Clan Novel Ravnos: Book 8 of The Clan Novel Series

  CLAN NOVEL

  RAVNOS

  By Kathleen Ryan

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Clan Novel Ravnos is a product of White Wolf Publishing.

  White Wolf is a subsidiary of Paradox Interactive.

  Copyright © 1999 by White Wolf Publishing.

  First Printing October 1999

  Crossroad Press Edition published in Agreement with Paradox Interactive

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  To my dad, for his birthday

  Table of Contents

  part one: master

  part two: servant

  part three: pawn

  part one:

  master

  Wednesday, 28 July 1999, 7:54 PM

  Inside a small space

  At an unknown location

  Khalil Ravana woke to hot, cramped, noisy darkness. As the day’s stupor faded, he became aware of pressure confining him from every direction—of his arms pinned tightly to his sides—of legs bent, frozen, and unfeeling—of his neck forced down toward his chest—of toes and twisted hands supporting the weight of his body—of the friction of bare skin on some rough substance—of a hard, unyielding knob thrust uncomfortably against his chin.

  Outside the tiny prison, he could hear thumps and thuds, muffled voices, and a gentle creaking sound. Khalil stretched himself, expanding to fill the last free space available. The knob in his face ground uncomfortably up his jawline, and he recognized it for what it was: his own left knee. The Ravnos shrank himself down again, trying to feel his hands. They weren’t tied…they could move, a little….

  Suddenly, the gentle creaking stopped. Khalil felt himself come to a halt with it, realizing for the first time that it had been moving him along. He had roughly one second to think on that before his body, and the shell around it, tipped and slid down a long, skidding drop. He seemed to half-fall for an eternity, and the dried-up memory of his stomach complained.

  The impact flipped him over. Instead of being hung limbs-downward in his shell, his head was now bottom-most. Jarring, shrieking vibration traveled up through the corner—he was coming to feel that his casket was oblong—and into his ears. Khalil shrugged off the jolt and noise. The shift in position had freed his hands a little more, and he groped eagerly around the confines of his world. There were rounded, bristly, soft protrusions covering the “walls.” He pulled on one and the tip of it tore away in his hand. Foam…. He let the little fleck drop and explored further. Farthest from him, in a small clearing of the spongy bumps, he discovered a tiny handle, a metal latch, and a button. He pressed the last, and a soft light came on. A wave of relief poured over him.

  He was inside a suit- or guncase, packed comfortably enough in gray eggcrate padding. He wished, fleetingly, that whoever had done the job had had a real trunk or a coffin handy, but considering the hurry his new ally had been in to leave Calcutta, this was first-class travel. Khalil peered up at the latch—yes, it opened from the inside. Hesha Ruhadze’s men were clever. Smuggling corpses from nation to nation—no trouble, apparently. The Setite had gone to sleep at the same time Khalil had—Hesha’s mere retainers, then, were competent to move contraband on a global scale and jury-rig accommodations for unexpected travelers at the last minute. Calcutta to Delhi, Delhi to London, London to Chicago…he added in time for layovers, and decided it was just now turning night in middle America. He nearly laughed out loud. The inexplicable rocking, the long drop, the squealing metal, the heavy noises from without—he must be on the baggage carousel in O’Hare already, bumping around with all the other luggage. Something fell on him from above, and his own case settled onto its edge. Both bottom corners shrieked now, but Khalil relaxed almost cozily in his foam cocoon.

  Just a little longer, and one of the old snake’s boys would come pick him up, cart him through Customs safely, and take him out to join “partner” Hesha in some luxurious suite stocked with plenty of blood. Cold blood, Khalil thought wistfully, but free…

  Blood…

  Khalil was hungry. It went almost without saying. He’d nearly starved to death as an honest gypsy boy in India. He’d been merely hungry and poor after his family died and he turned to thievery. When the shilmulo—the vampire—adopted him, he’d had a month or two of real food and regular meals to fill in his ravaged muscles and hollow face. When the change came, when the shilmulo took him as a son forever, then he knew real famine. He’d learned every trick of dodging it, feeding it, taunting it, hunting for it, filling it up with promises when there was no blood, filling it to bursting when there was. The hunger of the past four nights was desperately different.

  He wanted family blood. He could taste it in his mind. Memories of his “father” and the first sweet wine of immortality rose up in him. A girl he had loved, twenty years later, and traded kisses with—an elder whose strong blood had closed wounds Khalil had taken defending him—a living Rom with shilmulo blood flowing through his line, fought and conquered and destroyed. Every Ravnos he had ever known… the demon inside him lusted after them as it had never lusted after any lives before. Three nights now, he’d felt this… ever since the earthquake… and the desolation of Calcutta…the impulse, overwhelming, to run out and devour his own kin. Each day he dreamed of their legendary ancestor Ravana dying, his giant body scorched black by the sun, his shadow looming over his children, his irresistible voice commanding them (Khalil shuddered) to undo all his works and wipe their race from the earth. The dead Rakshasa King flashed bright in his descendant’s eyes. Khalil would rise up and find the others—he would take an honor guard to the hells with him—he would.

