On a Darkling Plain (8 page)

Many of the Kindred of Sarasota had assembled in the room. Some were lounging with an enviable display of poise, but others were sitting on the edges of their seats or nervously prowling about. A pungent blue haze of tobacco smoke hung in the air.

To better assess the mood of the crowd, Elliott invoked a perceptual power he hadn’t bothered to use in a long time. The pale auras of his fellow vampires shimmered into view. As he’d suspected, most of the envelopes of light were tinged with orange, the color of fear.

Judith Morgan, a Brujah elder, was sitting on a maroon leather sofa talking to the rest of the primogen. Judy was as tall and thin as a fashion model, with skin the color of cafe au lait. She was dressed in ragged jeans, a black leather halter, a choke-chain necklace and a blue Union infantry soldier’s cap. Long scars crisscrossed her naked shoulders and back. When breathing, Judy had been a slave. She’d been transformed into a vampire in the early 1830s and released from her sire’s supervision in 1861, just in time to help the North win the Civil War. Sensing Elliott’s presence, she turned and beckoned to him urgently.

As Elliott started toward her, his remaining peers twisted in their seats to look at him. Schuyller Madison, a fellow Toreador, gave him a welcoming smile. Sky was a poet and a patron of human poets whose delicate-looking frame, soulful, wounded eyes and languid, abstracted demeanor made him a caricature of the dreamy, oh-so-sensitive aesthete. Even Elliott, who’d grappled with more than one crisis at the versifier’s side, had difficulty remembering just how misleading this appearance could sometimes be.

Gunter Schmidt, the remaining elder, gave Elliott a hostile glower. The actor had never understood why the burly, piggy-eyed Malkavian, whose face was always as strangely ruddy as if he were constantly sipping blood to replenish the glow, disliked him so. Perhaps it was a part of his insanity. Supposedly all members of the Malkavian clan were mad in one way or another, although Gunter never displayed any obvious signs of derangement.

“How kind of you to honor us with your presence,” Gunter said snidely. “How fortunate that the petty problems of the domain have finally kindled your interest.”

Elliott supposed that, since he was here to urge everyone to stay calm and work together, he ought to adopt a conciliatory tone. “1 have been dilatory,” he admitted. “I apologize.” Gunter’s beady, bright-blue eyes blinked in surprise. “What have the three of you decided?”

“Nothing yet,” said Sky with a fluttering, helpless gesture of his long-fingered hand. “We’re just going back and forth.”
In the midst of the youngsters,
Elliott thought sourly,
allowing them to eavesdrop on your uncertainty. Feeding their fear.
It was the worst possible way for the elders to palaver. Judy, Sky and Gunter must be far more shaken than they appeared; otherwise, they would never have forgotten such an elementary principle of leadership.

“Then let’s turn this into a proper meeting,” Elliott said briskly, “and include everyone in the discussion.” He nodded toward the rest of the Kindred in the room.

Gunter’s mouth twisted. “What insights can these childer offer
us?”
he demanded.

“Conceivably some very useful ones,” Elliott replied. “That they can’t match our level of power doesn’t mean they aren’t bright. I would hope that their sires chose them to Embrace partly because they
are
intelligent. And in any case, they’re in a funk. If we talk with them, perhaps we can calm them down.”

“A true elder doesn’t care how his brood
feels,”
said Gunter contemptuously, “only that they obey.” He looked to Judy and Sky for support and then, discerning from their faces that they agreed with Elliott, made a spitting sound.

“But all right. Invite them all to jabber if you think it will do any good.”

“Thank you,” Elliott said, hoping he didn’t sound sarcastic.

He walked to the midpoint of one of the walls — one of the natural visual focal points of the parlor — where a semicircle of four straight-backed chairs and music stands, set up, perhaps, for some string quartet, sat beside a harpsichord that had once belonged to Bach. He clapped his hands together.

The drone of conversation ebbed. Everyone turned to peer at him. For an instant his stomach felt queasy, just as it always did when he first confronted an audience, even after all these centuries.

