so

rather than rectangular, since the fall had smashed the frame. For once thankful that art and beauty no longer captivated him as they once had, he chucked the package into the street.

“No!” Rosalita croaked. “The frame broke, but the picture may still be all right!”

“I can’t carry it and you both,” Elliott replied. He picked her up, draped her over her shoulders in a fireman’s carry, and ran. Bullets pounded the sidewalk like hail.

Zigzagging, he made it across the street and around the corner without getting shot. Now the gunmen in Nicoll’s office could no longer see him, but he didn’t dare slow down, He was certain that they had comrades stationed on the ground.

He sprinted on toward his rented LeSabre. He and Rosalita had left it three blocks away, in the nearest legal parking space; they hadn’t wanted to return to it only to find it that it had been towed away, or immobilized with a boot. It had seemed like an intelligent decision at the time, but now it could cost them their lives.

Elliott began to feel the strain of sprinting at superhuman speed while carrying a hundred-pound woman. He wasn’t growing tired or winded in the way a mortal would, but the exertion was burning the vitae in his system like flame consuming gasoline.

Something whispered through the air above his head.

He frantically peered upward. For a moment he couldn’t see anything, but then he glimpsed the three-eyed Kindred who’d spotted him and Rosalita when they were clinging to the wall. Naked, her white, chancrous breasts and crooked legs as ugly as the rest of her, the Nosferatu was riding the night wind on winglike flaps of skin extending from her wrists to her knees. Evidently, when the Toreador had run out of gunshot range, she’d swooped from NicolFs office in pursuit.

Unlike the shapeshifters of the Gangrel clan, who could assume the forms of huge bats, the Nosferatu was gliding precariously, not flying. She couldn’t have aimed a gun and remained aloft. But she could, and did, drop the small, round object in her right hand.

Elliott dove to one side. He lost his grip on Rosalita and she tumbled off his shoulders. The grenade exploded as soon as it hit the street, peppering the Toreador elder with shrapnel. The boom spiked pain through his hypersensitive ears.

Staggering to his feet, grateful that the blast hadn’t crippled him, Elliott snatched out his Beretta and aimed it at his attacker. The Nosferatu snarled and hurtled down at him.

Elliott squeezed off three shots. Two hit the Nosferatu in the chest and one in the cheek, but the hideous undead kept coming. He spun out of her way.

Or at least he tried. Perhaps his wounds were slowing him down, or perhaps she possessed a touch of the supernatural quickness that only those of Toreador or Brujah blood ordinarily possessed. In any case, her gnarled, taloned hand shot out and grabbed his forearm, and her momentum jerked him off balance.

The two combatants tumbled to the ground and rolled over and over, grappling. The Nosferatu’s fetid body odor, the same stink Elliott had smelled in the office building, filled his nostrils as she clawed and bit at him. He could feel that she was far stronger than he was, strong enough to tear him apart. Butting and gouging, using every infighting trick he knew, he barely managed to fend her off until he could point the Beretta at her midsection and fire two more shots.

The Nosferatu convulsed. Blood, black in the moonlight, gushed from her misshapen mouth. Elliott scrambled out from underneath her and pointed the automatic at her head.

“Who’s attacking my people?” he demanded. “What’s it all about? Talk, or I’ll kill you.”

The Nosferatu’s arm flopped like a fish lying in the bottom of a boat. Elliott suspected that she’d tried to claw him, but presently lacked the strength. “Go fuck yourself,” she moaned.

Elliott opened his mouth to press the issue, and then automatic-weapons fire crackled through the night.

The actor spun around. Three more Nosferatu stood a few yards down the street. He suspected they’d been stationed on the ground floor of the office building and had chased him when he ran away. With his supernatural speed, he’d outdistanced them, but their winged comrade’s attack had delayed him long enough for them to catch up. Now, seemingly indifferent to the fact that she was in the field of fire, they were blasting at their quarry with Uzis.

Elliott flung himself to the ground as bullets hurtled through the space he’d vacated. Moving with blinding speed, he rolled and fired, rolled and fired, snap-shooting, relying on his inhuman coordination and eyesight to place the bullets.

One of the Nosferatu’s shots slammed into his left shoulder, shattering bone. Ignoring the resultant burst of agony, he kept his own gun blazing. One of the hideous Kindred, then another, and finally the last crumpled to the ground, felled by repeated shots to the head.

Elliott watched them for a moment, making sure they weren’t going to jump back up any time soon. Finally satisfied, the elation of victory counterbalancing his Hunger and the pain of his wounds, he remembered Rosalita. Smiling, he turned to check on her.

His companion lay motionless in a pool of her own fragrant vitae. When she’d fallen from his shoulders, she must have wound up closer to the grenade than he’d realized. The explosion had obliterated her features and virtually severed her head.

Elliott wailed. Suddenly he felt that he was living not merely in the present but simultaneously fifteen years in the past. That the Toreador woman lying on the broken asphalt, her gory, outflung hand dangling in a pothole, was not only Rosalita but Mary, butchered by the mortal vampire hunters who’d attacked her so mysteriously.

Squinching his eyes shut, he tried to push the grisly memory aside. He mustn’t cave in to his grief over Mary’s death, not now, or he wouldn’t escape this killing ground. God knew, the horror of what had happened to Rosalita was nearly overwhelming by itself.

When he felt that he had control of himself, he opened his eyes, ran to Rosalita and knelt beside her. Perhaps she was still alive. In the course of his centuries of existence, he’d seen one or two members of his resilient species recover from injuries nearly as severe. But no matter how closely he scrutinized her, he couldn’t see any signs of incipient tissue regeneration, nor the slightest flicker of aura. After a few seconds, her flesh began to rot.

The three-eyed Nosferatu chuckled, a broken hiccup of a sound, as if she were choking on the blood still flowing from her mouth. “We got one of you,” she croaked. “The night wasn’t a total loss.”

Furious, Elliott thought, You won’t think it’s so funny when I torture your secrets out of you. Then, somewhere in the night, out of sight but not far away and drawing nearer, he heard tense voices muttering and hurrying feet pattering along the pavement.

More of his enemies were approaching. But if he couldn’t take the time to interrogate the Nosferatu, he could at least avenge Rosalita’s murder. He dashed to one of the threeeyed Kindred’s downed companions, grabbed the deformed vampire’s Uzi, and ran back to the object of his wrath.

Cowering, the Nosferatu tried to lift her arms, probably hoping to wrap them around her head for protection, but she was still effectively paralyzed. Elliott pointed the machine gun at her neck and fired every bullet in the clip, decapitating her.

Hearing the reports, his oncoming enemies quickened their pace. Elliott wheeled and sprinted for the car, past dozens more homeless mortals. He half-expected that one of them would prove to be another of his foes and leap into his path brandishing a weapon, but everyone cringed from the racing man with the raw face and shredded, bloody clothes.

He rounded another corner and the LeSabre swam out of the murk ahead. His first impulse was to return to the hotel room he’d rented, but then he realized that the enemy might have a lookout posted there. It would be safer to drive out of town.

He unlocked the car door, scrambled inside and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life. As he threw the LeSabre into gear, scarlet tears of rage and regret began to seep from his eyes.

SIX: THE WARNING

Every good gift, and every perfect gift, is from above.

— James 1:17

As Judy rode her Harley through the gate in the coquina wall encircling Roger’s estate, a spectacular fork of lightning flamed over the expanse of ocean behind the imposing house. A stray drop of water, harbinger of the downpour to come, smacked against the motorcycle’s bug-splattered windshield.

Ordinarily the Brujah elder relished storms, just as she delighted in riding her hog as fast as it would go, slam-dancing to death metal, or any other spectacle or pastime that somehow mirrored the savage spirit of her bloodline. But tonight she scowled at the prospect of violent weather. A storm would further hamper the search for the rogue vampire who threatened the Masquerade, a search which seemed to be getting nowhere as it was. They hadn’t even found any trace of that diabolist bastard Murdock.

She hurtled up a brick drive lined with towering royal palms, parked her Harley under the porte-cochere, and marched up the front steps and through the front door into the foyer. The handcuffs suspended from her studded belt clinked.

m? Wain

Visible through arched doorways, the spacious interior of the house looked as lovely and well-tended as ever. Every object was a work of art, and the contents of every room had been meticulously arranged into a pleasing gestalt. But nevertheless, a lonely, desolate feeling hung in the air, an atmosphere she’d never encountered here before. She remembered how, on her first meeting with Roger Phillips in the 1880s, she’d scorned his haven as evidence of his fundamental Toreador effeteness, just as she’d chafed at the notion of conceding him any measure of authority over herself and her brood.

The two of them had come a long way since then, facing a number of crises shoulder to shoulder, and gradually, against all expectation and contrary to the prejudices common to those of her lineage, Roger and his Toreador lieutenants had won her respect. Today even the most fractious of her independent childer were willing to abide the prince’s governance, at least while he ruled as lightly as he had hitherto. Judy would be saddened if he never recovered his sanity and his progeny were exterminated or driven from their domain.

The Brujah scowled at herself. Such defeatist thoughts were unworthy of the warrior who’d engineered Stonewall Jackson’s demise. Striving to shove her forebodings aside, she bellowed, “Lazio!” The shout echoed through the house.

After a moment, a door on the second floor clicked open and shut. Floorboards creaked and Roger’s mortal confidant, looking haggard and careworn, started down the majestic oak staircase. He was wearing a ratty, stretched-out sweater, incongruous in such elegant surroundings, with a bone-white cellular phone protruding from one of the pockets. “Good evening, Judy,” he said. “I wish you wouldn’t yell. You might have gotten Roger agitated again.”

The former slave shrugged. She liked Lazio, and knew he was right to scold her, but she had her limits: it wasn’t in her nature to admit error to a human, particularly a white male human. “I don’t hear him hollering,” she replied, “so obviously, I didn’t. How is he?”

Shaking his head, Lazio alit from the bottom stair. “Unresponsive,” he said. “He’s started having what Dr. Potter calls ‘episodes of catatonia.’ I don’t think he knows why.”

“What a surprise,” Judy said dryly. As far as she’d been able to determine, the celebrated Dr. Potter hadn’t managed to learn anything about Roger’s condition. “I didn’t see any guards when I came in.”

“They’re some of Gunter’s Malkavians,” Lazio said. Some members of the lunatic clan, like many Kindred of the deformed Nosferatu bloodline, possessed uncanny powers of concealment. “You’re not supposed to see them.” He gestured toward one of the doorways, inviting her to step into a darkened room which, she knew from past experience, was a cozy parlor. “Would you like to sit down? And is there something I can help you with?”

She walked into the parlor and dropped heavily into a red, velvet-covered armchair. She assumed that it was some priceless antique and that Lazio, who was almost as much of an aesthete as his master, could bore her with its provenance if she were fool enough to ask about it. “I just came by to find out how Roger was,” she said, “and to see which of the art thieves has checked in.” And to give herself a break from the frustrating manhunt her people were conducting on the streets.

Lazio switched on a green and gold Tiffany floor lamp, driving the shadows into the corners of the room, then slumped down on an ornately hand-tooled leather sofa. “I’ve heard from three of the teams,” he said. “Two achieved their objective, one didn’t.”

Judy glanced at the ormolu pendulum clock softly ticking on the mantelpiece. It was almost four-thirty. “Shouldn’t you have heard from more of them by now?” she asked, frowning. “They were supposed to check in,” Lazio said, “but

perhaps they simply aren’t bothering.” He gave her a smile that tried and failed to mask his worry. “Toreador are sometimes as bad at following instructions as you Brujah, especially when they have some coup to celebrate.”