  The small, huddled creature in the gun case shivered and blinked away the image. The hunger faded into the background. Fear flooded him instead.

  Calcutta had been empty of other Ravnos (all but one, he reminded himself), but how did he know what had happened in Chicago? Had the founder’s command been heard this far? Was there already some kin of his waking to the smell of fresh Ravnos blood in the city?

  He cursed Hesha. “Hurry up, goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath.

  Hesha is not coming, said a voice in his head. Suddenly the case seemed twice as crowded as before. Khalil fought o
ff the impression and recoiled from the intruding thought. He’d figured he’d left that thing far behind.

  “Get out of my fucking head, you shit,” he said aloud. The presence retreated slightly. The young Ravnos’s chest expanded with pride. He’d made it do what he wanted, for once—maybe five thousand miles was enough distance after all. Then he felt the aftertaste of the thing’s mind. It was smug. The old one was smug and satisfied and just as much in control here as it had been in India. It seemed to nod at that. Sullenly, Khalil dropped his head back. The tendons on his neck flared up. He spat out, “I was strong enough to defy you even in Calcutta. I told Hesha your precious Eye was in Chicago, not New York, you bastard.”

  The presence shook its head sadly. You were not strong enough even to keep yourself from lying, you weakling. How do you hope to defy me? The tone altered, became even more contemptuous. And he saw through you like the water-carrier through the temple-dancer’s robes. You are pathetic and I pray to Siva that through you I will find a worthier servant.

  Khalil felt the carousel slowing. It ground to a halt, the squealing noises stopped, and the few voices left outside moved away. More time passed. Khalil squirmed. It felt like hours going by, and he began to suspect that the old one was right. And if Hesha had abandoned him, he would have to start moving soon. Even if no shilmulo arrived to kill him, even if no unknown American terror jumped out of the shadows, someone might open him in the morning.

  I am glad that you have come to see my point of view. Now you will go to New York City, and you will do exactly as I say. Wait…wait…now there is no one looking at you. Get out.

  Khalil plucked at the latch and handle and cracked open the case.

  Baggage from the late flight out of London had been sent to the last claim area in the row. The only people at that end of that bay were one elderly female cleaner, mopping up where passengers were least likely to be at that hour, and a near-teenage security guard sneaking a highly illegal smoke. Neither of them had been paying any attention to the sole remaining item from Calcutta, a shallow black trunk with nickel-polish hardware. When the top of it flew up and smacked into the conveyor plates, the noise hardly impinged on their tired brains. By the time either of them looked around, the sound was thoroughly explained: A dark and curly-haired, handsome young man held the strap of the rolling carrier. His clothes, slick and fashionable, were as wrinkled as those of any other victim of economy-class seating. If he seemed rather pale and thin, well, cheap air travel could do that, too. The guard turned away to hide his cigarette. The lady with the mop eyed the devilish face and impish black goatee of the passenger and wished herself forty years younger.

  Khalil Ravana winked at the old woman and walked calmly through an unattended Customs station. “Nothing to declare,” he murmured to himself, and smiled.

  Saturday, 31 July 1999, 12:14 AM

  Red Hook, Brooklyn

  New York City, New York

  The street was barren, poorly lit, marred with cracks and potholes, and stifled by a rotting summer. Water hung heavy in the air, and carried with it the smell of the upper bay and the mingled Hudson and East Rivers. Feeble, creeping breezes brought the stench of decaying garbage—food, drink, booze, bodies—from between old buildings, from abandoned lots, and from the project houses looming in the distance.

  The street was surrounded by the ghosts of dockyards past. Squat, brick warehouses hunkered down on either side of it. Some lay empty; some sheltered those who could afford nothing better. A few had been converted to office space or artist’s lofts, the rest plied their old trade—but stored the unwanted and inconvenient instead of the lifeblood of industry.

  Halfway along the street’s length, one building stood slightly apart from its fellows. It was four stories high and distinctively intact. Its first floor sported sturdy metal doors and bricked-in windows. Above the street, the windows were barred and darkened, but very few were broken. The place had an air of habitation; someone would see to any cracked panes. Someone kept bulbs in the streetlights, and replaced them as they burned or were shot out. Now the landlord’s carefully tended lights picked out movement at the main door. A lone man emerged.

