As Dan began to enter the room, he heard a tiny, stealthy pattering. This time the noise was coming from behind him. He spun around and peered down the tenebrous corridor.
He didn’t see anything.
A
rat,
he told himself, it’s
just a damn rat.
But he wasn’t quite sure that he believed it. Since Melpomene’s vitae had honed his senses, he’d heard his share of rodents scuttling through walls and heaps of trash, and it seemed to him that the noise he’d just caught had been slightly different. But perhaps that was only his imagination.
He decided he’d better finish his snooping and get out of here before he wigged out completely. He strode on into Wyatt’s refuge and over to the shelves. For a moment he was tempted to light some of the candles, but then realized that Wyatt might smell the smoke when he returned. Better to risk a little eyestrain and poke around in the gloom.
Among the tapers lay a disposable plastic lighter, a handful of pennies, nickels and dimes, and Wyatt’s battery-powered razor. There was also a dainty single-shot pistol covered with ornate scroll work — the kind of weapon ladies had once concealed in their muffs — the kit to oil and clean it, and two hullets. Dan wondered what the rebel, who carried a combat shotgun everywhere and wielded it onehanded, wanted with such a tiny, antiquated weapon. Perhaps it was a memento from his exploits in the previous century.
Beside the gun sat a long, thin, bone-handled knife, a box of colored sidewalk chalk, several rags and a plastic spray bottle of green all-purpose household cleaner. To Dan, the presence of the chalk seemed even stranger than that of the muff pistol. What the heck did Wyatt need with that? He peered about, but couldn’t see any chalk marks anywhere in the room.
Prompted by a sudden hunch, he spritzed a bit of the cleanser into the air. He noted the sharp, astringent smell of the mist, then prowled around, sniffing, searching for another trace of the same odor.
His nose led him to a patch of floor less dirty than the grubby linoleum surrounding it. It was conceivable that Wyatt had been writing or drawing there, then washing away his work when he was through.
For a moment Dan felt a thrill of accomplishment, but the sensation faded when he realized that this particular stab at playing detective had taken him about as far as it could. It was
intriguing
to know that Wyatt had been writing on the floor, and that he’d been scrupulously careful to erase his handiwork afterward, but it wasn’t
useful,
not unless one also knew
what
he’d been writing. And Dan couldn’t see any way to discover that.
Smiling ruefully, he turned toward the leather pack, a handsome article studded with the same cryptic patterns of rivets that decorated Wyatt’s coat. He reached for it, then faltered, his skin crawling. Suddenly he was certain that he felt eyes glaring malevolently at his back.
He whirled. And saw nothing. He
almost
heard a peal of nasty, mocking laughter, but he knew that that, at least, really was only his imagination.
Even prior to his brush with the Samedi, Dan had had some experience with invisible Kindred. Heck, he was learning how to be invisible himself. But he hadn’t seen any indication that any of the anarchs possessed such powers, and he couldn’t imagine who else would be lurking in Wyatt’s haven. Furthermore, given his superhuman senses of hearing and smell, it was hard to believe that even an invisible man could remain entirely undetectable in the cramped confines of the office. Besides, if an enemy was present, what was he waiting for? Why hadn’t he attacked Dan when his back was turned?
You’re alone, fool,
the vampire told himself firmly. But just in case he wasn’t, he meant to finish his search and get out of the building as rapidly as possible.
Reluctantly reholstering the .38 to free up both hands, his fingers trembling slightly, Dan fumbled open the knapsack. It occurred to him that it, the shotgun case, and Wyatt’s coat might be custom-made, and that the label might provide a clue to the revolutionary’s secrets. But it only bore the name of the manufacturer, Podolak, a name that meant nothing to Dan.
Scowling, he reached into the pack and pulled out four items: a plastic pack of felt-tipped pens, each filled with a different color of ink; an ancient-looking and -smelling leather-bound tome with tarnished brass hinges and ragged-edged parchment pages; a three-ring notebook; and a neatly folded map.