“Maybe so,” she said. One of her scars throbbed, and she twisted her arm around behind her back to rub it. She often wondered how the old welts could still ache one hundred and sixty years after she’d passed from life into undeath. People had told her that the pain was psychosomatic, but she refused to believe that her mind was masochistic or weak enough to cause her needless discomfort. “I hope so.. But if they’re screwing around partying when they know we’re at war, I’m going to have a little talk—”

Lazio’s cellular phone buzzed.

The mortal fumbled the instrument out of his pocket. Judy watched impatiently, fighting the urge to tear it from his hand. Surely no vampire ever moved so clumsily, even when filled with anxiety.

Finally the mortal managed to bring the cordless phone to his mouth. “Phillips residence,” he said.

The person on the other end of the line began to reply, but Judy, whose senses were no keener than a mortal’s, couldn’t make out the words. Moving as quickly and nimbly as a cat, she surged out of her chair, crouched over Lazio and poised her ear beside his head and the phone. The aging mortal cringed slightly, probably w'ithout even realizing it

— the prey instinctively shrinking from the predator.

“I’m at a gas station a few miles south of Columbus,” the voice on the line continued. It was Elliott’s voice, but his normally rich tones were weak and shaky. Had he been human, she would have inferred that he was out of breath.

“Is something wrong?” Lazio asked. “You sound upset.”

“I had to feed,” Elliott said. “It was an emergency, and I was rough. I clubbed someone unconscious, and I drank a lot.’’ "

Judy scowled. Ordinarily, she knew, Elliott was a sandman, one of those squeamish Kindred who fed only from sleeping vessels and, except for a touch of anemia, left them none the worse physically or psychologically for his visit. But in the past, when necessary, he’d taken down wakeful, frantically struggling kine, so she doubted that the scuffle he’d just experienced was truly what had unnerved him. Once again she fought against an impulse to snatch the phone and demand an explanation.

“Did you leave any evidence that could compromise the Masquerade?” Lazio asked.

“No,” Elliott said.

“Is the man alive?” said Lazio.

“Yes,” the Toreador elder replied.

“Then this part of the situation is under control,” Lazio said soothingly. Obviously, like Judy, he’d figured out that Elliott hadn’t told him the really bad news yet. “If you want, you can call the man an ambulance just before you leave. Now, what else is wrong?”

“Rosalita and I walked into a trap,” Elliott said. “A gang of Nosferatu were lying in wait for us, and they killed her. Has everyone else checked in?”

“No,” Lazio said, frowning.

“Damn!” Elliott exclaimed. “The ones who haven’t must have been ambushed too!”

Judy couldn’t bear to listen passively any longer. She grabbed the phone away from Lazio. Startled, recoiling involuntarily, the dresser gaped at her. Perhaps she’d used a bit of her supernatural strength or speed without even realizing it.

“Are you wounded?” demanded the former slave, speaking into the phone.

“Not badly,” Elliott replied. “Now that I’ve fed, I’ll be all right. But poor Rosalita—”

“Forget Rosalita!” Judy snapped, wishing that they were talking face to face. If she could have made eye contact, she might have been able to use a touch of her power to

Dominate to jolt him out of his funk. “There’s nothing you can do for her now. Did anyone follow you out of town?”

“I don’t think so.”

Judy scowled. “Did you check?”

“Yes.”

“Then hang up the phone and keep moving,” she said. “Switch cars if you can manage it. Watch the time; remember you have to find a safe refuge before the sun comes up. Catch a flight home tomorrow night. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Then do it! Now!”

After a moment of silence, Elliott broke the connection. Judy handed the phone back to Lazio. The mortal’s face twisted as if he were trying not to cry. “Rosalita,” he said sadly. “Roger loved her like a daughter. Before he got sick, news of her death would have broken his heart. Now, I don’t suppose he’d even care.”

Judy scowled. She was dismayed by the present turn of events herself, but that was no reason to blubber about it. The proper Brujah reaction was to get angry. She began to pace around the room, fighting the urge to pick up some piece of bric-a-brac and smash it, or punch a hole in the wall. “Does Roger have any Nosferatu enemies?” she asked. Lazio shook his head. “None that 1 can think of.”

“I don’t know of anybody either.” And it was entirely possible that the Sewer Rats who’d waylaid Elliott had been acting on behalf of a non-Nosferatu master. Judy and her allies were no closer to unmasking their phantom nemesis than they’d been before. “Shit!” she snarled. “Shit, shit, shit!” She kicked the leg of a small, round, marble-topped table, snapping it. Toppling, the table spilled a green jade statuette of some Chinese goddess onto the Persian rug. Judy felt disappointed that the carving hadn’t broken, but managed to refrain from stamping and grinding it under her steel-toed boots.

Rounding on Lazio, she said, “Gunter and I both warned everyone that going after the art was a bad idea.”

Lazio sighed. “The Toreador had no choice but to go. You know that.”

“What I know,” she said, “is that Elliott can’t cut it as a leader or a fighter anymore. You heard him just now. He sounded like he was in shock.”

Lazio stared at her reproachfully. “How can you say that, after all that he’s accomplished in the past? I’m told that he once saved your life.”

Judy felt a pang of guilt. It was a weak, useless, human emotion, unworthy of a Brujah, and, scowling, she tried unsuccessfully to quash it. “I haven’t forgotten,” she said, resuming her pacing. “He was a good man once. He still is, in a way, and I still consider him my friend. But something inside him died along with Mary.” Remembering the mysterious tragedy, she sighed. “Did you guys ever find out any more about why it happened?”

“Not really,” Lazio said. “We tried for years, but considering that Elliott killed the murderers as soon as he caught them, and then we couldn’t identify them, we really didn’t have any leads. There were indications that the men belonged to the Society of Leopold.” The Society was a fanatical clandestine organization cognizant of the existence of vampires and dedicated to their extermination. “But we have no idea how they discovered Mary’s true nature, or why, out of all the Kindred in Sarasota, they chose to target her.

“You know,” Lazio continued, “Roger never lost faith in Elliott, and I hope you won’t either. In a crisis like the one we’re facing, the Toreador need a captain of their own blood to follow, and I can’t imagine Sky filling the bill. He’s actually brave and resourceful, but the way he flounces around, people don’t take him seriously.”

“You have a point,” Judy conceded, straightening her Union soldier’s cap. “And I don’t want to see Elliott pushed to the sidelines. But I’m not going to let him screw up the war effort, either. We’ll have to see what kind of shape he’s in when he gets back into town.”

Lazio’s phone buzzed. He lifted it to his ear and said, “Phillips residence.” After a moment, he looked at Judy. “It’s for you.”

The Brujah frowned in puzzlement. She’d stopped in at the prince’s haven on impulse, without telling anyone where she was going; no one should have known where to call her. She held out her slender, delicate-looking hand, and Lazio put the phone in it. Raising the instrument to her mouth, she grunted, “Yeah?”

“Good evening,” said the musical contralto voice on the other end of the line.

Judy felt a thrill sing down her nerves. Some quality in the speaker’s tone was both captivating and intimidating. The Brujah had spent enough time around Toreador and Ventrue, many of whom possessed uncanny powers of personal magnetism, to recognize that she was falling under the sway of some Kindred’s supernatural charisma. But such an ability, like her own talent for coercion, didn’t normally work when the target couldn’t see the face of the vampire employing it.

She struggled to shake off the fascination she was feeling, and was partially successful. “Who is this?” she demanded.

“A friend,” the other woman said.

“That doesn’t cut it,” Judy said, wishing that she had the means in place to trace the call. But of course she and her allies had had no way of knowing that they might need to do such a thing. Even the Kindred, for whom a moderate level of paranoia was not a sign of derangement but of sound survival instincts, couldn’t be prepared for every contingency.

“My identity isn’t important,” the other vampire said. “I’m calling to guide you to four of your enemies. They’re in Sarasota now, prowling the streets around the Tropical Gardens.”

“Why?” Judy asked.

“They’re scouting. And if they happen to find one of your people alone, they’ll kill him. They’ll be leaving your territory soon, to beat the dawn, but if you hurry you can catch them.”

“Who are these bastards?” Judy asked. “Why are they out to get us?”

The other vampire hung up.

Frustrated but excited as well, Judy tossed the phone onto the couch. “Our first break,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Lazio asked.

“We’ve got an anonymous informant, maybe a traitor in the enemy camp who just gave us a present. She told me that we can catch some of the bad guys near the Tropical Gardens.”

“What if she isn’t really a friend?” Lazio asked, his forehead creased with worry. “What if she’s leading you into another trap, no different from the ones the enemy set for the Toreador?”

It might have been the lingering influence of the unknown vampire’s charisma, but Judy doubted that she’d been gulled; in any case, she was too eager to come to grips with the foe to worry about the possibility. “If it’s a setup, we’ll just have to turn the tables on them,” she said. “I’ll round up some of my people on my way to the party. You see who you can scare up on the phone.”

Too impatient to discuss the matter further, she wheeled and marched away, her pace accelerating with every stride. By the time she reached the foyer, she was running.

SEVENtTHE RESCUE

People must help one another; it is nature’s law.

— Jean de La Fontaine, “L’Ane et le Chien”

The Sarasota Tropical Gardens, a ten-acre artificial jungle housing lemurs, alligators, otters, monkeys, wallabies and numerous other animals, was a tourist attraction, and the businesses on the other side of Bayshore Road catered to vacationers and day-trippers as well. The four vampires from out of town sauntered past T-shirt shops, fast-food franchises, bars and souvenir stands, all silent and dark in the final hours before dawn.

Dan had been stalking the strangers since just after midnight, hanging about half a block back. At first it had been a nerve-wracking experience, but gradually he’d concluded that, as long as he was careful, they wouldn’t spot him. One of the new talents that Melpomene’s vitae had instilled in him would see to that. When he stood motionless in shadow or behind some piece of cover, no matter how inadequate it seemed, he became virtually invisible.

The Methuselah’s magic had also made his muscles even stronger than before, as well as intermittently sharpening his senses. He could smell the stale odors of cooking grease, smoke and beer wafting from the establishments along the strip; the sweet perfume of flowers and the musky scent of animals drifting from the Gardens across the street; the ozone tang of the storm brewing overhead. At certain moments, when his worn, faded jeans and soft denim work shirt seemed to chafe unbearably, his newly heightened perception became a nuisance. He hoped that he’d learn to filter out the unwanted side effects in time.

To his annoyance, despite his enhanced hearing, he couldn’t quite make out what the other Kindred were murmuring to each other, so he still had no idea what they were doing wandering around town. He suspected that they were on a scouting mission, not that it mattered. What was important was that Melpomene had supposedly arranged for some of Prince Roger’s flunkies to attack them. When they did, Dan was going to jump into the fray and save the intruders’ butts.

He just hoped that he was up to the job. Melpomene’s blood had made him more powerful than before, but he knew damn well that he still wasn’t Supervamp. The ancient undead had given him an ace in the hole to employ in this particular situation, but he had no way of knowing how well it was going to work. Like everything else about his new boss, he was taking it on faith..

Engines rumbled in the night. After a moment, Dan could tell that they were drawing nearer.

He assumed that the noise was the prince’s troops approaching. Until recently, Sarasota had been a hedonistic artists’ colony, beach resort and college town, where people partied through the night. But in the days since the mysterious killer the news media were calling Dracula had begun his reign of terror, the kine had begun cowering in their homes. After twelve, the dark streets were empty except for the undead.

Still, Dan didn’t know that Roger’s goons were on their way. He’d better hold off using Melpomene’s gift until he was sure. Once the stuff was gone, it was gone for good.

