In the meantime, the Master was reveling under the water’s spray again, as if cleansing himself, allowing the liquid to separate the wisps of his disguise in masochistic ecstasy.
Mr. Crockett only proved that, to save ourselves, we must neutralize Limpet and Associates, Sorin tacitly said to his father. Even if we are not certain they are connected with another master.
No!
Sorin narrowed his eyes at the Master’s ferocity. For what reason? Limpet could be the beginning of the end.
You know why. The Master traveled nearer, bringing a chill with him. We cannot afford to show our hand to the world before we’re sure. And attacking before they do would make us vulnerable. We can’t give up the protection of secrecy, Sorin. We need proof—and we need to draw them to us. Otherwise, the same thing will happen as it did the first time, when, clueless, I was flushed out.
The younger vampire tried to restrain himself, but he could not. Images of the Master’s most recent behavior—which included spending hours in front of the television watching Eva Claremont movies—disturbed him.
The Master grew colder.
I worry, Father, Sorin said, thinking again about how the elder had always sought human affection, had always searched to replenish the soul he had lost so long ago. In the 1980s, he had developed a fascination for Eva Claremont, favoring her films and collecting her photos. The pattern had gone beyond his usual adoration of the Elite crowd, and it had even led to the troubles they were experiencing now.
I worry about this obsession you have, Sorin thought. I worry about your activities—
Silence!
At that point, Sorin blocked off the Awareness between them. He knew it would show his father how strongly he felt more than any words. In the past, the Master had allowed his predilection for Eva, the blond screen goddess, to cloud his judgment. Sorin did not wish this to happen again.
The older vampire grew angry, his cloud hissing actual, soft words. “Have you thought about the ways Eva’s daughter might be able to lead us to our enemy, if one indeed exists?”
Yes. Sorin had thought about it night after night.
He turned his Awareness back on. I have thought of everything possible.
Then allow our players to do the work Above, Sorin. Let us trust the spy work again.
Sorin did not respond. Instead, he glanced up at the ever-shifting cloud, attempting to find his beloved father in the mist.
SEVEN
SOMEWHERE IN TRANSYLVANIA, LATE 1600S
I F the night was slightly chilled, or even mild, Benedikte did not notice. These past months (or perhaps they were years?) had blended into a thick, ever-sifting fog, a murk that held no sense of time, place…identity.
He entered the forest, overtaken with such drunkenness that he did not heed anything save the aftermath of the kills he had impulsively enjoyed last hour. Blood still painted his tongue with the taste of a heavy, piquant honey, a hint of an elemental ingredient that yet escaped him, bite after bite.
The family he had taken unawares—mere sustenance—would not be discovered until morning at the earliest, when they would fail to creak open the door of their thatched cottage, fail to greet the sunlight and harvest the gains from their farmland. Perhaps it would take more than a few days for the neighbors from the nearby village to sniff out the carnage and raise the alarm so as to gather in their fortified church and barricade themselves from danger.
By then it would be futile. Yes, they would cry that a vampire epidemic had descended upon them, yet Benedikte would be long away, hunting for his next meal in another unsuspecting community, whether it be across the mountains or southward to more exotic lands already visited—anywhere that would satisfy his appetites.
Yet tonight, before leaving altogether, he was compelled to follow a trail. He had caught scent of this particular human, prey that fascinated him, weeks ago. He had been tracking the man from village to village, assessing, worshipping him from afar, fantasizing that his blood would be the answer to the unnamed recent hunger Benedikte felt for more than food….
Yawning night enveloped the vampire as he threaded deeper into the mist-hushed cove of trees, up the gentle slope of a mountain. His sturdy jackboots, once stolen from an unfortunate western adventurer—English, perhaps?—crushed the fallen beech leaves. Quite near, he could sense the trickle of a stream, the crackling stench of a fire. Most of all, he could all but feel the warm skin and pulse of the human.