Closing her eyes, Val marked four pairs of footsteps in the building across from her perch. She leapt, tucked her knees, and crashed through the west wall in a storm of dust and rock. She eyed her prey carefully. Glossy, charcoal skin; pointed ears; black eyes. They looked more like goblins or demons than elves. One charged at her with a shuriken-like weapon. A single kick sent him airborne. Her hand was then around his neck and smashing him through another wall.
The others held their ground. Val cocked her head to the side, tongue reflexively running along her top row of fangs. She wanted them to run. God, she prayed they would run. Instead, they lunged forward and were dead in seconds.
She threw her head back in elation. This was Pennsylvania again. Her, Crystal, and Ligel, duking it out in sparring matches. Only this time, she didn’t have to hold back. Only this time, the rush bubbled over in rhapsody and she was still in control each and every second.
It was a frenzy of claws, teeth, and power. She’d lost count of how many she’d killed. At least seventy, but it had to have been more. She glanced down at the dead elves at her feet and frowned. A crease furrowed her brow, and she examined her hands. There was no blood. Whatever these elves had done to themselves, they weren’t held in the land of the living by flesh. They were solid, that much was obvious by the bruises forming under her clothes. A long gash was also sealing beneath her eye. They just weren’t… human was the only word that came to mind. Then again, they weren’t human to begin with, so maybe this was typical for their kind.
She jumped to the nearest pillar and crouched over the edge. Vladimir was in a world of his own. He had a second knife now and was using both to slash at the elves and bend the shadows. He was obviously holding back. She pondered the thought, absently watching a wave of darkness crash over a dozen more elves. Until this point, she’d only seen him use his power for trivial things. But now…
My name is Vladimir Dracule the Fifth, heir of the house of Dracule, Prince of the Eastern Kingdom, and emissary of the King of Angels.
The title rang like a gong. It hadn’t been obvious before, but the First Sin was in a league of his own. If he fought like this holding back, what would he look like fighting seriously? What did this say about the other five?
Val swallowed and the euphoria drowned. Her eyes darted about the wreckage. There was still no sign of a mage or anyone the least bit magical. The high of combat was fading and Val began to remember why they had come to this place. If the dark elves were simply hordes of corrupted magic, then she was hopeless.
She narrowed her gaze on Vladimir and could almost see a smirk turn the corners of his mouth. He lazily pulled three enemies into his grip and slammed them downward. His ease, his finesse. It…
He knifed another attacker then danced through the felled shadow. An uncomfortable weight saddled Val’s chest. Vladimir Dracule V was in no hurry at all.
Her mind stumbled over itself as it raced past a million thoughts. Before it could land, the earth behind Vladimir caved in and hundreds of black shapes skittered from the hole.
“Vladimir! Watch—”
Something hard struck her back, and Val tumbled at least three stories into the rocks below. A sharp piece of debris punctured her side, but before she could rise, a boulder-sized mass crashed into her chest. Oxygen fled, bones snapped, and for the briefest second, she was twenty-two years old. She was bleeding out in the woods with a ghoul biting into her flesh.
When her eyes flickered open, she found an equally, if not more, terrifying present. A boubous creature sat on her abdomen. It was made of swirling darkness with faint indents where eyes should have been. The world rocked, though she was pinned flat, and she forced her vision to steady. At first, she thought it was the concussion, but she was correct: the monster was melting. Shadow dripped and rolled down bulging fat, or whatever it was made of. Aside from its crushing weight, it made no move to harm her.
She strained against its body, smooth as shadow and cold as steel. It was useless. The effort, however, may have registered, because the creature untucked two stumpy legs and stepped to the side.
Val gasped for air. Her lungs fought for oxygen, but the flow had already cut off. Fingers clutched her shoulders and dragged her into a kneeling position.
“Vladimir!” She thrashed against the massive hand around her throat, but it was unflinching. The creature wrenched her head up and she watched in horror as hundreds of melting, shadowy forms flanked Vladimir on all sides. The remaining elves were changing as well. They twisted and stretched until their bodies also liquefied. Grey skin became black silhouettes as they hurled themselves at the dark prince.
