On a Darkling Plain (42 page)

What I imagine,
Dan thought grimly,
is that Melpomene told me the truth about one thing, anyway. You Methuselahs
are
all crazy.
“I thought you said I had to cooperate for you to get at her,” he said.

“And now that you know everything, aren’t you willing to do so? Think it through, my friend. Melpomene forsook you twice over. So far, I haven’t harmed you, and you understand something of what manner of being I am. I rose from the final death. 1 have ties to an entity more powerful than Caine himself. Someday I’ll win the Jyhad, the
entire
Jyhad, and reign over this planet. Don’t you understand the futility of defying me? Wouldn’t you prefer to be on my good side?”

A wave of dread and awe swept through Dan’s mind. He cringed, tightening his bonds, and squinched shut his eyes. His courage and pride began to give way to a desperate
need
to capitulate, before his godlike captor squashed him like the gnat he was.

But something, perhaps his innate stubbornness, wouldn’t let him give in. He’s
using his damn eyes and voice on you,
he reminded himself desperately.
You aren’t really
this
scared, it’s just a trick.
And after a few more agonizing moments, his fear loosened its grip.

He decided he had nothing to lose by trying to lie one more time. Shuddering, panting reflexively — manifestations of terror he didn’t have to fake — he said, “All right! Please! I
do
want to work for you!”

Tithonys smiled. “That’s better.” Dan shivered anew, this time with surprised relief. “I
almost
believed you.” The prisoner flinched. “I see now how you managed to deceive your late associate Wyatt. But as I told you, you have no hope of fooling me. And since I evidently can’t convince you to help me in your present frame of mind, I’m afraid that I’m going to have to undertake renovations in your head.”

Dan had to struggle to keep his voice steady. “What do you mean — a Blood Bond?”

“No,” the ancient vampire replied. “Would that we could resolve the issue so painlessly. But alas, we don’t have three nights. I’m not sure I can hold on to the magic that the Count will grant me that long. And if Melpomene sensed the threat and chose to hide in slumber deep within the earth, we might not be able to find her even by exploiting your link to her. Thus I’m afraid we’ll have to change your attitude the hard way.”

Dan strained convulsively, struggling again to break his bonds. Tithonys said,
“Stop,’’
and the prisoner’s muscles locked up on him.

Frowning thoughtfully, like someone solving a puzzle, the

Methuselah began to pass his index finger through the space about twelve inches above Dan’s eyes. His fingertip left trails of blue and crimson light, as if he were finger-painting on the air.

Dan’s intuition warned him to shut his eyes, but when he tried, he couldn’t. The luminous structure materializing above him was already too beautiful. Too captivating.

“You won’t be able to stop looking,” Tithonys said. “No Toreador could. The spectacle is simply too exotic.” He added another stroke, and a bolt of agony stabbed through Dan’s skull, a pain that was as much psychic as physical.

Tithonys was right. Dan
still
couldn’t look away. If anything, the glowing matrix was even lovelier, more fascinating, than before. And yet there was something
wrong
with it, something that tortured the eyes and ripped at the foundations of the mind.

“The design is a hyperspatial construct,” Tithonys said. He added another curve of azure sheen, and Dan screamed. “It exists in five dimensions. Unfortunately, the average psyche, kine or Kindred, is only equipped to see in three. If one forces the psyche to exceed that limitation, the result is anguish.” He added a final scarlet loop. “That should do it.”

“All right,” Dan croaked frantically. “I’ll help you. Just take the lights away!”

“You don’t mean that,” said Tithonys. “Even if you believe you do, you’d change your tune if I released you so soon. But by the time I return from conducting the sacrifice, you
will
mean it. You won’t care about
anything
except ending the pain.”

The Methuselah turned and strode toward an opening in the wall, his bare, filthy feet leaving tracks in the muck. Dan’s head throbbed, and he shrieked again.

THIRTYjTHE warning

Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom. It is the argument of tyrants; it is the creed of slaves.

