by Iris Walker
She handed the bundle to him, and he quirked an eyebrow in curiosity, looking inside of the bag. Robin watched his face as his eyes lit up. “No way,” he gasped, pulling the weapons out.
Two weapons, a short sword and a curved dagger, gleaming gold.
“These…” he said, a scowl forming on his face. “Are they…?”
She grinned. “Chadwick stole the blueprints along with the other strongblood anatomy notes. They’re the real deal, or so he tells me.”
“Holy hell,” Reykon whispered, eyes wide in wonder. “I could be beheaded for just looking at these.”
Robin gave a crooked grin. “I knew you’d like them.”
“Like them?” he gasped. “This is the best gift ever. These are the weapons they used in the insurgence. I’d sell my arm and leg to get five minutes with them.”
“Well, now you’ve got a lifetime.”
“Robin, how did you even know about these?”
“Chadwick told me,” she said with a smile. “He said that a while back, some of the strongbloods conspired with the elementalists, and the casters funded a fight by giving them crazy weapons. Honestly, I don’t know more than that.”
“Nobody knows a lot about what happened,” Reykon murmured, watching the gold gleam in the firelight. “The masters burnt every record about it. Most of it’s just word of mouth, but I happened to overhear Magnus one night when he was drunk, talking with some old vampire buddies. It was a long time ago.”
“What happened?”
“The insurgency was about two hundred years after the strongbloods were created. The vampires had been very relaxed with them, treating them like pets, or even children. So the number of strongbloods just kept going up, and then there was a fight or something, and the vampires sent the strongbloods to break it up, but it ended up being a massacre. People started asking questions about why they had to fight the battles for the vampires, about why they were holed up in strongholds and not allowed to live with humans. A lot of them ran away and started forming a rebellion. Instead of letting history take its course, the casters intervened and threw gasoline on the fire by supplying strongbloods with these crazy weapons that could supposedly take down vampires and gain strength with each fallen bloodsucker.”
“The strongbloods spread the word to everybody that was still in the strongholds, and then one by one, they started attacking. A lot of vampires died, but there was this one guy, um, Hector something. Yeah, Vampire Master Hector Alterio. He devised a way to kill the strongbloods that were rising up. It was really gruesome, but he’d lock the attackers in whatever wing they’d sieged and then he poisoned the water. The other masters followed suit. Over the course of a year, strongblood numbers went from nearly a hundred thousand to only eighty-two, most of them being children.”
“Christ,” Robin muttered, her eyes widening.
“Ever since then, the vampires have kept a tight, tight lock on their strongbloods’ strength and numbers.”
She shook her head. “That’s horrible.”
“They blamed the casters for it, so as an olive branch, the guild devised these magical suppressant symbols to put on strongbloods when they start using their abilities. Except we were never told that,” Reykon said softly, his fingers gripping his wrist subconsciously. “I’d always thought the symbols were just part of the magic imbued into us. It’s probably a good thing the vampires kept that a secret, because I have no doubt we would have revolted, with enough time and injustice.”
“A good thing?”
Reykon scoffed bitterly. “The vampires will always win. They’re just too smart, and too powerful. In every fight, they come out on top, no matter who stands on either side of the conflict.”
Always, until now. Robin gave a slight shrug. “I stopped Ezra with my bare hands.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me about that British jerk,” Reykon said. “You’re crazy powerful, I know that, but you’re one person. Revolutions aren’t accomplished by a single individual.”
“Maybe so,” she admitted. “Don’t be so hard on Ezra. He was polite to me during our time at the winter stronghold.”
“That’s what they do. They’re polite, and they’re cordial, and even enchanting. But when push comes to shove, the vampires will cut anybody down if they even think there’s a threat. It’s a zero-tolerance policy.”
Robin nodded, glancing across the ocean, at the swollen moon, glowing against the wispy clouds. “I bet it felt good to beat Ezra’s face in,” she murmured, sneaking a side glance at him.
“Oh, so good,” Reykon said with a grin, palming his weapon. “Come on. Let’s practice.”