He was saying something under his breath. The whispers and patter of the legion had since halted and his voice carried over the clashing metal.
“Aylos,” he hissed. The knife shot up to block a blow as a goblin-like creature decked him in the side.
“Aylos.” Two smaller creatures barreled into his shins and he folded to his knees.
“I command, Aylos.” A black hand struck his jaw before his hands could force another wave back.
Anger scorched through fear and Val fought harder against the blob. How could she have been so stupid not to notice before? The lighter he’d been playing with in the tunnel. Scentless mirage. Bloodless kills. The vampire had not only beguiled her into a trap but was enough of a dumbass to lose control of it.
“Vladimir, when I get out of this I will fuc—” the fingers tightened and the curse died with her oxygen. She could only glare as the shadows continued to pour from the hole and swallow the Prince of Darkness in a tomb of black.
Two minutes Earlier
Aylos- dispel.
A simple command, really. So simple, in fact, that it rarely needed words. Magicians doused their magic with their will, which is how he’d always controlled the shadows.
It’d been perfect. With Michael’s feather as an amplifier, he’d spent all afternoon perfecting his shadow puppets. Now, it was showtime.
He dodged an “elf’s” small fist, then flicked a blade through its throat. Shadows whipped like a kraken from his feet. A black tentacle slid through four, then dismissively tossed them aside. He let the shadows hold a defense as his eyes searched for Val. She was having the time of her life. A lusting carnage of claws, speed, and strength. One day…
He would have much rather taken Val to one of those blacklight casinos back home, but at least she had relaxed. Perhaps by the end, she’d loosen that tightly wound cage. Impure thoughts danced through his mind until something struck his back, far stronger than it should have.
He whipped around to find one of the elves staring him down. Checking to ensure Val was out of sight, he crouched down to meet its gaze.
“Oh? You think you’re tough, little guy?” He leaned close, pressing his nose against the puppet’s. “Aylos.”
Rather than dispersing into mist, the elf reeled back and socked him straight in the nose. Vladimir flew backwards into a heap of debris, head smacking on a stone wall.
He lay there a moment—stunned. The puppets weren’t weak, but they shouldn’t have been able to send him flying. Vladimir closed his eyes and stretched himself throughout the broken city. He traveled through the shadows like a current. Tendrils of his will wound the broken pillars, filled buildings, and surveyed the rubble. When he and Val had entered, there were two-thousand dark elves in total. He had dispersed a few hundred, and Creator only knew how many Val had killed. But still, something was wrong. His eyes flared open in panic.
Zero. He couldn’t sense any of them.
The elf who’d punched him was less than ten yards away, but he couldn’t wrap his power around it. Securing his knives, he sank to the shadows, then shot up behind the creature. It died as easily as the rest, but there was something different. It was less tangible; more dense cloud than flesh imitation.
Two more had appeared. Vladimir gripped his knives tighter as they approached, and he actually took a step back. The shadows
bled from their eyes, down their cheeks and enveloped their whole bodies in blackness.
“Aylos.”
They charged forward. He flicked his wrist to throw them back with the darkness, but the gesture proved as effective as the spell. Surprisingly enough, the elves—or whatever they were, now—cast shadows of their own. Vladimir reached out with his mind and took them. With a flick of his hand, he decapitated each elf with its own shadow.
Vladimir slumped his shoulders in satisfaction when the bodies dissolved. Unfortunately, the feeling only lasted a moment. The darkness was already gathering in a puddle, and seconds later, had darted out into the ruins.
The sound of Val’s fighting came into earshot and he took up his nonchalant cloak once more. He danced over bodies and waved his knives in the air of a performer. Even still, he clenched his teeth at the blows that really did get past him. He winced as an attack to his spine almost broke his guard.