One of the foreign vampires, whom Dan had tentatively identified as the leader, was a tall, teenage-looking guy with bleached white eyebrows, mohawk and goatee. He was wearing white leather gloves with steel studs on the back, a voluminous white leather overcoat with an intricate pattern of rivets on the back and shoulders, a torn white tank top, camo'patterned parachute pants, and high-top sneakers. He spoke to his companions, and all four of them retreated into the narrow gap separating two of the shops.

Dan frowned. He hoped that the strangers wouldn’t conceal themselves so well that the prince’s searchers would fail to spot them. If that happened, Melpomene’s scheme would fall apart. Dan guessed that, at that point, his only option would be simply to reveal himself to the intruders and try to win their trust; he knew from long and bitter experience just how well that ploy was likely to work.

Wearily, he wondered for the millionth time just why his fellow Kindred disliked him so. He’d always been popular when he was a kid, had always been in the thick of things, playing varsity football and basketball, organizing a school computer club, a welcome guest at everybody’s parties. His fellow soldiers had liked him, too. After his transformation, the universal loathing with which even other Caitiff regarded him had come as almost as much of a shock as the Hunger itself.

Wind gusted, lightning flared, thunder boomed; the storm was drawing closer. An instant later, five motorcycles and a Mustang convertible turned onto Bayshore. Dan imagined that the bikers at least were Brujah; many of Judith Morgan’s progeny shared her enthusiasm for Harleys. The headlights momentarily dazzled his newly sensitive eyes.

As he’d feared, for a moment it looked as if Prince Roger’s search party would speed right past the strangers’ hiding place. But then the driver of the Mustang blew a blast on his horn, and everyone braked sharply. The convertible’s tires squealed, and the bikes spun in tight arcs as their riders turned them around.

Dan took the tarnished silver vial Melpomene had given him out of his pocket, hastily unscrewed the cap and tossed the contents down his throat.

The Methuselah had told him the liquid was giants’ blood, the vitae of actual jack-and-the-Beanstalk-style ogres vvho’d walked the earth at the dawn of history. He couldn’t help doubting that such creatures had ever existed, even though his new patron swore that she’d seen them with her own eyes. At any rate, whatever the liquid was, he’d been rather hoping it would give him a flash of ecstasy comparable to what he’d experienced when drinking Melpomene’s blood.

It didn’t. The elixir tasted so bitter that he nearly retched it back up. An instant later, a burst of agony racked his stomach. As his knees buckled, sprawling him on the sidewalk, he wondered if Melpomene had poisoned him, betraying him for some mad, inscrutable reason. She had warned him that she was neither as kindly nor as sane as she appeared.

Up ahead, Judy Morgan herself, dressed provocatively as usual in her Civil War cap, a skimpy halter, skintight jeans, and boots, pulled a machine pistol from her saddlebag and gunned her Harley toward the narrow space into which the strangers had disappeared. The other bikers readied their own weapons and followed her, of necessity going single file. The convertible shot forward, its tires squealing; no doubt the driver intended to circle the block.

The cramping in Dan’s gut eased, though a foul aftertaste lingered in his mouth. Heat tingled through his muscles and he imagined that he could feel his body swelling larger. Suddenly he was so full of energy that the thought of remaining still for another second was utterly intolerable. He surged to his feet, then bounded lightly onto the roof of the ice-cream shop beside which he’d been hiding.

As he raced down the strip of tourist traps, vaulting across the alleys between them when necessary, the battle ahead of him gradually came into view. At first he could only see headlights and the muzzle flashes of the guns, a diminutive counterpoint to the lightning strobing in the thunderheads above. Then, as raindrops began to patter on the shingles beneath his pounding feet, he glimpsed the shadowy forms of the hunters and their quarry.

It looked as if, when the strangers had fled into the street behind Bayshore, another contingent of the prince’s flunkies had intercepted them and pinned them down in a construction site. Now the intruders were crouched down behind the scant cover afforded by the low beginnings of concrete-block walls. Motorcycles snarled, circling the makeshift fortress, and firearms chattered and banged. The smells of gun smoke and engine exhaust hung in the air.

The strangers were outnumbered three-to-one and manifestly in trouble. Just the way I wanted it, Dan thought sardonically. Reaching under his khaki Army surplus jacket for his Smith and Wesson Undercover .38, he leaped down into the street.

Dan shot one biker in the back of the head before the prince’s troops even realized that a new opponent had materialized in their midst. The wounded Brujah tumbled from his seat. His motorcycle rolled a few more feet and overturned, striking sparks from the pavement as it skidded along on its side.

Dan heard an engine roar and glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye. He hurled himself to one side. The Mustang convertible shot past, missing him by inches, and smashed into the base of a storefront display window. The glass shattered, showering the car’s newly crumpled hood with glittering shards. The vehicle’s horn began to blare, adding to the cacophony of the battle.

The driver, a shaven-headed Kindred whose brow was now gashed and bleeding, scrambled out of the wreckage, fangs bared and a revolver in his hand. Dan could have tried shooting this opponent, too, but he realized that he didn’t want to. With the vitality of the giants’ blood roaring inside him, he wanted to use his body to the fullest, wanted to humble his foes with his bare hands. Casting his weapon aside, he lunged at the other vampire.

The driver’s gun barked once, but if the shot hit Dan, he didn’t even feel it. Before the shaven-headed Kindred could fire again, his assailant was on top of him. Dan hit him in the face, a punch that broke bone and sent him reeling back against his car; then he pounced on him.

The hairless Kindred struggled frantically, perhaps trying to bring his gun to bear. He was far stronger than a mortal, but nowhere near as powerful as his opponent. Dan sank his fingers into the other vampire’s skull as if the bone were no more resistant than modelling clay, then, with one sudden motion, wrenched his head off.

Since undead hearts didn’t beat, blood didn’t spurt from the raw space between the dead vampire’s shoulders; it flowed copiously enough, however, suffusing the air with its intoxicating scent. With a sudden pang of guilt, Dan remembered that he hadn’t intended to destroy any of Prince Roger’s vassals. Ultimately, he was on their side. But the feverish excitement induced by Melpomene’s potion had opened the door for the Beast to take control.

He did his best to shrug off a spasm of self-disgust. He was still in the middle of the battle; he had no time for remorse. Still clutching the severed head in his right hand, he spun around to survey the rest of the combatants.

Another biker, a moon-faced Asian girl, was hurtling toward him, riding no-handed, firing bursts from her automatic rifle. Dan threw the head at her, but it sailed past her, bounced on the pavement and rolled away into the darkness. He pivoted back toward the convertible, ripped one of its doors off the hinges and hurled that, skimming it like a Frisbee.

The missile slammed into her, knocking her and her motorcycle over. Tumbling end over end, the rifle flew from her hands. Instantly, moving with superhuman speed, her fanged, pallid face a mask of fury, she scrambled out from under her bike, flipped open a butterfly knife, and charged him.

Seeking his .38, Dan looked around his feet, but he couldn’t see where the revolver had fallen. Fists clenched, he shifted his body into a T-stance the way his unarmed' combat instructor at boot camp had taught him.

The Brujah sprinted as fast as a cheetah. It only took her a second to close to striking range. Her arm a blur, she stabbed and slashed at him repeatedly. Bursts of pain flowered in his chest.

But even if he hadn’t been pumped up on giants’ blood, Dan could have endured a few jabs in the torso. In any case, though the Asian girl clearly wasn’t a skilled knife fighter, he wasn’t sure that he could react quickly enough to parry her attacks. Better to concentrate on landing some blows of his own. He lunged at her, kicking and jabbing.

Still hacking and stabbing, her almond eyes aglitter with bloodlust, she gave ground. She ducked and slipped his first five attacks, but swung her arm up to block the sixth.

That was a mistake. With her pantherish speed and grace, she had no trouble connecting, but she simply lacked the strength to deflect the blow. His fist drove on to smash her nose flat, snap her neck and fling her eight feet backwards. She lay on the ground and thrashed.

Dan looked around. More of the prince’s subjects were turning in his direction. Someone yelled, “Get the diabolist!” in a high, excited voice.

Okay, Dan thought, let’s see just how strong I really am. He scrambled back to the convertible, dug his fingers into the body and, with a grunt of effort, heaved it over his head. The horn stopped blowing and the suspension groaned. Bits of broken glass and one of the hubcaps fell tinkling and clanking around his feet.

Dan had known other vampires who could lift a car, but they had had to do it with a certain amount of care, taking heed of the vehicle’s center of gravity; they couldn’t just jerk it into the air any old way. Confronted with such a spectacle, even the Brujah, whose battle rage was proverbial, faltered momentarily in their attack.

Bellowing, Dan threw the wreck at Judy Morgan, the berserker queen herself. It missed, landing short with a deafening crash, but he received the satisfaction of seeing her dark eyes widen in dismay.

Now all the prince’s people were gaping or glaring at him. He beckoned to the embattled vampires in the unfinished building. Come on! he implored them silently. I drew away the enemy’s attention. This is your chance to break out of the circle.

As if they’d heard him, the strangers burst out of the concrete-block enclosure, guns blazing. Some of the Brujah jerked as the bullets caught them in the back. One, his head bursting like a melon, toppled off his bike.

The foreigners drove through their would-be captors and back into the narrow, weed-infested space between the tourist joints. Dan scrambled after them.

The vampire in white had waited at the mouth of the alley. As soon as Dan rushed past him, the stranger, who must have been carrying his sawed-off shotgun inside his voluminous coat, pumped three blasts into the street, perhaps in the hope that the barrage would discourage pursuit. Then he wheeled and pounded after his fellow fugitives. Catching up with Dan, he said, “We have a car. It’s about three blocks over and two blocks up.”

Since Dan had been tailing the strangers, he knew where they’d parked, but he couldn’t see any advantage in saying so. “Let’s cut through the Gardens,” he replied. “The enemy might have trouble following us through all the trees and bushes.”

By the time he and the white-clad vampire caught up with the other invaders, Dan could hear Judy Morgan shouting orders. The pursuit was getting organized again and would no doubt be.after them in a matter of moments. Somewhere to the north motors growled, getting louder by the second. It probably meant that enemy reinforcements were arriving.

The fleeing vampires raced across the street to the twelve-foot chain-link fence encircling the Tropical Gardens. Except for the guy in white, each was wounded and bloody. Dan didn’t doubt that they could all scramble over the barrier anyway, but he didn’t want to take the time. He grabbed the fence with both hands and pulled in opposite directions, ripping a hole in it, shredding the steel mesh like tissue paper. He and his companions scrambled through the gap.

Before them extended a flat expanse of land filled with palms and flowering shrubs. Night-blooming orchids glowed in the dimness, filling the air with their perfume. In the dark, the unnatural order imposed by the establishment’s gardeners was scarcely evident; Dan could almost imagine that he was entering a true jungle. For a moment, the contrast between the tranquillity ahead and the carnage behind seemed nearly surreal. Then lightning blazed, thunder roared a split second after, and the rain began to fall in torrents, drenching him instantly, hammering the leaves and blossoms as if some inimical deity sought to deny the fugitives even the illusion of peace.

Dan grinned savagely — the downpour would make it harder for the Brujah to spot the fugitives. He and his companions raced on, not keeping to the paved paths but plunging through the foliage. At their backs, engines snarled and headlights slashed across the darkness as the bikers rode into the Gardens. Evidently they’d enlarged the hole in the fence.