Drawing on his charismatic powers, reminding himself to be the magnificent King Henry and not a useless, disconsolate widower, he said, “May I have your attention, please? We all know the domain is facing a crisis. I think we should discuss the situation and decide on the appropriate measures to set things right. Make yourselves comfortable and we’ll begin.”

Wood squealed on wood as the vampires shifted their seats around to face him.

“Thank you,” Elliott said. “As I see it, we have four problems.” He raised his hand to count them off on his fingers. “One: Our prince has mysteriously fallen ill. Two: our financial holdings are under attack. Suddenly people are launching hostile takeovers against our companies, filing suits and seeking injunctions against them, and manipulating stock and bond markets to our detriment. Three: we have a rogue Kindred stalking our territory, feeding wantonly and jeopardizing the Masquerade. And four: someone is roaming the world systematically vandalizing works of art which we created, or which were created by mortals under our patronage.”

Judy raised her hand. Elliott acknowledged her with a nod. “It can’t be a coincidence that all these things are happening at once,” she said. “Somebody’s pursuing a comprehensive strategy to destroy us.”

“I agree,” said Elliott. Many of the onlookers began to babble. The actor raised his hand and the noise subsided. “Does anyone have any idea who the enemy might be?” The assembled Kindred looked at each other uncertainly. Apparently no one had any specific candidate. In point of fact it could be anyone, any powerful vampire seeking to extend his power, to settle an old score that the offending party had forgotten all about, or torelieve the boredom of centuries by playing a vicious game. Insulated in their pleasant little kingdom, some of the undead of Sarasota had probably forgotten the ruthless machinations in which many of their fellows delighted; but they were remembering how.

“I can’t think of a candidate either,” said Elliott wryly. “So we’ll have to maintain a defensive posture until we can ferret out more information. Now, why don’t we discuss the four aspects of our problem in turn and determine what to do about each one. First, of course, and very dear to all our hearts, is Roger.”

“How is he?” a male voice cried from the back of the room.

“Not good,” Elliott admitted. “But at least, though his reason is impaired, his body is still strong. It’s not as if he were dying. We’ve brought in Lionel Potter to attend him, so he’s getting the best care possible. We have every reason for hope, and we can do two things to help him: we can stand guard over this haven, so no enemy can attack him in his hour of weakness; and, much as I know you want to visit him, those of you who don’t belong to the primogen can stay away from him. Don’t give him a chance to trick you into releasing him from his restraints.”

Gunter rose from his couch. “At the moment, Roger can’t lead,” he said flatly. “Who will?”

Not you,
Elliott thought,
not if I have anything to say about it.
Gunter was powerful enough to dominate most assemblages of Kindred, but in the Toreador’s opinion, the perpetually flushed, flaxen-haired Malkavian was neither concerned with anything beyond self-aggrandizement nor particularly bright.

“I trust that for the time being we can make decisions by consensus, with the primogen providing direction as needed,” Elliott replied smoothly.

Gunter stared into Elliott’s eyes. The Toreador felt he was receiving a message as clearly as if his fellow lieutenant were speaking it aloud:
If anyone succeeds Prince Roger, it will be me. If you try to steal the throne, I’ll kill you.

“All right,” Gunter said. “We’ll do it that way for the time being.”

Elliott turned, reestablishing eye contact with the rest of the crowd, or at least giving them the impression that he’d done so. “Now, about our finances,” he said. “We employ some of the best executives, financial planners and lawyers in the world. I’m confident that with their assistance our little investment cartel will weather the present storm. As a matter of fact, I’m glad our enemy has made this move. By investigating
his
front men, his puppet investors and litigators, we may be able to determine his identity.”

“Oh, God,” moaned Karen, a pretty brunette vampire in amber-tinted glasses. “I can’t believe this. Every penny I have is in that fund.” Some of the other Kindred muttered similar sentiments.

“Fools!” Judy cried in a voice like the crack of a whip. Many of the audience flinched.

The Brujah sprang out of her seat and stalked to Elliott’s position center stage. “Do you think money is important?” she asked the crowd. “Money is nothing! You can wring it out of the kine whenever you choose. Strength and courage are what matter! If you’ve grown so soft that you’ve forgotten that, perhaps you deserve to be destroyed!”

