Gotterdammerung
The old man holds the struggling insect up to the light. Its limbs flail, frantic, as it attempts to lift off into the air and escape into the fetid darkness beyond the little Underground worker's post.
A sudden roar, and the world's filled with wind and noise as an underground train passes by. The kid shivers, and tugs his cheap fluorescent jacket more closely around him.
'This,' the old man murmurs, still observing the pest with rapt attention, 'is called culex pipiens molestus. Know what this is?'
The kid says,
'It's a mosquito.'
He likes it when the old man's jowly face contorts with pompous outrage; when, as he does now, he begins to rant about the youth of today and their utterly shameless ignorance and how this nation has collapsed ever since it abandoned its colonies and children no longer took an interest in the world around them. The old man becomes a great deal more entertaining when he becomes angry and splutters and ends up confusing himself; baiting him into rants is a productive and enjoyable way of spending the long hours in the foul concrete bowels of the earth.
'This isn't just a mosquito,' the old man snaps, waving the tiny creature aloft. 'Back in, back in the 1940s, which you'd know if you'd been educated properly, these little beauties started cropping up everywhere down here, sucking the blood out of the poor bastards sheltering in these tunnels from the Blitz at night. Culex molestus is more vicious than your average mosquito, doesn't hibernate, bites anything it can get close to, including rats - whole new species evolved to survive down here in the Underground. And they've been turning up ever since, in sewer systems across the whole damn planet. Great horde of them attacked the New York subway last year, no explanation why.'
He crushes culex pipiens molestus between his finger and his thumb and wipes the remains off on his trousers.
The kid flicks open his magazine and says, after a moment's consideration,
'You a bug freak?'
'When I was your age,' the old man tells him, wagging a pudgy finger, 'I used to go out into the countryside and catch butterflies. I collected them in albums, and I recorded their species and distinguishing characteristics.'
'Bet that got you loads of clunge,' the kid says, and turns the page.
Culex pipiens molestus lands on the back of his hand, jabs its proboscis into his flesh, and begins to feed.
He yells out and swats it, quickly;
'Fucking old wanker, can't even kill a fucking bug, man, fuck's sake, shit-'
Another insect swoops around his face; he darts for it with the magazine but misses.
The old man looks up. The tunnel is swelling with sound once again; a deep, familiar thrumming that grows louder and louder with every passing second.
'But,' he says, baffled, 'nobody's signalled the train.'
He takes a step forward, to the platform. And the swarm comes rushing forth out of the darkness, the beating of a million wings screaming louder now than any train, and lifts all fourteen stone of the old man up and swallows him whole.
The kid is on the floor, scrabbling at nothing, pushed back against the security console, his wailing lost beneath the furore of the mosquitoes, as the swarm shapes and swirls and parts and a woman comes striding out of it.
The insects are batting against his eyes, blurring his vision, even as they gather on his exposed flesh, tunnelling into the veins beneath his arms and neck, drinking deep. His skin is black and rippling with hunger.
He tries to stand; he cannot. A giddy faintness is overcoming him. Once, twice, he makes the colossal effort and almost gets himself up onto his feet before a gentle, corpse-grey hand pushes him back down. He tries to open his mouth to wail again but the bugs keep flying in and he begins to choke.
'Sssh-ssh,' croons a voice. 'Sssh-ssh. It's all right. It's quite all right.'
The kid barely has time, as the mosquitoes begin to force themselves up into his nostrils, squeezing beneath the skin of his eyelids, to ask himself how, how is it all right, before the white mist overcomes him and his head flops back against the console.
The Gadfly smiles, and extends her naked arm to let the tiny creatures settle upon it.
She says, raising her free hand to her earpiece,
'The way is clear.'
*
Grocyn is every bit as hospitable as he claims to be; it isn't long before the two of you are sat before a blazing, though quite carefully guarded, hearth in his study, the old man gesticulating at you with a lank bony finger whenever he makes a point, and beaming whenever you respond.