The fugitives dashed through a sort of open-air religious exhibit, hand-carved dioramas illustrating the life of Christ; Jesus seemed to glower disapprovingly from his cross. Beyond that, the vampires found a number of steel cages with paths winding among them. The zoo. Roused by the storm, the rumble of the motorcycles, or simply sensing the presence of their supernatural visitors, the animals were awake. Some were cowering at the backs of the cages, some were pacing, and some snarled at the unliving creatures outside.

The growl of the Harleys drew closer. One of the strangers, a petite brunette with sodden bangs plastered to her forehead and a bloody hole in the bottom of her tie-dyed Grateful Dead T-shirt, turned to the Kindred in white. “I think they’re going to find us again!” she said.

“What we need,” said the vampire with the mohawk, “is another diversion. Something else running through the dark.”

“I get your drift,” said Dan. He turned to the cage on his left, gripped the door and ripped it off its hinges. The hulking black gorilla inside the enclosure glared at him and bared its teeth.

“Get back,” Dan said to his fellow vampires. “It won’t come out if you’re standing around the door.” The other Kindred obligingly spread out. Two of them, who must have had some degree of inhuman strength of their own, started breaking open a cage with a leopard in it.

Exposing his own fangs, Dan edged into the gorilla’s cage and started to circle to the primate’s left. He hoped if he got behind it, it would retreat in the opposite direction and out the door. Instead it lunged at him, its huge hands raised to grab and maul him.

Dodging its initial attack, Dan stepped to its side and punched it in the ribs. The ape grunted and staggered. Dan

STTDTRKUNCTTffi

circled behind it, seized it and sank his fangs into its hairy back. The gorilla screamed.

The primate’s blood was rank, not sweet like the blood of humans, but with Dan’s own vitae leaking away through the knife cuts in his chest, it was enticing anyway. Repressing a witless desire to cling to the animal and feed, he released it and kicked it in the ass.

Cowed, the gorilla scrambled out of the cage and vanished into the rain. Dan followed the animal through the door, froze for a moment to let the fleeing leopard hurtle past him, then dashed to an enclosure with four bears in it.

The fugitives opened half-a-dozen cages in less than a minute. “That will have to be enough,” said the vampire in white. “We need to move on.”

The Kindred ran, out of the zoo and back into the greenery, weaving through the secondary trunks of a huge banyan tree. Behind them the Brujah were still too close, but now their guns began to bang and crackle, firing shots that didn’t come anywhere near their quarries. Sounding startled, some of the hunters cried out.

“Yes!” said the vampire in the Grateful Dead shirt, delighted that their ploy was working.

The fugitives raced around a flamingo lagoon. The rain roiled the surface of the lake with a sound like bacon sizzling in a pan.

Beyond the lagoon was the border of the park. When he peered through the fence, Dan was pleasantly surprised to see the strangers’ vehicle. The green van, nondescript except for the dark one-way glass in the windows, was parked on the street almost directly in front of him. Their headlong flight had taken them straight to it. Either they’d been lucky, or the Kindred in white, who’d more or less led his companions through the Gardens, had a keen sense of direction.

Dan ripped another hole in the fence. As the vampires surged into the street their driver, a fleshy, middle-aged black ghoul who looked like a linebacker gone to seed, opened the sliding door in the rear of the panel truck. Dan could tell he was a ghoul because, to his newly sensitized nose, he smelled different from an ordinary human. “What’s wrong?” the servant asked.

“Get behind the wheel!” snapped the Kindred in white. “We have to disappear!”

As the ghoul obeyed, the foreign vampires scrambled into the back of the van. The guy in white and the woman with the Grateful Dead shirt peered out at Dan.

And here’s the kiss-off, Dan thought suddenly. Melpomene was wrong. Even though I saved them they want to leave me behind, just like all the other bastards always have. A wave of fury crashed through his mind.

“What are you waiting for?” said the vampire in white. “Get in!”

Dan blinked in surprise. His anger evaporating, he jumped into the van. The interior was carpeted, with a number of pillows and boxes of ammunition strewn about the floor, a small refrigerator and'microwave oven on a shelf, and sundry rifles, pistols, swords and knives hanging from mounts on the walls. Rain rattled on the roof. As the Kindred in white slammed the door, the motor roared to life. The van shot forward, then turned left.

In the next three minutes the driver changed direction several times. The vampires peered out the windows until they were sure that the Brujah had lost their trail. Then one of them, a muscular Hispanic guy with a thin black mustache and several gold chains around his neck, grinned and opened the refrigerator. Taking out a bottle of blood, he put it in the microwave. “Miller time,” he said, winking at Dan. “At least I think the guy said his name was Miller. When the stuff warms up, we’ll pass it around.”

“Uh, thanks,” said Dan. With the excitement of the chase and the savage exhilaration produced by the giants’ blood fading, he felt absurdly awkward and shy. He wasn’t used to other vamps being friendly.

The Kindred in white peeled off his right glove and held out his hand. “I’m Wyatt Vandercar,” he said. “Welcome to the Anarch Movement.”

EIGHT;THE HUNTER

Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god.

— Francis Bacon, “Of Friendship”

Cloaked in the form of a huge gray wolf, his eyes glowing crimson, Angus stalked silently through the snow, sniffing the odors — gasoline, smoke, the blood of seals — that drifted on the freezing wind. At the base of the hill, lights glowed in the windows of the tiny village; beyond that, ice floes drifted in the water.

The vampire skulked closer. As far as he could tell, none of the Eskimos was out of doors. In fact, he got the impression that the settlement was locked up tight. Perhaps the mortals had even set a trap for him.

He bared his fangs in a bestial grin. This was the way he liked it. In a huge modern city full of lonely, displaced souls about whom no one cared, where mortals were always running around outdoors at any hour of the night and people didn’t even credit the existence of the Kindred, seizing prey was so easy any fool could do it. But the village below him was a close-knit community of humans hardened by the daily battle for survival. And despite the evidence of technological advance — the chugging generators, the aluminum boats with outboard motors, the prefabricated buildings scattered among the traditional turf-covered log cabins, and the satellite dish — they still remembered the lore of their ancestors. Now that Angus’ previous incursions had put them on their guard, stealing their blood should provide a modicum of sport even to an elder of his talents.

Already plotting tonight’s raid, he began to glide down the slope; then a silvery shimmer flowered in front of him. Thinking that some unseen sentry had picked him out with a searchlight, he leaped to one side, but even as his paws touched down he realized that he’d been mistaken. No human device was projecting the glow; to all appearances it had no source of any kind. It was just a streak of phosphorescence, about as tall and as wide as a human being, seething in the air.

Now that Angus had had a better look at it, he recognized it for what it was. Regretting that he’d compromised his dignity by revealing how badly it had startled him, he glumly waited for it to finish materializing.

It was like watching an image on a movie screen swim into focus. Over the next few seconds it developed a recognizable head, then a face, clearly discernible limbs, hands and feet. Before long he was looking at Melpomene, floating three inches above the snow. She looked as solid as he was, but he knew that was an illusion. In reality, only a psychic projection hung before him.

“Hello, old friend,” she said.

Angus stared at her.

The Methuselah heaved a sigh. “Is it still like that, then? I’d hoped that time would wi ther away your resentment. We need to talk. Please, put on your true form.”

As he reluctantly did as she’d requested, Angus wondered fleetingly why Cainites who couldn’t change shape as his clan did never understood that all of a Gangrel’s bodies were his “true forms.” Perhaps if they could, they’d discover the same gift in themselves. Not that that would be a good thing.

In a world where Kindred of different bloodlines often battled ruthlessly for supremacy, his people needed every edge they could get.

Angus’ body took on additional mass. His bones and muscles rearranged themselves. In a moment it felt more natural to stand erect than to remain on all fours, and he surged to his feet. His muzzle shrank back into his skull and some of his fur melted away, though he remained an exceptionally hairy man. Centuries of shapechanging had left their mark on him.

When the transformation was complete, he was an ivoryskinned giant with deep-set eyes, bushy brows and a beak of a nose, whom various people had likened to a Cro-Magnon warrior, a Viking, or a mountain man. He w^Tas dressed in jeans, hiking boots, a red flannel shirt and a parka, worn open with the hood thrown back. A gold ring gleamed in his left ear and his brown beard and shaggy mane of hair blew in the frigid wind.

Melpomene smiled. “You haven’t changed,” she said. Angus shrugged. “We don’t change. That’s the point of it all, isn’t it? The point of being what we are.”

“I hope not,” the Methuselah said, turning her head this way and that. “I don’t sense any other vampires. Did you come up here alone?”

“There isn’t enough game for more than one,” Angus said.

Melpomene gave him a sympathetic smile. “It all becomes tiresome eventually, doesn’t it? Even your own progeny. Especially your own progeny.”

Angus didn’t want to share his feelings with her. She was right: he still held a grudge against her. And yet, simultaneously, he did want to talk. Their relationship had always been like that. She was one of the few creatures in the world old enough truly to understand his perspective, and he supposed that she had that damn Toreador charisma, that sweet, melancholy smile and those soulful, compelling eyes, prying away at his reserve. He understood the nature of her power, but it was so insidious that it was difficult to resist.

“Sometimes I do want to get away by myself,” he admitted, scowling. “So what?”

“Are you tempted to go down into the ground?” she asked. “Sleep a few decades or a century away, see how the world looks when you wake up?”

He hesitated, then repeated, “Sometimes.”

“When you rise from the earth,” Melpomene said, “you’ll be more like me.” Her somber tone implied that that would be his misfortune.

The tenor of the conversation was making Angus uncomfortable. “What do you want?” he demanded. “Why have you sought me out?”

“I’m at war,” the Methuselah said.

Though the statement was exactly what he’d been expecting, Angus grimaced. “Well, of course you are,” he said sardonically.

Absurdly enough, given their bloody history together, she winced as if he’d wounded her feelings. “I didn’t want to be,” she said. “After our final struggle in England, Castile and Normandy, I tried to get out of the game, but it hasn’t worked. Someone’s attacking me.”

“And I’m supposed to drop everything and rally to the cause,” the Gangrel said. The icy wind moaned and, out over the water, the yellow-green arcs of the aurora borealis wavered across the sky. “Even though there’s no sane reason for me to care who wins. Even though I’ve seen you send good people on suicide missions.”

“Never you,” she said.

“You mean, never yet,” Angus replied. “Don’t try to convince me that I’m not as expendable as the next puppet if that’s what it takes for you to win.”

She grimaced. “All right, 1 won’t. You’ve been a warlord yourself. You know that one does what one has to.”

“Well, do it to someone else.”

“I need you, Angus. I don’t have as many agents as I used to. I don’t have any other Justicars, and this conflict is likely to be addressed in a Conclave before it’s through.”

“If anyone found out that I was working for a Methuselah,” he said sourly, “and not just the Inner Circle of the Camarilla, you wouldn’t have any judges in your pocket. The princes would gleefully burn me alive.”

“Then I suggest that you be discreet,” Melpomene said. “But I don’t want you just for your political prestige. I need a master hunter and detective. A vampire in Florida is killing recklessly, flaunting his powers, jeopardizing the Masquerade. My descendants in the area have been trying to track the rogue down, to no avail. But I know you could do it.”

Angus had to admit to himself that he was intrigued. Though he wasn’t malevolent enough to do it simply for sport, tracking a powerful, cunning fellow undead was the grandest game of all; the mere prospect robbed his beleaguered Eskimos of their allure. Yet he was still reluctant to resume the role of a pawn in Melpomene’s game. “I’ve hunted down Cainites before,” he said. “That pastime has grown stale as well.”

