, the homunculus would have been incapable of that kind of abstract speculation. As far as he was concerned, Wyatt had spoken to him, and he had no choice, or indeed no real desire, but to obey. He dragged himself to his feet and stumbled, zigzagging, down the shadowy hall.

For a minute or two he was afraid that, in his enervated condition, he wouldn’t be able to get out of the building. But as he neared the stairs he remembered that the Wicked

Man had broken a window to get in. He should be able to use the same breach to get out.

Unfortunately, when he reached the abandoned dentist’s office, he realized the flaw in his plan. The windowsill was about two-and-a-half feet above the floor. At his physical peak Malagigi could have leaped that high easily, or pushed some object under the window to use as a makeshift ladder; but now he wasn’t at all certain that he had the strength.

He w'ondered if he should descend to the ground floor. Perhaps Laurie, Felipe and, and — he realized that the anarchs’ names were already fading from his memory — and the Kindred with the sunglasses had broken down a door to gain entrance. But what if they hadn’t? What if there was no way out below? Malagigi doubted that he’d have the strength to clamber back up the stairs, either.

He picked his way through the dully gleaming shards of glass on the floor, flexed his knees, and leaped. The convulsive effort ripped a fresh burst of pain through his wounds. His fingers missed the sill by several inches, and he fell heavily back onto the linoleum.

He tried again. This time, to his own surprise, he jumped just high enough to grab a precarious hold with his fingertips. Clutching desperately, shaking with pain and effort, he slowly dragged himself up onto the windowsill. Then, dizzy, he immediately tumbled off the other side.

He fell onto the fire escape with a dull clank. Halfstunned, he lay on the cool, rough, rusty iron surface for a time, gazing blearily up at the stars. His blood seeped through the gaps in the grillwork beneath him. He could hear it plopping on the earth below.

Finally, less because he’d recovered much of his strength than because he felt that if he didn’t move soon he never would, he struggled to his feet and blundered down the steps. In a minute he reached the end of them: the point where a human’s weight would make a ladder drop on down to the ground.

Malagigi peered over the edge. He was still ten feet up. He knew that ordinarily it wouldn’t have been much of a fall for a creature as light and nimble as himself, but in his weakened condition it terrified him. Still, there w
^r
as no other way. Shuddering, reminding himself that he was doing this for his beloved master, he closed his eyes and, with one lurching motion, hurled himself into space.

The world seemed to vanish for a moment. He supposed it was his awareness that had really disappeared, that the shock of the fall had knocked him unconscious. He felt grateful: better temporary oblivion than another burst of agony. Sprawled in a patch of crabgrass and sand spurs, he tested his limbs and was somewhat surprised to find that they still worked. He stood up, then realized that he couldn’t recall where he was supposed to go next.