When Dan carefully opened the crackling antique book, half expecting it to fall apart in his hands, he caught a second scent, mingled with the musty odor of the paper. Time had nearly effaced the aroma, but unless he were mistaken, the flaking brown ink on the pages was human vitae.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t decipher the crabbed handwriting. He had a hunch that he was looking at some archaic form of Latin, as incomprehensible as Martian to him. But from the complex geometric forms — they were called pentagrams, weren’t they? — and the drawings of hideous, demonic creatures, he suspected that he was looking at a sorcerer’s journal. For a moment one of the pictures, a portrait of a voluptuous nude woman with eyes where her nipples should have been and a crown made of entwined serpents, threatened to entrance him the way the immigrant’s paintings had. Dismayed, snarling, he wrenched his gaze away.
Even edgier now, he closed the ancient volume, then opened the notebook. It was more of the same, except that the text and sketches were in various shades of ordinary ink. They looked like the notes of a modern wizard attempting to build on the secret wisdom of his predecessor, one who probably used the sidewalk chalk to draw pentagrams on the floor.
Unfolding the remaining item, Dan saw that it was a map of Sarasota, spotted with mysterious symbols written in black and red. Some of the icons marked locations that the anarchs had visited just before Judy Morgan’s Brujah attacked them.
Behind him, something softly clicked.
Even as he pivoted, Dan thought,
This’ll be just like the other times; there won’t be anything there.
And at first it didn’t appear that there was. Half-disgusted at his own jumpiness and half-relieved at the absence of any threat, he began to return to his inspection of the map. But then he glimpsed a white flicker of motion on one of the shelves where Wyatt’s belongings lay.
He squinted and then felt an impulse to blink his eyes in disbelief. A pale creature, no larger than a rat but shaped more like a monkey, had cocked the muff pistol and was endeavoring to point it at him. Except for the disproportionately large eyes and the twin fangs that extended all the way to the bottom of its chin, its face was a dead ringer for Wyatt’s. A stray bit of dried blood encrusted the left corner of its mouth. Dan surmised that the creature had been tailing him since he’d entered the building and that he’d missed spotting it because of its tiny stature.
In any case he had no desire to let it take a potshot at him. Dropping the other objects in his hands, he skimmed the ancient book of magic at it.
Fast and nimble as the monkey it somewhat resembled, the diminutive monster abandoned the gun, leaped to the floor and scurried toward the door. The grimoire thumped against the shelf and broke apart, scattering a blizzard of brittle pages, jarred loose from their moorings, candles toppled.
Dan dived after the fleeing creature, but his clutching fingers missed it by an inch. It raced into the hall, and, lurching up into a crouch, he scrambled after it.
He faltered when he saw Wyatt. The vampire with the mohawk was standing a few paces down the hall, his boyish face grim and his new shotgun leveled. Though he’d tried hard to clean his long white coat, the garment still had a few faint bloodstains around the bullet holes.
The little creature darted to Wyatt, hugged his ankle and then, clutching at his clothing, climbed up his body to his shoulder. Without taking his eyes off Dan the anarch captain used his free hand to tickle the little creature behind the ear. “It’s okay,” he said soothingly. “The wicked man won’t hurt you now.”
“How did it call you back?” asked Dan. “Dial a beeper number?”
“He didn’t have to
do
anything,” Wyatt replied. “We’re linked mind to mind. He’s my homunculus, blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh.” Toying with the hairs of the anarch’s goatee — grooming him, Dan decided — the creature chittered in seeming agreement.
“I did notice the family resemblance,” said Dan. He wondered if he could ease his hand toward his automatic without Wyatt shooting him instantly. He decided not to chance it, at least not yet. Maybe he could talk his way out of this. “I wasn’t going to hurt him, even though he tried to put a bullet in me. I was just curious. I wanted a closer look at him.”
“Uh'huh,” said Wyatt skeptically. “And what’s the idea of going through my stuff?”
“I was curious about you, too,” said Dan, trying to sound sheepish. “Something about you didn’t add up, and I’m the kind of guy that looks in other people’s closets and medicine cabinets. I always have been, and I guess I always will be. For what it’s worth, I apologize.”
To Dan’s surprise, the anarch smiled. “Apology accepted. I’ve been known to do the same thing. And what do you think you’ve found out about me?”
“Obviously, that you lied about your lineage,” Dan answered. “You’re not Ventrue, you’re Tremere. Not just an ordinary vampire, but a member of the
wizard
clan. I wondered what you actually expected to find on your ‘scouting mission’ into Sarasota. Until I saw your map, the whole thing seemed pretty pointless. You were doing something occult, weren’t you?”
