On a Darkling Plain (48 page)

“Yeah,” Dan said, “but I don’t want you messing around in my head anymore, for any reason. Now that I know you screwed me up, I’m hoping my attitude will get better by itself. If it doesn’t, I’ll live with it.

“Look, here’s how it is. As long as you haven’t paid me anything, you still owe me. And as long as you do, maybe you won’t feel like it’s okay to use me in any more of your dirty little Jyhad plots and games, even if I
don’t
quite exist. Maybe you’ll leave me alone. And that’s what I
really
want.”

He wheeled and marched back up the beach. For a few strides he was glad he’d vented his resentment, and then the feeling gave way to a twinge of guilt. Perhaps he’d been lonely and frightened too often not to feel a certain pity for anyone, even a goddess, whose existence seemed dominated by the same emotions. Maybe he ought to make it clear that he didn’t actually
hate
her. Finally he glanced back over his shoulder; but by that time, Melpomene was gone.

♦

Looking idly about, Elliott decided that the victory celebration was the most lavish party Roger had ever given. A horde of elders from across the continent and even Europe had turned out to partake of the festivities. Some of the lean, pallid guests were admiring the treasure trove of stolen art on display all around the grand saloon. Others were contemplating the skulls of Dracula and Durrell, exhibited with equal prominence in a display case by the main entrance. Many were murmuring together, gossiping, conspiring, exchanging witty barbs and sizing each other up. Quite a few were clustered around the prince himself, congratulating him on his recovery. Though Roger undoubtedly discerned the malice and hypocrisy that underlay many of their felicitations, he acknowledged each with impeccable grace and only the subtlest irony.

Loitering unobtrusively by the kitchen door with his arm, wounded during the raid on Camelot, in a sling, Lazio kept a watchful eye on Roger as if expecting someone else to try to lay a curse on him, right here, tonight. Over by the bar Gunter was haranguing Walter, the hawk-faced, long-haired

Brujah whom the prince had chosen to replace Judy among the primogen. No doubt the Malkavian was attempting to forge an alliance. Beside them stood Lionel Potter, sullenly sipping vitae from a goblet, glowering as if he resented the fact that his ministrations had ultimately played no role in his illustrious patient’s cure. And near the gleaming black grand piano, where a Toreador was performing a Cole Porter medley, Otis and Catherine were chatting once again. Elliott wondered if they actually
had
made peace. Maybe animosity between vampires
could
end somewhere short of the grave; though God knew, you couldn’t prove it by the Methuselahs.

For his own part the actor was pleased to see the domain restored to its customary splendor. Yet he felt edgy and vaguely alienated as well, from himself as much as from the throng around him. The demands of the crisis he’d just weathered had forced him from his lethargy and despair, and even led him to a cathartic vengeance. Yet now that the emergency was over, he felt somehow hollow and incomplete, a stranger to himself, uncertain to what extent his spirit had truly healed, or whether he’d actually be able to pick up the threads of his former existence.

Across the room, Angus disengaged himself from a circle of sycophants and made his way over. Though the giant Gangrel’s tuxedo was well-tailored, somehow it still looked about as natural on him as it would on a gorilla. He stuck out a hairy hand. “Good-bye, my friend.”

Elliott clasped the other Kindred’s powerful, callused fingers. “You’re leaving?”

“Why not?” Angus replied. “Everything’s back to normal, isn’t it?”

Elliott nodded; with DurrelPs notes in their possession, it had been easy to dismantle the last remnants of his organization and thus bring an end to the destruction of art and the legal and financial chicanery. “And a party like this is way too refined for a crude Outlander like me.”

“Where are you headed?” Elliott asked.

“I haven’t decided,” Angus said, the gold ring in his ear gleaming in the soft glow of the sweet-smelling white candles and the crystal chandeliers. “Maybe I’ll take up my Justicar duties again, or check in with my own clan, or go back to the wilderness. The only thing I’m sure of is that I’m not going down into the ground, not yet. I’m not ready to be like her.”

Elliott wondered what Angus meant, but he sensed that the shapeshifter wouldn’t want him to inquire. “Well, good luck, and thank you from the bottom of my heart. You saved us all.”

“You’re welcome,” said Angus, grinning. “It was a grand hunt. It was fun.”

Elliott lifted an eyebrow. “That’s not the description that would have sprung to my mind.” Angus laughed, gripped his shoulder and then strode out the door.

The actor lingered in the hall for another few minutes, chatting when someone spoke to him, but approaching no one himself. Gradually he came to the realization that he’d rather be alone with his thoughts. He caught Roger’s eye, smiled and waved, then slipped through the exit.

Outside the Performing Arts Center the night was cool, and the breeze bore the scents of verdure and the sea. Elliott could still hear the bright melody tinkling from the piano, now muted by the building’s marble facade. As he removed his car keys from his pocket the full moon caught his eye.

It was perfectly round, its radiance sublimely pure, its surface mottled with exquisite shadings, altogether more beautiful than anyone but a Toreador could appreciate. Dimly, through the haze of his rapture, he realized that now he
had
finished healing. He had his birthright back. He continued gazing skyward until one of the parking attendants hesitantly shook him out of his trance half-an-hour later. Only then did the actor realize that his cheeks were streaked with bloody tears, his shirtfront sodden with it — but for once, he didn’t mind being disheveled.