Just when he’d thinned the last wave, the ground rumbled beneath, and he lost his balance. A shadow creature struck him in the gut and he nearly doubled over. Regaining his foothold, Vladimir wiped the blood from his mouth and steepled his hands. The creature’s shadow impaled its owner like a pyramid, then dispersed.
An explosion ripped the air as the ground beneath him fell away to an abyss. Leaping aside, he twisted to a defensive stance. Hundreds of shadows poured from the crater. He turned to locate Val to see her pinned beneath some massive, bulging shape with vague impressions of arms and legs.
The creatures swarming him were bigger. Most of them weren’t even fully developed. One had a half a mangled arm. Another was missing a nose and mouth. Even still, their power was overwhelming. Black and silver slashed the air as showmanship crumbled beneath his sheer need to stay alive.
Another unseen hit sent him to his knees. More red splattered on the brown stone. For a brief moment, he wished he’d inherited an ability of blood over shadow, but the fleeting image of the Eastern Kingdom’s queen banished the thought. Gritting his teeth, he lashed out at the nearest shape.
Before he even pulled the blade back, ten had piled atop him.
“Dispel,” he begged, the Ynsri lost in desperation.
“Dispel.” Something bit down on his leg and the army above got heavier.
“Dispel.”
Chapter 23
The rest of the circus was just as bizarre and fantastical as the first act. An incredibly poor lion tamer—a lycan—was eaten by his beast, then emerged from its stomach undead. The lion came back to life as well and the two sempiternus creatures continued their act. An earthquake followed shortly after as four rotting elephants barreled from underground to the center of the ring.
As they stomped their feet, stone pillars rose beneath them. They then performed rather complex dance routines fifty feet in the air.
The most beautiful act, Avia thought, were the dragon fire dancers. Flame and body moved as. Being undead also granted more than just a morbid display. If a body is not sealed in place by flesh and blood then it is inherently more flexible—in movement and in power. On several occasions, the flames would explode out the base of their necks in contained rings in time with the beat.
Avia, as much as she hated to admit, was actually enjoying herself. She was four again, and her mother was sitting next to her, pointing at a troupe of dancers in front of a line of elephants. Everything was new, and colorful, and exciting. Whether she had created Yoni ex-nihilo, or a Greater Spirit just took the form of the toy, it was the circus that had birthed him and her first experiences in the aether.
But that was age four. The older she got, the more bitter she had become. At first, nothing interested her. Before she knew it, apathy gave way to anger. The loud noises, the flashing lights, the performers and costumes—it wasn’t just an irritating sensory overload. The whole performance screamed fake. Nothing was real; instead everything thrived in stupidity and gimmicks. But this...
Red, orange, and blue flames came together as the dancers flipped and spun in intricate clockwork. It was beyond power and magic. It was art. The other acts had captured her attention conceptually, or with shock value, but this moved with the passion of life itself.
The dancers held hands and threw their heads back. Fire poured from both mouth and neck, consuming their heads as each color—red, orange, and blue—met at the ceiling and combined into a single white pillar. They held the light a few seconds longer, then dropped to their knees, plunging the room into darkness.
No one moved. No one, Avia included, had the capacity to speak. Through the darkness, tiny glowing specks rained over the audience. They were white, but transitioned into a mix of the original three colors.
The spectacle shattered the spell and the audience leapt to their feet. Applauds and whistles cracked the air like their lives depended on it. Avia’s gaze drifted past the multicolored embers to the still-kneeling silhouettes. She smiled.
This was real.
The spotlight soon returned and the ringmaster took center stage again.
“What do you think of the show?!”
The audience erupted in response. The ringmaster waited a moment for them to die down, then continued.
“As I’m sure as you all know, we have one more act. It’s beautiful, it’s terrifying, it’s...” He raised his head and that wicked expression again shadowed his face. “An act of the gods. May I present! The Lost Twins of the Northern Kingdom, Freya and Freyr!”
The audience roared as the spotlight shot up at two individuals already leaping off the high ropes.
“Oh my god,” Gemini collectively whispered. Avia glanced to her left to see Paris’ mouth drop. “It’s really them.”
