Strange City Read online

  Strange City

  World of Darkness Anth

  Introduction

  Critics of so-called "game fiction"—that is novels or stories that are set in a world originally created for use in a storytelling game—like to point out how cliqueish such work appears to be. Such stories are supposedly meant to be read only by readers "in the know"—those who are already familiar with the fictional setting. The same argument has been leveled against stories set in any licensed universe, such as the future depicted in Star Trek or the investigations in the X-Files novels.

  The challenge is often valid. Books using such worlds as a background can be created with that specific audi­ence of those "in the know" in mind, in some cases, crit­ics point out, the stories suffer because this built-in audience will buy the book simply as a fan of the world and not necessarily as a discriminating reader looking for a good story.

  Therein lies the difference between stories set in White Wolf's World of Darkness and stories based in many of the countless other fictional worlds. lt has always been the goal of the creators of the World of Darkness to share this rich setting by reaching many different people in many different ways.Gamers can interact with the world through storytelling games; computer games exist (or soon will) that allow the player to access the World of Darkness in another way. And fiction, like the short sto­ries collected here, allow the general reader to also explore the World of Darkness.

  Newcomers to the World of Darkness, as well as those who have entered the world before, will find a rich selec­tion of stories here.The World of Darkness is a complex setting harboring many creations that will be new and unfamiliar to the general reader of horror or dark fantasy, but that doesn't stop these stories from succeeding for all readers.

  Certain stories (The Art of Dying," "Wolf Trap," and 'ReoCboand'f make very deftatte ase of Che amqae to-con of the setting, and may indeed take some warming to, but the richness of the World of Darkness is such that these excellent stories work within or without the World of Darkness, The fact that they are set within the world adds depth to the setting and demonstrates that readers who simply enjoy fine stories can find something to their taste in the World of Darkness as well-But if you do find you need some help getting up to speed on the three main aspects of the World of Darkness covered in this collection, then I recommend the following stories: for Vampire. The Masquerade try "The Scarlet Letters"; for Werewolf. The Apocalypse try "The Waters of Lethe, and for Wraitft: The Oblivion try "Glimpses of Before." Those should whet your appetite and again prove that the stories set in the World of Darkness are not, in fact, restricted to those "in the know."

  Stewart Wieck October I995

  Dancing with the Devil

  by Keith "Doc" Herber

  Delfonso awoke late. He had overslept again; he could feel it. He stretched in his coffin, felt his joints creak, then sat up. He was awake.

  Gaining his feet, he groped the old adobe wall for the light switch. Overhead, a bare bulb sprung to life, splashing the ancient corridor with yellow light.

  Delfonso stretched again, rolled his head around, working the stiffness out of his neck. He was an old vampire, among the oldest in San Francisco. And if not the oldest, certainly the longest resident undead.

  He felt as though he'd been asleep a long time and wondered if he had not slept through a whole night, failing to wake altogether. It had happened before— only a few times—but enough to raise Delfonso's con­cerns. As vampires grew older, he had learned, they often slept longer, more deeply, and through almost anything. Delfonso had been undead nearly five hun­dred years. Perhaps it was catching up with him.

  With a pale-white hand he brushed the dust from his black trousers, his fingers finding the small rip where he had snagged them the night before on the seat of his limousine. He had ordered Juan to fix the broken spring first thing the next day.

  Looking into the small mirror hanging on the wall across from the alcove containing his coffin, Delfonso smoothed his black dress coat, straightened his collar and white tie, and, with delicate fingertips, brushed smooth his narrow, closely trimmed mustache and tiny, pointed beard.

  He must appear respectable.

  He felt the urge to go out tonight. Hunger gnawed. How long since he had last fed? A week? Ten days? He couldn't remember. All he knew was that as he grew older the Hunger seemed to wane. Oh, it was still as demanding, but it came less often, forcing Delfonso to kill less often.

  He would have to call Juan from the upstairs phone, he thought to himself, get him over right away. What time was it?