Robin grinned, standing and following him down the soft wooden steps, until their feet sunk into the sand, the wind whipping around them. She watched Reykon go in front of her, taking in the moment like a breath of fresh air, and then, she brought the camera up and trained her sight on him, silhouetted against the moon, his two illegal weapons in hand. This, Robin thought, is all I want.
Lucidia
Her blood felt like chunky engine oil. When she finally came to, she realized by the smell of stale, sweaty air that she was no longer outside. The room was warm and muggy, and the longer she lay, suspended in feverish purgatory, the more she became aware of the stench coming from her wound. Infection. Death. “Ugh,” Lucidia groaned, peeling her eyes open. Dawn’s hazel eyes peered back at her, a moment before the healer pressed a moist towel over Lucidia’s eyelids, softening the crust that had gathered around them. “Jesus,” Lucidia muttered. “Just put me down already.”
“Hey,” Dawn snapped. “Not funny.”
Dawn was a naturalist on the run from the Cain’s vampires. She’d spent most of her time trying to patch up broken humans and healing infected bite wounds, but Lucidia had taken up nearly all her time as of late, a fact which the strongblood thought was ‘an unnecessary waste of resources’. But Darian had insisted on it, and well, nobody was going to argue with him. “Perk up,” Dawn said firmly, tossing the rag into a pile at the side of the bed. “You’ve got a visitor.”
Lucidia opened her eyes and scowled, then turned to the chair next to her bed. The room was small, a shoe closet really, and had a tall skinny window on the other side. She was on the bed, which took up most of the space, but Darian had brought a chair in, and looked outrageously out of place in his purple dress robes. She chuckled softly, but it got caught in her throat and she ended up coughing a couple times. God, it was a horrible sound. “Don’t you have better things to do than watch me die? Like… oh, I don’t know, run the world?”
Darian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’ve still got your sense of humor.”
“Not even death could take it from me,” she said with a bitter smile that faltered and then faded soon after. The act of talking was stealing her breath, exhausting her, and she sunk back further onto the bed. She could feel his eyes on hers, and after a moment, she turned to him and raised an eyebrow.
“Jasper and Maeve returned from the rogue’s den last night,” he said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.
“Let me guess, nothing,” she muttered.
“We have a few more options.”
“There’s no cure for the Legion’s poison. You know it, and I know it, so just stop sending people out for one.”
“Lucidia,” he warned.
“What?” she said sharply, coughing after another pang shot through her arm. “There’s nothing to do. We knew this would happen.” A silence slipped between them, and Lucidia felt a bead of sweat snaking down her temple at a maddeningly slow pace. When the quiet became oppressive, she cleared the gunk in her throat again and turned to him. “Tell me about our position.”
Darian nodded, glancing at the window, scanning the sliver of sky. “We managed to recover twenty vampires and seven strongbloods from House Augustus, but they’re waiting at a safehouse until it’s safe to cross through Fausta’s territory. The counter-siege of the Little Rock Xander House is underway, but Cain’
s forces have a good position, and the effort is slow going.”
Lucidia nodded, taking in the information and trying to hold onto it. Her brain felt like mush lately, and her attention span for tactical strategy had dwindled, infuriatingly enough. “What – what about the other Augustus House… where was it?”
“The Nova Scotia Augustus House was entirely decimated. No survivors, or building, for that matter.”
“That’s why nobody was responding,” she muttered.
“Yes,” he said grimly. “But we’ve made progress, and more refugees are flocking to us with each day.”
“Be careful about that,” Lucidia mumbled.
“Now is hardly the time to turn people away, but nevertheless, we are taking necessary precautions.”
She laughed, a tight, choked sound. “See, you don’t even need me.”
“Lucidia, stop it,” he said firmly. His expression was hardened stone, fierce and unyielding.