  He was black and clean-shaven. His scalp was smooth and bare as an eggshell. Angular bones and wary lines complicated his face. He had character. He was not handsome in any analyzable fashion; his appeal—strong and magnetic—had less to do with his looks than with his personality. He was above the average height, but not noticeably tall. His body did not, at this moment, intimidate. His beautifully tailored suit hid enduring, powerful muscles and sinew, but it could hide them. Even rags could hide them, if he carried himself to match tatters. The role of beggar served him more often than the role of bully… but tonight he wore a light, expensive trench coat over his silk suit. He carried an ebony cane with a solid, sterling-silver handle. His platinum watch gleamed dully. The golden rim of his monocle winked from its place in his breast pocket. The bag at his side, however…

  Hesha Ruhadze put a hand on the flap of the rough canvas sack. It was not in his public persona as financial wizard to carry such a thing in the city—the rubberized cloth was plain, dirty, heavy, and slightly damp despite its protective coating—but he would have risked far more than mere mortal reputation to keep the bag in sight and at hand.

  It held the Eye of Hazimel.

  It held the greatest prize Hesha had ever gained, attained only after the longest quest he had ever undertaken, and at the highest cost—in lives, time, sin, and service—he and his had ever paid.

  The heavy, windowless portal swung shut behind him, and Hesha listened to the steel bolts click into place with a sense of satisfaction. There was—there had been—a woman, an obstacle to his success. She had troubled him; she had distracted him from the true path. Elizabeth (the name rolled softly into his mind, and he nearly spoke it aloud). Elizabeth Dimitros (he added the last name and felt a clean sense of distance between them). She had been an inconveniently perceptive, interfering, traitorous mortal. And now we atone, Lord, Hesha prayed silently to his god, Set. She waits for the sun, and I sacrifice her to your will. I am yours, and she is yours, but Ronald Thompson will never be…and that is my fault. Compassion is a sin. Accept this offering and forgive me. Speed my steps in your service.

  The devotion brought the need for haste to his mind. He had been waiting for almost thirty seconds. A touch of impatience grew behind his face. It was not permitted to mar his features, but it lay in his mind nonetheless. With Thompson gone, the other servants writhed like a headless snake. The old retainer’s replacements were less punctual, less professional, less accustomed to Hesha’s needs. Competent, of course—he and Thompson had hand-picked them from a host of well-trained guards and detectives—but untutored. Hesha knew there would be no time to teach them properly until the business of the Eye lay complete.

  If Vegel had survived… Erich Vegel had been Hesha’s lieutenant, his junior partner. He could have seen to the staff. He would have shared the heavy burden of this victory. He might have interpreted correctly the signs that had led to the murder of Elizabeth. …Hesha cut the thought short abruptly. Shortly he would know whatever could be known about the fate of Erich Vegel. He hoped the information would be worth the risk he would take for it.

  He felt the bag beneath his hand, and mused. The mud inside no longer sloshed; it had the consistency of pudding, smelled worse than the harbor, and weighed far more than it had any reason to. The ancient inscription that had given him the knowledge to contain the Eye stated that the relic would be safe and undetectable once caked in the mud of a holy river—the Ganges, in this case—but said nothing about the time before the casing dried.

  Hesha’s deep-brown eyes watched the street carefully. If others could still sense the orb, or knew by other means that he possessed it…

  Hazimel himself was said to be a Ravnos. The “gypsy” clan might come seeking to parley or to trick him out of the thing. If the legends were right, the shilmulo h
ad the most claim to ownership and the best chance to find it. He thought of Khalil in Chicago, and wondered how the little Rom had fared.

  The Nosferatu were most likely to know he had it despite all precautions for secrecy; they were the most likely Cainites to know anything. Two months ago he would have counted on them as allies—would probably, with Vegel and Thompson gone, have asked their aid in guarding the treasure. But Vegel had lost contact—had been destroyed or captured by the enemy—at a party in Atlanta which the Nosferatu had insisted that Hesha attend. Perhaps the attack that night had been a surprise to them. Perhaps not. If it had been a trap, it had caught the wrong man, and the Nosferatu would try to net their prey in another snare. And if it had been a trap…Hesha would reckon with them in time. The Setite disdained revenge for its own sake, but recognized its beneficial effect on observers.

  As for the rest…the Tremere possessed the occult knowledge to realize the Eye’s potential, if they knew of its existence. Any warlock would trade his or her teeth for it gladly—or strike in force. The Sabbat and the Camarilla had their hands full fighting a war for the East Coast; but the first battle had been for Atlanta, and the Eye had surfaced there. Someone might know something. It might even have been stolen from one group or the other. He thought of the reports that the Tremere’s Atlanta chantry had been destroyed at the solstice, and wondered.

  A black sedan careened around the corner. It sped toward him quickly and rolled to a guilty stop directly before the door of the warehouse. Tinted windows hid the driver, but Hesha knew that she could see his face, and he allowed the shadow of displeasure to cross it. He turned on his heel and walked, pointedly, three yards farther along the pavement. The sedan crept up to park in the new space, and the right rear door opened automatically. Hesha slid silently inside and waited, perched on the edge of the seat, watching the sidewalk. The driver pressed the door controls. The discreetly armored, bullet-proof, flame-proof, insulated panel closed, and the Setite settled himself comfortably in the exact center of the passenger compartment. He placed the heavy canvas sack on his lap, and his eyes fell on the woman in the front seat.