On a Darkling Plain (30 page)

Elliott grinned at him. “That would be preferable, wouldn’t it?”

Durrell hastened toward the stage. Lacking Angus’ inhuman strength and grace, he had to clamber up out of the orchestra pit. Elliott derived a bit of pleasure from seeing his would-be torturer’s dignity compromised, even if only for a moment.

Rising to his feet, the Warlock looked at the bench. “If I may proceed?” Guice nodded curtly. “Then could we have some room, please?” Angus and Judy stepped back, the latter with manifest reluctance, abandoning center stage to Durrell and his subject.

Elliott felt a twinge of apprehension, which he did his best to mask. “If I remember my vaudeville days,” he said to the Tremere, “you’re supposed to ask the audience for absolute silence, too.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Durrell said, smiling thinly. He plucked a silver stickpin, its circular head embossed with a cryptic hieroglyph, from his lapel. “However, I will require a drop of your vitae.”

Elliott offered his index finger. Durrell pricked the tip, squeezed out a blob of fragrant blood, and smeared it in the palm of his own white hand. The Toreador noticed that the other Kindred had been correct. Even if he did want quiet, it hadn’t been necessary to ask for it. The onlookers, most of whom had never had the opportunity to witness any of the legendary Tremere sorcery, were watching in fascinated silence.

Durrell lifted his hand to his face, causing Elliott to wonder if he intended to lick the vitae off. But the Warlock simply inhaled deeply, filling his head with the coppery scent. Then, lowering his arm again, he used his finger to draw a symbol in the crimson liquid. “Please close your eyes and open your mind,” he said.

Elliott obeyed. For a moment nothing happened, and then a terrible vertigo seized him. He felt the world spin, and he staggered to stay on his feet.

The dizziness was matched by a comparable feeling inside his brain. His
thoughts
were whirling too, disintegrating into a maelstrom of confusion.

The surface under his shoes abruptly stopped rotating, throwing him off-balance once more. Reeling, he opened his eyes. He had a vague sense that he shouldn’t, that he’d told someone that he’d keep them closed, but he longer remembered to whom he’d said it, or why.

He found he was standing in the foyer of his own home. For a moment everything looked strange. The soft lights burning beyond the doorways. The high corners of the hall. The sweet-smelling yellow roses in the delicate white porcelain vase, and the green marble-topped stand on which they sat.

He shook his head, perplexed at his own reaction. Nothing was strange. The house looked the way it usually did. He didn’t understand why he was picturing it as it had
never
been — neglected, shrouded in shadow with veils of cobweb hanging in the corners, the vase full of long-withered blooms, dust coating every surface and hanging in the air.

He couldn’t remember when, or from whom, he’d last drunk. He wondered if he’d imbibed vitae laced with alcohol or drugs. He supposed it didn’t matter; his disorientation was fading. Noticing the sheaf of neatly typed pages in his hand, he remembered that he’d gone away alone to finish his new comedy without distractions. Well, the piece was done now, and it had a wonderfully funny part for Mary. Eager to see her, kiss her and show her the script, he called her name.

His shout echoed through the building. No one replied.

Puzzled — he’d phoned and told her to expect him this evening, hadn’t he? — he ranged through the lavishly furnished ground floor of the house. Neither she nor anyone else was there, so he headed for the second story.

Halfway up the staircase the odor hit him, the rich scent of Kindred vitae mingled with a sickening stench of decay. Suddenly terrified, moving with every iota of his superhuman speed, he charged up the steps.

He found his wife, both pieces of her, lying on the bedroom floor, her yellow hair as luxuriant as ever but the flesh already black and rotten on her bones. She was still wearing the gorgeous sky-blue silk kimono she used for a dressing gown, and several of the gold and crystal vials on her vanity — the cosmetics he’d never been able to convince her she didn’t need — were open. Evidently the killers had surprised her shortly after sunset, while she was still busy with her toilet.

Elliott couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Mary was both the most wonderful, important person in the world and a powerful immortal, a queen of the night. Someone like that couldn’t simply be butchered like a beast in her own boudoir. It wouldn’t make any sense.

And yet, simultaneously, he
did
believe it. He understood instantly, instinctively, that the center of his life, the fountainhead of all his joys, was gone forever, and that all the best parts of himself had perished with her. He threw back his head and howled like an animal.