The ancient vampire frowned. “I didn’t want to have to say this. It seems... gauche. But apparently I must remind you that I saved your life and the lives of three of your childer,” she said. “When everyone else betrayed you and left you to die, I extracted you from the torture chambers of the Inquisition.”

“To make me your servant,” Angus said. When one Kindred did another a kindness, the latter was honor-bound to reciprocate. Huge favors demanded heroic measures in return. “And I have served. I’ve risked the life you saved on your behalf.”

“I saved four lives,” Melpomene said. “I’ve called you to war on three previous occasions. You owe me one more.”

Angus sighed; unlike the breath of a warm-bodied mortal, his exhalation didn’t steam in the frigid air. He supposed that it had been a foregone conclusion that he would wind up fighting for Melpomene one last time, but the stubborn streak in his nature had compelled him to put up at least a token resistance. “Damn your bookkeeper’s soul,” he said. “All right, I’ll do it. Tell me everything,”

NINEtTHE ANARCHS

What is wrong with a revolution is that it is natural.

It is as natural as natural selection, as devastating as natural selection, and as horrible.

— William Golding, “Sayings of the Year”

Dan awoke on the floor of the van. For a moment, befuddled, he thought he was young and mortal again, travelling cross-country to some rock concert or ball game in his best friend Billy’s panel truck. Then he noticed how silent the interior of the vehicle was without the slightest hiss of respiration, how pale his slumbering companions were, the dried bloodstains around the holes in their garments. His memory came surging back.

Dawn had caught the fugitives still on the road and put them to sleep. Shortly thereafter the van had probably reached its ultimate destination — it certainly wasn’t moving now — but the ghoul driver had sensibly opted to let the Kindred rest where they lay. Matters of taste and style aside, a hard bed was no different from a soft one to a vampire. All that truly mattered was that the undead was shielded from the sun.

Dan slipped his fingers through the rents in his shirt and touched his chest and stomach. As he’d expected, his wounds had finished healing while he slept. All that remained were itchy crusts of scab. Except for the blood thirst parching his throat, he was as good as new.

Or was that an overstatement? He was okay physically, but he had to assume that he’d lost his home and all his possessions but the ruined clothes on his back. Prince Roger’s people wanted to kill him, and if his new companions discovered he was a spy, they would too. Hell, he didn’t even know what city he was in. Giddy with blood loss and jubilation over their escape, the anarchs hadn’t gotten around to telling him where they were headed, and he hadn’t asked. He’d been reluctant to do anything that might jeopardize his newfound rapport with them, even though he knew he’d have to start asking questions soon.

Smiling wryly at his situation, Dan sat up and peered out of one of the van’s one-way windows. The vehicle was sitting in what appeared to be one of the work bays of an abandoned auto-mechanic’s shop. No tools hung from the pegboards along the walls, gray sheets of cobweb shrouded the work benches, and the girlie calendar beside the time clock was from 1991. The garage doors were all closed, blocking any view of the outside world. Seated on a metal folding chair, the burly ghoul was eating a Cuban sandwich. With his newly heightened hearing, even through the side of the van Dan could hear the crisp bread crunch.

Behind him, something brushed along the carpeted floor. As he turned the brunette in the Deadhead shirt, whose name, he had learned the previous night, was Laurie Tipton, sat up, blinking. “Hi,” she said. “Welcome to our place.”

Still feeling shy, as if the anarchs might turn on him if he said or did anything the least bit out of line, Dan said, “Thanks. Uh, what town are we in, anyway?”

“Tampa,” Laurie said. When Dan thought about it, it made sense. Vampires liked big cities, where prey was plentiful and they could lose themselves in the crowd. If a gang of undead wanted to conduct hostilities against the prince of Sarasota, it would be smart for them to base themselves in the nearest such community outside the borders of his domain.

Laurie looked Dan up and down. “You could use a wash and some fresh clothes,” she said, sliding open the door. “Come on.”

As they emerged from the van the ghoul began to stand up respectfully, but she gave him a dismissive wave and he slumped back down. Dan wondered fleetingly if the man had entered the vampires’ service willingly, grateful for the longevity his new condition would afford, perhaps aspiring to be undead himself one day; or if he’d been forced to drink the vitae of one of the anarchs. Not that it mattered. Either way, he was Blood Bound now, his will no longer his own.

Laurie led Dan out of the work area and into a small complex consisting of offices, storerooms, restrooms, a waiting room and a cashier’s station. Someone had painted all the windows black, but a chain of small yellow lightbulbs strung along the ceiling provided dim illumination.

One of the storerooms contained cartons and heaps of clothes. Laurie nodded to the items by the right-hand wall. “That stuff’s up for grabs,” she said. She moved to what must have been her own personal possessions. The collection included headbands, granny glasses, a fringed buckskin jacket, bellbottoms, and T-shirts decorated with pictures of marijuana leaves, psychedelic swirls of color and the logos of bands like the Jefferson Airplane, Country Joe and the Fish, and Big Brother and the Holding Company.

Dan inferred that she’d been young and mortal in the ’60s. So had he, but the hippie movement hadn’t attracted him as it obviously had her. Instead, he’d wound up in the service, and shortly thereafter in Nam. Maybe he was a conformist by temperament. Maybe that was why, after his transformation at the hands of his unknown sire, he’d tried so hard to find a place for himself inside the Camarilla. It was only after repeated rejections that he’d attempted to join what amounted to the Kindred counterculture, only to discover that, at least hitherto, its adherents hadn’t wanted him either.

With an utter lack of self-consciousness, Laurie peeled off her filthy, perforated clothing, revealing the trim, smallbreasted ivory body underneath. Even those vampires who still behaved modestly in the presence of mortals often had no qualms about stripping in front of other Kindred; they knew their fellow undead were incapable of a sexual response.

Raking through a jumbled mass of shirts, underwear, socks and jeans, Dan asked, “How long have you been an anarch?”

“Fifteen years,” Laurie replied. She selected a long muslin

dress, then walked to the restroom across the hall and started

filling the sink. The pipes groaned and the water hissed. “I

joined after I ran away from my sire. I always knew she w’as

crazy and mean, but eventually I found out that she’d

tortured and fed on a bunch of her other childer, for no

reason at all. I was sure my name was on the menu, too.

Other elders knew what kind of monster she was, but nobody

had ever done anything about it because she was too well-

connected. That’s the so-called justice of the Camarilla for » .

you.

Dan found a large blue T-shirt that looked as if it would fit him. “But do you really think you can bring the old vamps down?” he asked.

“Sure!” she said, sounding surprised, as if it had been a silly question. She picked up a bar of soap and started to wash herself, slopping water over the edge of the basin onto the grubby linoleum floor. “Wyatt says that the old ones are powerful but stagnant. They can’t adapt to modern ways of doing things, and that will give us the advantage in the end.”

Remembering some of the Ventrue he’d seen clad in powdered wigs and tricorn hats like tourist guides at Williamsburg, Dan suspected that she might be right. As he pulled off his old shirt, he said, “Is Wyatt the leader?” He’d certainly gotten that impression last night.

“Anarchs don’t have leaders,” the female Kindred said, reaching for a Holiday Inn bath towel draped over the back of a chair, “anymore than we have princes, Justicars, or any of that. We’re all equal. But he is the cell coordinator.”

“I don’t know what that means,” said Dan.

“It means that I handle communications with our brothers and sisters around the world,” said a pleasant baritone voice. Wyatt appeared in the doorway. Startled, Dan was chagrined that, his heightened hearing notwithstanding, he hadn’t heard the vampire in white approaching.

“There are a lot of Kindred who believe in the anarch cause,” said Laurie, emerging from the bathroom still nude. She wasn’t completely dry, and water dripped from her body onto the floor. “More every day. But most of them aren’t ready to devote their lives to fighting for it. I only reached that point myself a few weeks back. The Camarilla is hunting us militants, so all information is on a need-to-know basis. That way, if a member of the underground gets captured, he can’t be forced to give away too much. Wyatt says it’s a classic resistance tactic.” She looked up at the vampire with the bleached mohawk as if for approval, and he gave her an indulgent smile.

“What were you guys doing in Sarasota last night?” Dan asked.

Wyatt lifted a milk-white eyebrow. “You do ask a lot of questions.”

Inwardly, Dan winced. Wyatt was right, he was coming on too strong. He didn’t have the instincts of a spy, didn’t know how to elicit information unobtrusively. “Sorry. 1 was just wondering.”

“No offense taken,” said Wyatt lightly. Dan noticed that the patterns of rivets in the other Kindred’s leather coat seemed to form some sort of indecipherable characters, like hieroglyphs in an extinct language. “You’ve wandered into a strange situation. Of course you have questions, and we’ll be glad to answer most of them — after which, I’m sure, you won’t mind answering a few of ours. We were checking out the lay of the land in Sarasota for future reference, and if we’d gotten a chance to pick off one of the prince’s stooges, that would have been fine, too. Right now, Roger Phillips’ domain is one of the Movement’s special projects. We’re going to bring him down and set up an Anarch Free State, just like they did in California.”

“Why pick on old Roger?” Dan asked. “I mean, I’ve got reason to hate his guts, but I also know that he and his primogen have a pretty benevolent reputation as elders go.” True, the prince had rebuffed him, but then, until last night, so had the rest of the vampire world. “Wouldn’t it be better PR to knock off some Marquis de Sade type that everybody hates?”

Laurie peered at Dan quizzically. “The princes are all corrupt,” she said. “They all have to go.”

“She’s right,” Wyatt said. “Besides, we have to start someplace, and Roger Phillips and his brood are soft — Toreador who haven’t fought a real fight in decades. The strategy is to knock over the easy targets first, increasing our strength with the plunder and new recruits we win in the process, then tackle the tough ones.”

“That makes sense,” Dan conceded. “When’s the big push?”

“I don’t know that myself,” Wyatt said. “I’m waiting for my contacts to let me know. But I’m sure it’s coming soon.” “Are you the guys committing those ‘Dracula’ murders?” Dan asked.

Wyatt shook his head. “No, but maybe some other cell is responsible. I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s an effective tactic; it ought to confuse, distract and demoralize the prince’s people.”

Effective but dangerous, Dan thought. If it worked too well, if it actually did blow the Masquerade to hell, then all Kindred, Camarilla and anarchs alike, might suffer.

“We’re the guys trashing the Toreador’s precious art,” Wyatt continued. “Some of it, anyway. Have you heard about that?”

Dan decided to play dumb. It might seem suspicious if he was too conversant with Toreador affairs. “I heard on the news that some art had been destroyed, but I didn’t know that it had anything to do with Roger and his brood.”

“Well, it does,” said the white-clad vampire, grinning. “It’s their treasure, their heritage and obsession. Once it’s lost, I bet they won’t even care about defending their turf. And when they try to retrieve the art for safekeeping, it gives us a chance to ambush them.”

Dan nodded. “Smart.”

“Anything else you’d like to know?” Wyatt asked.

Dan shrugged. “I can’t think of anything.”

“Then it’s my turn,” said Wyatt. “I take it that you lived in Sarasota?” It was a sensible assumption since, except for members of the Gangrel and Ravnos clans, Kindred were generally loath to travel away from their well-defended havens.

“Yeah,” Dan replied.

“What was your relationship with the prince and his

vassals?”

“Hostile,” said Dan. “When I first hit town, I presented myself to Prince Rog like the Fifth Tradition says you’re supposed to. Since I was a low-life Caitiff, he made it clear that I wasn’t welcome to hang around. I did anyway, for spite, and because I had nowhere else to go. Afterward, his people tried periodically to run me out of the prime hunting areas. Sometimes the confrontations got pretty nasty.

