CHAPTER 2

 

 

Ariadne is wearing a tank top and a long floral skirt, sitting all splayed out along the shaggy rainbow bed-throw that her roommate gave her last Christmas, tossing a stuffed platypus named Telemachus up and down in the air. Sunlight, warm and beautiful, fills the room. A pile of books lays scattered pell-mell at the edge of the bed—The Collected Works of Byron, Wuthering Heights, Durkheim’s The Elementary Forms of Religious Life—pages dog-eared, covered in bright yellow sticky notes. A volume of Keats opens its pages like welcoming arms in her lap, but the words begin to blur. . . .

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Not important. Ariadne’s injured arm shivered as she clasped the bony white hand of one of the elders. A fluttering of yellowed silk scraped the mostly healed knife-wound on her wrist. In Ariadne’s other hand lay the meaty, callused fingers of one her fellow soldiers, poking through the holes in his leather glove.

“For we are all one circle.” A soft contralto voice wove its way through the room, seeming to come from everywhere at once. “Though we dwell in the darkness, we, together, are a beacon of light.”

Two-dozen men and women formed a ring. They were a motley collection: some had faces soft and supple, lacking only the rosy glow of youth’s bloom. Other brows were creased and withered, and still others twisted into visages of bone and tumor barely recognizable as human. Some wore T-shirts and jeans, others leather jackets, still others suits and ballroom gowns. One even wore clerical robes. There seemed nothing common to them all save their joined hands and the fact they all were staring at one woman, hands linked along with the rest.

She was not tall, but appeared so. Perhaps it was her posture, elegant and proud in a way that the modern age seemed to have forgotten. It was an attitude relegated to old portraits of royalty. Perhaps it was her raiment, although Ariadne couldn’t find anything remarkable about the white dress she wore. It was simple and tasteful, utterly blemishless, and blended so well with the paleness of the woman’s skin that it seemed a part of her. The intricate coif of her auburn hair looked almost like a crown.

“Even the Damned have a place in God’s plan,” Prince Liliane spoke from perfectly sculpted lips. Her downcast blue eyes were hidden beneath the most elegant of lashes. Her voice was warm and welcoming, the voice of the mother you always wished you’d had, the mother from storybooks, nurturing and shielding, a tiger’s love born upon a dove’s wing. “Let us never forget we are God’s children, every one.”

“Every one,” the circle repeated in unison.

Ariadne felt the words issue from her mouth. She glanced up for just a moment and, over the shoulder of one of the others, saw the hulking golem that was Mister Rose. He was the only figure outside the circle, though he watched with interest.

Ariadne turned her attention to the ground before her, in the center of the circle. The grand oak table that usually stood centerpiece in the dining room was gone, the scarlet carpet peeled back along pre-cut lines, to reveal the smooth metal surface of the basin. It was wide and deep enough to hold a half-dozen bodies, and the circle stood close enough that Ariadne could see the history of chips and nicks in the bronze.

“As we are united by God’s love,” said Liliane, raising her hands, and thus the hands she held, “so shall we be united by our blood.”

With that, she inclined her smooth, beautiful neck and bent just enough, her mouth opening wide, to sink two silvery fangs into the wrist to her left. The old man beside her shuddered, spasming even as he turned his own head and bit the wrist of the teenage girl to his left. As her blood dribbled down his shaggy goatee, her eyes rolled back in her head and she turned as if in a dream to bite the wrist of her neighbor. They all followed in turn, and Ariadne steeled herself for the piercing bolt of pain and pleasure when her moment came. As always, it brought back shuddering memories of a night of tears, a covered bridge, a—

All thought fled and, as if moved by gravity’s hand, Ariadne turned and sank her own fangs into her partner’s wrist. She drank slowly, cautiously, even as her body shivered with small waves of static. She felt stirrings in her stomach, her breasts, the lobes of her brain. But she did not swallow. No one ever swallowed.