— William Pitt the Younger, in a speech before the House of Commons

Restless, Durrell prowled through the shadows in the new, uncompleted addition to the theme park. Lattices of girders rose around him, slicing the night sky into squares. To his hypersensitive nose, the balmy air held the smell of freshly poured concrete. Off to the south, in the portion of Camelot that was open to the public, colored lights glowed, rides groaned and clattered, and competing strains of modern pop and medieval music sounded from various pavilions.

Unlike many of his fellow Tremere, Durrell wasn’t truly psychic. His great talent was casting spells. But he sometimes suspected that he had a vestige of second sight, because he occasionally got edgy shortly before something went wrong. That was how he felt tonight.

Shaking his head as if to clear it, he reminded himself that his formless premonitions had proved wrong as often as they’d been correct. Perhaps he was simply out of sorts because the campaign against Sarasota was advancing so slowly, or perhaps because he and his associates had had such a close call last night. The mysterious Dan Murdock might easily have gotten away, and God — and presumably Timothy, by now — knew how much the Caitiff had learned sneaking around the chantry, or what he might ultimately have done with the information.

Despite his usual reluctance to visit Timothy’s warren, Durrell decided to go and learn the results of the interrogation. Perhaps the intelligence would soothe his jangled nerves. He turned, glancing around for the nearest entrance to the service tunnels, and then a hand tapped him on the shoulder.

Badly startled, the Tremere jerked around to see that somehow Timothy had crept up behind him. “Good evening,” said the ancient Kindred. “Can you spare a cigarette?”

His hands shaking slightly as he struggled as usual to conceal the mixture of artificial devotion and largely genuine fear that Timothy inspired in him, Durrell removed a gilt silver cigarette case and matchbox, both gifts from Aleister Crowley, from his pocket. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you outside your cave,” he said.

“I have rather urgent news,” said Timothy. Maddeningly, instead of going ahead and relating it he paused to take one of the custom-made Turkish cigarettes. He waved away the matches, however, and when he placed the cigarette between his lips, the tip began to burn of its own accord. “I’m afraid Murdock was working for Elliott Sinclair. During his reconnaissance, he learned your identity and exactly what we’re up to. And he managed to relay the information before your people captured him.”

For a moment Durrell could only gape in horror. “What are you telling me? I thought you said you were certain that we captured him before he could do any real damage!”

Timothy shrugged. “I didn’t see how he could have, considering that the phone in his rental car didn’t work. The circuits were fused. And my
instincts
told me no harm had been done. Apparently even I can err occasionally. I’ve since learned that Sinclair, his subordinates and certain allies are assembling in Orlando even now to raid Camelot as soon as it closes.”

Durrell ran his fingers through his hair. His mind felt frozen, paralyzed by the shock of his secret partner’s tidings, and he struggled to goad it into motion. “Then we have just enough time to evacuate.”

Timothy grimaced as if he were disappointed in the Tremere. “That would be foolish as well as cowardly.”

With the force of the Methuselah’s supernatural charisma behind it, the insult stung. Exerting his willpower, Durrell tried not to let it influence him. “The plan was to snipe at the Toreador from all sides, wear them down and then, if we had to, finish them off with one lightning stroke. We never figured on permitting
them
to attack
us."

“Strategies change to fit changing circumstances,” the ancient Kindred said. “That’s the nature of war, or at least it had better be if one wants to win. My astral sources tell me that thus far, desiring a personal vengeance, Sinclair and his associates haven’t revealed your identity to anyone but their troops. Destroy them tonight, win the victory for which we’ve been striving, and they never will. Disappear, however, and they’ll denounce you to the Camarilla.”

“It would be my word against theirs.”

Timothy snorted, puffing out a burst of pungent smoke. “Do you think they won’t be able to find proof to back up their allegations, now that they know where to look? If you flee, 1 imagine they’ll find damning evidence in the very chantry beneath our feet. And once they’ve made their case against you, the pleasant existence you’ve known for the past few centuries will end abruptly. You won’t be Sebastian Durrell the respected elder and magus anymore, but a

wretched fugitive. Neither the Kindred of Sarasota, your prince, your clan, nor, indeed, the Camarilla as a whole, will rest until they’ve hunted you down. Remember, you willfully threatened the Masquerade.”

