On a Darkling Plain (37 page)

She realized that, lost in thought, she’d stopped watching the monitor. Conscientiously she focused her eyes on it again. She just had time to register a familiar silhouette before the picture changed.

Crying out in dismay, she lunged for the control panel on the desk before her. One of Durrell’s associates, a snotty guy who usually wore a black leather vest, had taught her how to use it, but after that first night she hadn’t had the occasion or the inclination to fool with it. Still, after a moment’s fumbling, she managed to flip back to the previous view.

The monitor showed her a rangy figure with light-colored hair striding through a crowd of tourists milling in front of the Sir Lancelot’s Tourney equestrian stunt show. By now he’d nearly reached the edge of the picture, but, frantically pushing buttons and flipping toggle switches, she manage to make the security camera pivot after him and then zoom in for a close-up.

She’d been right. The guy
was
Dan. His mouth was set in a grim line, and he kept glancing from side to side. His hair needed combing, and he had dark stains on his jeans and jacket which might be bloodstains, scorch marks, or both.

He looked so tense and harried that for a moment she felt sorry for him, and her doubts about Durrell and his associates loomed large in her mind. Then she pictured Wyatt’s affectionate, devil-may-care grin, and the ghastly look and stink of his rotting corpse.

Weeping tears of blood, she grabbed the phone and punched in the three-digit number Durrell had bade her memorize. When someone answered, she said, “I saw Murdock! He’s near the Tourney, moving east!”

TWEgnrYjSix^H^c^^^y

To labour and not ask for any reward Save that of knowing that we do Thy will.

— St. Ignatius Loyola, “Prayer for Generosity”

When Dan shoved his way around the crowd of humans watching the motley-clad band of jugglers and fire-eaters obstructing the cobblestone lane, he saw the gate. Like most of the other architecture in the complex, it was a combination of the sort of structures found in any theme park and of phony medieval gingerbread: a row of cashiers’ booths and turnstiles topped with crenellated ramparts, turrets and multicolored heraldic banners. Beyond it lay a fake drawbridge and then the nearest parking lot, still full of cars despite the relative lateness of the hour. Unlike its competitors, Camelot stayed open nearly until dawn.

All right
, thought Dan,
just a few more steps and I’m free and clear.
He started across the plaza, a circular area with a fiberglass replica of Excalibur standing tall in its anvil and stone in the center; then two mortals dressed in red surcoats and gray shirts and pants decorated with a pattern intended to look like chainmail emerged from a doorway on his left.

Dan had poked around the park enough to recognize the uniform. The guys were Camelot security guards, and

probably ghouls to boot. Reminding himself that they weren’t necessarily here to apprehend him, the vampire marched on toward the exit, fighting the urge to quicken his stride.

But after a moment he realized it was no good. The guards were headed right for him. The one in the lead, a chunky Asian who, to Dan’s hypersensitive nose, reeked of cigarette smoke and barbecue sauce, shouted, “Sir! Sir! You, the blond man in the dirty jacket! Wait up, please!”

Dan started to run, lunging around tourists, driving between them or, when necessary, knocking them out of his way. They cried out in protest, and the guards pounded after him. After a moment the exclamations from the crowd took on a different note as people realized that a chase was in progress.

Dan vaulted a turnstile, then dashed on across the drawbridge. The planks groaned and thunked beneath his feet. Glancing backward he saw that his pursuers now had pistols in their hands, but they were pointing them at the sky, not at him.

Evidently they weren’t willing to start shooting in front of the paying customers, which probably meant that none of the enemy knew that he’d penetrated the tunnels. But that might change at any second. Some Tremere could discover Sesostris’ remains and alert his fellows by radio.

A yellow jeep with a line of open carriages in tow sat waiting by the curb to carry tourists to the more remote parking areas. Snatching out his .38, Dan leaped into the seat beside the driver, a slender, twentyish girl with long, chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail, then jabbed the gun into the side of her neck. “Stonehenge Lot, Row M,” he told her. “Fast! Go!” She didn’t move, so he prodded her again. “I said go!”