Instead, she swung her head back, dizzy with the motion, and with a concerted effort spat the blood into the basin before her. It joined a cascade of other sprays, splattering black against the dark metal. Small rivers trickled from two-dozen wrists, streaming down every edge of the basin’s circumference to spiral away down the drain at the center. Within seconds, the rivers had stopped and new skin had covered the holes on everyone’s wrists. A wave of vertigo rippled through all assembled.

Liliane threw her head back, shivering, savoring. “The cistern receives our offerings. Let its stores grow deep, deep, and let all who are thirsty in a time of need drink. As we build with blood, so we rebuild with mortar and brick the Just City. Though we are barred from Paradise, we can make, even in Hell, a New Jerusalem.”

“New Jerusalem,” they repeated.

Liliane closed her eyes, bowed her head, and released the hands on either side of her. At once, the circle broke into its component parts. Then began the clustering. We are God’s children, every one, thought Ariadne with a sigh, but we all have our own corners of the room.

As always, Ariadne watched the dyads and triads break off. And, as always, she stood alone, as she had ever since becoming Sheriff.

Ariadne gazed for a moment at the couches with the television set, kept on low volume, where the refugees, orphans, and riffraff lounged. In life, they never would have associated, the skater boys and the Armanis, the designer-handbag women and the green-haired ponytailers. Brian, Ella, Doughboy, and, yes, even Hera. Ariadne mutely followed their motions with her eyes as they played at debauchery, surrounded by bowls of fruits and bottles of wine they could not taste.

Ariadne knew all their stories—the families they had fled, the courts from which they had been exiled, the crimes of which they had been convicted and the elders they had crossed. Liliane forgave it all, in exchange for loyalty. Ariadne listened as they rattled on about television shows, the latest musicals in the theater district, the up-and-coming socialites on Beacon Hill, making references to an outside world, to people in it, which Ariadne had to remind herself still existed.

They tensed when she wandered close. Ariadne knew that if she gave an order, they would drop their conversations mid-sentence and obey. She nodded, walked on by, and they relaxed, but made their voices softer. Ariadne strained to hear the sounds, imagining that so long as she could, she was still taking part in their camaraderie.

The curtains, divans, and plush chairs at the other end of the room seemed to swallow all noise, so much so that, no more than five strides from where she had been, Ariadne felt as if she had entered a different world. Here the elders sat in small pockets, exchanging small talk as brittle and as awkward as their hunched bodies.

Some read, or just pretended to, and some stared at the paintings on the walls: Courtois’s The Crucifixion of Saint Andrew, Lafosse’s The Rape of Proserpine, other scenes of stormy and sweeping pain. Ariadne wondered if the elders found quiet delight in the agonized faces, the blasts of color. For Ariadne, those pained faces had become familiar friends. It was impossible to imagine anything was amiss so long as they hung there, Saint Andrew in his reassuring grimace, the nymphs in their never-changing crawl of hopeless desperation.

But the elders seemed to find no such reassurance. The siege mentality of recent days was hitting them the hardest. Normally they preferred to hole up in their own sanctums and safe houses, far from the prying eyes and stalking knives of others. But ever since the war had begun, this was the only safe place left. All their childer, the vampires they had created with their own fangs out of love, pity, or boredom, lingered close by. Sire, childe, sire, childe, sire, childe—an unbroken chain that admitted no new links. A pair or two of small red eyes darted Ariadne’s way, staring in contempt. Most simply ignored her.

At a table nearby, Liliane held court, the most powerful elders arrayed on either side. They were the primogen, residents of the city even before Liliane’s arrival, and as usual they were giving counsel. The Prince was smiling, which was not unusual. Tonight, though, she was the only one smiling.

Ariadne came to a halt at a respectful distance behind her Prince, and then tried to look occupied by staring at one of the potted plants.

“Quite an assortment of courtiers you have here.” Mister Rose was reclining in the chair across from Liliane as if he owned it, sipping blood from a wineglass. “I still find it hard to believe that you’ll take in anyone who’ll come to you.”

“All of God’s children are welcome within these walls,” said the Prince unapologetically, “presuming they observe His laws.”

“I’ve been listening. You all say you’re building some special society.”