'Blood,' he says, 'this is, you understand, the life. For you and for I. But for the Tremere, more than any other clan, I think, we understand the common goal of our blood, the need to work in concert-'
'All mankind is of one author,' you murmur, 'and is one volume.'
'Another great graduate of our halls,' Grocyn says, inclining his head, 'despite being Kine, and he was right in this, but he fails to acknowledge favour and degree. No man is an island, but not every fraternal bond can be held equal. You will know, of course, that we have existing fraternal obligations towards a mutual acquaintance by the name of Brother David - he's been in London, I believe, putting himself forward to take the helm of your great city. Seeing as you're on the ground, as it were, I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on him.'
How to play this out?
'Personally speaking, I've heard glowing reports,' you tell him, with a genuine-sounding enthusiasm. 'You must not think, after all, that in London we are blind to goings-on outside the capital, we've heard stories of his work in Bristol, his dedication, his loyalty to the Camarilla. But - sire - if I may be candid with you, there's very little chance of his taking the position. I mean, the mere matter of recent history, unfair though it is, puts him at a serious disadvantage as a candidate, being a Tremere in London.’
Grocyn leans forward.
‘Ah, ah,’ he says, ‘I have absolutely no doubt that this is the current rhetoric. ‘There’s just no way the next Prince will be a Tremere; Samantha Eames made certain of that!’ I’m sure you’ve been hearing nothing else, it’s only to be expected. What Brother David intends to do, in the coming months, is to ensure that we are not looking at a Tremere Prince of London, but at Brother David, Prince of London. When he has made his mark, we have every confidence that your friend Archon Iacomo, and all concerned, will see our mutual friend David not as just another Tremere, stained by the shame of Samantha’s actions, but a viable candidate in his own right, less concerned about his own clan than about the glory of his own city.’
‘If you’re attempting to solicit my help,’ you insist, ‘then I have to warn you that I’m certainly not close to the Archon - and, frankly, from what I’ve seen of him, he’ll keep his own counsel on the matter and is unlikely to be swayed by any arguments on the matter.’
‘I would certainly never spoil this extremely pleasant conversation,’ Grocyn says, ‘by making such a crass suggestion. However, perhaps a little open-mindedness might be order - tonight we’re saying that a Tremere Prince of London is unthinkable, tomorrow night it’s a slight possibility, the night after it’s a certainty. And you must consider, too, that Vienna has not yet brought its weight to bear on the matter. The Archon will not be swayed by you or I, but Vienna...’
He smiles.
‘Ach,’ he adds. ‘Let us change the subject. Tell me of Mr Artzi. I have been hoping to contact him concerning the empty chantry in Greenwich. My sweet Malory, I believe, would make a splendid candidate for the position - however, I do not know if she would care for the air in south London...’
It’s almost dawn by the time you stagger away to bed. You’ll call Costello tomorrow night, you promise yourself.
Though you still can’t help feeling uncertain about Vogler’s cryptic message - he is not coming home yet. You recall, now, sitting through Wagner’s opera in a box at the Albert Hall, next to a rather cheerful and very drunk Humphrey. An ominous prophecy - and why, you wonder, couldn’t he have spelled out exactly what the problem was?
He is not coming home yet.
*
Dawn comes.
Kenneth Shaw, before an array of television cameras that take up most of the space in his Oxford hospital room, croaks that he cannot express his gratitude for the security forces who saved his life, and says that he will pray for the ‘ruthless men’ who kidnapped him and try to understand why they did what they did. The reporters are ushered out of the ward - come on, ladies and gents, the Bishop’s tired and he’s been through hell - without having a chance to take questions.
A uniformed chief inspector makes a more detailed and rather less sentimental statement that explains the mechanics of the operation; he refuses, however, to speculate as to the motives of the terrorists, saying with a shrug that all of this will come out in due course.
In the early hours of the afternoon, the corpse of Mrs Shaw is discovered, dumped in the woods eighteen miles to the north-west.
By five o’clock, wild and savagely cynical conspiracy theories are circulating about exactly what happened to Shaw; relatively few of them come anywhere close to the truth.
