Clan Novel Tzimisce: Book 2 of The Clan Novel Saga by Eric Griffin

Author:Eric Griffin [Griffin, Eric]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: vampires, horror
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2019-03-04T07:00:00+00:00

Tuesday, 22 June 1999, 1:32 AM

Fourth floor, the High Museum of Art

Atlanta, Georgia

Marcus opened the door to the gallery just a crack and peered through. He still hoped he would get to kill someone, but he was having second thoughts about coming in without orders. He’d hurried up the winding, circular ramp that ringed the main lobby of the museum—or, rather, he’d jumped up, bypassing the first two and a half stories, and then hurried the rest of the way.

“What do you see?” Delona nagged him from behind.

Marcus backhanded her harder than he’d meant to, and she flew backward over the railing and fell down the cylindrical well to the lobby floor, four stories below.

“Uh-oh.”

But Marcus couldn’t be bothered just presently. Besides, Delona was a tough little booger. She’d recover. Eventually.

Marcus eased open the door. All the activity seemed to be at the other end of the gallery, as far as he could tell. Smoke hung thick in the large, sprawling room, and some strange foam stood almost a foot deep, like there’d been a huge shaving-cream fight. A fire alarm added to the confusion. At the far end of the gallery, Bolon stood with maybe a dozen of the battle ghouls.

Where are all the others? Marcus wondered. He hadn’t seen other signs of fighting on the way up, and there’d been at least four times as many ghouls before. Marcus instantly forgot his reluctance at having disobeyed orders—just as Delona was now out of sight and out of mind—and trudged over to Bolon. The commander was a fellow Tzimisce and one of the few of anyone as large as Marcus. With each step, Marcus’s wide, flat feet crunched down through the foam and crushed whatever was beneath: glass, marble, bones.

As Marcus reached Bolon, he became confused. The wind was blowing—it looked like it was blowing—but he couldn’t feel it. After another second, he realized that it was just a trick of the light. Shadows were swirling and whipping around violently, and it looked almost like light coming through the leaves on a windy day. Marcus looked around, but there weren’t any trees inside.

“What are you doing here?” Bolon demanded.

Marcus looked at Bolon but was still confused by the puzzle of the rippling light and no wind. Several of the ghouls were pounding on a large metal door. They had ripped off the panic bar, but the door wouldn’t open.

Before Marcus could think of an answer for Bolon, a strange dark shadow interposed itself between them. A second or two later, the shadow was a man, a fairly tanned vampire with black hair and a dark uniform. Marcus recognized the crest of Monçada’s legionnaires above the breast pocket.

“How’d you do that?” Marcus asked, not used to seeing people materialize out of nothing.

“Commander Vallejo,” said Bolon, ignoring Marcus for the moment, which suited Marcus just fine.

The smaller, darker man looked tired. The shadows he’d stepped from seemed reluctant to relinquish him. They formed deep pools in the considerable hollows of his cheeks and beneath his eyes.

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