“Yes.”

Liliane gave no further elaboration.

“Your, ah, Ritual of Unity. The basin and all. That’s a part of this special society? Non-traditional, but quaint.”

Ariadne watched the primogen, saw a few of the elders draw up just a little taller, saw them do everything but nod their own agreement with Rose’s discomfort. But if Liliane felt cornered in the slightest, not a trace of it showed.

“Our ways are our own,” the Prince said. “The fact that you find them foreign makes them no less traditional.”

“Oh, the Council sees some use for the Vinculum,” said Rose, swirling the liquid in his glass casually. “The young taste the blood of the elders, who command them through it, keep them in their place. It’s a passable tool for those Princes who lack more creative means of exercising leadership. But tell me: How do you keep track of whose blood is whose? Do you really let just anyone drink from the common well if they’re desperate enough?”

Liliane laid her chin on folded hands. “You are quite an inquisitive guest.” Her voice, still melodious, lingered on the word guest for just an instant longer than was necessary. “When the Council agreed that we would establish our demesne in East Boston, they knew full well that the task required a different approach. If not, you would have moved in yourselves long ago, yes?”

Mister Rose’s smile thinned. He said nothing.

Liliane continued. “The agreement stipulated quite clearly that we would rule this desmene however we wished and that the Council would keep a respectful distance.”

Mister Rose leaned forward. “When we gave you permission to set up operations here, we allowed you a certain . . . latitude . . . as long as you kept the Masquerade. But this civil war—”

“Will be over by week’s end,” said Liliane. “You have seen our Silent Knife in action tonight, have you not?”

Mister Rose adjusted himself in the chair, then slowly nodded. “Yes, your Sheriff is quite impressive. Tonight was the most encouraging sign I’ve seen around here.”

Ariadne, still unacknowledged by any of them, allowed herself a secret smile.

“Good,” said Liliane. “Then you know how short-lived this anomaly will prove. You may enjoy our hospitality as long as you see fit, Mister Rose, but when you return to your fellows, do remind them that their concerns, while appreciated, are entirely unwarranted.”

Mister Rose looked to the elders briefly in turn, but none would give him the encouragement of meeting his gaze. He set down his glass and got to his feet. “Very well. We’ll leave this in your hands—for a little while longer, at least. We’ll talk again at week’s end.”

“But of course,” said Liliane sweetly. She did not rise. “You are always a welcome addition to our circle. Come again, and we will speak further of the world that we are building here.”

Rose looked as if he were about to say something, but then thought better of it. He snapped his fingers, and two servants in tuxedoes who had been waiting at the door hurried forward with his overcoat. Ariadne wondered why on earth a vampire would bother to wear one.

As Rose swept out of the room, Liliane shook her head slowly. “There are few greater tragedies than a lack of faith. How can anyone, especially the Damned, sustain themselves without it?”

Then she rose, and the very motion was enough to silence the room, drawing everyone’s attention her way. Only Ariadne, who had already been at attention, made no adjustment.

“Be at peace, one and all, and rejoice.” Liliane’s voice cascaded over the room. “Our Silent Knife has brought us another victory.”

The young ones flashed furtive smiles Ariadne’s way. The elders glared.

Liliane had been circling the room until she stood right beside her protégé. “For one so new to the night, she fights with the avenging wrath of the Seraphim themselves.”

Ariadne trembled in her presence, though she could not tell if it was from fear or pride.

“Truly, we are blessed, and our time spent training her was not in vain. You others, watch her. Learn from her. For did the Lord not say, a childe will show us the way?”

Liliane’s voice began to build. “We are not merely a coterie of damned souls. We are building a new world. The Council cannot see it. Roarke, sadly, could not look beyond his own petty hurts to see it. The wizards who believe this city to be theirs see a piece of it, and thus they do not molest us. But even they cannot see it all. New Jerusalem shall be first among nations. So we swear.”

“So we swear,” came the chorus, and Ariadne chanted enthusiastically with them. But when Liliane retired from the room, a vacuum seemed to suck the energy from Ariadne, to be replaced by the din of conversations slowly reviving.