Of more concern, perhaps, is the intervention of the Prime Minister, who, besieged by questions about what this means for the Olympic Games, promises a full investigation into the matter while praising the efforts of the security forces.
And, inevitably, night falls once again.
*
The scent of rotten spilt beer and marijuana hangs in the air; Costello takes her seat upon the stage, adjusts the microphone, and inches about to face the few young things and ancient, drugged-up regulars sitting in the cellar bar.
She leans forward, and whispers,
'Come, seeling night.'
'Come, seeling night, scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day - and with thy bloody and invisible hand cancel and tear to pieces that great bond which keeps me pale.'
'Night thickens, and the crow makes wing to th'rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.'
'Thou marvel'st at my words: but hold thee still. Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.'
A hint of applause.
The barman, bored and sober, is playing coverage of the Olympic opening ceremony on a television set into the wall; onscreen, a distinguished ex-footballer yells, as a banner rolls across the bottom of the screen declaring that the Bishop of Oxford has been discharged from hospital,
'I'll say it again - tonight we're looking forward to the greatest show on earth!'
She stands out on the pavement afterwards, sharing a hand-rolled cigarette with an excited media studies graduate who declares that he's never met anyone who truly understood the visual complexity of the films of Nic Roeg before, and who attempts to lure her back to his bedsit in Hoxton with the promise of cocaine and a completely unheard-of band that will, quote, change her entire way of looking at music, unquote.
When he's left, made despondent and embarrassed by her intransigence but also unrealistically hopeful about her promise to call him, she checks her messages, sighs, and calls Sommers back.
'Patrician,' she coos. 'What can I do for you?'
Sommers sounds tired; his voice is hoarse.
'What's happening in London, Costello?'
Intriguingly, a couple of voices strike up faintly in the background. She strains to hear.
'Well,' she says, 'that rather depends on the level of detail you're expecting.'
'I mean,' Sommers snaps, 'there's nothing going down? Sabbat are quiet? Twelve 'clock and all's well?'
Costello glances up and down the deserted street.
'I'm nowhere near the Elysium to check,' she says, 'but I've heard nothing from nobody. There’s plenty of kine on the streets tonight, so everyone with any sense will be laying low. Is something the matter?'
A long sigh.
'I can't be certain. Someone isn't picking up their phone. Left me a rather curious message. It's only a...a...'
'...a pricking of your thumbs?'
Her ears must be mistaken, because she could swear she hears Sommers laugh.
'Indeed. A pricking of my thumbs. I'm a little on edge, perhaps. Last night was a little exhausting.'
Costello remains silent, to give the impression she has absolutely no idea what he's talking about.
‘Have you heard anything from Vogler?’ he asks. ‘Any idea what he’s been up to?’
‘Spying on your own allies, are you, Patrician? I find that rather amusing.’
‘You’re easily amused. Have you seen him?’
‘You’re easily riled. I saw him yesterday, actually. He came in wanting to know about the Underground - where the entrances to the old rivers are, where the sewers connect up - I sent him away with a few blueprints and a snide remark about learning to use Google.’
'All right,' Sommers says, after a moment. 'Let me know if you hear anything.'
He hangs up.
*
Turcov tries to call Gordon Wyther again.
'Must be underground still,' he mutters, and tosses the phone down onto the desk. 'Damn the man!'
Julian Fox says, examining his nails,
'You did, er, you did say Wyther would have something for us by tonight. I mean, Rodyon, we can hardly see Iacomo at the Taurien Club without something to show for it.'
'The night is still young,' Turcov growls. 'We don't need to have found the den by the time we arrive, we just have to ensure that the news gets to us by the end of the evening so Iacomo can hear. Wyther will deliver. Come on - Godrick's meant to be putting on a show. Smile politely and pretend to be interested in the Roman settlement of the city, and you'll be assured of his support.'
He rises up out of his study chair, flicking his tie around his collar and beginning to knot it up, and he's almost at the door as Digby Deeds steps into the room.