Wyatt nodded. “I was doing geomancy. Finding pressure points in the web of forces that girdle the earth. I need to know where they are in order to lay a curse on all of Prince Roger’s flunkies at once.” He hesitated. “Can you understand
why
I lied? The Tremere have a terrible reputation for deceit and intrigue, and they’ve always been at the forefront of any effort to crush the Movement. I was afraid that if I claimed to have defected from a chantry, no one would trust me.” Dan made a wry face. “Believe me, I do understand. I know what it’s like to be on the outside looking in. To be rejected by people you care about. I promise that your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thank you,” said Wyatt. “In that case, I guess everything’s all right.” The two vampires looked one another in the eye for a moment, and then both smiled ruefully.
“Well, so much for that little tap dance,” Dan said. “I don’t believe a word you’re saying, and I can tell that you don’t believe me.”
“The problem is that we’re two of a kind,” said Wyatt. The homunculus began picking at his mohawk. “Both too damn smart for our own good. What gave me away? I’d hate to think that I was losing my talent for lying.”
“I don’t know anything about magic,” Dan replied. “But heck, you make keys out of nothing. You boil the Samedi’s blood. You create a living creature, like Baron Frankenstein. It’s obvious even to me that you’ve learned too many Tremere secrets to be a dropout. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were some kind of junior vice-president. And I wonder if even a hot-shot magician —”
“Magus,” Wyatt interjected.
“Excuse me,
magus,
could put a spell on a whole domain all by himself. I’m guessing that you plan to team up with a bunch of other Warlocks for that particular piece of voodoo.” Wyatt sighed. “Too damn smart,” he repeated. “Look, before you hooked up with us, you didn’t care about the Movement. What if I tell you that I truly do like Laurie, Felipe and Jimmy Ray? Even though I’m tricking them, using them for my own purposes, convincing them that they’re fighting for the anarchs when they’re really serving a different cause altogether, I mean to look out for them as well. When the battle’s won, they’ll be rewarded for their efforts. You can be, too, if you’ll play along.”
Dan no longer trusted Wyatt enough to be tempted even momentarily by such an offer, but he figured that he had nothing to lose by trying one more lie. “Maybe we can work something out. Rewarded how?”
Wyatt sighed. “Sorry, I can still see through you. What is it they say? ‘Never kid a kidder?’ You know, I truly like you. Hell, you’ve saved my life twice. This whole situation stinks.”
The Tremere sounded sincere, and to his dismay, Dan felt a keen, reciprocal pang of friendship. “I know what you mean.”
“I wonder if you really just wandered up here out of curiosity, or if someone told you to infiltrate our little group. Would you care to enlighten me?”
“It was just curiosity,” said Dan.
“Then it was rotten luck for both of us,” said Wyatt. “Good-bye.”
Dan made a grab for his automatic. Just as it cleared the holster, Wyatt fired. The boom was deafening in the cramped confines of the hall. .33-caliber pellets tore into Dan’s belly, staggering him. The pistol tumbled from his suddenly spasming fingers.
Wyatt could blow him apart if he paused to pick up the automatic. Struggling to ignore the pain blazing in his midsection, the wounded vampire lunged at the Tremere, intent on grabbing the scatter-gun and tearing it from his grasp.
Wyatt’s eyes bored into his.
“Stop!”
the magus cried.
Dan felt his muscles seizing up like an overheated engine. He managed to keep lurching forward, but now his progress was as slow and clumsy as a paralytic’s. Stepping casually back to avoid the injured Kindred’s outthrust hands, Wyatt pumped another shell into the breech and shot Dan in the knees.
Dan collapsed on his side. Staring down at his face, Wyatt repeated,
“Stop.”
Dan’s treacherous muscles strained, obeying the command, clenching themselves as hard and useless as chunks of stone.
Wyatt shot Dan in the chest. This time the burst of agony was so intense that, for an instant, the spy blacked out. When the world swam back into partial focus, Wyatt, his fangs now extruded, was staring down at him as if trying to
off
determine whether he was truly helpless. Whether he needed any more holes in him to allow precious vitae to run out and go to waste. The homunculus bobbed and chattered in excitement.