“When I saw Judy Morgan — the black woman in the cap — and her Brujah hassling you, the way they’ve hassled me only more so, I just felt an urge to help you. So I did.”

“It must have been a strong urge,” said Wyatt, “if it made you lay your life on the line for perfect strangers. How did you happen to be in that particular area?”

“I like to walk in the Gardens,” Dan said. “It’s peaceful.” He wondered if Wyatt interrogated every newcomer like this. He was glad that, being undead, he couldn’t sweat.

“I believe Dan’s what he seems to be,” Laurie said diffidently. She clearly didn’t want Wyatt, her guru, to think that she was questioning his judgment. “He did rescue us, and I saw him kill at least one of the bikers in the process.” “You have to admit, his presence at the battle was quite a coincidence,” Wyatt said reasonably. “And his aura is a confusing, constantly changing blend of colors. That suggests that he may have something to hide.” Then the anarch leader smiled. “But you know what? I believe him, too. Heck, all Kindred have something to hide, and like you said, he did kill for us. What’s more, I just made a call to find out something about him.” Dan wondered who Wyatt had called. “Danny boy told us the truth about his life in Sarasota, except that he didn’t mention how ‘nasty’ things really got. A few nights ago he beat one of the Brujah unconscious and diabolized her.”

Dan tensed. Now, he thought, now they’ll send me away if they don’t try to kill me outright. Trying to move unobtrusively, he shifted his feet into a fighting stance.

Wyatt laughed, his white teeth gleaming. “Now 1 can read your aura,” he said. “Scared you, didn’t I? But there’s no need to be afraid. To the Movement, diabolism is no crime as long as you pick the right target. In fact, it’s a weapon and an objective of the revolution. We aren’t just going to kill the elders, we’re going to drink them. Take their power for ourselves.”

Dan smiled grimly. “Now that idea, I like.”

“Sorry if the third degree bugged you,” Wyatt said, “but we have to maintain security. Now that we’re sure you’re clean, how do you feel about the idea of joining us? I understand that you didn’t know we were anarchs when you helped us, but now you do, and I believe you know what the Movement stands for, too. The destruction of the Camarilla and the princes. The liberation of the young from the tyranny of the old, and the Caitiff from the domination of the clans. The right to live where and how you like, and sire as many progeny as you like, without asking anyone’s permission.”

Dan wondered what would happen if he declined the proposition. Would the anarchs let him walk away, now that he’d heard something of their plans and seen their lair? Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to find out. Narrowing his eyes thoughtfully, he pretended to consider the invitation for a moment and then said, “Count me in.”

Wyatt grinned. “All right!” he crowed, “I knew you had the right stuff!” Laurie threw her arms around Dan and hugged him, pressing her cool, bare body against his. Even though the anarchs were the enemy, even though he’d come here to betray them, for a moment the spy felt a surge of joy. No one who understood his true nature, no one of his own kind, had treated him like this since his sire had transformed and abandoned him.

“What do you like to do for fun?” Wyatt asked.

“1 don’t know,” said Dan, surprised by the question. “Work out, swim, go to the movies, listen to music, dance—” “Great!” Wyatt said, all boyish enthusiasm. The calculating guerrilla leader had given way to the exuberant teenager whose unaging shape he wore. “You guys finish cleaning up and then the five of us will go out, feed and celebrate having a new recruit. The revolution can spare us for one night.”

TEN: QUESTIONS. SORROWS AND DOUBTS

We have suffered the inevitable consequences of a combination of unpreparedness and feeble counsel.

— Julian Amery, speech before the House of Commons

Elliott parked his Jaguar among the other cars and motorcycles clustered in front of Roger’s beach house. As he climbed out, he caught the sound of two of his fellow Toreador, Glenn and Karen, murmuring in the gazebo to his right. Glenn was smoking, the red tip of his cigarette shining in the darkness that filled the enclosure.

“I can’t believe it,” said Karen sadly. “So many killed in one night. And the beautiful, beautiful art, shattered, burned and shredded, gone forever!”

“And we don’t even have any real intelligence to show for it,” said Glenn. “We still have no idea who’s behind all this. The team that went to Buenos Aires was ambushed by Malkavians. The one we sent to Seattle ran afoul of what seemed to be a bunch of Caitiff. The one that visited St. Louis fought two Ravnos and their ghouls. Where’s the link?” “I don’t know,” said Karen.

“Neither do I,” said her companion. The cigarette flared brighter as he inhaled. “All I know is that everything’s falling apart. I nearly got shot just trying to hunt this evening. It’s hard when the humans are on their guard.” He hesitated. “You know that I think the world of Roger.” “Yes,” Karen said.

“And I’m not a coward. But if he’s never going to get well, if no one else can fix everything that’s wrong, maybe we’d be better off in another domain. Other cities have Toreador princes. Some of them have told me they like my sculpture! I’m sure one of them would make a place for me.” Wincing, Elliott trudged up the steps to the mansion’s front door. He paused reflexively to check his attire, pointless though the effort seemed to be. Instead of his usual elegantly tailored suit, he was wearing the seedy, beige polyester thrift-shop offering that had been the first fresh, unripped, unbloodied outfit that he could lay his hands on in Ohio. As he’d driven away from Sarasota-Bradenton Municipal Airport, he’d been tempted to go home and change. But he’d felt honor-bound to come directly to Roger’s mansion, even though it was the last place in the world he wanted to be.

He was still fidgeting with his lapels when Lazio threw open the door. “I saw you drive up,” the mortal said. “Are you all right?”

“I suppose,” Elliott said.

“Have you fed?” Lazio asked.

“Yes,” said Elliott, experiencing a pang of guilt. The sensation was becoming horribly familiar. “A young woman in Dayton. I was too brutal, but I was rushed. I had to catch my plane. How many Toreador died last night?”

The human glanced back into the foyer. Voices, some anguished, some frightened, some angry, muttered through the arch that led to the arena. “I think we should talk in private,” Lazio said.

Elliott shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

off

Lazio led him into Roger’s office, a smallish room with French windows, where bookshelves, crammed for the most part with volumes pertaining to acting and the theater, climbed the walls. The scent of the old leather bindings tinged the air. A marble bust of Moliere sat in an alcove and a model of the Globe Theatre, where both Roger and Elliott had acted, reposed under glass in the corner.

As Lazio shut the door, the vampire repeated, “How many?”

“Including Rosalita, nine,” Lazio replied.

Elliott bowed his head and rubbed his aching eyes. He’d wept on the flight back to Florida. It was a wonder that no one had noticed the scarlet tears. “Oh, God,” he said.

“It could have been worse,” Lazio said. “Considering that they walked into traps, it’s amazing how many fought their way clear.”

Elliott grimaced. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at

it.”

“I need to update you,” Lazio said. “Roger’s condition is no different. If Dr. Potter has any new ideas, he hasn’t confided them to me. No one’s made any progress with regard to catching Dracula, either. One of Judy Morgan’s brood is dead, too.”

For a moment at least, a twinge of curiosity pierced Elliott’s pall of despondency. “How did that happen?”

Speaking as tersely as possible, Lazio filled him in. “The Brujah had them surrounded,” the dresser concluded, “but then that diabolist Murdock came out of nowhere and attacked our people, destroying one. Obviously he is working with the enemy, and evidently he’s a lot more powerful than anyone realized because, thanks to him, the strangers managed to escape. We have no idea where any of them are now.”

“We shouldn’t have allowed the bastard to live within our borders,” Elliott said. “Gunter was right.” He sighed. “I never expected to hear myself say that.”

“What you have to understand now” — Lazio hesitated as if trying to decide how to phrase his statement tactfully —- “is that people are frightened. You need to reassure them. Reassert your leadership.”

“You mean you think that Gunter is going to try to proclaim himself the boss.”

“I think it’s very likely,” Lazio said. “And frankly, even Judy isn’t sure she trusts your judgment anymore.”

Elliott smiled bitterly. “Good for her.”

Lazio blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Why should anyone trust my generalship?” Elliott demanded. “I sent our people out to die. Hell, Rosalita was only a fledgling and her instincts were better than mine. She sensed trouble coming before I did. And then 1 couldn’t save her!”

“Every commander occasionally finds himself outwitted or outmaneuvered,” Lazio said. “I know that from listening to Roger’s war stories. I still believe that, in his absence, you’re the best man to lead the defense. He certainly thought so.”

“Then maybe he was always crazy!” Elliott snarled. Lazio’s eyes widened in shock, and then he scowled. The Toreador felt another rush of shame. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I’m not up to the challenge. I can feel my inadequacy even if you can’t see it.”

“You couldn’t help Mary, and now you’re afraid that you’ll fail everybody else. But no one could have prevented what happened to her.”

“Don’t try to be my psychiatrist or my confessor, Lazio. No offense, but you’re not qualified. No mortal is.”

The dresser laid his bony hand on Elliott’s shoulder. “As the years passed, some people thought your grief was excessive, even affected, but I never did. She was a wonderful person.”

“Yes,” Elliott said heavily, “yes, she was. I always thought that we Toreador were uniquely blessed among the clans

because vve could love one another as passionately as mortals do. The joys of creation and aesthetic appreciation we share take the place of sex. But now I think our nature is a curse. You can’t imagine what it’s like to lose someone you’ve adored for three hundred years!”

Lazio shrugged. “Perhaps not. I won’t argue that particular point. But I still say that Mary would want you to fulfill your responsibilities.”

“You already played that card,” said Elliott. “I won’t succumb to the same ploy twice. She wouldn’t want me to act if she knew it would lead to disaster.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Lazio said. “There isn’t anybody else. Judy’s impulsive and reckless, Gunter’s arrogant and self-serving, and most of the time Sky’s too passive. None of them has both the personality to lead and the subtlety of mind to unravel the puzzles we desperately need to solve.”

“The identities of our enemy and Dracula,” Elliott muttered reflectively.

“Plus, who was the woman who phoned here last night?” Lazio said. “Oh, and here’s a good one. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of pieces of Toreador art out in the world, aren’t there? After all, you people have been cranking them out for centuries.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that the enemy has enough manpower to set up an ambush around even a quarter of them?”

Elliott frowned. “It does seem unlikely.”

“Then, if he could only cover a fraction of the locations, how likely is it that, purely by the luck of the draw, his men intercepted seven of our teams?”

“He must have known where our people were headed.” “Yes, and somebody needs to figure out how.”

For a moment Elliott felt intrigued by all the mystery. A part of him which had lain dormant for a long time itched to unravel it. Then another wave of self-loathing drowned the feeling.

He said, “You seem to be way ahead of everybody else—” “Only because you haven’t switched your brain on,” Lazio interjected.    '

“—maybe you should take charge.”

“Oh, yes,” said the stooped, aging mortal, raising his eyebrows. “That’ll work. I can just see all those high-and-mighty Kindred taking orders from a little nebbish of a kine like me.”

“Well, share your ideas with whoever does wind up in command.”

“Nobody else would listen to them the way you would.” Elliott shook his head. “Lazio, you can’t talk me into it, and believe me, that’s for the best. I’m going to go speak with the others because they deserve a chance to berate me for the debacle I created, but after that, I’m out of it.”

Lazio tilted back his head and spat in the vampire’s face. Elliott felt a surge of anger, a furious desire to retaliate. He trembled, fighting for self-control. “You mustn’t provoke a Kindred like that,” he said thickly. “Not even me. It isn’t safe.”

Lazio slapped him.

Snarling, his fangs extending, Elliott grabbed the human and slammed him back against one of the bookcases. He was acutely conscious of the warmth of Lazio’s flesh, the enticing scent of the blood coursing through his body, the pounding of his heart, the carotid artery pulsing in his throat.