Turcov frowns.
'Deeds?' he says. 'What the hell are you doing here?' then, 'How did you get in unannounced?'
The young Toreador is pale, and wide-eyed. His hands are clutched tightly around the lapels of his coat.
'Rodya,' he murmurs. 'We need to talk.'
'See here,' says, Fox rising uncertainly. 'What's - what's-'
Deeds talks over him as if he doesn't even exist.
'Do you remember what you promised me, Rodya, on New Year's Eve three years ago? Standing on the balcony of your conservatory, looking out over Kew Gardens...do you remember what you promised me?'
Turcov stares at him for a moment. Then he says, gently,
'Digby - why don’t we talk about this later?'
He makes as if to take a step forward, but Deeds is blocking the doorway.
'Do you remember,' he asks, with the same low intensity in his voice, 'what you promised me?'
Turcov puts up his hands and takes a step backwards, smiling, as if to say, it's all right, calm down.
'I believe I told you,' he says, 'that I looked forward to a day when the Camarilla elected its princes, democratically and fairly. I may have said that in time I hoped to push for such a system in London - when the time was right. We've been over this, Digby-'
'Fucking liar. You...you fucking liar!'
Deeds' outstretched finger is quivering.
'You never meant it,' he snaps. 'You never meant any of it, you just used it to keep us working on your behalf, you used it to make yourself feel better, as if you weren't like the rest of them, as if you were more thoughtful, more open-minded - and the instant I tried to push for it you sent me off to fucking Wimbledon where I couldn't embarrass you any more!'
The old Ventrue's bottom lip curls, very slightly.
'I gave you,' he says, with deliberate patience, 'a barony, Digby.'
'You sent me out there to die,' Digby says. 'Swallowed up like Rannigan, out on the edge where nobody's watching and nobody cares. You're nothing but lies, Rodya, lies and self-interest and you'd make the world weak to keep yourself strong. But I've seen through you - you and your kind and the gentle faces you put on. There's no power in your masquerade any more. It took me a long time - too long, too many wasted hours - but I've broken loose at last.'
He unhooks his coat. Beneath it, five hand-grenades jangle merrily, rattling like Christmas baubles, bedecked with wires. A red detonator is gripped tightly in the palm of his hand.
Turcov glances once behind him, towards the high window of his study. It's a good ten paces. Then, turning back to meet the Toreador's eye, he says,
'Digby. I know you. I knew your sire. I have loved you as if you were my own childe. If you feel that I have treated you cruelly, if it has appeared to you that I have not treated this grand ennobling idea with due enthusiasm in these past few months, then I apologise. But I know you're a good soul - I've seen your kindness even to kine - and I know in my heart that you will not commit an act of violence against us here tonight. You will not.'
Fox stands, nervous and uncomprehending, glancing between the pair of them.
Digby hesitates. He blinks, and shakes his head as if trying to dislodge something.
'No,' he says. 'No, no, that's your Ventrue tricks, you talk, and you talk, and you hope to manipulate or if you can't manipulate, you take our minds from us.'
'Digby, you're not well. Someone's got to you-'
Deeds screams,
'My mind is my own - don't you fucking move!'
This to Fox, who's slipped to one side as if to get a better run at him.
'My mind is my own,' says Deeds, 'and I agreed to this - of my own free will. They thought they could catch you with a bomb - no, I told them, the Old Wolf's too wily for that, send me in, I'll get past the doors, I know his pass-words and his secrets, I want to look him in the eye when he knows he's going to die!'
'They've got to you, Digby,' Turcov insists, inching very slowly backwards, 'they've got to you, they've broken your mind and you're rationalising - can't you see that? I know it was my fault, I understand that I should never have sent you south of the river, this is all my fault, but I can fix it - please, you don't deserve to die, you must have thought about what's waiting for us when we die. Digby, just consider what's waiting for us.'
Deeds' frenzied gaze meets his own.
The Toreador's thumb twitches over the detonator switch.