The room spun, whirling him into darkness.

When the light returned, he was climbing the stairs, looking for Mary and shaking with fear, though he didn’t understand why. Just because she hadn’t answered his call and he hadn’t found her on the first floor, that didn’t mean anything was wrong. Then he smelled blood and decay, and his dread turned to outright horror. He bolted up the steps, into the bedroom, beheld the carnage and shrieked

The world went dark, then light, like a great eye blinking.

His nose full of the smells of rot and vitae, Elliott raced across the landing, burst into the bedroom and saw his wife’s decapitated body. He screamed in anguish.

The universe lurched, and now he’d just this instant blundered into the bedroom doorway. Spying Mary’s lifeless and desecrated body, he cried out. Then the moment repeated, over and over again, the bursts of agonizing grief and despair pounding his mind like a hammer.

He couldn’t tell how many times he’d relived the instant of discovery. Oblivious to everything but his pain, he didn’t know that each time wasn’t the first. But finally, wailing, his hands upraised as if he were King Lear raging on the heath, he noticed the red streak of blood on his finger.

Time skipped backward, repeating that one second like a scratched record, scrambling his thoughts. He nearly forgot about his wounded hand.

Nearly, but not quite. Because he couldn’t recall how he’d hurt himself, and somehow the blood wasn’t right. He had a sense that it didn’t belong in this ghastly place and time.

That suspicion did not halt the agony associated with Mary’s destruction; nor did it enable him to grasp that he was trapped in a single recurring moment, or otherwise restore his capacity for rational thought. Yet murkily, instinctively, he fumbled after the meaning of the tiny injury, groping in his own head like a drowning man struggling to reach a life line.

A series of images tumbled through his mind. He was standing on stage. But not for a performance, because he had a sense that he was in danger. And then a Kindred with a pinched, sober-looking face that reminded him of Cromwell and his Roundheads climbed up on the platform and stuck his finger with a silver pin. The other vampire’s name was Durrell, and he was one of the Tremere!

Though Elliott’s thoughts were still fragmented, he now seemed to remember that Durrell had cast a spell on him. And if that were so, perhaps this hideous experience was only a dream. He strained to wake himself up, just as, when mortal, he’d often managed to rouse himself from a nightmare.

It didn’t work. The sight of Mary’s severed head, with its skeletal grin and eyes dissolving into slime, smashed at him again and again and again, until he began to doubt that his recollection of Durrell was real. Perhaps it was merely a delusion manufactured by his mind in a last-ditch effort to deny the truth of his wife’s murder. Certainly, he felt himself going mad.

And perhaps it was that very disintegration of reason, or his Toreador powers of perception, that at last enabled him to grasp intuitively the nature of his situation. This moment, this experience was true. Mary was dead, and he couldn’t escape by hysterically insisting otherwise. Yet the moment was a lie, as well, because she was
long
dead, her murder savagely avenged and her bones laid reverently to rest. If there was any justice in the universe, her spirit had found bliss in some paradise for joyous, loving souls. Elliott felt a surge of rage at the cruelty that would force anyone to relive such excruciating grief when the pain should have faded long ago.

Fighting the pull of the spectacle before him and the overwhelming anguish it inspired, he struggled once again to free himself from the illusion. Abruptly, Mary’s corpse, and the bedroom around it, evaporated.

TWENTOTHE
PROMISE

Better it is that thou shouldest not voui, than that thou shouldest vow and not pay.

— Ecclesiastes 5:5

Elliott saw that he was back in the theater. His body jerked involuntarily: his kinesthetic sense was addled since, although he’d believed he was standing in a doorway, clutching at the jamb, he now perceived that at some point during his torment he’d fallen to his knees. His eyes stung and his cheeks, chin, lapels, shirt collar and the top of his tie were wet with blood. Indeed, he’d wept away so much vitae that he could feel the Hunger stirring. His throat ached severely. Evidently he’d shrieked it raw.

Drawing on his inhuman speed, he scrambled up into a crouch, hurled himself at Durrell and carried him down with a flying tackle. Straddling the Tremere, he raised his fist to pummel him.

But then he remembered why the other Kindred had bewitched him in the first place. It had been an ordeal, sanctioned by the Conclave, and the point had been to see whether he’d emerge from it with his sanity intact. It might give Guice and Angus the wrong impression if he tore Durrell limb from limb. It took willpower, but he managed to lower his arm.