“Do it!” Lazio gasped. “At least you’ll be doing something!"

Elliott opened his jaws and leaned forward. Lazio cringed. Then, for some reason, the vampire thought of the stricken Roger and realized that Lazio had lashed out at him only because he was so desperately worried about the prince. Abruptly ashamed of his rage, closing his eyes to shut out the sight of the human, wishing that he could seal his other senses as well, Elliott released him and stepped back.

“I’m going to the arena,” the Toreador said. “Stay away from me for the rest of the night.” He turned and strode out of the room.

As he marched through the house toward the clamor of agitated voices, he tried to calm down; attempted, in essence, to exchange his anger for his familiar bleak depression. The sadness wouldn’t feel any better, but it was how he ought to feel. How he deserved to feel.

But he was only partially successful. Lazio’s insults had roused his Beast, and once awakened, it wasn’t easily quelled. Elliott could virtually feel his personal demon pacing back and forth inside him.    .

When he reached the arena he saw that the spacious, lofty-ceilinged hall was still arranged as it had been on his previous visit: all the seats faced the harpsichord and the setup for the string quartet, the portion of the room his fellow elders were currently occupying. Sky, looking morose, was slouched on what had probably been the cellist’s straight-backed chair; Judy was sitting Indian-fashion atop the gleaming antique keyboard instrument; and Gunter, predictably, was on his feet haranguing the assembled Kindred of Roger Phillips’ domain.

Elliott tried to slink into the room unobtrusively, but it didn’t work. Pivoting dramatically in his direction, Gunter cried, “So! Back at last! What do you have to say for yourself?”

Elliott bristled at the other elder’s belligerent tone. Reminding himself that his fellow undead, even the overbearing Malkavian, had a right to reproach him, he tried to answer calmly. “I understand that several of us died last night, following the course I advocated. I regret that.”

“You regret it,” Gunter mocked. “Well, isn’t that a comfort.” •

The sarcasm was too much. Despite his resolve to bear any chastisement meekly, Elliott gave Gunter a level stare. “I don’t appreciate your tone, and I suspect that my fellow Toreador don’t either. Perhaps you wouldn’t be so flippant if it had been some of your clan who’d come to grief.”

“But there was no chance of that, w^ras there?” Judy Morgan said sourly. “I still don’t understand why no Kooks showed up at the Gardens until after the invaders got away. I know Lazio phoned you as soon as I left here.”

The ruddy-faced Malkavian glowered at her. “We’ve already been over this. We got there as soon as we could; your skirmish just didn’t take very long.”

Grateful that Judy had changed the subject, Elliott headed for a vacant seat in the back. When they saw he didn’t intend to join the rest of the primogen at the front of the room, some of his fellow Toreador frowned and muttered back and forth. Sky gazed at him beseechingly, Judy gave him an inscrutable, narrow-eyed stare, and Gunter leered in malevolent satisfaction.

As Elliott dropped into a chair, the Malkavian chieftain swept his eyes across the room, reestablishing contact with the audience at large. “We need to talk about one of the most important problems facing us,” he said. “What we do about it will affect our ability to resolve all our other difficulties. Roger Phillips was a great prince.” Elliott winced at Gunter’s use of the past tense. “When we had him, a single elder, in charge, we could handle any crisis with aplomb. Now, facing a challenge, we’re bereft of such leadership, and floundering.”

“I do believe I see where this is going,” said Judy, interrupting again. “You think we need a new prince. Even though Roger isn’t dead.”

“Of course not,” said Gunter, scowling. “What I’m proposing is an acting prince, call him a warlord or a marshal, someone to command until Roger recovers.”

Judy uncrossed her legs and hopped off the harpsichord.

“This is just a shot in the dark here, but are you nominating yourself?”

“In time of war,” Gunter said, “I think it would be logical for it to be either you or me, rather than a Toreador.” He gave Sky a condescending smile. “No offense, my friend. It’s just that everyone knows your people lack the killer instinct. In a way I suppose that does you credit, but perhaps if you were as fierce as the rest of us, your art thieves wouldn’t have taken such a beating last night.”

Despite his long and thorny acquaintance with Gunter, Elliott could scarcely believe that the Malkavian was exploiting the Toreador tragedy in the service of a naked grab for power. The actor’s muscles tensed with resentment. His fangs slid reflexively from his gums.

Sky gave Gunter a reproachful stare. “We were ambushed,” he said. “I doubt that your progeny would have fared any better.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Gunter soothingly. Then he gazed into the audience. “But also conceivably not. Sarasota has some magnificent fighters to call on in time of need. I can’t help wondering how the battles might have gone if those had been on the front line instead of you.” Many of the Malkavian and particularly the Brujah onlookers murmured and nodded in agreement.

Sky pouted but didn’t say anything more. He’s going to take it, Elliott thought. He’s going to let Gunter remove him from contention. He remembered a time when the poet’s effete appearance had cloaked a personality that could be decisive and even ruthless when circumstances demanded. Now EUiott wondered if the burden of the passing centuries or some private sorrow had sapped his clanmate’s inner strength, turning him into a useless shell of a Kindred like — Like, Elliott realized, himself. He felt another throb of guilt, but this one differed subtly from those he’d experienced earlier. Rather than causing him to slump in despair, it made him shift restlessly in his seat.

“If the boss is going to be you or me,” said Judy to Gunter, “how about me?” Some of the boisterous Brujah whistled and cheered.

“We could do a lot worse,” Gunter said, smiling cordially, “But may I speak frankly?”

“Could I stop you?” she asked dryly.

Gunter’s smile widened. To Elliott’s annoyance, at that moment an innocent onlooker might have mistaken the Brujah and the Malkavian for friends, even though she didn’t like her burly, flaxen-haired fellow lieutenant much better than Elliott did. “No one could fault the skill with which you fight and lead your own brood,” Gunter said. “But the domain is being attacked on a number of levels. I think our leader needs to be able to preside over every aspect of the defense, and I’m not quite as certain of your ability as an attorney or a financier. Whereas I’m quite confident of my own acumen. In the forty-eight hours since I assumed tacit, interim command of the economic front of our little war, I’ve slowed the precipitous decline in the value of our portfolio, averted a hostile takeover of our Pacific Rim conglomerate, and squelched a potentially ruinous lawsuit.” Judy frowned. For one of the few times in the century that Elliott had known her, she looked uncertain, and it was scarcely any wonder. She truly did lack any interest or expertise in the fields of law or business. She was wealthy, but only because she’d blindly followed the investment advice of Roger, Gunter and himself. “I think I could manage,” she said.

“But would you even want to?” the Malkavian asked, gazing into Judy’s eyes. Elliott wondered if Gunter was trying to control her mind. Since she possessed the same talent, Judy should be able to detect and resist such an attempt, and yet, if the Malkavian was wielding his power with sufficient finesse, it was possible that she wouldn’t. “Wouldn’t you rather leave the bean-counting and the paperwork to somebody with the knowledge and the patience to deal with it, just as you always have?”

The ex-slave shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. But here’s the thing. The Brujah are a free people.” Some of her progeny began to cheer again. She silenced them with an irritable wave of her slender hand. “We don’t owe anybody our allegiance. We chose to give it to Roger Phillips, and we would have yanked it away in a second if he’d ever abused our trust.”

“I understand that,” Gunter said, “and if you give me any authority, I’ll do my best to use it as wisely and respectfully as he did.” He grinned. “What do you think, I want you people wearing uniforms and goose-stepping? Come on, Judith, this is me! A Malkavian! A lunatic, according to common prejudice! How could my clan walk the path we tread without cherishing freedom and nonconformity as much as those of your blood do?”

Judy stared at him. “I just want it understood that my people and I expect to participate in any decision-making that affects us.”

“And you would be,” Gunter said. He turned to face the audience. “You all would be. It’s just that we need to have someone empowered to break ties, set priorities and keep things organized.”

Elliott glanced around the room at the tense, frightened faces of the other Kindred and thought, The bastard’s going to get away with it. In their currently distressed and demoralized condition, the undead of Sarasota yearned for the same kind of effective leadership that Roger Phillips had provided; Gunter had convinced them that he could deliver it. Even the normally independent Judy, perhaps rattled by her failure to capture Murdock and the intruders last night, seemed ready to go along.

An irresistible impulse carried Elliott to his feet. He wanted to charge Gunter, attack him, batter him into submission — that was the influence of the Beast, still seething inside him — but he knew that that tactic couldn’t win this particular conflict. Regretting fleetingly that he wasn’t wearing his own handsome clothing, he drew upon his charismatic powers and composed his face into an ironic smile.

Gunter swung around to face him. The ruddy-cheeked Malkavian looked surprised that his seemingly humbled rival would dare to rejoin the discussion. “Yes?” he said, an edge in his deep, faintly accented voice.

“Before this gathering grants you your field marshal’s baton,” Elliott drawled, “perhaps you’d like to tell us what plans you’ve pondered for the common defense. After all, I believe you did just promise us an open government.”

It seemed an obvious question to the Toreador, but, his piggy blue eyes narrowing, Gunter hesitated as if he were uncertain how to answer. Elliott had noticed that the Malkavian, while cunning, occasionally failed to plan for contingencies that any sensible person should have been able to anticipate. Perhaps it was a manifestation of his underlying madness.

“Redouble our efforts to patrol and fortify the domain, catch the Dracula murderer, determine our enemies’ identities, and protect our holdings,” said Gunter at last.

“That’s brilliant,” said Elliott, and was gratified when a few of the audience laughed. Gunter’s heavy jaw clenched in anger. “With all due respect, my worthy colleague, we scarcely need a deputy prince to exhort us to pursue plans we’ve already initiated.”

“I suppose you have some more ‘brilliant’ ideas of your own,” Gunter replied, his voice dripping scorn.

“I’m not running for warlord,” Elliott replied. In a sense, that was a lie. He was fairly certain that either he or Gunter would emerge from his meeting as de facto if not official commander of the defense. “So I didn’t prepare a formal platform. Fortunately, given the, shall we say, lack of progression in your own thinking, that doesn’t place me at any sort of disadvantage.” Once again some of the assembled Kindred laughed. “As it happens, I do have an idea or two.” In point of fact, he didn’t have a clue what he was going to say next, but he felt what had become an unfamiliar confidence that he could improvise something appropriate.

The actor strode toward the front of the room, establishing eye contact with the audience in the process, trying to cast the spell of his personality over them. “First off, it should be obvious to anyone with good sense” — he shot Gunter a mocking glance — “that we have a security leak. The enemy intercepted too many Toreador; they knew where we were going.” The crowd babbled. Elliott quirked the corners of his mouth down in the hint of a frown, and the assembled Kindred obediently fell silent again. “Until we find out how they knew, I’m afraid that we need the opposite of an open government. Our leaders, whoever they are, should weave certain plans in secret, only informing those agents responsible for carrying them out.”

Elliott reached the front of the arena. “The recovery of the art,” he said, “will continue.”

The audience clamored again. Gunter guffawed. “And people call the Malkavians mad!” he said. “Didn’t you kill enough of us last night?”

“1 regret that the first sortie came to grief,” Elliott said. “For what it’s worth, I accept the responsibility for not organizing it properly. But one tragedy doesn’t alter the fact that our creations must be protected. There are ways to reduce the risk. The secrecy I just mentioned should do it. And we’ll go after them in force. If our enemies somehow intercept us again, we’ll make them sorry.”

“You just don’t understand, do you?” Gunter said. “Nobody else thinks the damn art is important anymore, not even your ow^rn kind.”