'Hell's waiting for us,' he says. 'For us, and the entire Camarilla.'
Turcov's eyes widen. He shouts,
'What have you told them?'
But Deeds has already closed his eyes, flipping the lid on the detonator switch and pressing his thumb downward.
Turcov turns, and dashes for the window.
*
The Taurien Club is hidden away amongst the fashionably quaint, elite-interest shops - mapmakers, sellers of antique books, cigar vendors - of Mayfair; just another small black door amongst many.
Earl Godrick turns on the lights, and gazes up at the portraits and comfortable armchairs of the Reading Room with a kind of quiet pride.
Technically speaking, the club’s active membership is a small one; those very few Ventrue in the city Godrick considers worthy of inclusion. Barons are automatically initiated - though there are exceptions, of course, and hopefully that whippersnapper Sommers understands that his exclusion was intended as a snub - but more important are the dozens of prestigious Ventrue who have come to London over the centuries, all of whom are invited to the Taurien in order to be made an honorary member; their names are then inscribed in gold upon the List of Gentlemen And Ladies over the fireplace. It’s a long and storied list; and tonight, like a lepidopterist snatching up a particularly prized specimen, Godrick is thrilled by the thought that the name of Biaggio Iacomo, Archon of the Camarilla, will be added to it.
The buzzer rings, indicating that the first visitor has arrived, entered the passcode at the outer door, circumnavigated the various traps in the corridor, and is now waiting at the inner door. It rings again.
Godrick likes to keep his guests waiting, which is why he’s still up in the Reading Room, fussing over the arrangement of the newspapers, when the axe comes through the door.
*
The message has been quite clearly pre-recorded.
‘Hello, London. Hello, London.’
It’s transmitted on the wavelength of one of the more popular numbers-stations that the Nosferatu are known to use; it’s encrypted, naturally, but there’s nothing those Sewer Rats enjoy more than solving a nice tasty code.
‘This is Connaught of the Sabbat. I repeat, Connaught of the Sabbat.’
‘Rodyon Turcov is dead. The ruling Ventrue have been slain. The wretch from Venice is already in our hands. These may be considered the opening salvos of a coming war. London shall be returned to its rightful sons and daughters.’
‘Any Cainite of the Camarilla who leaves the city in the next forty-eight hours will not be harmed, no matter what their crimes; I give them my word on the matter. Any Cainite who remains behind will be considered culpable.’
The transmission cuts out, as quickly as it began.
*
As soon as he sees you, Fellowes grins, gesturing to the tatty, bloodstained remnants of his patterned waistcoat.
‘I shall have to find a very good tailor,’ he begins, and stops when he sees your expression.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Everything,’ Kempe says, from the table, and Fellowes’ expression turns sour as she rewinds the tape recorder and plays the transmisson again.
‘Hello London...’
The Sabbat have made their move. Now it’s time to make yours.
A) Stay here and attempt to find out exactly what’s going on. Being on the move near London will be dangerous - by remaining in Oxford and taking no risks you’ll gain three phone-call opportunities.
B) Head for your ghoul-team’s base and direct affairs from there. This will require passing close to London.
C) You need to find Iacomo. You know he left Oxford safely at around dusk, driving on the M40 motorway. You’d estimate you have a 50/50 chance of actually locating him on the road - if he’s even in danger.
D) Witanhurst is the safest place for you right now - and it has an escape route. Cripps or Vogler may be waiting for you there.
E) You’re aware that the other Ventrue barons were expected at the Taurien Club tonight. An ambush may have been laid for them there. You should head there - with all due caution.
F) Vogler knew this was going to happen. You need to find him. Make for the London sewers. (Needless to say, you may not locate him)
G) Much as you hate to admit it, you need Turcov. You should try and get to his penthouse to see what’s happened - and if he’s still living.
H) The natural place for the Camarilla to gather in times of threat is the Prince’s palace. It’s fortified and can hold off any attack, and others will undoubtedly be there - but the Sabbat will definitely be watching and may strike before you can get to the safety of the doors.