  To his right, the corridor led to a narrow wooden stairway that reached the house above; at the other end stood a heavy, rough-timber door, mounted with black iron hinges and lock. It was to this door he now walked. Pulling an antique key from his pocket, he unlocked it and pushed it open, revealing a midnight-black cham­ber beyond. He snapped a wall switch and light sprang up. The room was filled with ancient instruments of tor­ture: the rack, strappadoes, and other examples of the Spanish Inquisition's trade shipped here centuries ago from Mexico City. Delfonso had them installed in this underground chamber—a chamber once connected to the adobe mission built here in I776 by the Franciscan father lunipero Serra. Serra had disapproved of the chamber, but Delfonso had then been posing as an agent of the Inquisition sent from Mexico City. Fear kept the father from protesting too much.

  Delfonso had made good use of the chamber, encouraging recalcitrant Indians to accept the word of God, and occasionally chastising a Spanish soldier from the Presidio who had strayed from the righteous path. Originally a scheme hatched by the vampire to afford him a steady source of food, it was while torturing one of his victims that he had at last, finally realized the role he was meant to play in this world. He was to be an avenger sent from heaven to save the most des­perate of lost souls. Many had found God while writhing on his rack. Delfonso, watching their ago­nized throes, eventually found God too. After hundreds of years "lost in the wilderness," he had come to dis­cover why he was. He returned to the warm embrace of his Catholic religion, once more assured of his salva­tion in the hereafter.

  Gently, with a loving hand, Delfonso stroked the dark-stained timbers of the rack. So many had died on this machine—in immense pain and suffering—but how many souls had Delfonso saved? How many had he, at the last minute, saved from Eternal Damnation and sent winging to heaven?

  Delfonso had lost count.

  Turning to a small niche in the wall, he struck a match and lit a small votive candle within. Light filled the opening, revealing a statue of the Virgin Mary. Delfonso genuflected, quickly muttered a Hail Mary, then made the sign of the cross. Before extinguishing the candle, he drew out a small, silver crucifix from inside his shirt, kissed it, then touched it to the even colder lips of the statue.

  Tonight, he had promised the Virgin, he would save another soul.

  Once upstairs, Delfonso telephoned his Filipino chauffeur and told him to bring the car around. They would be going out tonight. Putting a CD on his large stereo system, he listened to the opening strains of La Boheme while waiting for Juan to appear. The chauffeur lived a few blocks away, and it would be a few minutes before he arrived.

  While he listened to the music, Delfonso's eyes roamed over the souvenirs, trophies, and other mem­orabilia crowding the house's small living room: a large, antique globe; a bookshelf crowded with old volumes and binders full of maps and charts; a pair of antique Spanish lances and a shield mounted over the fireplace. Delfonso noticed the dust thickly coat­ing everything and made a mental note to have )uan come in and clean sometime soon.

  His eyes came to rest on the old Spanish helmet sit­ting on a walnut end table. Looking at it, he was taken back to his early days in the New World whence he had come,
the poor third son of a Spanish nobleman, des­perate to make his own fortune. Carrying banners, Delfonso and four hundred other Spaniards had marched inland in search of gold and Indian souls to save. They discovered the Aztec civilization, its gold, and worse, its infernal rites. Delfonso could still remember the endless lines of captives marched up the broad temple steps to where the priest Nezahualcoyotl would carve their living hearts from their bodies and offer them to the sun god. The Spaniards had been hor­rified by the spectacle and soon after overthrew Moctezuma II, ending the savage worship.

  But before that would happen Delfonso himself was to die in this horrible manner. Captured by the savages one evening while separated from his troops, Delfonso was carried to a secret temple outside the Aztec city. Here, the Indians threw him on his back across the sacrificial altar, holding him fast while a priest raised a jagged obsidian blade high in the air, then plunged it down through Delfonso's chest, hack­ing away the Spaniard's still-beating heart

  Delfonso winced at the pain of the memory.