She glanced at him once more and then let her eyes trail over to the window. It was dark. She felt the heat in her body surge again, a wave of oozy fever rolling over her. She swallowed, hard, a thick gunk lining her throat and reminding her that time was running out. Her arm had calmed down some, but with each breath she took, she felt her wound stretching, and she knew it wasn’t getting better. Worse, in fact. The naturalist magic was like putting a band aid on a bullet hole.
“Is Max back yet?” Lucidia asked after a while.
Darian shook his head. “She’s still salvaging data from the Nebraska Xander House. She’s set to return in two days’ time.”
Lucidia nodded slowly. It was another person that she wanted to thank, to say goodbye to. The list was so long. But, she supposed in another day or so, it wouldn’t matter at all. When she realized how close it was, how quickly it would all end, a wave of queasy fear rolled over her. “Will you tell her, that-”
“I have something for you,” Darian murmured, ignoring her request and turning back to her.
She narrowed her eyes. “Is it something I can take with me to the afterlife?”
This elicited a small smile from him. “No. But it will live on, after you.”
“What is it?”
He pulled out a small piece of metal, an emblem of the famous weapon that all strongbloods knew by name. Praestes, the famed sword wielded by one of the most revered strongbloods of all time. Nearly a thousand years ago, Cyrus Thraxos, a true hero to her people, used the sword Praestes to defend the royal masters from an army of defected rogue vampires, knowing that he would die. He swung, over and over, until thirty-four arrows had impaled him, and the vampires had broken his legs. Now, it was a symbol of the highest respect and honor. An award, rarely bestowed. Kenzo had received it; that’s where she recognized the symbol. She’d seen it gleaming on his jacket, an ever-present sign of his loyalty and pride and honor.
“Vere Fidelis,” Lucidia murmured, looking at the small pin, elegantly crafted.
“Vere Fidelis,” he echoed, taking Lucidia’s burning, clammy hand and enclosing the small emblem inside. “It is yours. You will be regaled as one of the finest members of my House, always, and forever.”
Not always, and not forever, she thought bitterly, surprised at the burning emotion that rose to the surface. Kenzo had received the award, but when word of his treason was spread, he was determined to be no longer worthy of such status, and it was revoked, stripped from him. Lucidia had seen him, for the first time without the pin on his jacket, the day he’d been dragged out of the grand hall and into his cell. Seeing this pin in front of her triggered all those memories, those emotions she’d chosen to push down and punch out.
But still, it was the highest honor to even be considered for one. “Thank you,” she whispered, nodding slowly.
“I apologize that it is not being presented on the ceremonial steps,” he murmured. It was the only time that a strongblood was officially brought up to the throne area. It was a symbol of a vampire’s utmost gratitude, to stand on level ground. When the pin was bestowed, the vampire master giving it kneels and placed the emblem on the strongblood. This was extremely rare because most of the Vere Fidelis honors were given posthumously, for obvious reasons. It was the only time a vampire admitted inferiority, if you could call it that, to a strongblood.
Lucidia gave him a resigned smile. “Crowds aren’t really my thing, anyway.”
“No, I suppose they are not.”
She gripped the small piece of metal, hard enough to dig into her skin. She was so frail right now that each passing moment left her colder, more distant. She fought the irrational impulse to tie herself to the bed, for fear that she’d drift away. After a moment, Lucidia brought her hand up and peered at the design. Praestes was a work of art, in every manner. Its curved blade went all the way down, past the handle, hovering over the grip with a fierce glint. Impossibly thin and sharper than even the most expertly crafted swords, its true origins were unknown. Somehow, Cyrus acquired it, and somehow, he defended his masters with it until reinforcements arrived. Underneath the sword was a scrolling X, for House Xander. The pin itself was beautiful, and it brought a small smile to her face. “You know, I used to stare at Kenzo’s pin for hours,” she admitted.
“Really?”
She nodded, stifling another bone-shaking cough.
“Did Kenzo tell you how he got the award?” Darian asked.
“Something about an assassination,” she said. “He really didn’t like to talk about it, and I never asked.”
Darian nodded deeply. “It was a mutiny.”
Lucidia’s brow pulled together.