Avia turned back to the ring. With legs hooked in one of the rope swings, Freyr reached out as Freya dove towards him. In one motion, he threw her into the air, stood up on the wooden swing bar, then caught her on his shoulders. They waved to the crowd with huge smiles. Their movements were so fluid that it took Avia’s eyes a moment to catch up.
Then there was the music. Avia glanced down to see a full orchestra spread around the perimeter of the tent. Their selection was what you would expect to be played in a circus, but there was more to it than that. It was in a minor key. Parts were added, then it dropped a third. Violins and pianos soon bled into the organ, and she could feel them beginning to tell a story. She closed her eyes and found herself connected to an ancient narrative. Accompanying the music was an image of the twins running into the forest to save their citizens.
Freya flipped off her brother’s shoulders to one of the hanging rings, then threw herself to the nearest platform.
And it worked. They had saved their people and mercilessly defeated the hunters with the ease expected of two former Vanir.
The organ and cellos crashed into the room and Freyr appeared to slip. He stumbled back but still had a confident smile. Freya swung forward and wrapped her legs around his waist, her upper body supported by just her index and middle finger.
But the battle wasn’t over. Like a reel of film, the images continued to roll through Avia’s mind. Something had surprised Freyr, caught him off guard. He wasn’t concerned, having the utmost trust in his sister—but what he didn’t know was that she was barely hanging on herself.
The music pulsed through the room and Avia began to sweat. She looked around but no one else seemed to feel it. It was like the aether was bleeding a dark presence into the room. She looked down at the ring and saw what looked like dancers crawling out of the ground. When they had lined up, she realized they were nutcrackers garbed like 18th century French soldiers.
They didn’t move naturally. There was a delay to each step and none of the fluidity of the dragons who danced before. As they creakily moved their arms and legs to the haunting music, Avia quickly realized that their movements weren’t their own. Coiled around their wrists and ankles were thin black strings. She couldn’t tell if the strings were physical or magic, or if anyone else could see them.
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“Paris!” she hissed, shaking the Gemini’s shoulder. “Castor!”
Paris was frozen in place, mouth ajar as she stared ahead. Looking around, Avia realized that the entire tent was benumbed under the spell. The piano rolled and she looked back to the high ropes. Freya dropped her brother at the nearest platform, then swung back to her own. They smiled and waved at the crowd before turning to face each other again. Without any cue, they ran towards the edge. Freyr grabbed a ring overhead and Freya dove towards him. She reached out her hand to his and... He missed.
The Twins were overwhelmed. Whatever attacked them was strong. Avia couldn’t see their foe, its shape somehow staying out of frame, but she could feel its bloodlust through the terror in their eyes. The twins had believed that they were in the clear and that Freyr had fought it off. But Freya was still in danger.
Freyr farther extended his hand and grabbed her finger, only for it to snap off like a pencil. Freya threw out her other hand and he caught it, but the speed of her decent severed her wrist from his grasp. Freyr dove forward, releasing the ring and grabbing onto the tight rope as he made an attempt at her left side again. He caught it, but Freya immediately wrenched her body to the side, ripping her arm from its socket as she plummeted downward.
It wasn’t enough. Freyr did his best to rescue Freya, but it was futile. The enemy was too strong. When it came to the end, they were left with two choices—Freya had to sacrifice herself or they would both die.
Freya plummeted for what felt like forever. The music faded and Avia stared wide-eyed as Freyr let go of the rope. He fell towards his sister, hands extended, with no realistic way to save either of them.
The organ struck again. Avia looked back at the marionettes to see they were spreading across the stage. Each one ripped off a part of its wooden body and threw it into the air. For whatever reason, the pieces didn’t fall back to earth, but instead came to a pause in midair. Freyr took the opportunity to leap across the wooden limbs until he was close enough to catch Freya over his shoulder. With a final kick, he shot them back into the air and grabbed on to the tightrope with his free hand.
When We Were Still Human Page 25