Ariadne tried to recall the Prince’s voice, recreate the feeling from a moment earlier, but it was no use. Bourne had sidled up into her field of vision. Ariadne could almost hear the sound Bourne’s fat tongue made as it slid over his fangs and lips.

Like his tongue, the rest of Bourne was fat. His battered construction jacket never quite fit him right and his hunting cap looked downright ridiculous in the stately environs of the elders’ half of the room. Not that anyone ever commented. Bourne’s sire, Silas, sat a few feet away, his wrinkled face and ice-blue eyes absorbed in a staring contest with St. Andrew’s on the wall.

“Who knew old Roarkey had such fight in him?” Bourne said. “I hear Wedge is going to defect to his side.”

“Your information’s out of date.” Ariadne stared daggers at him. “I killed Wedge tonight.”

Bourne shrugged. “Hard to keep track, isn’t it? Not enough that a third of the court tore out of here when Roarke took off, but we keep losin’ more in dribbles. Never would have suspected Wedge. But no one suspected Roarke, either. ’Cept me and Silas, of course.”

“Aren’t you tired of congratulating yourself?” Ariadne’s eyes kept seeking an exit, but Bourne had somehow managed to block every egress simply by placing his bulk in the right space. “Besides, this will all be over soon enough.”

“I keep hearing that,” said Bourne. “It’s as if you think Roarke is just some bug you’re gonna squish beneath those fashionable little boots of yours. Roarke, who used to be our great fanged hope. This time, I think we’re all a little wiser about who we place our trust in. This time we’re watching our stars-of-morning a little more closely.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you implying something?”

“Only that ‘avenging Seraphim’ are angels like any other. And angels can fall.”

He reached out, stroked her long black hair brazenly. The passage of his hand through her hair suddenly brought back another tactile memory, another hand, other smells and feelings that stirred her.

That song popped up again, torturing her with a few half-remembered bars. Daaa-da-da-daaa, da da da. She couldn’t tell if it was a happy tune or a sad one, but even with so little of the melody she could tell it was about yearning.

Andrei Montague, driving a taxi. Insane!

With a savage motion Ariadne slapped Bourne’s hand away. He flinched, took a step back.

“Maybe you’re confused, Bourne. Silas is your Sire, which means I can’t just chop your head off. But that doesn’t mean I answer to you. We’re done here.”

She laid her hands on Bourne and shoved him aside. The leer that oozed across Bourne’s features as he fell back a step made Ariadne wonder if goading her into touching him had been his actual goal the whole time.

“Pride goeth before splatting on your pretty little face—that’s all I’m saying,” Bourne called after her.

She let the darkness eat up his words as she strode out of the room. Ariadne hadn’t asked to be the one standing there when Roarke ripped Wilson, the last Sheriff, in two. But she did her duty, rallied the troops, and earned her rank as Sheriff in his place. If she did it out of ambition, then it was a pretty stupid move, because ever since donning a Sheriff’s jacket the only person who seemed willing to actually talk with her was that fat idiot Bourne.

But she was good at what she did, damn it. She wasn’t going to apologize. And she would never make a mistake like Roarke did. Roarke had met Nadine, and for her—or maybe just for her grimoire—he had turned his back on New Jerusalem. Liliane had given them both every chance, and when the Prince finally destroyed Nadine, Roarke’s response had been infantile. Ungrateful.

Ariadne would never be that stupid. She repeated it like a mantra as she began her pre-dawn preparations for tomorrow night’s battles. Distant strains of music echoed in her ears all the while.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

DAVID NURENBERG, PhD, is a teacher, freelance writer, and social activist who lives in the Boston area. His credits with White Wolf include writing for the Vampire: The Requiem, Scion, and Exalted lines. His nonfiction has appeared in the Boston Globe, Newsweek, USA Today, and Multicultural Review, as well as many lesser-known papers, ’zines, and blogs. Silent Knife is his first novel published by a major press. His favorite animal is the wombat.