The driver jerked the gearshift into drive and put her foot on the gas. Two tourists scrambled out as the train lurched forward. Looking around, Dan saw that the guards were catching up with the chain of carriages and might well manage to haul themselves aboard before it picked up speed. He fired twice in their direction, not actually trying to hit them, just discourage them. They stopped running and shot back. Some of the passengers screamed.

“Please don’t hurt anyone!” said the driver. “Please don’t!”

Despite his frequent feelings of alienation from kine in general, Dan felt a pang of sympathy for her. He was sure that she didn’t know that her bosses were vampires, or even that such improbable creatures existed. She was just an employee, maybe a college kid working to pay her tuition. But he didn’t let his pity show on his face. As long as she was terrified, she wouldn’t put up any resistance. “If you don’t want to die, go faster,” he replied.

The jeep sped on through the darkness. The cool wind riffled his hair. The Hunger smoldered in his throat and belly, and he imagined himself climbing back into the passenger cars and feeding on one of the tourists. Even if it had been a practical notion otherwise, there was no time. He’d just have to tolerate his thirst till he got away.

In another minute the train reached its destination. “Now go back to the gate,” Dan said. “Drive just as fast; I’m going to shoot at you.” He jumped from the moving jeep.

The string of carriages swept past him, some passengers gaping at him, others averting their eyes. The train turned in a half'circle and raced back the way it had come.

Dan sprinted to his rented green Lexus, clambered inside, set the .38 on the passenger seat, and turned the key. The engine roared to life. He sent the car hurtling out of the lot and onto one of the roads which, running through acres of thus far undeveloped Camelot property, ultimately connected to a public highway. Weaving through traffic, sometimes with scant inches to spare, veering off the pavement when necessary, he passed one departing vehicle after another. Horns blared.

After he’d gone about a mile, a sedan raced out of the darkness ahead. Its headlights were on high-beam, dazzlingly bright. Squinting against the glare, he tried to determine if the driver was out to intercept him.

Someone leaned precariously out of the other car’s backseat window. Dan couldn’t actually see the gun in the figure’s hands, but he was sure it was there. Trying to spoil his attacker’s aim, he jerked the steering wheel. Then the Lexus’ windshield exploded inward, spraying him with shards of glass. A split second later, the world went black.

As he came to, he cried out at a fierce throb of agony in his head. Slightly lesser pains burned in his legs and right hip. Wiping vitae out of his eyes, blinking in a vain effort to clear his blurry double vision, he peered through the shattered windshield and saw that the Lexus had left the road, hurtled another ten yards and slammed into a live oak. He tried to restart the engine, but the car only made a grinding sound.

He felt his injuries begin to repair themselves, but slowly. This time around he had too little blood in his system to heal efficiently.

If his attackers would only come within reach, maybe he could do something about that. Grunting at the fresh spasm of pain the effort required, he twisted in his seat, peered back in the direction of the road and then growled an obscenity. His two assailants had pulled off the pavement and climbed out of their car, but they were just watching the Lexus with automatic rifles cradled in their hands, not advancing. He suspected that they were ghouls, not Kindred, and, wisely leery of approaching even a wounded vampire by themselves, awaiting the arrival of reinforcements. And he didn’t see how he could go to them, not with two broken legs.

His hands shaking with pain and weakness, he grabbed the Lexus’ cellular phone and punched in Melpomene’s number.

The whirring and clicking as the call was relayed seemed to take forever. Finally, however, the Methuselah’s thrilling contralto voice said, “Dan?”

“I’ve.got the information,” the younger vampire replied. “But I’m in trouble. You’ve got to do something to help me.” “What have you learned?” Melpomene asked intently. “Are you listening to me?” Dan demanded. “The enemy is closing in on me. I’m hurt and can’t get away. I have everything you need, it’s on a computer disk, but you’re never going to get it unless you help me escape.” He had no idea
how
she could help him, but surely, with her godlike powers, she could do
something.
It was his only chance.

A silvery glow flowered in the seat beside him. Dan wondered fleetingly w'hat his attackers made of the light. As long as it didn’t provoke them into rushing the Lexus, he supposed it didn’t matter.

In a few moments the phosphorescence coalesced into an image of Melpomene. Desperate for aid, and stirred as always by her extraordinary personal magnetism, Dan felt a surge of affection. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

“Show me the disk,” she said.