“My apologies,” he rasped to the Tremere. “I’m in control now.” He blinked as an insight struck him. “And I don’t suppose I have any right to be angry with you. All you did to me was what I’ve been doing to myself for years on end.”

Powerful hands gripped him and hauled him off Durrell. Turning his head, he saw that Judy and Angus had taken hold of him. “I really am all right,” he said, beginning to hate the froggy croak of his voice. The Brujah and the Gangrel exchanged glances, then released him. “How long was I in the trance?”

“About fifteen minutes,” Judy said.

M31
god,
Elliott thought with a kind of awe.
If time skipped back every second or two, that means I relived the discovery of Mary’s body at least
— He cringed even from doing the arithmetic.

“What did you think was happening to you?” Judy asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Elliott said. Knowing that the effort was futile, he quickly tried to mend his appearance, wiping his face with a handkerchief and straightening his ruined tie and lapels. He reflected ironically that he hoped the audience had enjoyed the geek show he’d provided. Then he turned to Guice and Angus. “Gentlemen, though both my voice and my appearance are rather the worse for wear, I’m as sane as I was at the start of the Conclave. I’ve passed your test.”

“I agree,” Angus rumbled. Elliott thought he heard a note of respect in the Gangrel’s voice that hadn’t been there before.

Frowning, Guice hesitated as if he were unwilling to grant the judgment to Roger Phillips’ primogen even now'. A hostile murmur ran through the theater. “All
right,”
the

Ventrue said, a little petulantly. “With the understanding that the Toreador will respect the Fifth Tradition, even when taking back their art” — Elliott inclined his head in acquiescence — “I’ll permit the present situation to stand. For the moment.”

Angus stared at him coldly. “For the moment?”

“My esteemed colleague!” said Guice, smiling, some of his accustomed joviality oozing back into his voice. “What a suspicious glare and tone! Whatever do you take me for? I assure you, I would
never
seek to reverse a judgment unilaterally that we two had reached together. But I do feel a responsibility to monitor the situation in this domain. And, if it doesn’t stabilize in the near future, to communicate my concerns to our masters of the Inner Circle.”

“Fine. But it will stabilize. Do you think I came to Sarasota just to dabble in politics?” he asked contemptuously. “I came to address the one local problem of true concern to the Camarilla as a whole. To hunt down Dracula. And I promise to catch her in seventy-two hours.” The Assembly babbled in excitement. “Will that ease your anxieties?” Guice blinked. “Ah, yes, I suppose so.
If
you truly can.” “Then let’s ring down the curtain on this circus.” The giant Kindred wheeled and strode toward the wings.

Caught by surprise again, Guice stared after his departing colleague for a moment, then hastily rapped with his gavel. “The Conclave is adjourned,” he said. “Thanks to one and all for your participation.”

The remaining vampires began to exit the stage. Elliott was eager to catch up with Angus, but when he made it into the shadowy wings and saw Gunter trudging along dispiritedly just a few feet away, he decided to confront the Malkavian without delay, while he was still demoralized. Employing his supernatural speed and agility, the actor suddenly whirled, rushed the ruddy-cheeked Kindred and grabbed him by the throat, thrusting him against the wall.

“All right,” Elliott said, “you’ve played your little game and discovered how it can blow up in your face. This maneuver tonight was your final ploy. From now on, you’re going to forget all about seizing praxis and devote yourself to helping Judy and me defend the domain. Otherwise, I’ll destroy you. Is that clear?”

Gunter glared. His fangs began to lengthen, and his muscles bunched. For a moment Elliott thought he was going to have to fight him again. But then the Malkavian lowered his eyes. “All right,” he grumbled, “you win. For now. But in a year or two, when the threat is past and if Roger is no better....

Elliott inspected Gunter’s aura. The pale envelope of light glowed dull orange and gray, a mix suggestive of anxiety, dejection and resignation, which seemed to indicate that the Malkavian was sincere. The actor released him and then, seized by an impulse he never would have anticipated, grinned and clasped his shoulder. “I understand. Better luck next time. Let’s just hope that there’s something left for us to wrangle over. Excuse me, please.” As he strode away he could sense Gunter’s gaze on his back, but it felt more surprised and speculative than hostile.