“Damn straight!” one of her clanmates cried. Throughout the audience, people, shamed by her scorn, were visibly trying to conceal their trepidation. Judy quirked an eyebrow at Elliott and he gave her an infinitesimal nod, complimenting her on her performance.

“Are we agreed on the proper way to handle our financial difficulties?” Elliott asked. Members of the audience nodded or mumbled in affirmation. “Good. Then let’s talk about the killer. Does anyone have any idea who
that
might be?” “There are one or two Kindred in town who never swore allegiance to the prince,” Gunter said. “I always said they should be destroyed or driven out, but certain others” — he glowered at his fellow members of the primogen — “felt differently.”

“You may be on to something,” Elliott said, thinking

Dmitri, a handsome, muscular ballet dancer Roger had Embraced twenty-five years ago, raised his hand. “Yes?” “What does killer matter?” asked Dmitri in his faltering, heavily accented English. “No matter what he does, humans will not believe in us. They will think he is just crazy man who believes he is Count Dracula.”

“I hope you’re right,” Elliott said, “but we don’t dare depend on it. On occasion, in other domains, the Masquerade
has
been breached, and only reestablished by the most desperate, ruthless measures imaginable.”

“Maybe the killer
is
just a mortal psycho,” said Scott, one of Gunter’s brood, a baby-faced vampire as blond and Nordic as his sire.

“I’ve read the police reports,” Judy said, which meant that she’d broken into police headquarters, or into their computer system. Unlike the Kindred of some cities, the vampires of Sarasota didn’t actually control the municipal government. Roger had preferred to guide the affairs of the mortal community by subtler means. “And I wouldn’t bet the rent on the guy being human. There are indications that the murderer can turn invisible, melt through locked doors and do other tricks that no kine can manage. Which means that the cops couldn’t catch him even if we wanted them to.
We
have to nail him, and we will. By patrolling the city and conducting our own investigation.” She grinned at the audience. “Who’s up for a little game of hide-and-seek!”

A number of vampires, many of them her fellow Brujah, yelled that they were.

“Fine,” Elliott said, “we know what we’re doing about the killer. The remaining problem is the preservation of our art.”

“You’re speaking incorrectly,” Gunter said.

Turning toward him, Elliott arched an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“It isn’t
our
art,” Gunter said. “It’s
your
art. The
Toreador’s
art.”

No, it isn’t mine,
Elliott thought,
not anymore.
He felt a pang of grief, , and asserted his will to keep the emotion out of his expression. “You’re splitting hairs,” he said. “It’s an irreplaceable treasure created by members of our community. Somehow our enemy has identified all the masterpieces which have passed from our possession, and now they’re under attack. I suggest that we retrieve them for safekeeping.”

The Toreador in the audience babbled in agreement.

“Your paintings and statues may be irreplaceable,” Gunter said, rising to address the crowd better, “but in a time of war they’re not
essential.
I oppose diverting manpower from critical tasks to collect a set of trinkets,’’

The Malkavian’s brood clamored in support of his position.

Judy grimaced. “I know the art is more than trinkets,’’ she said to Elliott, “but I have to admit Gunter’s got a point.”

Sky flowed to his feet. “You don’t understand,” he said to the Brujah and Malkavians in the room. “A Toreador’s art
defines
him. He invests his soul in it. We could no more turn our back on the beauty we’ve brought into the world than you Brujah could renounce the wild, free spirit that makes you what you are, or than a Malkavian could restrict himself to” — he paused, obviously trying to think of a tactful way to express himself — “conventional modes of thought.” A crimson tear slid down his cheek

“Maybe,” said Philo, a Brujah slouched in an easy chair, his cowboy hat tilted down over his eyes, “but you can’t expect the rest of us to give a damn about your personal problems.”

Alice, a stunning redheaded Toreador in a blue silk minidress glared at the Brujah. She’d been brought into the clan because she
was
beautiful, not because she could create beauty, but she professed her bloodline’s aesthetic ideals as ardently as any of her fellows. “You’ll care if we tell you to,” she said. “This is
our
domain. The prince is a Toreador, and there are more of us than the rest of you put together, so you’d better do as we say if you want to live here.”