Without thinking, he fumbled it out of his pocket.

“I’m going to see if I can bring this to me,’’ she said. “I mean, to the location of my physical body. Sometimes that’s possible, if conditions are right. If the disk arrives intact, I’ll transport you next.”    .

Despite the devotion her presence inspired, he felt a twinge of alarm. Of suspicion. He jerked the disk back. “Move us both at once. If it’s dangerous, I’ll risk it.”

The Methuselah shook her head. “I can only translate one object at a time. When it’s your turn, you’ll have to be naked and empty-handed. Now hold out our prize. Before

it’s too late.”

He did as she’d directed. He
wanted
to trust her, and he didn’t have any choice anyway.

Her slim ivory fingers closed around the square black disk. Gradually Dan felt the object growing lighter and indefinably less substantial, shadowlike in his hand, until at last he couldn’t feel it at all.

Melpomene lifted it, and then her dark eyes widened in dismay. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

“What’s wrong?” Dan asked. The other vampire’s astral projection winked out of existence.

“Melpomene!” Dan screamed. “Come back! Don’t leave me!” There was no reply.

The wounded Kindred grabbed the cellular phone out of his lap. The white plastic instrument sparked, crackled, smoked and grew hot in his hands. He could smell the circuits burning.

For the next few moments he merely sat, stunned and aghast at his patron’s treachery. His eyes ached, but he had too little vitae left in his system to shed any tears.

Grimly, he struggled to goad himself into action. He had to get past his shock, start thinking again, figure another way out of his predicament. What if he got out of the Lexus and fired at his attackers? If he put them both down, he could crawl to them and drink their blood. Considering his spastic limbs and murky vision, it was a forlorn hope at best, but he couldn’t think of a better alternative.

Fumbling the automatic off the floor, he gripped the door handle, jerked it, and sprawled heavily out onto the ground. He rolled, getting himself faced in the right direction, raised the pistol in both hands —

Bullets ripped his throat and hammered his torso. He passed out again.

TWENTY-SEVEN: DRACULA

Murder most foul, as in the best it is;

But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

-— William Shakespeare,
Hamlet

Angus and Judy sat slumped in Roger Phillips’ study, waiting for the call to battle. Rap music pounded from the boom box that the Brujah elder had set on the desk. As far as the Gangrel was concerned, the sound was reminiscent of bursts of automatic-weapons fire, and extraordinarily unmelodious.

And yet, though it hurt his head and set his teeth on edge, he was glad to have it. The vent above his head was blowing a steady stream of cold air, and thick velvet curtains completely covered the French windows, but somehow he could still feel the leaden heat of the sunlight outside, pressing down on his mind, trying to crush out his awareness. The grating chant served as a sort of antidote.

In another hour, if nothing happens, 1 can go to sleep,
he reflected, then scowled, disgusted by the weakness that had prompted the thought. He
wanted
one of his agents to find Dracula. If he and his allies didn’t catch the murderer this morning, he’d miss the deadline he’d so vaingloriously set himself; and Palmer Guice, oily, treacherous weasel that he was, would run and tattle to the Inner Circle.

The office door clicked open. Lazio entered carrying a silver tray laden with two crystal tumblers of warm, fragrant vitae. Angus seized one and guzzled it. It took Judy a moment to bestir herself and do likewise. A stray drop of crimson oozed from the corner of her wide, sensuous mouth and down her chin.

“I gather we haven’t had any news,” Lazio said, his tone carefully neutral. Sensing the human servant’s inner desperation, the Justicar had to admire his self-control. Of course, potential prey that he was, his mere presence a provocation to any vampire experiencing the Hunger, he probably couldn’t have survived for long among the Kindred if he weren’t capable of keeping his emotions on a tight rein. “No,” Angus said.

Lazio hesitated. “Do you think you could have been mistaken about the killer operating after dawn?”

Angus shrugged. “Do I think I could have been? Of course. Do I believe I was? No, and I have an instinct about these things. Look you, mortal, we’re taking our best shot, guided by our best reasoning. No one could do more, so it’s useless to worry.”