  He had awakened some time later, near midnight, choking on a vile fluid being poured down his throat. Surprised to find himself alive, Delfonso listened as the Aztec priest explained what had been done: how Delfonso had been killed then resurrected with the liv­ing blood of a secret and eternal race. The priest was aware that the coming of the conquistadors meant the doom of his people—as had been prophesied for so long—and, knowing that he would die, the priest intended the lineage of Nezahualcoyotl to continue. Delfonso recalled having the distinct impression that Nezahualcoyotl himself was not aware of the "favor" the priest was doing him.

  After the Aztecs had fallen to the Spaniards, Delfonso found himself alone in the wilderness, an untrained vampire Childe whose mentor had been slain, and who knew little of himself other than he was no longer of his own kind. Years he had spent in the jungle, dwelling on the outskirts of the slowly expand­ing Spanish settlements, preying on pagan Indians and the occasional Spaniard. He thought of those years spent alone, his very soul in mortal jeopardy . . .

  A soft knock at the front door brought him out of his reverie. Juan had arrived.

  Rising from his chair, Delfonso grabbed his cape and hat hanging on the wall and, opening the door, stepped out into the damp, heavy air of the city's Mission District.

  Expertly, the young Filipino driver maneuvered the black stretch Continental through the Friday late evening traffic.

  "I think Domingo is probably down around Twenty-fourth Street," )uan said, glancing over his shoulder to where Delfonso lounged in the back seat.

  "Head down that way, then," ordered Delfonso. "He should accompany us on our foray this evening."

  The Filipino smiled and nodded. A ghoul now working for Delfonso nearly six years, Juan hoped that someday Delfonso would adopt him as Childe. Delfonso found Juan properly subservient and respectful, but not the sort he would consider raising to vampire—although he never indicated this to Juan.

  The limo made its way steadily south down teeming

  Mission Street alive with excitement and action on a weekend night. Lower middle class at best, the Mission district is a sprawling flatland nearly surrounded by hills and mountains, its streets a never-ending series of wall-to-wall cheap stucco or frame houses now inhabited mainly by Hispanics. Located south of the city proper, the district was built up during the late nineteenth century, a blue-collar neighborhood succes­sively inhabited by Scandinavians and Germans, then Irish, then Italians, and now Mexicans and other Latino groups. Even the small enclave of Chinese hail mostly from Peru and speak fluent Spanish.

  Louder, noisier than ever, its streets plied by low-riders booming salsa and with Mexican restaurants on every corner, the Mission District seemed to Delfonso fated to be home to a never-ending string of ill-educated, uncultured immigrants. He had lived here since I906, after losing his suite and nearly all his belongings in the Palace Hotel fire following the great quake. Uninsured, and finances dwindling, he'd moved to his present home in a part of the Mission untouched by the holocaust. He had lived here ever since. Hardly a day went by that he had not had occa­sion to regret it.

  He scanned the streets, filled with pedestrians, lin­gerers, girls in low-cut dresses too tight and too short. Sinners, he thought to himself.

  Sinners—every one of them. Would they someday be redeemed?

  "I think I see Domingo," |uan said over the back of the seat. "Over there, in that crowd."

  Delfonso sat forward, looking through the wind­shield at the corner where Juan pointed. He easily spotted Domingo.

  A squat, hefty Mexican, Domingo had been Delfonso's Childe for almost forty years now. Born in Los Angeles, the man had come to San Francisco in I943, one step ahead of the draft board, and soon after met fatefully with a hungry Delfonso. A dope-peddling zoot-suiter back in L.A., Domingo had proven useful to Delfonso. Domingo had a street presence Delfonso lacked, and did a much better job of controlling the local area than the elder Spaniard could ever hope to. True, he could terrorize in a way that Domingo couldn't, but Delfonso felt he could not—perhaps would not—meet and mingle with this half-breed crowd of Indians and Spanish.

  "Pull over and blow the horn," Delfonso told iuan.

  At the sound of the horn, Domingo looked up and saw the limo waiting at the curb. A quick knocking together of fists with the gang members he was talk­ing to, then he was walking toward the limo. Delfonso watched Domingo's strut. Just slow enough to impress his friends, but not so slow as to anger his master. Domingo could play the line.