Durrell swallowed. “I have Guice to protect me.”

“Guice is an amoral opportunist who’ll abandon you at the first indication that supporting you might undermine his own position. And your enemies have their own Justicar.” The Tremere grimaced. “Very well, we’ll stand our ground. I suppose it is the only way. We have troops billeted in the general area. I can summon them to act as reinforcements. The only problem is that many of them — the anarchs, for example — don’t know for whom they’re actually working.”

“You can delude them for an hour or two. After the battle begins it won’t matter if they realize they’ve been duped. With Prince Roger’s raging childer at their throats, they’ll have to keep fighting or die.”

Durrell nodded. “1 imagine Sinclair will still have us outnumbered,” he said grimly. Many of the Tremere’s minions were scattered around the world, destroying art. Others were stationed in the Sarasota area, too far away to reach Orlando in time, because he hadn’t anticipated that he might need them to defend his base.

“But you and your people know the battleground,” Timothy said encouragingly. “You have your thaumaturgy. And you have me.”

Durrell peered at his companion in surprise. Timothy’s words inspired a glow of optimism, and yet the ancient vampire had always been so concerned with concealing his existence that the wary part of the Tremere, the part that habitually resisted the Methuselah’s charismatic spell, found the promise difficult to credit. “Are you saying that you’re going to fight alongside us?”

“Absolutely,” said Timothy, gripping the magus’ shoulder. Despite his doubts, Durrell felt a surge of affection and gratitude. “Now that we’ve reached the endgame, it’s time for me to emerge from the shadows. So you see, our victory is assured. At least it will be if you get moving. You have preparations to make.”

Durrell glanced at his platinum Rolex, then felt a jolt of alarm. It was later than he’d imagined. He’d assumed he’d be able to map out a cunning defensive strategy, identify and fortify key positions, place his troops where they could do the most damage and be least vulnerable to harm. But there simply wasn’t time. Camelot would close in about eighty minutes, and no doubt the Kindred of Sarasota would storm the place immediately thereafter. “My god,” he exclaimed, “when did you figure all this out?”

“Just a few minutes ago,” Timothy replied. “Interrogations and divinations take time.”

Durrell had to admit that they did. For the average Kindred. But with his charismatic powers and command over the potent magic of
Al Azif,
shouldn’t Timothy have been able to cut the required time significantly? The Tremere’s instincts told him that the ancient vampire had been
sitting
on the information, but he couldn’t imagine why Timothy would do such a thing. Surely, if he’d decided to betray his partner, he wouldn’t have warned him of the forthcoming attack at all. The only reason for waiting until the last possible moment would seem to be to ensure a protracted, savage struggle, one in which neither side began with a clear-cut advantage and both would suffer heavy losses. But what could be the point of that?

None, Durrell supposed. Not unless, as he’d sometimes suspected, his enigmatic collaborator was profoundly sadistic or outright mad.

“You have the oddest expression,” the Methuselah said mildly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were having misgivings. You
do
trust me, don’t you, Sebastian?”

Prompted by Timothy’s charm, Durrell felt a twinge of guilt for doubting the Methuselah, but his suspicions lingered in the other, less susceptible part of his psyche. Yet there was no point in acknowledging them. Indeed, he was
afraid
to acknowledge them. “Of course I do,” he said.

The handsome Methuselah smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the gloom. It looked as if his fangs were protruding slightly, but perhaps that was only Durrell’s imagination. “Good. You can. You should. When the battle is won, your faith will be rewarded with safety, new wealth, enhanced status and all the deepest secrets of Abd al-Azrad.” For the first time, hearing the name of the grimoire Durrell felt not greed, but a pang of loathing. Because
Al Azif
was the lure that had drawn him into this mess.

“If I didn’t trust
you,”
the ancient vampire continued, his dark eyes shining, “if I suspected that you might consider running out on me, I’d feel obliged to ask you to consider who you were
more
afraid of, Sinclair and his minions, or me. I’m glad our friendship is firm enough to preclude the need for such threats.”