On a Darkling Plain (16 page)

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
^r
as 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.