  "Good evening, Mr. Delfonso," said Domingo, sticking his head through the opened window, grinning, showing his gold tooth.

  "Hop inside," Delfonso told him. "We go hunting tonight."

  Domingo waved his friends off then clambered into the front seat, next to Juan.

  "Hey-y-y," he drawled. "It is a good night for hunting, eh, amigo." He smiled at )uan.

  Juan grinned back, and winked.

  "Head downtown," Delfonso ordered the driver, then settled back into the deep-red velvet seat while Domingo filled him in on street happenings.

  While the limo crept steadily north, Domingo described current conditions in the Mission, moneys collected, and suspected infringements by "poach­ers"—vampires from other parts of town—hunting and feeding in the Mission District. Vannevar Thomas, reigning Prince of the city, kept a sharp eye on the boundaries between provinces, and violations were dealt with harshly.

  But Delfonso soon found the talk growing stale. The two had really very little in common aside from a similarity of native language. The older Spaniard found himself growing bored.

  "I require privacy," Delfonso finally said. "Notify me if you spot a likely prospect."

  Pushing a button in the armrest he watched Domingo's scowling, thick-headed face disappear behind the opaque screen rising up out of the back of the front seat. The passenger compartment was now sealed and although he could still hear the muffled conversation of Domingo and luan, Delfonso chose to ignore it.

  Delfonso relaxed back into his seat, letting his mind wander. His idle fingers again found the tear in his trouser leg and he thought of the broken wire in the limo seat. He bent forward to see if luan had repaired it as he had asked him to and was appalled to find that, although the wire was now safely clipped, the chauffeur had patched the fabric with nothing more than a piece of red cloth tape that almost matched the red of the velvet upholstery.

  "Damn," Delfonso told himself. Was there no one he could trust to do a proper job anymore? Then, tak­ing a good look at the limo's interior, realized how worn and threadbare the whole vehicle was getting to be. Even the exterior—as polished as Juan might keep it—on closer inspection showed numerous chips and dents inexpertly filled and repainted. Delfonso real­ized the car was getting old and a little care-worn.

  Much like himself, he thought.

  They reached broad, busy Market street, and luan turned right, heading northwest; the Moorish-styled clock
tower of the old Ferry building stood proudly at the end of the street. Built in I898, it was one of the few major structures in this part of town to survive the great earthquake. Ahead, on the right, a few blocks this side of the Ferry building, was the spot where once stood the grand and resplendent Palace Hotel, Delfonso's home from I876 until his forced move to the Mission in I906. Dwelling on the top, seventh floor, he was one of many permanent residents that lived in the luxurious place. From the gallery outside his apartments he could gaze down upon the Grand Court far below, watching the coming and going of guests riding in carriages that entered and exited via the circle drive in the hotel's interior.

  Posing as the Spanish Count Delafonsa, the ex-conquistador had spent the best evenings of his exis­tence there. Famous and distinguished guests from all over the world stayed at the Palace which, with eight hundred rooms, was the largest hotel on the West Coast and one of the largest in the world. Surpassed by none for service, food, and elegance, its furniture was special ordered, as was the solid-gold place set­ting for one hundred. The hotel's restaurants were unsurpassed, the owner going so far as to lure away the chef from New York's famed Delmonico restaurant. Delfonso, over the years, had spent many a wonderful evening with the likes of such people as Oscar Wilde, Edwin Booth, and even—on the night before the great earthquake—the incomparable Caruso.

  Delfonso had attended the grand balls staged there, the lavish parties, and even the funerals of a few distinguished guests. In those days Delfonso had moved with the best society San Francisco could offer, mingling with Floods, McKays, Hopkinses, Stanfords, and Crockers. He had, with Englishman Ned Greenway, helped establish the city's first social register, and because of his noble descent, was often consulted on matters of etiquette and protocol. Inside tips from his Nob Hill acquaintances helped him to amass a fortune in the silver market, and this money he poured back into theaters and operas, raising the social status of the city. San Francisco had been truly great then, he told himself.