“My circle of protectors has always been smaller than some, but I choose very carefully. Two hundred years ago, however, it seems I chose incorrectly. Five of the eight strongbloods in my inner circle revolted, plotting to overthrow me. We were at a very, very small satellite house, and we’d managed to make it down to the catacombs, at the cusp of my crypt. Kenzo disobeyed my order for him to follow me into my crypt and wait out for reinforcements. He sealed me inside and left himself to contend with five of the fiercest strongbloods in all of House Xander, not to mention, his closest compatriots.”
Lucidia’s eyes widened.
“When the door opened, I expected to flee, to run away as quickly as I could, but Kenzo collapsed in front of me, covered in blood. He’d been stabbed at least ten times, and his leg was broken.”
“Jesus,” she breathed.
“He had no intention of surviving the battle when he closed the door on me,” Darian admitted, sorrow and emotion roiling in his red eyes. “But somehow he prevailed, and he killed every single traitor. Those whom he’d known for over a century. Those whom he’d called brother and sister.”
“No wonder it was hard for him to talk about. Whenever I asked him about it, he seemed… ashamed isn’t the right word. Bitter, or sad about it.”
“It was a horrible thing to do, to choose between kin and duty.”
Lucidia swallowed hard, running her finger along the delicate metalwork.
“Do you know what happened after the ceremony?” Darian asked softly.
She shook her head.
“I asked Kenzo what he wanted, anything, and it would be his. I would have let him shirk my banners and escape into the human world unprosecuted, if that had been his wish. He thought about it for several minutes, quiet, contemplative, like he always was. And then he told me, ‘I wish to be a father’. I thought it was strange, because most strongbloods see childbearing as an inconvenience, a weakness, but he was so intent on the idea of legacy and family by blood. I nodded, and said, ‘so it shall be’. And I trust you know what came of his request.”
“And a little while later, I bet you regretted that decision,” she said with a smirk.
Darian turned to her, his red eyes piercing hers and holding her gaze. His voice sounded strange, and Lucidia couldn’t understand what was wrong with it until at last she caught on. Emotion. Sorrow. She’d never seen the mast
er vampire show anything but calm, glassy acceptance in the face of suffering. His words were genuine, fierce. “Not for a single moment.”
Lucidia turned, her eyes slipping outside and watching the dark sky brighten. Another day. Her last day. She fell into a fevered sleep, time slipping around her like a river as she desperately clung to the sound of her weak pulse.
Chapter 3 When The Dust Settles
Megan
Megan’s eyes began growing heavy, between the flowing harp music and the rhythmic motion of Fausta brushing her hair. It had grown out quite a bit and had started to get wavy at the edges, which was just how Fausta liked it. The harp player was some human that they’d taken from the streets of Philadelphia, just outside of a concert hall on a brisk night. Judging from the skill, the woman must have been a professional, a player in the philharmonic. Not to mention the talent it took to keep it up in the presence of a vicious vampire that had abducted her and nearly taken a chunk out of the timpani player she’d arrived with. The woman looked pale and shaken, her dark brown hair trembling around her face. But the music was beautiful. Some lullaby, sweet and lilting, floating through the air like a lazy river.
Megan was perched on the velvet settee bench that Fausta had brought in for her. It was soft, cushioned with some ridiculously expensive material like the goose feathers from a nearly extinct species in the Andes mountains, and had two scrolling arms, beautiful and elegant. Fausta had presented it to Megan a few nights after the massacre, and while Megan was extremely drunk and a little high at the time, she managed to mumble her words of appreciation. They were genuine, but not in the normal sense. Megan was genuinely thankful that the woman was giving her a comfortable place to sleep, rather than giving her a surprise dissection. In all honesty, Megan would have said anything the vampire queen wanted to hear. At first, it had ashamed her that she’d fallen into a vampire’s clutches, that she hadn’t been strong enough to withstand the temptation of comfort or good food or a 24/7 roaring fire.
She wasn’t strong enough, plain and simple.