Elliott regarded the other Toreador, some strikingly beautiful, others makers of beauty as he himself had once been, assembled in the room. They peered back at him uncertainly. In some of their faces he saw doubt, in some fear, and in some a glimmer of hope, but in few the loathing and bitter reproach his guilt had led him to expect.

“I wonder if he’s right,” said Elliott, gesturing to Gunter without taking his eyes off the crowd. He summoned all his powers of persuasion, the natural ones honed through centuries of acting and the inhuman ones derived from his undead nature. “Perhaps he is, and perhaps the rest of you are wiser than I am. After all, you’re immortal. Why should you risk your lives for any cause when you can be young and strong forever? And let’s be honest. If our mysterious foe knows where all the art is, and if he continues to attack it as aggressively as he has hitherto, we can only hope to save a fraction of it, no matter how zealously and fearlessly we proceed. So why bother?

“Well, here’s one reason. How do you feel every time you read a newspaper or turn on CNN and learn that a work has been vandalized? It’s like a piece of your soul has been ripped to pieces, isn’t it?” Once again, Elliott was briefly conscious of the irony that he himself could no longer experience the emotion he was describing, but he was less aware of the discrepancy than he’d been two nights previously. He’d been a method actor for hundreds of years before the term was coined, and, now thoroughly immersed in the role of an exemplar of the Toreador ethos, he did feel an essentially bogus but convincing counterfeit of his clanmates’ grief, just as he’d once felt the infatuation of Romeo and the jealousy of Othello.

Toby, a grizzled Toreador seated just in front of the harpsichord, a glassblower whose exquisite creations had been smashed in the first wave of destruction, began to sob.

“I want you to imagine,” Elliott continued, “how we’ll feel if the destruction goes on night after night and we don’t lift a finger to stop it. When our heritage, the justification for our very existence, is lost forever. 1 believe we’ll find that we’ve died inside. That our powers of creation have deserted us. And that our endless existence has become an intolerable burden!”

“Tell it,” Judy murmured.

“We Toreador have heard our bloodline disparaged here tonight,” Elliott continued. “I won’t respond in kind. I admire the Brujah and the Malkavians.” He glanced at Gunter. “Most of them, anyway.” This time, his quip got a bigger laugh, a sign that more of the audience had fallen under his spell. “But I don’t esteem any clan more than my own. History from the Greece of Homer on down to the present day demonstrates than no bloodline is worthier, or, if challenged, braver and deadlier than ours. Some of you youngsters have hitherto lived in peace. Fate has never afforded you the opportunity to discover just how formidable you are. I promise you that the talents which are our birthright make us a match for any opponent. Let’s use them to save our heritage and lay our enemy low!”

For a moment the room was silent, and Elliott wondered if his eloquence had failed him. Then someone began to applaud enthusiastically, and a woman cried, “I’m with you! Save the art!” Other hands joined in the clapping —

A crash resounded through the arena. Startled, Elliott whirled to see that Gunter had interrupted the Toreador’s demonstration of support by lifting a chair and dashing it to the floor.

“I don’t blame you for getting sucked in by his nonsense,” the Malkavian said to the crowd. “It’s that voice of his. It bewitches even Kindred who possess the same power. But for your own sakes, think! Everyone here knows that Elliott Sinclair has been useless for years. He’s done his level best to avoid being saddled with even the simplest responsibilities. Now, suddenly, some feckless whim has prompted him to want to lead us. But do you really want to trust him with your lives?”

“You’re essentially right about me,” Elliott said. Gunter’s beady blue eyes narrowed in wary confusion. “Everyone knows the flaws in my character and the stains on my record. But if indeed someone else must lead while Roger lies stricken, perhaps the domain would be better off with a reluctant caretaker like me than an ambitious schemer like you. 1 doubt that I’m the only one who would fear for the prince’s safety if you ever managed to ensconce yourself as his logical successor.”

Gunter’s fangs slid over his lower lip. Articulating with difficulty, he said, “There’s only one answer to that. You claimed that the Toreador are mighty fighters. Here’s your chance to prove it.”

Despite his own anger, Elliott didn’t want to brawl. He was now fairly certain he could win a duel of words; he was far less sure of his ability to prevail in physical combat. Drawing on his charismatic powers, trying to strike awe and uncertainty into the Malkavian’s heart, he stared him coldly in the eye. “You forget yourself,” the actor said. “Violence is forbidden in a meeting such as this. Roger decreed as much long ago.”

This time his talent didn’t work. “I knew you were a coward,” Gunter said. Some of his brood laughed, shouted their agreement, or made clucking-chicken noises.

“It doesn’t matter what rules Roger laid down,” Judy murmured to Elliott. “Not now. The confrontation got too nasty; you guys threw too many insults back and forth. Now your honor’s on the line. You either have to fight the son of a bitch or step aside and let him be boss.”

“Then I’ll fight him,” Elliott said, his own fangs slipping from their sockets. Despite his reluctance, now that he’d committed himself to battle he couldn’t help sharing the Beast’s excitement at the prospect of spilling an enemy’s blood. Judy and Sky retreated a few paces down the back wall, giving the combatants a little more room to battle.

Gunter stuck his hand inside his tan safari jacket. When he pulled it out again, it was armored in brass knuckles with protruding spikes. His body faded from view like frost melting off a windowpane.

Drawing on his superhuman speed, Elliott leaped and thrust out his leg in a side kick. His heel brushed Gunter’s now'invisible body, but didn’t connect solidly. As the Toreador landed, he heard a blow whizzing at his head. He swept up his arm with a circular motion and barely managed to block the attack.

Elliott instantly counterattacked, snapping kicks and punches at the space where he judged Gunter had just been standing. But he didn’t connect. Somehow, despite the actor’s superior quickness, his opponent had slipped aside.

Elliott slowly turned, hands poised to strike or parry. His senses probed the space around him, seeking a flicker of aura or a blur of movement, the rustle of a canvas jacket or the creak of shoe leather, or the scent of the stolen vitae in Gunter’s system. It was no use; he couldn’t zero in on his opponent. The Malkavian elder’s powers of concealment seemed capable of thwarting even his own heightened perception, at least now that the excited members of the audience were shouting cheers, advice and catcalls.

The Toreador wondered if he could goad Gunter into revealing his whereabouts. Drawing once more on his charisma, he cried, “Now who’s the coward? Show yourself! Fight like a man!”

“But I’m not a man,” Gunter replied. His voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. Elliott couldn’t home in on it. “I’m a Cainite, a real one, not a spineless, whining mockery like you.”

Elliott sensed a blow streaking at his back. Raising his arm to block, he spun, a split second too slowly. Cold metal points tore into his shoulder. He stumbled, and the audience cried out.

Recovering his balance, the actor pounced, grabbing for his unseen opponent. His fingers only closed on air. Another blow slammed pain into his ribs and flung him staggering sideways. He almost fell on some of the spectators before he recovered his equilibrium.

“Give up,” Gunter said, “before I really hurt you. Go home and resume your sulking, and leave war to the warriors.”

Struggling to block out the pain of his wounds and the scent of his own blood, Elliott tried to sense the Malkavian’s location. It was still impossible.

The Toreador wondered if he should stand with his back against the wall to keep Gunter from creeping up behind him. After a second, he rejected the idea. Such a purely defensive posture would limit his ability to maneuver, partially cancelling out whatever advantage his supernatural agility gave him. It might also persuade the onlookers, whom this spectacle must ultimately impress, that he was afraid. Instead he edged toward the string quartet’s music stands and chairs.

Then at last he glimpsed an evanescent smear of motion behind the harpsichord. He suspected that Gunter had permitted him to spot it, to lead him in that direction and set him up for another attack. Pretending that he’d seen nothing, he halted and said, “Come on. Let’s move this along before the audience gets bored.”

After a moment, he thought he heard a footfall beside the harpsichord. He was tempted to charge at the noise, but he was still afraid that Gunter was setting him up, or that the Malkavian would be able to get out of the way. Better to stick to the plan, force his opponent to initiate the next flurry of action, even if it cost him another wound.

For a few more seconds nothing happened. Then, suddenly, he sensed a punch speeding at the side of his head, a blow that could fracture his skull or rip out an eye. Frantically, he sidestepped and blocked. The parry lashed through the air without catching Gunter’s arm, but the Malkavian’s spiked fist didn’t connect, either.

This time Elliott didn’t attempt to strike back with his bare hands. He grabbed one of the musicians’ chairs and, spinning, swept it around in a circle, as if it were his partner in some madly athletic dance.

Gunter was a good fighter, skillful at making the most of his invisibility. Ordinarily he could sneak up, attack and retreat back out of striking range before even an inhumanly agile opponent like Elliott could get a fix on him and retaliate. But the chair extended the Toreador’s reach. Gunter didn’t move far enough fast enough.

The chair crashed into an unseen obstacle; the impact stung Elliott’s hands. Becoming gray and translucent, half-visible, Gunter reeled against the harpsichord. Elliott sprang after him and battered him about the head and shoulders with the remains of the shattered seat.

Becoming completely visible, Gunter tried to shield himself with his arms, but to little avail. He couldn’t block as quickly as Elliott could swing. After a few moments, his scalp streaming fragrant vitae, he collapsed to one knee.

Elliott yearned to throw himself on the Malkavian and sink his fangs into his throat. Repressing the impulse, he snapped a rod out of what was left of the back of the chair, grabbed Gunter, jerked him to his feet, and pressed the jagged point of the makeshift wooden stake against his adversary’s chest. “Do you surrender?” he said.

Gunter’s furious blue eyes bored into his. “Back off!” the blond vampire said. “Back, back, back!”

For a second, Elliott’s head swam and his knees felt rubbery, but Gunter’s hypnotic powers failed to overcome his will. Perhaps his near-frenzy rendered him less susceptible. In any event, he yanked the Malkavian up on tiptoe and jabbed the stake an inch into his chest. “Surrender! Do you think I won’t ram this through your heart and take your head? You’ve been asking for it for more than a century!”

The threat was a bluff. Furious as he was, Elliott still had sufficient presence of mind to grasp that he mustn’t risk alienating the Malkavians by slaughtering their leader, not when every hand was needed for the common defense. But, perhaps influenced by the actor’s charismatic talents, or simply cowed by the beating he’d received, Gunter evidently didn’t realize it. For an instant his angry glower slipped, and he looked afraid.

“All right,” the flaxen-haired elder said, retracting his fangs. “I surrender. I withdraw my suggestion that we appoint a deputy prince. And despite your previous lapses, I concede your right to participate in all deliberations of the primogen.”

“Thank you,” Elliott said dryly. He let Gunter go and stepped away from him. The audience whistled, clapped and cheered. Some of them surged out of their seats and clustered around the victor, babbling congratulations.

“I didn’t think you still had it in you,” Judy said. “Welcome back, El. You’ve been gone too long.”

Elliott’s anger faded, supplanted by a feeling of unreality. How, he wondered, could he have entered this chamber intent on disengaging himself from the present crisis and ended up fighting for the right to command the defense? But of course he knew the answer; the Beast was to blame. Once roused, it wasn’t inclined to suffer slights from anyone. Perhaps Lazio had been counting on that when he spat in his face and slapped him.

All right, mortal, Elliott thought grimly, you’ve finally got me where you wanted me. I just hope 1 don’t give you cause to regret it.

From across the room, the gashes in his scalp and forehead already healing, Gunter glared at him. His expression promised Elliott that, no matter what public concessions the Toreador had wrung out of him, the conflict between them wasn’t over.